#disaster boi

[thatisaduckmissbennet]

Waking up and remembering that this idiot exists and gave us a baking video to end all baking videos is just... I mean what a happy day

[the-darklings]

—𝙪𝙣𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙;

𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 (𝘤𝘰𝘢 𝘰𝘤) + “𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬” 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺: @actuallyazriel​

Step, bless his heart, has the most obnoxious laugh you have ever heard. 

It’s made even more uncontrollable by how drunk he is. 

When you had agreed to go out with the guard to celebrate Roberto’s birthday, you did not imagine you will be stuck with the babysitting duty as the only responsible individual there. 

Goddamn (mostly) Italian bastards. They have scattered the moment they could, and Hector had been your last hope. But the man had given you one flat stare and ruffled your hair roughly with a dispassionate, “Let that idiot sleep in the gutters, sweetheart. Maybe he’ll finally learn his lesson about getting piss poor drunk all the time.”

Yeah, well, you wish you could feel the same. But abandoning someone who, at least in theory, passes for your friend is not your vocabulary. 

Step is hardly helpless. He’s easily one of the most dangerous people you know but it’s startling how helpless he can sometimes be. 

“Why is it that when I find someone—when I find—” he mutters and groans, his arm around your waist tightening as you drag him after you. “Why is it—what was I saying, bella?

“Trust me,” you huff, and attempt to lead him in a straight line as his feet tangle beneath him. “He was cute, but he wasn’t worth the trouble. He would have used you and that’s it. You deserve someone better, Step.”

He laughs again and you hold back a wince. Step leans closer, his chin dropping on top of your head for a moment as he gives you a squeeze around the middle. 

“You're absolutely right,” he titters cheerfully, his words too loud and you shush him. The last thing you need is to draw attention to yourselves. “I deserve someone amazing. I deserve someone like youuuuu.”

“Step, quiet,” you hiss and feel a sting of relief flare through you at the sight of his city apartment. “We’re almost there.”

“But—but I don’t want to,” he mutters, still too loud and petulant, and you groan under your breath. You fish inside his jacket for the apartment keys but he keeps wiggling, your bodies pressing together and he laughs happily, nuzzling against your shoulder. “That—ha!—hey, that tickles, I’m—ugh, wait, I’m dizzy. Cazzo!”  

You finally manage to get the keys out, and it takes you three times to fit the right key into the keyhole as you push the door open. Step trips on the threshold and you catch him around the waist, grunting. 

He hugs you back with another laugh and you kick the door shut with a tight, “Step, get off.”

He hums but does as he’s told, beaming at you widely. His round glasses keep slipping from the top of his head and he takes them off, spinning them in a clumsy circle on his index finger. You catch his hand quickly before he can break them and slip them inside your pocket instead. 

“Bed, now.”

He squints at you, still grinning but turns on his heels, stumbling along the corridor to the nearest room. 

The apartment is unfamiliar to you. You’ve been outside of it a few times but Step has always been rather...paranoid. He values his privacy a great deal and you’ve always respected that. 

Perhaps that’s why it’s so odd that his apartment appears so normal. You know this is hardly the only place he owns. No one in Camorra lives in just one place. It’s a security measure anyone above the lowest ranks follows. The harder you are to track, the better. And no one takes this rule more seriously than Step. 

Well, maybe Hector, too. You still have no idea where the leader of the Elite Guard lives. 

When you find Step next, he’s in what appears to be the lounge, trying to drag his boots off his feet. He stumbles, almost crashing into the coffee table sitting in the middle of the room. You grab the back of his jacket before he can fall over, and he drops onto the sofa with a dull thud instead. 

“You’re a mess,” you tell him as you lower yourself onto the floor, undoing his laces. “A big ol’ mess, pal.” 

“Yup,” Step answers jovially, popping the ‘p’ loudly. 

You suppress a smile, working on the tightly bound laces in silence. 

“Do you love him?”

Your fingers still. 

“What?”

“Santino,” Step says pointedly, and your head lifts slowly. His speech isn’t slurred anymore. In fact, he sounds solemn, his tone laced with something you can’t quite put your finger on. “Do you love him?”

His gaze is too sharp—

“I don’t know.”

Because you don’t. Most days you actively try not to think about it. 

He stares at you for a hard moment before releasing a slow breath. He chuckles, a touch forced, and leans back against the sofa. “Right, cool.”

You rise to your feet, staring down at him, unimpressed. 

Sometimes, it’s very easy to forget just how cunning, how clever, he can be. That sunny smile is such an easy disguise. Camorra’s Chameleon. But his question...

You can’t help but wonder why he of all the people would care. 

[kitsunekisara]

( Lovely late happy birthday @me-and-my-gaster \o/

Have some soft big skeleton boi because ya know? I ship it, just sayin’ :3c

Diz is such a perfect disaster but he’s also *gestures at picture* )

[hipster--swift]

ok but when link read aloud that he had to put everything in the room back where it was 😭😭

[kingxfmischief]

[Eddie I love you as a journalist you're a good boy]

[sxnnerssaintsarchiii]

| OPEN | ATLAS GREY

“ --- It’s the complaining about me disappearing for like two months. Come on I’m alive stop worrying won’t you? “

[inquisitorshepardofhyrule]

My Disaster Boi lives to dread another day!

Dies survived tonight’s game XD Not only that, but The DM used his backstory(that I still know nothing about) to get 3 out of 4 to safety.

A Dies Machina, as they called it.

The fourth member that wasn’t saved may or may not be dead. DM is being vague so time will tell.

All in all a very fun session. Spent most of it half-dead, but got some hints on my backstory(maybe) and met the back-up character for our fourth player: A Half-Orc Cleric named Uma(not an amnesiac).

[welcometomybrainstation]

peter, holding out the ruined shirts: look at it! it's gINGER