#maybe put him in a blender like he did to the rats
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#i want to study him like a bug#maybe put him in a blender like he did to the rats#or a microwave#im going insane#he's so messed up in a way that scratches my brain#armand no last name#armand#the vampire armand#armand amadeo arun#interview with the vampire#iwtv#amc iwtv
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it's very bad no good cupcake baking time for the hotel crew (save them) (charlie did you think this throu-) (NO)
Charlie: “I have! The most brilliant plan for a group bonding activity!”
Angel Dust: “Oooh~ Bondin’ or bond-”
Vaggie: “You live here for free.”
Angel Dust: “Buy my silence, Vaggity Fair, cause’ it sure ain’t free.”
Vaggie: (groans) (slips him a twenty) “Go on babe, what’s the mission statement?”
Charlie: “We should all bake CUPCAKES together!!”
Hotel Crew: "......"
Husk: “…Why.”
Charlie: “Beeeecaaaause it’d be so SWEET!”
Vaggie: “And you also live here for free.”
Husk: “Not of my own free will I don’t.”
Charlie: “Aw c’mon Husk, please? Baking is probably KINDA like drink mixing, right?”
Husk: “It’s not.”
Vaggie: (SIGHS) (slips him a twenty)
Husk: “I’ve got cooking sherry around here somewhere, I think.”
Alastor: “How thrilling! Extreme heat sources, flammable liquids, and so many little bottles and vials that couldn’t possibly get mix up with anything in the pest control cabinet!”
Niffty: “Hee hee hee…. Rat poison~”
Vaggie: “Twenty bucks and you LOCK that cabinet, okay?”
Niffty: “Thirty and a new knife set!”
Vaggie: (has given up) “Fine.”
Niffty: “OKAY!”
Charlie: “We need to go shopping anyway. We’ll need flour and sugar and uhhhh flavory things of some kind probably and um, those little paper thingies- the cup cake… skirts?”
Alastor: “Glad to see how prepared our intrepid leader is for this marvelous expedition!”
Charlie: “Cup cake… dollies…?”
Vaggie: “I’ll handle it. You remember how to pre-heat the oven?”
Charlie: “NOT with actual fire!”
Alastor: “Aww.”
Angel Dust: (handing back the twenty) “I want a new pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. Mine broke~”
Vaggie: “I don’t want to know.”
Husk: (handing his twenty back too) “Beer.”
Vaggie: “Beer? You run the hotel BAR.”
Husk: “What, you think I nip stuff under the table at work?”
Alastor: “Oh there isn’t much thought needed when it comes to you, I’m afraid.”
Husk: “You think I LIKE that I do that? That’s the stupid hotel’s shit, can’t relax sneaking shots that aren’t mine, racking up a tab like that. This beer is gonna be only for me.”
Charlie: “Husk…”
Vaggie: “Great whatever, guilt free beer for the alcoholic.”
Alastor: “How touching. And I require-”
Vaggie: “What YOU need is a-”
Charlie: “Happy place!”
Vaggie: “-which I’m not picking up for you. I’ll get more cleaning supplies too while I’m at it.”
Charlie: “More? Vaggie, have some faith! We’re all adults here! It’s not gonna be THAT messy. We just need to measure things, maybe chop some stuff up first-”
Niffty: “KNIVES.”
Charlie: “-put all in a- blender-? A blender would work for mixing, right? Then pour the batter in the things and into the oven! Which I WILL remember to preheat this time. Without fire.”
Vaggie: “Good point.”
Charlie: “See!”
Vaggie: “We should stock up on first aid stuff too.”
Charlie: (pouting) “We’ll talk about it on the way.”
Vaggie: “Sweetie, thanks for wanting to help carry groceries, but I really think we need to divide and conquer here.”
Charlie: “Huh?”
Vaggie: “Husk is already halfway to the wine cellar.”
Charlie: “He wh- Husk wait! You can’t help make friendship cupcakes if you’re blackout drunk!”
Angel Dust: “Toots that’s the whole idea.”
Vaggie: “Fifty bucks if he’s still conscious when I get back. I’ll need him in the kitchen later if we’re gonna get through this alive.”
Angel Dust: “Spend it on getting’ him a really NICE beer and you’ve gotta deal.”
Vaggie: (eye twitch) “Why is all my money turning into drugs and sex toys?”
Niffty: “And KNIVES!”
Vaggie: “The one silver lining…”
Alastor: “You know, if you won’t extend simple shopping list courtesies to me, then I suppose I shall have to go shopping myself as well.”
Vaggie: “Keep your shopping on the other side of town from me or I’m coming home with a flat screen tv.”
Alastor: (annoyed channel switch sound) “….Noted!”
– LATER –
Hotel Crew: “………….”
Oven: (DING)
Vaggie: “…”
Vaggie: “….cupcakes are done.”
Charlie: “Oh yay. Whoo. Hoo.”
Hotel Crew: “…….”
Vaggie: “If no one takes them out they’re gonna burn.”
Angel Dust: “Let ‘em.”
Husk: “Little fuckers deserve to fry.”
Charlie: (exhausted) “No one deserves to burn for all eternity.”
Niffty: “Yeah! I wanna RIP THEM APART and STAB THE CRUMBS.”
Alastor: “Well that’s two votes for burning and two for rescuing, to a certain extent. I myself would like to try out these DARLING cupcake toppers that I found while out doing my shopping completely alone.”
Vaggie: “Oh my girlfriend’s dad shut up. You won’t die just because no one was listening to you for ten minutes.”
Alastor: “In any case, that makes three for rescue and two for burn, with you as the undecided vote, Vaggie. Choose wisely~!”
Vaggie: (sighing) “Someone hand me the oven mitts.”
Husk: “They’re in the fucking blender.”
Angel Dust: “What’s left of ‘em.”
Vaggie: “Fine. Someone move the pile of dirty dishes off Charlie so SHE can be our oven mitts.”
Charlie: “It’s so peaceful under here…”
Vaggie: “The friendship cupcakes are dying, babe.”
Charlie: “UggghHHHHHH ‘kay. Coming.”
Angel Dust “That’s what she sa-”
Vaggie: “KNIVES.”
Angel Dust “-cough cough cough! I didn’t say nothin’, I got a piece of walnut shell stuck in my throat!”
Alastor: “Usual night for you then, hmm?”
Husk: “Who the fuck put in walnuts?”
Vaggie: “Who cares. If they shelled them then it’s at least better than the coconut thing.”
Charlie: “Did we add anything that wasn’t nut related?”
Vaggie: “Uhhh.”
Angel Dust “Nope!”
Husk: “Is that the only thing you were keeping track of.”
Angel Dust “Hey I know my strengths and I’m stickn’ to ‘em!”
Charlie: “Speaking of strength and sticking… um…”
Hotel Crew: “……….”
Charlie: “They’re bubbling.”
Vaggie: “Yeah.”
Charlie: “Or, breathing?”
Vaggie: “Yeah…”
Charlie: “Is that normal? It feels kinda… not normal.”
Vaggie: “It’s. Impressive.”
Niftty: “They’re ALIVE!” (knife) “For now.”
Charlie: “Well I guess we shouldn’t REALLY judge them until we’ve actually seen what they taste like-”
Angel Dust “Not it!”
Husk: “Fuck no.”
Alastor: “I’m terribly afraid that I am on a diet.”
Vaggie: “You eat rotting deer carcasses.”
Alastor: “And THEY aren’t still moving when I chow in, ha ha!”
Charlie: “Okay well, I guess I’ll just…”
Vaggie: “Wait. You’re probably immune to half the stuff that’d kill us.”
Charlie: “Right, so I should-”
Vaggie: “You’re not a good example of what happens when a non-demon princess person eats these, sweetie. If wanna test for uh, quality control, it shouldn’t be with you.”
Hotel Crew: “…..”
Vaggie: “….hand me a cupcake.”
Husk: (edges out of the splash zone)
Charlie: “You don’t have to do this.”
Angel Dust: “But you totally should! After I get my phone out though, hold on a sec-”
Vaggie: “I’m standing right in front of Radio Head over here so don’t even THINK about recording this.”
Alastor: “Aww my dear little angel-”
Charlie: “Alastor.” (calm smile) (horns out) “Her name is Vaggie.”
Alastor: “-Vaggie, yes, I would almost be willing to make an exception to my own morals for you.” (grins at angel dust) “Almost.”
Angel Dust: (lowering his phone) “I was jus’ takin’ a selfie. You know. Since I’m covered in sticky white shit anyway.”
Husk: “This fucking sucks.” (shakes his paws)
Vaggie: “No. THIS does.”
Vaggie: (bites cupcake)
Hotel Crew: “……………..”
Vaggie: “….hm.”
Hotel Crew: (STEPS BACK)
Vaggie: “It’s… well it’s kinda…”
Charlie: (cringing) “Break up worthy??”
Niffty: “PAINFUL?”
Vaggie: “It’s.. Fruity..?”
Hotel Crew: (stares at still moving cupcakes)
Angel Dust: “No. Fuckin’. Way.”
Husk: “Since the fuck WHEN did they have fruit in them?”
Angel Dust: “They didn’t! I swear I checked!”
Charlie: “Are they, um, edible?”
Vaggie: “Well I wouldn’t sign them up for a baking competition but I’m not dying either, so.”
Charlie: (excited) “So we did it? We all made actual cupcakes together?”
Vaggie: (smiling) “We did it. Mission cupcake completed.”
Charlie: “HAHA YUS!” (fist pump) “FRIENDSHIP POWERRRRRRR!!!!”
Alastor: “Now now now, no cupcake is fully complete without a lovely floral topper!”
Angel Dust: “Ain’t THAT the truth~”
Alastor: “Which I bought. Alone. Without any second opinion to rely on.”
Vaggie: (rolls eye)
Charlie: “And they’re so cute! Thank you Alastor- you picked wonderfully. Everyone, get decorating!”
Niffty: (drooping) “No stabbing?”
Vaggie: “You can poke ‘em each with a knife to check that they’re done.”
Niffty: “HEHEHEH.”
Vaggie: “Poke them with the knife ONCE Niffty- hey- NO- don’t leave it inside-”
Angel Dust: “That’s what-”
Husk: “Will be on your gravestone if she fucking hears you.”
Charlie: “Awww~ Now they’re adorable AND delicious!”
Husk: “Don’t.”
Angel Dust: “I didn’t say nothin’!”
Vaggie: “I actually kinda wish you’d go back to sex jokes instead of whatever you’re doing to that cupcake”
Angel Dust: “There’s more than one kind of oral performance in the world~”
Vaggie: “Say that and then look at what Niffty’s doing to her cupcake.”
Husk: “Unholy fucking shit!!”
Niffty: (GLEEFUL CACKLING)
Charlie: “Okay well, we clearly each have our own… unique ways of enjoying these cupcakes. Some more uh, graphic and concerning than others-”
Angel Dust: “Why the fuck are the insides RED like that?! Who put in red dye???”
Charlie: “-but the point is we all came together to make these sweets! Which. Taste like strawberries?”
Vaggie: “I didn’t buy strawberries.”
Charlie: “A-at least it and the redness go with the rose themed toppers!”
Angel Dust: “Yeah, I mean, is it weird that out of this whole maybe-living cupcake thing, the professional spun sugar parts are the ones with the funkiest taste to ‘em?”
Vaggie: “….”
Vaggie: “Alastor. Where the fuck did you buy the rose themed cupcake toppers.”
Alastor: “Hmm? Does my private, SOLITARY shopping FINALLY interest you?”
Vaggie: “Where you literally on the other side of Pentagram City from me.”
Alastor: “I do believe that is what you requested, and I, being a proper gentleman even to someone who might be considered a less than proper lady, was only too happy to oblige!”
Charlie: “Vaggie are you okay? You’re looking kinda pale.”
Vaggie: “I’m.”
Vaggie: “Alastor did you get these rose themed toppers-"
Vaggie: "-in Cannibal Town?”
Angel Dust: “WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Alastor: “I did.”
Angel Dust: “FUCK!!!”
Husk: (hairball noise)
Charlie: “Oh no.”
Alastor: “Dear Rosie gave me quite the discount. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”
Charlie: “Oh. Nooooooooo-”
Alastor: “I think it utterly darling of her~”
Niffty: “Alastor, hey hey!”
Alastor: “Yes, murder of my eye?”
Niffty: “I stabbed my cupcake topper heheheh WHO did I just stab????”
Charlie: “NOOOOOO-”
Alastor: “I believe it was an unsatisfactory husband by the name of Bill.”
Niffty: (grinning) “A BAD boy?”
Alastor: “Not bad enough to escape Rosie’s Emporium intact but yes, in a manner of speaking.”
Niffty: “Oooh.”
Niffty: (snatches up another cupcake and hugs it) “For my collection.”
Charlie: “GAAAHM NOT HEARING THIS! I DIDN’T HEAR IT!”
Angel Dust: “GREAT CAN YA MAKE IT SO’S I DIDN’T EAT ANY OF IT EITHER!??!”
Alastor: “Not to your tastes, Angel Dust? And here I though you enjoyed have strange men in your mouth.”
Charlie: “DO WE KNOW HIS ADDRESS SO I CAN SEND AN APOLOGY LETTER???”
Alastor: “I suppose his business card might still be in the hand Rose tore off him-”
Charlie: “AAAAAGH!”
Vaggie: “Hostia. You really can’t not be the center of attention for five minutes can you.”
Alastor: “I can, truly I can and very happily! It seems however that YOU cannot withstand the consequences of your own, short-sighted actions.”
Charlie: “Um guys-”
Vaggie: “Oh yeah? You’re not the only monster here, dumbass.”
Charlie: “We’re getting a little off topic-”
Alastor: "But as I am the only one not mired in glorious self-pity, certainly I am the most impressive specimen here.”
Charlie: “Okay this is going a bit-”
Vaggie: “Impressive HA! Fuck your empty grin and your stupid suits. You’re not even the one with the highest body count.”
Angel Dust: “Are we talkin’ sex stuff orrr-?”
Vaggie: (takes topper off her cupcake and pops it in her mouth)
Hotel Crew: “………”
Vaggie: “What?”
Charlie: “Vaggie, um. Person.” (points) “Person food.”
Vaggie: “Sweetie, you know how murder crazy exorcist are. You really never thought we didn’t lick a little blood off our weapons now and then, to feel extra badass about slaughtering people sometimes?”
Charlie: (dazed) “I’m thinking about it now.” (covers cheeks)
Niffty: “BLOOD!”
Angel Dust: “Oh ew. Oh you're getting off on that- Oh that’s just-”
Charlie: “Part of her past, a thing EVERYONE has.”
Angel Dust: “BLEH.”
Husk: “Also step one to seeing her shitfaced.”
Charlie: “Ha haaa…” (claps hands) “Okay everyone- that’s a wrap on today’s bonding activities! I uh, I think we can save the clean up until we’ve all recovered from the actual cupcakes a bit, right Vaggie?”
Vaggie: (shrug) “Whatever.”
Husk: “About damn time.” (sighs) (walks out) “I’ll get the fucking vodka.”
Niffty: "HEE HEE." (carrying cupcake over her head) "TO THE COLLECTION!"
Angel Dust: “Hold up baby! I wanna get shitfaced too after this!”
Charlie: “Well I think it’s all very interesting! Angel stuff is interesting, isn’t it Alastor?”
Alastor: “Yes. Quite.”
Vaggie: “Uh-huh.” (slumps and drops cupcake) “Bill tastes boring as hell, by the way, maybe let Rosie know before she sells anymore of these.”
Charlie: “Oh? Maybe THAT’S why she gave such a steep discount?”
Alastor: “Perhaps.”
Charlie: “Awww cheer up Alastor. You can bring her some of our cupcakes as a thank you, now that we uh, we’ve um, had our fill of them already.”
Alastor: “Hmph.”
Vaggie: “Think I’ll head up now.”
Alastor: “While grabbing a drink along way, hmm?”
Vaggie: “Yeah. Why not.”
Charlie: “Vaggie-” (catches her hand) (squeezes) “-grab one for me, too? I’ll be right behind you.”
Vaggie: “…wine from the cellar then, huh?”
Charlie: “I’m having whatever you’re having.”
Vaggie: “Sweetie, you hate the shit I drink.” (small smile) “I’ll get us something from the cellar. Meet you up there.”
Charlie: “In a heartbeat.”
Charlie: “….”
Charlie: “Alastor.”
Alastor: “Oh don’t scold me for her baggage, dear, I don’t make her carry it.”
Charlie: “I’m not scolding. I just- I get that you have this whole-” (air quotes) “-annoying big brother who hates being ignored thing going on with Vaggie, and while it IS kinda sweet-”
Alastor: (microphone feedback) “Excuse me?”
Charlie: “Could you turn it down a tiny bit when it comes the exorcist stuff?”
Alastor: “I do not-”
Charlie: “I know I know you don’t mean to make her all droopy like this, it’s boring for you, totally a killjoy-”
Alastor: “There is NOTHING enjoyable about that woman!”
Charlie: “-So maaaaaaybe back off a little when things get too serious?”
Alastor: “NO!”
Charlie: “Think about it okay?” (pats his shoulder) “Anyway, thanks for sticking around for the friendship cupcakes, see you at the next hotel bonding session, Dadastor!”
Alastor: “At the next-”
Alastor: “………”
Alastor: (hissing) “DADastor!?”
#hazbin hotel#charlie morningstar#vaggie#chaggie#alastor the radio demon#angel dust hazbin hotel#husk hazbin hotel#niffty hazbin hotel#incorrect quotes#WHATEVER WHATEVER#it just happened whatever setting it free#do not know enough about baking to show it going wrong#/have/ made breathing cupcakes before
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★ THE HICKEY PRANK ★
You scrolled through Tik Tok mindlessly on FaceTime with your best friend Saylem in silence, until she broke it.
“Nahh what this bitch said she got eczema” she laughed, trying her best to catch her breathe. “Send” you replied smiling, feeling the vibration of your phone in your hand while pressing the message in your inbox. “Get out, how am I making you cry you literally have a hickey on your neck!” The boy with blue sweat pants said, “What do you mean like it’s literally my eczema..” you paused the Tik Tok now screaming and laughing. “NOOO BRO BECAUSE SHE THINK SHE SLICK OH EM GEE THATS A GOOD ONE.” tears now leaking out of your eyes, “wait bitch” you sighed “Imma *gasp* do that to mine and see how he react” The idea made your eyes brighten, “Bitch you smiling like the Grinch right now stop” Saylem said laughing.
“ Girl I can’t wait, but anyways toodles I have a prank to set up.” “Mwah later boo” she replied hanging up, it was currently 4:56 and your boyfriend came home from work in less than an hour, so you ran to get your vlog camera that sat cutely in it’s red case and began recording. The curls of your lace front bounced while you ran to the kitchen, your orange victoria secret fluffy sweater and shorts set hugged your body, protecting you from the air conditioner. It was hotter than the devil’s ass crack outside, so you knew your boyfriend Eren would be hot and irritated until he took his shower. You pressed record and backed up, “alrighty.. 3..2..1.. HI LAB RATS, welcome back or to my laboratory you already know Y/n the Scientist in this bitch okay so” you interrupted yourself while giggling, covering your hand over your mouth and cackling a bit harder.
“Ahhhh my bad y’all okay so boom today ima do a prank on my lil boo thang and it’s gonna be this hickey prank, so me and my homegirl Saylem was on the phone and I was telling her.. and then she was tellin me.. hold on lemme remember the conversation.” You paused running to get your phone. “Alright imma show you the tik tok,” laughter escaped at the idea of your boyfriend’s attitude, but you needed to move fast since time did everything but slow down. “Okay im going to be using the Fenty Beauty eyeshadow for a darker effect and then im going to throw on some of this Morphy blush and then put some powder and setting spray because i need this shit to last for real.” You ran to your desk, rummaging through your makeup bag.
Finally you finished and checked yourself out in your hand mirror, then..the front door unlocked. Eyes widening, you cursed yourself for not setting up the camera, but you had an idea “okay guys” you whispered quickly, Eren called your name, and you heard the confusion in his voice since you weren’t there like usual to greet him. “fuck fuck, imma put yall in my dresser drawer and imma flick the collar of my sweater up, and hide it until he get out the shower, while he in there im gonna set yall up in the kitchen mkay bye.” Basically throwing the camera in the drawer, you did as you said you would and greeted your man at the front door. “Hey baby love!” you chirped as he kissed your cheeks, then forehead, then lips, “whats goin on gorgeous” he smiled, you missed him, and prank aside you did feel a little bad for the headache you were about to bring on his pretty little head.
His bun was messy, chains hanging low on his white tee, he had on some simple black shorts, and his white nike socks rested above his black cats. “Boy you smell like outside..awww my poor baby sweating go wash up” you said kissing his lips, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He placed his pouch on the kitchen counter and nodded, making his way to the bathroom and grabbing a towel on the way there, you listened for the bathroom door and when it closed, you grabbed the camera, ran to the kitchen and set it up in between your red blender, red candle, and red toaster. “Camouflage” you whispered. Maybe the matching appliances wasn’t such a bad idea. After about 20 minutes, Eren came out with a towel over his shoulder, in some grey sweatpants.
“Boy where are your drawls..” you asked looking up from your phone, you nearly forgot you were on camera. His white teeth showed as he smirked, walking closer to you, lifting your chin up to kiss him. “FUCK THE PRANK IS IN EFFECT” your thoughts were so loud, you felt as if he could hear them, and his sudden halt made your heart drop to your ankles. “Y/n L/n I know that this isn’t a hickey. You are on your period, and your head isn’t big enough to suck on your own neck when your fingering yourself.” “NIGGA?” you sucked your teeth at his remark “man move around, and I dont even touch my private areas..” you said getting fake mad. “Girl you think I can’t hear you in the shower.. and fuck you mad for stop playin wit me I know this shit is make u-“ he said trying to wipe the makeup off with his hand.
His eyebrows furrowed and looked at you, “babe stop it’s hurting I rubbed my neck too hard in the shower with that exfoliating rag i be using with my African black soap, but my skin smooth and you love that shit” you said in an attempt to butter him up. “Girl bye there’s no way that’s from a fuckin rag” he said now getting serious, “the fuck u been doing all day?” he asked, damn your act could have won you a grammy, but pause.. The fuck is his issue for real? “Wait nigga u think im cheating on you?” you asked getting up, moving his hand away from your neck “Yo I never not one time said that you was, but nah for real what you was doing all day that made you get so defensive?” This joke was no longer a lil jokey joke.. he really thought you would cheat on him for real? I mean in his defense that’s the point of the prank but unless he was pranking you on your own prank, there shouldn’t even be a “if” or “but” leaving his mouth.
“I was waiting on your ass to get home thats what I was doing” you said rolling your eyes, walking closer to the camera to catch his reaction. “ Eren is a smart boy, so he had you fucked up when he was trailing your ass, actually thinking you did sum. “Nah bro don’t play dumb wit me now the fuck was you doin? The mark is fresh , do I play with you like that Y/n?” you turned to face him and you decided to play along, just for the camera… “So what if I was doing something, whatcha gonna do about it huh?” you asked crossing your arms over your chest. You gave him some of his least favorite sass, the same bratty attitude he always tried to control but to be honest, no amount of sex would let your mouth stop running, so he was always careful when it came to handling you. “Watch where you throwing that damn attitude. I am not a wide receiver so trust and believe I will throw it right back to your ass.
When you’re speaking to me, lower your tone.” his hands slid into his pockets. His ass is so sassy like this not-so-nigga wanna be a girl so fucking bad. However, the bulge in his sweats caught your attention..”He don’t got a roll of quarters in his pocket, so I don’t know what the fuck is lookin at me through his pants,” you said to yourself. This was when the realization that the video was boutta turn into a movie..ya know..the ones you get viruses from! “Okay Eren Yeager my deepest apologies,” you said smiling, rubbing your hands together like a teacher during a parent conference. Pointing your hand towards the red camera, his head followed,” My baby boo boo bear sweet cheeks vanilla muffin thick dick baby boy it is indeed a prank” you grabbed the camera quickly and ran for your life.
Eren didn’t lie about being a wide receiver but damn his ass ran fast, your final words to your audience was “HELP!” as you locked yourself into the bathroom, turning the camera off. “Baby I just wanna talk! Open the fuck up.” Eren knocked on the door, then slid his fingers under the bottom trying to get you, “Nah Gang baby not in here” you put on your manly voice trying not to laugh. The door knob stopped jiggling, but you heard a key enter the door knob and you had no choice but to hide in the cupboards under the sink. “Y/nnnnn where are you…” he asked, “Are you..here?” he said opening the shower curtain to reveal nothing, “I know your little gremlin ass can’t fit in the toilet, your forehead make the toilet seat stand up. His ass so fucking annoying.
“Alright n/n you win..”, but then the doors to the cupboard flew open, and your ass so happened to be dragged out. The camera remained in the bathroom but you two were actually boutta make a film of your own, “you finna handle my ass aren’t you bae” you sighed in defeat, “Mhm” he replied before you could even finish, “You tryna make fake ones Imma give you some that you won’t be able to hide”……
If you didn’t already, click on the fuckin red words neow.
OKAY GUYSSSSSS I hope you guys liked this one!!! This was a request from @katsaresokool and like I fell in love with the concept!! Also I won’t be uploading as much cuz classes start next week, but I’m lurkin and watching. Always. ~ 𝓁ℯ𝓁ℯ！
#attack on titan#black reader#black coded reader#fem reader#iwanty0uu#aot fanfiction#aot x black reader#aot x y/n#aot eren#eren aot#attack on titan eren#eren jeager x reader#eren x reader#eren headcanons#eren yeager#eren jaeger#aot#eren x black fem!reader#eren x you#eren x y/n
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“I started thinking about human nature...”
Summary: Janus thinks Remus started off on entirely the wrong right foot with him. This is how they became best friends since. (Sanders Sides, Gym Rat AU. One-shot. Ao3 link.)
Genres: Slice of Life, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Tragicomedy, Comedy-Drama, I Don’t Know Man
Characters: Janus and Remus centric. Roman supporting.
Relationships: Dukeceit (platonic), Creativitwins (familial), Pre-Roceit (ambiguous)
Warnings: Injuries/blood, Creativitwin angst, implicit queerphobia, implicit ableism, physical abuse, disownment, chronic illness (psoriasis), Enemies to Best Friends, Remus Being Remus, Remus Is a Little Shit, Trans Masc / Nonbinary Remus, Janus Is A Good Friend, Remus Is A Good Friend, 2e Remus (Twice Exceptional), Protective Roman, Roman Is A Good Brother, Roman Isn’t Having a Good Time, Tonal Whiplash (Seriously)
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Janus knew Remus since they were in high school. On age difference, they easily might’ve just missed each other – 4 years. But Remus did jump a grade in elementary school, demonstrating a precocious knack for SOME arenas of academics.
He was clearly gifted, especially when it came to things of mechanical nature. But he was also just as clearly troubled. It was a crying shame that most people paid more attention to the latter part. Truly.
So they met, when Janus was a junior and Remus a freshman.
Janus was also partway into the school’s 3+3 DPT program, to speed the process up for him to get to be a physical therapist in a few years out of high school. He had his reasons for that, reasons he’d much rather disclose to very few people.
Other than the market demand, to be sure. It wasn’t because he cared about people, and he’d be obstinate about making that point clear.
-
Remus wasted no time to leave an impression on the student body, in the first month of the school year. Though, at the time, no one knew it was him.
Janus was minding his own business in chemistry class when the school’s sprinkler systems went off. But something was… wrong.
It – it smelled like AXE body spray. Janus thought it was mostly water that went through the pipes, but it was unmistakable and overwhelming. He was caught by surprise like everyone else was, but still attempted to play it cool as he shoved his belongings into the desk to try to salvage them from the deluge.
Mr. Sanders yelped, just as confused as everyone else in the room, “What in the name of-!? I-I guess it’s fire drill time. Let’s go, class. Quickly and calmly.”
-
It turned out the entire first floor of the building was set off and only that floor (this campus had two of them).
The entire floor, positively reeked of the stuff for days. No one was was able to figure out what miscreant was responsible for this. Janus would absolutely leisure in the chaos of the student body and staff smelling like they vaped canisters of body spray. But, you see, Janus’s skin took objection to the whole experience, rather quickly.
At the tail end of middle school, Janus developed a few rashes, probably from stress or perhaps as a result of a strep infection. Which he quickly learned from his family doctor to be psoriasis, which was just fantastic. So, the chemical assault aggravated the already flaring up patches on his face and hands. He could give less of a shit about what other students would say about his appearance, but holy hell did it ITCH.
He was determined to figure out who the hell was responsible, to give him a piece of his mind.
-
Things appeared to go without incident for sometime, nearly a month. Not without Janus warily scanning the classrooms and occasionally the rest of the campus for anyone that just set off any alarm bells.
He finally met eyes with him in the cafeteria. Well, he still didn’t know that at the time.
Just this kid who dressed like a hot mess and rather ambiguously gendered lounging in the corner picking their nose and looking like they were about to doze off. It was as if someone threw a punk, an emo, and a dragster in a blender. Hit frappe, topping it all off with toxic green and black coat of paint. They really stood out, yet no one dared to approached them.
Janus did read some big “FUCK OFF” energy from him. Still, he was curious, “Hey.”
This kid’s attention snapped up pretty quick, with an excessive amount of drama to it, “And who might yooou be?”
Janus decided to withhold his name, just in case, “Dee. You?”
The kid shrugged, boldly going the flirtatious route, “Whatever you want me to be.”
“… I’m not interested in that… right now. You new around here?”
“Maaaybe.”
Janus was sure it was a shot in the dark, but he was getting increasingly agitated with his face, “Were you here during the AXE incident recently?”
The kid perked up suspiciously, “Maybe I was. Maaaybe I wasn’t.”
Janus lightly rubbed the patch on his cheek before pinching his nose in exasperation, “Can you not with this evasive bullshit?”
“Oooh... feisty.”
Perhaps his patience was on the thin side, but Janus felt a building urge to slap this fool. He sighed, “Well. Let’s just say – urg-”
The itching was unbearable at this point and he started to furiously rub his offending hand through his gloves. The kid looked almost concerned, “Uh. You okay?”
Janus lied through his teeth, “I’m fine. But whoever was responsible for that body spray shit certainly won’t be…”
The kid started to crack. Torn between seeming to find pleasure in making Janus squirm and a glint of actual concern. This only made Janus more mad, if he was perfectly honest. Janus just snipped out, “I don’t know what your angle is here, but I will figure it out.”
The kid seemed insulted, placing a hand on their chest, “I have no idea what the fuck your problem is, man. You came to me with the 20 Questions!… heh.”
Janus groaned, unsure of where he should take this, his gut telling him he was looking at the perpetrator of his current bout of absolute suffering. He could only muster turning on his heels and give the kid the “I’m watching you” signal.
The kid just cackled uproariously as they parted ways.
-
Yeah, Janus was certain that kid was responsible. He just knew it.
The two of them shared a pre-calculus class and the kid was just… snoring at their desk, by the time it was almost up. Ms. Crofters didn’t appreciate the insubordination, “SANCHEZ.”
Everyone was already starting to file out of the room, since the bell rang. Morning classes were rough for everyone, but this kid looked exhausted, actually. No, Janus was determined not to pity them. Janus simply watched the exchange play out.
“Sanchez” smacked their lips blearily responding with, a simple “… what?”
The teacher sighed and softened, “You really need to take this more seriously, I know you have so much potential, to be a freshman placed in this class. You just need to-”
They grumbled and rolled their eyes, “Whatever.”
The teacher remained seated, decided she was going nowhere and started to grade some papers in the break in between classes. Sanchez took the cue to stand up with their things and leave. Not before Janus was noticed for staring at the whole situation. Sanchez was surprisingly icy, “You got a problem with me, too?”
“Plead the fifth.”
Janus was now intrigued, sensing they might be a lot sharper than they seemed. Hints at them being more capable of pulling off tampering with the sprinkler system in such a noxious fashion.
-
Janus confronted them in the hallway, fiddling through their locker, “Don’t lie to me, Sanchez.”
Sanchez rolled their eyes, still playing coy, “Whatever do you mean, Dee?”
“I KNOW you fucking did it.”
“Did what?”
“I don’t know, not the surprise assault on the senses, weeks into the year!?”
“… your rash is looking pretty angry.”
“NAH. YOU THINK SO?!”
Sanchez finally began to placate a little, “Okay, I’m… I’m sorry.”
Janus was taken aback, not expecting the apology so easily, “What was that?”
“Hahaha… a few other kids wound up in the hospital thanks to that stunt I pulled. Asthma and shit like that. Almost got in a little bit of hot water.”
Staff still refused to state who perpetrated the mess, maybe this kid was far more brilliant than Janus could imagine.
“I didn’t take you for the kind of person who would give a damn about that sort of stuff.”
Sanchez simply shrugged in response.
Janus found himself staring into Sanchez’s locker, at random parts of electronics and diagrams haphazardly piled into it. “… what’s in there?”
“I dunno. Projects?”
“How helpfully vague.”
“Look, I just like keeping my hands busy, you know, fuck around and find out.”, Sanchez snorted at their own choice of words.
“Why… why did you put AXE in the system, in the first place?”
Sanchez threw up their arms and just said, “I dunno. One moment, it just started off as a ‘you know what would be fucking hilarious’ thought and the next I was going at the preaction sprinkler valve with a wrench, a bunch of cans of Provoke, and a soldering iron.”
“Aaand no part of you went, ‘why don’t we sleep on it’?”
“SLEEP!? Sleep is for the weak, amigo.”
Janus gave them a withering glare, personally greatly appreciating a good snooze himself, “I guess impulse control really isn’t your forte?”
They were overly chipper, “NOPE.”
For some reason, Janus couldn’t stay mad at this point. There was just something strangely endearing about them.
-
The two of them wound up hanging out together more.
Up until that point, Janus just migrated from friend group to friend group, making himself kind of a chameleon to any ne’er-do-wells who might’ve wanted to get a rise out of him. He was good at not taking shit from people and he was usually left alone for it.
Sanchez eventually told Janus that he wanted to be called Remus. That he was actually a guy… mostly. Sort of. Good enough, as far as Janus was concerned.
Janus returned the favor of trust, telling him his actual name. Still choosing not to explain anything, but glad that Remus didn’t make any potshots about how it sounded. Remus was fast warming up to him.
Mutually, they surprised each other about their own predilections for anarchy, and they really hit things off in that department. Janus just had two stipulations: not being the collateral damage again… and maybe Remus should show a little more concern for his own well-being and safety.
(To this day, Janus wasn’t particular successful about the latter part.)
-
One of the next most notable/notorious stunts perpetrated by Remus, neared the end of his freshman year.
A voice blared into the intercom system, ran through some distortion filters to make it less obvious to most people. Several octaves lower and static-y, “Goood morning, bitches, bastards, and everyone else! Thank you for listening to KRAX radio! I’m your host for today, The Duke of Butts himself. Ready for some garbage?! No?! Well, too bad!”
Janus, was split between cracking up and pretending to be just as alarmed as everyone else.
An obnoxious record scratch was heard through the building before an unholy remix of the likes of “Never Gonna Give You Up”, “All-Star”, and “Gangnam Style” started playing. It was the most beautiful and awful thing Janus had ever heard, it brought a tear to his eyes.
His fellow students eventually broke down laughing – in fact several neighboring classrooms worth were cheering and booing.
The teacher was far less amused, angrily dialing for the school administrators probably to report his disdain. It was in vain, since he was drowned out by the classroom and the broadcast.
Silence on the intercom.
The students went “awww” about it.
The teacher tried again, getting though, “You heard that right!? Yeah. Okay. Make sure to catch whosoever responsible for whatever the hell tomfoolery that was!”
Things seemed to quieted down.
That is until the first lunch period, “Goood afternoon, it’s me again! Bet y’all missed me! Huh!? Anyways, time for another plate full of Shitcago.”
Janus snorted as the scratch sample lead into yet another audible travesty. “Sandstorm”, “Shooting Stars”… and “Peanut Butter Jelly Time”.
There was a lot of gasping in awe at the shear audacity, Janus felt a sense of pride. Remus outdid himself, this time.
By then everyone was wondering when this entertainer would show up again.
A few minutes before school was to be dismissed, there was one final broadcast, “Goood evening, fuckers! Have a parting gift from me, before y’all head off to the shitty places you call home!”
Janus winced at the concerning subtext.
Next, Remus outright said, “Record Scratch!?”, for the segue. And what played next… was just “Chemical Bomb” by the Aquabats. Not quite the same level of aural hell as the previous sets… but that did get the school staff REALLY squirrely.
-
Remus didn’t actually talk much about his home life.
Janus came to learn that he had a brother and that his parents just weren’t in the picture anymore. Beyond that?
Whenever Janus gently prodded that hornet’s nest, Remus deflected constantly. Janus desisted after awhile, growing to respect this quirky kid’s boundaries. But that didn’t stop Janus from speculating that something volatile was brewing, Remus getting more and more agitated.
That didn’t stop the two of them from occasionally orchestrating some more dramatic pranks on the school over the next year. Janus helping him with being more discretionary. Remus also did well to shore up Janus’s own vaguely threatening reputation to the school.
(The fact he was going into the care industry, notwithstanding and completely irrelevant.)
It was a small miracle Remus managed to never get caught for his bigger stunts. But he did get more and more disciplinary action against him as Remus cared less and less about this school.
-
Janus was on track and since graduated with surprisingly little incident. Swearing Remus would see him out with a bang, at this point. Janus went straight to a local college, him coming by a family inheritance was a real boon for him to focus on himself.
But, they still kept in touch. Halfway into Remus’s senior year, Remus started a worrisome text conversation with him.
“Hey, can I stay at your place tonight?”
“Sure? Something happen?”
“Uh. I may’ve fucked up. Badly.”
“Listening.”
“I’d rather talk about it in person.”
“Ok? Need ride?”
“I maaay already be halfway to your place. Also, I’m taking my brother over...”
“Pls don’t tell me you’re txting while you drive. Wait – brother?”
A pause, Janus almost imagined Remus sighing, “… I’ll explain later.”
-
Remus arrived at Janus’s doorstep looking like even more of a mess than usual.
There was a bright red hand print on Remus’s face, and clear evidence that he had been crying heavily. The makeup he usually wore washed down his cheeks. Which felt like a twist of a knife in Janus’s chest, this was the opposite of the unflappable goblin of a friend he grew accustomed to.
Remus only mentioned his brother in passing a few times. Part of the whole “I refuse to talk about my family” thing. But Janus was observant enough to note that there was a ghost of a smile whenever he talked about Roman, more than anyone else.
Janus had missed the chance to really get to see him thanks to their age difference and the fact Roman barely kept up with his age grade (compared to Remus). He wasn’t informed why.
Roman was certainly in worse shape, physically. Remus had him to his side, arm over the shoulder for support. Roman’s nose and mouth dribbled with blood, he had a black eye showing, and the arm that wasn’t around Remus hung limply. Roman was woozy, but noticed he was getting stared at, “You just… going to... let me bleed all over your porch or-?”
Asking why the hell these two weren’t in the hospital was a foregone conclusion, so Janus ushered them in.
-
When they all filed into Janus’s living room. One thing was becoming clear. Roman’s arm was wrenched out of socket and Janus bit his lips, “I’m pretty sure that needs a closed reduction. But, I’ve only really done one of those yet, in my training. That is, if nothing is actually broken.”
Remus’s eyes were blown wide, “Well?”
Janus inhaled sharply through his teeth, “It’s not like this is totally a proper a clinic… I can’t exactly give him much to make putting his arm back in socket… Bearable.”
Roman looked like he couldn’t focus on anything other than all the pain, and stayed quiet.
Janus knew he was being unusually pensive, but now’s not the time to unpack that, “Can I see that arm? Just. Just so I have a better idea of what to do about it?”
Roman simply grunted and nodded.
Janus sidled next to him and looked at the injury and gently prodded the area to get a better physical sense of what was wrong here. He didn’t exactly have imaging to go off of, nor a licensed care team, or really anything. This was… so messed up.
Roman winced a little as Janus touched some bruises and aggravated nerves, but let him continue to attend it. Janus, while looking at it still, gulped and asked them, “Um… care to tell me what the hell happened?”
Roman just looked down, unable to talk. Remus started stammering, “T-tío Esteban. Found out about everything and lost his patience with-”
Janus unfortunately couldn’t fully unpack what Remus meant there, he had a few ideas, but still grimaced. That said, Janus’s memory from training was getting jogged, looking at his brother. “Roman, was it? Let’s check to see how much your arm is working now? Get a better sense of the damage here…”
Janus ran through the actions to test how good his nerves and blood supply were, thankfully Roman was remaining conscious and showing some hopeful signs. Janus then left and did as he said, “I’m going to grab a sling, before we do anything else…”
When he came back, “Care to lie on your belly with your left arm hanging off the couch? I’m – I’m only going to try this once. Because I don’t have shit like lidocaine to give you. If it’s not going to work, I don’t want to-”
The brothers sighed, as if they both knew and dreaded what Janus meant. Roman flopped into position on the couch, without another word. Except for some short gasps of pain, probably brushing bruises Janus couldn’t see and aggravating the offending shoulder.
Remus was uncharacteristically timid, glancing at Roman and then at Janus, “He-he stood up for me. The dumb ass. He-he didn’t need to out himself too and-”
Roman hushed Remus.
Janus nodded as he started manipulating Roman’s shoulder blade in a subtle and gentle fashion. This seemed to surprise Roman, “This… isn’t anything like the movies, huh?”
“Well, there are more… forceful techniques. But I’d rather not resort to that.”
Roman mumbled, “… sorry to burden you.”
Janus just sighed, not wanting to address what was buried in that statement either.
Soon enough, Roman sighed in relief once Janus put his shoulder back in place and put that sling on him. Janus did stress he should still get that looked at, totally uncharacteristically prepared to open his wallet for the costs, if need be.
-
For the longest time, it was a shame that Roman didn’t remember very much of what happened, that night. Maybe it was too much trauma for him to access, maybe Roman just wanted to distance himself from it, but Janus wasn’t going to be that kind of “doctor”. When they later rediscovered each other in the gym, years later, it was like they were simply acquaintances. Which hurt… a little.
But Remus certainly remembered. And reminded him how grateful he was, fairly often.
It equally hurt seeing Remus being so hesitant, “Can you… can you help us… you know? He doesn’t want us back home, after-”
“Not even a question, dear.”
#spilled musing#sanders sides#janus sanders#remus sanders#roman sanders#gymrat au#(okay... time to refocus on the iZ!AU~)#(despite remus winding up in adv placement courses... he's still an understimulated underacheiver by conventional measures)#(/unconventionally/ extra af tho)
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The Game: dad!Patton x Reader
gif credit
Request: Hey it’s the sports anon from earlier and I just wanted to say thanks and also your ideas on that are so much better than anything I thought of and they were amazing. If your request are still open and your not to busy, could you write a fic with them coming to a basketball (or any other sport) game? Your writing is freakin awesome btw
Summary: All the sides come to your big basketball game!
Words: 1000+
Warnings: a swear, Remus-typical stuff lol
Author’s Notes: This was fun to write but please forgive the fact that the only knowledge I have of basketball is from when I played one of Troy’s teammates in High School Musical and going to a few of my brother’s games lol
Taglist: @luluwinchester @nerve-ous-love @zarieslayer
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“Dad! I can’t find my shoes!” you yell, frantically searching the house. Your basketball game is in thirty minutes and you should be there already for warm-ups.
“Did you check the back door?” Patton asks.
“Yes!” you start digging through some of the piles of clutter and scream.
“Did you find them, honey?” Patton runs into the room.
Your shoes are completely ruined. They’re ripped and shredded and smell disgusting, and you know exactly why.
“I’m gonna kill him,” you stomp to the living room, dangling your shoes by the laces. “Really, Remus? Really? You knew I had a big game today!”
He rolls his eyes, “Geez, I just wanted to try making a trash and shoe smoothie,”
“You put them in the blender?!”
“Calm down, you have plenty of other shoes!”
“But these were my basketball shoes!”
“Well, shit,”
“Whatever, I guess I can use my old ones,” they’re a bit tight and beaten up, but it’s better than nothing.
Everyone hops in the car and Patton drives to the game. Remus promised he wouldn’t do anything else so he was allowed to come, and quite frankly this isn’t the worst thing he’s done.
Living with all the other sides as your honorary uncles brings all sorts of surprises, but they all care about you and they really do have your best interests at heart. Roman filled the trunk with signs and streamers to support you and Logan has a bag full of books on the history and rules. Virgil used your team colors for his eyeshadow today instead of his normal pitch black.
You jump out of the car and everyone else goes to find seats. They take up an entire row as close to the front as they can and Roman and Patton get decked out in everything they brought. Roman has a huge sign that says “GO Y/N!” on it, and both of them are wearing every merchandise available from your team. Logan is scribbling down notes and Janus is trying to keep Remus from scarring the children sitting behind them.
You run out with your teammates as the game is about to start and immediately hear your dad and Roman screaming your name. It’s a bit embarrassing, but you still appreciate the enthusiasm.
“Roman, don’t you think you should keep it down a bit? This team crushed them last time!” Virgil says.
Logan nods, “He’s right. I’m sorry to say it, but the probability of us winning is very slim,”
“Goodness gracious, no need to be such Debbie Downers!” Patton scolds, continuing to cheer. “Maybe changing your attitude will change the probability!”
“Well, theoretically, a positive attitude towards a task can in fact create an affect that increases the chances of success,”
“That’s the spirit!”
The game begins, and the other team gets ahead fairly fast. You don’t know how they do it, but somehow they can counteract all your plays and get the upper hand. By halftime you’re exhausted and feel super defeated.
You can see your little fanclub still cheering from the stands, and that makes you smile.
“Come on Logan, give us the math or whatever,” Roman says.
“It’s perfectly plausible for our team to win, if that’s what you’re asking,”
“Yeah, that,”
“You know if I was the referee we wouldn’t have a scoring problem,” Janus sneers.
Patton gasps at him, “No! Cheating is wrong!”
“It’s not cheating, it’s simply bending the rules a bit and lying about fouls,”
“This is why we usually leave you at home!” Roman huffs. “Remus! What are you doing?!”
Remus turns away from the children he was talking to, “I’m telling them how to turn a rat inside out!” he gestures toward the two kids who look equally confused and mortified.
“Why do I even bother…”
You run back onto the court and get in position. The game resumes and your team picks up some steam. Your teammates score some baskets throughout the third quarter and by the fourth both teams are tied.
“I think now’s a wonderful time to trip number three, don’t you think?” Janus grins, eyeing the opposing teammate that has been scoring the most.
Remus laughs, “Ah, yes! We can tie their shoelaces together and glue rotten bananas to the soles!”
“Can you like, not sabotage someone’s shoes for the second time today?” Virgil cringes.
There’s only a few minutes left and it’s still tied. You’ve gotten close to making a basket a few times, but none have gotten through yet.
You take a deep breath after your team has one last huddle and you look to the stands again. Roman and your dad are belting out a cheer song they probably just made up, Remus is shaking around with pom-poms, and everyone else is clapping. They’re still by far the loudest in the crowd, and you love it.
You can practically feel the clock counting down. The whistle blows and you race across the floor. One of your teammates passes the ball to you and you dribble it to the other side before passing it again. It look like they’re going to shoot, but they stop and quickly pass it to you again.
Number three charges at you and you barely squeak by them without losing the ball. You shoot up, the ball grazing the backboard slightly and finally falling through.
The timer goes off, and the two teams do their high fives. You can’t believe you won by so little, but it feels great.
“THAT’S MY KIDDO! THAT’S MY KIDDO!” you can hear your dad screaming.
You meet up with all of them afterwards and they all congratulate you. Logan shows you all the notes he took about how you did well and what you can do to improve next time and Remus tells you all about the things he wanted to do but everyone said he couldn’t.
“Alright, enough traumatizing people for one day,” Virgil glares. “Who wants ice cream?”
You all order your favorite and gather your chairs around a table. Patton let you get as many scoops, toppings, and sprinkles as you want. Remus was disappointed they don’t carry pickled poo-logs as a flavor so he decided to get some other atrocity like mixing fruity flavors with mint. Everyone else got normal flavors and you all dig in.
“Can you guys believe how amazing my kiddo is?”
“Ugh, really dad?”
“Yes really! You’re absolutely fantastic!”
“Thanks,” you laugh, taking a lick of your ice cream. You’re so lucky to have such a weird yet supportive family, and you love them so much.
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Yoshi was not having a panic attack.
He was a grown man. He was formidable. He was Battle Nexus Champion, single father of four, and he had on his lucky Prada sweater with the soup stain on the sleeve that he had to cuff up to hide.
He would not have a panic attack, just because he was having some kind of residually induced mushroom high while having an outing with his four small turtle children.
He'd always known this would happen. When he was twenty two he took some peyote that caused a trip that had lasted two days, and the tall creature made of rainbows that had lurked in the corner of his vision for the entirety had warned him it would be back. He'd thought it was just a bad trip, that he was just being dramatic- but Yoshi was starting to think that had been the early warning signs of a psychotic breakdown.
"Daddy can I go play please just for a minute?" Blue was still begging, while Lou held his hand in a firm grip and forged his way through the crowd towards a line of stalls, looking for a spot just to take a break and breathe. Some may think he was holding it too tight but Leo was a known escape artist, and Yoshi was not going to lose one of his children in the crowded competition hall.
Not when there were dozens of other turtle children here. He never thought he would have the problem of losing his children in a crowd, but here they were. Surrounded by turtles of every shape and size, most eerily reminiscent of his own children. It was... Strange. If any of his boys grew to be like any of these turtles.
Some of them were double Yoshi's size, or had the odd shape to them that could have been caused by anything from magic, to trauma.
Some of them appeared to be tall humanoid rats.
Yoshi felt sick.
"Blue no, we are. Uh, late for ice cream." Yoshi lied, glad he'd worn his sunglasses. Originally he'd intended to cut the glare in case the park was sunnier than he'd thought- but now it was hiding his eyes from his oldest son, who was trying to study Yoshi's face for some kind of emotional cue of how to feel about this.
Orange was tucked into the crook of Yoshi's left arm, snug as a bug in a rug and peering around with the same goggle eyed intensity he stared at shopping mall window displays. Or airplanes flying over head. Yoshi wasn't too concerned about any hysterics from Orange, who was just about the easiest baby to take care of next to a pet rock. As long as he was tucked into Yoshi's arms he would probably remain dry-eyed through an active warzone. Or the Macy's perfume department.
Red was loyally clinging to Yoshi's pant leg as he'd been taught to do in a crowd, tense and uncertain as he looked up at the underside of taller contestants chins, his free hand holding on to Donnie's. Red probably would be much more upset about all this if Yoshi hadn't forced himself into a sort of eerily frozen calm- as if he was staring down a very tall ledge and did not want the children to know.
Purple clearly knew how he felt about the whole situation, but Purple only had one reaction to crowds. He was rumbling like an angry blender where he was still reluctantly clinging to Red's larger hand, and only the fact that he was overstimulated and cranky and about two seconds from a meltdown kept Yoshi from scooping him up and tucking him into his sweater like a rowdy kitten.
Purple would not put up with that at the moment, and it was only the single point of contact of Red's hand that he would permit to touch him.
"Daddy what if you played too? Raph could watch me maybe," Blue wheedled, dragging his feet enough that Yoshi had to lift him up to keep him from dropping dramatically to the floor. This was eerily reminiscent of his own childhood, and he felt a sudden surge or empathy for his Grandfather. "I don't want to go to the park any more anyway, it's probably hot."
"We can play later Blue- after I find an exit." He muttered the last, and finally reached the line of stalls standing sentry on one of the walls. They didn't seem to be manned by any official looking employee, but rather a hodgepodge group of volunteers of every size and shape.
They held everything from first aid, to fair food, to soup and flowers- none of them, however, seemed to have a map. Mikey went immediately alert as Yoshi dragged his pack of turtles past the line of stalls, tugging painfully and pointedly on Yoshi's hair when he saw a table selling cheap little souvenirs. They said 'TMNT AU Competition' in cracked green letters on an orange background, emblazoned on everything from snow globes to gaudy beaded necklaces to drawstring backpacks.
"Yes, very pretty Orange." Yoshi agreed, purposefully misunderstanding so he would not need to buy yet more cheap toys for Orange to hide around their house.
Any more argument was cut off by the crackle of speakers overhead. A voice indistinct of all personality cleared their throat, humming a moment before announcing,
"Round one voting had begun! All contestants report to the stage."
Yoshi flinched. He had a feeling they would not be finding an exit any time soon.
Little Scraps of Wisdom - spectralsleuth (ao3)
Feral Leo - cupcakeslushie
Good luck and have fun!
#LSoW#spoiler they do find an exit soon it's called me getting bodied in the poll#tmnt au competition#tmnt au propaganda#ok i will write a liddol snippet#rottmnt#tmnt au#my writing#tmnt au competition main bracket
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1. Caught Dead with a Beretta
Fic Title: First Blood
Rating: E
Length: 1/33 chapters, ~128k
Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort
Chapter Tags: suicide, death / murder, verbal hazing
Link on AO3
***
Gavin's sick of working suicides—they're depressing as hell and aren't going to do anything for his promotion. He's just got to the crime scene already wants to go home. It's fucking ass'o'clock in the morning, and he hasn't slept worth shit, so of course Nines texted to let him know about the scene the second he'd finally dozed off.
The elevator ride up to the two thousand square foot loft gives him enough time to get hit with shit, did I take my meds before I left home? Fuck. Maybe?
Goddammit. Maybe he should switch to those patches and gels instead of a weekly injection. Taking his T is the one thing he never, ever forgets, so if he switched to something he could do daily and took his meds for the BPD and ADHD at the same time …
The elevator doors ding open, ruining his train of thought. Nines is here already because he doesn't fucking sleep, apparently. That hot fuckboy he sucked off once—and the beat cop for this side of town—Brayden, is in there too, but Gavin's most recent bout of soul-crippling insomnia has actually worn him down too much to be horny.
Well, too much to put forth the effort for flirting, at least.
"—huh, Nine Thousand?" Brayden says as Gavin walks up.
Nines doesn't respond.
"He's RK nine hundred," Gavin says. "Not like the meme. Super disappointing."
Brayden grins. "Yeah, but I mean like, the movie."
"Nine thousand?"
Gavin frowns, trying to force his stupid idiot brain to think. All he can come up with is 300. Maybe it's a movie based off of that one book? The like, underwater … and submarines. Something-number thousand leagues under the sea? No fuck, that's not nine thousand.
"Two thousand," Brayden says. "And one."
Shit, is that the number of leagues or the title of the movie?
"Man, I am way too fucking tired." Gavin waves him off. "I'm not even into that film shit. I just like action movies."
Brayden heaves a deep sigh. "I've seen your file, Gavin. You're too smart to willingly lump yourself in with the uneducated masses."
"May we proceed with the crime scene, detective?" Nines asks before Gavin can reply.
Brayden flinches a little. The only reason Gavin doesn't get scared himself is because he's gotten used to Nines not breathing or moving—until he suddenly does. Makes people jumpy as shit to realize they forgot about the giant fucking android just standing there.
Not blinking. Or breathing.
"Go ahead," Brayden says with a sweep of his hand, like he didn't just jump half a foot.
"May we proceed with the crime scene, detective?" Nines asks instead of complying.
"Yeah, sure," Gavin grants permission.
Nines proceeds. Gavin tries to hold back a smirk. Brayden's the pretentious kind of asshole who loves explaining shit no one cares about, but he's pretty hot too, and Gavin's not quite ready to burn that bridge to Terra-dick-bia by pissing him off. No, that sounds terrible. The bridge to … mm, dick.
Damn, he's tired.
He follows after Nines, a little worried he might wander off in his sleep-deprived state and get lost in all this square footage of prime fucking real estate. Even saints would have to work to feel sorry for dead people as rich as this.
Finally, he stumbles into a section of the open floor plan that seems to function as the living room. There's a flat screen tv nearly as big as the wall it's mounted on, a coffee table made from a whole chunk of mahogany with a half-full tumbler, and a dead guy sitting in a chair with a gun in his hand and a hole in his head.
The TV still blares out the news, and the vic's own face flashes out at them.
"This the Ponzi scheme guy?" Gavin asks.
"Maverick Russell, age forty-seven." Nines shoves a finger inside the vic's mouth with no shame or preamble. "Blood alcohol level point-oh-nine-seven. The entry wound in his head appears to be consistent with a nine millimeter Beretta."
He takes a small packet out of his Cyberlife jacket pocket and somehow has the coordination to open it one-handed. Gavin wrinkles his nose at the antiseptic smell as Nines sanitizes both hands with the wipe, even though he only touched the vic with one finger. Then he lifts that same finger to the victim's head.
"Hey!" Gavin barks. "What have I told you about that shit?"
Nines stares back at him with that unblinking, lizard-eye look. He touches his finger to the entry wound but doesn't push it in. Just brushes it back and forth, which is somehow way freakier.
"The entry wound in his head is consistent with a nine millimeter Beretta," Nines says.
"Great."
Gavin walks a perimeter around the designated living room space. At first it's just to keep himself awake, but by the second circle, he's got one of those gut feelings. Something about this scene is off. Fuck if he can tell what though, 'cause the victim was drunk, watching his own demise on the news, and has a bullet in his head from the gun in his hand.
"You feel that?" He asks.
Nines cocks his head to the side. "The circulating air temperature is seventy--"
"No." Gavin huffs and starts on another circle. "Do you like … you feel what I’m feeling?"
"Your question is incomprehensible."
Gavin sighs and grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes. He bites back a comment about this being why androids can't make good cops. Fuck knows why he's bothering to be nice now. He just wants to get this shit done and go home.
When he opens his eyes, everything swirls with black spots in front of him. What's bugging him about this? The guy is dead, the gun is in his hand, the news says—
Gavin blinks the spots away and stands in front of the vic. Fake tan, but high enough quality that it'd look real if he didn't live in fucking Detroit. Decently fit, and the open kitchen on the other side of the room has one of those blenders that cost more than his car. The loft's decorated in masculine colors, all brown and navy and black leather.
"Go check out the kitchen," Gavin tells Nines. "Tell me what's in the fridge."
Nines does as he's told, but only after considering it. Gavin takes back the lizard comparisons. He's like a cat. One of those big jungle cats that's smart enough to eat the humans hunting them.
"Dannon Oikos triple blended greek nonfat yogurt, coffee, four pack, five-point-three ounce cups," Nines says. "Dannon Oikos trippled blended greek nonfat yogurt, peanut butter banana, four—"
Gavin rolls his eyes. "Just say yogurt. What else does he got?"
"Yogurt. Eggs. Milk. Sparkling water. Chicken breast. Mayonnaise. Sliced ham. Apples. Protein shakes." Nines opens the freezer. "Chicken breast. Chicken breast. Chicken breast. Chi—"
Gavin starts giggling. He can't help it. Nines turns around and glares at him, deliberately flashing his LED red for a second.
"OK, fuck off, it's late," he says. "I'm like, super tired. Just analyze that shit or whatever and tell me if his food matches any of the latest high protein fad diets."
"Yes," Nines replies so instantly Gavin wonders if he actually even looked it up at all. "The victim's food intake matches the Eight Step Enligh—"
Gavin waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. Cool. Does the bar have gin, vodka, and vermouth?"
Maverick Russell, definitely confirmed for one of those ultra-rich masculine gym types. Not like, an actual gym rat, just that generic rich person level of fitness achieved through liposuction, personal fitness trainers, and the latest fad diet.
"Yes, along with seven other distinct liqueurs." Nines finishes checking the bar and returns to the living room. "How is this information relevant, detective?"
"This drink and that gun don't match," Gavin says when Nines returns.
Nines cocks his head again. "Match."
"Yeah. I don't see any Bond memorabilia in here." Gavin takes another quick glance around, but the entertainment center doesn't display any vintage DVDs, and rich film buffs are not subtle about displaying their collections. "He ever purchased anything like that?"
Nines's LED spins yellow for about half a second this time before he replies. "No. There are no significant purchases of memorabilia relating to the James Bond books or movies present in Maverick Russell's finances."
"OK, then why the fuck does he have a Beretta?" Gavin asks.
Nines looks at the victim, and then back at him. "That is what he shot himself with."
"Yeah, but why," he stresses. "Would this guy—this self-obsessed, rich guy masc, desperate-to-be-cool motherfucker—have a Beretta?"
"It is the tool he used to complete suicide." Nines frowns. "Is there a reason he would not have a Beretta?"
"Because it's a ladies' handgun," Gavin says. "This guy's got three different TV remotes, a flat screen covering an entire wall, jesus, how old is that scotch?"
Nines sticks his finger in it, because of course he does. "One hundred and twenty-three years old, consistent with—"
"Shit, I would've thought this guy was trying too hard when I was twenty and desperate to be cis," Gavin mutters. "Look, I fucking promise you, this particular man literally wouldn't be caught dead with a Beretta—unless he's a James Bond fan. Even then … hey, Brayden!"
"His input is unnecessary, detective." Nines cleans his hands with another sanitary wipe. "If you would be more clear—"
His jaw shuts with a click as Brayden jogs over.
"Hey, you like the Bond movies?" Gavin asks.
Brayden heaves a tortured sigh. "I really prefer foreign movies, but for an American—"
"All right, sure. Would you ever kick it with a Beretta?"
Brayden bites the inside of his cheek, opens his mouth, then closes it with a frown as he thinks about it.
"What if you were like, a super fan?"
"Why?" Brayden glances around the loft with an interested look. "This guy have some collector's memorabilia?"
Gavin shakes his head. "Nah. But why else he's got a fucking Beretta?"
"Well that's not the drink for it," Brayden says immediately, then scoffs. "A scotch?"
"Yeah, and he had the shit to make a martini too."
"Weird. You thinking …" Brayden trails off, then winces. "Ah, shit. We uh, we got a guy a floor down. Said he heard the shot that, you know. But he said it was two bangs. And you know how shit witnesses are about getting anything right, and the TV was on and—"
"That's shit I need to know," Gavin snaps. "Doesn't matter how stupid you think it is, you're the first officer on the scene, you report every-fucking-thing to the responding detective."
"Yeah." Brayden clears his throat. "My bad."
Gavin lets it slide only because now he has something to go on. "Whatever. Check me on the precon for this, RK."
"Preconstruction running, detective."
"So we got two shots." Gavin backs up so he's approaching the living room from twenty feet away. "So we should have two guns. The perp, coming in here, gets shot 'cause the vic's only got the one entry wound, but—"
Nines touches the victim's hand, and then his cellphone buzzes.
The distribution of gunshot residue on Maverick Russell's right hand is not consistent with a Beretta. The gun he fired has a longer muzzle and larger caliber. My preliminary preconstruction matches it to a .500 S&W Magnum. The victim has four registered in his name.
Gavin closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Would it fucking kill him to send that in five separate texts like a normal person? Now he's going to look dumb as fuck staring at the screen for five minutes trying to read one paragraph.
OK, he’s got the fifty caliber Magnum, that's easy to read. Longer muzzle, larger caliber, right.
"So the vic has a fifty caliber Magnum instead of a dinky Beretta, makes a lot more sense."
Nines doesn't correct him, so that must have been the gist of the message.
"The perp gets shot—"
"Where's the blood though?" Brayden asks.
Gavin glares at him. "Can you let me fucking work?"
Shit, he's doing it again and this is why no one wants to work with him because they fuck up--everyone fucks up, he knows this, he fucking knows this--and then he just can't let it go but why the hell does Brayden think he's allowed to speak right now when—
He's not in trouble. He's not in trouble, it's just the loft, being in another rich empty room again. None of them are children and he's not in trouble.
His cellphone buzzes.
The floor has been scrubbed clean throughout the loft. I did not realize that was relevant information. I will give you full reports of my analysis moving forward.
That's not too bad to read, and concentrating on making the letters stay still actually helps him cool off a bit for once. Gives him something to look at other than Brayden's pretty, hurt face or the perfect fucking interior design that still feels like when he was thirteen and—
Gavin shoves those memories aside and starts typing out a reply.
just text me that shit
I'll prolly yell if u try telling me about the floors at every crime scene
"Am I dismissed then?" Brayden asks.
Gavin looks up from his phone and can't force out any sort of apology. He never can. And anyway, fuck him. If Brayden wants to get pissy about getting snapped at twice after a legitimate fuck up and interrupting a senior detective mid-sentence, then sure. He can fuck right off.
"Go get the maid," Gavin tells him.
"The … android?" Brayden asks.
"No, the roomba. Yes, the fucking android maid. Someone scrubbed the floors clean."
And the side table.
Gavin doesn't bother with texting back this time. "That where the blood splatter would have hit?"
"Yes, detective," Nines answers out loud.
Gavin turns back to Brayden. "So there's your answer. Get the maid, 'cause I doubt the perp stuck around himself to clean the entire two-thousand square foot floor."
Brayden hesitates.
"She's still here," Gavin asks. "Right, Officer Burton?"
Brayden gives a curt nod, but he breaks into a run as he leaves.
AP700 #480 913 876 is located in the foyer of the building, along with Officers Miller and Abrahamson. I have sent alerts to their cellphones that the AP model is needed for questioning.
Gavin starts to ask how Nines knows that but … isn't this what he was literally designed to do?
"She's not a suspect yet," he says instead. "So cool it, Terminator. And don't hack peoples' phones. That's what the officers have walkie talkies for."
Nines makes a face like Gavin just suggested they all start using smoke signals. He's not exactly the type to go all buddy-buddy on witnesses himself, but they're definitely not going to get anywhere with Nines scaring the thirium out of their one lead.
Gavin takes a moment to wallow in how much he hates this before he calls Hank. At least if he has to be up before dawn, so will that motherfucker.
"We do not need assistance from Lieutenant Anderson," Nines says, his expression souring even further. "Or my predecessor. I recognize that I did not meet the necessary level of efficiency when I neglected to—"
"Hey, this isn't a punishment," Gavin says, tilting the phone down away from his mouth. "I fucking hate Connor too, and when we have an android suspect, I get that's your thing. But right now we have an android witness, and that's his."
"Ahh, fuck," Hank's voice comes out of the phone. "Sun's not even fucking—goddammit, Reed."
"We will be at your location in twenty minutes, Detective Reed," Connor's voice says next.
Gavin stares out into space as what's left of his soul collapses in on itself at the confirmation that those two really are fucking. Not even just fucking, they're sleeping together. In bed, for literal sleep.
"Nines, tell them they're disgusting," Gavin orders. "You can put way more hate into it than me."
"Disgusting," Nines says with a sneer that would put Gavin's mother to shame.
Gavin hangs up before Hank can reply. "I know you lack the capacity and all that shit, but if it makes you not-feel any better, I bet you five bucks the perp's android."
"Based off of what evidence?" Nines asks.
"Took a bullet and kept going." Gavin steps back into place where the perp probably walked in. "He's got the Beretta, but it's just a gun to him. He grabs the vic's gun, maybe disarms him, maybe doesn't even have to after the first shot."
"The blood vessels on the victim's wrist have not been damaged." Nines starts cleaning his hands again even though he hasn't even touched anything this time. "Why would the human stop shooting?"
"TV's on, he's drinking, has a gun out already." Gavin shrugs. "Might have been a suicide interrupted by a murder. Might've fired the first shot just being scared, y'know, gut instinct."
Nines just looks at him.
"Or you don't know, whatever." Gavin rolls his eyes. "But once he realizes what's happening—maybe he couldn't pull the trigger himself, but now here's someone gonna do it for him. Maybe he just sits back down. That still work with your preconstruction?"
"Yes," Nines says. "Along with two thousand, one hundred and fifty-eight other scenarios."
"Whatever. And just like, for the record, don't ask Hank about how this suicidal shit works," Gavin tells him. "Hank might not care, but those are fighting words with Connor."
Nines doesn't move a single centimeter as he stares silently at him.
"And don't fucking fight with Connor, we don't have time for it. Anyway, if anyone gets to pick a fight at a murder scene, it's me. So." Gavin walks up to the chair with his hand pointed like a gun. "The perp gets him back down, shoots him in the side of the head, then switches the guns so the ballistics will match."
"He could have taken the victim's gun." Nines's LED spins a few yellow cycles. "It is registered in his name. The suicide would have looked more authentic."
"And that's why I'm thinking our guy's an android," Gavin replies. "Someone who hasn't ever seen a movie before in his whole life. Thinks a gun is a gun is a gun. I mean, you didn't know why the Beretta was weird, and if you made A Plan to kill a guy with this gun, would you switch it up in the middle?"
Nines's LED immediately hits blue, but it's that fake-blue that means he's really covering up a red. Gavin almost kind of … has a feeling about it?
But then the elevator doors open with Brayden and the android maid inside. Gavin's got a burned bridge, a possible eye witness, and an a murder to deal with. Worrying about his partner's not-feelings will have to wait.
***
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1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33
This fic is also available on my Patreon! $1 tier gets you each chapter a week early, so you could be reading chapter two right now~
$2 tier gets you deleted scenes and bonus content--this week, it’s extra scenes about how Nines was found at Cyberlife and how he gets his first apartment
$3 tier gets you access to the first chapters of two new AUs I’m currently writing--an A/B/O universe in which Gavin is a bitter omega and Nines is his android partner determined to help him during his heat; and a Reverse AU where GV200 “Gavin” is assigned as Detective Richard Stern’s sobriety companion
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2000: “Ghetto Qu’ran (Forgive Me)” 50 Cent (Trackmaster Ent./Columbia)
It’s been over a year since I teased the idea of doing a post about my favorite 50 Cent tracks, so I guess now is as good a time as ever to get around to it!
With the exception of maybe Kanye, I can’t think of another rapper with more raw talent whose career has been more disappointing. Obviously both Ye and Fiddy have been monstrously successful, but IMO they either burned brightly before descending into white supremacy apologia (Kanye) or never achieved their best possible trajectory (50). It’s not an accident to put them together in this way, either; just 12 years ago next month they faced off in what turned out to be a very underwhelming battle over whose album would sell better (this was back when album sales, not streaming numbers, still meant something). In many ways, it was a crossroads for each artist: Kanye dropped what I believe was his magnum opus, then followed it up with his fourth-best album, third-best album, and second-best album, before dropping off a cliff, while 50′s release basically removed him from the conversation about who was relevant in rap (“My Gun Go Off” and “I Get Money” are honorable mentions for the list below, but otherwise Curtis is entirely forgettable).
These days, 50 has gone the Ice Cube route and is probably more recognizable as an actor than as a rapper. So, it’s hard to remember that once upon a time he was the savior of gangsta rap and (co-)author of one of the 25 greatest albums of all time. He beat the odds to survive a shooting, link up with the two heaviest hitters (at the time) in the rap game, and even be included on some GOAT lists. He also essentially established the “flood the streets with mixtapes before your album drops” strategy of self-promotion that Gucci, Weezy, and even Drake would follow in the days before Soundcloud was the go-to resource for building a rep. He singlehandedly destroyed a rival’s career, launched a clothing line, video game, and music label, and made a halfway-decent biopic. And then... he just sort of petered out.
But! 50 is also responsible for some of my all-time favorite raps, which is why it’s so frustrating to me that he never lived up to the buzz surrounding him back in 2003. These are my five favorites, listed chronologically, with some commentary:
1) “Ghetto Qu’ran (Forgive Me)” (2000) Before the G-Unit days and before Eminem and Dre helped launch him to superstardom, Curtis Jackson was an up and coming rapper from Queens who had attracted the attention of another rap legend, Run-DMC’s Jam Master Jay. A mutual friend introduced 19 year-old 50 to Jay back in 1996, and the veteran producer/DJ gave him a crash course in how to write songs and signed him to his fledgling label. The business relationship didn’t work out, but it helped lead 50 to Columbia Records’ Trackmasters imprint where he recorded Power of the Dollar in 1999. However, this debut album would never see the light of day after 50 was shot nine times while sitting in a friend’s car and subsequently dropped by Columbia. In the wake of the shooting--and then later, after 50 blew the fuck up in 2003--it became a sort of “lost cult classic” among rap fans. “How To Rob” got the most attention at the time, a funny-yet-vicious song demonstrating 50′s hunger through fantasies about sticking up famous rappers and R&B stars (the song was also clearly an homage to Biggie’s unreleased “Dreams,” and provoked an oblique diss from Ghostface). But “Ghetto Qu’ran” has had a more lasting impact, primarily because of how it was rumored to be the source of 50′s shooting, Jam Master Jay’s murder, and the Ja Rule/Murder Inc. beef. While all of that intrigue is important to rap lore, it distracts from the fact that it’s a near perfect rap song from a technical perspective: a catchy hook, a fantastic beat and sample, an effortless flow, and a well-crafted story that is equal parts celebration of the Queens underworld and subtle shots at street legends. Seriously, this is akin to what traveling bards used to do in medieval Europe, what poets in Ancient Greece wrote, what west African griots did/do, and what narcocorrido artists do now. If you want to learn about the Supreme Team, Pappy Mason, the Corley Family, and the Rich Porter/Alpo crew in Harlem, then this is a good place to start; as 50 puts it, “consider this the first chapter of the ghetto’s Qu’ran.” The secondary title to this track--“Forgive Me”--has a double meaning now. It was initially a plea to forgive 50 for the pain he caused in his criminal life but in retrospect an appeal to the figures whose names he drops. Also, it’s interesting to listen to this first and then compare 50′s voice with the next four tracks: this was recorded before the shooting, which left a bullet fragment lodged in his tongue that affected his speech and gave him his now-distinctive flow.
2) “Heat” (2003) There are several standouts on Get Rich or Die Tryin’ (“Many Men,” “Back Down,” “What Up Gangsta,” “Patiently Waiting,” and “Poor Lil’ Rich” spring to mind, and I will always love “21 Questions” for the “I love you like a fat kid loves cake” line alone) but this one has always been my fave. It’s a perfect distillation of the image that 50 was trying to project when he burst onto the scene: a hood-hardened gangster who wouldn’t hesitate to do his enemies harm. And given his recent history, you could believe him, too! There’s really nothing about this song that should be praised in any way, but I’ve been thinking about the gravity of the following line a lot in the past month or so: “The summertime is a killing season/ It’s hot out this bitch, that’s a good enough reason.” Also, 50′s boast “the DA can play this motherfucking tape in court” *has* to be one of the inspirations behind this great Key & Peele sketch, right?
3) “A Baltimore Love Thing” (2005) The Massacre was incredibly disappointing on the whole. I can remember clearly sitting around with my friends in a dorm room at the Shoreland listening to it all the way through the day that it dropped, wanting to love it but slowly realizing that it wasn’t going to live up to our expectations. “Ski Mask Way” could be an honorable mention on this list, and “Piggy Bank” is kind of funny, but otherwise it’s a steaming pile of shit. “Baltimore Love Thing,” though, is a masterpiece. It’s incredibly dark, rapped from the perspective of heroin itself (sort of like what Nas’s “I Gave You Power” does for guns) in order to detail the destruction that addiction--and, by extension, drug trafficking--leaves in its wake. Even more fucked up, 50-as-heroin voices an abusive partner addressing a woman, threatening her should she ever try to leave him. For my money, “You broke my heart, you dirty bitch, I won’t forget what you did/ If you give birth, I’ll already be in love with your kids” is one of the coldest lines in the annals of rap, full stop. In the second verse, he switches to the flip side of an abuser’s mindset: “I never steer you wrong, if you hyper I make you calm/ I’ll be your incentive, your reason for you to move forward.” All in all, it’s a great concept song that shows off 50′s range as a rapper... and is a testament to what he could have been.
4) “Hustler’s Ambition” (2005) Goddamn, I fucking love everything about this song! The beat is fantastic (great sample, btw), prefiguring the sound on a future great mixtape from the G-Unit crew. 50′s flow here is flawless, arguably the best, smoothest he’s ever been. This was basically the “theme” for 2005′s Get Rich or Die Tryin’ film, and tells the story of his come up in the drug game (or, at least, 50′s version of his carefully constructed hagiography). The lyrics are the true gems here, so I’ll just let a few of the standouts speak for themselves:
“Check my logic: fiends don’t like seeds in they weed, shit/ Send me them seeds, I’ll grow ‘em what they need”
“I sell anything, I’m a hustler, I know how to grind/ Step on grapes, put it in water, and tell you it’s wine”
“I made plans to make it, a prisoner of the state/ Now I can invite your ass out to my estate”
“Pour Cristal in the blender, make a protein shake”
and finally
“The feds watch me, icy, they can’t stop me/ Racists pointing at me, ‘Look at *****race’: Hello!”
5) “Ghetto Like A Motherfucker” (2011) I remember first encountering this track on a Tumblr compilation (I think?) called Don’t Fuck This Up, Curtis! and allowing myself to get excited that the old 50 was back! As the compilation’s name implies, around that time 50 had been releasing a string of online-only singles that were better than anything he’d put out in five or so years, and so there was some hope that he’d soon be making a triumphant return to the rap game. Sadly, this was not to be. But I still bang this track every month or so. The idea here was that 50 had written something, set it to a very sparse, stripped-down beat, and posted it online as an invitation for DIY rap producers to play with it and layer their own compositions on top of it. In that sense, it represented a melange of rap’s earliest roots--dudes spitting over vinyl cuts in basements and parks, just fucking around and having fun--and the possibilities afforded by the digital age and rap’s embrace of online platforms for mixing and remixing material (on a side note, I like to think of this as part of 21st century rap’s “punk rock” aesthetic, and would argue that this genre has done it better than any other). As with “Hustler’s Ambition,” “Baltimore Love Thing,” and “Ghetto Qu’ran,” this track gives 50 a chance to really showcase his talents as a writer and a rapper. The lyrics are as grimy as the beat, painting a picture of urban poverty and pre-fame 50, and 50 switches up his flow at multiple points throughout. Here are some of my favorite lines:
“Slim chance I’ma go back to killing roaches/ Be quiet, you can hear the rats in the wall/ Make you wanna pump crack ‘til you stack racks”
“Dice game, shake ‘em up, praying’ for a 6/ The wolves out there hungry, they lookin’ for a lick”
“****** pissed on the staircase, in the elevator/ Now I’m pissed cuz I’m starting to smell like piss, player”
and
“All a ***** need is a block and a connect/ And a box of 9 MMs to load in the TEC.”
50′s last two studio albums--Before I Self Destruct and Animal Ambition--honestly weren’t half-bad; I would venture so far as to say that they were both better than The Massacre and Curtis. But for 50 it was too little, too late, really. Too many rappers had come along since then doing what he did, only better and fresher. This is a Migos world now; we’re just living in it. And so, I’m left to ponder what could have been.
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[HR] Objects in the Rearview Mirror May be Closer Than They Appear
This one is my first go at a scary story! Let me know what you think!
*****
As far as anyone was concerned, there was nothing wrong with the car, except maybe that both Grandpa and Great Uncle Jim had died in it. Of course, if one could get past sitting down where two old guys bit the dust, she really was a beauty. Luke Ballinger’s seventy-five Mustang convertible was cherry red, with the original leather still intact and a chrome bumper that sparkled and shone like the day it hit the market. And though he’d taken extra care to ensure that the black, rubbery tonneau cover didn’t lose its luster during the time it was secure between the windshield and the trunk (which was every day for the ten years he had it) it still looked like it was aching to get out of the sun. Gloria, as the car had been christened, wasn’t just a convertible. It was like she wanted to cart around a group of hip teenagers with the roof torn down and her speakers straining with rock and roll and dirty pop songs. She sat in the driveway with a look about her that screamed anticipation; she had an engine that rested on its toes, bound beneath a slick hood that bled seduction and seemed to whisper: drive me, baby. Gloria looked alive. She was no Porche, but to the six grandchildren of driving age in the Ballinger family, she was the ultimate ride. It took one day for every foot Grandpa lay underground for everyone to start bickering over who was going to get it.
As it turned out, the car legally hadn’t been entrusted to anyone. Grandpa’s will left a lot of money to a lot of people, but there wasn’t any mention about where the convertible would go. And so the vicious battle to lay claim to Gloria began. Grammie Jean suddenly found six, new, very sympathetic helpers around the house. On a slow day, two of her grandchildren would show up at the same time with promises of Pine-Sol and elbow grease and then fight over who could offer the most of their services. The sudden interest in visiting confused her, especially since the children only really stopped over on holidays—but the front yard had never been so trim. She wasn’t complaining.
Five of the grandchildren spent a good two weeks completing chores that Grammie Jean hadn’t been able to get to for years, hoping that she’d find favour with one of them enough to write it over to them on their birthday or something. But the middle grandchild, whose name was Julie, quietly under the radar, had taken a different approach to trying to get the car. On the days that her cousins weren’t sniffing around her grandmother’s back yard, she would go over to visit. At twenty, she had chores of her own to worry about and though she had hoarded more than enough money to purchase her first ride, she preferred to keep that stockpile for other things. Levelheaded, logical and skeptical of anything she couldn’t see, reasonable Julia grew tired of watching her cousins’ repeated attempts at manipulation, and thought of a better plan. On a Wednesday in June, she marched into Grammie Jean’s living room and asked if she could have the Mustang.
“I don’t see why not,” the woman remarked, “Your grandfather hated the damn thing; wouldn’t even get in it some mornings. It’s about time someone gave it a good spin. Take it off my hands.”
That was that. Julie would never forget the look everyone wore when they congregated at Grammie Jean’s house the next Monday ready to begin working for a prize that was no longer available to them. She watched in triumph as their faces lit with shock, and then fell with disappointment, and then after a minute, as they each contemplated how to hide their anger about the defeat, twisted in disgust. The car, in three seconds flat, had gone from a thing to be coveted, to a dirty rag.
“Ew, Julia, Grandpa died in that thing. You’re sitting in his, like, juices.”
“I heard Great Uncle Jim kicked it in the front seat before he did. Sat in it a week before they found him too, I bet.”
“Dude, that car is totally cursed.”
“Julia’s probably going to die now.”
“Still gross, man.”
Julia didn’t have to shrug a single person off that day. She was enjoying her victory too much and each dig at her confidence only boosted it further.
It took about a week for her to discover why Grandpa loathed the car. On a breezy afternoon, Julia packed the Mustang to capacity with squealing girlfriends and took her for a spin. Gloria sailed down backroads, radiating freedom, and everyone drank it in and sang cliché choruses to songs that they didn’t know the names of. By the end of the day, with the sun still high for another few hours, Julia dropped her crew off one by one, and took off on her own to enjoy her new toy.
That evening, everyone seemed to be out tending to their yards. This meant that Gloria had an audience, and Julia loved it. People lifted their heads from their gardens to watch in awe as the red beauty cruised by. One man in particular seemed especially enthralled by the sight. He was in his forties, an infant beer gut just starting to swell from his waistline, slipping into the routine of mundane summer chores: he mowed the lawn on a tractor while his wife, easily ten years his junior, lay out on the grass in her bikini. Julia looked up and smiled; the man waved, and watched her drive past in admiration. She was so pleased with the attention that she continued to watch him, smug through her rearview mirror as the scene melted away.
Just before she lost sight of them, however, she noticed that the man, who couldn’t keep his eyes off of her bumper, had continued driving forward and was growing dangerously close to the woman on the ground. As her car rounded the corner, the front of the mower began chewing the towel, grinding grass, and then fabric, and then, before Julia had time to register what was going on, hair and flesh. The mower had been red, like her car, and, as she thought sickeningly before turning the corner completely, red like the puree now spraying generously out the back of it.
She hit the brakes, slamming her head off of the steering wheel. As she shook the stars from her eyes, she was unsure if the grating screech she heard came from Gloria or out of her own mouth.
That man had just ground up his own wife with the family mower. Right over the back of her head. She’d been listening to music too, Julia bet, and so she probably had no idea what was happening until her brain went to bits like strawberries in a blender. Julia opened the door and dry heaved a few times before her heart fell back from the inside of her throat. She sat up, slowly, sweating, and wondered if turning around was the right thing to do, and then thought about what she’d gain from it: most likely some serious PTSD and enough guilt to last her a lifetime.
You just witnessed murder. She thought, and then quickly corrected herself. Manslaughter. You saw manslaughter. He didn’t mean it.
Because he hadn’t meant it. He’d been wrapped up in her car, and like the pied piper to a rat, the Mustang pulled him right toward calamity. It was technically her fault.
Go back, she thought. Go back there and help. Julia knew there was a rule against driving away from an accident, but that usually only applied to the drivers stuck behind it. What happened to the people in front? Not everyone watched their mirrors every ten seconds. Leaving and forgetting about the whole thing was perfectly logical and, she assumed, even legal. Even if it is my fault. But the justification didn’t hold, and Julia tearfully found herself reaching for the gearshift to turn around. As she backed into a nearby driveway, Julia caught on to something and stopped. The street was quiet, and that didn’t make any sense at all.
Julia expected screaming, and wailing and shouting and sirens, but there was nothing to be heard over the hum of her engine. She waited, listening intently to any sign that her assistance would be needed. Instead of screaming, however, she heard a lawn mower. The tight knot that had formed in her stomach loosened, and then the whole thing turned to jello, threatening to send whatever was left inside it back out into her lap. Was that monster going back for round two? While every fibre of her being pulled her away, Julia took a wavering breath, locked the doors and put the car in drive. If the watery nausea she felt was right, she would be required to report something completely different to the police. She chanted to herself: I will not get out of the car. I will not get out of the car. Julia pulled out onto the road, and the Mustang crawled around the corner.
When she saw that the man was still driving around the lawn, earphones in, bopping his head to music she couldn’t hear, Julia let out a sob. That sick bastard, oh my God, he wasn’t looking at the car, he was watching me and he killed his wife, that sick fuck ohmygodohmygodohmygod—
But there was no blood in the grass. There were no scraps of skin or hair or grey matter dotting the ground. When Julia did gather the courage to look down, she saw that the woman, now slightly burning, had flipped over onto her back and was reading an issue of Cosmo. Julia let the car roll by, her body, now a bundle of live wire, thrummed as her cheeks grew wet.
I must be going insane, she thought. The man waved. A little blond girl that she hadn’t seen before, their daughter, she supposed, smiled at Julia as she jumped rope in the driveway.
That night, she googled symptoms of psychological disorders. Much to her relief, she didn’t qualify for anything out of the ordinary. Instead, she concluded the only logical explanation: she was tired. Her diagnosis was an overactive imagination and with a good night’s sleep, the prognosis was cheerful. When she woke up the next morning with the sun creeping in through her curtains and the lawnmower incident buried deep behind the duties of the day, Julia felt better.
Except that evening, through the rearview, she watched a jogger bring his run to a dead halt on the Town Bridge and swan dive over the side. This time, when she slammed on the brakes and pulled over, Julia got out of the car, phone at the ready like a pistol from her hip. She didn’t need to go very far. Before her foot made full contact with the sidewalk, she bumped into him head-on. Though the running man wasn’t impressed, a very shaken Julia informed him that she was glad he was still alive and he managed a confused smile before carrying on. A little girl eating an ice cream cone looked at her incredulously across the street. On the way home, she kept her eyes on the road ahead, and vowed to stop drinking coffee so late in the day.
A week later, Julia was switching lanes on the highway and caught a glimpse of the driver behind her. He was missing his head; jagged arteries grew from the stump left behind and spurted forth black blood like a clogged fountain. It created an abstract masterpiece on the inside of the windshield. It took everything she had not to pull the car off of the road. Later on, when her heart slowed and her hands grew steady, the same car whipped past, carrying a family of four. They were singing along to something upbeat on the radio, and their heads were very much where they were meant to be. Their daughter, small and blonde, made a face at her through the back window.
As time wore on, Julia became resigned to the fact that she was losing her mind and had begun practicing different ways to break the news to her mother every evening before bed. Nightmares of the grizzly deaths she was witnessing—now at least one every time she got behind the wheel— destroyed any hope of sleep, each scenario more gruesome than the last, played out in perfect clarity in a three by seven inch mirror. And each time she’d turn around, everything would be pristine and pretty again, and she’d wake up sweating and screaming and wishing she hadn’t asked for the damn car in the first place. She had started wondering whether or not the thing was cursed after all.
Eventually, after watching her Uncle Frank’s six-year-old golden retriever get his head squashed by the family Toyota while the line of cars leaving Fourth of July dinner backed out of his driveway, Julie had to admit that she had had enough. In a fury, she marched into her uncle’s garage, found a roll of duct tape and sealed the rearview shut for good. She washed her hands of the matter, and with some difficulty, was able to find her way back to the road using only her side mirrors. Curse or insanity, regardless of the matter, Julia was free.
She drove that way for weeks, and eventually—save for a few angry, blaring horns from the drivers she cut off—grew comfortable driving blind. Soon, the frequent hindsight bloodbaths became nothing more than a faded memory. All was well.
Until one Sunday Julia’s mother enlisted her to take Grammie Jean to church. That morning the two sat in her kitchen, sipping tea and sharing stories when the topic of the car came up.
“So how do you like it?” Grammie Jean asked.
“Oh, you know. It’s nice to have something to drive,” Julie replied, taking in too much tea and then having to swallow the scalding mouthful. She flashed a pained smile. Grammie Jean laughed quietly.
“You know you can tell me that you don’t like it. Luke hated it.”
“So you said,” Julie murmured. “Say—Grammie, did Grandpa ever say why he didn’t like the car?”
Grammie frowned, drumming her fingernails on the tabletop. “You know, it was something about it being bad luck— or some other complete nonsense. Kept seeing bad things in it. He was convinced that it was the Mustang’s fault that anything had happened in the first place. We’d be out driving somewhere and he’d yelp and speed up out of the blue,” she shook her head, “Come to think of it, I never did see any of the stuff he was talking about, and the damn coward never turned around to help if there was someone who needed it. I guess it was good he never did. Had I known his heart was so bad, I’dve never let him in a car in the first place.”
Julie felt a familiar anxious tickle.
“Didn’t Great Uncle Jim have the car before Grandpa did?”
Grammie Jean nodded, clicking her tongue. “Jim was the worst driver I had ever seen. That man managed to cause enough accidents to break a world record…And he never stayed,” her eyes fell.
“Once, when your grandfather and I were younger, Jim cut a couple off on the main road, and they swerved and ran down a little girl. I remember watching it happen out the back window, and screaming at him to stop, but he just kept driving. A few days later, I read in the paper that she had died. I wanted to call the police and tell them; that poor couple was in so much trouble, but Jim made us promise not to tell.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I don’t care too much for skipping Sundays.”
“Wait, he did that in the Mustang?” Julia was feeling very peculiar indeed.
“Oh no,” Grammie Jean said, “this was long before Gloria’s days, my dear. But I think he had even more problems with that car that he did with any other. Toward the end, I think some of the reckless decisions of his younger days had caught up with him. He didn’t really care for driving much by that point, either. We’d all go out, and he’d spend the entire ride monitoring his rearview like he expected to relive some of his mistakes. The guilt got to him, I think.”
Julie had an inkling that guilt didn’t have much to do with it.
“But God, that little girl. Blonde pigtails, and a smile that’d win anyone over. I couldn’t get the image of her obit picture out of my head for years.”
Oh yes, Julia was feeling, very, very funny. Because the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wouldn’t be able to forget that little girl’s face either. She had seen her almost daily in various ways that summer. Sometimes with a skipping rope, sometimes with a ballcap and jean shorts, always with blonde, shiny pigtails.
“Grammie Jean, How did Uncle Jim die?”
“Heart attack. Right behind the wheel, like your grandfather. Fitting, too. They were both so close.”
Julie felt the blood drain from her face.
“No need to look so nervous, dear,” said Grammie Jean as she collected the teacups, “the family had a history of heart disease. It was bound to happen sooner or later.” Grammie Jean stroked her face with an affectionate thumb, “You’re nice and strong and beautiful. You’ll be quite all right.”
Now more than ever, Julie found that she was reluctant to get into the driver’s seat. Don’t be silly, she thought, shaking her head as she helped her grandmother into the front. Your car isn’t haunted; it’s not demon possessed. Julie ran through every logical explanation that disproved ghosts and other supernatural things in succession as she gathered the courage to sit down and buckle her seatbelt. Even though she was able to reassure herself a bit, Julie eyed the covered mirror with apprehension. If you’re so sure, she whispered in her heart of hearts, then why don’t you take the tape off? Shuddering, she started the car, thankful to have that firmly in place, thankyouverymuch.
A cry from the right made her jump. Her first thought was that Grammie Jean had seen something too. The woman was staring in horror at the rearview, and for a split second, Julie felt relief. She was not alone. She was not insane. But in the same instant, Julie remembered that Grammie probably couldn’t see anything at all. And that was probably why she looked so mad.
“Are you insane?” she cried, waving wildly at the tape.
Yes, Julie thought. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“Grammie, I—”
“I don’t care what sort of trend that fits. I will not risk my life in the name of fashion. You take that tape off right now.”
“Grammie—”
“Now, Julia!”
So Julie had to pull over and remove her saving grace. She was careful not to look as she scraped away the remaining bits of tape, and forced herself to only use the side mirrors when she pulled out into traffic. Aside from the furious lecture she received from her grandmother, the trip to church was rather uneventful. Julie managed to drop Grammie Jean, still grumbling, at the front and went to wait for her in the parking lot, incident free.
Alone in the car now, with nothing to protect her, Julie was terribly anxious. She had brought a book with her to stay occupied like she always did with long waits, but with the glaring portrait of hell above her head, it was hard to focus on her story. She knew that if she were to glance back, she’d get a shot of something gruesome. And now that she was aware at some level that there was something horribly wrong with the car, Julie had a feeling it would be the worst scene yet.
Of course, that meant that Julie believed in ghosts and other stupid things, and as any rational human being—as Julie proudly labeled herself—knew, it was silly to entertain the conjurings of the imagination.
That didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t shake the thought of the two men who had died where she was sitting. Before today, she hadn’t heard tell of a history of any ailment in her family. And both men seemed to have trouble using their mirrors. It was enough to leave a sour taste in her mouth.
There was also the sudden, stinging, sure as shit feeling that someone was watching her from the back seat.
Julie suddenly wondered if a short burst of intense fear was enough to send someone into cardiac arrest.
She could resist the mirror no longer. It was either time to dismiss her imagination or confront whatever was blocking her vision. Slowly, heart pounding, she lifted her eyes from her book to the rearview, praying—for the first time in a long time— that there would be nothing there.
But Julie was met by the cold, milky white source of the gaze that bored its way into her spine. The little girl was older than Julie thought she would be, but then again, it was hard to tell. She was sitting in the middle of the back seat; half of her face had been mashed in and torn away. Julie had never seen a car accident victim, but this one looked like someone had taken an eggbeater, stuck it into her ear and let it fly. Brain, blood, and clear fluid leaked through the grated, bony mess, and when she smiled—because that’s what they always did in the movies, wasn’t it? —six of her teeth fell out onto the collar of her shirt.
Julie’s friend was not alone. The girl lifted two mangled arms and draped them over the shoulders of the moaning corpses in the seats beside her.
Bloated and purple, as though they had been laid out on hot asphalt to rot, Grandpa and Uncle Jim grimaced up at her, two sets of gnarled hands clutching at their chests, where the buttons of their shirts burst from the pressure, their faces twisted and frozen in their final expressions. Grandpa looked horrified. Uncle Jim looked guilty.
There’s no room for me back there, Julie thought.
And then she screamed.
They heard it in the church. Halfway through the offertory hymn, the congregation fled the sanctuary to find Jeanie Ballinger’s granddaughter slumped over the steering wheel in her husband’s mustang. When they managed to pry her knuckles, white and hardened from the dash and get a good look at her, it was evident that there was nothing they could do.
The whole town agreed that it was a right shame Julia Ballinger went the way she did. Twenty years old, and her heart wasn’t strong enough to take the summer heat. There was talk about a cardiovascular health course at the community centre. There was talk about a memorial.
But there was even more talk about the look on Julie’s face when they found her. Some blamed it on panic. Some kids, trying to scare younger siblings told stories of monsters and killers in the parking lot. Most people left it to awkward, premature rigor mortis and left it alone.
Regardless of how anyone explained it, the look etched into Julie’s face was unforgettable. Frozen forever in a soundless cry, dull eyes stuck heavenward, the horrified grin she wore was so unsettling, the family opted for cremation.
The Mustang returned to its usual spot in the late Luke Ballinger’s garage. When the shock of losing Julie died down, the grandkids began to fight over it again.
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Episode 4: "I'm pan with a plan, and I'm here to make messy ass moves." - Maynor
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So... Dog food is salty as fuck. No wonder my dog downs the whole bowl of water after he's done eating... What the hell dog food makers
SO THIS WHOLE dare challenge this has got me GOING right now. The whole impersonations and "Who will Win?" videos are going to be BIG indicators of who is close to from my tribe. BUT DEVON.... TOOK IT TO A WHOLE NOTHER' LEVEL. A NORMAL person would do a silly one y'know? Does this guy NOT do Sarah (someone I know he's close with) and state all these things he obviously knows about her. She goes to Michigan state, has a finsta, likes to make friends in games... etc. THEN THE PICK TO WIN VIDEO.... AGAIN A NORMAL PERSON WOULD DO SOMETHING SILLY. For example: I did JD and went on about how she is CANADIAN. DEVON GOES AND DOES: Jose and how he could be tricking us... and it's actually his strategy. I can not with this being anymore. BUT tbh I'm just GLAD he's making himself a bigger target than me in case we lose. ALSO: Chelsea showing that she knows stuff about Alyssa... ummmm NO. I'm scurrrred. As say they say in French I am "le fucked" here. TBH i'm NOT lying when I say I wasn't close to my old tribe. I literally was only close to Aidan but aside from that no one else. There was an alliance of Sarah/Aidan/Devon inside of the alliance of Dani/Maynor/Sarah/Aidan/Devon/ myself. It is driving me BONKERS that Devon (the one person I NEED on my tribe right now) is unintentionally and potentially fucking his game with his videos. This was avoidable imo. Johnny didn't say "you MUST put a target on your back"... THIS IS THE GUY I NEED TO STAY WITH ME. ALSO if I ever find out Alyssa is playing me I might cry. She's literally my bitch. She's awesome. I NEVER GET ALONG WITH GIRLS IN GAMES. EVER. I just know Sammy/Chelsea are close. I could see Alyssa being close to them too so I'm just trying to make myself as relevant as possible with Alyssa because if I don't she won't feel bad sending me out. If she has doubts about it I CAN WORK WITH THAT. Sammy is totally the glue between the faves on my tribe IMO. I just know I need to somehow get closer to Sammy. I just don't know HOW! Chelsea seems super quiet and it's hard to really get a read on her. I just hope we never have to lose because I will actually cry if José pops up with an idol and my ass gets sent packing.
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So me and Jones have gotten closer and closer!!! So has me Jones and Nick as an alliance. The challenge went pretty ok but we eventually lost in the end. There's a joint tribal happening right now so we're all a little shook. The Green team is thinking of a way to stay safe through it all. The other tribe seems like it has some pretty nice peeps on it honestly lol. I watched their intro videos and Danielle's stands out the most. (I think she's the pizza one lol). The Green Team was originally going to try and get Jenna to flip back with us but we're not sure if she even values us so now we're going to try and flip with the fans and somehow vote Jenna out.
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First of, can i say that i missed jones and tim. 😭❤️ Like im so happy i finally got to talk to them. I missed my DAD Jones. We have a duo alliance going on. I brought it up right when the joint chat was made. Its going to be great. As for the vote tonight. We are going to target Nick. And hope that Jenna stays with us.
HNNNNN Jenna isn't going to flip on the fans to my knowledge which really fucks over a lot of things. Now I'm not sure if I'm gonna be targeted or Jones or Nick. TJ and JD can go home and I'll be fine but I'd hate to get out right now. In my head I'm like UGH JENNA JUST FLIP BACK TO FAVS you'll be in a good spot and won't jeopardize anything!!! And you'll almost surely guarantee Jury!!!! But on the outside Im like.. omg ya fans vs favs is over the swap did that snatched wig tea okurrt PEriod. I just wanted a simple tribal but now I'm losing my shit. If I go after Nikias I will JUMP.
Honestly my allies bore me. I guess I trust them but I don't know... this other tribe seems to suck too. I just want a favorite to leave at this point because the fans are getting slaughtered. But Thomas is an interesting situation. We definitely have a past and he's the biggest threat but the devil you know is better than the devil you don't? But I know he'll pick Jess over me any day of the week I've been a little quieter so I predict people might have doubts but I'm loyal to my alliance for now. I'm just trying to lay low and make it to the merge before I can really be a crazy cunt. Nick is apparently the vote and I'm sad because he's also a minority? But not too sad because idk him.
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updates: Maynor, Mitchell, Tim and I make an alliance maybe possibly? also,, we're probs gonna surrender to the fans lmao sorry JD :(
I think nicks going home but I’m kinda nervous. Jenna’s sticking with us fans apparently. Jonesy wants jenna out that’s all the tea I have
I was prepared to flip when they brought up Jones’ name. Like nah. I would lay down my game for Jones aka Dad. For this vote cuz i think theres a swap coming after this vote. Hopefully. It looks like its Nick tonight which i am fine with.
(i don't have the time/energy to film a video confessional) THEY'RE REALLY GOING FOR ME HUH MITCHELL THAT FUCKING RAT threw my name out to the rest of the fans because I suggested Jenna, and now they wanna vote me out (the only reason why I know is bc my king maynor told me) Maynor said he'd try to switch the vote, but right now, it's on me, and that's NOT OKAY HAHAHA. if it stays on me, then he's gonna flip. it's so INTERESTING how all I do is suggest someone who's a CLEAR MINORITY ON THE OTHER TRIBE to be voted out!! and then SUDDENLY some fake vague ass people wanna cherish her???? like suddenly she's the token person on the tribe??? that's fake as fuck and they know that. ok while i'm writing this,,, apparently the vote went off me. but it's also all up to JENNA like ARE YOU KIDDING. like,, y'all are a group of 5 people, you can come up with a decision on your own and she can go with it. like she's really chill, I like her I think she's cool, but she shouldn't be getting this treatment from a tribe that had her on the bottom before. i'm at a point where i'm just trying to get Maynor to flip to our side, because h's just as frustrated about this situation as I am. and I don't really want Nick to will me/tim his idol if we can get him to flip. ,,, so yeah *does fake ass stick out tongue thing*
This vote is a MESS. At one point it was Jones and then its JD and now its TJ and now I want to JUMP from a cliff. Also Nick is two faced. Apparently he had an idol hunt group composed of Alyssa, JD, Whats her face, and Himself. He probably used MY idol clue and I want to fite him.
Hi I’ve been very tired owo so I come out of nowhere and honestly I’m like, this is cute owo so now I’m just going to come out of nowhere when we swap, and honestly that’s cute :,)
so according to Maynor it's between Jenna and Nick, i'm still trying to work my magic on Maynor, and I think it's working. hopefully a swap is coming sometime soon though so i can kick Mitchell's ass laksdjflsdkj
I can't imagine being in a better position in this game. Think about it:
1. I got almost everyone's trust from the fans tribe. 2. I got swapfucked alongside Jess, who I barely spoke to prior. 3. I got connected with Jess and solidified a relationship. 4. I made connections with Sammy, Alyssa, Chelsea, and Jose. 5. We haven't lost a single competition, and now the other 2 tribes will be pitted against one another. Whoever votes in the minority will be forced to come to Jess and I, so in essence, we hold every ounce of power. Best case scenario: We get swapped into a tribe with current Hosororo and old fans, giving me the ability to pick and choose who stays and who goes. Worst case scenario: We get swapfucked and I need to make new relationships with alternative favorites. I would also be more than fine staying in the same tribe, considering there is a clear gap between our tribe and the other 2.
Our tribe really thought Jenna was the swing vote. Bish it was actually me. Im pan with a plan and im here to make messy as moves. Jones aka DAD. ❤️ I think im going to flip and do Jenna. While my fans + jenna are doing Nick. Im really hoping there is a swap cuz if there isnt im screwed. But its a move and me and Jonesy are going to be the villians of the season. But at the end of the day. A favorite is still going home.
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Me and Jones went on call for an hour and talked about the vote. We're sticking with voting Jenna out. Jonesy worked her magic on Maynor and is getting him to flip. Also Mitchell is a bad bean akdjdjs. Anyways ... Me and My wig have decided to vote ... for Jenna Nick wanted me to play the idol on him since he's getting votes this round and Maynor may not flio but HNNNNN i dont want that target on me just as of now. It'd be too risky and since he made an idol hunt group without me on our OG tribe... I considered letting him will me the idol and then him getting voted out ajsjsksks.
Well, there's no way of getting this to work unless Jones works her magic. I'm simply trying to get people to realize that I'm social and understanding of how this game gets played. Hopefully I can get people to want to keep me and play with me come a tribe swap or a merge.
It’s been a weird round. I fought my ass off in the challenge but to no avail. This joint tribal has been a battle. I think Maynor is flipping to vote out Jenna. If I’m wrong it’s me with an idol in my pocket. But my allies Tim and Jonesy both feel confident in Maynor and you can’t win Survivor alone so I’m going to stick with my homies and not play my idol. Gulp. Wish me luck:
Curse you hosts! Throwing us into a blender to vote someone out! RTQ-read the question, or so my professor always said. What do I do not not read the whole thing and forget to put a Guyana sign or even say it In my videos. Which leaves me scrabbling to do it all again. Dog food and fucking hot sauce bullshit is not something you want to do twice in one night, let alone in one week. Lesson for the day? READ THR MOTHER FUCKING QUESTION FOLKS!
YALL I am so sorry about not making confessionals. It's just I always have a fear that I am wasting my time and that the confessionals won't even got posted...and like nothing interesting has happened on my tribe. Here are some fun facts tho: after tonight me, Alyssa, José, and Chelsea are the only ones that have not gone to tribal. YEEHAW SKEET SKEET YALL. I am living in paradise, I have connected w Devon and Jess pretty well. Devon I know I can trust 100%, I am sure that Jess and Alyssa are pretty close but I still trust them too. I want to be reunited with JONESSSS I miss her. CRYING IN THE CLUB RN. We had a mini tribe call just to like chit chat and that was fun. Jess also destroyed the comp and if José would not have been on our tribe I would have asked to sit out bc like I was still recovering from editing the music video. UMM what else. Oh we have that lit joint tribal that we do not have to go to #BLESS and Idk yall I am just waiting to go to tribal so I can play the game, it's hard coming up with stuff to do and have fun when u winnn. I have just been collecting tea about the fans sooo
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THAT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO WORK OUT OH MY GOD BLESS MAYNOR HOLY FUCK I LOVE THAT MAN SO MUCH that's all for now xoxo, i'll do a more detailed video confessional later
Not even going to lie.. I'm shitting bricks that José is going to fuck up this challenge for us. If he does RIP me in this game. I think I'm the one on the outs out of the 5 of us. Devon is connected with people like Chelsea who won't even give me the time of day.. I'm fucked. SO FUCKED.
Lets start off with Jenna. I am very sorry. Im sorry that i voted for you. Im a sorry that i made the move? No. I felt you were too close to Dani and Sarah and Aidan and Mitchell. And you had lots of power that tribal. I guess you can say you were sarah and i was kass in this vote. And chaos struck. No one knew my connection to my dad aka Jones and Tim. They are ❤️. I would protect them and i did. Am i ready for the fall out idk. Hopefully no one takes the temptation on our tribe cuz my ass will go right behind Jenna. If I cant do damage control.
Welcome to my: "I Think I may Just be PMSING" rant for this round. BUT I JUST NEED A FUCKING PERSON IN THIS GAME. Someone who I know has my back at least 75%. I'm not asking for a miracle here.. I know someone having your back 100% isn't realistic at all. However, I just need someone who I know going forward will pick me over their old friends or tribe-mates if when we swap or if I make it to merge. Where is this all coming from? I have no idea. I just have a fucking weird feeling. I felt good with my tribe but for some reason something just feels OFF to me. This is probably my paranoia kicking in or my hormones? Only time will fucking tell.... If you'd ask me currently who I considered my person I would say it's Devon by fucking default. WHICH IS REALLY SAD CONSIDERING HOW WE WERE PRE-SWAP. We swapped together, he has ACTUALLY given me information. BUT..... I know homeboy is looking out for himself first and will sell me out when time comes. SO that's not good for me in the future... I know he has a tendency to tell people the same things too so.. that’s a mood. I would have said Alyssa is my person HOWEVER, I don't see a scenario where she chooses me over Chelsea or Sammy on this tribe right now. In the future? Possibly, I won't rule that out at all. But for the remainder of however long we have on this tribe... I don't feel good at all. She gives me almost no information and that could be a result of me not giving her information but I’ve honestly told her everything I know. Mitchell possibly being on the bottom, what went into the Lucy/Bee vote. That’s all I got. I physically can not give her anything else. SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING I KNOW. Maybe she doesn’t know anything? I have no fucking idea. I want to work with her SO BAD. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to work with SOMEONE MORE IN A GAME. BUT I fucking can’t shake the feeling of her stabbing me in the back if it came down to me or Devon. I'm trying not to let my paranoia show and I know I've let it slip a couple of times in conversations with Alssya/ Sammy. They ignored me for a good 20 minutes when I said it so it was obvious they were on a call or communicating someway. OR MAYBE IT’S MY PMS OR PARANOIA?!!!! I’m just sure I’ve STRESSED THIS FACT ENOUGH BUTTTTT: I AM FUCKING NERVOUS. I’m almost as nervous as a drug addict taking a fucking piss test right now. If José pulls some shit in this challenge I’m going if we LOSE MY FUCKING COOL LIKE NO TOMORROW. The way I see the connections on this tribe right now is simple: Devon has connections with Sammy/ Chelsea. Side note: Chelsea acts like I’m the plague in her pm’s. She ignores me harder than I ignore all of my life responsibilities and I ignore them pretty fucking hard. I believe I’m closer to Alyssa than Devon is but will she have the votes if it came down to it? NO. Sammy is close to everyone. He’s my pick to win right now. He has everything a future winner has.
Color me SHOOK. Im very surprised that they are handling the Jenna very calm and understanding. I might not have been in as much danger as i thought. I told them the truth about why I did the vote and all the reasons. The paranoia. My anxiety that was spiraling out of control. I didnt tell them tho of my connection to Jonesy 🦑❤️ But i want to thank Jones for calming me down from my anxiety before the vote. And to Sarah who helped me after tribal cuz my anxiety kicked up again after i couldnt talk to jones and people were confused on what happened and were asking around. I am much better today tho. A little calmer than last night.
I am really bad at this, I so imma spill some tea, which I don't have much of. Me and Mitchell agreed to work together until merge then we would kill each other whenever it best suited us. Which was a good think to do because apparently I'm a scary comp beast :D If that is all I am remembered for at the end of this game I'll be happy <3 More to come but I am at work soooooo yeah, more to come ~finger guns~
Also I have NO idea why everyone trusts Mitchell so much!! He’s a snake and if he doesn’t go home this week, the rest of my tribe are idiots
Well...that was quick. Aidan taking the advantage is really interesting, and also very telling: 1. Do the fans have a clear majority? Sarah and Dani didn't trust Mitchell, and this would be the perfect time to knock him out. 2. Is Aidan ACTUALLY playing the game? He seems to have a grip on what will happen tonight, which is fearsome, considering he didn't do jackshit on the original fans tribe. 3. What is this twist for later tonight? I predict the advantage has to do with either picking the swapped tribes or sending someone to exile at the F15, making it 7 vs 7 with 1 at exile.
It looks like they may have thrown the challenge? I might be screwed? Like not in the good way. 😏 They said Mitchell’s name and i want to believe them but how are you going to be like i dont want to go to tribal and hope someone else takes it to taking the temptation. Its very clear of their intention. I just hope they are telling me the real target. Cuz if not im dead. And ill be gone. If its me, its been great. Its been fun. I wish i could have lasted longer. But oh well. Sarah i hope you make it far. Jonesy ❤️ Kill it and take the title.
oh my godddd, so sorry I forgot to do a confessional. I completely forget to do them when my tribe doesn't have to go to tribal. ;) I genuinely love my tribe so much and have actively talked to everyone ever since the switch. Now there's talk about swaps that may happen, but I don't want that to happen. :( The only good thing that could come out of a swap is that I would have an easier time choosing someone to vote out if need be, because by the looks of it, my current tribe is the most active and serious about making it to the top. I really don't want any switches to happen unless it's merge! Also, I don't think my tribe is ever going to talk in the temptation chat because we're all so on the same page. Ugh, I love them.
I think Sarah is going home because Mitchell Aidan and I made an alliance. She threw both Mitchell and my name so.
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Project Hollywood
We walked back to the house to meet the owners and sign the paper- work. The former home of Dean Martin (and later the comedian Eddie Griffin), the Rat Pack crib was just above Mel's Diner on Sunset Boulevard. It was $36,000 cheaper per month than the supermansion, and it was walk- ing distance from the clubs on Sunset Boulevard.
The living room looked like a ski lodge. There was a fireplace, a sunken dance floor, a thirty-foot-high ceiling, a massive wood-inlay wall mural, and a large bar in the corner. The space could easily hold a few hundred people for seminars and parties. There were two bedrooms off the living room on the ground floor. Outside each of these rooms was a staircase leading up to another bedroom. And then there was a small maid's room off the kitchen.
The crown jewel of the house was the multitiered backyard. On one level, there were two patios shaded by palm and lemon trees. On the second level, there was a large brick terrace with a peanut-shaped pool, a Jacuzzi, a dining area, and a working barbecue and refrigerator. Beyond it lay a land- scaped hill with a path winding up to a small, secluded deck at the top of the property. From there, we could see the glittering lights and ten-story movie billboards of Hollywood. The place was a chick magnet. There was no way we could fail here.
Papa put his name down on the lease. This, in addition to paying the larger of the rents, earned him the right to the master bedroom, which came equipped with a raised platform intended for a bed, picture windows, and a fireplace. The bathroom was decked out with a glass-encased circular shower, two walk-in closets, and a whirlpool bathtub built for three.
The possibilities were limitless. Papa had visions of renting the house for after-Grammy parties, movie premieres, and corporate events. He no
longer sarged girls when he went out; instead he sarged promoters and celebrities, trying to make connections for Project Hollywood after-parties. He even used Speed Seduction and NLP tactics to try and hypnotize people into investing in the house.
In his spare time, he made bids for tanning beds, movie projectors, pool tables, and stripper poles on eBay. He wanted to make Project Hollywood a place Paris Hilton would want to come every weekend to party.
There were still two bedrooms that needed to be filled, so we issued a call for roommates on Mystery's Lounge. The response was terrifying: Everybody wanted in.
The first night, we all sat in the Jacuzzi from midnight until the skin hung loosely from our bodies, gazing at the palm trees of our new place and the lights of the Hollywood clubs we would soon descend upon. Mystery sang the entire soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar to the night sky. Papa told us about his plan to use the house for A-list Hollywood parties. And Herbal served watermelon drinks from his blender. There were no girls, and we didn't need any to validate us. Tonight, it was just the boys. We had done it. Project Hollywood was not just a fantasy anymore.
"We'll make the house famous with our public exploits," Mystery pre- dicted as we all sat there with smiles plastered to our faces. "People will drive by and say, 'This was the home of the Hollywood celebrities Style, Mystery, Papa, and Herbal. They built their careers here and had parties that were the envy of the world.'"
Herbal was our fourth roommate. He was a tall, pale, even-tempered twenty-two-year-old PUA from Austin who peacocked by painting his nails silver and wearing all-white clothing. Like the rest of us, he was a reformed geek. But he owned a house in Texas, a Mercedes Benz S600, a Rolex, an of- fice on Sunset Boulevard that he never went to, and a robot vacuum cleaner. They were impressive holdings for someone his age. He had earned them in some kind of shady casino operation, in which he hired others to gamble for him. In his spare time—which was basically all his time—he explored caves, recorded extremely catchy rap songs, and surfed the Internet for un- usual items to buy and then never use.
Mystery insisted that everyone in the home have an identity—so we had a magician, a writer, a gambler, and a businessman. It was a combination that would prove more dramatic than the most sensationalist reality show.
A few days later, Papa moved a fifth roommate, Playboy, into the maid's room. Playboy was a party promoter from New York who earned my admi- ration when he told me he'd worked for the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. He was genetically good-looking—tall and slender with thick black hair—but he had a bad habit of wearing long artsy scarves and pants pulled up to his belly button. He had quit his job to move in with us, so Papa hired him to work for Real Social Dynamics in exchange for rent.
Then there was Xaneus. He lived in a tent in the backyard.
Xaneus was a short, stocky, fresh-faced college soccer player from Col- orado who had begged to live in the house. He said he'd sleep anywhere and do anything. So Papa pitched a tent for him, asked him to pay for utilities and house cleaning, and brought him into the Real Social Dynamics fold as an intern.
For the first two weeks, all we did was marvel at the house. We'd done it; we had beaten the system. We had the most desirable location in West Hol- lywood. And we had lucked out with our roommates. Herbal had already scheduled a Pickup Artist Summit—the first annual—to take place in our house in a month.
At our initial house meeting, we established a structure for Project Hollywood, putting Papa in charge of social activities and Herbal in charge of finances. Then we laid down the rules: No unapproved house- guests for more than a month; anyone conducting a seminar in the living room has to give the house fund a ten percent kickback; and no sarging women another PUA has brought into the house. All these rules would soon be broken.
I initially enjoyed living with roommates, leaving my introverted writer's world and being part of a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. Every morning, I'd wake up and see Herbal and Mystery pitching quarters into an ice bucket in the middle of the living room or jumping off a stepladder into a pile of pillows. They were like two kids in search of a playground.
"I have a feeling that you and I are going to become great friends," Mys- tery told Herbal one morning.
When Playboy threw our first house party, five hundred people showed up. We were setting a great example—maybe not to the neighbors, but at least to the community. Within a month, we had franchised.
A group of PUAs moved into Herbal's old house and christened it Project Austin.
Some of our former students in San Francisco rented a five-bedroom house in Chinatown and held pickup seminars in their living room, giving birth to Project San Francisco.
Several college students in Perth, Australia, found a house together and started Project Perth, approaching one hundred women in their first three days on campus.
And four PUAs Mystery and I had trained in Sydney rented a beach apartment with an elevator that opened directly into a club below them. This was Project Sydney.
Nobody had understood the potential of this whole pickup community, the bonding power of dudes talking about chicks. We had manicures, we had mansions, and we had game. We were ready to infect the world like a disease.
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