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Bit My Heart In Two, part two

Again, for notes and warnings, please go here.

In the morning, he knew full well that he would feel like shit. But he hadn't gone out in such a long while (not since... well, he still didn't remember most of it, so logically it never happened and he didn't need to think about it), Guy (not a chance he was going to call him “Ask That Guy”) kept on talking dirty in the locked basement to this strangely familiar voice that he wasn't allowed to see or talk to, Mom was clearly trying to drink herself into a state where she could put her head into the oven without regret, and the house felt eerily quiet without Dad's temper erupting over shit like dirt on the wall or a sneaker left on the stairs.

And of course he went out alone without telling anyone. No friends for Critic, he was too awesome for that. He was mature, an adult, a casanova who got all the girls and even some of the guys. Not like the old, childish Doug, the school freak who could only hung around with his puppy punting, devil worshipping, baby eating twin because neither of them were sane enough to be with anyone else.

... Who was he kidding? He was pathetic as ever.

So! He was going to take after mother dearest, drink all his money away and die with his head in a gutter after being raped. He'd got himself into having the very last part happen already, and didn't Dad tell him his life was almost certainly going to end like that?

By what must have been less than an hour later - he was never good at time when drinks happened - his head was so near the table that if his glass was wider he would have got scotch on his nose. Guy used to paint all these weird symbols on his face when they were six. That was fun. He missed that. He was probably never going to get it back again.

“You okay?”

The shock of someone other than the bartender talking to him while he was having a mid-mid-life crisis made him jump and he knocked his drink over. He winced, embarrassed. Maybe he should just go home and fap to the thought of Rogue licking whipped cream out of April's cooch. That'd be nice. “Um, sorry.”

The guy (taller than him, dirty kind of blonde, cute if a little too muscular, probably a few years older) smiled in a way that wasn't condescending. He'd seen too many of those lately. “Not really a proper answer, dude.”

His mouth quirked up, not totally ready to trust this man just yet. “Shouldn't you be staring down a blonde, blue-eyed bimbo's tits without her managing to notice?”

He was almost certain that he was being subjected to a “you're coming home with me” winning grin. A bit like Guy's, only less psychotic. And he really needed to stop thinking about his assface of a twin brother. “I prefer green eyes, actually.”

Did he mention he was pathetic? Also really fucking easy?

For those reasons, this was why he was now outside, grinding into “Alan” (dumb name, his new one was better) with his back against the wall, nomming on the guy's tongue and his hands pinned above his head. Nice start, and he wasn't even being sarcastic.

“Hey,” he moaned, wanting more. “Hey. Am I made of glass or what?”

Alan's eyebrow shot up, taking on the challenge and detached his teeth from the Critic's lips, sinking them instead into his neck. He squirmed happily, panting and rubbing his erection against Alan's thigh. "Pussy".

He had to give him a bit of credit, anyone else would have slapped him and left by now. Instead Alan released his hands, letting them grope of their accord, and moved his own to Critic's ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh with not an ounce of respect. Bingo. "You're bouncier than the last girl I was with," he murmured, either affectionate or just really fucking horny. He preferred to think it was the latter.


She'd apparently missed her calling as a dominatrix. Alright, there was no way in hell she'd go for a job like that, probably way too many drooling forty year old men wanting to kiss her boots, but this guy at the club she'd been cajoled into because she was bored out of her skull was fucking cute - with spiky blonde hair, tanned skin and brown eyes - and was a master of pretty whimpering.

And the riding crop fitted perfectly in her hand, warm and clean and big enough to not let her nails leave grooves in her palm when she grasped it. She also loved how it made the guy's bubble butt wobble when she cracked it against his red-striped cheeks.

She should probably say more about the club thing. It was a Saturday, she hadn't been out in forever, her friends had badgered her about going to a club; not just any regular club with booze and music and a fuckload of students, but something all new and kinky. As was so often the case when it came to doing anything outside, she'd snorted in derision, not wanting to see sluts in leather catsuits with their surgery enhanced boobs hanging out and middle-aged guys who were almost certainly getting their wives roses to relieve their guilt for cheating on them with a dom ho.

They were persistent though, offered to buy her drinks in exchange for leaving the apartment for once, and like she said, she was bored and hadn't been out in months. So she'd agreed to go to make fun of everyone.

But now that she was here, she could imagine finding this indeed useful for the future.


It was a rare day where he could be in the same room with Ask That Guy and not get groped even once. Not that he minded, or even minded groping, it was when the molesting led to a cock leash made out of hot Christmas lights, that he screamed out the... he just screamed. Ask That Guy had no knowledge of a safe word and was never going to learn it.

And he was going on a tangent again. To get to the point: he was getting drunk. Yay! He'd sucked off Rob to get a day free from work. Okay, fine, yay! Ask That Guy was very likely ignoring him. Boo.

Obviously it should be corrected. Ignoring he could not stand for.

"Ask That Guuuuuuuuy, why are you ignoring meeeeeeeeeee?" Twenty five syllables into eight words, an achievement like that deserved a proud giggle at least.

His twin smiled his usual "I want to eat your skin with a glass of Chardonnay" smirk. "Because I'm waiting for you to fall over unconscious and then I'm going to fuck you with a broken, half-full beer bottle."

He searched his brain for a witty retort but came up with nothing. "You suck," he pouted.

Ask That Guy raised a momentarily surprised eyebrow and he fought down the urge to punch the air in victory. His brother regained composure quickly, though. “My dear drunken idiot, my knees are far less bruised than yours.”

“Pfft,” was his reasonably mature reply.

“Ohh, you cut so deep.”

He swayed on the stool but held as best he could. Giving Ask That Guy satisfaction for anything was usually an incredibly bad idea. And besides, the hospital told him last time that if he came in with one more instance of a bloody groin, they'd call someone to get him some help. “Barkeep! Get me more sex on the beach and make it even nommier.”

Ask That Guy was close to breaking into laughter. If there was one bonus out of today, it would be cracking him. “Do you want me to paint your nails too, or are you taking this sex change business slowly?”

He grinned charmingly, downing his drink when it was passed to him. “But I get so many pats on the ass now already, why mess with a good thing?”

“If you didn't look like me you'd be in trouble,” the narcissistic twit said airily.

“Oh, of course.”

He'd grown lazy, however, and hit the floor with a smack. Ask That Guy leaned over, the excitement on his face fading when he saw that he was still conscious. “Sure you don't want more?”

Managing to scramble himself up to resting on the bar, he shook his head and put on the sad puppy eyes that he knew even Ask That Guy couldn't resist. “Just coffee.”

"Why are we doing this?" she asked sulkily, while Critic turned on the music. Salsa, and if he dipped her with a smug look on his face, he was going to die in fire.

"Because it gives me so much joy to better than you at something," was the inevitable answer.

"But it's pointless," she whined, with less dignity than she wanted.

He gleefully clapped his hands, enjoying this way too much. "But fun! And now let the master teach his student."

"Carry on like that," she growled, "and the student will literally take your balls."

His face softened just a little. It might have been real, but she couldn't help feeling instead like it was just a way to manipulate her. Or maybe she really was too cynical. "C'mon, it'd be nice to have easy to explain bruises for once."

She pointed a finger at him, crowing delightedly. "You've gone soft!" But before he could respond, she realized that she'd just been insulted. "And I'm not that bad!"

The giggle that came out of his throat was definitely genuine, and he finally pulled her closer to him. "Girl, I say this with love... you're a spaz."

Making him hit himself in the chest with his own hands was worthy revenge. "I plead reasons of shortness."

He so responsibily blew a raspberry and grabbed her waist, stopping her before she could protest and just a little late to stop her kicking him. “You can punch me later. This is what dancey people do.”

She moved to dig a heel into his foot and he stepped back all dancer-man like. “I think you're lying.”

Dimple as he twirled her. Fuck him in the ass, she hated when he did that. Dimple, not the twirling. “I'm really not. And well done for not falling over!”

Grabbing his tie, she pulled him down to her height and hissed sultrily into his mouth. “Don't talk down to me, pretty.”

His eyes lidded (God of nerds, he was easy) and breathing quicker, he disentangled himself from her grip and turned off the music, leaving them in silence.

"Are you being a pussy again? I didn't kick that hard."

He stuck his tongue out, always the immature one. "Changed my mind, ho. You're adorable when you're failing."

Fuck it, she could give him this despite him being a brat. She stood up on her tiptoes and gave him a gentle peck on the mouth. "It's why you're usually pretty cute."


He shouldn't have come here. He got wasted last night, bent over for Ask That Guy like usual in the afternoon and gave himself a handjob on webcam because the Chick couldn't sleep again the night before. Not to mention swearing, taking the Lord's name in vain, trashing others, getting stoned off his ass... his sins were plentiful and he wasn't going to stop anytime soon but there was still a Catholic little boy somewhere inside of him that didn't want to spend an eternity getting ripped apart by spiked cocks in hell.

Being good was so very hard, but at least organized religion was good at giving you an out: discuss how bad you are in church, promise to repent, get forgiven and your guilt is relieved.

He'd slipped out of the house, not idiotic or masochistic enough to tell Ask That Guy what he was doing because he'd get what passed for a typical lecture, and walked to the church with his silver cross gripped so tight in his hand that when he released it his palm was dented.

And now he was still standing outside the door, the autumn wind clashing cold against his skin. He'd come at a time when he knew there was no service. That way he could ramble to his heart's content with no old ladies looking at him all “aww, you could be such a cute grandson if you just behaved”. He'd got enough of that as a kid. But he still didn't want to go in: too much of a step towards moving on, too many bad memories, too much of somewhere where he realized he didn't fit in. There were no shortages of places like that, church wasn't any different.

It was then that the door opened. He jumped back out of reflex, clenching his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't flail like the nutjob he was. It's an old woman, of course it is, and he puts on his most charming smile when she immediately protects her purse. She gives him a sharp nod before leaving as fast as her withered little legs can carry her and he's alone again.

Goddamnit he was pathetic. He took a deep breath, summoned up his strong, plentiful balls and pushed open the door.

The church was dark as it was a slow day, lit by a few hanging lights turned down and burning candles at the lightly decorated pillars and on the alter. He paused, terrified again and staying in the shadows, torn between confessing how bad he was in need of punishment and home... where he was praised for being so bad he needed punishment. He stood there for what felt like forever, longer than when he was outside. Maybe he'd be safer just standing here for days. He wouldn't need to open his mouth and fuck everything up again. He really wanted to leave, to turn on his heel and run home to Ask That Guy's sick brand of comfort. But he also really wanted to stay, be good, stay as one of God's children, get so much weighty guilt off his shoulders. He made his decision, walking to the pews.

By the time he reached the confessional door, his fear had been mostly replaced by the comfort of the act repeated. He had walked this way and touched these doors so many times, there was no thought in it any more. He had knelt and said aloud the prayer too many times to count. By the time he spoke it again, it felt like relief. It wasn't like reviews where he just uses it for laughs, he could do this properly and feel better.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last Confession..."


She must let it be known that she came home under much protest. She was going to give it a miss for the sixth year in a row, curl up on the sofa in Todd's old hoodie that he probably still didn't know was stolen, with eggnog in one hand and tissues for It's A Wonderful Life in the other. Nella and Elisa had gone home (and strangely enough the scientists were nowhere to be seen), so she figured she was allowed to show off a tiny bit of heart.

But her mother was in a passive-aggressive mood again, sending “I love you” emails and “don't you want to see your parents?” messages on her answering machine. She didn't even know how the bitch had got her phone number and email address in the first place, but after her resistance got worn down and Mommy dearest started crying after she tried to get out of it, she reverted back into the parent-pleasing little girl she'd never wanted to be again and agreed to stay over.

As was to be expected, it didn't start out well. Mom picked her up from the airport and immediately grimaced over her pigtails (“darling, you look like a child.” “that's the point.”) before going with the usual “do you have a boyfriend yet? Do you have a proper job?” that she'd learned so quickly to tune out.

Actually getting home wasn't much better. She had to admit it was a nice wave of nostalgia seeing all the houses on the street, still all suburban yet inviting, but Dad only grunted in her direction and nothing more when she tried to be a good daughter and say hi.

“I'm going to my room,” she shouted to nobody in particular, as Dad was busy with his newspaper and Mom had gone to watch soaps in the kitchen. It was like how it was when she was a teenager, she might as well play the part.

Her bedroom hadn't been changed, apart from the Limp Bizkit posters having been taken down and a bible oh so subtly left on the side table. The bed was still pink, the walls were still a light cream and the curtains were still covered in ponies. In short, still super fucking girly.

After a quick indulgent bounce (one of the few advantages of being titchy), she flopped down on the bed and tried to steadfastly ignore the thing beside her. Believe in whatever you wanted, create anything to help you sleep at night, she preferred harsh reality, happy pills and the sweet bliss of alcohol.

It was about a hour in of boredom that she gave in and grabbed the book, flicking through the pages and maybe possibly hoping for something, anything, that would give her a miracle, an answer or some hope of turning out okay. That's what religious people read it for, right?

“Ye shall fear every man his mother, and his father, and keep my sabbaths: I the LORD your God.”

She threw it against the wall in disgust and got out her laptop from her bag. While she was trapped here, gay porn would have to be her saviour instead. And a much more entertaining one at that.

She couldn't stand her job sometimes. While there were... benefits, one of them including a certain masochist in a tie (shh!) and the other being, well, she really liked bitching, it reminded her that her years were slipping by with not a lot to show for it. She was older, tired, more depressed, what must be a full blown alcoholic by now and she was certain she was crazier.

Wasn't she better before she first started? Yes, better was relative, she could admit to being a brat, a freak and somewhat desperate in high school, but she wasn't insane back then. She hadn't been a stalker, or an attempted murderer, or a rapist. She'd even had hopes of being a director, dreamed of proving that female directors didn't have to come out with schmaltz or were considered "ooh, edgy, a movie with sex jokes done by a girl". Or maybe throwing pigshit in Stephanie Meyer's face with 'Twilight! Done Well!'.

She was self aware enough to know that would never happen now. Not just for sanity reasons, but on earth would want to work with someone who spent more than three years tearing down the movies they regret?

But, as hard as it was to say, she couldn't leave, couldn't even think about it. There was Todd, there was Critic (for "someone more pathetic than her" purposes, honestly), there was really good no strings attached sex where she got to play with dozens of new toys, plenty of nerds with no self-esteem and people actually listened to her. Would she really get that in Hollywood? Plus, because it needed to be said again, she genuinely did love bitching.

As they say, the show must go on.

She turned on the camera and flicked her pigtails, starting the review.


He was going to die in this fucking job. He was going to get ill in his seventies, be grey and frail and whimpering about how he couldn't even remember what happened six days ago, and children who weren't even planned when Beauty And The Beast was re-released for the tenth time would be laughing at him because suffering was all he was good for.

His forehead was going to get bigger until not even his baseball cap could make him look cool and young anymore. He'd found too many strands of hair left on his seat after the review a couple of days ago and he hadn't even got himself that worked up. What if he gave in, did something everyone was demanding he raged over, and he went bald before their eyes?

What if all the junk food caught up with him and he had a heart attack right on camera? What if he just ballooned one day and lost half his fanbase?

What if Rob got bored? What if the Chick decided she could do better than the life she had? What if Chester found another friend? What if Ask That Guy got dragged into hell for good? What if new kids on the site praised Linkara as a leader and kissed his ass instead? What if the site went under and everyone went back to shop jobs? What if he just was left to potter about his house forgotten and all alone and with nobody to talk to?

He rested his head against his hands and took a long, deep breath, calming himself as best as he could. He switched on the light and a genuine smile melted across his mouth as he said his catchphrase.

Only thing he was good at, remember?

It was a good dream Nella was having, flying around the TARDIS around cheese moons, the breaks firmly on, Tintin swinging his legs boyishly on the console and Merlin setting the sixth Doctor's coat on fire.

But then Tintin fixed sadly huge green eyes on her and effeminately whimpered her name. “Nella?”

She blinked at him, confused.

He spoke again, even softer and like he'd been crying. “...Nella. Are you awake?”

Ah. She awoke with an admittedly ungainly snort and turned on the light to find Lindsay in her doorway, looking small and uncomfortably vulnerable in her tracksuit bottoms and spaghetti top, hair down and “Aunt Lois” suffocating in the crook of her arm. “Uh sure, what's wrong?”

Her friend fidgeted, her eyes darting like a scared animal. “Not a good idea. It can wait,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

“Lindsay!” The firmness got the woman in question looking like her usual self again for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the impertinence. Nella lowered her voice. “It's my big fat friend contract to make you look better remember? You might as well get what you pay for.”

Lindsay bit her lip, still looking painfully young and unsure for a few seconds, before deciding perhaps to fuck that “I have no human emotions and I don't need anyone” thing and basically diving onto the bed. Judging by how she was snuggling in, Nella figured she was allowed to put her arm around her. The girl needed some mothering, even if she never admitted it.

“Tell Auntie Nella what's wrong, love.”

Her boss sighed heavily, steeling herself. “You know I went with Critic and Floss for the Moulin Rouge review, right, trying to get Critic to enjoy it?” A heavy pause.

Nella frowned, slightly confused. Lindsay had breakdowns over films before, but they usually went away with screaming, copious drinking and when he was still around, taking the robot into her bedroom and making him cry. “The movie turned out that bad?”

She shook her head, not even laughing. But she still said nothing that would point Nella in the right direction.

It was a long shot considering the usual power dynamics of that relationship, but... “did something go wrong with Critic?”

That got more of a reaction. “Fuck no,” she said, way too firmly. Nella filed that reaction away for later.

“Honey, you're gonna have to tell me.”

Another sigh that sounded more like a whimper. “Okay, okay. Well... Floss was doing his finger snapping take you to a new place thing, and before we got to his apartment... we appeared at Spoony's house for a second and I think he saw us and I tried to hide my face.”

Nella hugged her tighter. “Ohh sweetie, I'm sorry.”

Lin was on a roll now, the tears spilling unnoticed from her eyes. “And it's been two years and it's pathetic to still be scared of him and I fought by him kinda to save the world but he was Gandalf and I was Arwen and it was weird anyway and I did that Dune riff where I tied him up for revenge and it felt really good and Critic seems to be fine with him and I don't get it and I shouldn't be feeling like this cos I hate feeling weak but what if he saw in my burlesque outfit and thought I'm a slut who wants to be fucked by him again-”

She stroked her friend's hair, holding her and wanting to protect her from every bad thing in the world. “He touches you again, I'll kill him. I promise.” She repeated this over and over again, trying to force it to sink in.

She just hoped she was believed.

He was so fundamentally broken it was kinda disgusting. He should hate Spoony. He was a disgusting, creepy, smug rapist and he deserved to die alone.

And he did. He really did. He entertained fantasies of stabbing him over and over in the crotch.


He also couldn't resist his smile. His voice. The hair that he had faint memories of grabbing when they were in bed together and he was either roofied or drunk off his ass.

“Want another round?” That smirk. That arrogance. That leer. He wanted to shoot him in his massive honker of a nose.

Was he really that lonely? Was that even a good enough reason to stay? “I have nothing else to do.”

“Heeeeeey, Luuuuuupa.”

The redhead groaned, not wanting to turn around and see the psycho no-fun-having lady that tried to fucking stab her with a butter knife. And she knew what she was here for too.

“Chick, I'm writing,” she sighed tiredly, not feeling her usual bouncy self and wanting to be left alone to finish the script. “Can't you bother me later about Todd? Or even better, not at all?”

The Chick laughed airily, like he hadn't been on her mind at all until now, with a touch of forcedness that let Lupa know that was total bullshit. “Ohh, this is totally different. Much more important. Why would I take a trip to this hellhole if it wasn't?”

Biting down the urge to insult the other woman's house right back, she turned away from the word document to face her. If the Chick tried to kill her again, that would probably be the safest option. Phelous told her about how getting shot in the back sucked. “So what do you want?”

Chick was in psycho little girl mode again, twirling a pigtail around her finger and showing her teeth in a smile, that while small, still looked like it hurt her face. “I heard you were planning on reviewing Legend?”

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. That was it? That was what the big deal was? What the hell. But her voice softened, taking on a more friendly tone. “Yeah, writing it now. Wanted to get some Curry in my diet.”

It wasn't like she was expecting Chick to laugh, but her expression could have at least changed. She waved her hand. “Hey, don't worry, I'm not stealing any more of your jokes.”

“I wanted to do it.”

She shrugged. “Eh, finders keepers.”

Chick giggled again, this time much more strained. Lupa got up nervously, feeling like death was the horizon. “Not with me. You can't review it. Get another thing to do.”

This was getting insane. “Why the fuck not?”

The smaller woman was way too fast for her to react, leaving her pinned against the wall with surprising strength. “Cos it's my fucking territory, and if you review it I'll-”

Call it morbid curiosity. “You'll what?”

The Chick's face went eerily calm. “You haven't been with Spoony yet, right? And everyone on this site wants to fuck you anyway?”

She wouldn't... she couldn't...

Chick then stepped back, smoothing her hair out and patting Lupa's chest with the plastic smile she had when she arrived. “Knew you'd see it my way. Bye!” And suddenly she dashed off.

Lupa sank back into her computer chair, staring at her nearly completed review. She could call the Chick's bluff, do it anyway, but the prospect of waking up with that skeevy bastard looking at her like a conquest was-

Fuck it, she'd give in just this once. Maybe Phelous could use help on writing the review for Hostel 12.


He didn't even know this guy's name. Didn't know his age, didn't know what he did, didn't know where specifically he lived, didn't know if he had a girlfriend, boyfriend, or still lived with his mom.

And to be cruelly truthful, he didn't give a shit. “Hey Doug Funny, you want a bat credit card?” was something that needed to be punished for, no matter what friends or hopes for the future you may have had.*

It was one of those times where he hadn't been able to sleep all night, so he'd just taken an early morning walk in the park a few minutes away from his house. Not to be sappy, but it was something he enjoyed a lot. Only about a handful of people, pretty colors in the sky and the sound of the stream and birds mixing together helped him finally relax.


Today he'd made the mistake of social interaction, waving politely to a man who was sitting on a bench and trying to feign interest in what looked to be a science textbook. He'd regretted it instantly, as it turned out to be a fan who was just so excited about bumping into the badass beast that was the Nostalgia Critic. Not that he minded the attention, it was annoying when he'd had no sleep but he could be a grown up and smile, it was just that fucking line that awakened the part of him Ask That Guy was so proud of.

He had the adrenaline to quickly drag the knocked out body to the basement with nobody who cared enough to see or notice them, his twin thankfully not around (probably still asleep) to inadvertently make him feel guilty and try to be a decent human again, and restrained the soon to be corpse with wire – puncturing the wrists and ankles as cleanly as he could with thick but skin-tight gloves and trying not to throw up yet - that Ask That Guy had hanging around the wall for whatever horrific reason.

Doubting it was going to wake up anytime soon, he got to work letting off the steam he needed.

Firstly, he broke the cheekbones with the hot iron he got from the utility room, crushing them into what must have been liquid by how mashed the face looked. He didn't feel too much guilt despite the blood and how gross it looked, it was still unconscious and its pulse was already slowing down.

So logically, he should speed it up with electricity, no? He tore the white before, but now blood covered shirt off and attached electrodes to its neck, nipples and belly fat. He turned them on full blast and couldn't help giggling psychotically as the body convulsed, wounds tearing and steam rising from the skin.

After five shots of that, he was getting bored. Now time for the knifes. It was a shame it was already dead, because he had to admit Ask That Guy made knifeplay (on other people, naturally) look actually pretty hot. He snicked off the index finger and carefully put it in the corpse's mouth, pushing it down into his throat with help from a bottle of water.

That was it. He was calm now. Sincerely. He could go upstairs and be the relatively normal twin.

Right after he spewed his bile and tears all over the kitchen floor.

He couldn't breathe. It was ridiculous really, he'd faced demonic teddy bears, leather-clad hypocrites who hated technology, plenty of people he'd accidentally or purposely pissed off, characters from movies who wanted to blow up his house for bad reviews, Ask That Guy with a spiked dildo, Chick with a scalpel and a gleeful look in her eye, his old self dying because a “2001: A Space Odyssey” parody sounded like a good idea at the time and plenty of other things without a mass panic attack.

On the other hand, none of those involved waiting alone at a table in a posh restaurant with lots of couples and feeling like he was being choked in this “proper” suit and tie. So he wasn't actually a complete freak with no social skills, so there.

And this was new territory for him. The Other Guy had set him up on a date with one of his “normal” friends (Critic hadn't even realized those existed), ignoring all protests that a) he'd probably send the girl into lesbianism, b) his sex life was working out for once and by that he meant he felt like he was being liked enough, c) he was much more adept at fucking people on his desk than trying to date. The Chick was just as freakish as him and their “relationship” was perfect evidence to that.

Plus the woman, “Vanessa” - and why pick someone called that when it was the name he wanted for his daughter? - was late, and he was left fidgeting with the candles and trying desperately not to look like a complete moron who'd just failed in getting away from his mother's basement. From the sympathetic looks he was getting from the waitresses bringing him bread, he imagined he wasn't doing too well.

He was just about to cut his losses and leave when a small blonde woman came rushing in, namely in his direction. “Uh hi! Douglas, right?” She was panting, her cheeks red and hairdo stress-curled, it was pretty hot if he was going to be honest.

And how to not scare her off? He shook her hand politely if slightly stiffly. “Um, I prefer Critic if you don't mind.”

She sat in her seat, which he guessed was a good thing, but stared at him blankly. “Er, may I ask why?”

He should have just pretended to be someone else, someone normal with a proper name, but his mouth wasn't listening. As ever. “I- I have this review show. On the internet”, he added lamely, when she perked up. “Have you heard of the Nostalgia Critic? That's me.”

“No, I'm sorry.” At least she had the decency to look like she meant it.

“Oh.” He couldn't help but deflate a little, and so sank into busying himself by staring at the menu.

“So, uh, what kinda music do you like?” The awkwardness levels were leaving the date with Chick in the dust.

He couldn't exactly say that the last music video he'd even seen was about a pig. So he went for the safer option. “Um, Metallica?”


Maybe it would have been better to tell her about “Pig Power In The House”. At least then there would have been a chance of her laughing. “You?”

She looked terrified. “Please don't laugh, but I'm fond of Taylor Swift.”

“My music reviewer did stuff by her!” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Suddenly, coincidentally, and to his complete lack of shock, her phone rang. She grabbed it like it was a lifeline. “Hello? Yes? Oh! I'll be right there.”

She opened her mouth to say sorry to him, but he waved her off as nicely as he could. She thought he was a freak, it was fine. “I'll get you a cab.”

When he was free outside, having seen Vanessa off in a taxi and her still muttering apologies, he whipped his phone out and called the only person he could think of to make him feel better.

The ringing tone stopped at three times. “Y'ello?”

“Chick, could you run over tomorrow? Just had a pathetic date.” At her hiss, which he wasn't sure she was even aware she made the sound, he quickly added “Not my choice! Rob tried to get me normal. Failed horribly.”

There was a quick pause and he readied himself for mocking followed by a “fuck off” and slamming the phone down. Instead...

“Promise me a massage and I'll see what I can do.”

He laughed for the first time that night. “I'll get you coming on the sheets.”

It was just because she was tired, really. It's not like they were going to spend the night cuddling, that was no way their style (except in times when he, she or both were wasted but those didn't really count), the plan was to rest for an hour or so and then she'd... chloroform him and push him off the bed so she could have it to herself. Good plan.

Except her head was lying on his chest, his heartbeat was kinda soothing and his arms were comfortingly, almost protectively wrapped around her back. Too normal, too unsafe, too much like a functional couple.

"Why are we doing this?" She wanted Todd. She was in love with him. He would fix her for good. When he finally came around (which was sure to happen any day now), she would find out what he fucking looked like, impregnate him with tons of crotch dumplings and they'll live happily ever until they reached a hundred. Being with Critic would end badly for everyone. She couldn't even muster up any desire to make him a project, for a reason she couldn't stand to admit right now or ever. You like him the way he is.

"Because you're me with a vagina,” he said casually, like it was fact.

She reached over with a scowl and twisted his dick roughly with her strong fingers, making him emit a truly femmy squeal. "Bullshit."


Apr. 22nd, 2012 01:45 am (UTC)
Hi, you don't know me, I'm just a lurker, but I must admit you accomplished your goal very well. My analyzing skills are nil so I couldn't really see the similarities until your fic brought them out in the open. Well done you, and I guess well done them for creating such character depth for writers to dig into.

>not making any sense anymore
>runs away to cave


piano on fire - apiphile
white horses, they will take me away

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