The Romance of Scumhook and Quence (as told by Lurk)

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Come one, come all! Allow me to regale you with a most curious tale! One that features the heroics of our lovable dingo @Scumhook and the questionably attired @Quence . Will you laugh? Will you cry? Will you soar to heights unknown on the wings of Icarus only to be plunged into the depths of despair like Dante Alighieri? Cum with me as i eloquate the blossoming relationship and show that Love... Love truly does conquer all.

tagging: @Scumhook @Illuminati 2.0 @Raddy @Quence @TinFoilHatGuy
 
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Page 1:
The first golden rays of sunlight began to peak over the skyline and glistened off the towers that stood above the shithole that was once called Seattle. The morning dew clung desperately to whatever foliage hadn't already been stripped bare and a thin blanket of mist slithered gently through the streets. It was just another quiet autumn morning in the section 8 housing project that Quence called home. Several lumps of drab clothing twitched erratically under the awning of a nearby liquor store, a weathered hand with long unkept nails loosed it's grip on another syringe that rolled off the partially limp fingers and tumbled to the brick sidewalk. In a nearby alley, a woman covered in multiple layers of worn out rags shambled forward pushing an old shopping cart filled with clinking odds and ends.

Six floors above, in a dull brown-red bricked building covered in graffiti depicting the local gangs' finest trashy works of street art, a fifty-year-old, balding man peers out the heavily barred window of his studio apartment. Quence, staring across the cityscape of crack dens, slums and government dispenseries, takes a slow, deep breath inhaling the noxious fumes of trash, feces, and traces of several types of mold. Quence thought to himself, "nothing like a little fresh air to start the day." Still in his ill-fitting, frilly bra and panties, he turns around and begins to walk to the old, noisey fridge on the other side of the musty room. Nearly two steps in, making it half way across the apartment, a sudden cacaphony rose from below. "By Kevin Sorbo, what is all that noise," exclaimed our maiden. The raucus continued and a single look told Quence all he needed to know; Antifa had crashed another van and was in the process of creating a new auto-zone.
 
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In his best attempt at a southern belle accent which was still terrible, Quence cried out to any that would hear him, "Oh my! This again? Whatever is a beautiful young lady such as myself going to do?!" A moment passed, silent but for the screams of "KILL THA FASH!" and "DU BOP GIB DUM BIX NOOD MUFUQQA!" Quence was at first certain that a handsome, golden-haired young Fabio was about to kick down the door and rescue him, but doubt quickly settled in followed by fear. He was alone. Alone and surrounded by addled yet angry soy-cuck teenagers. Unknown to Quence, someone did hear him...

Diving deep into the Australian Outback, surrounded by nothing but rocks, snakes and bush, our intrepid protagonist emerges from behind Ayers Rock. His muscles rippled beneath his tanned skin and sweat, beaded and hot, slowly rolled down his bare chest. Curly black hair tumbled passed his broad, square shoulders like a swirling rapids made of ebony and silk. Scumhook stood tall, still wet from his latest exploitation of another aboriginals village, his thick, purple helmeted soldier standing well past his navel. He casually reached behind himself and pulled out a dart and lit it with the sexual heat radiating from his hips. With the lit ciggie placed between his mustachioed lips, he takes a long drag and begins to ponder his next exploit.

Something in the wind caught Scummy's attention, like a whisper carried across the lands. It was faint, almost inaudible, but it was there and he focused hard to hear the message. The spirits in the wind carried to him a cry for help, carried with a distinct scent of shit and homelessness. This was divine providence, and he knew this was a calling he had to answer.
 
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Quence looked around the musty old studio apartment, first at the lumpy mattress on the floor then at the drab, green and brown plaid sofa that's missing a leg. more clamor came from below. "BASH THE FASH!" screamed several lanky white teenagers. "KILL MAYO MUFUGGAHS FO SHIZZLE!" answered a fentanyl filled ebony warrior. Quence stared at the front door, white paint peeling off in large chips, and nothing. no banging, no thumping, no sounds of heavy feet either coming or going, not even a single hand testing the thoroughly unlocked door of dubious quality. He returned to staring through the heavy bars of the single window and began putting on some glossy pink lipstick, "These hooligans are so terrifying, where are all the good men?!"

From beyond the peeling wooden door came a slow, steady thumping slowly growing louder. Quence's heart began racing, is 'he' here? Is that our hero? WHAM! the flimsy door flung open then hung loosely off one hinge. Out of the dark hallway emerged the biggest and blackest doublenigger gorrilla he had ever seen, which was impressive considering the large number of charcoal colored meat sticks he has serviced at the nearby stop-n-go glory-hole. Quence cried out in distress as he bent over and exposed his anus as if he were a cat in heat. The gorilla-nigger sniffed the air and lurched over. He nearly puked. Quence wiggled his 50-year-old bootyhole, "help me! save me! he's gonna rape me! I really hope he rapes me!" The gorilla-nigger covers his massive nostrils with his proportionately huge hands and looks at Quence with raging disgust, "MUP DA DOO DIDDA PO MO GUB!" Quence continued wiggling his cottage cheese butt cheeks at the black mammoth taking up most of the room while the gorilla-nigger started raising a fist the size of a wrecking ball up over his head.

"OHMAHGAWD, DEQUANTARIUS STOP!" A squeaky voice rang through the room as the gorilla-nigger stared blankly, massive fist still hanging in the air, at a scrawny little manlet wearing a black hoody and face covering. "Like, ohmahgawd, I'm so sorry Xir," exclaimed the gaunt anarchist, "like, he's not normally this transphobic!" Quence plopped down to the piss-yellow laminate floor and quietly pouted to himself. "Dequantarius, outside, now!" he commanded before looking back at the now thin-lipped man sitting cross-legged before him. Dequantarius trudged out of the apartment, heavy thumping footsteps following, "MUFUQQIN BIX NOOD MUFFUKKA." "Don't worry xir, he's really just misunderstood and oppressed by the capitalist patriarchy," the anarchist calmly stated. Quence glared at the toothpick teen, "It's all ruined!"
"That's right! The capitalist patriarchy and fashist nazis are ruining everything! Listen, xir, I'm going to leave this flyer for you in case, like, you ever want to join the cause! BASH THE FASH!"

In a flurry of motion, the skinniest anarchist produced a flyer from his oversized backpack, spun around and ran out of the room, squeaking "PUNCH THE NAZIS!" leaving Quence to pout all by himself.
 
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Scumhook stood erect, as tall as his member still throbbing in his hand. He knew the dark forces arrayed against him, from the thoroughly corrupt law enforcement to the mindless puppet soldiers of the 'strayian military. Still hot and excited from his rape-orgy of that last abbo village, he set forth for the nearest marina.

Upon arrival at the docks, he stood at an overlook and watched as several guards lazily walked the piers. The entire place was locked down and none of the pristine white shapes gently bobbing with the ocean waves were meant to leave. Scummy eyed the guards hungrily, never satisfied no matter the sexploit, yet dismayed by particularly few flabby guardsmen assigned to keep watch. An ocean breeze tussled his curly, raven-black hair and broke the distracting trance he had fallen into. High above, seagulls cried "MINE! MINE! MINE!" and gentle waves crashed rhythmically into the sandy shores. An orange buoy anchored in the bay rocked with the rising and falling currents causing tumbling bell to ring out sporadically. As his gaze swept over the thick piers, all with boats of various sizes tethered to the docks, he managed to settle on a glistening white catamaran parked near the end of a pier. The twin-hulled boat's mast stood as tall as Scumhook's own and the sails were furled tightly against it's boom. as tight as a virgin's first day in prison.

Quietly, Scumhook crept away from the overlook and down to the chosen pier. After a quick glance around, he spotted a sad looking bush to dive into and hide. There he waited what felt like hours for a woman suited up in blue jerseys, plastic badge flashing from her chest and a ring of keys jingling at her hip. Inside his bush, Scummy curled up like a tiger preparing to pounce, victim completely unawares. 'Tap,' four more steps. 'Tap,' thee more steps. 'Tap,' two more steps. 'Tap,' one more step... Silence. So close! The guard woman with long brown hair tied up into a bun started looking around, first to the left, then to the right. Before she could blink, the rustling bush suddenly turned into Scummy's chiseled body as he leapt from his cover and violently ripped all her clothes off. Her floppy breasts, like a pair of runny eggs tacked to her chest, flapped about, her pudgy thighs gripped tightly by his thick, powerful hands. Through his vice-like grip on her thighs, Scumhook held himself in the air, upside-down and thrust his mighty flesh scimitar into her gaping mouth before she could ever think of crying out for help. Like some kind of naked strongman acrobat hanging upside down in the air, Scumhook repeatedly thrust, each time going deeper down her tight, wet throat, as though his penis was a jackhammer tearing through concrete. The guard's eyes rolled into her head, consumed by a strange mixture of shock, agony and ecstasy. Knowing that time was short, he ordered his thrusting soldier to finish up and with one final deep thrust, her throat bulging from the invading member, his penis unleashed a gushing stream of creamy white fluid. He slowly withdrew his flesh sword from her mouth, and several drops of hot, creamy miracle whip landed on her chin. He deftly returned to his feet and let the woman go, her shuddering body falling into a gleeful mound of exhausted flesh.
 
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Crassmeister said:
cool

u should post this on AO3 next to all the brony and kirk/spock porn

Home | Archive of Our Own

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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why would you suggest such a debased idea? the divine artisanship I am presenting to you should never be defiled in such a shameful den of cringe and social pariahship. would you ask the shakespearian troupe to perform in a lowly tavern? Neigh I say! Only the finest of dressings, the grandest of stages, most opulent of halls should ever be deigned to have this work echoing from its chambers! Alas, it would behoove me to diminish one who has yet to taste high culture without first offering a chance for refinement. Should you rescind your blasphemous verbiage, I may allow you to once again return to the seating chambers and feast your eyes upon the glory of this grandiose opera as it unfolds.
 
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only the Grand Dramatica Playhouse is properly endowed to be bestowed this most enchanted of storytelling feats and here it shall always remain! only the misadventures of another administrator can wipe this glorious miracle from the face of the earth!
 
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lurk said:
View attachment 16888
Quence looked around the musty old studio apartment, first at the lumpy mattress on the floor then at the drab, green and brown plaid sofa that's missing a leg. more clamor came from below. "BASH THE FASH!" screamed several lanky white teenagers. "KILL MAYO MUFUGGAHS FO SHIZZLE!" answered a fentanyl filled ebony warrior. Quence stared at the front door, white paint peeling off in large chips, and nothing. no banging, no thumping, no sounds of heavy feet either coming or going, not even a single hand testing the thoroughly unlocked door of dubious quality. He returned to staring through the heavy bars of the single window and began putting on some glossy pink lipstick, "These hooligans are so terrifying, where are all the good men?!"

From beyond the peeling wooden door came a slow, steady thumping slowly growing louder. Quence's heart began racing, is 'he' here? Is that our hero? WHAM! the flimsy door flung open then hung loosely off one hinge. Out of the dark hallway emerged the biggest and blackest doublenigger gorrilla he had ever seen, which was impressive considering the large number of charcoal colored meat sticks he has serviced at the nearby stop-n-go glory-hole. Quence cried out in distress as he bent over and exposed his anus as if he were a cat in heat. The gorilla-nigger sniffed the air and lurched over. He nearly puked. Quence wiggled his 50-year-old bootyhole, "help me! save me! he's gonna rape me! I really hope he rapes me!" The gorilla-nigger covers his massive nostrils with his proportionately huge hands and looks at Quence with raging disgust, "MUP DA DOO DIDDA PO MO GUB!" Quence continued wiggling his cottage cheese butt cheeks at the black mammoth taking up most of the room while the gorilla-nigger started raising a fist the size of a wrecking ball up over his head.

"OHMAHGAWD, DEQUANTARIUS STOP!" A squeaky voice rang through the room as the gorilla-nigger stared blankly, massive fist still hanging in the air, at a scrawny little manlet wearing a black hoody and face covering. "Like, ohmahgawd, I'm so sorry Xir," exclaimed the gaunt anarchist, "like, he's not normally this transphobic!" Quence plopped down to the piss-yellow laminate floor and quietly pouted to himself. "Dequantarius, outside, now!" he commanded before looking back at the now thin-lipped man sitting cross-legged before him. Dequantarius trudged out of the apartment, heavy thumping footsteps following, "MUFUQQIN BIX NOOD MUFFUKKA." "Don't worry xir, he's really just misunderstood and oppressed by the capitalist patriarchy," the anarchist calmly stated. Quence glared at the toothpick teen, "It's all ruined!"
"That's right! The capitalist patriarchy and fashist nazis are ruining everything! Listen, xir, I'm going to leave this flyer for you in case, like, you ever want to join the cause! BASH THE FASH!"

In a flurry of motion, the skinniest anarchist produced a flyer from his oversized backpack, spun around and ran out of the room, squeaking "PUNCH THE NAZIS!" leaving Quence to pout all by himself.
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Weak sauce. Too many common tropes. I don’t like it.
 
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