You're twenty. You wake up — mid-morning, more than a little hungover. It takes you a good two or three minutes to get past the pain and the sloshy feeling in your head to realize you're not the only one in your bed, and then you go very still.
Do you remember last night? Not really. Did you even get this person's name? Maybe, but good luck remembering it now. Shit, why did you bring them back here, you live here.
Slow and careful, you shift away — all the while intent on the sound of their breathing, all the while ready to freeze. Whoever they are, though, they seem like a heavy sleeper; you get to the foot of your bed and then to your feet without a hitch, and from there to the mirror, where you begin to take inventory.
You look like shit, but that's the hangover. A couple of visible bruises and a faint lingering ache. Doesn't look like a great or a terrible time — probably just 'fine', which describes a lot about your life right now.
Your clothes are crumpled on the floor, which is fine and what you were expecting, but when you go to retrieve your own pants, the light catches on something metal in the corner of the room. A pauldron.
For an instant, your brain just locks up, panic and something else, but there's more of the uniform scattered around your room, and when you realize it's the wrong colors (shades of green), the surge of relief is so intense you're briefly dizzy.
Stupid, you tell yourself, and go back to getting dressed. Pants, tunic, vest, boots, all black or nearly black. You belt the vest, roll up your sleeves, and you almost make it to the window totally without incident—
—but then there's this whuffling noise of disapproval.
You don't cringe, exactly, but you can't even look back at the dog you know is curled up in the corner of your room. You feel judged.
"Yeah, yeah," you mutter at him. "I've made better choices. Made worse ones, too."
You're sure he's just staring at you, completely unimpressed. That's fine, you think. You haven't done a lot that's impressive lately.
You drop out of the window, two stories up, to a light landing on the pavement below. By the time the guy in your bed wakes up, you'll be long gone.
Memory #10 (cw: implied NSFW)
You're twenty. You wake up — mid-morning, more than a little hungover. It takes you a good two or three minutes to get past the pain and the sloshy feeling in your head to realize you're not the only one in your bed, and then you go very still.
Do you remember last night? Not really. Did you even get this person's name? Maybe, but good luck remembering it now. Shit, why did you bring them back here, you live here.
Slow and careful, you shift away — all the while intent on the sound of their breathing, all the while ready to freeze. Whoever they are, though, they seem like a heavy sleeper; you get to the foot of your bed and then to your feet without a hitch, and from there to the mirror, where you begin to take inventory.
You look like shit, but that's the hangover. A couple of visible bruises and a faint lingering ache. Doesn't look like a great or a terrible time — probably just 'fine', which describes a lot about your life right now.
Your clothes are crumpled on the floor, which is fine and what you were expecting, but when you go to retrieve your own pants, the light catches on something metal in the corner of the room. A pauldron.
For an instant, your brain just locks up, panic and something else, but there's more of the uniform scattered around your room, and when you realize it's the wrong colors (shades of green), the surge of relief is so intense you're briefly dizzy.
Stupid, you tell yourself, and go back to getting dressed. Pants, tunic, vest, boots, all black or nearly black. You belt the vest, roll up your sleeves, and you almost make it to the window totally without incident—
—but then there's this whuffling noise of disapproval.
You don't cringe, exactly, but you can't even look back at the dog you know is curled up in the corner of your room. You feel judged.
"Yeah, yeah," you mutter at him. "I've made better choices. Made worse ones, too."
You're sure he's just staring at you, completely unimpressed. That's fine, you think. You haven't done a lot that's impressive lately.
You drop out of the window, two stories up, to a light landing on the pavement below. By the time the guy in your bed wakes up, you'll be long gone.