THIS IS NOT REALLY A WIP.
Jun. 13th, 2011 11:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_ragnarokWhich is to say - I have more of this in mind and maybe one day I'll write it. And maybe I won't. No guarantees, is what I mean. That said, suggestions for what happens next would be gladly accepted.
Also, this is self-indulgent as fuck, since it's an AU where Arthur and Eames are high-school boys playing RPGs.
"All right," Dom says, a bit grander than he should. "We are convened."
Arthur suppresses a snicker. Normally he would just laugh – it's good to puncture Dom's ego every once in a while, let the some of the hot air out safely – but it's the last session of their campaign and all right, maybe Dom earned the right to feel important.
"Recap?" Nash asks, because he's a fuckwad who can't even be bothered to remember bringing his character sheet, let alone the plot.
If Dom minds, he doesn't let it show. Mal lets out a sigh, though, and rolls her eyes. Dom ignores her and says, "Last we met, you were facing the Nameless Technomancer in his Cave of Steel. Nash, your character was hit with a freeze ray and is paralyzed for the next two rounds. Mal – " Dom turns to her with a favoring smile.
"I sneaked into his control room," Mal says with a withering smile. "While Beringer held his attention and Foxxly freed the prisoners."
Arthur makes a face at Eames, the way he always does when someone refers to Eames' character by name. Seriously, Foxxly? Eames is their best player, the one who always keeps the plots moving, but he can't pick a name to save his life.
Eames replies with a cheerful smile, because he lives to frustrate Arthur. Then he says to Cobb, "Right. Are the prisoners wounded?"
Dom frowns and says, "Roll a spot check," and they're off.
It's a good session. It would have been better if Arthur wouldn't have spent most of it thinking is this it? It's been a good campaign and Arthur sort of misses it already, even before it's technically over.
In particular, Arthur is worried because Nash has made it clear that he won't be joining them again after this. Arthur's not exactly fond of Nash, who thinks being twenty-five makes him knowledgeable rather than an ancient dickhead who literally still lives in his parents' basement, but he's a player. Running a game for three people – well, Dom can do it, but it's just not as much fun.
Not to mention how when there are too few players, Mal and Dom tend to forget that they're roleplaying and start roleplaying. Arthur could do without seeing that again. Ever.
It's not like Arthur to be sentimental, but this is the first campaign that they've played through. He's actually grown a little attached to his character, which he never does because it's a silly thing to do.
He makes the mistake of telling Eames that, later, when he's driving Arthur home. Normally Arthur wouldn't give him an opening like that, but Eames said, "You seem thoughtful," and Arthur had to choose between, "I almost liked Beringer," and something even more embarrassingly maudlin.
"He wasn't bad," Eames says, after a moment.
Arthur twitches, because if Eames doesn't mercilessly tease Arthur for what he just said, it's only because he's brewing something even more infuriating. Arthur grimly settles in and waits for it.
"Considering, you know," Eames says, "that he was exactly identical to every other character that you have played."
Arthur scowls. This isn't remotely the first time they've had this discussion. "Just because I don't name my characters after romance novel heroins – "
"First, I took Foxxly from a spy thriller," Eames says. "And frankly I'm disappointed in you, Arthur, generally you check your facts better."
Eames doesn't continue, so of Arthur is forced to prompt him. "And second?"
"Second," Eames says, braking for the stoplight just one block before Arthur's house, the one that takes ages to turn green. "A name isn't all there is to a character." He pauses with attempted meaningfulness. "Unless they are your characters, in which case a name is all the poor things have to distinguish themselves from mindless killing machines."
Arthur's kind of fond of that stoplight. Sometimes. When Eames isn't being a jerk. So pretty much never, actually. He narrows his eyes at Eames and says, "Are you calling me uninspired?"
"Never," Eames says lightly. "I just think you fail to apply yourself."
"Quote your mother to me again," Arthur says, "and I will take you to the range and shoot you. With real bullets. Not paint."
"Promises, promises." In Arthur's opinion, Eames doesn't sound anywhere near sufficiently threatened. Maybe because Arthur has failed to follow through on this particular warning before. Arthur resolves to be more thorough in the future.
Eames is looking at him now. Arthur stays firm for two minutes before saying, "What?"
"You still look pensive," Eames says. "It's not your character and we both know it. Out with it, whatever it is."
Arthur shakes his head. "We need a fourth player."
"That we do," Eames says. Arthur looks at him with suspicion. It's not like Eames to be agreeable.
"You could bring Yusuf." Arthur likes Yusuf, who has a nice, dry wit and a tendency to bring snacks. Also, unlike certain people, he doesn't make a huge deal out of the fact that he's not in high-school.
"He won't come." Eames sounds genuinely unhappy with this. "He doesn't play free-form at all. Says it's an affront to proper gaming."
"We could teach him better," Arthur says. There's a slight unexpected twist to Eames' mouth, so Arthur says, "Okay, what?"
"I'm a little tired of all the drama, myself," Eames says. Arthur manfully restrains himself from snorting. Then Eames looks at him, a little weird. Almost cautious.
"What," Arthur says, flat, when Eames refuses to make his goddamned point already.
Eames asks, "Have you started your driving lessons?"
The light picks that moment to turn green. By the time Arthur's certain of his answer, Eames already stopped below his building. Eames pulls into park and gives Arthur an expectant look.
"I've been looking at teachers," Arthur says, which really isn't an answer at all.
"That's good," Eames says slowly.
Arthur's heart sinks a little. "Yeah, sorry about that." He runs a hand through his hair. "I promise, I'll have a license and be out of your hair in no time."
"What – oh." Eames gives an incredulous little laugh. "No, it's not that at all, Arthur. You know I like driving you home. Who else would I show my," he waggles his eyebrows, "etchings to?"
That forces a small laugh out of Arthur.
"The reason I was asking," Eames says, "is that I was thinking about our present problem. A fourth player," he clarifies when Arthur gives him the Eyebrow Raise of Confusion. "You've met Ariadne, right?"
"Your step-sister? Sure. What does she – " Arthur's brow knits. "Eames, I know what you're thinking and the answer is no."
"Just one session." Eames should know better than to try and bargain with Arthur by now. Arthur stiffens his resolve.
"Eames, she's fifteen," he says. "No."
Eames leans over to look him over pointedly. Arthur swallows – yes, he's only seventeen himself, yes, he started when he was sixteen. But.
"Mal will eat her alive," Arthur says. "Or Dom will drive her insane. You can't bring a fifteen year old to play with us, you'll warp her for life."
After a brief silence, Eames says, "You really don't know her very well, do you?"
"I met her twice." Arthur doesn't roll his eyes, but it's an effort. "She offered me cookies. She's nice. She doesn't deserve the wrath of the Cobb from high atop the dinner table."
"You'll see," Eames says. There's an awkward moment of silence and Arthur debates leaving the car – might be nice, getting home before two AM for once – when Eames gets out of his seat belt and says, "Pass me my notebook, would you, darling?"
And of course Arthur does, because in a small, secret way, this is his favorite part of the evening.
Eames grins at him and flips the pages. "All right, this you've seen, this too, this is bloody hideous –"
"Show me," Arthur commands, and Eames' grin turns sheepish as he gives back the sketchbook. It's a still nature type thing, not Eames' usual style at all, but still pretty nice. "What is this, a daisy?"
"Dandelion," Eames says, insufferable. "Know you nothing of botany, Arthur? For shame."
It's growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. Arthur suspects there's symbolism or something there. "It's not bad," he says, and flips forward.
The next page has – is that a ninja orc? – drop-kicking what looks like a cobold. Arthur smirks. This is more like it. "You've got the armament all wrong," he says, because compliments make Eames roll his eyes, but he thrives on criticism.
"No, see, consider the period and the world," Eames says, and they're off again.
By the time Arthur finally leaves the car, it's well past two AM and honestly nearer to three, and he and Eames have fleshed out another world between them, a society of orc warrior-poets.
"We should write this down," Arthur says hanging at the door, like he always does.
Eames says, "So we should," which he also always say. They never get around to it, but really that's not the point. It's just nice to stay in the car for five minutes longer, huddling close to Eames and dreaming up the society of the Path of Righteous Purpleness. "Shall I walk you to the door?"
Arthur snorts and leaves. He hears Eames' car start behind him, and wonders with a belated pang of worry whether he should've offered Eames coffee at least. It's twenty minutes by car to Eames' house, and Eames yawned twice during the last ten minutes of their conversation.
But Arthur always worries, and Eames always turns out fine. Arthur unlocks the door, takes the stairs home and slides into bed without turning any lights on.
~~
Next Friday, when Eames pulls up next to Arthur's house, Arthur goes for the shotgun seat automatically only to find it occupied.
"Oh, sorry," he says as he climbs into the back seat and buckles up. "Uh, hi, Ariadne."
"Hi!" Ariadne turns to give him a cheerful grin. Arthur's not even sure she should be allowed to sit in the front – she's so tiny he barely saw her there, only her bunny-ear beanie standing out.
Arthur's willing to admit he's being a little petty. So he tried extra hard for a friendly smile. "So Eames talked you into joining us?"
She snorts. "Yeah, more like I wheedled at him to let me come along. I've tried to organize a game with my anime club, but it ended up dissolving into sparkles and yaoi."
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Eames says, which startles a laugh out of Arthur.
"Nope," Ariadne says, "but it's kind of weak on the plot front, and I hear Dom Cobb is good with that. So here I am."
"Here you are," Arthur echos, and thinks about last night again. Ariadne would doubtlessly have a curfew; Arthur knows Eames' mother is overprotective of her. Which means that Arthur can kiss his ride home goodbye.
Because Eames took extra points in Psychic Skills in real life, he says, "Don't think I'll be leaving you out to hang, Arthur. I will still take you back after the game, we'll just have to make sure that we're out early enough for me and Ari to make it home by her bedtime." Arthur catches Ariadne making a face in the mirror.
So ride home, yes, but the hours he and Eames had to sit and talk, just the two of them, no time for these anymore. Arthur can't even use the inconvenience of finding his own way back as an excuse for his annoyance.
Crap.
~~
"So." Dom's coffee table has books spread all over it: The entire original World of Darkness collection, a few editions of D&D, the Game of Thrones book which Eames eyes with longing, a few GURPs books. Ariadne has the Toon! book open in her lap.
Of course, it's all just window dressing. They always end up playing freeform, because Mal feels oppressed otherwise. Case in point: "If I have to roll those wretched dice one more time," Mal says.
"Complaining again," Dom says, darkly. "All right, new rule. You make me GM, I make the decisions and you don't get to whine about them."
"I could GM," Arthur says, not for the first time. Everybody pretends not to hear him. Annoyed, he clears his throat and repeats, "I could – "
"No," Mal says with an air of finality.
"You make it sound like I'm terrible or something," Arthur says, offended.
"You are," Mal says, because she's a shitty friend and clearly doesn't care about Arthur's artistic vision at all. It's pointless to even give her a wounded look, so Arthur gives it to Dom instead.
Dom looks sheepish. "You're not a bad storyteller, Arthur," he says. "But you get...."
"Trigger happy," Mal supplies. "I do not recall one game you ran where my character survived the first session."
"And your NPCs are terrifying," Eames says. "They're likely to make Ari cry."
"Hey!" Ariadne yells.
"They've made me cry," Eames says, and if that's Eames is like when he's trying to be helpful, God help Arthur if Eames is ever difficult.
"Fine," Arthur says loudly. "Then I vote Shadowrun."
Everyone groans. Except Ariadne, who's giving everyone else curious looks. "What's wrong with Shadowrun?"
"Arthur always votes Shadowrun," Eames says.
"It's his D6 fetish," Mal adds, to Dom and Arthur's mutual horror.
"I do not – fine," Arthur says. "Okay, let me guess. Dom, you want to do VtM. Again." The Vampire: the Masquerade book is prominently featured on the coffee table, it doesn't exactly take a genius to guess. "Mal, you want freeform, preferably in some dark, steampunkish universe. Again. Eames, you want to play Game of Thrones." For which Eames has lobbied in the last three campaigns, but since it never actually got picked, Arthur feels he can be charitable. "Ariadne, what do you want?"
"I don't know yet," she says. "I mean, this looks like fun," she brandishes the Toon! book, "but I'd like something with a little more depth, y'know?"
Mal grins like a shark. "Let me tell you about the wonders of per-campaign worldbuilding," she says, drawing Ariadne aside.
Eames gives Arthur a mournful look. "We're doomed."
Arthur polishes his favorite red D6. "Told ya."
Also, this is self-indulgent as fuck, since it's an AU where Arthur and Eames are high-school boys playing RPGs.
"All right," Dom says, a bit grander than he should. "We are convened."
Arthur suppresses a snicker. Normally he would just laugh – it's good to puncture Dom's ego every once in a while, let the some of the hot air out safely – but it's the last session of their campaign and all right, maybe Dom earned the right to feel important.
"Recap?" Nash asks, because he's a fuckwad who can't even be bothered to remember bringing his character sheet, let alone the plot.
If Dom minds, he doesn't let it show. Mal lets out a sigh, though, and rolls her eyes. Dom ignores her and says, "Last we met, you were facing the Nameless Technomancer in his Cave of Steel. Nash, your character was hit with a freeze ray and is paralyzed for the next two rounds. Mal – " Dom turns to her with a favoring smile.
"I sneaked into his control room," Mal says with a withering smile. "While Beringer held his attention and Foxxly freed the prisoners."
Arthur makes a face at Eames, the way he always does when someone refers to Eames' character by name. Seriously, Foxxly? Eames is their best player, the one who always keeps the plots moving, but he can't pick a name to save his life.
Eames replies with a cheerful smile, because he lives to frustrate Arthur. Then he says to Cobb, "Right. Are the prisoners wounded?"
Dom frowns and says, "Roll a spot check," and they're off.
It's a good session. It would have been better if Arthur wouldn't have spent most of it thinking is this it? It's been a good campaign and Arthur sort of misses it already, even before it's technically over.
In particular, Arthur is worried because Nash has made it clear that he won't be joining them again after this. Arthur's not exactly fond of Nash, who thinks being twenty-five makes him knowledgeable rather than an ancient dickhead who literally still lives in his parents' basement, but he's a player. Running a game for three people – well, Dom can do it, but it's just not as much fun.
Not to mention how when there are too few players, Mal and Dom tend to forget that they're roleplaying and start roleplaying. Arthur could do without seeing that again. Ever.
It's not like Arthur to be sentimental, but this is the first campaign that they've played through. He's actually grown a little attached to his character, which he never does because it's a silly thing to do.
He makes the mistake of telling Eames that, later, when he's driving Arthur home. Normally Arthur wouldn't give him an opening like that, but Eames said, "You seem thoughtful," and Arthur had to choose between, "I almost liked Beringer," and something even more embarrassingly maudlin.
"He wasn't bad," Eames says, after a moment.
Arthur twitches, because if Eames doesn't mercilessly tease Arthur for what he just said, it's only because he's brewing something even more infuriating. Arthur grimly settles in and waits for it.
"Considering, you know," Eames says, "that he was exactly identical to every other character that you have played."
Arthur scowls. This isn't remotely the first time they've had this discussion. "Just because I don't name my characters after romance novel heroins – "
"First, I took Foxxly from a spy thriller," Eames says. "And frankly I'm disappointed in you, Arthur, generally you check your facts better."
Eames doesn't continue, so of Arthur is forced to prompt him. "And second?"
"Second," Eames says, braking for the stoplight just one block before Arthur's house, the one that takes ages to turn green. "A name isn't all there is to a character." He pauses with attempted meaningfulness. "Unless they are your characters, in which case a name is all the poor things have to distinguish themselves from mindless killing machines."
Arthur's kind of fond of that stoplight. Sometimes. When Eames isn't being a jerk. So pretty much never, actually. He narrows his eyes at Eames and says, "Are you calling me uninspired?"
"Never," Eames says lightly. "I just think you fail to apply yourself."
"Quote your mother to me again," Arthur says, "and I will take you to the range and shoot you. With real bullets. Not paint."
"Promises, promises." In Arthur's opinion, Eames doesn't sound anywhere near sufficiently threatened. Maybe because Arthur has failed to follow through on this particular warning before. Arthur resolves to be more thorough in the future.
Eames is looking at him now. Arthur stays firm for two minutes before saying, "What?"
"You still look pensive," Eames says. "It's not your character and we both know it. Out with it, whatever it is."
Arthur shakes his head. "We need a fourth player."
"That we do," Eames says. Arthur looks at him with suspicion. It's not like Eames to be agreeable.
"You could bring Yusuf." Arthur likes Yusuf, who has a nice, dry wit and a tendency to bring snacks. Also, unlike certain people, he doesn't make a huge deal out of the fact that he's not in high-school.
"He won't come." Eames sounds genuinely unhappy with this. "He doesn't play free-form at all. Says it's an affront to proper gaming."
"We could teach him better," Arthur says. There's a slight unexpected twist to Eames' mouth, so Arthur says, "Okay, what?"
"I'm a little tired of all the drama, myself," Eames says. Arthur manfully restrains himself from snorting. Then Eames looks at him, a little weird. Almost cautious.
"What," Arthur says, flat, when Eames refuses to make his goddamned point already.
Eames asks, "Have you started your driving lessons?"
The light picks that moment to turn green. By the time Arthur's certain of his answer, Eames already stopped below his building. Eames pulls into park and gives Arthur an expectant look.
"I've been looking at teachers," Arthur says, which really isn't an answer at all.
"That's good," Eames says slowly.
Arthur's heart sinks a little. "Yeah, sorry about that." He runs a hand through his hair. "I promise, I'll have a license and be out of your hair in no time."
"What – oh." Eames gives an incredulous little laugh. "No, it's not that at all, Arthur. You know I like driving you home. Who else would I show my," he waggles his eyebrows, "etchings to?"
That forces a small laugh out of Arthur.
"The reason I was asking," Eames says, "is that I was thinking about our present problem. A fourth player," he clarifies when Arthur gives him the Eyebrow Raise of Confusion. "You've met Ariadne, right?"
"Your step-sister? Sure. What does she – " Arthur's brow knits. "Eames, I know what you're thinking and the answer is no."
"Just one session." Eames should know better than to try and bargain with Arthur by now. Arthur stiffens his resolve.
"Eames, she's fifteen," he says. "No."
Eames leans over to look him over pointedly. Arthur swallows – yes, he's only seventeen himself, yes, he started when he was sixteen. But.
"Mal will eat her alive," Arthur says. "Or Dom will drive her insane. You can't bring a fifteen year old to play with us, you'll warp her for life."
After a brief silence, Eames says, "You really don't know her very well, do you?"
"I met her twice." Arthur doesn't roll his eyes, but it's an effort. "She offered me cookies. She's nice. She doesn't deserve the wrath of the Cobb from high atop the dinner table."
"You'll see," Eames says. There's an awkward moment of silence and Arthur debates leaving the car – might be nice, getting home before two AM for once – when Eames gets out of his seat belt and says, "Pass me my notebook, would you, darling?"
And of course Arthur does, because in a small, secret way, this is his favorite part of the evening.
Eames grins at him and flips the pages. "All right, this you've seen, this too, this is bloody hideous –"
"Show me," Arthur commands, and Eames' grin turns sheepish as he gives back the sketchbook. It's a still nature type thing, not Eames' usual style at all, but still pretty nice. "What is this, a daisy?"
"Dandelion," Eames says, insufferable. "Know you nothing of botany, Arthur? For shame."
It's growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. Arthur suspects there's symbolism or something there. "It's not bad," he says, and flips forward.
The next page has – is that a ninja orc? – drop-kicking what looks like a cobold. Arthur smirks. This is more like it. "You've got the armament all wrong," he says, because compliments make Eames roll his eyes, but he thrives on criticism.
"No, see, consider the period and the world," Eames says, and they're off again.
By the time Arthur finally leaves the car, it's well past two AM and honestly nearer to three, and he and Eames have fleshed out another world between them, a society of orc warrior-poets.
"We should write this down," Arthur says hanging at the door, like he always does.
Eames says, "So we should," which he also always say. They never get around to it, but really that's not the point. It's just nice to stay in the car for five minutes longer, huddling close to Eames and dreaming up the society of the Path of Righteous Purpleness. "Shall I walk you to the door?"
Arthur snorts and leaves. He hears Eames' car start behind him, and wonders with a belated pang of worry whether he should've offered Eames coffee at least. It's twenty minutes by car to Eames' house, and Eames yawned twice during the last ten minutes of their conversation.
But Arthur always worries, and Eames always turns out fine. Arthur unlocks the door, takes the stairs home and slides into bed without turning any lights on.
~~
Next Friday, when Eames pulls up next to Arthur's house, Arthur goes for the shotgun seat automatically only to find it occupied.
"Oh, sorry," he says as he climbs into the back seat and buckles up. "Uh, hi, Ariadne."
"Hi!" Ariadne turns to give him a cheerful grin. Arthur's not even sure she should be allowed to sit in the front – she's so tiny he barely saw her there, only her bunny-ear beanie standing out.
Arthur's willing to admit he's being a little petty. So he tried extra hard for a friendly smile. "So Eames talked you into joining us?"
She snorts. "Yeah, more like I wheedled at him to let me come along. I've tried to organize a game with my anime club, but it ended up dissolving into sparkles and yaoi."
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Eames says, which startles a laugh out of Arthur.
"Nope," Ariadne says, "but it's kind of weak on the plot front, and I hear Dom Cobb is good with that. So here I am."
"Here you are," Arthur echos, and thinks about last night again. Ariadne would doubtlessly have a curfew; Arthur knows Eames' mother is overprotective of her. Which means that Arthur can kiss his ride home goodbye.
Because Eames took extra points in Psychic Skills in real life, he says, "Don't think I'll be leaving you out to hang, Arthur. I will still take you back after the game, we'll just have to make sure that we're out early enough for me and Ari to make it home by her bedtime." Arthur catches Ariadne making a face in the mirror.
So ride home, yes, but the hours he and Eames had to sit and talk, just the two of them, no time for these anymore. Arthur can't even use the inconvenience of finding his own way back as an excuse for his annoyance.
Crap.
~~
"So." Dom's coffee table has books spread all over it: The entire original World of Darkness collection, a few editions of D&D, the Game of Thrones book which Eames eyes with longing, a few GURPs books. Ariadne has the Toon! book open in her lap.
Of course, it's all just window dressing. They always end up playing freeform, because Mal feels oppressed otherwise. Case in point: "If I have to roll those wretched dice one more time," Mal says.
"Complaining again," Dom says, darkly. "All right, new rule. You make me GM, I make the decisions and you don't get to whine about them."
"I could GM," Arthur says, not for the first time. Everybody pretends not to hear him. Annoyed, he clears his throat and repeats, "I could – "
"No," Mal says with an air of finality.
"You make it sound like I'm terrible or something," Arthur says, offended.
"You are," Mal says, because she's a shitty friend and clearly doesn't care about Arthur's artistic vision at all. It's pointless to even give her a wounded look, so Arthur gives it to Dom instead.
Dom looks sheepish. "You're not a bad storyteller, Arthur," he says. "But you get...."
"Trigger happy," Mal supplies. "I do not recall one game you ran where my character survived the first session."
"And your NPCs are terrifying," Eames says. "They're likely to make Ari cry."
"Hey!" Ariadne yells.
"They've made me cry," Eames says, and if that's Eames is like when he's trying to be helpful, God help Arthur if Eames is ever difficult.
"Fine," Arthur says loudly. "Then I vote Shadowrun."
Everyone groans. Except Ariadne, who's giving everyone else curious looks. "What's wrong with Shadowrun?"
"Arthur always votes Shadowrun," Eames says.
"It's his D6 fetish," Mal adds, to Dom and Arthur's mutual horror.
"I do not – fine," Arthur says. "Okay, let me guess. Dom, you want to do VtM. Again." The Vampire: the Masquerade book is prominently featured on the coffee table, it doesn't exactly take a genius to guess. "Mal, you want freeform, preferably in some dark, steampunkish universe. Again. Eames, you want to play Game of Thrones." For which Eames has lobbied in the last three campaigns, but since it never actually got picked, Arthur feels he can be charitable. "Ariadne, what do you want?"
"I don't know yet," she says. "I mean, this looks like fun," she brandishes the Toon! book, "but I'd like something with a little more depth, y'know?"
Mal grins like a shark. "Let me tell you about the wonders of per-campaign worldbuilding," she says, drawing Ariadne aside.
Eames gives Arthur a mournful look. "We're doomed."
Arthur polishes his favorite red D6. "Told ya."
no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 11:20 am (UTC)And OF COURSE Arthur always wants to play Shadowrun.
This is fabulous!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 09:41 pm (UTC)Now I miss roleplaying.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 11:42 pm (UTC)in short: ALL THE THUMBS UP, PLEASE MOAR. :D