#* ask meme response

     “yeah, SOMETHING LIKE THAT.” a little laugh keeps the words from sound snappish and you run a hand through your hair and give a smile that feels a little nervous ; could anyone blame you? single woman with car troubles in the middle of nowhere is pretty much the setup to EVERY shitty slasher movie ever made, “i don’t even know what’s wrong with it - - - if it was just a tire or something i’d be fine, but ...” what WAS THAT? gotta prove you’re not some blonde bimbo who doesn’t know how to change a tire? that nagging need to prove yourself claws at the back of your throat and you smile through it and shrug a shoulder, “so i’m sort of hoping you know cars?”

IT MOST CERTAINLY CAN BE. worse than bad. terrible. seymour shakes his head and smooths clean hands down the front of his clean new jacket and looks down at his clean new shoes and pointedly does not look back through the shop window at where someone is fawning over the monstrously large plant. multiple people, actually. there's a line almost out the door and twoey is still and quiet and audrey is ringing up an order and seymour is - - - he swallows and smiles, shaking his head. "nothing's wrong, really," he tries to assure, "just - - - just real busy, with mr. mushnik gone ... on his trip!" the second part is added after half a second hesitation and seymour straightens his back and his glasses at the same time, "all sorts've stuff is happening all at once is all, so i'm a little out of sorts. but it's all fine. it'll all be fine." WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO CONVINCE, SEYMOUR? YOU OR HER?

seymour's laugh is a combination of nervous and sheepish as he peers out the window of the shop and grimaces at the shadowy figures lurking out there, "nothing good, probably," god know he's been jumped enough times that he couldn't count it on both hands, even though he and the would-be muggers already know he hasn't got anything worth stealing in his pockets. this guy, though, they don't know. could have money. seymour looks over at him and then draws the blind down across the window, "you might wanna head out through the back when you go, though. the, uh, the likelihood they - - - want to get a look at what's in your pockets is, is pretty high."

seymour is INTENSELY POSSESIVE, though he's very good at hiding it and doesn't often act on it. if he were to ruminate on it he would come to the conclusion that the fact he clings to the people and things that matter to him is the simple fact that not many of them have ever existed. there's a reason the only reason he tried to kill twoey at the end of little shop is because it just killed audrey. seymour is possessive of twoey, because it's bringing him everything he never had; he's even more possessive of audrey, the only person he's ever loved that loved him back. the fact he killed two people exclusively to be able to have and keep audrey's love can't be ignored.

the world has always been cruel & unforgiving for seymour krelborn. his earliest memories are of the cold walls and moldy food of the skidrow home for boys. mr. mushnik was better than that - the back room of the shop was warm, and seymour had a bed instead of a spot on an overcrowded floor, and there was always something to eat. that doesn't mean the world was wonderful, though. no matter how kind seymour tries to be, no matter how friendly his smile, there's always a boot ready to stomp him back down; there's always an ulterior motive or a snarl or someone willing to push you to the ground in order to step right over you. that's what his life is. that's what it always will be - - - until audrey ii, who only feeds into the idea that the world is a bad place full of bad people. maybe getting rid of some of those bad people will make it a little better, though - - - and get seymour things he wants.

his gut response is a nervous, quiet laugh that pitches up and down almost erratically; bandaged fingers twiddle and seymour adjusts his baseball cap with one hand and then lets it fall to rest on the back of his neck. thing is, that sounds awfully similar to the sort of thing twoey has been saying lately. strange to hear it from the mouth of a pretty girl rather than the trap of a plant. "well, i figure most things are sorta human propaganda," is what seymour eventually offers. there's an apologetic lilt to the words and he lets his hands fall again to his sides before stuffing them into the pockets of his coat, "seeing as we're, uh. the ones here?" as far as he knows it's just humans and - well - - - sentient plants, maybe. the idea there's even more weird stuff out there is a little too much for him to deal with at the moment, you gotta understand.

     “fake it ‘till you make it, right?”

     “so - so,” you force a while and lever yourself into sitting, swinging your legs down so there’s room to join you on the bench, “it’s not the most uncomfortable bench in the city.”