Aw, nuthin’ too special - jus’ the 2010 V8 Camaro 2SS.
She’s got uh Tremec six-speed manual transmission, Brembo brakes with four-piston aluminum calipers, uh 245 watt Boston Acoustic stereo system with nine speakers, heated leather seats, an’ with uh s-type Borla catback awn th’exhaust, she’d have uh purr like uh goddamn sabertooth tiger.
TELL ME SHE AIN’T BEAUTIFUL.
Imagine Person A of your OTP nyehing sensually in Person B’s ear.
When Ellis had been a boy, he’d wanted a horse of his own to ride to school on instead of the bus.
His grandfather had owned a horse ranch before he was born, and pictures of his mother on various mounts lingered in the photo albums his grandmother had let him pour over in his grandparents’ living room. The ranch had fallen through after a tourist had snapped his neck, and Ellis come into the world with a grandpa who dabbled in banking instead of majestic beasts. The boy’s disappointment was profound.
Oh-ho, Ah see wut yew think yer doin’ there, anon. Yew think yer real’ smart, askin’ me how Ah’d feel if Ah wus Overalls and Nick kept visitin’ his friends when Ah told’im no, am Ah right?
Well lookie here, man. When Keith wus jealous, wanted me tuh quit visitin’ Nick s’much, Ah told’im no. Cus Ah wusn’t doin’ uh damn thang wrong an’ that wus mah best friend who fixed me up when Ah didn’t know how tuh be mahself no more. Yew don’t ask sumbody tuh quit seein’ their best friend cus yer jealous. Yew work awn trust an’ helpin’ ‘em git along.
Tuh be honest, them lines kinduh blurred fer awhile, an’ Ah wusn’t uh real’ good friend tuh Nick. But we’re awl workin’ awn it now.
Findin’ yer soulmate’s th’most important thang yew can do in life, man. That’s th’person yer gonnuh spend th’rest uh yer days with – yer gonnuh write yer life’s story tuhgether. But yew don’t fergit th’folks who kept yew company awn th’way, an’ that’s yer friends.
Ain’t never been much fer water, but Ah’ll crack open uh bottle ‘er sip from th’hose if Ah haftuh, cus it gits hot as hell here, speshully in th’summertime, an’ it’d be sum real’ fool shit if Ah passed out cus Ah didn’ wannuh drink water.
Plus soda don’t help none. S’mostly sugar an’ shit, righ’? Ain’t gonnuh do uh dang thing fer yuh if yer dehydrated outtuh yer skull. Ah think Ah read sumplace that it makes yuh worse off when yer thirsty… Ah love Pepsi an’ Coke both, an’ Ah’m gittin’ tuh like rootbeer cus mah baby does, but mostly fer eatin’.
Ah like Gatorade when Ah’m out, like, doin’ shit, mahself. Better’n pop, an’ don’t taste funky like water. Ah git thah shit bah th’cases from Sam’s Club an’ stack ‘em up in th’laundry room fer when mah fridge runs out. Ah drink awl th’flavors, too. *Grins* Makes it real’ easy tuh shop for.
Well, heck, a’course! Back when Ah wus real’ down awl th’time, Ah wudn’t really workin’ no more an’ me an’ Nick usetuh jus’ lay around bein’ sad. Ain’t no way fer nobody tuh live.
He still takes like uh million naps erryday an’ gits sore when yuh wake ‘im up, an’ he’s too old fer sleepin’ like uh baby awl goddamn day. Awl ‘e does is sleep an’ mope an’ it ain’t no good.
The best Cajun place in town was a cramped bistro shoved in between a pool hall and a dollar store, a battered wooden crawfish fixed over the entrance with one claw and a majority of its red paint chipped off.
KR had worked there for a few weeks during a falling out with Paul at the garage, and the owner greeted him with a long jabbering line of hodgepodged French and English in an accent so thick that whatever consonants were left were barely distinguishable. But Keith seemed to know the man well enough to understand him, because he eased his injured hand free of his hoodie pocket and tucked his arm around the big black man’s shoulder in a thumped hug.
“Two bags,” the older brunette ordered, and Ellis grinned wide. The food there was always served tossed up together and hefted into a plastic bag lined with newspaper, allowing its purchasers to pick through with fingers or forks or both. Vegetables, potatoes, meats, and heavy spices all tumbled together in one steaming array of delicious flavors.
They sat out on the curb in front of the store to eat, smearing greasy fingers on the pantlegs of their jeans, squeezing the heads clear of their crawfish and slurping the thickly greased juice from inside.
“Ain’t this th’life,” groaned Ellis, spitting the excess onto the pavement, his chin dripping spice-riddled butter. A truck pulled up and he lifted a hand in greeting, calling out a cheerful hello as a guy he’d gone to school with wandered into the pool hall.
“Damn fucken straight,” KR agreed with a snort, elbowing his best friend in the arm as he stole a crustacean from El’s bag.
Pardon Day is today. Its an opportunity to seek forgiveness where needed. Today is also a day to say “Pardon Me”, or Excuse Me” as appropriate. In today’s busy society, too many people race about their lives, forgetting the small courtesies.
“Go give it tuh daddy, go awn!” encouraged Ellis in a slightly higher pitch, his border collie mix giving him a thoughtful look before trotting over to the couch where his older master lay pouting. He placed the basket from his jaw onto the floor, giving its handle a nudge with his nose to draw attention to it, tail wagging hopefully.
He had chewed through another pair of boots and assembled their ruins at the door, tripping Keith up and pissing the man off so thoroughly even Ellis – who noted the dog had assumed it was okay since Keith left the shoes out – was in trouble. The redhead glanced at the basket and – in seeing the freshly baked and only slightly burnt muffins inside – smiled.
“Tell daddy how sorry we are,” Ellis said firmly, and Riggs dropped into a crouch, rolling over onto his back and playing dead with his tongue protruding just slightly from his mouth. His tail wagged. “We’re real’ sorry,” Ellis confirmed bashfully, one hand behind his head as he grinned crookedly at his lover.
“C’mere, shortcake,” Keith murmured, arm lifting in offer of cuddles on the couch, and Ellis accepted with Riggs at their feet.
Neither Rain Nor Snow Day celebrates the opening of the New York Post Office building on this day in 1914. This following inscription was inscribed on the building: ”Neither snow nor rain not heat nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”
Rain splattered the dining room window in a constant, blurred rush, illuminated by the headlights of passing cars that brought with them the whoosh of tires through accumulated puddles. Ellis sat with his forehead pressed to the pane, squinting at the multicolored smear of the outside world, disappointment in the unhappy slant of his lips. “Guess it’s more rain than snow tuhday,” he noted morosely. “An’ awl we got wus junkmail.”
Fight Procrastination Day is today. It’s a day to get things done, a call to action.
“Tuhday’s Fight Procrastination Day,” Ellis noted during their lunch hour, perched in Keith’s lap as they enjoyed sandwiches to the chorus of rain on the garage’s roof. “Yer s’posed tuh do summin tuh celebrate.” He munched cheerfully, leaning back into his boyfriend’s chest. “Like shit we been puttin’ off.”
“We’ll do it later,” said Keith, and that was the end of that.
Awe, dude, Ah love co-ops an’ firs’ person shooters most. Halo, Team Fortress 2, Borderlands, Call uh Duty, Sanctum, Marvel Ultimate Alliance.. An’ arcade-kinduh fighters like Tekken, Marvel versus Capcom, Soul Caliber, Mortal Kombat, Streetfighter… An’ a’course racin’ games, Gran Turismo, Gotham City Racin’, Need fer Speed Underground, Shift 2…
Most games yuh play awn yer own git real’ borin’ after uhwhile.. took me like five years tuh beat Castlevania fer th’N64 cus Ah kept losin’ int’rust alone even tho it wus uh real’ cool game. An’ Ah still ain’t beat neither uh th’Batman Arkham games.
Ah think th’only game Ah beat awl awn mah own an’ didn’t mind none wus th’Aquaman game fer th’Gamecube back when Ah wus still in highschool. Mah buddy Keith said it wus lame as hell, an’ it wus purdy awful, but it’s still mah favorite game uh awl time.
It’s got sentimental value, ain’t gonnuh lie.
He’s uh real’ good dog s’long as yuh keep’im busy.
Riggs’s got more toys than mah lil’ bros do now. Cus Ah git ‘im uh couple thangs erry time Ah go tuh th’grocery store cus they got like uh whole aisle fer pets, an’ we take trips up tuh th’pet store since they le’chuh bring yer dogs in. He still ain’t too good at fetch, cus he’ll bring th’ball back, but he ain’t gonnuh let yew take it ‘less yuh snag it while he’s jumpin’ away from yuh. He’s real’ good with tug toys like them braided ropes, an’ he’ll git right up in Keith’s lap with one if he wants Keith tuh yank awn it. *Smiles, scuffing his heel on the floor* He likes th’lil’ treat balls yuh can git stuffed with snacks thah he’s gottuh break open ‘er wiggle ‘round ‘til th’food falls out, cus it gives ‘im summin tuh do.
[Throughout the day, hell-of-a-con/hell-of-a-hick and myself will be posting drabbles describing the Labor Day celebrations of Keith, Ellis, Nick, and Overalls.]
“There y’all are,” blurted Ellis the moment he open the door for his best friend, forgoing a hug to instead grab Nick’s arm and haul him towards the kitchen, foisting an armload of foil-topped dishes into the conman’s embrace. “Help me take this shit outside.”
Nick chuckled, allowing Ellis to percautiously balance additional fool on the already ample stack; his side was a roar of flames but he said nothing of it. “I told you I’d come early if you needed help.”
“Ah don’t need help,” Ellis insisted, topping the tower with a bowl of grape tomatoes in direct contradiction to his statement, “Now bring them thangs out so folks don’t starve.”
Nick poorly hid his smirk as he turned to shuffle through the dining room, intercepted by the tiny arms of Arden being flung around his legs. “Daddy!” he whispered desperately, pawing at his shirt, “Mommy said yew were here.”
Pain seared hot and tight up his side, crackling out into the softest of agonized exhales as Nick eased away from the boy’s grabbing fingers. “Easy there, champ,” he muttered tightly, trying to smile, “Daddy doesn’t feel so good.”
“Get goin’!” Ellis called from the kitchen, “Ah got two more trips fer yew!”
[Throughout the day, hell-of-a-con/hell-of-a-hick and myself will be posting drabbles describing the Labor Day celebrations of Keith, Ellis, Nick, and Overalls.]
Sarah showed up just after two, toting her three year old sons and the handsome, broad-shouldered sheriff she was dating; the twins were dressed in blue, Maybel’s tight blonde curls tucked up from his face with barrettes Ellis aggressively disliked him wearing. “Oh, stop,” Sarah dismissed, kissing her eldest son’s cheek and opening her arms for Keith, “He’s three, he can wear whatever th’hell he damn well pleases – Abby, hi,” she said loudly, sliding an arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “Nice tuh finally see yew.”
Maybel was deposited in Keith’s arms, the lanky redhead holding him on his hip as he moved back to the table for a snack; the child chattered away until abruptly going silent upon seeing Christopher wrestling with Riggs, his face tucking into Keith’s shoulder in a random display of shyness. “Issat yer brov’ur?” he whispered loudly.
“Mhm,” Keith hummed around a mouthful of chips, swallowing down the swell of food in his cheek and grinning as he tickled the side of May’s neck. “No reason tuh be shy.”
“Ain’t it nice tuh see yew,” Ellis said blandly to the sheriff; Brad opened his mouth to reply and Ellis immediately strode into the house for more food.
[Throughout the day, hell-of-a-con/hell-of-a-hick and myself will be posting drabbles describing the Labor Day celebrations of Keith, Ellis, Nick, and Overalls.]
“Ma, I got it,” Keith said in annoyance the fifth time his mother corrected his technique, their banter barely noticed by Ellis and Chris as they played keep away with the dog’s bone, Riggs yapping wildly as he loped across the yard in pursuit of his beloved chew toy.
Chris tripped and toppled across the grass, fingers barely fumbling the bone as he fell, still managing to toss it back before Riggs could pounce him and steal it. The dog bellowed a series of sharp barks and took off back across the grass.
“Chris, get up, yer stainin’ yer clothes,” Abby chastised, tagging her older son with, “That’s too much seasonin’, Keith.”
Ellis gave the future vet a hand up, laughing beltingly as Riggs bounced and pawed between them, nearly throwing them both over in his frantic attempts to bite up his bone. “Sorry, Abby,” he apologized, smacking some of the dirt from Chris’s shirt, “Ah shudn’t be throwin’ so rough.”
“Yer not th’one who went rollin’ in th’grass,” Abby said loudly with an arched eyebrow.
“Naw, Ah got it!” Ellis announced as he spat in a napkin. “Hold still,” he added, snagging the front of Chris’s shirt in an attempt to wipe away the wide streak of a grass stain from his side.
Chris immediately began to wriggle away, objecting with smacked hands at El’s wadded napkin, and Abby gave her older son a long look with slanted brows.
[Throughout the day, hell-of-a-con/hell-of-a-hick and myself will be posting drabbles describing the Labor Day celebrations of Keith, Ellis, Nick, and Overalls.]
Ellis hugged both Keith’s mother and his little brother the moment he answered the door, thumping the latter on the back briefly – apparently not yet forgiving of the time Chris had chosen his own friends over Ellis and Keith for companionship at Whispering Oaks. They were getting slightly more at ease with his frequently given embraces and Abby even smiled, offering a hello as Ellis moved aside to let them into the entrance hall.
The survivor led the way through the house and into the back yard, where Keith lifted his tongs in greeting and Riggs dove at Chris’s legs with a delighted flurry of yapping and bouncing. “He likes yew,” Ellis said thoughtfully, a slow grin forming as the slight edge he’d had towards the teenager dwindled, “Yer gonnuh make uh damn good vet if yew charm awl uh yer animals s’easy.”
Chris laughed and plucked the misplaced bone from the grass - ignoring Keith’s “he don’t play fetch” - and giving it a toss across the yard. Riggs took off at a loping run, scooping it up in his bared teeth and bringing it back immediately. “Guess I got wut Keith didn’t,” he snickered, snagging the bone and throwing it again.
“Hey,” objected the redhead at the grill, “Riggs worships th’ground I walk awn. He’s jus’ playin’ yew fer treats.”
[ account is an ask blog for a fan interpretation of Ellis of Left4Dead2 ]
[ questions are generally answered with fic/drabbles]
[ posts are often NSFW ]
[ tags are currently under renovation ]
