#and i was like dang this shit slaps lemme color it

[kiidart]

new soul

also uhh read tags because OH BOY THIS DRAWING HAS A STORY LOL

original sketch + transparent + bg undercut! -

[sourbat]

#6 Pickleface, please!

Tongue-tied 

enjoy :)

It’s nearing one in the morning, and Pickles is flipping through the channels, heel tapping through the line of infomercials with the steady hum and beat that echoes with the drum of Murderface’s fingers against his stomach. Coffee, booze, weed and just about every brand of chip and candied popcorn known to man litters the surrounding couch. The blanket once shared between them now clutters the floor, pooled mainly around Murderface’s feet.

Murderface sees a flash of red on the screen and spits up a bit of his drink. He points a finger. “Hey, shtop there!”

Pickles lifts his heel. “Here?”

“Nah, nah! Go back a few channels!” Murderface says, then grabs at the near-empty bowl of caramel corn. “I shink I shaw your fashe…”

“Oh, great,” Pickles mutters sarcastically, but a twinkle in his eyes tells Murderface he’s already looking forward to whatever insults the guy has in store for him. He presses his arched foot onto the pedal, goes back a few channels till Murderface stops him with a shake of the arm. Pickles slaps his hand away once he settles. “Alrighty, what’s the damage this time?”

A boring, late night documentary on the history of glam rock, starring a bunch of no-names who likely majored in music appreciation and realized the only way anyone was going to bother listening to them was to mask their fancy words with flashy images of bands Pickles barely remembers from his youthful days. His tongue drags against the top row of his teeth, tracing the shape of his left incisor while Murderface insults the jackoff with the thick-rimmed glasses donning long, poorly dyed hair.  

“What a fuckin’ tool,” Pickles comments, earning a loud cackle from Murderface. 

“For real,” Murderface agrees, then reaches for the bong situated near the edge of the table, and prepares himself a hit.

Pickles is in the middle of grabbing the discarded blanket when he catches the man fingering the bowl. “Oh, lemme have a bit when yer’ done,” he says, thinking he’s got another half-hour in him before passing out for dreamland. He glances at Murderface’s slightly protruding stomach and already fantasizes resting on it right once he’s finished getting stoned.  

Murderface flicks the lighter awake. “Shure thing, dude.” 

Then pops a frontline image of Snakes N’ Barrels, and as the screen is hit with a blast of smoke, Pickles hears the usual spiel from the narrators who try to come off more progressive than necessary. Some rando brings up how brave Pickles was for coming out before anyone else, how he was a pioneer for queer representation, what a badass he was for performing right after surgery, blah, blah, same old shit. Pickles takes a deep hit once he’s handed the bong, smiling inwardly as the words on the screen start to blur and intermingle with Murderface’s less than forgiving commentary. A thick finger waves at a much younger, shirtless Pickles posed with an albino anaconda, and the guy nearly retches a cough before breaking into a lisped series of predictable penis jokes. Pickles holds his breath through it, letting the smoke kill whatever reasonable thought he has before spewing it in the direction of a ceiling.

“Not bad.” Murderface compliments the solid twirl of smoke as Pickles places the bong back on the table, slumps back into the cushion, then slides further on his right, falling on top of Murderface’s side.

Pickles eyes settle on a debut poster for Snakes N’ Barrel’s summer tour across Asia, and as the nobody historian, musician-whatever dude talks about how androgyny played a role in levelling the field for women performers, Murderface utters a steady whistle.   

“Damn, you’re sho hot in that picture!”

“Thanks, was like…half my age back when I posed fer that,” Pickles comments. High on weed, sugar and nostalgia, Pickles stares at the dying image of his younger counterpart shifting into that of an all-female metal band, and sinks further, head now resting on Murderface’s arm. “Dang, I used t’ be a real hottie.”

Murderface ceases sorting through the caramel corn for chunks of crystalized nuts and turns to face Pickles. “Ushed to?” he asks rhetorically. “Dude, you’re shtill hot.” He rolls his shoulder, stirring Pickles to sit upright. Murderface sets the bowl aside and reclines into the corner of the sofa. “Getting the dreads wash the besht deshision ya did,” he says as Pickles drags some fingers down the corner of his eye.

A tired laugh. “Doesn’ help much against the baldin’.”

“Yeah, but look at you,” Murderface says, gesturing at Pickles’ arm. “You got bad-ash dreads, larger muschle mash, and your levels are conshtant now so you getta keep that goatee!”

Pickles rubs the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

Murderface leans in as Pickles reopens his reddened eyes, grim eyes shifting to a more suggestive stare. “You know I like your goatee.”

“I know.”

“Sh’real good look on you.” Murderface withdraws a little, rubs the back of his neck as his eyes settle on their covered toes, then adds, “Err, it’sh rugged.”

“Heh, thanks.” Flattered, Pickles brings hand to his goatee, tugs and smiles against the resistance of a full beard.

“Wish I could grow a beard,” Murderface mutters, mirroring Pickles’ movement with his own, and dragging his massive hand across his jawline. “Anyshing I grow comesh up uneven.”

“Nah, dood, yer’ good,” Pickles insists with a short jab of the elbow. “Ya’ aged fine. Yer’ rockin’ the ‘stache.”

“And a beer gut,” Murderface remarks, hands dropping to pat the exposed stomach peeking through shorts and a slightly raised shirt. With the atmosphere covered in a veil of smoke, and Pickles and Murderface already so high, it was impossible to read the words and tone and figure if Murderface was joking or not. Pickles, lacking forethought and a filter, assumes the former. Even at his best, William can be a critical, self-judgmental bastard. 

Pickles drops on his hands, rolls his red eyes and shakes his head at Murderface. “Whaddya talkin’ about, dood? That's the best part of you!”

Murderface frowns. “What?”

Pickles raises a finger at Murderface. “Ya used t’ be a skinny, insecure baby-face!” He snickers a wide grin, then jabs his finger at the round gut. “Now yer a real man,” he says, opting to pause and enjoy the gentle quake of William’s stomach, and raises his eyes to the widening lime-colored irises dilating at his remark. Pickles laughs. “A real man with a sharp tongue, good humor, thick-ass mustache and… soft pillow fer a gut!”

“O-oh, well.” Murderface produces that humble, shy smile he only dares to express when it’s just the two of them.

Pickles eats it up and pushes further. “I mean, ya may not be as manly as this work of art,” he adds, gesturing at himself and earning an exaggerated eye roll from Murderface, “but yer perfectly fine fer snugglin’.” 

Even in the dark of the room, and the hazy veil layering Pickles’ vision, he can make out the start of an uncontrolled blush.

Murderface opens his mouth, but only nervous chuckles come out. He scratches the back of his head again, raising a lax shoulder in the process and steering his eyes away as he struggles to add on to the piling list of compliments. Picking on the man’s lowering defenses, Pickles slumps further, arms sliding and body lowering, closing the gap until his head rests comfortably on top of Murderface’s stomach.

He feels Muederface twitch beneath him. 

“Look at me, Will,” Pickles says, and unleashes a mean snicker once Murderface drops to meet his lazy stare. The man’s definitely blushing now, and to top it off, he’s at a loss for words. His lips are curled in, fighting between a frown because he can’t think of anything to say, and a widening grin because he knows what Pickles is going to tell him.

So he says it. 

Pickles chuckles up at Murderface. “Ya’ know how I feel ‘bout my pillow.”

Some old broad shows her face to the camera. She narrates over some basic-ass music and talks about some band neither men recognize. A face of some unknown singer pops up, and Pickles yawns, flutters his heavy eyelids and brings the blanket up to his shoulders as he stares mindlessly at the screen. Murderface is nice and warm tonight, he thinks, and welcomes the cozy embrace of a cannabis-induced sleep. Underneath, he senses Murderface’s slowed breathing in the form of gentle rises and falls, and before he passes out for the night, feels something rough and wet press against his cheek.