Participants:
| Scene Title | Booty Dial? Butt Call? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The morning after and the questions that go with it… |
| Date | June 5, 2019 |
Bay Ridge: Dirk & Isis’s Apartment
The black out curtain wasn’t closed quite right. The Sun, sneaky little bastard that it is, cuts a sliver of light across the room and over a rumpled, black duvet.
It doesn’t matter to her - Isis is already awake. Laying on her side, elbow upon her pillow, her fingers are lost in the tangle of her red locks to support her head. Over her hip, the duvet is disturbed by something, or someone, beside her.
She looks down with a blank expression to where that spiteful slice of light falls across Zachery’s face. Sloooowly, a brow arcs. She pulls her free hand up from its resting place at her hip, licks her finger, and unceremoniously wiggles it in Zach’s ear. She quickly pulls her hand away and looks, for all intents and purposes, totally innocent.
Zachery is not a graceful creature. He's sort of messily sprawled sideways, face half pressed into pillow, half into his own arm.
He is also, notably, not graceful in the way he throws that arm sideways in a somewhat belated response to the finger in his ear, half choking himself awake in a laboured, half-asleep inhale of 'what the fuck', 'where the fuck' and just generally, 'WhAT IN THE FUCKIng WORLD'. The latter's on his face in the way his eyebrows seem to want to smash right into each other when his eyes shoot open and the one that actually functions works furiously to try and blearily focus on…
Oh.
Can he pretend he's dead? Is that a thing? A headache presses his eye(s) most of the way shut again as he lies perfectly still, like maybe Isis will turn out to be like a raptor in the movies. Maybe she'll just go.
A little freckled nose wrinkles up as Isis is privy to this pathetic awakening ceremony. It’s an expression of part pity, part what-the-fuck. Nobody likes mornings, but let’s not be so dramatic, hm?
Audience: please note that raptors only go after they have decidedly mauled their desired prey.
Head lolled lazily into her hand still, she meets Zachery’s gaze and simply stares back - long enough to be purposefully awkward, but not long enough to be bored. “You’re a blanket hog,” this is pointed out in a simple, perturbed fashion. “You have to make the bed…”
With that Isis rolls away, kicking her feet over the edge of the bed and slinking out from under the covers. SHIELD YOUR E-… oh, wait, she’s dressed. A lime green tank top reveals farm more porcelain flesh than is her norm - along with a tribal-styled ankh in thick black between her delicate shoulder blades. And, there’s silk boxers, too!
She moves across the carpet, pulling her hair messily into one of those big, pinchy claw-clip things, as she heads for the dresser opposite the foot of the bed.
"… How does this keep happening," breathes Zachery, still sprawled under the covers and largely unmoving, instantly seeming to regret his decision to speak as a hangover reminds him that it's there in an involuntarily scrunching up of his face. Oof. His eye follows Isis' moment as she leaves the bed, from between the fingers of the hand that seems to have clamped itself onto his face of its own accord.
Time for a gamble. Without another word, he puuulls both of his knees up… and then KICKS the duvet off and sends it flying toward the foot end of the bed.
Leaving him peering down at himself as his hand drops down from his face, apparently stark naked. "… Okay. I was sort of expecting, at least, you know, something on me still, but," he stops, looking like he's swallowing back… a laugh? Then, again, with a hint of panic threading through misplaced amusement, "Okay."
The redhead pulls open drawers here and there, ultimately collecting a few articles of clothing that she simply tosses up to rest over her shoulder. The sudden POOF-N’-FLUFF of tossed blankets makes her look back, chin over shoulder first. The rest of her body follows after until she facing him and gently tips her head to the side. Blink blink. She can only hold it back a moment before the smirk cracks the edges around her facade.
Smiling still, bare feet carry her over to Zach’s side of the bed. She kneels down, folds her arms on the mattress, and rests her chin on the back of her hands. There we go - down at his level.
“Keeps happenin’, hm?” She tucks her chin in a bit so she can regard him through a veil of lashes. “Some might say you have an alcohol problem…” She tsks. There’s a side-eye given to the lower half of the strange, uncovered, naked man in her bed, but hazel orbs quickly flit back in the direction of his face. “I disagree. But, moderation might be best. At the rate I saw last night, you might have ended up in Dirk’s bed just as well as mine.” She bobs her brows - hubba hubba.
In an act of pity she reaches into the nightstand, the contents decidedly organized in fact, and plucks up a bottle of aspirin. Dangling it between forefinger and thumb, she sets it on his sternum.
There’s an elephant in the room and she’s leaving it precariously hanging.
Speaking of - slight panic or not, Zachery does not seem to be feeling any shame about just sort of… lying there, in plain view. He's too busy trying desperately to remember things, when a bottle of aspirin comes within view, breaking him out of a slow-blinking stupor. Ooh. "Bed and breakfast," he rasps, "Luxurious."
Plucking the bottle up, he takes a deep breath before pushing himself up onto his elbows, working the bottle open with one hand and speedy expertise. "Yeah, it keeps happening. Well, twice, so far. I think. Alcohol… problem, drinking." This last part is mused like he's never even heard of the word, eye momentarily darting to Isis like she might have the answer to his question. "Why was I… drinking?" A pause in speech and thought both comes when he's thumbed some pills into his palm and just throws them all at once into his mouth. The open bottle's left next to him as yet another thought interrupts.
"How did I get here?"
And again, a little quieter, something furrowing his brow in a frantic instant, "… Shit I have a girlfriend this time. 'Girlfriend' is a weird thing to say at 43, isn't it. Also, Dirk who, now?"
Isis tips her head aside, presenting a fine cheek bone and a proud smile as Zacharery’s assessment of breakfast-in-bed rains down on her as praise. “I am to please.” She doesn’t, but that’s not the point. Chin still perched on her hands, she’s forced to look up when he props himself just so, widening vibrant eyes into a doe-ish quality of which she is, thankfully, wholly unaware.
“Something about a… mind-fuck? Telepath. You were a ‘hot mess’…” Her face screws up into confused wrinkles and scrunches. “I’m never sure that I’m using that phrase right… hot mess.” Clearly, this has been bothering her a long time. She continues on, but only after another quick glance over at … well… Zachery’s junk. It’s like there’s a magnet leading her eyes astray just so. “Here? Well, I think you took a bus. Though, you kept going off about a Mantis and some Savage? I-… honestly have no fucking clue. I gave you my address and you showed up, man.” She shrugs and only then unfolds her hands.
Little, pale fingers spider up to her shoulder and pluck up pair of black undergarments from the collection of fabrics still draped there. Pinching forefinger and thumb together, her underwear dangling, she reaches out and drops the little sample of fabric right over Zachery’s nether bits. There. Now, what was he saying?
“Forty-three? Damn. I do generally like older guys, but this is a new level for me.” She turns her face back up to Zachery. “Dirk’s my roomate. You could do worse.” Pause. “You worried ‘bout your girlfriend?” She brings up a hand to make a gesture towards Zachery’s body - there, on her bed, at least for all that it matters - very naked.
There's too much going on both inside and outside of Zachery's head for him to focus on any one thing, it seems. The mention of a telepath has him wrench two fistfuls of fabric between his fingers as memories come flooding back, that one eye glazing over as his jaw muscles tighten and teeth grit. Shit.
Only once something is dropped on him does he snap back out of it again, leaving him staring down in confusion for a moment.
Is he worried? "Not… so much," he admits, with a pained chuckle. "Which, granted, I probably should be, but - she seems smart, and I'm not… particularly looking to fuck that whole situation… up." As his words slow, there's another glance downward, then at Isis' face. He squints. "Did we have sex? I'm assuming no… for reasons." Reasons he definitely isn't using a mental shortcut for right now. Except that he is.
Without even waiting for an answer, he gestures for her to get out of the way and starts to swing his legs off of the bed. "I need my… phone. Clothes. Shit, work. I must've been called. I broke a woman's nose — was there blood in my hair? Is there still?" It's difficult being equal amounts hung over and confused.
Ah. There it is: The Question.
Isis leans back as she considers Zachery’s response about his ‘girlfriend’ - the subtle shifts in his tone, the even more discrete adjustments in his expression. Despite her attentiveness, her gaze is not prying, not invasive. Just a casual interest… this time. “Hey now. You booty called me,” she teases lightly enough as she pushes to her feet and steps back. Her hands are held out in a low, helpless fashion as she backpedals several steps.
“Wait…” There’s an impish playfulness creeping into her smile now. “Is that booty call or butt dial… I always get them confused.” If she could wink, she would. Instead she chuckles warmly and makes for the door. “I’ll get your clothes out ‘the dryer. You insisted that even your “undies” needed a wash after you barfed down yourself.” She glances back. “Real sexy.”
When she gets to the door she holds it open and makes a sweeping gesture. “Bathroom is on the left. Then we’ll talk about this telepath problem…”
Oof. Zachery's nose wrinkles at the words 'booty call' like he'd have rather not heard that sentence. He gets to his feet - stray piece of underwear dropping to the floor - and wobbles unsteadily for a moment, then steadies himself. Okay. Composure (somewhat) regained, he starts in a slow, tired amble toward said bathroom with a low mumble of, "Never once in my life have I made an attempt at 'sexy', so that… sounds right."
When he's just about to leave the room, hand tightly on the doorway in order to prevent falling over, he adds with a dry excuse for a chuckle and a scrub at unshaven jaw, "… At least it wasn't Rene I woke up next to, this time."