the artist formerly known as oneangrykate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
riseupwithfists) wrote2010-03-22 02:49 pm
riseupwithfists) wrote2010-03-22 02:49 pm
Entry tags:
boys in the hood are always hard
So this is what happens when you wake up at six in the morning to largely finish your paper and it's too early to start the next one and you're maybe kinda procrastinating on your Big Bang.
This is dedicated togloss and jubilancy (who may not know who the Mystery Solving Teens are but who certainly enjoys teenage boys being doofuses as long as they're fictional). This was inspired by gloss's lgbtfest prompt, but I'm not sure if the finished product counts exactly, so here it is. I've been wanting to write these dudes since Yuletide, people.
(Also, do you know how hard it is to write when neither of the two characters have names? And it just didn't seem right giving them any, so second person it is. Sorry about that. Fic from POV of the Mystery Solving Teen with the t-shirt and the shaggy hair. Also, the run-on sentences are a feature, not a bug. Or both, maybe?)
Chief sprays some totally gnarly spittle at you that afternoon as he goes on, the same old same old about finding the dastardly culprit, uncovering the truth behind who's been vandalizing the school at night, bla bla bla whatever. You both know that it's probably Roy and his bros getting bored with the spray paint and not an insidious conclave of anarchists committed to undermining the public education system, but it gets the two of you permission to hang out on the elementary school playground after dark without supervision and fuck around in the name of surveillance. The slide's not quite as fun now that your feet dangle off the bottom when you lie down, but you manage. The weed helps.
“If we asked,” you're saying between puffs, “I bet Chief would totally get us a dog. For, like, sniffing out clues and shit.”
“It'd have to be a cool dog.” He plays with the cuffs of his hoodie when he doesn't have the joint. It's getting a little hot for long sleeves, the air thick and soupy, but the hoodie stays on like a badge of fucking honor or something. “Like a Rottweiler or a German Shepherd. A dog that you would look at and know that he meant fucking business.”
“Yeah, it'd look totally boss.” Your hands swipe at your eyes, happy and hazy. There's nothing out here but you and him and the monkey bars tonight. It's quiet. It's nice. “Can you imagine us strolling down the street with a bloodhound at our heels? Growling at dudes? We'd get mad respect.” You both chuckle and bump your fists together, your legs swinging in time with each other off of the slide's railing. The exhaled smoke diffuses in front of your faces and you try to focus on every last tendril, like ink in water. You're so enthralled that it takes you a few minutes to realize that he's finishing it off without you. “You fucking prick hog!”
A snort, a wiping of snot on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Bite me, dude. You snooze, you lose.”
"Greedy motherfucker." You shake your head and your hair retreats from your eyes for, like, two seconds, enough to get a clearer look at his lips puckered around the stub of the joint, his stubbly pink chin jutting out like fucking James Dean. You think of him in a leather jacket. You think of him on a motorcycle, and to get that thought out of your head you can't help but wind him up a bit. “You're thinking about Vanessa again.”
“Bite me. Again.” He takes the joint from his lips and holds it high above his head. “That's enough for you, shitstain. Talking about Vanessa again like that...”
“Fine.” There's hardly enough left to be worth it, anyway. “Douchebag. Fucking baby.” You hop down to see how many bars you can skip on the monkeybars without falling on your ass and he perches on top of the slide, knees bent and head up like a goddamn eagle or something, silent. "She'd never put out for you anyway, you know."
“You wouldn't know a decent pair of tits if they were swinging in front of your face,” he replies.
“You did not just call Vanessa's tits decent.” You try to skip five bars when you swing this time. The effort just knocks you on your ass in the woodchips. “Motherfucker!” Your eyes sting but it's not tears, it's just – “Aw, ass shit fuck.”
“Who's the baby now?” He lopes down the slide and keeps the momentum until he's spraying wood and dirt at you, landing in a crouch at your side.
You look down, shaking your head, childishly wishing him away. “Let's see how you act when you get splinters in your ass, fartbreath.”
At that, he gets all weird and snuffly at you until he's got your shoulders under his palms and his knees squeeze against the outsides of your thighs. You can see the pit stains on his hoodie from here, the dampness spilling out down his arms. “Tell me where it hurts, lamer.”
You try to wriggle backwards and away but only succeed in rucking up more woodchips that dig and pinprick through your jeans, fucking fucking fuck. He's got you trapped. “You're such a freak.”
He smirks above you, then throws his head back, displaying his throat, the small pink shaving cut visible there, and you know what he's going to do even before he starts making the horking noises.
“Oh no you fucking don't! Assbag! Son of a dick!” You try to get away and get his heavy ass off of you but he leans down right on your chest and presses your shoulders into the ground with that maniacal crackhead look on his face as he horks loudly and deliberately. You feel the loogie land on your cheek and you're torn between wiping it off but ugh, then it'd be on your hand and that's fucking disgusting and he's laughing like a lunatic, the asshole. You scoop up a handful of woodchips and blast them at his chest, which makes him toss more at you, and you're both shielding your faces and getting shards of sharp-ass wood all over until you're both panting and huffing at each other and feeling like complete dumbasses.
He rears back slightly, fishing behind him for a handful of chips, and you know he's gonna go for your crotch. He's got that look in his eye.
You flip him off. “No fucking way, dude. I'm not getting splinters in my dick, you dickface.”
He opens his hands to drop everything, all innocence. “I won't use my hands, then.” The loogie's half gone, half drying on your face and you don't have the heart anymore to care because he's pinning you underneath his long spidery limbs and working your zipper down.
You both grunt when your dick hits his chin.
He gets you in his mouth and sucks on you loud and filthy, all slobbery and you point this out with a pinch to his neck. “Whatever happened to taking pride in your work, jerkwad?” He answers by swinging himself around more, all the way (with his mouth revolving on your dick and you have to admit that feels pretty ace) and humping your face. The denim smells like wood and sweat where his legs meet, and once you get his jeans down you're hit with the weird, heady sex smell.
He pulls off your dick long enough to say, “If you get anything except your mouth anywhere near my dick or ass, I'm going to fucking bite you, I swear to fuck.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me blow you.” You hate it from this angle and he knows it, but he doesn't shove his dick down your throat too far all at once and he's still going at it on you so you're not going to complain. You like it this way because you're both busy, and because when you get really into it and lose yourself you can't kiss him from this angle. You've just made out and shit a few times and it's fine, but it's weirder during sex, when he's working his mouth on your dick just right and you feel like you would do anything for him, and that's stupid, right? It's just the weird sex desperation talking. Thinking about kissing him when you've got your tongue wrapped around the head of his dick and he's grunting and stroking your balls...
It just feels like it would mean more.
You both spit the come out and kick at the dirt and chips until it's gone. He zips your pants back for you, wiping his hands on his thighs first. He finishes with a ruffle to your hair and a crooked grin. “Wanna split?”
“Soon,” you say. You wanna chase fireflies first, and crush them between your fingers if you catch them. You wanna smear the luminescence like warpaint onto your cheeks and down his face.
You'll tell Chief that it's probably Stinky Pete down from the docks, the one who gave you guys shit last Thursday when you were playing hooky and throwing rocks off the pier. And then the two of you will ask for a totally wicked bloodhound.
Bonus! Get your motherfucking Mystery Solving Teens icons here:
They are all for sharing if you're down with that. I'm feeling like a bit of an icon Communist today. Credit Kate Beaton, not me.
This is dedicated to
gloss and jubilancy (who may not know who the Mystery Solving Teens are but who certainly enjoys teenage boys being doofuses as long as they're fictional). This was inspired by gloss's lgbtfest prompt, but I'm not sure if the finished product counts exactly, so here it is. I've been wanting to write these dudes since Yuletide, people.(Also, do you know how hard it is to write when neither of the two characters have names? And it just didn't seem right giving them any, so second person it is. Sorry about that. Fic from POV of the Mystery Solving Teen with the t-shirt and the shaggy hair. Also, the run-on sentences are a feature, not a bug. Or both, maybe?)
Chief sprays some totally gnarly spittle at you that afternoon as he goes on, the same old same old about finding the dastardly culprit, uncovering the truth behind who's been vandalizing the school at night, bla bla bla whatever. You both know that it's probably Roy and his bros getting bored with the spray paint and not an insidious conclave of anarchists committed to undermining the public education system, but it gets the two of you permission to hang out on the elementary school playground after dark without supervision and fuck around in the name of surveillance. The slide's not quite as fun now that your feet dangle off the bottom when you lie down, but you manage. The weed helps.
“If we asked,” you're saying between puffs, “I bet Chief would totally get us a dog. For, like, sniffing out clues and shit.”
“It'd have to be a cool dog.” He plays with the cuffs of his hoodie when he doesn't have the joint. It's getting a little hot for long sleeves, the air thick and soupy, but the hoodie stays on like a badge of fucking honor or something. “Like a Rottweiler or a German Shepherd. A dog that you would look at and know that he meant fucking business.”
“Yeah, it'd look totally boss.” Your hands swipe at your eyes, happy and hazy. There's nothing out here but you and him and the monkey bars tonight. It's quiet. It's nice. “Can you imagine us strolling down the street with a bloodhound at our heels? Growling at dudes? We'd get mad respect.” You both chuckle and bump your fists together, your legs swinging in time with each other off of the slide's railing. The exhaled smoke diffuses in front of your faces and you try to focus on every last tendril, like ink in water. You're so enthralled that it takes you a few minutes to realize that he's finishing it off without you. “You fucking prick hog!”
A snort, a wiping of snot on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Bite me, dude. You snooze, you lose.”
"Greedy motherfucker." You shake your head and your hair retreats from your eyes for, like, two seconds, enough to get a clearer look at his lips puckered around the stub of the joint, his stubbly pink chin jutting out like fucking James Dean. You think of him in a leather jacket. You think of him on a motorcycle, and to get that thought out of your head you can't help but wind him up a bit. “You're thinking about Vanessa again.”
“Bite me. Again.” He takes the joint from his lips and holds it high above his head. “That's enough for you, shitstain. Talking about Vanessa again like that...”
“Fine.” There's hardly enough left to be worth it, anyway. “Douchebag. Fucking baby.” You hop down to see how many bars you can skip on the monkeybars without falling on your ass and he perches on top of the slide, knees bent and head up like a goddamn eagle or something, silent. "She'd never put out for you anyway, you know."
“You wouldn't know a decent pair of tits if they were swinging in front of your face,” he replies.
“You did not just call Vanessa's tits decent.” You try to skip five bars when you swing this time. The effort just knocks you on your ass in the woodchips. “Motherfucker!” Your eyes sting but it's not tears, it's just – “Aw, ass shit fuck.”
“Who's the baby now?” He lopes down the slide and keeps the momentum until he's spraying wood and dirt at you, landing in a crouch at your side.
You look down, shaking your head, childishly wishing him away. “Let's see how you act when you get splinters in your ass, fartbreath.”
At that, he gets all weird and snuffly at you until he's got your shoulders under his palms and his knees squeeze against the outsides of your thighs. You can see the pit stains on his hoodie from here, the dampness spilling out down his arms. “Tell me where it hurts, lamer.”
You try to wriggle backwards and away but only succeed in rucking up more woodchips that dig and pinprick through your jeans, fucking fucking fuck. He's got you trapped. “You're such a freak.”
He smirks above you, then throws his head back, displaying his throat, the small pink shaving cut visible there, and you know what he's going to do even before he starts making the horking noises.
“Oh no you fucking don't! Assbag! Son of a dick!” You try to get away and get his heavy ass off of you but he leans down right on your chest and presses your shoulders into the ground with that maniacal crackhead look on his face as he horks loudly and deliberately. You feel the loogie land on your cheek and you're torn between wiping it off but ugh, then it'd be on your hand and that's fucking disgusting and he's laughing like a lunatic, the asshole. You scoop up a handful of woodchips and blast them at his chest, which makes him toss more at you, and you're both shielding your faces and getting shards of sharp-ass wood all over until you're both panting and huffing at each other and feeling like complete dumbasses.
He rears back slightly, fishing behind him for a handful of chips, and you know he's gonna go for your crotch. He's got that look in his eye.
You flip him off. “No fucking way, dude. I'm not getting splinters in my dick, you dickface.”
He opens his hands to drop everything, all innocence. “I won't use my hands, then.” The loogie's half gone, half drying on your face and you don't have the heart anymore to care because he's pinning you underneath his long spidery limbs and working your zipper down.
You both grunt when your dick hits his chin.
He gets you in his mouth and sucks on you loud and filthy, all slobbery and you point this out with a pinch to his neck. “Whatever happened to taking pride in your work, jerkwad?” He answers by swinging himself around more, all the way (with his mouth revolving on your dick and you have to admit that feels pretty ace) and humping your face. The denim smells like wood and sweat where his legs meet, and once you get his jeans down you're hit with the weird, heady sex smell.
He pulls off your dick long enough to say, “If you get anything except your mouth anywhere near my dick or ass, I'm going to fucking bite you, I swear to fuck.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me blow you.” You hate it from this angle and he knows it, but he doesn't shove his dick down your throat too far all at once and he's still going at it on you so you're not going to complain. You like it this way because you're both busy, and because when you get really into it and lose yourself you can't kiss him from this angle. You've just made out and shit a few times and it's fine, but it's weirder during sex, when he's working his mouth on your dick just right and you feel like you would do anything for him, and that's stupid, right? It's just the weird sex desperation talking. Thinking about kissing him when you've got your tongue wrapped around the head of his dick and he's grunting and stroking your balls...
It just feels like it would mean more.
You both spit the come out and kick at the dirt and chips until it's gone. He zips your pants back for you, wiping his hands on his thighs first. He finishes with a ruffle to your hair and a crooked grin. “Wanna split?”
“Soon,” you say. You wanna chase fireflies first, and crush them between your fingers if you catch them. You wanna smear the luminescence like warpaint onto your cheeks and down his face.
You'll tell Chief that it's probably Stinky Pete down from the docks, the one who gave you guys shit last Thursday when you were playing hooky and throwing rocks off the pier. And then the two of you will ask for a totally wicked bloodhound.
Bonus! Get your motherfucking Mystery Solving Teens icons here:
001
002
003
004
005
006
007
008
009
010
011
012
They are all for sharing if you're down with that. I'm feeling like a bit of an icon Communist today. Credit Kate Beaton, not me.