some kill their love when they are young, some when they are old
WHO: Eridan Ampora and Edward Nygma.
WHERE: Eddie's brownstone.
WHEN: uhhhhh like midnight on the 9th.
WARNINGS: FEELINS... and also maybe vviolence?
SUMMARY: So Eridan disapoofed to go flip out and die for a couple of days. Then he came back.
FORMAT: QUICKPARA
[it doesn't take Eridan long to get reaccustomed to the City, once he has a moment to breathe. to notice that yes, he's in his own body again, and yes, there's a scar where the chainsaw fell, and yes, it's too fucking cold outside for somebody to be wearing half a shirt and half a scarf and a lot of blood. too much to brave going outside in the daylight.
so he waits, and he considers what to do next - actually thinks about it, because he can't afford to lose this, this grand opportunity for continued lack of notoriety when there's so much blood that will, in time, be on his hands - and waits until it gets dark to move. it's just as cold as he thought it'd be, maybe even a little worse, but with a little speed and a little guile and a lot of luck, he manages to find his way back at the door of the brownstone, shivering as he uses the key he hid in that deranged old woman's flowerpots just a little ways down the street.
you know, in case he ever needed to get in at a ridiculous time of night.
when he steps in, speaking, his voice is raspy like shark's skin. there's bright purple blood all over the inside of the door where he leans and it's getting on the carpet.]
Ed.
[not really a question, and not quite loud enough to be a call. just tired.]
Bring a couple a towels.
WHERE: Eddie's brownstone.
WHEN: uhhhhh like midnight on the 9th.
WARNINGS: FEELINS... and also maybe vviolence?
SUMMARY: So Eridan disapoofed to go flip out and die for a couple of days. Then he came back.
FORMAT: QUICKPARA
[it doesn't take Eridan long to get reaccustomed to the City, once he has a moment to breathe. to notice that yes, he's in his own body again, and yes, there's a scar where the chainsaw fell, and yes, it's too fucking cold outside for somebody to be wearing half a shirt and half a scarf and a lot of blood. too much to brave going outside in the daylight.
so he waits, and he considers what to do next - actually thinks about it, because he can't afford to lose this, this grand opportunity for continued lack of notoriety when there's so much blood that will, in time, be on his hands - and waits until it gets dark to move. it's just as cold as he thought it'd be, maybe even a little worse, but with a little speed and a little guile and a lot of luck, he manages to find his way back at the door of the brownstone, shivering as he uses the key he hid in that deranged old woman's flowerpots just a little ways down the street.
you know, in case he ever needed to get in at a ridiculous time of night.
when he steps in, speaking, his voice is raspy like shark's skin. there's bright purple blood all over the inside of the door where he leans and it's getting on the carpet.]
Ed.
[not really a question, and not quite loud enough to be a call. just tired.]
Bring a couple a towels.