#hand partialism

Fabrications of a young mind. Imagine the peril of a dead ex-girlfriend becoming a lecherous brain-ghost, immune to all consequences.

The unspoken question hovering between them, while eager fingers meet in the middle with zippers to manage. Vriska has her hair tied back, accentuating a sharp face, chin jutted forward in concentration. Apparently, human pants are especially fiddly for glorified murder-talons. He actually doesn’t regret swapping godly pajamas for jeans, reaping the rewards in watching her fuss around.

But all good things end, and his pants? Undone. A cool-toned palm slips against the pulsing throb, taking root between his legs. She looks amused, maybe a little confused, tilts her head up to pose a question. Thoughtful, considering. “You weren’t kidding about this, huh? Just having your bulge out, vulnerable, aaaaaaaall the time?”

Dave considers hitting her with some malarkey. Could be he’s a weirdo who just prefers the dong-out look. He could wax poetic about the complex histories of dangle decor. Frankly, these aliens knowing less than dick about Earth makes it so easy to fuck with them. A lesser man might use this to his advantage. He, of course, uses it to be fucking funny.

“Oh, that? You’re caressing my joust-prong, bro. Highly important goods there, handle with TLC. That is T-ender L-oving C-are. How else am I gonna prove my worth in wang-lorious battle?”

... That was smoother in his head. Certainly more convincing, at least.

Vriska levels him with the most disbelieving expression, served with a side of what could be pity or polite contempt? Hard to tell; Alternian faces pull into weird shapes, meaning that even his most charismatic cool-guy smirk is useless against that soul-burrowing stare.

Sometimes, he’s completely sure Vriska can read his mind, conflicting biology aside.

Heavyset, hair in low-effort waves rather than spritely curls, a dozen laugh-lines now aging her face. She's forgone the expectations, the dolling up, the aggressively cheerful demeanor for a no-nonsense arch of over-tweezed brows.

Calloused hands, from nursing a thousand monsters back to good health. Nicks and scars left behind by patients refusing to use their Pokéball for quicker heals. Liver spots on her weather-warm arms, eyes crinkled at the corners for repeat visitors.

She's been shocked, bit, poisoned, and confused by so many patients now that names escape her. But all that knowledge is well worth her time, her patronage, her closeness. Many a young trainer has melted into her arms after a hard route, a rough battle, a sour defeat.

She leans over his shy form, fingers meeting with the slight swell of his chest, rising and falling with nervousness. Dark lips part around the question, and it's an honest one to ask, if he's really never been with anyone before. Not even Mindfang. He's honest, because she asks him to be while leaning closer, and he admits it.

Never once. Not with anyone, never.

Per a Polyswap prompt, Bro and Dirk are being mercilessly edged. One is taking it better than the other.