Various Drabbles (Slash/Femslash/Het/Gen) [Ranging from PG to R]

Deadly Desires [Slash]

A/N

Rated R for sexual themes and drug usage.

Proceed with caution.

 

"I'd like to live as a poor man with lots of money." - Pablo Picasso

 

 

Deadly Desires

Empty houses.

Or empty people.

The language of earning. The uselessness of entitlement. The pulling. This way. That way. Every which way. The constant never ending talk of the future. The manufactured smiles. The names, names, names. The rules. The how to. What to. When to. Why to. Where to.

The Marinette strings hanging from your withered arms.

This is what it meant to be wealthy.

The places, people, the conversation—they were all simply blurs situated in the depths of Richard’s mind. He’d blink and suddenly be standing in the middle of a crowded party at some obnoxiously huge venue, shaking his head dazedly as everybody laughed and clinked their glasses together. A woman—with too many pearls, Richard decided, and too much god awful perfume—had lightly toasted his glass, causing him to fall out of his reverie and the unfortunate glass to slip from his hands and fall to the floor.

He watched it with something akin to amazement, admiring the way the glass shattered so beautifully, so carelessly. The pieces were what they should be, not carefully crafted identical sets of perfection—they were crooked. Uneven. Unacceptable to the rest of them, yes.

But they didn’t see imperfection the way he did.

Everybody in the room suddenly jolted, turning to stare like a bunch of hungry vultures. His mother rushed over to his side, trying to look as concerned as possible. It was ultimately her job to nip these things in the bud.

They were a well known family. They were the Carrington’s, a billionaire family that was always under close speculation in the media. His father ran the Oxy corporation, the biggest oil company in the world. His mother is a retired model that now spends her days organizing events and pretending she can still show emotion with all the Botox they’ve injected her with. His sister is Eva Carrington, the socialite headliner that spends six months out of the year in a French rehab center that looks more like a hotel. And he was Richard Carrington, heir to over half a billion dollars once he turns twenty-one, practically the poster child for trust-fund babies.

And he didn’t want any of it.

“Come on, sweetie, you’re looking a little pale. I’ll call a car so you can go home and rest.” His mother’s bitterly long fake nails dug into his pale arm as she bid everyone good evening for him. She brought him out front, the anger starting to become visible even with her distorted features. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you this past year,” She hissed. “You’ve acting out, showing up late and not properly dressed. Not bringing dates when I specifically told you to. Staying out all night doing god knows what. I expect this kind of behavior from Eva, but not from you.”

And here she goes again. His mother was notorious for comparing him and his sister, it was one of the reasons Eva started acting out in the first place. But that’s what people like his family did, they compared and resented. If it wasn’t Richard, Eva would be compared to his mother or his father or Elizabeth McKenzie or Daniela Manson. They needed you to know your place and know you’re not good enough because it breaks your free-will and leaves you open for molding.