"Oh fuck that - no no, not you again.”
"Don’t be fucking rude.”
i want more prose threads but u know who doesnt want more prose threads…the piece of shit this blog is about
[ The contact — first with her hands on his shoulders, but reaching its peak with her fingers tugging at his hair — sends warm tingles down his spine down to his very core. Pleasure warps his lips away from her skin in an open-mouthed smile. Strings of blood and saliva connect her and him, free of the vacuum only until his tongue swipes at them. He tightens his grip on her, shifts so that her blood doesn’t thicken around his teeth, and licks, and licks, and licks. ]
[Those few moments make her stomach tighten, the sensation probably very different from whatever fucked up pleasure Forrest is getting from this. Her mouth curls in disgust, even as another of those embarrassingly pathetic sounds comes from her throat. She squirms in his grip, pulling at his hair with a bit more force, maybe enough to hurt.] Could you stop? [His tongue against her neck repulses her even more, sending a note of panic into her voice.] Come on—come on. Cut it out.
"Sounded real." He doesn’t believe her - not really - but that’s not a large pain between them. If Pietro’s honest, he’s about ninety percent sure that a large amount of their conversations are made of lies. Too lazy to figure out the truth from the lies. They’re equally entertaining. "And sounds like that guy was sort of like. Aristotle but, y’know, a bit sadder. Did you ever tell him that he was salting his own coffee with his tears?" He should probably feel a bit more sensitive towards the guy’s feelings. Somehow, Pietro can’t be bothered. "Uh." Well, they’ve come this far. "…You heard of the mutant that, y’know, wants to destroy humans as a whole? And, like, can pick up stadiums? Kinda stupid helmet? Yeah.”
"i’m not that fucked up, you know." moreso, but—whatever. he already knows that she’s a pathological liar and she already knows that it’s not about to stop anytime soon, which is partially why she doesn’t intend on telling him that the coffee was an exaggeration, since she doesn’t know any ghosts who can drink, and that she was too busy trying to get away from his somber monologues to crack any jokes. "i’ll be sure to let him know the next time we hang out." after that, after he admits his father is magfuckingneto, she doesn’t feel like any more wry remarks. she feels like tipping the milkshake over and throwing the glass at his face. “hey, wow. that’s—i met him. did you know that. i met your fucking father.”
"…Close enough. Better put than I think I could’ve managed, man. I’d say ‘good job,’ but I dunno if something that sad deserves a good job or not. Same w
dude, do you go through that, or something? I mean, delusions are bad. And I’m kinda crazy enough as it is, with the whole trippy genetics, evil father thing. I ever tell you my dad is evil? It might explain a lot, but, y’know. Don’t wanna think about it like that, just kinda makes this all a lot more lame.”
"I knew this guy." She almost said dead guy, but she vaguely remembers telling Pietro that she was one of the normal people. That’s inconvenient. “He, like—he was really into philosophy and shit. Really thoughtful. He’d just talk at me and cry into his coffee sometimes.” She continues biting at her nail, almost pulling the whole thing off before she thinks of a good enough response. “I was just making that up as I went along. Delusions can’t be that bad.” Not as bad as she wants to acknowledge, anyways. “—who’s your dad? You don’t seem like supervillain child material.”
"I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, it’s kind of a weird way to put it
but I guess it’s better than the alternative which is, y’know, not exactly what I want to go through ever again.” He hardly seems to mind that she stuck her finger into the drink, taking a small sip from the straw. ”I’m not pouty, man. That’s just insulting. I’m… is there a nice word for similar to pouty, but not?”
"What’s the alternative? Coming to terms with the wretchedness of this world and the futility of your existence and being unable to do anything about either of those things? That’s fucking boring. Be psycho. Confuse faces for the pictures your best friend from six years ago drew for you and hear helicopters when there are no fucking helicopters and cry your face off when nobody’s watching. It’s a lot better than being—mopey. Is that a better word?"
"You ever wake up and feel like the world is… I dunno, suddenly lacking color? Nothing’s wrong with me physically, I don’t have dog eyes or anything, but I just sorta. Y’know. It’s weird. And I don’t like it.” He offers a nearly untouched milkshake as he speaks. Bribery at it’s finest.
"Are you becoming disillusioned with yourself and reality as a whole, because. All I can say is get over it, kiddo, get over it, unless you want me to be really mean about this." She sticks her finger (gross) in the whipped cream and licks it off, but other than that, she doesn’t make another move towards his offering. "—I can be really fucked up about it, too, but, like. You might just get even poutier."