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themurphyzone · 4 years ago

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PatB Oneshot: Every Rose Has Thorns and Petals

Summary: Brain’s plan is simple: create a Valentine card with a message that the world should adore him as their new ruler. But he needs extra help in coming up with a catchy message to rein in the consumers for the outer cover. And who better to help than the expert of all things amour?

AN: I decided to see if I could write a good Suavo. Enjoy! Warning for terribly cheesy flirting. I don’t typically write this genre XD

This borrows from the HC that Pinky can still do the Suavo persona.

Written for Valentine's Day/Suavo Sunday. I regret everything.

AO3 Link

At last, a new plan came to fruition! With Valentine’s Day looming upon them with its chocolate-coated fangs and sickly sweet aroma, people would be flocking to grocery stores everywhere to purchase giant teddy bears they could barely carry around and heart-shaped boxes of gourmet chocolate. But most lucrative of all, they would buy Valentine cards with the most obnoxious lovestruck messages that were far cheesier than Pinky’s cheesecake.

Everything clicked into place. The slightly larger than average dimensions of a Valentine’s card. Various red and pink hues for the envelopes. Colorful images with hearts, roses, and Pinky on the front cover (for Pinky met all of the scientific criteria that triggered one’s protective instincts). And on the inside, an image of Brain standing on the world in royal regalia with a message declaring that all the world shall adore him as their new leader.

But there was a single, glaring flaw to his otherwise brilliant plan.

He could not come up with a ridiculous phrase for the outside cover. It had to be eye-catching, humorous, or corny enough to grab a customer’s attention. He stared at the smiling picture of Pinky for several minutes, then gave in.

Pinky was the expert in all things ridiculous after all.

“Life is the road I wanna keep going! Love is a river and I wanna keep going ooonnnn!” Pinky sang along to his playlist, leading a Barbie doll in a tender waltz.

And it was best to interrupt before Pinky’s playlist reached My Heart Will Go On. That sappy 90s love ballad was on there. He was not striking the King of the World pose until he was actually king of the world, but that assertion hadn’t gotten through Pinky’s cotton-stuffed head yet.

Brain grabbed the prototype card and pencil, marching up to the windowsill where Pinky and Barbie danced under the evening sky. The sun lowered, the moon rose, and the first twinkling stars poked out, signifying the beginning of another night.

The phone was propped against a wall, and Brain smacked the image of Anastasia and Dmitri dancing to stop the song as he passed by. Pinky continued to hum, dipping Barbie low enough that her blonde hair touched the windowsill. His eyes were half-lidded, tail swishing to an invisible beat. Though there was no music, his rhythm was steady and his feet never missed a step.

It was mesmerizing. Pinky danced with all the grace of a professional ballerina.

He pricked his finger on a sharp point of the prototype card, and the poke brought Brain back to reality. Right. No distractions.

“Hiya, Brain! Zort!”

Dear Archimedes there were otherworldly blue eyes right in front of his face.

Startled, Brain leapt back and swung his pencil defensively. There was a muffled narf as the eraser end went into Pinky’s mouth. Once the initial shock passed, Pinky giggled and nibbled on the eraser, several rubbery shavings poking out between his teeth.

Brain took a deep breath, trying to calm his too-fast heartbeat.

“Quit slobbering on my erasers, Pinky,” Brain snapped. He removed his pencil from Pinky’s mouth, wrinkling his nose at the saliva-coated eraser. He tossed it aside, and the pencil skittered across the counter and onto the floor.

“But they taste so good!” Pinky licked his lips. “Especially with a pinch of dryer lint. That way you get fluff and chewiness in one single fantastic bite!”

Sometimes he truly worried for the state of Pinky’s digestive tract. For now, it was best to change the topic entirely. “As much as I’d love to debate the intricacies of your exotic cuisine, I require some of your eccentric expertise for my latest plan,” Brain said, setting the prototype card on the counter.

Pinky’s tail and ears perked up. A predictable reaction, but reliable all the same.

While Pinky put Barbie away, Brain retrieved a new pencil. There were few writing utensils that weren’t chewed up by a bored employee or Pinky for fun, and it wouldn’t be long before Brain would have to acquire more.

“I gotta help Brain now, Barbie. Thanks for sharing a dance with me! Those ballroom dance classes are really paying off!” Pinky chirped, waving to the inanimate Barbie, who now sat in a pink plastic convertible next to a shirtless Ken doll. He peeked inside the card and clasped his hands together, holding them against his cheek dreamily. “Awww, Brain! This is gonna be so romantic!”

“The very atmosphere I intend to create with these mass-produced cards, Pinky,” Brain replied. “However, while I have all the elements of your typical Valentine card alongside an additional message that will aid us in our conquest, I haven’t worked out one essential component yet.”

He closed the card and tapped the empty speech bubble next to Pinky’s image.

Pinky tilted his head. “You haven’t figured out how to make single people buy your cards yet?”

Drat. He hadn’t considered those outliers.

“Then we’ll just have to infiltrate the postal service,” Brain said, mentally congratulating himself on correcting that error quickly. “But before we implement the plan, I need a Valentine phrase for this speech bubble. A saying that will entice the average infatuated consumer and hook them into purchasing my cards alone. And since you lean heavily toward the sentimental and saccharine…well, this is where I require your assistance.”

“The sentimental and the saccharine?” Pinky echoed. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that soap opera, Brain. What channel is it on?”

Brain opened his notebook and found an empty page, poised to jot down Pinky’s suggestions. “The real life channel. Don’t be concerned about missing it, Pinky. It’s on 24/7 all year long. But I digress. The sooner I find a phrase, the sooner we’ll have the world!”

Pinky tapped his foot in thought, the tip of his tongue poking out like he truly believed protruding tongues had the power to magically grant ideas. For all Brain knew, Pinky probably believed that.

Then Pinky snapped his fingers. “I got it! How ‘bout ‘be mine, valentine’?”

“Too cliché,” Brain muttered. A million Valentine cards would already have similar phrasing. They didn’t have time to seize control of a greeting card factory. “Not unique enough.”

Although the valentine bit wasn’t particularly directed toward him, his grip on the pencil slackened, the tip leaving a graphite smudge along the margins. He quickly turned the pencil around and erased it, hoping Pinky didn’t catch onto his brief moment of inattention.

Fortunately, Pinky didn’t notice. “Alrighty then. Hmmm…you’re the sour cream to my cheese-slathered potato?”

“…I’ll save it for a last resort.”

Well, he asked for unique. But sour cream didn’t particularly invoke strong Valentine feelings. Idioms that involved sweet foods with enough sugar to induce diabetes in an elephant would be better, and he made a quick note to the side.

“I turtle-y adore you?” Pinky suggested, his blue eyes sparkling accordingly.

Brain felt a light blush settling over his cheeks, and he rubbed his fur to rid himself of the mortifying feeling. “Doesn’t match your picture. And no animal puns unless they involve mice.”

Pinky rubbed his chin, not one to be easily deterred. “There’s gotta be some good ones on the Internet.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Pinky,” Brain sighed. He sat cross-legged on the counter, massaging his forehead to intercept any headaches before they began. “Figured we should’ve gone with the photobooth plan. It’s your fault for influencing my subconscious with your caterwauling over The Princess Bride’s movie adaptation.”

“Troz! I’ll have you know Princess Buttercup and Westley have great chemistry!” Pinky pouted.

Brain rolled his eyes. “Please. They’re about as compatible as two noble gases.”

Pinky went quiet after that. Whether he’d gone off into the imaginary world of talking cheeses or taken unusually great offense on the lead couple’s behalf, Brain wasn’t sure. But the silence obliged, and Brain took the opportunity to ponder their next course of action.

Take a risk and use one of Pinky’s earlier suggestions? Scrap the plan entirely and pull one from storage? Seek a second opinion?

Then Pinky gasped, his tail pointing high in the air like an inverted exclamation point.

“Brain, are you pondering what I’m pondering?” Pinky asked, gripping Brain’s shoulders in excitement.

Brain leaned back, supporting himself on the palms of his hands. “We break out the Feldman disguises and ask Mr. Sultana for his opinion on what a hypothetical Valentine card should say?”

“I’m sure he’s got a bunch of good ones, but that’s not it,” Pinky said. “Actually, I oughta slip into something more…in-character. I’ll be right back!”

Pinky skipped away, humming as he went over to his dress-up box in the corner of their cage. He pulled a divider around himself so that all Brain could see was a shadowy silhouette rummaging through clothing and accessories.

Brain continued to ponder, though no feasible ideas were coming to him. He closed his eyes, shutting out all visual forms of distraction. He listened to Pinky dressing in the cage, but it was more white noise than a true hindrance.

Five minutes later, he still had nothing. But there was something…different.

A tantalizing scent. Not overly sharp, though just light enough that he couldn’t identify it with confidence. And he wanted to know more.

It wasn’t fruit or soap. Nor was it vanilla, like the scented candles Pinky loved so much.

Something smooth snaked its way under his nose, brushing the fur above his lips. The scent was closer now. His nose twitched.

“ACHOO!”

Startled by the force of his sudden sneeze, Brain’s eyes flew open. He rubbed his nose to wipe off the lingering sensation, staring down at Pinky’s long tail, which sat unassumingly in his lap. The tip was wrapped around the stem of a small red rose.

The tail lifted, rubbing against the fur under Brain’s chin. Brain felt his cheeks heat up again, and he quickly batted the offending appendage away.

“Pinky, you’re not helping my state of-“ Brain began, ready to launch into a verbal tirade on how he needed to think and if Pinky wasn’t going to help then he could make like a mitotic cell and split…and then he saw a very familiar, perhaps all too-familiar, lavender tuxedo with an overstuffed dark purple…something underneath.

He couldn’t tell if it was a shirt, vest, or pincushion. A gold button glinted in the middle of Pinky’s chest.

Gulping, Brain knew the mysterious article of clothing was the least of his concerns. He forced himself to look up, gaze raking past the slender neck and toward half-lidded, coy blue eyes. A sophisticated mustache poked out from each side of Pinky’s muzzle. And he was genteel, charismatic…

Suave.

Pinky’s ability to play a character to perfection never ceased to astound him. He still remembered? Brain had long destroyed the Personalitron and its blueprints, deeming them unnecessary and cumbersome.

“Pardonnez-moi, you with the giant head and marshmallow body are seeking the passionate advice of I, the great Pinky…Suavvvo-“ he drawled every syllable with that odd French accent, r’s rolling off his tongue like smooth butter “-for your…ah, Saint Valentine card, no?”

Fu—choose your words wisely—I mean, dear name of a historical contributor to the scientific or mathematical field who I can’t identify properly at this time.

“I fail to see how playing dress-up is going to help with this conundrum, Pinky Suavo.” Brain stood up and crossed his arms. He wasn’t about to let the Suavo persona sway him. He was the Brain, and he bowed to no one.

Exert control over the situation. Yes. That’s what he needed.

Suavo plucked the rose from his tail between two practiced fingers, inhaling its scent deeply. Where did he even get that rose from? The lab wasn’t growing flora for any reason, nor did any scientist have the green thumb to care for anything so fragile.

“Oh, but love is always…how did you say, a conundrum, is it not?” he purred, and Brain scowled. But Suavo was unperturbed. “One may pluck the petals from a pretty flower and ask if one loves or loves not, yet how will one know if they ask the flower and not the lover? Oh, I do not know.”

His voice dipped into a lower, softer register, and a strange sensation traveled up Brain’s spine. Though the riddle seemed directed at him, he wasn’t in the mood to unravel any cryptic meanings.

Just like before, Suavo’s magnetism was…hypnotizing. Like he had no choice but to do what Pinky Suavo said. And wasn’t that ironic? He, the Brain, as the hapless follower instead of the commanding leader.

Suavo appeared oblivious to Brain’s internal dilemma. He simply set the rose back into his tail and twirled one curled end of the mustache around his finger, humming a dreamy, sentimental song to himself. He was waiting on Brain in the most irritating fashion possible.

But if he wanted this plan to work, he’d just have to tolerate Pinky’s attempt at resolving his predicament.

“Pinky Suavo,” Brain sighed, forcing all his pride back. Suavo turned to him, his eyes still in that odd half-lidded position. “Is that overstuffed pincushion actually giving you ideas for the card?”

“Of course, mon ami.” Suavo slicked his ears and fur tuft back with a smooth, graceful stroke of his hand. “For it is he, who is I, who is the connoisseur of…ammooooouuuur.”

Brain grabbed his notepad and pencil, his stomach doing odd backflips like butterflies had somehow burrowed their way into his flesh and laid eggs there. He was not paying attention to Suavo’s hand movements. No, the eye was just naturally drawn to movement. That’s how it worked.

Besides, he was looking at the same being who once managed to get all his fingers and tail tangled up in a complicated cat’s cradle.

Suavo clicked his tongue, deftly plucking the items out of Brain’s grip. “No, no, you silly mouse. You cannot experience amour through pen and paper alone. You must feel it, see it, hear it. For it is everywhere and anywhere you search…if only you would use those big ears of yours.”

Brain gritted his teeth and jumped for his supplies, but Suavo simply held them out of reach with one long arm. All Brain could manage was a tiny hop. It wasn’t getting him anywhere.

So he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

“I’m listening, Pinky Suavo,” Brain said, hoping he sounded at least a little cordial. “I believe the colloquial is, I’m all ears?”

A pleased smile flitted across Suavo’s face, his arm lowering.

Perfect.

Then Brain threw himself forward, digging his hands and feet into Suavo’s clothing and hauling himself towards the notepad and pencil. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to grip. Suavo stumbled a bit, but he refused to yield. Brain grabbed a fabric fold on Suavo’s right shoulder. He was so close-

-and a red nose pushed into his own. Warm, mint-scented breath tickled the fur on his face.

“You know, it is more, ah, polite to take a mouse to dinner before you begin climbing him, is it not?” Suavo crooned.

Brain’s ears flopped against his back, a warm sensation sweeping through his body. His clammy paws lost their grip on Suavo’s clothing, and he would’ve fallen entirely if Suavo’s free arm hadn’t wrapped around his waist and secured him with a strong yet gentle grip.

In hindsight, perhaps his attempt at reclaiming his belongings was ill-thought out.

Perhaps it was for the best that the arm was covered by fabric, but at the same time, some irrational thought of wanting Pinky’s fur against his own wormed its way into his mind.

Suavo set the notepad and pen down with care, dipping Brain in the process. Brain clutched the fabric tightly, but it was unnecessary. Suavo’s embrace was strong enough to prevent him from landing on his head. Then Suavo straightened up, once again plucking the rose from his tail and holding it next to Brain.

“Oh, now this is…magnifique,” Suavo murmured, his eyes darting from the rose to Brain’s face. Though Brain tried to maintain eye contact to make his displeasure known, his resolve was quickly crumbling away. Surely it was the close proximity, the thumb stroking his fur, that was picking apart all rational thought and leaving some hormone-driven creature behind?

“What?” Brain asked, and he inwardly cringed. His voice wasn’t working properly. He’d meant to sound more demanding than that pathetic excuse of a question.

“Your eyes, mon ami, are just a few shades lighter this rose,” Suavo said. Brain stared at him in disbelief. Comparing eyes to flowers, or worse, gemstones, was just ridiculous.

And your comparison of Pinky’s aesthetically pleasing eyes to the wild blue yonder above isn’t?

Brain ignored the contemptuous voice. That was completely different. The sky was neither a flower nor a gemstone, and therefore it wasn’t off-limits. Besides, it was a thought for him and him alone. It’s not like anyone else was going to hear it.

“You are but a deer mouse in the headlights. Yet there is no need to hide under a thorny layer,” Suavo hummed, tilting his head curiously. Deliberately. How strange. Even the slightest movement was mesmerizing. His fingers traveled up the flower stem, until his hand rested underneath the petals, supporting the tiny rose in the palm of his hand. “A rosebush may scratch and prick, yet the great Pinky Suavo cannot be swayed. For there’s a pretty bloom hidden in the darkness, and he is who moi shall…shall…NARF!”

Shocked by the return of the nonsensical exclamation, Brain lost his hold on Pinky Suavo’s clothing. He fell onto the counter surface with a pained groan. The hard material wasn’t doing wonders for the bends in his tail.

Something fluttered against his nose, causing Brain to sneeze again. He removed the offending object, and found himself staring down at the rose he’d been teased with. If he ignored the heavy-handed rose imagery Suavo kept spouting, it was rather adequate for a specimen.

“Narf! Zort! Poit! Egad!” Pinky laughed uncontrollably between his usual tics, uttering them at such a fast rate that they started to blend together like a tongue twister. “Ooh, I haven’t—troz! Haven’t said narf in a long time! But it’s poit—it’s okay cause you needed my help!”

Idiot.

Brain sighed and pushed himself to a standing position, then placed the rose on his notepad so Pinky could reclaim it later.

Now that he thought about it, Pinky hadn’t said any of his favorite syllables in his Suavo persona. Of course, they’d been replaced by stupid love poetry and gratuitous French, but the narfs and poits and zorts were rather refreshing.

Odd. He never thought he’d actually miss Pinky’s…unique diction.

“Pinky, were you actively suppressing your usual speech patterns in your strange form of assistance?” Brain asked. He couldn’t help his curiosity.

“Zort! Oh Brain, I’m not nearly as good as suppressing things like you are!” Pinky’s chortles continued as Brain grabbed his wrist and led him straight to the water bottle in their cage. “Besides—narf! Besides, I had to stay in character!”

“Remind me to never have you play a villain for any future plans revolving around cinema,” Brain grumbled.

Pinky’s tail happily flicked against Brain’s own. Though the imbecile was just swishing it around mindlessly, the brief physical contact suddenly brought back that very odd, warm sensation.

Curse this heightened sensitivity! It’s only a principle of thermodynamics and heat transfer!

“Brain, are you okay? Poit,” Pinky asked as Brain made him sit down in front of the water bottle. “You’re all woozy and whirlywindy. And white and red all over like a newspaper!”

“I’m f-fine,” Brain said. He was absolutely not relying on Pinky for balance. “Just drink, Pinky. And take off those silly clothes when you’re done.”

Pinky stared, not comprehending anything Brain said, but that was normal for him. Then he started to laugh, and only then did Brain realize he needed to watch his word choice, especially around a certain someone, because of course his fluff-filled mind would misconstrue it.

“Not like that!” Brain spat.

Pinky tipped onto his back, legs kicking upwards as his high-pitched laughter continued to assault Brain’s ears.

For the sake of his own sanity, he left Pinky to his own devices and stormed over to the nearest sink. He pushed on the tap for cold water until he’d created his own miniature waterfall, then hopped right in. He welcomed the cascade over his body.

As long as it pushed his homeostasis in the opposite direction, he was fine with resembling a drowned rat for now.

o-o-o-o-o

The plan failed before it ever took off. Brain had been so distracted that he’d failed to notice the lab was completely out of colored ink, rendering the copy machines completely useless.

He’d gone with the ‘you’re the sour cream to my potatoes’ message for the front cover, formatting it into the speech bubble in an elegant cursive font. Though it wasn’t conventional by any means, he simply considered it again since no other suggestions were forthcoming.

But at the same time, part of him wasn’t keen on allowing the masses to lay eyes on the Valentine card.

It seemed special. Unexplainably so.

“Brain?” Pinky called. His verbal tics had long gone back to their normal frequency. “Aren’t we taking over the world tonight?”

Brain shook his head, relieved that he finally had control over his body again. “Not tonight, Pinky. I’m afraid I’ve been prematurely thwarted by the lack of inventory in this lab.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be afraid, Brain,” Pinky said. Gone were Suavo’s clothing and mustache, and Pinky’s lean, muscular arms were on full display as he folded them across his chest. “I’ll protect you from Tory.”

It was an unnecessary gesture, but Brain couldn’t help but be touched by the admission all the same. Brain made a show of carefully placing the card into storage, just so he could distract himself momentarily.

When he finished his task, he found Pinky holding an elegant paper rose, crafted meticulously with purple tissue paper. A light blush settled over Brain’s cheeks as he accepted the gift from Pinky, whose blue eyes shone brightly as Brain ran his fingers over the soft petals.

“Thank you, Pinky,” Brain said gratefully, and he resisted the urge to rush off immediately and place the paper rose with his globe keychain, another gift from his dearest friend.

“You’re welcome!” Pinky smiled, and Brain’s heart beat faster. Then Pinky’s gaze flicked to the TV screen, and Brain figured he was about to be roped into watching a cheesy love story unfold. “Brain, can we watch Beauty and the Beast please? With those special Valentine M&M’s and chocolate-coated popcorn? I saw a whole bunch in the kitchen! Narf!”

Well…he could’ve suggested worse. At least this one was tolerable.

And it’s been a while since they’d watched a movie together.

“Get everything set up, Pinky,” Brain ordered. “I’ll join you when I’m finished with my own tasks.”

Pinky saluted and scampered into the kitchen, grabbing the rose he’d held in his Suavo persona along the way. He sang at the top of his lungs, though he’d forgotten most of the actual words and replaced them with a series of narfs and portmanteaus. Once Pinky was sufficiently distracted, Brain moved his notepad and pen over to the TV, then laid the paper rose over it.

He heard the crinkle of a bag followed by the sound of M&M’s being poured into a bowl. Pinky would be back any minute.

Brain knocked his head against the side of a wall.

Calm yourself. Pinky believes pebbles are precious gifts. You’ll be fine. Probably.

Slowly, he approached the drawer where he’d kept his hidden present. Sifting through several sheets of paper covered with complex formulas he’d deliberately placed in there to ward off Pinky, he found the sunflower pen he’d carefully hidden towards the back.

It wasn’t exactly…traditional for a Valentine’s gift. Simple blue ink with a green body and tipped with a bright yellow sunflower.

But it was bright. And colorful. Like Pinky.

More importantly, it was practical.

Brain’s ears twitched, and he heard the whirring of the VCR as Pinky popped in the movie. Brain debated leaving the pen and presenting it after the movie, but he didn’t want to procrastinate either. Otherwise it would be impossible to enjoy their activity.

Well, he could just drop it in Pinky’s lap. And snatch up some popcorn so his actions wouldn’t be too conspicuous. He climbed out of the drawer, holding the pen behind his back.

A preview for The Little Mermaid began to play. Pinky was enraptured by the animated marine animals. He seemed so happy.

Maybe he should reconsider. Valentine items would be discounted next week. He could just hold off and give a belated…what was he thinking? Valentine’s was just another day to turn profit!

The paper rose was sitting right there. No…Valentine’s meant something to Pinky. Like Christmas.

“Goody, you’re back, Brain!” Pinky cheered, stuffing two pink M&M’s into his mouth. The large bowl beside him was overflowing with chocolate. “It’s not raining inside, but I love your parasol! Where’d you buy it?”

A parasol?

He glanced up at the sunflower. Oh. So there was a resemblance to a parasol, he supposed. If one viewed it at a certain angle, that is.

“It’s a pen. Not a parasol. Take it,” Brain said, holding out the sunflower pen.

Pinky didn’t take it.

Instead, he made a joyful noise and crushed Brain with a flying embrace. Brain dropped the pen in surprise as Pinky’s entire body curled around him, feet off the ground. Brain had to support all his weight, Pinky’s warm fur brushing against his own.

“I love it! Loveitloveitloveit! Thanks, Brain!” Pinky squealed, happy tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You’re welcome, Pinky,” Brain murmured as Pinky nuzzled his cheek. “Now get off. I require my lungs. And heart. And my digestive system.”

Pinky didn’t get off until the Disney fanfare to herald the beginning of the movie began to play. Then he quieted down immediately, rolling the sunflower pen so that it rested across his lap.

“…happy Valentine’s Day,” Brain whispered, nibbling on a red M&M.

Pinky smiled back, teeth flecked with bits of chocolate. He shushed Brain, not wanting him to interrupt the opening narration.

As the enchanted rose appeared onscreen, Brain stroked the soft tissue paper of Pinky’s beautiful creation. Then he set it aside and reached for some popcorn.

His world was here. And there was nothing more he wanted.

Fun fact: the original name for this fic was going to be Suavo Valentino, but the current title was a last minute change cause somehow I just wrote a lot about roses.

Another change: The Princess Bride bit was originally a dig at High School Musical and how Disney Channel has bad romance in general, but since that was mid 2000s I changed it so this story could reasonably fit in the 90s.

Suavo’s lines...were interesting. I couldn’t stop laughing at how dumb some of them were though.

Brain’s got it bad here. Save him.

Are the roses corny? Yes. Do I care? Not really. Maybe. Possibly.

#pinky and the brain #patb fanfiction #pinky suavo #suavo sunday

59 notes · View notes

dontbesoweirdkira · 5 years ago

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Being Present Mic’s favorite student would include

A/n: why don’t yall show my mans any love? Like damnn smh he just out here breaking people's eardrums and tingz and y'all cant even give him some acknowledgement or what not smh. Present Mic stans, you may now rise

-I imagine you’d be like that American exchange student and you laughed at a bad pun he did in english and he felt super special because no one ever understands the puns he does, so now he’s just constantly bothering you

-like you’re just walking down the hall, trying to get to class and you just hear

-”HEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYY Y/NNNNN MRS.AMERICAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

-*invoked with fear*

-Like seriously he won’t leave you alone…..at all

-”Y/NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN what’s upppPPp?”

-He love speaking in english to you because it’s keeps him refreshed and plus it’s fun seeing Aizawa all flustered because he only understands 60 percent of what you guys are saying

-You get used to him I promise, he’s actually like the sweetest little thing that wants the best for you uwu. Like if you’re a shy student he’ll break you out of your shell most definitely!!

-He asks you to do his introductions because aizawa refused for the 1000th time but it actually was super fun so you don’t mind

-”GIIIVE IT UP FOR PRRREEEEEESEEEENNNTTTTTTT MICCCCCCCCC THE ONLYYYY ONEEE THATTT CAAAAN BREAAAAK YOUURR EARDRUUUMSSS AND WILL TO LIVVEEEE IN UNDER A MINUTE.”

-He did a super long hyped up into for you at the sports festival like and he kept cheering you on soo much he was like a soccer dad watching his little princess play her first game

-I swear he was wearing a shirt that said ‘Go Y/N!!’

-Everyone knows you’re his favorite like if you thought All might and Deku thing was a bit much well like he is on a whoooleeee new level

-Speaking of All might and little broccoli, there is an unspoken rivalry between All might and Present. They are always like

-”Haha did you see young Midoriya’s moves today? He is working so hard, he’ll be a great hero soon!”

-”Yeah of course, BuT did yOU sEE mY Y/N todaY????

-SocCeR DAdS

-You and deku kinda does friendly competitions just to watch the two teachers go at it

-”DEKU CLEARLY WON MIC.”

-”LISTEN YOU BLIND FOSSIL IT WAS Y/N!!”

-It was a tie tbh

-Always asking you about American slang and terms like brooo

-”y/n what’s a yeet? Someone told me I need to yeet off a building and I kinda wanna do it for my next youtube video on youtube.”

-You helped him set up the youtube channel btw

-”so i say period after something truthful is said?”

-”YOUUUUUU ARE THE BESSSSTTTTTT STUUUUUDENTTT Y/NNNNN PERIOODDDD.”

-”like that?”

-You keep him updated on all the trends and make sure his outfits are looking good

-He lets you design a new logo for his brand

-Did I mentioned he’s like super sweet. Like one day you opened your locker to find a note he wrote for you.

-”Heeeeyyyyy Y/NNNNNNN,

Whats upp best student evvvvvaaaaa???? I just wanted to say i’m proud of you and I heard from a little sleepy birdie (sensei Aizawa) that you aced your test in hissss claaaaaassss wooooooo!!!!! Because of that i mayyyyyyy haveee brought you ice cream that may or may not be in the fridge in the teachers lounge that you may or may not can get during lunch perioddd…… anyways MIC OUT!”

-He helps you control and project your powers when you are struggling with them

-Helps you with the weird Homework assignments All might and Aizawa gives you

-”wtf is this shit? This is your homework?? Hold on, I’m calling shouto .”

-Lets you sleep in his class

-He is like your personal translator if your japanese is a bit iffy or you don’t know how to say something

-Oh and Aizawa adores you also but like he keeps it on the down down low. Like people actually thinks he kinda doesn’t like you but that is not the case at all. Like he supports Mic’s constant spoiling of you and might throw in a gift or two with him.

-Aizawa looks at you guys as his two kids that he will literally protect at all costs.

-If anyone is messing with you or you need something just yell out ”MR.HIZASHIIIIIII.” or “MR.AIZAWA” and he’ll be there in under a minute.

-Bakugou threatened you once, and Aizawa and Hizashi heard….lets just say he never messed with you again.

-Same goes for you, if anyone is teasing or talking wrongly about Present Mic, you’ll square up any day.

-”yeah he’s like so weird and does he realize that no one thinks he’s cool like stop trying so hard.”

-FigHt mOde ActIvaTeD

-You got in trouble but it was totally worth it and Mic was super flattered but as a teacher he still had to discipline you. He high five you tho and said he wasn’t mad and he only got you in trouble because the other teachers would have bashed him for favoritism

-Once you get more comfortable with him, You guys have like daily talks about anything and everything, he’s a really good listener and will listen to your weekly rants.

- Despite being a literal crackhead, he is super wise and has a lot of knowledge so if you need advice, just ask.

-Knows when you aren’t feeling your best and tries his all to make you smile, it usually ends up working and you’re just laughing at his bad jokes and he’s like

-”YYyyyYYYYy/NNNNNNnnnnnnNNNNNNnNnnn IS FEELiNG BEtTTeRRR YAYayYAAY!”

-He’ll let you hide out with him and Aizawa when there’s a bunch of kids are crowding you and asking questions about your home country or when school is just overwhelming

-”MR.HIZASHIII THEY ARE AFTER ME AGAAAAIIIIN.”

-He’d 10/10 adopt you if he could

-He invited you on his radio show like twice, it actual helped gained a lot of listeners from a younger audience and even some international people listened in as well. It was actually pretty fun, of course you were a bit nervous you weren’t sure to expect but it was reallly cool. It was almost like an interview, he asked you a few questions about yourself and your school life even opinions on different heros or what not.

-DO NOT AND I REPEAT DO NOT LET THIS FOOL KNOW YOUR BIRTHDAY, HE WILL EMBARRASS YOU INFRONT OF THE WHOOOOLEEE SCHOOL I SWEAR NO ONE CAN STOP HIM

-”But Mr.MIcCCcCc plEAsE Dontttt iTs NOt A BIg DeaL.”

-”i must y/N….LETSSS A BIGGGGGGG HAPPY HAAAAAPPPPYYYYY BIRTHDAAAAYYYYY TOOOO Y/NNN L/NNNN-”

-you died

-He got a little cake made for you, it had little candies and sparklers on it. It was mega adorbs.your name was also on it but it was spelled wrong.

-”Here ya go Y/N! Sorry your name is spelled wrong...i tried to fix it but it got all smudged so i just left it.”

-For his Birthday, you made a picture frame that had a selfie with the two of yall and gave him a little card that said, “Happy Birthday The best teacher evaa! You’re super great and I hope one day we can fight side by side and be the best duo in history! Enjoy your day old man. -The best student evaaa”

-You teamed up with eraser head to throw a little surprise party for him at a cute little restaurant and he ended up crying sksksksksksdnjksk it was so soft.

-At the dance you didn’t have a date or anything so ya boi Mic danced with you and it was uwu like super soft. He even walked around with you a bit and let you wrap your arm around his, like he’s the best teacher seriously

-At the end of the year when it was time for you to go back to America, he was devastated like seriously he’d miss you and y’alls antics. He practically begged you not to go back. Yeah he held your leg and cried on the floor….Aizawa had to pull him off of you so you could leave

-”Don’t cry Mr.Hizashi!! I I’ll see you again one day! Thank You so much for being an awesome teacher this year, I’ll miss you.”

-you actually got approved to come back the following year but you kept it a secret so you could surprise him when you walk in his class again.

-he was big boi shocked

-”YYYYYYYYYYyyYYyyYyYYy/NNnnNnnNNNnnn SKDJNKHDKSK YOU’RE BACKKKKK WHERES AIZAWA I GOTTA tELL HIM SILDKSISJSSKKSNJSK DID YOU CUT YOUR HAIR OMHDNKJD ITS SO CUTEEE AHHHAHSHJSHSJHS AZIAWAAA LOOK AT OUR LITTLE GIRL SSKLKSMLS.”

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ghosttotheparty · 4 years ago

Text

while the world ends around us (make believe with me)

6. I can’t even leave my room so I keep pouring AO3

And I've been looking for someone to put up with my bullshit I can't even leave my bedroom so I keep pouring And I ain't seen a light of day since, well, that's not important It's been long - Feeling Whitney // Post Malone

Lucas actually wakes up this morning.

It’s nice. Much better than laying against his wall all through the night, his eyes stuck on his laptop, watching Netflix or Youtube, or on his sketchbook, watching his pencil or pen or paint trailing across the page, leaving lines and smudges in its wake. And then looking up blearily when he realises he can see across his dark room because the sun is peeking through his blinds.

Today he wakes up when his phone starts buzzing and chiming next to his head, half under his pillow. It startles him, and he gasps as his eyes fly open, sitting up and muttering, “Jesus…” as he shuts off his alarm and tosses it to the floor next to him. It clatters against the wood and he winces, looking up at his door and running a hand through his hair.

He grabs food from the kitchen and eats it during his first class, scribbling the homework on a piece of paper he finds on the floor and doodling flowers and eyes as he forgets to pay attention. The teacher's voice turns into white noise.

- - -

He drifts off again in another class, and wakes up to a chorus of voices saying “Thank you,” and “Goodbye.” He doesn’t bother joining them, instead just clicking the hang up button and dropping his head to his arm, sighing and closing his eyes for a second before pushing himself up and groaning.

It’s the third red button he’s pressed just today.

He thinks about how many he presses a day.

Five classes, five red buttons.

Five days a week.

For weeks and weeks.

And weeks.

Christ.

Lucas huffs and pushes himself to sit cross-legged in front of the computer. He pushes it out of his mind, the remembrance that this is… it. All he has. This and a few texts from Kes and Jayden, usually about school or other kids from school, often complaining. Usually complaining. Sometimes he gets texts from Isa, silly selfies or pictures of birds. She knows he likes birds. Sometimes he gets texts from Noah, pictures of his art, drawings and paintings and doodles, or texts from Janna, which are never expected but always make him laugh. Sometimes Liv texts him just to check in.

It.

Homework and classes and red buttons and once-in-a-while texts from people he doesn’t see anymore.

And Jens, he remembers as his phone buzzes. And he smiles, but he really shouldn’t, so he pushes it away as he reaches to the floor and grabs the phone, reading.

guess what i’m making… 🥚🍳👨🏻🍳

He lets the smile push its way back onto his face (there’s no one to see anyway) as he shakes his head.

you didn’t give me time to guess, dummy

He lays on his back and holds his phone above his head, sighing as the bubble appears on his screen.

i’m impatient

Lucas scoffs, shaking his head again.

anyway good morning 😌, Jens texts a few seconds later.

good morning 🌞, Lucas responds even though it’s not really that sunny out. how are you today

well i woke up to my sisters arm hitting me in the face and i just burned an egg so that’s just kind of how it’s going so far you?

Lucas smiles again.

pretty dry so far but who knows

Like it’s a trigger, Lucas’s door swings open loudly and he tilts his head back, looking at his father upside down.

“...Yes?”

“You have to do the dishes, yeah?” he says flatly.

“But I did them last night,” Lucas says, still holding his phone above his head. He doesn’t look at it, even as it gives a short buzz with Jens’s response.

“And I brought dinner for you.”

“You brought chicken home and I cooked it.”

It’s true. Lucas had to Google how to do it, and it was the blandest, driest chicken he’s ever had, but it sufficed. There was nothing else in the kitchen he could have made. Back home, there’s usually things in the cupboard to micwave.

“Lucas—” His dad pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, huffing. Exasperated, like Lucas is the issue here. “Just do it.”

“Fine, whatever,” Lucas mutters, looking at his phone, but he doesn’t get to read the message before his dad snaps at him.

“Don’t whatever me,” he says sharply.

“Fine,” Lucas says, stopping him. “Yes. I will.”

He leaves without shutting Lucas’s door.

Lucas takes a second, huffing at the open hallway. He hates him. And he knows he Shouldn’t, because He’s His Father, but he can’t not. It’s his face. Even before Lucas knew about how much of a dick he is, his face told Lucas everything. Always angry, disappointed. Always bitter, like he tried to sue the universe and lost. His eyes always look pinched. Especially when he looks at Lucas.

He doesn’t know why, honestly. It’s not like he even really knows Lucas. Anything about Lucas that’s actually important. Not that Lucas would tell him anything important.

(He has a list of things he doesn’t ever plan on telling him. His being gay is the top one. He’s never heard his father talk about queer people, but he doesn’t have to to know that he’s probably a bigot. His art is another thing. He doesn’t want to listen to his father talk about how it’s not a Viable Career Option, or how it’s a Waste of Time.)

He looks at his phone after a second.

😔 boring days suck wanna call later and do hw together?

Lucas exhales, trying to sigh away his frustration.

yes ofc you said you can do math right?

He shuts the door (quietly) while he waits for Jens’s answer.

i’m a math genius call me fuckin newton

Lucas scoffs, shaking his head as he sits back on his mattress, leaning back so his head falls off the edge, upside down.

great so that means you’ll do my hw for me

Lucas bites his lip, trying to suppress the smile that appears in anticipation as Jens types.

hmmmm what’s in it for me?🤔

uhhhhh moral support

Lucas grins as you amaze me appears on his screen, followed by oh i can teach you math, which promptly makes him roll his eyes and reply with an exaggerated uuuuuuggggggghhhhhhhhh.

Jens replies with oop i gotta go, and then, as Lucas prepares to send the eye-rolling emoji, see you after school🙃.

Lucas sends the emoji anyway, along with you’re the worst.

A few seconds later, his phone buzzes with love you too <3 , and his lingering smile falters. He sits up, swallowing and setting the phone down.

Because the pause in him, the skipped beat of his heart, the way the words tug at him even as he reads and rereads and rereads them, even as his brain knows the irony, the playfulness, the mindlessness in Jens’s saying it, can only mean one thing, and he hates himself for it.

Lucas is fucked.

- - -

So he ignores it, of course. It can’t be happening. It can’t. He’s known Jens for a few days. There’s no reason for his stomach to flutter the way it does when he gets a text from him, or when his name lights up his computer screen on Google Meets.

“He-ey,” Jens sings when Lucas answers, and a smile flickers across Lucas’s face involuntarily.

“Hey.”

“How you doing?”

“Fine,” Lucas answers, neglecting to mention the rest of his day, which was absolutely not fine. The door slams are still ringing in his head. “You?”

“Eh.”

“Hm,” Lucas chuckles. “Hey, who's your maths teacher?”

“Clark,” Jens says, looking at Lucas with his pixelated eyes. Even glitchy and blurry, Lucas can see that he’s beautiful.

“Great,” he says, ignoring it. “Have you done homework for lesson seven?”

“I absolutely have not,” Jens chirps. “I can do it and show you how to solve the problems.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mhmm.” Jens puckers his lips, nodding and furrowing his brows. “Mhmm, mhmm. Well. I could do it and send you the answers.”

“That sounds great,” Lucas says, sarcastically sweet.

Jens snickers, reaching past his laptop, and Lucas watches as the collar of his shirt falls, a section of his skin exposed before he sits back, pulling a messy notebook, loose papers hanging out of it, and calculator with him.

“Wanna read while I work?” Jens asks, oblivious to the heat in Lucas's chest.

“Oh, yeah, I can do that.”

Lucas barely even processes the words he reads to Jens, his brain somehow paying more attention to the quiet, hushed murmurs of numbers coming from Jens.

He hears Jens mutter, “Divide by six…” and click his tongue in thought a few times just as Lucas reads, “‘...like moths against the whispering and the champagne and the stars.’”

He listens to Jens intently, even though half (or maybe just a quarter) of his mind is on the book, and even though he only catches every few words. Some words, sixty, sixteen, seventy seven, are sharp and cut right through their connection. His murmurs are nearly completely unintelligible, but Lucas listens like he’s actually trying to learn something.

It’s not until Jens says, “Lu?” softly, that Lucas realises he’s stopped reading completely, the book fallen shut in his lap with his index finger holding the page loosely, and he startles, looking directly into Jens’s eyes. His face burns up at the nickname, and at the fact that he had been so enraptured by Jens muttering maths to himself that he had forgotten completely to read.

“I— Yeah, sorry,” he says, looking away and opening the book, hoping Jens can’t see how hot his face is.

“Why’d you stop?” A smile is spread across Jens’s face. Like he knows.

“I—” Lucas stutters again. “You seemed to focussed, I didn’t wanna distract you.”

“Aw.” Jens tilts his head. “That’s sweet.” There’s a pause, and he looks down, flipping a paper that’s out of Lucases sight, before he says, “I��m almost done, I can send you pictures after so do this one.”

“Yeah,” Lucas says, trying not to let out another stammer. His face burns again. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been listening.

Jens clicks his tongue as he thinks again, and Lucas hears the clicking of his calculator and the scratch of his pencil on paper.

“Add on both sides,” he says quietly, and then, “Oh, that’s not right,” flipping his pencil over to erase it.

Lucas snickers.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” Jens says, a smile playing at his lips. “You know you can’t do better.”

“You’re not wrong.”

When Jens finally finishes the problem (he has to try again two more times; he’d skipped the problem to leave it for the end when he’d started) he texts pictures of it to Lucas, and Lucas closes the book, folding the corner of the page.

He can feel Jens watching him as he copies down the answers.

“Number four is seventy three?” he says, zooming in on the photo.

“Thirteen,” Jens says, his voice softer than Lucas expected.

“Oh, that makes more sense.” Lucas writes it. “Why the hell do your ones look like sevens?”

“I don’t know,” Jen says defensively, making a face. “It’s never been a problem before.”

“It’s weird.” He’s met with silence. “If you’re making a face at me, I can’t see it.”

Jens lets out a laugh, and Lucas grins. If sunshine made a sound, it would be Jens’s laughter.

“How do you know me so well?” Jens asks, still laughing.

Lucas giggles, snorting and shaking his head as he looks up to see Jens’s face brightening even more.

“That was so cute,” Jens says lightly, and Lucas feels like he’s on fire.

“Shut up. What’s number seven? It’s cut off in the picture.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. That’s…” Jens’s brows furrow. “Six, four… one—”

“You thought it was a seven, didn’t you?”

“Shut up. One point three two.”

“Thank you-u-u.”

Jens is quiet as Lucas copies the rest of the answers. He shakes his head at how messy Jens’s work is, shocked and honestly impressed with how his brian works, numbers and lines scattered across the page, the answers in neat, little boxes.

“Do any new drawings?” Jens asks abruptly as Lucas copies the last one.

“Huh?”

“Have you drawn anything new?”

“Uh..” Lucas finishes writing the final answer and boxing it like Jens’s. “Yes?”

“Oh?” When he looks up, Jens is resting his chin on his hands, smiling. “Tell me.”

Lucas pauses, biting his lip. He’s only done one, and it’s ripped and crumpled and shredded in the corner of his room in a plastic bin.

“I did one, but it was shit, so it’s in the trash—”

“What was it?”

“Uh, that’s not important.”

“...Okay.” He says it softly. Lucas is grateful. “Can you show me a drawing? Or like a sketch, or…”

Lucas smiles. Jens is clearly out of his element. But he’s trying.

“I might have a picture,” he says, moving the maths homework away. “Most of my sketchbooks are still in boxes.”

“You haven’t unpacked yet?” Jens asks as Lucas scrolls though his camera roll, photos of Utrecht mainly, with a few of homework and screenshots of messages from the guys scattered in there.

“No,” he says simply.

“Why?”

“Eh.” Lucas finds one of a drawing and looks at it, contemplating. It’s a sketch of Noah that he did a little after moving. He’d meant to send it to him, even considered mailing it with a little letter and some Antwerp souvenirs like a post card or something, but he never did. He sends it to Jens. “I don’t really plan on staying here that long, just until this summer.”

“Oh. Oh, woah.”

Lucas beams without wanting to, watching Jens’s head duck as he looks at his phone.

“That’s so good, Lucas.”

“Thank you,” Lucas responds, his voice small. He shifts in his seat on the mattress, fidgeting as Jens looks up at him.

“That’s so good.”

“Who is it?” Jens looks back down, moving his fingers across the screen, and Lucas can tell he’s zooming in on the photo.

“My friend from Utrecht, he’s an artist too.”

“Oh!” Jens looks up again. “Speaking of artists. I have a friend I think you’ll like.”

“You think I’ll like him because he’s an artist?”

Jens drops his phone.

“I think you’ll like him because he’s a cool guy, and you already have something in common.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

“You wanna meet him?” Jens asks, almost excitedly.

Lucas stares at him, tilting his head.

“Not in person,” Jens says. “Obviously.” He makes a face. “Sometimes we have, like, a group Zoom call with the guys, do you wanna join sometime?”

Lucas pauses, hoping Jens can see the despair in his face.

The guys.

“Uh— Yeah, why not?”

Jens beams.

It makes the screen glow brighter.

#hes in looooooove #:')#remember to drink water yall #and eat something #and take your meds #stretch your wrists and neck #i love you #<3 #wtfock #skam nl #wtfock fic #skam nl fic #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #vds #van der stoffels #while the world ends around us

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evqnbuckley · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1: Hopeless

Okay so i wrote my thoughts on what I wanted the finale to be and this got out of hand...this is like almost if not 6k and i’m not even finished. If this is popular enough I’ll continue to post on here but I’m gonna continue to update on ao3! @princesscas

Sam awakens from his nightmare, disoriented. The visions of seeing himself grow old, having a family and dying feel all too real. The beginning of his nightmare is fading and somewhat fuzzy but he remembers Dean making an appearance. He remembers seeing himself fight alongside his brother, killing some vampires, a normal hunt. Then his memory clears and the image of his brother impaled against a wooden pole catches his breath.

He wipes a hand across his face, trying to erase the images of Dean saying goodbye, of Dean's hand dropping as he took his last breath, and the image of lighting his own brother's pyre.

Sam pulls the covers off and walks toward the kitchen for a glass of water. The bunker is quiet, peaceful even. He still hasn't gotten used to calling it home, not really. The thing about a home is, four walls don't constitute it. Family is similar. It's not based on who you're related to but who loves you and has your back. Family, a home, whatever they are things you build around you. He had learned that long ago.

The wooden floors creak as he walks through the library. The silence is deafening yet comforting. It's a reminder that, for once, the world isn't ending. The linoleum sends shivers down his spine as he enters the kitchen. Sam replays the nightmare in his head while he downs a glass of water from the sink. The images slowly become distorted and misplaced in his memory. He eventually cannot picture it in his mind.

Sighing, Sam places the glass in the sink and walks back to his room. His feet make a pit-pat noise, approaching the hallway. Dean's door is cracked open slightly with faint light seeping through. Sam turns toward the door and peers in. His face softens, taking in the scene. Dean is cuddling a pillow adorned with a worn, rough, blue pillow case. The light emits from a lone lamp on his desk. Some type of paper for a mechanic position sits atop a few books from the library. Sam eyes the paperwork, puzzled. Dean never told me he got a job. Underneath, one of the books has a bookmark in three different places. There are a few crumpled up papers on and around the floor. Sam picks one up and unravels it.

Cas I know you're in the empty and you probably can't hear me….why did you do it? Why didn't you tell me about the deal before? I know I messed up and Billie was about to kill us both but….we could have died together found another way.

Why didn't you tell me?

Sam picks up another one. This time it's the one closest to the trash can. The markings are a bit sharper than the paper before. Almost more angry. It appears some words are smudged but still legible.

I try to move on and put on a brave face for Sammy. He needs to know now that Chuck is gone we can move on. We have to. I have tried to find a way to bring you back Cas. None of the books are fucking useful. I can't read Enochian. I don't even know if Enochian text is the key to saving you. I've tried contacting Rowena but i think she's busy. I'm at my wits end. I haven't gotten much sleep to be honest. As I'm writing this I have looked through 28 books all based on portals to other dimensions, hell, sacrificial rituals and reverse rituals. Even Astral projecting. I don't know what to do….

Sam swallows past the dry lump caught in his throat. He glances at Dean, making sure he's still asleep. Dean briefly shifts, pulling the pillow closer. Sam relaxes and picks up one more crumpled up paper. This one appears fresh, as if Dean wrote it tonight.

I tried praying to the angels. They didn't listen. No one is listening. Jack isn't even listening. He took himself out of the story, I know but this is you I'm talking about. How can he just sit by while you're suffering. I guess I'm on my own.

Why did you say that now?

The last sentence confuses Sam. He burrows his eyebrows as he studies the three entries. Dean is searching for a way to save Cas. To bring him back. And he didn't tell me? Sam quietly crunches the papers back up and places them back where he found them. Dean doesn't move. As Sam switches the lamp off, he feels the heaviness of the dark engulf him. I have to talk to Dean tomorrow.

Dean rolls over as the aroma of burnt bacon fills his room. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he sits up. Realizing that Sam is about to burn the bunker down, he slips on his robe and jogs to the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Well good morning to you too," Sam replies a bit offended. He's flipping bacon as Dean yanks the tongs out of his grip. "What- I am making breakfast. Can I not make breakfast?"

"I don't know what you think you're making but it definitely, definitely ain't breakfast," Dean smarts. He trashes the burnt bacon and starts a new batch. "Sit. No, why don't you make some coffee."

"Already did. Here ya go," Sam slides Dean's mug across the island, "your highness," Sam says under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I actually wanted to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, me too," Sam perks up. "I think I found something that screams our kinda thing. We should head there after we eat breakfast. It's not too long of a drive." Dean finishes as he places the cooked bacon on some paper towels and grins from ear to ear. Sam just watches as his brother starts on some scrambled eggs. This might be more challenging than I had hoped.

"So when you said our sorta thing you meant pie?"

"I meant pie," Dean confirms with a satisfied smirk. "Now, I'm gonna go eat me some of that pie."

"Didn't we-Dean we just had breakfa- nevermind," Sam gives in and follows Dean through the crowd.

Several families are participating in the pie fest. Some are gearing up to find out who can eat the most pie, who makes the best pumpkin pie, and some are just making whip cream pies and pieing each other. Sam observes those around him with a small smile. A life he desperately wants someday but knows he can't have. Or can I?

Dean approaches Sam with a big box and almost runs into some bystander. "Hey, watch it."

"What is that?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"I couldn't pick just one! Come on, Sammy we're at a pie fest. What do you take me for?"

"An idiot."

Dean ponders his answer and let's it slide. He picks up one of the pies and offers it to his brother. Sam declines. "Dude, you gotta at least try it."

"No, really I'm good."

"Alright, what is it? What's got you so down today?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," Sam replies.

"No, see I know my baby brother. So I know that is your sad Sam face. Fess up, what's wrong?"

"I'm not-" Sam begins, but Dean gives him a look.

"I don't know. I'm just thinking about Cas, about Jack."

Dean's expression falls. He looks down and places the pie back in its spot. "Yea me too. I think about them too. Every day. But we have to move on, Sam. Live our lives. Or else that sacrifice, it will all be for nothing," Dean looks at Sam. "So help me finish this pie."

Dean reaches down for the same pie again but his face is met with a cold surface. Sam smothers the pumpkin pie in Dean's face, laughing. "You know what, I do feel better!"

Sam shakes his hand to free the whip cream, watching Dean rake the remainder of the pie off his chin with his fork. Suddenly, Sam's temples begin pulsing painfully and he has an immense sense of deja vu. His smile falters and he feels out of place. Almost, as if he's reliving this moment. It's similar to the feeling he had this morning.

"Hey, Sam. You okay?"

"Uh, yeah." He's not honestly sure if everything is okay.

Sam texts Eileen and tells her he wants to make up for the date they missed months ago. She agrees it has been too long and tonight would work for her. Sam doesn't want to make promises, as the day is still young, but they plan for their date tonight at 7. Dean teases Sam about it even though the two are already a couple. Saying things like, "don't do anything I wouldn't do" or "make sure you use protection." Sam just sighs and shakes his head.

It's 6:35 pm and nothing has come across the wire. Social media is quiet, so Sam texts Eileen that the date is a go. She replies five minutes later, ready to go and excited to see Sam. Dean offers to let Sam take the Impala out to pick Eileen up. For once in a long time, Sam is excited. When he reaches the garage door, Sam glances back at his brother and sees him nursing a brand new whiskey bottle. Sam frowns at the sight. Dean deserves to feel excited, to be happy. Sam will go on this date with Eileen, tell her about Cas, and they will come back to help Dean. Help Dean get his best friend back. Our best friend back .

Dean waves his brother off and slumps into the chair in the library. It's not very comfortable. In fact, the wooden back is digging into his thoracic spine and causing some pain. But it's better than the alternative. The alternative of thinking about what he's lost, who he's lost, and how he lost them. That pain will never go away. Right now I can focus on this acute pain and center my thoughts on it. Keep myself from sinking into the dark hole of nothing I've been trying to climb out of since I lost - since I lost

Dean finishes the whiskey bottle before Sam gets home and he's still not drunk enough. He rises from the chair and walks to the liquor cart. All the bottles are half empty or nothing but drops of whiskey, gathering at the bottom of the glass. He picks up one empty glass bottle and stares at it for several moments. His vision becomes distorted from the small glass textures, his left ear begins to ring from the silence as he falls into a trance like state. Then, a glint of sapphire reflects in the textured glass. It catches his eye; Dean swallows. Suddenly, he's thinking of Castiel. Cas. He's thinking of "I love you's" and "Goodbye, Dean" and black goo. He's thinking of how the image of his best friend disappearing into a black mass of nothing is seared in his memory forever. He's thinking of how he didn't get to say goodbye, or anything really, and now he never will.

He grimaces at the bottle, squeezes the neck so hard his knuckles blanche, and throws it across the room, into the kitchen. It lands by the island, shattering to pieces, with a deafening crash. Dean feels his eyes burning and hot tears gathering at the corners. Before he realizes, Dean is grabbing all the glass bottles and throwing them into the kitchen. In his fit of rage, Dean throws one bottle too high and it shatters against the side of the kitchen table. Glass spreads across the floor. He doesn't even register the intensity of the mess until one bottle knocks off another, shattering it at his feet. He stops throwing the bottles, breaking from his trance.

"I tried everything! I can't save you! There's nothing left! How could you do this to me, you son of a bitch," Dean cries. He places his hands on either side of his head, thinking. "Jack! How can you just leave us? We need you. Cas needs you! Fuck this all powerful, all knowing God bullshit. We're family!" Dean tosses the cart over. "Isn't that enough?" He pauses and glances around for a moment. Nothing. "Dammit, Jack. Why won't you answer my prayers? I need some help!" He cries out and slowly sits down. "I can't do this on my own," he whispers between his sniffles. He begs over and over again please please please in his head for a few moments. But he's met with silence like every other time. Dean accepts this and wipes his tears away, picks the cart up, grabs the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and picks up his mess. He can't have Sam see what a hypocrite he truly has become.

Dean cuts himself on a few lone pieces of glass, but it's nothing he can't handle. In fact, for a brief moment, the pain gives him something to focus on. He mindlessly watches the crimson slowly drain down the sink as he holds his palm under the running water. He wonders what it feels like to float down the water, through the pipes, through the darkness, into nothing. What is wrong with me? But that's where Cas is right now. A bunch of nothing. Dean grabs a hand towel and wraps it around his left hand before returning to the broom. The kitchen is just about clean. Within about 5 minutes, all the glass and spilled whiskey is gone. Almost as if it never happened. Dean places the broom and dustpan back in the corner and trudges through the hallways.

There is a secret stash of whiskey in his man cave that Dean hid for emergencies. And this constitutes an emergency. He walks to the wall, removes a Star Wars poster from the fifth movie, and pulls out a few bricks, revealing the beautiful brown bottle of Jack Daniel's. Not his favorite but Dean was in a rush when he bought it a couple of weeks ago before they defeated Chuck just in case anything went sideways. Also, in case Sam found his stash at least it wouldn't be his good whiskey. Popping the cap off, Dean takes a long swig as he stumbles toward the couch. Sam should be home soon. I'll be done with this bottle by then and be able to forget anything blue for a while. Except all he dreams of is blue.

Bright blue swirls fill his dreams as he drifts off. He feels immense warmth as the blue wraps around him like a large ribbon and he floats above the grass. The ribbon caresses Dean like a soft, silk cloud, holding him in place. A slight breeze causes the ribbon to ripple in harmony and alternate between hues of blue. The colors circulate between indigo to azure to cobalt to cerulean to teal and finally midnight blue effortlessly. Dean sees dark angels wings above and feels safe. He flies higher as the ribbon ascends toward the wings. Flashes of cerulean eyes skip by, sad and yearning, before Dean is pulled down into dark azure ocean water by the wings. The ribbon of blue dissolves into nothing. Dean feels alone. In dreams, people don't usually have their sense of smell, but Dean swears he smells hints of sandalwood, a campfire, and honey. Then, he sees Castiel materialize before him with his wings extended, long and wide. Beautiful. They're untouched with no sign of rebellion or impurities. Just as Dean had first seen them. Before he met me. Before he rebelled and lost everything for me. I cursed you, Cas. Green eyes lock with blue and Castiel smiles at Dean. Then suddenly, Castiel's wings begin to dissipate and burn away. He appears to scream in pain. Dean reaches out just as soon as the water darkens and swarms around Castiel. He thrashes against the thick water but cannot break free. Dean is frozen in the water and at once cannot breathe. He screams out to Castiel but no sound comes out. He, instead, inhales the water. Castiel disappears within the black, thick water just as soon as he appears. He's gone.

Dean's eyes slowly open. This is a recurring nightmare he's had since Castiel sacrificed himself. Since he left. Dean had hoped the alcohol would impair his subconscious enough to avoid the nightmare. Beer hasn't been strong enough, nor tequila, or vodka. Whiskey is his last resort and apparently it does jack-shit. I need something stronger, if I am to get any sleep. Although the whiskey does not keep the nightmares at bay it does keep him numb. That is enough to continue drinking. He reaches for the bottle and misses. I may be seeing double. After a few tries, Dean successfully retrieves the bottle and downs the remaining third of the whiskey. His head feels heavy and his chest feels hot. Dean can feel his fingers tingling and toes numbing against his socks. This is the sweet spot of feeling drunk, he thinks.

Sam returns from his date, unnoticed, and walks into the room, seeing Dean spread out on the couch. He eyes the empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table and sighs. Sam remembers the other whiskey bottle left on the library table. The same one Dean had been nursing before Sam left. Dean is on a bender again. Eileen shuffles up next to Sam and glances at the couch. She looks at Sam with a sad look. At dinner, he filled her in with everything he knows about Castiel and his sacrifice for Dean. But Eileen didn't realize it would affect Dean this badly. She walks over to Dean and pulls the blanket from on top of the couch and covers Dean. He's passed out again and is slightly twitching. His eyes are racing back and forth.

"We will regroup tomorrow and discuss Plan SOC," Sam whispers while signing.

"I'm still not sure about the code word," Eileen signs with a grimace.

"We'll work on it," he signs with a shrug.

The next morning Dean wakes to his Jack Daniel's replaced with three ibuprofen pills and a glass of water. Grateful, he slowly takes them one at a time due to the agonizing headache. Usually he doesn't have headaches or hangovers but the nightmares don't give him much rest. He really isn't able to sleep off the alcohol. Pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes to push back the headache, Dean sighs with exhaustion. He doesn't even know what time it is. His watch reads 4:32 but Dean is unsure if it's AM or PM.

Suddenly, he feels his stomach growl and Dean realizes he hasn't eaten since about noon today. Yesterday? He sloppily rises up and makes his wake toward the kitchen. Nothing really sounds appetizing except for some string cheese. Only, they don't have string cheese. Of course. So, Dean settles for the two day old pepperoni pizza in the fridge. Not too bad, and he will never say no to pizza. Dean isn't sure how long he was passed out but the effects of the whiskey have certainly worn down a bit. He can't walk a straight line, but his vision is more clear. He clumsily carries the pizza box over to the library table next to his laptop and sits it down. Quietly, he pulls the chair out and takes a seat. The hunter in him wants to make sure everything is quiet out in the world. The clock on his laptop confirms its 4:38 AM.

A few clicks and searches show there's a local mysterious killing. Our kinda thing. Dean smiles, knowing that this case will help keep his mind busy. And he will be able to save someone. At least this way he will feel like his life was worth saving. Ironic. I feel like I've said that before. Why do people feel the need to jump at any chance to save me? I don't deserve saving. Dad sold his soul for me and now Cas. I don't deserve it. He shakes his head and munches down on cold pizza in silence.

Dean finishes the last three slices of pizza, underestimating how hungry he had been. He watches a few dumb YouTube videos for a while, to keep his mind off things, waiting for Sam to wake up. Dean is tempted to grab a beer from the fridge but decides against it. He needs to be as sober as possible for the hunt, for Sam. If Dean were to go alone, he would not care. Not at this moment anyway.

Dean has realized his mood swings are ridiculous lately. At one moment, he's super depressed and doesn't care about anything. He honestly doesn't care if he lives or dies. The next moment he can't wait to see what life has to offer. It's as if his brain doesn't know how to comprehend what Castiel's sacrifice means to him. His thoughts can become so tangled and incoherent Dean doesn't know how to act - what to say. That's why he started writing down some of his thoughts, and then thought how much of girl that made him and crumpled the papers up. Right now, he can really use a moment to write down his thoughts.

He grabs the notepad and pen on the table and scribbles away. I hate this feeling. What am I supposed to feel? Anger? Sadness? Relief? Emptiness? Frustration? All of the above? Others? You left me with so many unanswered questions and I left you with nothing in return. How am I supposed to go on knowing this? Cas, how can I go minute to minute, hour to hour, knowing what I know now? I fucked up. I had a chance to say what I've been wanting to say for a while and I couldn't. I didn't. Did you even know? I mean do I even fucking know? I can't even hate you to make myself feel better. I can't bring myself to say I hate you for doing this to me. Because I could never hate you. The paper becomes wet with a few tear drops. I will find you, Cas. Just wait for me.

Dean places the pen next to the notepad after a moment. He wipes his nose with his flannel sleeve. Not many tears fell but his nose is running pretty good. Out of all of his thought entries, this one felt the most cathartic. He sometimes pretends that Castiel can hear him read the words to himself or even hear him as Dean writes the words. Just as Castiel heard his prayer in Purgatory. But he doesn't. He won't. The empty is a dark and torturous place. My prayer and words will be the last things he'd focus on.

Dean lays his head on the table from exhaustion, but doesn't shut his eyes. He won't risk falling asleep. Instead, he focuses on counting the books on each shelf to his right. Then, once he's done with those he counts the ones on his left. Dean notices some of these books, he nor Sam even use. He doesn't know half of the content in these books. Unfortunately, Dean underestimated how counting can cause drowsiness no matter the subject at play. His eyes begin to drift when Sam walks in with loud footsteps.

Yawning, Sam says, "What are you doing in here? You should be in bed."

Dean jerks up, shaking his head from thoughts of sleep. "I found us a case," he replies.

"Mhm. Is that all you were looking for during the early morning?" Sam asks, eyeing the covered notepad. Dean notices and quickly turns it over.

"Sam," he warns. "mind your business."

"Good morning," Eileen joins the boys in the library.

Dean isn't too surprised to see her here but is happy for Sam nonetheless. "Morning, Eileen. I hope sasquatch here didn't take up the whole bed."

Eileen blushes and laughs at Dean. "I don't kiss and tell," she winks at Sam as she kisses him on the cheek. "Who wants breakfast?"

"Yes, please!" Sam signs.

Sam joins Dean at the table and a long beat passes between them. Sounds in the kitchen of water running, the clinking of plates, and banging of pans fill the silence instead. Dean repositions himself in the chair, still not making eye contact with Sam. Sam, however, is studying Dean. He appears disheveled, bags under his eyes, day old stubble and crust around his lips from dried whiskey. He's a wreck.

"So this case-" "We need to talk-" They start simultaneously.

Dean glances up for the first time. "You first."

"I know about Cas." Dean's eyes widen slightly. "At least I know there's more to the story. You didn't tell me everything and I know whatever happened is eating away at you." Dean gestures to dismiss Sam. "Dean, I know you. I can see it. I know when you get like this it's because of something close to you." Sam pauses. "I also read some of your crumpled up papers." A dark look crosses Dean's face. Almost like he wants to punch Sam.

"You did what?" Dean says.

Sam continues, ignoring Dean's comment. "I know you're trying to bring Cas back. I want to help," Sam offers.

Dean sighs, looking to the side. He knows the many dead ends and how disappointing it is trying to save Cas. He doesn't want to subject his brother to the very same thing. "It's no use, Sam. Everything is a dead end. I've tried everything I can think of. Cas is gone," Dean resigns, defeated. "All we can do now is save people, hunt things, and live our lives. It's what Cas would want. It's what everyone, who we have lost, would want."

"Dean," Sam starts. "You're giving up way too easily. There is always another way. Don't you always say that?" Dean doesn't respond. "I know how it may seem hopeless but we have options. We have the resources to continue the search to save him. You can't give up now, Dean. This is Cas."

"I've tried everything I can think of, Sam. Everything! Praying, research, calling Rowena. She doesn't answer. Jack is off grid. I've tried! There's nothing. He's gone!" Dean's voice cracks. He swallows down the pain. "We have to accept that. And however I deal with it is my business. So don't give me those judgy eyes like you are now." Dean says pointedly.

"But, Dean-"

"I said no Sam."

Dean gets up, signaling he's done with this conversation and takes the notepad with him. He doesn't even acknowledge Eileen as she brings breakfast to the library. "The case is pulled up on my laptop. I'm going to get ready." Dean turns the corner and is gone before Sam can reply.

Eileen's face falls as she holds a plate of french toast, bacon, sausage, and lots of syrup. Then one plate of regular scrambled eggs with toast for Sam. She sits the plates on the table and watches Dean leave. "Is he not hungry? I made his favorite." She says.

"It's not that, he's dealing with some, he's just-" Sam doesn't seem to know how to finish his sentence, or fully explain his brother's behavior.

"Cas?" Eileen offers. Sam nods.

Sam reads the case on Dean's laptop and begins to feel nauseated. He has a bad feeling. He, again, has a sense of deja vu. Two days in a row, it can't be a coincidence. It's like there is an itch at the back of his brain, crawling to the surface, wanting to show him something. He feels a headache come on and the pain is similar to when he used to get visions as a young adult. The pain grows stronger as the itch continues, pulling toward his frontal lobe.

Then, a flash of images of Sam and Dean dressed in their normal FBI threads quickly blink by. Another image of them at an abandoned barn fighting some strange, masked creatures. Sam recognizes the mask from Dad's journal. And then a burst of images, showing Sam and Dean fighting these creatures appear. They're vampires! The brothers are winning, slicing the vamp's heads off one after another. The last image shows Dean pushed against something sharp and… Oh no, Dean Sam thinks.

He grabs his head and shakes the images away. Groaning in pain, he sees he's on the floor. He must have fallen while the vision took over. Eileen is at his side, freaked out. She's signing, "Are you okay?" over and over again.

Slowly, Sam regains his thoughts and tells Eileen he's okay. Dean rushes by Sam's side by this point after hearing the loud thud from his fall. Dean places his hand on Sam's shoulder, in concern.

"Dude, what the hell happened? Say something. You alright?" Dean glances over Sam, and around the bunker, checking for any intruders.

"Yea, yea. I'm fine. I feel like I just got hit by a freight train. Like how my visions used to feel." He pauses. "I actually think I just had a vision." Sam looks at Dean with bewilderment and Dean returns the look.

"I'm sorry. Did you just say you had a vision?"

"Yea." Sam breathes.

"You haven't had one of those since you were like in your twenties and yellow eyes was after you. Why the fuck now?"

"I-I don't know. I thought it was a nightmare, but last night the same images played in my mind. I went all day yesterday feeling a sense of deja vu. The pie fest, reading the case, even eating breakfast."

All three are silent for quite a while. Their breakfast grows cold but no one pays it any mind. "What if it's a sign?" Eileen questions.

"Like from God, uh, Jack?" Sam offers.

Dean huffs in response. He knows damn good and well Jack is staying out of everyone's business. There isn't any possibility Jack is interfering. "I doubt it."

"It's possible," says Sam. "Maybe he has taken himself out of the narrative, but what if he's helping us still by guiding us through this vision?"

"He hasn't answered any of my damn prayers since two months ago. Why would he start now?"

"I don't know, change of heart?" Sam offers, half-heartedly.

Dean stands and laughs with a bitter shake of his head. "You honestly believe that? Come on, Sam. The kid has a new sense of almighty. We, you, me and Cas, we are now left in the dust. He said so himself. You're just having some freak migraine."

Sam stands, with Eileen in tow. She helps him up by the arm. "You're wrong. I know he's not like Chuck, and stays away, but he still cares. I know he sent me this vision to help us. All of us," Sam stares at Dean's glare of hopelessness. "I have faith, Dean."

"How can you be so sure? How can you be so positive that this is from Jack and he's trying to help us? Doesn't make a lot of sense that out of all the times I've asked for his help, to save Cas, or help me bring him back, he's now warning you of an ordinary hunt?" Dean says frustrated.

"Because in this hunt you die, Dean," Sam blurts out. Dean stays quiet. "You die and I have to go on without you. You leave me and I have to live a life without my brother."

Dean's gaze falls to the floor. He's quiet for a moment, processing this information. "You live a happy life?" He barely says.

"What?"

"After I die, do you go on having the whole white picket fence, apple pie life with the 2.5 kids?" Dean clarifies, calmly.

Sam searches Dean's face for any kind of sign of self actualization or will to live. "Why does it matter? I can still strive for that with you alive. We both can," he adds.

Dean smiles, that tired, sad smile. "No, Sammy. You and I both know as long as I'm alive you will always be in this life." He looks at Eileen. "You two will never have a chance at a happy, normal life with me around. Besides, hunting is what I do. There is nothing else for me. Not anymore.”

"That's not true," Eileen says, with tears in her eyes. She reaches out and places her hand on Dean's cheek, pleading for him to understand how wrong he is.

"It is. I'm the one that dragged you back into this life, Sam. I'm the only one keeping you here. Let me give you an out."

"Stop. Okay just stop. We are not going on this hunt. If you want to be suicidal, fine, but I'm keeping you out of danger. You are always so quick to jump in front of a gun or blade. Do you still care that little about yourself, Dean?" Sam searches his brother's eyes. "What about that job paperwork on your desk? You must have cared at some point. Wanted to live!" Dean is quiet. Sam sighs. "Cas wouldn't want you to die. He died to save you, remember? So, what I am going to do is bring Cas back. Are you going to help me?"

Dean ponders Sam's offer for a moment. "What about the people that will die, if we don't save them?"

"I'll call some hunters and give them a heads up on what to look out for when they go there. It'll be taken care of," Sam reassures.

Dean glances between Eileen and Sam. Fiddling with a loose string on the end of his flannel sleeve, he sighs. On one hand, he'd love to see Castiel again. He'd do anything- to hug him and tell him all the things he didn't get to say. But on the other hand, he's so tired. So very tired. There are no leads. And he's lost all faith in his search to save Castiel.

"Dean?" Sam starts.

"Okay. Let's bring Cas home."

#man i dont even know what to put in the tags #who do i tag #my writing #destiel #this is gonna be a journey

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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

Text

Taste of Home (Indruck)

Prompt for the 13th was: strange harvest

Most days, Duck isn’t too worried about the dirt on his hands or the bits of leaves that stick to his clothes. Most days, he’s not about to meet with a reclusive, wealthy donor to the Kepler Botanical Gardens who has specifically requested Duck be present.

When he enters the meeting room, Thacker is waiting for him along with a tall, pale-haired man sporting red glasses.

“Ah, here’s Duck now.” Thacker smiles.

“Sorry, uh, thought we weren’t meeting until-”

“-One. You’re correct, I have a habit of getting a bit, ah, ahead of things t times.” The man offers a wide smile that’s polite but also gives Duck the heebie-jeebies.

“Duck, this here is Mr. Cold. He’s one of the garden’s longest standin supporters. He’s got a project for us, and asked that you be the one in charge of it.”

“I was quite impressed with your work on the native plant section, and I’m told you headed the transplant and maintenance of the tree specimens in the New Zealand section, which is no mean feat.”

“Thanks, I’m real proud of both. What do you have in mind? Is it an exhibit?”

“A private collection. Come, let me show you.” Mr. Cold unrolls a set of plans as Duck shoots a glance at Thacker.

“Didn’t know we did that sort thing.”

“We do for Mr.Cold. Whelp, I gotta go lead a tour. Mr. Cold, I leave you in Duck’s capable hands.”

He joins the taller man in front of the plans; they’re for a garden within a greenhouse, the structure as angular and distinct as the man requesting it. He knows the greenhouse hs Cold’s name above it, is usually used as a teaching space

“I imagine you think me rather selfish for requesting to use your space in such a way.” Mr. Cold doesn’t look up from where he’s making final notes on the paper, as if the answer is a foregone conclusion.

“Think it’s kinda strange, but I ain’t about to rule on it bein selfish until you tell me what I’m actually doin.”

“I have several species of trees, flowers, and shrubs that I need grown. They are, ah, rather difficult to cultivate anywhere other than their native home, and I am not a skilled gardener at the best of times. Hence my seeking out someone who, I presume, has not killed multiple succulents in the last two months.” The man looks a little ashamed, then clears his throat, “the plants I am asking you to grow are the only specimens of their kind on earth.”

“How’d you get them, then?” Duck tries to keep the suspicion out of his voice, but this feels more and more like some rich guy made an impulse purchase of something that should be in a seed bank or species ark somewhere.

“I brought small specimens over from my home, which is where they grow. But I couldn’t keep them alive, and they were already rare. Last I heard they were all wiped out by an, ah, an illness. I stored seeds from my specimens in hopes of one day regrowing them.”

Duck looks at the diagram closely; the plant’s are actually sketched in, not just noted by name and the number of eraser marks suggest Mr. Cold spent a long time planning out exactly where each one went.

“You’re askin us to do all this because you’re homesick?”

“Yes. I have been away from home for a long, long time. The Kepler gardens have been a refuge for me. Lately I’ve been drawn to the woodland and prairie type sections.”

“I helped with a lot of those.”

Mr. Cold turns to him with a smile, “I know. That is another reason I requested you. But, before we go any further, I must make something clear; these specimens they mean...they are so, so precious to me. And secrecy is a must, for reasons I can only half explain. They would be solely under your care and protection. If that is not a responsibility you wish to take, I understand entirely.”

Behind the red glasses, Duck can just see a glint of hope.

“Think I’m up to the challenge.”

“Wonderful” Mr. Cold claps his hands together, “in that case, there is not a moment to lose. Here, this is everything you need.” He produces a briefcase, inside which sits ten packets of seeds and three pits, bout the size of an avocado pit.”

“All the information I have on ideal growing conditions is in the attached notebook, and the seeds are labeled. If you have any questions, ny at all, my phone number is in there s well.”

He pauses, smiles, and murmurs to himself, “it's been awhile since I gave anyone my phone number.”

Duck opts to ignore the stealthy glance at his arms and carefully takes the case, “Thanks, this’ll all be real helpful.

------------

He doesn’t see his new patron (as Juno calls Mr. Cold) for a week. When he does, he’s on his belly, checking for any sign of sprouts in the greenhouse.

“How goes the growing?” Mr. Cold asks from the direction of Duck’s feet.

The gardener rolls over and sits up, “Not much to report, just trying to keep an eye on ‘em so I don’t miss anythin important.”

Mr. Cold offers his hand, helping Duck up, “I appreciate the care you’re taking, Duck. I hope it isn’t cutting into your other work too badly.”

“Had to move somethings around, but that's just the nature of this kind of work.”

Mr. Cold chuckles, “Pun intended?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“Oh. Your, h, your lunch time is coming up right? I was wondering if you would let me take you to lunch as an, ah, extra thank you?” He’s spinning a small ring on his finger, the shyness almost charming, and Duck felt neutral at best about the sandwich he brought today.

“Sure, thanks.”

Mr. Cold grins, “Oh good. Where would you like to go? I hear the crystal palace has a lovely lunch.”

“The fancy Japanese place? Pretty sure they got a dress code.”

“Brush off the dirt and you look completely respectable.”

Duck raises an eyebrow, “I was talkin about you.”

They both stare down at the classy but still very clear pajama pants Mr. Cold is wearing.

“Fair point. How do you feel about Indian food?”

---------------------------------

Duck’s stepped into some sort of painting. And here he thought he was just wandering into the birch grove.

Indrid (“”I really prefer that name”) is laying on his back on a bench. Sun streams between the branches, falling across his face, making it all angle and shadow in ways Duck wants to sit and study. His silver hair is ruffling in the breeze, and his glasses are pushed up his forehead. Eyes shut and hands folded on his stomach, he reminds Duck of the paintings in fairytales of someone waiting for true loves kiss.

He’s worried he might be the one to give it.

They’re having lunch once a week at least now, the awkwardness of the first time melting away as Duck got going on a tangent about dandelions only to find Indrid, elbows on the table and chin in his hands, listening to him so intently he blushed on reflex. Then he was giggling as Indrid pulled a custom-made curly straw out of a small tin in order to drink his Mango lassi. And then Indrid had laughed at his laugh and it all fell into place, the conversation so easy it’s as if they’d know each other for years.

Then there were the frequent visits by Indrid to the greenhouse to check on the progress. Which, if Duck does say so himself, if pretty fucking good. The plants are thriving, reaching for the light, and the trees are already flowering in deep blue stars, the speed with which they reached adulthood fascinating to him. Sometimes Indrid just comes to see the gardens, but always seeks Duck out to say hello and smile that increasingly charming smile at him.

But the biggest change has come with Indrid asking if Duck would be interested in designing a small garden for him

“Something very simple and manageable. Hardy too.”

“Any plant preferences?”

“No, I trust your judgement entirely, though you may have to help me with their maintenance the first few weeks, if that is alright.”

Duck would have done it even if Indrid wasn't paying him. He liked sitting in the living room, surrounded by strange art and crumpled papers, showing Indrid how to tend houseplants. And when they sit on the back porch, each dirt-smudged and grass stained, Indrid sipping soda while Duck nursed a single beer, the other man kept beaming at the new, small patch of garden, Duck’s heart wanted to burst from his chest and flutter around.

Last night, he stayed late for dinner, and as he was checking over the houseplants…

“I’m fond of this one. It’s sturdy and makes me smile, much like you.” Indrid murmurs as he steps beside him.

Duck slides a smile his way “Dunno, partial to this snake plant we chose; unique and kinda tall, just like you.”

It’s the worlds weakest flirtation, but as Indrid steps away his fingers tease Duck’s lower back, “I wonder if they can cross-pollinate.”

All of this is why Duck decides to leave Indrid be. Because playing prince charming to one of the gardens donors could backfire and shatter his whole career if he reads things wrong.

The path takes him past Indrid, and he steps lightly. But just as he passes Indrid's head, cool fingers find his own.

“How is my favorite flora expert today?” Indrid purrs, eyes still shut.

“Good. Uh. Yeah, good. How’d you know-”

“It was you? I have my ways.” Indrid grins, squeezing his hand once before letting go, “are we still on for lunch tomorrow? I can bring you that soup you like.”

“That’d be great.” Duck hesitates, reaches down and ruffles Indrid’s hair. The other man sighs, rubs his face against Ducks palm.

“I can't wait.”

------------------------------------------

It takes him until ten pm to remember he left his phone in the greenhouse. Which would not be a problem, except he’s supposed to take a call early tomorrow from Jane, the first time in months they’ve been able to talk.

Plus, he’s been having an excellent text conversation with Indrid until his last rounds, sending him pictures of the plants in the greenhouse, which all look ready to bloom in the next day, and the strange fruit on the trees; speckled gold and white, and smelling faintly of marshmallow. Indrid’s reply texts were filled with excitement (and a great deal of praise, which Duck is thoroughly enjoying). He wants to keep that going as soon as he can.

He finds his phone on the workbench, looks up just in time to see glowing red eyes reflected in the glass.

Something’s in the greenhouse with him. Which should be impossible, because only two people have the keys.

Turning, he scans the plants and spots a large, dark shape holding very still behind the trees. Which would work better if said trees were not so thin.

“I am aware this is not a good hiding place.”

Duck gasps, not expecting it to talk, then steps back when the creature emerges. It towers over him, antennae twitching and wings rustling slightly. His mind puts all the pieces together, and he understands only half of them.

“Why the fuck is the mothman breakin into my greenhouse.”

The antenna flatten slightly, “I am not breaking in. Do you see any broken glass?”

“No, but I got one key, and the only other person with one ain’t here. And put those down, they ain’t yours.” Duck reaches for the two fruits, each clasped between a pair of clawed hands, only for Mothman to raise his arms.

“They are, in fact, mine. If you would stop trying to knock me over I can explain.”

“Uh uh, first you gotta put down Indrid’s things, then you can explain.”

The creature chirrs, annoyed, and points at its neck, “His things? Such as this key perhaps?”

Duck stops moving, staring at the key before rising his gaze to the mothmans face and meeting his eyes for the first time.

“What the fuck? Indrid, what the fuck?”

A sheepish chirp, “There was not a good way to tell you I am a famous cryptid. At least, I did not feel there was one. I was worried you would be afraid of me if you knew.”

“Feelin a little too confused to be afraid. Did, did I just grow a mothman garden instead of a butterfly garden?”

The laugh is unmistakably Indrid, “In a way. I was telling the truth when I said these were from my home, but my need for them went beyond homesickness. Every twenty five years, my kind are compelled to eat these. It is not fatal if we don’t, but we suffer a very unpleasant illness for several weeks if we do not. I resigned myself to that sickness until I began visiting these gardens, and saw there were people who might be able to help me. My own powers, including foresight, cannot replace a green thumb. Your green thumb went beyond anything I could ever have hoped for. This” he gestures to the trees with their glittering fruit, the flowers blooming in a rainbow of glowing star-shapes, “Duck I, I haven't seen a sight like this in close to a hundred years.”

Duck holds his breath as Indrid steps towards him, bending to rest his downy forehead against Ducks.

“Thank you, Duck Newton. Thank you for giving me a taste of home.”

The human reaches up to touch a black, fuzzy cheek, “Does this mean you gotta leave or somethin, now that I know your secret identity?”

“Not unless you are planning to tell everyone you’ve been acting as the Mothman’s personal gardener.”

“Nah, rather tell ‘em about the cute fella I’m takin to dinner tomorrow.”

Indrid blinks, “You...you do not find this alarming?”

“I mean, you’re big and a little terrifyin, but you’re still Indrid. And it means a lot that you actually stayed and told me who you were, instead of just flyin off.”

There’s a deep purr as Indrid says, “In that case, may I invite you to dinner at my house, Duck Newton? I can even share some of this strange harvest with you.”

Duck grins, drawing his fingers long Indrids arm, “That your way of tellin me they’re an aphrodisiac?”

Indrid nuzzles his cheek and pulls him close, “I guess we’ll find out.”

#indruck #promptober #indrid cold/duck newton #awkward flirting

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mcrmadness · 4 years ago

Text

Yaaass, it’s 8am and I just finished the pencil version of my new drawing project 8) I gotta say it turned out quite nice actually, wasn’t as hard project as the previous one but still very interesting one.

I also did some first finelining for the marker version - here’s a sneakpeek of that one! (The brush is there only for the eraser bits so I don’t smudge everything with my hand - tho also the brush collects lots of pencil dust so it makes paper darker. But it’s not as bad as having lines become smudged where they don’t need to.)

It looks very stupid and hilarious and crazy at this point XDDDDD Especially Farin lmao. But he looked like that in the pencil version’s sketch too and once I got all the shadows there, everything started to make sense, so I trust it to be the exact same way with this one too :D

More talk underneath the link.

And you might have noticed I haven’t drawn everything with the black - it’s because I now only did those lines that will have the black Promarker on either side and the ones with the pencil only are something that need much lighter color for the edges. I don’t have Micron fineliners in any other colors but black so I have to use the grey Promarkers for those lines and wish for the best - I didn’t start them yet because I should work while they are still wet in order to avoid too dark edges so I need to do those lines when I start acually working on this.

I own some Stabilo fineliners but I’m afraid of using those because they did smudge when erased when I was drawing my comics, and I don’t want anything to get smudged here in case I need to erase the pencil marks from under the grey Promarkers. Microns and Promarkers don’t get smudged with erasers, I mean. They maybe get slightly lighter in color, but that’s not a problem.

Anyhow, I’m feeling so excited for this. I already blabbered something yesterday here but I’ve never drawn a drawing like this with Promarkers and I wanna see if I can discover a new style of drawing for myself. And just want to challenge myself to see if I can draw like this! There’s already the pencil sketch but it’s much harder to save a drawing made with markers than with pencils. In a way pencils are so safe and markers feel like taking more risks. My hand was already very shaky here because I’m tired and hungry (and have been drawing for the past 6-7 hours already) so making those small lines like the mouths was, well, very risky :D Let’s just hope they will turn out good.

But I do also have my white gel pens. I always forget about them because I only recently bought them and haven’t used them much yet, just for correcting little things in my comics. But now I can also use those and I might actually use them as one tool too, because they work well on top of the black promarker too and surrounding small white areas is always difficult with such a big marker tip, so I could use the gel pens for that purpose too. Plus white areas (or anything bright) always look much better if they are done with something that is white. Highlights always look more like highlights when they are basically the top layer of everything. So, I’m also very excited for that - they looked REALLY good with the comics so I bet they look even better with this one! :D

Also it was a very good move from myself to draw the grid for both drawings. It seems to help me a lot because the whole time as I was drawing, my brain kept screaming that what I draw is WRONG and too SMALL or too BIG or too much or too less of this and that. It constantly looked so wrong to me but I trusted my grids and didn’t improvise, and it really paid off. And I think I’ve never been able to draw anything this well as I now did (you will see the pencil drawing later). So what did we learn? I should never trust my eyes too much, apparently :DD

Anyway, neither of these are nor will be perfect of course because I can’t do that, but at least I think I’ve again “outdone” myself and that’s all that counts. At least for me. I no longer compete against other artists skills. Only against my own.

#mcrmadness' art talk #(die ärzte)

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copias-thrall · 5 years ago

Text

Now What?

Our heroes thought they smoothed out the bumps to What They Were, but as it turns out, being in a relationship means *gulp* intimacy …

(Part 1; Part 2; Interlude 0)

You lean into the mirror—creating your favored doll eye—as the tinny noise of your Bitches Night Out playlist sounds from your phone. You and Mary are going out for some beers at O’Reilly’s since both of you have the night free and nothing to do the next day. Mary sits on the toilet seat going through your makeup bag. Every so often, he takes an item out, opens it, and does a smudge on the back of his hand.

You tsk at yourself when your hand wobbles and you fuck up a line. Mary looks up at you—then his eyes travel down to your derrière. You’re wearing your denim mini over thigh-length lace leggings, and it’s struggling to cover your ample ass, bent over as you are.

*public sex; dirty talk; brief homophobic language; consensual degradation; mentions of past emotional manipulation*

“Eyes up top, mister,” you say as you lick your finger to erase the wiggly bit under your eye. You already had to institute a “no-touching” rule, otherwise the two of you would never make it out of here. Mary loves the feel of you unrestricted though cotton—his band tees, hoodies, loungewear—and on any given night his roving hands are apt to start something. But you dressed up in what he calls your “fancy shit” seems to incite his lust on a very different level—so you wouldn’t put it past his roving eyes to spark something as well.

“You’re so hot when you want to be,” he says

You turn on the faucet to wet your hand, then flick it in Mary’s face. He sputters and ducks before he remembers he doesn’t care. He’s not in his stage cake, but he still wears a light dusting of white face powder and his skull accents. Instead of the blood dripping down his whole face, he has it tipping his forelock.

He grumps at you, but you just cackle. “I swear you’re half cat.”

“Whatever. Are you almost done? We’re gonna miss $5 Buds.”

“Yeah,” you say as you turn your head to-and-fro to assess the symmetry. “Just gotta put my lips on.” You hold out your hand for your makeup bag, but Mary hands you the burgundy tube.

“This one.”

“Mmm, isn’t this a little 90′s?”

His eyes sweep over you again and his hand indicates the NIN’s Downward Spiral shirt you’re wearing that you altered to tie in front.

“Aren’t you a little 90′s?”

“Point.” You take the tube and apply a dab on the center of each lip. Then you smear the color to each side with your finger. Through the mirror, your eyes linger on Mary’s plump lips filled in with a dull red instead of his usual black.

“Fuck, I’d kill for your lips.”

He mashes them together. “Is that why you’re always trying to bite them off?”

It’s true: you tend to fixate wholly on his lips sometimes when you’re making out. You give an exaggerated, dreamy sigh.

“They’re just so nice. Full, plump, well defined …”

“Weirdo.”

You shuffle over toward him and straddle his lap. Thumbing his bottom lip, you say, “I don’t usually hear you complaining.”

Mary leans back into the tank, his arms draping over it casually. “You’re breaking your own rule.”

Leaning in close you say, “I said you weren’t allowed to touch me.”

You slide a hand under his t-shirt—the skin of his torso warm and smooth—and tilt your head as if to kiss him. His eyes flutter shut, and that’s when you tilt your head back up.

“Hey, can we play?”

Mary’s eyes snap back open, and he lets out a sigh of exasperation.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”

You grab his jaw.

“Can. We. Play.”

His eyes cast down.

“I don’t know, Suey. I really don’t feel like spending the whole night wondering if my dick’s gonna explode.”

You pat his cheek. “That’s ok, Mare Bear. Thank you for telling me.”

He turns to nip at your palm. “Some other night, k?”

You lean back in and actually kiss him—a short and sweet thing.

“I was thinking about something else, anyway.” You thumb his lip again. “Wanna see your lips all full and puffy. Wanna paint them with my lip gloss—have you wear it all night.”

“Is that … it?”

“Well—you can’t wipe it off, and if it gets smudged, I reapply.”

“And what do I get?” he asks as he gives a small roll of his hips. “Thought I was gonna get lucky later anyway.”

You straighten up. “What you’ll get is knowing that you’re my very good boy and that you have pleased me very much.” You smooth at a blackened eyebrow of his. “Don’t you like it when you’ve followed the rules and done a good job?”

Mary’s eyes are round and his pupils dilated. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

“Mmm,” you hum as you lightly sweep your hand over his stiff hair. “So good already. What a good job you’ve done keeping your hands to yourself.”

His eyes shine, and he says, “It’s easy being good for you.”

Mary and his inexplicable softness.

“Yeah, well. Let’s get that lipstick on you.”

After gently wiping off his matte with a square of toilet paper, you rummage through your makeup bag for the ridiculous gloss you got as a sample with the purchase of something or other. It’s wet and shiny with a glittery sheen to it—and some kind of chemical that supposedly plumps your lips. The first and only time you’d worn it, your friend told you that it made your mouth look like a wet vagina. It makes Mary’s lips look like a delicacy you want to consume as an entrée at a ridiculously expensive French restaurant. With a white wine pairing or some shit.

He rubs them together experimentally. “Sticky.”

“Yeah, it’s not the kiss-proof kind, so don’t wipe at it.”

You admire you work for another beat, then have an idea.

“Wait—hold on …”

You reach for your phone, then start poking through the apps. He’s assessing his lips in one of your small compacts when you finally have your camera app ready.

“Uh …” he says.

“You have your porn, I have mine.”

“Whatever. I’m pretty sure my cum lips look better.”

You don’t really notice anyone on the street that looks twice at Mary—but then again, he’s in full demonsona, and most passersby try not to look directly at him. (Apparently he gets fewer freakouts when you’re on his arm, but that’s just because they don’t know I’m the one keeping you in line, Suey.)

It’s embarrassing the amount of ownership you feel over Mary when the two of you go anywhere—like he’s a feather in your cap and not your autonomous boyfriend. But there’s just something about having this dramatic boy—in his makeup and leather jacket—on your arm and deferring to you that makes you feel powerful. It doesn’t help that he enjoys playing the part of your attack dog, happy to wait patiently until you tap him in—but a lurking, menacing presence all the same.

Of course, O’Reilly’s is really Mary’s bar—a place he and his bandmates have been frequenting for years (even if it’s a place you’ve been known to hit up on a bar crawl or for late-night eats)—so the staff and regulars obviously don’t buy the dark & mysterious routine from a dude who once sang “Paradise City” shitfaced while trying to Coyote Ugly on the bar. It doesn’t stop them from acting like you have some sort of … control over him—which, ok: you do—now that’s it clear you’re pretty solidly in the picture.

The barstaurant is what Mary calls a “Pop” dive bar. It’s dim enough and cheap enough to attract the college kids and the punks, but it’s clean and serves decent food all night so that the yuppies flock there too. The regulars don’t think too much of the dynamic (and Mary’s known to get into drinking games with the finance guys), but that doesn’t mean there aren’t … clashes. The bouncers visibly eye roll with their entire bodies whenever they see Mary in line.

“Goore. It amazes me you haven’t been banned yet,” says ‘Bruiser’ (what Mary affectionately calls him—his real name is Rodney or something) as he haphazardly marks at X on the back of Mary’s hand.

“I’m pretty sure that’s because my friends and I single handedly keep this place afloat when there’s not a game.”

When you thrust out your hand, Bruiser hums at you, like you’re guilty by association (not that he’s wrong), and swipes at your hand too.

“You should be keeping him in line.”

You give him a wolfish smile. “Where’s the fun in that for me?”

Bruiser rubs his eyes.

“Just … try to stay out of trouble?”

Mary slings his arm heavily across your shoulders as you enter the bar, set upon his own claim. It’s not so much about keeping guys from approaching you (“I mean, they can try. It funny watching you turn them down.”) than it is a warning that anyone who starts shit with you will finish it with him (“Or maybe I just want to show off the pretty piece on my arm—ow, fuck”).

As the two of you make your way to the bar, a few people call out, and Mary tilts his head at them. “Thursday is the new Friday” is apparently in full swing here. It’s crowded enough that you two have to squeeze into an opening at the bar, but not so much that you can’t carve out a space for yourselves.

You order the two of you a round of shots and a lite beer as a chaser. Mary knocks the whiskey back like it’s sugar water while you push through the burn. You immediately take a swig of the beer; some of it dribbles down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. Mary tracks your movement.

“Oh—you want some?” you say licking your lips.

“Yeah.”

You crook your finger at him, and he leans down.

“Open.”

His glossy lips part, eyes fixed on yours. You bring up the beer bottle and carefully tip it into his mouth. He closes his lips around the mouth of it as you pour, but easily lets go when you incrementally pull it away. Some of the gloss comes away with it, so you tell Mary to hold up. You dig into your bra to produce the tube of gloss, then reapply to his lips.

“Disgusting,” comes a voice that startles the both of you out of your bubble. You turn to see a neckbeard in a hoodie scowling at the two of you. “You really going to let your bitch put that shit on you?”

Mary’s face darkens, and he straightens to much taller than his height.

“The fuck you just say?”

Mary lets a lot go—he’s a skinny goth boy who wears horrorface—but he hates it when men talk shit to you. Things that don’t even penetrate you seem to make his blood boil (“How can you not know this is just a thing?” “I did, I just … didn’t know how often it was a thing.”).

“You really gonna let some bitch dress you like a faggot?”

Mary tenses at the same time as you spit, “I’m sorry about your small penis.”

Neckbeard sputters at you, and Mary steps in front of you.

“Call my girl a bitch again and I’ll tear the veins out of your neck.”

“Fucking snowflake faggot, like you could.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“You’re ok with looking like a fairy?”

“The fae are fearsome creatures, so yeah.”

“Don’t be a fucking smartass, freak. You know what I meant”

“If you mean the colloquial meaning of ‘gay man’, then yeah—I am.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“I’ve found sex with men quite pleasant.”

“What the fuck, dude,” says Neckbeard, recoiling.

Out of nowhere, Bruiser materializes.

“Problem?”

At the same time as Neckbeard says Not at all, Mary is gearing up.

“Yeah. He’s harassing Suey and spouting homophobic language.”

Bruiser is—as it happens—a gay man, and his face darkens.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t tolerate that kind of hate speech here.”

“Don’t tell me they got you toeing the party line?”

“Management reserves the right to remove any patrons they feel contribute to an unsafe environment.”

Neckbeard sputters. “Y-you will let this, this freak stay here, and kick out a red-blooded man?”

“He’s a pain in the ass, but hardly a public menace.”

“I’m touched, Bruiser.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager. I want him to know what kind of Yelp review I’m going to leave.”

“Of course, sir. This way …”

Bruiser leads Neckbeard away. Mary gives him a thumbs up, but Bruiser just glowers at him.

You consider Mary.

“You like to fuck men?”

Mary looks at you, brows furrowed. “Well, yeah. I’m in a punk band.”

You squint at him. “What does that have to do …”

His features school. “You … you do know that we’ve all fucked each other?”

Oh.

You didn’t.

“That—that makes a lot more sense.”

No wonder his bandmates resent you. You took Mary from them.

“Is … that a problem?” says Mary, his face impassive.

“No,” you say quickly. “I just—didn’t know. I’ve never seen you make googly eyes at a dude.”

He crowds into your space, placing his hands on your waist.

“I don’t make eyes at anyone’s who’s not you.”

You burst out into laughing that turns into stifled giggles.

Mary scowls at you. “Don’t be a bitch. I’m being sincere.”

“No, it’s just … Mare—you’re the biggest flirt whoever made his family ridiculous. No, don’t shake your head at me—you are. I’m not the jealous type, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch you play up your Evil Lothario persona when it suits you.”

He grumbles non-verbally at you, then deflects.

“Don’t you fuck women?”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Um. No? Not really.”

He tilts his head at you. “Not really?”

You shrug. “I mean, college … but no. I’m not sexually attracted to women.”

“Well, damn,” he says as he runs his hand through your hair. “I guess there goes all my hopes of a threesome.”

You smirk at him. “Does it?”

He stills when he gets your meaning.

“What?” you ask.

“I … I can’t tell if I hate that idea or not.”

“A devil’s threesome?”

Mary shudders. “I’m equal parts repulsed and turned on by that.”

You lean away from him. “Ok, wait. You have orgies with your band, but you’re stymied by a threesome with another dude?”

“I’m gonna sound like an asshole, but it’s different with a random groupie.”

“How so?”

His eyebrows twist.

“That was just fun. I never cared for them. Not like …”

He runs a finger lightly down your face, and you shy away from it.

“Gross.”

Mary narrows his eyes at you, then grabs you by the hips to pull you into him.

“But: I’ll admit that the idea of watching some dick that’s not mine fuck you is … appealing.”

You feel the growing bulge in his jeans. He leans down to murmur into your ear.

“Fucking into your pussy, like he has the right.”

He hikes your one leg over his hip and presses his erection into your crotch. You make a pleased noise.

“Watching your face contort with the pleasure he gives you. Watching you moan as he makes you cum.”

He ruts into you, and you wonder if he can feel your growing wetness. He presses his nose into your neck.

“Fuck. That makes you hot, too. I can smell you.”

“Fuck, Mary.”

“God, what a little cock slut you’d be. Could I punish you after?”

You’re throbbing now between your legs, and you let out a soft moan.

“Yeah, you’d like that. Being punished for fucking a cock that wasn’t mine.”

You grind into him, and he slips a thigh further in between your legs, resting his foot on the rail under the bar. Immediately you grasp at him as you rock yourself back and forth on his thigh in little movements.

“How would you like to be punished? Should I take you over my knee?”

A thrill runs through you, and your back arches as you let out an Uhhn.

“Yeah,” Mary rumbles. “Take you over my knee and make sure to cherry that ass of yours.”

He reaches his hand around to press at you from behind, and the feeling goes straight to your clit. Your head lolls as your eye roll back. You’re sure some of the people in the crowd must be aware of what’s happening, but right now all thought is between your legs.

They’re welcome.

“Would you fuck me?” you breathe.

Mary growls. “Of course I’d fuck you. Gotta make you remember why you like my cock best. But only after I spanked you red. I’d want you to feel the sting every time I fucked into you.”

You rock hard into Mary’s thigh, and he pulsates the fingers pressing into you, ratcheting up your arousal.

“Oh god, Mary.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Cry out my name. You know who owns your pleasure.”

You’re riding his thigh hard, your movements no longer discreet. You know Mary’s hard, but he’s just looking down at you with hooded, intense eyes as his clever fingers manipulate you. You rub your clit forward into his thigh, then rock back onto his fingers—your hips circling sinuously. You’re terribly close to climaxing if you could just …. You grip hard at his arms as you speed up.

“Fuck, I want it. I want to cum.”

Mary’s other hand grips you harder, and he leans in so close you can feel his lips on the shell of your ear.

“I’d fuck your cunt hard to wipe away the feel of that other dick. Fill you up with my cum so you’d smell like me. I’d hold you down so I could cum into you again and again. Make you my cum dumpster. Would you like that? To have my jizz dripping down your thighs? So that everyone knew who you belonged to.”

“I’m such a slut! I don’t deserve it!” you gasp, your movements now jerky as you chase your orgasm.

“No you don’t,” he growls. “You’re so lucky to have my dick in you. If I could, I‘d always have you on my dick. That’s all you’re good for. Milking my cock. A fucking warm body. And you can’t even do that right. I should let that other dick have you, you worthless—”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cry out as the throb between your thighs crests, hovers, then pulsates through your cunt from front to back. You press down hard into Mary’s leg as your pussy spasms, mouth open and drooling.

“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. Ride it out.” He pets at your hair.

Once you’re done, you slump forward into his shoulder, panting, and Mary wraps an arm around your waist. He extracts his hand from under you and brings it to his face. He closes his eyes as he brings his fingers to his nose and inhales. Then he slides them down over his lips and tongue.

A throat clears.

Mary jerks around as you sluggishly raise your head. Bruiser is standing behind you two, eyebrows raised.

“You two are fucking nasty, you know that?

You just press further into Mary—mashing your face into his chest—not up to confrontation so soon after your orgasm.

“You think this is Amsterdam or some shit? Uh-huh. You need to get your asses out of here.”

You feel Mary shrug at him.

“What’s a guy to do when his girl’s this hot?”

“All right, love birds. C’mon.”

Mary grumpily readjusts himself as you ooze down to gather your things. Bruiser escorts you both out the back door and shakes his head, laughing, as he closes the door in your faces.

You press Mary into the alley wall and rub your tits on him.

“I thank you for the use of your shapely thigh, good sir,” you all but slur as you look up at him with a happy smile.

He licks his lips. “I can think of a better way to thank me.” He grabs your hand and guides it to the bulge in his jeans. You give it a squeeze and Mary growls in response.

“I swear to god if you’re going to tease me—”

“I’m not,” you say as you pet his dick, “but not right here. C’mere …”

You grab his hand, yanking him as he stumbles behind you. You lead him down another side alley and into an overflow backlot. A quick assessment has you saying Over there as you lead him to a walled corner with an SUV parked adjacently. He lets you maneuver him in between the car and the brick wall, his eyes predatory. You push him up against the wall with both hands, and he bounces a little; you press the line of your body into him and let your hands wander slowly down the plane of his torso.

You’re looking up at him, gaze full of intent, as your fingertips slip under the waistband of his jeans. His stomach contract as he inhales sharply. You’re just grazing the tip of his cock when Mary’s hand shoots up to your head.

“I want your mouth,” he rumbles as he applies a gentle pressure to your crown

You grin up at him as you sink down to a squat. “You have been a good boy.”

He lets out a Fuck and tips his head back into the wall. You reach up for his belt, but his fingers reach it first. “Put the lip gloss on, I want to see how it looks stretched around my cock.”

Mary fumbles with getting out his cock as you dig the gloss out of your bra. You hastily swipe the wand across your lips before shoving it back into your cleavage. Mary’s holding his dick at the base—it’s flushed and the tip is shiny with precum—but with his other hand he chucks you under the chin.

“You’re beautiful you know that.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re only saying that because I’m about to suck your cock.”

His grip tightens on your chin.

“And I’m going to ruin that pretty little face of yours.”

Then he pushes his dick into your mouth whether you’re ready or not—his hand slipping to the back of your head to keep you in place. Your own hand reaches out to steady yourself on his leg as he holds you like that. He lets out a sigh of relief, then his hand is gone.

“I want to watch you,” he says.

So you bob forward down the length of his shaft, then back up, trying to get him as wet as possible with your spit. You curl your free hand around the base to use in tandem with your mouth. When you reach his cockhead, you close your eyes as you suckle at it, twisting your lips around it as you tongue at his sweet spot.

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Fuck.”

You remove it from your mouth so you can tap the tip on your tongue. Mary lets out a breathy grunt, and you run your tongue around the ridge before lapping around his cockhead a few times.

“Uhn, yeah.”

You suck it down to the hilt in one swallow, and Mary gasps, his hand slamming into the wall. You deep throat him for a bob or two, then pull off with a sucking sound so you can take a breath, making sure to keep jacking him with your hand.

Mary lets out a half whine.

After repeating that combo a few times, you settle in to work at sucking him off for really reals. It’s a good thing it’s a tight fight in the corner, since you’re able to use the car to help redistribute your weight—you probably can’t squat for long.

Mary’s earlier guttural noises have turned into something high and breathy. If you could spare a hand, you could probably cum again just from the noises he’s making.

There’s a tense moment when you hear footsteps in the gravel and you freeze, Mary letting out a soft moan of frustration and his cock throbbing against your tongue. But then the steps get closer, and you feel him tense. He puts a hand on the side of your head—whether to shield you from view or keep you from popping off, who’s to say?

The sound finally does round the corner of the car, and your hand tightens on Mary’s thigh. He feels like a coiled spring. There's a clink of a belt that cuts off suddenly.

“Whoops … sorry,” slurs a male voice.

Then a pause.

“Girl, you ok?”

Mouth still full of Mary’s dick, you give a thumb’s up in the voice’s direction with the hand not occupied.

“Ah. Have fun.”

Then the footsteps stumble and recede, and you do pull off his dick. Mary spits out a Fuck and slams a fist into the wall.

“Stupid fucking drunk. I was enjoying that,” he says looking down at you.

You’re feeling the burn in your leg muscles, which are starting to tremble.

“Wait—just let me …” you say as you try to shift around to a better position. You’re about to fold your knees under you when Mary says, “Wait. The gravel.”

He shrugs out of his leather jacket and hands it down to you. You lay it down in front of you before kneeling on it.

“Why, Goore—you’re such a gentleman.”

His hand is behind your head again, tangling into your hair. “Shut up and suck my cock.”

You acquiesce, sinking back down and getting right to it. He’s by no means soft, but he’s not as hard as he was before the unfortunate interlude, so you deep throat him a couple times to coax the blood back in.

“Hhhghh, how are you so good at that.”

You hollow your cheeks for a long suck.

“Fuck.”

You start bobbing on him again when he says, “Look up at me.” You flick your eyes to him. “Yeah, just like that. Keep your eyes on me.” His own eyes are glazed and his mouth is parted. “Yeah, keep going. Faster.”

Speeding up, you try to keep the hand at his base in time with your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You bob faster on his cock, and you see Mary’s body tense, then release.

Tense.

Release.

He swallows audibly, the telltale stiffening obvious against your tongue, then he breathes out: “Keepyouhandgoing.” The grip in your hair tightens, and then he yanks you off his dick.

Your pace slightly stutters, but then you start jacking him as fast as you can as you squeeze your eyes shut. Almost immediately you’re hit in the face with the splash of his cum, and Mary makes this soft-moan thing in the back of his throat. He must really have been worked up, because he splatters across your face again and again. And again.

You ease up with your hand only when you hear him whine, but he just pushes your head forward as he presses back into your mouth, making a pleased rumble as he rubs against your tongue. He rocks into your mouth a little bit, and then the hold in your hair disappears and he withdrawals from your mouth. You feel him lean away from you and into the wall.

“Oh wow. Fuck,” he says laughing, then lets out a pleased hum.

You’re still kneeling on the ground, eyes closed and arms out for balance.

“Mare?”

“What? Oh—yeah, fuck. Hold on.”

There’s a rustling of clothes and a zipper, and then you sense him getting on his knees in front of you. He chuckles.

“Wow—I really got you everywhere.”

“Mary.”

“All right, all right,” he says still chuckling. “Um … ok.”

You feel what can only be his t-shirt wiping at your face. And your ear. And under your chin. And at your hair.

“Just a few more …” he says as you feel him wipe at your eyes with his thumb. “Ok … you’re a little smudgy, but—ok.”

When you open your eyes, he’s right in your face.

“You’re right—that lipstick is amazing,” he says, and then he kisses you hard and rough with an open mouth, his tongue going straight for your tonsils.

Despite being crunched between a car and a brick wall with the sharp gravel digging into your legs, you and Mary makeout sloppily with too much tongue and a lot of spit. His hands have found your face again and yours are braced on his chest.

The sudden noise of a car starting up and echoing off the wall has you both breaking apart.

“We should go,” you say.

“You think.”

It’s a little awkward to navigate in the cramped space, but you help each other up, your legs wobbling a bit. You hand Mary back his jacket, and he brushes off the detritus before donning it again. You notice that he keeps pulling the bottom of his shirt away from his stomach, and you laugh.

“Oh no! That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s fine. It’s only cold and wet. And sticky.”

You hold out your arms to him, and he perks up. When he’s in your arms, you make sure to rub and smush his shirt into his stomach.

“Oh my god you’re such a bitch.”

“I’m helping!”

“How is that helping?”

“It’s just like acclimating to the ocean—you just got to dunk under in one go,” you chirp at him.

“Next time I’m just gonna leave you looking like a bad bukkake.”

At some point Mary started rocking the two of you, and you squirm until he finally lets go. He sighs.

“All right. Let’s get you home.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and starts striding out of the parking lot. You skip after him and thread your arm through his.

“Really? The night’s still young!”

He gives you an incredulous look.

“Suey, you look like you just got face fucked in a parking lot.” He gives you an appraising look. “Actually, that’s kinda hot. On second thought, let’s go to Sixes & Sevens—”

“Where?”

“Mickey’s place. I have no problem with everyone knowing whose dick you just sucked. I’ll make them smell my fingers too.”

“Pig.”

“Hmm, maybe I should reup.”

He pushes you against a wall and puts his hand between your legs. His face contorts into a look of surprise.

“Fuck, you’re wet. Like … really wet.”

“Well, what did you think—”

“Fuck, are you still …”

Suddenly he’s pushing up your skirt and diving his hand into your panties. You gasp Oh my god when his finger slip-slides over your clit.

“How are you still so wet?”

You give him a sultry look.

“You know sucking your cock does it for me.”

He’s still fingering you, leaning into your space, when he says, “Maybe we should get a cab. I could be fucking you in 10 minutes. No drunks looking for a place to piss.”

With his clever fingers manipulating you, you have to admit the prospect is appealing. But …

“No,” you purr at him. “You’re going to get me off right now because it pleases me. Then we’re going to go get a little sloppy, and if you can keep your hands to yourself, you can fuck me that way you like when we get back to my place.”

Mary presses into you like it’s a reflex.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then it’s you and your hand, mister.”

His fingers go to work at you. They’re sloppy, artless—unlike his usual careful manipulation—but you’re already halfway there from the blow job and that, combined with him sucking bruises into your neck, has you mewling and pushing at him in no time. The pad of a finger suddenly presses hard onto your clit, and you make a wounded noise. It doesn’t leave, and you feel the direct pressure keenly. You start twitching and letting out small noises.

“Oh oh oh … Mary—oh god … Mary …”

He turns his head to kiss at the hinge of his jaw, but his finger just. Stays.

The pressure is all at once Way to Much and Not Enough, and you’re thrashing you head back and forth.

“Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary …”

You’re asking for mercy, but he’s granting you no clemency.

It’s a slow build to your orgasm, but you feel every second of it intensely. Your head tips back, and your nails scrabble at the wall as you moan Oh oh oh oh in time to the pulsating of your clit. You’re making these embarrassing high-pitched wounded noises as the throb between your legs worsens.

When you finally cum, it’s almost painful, and you grapple at Mary’s arms, sinking your nails into him. Your screams bounce off the walls around the two of you, and Mary covers your mouth with his to muffle you. You’re dimly aware that you just squirted everywhere, soaking your leggings, the fluid dripping down your legs.

You jerk when Mary runs a gentle circle around your over sensitive nub, and he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into him.

“I made a mess,” you say as Mary withdraws his hand. You meant for it to be funny, but once it comes out, it sounds small and your voice wavers.

Mary wipes his hand off on his jeans and brings his other arm around you.

“I guess we’re matched now—both covered in sex juice.”

The wetness on your legs is beginning to cool, and the droplets are beginning to settle into your socks. Suddenly the thought of going anywhere else other than home is unappealing. Cleaning some semen off your face in a bar bathroom is much different than dealing with soaked bottoms all night. You push away from him.

“You did that on purpose!” you say as you tug on your damp leggings.

“I—what?”

“If you really didn’t want to go back out, you just could have said!”

Mary’s looking at you helplessly.

“You asked me to get you off …”

“I can’t go anywhere like this, Mary!”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Are you really fucking mad at me because I made you cum too hard?”

“You knew what would happen!”

“Jesus fucking christ. There’s never any winning with you sometimes.”

You turn and start walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Yeah? You gonna walk the whole way?”

“Yep.” Maybe taking off your leggings will help. Except then your ass will be hanging out.

“Suey … that’s an hour’s walk. Let’s get a cab, ok?”

You spin on your heel.

“I’m all wet, Mary! I can’t sit in a cab. I’m disgusting.”

You turn back around and continue walking. After a bit, Mary catches up with you.

“Let’s get a cab, you can sit on my jacket.”

You look at him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well I’m … it’s …” you sputter.

“It was really hot. Fuck, I think I almost came in my pants.”

“But—”

“So I literally don’t give a fuck if you sit on my jacket.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t fight him either.

“Look, we’ll get a cab; you can change; and we can go to the bar down the street from you. Ok?”

You stop and look at him.

“Ok.”

He looks at you, then rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“You’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that?” He bundles you into an embrace. “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

You let him enfold you in his arms, but don’t hug him back.

“Probably the blow jobs,” you say into his chest.

He cradles the back of your head and you feel him smell your hair.

“Definitely one of the top 3 reasons.”

The two of you get a cab and—true to his word—Mary lays out his leather jacket for you to sit on. When you get back to your apartment, you make a beeline for your shower. You strip down to everything but your panties and leggings—those you’ll shower in.

The shower is amazing, and you relish in washing the night off your body. When you’re done, you hang the wet garments over the shower rod and wrap yourself in your robe.

You find Mary conked out on top of your covers in just his boxer briefs. One of his hands is on his chest and the other is sprawled across your bed; his mouth is open and there’s a little drool in one of the corners. You climb onto the bed and lie on top of him

“Huh, wha?” says Mary as he startles awake.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A hand rests on your back.

“Wasn’t sleeping.”

“Mmhm.”

“Just resting my eyes.”

“Mmm.”

He rubs your back a little before saying, “Should we get moving?”

“Can we just stay like this?”

A pause.

“Sure.”

You lay like that for awhile, feeling Mary’s chest rise and fall under you.

“M’sorry,” you mumble.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

“Yeah. I didn’t like that.”

You consider for a moment before saying, “My parents used to pull that shit on me.”

He breathes in. He breathes out.

“Which?”

“They’d—they’d give me permission to do something or whatever, and then they’d manipulate it so they got what they wanted anyway. Um, like one time I wanted to go to this concert? And they said I could if xyz, you know? I got the ticket and everything. All my friends were going. We had all these plans. And then like. The night before, my parents held up my English class roster. I had this paper due the next week and they asked me to show them my research notes. Obviously I didn’t have any research notes because I’d planned to spend that Sunday at the library. So they revoked their permission. Said I promised this concert wouldn’t interfere with my schoolwork, and obviously I hadn’t kept that promise. All my friends went to the concert that Friday and my parents drove me to the library. Said it was a lesson in responsibility.

“That’s just the one that really made me realize how fucked up they were. I know it sounds stupid—boo-hoo I missed a concert, but it's really the thousand little paper cuts like that. It’s about how stressful it was never knowing what I was actually allowed to do, and what was fake. Having to always go the extra mile and second guess myself. To do everything right and get tripped up on a technicality.

“One time I saved up to buy this dress to one of the proms I’d been asked to? And they knew that. They praised me for being fiscally responsible. I kept my grades up. I stayed on top of all my assignments and made sure all my chores were done. They helped me with a deposit to the group limo. And then a week before—you know, I didn’t even remember what bullshit reason they found. But they found something. And it’s like they knew I was going to go anyway, so they returned my dress and drove us out to grandma’s for the weekend.

“It kinda beat me into submission, you know? I just. Stopped doing things. Like, what was the point, right? The dance? The new movie? Game night? They always found a reason. And my friends? Just stopped inviting me out to things. They said my parents would just find a reason to block me anyway and that they were tired of working around it.

“So, I dunno. Tonight? It felt a little like that. Like you’d wanted to call it a night, and when I didn’t want to, you found a way to get what you wanted while pretending to give me what I wanted.”

Mary lightly scratches down your back through your robe.

“That sounds really fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they …?”

“They disowned me.”

Mary lifts his head.

“What? Why?”

“I—not tonight, ok?”

“K.”

The two of you lay like that, unspeaking, for a while. After a while you become aware of Mary’s hardness under you.

“Did you want to fuck?”

His hand stills.

“What?”

You squirm a little.

“I can feel you.”

“Suey. You’re laying on top of me. What did you expect? But no: I don’t want to fuck.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is kind of nice, actually. As it is.”

“Gross, but ok.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Whatever.”

Mary maneuvers his head until his mouth meets yours. He starts with your lips, then moves onto slipping you some tongue. You meet his kiss, gently tangling your tongue with his. He runs his hand through your hair, then rolls you onto your sides. His thigh slips between yours, but he doesn’t grind against you or anything. Still—his dick hasn’t seemed to get the memo. You slip your hand down to cup him, but May flinches and catches up your hand.

“Hey. I said it’s fine.”

“But you’re—”

“I said, no.”

You bury your head in his neck.

“Ok. But … do you really not want to, or is it something else?”

“Why do you think I’m some sexbot?

You bring your face to Mary’s and squish his between your hands.

“I don’t think that, Mary. It just seemed like—I dunno—you were falling on your sword or something.”

“Fuck, Suey. I don’t expect you to understand. You always seem ready to go. Like we could be having the worst fight, but if I took my dick out, you’d still drop to your knees and suck it.”

You flush at being read.

“But I don’t—I know my dick thinks it’s gonna get lucky because you’re so close, but I’m just not in the mood. If you want an orgasm, I’m happy to give you one—I’m always happy to make you cum—but I’d rather not myself, ok?”

You kiss his nose. “Ok, Mare Bear. But if you change your mind …”

“Noted.”

The two of you make out lazily. Mary’s hands slip into your robe and roam all over your body—a light caress here and a grabby handful there—but you keep yours at his face and in his hair. Soon, he has his face in your neck and his one hand is kneading at your breasts. Because he’s pressed close to you, you can feel the throb of his cock. His finger sweeps over a hardened nipple, and you moan at the sensation. Mary ruts into you, then whines.

You pet his head. “It’s ok, Mare. You can fuck me.”

“But I don’t want to want to fuck you. I should be fucking able to just lie here with you without fucking wanting it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Ok, but if I want it and you want it …?”

He tilts his head back. “Christ, you’re frustrating. Look—you were kinda right earlier. You wanted to go out, and instead it became all about where we could fuck. Is that all? Are we just strung together by times we’ve fucked and times we could be fucking?”

You consider his words.

“I don’t have many relationships, Mary. They kind of seem like a waste of time? And if I get horny, there’s always a bar full of guys to fuck. But, I dunno. You’re different. You don’t want things from me. I feel like I can just … exist with you.”

“I want a lot of things from you.”

You huff.

“You don’t want idealized things from me. I don’t know where you’ve gotten this idea that the only thing we’ve got in common is our genitals.”

“Don’t say genitals.”

“Our nethers.” Mary groans. “But I feel like in a pie chart of my life, there’s a big slice devoted to Mary Rants. About capitalism, about the patriarchy, about gender construct, about slow walkers—”

“Who are these people who have nowhere to go?!”

“—and another devoted to the plotline of the WWE wrestlers.”

“I won’t apologize for that. It’s dramatic as fuck AND there’s head bashing. Everyone who disses it is missing out on some serious soapy shit.”

“Such on brand Mary.”

He grumbles.

“Fine, ok. But—you’re like this vault, and I only have a lock pick.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” He presses an index finger to your forehead. “I know there’s gold in there. But I can’t get at it.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m ruminating,” you say.

“You and your 10¢ words.”

“I won’t apologize for my vocabulary.”

Mary pecks your lips. “Wasn’t asking you to.”

You sigh and snuggle—yes, ok snuggle—into him.

“I guess I take too much pride in being independent. And, I mean … I think we work because we’re both independent people looking for—I dunno—a partner to come home to, not someone who follows you around. But—I’ll try, Mary. To, I dunno—hand the gold bars out through a slot or whatever … it’s your stupid metaphor.”

“It’s a start.”

You blow a raspberry at him, and he retaliates by gently biting your tongue. When you squeal in consternation, he just sucks it into his mouth. You try to push away from him, but he just rolls on top of you and begins to blow raspberries into your neck

“How do you like it?” Thhpbt “How do you like it now?” Thhpbt “You think that shit is funny?” Thhpbt

You’re laughing and trying to push him off you, but he has you thoroughly pinned.

“Wait—no! Stop!” you beg in between giggles.

He buries his face between your tits and gives you the biggest one yet.

“I will fucking murder your face, Mary Goore!”

He looks up at you, eyes glinting boyishly. “You’d have to get free first.”

You start kicking with your legs, and he tries to keep you pinned—but you bring your knee up, and he flinches away preemptively.

“Don’t play dirty!” he exclaims as you take your advantage to roll back on top of him.

You lick his face and try not to cringe from the awful taste of the makeup on it. Mary makes a disgusted noise.

“Did you mean murder my face like a kitten? Seriously, fucking stop.”

Still ignoring the bitter taste of his makeup, you continue to lap at him. He grabs you by the hair and drags your mouth down to his. Him sucking your tongue into his mouth (“Ugh, is that what I taste like?!”) is initially a matter of defense, but it soon turns into a heated kiss. Mary’s gripping your hair and pressing up into you as his tongue pilfers your mouth. He wrenches your head back so he can kiss down your neck.

“What about now?” you gasp. “Can I take your cock now?”

“Ugh,” he huffs into your neck. “I hate it when you win.”

He rolls the two of you back onto your sides, and his hand travels down to your cunt. You’re by no means soaking, but the play fighting and subsequent kissing have made you wet enough. Mary thinks so too, and—after some fumbling with his underwear and your robe—his cock finds your hole and pushes in. He makes a sound of relief, as you gasp, and begins to slowly thrust in and out of you.

The position is a little awkward, even with your leg hoisted over him, and you say, “I can turn around if …?”

But he just draws you closer. “No, this is fine.”

His thrusts are slow and steady, him slowing you down every time you try to pick up the pace.

You whine. “Mare—”

“Shh—it can be good like this.”

He finds your mouth again, his one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your ass. You let him slowly fuck into you, your hand snaking down to play with your clit. It takes longer than when the two of you pound frenetically at each other, but soon enough Mary is stuttering and trembling with the need to cum.

“Are you close?” he mouths at you. “I want to cum with you.”

You squirm. “Mary …”

“Please …”

You suck his tongue into your mouth and start tapping quicker on your clit. You dredge up your favorite x-rated fantasy. All you need is …

“Faster—oh please, Mary …” you plead, breaking away from his mouth.

He presses you into him harder as he begins to thrust faster. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you will your orgasm to happen.

“Suey—this pace … I can’t …” whines Mary. He slows down a little, pumping into you with longer, deeper thrusts. You press into your clit, hard, and clench around him, loving the feeling of being filled, of having something pressing back against you.

“Oh my god,” hisses Mary, and then he slams suddenly into you. “Ughn,” he grunts out as he empties into you.

It’s actually enough to push you over, and your eyes roll back as you start to pulsate and spasm with the waves of your orgasm.

“Ah ah ah ah,” you punch out.

And then the two of you are clenching and grinding and grabbing at each other, mouths meeting and then smearing across faces and necks.

When it’s over, your leg is draped and hanging over his hip, his face is mashed into your shoulder, and your arms are wrapped around his head. You are both panting, hearts rabbiting.

“Fuck,” says Mary into your shoulder.

“Double fuck,” you say, and Mary huffs out a laugh. He raises his head to capture your mouth in a lazy kiss.

You’re both sticky with sweat, and it’s a messy business separating. Mary reaches out to you, but you’re already bouncing off the bed.

“No, why?” he whines as he makes grabby hands at you, but you’re already shrugging your robe back on.

“Do we have to go through this every time? I’m going to pee—I’ll be right back.”

You’re on the toilet when Mary wanders in—nude and soft cock bouncing.

“Mary,” you squeal as you cover yourself with your hands.

He squints at you. “What?”

“WHAT IF I WAS TAKING A SHIT?!”

“Are you taking a shit?”

“No, but—”

He turns the sink faucet on. “Then what’s the issue?”

“Fuck, leave some mystery!”

He grabs his Mary-designated washcloth and looks over at you as he runs it under the water.

“I don’t really want ‘the mystery’. I want the real thing.”

Mary begins to wipe in between his legs, and you turn your head away with a disgruntled noise.

“I don’t get what the big fucking deal is. I probably know what your, uh, vagina—”

“You can just say ‘cunt’, jesus christ, this isn’t health class.”

“—your cunt looks like better than you do. I’m up there enough. And earlier tonight you were covered in my jizz.”

“It’s-it’s—I don’t know! Kind of gross?”

“You peeing is grosser than semen?”

You press the palms of your hands into your eyes.

“Yes?”

The faucet shuts off. “Fine. I'll tell you what. You promised to be more open. So you can either finish peeing—don’t deny it I know I interrupted you midstream—

“Christ, Mary—”

“—or you can tell me one personal, intimate thing, and I’ll leave.”

You turn to glare at him. He’s standing with arms akimbo, modesty be damned. You keep his gaze as you unclench and finish peeing. He grins at you—a wide, fearsome thing.

“Ok, ok—get out. That’s all you get tonight, drive through.”

He leans over to kiss your head, and you make a mean lemon face at him.

When you get back into your room, Mary is in a fresh—well different—pair of boxer briefs and is straightening out your sheets. You hang up your robe and shimmy into the old tee of his that you’ve claimed as yours. When he turns and sees you, his eyes linger, but he doesn’t say anything.

You both climb into bed, and you allow him to big spoon you—with the understanding that the second he falls asleep you retain the right to extract yourself from him. He snuffles into your neck and sighs.

After awhile you say, “Sorry that that’s not the way I promised to let you fuck me.”

He huffs into you. “How do you know how I wanted to fuck you?”

"It was implied.”

“You said ‘that way I like’. I like the way we fucked just fine.”

“But I—”

“Hush. Let’s just go the fuck to sleep, ok?”

"Yeah, ok.”

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#mary goore #ofc #feral cats fic #ficlet #gritty girls #gutter punk #my writing

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riverboundao3ff · 4 years ago

Text

Riverbound, Chapter 20

Your name is MICAH, and ten nights have come and gone in what felt like a few hours.

It’s still early enough that even Lynera is still asleep in the next room over, which is really saying something because that girl is up at the asscrack of dusk no matter what night it is. You’re curled up on the sofa in the study, staring at a fungus-shaped nightlight that does a poor job of actually illuminating the surrounding area, and wondering what the hell you were going to tell your friends in the future.

Hey, guys! Sorry I kind of dropped off the grid for a while there. I fought this fucked-up version of one of my human friends, vanished into the literal void to take a nap because I was super tired from splitting a whole universe apart, and then traveled back to the past to help fight in a literal revolution… because I want to save my other friends, I guess? You don’t have to worry about that changing the future or whatever, I promise! I’m literally a god now, so I have total control over time and space.

Geez. You hope Vriska is ready to stop the others from kicking your ass.

Should you just go? You could easily spend the night on future Alternia and be back by breakfast. Teleporting still makes you a little nervous; the fear of messing up still lingers in the back of your head, but nothing bad has happened yet, so…

Yeah, you’re definitely not getting any more sleep. Might as well be productive.

You roll off the couch with a grunt, stagger a bit as all the blood rushes down to your legs, and then stumble over to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face. Maybe you were about to pull up to the future to get yelled at by a bunch of teenagers, maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you have to look like crap.

The person looking back at you in the mirror startles you more than you’d like to admit. Their eyes are tired but wild, like a feral animal that’s been hunted to the point of exhaustion. Too-pale skin reflects the ceiling lights with an intensity that hurts your head if you look for too long. The dark shadows underneath both eyes are so dark they look like smudged mascara. You’ve always been very fair, even for a white kid, but you know that looking like this can’t be healthy.

Then there’s the fact that you’re still pretty underweight. You’ve been doing your best to eat on a somewhat regular basis, but you just don’t feel hungry anymore. It’s like your body already decided to give up.

And to be honest, the rest of you isn’t too far behind.

“Look at you. Sans Undertale looking-ass,” you tell the shadow in the mirror.

The shadow blinks in agreement at the same time you do.

You can’t look at yourself anymore. Moving as quickly as you can, you brush your teeth and do your best to assemble yourself into what could maybe pass for a functional human being and leave to go get dressed.

You’re rifling through your backpack for your water bottle when the lights come on in Lynera’s room. The bedroom door cracks open, and a messy head of pair pokes out, bits of sopor slime still clinging to black curls.

“Micah? What are you doing up so early?” she yawns.

“I, ah, I gotta go visit some friends a ways out of town. I’ll be back in a bit,” you promise. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t! A new cluster of eggs is due to hatch tonight and I want to be there!” she practically sings as she gets ready.

You feel the sadness leave your body as Lynera practically prances around as she gets ready for her shift. It’s not often she lets down her walls, but when she does, you can’t help but take a step back to enjoy the show.

“Give those babies some love for me,” you tell her as you hoist your backpack over your shoulders.

“I will!”

Alright. Here we go. You close your eyes and visualize Vriska’s living room. That’s a good place to start, right? You’ll have a quick talk with Vriska, you’ll go visit your other friends one at a time to explain what’s going on, and then you can talk to those who are interested about helping the rebellion from the future.

Time and space part easily as you zap out of Lynera’s study and--

“-- worry about OH MY FUCKING GOD.”

You yelp in surprise as somebody shrieks at a deafening volume right next to your ear. Instincts take over, and you spring backward into something big and hard. That ‘something’ turns out to be a bookshelf, as you soon find out as a couple of novels fall from the top shelves and hit you right on the head.

“Ow! Shit!”

And that’s when you realize you have twelve young teenagers sitting around Vriska’s living room, all staring at you in various degrees of shock. Nepeta, Equius, Kanaya, and Sollux are all on the sofa, with Sollux perched on the backrest like he’s ready to take flight. Terezi and Vriska are standing on the coffee table together for some reason. Eridan’s curled up on the loveseat with one hand on his rifle. All of the others are sprawled out on the carpet.

All of the others except for Karkat, that is, who seems to have been returning from the kitchen with a pile of chips on his plate.

“Oh, hi!” Aradia says cheerfully. “Wow, I can see your bones--”

“THEY’RE BAAAAAAAACK!” Vriska hollers, launching herself off the coffee table and slamming into you at full speed.

The air is smooshed out of your lungs before you can brace yourself for impact. Thankfully, Vriska catches you before you can eat shit, otherwise you would have probably just teleported back to past Alternia and tried this whole thing again some other time.

“Hey, Vris,” you wheeze, patting her back. “Happy to see you too.”

“Fucking HELL, don’t do that,” Karkat yells, stomping over to the sofa and plopping down next to Kanaya. Kanaya purses her lips in mild amusement and delicately plucks a chip from his plate to eat.

Vriska just scoffs. “Don’t be a baby, Vantas, you know full well Micah can teleport--”

“Eat my full ass, Serket.”

“Hi, Micah!” Nepeta trills. A general murmur of greetings follows that, some more enthusiastic than others. Sollux, Equius, and Tavros all seem to be very on-edge tonight.

Feferi actually hops up to give you a hug as well, thankfully with a lot more care than Vriska had. It’s becoming weirdly normal to know that this big-ass six-sweep old girl could crush your skull like an eggshell.

“Don’t worry, nobody’s mad at you, I promise,” she whispers in your ear.

“Huh?”

Vriska grins and clasps your shoulder. “Oh, I already told them everything.”

“... Oh, boy.”

You turn back to the others and try your best winning smile.

“Yeah, what the fuck, dude?” Sollux demands.

“How are we even gonna exist with this kind of thing?” Karkat splutters, throwing his hands up in the air.

Tavros winces. “We get that you can do crazy space-time stuff, but--”

“You’re in way over your pan, retard!”

Ah, fuck. “Listen, guys, I know what I’m doing sounds pretty insane. And I’m sorry that I can’t tell you how exactly I’m going to pull all of this off because… you know, time shenanigans. But I need you guys to trust in me, at least for now. Also, Karkat, let’s not use that word. It’s extremely disrespectful.”

“Who are you, my lusus?” he challenges.

“No. Should I zap over and get him myself?”

“NO!”

“That’s what I thought.”

Vriska snickers under her breath. Karkat gives her a look that just screams murder.

Everybody else still looks a little queasy. Guilt rears its ugly head for the millionth time in the hour you’ve been awake, fearful and taunting and ashamed all at the same time. If you could just tell them everything, right now, you wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore.

Tell them.

You don’t, because you’re a coward, but you do try and calm everybody’s nerves again. “To elaborate on what Tavros just tried to say, yes, I can do crazy space-time stuff. Which means I can do stuff in one point in time and it won’t completely fuck up all the other points in time. It’ll change things, sure, but it won’t erase people.”

“What about our memories?” Eridan asks tersely.

“Definitely not,” you tell him. I won’t let that happen. “If everything goes according to plan, things will just start… changing.”

“We’re gonna make a new world that’s better for everybody!” Vriska announces proudly. “That’s why you guys are all here today.”

“By our human friend fighting in a rebellion that was already lost? Setting aside the fact that’s… treason… that also sounds rather dangerous. Micah, you aren’t a great fighter,” Equius says. His voice is quiet, but he’s so stiff you could probably use him to prop open a barn door.

“A rebellion is a lot more than just fighting, dude. So far I’ve just helped teleport people around,” you remind him.

“... Still.”

Nepeta suddenly surges to her feet, eyes blazing. “I don’t care that it’s treason! Don’t you care about what they did to me? My whole neighborhood got burned down in a drone strike!”

“Nepeta--”

“No! I remember everything now. I’m gonna help them win, ‘cause, ‘cause… even though we all had to suffer, the ones who come after us might not have to.”

Nobody speaks for many heartbeats after that. Something about what she said rings inside your head, sticking to your neurons like glue.

“See? Nepeta knows what’s good!” Terezi yells.

“This is insane.”

“Yeah, it’s awesome!”

“I’m in,” Aradia agrees, winking at you as she smooths her skirt down. Your anxiety backs down a little at her blatant support. Aradia Knows Things, right? Surely if she thinks you should keep doing what you’re doing…

“So am I,” Tavros announces, setting his jaw defiantly. Nepeta seems to have set off a chain reaction, because everybody else sits up a little straighter, eyeing each other as if daring anybody else to go first.

“And I,” Kanaya adds.

Karkat groans. “Fuck you guys. Fine! It’s not like we can play SGRUB anymore.”

“You guys are gonna die,” Sollux says, scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “We. Are. All. Gonna. Die.”

“So are you in?” you ask, reaching over to poke his arm.

He smacks your hand away. “Get fucked. Sure. Whatever.”

“Yay!”

Eridan huffs quietly and crosses his arms. “Well, you guys are gonna need somebody with power to help. And money. I’m in.”

Equius turns to stare at him with his jaw nearly on the floor, and you’re so full of pride you think you’re going to explode. You should have known your friends would eventually come around. And with not one, but two whole seadwellers on their side, they were truly going to be a force to be reckoned with.

“I knew it! I knew you cared!” Feferi squeals, jabbing a finger at her ex-moirail. Eridan curls up tighter on himself, but that doesn’t stop a small smile from lighting up his face.

“Is that a yes from you, Feferi?”

“It’s a hell yes, Micah!”

Gamzee smiles lazily from underneath the coffee table. “I told you motherfuckers. I told you a miracle was coming, and here it is.”

Poor Equius looks like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “I-I… you can’t possibly, I mean--”

“If you’ll excuse us!” Nepeta chirps, effortlessly pulling her moirail from the couch and slinging him over her muscular shoulders. The indigoblood yelps indignantly, but Nepeta just prances on upstairs as if she’s carrying a sack of potatoes and not a teenage boy nearly twice her size.

“What’s up with olivebloods and being insanely buff? I mean, my girlfriend’s taken on a jadeblood and a teal at the same time and she won,” you wonder.

Karkat immediately focuses on you with the intensity of a laser. “A girlfriend? You’re in a relationship?”

“Micah’s got a girlfriend!” Feferi yells, picking you up and twirling you around.

“What quadrant?”

“Is she cute?”

“An oliveblood, right-?”

“We wanna meet her!”

“Guys! Can we please focus on taking down the Empire? We can gossip about Micah’s love life later!” Vriska yells, clapping her hands for order.

You rest an elbow on Feferi’s shoulder, enjoying being tall for the moment as she’s carrying you. “Ooh! You got a mission plan, Vriska?”

“You bet your skinny alien ass I do!” She pauses for emphasis and puffs out her chest. “We’re gonna go beat up a bitch for using lowbloods as FLARP bait!”

“Didn’t you do the exact same thing not too long ago?” Karkat scoffs.

Vriska scowls down at him. “Yes! Yes, I did! But now I’m gonna turn things around and help them instead, okay? ‘Cause I’m changing my…. my toxic behavior.”

She looks to you for support, and you give her the thumbs-up.

The others actually look a little impressed, which gives her the courage to keep going. “In half an hour Terezi and I are going to meet this violetblood dude who’s been responsible for a lot of rust and bronze deaths in the area. It’s a FLARP session at sea, so he’ll have his team-- I mean hostages-- on board with him.”

“You need a team?” you ask.

“You offering?”

“Of course.”

“Yes! But no passing out on me! Our goal is to neutralize the threat, secure the hostages, and deliver them back to shore so they can go home. Any questions?”

“I’m coming too,” Eridan says. He hops to his feet, dusting off some invisible debris on his pants. “That’s not a question, though.”

“Can I come? It sounds exciting,” Aradia begs.

“Sure! Anybody else?” Vriska scans the crowd with a smirk, as if saying You are all too pussy for this kind of adventure.

Unfortunately, it works. Karkat and Feferi step forward as well, which brings the team total up to six. Everybody else gets ready to go home before the sun comes up. Out on the horizon, heat lightning crackles in the sky like a strobe ball. You end up leaving your jacket with your backpack on the couch, because even for somebody who has trouble retaining heat, Alternian summers are brutal.

Surprisingly, the team figures out their FLARP-ing shit quickly enough, as they all played at one point or the other. You still have no idea what to make out of all the numbers and stats and scores that come with each move, even though Vriska makes it all look like child’s play. Karkat keeps grumbling about “games for girls” which has your hackles up until you remember that female trolls tend to be more violent than the males. That makes sense to you, especially when you remember Remele beating the shit out of that purpleblood and all of Lynera’s knives.

In almost no time at all the six of you are sailing out to sea, the wind in your hair and the smell of salt water filling your nose. If you close your eyes and pretended, you could almost imagine you’re back on Earth, taking a boat ride with your mom’s boyfriend and your stepsister at the lakehouse--

A particularly large wave knocks you back on your ass, and the memory cuts off as quickly as it began.

“Fuck!” you hiss, trying to get your bearings. You try as hard as you can to visualize what you just remembered, but all you can recall is sunlight sparkling off water, the rumble of an engine, a man laughing and nearly choking on his beer as your tiny preteen self got knocked around by the rocking of the motorboat.

A strong hand picks you up by the arm and sets you on your feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Fef.” You pat her elbow. “Sometimes it’s rough being a little guy.”

Her eyes are round with sympathy. “Looks like it. That reminds me, I wanna ask your opinion on something really important.”

“Oh, okay!” Wow, the Heiress of Alternia is asking my opinion on something? Talk about friends in high places.

… Wait, what was I trying to remember?

“What do you think of the hemospectrum?”

You purse your lips. “Well, if that ain’t a loaded question I dunno what is.”

“I mean, you don’t have to answer, but…”

“You know what I think? I think that the hemospectrum could have been a really good thing. Those who live for quite some time, paving the way for those who won’t be here as long? Sounds great. But then it became about power and control. And-And I think that if-- that once we win, we can’t go back to that system. There’s just too much trauma that’s been birthed from it that’s affected literally every troll to have ever existed,” you explain.

Feferi considers that, and then she nods in agreement. “That makes sense.”

“Oh, shit, is it big brain hour?” Terezi calls from the wheel.

“It is!” Then you do a double-take. “Why is the blind girl driving?”

“Vriska’s getting dressed.”

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

“Forward.”

“Bruh.”

Karkat throws up for the fifth time over the side of the ship. You groan and stumble over to him to pat his back.

“You’ll get your sea legs soon,” you promise.

“I hate the ocean. Why does there need to be oceans. I never would have thought I would ever say this but by infant Troll Jegus do I miss Texas. It’s hot, it’s human-racist, but there is hardly any damn water and for that it’s easily one of the best places I’ve ever been,” he rasps.

You smile. “Wanna see Dave after this is over?”

“Yes, please. Strider’s bullshit is the only thing that can numb me to the pain of occupying the realm of mortals.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eridan smirk. You turn to look at him in confusion, and he makes the quadrant symbol for flushcrush: two thumbs pressed together over the center of his chest, where a troll’s heart would be.

Really? you mouth at him, delighted by this unexpected turn of events. He nods eagerly, clearly just as enthusiastic about Karkat getting a boyfriend as you are, but before you can sneak off with him to get the tea his gaze fixates on something past you.

You turn to see the small speck of what is undoubtedly another ship coming your way. A ship that is much bigger and fancier than the 8rigantine, at full sail and most likely armed to the teeth.

“He’s coming on our eleven!” Feferi calls up to Terezi.

“Go get Vriska,” the tealblood orders. Her perfectly white fangs flash in the light of the moons as she grins like a shark. “Time to kick this bitchboy’s ass!”

#riverbound #hiveswap friendsim trolls #hiveswap #mspa reader #c20 #the guardian #beta trolls #pesterquest #homestuck

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sparrowmoth · 4 years ago

Note

🌹 there's probably not much to say about me lol , but this is such a cute and sweet thing, so, like, some nerves aside, let's see what happens 💜

@annoyingmeviestan ♥♥♥ AU CONTRAIRE. I will begin by pointing out that it is extremely admirable that you’re always willing to take a risk and put yourself out there in spite of your anxiety. Believe me, I could never not appreciate how difficult that is to do because, as you know, I struggle with anxiety, too. It sucks (to put it mildly... very mildly), and it’s so easy to let it control your life and keep you from connecting with people. I know this because that’s been my own story for far too much of my life. And in many ways, it’s still my story. But all we can do is try, you know? And you should know that it speaks to an incredible strength of will to get up and keep trying, even knowing that there will be times your anxious doubts will be confirmed. It’s worth it for the times they aren’t. And it’s worth it to see what happens... because you’ll never know otherwise! ♥

Since we became mutuals, you’ve been nothing but exceptionally sweet, kind, and supportive toward me. You’ve made a huge effort to meet me halfway with regards to our varying preferences for staying in touch, and I hope you know I really appreciate that! Little things like that aren’t actually little at all in showing someone’s character. I notice and appreciate those things even if I don’t always mention it. The fact that you take the time to message and check in with me is another thing. It certainly does brighten my day, you should know. I don’t expect it at all, but I am very grateful for it. You have a big heart, and it shows in the way you act, not only towards me, but towards Spidey! (Yeah, I see you popping up in the comments with your cute little Malvie hearts). ;)

And of course... of course... it must be said that you’re an incredibly talented artist, and it’s wonderful to have someone to talk to about that kind of thing! You’ve contributed a lot of beautiful and wonderfully gay art to this fandom. I’m really looking forward to the art party we’re planning! I don’t know many fellow artists (I tend to be the “artist friend” haha), so it’s exciting to have someone to chat with and scream about human anatomy with lol. We artists gotta stick together, ‘cause really... who else is gonna know that exact pain you’re feeling when you accidentally smudge a line, lose your .PSD file, or erase a hole into your sketchbook? Haha. These are unique Artist Hell experiences.

Anyway, let me just end this by saying... you got a lot going for you, hun. Try not to be so hard on yourself. I know the brain chemicals have Opinions (believe me, my brain chemicals are a whole ass council of bitches haha), but just try to remember that you deserve to be proud of yourself for all you’ve accomplished in spite of that. And you deserve people in your life who show you the same kindness and warmth that you so freely offer. You’re not annoying. You’re passionate and that’s a beautiful thing. Those who can’t stand passion have none of their own. That’s their personal tragedy, because truly, nothing could make a person more beautiful and magnetic than pure, unbridled passion. The way it shines in someone’s eyes and spills into their words and stirs up this contagious cheerful energy? It’s not even something you have to understand to appreciate. It’s just inherently beautiful and, personally, I love to see it. ♥♥

mutuals send me a “🌹” and i’ll give you a compliment!*

*Inbox is still open for this, I just might take a couple days to respond. If you’ve sent me an ask before this point, I’ll definitely get back to you today though! ♥

#annoyingmeviestan #<3 #theaskbox #sparrow.txt #descendants fandom #and that concludes today's lovefest #honestly I feel so calm for the first time today #I just realized that #I was vibrating from anxiety due to stress all day #how do I just.... remain in this peaceful state of mind thx

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marypsue · 6 years ago

Text

things that didn't happen (here):

The portal that crackles open in the middle of the living room is a sickly, sinister red and somehow manages to look seconds away from collapse. Still, it hovers in midair long enough to spit out four people. It takes a moment to recognise most of them; Beth's shaved her head to the scalp, a smudge of something black smeared across both eyes and the bridge of her nose, Jerry's musclebound and sporting an extremely ill-advised moustache, Summer - well, Summer looks pretty much the same, just a little more tattered and a lot more comfortable with that pump-action shotgun she's holding.

"We're here for Titanic on Blu-ray," she says, giving it a pump, "and we're not leaving without it."

The full story comes out over dinner. After being abandoned in a dimension where every other living human had been mutated into Cronenbergian genetic freaks, they'd realised a few things: Beth and Jerry's marriage works best under outside stress from something they can punch; popularity doesn't mean much to Summer when the only people around to get it from are people she doesn't want to impress; and, they were living out their own personal I Am Legend.

"Like, the book," Wasteland Weekend Summer explains. "Not, like, the one with Will Smith."

"Wait, you - you actually read that?" Morty asks. "I - I - I thought the only things you read were Buzzfeed personality quizzes."

Summer shoots him a glare, and Wasteland Weekend Summer puts one hand threateningly on the shotgun leaned against her chair, but the other Beth just says "Summer, no deadly weaponry at the table," without looking up from her mashed potatoes. Both Summers huff out a sigh and fold their arms over their chests.

"Whatever," they say, in eerie unison, and then stare at each other like they've just walked into a fancy party and seen the other wearing the same dress.

"I...don't recall the plot of that one," Jerry says, casting a nervous glance at the person seated beside him.

"It doesn't matter," Wasteland Weekend Summer sighs. "The point was, like, the Cronenbergs are still people."

"Well," the other Beth says, delicately. "Most of them."

"We may have eaten a few before we figured that one out," buff Jerry admits. "And by 'may have', I mean 'definitely'." He shoots a defensive glare around the table. "Like I keep saying, it's not cannibalism if you have a completely different genetic makeup!"

"And like I keep telling you, Dad, that's not how genetics work," Wasteland Weekend Summer mutters, rolling her eyes. "Anyway. It didn't take all that long before we went, like, wait. Who're the real monsters here?"

The lump of misshapen flesh everyone's been trying to avoid eye contact with pulses in agreement, spattering Jerry with some kind of viscous, greenish fluid. He wipes it off with his napkin, shifting his chair away from its seat as surreptitiously as he can manage, which isn't very.

"Yeah, it's been weird, but once you get used to everyone being some kind of body horror abomination, nothing's really all that different?" the body horror abomination says, in a voice that's surprisingly normal - and familiar. "I actually kind of like things this way. I mean, now that everybody's equally disturbing-looking, at least I know people are actually interested in me as a person, not just because I've got the right flesh-lumps in the right places. Did you even know I was an honour student? Or that I was interested in astrophysics?"

It's hard to tell, since it doesn't exactly have a face, but it sure looks like its stalk-eye is looking pointedly at Morty.

In the end, the wastelanders leave with Jerry's special edition Titanic box set and a Blu-ray player that Wasteland Weekend Summer and Cronenjessica agree they can probably rig up to use solar power. They're gone before anybody remembers to ask if they've got a TV set.

"Oh, shit," the redhead says, looking from Rick to Morty and back again. "Not you two."

"O-oh, you've, uh, you've heard of us," Morty stammers. "M-maybe you've heard about all those times we, uh, we saved an entire galaxy, o-or..." He stops, trying very hard not to look like he's staring. "Uh, what...what're you -"

"Taking my top off," the redhead says, a little muffled by the fabric she's pulling over her head.

"That much was obvious," Rick says, not sounding at all impressed. Morty can't say he can relate.

"Look," the redhead says, shaking out her hair and tying the shirt around her waist, "you two have a ridiculously high body count when it comes to random innocent bystanders. But hot girls usually manage to escape with only major psychological trauma. Especially if they're redheads." She gives her hair a fluff with both hands and then adjusts her bra. It's lacy, and pink. It looks satiny. "So my best bet for surviving the next twenty-two minutes is to get sexy and let the fourteen-year-old think he's got a shot."

"Aww," Morty sighs, deflating, and the redhead gives him a pitying smile.

"Hey, you've still got the next twenty-two minutes to convince me!"

She starts to turn, and suddenly freezes in place, her eyes half-closed, caught mid-blink with an extremely dopey look on her face. There's a faint, electric-blue aura clinging to her, and when Morty tries to touch it, he gets a zap, like a static shock but longer.

"Come on," Rick says, tucking some weird sci-fi pistol back into his coat. "Befouuurp that wears off."

"Aw geez, Rick! What - what'd you do that for!?" Morty protests, waving both arms in the redhead's direction. Now that she's frozen mid-bounce, it's painfully apparent what Morty's missing out on.

"Because she's a - a - a pain in the ass, Morty! A big - big genre-savvy buzzkill! Did you actually want that tagging along with us?"

"Well, no, okay," Morty admits, with a last, longing look at her bra, so close and yet so completely out of reach. "But -"

"You - you - you didn't actually think she was ever going to fuck you?"

"No, but - but she was gonna act like she was!" Morty yells, hurrying after Rick. "Twenty-two minutes! Rick! You - you just cheated me out of twenty-two minutes of real-life, in-your-face, 3D toplessness here!"

"You know Mom used to say that whenever she was mad at me about something? 'Bethany Ann Sanchez, you are your father's daughter'." Beth breathes out a laugh and shakes her head. "And she wondered why I moved out as soon as I turned sixteen."

"Wow, you sure - sure showed her," her dad says, with what seems like unnecessary sarcasm, not taking his eyes off the TV set.

Beth laughs again, because she's not sure what else there is to do.

"Look. I loved my mom. But - she was right. We were never going to coexist peacefully under one roof." She taps her pencil against the page of the crossword she's working on, takes a breath in. "I'm just too much like - well, like you."

The words fall onto what passes for a conversation like a couple of atom bombs on an unsuspecting atoll. Beth turns all her attention to her crossword to avoid counting the seconds of silence. Possibly no crossword square has ever been filled in with such careful deliberation.

Just great. Really genius, actually. Her long-lost father finally deigns to spend a little time in her company, and she has to go get her feelings all over it like some stupid - teenage -

"You kept my last name," her dad says, weirdly flat, and Beth breathes out. Okay. She can pretend that it didn't just happen.

"Well, it is on my birth certificate," she says, scribbling down 'EAVES'. "And not every high schooler can truthfully say they share a name with an intergalactic rock star."

For a minute or so, the silence is just silence, filled with the friendly nonsense noise of the TV. It's even, Beth dares to hope, a companionable silence.

Then her dad breaks it with an enormous belch. "If you're really so - so m-much like me, then I gotta wonder why you still - why you haven't dumped the chump yet."

"Dad," Beth sighs.

"Look, life is short and meaningless. I know that maybe - maybe better than anybody. You gotta - you gotta wring everything you can out of it before it's gone, because it - that'll happen sooner than you think."

"Well, that's cheerful," Beth says, turning over her pencil and furiously erasing 'NIETZSCHE'. "Listen, Dad, I really appreciate the advice, but -"

"The universe isn't fair, Beth. It isn't handing out favours to - to nice girls who wait in line." Her dad finally turns away from the TV to look at her, and Beth sets the crossword down on the end table. "If you aren't smart enough to have figured that one out yet, then you - then maybe you and Jerry really do deserve each other."

Beth takes another deep breath, lets it out through her nose, slow. Suddenly, absurdly, thinks of her mother.

"Dad," she says, like it's some kind of charm that will keep his attention until she's finished. "I've always looked up to you. Maybe even idolised you a little, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's a perfectly normal -"

She stops herself, twists the pencil in her hands. It feels like she's trying to choose each word, carefully, from a set of fridge magnet poetry that doesn't have anywhere near the words she needs to say what she wants to say.

"I saw the mistakes you and Mom made," Beth says, finally, deliberately. "I don't want to make the same ones. I have people in my life I care about. It's important to me to try for them."

"Oh yeah, how's that one wouurrpking out for you?" her dad asks, that deadpan sarcasm again, turning back to the TV.

Beth chews the inside of her lip.

"I didn't say it wasn't a mistake," she admits, finally. "Just not the same mistake. At least my kids won't hate me for abandoning them."

"Nope," her dad says, flat and casual, like he's completely unaffected, not looking at Beth as he pushes himself up off the couch. The tinny sound of a commercial jingle gives his next words a weirdly jaunty air. "Lucky you, they hate you for a - a whole different set of reasons."

The sharpened end of her pencil isn't even, Beth realises. There's much more graphite visible on one side of the point, while the other is almost completely wood.

"At least you - you - you proved your mom wrong," her dad says, as he heads into the kitchen. He doesn't so much as glance behind him.

Maybe it's terrible. Maybe it's just one more sign of how she's broken as a person. But Beth can't help the little smile that forces itself onto her face.

"Yeah," she says, quietly, picking her crossword back up. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Jerry shoves the door open, flips the lightswitch - and nothing happens.

It's the last straw. It's been the last straw for a while now. First losing his job, then the divorce, and everything that came with it. This shitty motel, his own shitty cooking, the misery wolves, the overwhelming, debilitating loneliness, the mold, the bed bugs...and now this.

Jerry’s running out of last straws.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he yells, into the empty, hollow darkness. “Is this some kind of - of sick fucking joke? Have I not suffered enough? What, was I some kind of evil dictator in a past life? Does somebody up there just hate me? What did I ever do to deserve this? What do you want from me?”

“Your help, Jerry Smith,” a voice says from somewhere inside the darkness of the motel room.

“Holy shit!” Jerry yells, backpedaling out of the room and slamming the door. He stares at it, breathing hard, like it’ll suddenly come to life and try to eat his face. Hey, stranger - and worse - things have happened. To him. Recently.

He’s just starting to catch his breath, his heart rate gradually ticking back down to normal, when he hears it. A shadow falls across the door as, behind him, out past the balcony, there’s a swoosh and a thunderclap boom, like an enormous bird beating its wings.

Jerry stares at the number on the motel door for what feels like an eternity, frozen in place. He’s never noticed before that two of the digits are black-painted metal, but the middle one is clearly just painted right onto the wood where the metal number clearly fell off. There are still holes from the screws. What a piece of shit motel.

“Don’t be scared,” that same voice from inside the motel room says, behind him. Jerry wishes he knew how she’d gotten behind him. He also wishes he could remember where he knows that voice from. “I don’t want to hurt you. Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to help you.”

“I thought you needed my help,” Jerry manages. His feet don’t want to turn him around. He makes them do it anyway.

The person - people, technically, though Jerry isn’t sure how much the term applies to somebody who’s more robot bird than person - standing behind him on the balcony is the last person he’s ever have expected to see.

“Aren’t you that friend of Summer’s?” he asks, and the slight brunette’s eyes narrow. “We went to your wedding, you married some alien - wait. No. You’re -”

The brunette smiles. It is not a very nice smile.

“I think we might be able to help each other,” Tammy says, folding her arms and leaning back against the railing her robot bird husband is perched on. Was he a robot the last time Jerry saw him? Jerry doesn’t think so, but he’d had a few more important things on his mind at the time.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jerry says, pressing his back flat against the motel room door. “Last time I had anything to do with you, I ended up stranded on a planet smaller than this motel suite.”

“Oh yeah. That. No hard feelings,” Tammy says, examining her nails. “It wasn’t anything personal.”

“Nothing personal? You turned my entire family into intergalactic fugitives!”

“No I didn’t,” Tammy says. “I think you know who did.”

Jerry opens his mouth, and then shuts it, slowly.

“I’m listening,” he says.

Tammy gives him a thoughtful look. The red glow from her robot bird husband’s one eye is casting some very sinister shadows on her face.

“We’ve got more in common than you realise,” she says. “I lost everything when the Federation collapsed. You lost everything after your divorce. And you and I both know the same person was responsible for both.”

“Wait, how do you know about that? And for that matter, how did you know where to find me?” Jerry looks around the balcony. There aren’t any signs saying “Hidden Camera Here” or anything that have sprung up in the last three minutes, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Can you please try to focus here,” Tammy snaps. “Rick Sanchez ruined both of our lives. I want the same thing you want.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Jerry says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And what’s that?”

Tammy smiles that smile again. It’s no nicer than it was the first time.

“Vengeance,” she says.

- and something that did:

“Just stand in the middle of the room, don’t move, don’t breathe, and don’t fucking touch anything,” Morty’s grandpa says, turning his back to rummage through a metal cabinet under the counter.

Jessica turns a slow circle, taking in the garage, strange devices stuffed onto Ikea shelves and hanging next to the weedwhacker.

“I think I’ve been out here once before?” she says. “Somebody threw a party. There were either some really good drugs going around, or aliens were there.” She locks eyes on a glowing blue orb stacked behind a bottle of ant killer and a jug of antifreeze, decides the prohibition against touching is probably a good idea. "If everything you just told me is true, then I'm going to say maybe both?"

“Whatever helps - uurp - you sleep at night,” Morty’s grandpa says. “Thought I told you not to breathe.”

Jessica looks over at him, decides that he’s not joking. She actually does hold her breath for a second before realising just how stupid that is and letting it go.

“There was a galaxy,” she says, slowly, as more memories arrive in bits and pieces. She’d ended up drinking to forget that night. And possibly got her memory wiped, if there really were aliens involved. “A hologram galaxy? Morty brought me out here to show me.” She hugs her own arms, making eye contact with the blinking red light on something that looks like the love child of the Terminator and a sewing machine. “It was beautiful. Almost like really being up there.”

“Yeah, hold that - hold that thought, you can use that,” Morty’s grandpa says, dropping an armful of beeping and whirring machinery on the counter. “And give me your phone.”

Jessica hands it over, with no small amount of trepidation. Morty’s grandpa gives first her ombre teal phone case with its calligraphic-script motto Ad astra per aspera!, then her, a flat, sarcastic look. Jessica crosses her arms over her chest and returns it.

In the end, the phone case passes without comment. Morty’s grandpa just plugs something flat and silver into the bottom of it, dials Morty’s number, and then hands the phone to Jessica as it’s ringing. She takes it, holds it to her ear, listening to the rings.

“You - you gotta keep him on the line for at least thirty seconds,” Morty’s grandpa says, pulling out a silver box that matches the thing he plugged into Jessica’s phone and flipping up a screen.

Jessica nods.

“Is - is he going to be all right?” she asks, the phone still ringing in her ear. “I mean, I barely know him, but -”

Morty’s grandpa shrugs, just as there’s a click on the other end of the line.

#rick and morty #this is mary's fic tag #*man gesturing to butterfly* is this a fix-it fic?#I'm aware that s3 did a 'jerry revenge arc' episode but dammit I thought of it first

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magma-paint · 6 years ago

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Tutorial Tuesdays--Getting Started

Tutorial Tuesdays is a new block on my blog in which I give art advice and tutorials for anyone looking to improve their art. But before we get into the good stuff, a quick obligatory background.

I know it’s tempting to look at my art and the art of people you look up to and come to the conclusion you’ll never get to that level no matter how hard you try, but it is possible to get to that level. You just gotta practice regularly and before you know it you’ll have it down-pat.

These posts will be pretty long, so to save Dashboard space, I’ll put the meat of things under a Keep Reading link so you can visit them in full. Alright, with that out of the way, are ya ready kids? Let’s go get some art tools!

I only say this because I’ve seen people make fantastic things with very limited materials and people with some of the finest tools but don’t use them to their full capacity. Again, it’s not what you use, but how you use it. When I talk about art tools, I’m mostly going off of what I use since those are the tools I’ve worked with a lot.

Pencils. Your most basic writing and drawing tool. For sketching and drawing, I use a 0.7 mm mechanical pencil with a good eraser. It’s quick, it’s convenient, and I often stick it in my ponytail when I’m not using it so I have easy access to it. They’re also pretty cheap. For commissions and grayscale shading, I use drawing pencils that come in various hardnesses. The hardness of your pencil will be noted by a number and a letter. A pencil with an H stamped on it will be harder, won’t smudge very easily, and has a very light load when the graphite is on the paper. A pencil stamped with a B will be softer, smudges very easily, and has a darker streak on the paper. The number on the pencil following the letter lets you know how hard or soft it is (4H is a very hard pencil, 8B is a very soft pencil). Your typical No. 2 pencils from school are in the HB category, which is middle of the road. You can find them individually at art stores or in packs. Walmart in my town offers a package of 6 drawing pencils bundled with two animation colored pencils, two markers, and an eraser for about $9. Pretty good deal. Speaking of...

Erasers. A pink rubber eraser will do you just fine, though make sure your pencil has a nice one on it for finer details and while you’re drawing. You can use a kneadable eraser if you have one, they’re squishy, you can mold them to how you see fit and they don’t leave any crumbs to clean up, but I’m not quite fond of them.

Markers and ink pens. Let me tell you, once you use a pen like one of these, you’ll never go back to ballpoint, which often has far too many broken lines to be practical to use and make your lineart look like trash. I use a Fine Tip Sharpie Pen, preferably in the no-bleed variety so the lineart doesn’t sink into the opposite side of the page. Recently I’ve been using Brush and Bullet tip Prismacolor Scholar markers for comics and good drawings. They’re a bit erratic to use at first, but it takes practice.

Colored pencils. Now these are my go-to for coloring since they give a wide range of color, combinations, and effects. For best results, I stick with Crayola or Cra-Z Art since the color tend to remain consistent from box to box and you can get a big box of them for a pretty good price. Prismacolors would be nice, but they’re pretty expensive and I don’t quite like the feel.

Sharpeners. Electric ones you can just keep at home, but for on the go I recommend a small manual one you can throw in your bag. Bonus if you get one that has a shavings catch so you don’t have shavings making a mess of your space.

Ruler/straight edge. You’ll want one of these for comic panels, perspective guidelines, and, well, straight lines, though in some cases you might want to practice making straight lines without the use of it. I use a metal one, but a plastic will do you good as well.

And now, the most important thing of all, your drawing canvas!

For starters, I recommend you get yourself a good sketchbook. Nothing too fancy, just one of those spiral-bound ones ideal for sketching. For your really good art, copy paper will work just fine. Really any kind of paper (or even cardboard!) will work but I implore you to avoid using loose-leaf notebook paper. I cannot tell you how much it hurts to see something so beautifully drawn wasted on lined paper. Not saying you can’t doodle in your notebook and show off something silly you sketched, but if you’d count a drawing as your magnum opus, your drawing probably deserved being on blank paper where it can shine.

I was considering making this an entry for Digital Art tutorials, but I’ll put these here just in case.

I do a lot of digital art using my HP laptop built with a touch screen. It can’t stream for sh1t but it runs single player Steam games alright and I use it for homework a lot. Before this, I had a desktop computer and used a mouse. I would like to own a Wacom tablet in the future, but until then this setup is nice enough. Remember, it’s about how you use your tools, not the quality of tools at your disposal.

Now this is a scanner that’s used only for pictures/documents. You can’t print or fax anything with it, but it’s good for just pictures. I own an HP printer/scanner combo, but it is pretty finicky and no longer prints. Alternately, you can just use your cell-phone camera to take pictures of your finished piece, but I do not recommend doing so for comics unless you’re giving previews of one panel.

For my programs, these are the three that I use:

Good for doodles, already on your computer (probably), and I use this program to make authentic looking Homestuck drawings (like, you could mistake it for being an actual panel in Homestuck).

My primary art program. Operates much like Paint Tool SAI and photoshop. Very good for general art and comics.

Still learning this one, but it’s just like Medibang and is equipped with tools for animation.

And yes, these three programs are downloadable for free. I do want to try out Clip Studio Paint EX, but the cheapest I can get it is $80 when it goes on sale during the holidays. Normally, it costs $250.

Next time, we go over some drawing basics and some tips that will save your sanity while sketching. Stay tuned!

#tutorial tuesdays #art tutorials and refs #sh1t magma-paint does #getting started #art supplies #art software

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metazensae · 7 years ago

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HELLO SOMEONE ASKED FOR A TUTORIAL ON MY STYLE SO...

Here we go?

Honestly, I don’t think I do anything special???? So to be asked this was both REALLY SURPRISING and SUPER FLATTERING! I’ll just go through the steps, so you can see what goes into a more refined drawing.

First of all, I don’t use SPECIAL material at all. I’m talking mechanical pencils and regular 3x5 index cards. I like mechanical pencils because the point stays sharp and I hate pencil shavings... and I use index cards because 1) we have a huge box of them from when my husband was doing animation story boarding and 2) I find the weight of cardstock pretty forgiving when it comes to how much I typically abuse thinner sketch paper so...

This is my daily arsenal.

Ok, I guess my pencil is kinda special?? It has some sort of pressure thing where the lead doesn’t break as easily, but you can get it from Amazon. For the other stuff, I use a white eraser and 0.5 B lead. I know there are different values for lead (2B, B, whatever) but honestly, I’m poor and SUPER LAZY, so this is what we’re working with.

So, for this, I’m going to be using the drawing I did for @winsbuck‘s Ciel. I’ll just take you through the basic steps I go through. This particular drawing was a half body portrait, which is a pose I do regularly, so I didn’t really need to sketch out anything dynamic here.

I pulled up refs of Ciel so I could get the details right, but I basically went STRAIGHT for the line art, as you can see...

After that, I started working on shading. Because this is traditional and my style is ME S S Y, I try to work from top to bottom to avoid getting lead all over my hand. Of course, the index card is still pretty small, so I can turn it as needed, but I was a DUMB who did not do that for this particular drawing, so it was a M E S S.

Anyway, I just hatched in some light shading, which I’m calling level 1 shading here.

Nothing special. We’re just filling in the large areas that will get shaded. The skin is particularly important for me, so I focus on that primarily. I also leave the parts that should be highlighted bare. I’ll let my blending fill those in instead of putting hatching there. I like to keep the areas with similar values together so I don’t forget how heavy my hand should be at any one moment.

OK BLENDING TIME

Again, I’m CHEAP, and I don’t own any blending stumps at this moment, so I pulled out the q-tips/cotton swabs for this. Get a clean one for stuff you wanna keep light (the cotton will actually take the lead off the paper and lighten areas) and use dirtier ones (the cotton is now too saturated to steal from you, so it smears easier now) for darker areas.

And WE BLEND!

Looking good already! Notice the highlighted parts? ALSO NOTICE SOMETHING ELSE REALLY IMPORTANT - the lines & details (nose and mouth in particular) in the blended areas are now much lighter. Don’t worry about fixing this yet. We gotta keep layering and blending, so we leave those details for last.

Ok bc I work top to bottom, I wanted to finish his hair. So I went in with darker values next.

And then added some light shading on the lower half

BLEND AGAIN, BUDDY!!!!!

Ciel’s shirt is a light brown color, so I didn’t actually push a pencil across most of the space. I just used the dirty q-tip to keep it soft and light. A cleaner one would have kept the shirt more WHITE.

I wanted to go in and reassert where the highlights were, so I put my eraser to work!

Blend the edges of those badboys out too. Use a clean boy for it tho. You don’t wanna accidentally darken your HIGHLIGHTS with smudges.

I forgot to take a picture right after the blend, but I also went in and added darker values to the vest and some shadows on the body and such.

After that, layer values to get those GOOD SHADOWS and blend as needed.

When you’re satisfied with all the values and blending? Now, we can go back and fix those lines that got smudged in the first blending stage. Go back in and finalize the lines on the face especially, and if you like hard edges like I do, fix up that line art.

DO NOT. BLEND.

Remember to sign it, because thieves are everywhere!

And viola! Done! :)

Now you can d r a w like m e!

#ARTTIPS #long post

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cosmosogler · 7 years ago

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oh my god, yesterday was the wooooorst.

i left for the airport on time. the bus app said that the bus would arrive at the stop in 10 minutes (and it was a 2 minute walk away). so i had 2 hours to make a ~30 minute ride.

i missed the bus by so much that i didn’t even see it drive away from the stop before i arrived. the app had just, completely lied i guess? the rest of the day was also like that.

so i walked to the downtown station to try to catch the other bus. i also just missed that one according to the lady at the counter. she said the next downtown bus was coming in 40 minutes. so i called a taxi after fretting about it for a few minutes. the taxi driver said they’d be there in 15-20 minutes so i was like “ok.” the other route would go by in a half hour so a taxi would be faster.

the taxi took over 40 minutes to arrive. i told them never mind and got on the second bus. they said they had just pulled into the station and seemed pretty salty about it. but like... that was more than twice as long as they said they’d take.

the bus didn’t leave the station for another ten minutes. i made the wroooong choice. the bus also stopped at every single stop along the route and got stuck at some long red lights. i called my mother. i complained about it to harrison. but nothin was gonna make that bus go faster.

i missed my flight by 10 minutes.

i got put on the next flight... which was in six hours. instead of 9 or 10 pm, i’d be getting home at 3 am (my time). so i spent 6 hours bumming around the airport. i couldn’t get food when i was hungry because the person behind the counter at the snack bar didn’t show up for a very long time. i started drawing a picture on my ipad that i’d planned on working on during the flight.

the flight took off late. i had had a 20 minute layover in charlotte, so every single minute was making me more and more antsy. then when we arrived in charlotte we got put at the wrong gate so the plane sat there for more than 5 minutes before trundling away to the new gate.

the gate was at the end of one terminal. the plane i had to catch was on the other end of the airport at the end of another terminal. i sprinted!!! i had ten minutes to get there!!!

i was really bummed because you’d think since i can bike 12 miles that i could run for more than one minute before completely losing my breath and stamina. though to be fair i had not eaten and was wearing a heavy backpack and a bra that’s a little too tight. i was wheezing after a few seconds.

i actually made it? and i got my boarding pass printed at the counter with 4 minutes to spare before boarding started. i ran back to the bathroom but the line was so long i’d never make it back to the gate (the area was under construction and the nearest bathroom was more than 2 minutes away from the gate).

it had been a few hours since i’d gotten to use the restroom, and with my gallbladder out i’ve had less... like, tolerance for waiting. that might be a “stress has destroyed my body” thing more than a gallbladder thing though.

anyway i had to fidget in my plane seat for 45 minutes while waiting for boarding to end and the takeoff and then we had to reach cruising altitude.

on the flight my ipad pencil wouldn’t connect to the ipad (airplane mode i guess?) so i couldn’t draw for the 5 hours i was sitting there. i got out smash instead since i got my 3ds fixed the other day... i got really REALLY good at hitting rest on a moving target as jigglypuff. i spent like 40 minutes doing nothing but that. the other hour was just working on general combos and taking on the computer as dedede. because i had nothing else to do and wanted to get good at it again. i made a gunner mii based off blue but the mii characters don’t really seem to have any natural combos? it’s just really hard to rack up damage with them. jumbi’s way easier to play as, at least. she’s got a sword.

my thumb started hurting from the new thumb stick (it wasn’t broken in yet i guess) so i put the game away and dozed for the rest of the flight. i made some notes for the story... just thinkin about how i wanted to work out some conversations. i mostly wanted to rest because i’d be getting home at 4 am in the morning my time, the airport is an hour away from my parents’ house. i didn’t get any sleep at all.

when i got to the airport my mom and dad were actually there? i thought they’d be picking me up at the curb. but they snuck up behind me while i was trying to get to baggage claim and mom almost pushed me down the escalator.

dad acted like everything’s normal. and i guess things are “normal” now. as in, this is the new normal, because dad has either completely ignored what he did or forgotten about it.

he probably forgot about it. grabbing and threatening me and using real personal insults wasn’t a big deal ~to him~. grabbing me while i was laying in bed trying to sleep wasn’t a big deal ~to him~.

i pretended to sleep on the car ride home but again couldn’t manage to doze off. i wrote a few more story notes in my memo after a while because i gave up.

when i got home i went basically right to bed without even putting on pajamas and then i couldn’t sleep. wiley came to cuddle with me for a little bit. once he was satisfied that he had stepped on me enough times he left. i still couldn’t sleep.

when i finally did doze off, i woke up like two hours before my alarm was set to go off. so i guess i got like five hours of sleep maybe?

today was a blur. i spent a large fraction of it scanning in my old comic pages. i couldn’t get my sketchbook to fit in the scanner though no matter what i tried (i tried a lot of arrangements). so i’ll either figure that out later or not bother. there was a big dark line down the left side of the images. i was also a little upset that my loose pages didn’t fit in the scanner, so there’s a bit of the side clipped off every page image now. i was so broken up about how much i was losing that i didn’t even change the deviantart images. i know i shouldn’t put stuff on the edges of the page, but i didn’t really register it when i started the comic. i had started to use the whole page, and i put dialogue at the top and off to the sides to give myself more room to draw. i had to erase and redraw a lot of speech bubbles.

then i think i dicked around online for a while, uploading the images and stuff, and then i went downstairs to try to draw on the ipad and maybe finish that picture i’d started. i don’t think it’s going to be a fast picture... i don’t have the energy for shading though.

my brother came home so i said “hi” and “nice anime hair.” his hair is more than twice as long as mine, at least in the front. in the back it’s not quite that much longer. we drove out to freddy’s for dinner and both got real sick from the greasy burgers. he got it worse though because i had a veggie burger. then we got ice cream because we’re geniuses.

then we got groceries but i couldn’t find any tempeh. so tacos are gonna have to wait.

mom came home at 8 pm. she’d been out of the house working or driving to/from work for 13 hours today. she’s going to work for 6 hours tomorrow too. she told me about our my financial situation. but then she gave me a bunch of excuses to not teach me how to do taxes yet again this year.

i gotta start paying off my student loans though. can’t let that interest build up.

villanova apparently blew all my parents’ retirement funds. i didn’t realize they didn’t actually provide us with any financial aid. we couldn’t get loans because of the retirement money... all i managed to do at villanova was almost die!

while i was hanging out with my brother he made a few “jew” jokes. i pretended to be extremely confused. he asked if i’d never heard of jew jokes before and i shrugged and said not really. at least it got him off track. he didn’t tell any more.

i need to read up on how to deal with family members who get... weird about race. my brother’s already made holocaust jokes though. he’s been doing that. i get the feeling he fell in with the wrong crowd. i don’t remember what to do about it.

genevieve seems bored to tears. from the way my family describes her behavior she seems... depressed. she won’t go for walks. she doesn’t leave her bed and doesn’t come when called. she still won’t touch the stairs and she doesn’t spend much time in the backyard.

i got her to come twice when i called today at least. i had to be really insistent and annoying but she did come over eventually and i highly praised her generosity. that seemed to cheer her up. she wagged her tail and everything. it’s so hot out... maybe tomorrow i can get her to go to the park for a few minutes. we’ll see.

whenever i try to interact with eve my family, like, tells me how it is with her. like she’s just Like That now and there’s nothing they can do about it. “she won’t go up the stairs. she just won’t.” “she won’t come when we call her. she just looks at us. that’s all she does.” when i called eve my brother actually interrupted me to tell me yet again that she doesn’t come when called.

i got her to come.

when i try to encourage eve to check out the stairs my mother has interrupted me three times to tell me eve won’t go up the stairs. like she doesn’t want me to even try. eve is so lonely. i can tell. she’s bored and lonely. that’s why she’s started chewing up cardboard and stuff left on the floor.

i’m gonna take my work downstairs tomorrow and work in the kitchen i think.

this evening i tried to start drawing for the comic again. i got one panel done, but IT’S SO HOT HERE. MY HANDS WERE SWEATING BEFORE I COULD EVEN PICK UP THE PENCIL. EVERYTHING GOT SO SMUDGED!!! it’s going to be a real struggle to finish two scenes this week. ten pages... i’ve got three finished already and in my drafts on the comic. so, i need to draw seven pages. i’ll work on it tomorrow if i can. these pages might suffer because of the heat though. i smudged one of the older pages before i could even get it in the scanner. i somehow got graphite on my LEFT hand, which never gets smudgy when i work... it’s always the side of my right hand since i rest it on the paper so it doesn’t shake.

my back really, really hurts. my shoulders and neck also really hurt. i tried stretching, but i didn’t really put a lot of effort into it... i always feel so, like, unable to do things here. unwilling to do things, maybe. lethargic. i didn’t get to meditate yesterday and i’m skipping it tonight because i don’t want to make noise with the guided thing. i’ve been lax about it anyway. i feel so on edge.

when i tried to have lunch at like 10:30 (? i lost track of time) this morning i was immediately very ill. so i ended up not having any food for about 27 hours, if we decide to cut out the leftovers adventure there. i didn’t try to eat again until i went out with my brother. to fast food... only good decisions, folks!!

still feeling super lethargic even though i finished a panel. i’ve got a lot of drawing to do. i hope tomorrow i feel better. on sunday i’m going to the movies with asher, i think.

you know what i’m probably feeling so low energy because i didn’t eat for so long and also i haven’t slept well in two days. or, really, in a very long time, but especially the last two nights. i still need to talk to mom about finances for, like, hiring a study specialist... i don’t think we’re going to have the money to afford the psychiatrist my therapist recommended. she REALLY wants me to get a second opinion on my meds but i just don’t think it’s a big enough deal to warrant shelling out for full price psychiatrist appointments. that doctor doesn’t take insurance and it’s just... i know how expensive this gets. it’s already expensive enough getting even regular check ups for snoopy.

i hate living here... it’s so dirty and dusty and dilapidated. in my apartment i keep everything pretty orderly and don’t hold on to things i’m not using. or at least, i try not to. i don’t have enough space to hoard random stuff and i don’t get that attached to those things anyway. my mom won’t even throw out old food that nobody ate for the 3 years before it went bad (2 years ago). they’ve been using my room as a storage space while they paint the game room, but that project’s going super slow because they’ve been at it for months now. so now there’s just tons of crap stacked in front of my dresser (so i can’t actually get to the clothes i left here) and you can’t even get to my sister’s door. she’s in korea anyway i guess so that doesn’t matter as much.

ok anyway i’ve been writing for a while now. thanks for listening. i’ve got a lot more sore muscles than just my back and neck and shoulders. maybe i pulled something while sprinting around the airport yesterday, because breathing is a chore and my legs are just... not feelin it. i’m just trying really hard not to get sick. my mom came in my room and coughed all over me without even covering her mouth so it’s like, well, guess i don’t have any control over that either!

high stakes, no control!!!!!!!!! just how i’m used to it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

it’s 11:40 arizona time but i know my body thinks it’s way later. i’m so tired. i don’t think i’ll be able to sleep though. guess i should try anyway.

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