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myghostmonument · 5 years ago

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13xReader: Inhibitions

Notes: I’ve been writing a lot more “canon” pieces recently (non-readers, posted on my ao3), but it feels nice to go back to my fandom roots, so to speak, and finish off some requests like this one! Each style has its own challenges to work through, and it’s fun to move between them and keep things interesting. I plan to keep writing for both, so no worries to anyone who prefers one over the other. This is, as always, gender-neutral for the reader, and is also border-line a disaster!reader fic, a loose characterization style created by the incredible @lilaccoats that I stole bc she loves me

Summary: The Doctor takes you and the fam to a trendy bar, promising a night of relaxation and fun. Shenanigans ensue when you maybe-not-so-accidentally get a little too inebriated.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, drunkenness, hangovers, mentions of vomit, and attempted assault. It’s more an uncomfortable conversation than anything, and nothing graphic happens, but please be warned!

WC: 7500 please don’t look at me like that I just picked at it to unwind as I worked on my zine piece and it got entirely out of hand honk honk goes the clown mobile

The decision to go to a bar had been Ryan’s. That alone, that the destination had been picked during his turn, ought to have been enough forewarning; it seemed that whenever a trip went sideways, it almost always fell on Ryan’s turn (or the Doctor’s, but you and the others excluded that data — her choices were always catastrophes and not worth including in the risk analysis amongst yourselves).

But faced with the usual question of “where and when to next?”, Ryan had requested a bar, and the Doctor had delivered. You had landed on an asteroid, which according to the Doctor was the location of a top-notch bar, situated along a very popular intergalactic trading route. It was certainly busy, as you all left the TARDIS in an alley and approached the sleek, shiny building; there was a short queue to get in, but people — aliens and humans both — congregated in clumps around it and as you moved through the line and entered the bar, you even looked up and noticed people on the roof.

“So,” Yaz said, propping a hip against the bar counter and taking in the sights. “This is where the great Ryan Sinclair works his magic.” She let her eyes rove around the noisy crowd, and grinned over at Ryan. “You feeling right at home then?”

Ryan shot her a scowl, his hands shoved firmly in his pockets. “Ha ha,” he said. “This is not what I had in mind when I suggested drinks.”

“What?” The Doctor asked, looking around at him. “Really? I thought I did all right.” She put her hands on her hips, surveying the crowded, noisy bar.

“Well I think it’s great Doc,” Graham said, already perusing a menu with interest. She beamed at him.

“Thank you, I try my best,” she said. She had her hands in her coat pockets, something that usually indicated she was being (or feeling) cautious. In this case, you thought she was merely trying to avoid knocking into anyone, or any drinks; the bar (if that’s what it was, it did seem more like a sort of club) was packed with people, and it would be all too easy to hook an elbow or bump a precarious drink.

Yaz and Ryan were still bickering, and although you generally enjoyed wading into those sorts of things, a menu caught your eye and you pulled it closer. You could read it, thanks to the TARDIS’ help, but translation could only go so far.

“Are these all alcoholic?” you wondered aloud, frowning at something listed as a Greyhound.

“Are they even all drinks?” Graham added, and you glanced up with a smile, knowing he was hoping for food.

“I think so,” the Doctor answered, moving over to you. She reached over to pull your menu towards her, and her sleeve brushed against your shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, still standing very close. “Sorry Graham, all liquid.” She didn’t actually sound all that sorry, you noted. Graham obviously noticed it as well, because he gave a theatrical sigh.

“Every drink has an inebriation agent of some sort,” the Doctor continued, scrunching her nose. “Different sorts for different races and species, this is a very diverse bar.”

“Are they all safe for us?” Yaz asked, also crowding your shoulder to look at the menu.

“Y-e-s,” the Doctor said slowly, followed by an “actually no,” and an eye-roll from Yaz. “Well, sort of. Depends on what you mean by safe. Humans are common enough here, but some drinks will still have a stronger or weaker effect than they would for their intended consumer. They’re coded, see?” She flattened her (your) drink menu on the counter and pointed. “This is the symbol for human, with standard colour rankings. Green means intended for you, yellow means it will have less effect, and red more.”

“Get in,” Ryan said, and you knew without having to look that he was perusing the red-coded drinks.

“You don’t want to try a Red,” the Doctor said sternly. “It could have any number of effects.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Ryan muttered, and then it was Graham’s turn to bicker with him while you and Yaz scanned the menu.

“How do you think we order?” you wondered, after deciding to try the Greyhound, which was coded green. Yaz had decided on yellow-coded drink, which cited a lack of alcohol. Its kick came from the flavor combination and carbonation, apparently. Yaz’s particular choice sounded disgusting, and you were very much looking forward to watching her try it.

“Yeah, I don’t see a barkeep,” Graham added, craning over the counter and apparently done with trying to persuade Ryan to make good choices. “Though I suppose you might not be able to pick one out from this mess.” It was true; though you were congregated around a counter, there was no discernible life-form keeping tabs or otherwise running it, and the crushing ebb and flow of the crowd was a confusing riot of clashing voices and species. Over it all thrummed the heavy beat of music, alien but still somehow recognizable as upbeat and catchy. You had the distinct sense that this was a trendy bar, and wondered how the Doctor even knew about it.

“It’s simple,” the Doctor said, and she bent over you to again point at the menu, her arm resting against yours. “You see this bit here? You press it with your finger, then press the box next to the item you want.”

“How’s that work then?” Ryan asked dubiously.

“It’s DNA activated,” the Doctor said calmly, as if that were in any way a normal thing for a drinks menu to be. “We were all scanned when we walked through the doors, didn’t you notice?”

“Did we notice the DNA scanners in an alien bar filled with aliens?” Graham asked. “No, must have slipped my mind Doc, no idea how I missed them. ”

“Well,” the Doctor said loftily, ��you were scanned. So order your drink like I said, and it’ll be brought to you.” She bent over her menu, some of her hair brushing against your face. You sat very still, swallowed, then reached for a menu and dragged it towards you (seeing as how your own had been commandeered.)

After some consideration you ordered your Greyhound, and it arrived in an interesting, fluted sort of glass, delivered by a waiter. The drink was a pleasing sanguine colour, complete with a wedge of fruit on the glass rim. The whole effect was quite good, too, which was more than Yaz could say for her yellow-coded drink, which she almost choked on. You didn’t deign to try it after that, but Ryan and the Doctor both made a big show of tasting it and being subsequently horrified. Graham, equable as ever, took the abandoned yellow in hand and sipped it serenely, something the rest of you took in with an impressed sort of horror. The Doctor drifted away shortly after with no drink of her own, which wasn’t too surprising; you rarely saw her ingest anything more than a taste of food or drink before flitting away, like some sort of overgrown and absent-minded hummingbird. Ryan and Graham wandered off too. You lingered at the counter with Yaz for a while, as she ordered a new (and improved) yellow-coded drink. You found your own glass empty, and after some hesitation, shrugged and ordered another Greyhound. It hadn’t been too strong; you simply felt warm, and bright. It was nice. Second drinks in hand, you and Yaz decided to do a circuit, it was dark and loud and you were quickly separated in the swirling crowd. No matter, you thought cheerfully, as you took another sip. You’d catch Yaz up eventually, no doubt. The music was blasting, and you unconsciously matched your footfalls to the beat, feeling it warm and sizzling in your blood along with the drink. You tipped the glass in your mouth at the end of the song, and were surprised to find it empty. “Well that’s rude,” you told the empty glass, which flashed in your hand in a thoroughly unimpressed manner. You pivoted in the press of bodies around you, trying to find a free table and a menu. You needed replacement drink, seeing as how your current one was clearly faulty. “Must’ve shorted me,” you mumbled to yourself. “Typical. Think I can’t handle my glasses - I mean, hounds. Dogs. Drinks.” You stumbled as you pushed through a group of people, but regained your stride easily enough. You even spotted Ryan in a shadowy corner, chatting with a very lovely alien indeed. She seemed to be trying to entice Ryan to dance; you wished her the best of luck. Ryan was a hilarious dancer. Not bad, but definitely hilarious, and he took some convincing. You reached a table on the edge of the dance floor, and pulled a menu towards yourself. It took you a couple of jabs to correctly order your Greyhound — your finger kept slipping. Or maybe it was the menu, actually. “Faulty drinks, faulty menus,” you complained to the room at large, leaning back against a pillar as you waited. The people swirling around you were difficult to focus on, and you wondered suddenly if the room was tilting — surely the room itself wasn’t faulty! “Have to get the foundations checked,” you informed the alien server who appeared with your drinks. They gave you an odd look and vanished. You reached for your drink, but paused, hand outstretched as you considered the not one but three glasses set before you. Two Greyhounds, and one that was something else, a smaller, opaque glass. The liquid shimmered in a very interesting way indeed, and it was difficult to look away. Well, perhaps they had brought you the extra drinks on the house, in order to make up for all the faults you’d been uncovering left and right. You stumbled as you pondered this, which as far as you were concerned was proof enough of the foundational flaws; you were, after all, standing still, so what other reason would you have to stumble? Unbelievable. You reached for the Greyhound, but your hand paused, then changed course halfway through and grasped the smaller, shimmering cup instead. It was very light in your grip. You tasted it and stumbled again; it had hit your tongue with a wallop, your entire body was fizzing with a bolt of what must be pure electricity, there was no other possible explanation. Everything around you was abruptly brighter, louder, richer. You blinked, fascinated. “Not too many humans can handle their reds,” a voice said next to you, and you set the cup down with a thud, squinting as the alien next to you came slowly into focus. “You usually so squiggly?” you asked him, and he titled his head, dark eyes moving from you to the half-drunk cup, and back again. His smile flashed in the low light, and for a moment it was all you could see, becoming somehow the brightest, sharpest thing in the room. “It’s a curse,” he said, and you nodded sagely, taking another sip. His eyes followed the cup, and his smile sharpened. “Could cut myself on that,” you observed. “Teeth,” you added, when he looked confused. Perhaps he was drunk; it was ridiculous how many people couldn’t hold their liquor! “Want to try?” he asked, and his hand was on your arm. You weren’t sure when it got there. “Excuse me?” you said, loftily, aiming for a bit of the Doctor in your speech. You thought you did quite well, but the alien didn’t look as annoyed as anyone on the receiving end of one of the Doctor’s questions usually did. Rude. “Do I want to try what?” you asked belatedly, and realized that you were being towed towards the dance floor. When had you made that decision? Time seemed to be leaping ahead and then stalling out in great lurches, and everything was fuzzy and dull. You felt the glass taken from your hand, and were vaguely surprised to find that it was empty again. Another faulty glass? Really? You might have to register a complaint. “Not a lot of humans here,” the alien said, and his hands were on your sides, moving you to the music. People pressed all around you, bumping your shoulders and making it difficult to get your bearings. Your shoes squelched on the slightly sticky floor as they moved. You wanted to stop and see if you could get the room to stop spinning so much, but the hands on you kept you in motion. The alien was speaking again, close to your ear so you could hear him over the din. “You come here alone?” he asked, his fingers warm against your side, and tight. You tried to pull back to get a better look at him but he kept you where you were.“No,” you said, blinking as you tried to orient yourself. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus. “Came with m’friends.” “And they left you all alone, to drink a red?” he murmured, and his grip tightened. He was pulling you across the dance floor; the light was fading, and you realized all at once, as you moved into a more shadowed section of the room with only the gleaming crescent of his smile visible, that you were actually quite drunk, and didn’t know where any of the others were. “Should - should get back to them,” you tried to articulate, and he laughed, one of his hands sliding lower. “You’re right where you want to be.” You stiffened, and tried to pull away. “No, I want to find my friends,” you slurred, jerking back. He held your arm, and pulled you into him in a great twirl, and suddenly your back was against a dark, slightly sticky wall. He loomed over you, one hand still vise-like on your arm, the other pressed against the wall by your head. He smiled down at you, except it didn’t really look so much like a smile anymore, but just a lot of very sharp, gleaming teeth. Your face was very cold, and you wished the room would stop spinning enough that you could push him off and find the others. “I could be your friend,” the alien said, his breath fanning across your face, his hand sliding lower again. The hand on the wall touched your hair, curled a lock of it musingly through his fingers. “I just love red-drunk humans, all alone and lost and looking for a friend to help them.” You struggled again in his grip, and this time he let you go. You lurched sideways along the wall, falling against the corner in a heap. You thought you should feel sick, but you only felt annoyed, and cold, and something else, something like confusion that was tipping towards fear. The alien lifted you back up, hands on your arms, then pressed you back against the corner, his weight against you. Annoyance flared and you tried to push him away. “Let go,” you ordered, but he only laughed, touched your face. “You don’t want to be alone right now do you little Red?” he asked. “I’m sure that’s true,” a new voice interrupted. It had a familiar, lilting cadence, but you didn’t recognize the sharpness to it, or the way danger simmered beneath the surface. The alien didn’t glance away from you. “We’re busy,” he said, touching your face again. “Find your own —” but then he was ripped away from you in swirl of grey fabric and flashing eyes. You swayed, then jerked back as hands touched you again, but — “It’s okay,” that voice said, “it’s alright, it’s me,” and you recognized it this time. The Doctor tucked you against her side and you inhaled that familiar scent of tea and vanilla, and it cleared your head a little, enough to let out a shaky breath. “He’s being - rude,” you told the Doctor, your voice muffled as you glared at the alien. “Yes, he is,” she answered. Her voice was still light, and soothing, and you weren’t able to see the way she was looking at him. He scowled, gaze darting from you to the Doctor and back before making a dismissive sort of hand gesture and melting into the crowd. The Doctor stood very still for a moment, and you all you could hear was the thunder of her hearts. She let out a breath, then turned you. Again you found your back against that wall, only the hands on you were gentle, and cool. The Doctor touched your face as she looked at you, and that was better too. “Are you okay?” she asked, and you wondered at the appearance of that crease in her brow. She looked dangerous, in the half-light, but her hands were still so light. You nodded, and suddenly her grip on you was tight as she kept you from toppling over. “Wouldn’t - leave me alone,” you told her. “Rude.” “You already said that,” she observed, removing one of her hands to fish in a pocket for her sonic. You blinked at her, swaying on your feet as she ran it over you. She read the output and exhaled. “Tell me you didn’t drink a red.” “I didn’t drink a red,” you repeated dutifully, and watched as her entire face scrunched up in exasperation. It was nice.“You’re so pretty,” you informed her. It was important that she knew in that moment how pretty she was, with her face all scrunchy and the flashing lights making a halo of her head. “So pretty. Too pretty.” You stumbled, and again she caught you. “Okay, I think it’s back to the TARDIS with you.” “Says who,” you slurred, even as she steered you away from the wall and towards the exit. “You’re not — you’re not the boss of me.” “I certainly am,” she muttered. “Especially when you’ve gone and had a red, and I explicitly told you it was a bad idea.” Her grip on your arm was firm and cool, and infinitely preferable to the alien’s. The other alien, that was, because obviously she was alien too. So many aliens! “You’re the best alien though,” you mused aloud, and she darted a quick look at you, tongue poking briefly out of her lips. You liked that quite a lot. You wanted her to do it again, in fact, but she had drawn her lips back into a thin line as she watched you. She steered you towards the exit, but the crowd seemed to have doubled in size, and she was forced to shove her way bodily through the dancing, yelling patrons. A much larger person staggered into her and she grunted as she took the blow. “I think I hate bars,” she said, her voice all but inaudible over the din. “That’’s new. Maybe.” Someone else knocked into her, and the force was heavy enough to jar your arms from her grip. She receded from you in a blurry tunnel of light and sound, and then it was just you, pressed between strange bodies on the dance floor while the music thundered through your bones. Huh. Almost everyone was taller than you, and you had no idea which way the exit was, or the Doctor. You didn’t care much about the exit, but it’d be good to find the Doctor; you had felt less…. fuzzy, when her hands had been on your arms, and more like yourself again. And also she was just so pretty. Wandering in a blurry haze of music and voices, you began to wonder if maybe you might locate another drinks menu. You weren’t so sure about another red, but it also didn’t seem like quite as bad of an idea as it had an hour ago. That was interesting. Weaving and stumbling, you tried to push through the press of bodies, and had made a little bit of progress when — — hands, there were hands on you again — You lurched sideways as you tried to bat those hands away, but there was nowhere to go, the wall of people bounced you back, and the lights were flashing and people were shouting and there were hands on you again — “ - alright? Hey?” The hands succeeded at spinning you around, and a person loomed out of the crowd. Two things followed in short order: you recognized Yaz, and you threw out a defensive fist. They didn't happen in the optimal order, however. “Oi!” Yaz cried, dodging your fist and catching it in her own. “It’s me, what the hell?” She was still sliding in and out of focus, but you were aware of the fact that she was quite pretty too. "’M sorry,” you told her, wondering why she was pulling away from you. You hadn’t actually hit her, after all. Had you? “Sorry,” you repeated, swaying.She was peering at you, her hands firm on your arm. Her eyes were very dark, but they reflected the dancing lights all around you and you blinked, fascinated. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. “Absolutely corking,” you slurred, proud to remember the phrase you had heard Graham use (and Ryan mock) earlier. You weren’t sure why it made Yaz look so alarmed. “Yaz — oh, good —” The Doctor popped into your view as she squeezed between two dancing aliens who took no notice of her, which was probably good because her expression was quite stormy indeed. She still looked quite pretty. How’d she manage that? It wasn’t fair. “Doctor,” Yaz said, turning, “I think something’s wrong —” “Someone decided that they should have a red,” the Doctor said, grim. “I also had two - three - I had - greens!” you told them both, proud. Yaz’s look of alarm deepened, and it was so comical that you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. When that did nothing except make her and the Doctor’s brows both snap into synchronized, angry little v shapes, you only giggled harder. “Right, TARDIS,” the Doctor said ominously. “Yaz, can you find Ryan and Graham and let them know?” Yaz nodded and between one blink and another, she had vanished again. “Just like magic,” you told the Doctor, wondering why your lips were numb. She gave you a swift, searching look, her eyebrows still angry little vs and her tongue still poking between her lips. “Come on,” she said, wrapping a cool hand around your wrist. The contact was steadying, and very nice. She kept you close, clearly not wishing to be separated again as she towed you towards the exit. “Don’t want to go,” you told her abruptly, and you couldn’t hear your voice over the crowd and the music. You didn’t even know why you said it; it wasn’t true, strictly. You still felt like you could fit in another drink or two worth of fun, but you didn’t really care where you went, not if the Doctor was with you. Even if she looked so angry as she glanced back over her shoulder. She had heard you, evidently. She had very good hearing; you and Ryan and Yaz had been working on an experiment to test the limits of it, but hadn’t put it in action yet. Someone bumped into the Doctor hard and she grunted, but her grip on you remained iron-clad and she pulled you closer, actually folding you into her arms to protect you from the jostling crowd.“This is not what I had in mind,” she muttered, her lips very close to your ears as she spoke. It was nice, and extraordinarily distracting. “Do people actually enjoy these places?” “Ryan does apparently,” you said, remembering him chatting up that pretty alien. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” the Doctor mused, moving again and pulling you with her. You were still very close. “I don’t suppose we’ll be letting him choose the next adventure. Ah. That’s better,” she added as she stepped out of the bar and into the night, towing you with her. A blast of cool, humid air hit you, wrapping around your body and cooling your cheeks. Even though the bar itself had been fairly dark, your eyes still relaxed as the flashing lights fell away.The Doctor let go, and the sobering effect of the night seemed to pull back, a little, as if you’d lost your anchor. The world tilted around you, the stars overhead wheeling and dancing. It made you feel a little bit sick, but it was also beautiful. The Doctor was talking, and you struggled to focus.“Think we parked just over there, yeah, must’ve. Let’s go — where are you going?” The last was delivered with an air of extreme exasperation as she turned in time to witness you bolting away. “I want to be colder,” you told her as you stumbled through the night. You were on pavement (alien pavement, anyways) but in the distance you could see the shadow of what had to be trees (alien trees) and maybe some grass (alien grass). You wanted nothing so much as to lay down on that grass. The Doctor’s protests followed you as you reached the tree and hurled yourself down at the cool earth. Well, not earth. Whatever passed for earth here. What was dirt on an asteroid called? A shadow fell over you, blocking the stars, and you turned your cheek in the grass to look up at the silhouette of the Doctor, hands on her hips, stray hairs blowing in the wind.“You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” she said. “You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” you replied cheerfully, and even though you couldn’t see her expression very well in the darkness and swirling stars, you could feel the scrunched-up scowl she leveled at you. “Come on,” she said, and her voice was exasperated but her hands were gentle as they lifted you off the ground. Gentle again, as they caught you when you stumbled sideways. “Careful, now. Come on.” “Don’t feel - so good -” you told her, and it was true; the fuzzy, warm glow was fading and the whirling of the stars wasn’t so much aesthetically pleasing as it was now sickening. “I expect not,” the Doctor muttered. “What could have possibly possessed you to drink so much? To drink a red?” “I didn’t mean t’ order it,” you defended yourself. “It was just - just there.” “And you drank it? Something you hadn’t ordered?” the Doctor demanded. “Surely you know not to do that!” “Just trying to have fun,” you mumbled, guilt rising up in you alongside the nausea. “Just wanted — didn’t mean to — I wasn’t —” “Okay, it’s okay, I know,” the Doctor said, her voice softening. She shifted you against her as she spoke, and you realized she was fumbling for the TARDIS key. The blue box was humming at an almost inaudible frequency, but you could feel it moving through you bones, cooling your blood, steadying you. “Thanks,” you said weakly, patting a hand on the wood as the Doctor steered you through. The interior slights dimmed as you came in, and it was a soothing balm on your eyes and raw nerves. “She’s spoiling you lot,” the Doctor muttered, but you could hear the fondness threading through her voice. “She likes us,” you thought, or maybe said. The Doctor made a soft sound, not quite a word, and you weren’t sure if she’d heard you. Weren’t sure if you’d spoken. “Okay, try and eat this,” the Doctor said a few moments later. Or maybe hours, you still weren’t entirely sure how time was progressing. Her fingers brushed your lips as she placed a fizzing sort of tablet on your tongue, and you realized all at once that your lips weren’t numb anymore, but blazing with sensation. “Swallow it, it’ll help,” she added. You blinked, looking into her face, so close to yours. There was still that furrow by her eyebrow but she didn’t seem angry, anymore. Not like she had with she’d stared down that rude alien. Her eyes were bright, glittering like the star field outside of the bar. “Too pretty,” you complained, then promptly choked on the tablet you had forgotten on your tongue. “Swallow,” she repeated, placing two fingers on your mouth. Your breath hitched, which did not help the choking one bit. You did, at least, in the midst of the resulting coughing fit, manage to swallow the tablet, but it burned and your eyes streamed as you blinked at the Doctor. “Good,” she said, placing fingers under your chin. Her touch was somehow both cooling and blazing, comforting and so very distracting. You made an indeterminate sound, and her eyes flicked to yours, a brief touch, before flicking over your face. “That should kick in soon,” she said, dropping her hand. “Is it — gonna cure me,” you asked, and the breathless quality to your voice was due to the lingering affects of drunkenness, surely, and not the Doctor’s touch. She snorted, pushing hair out of her eyes.“It’ll speed up the process, burn the chemicals out of your system faster,” she said. “And it’ll make for a quicker hangover.” She fixed you with an amused look. “Quicker, but not easier. You’re in for a fun night, I think.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on the couch. You regretted it at once, as your head spun and your stomach roiled, but the drama of the moment had dictated.“I didn’t mean to,” you complained, shutting your eyes as the lights spun around you. The spinning didn’t stop, in the darkness behind your eyelids, but it was a little bit better. Maybe. A cool hand brushed your forehead, and that definitely was better. “I know,” she said, and you could hear the gentleness in her voice. “Am I going to die?” you asked, not because you thought that you were — you’d been sick before, though admittedly not from alien alcohol — but it had the right flair of drama to it. It also made the Doctor snort again, and regrettably, her hand slid from your brow. “You’re drunk, not dying,” she said, and her voice was receding as she moved around the room. “Humans and their substances, honestly.” Something was placed on your brow, cool and damp and soothing. The Doctor tucked the cloth against your head with deft, gentle fingers even as she continued to explain her thoughts on humans and all of their myriad of flaws. “You’ve never been drink — you don’t drunk —” You stumbled over the words, and felt her fingers still, then fall away from the cloth. You opened your eyes and with the room spinning and the dim light and the serious, difficult to read expression on her face, she looked as remote and otherworldly as she actually was for all that she was your friend. “Time Lords are an advanced race, we certainly don’t have the same genetic predispositions towards inebriation or the desire to attempt so,” she said finally, still looking down at you. You grunted, considering her words as they slid in and out of your head.“Didn’t answer the question,” you observed, and were rewarded with a scowl. “Hm,” was all she said, but she was smiling slightly. “Try to rest now, and if you need to be sick —” she kicked something on the floor that gave a hollow thud. “Try to aim in here, yeah?” “I am not going to be sick,” you said firmly, and the Doctor’s smile flashed in the dim light. “I hope not, the pill’s supposed to help with that but,” she shrugged expansively, and even through the spinning room you were able to focus in shocking clarity on the pull of her shirt across her frame she did so, “I don’t really know what combination of ingredients you drank, and how they’ll react to the other things you drank or your own biology. So. Bin.” She nudged it with a boot again. “I’m going to check on the others, and you’re going to stay here. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t want her to go, but you were feeling worse by the moment as the alcohol was burned out of your system and, as far as you could tell, migrated to your head. You could feel each heartbeat rattling in your skull like knives, and your roiling stomach kept speed with it. You moaned something that the Doctor took for agreement. Time passed, although you weren’t in any way able to keep track of it. You suspected it had been a century based on the pounding in your head, but it could have only been a few heartbeats. Either way, you were still alone when you realized that what you really needed was some water. Nobody was around to hear you, but you still complained and groaned and generally made a spectacle as you swung your legs off the couch, sitting upright. Your stomach made a solid pass at leaping out of your throat, but you steadied yourself with a snarl; you were not going to need the bin, you were not going to be sick. And you were right; all thoughts of nausea fled as you pushed yourself to your feet, because your skull might as well have shattered. Your headache pounded so violently that you thought it might be slamming you through the floor; it felt too heavy, too thick, too white-hot with blinding pain. Death was infinitely preferable to this miserable thing called life. “Never — drinking — again —” you vowed, swaying, hoping the floor might just swallow you whole and end your suffering. “A noble sentiment,” the Doctor said from behind you. “But one rarely adhered to, I suspect. What are you doing off the sofa?” She appeared at your side, a steadying hand on your elbow. “You didn’t sick up somewhere did you,” she added with sudden trepidation, looking around your feet apprehensively. “I just wanted something to drink,” you told her, wretched. Your head was still pounding, and even the dimmed lights were still too bright. They stabbed your eyes with sharp, splintering shards of pain. You groaned, and leaned your head instinctively against the Doctor’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink,” she said, with a touch of asperity, but her hand was gentle as ever as she smoothed hair back from your forehead. “Water,” you clarified, your voice muffled from the folds of her coat. It was soft, and cool, and smelled like home. “Ah,” the Doctor said, steering you back to the couch. She eased you down again. “Stay, I’ll get you some water and a new cloth.” “Where are the others? Are they coming?” you asked miserably as she reappeared, setting a glass of water in your hands. It had a truly spectacular bendy, swirly straw that was almost as long as the glass itself, a vibrant purple and orange that hurt your eyes to look at, but you appreciated the gesture as you lifted it to your mouth with weak hands. “They’ll be here soon, they’re trying to find Ryan,” the Doctor said. The cushions dipped as she settled on the other end of the sofa. “They might have to expand the search,” you said, thinking of that alien he had been speaking with. You groaned as your head gave another spike of pain, and slid down the couch as sitting became too much effort. “Just rest,” the Doctor said. “It’ll pass.” “Promise?” “I promise,” she said, and your eyes were closed, but you could hear the slight smile in her voice. “I am the best alien, after all.” You could definitely hear the smile, now, and something niggled at your memory; you suspected that the Doctor was poking fun at something you had said while in the bar, but the memory was sliding in and out with tremendous spikes of pain and you let it go. You suspected that you had said many unfortunate things, and you could only hope that the Doctor hadn’t heard or remembered most of them. You drifted for a time, after that, surfacing to occasional bursts of pain or nausea or, more welcome, cool hands on your brow as they took your temperature or readjusted the the damp cloth. Clarity — and more importantly, an absence of that all-encompassing pain — arrived abruptly. You sat up gingerly, feeling weak and shaky and not even remotely good, but it was a normal not-good, not I’m going to die and if not I wish it would hurry up about it not-good. “Ah, here we are,” the Doctor said, and you looked over to see her curled up at her end of the couch, a book in her hand. She closed it and tucked it in the cushion. “Feeling better?” “Yeah,” you said, peeling off the now warm and dry cloth from your head. You looked down at it, then the mercifully empty bin at your feet. Something else rolled in your stomach, almost worse than the earlier nausea: shame, with a side of guilt. “Ah. Sorry, about all that,” you mumbled, darting another look at the Doctor. She was watching you, a slight smile curving her lips, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked over you, still assessing. “Accepted,” she said, scooting over to you and fishing her stethoscope out of her pocket. “Deep breath,” she said, resting it against your chest. “You don’t have anything to apologize for anyways,” she added. “It’s not your fault you got served a red, or that someone tried to take advantage of you for it.” You had forgotten about that, had forgotten about that other alien and his heavy, unwelcome hands, and his sharp, hungry smile. You shuddered, and the Doctor’s eyes touched your own, a welcome distraction. “I’m okay, you don’t need to waste time on me,” you muttered, but she was pushing a fresh glass of water into your hand. “Drink. And yes I do, or do you not remember bolting up and trying to climb the TARDIS console?” You goggled at her. “Apparently not,” she said with a wicked grin. “No, don’t apologize again, it’s okay. You got me out of that bar anyways, I really wasn’t vibing with it. ”You had been awash in horror at your actions, but the Doctor’s last words snapped you out of it. “Vibing with it?” you repeated, incredulous. She shot you a look, tongue poking slightly between her lips.“Yeah, am I using that right? Ryan taught me.” You were still goggling at her, but the sound of a door opening and a rush of voices distracted you both. “Ah, finally,” the Doctor said, brushing off her legs and standing up. “I wonder what kept them. We’re in here,” she added, pitching her voice to carry to the others and making no effort to define where “here” was; it was obvious to her, and that apparently was to be enough for everyone else. It was very her. Everything she did was very her, you mused. Not just because it was her doing them, but because she did everything with such one-hundred percent commitment, energy, and enthusiasm. You smiled slightly, watching her as she stood with her hands on her hips. She’d taken off her coat at some point, and she looked smaller without it, more wild and fleeting, something ephemeral. She glanced over her shoulder at you and smiled when she met your eyes. That smile was also wild, fleeting and ephemeral, but it grounded her, a little bit, in the here and now. And you, too. “Hello,” Yaz said, stepping into the room. She looked tired, her hair coming out of its braids, her jacket mussed, but it was a happy sort of tired. “Have fun?” The Doctor asked as Yaz threw herself down on the couch next to you. “Yes,” Yaz said, leaning her head back on the cushions. “Not as much fun as some other people, though,” she added, and turned her head to fix you with her dark, glittering eyes. “How are you doing?” “I feel like death,” you told her, and stuck out your tongue when she grinned. “That’s what you two get for going off-book,” she said smugly, wiggling her shoulders deeper into the couch and kicking off her shoes before lifting her legs and curling them up on the couch. “Oi, I didn’t drink a red,” the Doctor said, indignantly. “Not that I would have been affected, if I had. You humans are so — ” “She been going on like this the whole time?” Yaz asked you, and the Doctor gave her a dark look. You giggled, and it only made your head split down the middle a little bit. It was worth it, for the expression on the Doctor’s face. “Definitely,” you confirmed, wincing as you lifted a hand to rub your temples. “This is the thanks I get, for spending my night chasing after red-drunk humans? Mockery and false accusations?” “Not you,” Yaz said, rolling her eyes. “I was talking about — “ “Hellooooooo TARDIS!” “That,” Yaz finished, turning to watch as Ryan crashed into the room, with an aggrieved Graham in his wake. The Doctor groaned, throwing her hands up. “Ryan! Not you too!” “Guilty your honor,” Ryan crooned, spinning a wild circle and narrowly avoiding the couch with his flailing feet. You hastily copied Yaz, drawing your feet up onto the cushions and settling in to watch the show. “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love! Congratulate me.” “You’re not in love, son, you’re drunk,” Graham said wearily, trying to grab Ryan, but he spun out of reach. And fell over. The room shuddered. You gasped, Yaz clapped a hand over her mouth, Graham cursed. The Doctor closed her eyes. “Ow,” Ryan said, but he was smiling beatifically up at the ceiling. “What happened?” The Doctor asked resignedly, crouching by Ryan and taking his pulse, then pulling out her sonic. He ignored her, still smiling happily up at the ceiling, his toes clicking together as he hummed. He was still firmly in the “fun” stage of the Red inebriation, it seemed. “What do you think, Doc?” Graham answered tiredly, moving to stand by them. “He wanted to impress a pretty girl.” “Did he?” you asked, interestedly. The situation was a lot funnier when it wasn’t happening to you, it turned out. “Well, he chugged a red and challenged some bloke to a dance contest,” Yaz said. She was grinning, and it was the grin of a sober woman witnessing the carnage wreaked by foolish friends. “We almost didn’t get him out of there.” The Doctor stood up, pinching her nose. She came to a decision.“Right. I’ll get him a pill, but I’ve done my babysitting duty for the night. He’s your problem after that.” She stode from the room, and you heard her mutter something about never going to a bar again. Yaz heard her too, and you shared a grin. Ryan, it turned out, had very little interest in taking the hangover-speed-up pill from the Doctor. It also turned out that red-inebriation or no, he could still move very quickly, and it took the combined efforts of Yaz, Graham and the Doctor to get the pill in his mouth. You filmed most of on your phone you'd fumbled quickly out of a pocket, which as far as you were concerned did just as much to help the situation as any of them. The Doctor threw herself down on the sofa next to you with an explosive sigh. “I am never,” she said, tipping back her head, “taking humans to a bar. Ever again.” Ryan moaned from the floor, punctuating the statement with eloquence. Yaz sat down on the Doctor’s other side, then scooted over to make room for Graham who was looking silent and shell-shocked. You found your shoulders rubbing the Doctor’s, and you curled your feet up under you to make more room while leaning your head against her shoulder. You could hear her twin heartbeats, and after a moment she rolled her head so that her chin was resting in your hair.“You’re all on probation,” she said, firmly. You hummed skeptically, and Yaz snorted. Graham was still grimly silent, but you knew he’d come around. Silence, for a moment, interrupted only by Ryan’s increasingly pathetic moans.“Shall I pop in a movie?” Yaz asked finally. “Go on then,” the Doctor said, resigned, but you could hear the smile in her voice. “We’re going to be here for a while.” “‘’m never drinking again,” Ryan groaned from the floor. He clapped his hands over his ears as you all began to laugh, which did exactly nothing to help. “Humans,” the Doctor said to the TARDIS ceiling, but she was still smiling. “You love us,” Yaz said, standing up and moving to put on a movie. “Yeah,” the Doctor said after a moment, so softly that you thought you might be the only one who heard it. “I do.”

#this isn't exactly an example of uh #good writing #but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless #it WAS fun to write #request #mine #writing #13th doctor x reader #thirteenth doctor x reader #nb reader #back to my regularly scheduled circus performances now

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darkwingsnark · 5 years ago

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FIC WRITER MEME

Tagged by @prince-luffy

AO3 name: DarkwingSnark

Fandoms: ...SEE, I’m in lots of fandoms. Or at least, I’ve written for them during hyper-fixation periods. Let’s see what AO3 says...

Batman: The Animated Series (20)

Batman - All Media Types (7)

Wander Over Yonder (Cartoon) (6)

DuckTales (Cartoon 1987) (5)

Penn Zero: Part-Time Hero (5)

Penguins of Madagascar (3)

James and the Giant Peach - Roald Dahl (3)

Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991) (3)

Disney - All Media Types (3)

Dan Vs. (2)

Milo Murphy's Law (2)

Randy Cunningham: 9th Grade Ninja (1)

The Batman (Cartoon) (1)

Lady and the Tramp (1955) (1)

Looney Tunes | Merrie Melodies (1)

Winnie-the-Pooh - All Media Types (1)

Alice in Wonderland (1951) (1)

Gummi Bears (TV) (1)

Winnie-the-Pooh (Disney) (1)

.... Honestly, I feel like there’s more that this list isn’t covering. Like Phineas and Ferb isn’t here and I wrote for that show too. And many of these can be simplified and condensed because they belong to similar fics.

Tropes: Depends on the fic. But as a whole, tend to write Romantic Comedies with a lot of slow burn. Mostly because... struggle is funny. People being dumdums and oblivious to the obvious is funny. Aaaaand also because it allows the episodic quality of shenanigans to occur.

Number of fics: Up and posted on AO3? 53. Does not include stuff on FF.net or that’s sitting in google docs begging to be finished.

Fic I spent the most time on: Not sure how to read this. Does it mean active man hours? Or does stuff like having a hiatus in-between count? Because TECHNICALLY ‘Real Value’ was started in high school, and I didn’t rewrite it and carry on the series (with Moonie) until many years later. There are also fics like ‘Growing Love’ or ‘Priorities’ that took a lot of time to do research. Like learning how to build a lawn mower so I could have a character believably break it apart for repairs.

....God I do a lot of research that doesn’t go into the actual fics. Because all I need, really, in the confidence of what I’m doing to be the character and describe an action here or there.

Fic I spent the least time on: Probably something drabble related? Or maybe the fic I did that was just me venting out emotions because I was feeling guilty? ‘A Mother’s Intuition’ was written and posted within a couple of hours.

Longest fic: Complicated. The longest thing written is technically an RP, NOT a story. (Different, trust me.) ‘What Happens in Gotham’ has a word count of 207,413. But fic wise at 89,022 word would be ‘The Constant Gardener’ .

Runner up being ‘Priorities’ at little over 87k.

Shortest fic: Drabbles? Uh, let’s see.. Probably from ‘Beauty and Your Worth’, as i think one was literally a paragraph long. ... Speaking of Gummi Bears, I wonder if I still have my notes on the GruffiGusto fic I wanted to write. Something to look into.

Most hits: Apparently ‘Fallen Hard’ at 5354

Most kudos: Also ‘Fallen Hard’ at 518. There... were more fans of Milo Murphy’s Law than I realised.

Most comment threads: ‘Fallen Hard’, 193 comments. ‘What Happens in Gotham’ following at 185.

Most bookmarks: .... that’s something people care about? I hardly ever bookmark things, since I read it in one go. But... I can look?

Ah.... ‘Fallen Hard’. 63

Total word count: 971,833 Oh hey! Almost a million. That’s something to celebrate.

Favorite fic I wrote: 'Knights of Dobenshire’. Hands down. (With ‘Heart of the Cards’ being very close.) I like writing road trip styled stories. It allows many things to happen within the narrative. BUT, ‘Knights of Dobenshire’ wins because it was such a satisfying conclusion of this build up, you know? Scrooge is finally no longer just putting up with the relationship with Fenton, but fully embracing it. That surprise feeling that hits him when he realizes, dear lord, he IS attracted to Fenton beyond affection.

It hits me more than a mutual pining because there I KNOW they will get together. But here? While writing with Moonie? I DIDN’T KNOW! I was worried in the end we’d have to write another fic to finally reach that step. Scrooge is stubborn and does what he wants, let me tell ya.

Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: 'Fallen Hard’, ‘Season of Miracles’, ‘Going with the Flow’, pretty much anything that isn’t complete. BUT, not posted, I really want to get back to more of the stories planned in the McCrack series. It was a ship I kinda made from the ground up, with nobody caring about it in the beginning. So it feels very important to see that series through.

Share a bit of a WIP or a story idea you’re planning on:

... Actually, I can share something from 'Donald’s Party (Working Title)’. @swampy-tiefling and I started. Just the first scene to get you guys hooked.

Donald took a deep breath of air from the doorway of the house and sighed, once again pleased to find himself at his home away from home. Traveling the seas and exploring the world with the navy were its own rewards, he supposed, but there would never be anything quite like the countryside-- the middle aged mallard having practically been raised on Grandma Duck’s farm. Donald Duck was happy to be on shore-- his naval carrier being docked for the week in Duckburg as they replenished supplies and took care of whatever repairs that were needed. Whatever excuse his bosses wanted to use were fine by him, he was just happy to not be scrubbing decks for a change!

That didn’t, however, mean he was able to rest and relax-- as the duck was startled out of his thoughts as somebody bumped into him. That somebody was his grandmother as she came to, just having caught her plate of cookies before they fell.

“My land, Donald! What in the world are you doing hiding here when you should be meetin’ and greetin’ the guests?”

Donald ignored the woman’s soft glare as he waved her off, using his other hand to steal a cookie in the process. Stuffing it in his mouth, he murmured out a response.

“Phooey, they’re just relatives.”

“Even more of a reason to go out and talk to them.” Before the sailor could argue, Grandma Duck placed the plate of treats into his hands. “And put these out on the snack table while you’re at it. Poor Fethry is looking peckish.”

Donald rolled his eyes, but otherwise did as he was told. Wasn’t it just like life to make him work at his own welcome home party? Walking towards the open yard where the party was taking place, it didn’t take long to reach the table, where his cousins were already gathered around as they chat.

This instantly caught the attention of the lankier duck, his gaze zoning in as he smiled widely towards Donald in greeting.

“Well if it ain’t the guest of honor, with snacks to boot!” Fethry leaned closer, his red hat wobbling with him as he continued to inquire. “Say, cuz, ya wouldn’t happen to know if these are gluten free, would ya?”

Donald gave him an unimpressed look.

“You’re not going on another crazy diet, are ya?” Though, in all honesty, he was more worried his looney cousin might try to drag him along-- and after months of eating nothing but mush, he would NOT miss out on his first chance to pig out on actual home cooked meals.

"Not crazy at all, actually!" Fethry grinned that goofy grin. "See, it's all right here; Gluten Free; It's the Way to Be' !" he shoved a rather lengthy-looking hard cover book in Donald's face. Donald had no choice but to stare at it, the words all blurring together from its close proximity to his eyes. The offending object remained there for only a second, however, before it was yanked back, the nutty mallard already busy flipping through it.

"Let's see, here, there's a fascinating chapter I think you should-- Don?"

Phew, that had been close. Donald was still in sneaking away mode, and jumped and yelped when he was tapped on the shoulder. Oh no. He'd been caught, after all. He slowly turned, with a forced, toothy grin, to face his fate.

A wave of relief washed over him when he saw his girlfriend, Daisy, smiling sweetly at him, instead.

“And where do you think you’re sneaking off to, Mister? You’ve been gone for so long, and here we are, with you haven’t even given me a kiss ‘hello’ yet.”

Now there was something Donald didn’t mind doing, as his girlfriend leaned in her face for her reward. Wrapping his arms around her, he planted the biggest of smooches to her temple.

“Gaww, I’m sorry Daisy. I really did miss you.”

This earned him a soft smile, as it was Daisy’s turn to kiss him on the forehead.

“And I missed you, hun. Now, tell me… why WERE you sneaking around?”

“Grandma put me on entertainment duty.”

“Well, “ his girlfriend began, “it IS your party, after all. They came to see you, seems fair to me.” This made the sailor groan as she looked at him unsympathetically. Rolling her eyes, the reporter sarcastically patted her boyfriend in comfort. “There there. Now don’t go sneaking off for real, the boys will be arriving soon. And Grandma tells me Uncle Scrooge will be bringing along a special guest.”

“Special guest?” Donald asked incredulously. “Like who?” This caused Daisy’s eyes to glimmer all the more in mischief, a look that told him that she knew something he didn’t know. And that something was big news, if he was reading her right.

“Oh, nobody TOO special, I suppose,” Daisy was stalling, and it was driving Donald up the wall. The duck woman continued her teasing. “Nobody except your uncle’s new date friend.”

"Date friend?" Donald practically exclaimed, prompting Daisy's grin to grow all the more smug.

"Yep! You've missed quite a bit since you've been away, you know."

"No kidding...well I'll be..." Donald was shaking his head, but he was smiling. Uncle Scrooge, dating, at his age... it was nothing short of a miracle. It was about time, too!

"Meanwhile, why don't you go say hi to the rest of the guests? I know it's hard..." she rolled her eyes. "but at least make an effort, okay? Thanks, hun!"

Donald's heart fluttered as she smooched his cheek, and left. He glanced out over the yard, and saw quite a few familiar faces; Gus, Ludwig, Gladstone... heck, even Gyro Gearloose had shown up!

He sighed, but this one wasn't a sigh of pure despair. It did feel nice to be home, surrounded by people who most likely cared, and his nephews were even going to show up soon. Not to mention, he'd get to tease his uncle for finally taking his advice on the whole dating thing.

That alone gave Donald the pep in his step he needed as he threw himself back into the party-- where he knew his crazed family would be waiting for him.

#long post #fanfiction #snark life #disney ducks #mccrack #meme

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notthetoothfairy · 6 years ago

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Alright with You

What is this... a fic?!?!?!?! Yes, you’re reading that right. I’m a bit late but it was @a-simple-rainbow‘s birthday yesterday so I had to honor tradition and do some writing! Happy birthday, my lovely fandom wife! <3 You deserve the world and more, so I apologize that this is just a silly fic and not the world and more. :P

(I’ll upload it on AO3 later, right now it’s late and I need my sleeeeeep)

Disclaimer: This is unbeta’ed and probably poorly written LOL

Inspired by this post

Kurt hates parties. If it weren’t for Quinn’s endless pestering, he probably wouldn’t have shown his face at all.

He wrinkles his nose as he watches a group of jocks start a burping competition.

Yeah, he definitely wouldn’t have come if Quinn hadn’t been so adamant – or rich, for that matter, considering that she promised to buy him lunch for the rest of the school year if he drove her to this one party. The party of the year, apparently. Kurt couldn’t care less about the ranking of this drunken slobberfest they call a party, but he’s not exactly loaded, so the prospect of free lunch was a damn good selling point. Which Quinn knew, obviously.

Also, quite obvious: She ditched him about two seconds into the party, probably to break up or create yet another Glee club love triangle… who even knows. Not Kurt, that’s for sure. But, hey, keeping him company wasn’t part of the deal. Quinn’s objective was to enjoy the party. Kurt is well aware that she won’t be able to do that when all he is likely to provide is snarky commentary.

Ugh, it’s almost like he cares, which is bizarre because this is McKinley’s resident ex-cheerleader barbie Quinn Fabray. If he continues at this rate, he’ll be befriending Rachel Berry next.

Shuddering at the thought, he turns to the drinks table, where he is immediately targeted by Santana Lopez and her signature sly grin.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?” she asks, faking delight. “What’s your poison tonight, hm?”

With an eyeroll, Kurt makes to push past her. “Not my first rodeo, Satan, I know better than to drink one of your hellish creations.” She blocks his path. “Ugh, you have got to be kidding me. Just hand me one of those cups.”

“What’s the matter, did daddy not allow you to drink alcohol? Or did Quinn Fa-baby momma make you her designated driver?”

Kurt glares at her, and much to his chagrin, Santana’s face just lights up even more.

“Aww, she did! You skanks are just too precious. So… unskanky,” she coos.

Kurt’s growing more annoyed by the second. He hates that Santana is still as unimpressed by his act as ever. The rest of the school has learned to just leave him alone when he suddenly showed up with piercings, bright neon streaks in his hair and a new give-zero-fucks attitude. But Santana is a tougher nut to crack.

He narrows his eyes a bit more for good measure, but she waves him off and reaches behind her to retrieve a light blue solo cup. “There you go, sunshine. Pop or water?”

“Water,” Kurt gets out through gritted teeth. He hates the sugary sweetness of coke and the like, and with water he can at least pretend he’s drinking clear spirits. Or maybe he should do that and just forget about the driving, just like Quinn forgot about him.

But deep down he knows he’ll regret it if he’s not there to take her home, or if his dad figures out he was too drunk to drive. Getting upset with Kurt is way too unhealthy for his heart. Even rebellion has its limits, and Kurt will always choose his dad over his reputation.

He sips his water unenthusiastically, trying to avoid both the dancefloor and the beer pong corner, which results in him creepily staying in a corner near the drinks table, from where at least he can engage in his two favorite sports – people-watching, and, more importantly, people-judging.

He is so enthralled in watching Rachel stealing pathetic glances at Kurt’s step-brother Finn Hudson every two seconds while she’s fake-flirting with two older students that Kurt only notices after a few minutes that she is holding a cup with a very untypical color. He frowns. Bright green, really? Is she that tipsy?

The thing is, Kurt could swear he saw Mercedes Jones sport a pink cup earlier, and everyone knows that if something is available in pink, Rachel will make sure that she has it. Kurt is still traumatized from that one time he saw her bedroom.

He looks over to the drinks station and spots tags next to the towers of cups. The colors are labels. Pink apparently means “taken”, which definitely explains why this is the one time Rachel decided to forgo it. And green is – ah, yeah, “it’s complicated”. Kurt grins. Sure, Rachel. Should have gone with light blue. Single AF, the sign reads.

Kurt tenses uncomfortably as he looks down at his own cup.

Blue.

Santana, that cunning, manipulative devil. Of course she’d be the one who doesn’t buy the rumors Quinn spreads about Kurt’s conquests. She knows Kurt hasn’t so much as touched another guy. Great. He’s gonna have to do something about this. Change the cup to… purple maybe? DTF – down to fuck… ugh, not the best choice but probably what an actually skanky version of Kurt would go for. It’s not like McKinley has an overflow of gay guys who would take him up on the offer. And even if there were gay guys at this party, it’s not like he’s much of a hook-up prospect. His painfully pathetic attempts to get laid at Scandals taught him that. God, maybe he should just grab a full bottle of tequila and kiss this night goodbye.

“Ready to party?” someone shouts next to Kurt. He almost scoffs at them before he realizes it’s Blondie-in-a-Bottle Sam Evans, and he is not talking to Kurt, but to someone next to him, who can only be… ah, yes, Blaine.

Blaine Anderson, the transfer student, who is a bit of a nerd with his gelled hair, dorky colorful bowties and his Star Wars lunch box. Blaine, who may be the only person at the school who doesn’t treat Kurt differently, because – well, because he didn’t know Kurt pre-skank. But also because he just doesn’t seem to mind. Kurt has been paired with him on an assignment once or twice, and if Kurt is completely honest with himself, those were the only times it actively pained him to keep up his tough act. He might have even dialed it down just for Blaine.

As much as he wants to deny it, Kurt has a bit of a crush. Which is not cool. Not cool at all. Unskanky, Santana would say.

He watches Blaine shake and nod his head simultaneously at Sam’s question as they approach the drinks table. Kurt sighs and decides to wait until after they’re done there to change his cup color. He can totally wait for his turn. It’s not like anyone is going to talk to him if he puts his bitchy face on. Which, of course, he has practiced to perfection. So, Creepy Watching and Judging Round Number Two it is.

Getting back into it, Kurt watches Artie Abrams clumsily but somehow successfully butter up to Brittany Pierce, even though they are surrounded by a bunch of very interested, suddenly very pissed off football players.

He chuckles at the way Santana tries to not look affected at all but ends up glaring at everyone attempting to talk to Brittany. Santana thinks she has Kurt figured out? Ha. He’s one step ahead of her. At least she doesn’t know about his pathetic cru-

Damn. He was so lost in thought that he missed the perfect opportunity to slip past Sam and Blaine just as they turned away. Now there’s more people at the stand and as Sam and Blaine move away from the table, they come to a halt right next to Kurt. Shit. How is he supposed to act like he didn’t notice them now?

“Hey, can you hold this?” Sam asks Blaine. “I’ll just be a sec.” He hands Blaine his cup, and Kurt can’t help how his eyes widen when he sees the color. Pink?! Since when is Sam Evans dating someone? Kurt wonders if Quinn knows about it. She usually knows what everyone and their mother are up to.

Blaine stands there awkwardly, and since his blondie sidekick is gone, Kurt dares to give him a once-over. Damn, it should be illegal to look that cute in chinos. Kurt puts his cup to his lips to hide a smile behind the rim. It would have been a smart choice if he hadn’t simultaneously spotted the other cup Blaine is holding. The color makes Kurt almost choke on his water. Audibly.

Blaine turns to him, concerned. “Woah, Kurt, are you okay?”

Damn that purple cup.

“’m fine, thanks” Kurt manages, coughing awkwardly and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Water in the wrong pipe, I guess.” He pauses, grimacing. “Tequila, I mean.”

“Right. Tequila…” Blaine smiles. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t see your Navigator parked down the street.”

Kurt feels a shiver run down his spine at the thought that Blaine might have kept an eye out for his car outside. That’s just… pathetic, Kurt. Get a grip, he tells himself.

“Whatever.” He drawls the word for good measure, trying desperately to nail the tone somewhere between not caring and playful teasing. With a nod to Blaine’s purple cup, he says, “Interesting choice.”

“Rum and coke.” Blaine shrugs. “Pretty classic, I’d say?”

Kurt bites his lip, releasing it quickly. “The color, I mean.”

With a blush, Blaine glances down at his drink. “Oh, I actually would have preferred pink.” He clears his throat. “But Sam poured them wrong by accident, and he’s driving, so I ended up with this one instead.”

Kurt’s careful to not choke on his water this time. So Sam’s not the taken one, Blaine is… what?! Then again, figures. He’s a transfer student. A cute one, at that. Fresh meat and all… McKinley’s singles must go crazy over Blaine. Kurt wonders if maybe he’s misread Blaine’s sexuality.

“Right,” he mutters. Santana couldn’t have picked his cup color any better. Single AF indeed. Fuck this party. “Well, I- I should go see what Quinn’s up to.” He clears his throat. “I’m her DD.”

Blaine blinks, seeming surprised. “Oh… sure.” He shoots Kurt a small grin. “Enjoy the party.”

Kurt scoffs. “Doubt it.”

“Oh. Okay. Uhm… bye then.”

Blaine looks taken aback, and Kurt could smack himself. His stupid temper. He makes an abrupt turn, trying to push the thought of having offended Blaine out of his mind. He shouldn’t be caring about things like dating anyhow. His reputation is on the line. He breathes, one heavy breath in and one out, weaving his way through a sea of hammered people.

He finds Quinn eventually – making out with someone from the swim team in one of the house’s upstairs bedrooms. Of course. Kurt sighs, closing the door behind him when she tells him to “get the fuck out”. As he turns back to the hallway, he almost collides with Mercedes. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Sneaking off to be alone?” she asks. Kurt can’t decipher whether she sounds snarky or hurt. Out of all the people he’s cut off these past few months, he definitely regrets Mercedes the most.

“Not exactly.” Kurt shrugs. “Just looking for Quinn.”

Mercedes hums in reply. They both do the awkward dance of looking down at their hands and then back up, only to look back down. Kurt’s eyes zero in on the cup in Mercedes’ hands.

He clears his throat. “You’re dating someone?”

For a split second, Mercedes’ face turns red. It’s a good look on her, Kurt thinks, but before he can say anything, her face hardens.

“None of your business,” she says sharply.

“No, no, I know,” Kurt says, holding up his hands. He can’t help but sigh a little. “It’s just…”

“I know.” Mercedes gulps. “I thought you’d be the first to know, too.”

“Mercedes…” Kurt reaches out a hand but pulls it back at the last second, hugging himself instead. Well, this party sucks already, maybe he should just roll with the punches. “I miss you, you know?”

He’s met with another raised eyebrow.

“I know, I don’t show it,” he says hastily. “I never wanted it to be this way, though.”

“I just don’t think any of this is really necessary,” Mercedes says. “We had your back.”

“Well, it wasn’t… there’s- there’s things you don’t know,” Kurt mutters. Karofsky bullying him was one thing. Karofsky threatening to kill him if he told anyone he was gay… very different. “I swear I’d tell you if I could.”

Mercedes bites her lip and smiles a little.

“It’s Sam,” she whispers, leaning closer.

Kurt frowns. “What?”

She holds up her cup. “Sam and I…”

“What?!”

“It’s not that unlikely,” she says, defensive.

Kurt shakes his head quickly. “Uh, no, it’s just – I thought he had a purple cup earlier.”

“Nope.” Mercedes grins. “Definitely pink. I saw him with it just a second ago.”

But it was an accident, Kurt thinks. Blaine said the pink was for him.

“Oh, well… I’m happy for you,” Kurt says, shooting Mercedes his most sincere smile. “Truly.”

“Thanks, Kurt,” she says. “We could hang out sometime maybe…?”

Kurt takes a step back. “I… maybe.”

There’s that sad look again. Kurt closes his eyes to drown it out. Once he feels marginally better, he opens them, bracing himself for more sadness, but – Mercedes is gone.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Maybe he can’t openly be Mercedes’ friend anymore – but the least he can do is make sure her boyfriend isn’t being a dick to her. He almost races down the stairs back into the living room.

Even more people dancing now. Kurt scans the room for any sign of Sam or Blaine. He growls when he spots them. Of course – they are dancing. He tries not to watch Blaine shimmy his hips to the music, and promptly fails. Damn that boy.

He stomps over, pushing himself between them and staring Sam down.

“You better not hurt her,” he hisses.

Sam’s eyes go huge. “What?”

“You heard me.” Kurt narrows his eyes. “I know your cup was supposed to be purple. Blaine told me. You’re more than lucky to get a chance with someone like Mercedes. If you-”

Sam’s eyes skirt around frantically as he steps closer and tries to shut Kurt up. “Ssssh, what the fuck, don’t tell-”

“Oh, don’t want her to find out you’re on the lookout? Is that why you so conveniently switched cup colors, huh?!”

Blaine dances around Kurt and comes up next to Sam, looking confused and a little dizzy. Kurt honestly almost forgot he was behind him the entire time.

“Sam, ‘s Kurt still angry at me?” he asks, his words slurred.

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, he’s angry at me.”

“What’d chu do?”

“Switch cup colors,” Sam mutters. He turns back to Kurt. “Kurt, man, I swear this is not what you think it is.” He inches closer, and if Kurt wasn’t so focused on defending Mercedes, he’d find it cute how Blaine instinctively does the same, almost touching Kurt’s shoulder. Voice lowered, Sam continues, “Mercedes and I are keeping it on the down low for a while.”

“Yeah, right.” Kurt laughs in disbelief. “Which is why you’re both sporting pink?”

“Well, we’re not telling anyone who exactly- that’s beside the point, though.” Sam sighs. “If I was going to cheat on her, why would my cup say that I’m taken, Sherlock?”

Kurt blinks. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Where does it say that?” Blaine asks, looking down at Sam’s cup.

Kurt replays what Blaine told him earlier in his head. He wanted pink, but Sam switched them. He didn’t say anything about the meaning…

“Blaine doesn’t know about the color codes,” Kurt concludes.

Sam shoots him a grin. “I was just messing with him a little. I knew you were going to-” He blinks quickly. “Uh, forget that part.”

Kurt tries to ignore the way his heartbeat speeds up a little at that. What is Sam’s plan? And does it mean Blaine is single after all? And why does he care oh-so-much?

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Blaine asks, alternating between staring at Kurt and staring at Sam.

Kurt gives Sam the sideeye before turning to Blaine. “Blaine, your cup color means you’re DTF.”

“What’s DTF?” Blaine asks immediately.

“How much has he had to drink?” Kurt asks at the same time as Sam says, “Down to fuck.”

Blaine whips around to face Sam. “You told him I’m down to fuck?!”

Sam breaks out into laughter. “I didn’t but you just did…” He turns to Kurt and winks. “I think I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna go find Mercedes.”

“Sam, wait!” Kurt says, cursing his helpless voice. God, what is he going to with this info now? Sam doesn’t turn around.

Blaine stares after Sam before turning to Kurt. “Kurt, if Sam leaves me here alone, can you drive me home? I could break into a car and try it myself but… I think I’m too-” He sways a little on his feet. “Tipsy.”

“Ya think?” Kurt huffs out a laugh, reaching out his hand to steady Blaine. “Okay, first things first. Have some of my water. And, uh… let’s go somewhere outside to get you sobered up, okay?”

Blaine’s face lights up at that. He reaches for Kurt’s hand, but Kurt withdraws, looking around nervously. He tries to ignore Blaine’s furrowed eyebrows and his pout, instead pushing him through the crowd by the shoulders. When he’s finally got them outside in the miraculously empty backyard, he lets himself breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Blaine watches him, surprisingly attentive in his drunken state.

“Do you hate me?” he asks timidly.

“Wh- what?” Kurt stutters.

Blaine looks down at his feet. “I never know what to think with you.”

“I don’t hate you, Blaine,” Kurt says, stepping closer. “Drink some more water.”

Kurt takes the pink cup from Blaine before he can raise it to his mouth.

“The other cup. That’s your rum and coke.”

“Oh.” Blaine nods, and gulps down the contents of Kurt’s cup, holding it with both hands like a child. Kurt bites back a smile. Why is he even cuter when he’s drunk? When he’s done, Blaine holds the cup up in Kurt’s face. “So, what does blue mean?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Single as fuck.”

“Are you?” Blaine asks curiously, eyes flitting between Kurt’s face and the cup.

Kurt tries to hide his blush by pushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. “I guess I am.”

“Oh, alright.” Blaine gives a slight nod. “Cool.”

Kurt can’t help but laugh at the way he tries to act nonchalant. “Yeah? That alright with you?”, he asks.

“Yeah…” Blaine drops his eyes and then shoots them back up at Kurt with an intensity that makes Kurt’s knees go weak. “Very.”

“Blaine…” he breathes out, hyperaware of how close their faces are. He clears his throat, looking around for something to do. He decides on setting their cups down on a nearby windowsill. His eyes linger on the pink one.

“Why’d you want that color?” he asks Blaine, putting his hands in his pocket now that he has nothing to hold.

“Hm?” Blaine follows Kurt’s line of sight. “Oh. Uh.” His eyes find Kurt’s again, then flicker up to Kurt’s hair. “I just really like pink.”

Kurt can’t find it in himself to hide his blush this time. “Oh… alright.”

“Yeah?” Blaine smiles. “Alright with you?”

“Oh, shut up,” Kurt laughs. Throwing all caution in the wind, he adds, “I’m not the one who admitted he’s down to fuck.”

Blaine inhales sharply. “I can’t believe Sam told you that.”

“Actually, you did,” Kurt says, tilting his head.

“Oh god, I did, didn’t I?” Blaine asks, looking like he’s trying to read Kurt’s face. “And… is that alright with you?”

Kurt wants to say something witty, or just confirm, or something – but his brain short-circuits and what he ends up blurting is, “I’m a virgin!”

“Oh, well, I mean… me too… it’s not like I meant right now…” Blaine mutters, visibly flustered. His face goes all red. It’s so. Damn. Cute. “I just…”

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut for a second, trying to focus his thoughts. “It’s alright with me,” he says. “Maybe not right now, but…”

“Gotcha.” Blaine exhales, and Kurt can feel his breath on his face. How did they get so close again? Blaine laughs nervously. “Wow, I’m feeling very sober all of a sudden.”

“Yeah?” Kurt feels a rush of heat streaming through his body. “Funny. I feel kinda drunk.”

They’re both silent for a beat, looking at each other, before they lean in at the same time. Kurt’s lips land on Blaine’s a little off-center but they adjust as Blaine pulls him in, threading his fingers through the hair at the back of Kurt’s head. Kurt makes a muffled noise, grabbing Blaine’s shirt on both sides and holding on for dear life, dragging Blaine closer, kissing him harder. He wasn’t prepared for how good this would feel. He wasn’t prepared for how much he would want to-

“Wait, wait, wait,” Kurt gasps out. “Fuck. I-”

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asks, concerned.

“I’m not… we’re not…” Kurt sighs. “This is gonna be a problem. We can’t-”

“Why not?”

“I’m… well… ugh. I have a lot to lose, let’s put it that way,” Kurt says grimly.

Blaine lets his hands fall to his sides, his body deflating.

“Don’t be mad,” Kurt pleads.

“I’m not,” Blaine says. “But I guess I kind of hoped I was a lot to gain.”

There it is again, the urge to smack his stupid head against the nearest wall. Why does he keep doing this to others? To himself? If he could just be himself…

Kurt takes in Blaine’s face, studying his eyes and those ridiculously long eyelashes and thick eyebrows that kept distracting him the first time they had to do an assignment together. He remembers how Blaine’s enthusiasm and his cute quirks pulled him in from the get-go, how he kept hoping they’d be paired together for more assignments… how kissing him just now felt like he could do anything and get away with it…

Oh, to hell with these charades.

Quinn’s eyebrows rise when she catches Sam and Mercedes kissing on the front porch, but they almost disappear beneath her hairline when she sees Kurt on the dance floor – goofing off with Blaine and smiling like an utter idiot. Of course. She should have known. He’d never tell her the truth, but it’s always been kind of obvious how soft he got around him.

“I take partial credit for that,” Santana drawls next to Quinn, leaning her elbow on Quinn’s shoulder. “He needed a bit of a push.”

“Who knew you had such match-making skills.” Quinn makes to turn towards Santana to grin at her but spots Karofsky and Azimio in the crowd, scowling. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Santana follows her gaze and balls her fists. “Don’t worry about them. They’re making those faces because I just twisted their nads and put them in their place. I have them under control.”

Quinn shakes her head fondly. “You’re actually a pretty good friend, Santana.”

Santana looks like she wants to disagree for a second but then she just shrugs.

“Yeah, yeah… just don’t tell Kurt.”

Kurt beams when Mercedes and Sam finally show up together, joining Blaine and him on the dance floor.

Blaine and Sam seem to be engaged in a secret conversation involving nods, winks and fist-bumping, so Kurt turns to Mercedes.

“Are we okay?” he asks her.

She smiles back at him. “We’re peachy. Or at least we’re gonna be.”

Relief floods his body. This party is turning out to be so much better than anticipated. And maybe, just maybe… everything will be alright.

#klaine fic #Klaine AU #klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #my klaine fics #HAPPY BIRTHDAY RAINBOOOW

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