*putting on a moustache and sunglasses*

So like what’s the deal with ghosted what’s that about

now see the deal with Ghosted is that it's not what happens within the events of the film that captivates me so much, though don't get me wrong i love this film to bits, but rather, it's the idea of what happens after the whole thing that makes me FUCKING NUTS

because the whole thing is relatively cut and dry in the sense that we don't have to guess about what happened before and we don't have to guess about how everybody is feeling in the present. we know (MOST) important characters backgrounds and what they're doing at Falkhill and slowly revealing Paul's context was pretty interesting if not a little abrupt at the end there but its the very last scene of this film down to the very frame that flips the whole hour and a half you just watched over on its head and prevents me from getting a good night's sleep because i can't stop thinking about it

ELABORATING WITH A LOT OF SPOILERS UNDER THIS

explaining the plot of this movie is hard without sounding like im writing a pretentious review and not just talking out of my ass on tumblr but for my followers who haven't watched this movie and dont care enough to: Ghosted (2011) is set in a british prison in which Jack (John Lynch) is a long time prisoner who's wife just dumped him apparently on the anniversary of their sons death (tough break) and is being advised by his friend and cellmate Ahmed (Art Malik) (who does NOT get HALF as much screen-time or plot relevance as he DESERVES,) to find something to put his mind to and be proud of outside of his failures Paul (Martin Compston) is a prisoner who was just transferred out of a Young Offenders prison AS FAR AS WE'RE TOLD... though its noticeable from the beginning that hes not a very good liar and his story is suspicious at best Clay (Craig Parkinson) is kindof The Guy of their prison wing whos dealing drugs to other prisoners and assumes the position of authority over everybody else, though compared to other inmates with bigger cliques, his foundations are shaky. the description of this film on letterboxd calls him "the wing beast" and i have never cried laughing so hard reading something in my life

Clay and Jack both hone in on Paul immediately for different reasons. Jack, after his pep talk with Ahmed, sees Paul as a source of "a little self belief, something to be proud of", but Clay scoops him under his wing for being relatively young and impressionable. This puts Jack and Clay at odds with each other. after some plot, Paul gets into very big trouble with Clay and after An Incident is promptly plopped into Jacks hands, who had requested Paul move into his cell earlier but didn't have a good enough excuse for it. Well You've Got A Bloody Good Reason Now ect ect

Jack and Paul buddy up immediately and its noticable that Paul is sort of filling in the empty space where a son would be for Jack, however we discover that Paul has been lying about his past to everybody, including Jack. he lied about his family and he lied about having only just been transferred from Y.O. and hadn't been telling the whole truth about his sentence. what the truth ends up being, in a nutshell, is that Paul is accidentally responsible for the death of Jack's son, having been the one who started the house fire he died in (we were never even told that Jack's son died in a house fire before this, we are only told this in Paul's flashback at the end of the movie and are supposed to act, like, surprised?? whatever). consequentially, Jack flips his lid and prompts my personal favorite scene in this film in which he beats the living shit out of Paul with his bare hands and immediately regrets it the second the adrenaline wears off, hitting an alarm button within the cell that alerts the guards.

the guards whisk him away and he is put in solitary confinement, which we find out was actually the first sequence of the film where hes shown with an absurdly long beard, and considering every other fucking scene he's in is of him shaving his face, i assume this is to show just how long he's been kept in solitary confinement, which quite honestly was kindof exciting to realize at the end of the film.

and then. the end scene.

after solitary, Jack is put in cuffs and brought to see Paul who looked Extremely Dead after Jack had him, but hes not dead! just almost dead. Jack is sat next to him and tries to apologize but starts to cry, reaching out a hand to hold Paul's but retracting it regretfully. Paul, having looked unconscious not five seconds before, moves his hand to place it over Jack's...

and then the movie ends. and i am left writhing on my floor in anguish BUT NOT BEFORE I EXPLAIN TO YOU THAT THIS

THIS is what the deal is with Ghosted

the pathetic gestures of "im sorry" and "its okay" are what kill me. sorry is nowhere near enough to justify anything that EITHER of them did, NOR should they be forgiven. AND YET.

and what gets my gears going is the thought of what everything looks like AFTER this scene. after they've bonded so close and after Jack already thought that Paul stopped lying to him, thinking that he could protect Paul from Clay now... after they started to fill the spaces for people they were missing in their lives... and after they've RUINED each others lives. They Have Ruined Each Others Lives and yet Paul probably would have had to DELIBERATELY ASK for them to bring Jack to see him because he just BEAT Paul within an INCH of his life and would NOT !! have brought Jack to see him upon Jack's own request!! Paul would have wanted to see him too!! after all this what does their relationship look like now... the image of father and son has been all but shattered in each other's eyes, one can assume, but are they still close... does the guilt and responsibility drift them apart or does it pull them inseparably together? Ahmed tells Jack that "there is no such thing as coincidence, only fate" but what does their fate look like... does it end here or does it mean that they're together indefinitely? the end of this film swings the door wide open and i think about it. way too often. unacceptably often, even.

all in all theres no reason that this should be my favorite film but it is. if nothing else it's made me look into the other actors involved and branch out with a to-watch list as long as my arm that will only get longer once i branch out from there. is it the perfect movie? no this film is mediocre at best. have i made a number of my friends sit down and watch it and listen to me yell incoherently about it? of course i have.

This is Home (stupid Eretlout oneshot)

Oh hello it is currently 4 am and I've just finished this impulse one-shot about Modern Eretlout haha lol bruh! It's set in Britain by the way, because I'm British and I love my British culture lol! This hasn't been edited by the way so... yeah, it's really bad in my opinion but I need to post some writing because yeah! I'm actually currently working on a long Eretlout fic but I have no idea when/if it'll be finished so haha lol bruh awkward! Oh yeah, warning of abuse and past child abuse and only slightly steamy content, really its just making out and all that!!! haha lol bruh enjoy

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Blood fills his mouth. It drips from his chin, pours from his head, spills from his nostrils.

He opens his red-speckled fist and a tooth lies in the scarlet pool gathered in his palm, it almost looks like gold beneath the glow of the streetlamp that slants into his car. His upper jaw throbs from where he'd yanked out the already loose tooth and he can make out the rivulets of gum-flesh still clinging onto the roots. He stares at it with an unbothered and tired expression.

"Couldn't even punch my tooth outright," He mumbles to himself, opening the glove box and chucking the tooth inside, "Had to yank it out myself,"

It makes a high-pitched clanging sound as it bounces off a half-finished bottle of Captain Morgan and then, silently, it disappears behind the several cigarette cartons that lay piled unceremoniously within (Marlboro Reds, Marlboro Golds, Caramel Blues, Regal Kingsizes, even the odd Mayfair for when he gets desperately low). He reaches a hand inside and rummages through the collection, most of them are empty at this point, he needs to restock and clean out his car, it's been a solid few months since he did that. He shakes a Caramel carton, empty. Another Caramel? Empty. Marlboro Red? Empty. Regal? Ah, lucky day, only half-empty.

A great sigh forces its way through his clogged nostrils and, with the abruptness of a cut artery, blood spatters all over his shirt and along his forearms. His hand freezes mid-air, fingers tight around the bending carton as he blinks slowly, anger simmering beneath his skin because really? Really?! He looks down at his shirt, it was ruined anyway. He'll never get the red out that white, looks like someone's just slit his throat from all the blood that's been pouring down his neck. That table-corner got him good in the head and cut a deep gash just above his eyebrow, the entire right side of his face is crimson with blood and it shimmers in the flickering lamplight.

He bites into the end of the cigarette and lights it with a silver zippo, the flame casting writhing shadows across his blood-spattered hand. The first drag is the best, the first hit to the back of his throat, the first exhale of smoke. Each heartbeat hurts a little less with a little more smoke, a little more tar, a little more death in his lungs.

Snotlout starts the car and drives away. He watches his childhood home disappear around the corner and it feels like goodbye. He can't kind it in himself to be sad about it.

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

He parks outside of Eret's house on the edge of the path, walking up to the red door with a tidy black seven nailed on it.

"Oh Snotlout, love, you alright?" Comes a familiar voice and he looks over to see Chantel from next door, wrapped in her dressing gown with a black bin bag clutched in her hands.

Eret's house is tucked in the centre of a row of brick houses, it's the kind of street where everyone knows everyone and everyone knows everything, whether you like it or not. In the last year, Snotlout has gotten to know a lot of people (and a lot of rumours) who live along this here street.

"I'm alright, Chan," He says honestly (because he is alright, it's just a bit of blood and few bruises) and stamps the butt-end of his fifth cigarette in thirty minutes into the cracked path.

"You 'aven't been fighten' again, 'ave you? With those Trapper boys?" Chantel asks severely, a mother of four, she's very intuned to her maternal instincts and even the slightest sign of distress has them flaring up, "It better not be with those Grimborn brothers! I'm telllen' you Snotlout, those two are shady bastards and its best to stay clear of 'em-"

Snotlout lights another smoke, this one from a full carton of Marlboro Red, and spits blood and phlegm onto the grass, tongue prodding the empty socket in his jaw.

"I haven't been fighting, Chan, promise," He reassures her, and that's also true because he didn't fight back at all, it was more of a beat down, "Just a disagreement with my old man, you know how it is,"

Chantel's back straightens like she's been in the army her whole life and she crosses her arms over her chest, red hair wet and shining like blood in the moonlight. Only four of the streetlamps work and they're further down the road, so the road and paths are alight only from the horseshoe moon that hovers amongst the star-filled sky, the black-asphalt gleaming silver. They've been complaints to the council to get them all fixed, but they won't do anything, they never do, they just leave the poor to rot.

She looks like she's about to say something about it, but he shakes his head at her. Instead of telling him to call the police, she says;

"You're bleedin' like a stuck pig all over the place, Lout, people'll gonna be thinkin' that Jack the Ripper is back from the fuckin' dead," He laughs at that and he offers a straight to her, as a thanks for not making a big fuss over finding him bloodied like a murdered boy in the middle of the night, but she shakes her head.

"You're grand, love, I got a pouch this mornin', save 'em for desperate times," Chantel looks him up and down, black eyes near white in the moonlight, "You look like you're in one now,"

Snotlout agrees with her. He waves a hand to bid her goodnight and goes inside. He closes and he turns on the hallway light. The marrow-deep tension in his bones slips away, causing a breath that comes from the very bottom of his tar-clogged lungs to fall from his lips, and his hurting heart finally stops beating against his ribs like a jackhammer as he leans against the front door.

He's safe, he's home. Because this small, shoddy house with its water-stained ceilings and peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards is home. It's simple and a little broken, but it's home.

"Snotlout?" Eret calls from upstairs, he can see the bedroom light glow up the hallway at the top of the stairs, "That you?"

"Yeah," He takes a generous drag, then exhales slowly, "It's me, sorry I'm late... Went to see my dad, after work,"

Footsteps ring across the house and Eret appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in nothing but a ratty pair of grey jogging bottoms, his terribly handsome torso bare for Snotlout and Snotlout alone to see. He grins proudly around his cigarette at the sight of those hard abbs, those firm pecs, those faint scars, those old gang tattoos. Oh, what a handsome devil he is and Snotlout caught him all on his own.

"Fuckin' Hell, Snotlout!" Eret comes charging down the stairs like a mad horse and Snotlout barely blinks when he comes over to him, large hands gracing over his oozing temple and along his bruising jaw. The touch is very much welcomed.

"What happened? Were you jumped?"

"No, I wasn't fucking jumped-"

"You've lost a tooth!"

"It's in the car, in the glove box, I'll get Gobber to stick it back on,"

"I don't think that's how it works, darlin',"

Eret drags him into the living and posts him on the black vinyl couch. Hookfang, his German Shepherd, immediately bounds over to him and rests his snout on top of Snotlout's knees, wet nose twitching and throat moving with unfurling whines and whimpers. He pets him affectionally between his ears, humming lowly to Hookfang to help ease the old war-vet. Eret goes to snatch the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, but Snotlout's reflexes are too fast.

"Hey! I'm not done, asshole,"

"Not smokin' in the house is your rule, not mine, I'm just helpin' you out,"

"Fuck that rule, just for tonight, fuck it,"

With a rich laugh, Eret saunters into the kitchen to get the med-kit. But Snotlout saw the concern and anxiety in those dark, earthy eyes and he heard it too in that laugh, it was a little shaky at the end. Hookfang barks at him.

"Easy Hookfang, I'm okay," He barks again, louder, black eyes glistening with fear, "I know pal, there's a lot of blood, but it's okay, I'm okay, soldier," He ruffles the War-dog's neck lovingly, trying to ease Hookfang's unnerved mood and distract him from the blood. It probably brings back bad memories for him.

Eret comes back with the med-kit tucked beneath his armpit and a large bowl of water cradled in his hands. He set it on the coffee table and politely nudges Hookfang out of the way, the Shepherd in turn leaps onto the couch and curls dutifully at Snotlout's side. Such a loyal friend, Snotlout doesn't deserve something as honourable as Hookfang's fidelity.

"Look like a stuck pig," Eret whisper, running a wet dishtowel along the drying river of blood that pours down his face and throat.

"Ha, Chantel said the exact same thing," He chuckles lowly, watching rivulets of watery blood travel down Eret's powerful forearms as he sponges at the blood along his cheek.

"Chantel?" He queries, eyes briefly flickering to meet his.

"Yeah, caught outside just as I was coming in," Snotlout closes his eyes as he lifts his chin so Eret can easily swipe the already stained towel down his throat. It leaves a funny tightness in his gut and a nice shiver ghosts up his spine at the vulnerable display.

"Well, expect the whole street to know by lunchtime tomorrow," Eret replies, then adds, "I mean, I love Chantel to pieces, but by God, she gossips like there is no tomorrow,"

Snotlout nods in agreement, smoking his cigarette and tapping the ash into an ashtray that's always kept on the coffee table, despite his own rule of no smoking in the house. But he's never been good at keeping to the rules, even his own ones. Eret wipes away the twin-tracks of maroon streaking from his nose and begins to wrap the gash above his eyebrow up.

"We'll go to the doctor tomorrow mornin', yeah? Think you might need stitches,"

"Cool," Is his reply, tired and uninterested.

All the blood is finally cleared from his skin. The towel is scarlet. The bowl on the table is no longer a bowl of water, but a bowl of blood. A swathe of bandages is wrapped around his head like a bandana, but there hasn't been any bleed through for a few minutes so Eret looks satisfied (and rather proud) at his nursing work.

After a moment, Snotlout flicks his finished fag into the ashtray and stares into Eret's dark eyes; he's very tired.

"Thanks for patching me up, babe," Snotlout says quietly, not because he doesn't mean it but because he is full of such a sudden exhaustion that it feels well overdue. His head, his brain, needs a good rest or else he's going to start screaming.

"No problem," Eret soothes his large hands up and down Snotlout's thighs, "Now, are you going to tell me what happened?"

Snotlout sighs, big and heavy, hand settling on the nape of Hookfang's neck and running through the dense fur. His heart shudders, his lung quiver, his blood boils, his body doesn't like any of this. Just get it over with, as he did with his dad.

"I told my dad about us. About me... you know, liking guys and all-"

"And he did this to you?" Eret's voice goes low, like a growl of an animal with its teeth bared. Snotlout would be lying if he said it didn't turn him on a bit. Thick fingers curl protectively around his thighs.

"Eret, don't get yourself all riled up about it, okay? It's done. I knew he'd react like this, it's not the first time he's punched me around and called me a faggot, just this time, he actually had a reason to call me one,"

"Yeah, well, it may not have been his first time but it sure as fuck is his last, do you understand?" Eret snarls vehemently, hands moving from his thighs to his hips and sides, Snotlout doesn't even flinch when he accidentally brushes against a forming bruise, "You are never going near him again, Lout, I won't let you be hurt by scum like that,"

Eret's eyes burn. Dark soil and spitting embers in furrowed sockets. The firm frown on his face and the clenching muscles in his jaw, grinding teeth that thirst for a hating man's blood. It's making Snotlout's throat go dry.

"You're hot when you're angry, have I told you that before?" He says lowly and Eret looks at him, vengefulness fading as he takes note of the wanton look in those pale eyes.

"You may have mentioned it once or twice,"

They breathe on each other's lips, tempting, waiting for the first one to move. Hookfang books it upstairs, sensing the heady change in the air.

Eret pushes Snotlout back onto the couch and crawls carefully over him, their lips immediately locking in a wet and obscene kiss that stretches on and on forever. Snotlout moans as Eret forces his tongue down his throat, golden hands skimming beneath his shirt and touching the tender flesh beneath in a skilled and teasing way that drives him mad. They make out for a while, dominating each other's mouths with vigour and gusto till their breathless and sweating.

The bloodied shirt is pulled over his head and Eret stills above him when he sees the black and blue bruises that bloom along his ribs and chest and stomach, even Snotlout gazes at them with morbid curiously. Fuck, his dad got him more than he realised. Not that it matters.

"I'll kill him, Snotlout, I'll kill him," Eret promises in a snarling growl and Snotlout wraps his arms around his shoulders, drawing him down so he can mumble against his lips;

"I know, but fuck me first,"

Of course, Eret complies.

Later, tangled in a mass of sweaty limbs and exhausted desires, Snotlout knows that he'll be okay. With his head on Eret's chest, he closes his eyes and sleeps because he's home, home has always been in those dark eyes, in those large hands, in those warm arms. Home has always been here.

Eret, a wanderer for most of his life, a lost man at sea who was bound for dirty work, has finally found a place to set loose his anchor. Snotlout is home, is the harbour he'll always be homebound to. He'll protect his Snotlout because who is he but a wanderer without his home.

A Joint Effort

Prompt: I just thought of this for some reason, but imagine everyone in the bau all high as fuck, in one room together.

Words: 1,905

A/N: for the bad b*tches in my MGG group chat. Love y’all.

Content Warning!!!!: Drugs (weed)

MASTERLIST

~

It had started out a regular Friday evening. Well, as regular as a Friday evening could be for the sorry few that worked in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.

After a particularly draining case, the team decided a night out would be the best way to unwind. More precisely, Morgan decided and convinced the others with much help from Garcia.

So that’s how a mother, a genius, a spy, a hacker, a playboy, a boss, and a millionaire all ended up stumbling home, drunk off their asses down the empty streets of D.C.

Sadly, J.J, who had been the designated driver, didn’t get the memo until after her fourth drink. Garcia, the messenger, was a little late on delivering it. By then, everyone else was already wasted so Hotch figured it was time to go home. Or, actually, to crash at Rossi’s place. He was nearby and had enough bedrooms for everyone to rest peacefully, although the team had a slight notion that the party wasn’t quite over.

This thought was confirmed quite quickly for as everyone plopped down amongst the plethora of cozy chairs in Rossi’s living room, Morgan found the millionaires liquor cabinet, shamelessly helping himself to the array of drinks there.

However, before he could indulge too far, a small wooden box caught his eye as he was about to select a fifty-year scotch.

Alcohol didn’t seem to affect his profiling skills as he deduced what was in the box as if there was a note written on it.

Smirking, Morgan wondered whether or not his team members would. Rossi would, for sure. Garcia, definitely probably. Hotch? Reid? Hmm.

“Hey, Rossi,” Morgan said, putting on a voice of drunken interest, “what’s this box, here?”

Rossi’s head snapped to where he was standing, confirming his suspicions. Before he could speak, Reid piped up, stammering slightly.

“That’s an 1870’s oakwood Captain James box. Collectors quality. Only four hundred were made.”

“Isn’t that a lot?” Garcia asked, taking off her heels.

“Yes, for the era. But three hundred and seventeen were lost to the ocean on the shipwreck of the Casterberous. Interestingly enough--”

“Actually,” Morgan butted in, slowly opening the box and smiling as he saw what was in it, “What I was more interested in was what was in the box.”

Rossi, always composed, shrugged and stood walking towards morgan.

“What can I say? In our line of work, one tends to need to . . . destress every now and again.”

Hotch snorted, finally realizing what the mystery box contained. Dave had told him of his habit, but Hotch never really given it much thought. Everyone had their vices.

“What’s in it?” Prentiss said, trying to steal a glimpse.

“Wait . . .” Garcia paused for a moment, shot Morgan a look to which he smirked knowingly, then burst into laughter, clutching her sides and rolling back on the couch.

J.J looked from Garcia to Rossi, the latter standing with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. She quickly put two and two together.

“Oh my god!”

“What?” Reid was still confused. “What, what is it? What have I missed?”

Morgan raised his eyebrows at Rossi questioningly to which the older man nodded softly. So Morgan placed the box, lid open, on the coffee table. So that everyone could see the set of pre-rolled cigarettes laying on purple satin within.

Prentiss smiled.

“Well, well, well. David Rossi, do my eyes deceive me, or is that Acapulco gold?”

Everyone but Reid laughed, who was looking at the cigarette curiously.

“I don’t understand. Cigarettes? Prentiss used to smoke, I don’t see the big deal.”

J.J. pat his head.

“You’ll learn, Spence. You’ll learn. May I?” she directed the last part to Rossi, gesturing toward the box.

He waved a hand.

“Be my guest. As long as no one is uncomfortable?” he phrased it as a question.

Murmurs of assent filled the room, everyone but Reid and Hotch reaching for one of the neatly rolled cigarettes in the box and Rossi going to fetch his lighter and put on a quiet record for background noise.

“J.J? You don’t smoke tobacco?”

Morgan laughed. Pretty boy was a genius at most things. This not being one of them.

“Spence,” J.J. took the lighter from Rossi and lit her cigarette, a pungent smell quickly filling the room, “it’s not tobacco.”

A look of comprehension finally found its way onto Reid’s face, causing everyone looking at him to shake with laughter.

“Oh.”

Morgan slapped him on the back, handing him a lit joint. “‘Oh’ is right. Now listen, no peer pressure, Pretty Boy. You get uncomfortable, stand up, and go to bed, no judgment. But, if you wanna chill out for a while, get that genius mind to calm down, take a puff of this.” And Morgan brought his joint to his lips, steadily taking a drag and blowing it out with practiced expertise.

A moment of hesitation was all Spencer needed, quickly reassured by the ease with which his friends and colleagues began to smoke. Then, he brought the joint to his mouth and took a deep breath.

As expected, he coughed immediately, a horrible hacking noise as blue-ish smoke expelled from his mouth and nose.

His friends started to giggle, already feeling the high hit them.

Hotch finally decided to join in after a few minutes of watching everyone enjoy themselves. Reid recovered surprisingly quickly, barely coughing the second and third times and not at all by the fourth.

It suddenly occurred to everyone that they’d all been silent the whole time. Garcia, of course, was the first to rectify this.

“Okay, when was the last time everybody got high? Go.” She pointed to her left where J.J sat sprawled out against her.

“Um. Oh god. Three months before I found out I was pregnant with Henry. Although I’m not sure you’d count that as ‘high’. It was one hit from a bong at this party I went to.”

“A party?!” Prentiss said, surprised. “When? Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!” everyone exclaimed.

“Okay! Jeez. It was when we had that weekend off after the Garner case. I went down to New Orleans to see Will and . . . one thing led to another.”

“Is that why you kept texting me asking for pictures of my cat?” Garcia giggled, absentmindedly petting J.J’s hair.

“Yeah. . . I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a robot. Don’t ask.”

After a bit of laughter, everyone recovered and it was Hotch’s turn next.

“Four years ago. After the Nieman case in Tampa. Haley was the one who suggested it. It did help me relax, but the taste is something I couldn’t stand.”

Everyone nodded slightly, accepting this answer as valid.

Rossi shrugged, gesturing to the now empty box. Clearly he had smoked recently, probably within the month so the question passed to Morgan.

“I’m gonna be honest. I . . . partake whenever we have free time.”

“So. . . ?” J.J asked.

Morgan sighed.

“Last weekend.”

Wow. Garcia started to laugh which caused a domino effect on the rest of the team. Reid was finally relaxing into the feeling, laughing along with his friends.

“Y’all think that’s real funny, huh?” Morgan said, unable to stop the smile forming on his face.

“Yep,” Reid said through another puff, suppressing a cough. “Only because it makes so much sense.”

“Oh yeah?” Morgan got a mischievous look in his eye. “Okay, Prentiss. Your turn.”

Emily, who had been laughing heartily, suddenly froze, looking nervously around the room.

“I, er, I don’t recall.”

Morgan chuckled.

“Well then, allow me to refresh your memory. Last weekend I’m minding my own business when I get a call from Emily here. She’s going off about how expensive movie tickets are and how it’s cheaper to buy back-alley weed. I tell her not to worry, I’ve got my hands on the good stuff right here. Needless to say, within the hour we were both high off our asses.”

Prentiss had turned bright pink, taking a sip from a water bottle she’d withdrawn from her purse. Looking back, she should have known better than to hide her face from a group of seasoned profilers.

“Oh, damn, Emily!” Garcia bounced on the couch, shaking J.J who groaned. “Why didn’t you tell me! You know I am always one phone call and thirty-five minutes away.”

Emily glanced at Derek, smirking. “That’s the problem, Pen. Sometimes you can be a little . . . much.”

Garcia gasped softly, “Emilia, you offend me. I’m offended. I’m chill! I’m a chill person,” she added, a little shrilly, sending the group into yet another fit of laughter.

“What? Look at me now! I’m relaxing on the couch, totally at peace.”

In her defense, she was. Absentmindedly braiding J.J’s hair and working out the knots in it. One sharp pull made J.J wince.

“Ow! Yeah, ‘at peace’ my ass.”    

“Shush! Reid, go.”

Spencer opened his mouth but Morgan spoke first.

“Aw, come on, Baby Girl. You saw how Pretty Boy here coughed. He hasn’t touched a drug in his life.”

“I-”

“Oh, come on. People don’t only cough when they’ve never smoked before. Besides, he went to Caltech AND got a doctorate at MIT. Those Ivy Leagues have the most toked up students anyway.”

“Well, I-”

“Nah,” Morgan interrupted. “Pretty Boy’s been sober his whole life.”

“Actually . . .”

Morgan’s head snapped to Reid, as quick as he could under the influence. Which, in retrospect was not all that quick.

“Kid. You’re telling me you’ve done this before?”

Reid went even pinker than Emily had.

“Not, uh. Not exactly. I’ve certainly never smoked a joint with anyone. But, well. That wasn’t the question.”

“What was the question?” Garcia asked.

“You’re the one who asked it!”

She simply shrugged, reapplying her lipstick smoothly. The high was slowly wearing off everyone.

“You asked when the last time everyone got high was,” Reid explained, his hands gesticulating wildly. “While I have never smoked - really no one should, the things it does to your lungs - I have ingested marijuana before.”

“What!?” Morgan and Garcia exclaimed, prompting an even louder Shh from Rossi. Hotch was smirking softly, lighting several candelabras around the room, attempting to clear the air of the stench.

“What?” Reid asked, annoyed at their shock. “I might be nerdy but I’m not a prude.”

Prentiss laughed and remarked to J.J, “Next thing he’s gonna be telling us he’s not a virgin.”

“Actual-”

“Stop, right there, kid,” Morgan butted in, settling down on the couch for the night. “That’s not the kinda thing I wanna hear about right now.”

“But you were curious about me getting high before!”

“Yeah, that’s your business.”

Prentiss butted in, “Besides, we should just focus on the now. It seems while we’ve all partook before, but never together like this. This time it’s a… a…”

“A joint effort,” Reid said, glancing around the room with a playful smile.

A collective groan followed his quip and several pillows were thrown his way.

“You’re lucky I’m barely stoned,” Garcia said. “I’d come over there and give you a proper pillow fight.”

Rossi leaned forward over the old box.

“Ladies, gents,” he lifted the purple satin lining revealing several more pre-rolled marijuana cigarettes, “the night is still young.”

And so, the FBI profilers hotboxed David Rossi’s living room, laughing about nonsense and learning much more than they’d wanted to about Spencer Reid’s sexual history

Who Needs Disney When You Have Russell Crowe?

Summary: When Peter’s ear infection gets a little out of hand, Tony and Morgan have slightly different ideas of how to help.

Word count: 1,874

Genre: Sickfic, domestic fluff, Whump Lite™

A/N: Thanks to @xxx-cat-xxx for beta-reading and ideas <3

Link to read on Ao3

Peter wakes to the sound of quiet whimpering.

It takes a few seconds for his groggy brain to register where he is, but the warm glow of the bunny-shaped night light on the opposite wall illuminating the Arendelle toy castle and the pile of stuffed animals on the floor gives it away. He’s in Morgan’s room. Morgan, who insisted on getting a bunk bed for her sixth birthday so that she and Peter could have sleepovers whenever he came to visit.

Morgan, who is clearly in the midst of a nightmare.

“Mo...” Peter whispers hoarsely. There are a few more quiet, pained whimpers. “Mo,” he tries again, louder. His left ear is throbbing and it’s ridiculously stuffy in this room—he’s actually sweating. Kicking the tangled bed covers off of himself, he lifts a hand to tap the wooden bed frame over his head. She stirs. “Morgan, wake u-up.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Morgan sits up in her bunk. “Yeah?” she asks drowsily. She leans over the edge of bed to look at him, strands of her long hair falling in her face. “What is it?”

She doesn’t seem particularly upset, which Peter finds strange. “Did… did you have a b-bad dream?” he asks.

In the dim light of the room, he can just make out her curious expression. “I don’t think so.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and shimmies backwards down the ladder. “Did you?”

“Wh-What?” His ear is ringing, the pain feeling almost bone-deep. There’s another whimper, barely audible.

“You’re crying,” she says simply, perching herself on the edge of his bed. Her brow knits together. “Are you sad?”

Peter wipes the back of his hand roughly across his face and finds it’s wet with tears. It takes a second for his addled brain to realize that she’s right, and then an instant wave of self-consciousness washes over him as he looks into the eyes of the frowning six-year-old. “No, sorry, ‘m fine.” He pushes himself up on his elbows, hurriedly brushing the tears away.

Morgan’s eyes go wide. “You’re bleeding!” she gasps.

“Huh?” Peter follows her horrified gaze down to the pillow he’s been using. It’s covered in something dark and sticky. Alarmed, he lifts a shaky hand to his throbbing ear and feels more liquid trickling down. “Oh – um – wow, uh...”

“I’m getting Daddy!” Morgan declares, jumping up from the mattress and spinning on her heel. “Hang on!”

“Wait, no, don’t freak him—”

But she’s already out of the room.

“...out.” With a small groan, Peter carefully sits the rest of the way up and flips the lamp on. The pastel lilac pillowcase is stained with a mixture of blood and yellowish fluid. Grimacing, he grabs some tissues from the box on Morgan’s dresser and dabs them carefully at his dripping ear, hissing sharply at the stabbing pain it causes.

Within a minute, Morgan is back, dragging the hand of a disheveled but surprisingly alert-looking Tony in after her. “See? He’s crying and bleeding out of his ears!” she blurts.

“Just one ear,” Peter corrects, lowering the tissue down to look at the fresh blood and pus on it. “Gross...”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, well in that case I’ll just go back to bed—you’re perfectly fine.” He moves over to the bed, Morgan following close behind. “Anything you wanna share with the class? You take any good hits to the noggin’ recently? Blow something up?”

Peter shakes his head as much as he dares, which only increases the ringing sensation. “No, nothing like that,” he mutters. He wishes this was something cool and Spider-Man related, but he’s pretty sure it’s just his patented Parker Luck™. “Ear started hurting a couple days ago,” he admits. “Thought it would go away.”

Tony pulls out his phone and flips on the flashlight. “Can I see it?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, wincing. He bites his lower lip and does his best to keep as still as possible as Tony peers into his ear with the light.

“What does it look like?” Morgan asks curiously.

“Ugly as hell...” Tony mutters. He flicks the light off and turns to Peter. “Pretty sure you ruptured your eardrum, kiddo.”

“Ah.” The pain seems to ramp up with the confirmation. That checks out. Certainly feels like someone just bored a hole through his ear. He can feel the fluid dripping out down his cheek.

Tony must notice it too because he grimaces and pulls a couple more tissues out of the box to hand him. “You know, if you weren’t feeling well, you could have told us that when you got here,” he points out. “Instead of waiting until”—he glances at his lock screen—“3:37 in the morning.”

Peter manages a small smirk. “Gotta keep you on your toes. You know, now that you’re retired and all...”

Looking very unamused, Tony extends a hand and helps pull Peter up to standing. The movement only increases the throbbing in his ear and Peter squeezes his eyes shut tightly against a wave of dizziness.

“Alright?” Tony checks, still gripping his arm tightly.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes, the ringing growing louder. “Sorry. Just... really hurts.”

“He can have some of my medicine,” Morgan offers in a slightly hushed voice. “The one Mommy gives me when my ears hurt.”

Tony lets out a short laugh. “That’s nice of you, sweetie, but I don’t think grape-flavored Children’s Motrin is gonna cut it here.” He gestures up to the top bunk. “Why don’t you hop back up there and try to sleep some more while I go get Peter fixed up?”

Morgan sticks her lip out in a pout. “But I’m not tired now.”

Instant guilt comes over Peter at having woken her up, but Tony doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nope, you are, you just forgot,” he says knowingly. He lets go of Peter’s arm for a second to scoop the now quietly giggling six-year-old up and deposit her on the top bunk. “Count some sheep, kid,” he advises, flipping off the lamp and snagging Peter’s ruined pillow to toss in the laundry.

With Morgan situated, Tony guides Peter out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He leaves Peter to clean up in the bathroom before heading to the kitchen in search of some kind of painkiller that might work on an enhanced metabolism.

Eventually, Tony returns with a bottle of Tylenol-Codeine, a glass of water, and an apologetic look. “It’s the strongest stuff we’ve got here. Might take the edge off at least.”

Peter murmurs his thanks and takes the pills, mostly to humor him. They both know it’s a lost cause. He can burn through a dose of morphine in less than ten minutes; there’s no way over-the-counter meds are going to do anything.

“First thing in the morning, I’ll take you to see Bruce,” Tony promises. “We’ll get you on some antibiotics and something better for the pain.”

Peter just hums in response.

Tony sighs. “We can try a heating pad,” he suggests. “That helps Morgan sometimes.”

“Sure.” Peter shrugs, listless. He’ll do anything at this point to make his ear stop aching.

Tony locates the heating pad and gets Peter set up on the chaise section of the couch under a blanket with the heating pad resting on the pillow under his ear. It helps marginally, which is slightly more than Peter can say for the pills.

“Sorry, kiddo. If only you’d known me in the nineties,” Tony says with a sad chuckle. “Could’ve tried all kinds of stuff on you.”

Peter lets out a short, empty laugh. “Yeah, too bad. Sure May would’ve loved that…”

Tony settles down onto the other end of the couch and flips on the TV for distraction. After a bit of channel flipping, he picks a period war drama about a badass sea captain fighting during the Napoleonic Wars, starring Russell Crowe.

(It was that or “My Strange Addiction” on TLC, and neither of them felt like watching a woman eat a couch).

Peter doesn’t exactly sleep, but he closes his eyes and drifts in and out while the movie plays low in the background. He’s kind of queasy—probably a combination of the otherwise useless drugs and the low grade fever he’s pretty sure he’s got going—but it’s nothing too awful. At least the sounds of cannons firing and battles being waged on screen drown out the incessant ringing in his head.

He isn’t sure how much time passes before a new voice joins the mix in a stage-whisper:

“Are they gonna cut his arm off?”

Peter’s eyes snap open. He sees Tony dozing on the other end of the sofa, so he sits up a little straighter and turns around to look at the staircase behind him. Sure enough, Morgan is sitting on the fourth step from the bottom, just high enough to see over the couch to the TV.

“I thought you went back to bed,” Peter whispers.

Morgan shrugs. “Counting sheep is boring.” She stands up and tiptoes down the rest of the stairs and into the living room. “Are they gonna cut his arm off?” she repeats.

Peter looks back at the movie. The ship’s doctor is in the midst of a rather intense amputation scene on a young boy’s infected arm. “Yeah, looks like it,” he says through a wince. He should probably change the channel to something more child-friendly, but Tony’s got the remote balanced on his knee and he’s all the way on the other end of the sofa. Oh well.

Morgan nods at the screen, looking impressed. Then she looks back to Peter. “Does your ear still hurt a lot?”

“Nah, it’s not so bad,” Peter lies. “No need to cut it off or anything.” He scoots over on the cushion a bit. “You wanna sit here with me?”

“Yeah.” She nods and hops up onto the couch beside him, snuggling against his right side. “Did Daddy give you medicine?” she inquires.

“Yeah, he did,” Peter assures.

She nods approvingly. “And did he give you the heater thingy?”

Peter lifts the heating pad up slightly for her to see. “Yep.”

“Good.” She nods again. “And cuddles?”

“Eh…” His gaze drifting to his quietly snoring mentor, Peter smirks a bit. “I think I’m getting too old for those.”

“Everybody needs cuddles,” she says knowingly. Scooting a little closer to him, she wraps her arms around his waist. “See?”

A small smile creeps across Peter’s lips. “Yeah, I see.”

They sit there for a moment, Peter doing his best to focus on the steady pressure of the six-year-old’s gentle squeeze rather than the thumping in his head. It’s almost peaceful.

“Either that, or you need a stick,” Morgan pipes up, breaking the spell.

Peter’s brow furrows. “A stick?”

“To bite down on,” she explains, pointing at the TV. “Like the boy in the movie.”

Peter blinks, then shifts his gaze sideways to the little girl watching nineteenth-century field surgery technique with genuine interest.

“It’s so he doesn’t scream,” she informs.

Peter holds out his hand. “Just give me the remote, Mo.”

X

Link to all my fics

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like: Adventures at the Stark Lake House

The President’s Son [19]

Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20 [Finale]

➜ Words: 4.1k

➜ Genres: 100% Fluff, Slice of Life, Bodyguard!AU

➜ Summary: Kim Taehyung is the President’s son, mischievous and playful, and infamous for being a troublemaker. When everyone’s given up, they call for you to be his personal guard. There’s no other choice when your dad’s assigned you to it and surprisingly Taehyung doesn’t mind either. Maybe because you happened to grow up with that brat.

Your dad always taught you that if things fail, you do them over and over until you succeed.   Such a lesson was taught after Taehyung’s eighth birthday party where it was discovered you were scared of sparklers. The sparks always got too close to your hand and you feared it would harm you, that your clothes would catch fire. But your dad found out and every single day for three months, he’d come home and light handfuls of sparklers for you to hold until you got over your fear.   You’re not so sure shock therapy works — on the one occasion it did, but you took away the message of perseverance.    And now you want to try again, especially considering that last time didn’t go as planned.   “You want to go out for drinks?”   You smile, nodding once. “I really want to thank you for helping out with fixing my dad’s roof. I kind of feel guilty that I called you right after a shift—”   “What did I say?” Seokjin laughs, petting your hair before letting his arm drape to his side. “You can call me anytime you need, chickpea.”   Infectious giggles bubble out of your throat, reduced to a school girl that would be a humiliating sight in front of anyone else. “Then let me take you out for drinks properly this time.”   “I’d love to.”   Finally. Without interruption. Just you and a senior you massively respect.   But of course, the plan only lasts for ten minutes.   Taehyung discovers you chatting away and loops his arm around your shoulder, pulling you too close to his chest and too intimately, leaving Jin to quirk a brow. The attention is only diverted when Jimin hears the invitation and self-invites himself. You can’t deny it when he had helped as well.   Naturally, Taehyung joins too without even asking. And somehow, Jungkook ends up part of the group after catching wind of it.   What was supposed to be between two people is now five. But you can’t find it in yourself to be upset or defeated. It’s not a failure when you’re happy they’re all joining.   “Are you sure your house is safe, Jeon?”   “Rest assured, boss,” he uses the name mockingly. “If I was planning to kill you, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”   “And you would’ve died trying.”   “He can’t take on two.” Taehyung nudges the bodyguard who grins boyishly, already liking the sound of the plan. You exchange expressions with Jimin, not impressed whatsoever while he sheepishly smiles.   The front door unlocks and everyone shuffles inside, taking off their shoes.   Jungkook flickers on the foyer light of his town house and instantly, everyone’s cowering with their backs towards the walls and their eyes pinned forward into the darkness, except for Taehyung.   Seokjin’s footsteps are deathly silent and he walks into each room, intruding in Jungkook’s space like it’s his own. He is a shadow in the void, stalking unknown dangers. And in the meanwhile, Jungkook pulls down the curtains and Jimin locks the door behind him. Each person scopes the area for safety.   “No one was following us,” you note while assessing the space, more for practicality than admiring the decor.   “No one’s inside.” Jin comes out of the bathroom with a nod.   Jungkook stops peeking out of the blinds. “Looks like it’s safe.”   Taehyung sighs. “Is this really necessary? You’re acting like I’m the president.”   “Priorities first,” Jungkook says with a shrug. “And the priority is your safety.”   “Can’t skip out on responsibilities with our team leader right here.” Jimin smiles, his footsteps padding over to the fridge.    Jin slumps onto the couch, peeling off his jacket to throw haphazardly and putting his feet up on the table. “You shouldn’t be skipping out on any responsibility regardless if I’m here or not.”   “Why don’t you just make yourself at home.” Jungkook frowns, unamused and he kicks his senior’s feet off of his coffee table. In this space and at this time, no one has authority over anyone else and that includes Taehyung — everyone’s equals with one another.   “What the hell is this.” You walk over to the counter, swiveling on your heel to glare. “You got hard liquor, Jeon?”   “Only the best.” He grins and comes trotting over proudly. “Captain’s Morgan, Jack Daniel’s, the likes. What more could you want?”   “I was thinking something lighter.”   “Nah. That’s lame. Go hard or go home.”   “Well, we better get started then.” Taehyung flops down on the soft sofa too, sinking into the cushions. “You got any snacks?”   “Do I have any snacks.” Jungkook scoffs, personally offended. “You’re in snack haven, thank you very much.”    He grabs the bottles and Jimin brings glasses over. Everyone crowds around the coffee table in the small living room, sitting on the floor together as drinks are poured. You passingly wonder if this is what it feels like to have a group of friends — in the movies where the main character’s in college, it seems like people drink together often. It’s a nice and warm experience.    While the alcohol is disgusting on your tongue and has a way of burning as it travels down your throat, it makes you feel fuzzy after a while, relaxed. Your head becomes lighter and it seems words stream out with more ease.   But it’s still less effective to you than it is to Taehyung. Your stomach is steel while he seems to already be loopy by smelling it, tolerance endearingly low and cause for concern.   “So, how long have you been together?” Jungkook breaks your trance, running his thumb over the rim of his glass as if he tries to emit a ringing sound from it — it doesn’t work.   You don’t know who he’s talking to until he glances at you. “What?”   “You and Taehyung.”   He says it simply and with a lopsided smirk.   Immediately, your neck cranes towards Taehyung, fast enough to get whiplash and you exchange a hardened look with him. “I didn’t tell him!”   “I didn’t tell him either. I swear.” Jimin glances back and forth, alarmed as he reads your expressions and the blonde beside you.   “Wow, you told Jimin, but not me? I’m offended.” Jungkook laughs and leans back against the couch. “I’m assuming it happened somewhere after the whole hostage situation or was it earlier than that?”   “Is it true, chickpea?” Jin eyes you and finishes his drink, pupils still flickered above the rim.    You drown them out, narrowing your stare into Jungkook’s. He smiles with those doe eyes of his that are far from innocent. If no one told him….. “How’d you know?”   “I picked up on it.” He shrugs with a pout. “ It’s pretty obvious, y’know. Doesn’t my job require good observation skills? Plus, you two aren’t very good at hiding things. Pretty bad actually.”   “I….we’re….” You’re fiddling with the hem of your sweater, bringing your knees to your chest. Everyone’s waiting for an explanation — Jimin who watches carefully, Jungkook who’s much too curious and Jin who’s shocked. Taehyung waits as well, patiently, to find how you want to label your relationship. His eyes are piercing, intense, and it makes you swallow hard. Suddenly, the empty glass in front of you is the most interesting thing in the room. “...pre-dating.”   “The hell’s that?”   “We’re giving it a trial run before doing anything serious. We figured it would be….safer and better if we wait until Taehyung’s dad isn’t the President anymore. Less conflict of interest. Less chance of news outlets drawing attention to it. Fewer issues all around.”   “That’s really responsible,” Seokjin says, genuinely touched that you both gave so much thought into it.    Jimin sits straighter, bright smile directed to his superior. “That’s what I said too!”   “That’s dumb,” Jungkook corrects and deadpans. Then he releases a sigh held in his chest, lolling his head to the side. “You know there’s no such thing as pre-dating, right? You’re either dating or you’re not. You’re together or you’re not. But whatever. Do what you want. Label it whatever you want.”   “Don’t listen to him,” Jin chides with a scoff before turning to you with a softened smile. His hand lifts to plop on top of your head much to Taehyung’s dismay who swats it away in a petty manner and pulls you close to him. It makes Jin laugh. “Never thought this day would come. But I’m happy for you, chickpea, as long as you’re happy.”   “I’ll admit, I for one, always thought you liked Jin,” Jungkook exposes without regard.   “W-what?” You’re left sputtering, face heating. “He-he’s just someone I really respect.”   Taehyung scoffs, arm extending to drop on the couch right behind you. “You wish, Jeon. She much prefers me. I’m not just eye-candy or for one night. I’m the guy you introduce to your mom. I’m the real deal.”   “Psh.” The boyish bodyguard snorts. “Sure. Whatever makes you feel better about yourself, Kim.”   At this point, Taehyung’s ready to fight Jungkook to the death. But Seokjin steps in, clarifying, “Y/N and I are just close since we’ve known each other for so long.”   “She knew me for longer,” the man beside you counters, cocking his eyebrow upwards.   Everyone ignores him. “When I met her, she was the size of a pea. Or like a baby chick.”   “Is that why you call her chickpea?” Jimin asks and he nods, shifting to you with a smile.   “I met you when you were what...six?”   “I think so?” You’re unsure yourself. “I was in kindergarten.”   “Wait,” your partner interjects, hands in the air. “ You knew him before you knew me?!”   He’s beyond offended. Taehyung did, in fact, not know you for longer.    “Yeah, I was brought to my dad’s dojo. He was a student there.”   “My parents put me in taekwondo,” Jin says with a smile while Jungkook hums and pours more drinks for everyone, sobering up too quickly for his own liking. “They put me in a whole bunch of activities, like soccer and piano. But I liked taekwondo the best.”   Your jaw goes slack. “You know how to play soccer and play piano?”   “Not that well.” The older man is sheepish, scratching the back of his neck.   Jungkook quickly adds, “I know how to play drums.” Except no one pays him any attention except for Jimin who tells him that’s super cool.   In the meanwhile and as you’re swooning, melting into your spot at the idea of Kim Seokjin being talented beyond your own imagination, Taehyung’s not impressed whatsoever. What he thought was his leverage against the man has been ruined.   Taehyung thought he got to you first. He was your childhood friend. But goddammit! It was Seokjin who was always there without him even knowing.   “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew him before?”   “It’s not that big of a deal. We only saw each other at most...three times a year?”   “Oh.”   “Drink up, folks.” Jungkook shoves a shot into your hand. You look over to the man beside you, jean-covered thigh brushing yours, but he practically inhales the alcohol before you can tell him otherwise. You drink as well, coughing afterwards from the bitter taste. Even Jungkook sharply inhales, brows twitching for a moment before he sets it down, unaffected. “When’d you meet Taehyung?”   “I was in grade...three?”   “I was in grade two,” Taehyung comments with a smile, relaxed again. He’s no longer threatened by Jin’s presence, not like he was legitimately worried earlier. It’s all in good fun...mostly because he knows you too well. You like him the best regardless of what you might say or do — he’s confident on it.   Taehyung’s not wrong either.   “I played with him, well, more like babysitting.”   “You did not babysit me,” he defends with a playful scoff.   You alter your words, choosing them carefully. “I had to keep him...preoccupied while my dad and his were working. Like three to five times a week.”   “Did you get paid?” Jimin asks and you reply with a ‘not really’ while Taehyung shouts a ‘why would she?!’   “Well you do now,” Jungkook chirps, cheeky in the way he says it.   You raise both your brows and glass, taking a drink to it. He laughs happily, pouring you one while Taehyung glares, not particularly entertained with the way the conversation was heading.   But thankfully, Jimin clarifies, “You two are childhood friends then.”   “That we are,” Taehyung chimes proudly and with a giddy giggle. “We were best buds.”   “Well…..”   “Weren’t we?”   “Sure.” You grin and reach over to lightly pinch his cheek. His skin is already pink before you’ve touched it, but when you do, it’s warm beneath your fingers.    “Ugh, don’t be gross.” Jungkook groans without really meaning it. He pours himself another glass, liquid sloshing the sides of his cup. “I don’t need this public display of affection in my house.”   Jin’s smiling at you while Jimin’s shy. But Taehyung revels in it and to piss Jungkook off, he loops his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in to lean on his chest. You comply, not bothered whatsoever. Maybe it’s the liquid courage that seems to dull your sense of shame.    “You went to school with Y/N, right?” Jimin inquires with a hum, words beginning to slur together. “I think you mentioned it once or twice.”   “Yep,” Jungkook answers. “We went to the same high school together. We never talked much though. We were just classmates.”   “He was a shrimp,” you laugh out, the picture in your mind too funny to you. “I should find the yearbook and bring it for everyone to see!”   “Don’t.”   Jungkook’s warning doesn’t faze you. “He had a bowl haircut and wore clothes way too big for his size.”   “Hey, better than you. Everyone was scared of you. For a while there’s a rumour going around that you couldn’t talk at all. No one had ever heard your voice.”   Taehyung nudges you gently. “Something things never change, huh. Miss. Scary-Pants frightening children from day one.”   “I just didn’t talk much back then,” you mutter in defense.   “Everyone goes way back with Y/N then, except for Jimin,” Jin notices.   “Don’t worry, Chim. I like you the best.”   The boy in question grins, beaming brightly. “Thanks, Y/N.”   The night continues, stories being told and exchanged. There are tales of Jungkook moving to the big city, Jimin’s first day of work and how he nearly soiled his pants getting lost in the Blue House, as well as Taehyung talking about his attempt of running away at age seventeen.   There are more drinks passed around for one another, games played until everyone’s brought to the same level of drunkenness that Jungkook’s satisfied with.    You feel warm from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, finding laughing and giggling too easy. You don’t remember the last time you smiled or spoke so much.   But when it’s all done and over, you’re laying beside Taehyung on the floor. The lights are off, Jimin passed out about an hour ago and Jin taking the couch, falling back after trying to go home and finding it too difficult to do so. Jungkook’s a log on the floor as well, dead asleep by the television.   The sounds of snoring fill the small space while you’re still wide awake, as well as a certain someone.   “Did you have fun?” You try to whisper and stay quiet, but it fails as giggles bubble up your throat, ticklish from how close he is to you.   “Yeah.” Taehyung grins. “I had fun. Did you?”   “Yeah. I’m glad.” You reach out, happily taking his hand to hold it. He laces his fingers through yours and you smile infectiously.    There was no better place than here, surrounded by your closest friends and laying right beside him. You could see part of his face with the moonlight shedding through the gaps of the curtains and your eyes run along the slope of his nose, his cupid’s bow before lifting to his lashes.    Kim Taehyung doesn’t seem so lonely anymore.    And you’re relieved, heavy weights lifted off your shoulders, your chest lighter than it was before without the worry. And for you, while you’re still troubled every so often, it isn’t hard to speak what’s on your mind anymore — and it’s not just from liquid courage that prompts honesty.   It’s difficult to pinpoint your emotions, but you know it’s here. even if it’s overwhelming.    “Hey.”   “Hmm?”   “Where do you think we’ll be in a year,” you murmur, eyes flickering downwards where he squeezes your palm. “What do you think we’ll be doing?”   “I would’ve graduated by then. We’d be together.”   “You think so?”   “Yeah. I think so.” Taehyung smiles softly, the corners of his mouth pulled. “Hopefully my dad won’t run for a re-election.”   “And if he does?”   Taehyung hums a low note, soothing and enough to lull you asleep. But you keep your eyes peeled back, hanging onto every syllable that leaves his rumbling voice. “Then we could leave. If you want to. We could go to someplace else where...they wouldn’t know me…..they wouldn’t know you. It wouldn’t be dangerous. Or bad. You know? There are good art schools in other countries….I think you’d qualify for their police force if you tried or maybe join the WWE or whatever.” Taehyung laughs quietly. “Maybe you can even be an ambassador for our country or work at the embassy….”   You grin. “I thought you said you never wanted to leave.”   “Yeah, I said that.” The man sighs, eyes fluttering. “Cause I was scared that there’d be nothing if I came back. No one would remember me. But...I’m not scared no more. You’d be with me no matter what. Dad would be here. And Kook and Jin would be too. There’d be something for me here.”   “Okay.” You nod, squeezing his hand again before curling against his chest.   “Hmm? Okay, what?”   “Okay, let’s go. If we have to.”   Taehyung smiles against your hair, nuzzling into you. “Really? You’d come with me?”   “Yeah, why not?”   “We’d have to rent a place together and stay together all the time.”   “Good. I can protect you that way.”   He giggles, giddy at the prospects of the future. “We’d basically be married.”   “Sure.” You shrug, reveling in his pleasant scent of lavender and baby lotion. “Whatever you want.”   “You always give in to me,” Taehyung murmurs. “I feel like I push you around too much.”   “Only cause I let you.” There’s a big distinction of being forced and giving in, one that took you a while to learn. “I don’t mind it.”   “Are you sure?”   “You already asked me and I already said yes, dumbo.” You pull away slightly, reaching up to press a kiss against his mouth, one with too much tongue and saliva. You can taste the alcohol on his breath before pulling away.    Taehyung pouts. “I’m not the dumbo, you are.”   “No, you are.”   “No, you are.”   “Hey.” A few meters away, Jungkook rolls over. “Can you guys shut the fuck up?”   The two of you apologize before laughing and lest Jungkook moves to kick you both in the shins, Taehyung pulls you to his chest to muffle the sound. Eventually, your eyes bat thrice, lids becoming too heavy to resist….and you’re gone.

The world is bleary, blurred at the edges.   But as he blinks twice, his vision clears and he sees you at the table, sitting with your legs crossed. Your head is dipped low, neck probably hurting with how it’s bent. Yet, you continue relentlessly, small hand gripping the pencil that’s working hard against the paper, scratching lead into the surface. It moves in a flurry, fast. You’re a hard-worker even at eight years old.   Taehyung glances in the full-length mirror by the display case of plates and antiques left for decoration. He tips his head to the side as he studies his own reflection — big eyes looking back at him with overflowing cheeks. He’s less than four feet tall, dressed in long pants and a yellow shirt with a cute dog face on it.   He turns back around.   “Dumbo, what are you doing?”   “Working,” you mumble and he approaches, finding multiplication worksheets in front of you and you’re doing them rather quickly without needing to count on your fingers or mull over it for too long.   Suddenly, Taehyung’s eye catches the dinner table. Twisting around, there are two dark-haired males sitting without their feet touching the ground. Their legs are swung straight out, bouncing.    And Taehyung realizes this isn’t a memory at all — it’s a dream.   Jungkook’s doe eyes are even bigger and rounder than before, his lips in a permanent pout. The kid glances over beside him and his sticky fingers grab for the bag of candies, ripping it away from Jimin’s grasp. The latter child is stunned for a good ten seconds before bursting out into hysterical sobs, fat tears rolling down his cherub cheeks.   “He stole it from me!”   Jungkook digs his hands in, bringing it to his mouth and chewing the candies in his cheek. He blinks, completely aloof to the frenzied kid beside him who’s having a complete mental breakdown.   “Jungkook, don’t steal.” Footsteps pad out from the room down the hall, a taller and older person from the rest walking out. But despite seeming to have a good head on his shoulders and carrying himself more maturely, Seokjin’s still a child, not much older than the rest. “It’s okay, Jimin, we’ll get you another one,” he tries to placate and comfort in a smooth timbre.   Jimin’s curled fist raises to rub away at his eyes. “Really?”   “Really.”   “Really, really?”   “Triple really.”   A gooey smile spreads into his face and he quirks his head to the side. “Okay! I’ll share right now then!”    Despite Jimin’s compromise, Jungkook has no plans of letting go of his snacks any time soon.   Seokjin turns, looking over. He smiles and walks up slowly with arms behind his back before coming to lean over you. “Doing math homework, chickpea? Need help?”   You shake your head furiously. He stares. “Are you sure?”   Jin’s getting too cozy for your liking, too close. Taehyung watches curiously as you climb up onto your feet, steps scattering noisily. He expects you to dash down the hall, but instead you go right behind him for protection. Taehyung feels the way you grasp onto his shirt in fistfuls, and he grins, standing straight and boldly as your shield while something blooms inside his chest, making his tummy feel fluttery.   You peek out timidly from Taehyung’s shoulder.   “Okay then,” Jin smiles gently, not taking how you shied away from him to heart. “Tell me if you need it.”   “’Kay.”   Taehyung didn’t need to steal you away. You naturally came to him. And his heart is soaring.   After Seokjin leaves, Taehyung turns around to gaze at you. You were too cute — he wishes he didn’t bully and tease you as much as he did back then. “I thought you wanted Jin to help.”   “No.” You shake your head, smiling coyly before your finger pokes at his arm. “I want you to help with my maths.”   “I’m bad at math.”   “That’s ‘kay. I like you better.”   “Really?” His lashes bat, quirking your head to one side.   Your cheeks are puffy, big and swollen. “Yeah. You’re my favourite.”   He grins, so big that it hurts. Taehyung leans down and holds your hand, lacing his fingers between the gaps of your own. You watch the entire time, fascinated. Then, you look at him again with another sweet smile, a chortle that tinkles. “That’s good. You’re my favourite too. I like you.”   “How much?” you ask.   “A lot. Enough for me to love you.”   You’re made shy, bashful and giddy all over. “I love you too.”   Taehyung’s shaken awake by his own consciousness. Luckily, he’s not looking at Jungkook’s toes when his eyes open — he sees your sleeping face first. Through sleepy vision etched in blurriness, he watches the way your soft breathing leave through your parted lips, the way your lashes are sprawled against your skin, how your chest heaves up and down ever so gently.   Taehyung pulls you closer, nuzzling into you.   He goes back to sleep with a smile. If he knew at seven years old he would’ve been with you like this, past Taehyung would’ve been ecstatic for the future….

When I’m With You Ch. 17

Eddie can’t stand the barista at his favorite coffee shop. Richie has fallen in love with the man he sees twice a week. Stan is dating someone but won’t let his friends meet them. Ben is in love with Beverly, but is so afraid of scaring her away he’s not moving forward. Chaotic friends navigating college together. 

Ch. 1

Read on AO3

5k+ words

Eddie spent all of Friday cleaning his place. Not a trace of dust could be left behind. Stan and Ben came to help when they could, knowing just how bad Sonia’s wrath could really be. Bedding was washed, the bathroom was scrubbed from top to bottom, the kitchen organized and purged of any food that she would deem unacceptable. Eddie removed each shelf from the fridge, cleaning them with soap and bleach until he was sure they were clean. He hid his soymilk at Richie’s the night before, knowing she’d claim he had a soy allergy if she saw it.

Ben took the box of things he’d gathered to hide at Bev’s with him when he left. Stan was the most helpful as his OCD made him the perfect person to clean and organize. He had what they had always called “Sonia vision”. He walked through the apartment, looking for anything and everything she might see and have a problem with. Your dresser isn’t secured to the wall Eddie, what if it falls over on top of you? A trip to the hardware store down the street and it was fixed. Your lamp cord stretches across the floor, Eddie, you could trip. Wrapped around the table leg until it was just long enough to reach the plug. When he finally did a walkthrough that came up clean, Eddie relaxed a bit. He just had to keep it that way until she left.

When Saturday finally came, Eddie was ready to bust from all the nerves that had built up within him. He’d woken up in a panic at 6am from a nightmare that his mom arrived early to find Cheetos in the cabinet and Richie’s underwear on the sofa. He wasn’t able to go back to sleep after that and spent the next hour picking out his outfit for the party that would take place later that night. Richie had stayed at his own place that night so he wouldn’t leave anything behind that Sonia might find. And of course, Eddie couldn’t stay at his place because what if she smelled him on Eddie? He would soon know just how deep her controlling went. Eddie was still unsure about her meeting him at all. If she saw one thing wrong in him, she’d immediately hate him, and Eddie had no plans to end that relationship.

Eddie went about his day, showering, having breakfast, homework. Richie took the opportunity to sleep in and didn’t text Eddie a good morning text until 2pm when he’d already had lunch and was sat on his couch reading a book. He sent along a picture of him in bed, glasses off, and hair looking a mess. Eddie felt a swell of love bubble up in his chest and he wondered how he’d ever spent a second of his life not loving this boy. Every second of their relationship before they were together became a distant memory even though it had only been a few weeks since then. Eddie had never fallen so fast in his life, never even had a proper relationship. If he’d known this feeling was what he was missing out on, he would have tried a little harder, spent less time pretending he didn’t find Richie charming.

He didn’t want to admit it, but Eddie was counting down the hours until he had to leave with his friends to go to this party. Many times, since he’d woken that morning, he thought he might actually puke from the nerves twisting in his gut. Bad memories could easily be forgotten. It was just a stupid mistake from more than a year prior and this was different. This was a different party with different people (except Ben and Stan of course) and he was going to have this boyfriend by his side this time. Everything would be fine.

It was all his own anxiety picking at him, heightened by the impending visit of his mother that could potentially end his world as he knew it. That’s what this was really about, not some stupid mistake he’d made when he was out of his mind with rebellion. Ben and Stan both knew about it and he’d told Richie. He wasn’t hiding it so how could he be ashamed? People give drunken handjobs in bathrooms at frat parties all the time. Though…usually they probably actually want to do it instead of doing it out of some form of unnecessary obligation.

Eddie slammed his book shut and sat up, tossing it to the side. It was just nerves. It was his mother’s presence growing near putting him on edge. There was nothing to worry about. The party would be fine.

*

The party was…big. Bigger than Eddie had been expecting. Partygoers could be seen beyond the front windows, spilling out onto the porch and front lawn. Music thumped loudly from within and smoke from a firepit in the backyard could be seen wafting above the roof and then dissipating into the night sky. Voices carried from all around and within the house. The last party like this Eddie had been to, was similar but he’d also been high when they arrived having met up with a few temporary friends beforehand, so he hadn’t been fixating on how many people there were or how rowdy it was. He had to consciously work on staying calm and not worrying about how the night would go.

Eddie and Richie had walked to campus, meeting everyone else at Ben’s dorm building. They all walked to the Greek row from there. Bev had a flask in her purse which they passed around on their walk and it had helped a bit with his anxiety. Still, he was eager to get that first real drink into his system so he could loosen up. Richie’s hand in his kept him aware that he wasn’t alone this time and wouldn’t do anything stupid. The last thing he needed was another regret at a party for his memories.

As they walked up the stairs and through the front door, Eddie turned his attention to Ben and Beverly. All of them, except him, had seemed to realize that she’d been invited because the guy in her group wanted to hook up with her. The stories she told about this guy all involved his shameless flirting with her. She rolled her eyes each time and they knew that she only had eyes for Ben, but Eddie couldn’t help worrying. He didn’t expect her to do anything that would hurt him but with all of the eyes already on Bev, there was likely to be a few attempts to kill their relationship from outsiders through the night. Focusing on keeping things calm with them, keeping the vultures away, might be just what Eddie needed to distract himself.

Of course, as soon as they were inside, surrounded by bodies, they were separated. Ben and Bev disappeared toward the front room off the hallway. Mike let them know that he and his boys were going to look for a friend who was supposed to be there leaving Richie and Eddie alone. Being alone with Richie wasn’t the worst thing but Eddie craved more distraction than what Richie could provide. Still, he didn’t object as their friends walked away and Richie began to pull him toward the kitchen.

Surprisingly, the kitchen wasn’t too crowded. Which was odd as every party Eddie had been to, the kitchen worked as a central hub for groups standing in circles leaning against surfaces, drinking and talking loudly about life. He’d always figured it was because a good chunk of the food and drinks could be found there. However, in this case the kitchen only had a scattering of people. A group of three girls occupied one corner, one of them sitting atop the counter and swinging around a half empty bottle of vodka as she spoke. There was a couple leaning against the far wall, staring dreamily into one another’s eyes and speaking quietly. The rest were people filtering in and out looking for people or grabbing food and drink.

Richie’s target was the counter covered with bottles of different shapes, sizes and colors. Eddie eyed the oddly shaped bottle with purple liquid inside. What kind of liquor was purple? He’d seen pink, blue, green, yellow and red but never purple. If he’d been feeling more adventurous, he might have given it a go but the foreign language on the label left him clueless as to what he might be ingesting so he passed.

“What looks good?” Richie asked, letting go of Eddie’s hand to look through the bottles.

“Rum and coke? Something simple?” Eddie rested his hip against the counter, wanting to be near Richie.

Richie found a 2liter of coke and a bottle of Captain Morgan, filling two of the colorful plastic cups he’d grabbed from the stack. When Eddie took the offered cup, he knocked back half of the contents of the cup before looking back to Richie who was watching him.

“You ok Eds?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’m fine. Just…anxious in big crowds.” He’d already told Richie he was a little anxious about the party but didn’t want him to worry.

“If you want to leave just let me know and we’ll go immediately and just text everyone later.”

“No, I’m fine, really. I want to enjoy myself tonight. Tomorrow is going to be stressful.”

“If you say so. The second you change your mind you’ll tell me?”

“Promise.”

“Good.” Richie slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of his head before steering him back out to the hallway.

From there the night seemed to pass quickly. Eddie perhaps drank more than he should have but the alcohol definitely loosened him up and he was feeling good. Bev managed to coerce him into dancing with her, Ben and Mike got into an arm-wrestling match to determine which one of them was truly the strongest. Stan loosened up more than any of them, which came as a surprise. He danced freely seemingly forgetting they were at a party full of strangers with phones that could record him giving Bill an impromptu lap dance by the bonfire.

When Eddie and Ben went back inside to refresh some drinks, they were all giddy and happy, heads full of booze making everything else melt away. They were carefully making their way back through the crowd to the backyard, each with two drinks, trying not to spill anything, when they heard the yelling. They broke free from the group that had converged on the back porch to see Bev, red faced, standing in front of Richie and yelling at the girl in front of her.

As they got closer, they could hear over the chatter and music what she was saying. “I’m being ridiculous? What about you? Why can’t you just leave him alone?” She was shouting. Richie had a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her.

“I just came over to say hi! We used to be best friends, Bevvy. I can’t say hi to you anymore?” The girl asked.

“Bullshit! You didn’t come over here to say hi to me! You think I don’t know what you pulled a few weeks ago? Richie is my best friend! He tells me everything. I know word for word what you said to him.”

“Why am I the bad guy for trying to get back together?”

Eddie and Ben had stopped a good distance away, just close enough to hear. They exchanged a look. Now they knew who she was. Eddie couldn’t see her face, but he’d met her once before. The dreaded ex. He felt a rock drop and settle in his gut. He had no reason to be jealous or feel threatened but there was just something about seeing his partner’s ex that set off a spectrum of emotions within his alcohol fogged brain. He wasn’t sure if he should approach but Ben was nudging him forward with his elbow.

“You don’t just get to choose when you want to be with someone! You broke up with him and then came to me for support telling me how horrible he was rewriting events I was there for to make him look bad. When I wouldn’t side with you, you lashed out on me! You are the one who ruined both relationships.”

“I apologized!”

“You told him he was overreacting! You told him it was because he was always trying so hard to be funny and to make everyone laugh and you hated that part of him. You blamed your infidelity on him. How is that an apology?”

“Bevvy…listen…”

“No. You need to walk away.”

“But I love him! Don’t you still love me Richie?”

Eddie felt like he’d been punched, the only thing keeping him from running was Ben’s hand on his back steering him back to their friends. He didn’t want to hear the answer. He was afraid of what Richie might confess when he thought Eddie couldn’t hear him.

“No.” Richie said flatly, looking her in the eyes.

They were upon them now. Ben left Eddie, handing Bev one of the cups he was juggling in one hand, trying to steer her away from the confrontation. They all knew that one wrong word from this girl would end up with Bev beating her senseless and no one wanted that. With Ben making their presence known, Richie was now turning to Eddie, his features unreadable.

“I…I got your drink.” Eddie said, holding up Richie’s cup and finally closing the distance.

Richie took it from him with a quiet “thanks”, his other hand snaking around to his back, a move Eddie had come to recognize as a self-comfort thing he often did. Eddie understood it. The need to feel grounded by the touch of another person who loves you. Richie had provided that comfort for him all night, it was time to return the favor.

“How can you say that, Richie? You loved me before.” His ex kept going.

“I told you last time that I’ve moved on. I don’t hate you, Monica. I feel nothing toward you anymore. Now, please leave. You’re making my boyfriend uncomfortable.”

“Wha-…no I…” Eddie started but stopped when Richie gave him a pleading look.

The last time Eddie had witnessed a confrontation between them, Richie had been lying when he called him his boyfriend. This time it was true, but Eddie didn’t think his reaction was any better. He felt like he should say something or do something. Maybe wrap himself around Richie in a show that he was his now. The best he could do, feeling embarrassed at being observed by Monica and their friends alike, was place a hand on Richie’s cheek, making him focus on him. Richie smiled, placing his own hand on top of Eddie’s and pressing a kiss to his palm. Both were vaguely aware of Beverly yelling something as Monica angrily walked away with a shouted “whatever” but their attention was on one another.

Needing space to breathe, Richie steered Eddie away from the crowd toward the edge of the yard where a large tree stood. It was fairly isolated and void of others. Once they were hidden in the darkness provided by the tree, only lit up by the string of fairy lights wrapped around the trunk, Richie set his drink on the ground and dropped his head to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Sorry. I didn’t know she’d be here.” He said, arms coming up around Eddie in a hug.

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything.” Eddie’s voice was low as he let his own drink slip from his fingers to wrap his arms around Richie’s back. “Are you doing ok?”

Richie pulled back just far enough to look at Eddie’s face. “I’m fine. More annoyed than anything else. The last thing I wanted tonight was something so stressful. We were supposed to be making tonight fun for you before tomorrow. Guess she kind of ruined that.”

“No, nothing is ruined. We can still have fun.” Eddie smiled. “We’re pretty secluded right now ya know.”

“Eddie Spaghetti are your propositioning me right now?” Richie’s lips split into a grin.

“You bet your ass I am.”

Eddie’s hand on the back of Richie’s neck pulled him down for a kiss, not that he needed much guiding. He was always willing to kiss the beautiful boy in front of him. Fairy lights dug into Eddie’s back and Richie’s hand as he braced himself on the tree, but neither seemed to mind as lips fit together and tongues licked messily against one another. Eddie let out a moan he never consciously would have done in public but with Richie’s fingers digging into his hip and his teeth pulling at his lip, he was flying.

It wasn’t until Bill was calling out, “Get a r-room!” That they were aware they were actually completely visible to the rest of the yard. Richie responded by flipping him off and Eddie erupted into giggles, pressing his forehead against Richie’s shoulder.

B3 were all approaching when Eddie finally looked up. Bev seemed to have calmed a bit but still seemed agitated. Afterall, Monica had been her friend who had hurt her and her best friend. Having a run in with her was bound to put her on edge for a while.

“Sorry to interrupt but Bill needs my help with something. Mind babysitting Bev?” Ben asked.

“I don’t need babysitting.” Bev huffed.

“I’m worried she’ll chase down Monica and jump her if she’s left alone.”

“I got this.” Richie grinned.

Bill and Ben walked away, and Bev watched until they were out of earshot. “I need a smoke now. Know anyone who might be carrying?��

“Joey is here. He’s usually got something.” Richie said.

“Go with me?”

“Sure. I’ll be back, ok?” He kissed Eddie one last time before pulling away from him.

“Please don’t tell Ben I smoke. He doesn’t know yet.” Bev said over her shoulder as she followed Richie back toward the house.

For the first time that evening, Eddie was alone, but he was too happy to care. He was well past drunk now and skating the line of straight up shitfaced. The world had that glimmer around the edges of his vision that always came from drinking too much. History told him that he was around two drinks away from room spinning and he was happy to avoid that but not regulating his drinking enough to prevent it. He was in a zone of ‘whatever happens, happens’ which he’d hate himself for the next morning.

In the past, it had been around this stage of drunkenness when he was searching for someone to lose himself in for a while. Strangers tongues in his mouth, hands on his body and hips grinding against one another until Stan and Ben were dragging him home and putting him to bed. This time they wouldn’t do that because the arms he’d be in would be Richie’s and he was his. They would leave him in Richie’s care and know that they wouldn’t have to worry because he wouldn’t let anything happen to Eddie. They no longer needed to be his protectors, right?

“No fuckin way…Kaspbrak?” The voice cut through his daze, thoughts of going home with Richie dissolving until he was back in reality. He searched, confused for a second, for the source of the voice. Then he saw him. Couldn’t remember his name but he definitely remembered that face.

“Oh…” Eddie said, his stomach knotting up and his fingers digging into the sleeves of his sweater.

“It’s me! Bryce!”

“Yea…right…Bryce…”

“I haven’t seen you at a party in ages! Where have you been?”

“Just…lost interest I guess.” Is what Eddie said but, in his mind, he told the truth. “You. You are the reason I stopped going to parties because I decided I didn’t want my first time to be in a dirty bathroom with a complete stranger while high out of my mind all because I wanted to make out with him for a bit.” He thought.

“I knew it wouldn’t last. You were a party animal, man.”

“You met me once and we barely spoke before I was licking your teeth.” Eddie could feel the pinch of his fingernails through the fabric of his sleeve. “Yea…I guess.”

“Gotta tell you, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night. Tried looking you up on social media but you have everything set to private.”

“It was more than a year ago. You haven’t been thinking about me, you just want to get laid!” He didn’t know what to actually say. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid, and he could feel the panic creeping its way up his spine with cold claws. He looked back to the firepit where his friends had been. He only saw Stan and Mike, but mercifully Stan looked up and met Eddie’s panicked gaze before his eyes darted to the guy standing beside him.

“We need to go to Eddie now.” Stan said, grabbing Mike by the arm and dragging him with him.

“What’s going on?” Mike asked before seeing the guy who now had one arm resting on the tree above Eddie’s head, leaning over him.

“Eddie! There you are!” Stan faked happiness as he grabbed Eddie up in a hug, effectively pulling him away from Bryce’s shadow.

“Stan…Mike…I was looking for you guys.” Eddie lied, forcing a smile in their direction when Stan released him.

“Oh, hey. I think I met you last time.” Bryce gestured to Stan.

“Yea. Sure. I remember.” Stan’s smile fell away when addressing Bryce, but he didn’t seem to get it. They did meet that night when he was dragging Eddie out of the bathroom while simultaneously helping him get his jeans up his thighs as Ben stood between them and Bryce to prevent him following. They all knew that Bryce hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but he was a bad memory for Eddie, and he was clueless to the way Eddie reacted around him. He didn’t want to talk to him and short of saying it outright, he thought he’d done a fair job of getting that across with body language and his lack of conversation. Perhaps if he’d seen Eddie that night, on the bathroom floor, his head on Stan’s lap crying about how stupid he felt then he’d understand why his presence was causing an upset.

“Anyway…Eddie and I were talking so maybe we could, like, go talk in private?” Bryce worded it like a question, but his fingers were wrapping around Eddie’s bicep to yank him away from Stan.

“I can’t…I…I have a boyfriend now.” Eddie finally found his voice.

“I don’t see him. Come on.” He cocked his head back toward the house, pulling lightly on Eddie’s arm.

Stan had intertwined his fingers with Eddie’s as soon as Bryce had put his hand on him and was sure as hell not letting go now. As Bryce pulled him, Stan pulled back on his hand to keep him in place. To outsiders they probably looked like children fighting over the same toy. Sure, Stan knew that Eddie wouldn’t do anything with him if he was successful at separating them. He loved Richie and it was easy to see how attached he was the other man. He wouldn’t do anything to compromise what they had, but Stan couldn’t ignore that part of him that had been protecting Eddie for years. Bullies, Sonia, his own rebellious phase, handsy guys at parties. Stan would protect him from them all even if he was afraid himself.

“Dude.” Mike finally stepped forward having caught up in his drunken haze. “He said he can’t go with you. Let him go.”

Bryce’s smile fell away, and he stopped tugging at Eddie, but didn’t let him go. He stood tall, back straight, chin tilted slightly up like he thought he could take all 6ft and tight packed muscles that was Mike Hanlon. “What, you his boyfriend?” He asked.

“I’m his friend and he said no.” Eddie had never seen Mike like this. He was always smiling, warm and gentle. Now he looked like he was willing to knock this guy out for him.

“I just want to talk to him. Mind your own business.” Bryce tugged Eddie hard enough to pull his hand free from Stan’s.

“Are you serious?” Mike chuckled but it was without humor. Stan put a hand on his back, hoping to draw him back. The last thing they needed was for things to get physical and he certainly didn’t want Mike to be the one to throw the first punch. They needed backup. Someone to help keep Mike calm and get this guy away from Eddie without incident.

As if answering his prayers, Richie and Bev emerged from the crowd near the porch, laughing and unaware of the situation. They grew near and, as if sensing the tension sparking through the air, turned from one another to the group in front of them. Richie’s eyes dragged from Mike to Eddie to the hand wrapped around his arm and the guy it belonged to.

“What’s going on?” He asked, his eyes trained on Eddie.

“This dude is getting all bent out of shape because I want to have a private conversation with him.” Bryce said, yanking Eddie’s arm up as he spoke.

“And who are you? His friend?”

“No.” Eddie spoke. “I met him about a year ago at a party…but I haven’t spoken to him since. I told him I don’t want to go with him.”

“Sounds like you should let him go then.” Richie made no jokes. He didn’t crack a smile. He was angry and Eddie could practically feel it vibrating off of him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Bryce asked, not hearing the warning in Richie’s voice.

“His boyfriend.”

At that, Bryce finally released Eddie’s arm and he immediately went to Richie’s side. Bryce apparently wasn’t willing to back off just yet though. Eddie remembered how persistent he’d been the first time they’d met and figured he wouldn’t back down easily, but he just wanted it to all be over. He wanted to go back to drinking and dancing with his friends. He wanted to be pressed up against the tree with Richie’s tongue down his throat again. This was precisely why he’d been worried about going to a stupid party in the first place.

“You need to do a better job at keeping an eye on your boy then. He’s super easy and flaunts it in front of everyone. Not my fault he came onto me.”

That was bullshit. Eddie’s friends knew that was bullshit. Richie knew that was bullshit. He was just mad he’d been turned down and had an audience for it. He was drunk, maybe high, and lashing out on Eddie because he was probably embarrassed. That didn’t make it ok to lie and try to cause problems for Eddie and Richie. Maybe it was jealousy because he was a one-time hookup quickly ignored afterward and Richie had won him over. All of this ran through Richie’s mind cause sure, he was drunk too, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d learned to read people long ago and understand the reasons they did and said what they did. Still, that was his boyfriend he was talking about. His boyfriend that he’d been manhandling. His boyfriend whose refusals he ignored.

“Didn’t look that way to me.” Richie managed to keep his voice even, not let the anger slip out.

“You clearly don’t know your own damn boyfriend then. He’s a tease…a slut willing to hook up with the first guy he sees.”

Anger burned white in front of Richie’s vision. He wasn’t ok with anyone being called that derogatory term, but certainly not the object of his affection. He could have just walked away and found someone who was actually interested in him. Instead he chose to stay and badmouth the boy Richie saw as an actual angel walking the earth. He wasn’t sure what happened next. His mind went blank and the next thing he knew, Bryce was on the ground holding his bleeding nose and his hand hurt.

“Richie!” Bev’s voice was laced with shock.

“We should…probably go…” Mike said, looking over his shoulder at the quickly approaching crowd coming to investigate the commotion.

“Ben and Bill are somewhere still.” Stan said, standing on his toes to look for them.

“You guys go. We’ll find them.” Mike shoved Richie by the shoulder toward the gate leading to the front yard.

Eddie was shocked but conscious enough to know they needed to go before Bryce’s friends caught on to what had happened, and a bigger fight broke out. Hopefully he’d forget just who punched him by the next morning. Richie began to move his feet when Eddie pulled at his hand and soon, they were running. Passed the gate, across the front lawn on out onto the street. Eddie was vaguely aware of the stiffness in his still healing ankle and that he shouldn’t be running but his priority was getting Richie away from the scene as quickly as he could manage before trouble caught up with them.

*

Richie sat on Eddie’s couch, quickly sobering up from the run through the cold night air and the pain in his hand. He’d never punched someone before. Been punched, yes, but never punched back. He’d never really had the urge to hit someone before. He couldn’t even remember doing it but knew that he had. He just went into a blind rage when that douche said terrible things about Eddie. The fact that he’d only taken one hit was a miracle. At least, he thought he was only one hit. The blood on his knuckles was definitely not his own.

Eddie emerged from the kitchen moments later. He’d been flitty around the apartment gathering things ever since depositing Richie on his couch. Richie wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He hadn’t said anything since they’d left the party. He wouldn’t blame him if he was mad at him. He didn’t take Eddie for a lover of violence or someone who wanted to date a guy whose reaction was to throw fists. He still said nothing as he sat beside him on the couch, dropping the things he’d gathered between them.

“Let me see.” Eddie finally spoke, reaching for Richie’s hand. He held it out and watched as Eddie used the damp towel in his hand to wipe the blood away. When that was done, he sprayed an antibacterial on it that stung, making him aware of the small cut he had sustained. Eddie brought his hand to his lips and gently blew on it until the sting subsided and it was dry enough for a bandage. He’d grabbed a gel icepack from his freezer and pressed it to his skin where it formed around his knuckles.

Richie watched his face as he fixed him up. He didn’t seem angry. “I’m sorry.” He apologized, feeling like he needed to. “I’m not usually like that. I kind of acted without thinking. He just…he shouldn’t have said those things about you.”

“It’s ok. I’m not mad.” Eddie was still holding Richie’s hand, his other hand on top of the icepack. “I’ve never had someone defend me like that. I mean, Ben and Stan have always stood up for me but not like that. It was…” Eddie trailed off, dropping his gaze.

“It was what?”

“…kind of hot.” Eddie said in a small voice. “Is that fucked up? It was like…you were defending my honor or something.” His face was red, but then his cheeks always colored red when he drank.

“Well damn, Eds. I would have been punching people from the start if I knew it turned you on.” He joked, finally cracking a smile and using his unbruised hand to pull Eddie just a bit closer.

“Oh god…please don’t ever punch anyone again. I swear, I thought my heart stopped. I thought for sure he was going to hit you back before he fell.”

“As you wish, my dear.” Richie nuzzled Eddie’s hair with his nose, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I won’t start anymore fights unless they call your chastity into question.”

“Good.” Eddie’s voice was low as he tilted his head up and captured Richie’s lips with his own. He felt lightheaded from the alcohol still coursing through him and the feel of Richie’s tongue pressing past his teeth. There was something important he was supposed to remember but Richie was running his good hand through his hair and sucking on his lip and all rational thought flew from his brain. All he could think was to swing his leg over Richie’s lap and wrap his arms around his neck, pressing his hips down hard. Every worry he’d had, every bad feeling he’d had throughout the night, left him and only one thought filled his head. Getting more Richie. He whispered through kisses, “bedroom?” and Richie didn’t need a second request as he scooped Eddie up, icepack dropped and forgotten on the floor.