SURPRISE I’M ALIVE
this is way too long to put in a tumbo post so i’ll leave you with an excerpt and some links. still not nsfw… i think. despite there being copious amounts of dildos.
special thanks to @adorabbey, @fabulousanima, @sahdah, @skadventuretime, @sojustifiable, and @victoriapyrrhi for looking over this thing. god was that everyone? hopefully i didn’t forget somebody /sweat
read the first chapter here: ffn; ao3
read this latest chapter (5) here: ffn; ao3Part five_Toys
He leaves voice chat connected all the time– or maybe she does? Whosever idea it was, neither of them directly acknowledges. It just becomes second-nature to hear her disembodied voice at random hours of the day, like a friendly ghost of the apartment.
She’s not around today, though, which is just as well because Blake has invaded, and if Wes isn’t around to annoy Soul over how ‘the cute warcraft voice’ renders him stupid, Blake will surely take up the mantle given the opportunity.
Soul pauses on a line of code, worrying if being perpetually connected to Reaper via voice chat is somehow unnatural. They’re about as inseparable as his brother and her dad, and mental ulcers about that aside, it’s probably weird, isn’t it? Because they’re just internet friends.
If it’s not weird, it’s certainly an eternal spring of false hopes, but that’s to be expected when one is an uncool bag of dicks.
Sitting on the floor with his laptop, Soul ‘supervises’ Blake, who is presently spreading his sweaty obnoxiousness all over Wes’s workout equipment. Somewhere between programming and sickening self-analyzation, his shoulders have become stiff, so he takes his frustration out on the apartment interloper. “I should be charging you for using our gym,” he complains with a stretch.
Without missing a beat, BlackStar says, “I pay you with my godly proximity,” while using the pull up bar. “My aura buffs your pathetic social stats.”
Soul replies with a mere grunt, which in hindsight is almost as bad as outright concession. “Just don’t leave your fuckin’ socks here.” Because those things should come with a surgeon general’s warning.
And then a timid, “Eater?” trickles to his ears from the other side of the apartment. His nervous system briefly short-circuits, and though he recovers quickly, it’s not enough– Soul’s skin itches from Blake’s bored stare: the very loudest silence known to man.
“Q-B’s,” the rogue says, finishing his set.
Pausing as he shuts his laptop, Soul cautiously asks, “Cue-what?”
BlackStar looks physically aggrieved to spell it out. He loads up a weight bar. “Quantum Butt buddies.”
“I hate that I’ve wasted time being alive to hear you speak.” Soul bolts to his feet, ears hot. Then, in overcompensation, he walks away as lazily as possible in lieu of scrambling across the floor to his bedroom like an excited dog on linoleum.
He calmly enters his room. Sits in the squeaky desk chair. Ignores how sweaty his finger is on the push-to-talk key.
He is Soul Evans, and he is cool. Be cool.
“…Hey.”
Nailed it.
/casually reblags
part-time recluse 