Ymir wasn't much of a party person, truth be told. She went to one here and there, but for the most part, she preferred staying home and drinking by herself rather than surrounded by a bunch of stupid assholes who didn't know when to stop. That one time some stupid jock-looking guy threw up on her had almost ruined parties for her. At least she had ruined his face in return. But despite all of that, she found herself here now, watching as people mingled and threw back drinks. It was getting pretty dull, actually.

Until some guy she had never seen before announced that they were gonna be playing a game. She was somewhat surprised some game hadn't already been going on, but nevertheless, she would smirk and make her way over. Of course she knew what this game was about, recognizing it the second the bottle was laid down. A classic. She had played a few times, which was probably why she was into girls now. Oh well, she would play anyways.

"Count me in." she says, downing the last bit of her drink before taking a seat in front of the bottle. She was still somewhat sober, so at least she couldn't regret this in the morning.
"speech"

To denounce Wendell Harrowsmith of not being a party person would be an upright lie. Clad in thick-framed spectacles that layered atop his chocolate bulbs, as well as wearing one of those brand-parody t-shirts, this one poking fun at a specific burger chain, the Brit understood how to talk and entertain. Though he did not care enough about style to fashion that auric brushcut resting messily above his forehead, and additionally choose a pair of sweatpants that weren’t stained with a white paint, parties were his go-to for socializing and grub. In about five or so years, his mature self would most definitely reflect on the clothing he chose, the food he ate, and the people he had associated with, and sigh disappointedly; that’s the future though, have time worry about that situation. Now was time for excessive drinking and mindlessly making love (that’s what happened at parties, whether you appreciated it or not), so let the future bite it’s nails about picking up the missing pieces. A pudgy finger extended over the incurved bridge of his nose to adjust his glasses, which were knocked lopsided following a the ridge of a young man’s back slamming into his facial features while in the middle of an intimate moment with a female partner. Rude. There were chesterfields for a reason. Unanticipatedly, a warm, oozing sensation could be sensed exiting the gap of his left nostril, and Wendell found himself going straight for the tissues - except he was a bit too tipsy to see where he was going, and found himself on the floor, discarded crisp crumbs pressing against his cheek.

Forget it.

Kleenexes were nowhere in sight. Unluckily for the sweater’s owner, Wendell found himself using a woolly fabric as a substitute to clog up the remainder of the blood left unbled. To the chesterfield he went. Somehow, over loud conversation and the thumping tunes rendering from a speaker somewhere, the wounded teen heard y’all of a game. Fun. "Consida me playib" he’d nasally chirp, the fleece’s grip on his schnoz only tightening as the male desperately wished for the bleeding to end. He could still fool around in the closet with someone as he bled, right? Or, maybe by the time the first few people went, it’d have stopped by then. Wendell only wished to not be partnered up with a guy, because he was straight... and that could get a little awkward.

Unless said guy was willing to have a mature conversation, then Wendell would be glad to cooperate.