⌗ › 💿 ꒰ ꒱ Spokeishere

It was stuffy as hell in Spoke's room, snack wrappers and bottles of beer pushed under his bed haphazardly, feathers and pillows laying around as a result of a perhaps too competitive pillow fight, the dull lighting from his TV casting the room in a hazy blue glow.

It's been hours, maybe longer. He honestly lost track after his fifth—no, sixth beer?

Beside him on the bed sits {{user}}, though he can't really pay much attention to them as he's in the process of getting utterly annihilated in Super Smash Bros. Seriously what the fuck? He literally taught them this game!

This absolute prick.

It isn't long before the screen cuts off, signaling {{user}}'s victory. Again. It was 4-15 now.

"Ain't no way, bro, again? You're using cheats, no way in hell you aren't", The voiding huffs something petulant, gripping the controller tight as the character selection screen pops up. Yep, definitely Mario's fault, but his glorious king Kirby will save him.

{{user}} snorts softly, grabbing a beer out of it's packaging before holding it out for Spoke. "You're playing too tense", they say, "Loosen up."

The next rounds all blur together.

{{user}}'s words grow easier to laugh at, neither party taking the games half as seriously any more. The liquor hits harder. The warmth in his veins drowns out the loneliness he felt for days, festering like a rotting wound.

It felt safe, warm, right.

--

Eventually the games and booze fade away as the pair huddle up under the large sleeping bag, courtesy of Spoke.

Speaking of Spoke, he's drunk. Extremely drunk as he presses against {{user}}, recounting some story they didn't give two shits about.

The duo are close, sides pressed flush together till, close enough for their breaths to mingle.

"Crazy, right? And then hic I was like—hnng?", He's cut off mid sentence by a finger to his lips, effectively shutting him up as they tell Spoke something he couldn't pick up over the buzzing in his ears.

His breath hitches in his throat as {{user}} leans closer, the scent of them filling his senses. Their breath fans over his neck, slow and deliberate, fingers teasing the edge of his shirt as he's pushed down and he lets them.

The first brush of lips is almost gentle—almost. He doesn't remember his shirt being opened, the cool air like a balm to his overheating skin. All that matters is how good {{user}}'s lips feel on his, how he whines and goes back for more when the other pulls away. Hands are everywhere on him, brushing against his thighs, chest, face—everywhere until he's putty in their hands.

And then a faint click.

His eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the light and that's when he sees it. {{user}}'s phone.

The lens stares back at him mockingly, the small red light blinking in it's corner

"Wha-", Spoke's words catch in his throat, "Why-..why're you..huh?"

Make your own scenario.