drunk rp
WHO: Jessica Jones
WHERE: Some seedy bar.
WHEN: This is right after Jessica got ported to the city.
WARNINGS: Language, implied non-consensual sexuality.
SUMMARY: Jessica's first night in the City, she basically gets drunk and passes out somewhere.
FORMAT: Solo
Fuck, it was dark.
Not the kind of dark that follows naturally after dusk. Too close to any city, and the sky just turns a bunch of pale green and purple colors, like it’s trying to match spring collections at the Gap. There’s too much light in caught in the ozone, it’s bleeding into our nights and stealing the goddamn dark away from us. What a weird thing to complain about.
No, it was dark the way it only gets when you pull the curtains down and you don’t want to look at the face that belongs to the body underneath you, the dark that has edges and sticks to things and gets everywhere you don’t want it. Whatever stupid bar Jessica had wandered into-she didn’t catch the name, she didn’t even remember walking into the place-had painted over the windows with thick black soup. The lights were dim and the one in the bathroom was flickering, and even in crazy alternate reality versions of New York they were charging more than five bucks for a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Jessica isn’t sure if that’s comforting or not. What she is sure of, what she is really swear-on-a-bible sure of, is that she’s gonna need something stronger than Pabst.
Okay, regroup. What’s the situation, here?
A) You are trapped in some kind of alternate dimension, because, fuck, the universe just can’t get the “I quit” memo even if you somehow stapled it to its forehead. Yes, the universe has a forehead now. You are apparently drunk enough that this makes sense.
B) There’s no one here you really know except maybe Iron Man and you don’t really know him really, you just punched his good friend and then passed out and he miiiight remember you a little bit from that. You are like, the lowest insect on the flea food chain of crazy people who wear spandex. But fuck it, the Avengers don’t want to do anything, and they can’t send you home and fix all your stupid messes anymore, so screw them.
C) Why the hell didn’t you tell the cop guy to just fuck off? Well, okay, telling the cops to fuck off isn’t a good idea, in general, so good job but there’s no way you can help them or be one of them and you know that. That’s why it’s called private investigator.
D) You know mom won’t give a damn if you don’t call her. She doesn't expect you to, she expects you to fuck up again.
E) This is really, really, just, like, shitty scotch. God, what did they put in this, it tastes like motor oil probably tastes. Or rubbing alcohol, or-oh crap, is that guy trying to hit on you? Does he even have all of his teeth?
Jessica says something like fuck the fuck off, you sick fucker. She’s not sure if the words came out in that order, but she thinks that was what she meant to say. The bartender laughs, and it turns out that the scotch she’s drinking is some special Christmas kind “that’s been aged since 2007.”
“No kidding?” asks Jessica. Why the hell is he telling her this?
“You always need scotch around Christmas. Relatives.”
And she must have been-well, not crying, because she isn’t crying, but maybe she sounded like she was crying. Maybe her face just looked red in the low-burning light, or maybe the bartender was just trying to get into her pants because he asks her what’s wrong.
Right. Like that’s a question with an answer. If you ever asks someone “what’s wrong?” and their answer is less than two sentences long, they are lying. Or not telling the whole truth. Which is the same as lying, when you get down to it.
“I’m an orphan,” Jessica says.
“No shit?” the bartender replies. He is a dome shaped man and his head is shaved and he is wearing an AC-DC t-shirt. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, crap, no, don’t be. I can’t fucking stand people feeling sorry for me. Christ.”
The bartender tells her about the City-and it’s really just called “City” and no one seems to think that’s weird. Which is really fucking weird. Everything here is crazy, and wasn’t always, but strange men in tights just keep popping in and buildings keep falling down. Jessica wonders if the air really pops when someone gets here. However it is they get here. She thinks about the sheets of plastic bubbles that come in mail-order packages, how good it feels to squeeze the air out of them. Strangulation. She doesn’t think of her little brother or his dead face cut up with glass-he used to love bubblewrap.
Jessica doesn’t have an apartment but she doesn’t want to go home with the bartender. There’s no way in hell her credit cards work here. They’re all overcharged, anyway, she should just be grateful she had forty-two dollars and a handful of nickels in her pocket when she got here. She’s down to five bucks now because cigarettes cost as much as bodyparts.
It doesn’t take a lot of stumbling to find a park bench for her ass to fall on. God, it’s probably three am by now and she’s still stuck in this stupid alternate dimension and the Avengers are no fucking help and it’s probably all the work of Arcade, or some other ridiculous super-villain who really needs to rethink the whole gimmick. And Jessica is done with all of that stuff.
She was done when he told her to take off her shirt and she could smell him smiling and there was nothing she could do to make her hands stop. And she was done even after that, when he ran his fingers through her hair and made her watch all the things he did with girls in Catholic uniforms, over and over again. Jessica was undone, after that.
She can still see him, you know, sometimes. She has to try not to think about it, but the thing about trying not to think about it is that you’re really, really thinking about it the whole entire time. Jessica hates the color purple. It is cold on this bench and the gaps in the wood are digging into her back. The scotch is really starting to go to her head; she is far from home, but soon she will be asleep.
Fuck, it was dark.
WHERE: Some seedy bar.
WHEN: This is right after Jessica got ported to the city.
WARNINGS: Language, implied non-consensual sexuality.
SUMMARY: Jessica's first night in the City, she basically gets drunk and passes out somewhere.
FORMAT: Solo
Fuck, it was dark.
Not the kind of dark that follows naturally after dusk. Too close to any city, and the sky just turns a bunch of pale green and purple colors, like it’s trying to match spring collections at the Gap. There’s too much light in caught in the ozone, it’s bleeding into our nights and stealing the goddamn dark away from us. What a weird thing to complain about.
No, it was dark the way it only gets when you pull the curtains down and you don’t want to look at the face that belongs to the body underneath you, the dark that has edges and sticks to things and gets everywhere you don’t want it. Whatever stupid bar Jessica had wandered into-she didn’t catch the name, she didn’t even remember walking into the place-had painted over the windows with thick black soup. The lights were dim and the one in the bathroom was flickering, and even in crazy alternate reality versions of New York they were charging more than five bucks for a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Jessica isn’t sure if that’s comforting or not. What she is sure of, what she is really swear-on-a-bible sure of, is that she’s gonna need something stronger than Pabst.
Okay, regroup. What’s the situation, here?
A) You are trapped in some kind of alternate dimension, because, fuck, the universe just can’t get the “I quit” memo even if you somehow stapled it to its forehead. Yes, the universe has a forehead now. You are apparently drunk enough that this makes sense.
B) There’s no one here you really know except maybe Iron Man and you don’t really know him really, you just punched his good friend and then passed out and he miiiight remember you a little bit from that. You are like, the lowest insect on the flea food chain of crazy people who wear spandex. But fuck it, the Avengers don’t want to do anything, and they can’t send you home and fix all your stupid messes anymore, so screw them.
C) Why the hell didn’t you tell the cop guy to just fuck off? Well, okay, telling the cops to fuck off isn’t a good idea, in general, so good job but there’s no way you can help them or be one of them and you know that. That’s why it’s called private investigator.
D) You know mom won’t give a damn if you don’t call her. She doesn't expect you to, she expects you to fuck up again.
E) This is really, really, just, like, shitty scotch. God, what did they put in this, it tastes like motor oil probably tastes. Or rubbing alcohol, or-oh crap, is that guy trying to hit on you? Does he even have all of his teeth?
Jessica says something like fuck the fuck off, you sick fucker. She’s not sure if the words came out in that order, but she thinks that was what she meant to say. The bartender laughs, and it turns out that the scotch she’s drinking is some special Christmas kind “that’s been aged since 2007.”
“No kidding?” asks Jessica. Why the hell is he telling her this?
“You always need scotch around Christmas. Relatives.”
And she must have been-well, not crying, because she isn’t crying, but maybe she sounded like she was crying. Maybe her face just looked red in the low-burning light, or maybe the bartender was just trying to get into her pants because he asks her what’s wrong.
Right. Like that’s a question with an answer. If you ever asks someone “what’s wrong?” and their answer is less than two sentences long, they are lying. Or not telling the whole truth. Which is the same as lying, when you get down to it.
“I’m an orphan,” Jessica says.
“No shit?” the bartender replies. He is a dome shaped man and his head is shaved and he is wearing an AC-DC t-shirt. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, crap, no, don’t be. I can’t fucking stand people feeling sorry for me. Christ.”
The bartender tells her about the City-and it’s really just called “City” and no one seems to think that’s weird. Which is really fucking weird. Everything here is crazy, and wasn’t always, but strange men in tights just keep popping in and buildings keep falling down. Jessica wonders if the air really pops when someone gets here. However it is they get here. She thinks about the sheets of plastic bubbles that come in mail-order packages, how good it feels to squeeze the air out of them. Strangulation. She doesn’t think of her little brother or his dead face cut up with glass-he used to love bubblewrap.
Jessica doesn’t have an apartment but she doesn’t want to go home with the bartender. There’s no way in hell her credit cards work here. They’re all overcharged, anyway, she should just be grateful she had forty-two dollars and a handful of nickels in her pocket when she got here. She’s down to five bucks now because cigarettes cost as much as bodyparts.
It doesn’t take a lot of stumbling to find a park bench for her ass to fall on. God, it’s probably three am by now and she’s still stuck in this stupid alternate dimension and the Avengers are no fucking help and it’s probably all the work of Arcade, or some other ridiculous super-villain who really needs to rethink the whole gimmick. And Jessica is done with all of that stuff.
She was done when he told her to take off her shirt and she could smell him smiling and there was nothing she could do to make her hands stop. And she was done even after that, when he ran his fingers through her hair and made her watch all the things he did with girls in Catholic uniforms, over and over again. Jessica was undone, after that.
She can still see him, you know, sometimes. She has to try not to think about it, but the thing about trying not to think about it is that you’re really, really thinking about it the whole entire time. Jessica hates the color purple. It is cold on this bench and the gaps in the wood are digging into her back. The scotch is really starting to go to her head; she is far from home, but soon she will be asleep.
Fuck, it was dark.