Spare me your freakin' dirty looks
Now don't blame me
You roll the cash out
And get the hell out of town
Don't be a baby
Remember what you told me
Shut up and put your money where your mouth is
"Waking Up In Vegas" -Katy Perry
Mor passes out the shots like a talk show host hands out cars, with vigor and enthusiasm to spare, and Feyre is grateful. This first meeting of her biological and found family is not going as well as she'd hoped, and the addition of alcohol doesn't create the immediate rapport she's obviously looking for, if the bickering Cassian and Nesta have been doing since Mor's return is any indication.
Nesta spent the first few minutes after her sisters and Rhys arrived loudly and quite thoroughly berating her youngest sister for their tardiness. Mor had found them mid-rant, and when they'd left to find the rest of their party, Nesta had moved on in her tirade to the arrogant bastard who'd accosted her twenty minutes earlier. Yes, he'd been gorgeous and gods, his voice. His voice. It had been that alluring timbre that was a flame to the vapid moths that flitted around the bar. And she'd wanted to dive face first into his scent, because whatever cologne he wore was delicious. But he was cocky, so full of himself that she'd been surprised that he'd fit into the club.
And Mor knew instantly who Nesta was talking about. So on her way to fetch drinks, Mor had taken the opportunity to fill Feyre in via text about their clandestine meeting. Because it's been a while since Cassian's had a challenge and the big baby has been getting pretty whiny lately, and really the lack of intrigue and scandal in their little group of friends is tedious.
But after a few drinks, the dirty looks Nesta is still sending him in response to his racy jests are enough to corrode iron. Not even Elain's gentle prodding and attempts to distract her are working, and Feyre frets over how much longer her eldest sister will go without retaliating. She looks at Mor, and the wink her blonde friend sends her lets Feyre know that Mor's sensed the danger as well.
Mor slams down a now empty shot glass onto the table, declaring loudly, "How about a game!"
It's distracting enough that it startles the two from the weird sexually charged stare down they've been having, Cassian from where he's sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that could only be interpreted as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent, and Nesta, well she's staring back with an equal fervor and Feyre can't tell if they want to kill or fuck each other. The rest of the table turn to where Mor is perched on Azriel's lap, like a queen upon her throne.
"Let's play truth or drink or dare!" she says, a feline grin tugs at the corners of her lips.
Cas and Rhys groan, knowing by the gleam in her eye how this is gonna end, but when Amren smirks and says she's in they know they have no choice but to play. Feyre is desperate, and she's willing to try anything. Az will play, he's always in, cause it's Mor and he'll deny her nothing. There's no way in hell that Nesta wants to play any such game, and when she turns to Elain hoping that she'll have some sort of excuse to get out of it, and sees the sunny smile on her middle sister's face, she wonders what sort of deity she's pissed off. Because that's the only logical explanation for the all around weird series of coincidences that is this night.
"It's just like truth or dare," Mor explains when Nesta looks at her with questioning. "Only you can take a shot if you decide you're not brave enough."
There's a sinister gleam in Mor's eyes that sets Nesta's teeth on edge.
"I'm the designated driver," she says through gritted teeth.
"Az can drive you," Mor says, looking down at her boyfriend who rolls his eyes, and agrees "He's got a van, and there's room. If you don't mind a stop before we head home. We have to be some place around eleven, but after that we can drop you off."
Nesta still isn't sure, but then Cassian— Cauldron boil her, Cassian.— locks on to her and the taunting look in his eye that challenges her, beckons her to come play with them, and the grip she has on her glass is the only thing keeping her from launching herself across the table.
"Come on, Nesta," he purrs, "Afraid of a little fun, or are you all talk?"
She snarls, the sound coming from deep in her throat, "I'm in."