A cute lil thing I wrote for @the-debilitated-highbloods for her birthday!
Prompt: We were both unwillingly coerced into going to a wedding and we bet on who could drink the most glasses of free wine. three hours later there is no clear winner and were collapsed in a pile of our own puke in the corner of the room.
Your name is Eridan Ampora, you stand to inherit a firearms empire when your father eventually drinks himself to death, and you’re pretty sure you just barfed on a fish.
But not before Sollux did.
Which means you win, right?
It totally means you win.
“You were makiing wretchiing noii2e2 before II even felt 2iick,” Sol argues, in typical dipshit fashion.
“You still threww up first. That has to count for somethin’,” you counter.
Feferi Peixes and her new fiancé sent out embossed, foiled save-the-date cards with artistic, lacy cutouts six months ago to the day. The invitations had arrived not too long after, and yours had had an extra slip in it saying, “Sollux Captor will also be there. You’re both uninvited if you can’t get along. Really hoping to see you, though! Kisses! <3 ~Feferi”
Naturally, you had called Sollux immediately to be your date.
You can’t actually stand Sollux – his clothes are tasteless and usually exceedingly low quality, he’s smarmy as all hell, and you both just get a kick out of egging each other on. But Feferi ripped your soul out of your body when you were thirteen and Sollux was dumped much more recently, so within a day you’d put aside your differences to meet up and do a horrible remake of Feferi’s and whatsername’s engagement photos. Tiffa? You think her name is Tiffa. You don’t really care, since you just barfed on a fish.
Feferi and Tiffa had liked your fauxgagement photos, so you were cleared to go to the wedding on the condition that “you don’t do anything bad, just silly like that photoshoot.” So, of course, the first thing Sollux did at the reception was challenge you to a drinking contest with overpriced (but free to wedding guests) sparkling wine. Your idea of topping them off with orange liqueur had moved things along considerably faster, and Feferi had been shooting you both pissed-off glances all night from across the hotel ballroom and then over the fish stream that runs diagonally across the central atrium. Even after you presented your gift personally: a tracker ring exactly like yours but with a fuchsia gem instead of violet, with all its codes written down, so Tiff would always be able to find her (and you had hinted at cute surprises, but thinking anything about Feferi and romance makes you feel like you’re going to throw up again.)
A shadow falls over the both of you, sitting wretchedly against the low wall that separates you from the fish pond, and you look up, expecting to find a vengeful Feferi or disappointed Tiffa, but the woman standing above you is so much worse.
“Ms. Peixes. Your Crockership. Um. Ma’am.”
Sollux turns around and straightens up and does his best impression of sobriety. At least he missed the actual fish. Fuck. You’re dead.
“You buoys are staying in the hotel, right?” Feferi’s doting mother asks.
“Yes. Ma’am.”
“Then I think it’s time for you to go upstairs.”
You nod and grab for Sollux’ hand, and he had the same idea so both your hands scrabble for a connection and then hold each other solidly. You walk as quickly as possible (you fall down together at one point) to the elevator on the other side of the hotel. All you can think of is that your dad is going to have some Choice Words for you when he hears from Ms. Peixes, and maybe some of those Choice Words are actually going to be actions and, God, you’re going to die. As far as actually dealing with her right now, you’re good to go, but there are going to be repercussions you’ll feel when you’re forty.
Thank fuck you’re in arms and she’s in food, or things would be so much worse.
You and Sollux help each other to the bed and, as much as he struggled to get his (rented) tux on this morning, now he’s having twice as much trouble getting it off, so you eventually just do that for him because he’s fucking hopeless, he really is. He goes to take a shower, as if that would do anything, but you just drink a shit-ton of water and roll into bed in your underwear and socks.
He takes the shortest shower in the history of indoor plumbing and more or less burrows into the other side of the bed. “Hey, Sol, could you actually not take all the sheets? Some people other than you like to be wwarm.”
“Fuck you with a ru2ty red 2poon, Eriidan,” he murmurs in what would otherwise be a calm and content kind of voice.
“I’ll fuckin’ spoon you if you don’t givve me the covvers.”
You hear him shift, but a tug on the comforter yields no additional fabric, so you move toward him.
And find yourself face to face with him.
You can deal with that.
You turn around and settle in against his body, because little-spooning is still spooning, right? And then you keep squirming, getting comfortable. And keep going…
“Fuckiing 2hiit diick2 Eriidan could you not?”
“Not wwhat?” you ask innocently.
“You know what.”
“I’m just tryin’ to get comfy. You havve a vvery bony, angular body, Sol.”
“Iit’2 goiing two bee even boniier iif you keep that up.”
“Wwhy, Mr. Captor, wwas that a sexual innuendo? I could report you for harassment.”
“II could report you for more than hara22ment iif you don’t 2top griindiing on my diick.”
You wiggle a little and he pushes you away from him with all his mass, but he’d really be pushing himself if you weren’t more than willing to go. This time, when you pull the comforter toward you, it comes without much fuss.
Worst wedding ever.