Brigit's Flame -- "Morning Glory"
Prompt: "Morning Glory"
Word Count: 884
Warnings: a whole rainbow of colorful language! :D ...and other assorted sketchiness
Author's Note: Hahahahaha. XD eltea, I love you. Let's reenact this sometime; I'll be Shawn.
"MORNING GLORY"
When Shawn opened his eyes, it was very, very bright, and something smelled overpoweringly of extremely cheap liquor.
Momentarily, he realized that it was his breath.
Upon gathering the shreds of consciousness around him, he discovered that he was also possessed of a wracking headache, one that was more of a bitch than any of his ex-girlfriends, which was really saying something, if you considered Nicki.
He made an uninspired groaning sound, peeled his face off the pillow, and rolled partway over, raising a leaden hand to lay over his assaulted eyes.
Before he had succeeded, he noted that he was not, as he had automatically anticipated, alone.
The girl on the other side of the bed, whose tangled brown hair fell a few inches short of reaching the curve of her bare shoulder, sighed softly and snuggled up with the comforter.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, motherfucking son of a bitch in hell on fire.
Tentatively, his heart pounding almost-but not quite-as hard as his aching head, Shawn pushed himself up on one elbow and leaned carefully forward, seeking to be soundless, to examine his bedmate.
To his delight, she was pretty cute.
To his horror, anguish, chagrin, dismay, and, ultimately, destruction, she didn’t look like she was eighteen.
Oh, God. Oh, God. He was going to get convicted and go to prison and piss off a Mafia don and be everybody’s scapegoat and get ganked by overzealous guards and DIE.
Was he hyperventilating?
Maybe he should lie down.
On the floor.
And pretend that this had never happened.
Because nothing had happened.
Of course not.
Shawn eased himself off of the edge of the mattress, which creaked mischievously, and sat down on the floor, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Yes, he was buck naked and impressively hungover.
This did not bode well for our hero.
He was hiding his eyes from the merciless sunlight glaring through the window-he might have tried to find the curtains, but it had been difficult enough to find his eyes, and those were on his face-when he heard a quiet gasp of surprise followed by a rustling of sheets.
Oh, dear God, ganked by prison guards.
A bewildered, slightly curious face with a button nose and big brown eyes appeared over the edge of the bed, and Shawn cowered.
A slender white hand, which was attached to a slender white arm, which was presumably attached to other slender white things with which Shawn was rather more familiar than he would have liked, extended itself towards him.
“Hi,” its owner offered, managing a shy smile. “I’m Paige.”
Shawn realized after a few seconds that shaking hands would prove impossible if he continued to keep both of his over his face, the better to peek around his fingers.
He considered which one to sacrifice, weighed spatial ratios momentarily, and then realized that he had to match the hand she was giving him.
Which was the left.
Either she was a southpaw, or she, too, had crossed an all-new threshold of incapacitation.
He wished he had some clothing to wipe his clammy palm on before clasping it to hers, but alas.
“Shawn,” he said. “It’s. Nice. To meet you. Officially.”
They shook.
They withdrew their respective hands.
Shawn wrapped his arms around his knees, squinting against the light.
“Um,” Paige said.
Shawn squinted in a way that he hoped was encouraging.
“Do you know where my clothes are?” Paige asked.
Mutely Shawn shook his head.
“Shit,” Paige muttered.
Shawn blinked in a way that he hoped was sympathetic.
“Those were my favorite jeans,” Paige explained. She paused. “I think.”
Shawn worked up the courage to ask the question that had long since knotted in his throat. “Are you-?”
Correction: Shawn nearly worked up the courage.
Paige tilted her head. She had freckles across her nose. “Am I what?”
The girl was much too coherent; this wasn’t fair at all.
“…legal?” Shawn managed.
Paige sighed feelingly, folded her arms on the comforter, and plunked her chin down.
“I’m twenty-four,” she announced.
Shawn stared. “You look sixteen,” he said, his brain catching up just after he’d finished to inform him that she was probably very well-aware of that fact by now, thanks very much.
Either Paige nodded, or she was trying to get more comfortable among the sheets.
“That’s why I never get laid,” she explained. “Or at least, I assume it is.”
“That’s stupid,” Shawn decided. “’Cause you’re cute.”
There was a pause; Paige went pinkish; Shawn’s brain ran up, clutching at its side and wailing about shin splints.
“Not,” Shawn amended, “in the, like, pedophile way. Y’know.”
Paige sighed. “Do I ever.”
There was another pause. Shawn prodded at his brain, which seemed to have fallen asleep again.
“Do you,” he said, “want to go out for coffee sometime?”
There.
…wait.
Paige smiled. “Sure,” she replied.
Shawn smiled back.
All things considered, this had turned out pretty well. His head was still attempting to split itself open and pour his cranial matter out on to the carpet, but he was alive so far, and he might even survive long enough to go on that date.
Additionally, the odds of his being ganked by prison guards had drastically decreased.
That was never a bad thing.
Word Count: 884
Warnings: a whole rainbow of colorful language! :D ...and other assorted sketchiness
Author's Note: Hahahahaha. XD eltea, I love you. Let's reenact this sometime; I'll be Shawn.
"MORNING GLORY"
When Shawn opened his eyes, it was very, very bright, and something smelled overpoweringly of extremely cheap liquor.
Momentarily, he realized that it was his breath.
Upon gathering the shreds of consciousness around him, he discovered that he was also possessed of a wracking headache, one that was more of a bitch than any of his ex-girlfriends, which was really saying something, if you considered Nicki.
He made an uninspired groaning sound, peeled his face off the pillow, and rolled partway over, raising a leaden hand to lay over his assaulted eyes.
Before he had succeeded, he noted that he was not, as he had automatically anticipated, alone.
The girl on the other side of the bed, whose tangled brown hair fell a few inches short of reaching the curve of her bare shoulder, sighed softly and snuggled up with the comforter.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, motherfucking son of a bitch in hell on fire.
Tentatively, his heart pounding almost-but not quite-as hard as his aching head, Shawn pushed himself up on one elbow and leaned carefully forward, seeking to be soundless, to examine his bedmate.
To his delight, she was pretty cute.
To his horror, anguish, chagrin, dismay, and, ultimately, destruction, she didn’t look like she was eighteen.
Oh, God. Oh, God. He was going to get convicted and go to prison and piss off a Mafia don and be everybody’s scapegoat and get ganked by overzealous guards and DIE.
Was he hyperventilating?
Maybe he should lie down.
On the floor.
And pretend that this had never happened.
Because nothing had happened.
Of course not.
Shawn eased himself off of the edge of the mattress, which creaked mischievously, and sat down on the floor, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Yes, he was buck naked and impressively hungover.
This did not bode well for our hero.
He was hiding his eyes from the merciless sunlight glaring through the window-he might have tried to find the curtains, but it had been difficult enough to find his eyes, and those were on his face-when he heard a quiet gasp of surprise followed by a rustling of sheets.
Oh, dear God, ganked by prison guards.
A bewildered, slightly curious face with a button nose and big brown eyes appeared over the edge of the bed, and Shawn cowered.
A slender white hand, which was attached to a slender white arm, which was presumably attached to other slender white things with which Shawn was rather more familiar than he would have liked, extended itself towards him.
“Hi,” its owner offered, managing a shy smile. “I’m Paige.”
Shawn realized after a few seconds that shaking hands would prove impossible if he continued to keep both of his over his face, the better to peek around his fingers.
He considered which one to sacrifice, weighed spatial ratios momentarily, and then realized that he had to match the hand she was giving him.
Which was the left.
Either she was a southpaw, or she, too, had crossed an all-new threshold of incapacitation.
He wished he had some clothing to wipe his clammy palm on before clasping it to hers, but alas.
“Shawn,” he said. “It’s. Nice. To meet you. Officially.”
They shook.
They withdrew their respective hands.
Shawn wrapped his arms around his knees, squinting against the light.
“Um,” Paige said.
Shawn squinted in a way that he hoped was encouraging.
“Do you know where my clothes are?” Paige asked.
Mutely Shawn shook his head.
“Shit,” Paige muttered.
Shawn blinked in a way that he hoped was sympathetic.
“Those were my favorite jeans,” Paige explained. She paused. “I think.”
Shawn worked up the courage to ask the question that had long since knotted in his throat. “Are you-?”
Correction: Shawn nearly worked up the courage.
Paige tilted her head. She had freckles across her nose. “Am I what?”
The girl was much too coherent; this wasn’t fair at all.
“…legal?” Shawn managed.
Paige sighed feelingly, folded her arms on the comforter, and plunked her chin down.
“I’m twenty-four,” she announced.
Shawn stared. “You look sixteen,” he said, his brain catching up just after he’d finished to inform him that she was probably very well-aware of that fact by now, thanks very much.
Either Paige nodded, or she was trying to get more comfortable among the sheets.
“That’s why I never get laid,” she explained. “Or at least, I assume it is.”
“That’s stupid,” Shawn decided. “’Cause you’re cute.”
There was a pause; Paige went pinkish; Shawn’s brain ran up, clutching at its side and wailing about shin splints.
“Not,” Shawn amended, “in the, like, pedophile way. Y’know.”
Paige sighed. “Do I ever.”
There was another pause. Shawn prodded at his brain, which seemed to have fallen asleep again.
“Do you,” he said, “want to go out for coffee sometime?”
There.
…wait.
Paige smiled. “Sure,” she replied.
Shawn smiled back.
All things considered, this had turned out pretty well. His head was still attempting to split itself open and pour his cranial matter out on to the carpet, but he was alive so far, and he might even survive long enough to go on that date.
Additionally, the odds of his being ganked by prison guards had drastically decreased.
That was never a bad thing.