prompt: meeting at a party whilst drunk AU


last night, this morning

.

If there weren't about eighty witnesses cramped into their tiny flat, Ygritte is sure she'd have killed Val by now for inviting them all in the first place.

The music is blasting loudly from the speakers, but still almost drowned by the chatter and growling of the crowd. She knows less than half of them, and wonders where Val has even met all the others. Usually, the large number of nameless guys who'd hardly remember her in the morning would have been a welcome distraction, but tonight, all Ygritte is warming up to is the bottle of vodka around which her fingers are now tightly curled.

Piss off, she grumbles when Orell begins to sit down on the couch by her side, and he shoots her a vile glare before marching off with crossed arms. Looking down at the bottle, she laughs at herself. She's a lot more drunk than she's been in a while, and only now realizes that she never even bothered to take off her pyjama bottoms - or maybe she has realized it before and forgot, she hasn't really got a clue.

Hey there, some gruff voice whispers damply into the side of her neck, and Ygritte is on her feet so quickly that she sees stars in front of her eyes. She laughs at that, too, sticking out her tongue at the guy in the green shirt, who looks as though he'd been trying his luck with every other girl in the room.

Not interested, she quips, turning on her feet - where did her shoes go? - and marching off through the crowd, bottle clasped tightly in her hand. Somehow, she ends up in the hallway, not nearly as crowded, and with a sigh, she leans against the closed door of her room.

Just as she's about to disappear in there - quite determined to finish that bottle and sleep until next Friday - she notices someone sitting on the floor just by the front door, a whole array of white plastic cups forming a neat line in front of his crossed legs. With unsteady feet, she walks over there.

You look like shit, she declares when she stands right in front of him, nothing between her bare feet and his knees than the line of empty plastic cups. And you're also kinda hot. He is, all black curls and grey eyes, and she can't help herself as she follows the exposed skin of his arms where he has bunched up his black sleeves.

Thanks, he mutters, looking back down to align another cup.

Did you drink all of those? Ygritte asks, plopping down on the ground next to him with her fingers fumbling towards the cups. Cause you really shouldn't. How old are you?

The look he throws her reminds her of those puppy pictures online, or a terrified deer in the headlights, she's not quite sure.

Old enough.

I'm Ygritte, she declares, holding her bottle out towards him. I live here.

Reluctantly, he bumps his still filled cup against her bottle, and both of them take a large gulp of their drinks. She never liked the taste of it, but to all seven hells with it.

I thought Val lived here. He's already putting the now empty cup down next to the others, and Ygritte wonders if he's just drunk or really that dull.

Yeah, she does. Never pays her rent on time, though, she who knows how long she'll stay. Her fingers toy with the rim of one of the cups, and she throws Jon a bright smile. He looks as miserable as ever, and she's starting to think it might either be the most challenging or frustration mission to try and wipe that grim look off his face. You have a name?

Jon, he says curtly, his eyes following the movement of her finger as it continues playing with the cup.

Did you fuck Val? He nearly chokes on his own breath, coughing violently as he stares at her. Or why are you here?

I came with her, he says, nodding in the direction of the kitchen door.

The Targaryen girl? Ygritte asks, quite impressed if she's being honest with herself (she'd never cared much for that girl, couldn't even really remember her name, although the vodka might be to blame for that, but Val had insisted on inviting her - she'll bring some of her friends, I need to meet new people). She your girlfriend?

Just a friend, Jon replies, eyes falling back to the ground, and Ygritte giggles when she sees the blush that is creeping into his pale cheeks, visible even under his dark stubble.

You want her to be your girlfriend, though, right? She nudges his ribs with her elbows, craning her head so that he can't escape her wicked grin.

I'd rather have some of that, he says, pointing towards the bottle in her hand.

.::

Something about him makes Ygritte wish she wasn't quite as drunk. She also really wants to fuck him, but that's not going to happen tonight. She might be drunk, but not nearly drunk enough not to notice how awkward and nervous he gets whenever she touches him, or looks at him, or says something that gets under his skin (which happens to be her greatest joy).

She does drag him into her room, though, when the vodka is gone and her legs turned numb. Smoke your shit somewhere else, dickhead, she yells at the creepy guy who is laying on her bed, smoking something that, judging by the smell, is not a cigarette. She shoves him out, and the door flies shut with such a bang that the key rattles to the ground.

Jon is right there next to her, a slightly dazes look on his pretty face, and Ygritte doesn't waste a second before sliding her warm palm under the front of his shirt. He draws in a sharp breath, eyes widening, and she smiles triumphantly when she feels every muscle of his stomach twitching under her touch. You've never fucked a girl before, have you? she ask with a low voice, whispering the words into his ear. I don't get it. Her hand moves up slowly, inching towards his chest, and Jon takes a step backwards until he is stopped by the closed door. You're a pretty lad. If you'd stop hiding in a corner the girls would claw each other's eyes out to get naked for you.

It's kind of sweet, she thinks, how his hands hang limply by his sides, and how he swallows, the way his heart beats so violently she can literally feel it thrumming. Her lips brush across his neck, and suddenly he seems to wake up from his stupor, his hands clutching her waist just a little too tight. She doesn't care, though, cherishes the feeling, drinks it all in.

With her finger, she trails a line from his chest down to his stomach, her lips fanning across his neck and down to his collarbone. I could teach you how to do it, she murmurs, the tips of her fingers dropping beneath the waistband of his jeans. He groans softly at that, a sound so low she can feel it rather than hear it, and she wants to curse him for being a bloody virgin in that moment, when she greedily presses the entire length of her body against his.

I know how to do it, he insists, and Ygritte allows her eyes to flutter shut for a brief moment when he moves one hand to brush her hair away from her neck.

She gently bites the patch of skin where it disappears under his black shirt, grinning at the way his fingers dig into her waist a little deeper, and his other hand grasps the back of her neck. But she doesn't let him hold her, twists out of their odd, heated embrace. If she stays a second longer, she might change her mind about letting him keep his virginity - for now.

She says nothing when she walks over to her desk and grabs the first pen she can find, and the look on Jon's flushed face has her laughing out loud. Her fingers trail up from his wrist to his shoulder when she's back in front of him, and everything blurs in the dimly-lit room when she scribbles her phone number on his forearm. She hardly recognizes her own handwriting, drops the pen on the ground before leaning in closer again.

Her lips find his cheek, and she purposely brushes them much closer to his lips than necessary. For a moment, she is tempted to just screw any reserves she might have and just kiss him - and she knows exactly he wouldn't say no to her, not when he's all flushed and drifting closer. Instead, she runs her fingers down the closed door behind him until she finds the doorknob, and twists it open with one flick of her wrist. You know nothing.

.::

There is a voice message on her phone when she stumbles back into her room the next afternoon, wet hair wrapped in a towel and her head pounding so viciously that she considers just calling in sick and crawling right back into bed.

She curses loudly when she nearly trips over the empty bottle of vodka on the floor, and with a groan, sits down on the edge of her unmade bed. Her room still stinks, and the pyjamas she'd been wearing last night are scattered on the floor along with most of her other clothes.

Hey, it's Jon. Ehm... from last night. You wrote your number on my arm with a green marker. I've … well, I've no idea if you even remember me, but in case you do I was - I don't know, I guess I was... I was wondering if you'd like to... you know... grab a coffee or something, sometime? Only if you want to. Ehm... so, yeah. Give me a call. Or not.

Ygritte feels like the pathetic grin on her face might tear her head apart entirely, but she doesn't even try to suppress it.

She's definitely calling in sick today.