here comes the poolshark

@its-shark-time okay you need to seriously have me on baby lock down i was this close to nabbin up another one

I just might have to! Or file forms to open a kindergarten.

See, this is why you shouldn’t be left to your own company. You’re a walking funeral just waiting to happen. Hopefully Mint takes after Trace instead of your fool ass. The doctor shuffles out after pocketing the bills, Tracebot guiding him to the front door before locking it and taking his post. The upside to all of this is that you don’t have any winter fuzz left. The remaining tufts got barbecued off. Trace’s knuckles glide against your cheek and your almond shaped eyes flutter open to uneven slits. Your lips part and it’s surprising that a cloud of soot doesn’t come puffing out. Grrroooooaaan. “…Trashe?….” At least, you think that’s your boyfriend. Right now he looks like a green blob against a background of…well, more green. Your good hand lifts off the bed and tries to touch his face, missing by about a foot.

You smile in shaky relief. Good heavens, this little man is going to be the death of you. You almost wish little Bean was here, so you could take your mind off the thought your fiance almost roasted himself. Mint doesn’t make much for company just yet. “Yes, I’m here.”

You guide his wandering hand towards your face, kissing the palm. It’s hot, still from the electric shock you guess. Fuck. “It’s okay, honey. Just rest. You’ll be fine. I’m here, ok?”

im tired of bein wounded or sick and also lonely fuck you all i hate you

Well, Tracebot is helping me make a meal, so I hope you’re ready for company. <3

The only doctor stupid enough to visit the mansion happens to live all the way on the other side of the city. It takes him 30 minutes or so to arrive. He doesn’t care for Trace watching so close, shooing him off. Damn dumb leprechauns, he mutters as he rubs a thick salve on your back, bandaging it. Four times a day until the scabs are no bigger than a dime, he snarks out, pushing the salve into Trace’s hands.

You pace nervously as he treats Itchy, angrily giving up asking any questions as he refuses to answer and just gets to work. You make a mental note to terrorize a couple doctors around town for hanging up in your face, or not answering at all. Goddamn quacks.

You fumble to take a solid hold of the salve and are about to snarl a comeback, but you think better of it and just sigh through your nose. “Thank you,” you say in the tone of voice meant to be a “get the fuck out now,” and head to sit down next to Itchy. You pet his face with the back of your hand, finally beginning to wind down. Fuck. You almost lost him, again. Just how much of this can you take?

He’s in for a couple stern words when he wakes up, that’s for sure.

At least you’re small and easy to throw around in these kinds of situations. He’ll have to put you on your side, at the very least. Most of the burns follow a trail down your back, on either side of your spine. Look at all that peeling skin and charred fuzz. Nothing fatal though. You don’t utter a peep when he lightly slaps your cheek. Out cold. Insert sad trumpet noise.

Goddamnit. Of all the stupid impulsive things he could do, he had to do the one that could potentially fry him to death. As if you didn’t lose him once already. Fuck, where were you? You should’ve been right here to prevent it...

Okay, okay, guilt trips won’t get you anywhere right now. You set him up so that his back won’t touch the mattress, and call a doctor - since Stitch is not responding to your texts. Any other doctor will have to do, and they’ll operate under your watchful eye - you have enough enemies even as decimated as the Felt of this timeline is.

>There you go, half fried and passed out in the hallway. It smells like burnt hair and the faint whiff of cooked flesh.

Holyshitfuck he stopped replying to the messages go get him you slow ass.

You follow the smell of electricity and burnt hair, which trails off the top of the stairwell, and skid to a halt next to Itchy’s vaguely steaming body. The first thing you do to not descend into panic is check his pulse and breathing. Both there, thank god. You pick him up and carry him to his room, unsure of what else to do other than placing the ice gently against the charred patches of hair.

“Itchy? Can you hear me?” you gently slap his face to wake him up. “Itchy, I’m calling a doctor, okay?”

trace please have a little faith in me its not like i lack the self control to not go out and gather as many babies and children as possible haha

Okay...

Just know that I’m okay if you want to keep him here, should he have no other guardian. It’s a big house, we have many resources... just, if you do, I’d like to be introduced to the kid first, hehe. <3

he aint picky but i think he really likes toast with jelly on it hes my cute angry little shithead

Hehe. Got it.

Planning on adopting him too? ;)

….no of course not im not takin in a third child thats crazy

You’re gonna adopt him too, aren’t you?

he aint picky but i think he really likes toast with jelly on it hes my cute angry little shithead

Hehe. Got it.

Planning on adopting him too? ;)

i fell asleep whatd i miss

Not much, but stay there, I’m gonna bring up breakfast <3

<3 hey hot stuff didnt expect ya little crowbar is gonna join us that cool with you?

Sure, um. Is “little Crowbar” a Crowbar from another timeline? And what would he like for breakfast?

i fell asleep whatd i miss

Not much, but stay there, I’m gonna bring up breakfast <3

Huh. You look around his room and your lips turn downwards. He must of had to work today. You’d been looking forward to spending the day with him…Bum deal. At least you’ve got rose petals in your underwear and a present to open.

With a soft sigh you pick up the box and tear the paper off, looking to see what’s inside.

Inside there's a tailored suit, the real elegant kind, in a deep dark green of course, with a bowtie just the cut Itchy likes. And it's just about his size. On top of it though, there’s the real prize: a fancily decorated notecard with a reservation for two at a restaurant called The Oyster, and if the quality of paper and print just for a reservation are any indicator, they’re chic as fuck.

“I booked for tonight, just in case you didn’t have other plans,” you call out from the doorframe of your own room, leaning against it in your own new shiny suit. Surprise Itchy, your fiance took Valentine’s Day off.

@its-shark-time

hop in the adjacent bathroom for your morning business and a thorough scrubbing of your teeth to get rid of the ass taste. Rank breath is definitely not romantic. The rose petals you spot starting just inside your door shouldn’t surprise you like they do; bringing a pleased warmth to your face as you begin to follow the trail, picking up the silky little pieces to collect them in your pockets. “This is gonna be good.” The petals lead you down hallways, stairs, and it isn’t long before your pockets are stuffed and then some. You start shoving the petals in your shirt. God damn it, Itchy. You come around a corner to the end of the trail. “Trace?”

The petals lead to your door, but you’re not inside the room. Instead, waiting for Itchy there’s a little display arranged just for him, with candles and roses (all with their petals still) and a carefully wrapped heart-shaped box in the middle of a small round table dressed by a red cloth.

wnq-writers

I want to kiss you and trace with my fingers the constellations on your skin.

art-virus (via wnq-writers)

@onetinyjackass

You scrutinize his expression. Your body has changed since the pregnancy; though your hips are still very tiny, they’ve got the slightest bit of extra curve to them now. Same goes for your thighs. Your stomach sports the little roll of pudge and a scar just beneath it, and you wonder why he seems to pass over it almost purposefully. Now you feel a bit self conscious. You’ve never been good at reading people, and you jump to the worst conclusions off the bat. Did…did he think it was unattractive or some shit? Your arms drop and you use your heel to shut the door behind you, covering yourself slightly as you lean against the counter. You’re suddenly very somber, now. And uncomfortable. “…Sooo. Uh. What now?”

If you can’t hide your emotions as well as you’d like, Itchy is an open book by default. And his sudden shift in mood very obviously worries you. So you lean and reach out, curling a hand around his fingers to pull him close to you.

“Now…” You have him nestle between your knees, uncaring of the fuzz coming off as you pass your hands down his sides. You press your lips on his diaphragm, beginning to follow an imaginary, wayward trail around his stomach and all the way to that little belly pudge. You’re used to Itchy being lean and tight as a rope, but that bit of softness fits him just as good and it’s pretty fucking adorable. “Now you climb into this bathtub and let me give you lots of well deserved TLC, my sweet prince.” Time to polish up your poetic skills.

You’re only slightly resisting as his longer fingers slide against your palm, curling around your prominent knuckles to pull you closer to him. Normally you wouldn’t indulge something like a lack of self esteem. You’re Itchy. Which is like, the best person to be. And yet, even the slightest belief that Trace just might find you less attractive…Nothing could make you feel quite as shitty about yourself as that. You obediently stand where he places you, legs gently pressed together and fuzz already easily pulling off of you to cling to his trousers. God, you’re worse than a fuckin’ long haired cat. His little kisses tickle at first and you flinch back, stomach tightening and trying to pull in as if trying to restore it’s former tightness. No such luck. Pointy teeth worry the skin of your lower lip as you watch him kiss his way down to your stomach. It helps. The stiff posture of your shoulders gradually returns to a relaxed slope. The question burns hot on your tongue and you can’t stop yourself from asking it. “Trace…do you’s think I’m ugly now?” Your fingers reach up to carefully undo the bandages around your throat, unwinding them and tossing them into the sink. Your stitches have been healing nicely, at the very least, and the wound is closed into a puckered, twisting line that curves messily around your neck. “I want you’s to look at me an’ tell me the truth.” Even as you make the small demand you oblige his request and step into the tub. At once a bit of fuzz separates and drifts around in the water. Shit, that’s nice. Like, fuckin’ excellent, actually. You lift the other foot in and slowly sit down in the nice, spacious tub, leaning back against the side. “S-ssshhhit…”

Oh boy, so that’s what that was all about. Alright, at least it was easily fixable - he hoped. He helped his fiance into the tub, making sure he wouldn’t slip and hurt himself - and avoiding as much as possible to look at the scar on his neck, an even worse show than the one on his belly. It had to be right on one of his favorite spots of Itchy’s, hadn’t it?

“No, love, I do not,” he answered, looking straight at Itchy to make it clear that he wasn’t lying. As he talked, he picked up the brush and a soap bar and began rubbing them together, to let a scented foam seep through the bristles. “To me, you’re as handsome as ever - the only thing I have a hard time looking at are those scars, but it’s because they remind me... I almost lost you.” You give him an hesitant smile, sorry to bring such a somber subject into the frame. “I hope you understand.”

You scrutinize his expression. Your body has changed since the pregnancy; though your hips are still very tiny, they’ve got the slightest bit of extra curve to them now. Same goes for your thighs. Your stomach sports the little roll of pudge and a scar just beneath it, and you wonder why he seems to pass over it almost purposefully. Now you feel a bit self conscious. You’ve never been good at reading people, and you jump to the worst conclusions off the bat. Did…did he think it was unattractive or some shit? Your arms drop and you use your heel to shut the door behind you, covering yourself slightly as you lean against the counter. You’re suddenly very somber, now. And uncomfortable. “…Sooo. Uh. What now?”

If you can’t hide your emotions as well as you’d like, Itchy is an open book by default. And his sudden shift in mood very obviously worries you. So you lean and reach out, curling a hand around his fingers to pull him close to you.

“Now...” You have him nestle between your knees, uncaring of the fuzz coming off as you pass your hands down his sides. You press your lips on his diaphragm, beginning to follow an imaginary, wayward trail around his stomach and all the way to that little belly pudge. You’re used to Itchy being lean and tight as a rope, but that bit of softness fits him just as good and it’s pretty fucking adorable. “Now you climb into this bathtub and let me give you lots of well deserved TLC, my sweet prince.” Time to polish up your poetic skills.