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sassylegshayne · 7 months

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buff baby

hi hello I'm finally gonna start talking ab dad!Shayne!!! this man has me in such a chokehold and the thought of him with a mini him makes me want to explode. idk if I'm gonna make this a series or anything, but I'll probably be posting more dad!Shayne soon 🫣 I hope y'all enjoy and lmk what you think!! mwah xo lees

1.1k words!

masterlist

Standing silently in your bathroom, staring down at trio of positive tests, an idea popped into your mind.

Your smile spread wider as you wrapped your arms around yourself, the smell of your boyfriend still lingering on the sweater of his that draped off of your shoulders. It felt like your heart was about to beat out of your chest, your stomach filled with butterflies.

You glance to your phone, realizing Shayne would be home shortly, shocking you back into reality. You're quick to shove the tests back into their box, and then shove that box far, far into the back of your dresser drawer.

For the first time ever, you're really hopeful Shayne doesn't try and keep up with the laundry.

"Honey, I'm home!" Shayne called out playfully, wandering through the front door, setting your nerves on fire.

You jump a bit as he bursts through the doorway to your bedroom, quickly grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. You can't help but laugh, letting your head rest against his chest as he holds you tightly, pressinga soft, chaste kiss to your forehead.

"Hey, baby." He began, the nickname that normally comforted you now had your heart in your throat as you look to him with raised brows.

"I love you, this is really nice and don't wanna nterrupt it, but I might shit myself if don't." You couldn't hold back a small groan as you roll your eyes, shoving him away playfully as he chuckled, a grin on his face. Shayne grabbed at your hands, quickly pulling you back to press a peck to your lips before heading into your bathroom.

You couldn't help but laugh softly at the thought on your mind- that's the father of your child.

"Might wanna light a candle, I'm sorry!" Shayne called out, laughing.

"I can't be the dad because that baby has one blue eye and one brown eye, just like her ex!" Shayne yelled out, slamming the card on to the the tabletop as everyone cheered him on.

"And another thing," He continued through laughter as you gave him a faux shocked look. "She just wants me to be the father because I'm a YouTube celebrity!"

"Are you gonna take that, Y/N?" Angela called to you, perched on the edge of her seat as your group was nearing the end of the game.

"Fine, I didn't wanna do this to you, Shayne, but..." You laid down your card slowly, keeping your eyes on the man sat across from you as the room grew quiet. "The lie detector test determined that is a lie."

Shayne gasped, placing his hand to his chest before moving his popularity down on the board, the final blow of the game.

"Okay, and with that, we are ready to look at our test results, so if everyone would pass their packets to the person on their right." lan called out, Shayne leaning forward to hand you his as you passed yours off to Angela.

You slowly went around the group, everyone exaggerating their relief at not being the father. You tangled your fingers with Shayne's, gripping his hand tightly as Angela pulled your card.

"Y/N.. you are... not the father!" She squealed out, hugging you quickly as you grabbed Shayne's packet from your lap.

"Shayne.. I think we know how this is gonna end.." You began, laughing softly as you glance around, everyone else ending with the same result as you.

He nodded solemnly, taking a deep breath as he sat back in the seat. "I'm ready..."

You tried your best to hide your shakey hands as you pull out the card, the bright red box staring back at you.

"Shayne, you are going to be a father!" You called out, Shayne immediately jumping from his seat. He began storming off set quickly in a fit of exaggerated yelling and anger.

"Wait, what?!" Angela screamed out, her eyes wide as she registered your words.

"Did you say...?" lan began, the grin on his face was unmistakable as everyone began piecing it together, while Brennan was still following your boyfriend on his faux rampage.

You feel arms wrap around you tightly as Courtney and Angela begin to congratulate you, your cheeks blushed brightly as Shayne's yelling can be heard from off set.

Shayne chuckled as he cut the bit, turning to the camera behind him, the man behind it giving him a confused look.

"Did.. did you hear her?" Brennan asked, his brows furrowed— Shayne was way too calm to know what was happening.

"Yeah, I.. oh, fuck!" The brunette spoke, his blue eyes wide as he finally processed your words, sprinting back through the doors just as quickly as he left.

You barely have time to register his return before you're swept off your feet, finding yourself in a fit of laughter as you cling to Shayne's biceps.

Shayne felt like his face was about to split with just how big his grin was. He couldn't help but pull you closer, peppering your face with kisses before finally setting you back on your feet.

"You're serious, right?" Shayne finally asks, a bit out of breath from all of his screaming and running, his eyes searching your face as his hands gently cupped your cheeks.

"Yes, I'm completely serious!" You speak, barely able to contain your laughter as Shayne wraps his arms around you again, squeezing you gently against him.

You quickly slip from his grip, earning a pout as you grab your bag from off set, procuring the box of tests.

Shayne's hands began to shake as you brought the tests to him, the proof now sitting in his hand has a second wave of realization rushing over him.

He's quick to wrap you into his arms again, whispering his gratitude and love for you. You look up to him, his blue eyes brimming with tears as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

You sniffle, tearing up a bit yourself as you reach up, wiping Shayne's cheeks as he laughs softly.

"Holy shit, that's a much more dramatic ending than expected.." lan laughed as he wrapped his arms around the two of you, squeezing you gently as he offered his congratulations.

"I can't wait for us to start making baby merch!" Spencer called from off camera, another fit of laughter erupting.

"Smosh's first baby!" Angela gasped, clutching her heart as her and Courtney coo'ed at the idea. The love, warmth and excitement in the room was better than you could've imagined.

"Well, uh, thanks for watching.." Shayne chuckled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair as the other stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you close to his side.

"You guys are gonna have a buff ass baby." Arasha mumbled, her eyes a bit wide at the idea as you chuckled, giving the camera a small wave.

#so soft so warm so fuzzy #i love fluff if yall cant tell #anyways pls lmk what yall think 🫶🫣#smosh #mine #shayne #shayne topp imagine #shayne topp x reader #smosh games #shayne topp #Shayne topp au #smosh au #dad!shayne #smosh imagine #smosh x reader

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cowboyemeritus · 1 year

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How Ever Fair and Pure (Papa III/Reader)

You’ve got to be one of the most repressed creatures Terzo has ever seen. He has to have you. As Papa, it’s his duty to extend a hand to poor souls like you, so desperately in need of carnal relief. (18+)

Read on AO3

I know we're all adults here, but please don't do what the reader does in this fic. It is so dangerous and bad. This was intentionally unrealistic because it's self-indulgent smut where I project onto her like crazy. Just wanna make sure everyone is safe out there.

Terzo has you pegged the moment you walk into the club. College girl, 20s, on the quiet side. Probably going for a liberal arts degree, but in something fun and exotic, like classical studies or philosophy. Definitely an academic type. The roommates are clearly more popular, but are sweet to you despite appearances. They without a doubt dragged you out here tonight. You spend too much time studying in your room, they say. And honestly? You know they’re right, but putting yourself out there has always been a little hard. If you were any less desperate for attention, and if you hadn’t obviously taken something before coming here, you likely wouldn’t be gracing his presence tonight.

You’ve got to be one of the most repressed creatures Terzo has ever seen, and you don’t even look Catholic. He has to have you. As Papa, it’s his duty to extend a hand to poor souls like you, so desperately in need of carnal relief. So he shoots a smug look at the Cardinal, who’s been sizing you up as well, before slinking away from the small booth. Omega and Alpha are unbothered by his wandering off, more than content to spend the evening feeding on the frenzied energy in the room. The rat-like man rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his bourbon, watching as Terzo approaches the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. Without his paints, which he had insisted on this evening, he is very quickly swallowed by the crowd.

The cinderblock wall is cold against your bare thighs. You’re shivering as soon as you feel it, teeth chattering as the stranger — you can’t remember his name — latches the stall door shut and hangs his expensive-looking jacket on a nearby hook.

When he turns his attention to you, odd mismatched eyes running up down your figure, your knees buckle. In the back of your mind, you briefly wonder if taking those shots on top of an edible was a good idea. You’re not sure how much you’ve had; alcohol goes down dangerously smooth after getting high.

He catches you, strong arms wrapping around your waist. Your face flushes when your bodies press together, his hardness making itself known against the soft flesh of your stomach. You’re not a virgin, not at all, but it’s been a while. Even if you could get any, though, college guys just don’t do it for you anymore. They’re boys, really, and you don’t think there’s anything less appealing than that, especially when they’re stumbling around the dorms on weekend nights. Some people have to study, for fuck’s sake.

“Careful now, bella” the stranger purrs. The sound of his voice is rich and melodic. It hits you like a glass of fine wine, pulling the thick blanket of fog further over your mind. He kisses you, harder now that you have more privacy, and you’re melting. You’re so far gone already you’re sure it’ll be embarrassing in the morning (or whenever you’re sober again).

His lips taste like cigarettes and a smoky kind of liquor. Oddly enough, you were expecting it; this man is old enough to be your father and it suits him perfectly. He’s so painfully out of place here, a wisened face in a crowd of drunken college students.

Fuck, he could be a professor for all you know.

You moan into the stranger’s mouth, begging him to so something. Anything. Whatever he has to give you’ll take it. You just need it now. You need it yesterday.

The lack of oxygen hits you all once. Again, your legs nearly give out as you pull away for air. Your companion narrowly avoids being taken down with you, catching and deftly moving you to sit on the closed toilet lid. Leaning down, he cups your face to keep you steady and smothers your mouth with his. Your hands are on him instantly, grabbing at the front of his pants and climbing upwards to the clasp of his belt. You fumble with it for a while before groaning in anguish. The stranger pulls away with a chuckle, one hand remaining on your cheek while the other makes quick work of freeing himself.

When it finally presses against your lips, his cock is startlingly warm. You open your mouth without hesitation, eyes shutting as he slides into your wet throat. The music booming outside is loud enough that you barely catch his pleased sigh. You’re able to get a breath in through your nose before he moves his hips, the fat head of his cock brushing against your soft palate. Surprisingly, though, you don’t gag. It doesn’t even cross your mind, and you swallow him down eagerly. The stranger shudders and lets out a heavy breath.

“Get it wet for me,” he says, using the hand cupping your face to move you along his length. You see no reason not to comply, reaching up with one hand to work whatever doesn’t fit in your mouth. He seems to approve of this, and gently strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. It’s rather sweet for a situation like this, and you can’t help but imagine what it would be like to kneel by him while he works at his desk, finally getting to suck him off at the end of a long day.

Would he demand such service from you, or would he praise your for your initiative? The possibilities are equally as enticing.

Your other hand dips into your lap, delving beneath the fabric of your skirt and you moan around the stranger’s shaft. The vibrations pull a quiet groan from him, and the hand on your cheek is joined by the other grasping the back of your head. He must see you playing with yourself because he lets out a small laugh through his nose, fingers threading through your hair to hold you ever so slightly tighter.

“Patience,” he murmurs. Despite the loud house music, you hear him clearly. It’s like he’s in your mind. “I will take care of you.” He fucks into your mouth a handful of times before slowing to a stop. Your eyes open after a beat of stillness passes. When he withdraws from your mouth entirely, a string of saliva connecting the tip of his cock and your tongue, your gaze meets his. That mysterious white eye seems to be glowing in the dark.

He takes a step back, flicking a lock of raven hair out of his face. The loss of his body against yours is devastating and you immediately rise to your feet, knees suddenly stable again. You chase him until his back is to the door, the latch rattling loudly at the impact. The bathroom is crowded, and for a moment, you wonder just how many people bothered to look to your tiny end stall. But who really gives a shit? Already starved of him, you press your open mouth to his, tongue quickly slipping past his lips. Even through your clothes his arousal presses into you like a hot iron.

With a low growl that says enough, the stranger moves you off of him. Clumsily, you maneuver so that the two of you trade places, bracing yourself on your forearms against the door. Your skirt has already ridden up so that when you press back into him, you feel his searing hardness directly against your ass. Skilled fingers dip into your wet folds and hook around the crotch of your thong. It’s a lacy, skimpy thing, impossible to banish from your mind when wearing. Normally, you would opt for something more comfortable, but it’s the only clean pair you had left. The intrigued noise the stranger makes at the sight of it, however, tells you neglecting your laundry has worked out in your favor.

He leans in close to whisper into your ear. “I see you got dressed up.” His words, and the tickle of his breath against your skin, have your pussy clenching around nothing. You want to whine, to beg him to fuck you already, but it seems the stranger is feeling merciful tonight. The tip of his cock presses against your opening and he rubs it through your slick, teasing your clit on the down strokes.

“Relax,” he commands. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders dropping. He presses into you, just enough to work the head inside, and you’re already shaking. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you let out a high-pitched moan and push your ass back into him. Another inch sinks in.

“Please,” you beg, hoping he can still hear. Regardless, the stranger obliges, bottoming out inside your dripping cunt. He groans, and you feel the vibrations where his chest is pressed to your back. Hands coming to rest on your hips, he starts thrusting into you at a steady pace and — oh fuck — you can’t tell if it’s the high or the circumstances, but you’re way more sensitive than normal. You let out a breathy sigh as a wave of pleasure rolls through you and your partner hums in approval.

“I’m not-“ You have to smother another moan with a balled fist. The stranger leans in again. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last.” He lets out another laugh through his nose.

“Piccolina, I know.” There’s a singsongy lilt in his voice. “You were wanting this from the moment you walked in.” He punctuates himself with a perfectly angled thrust, the head of his cock pressing into your sweet spot. You keen, insides fluttering.

“I don’t do shit like this,” you protest, pressing your ass into him despite yourself. One of his hands moves from your hip to the apex of your thighs. There’s no touch, he just keeps it there while his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

“But I am not wrong,” he taunts. “We both know this. I see what you are.” For emphasis, he snaps the waistband of your flimsy little thong.

“What the fuck are you- oh.” Fingers graze over your outer lips and your hips cant wildly, craving more. If he keeps messing with you like this, you might just cry. If the other people in the bathroom aren’t privy to what’s going on, they will be soon.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. “I can’t give it to you until you say it.” His tone is demanding, but gentle. This stranger has absolutely no authority over you, and yet every word and touch makes you want to submit. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you haven’t been fantasizing about someone like him — an actual man, not a boy — for a long time.

“Touch me.” You have no pride left to swallow. “Fuck me harder. I need it.” At long last, his fingers descend on your clit. “Oh fuck! Just like that.” The stranger’s breathing is heavy as he thrusts into you with more force.

“You’re a very good girl,” he coos. You can’t remember the last time someone called you that. Your pussy clenches and he groans softly into your ear. The taught feeling in your gut swells like the tide, building into what you know will be a devastating orgasm. It won’t be long now until it spills over, and In the back of your mind, you hope your trembling legs will be able to withstand that kind of force.

The shuffling and talking in the bathroom, the music outside, the groans and pants of the stranger, everything. It all starts to fade out and you know you’re done for. You cant your hips back harder and faster; it’s the only way you can think to tell him. Somehow, he understands, and his fingers swipe furious circles around your clit. The other hand reaches around to grope at one of your breasts, teasing the nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

You have to bite your hand when you finally cum. Otherwise, you’re sure they’d be able to hear you from the street. Waves of ecstasy, stronger than anything you’ve felt, either sober or high, slam into your body, and you thrash against the stranger like a cornered animal. That must do something for him, as he presses into you with a deep, rumbling moan. The rush of his warm seed is enough to pull one last whimper out of you before you nearly collapse, forehead coming to rest against the stall door. You and the stranger remain like this, panting as he slowly softens inside you.

Like a true gentleman, he’s helping you clean yourself up when a loud knock assaults your senses. Your head whips towards the door, panic creeping in as you’re starting to sober up. Completely unbothered, the stranger continues dabbing at your smudged makeup with a piece of toilet paper.

“One moment,” he calls. You’re honestly surprised he’s stuck around this long, thinking he would just leave the second he was done pumping cum into you. Being taken care of like this is nice, you decide. It’s refreshing after having your shit absolutely rocked.

“You have a phone call,” another accented voice responds. “It’s the old man.” The stranger rolls his eyes and gives a petulant huff.

“Tell him I am busy!”

“He says it is urgent.” The man gives a sigh of exasperation and his shoulders slump. After a final inspection of your face, he tosses the wad of tissue in the garbage can, grabs his jacket, and unlatches the stall door. You turn and find yourself looking at a man with a pencil thin mustache and the same green and white eyes as your partner.

“Ciao,” he says curtly, trying not to meet your gaze. You give him a nod.

“Hi there.”

The two men escort you out of the crowded bathroom. No one pays you any mind, which you’re incredibly thankful for, but you choose to keep your head down anyway. The odds are low, but you would die of embarrassment if someone you knew saw you like this. That would make for a very awkward conversation before class on Monday.

Back on the club floor, you quickly spot your roommates in the middle of the crowd. You go to thank the handsome stranger, to kiss him one last time before you part ways, but he’s already gone. Ghosts of his touch still linger on your body and you’re left reeling, wondering if he was even real at all. You blink once, twice, and you're still in the club, keenly aware of his release dripping out of you.

You decide to go get a drink before joining your friends again.

#my writing #papa emeritus iii x reader #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #anyway... time to go to class ig #lmk what yall think

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stuartsspot · 1 year

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making plans for the band in the dingy corner of a bar, crawley new town circa 1998

ver. 2, in color

#i discovered i can digitally color my artwork on my phone #so i did this on my phone #anyways phase 0 fags for yall #before even russel #a few weeks after the second crash #hes layin it on thick #lmk what yall think <3 #gorillaz #2d gorillaz #murdoc niccals #2doc #stuart pot #stuartsspots art #studoc #phase 0 #phase 1

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iridescentpull · 8 months

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« Shattered (0) »

Ian Hecox was a lot of things. Not being friends with Anthony Padilla before he disappeared was not one of them. He's given the chance to make it right.

« Warning - Mentions of kidnapping »

« Platonic Ianthony »

« Crossposted on ao3 »

《 fic under cut - reblogs appreciated 》

« Prologue »

Ian Hecox was a lot of things.

He was the kid who was known for being on the cross country team, usually seen stretching around the track behind the school. He was the kid who was deemed class clown, usually goofing around that even some of the teachers found funny. He was the kid who was easy to get along with, causing him to have a fairly big group of friends and have a couple of them be close with him. He was the kid who, although he wasn't the smartest, he tried his best in school.

He was the kid who adored sitting outside during the weekends and stargaze all night. He was the kid who loved and cherished his guinea pig, Charlie, like his own child. He was the kid who loved to imagine different scenarios with his favorite characters. He was the kid who loved to play games with his sister and argue with her on whether he was cheating or not. He was the kid who offered to help his mom cook whenever he was home. He was the kid who built model airplanes with his dad. He was the kid who loved his family dearly, no matter how annoyed he was at them a lot of the times.

Ian Hecox was a lot of things, but being friends with Anthony Padilla was not one of them.

And that was one thing he'd regret for the rest of his life.

‹ ∆ ›

Friday, September 16, 2016 1 hour before the disappearance

It was unusually cold.

A boy with a bright orange sweater walked at night, returning from his friend's house. He and his group of friends decided to spend the afternoon together, watching the new episode of their favorite show and talking about said boys' soon seventeenth birthday. But now it was nighttime, and the friends made their way back to their respective homes.

The boy with the orange sweater was accompanied by his friend with the white hoodie. They walked together until the cross, where the boy in white yelled some good-byes before rushing to the left, eager to get home. The other rolled his eyes but yelled a good night back before turning to his right and walking towards his home.

His house was located two streets after the park with the kids playground. The boy walked, humming the theme song of his favorite TV show, when he noticed a figure in the playground. He stopped, watching the figure with confusion. It was late, so there was no one in the park except for them.

The kid was sitting in one of the rusty swings, staring at the dirt patch under their feet. They were wearing a dark blue shirt and had their dark hair unkept, splitting into different directions. The boy with the sweater realized the kid went to his school and was from his class.

He bit his lip, debating whether to go towards the boy or just keep walking. In the end, the boy shrugged and continued walking, resuming with humming the song once more. It was cold outside, after all.

Before he crossed the street, he turned back for a moment and made eye contact with the other boy for a second, who was staring at him with an empty expression.

His eyes were brown, the boy noticed. And they looked sad.

The next time the boy with the sweater saw those brown eyes, they were in a missing person's poster stuck on the bulletin board of his school on Monday.

| 《 Chapter One 》

#new fic dropped!#dw im not dropping the other one #ive had the plot of this story on my mind for a couple years now (its loosely inspired by erased)#anyways lmk what yall think!#smosh #smosh rpf #ianthony #(platonic)#ian hecox #anthony padilla #shattered au

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goobiestar · 1 year

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Hi guys daily reminder it is OKAY to be child free, but when you talk about how much of a piece of shit 5 year olds are and how you want to dropkick them and that you hate them isn’t cute, its actually so stupid.

They’re 5… what do you want them to do, that honestly shows how irresponsible you are if you’re throwing a tantrum about how you want to hurt little kids, I wouldn’t even trust people like that around fucking dogs OR cats.

#i understand if u dont want kids awesome good for you but do you HAVE to use child abuse as some funny reasoning behind it #those aggressive child free people shouldnt have pets either since you’re supposed to TEACH and SHAPE your pets not to pee in the house or t #to tear stuff up #how would i trust you with a child let alone a dog #idk thats just MY thinking lmk what you guys think #goobie bites #but anyways also letting yall know please be child free if you like just.. dont talk about hurting little kids because thats literally so ..

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fishtank32 · 10 months

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being in fandoms where the ship names are derivative of character traits put together is so fucking confusing. Yallre playing little alchemy with the fucking ship names and it's confusing!!!!!! just mush the names together like normal people and be done with it!!!!!!!!!!

#what yhe hell is freenoodles. who are you talking about. techno??? like the mcyt????? what????? what??!??!?!?!?!?! since when was technoblad #in lego ninjago like really. i know this fandom has been here since like 2014 but jesus fucking christ yall #like some of them make sense. right. like lava for cole and kai. makes sense. rock guy and fire guy. lava. BBUT TECHNO?!?!?!?#/j on the last sentence i think its cute how fandoms have their own niches for their ship names BUT OH MYY GODDDDDDD ITS CONFUSING #its worse with ninjago bcs u have things like lava. WHICH MAKES SENSE BTW. and then you have things like bruise and techno. BUT THEN YOU HAV #JAYA. JUST JAYA. WHICH IS NORMAL SHIPPING CONVENTIOND IM SO FUCKING DONE WITH THESE LEGOS GODDAMMIT #AAHADGIEYWSVSJSFSJWVWGSKAHXNEVWHSUZV #like. can we please decide what the hell we're doing here. can i please get a four page (min) essay and why the fuck yall do this #cause it doesnt make sense. do we only do the basic ship name thingy for m/f ships? bcs its like that w llorumi too????#like genuinely? i just wanna know. i do think its interesting and cute. but it also makes my time navigating these tumblr tags a living hell #anyways. this is about lmk and lego ninjago . god. i need help

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sat-in-a-rat-trap · 1 year

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its been two years and i still have no fucking clue what this is

#i turn my brain completely over every time i watch eclipse lake and i just CANNOT figure it out for the life of me #is it scissors? is it a bat? is it a birds beak??#i mean i THINK its scissors #i can tell what every single other emoji is EXCEPT this one #and its been bugging me ever since this episode first aired #anyways if any of yall have that Forbidden Knowledge please lmk #toh #the owl house #luz noceda #amity blight #lumity #eclipse lake

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tizzymcwizzy · 2 years

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okay so the owl house episode comes out tomorrow and i have a shit ton of wips that have to do with like, guesses for season three and im wondering if i should just post them now or save them in case i finish them later?

i have a twitter poll going so vote here if you wanna but also let me know what you think on this post!! there's just a bunch of them at varying degrees of finality and idk if i should post them all now before the episode airs

#man that prediction fic is probably never gonna get finished either #should i just post that as is?? it doesn't resolve is the thing hdkhkdfkkhf #ANYWAY #lmk what yall think #tizzy talks

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fakeosirian · 10 months

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Flat On Your Face: Chapter 10

read here on ao3!

Is that sound the rain on the windows, or the bottles everyone's jamming their feelings into threatening to overflow?

teaser:

“You’re not going to ask for my help, are you?” “What? Why would I?” Patricia sputtered. Joy rolled her eyes again and threw the magazine off to the side. Patricia turned away from the mirror to face her, but Joy grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her back around, making eye contact through the mirror instead. “Watch it!” “Watch yourself,” Joy shot back. She stood behind Patricia, pointing at her reflection’s forehead. “See that?” “No.” “Yes, you do,” Joy grumbled, pushing Patricia closer to the mirror. “Worry lines.” Patricia whipped around. “Since when did you become a walking botox infomercial?” “Since never – have them all you like. I’d be surprised if you didn’t after all you get up to.” Patricia didn’t miss the edge to her voice there, but she wasn’t done. “But you shouldn’t have those right now, if all is well and you’re meeting up with who I think you are. Unless there’s something I’m missing.”

#house of anubis #hoa #house of anubis fanfic #hoa fanfic #my writing #foyf #moved the former last scene to the next chapter so i could get this out sooner + it works better anyway #lmk what yall think <3 this one was fun to write lol

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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in a ship of glass - ch. 3

Masterlist - Previous

final chapter of scott's backstory before we move on to any one-shots! this one is a bit heavy, mind the warnings

cw: depression, suicidal thoughts, character death (loss of a parent)

Scott’s twenty-three, and Aeor is dead.

It’s so sudden that he doesn’t know how to handle it. He needs to call his therapist, he knows, but he’s still so shocked that he hasn’t even begun to grieve yet.

And the fault belongs to that prick, Solidarity.

There’s a lot of heroes in Empires City, and Solidarity is not one of them. He advertises himself as such, but it’s clear to all that he has it out for the heroes. One of the new upstarts, Gem, has already been injured by Solidarity while trying to cooperate with him. The man is worse than a menace, he’s a genuinely dangerous supervillain and Scott’s not even sure what his power is, but he hit Aeor with a meteor and now Aeor’s dead.

Scott’s never hated anyone other than himself, but he hates Solidarity. Solidarity has taken everything from him, everything, and he just knows that he needs to take everything from Solidarity.

Not yet, though.

Not yet, because right now, Scott can’t get out of bed. He lies there and stares at the ceiling, aware that at least some of the sluggish feeling comes from missing medication doses and won’t be solved until he gets up, but getting up is just too much to handle without Aeor.

And then he realizes that he has started to grieve, as much as he wants to deny it. Because if he can still deny it, he can still deny that Aeor is actually gone. But he can’t get out of bed and he cries at the drop of the hat and he lies there for hours staring at nothing.

Aeor’s gone, and his emotional state registered it before his mind.

He doesn’t do much these days. He contacts Pearl and the Mad King, asks them to handle the supervillains until he has a chance to get a hold of himself. They both agree to try, but ask him to get back out there as soon as he can.

Crime rates in the city go up. It’s not their fault; it’s his.

Scott lies there for days on end, thinking back to why he came to Empires City in the first place. He’s already in a bad headspace, and that just makes it worse. He knows he needs to be taking his meds. He’s beginning to spiral. But he can’t make himself get up.

He stops answering his phone, stops checking the mail, stops doing everything. He lies in bed and binge-watches Youtube videos, or reads fanfiction, or scrolls through Reddit, or sleeps, or stares at the wall.

Notifications come through. First texts and calls from Jack, then from other friends as Jack apparently enlists help. He watches the calls pop up on his phone, stares at them until they disappear and his phone vibrates with the voicemail alert. He doesn’t even delete the steadily-increasing number of unopened voicemails in his inbox.

He’s so tired. He doesn’t want this to go on any longer, but he can’t manage to break himself out of it. It should be simple. He needs to get up, take his meds, call his therapist, take a shower, brush his teeth, change his clothes, do laundry, get the mail, go grocery shopping. . . .

That’s too many things. He can’t manage that. He can’t fathom doing that many things. He can’t.

He doesn’t feel well, either. He has a running headache that hasn’t stopped and won’t stop, the idea of food makes him nauseous, he can’t stop shaking—it’s not an excuse. It’s really not. But he just can’t get up.

So he stays in bed, stays there until his doorbell rings one morning, then rings again and again. He doesn’t get up, just covers his ears and sucks in a shuddering breath as he realizes that it will never be Aeor at his door again.

There’s a loud pounding on the door. “Scott! Open up before I break this door down!”

Shelby.

He hasn’t seen Shelby since they went out for drinks. . . three months ago? Too long ago. Back in college when he would sink into a bad place and miss classes, his friends would call for her to make him get up. Shelby’s made phone calls to his therapist several times to ask what he needs or if he can take his meds after missing two days of them or to schedule an emergency appointment for him.

He must be getting pretty bad if they called in Shelby. Her career is really taking off, she doesn’t have time to come out here and try to fix him.

He has to get up. He has to get up and let her in, then take his meds, then make them both food, then change his clothes, then brush his teeth, then talk to his therapist—

He hides his head under the blankets. Maybe she’ll just go away.

There’s a couple of minutes of silence. “Scott, I know you’re there. We’re worried about you.”

He doesn’t move. He can’t move.

“I’m going to try the windows, okay?” She sounds worried, moreso than Scott’s ever heard her. “Just—just tell me if that’s not okay.”

It’s fine, he supposes. He doesn’t really want Shelby to see him like this, but she’s seen worse. He thinks he left the windows unlocked, anyway—he shouldn’t, he knows the crime rates, but unless he always leaves them unlocked then he accidentally leaves them locked at inopportune times and then can’t get back in when he forgets his key while out patrolling.

He listens, hears the stilted slide of his front living room window. Tears build in his eyes. Shelby’s coming in, and he’ll have to get better. She’ll make him do all those things that he just can’t do, and he’ll do them, and it’ll be so hard.

A fumbling sound and a loud thump! followed by a groan reach Scott’s ears. He bites his lip, waits for his bedroom door to open.

Within about three minutes, it does.

“Scott? Is that you?”

He sighs, burrows a bit deeper. Shelby clicks her tongue.

“So you’re right here. And you couldn’t get up and answer the door? I stepped on your dying flowers.”

Scott waits. Part of him wants to get out of bed, greet her. Part of him doesn’t want her to see him like this. Part of him is so very exhausted and can’t move, even if he wanted to.

His bed dips a bit with her weight, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently.

“Scott? Can you look at me please?”

Scott shivers, starts shivering and can’t stop. He’s not crying—he doesn’t think he’s crying—but he doesn’t know what to do. Eventually, he pulls the blanket down a little, blinks up at Shelby.

Her brow is creased with concern, a frown twisting her mouth. Her clothes are wrinkled, like they’ve come from a suitcase or she’s been sitting in a car all day. Her eyeliner is smudged, just the way it always looked after hours in the library—like she’s been rubbing her eyes repeatedly.

“Hey, Shelby,” he croaks. He waves vaguely at himself and the room. “Sorry you have to see all this.”

“Have you been taking your meds?”

Scott shrugs. She’ll know it means no.

“When was the last time you took them?”

He doesn’t know. He legitimately doesn’t know. All he knows is that he hasn’t showered in at least a week and he always takes them after he showers so he doesn’t think he’s had any in the past week but he isn’t sure, and it could even be longer.

Shelby leaves, returns with a glass of water and his bottle of pills. She steps around the mess on his floor and hands the water to him, twisting the cap open once her hands are free.

“I haven’t showered yet,” he protests weakly. She fixes him with a raised eyebrow, shakes a pill into his free hand. Scott stares for a moment at the little pink pill in his palm, looks back up at Shelby. She glares at him.

Scott swallows the pill.

With her there, he finds the strength to sit up, blanket-wrapped legs hanging over the side of the bed. He bites back tears. Everything seems like so much.

“Do you need to eat with that?”

Scott takes a minute to process, glances up at the prescription in her hand. “No.”

With a slight sigh, Shelby drops onto the bed beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “So. You know you need to take your meds. Why haven’t you been doing that?”

“Couldn’t get out of bed.”

“Why?”

Scott picks at the blanket on his lap. “Too much.”

“What happened?”

There’s tears in his eyes again, and he spares himself a few minutes to think about how much he can say. Only three people in the world know he’s a superhero—no, two people. Outside of his therapist, only Jack knows, and Scott hasn’t seen Jack in maybe longer than he’s seen Shelby.

His voice breaks; he clears his throat and tries again. “My—my dad died?” he says, voice quivering. Shelby sucks in a breath.

“Oh, Scott,” she says, wrapping an arm around him. Scott falls into her chest, trying and failing to hold back tears as his shoulders shake. After a few moments of holding him, she adds, “I . . . well, you always said guardian at school, so. . . .”

Scott sniffles, nods against her. “Yeah, he—he was—yeah, he was pretty much my dad.”

Shelby makes a noise of understanding, then just holds him as he cries. Once he feels like he can breathe a little, his face sticky and Shelby’s shirt damp, he draws back.

“I can’t—I can’t break out of this,” he manages, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt like he has countless times this week, leaving it crusty and gross. “I’m just—he saved me, Shelby, he—he showed me how to survive and be happy, he found me—” and suddenly he’s spilling everything— “I-I overdosed, years ago, I just wanted to die, and he found me and took me to a hospital and helped me. He gave me a home, he found me someone to talk to, he helped me apply for school—he gave me life.” He pauses for a breath, a breath during which Shelby speaks.

“I . . . Scott, I didn’t know.”

Scott’s not sure what she’s talking about: the death of Aeor, his attempt, all that Aeor had done for him. . . . He chooses to believe she means the attempt, and shrugs.

“I didn’t really advertise it,” he says. “What am I meant to say? ‘Hi, my name’s Scott, I was raised in a cult and because of it I tried to kill myself’? Really, Shelby.”

He means it as a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. Her eyes flash wide, her face horrified. “Don’t—don’t joke about that!”

“What? It’s my trauma.”

“Yeah, but—” Shelby rubs her eyes, smearing the eyeliner further. “Scott, you’re really self-destructive right now! And you have episodes like this! I never knew you were—you know!”

Scott frowns. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Maybe not to you,” Shelby shoots back. “But you weren’t answering calls or texts or even the door, and I was scared but now I know it’s possible that when you aren’t answering you could be dead!”

Scott looks away. It’s always been possible, really. Especially lately. He hasn’t been doing well. He hadn’t noticed until now, but he hasn’t been doing well at all in those regards.

“I think . . . I think I need you to stay. For a while,” Scott mumbles. “I don’t—I don’t think I’m going to try again. But. I don’t think I can do this.”

Shelby takes his hand in both of hers, rubs it between them. “I’ve got clothes packed for a week. When Jack said you hadn’t answered any messages in a long time, I knew what I was in for.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, silly,” she says affectionately. “I offered to come up here, and you’re going through it. You don’t have to be alone.”

And he’s not alone. That first day, all they do is lie in Scott’s bed and mess around on their phones. Shelby makes pasta for dinner and Scott does his best to eat, but his stomach turns and he barely manages to keep down the few bites he takes. Shelby doesn’t like that, he can tell by the wrinkle of her nose.

She doesn’t like it the next morning when his breakfast comes back up, either. She checks his temperature, frowns, and calls his prescribing doctor.

“You’re still feeling the effects of withdrawal,” she says when she hangs up. “It should start getting better soon, but you shouldn’t have stopped taking them for so long. How long do you think it was?”

Scott thinks back, tries to remember the last time he’d taken them. Tries to remember the last time he’d had motivation to take them. Tries to remember the last time he’d wanted to take them.

“Um. Shelby?”

“Yeah?”

Scott takes a deep breath. His head already feels clearer, just by having her around. He knows now what his intentions had been, as awful a realization as that is. “I didn’t want to take them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I stopped taking them,” he says slowly, pressing his hands to his temples as if that will quell the incessant headache, “because I felt like I wasn’t sad enough, and I wanted to feel worse. He was worth feeling worse. And I felt like—my head’s messed up—like I didn’t care because I wasn’t like,” he gestures around at himself, “like this, and I couldn’t bear thinking that I didn’t care. So I stopped. At least a week ago, maybe longer. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Oh, Scott. . . .”

“I’m so tired,” he sighs, resting his head on the kitchen table. “The thing is, I still don’t want to take them. Because then—in some twisted way—if I, erm, do something, something bad, it won’t be my fault? Because I’m not sound of mind? I just—”

Shelby holds her hand out. Scott blinks at it. “I—what?”

“Your phone. I’m calling your therapist. You’re getting an appointment today.”

Scott blinks again. He unlocks his phone and places it in her hand before his brain catches up to the implications. “But—I can’t go out like this—I haven’t showered in at least a week—”

“A virtual appointment, then,” she amends, scrolling through his contacts. “You need to put on a different shirt, okay? That one’s gross.”

He talks to his therapist that afternoon. It ends up being an extended session, two hours instead of one, and Scott comes out of it shaking and teary-eyed. Nora gave him some instructions since his thoughts have been fluctuating from passive to active, and for the first time in nearly three years he has to enact the plan that was put in place when he first began therapy.

“Shelby?” he calls once the appointment is done, and after several shouts and eventually a text, she emerges from his bedroom, where she’d been cleaning with music playing.

“How’d it go?” she asks, plopping down on the couch beside him. Scott takes in a shuddering breath, steels himself. This is going to upset her.

“I need you,” he says, words measured, eyes on his lap, “to take my meds and hold onto them. And not tell me where they are. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t look up. Shelby doesn’t answer, so he continues.

“I-I also need you to lock away the cleaning supplies, just—just in case. There’s a lock on the cupboard under the sink, I-I can give you the key. And—well, the knives in the kitchen should be fine. Just don’t—don’t let me cook alone, okay?”

More silence. Scott hadn’t quite stopped crying after his appointment, and his tears are back in full force, dripping down his cheeks and onto his lap.

After many long moments, Shelby speaks. “I—Scott, do you think—?”

“No, no, I don’t,” he hurriedly assures her, solidly ignoring the sudden stuffiness in her voice. “I don’t think I’m going to. But—my head—I don’t think I’ll do anything, but—look, I set up a plan years ago, just in case I was ever . . . in this headspace again. I’ve had to start the first step several times, just ask—” He’s about to say Aeor, but then he remembers. And then he’s fully breaking down.

Shelby, crying herself, comforts him. As she does for the next week.

It’s slow going, recovery. He’s knocked out—almost literally—by the reintroduction of his antidepressants. He spends that time dozing, either in bed or on the couch, while Shelby turns on whatever show she likes. He manages a shower one evening, a full meal the next day. In a surge of energy, he sweeps the kitchen and vacuums the living room, then naps on the couch for three hours. He laughs at a joke Shelby tells, texts back a few of his friends who had reached out.

He mourns, and he grows. He gets permission from his therapist to have his meds returned to his control, once he no longer feels unsafe with them in his hand. It helps, somewhat, to be able to feel more like an adult. It helps to have this, if not much else.

Gem messages him the first day he opens his own prescription bottle again, asks if he’s ever going to return to defending the city because Xornoth is growing beyond the minor nuisance he’s been for so long and Solidarity collapsed a building on her, putting her out of commission for the next six weeks at least.

Right. Solidarity. The one who put him in this position in the first place.

Now that he’s back on his meds and more stable and emotionally sound, he finds that he still hates Solidarity.

At first, he obsessively plans, going as far as to make a stringboard of Solidarity sightings and connections. He’s going to find where Solidarity lives, he’s going to find that man’s family, he’s going to find everything he holds dear and tear him away from it. He’s going to lock Solidarity in solitary confinement and make sure he has no visiting rights and no chance at a trial until long past his death.

He makes the unfortunate mistake, however, of sharing these plans with his therapist.

Nora recommends that he not deliberately seek him out. Not let it go, necessarily, but to not make it his mission to end Solidarity’s life or obsess over seeking him out. Scott’s upset about that answer at first, and he leaves the appointment in a heated manner, but when he returns for his next appointment three days later he can see the sense in the recommendation. He agrees—the city needs him for more than tracking down Solidarity. He can’t let this become an obsession.

He doesn’t have to forgive, nor forget. But intentions, he learns, are very important—Solidarity may be the only villain to succeed, but there are many out there who would do anything for a chance to kill the primary protector of Empires City. He’s better spending his time defending the people from all threats rather than hounding down one.

He’s still not ready to go back into the world, though, so once Shelby leaves with a tight hug and a promise to call every night (she’d stayed a week longer than planned, until she was certain that Scott had his feet back under him), he sets to work on redesigning his costume.

Gone is the gold—he loves the gold, but he needs a change. The gold is replaced with a light, ice-like blue, both lining his white mask and filling out the ‘M’ on his chest. He adds ice blue boots and adjusts the color of the main body, making it white. The biggest change, perhaps, is his cloak: that becomes ice blue as well, but it also loses the hood, turning it into a cape.

He’s been wearing the hood to further obscure his identity, particularly to cover his hair—red is a fairly distinctive hair color, but he doesn’t really think it matters anymore, because in the parts where he can see the dye growing out, his hair is no longer blond.

His hair is growing in blue.

Once he’s sent his new design ideas to a popular superhero tailor (who sends back a message wishing him well), he sits on his bathroom floor and shaves his head. The red locks fall softly to the tiles, and it feels somehow so cathartic that he can’t help but breathe easier.

His hair grows fast, it’ll be a normal length again in no time. And he sort of likes the blue buzzcut.

He’ll have to get a wig, or always wear a hat, or something. Blue hair is even more unique than red. But he feels better. He feels almost happy.

The next day, he pulls on a beanie (his head feels weird and pokey under it) and visits Aeor’s memorial. There are other people there, but he manages to push through to lay down the flowers he’d picked from his front garden. It’s a pitiful offering compared to the many others, but one he knows that Aeor would have appreciated more than anything.

He’s not better yet. That’s okay. He knows it’s going to be a while. But he can function again, and he’s got an email from the mayor offering him Aeor’s old house in the government-funded superhero district and he responds to accept.

He starts volunteering at an animal shelter with the intent of finding a dog to adopt, as suggested by his therapist. Instead he finds a cat—adorable, grumpy Elle, whom he falls in love with after she’s too lazy to leave his lap one evening.

He gets back into life. There’s bad days, but he’s able to function. He can be who the city needs him to be. They grow to love him more and more, and he can’t help but feel proud of how much he’s grown just over the past few months. He becomes the city’s primary protector, taking over for Aeor with natural ease.

Everything’s not okay, but he knows how to handle it. He’s making it, one day at a time.

Scott’s twenty-five, and he hears a noise at the door. He wonders, for the briefest of moments, how Elle managed to get out this late at night. It must be that broken window in the guest bathroom, he thinks to himself. He’s trying to train Elle to be an indoor cat; he’ll have to fix that.

He opens the front door, only for a half-dressed, bleeding-out Solidarity to fall onto him.

It’s going to be a long night.

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