tw: underage drinking category 2 tag(s) not warned for
I uh, hope this is acceptable.
Part 1
You wake up to a pounding headache.
Wait, no. That's the door.
You're quick to your feet then, rolling out of bed and stumbling around the oddly opulent room, trying to pull together some semblance of an outfit and looking for alternative exits. This isn't the first time you've woken up in a hotel room with no memory of how you got there, and it probably won't be your last, but it's sure as fuck the messiest scene you've ever left. There's shattered glass in the entrance, maybe from the full-length closet mirror, something like lipstick smeared against the wall in large swaths, the curtains ripped and hanging limp from the wall, the television with a lamp through it—holy fuck how did you manage that—and what appears to be scattered pages from the bible slowly sifting down from a tilting ceiling fan, whirling above in a lazy fashion. The smell of brandy hangs heavy in the air, and even if that pounding at the door has gotten suspiciously quiet, you find time to go hunting for the minibar, which, yep, is empty.
"Shit," you say, startled when an answering grunt comes from behind you.
You spin around to see John rising from the ground, having apparently just tumbled out of the same bed you were sleeping in. Naked. Ohmygod John Egbert is naked and he just got out of the bed you were in naked.
You'd take a moment to think about this, except your brain is muggy-thick with hangover, you still don't have any memory of last night, and whoops, that click means they just managed to get the front door open.
"C'mon," you hiss at him, "We have to get out of here!" You swoop down to snatch a pair of fuzzy hotel slippers from the ground and throw them at him, not bothering to see if he's caught them before you spin back toward the door, suck in a deep breath, and scream at the top of your lungs as you make a running leap over the broken glass.
You're sort of a badass. No big deal.
You don't make it quite all the way, glass crunching loudly when you land, but at least your screaming and flailing forced the hotel security to take a few steps back. John's following close enough behind that he slips through the opening you've created, and just like that the two of you are dashing down the hall, laughing like a pair of maniacs.
A drawn-out chase up and down elevators and stairs, across floors and buildings, and down the street later, the two of you duck into an alleyway between a coffee shop and a small gym, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. John tugs at his robe (he must've snatched it up when you were busy screaming and running), straightening it, though there's really no way to make a robe that shows off that much leg look respectable.
"What was that all about?" He says, eyes too big and full of sparkle, and your grin fades a bit when you remember that you actually have no idea. So you do what you always do, give him a shrug, run a hand through your hair, and say, "Let's get a drink."
Coffee shops don't serve alcohol, but the convenience store across the corner does, and a few minutes later you're nestled in a booth at the café, pouring vodka into a cup of black. John just holds the drink you got him, hands wrapped around the warm mug without lifting it, looking uncomfortable under the stares of the other patrons.
"So no big surprise here," you say, "but I sorta got blackout drunk last night. Wanna tell me what went down, or should I say, who?" You give him a saucy wink, but unease still rumbles in your gut. You didn't sleep with John last night, did you? You take a swig of coffee, appreciating the path it burns down your throat, not appreciating the thought that follows the trail it blazes: Would that be such a bad thing?
No shit it would be a bad thing. John was your mom's deal, as far as you heard, or maybe Strider's brother, or maybe Jake's…? Whatever the case, John was taken goods, and even if those goods were super-fine and mostly naked and right damn there, first and foremost, John was your friend. You weren't gonna screw up everyone's tenuous relationships together by bangin that babe.
Even if he did look just like his dad.
You zoned out a little there, but he's just blinking owlishly at you, mouth hanging a little open, so you think you must not have missed too much. "Izyer mouth broken, cuz I can kiss it en make it bettuh." He goes white instead of red, but at least he answers this time, a mumbled, "I don't remember what happened either making you sigh.
"Alright," you say, pulling out your purse. "You ever seen the movie Hangover?"
He nods, eyes brightening. "Oh yeah, I really liked that one! Dad said I wasn't allowed to go, but Dave said I'd be a pussy if I missed out on it, whoops I mean, uh, chicken, sorry, I'd be a chicken if I didn't see it, so I went to the theatre myself and bought a ticket for some dumb kiddie movies for babies and snuck in, it was awesome!" His face twisted a bit. "Uh, except some of the parts were, sort of gross. Why, do you—"
You cut him off by upending your purse on the table. "Well today's you're lucky day, because we got ourselves a trail to follow."
. . . . . . . . . . .
"What we were doing at an ice-skating rink?"
You shrug, dragging your finger against the glass. "Dunno. Maybe we needed some ice to douse the sexual inferno that follows you everywhere." He gives you a little chuckle, still too-stiff and too far away in that manner that says he knows something you don't. "Yeah Roxy, I'm so hot I'm surprised I didn't melt a hole right through the ice. Geeze, you're so dumb!" You flip your hair out of your eyes, leaning in close to make his eyes widen and send him stumbling back a step, but then someone big and authoritarian-looking shouts, and you take off running.
. . . . . . . . . .
"What even happened here?" John's voice is a hushed whisper, and you're not sure you can even answer him. You clutch the tiny paper ice-cream cone wrapper in your fist a little tighter, sending up a silent prayer that you and John had nothing to do with this.
"Coming to you live at the corner of Marconi and Greenback, the scene of last night's flash mob gone wrong—" the woman's voice startles you, and you scoot away from her, professional business attire and tone marking her as a reporter, even if you'd somehow managed to miss the microphone and cameraman. She drones on about how, at 11:11 PM last night, patrons and workers of this Mcdonald's burst into sudden song, providing entertainment and harmony for all those there to see. But everything went wrong when the hoodlums attack.
John snorts next to you, and you grin back, though you're not sure why that made him laugh.
In the confusion, two teenagers hopped over the counter and began tossing out free food. When employees caught on that they weren't part of the act, it was already too late. A crowd had gathered and, amongst the chaos, the two teenagers escaped, taking armfuls of food with them. I their absence, the crowd grew out of control and burned the building two the ground.
John's somber next to you as the woman begins to describe the two teens, a boy and a girl, and asks for any information on their whereabouts. "Come on," you say. "I know where we headed next."
. . . . . . . . . . .
He figures it out four blocks before you get to your destination. "A soup kitchen." You glance back and give him a smile, along with an extra sassy sashay to your hips. "Yeeeep. Nothing in my purse about it, but where else would we have gone with all that food?"
"Geeze, you really wouldn't even know what to do with that food but give it away, would you?"
"Maybe I was cravin' something other than mcnuggies," you sing-song, getting twenty feet down the sidewalk before you realize he's not following anymore. You turn and trudge back to him, a little peeved he messed up your rhythm, trying to judge by the headache blossoming again at the base of your skull if you need another drink or not.
"Roxy," he starts, worrying at his lip with those big ol' buck teeth of his. "What happened last night?" You heave a sigh. "That's what we're tryin to figure out. Geeze," you mock, "You'd think you'd be better at this, bein Janey's poppop and all."
" I think we kissed," he says, and it sends ice slithering down your spine. "At the skating rink. We kissed, and started making out on the ice, and cause a big huge pile-up in the middle of the rink. Management had to come out in cleats to kick us out."
"Yeah?" You still don't really remember it, but what he says feels true.
"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck, and you wait for it, the "It was a mistake" speech, the "We were drunk," the, "I like you as a friend," or worst of all, "That was fun, but this doesn't mean we're going out or anything." She didn't peg him as the last one, but then, douchebags came in all shapes and sizes.
"That was fun," he finally says. "But maybe we should just stay friends." You were expecting it, which means you should have been prepared, but no, that just makes the tears come all the faster. His smile drops, reaching out a hand for you, but you've already spun and run down the street, his hollered "Roxy, wait!" small and distant behind you.
Fill: Team Dave<3Roxy
category 2 tag(s) not warned for
I uh, hope this is acceptable.
Part 1
You wake up to a pounding headache.
Wait, no. That's the door.
You're quick to your feet then, rolling out of bed and stumbling around the oddly opulent room, trying to pull together some semblance of an outfit and looking for alternative exits. This isn't the first time you've woken up in a hotel room with no memory of how you got there, and it probably won't be your last, but it's sure as fuck the messiest scene you've ever left. There's shattered glass in the entrance, maybe from the full-length closet mirror, something like lipstick smeared against the wall in large swaths, the curtains ripped and hanging limp from the wall, the television with a lamp through it—holy fuck how did you manage that—and what appears to be scattered pages from the bible slowly sifting down from a tilting ceiling fan, whirling above in a lazy fashion. The smell of brandy hangs heavy in the air, and even if that pounding at the door has gotten suspiciously quiet, you find time to go hunting for the minibar, which, yep, is empty.
"Shit," you say, startled when an answering grunt comes from behind you.
You spin around to see John rising from the ground, having apparently just tumbled out of the same bed you were sleeping in. Naked. Ohmygod John Egbert is naked and he just got out of the bed you were in naked.
You'd take a moment to think about this, except your brain is muggy-thick with hangover, you still don't have any memory of last night, and whoops, that click means they just managed to get the front door open.
"C'mon," you hiss at him, "We have to get out of here!" You swoop down to snatch a pair of fuzzy hotel slippers from the ground and throw them at him, not bothering to see if he's caught them before you spin back toward the door, suck in a deep breath, and scream at the top of your lungs as you make a running leap over the broken glass.
You're sort of a badass. No big deal.
You don't make it quite all the way, glass crunching loudly when you land, but at least your screaming and flailing forced the hotel security to take a few steps back. John's following close enough behind that he slips through the opening you've created, and just like that the two of you are dashing down the hall, laughing like a pair of maniacs.
A drawn-out chase up and down elevators and stairs, across floors and buildings, and down the street later, the two of you duck into an alleyway between a coffee shop and a small gym, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. John tugs at his robe (he must've snatched it up when you were busy screaming and running), straightening it, though there's really no way to make a robe that shows off that much leg look respectable.
"What was that all about?" He says, eyes too big and full of sparkle, and your grin fades a bit when you remember that you actually have no idea. So you do what you always do, give him a shrug, run a hand through your hair, and say, "Let's get a drink."
Coffee shops don't serve alcohol, but the convenience store across the corner does, and a few minutes later you're nestled in a booth at the café, pouring vodka into a cup of black. John just holds the drink you got him, hands wrapped around the warm mug without lifting it, looking uncomfortable under the stares of the other patrons.
"So no big surprise here," you say, "but I sorta got blackout drunk last night. Wanna tell me what went down, or should I say, who?" You give him a saucy wink, but unease still rumbles in your gut. You didn't sleep with John last night, did you? You take a swig of coffee, appreciating the path it burns down your throat, not appreciating the thought that follows the trail it blazes: Would that be such a bad thing?
No shit it would be a bad thing. John was your mom's deal, as far as you heard, or maybe Strider's brother, or maybe Jake's…? Whatever the case, John was taken goods, and even if those goods were super-fine and mostly naked and right damn there, first and foremost, John was your friend. You weren't gonna screw up everyone's tenuous relationships together by bangin that babe.
Even if he did look just like his dad.
You zoned out a little there, but he's just blinking owlishly at you, mouth hanging a little open, so you think you must not have missed too much. "Izyer mouth broken, cuz I can kiss it en make it bettuh." He goes white instead of red, but at least he answers this time, a mumbled, "I don't remember what happened either making you sigh.
"Alright," you say, pulling out your purse. "You ever seen the movie Hangover?"
He nods, eyes brightening. "Oh yeah, I really liked that one! Dad said I wasn't allowed to go, but Dave said I'd be a pussy if I missed out on it, whoops I mean, uh, chicken, sorry, I'd be a chicken if I didn't see it, so I went to the theatre myself and bought a ticket for some dumb kiddie movies for babies and snuck in, it was awesome!" His face twisted a bit. "Uh, except some of the parts were, sort of gross. Why, do you—"
You cut him off by upending your purse on the table. "Well today's you're lucky day, because we got ourselves a trail to follow."
. . . . . . . . . . .
"What we were doing at an ice-skating rink?"
You shrug, dragging your finger against the glass. "Dunno. Maybe we needed some ice to douse the sexual inferno that follows you everywhere." He gives you a little chuckle, still too-stiff and too far away in that manner that says he knows something you don't. "Yeah Roxy, I'm so hot I'm surprised I didn't melt a hole right through the ice. Geeze, you're so dumb!" You flip your hair out of your eyes, leaning in close to make his eyes widen and send him stumbling back a step, but then someone big and authoritarian-looking shouts, and you take off running.
. . . . . . . . . .
"What even happened here?" John's voice is a hushed whisper, and you're not sure you can even answer him. You clutch the tiny paper ice-cream cone wrapper in your fist a little tighter, sending up a silent prayer that you and John had nothing to do with this.
"Coming to you live at the corner of Marconi and Greenback, the scene of last night's flash mob gone wrong—" the woman's voice startles you, and you scoot away from her, professional business attire and tone marking her as a reporter, even if you'd somehow managed to miss the microphone and cameraman. She drones on about how, at 11:11 PM last night, patrons and workers of this Mcdonald's burst into sudden song, providing entertainment and harmony for all those there to see. But everything went wrong when the hoodlums attack.
John snorts next to you, and you grin back, though you're not sure why that made him laugh.
In the confusion, two teenagers hopped over the counter and began tossing out free food. When employees caught on that they weren't part of the act, it was already too late. A crowd had gathered and, amongst the chaos, the two teenagers escaped, taking armfuls of food with them. I their absence, the crowd grew out of control and burned the building two the ground.
John's somber next to you as the woman begins to describe the two teens, a boy and a girl, and asks for any information on their whereabouts. "Come on," you say. "I know where we headed next."
. . . . . . . . . . .
He figures it out four blocks before you get to your destination. "A soup kitchen." You glance back and give him a smile, along with an extra sassy sashay to your hips. "Yeeeep. Nothing in my purse about it, but where else would we have gone with all that food?"
"Geeze, you really wouldn't even know what to do with that food but give it away, would you?"
"Maybe I was cravin' something other than mcnuggies," you sing-song, getting twenty feet down the sidewalk before you realize he's not following anymore. You turn and trudge back to him, a little peeved he messed up your rhythm, trying to judge by the headache blossoming again at the base of your skull if you need another drink or not.
"Roxy," he starts, worrying at his lip with those big ol' buck teeth of his. "What happened last night?"
You heave a sigh. "That's what we're tryin to figure out. Geeze," you mock, "You'd think you'd be better at this, bein Janey's poppop and all."
" I think we kissed," he says, and it sends ice slithering down your spine. "At the skating rink. We kissed, and started making out on the ice, and cause a big huge pile-up in the middle of the rink. Management had to come out in cleats to kick us out."
"Yeah?" You still don't really remember it, but what he says feels true.
"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck, and you wait for it, the "It was a mistake" speech, the "We were drunk," the, "I like you as a friend," or worst of all, "That was fun, but this doesn't mean we're going out or anything." She didn't peg him as the last one, but then, douchebags came in all shapes and sizes.
"That was fun," he finally says. "But maybe we should just stay friends."
You were expecting it, which means you should have been prepared, but no, that just makes the tears come all the faster. His smile drops, reaching out a hand for you, but you've already spun and run down the street, his hollered "Roxy, wait!" small and distant behind you.