It is waaayyy past my bedtime...
Ladies and gentlemen, we are now entering my 26th hour without sleep. This has been the craziest day ever. Lets start at the beginning: at about 4pm yesterday I had this weird dream where me and some girl were under the sea in a huge candy-cavern, which turned into a tunnel which burst under the pressure of the sea, spewing us all over the North-pole where my brother was waiting with little figures of Mandy from The Grim Adventures Of Billy And Mandy. Then I woke up and went to work, at SFC. At 9 this morning I went to do laundry at my mum's work (won't even go into all the details of that) and then all the kids where my mum works got their stuff stolen(she's the manager for a school teaching English to students from abroad, so this is a big deal). And now I'm listening to MSI (thanks to
idktbh) at full blast in an internet cafe, feeling drugged, and wondering whether I should post Greta/ Vicky T Femmeslash or not...
Which I wiill:
They're all at some gigantic FBR party Pete organised for Panic's new album and Greta is perched on this little purple sofa-thing, cradling her small Jack-coke and watching everyone else dance and wondering when it will be socially acceptable to leave. She's just settled on about one-ish, which is only half an hour away, when someone throws themself down beside her in a very un-lady-like manner and says, "Wanna dance?"
Greta turns to face Vicky, whose hair is sticking up in that weird way it does, straight-up and then straight down again, and wonders how many of those sticky, umbrella-festooned drinks she's had.
"Um, I don't dance..."
Vicky laughs. "Everyone dances," she says, with utter certainty. "Only none of the boys wants to dance with me because they're all too busy dancing with each other..." It's true that about most of the couples on the dance-floor are guys but Greta doesn't really see why that means she has to dance with Vicky. Greta really really has two left feet and she glances down at them now, in their sensible-looking Mary-janes, contrasting with Vicky's four-inch bright-red pumps, and before she knows it she's been janked upright into Vicky's arms.
They stumble around a bit until Vicky snorts and says, "Dude. You are a bad dancer." And as Greta's nodding and trying to get back to her warm spot on the sofa Vicky grabs her chin and says, "Are you bad at other stuff too?", which in Greta's opinion, is the worst pick up line ever used by someone who isn't Pete Wentz, just before she smooshes their lips together. Vicky tastes like vodka and whatever she was mixing it with and the plastic-fruitness of her lipstick is kind of gross, but Greta thinks she makes up for it with the way she lets her tongue play with Greta's bottom lip. Greta lets herself be pushed backwards against a wall and wriggles a bit until her boobs are pressing deliciously tightly against Vicky's.
As it turns out, Greta does leave the party at one. But not exactly for the reason she first thought....
Wanings: Femmeslash and badly written at that. 333 words, so it's half-way satanic, even.
idktbh) at full blast in an internet cafe, feeling drugged, and wondering whether I should post Greta/ Vicky T Femmeslash or not...
Which I wiill:
They're all at some gigantic FBR party Pete organised for Panic's new album and Greta is perched on this little purple sofa-thing, cradling her small Jack-coke and watching everyone else dance and wondering when it will be socially acceptable to leave. She's just settled on about one-ish, which is only half an hour away, when someone throws themself down beside her in a very un-lady-like manner and says, "Wanna dance?"
Greta turns to face Vicky, whose hair is sticking up in that weird way it does, straight-up and then straight down again, and wonders how many of those sticky, umbrella-festooned drinks she's had.
"Um, I don't dance..."
Vicky laughs. "Everyone dances," she says, with utter certainty. "Only none of the boys wants to dance with me because they're all too busy dancing with each other..." It's true that about most of the couples on the dance-floor are guys but Greta doesn't really see why that means she has to dance with Vicky. Greta really really has two left feet and she glances down at them now, in their sensible-looking Mary-janes, contrasting with Vicky's four-inch bright-red pumps, and before she knows it she's been janked upright into Vicky's arms.
They stumble around a bit until Vicky snorts and says, "Dude. You are a bad dancer." And as Greta's nodding and trying to get back to her warm spot on the sofa Vicky grabs her chin and says, "Are you bad at other stuff too?", which in Greta's opinion, is the worst pick up line ever used by someone who isn't Pete Wentz, just before she smooshes their lips together. Vicky tastes like vodka and whatever she was mixing it with and the plastic-fruitness of her lipstick is kind of gross, but Greta thinks she makes up for it with the way she lets her tongue play with Greta's bottom lip. Greta lets herself be pushed backwards against a wall and wriggles a bit until her boobs are pressing deliciously tightly against Vicky's.
As it turns out, Greta does leave the party at one. But not exactly for the reason she first thought....
Wanings: Femmeslash and badly written at that. 333 words, so it's half-way satanic, even.