[ open + closed ] verve is his curse

[flame_off]

Who: Pyro & whoever wants to put up with him; Pyro & Rogue.
Where: open: around. closed: his motel room.
When: December, January
What: Various catch-all CR.

Warnings: Violence, drugs/alcohol, sex. Arson.


Wildcards: small crimes for money, scavenging the Fringes, eating obscenely thicc burgers, having a cigarette. John likes an occasional fight, using/testing his powers, and being an ass.

He drops by the Scrapyard to trade bits and bobs, or to fix up his car. John know surprisingly more than one might expect about souping up cars and will natter about his hot rod if prompted. He misses that whip. A lot.

He is actively looking for a typewriter and paper so he can write shitty poetry, slightly less shitty fiction, and prank notes to leave on Cyke's door.

DM or hit Vishantii w/Qs.

Comments

motel; Christmas morning

[mississippis]

Normally, she lingers in bed in the morning, stirring and then dozing back off a few times, not wanting to leave the warmth of the covers and the arms around her. Today, though, she's up early to drop gifts off at peoples' doors and to head to a corner store for breakfast sandwiches and coffee. It's not quite the big breakfast she'd always tried to throw together at the school, but she's working with a hotplate and a temperamental coffee maker here, and figures something premade is better than morning ramen and potentially lukewarm coffee.

By the time she gets back to the motel room, her cheeks are flushed red from the cold and she's in a much better mood than she'd expected to be. Maybe this isn't perfect, but it's better than the last ten or so Christmases, and it's still pretty damn good.

Besides, the high from the gathering the night before not going completely sideways is a powerful one and something she doesn't feel the need to shake off yet. It’s nice, the closest thing she’s felt to normal in a while.

Better than that though is the lump under the covers that she climbs in next to after kicking off her shoes, waving one of the takeout cups of coffee under his nose like it's a fistful of smelling salts.

"Wake up, sleepyhead. It's Christmas." She sounds almost chipper for once, like maybe she's been hit with a heavy dose of the Christmas spirit. Or just relief that she's not spending it looking at metallic, circular walls. Either way.