AN: this is the one i promised i'd upload asap, and it's moirallegiance uvu
Chapter 5: Dave [diamond] Nepeta
is obama available for sponsoring
i bet i could totally get him to sponsor a couple of my raps
invite him out on a dinner date
no
lunch
lunch is def more platonic
and be like yo
b-rack
big o in the white house
brobama
mr. pres in the land of the freestyle rap
b-bama
home of the brave housing your man dave here to set a deal hopin i can appeal to Your Presidency with my flow my eyes set on that dough
because lets be honest mr president money doesn't grow on trees and even if it did do you know how quick that shit would be gone trees would never be green again i can guarantee that people would take the buds and just throw that shit in a pot of soil somewhere to grow their own itd be hella dangerous out there can't even stand for some shade without some greedy farmer hollering at me like 'nah son you best find your own cash stash this one's taken' and threatening me with a rake
Your unhealthy flow is stunted by a light knocking on the door, and the sound of running water and the minty freshness in your mouth bring you back to reality. This particular reality is your bathroom 11:12am, and evidently you were just zoning out while brushing your teeth again. The knocking comes again, this time a little louder, and the knob turns.
"Geez, Dave, you're taking forever!" Nepeta chides, squeezing her way into the bathroom. "This is the last time I'm sleeping over, mister."
"You said that every single time you've stayed over. When should I actually start worryin'?" You give her a playful nudge and she flicks some water at you. In a matter of seconds you two are engaged in the water-fight of the century: t-shirts are dripping, the floor's become the ocean, and even precious bedheads are sacrificed. She wrings her short mop of hair out into the tub while you settle for shaking out the water just like the little dog you were meant to be.
11:48am and you're finally out of the bathroom, your best friend in tow. You're layered in hoodies while she's wrapped in a couple sweaters. There's a brisk chill outside despite the approaching noon sun, and she suggests you both go out for hot chocolate. You almost consider making your own, but since you burned the milk last time, you nod eagerly and grab your keys.
"No, wait," she giggles, "can I do your hair first?"
"My hair's fine," but you both know it's the lying-est lie of all time. You redeem yourself with a grin, "Only if I get to do yours first." She happily obliges and runs to get her combs and brushes and clips. When she returns, she plunks herself and all the hair paraphernalia down on the couch. You barely touch a thing, instead going for the more easily-identifiable tools, and you delicately comb her hair back. It's still a little damp, and you're so careful of tangles she drifts to sleep. It's fine with you, though, because it takes almost half an hour for you to figure out how to do a ponytail, and when you finally do you secure it lightly with a bright green ribbon. You admire the professionally-styled coiff before tapping her awake. She holds a mirror to her face and squeals with joy, and she's ecstatic to get you on the couch and mess with your locks.
It's 12:51pm when you leave for hot chocolate, all smiles with your blond braids tucked into your scarf.