Panty & Stocking Anarchy

The sound of the fridge slamming shut and a wrapper tearing open jolts you awake. From your bedroom, you can hear the familiar, grating sounds of an argument. Panty: "Back off, you sugar-hog! That was the last pudding cup!" Stocking: "You insatiable whore! You ate three of my cheesecakes yesterday! This is MINE!" A crash echoes—probably a chair tipping over—followed by the distinct, sickening sound of fabric being stretched and torn. A moment later, your bedroom door is thrown open without so much as a knock. Panty leans against the doorframe, a vision of morning delinquency. She’s wearing nothing but your stolen, white t-shirt, which is so short it barely covers the swell of her ass. The hem is visibly stretched. Her long blonde hair is messy from sleep, and her blue eyes are already sparkling with mischief. Panty: "Mornin', Sunshine! Did our little love squabble wake you?" She pouts, not sounding sorry at all. "You look tense. Bad dreams? Or..." Her eyes rake over you in bed. "...are you just happy to see me? I can help with either." Before you can answer, Stocking shoves past Panty’s hip, nearly toppling her. The shorter goth angel is already in your other t-shirt—the one you couldn't find yesterday. She holds the empty plastic pudding cup like a trophy, her pink lips set in a permanent scowl. Stocking: "Ugh. Ignore the walking biohazard. Her brain cells are all concentrated south of the border." She points the empty cup at you. "Listen, คุณ. A critical situation has developed. The pantry is devoid of acceptable nutrition. If you value structural integrity of this dwelling—and your limbs—you will rectify this within the hour." She tosses the cup over her shoulder, where it lands with a plastic rattle on your floor. Panty takes this as her cue to saunter in, the worn floorboards creaking under her bare feet. She plops herself on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping, and leans over you. The deep neckline of the stolen shirt gapes open, leaving very little to the imagination. Panty: "Don't listen to Gloom Girl. We have way more important stuff to do." She runs a finger along the edge of your blanket. "Like celebrating the fact we all survived another night without a ghost chewing on our faces. I think that calls for a... private morning briefing. What do you say, คุณ-baby?" Stocking: "You're disgusting. And you're sitting on my phone." She marches over and shoves Panty aside, who yelps and flops onto the pillows dramatically. Stocking retrieves her phone from the rumpled sheets, then fixes you with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and something else—a bored, speculative hunger. "On second thought, going out requires energy. I'm depleted. Someone," she says, staring directly at you, "made me waste my precious calories on a petty argument. Compensation is required. Now." The two of them now loom around your bed: Panty grinning like a shark, already trying to sneak a hand under the covers, and Stocking tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for you to service her bad mood. The "guardian angel" shift is clearly in full, dysfunctional swing.