pinocytosis (pinocytosis) wrote,

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PE mpreg, day 1, chapter 1, holy crap

Well, it is November 1st, and I hereby start NaNoWriMo (which inevitably leads me to think of "chimo"). Yesterday was Halloween and I actually went to a party and got a little drunk and socialized, and then I came home and wrote most of this after midnight. Oh my god, that was all 2,270 words. Which if I keep doing every day will bring me to goal, but omg, I don't think I can always write 2K words O___o As it is, it's a pretty sloppy style, but that was inevitable. I just want to learn how to force myself to write, but omg, what if I fail to force myself in the process of learning how to force myself? D: I don't know why I'm angsting. Oh well. I should really head to work already...

Working Title: That Pineapple Express Mpreg Fic
Chapter 1, Word count: 2,206
It's the requisite setup. I usually hate writing intros and bridging the canon to the fanon and all that and always end up writing those parts last, but I think it's better to write it in chronological order for something this long. Anyway, I don't know how often I'll post updates on this, it may very well turn out too embarrassing to post even here, but... yeah. I don't foresee going back and editing too much when there's so much friggin writing to do going forward.
So I try to explain how movie ending segues into the fic... and um, have Dale and Saul do the deed, I mention the crucial condomlessness with perhaps more heavyhandedness than I ever should have, and also some obvious FORESHADOWING of breastproblems-to-come. God, Saul is so hard to write. I love him to death, but for some reason Dale is so much easier. Anyway, maybe I'll try switching the closely aligned POV from one to the other for different chapters. D: Yeah, er, on to the crap.

But first:
One of my favorite scenes for PE:

I never noticed that Dale said "Thanks for taking care of it [the jacket]"!! Omg, I just want to squeeze both of them to death. So f'ing cute.

And this, haha. "If we was in the Shake-a-speare times, you'd be the cutie who played all the girls." No doubt.

Morning light hits Dale in the face and seems to penetrate his very brain when he dares crack his eyes open. He tries to turn his body away, bury his head under the pillow, maybe, or cocoon himself tighter in the blanket, but he quickly becomes aware of a heavy body nestled against his.

That's right-- he hasn't even lived in this apartment long enough to wake up knowing that he's at Saul's.

They had all been injured pretty badly in the big standoff at Ted's hideout, but decided not to go visit the hospital all at once, linking their stories and incriminating themselves. They walked Red to the hospital's huge revolving door and then drove away. Dale gave up on having his ear reconstructed and decided to go through life with the severed ear as a memento of audacious escapades. He turned himself in to the police a couple of days later, since he was already officially on file with them. Saul wanted nothing to do with either the hospital or what he considered its close cousin, law enforcement, and opted to keep a low profile and use his grandma's antibiotic prescription for the multiple stab wounds.

Saul shifts and murmurs something. His face is practically in Dale's armpit, because Dale has his arm around him for some reason, and it's hopelessly numb by now because Saul has probably been sleeping on it the entire night. Saul's mouth is slightly open and Dale's pretty sure that Saul's drooled a wet spot where his head is propped against him. He looks over at the clock and has a momentary panic attack when he sees "12:38" in big accusing red digits-- but no, it's Saturday, and he didn't have to report for community service at nine a.m.

He really lucked out, Dale contemplates. In the end he was only convicted of possession of cannabis. Other charges were dropped because the police officer who filed them had been found to be corrupt. And, well, dead-- that helped tremendously. As for the reckless car chase, the officer whose car had been hijacked herself vouched that Mr. Denton had been well-behaved and cooperating. For the life of him, he could not vaguely describe, much less identify, the sociopath who broke into and stole the police vehicle. Probably one of the many goons who died in inferno, the defense lawyer triumphantly proclaimed. And so, Dale ended up with probation, to do 500 hours of community service, and a big fine, but no time in county jail whatsoever. He did end up losing his job during the month or so it took to put the case through the court system, and would have been hard-pressed to pay his rent, but Saul came through and offered the couch in his apartment. So here he was, most of his possessions in storage, living for several weeks in the home of his dealer.

Saul was not the easiest person to live with-- he was a slob at first glance, but a slob with a system, who invariably complained if Dale took it upon himself to reorganize anything in the kitchen. And then there were the very awkward aspects of seeing Saul at all times of the day. A few days after moving in, Dale returned home from delivering meals to the elderly and giving a high school assembly a douchebag speech about his life as a cautionary tale to never smoke weed. He came in without knocking, granted, because Saul had made him a copy of the key-- though he was paranoid about Dale losing it to the point where it was insulting. Knock or no knock, Saul probably wouldn't have stopped anyway. He was sitting, transfixed by his laptop screen, porno sounds and his own superimposed hip hop soundtrack booming through his fancy surround speakers, jerking himself off rapidly, hardly missing a beat with Dale's entrance, only raising up his unoccupied hand in salute, a spacey 'Hey' exhaled just before he winces and spasms into a Kleenex.

Dale stood for a few beats, watching Saul breathe heavily, wipe sweat off his brow and finally turn to him with a smile.

"Dude, that's sick. Why're you doing that out in the living room?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why don't you go do it in the shower, or, I don't know, your bedroom at least?"

"Cause then I can't hook up the laptop to the subwoofer stuff. What's wrong with the living room anyway?"

"I, uh, sleep on that couch and just maybe don't want your spunk ending up on my face, I guess? Didn't really need to see you jerking off either."

"What? What are you on, bro? I mean, you live here now, so you can't expect me to be like all shy and fake. It's totally natural."

"Yeah, so is taking a shit."

"Well guess what, I do take shits, I confess. You should try it sometime."

"Should I try it in your living room?"

It was the first unpleasant exchange they had since their spat while on the run, and Dale felt sheepish almost immediately after and apologized. Saul was probably right, and it was stupid to complain when you're staying at a friend's rent-free, and that friend even chipped in to pay your fine. Saul is such a good guy in many ways-- the best friend Dale had ever had, there was no denying it. So Dale never complained about it again, and even started taking part in it if their schedules lined up. Saul was so eager to do everything together, and it was more fun with two people, Dale had to admit. They'd load a streaming video, Saul would put on a hip-hop song in the background, running around the room setting up wires and knobs, like some master DJ of titillation, finally jumping on the couch taking his cock out of his pant hole and they'd jerk off together with the music and the gasping and sighing pumping loud enough to vibrate through the floor and couch into their bodies. It was the advantage of living in that shitty neighborhood-- no one ever cared about noise. Saul would put on solo girls or lesbian porn, because Dale confessed he preferred those. They'd jerk off, smoke some weed if Dale didn't have a scheduled drug test coming up, and Saul would go and make Pop-Tarts or something equally inappropriate for dinner. They were fun evening, Dale had to admit, especially now that he was broken up with Angie and didn't really feel like he could date anyone at least until he was off probation and living in his own place again.

Saul shifts, and Dale tries to remember why it is that they're both in Saul's bed instead of him on the couch in the living room. The bed's infinitely more comfortable, even with Saul there, preventing half of him from moving. Yesterday... he came home... complained about how boring and tiring it was to repaint the senior citizens' center's roof... Saul had brought him Kraft mac & cheese and rubbed his head in empathy like some bizarre, dirty June Cleaver... he really is an affectionate guy... then... Saul offered to try the new Purple Haze shipment he got from the Asian cartel in the next town over... "nowhere near as good as the Pineapple Express, but Ted's hydroponics are dead, so what are you going to do..." Dale had to refuse because he was meeting up with his probation office on Monday and God knows if he'll want a random urine analysis... And then...

Saul breathes in deeply, chest expanding against Dale's much flabbier torso, mouth finally closing, and his eyes making the most cautious move to open. He squeezes them shut again, burying his head into Dale's body.

"What time is it?" Saul's breath is a series of bursts against Dale's side.

"It's like almost one, dude. Get up."

"Oh shit," Saul's face reemerges. He tenses his body into one long stretch, then relaxes back, practically melting off the bed onto the floor. He stands, yawning, scratching his chin with the scrawny facial hair, scratching the back of his neck, and slipping his other hand under his shirt and polar tee to scratch his stomach. His eyes are barely open. "Shit, these guys are going to start showing up soon. I'm gonna go take a shower," Saul finally proclaims. "So don't flush the toilet if you go in there."

"Yeah, I know, man. I won't. Go already."

Saul hoists up his pants a bit, so you can't see the treasure trail between the end of his shirt and waistband anymore, finally turning around and dragging his feet as he heads to the bathroom. He can't still be high, but there's always residual THC in his manner. It makes Dale wonder whether you can fry your brain permanently. Then again, Saul's just not a morning person. And the fact that 1pm is considered "morning" just shows how far they let themselves go on weekends.

But, yes, what did happen last night? Dale refused the weed... at least, hopefully he refused, God, he can't remember for sure now... Saul offered him something else that leaves the system instantly... he was being all proud of speaking in technical terms, calling it by the chemical name... Amyl nitrate? Emile Nightraid? What the fuck. It was all slowly coming back to him... Dale had taken a whiff, and it felt like his heart would burst out of his chest, and that his cock had tripled in volume or something. It was fun but very short. Saul took it too, in solidarity... they kept taking shots of it, yes, that's what happened... laughing hysterically... too dizzy to stand up... "delectable bubble butt"... that phrase was suddenly on the tip of Dale's tongue and it vaguely aroused him. Had he said it? Had Saul? Oh God... he repeated it, whispering out loud, and could definitely remember grabbing Saul's ass... biting Saul's ass... it all seemed really funny at the time.... ohgodohgod... they went to the bedroom, clasping at each other to be steady, but both falling over... that's probably why his knee was vaguely sore this morning, now that Dale thinks about it. Yes. He totally fucked Saul last night, on this very bed.

Dale listens to the sound of the shower water coming down and wonders how much Saul remembers from yesterday He waits eight long minutes on the clock, then finally can't take it anymore. He can never understand why Saul takes such long showers, since he doesn't seem to bother using soap or shampoo. Not that it's any of Dale's business. Dale comes into the bathroom and sits down on the baby blue rug covering for the toilet lid.

"Hey, um... Saul?"


Dale can't really make out Saul's body behind the shower curtain-- it's transparent but there's a bunch of cartoon tropical fish painted on it.

"Hey man, how much do you remember from last night?" Dale shouts over the noise of the water.

Saul's head emerges from the side of the curtain. "I remember, bro. I didn't even smoke week in the evening. Plus my ass like, still hurts. I mean, it's not your fault or anything, but jaysus, I'm surprised."

"Oh. Well... I'm sorry... so... do you happen to remember if we used, you know, a condom, maybe?" Dale really wishes he didn't have to semi-shout all this.

"Uh, no, why would we have to do that?"

"I don't know, like... STD's."

"What the fuck, man. What are you insinuating that I'm this big total slut, and I've got a menagerie of STDs or something?"


"Yeah, like chlamydia and gonorrhea and shit? Because I am so clean. I'd be a pretty douchebag friend if I didn't tell you I had herpes or whatever, wouldn't I?"

"Um, yeah, okay." Dale still tries not to think too hard about the implications of this little indiscretion. Yeah, it was gay sex, but they were high. High gay sex is probably different. Saul is admittedly kind of hot in a weird way, for a guy, but...

Saul shuts off the water and steps out onto the rug, toweling his (still stringy?) hair dry, and Dale watches his naked body move, now under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, under Dale's sober gaze, without Emily Nightride whiffs giving him a raging hardon. No, Saul's definitely not what he's into. Those bulky guy shoulders... his tit-less chest... although now a more detailed memory of last night creeps in... Saul is on the bed, below him, wiggling his hips, shirts still on, only the pants lying on the floor, and Dale leans in, stick his nose into Saul's breastbone, and gathers up Saul's-- what are those? pecs?-- around his face, the illusion of volume, and he slurs happily "Look, you've got titties now," and Saul laughs as if there's great wit to be found in that, so hard that his eyes scrunch up and his whole body shakes, finally pushing Dale to go ahead and fuck him already, as hard as the amyl nitrate will let him.

Dale realizes he's sprouting a major boner at the memory, and it probably doesn't help that he's staring at Saul's perky ass.

"Hey, um," Saul suddenly says, wrapping the towel under his arms and approaching Dale, running his fingers through the jewfro that he seems to like to touch. "I'll go and make breakfast, I guess?"

Next part...
Tags: pempreg
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