Jan. 24th, 2015

martyrerkomplex: (Wait by the light of the moon)
[personal profile] martyrerkomplex
WHO: Palutena ([personal profile] knowitallgoddess) and Krista ([personal profile] martyrerkomplex).
WHAT: Roommates getting to know each other. Also: Video games!
WHERE: Their room.
WHEN: Backdated to last Sunday.
WARNING(S): Krista's internal monologue involves her backstory, and therefore may refer from time to time to childhood neglect and violence. Nothing else is likely to come up, though, I think?

Everywhere I've been's felt wrong to me... )
youcouldbemine: (oh!)
[personal profile] youcouldbemine
WHO: Elphelt Valentine ([personal profile] youcouldbemine) and Sun Wukong ([personal profile] monkeythief)
WHAT: Honest to god swimsuit shopping in winter
WHEN: 1/18 (backdated)
WARNING(S): Elphelt.

Seriously, it's cold. )
gregorydeegan: (An_Axe_To_Grind)
[personal profile] gregorydeegan
Who: Greg and Kyouko
What: Meeting up to discuss starting a band
Where: outside the station

He then got dressed, a tee-shirt that had been sold at the battle for Barthis - the band he was in silhouetted in hot pink on a black background with the band name "Oblivion Folder" in hot pink. ( http://thumbs3.ebaystatic.com/d/l225/m/mZnAprp7OFeWkSBH60W3fsg.jpg ) Over that he pulled on the fringed jacket he had worn in the photo taken to create the shirt, knowing the fringe was recognizable enough. Maybe that would be enough to convince this person that he was worth at least listening to, even if he wasn't his father.

At the last minute, he changed to darker jeans, no longer wincing at the blight that crawled up his leg, as horrifying as it looked. It was a part of him, just like his healing, just like his music.

Finally he pulled on shoes, headed for the door...and forgot his walking stick. Face plant. He got up, healed the damaged, and grabbed his walking stick, heading out, not realizing he had a small amount of blood on his face from a cut he no longer had.

Staff tucked under one arm, he flew to the building where the studio was, then dropped to the ground. Blinked, flew back. Grabbed his guitar, and then flew to the studio again. And then back because he put his walking stick down to grab his axe. Finally he arrived, Guitar on his back, walking stick tucked under one arm, and now-dried blood on his face with no visible wound.

He clumped inside, leaning on his staff, but needing it slightly less, from all that flying.