*Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck,*
I nearly face planted as I sprinted across the room, damn near tripping over the piles of laundry that I had been neglecting in my rush to grab the mica powder from my other-other craft table.
I snatched up the little jar and leapt across the room with all the grace of a rhino on roller-skates. I literally skidded to a halt, my tail acting as a counter-balance to keep me from toppling over, then opened the dark emerald green bottle and adding a bit into the container on the scale.
*2.1, 2.2. Just a bit more, 2.4, 2.5 grams!*
Slightly wondering if that was kinda what a drug dealer felt like, I dumped the small amount of mica powder into the solution and started shaking the bottle violently. I had at least remembered to close the lid before doing so this time.
After the solution was mixed, I opened the lid and poured it into the airbrush, praying to God or Zeus or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever that I had been fast enough.
*Please don't leave a seam, I really don't want to unfuck this,*
I pushed the facemask on haphazardly, my white fox-esque ear getting pinned under the strap uncomfortably, and slowly applied the next layer of paint onto the foam.
It blended smoothly, the previous layer just wet enough to let it do so.
"Oh thank your fucking meat balls, Senior Spaghett," I said out loud.
*Really Vicky? That was too fucking close,*
*Shut the fuck up, me,*
*Bitch,*
*Bitch,*
It took me a second to remember that my ear was being flattened by the strap and was starting to hurt. Now that I wasn't in crisis mode, I adjusted the strap and freed my ear, immediately returning to the foam armor piece.
This fucking project was going to kill me, but I was apparently a whore because I kept working on it, proud with my work and also seeing dollar signs. The client had paid half up front for this project because of the detail he had requested. I liked money and was very passionate about not starving to death, so I was going to finish what I had started.
I had been working on this project for about two weeks, the initial idea having come from the client, but I had been the one who had made the design. This guy was going to be wearing it as part of a costume, a character of his own design. He was even going to be doing some cosplay events with it. I had been smart enough to keep a contract where I get credit in any photo that he posts of the work, but otherwise I didn't really care.
I liked making the stuff, and cons were fun and all, but I wasn't really the cosplayer type. Humans really liked that stuff, and most Zenthari did as well, but I had had my tail tugged a few too many dozen times to really like going.
*Cosplay does not equal consent,* I thought.
*Yea, but riding someone while cosplaying could be fun,* my brain countered. *Whole new meaning to 'Hulk Smash!'*
*Okay, brain, first off, ew. Second off, what the fuck?*
My brain, the traitorous little bastard, didn't reply.
*Bitch,* I grumbled.
I went back to work, the sound of the airbrush soothing.
I finally finished the layer of paint and turned off the compressor, letting out a deep breath. I may or may not have forgotten to breathe during that time. Fuck it, oxygen, shmoxygen.
Just another few pieces and I'd be done.
I picked up my phone and checked the time.
*Oh,*
*Oops,*
I decided that I should probably call it a night. Or morning, technically. The fact that it was past 3am would probably explain why my eyes were so tired.
I grabbed the foam pieces and stuck them back on the mannequin to dry, then headed back to my desk and started cleaning up.
*Damn, I need a shower,*
*Later, sleep now. Not like you're going anywhere,*
*But I'm gross and really need a shower,*
*I know, but it's all the way over there,* I moaned internally. *No, food first, then sleep, then shower,*
I knew that the order of events was definitely wrong, but I really didn't want to argue, either. I really couldn't, since, you know, it was my own thoughts. I hadn't gone full schizoid yet.
*Bitch, is that a challenge?*
*Fuck off, me,*
I stumbled into my kitchenette, my feet moving me to the fridge without me actually directing them.
*Thank you, auto-pilot,*
*Don't mention it,*
*Bitch,*
*Slob,*
*Touché,*
I pulled out one of those healthyish microwavable meals and threw it in, listening to the hum as I grabbed an ice tea from the fridge, cracking the can open and draining half of it.
*You should probably drink, you know, water?*
*Probably,*
I kept drinking the ice tea. At least it didn't have any sugar. I may not be the most elegant of foxkin, but I did somewhat care about making sure I stayed thin. It wasn't out of a fear of getting obese, but purely because I didn't want to replace my wardrobe.
Okay, a little of it was scared of getting obese, already having been through that stage when I was a fat kid. It didn't matter how many people told you to be happy with your body when you were surrounded by children.
No, I was happy with my 115 pounds. I didn't need to be fit or muscular or razor fucking thin, I was happy with who I was now.
The microwave had a chance to give half a beep before I opened the door and snatched the food out.
"Fuuuuuuuuck, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot,"
I was a master at not dropping the steaming hot tray and was proud of myself.
I walked back to the living room, taking another big gulp of the ice tea.
*I really shouldn't eat while drinking,*
*You really shouldn't do a lot of things,*
*Better than drinking and driving,*
*You don't drink,*
I put the food on the counter and tore open the top, digging into it with the second to last clean fork.
That was usually my sign to clean. Once I got down to last fork or last clean panties, I want on a military campaign style attack and turned my little studio apartment into a a crystal clean becon of high society.
Then I didn't touch it again for a month or so.
My mind drifted as I ate, thinking about the last date I had had, or rather, the last bad date I had had.
I had thought this one had been going well. He was cute, nice, and had seemed genuinely cute. Then, he had started voicing his opinions on... Certain types of people.
I had seen red flags. By the second sentence into that subject, the guy was a communist rally. I had no idea what ever disabled ex had done to him, but he had clearly been fucked up by him.
I had called a rides hare and left before he had finished his salad at the restaurant, then blocked him on Whiskr. And every other platform that I could find.
That was actually a good way to describe my dating life. A series of red flags and blocked contacts. I wasn't against guys just looking for hookups, they do they, but at the very least don't open the convo with a dick pic, and if you do, at least don't make it one of those where your pushing down on your nuts to try to make it look bigger with your harry ass legs in the background.
The date before that had been better. We had just gotten dinner, went and saw a movie, and had a nice night. Nothing had clicked, we hadn't made out or anything, but he was nice, and he promptly ghosted me.
Then the date before that was an absolute disaster. This guy had been super weird and creepy, like, 'should have been in prison and possibly in a mental institution with men in white coats with nets on standby ' level of weird and creepy.
He kept asking me if I liked fur coats, if I thought they were murder or had an issue with them since I was a Zentharian.
Yea, after that, I had gotten peppers pray. And a knife. And new locks. And even thought about a security system in a concrete bunker with a big "No Boys or Psycos allowed" sign.
I threw my fork into the sink, knowing I'd be going on a rampage later to clean everything, and meandered back to my den. I flopped down on my nest, and pulled out my phone, pulling up Whiskr.
'238 Potential matches! Subscribe to see who's sniffin around!'
*Yea, no, fuck you,* I dismissed the ad and scrolled through, not daring to look at my messages. I had gotten use to seeing that number of potential matches being astronomically high. Not out of vanity, but because I was an arctic foxkin.
Foxkin already had a reputation for being nymphos, a reputation that they had honestly earned, and I was also seen as exotic.
*Maybe if I took a picture of how I looked now, it would desuade the more desperate ones,*
*Or it'll backfire and you'll get ones who are into that shit,*
I scrolled through the suggested profiles, both men and women, trying, and probably failing, not to judge off looks alone.
I wasn't necessary interested in women, but I wasn't disinterested, either. After Mr 'It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again', I figured I might want to change up my potential dating pool.
I had dated a girl once, and only for a few weeks, but it hadn't really gone anywhere. She and I just didn't click, but it was nice to experiment with her. She was super nice and patient with me, even when we didn't technically go so the way.
*At what point is lesbian sex, sex? Like with a guy, is when the meat-rod goes into the happy-hole, right? Does fingering count? Or is it only when they bump uglies?*
I kept looking through the profiles, not fully paying attention to my own thoughts.
*Cute, but the picture looks super doctored,*
*Not bad, but... Not really my type,*
*Oh, an actual gym rat. Being a ratkin bodybuilder must suuuuuck,*
*I'm sorry, but having your main pic on a dating app being you holding a fish... Questionable judgment...*
*Oh, she's cute, her smile is nice, beautiful eyes... Oh, she doesn't believe in deodorant,*
*I am 100% certain that you are not a chuwhawa, either post a picture of yourself or take the app away from your dog,*
At this point, I was just doom scrolling. I didn't care at this point, but it was something to do. I wasn't tired enough to actually fall asleep, and the project was still drying, so I wasn't about to get any more work done. I mainly just needed my brain to turn off.
I opened the messages tab, scrolling passed all the ones making that they had sent an image. I swear, I had seen more dicks in my messages then a porn site hosted. Essentially, if they sent a photo, I ignored it.
Yea, I was that kind of 'bitch'.
I saw a message that the teaser text caught my eye. Curious, I opened it.
'I recognize your name from somewhere, I think it was at a con or something. Did you have a panel or something?'
I didn't have a panel or anything, but I did go to a lot of cons. It was a great place to promote my business and sell some of the more simple cosplays, like t-shirts. I didn't know how this guy could recognize me, though.
I typed a quick response, but hesitated before sending. I deleted it, then clicked on his profile.
