fjordicswagger | 74 Godiva Street, AKA Tamsin and Death's Home Of More Alcohol Than Last Year, Saturday Evening

Okay, this party had been born out of actual need (for alcohol and getting laid) last year; this year, those factors weren't as urgent for Tamsin, who figured she could always drop in on Jessica or Mike if the night was a spectacular failure.

But hell, it'd been fun last time. Why the hell not?

There were black sheets hanging in front of the windows again, and pillows and sheets scattered all over the floor to make for little makeshift sitting spaces and nooks. There was an empty bottle (in case someone decided to play Spin the Bottle) sitting somewhere in the middle of the room, and in a fit of generosity Tamsin had thoughtfully supplied a bunch of bags of chips in case people wanted to eat stuff.

The glitter clinging to the sheets and the walls and whatnot: not her fault. Who'd ever heard of impromptu localized glitter storms before? At least the winds had died down well before the party actually started, but there was no way in hell she was vacuuming all that stuff up.

There. Party time.

[[ OPEN! ]]

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It was a very distracting ass! It did have that going for it! But either way, Sparkle had gotten really cozy with guys who had head tentacles, before. Some built-in bling was hardly the weirdest thing he'd encountered during a hot make-out session.

Odd chest bump or no, Sparkle didn't seem to have any complaints about the whole chest-to-chest arrangement. He rather seemed to be embracing it, actually, grinning against Tony's mouth for a moment before kissing him with just that much more enthusiasm. There was another hum of approval to go with it, in fact. It was okay, Tony. You and your chest bump were doing great.

Well, it did cockblock him earlier this week. For other reasons, of course.

"Tamsin is really going to murder me," Tony informed him, looking a little pleased with himself despite that, eyes half shut like the cat that got the canary. "If we go much further than this. And that's normally a little bit of a turn on, but I'd hate to have someone else get stabbed on my behalf."

Well, now it was Sparkle's turn to pout. Just a little. They had been doing such a good job of kissing, and now thinking was necessary? Who even did that?

But he had to admit, Tony kind of had a point, there.

"I have this terrible allergy to being stabbed," he allowed, licking his lips and shaking his head. "It causes all this, like, bleeding? Pretty awful. Of course, we could always go somewhere with less potential for stabbing..."

Tony tended to be a worrier. It was his thing. He had back up plans for his back up plans!

"Well, if you're allergic..."

"Deathly allergic," Sparkle confirmed. Ever so solemnly. "I mean, I don't have a doctor's note with me or anything, so you'll have to take my word for it..."

It was totally a hard sell, right?

"I'll take your word for it," Tony promised solemnly, gingerly pushing Sparkle off his lap so they could get up. And. You know. Get ride of some of this frustration. "I expect coffee in the morning."

"I make a great cup of coffee," Sparkle promised. Because, really, that seemed like a fair trade for all the not getting stabbed that they were going to do. "None of that instant crap, and don't even talk to me about decaf."

Sparkle had standards in the kitchen.

... It was kind of one of the few places where he really did.

"The broody-one always cares, love, just a matter of if he's gonna pout or give me nightmares for the next year," John laughed. "...but if you're not going to kiss and tell..."

JOHN. NO.

"Pretty sure I at least owe you a thank-you kiss or two for not complaining about the number of times you've had to kick my ass back out of your realm."

"Maybe I'll be by next week," Tamsin mused. "Everyone's heading off anyway."

"Like delivering the mail?" Tamsin asked dryly.

"He does have that scruffy blond English guy thing going for him," Tamsin mused.

"Half classy, half hipster," Tamsin judged, looking at his choice in drinks. "I'll allow it."

"I like to think of it as an even division of flavour," Sparkle quipped, lifting the Fireball up in a half-salute. Was he still antsy around the mayor who looked startlingly similar to Dinah? Absolutely. Was he more interested in distracting himself from the itch this week had given him? You betcha! "Never been told my tastes were hipster before, though. That one's new."

"I have a weakness for scruff and English," Didi said, rubbing at her chin. "You'd come out of it smelling like cigarettes, though."

"You never hear of the whole 'microbrews' thing?" Tamsin said. "That's where all the cider-drinking people are at these days, I think. I dunno. I'm just sick of seeing beer commercials full of bearded twenty-year-olds."

"And this," Sparkle decided, "is why I torrent shit."

No commercials if you were breaking the law!

"Anyway, my thing is more 'recovering gutter punk' than hipster. I don't think I could do the whole 'before it was cool' snob thing if I tried."

"Eugh," Tamsin muttered. "Never did understand that habit."

"Just as long as you don't start growing a beard," Tamsin said critically, tilting her head at him. "You do that, and you're not getting into any of my parties."

"Some future version of me had one," Sparkle replied, squinting one eye a little. "He, like, kept it neatly groomed because god I can't handle bad hygiene, like, ever. Buuuut I'm in no hurry to become that guy. Fuck that guy."

... Not literally. That guy was still not into ladies.

A flicker of pain crossed Didi's face, so fast you might miss it if you weren't paying very close attention. But if Constantine didn't know yet that Morpheus was gone, she wasn't going to be the one to tell him. At least not now.

"What can I say?" she asked, chuckling. "World's a more interesting place with you in it. May as well keep you around."

"Not enough people appreciate cinnamon," Didi said thoughtfully, and poured a generous measure into her cup to make up for it. (There was already something in it, but she was past the point of caring.) "Thanks. How's the party treating you?"

"It's very slow-motion suicide," Didi shrugged. "But a lot of things they do are."

"Drinks, I can get," Tamsin said. She shrugged. "But you know me. Warriors were always my specialty."

Clearly the cinnamon schnapps was too pure for this world.

"No one's acted like an idiot." Which was really all a girl could hope for.

"You like the ones trying to be heroes," Didi nodded. "I don't blame you. I just, y'know, always end up liking everybody."

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74 Godiva Street, AKA Tamsin and Death's Home Of More Alcohol Than Last Year, Saturday Evening

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