Hello! My name is the Doctor. This is my first fanfic. I write fanfics now, you know. Fanfics are cool. This one is about my OTP: Riley Poole and Poel Pix. Aren't they just made for each other? Anyway, on with the story!
DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING REALLY.
In retrospect, the whole situation could have been avoided if the damn television hadn't died.
People had been telling Riley Poole for years that he needed to get off lazy bum and buy himself a nicer TV. And what was his response? He would just tell them to mind their own business, thank you very much, mind your step on your way out the door. After all, if you overlooked the fact the picture was vertical and the occasional event in which the box would start smoking, the television was perfectly fine. That is, until it suddenly died, causing the events that would make the rest of his life to fall to complete and utter shit.
Friday night (noun). The beginning of the weekend. Typically a night filled with alcohol and drugs, often leading to sexual intercourse. See also: post-party hangover.
But of course Riley was an abnormal motherfucker and his definition went a bit more like this:
Friday night (noun). The day in which he should be out partying but instead finds him at home, playing video games and eating junk food plus Nutella until ungodly hours. See also: no life, you know you're a nerd when.
Riley wasn't exactly sure why he never discovered himself at the party scene lately. He'd been to clubs before. He'd been called attractive/sexy before. He'd gotten drunk off his ass before. He'd even gotten laid before. But the appeal was sort of getting lost on him. He was getting older by the second, probably be going grey the next time he blinked. And really what was the point of going to a club? You'd end up going to someone else's apartment, screw them but be too wasted to remember it and do the walk of shame home afterwards. Or even worse, you'd have someone come to your house and then you'd probably end up with a disease or something. He'd had health class in high school. He knew what kind of things went on in the bed besides the obvious answer. So the obvious answer to avoid all the negativities of a club was to just not go in the first place. After all, everyone knew that once you were in the moment, you can't say no.
So here he was. Friday night and he was playing Super Mario Galaxy for only about the hundredth time. It was the final boss battle and he was kicking Bowser's ass, just like he always did. A plate of pizza rolls, a crumpled bag of Pringles and three empty jars that used to hold the sacred Nutella (plus one that was soon to be demolished) were on the coffee table in front of him. People wondered how on earth he could eat all that he did as much as he did and manage not to way a hundred pounds. The obvious answer to anyone who didn't know him was that he worked out. What a joke. He probably just had a fast metabolism or something scientific like that. The day that Riley Poole actually worked out was the day that hell froze over and Oprah jumped on Tom Cruise's couch.
He stood up slowly, waving the Wii remote insanely. "Come on you goddamn turtle!" he yelled loudly, not caring if the neighbors heard or not. They were used to his yelling about various video games, just like he was used to the creaks of their beds at night. He always liked to really get into the game, made it much more interesting. "Just die you little son of a bi-"
The screen went black. His eyes grew wide. Running in what felt like slow motion to him, he pulled at every cord he knew, pressed the power button so many times it felt like rape. He plead with it. He yelled at it. He cursed at it. He nearly broke down in tears at it. The fucking television was dead. To be perfectly honest, he probably should have saw it coming. It could only be brought back to life after cutting off the power randomly so many times.
But the real question was: what the hell was he supposed to do now?
Like any true child of the modern area, Riley went to find the closest electronic in the house. His cell phone, covered in a lovely blue shaded case. He searched through the apps, finally settling on Fruit Ninja. While it certainly didn't compare to the art that was Nintendo, it would have to do.
After about forty-seven consecutive rounds of the game, a voice cut through the air and a different screen popped up. "You see these shackles- baby, I'm your slaaaaaave. I'll let you whip me if I misbehaaaaave…" His ringtone. Sally Sparrow was calling him. Oh happy, happy day.
"What do you want?" he growled into the phone, angered at being disturbed in the middle of his game. She was such a cockblock. But instead of cockblocking, she was gameblocking. Yeah, Sally Sparrow, the Notorious Gameblock. It had a ring to it.
"Ooh, someone's touchy," her voice drawled into the phone. He could hear the sound of a bass pounding in the background and obnoxiously loud talking and/or singing off pitch. "Look, I need you to do me favour. Pick up Poel for me, will you?"
He blinked. It definitely hadn't been what he was expecting to hear. Not that one could really ever expect anything with Sally Sparrow, as she was so damn unpredictable. "Why?" he questioned suspiciously.
"Because she's drunk as hell and needs a ride home from the club. You do know what a club is, right?" she joked. "Flashing lights, place where people go to wasted and hook up? I don't need to explain what hooking up is do I?"
Riley glared angrily at the table in front of him, maddened by her teasing. The poor table withered the cruelty of his stare valiantly though, standing strong like any noble inanimate object would do. "Very funny, Sparrow. Couldn't you just take her home yourself?"
"Fuck no!" she cried and he could picture her rolling her eyes. "I'm getting laid tonight, idiot. Can't take her home and do that too. Poel's either getting a ride from you or is stuck at the club, until some pervy guy takes advantage of her and the cops will find her unrecognizable body in some random street and you'll feel all guilty knowing you could have prevented-"
"Okay!" he yelled, cutting her inane rant off. God, Sally Sparrow could be annoying. "I get it, I get it. I'll pick her up. Where are you guys anyway?"
"The Complex. Big place isn't hard to find. It's off the corner of Mills and Wind Forest Road," she relayed quickly, speeding up her words. "Now if you'll excuse me, Poole, I just spotted the name who will be screaming my name later tonight. Goodnight." And with that, she cut off the call.
Five minutes later found Riley Poole driving to the very corner Sally had told him about. He wasn't particularly thrilled about having to leave his apartment, nor was he really that pissed. Poel Pix was in fact a friend of his. They hadn't really hung out by themselves a lot, but in groups and such they got along fine. She was in his major circle of friends (yes he did have those). As a person however, Poel was different from anyone else he had ever met. She was eccentric, kind of radiant. Like the kind of person you meet once and never forget. And well yeah, she was fairly pretty. Okay, that was an understatement. Poel was kind of gorgeous. But it wasn't like he was really looking that much. Every guy that wasn't blind or gay said so. They saw each other as friends and friends only. Right? Abso-fucking-lutely right.
It wasn't hard to find The Complex at all, just like Sally had promised. It wasn't a huge building or anything, but you could hear the music blaring from it from miles away. How no one ever complained about the noise was a wonder to him. The sign on the door had twisty, orange writing that looked like a kindergartner's scrawl. Was it supposed to be alluring or something? He had no idea.
Entering the place, he was met with the most unwelcoming scent of women's cheap perfume, beer and puke. His ears were almost immediately deafened by the sound of Nicki Minaj's voice blaring through the building. The strobe lights were colorful, flashing shades such as Barney the Dinosaur purple and burnt mahogany. Attractive shades, really. The place was swarmed with your typical club crowd: the high-pitched, lightweight whore, the creepy older men and the fifteen year old who clearly shouldn't be here. You know how it is.
Unfortunately, Riley could not see Poel anywhere and it didn't look like he was going to find her anytime soon.
Cursing Sally Sparrow a good one under his breath, he began his noble quest for the damsel in distress. He searched the dance floor, where many the slutty, overeager girl tried to rub herself against him. Quickly, our hero removed himself from the situation. The fact that he restrained himself from slapping those bitches into tomorrow was, in fact, a most incredible miracle. Then the brave knight vanquished a true foe as a slobbery middle-aged man began to cling to his legs. Like a stallion, Riley the Badass reared his legs and kicked the bastard right in his genitals. To say damage was caused is a great understatement. Finally, he scoured the bar area, after almost losing hope. But alas! Wait! Could it be? Was that a drunk Poel Pix, being talked to by a man with enough product in his hair to drown China? Could all of our hero's dreams have come true?
And with that, Riley quit his Legend of Zelda gig and approached the two. "Poel?" he said hesitantly. The lighting towards the bar was dimmer and he couldn't exactly see her face.
"Riley!" the unmistakable voice of his friend pinged through the air and he nearly fell over as she jumped on him. In a move that closely resembled a spider monkey, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging to him. "Oh my gosh, Riley, I'm so glad you're here! This guy was just talking to me- what was your name again, guy, was it George?" she babbled, slurring most of her words all the while.
The guy glared at Riley. "Actually, I'm Donatello."
"Right yeah, close enough," she rambled, still refusing to let go of Riley. He hesitantly hugged her back, as he knew how assholish it would be if he didn't. He really didn't mind the fact that Poel was hugging him. It was just that every part of her body was pressed into his and… well. "Anyway, we were talking about kiwis and I was saying how I really like them but the fact that they have fur is really weird and I feel like I'm eating a little green Chihuahua every time I eat one and-"
"That's fantastic, Poel," he interjected, rubbing his hand against her back a little. He hoped the gesture would tell her to get off of him. "But I think we should probably go now don't you?" Donatello was starting to freak him out a little. He guessed that kiwis had not been Donatello's choice of conversation.
Poel immediately leaped off of him, for which Riley was eternally grateful. She stumbled back drunkenly and he held her arm gently, trying to steady her. He proceeded to guide her out of the club, listening to her ramble about the connection between fruits and miniature dogs all the while. Once he had her safely buckled in the car and was beginning to turn out of the parking lot, he decided to finally cut her off. "Poel, can you tell me where you live?"
For a few good minutes, he had no response. After repeating the question, he quickly glanced over at her. Her expression was dazed and confused. "…what?" she asked slowly.
He sighed. What good did talking to a drunk person ever do? "If you don't tell me where you live, then I can't take you home."
"I can get home myself," Poel bragged, pointing a thumb happily at her chest. "See?" she crowed while banging her ankles together. "There's no place like home! There's no place like home!" Riley nearly wrecked the car, startled by her sudden yells. An angry driver honked at him, to which he flipped the bird. "Ooh," Poel whispered dramatically. "You showed him."
He sighed and would have banged his forehead against the steering wheel if he hadn't been more preoccupied on not getting into an accident. Why the fuck were there so many people on the road at midnight? Seriously, was it National Make Riley Poole Wreck day and he just wasn't aware of it? It hadn't been an official holiday while he was growing up, but with the way politics were now, he wouldn't at all be surprised. "Look, I'll just take you to my apartment, okay?"
"Yay!" she squealed, throwing her arms into the air. Her movement distracted his view of traffic and he slapped her hand down quickly. She pouted, but he ignored her. Just don't wreck with a girl in the car, he told himself. Think how viciously Sally will kill you if you so much as injure Poel. After a few moments in silence, he thinks she's finally fallen asleep and is joyous.
"Riley," a whine pierces the air, dragging out the last syllable and destroying Riley's joy. "Why are you paying attention to meeee?"
Internally, he comes up with a million witty comebacks and in any other situation, he would have audiences rolling with laughter. But it's Poel and even though she's a badass and all, her face looks kind of innocent. Like it belongs to a baby. A cute baby, but still. No one tries to pwn a baby, especially not when said baby is stoned. That's where Riley puts an end to possibly the worst analogy ever (maybe there was a reason his English teachers all hated him) and musters out the kindest reply he can think of. "I'm driving," he says matter-of-factly, not bothering to look at her. "I have to keep my eyes on the road, even if a annoying, manical drunk girl keeps distracting me." Okay, it still had some bite to it, but she was drunk. It would go over her head. Hopefully.
The comment kept Poel quiet for the rest of the ride. He hoped he hadn't offended her or anything. In fact he kind of felt guilty about it. Normally, he never felt bad about a witty or sarcastic remark, no matter how scathing it could be. But with her, it was different. He wasn't sure how much teasing she could take. From what he had heard from others, she had a really messy background, one that no one had really be able to piece together. He had heard she was kind of a broken soul, even though she seemed to hide it well. He really couldn't bear the thought of hurting her even more. "Poel?" he said softly as he parked the car. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings."
"What feelings?" she chirped brightly. He studied her carefully. She really didn't seem to know what he was talking about. He nearly sighed in relief, vowing to never pull a stupid little quirk like that again. He got out of the car and went around to help her out as well.
"What are we doing here?" she asked as she nearly stumbled out of the car. He held her arm bracingly, keeping his hands in the least awkward places he could think of. Her hilarious look of obvious disdain towards the worn down building was not missed.
Riley nodded towards the pile of shit which he called home. "That's where I live."
Poel stopped suddenly, her heel slamming into his foot. "Really?" she exclaimed. Wincing, Riley struggled to keep his drunken, swaying friend on her feet while trying to determine if her heel had driven a hole in his foot or it just hurt that bad. Why did girls wear those things anyway? What purpose did they actually serve? Questions such as these were among the many things about woman that confused him. But people like the Israelites had waited thousands of years for God to answer their questions so Riley figured he had a couple more centuries to go before he got any response.
"Yes," he squeaked out, losing any of the nonexistent masculine qualities he had. "It's surprising isn't it. Wysander Apartments, where gangsters and anarchists are your next-door neighbors and the water is straight from the sewage."
She nodded seriously, beginning her stumbling swagger again. "It sounds lovely," she hiccuped while falling over. In a suave, graceful movement that would make Fred Astaire weep, he caught her as she fell, sweeping her into his arms. For some reason, the god-like act only made her laugh hysterically, sounding like a hyena on steroids.
"What is it?" he asked dryly, secretly praying all his neighbors were either partying somewhere else or passed out in a puddle of their own puke. He couldn't have them hearing her giggles. What would they say if they knew Riley Poole, probably the only white kid under the age of fifty in the building, had managed to actually get a girl in his apartment?
She stared up at him with her huge brown eyes. Seriously a person could fall into those eyes. He noticed how he'd never really stopped and just looked at her before and wondered why. She was quite pretty, but that's something he'd always noticed. She had a wild, exotic look about there that screamed 'come get me boys'. But there were smaller things that he starting to see about her. Like the way her pale skin kind of shined in the streetlight's glow. Or how her lips stayed full, even in a wide grin. It was… intriguing, to say the least. "You're holding me like a bride on her wedding night right now," she whispered dramatically. "That means you're my groom. Are you going to deflower me, Riley?"
He could feel his face grow warm and estimated it to be the colour of a freshly diced tomato. Glancing around in what he hoped was a subtle manner, he checked the surrounding area for hidden cameras. But then again he wasn't famous enough to be on Punk'd. "Well, uh," he stuttered awkwardly. It only made her cheshire grin even bigger. Summoning the self-control of Jesus, Riley replied in a firm tone, "No. No, deflowering you was not on list of things to do tonight."
Just as he was gently setting her down and fumbling with his keys, he heard a little whimper from the peanut gallery. Thinking nothing of it, he opened the door to revisit the apartment he had most certainly not missed. He turned around to see… oh fuck. Was she crying? Yes. When one's faced scrunched up in an unpleasant manner and water practically streaming from one's eyes, it typically meant he/she was crying. This wasn't good. What did one do with a crying girl?
When her cries got louder and became something more like a wail, he dragged her inside quickly, trying to calm her down. Why the hell had he thought she was a happy drunk? Obviously, she was something more of a weepy, drown the room in tears drunk. Oh god. What if the neighbors heard her crying? Would they think he was that bad at sex or something? Or would they assume he was an abusive boyfriend? Either way, Riley hadn't actually met most of his neighbors and he really wasn't planning to do so. When Poel's howling only grew louder, he did what any sensible person would do. He grabbed a sock (a clean one mind you he wasn't that rude) from his sock drawer and stuffed it in her mouth and sat her down on the bed. She flailed around for some while, still making muffled noises that sounded oddly enough like 'fuck you dickface' and 'what did I do to deserve this you ass' but Riley supposed he was hearing things. She was way too drunk to manage much of anything.
He put his hands on her shoulders just as she was beginning to quiet down, making her look at him. "Care to tell me why the your dams are leaking?" he asked dryly, in that typical manner of I-sound-like-I-don't-care-but-maybe-I-actually-do-who-knows.
She yelled something at him in response, that probably was a line worthy of Shakespeare. But unfortunately, the sock was doing its job wonderfully well and it sounded something among the lines of "smmmgh mmmhmmm mmf". As he had opted to take Spanish throughout high school and not the language of Socknese, he couldn't make out a word she was saying.
"I'm going to take the sock out of your mouth," he explained carefully. She nodded eagerly, bouncing on the creaky bed. "But," he cautioned her in what he hoped was a warning that was as frightening as the lovechild of Freddy Kruger and Jason Voorhees. "You better not start crying again or I'll… do something." Okay, so the threat was instead about as scary as the lovechild of Calendar Man and Crazy Quilt. Whatever. She still nodded and he slowly took out the sock, prepared for anything. What he got was only slightly less apocalyptic than he imagined.
"Why?" she wailed dramatically, flopping on her back. He jumped at the sound, trying in vain to put the sock back in its rightful place. Poel squirmed just enough to knock him in the face hard enough that he stopped trying after a few seconds. She continued her woeful howls, adding on, "Why don't you want to deflower meeee?"
If his life was like an anime, Riley would have sweat dropping from his forehead and be scratching his head awkwardly. However, this was the real world and he wasn't remotely sure how to force himself to sweat without involving any severe physical exercise. So instead, he decided to aim for the obvious answer of, "I can't deflower you if you're not a virgin. That's just like eating a cake that's already digested and in someone else's stomach. It doesn't work." Pausing, he raised an eyebrow at his flailing friend. "Of course, if you still are in possession of your v-card, then technically speaking, I can most definitely deflower you." Insert trademark smirk here.
She didn't answer his underlying question of her bedroom activities. Whether that was because she was purposefully avoiding the question or she was just too drunk to really process anything was unclear. It left him slightly curious, but only slightly. After all, she was his friend. And a friend is a friend 'til the end of the end, no matter how much either one gets around. She stayed silent for a bit, her eyes unfocused. Riley carefully sat on the bed as well, leaving a decent amount of space between them. He looked at the dead television, loathing it even more. If only he could turn it on right now. Then he could watch reruns of Star Trek until Poel fell asleep and everything would be fine. But the television was dead (God damn its soul) and he couldn't do that now, could he? Instead they were condemned to sit in an awkward silence. Well, it might not have been awkward for her as she seemed pretty deep in thought but it was definitely awkward for him.
A hand placed itself on his shoulder and he jumped in surprise. He turned to see- what the fuck when did Poel get right in his face- her lips literally right there. Her hand started caressing him in little circles and it was weird, okay this was all really weird. "Poel?" he asked weakly, too confused to even think about moving away. She ignored him and oh god why was her hand moving lower. It stroked across his chest but kept declining, giving him goosebumps all the while, finally resting in no place a friend's hand should ever go.
Riley leaped to the other side of the bed, facing her. She had an innocent expression on her face, but her eyes were full of sin and delight. "What the fuck, Poel?" he growled, trying mentally to make the goosebumps on his arms go away. As he learned, one does simply wish goosebumps away.
"What?" she blinked softly before pouncing on top of him. Trapped under her body, he lay on his bed like pathetic zebra to her fierce lioness. As she grinned in a borderline evil way, Riley gulped and saw his life flash before his eyes. The flashback was most disappointing as it resulted in his understanding of just how shitty his life had been. But then her lips crashed against his and thinking wasn't really an option anymore.
He'd been kissed before in life but nothing ever quite like this. The kiss was messy and ferocious, all tongue and teeth. It was full of pure, released passion. It was absolutely mind-blowing and incredible. She tasted of beer and wine and he even tested some chocolate in there. He even started to kiss her back, as much as he tried to tell himself not to. It was kind of impossible to resist. Her lips trailed down to his neck and started doing crazy stuff that he couldn't even begin to describe. Her hands started roaming again and they made it to that one goddam spot again, rubbing through his jeans. He moaned softly, (yes he moaned okay you would have as well) and tried to speak through everything that was going on. "Poel," he stuttered. "What are you… why are you doing this?" His voice sounded like he was half-awake and high, but he was just so damn distracted by her hand. How did she even do that?
As she attacked his skin, she whispered between kisses, "Because." kiss "I." kiss "Love." kiss "You." kiss "Silly." It took him about five minutes to process that, but when he did, he really did.
Pause. Rewind. Play. Yes. The word 'love' had been said. Shit had just got most vigorously real. The talk about sex was okay. He could deal with that. Because she was friend-zoned and he was friend-zoned and friends talk about sex in a casual manner, no big deal. But the four-letter word that rhymed with shovel minus the L was a game changer. It was like an innocent game of tag football played by elementary kids and then all of a sudden Joe Montana and Tom Brady and Jerry Rice and the likes take the field and you realize that this was so much fucking more than tag football. Love was the Jerry Rice in that sense. Okay, that metaphor kind of sucked but you try thinking properly when Poel Pix is kissing the hell out of you.
He slowly began to push her off. She whimpered in surprise and moved off of him. She glanced at him in a overdramatic pout, but he could see the sadness in her eyes, behind all the glaze and confusion. "What's wrong?" she asked simply, like what had just happened was normal. No big deal. A drunk friend randomly comes onto the other friend. Yes. Shit like that just happened all the time.
Riley couldn't even begin to form into words the incoherent thoughts in his head. He looked down, turning away from her, not sure how to say anything to her face. "You… you love me?"
"Yeah," she replied in a tone of how one would say "the answer is the Gaza Strip" or "I think it might rain later today". He wondered if she would be so relaxed and casual about this if she wasn't completely wasted.
"Well… you never said anything about it before." Way to go, Poole. What a line. Really show her how you feel- what the fuck no. He didn't know what to say at all, not sure to go about these things. Relationships just weren't his thing. They never would be, or at least, that's what he thought. Because he'd never been in a really serious, committed relationship before and he didn't know if he should start with her, his friend who suddenly just confessed her love and confused the hell out of him.
Her voice was starting to sound less slurred than before, maybe even a little sober, dare he hope. "I think it's 'cause I've always been scared to say something. 'Cause you could reject me and then we wouldn't be friends anymore. And I really like being your friend, Riley," she said softly.
"I… I like being your friend too, Poel," he agreed. "I'm not sure if I love you though. I'm not sure if I even know what love is. But what I do know is that I want to figure it out. And maybe you can help me. We can figure it out together. Does that make any sense to you?" He glanced over at her, only to find that Poel had finally, finally fallen asleep. Riley sent up prayers of thanks and gratitude to any holy being that could be watching. She looked peaceful and perhaps even tranquil now that her brain was resting. He didn't pity the hangover she'd have in the morning. In preparation, he quickly got a trash bin and set it by the edge of the bed she was sleeping on. Cautiously, he got in the bed next to her, cursing himself for owning a twin bed and not something bigger. If he just had a queen size bed, one-third of his body wouldn't be hanging off the bed, while she comfortably took up most of the space. Then again, Poel might have just been a bed whore, the kind of person who steals the covers and spreads every part of their body out to prevent others from having even the slightest bit of room. But like the kind gent he was, he decided to forgive her for her criminalistic sleep habits. Putting his stud glasses on the bed-side table and with images of Poel in mind, Riley fell asleep for what he figured would be the deepest sleep of his life.
That is until three hours later when he fell out of the bed due to Poel's incessant kicking. Landing on his back, he winced in pain, feeling more like a sixty-year old than a young adult. He laid on the floor in an awkward angle, not even sure how to begin to move. Up on the glorious bed, Poel was probably having the best sleep of her life, taking up the whole damn thing for her self. Riley could have picked himself up and claimed his territory like any proper man should. But he didn't have the heart too and besides, he would be screwed in the dark without his glasses on. So he stayed on the uncomfortably hard floor, pretty much ensuring he wouldn't get any more sleep. It was alright though. He had other things to think about, other things to look forward to.
And oh god, they had a hell of a lot to discuss in the morning.
And voila! I don't know about you, but I thought it was quite brilliant. Please do leave feedback, but if it's hate on my OTP: I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN. Fair warning. :D