If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]
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February 14th... And 14th.. and 14th--
Date: 2023-02-14 08:19 am (UTC)[This was a stupid idea.
If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]