petitchoufleur: (Default)
[personal profile] petitchoufleur
title: Toast
fandom: Markiplier
pairing: N/A
rating/warnings: G , N/A
genre: Humor
notes: i wrote this a while ago, like back before i started writing again semi-regularly, and it's really rough.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/5064589


The sunlight still managed to pour into the room despite his recent investment in black out blinds. Damn those gaps between the window and the blinds.

Mark awoke once a tiny sliver of sunlight poured into vision, even through his eyelids. A small groan passed his lips as he slowly opened his eyes and blinked.

He blinked again.

And again.

And again.

Finally he sat up, a slow deep sigh escaping him while the mattress creaked under him. Blurry hazel eyes scanned the room, looking for his glasses that rested on his nightstand. His hand blindly reached out beside him, smacking his lamp then his glasses onto the floor.

“Damn.”

He stood up, legs wobbling slightly beneath him before taking a step to where he thought he heard his glasses fall.

Crunch.

A pain shot up his foot immediately afterwards.

“FUCK!” He wailed falling back onto his bed. After a few seconds he let himself drop onto his hands and knees, deciding it’d be safer if he was closer to the ground.

There were his glasses. He picked them up, holding them a bit closer to his vision to inspect the damage he might’ve caused. It seemed ok.

He placed them onto his face. They were lopsided and his foot caused a giant smudge on the right lens.

Today was off to a great start.



The water in the shower was way too cold, even if he had it on the hottest setting. His hair wasn’t cooperating with him. He also dropped his toothbrush in the toilet–how that happened he wasn’t sure.

“Whatever it’s fine. It’s cool.” Was what he would tell himself.

Mark walked into the kitchen, finding a lone piece of burned toast on the floor by the fridge. He glanced along the room, noticing pieces of dirty, floppy crusty bread strung among the place. As if they were trying to get somewhere but failed. Things were knocked over as well; glasses left on his counter were smashed into pieces, cereal boxes with their breakfast entrails scattered all over the surface it was resting on. The hot scent of something burning hung in the air, as did a bit of smoke.

Quickly, he ran towards the source of the smoke; his toaster.

A white hot anger boiled inside him, bubbles of rage raising to the surface while brief flashes of memories played in his head.

“NOOOOO!!” He screamed, collapsing into the ground.

He was bread.

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July 2016

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