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bp-zb1fics · 11 months

Text

A little crazy

pairing: overprotective bf shanbin x s/o reader

genre: university au on unhingedness (same verse as perils, and no, it's not lasik), fluff

tw/tags: established relationship, some stereotypical characters, hanbin has a few quirks, character study lowkey, unwanted flirting, unintentional flirting, pet names, intimidation, he's sweet but a psycho, drinking, getting a lil tipsy, lowkey stalker vibes but not really, for plot purposes we will find it cute, threatening, idk how to tag this pls tell me if i missed something

wc: 2078

summary: your boyfriend is legitimately the sweetest person ever…except when someone tries to make moves on you. Then he gets…well…

a/n my advanced birthday fic for hanbin! Bc idk why I thought it was today I must have hallucinated but also idk if I have time to post on the actual day bc of real life commitments lmao whoops I struggle and try my best. Shout out to Kara aka @boysplanetmorelike for sparking this lil idea~

Check my pinned for more fics~

It’s not like he was perfect, even if people liked to think he was. Well, yes he is very boyfriend. That’s why he’s your boyfriend.

You, of all people, can attest to the fact he isn’t perfect. You’ve seen his hair in the morning. He’s definitely not at his prettiest. Sometimes he becomes a little control freak. You know that. You’re the one who they call to get him before he makes one of the poor freshmen cry unintentionally and then ends up feeling guilty about it and apologising profusely for the rest of the day, your poor soft-hearted man. And some might argue that yes he has his little ticks but they’re only minor character flaws if they can be considered flaws at all.

If only they knew.

Those who have had the pleasure of getting to know Sung Hanbin on a more, well, personal level are probably the only ones who will ever know. Poor souls, really.

And perhaps it isn’t as effective to explain as it is to show what exactly one of his more problematic personality issues is. Let’s take one unsuspecting, innocent afternoon.

Perspective. You’ve just finished class. It’s a pleasant day. You decide to meet at one of the benches under the trees outside your building. His class finishes a bit after yours so you wait, scrolling through your phone, peaceful, unbothered.

Enter unfortunate victim. For the purpose of this exercise, he shall remain unnamed. We’ll call him Victim #444. Or well, that guy.

He’s your typical fuckboy. Good looking in a sort of lukewarm way, hugely overconfident, probably thinks he has a bigger dick than he actually does, a horrible flirt, we’ve all met that type.

You share a class together. That’s how he makes conversation. Otherwise, he might not dare to approach at that time. Your talk goes something like this.

“Hey, you’re in Choi-seongsaengnim’s class too right?”

“Yeah?” You look up from your phone and he’s just there. He takes a seat on the same bench without asking. Well, it’s public property but he’s a little closer than you would like.

“He’s such a hardass, don’t you think? Like sure, he knows the lesson but he doesn’t need to act like this is the only class we’re taking.”

“Well, I mean-”

“-Like seongsaengnim, come on, I have a life outside of trying to figure out what the fuck your lessons mean.” You can add self-absorbed and stupid to this one’s list of notable traits.

“I think-” And definitely not letting you get a word in.

“Speaking of, have you got a partner for the latest project? Because, you know, I’ve been asked but I’m happy to make an exception if you want to pair up.”

“Actually, I already have-”

“Let me give you my number so we can contact each other? Maybe meet up, you know? I’ve got a nice little place to myself on the other side of campus.”

Ugh, as if. He’s leaning in so close that you can smell his cheap cologne. Before you can get up from the bench, arms wrap around you from the back and a very familiar voice coos in your ear.

“Ahh nae sarang, sorry I’m late.”

You turn your head, leaning into him.

“Hi Binnie-yah.”

He beams at you before directing his stare at the other guy. And so it begins.

“Oh, who’s this?”

You’re pretty sure Hanbin knew who this was. He knew who everyone was and at least one notable thing about them because he was quirky like that. Well, he wasn’t known as the university’s social butterfly for nothing. And you don’t want to spoil his fun so you let the guy introduce himself.

“Ah, you’re taking that major, yeah? So Junho-yah is your senior, how is he these days?”

“Oh, ah yes, Junho-sunbaenim’s been doing well, I don’t really see him around much actually.”

And bingo. The guy starts squirming. Faster than it usually takes. Your boyfriend’s made himself comfortable even though he’s half-hunched over and resting his chin on your shoulder, looking at the other guy with an unwavering stare. Sort of the way a spider would probably look at a fly before, well, you know.

“Really, well last I heard from him, he was complaining about how disrespectful his underclassmen are…but you’re not like that, aren’t you?”

“Ah, no, of course not sunbaenim.”

You can feel Hanbin’s smile get wider, his eyes crinkling in a way that you find adorable but you suspect might not be as cute for your unfortunate companion.

“That’s good, keep up the good work. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if any of my underclassmen were being disrespectful. Ah well, actually I can….”

He pauses and you swear that the guy stops breathing.

“...and I can definitely say that they’ll be very sorry that they even tried that with me.” Hanbin continues cheerily.

Suddenly he walks over and starts patting him on the shoulder. The guy flinches back.

“So next time, remember to be on your best behaviour and keep being polite, hmm? Don’t be so obvious? Maybe try not to be so shameless, yeah?”

“Ah, yes, of course, sunbaenim. Actually I- I just remembered I- I have to go- ah- sorry to disturb um- excuse me-”

You watch as he does a roughly 90 degree bow to both of you before walking off quickly.

“Less than 5 minutes, Binnie, that’s a new record.”

And your cute boyfriend is back, pouting and grabbing at your hands and squeezing them softly. If you were anyone else, you would have gotten whiplash.

“It’s not my fault if I want you all to myself, hmmm?”

Did you mention that your boyfriend was a little off in the head? Not in the should-be-confined-to-the-mental-hospital way but that slight sort of insanity that possesses him when someone tries to go for his little brother (rip Gunwook) or his little sister or his close friends or well, you.

And everyone else? Everyone else was not safe. If murder was legal, literally everyone else would probably be fearing for their lives. Which is probably a good thing that murder isn’t legal. Those incredibly lucky bastards.

Take one of the freshmen trying to chat you up during a party. They’ve been incredibly nice all evening, pouring you drinks and asking you all sorts of thoughtful questions about the major. So yes, you’re very happy to answer and give them little tips on how to ace a certain project.

“And it’s honestly fine if you mess up a little on your first test for Hwang-seongsaengnim’s class, he’s very nice when it comes to students forgetting a few names so don’t stress too much about it and make sure to ace the extra credit he gives.”

“Oh, thank you so much sunbaenim. That’s so helpful, I’ll definitely try my best.”

You can’t help but smile. So cute. Maybe it was the alcohol but you remember how it was like being a wide-eyed, overeager freshman listening attentively to your own seniors.

“It’s really no problem. Ask me anything, anytime. Seriously, don’t be afraid if you need advice.”

You reach over to pat them, swaying just a little from the amount of soju running through your body. They’re awfully red as well. You wonder why.

“How are you getting home, sunbaenim? Do you live nearby? I can walk with you if you’re comfortable with that, I don’t think it’s too safe to be out at this time.”

“Oh it’s no worries, I’ll be taking them home.”

“Ah Hanbinnie, meet my new dongsaeng” you’re not too sure when he got here or even why he’s here but Hanbin’s incredibly warm and his hands around your waist feel so nice.

“This is my boyfriend.” You introduce him to the freshman. He dips his head in greeting as the other nearly tips over trying to bow. You make a concerned noise, making to catch the other but Hanbin firmly keeps you from moving, letting the freshman catch themselves instead.

“So nice to meet you, we’ll get going if that’s alright. It’s really not safe to be out this late, especially with someone you barely know.” You hardly register your boyfriend’s words but you’re not that drunk that you don’t know the smile he’s giving is about 95% fake and razor-sharp.

“Ah yes, get home safely, sunbaenim. I��ll find my way back so don’t worry.”

“Oh we won’t” You think you hear Hanbin say. Maybe. Could be your imagination. Because the next moment he’s nuzzling at your neck like a very spoiled cat, arms firmly holding you up as he guides you out of the bar and into the car.

“Nae sarang, you really need to take better care of yourself or I won’t want to let you out of my sight.” He says to you softly as he practically carries you into the passenger seat. It’s sweet, well the implication behind it is kinda creepy but you know he doesn’t mean it that way. (Does he?)

“You drove here?”

“Of course, I can’t let you go home all by yourself, can I?”

Like you said, there’s just a tiny screw loose in that head of his, considering the bar where you’re drinking is over an hour away from campus. You chalk it up to it being Hanbin. He can get a little paranoid on occasion.

And sometimes, he goes a bit psycho. A little. Not a lot. Still, according to Gunwook, it’s terrifying. You really wouldn’t know but you’ve seen it.

You’ve come to wait for his dance club to finish when someone collides into you. It’s not too hard but it still knocks you off your feet and onto the ground with a thud.

“Yah, watch where you’re going, huh? I have a performance next week and I could have injured myself.”

It’s definitely one of the newer members because you don’t recognise them. Before you can say anything, Seo Won, one of the veterans, is already helping you up and asking if you’re okay. The one that knocked you over huffs and is about to say something else when Hanbin calls their name sharply.

Your boyfriend’s eyes narrow and maybe you’re a little lightheaded from the fall but also from the way his shirt clings to his body and his hair weighed down by sweat. It’s kinda hot but you’re not admitting that out loud. Not now, at least. He calls the other member’s name again and gestures him over.

He speaks too quietly for you to hear anything. All you know is that the other’s face pales drastically and he bows several times, walking over and apologising to you before practically hightailing out of the room.

Hanbin’s all over you in a matter of seconds, practically lifting you off the ground. It’s not good for your heart. Seo Won quickly backs off.

“My poor sarang, are you okay? Do you need anything? Ice? Are you bruised anywhere? Let me check.”

You don’t ever see the person who knocked you over again. Ever. You’d wonder about it but you’ve learned that it was better not to question sometimes. Especially when Hanbin insists on carrying you around for the rest of the day and practically waits on you hand and foot until the bruises fade. And it’s just a bruise. You do admit to him later that maybe you find it attractive when he’s a shade pissed and sweaty. Maybe you both get a little sweaty after that. And later, when you’re rightfully tired and sprawled out on top of him, you think about it.

Really, you wonder what goes through his mind sometimes.

[cut scene]

Hanbin smiles, all teeth and no sympathy. It’s like the serial killer before the murder.

“You speak to anyone like that ever again and I can do injuring for you, understood? No, don’t talk, just nod if you’ve managed to get it into that head of yours, hmm?”

A nod. Hanbin likes it when they’re like this. Quiet and white-faced and sweating nervously.

“Now go apologise to them. Sincerely. Like you mean it. And then, get lost. I don’t want to see your face for awhile, yes?”

Another nod. They take one step back and make to turn around.

“Oh wait.”

They freeze.

“Remember. Sincerely, okay? And don’t think I won’t know if it isn’t.”

A final nod.

“Very good. Now go.”

They go. Hanbin sighs. God, you’re going to drive him insane one day. (He already is)

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celestialprincesse · 3 months

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That Bodyguard Gaz thought is delicious! Would you eleborate?? The brain worms immediately went to the agent being this cute, cubby, little thing and is very unsuspecting but turns out to be actually very deadly when needed!

Hope you feel better!

Oh she is so cute and clever and fucking insane I love her In my mind I sort of imagined him with my oc Kitty/Houdini, but this could also be read as X reader🎀 Reader goes by codename Hecate and She/Her pronouns💕

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

At exactly 6:14AM, on Tuesday the 17th of October, Kyle Garrick is woken by his phone ringing. Incessantly. Again and again and again. "It's shit O'clock. What do you want?" He grumbles into his phone, sitting up on the edge of his bed with a yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Captain John Price's equally tired vice crackles down the line. "Laswell needs you. Says she's got someone that needs protection services. That's all she gave." "And she gave you this at 6AM? "It's 01:00 there. She's been busy. Meetup location with the charge is in your inbox."

With that, John hangs up, leaving Kyle to gather his bearings as he opens his eMail app, scrolling to the top of his newly reicived messages to find one with no subject, and no content aside from a street name and address, as well as a time that he assumes he should be there by. If it's from Laswell, and passed down through Price, he knows it's legit. Kate only ever gives him the important ones, either expensive or irreplacable. It doesn't take long for him to be ready, Union Jack cap pulled down over his brow, and a pistol in the inside pocket of his coat, just for good measure.

London is, as always, miserable. The pavements are slicked with rain and the sky is concrete grey, reflected in the cold glass of skyscrapers, towering into the sky like the scales of some rippling serpent. It's hard to spot someone when he's got no clue of their appearance or career. Why they need his protection. All he has is a name, a callsign too, for good measure. Hecate is what they call you. Goddess of witchcraft and magic. That, unfortunately, doesn't particularly narrow his search, not in a city with a whopping eight million people crowding it's pavements and flooding it's tube stations, sitting outside of cafe's or sheltering from the rain in the overhangs of shops.

Kyle, strangely enough, feels nervous. All of the guys have their things - their specialties - and VIP Protection is his. But it's been a long time since he was in charge of someone's life, trying to protect it, instead of taking it, and he suddenly feels incredibly unequipped. He'll be staying with the charge. John told him in a seperate message to bring a bag. At least enough for a few weeks as they settle in to their safehouse kindly provided by the CIA. They've splashed a fair amount of cash to get a place on this side of town, where the streets are clean and the crime rates are lower. His person must be important. He assumes, seeing as he wasn't on the receiving end of a photo or description, that they'll be seeking him out, so he dutifully takes his place outside the quiet café, paying for his coffee with cash. In the fifteen minutes he waits, (having arrived early) Kyle never once lets himself zone out or get lost in his thoughts.

What he doesn't expect to see is you. About as scary as a butterfly and quietly unassuming in jeans and an oversized hoodie, Kyle's curiosity is piqued. "You're Hecate?" He probes carefully, removing his hat to allow you a view of his face, as he does with many of his clients. He finds it stops them from being skittish with him. It's always easier to protect someone who trusts you. That's his philosophy, anyways. "Gaz Garrick?" You inquire back, wary until he slides his driver's license and tags across the table. "File's in my bag if you'd like to see that too." "This is enough. Thank you." He likes you immediately. He likes that you're careful without being outright flippant, guarded but not dismissive.

The waitress gives you an unpleasantly disdainful look, flashing you a tight lipped smile, unlike the flirty one she gave to your companion upon taking his order. "Just a regular builders for me please." Her tense smile is reciprocated as you order your tea, trying to keep the caffeine to a minimum today. You're already jittery.

Kyle opens the door of the black bulletproof SUV for you, watches the way you blink up at him with gooey soft doe eyes, and he struggles to push down the highly unprofessional thoughts that invade his head as he watches you hop up into the car before him, adjusting his cap to stop himself from openly ogling your ass. "You fancy putting the address in the SatNav?" Kyle coos at you, trying not to smother you. He can tell you're skittish. Probably not used to the idea of having someone with you, day in day out watching your every move.

Of course, Laswell would set you up somewhere like Richmond, somewhere quiet and safe. You're clearly someone important if Kate is handling your affairs personally - and his day rate has gone up substantially since joining the 141. The apartment is pleasant, soulless, but nice all things considered. Immediately upon entry, he takes notice of the added locks on the door - three of them, and the dead bolted fire escape. It's good, gives two exits incase one fails, but not so many that you could easily forget to lock the door on one of them and risk compromising your safety. There's a cluster of all sorts of technology strewn on the counter, like you'd set yourself up in a rush and not had time to get fully organised, he assumes you've not been here long.

The next morning you shuffle downstairs to find Kyle looking confused as he stares at the contents of your refrigerator, "You need something? I can swing by the shops if need be." "You have a safe in your fridge." He deadpans, looking down to you, still sporting some thin pyjama shorts and an old Marlboro tee. he can't help but wonder how you look so pretty without even trying. "Oh! Yeah ... that." You mumble, flushing profusely as you stare up at the soldier. "Funnily enough, people don't think to check the fridge. Burglars and whatnot." Kyle startles at your easy mention of being robbed, and the inference that you've potentially dealt with burglary enough to be familiar with the mindset of a potential home invader. "You get burgled a lot?" "Mm. Used to." You mumble as you root through the safe-fridge for a bottle of orange juice, pouring two glasses. Apple juice is Kyle's personal preference, or some sort of smoothie, but he takes the glass from you with a grateful smile. Best to just go along with you, keep you comfortable. Not to mention the warm smile you give him when your fingers brush around the glass has his insides growing warm.

After having met you, a woman so clearly formidable to be protected by Kate Laswell herself, to have earned the nickname of a goddess, Kyle not only finds himself far less nervous - he feels warmly optimistic. He feels, for the first time in far too long, genuine hope for connection.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Might or might not add to this at some point idk n e ways!!!💕

Badly written and not edited so sorray!!

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glitxhwayventeen · 3 months

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The Smart One: Part One

Yeonjun

Characters: Yeonjun x female reader

Warnings: mentions of- violence, death, drinking, smoking, sleeping around (but it’s all consensual so i don’t see a problem with it. But i know some people do so TW ig), name calling (but they don’t actually mean it and none of them think they do, they’re loving nicknames), crying, pining/angsty love, Yeonjun being dumb basically poor baby

Author’s Note: Ahhh so I’m back. I hope no one’s too made i started a new addition to the werewolf/college universe but i really think these stories are gonna be nice and get me excited to start writing again so here’s to hoping! Let me know if anyone wants to be added to the tag list for any of the characters!

Please remember that all of these chapters and the content within them are a work of fiction! They’re just for fun/entertainment!

There Will Be Blood Masterlist

The Smart One: Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

🥀

Bold- Dialogue Italics- Thoughts

Tag list-

Yeonjun never understood his brothers. He never understood half of the weird shit they did. He never understood their constant need to be around one another. And he certainly never understood why they were so eager to find their mates.

So as he sat on the couch listening to the pup of their pack argue with the alpha over what their future mates must be like at the kitchen table, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes while he scrolled through his phone in boredom.

“Hyung, there’s no way you’ll get a mate that’s like you. That relationship could never last! Two control freaks don’t make for a happy couple!”

“Surprised you could do that much math! In fact, you better hope yours has half a brain because you’re too stupid to not have someone looking out for you for the rest of your life!”

Everyone in the pack knew that the youngest in the pack wasn’t always the smartest when it came to basic schooling and common sense. Hell, the only reason they found him and added him to the pack in the first place was because he had somehow managed to piss off a group of fifth graders who began chasing him, a high school senior, down the eldest’s home street.

So Yeonjun knew the alpha wasn’t entirely wrong for insinuating Kai probably needed a mate with a head on their shoulders. But that didn’t mean he liked the topic at hand to begin with.

“I can take care of myself you know hyung.”

Yeonjun didn’t like the idea of mates. He didn’t like the idea of signing away everything that made them themselves to some stranger werewolf instincts told them they would love forever. He didn’t like the idea that his brothers were all trying as hard as they were to find theirs.

And he sure as shit didn’t agree with wanting to give up the lifestyle he had gotten used to over the years just because his stupid wolfy brain would be too obsessed with some innocent unsuspecting human to think straight.

“You literally wouldn’t be able to tie your shoes if it weren’t for us but whatever Huening.”

Who would want to be tied down like that? Who would want to have to answer to some random person for the rest of their life that stupid fate set them up with? Who would want a life that basically took away everyone’s free will and choices? Not Yeonjun, that’s for sure.

“That was one time! And it was only because I couldn’t find my contacts hyung!”

At that point in their conversation, Yeonjun had pretty much tuned them out. His brain was laser focused on what finding a mate would mean for him in particular. And the thought started making his stomach churn with unease.

The eldest in the pack was someone who liked going to parties. If he had a mate chances are they wouldn’t want him to go to parties or go out and have a good time with his friends.

He was someone who liked to drink and smoke pretty regularly to handle the stress of his everyday life. The pack was friends with other packs in the area, and let’s just say more than a few of them had mates that were heavily against their mate doing any smoking or drinking.

Yeonjun also liked to hook up with random people at the parties he went to, some even on a regular basis because it was a situation that benefited everyone involved. He knew the second he got a girlfriend that favorite pass time of his would be over and it would become the center of all their arguments, which is one of the reasons why he never had one. He couldn’t even imagine the issues it would cause him if he had a mate.

As the eldest stayed seated adorned in his usual black and leather get up, he couldn’t help but think of another rather unsettling complication finding a mate would cause him if he somehow did manage to warm up to the idea of having one: bringing a fragile little human into his rather chaotic and dangerous life.

Sure he had plenty of human friends, they had to stay unsuspecting to the outside world after all. And it wasn’t even that he thought less of them or had them for appearances sake. Yeonjun did genuinely like, and even at times envy, his human friends. But none of them knew half the shit that really went on in his life.

They didn’t know that he wore brown colored contacts to hide his naturally golden eyes. They didn’t know that his roommates were actually his packmates. They didn’t know he had to be locked up for almost a whole week twice a year to keep from fucking everything and everyone that crossed his path during his rut.

And they definitely didn’t know that if he ever let his emotions go unchecked and got too mad he could phase and hurt, possibly even accidentally kill, the people around him.

Yeonjun had known he had to take all that into consideration during every interaction he had with his human friends. But he had never really thought about what falling in love with one would mean for them.

Being a mate meant being part of his pack. His pack of very kind, albeit very dumb, brothers and their future mates. It meant always having to be tethered to them because Yeonjun was no matter how big in size it would get or how rocky a relationship the person would have with them.

Being a mate meant having to keep a secret, a huge one, from all friends and family outside of said pack in order to protect everyone. It meant his mate would have to watch everything they said to be sure they never let anything slip out.

And being a mate meant being put in dangerous, possibly even deadly, situations. It meant that his mate would have to always be on the look out for werewolf hunters trying to use them for leverage.

It meant they’d have to be conscious of rivaling or vengeful packs/rogue wolves who’d have a bone to pick with theirs for one reason or another. It meant they’d have to get wrapped up with other packs and their business because Yeonjun’s never turned others away when they needed help.

It even meant that he could hurt his mate himself if he wasn’t careful while phasing or using too much strength when their weaker human body couldn’t handle it.

Being linked to him meant being linked to a revolver with one bullet in the chamber randomly firing, you just never knew when it would go off. How could Yeonjun ever be okay with doing that to someone who never had a say in the matter to begin with because of the feelings they would catch due to his werewolf instincts?

“Jjun hyung,” Soobin’s voice suddenly broke through Yeonjun’s thoughts, “I need you to drive Hyuka to the library for his tutoring session today.”

He couldn’t help but pull his brow together in annoyance, “And why the fuck would I do that?”

Yeonjun couldn’t lie and say he meant for his question to come out as rude as it did. But he truthfully didn’t see why he needed to be the one to take him. Sure the pup of the pack couldn’t drive yet, but others in the pack had recently gotten their licenses and could take him.

“Because I’m in charge and because I’m asking you politely to do it,” Binnie spoke hurriedly as he shoved some books into his already overflowing bag, clearly rushing to leave the house for, what the eldest could only assume based on his polished appearance anyways, work.

Yeonjun didn’t really think that was a good enough answer. Why couldn’t Beomgyu take the younger boy? Or Taehyun? Why did it have to be him?

He drove a really nice motorcycle that, even though it could fit two people on it easily he didn’t like other people getting close to because they could scratch or dent it. Not to mention Hueningkai was absolutely terrified of riding it as he so lovingly pointed out when he deemed it a “coffin on two wheels.”

So Yeonjun let out a dry chuckle, “Nicely? Sounds more like a command if you ask me. Huening failing out of school is not my responsibility. Besides someone else will have to do it anyways because I have school myself sorry.”

While he knew that statement was a selfish thing to say, it was also true. If he could manage to get by in school with a hope and a prayer, why couldn’t the youngest of their little family learn to do it?

Even when other people did try to “help” him, they just made him feel even more stupid than he already knew his parents thought he was. So Yeonjun didn’t even fully see the point of the pup going to tutoring anyways. It was a waste of money in his eyes.

The alpha pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly agitated and over the fight he hadn’t even had with the eldest yet, “Jesus fuck Yeonjun-ah, I don’t have time for this. Tweedle dee and tweedle dumbass’s timing of their classes today won’t let them do it and i have work. We both know you’re just gonna blow your classes off today like you do nearly everyday so you can do it you just don’t want to.”

Soobin sighed jaggedly as he ran a hand through his messy hair in an attempt to steady his breathing, “But if that’s what it takes then yes, it’s a command then. Take his ass to his tutoring so he doesn’t fail out of school. I dont know about you but i don’t want his sisters to come and freak out on us for being bad influences on him again.”

Even though he heard muffled snickers coming from Taehyun and Beomgyu sitting nearby, all Yeonjun could do at that point was throw a harsh scowl Soobin’s way.

He couldn’t disobey an alphas order anymore than he could stop breathing. And he couldn’t necessarily say the alpha was wrong in saying he was just planning on not going to his classes today anyways. Sometimes he really hated being a werewolf.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me hyung!” Kai put his arm over the eldest’s shoulder with a squeeze, a cheshire grin happily plastered on his face.

“You know I hate you right?” Yeonjun growled as he got up to grab the keys to his motorcycle, much to the sudden mortification of the younger boy.

————

A whiff of old books and ancient dust seemed to flow through the air as the two boys stepped through the double door to their college’s library.

Yeonjun hated the smell, even if the smell today wasn’t as putrid as usual for some reason. It still smelled old and moldy like it normally did, just… less moldy and old than he had known it to be previously.

He hated the goodie goodie people sitting at their tables studying who no doubt thought they were better than him. Just because he wasn’t book smart and could barely scrape by in his classes didn’t mean they should have the right to judge him.

And he definitely hated having to be anywhere near the grouchy librarian who always told him he was too loud to be there. Why be quiet and tame and hide how he felt when everyone else got to do what they wanted to all the time anyways?

“You just had to flunk calculus didn’t you?” Yeonjun rhetorically asked his brother under his breath, his nose automatically scrunching up at the foreign aromas around him, slightly catching a whiff of someone’s delicious smelling cherry perfume that almost had him forgetting why he was there in the first place. Almost.

But Huening paid him no mind to the sulky boy as his eyes began to scan the rather large and echoey room for his rather small and quiet tutor.

The eldest knew that Hyuka had been doing sessions with you for a little over three months now and he’d say they had paid off substantially, his calculus grade went from a failing D to an above average B. Which was something none of his brothers had managed to help him do.

So, as annoyed as he was at his alpha for forcing him to take him to school, Yeonjun tried not to be too annoyed with the pup. At least he was putting in effort on something for once.

But that didn’t mean he had to like the place you two did your study sessions. It was literally the most cliche and depressing place ever.

“There she is!” Hueningkai practically squealed, his high pitched voice causing you to look up from the book that was in front of you at your table with a small, though obviously very shocked, smile.

While Kai was just happy rambling about what they were going to work on that day and why the session would take so long as he was getting tutored by someone he considered a friend, Yeonjun was in his own little world.

From the moment his eyes turned to you as you looked up to shyly greet his younger brother from afar, everything else around him faded away.

All the students mumbling around him were tuned out when he quickly realized the sweet cherry smell hanging in the air was linked to you.

All the sounds of chairs being pushed in and out from the tables scattered about went mute as your beautiful curls residually bounced from moving your head to look up.

All the passerbyers around you practically floated out of his line of sight as your dimpled smile radiated a warmth bright enough to reach even the coldest person in the room.

Before his current interaction with you, Yeonjun had only heard about you from his younger brother’s constant babbling about his new tutor friend. Soobin, Taehyun, or Beomgyu had always been the one to drop him off because the eldest never wanted to and was never home.

He never cared enough about something so trivial to listen to Kai’s mentions of you, which was something he was regretting in the present.

He didn’t remember much, but what did manage to sneak it’s way into his brain made sense. He had once told Yeonjun something about you being a foreigner. You definitely didn’t look as Korean as the people around you, yet you still managed to outshine every single person in the building by a landslide.

The younger boy had once spoken about how shy you were and, based on how your cheeks lit up with hues of pink and red once you saw that Kai hadn’t come alone, he guessed his assessment of you was correct.

Huening had also said something about you being very polished and conservative in appearance. Which was something exuded in your outfit choice: a pastel yellow cardigan that brought out the glow in your ebony skin and an olive green under vest that fit your rather curvy body perfectly.

And from what Yeonjun could see just under the open library table, you had a pleated skirt composed of similar colors and white laced tights that matched your headband.

To say you were the most gorgeous person the elder boy had ever seen was an understatement. All he wanted to do was go over, pull you up from your chair, and kiss your glossed lips until you both ran out of breath.

Sure it would be a little difficult to maneuver, Yeonjun could tell by referencing the size of everything around you that you were quite a bit shorter than him, probably by a lot actually. But he would still be able to lift you with ease.

In fact, you would probably be just the right size for him to be able to wrap your legs around his waist and walk around comfortably. Which would mean that walking you over to the nearest lockable room wouldn’t be a probl-

But before he could finish his line of thinking, you lifted your delicate hand in the air to signal Kai to come over to you and suddenly the panic of the situation truly set in, causing Yeonjun to react on instinct.

Heart nearly pounding out of his chest from the shock of having seen you, he quickly threw himself to the side of the nearest bookcase to hide himself from your view. Much to the confusion of his younger brother who dutifully followed suite in order to see what was going on.

“Yeonjun-ah,” Kai hesitantly spoke to get the elder boy’s attention, “Is everything okay?”

No, nothing was okay. Five seconds ago his life was great. Five seconds ago he was Yeonjun, the guy who smoked nearly a pack a day. Five seconds ago he was Yeonjun, the guy who always had a drink in his hand to take the edge off.

Five seconds ago he was Yeonjun, party boy who slept with whoever he wanted whenever he wanted without a care in the world. Five seconds ago he was Yeonjun, a normal human being.

Now he was Yeonjun, the werewolf whose senses were going into hyperdrive over some girl he had only seen once for half a second.

“T-That girl’s your tutor?” The elder boy asked as he worked on catching his breath, deeply gulping back a crack he knew his voice was desperate to let out.

Huening tilted his head in confusion and gripped the strap of the bag that was thrown over his shoulder a little tighter in discomfort, “Yeah… that’s ____… why…?”

Scanning the pup’s expression, Yeonjun could tell he was getting suspicious of what was going on. He knew the second the youngest understood what was going on he’d run an tell everyone in the pack.

After that there’d be no going back. After that everything would change. But he couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t lose what little life he had found for himself. He couldn’t let go of the few things he had left to make him happy. And he couldn’t get you caught up in a mess that he had created, not when he finally saw you. Not when he could tell you were a happy sweet innocent person who deserved a hell of a lot better than he could give you.

Yeonjun knew he’d have to respond to his brother in a matter of seconds. He knew he was acting weird and that the youngest would come to his own conclusions.

But he still had one hope: no one else in the pack had gone through it yet, so no one knew 100% what the signs really were in real life. They only heard second hand accounts from their friends in other packs. So there was still a chance he could hide it. You still had a chance.

“No- No reason,” Yeonjun did his best to pull himself together and recreate his shattered normal cool guy persona, even though his heart was still in his throat and it was causing him to become light headed, “Just wondering. That’s all. What time do you need picked up?”

While Kai didn’t seem to buy his answer fully. Probably because he could physically hear his brother’s pulse racing.

But he at least let it go soon enough when he heard you softly call his name, “I need a ride back at 4. I gotta go, thanks for the ride hyung!”

With that, the pup went off in a hurry to meet you at your table, giving you a quick hug and placing his things on the table for you to get your session started.

And while Yeonjun’s immediate instinct to his internal decision to stay away from you was to need to whimper at your close proximity, he shakily began to walk to the library’s exit so he could get back to his bike.

It felt like his heart was crushing in two. It felt like his world was crumbling around him. It felt like he was slipping away and that the only thing that could bring him back to earth was you. But he refused.

As he sped off on his motorcycle at full speed, tears began to slide down his face. He made a promise to himself and to you to keep you away from him, no matter how much it hurt. It was better for everyone that way.

He wasn’t meant to be in relationships. He wasn’t meant to love people unconditionally. He couldn’t, he had no frame of reference to even mimic to show you he was willing to try.

He couldn’t be a boyfriend, he physically didn’t know how to be one. And he wasn’t about to force you to teach him while also putting you in mortal danger because of his pack.

Yeonjun wondered if he should’ve felt bad for taking the choice away from you. After all, that’s why he hated the idea of mating in the first place.

But nobody should have to make that choice. Nobody should have to choose between a quiet life with someone you could never love right and a dangerous life that may be cut short because of someone you love madly. Nobody should have to feel guilty for unintentionally killing someone if they rejected them. Nobody should have to be put through it, least of all you.

You’d be safer and happier this way. And he could continue on living for his pack because you wouldn’t have verbally denied him.

He didn’t like the idea of mates and what they stood for. He hated that they took away free will. But as cheesy as it sounded, seeing you for the first time changed everything he felt earlier in the day.

He saw you and he immediately wanted to stop partying. He saw you and would’ve instantly quit smoking and drinking if that’s what you wanted. He saw you and felt the need to send out messages to all his fuckbuddies letting them know it was over between them.

Because all he could think about was the future he could have with you. The stereotypical one people always referenced with the nice big house with a white picket fence he would’ve helped put up himself.

One where you two had a stupidly expensive wedding where you looked beautiful walking down the aisle toward him.

A future where you had normal human jobs you came home from at the end of the day and complained to each other about while making dinner.

A life where you had two kids: a boy who looked and unfortunately acted just like himself and a girl that luckily looked and acted just like you.

Now that he had met you, he wanted you to be together. He wanted you to be his mate, to be his. He was fine with his free will being taken away if it meant he was able to spend a lifetime with you. But he couldn’t put you through that.

And driving away from you when he could’ve just gone to introduce himself to you and ask you out was single handedly the hardest thing he had ever done. And his life was only gonna get harder.

(Edited 2/5/2024)

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enevera · 1 year

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every. every single time i think ‘oh me’ about a post only to scroll down and find it’s been tagged as geto i suffer intense psychic damage like. why would you say that? why would you set me up this way?? unsuspecting person, what have i done to you that would make you hate me so??? i dont want to be geto his life sucked ass

#this isnt even abt anything im just talking rn

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twopoppies · 3 years

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Having eaten my fair share of ass over the years I can safely say that they taste surprisingly SWEET. I won't go into the exact science of it, have a google if you want, but basically the reason for this is that Artificial sweeteners are unable to be digested in the body and so remain in the same form and with the same flavour when they are emitted. Pussy never tastes 'sweet', asses almost always do.

My point being, and I swear to God there IS a point hahaha ok- Watermelon Sugar is about eating Ass. Not Pussy.

hjdflkjhdfkjs WTF? This is the funniest message I've ever received.

#watermelon sugar #yes i'm tagging it in the hopes that some #unsuspecting person scrolls the tag and finds this #we know too much #eating ass anon #watermelon sugar is about eating ass

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glaucus22 · 3 years

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i can’t be the only one who finds it hilarious when you’re scrolling through a tag that’s been taken over by undertale content (*cough* bonely hearts club *cough*) and amongst the mass of skeletons is a poor unsuspecting person trynna do their own thing

#but like #does nobody else check the tags before they post??#cuz just imagine having no knowledge of undertale and stumbling across a tag full of people simping over fictional skeletons

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afni-fics · 3 years

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Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 8: The Bandit Tower

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 8: The Bandit Tower by C_R_Scott Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read Summary:

In the pre-dawn hours, Tim and Lucien begin their journey to Bleak Falls Barrows. Along the way, they come upon an old abandoned watchtower...

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

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About an hour before sunrise. Tim left Gerdur's home without waking its occupants and went to wait for Lucien on the bridge that lead out of town towards the mountains. He nibbled on some bread and cheese as he listened to the sound of the water rushing over the rocks underneath him. It was a calming sound that soothed his jangled nerves somewhat, and also helped distract him just a little from the fact that he had no access to coffee.

Now that several days had passed since first waking up on that road to Helgen, his body had acclimated enough to remind him, at that god-awful pre-dawn hour, oh by-the-way aren't we addicted to caffeine and why haven't you gotten your fix yet?! Unfortunately, far as he could find from both the inns in Riverwood and in Whiterun, coffee just didn't exist in Skyrim. Apparently Nords just woke up and powered through mornings like Kryptonians.

On top of the growing headache behind his eyes that always signaled the first miserable sign of caffiene withdrawl, Tim was also coping with the lingering pain from his burns. Though he'd used the balm and re-wrapped his torso, upper left arm, and shoulder in linen bandages, the ache of the burn had made it nearly impossible to sleep, especially since he couldn't reach the entire burn area on his back. There were areas he just couldn't get to on his own, and he hadn't wanted to ask for help from anyone else.

So he was sore, tired, and feeling irritable at hell. If it weren't for the weight of the three hundred gold coins resting in pouch at his waist, he would've seriously considered leaving Lucien behind to spare him the pain of dealing with his foul mood. The poor museum man just didn't deserve that.

"I'm going to step out on a limb and guess you are not typically a morning person."

Tim glanced toward the voice and scanned Lucien carefully. While the man had professed not to be much of a fighter, at least he had the sense to know how to dress for the climate they were about to travel into. He appeared to be wearing multiple, sensible layers of clothing meant to keep him warm underneath a long robe that was trimmed with intricate embroidery and had a hood that was already drawn over his head. Above that he wore long fur cloak that settled upon his shoulders and down his back. The man also had a backpack that was probably filled with his research gear, a small oil lantern that was clipped to one side of his belt, and a sheathed sword strapped to the other side.

Tim smiled wryly. "I've always been more of a night owl," he said, hoping belatedly that owls were actually a bird that existed in this place.

Apparently they were as Lucien gave him a sympathetic look. "I understand completely. Used to be the same way when I entered university a few years back. Here." The scholar reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a leather waterskin.

Tim took the waterskin and noticed it felt warm. He gave Lucien a quizzical look.

"It's a blend of tea I concocted to help with these kinds of mornings. Brewed some up and made enough for both of us. I figured it was the least I could do for surprising you last night with 'extra baggage' for your trip to the Barrows." Lucien urged Tim to try it.

Curiously, Tim did take sip. It definitely wasn't coffee, but as far as teas went it wasn't that bad. There was definitely a strong herbal quality to it, though Tim couldn't even begin to identify what it could be from. There was also a slight smokiness to the flavor as well, as if there was some sort of roasted grain mixed in. But most important of all, whatever was in it was taking the edge off his caffeine withdrawl symptoms.

"Thanks Lucien. I really needed that," he said after a moment.

"Wonderful! Shall we be off then?"

***

When the pair of them left Riverwood, though the sun hadn't risen yet the sky was clear. Unfortunately, the further up the mountain they went towards the Barrows, the worse the weather got. First there was fog. Then there was snow. Tim had shrugged his own fur cloak into a better position to cover more of his body. A glance backward confirmed Lucien had done the same. It was clear neither of them were acclimated to this kind of weather, not like the local Nords.

"How long do you think it will take to reach the Barrow?" Lucien asked as he paused to warm his hands over his small oil lantern.

Tim made a mental note to purchase a lantern the next time he saw one at a general store. "Gerdur said that once we reach the abandoned tower, we should be about halfway there."

They continued their trek up the barely there path for about an hour. The snow and the fog made it hard to see more than a few yards far in front of them. For awhile there, Tim wondered if perhaps they had missed seeing the abandoned tower at all.

As their path began to level off where the mountain began to naturally plateau Tim could finally see it. There was an old stone watchtower set right at the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the valley below.

"Finally," Lucien said as he caught sight of the tower as well. "Let's stop there for a bit of a rest before going up the rest of the way."

Tim almost agreed with him, but then he noticed movement around the base of the tower. "Wait!" he said as he reached out to snag Lucien by the cloak and dragged him behind a large pile of rocks.

"What's wron--" Lucien started to ask, but was startled by the expression on his companion's face. Tim's face was a mask of deadly serious focus as he stared at the tower from behind the cover of the rocks.

"There are people at the tower. At least two."

Lucien peeked over the top of the rocks, eyes squinting as he tried to see through the fog and snow. "They must be the bandits that have taken root in this area. But are you sure about the number? I can barely see the outline of the tower through all this mist, let alone any people." When he didn't get an answer, Lucien glanced to his side. "Timothy?"

Much to his surprise, he was all alone except for Tim's footprints winding around the rocks in the snow.

***

Tim stealthily moved closer to the tower by slinking from cover to cover. He hoped Lucien would take the unspoken hint and stay behind until he was done.

This... felt good. Hiding in shadows. Keeping a civilian safe. Creeping up on goons/bandits while he plotted their inevitable takedown. Finally, for the first time since arriving in Skyrim, Tim felt like himself.

From where he sat, he could see that there was just a change in the guard. One who had been standing at a post a few yards from the tower entrance was swapped by another who'd walked out from it. Tim counted his lucky stars. It was this movement that had caught his attention earlier. Due to the weather, if it had just been the guard standing there, he might not have caught sight of him until it was too late.

Once the other guard disappeared into the tower, leaving his partner alone, Tim made his move.

The solid THUNK of the steel dagger embedding itself in the trunk of the tree he'd been leaning on immediately caught the attention of the bandit guard, startling him from his attempt to stay warm at his post.

"What the--?!" he exclaimed as he whipped his head to the left and saw the dagger vibrating mere inches from his nose. Then the sound of rustling in a nearby set of bushes, and the sight of the snow-laden branches jostling around immediately caught his eye. It looked as if there was a shadow hunched behind it. With a growl, the guard immediately drew his sword and rushed the bushes, prepared to slice open whoever had thrown the dagger. However, he ended up choking on his warcry as he saw that there was nothing but a backpack sitting in the snow. "Huh?"

Tim smirked as he crept out from behind a large boulder, his quarterstaff a comfortable weight in his hands as he prepared to swing it at his unsuspecting target.

***

The sound of a body falling to the ground with a muffled groan after a series of suspicious thudding noises caught the attention of the original guard as she poked her head out of the tower's entrance. This one drew her bow and nocked an arrow immediately upon seeing that their compatriot was not where he was supposed to be. Cautiously, she walked across the bridge that led to the mountainside. Then she saw the body of the other guard.

"Skialg!" she called out with alarm. Caution thrown to the wind, she rushed forward to check on him, though, she never saw the staff that jutted out in front of her feet, tripping her into the snow.

The moment the bow was out of her hands, Tim stepped out and kicked it well out of reach. The female Nord bandit looked up to find a wooden staff pointed ominously at her face. Her eyes widened in horror.

"You've got two choices," Tim said with a dark smirk and a low tone. "You can either jog down the mountain and never come back, or you can end up like your friend there, taking a nap in the snow. Which would you prefer?"

Tim was ready for a counterattack, and was mildly surprised when it never came. He was expecting anger and retaliation. Instead, there appeared to be genuine terror on the woman's face as she nervously scrambled to her feet and booked it down the mountain path, racing past Lucien without a second though even though she could clearly see him.

As soon as she was out of sight, Tim relaxed and rested his staff on his shoulder. "Well that was disappointing," he said as Lucien walked up to him. Though the sky was still overcast, somewhere beyond the clouds the sun had risen and had lightened up their surroundings considerably. "Are bandits around here always so skittish?"

"Well how would you feel if you had a mage's staff aimed at your face?" Lucien said with a disapproving frown. "Honestly, Timothy! A Fire Blast or Sparks or Frostbite at point-blank range like that would have been completely excessive and resulted in backlash on you as well as your target. Who taught you how to use a staff with such bad form anyways?"

"Mage's staff?" Tim looked at Lucien with confusion.

Lucien noticed the odd look Tim gave him, then motioned for TIm to give him the staff. Without protest, Tim handed it over. After a moment, it was the scholar's turn to look confused. "Wait... Is this... Just a stick?"

"Actually, it's a quarterstaff."

"But... Wait, so you don't use magic at all?"

"No."

"But you carry staff."

"Yes."

"That has no magic whatsoever."

"I guess not? Wasn't expecting it to when I bought it."

"But... What do you do with this, if not to cast spells?"

Tim blinked at him, then rubbed the back of his neck. "I just... well... hit people with it?"

Lucien gaped at him. "And, that works?"

Tim pointed at the other bandit that was still unconscious.

"Mara's mercy! Did you actually kill that bandit with a stick?!" Lucien went over and poked the bandit with Tim's quarterstaff experimentally

Tim sighed. "No, he's not dead. Just unconscious. He'll be out for hours, and we'll be long gone by then."

Lucien straightened up with a contemplative expression on his face. "So... your entire plan to get us past the bandits on our way to the Barrow was to sneak up on your own, with just a stick, to bludgeon a pair of bandits into Oblivion, but not really because you had no intention of actually killing them?"

"Yeah. Pretty much," Tim remarked as he went back to the original guard's tree. He tugged the dagger out of its bark and then went to retrieve his backpack from where he'd thrown it earlier. "Maybe it doesn't make sense to you, but even if they're bandits and on the wrong side of the law, they're still people with lives and possibly even families. To end their lives so casually, as if they were worth nothing at all..." He sighed as he closed up his pack. "It's just... not the way I was raised. Ending another human life should never be an option if there are other solutions available."

When Tim looked at Lucien again, he found the scholar studying him in a way that made him feel a little uncomfortable, like he was a puzzle needing to be solved. "That's a very noble sentiment. Truly in the spirit of Stendarr himself," Lucien finally said as he handed the quarterstaff back to Tim. "Hopefully it won't get you killed one day. Tamriel could use more people who thought like you do, though I doubt the bandits on the road will show us the same mercy."

Tim gave Lucien a weak smile. "Hopefully," he echoed. Then he motioned for Lucien to wait as he took a few minutes to drag the still unconscious bandit back into the tower. When Tim came back out to continue his journey with Lucien to the Barrows, he shrugged his shoulders at the odd look the scholar gave him. "What? It wouldn't be much better if I left him out in the open to die of exposure or to be eaten by a wolf."

Lucien laughed as he walked alongside Tim once more up the mountainside. "Somewhere up in the shrubbery there's a starving wolf that's sure to be cursing your name right now."

"Well lucky for me, I've got a big stick."

-------------------------

Author Note: This is being pantsed more than plotted, and this is not beta read. We'll see where this journey takes us. Mostly I'm just doing this for my own amusement.

Note: If you have any questions about the playthrough and Tim's feelings/experiences that aren't described in the chapters, please ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to answer your questions as best I can.

#elder scrolls dc #skyrim fanfiction #tes 5 skyrim #tim drake #red robin #batfam fanfic #wip #afewnovelideas #crossover

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joddit-y · 5 years

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Gabriel and Beelzebub's Divintively Terrible Plan (a Good Omens fanfiction)

if you’d rather read it A03, click here

chapter one is here, two is here, four is here

WARNING: IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY ANXIETY/PANIC ATTACKS, READ WITH CAUTION

CHAPTER THREE

Aziraphale was a bit worried about his friend. Logically speaking, there wasn’t anything wrong with him- the apocalypse had been called off, Adam had put reality back on its feet, their respective head offices weren’t calling for their heads. And yet, the angel couldn’t help but feel the demon was acting strange. He had called on Aziraphale several times per week during the months that followed the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, and although Aziraphale found this to be a rather pleasant surprise (he initiated many of their days together now as well), he’d begun to notice a significant trend in Crowley’s increasingly regular visits. That being, he didn’t. Crowley seemed determined to avoid the bookshop at all costs.

If Aziraphale invited him over, he’d make a counter offer or abruptly cancel and reschedule at a different location. As a result Aziraphale was becoming better acquainted with his best friend’s flat, but he was beginning to worry if the demon simply did not like the bookshop anymore. But, he supposed, it was irrelevant. The time spent with Crowley is what mattered.

Sighing into the musty air, Aziraphale gently closed Agnes Nutter’s book of Nice and Accurate Prophecies (He’d had to beg Adam to let him keep a copy without stealing Anathema’s). He’d taken great delight in deciphering her already proven accurate predictions, it was like playing some grand game of connect the dots- he’d had a good laugh with Crowley over her instructions regarding Betamax.

But there was no point in worrying over something if you weren’t going to do anything about, he decided. Removing his gloves, he scootched the chair back and picked his way over several small stacks of books littering the floors (not that he particularly condoned a dishevelled shop, but it had served rather well as a customer deterrent in the past- twisted ankles were something no one enjoyed) to the telephone. Well, it was actually his new “flip phone” that Crowley had coaxed him into buying. Said owning a rotary phone was an affront to human innovation, and that the least he could do to keep up with the times would be getting an upgrade. His demonic friend had been pushing a smartphone, but Aziraphale met him halfway with a Nokia flip phone. He hadn’t been too fond of it originally- still didn’t like the idea that Crowley may have been right about the usefulness of modern technology, but the little contraption (“Little?! It’s a brick with a price tag!” Crowley had exclaimed at that remark. He’d been torn between hating the flip phone and grateful that Aziraphale finally had a mobile) had grown on him. It really was quite handy for taking calls, and although texting took him an inordinate amount of time, he did enjoy righteously snapping the lid shut when he wished to hang up on someone with flair.

Scrolling through his contacts to Crowley’s name, he paused. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. If he pushed Crowley too far...no, Crowley is a demon and of strong character, this wouldn’t cause problems. It wouldn’t. As his phone dialed a loud and annoying tune, he noticed vaguely that in stories whenever a character has to reassure themselves that their course of action was right, it never was.

Unfortunately this thought had been drowned out by the first few seconds of a voicemail message, interrupted by the sleepy sounds of his friend waking himself up.

“Ngh...hey ‘ziraphale, what’ss up?” he mumbled, a drowsy hiss escaping his defences.

“Crowley! Ah, good morning dear boy, I hope I didn’t wake you?” He stuttered, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of something to say before calling.

“Nah, you’re fine. I mean, you did. But it’ss fine…” Crowley said, dangerously close to falling back asleep.

“Well, I was wondering if you would like to have a drink this evening?” He began, his mind desperately scrabbling for plausible reasoning for his next query almost audible.

Crowley seemed to perk up at that.

“Yeah, sure, sounds great. So- so, the Ritz? My place?”

Aziraphale rubbed a manicured nail anxiously.

“Ah, well, see, I was thinking. And I thought that since I...have something to show you here at the bookshop, why don’t you just meet me here, I can show you that, ah, thing , and then we can indulge ourselves afterwards?”

Silence from the other end of the line.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. He had to convince Crowley that it was necessary he come or he might never find out why he was avoiding their old haunt.

“I, erm, well- I’ll be frank with you my dear, I received something recently that is unexpectedly demonic, it can’t be moved outside the shop, and I require your assistance in managing it.”

It is important to know at the point that Aziraphale hadn’t manipulated his best friend completely. He actually had received a mysterious package that radiated demonic energy. So he had no choice but to open it at some point, it’s not like he could give it to a human, it could be dangerous (besides, the box was rather large and was taking up far too much space in the shop to be ignored).

“-It’s just. Well. Crowley, I need your help with this, and I was really hoping you’d be willing.” he babbled. He hoped his friend would cooperate.

“...Yea, uh if you really need me at the shop, than I can..I can do that.”

The angel sighed in relief, a hand fluttering to his chest.

“Oh, oh thank you, dear boy, that’s really very--”

He would have kept talking if not for the telltale shrill from his phone that Crowley had hung up on him. A white eyebrow arched.

Strange behaviour indeed.

~~~

The sun was setting, evening had fallen. Washed out pink and gold streaks coloured the darkening sky, the few puffy clouds that were still dithering overhead hastened over the hills like obedient sheep called by their shepherd. London was calm, street lights becoming visible and casting a warm yellow glow over the roads. The atmosphere was serene, a perfect night to enjoy a glass (or several) of fine alcohol with a loved one. Yet the demon Crowley wasn’t picking up on this. He was sitting in his Bentley, white knuckling the wheel, staring doggedly at the dash as if it had compared his fashion sense to Aziraphale’s. The car was not moving. Crowley had slumped into the leather seat near ten minutes ago and hadn’t done anything since. He was waiting. Waiting, to not fear dread seeing the bookshop again. He wouldn’t admit it, but the demon hadn’t dealt with all the... feelings the fire gave him. It was almost like he was afraid to go back to the scene of the crime.

He’d considered dropping by the shop several times before, but had never gone through with it, always swerving into some back alley (or on one memorable occasion, a window- the Bentley’s to be precise) to avoid it. Het let out a growly sigh, removed his sunglasses, stared at the ceiling, reconsidered his last course of action and put the glasses on again, and finally willed the ever patient car into life.

Contrary to popular belief, the Bentley had been getting fed up with its driver’s antics and had been about thirty seconds away from kicking its engine into gear and driving him there itself.

Thankfully the stalling demon got his act together before that happened and remained blissfully unaware of his automobile’s opinions.

Crowley didn’t think about much while on the road. He simply focused on the fact that he would be helping Aziraphale and as a plus, consuming a concerning amount of alcohol. And that was enough for him. Except for the one occasion when it wasn’t and he regretted everything, letting loose a string of curse words screamed at the top of his lungs.

Soon enough he was pulling into the parking space on the corner of the shop, and the majority of his anxiety had been dealt with.

Spoiler alert, it hadn’t. Crowley just happens to be rather good at lying to himself. (Which is also a lie. Or is it?)

In the blink of a golden eye, Crowley was standing before the wooden door once again. But the major difference was that it was not burning to charcoal before him, and he did his best to remind himself of that fact. Rapping politely, his gaze drifted towards Aziraphale’s unnecessarily convoluted sign regarding his store’s hours, snorting under his breath at the ridiculous measures his angel took to keep out customers.

Wait.

Crowley was a demon . Demons did not “rapp politely.” Demons were rude and did what they wanted, and Crowley liked to consider himself somewhat of an unsavoury character- working for Hell or not, he had a reputation to uphold. So the obvious thing to do would be to barge in on whatever the angel was doing in a rather insensitive manner. But Crowley didn’t want to do that. He’d rather put off going into the shop for as long as possible, as he’d made quite clear over the past months. The serpentine demon decided a compromise would have to do, banging out a thundering rhythm on the poor abused tree the moment Aziraphale decided to open the door.

Crowley, nearly whacking the unsuspecting shopkeep soundly on the nose, retracted his fist quickly and arranged his face in an expression of vague distaste. Aziraphale blinked, a hand shooting up belatedly to protect his face. He chuckled lightly, chapped lips quirking upwards at the sight before him. Hands shoved into his pockets, eyes unreadable through dark shades, was his best friend Crowley. A mumbled sort of apology escaped his sharp tongue, seemingly without the consent of its master.

“Well do come in, dear boy, that box isn’t going to open itself.” Aziraphale said warmly, beckoning the demon inside.

His shoulders tensed as he strutted into the cluttered space. Everything seemed perfectly fine, he could even smell a whiff of cocoa in the air. He supposed the box was the thing that couldn’t leave the shop and required Crowley’s personal assistance-

Now that he thought about it, that sounded like-

“Angel, did you make up that whole box thing just to get me in the shop?” he questioned.

“Why would I need to, unless you’ve been avoiding it?” Aziraphale responded, an innocent look on his face.

Sneaky angel, Crowley thought. Kinda endearing.

...No, he amended.

The angel gave a little half-smile and clapped his hands. “So! Recently I was delivered an anonymous package, see that large crate over there-?” he pointed out the conspicuous looking wooden crate occupying a back corner of the book shop. It had an aura, almost like it was...wait. Crowley sniffed. He’d been shoving his more unappealing emotions into a hole for the past few minutes, but now there was something... in the air- acrid, smoky,

b u r n i n g

A flicker of red orange light appeared out of the corner of his eye. No, no no, this could not be happening again Aziraphale was too careful and oh god someone his angel was still here , he might not be so lucky again--

“...so you see the problem is the demonic aura this beastie is emanating, I really think that you would be more suited to…”

--his heart was beating wildly in his chest, it usually didn’t beat at all--

Crowley whirled around to beat out the flames -- he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck--

Only to find that there was nothing? Nothing, just nothing, that couldn’t be right -- short, erratic breaths pushed themselves out, desperate for air he didn’t need-- He frowned, somewhat aware of the plump man in his peripherals calling after him confusedly.

“Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t seem to hear him, fidgeting and glaring at a spot by his desk.

--he could smell smoke, it didn’t make sense it DIDN’T MAKE SENSE--

Aziraphale approached his friend. He’d never seen him like this, he didn’t seem quite well, chest almost heaving as he stood stock still.

“Crowley are you alright, you’re starting to worry me!” He exclaimed, and laid a gentle hand on the suited shoulder. Crowley started, blinking rapidly behind his glasses and jerkily maneuvering himself away from the angel’s touch. Now that was definitely odd, Crowley never had a problem with contact- several occasions where Crowley had draped himself over Aziraphale when he was hungover attest to that.

“Dear boy, do tell me what’s wrong.” He worried insistently.

Crowley smiled awkwardly and suggested they take the box outside in case whatever was inside damaged his precious books. Aziraphale considered this to actually be a sound idea, but one look at the wheezing demon practically wringing his hands beside him made his mind up for him.

“That sounds like a fantastic idea my dear, why don’t we go, ah, scope out a good place for it first hm?” He said soothingly, guiding his friend towards the back door.

Crowley felt the cool night air like a slap to the face. It was all hitting him now.

Tears streaming down his face, eyes burning-

aziraphale-

smoke pooling in his lungs, burning him from the inside, scorching heat charring everything he loved to cinders-

he’s gone, gone-

the roar of the flames hammered in his eardrums, the sickening sounds of home crumbling to ash behind him-

AZIRAPHALE HE’S DEAD-

he couldn’t see couldn’t breathe couldn’t t h i n k

SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND

~thanks for reading!~

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #amnesia fic #my writing #my fanfiction #anxiety #panic attack

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idealistic-realism00 · 6 years

Note

Playing the race card is such a nigger move IDGAIF what you say. Your the bully you ulgy SNAPe apologist!

I normally don’t respond to the asks I receive where people use slurs. Usually, I’ll either delete them or I’ll take a snapshot and put them behind a read more so no unsuspecting person who happens to be scrolling down their dash and have the unpleasant shock of coming across them. I may not have a choice in the matter but in the very least the people who follow me don’t have to be subjected to it without some warning.

So, I’d like to apologise to any of my followers if you see this one before I can properly tag it for triggers but I just felt I needed to respond to this person so everyone who does choose to do so can see what example they set. Because you’ve all but proven my point, anon.

You’ve crossed over from any possible line where you might be able to say you are the victim in this situation and you did so the very moment you decided that the appropriate response for expressing your feelings about other people’s views of a fictional character would be to harass them this way. You’re not the victim, you’re the one who is now victimising people with your cyber-bullying. You’re also certainly no higher moral party in this scenario nor are you what any reasonable person could say would be an advocate.

Anon, you’ve crossed into the territory of being a deliberate bully and one who uses racist language at that. At this point, even if your reasons for this behaviour are that you find a fictional character to be very triggering that still cannot excuse your decisions here even if you may feel that they do provide you with a good reason for why you’ve behaved so abysmally. You appear to have seen where I came to the defense of a very good friend who was being cyber-bullied (whether or not that was you or you happen to be a different anon is unclear to me) and you chose to send me this ask accusing me of “playing the race card” and calling me a very ugly racial slur.

Now, perhaps you come from a family or a group of friends where those slurs are in frequent use and perhaps you are now telling yourself that you’re not really racist or you didn’t mean to say what you said you just reacted to the stress of your triggers. Maybe that even is the case and I should allow you the possibility of your mistakes but you do realise that you’ve just invalidated one of your biggest reasons for accusing people like me of being racist/Nazi apologists for blogging about Snape do you not?

Why is it acceptable for you to send real people messages like this, using very real racial slurs, but if anyone blogs about a fictional character like Snape and dares to do more than insist on their moral outrage and hatred of his irredeemability then they must be writ off as apologists for terrible things? Tell me anon, why should you be allowed your triggers, your emotions, your mistakes, and the benefit of the doubt when your very moral platform is one of zero tolerance and zero understanding for anyone else?

How is it that you can reconcile the idea that you’re reason/excuse for behaving this way is because you’re against fictional examples of what you perceive as bullying, abuse, racism, prejudice or anything else you may find unsavory yet you are essentially going to real people and falling into non-fictional behaviours of bullying and racism? Are you really so certain your end justifies your means?

Because as a person and as a mental health professional I would personally tell you that your opinions about a fictional character’s behaviour should never be cause for harming a living, breathing person the way you’re attempting to do and that you cannot have it both ways. You cannot argue that people are basically irredeemable for making certain choices in their lives and that we cannot allow for understanding or even the possibility of change or evolution, that our mistakes and our sins must essentially define us for the entirety of our lives and then proceed to do horrible things and expect that you can be excused for them or that you are some exception to your rule that is more deserving of forgiveness because your reasons are somehow more true, pure, or just.

It’s one or the other. It cannot be a rule for other people that you refuse to hold yourself to and if you’re finding it difficult to do so then perhaps you should reevaluate your standards and ask yourself if you’re not setting them too impossibly high. We’ve all our crosses to bare and while certainly there are people who may do terrible things and never choose differently we also need to take the pressure off ourselves and open the door for more forgiveness, understanding, and growth where those things are possible.

That is the only way we’re ever going to reach our full potential as human beings and that is the very purpose of social activism. It is not to wage war on people and to other them, it is to combat the harmful ideas and ideologies that some people may have and strive to replace them with better ones that promote inclusivity and allow for diversity and acceptance. As a Black and queer woman, my goal is to make a better world for my daughter and do my very best to try to see that the world she grows in will grow with her. My hope is that someday we have a world where she’ll never have face the pain of having slurs like the one you attacked me with used against her.

Tell me anon, what kind of world do you hope for? What world would you most like to see? One that can justify the sort of behaviours you’ve demonstrated and shuns all allowance of forgiveness, understanding, or tolerance? One that shuns empathy? One of fear and that imposes impossible standards of human behaviour through malicious bullying tactics and othering? Or would you much rather hope for a world where we open the door for the personal growth and search for the goodness in people and insist upon the innate quality of goodness in ourselves and others?

Be the change you want to see anon, and please do consider if your actions are reflective of that change or if what you’re promoting isn’t just more hatred, intolerance, and negativity in a world that none of us could ever properly be happy in. Just a few thoughts for you to consider and I truly hope that you will.

#n-word slur: cw #racism: tw

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livingthroughchoices-blog · 6 years

Text

The Marshmallow Chronicles (Ch. 16: The Beaumont Bash) *NSFW*

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Author’s notes: Right. So I am SUPER nervous about this chapter bc it’s the most different and the one I’ve added the most stuff to so far. I really hope you like it omg. It’s also the longest yet. As always, I’m deeply sorry if you have to scroll through this on the app, but as of now, there’s nothing I can do about it /:

Thanks to all who like, reblog and/or comment, you guys keep me going! And especially to @starstruckzonkoperatorbat, @notoriouscs, @simplyaiden-blog, @snyggflicka, @asprankle, @speedyoperarascalparty, @mirivalencia, @mymandrake, @asobigokoro2018, @krisnicjack and @fabi-en-ciel for asking me to tag them! Please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged (:

I love you and I reaaally hope this is okay.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mention of depression, suicide.

Rating: NSFW

Pairing: Drake x MC

Words: 8,059

As he got ready for the Beaumont Bash, Drake was aware of feeling an aching thirst for alcohol. He figured getting wasted was his best chance at surviving the unbearable sight of Liam and Riley together and might even stop him from thinking about her all night.

With this in mind, he poured himself a glass of the unopened bottle of whiskey Liam had given him for his birthday. He swallowed with savage pleasure, as if Liam could know he was ignoring his request to share it with friends.

He debated whether to pour himself a second glass, then decided against it; he’d been to enough Beaumont parties to know this would be a long night. He should pace himself.

Having thrown his usual outfit on, he barely glanced at the mirror, not really caring much at all about his appearance tonight.

It’s not like anyone will be looking.

He trudged down to the ballroom, only to find Lady Kiara at the foot of the stairs. In his current mood, he gladly would have avoided her, but it was unfortunately the only way down.

Nevertheless, he tried to keep their meeting short and discourage conversation by saying, “Lady Kiara,” as curtly as possible and not stopping.

He wasn’t fast enough, though, as a hand seized his forearm before he could make his getaway.

“And where do you think you’re going, Monsieur Walker?” she asked with a smirk. “I haven’t forgotten your promise of a legendary night, tu comprends?”

Oh fuck, not this. Why did I have to open my goddamn mouth?

Drake extricated his arm as politely as he could and averted his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I comprends or whatever.” This made Kiara giggle, so he added a very discouraging, “We’ll see,” for good measure.

He burst into the ballroom, eager to fade into the crowd and get drunk by himself. And who should be there to welcome here other than Riley. She was wearing a midnight blue dress that made her skin look radiant and her eyes a deeper color than usual. Her hair was up in an elegant bun. Drake privately decided – I shouldn’t even be thinking about this – that he preferred it down, but there was no denying she looked beautiful either way.

Of fucking course. Can’t have a moment of peace around here. Does she always have to look so... so...

His frustration was such that he couldn’t come up with a single word for her; he came up with too many. He realized he’d pursed his lips and balled his fists when he’s seen her. He relaxed as he stepped up to her.

“Welcome to the Beaumont Bash...” she said with a grin.

You’d think nothing happened yesterday.

“You’ll recognize some of these fine floral arrangements as yours...” she gestured to the centerpieces.

“Heh. After yesterday, I was skeptical about this place being ready in time, but...” he looked around the lavish room, appraising it. “Looks like you’re about to have an actual party here.”

“I know, right?” said Riley excitedly. She gave him a once over, seeing him fully for the first time. “Though... you don’t look like you’re dressed for the occasion.”

Drake opened his arms as if on display. “You don’t like my look? This shirt’s clean.”

Riley sighed and rolled her eyes. “I guess that’s the most I should expect. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dress up for these fancy events. It might be a nice change of pace.”

The comment stung more than it should have.

Well, what did you expect? She’s marrying a prince! Why wouldn’t she think you look like crap? Anyway, me? Dressed like a fucking noble? No way.

He shrugged studiously. “Eh. Fashion is subjective. Besides, people are here to see the Prince, not me.” He attempted to keep the bitterness out of his voice at that last part; it was just a fact, after all. He thought he’d been successful until he saw Riley was shaking his head sadly at him.

He was about to reassure her that he didn’t mind, when Hana bounded up to them. She waved at him with a smile and he returned her greeting with the most cheerful nod he could muster. He felt an arm around his shoulder and turned to see Maxwell had joined them as well.

“Riley! Maxwell! I’ve never been to the Beaumont estate before. This looks wonderful,” admired Hana.

Maxwell replied, “Thank you, Hana...” as Drake shrugged his arm off.

“And you look lovely tonight, Riley,” said Hana, her eyes shining as she took in Riley’s elegant figure.

Riley beamed and returned the compliment, “As always, you look gorgeous too!”

Hana blushed deeply. To the unsuspecting eye, she might just seem like someone who was not used to receiving compliments, but Drake knew better; the corners of her lips were twitching and it was clear to him she was fighting back a smitten smile.

Luckily for Hana, at that moment, the waiters started bringing out the appetizers.

“Our creations!” Maxwell whispered.

“I hope people like them...” said Riley, biting her lip.

Lady Kiara, who was just behind them, wondered aloud, “Uhh... what is this dish?” when the waiter handed her one, along with a napkin.

Maxwell, doing his best pompous celebrity chef impression, explained, “What you have there is a deconstructed delicacy of caviar cultivated from pampered hake fish of the Swedish fjords with paprika harvested from a micro-nursery in Provence.”

Lady Penelope had bitten into it halfway through Maxwell’s bluffing description and now exclaimed, “Wow... so fancy... I like them! Spicy, salty, definitely unique.”

Encouraged by her friend’s reaction, Lady Kiara gave it a small bite too. “Mmmm... It reminds me of when I dined at the top of la Tour Eiffel in Paris! Did you use the same chef?”

She looked so impressed, Drake almost snorted.

Rich people. Throw some food together, call it something fancy and they're happy.

“Someone comparable,” choked out Maxwell, obviously holding back laughter.

The suitors moved on to mingling with other nobles and Maxwell turned to his friends, “Well, the reactions to our appetizers seem mostly positive.”

“They like the food? Really?” Riley’s smile was almost ear to ear. “I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

“Yeah. I really thought this would be a complete disaster,” agreed Drake.

“I told you... it’s all in the marketing!” Maxwell gave him finger guns.

Drake’s snide response was interrupted by the arrival of his two least favorite people – or should I say my least favorite snake and possessed murder doll.

Judging by the grimace on Riley’s face, which she quickly covered up with a reluctant smile, she felt the same way. “Duchess Olivia... Countess Madeleine... welcome.”

Hell no.

Maxwell seemed to be thinking similarly, for he walked away from the group with Drake.

They each grabbed a glass of champagne.

“To not being a part of that conversation,” toasted Drake.

Maxwell chuckled and clinked his glass, saying, “Oh, come on, Drake, they’re not that bad. Olivia has been very loyal to Liam.”

“So? Doesn’t change the fact she’s about as pleasant as a root canal. And don’t get me started on Madeleine!”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Are you kidding? I’d trust her as far as I could throw... Liam; I could probably throw her pretty far, actually. At least Olivia’s open about how terrible she is.”

“That’s a fair point,” Maxwell conceded. “She’s definitely crafty.”

“That’s one way to put it."

Noticing Madeleine and Olivia had moved on, Maxwell and Drake returned to where Riley and Hana were standing.

“Welcome, everyone,” rang out Bertrand’s clear voice. “If you’ll please take your seats, dinner will begin shortly.”

"That’s my cue. I have a seat in the back,” Drake said, pointing to his table, “so I’ll see you after dinner.”

“And I’d better go and take my seat with the other ladies,” chimed in Hana.

Riley pouted, “I wish we could have all sat together.”

Drake touched her arm lightly. “Hey, don’t look so disappointed, Addams. You’re sitting with royalty. I learned a long time ago I don’t fit in there.” He sighed in resignation. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle one dinner without us.”

“Right...” Riley replied dubiously.

"We’ll catch up later!” Hana reassured her.

On his way to his unglamorous table, Drake overheard Olivia whine, “What am I doing back here?” He automatically made eye contact with Riley across the room and they both burst into laughter.

Still chucking he sat down at a table with Bastien and other guards.

He tuned out most of the conversation throughout the meal, focusing instead on the food and drink. He had to admit, dinner hadn’t been half bad, considering it was fancy rich people nonsense. The champagne was the best part, though.

Feeling slightly less grumpy thanks to the food and – in large part – to the alcohol, he felt ready to start a conversation.

"So, Bastien,” he turned to his right, “did you find the person behind the photos?”

“Not yet. I haven’t been able to get ahold of the reporter to whom they were being sold,” the older man grimaced, clearing his plate.

“Bummer.” What Bastien had said reminded Drake of something else. “Oh, hey, what’s this I hear about a reporter being caught inside the grounds at the Manor? It it true?”

He gathered from Bastien’s exasperated sigh that it was.

“What the hell, Bastien?! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was under the impression that I reported to Prince Liam, not to you,” Bastien snapped with ice in his voice.

Drake was momentarily hurt into silence. The fact that he’d specifically said he reported to Liam instead of King Constantine seemed designed to make him feel smaller. Bastien sighed again and put a hand on his shoulder; Drake resisted the urge to brush it off.

“It was nothing, all right? I figured you had enough on your mind and didn’t want to add to it because of a meaningless incident. She was caught and promptly escorted out. End of story.”

“How can you be sure she didn’t do anything? Take pictures or... I don’t know.”

“Drake, we made sure, trust me.”

Bastien met his eyes earnestly. Drake felt ashamed at having doubted his old friend.

Why would he tell you anyway? What have you ever done?

He shook his head as if to rid himself of that spiteful little voice.

"I have had a lot on my mind lately,” he admitted. “What with Liam’s Coronation, and Riley–”

“I see Lady Kiara is still taken with you.”

“Wh-what?”

He whipped his head around to the suitors’ table and saw Lady Kiara engrossed in a conversation with Hana.

“What are you talking about? She’s not even looking this way.”

“You just missed it.” Bastien clicked his tongue regretfully. “I think she’d be good for you, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Uh, really?”

“Definitely! She is charming and intelligent, and I’m sure I have heard you mention her physical, er, attributes.”

“Yeah, Bastien, she’s hot, you can say it.”

“I will not. But I hope you take my meaning.”

“Now that the dessert course has been served, the grand hall is now open,” came Bertrand’s voice from the main table. “Please join us there for the after-dinner festivities!”

Standing up, Bastien patted his shoulder before leaving the ballroom along with his men to take his position in the main hall, where the party was to be held. Drake filed out of the ballroom alone and stood among the crowd anonymously as Bertrand continued giving unnecessary speeches.

“Citizens, nobles, friends, we’ve gathered here today to celebrate the end of the social season. So if you’ll hear me out, I’d like to share a few words...”

At this point, Drake’s attention drifted.

There’s only so much noble rambling I can take in one night.

He looked around and spotted Liam at the very front with his family. He wasn’t eager to join the King and Queen, so he kept searching the crowd. Hana was carrying what seemed like a tiresome conversation with Lady Penelope. Drake shuddered.

I’d rather be alone than talk about poodles.

Left with no other choices, he looked for Maxwell.

Disconcerted, he realized his friend was not part of the crowd.

Where the hell is he?

Bertrand’s voice, once again, broke through his confusion, “... and so, with all of House Beaumont with me, let us propose a toast!”

Drake finally spotted Maxwell coming up the stairs carrying a mace. Close behind him – his eyes widened – was Riley, valiantly hauling a battle axe that looked like it weighed about as much as she did.

“To our gracious royal family...” Bertrand continued.

“To all those here tonight!” Maxwell added.

“And to the PARTTYYYY!” Riley yelled, hoisting the battle axe up precariously. “Let’s rock this place to the ground!”

“YEEEAAAHHH!” Maxwell pumped his fists.

He swung the mace at the champagne, shattering the bottle.

“We’ve never let a lost bottle stop us before. Bring out another!” called Bertrand to the staff.

“WOOOOOOOO!” Maxwell was almost buzzing with frantic energy, his hand and bottom half soaked in champagne.

Riley gripped her axe and sliced with difficulty at the bottle. Perhaps because it was so heavy and thus she had very little momentum, she managed to hack the cork clean off. Champagne immediately bubbled out and she took a drink directly from it. Beginner’s luck, scoffed Drake, though he had to admit to being a little impressed.

Maxwell, on the other hand, was very impressed, and possibly a bit jealous, “Whoa... It took me much longer to master that move.”

“From all of us at House Beaumont... thank you!” Bertrand brandished the bottle Riley had opened at the crowd and they cheered in unison. Waiters marched into the room with tray upon tray of champagne.

Thank God.

Drake’s pleasant buzz had begun to subside and he knew he was only a few sober minutes away from getting sulky.

Meanwhile, Maxwell had raced to the top of the stairs.

“... Maxwell!” Bertrand said.

“What?” Maxwell called back.

“Let the revelry begin!”

“AWWWWWWWWW YEAH!” yelled the younger Beaumont, sliding down the banister.

Deafening pop music blared all around the room, and professional dancers and acrobats, dressed in colorful, circus-like costumes, made their entrance. The room now felt twice as crowded.

Drake stood in his spot, back against the wall, gulping down the champagne he’d snagged from a passing waiter. He didn’t notice his friends walking over to him until Liam spoke, “So, enjoying the party, Drake?”

“It’s been less than two minutes, and my ears hurt...” he grumbled.

Liam elbowed him, “Come on, Drake, you usually give it at least five minutes before tapping out.”

I usually don’t have a crush on the girl you’re marrying.

“There’s so much happening,” Hana marveled.

Drake rolled his eyes. “That’s the problem.”

As if on cue, he heard Bertrand shout, “Bring out the horses!”

“The horses!” Maxwell echoed.

“The horses?! You’re bringing horses in here?!” Riley asked over the music.

“Who’s ready for a little horse riding?” Bertrand led the horses to the center of the room.

“I am!” Maxwell piped up.

“Great...” Drake shook his head. He hated this tradition of theirs. The poor horses couldn’t understand what was happening and were obviously spooked.

Fucking nobles and their “eccentricities”.

Maxwell, already mounted, asked, “Who will be my partner?”

“How about our king-to-be?” suggested Bertrand.

“I nominate Drake as my proxy.”

If looks could kill, Cordonia would have found itself without an heir. Liam held back a laugh at Drake’s irritation, but the latter merely said, “Oh, no, you’re not forcing me into the saddle tonight.”

Hana chose that moment to say, “I vote for Riley!”

“Riley!” Maxwell repeated.

“Come on up then, Lady Riley.” Bertrand offered her his hand. “Your saddle awaits.”

Riley was helped onto the horse, which whinnied uneasily. “Easy, girl.”

Riley scratched the horse’s mane and that seemed to help calm it down. She then led it in a gentle turn around the room.

She and Maxwell waved at the crowds.

"My fellow Cordonians, take a picture!” Riley proclaimed. “I want everyone to see my noble horseback pose.”

Drake snorted at that. She wasn’t a bad rider and her pose was not terrible but it was a far cry from “noble” as she put it. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he could teach her better, before clamping down on that dumb instinct.

“Phones are not allowed inside these parties. Nobody wants to see embarrassing pictures of themselves in the news.”

Bertrand was right; phones were not allowed and yet... there were always exceptions, weren’t there? He thought back to Maxwell’s video of him dancing to Hayley Rose and felt his face grow warm. A lot more sinister were the pictures of the bachelor party that someone had tried to sell for profit.

“I’ll take mental pictures for you,” Hana consoled her.

After going around the room once more for their adoring fans, Maxwell said, “We should let some others ride around on the horses.”

“Fair enough.” Riley dismounted and made a beeline for Drake.

“Drake! I feel like I haven’t see you all day.”

That’s ‘cause I’ve been avoiding you.

“Well, you’re seeing me know,” he replied, noncommittal, looking down at his champagne.

“Yeah and guess what? I wish your face didn’t look like you just swallowed a lemon.”

He looked up sharply at that, eyes narrowed, and Riley laughed. As per usual, her laugh was too contagious to resist and he ended up chuckling along.

“See? That’s better,” she smiled and brushed her fingers against his. He stopped laughing instantly.

“I need a drink.”

“Me too! I’ll come with!”

He groaned a little but could think of no way to dissuade her without hurting her feelings, so he let her follow him to the makeshift bar.

He opened his mouth to order whiskey, when Riley elbowed him aside and spoke over him. “Do not give this man whiskey. Do not. We’ll have two shots instead.”

The bartender looked at her expectantly. When Riley didn’t elaborate, he asked, “Shots of what?”

“Surprise us.” Riley turned to Drake and smiled with that mischievous glint in her eyes. “Scared, Drake?”

“Pff, I can drink you under the table, no problem.”

“Then how about a bet?”

“What? Another one? We both have bets we never settled!”

“Then I guess they cancel each other out!”

“You just wanna get out of paying up, Addams.”

“How dare you! I’ll remember this insult against my honor when you lose, you know?”

Drake put on a whiny voice and begged, “Oh, please don’t, I’m so scared. I’m sorry I insulted your honor, Lady Riley the Waitress.”

“That’s Head Waitress to you, grumpy commoner.”

They were so busy trying to stare each other down, they didn’t realize their shots were ready. The bartender cleared his throat awkwardly.

Drake turned to him, “Er, right sorry,” and grabbed the two shot glasses.

Handing Riley hers, he proposed, “Okay, how about whoever makes a face or shows any difficulty in swallowing this, loses?”

Riley put on her best poker face, though he noticed her lips were still twitching. “You’re on.”

They clinked their glasses, maintaining eye contact the whole time – I have to, for the bet! – and then threw their heads back. The base was definitely vodka. Drake had only negative experiences from his teenage years to associate with that spirit, but he powered through his body’s rejection of it.

Riley was not faring as well; for a moment it seemed like she might actually throw it back up. In the end, she managed to keep it down, but she couldn’t help the pronounced grimace on her face as she did.

“HA! I knew it!”

“No! I demand a redo! I cannot handle vodka, okay? My body hates it!”

“Rules are rules, Addams, don’t tell me you’d back down from a bet? Surely your honor wouldn’t allow it,” he teased.

She took a step forward, “Well, maybe I’m not so honorable...”

Drake licked his lips unconsciously. “Neither am I.”

He hadn’t realized when it happened, but his breath had quickened. He felt his hand rising as if of its own accord, reaching toward her, to touch her.

A familiar tall figure was approaching them from behind Riley.

“I better go. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your time with the prince,” Drake said, leaving hurriedly back to the bar and ordering whiskey.

Leaning against it, he had a prime view of Liam and Riley talking. He went to take a swig of his whiskey only to find it empty. He ordered another one straight away. When the bartender handed it to him, he saw Olivia interrupt the couple.

Yes! Go Olivia! Oh my God, what the fuck. I’m actually happy to see Olivia.

Before leaving with a person that Drake considered to be in his personal bottom three and yet felt like hugging right now, Liam kissed Riley on the cheek. Drake downed his whiskey and ordered the next.

The rest of the party went by in a blur of alcohol, dancing – or, in Drake’s case, being forced to dance by Maxwell – and crazy hijinks, like trying to shoot an arrow through an apple on a bust’s head.

Nobody could do it. They hit other things, though... The bust, mostly. But there was an exciting moment when Penelope, swaying, very nearly hit Maxwell. He wouldn’t have been badly hurt – the arrows were blunt – and it hadn’t even brushed him, yet he still took it upon himself to act out a Shakespearean death scene, much to everyone’s amusement.

Drake hadn’t even tried. His level of drunkenness paired with how bad he was at archery at the best of times was a recipe for disaster; even drunk him knew that.

The party felt like it was winding down. Lady Kiara was sitting on the floor in the corner, moaning, “Too... too much... Je ne me sens pas bien.”

Penelope, in the meantime, was leaning against one of the horses, going, “You know, horse. You and I have so much in common... hair, bodies, an adoration of poodles. You’re like my equine soulmate.” She seemed to doze off at that point.

Liam and Olivia were chatting in very loud voices. Well, Olivia was; Liam was talking maybe a tiny bit louder than he normally would, but his cheeks were far more rosy than usual.

Bertrand was sitting against a column with an empty champagne bottle in one hand – Drake didn’t doubt he’d drank it all himself – and a sword in the other.

“We gave those apples what for,” he said proudly to no one in particular.

Maxwell, to no one’s surprise, was still dancing while Riley and Hana looked on, amazed at his energy.

Drake walked over, hoping the fact that everyone was pretty drunk meant he could go. “It’s over. I’m finally free.”

Maxwell stopped dancing and wheeled around to face Drake. “What do you mean ‘it’s over’? The party is just getting started.”

“Lady Penelope is literally talking to a horse,” he nodded toward her. “The party has done its job.”

"Your mane is so soft,” she was saying as she ran her fingers through it. “You have to tell me who does your hair.”

“Back home, this was always about the time we’d break out a game of Truth or Dare, but I bet you guys are too classy for that!” Riley raised an eyebrow.

“You’d be betting wrong! I love Truth or Dare.”

Of course Maxwell would love a party game.

“’Truth or Dare’?” Hana met Drake’s eyes; they both seemed to be thinking the same thing: Truths could mean trouble. “That sounds dangerous...”

“Well... only if you have something to hide...” shrugged Riley. Drake almost laughed. “Or a fear of embarrassing stunts...”

She looked at Hana beseechingly and the latter couldn’t resist, “It sounds... Fun!”

Normally, Drake wouldn’t blame her, he knew by now how powerless he was to resist Riley’s requests but...

Dammit, Hana! Not after yesterday!

Riley took Hana’s hands, “I can’t believe you’ve never played! Now we’ve go to do it.”

Drake shook his head over and over. “Oh no. I’m not playing Truth or Dare.”

“Come on, Drake, we should do it for Hana,” pleaded Riley.

Hana backtracked politely, “I don’t want to pressure you guys into doing something on my behalf.”

“But I would!” said Maxwell. “Do it! Do it!”

“I see where this is going...” Drake was already rubbing his face tiredly, waiting for what he knew was coming.

“Drake! Drake! Drake!”

Aaand there it is. Does this man ever not chant?!

“Okay... fine. I’ll play, just stop chanting my name.”

“Whoohoo! Someone’s going streaking tonight!” Maxwell wiggled his eyebrows.

“We can play in my room!” Hana offered, and she led the way upstairs.

Drake and Maxwell followed suit. Riley, for all her talk, lingered behind.

Waiting for Liam?

He didn’t know what to feel if that was the case. On the one hand, relief that he wouldn’t have to play a risky drinking game with her; on the other, pure, uncontrollable jealousy.

Who am I kidding? I’m no closer to controlling this stupid crush than I am to controlling the fucking weather.

To his immense relief and despite his hesitancy to play Truth or Dare with her, Riley joined them soon in Hana’s room. They were all sitting crosslegged on the floor in a circle. Riley took a spot between Hana and Maxwell, facing Drake.

“This is so exciting! How do we start?” asked Hana.

“Usually with a few drinks,” Drake replied.

“Oooh, there’s a full bar!” said Hana, noticing it for the first time.

We are very different people.

“What do you guys want?” she asked.

“Make me something fruity and delicious!” requested Maxwell. “I know! I want Sex on the Beach!”

Hana’s hand went to her mouth, her cheeks turning red, “Oh my! I don’t think...”

“It’s a drink...” explained Maxwell hastily. “Never mind, I’ll make it myself.” He stood up and joined her at the minibar.

“I’ll just have–”

Riley cut Drake off, “Let me guess. Whiskey.”

Drake rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up, “I’m getting predictable, aren’t I?”

“Maybe just a little bit,” she said with a small smile.

“What about you, Riley?” asked Hana.

“I’ll have a whiskey, too,” she winked at Drake, who couldn’t help grinning back.

Hana poured two whiskeys and a glass for champagne for herself, while Maxwell mixed himself a bright orange drink.

“Cheers, friends! Thank you for joining me tonight!” Hana extended her hand to the center of the circle.

“Cheers.” Drake followed.

Maxwell added, “To friendship!”

“To friendship!” agreed Riley, clinking her glass to the others’. “And Truth or Dare!”

Drake drank deeply, remembering what they were all there for. “Oh boy, this is going to be a long night.”

“Drinks have been accomplished! Now, what comes next?” Hana looked at them expectantly.

“Someone goes first,” said Maxwell.

“Addams should start.” Drake pointed at her. “This was her idea.”

Maxwell turned to her, “Okay, Riley... truth or dare?”

“I choose Truth.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Maxwell rubbed his hands together with relish. “I’ve got a great one for you. If you were stranded on a desert island, where you’ll never see anyone or any civilization ever again... Which one of us would you want with you?”

Riley pretended to think for a moment, tapping an exaggerated finger to her chin, then announced, “I’d want Drake!”

He could not have been more taken aback. He knew they were on good terms now, maybe even more than that if yesterday was anything to go by, but there was no denying he was a difficult person to be around, let alone be stuck with.

“Me? Be honest, Addams, you just want me there so I’m suffering as much as you are.”

“Mostly just to see how you’d look in a grass skirt,” she smirked.

“Hey!” Drake threw a nearby cushion at her, which she deflected with her arm, laughing.

“Ha ha!” Drake allowed Maxwell to laugh for a second before glaring at him.

“Just kidding. I think you’d be gruff and grumpy, but deep down, when it counts, you’d probably save me from a tiger or something,” continued Riley.

“Well, I’d feel terrible if a tiger ate my only companion,” joked Drake.

“And there wouldn’t be any nobles around, or courtly intrigue, or gossip...” Riley was now looking intensely at him, as if trying to say something other than what her words conveyed. “In fact, I think you might enjoy being stranded more than palace life.”

Staring into those hypnotizing blue eyes, all Drake could think was that he’d sell several body parts if it meant he could be alone with Riley anywhere. Even a deserted island.

The corner of his lip quirked up, “You never know.”

“Okay, Maxwell, it’s your turn.” Riley broke their eye contact before the others could wonder if there was something else to the innocent answer. “Truth or dare?”

“Dealer’s choice! I’m not afraid of anything!”

“Okay, then, tell us a secret that no one else knows about you.”

Maxwell’s bravado faded right away. “Aw, I’m an open book! Everyone knows everything about me!”

Drake scoffed, thinking back to how weird Maxwell had been just the day before. “Nope.”

He caught Riley’s eye and she nodded, remembering the same thing. “Not true at all.”

“We know almost nothing about you!” countered Hana.

“Well, all anyone ever had to do was ask. Okay, let’s see...” Maxwell reflected for a moment, then said, “I hate carousels.”

“Really?” asked Riley, incredulous. “I thought everyone loved carousels...”

Maxwell elaborated, “When I was little, the royal court took all the kids to a theme park for the Prince’s birthday. But when we were on the carousel, some reporters got in and mobbed us. The security team did their best to get us all out of there, but I was the last one they got to. So I was stuck on this dumb carousel for what seemed like forever with people taking pictures and shouting questions at me.”

He had a glassy look in his eyes, as if transported back to the horror of helplessly riding a fake horse round and round.

“I was only three... I had no idea what was really going on. And because our parents had spent so much time trying to warn us about dangers, I thought I was about to get murdered.”

Riley leaned her head on his shoulder, “Aww... Maxwell...”

He shook himself. “I’m fine. I was a long time ago.”

“Still...” Hana sounded disproportionately concerned.

“Aw, geez, this is why I don’t like to talk about serious stuff. I’m fine, you guys!” Maxwell reassured them. “Just forget it! Next up... Hana, truth or dare?”

It struck Drake that this was something Maxwell did all the time and he was an expert at it: seemingly divulging information about himself while at the same time withholding anything of meaning. The fact remained that he had no idea what his friend was going through right now and likely wouldn’t find out anytime soon if Maxwell insisted on bottling it up. Not that he was a model of mental health.

He turned his attention back to the game. Hana had just decided, “Oh... um... truth!”

“Tell us about your first kiss,” said Maxwell.

Hana bit her lip. “My first kiss?”

“You have been kissed, right?” Maxwell asked curiously.

Tactful.

Hana’s brow furrowed. “Yes, of course.”

“You were engaged, after all!” Riley shot Maxwell a reproachful look.

“Well... it was actually a very chaste courtship. Our first kiss was in front of a professional photographer for our engagement photo shoot. My parents were insistent that we publish a very public announcement in all of the papers. It was... somewhat awkward,” she finished, staring down at her hands.

“He wasn’t a great kisser?” grimaced Riley.

Hana sighed and said, “He missed.”

Drake had never been so confused. “Missed? How?”

“He kissed my ear. Well, he punctured his lip on my earring, actually. He started bleeding. I felt terrible. My parents were furious that he ruined my dress. It was a complete disaster.”

Drake had been about to burst out laughing, when he caught a subtle shake of Riley’s head.

Okay, not the time.

He carefully avoided looking at Maxwell, whom he knew would also be close to laughter. One glance and they’d both cave.

“Hana, you deserved a better first kiss than that!” Riley put her arm around Hana. Drake saw her smile in absolute delight, holding Riley’s hand.

“Thank you, Riley. But it wasn’t so bad. Looking back, it was actually pretty funny. I mean, who can miss that badly on a kiss?”

Feeling like he had permission, Drake laughed, expecting Maxwell to join him. However, he only gave a small, “Hah!”

Drake turned to him questioningly and Maxwell continued, “I know. I mean. What a loser...”

By now, Drake was excellent at knowing when his friend was hiding something. “Maxwell...”

Maxwell sighed and slumped his shoulders, “Okay, maybe I accidentally kissed someone’s chin but that’s, like, a totally understandable mistake, right? I mean, it’s right below the mouth...”

Hana did an amazing job of containing her laughter, only letting out a small giggle, “Hee hee. Yes, that’s completely normal.”

Riley and Drake however, were not so considerate, howling with laughter.

Annoyed after a minute of this, Maxwell talked loudly over their subsiding laughter, “Okay, my turn again! Riley, I dare you to go streak through the ballroom in your underwear!”

Uh oh.

The exact same thought seemed to have crossed Hana’s mind for her eyes widened and she glanced at Drake instantly. Fuck. I cannot see Addams in her underwear again. I might spontaneously combust.

Hana beat him to the punch, “That’s not fair! It’s not her turn.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t even choose ‘dare’,” Drake pointed out

“Well someone should streak tonight or this game is a bust. Come now, Riley, it’s your game. Who will it be?” asked Maxwell.

This time, she didn’t even pretend to think, “Drake.”

He rolled his eyes at her and felt his face grow warm.

“You trying to see me shirtless, Addams?”

“Not if you run fast enough!” she said cheerfully.

The group went down to the now deserted ballroom. The tables had already been cleared by the palace staff, leaving a vast, empty room perfect for something like running around half naked.

“The things I do for you people.” It had been his constant refrain lately, yet Drake had to admit that the phrase should be singular. It’s not like he’d do this just for Maxwell or Hana, as much as he liked them.

He took off his shirt and pants and stood there for a split second in his gray boxer briefs. He thought he saw Riley’s eyes glint.

Fuck it, let’s get this over with.

He sprinted the length of the room, the cool air feeling nice throughout his whole body. He realized he hadn’t known how drunk he was until this moment, when running proved more difficult than he’d anticipated. He managed not to trip, but it was a close thing.

“Woo! Go Drake!” Riley cheered from the other side of the room.

He ran back to them and stopped.

“Satisfied?”

“Yep!” said Maxwell, “Now what?”

Riley grinned. “I’m going to join in!”

For the love of God, NO.

She took her clothes off efficiently and yet even then, Drake couldn’t help but think how sexy her confidence was.

Fuck me, now she’s in her bra and undies. I’m gonna die. That’s it. RIP Drake Walker.

It took all of his concentration and strength not to look below her face at her amazing, perky breasts in a black bra; at her long, shapely legs; and most of all, at her ass, whose every tempting curve was hugged by her matching underwear.

“We can’t make Drake be the only one. Come on, Hana!” urged Riley.

Yes! Yes, that might make this feel more normal. More like a “friend” thing.

“Hee hee... okay! It does look fun!”

Hana took her clothes off as well. Drake barely registered her creamy underwear, although he would have to be an idiot not to see that she was a beautiful woman too.

“Let’s go!” Hana gestured for them to run.

Riley turned back, “Maxwell?”

“I’ll be the photographer.”

“Maxwell!”

“I mean, I’ll stand guard!”

The three of them took off running and immediately, Drake felt better. The other two were nothing but a blur and so he could be just a normal guy having fun with his friends, rather than a commoner pining for the prince’s fiancée-to-be.

“Wooooooooo!” squealed Riley.

“Freeeeeedom!” roared Drake.

Hana shouted, “Truth or Dare!”

They ran the length of the room twice and then collapsed next to Maxwell, out of breath and with spinning heads.

“Wow, that took a lot out of me,” mumbled Riley.

“Me too. I need to lie down.” said Hana, a hand on her head.

They returned to her room, carrying their clothes. The four friends threw themselves on Hana’s bed, resting for a moment. Drake found himself lying down next to Riley. Her head was resting on her arm and she was staring at him. She reached out and brushed his bare chest with her fingers.

He exhaled sharply and sprang off the bed. The others took this as a sign to do the same and got dressed. Riley stayed on the bed a moment longer, then put her clothes on as well.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” Hana was flushed and her hair was wilder than Drake had ever seen it. She also looked happier than ever.

Drake ruffled her hair further. “Ah, the magic of Truth or Dare.”

“This was so much fun tonight! Thank you,” she said to them all.

Riley smiled. “Any time.”

“Yeah, you know me. I don’t need much of an excuse to party.” Maxwell did the robot.

“And I’m... still not sure why I came this time, but I guess I’d do it again.” It had been a risk, and it had almost gotten too dangerous, but nothing happened.

“Drake, I think we’re graduating from friends to best friends!” Hana beamed.

Drake put his hands up defensively, “Whoa, whoa, whoa... Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“I dunno, man. We all drink together, goof off together, spend most of our time together...” Maxwell nudged him.

“No...”

Hana squeezed Drake’s arm. “It’s too late, Drake. We are best friends!”

“I guess I’m just going to have to accept this, huh?”

“It’s probably for the best. You could do much worse than the three of us,” said Riley.

Oh, I know. It’s you guys who should be thinking this twice.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” He sighed. “Okay. You got me.”

“Yay!” exclaimed Maxwell.

"Yay!” echoed Hana.

Drake crossed his arms. “Please tell me this isn’t a thing we do now.”

Riley patted his arm, reassuring him. “This is not a thing.”

“Thank God. At least someone still has some sanity.”

“I’ve got your back.” She gave him one last squeeze before letting go.

Hana stifled a yawn behind her hand.

“Okay... we should probably call it a night before we break Hana...” Maxwell said, concerned.

Hana nodded. “Good night! This has been a very memorable evening!” She waved goodbye to everyone as they prepared to leave her room.

“Good night, guys,” Drake said.

“G’night!” Riley repeated.

Once in the hallway, Maxwell went left, while Riley and Drake went the opposite way.

“So, that was fun, right?”

Drake only grunted in response, cursing nobles internally for having such big houses. He couldn’t be alone with her.

“What’s up with you? I feel like you’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“Uh, no, I haven’t.”

It wasn’t exactly convincing, but she couldn’t prove anything.

“Are you tired?”

Drake answered, “Nah,” before thinking, Shit. Why didn’t I just say yes?!

“Cool, me neither. Let’s have a drink.”

She pulled him into her room and he found that he didn’t feel like fighting her. Without asking, she poured them both whiskey and they sat down on a futon.

“Truth or Dare?” she asked softly.

“Dare.”

“Down your whiskey.”

“Come on, Addams, at least make it a challenge.” He was just bragging. His throat actually felt like it was on fire and his head hadn’t stopped spinning since the ballroom. He was extremely drunk already.

“Truth or Dare?” It was his turn to ask.

“Dare.”

“Same thing.”

She rolled her eyes at him and gulped down her drink. She managed to swallow all of it, but she had a coughing fit. He thumped her back, although he wasn’t sure that even did anything.

She stopped coughing, but he didn’t remove his hand; she didn’t seem to mind.

“Your turn.” Her voice was still hoarse from the whiskey.

“Truth.”

Fuck it. Hope this doesn’t bite me in the ass.

“Are you mad at me?”

Her voice was so small, he could barely keep himself from squeezing her.

I can’t even blame her for thinking that. I’m such an asshole.

“No. And I’m sorry for making you think that.”

She seemed to be waiting for him to add something, but that was as far as he was willing to go, so she nodded.

“Truth.”

“Do you miss home?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Drake thought he could hear a clock ticking, but he couldn’t see one. He wondered idly what time it was. Late, but how late? He didn’t dare check his phone at that moment.

Finally, she sighed and spoke, “What is home, anyway? I don’t really have anyone, so no.”

She was leaning into him now, his hand still on her back.

“I’m sorry, if you don’t want to–”

“No, I do. It’s actually kind of a relief to be asked. I know my life is a million times better here than it ever was in New York, but sometimes it sucks that people just assume I’m happier here.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I am! I definitely am but...”

Drake waited again until she was ready to continue.

“Remember back in Olivia’s estate? When we went out before the storm?”

You mean the moment I knew I was falling for you, even if I was in denial? Yep.

“Sure,” he replied.

“I told you I knew what it was like to feel like you failed someone.”

“Yeah,” his voice was barely audible. He had been wondering about that but it seemed serious and he didn’t want to push her. He figured she’d tell Liam about it, rather than him.

“I... had a younger brother. Growing up we were really close, but then I left for college and we kind of drifted apart. I thought I could justify it, being a busy college student and all that but... He started having a hard time and I–I didn’t even know about it.”

She squeezed her lips together and continued, “One day I got a call at school that my little brother,” her voice wobbled, “had killed himself.”

Tears were now escaping her eyes, falling too fast and hard to roll down her cheeks. Drake realized he’d been rubbing circles on her back for the past few minutes.

She shook her head. “I didn’t even think to check up on him and I knew depression ran in the family.” She put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. “In his note he asked me to forgive him. As if it were him I needed to forgive.”

She let out a small sob, her face still hidden. A few seconds later, she wiped her tears and spoke, her voice still unsteady, “Coming here, I was just running away from my guilt. But I’m happy for the first time in years thanks to you guys, and you’ve helped me believe I do deserve it, despite everything... I haven’t completely forgiven myself, but I’m closer than I’d ever been.”

She gave him a watery smile. “So thanks, for everything.” She squeezed his hand.

He could not believe she was smiling. The horror, the trauma of losing a loved one in such a way and yet she still found something to be grateful for. He felt his own throat closing up, overwhelmed with affection and admiration. Unable to speak, he squeezed her hand back.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, with her head on his shoulder and his hand stroking her back.

She sniffed and stood up, walking to the mirror. “God, I’m a mess!”

Drake went to stand behind her. “I think a pink nose suits you.”

She giggled. “And to think I might have met Liam looking like this!”

Drake’s smile died on his lips. Right. Liam.

“Listen, if you’re feeling okay I should leave you to it.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it felt good to tell someone.”

So she hadn’t told anyone? Not even Liam?

He entertained that thought for a second and then shook himself.

It doesn’t matter. You can be her confidant; she’ll still marry Liam. And that’s okay. Having her in your life is enough, but you need to forget about anything romantic happening between you. She deserves no less than a fucking kingdom.

“You should go meet Liam. I bet you can still make it.”

“You... think I should?” Her expression was unreadable.

“Yeah.” So was his.

His feet carried him to the bar, where he ordered shot after shot. He lost count. His bed was only a few feet away, so he could get as drunk as he wanted. As drunk as it would take to forget about Riley for a second. To forget about her bravery and resilience, her vulnerability, her warmth.

We can be friends. We have to be friends, I can’t lose her. I just have to find somebody else.

As if planned, Kiara plopped down on the stool next to him. He couldn’t really focus her properly, but he still knew she looked beautiful as ever.

“Drake! I haven’t seen you all night!” Her speech was not as proper as usual, maybe even a bit slurred, but Drake was in no condition to notice.

“Theeeerrre you are, mylittlecroissant.” He had no idea he was barely intelligible at this point. Kiara didn’t seem to mind, anyway. “Voulez-vous choucher avec moi?”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

They finished their drinks and Kiara moved to his lap. He didn’t see the bartender leave, but he must have. Drake crashed his lips clumsily onto hers, their teeth accidentally clashing. She responded enthusiastically, her tongue entering his mouth. They made out sloppily, his hands roaming her body.

She pulled him closer by his shirt and let her hands stroke his chest, going lower and lower. She brushed his inner thigh and he felt his cock stir in his pants.

He jumped up from his seat, making her fall to the floor.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” He apologized over and over again as he helped her up.

“Kiara, yeeer great, ya know? Like, s-superrr cool an’ev’rything but I can’t. I juss can’t.”

He left her standing there and stumbled back to his room as fast as his condition allowed him.

As soon as he was through the threshold, he slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. His hand trembling with need, he undid his zipper, pulled out his cock and took himself in his hand.

He started out slowly, just savoring the feeling. Then, without meaning to, he let himself imagine what a smaller, softer hand would feel like. His hand moved faster. Unbidden, an image of Riley in her black underwear and matching bra came to him and he was powerless to stop it. His hand moving at a feverish pace, he had to clench his jaw to stop himself from crying out.

Still, he couldn’t help groaning, “Addams!” through clenched teeth as he spilled all over his hand.

Steadying his breath, he cleaned himself up and staggered to bed, already knowing his future self was going to regret so much of what happened that night.

I’m so fucked.

#trr #the royal romance #drake walker #drake x mc #prince liam #hana lee #maxwell beaumont #pb #pixelberry #choices #playchoices #fanfic #ch 16 #the marshmallow chronicles #long post

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serenephenix · 6 years

Text

... To help you

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

…To help you

[Fandom]:Voltron: Legendary Defender

[Rating]: Gen/ Gen

[Genre]: Family, Hurt/Comfort, centers around Veronica, Marco & Lance

[Warning]: mention of very protective but ultimately supporting siblings

[Word count]: 4.800

[Status]: completed

Post season 7 – related to this post I made

[Omg help me I’m back on my shit again. After months of having been unable to write I can’t seem to stop. Have fun guys. This is suuuuuuper self-indulgent by the way. Kudos to anyone who makes it to the end.]

[Important PSA after the first comments on Ao3: No bashing the team, be it in the tags or in a reblog. Lance is not a prize to be won by either side]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Once might have counted as nothing more than a fluke. A second time she might play off as a coincidence maybe. By the third time, Veronica had a sinking feeling plaguing her. After the fifth time, she had stopped counting and instead started to consider that this had to be more than a mere “fluke”.

Far be it from her to hold grudges or make hasty decisions, but the more time Veronica spent around team Voltron, the angrier she became almost every instance.

Honestly, the fact that her ire had grown enough to be noticeable even to her family was admirable in itself – there were few people that could pride themselves in having disturbed Veronica’s inner peace so profoundly that she was falling back into bad habits.

“You’re chewing on your pencil.”

She startled, taken aback by Marco’s nonchalance. She cleared her throat and demonstratively put the poor, abused tool down to recline in the uncomfortable chair they had stolen from another room down the hall so that at meals everyone had a chance to sit at the relatively small workbench that served as their table and “office” outside of office.

But the last one only truly concerned Veronica herself.

Marco was idly scrolling through something on a datapad, finger lazily dragging along the surface. Judging by his expression it had to be pictures from before the war had broken out – small glimpses of the past he had managed to take with himself on an even smaller chip he had guarded with his life. It was incredible he had ever thought of taking them with him, much less having stored them there in the first place.

The original chip still hung around his neck, attached to a sturdy necklace and protected by a plastic casing that had seen better days already. A testament to the trials and losses the journey from Cuba had brought with it.

She caught a glimpse of a picture –fairly old, since she caught her nine year old herself in the left-hand corner – and she felt something in her chest tighten as she caught sight of Abuela smiling up from an angle. Such a sweet smile, unsuspecting of all the terrible things that were to come.

There was no way that Marco had not noticed her taking off her glasses to wipe at the corners of her eyes, but he had the grace to not further comment on it.

“I miss her.”

“Me too.”

She wished she could have seen her at least one more time. Once the Galra had arrived she had not managed anything more than to text her family in a group chat, telling them to run and hide.

After communications had been cut by the invaders, there had been many nights where Veronica had lain awake, wondering, worrying, sometimes crying in the privacy of her small bathroom.

So, when she had reunited with them months later after the missions in the tunnels, the joy had blinded her to the terrible truth for a few minutes.

Knowing that her family was mostly safe and unharmed was a blessing, but as her parents sat her down and told her in soft whispers that their Abuela had suffered a stroke or heart attack during their crossing, Veronica could not stop herself from thinking that it was unfair.

One more time. What she wouldn’t give to tell her one more time that she loved her.

But it was too late, and as she rationalized (as much as it hurt), she was so much luckier than many of her friends and comrades. Many of them had no more family to return to outside of this building.

The gurgling and hiss of the faucet had Veronica looking up, watching with a small smile as Marco came back with a glass of water she accepted gladly.

“Thanks.”

Marco shrugged, corner of his mouth twitching upward a little.

He had been the one to try CPR on Abuela when it had happened. Of course he would, seeing how he had been a lifeguard at Varadero beach for a few years now. Still, it had not worked. Veronica hoped that Marco did not guilt himself over it.

Likely sensing she might ask first if he did not intervene, he pointed to her pencil, her gnawing having left clear indents in the smooth plastic: “What’s up with that?”

Veronica took a large gulp of water first, deciding if she should answer honestly.

Her mind was made-up instantly.

“Lance has been considering staying with us.”

Marco blinked at her in clear shock. His flat palm came to slap at his forehead before it started smoothing his hair back.

“Oooooh… so that’s what the whole morning crying was about.”

Veronica nodded. Neither she nor Lance had explained themselves to the rest of their family and so far she had respected that, even if Maria, Luis, Mama and Papa had needled her. They were worried and Veronica understood it all too well, but Lance was the one who needed to decide for himself when to open up about his impending choice. Today though had put a few things into perspective for her and she needed a second opinion for that, and out of all of their other family members, Marco was one of the more discrete ones. He’d know not to blab.

“I personally think he should stay.”

Marco did give her a questioning look at that but waved his hand for her to go on.

“A team should be about respect and trust. And there is nothing against teasing each other or making jokes. Even our MFE fighter pilots tend to do it,” she smiled fondly at that. One might not be able to tell, but those kids were masters of banter in their own right. According to Veronica’s own tally chart Leifsdottir and Kinkade were tied for first place, not by the amount of shots fired but by the accuracy and truthfulness of them. Griffin and Rizavi, even as a united force, stood no chance.

Veronica’s smile vanished though, as she remembered the interactions she had been privy to over the past week, where she had taken over for a communications officer that had fallen ill.

It was probably due to their late night conversation and the endless praise Lance would wax about his teammates, but what Veronica had seen and heard instantly made that cold yet blazing protectiveness resurge.

As she had concluded, team Voltron was indeed made up of wonderful individuals, unique and incredible in their own ways.

When one gave it a bit of thought, having former cadet Keith Kogane work almost seamlessly with a team felt like a fever dream. While Veronica had never personally interacted with the defiant youth back in the day, she had heard complaints from all of the staff forced to deal with him. The calm leader giving instructions over the comms was almost unrecognizable. Captain Shirogane always seemed to swell with quiet pride whenever it was pointed out.

Veronica could understand him all too well – if anyone were to talk that same way about Lance, she would likely not react any differently.

Pidge, or rather Katie Holt, was indeed just as smart as Lance had emphasized. Not that there had been any doubt about it during the briefings and strategy talks leading up to their final stand, the young woman coming up with a multitude of scenarios whenever a new element and detail was added to their plans. Veronica was all too curious about finding out just how she was processing things so quickly even without a computer handy. In regards to snark, she and Rizavi would get along wonderfully.

Hunk was the main reason they had managed to salvage many of their vehicles in the aftermath of the fight. She had yet to taste any of his cooking (which Lance reminded her daily was to die for), but what she could say was that he was a creative engineer. Just the other day, she had listened to him chatter with his friends all the while helping one of their engineering groups restarting an emergency generator for a medical facility. In the end, he and the other engineers had ended up building it from scratch, Hunk throwing in suggestion to get the most out of it. Some of these adjustment sounded downright alien - which they most likely were.

Princess Allura herself was one of the most regal and beautiful women Veronica had ever had the pleasure to meet. Which may be why she was rooting for her brother and, subsequently, liked flustering Lance with comments and remarks regarding Allura’s interest in him. But as much as Allura was a princess, she was also a kind and devoted person, one of the first to rise to coordinate the actions for reconstruction and the last to leave in the evening.

Amazing people in their own rights and yet…

“I do not think staying with team Voltron as it currently is will do Lance a lot of good in the long run.”

She looked at Marco over the rim of her glasses.

Her earnestness must have hit a nerve, since slowly Marco’s surprised expression shifted from disbelief to concern, his brow furrowing and mouth pinched.

“What makes you say that? Lance seems to like them. Can’t be that bad then, can they?”

Veronica let those words settle a little.

No, the members of team Voltron were not bad people, not by a long shot. But just as any other individuals with agency, they had their faults and made mistakes.

Allura, as Veronica had noticed, could be somewhat stubborn if she saw herself in the right.

Hunk could be dismissive of others when under pressure.

Pidge had a tendency to be unrelenting, be it in her very scientific explanations or tasks she had set herself.

Keith seemed to not always think things through entirely, sometimes getting blindsided by details that had not been discussed prior, ultimately tripping him up.

But all of these, in Veronica’s opinion, were excusable.

She needed to take a deep breath, indignation rising inside her like bile. It was not helpful or necessary at the moment. She needed to keep a clear head. Marco’s judgement need not be clouded by her feelings.

“Did you know that when you are in a relationship long enough, you become deaf to certain things being repeatedly said, both parties no longer noticing it even happens?”

Marco gave a cough that soon turned into full-blown laughter.

“Tell me about it. Marta would never shut up about me messing with her nifty system for all of our clothes,” his expression lost a bit of its mirth. Veronica could only guess that he was mentally revisiting the rooms of a house that was probably destroyed like much else on Earth, “After a while, it just became a running gag. Heh, even the kids were getting a laugh out of it.”

“Exactly.”

He started at her sudden interjection, at the harshness in her voice as she gripped the glass she was still holding with a little more force.

She took another deep breath as Marco slowly came closer, taking with him his chair with protesting screeches from chair legs dragging across the floor.

Once sitting, he leaned forward, crossed arms resting on the table’s surface, face grim.

“What’s going on?”

Veronica raised her left hand, elbow still on the table and started massaging her temple with her thumb. The pain when she pressed just the right spot was distracting enough to calm her.

“I’ve been dealing with communications for a while now, to help with coordinating the reconstruction efforts. Ever since Lance told me about wanting to quit, I might have paid more attention to him and his team, however subconsciously,” her lips twitched but there was nothing funny about all of it, “And this past week, since taking over for officer Anatoly, I’ve been in charge of communicating them their tasks. For that, I’m on the comms constantly and I hear everything that’s going on.”

She took off her glasses, putting them in front of her, wiping at her tired eyes. The screens were doing them little good.

Marco was kind enough to wait, even went to refill her glass and Veronica thanked him for it.

“I cannot tell you how many times Lance has been treated as ‘dumb’ in this one week alone.”

Marco’s stared at her open-mouthed, indignation making his shoulders hunch and his brow furrow so deeply that Veronica was almost afraid the resulting wrinkles would be permanent.

His mouth closed with an audible clack that had both of them wincing, but it did obviously not quell Marco’s anger.

“All of them?” He merely asked, and suddenly Veronica was no longer sure this had been such a good idea.

She put a firm hand on his shoulder, felt him tremor slightly under it.

“Not all of them.”

It still did not seem to appease him.

“What about his commanding officer? Shouldn’t he intervene?”

Veronica resisted the urge to suck in her lips, thinking back to all of the instances where Captain Shirogane had indeed intervened when the team’s discussions went too far off topic for them to still be entirely concentrated on their tasks.

Her heart felt heavy.

When words failed her, she merely shook her head.

“Just as I said: you become deaf at some point.”

The chair went crashing down as Marco surged to his feet, stomping towards the door, and it took all of Veronica’s strength and weight to stop him as she latched onto his wrist with both her hands.

He turned on her sharply, his eyes ablaze with fury and Veronica was so, so glad that she was not at the receiving end of that raw fury.

“This solves nothing,” she reminded him, her voice calm while everything inside her was anything but.

Marco tried to unlatch her, but if he thought her training was for nothing then he was sorely mistaken.

“MY BROTHER DID NOT GO TO WAR TO BE CALLED DUMB!”

His voice boomed through the confined space and Veronica was beyond thankful that right now everyone else was still gone, that luckily it was just them here.

Marco gave another shot at throwing her off, but just as with the first time, Veronica stood her ground, digging the heels of her shoes into the floor.

“I agree with you, I do,” she amended, voice growing louder at the last few words as Marco still resisted, “But antagonizing the people he looks up to and loves is not going to help him!”

Because her brother had told her as much. Shortly after their heart-to-heart, Lance had repeatedly come to her when he could not sleep. As far as Veronica could guess, the impending decision was robbing Lance of sleep. As if recurring nightmares he refused talking about were not already doing a fine job of it. On one of those nights, as Lance had heavily leaned into her side with drooping eyes, he had whispered about the time he had spent hunting coins in a mall’s fountain to get Pidge some retro console from Earth. He had fondly whispered of Keith’s cluelessness about simple cheers, mentioned Hunk and Pidge’s reprogrammed Paladude, a gaming session with Coran and their team leader (and Lance still refused to tell her why he had suddenly been crying at that one), or how Allura had helped him train with a cool sword he had yet to show Veronica.

Lance, undoubtedly, loved his team just as much as he loved them. And Veronica did not doubt that if she asked the team, they would likely call Lance their friend. That did not mean however, that they were properly showing their appreciation.

Veronica would be lying if she said that none of their own family had never called Lance a ‘brat’ or a ‘dumbass’ on occasion. Because Lance, for all of his helpfulness and sweetness, could be a pain to be around. Still, at the end of the end of the day and after every sibling squabble, there never had been any doubt that they loved and supported him.

And as she had observed recently, Lance had very much mellowed out and matured during his stay in space.

Which was why she agreed with Marco’s statement but could not allow her very loyal older brother to hunt down any perceived offenders on Lance’s behalf.

Lance did not need added conflict in his life, and Veronica would not forgive herself if she were to become the source of it.

Marco gave a huff but remained still, face turned to the closed door leading to the hall.

Veronica seized her chance.

“I want Lance to be happy. I promised him that I would respect his decision no matter what. And there might be a chance that Lance does want to go back out there. You’ve noticed as well, right?”

The way Lance would sometimes look out at the night sky, tiny dots of light reflected in his eyes as he gazed out with a longing that was far beyond any of their understanding. It was the core of Lance’s conflict.

He had seen space and its wonders, was enticed by it like those old sailors by the sirens’ calls, but just like the legendary Odysseus, her brother was tired and weary just like most of his friends.

And if Veronica had to guess, there was a good amount of loyalty involved in Lance’s indecisiveness.

Loyalty to his friends.

Loyalty to his duty as a defender of the universe.

Loyalty to their family.

Marco was growing less tense under her touch, allowing Veronica to let go with one hand to cover her eyes.

“If Lance wants to go back out there, I will let him,” her voice dropped to almost a whisper, “but I do not want him to be stuck with people that will inevitably bring him down.”

There was pressure building behind her eyes.

“I don’t want to lose him too.”

Barely a minute ago, she had held onto her brother to stop him from leaving, and the next she found herself enveloped in a bone crushing hug.

They held onto each other for a long time, Marco drawing back first as he gave her an apologetic smile.

“Is there any way to fix this mess?”

Veronica had given it some thought over the past few days. The conclusion she had come to was daunting.

“I think the first thing that needs to be done is addressing the issue. At this point, I’m afraid that Lance will try to rationalize it.”

When they had been younger, Lance tended to do that a lot. He might grow angry if someone treated him unfairly, but in the end he would always find a way to explain it away. Usually the common nominator was Lance himself. In an educational environment, it had sometimes saved Lance’s behind, since he’d end up applying himself more for upcoming tests.

But this was not school, and this was not merely tests they were talking about.

Veronica loathed to think what conclusions her might already have or might come to in the future, should a mission go wrong.

Marco gave a groan next to her, knowing all too well what his sister was referring to.

“What’s more is that Lance is not doing himself any favors. I’m talking about dismissing input that is too complex for him and shutting down attempts to simplify it.”

Because she had heard it herself. Usually it was Pidge, sometimes the Altean advisor that Lance would shut down the moment they went to explain a given topic in depth. At this point, it also no longer mattered whether this behavior was the origin or the result of the team’s perception of Lance.

“You called?”

Marco froze at the voice sounding from the door they had not heard opening, and Veronica felt any hope of formulating a plan of attack fly out of the window.

Marco turning around allowed them to look at Lance who stood in the entrance, head cocked to the side and holding out a generic white plastic bag.

Lance’s eyebrow was drawn up, giving both of them a very questioning look.

His expression was enough to tell them he had undoubtedly heard that last part.

This was not how she wanted this conversation to happen, but if they did not tackle this at once it would only lead to misunderstandings.

Marco was ready to stammer his way through a lie, she could practically hear the gears turning frantically inside his skull, and she decided to intervene at once.

“Actually, yes,” she gestured at the table with a placating smile, faltering a little when she noticed the chair still lying on the ground. That detail did not escape Lance’s notice and he frowned all the harder for it.

This was not going as planned.

Lance needed to be as relaxed as possible. She needed a distraction.

“What do you have there?” She asked, glancing at the plastic bag still dangling from Lance’s wrist. He appeared taken aback by her sudden interest, but a genuine, excited smile spread on his face.

“Oh! Yeah, this is from Hunk. I asked him if he could cook something for you guys, since none of you believe me he’s a good cook.”

He was bouncing over to the area where the plastic plates and cutlery were stored and Veronica watched a little helplessly as Lance set the table for the three of them while Marco quietly put the chair back in its place.

He looked so happy, pouring water into an electric kettle while dumping a few spoonful of a powder substituting coffee into three mugs.

She wanted this to last. She wanted for Lance to smile like this more often, to be happy and not worry about leaving people behind.

Once everything was set for the three of them, Lance saying he hoped the others would come soon, he finally wrangled out an inconspicuous hot pink bowl out of the bag. The moment he removed the lid, Veronica could feel her mouth water.

“Are those...,” Marco started, voice almost an awed whisper.

Lance’s grin was almost reaching his ears: “Yep!”

There was no mistaking it. Veronica would recognize one of her favorites from a mile away.

She knew she was gaping in a very undignified way but…

“How?” she breathed, taking one of the looped pastries between her fingers, inspecting it with wonderment.

“Don’t ask me. I have no idea how Hunk still managed to cook half of the stuff we ate on our trip back and still make it look like Earth food,” his expression momentarily turned into a grimace before easing into something less disgusted, “Sometimes you really don’t wanna know though.“

He shuddered a little while Marco was already biting off half of his buñuelo, slapping the table with the flat of his palm.

“This is so good,” he finally said, looking close to tears.

They laughed good-naturedly as Marco reached for a second, when his first one was still held in his other hand.

It looked and smelled a lot like the pastry they had baked back at home on special occasions. Hunk had even taken care of covering it with thin streaks of dark caramel. It was every bit as soft and tasty as it looked when she took her first bite, and she now understood Marco’s sudden outburst.

It was one of the few pieces of home she’d had in a few years.

“It’s really good,” she said, actually sniffling, making Lance laugh again.

“I know.”

They ate in silence, Lance closing the lid once they each had two (“So there is some for the others!” he had reprimanded Marco), and each taking a sip from their coffee.

Marco had been won over, obvious in how he kept pestering Lance with questions.

“Where did your friend even get all of the ingredients? Do they have a secret stash of cassava here on the base?”

“Once again: don’t ask me, ask Hunk. He can tell you.”

That had Veronica looking up, still cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt. Under the automated evening lights, Lance looked a little washed out. Now wonder, his day had been longer than hers, even without actually having spent that much of it outside of the base.

Now or never. She put her glasses back on, turning to Lance fully and garnering his attention at once.

“On that same matter, Lance,” and she almost did not say it, not when this would instantly break this small reprieve from their everyday lives, “you get along with your teammates, don’t you?”

For a few tense seconds it looked like she had broken Lance with her question.

His chuckles were filled with confusion and discomfort.

“What are you talking about? Of course we get along, we’re team Voltron after all.”

She could feel Marco’s nervousness as if it were her own. This was not going to be a nice conversation.

“I’m not merely asking about your cohesiveness as a team, I’m asking about your solidarity as a group of friends.”

Lance was already reclining back into his chair, his eyebrows going up as he stared at her in incomprehension, hands bracing against the edge of the table.

“Veronica, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

She was ready to retort, when Marco beat her to it.

“Are you really okay with your friends calling you dumb?”

She could not believe him. Veronica threw him a glare she hoped would melt his head off but Marco just returned hers without any remorse.

Their attention was drawn back to Lance as he waved his hands around.

“Woah, woah, hold on a tick! What’s this about? And what’s up with you anyway!” He addressed Marco directly, irritation palpable in his voice.

“This is not some kind of joke Lance,” Veronica interjected, giving her younger brother a stern look that threw him off, “You know I’ve been listening to you for a while over your channels, and I admit that I… do not entirely approve of what I’ve heard so far.”

It was more than just “not merely approving” but there was no need to rile Lance up further. If he was any bit as protective of team Voltron as he was of them, there would be no getting through to him by accusing them of anything.

Still, Lance’s eyes moved from her to Marco quickly, obviously not understanding or accepting what was happening right now.

Finally, and sadly, he leaned back with his arms crossed. She wanted to hit Marco for his blunder. This was now going to be harder than ever.

“My relationship with my team is great. What do you even mean by the stuff you heard?”

Band-aid it was then. Quick and painful.

“I am not okay with my brother being repeatedly told and treated as an idiot.”

Hurt flashed across Lance’s face at that but what really caught Veronica’s attention was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. So he was not as unaware as he pretended to be.

He swallowed dryly, hunching in on himself, his eyes shielded by his brown locks with how much he’d lowered his head.

His words were so low she almost did not catch them.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She was ready to explode from tension alone at this point.

“It does, Lance. It matters to me and everyone else!”

She had not meant to shout but this was just too much. Both Lance and Marco jerked in their seats at her outburst. The defiance he had previously shown was quickly bleeding out of Lance, as he made himself even smaller. He suddenly looked like he’d aged at least a decade.

Still, he said nothing, not in his defense nor of his friends. Just sat here with them; a tense silence consuming them all.

Marco was careful in pushing his chair away as he got up. Veronica was unsure what he wanted to do, knowing Marco he might either stay or leave to fight this battle another day.

Relief flooded her when instead of going to the door, Marco circled the table and before Lance could even react, had their brother enveloped in a tight hug. It was a little awkward, Marco having bent down his bulk to embrace Lance while the latter’s arms hovered in the air a little uselessly, blinking back at Veronica in confusion.

Marco was not really a man of words, and Veronica not someone who sprung into action easily. But maybe, with their forces combined, they might be able to get through to him.

“Lance,” she said quietly, her calm voice having her brother glance at her with his still bewildered expression, “I know you really love your friends, but that is no excuse for them to walk all over you when they hurt you. Even if they do it unintentionally.”

He was enraptured by her face, not even caring about the tears undoubtedly clouding his vision.

Time to put her cards on the table.

“I would feel better knowing that, if you go back up there again, you do it with people that respect you and your boundaries.”

There was no more holding back the tears. Lance’s entire face crumbled, one of many small sobs bursting out of him as he kept staring at Veronica pleadingly, his arms at once clinging to Marco so tightly he might leave bruises.

Not that Marco minded, Veronica could see Lance’s jacket straining a little with how tightly he was winding his arms around him.

Veronica settled with smiling at them fondly.

One step at a time while the clock kept on ticking.

#vld #voltron #vld s7 #vld season 7 #vld spoilers #lance #veronica #marco #Serene writes #completed #i'm on my shit again

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elfnerdherder · 6 years

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Ill Intentions: Chapter 13

[Support my Writing] [Read on Ao3]

A shout out to my patrons, with whom I have ardent admiration for: @jenacar @frostyleegraham @evertonem @starlit-catastrophe @sylarana @kenobi-is-king @frostylicker Mendacious Bean, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, and Cecily!

Another huge, huge shoutout to kenobi-is-king for such a happy surprise for me when I got on my computer today. This fanart of Will Graham blew me away, and I’m so thankful to them for their work! It honestly made me tear up. :)

Chapter 13: Plot Progression -The True Bane of the Writer

Beverly and Abigail enjoyed their arrangement just as much as Will supposed they would. They eyed one another speculatively, shook hands, then left Will on the steps of the office building with a turn to their shoulders said that they weren’t going to be friends in the near future. Their common denominator thought to feel a bit guilty at foisting them together, but in truth he didn’t.

The air stung his nose as he headed home. He’d only realized that it was time to leave when Beverly had come up to him and asked if he was going to try and put in OT for being late. Late. He was late on everything, wasn’t he? His head pounded in time with the pressure of his feet on the concrete. Had he eaten? Had he ever gone and gotten water?

His stomach gurgled furiously. Those peanuts hadn’t gone a long way in providing sustenance. No, he hadn’t fucking gotten water.

He only stayed in his apartment long enough to change. The place was still a dilapidated mess from the overturned chairs to the kitchen utensils that littered the floors and counters. He pocketed a few important tools, then saw himself outside once more where he managed to convince a taxi cab to take him to Baltimore.

He wouldn’t begin to imagine just how much he spent just to get a ride to fucking Baltimore.

He didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing, though. Darkness had fallen by the time that he arrived to the posh and non-descript neighborhood, and he waited until the taxicab had driven around a corner before he turned in the opposite direction of the address he’d given in order to head towards the house at the end of the lane.

It was cute, in a Tudor-style sort of way. White fencing trimmed windows, and the rich stonework along the walkway to the front door looked as though someone took great care not to allow grass to grow between the cracks and ruin the aesthetic. It was the kind of home that a psychiatrist would have, Will supposed. Lush evergreen bushes dotted a mildly Asian-inspired garden with Japanese maples whose rich red leaves still clung to the thin branches. Resilient. As he walked just on the edge of what appeared to be motion-sensor lights fixed on the yard, he plucked a leaf idly from one of the branches. He paused by the tree and crushed it in his palm, pressing the leaf to his nose. It was bitter yet sweet, and he wondered if that was much the way that his life seemed to be going –each individual breath holding some taste of one or the other in an equal enough balance to keep him from blowing his brains out. He couldn’t say that his life was bad. He wouldn’t yet call it good, either.

This is the most fun that you’ve had in years.

He slipped around back and hopped a fence, ducking behind well-trimmed hedges. There was a pond whose waterfall gurgled and spit water down artfully laid rocks, lily pads and natural overhangs hiding what Will figured would be a delicate collection of Koi. No self-respecting psychiatrist would fill a pond like that with anything other than Koi. Goldfish would be the cheaper route, but the Chesapeake Ripper of all people wouldn’t cut corners in his garden décor.

Will found his entry point at one of the only blind spots that he could find –perched on the top of the 6 ft. privacy fence, he managed to hoist himself up using a wall trellis. A few broken vines and a couple of curses took him to the roof where he slipped through the attic window. Most people didn’t lock attic windows.

It was just as neat and tidy inside as the garden was. Even among the dust and aged smell of old things, there was a clear order to the boxes. They were labeled in a neat hand, but although the looping curve of the ‘G’ was familiar, the rest of it was not.

What if he’s not the one you’re looking for?

Quite simply, he was fucked. He wasn’t going to even begin to figure how he’d be able to justify his actions to Agent Crawford should he find out what Will had been up to in the middle of the night. The cops would laugh if he accused someone that casually kept a koi pond well-maintained this far into the chilly season. People like that didn’t hide bodies. People like Will Graham, however, broke into homes in the middle of the night on a really, really good hunch.

That, and the guy had his watch.

He forewent lowering the attic stairs in order to drop silently down onto what appeared to be a thick, plush carpet. His steps made no sound; nary a squeak on the wood as he ventured deeper into the house and down a hall that led to a master bedroom just beside a curving staircase.

It was empty; Will wasn’t sure whether or not to feel relief or a mild sense of disappointment at the neatly made bed and the curtains adorning the four-post bed. A quick scan of the end tables didn’t reveal any watch or master plan, although Will pointedly left behind something small, something unmistakable if it was the Chesapeake Ripper. In the walk-in closet, suits of various twills and plaids hung in sleeve order, followed by color order. When he found a small box containing handkerchief squares, he pocketed one, fingers worrying over the embroidery of H.L. No watch. No fucking watch.

The house was dark, sharp outlines of vases adorning end tables casting layers of shadows on wine-colored walls. While the outside boasted a modestly expensive garden, the interior of the home felt like old money, the kind of money someone was born into rather than earned. Natural, was the word for it. Will descended the stairs, careful to mind weak floorboards. The grandeur of the house was natural.

He wasn’t sure how he would know when it was time to leave –when he discovered his watch? The owner of the home? Evidence? Will perused a sitting room that didn’t seem to have been sat in much, and he passed fingers along a grand piano. The lid was lowered, but he imagined the rich tones of harmonies woven through effortless fingertips gracing the ivory. It wasn’t the sound from the neck of a dead man that Will heard, but something sharper, like pricking an unsuspecting finger on a cruel thorn.

Will tried to imagine the thoughts that nestled among the floorboards and heating vents. He tried to feel the skin of the Chesapeake Ripper as fingertips glided along a bannister; he wondered if he sometimes roamed these halls as Will did, searching but not yet finding. He could see the elegance in the artwork on the wall. He could feel the sophistication in the subtle scent of rosewater and ivy that permeated the air. If the person that owned this house wasn’t the Chesapeake Ripper, they were certainly something much like him.

It wasn’t until he found the kitchen that Will knew what he was truly there for. The pantry held a meat freezer, and within that cooler there were two neat little rows of package-sealed meat.

On each package, there was a sensible tag that labeled a date.

Will’s heart stuttered, then stopped. He wheezed a breath, and with clammy yet eager hands he grabbed three packages of meat with three very specific dates –he barely remembered to take a photo of the rows on his phone before he was rushing from the pantry with his breath in his ears. He had something. He had something.

He fucking had something.

His heart didn’t stop pounding until long after he’d gotten back to his apartment. His breaths couldn’t quite grasp onto an even pace, even as he paced his apartment with three very special packages of meat in his freezer. His phone read the time 3:23 A.M. He still had time.

With careful deliberation, he scrolled through his contacts and hovered over a very specific number, one he hadn’t thought to call in a long, long time. He glanced to the freezer, then back to his phone.

Molly Foster, ex-girlfriend to Will Graham, answered on the seventh ring.

“If you’re drunk, Will, I really don’t have the time,” she said. Time had taken the sting out of her words; in truth, it sounded more like fatigued repetition from a person that knew the words to say without having to miss a beat.

“I’m not drunk.”

“Do you promise?”

Hearing her voice made his stomach turn. “I never lied about drinking. I didn’t feel the need to.”

“I have to ask, you know. It’s three in the morning, and you’re calling me.”

“It’s the perfect crime,” Will agreed. He propped his chin in his hand and resisted the pressing need to tap his foot in order to track seconds. If he’d had his watch, he wouldn’t have felt the need.

“Does Beverly know you’re calling me?”

“I couldn’t sleep, and I thought about you. I just wanted to hear your voice, Molly.”

“I’m not a booty call, Will Graham.”

“I wouldn’t do you the disservice, Molly Foster.”

They were quiet. Will thought about the silk texture of the Ripper’s lapels in his hands. He’d wanted to destroy, then. Something had stopped him, though, stopped him from the moment in which he could have brought the Chesapeake Ripper to his knees at an art gala in Baltimore.

He didn’t like thinking about why he’d hesitated.

That would spoil the fun.

“How have you been?” Molly finally asked. Her voice changed, softened around the consonants rather than spitting them.

“Not too good. I think I over-estimated my ability to be alone.”

“You purposefully isolate yourself,” Molly reminded him.

“I know, I know,” Will replied, and he twisted on the couch in order to lay down. He tracked dust motes dancing from the lights of the traffic below lazily. “I maintain that I’ve never really known how to be around people. I’m learning.”

“Will…I have seen the news, you know. How’s… that been working out?”

His gaze darted to the freezer again.

“It’s fine,” he assured her, quietly. “It’s been…fine, really. The news makes it sound worse than it is.”

“I thought about calling you, but then I also remembered that you can be an ass.”

“I can be sociable. How’s this: how have you been, Molly? Are you still working in the bio labs at GWU?”

Her laughed was muffled, but he still heard it. “Yes, I have. I’ve been promoted.”

“Wow, that’s…that’s great,” he said, and he meant it. “I’ve been writing wedding announcements.”

That time, the laugh wasn’t muffled. “What are you doing tomorrow?” A brief pause. “Much, much later today?”

“I can clear my schedule,” Will promised.

“You do that.” She yawned, and it was so endearing that it made him cringe, made him wonder just what the hell it was that he thought he was doing. “I’m going to go back to sleep. Good night, Will.”

“Good night, Molly.”

He set the phone down only after he heard the line disconnect. It’d been awhile since he’d last spoken to Molly Foster. She had a warm heart and a dry wit, and Will had followed along because she didn’t mind his idiosyncrasies and the way he sometimes woke up at night covered in sweat and shaking. She accepted him until he made himself unacceptable. It hadn’t been an amicable break, but there was never the bitterness of harsh words exchanged or tense silences after. Their break-up had been more sorrowful than angering. It’d felt like something had been cut short before it’d had the chance to even begin to grow –a flower plucked too soon.

He didn’t regret it, though. Molly Foster wanted children and a white picket fence one day. Will wasn’t quite sure how things were going to end for him, but he could safely bet that a white picket fence wasn’t on the list of what the Chesapeake Ripper had in store.

And considering how poorly he handled Abigail Hobbs, Will was more than confident that children were about as good of an idea as him being foisted into wedding announcements.

He fell asleep on his couch only after he had it barricaded against his front door, to better prevent the Chesapeake Ripper from dropping in on him. He dreamt of overcooked meat and a fisherman’s hook dangling just out of reach. His wrist was bare and lacking.

His temporary watch was awful.

It was a classic analog that he dug out of an overturned drawer from his bedroom end table. Any extra money that he could have used to buy a new watch had been spent on taxi fares –next paycheck, then. He wasn’t sure how to go about removing that watch from his data plan while it was still having payments made on it, but the need to have all of his communications blocked from the Chesapeake Ripper’s prying eyes was at the top of his list of things to-do.

He remembered his water bottle, although it wasn’t until halfway to work that he realized he hadn’t filled it with water. He’d forgotten to do laundry. He wondered if Freddie would notice that he still had the small stain on his shirt cuff from spilling coffee in the break room. Breakfast had gone cold by the time he’d remembered to eat it. Cold oatmeal. Cold coffee. Bare wrist.

Jack Crawford met him at the door to the office building with two coffees and a stern jaw. Will wondered if the Chesapeake Ripper had found his calling card yet.

“I was given word that Abigail Hobbs visited here yesterday,” Jack said by way of greeting.

Will accepted the coffee. “She was upstairs when I got there.”

“You didn’t think to call?”

“The last boyfriend I had that kept harping about me calling every time something happened at least had dinner and drinks waiting back at the apartment when I got home.” Will gestured with the coffee cup, then took a long drink of it. It was black with no sugar –the ex-boyfriend had been far more attentive to sugar-coating things in order to placate Will’s frustrations at feeling like a child that had to check in with their mother every ten minutes. At least that relationship hadn’t ended because of Will.

“I’m pushy in relationships.”

“I could figure that without you telling me.”

They tracked cars inching by in the early morning traffic, their sour feelings punctuated by the occasional sips they took from the cardboard cups. At least this coffee was hot.

“Abigail Hobbs is being investigated,” Jack finally confessed. His comradery tasted like the small grinds that’d found their way into the coffee. “I think she was helping her dad.”

Will’s most vibrant dreams had been Abigail leading her father back to his apartment so that they could strangle him. His breaths shortened, then stuttered. He took a gulp of hot coffee and regretted it.

“Why do you think that?”

“You have your tricks, and I have a good gut feeling. My gut is rarely wrong.”

“What’s your gut say about me?” Will wondered.

Jack’s mouth puckered, and he wouldn’t look at Will. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

That was better than Jack saying that he hated Will, that his gut said to take Will and lock him as far underground as possible with no possible key for release. Maybe he wouldn’t feel the same if he knew just where Will Graham was the night before. Will unconsciously reached into his coat pocket in order to stroke over the embroidered initials on the handkerchief. His token. His prize. It was grounding to feel such an accomplishment. No watch, but if he sneezed then he was taken care of.

He wondered if the Ripper had sent more fan mail yet.

“I met her, and my empathy says that she’s scared as hell,”

“What’d she want to talk about?”

“Mostly she wanted to see the person that incidentally became the reason you had to kill her father,” Will replied pleasantly. “She wasn’t impressed with me.”

An understatement. The look on Jack’s face said far more than words could. Will swallowed down a sneer and glanced to his watch. He was late.

“What do you think of her being an accomplice?”

“What do you think of her being an accomplice?” Will countered. He didn’t want Jack to know what he thought about Abigail’s lure. He wondered if Beverly and Abigail had found some sort of truce while settling into Bev’s apartment.

“I think it’s too much of a coincidence that she managed to find girls that looked remarkably like her every time she went to a college to check it out, became decent enough acquaintances with them that her father was able to stalk them and then murder them within a day or two of her meeting them. The first, maybe, but after eight…?”

He wasn’t wrong. It was suspicious at best, downright bone-chilling at worst. Will chewed on his bottom lip and rolled his words about carefully.

“She’s not got a unique profile, Jack,” he said when he found the right angle. Careful, careful. Speech wasn’t like writing where one had the ease of editing and fine-tuning the words to sound just perfect enough to resonate. “Brown hair, blue eyes, pale and freckled is a consistent appearance in mid-American Caucasians. I’d say more popular than the blonde hair and blue-eyed stereotype.”

“I had her checked out by a psychiatrist back in DC, and they said she has a penchant for manipulation.”

“Yeah, so do you.”

“And you,” Jack agreed.

Will wasn’t sure why he was defending her, but he let out a quiet huff of breath and nodded. “With that logic, then, we should all be on the chopping block. Manipulation is a trait of psychopaths.”

“Where’s she at now, Will?” Jack asked, ignoring Will’s jab.

“Are you taking her in?” At Jack’s pointed glare, he relented. “I had her stay with Beverly. She had nowhere to go, and I figured it’d be inappropriate with me.”

His straight answer mollified Jack, but only just. Will wondered how long it’d be until Jack snapped and tried to wring his neck. “How do you see her?” he asked Will. When Will opened his mouth, he added hastily, “No shit. When you look at her, tell me what you see.”

That was a little trickier to answer. Will stalled by sipping his coffee and pretending to consider Jack’s question, brow furrowed. He glanced to his watch. No notifications. It was a terrible watch. The fact that he hadn’t found the watch at that house had been infuriating, to say the least. His watch would have urged him to finish his coffee. This watch ticked seconds like small strikes against him.

“I think she’s uncertain, and she’s trying to find her footing,” he said at last. “I think those victims weren’t the only ones that her dad kept tight control over. She’s putting on a good show, but that’s a scared kid, Jack. Trauma victims react in sporadic ways. I didn’t shoot dear old dad, but I made a small column that led to his death. She can’t blame the FBI for doing their job, but reporters are great scape goats. I think she could have known, but then again; I think it’s just as easy to say that she didn’t. There’s no proof to say either way.”

“He tried to kill her when we arrived. Killed his wife, had a knife to her throat when we came in.”

“He was loving up until he couldn’t love anymore. That fucks with a kid’s head, no matter how monstrous their parent is.”

“What were your parents like?” Jack asked. It sounded far more curious than aggressive or accusatory.

“Foster care,” he replied automatically. “Had a lot of parents. Some were great, one ran the next-door neighbor’s cat over and buried it in the backyard. Never told the neighbor. I hated that.”

Jack found that enormously funny. He didn’t guffaw or laugh obnoxiously, but he did allow a very thin-lipped smile to overtake him. He huffed a couple of short breaths and looked down in order to watch his shoe scuff over a few rocks and pebbles.

“I figure that as long as she’s not a runaway, Jack, she could stick around here. Beverly said she’ll only let her stay if she gets a job, so that’s probably what she’s doing right now. Job hunting and trying to put her horrors as far back behind her as possible.”

“The doctor that administered the psychiatric evaluation said that it’s too soon. Repressing isn’t healing.”

“You can’t call it repressing when she sat down across from me and asked if I’d intended for her dad to die right in front of her,” Will said cheerfully. “That’s pretty damn direct.”

“Keep me posted on her is all I’m saying, Will. You can do that, can’t you?”

Will certainly could, although he’d probably be just as particular and careful in what he relayed as he was with the Ripper case. He watched Jack climb into an SUV just at the curb after his coffee was finished, and he headed into work with an odd feeling in his stomach. Probably the coffee. He’d let it grow cold. Fucking watch.

Will was just sitting down outside of the small café that Molly had chosen to meet at when he received a call. In truth, he only realized that he’d gotten a call because the guy just to the side of him let out a loud, unattractive sigh and jabbed his shoulder roughly, once. Will looked away from the thick, fat clouds that threatened snow and blinked at him owlishly.

“You gonna answer that, or you just gonna keep letting that shit ring?” the guy asked, clearly annoyed.

That is when the sound of his ringtone finally broke through the haze of his thoughts, left him equally annoyed as he managed a sheepish “sorry,” and picked up the phone. The man uttered a short curse and went back to reading the newspaper –Tattler News. Will hoped he wasn’t another Avid Fan. He sincerely hoped that he wasn’t recognized.

“Are you ignoring my calls now?” The Chesapeake Ripper wondered. Amusement colored his tone.

His voice filtering through the tinny speaker made Will’s skin heat up. He stood and wandered away from the man nearby that eyed him suspiciously over the top of the paper. He eyed the thick clouds overhead, then looked out across the street where busy passerby hurried home after work. Traffic was thick, heavy with a sense of impatience, and curses hissed from clenched teeth. Horns honked and middle fingers were liberally shared through intersections. Molly was late. Will’s wrist wasn’t bare, but it might as well have been. How many steps had he taken?

“Or is your anger at missing your watch so encompassing that you cannot even find the words to share?” he continued, seemingly unworried over Will’s silence. “If I stood in front of you, would you resort instantaneously to violence?”

“Any violence given would be overdue for you, I think,” he said after a moment. He tried to collect scattered thoughts like dust motes.

“You reflect the world around you. If you give violence, it is because violence was first given to you.”

“And if I steal, you’d say it was only because something was first stolen from me?”

The Chesapeake Ripper was quiet at that. He didn’t sound as though he were among the hustle and bustle of post-work traffic, but then again; the first time around Will had only known because the Ripper wanted him to know. He itched to ask about his calling card, but he refrained.

That would spoil the fun.

“That is the way the theory of mirror neurons work, but I’ve come to find that after childhood mirror neurons don’t work the same way for humans as they do our primate cousins. You reflect the world around you because that is how you are able to pass among the general populace.”

“If you tell Jack Crawford that, I’m positive that he’d ensure I was institutionalized,” Will said dryly.

“Giving the illustrious Agent Jack Crawford a ‘bone’ is actually not on the list of things that I’m willing to do,” the Ripper assured him. “You’re safe from me.”

Will laughed, and when the sound didn’t do the feeling justice, he laughed a little harder. It scraped from him, and he thought about Jack asking him to keep tabs on a teenage girl, as though he could be trusted with something like looking after rebellious teens. He took one of her cigarettes out and lit it, taking a drag of the menthol. Seconds ticked with the pulse that pressed just at his temple, threatening a headache. Fucking menthols.

“You’re collecting a following,” the Ripper said when Will’s laughter died down. If he mentioned his stolen items, he’d surely give it away, wouldn’t he? Will’s stomach lurched, curled in on itself at the thought. Was absence of acknowledging it just as damning as mentioning it?

“Sooner or later, every psychopath will climb out of the woodwork just for a chance to be featured in my column,” Will replied. “What would you do then?”

“Come now, Will, you know that I don’t share.”

“Neither do I.”

“And yet you’ve found yourself rekindling an old flame?” the Ripper wondered. His teasing tone was just curt enough when he said ‘rekindling’ that Will grasped onto it immediately. “I see from your watch that she is running late but will be there in approximately five minutes.”

Such casual mention made his tongue curl, made his teeth clench tight as he snarled.

“What else do you see on my watch?” Will asked snidely.

“I see your sleep schedule is abysmal at best, and you drink a fair amount of water considering your otherwise terrible diet. In truth, I’ve mostly been intrigued by the reminders that you have set up. They’re quite persistent.”

Will saw Molly pass by the café, her car slowing to turn into the parking lot. He wandered away from the entrance, phone pressed tight to his ear as though he could ingrain some part of the Ripper’s voice into his skin. His breath came short.

“Your alarm starts the day early, and before you’ve even left the house you’ve ensured that at least one cup of coffee and one glass of water has been consumed. You remind yourself to collect your things by the door, and you remind yourself to practice a polite smile in the mirror in your bathroom. You remind yourself which stop to take on the bus, what time you should be at work, and you remind yourself to grab a glass of water before you sit down. After a couple of hours, you’ll have hopefully taken a lap or two around the office while refilling your water, and you have a reminder to tell you when it is appropriate to eat.

“Your entire day is structured from the moment you wake until the moment you sleep, but what I found most fascinating were the reminders that you set in order to appear more human than you really are. ‘Check in with Charlie’ took precedent over ‘make small talk,’ which only went off approximately ten minutes after ‘eat lunch’ prompted you to stop working. You have a reminder for leaving work, as well as a reminder for ensuring that you’ve had another cup of water before you left. You remind yourself to get necessities at the drug store near your apartment. You remind yourself to prepare dinner, followed by a reminder to eat the dinner that you’ve prepared.

“One of my favorites, though, would have to be the reminder that you set periodically throughout the day, in between reminders to exercise and prompts to make eye contact. ‘Wake up,’ as if to imply that you exist in a state of dreaming unless otherwise prompted. Do you oftentimes forget what reality looks like, Will?”

“If you’re jealous about Molly, don’t be,” Will rasped, and he was ashamed at how the Ripper’s words tore right through him, left gaping holes where his insides should be. “She was just another dream, once.”

“And now?” the Ripper inquired, saccharine sweet.

“I hope you’re getting your steps in. If you mess up my streak by the time I get my watch back, I won’t be happy about it.”

“A missed day is a red day, yes?” he asked. At Will’s grunt of affirmation, “I’ll endeavor. I’m not sure if your mild form of O.C.D. could handle the indignity of seeing a jarring discoloration on the days of the week that as of late consistently glow green. Congratulations, by the way. You’ve recently increased your step goal.”

Will had a sharp retort for that, but he was surprised by a loud and sharp sneeze that made his throat burn. He withdrew the handkerchief and pressed it to his mouth. It smelled like laundry detergent.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.” A beat, then, “Thankfully, I found a nice handkerchief for use in polite company.”

“Embroidered, no doubt.”

Molly waved to him, and Will headed towards her, swallowing down something sharp. She was layered in a sensible winter ensemble, complete with plaid scarf and a loosely fitted beanie that made her hair frame her round, pink cheeks. A dream. A dream, and Will stomped down the mild sense of guilt at seeing her smile grow upon taking in his suit and peacoat. “No doubt. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Will. Enjoy your dream, but try to remember when it’s time to wake up.”

Will couldn’t bring himself to admit out loud that he was already awake –had been since Jack Crawford first showed up to inform him that the Minnesota Shrike was dead.

This is the most fun you’ve had in years.

#LiaS scribbles #Ill Intentions #hannibal fanfic #hannibal au #hannigram #will graham #someone help will graham #jack crawford #Molly Foster #hannibal x will graham #slowburn hannigram #dark!will #Grey!will #Journalist!will

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mikeshanlon · 6 years

Text

he’s all that: chapter two

fandom: it

pairing: reddie (richie tozier/eddie kaspbrak)

word count: 5k

one | on ao3

summary:

Richie smiled smugly, “You’ve got spunk Kaspbrak. I like that.”

“Why don’t you try shutting the fuck up Tozier,” Eddie retorted as the line moved forward, “So what is this, if not some ploy to get me to tutor you? Some sort of dork outreach program? Because I’m not interested.”

—

Or: The one where Richie Tozier has six weeks to get into a relationship and make someone fall for him. Only problem? That someone is the anxiety ridden, goody two shoes Eddie Kaspbrak, and he can’t even stand to be in the same room as Richie.

warnings: there is drug use in that bev/mike/richie are HUGE stoners. also this chapter there is mentions to maggie being an alcoholic.

a/n: hey! decided to post two weeks in a row just to get the ball rolling (which is why i still dont have all the chapters figured out as promised, my apologies). i'll probably start the every other week thing for next update (so chapter three should be up by march 4th). i would try to do every week but im a college student who has Stuff to do and also makes gifs and im horrible at finishing my writing so, giving myself a realistic deadline that will still hopefully produce quality work. anyways, richie and eddie finally interact this chapter! it's....................... a bit messy though. and we get to see the rest of the losers club in this one too.

tag list: @richietoaster, @wintersember, @howellhxlic, @ed-txzier, @clara-farl3y

After standing in the hallway arguing with Bev for ten minutes, (“I mean really Bevs, fuck!” “You said anyone.” “How do we even know he’s gay?!” “Richie, please.”) Richie resigned himself to the fact that he was going to find some way to charm Eddie. Maybe Beverly would let him borrow that spellbook she bought junior year when she had become obsessed with witchcraft and hexing the patriarchy.

Once school was finally over, Richie dropped off Mike at his farm per usual, ranting about the bet the whole ride over. The farm boy nodded along, but he knew the words ‘told you so’ sat on the tip of his tongue.

They pulled up to his house, the engine idling so he wouldn’t have to spend time getting it to start again, “Don’t wait up for me tonight if you wanna smoke. Got lotsa research in store,” Richie said as Mike grabbed his backpack and got out of the car.

Mike raised a brow, leaning into the passenger window (which in its broken state always stayed down), “I’m surprised Rich. You never do your homework.”

“Homework shmomwork,” he tapped the end of his cigarette out the window before taking another drag, “Gotta figure out what little ol’ Edward likes. Time for some deep dark internet exploration.”

“Ah, you’re gonna stalk him. Wasting time on social media does sound much more in character,” Mike smiled.

“It’s not a waste Mikey darlin’, a shit ton of preemo dank is on the line.”

The other boy laughed and shook his head, “Godspeed Tozier.”

Richie saluted Mike as he reversed out back to the main road, Bigmouth Strikes Again blasting on the old car radio.

He weaved through the streets filled with kids walking home or trying to find something to do in this shit-hole town. Long afternoons spent at The Aladdin watching the newest releases or aggressively slamming his fingers down on his favorite game at the arcade came to mind; along with going out of his way to bother just about everyone in his path. Richie never really had many friends when he was younger, spending most of his time alone. He was grateful he crossed paths with Bev and Mike, to fate, luck, God if it existed. The universe was rarely kind to him, but finding them was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Plus, the first time he had smoked weed, but that was with them too.

Turning onto his street, Richie pulled up to the unsuspecting two-story white house. It was straight out of a handbook on the American Dream; but the closer one looked, the imperfections started to appear.

The box overflowing with bottles once filled with alcohol next to the recycling bin, which was already too full with more empty bottles. A crooked ‘Home Sweet Home’ sign by the front door. Dying grass, overgrown and conquered with the little weeds Richie used to make wishes on before blowing the seeds into the summer air (I wish for friends. I wish for better parents. I wish to be loved).

He parked the station wagon on the curb, saving the space next to his Mom’s car for his father.

Maggie’s car hadn’t been driven in months (years?), and Richie absently wondered if it would even work anymore. It was nice, a decent heater and it drove well, at least it did when she had bothered to drop him off at school as a kid. Despite her general lack of care for the wellbeing of others, Mrs. Tozier did not drink and drive. Meaning, she didn’t drive at all, as she was drunk off her ass most of the time.

Richie grabbed his books from the backseat and clambered out, fumbling to find his house key among the mess of weird keychains he bought while high.

He didn’t bother stating his presence, even as a pretense, giving up the habit long ago.

Maggie Tozier sat outside, her back facing the screen door in the kitchen. A cigarette rested from her fingertips, and Richie wasn’t sure if she was actually smoking it or just watching it burn. Of course, her other hand gripped a bottle of beer, and a wine cooler sat at her feet.

Richie scoffed and bounded up the stairs to his room, a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign and band posters adorning the door.

It was often said that one’s room reflected who they were as a person, and Richie was no exception. That is, to say, his room was an absolute fucking mess. His bed was never made, and clothes and knick knacks littered the floor (he had already tripped over some beat up sneakers as he walked in). Old mugs, comics, a lava lamp, lotion, and an ashtray Bev had made him in ceramics sat on his bedside table (read: an old wooden apple carton). The only thing that he kept clear was his record player and vinyls at the edge of the bed, which were meticulously organized.

He tossed his notebooks on his desk, alongside stolen pens, his laptop, and his bong. If his parents actually fucking talked to him he would bother to hide his shit, but it didn’t really matter.

Picking up his laptop and its charger, Richie was on his way out again. He could stay home to conduct his research, but he hated the stuffiness and how lifeless the house felt. It wasn’t really even a home, at least not his. Plus, coffee. It was a necessity, especially for the amount of bullshit he’d have to go through just for the tiny brat.

Richie drove to the Starbucks on Main and Belmont, strolling up to barista and ordering his usual: venti quadruple-shot, black. While he often gorged himself on sweets, his need for caffeine could only be sated by the purest form the coffeeshop could offer.

Per usual, the barista gave him a look, “You sure?”

“Listen, I’ve already made a shit ton of horrible decisions today. Trust me, this is not the worst of them,” Richie answered, sliding the cash across the counter

She raised her brows but said nothing else, handing him the change.

He set up shop at a table by the window in the back, away enough from the other patrons. Most of the time Richie threw caution to the wind, but he figured it would suspicious if someone saw him furiously stalking someone who looked like they hadn’t even graduated from middle school.

After retrieving his coffee, opening his MacBook, and plugging his headphones in, Richie scoured Instagram first. ‘Eddie.k’ didn’t post much, mostly some artsy photos, including ones of Bill and Stanley Uris (their other best friend). There were only one or two selfies, much to Richie’s disappointment. Eddie wasn’t actually too bad looking if you ignored his clothes, his hair, his… everything. Freckles dusted his face, concentrated around his little nose, a few on his lips. Cute lips. Cute cheeks. He had the urge to pinch them. But Jesus, that combover. What was he, a balding man in the 80’s?

Other than those pictures, Eddie hadn’t really posted to Instagram in months. He moved onto his tagged photos. They had some more substance, although Eddie had pretty much only been tagged in pictures by Bill and Stan. It wasn’t like Richie wasn’t in the same boat of having only a few close friends, but at least he hung out with other people.

For the most part, the pictures were pretty normal, the three of them hanging out. Richie couldn’t help but snort at a picture of the three, presumably after a sleepover. They looked exhausted, hair messy, and were brushing their teeth. Pretty mundane, but Eddie had pulled a ridiculous face in the mirror. It was silly, but Richie hadn’t even thought Eddie was capable of making jokes or doing weird shit. The fucker was always uptight, serious even when they had a substitute. Unsurprisingly, Eddie did not appreciate the post.

eddie.k: literally stan delete this!!!!!!

stantheman: @eddie.k, sorry sweatie (:

Richie grinned and continued to scroll, stopping at a picture of Eddie lying down on the grass, laughing. He wore a red tracksuit, the one students wore to P.E. when the bitter chill of autumn came to Derry. His hair must’ve been a little sweaty, because it was curling up into a messy halo around his grinning face. Richie wanted to know this Eddie, see him curl up laughing, but he knew that would never happen.

He perused their profiles for a while before growing bored, downing a third of his coffee before moving on. Except Eddie didn’t seem to have a Twitter, or a Snapchat. A quick google search of his name only came up with a few images and… a Facebook profile?

Richie prayed that it was an old one Eddie had never deleted, but after the page loaded he saw that the most recent status was made last night.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered to himself.

Eddie’s profile picture made him look particularly child-like, a weird picture of him pointing to the camera like he was cool, even though the same hand had a clunky old watch wrapped around it. His header picture displayed the quote ‘there is bravery in being soft’.

Richie snorted, “Yeah, a soft fucking dick!”

Another patron scoffed at his fowl mouth, and he shot her a smug grin.

Eddie only had 40 friends on the site, which consisted of Bill, Stan, some of the other nerds at Derry High, and his mother and her friends. It wasn’t like someone’s Facebook friends actually mattered, especially because only middle aged mothers who posted minion memes about their alcoholism used it anymore, but it was still kinda pitiful.

His posts were generally uninteresting, stuff like ‘super nervous for the math test’, or ‘soooooooooooo bored ://///’. Otherwise, he mostly just shared pictures of cute dogs and DIY videos.

It was hard to find any useful information on Eddie, since he obviously lied a lot. Not in the way of bragging, or saying that he did things he didn’t (like Richie did). But there were comments from Mrs. Kaspbrak’s friends calling him a lady killer, or a few posts calling Carly Rae Jepsen cute (please, Run Away With Me is the one of gayest songs of all time). Eddie was closeted, and Richie knew from experience that someone could never really be themselves around others if they weren’t out.

What his profile lacked in useable information, it more than made up with blackmail material.

Take, for instance, little Eddie in possibly the gayest fucking hat imaginable.

He screeched as he saw the picture of the eleven year old, a white fedora-bucket hat hybrid sitting atop his tiny head, before breaking out into a full on wheeze. Richie was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and then he thought about Eddie using his inhaler in that gay ass hat and laughed even harder.

The other customers began to stare, some concerned, and others pissed off at the disturbance.

Once he had collected himself somewhat, Richie sent a screenshot to the group chat.

the losers

bev: oh my fucking G O D

richie: I CANT FUCKIN BREATHE ELRNKKLNERG

richie: LIKE F U C K !!! KLJKLGRJKLLEJK

richie: LOOK AT HIS GAY HAT

richie: LIKE, IT’S GAYER THAN WEARING NOTHING BUT A PRIDE FLAG AND GLITTER

richie: HE LOOKS LIKE A TWINKY SKIPPER

richie: HOW IS THAT HAT MORE GAY THAN EVERY SINGLE ONE RYAN EVANS WORE IN THE ENTIRE HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL FRANCHISE COMBINED

bev: i’m muting you

mike: me too

mike: also that hat isn’t that bad

“‘Not that bad?!’” Richie squawked, not that he’d be able to hear him.

(Really, Richie had no authority on the subject. He still donned the occasional Hawaiian shirt over his tees).

He refreshed Eddie’s profile, seeing that he had made a new status.

Eddie Kaspbrak: big night friday, nervous but excited !!!!

Richie raised his brows in intrigue, seeing that Bill and a handful of other people liked the status. What was going on Friday?

He checked to see if Bill had posted anything, if Eddie was going somewhere, chances were Bill was too.

Bill Denbrough: almost the weekend, finally ready to let loose

Seriously, it would’ve been so much easier if Bill was the guy Richie had to woo. Kid was probably fucking nervous for a party, a place where you threw caution to the wind and had a good time. Still, he made a mental note about finding out what their Friday plans were.

Richie sighed, taking another swig of his coffee, “God, what a fucking loser.”

Suddenly, his headphones were being tugged out of his ear by an angry middle-aged woman with short-layered hair and eye bags.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Richie glared, snatching back his headphones.

The woman returned the look, putting her hands on her hips, “Don’t you have respect for the other customers?!”

“Sweetheart, I don’t have respect for myself, let alone some PTA moms-- like the post-divorce haircut by the way.”

Apparently, his finger guns did not soften the blow, because the lady started to scream at him.

And, apparently, this lady was also the manager, and was pushing him out the door.

So great, Eddie and his dumb gay hat got him banned from Starbucks.

Even though he was wounded from Eddie’s betrayal, (because Richie getting kicked out was definitely not his fault-- it was Eddie’s homosexual headwear. An anthropomorphic device of chaos, that Eddie owned, so, yeah, it was Kaspbrak’s fucking fault.) Richie still skipped smoking on Thursday to spend his lunch with the tiny fuck.

Obviously, they hadn’t made plans to do so, but Richie had, and he really couldn’t delay starting the bet. There was a lot on the line.

So, after getting out of econ (turning in an unstudied for but probably aced quiz), and throwing his shit in his locker, Richie detoured to the cafeteria.

The place was a fucking mess, and it reminded Richie just why he avoided the place. It was pure chaos, loud and overwhelming, a million things to get distracted by. Freshman with their stupid rolling backpacks kept whizzing by, making Richie trip or get his feet ran over. The tables were already filled, the honor roll kids, the partiers, Gretta and her gang. Fucking cliches.

He got in line, picking up a tray and proceeding to fiddle with the buttons at the cuff of his black and white flannel; trying to tune out the buzz of conversation. It was weird, at parties he thrived on the noise and disorder, but here all it was doing was fucking with his ADHD.

Richie drummed a beat onto his tray as the line moved forward and picked the most edible looking slop from the menu. The lunch lady glowered at him as he reached for his money only to realize he had put it in the other pocket, fumbling to put the bills and coins on the counter.

As she put the money in the register, Richie looked around the room, checking to see where Eddie was sitting. He was sat near one of the exits, carefully taking out his lunch and swinging his legs. And he was alone. Perfect.

“Kid, do you want a receipt or not?” the lunch lady snapped from across from him.

Richie blinked back into focus, “Uh, sure, sorry.”

She sighed and printed out the receipt, slamming it down on the tray, “Next!”

Grabbing his tray, Richie plucked up some plastic cutlery and made his way through the sea of students to Eddie Kaspbrak. He had to twist and lift his tray a bit, but eventually the crowds started to part a bit. A chorus of whispers started to erupt. Stupid small town.

“Is that Richie Tozier?”

“I think, but doesn’t he always get high with his stoner friends?”

“What is he doing here?”

“God, he’s so hot.”

Richie smirked, sending a wink at the girl’s praise before sitting across from Eddie. He watched for a moment as the boy continued to focus on on unpacking his utensils and napkins before clearing his throat.

Eddie’s eyes snapped up from his lunchbox, widening when he saw Richie.

“What the fuck?” It was meant to be a whisper to himself, but Eddie’s voice was louder than expected.

Richie grinned at the blushing boy, “Well, hello to you to Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped, returning to his food.

Richie waited for him to say something else, at least fucking look at him, but the little fuck kept his eyes glued to his grapes, nails aggressively ripping the fruit from their stems.

“Okay,” he started, taking a sip of his apple juice, “So, you may be wondering why I’m sitting with you—“

Eddie interrupted, annoyance apparent in every fiber of his being, “Is this gonna be quick or not?”

“I’m hoping it’s not quick, although given how hot I am it’s difficult for people to control themselves.”

A long, deep sigh came from Eddie’s (cute, soft) lips. Eddie grabbed at Richie’s hands, flipping them over so that the palms faced upwards.

“Wow, a bit forward, but I’m liking your style Kaspbrak,” Richie winked.

Eddie rolled his eyes and proceed to take out hand sanitizer from his fanny pack, squirting the floral scented product into Richie’s hands.

Honestly, what the fuck?

He must’ve sent the same message to Eddie with his face, because Eddie said, “You obviously aren’t gonna leave me the fuck alone, and if you’re gonna be in my space, you need to be clean.”

Richie raised a brow at this but rubbed the hand sanitizer into his hands anyways.

Jesus Christ, what a weird, defensive little bitch.

Eddie watched with focused eyes, and only spoke when Richie was finished.

“Continue.”

It took a moment for Richie to gain his bearings once more. This mission seemed dead on arrival, but he had to keep trying anyways.

“So, Eddie…” Richie trailed off, twirling the pasta on his plate before his eyes lit up, “Eddie Spaghetti, Eduardo, what’s up?”

Eddie scowled, “That’s not my fucking name!” he squeaked, “And ‘what’s up?’ I mean, we’ve barely even talked before. You think I’m just gonna put up with this because you’re Richie Tozier? I swear to god, if this is some fucking bullying thing...”

Around them, people began to stare and eavesdrop at the sound of Eddie yelling. Fucking perfect.

Richie blinked back at the boy across from him, now red in the face for a different reason, “Calm down, I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“Fat fucking chance.”

Okay, wow. Richie had more work cut out for him than expected. He thought of what to say next as he watched Eddie finish his grapes.

“This isn’t, like, a joke,” (it wasn’t real either), “I just wanna hang out.”

“Hang out?” Eddie’s chocolate brown eyes met Richie’s, his tone mocking.

Richie nodded, “Yeah, ya know, kick it with the homies. Make out a little if you’re down. Friend stuff.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched, “You’re unbelievable. Just fucking unbe— you know, how can you even say any of that shit? How can we be ‘homies’ if we’ve never ‘hung out’ before? And don’t want to-- I’m not-- you don’t know me!”

There was something underlying in Eddie’s voice as he snapped, wavering at the end. Richie, like most things in life, was completely and utterly fucking up.

“Well then, how about we fix that?” Richie leaned forward, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna—“

Abruptly, Eddie stood up, grabbing his food and walked off, making his way towards the cafeteria line where Bill and Stan were paying for their lunch.

Richie looked around at all the watching faces, some snickering and others as shocked as he was.

“...Embarrass me horribly in front of all these people.”

He took a deep breath, and shoved some spaghetti in his mouth, his frown growing larger at the disgusting taste. Richie was often considered a wild card, but this was when routine was a good thing. He should’ve just avoided this and sparked up with Bev and Mike.

Actually, he was going to do just that. There was still some left in lunch, and no reason for him to stay in the cafeteria if Eddie was giving him the cold shoulder. More like a giant fucking iceberg but still, pointless. Besides, he really needed to get high now. Eddie ruined his whole mood and pissed him the fuck off.

Richie got up and tossed out the inedible garbage before going to the usual spot, finger itching for a joint.

He used his foot to push open the door, which would’ve been cool, except with his clumsiness and horrible luck he tripped forward, narrowly avoiding falling down the steps and face planting by grabbing the railing.

As Richie caught his breath and stabilized himself, he could hear his friends laughing.

“Back so soon?” Bev smirked knowingly, taking a drag.

Richie huffed, “Ha ha. Let’s yuck it up for my misfortune,” he grabbed her joint and took a long hit, “This fucking kid, Bev. I don’t think I can do this!”

“As in, you’re morally incapable of leading him on?” Mike asked hopefully.

“Please, let’s be realistic here Mikey. No, that kid is like, the fuckin devil incarnate. Shithead is fucking crazy!” Richie paced, smoking from the joint.

Bev laughed, “What makes you say that?”

“Why don’t ya ask the whole fucking school?” Richie snapped, though the anger wasn’t directed at her, “They were watching it all go down. If that wheezy asshole ruins my reputation—“

“What reputation?” Mike interjected.

Richie rolled his eyes and flipped him off.

Another voice spoke up, “I dunno, Richie’s pretty well known. I like him well enough.”

Richie whirled around, just noticing a new face among the usual group, Ben Hanscom.

The eternal new kid, since no one ever moved to ass backwards Derry, was not someone he’d expect to be behind the art building. Maybe reciting poetry or some shit, but not blazing. Ben was sweet and genuine, albeit a little shy. He was no longer the chubby kid he once was, more stocky and muscular now. They weren’t too close, as the tawny haired boy spent more time with Mike and Bev, and if not them, the other dorks (like Eddie and his friends). But either way, dude was pretty chill. Richie just didn’t really want him there mid-meltdown.

“Haystack?! You smoke?!” he whistled, “Ho-ly shit, who woulda thought!”

Ben shook his head, “Uh, no I don’t. Mike and I just had to study for history next block.”

His deep brown eyes flitted to Beverly, who had now stolen back her joint and was playing with the key that hung from her neck. Yeah, studying was the only reason. Not Ben’s excruciatingly obvious crush on the red head.

“We would’ve just gone to the library, but Bev and I made a bet about if you’d be successful or not today,” Mike said.

Richie gasped, “Betting on my failure? Fuck you guys, Benny Boy is my new best friend.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“Hey, I bet on you succeeding,” Mike put his hands up in surrender, “She’s the one who thought you’d screw it up.”

“And I was right. Pay up,” Bev smiled, holding out her palm.

Mike dropped a candy bar in it with a deep sigh. She tore open the wrapping, taking a savage bite of the chocolatey sweet.

“I think you have a gambling problem,” Mike quipped.

Bev shrugged, “Not a problem if I keep winning.”

She grinned, her teeth covered in chocolate and spit. Gross. Ben still looked enraptured. Double gross.

“Anyways, can we focus on the important bet, and the fact that this fuck is impossible! Seriously, Bev, babygirl, pick anyone else!” Richie whined, plopping his bony ass on the cement.

“First off, don’t call me ‘babygirl’,” she flicked the ash off the end of the joint at him, “Second, the deal was anyone. You either woo him or you don’t.”

Richie opened his mouth to complain again but Ben beat him to it.

“I’m sorry, but what are we talking about?”

The other three looked at each other in panic. Ben was friends with Eddie, there was no way he could find out what was going on. The whole thing would be ruined before it started.

“Nothin!” Richie squeaked, “Just uh… bet that I couldn’t ace a group project. I usually just bullshit a lot of that stuff and leave it up to the others if I can. Partner’s just a little… high strung.”

Bev groaned and Mike sighed. A horrible fucking lie. Richie was already trying to formulate a better one in his head.

Ben smiled, “That’s nice, a wholesome, supportive bet. But you really should just communicate with your partner. They might be nervous because of your history is all.”

Richie let out a sound of relief before realizing Ben’s advice could actually be helpful.

“Sure, but I already tried to talk to him and it didn’t go well,” he explained.

Bev and Mike raised their brows, catching on.

“Well, how did you talk to him?” Ben asked, “Was it an ambush or a friendly conversation?

Bev snorted, “Ambush, knowing Richie. He doesn’t do friendly conversations.”

“Maybe with you, because you’re on my ass all the time,” Richie shot back, “But uh, she’s right. Shouldn’t matter though, everyone knows that’s how Tough Guy Tozier does his business.”

Mike groaned, “Please don’t call yourself that ever again.”

“You’re just coming on too strong. You have to consider what he likes, what he wants. A good partnership comes with compromise and communication,” Ben nodded sagely.

Richie ruffled his hair, putting on his trusty British voice, “Thank you Advisor Hanscom. Your wisdom is greatly appreciated.”

Ben smiled awkwardly, his eyes going to Bev once again, “Course.”

He took the joint from Bev, inhaling the musty smoke and blowing it out his nostrils, the burning sensation familiar and welcome.

“And maybe, you should talk to him sober next time,” Mike suggested.

Richie laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

By the time the final bell rang, he was still feeling defeated and unsure of his next move. Sure, he’d have to dial back his trashmouth charm, try to seem actually invested in Eddie but… that wasn’t going to happen if the brat never talked to him again. Richie had to find a way to break the tension between them, start fresh.

He sulked to his locker, pulling out his shit from the looming mess. Loose binder paper and pencils fell onto the ground, and Richie just wanted to bang his head against the wall of metal. Also, go home and smoke while playing video games but, mostly, hit his head repeatedly. Maybe he’d lose enough brain cells to forget the entire day.

After a few moments of excessive cursing, Richie grabbed what he needed and got everything that fell back into the locker. He noticed a new post it on the door just before he closed it.

Don’t give up :) <3 - mike

Richie smiled, and slammed the locker shut with a resounding clang. With a little stretch and a fix of his glasses, he strolled through the halls, making his way to the parking lot to wait for Mike.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill and Stan loitering around the halls as well, engaged in (an undoubtedly boring) conversation.

He remembered Bill and Eddie’s facebook status’ about exciting plans for tomorrow night and decided he should investigate.

“Billiam! Staniel!” Richie called as he approached them, “What’s up?”

The two stopped talking and looked up, Bill smiling while Stan rolled his eyes.

“H-hey, Richie,” Bill waved. ��Richie noted that his stutter had gotten a lot better just over the past year. The two of them had shared a few classes when they were juniors and were pretty friendly with one another. At least compared to his relationship with Eddie and Stan, who also seemed to hate him for no reason.

Speaking of, the prim and proper boy was glaring at him, “Didn’t get enough of being a nuisance at lunch?”

Richie raised a brow, “Whatever do you mean?”

Stan scoffed, and opened his mouth to respond, but Bill put a hand on his shoulder, “N-nothing. Stan’s just… on edge. What’s up w-with you?”

“Not much, just trying to figure out what my plans are for tomorrow,” Richie shrugged, “Got any suggestions?”

“The only thing on your mind is where to party? Not surprised,” Stan quipped.

Richie shoved his hands in his pockets, biting his tongue. Snapping at Eddie was what caused his whole operation to go south, and he couldn’t mess up this second chance.

Bill ignored the tension between them, “Well, usually w-we don’t do t-t-too m-much, but it’s s-senior year. Probably going to Peter Gordon's party.”

“That kid’s an ass.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich,” Stan commented, his arms crossed.

His grinned, “Well, yeah, I am Rich.”

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, he is, but he’s also s-super wealthy,” Bill avoided another ‘rich’ pun, “Meaning he’ll h-h-ave q-q-quality shit.”

Richie beamed, “Ah, I get it. You’re Robin Hood-ing that fuck. I like your style Billy Boy.”

He clapped Bill on the shoulder, and the other boy blushed slightly, “W-well, it wasn’t j-just my idea. Eddie and Stan helped.”

“Eddie? He’s coming with you guys?”

Bill shook his head, “N-no. He was supposed to, b-b-but that art thing came up so he h-had to cancel.”

“Art thing?” Richie asked, suddenly intrigued. This was the information he wanted.

“Yeah,” Bill nodded, “It’s this show that happens every month. At Jester Theatre. He always goes.”

Stan not so subtly elbowed Bill in the ribs, hissing at him to shut up.

“W-what?!”

“Yeah, what’s got your steamed panties in a twist Uris?” Richie smirked.

Stan sent him a scowl, “You know very well Tozier. Eddie told us all about what you did at lunch. Back the fuck off.”

“S-stan, I don’t think he meant--”

“No, Bill, he did,” Stan interrupted, “I don’t know what your game is, but if you hurt him…”

Richie put his hands up in surrender, “Hey, I’m not going to hurt him. He seems pretty strong anyways. I mean no harm.”

Stan didn’t look convinced at all. Fair enough.

The air between the two was tense, but Bill broke it by clearing his throat, “So, uh, will w-we see you at the p-p-party?”

Richie shook his head ‘no’, “Probably not. I have some more sophisticated plans lined up.”

a/n: hope you liked it! next chapter is p much all richie and eddie so get excited. if you enjoyed i would love hearing your feedback

oh and this is eddie’s gay hat if you were curious

#reddie #reddie fic #he's all that #my writing #it fic #yeah still have no idea how to tag this

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grimmseye · 7 years

Text

Like a Good Neighbor

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki / Kirishima Eijirou

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Midoriya Izuku (brief)

Other tags: Alcohol, Meet-Cute except Bakugou is drunk, (like a good neighbor Kiri is there), Bakugou’s p fucking gay

For @feylampchild whose request followed the lines of: Drunk Bakugou, showing up on Kirishima’s doorstep, “Oh no he’s hot”

Read on Ao3 here

-------------------------

Dim lights. Shitty, half-assed music and overpriced alcohol. This is the best night of his life.

Bakugou knows it. He says it. Loudly, and with a slur in his voice as he flings an arm around Uraraka’s shoulders. “This,” he cackles, “‘s the best fuckin’ nighta my life!”

He's a little unsteady, though, and nearly falls before an arm wraps around his waist. Uraraka is a true friend. He loves her.

Deku looks a little bit pale as he looks their way and says, “Kacchan, you’re drunk.”

And that is impossible. Because Bakugou hates alcohol. It tastes like shit, and it makes him feel like shit if he drinks more than two glasses. So, no alcohol, meaning he’s definitely, absolutely, indisputably not drunk.

Kaminari is standing off to the side, laughing through tears as he holds up his phone. He’s taking a really long time to take a picture, Bakugou thinks. Probably because he's drunk, and drunk people can't do basic things like take pictures. Idiot.

“Uraraka drank him under the table!” Kaminari wheezes. “He actually took the bait!” Bakugou cranes his head around to try to get a glimpse of whoever he’s talking about. No one looks particularly drunk off their ass, which they would be if baited into a drinking contest against Uraraka.

“Who th’fuck would do that?” He rolls his eyes. It makes him dizzy, and he has to sag against Uraraka. “Whadda… fucking idiot. I should kick that jackass to fucking… out of here. Just cuz they're stupid.”

Kaminari makes a gurgling sound. He's definitely had too much. AUraraka is covering her face, but she’s smiling, so Bakugou grins, too.

The moment is ruined, of course, when fucking Deku decides to be the worst. As always. He doesn't get why cool people hang around Deku, who is absolutely lame. “I-I think,” he stammers, which is lame, “that we should take Kacchan home. He doesn’t look good.”

Bakugou snorts. “Yeerr protecting, Deku. You look like ass .”

“I think you mean ‘projecting’, Bakugou.” Uraraka presses her arm into his back, forcing him upright, and slips out from beneath his weight. He's rather proud of the fact that he stands on his own just fine, but it's dampened because Deku is ruining things and people are agreeing with him. “Who cares,” he drags out, rolling his eyes.

God they’re all just so fucking stupid. Deku is the worst of them all. His dumbass curly hair and stuttering voice. It’s lame. They’re lame, and Bakugou is not.

He’s outta here.

“You’re right, though,” Uraraka is says. “He really does need to go home. Before he starts a fight, or crying.” Because both have happened in the past. Sober Bakugou really, really hates alcohol.

“G-guess we better say goodbye to everyone then,” Midoriya muses. “Kacchan, let’s —”

He stops. Uraraka stops. Even Kaminari, who had still been wheezing with laughter, stops.

“Where’s Kacchan?”

-------/////////////-------

There are certain rules to be followed when living alone. Kirishima wasn’t very good at following them, as was indicated when he answered a knock on his apartment door at ten past midnight.

The guy outside doesn’t say hello. He squints at Kirishima from beneath a mass of explosively fluffy hair, the same kind of expression you get when walking from a dark room out into the sunlight. And, with the eloquence of a person drunk off their ass, he growls, “Why th’fuck ’r ya in my apartment.”

“Uh. Cause this is…” Kirishima glances around, just to double check, “ my apartment. Who are you?”

Definitely drunk. He’s teetering where he stood, even as he tries to square up. “Geddout,” he slurs, probably trying to glare but falling short at the mouth. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.”

“I’d really like to see you try,” Kirishima snorts. “Seriously, it’d be hilarious. Take your best shot.” He spreads his arms, the universal come at me posture, and waits. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens, so he asks, What’s your room number, man?”

That doesn’t get a response, either.

“Well ,” he sighs, “ I am D-15. As you can see here on this nifty plaque.” Kirishima taps the metal set next to the doorframe. The man’s eyes roam over it. He can see the exact moment it registers, his expression wiping blank.

“...Mm.” Is the final response. The man glances at him, glances at the plaque he's pointing to, repeats the motion just to confirm. Then he nods firmly. “Mmkay. Thanks. Sorry.” He makes to turn in about three different directions before spinning to the left and walking away.

Kirishima’s eyes follow him as he totters down the hall. “This is some first impression,” he murmurs to himself. He wonders if that guy always has explosive blonde hair or if that’s just a result of his apparently-wild night. And, if it’s common for him to bang on strangers’ doors when he’s drunk.

Not twenty seconds later, there’s another knock. Kirishima raises his eyebrows and cracks it open again.

The man is still there. He’s staring at the ground, hands in his pockets.

“I…” he begins. His voice seems to crack, and Kirishima’s heart leaps. “I don’t have my fuckin’ room card. Stupid, shitty Deku .”

And, well. What kind of guy would Kirishima be if he just left the guy to sleep in the hallway? Or try to drunkenly get down the stairs and end up dead, thus leaving Kirishima with an unwitting hand in the murder of a near-stranger.

He gives himself a moment to deliberate. There were certain factors to take into account: things like how likely it was for this guy to be a murderer and, in that scenario, whether or not Kirishima could fight him off. He came to the conclusion that, yes, if it came down to sheer strength he could, in fact, overpower him. With how inebriated he was, Kirishima can’t bring himself to feel concerned.

Nodding to himself, Kirishima reaches for the man’s arm. He blinks, surprised and somewhat impressed. The man’s clothes do not do his body justice. That’s hard muscle beneath his fingers.

Hot, Kirishima thinks, before hurriedly wiping it out of his brain.

“Come on, you can crash here,” he offers. The man offers no resistance as he’s tugged inside. The pull is a little too hard; he stumbles and crashes against Kirishima’s chest. And then goes very still.

For a moment, Kirishima thinks he’s passed out. Then he hears a quiet, “ Holy shit.” A hand comes up, pressing against his chest. And then he squeezes.

Kirishima yelps . “ Dude!” He drops him because, yeah, fuck that, sexual harassment is not his style. Unfortunately, the man has learned how to stay on his own two feet. “One more move like that and you’re camping in the hallway.

He all but shoves the guy to the couch. Maybe he shouldn’t give the guy a blanket. That’d serve him right.

Only the thermostat tells him it’s below 50 outside. Kirishima sighs, and gets a blanket. When he returns, the stranger is sprawled over the couch. He has his phone in his hands, jabbing the screen aggressively, and looking like he’s about to drop his phone.

That was another thing Kirishima was not about to deal with. He plucks the phone from the guy’s fingers, taking a brief glance at the screen. He’d been messaging someone titled Round Face, which seems like a rude thing to call someone. Maybe it's an inside joke, though. He has to give the benefit of the doubt.

The man is staring at his now-empty hand. There’s a confused look on his face, like he hasn’t quite grasped what happened to his phone.

Kirishima puffs out a breath, throwing the blanket over him. “Goodnight Kacchan,” he mumbles, heading to his bedroom. He switches off the light on the way.

-------/////////////-------

Bakugou wakes up on a comfortable couch. Given that his own couch provides the same amount of comfort as a literal rock, he immediately knows he’s not in his apartment.

The room he’s in is cluttered, cups left on the table, a pile of unfolded laundry on a chair. There are dumbbells on the floor, lying in wait for some unsuspecting victim to stub their toes. He immediately despises whoever lives here.

Alongside the cups on the table is Bakugou’s phone. He reaches for it, grumbling, hoping it would give him some clue as to where the hell he is and why he’s there. And whether or not he needs to find a knife. For murder.

His phone opens to the messenger, his chat with Uraraka. The bottom messages are absolutely not in his writing, because while Bakugou may litter every single text with curses, they’re grammatically correct and properly punctuated curses. Whoever was using his phone doesn’t have a grasp on things like proper capitalization.

He scrolls until he reaches messages he recognizes.

[11:44]

Round Face: Where are you??

Round Face: Bakugou?

Round Face: We’re getting worried

[12:06]

Bakugou: Shut up I’mm tryibng to sleep

Round Face: it’s me, kacchan

Round Face: i’m borrowing uraraka’s phone

Bakugou: DUEKKU

Round Face: um

Round Face: yes

Round Face: are you okay?? You’re pretty drunk right now

Bakugou: I’M FUCKIBG FINE DEKU THIUS IS YOUHJR FAYULT

Bakugou: yo hey sorry i took his phone

Round Face: ??????

Bakugou: sorry he just came to my apartment?

Bakugou: hes okay i just got him on my couch

Round Face: who is this?

Bakugou: oh my names kirishima

Bakugou: nice to meet you!

Bakugou: i guess youre kacchans friend?

Round Face: he wouldn’t agree but yes

Bakugou: okay great!

Bakugou: hes totally fine so dont worry about him

Bakugou: oh here let me show you

[Attached: Image (1)]

There’s a picture of Bakugou: sprawled out, tangled in the blanket, drooling.

Round Face: oh good! i’m glad he’s okay

Round Face: he didn’t harass you did he??

Bakugou: i mean he groped me

Round Face: oh no

Round Face: i’m so sorry

Bakugou: does he normally do that?

Round Face: i don’t think so??

Bakugou: then its fine

Bakugou: ish

Round Face: i’m really sorry

Round Face: he just moved into a new apartment so we were celebrating

Round Face: and then my friend goaded him into a drinking contest and he did it even though he can’t hold his liquor for shit

Round Face: oh my god he’s gonna read this later

Bakugou: holy shit

Round Face: but um we just lost track of him??

Round Face: oh where are you by the way we’ll come get him

Bakugou: its fine! i kind of just wanna get to sleep

Bakugou: im room D-15 in the apartment complex

Bakugou: the one near the big grocery store

Round Face: oh!

Round Face: he’s room D-13

Bakugou: no way

Bakugou: hes the new neighbor??

Bakugou: that would explain why he was trying to kick me out of my place

Round Face: oh no

Bakugou: its fine its fine!

Bakugou: do you have his key card? He said he cant find it

Round Face: check his pocket

Bakugou: ok

Bakugou: its in his pocket

Round Face: classic Kacchan

Round Face: are you sure you’re okay with him staying overnight?

Bakugou: as long as he hasnt murdered anyone in the past its all good

Round Face: i

Round Face: i can’t actually guarantee that

Round Face: but i’m 99% sure he hasn’t

Bakugou: good enough i guess

Bakugou: anyway good night!

Round Face: good night!

Round Face: and thank you again!!

Bakugou puts the phone back down.

He stands up and contemplates if he can get away with two murders. Three tops, since Uraraka also has access to that chat. Subtlety isn’t really his thing so probably not.

And, he realizes, he doesn't have the energy to do anything requiring physical strength — he hasn’t eaten. So triple murder is definitely out of the question. His stomach is empty and twisting in on itself. Bakugou pushes himself off the couch, glancing over to the room’s kitchenette. If this guy is really so damn hospitable, he won’t mind Bakugou making himself at home.

Within minutes, he has a full meal cooking: a pot full of rice, eggs in one pan, vegetables sizzling in another. He’s nosing through the cabinets for anything spicy when he hears another voice chime out.

“I really hope you're making enough for two.”

Bakugou rears back, head swinging. The owner of the apartment, he assumes, is leaning over the opposite end of the counter. Red hair hangs around his face, nearly brushing the cutting board from how low he slouches.

A grimace etches onto Bakugou’s face. “Guess you're out of fucking luck, then.”

The man — Kirishima, he remembers from the text log — raises his brows. “So do you always get drunk, crash in a stranger’s apartment, and steal their food?”

Scowling, Bakugou cracks another egg into the pan. Kirishima smiles like the smug bastard he is. He pushes away from the counter and saunters over to Bakugou, whistling low at the sight of his stove. “You a chef or something?”

“This is basic shit.” Bakugou gives him a disdainful look. It fails to make Kirishima’s awful, friendly face fall into shame. “You must be fucking incompetent if this is impressive.”

“Well I’m definitely not good at cooking.” Kirishima breezes on, utterly unperturbed by Bakugou’s commentary. That, or incredibly dense, which wouldn’t be surprising given the color of his shitty fucking hair. It’s obviously dyed, an obnoxious fire-engine red that’s impossible not to look at.

Similarly impossible to ignore is the definition of his body. Wearing nothing but red boxers, Bakugou gets an eyeful of toned muscle, not exaggerated in the least but blatantly visible. They flex when he moves.

Bakugou would call him out for being an exhibitionist freak, only he is in Kirishima’s apartment and is also guilty of walking around in boxers each morning, regardless of company. He’s a lot of things, but a hypocrite is not one of them.

“Tell me you have something with spice in here,” Bakugou grumbles instead, “otherwise this shit is gonna be as tasteless as your apartment.”

It’s the first proper reaction he gets out of Kirishima: a slight frown and a defensive expression. He’s pouting. “My apartment is manly as hell,” he insists.

“Your clock has biceps.” Bakugou’s eyes flicked to the item in question.

“Yeah? That’s way manly. It flexes on the hour.” Kirishima looks proud of this particular detail. He’s completely ridiculous. “If you’re looking for spice, there’s sriracha in the fridge. Get sausages out, too, would you? I need to have some meat with my food. Uh, middle drawer.”

“Make it yourself, then,” Bakugou says, even as he finds them. He sets the package of sausage links and a red bottle out on the counter. “Turn the heat on the rice down,” he commands.

When he puts the plates out, it’s one of the most unconventional meals he’s ever made. Kirishima devours it like an animal, zero table manners except for the gracious way in which he thanks Bakugou. He at least has the decency to cover his mouth as he exclaims, “This is really good!” around a mouthful of rice.

Kirishima sets down his fork with a noisy clink when he’s finished. He’s grinning, plate empty, chin propped up on his knuckles. “Dude,” he starts, “my man. Cook for me.”

Bakugou gives him a flat look. “What.”

“This is good. And like, way healthier than eating out. I need to keep a decent diet, you know. So. Cook for me. We’re next door neighbors, after all.” Kirishima tapped the table, contemplating. “I don’t really have the money to pay you each day, but I could like, do chores for you? Or I buy the groceries and you cook, so you’re pretty much getting a free meal?"

His impulse is to reject it. But, then, it’s actually a pretty good deal.

The thing is, cooking is one of the few things Bakugou doesn’t actually mind doing. He’s good with knives and has a decent sense for flavor. Kirishima isn’t a picky eater. He gets a maid out of the deal.There’s no reason to reject it, except for the fact that he’s sentencing himself to regular interaction with his neighbor.

His admittedly-tolerable, well-muscled, smiley neighbor.

So what he says is, “Full cleanup in my apartment once a week, and you do the dishes that I use when I cook.”

Kirishima flashes him a thumbs up and a toothy grin. His teeth are unusually sharp. Not just the canines, but the molars and incisors, all of them with a point that is as unnerving as it is attractive. “You’ve got a deal, Bakubro.”

“Don’t call me that, shitty hair.

“Pffff. My hair is fantastic, especially once I’ve styled it.”

“Your hair is a fucking eyesore.”

“You’ll learn to love me.”

He would, in fact. Learn to love Kirishima. But for know, he’s stuck with headache-inducing red hair and a laugh that’s too damn loud, but at least he gets a maid out of the deal.

#bakushima #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #bnha #my writing

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