bitchprince (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bitchprince) wrote2009-08-14 09:42 am
bitchprince) wrote2009-08-14 09:42 am
Room 303, Friday Morning
Arthur was in a mood.
This wasn't much different from usual - Arthur had any number of moods that varied wildly in intensity and contents but could all, generally, be classified as moods.
However, this was, to use the local vernacular, a really fucking big one.
As was evident by the way he shoved open the door to his room. The way he'd woken up had not been ideal, and so far, it seemed to be sticking. At least he'd gotten his clothes to cover him well enough, and the island had granted him a body that could be called Amazonian and that matched his male swagger well enough, but still.
He was a girl. A bloody girl.
He shut the door behind him, then threw himself at the bed. He had no intention of leaving. Even if he'd sort of have to, for class. The ceiling received a vast smattering of interesting curses across several languages; then he gave up on that, falling silent.
He was not going to grope himself. No. He was, however, going to very, very reluctantly leave a voicemail, and then possibly threaten Morgana with death if she ever, ever mentioned this to father. Ever. Oh god.
[[ door closed, but post open ]]
This wasn't much different from usual - Arthur had any number of moods that varied wildly in intensity and contents but could all, generally, be classified as moods.
However, this was, to use the local vernacular, a really fucking big one.
As was evident by the way he shoved open the door to his room. The way he'd woken up had not been ideal, and so far, it seemed to be sticking. At least he'd gotten his clothes to cover him well enough, and the island had granted him a body that could be called Amazonian and that matched his male swagger well enough, but still.
He was a girl. A bloody girl.
He shut the door behind him, then threw himself at the bed. He had no intention of leaving. Even if he'd sort of have to, for class. The ceiling received a vast smattering of interesting curses across several languages; then he gave up on that, falling silent.
He was not going to grope himself. No. He was, however, going to very, very reluctantly leave a voicemail, and then possibly threaten Morgana with death if she ever, ever mentioned this to father. Ever. Oh god.
[[ door closed, but post open ]]