"Un-fucking-real!" The dainty, dripping-drunk blonde says like it's the first word she's ever learned to say, and honestly it might as well be in this stupor.
All around her is a perfect atrament that's filled with a painting -- it looks like some old master took a brush filled with Tinkerbell's blood and Neverland water and splattered it across the sky. Roxy realizes in her intoxpicatued intoxicated* haze that God is actually a painter, and he took precious sweet fucking time on the universesesesssss inviver* universe's** night sky. She's admiring right now -- she kind of wishes she was more sober for it, so in case this ever goes away she can at least remember it with some clarity, but she is equally as scared that if she wasn't as ta-ta-ta-tiiipsy as she was now then it wouldn't be nearly so heart wrenchingly beautiful. Roxy tips her wrist up to finish her martini and sob hysterically into it, but realizes that her fingers are pressing against air, and she is in fact floating lightly, aimlessly into the air.
She feels washed up and sleepy when a warm hand, her own personal anchor to this amethyst planet, tugs her down gently and presses her feet to the ground. Roxy is for sure seeing stars, or maybe Adonis; call her crazy (she toootes would omgfg lol omfg*) but there is a ridiculously smoking hot male standing in front of her, giving her this smarmy-as-fuck half-smirk like she is a goddamn clown in purple medieval pajamas. And maybe she was. No big deal. She was awesome.
Her head lolled back and forth, in strange time, because she had a song stuck in her head and she asked with surprising clarity, "Who're you?"
The seraph boy replied smoothly, "I'm not sure if I'm repulsed or impressed that you managed to remain shit-faced even in your dreams."
"Ohmhy god forreal are you who I THINK you are."
He was taller than her by a mile. Or maybe like three inches. His eyes were tangerine fire neon whiskey glass, bright as all of those because even behind the black sheet of needle-point glass that tried to cover his eyes, they shone through without a problem, but maybe that was because the light was hitting them. Doesn't matter. His hair is hawk-feathers and sunshine blond. There is a whole galaxy living in him. Nobody in the whole world could be this fucking pretty, Roxy thinks with some sinking feeling in her heart, because she is never going to be that beautiful looking ever. Ever.
She can see her hair ruffle in his glasses reflection and her stained glass rose eyes and remembers that omghgffm, Dirk Strider is standing in front of her for the first time.
"I am actually slightly impressed, or possibly repulsed, that you managed to remain totally shit-faced even in your dreams," he purrs like some pompous king while his head cocks. He manages to retain an air of superiority and stoicism.
Roxy feels herself sliding into the air with the littlest bit of shame making her sink again, hehehe, she thinks, I am bobbing like a lure, and grins all sloppy as she laughs and cries, "Dirk, you fucking APE."
He perks a brow, but an amused smile makes its way onto his features cautiously and she thinks she might cream a little bit. He says, "It appears that you're getting warmer. In all honesty, there was only a 28% chance that you would recognize me, but being completely honest here, I just pulled that number out of my ass. God damn. You're not getting any more hints than that."
Even in her drunken stupor, Roxy's mind was clicking and pressing the right puzzle pieces together. The thoughts were slushing together like melting snow, but the déjà vu of his words was strong, and she felt her heart turning into a hot air balloon in her chest, which mind you was incredibly uncomfdf UNCOMFortable* and warm and making her float. Maybe that's why this was happening; she was so happy, happy as a bird, she would just float away into the constellations and become one. Gosh. DAMN.
Realization washed over her eyes and he saw it and her eyes went wider and wider and her jaw hung further and further and then peaked at the edges into the most glee-filled smile as she said, "Oh my god."
"Good girl. I knew you had enough mental capacity to deduct it, no matter how stupid-drunk you are right now."
"Oh my god."
"While I understand that it is uncannily easy to confuse God and myself, I appreciate the compliment, my plastered friend, but we are unfortunately not the same entity. Though we might as fucking well be, honestly?"
The emotion that kept drilling into her chest was kind of taking its toll on her. As the sheer shock of the reality of the situation gently provided some sobriety to her, Roxy took a deep breath to try and find her balance, but there was no balance when your body was drifting into the atmosphere and Adonis himself was gingerly prying you back down to earth, his fingertips pressing into the soft skin between your knuckles. She was overcome with the ecstasy, the untouchable joy; all at once she remembered the dozens of conversations. There was not a single feeling in the whole world like the one where you're alone at night, and the darkness presses in no matter how many lights you have on, and the liquor is crawling into your bones and feeling more like cobwebs than a security blanket; you want anybody. You would talk to the mailman if he was outside, but he's not; nobody's there, nobody, nobody at all. Everyone is normal and sleeping peacefully, drifting in their dreams, and when all of this happens, you curl up and want to die. But he was there. Roxy Lalonde could find solace and sanctity in the taka-taka-taka-taka-tak of her fingers hazily scrawling across the keyboard to an AI of some boy she was half in love with, the AI of the boy who she could flirtlarp with and press those same fingers to the insides of the betweens of her thighs, the AI of the boy who would tirelessly talk to her even when the world was closing in. She felt the dizziest half smile in that second, because here he was again, doing the same thing; he was the auto-responder anchor device. For even in her dreams, he kept her feet on the ground.
Roxy felt a tiny hiccup in her throat when the words 'I love you' bled through her cortex, but she swallowed it and gave him a big, woozy, million-dollar smile. That was just the kind of girl she was.
"Hi," she whispered to him, making sure her body didn't rocket off towards the heavenly bodies. He snorted, unable to resist a smirk at the utter silliness of the girl in front of him.
It is important to know that discretion, tact, and inhibidfn inhib* inhibition** were things that Roxy only knew fleetingly. In her personal philosophy, they were fun-killers, and all the best ideas came from being tolioke like t totally* fuckeduoppp crunk, right? Right? Even Hemingway said so. 'Write drunk, edit sober.' Man was a fucking genius. So needless to say, when watercolour images of ideas of her hands crawling up the arms of her lifesaver, pulling her body close to his, closer and closer, until she could breathe him in and press her lips to his out of nothing but potent desire and la-la-la-looo--STOP--iiike for him, she had absolutely no reason whatsoever to tell her heart 'No.'
Maybe he knew what she was doing. Or maybe he didn't. She wasn't sure how long it took for it to happen; probably a long time. But her fingers, curious and needing, crawled up the strangely fuchsia fabric of his clothes, tracing the lines of his arms up to his shoulders. They felt good. Her eyes naturally as anything found his through the glasses, and as her wandering hands crept behind the nape of his neck, brushing against his perfectly cropped and flippant hair, her lips perfectly found his in the tastiest, tastiest kiss.
It had happened a thousand times over text. Well maybe like five. But it happened all the same. His mouth was incredibly welcoming and his kiss was sure; his hands found her petite waist with ease and held her against the ground, against him, and she took a deep swallow of air and only felt the scent of sugar cookies and root beer and short circuiting. She hoped she looked pretty. She hoped as her tongue drifted against his in the most heart-melting and heat-filled way, he thought it felt good, too, and when she sighed like a siren and made some unintentional other noises, he wasn't uncomfortable and he wasn't thinking about Jake. But one hand was on her hip bone now, squeezing whenever she accidently made those noises, and the other hand that perfectly pressed to the small of her back tensed every time she tried to move closer, seemed to imply that this was all okay.
So it ended too quickly, of course. They broke away, panting, hearts racing, a glaringly apparent string of saliva desperately connecting their lips in hopes of reuniting them that he only abruptly swept up with his tongue. Roxy felt that her face felt awfully hot, and his own cheeks seemed something rosier than before, but she was distracted by his fingertips gliding lightly across her collarbone through the fabric of her shirt.
"Roxy," he spoke slowly, measuredly, and she didn't know how anybody in the whold wolrd wow whole world*** could speak so perfectly after that. "You need to wake up."
Her stomach dropped. Utter dismay was written plainly on her distressed features, and she instantly retorted, "But why?"
Oh my god. Had she jumped him. Did she just rape him??? She suddenly felt like she was going to be sick--
He kissed her quickly and sweetly and their lips had barely touched but it felt like brandy and sugar cubes in the spot where they had. She was certain a galaxy lived inside of him now.
"You'll be fine. But you need to wake up. I l--"
Roxy Lalonde sat up abruptly in a pile of wizard plushes with a powerful want between her legs and a warm, light, sticky sheen of sweat covering her skin. Her chest was heaving slightly, trying to catch her breath as if she'd just run a marathon. She was entirely sober, goddamnit, but that dream, oh my god, that dream, it was clear as a fucking IMAX movie and she laid there for a while, trying to be calm before she got up.
She fell asleep again. She woke up again. It was four in the morning. Jaspers was meowing at the door, and she let him in before booting up her computer, fumbling over buttons and keys and struggling to type in her password (she did it better inebriated honestly) and then the IM client took a thousand fucking years to load and then. And then.
-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] --
TG: dikr oh my god
TG: og my fucking ofd i mean autho-responder pelase please please be there
TG: i eneed need* to tell you something really really really important
TG: i had this dream
TT: I know.