bump and grind (stridercest)

Chapter 3- Dude Looks Like A Lady

Chapter 3
Dude Looks Like A Lady

Friday morning Dave wakes you up bright and early, barging into your room and throwing back the curtains of your window. You hiss in dismay and roll over so that the sun doesn't shine in your eyes, but abruptly hands grab hold of your sheets and yank, spinning you out of the bed and onto the floor with a grunt.

You blink sleep out of your eyes and squint up as Dave's face appears directly in your vision.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," he sniggers, expertly dodging the kick that you aim at his knee. "Get out of bed, we've got a long day ahead of us."

"Mmmfrrrnggh," you mumble intelligently, trying to pull the sheets back over your eyes. You'd stayed up late last night because you'd started mixing and by the time you'd managed to rouse yourself from the addictive, heavy beat it was well past three in the morning. You blink blearily at the clock on your bedside table. Fifteen minutes to eight. Almost four hours of sleep.

Dave, having gone to bed at the reasonable time of eleven, is practically frolicking around the apartment like a fucking deer.

You doze off for another five minutes before Dave pokes his head back in the doorway.

"I mean it, kiddo, up and at 'em, we have things to do."

"I'm gonna. Do you. In the ass." Dave snorts and you slowly push yourself up into a sitting position. "With a sheet of sandpaper."

He doesn't answer, which you're kind of thankful for. That was dumb. You're dumb.

You shrug on a white tee and a loose pair of boxers and stumble into the hallway after him, scratching your ass as you go. He stops briefly in the living room and you pass by him, headed to the kitchen.

The lights are bright and painful against your drowsy eyes as you open the fridge and bend down to grab the milk. Dave whistles behind you and you turn to see him standing in the doorway, a towel thrown over his bare shoulders. You guess he's already done his morning workout.

"Ease up the ass," he says with a smirk. You pause for a moment, then wiggle it at him teasingly. He steps forward and smacks it lightly and you roll your eyes.

"Why am I awake?" you grunt, pulling a box of Lucky Charms off the shelf above the sink and plopping down at the table. It takes you a moment to realize that you'd forgotten to get a bowl and a spoon. You stare despondently at the milk jug for a second or two before a bowl magically appears in front of you. Dave ruffles your hair affectionately and you smile at him.

"Because I'm going shoe shopping for tomorrow," he says brightly.

You stop smiling.

Grumbling quietly to yourself and pouring out the cereal, you give him the stink eye. He pointedly ignores it, instead sitting across from you and pulling out his phone to text somebody.

"Can't I just wear my Chucks?"

(Your Chucks are what you normally wear when you can get away with casual shoes. They were custom-made and upwards of two hundred bucks, a fifteenth birthday gift from one of Dave's producer friends who wanted to get back in his good graces after he caught her snorting a line with Charlie Sheen at a party.

She'd somehow gotten ahold of the fact that orange is your favorite color; literally everything on the shoes is orange. The seam, the sole, the tongue. Even the little rings that the laces go through are orange. The shoes are day-glo and are pretty hideous. Dave frequently threatens to steal them and burn them while you're sleeping.

They are also comfortable as fuck and are basically your favorite things ever.)

Dave's face screws up in an expression of disgust. "No. God, no. Not those abominations, especially not with a skirt. No, we're getting you some flats." He glances under the table for a moment. "If I can find some for your clodhopper feet."