#jeebys

     Hudson doesn’t like to approach people and he doesn’t like to talk first. He probably says less than a hundred words a day when he isn’t spending time with the detective who’s investigating him. But he’s done a little opium and he’s a little sociable today, and he can’t help but think those globular eyes of Snafu’s are scanning him, so he looks over his shoulder and says, carefully, “What’s on your mind? Besides the all-encompassing view of my ass. Staring’s rude.”

meme club

in cosmo’s defense, he hadn’t specifically set his aim on this fella, specifically, before he whipped up a speech and dropped to his knees. he hits soft enough that he slides, then hard enough to halt himself that he’s sure to bruise along the opposite leg. (since when’d they start waxing, anyhow?)

         ‘ i offer myself to you, all of me, ’ he begins, loud and affected and without context. after a haphazard glance around the room, a quick count of viewers, he picks back up. ‘ my heart. ’ a thump of the chest. ‘ my lips. my legs. my calves. ’

he presses his hands together at the little fingers, presents his palms to the man above him, and shakes his head with shakespearean-grade dramatic proficiency. ‘ do what you will. my love endures. ’

     He has tears smeared over his face, and that’s nothing new, and the snot bubble that he protectively holds a yubitsume-affected hand over is pretty noisy, really. Kind of like when you blow into a soda.

     His name is Akachan o Naki--or crybaby, in Americanish. “Fuck,” he sob-hiccups, smearing the front of his shirt over his face in order to absorb the tears. Knowing Akachan, it’s a case of, like, someone insulting his hairstyle. Or someone told him that human trafficking wasn’t a very humane practice and he was, by proxy of being a human trafficker, a bad, inhumane person. Or he spilled juice on his trousers. (Just kidding, that isn’t juice.)

      The man can’t handle criticism.

      Smoothing his shirt down over his tattoo-covered stomach, he neatly hides the inked, coiling snake, and sniffles wetly, right in Snafu’s face.

soft family things.

he does still, briefly, before responding. he isn’t entirely sure what he’s to do with such an unusual (charming?) request.

“Oh, my god. That is so cute.” 

It’s a dog, it’s a baby, it’s a plane--nope. It’s a rat. Maybe she thinks it’s like a smaller raccoon. Maybe she thinks it’s like a smaller her. Maybe she’s still considering if it’s edible.

ozzie’s got the pinched sound of pre-release for part one — ‘ i can offer a cigarette. ’ — and on the exhale, the voice of a man rediscovering what it means to feel at ease. then drops the other shoe. ‘ or a drink. ’