A/N; Hey there,

So, after thinking about it for a while, I think I've decided to make this a series type of thing, simply for a bit of fun and for bit of a laugh. I may decide to try have a regular update pattern, I may not. For now, this is just a bit of experimenting.

Just so everyone reading this is clear, I will be basing this shot-series of the Legal Drinking Age of where I'm from, which is eighteen. I'm aware that in some countries it's twenty-one, and in others it's lower or higher. But for this, I'm sticking with eighteen.

Lastly, I'd like to give a big thank you to all the favourites, follows and reviews this fic has received, and I would like to point out that the events that will happen in these shots have no reflection on me whatsoever.

At all...

Ahem.

Disclaimer; I do not own Black Rock Shooter and that whole crazed universe.

Enjoy xo

She decided that she liked clubs.

Maybe not so much the part where boys (and girls) approached her at least once every five minutes, offering to buy her a drink and 'get to know her'. She knew to decline them (unless they were of any interest of course) and she definitely knew to turn down a drink handed to her, knowing that anything could have been put in it.

Maybe not so much the part where her feet began to protest their function of helping her walk, and her ankles wobbled at every step of steep staircases. Four to six inch heels were great for aiding her small height and all, but by the end of the night she often wondered if she could just wear sneakers instead of the cruel height enhancers.

Maybe not so much the part of always having to dress up. As much as she liked to transform herself from a twelve year old looking girl to looking much more older than she actually was, dresses were expensive, makeup was difficult to apply (because being the tomboy she was, she didn't exactly practice it all the time), and false eyelashes were a nightmare to put on. By the end of the night, they were always hanging on by a mere manufactured lash to her real ones.

Maybe, no, definitely not the part where she waited with baited breath in long, buzzing queues, the bouncer getting closer and closer to her. Her fake ID (she was sixteen, going on seventeen next month, but still a long ways off eighteen) was legit enough, she thought, and she never got any trouble with it, but she was sure that some unfortunate night that she'd be out, a bouncer would cop on and realise that it was fake. As grateful as she was that she got no hassle with it so far, the anxiety that came with it was definitely not appreciated.

And maybe not so much the pounding headache, the aching ears and feet and sick stomach she awoke with the next morning, the events of before catching up with her and the cringing at pictures she'd taken with her friends (she cringed especially at the captions included in each photo).

But despite those cons, there were definitely pros.

For one, she got to be out with her friends, celebrating events or simply out for a bit of banter.

For another she got to talk and laugh about those nights out with her friends at school on Monday, and she particular relished the warm feeling in her chest as she reminisced the memories that she'd made and look forward to making more.

And for another, as slightly embarrassing as it was to admit, she loved Smirnoff Ices. She often wished she didn't, at least then she wouldn't have such a sore head the next morning, it was the first drink she ordered, and the catalyst for much, much harder drinks.

But the main pro, she decided, was simply being in the presence of her Other, simply making her crack a smile and seeing her throw her head back with laughter, simply being there to catch each other if they got too tipsy (yes eventually an Other could get drunk, she discovered ), simply dancing with her on the floor with her old friends and the new friends she'd made in her time at the clubs, simply knowing that just as much as she enjoyed her company, her Other enjoyed hers.

And simply because she had the privilege in watching and aiding Black Rock Shooter grow more and more softer and human with every weekend that came and went.

Yes, she decided, there were definitely pros.

And yes, Mato, decided, she definitely liked clubs.

A/N; I actually hate Smirnoff Ices.