Stephanie Brown (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2007-02-11 12:01 pm
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2007-02-11 12:01 pm
Room 138
My Boyfriend Was A Werewolf is exactly the kind of movie Steph would mock everyone and anyone else mercilessly for watching. Sometimes - when you're having this kind of weekend - you just need a crappy movie with cheerleaders in, though. She curls up and takes another bite of chocolate.
Someone has other ideas about how Steph should be spending her weekend, however. Without warning, the door bursts open, revealing a party-ready Goldilocks, clad in a black bikini and red sarong, and bearing a pair of beach towels. One of said towels promptly hits Steph in the face.
"... Was that really necessary?" Steph splutters, peeling it away.
"Yes. Come on," Goldy says impatiently.
Steph sighs. Parties. Socialising. Can't a girl just be left to brood in peace? "I don't really feel like it, G."
"G is not taking no for an answer." Arms are folded imperiously. A sandaled foot starts tapping on the carpet.
"G," Steph says sulkily, "should have better things to do with her time." She makes no move to get up.
"G does. With you. This is the social event of the year. And neither of us are going to miss it." Goldy's tone brooks very little contention. "I'm not leaving here without you. So, if you don't come, I'm going to miss it. And then there will be a very irritable Fable ruining your alone time in this room for the rest of the weekend."
"...you know," Steph observes, folding her newly-acquired towel, "that's not really very fair. Besides, I don't wear bikinis."
"I'm not a fair woman," Goldy reminds her. "Suck it up. You'll be thanking me later when we're both drunk, half-drowned, and being ogled by half the bar."
Somewhat impudently, and with absolutely no regard for Steph's privacy, the Fable heads over to the dresser and starts rifling through the various drawers of frill-free underwear and assorted weaponry. "Shit. You weren't kidding." She lifts an eyebrow at a particularly boring sports bra. "Do you even have a bikini?"
"Goldy," Steph protests, glaring at her helplessly. "Guy with a chainsaw, tortured to death, remember? Nobody wants to see me in a bikini." She doesn't bother trying to stop the Fable, though. Sometimes there's just no point.
"I do," Goldy retorts, unsympathetically. Without looking back, she points to some rather nasty looking scars on her right shoulder blade. There are others streaking across her lower back, near the small red pawprint tattoo. "Do you remember me falling off a cliff, getting hit by a truck, getting stabbed between the tits? Do you see me covering up?"
"That's different," Steph whinges. "You're not, like, the Crazy Quilter's wet dream."
Goldy straightens and turns to the other blonde, eyerolling mercilessly. "Just take your fucking top off, woman. Don't be such a wimp." She strides towards the door. "I'm going to get you a hot bikini. If you're not half-naked when I get back, you can kiss goodbye to the pit boss position."
Steph mutters something about not wanting to work for such a mumble mumble something anyway, but she starts to reluctantly undress.
Someone has other ideas about how Steph should be spending her weekend, however. Without warning, the door bursts open, revealing a party-ready Goldilocks, clad in a black bikini and red sarong, and bearing a pair of beach towels. One of said towels promptly hits Steph in the face.
"... Was that really necessary?" Steph splutters, peeling it away.
"Yes. Come on," Goldy says impatiently.
Steph sighs. Parties. Socialising. Can't a girl just be left to brood in peace? "I don't really feel like it, G."
"G is not taking no for an answer." Arms are folded imperiously. A sandaled foot starts tapping on the carpet.
"G," Steph says sulkily, "should have better things to do with her time." She makes no move to get up.
"G does. With you. This is the social event of the year. And neither of us are going to miss it." Goldy's tone brooks very little contention. "I'm not leaving here without you. So, if you don't come, I'm going to miss it. And then there will be a very irritable Fable ruining your alone time in this room for the rest of the weekend."
"...you know," Steph observes, folding her newly-acquired towel, "that's not really very fair. Besides, I don't wear bikinis."
"I'm not a fair woman," Goldy reminds her. "Suck it up. You'll be thanking me later when we're both drunk, half-drowned, and being ogled by half the bar."
Somewhat impudently, and with absolutely no regard for Steph's privacy, the Fable heads over to the dresser and starts rifling through the various drawers of frill-free underwear and assorted weaponry. "Shit. You weren't kidding." She lifts an eyebrow at a particularly boring sports bra. "Do you even have a bikini?"
"Goldy," Steph protests, glaring at her helplessly. "Guy with a chainsaw, tortured to death, remember? Nobody wants to see me in a bikini." She doesn't bother trying to stop the Fable, though. Sometimes there's just no point.
"I do," Goldy retorts, unsympathetically. Without looking back, she points to some rather nasty looking scars on her right shoulder blade. There are others streaking across her lower back, near the small red pawprint tattoo. "Do you remember me falling off a cliff, getting hit by a truck, getting stabbed between the tits? Do you see me covering up?"
"That's different," Steph whinges. "You're not, like, the Crazy Quilter's wet dream."
Goldy straightens and turns to the other blonde, eyerolling mercilessly. "Just take your fucking top off, woman. Don't be such a wimp." She strides towards the door. "I'm going to get you a hot bikini. If you're not half-naked when I get back, you can kiss goodbye to the pit boss position."
Steph mutters something about not wanting to work for such a mumble mumble something anyway, but she starts to reluctantly undress.