random writer's block stories
vriska/kanaya - fashion
She hates that when Vriska comes to her, all flippant and bossy as always, that she cannot say no. What she demands, Kanaya gives. Any outfit she wants, Kanaya will dutifully make. When she hands it over Vriska takes it and gives no word of thanks but sometimes her eyes light up, pleased at her handiwork, and Kanaya is happy. Vriska expresses no fondness or interest. She expresses nothing to her but annoyance.
"Always so fussy, Fussyfangs~" she drawls with a wave of her robotic arm and a roll of her visible eye. "Stop meddling! Don't ask why, just make it like I asked!"
She receives no payment of any kind but that too is okay. She sews with quiet affection and knows Vriska will never know that each stitch is made with care and precision, just for her. Just for that huge bitch.
Then the game happens and everything changes.
Vriska changes. Kanaya changes.
And punching Vriska in the face has never felt so satisfying. More satisfying is picking her back up by the shirt collar, staring into her dazed and bruised face, and mashing her newly painted green and purple lips to her's. The action conveys what her sewing never could.
dave/john - rimming
"Dude, no."
"Do I hear doubt of my cool factor, Egbert?"
"Oh come on. Rimming has nothing to do with cool."
"You're a non-believer, huh."
"I'm serious."
"Bro, I am disappoint."
"Dave, you are actually the lamest ever. It's you."
"Harsh. Okay then. I'll prove it to you."
"You're not gonna succeed, dude. You can't do it."
"Just watch. Also, hold still. Don't move from that spot, it's perfect."
"Huh?"
Dave took a step forward, posed the ball at the basket, and launched it. John craned his head back and up as the orange ball slammed into the rim of the hoop. It rolled around it for a brief instant before falling sideways without dropping through the hoop itself. It bounced perfectly off of John's forehead before it returned to the pavement and rolled into the grass.
"OW!" John yelled and slapped his hand over the red welt on his forehead.
Dave whistled. "I win. You owe me ten bucks. Also, you are no longer the master prankster."
"Shut up, Strider."