Sequal extraveganza
It's like a sequal extraveganza!
Nym's booksigning, part III to these. (BNDverse, post-war)
Dweezle padded to a stop just beyond the heavy wooden food court divider. The guy had entered the strange cluster of ice cream and snack shops, Dairy Queen dominating the small group in sparkling pink. However, Dweezle squinted as he made a beeline straight toward the microscopic Orange Julius stand. He considered this for a moment, fidgeting with his lower lip as he figured that - if the boy was as big of a BND fan as some of his friends still gathered at Nym Stewart's signing - it might've been because it was the only store in the lot that had reclaimed its more masculine name in recent years (and he had to admit, Orange Juliette sounded mildly stupid).
For whatever reason, the redhead tossed a handfull of money at the cashier before retrieving a tall glass of orange stuff and stomping over to a nearby table, throwing himself down into it. Creepying closer, Dweezle mentally grimaced at the idea that he was actually sneaking around a damn mall and - taking a long breath - straightened his back and walked quietly over to the kid's table. "Hey."
Still sucking away at his drink, he didn't move, save for the upward motion of green eyes and a slight grimace.
"Uh. Okay, this might sound somewhat odd, but I was back at the book signing and-"
He immediately shot up in his seat, narrowing his eyes viciously at the brunette. "Are you one of those fucking groupies who writes that stupid shit fanfiction?"
"What - no! That's my friend Bobby..." Dweezle trailed off, mentally rolling his eyes as he thought of the chubby teen wibbling on the floor with a bloody nose. Really, there was no need for that kind of violence, but he had to admit that the kid had it coming.
"Fucking Loins of Love," the redhead muttered nastily, leaning forward to clamp his teeth over the straw once again and take a long pull. Dweezle watched the slight movement in his throat as he swallowed and straightened, tilting his head to the side slightly as he stared at the younger boy through narrowed eyes. "So what do you want? An apology because I'm sure as fucking hell not giving one."
"No," he interjected quickly, nearly tumbling over the words. "I don't involve myself in that fanfiction junk. I just like the history. And the characters."
"Yeah? So what do you want?"
"I wanted to... uh..." Dweezle tugged at the hems of his sleeves, watching through his bangs as the boy stared challengingly back at him, shoulders hunched as he leaned against forearms braced against the table on either side of the nearly empty Orange Julius. "Buy you another one of those."
Grimacing once again, the redhead frowned and glanced down at his drink before rolling his eyes and yanking over another chair. "Yeah, fine."
More junk from Ground Unit 6... part III to these (BNDverse, deadandy AU)
"Do it."
"No, you fucking do it."
"You're the one who made the goddamn bet in the first place," Ryder spat, jabbing his index finger in Brinn's face, who blinked angrily at it. "So either you fucking do it or the bet's off."
"God, fine, you're such a bunch of lazy-asses," Brinn sneered, running his fingers through jagged chunks of light brown hair as he shrugged off his jacket, necklace, and anything else that might make noise. Leaving the tight circle of soldiers crouched around the fire like the bunch of fucking elementary school kids that they were, he padded off in the direction of one of the shodily-pitched tents, slipping around bushes and tall shoots of grass until he arrived at the flap.
Pulling it back, he peered cautiously into the darkness before tiptoeing inside, gently letting the canvas drop behind him. Litch was sprawled out on floor in front of him, lanky form draped over a palet that had been shoved into one tiny corner to make more room. He looked like shit of course - same as he always did the night after he decided to charge directly into enemy fire or play fucking chicken with a tank. Brinn licked his lips and carefully avoided the arm stretched out across the floor, dark, thick stitches showing up well against pale skin and splotchy red around the edges of the wound. Instead he edged closer, dropping to his knees before gently hooking one forefinger around the silver chain at his neck, tugging experimentally once, twice, before slowly pulling it forward and out of the redhead's shirt. Dull dogtags followed, well-worn with some weird bit of yellow string around them. Fingering them gently, Brinn leaned close in, mouth moving slightly as he read the engraved letters carefully and clearly: Andy Black.
Returning to the group, he pulled his jacket away from Riley before flipping Ryder a rude gesture and snapping a grin in his direction. "Fucking told you so. Now pay up."
Merrick and Andy h/c fic, part IV (Antiverse... Abbot Dom)
He jerks awake at some point in the middle of the night, half-surprised at the stinging pain in his back, the sore spots on his arms, and the utter ache pounding out from everywhere below his hips. But then he remembers with a twinge of disgust, relaxing slightly into the pillows and blankets on the narrow bed, cursing authority as he turns to look at Andy stretched out beside him, his face mere inches away from his nose. Back shoved into the nearby wall so as to give Merrick more room, mouth hanging open slightly as he slept. Their legs are tangled together, Andy's ankle resting on some cut or sore spot, but it doesn't hurt that much so he makes no effort to move. Instead he inches closer in the darkness, shoving one shoulder under a outstretched arm before resting his forehead against the other boy's and lightly pressing their lips together.
Andy's a heavy sleeper and he doesn't mind. If he were awake, he doesn't think that he could stomach this level of sap.
And finally.... NOT A SEQUAL!
Andy has a JOB O NOEZ (BND-verse, post-war)
Work was absolute fucking hell.
Andy trudged in through the door, not even bothering to set his coat on the doorknob as he simply dropped it onto the hall floor before collapsing face-first onto their threadbare sofa. He breathed harshly against the couch cushions, feeling the hot air waft back into his face as he tried not to think of the previous hours' work, his shit-ass co-workers, and the fact that he'd be back tomorrow to do it all again.
The Lady Bitch Boss was the worst part of it - constantly supervising and watching out for fuck-ups. Guaranteeing that he couldn't just slip out through the doors of this motherfucking corporate nightmare and forget for just one fucking minute out of the eight hour day that he wasn't just another cog in the goddamn machine. By the halfway point of each day he'd begun composing lengthy, ellaborate insults to throw at the she-bitch for when she reared her ugly head... but the kid needed clothes and Merrick needed to buy food, and he wasn't going to fuck up by losing this job too. So he just stuck the words down on the sign that he was mocking up and sent the thing down to advertisement, "Suck it, you fatheaded cuntkicking motherfucker" displayed in neon yellow lettering.
Another day and another paycheck and God this is what the fucking masses felt like, wasn't it?
From somewhere out of the corner of his eye, a raggedy mop of red bounced into view. Tilting his head slightly, peering out from just over the pillows, he squinted lazily at Anarchy, who was trying very unsuccessfully to hide behind the wicker chair across from him. Realizing that Andy had caught him, the child crept out, inching across the stained carpeting before pausing in front of the sofa and gently resting his own head on the cushion, nose several inches away from the blonde's.
"Hiiiii."
"Hey."
"Dad says you're tired."
"Yeah." He squinted further, narrowing his eyes into slits and almost-closing them as he wondered if he had time to catch a quick nap.
"Oh." A pause and Anarchy stuck out his tongue, rocking forward on socked toes. "Dinner's not gonna be ready for a while."
Andy grunted in irritation, remembering a hastily eaten granola bar in place of lunch. Fucking hell.
"So I brought you a snack!" he grinned, pulling a brightly colored plastic plate out from behind his back and shoving it toward his father. Andy propped himself up on one elbow, warily eyeballing the half-heated bagel bites and melting popsicle with skeptiscism. "I made it myself."
"I can see that," he grunted, sitting up completely. Pulling the plate of half-edible food from the redhead, he set it on the other side of the couch before snatching the seven year old up into his lap.
"You feeling better?" Anarchy asked, settling against Andy's shoulder and smiling into his collared shirt.
"Yeah." Fingers threaded through downy red hair as he settled back down against he pillows, Anarchy laying atop his chest. "Thanks."
Nym's booksigning, part III to these. (BNDverse, post-war)
Dweezle padded to a stop just beyond the heavy wooden food court divider. The guy had entered the strange cluster of ice cream and snack shops, Dairy Queen dominating the small group in sparkling pink. However, Dweezle squinted as he made a beeline straight toward the microscopic Orange Julius stand. He considered this for a moment, fidgeting with his lower lip as he figured that - if the boy was as big of a BND fan as some of his friends still gathered at Nym Stewart's signing - it might've been because it was the only store in the lot that had reclaimed its more masculine name in recent years (and he had to admit, Orange Juliette sounded mildly stupid).
For whatever reason, the redhead tossed a handfull of money at the cashier before retrieving a tall glass of orange stuff and stomping over to a nearby table, throwing himself down into it. Creepying closer, Dweezle mentally grimaced at the idea that he was actually sneaking around a damn mall and - taking a long breath - straightened his back and walked quietly over to the kid's table. "Hey."
Still sucking away at his drink, he didn't move, save for the upward motion of green eyes and a slight grimace.
"Uh. Okay, this might sound somewhat odd, but I was back at the book signing and-"
He immediately shot up in his seat, narrowing his eyes viciously at the brunette. "Are you one of those fucking groupies who writes that stupid shit fanfiction?"
"What - no! That's my friend Bobby..." Dweezle trailed off, mentally rolling his eyes as he thought of the chubby teen wibbling on the floor with a bloody nose. Really, there was no need for that kind of violence, but he had to admit that the kid had it coming.
"Fucking Loins of Love," the redhead muttered nastily, leaning forward to clamp his teeth over the straw once again and take a long pull. Dweezle watched the slight movement in his throat as he swallowed and straightened, tilting his head to the side slightly as he stared at the younger boy through narrowed eyes. "So what do you want? An apology because I'm sure as fucking hell not giving one."
"No," he interjected quickly, nearly tumbling over the words. "I don't involve myself in that fanfiction junk. I just like the history. And the characters."
"Yeah? So what do you want?"
"I wanted to... uh..." Dweezle tugged at the hems of his sleeves, watching through his bangs as the boy stared challengingly back at him, shoulders hunched as he leaned against forearms braced against the table on either side of the nearly empty Orange Julius. "Buy you another one of those."
Grimacing once again, the redhead frowned and glanced down at his drink before rolling his eyes and yanking over another chair. "Yeah, fine."
More junk from Ground Unit 6... part III to these (BNDverse, deadandy AU)
"Do it."
"No, you fucking do it."
"You're the one who made the goddamn bet in the first place," Ryder spat, jabbing his index finger in Brinn's face, who blinked angrily at it. "So either you fucking do it or the bet's off."
"God, fine, you're such a bunch of lazy-asses," Brinn sneered, running his fingers through jagged chunks of light brown hair as he shrugged off his jacket, necklace, and anything else that might make noise. Leaving the tight circle of soldiers crouched around the fire like the bunch of fucking elementary school kids that they were, he padded off in the direction of one of the shodily-pitched tents, slipping around bushes and tall shoots of grass until he arrived at the flap.
Pulling it back, he peered cautiously into the darkness before tiptoeing inside, gently letting the canvas drop behind him. Litch was sprawled out on floor in front of him, lanky form draped over a palet that had been shoved into one tiny corner to make more room. He looked like shit of course - same as he always did the night after he decided to charge directly into enemy fire or play fucking chicken with a tank. Brinn licked his lips and carefully avoided the arm stretched out across the floor, dark, thick stitches showing up well against pale skin and splotchy red around the edges of the wound. Instead he edged closer, dropping to his knees before gently hooking one forefinger around the silver chain at his neck, tugging experimentally once, twice, before slowly pulling it forward and out of the redhead's shirt. Dull dogtags followed, well-worn with some weird bit of yellow string around them. Fingering them gently, Brinn leaned close in, mouth moving slightly as he read the engraved letters carefully and clearly: Andy Black.
Returning to the group, he pulled his jacket away from Riley before flipping Ryder a rude gesture and snapping a grin in his direction. "Fucking told you so. Now pay up."
Merrick and Andy h/c fic, part IV (Antiverse... Abbot Dom)
He jerks awake at some point in the middle of the night, half-surprised at the stinging pain in his back, the sore spots on his arms, and the utter ache pounding out from everywhere below his hips. But then he remembers with a twinge of disgust, relaxing slightly into the pillows and blankets on the narrow bed, cursing authority as he turns to look at Andy stretched out beside him, his face mere inches away from his nose. Back shoved into the nearby wall so as to give Merrick more room, mouth hanging open slightly as he slept. Their legs are tangled together, Andy's ankle resting on some cut or sore spot, but it doesn't hurt that much so he makes no effort to move. Instead he inches closer in the darkness, shoving one shoulder under a outstretched arm before resting his forehead against the other boy's and lightly pressing their lips together.
Andy's a heavy sleeper and he doesn't mind. If he were awake, he doesn't think that he could stomach this level of sap.
And finally.... NOT A SEQUAL!
Andy has a JOB O NOEZ (BND-verse, post-war)
Work was absolute fucking hell.
Andy trudged in through the door, not even bothering to set his coat on the doorknob as he simply dropped it onto the hall floor before collapsing face-first onto their threadbare sofa. He breathed harshly against the couch cushions, feeling the hot air waft back into his face as he tried not to think of the previous hours' work, his shit-ass co-workers, and the fact that he'd be back tomorrow to do it all again.
The Lady Bitch Boss was the worst part of it - constantly supervising and watching out for fuck-ups. Guaranteeing that he couldn't just slip out through the doors of this motherfucking corporate nightmare and forget for just one fucking minute out of the eight hour day that he wasn't just another cog in the goddamn machine. By the halfway point of each day he'd begun composing lengthy, ellaborate insults to throw at the she-bitch for when she reared her ugly head... but the kid needed clothes and Merrick needed to buy food, and he wasn't going to fuck up by losing this job too. So he just stuck the words down on the sign that he was mocking up and sent the thing down to advertisement, "Suck it, you fatheaded cuntkicking motherfucker" displayed in neon yellow lettering.
Another day and another paycheck and God this is what the fucking masses felt like, wasn't it?
From somewhere out of the corner of his eye, a raggedy mop of red bounced into view. Tilting his head slightly, peering out from just over the pillows, he squinted lazily at Anarchy, who was trying very unsuccessfully to hide behind the wicker chair across from him. Realizing that Andy had caught him, the child crept out, inching across the stained carpeting before pausing in front of the sofa and gently resting his own head on the cushion, nose several inches away from the blonde's.
"Hiiiii."
"Hey."
"Dad says you're tired."
"Yeah." He squinted further, narrowing his eyes into slits and almost-closing them as he wondered if he had time to catch a quick nap.
"Oh." A pause and Anarchy stuck out his tongue, rocking forward on socked toes. "Dinner's not gonna be ready for a while."
Andy grunted in irritation, remembering a hastily eaten granola bar in place of lunch. Fucking hell.
"So I brought you a snack!" he grinned, pulling a brightly colored plastic plate out from behind his back and shoving it toward his father. Andy propped himself up on one elbow, warily eyeballing the half-heated bagel bites and melting popsicle with skeptiscism. "I made it myself."
"I can see that," he grunted, sitting up completely. Pulling the plate of half-edible food from the redhead, he set it on the other side of the couch before snatching the seven year old up into his lap.
"You feeling better?" Anarchy asked, settling against Andy's shoulder and smiling into his collared shirt.
"Yeah." Fingers threaded through downy red hair as he settled back down against he pillows, Anarchy laying atop his chest. "Thanks."