intro ; non-event ; byo aphro
Late hours and long nights equal a very sleepy Slayer, and most of the time, Buffy's more than happy to spend her mornings in bed for as long as possible. Her calling tends to deal with those of the nocturnal persuasion, and when the sun comes up, it's usually when she plans on catching a little valued shut-eye. There's a part of her that likes to think of it as beauty sleep, though given the way she's looked after rolling out of bed these days, maybe she should start considering it as something closer to a beauty coma. Either way, she's pretty much getting her REM cycle on when a sudden shift jars her from sleep, and she rolls over with a groan, evidently irritated at being disturbed from pleasant dreams starring Luke Perry in a very attractive leading-man role.
"Okay, seriously not cool, more like ice cold," she mutters, slowly sitting up and lifting a hand to feel for the inevitable nest in her hair and the pillow wrinkles currently gracing one cheek. The room blinks into focus and she has to do a double-take: no bedroom window, no full-length mirror, no Mr. Gordo resting on the pillow next to her. Instead, she's tangled up in silk sheets, wearing the kind of negligee that looks like it's come out of some cheesy eighties music video. The only thing missing right now is the wind machine.
"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Buffy adds, mostly to herself, and whirls around, clutching the sheet against herself as she catches the sight of movement in her periphery.
"And you're going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on here," she demands, as her gaze lands on the intruder in question.
[ ooc: Come introduce the Slayer to the Hotel. Canonmates welcomed and loved; males, females, and anyone in between welcome for smut. No toilet stuff or death, but anything else is fair game. ]
"Okay, seriously not cool, more like ice cold," she mutters, slowly sitting up and lifting a hand to feel for the inevitable nest in her hair and the pillow wrinkles currently gracing one cheek. The room blinks into focus and she has to do a double-take: no bedroom window, no full-length mirror, no Mr. Gordo resting on the pillow next to her. Instead, she's tangled up in silk sheets, wearing the kind of negligee that looks like it's come out of some cheesy eighties music video. The only thing missing right now is the wind machine.
"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Buffy adds, mostly to herself, and whirls around, clutching the sheet against herself as she catches the sight of movement in her periphery.
"And you're going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on here," she demands, as her gaze lands on the intruder in question.
[ ooc: Come introduce the Slayer to the Hotel. Canonmates welcomed and loved; males, females, and anyone in between welcome for smut. No toilet stuff or death, but anything else is fair game. ]