Mini Trial Pt. 5

You took another sip of beer, the bitterness still lingering on your tongue, but it felt strangely good this time. The cool liquid slipped down your throat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t consumed by the feeling of everything. You were buzzed, sure, but at least it was a distraction from the chaos in your head.

The kitchen felt warmer than before. It wasn’t just the ****, though. You could feel the heat from the men in the other room, their loud voices echoing through the walls. The more they yelled and hollered, the more the room felt like it was getting smaller, tighter—like the air itself was thickening from their drunkenness and antics.

You were sitting at the counter now, taking another long swig from your bottle, hoping the beer would continue to work its magic.

It was impossible to ignore them, though. Every now and then, you could hear one of the men shouting something, some incoherent rambling about you being “that stripper” or “where’d she go?” And every time they remembered you were in the room, the cycle would repeat.

“Yo, where’s she go?” One of the groomsmen shouted, his voice slurring and echoing through the apartment. “She was, like, looking at us before! C’mon, stripper, don’t be shy!”

You rolled your eyes, sighing in frustration. Really? You were right there, but they were so blasted drunk that they couldn’t even process a thing. And they kept repeating this cycle, like they couldn't remember anything from five minutes ago.

Another voice, louder than the first, hollered from the living room, “Yo, what’s up with the food?! Get in here, babe!”

You didn’t care. You didn’t care if they were starving. You’d already gone through the trouble of bringing all this food and drinks, and they were too busy getting hammered to notice. Honestly, if they didn’t even touch the food, that was their own damn fault.

The frustration bubbled up again. Everything felt pointless. Serena had texted you, of course, and the message had come through while you were nursing your third beer, and now, the weight of it sat heavy in your mind:

“thank youuuu omg ur the best!! please make sure they eat otherwise they’re gonna be a mess ;/ but let me ET you for the bill!”

You scoffed at the message. _Make sure they eat... _Like you needed this responsibility. You didn’t even _want _to be here, but no. You had to make sure they ate, so they wouldn’t be a mess. You were trapped.

A drunk voice in the living room snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Hey! Heyyy! Where’d the cute girl go?! I wanna see her again!” Another guy slurred. “Yo, come on, babe, come back!”

You ignored it this time, instead focusing on the bags of snacks and food laid out in front of you. The men could yell all they wanted, but they didn’t even look like they had a clue what was happening. Hell, they weren’t even looking at the food you’d arranged so nicely for them. It was like you were invisible.

They just don’t care. They’re drunk off their asses, and no one’s going to remember any of this tomorrow.

You were buzzed, which helped calm you down, but it also made your frustration sharper, more palpable. You were so tired of being stuck in these situations, of having no control over your own life. You didn’t want to be the one they counted on, the one they asked for help when they were too busy getting drunk and loud.

As you took another sip, you could hear their drunken banter continue. They were all singing, trying to dance with each other, clearly oblivious to the fact that you were still in the kitchen. For a moment, you wondered if it would even be possible to sneak out and leave them to their mess. But you couldn’t. Not yet. Not until they ate something.

You cursed under your breath.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered, even though you knew no one would hear it.

And that’s when you felt it: the heat creeping up your neck and face, the flush of anger mixing with the buzz of ****. The frustration of the night was finally bubbling over, and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. It was all so goddamn stupid. And _yet _you were still stuck here, playing along with it.

One of the guys stumbled into the kitchen, looking around, clearly trying to piece things together. “Yo, yo, is this food?!” he asked, his voice an incoherent mess.

You nodded but didn’t say anything. You had enough of their nonsense.

But then, the familiar, annoying cycle kicked back in.

He blinked, his eyes focusing on you for a moment. “Wait, wait, wait—where’d you go? Who are you?”

Your patience snapped again. You leaned against the counter and said, in the most sarcastic tone you could muster, “I’m just the bridesmaid, man. Just the fucking bridesmaid.”

You turned back to the food, pretending to get something out of one of the bags, trying to hide the fact that you were so done with all of this. The guy blinked for a moment, processing. Then he let out a drunken laugh.

“Oh, right, right. You’re, uh... doing food, huh?” He glanced at the counter, looking at all the snacks you’d set up.

“Yeah,” you said flatly, “You gonna eat it, or what?”

He shrugged and grinned. “I dunno. Feels like we’re supposed to party, y’know?”

Fuck my life, you thought, shaking your head. Just eat, damn it.

But there was no way you could **** them to do anything. They were too far gone. So, you just sat there, taking slow sips of your beer, watching the chaos unfold in the next room.

More shouting. More hollering. More drunken confusion.

But as frustrating as it all was, you still knew you had one thing left to do: get them to eat.

And somehow, you had to keep it together long enough for them to actually do that.

You could feel the tension winding tighter and tighter in your chest as you stood there in the kitchen, staring at the food and drinks you had brought, still untouched, scattered around the counter. You were completely alone in this mess, tasked with making sure a group of drunk idiots didn’t make an even bigger mess of themselves than they already had.

Fuck this, you thought. They’re eating. Now.

You grabbed the first bag of snacks—chips, pretzels, and a few dips—and made your way into the living room. You knew what was coming. The guys had barely noticed you leave the kitchen, but as soon as you stepped into the room carrying food, you could already feel the heat of their gazes. You weren’t even two steps in when one of them hollered.

“Yo! The stripper’s back!”

A few chuckles and hoots followed, and you just rolled your eyes. Whatever, assholes, you thought, dumping the snacks onto the coffee table with as much **** as you could muster. They were going to eat it or not—it didn’t matter anymore. You were so beyond caring, you almost felt like walking right back out the door.

But of course, you couldn’t leave yet. Not until they ate something.

You didn’t bother with any pretense this time. Your patience was completely gone. You didn’t even give them the satisfaction of a response to their incessant catcalls and comments. You just turned, heading back for another trip to the kitchen. The cycle continued, and honestly, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about any of it. The more they shouted, the more you just felt a dull, aching frustration building in the pit of your stomach.

As you bent over to grab another bag, your high heels squeaked against the tiled floor, the clack-clack sound amplifying in the silence of the kitchen. _Fuck these shoes, _you thought, Fuck these stupid bags, and fuck everything else.

The second trip was just as annoying as the first. The boys in the living room were louder now, if anything, and you could hear them shouting things like “Yo, what’s for dessert?” and “Is this the part where you strip?” as if they hadn’t seen the bags of food you were carrying in. You dumped the rest of the snacks—mini sandwiches, chips, and more dip—on the coffee table, your patience running thinner with each passing second.

“Yooo, check out the food! That stripper really knows how to serve, huh?” someone yelled, and the others hooted in agreement.

You didn’t say anything this time. Just turned and headed back to the kitchen without so much as a glance at the men. You were done.

The **** was definitely still in your system, and it was helping, along with that little voice in your head telling you that none of this would matter tomorrow. None of these idiots would remember your name. None of them would remember you had been here, doing all this. The cycle of drunken stupidity, the hollering, the mislabeling—it was all just part of the chaos.

But then, something unexpected happened.

As you made your way toward the kitchen, trying to distance yourself from the noise and chaos of the living room, a hand reached out from behind you. You didn’t have time to react—one second, you were walking away, and the next, you were stumbling. The hand that grabbed you jerked you back, and before you knew it, you were falling.

It happened so fast you couldn’t even comprehend it. One moment, you were just trying to get to the damn kitchen, and the next, you were landing in someone’s lap, face-first into their chest.

You didn’t even have time to process the feeling of being off-balance, of the awkwardness of it all. You were already sitting in the lap of one of the groomsmen, your legs tucked awkwardly to the side, the weight of your body pressing against his. There was a moment of stunned silence in the room—then, of course, they started laughing.

And of course, they noticed immediately. One of the groomsmen let out a holler that echoed through the apartment. “She fell right into my lap! Looks like we got a special treat tonight!”

The room burst into laughter, and for a moment, it felt like everything froze. You were sitting in a man’s lap, in front of all of them, your body awkwardly perched there like it belonged. Normally, this would have been the last thing you’d want to happen. Normally, you’d want to rip out of the situation, you’d be mortified by the idea of sitting in a man’s lap—dressed the way you were, looking the way you did. But now?

Now you didn’t give a damn.

You didn’t care. Maybe it was the ****. Maybe it was the resignation of everything you’d been through today. Maybe it was the curse, the whole damned situation that had somehow led to this moment—but none of it mattered.

You didn’t care that your thighs were pressed against the man's legs. You didn’t care that your back was leaning against his chest, or that you could feel his breath near your neck. You didn’t even care about the obvious awkwardness of sitting in the lap of a stranger.

In fact, the only thing that was starting to really bother you was the tightness in your chest—the same ache you’d had before, but stronger now. It wasn’t frustration this time. No, this was different. You were starting to notice that you felt… too hot. The **** in your system, combined with the physical closeness, was making your body buzz in a way you hadn’t anticipated. And something else was creeping in, something that you could fully identify, and it felt like an itch under your skin.

You shifted slightly, trying to get a little more comfortable. The motion brought a small, involuntary sigh from your lips, and you hated yourself for it.

Then it hit you.

That stupid little itch in the back of your mind was driving you crazy. It wasn’t the closeness. It wasn’t the fact that you were sitting in some drunk guy’s lap.

You were, against all odds, craving something. And it wasn’t food. It wasn’t a drink.

It was the feeling of something between your lips.

It was back to bothering you, the urge bubbling up in you, demanding attention. Your teeth were practically aching, and all you could think about was the need to bite down, to suck—to do something with your mouth.

But instead, you just sat there, too buzzed to do anything except let the ridiculousness of the night unfold around you.

The men, oblivious to your discomfort, kept shouting. One of them was waving his beer can in the air, slurring some nonsense about how “hot” the food you brought was. Another kept poking you in the side, asking if you’d “dance for us next.”

You barely reacted.

Instead, you just let the chaos wash over you, your mind only half there, lost in the intoxicating blend of frustration and... whatever the hell this was. Your hands started to fidget with the hem of your blouse, tugging on the fabric, and you felt the need to touch your lips again.

The more they shouted, the more you just couldn’t shake the feeling. You were, against every ounce of your dignity, feeling this strange pull to just... bite.

You didn’t know why. But you did know that you didn't care. Not anymore.

You weren’t going anywhere—not yet. Not until they ate something.

The guy who had you in his lap was staring at you, a lazy grin on his face. He was still holding onto his beer can, but his attention was entirely on you. You could feel his gaze, but you didn’t care. You were too buzzed to care, too disconnected to even acknowledge him. Not that you were mad at him, not exactly. He was just another idiot in the crowd. And right now? He wasn’t even worth the energy to get annoyed by.

You sat there, staring ahead, feeling the weight of your body on his legs, completely indifferent to the situation. You could feel his hand resting lightly on your hip, and honestly? You didn’t care. It wasn’t even suggestive—just a gentle touch, almost reassuring. Not that you needed reassurance. But, then again, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care enough to pull away. Everything felt too hot. Too dizzy. Too easy. The **** was still buzzing in your veins, loosening you up, leaving you with no care in the world.

“Yo,” the guy said, his voice dragging, almost slurring as his beer can dangled from his hand. “You’re like... the best stripper ever. Like... for real. Damn, you came through with all this food.”

You didn’t even blink. You just nodded, uninterested in correcting him for the hundredth time. It wasn’t worth it. Not when your head was spinning with ****, not when you were this close to the edge of a breakdown.

You sat there for a moment, your mind wandering. You noticed the bags of food, still sitting untouched on the coffee table. Not one of them had even considered digging into the sandwiches and snacks you’d spent so much time gathering. You gritted your teeth. This was getting old.

Not caring anymore, you straightened up slightly, glaring at the bunch of them.

"Hey," you said, your voice flat, annoyed, "Eat. I didn’t go through all that trouble just to watch you guys _not _eat."

The men were too far gone to register the tone in your voice. One guy, still giggling like an idiot, chimed in with a slur, "Aww, baby, you’re like, _so cute _when you talk like that."

Another one added, “Yeah, but like, you should change into something... y’know, more stripper-y.” His voice was so far gone in drunkenness that you could barely make out what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. His words didn’t even faze you.

“You’re all idiots.” You muttered under your breath, not caring if anyone heard.

But then another guy, maybe a little louder than the others, said, “Nah, man, seriously, like, she’s got to strip before we eat, right? That’s how this works, yeah?”

A collective chorus of drunken chuckles echoed around the room. You froze for a second, the buzz in your veins dimming slightly as their words reached your ears.

What the hell?

You didn’t know how to process that one. Of course, they still thought you were a stripper. Of course, they didn’t get it. But you couldn’t bring yourself to correct them, not after everything that had happened tonight. The frustration came surging back for a moment, but it was quickly replaced with the dull weight of indifference.

You let it go.

Whatever.

Instead, you turned to one of the guys who was still holding a beer, and without thinking, you said, "Can I have another beer?" You weren’t sure why you were asking—maybe because it seemed like the easiest way to numb yourself more. Maybe because you just didn’t want to deal with them anymore.

One of the guys, now too blurry to even register anything properly, fumbled around and grabbed a fresh beer from the cooler. He handed it to you, and you just took it

Without any hesitation, without any ceremony, you cracked it open and threw it back in one long gulp. You felt the cold liquid slide down your throat, and a small thrill surged through you—one you hadn’t expected. The beer tasted bitter and heavy, but it was a distraction. Something to focus on.

Of course, you expected the guys to hoot and holler at you for chugging it down so fast. But they didn’t. They barely even noticed. They were all so far gone that not one of them even reacted. It was like you didn’t even exist in that moment—just another part of the blurry haze they were drowning in.

You almost found it funny. Maybe _this _was what you'd been waiting for—just to be left alone in this storm of noise and nonsense.

Your mind wandered again as you sat there in his lap, not caring about the ridiculousness of the situation. Your body felt way too hot now, your skin tingling as if the heat of the room and the **** were combined in a pressure cooker. You needed some space, but you were too tired to move. Too lazy.

The **** was too good.

The guy’s hand still rested on your hip, and even though it should have bothered you, it didn’t. It was comforting, in a weird way, like he wasn’t expecting anything from you. He didn’t even _care _about you. And honestly? That felt better than the opposite.

Still, your frustration kept building, gnawing at you, especially as the guys continued their meaningless, drunken chatter.

"Yo, you wanna feed me, babe?" One of them slurred.

Another one added, “Nah, dude, I want her to—”

“Shut up, you idiot,” someone else shouted. “Let her eat first. Then you can talk about your weird fantasies later.”

The room was filled with nonsense, and all of it hit you like a wave of irritation.

Finally, you spoke again, voice thick with frustration, “I said—eat.” Your voice came out sharper than you’d meant. You didn’t care. You just wanted them to follow through, just wanted them to do *one* thing right.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they just kept shouting over each other, each man getting louder, dumber, and more drunk by the second. “You’re the one who should be eating, girl!” One of them yelled.

“Yeah, yeah, change your clothes first,” another one added. “Then we’ll eat.”

But the thing was, you didn’t care anymore. You weren’t even sure if you ever cared about any of this. You were so tired. Tired of the endless cycle of nonsense, tired of trying to fix everything for everyone, tired of pretending like this was even remotely normal.

Your body felt too hot—way too hot, almost painfully so—and your irritation simmered just below the surface, the **** making it hard to think clearly. But what you did know was that you couldn’t keep sitting here, suffocating in this heat. The discomfort of the stifling warmth in the air combined with the noise and chaos of the men around you made it hard to focus on anything else.

They want a show, huh? Fine. Fuck it.

Without thinking too much about it, you started unbuttoning your soft pale pink blouse. Each button you freed from its hole felt like a tiny release, your frustration pouring into each motion. The men were still yammering on, oblivious to the fact that you were undressing right in front of them, but you didn’t care anymore. You just wanted to be free of this suffocating heat.

You pulled the blouse off, tossing it aside, revealing your upper body clad only in a soft pink bra. Your B-cups were on full display, the fabric of the bra hugging your chest in a way that only heightened the heat in your body. The moment you removed the blouse, the room seemed to go silent. A few of the men stopped talking, their eyes wide, mouths open, taking in the sight.

But you didn’t care. You were too drunk, too tired, too done with all of this to feel embarrassed. You were already sitting in a guy’s lap, his hand resting lightly on your hip, your charcoal gray trousers a stark contrast to your exposed top. The makeup on your face still looked fresh, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except the **** in your veins and the sheer defiance that coursed through you.

You leaned back into the guy’s lap again, taking a moment to breathe, letting the warmth of his body under you feel oddly comforting. You were done trying to fix things. You were done caring about their stupid bachelor party. You didn’t have the energy for it anymore.

“Alright, assholes, time to eat,” you taunted, your voice laced with a mixture of frustration and drunkenness. “You wanted me to strip? Well, I’m half-naked now, so dig in.”

Your words didn’t go unheard. A few of the guys looked up, still drunk and dazed, their eyes scanning you in what could only be described as a mixture of awe and lust.