== Contemplate slumber party.
You're worried, at first, about navigating the shadowy depths of the murky waters that is the "girl's sleepover," or "super nifty best friend party that is cool and everyone else is jealous party! Oh shit, did I already say party?" according to June.
But she's your best friend, and seeing as how you are both indeed female, it's looking as though a sleepover with her will turn out to be a girl's sleepover. Inevitably.
June's pinky-promised and sworn on her well-worn copy of City of Angels that she won't subject you to a) nonironic toenail painting, b) the ol' "whipped cream on the hand" sleepover trick, and c) more than three bad movies in a row. Example: Last time you went over to her house, she told you that she was having a quote unquote "Sandler-Stiller sandwich," which is where apparently you watch two Adam Sandler movies and one Ben Stiller movie in-between them. (Who knew?) You, of course, like any sensible teenager, implied that she wanted to have a REAL LIFE SANDLER-STILLER SANDWICH, involving her, those two actors, and any number of sexual positions.
She yelped and hit you with her pillow pet.
== Ring the Egberts' doorbell.
You can't, because in an incredible display of teenage stupidity, you walked right past their house. You instead ring the doorbell of a KINDLY OLD LADY. She directs you to the proper house.
Fuck no, you don't feel stupid. You just wanted to brighten that poor octogenarian's day. Probably doesn't get much company besides the sound of Wheel of Fortune and those three hermit crabs you saw.
== Ring the Egberts' actual doorbell.
You do, and you swear to Gog the door is opened before you even touch the doorbell. June says some dorky stuff like "yippee" and ushers you inside by the elbow like the goddamn mayor of some influential can town, complete with the 21-gun salute (her dad saying hi) and the key to the city (cake.)
Wait, that makes no sense. Why would the mayor be given the key to his own city? Shit.
Sometimes the presence of June Egbert makes your metaphors LESS THAN UP TO PAR, a state of being also known in less loquacious circles as REALLY REALLY SHITTY.
June is looking at you.
"What," you ask.
"You look like you're phasing in and out of dimensions," she says helpfully, and then adds, "woooo" and wiggles her fingers mysteriously.
"That makes no fucking sense, I'm going to ignore you ever said that and just eat cake."
"Okay!"
But of course, in the House Of Eggy Berts, it is never 'just eating cake.' You and June somehow manage to make it evolve into a cake-eating contest that results in triumph for neither of you.
== Lie on the couch in an impressive imitation of a coma patient.
Your head is on a pillow and your legs are on June's lap. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but your head feebly wishes that your legs and your head could switch spots.
"Hey, look, it's you!" she says and nudges you with an elbow.
You glance at the screen. Viggo Mortensen is putting out a candle with his fingertips and telling Elijah Wood to shoosh.
What a badass.
"That's hilarious," you tell her. "You should have your own show."
"No, wait, pretty soon you'll be making out with Liv Tyler! She will have elf ears on. Wow, Strider, you lucky dog." She pretends to swoon and collapses into a fit of giggles.
"I bet you wish it was you macking it with Liv Tyler."
"Nuh-uh! My love for her is tectonic. She is a great actress and I appreciate her talent!"
"Okay, a) the word is platonic, unless you are plates beneath the earth, and b) you have the biggest girlcrush on her and you want into her panties."
"I do not, oh my gosh."
"Liar, liar, your pants are practically putting themselves on fire and sparing me the trouble, that's how much of a big fat liar you are, Egbert. You want to have hot lesbian sex-"
She squeaks and silences you with a pillow.
== Head upstairs.
Goddammit, no. That's like telling a premature newborn with a heart murmur, "hey kid, here's a yo-yo and a Dora the Explorer helmet. Go climb Mount fucking Everest."
Basically what you are trying to say is that you're really full and sleepy and have just spent the past five hours watching Nic Cage "act" and… and you can't climb any stairs.
June is next to you on the couch, also looking up at the stairs.
"I don't think I'm gonna make it up there," she says, and yawns, covering her mouth with a tiny hand. You turn to look at her, and she's smiling at you (normal) and her eyes are very blue and sort of make you feel like your insides are in the wrong places (normal) and her hair is a mess (also normal) and she's in nothing but a soft blue Batman t-shirt.
Huh. When the hell did she take off her pants? You try to remember, and decide it happened sometime in-between National Treasure 2 and Wicker Man.
She rests her head on your shoulder, nuzzling her face into your shirt.
"Carry me?"
== Refuse.
Why the flying fuck would you do that? This is what's called a GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. Shit's golder than all the insane loot Nic Cage found in National Treasure 2 and sweet christ on a bike you just referenced National Treasure 2.
== Hell yes, carry the lady.
You're smaller than her, but stronger. Her height and curves and everything else must come from all those pastries.
You wonder, inanely, if she is fluffy like a pastry.
Your mind informs you that that was the stupidest fucking thing it has ever heard, but it's going to let you off the hook because you're exhausted and within five meters of June Egbert.
Thanks, mind. Good brain. Best organ.
You get up off the couch and turn your back to her.
"Hop on."
She bites at a nail.
"I am gonna crush youuu, oh gosh! I'm so chubby…"
"Hop on before I change my mind and go upstairs without you. I'm gonna hog all your blankets and draw dashing moustaches on all of your movie posters."
"Jeez, okay," she says. You hear a huff of breath and then there's warmth and arms around your neck and legs around your waist.
Your brain tells you that in retrospect, this was a really very stupid idea. Your lower body, however, proceeds to bitch smack your brain across the face, pick up a sign that says GO DANAE STRIDER, YOU ARE THE PIMPEST OF THE PIMPS and do a little touchdown dance.
So you start up the stairs with June's breath in your ear and her breasts against your back.
She shifts a little.
"What's up?"
"Huh? Nothing, just getting comfortable. You're really bony!"
You roll your eyes and take a few more steps.
"What a compliment. You get a lot of suitors that way?"
"Oh, hush. You know I mean it in a Very Nice Way."
You don't say anything. Her legs are slipping, so you hitch them up with your forearms. There's a hot exhale of breath by your ear and she squirms against you. This is not only incredibly distracting, it's also dangerous.
The ever-present fear of falling down the stairs surfaces, and you pause.
"Can you not do that?"
"Do what?" she asks, and you can't tell if she's really clueless or is messing with your poor, sleep-deprived mind.
Then she sighs and places her head into the crook of your shoulder. Her mouth is a scant centimeter from your skin.
You lick your lips, grit your teeth with all the grit you can muster, and continue up the stairs.
You reach the midpoint, and you turn to start the second leg of the arduous journey, like you two are Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea is the practically tangible heat that is just all up in your grill and only yours and you're not okay with it. How dare she fall asleep on your back with her gorgeous fucking eyes and oblivious hugs and her soft boobs and hair and rrrgh.
"Danae," she says, and the word pushes her lips to your neck.
You freeze.
She melts.
== Get pushed into a wall.
You do so, not like you have any real choice in the matter. June and Gravity have decided to form a mutual benficiary partnership, so she makes herself heavier and your knees hit the carpet and then your back hits the wall.
"What are you doing," you ask.
"I don't know," she says, grinning like it's her birthday and Christmas rolled into one. She sits in-between your legs which are spread like you were born that way, waiting all your life for her to crawl into your lap and take her glasses off.
You look at her, face shadowed because it's three o'clock in the morning and what scarce light there is is making her eyes really, really bright.
Your throat is dry. You find yourself, suddenly, incapable of breathing. You briefly contemplate absconding.
And then she dips her head and it's a kiss.
One of her soft thighs pushes its way in between yours, but you're not even paying attention. How can you? Her mouth is hot and wet and she's lapping gently at your tongue. You realize that you should probably be doing something right about now.
== Take her shirt off
Woah there, buckaroo. Hold your goshdurn hoofbeast. You gotta kiss the girl back first; that's the way it's done round these parts.
== Kiss her.
You do. Hot damn, you do. You kiss back and lean against her and your mouths make these little smacking noises. She squirms again, and her hands are in your hair, and now you finally notice how you're straddling her thigh and she's straddling hers.
You pull back, and she's grinning at you like she got every single goddamn present she wanted for Christmas and her birthday for the next fifteen years.
She nudges your nose with hers.
"Do you like me?" she breathes.
Your mind is boggled. Women, you think exasperatedly, even though you are one and therefore were probably wondering the same thing.
"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, I do."
"Do you like this?" she says and tentatively rocks her hips so that you're slip-sliding across her thigh.
"Yeah."
Do you like this. Yeah. Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to proudly present the Understatement of the Goddamn Century Award to Ms. Strider, for incredible monosyllabic communication abilities under pressure.
Jesus. Your leg is trapped in-between hers and is pressed right up against her panties, and she tugs her hips nearer to yours, and it's warm and it's frustrating and you kind of really want her to press down harder.
You can't move much. This is understandable, seeing as how you have a big pile of Egbert on you, but your hand, like it's a lost alien baby and she's the mothership, find shirt and then, slowly, skin and then she gets fed up with you.
"Hey," she says, looking down at you, and is she pouting?
"What's u—"
She grinds down onto you. And does it again. And again.
You're still wearing jeans, and it's fabric against fabric, rough denim and smooth cotton, and there are way too many layers but you don't even fucking care at this point, it's warm and yes, it's aching and she's there and you can't stop yourself from moving with her if you tried.
You pull her nearer.
"Ohh," she says, and then she's collapsed against you, hips still bucking, riding out her orgasm and shit that is really fucking hot. You're thinking, maybe, if she moved a little to the right…
It's the pleased little noises she's making that end it for you.
== Go ahead and lose it already.
You groan and clutch her shirt with shaking hands and arch your back against the wall. She's panting against your collarbone, hands fisted in your t-shirt.
When you stop moving, she looks up at you.
"Hi," she says, smiling at you like you are the Christmas/birthday present. It's you.
"Hey," you say, and maybe you smile back.
"Y'know what," she says slowly, squinting at you and biting her lip like she's trying to solve a 6x6 Rubix Cube. One of those Sudoku ones. "You are actually much prettier than Liv Tyler."
You cover your face with your hands and wonder what jerk-ass diaper wearing Cupid decided, "Hey, how about these incredibly dorky B-grade movie actor comparisons actually make your heart do a weird little fluttery thing inside your chest?"
"No, I mean it," she insists, prying your hands away from your face.
"Yeah, and your utter sincerity is what scares me. Who even does that, seriously. People don't propose to each other like that. 'Lindsey, you are everything I could ever want and more. Oh, also you closely resemble Angelina Jolie. Will you marry me?' You'll get champagne thrown right into your unromantic mug."
She giggles.
"I never said you looked like Liv Tyler. I said you were prettier than her. Durr."
"My bad."
"Yes, your bad." She stretches and then reaches up and starts petting your hair.
"I'm kind of," you start to say, but she shooshes you. You look down. Your legs are still entangled with hers. Tangle-buddies, you think but don't say.
"We look like those weird colorful plushy octopus thingies that Jaden likes," June says.
"Tangle-buddies," you say before you can stop yourself.
"Wow," she says, and kind of laughs at you, but it's okay. All of this is okay. More than okay, really, and it's pretty awesome.
== Go to sleep.
You fall asleep on the stairs in her arms, and you pretend not to notice when she hums a few bars of I Don't Want to Miss a Thing to you.