#me writing star trek like hyde doesnt fucking know its star wars. hes a dick even in his brain

[sordidery]

so what now? should we talk? - from jackie : D of the burkhart variety

lips still kiss swollen, eyebrows stern, hyde lets out a judgmental scoff from deep in the back of his throat. christmas music drifts in from the main room of the basement, soft in the his small room. the water heater adds to the ambiance, a low drone in the background of his mind. that might be making noise too, his brain fighting to process the string of events that led to jackie burkheart on his bed, asking if he wants to talk about him kissing her.  ❛❛  no.   ❜❜ on what planet, in what universe, would hyde want to talk something out? would he want to talk this out? he'd rather ask foreman to explain to him the intricacies of star trek. he'd rather look red in the eyes and confess to all of the beers he'd stolen over the years. hyde sits up from a slight recline, pulling himself further and further from jackie, up near his one, thin pillow. he's already working on it, formulating the massive amount of denial he will have to conjure up to live with himself. what type of asshole kisses jackie burkhart? the kelso type, not the hyde type. eye contact is a dangerous move, because her eyes are huge, and he is finding that he is much weaker to such a thing than he thought possible. he takes his chances and and risks meeting her gaze. fucking christ, she's a goddamn witch woman, using some sort of evil rich girl magic on him.   ❛❛ look, jackie. (...) i am not going to talk about this. you are not going to talk about this. because there is no this. forget about it.   ❜❜