Crack || ONE-SHOTS Jacksepticeye x Markiplier.

Part 1: ~What's in a name?~

There were more books in this room about baby names than Mark had ever seen in one place at one time before. And that includes the time a shelf fell on him at the bookstore.
Well, Sean had said it fell, but...

"Alonzo?" Mark called out over his shoulder to the kitchen.
"'E's not gonneh meet te fukkin tenf Doctor, mate," Sean yelled back.

He was baking cookies, partially because he was hungry, partially because I needed him doing something, and partially because of this image: Jacksepticeye, in a flowery pink apron, delicate white oven gloves, and a ridiculously large chef's hat over his flat cap.
Just picture that for a minute.

Mark flipped through the book to a random page again. "Trevor?"
"Not unless 'e's a fukkin runaweh toad."

Mark rolled his eyes, throwing the book over the lounge and seizing another. "George?"
"Of ta joongle, cureous, or Ser?"

Again, I must stress how terrible this accent is.

"Luke?"
"I am yer fat'er!"

"Ash?"
"Gotta cetch 'em all, fukkers!"

"Dean?"
"Oh, 'e's boond to 'ave a happy liefe, ain't 'e?"

"Nexus?"
"Dat's a fukkin phone, ya wee fukker!"

Mark groaned. They'd been at it for hous now, trying to name their (as yet) unadopted child.
Sean's indecision and sarcasm wasn't helping either.

"Vincent?"
"'Ow aboot someon with too e'rs?"

"George?"
"Same fukkin problem!"

"Gaylord?"
"Wat, arr we gevin' up on eh kid weth frends?"
"Fuck you."
"Tha's a terrebal neme!"

Mark let out an angry sigh, but the sing of the pink aproned man carrying cookie's dispelled that mood somewhat.
"Eye was treying fer leighthooses," Sean said, placing the tray of DICKS on the table.

Come on, you should know by now there's always genitals involved.

"E'm seyen noo te Deck and Recherd too."