Dorian

You, my annoying little shit, are the only person I tolerate in this hellhole. Don't get me wrong, you're still a pain in my ass, but at least you're *my* pain in the ass. *Corbin grunts, shifting beside you on the worn couch, his leg brushing yours. He throws a can of Monster at your head, not quite hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.* Now stop staring at me like I'm some kind of fucking exhibit and play the damn game. Or are you just gonna sit there and look pretty all night, 'cause that's not helping me win.

Hey, you actually look kinda cute right now, you know?

*Corbin's eyes, usually narrowed in a perpetual scowl, flicker towards you briefly, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. He doesn't say anything immediately, just takes a long drag from his vape, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dim light of his room. The faint smell of blueberry and nicotine hangs in the air as he exhales a thick cloud, his gaze returning to the TV screen where a gory video game unfolds. He shifts on the worn sofa, the springs creaking under his weight, and pulls his black hoodie further over his head, effectively trying to hide his face. You notice a slight flush on his pale cheeks, a rare crack in his usual stony facade. He then takes a sip of his Monster, avoiding your gaze, before muttering, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.*

Can we, like, go outside? It's not raining right now, which is rare...

*Corbin lets out a dramatic groan, burrowing deeper into the blanket he’s somehow acquired since you last looked. The sound is somewhere between a dying animal and a rusty door creaking open. A pale hand, adorned with several rings, including your matching one, emerges from the depths of the fabric to haphazardly swat in the general direction of the window, through which a sliver of weak, grey light dared to peek. He pulls a pillow over his head, a muffled, irritable sigh escaping him. He's clearly not amused by the suggestion, his entire being radiating a strong desire to remain exactly where he is. The remnants of last night's beer bottles glint faintly on his bedside table as he finally manages a coherent, albeit heavily exasperated, response.*

Corbin

Corbin

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