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synthsation:
❛ crazy NICE people. ❜ honestly, they could argue about this all day. doc, being a man so heavily set in his ways and diego, who just doesn’t understand the concept of ‘agree to disagree’.
dropping his hand away from his shirt, both swing up and away from his body, palms up. he’s learned to rely on gesturing when expressions are obscured. ( it unsettled people having a faceless helmet pointed in their direction, inhumanly still. but not doc. never doc. diego suspects it’ll take more than that to spook him. ) ❛ stuff. useless crap. ❜ value is lost on a glutton.
❛ why? interested in his stuff? i wouldn’t take the van. smelled wrong. he obviously didn’t keep up with it. ❜
❝ you turned down the chance to get behind the wheel? ❞ a smoke raw huff whistles between his teeth. diego would ride ( and crash ) a unicycle if you told him it’s considered driving. ❝ van must’ve smelled like soap 'n daisies. ❞ a stark contrast to the other’s aroma.
beneath the stoic calm he projects is the subtle urge to swat those outstretched arms back down. a brief impulse fueled by the knowledge that he simply could. with his luck, if that’s what you could call the creature’s naivety, diego might just take it as another human custom.
he sniffs, thumb swiping across his nose’s tip. ❝ very much. no matter how useless ends are, you don’t leave ‘em LOOSE. ❞ tapping a finger firmly into diego’s chest he says, ❝ you take me to that van. ❞
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tar eases out from his helmet, drool dripping down the outstretched tentacle. with a wet smack, it lands right along doc's cheek. hello.
inner peace is something he’s fashioned out of time, moonshine, and tobacco. frail foundations are only good for topping graves in these parts. it wouldn’t do no one a lick of good if he were the hot headed, squeamish son-of-a-bitch he was in his youth. no sir. funny thing about foundations, though — you can pour as much concrete as you like but that can’t stop the ground from shifting. and diego is developing quite the bad habit of rocking doc’s world.
the appendage is spotted the moment it’s shadowy tip peeks from diego’s visor. it dances and wriggles in his peripherals, but it takes a backseat to the evening horizon doc scans. the kid may be CREEPY, but he don’t mean no harm; therefore no harm will come to him from doc’s hand, could it be helped. with that said, in a land with no law boundaries must be upheld.
eye, cheek, and nose scrunch in defense of the suddenly wet TWAP across his cheek. excess slime flings free from the limb’s underbelly and catches on the tip of his cigarette. the fluid is too viscid to see the undeniably soaked ( i.e. useless ) cherry. cramped teeth grip the filter between them. his jaw grinds left and then right, sawing lower bridgework into the butt.
a calloused hand raised, snatching the slick limb. thick wetness squelches free from his grip as he twists his wrist. the corner of his upper lip jumps.
❝ MOVE IT ‘r LOSE IT. ❞
#synthsation#⟨ mssg. ⟩#im not even sure if this qualifies as pda#but this is a touch free zone#that tentacle needs to leave room for the holy spirit
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that’s my coffee.
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synthsation replied to your post: ❛ hey. hey, doc. hey, wake up, doc. doc. ❜
DOC KNOWS IT’S TIME TO FEED DIEGO WHEN DROOLY SLIME IS IN THE HOUSE
IT’S LIKE A RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK TO FEED HIM BEFORE THE GOO STARTS
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❛ hey. hey, doc. hey, wake up, doc. doc. ❜
he scrubs at his face. stubble catches in the cracked callouses armoring his fingertips and the heel of his hand. only when proper consciousness is palmed into his cheeks and eyes does he release a peeved grunt. his hand lifts away only to drop to his bare chest. instead of a soft, hollow sound, a wet SLAP follows diego’s words.
doc’s eyes finally crack open. looking down the slope his flat pillow grants him, he spies the sound’s source oozing between his fingers, squelching beneath his palm. raising his hand reveals a black, shining gossamer clinging to both parts of his body. disgusting.
several thoughts sort themselves with a rapid blink for each. with them in order, he tosses his head back against his pillow, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut. it’s the ASSCRACK of dawn, there’s space gunk on his person, and diego’s being a pest. that can only mean one thing — it’s time for breakfast.
❝ diego… ❞ fingers flex to their full potential. the tacky substance is smeared from his skin to the exposed sheet beside him ( not exactly an improvement to the already stained fabric, but not a stark contrast either ).
❝ s’too early for this shit. ❞
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Honestly, these signs were very effective. I chose a different spot to recreationally trespass on,
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synthsation:
❛ they’re nice people, doc. ❜ ‘moon fuckers’. he HATES that he knows exactly who doc’s talking about, even if the literal meaning of the words unfolds a repulsive image in his head. hm. fucking moons. humans and their – words. at times diego feels that he needs a dictionary for the slang doc seems to be in favor for.
❛ found it, actually. ❜ there’s a pause; a shoulder then lifts, realizing a little belatedly that he should elaborate. ❛ a man was giving them out. a new guy, haven’t seen in town before. i can get you one; he doesn’t need them anymore. ❜
a slow recline has his feet kicking out and crossing. ❝ they’re crazy people. ❞ some of the few outsiders that have managed to not only SURVIVE in town but call it home. aside from doc himself, he can’t recall witnessing such a thing. if setting up camp in this acre of hell don’t warrant you a nut, wearing foil on your head and writing space poetry surely does.
❝ you... found it. ❞ his squint’s motives shift from the afternoon’s high sun to diego --- and there it is. doc, torn between weary and relieved at what surely is the death of ANOTHER stranger, scrubs his hands across his face. ❝ no i don’t --- what else did is this guy not gunna need anymore? ❞ disposal of a boy is one thing, but with a person comes crap; clothes, a car, a wallet and cards... and an ample supply of ugly shirts, in some cases.
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@synthsation / cont.
lips part to argue to purpose of the mug but a sudden gag corks his throat. septum tingling with his a threat from his gut, he rubs beneath his nose. oh that is foul. despite a physical repulsion at the sight, doc can’t bring himself to look from the... tongue? he’s lived here longer than he care’s to remember, but in all those years he’s never seen anyone --- anything --- like this. how blessed he was.
doc glances from the dark substance leaking from its container upon diego’s shoulders down to his own cup of black coffee. he sets it down. pushes it aside. so much for breakfast. ❝ is there anything you wont eat? ❞
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synthsation:
he plucks at the front of his shirt ( a crude alien stamped over his sternum ), looking quite proud of himself despite the helmet obstructing his face – but he has a feeling doc has a good read on him now, and can judge the tip of his head and puffed out chest.
❛ it’s me. ❜
//: @nicelocal
his head hangs yet his shoulders bounce in amusement. mindful to keep the filter between his fingers away from his eye, he itches at his brow. ❝ yeah, dee, it’s you. ❞ the guy’s lack of irony is endearing, he’ll give him that.
❝ the hell did you get that thing? ❞ a bent finger raps against the cartoon. ❝ i better not find out you’ve been chit-chattin’ with them “moon fuckers” down by the creek. ❞
#synthsation#⟨ v1. ⟩#i fucking love this boy so much#doc is so Tired bc of him#but he's too sweet#god dammit
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synthsation:
cant be killed
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❛ let me drive. ❜
the sudden exhale nearly frees the dying cigarette from between his teeth. his titter visibly mingles with the thin trail of smoke twisting near it. a mental montage of broken bone and glass briefly entertains him. gravel embeds into the dirt as doc swiftly twists back around. what polite reservation he may hold is tossed into the bed of the truck along with his cigarette’s butt. he’s gotta be fuckin’ kidding.
— but kid’s too green to have a sense of humour, so his suggestion must be earnest. bless his heart. he slaps a hand down on a leather shoulder. ❝ the only thing you’re drivin’ is me to an early grave. ❞
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synthsation:
@nicelocal
i wont hesitate bitch
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