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k-p-p-d · 7 years

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Take a Hit (M)

Summary: Super rich kids with nothing but little white lines and daddy’s name willing to do whatever for a good time...

Warnings: mentions of recreational drug use

Length: 5.6k

Previously...

"You know the charges will be dropped before we even get to precinct, right?" Woojin didn't even have to glance in the rearview mirror to know the boy was smirking--he could just hear it in his voice--yet he still slid his eyes up to meet the mischievous pairs reflecting back at him. Shrugging, he conceded, "I know. But I figured it'd be nice for us to have a little chat." The elder of the two brats scoffed, "As if we'd tell you a thing." His brother snickered into the sleeve of his designer shirt, the shining silver cuffs around his wrists flashing brightly in the darkened car interior. Woojin shrugged once more and slouched further into his seat as he yawned, "Maybe, maybe not." He flicked on the signal jammer Jiwoo had built into the GPS tracker of his cruiser before he made a sharp left a few blocks shy of the precinct. "I've read over your files more times than I can count, so I know just about all there is about the both of you. But there's just one little thing I can't quite figure out. Now, I know I can't make you talk--I'm too impatient honestly—but I know someone who can. And she's very good at opening people up," he drawled nonchalantly. "Are you threatening us?" the taller of the two smugly inquired. "Because our father--" "Will have my ass on a silver platter while the rest of me swims in the river blah blah blah," the tired cop finished for him. "But no, it's not a threat. It's a promise." "Where are you taking us?" the other brother piped up as his widened eyes scanned the unfamiliar street signs passing by them. "We're taking a little detour, kid. Our final destination, however, depends on if you answer my question." The two brothers stared at each other in silence for a long moment before they turned to face forward. "What do you want to know?" "How is it that the mayor's sons wound up being drug mules for LOXE?" The two smirked as if Woojin had asked the most obvious and most idiotic of questions. "The same way all rich kids get involved with designer drugs,” the younger began.

“Spring Break."

"Is it just me or is this shit starting to be shit?"

BamBam inhaled sharply as he smoothly slid the rolled bill along the snowy white lines running parallel on the glass tabletop. He tilted his head back and sniffed a couple times before he swiped his thumb to gather up the excess powder to rub against his gums for good measure. "Nah, it's starting to feel like a fucking decaf Red Bull to me too," he answered bitterly. "Fucking scam, man, really. I mean what the fuck are we supposed to do on fucking Spring Break if we can't even get fucked up?"

Jongin scoffed and shrugged, "Score some harder shit and maybe not overuse the word 'fuck.' I don't know though, just a thought."

“Fuck you.”

“Ew. Incest. No thanks,” Jongin snickered as he meticulously cut another line. “You want another?” he proffered, nimble fingers gracefully twisting up a discarded thousand baht bill.

“Nah, man. That flour’s all yours.”

He shrugged, “Suit yourself.” He snorted the line in one sharp huff before plopping back against the sofa. He outstretched his arms and propped his feet up, his long limbs lazily tangling with the slightly shorter ones of his younger brother. “So…” he drawled, “what’s the plan for the night, Bammie?”

BamBam cracked open an eye. “Sorn’s got a white party on her yacht, Lisa’s throwing a rave out in some random ass cove, Ten’s down for whatever, and Nickhun-hyung’s club opens tonight.”

“Well, shit, that’s a slow ass night.”

“Right? I swear, man, it’s gonna go even slower if this shit doesn’t kick in,” the younger griped as he bitterly toed the empty plastic baggy over the table’s edge.

Jongin rolled his eyes, huffing, “Your bitching is ruining what little bit of a buzz I do have, so could you maybe just shut up?”

“Asshole.”

“Dickwad.”

“Cumdump.”

“Mistake.”

A snort of laughter erupted from Jongin as his little brother hurled himself on top of him. BamBam growled darkly, pushing down harder on the pillow to muffle the annoying peals of laughter steadily flowing from the older. His attempted homicide was thwarted when Jongin jerked his right hip up, the move throwing off the younger’s balance, and flipped them over to pin the little brat beneath him.

“Fuck you,” BamBam spat venomously.

Jongin grinned at the sour expression painted on his brother’s face. “Again, no thanks.” He pushed himself upright and grabbed his burner (not the one they were required to keep on themselves at all times in case of assassination or revolution or whatever fukcing imaginary crisis the head of their security detail always droned on about, but their direct hotline to just about any elite dealer in all of Asia). “Here,” he tossed it to the younger, “call whathisname and see if he can get us anything stronger than this sugar.”

“Who do you think I called in the first place?” he griped, throwing the phone right back at him.

“Well, fuck.”

“Thought we agreed not to overuse the word ‘fuck,’” BamBam smirked, victory sparking in his eyes as he watched his brother scowl before huffing in defeat. BamBam jumped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “C’mon,” he chirped, pulling on his ivory linen blazer after discarding his mesh tank top (“way too 90s”), “we gotta get going or else Sorn’ll rip our balls off for being late.”

Jongin deadpanned, “We’re already late.”

BamBam shook his head, “No, we’re fashionably late.”

“Technically still late.”

“Whatever.” BamBam pursed his lips as he swept his eyes over the other’s ensemble. “Go change your shirt.”

Jongin glanced down at the cream sleeveless tunic which loosely hung off his chiseled frame, all of its buttons tastelessly undone. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“Are you trying to get pussy or dick? Because your shirt is screaming ‘Fuck me Daddy’ instead of ‘Call me Daddy.’”

“Oh,” he responded simply as BamBam disappeared into the elder’s bedroom to rummage through his wardrobe.

He emerged a mere moment later, arm outstretched to offer his brother a crisp button-down shirt. “Here, wear this. It’s Vuitton so don’t button the top four buttons. Gimme your belt.”

“What?”

“Give. Me. Your. Belt.”

“Why?”

“Must you question my sartorial genius every step of the way?”

“Yes.”

BamBam sighed dramatically. “First of all, it’s ivory and your pants are bone; contrary to popular belief, whites can clash. I mean, how do you think most of the wars in history started? Second of all, it’s patent leather and patent leather is fucking tacky and I’ll be damned if I have to be anywhere near you or that disgusting excuse of material. My reputation would go down in the flames that belt should’ve been burned in. Third of all, your hips are your best asset—don’t give me that look—and the belt detracts from that. Fourth of all, do you know how uncomfortable it is to be grinding away on a metal clasp? Ten out of ten would not recommend. So give me your fucking belt.”

Jongin scowled but nevertheless followed his brother’s instructions. He wordlessly yanked his belt—Ferragamo, straight off the Milano runway and less than two weeks old so it most certainly was not “tacky”—loose before forking it over in exchange for the shirt, the fabric still far too stiff for his liking thanks to his actual stylist’s ridiculous obsession with starch. A disgruntled grumble rumbled through him as BamBam’s slender fingers insistently tugged at the perfectly tucked hem until it was left “aesthetically” crumpled. “I look like a douche,” he groaned.

“Your outsides finally match your insides.”

“Fuck you.”

“So much for no incest.”

"Where’s Ten?” BamBam shouted over blaring music, the crashing high hats skidding roughly over an erratic bassline reverberating harshly through the crowded club and chopping through his words. “Kai!”

“What?” Jongin angrily snapped as he pulled his mouth away from the bottle girl who was demonstrating all the ways her mouth could move on other parts of him. “Where’s Ten?” he exasperatedly repeated. “How the fuck should I know? And why the fuck should I care?” Jongin growled as he stretched his neck to the side to give the girl more real estate to march hot, wet open-mouthed kisses along. “He has our shit, dipshit.” “He’s your friend so go find him. I’m busy.” “Hey, sugar tits,” BamBam stooped forward and snapped his fingers by the girl’s ear to get her attention, “don’t you have a job or something you should be doing instead of trying to suck my brother’s dick through his throat?” Jongin scowled, “That doesn’t even make sense.” “And neither does your taste in women—no offense, sugar tits—but here we are.” Jongin cut his eyes toward his brother, steely glare met and held by an equally hardened glare. The two brothers stayed locked in a tense stare off for a long minute before Jongin gruffly huffed, “Fuck it, fine.” He roughly pushed himself out of the chair, not even glancing back as the girl cursed at him for callously shoving her out of his lap. “Let’s split up. Faster we can find him, faster I can get rid of you.”

“You check the dance floor, I got the bar,” BamBam instructed. Jongin nodded once before turning on his heel to descend the stairs leading from their VIP booth to the crowded dance floor, long lets swiftly carrying him toward the sea of people grinding together as one. BamBam fished his phone out of his pocket (making a mental note to himself that while his ass looked delicious in them, it wasn’t it his best idea to wear leather pants this tight when his pocket space was limited) to check for any signs of life from their missing plug. He huffed in annoyance at the vacant screen glowing up at him. “Last time I ever ask him for shit,” he mumbled under his breath as he pushed his way through the club to the bar. Once there, he perched himself in one of the metal swings hanging by the edge of the bar (Nickhun’s interior designer Heedo or whatever always had a flair for the unexpected). He leaned forward to rest his forearms against the cool countertop, the onyx volcanic glass contrasting starkly with the sleeves of his blazer, as he carefully scanned the faces of everyone near him.

Despite his current mission, he couldn’t seem to shake the eerie feeling that he was the one being watched. He shifted uncomfortably in the swing. He’d never been so paranoid on nothing more than coke and a couple Xans before. ‘Oh fuck,’ he thought in a panic. What if they hadn’t done coke? What if they’d been sold heroin or meth or some shit? Fucking hell, his perfect porcelain teeth were going to rot and his baby soft skin was going to get all wrinkly and his hair was really going to turn to the same shade of ash grey the silky strands were currently dyed! He was going be unfuckable, a fate far worse than death! God, he really needed to find Ten and pop however many mollies it took to keep the frightening thoughts away. In the meantime— “Yo, a vodka martini, extra dirty!” he called out loudly to the bartender. A flurry of shakes later, the shiny glass was slid over to him and he downed it in one go. As he lowered the glass, something reflecting off it caught his eye. He snapped his head around to find whatever it was he’d seen.

All the air in his lungs was knocked hard out of him as his arousal viciously kicked him in his gut when his eyes landed on them. He had been taken hostage by the singularly most exquisite pair of eyes he had ever been blessed enough to behold. The slightly upturned eyes were boring scorching holes into his own, a predatory gleam shimmering beneath their umber surface. He was paralyzed, a deer caught in the headlights of the man’s magnetic gaze. The adrenaline flooding his body made his heart pound hard, each whoosh of blood rushing past his ears roaring louder than the music. His instincts were screaming at him to run the fuck away, yet his body adamantly refused to obey their orders. The other man made the decision for him when he severed their connection by sliding his hypnotic eyes away from those of his prey.

BamBam’s body snapped into action. Scrambling out of his swing, he struggled to keep his breathing even and legs steady as he worked his way to the back of the club. Anxiously, he jabbed his finger against the call button of the elevator that led to highly exclusive VIP suites of the club; only the most powerful and influential of patrons were allowed to enter, let alone reserve an entire suite to themselves. Whoever this mystery man was, BamBam was certain of two things: He was incredibly wealthy and he was incredibly gorgeous. Just his type. Once in the elevator, he set about primping himself—ruffling his hair to evoke he’d just risen from a toss in the sheets, smudging the edges of his kohl liner to enhance his smoldering irises, biting hard on his plush lips to make them swell just enough to make it seem as if they were begging to be kissed—and gathering up every ounce of confidence and sex appeal he could muster. When the metal doors slowly slid open, he was greeted with those same powerful eyes. His knees threatened to buckle but his gait didn’t bely that as he stepped into the suite.

“You were staring at me,” BamBam boldly asserted, evenly staring down the reclined man. Minseok flicked his intoxicating eyes up from the rim of his glass toward the boy stood in front of him. “Was I?” he questioned simply. His voice was like a gentle melody floating easily and clearly above the pitter-patter of raindrops cascading onto a window, but the commanding edge beneath the sweet tone was like a roll of thunder promising righteous destruction to any who dared not to bend to his will. BamBam could have dropped to his hands and knees right then and there. By some miracle, though, he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, “You were.” “How rude of me.” “Incredibly rude of you.” BamBam smirked as he lowered himself into the seat across from the other. “Guess it’s a good thing I liked it.” Minseok lifted a perfectly groomed brow. “You did, did you?” “Very much so.” “Should I continue?” “Absolutely.” It was Minseok’s turn to smirk now. “And if I don’t want to?” “Your eyes will me miss me.” Minseok tilted his head slightly, his smirk stretching wider across his lips and eyes glinting wickedly. “Shall we test that theory?” “My name’s BamBam.” “Xiumin,” Minseok lied smoothly. “No, it’s not,” BamBam asserted. “It’s not.” “Then what is it?” “A secret.” “I’m very good at figuring out people’s secrets.” “Are you?” “I am.” BamBam rose from his seat to saunter toward the other man, careful to swing his hips just so in order to emphasize the graceful way his body could move with the right touch, and perched himself on the left armrest of Minseok’s chair. Gently, he ghosted his fingertips up the back of the elder’s hand to encircle his wrist so he could pull it across his lap to rest against his thigh. Dipping his head, he rasped, “I can show you just how good I am. Go on. Ask me a question.” Minseok hummed low in his chest as he flexed his hand for a split second, dull nails just barely digging into the surprisingly muscular flesh beneath it, before he leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “What do you think I am?” “Sexy,” BamBam quipped. “Is that all?” Minseok feigned hurt as he swirled the ice around in his glass. “I could name a few other things, but I’m not going to.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to.” Minseok clicked his teeth, “That’s not very nice of you, BamBam.” The way his name seemed to roll so smoothly off the other’s tempting tongue sent a flurry of icy shards to spike through BamBam’s veins. It took everything in him not to shudder. There was something so...undeniably powerful about this man that just made him want to cave in and beg to be taken hard right then and there. God, he was so weak for him and he didn’t even know a goddamn thing about him. He needed to regain control of himself. “You’re obviously insanely wealthy or else you wouldn’t be in this suite. Korean is your native tongue but you’re not an ambassador--I know all of the ambassadors and you’re far too hot to be one regardless. You’ve gotta be a businessman, probably doing a lot of dealings with China which is why you said your name was Xiumin. Are you a businessman?”

“I don’t know,” Minseok drawled. “Are you looking for a job?”

Squaring his shoulders, BamBam plucked the glass from Minseok’s hand just as the other was lifting it to his lips and swallowed the chilled liquid down, not even batting an eye as it scorched a fiery path down the back of his throat. “I’m not looking for a job and I’m not looking for a sugar daddy,” he asserted, “I’ve got more than enough money on my own.” Minseok didn’t even blink. “Good for you because I’m not looking for a fucktoy.” “Then what are you looking for?” “What do you think?” he countered coolly as he signaled his private waiter to bring him another glass. “Something...different.” BamBam’s heart thudded away heavily in his ears as his mind drowned in the overwhelming sensation that was just being in Minseok’s vicinity. The strobing lights flashing all around them did their best to fracture the intense trance he was locked in as he let himself slide further under the current of Minseok’s gaze. His skin felt like he’d been doused in gasoline and set alight; and the only one who could keep him from burning up was the very same person fanning his flames.

Minseok shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “Maybe.” “I’m different,” the younger breathed almost pleadingly. God, he hated the way his voice sounded so desperate and needy; but it couldn’t be helped. He hadn’t been properly fucked in weeks and he was sat next to a fucking sex god.

“Is that so?”

“I could tell you...” BamBam purred as lowly as he could, tongue flicking out to ghost along the shell of Minseok’s ear, before he fluidly slid off the armrest to and strolled to the elevator. “Or you could come find out for yourself.”

Minseok didn’t budge from his seat, gaze holding the other’s steadily once more until the elevator doors slid shut. He turned around in his seat and allowed his eyes to follow the brazen boy as he made his way into the pulsing crowd, a malicious grin spreading across his lips as he carefully watched the little show being put on just for him. Though he didn’t fail to notice another little show happening in the center of the floor. Minseok smirked and silently prided himself on his impeccable plan.

One down, one soon to go.

Jongin was horny, high, and pissed.

Why in the hell had he let his brother talk him into some damn ghost chase was a mystery even to himself. He could’ve been balls deep in the pretty little bottle girl that was so ready to spread wide open him; but no: Ten just had to disappear and BamBam just had to throw a total bitchfit about his missing molly. So there he was, angrily shoving his way through drunken couples sloppily making out with each other and gropey hands trying to tug his hips to me their painfully arrhythmic ones and sweaty bodies pressing hot and heavy against him on all sides. And still no sight of Ten. Jongin swore he’d personally choke the slithery bastard if he found him.

“Fuck it,” he grunted. He was done wasting time searching. He came out to have a good night and that’s exactly what the fuck he was going to do. He pushed his way to the center of the floor and grabbed the body nearest him. His eyes slid shut and gave himself over to the music. He didn’t know how long he had been dancing when the air around suddenly shifted. The hairs on the back of his shot straight up as a bolt of ice shot through him. Dazed, he cracked open an eye. Standing before him was perhaps the singlehandedly most beautiful man. The flashing neon lights seemed to refract like sunlight through stained glass against his porcelain smooth skin, his honey brown strands glowing like a halo to emphasize his angelic features, his cherubic cheeks lightly flushed and sat high above his squared jawline, his nose slender and sloping down into a buttoned curve, his cherried lips resting in the most tempting of pouts, his almond eyes unabashedly staring straight through Jongin’s own hooded ones. Not even Botticelli’s Venus could compare to the beauty stood before him. Everything about the other man was divine.

Jongin wanted to absolutely debauch him.

“Do I know you?” he lowly rasped. Despite the booming music pounding through the place, the two men were close enough to hear each other perfectly clear. “No,” he answered curtly.

Jongin raised a brow and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Another curt response from those beautiful lips Jongin’s eyes just couldn’t seem to tear away from: “Yes.”

“What’s my name then?”

“Kai.”

“And yours?”

“Suho.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Suho.” Stepping forward, Jongin purred, “Dance with me.” Junmyeon stepped back, maintaining the exact same minute distance between them. His touch was a privilege not a right, a lesson the other would quickly learn. “No.” So he wanted to play hard to get. Well, that was perfectly fine since there was nothing Jongin loved more than a challenge. Jongin tilted his head and slowly crooked the corner of his full lips into a wolfish grin, a hungry glint in his eyes. “I wasn’t asking.” “And I wasn’t accepting.” “Then there shouldn’t be a problem.” “There isn’t a problem.” “Then why are we still talking?” “Because you’re still in my way..” “You’re a cruel man,” Jongin faked a pout, “wounding my pride like this.” Junmyeon didn’t even blink. “You’re a brat, still petulantly demanding things from someone clearly disinterested.” “You’re neither of those things so stop pretending you are,” the taller huskily commanded. “I will,” Junmyeon conceded smoothly, “as soon as you stop pretending you’re anything more than a pillow princess trying to find someone to fuck you hard against a wall until you’re crying.” Jongin leaned back slightly, a salacious grin stretching across his face. “Are you offering?” “No.” “Then I’m not accepting,” the younger shrugged. “Of course not.” “So will you dance with me?” “Why should I?” “Because we’re in the middle of the dance floor and we’re only talking.” “If you’d keep those pretty lips of yours together, then we wouldn’t be.” “Pretty lips, huh?” Jongin’s lips stretched wide enough to push his deep dimples, his most irresistible charm point if he did say so himself, out of hiding. He took a step toward the other man. “That’s not the only pretty thing about me...or the only big thing.” Junmyeon arched an immaculate brow. “Oh really?” “Really.” Jongin reached forward to hook two fingers into the belt loops of Junmyeon’s insanely tight jeans to pull the shorter man against him.

But in the split second his fingers curled around the curved strips, Junmyeon had reached down to grab his wrists and pull the younger forward toward him, the sudden shift throwing Jongin off-balance and allowing Junmyeon to use his momentum to twist him around until his back was pressed flush against Junmyeon’s chest. A gasp left Jongin’s parted pouts as Junmyeon roughly thrust his hips forward and down into a smooth, powerful roll. “You think you’re bigger than me, princess?” he whispered hotly against his captured prey’s neck. Jongin closed his eyes and dropped his head onto Junmyeon’s shoulder, letting his body meld into the deep, rolling waves of the heavy bass thrumming through the electric air as his hips ground temptingly against Junmyeon’s narrower ones. The elder wrapped a strong arm around his tapered waist, caging his golden trophy in the irresistible lure that was his body. He ghosted his lips along the sweaty column of his prey’s neck which dragged a husky moan from those perfectly pillowy lips. “You want more, baby?” he rasped. Jongin’s eyes snapped open, a desperate spark burning brightly in the smoldering depths of his mahogany eyes. “Fuck yes,” he breathed. “Give me everything.” “Oh, I will,” Junmyeon huskily breathed against his ear, “but I have one condition, baby.” “What is it?” “Kiss me.” Jongin spun around swiftly and crashed his lips against Junmyeon’s in a desperate kiss. Junmyeon swiped his tongue across his bottom lip and Jongin happily granted him access, a satisfied moan floating out of him as he was filled with the intoxicating taste of Junmyeon. He was melting, absolutely melting, and he didn’t give a single fuck that he had so easily caved to the elder’s skillful tongue. His skin was covered in millions of electrical sparks sizzling hot and incinerating blazing trails of need all over until his mind was scorched with nothing but images of him spread wide and filled deep and pounded hard and pumped full. “Take me,” he pleaded, his voice almost cracking into a whine. Junmyeon smirked down at him. “Give me your hand.” Jongin immediately presented his palm. “Such a good baby,” Junmyeon cooed before scribbling something down onto the sweaty flesh. Where he’d even gotten a pen from, Jongin didn’t know; and to be perfectly frank, he couldn’t even begin to give a fuck. Not when said pen was being held by a living, breathing replica of Michelangelo’s ‘David’. “Meet me at this address in an hour. Don’t be late.” With that, Junmyeon slinked away into the hazy recesses of the club.

“How much do you need?” Minseok asked.

“One dose, thanks,” Junmyeon answered as he carefully rolled back his sleeve and balled his fist tight. He watched as Minseok carefully prepared the syringe for him before gently pressing the needle into his vein.

“You know,” the chemist started softly as he slowly withdrew the needle, “you don’t need this. You barely had any contact with it.”

Junmyeon nodded, “I know. But it’s just a precaution. And I promised them I would be careful.”

“You’re such a pushover,” he chuckled, giving the younger a light shove. Pushing his glasses back to rest on top of his head, Minseok sat on the stool next to Junmyeon and clapped a hand against the other’s shoulder. “It’s finally ready, Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon beamed at him, “Congratulations, Dr. Kim.” He twisted around in his seat as he glanced down at the steel-crowned face of his watch, the sword-like arms piercing the II and X numerals respectively. “They should be up soon.” Minseok only hummed as he fixed himself another cup of coffee.

As if on cue, a soft groan emanated from the couch. Sitting up, BamBam groggily scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of palms. Minseok stared curiously at the clueless boy, eyes dragging slowly over the bronzed skin as he wondered when the sleeping beauty would fully awaken. “What time is it?” he mumbled to the air.

“It’s 2:52 in the afternoon,” Junmyeon answered smoothly.

BamBam simply hummed in response as he lay back down against the plush, velvety cushions. Junmyeon allowed himself to count down the seconds. Tick, tick, tick…

BamBam’s eyes flew wide open as the unfamiliar voice fully registered in his sleep-addled brain. He bolted upright onto his feet as he stared wildly at the pair of men elegantly leaned against the bar in the hotel suite’s kitchen. (If his body wasn’t on high-alert and panicked, he would have complimented them on their immaculate suits. Later on, however, he’d hazard a guess they were custom Atelier Versace). “Jongin!” he hissed, roughly shoving his foot into his brother’s side. “Wake the fuck up!”

“Fivemoreminutes…” Jongin drawled as he extended a long arm to swat a hand at BamBam’s leg.

“No, no, it’s alright. Let him get his beauty rest,” Minseok assured in that honeyed voice of his that sent a wave of inexplicable arousal through BamBam. ‘Now is not the time,’ he snappily thought to himself as he willed his body to keep calm.

Junmyeon’s countdown began again. Tick, tick, tick… Jongin lurched off the couch like a man reborn and spun wildly until he was facing the imposing pair. “Who in the fuck are you?!” he snarled viciously, his normally gentle eyes hardened into coal and teeth bared as he pushed BamBam behind him protectively. “How the fuck did you get in here?!” Behind him, BamBam was reaching for the burner phone he never thought he’d need that their security detail had discreetly tucked away into one of the hollowed legs of the table.

“Looking for this?” Minseok lilted in that intoxicatingly sweet voice of his as he twirled the burner phone on the smooth surface of the countertop.

“If you do anything to us,” the younger threateningly began as he stepped from around his brother, an intense fury marring his boyish features, “our father will have you killed.”

Junmyeon chuckled once humorlessly. “My dear boy, we could have your father killed in an instant if I looked the wrong way. Your threats mean nothing to us.”

“Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?” Jongin growled once more, his husky voice almost feral in tone and his words barbed with hostility.

Minseok rose from his stool and sauntered over toward the two boys as he spoke, “My name is Dr. Kim Minseok and this is my business partner Kim Junmyeon.” He waved a hand toward the couch, “Please, won’t you sit?” Almost against their minds’ wills, the two brothers obediently lowered themselves onto the couch.

“Minseok and I have been searching for quite some time for the perfect...spokespersons for our organization’s newest product; we think we’ve found that in you.” Junmyeon came to stand beside the chemist as he further explained, “Last night we happened to run into your friend Ten who told us about your little problem, which we fixed for you by giving you a taste of Nightshade, Minseok’s own creation. As you experienced firsthand, it’s an exceptionally exquisite drug of far superior quality than any drug—designer or pedestrian—either of you will ever ingest. It gives you all of the high, none of the fall.” Junmyeon paused, his carefully coached smile falling just slightly exactly as he had rehearsed earlier as he checked his watch. “Well...that’s not exactly true in your case. You see, Minseok’s quite proud of his product as he rightfully should be and we wanted to make sure we found the right people to be its face, so we needed a bit of an insurance policy.”

Minseok leaned downward to press the back of his hand against Jongin’s furrowed brow before doing the same to BamBam. He peered closely into both boys’ eyes. Nodding once, he stepped back. “5...4...3...2...1.”

BamBam lurched forward to fall on the floor on his hands and knees as his stomach slammed itself back against his spine, forcing a rough dry heave out of him that left him gasping for air. Jongin was immediately at his side, sweat-slick palms desperately rubbing erratic circles into his brother’s back. “What the fuck did you do to him?!” he cried out brokenly, his stomach twisted tight into pretzeled knots as his body began to be wracked with chills. “Fucking tell me!”

“He’s experiencing withdrawal,” Minseok calmly stated. “You both are.”

“W-what?”

“Withdrawal,” Minseok repeatedly slowly as he coolly watched the boys crumble bit by bit beneath him. “Last night you were given a very specific strain of Nightshade: The high is just as intense as its regular version; however, its potency is far higher, making it far more addictive than its counterpoint and even heroin or methamphetamine. Even though you’ve had just one hit of it, your body is suffering as if you’ve been addicted to it for your entire lives.” The chemist slid a small leather pouch from the interior pocket of his jacket.

Junmyeon knelt down until he was eye-level with them, “Don’t worry. What Minseok gives, he can take away. You see the pouch he has? Inside of it is the antidote for this strain. If he administers it to you in the next two minutes, your symptoms will end; if not, they’ll continue to escalate until you’ve drowned in your own spittle.” BamBam weakly reached out toward the table but Junmyeon simply knocked his hand away with a wave of his finger. “Not so fast there, kiddo. You haven’t agreed to our deal yet.”

“W-what d-do you w-want?” BamBam managed to croak as he forced himself to look up at Junmyeon. The action proved too strenuous and his forearm gave out, leading him collapse into a slumped heap with the side of his face colliding hard with the chilled tile floor.

“It’s not about what we want; it’s about what you want. We can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of and in return, all you have to do is say ‘yes.’”

Continue...

—Admin Lily

#exo #exo scenarios #exo kai #got7 #got7 scenarios #got7 bambam #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #got7 fanfic #got7 fanfiction #exo mafia au #got7 mafia au #kpop au #kpop mafia au #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #admin lily

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pretty-perdita · 7 years

Text

A Very Merry Unbirthday |*| [The Dalmatian Quartet feat. Chester]

In which Chester crashes a birthday party...

@paul-patts, @truly-aninspiration, @dalmatianplantationsensation, @chester-glass

[tw for mentions of suicide, contemplation of suicide, knife brandishing, baby kidnapping, violence, stabbing, some minor gore, it’s a while ride folks]

Chester’s plan had backfired. And to think, he’d been certain to plot it so well! You see, his grand plan on making Anita Dearly’s life miserable was supposed to culminate in a frozen-heart-punishment fit to make her stoic and barely-human-at-all. Or at least, that was Chester’s intent and so imagine his surprise when he saw his Sister Dearly strolling around Swynlake with a smile on her face. Further inspection revealed that not only was Anita Dearly unbothered by her condition—she /loved/ it. She liked being a heinous bitch. Now how was that for a plot twist?

Which just left Chester with one option and one option only: Kill Anita Dearly.

Now, murder was an awfully messy business. It was never Chester’s first choice, never really his intention, but sometimes the path grew narrow, the options limited. Chester’s options were dwindling the longer he stayed in Swynlake and the more terror he caused. He could smell the climax as it approached…feel it quiver in his skin.

And so when he heard about the Patts-Faye babies’ birthday, his plot senses began to tingle. He needed something to get the heartless Anita onto a ledge. In a room full of her friends, his options sprang wide open. And so it was on June 28th that Chester slunk into Anita and Perdita’s flat for the last time, while they hung their streamers and blew up balloons. Oh, it was going to be a party, alright.

Anita It had been several weeks now since the awfully annoying ‘intervention’ that her friends had staged and thankfully, things had more or less returned to normal. Perdita was still prone to give her strange glances and the cold shoulder, and she rarely went out with her anymore, but Anita had found other people to occupy her time.

In fact, she was planning to duck out of this baby shower thing as soon as she could so she might take advantage of her free time for a few cocktails at Pixie’s. For now though, she played the part of dutiful friend. /She’d/ even offered to pick up the cake and she put it on the table now, setting down the knife, the plates, and the napkins in the minutes before the party was to officially start.

“We’ll be eating this all /week,/” she teased as she looked back at Perdita, and for a moment it was like Anita could be herself again—all sugar and rosy cheeks. And then the doorbell rang and Anita looked toward it. "Oh, that'll be the boys, wouldn't it?" she said.

Perdita was in the middle of blowing up balloons and as her head dizzied from the massive intakes and outtakes of oxygen, she thought about how she got here as she watched Anita flit about the table. Anita with her frozen heart. Perdita, who just took her depression medication a few hours ago. Paul and Roger--the same as always, if not sadder and scorned by the women they loved. It could've all worked out peachy, couldn't've? Two best friends in love with two best friends? It was the fairy tale everyone wanted. Somewhere along the way it had gotten so fucked, but they were all still here in the end, and that made Perdita's heart light. Or maybe that was the lack of oxygen.

When the doorbell rang she set aside the gold balloon she was blowing up (gold and white with a little bit of sky blue were the party colors). "I'll get it," she said with a smile and flounced towards the door, opening it wide. She smiled wide too.

"Hey!" she greeted, reaching out for one of the babies. "Gimme. You two have got to hang the streamers and balloons," she told them.

Paul was bloody well-excited for the first time-- alright, since he got cast as Romeo, maybe it wasn't so far back after all. He'd been waiting for this day for a while is all. He couldn't believe that his kids were one years old today, that it'd been a year and his life had changed this much. Course he didn't linger on the specifics because he'd get sad. He just focused on the babies himself, little Penn and little Patch, lively and smart and friendly, who were gonna be speakin' any day now, who still had their mother's eyes.

So he was all smiles when Perdita opened the door, Patch in his arms (Roger had Penn). Patch immediately let out a gurgly happy giggle at the sight of Perdy.

"Yeah, that's Mum! Mum's gonna say happy birthday," cooed Paul with that big grin before he passed Patch over. He glanced over her shoulder into the room. "Blimey, you plannin' to float this flat away with all those?" he quipped, but walked in toward them. He smiled a bit stiffly at Anita.

"Hey Anita-- you mind taking Penn?" Anita nodded and went to go get Penn from Roger near the door. Paul swiped a bunch of streamers and dragged a chair toward the window, no idea where he was gonna be puttin' 'em.

Roger Penn wriggled a bit in his arms. She was excited. Even Roger was a bit excited, well, more than he'd been in a while. He'd sorta accepted a few weeks ago that he was going to be doomed to cash registers and dog walking for the foreseable future, so when literally anything out of the normal happened it was a welcome change. Not that he wasn't happy that Paul's kids were turning one--because that was wonderful. These two little critters that Paul (and Perdy) had brought into the world were turning into little people.

Roger bounced Penny a bit. "You excited? They've got a cake and everything. Well, I dunno if you can process the taste of cake--oh hello, Anita." He managed a warm smile, shifiting Penny a bit so that Anita could take her.

Anita did not want to hold the baby, mind you, but here she was: playing nice. She smiled at Roger-- a closed-lip smile-- as she took the drooling bundle into her arms.

"Hullo Rog-- oof, this one's getting rather heavy, isn't she?" Anita said and looked at Penn, who had her fingers in her mouth. "Fancy that it's been a year, hm? This time last year-- why, we were just getting used to Swynlake weren't we?" she said to him. "Now we're practically regulars."

Perdita "Yes, Mommy is gonna say happy birthday, isn't she? Happy birthday!" Perdita said, bouncing Pat on her hip gently touching her finger to his nose to make him giggle, which made her giggle. She couldn't even begin to wrap her head around the fact they were a year old.

Did all mothers feel like that? Or just the ones that had lost the first nine months of their babies lives to depression?

Wandering towards Paul, she hovered around the bottom of the chair. "We've got to tell Daddy to be careful," Perdita narrated to Patrick, but she was looking up at Paul. Patrick made a cooing, baby-talk sound. "Yeah, I know, he can be a bit of a klutz, can't he?"

Paul scoffed, tossing her a glance. "That's definitely not what he said. He's on my side. We Patts men--" he mounted the chair then "--stick together! Now where the bloody hell do you want me to put these things?" He lifted the streamers up, squinting at the doors.

Roger gave a little laugh. "Time passes, that's for sure," he said, shrugging and walking into the flat. "So where's this all set up?"

Anita walked in after Roger, pushing the door closed with her heel. "Er, well Paul's got the streamers so I suppose if you'd like to hang some balloons off the chairs perhaps? The table's already set up so really we're practically good to go, I'm sure everyone will be here soon," she narrated as her eyes flicked around the room. She frowned at her own open door-- she swore she had closed it, so she moved toward it to shut the bedroom door again. No need to go in there.

Perdita "Y'know," Perdita said, letting go of Patrick with one hand to wave her hand about. "Loop it across the doorway, separate the colors out, though, so they don't get all bunched and are more--layered. And don't wrinkle them."

Paul "Course, because /wrinkle the streamers/ was first on the to-do list," Paul quipped back but was facing the window, measuring out the streamer to see how big the "loops" had to be. He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, Perdy knew that. He was pretty sure he was gonna fuck it up and she'd tell him to redo it, but he leaned forward and taped the one end and did the first loop across the window. "Yeah, like this?" he said and looked over his shoulder at Perdy.

Roger scanned the room and found where the gold, white, and blue balloons were and grabbed a handful. "Er--ribbon...?" Anita had walked off to her room, Penny still in her arms. Roger found a spool of ribbon, then set the balloons on the table, tyin' 'em up behind the chairs, and arranging them all nice and stuff. He flicked the top of one of the balloons and continued around the table.

Anita "Oh that already looks lovely, Rog," said Anita when she glanced back at the table with the balloons and the ribbons. The colour scheme was of course all Perdita's doing, neither boy could be responsible for such important measures. But he had a good eye and Anita's still appreciated this kind of aesthetic thing. Everything needed to be perfect, like a magazine. "Maybe bring some of that ribbon to the door? What do you think, that might be nice for people coming in," she said, adjusting Penn in her arms. She was being awfully wiggly.

Perdita "Mmm," Perdita said, tilting her head and taking a step back, almost bumping into the end table of the couch which made Pat giggle in her arms. "A little to the left I think, don't make them too big or we'll only be able to fit one or two."

Paul snorted some air outta his nostrils but obeyed and shifted it to the left so the loop drooped more dramatically. "Yeah?" he said. A second or two passed as Perdy eyed it. "Oh /c'mon,/ Perdy, they're just bloody streamers."

Perdita "They're not /just/ streamers, Paul. If they're uneven they'll throw off the whole ro--you know what? Here." Perdita bent down and placed Penny on the floor. She immediately began crawling across the floor, towards the couch, probably so she could try to pull herself up with it. "Anita, Roger, can you keep an eye on Penn while I help this /klots/," she scoffed, but playfully as she went and grabbed another chair, plopping it down next to Paul's so that they were spread out across the double doors. She climbed up carefully. "Okay, hand me that end," she said, gesturing for it.

Roger continued to adjust the balloons, then glanced over at Anita. "Yeah--that's a good idea. I can hang a few of 'em around the door frame." He grabbed a few balloons, knotting their ends with string, and reached for the top corner of the doorframe.

Anita had already wandered Roger's way to inspect the ribbon-doorway-mission, which was truly of the utmost importance as the guests would see it first and so it needed to give off the best impression. She glanced toward Perdy now, long enough to see her bend down to put the second of the Patts children on the floor. Anita rolled her eyes a little. Wasn't one baby enough (Penny was already a handful as is) for a woman to have to keep an eye on?

She gave another cursory glance, figuring the request was similar to a stranger asking another stranger to watch their things in a coffee shop-- symbolic and nothing more.

Then back to Roger. "Yes, that looks quite nice, I think. For what it is," she said with a shrug. She glanced back toward Paul-and-Perdy who were bickering. Rolled her eyes. "I do wish they'd just sleep with each other and get it over with," she said half to herself, half to Roger.

And then she noticed her /door/ was open again. Anita scoffed. "I swear I just closed that--" Anita said as she swept back toward her bedroom to shut the door.

Paul "Oi, name callin-- we got kids in the room, Perdy," teased Paul with a mock-stern expression. He leaned over enough to hand her the other end of the streamer. "Right, so. Tell me how this is gonna work /oh streamer queen./" More mocking. Ah, felt like old times.

Roger heard what Anita had said and then just shrugged, not really wanting to get into the whole should-Paul-and-Perdy-sleep-together bit, especially coming from the girl who went off and froze her heart. He adjusted the balloons, glancing over his shoulder as Anita walked towards her bedroom.

Perdita "And don't you forget it," Perdita said playfully, taking the streamer from Paul, their fingers brushing over the streamer, making Perdita's heart squeeze a little. She hung it up, a mite distracted, and then looked over her shoulder to find the babies.

It was habit now, ever since Patch had fallen off the bed. If they were in the room, she could't take her eyes off them for maybe a few seconds. Anita still had Penny on her hip. Patch was--he should be right by the couch. She craned her head a little further, to try and see around the back of it, if he crawled off in that direction. It almost made her lose balance as her stilettos slipped against the finished wood and she ripped the fragile streamer still in her hands.

"Paul--do you--do you see Patch? Anita! Where is he?" she asked, her voice a little shriller than probably necessary as she began scrambling off the chair.

Anita had just closed her door again and looked up sharply at Perdita's voice. "What? Oh calm down, Perdy, he was right there," she said with an eye roll and she craned her neck too but didn't see the baby. "Or-- " she blinked. "Oh uh--"

Paul "What?" said Paul, his own head turning sharp at Perdy's voice. "Wait, what?" He dropped the ruined streamer anyway and hopped down from the chair, rounding along the couch in search of his son. But he-- wasn't there. "What the hell, where the hell?" He turned around, eyes scouring the room.

Roger turned around immediately, walking towards the center of the room, eyes scanning, on alert. "Er--did he crawl away maybe? Uh, under the sofa?" He dropped to his knees, looking around the floor.

Chester And it was then that Chester-- who had been there all along mind you, enjoying the silly drivel of the Mundus-- appeared sitting on the countertop, Patch in his lap and a knife in his hand. The very same knife that had just been on the kitchen table for that scrum-diddly-umptious cake of theirs!

"Oh, are you looking for this little tot?" He preened. Patch was giggling, reaching out his hand for that big, big knife. "Ooooh, no, no, little Patrick, that's not for /you./ Babies." Chester grinned and brought the knife a little closer.

Perdita No one could find him. Perdita stumbled a little as she got down off the chair, putting her hand against the wall as Paul and Roger frantically searched around. All she could think about was all the things he could be getting into. They'd babyproofed before the children had come over, of course, but Perdita's panicked brain wasn't thinking about that.

And then--out of nowhere materialized--"Ches--" she didn't get his name out before she saw the glint of the knife. Her throat closed up and she couldn't do anything but stand there, her heart pounding as if it was trying to warm her up enough to let her /do something/.

"Paul--" she managed to squeak out, though it was probably hardly loud enough to catch his attention

Anita started at the voice coming from behind, whirling around to see-- Chester Glass of all people on the counter. Her eyes stayed open, her mouth gaping in confusion. She held Penny a little tighter, making the girl whine. She was already upset by the rising voices and the stranger now in their midst. "Wh-- what--?" she breathed out the word, frozen otherwise, exactly where she was.

Paul was not frozen. Paul was the opposite of frozen. His blood turned to fire at once, moving several steps closer like he was going to lunge. He only stopped when the knife in Chester's hand slipped closer, and even then, his body trembled, unable to simply /stay/ still.

"What the hell are you doing? Who the hell is this?" he said hoarsely, glancing fast at Perdy and Anita who seemed to /know/ the man with /Paul's son./ "Give my son to me right now!" he yelled before any of his shellshocked mates could give him an answer. Penny, in Anita's arm, began to cry.

Roger nearly knocked his head on the coffee table, but stood up, instantly on defense, Paul's shout riling him right up. Penny was crying, the girls silent and frozen. Roger glanced from Chester Glass to Patch to the knife gleaming in Chester's hand and his own heart pounded, ready to jump into the fray at a moment's notice, but for now--he was on guard, didn't know what someone like /Chester/ would do with Patch.

Chester glowed after every single reaction, his heart pounding bright and hot in his chest. Nothing like a good surprise, was there? No, nothing. It was worth it-- all this hiding these past few months, being invisible more than not. All the terrorizing he'd caused without anyone to give him due credit. All of it had led up to this moment right here. And all eyes were on him. He was the star, the center of attention. He was the puppetmaster, and the show was going to go according to plan. He adjusted the tot in his lap, the little buddy still trying to grab at the knife.

"Oh /hush,/ handsome male lead, you're making the other one /cry,/" he said with a fake pout. Then smiled again. "We haven't met, have we? You're Paul-- I'm Chester. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm Alfred Dearly. Ooooo, spooky!" He giggled. "Not the dead one, the alive one. I'm his son. Anita, darling, so glad to finally make your acquaintance."

Perdita Paul's shouting only made Perdita's blood chill faster. She hated that. She hated the yelling, the knife getting closer to Patrick's neck. Penelope crying. She'd only put him down for a moment--just a moment. She wanted her baby in her arms more than she ever had. Either of them, both of them. The urge was so strong she wasn't listening to a word that Chester was saying, she didn't /care/ what he was saying. She just wanted her baby back.

Anita 's head spun, her face twisting with every word he said. None of that made /any/ sense. She had known Chester Glass. He was a prankster, yes, but not malicious. And he'd not been in town. Hadn't he moved away or something? She had no idea because he had just been a tiny blip on her radar, and certainly not-- not what he claimed to be.

"That's not /true,/ I -- I don't have a brother," she said with her voice high but sharp. "You're lying, you're-- you're /insane./"

Paul inched a tiny bit forward, eyes darting from Chester to Anita. "What's it matter anyway? Got /nothing/ to do with Pat," he said. "Leave him out of this, he's just a kid."

Roger nodded along with Paul. "Yeah--it's not him--he's got nothing to do with this."

Chester "Oh /I/ know that, he's just a hostage. Of course I don't want to hurt the little bugger, but I will if I have to," Chester said quite amicably. His legs swung a bit. He was getting a real kick out of all this, the boys as alert as puppy dogs, Perdita coming apart, and Anita-- well, she was the problem.

"Now, if Anita will just be so kind as to jump off the balcony and kill herself, then I will be on my way." He smiled sweetly. "Your daddy's waiting, Sister Dearly."

Perdita Paul's voice--softer now, but still strong, helped. He wasn't scared (okay, maybe he was, but he wasn't showing it, he wasn't coming apart--Roger too) and that helped. She still didn't move but she managed to hiccup a breath in--the first one she'd taken since Chester had appeared--and clear away some of the panic. Now, it all clicked together. Chester Glass--who'd she'd been working alongside for the better part of year--was her best friend's /brother/, or so he claimed.

And he wanted--for whatever reason--for Anita to die. Perdita's heart clenched, but still--she didn't say anything, couldn't. Too afraid that anything would set Chester off.

Anita "Wh-- /what/? Because you /think/ I'm your sister?" exclaimed Anita. And even as she did, though, the pieces were clicking for her too-- Chester the invisible boy slinking into her flat, Chester the invisible boy writing scary messages on the door, Chester the invisible boy somehow getting her photographs. She hadn't been haunted. It'd been a trap.

Chester "I know you're my sister. Oh, it's a long, long story-- but the summary is this. Your parents gave me away because I said Magick. While /you/ lived your life of horse races and champagne flutes, /I/ was an orphan. This--" he made a grand sweeping gesture with his knife, which made Paul flinch and make a strangling noise, "-- is my revenge plan. Now, at first I just wanted you to be miserable with a frozen heart but APPARENTLY you're having the time of your life, so that won't do. The only choice is for you. To jump." He brought the knife back toward Patch. "Or I'll saw the tyke's head off."

Anita There was a beat, a single beat. A second of silence, in which Paul Patts did not object, Perdita said nothing, and Roger, too, remained silent. It was a second where Anita looked around, her eyes catching that balcony door that, for now, remained shut. And truthfully-- she was waiting for /someone/ to object. For her friends, who she had known for the best years of her life, to say something. They didn't. It was just her and Chester, the knife glinting under the light, Patch squirming, getting restless, starting to panic too. She was supposed to give up her life for that wiggling, pink thing. Tiny. Helpless. Ugly (if they were all very honest with themselves). Part of her wanted to object and just say no, but the more Patch squirmed, the more empty her heart felt.

The silence turned into two, three seconds, and Anita's shoulders slumped, her face getting softer.

"Alright," she said. She looked at Perdita. "Perdy, you should come hold Penny while I do this."

Roger "Anita, you can't do this." Roger was still firmly planted where he stood, worried that the slightest motion towards Anita would cause Chester to slit Patch's throat. His heart was hammering away—he did not want Anita to jump, did not want anything to happen to Paul’s babies, there had to be /something/ they could do. "Please--" He looked at Chester now. "There must be /something/ else we can do for you."

Perdita's face changed as soon as Anita agreed. Her brows knitted and she turned her head sharply towards her friend, golden hair flying wildly about her shoulders.

"What? No." She didn't even think about her baby, not in that second. She was thinking about her friend. Her dearest friend in the whole world. Of course, the next second Roger spoke up and Perdita was looking at her baby. Perdita Faye had a very strong heart, it was iron wrapped in steel, but in that moment, it felt soft as cotton, and it ripped in half just as easily.

Paul did not take his eyes off his son. He inched, careful, slow, miniscule. Every time Chester's eyes bounced wildly around the room, he took a chance and took a centimeter. He had no real plan but he knew that he wasn't gonna let Patch die. Roger, Anita, and Perdy could just buy him enough time, he'd figure it out, he'd find a way-- he'd save him.

Chester grinned, ear to ear. Predictable, the friends chiming in, bargains hoping to be struck. But Chester would not be satisfied until Anita splat against the concrete. He looked at Roger, who had been in love with Anita-- was he still? He'd toyed with the idea of holding him hostage, but really, the baby was much easier to bully.

"I'm afraid there /isn't/, Mr. Radcliffe. Anita dies or the kid does. Now.." he hopped off the counter, holding a squirming, crying Patch slung in his arm, the tip of the knife pressing against the child's tummy. The father let out a shout, Anita flinching, the mother looking like she might crumple into hysterics at any moment. "Time's a-wasting! Don't make me skewer the lad!"

Anita did let out a tiny shout herself-- all her cool now gone forever, her heart, suddenly, heavy in her chest, squeezing. It felt like there was a knife against it. "No-- don't, I'm doing it, I am, look--" said Anita and she crossed quickly to Perdita, practically shoving Penny in her arms. "It's alright, Perdita, it's fine," said Anita to her, and she squeezed her friend's arm once before she pulled away.

Perdita really did want to crumble to the ground. She didn't know what to do. Of course she didn't, when things really mattered--that's when she crumbled. She'd started crying at some point, tears streaming down her face as Anita shoved Penny into her arms.

"A-Anita," she said, reaching out to grasp at her hand even as she pulled away. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She wanted to tell her to not do it--she didn't want her to do it. She needed Paul and Roger to think of something, to keep this from happening. She couldn't lose Anita, she couldn't lose Patrick. She couldn't lose anyone standing in this room. They were all she had.

Chester "That's right, scurry along!" hummed Chester. Patch wiggled in his arm, flailing his arms dangerously close to the point of his knife.

Anita tore her hand away from Perdy. She did not look at her friend again. She simply faced the task ahead, and at this point, it was good that her heart--though quickly thawing-- was not yet truly unfrozen. Because it was just a list of steps wasn't it? Move the chairs, open the balcony doors, climb onto the railing, and jump.

She was not scared to die. Or if she was, she could not yet feel it. It was just that list of tasks, and then the crying would stop. So she scurried quickly to the chairs and moved them, glancing at Chester for half-a-second before she opened the doors too. Behind her, the crying grew worse-- Perdy was crying now, and it /hurt/ in her chest too, oh, she'd forgotten how that felt. But it did not slow her steps. She moved onto the balcony, right up to the railing and she wrapped her hands around it and looked down.

It was not so far, Anita thought. The fall would be over before she opened her eyes.

Anita glanced again then to her friends over her shoulder. Paul, Perdy-- Roger. Another small spasm of pain in her chest, but she blinked and kept it away. It was probably better this way, Anita thought In a logical sense. Still, she hesitated.

Chester had a very short attention span and this was /really/ moving along slower than he liked. For one, there was about to be a /party/ in here and Chester wanted to time it perfectly so they could walk up to the building and find Anita's dead body in their way. Second of all, the X-factor was going to be on soon and he hadn't set it to record, he figured he'd be /done/ with this by now. So when Anita stopped by the railing and did not swing her legs over, he huffed, the grin lost.

"Get on with it!" Chester called and took several steps toward the balcony, brandishing his knife.

Roger This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. None of them had asked for this—this town, this magic. Hell hadn’t they had enough, just on their own? Just four fucked up twenty-something year-olds, two poor as dirt, two fallen from riches—just trying to get by, with each other. There shouldn’t be a knife at a one-year old’s throat, Anita should not be walking towards the balcony, face drawn and serious. He was not going to let that happen—Roger was not an impulsive man. He followed Paul, usually, when Paul was impulsive, but Roger thought, Roger thought about what he was going to do before he did it.

Only Roger didn’t think now.

Chester Glass passed him—Chester, who used to tease him, who’d been Puck in the play last year (how ironic, two pairs of lovers), who’d been a pest but a loveable one, who sent everyone lewd texts on holidays—Chester passed him and Roger felt a surge of anger like he’d never felt before and without really thinking, he lunged forward, tackling Chester to the ground.

Chester did not see Roger lunge. He felt it-- felt the man's body slam into his, and then flew through the air, his arm and shoulder smashing nto the ground. Screams erupted from every corner of the room, the baby catapulted from his arms (where it landed, he had no idea!)and Chester slashed wildly with the knife while he got his feet under Roger and kicked at his thighs and groin. "Get--off--OF--ME--!"

Anita Anita saw the whole thing and she could not stop it. Roger lunged, and a scream ripped from her lungs, the sound shattering the leftover ice in her chest. It felt like shards too, scattering through her insides as sharp as the knife that was brandished Roger's way. She pressed her hand on her chest, gasping like she'd lost air. The world spun around her, noises coming from all different directions.

Her knees hit the pavement. When she looked up, she saw Roger and Chester, silver glinting between them, and-- Patch. Her eyes widened. The little boy was on the floor, surrounded by a shimmery, transparent, blue-tinged... shield.

Perdita screamed too, the sound ripping from her lungs like her soul leaving her body. She felt her heart stop in that moment, her eyes not on Roger at all, but on Patch, falling, once again--this time in slow motion, this time with Perdita's eyes right on him. Unknowingly, she had taken several steps forwards, Penny screaming too in her arms, the sound like white noise.

Suddenly a shield materialized around Patrick, so that he bounced against the ground, but didn't actually touch it. She stopped in her tracks, eyes widen. Patrick's eyes were also wide, big and glassy--and then, after a moment, with tear tracks on his face, he looked up at the glimmering shield and giggled.

Paul had been ready, primed to strike. He had not been ready for Roger to leap before him. When it happened, Paul's eyes widened and he shouted "NO!" lunging forward, eyes pinned on his son like he might dive to the floor for him. But he just stumbled toward the mess, the shield comin' outta no where and bouncing against the ground, then rollin' like a marble toward him and Perdy. He didn't even realize that he was grabbing Perdy's arm till the moment when the shield stopped and Patch smiled up at him like nothin' had gone wrong. Then he fell to his knees and reached out for his son despite the shield (because Paul acted, didn't think, just like /Roger/ was supposed to think and not act) and his hand hit the shield like a wall.

"Patrick," he blubbered, but the shield did not move. Paul snapped his eyes back to Rog and Chester and scrambled to his feet to help--

Roger had not thought he would get this far honestly. He didn’t have a plan, he had just lunged forward and Patch had gone flying and he hadn’t thought about that and maybe that wasn’t a good idea—and knife. There was a knife. Chester had a knife and Roger had pinned Chester to the ground by his shoulders, but he still had the knife and before Roger could react, before Roger could pin down Chester’s hands, wrestle the knife from him—there was a sharp pain, a glint of silver, a glint of Chester’s wicked smile.

He didn’t even feel it all at first, just like sometimes in the fist fights he got in with Paul you didn’t notice someone had punched you till after, and he grabbed Chester’s hand, only then noticing that the knife was red. It was between them now, drops falling on Chester, and Roger wrenched it from him, tossing it on the balcony.

“You’re not going to hurt /anyone/,” he growled and that’s when he felt it. The blood first, wet, soaking through his shirt, then the pain—sharp, stabbing, raw, nothing like a broken fist or a blood nose. He winced, but did not loosen his grip.

Chester Now this could have gone better, but despite all that, the adrenaline was kicking through him high speed, his muscles burning in that good, good way that Chester loved. And he was not opposed to having Roger Radcliffe on top of him. He laughed then, laughed harder as Roger wrenched the knife from him, didn't mind as it scattered toward the balcony, toward his sister.

He just looked at Roger, smiled, then disappeared underneath him. Only the drops of blood from Roger marked where he was as he wiggled and kicked Roger again, trying to dislodge him.

Anita was panting when the knife got tossed, skidding her way. It stopped nearly right in front of her, like it was meant for her. She did what anyone would do in that situation: she grabbed it and rose from the ground, nearly tripping on her own clumsy feet. She felt everything now. Her heart was so loud in her ears it felt like a siren, a warning.

"Roger! Roger!" She said as she moved toward him and Chester-- though Chester was invisible now.

Paul "Perdy, call the cops!" Paul said, getting to Roger before Anita did. He made a blind grab for any part of Chester's flailing body, hand colliding with a -- a knee? He grabbed and slammed it down, helping Roger pin him. 'Knock him out, Rog!"

Roger was still in pain, but he raised a hand and punched--something? anything? His hand definitely made contact with something and he punched and then punched and then he gasped. "Paul--" He clutched at his side, fingers now covered with blood, but then with all he had left in him, he curled that bloody hand into a fist and gave another solid punch.

Perdita. blinked at Paul, his voice ringing out loud and strong through the din. With shaking fingers, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and hit dial.

"Hi yes, please come quick there is a manic in my apartment he tried to steal my baby and s-stabbed my friend, p-please help!" She gave the address, the phone still presssd to her ear. She dropped down on on knee and gestured for Patrick. "Come to mama, baby, come here Pat," she said, trying to smile at him but he just smiled back, waving at her through the shimmery shield.

Chester laughed. He laughed until his laughs became manic shrieks, Roger punching the sound from his lungs. A blow to the shoulder, a blow to the ear, a blow straight to the eye. His nose crunched. Blood pooled in his vision. And then one more punch and that sound-- laughter like a hyena-- shut off. But Chester did not materialize back into view. No, his precious, shiny marbles had far flung themselves to every which corner, his brain could not keep them together when unconscious. It was like there was nothing there at all.

Paul "I got you, I got you, mate," panted Paul, pulling Roger gently off the invisible body (nothing but a blood stain in its place). He eased Roger's head into his lap and his eyes went wide at the side of the blood spilling rapidly from Roger's ribcage, soaking one half of his short, even parts of his trouser. Roger's entire hand was covered in blood. "Shit, Rog, you bastard," said Paul in a hoarse voice that did not sound like Paul. It quivered too much. "What've y'done to yourself, eh, mate?" His hand covered Roger's bloody one, pressing hard against the slash to try to stop the bleeding.

Anita fell to her knees at Roger's side at once, letting the knife go. Tears streamed down her face, each one hotter than the last. She felt hot all over now. She didn't realize how cold she'd been. How little had really gotten through. "Roger, oh no, no," she choked on each sob and touched his scratchy cheek so softly, scared she might make everything worse. She'd been the cause for all this, after all. It was her fault, her stupid fault.

Roger "I'm sorry..." Roger said, weakly. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was--longer than he thought, longer than the span of his hand and blood still flowed around it. way Paul was looking down at him, he felt like a child, like when he’d broken his ankle when trying to do a trick on Paul’s bike and—and Anita was there, right at his side, her hand on his cheek. Was she Anita though? Was she Anita, was this Anita or some cold, distant figure in her place? And Patch—he couldn’t see Patch. Chester had been holding Patch, where was the baby?

“Is Patch okay? Did you get him—I’m sorry I didn’t think. I…it’s my fault.”

Perdita It all happened so fast and Perdita's hand was sweaty around the phone and she was too scared to move closer to Roger. She could see the blood from here, a few feet away. It made her hands tremble and she didn't--she didn't want Roger to die. He'd saved her babies, he'd kept her secret for her, he was her /friend/. At his question, Perdita finally remembered she had legs and she took a few shaky steps forwards, so that she was in Roger's line of sight if he lifted his head. Could he lift his head?

"H-he's fine--he's--well, he's--" she didn't really have the words "--more than fine, really." Her lips trembled and she pressed them together. "T-thank you." Had she ever said that? For before? She should've.

Anita sobbed again as Roger apologized. All she wanted to do was put her head on his chest and hold him. She couldn't do that. He was covered in blood, the slash big and /everywhere/ or so it felt to Anita, though everything looked blurry through her tears.

"Oh Rog, you /are/ an idiot," she blubbered, but she leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Thank you, oh, thank you--" his cheek, then his other cheek. She hiccuped and sat up straight at the sound of sirens coming through the open balcony door. Oh thank goodness. She grasped at Roger's hand not currently pressed to Roger's side. "I-it's ok, you'll-- you'll be alright, I promise, everything-- everything's going to be /fine./" And she managed to smile at him through her tears and squeeze his hand.

Roger breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Patch was alright. He felt pain. It was everywhere, not just the gaping would, but through his chest, every time he breathed. His breath was shaking. /No, calm down Rog, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine./ Anita had kissed his forehead, she said those words to him. He was going to be fine. He heard sirens. Anita was here, Anita was here and she was alive and she was—crying. She was crying. Patch was alright. Perdy was alright. Paul was alright. They were all alright, even if he wasn’t, and that was okay. He squeezed Anita’s hand back and nodded.

#bdrppongo #bdrpanita #bdrproger #bdrpchester #fate #pernita #fayecliffe #pester #the dalmatian quartet #in which roger is a hero #in which lauryl is three outta five ppl

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