scarecrowrevolver

[scarecrowrevolver]

Still my favorite two's.

Could I ask for more Frank and Julie art. Please?

I'm almost forget how much I love them)

Thank you for message!

[scarecrowrevolver]

This is the good stuff. 10/10. Gave me the dopamine. Would read again. In fact, I will.

Romantic Anon(M) sews up some damage on Junebug. Leads to him caressing her face.

It started, as most catastrophes do inside the MFN studio on 123 sunrise street, with a puppet being left unsupervised for barely a minute.

Apparently, Junebug had been running down a set designed to look like a sloped sidewalk while shouting and screaming at full volume.

What she was attempting, nobody knew. But what followed was an unholy combination of jazz hands, a jump, a midair wiggle, and a wildly unnecessary backflip.

She landed in a bush.

A rose bush.

A real hand-grown, very thorny rose bush.

She shrieked from inside, thrashing like a taffy noodle in a wind tunnel. “MY LEGWARMERS CAUGHT A BRANCH! MY SKIRT’S A DISASTER! MY NOSE IS BENT!! MY NOSE IS- HAHAHA! MY NOSE IS STILL BENT!”

You found her later, tangled in thorns and cackling like someone had told her the world's funniest joke. Her round plastic eyes were slightly askew, nose half detached, and one hoop earring wrapped around a rose stem like it was getting ready to hula hoop.

“I didn't miss lunch, so everything is fine!” she declared surprisingly calmly. It didn't last long, “I need sewing! I need SEWING! Hahaha! I’M A PATCH UP PRINCESS!”

You sighed. fondly, of course, and knelt. Her lime green hair was full of petals and quickly staining, her shoes somehow on the wrong feet, and her pink unicorn shirt flapped open from a torn seam at the wing.

“Hey Junebug,” you asked gently, “you need me to sew that up?”

And that became your schedule for the next few days, and than the next few weeks.

A month later, you found her again, slumped in a makeup chair on Stage 4, leg warmer snagged, stuffing peeking out from a seam in her cheek. Glitter from some skit dusted her shoulders. One hoop earring was missing. Her pirate hat dangled nearby on a prop sword.

“Hey, Bug,” you murmured, crouching beside her. “Looks like you picked a fight with another rose bush.”

She rolled her plastic eyes. “Roses? I’d rather eat gravel!”

You chuckled, laying out your tools. “Let’s try needle and thread first. Gravel can be dessert.”

She gasped, clutched her frilled skirt, and dramatically flopped into your arms.

“TOUCH MY FACE!! I MEAN- FIX IT! FIX THE WHOLE SITUATION! DO YOU HAVE A THREAD THAT WILL MAKE ME BETTER AT SPORT?!”

“I have normal thread.”

She groaned. “Ugh. Fine. But make it fun.”

With steady hands, you got to work, reattaching her nose with an easy stitch, it took a while to find her earring this time, brushing back her neon hair was easy now that it was daily. She shivered when you touched her cheek.

“I FELT THAT! YOU TOUCHED IT! RIGHT IN MY BUTTON SOUL!”

“Easy, Bug.”

“I’ve been wounded,” she groaned, lifting her arm to reveal a seam torn just below her nose. A bit of stuffing peeked out, timid and fluffy.

“Not the fluff!” she gasped. “Not my internal sports integrity!”

“It’s just a little rip.”

“I don’t do little! I'm not Handy, Randy, and Pig! If I’m torn, I'm torn apart!”

You smiled despite yourself and gently brushed a tuft of hair from her eye again. “Mind if I patch you up?”

She blinked. “You want to touch my face?”

“Gotta sew it back up, Bug.”

“Friend,” she said with theatrical gravitas, “if you’re going to sew me, you better commit to the play!” She tilted her chin skyward like she'd just scored a goal. “Touch away.”

You fished out your trusty needle and thread, carried everywhere since the last time, and began stitching, adding a tiny sparkle shape at her insistence.

The damage wasn’t too bad- this time. A scuff, a bit of frayed fabric, a torn seam s bit too close to her mouth not to worry. But it could have been a lot worse.

You think about what's under the studio.

It definitely could have been a lot worse.

The lights above buzzed faintly. You worked slowly, threading life back into lemon felt, tugging the yellow thread with care. Junebug was quiet. Unusually so. No jokes. No sudden yells. No mumbled songs about god knows what.

When you finished, you didn’t move right away. Your thumb brushed along her jaw. Then up, sweeping her green bangs from her plastic eyes.

Junebug blinked. No blabbing. No terrible jokes. No yelling. Just silence.

Until, “TOUCH MY FACE AGAIN. I mean—fix the side, the side, it’s still flappy!”

You smiled. “Maybe it’d stop flapping if you whispered.”

As you stitched the seam of her unicorn shirt, not your best work so far, but you didn't have purple thread. She leaned in and whispered, well, shout whispered, “When I’m smart, I eat other people's food, and I’m felling smart today. So smart.” Her breath reeked of horseradish and regrets.

“Mm, Noted.”

You were done.

She leapt up, twirling like a crazy Zumba teacher. Hoop earrings swung wide. Leg warmers now mismatched and uneven.

You laughed. The sound felt warm in the cold, prop cluttered room. And for a strange, quiet moment, it was just the two of you. Skin, thread, and something wordless in the quiet.

She stopped and studied you with exaggerated seriousness. “Most people panic when a puppet rips.”

“Most people don’t wear magenta and jade leg warmers with this much confidence.”

If she could smirk, she probably would. “You have taste. I like that.”

Then, striking a pose, she declared, “I’m BACK, baby!”

“Try not to pirouette into trouble next time.”

“No promises.”

She leaned in, gave you a boop with her ridiculous nose. “Thanks, stitch boy.”

And just like that, Junebug strutted off, pride restored, leg warmers flaring, as if gravity were merely a rumor and the sidewalk her personal stage, which technically you guess it was.

She was, without question, the best bug ever.