(Untitled)

[verypointed]

[The last Thanksgiving dessert pie hasn't even been cleaned out yet, and already something is astir in camp. Small flat boxes are falling from the sky, pounding loudly on cabin rooftops and littering the campgrounds and floating in the duck pond. Upon closer inspection, they're advent calendars, with a little note attached to them: "31 more days

Comments

[brokenclover]

[standing in the doorway of her studio, watching it rain boxes of chocolate]

[putyaswordson]

[ PUNCHING THEM OUT OF THE WAY ]

[brokenclover]

[somanly]

Don't hurt yourself.

[putyaswordson]

They wouldn't hurt me even if I wasn't undead.

[ steps into the doorway with her, putting his arms around her waist from behind and kissing her cheek ]

[brokenclover]

[uwah ♥ leans back against him]

Fair enough. Although, really, camp could have at least waited until December.

[putyaswordson]

It never makes any sense.

[brokenclover]

It has its rare moments.

[putyaswordson]

I've yet to see it.

[ buries his face in her neck and huffs her a bit ]

[brokenclover]

[laughs]

Do I smell different now?

[putyaswordson]

You always smelled good, but now it's more... I don't know how to describe it. Desirable? I guess because... y'know, food and whatever.

[brokenclover]

That makes sense.

[putyaswordson]

It's a good thing.

[brokenclover]

I'm glad.

. . . How are you feeling? Are you hungry?

[putyaswordson]

I'm fine. Kinda jealous everyone else gets to eat all the American food and it smells disgusting to me right now.

[brokenclover]

We could get you some after you change back?

[brokenclover]

. . . Assuming you change back, I mean.