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scubatankfilledwithfarts15. Trash
They say [who the fuck ever is some shmuck they, actually? Does anyone ever know who this alien They is? Or is He and They just some asshole with a pocket protector, a clipboard and a nasally inhale that’s a bitch to ignore, almost up there with ol‘ Darth Vader] that the scars marring souls and once-smooth skin etch-a-sketch the stories of our lives right there, printed across flesh and bone. Badou Nails on the other hand was a natural skeptic to that ‘hippie bullshit’. Trash was trash. His hometown was trash, the people were trash, he was trash, you were trash. And scars like the jagged and deep [so fucking deep] cut across what was once his eye [along with the accompaniment of the one across his palm, no one would ever make the mistake of telling him he couldn’t make a good enough shield] was the trash of a lifetime ago, but was getting increasingly close to nipping at his heels like a troublesome mutt as of late. The majority of the time [that is when he wasn’t easing out some z’s or getting a little wet beneath the gills] it was hidden beneath his trusty eye patch [$13. 95 his ass, that piece of shit was at least worth two fiddy] where no one else could know of his burden.
Always one to reflect where no one else could peek between the crease of his soul, he sat at the edge of the piece of shit bathtub in a certain pretty kitty’s trailer [his sanctuary, that fucking tub, they were bros4lyfe] and was in the middle of the dastardly and bitchified task of brushing out the tangled mane of dripping crimson locks, flaming locks swept back and away from said eye, and he didn’t notice his very attentive guest until the brush of a puffy tail startled him out of his reprieve with a small [for him] shriek and the clatter of his hairbrush to the floor.
“Goddamn babe, don’t startle a guy when he’s in his manzone. Coulda gone ninja on ya in a second,” he grumbled, bending low to retrieve the brush and effectively showering the both of them with droplets from his previous shower. His kitty lover took a seat beside him, blind spot taken advantage of [all puns intended] just so she could effectively poke and prod him, or so he’ll assume.
“Manzone? Sorry I didn’t know you and the mirror needed to be alone for a minute. If you were going to start singing show tunes into your brush again could you at least steer me in the direction of the door before you belt it out and bring the house down?” Kokonoe retorted with a snort, automatically twirling a strand of fiery locks between her fingers.
It was Badou’s turn to snort, nervous fingers reaching for the damp locks that usually played as his shield when the patch that dangled by its strings around his neck was out of commission. “Hey, my singing ain’t that bad. And those are some fucking amazing tunes, you just can’t appreciate my kickass taste. I wouldn’t expect as much from someone who listens to the crooning of that lion mane’d chick…whatshername….Ellie…gold balls or somethin’.”
Kokonoe caught the hand that reached for his face and entwined their fingers, peering at his face with a warm expression enclosed in the residual irritation he always seemed to bring out. “Goulding, you ass. And you cry at Don’t Stop Believing. So step off my proverbial dick already, tch.”
“Manly leakage! It’s a fuckin’ powerful song, okay?! Ain’t nothing wrong with that, cool guys don’t look at explosions and all that good shit. An hey, don’t bring yer….previous dickling into this. Sexuality confusion traumatic memories.” His hand was trapped so he hoped to hide in the curtain of his locks, which was strategically quickly defeated with a tiny slap to his wrist and the wrenching of his hand at his side. He felt her free hand [so fucking warm, comforting and menacing with just the brush of her fingers or the clenching of her fist] brush away his protective curtain of hair and he tried to recoil away but, well, his pretty kitty just wasn‘t gonna let that happen. “Don’t,” he murmured when she had tucked his hair behind his ear and swept the bangs across his scalp, leaving his eye exposed.
“Why not?” Kokonoe inquired, clearly not pleased with being denied a proper look at her ginger. She of course noticed his….uneasy, even antsy reaction to anyone attempting to take a peek at, or even mentioning The Eye, even this far into their….dare she even utter the word, relationship [It sounded so bland and cliché and just…the only cliché thing about them was maybe the movie lines Badou tried to spout and woo her with- unintentionally wooing only her foot in his ass] he still wouldn’t let her take it all in. Not to gawk or anything Badou-level idiotic like that but to, well, cherish that part of him as much as the ass freckle birthmark or that stupid fat mouth of his.
“Cause its….” trash, he wanted to say, embarrassing, squicky, haunting. “Grody.” He finally replied, averting his gaze from her searching golden peepers. But the hand on his face had a nay to say in the matter, cupping his chin and tilting his face back to her and of all the things she could do, she smiled. Then tugged his face closer to her and pressed her lips to his eye in a tender fashion. Once she had pulled away, her warm hand still clasped with his, he stared at her in awe, chest suddenly tight and the strangest feeling pressing at the back of his eyelid and shaking his entire being and all ending with his trembling bottom lip.
“I love you, dumbass.” Was all she said. And really, it was all she needed to. [Minus all the cliche shit that came to mind, but honestly, she didn't need to give him another fucking reason to go on about moeblobs and grin that shiteating grin she'd knock off his face in a heartbeat]
They say [who the fuck ever is some shmuck they, actually? Does anyone ever know who this alien They is? Or is He and They just some asshole with a pocket protector, a clipboard and a nasally inhale that’s a bitch to ignore, almost up there with ol‘ Darth Vader] that the scars marring souls and once-smooth skin etch-a-sketch the stories of our lives right there, printed across flesh and bone. Badou Nails on the other hand was a natural skeptic to that ‘hippie bullshit’. Trash was trash. His hometown was trash, the people were trash, he was trash, you were trash. And scars like the jagged and deep [so fucking deep] cut across what was once his eye [along with the accompaniment of the one across his palm, no one would ever make the mistake of telling him he couldn’t make a good enough shield] was the trash of a lifetime ago, but was getting increasingly close to nipping at his heels like a troublesome mutt as of late. The majority of the time [that is when he wasn’t easing out some z’s or getting a little wet beneath the gills] it was hidden beneath his trusty eye patch [$13. 95 his ass, that piece of shit was at least worth two fiddy] where no one else could know of his burden.
Always one to reflect where no one else could peek between the crease of his soul, he sat at the edge of the piece of shit bathtub in a certain pretty kitty’s trailer [his sanctuary, that fucking tub, they were bros4lyfe] and was in the middle of the dastardly and bitchified task of brushing out the tangled mane of dripping crimson locks, flaming locks swept back and away from said eye, and he didn’t notice his very attentive guest until the brush of a puffy tail startled him out of his reprieve with a small [for him] shriek and the clatter of his hairbrush to the floor.
“Goddamn babe, don’t startle a guy when he’s in his manzone. Coulda gone ninja on ya in a second,” he grumbled, bending low to retrieve the brush and effectively showering the both of them with droplets from his previous shower. His kitty lover took a seat beside him, blind spot taken advantage of [all puns intended] just so she could effectively poke and prod him, or so he’ll assume.
“Manzone? Sorry I didn’t know you and the mirror needed to be alone for a minute. If you were going to start singing show tunes into your brush again could you at least steer me in the direction of the door before you belt it out and bring the house down?” Kokonoe retorted with a snort, automatically twirling a strand of fiery locks between her fingers.
It was Badou’s turn to snort, nervous fingers reaching for the damp locks that usually played as his shield when the patch that dangled by its strings around his neck was out of commission. “Hey, my singing ain’t that bad. And those are some fucking amazing tunes, you just can’t appreciate my kickass taste. I wouldn’t expect as much from someone who listens to the crooning of that lion mane’d chick…whatshername….Ellie…gold balls or somethin’.”
Kokonoe caught the hand that reached for his face and entwined their fingers, peering at his face with a warm expression enclosed in the residual irritation he always seemed to bring out. “Goulding, you ass. And you cry at Don’t Stop Believing. So step off my proverbial dick already, tch.”
“Manly leakage! It’s a fuckin’ powerful song, okay?! Ain’t nothing wrong with that, cool guys don’t look at explosions and all that good shit. An hey, don’t bring yer….previous dickling into this. Sexuality confusion traumatic memories.” His hand was trapped so he hoped to hide in the curtain of his locks, which was strategically quickly defeated with a tiny slap to his wrist and the wrenching of his hand at his side. He felt her free hand [so fucking warm, comforting and menacing with just the brush of her fingers or the clenching of her fist] brush away his protective curtain of hair and he tried to recoil away but, well, his pretty kitty just wasn‘t gonna let that happen. “Don’t,” he murmured when she had tucked his hair behind his ear and swept the bangs across his scalp, leaving his eye exposed.
“Why not?” Kokonoe inquired, clearly not pleased with being denied a proper look at her ginger. She of course noticed his….uneasy, even antsy reaction to anyone attempting to take a peek at, or even mentioning The Eye, even this far into their….dare she even utter the word, relationship [It sounded so bland and cliché and just…the only cliché thing about them was maybe the movie lines Badou tried to spout and woo her with- unintentionally wooing only her foot in his ass] he still wouldn’t let her take it all in. Not to gawk or anything Badou-level idiotic like that but to, well, cherish that part of him as much as the ass freckle birthmark or that stupid fat mouth of his.
“Cause its….” trash, he wanted to say, embarrassing, squicky, haunting. “Grody.” He finally replied, averting his gaze from her searching golden peepers. But the hand on his face had a nay to say in the matter, cupping his chin and tilting his face back to her and of all the things she could do, she smiled. Then tugged his face closer to her and pressed her lips to his eye in a tender fashion. Once she had pulled away, her warm hand still clasped with his, he stared at her in awe, chest suddenly tight and the strangest feeling pressing at the back of his eyelid and shaking his entire being and all ending with his trembling bottom lip.
“I love you, dumbass.” Was all she said. And really, it was all she needed to. [Minus all the cliche shit that came to mind, but honestly, she didn't need to give him another fucking reason to go on about moeblobs and grin that shiteating grin she'd knock off his face in a heartbeat]
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