[Homestuck] Dave X Reader X Dirk: Stride of Luck

1. on the right night

You stepped out of the flashing club with your friends, the party behind you leaving stains of shadows on the floor that seemed to wobble and ripple whenever you took a step.

The sidewalk felt like water, and you were now jesus.
You have successfully had way too much to drink.

Your friend seemed to think otherwise, yanking on your arm insistently and latching on like a leech that had been served their last, juicy, 10% alcohol content meal.
"Come on! One more dance, that's all I'm asking for!" The cold breeze knocks some sobriety back into your jambled mind and brings about a killer headache. You choose to nurse your migraine instead of responding to her harp of bullcrap, but cant help cringing at the memory of your dancing.

"Shawna, I am absolutely wrecked right now. I don't need to remember how many legs I tripped over while doing the one-man conga line."

She laughs and pinches your cheek like a doting mother, but you don't need a mother's lovin' right now. You need some advil and some water, goddamnit.

"That was the best part! How could any guy resist those flailing arms? Tracy, tell her! They couldn't look away, especially that super cute DJ!"
She breaks out into a crazed giggle, swatting at you as you attempt and miserably fail to dodge her attacks.

Your other friend sighed, clearly more sober and a bit irked that you two had such low tolerance. You did feel a bit guilty, since every night out seemed to end like this. You were ever the party pooper who wanted to leave early, Shawna was always full of the party even if the party was over, and Tracy was the one who could never score a date because she was babysitting.

"Shawna, you smell like fucking alcohol. Get off of (y/n) before you vomit vodka juice all over her again."

Just as she says that, Shawna reels her head forward and retches. Tracy moves with what you swear is the world's fastest reaction time, and grabs her to redirect her laser beam of vomit onto some poor guy's lousy truck.

You moan, disgusted and relieved at the same time, and drag your hands down your face.

"Shawna, that's someone's goddamn car! Just because it looks like trash but it doesn't mean you can just puke on it!"

She turns to you, brushing her vomit off her face with her sleeve. You grimace at her.

"It's fine, they won't notice."

She was wrong.

"Besides," She readies herself upright again, examining her work, "what are the odds we'll ever meet the poor sod who drives this hunk of garbage? None! We'd be like, way out of their league anyway!"

She was wrong yet again. Twice as much, in fact. But you didn't know that yet.

Tracy intervenes, stepping in front of the truck and obscuring your vision of it's newly acquired stomach acid paintjob .

"Okay, I'm gonna call a ride home before toilet bowl princess retches again. You in?"

You watch her manicured fingers tap on the Ober app, and wonder about the tiny miracles in life that allow such ease of access to drivers earning less than two dollars an hour.

"Nah, I think im gonna stick to good the good ol' bus. Besides, I live pretty far from you two."

Tracy's eyes flicker from her phone to you, assessing the amount of severity of impact the cheap booze had on you. She typed in Shawna and her's address. Lucky them, they were housemates. You feel a twinge of jealousy, but it passes almost as soon as it comes

"Well if you say so. You better not scoop up a hot piece of man-meat only after we leave though."

You roll your eyes and shake your head. Your brain rattles like a maraca inside.