[Oblivion is sweet. It's soft and warm, and L is buried deep and nestled in its flank for hours. How many, he's too far gone to tell, but morning brings a fresh hell down on his aching head, his tender eyes, a cheekbone that isn't broken but a bruised and swollen mass of pain. Curled on his side with his pants bunched around one ankle, stinking of liquor, sweat and sex, flashes and flickers and sneering shadows of the night prior assault his beleaguered brain. He doesn't want any of it... but even if he could remember even less than he readily admits to, the physical proof isn't exactly something he can merely brush aside and ignore.
They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]
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They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]