Closed RP Hot Singles in Your Area

This RP is currently closed.


Mari stuck her tongue out in response to Spork’s extended finger, finally taking a bite of her own sandwich as her friend dug into theirs with wolfish glee. Ah, the simple love between a Spork and their food. Truly, it was a wonderful relationship, however short-lived. An errant hashbrown flew her way, softly thudding against the couch as Mari made no move to catch it. She was bad enough at catching things when Spork purposefully tossed them to her, let alone when they were digging through a bag of McDonald’s remnants for a lost drink.

She, of course, immediately spotted the culprit, who snatched up the sugary beverage in an instant. Mari raised an eyebrow at Freyja’s attempt at deception, a slight shake of her head, a warning in tandem; this wasn’t going to end well, and to leave her out of it. She could already tell this was going to go poorly, just by the way the edges of Spork’s voice crackled with frost. Freyja, to her stupid credit, simply made things worse, a lead foot as they were already hurtling towards a cliff edge.

Mari barely had a chance to shout “Spork! My food!” in what they’d called her ‘mom voice’ as furniture shrieked against floor, a rogue sandwich smacked the wall behind her, and Spork had their hands on Freyja, the both of them crashing to the floor below.

Mari would have been content to let them fight. She’d considered warning Freyja that she was not only barking up the wrong tree, but indeed at the wrong forest entirely. But the girl had to learn at some point. There was an art to aggravating Spork, and at its core was knowing when to not push their buttons.

She was going to leave Spork to teach Freyja that lesson before she heard the click of Spork’s teeth snapping against the air along with what sounded suspiciously like a growl. After an (admittedly token), “Hey, stop it”, Mari got up off the couch with a sigh and headed to her lab. Of course this would happen. Where there was pitch, there was ash, and who else really would be able to tug the reins on Spork when they got too caught up in the more physical aspects of kismesitude?

All this drifted through her head as Mari grabbed the spray bottle she kept by her whiteboard and walked back into the living room, twisting the knob to ‘stream’ before sending several squirts of water towards the caliginous couple.

“Knock it off.” Mari deadpanned, ensuring that both of them had been properly drenched before going back to her spot on the couch and returning to her now-cold sandwich. The first one, not the one that had been tossed at her in haste. That one was probably behind the couch already. She’d make Spork get it later.

 

Freyja managed to avoid jumping at the sudden noise of Spork’s hand slamming down onto the table, their chair screeching at them in protest as Spork climbed halfway onto the table. There was a look in their eyes, nestled just this side of hatred that had her baring her teeth in a wolf’s grin. Her eyes flicked to Mari as she called out a warning. Not for Freyja’s sake, but for her own. At least she knew where Mari stood, then. She would give Spork her fair share of hell, but when lines were drawn, she would always stand on their side.

That was as far as her train of thought went before it was promptly derailed by a scruffy, topless gremlin launching themself at her across the table.

Spork hit Freyja like a sack of bricks, sending her flying backwards in her chair. Instinct kicked in as she tucked her head in just before she hit the ground, keeping her from cracking it against the floor. Then they were on top of her, a jagged mass of limbs that was very familiar. Freyja struggled against them, the familiar pitch-black flame lighting in her stomach as she wrestled against Spork, her perception narrowing until all her awareness was focused on the blond above her. A growl ripped through the space between them; Freyja wasn’t sure whose it was, dimly aware of a hand tangling in blond hair and yanking it back, gnashing teeth just fueling her further.

A yelp quickly followed as Freyja felt cold water splash against her. It was followed by several more streams, and the manly noise Spork made let Freyja know that she was not the only one to suffer the aqueous assault. Mortification flooded Freyja’s whole body, a crimson tide that quickly covered her face as she remembered there was a third person in the room.

She couldn’t bring her eyes to look up at Mari, unable to shift her gaze any higher than her ankles. Fortunately, she moved away quickly, leaving Freyja to contemplate what the fuck just happened and what she’d done in front of Mari. She pushed back at Spork’s shoulder, the gesture passive and dull, the opposite of the flint-and-steel she’d been striking earlier.

“Get off.”
She grumbled, dimly aware of something cold and wet seeping into her shirt from the floor. A quick glance showed a casualty of their scuffle; the frappe was on the floor, upended, its contents spilled and melting, trickling along the ground towards the two of them. She pushed a little firmer this time, trying to sit up properly, eyes still avoiding the couch where she’d heard Mari settle herself.
 
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They fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs and chair, and Spork can hear the moment their miscalculation lands - the frappe hits the vinyl with a crack-sploosh, presumably spilling everywhere, and their triumphant grin turns to horror in an instant. “My mocha-caramel frappe with extra whip!”

They reach a hand out towards it, but check the motion before they can get a handful of slop and curl their fingers in the shoulder of Freyja’s shirt instead, tugging sharply to keep themself from being thrown off by her squirming. “What the hell- hey!”

With some kind of twisty shoving maneuver, she finally manages to toss them aside, but they refuse to let go, dragging her along and using the momentum to roll further than they think she intends, ending up on top again and attempting a proper pin out of - they don’t know, reflex or something.

It doesn’t work like they want it to, and they can feel the situation spiraling out from between their fingers even as they bare their teeth, frustration spilling over into pure aggravation, and give up on proper tactics, grabbing one of her arms and leaning over with the simple, shining goal of biting her as hard as they fucking can.

She can take it. And, further, she deserves it, dammit.

Their first attempt is foiled, and they’re just gearing up for a second when lukewarm water splashes against their bare skin, the suddenness of it making their teeth clack together in a hiss. They jolt away from Freyja, only partly gratified when they hear her yelp, and turn to frown at Mari, still halfway glaring.

She sprays them again, in the face this time, and they splutter, turning quickly away from the assault and attempting to both wipe the water out of their eyes and shield their face as she walks in a quarter-circle around them, the spray bottle working overtime to fuel her watery rampage. They can hear the trigger squeaking on every pull, protesting its abuse.

“Maaari,” they complain, finally, when the attack winds to an end, raising their head just slightly from its defensive tuck as they listen for where best to aim their frown.

A single step draws their attention, and they turn their head in that direction - just in time for her to pour approximately half a spray bottle’s worth of water directly into their hair. They shriek and swat at her as soon as they realize what’s happening, but she’s standing just out of range. All they can do is duck behind their hands, a stream of grumbled curses steadily losing steam as the water runs out and they listen to her walk away.

Flicking water off their hands, they continue to grumble under their breath even as they shift off of Freyja, expression near mutinous but with their earlier fire thoroughly quenched. “Yeah, yeah.”

They stand, kicking ineffectively at the puddle in an attempt to find solid footing before offering a hand down to help her up as well. They say nothing of it, still frowning lightly, an expression that deepens when they shift their face slightly in Mari’s direction.

“C’mon,” they say, once she’s up, jerking their head towards the hallway, and, by extension, their room. Giving the puddle one last kick and a genuinely irritated one-finger salute, they turn on their heel and stalk off in the direction they’d indicated, flicking water at Mari when they pass her on the couch.

Their raised middle finger disappears around the corner, and they rustle around in the hall closet for a moment before finding a towel for themself and another for their guest. The first is wrapped around their shoulders, the second lobbed in her general direction as they beeline back to their room, even more rustling and furniture-slamming following as they track down a decently clean set of clothes.

 

Any joy she’d gotten from Spork’s cry of terror had quickly been overcome by the sheer power behind their assault. They fought like a man possessed, and Freyja had to wonder just how much a mocha-caramel frappe with extra whip truly meant to them. She didn’t have time to ponder that thought, however, as Spork decided to try sinking their fucking teeth into her. She managed to yank her arm out of the way just in time to hear the sharp clack of teeth snapping shut.

Then came the water and embarrassment as Freyja realized Mari had just witnessed her and Spork going at it like two cats in a bag. It drew Spork’s attention off her, enough to temporarily pause their attacks. Freyja saw the incoming deluge and tried to squirm free from underneath them, but they must have had rocks shoved in their pockets because fuck were they heavy. Spork took the brunt of the water, but what remained splashed down onto her, soaking her front as rivulets of water dripped down from Spork’s hair.

She expected fire. She expected Spork to run to the kitchen, fill a couple glasses of their own, and return the favor tenfold. Maybe even grab the sink sprayer and soak the whole apartment. What Freyja hadn’t expected was their fire to be banked, the coals still glowing hot but the flames snuffed out. She accepted the offered hand and watched as they kicked the water, offering it a rude gesture before ensuring Mari felt included as they gestured for her to follow.

Knowing which side of this argument she had the most skin in, Freyja acquiesced, catching the thrown towel and immediately began to towel off the dripping ends of her hair. The sounds of slamming drawers and tossed-around clothing filtered out of their room, and Freyja let out a breath before stepping in, sliding the door shut behind her. She didn’t know if they’d left it open for her or not, but she felt it was probably best to leave a little separation.

“Woof.”
Freyja said, breaking the tense silence as she stripped off her (Spork’s) soggy shirt and tossed it to the side. She wasn’t sure if it was the best time to attempt another shirt theft, not with the looming threat of a flare-up hanging over her head.
“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you really get pissed before.”


Ah, well. Fuck it, she was never good at being subtle. Or communication in general, if she was being honest. Freyja moved towards Spork, keeping enough distance between them so they wouldn’t accidentally knock into her as she also began digging around for another shirt.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as being put off by some water. You seem like more of a dog to me.”
Okay, maybe she was needling a bit. It was hard not to when she was around Spork, like she needed to keep a constant barrage of tiny barbs to assert her continued presence. She finally found a shirt crumpled into a ball in the corner, plain white with blocky black text that ran all the way down to the bottom of a shirt, finishing with a picture of a fish at the bottom. Freyja shrugged before putting the shirt on, the fabric surprisingly soft.

“I’m just saying, you might be a cat.”
 
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The calm before the storm was always the worst part. Mari had already resigned herself to a torrential downpour as soon as she’d sat down. Her laptop had been closed and tucked away, safe from the inevitable backlash that would see half the apartment drenched by nightfall. Hell, she’d dropped the water bottle within easy snatching distance assuming that if she didn’t provide Spork with a retaliatory device they’d probably pull a five-gallon bucket from somewhere to do the job.

And yet.

The bang she’d expected never came, although to call what took its place a whimper would be doing Spork a disservice. Magma shifted and roiled, barely pressing against the surface with each movement. Not enough for cracks to form or for a proper eruption, but enough for you to be aware of just how much deadly force lay just beneath.

Their short, clipped responses, monosyllabic and filled to the brim with venom and ire that was so painfully pointed that Mari feared she was at risk of losing an eye from across the room, only exacerbated the situation. The final nail in the proverbial coffin wasn’t the middle finger, they did that all the time, but the sound of doors and drawers and clothing being treated like so many improvised percussion instruments. Mari heard the door quietly click shut, most likely Freyja’s doing, and let out a sigh as she surveyed the sugary, watery mess that swam along the floor.

It was official. Spork was pissed.

Mari’d only seen it a handful of times, and could count the number of times she’d been the reason for it on one hand, even if she’d been in a particularly harrowing hand-related accident. Spork didn’t get pissed, not lightly. They got angry, sure, but it took a lot for their anger to be turned inward, to turn from loud bluster to quiet, seething rage. And once that line was crossed, there was no telling when things would go back to normal. After all, it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for Spork to let go of a grudge.

In short, she’d fucked up.

Already Mari’s mind was moving to damage control. She would not knock on their door and apologize. For one, she hadn’t been exactly wrong for spraying the two of them, although she would admit that dumping the remainder of the bottle may have been a touch too far. If they were going to get caliginous every time things escalated past basic name-calling and teasing, she may need to have a talk with Freyja. They also wouldn’t accept the apology, not this soon after, if they even answered the door.

No, that wasn’t the way to go about it. Spork would come out at some point, and then they could settle things in their odd ‘burying the hatchet without acknowledging it’ way. For now, Mari tried to bury the twinge of guilt she felt by pulling out her phone and quickly placing an order for a replacement frappe. Then she thought better of it and added a second one. Whatever relationship they thought they were hiding from her hung in a precarious balance, and while Mari wasn’t quite sure if Freyja was going to last the month, the least she could do is ensure that theirs was at least tepid, should Freyja defy the odds.

Beverages on the way, Mari shoved the last of the sandwich in her mouth before balling up the wrapper and chucking it into a trash can. It, predictably, bounced off the edge and landed with a wet splat in the slowly-growing sea of melted frappe and disappointment. She’d have to deal with that in a moment.

First she had to go spelunking, diving into the dark recesses behind the couch, fingers fumbling until they managed to snatch the greasy wrapper and the sandwich lying within. Once extracted, it joined its emptied cousin in the trash (dropped in this time, she’d learned her lesson), as Mari finally turned her attention to the sticky elephant in the room.

Armed with cleaning spray, an empty trash can, and a fresh roll of paper towels, she set to work on mopping up the mess and removing any trace of the stickiness left behind on the vinyl floor. After a few unsatisfactory hand tests, Mari finally deemed it stick-free and put away the cleaning supplies, washing her hands before turning the espresso machine back on. Already she felt the dull throb of a caffeine headache forming, heightened by stress and lack of sleep, and decided another latte was just the thing needed to put it back in its place. All the while her ears strained, searching for the sound of a door opening, of bare feet padding out, of her friend returning.

 
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The fluffy gray towel they’d grabbed remains draped over Spork’s head even as they shrug on a sports bra, a tanktop, and a sweater unearthed from the depths of their closet. The last is a truly hideous piece of work, long-fibered and consisting of no less than five eye-searingly neon color blocks set at odd, jagged angles to each other. It is shapeless and staticky and absolutely perfect, for their purposes.

Only when they’re snugly clad in the fashion nightmare’s abominable embrace do they deign to acknowledge Freyja’s presence, turning to her while they pull on a pair of sweatpants selected from the drawer at random. For a moment they don’t do more than that, only looking steadily in her general direction with a general kind of ticked-off glare, but after a second they narrow their eyes, frowning just a bit more. “I’m not a cat.”

Another moment passes before their mouth ticks to the side and they finish pulling their pants on, finally pulling the towel out of their shirt and scrubbing at their hair some as they brush past her, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from their nightstand and clambering over the bed to push open the window with one hand flat against the glass.

It slides easily, running upwards along the track with scarcely a rattle to mark its passage, and they step out just as smoothly, folding down to sit in their blanket pile with their back tucked against the bricks and one leg propped against the vertical bars of the railing, both feet buried to the ankle in blankets to ward off the chilly winter air.

They say nothing as they tap a cigarette out of the crumpled package and place it between their lips, gnawing lightly on the filter while they search for the lighter they’re sure they left in the blanket pile somewhere.

 

Freyja checked Spork’s face for a reaction and was thus forced to watch them pick what very well may have been the most garish sweater in existence, and indeed was most likely a serious contender for ‘Ugliest Piece of Clothing Known to Man’, if not a frontrunner. Sometimes she wondered if Spork had Mari describe clothing to them so they could pick the most egregious pieces to hurt people’s eyes. She wouldn’t put it past them.

Her attempt to break the tension seemed destined to fail. Apart from their little quirk denying their feline nature, Spork didn’t react to anything she’d said. Hell, they hadn’t even cracked the faintest hint of a smile or smirk. They barely acknowledged her at all, and some part of Freyja felt that she should just go. This wasn’t something she’d expected to handle, an argument between Spork and their situationship. If they vented to her, ranted and raved about how Mari was a fucking idiot, then she’d be able to do something. But as it was they were just a wall, an iceberg that drifted impassively; devastating if you got in their way, but harmless if you let them be.

Freyja followed them, climbing out the window to join Spork on the fire escape the two of them had used to get into the apartment just yesterday. She’d faced down icebergs before. Fire tended to win those matchups.

Once again, however, Spork barely acknowledged her presence, rooting around through the sea of blankets. She watched them fish out a familiar-looking vape before unceremoniously throwing it back. She noticed the slightly-crumpled cigarette in their lips and realized what they were digging for.

Smiling to herself, Freyja snapped her fingers, orange sparks leaping from where her thumb and forefinger brushed against each other. A flickering flame sprouted from the tip of her thumb, which she extended and used to catch the end of Spork’s cigarette before slipping one from the pack for herself and lighting it up.

She took a drag, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before letting it out with a sigh, enjoying the feeling of it burning and roiling within her. It was odd, being able to describe something as burning when you were all but immune to flame. Heat often felt muted to her now, had been since she stole the helmet and took on the mantle that had led her to this city, that had led her to butcher those that
she
saw as weak, as inferior.

Freyja wondered what Spork would say, if they knew. Would they call her a monster, shove her away? Would they not believe her, demanding proof and calling it a shitty joke otherwise? Freyja had no doubt that a transformation within their vicinity would result in their death. Spork was a walking challenge, both to the world and to whomever they encountered. And
she
loved nothing more than to run a spear through challenges.

Freyja took another pull. She sat against the same wall as Spork, letting the distance match the silence between them, a silence she made no move to break. Spork was angry. Freyja knew anger, knew it as an explosive valkyrie who slaughtered any who stood in her way, who killed at the slightest indignation, who burned white-hot and melted asphalt with each step. The ghosts of that anger were never far from reach, on a shelf next to the flames and just below a horned and blistering helm. It was so tempting, when her own anger came, to don the helmet, to pull the ghosts into her, to take up the flame and let it consume her.

What if it didn’t have to? What if the urge was gone? What if
she
was? Would she be able to be like Spork, quietly stewing while letting their rage leak out of them with each breath? Or would she be broken, a burnt hole all that remained where her anger had once been, long ago?

Freyja opened her mouth, blowing the smoke into the afternoon sky. It was only after another couple pulls that she spoke, voice soft in the chill air.

“I’ll pay you back. Hope you like clove.”
A joke, to hopefully cut through the tension once again. An offer, to make sure any debts between them were settled. A question, in hopes that this would not be the last time they graced her with their presence.
 


Just as they’re trying to determine if the latest vaguely cylindrical piece of plastic they’ve snagged is, indeed, the lighter they’re looking for, a sound catches Spork’s attention, and they turn their head just slightly in Freyja’s direction, eyebrows raised partly in question and mostly in judgement. She doesn’t say anything to explain herself, but after a moment they hear the end of their cigarette fizzle and realize belatedly that the faint flicker of heat they’d felt must have been her doing.

Well. That’s alright, they suppose, turning their face away again so they can blow their mouthful of smoke into the alleyway instead of her face. The wind carries it away, running chilled fingers through their damp hair and chapping the skin on their face and hands, and they turn into the sharp sting of it with narrowed eyes, one hand holding their cigarette in the familiar groove between middle and ring finger and the other tangled in the cold, twisted metal below them. The holes between the twists are just barely wide enough for their fingers, but they sneak them through anyway, clinging tight enough that the pattern bites into their palm before carefully extracting their hand and tapping an inch or two to the side to repeat the process all over again.

It’s quiet. Aside from the faint, filtering sounds of mid-day traffic and people going about their business an alley’s length and a world away, the only sound is of their breathing, carefully measured, and Freyja’s, marginally less so, and the wind, wild and whipping and without any kind of rhythm that they can parse.

It’s weird. They keep expecting Freyja to poke them, to ask what or why or… anything, really, but the silence drags on and on, and she keeps… not. Doing that. Eventually, they stop bracing for the inquisition, accepting that, for better or worse, it just isn’t coming.

It’s strangely peaceful, which is almost weirder. Mari would never just leave them be like this. Not if she thought she could fix whatever was wrong with them, and she always thought that. Somehow, every Spork Fuchs patented fuck-up got turned into a Mariko Ito innovation opportunity, because apparently they can’t be trusted to fix their own damn mistakes.

They aren’t being fair. They turn just so and breathe out along with the next gust, long and slow, let it rip the air from their lungs until they burn with something other than their stupid hair-trigger anger. Turn back and bring their hand to their mouth, fill up on tar and tobacco and all the other nasty shit they write PSAs about, feel the burning cloud of poison settle in its familiar way. Hold it for a second, then let it go. Let it all go, the warmth and the smoke and the anger, too, until their fingers and thoughts are nice and numb, the worst of their edges sanded back down to an acceptable sharpness.

They’ve never been very good at letting go, but they can’t stay angry at Mari. It just isn’t an option.

“Heh,” they laugh, short and sharp. Their head is still ducked, chin almost brushing the collar of their truly hideous sweater and hair hanging in their eyes. “Cloves?”

Their lips tip upwards, the ghost of a smile playing over them as they take another drag. Finally, they lift their head, the look in their eyes almost thoughtful as they curl their toes in the blankets, tilt their head to the side. “Who the fuck smokes clove cigarettes? That sounds disgusting. …Of course I’ll try one, but if I don’t like it you owe me 75 cents. ‘S only fair. Reparations for bumming from a blind guy without asking.”

 
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