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Who: Owen & Clara
Where: Owen's room
When: Friday morning, 8/16
Rating: R
Summary: Owen and Clara wake up in bed together. Things do not end well.
The Story:
Owen isn't surprised to wake up next to someone - here in Wonderland, taking someone back to his room is more likely than a quick fumble in a dark corner, something he's more accustomed to back in London. There are pros and cons to each situation, of course, and one of the pros is a nice quickie in the morning. He casts an appraising eye over his bedmate; she's a bit plainer than some, not as curvy as he might like, but she'll do well enough. He has to think for a moment to remember her name - Claire? Clara? Something like that.

He shifts closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him as he nuzzles her neck. "Morning, sweetheart," he murmurs in her ear, kissing her earlobe. This close to him, it ought to be quite clear what his intentions are right now.

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Clara is pulled out of sleep slowly, making mumbles of protests. Her time in Wonderland most definitely hasn't been spent in the beds of various people, given that she's been so busy in the library all the time. But a girl does have to let loose and enjoy herself every once in a while, and that's what she's supposing happened the night before. She can't remember it though, which is what worries her. So instead of responding to how close he is and the attention he's giving her, she moves to sit up, and reaches up to rub at the side of her head.

"Don't suppose you remember how you got me here."

She eyes him warily, making sure to scoot away from him. Her mouth is set in a firm pout, doubtful that she's got anything to do with this. He definitely looks like the type to lure women into his bed. Like a weasel.

Well, fine, if she's going to be like that. Owen rolls his eyes at her apparent reticence; most women who've experienced his charms would be only too glad for a second go, but apparently she thinks otherwise. Whatever, he's got better things to do with his time anyway.

"Figure we were probably drinking last night." He shrugs, unconcerned - getting drunk enough that he doesn't remember the events of the previous night is something he does on a fairly regular basis. She doesn't seem like the sort, but if there's one thing he's learnt, it's that every girl secretly wants to let her hair down once in awhile.

"Yeah, reckon that's a good thing to figure." She can't find it in her to give anything but a flat and dry delivery. She's too busy trying to regain memory of what exactly happened. Given that she's not really wearing anything, it's pretty obvious what they did, but that doesn't explain the why. Especially the why that would tell her why she stayed over after things were done with. Staying leads to cuddling or discussing emotions, which leads to..things like this, really.

"You're...Owen, right?" It's a bit hard to remember his name, it's not like they've had in depth discussions or anything in their time here.

"Right." He rolls back over onto his back. "So I suppose that means you aren't up for another go, then?" He might as well come straight out and ask, after all. She's already naked and in his bed, after all - it's not like it'll hurt anything. Judging by her tone of voice, though, he suspects he already knows what her answer'll be.

"Not gonna dispute that assertion," she gives him a look, one that says she thinks he might be a bit mad for even asking in the first place. She's not against flings and having fun, but this is crossing over into potential breakfast in bed territory, and she's not sure she feels comfortable with that.

And there's the fact he definitely reeks of being a weasel. She's not sure she'd have gone with him and agreed to sleep with him, not without massive quantities of alcohol involved. But if drinking is to blame for this, she realizes she's sorely lacking any side-effects. Which is definitely...odd.

"You're sure you don't remember anything? Absolutely positive?"

"You don't have to give me a dirty look," Owen protests, "a simple no would have sufficed." In fact, it probably wouldn't have, because it rarely does with him; saying no to Owen usually becomes a drawn-out affair; he always tries to persuade girls to change their minds. But he feels...off right now, probably because he doesn't remember anything about how they got there, either.

"I'm positive." Usually, no matter how drunk he is, Owen can at least remember bits and pieces of things - flashes of hitting on girls, or of the sex itself. This time, though, there's nothing. "You don't think I drugged you or something, do you?"

"S'not a dirty look! It's a...look." Arms cross over her entirely nude chest, and she huffs a bit at his question that comes out sounding like an accusation. "And of course I don't think that! Course, not too sure what to think, really."

Except that apparently the sex was so tiring she slept so hard that she forgot the entire encounter. Which is just lovely, really. "What're you thinking?"

She realizes about a second and a half after asking, that it might have been a bad choice to ask the naked man that woke her up with his mouth and hands all over her what he's thinking.

He watches her cross her arms, perhaps a bit too keenly - well, he can't help looking if there's a naked girl right in front of him, can he? It's not as if she's that bad-looking; he's certainly made worse drunk mistakes, when it comes down to it. Though those girls are usually grateful, and not half as irritated as she seems to be.

"Well," he drawls shamelessly, drawing the syllable out, "I was thinking about your mouth on my dick, but I reckon that's probably not what you meant."

Oh, he's gonna get it.

She can't even bother hiding how offended she is by his statement. Her eyes widen, and then form an angry squinting glare that she wishes could melt him into a puddle of goo. But since she doesn't have the power to do that, she launches forward like a hurricane instead, and unleashes a series of punches. One to his arm, the other straight toward his face.

"That's horrible! Does that usually, actually work for you? Talk like that?"

And just for good measure, she punches at his chest while she bristles and huffs and gets entirely flustered.

"Oh, it's not gonna work this time!"

"What the fuck?" he sputters as she launches her assault. Her first punches hit him squarely - one in the jaw, one to his arm - and he takes a few more blows on his chest before he manages to grab hold of her wrists. "It isn't as if I wasn't going to return the favour, you know." And he's certainly never had any complaints about his technique, and more than a few compliments.

"You're bloody mental, you are," he adds, shaking his head. Not like he's going to shag her again now, not even if she begged - although he has to admit, she is kind of cute when she's pissed off. Not nearly cute enough, though.

She really isn't sure if she should be offended or amused by him. So she decides for a slight bit amused that he'd jump to her being mental, and mostly offended that he'd say so out loud. She shoots him a glare as she moves off the bed, stalking around the room to gather her clothes off the floor. The more seconds that tick by, the more displeased she looks, until her pout is entirely comical.

"You deserved that. And I don't want any favours returned by you, not now!"

She just wants her clothes, except...none seem to be strewn about on the floor as they would be after a careless fling. They're nowhere to be found. Which is puzzling, and only makes her pout more.

At least she's not punching him anymore, and that's all that matters. He rubs his sore jaw, frowning slightly at the pain. He's used to getting hit by people, but that doesn't mean he likes it, and it usually doesn't happen after he's already shagged someone.

"Whatever." He waves his free hand vaguely, not particularly caring at this point. Maybe he can have one off once she leaves, though she's quite spoilt his mood by now. "Doesn't make any difference to me, love."

"Sorry, bit confused. Where're my clothes?" She turns to face him, looking all kinds of hesitant and horrified. She's now secretly worried he's the type that gets up in the middle of the night to steal a girl's knickers to hold onto them and do God knows what with them later. So her first thought is to go straight to the closet, which really leads to quite the surprise as she's faced with a neat row of dresses, all ones she's definitely sure she'd wear.

Her head tips as she drags her fingers along them, and chooses not to take any of them, and instead gets the magical closet to give her another.

"For someone that probably doesn't even know my name, you do quite a good job at hanging onto dresses I've worn."

Yeah, he's definitely a perverted man that steals a girl's clothes. She slides the dress she's picked out over her head, feeling so much better now that her naked body isn't revealed to his prying eyes anymore.

Okay, that is seriously fucking weird. "I've never even seen those before," he protests. "Swear to god, that was full of my clothes yesterday." At least, that's how he remembers it, and he doesn't understand why it's different now. The mansion pulls all sorts of weird things on them, but switching clothes around seems entirely too tame.

"And I'm pretty sure it's Clara. Unless it's Claire. Something like that, anyway. Definitely a Cl- name." Why should he care what her name is, anyway? He's certainly not going to sleep with her ever again.

Huh.

She's impressed he remembers the first letters of her name, much less the entire thing. She tries not to show it though, and simply shrugs. "Right, then. Figure I ought to get back where I belong. You just -"

She pauses, unable to think of anything decent to end that sentence with. So she doesn't. Instead, she awkwardly heads to the door, mentally preparing herself for a lovely walk of shame.

"Suppose I'll see you around." Not if she can prevent it, of course.

Hey, he's not always completely terrible with names - he can usually remember them once he's bothered to ask them in the first place (which isn't too often). Besides, there's only so many people in the mansion. Not that he cares much about any of them, but he's still managed to pick up a few names here and there; there isn't much else to do.

Owen flops back against the pillows as she heads to the door. "Yeah, sure you will." His tone is sarcastic; he knows perfectly well she has every intention of avoiding him in the future, and the feeling is quite mutual.

She squints a little, opening her mouth to retort. But she thinks better of it and clamps her jaw shut, eyes going wide as she realizes she's actually about to step foot out of this room looking entirely unkempt and ridiculous. She swallows, and reassures herself by repeating a mantra of how she's been through much worse than something as foolish as this before.

"Never know what might happen. Part of the charm of this place, don't you think?"

She tries wiping the horrified look off her face, but the damage to her pride's already been done. And so she gives out a shaky breath to steady herself, and gives him a final glance of disapproval before slipping out and hurrying back toward her own room.

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