#for only a dollar fifty you could see two shitty movies

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 24

Tyler Durden and Jack “The Narrator” + masks and/or helmets

I’m sorry to anyone who was hoping for Jason Vorhees, but I’ve been watching my comfort movie (fight club) to destress from my assignments, so I got in the mood to write for these two.

Tyler is his own person in this, cuz I want both to go down on me at the same time, thats the only reason.

Kinktober 2023 masterlist

Welding had never been your plan for a job, especially not where you found yourself now. Low ranked and forced to do all the shit work your jackass boss couldn’t be assed to do, leaving you alone in the construction yard in the middle of the night, the welding tool hot and dangerous in your gloved hands as it cast an almost evil glow upon your welding helmet, the light reflecting off the glass that covered your eyes.

Imagine your surprise some group of jackasses show up at your construction site. They seemed surprised to see you as you turned around and slid up the front of your helmet to look at them, but the bags under your eyes and the dead look in them seemed to make them see you as one of their own. One of them was even polite enough to ask if they could use the yard for some kind of weird orgy club they had going on, or at least you thought it was an orgy club.

You shrugged and told them if they gave you fifty bucks a night, they could kill a guy there and you wouldn’t give a shit. Hey, there were at least ten guys, they could cough up five dollars each if they wanted to start wailing on each other as you worked.

This continued, multiple nights a week, because of course your shithead boss had you working extremely late hours every day for shit pay, and because of your lack of education and shitty upbringing you couldn’t just drop the job. The fifty bucks a night did help quite a lot, and at some point you didn’t even need to do all that extra work, but you kinda enjoyed watching all these pathetic meatheads and self-proclaiming alpha-males trying to show off just how tough they were by beating on each other.

You never took part in it, but “the guy in the welder helmet runs the place” became some kind of rumour, just because they paid you to let them use the place. Apparently, you not doing any of the fighting made them think you were some kind of bigshot, a member of “project mayhem”, whatever that was.

It might also have been the muscle you had packed on from years of physical labour and your less then friendly attitude that made them think you were more then you were. But hey, you kept welding, but kept half an eye on the group of blood thirsty men, a group that only seemed to grow every night. So much for an “exclusive” group.

One day some guy with ugly spiked hair and a douchey red leather jacket swaggered his way over to you as you half-assed a weld between a couple of pipes. He had a cigarette hanging between his lips, like a real asshole, as he leaned against the pipe you were trying to weld, messing up your already shitty work. You could do a lot better, but you were in no way paid enough to care.

You could tell he was trying to antagonise you, as he would start showing up every night this so-called fight club happened, always trying to push your buttons, and even once putting out his cigarette against the one way glass protecting your eyes.

You were great at ignoring fools like him, so none of his actions got the reaction he seemed so starved for. The one that really caught your attention was this scrawnier guy, who looked like he hadn’t slept in months. It was like watching a corpse walking around, but something unleashed inside him when he fought. It was like a rabid dog with a piece of meat, it made your insides boil.

It was him that finally got you to join the fight, though you spat at their rules, keeping your welding helmet on, because why not, it looked sexy. You could definingly tell your years of labour had served you well from the way some of the guys around the place were looking at you, like they wanted to fight you or fuck you, maybe both.

The sleep deprived corpse, who you later learned was named Jack, tried his damn best to get the upper hand on you. But your uncle used to breed pitbulls and other types of large fighting dogs, so scruffing him and putting him in the ground was too damn easy. The erection on his pants wasn’t hard to see either, but you’d seen enough of this circle-jerk of a club to know it was normal, adrenaline, they always said.

You honestly had no idea how you found yourself in the situation you would find yourself in weeks later. You had finally started taking part in a couple of fights, but the helmet always stayed on no matter how much anyone complained, and you only really cared to fight Jack.

Even when the fucker in the red leather jacket whined and draped himself across you. You learned he was Tyler Durden, apparently him and Jack created this Fight Club junk. Tyler annoyed you though, always talking about society and changing it, you had clocked him once when he just wouldn’t shut up.

One day you found yourself packing down your gear, fight club had ended early today for some reason, you didn’t pay attention to that stuff, you were just there for a show. Tyler had been the first to pull up on you, Jack following not far behind, and when you had grunted what they wanted, Tyler had pounced like an overexcited puppy.

He had started licking the helmet you wore, his spit streaking across the glass of your mask, his breath leaving a foggy texture against it as you gripped onto his jaw, your work rough hands gripping hard enough to definitely leave a bruise.

Tyler was groaning like hed been shot, moaning something about how hot that stupid helmet was, and how sexy you were because you never took it off. You almost threw him across the yard when you felt hands undoing your belt. Snapping your head down you saw Jack on his knees in front of you, he had a busted lip and a black eye, but it somehow added to his charm.

His lips were soft, and his tongue was slightly hesitant as he started sucking you off, Tyler groaning and panting into the metal of your helmet, that was close to where your mouth would have been. You could feel him slobbering all over you, his tongue probably picking up all the grime the helmet had collected over the many weeks you’d gone without cleaning it.

Tylers slobbering was starting to get annoying, so with a grunt you gripped kicked his knees out from under him, making him crash to his knees with a painful crack against the pavement. His eyes seemed to lock on where Jack had been licking and almost worshipping your cock with his mouth, spit and drool dripping off of you and his mouth as he looked up at you with large blown pupils.

Tyler, the attention starved fool he was quickly butted in, his higher skilled tongue started to lap at the base of your length, even ducking in between your thighs to mouth as your sack. You couldn’t help but snort as you ran your gloved fingers through Jacks short hair in an almost loving manner, whilst also gripping and twisting in Tylers gelled hair with the other hand.

Something about seeing their reflection in the reflective glass of your welding helmet only seemed to excitement further, especially Tyler as he drooled, barely even seeming to make an inkling of an effort to keep spit in his mouth. Jack seemed at least a little shy about it, avoiding looking at himself but somehow always ending back at his reflection.

You didn’t tell them you were close, but they seemed to notice from how your hips twitching or your grunting grew rougher. Tyler almost shoved Jack aside to start tonguing at your tip right beside Jack, their tongues rubbing up against each other around your tip in some kind of French kiss.

Tyler had been moaning and groaning loudly the entire time, seemingly getting off at the volume of his noises, where Jack had been more subdued but still present. There was almost a battle of their tongues as you came, spurting white across wet wiggling muscles that tried to catch as much of it as possible.

Surprisingly, or maybe not to surprising, Tyler roughly grabbed Jack and started making out with him like he was trying to swallow him whole when you finished, swapping the mixture of spit and cum between them like a pair of starved animals. You scoffed a small laugh at the sight of them almost humping each other as they kept rubbing their tongues together obscenely, and here you thought Fight Club was a good show.

Tucking yourself back into your pants, you patted them both on the head to get their attention. When they finally pulled away from their sloppy sorry excuse of a kiss to look up at you, you pushed up the welders’ helmet and looked at them, quirking a questioning brow.

That seemed to be enough to get them going, the two almost skittering after you as you started trekking back to your bucket of a car to head home, your roommate would have to put up with the noises you knew you were gonna rip out of those two, so what if you had to keep the helmet on, they were right, it was kinda hot.

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #male reader #fight club #tyler durden #fight club jack #fight club narrator #the narrator #soapshipping #maybe #they make out sloppy style #fight club imagine #fight club headcanon #fight club x male reader #fight club x reader #tyler durden imagine #tyler durden headcanon #tyler durden x male reader #tyler durden x reader #fight club jack imagine #fight club jack headcanon #fight club jack x male reader #fight club jack x reader #fight club the narrator imagine #fight club the narrator headcanon #fight club the narrator x male reader #fight club the narrator x reader

[lornahansonforbes]

- - 5 - -

Love Field. The Dallas/Fort Worth area. It still operates but most folks fly into the other airport just down the road a spell. Like Hobby, a smaller airport yet most fly into Houston Intercontinental and depending on where you live, might as well pack an overnight bag and have a full tank (have a can in the trunk just in case) because it can be an ordeal. Now it’s rebranded for a former president and I’ll leave it alone.

As I’m aware of the sisters, I’m not sure exactly who was actually involved but several of their husbands did help with the creation of Love Field and then in 1926 they put in a few dollars to help American Airlines to come in to existence. I’m not sure which of these folks but one of these old biddies had American Airline tickets for life. Then in November 1949, 28 people were killed as a result of an airplane careening of the runway. This where Teen’s husband, Howard, was an insurance adjuster and from what I learned, this accident he was educated and was in the insurance industry for years.

Also there’s Nieman Marcus. The thing was that if you had bank and y’all wanted to spend at Needless Markup, they’d help you out really quick. The story goes that you’d need to make an appointment for a personal shopper. Once you arrived at Love Field, NM would have a limousine waiting for you. Whisked away and they’d debase themselves in order for you to drop a few bundles, and I mean bundles of cash, everything would be packed up for it to be sent elsewhere or for your convenience, taken with you. Apparently the aforementioned old biddies did, allegedly, fly from Hobby to Love and, allegedly, asked the folks at Needless Markup if they could dye their eyes to match their dresses. No one caught on it was a reference to “The Wizard of Oz.”

Somehow another story was, allegedly, bandied about as to being true. You can find the movie somewhere, “Murder in Texas,” starring Katharine Ross, Sam Elliott and Farrah Fawcett. Anyway, the gossip was that a female family member was involved with these folks and when it all hit the fan, I’m talking a hot shitty BooBoo mess, the family gave my female family member a fat check and was told to go back to where she came from. Apparently that check didn’t bounce.

I’m not sure exactly sure which one of the husbands but let’s say there were eight of them who went on vacation together. They went to St. Maarten and two of the husbands went scuba diving. While there they were told that one of the best places to go scuba diving was Bonaire. After a short flight there, these two people absolutely fell in love with scuba diving and it was their thing to do. This is where the story goes off the tracks and straight into one of those Roadrunner Acme Black Holes. Allegedly they had a home near a man made lake or was it actually Canyon Lake. Nothing conclusive yet this husband would gather up all his scuba equipment and go sit down at the bottom of the lake until his tanks ran out of oxygen just to get away from his, allegedly, nagging wife.

My personal favorite story was when my mother was getting married. Allegedly all of them paid a visit to the big city, New York City in the mid-fifties, and they went to Radio City Music Hall to see a tap dancer by the name of “Peg Leg Bates” and they were duly impressed that a black man with an actual peg leg could possibly be all that. Find him on YouTube.

Child please. I’m only telling you what I know and you can do whatever you want with the information I give you and all I know is a nice Jewish boy I once knew did have some bacon.

[starbuckie]

𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing(s): college!peter parker x reader, dark!steve rogers x reader, dark!sam wilson x reader, dark!bucky barnes x reader

words: 8.1k words

warnings: DARK!FIC, SMUT 18+ (unprotected sex, foursome turned fivesome, gangbang, non-con/dub-con, daddy kink, oral M and F-receiving, spit kink, degredation kink, praise kink, creampie), age-gap (reader is in her early 20s), cheating, angst, there’s like zero fluff

summary: peter should’ve made it back to the tower for date night on time, or maybe just before he found his girlfriend being fucked by three other superheroes.

a/n: eee my first dark fic! im so so happy with the way this turned out, and even though it was a pain in my ass for nearly three months, im so hapy to share it with y’all. this idea was brought up by an anon from @mypoisonedvine’s saturday sleepover a few months back, but i switched up tony and sam bc i didn’t like the tony and peter stuff. hopefully my smut has improved from the first time i wrote it in january, and just a reminder that in no way, shape, or form do i condone rape of any kind. there’s a large difference from the page and the real world. i try to put all tw’s in the tags and warnings, but if there was something i missed please tell me. thank you to my lovely bestie @mermaidxatxheart for beta-reading(i have no fucking clue what i’d do without your help). feel free to leave a comment or two and reblog, but don’t repost anywhere or i will hunt down your ass. thank you again and please please enjoy <3

main masterlist || mcu masterlist || sebastian stan characters masterlist

Bucky wasn’t planning to fuck Y/N as soon as he saw her.

It started with a faint mention, something Tony had thrown around along the lines of, “Parker’s bringing his girl down here tomorrow, don’t be an asshole”. He didn’t give a damn what Tony said or how he acted around Peter’s girl. Years of being thrown between gruesome mind-wiping and being half-dead, asleep in a freezer would do that to a man.

So the next day when Peter brought his girlfriend in, he was scratching his ass like a fucking ape and downing a beer with a messy bun at the nape of his neck, until he actually saw her. Neat hair, even neater laces with a sweet smile but a body that could kill. Didn’t matter that she was bundled under Parker’s hoodie and a pair of jeans- he could always admire a pretty dame, but Bucky could see that she was beyond that. It was as if God had intentionally made the one being, the one ethereal creature beautiful and angelic enough to be a sin away from him, so that he couldn’t touch her. Because she was young, and in her twenties, and that shouldn’t have even been the first two things that popped up in his mind because she was also Peter’s girlfriend.

But then she had the audacity to stick her hand out, a shy grin and twinkle in her eyes as she gave her name. It sounded so pretty rolling off of her tongue, and he wondered what it would sound like while he groaned it into her cunt.

Y/N. 

So, yeah, maybe Bucky wasn’t planning to fuck her as soon as he met her, but it was pretty damn close after.

-

Steve Rogers was one of very few men who said they had the pleasure of banging nearly every woman on the north side of Manhattan. Bucky indulged in the fact that the man who had once been too shy to do so much as meet a gal’s gaze was now “a dollar whore”, but he was more than happy to keep that title if it meant he could continue to get off in the nearest woman’s mouth everyday. 

Every time he walked down the streets of New York with just a simple ball cap and jeans, he could feel stares on his back from what seemed like miles away, girls on every street corner just waiting for him to take her into the nearest public bathroom and fuck them dirty. CEOs, baristas, girls fresh out of getting master’s degrees with stars in their eyes and big dreams, until he shattered them by making them gag on his cock and scream his name into bedsheets. Or tile floors. He didn’t care as long as they were screaming. The girls of this century were just too delectable to turn down. He didn’t discriminate. His dick had been in women of every height, stature, hair color, and he had quite the variety throwing themselves at him as well.

And then Tony ruined it all and sat him down with a simple explanation that the image of Captain America was being tainted with disturbing stories of girls being fucked in the ass and thrown on their knees in dirty bathroom stalls. The blond was beyond pissed when the billionaire told him to stop dicking around, but he couldn’t do anything else if he wanted to keep his title and job. In a new century, even if he’d had a few years to adjust, he was still absolutely oblivious when it came to anything outside of aliens and sex. There was nothing left for him outside of being an Avenger, so reluctantly he agreed to keep his number of conquests to a minimum, and most definitely inside of the tower rather than out on the street.

However, inside of the tower seemed to be no problem at all when Peter brought his girlfriend over, all smiles and straight A’s, and that’s when Steve realized that he’d yet to fuck a bright, little college student. He could see himself stripping her from the innocence in her eyes, loosening up her pussy with his thick cock against the wall in his room.

Surely Tony couldn’t reprimand him for spending a little time trying to bond with Peter’s new girl, right?

-

Sam Wilson was a simple man. He had a job, a well-paid one at that, somewhere to live, a girlfriend, or a woman to keep him company, that’s for sure- but for once in his life he was seeking out something other than missions, something that would keep him busy when he was feeling bored, something like-

Pleasure, and he knew that he’d finally found what he was looking for the moment Peter brought his girlfriend through the elevator doors on the fifty-sixth level of the Avengers tower. She’d shaken his hand so daintily and spoke so politely that if he were to see her without any backstory, he’d think she was another innocent, dim-witted college student, breaking her bank account every Saturday morning and naively believing that her relationship would last longer than a few months. But by the things Parker had told him, she was much more than that.

Was it shitty of Peter to tell his teammates, the people he worked with, how Y/N was in bed? By the majority’s vote, probably, and by Sam’s strict conduct of his own morals, definitely, but when Peter’s girl looked like that and he was so incredibly bored with his routine? 

Well, fuck, Sam had never been happier that the Spider-kid had told everyone how his girl gave head.

Peter brought his girlfriend in daily after that, and every one of her visits, she grew less shy and more friendly, and the Falcon saw each of his friends gape at her growing comfortability with a wolfish demeanor. It started with the water incident with Steve in the kitchen, where he so clearly spilled water on her already thin, white camisole with intention. Sam couldn’t say he was upset though, after all Steve had offered him and the rest of the Avengers quite a show when he tried to clean up her shirt, taking his sweet, sweet time to fondle her tits as subtly as he could, his eyes staring at her pebbled nipples poking through the material. He could see Bucky hiding his boner under his cereal bowl on the couch that day. 

Then of course, he’d been no better than America’s sweetheart himself when he greeted Y/N with a hug that in hindsight, was a little too enthusiastic. His large hands squeezed into the pockets of her back pocket, and if the college student found anything weird with it, she didn’t say so, but Sam graciously palmed the round globes of her ass in his hands, feeling the muscle clench under his fingers. Oh, how he’d never hugged someone that tight ever before in his life. Maybe he would’ve gotten a bit further than squeezing her ass had it not been for his own girlfriend standing behind him, ready to introduce herself to Y/N.

Bucky, well, Sam could admit that Bucky had the most guts out of all of them. Though the super-soldier was normally well-reserved and polite, the dark glint in his eyes the day he met Y/N let him in on the secret that he had a much dirtier mind than most thought. It had been movie night that time, and he barely even tried to cover up how much he wanted the girl, his hands resting all over her as they watched Inception. Hardly a movie to get so riled up over, yet Bucky’s hand still inched its way up her thigh, his rough fingers gently carressing the flesh until they started to lightly trace the apex of her thighs. 

If she noticed anything then, she didn’t comment on it, doe-like eyes just marvelling at the screen in great intrigue. It was only when Peter’s arms wrapped around her a bit tighter did she scooch away from Bucky’s touch, with a small apology and shy grin. 

That only made his dick harder.

On the other side of Bucky, his super-soldier counterpart tapped his knee gently, forcing their blue eyes to meet each other. No words had to be said between the two, three men when they looked over to Sam, because they all recognized that look they saw in each other's eyes; predatory, dark, nearly voracious in the way they all wanted to be balls deep inside of Y/N.

And they would get there. No matter how long it took, they knew that the ultimate prize of tearing their prey apart would be more than worth the wait.

-

“Hey, babe, I’m gonna be a little late. Ned and I got stuck back in the lab, so we’re gonna need to stay until eight or nine. Can you make it to the tower by yourself alright?”

Peter’s concerned voice made Y/N smile gently as she trudged along the rainy streets of New York. He always loved to worry about her, especially when it was dark and gloomy out, but she could handle herself pretty okay. By pretty okay, of course meant she could kick ass like no other twenty-something year-old, but she wasn’t one to brag. Y/N readjusted the Kate Spade purse on her shoulder with her right hand, attempting to keep her umbrella over her head with the other. “I’ll be fine, Pete, just go finish up and get back to me. I’m gonna be waiting in your room at the tower before you go off on that mission this weekend.”

A small sigh came through the speaker, “Okay, I’ll try to get back to you soon. I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Pete.” 

“Oh,” she could hear the shy but no less mischievous smile that was taking over his face, “I left you a little present on the bed, make sure you open it before I get back.”

Y/N’s face heated at the implication. “Peter Parker, you dirty little-” He ended the call with a laugh, and she huffed out a small chuckle at his childish antics.

The walk to the Avengers tower would have been nice, had it not been for the downfall of rain, making everything mushy, socks being absolutely soaked through her sneakers by the time she arrived. The receptionist at the front desk, Jenny, if Y/N remembered correctly, stared at her a little oddly, probably not expecting to see the young college girl in such a state of disorder, but it didn’t affect her at all. She confidently strutted up to the elevator, pressing in the floor number where all the rooms were located. Y/N scrolled through her Twitter feed on her phone while classic rock blared through the elevator with the constant shuffling of people moving in and out. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later she was sprinting down the halls with soggy shoes and damp hair, her cold body screaming for warmth.

Peter’s room was the farthest down the hall, and the room was fairly empty. He rarely stayed at his room in the tower, preferring to stay with his Aunt May or keep Y/N company in Brooklyn. When she entered the room, she saw a plain white shirt and a pair of socks strewn upon the carpeted floor, but what really caught her eye was the red box wrapped in a pink bow on the bed. Deciding it would add more suspense if she opened it later, she quickly hopped in the shower, letting the hot water warm her freezing, rigid muscles under the spray. 

Peter didn’t have all the products she’d usually use before she knew they were going to have sex, so she had to make do with the half-used bar of Irish Spring and his small travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner, promising the fresh, breezy smell of citrus and mint. It was a quick process; two squeezes of shampoo, shaving with the green soap as best as she could without cutting herself, one squeeze of conditioner. A fuzzy towel sat waiting for Y/N on the rack, with the Spiderman symbol as a prank gift from her to her lovely boyfriend, and without a second to let the heat leave her damp skin, she wrapped herself in it, quickly hopping out to the bedroom again.

The lingerie she set out on the bed was a deep set burgundy color, with lace decorating the delicate corset and the trim of the satin panties. The packaging really did not do it justice. Y/N grinned at the new set, one that she knew would happily be torn from her body later. A shiver ran through her as she let the cold air fall over her skin, carefully slipping the lingerie on. It was a damn shame, really; the set was quite nice, and she reminded herself to buy more of the nicely suiting color for their nights together. 

Click.

Y/N’s heart thumped with anticipation as she heard the door open and she took a quick moment to ready herself. Hair in perfect style, legs stretched along the length of the bed to make herself look as seductive as possible, a small smirk thrown on her pouty lips.

But in the darkened room, it wasn’t Peter’s shadow that appeared. Three men, three tall, bulkier men’s shadows appeared at the foot of the bed, and horror washed over her as she realized who they were. “Goddamn, dolly, I’ve imagined what you would’ve looked like under those sweaters, but this is much sweeter than I expected.”

The sinister face of Bucky Barnes came into her view, just a sliver of moonlight lighting up his pale skin. His eyes raked over Y/N’s uncovered skin, and goosebumps appeared as she tried to cover herself up under his predatory gaze.

“W-what are you doing here?” She whispered worriedly. Sam and Steve flanked the bed on either side of her, plastered sickly sweet smiles on their faces, providing her with a false sense of security that made her heart scream in fear. Though she wasn't making any noise, her lungs felt like they were going to give out, her throat closing up like an allergic reaction. 

Her head whipped every which way in robotic movement, her brain seeming to fail her as she scanned the room for an exit. Several moments of shortened breaths, cold air chilling her body, before she came out of her freezing shock to realization.

“Why are you here? Please, get out, just g-get out!”

A calloused hand pushed away Y/N’s left arm that covered her tits, and Steve groaned at the sight of her pebbled nipples. “God, baby, they’re as pretty as I thought they’d be. Been trying to feel them up all week, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

Saturday the week before at lunch when he’d spilled water over chest and tried to clean her up. Sam’s friendly hug that became a bit less friendly when his hands slipped into the back pockets of her jeans. The movie night on Monday when Bucky’s hand caressed her thigh a little too close to her core. All of their touches began to make more sense, and her eyes filled with tears at the realization. 

“Please,” she begged, tears blocking her vision, “I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Pete, but please just go.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Steve asked. He grasped her chin roughly, his face close enough to hers so that she could feel his fiery breath on her lips. “We’re not leaving, sweetheart. You’re gonna let all three of us play with your pretty little body, and you’re gonna make the prettiest sounds for us, alright?”

Y/N shook her head violently, too afraid to make noise, but also bold enough to make one last attempt at freedom. The hand that held her chin quickly moved to slap her cheek, and she hated the way the sting made heat stir in her lower belly. She tried to shy away from their touch again, but Bucky’s face simply held the same smirk as he trailed his vibranium fingers up and down her leg. 

“Oh, come on, Y/N, don’t act all shy now. Peter has been telling us how good you’ve been to him and don’t think he hasn’t told us about your little childhood crush on little ol’ me. Been wanting to fuck you ever since.” Bucky’s hand quickly left her body, instead moving to palm over the bulge in his pants. “Fuck, sweetheart, got me real hard just thinking ‘bout your pussy swallowing my cock. Bet you’re gonna be a sweet, obedient girl for me, right?”

Fire started to course through Y/N’s veins, and with all the power she tried to dampen it down with, it seemed to push through her body that much more dangerously. She despised the fact that she could feel herself growing wet for the three older men, but God, she had never felt the need to be filled up as badly as she did in that moment.

“You’re a bit of a slut, don’t you think?” Sam mocked. He kneeled on her right, his eyes fixated on her panty-clad pussy, a wet patch already forming on the soft satin. It really didn’t help that three of her teen celebrity crushes were eyeing her nearly naked body like a piece of meat. “I mean, look at you, already growing wet and needy for three cocks. Is that what you want, honey? Parker not treating you good enough?”

She hesitated. Goosebumps rose across her skin at the sinister tone of his voice, like he already knew it was true. And it was true and she hated that Sam was right, but as amazing as Peter was a boyfriend, it was clear from the vibrator hiding in his apartment’s bathroom that he was not amazing in the sheets. Every time, she held hope that it would be better, that she would finally get to stop faking an orgasm before he rolled out of the bed with a filled up condom, but she knew deep down inside of her that it wasn’t happening anytime soon. Y/N forced herself to nod weakly at Sam’s questions, and Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you poor dolly, we’re gonna have so much fun with you. Treat you better than that little boy ever could.”

All it took was a whimper, a nearly audible, deadly silent whimper that managed to squeak its way past Y/N’s throat, and the three men took it as permission to ravage her body however they pleased.

Steve made quick work of his pants as Sam lifted her chin to kiss him, his tongue hot and heavy against her mouth, coaxing her lips open. The sound of belt buckles hitting the floor shamefully turned on Y/N even more. Panic coursed through her senses, her mind wanting to scream for them to stop, but her body knew her too well as she felt a wave of slick run down her thighs. Cold metal digits slipped under the waistband of her panties, moving to her wet folds, and she whimpered into Sam’s mouth at the touch. 

“You look so nice, baby, so pretty all laid out for us like this.” Bucky’s hands pulled down her panties as Steve pinched her peaked nipple through the lace, laying lavish, open-mouthed kisses down her torso. The cool air hit her pussy when Bucky’s hands pulled her legs wide open, fully exposed to the three men ready to use her against her will. “Knew you’d be so wet for us, sweetheart, just look at you. Dripping all for your daddies,” Steve murmured against her skin.

Hot breath fanned over her cunt before they rolled her over on her stomach, someone’s hands forcing her up onto her knees with her face smashed into the cotton pillows. She could feel two rough human hands pulling her ass cheeks apart, spreading her ever wider for their view. “Would you look at that, boys, look how fucking hot she is for us.”

Sam’s thick finger ran through her folds, the calloused pad of his finger just teasing her clit before landing a harsh smack to the inside of her thigh. Her moan was muffled through the mattress and she prayed they wouldn’t hear how being treated like whore made her wet like nothing else. 

Hot slick dripped down her thighs, a pool of it staining the pristine sheets by each knee. It was quite a sight, Steve, kneeled by the bed as his face hovered next to her ear, whispering filthy things into her ear as Bucky stroked his hard, leaking cock right next to him. Sam’s lips were making their way up the inside of her right thigh, cracked skin gliding across her sticky flesh. “Oh, baby,” he purred, “you smell so good. Bet you taste even better, don’t you, little girl?”

His tongue reached the apex of her thighs, finally licking a stipe up her center with no warning. Y/N sobbed into the comforter below her, mascara stained tears marking up her face. Two fingers edged their way between the bed and her face, forcing her head upwards and arching her back. Steve’s face was caught in a dirty smirk above hers, lip pulled taut between his teeth, until he saw the tears trailing down her face. “Oh, sweetheart, you look so desperate like this.” His fingers traced her smeared lip gloss around her lips, before opening her lips harshly. “Open up, you dumb baby.”

Y/N forced her jaw open wider, just enough to watch a string of Steve’s saliva drip into her mouth. The thick spit pooled on her tongue and she tried hard not to grimace in front of him, in hopes that he wouldn’t make her- 

“Swallow it, sweetheart.” He saw the hesitation in her eyes, how her lower lip trembled at his words, but he just laughed at her. “Now.”

The warm saliva slid down her tongue and more black tears ran down her face as she obliged his orders, finally gulping it and cringing at the taste. Steve loved the way her face screwed up in displeasure, how she still had the audacity to pretend she hated what they were doing though she was moaning and whimpering with Sam’s tongue attacking her entrance.

“What do you want, sweetheart? We might give it to you as long as you use your words.” Bucky taunted lightly.

Y/N stared up at the brunette, staring menacingly down at her with his cock in hand. “Please,” she whimpered.

The three found it woeful, the way she could barely get a full sentence out as Sam went to town with his skilled tongue, but even with that onslaught, a simple please wasn’t enough for them.

“Please what, honey,” Sam moaned from between her legs, “you gotta use your big words or we’ll never know what you want from us.”

Steve and Bucky nodded in fake-agreement even though they all knew exactly what she wanted and where. 

“I don’t-” her widened eyes glanced into Steve’s, blown-out and teary. “I don’t want anything, not from you.” She lied through her teeth harshly.

Sam removed his head from between her thighs and Y/N immediately whined at the loss of contact almost hilariously. “You don’t want anything, little girl?” 

The air felt static, every hair on her neck rising in the pressured silence. The angel and the devil clawed at her heart, each trying to show her what was right. And she wanted to sin, God knew that she would love nothing more than to let that little greedy part of her take over, but she’d already cheated on Peter and that damn good part of her conscience stole the wheels of her brain.

Slowly and shamefully, she shook her head, though the downright dirty monster inside of her wanted the men to ignore her words and keep assaulting her body. 

“That’s a shame, baby, I thought we were having fun.” Sam sighed. He met Bucky’s gaze on the side, and though they seemed to be in resignation with her wishes, their eyes twinkled devilishly. He positioned his body over Y/N’s kneeled over form, his bare chest glued to her sweating back as his hands ran up the sides of her ribcage and to her front, just barely grazing over her sensitive nipples. “You mean, you don’t want me to touch you here?”

He pinched the darkened buds and she had to use every ounce of self-restraint to not collapse at the sensation. His calloused hands moved back even further, tracing down to the stretch of skin just above her mound, swiping a finger across the skin delicately. “How about here? Or even,” he brought three fingers around her body, over her ass, and into her glistening cunt again, just rubbing along her entrance, not daring to go further in. Y/N couldn’t hold in her reaction to his prodding anymore, his teasing chipping away all of her dignity and pride in a few simple touches. 

“Yes, please, please, use your fingers,” she blurted against her will. Where shame should have washed over her, there was only lust, raging red and coursing through her body so forcefully that she felt braindead. “Put your fingers in me, daddy, please.”

The pet name rolled off of her tongue so easily and she was barely ashamed of how it made her feel. The name especially shocked the three men, who smiled even wider with their cocks harder than before at the little slip up. “That was all you had to say, dolly, gonna have your daddies make you feel real good,” Bucky laughed.

Sam finally plunged his thick fingers knuckle-deep into her cunt as Steve’s mouth captured hers, effectively swallowing her scream with ferocity. The long digits scissored and swirled inside of her, pressing against new unexplored areas that she’d never even gotten to with her own fingers. White dots danced along the front line of her vision as teeth clashed against hers and though it’d been mere minutes she already knew she was close and the men did as well.

“I can feel you clamping around my fingers, honey,” Sam taunted. His lips were moving sinfully around her ass, planting sloppy kisses and drooling all over her skin while he fingered her deep. “Are you gonna come soon, baby?”

“Yes, daddy, I’m so- fuck,” Y/N panted into Steve’s mouth, “m’ so c-close.” The blond bit her tongue hard enough for her to taste blood and she yelped as she heard Sam and Bucky laugh. 

“Watch your language, dolly,” Bucky sneered from the side of the bed. His hand was rapidly moving around his cock, corkscrew motions edging him towards the brink of pleasure. 

“Little girls like you don’t get to use big swear words,” Sam’s face was still buried between her legs, his soaked fingers pulling out of her cunt only to rub at her little pearl of nerves in circles. His tongue still lapped at her dripping entrance and he could feel her tight hole start to pulse as her breathing picked up. “Oh, baby, you’re getting close, aren’t you?”

Y/N was hesitant to answer at first, the sweat on her body seeming to cool immediately in fear of what would happen if she messed up. But after five seconds Steve stopped kissing her, gripping her chin and staring into her eyes deeply. He looked as debauched as she felt, with his rosy lips swollen with spit and cheeks tinged with pink. “Are you gonna answer daddy, sweetheart?”

That knocked her into shape real fast.

“Yes, daddy, I’m so close. P-please let me come,” she whimpered. The whine in her voice pleased the two men, and Steve went back to exploring her mouth before she felt something poking against her asshole.

“Gonna let daddy put his cock in you, little girl?” Sam asked gently. His words had panic coursing through her system, a chilling realization like water being poured on her head and she began to wiggle around, trying to free Sam’s hand from her hip. Her arms weakly pushed at Steve’s chest, trying to push him as far away as he could, but the men only laughed at her flailing limbs. Y/N wanted to scream no to them, and despite her contrasting love-hate relationship with Sam’s fingers inside her cunt she knew it was time to go. It was laughable how much she would continue to say that to herself for the rest of the night. 

But Sam managed to sense her panic, knowing exactly what the issue was before harshly spanking her and effectively stopping her struggle. “Don’t worry, baby, I won’t come inside of you. I’m not risking knocking up a whore with my kids, I’ve got more dignity than that.”

He led the leaking tip of his dick down her crack, rubbing it along her slick entrance before pushing in with a groan. “Oh my fucking God, that is so hot.” Bucky admonished from the side. “Gotta get in on that soon.”

Steve chuckled against Y/N’s lips, pulling away with a strand of saliva connecting them. He adjusted himself up so his dick was centimeters from her face, a knee propped up on the bed for balance. “Gotta wait your turn, Buck, we all want a piece of her.” He noticed the way Y/N’s eyes were transfixed on his cock, the red mushroom head smeared with precome along the slit, nearly purplish veins standing out prominently on his shaft. Yeah, he couldn’t even deny that he was big because he already knew how many girls had dropped down on their knees for him. “Go ahead, sweetheart, open up those pretty lips for me.”

Almost too excitedly, she dropped her jaw, allowing him to slide his cock into the silky warmth of her mouth. As his hips started to thrust into her mouth, Sam’s started to do the same into her cunt. Both men moaned in tandem with their movements as Y/N’s worries faded away to the back of her mind as they stuffed her to the brim.

“You can come now, baby,” Sam nearly ordered, “go and cream on daddy’s cock- fuck, I know you’ve been waiting.”

It was a harsh bump of his head against her G-spot that sent her over the edge, walls clamping down with ferocity and milking him for all she was worth. Y/N reeled in the sunlight infested warmth that coursed through her body as she finally let go, whining around Steve’s dick as he continued to abuse her throat with long, deep thrusts. 

Bucky was still holding his orgasm off, fondling with his tight, heavy sac while his dick remained a painfully hard mess, glistening with precome. “I’m so glad I got to see you come, dolly, look so fucking pretty when you do.”

She couldn’t deny the little skip of her heart at the praise, just a few simple words that made her feel like a good little girl. But no, God-fucking no, she wasn’t supposed to let them make her feel this way. Guilt washed away that warmth in her chest just as quickly, knowing that her boyfriend was just waiting to come back to see her, finishing up his studies so that they could live their lives out together after college while she was getting her pussy and mouth absolutely wrecked by his co-workers. 

As soon as Y/N got her brain thinking straight again, Sam started moving inside of her again and she garbled out a strangled cry. “If you thought we were done here, baby,” Sam laughed, “you’ve got a lot left ahead of you.”

“We’re not leaving until all of us have come, brat.” Steve’s palm gripped the back of her skull roughly, pushing her head so far down on his dick that her nose was squished against his abdomen. “Greedy little bitch.”

Both men started to thrust into her again, and just like that she was back to being absolutely lost in desire and lust like the bitch in heat she was until there was a sudden shift in the air. So much that the sweat on her body began to cool her skin, Sam’s hands still gripping her hips so tightly she knew they’d leave marks that she would have to hide when she wore her favorite low-cut shorts. 

Bucky’s eyes seemed to drift from her tits moving with each movement of her hips, checking behind the door as if there were something lurking there, but she was too afraid to see for herself. If she stopped she would get spanked, and they’d probably prolong her second orgasm even further, and her pussy couldn’t handle any more subtle teasing.  

“Hey there, Parker, why don’t come on out here?”

But that, that was what made the hairs on Y/N’s neck rose, dread filling her to the fullest as she realized the implications of Sam’s words.

Peter had seen everything. Peter, her boyfriend, had seen three of his co-workers, three men who she barely knew, fuck her deep into his mattress. Peter, her boyfriend, had watched her get fucked into his mattress, without trying to stop them whatsoever.

She couldn’t tell if it was the guilt of cheating on her boyfriend or the freezing realization that he hadn’t done anything to stop the three men that hurt more. 

Yet Peter still walked from behind the door, dressed in a NYU hoodie and a pair of khakis slung low on his hips, just drawing attention to the sizable bulge that stretched out his zipper. His umber eyes, normally full of so much joy and love, were possessed by the same lust and darkness as the three men, as much as he tried to hide it behind a shyer facade. 

His eyes were trained on the tightness of how Y/N’s pussy was gripping Sam, her lips glossed over with come and spit wrapped around Steve’s dick. The girl stopped in her movements, her eyes no longer full of tears for just being gagged, but as soon as her mouth came to a halt around the base of his cock, the blond slapped her across the face. A sharp crack echoed around the room and though she couldn’t see him, she heard Bucky’s feral growl of pleasure at the whorish treatment she was receiving. 

“Didn’t say you could fucking stop, sweetheart, keep working on daddy’s cock.” No more words needed to be said as Steve gripped her hair once more, forcing himself farther back into her throat to the point where she couldn’t breathe. Sam’s thrusts were quickening, closer and closer to release as the sounds of the girl struggling to breath made his balls tighten. 

“Fucking shit, baby, you feel yourself squeezing my dick? I bet you like teasing daddy like that, don’t you?” One of his hands were brought down on her ass in a quick smack that resonated with Bucky, who was staving off his orgasm for something much sweeter than his hand. She was moaning raucously around the dick stuffed in her mouth, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure up every nerve in Steve’s body as he came with the tip of his dick nearly being swallowed by Y/N’s throat. There was barely any time for her to fully down the thick come in her mouth before Sam was threatening to orgasm. “I’m gonna come so soon but you better fucking not, little girl, you hear me? Gotta let your daddy come before you, you ungrateful little bitch- oh.”

It was a really fucking close call, Sam’s dick pulling out of her with one quick movement before spilling pearly ropes of come onto Y/N’s spine. A high whine escaped her mouth, clit throbbing as she was so, so close to coming, and she was too far into her crazed pleasure to realize that she was letting three older men, men who fought to defend the universe from evil, use her as an over-glorified fleshlight. 

She couldn’t really blame them for calling her a cockdrunk whore. 

Bucky sauntered over to the bed, eyes trained on the pool of come centered around the base of her spine before flipping her over onto her back with his large hands and shoving three vibranium fingers back into her hole. She gasped and held onto his forearm as he continued to fingerfuck her to her second orgasm, eyes screwed shut in a delirious haze of contentment for being filled with at least something again. 

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, please-” Steve slapped her along the face, correcting her words immediately. “Daddy, daddy, please let me come.”

Bucky chuckled, tweaking one of her nipples with his flesh hand as he hovered over her face. “I don’t know, dolly, you’ve been a little naughty, callin’ me the wrong name, not listening to Stevie’s orders- don’t think you deserve to get what you want.”

A muffled whimper escaped her swollen lips, and he sighed in surrender. “Okay, dollface, go ahead and come on my fingers. Let me see how you wet ‘em up real good.”

Y/N’s hips bucked into his metal digits with finality, come leaking out of her cunt and soaking the sheets below her. Her sweat-glazed skin shone even against the darkening sky, and all Bucky could do was chuckle at how her chest rose quickly as she tried to catch her breath. He thought about teasing her clit again, just circling around the little bud of nerves to get a rise out of her, but he decided against it. Sam probably had better plans for her anyway. 

On the other hand, Y/N’s orgasm was starting to wear off as she noticed the hardened stare from the edge of the room. Her boyfriend.

“Peter, I…” Y/N made eye contact with him, suddenly noticing how mousy he looked in his own bedroom. 

“I nearly forgot you were here, Parker,” Sam smirked darkly. “Why don’t you come over here and fuck your little whore. I’m feeling a little generous today.”

Steve and Bucky nodded with the same infuriating smugness as Sam. The brunette boy opened his mouth to object to the degrading statement, but when he met his girlfriend’s eyes nothing needed to be said. There was no escaping this. Nothing he said mattered to the three older men, because really they had already gotten everything they wanted right in front of their disgusting, perverted eyes. 

He unbuckled his belt, letting the weight of it drop his khakis to the floor. Maybe if he’d known he would be forced into join a fivesome later that night he’d have picked any other boxers but the Ducktales one, but no one seemed to say a word about them, rather focusing on what they were failing to conceal. 

Peter’s cock had always been admirable to Y/N by its length and God, definitely its thickness. Curved upwards towards his abdomen with a vein running along the left side up to the bulbous head, it was definitely more than average. It was really just a shame he didn’t know how to use it well enough.

His shirt was pulled over his head just as quickly, and if Y/N knew any better she would say that he was excited to get to fuck her in front of the three men. He placed himself in between Y/N’s parted legs, standing in the same position as he had so many times before.

But when Y/N cried out in pain and pleasure as he slid into her, Peter knew that this time, it was different. This time three men, men that he used to trust with his life, stood on either side of him and his girlfriend and jerked their hands up and down their cocks as they watched her get fucked relentlessly. It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t romantic, but he couldn’t really think when his thick cock was stuffed inside of her stimulated pussy, juices and come leaking out of her abused sex. 

“Go faster, Parker,” Steve instructed, his face contorted in pure pleasure. The pace of Peter’s thrusts sped up, and he threw Y/N’s ankles over his shoulders, hitting deeper inside of her, with the sound of her sobs only turning them all on more. “Oh, right there, shit, shit, shit-”

Steve came first, a low groan escaping his lips as streams of come landed on her tits, still bouncing with every movement of Peter’s hips. 

“Open up,” Sam gritted through his teeth, and Y/N obediently opened her mouth to let his bitter come coat the inside of her throat, some of it landing on her face and neck. The string of curses he let out made Peter thrust even faster into her, and he hated, absolutely despised the way it turned him on to see the three men use his girlfriend to their pleasure. But soon enough a hand pushed against his chest away from Y/N and he reluctantly pulled out.

“Move aside, kid,” Bucky instructed, “Wanna come inside of her.”

As he lined his gigantic cock up with her entrance, her eyes widened with fear. “No, please, I didn’t take my pills, I can’t- I won’t, please not inside-”

“Shut the fuck up, you slut.” Bucky’s fingers came to slap her clit harshly, and she cried out in pain. “You’re gonna be quiet and let me come wherever I damn want, right?”

He punctuated his last word as he thrust inside her, filling her up to the hilt with his girth. She was too drunk on the feeling of her cunt being filled up to argue again. It was painful, extremely so, even though two different cocks had been inside her overstimulated pussy already and Bucky stretched her out wide, his cock thicker with veins to hit every pleasure point. With her legs tossed around his tapered torso, he slid out until his very tip was left in her, then slammed back in with a small moan. The head of his cock relentlessly pounded into her cervix in a nearly soundless tempo and all Y/N could hear were her own gasps of pleasure, jaw-dropping moans that made drool slide back down her throat in her laid down position.

She turned her head to the side, and though her vision was bleary through the tears, she could see Sam and Steve watching Bucky fuck her while Peter, her boyfriend, her sweet, sweet boyfriend, was caught up fucking his hand to the sound of Bucky’s balls slapping against her ass. 

“Fuck, ‘m not gonna last much longer, dollface.” Bucky gasped. “You gonna come soon? You’re gonna come for daddy one more time. I think you’ve got a third one in you, you little fucking slut.”

“Shit, shit, daddy, please ‘m almost there,” Y/N wailed absentmindedly. A thumb came down to circle her clit quickly and she felt the coil in her stomach grow tighter and tighter, until she finally let out a high whine, finding her release as Bucky’s cock pulsed inside of her, ready to come just as easily as her. Her pussy clenched around his cock as she rode out her orgasm, fingers grasping at the sheets in order to find some sort of grounding. His come painted her walls white, and Bucky could’ve sworn there was no better feeling than feeling his blood warm in every vein as he finally let go. With stunted groans, his hips slowed its rhythm, lost in watching how his cock disappear into Y/N’s pussy, her slick juices coating his dick each time he pulled out. 

“Ah, fuck, dolly, you did so good for me. Pussy tight as a fuckin’ vice.” Bucky hugged her limp body close to his sweaty chest, letting his dick soften inside of her for a good few moments before pulling out. He tossed Y/N back onto the bed below him, barely even caring to clean the come dripping down her ribcage and out of her cunt before grabbing his boxers from the cabinet next to the bed. 

Steve was already buttoning his jeans up, checking the notifications on his phone before shoving it back into his pocket. The blond seemed to have better things to do so soon after, rushing his way to the door before pausing where Y/N laid to watch come drip out of her pussy. One more time he pushed Bucky’s come inside of her abused entrance, watching as it oozed out from behind his digits. “Look at you, fucking full of of his come. Such a goddamn whore,” he muttered under his breath.

Those were the last words he said to her before patting Bucky on the shoulder and leading him out of the opened door. 

Maybe Sam was a bit more kind, or affectionate at least. He was already dressed but visibly hard again beneath the thick denim of his pants, and he made sure Y/N knew it, taking her left hand and placing it over his dick. “You still got that effect on me, honey, even when you’re all fucked out like this.” He dragged his fingers through the thick ribbons of come that coated her chest, bringing them up to her mouth so she could taste. Even though she was more than exhausted, she wrapped her tongue around the two fingers that were pushed past her swollen lips, sucking them clean with a tired vengeance. Satisfied with her work, he kissed her chin one more time before leaving without so much as another word, slamming the door shut on his way out.

Click.

It ended exactly the way it started, the lock jostling into the doorknob just as easily as the high of Y/N’s final orgasm slipped away.

Stifling silence suffocated the room around them. Peter refused to meet her eyes, just as much as hers did his. She laid motionless on the bed with him standing at the foot, his dick soft and if she narrowed her bleary eyes just a bit, she could see how his knees were shaking. Neither of them were able to say anything, losing the ability to converse as soon as the three men left the room.

“Peter,” her voice was throaty after the rough fucking she took, “C-can you please get me a drink?”

The brown-haired boy looked down to meet her face, and she could finally see the reason that he had hid it from her. His eyes were red and bloodshot, snot running from his nose with tears running down his cheeks. She’d been so caught up in the after haze of the sex that she didn’t even notice how his bare chest was heaving so deeply, nearing hyperventalation. 

But still, he grabbed his boxers, pulling them over his weakened legs clumsily. “Y-yeah, what kind do you want, Mr. Stark has a ton-”

“I don’t care.” She cut him off firmly, a sharp tone in her voice as she rolled over on her side. Y/N tucked her knees to her chin, fingers running over the side of her neck which was marked with bruises and scratches. “I don’t fucking care.”

Without another word Peter slipped out of the room quietly, knowing better than to try to talk to her about what they had been forced to participate in. It wasn’t as if there was much to say anyways.

Rain pattered against the window. It was only six o’clock in the evening. Cars honked and beeped and Natasha’s Igor Stavinsky record played for its fiftieth round of the day, and to anyone else in the tower it was a normal night. Normal, just like the ones spent sitting on the couch with Bucky’s hand creeping up her leg or Sam’s hands groping her ass, but this time they’d made a move. 

The silence was far too much to handle, the unspoken truth of what she’d done with Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Peter finally hitting her, knocking the air out of her lungs as she suddenly struggled to breathe. Gripping her face, clawing at it like a goddamn wolf, Y/N began to cry. Silently at first, gradually growing into heartbroken sobs, she let her trodden pride carry her voice wherever it wanted to go. 

The men’s whispered words haunted her mere moments after they’d left the room, but most audibly she could hear a faint husk of a voice, Sam’s low moan in her ear looming in the dreadful silence of the room:

Thanks for sharing with us, baby.

#dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x y/n #dark!steve rogers smut #dark!sam wilson x reader #dark!stucky x reader #dark!bucky barnes smut #d #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!sam wilson #dark!bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x you #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader smut #bucky fanfic #tw cheating #tw noncon #tw dubcon #18+ minors bye bye

[binniesthighs]

ANON THIS WAS SO FUN.  Oh my gosh thank you so much for requesting this 😭

bites like bittersweet | reader x minho | 

Pairing: self insert, gender neutral reader x lee minho 

Genre: that good good smut 

Tags: aphrodisiac au, switch!minho, switch!reader, mentions of food, oral (m recieving), unprotected sex (stay safe!), degredation, pet names, dirty talk, accidental exhibitionism 

Word count: 2.4k

“are you kidding me? I can’t believe that you actually spent money on this!! aren’t you just a tiny bit embarrassed?” 

“what? I thought that it would be fun to try!” 

“if this is your way of seducing me, I hate to tell you, but it isn’t going to work.” 

minho threw the chocolate bars back down on the coffee table. he was right;  they looked fake and you knew it. the giant logo on the front stared up at you and your skeptical friend. it was an obscenely large kiss mark with different icons of couples fucking for each flavor. you really should have had better judgement. right in front of you was $36 dollars that you would never be getting back. 

“and you had to get all the flavors?” 

your defeated arms rang themselves above your head. “what?? I wasn’t going to pass up mint, salted caramel and...what’s this called...yeah, cherri amore!” 

“and why is it again that you’re asking me to try these--” minho snatched up the flavor Salted Caramelicious in Milk Chocolate to read the label.  “--proven aphrodisiac and libido boosters?” 

“I dunno!! you were the only one around I guess...?” 

minho flicked up one of his eyebrows in his suspicion. “really? that’s why? I don’t believe you. you’re trying to get in my pants aren’t you?!” 

“no! Why the hell would I want to get in your pants?” 

“hmmm...dare I bring up the locker room incident from a couple summers ago?” sly as ever, minho punched your arm lightly. “i bet that you’ve been dreaming about it ever since then.” 

“-have not!! you’re ridiculous.” you gifted him a punch back, but this one wasn’t nearly as joking. 

minho rubbed at his arm with a dramatic little “ow” on his lips. 

“I’m bored, you don’t have anything else to do, it’s probably a scam and I don’t feel like wasting my $36.” 

for a moment, minho pondered in silence as you dished him out your best puppy-dog eyes. in all your years of friendship, there was nothing that did him in better than the way you could make your eyes glisten. “that should be illegal” he would gripe. 

“Pleeeese?? ~I know that you like mint chocolate~” you waved the bar gratuitously in front of his nose. 

“fine.” he clawed it from your grasp. “i’m sure that it’s gonna be shitty chocolate anyway.” minho’s fingers hastily tore at the little foil edges and wrappings then cracked it in his hand. 

you teased him, “should I get us some wine to go with this chocolate?” 

minho scoffed and popped a couple chunks in his mouth. “fuck, this is so waxy. I hate you for this.” 

~💋~ 

to your right, your wall clock ticked on as late as it was into the night. you hadn’t expected yourself to get so sleepy, but you and minho had made up the couch into your usual mess of pillows and blankets that would often accompany movie nights. after a while, the two of you had decided to just let netflix autoplay each episode, not really caring that you weren’t quite watching anymore. 

“--you feeling anything?” you asked minho for the hundredth time. 

“...no; its same answer from the last fifty times that you asked me. like I said, it’s a scam. you were swindled. just admit it.” 

“...I don’t think I’m feeling anything either.” 

“we ate the shitty chocolate, and that was that.” minho huffed. “god, you owe me big time.” 

“isn’t it supposed to take a second to kick in...? isn’t that how these things work?” 

“hell if I know.” 

your friend sighed out the same unimpressed sigh he had been repeating for the last 45 minutes or so. he sat up a little straighter upon his realization. 

“wait...so you’re saying that you want me to get turned on???” 

“ah-no!!! don’t misunderstand!! it’s not that I want you to get turned on, i just want to know if it’s a scam or not. you know...for science?” 

“for science? since when was science a part of all this?” 

“i-it always was!” 

“let’s just...finish watching this episode or two and then you’re leaving, got it?

you nodded, “got it!” 

around your shoulder, minho snaked his arm to rest it gently, leaning you into him just a little. this place had always been your favorite spot. nuzzled into him like this, you could nearly hear his heartbeat in his chest. with the tv droning and the muffled “boom-boom” of his heart, you were drawn to sleep with ease, however, as you drifted, there was something different about the pace in which his heart would usually beat close to you. 

~💋~

at first, you were woken by the sound of explosions. in the time that minho had promised, “this episode or two,” netflix had already made it’s way to playing a movie. strangely enough, minho hadn’t bothered changing it; it was his least favorite kind: the kind with car chases and missiles and the end of the world. 

secondly, you were awoken by his voice, urgent and shallow. 

“hey. hey. get up. y/n, get your heavy-ass head off me.” 

“wha-what is it? what time is it? what is this?” you rubbed your blurry vision away with your palms. 

“I...” minho choked down a thick gulp. “I-I think that I’m feeling...something...” 

“what?!” your head snapped to look him in his terrified widened eyes. normally he would make fun of the rat’s nest on your head, but this time, his eyes remained unmoving. 

mortified, minho uttered out again, “I feel...something...” 

“something what? spit it out!!” 

“don’t you dare look but...oh god...” your friend choked in an inhale. 

he didn’t need to finish his sentence before your eyes had drifted down to where the spiderman themed blanket covered his lap. sure enough, he tented the fabric in the most obvious way. 

“shit-this is so embarrassing.” minho steadied his breaths then winced “it kinda...hurts.” 

this time, your eyes widened. “hurts?” 

“yeah it does, okay???? don’t fucking rub it in.” 

you found yourself getting defensive, “well what the hell do we do now???” 

“I don’t know!!!” minho yelled into the dark room incredulously. 

“can’t you just...I don’t know...jerk it away??? ” 

“right here???” 

“NO like in the bathroom or something I mean!!!” 

“greaaat, you broke my dick!! and you’re being of no help at all!” 

“well what would you have be do then huh? suck it off for ya right here and now?? would that be sooooo helpful to you??”

in your frustration, you tore spiderman off of his lap, then there it was: in its full glory. 

yes, the locker room incident had lingered on your mind from time to time but.. you certainly didn’t remember it looking like that. 

in your whole life, you never would have guessed that the thought, “thank-you-god for-blessing-us-with-the-invention of-grey-sweatpants” would grace your stream of consciousness but...here you were. 

“m-minho...I-I think that it’s effecting me too.” your eyes ogled his member: lusciously thick and long, practically fighting the pants that kept it in. it bulged in his pants gorgeously and he had even wet himself a little from his leaking pre-cum.

“Huh!?” 

“wow.” you marveled. 

you really don’t know why you had done it, but suddenly the entire room felt much hotter, and taking off your shirt made much more sense so, you did.

“what the hell are you doing?!” minho attempted to pull up a blanket to cover your chest. 

“does it really hurt?” something must have possessed you: your voice had dropped several octaves and you felt yourself breathing out the words with air. 

as soon as he had heard your voice change, it was like he was enchanted. “A-a little. ‘feels really...trapped.” minho ate up the way that your eyes raked over his hard-on. 

“oooh does it?” you used your index and ring finger to walk your hand over to his thigh where you then grabbed at him in starving handfuls. his muscles felt so beautiful in your hands. 

minho whimpered out the whiniest, most desperate little sound that he could manage as his closed eyelids fluttered. there was no way in this world that you could ever imagine him making such a noise, especially from your touch. 

yeah, you might have dreamt about it a couple times or more. 

your hand tranced the outline of his dick on his pants. 

“oh-shit--” minho keened under your touch, jerking his body viciously. 

“god, you’re fucking gorgeous when you’re hard.” the words left your lips unapologetically and by seeing the way that minho practically melted from the compliment, you felt your whole body swell with that same aching pain. 

“--tou-touch--” 

your hand gave minho’s cock one good hard squeeze and he grunted out so loudly that you were fearful it could have been heard from the next apartment over. shaky breaths trembled from his lips and he rutted into your hand. 

“‘hurts so, so bad.” 

you almost missed it, but single tears fell from both of his eyes. 

“what do you want me to do about it?” 

exasperated, minho threw his head into the crook of your neck, panting, “an-anything. but--I-want your mouth. please...” 

“of course.” you cooed, then snuck your hand under the elastic of his pants, getting another squeeze in. his eyes had glared at your lips long enough, so you decided to grant them their wish. you practically threw your whole weight into him, knocking both of your balances away as you rushed your lips into his. both of your mouths were hot and insatiable: your sloppy kisses were an utter mess: and you had never used so much tongue before in your life. wet kissing sounds filled the space between you both and tangled up with your shameless moans. 

in your own pants, the situation wasn’t much different, but your desire to utterly destroy your needy friend was overwhelming and you could ignore it for a couple seconds more. 

minho rose his hips for you pull his briefs and pants off, then sat back down to display his cock, red, veiny and dripping. your mouth salivated just thinking about how amazing it would feel in your mouth. 

your friend didn’t give you much time to think before he had pulled your head nearer to him, then tapped his tip on your lips. 

“shouldn’t I tease you first? whatever happened to foreplay?” you licked his length up and down. 

“just--I don't care about that, I’m ready now,--fucking--please, please, I’m begging you to take me in your mouth. 

“~ahhhh~ you’re so cute when you beg.” 

minho’s full length was nearly too much for you to handle, but regardless, you swallowed him down using every ounce of your skill. the way that he moaned for you sounded so pathetic and needy, but he only pushed your head down farther. 

“my little cockslut” minho gasped, “taking me in so good with that pretty mouth of yours...you’re so amazing, it’s so...mmph...just like...I always dreamed it would be...” 

he threw his head back to guffaw at himself. “I can’t believe that this is happening.”

“quit talking and let me hear more of those pretty moans of yours.” you demanded of him, switching to jerk him up and down with your hand. your own saliva coated each and every one of your fingers.  

“gonna...make me cum!” minho’s fingers dug into the edge of the sofa. “can-can I?” 

“no.” you answered with a devilish smile. “you’re not gonna let me have any fun?” 

“sorry, sorry...what do you want from me now?” 

you continued jerking him once you had crept your lips up his body, kissing up his chest and stomach. your thumb played with his slit, eliciting even more pre-cum to come dripping out of his adorable tip. you reached his mouth where you let him get a taste. 

just as before, the sofa started feeling too stuffy and warm for you, so your frazzled brain searched the room for the next best place, and there really was only one other. 

“come with me,” you circled minho in your arms, pulling you both down to carpeted floor, taking a couple blankets with you as they tied in your limbs. “fuck me into the ground minho.” 

a fire lit behind minho’s soft brown eyes that you had never seen, and soon he had ridded you of all of your own clothes. 

“oh kitten, there's nothing that I would love to do to you more.” 

for mere moments, yours and minho’s bodies lingered, pressed flush against each other as both of your hips grinded together seeking some kind of relief and your mouths searched for hungry answers. 

“be a good boy for me minho,” you whispered into him, “fuck me so hard I’m dizzy, hmm?” 

“if you insist...” minho buried his head into your neck to bite into the skin, no doubt leaving marks for you later. 

everything reached a certain symphonic climax once he guided himself into your entrance which was nearly twitching to be filled by him. his length and girth stretched you out perfectly, and soon you knew it wouldn’t take too much for him to show you all the stars in the galaxy behind your eyelids. 

he thrust into you with feral sounding grunts, and your back burned a little against the carpet under you. 

“don’t-don’t stop...mmm--” 

body ablaze, the beginnings of your orgasm start to build in your core, begging for more and more. deep inside you, minho grazed your euphoric spot and you moaned out his name with reckless abandon. 

“say it louder for me baby.” your friend would greedily command, adoring the way that his name would bounce off the walls. 

“I’m close, god, minho--” 

ding-ding-ding! 

had you not been cumming with a searing white heat with minho jerking himself wildly over your stomach, you would have seen chan open the door, pretending to sneak his way in. 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?” chan threw his arms over his eyes. “...AND IN THE OPEN LIVING ROOM???” 

“ch-chan?” minho threw the blankets over both of your gasping bodies, still recovering from your orgasms of seconds ago. 

“ I...oh my god.” chan shielded his eyes the whole walk to his room. 

“I’m sorry!!” Minho called after him, eyes then falling to his white painting on your stomach. “hmm. that looks kinda nice.” 

~💋~

later, when you would be cleaning up, chan would discover your litter of half eaten bars of chocolate, then would turn them over to laugh in your face: 

“uhhhh guys...you know that those are a placebo right?” 

#skz smut #stray kids smut #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids oneshots #stray kids drabbles #kpop drabble #kpop imagine #kpop smut #Lee Minho smut #lee minho x you #lee minho x reader #minho x y/n #minho x you #Minho x reader

[keanureevesisbae]

The alluring charm of Henry Cavill - Chapter 9

Summary: Adelaide is back home again, preparing herself for her newest movie with David Castañeda.

Henry Cavill x Adelaide Park (ofc)

Wordcount: 1.9k

Warnings: None

A/N: I wanted to add this to yesterday’s part, but I decided to give it a part of its own, since in my head, the chapter would be too choppy. After this only three more chapters 😭😭

Masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

◎ ◎ ◎

When I earned my first million dollars, I bought a mansion for my parents, with elevators so my mom could be mobile and be everywhere in the house whenever she wanted.

The cab stops at the tiny roundabout I had built in front of the mansion and the driver helps me with my suitcases. ‘Thank you,’ I say with a quick smile, giving him a fifty dollar tip.

‘Are you sure, miss?’ he asks me.

‘Absolutely,’ I tell him. ‘Have a nice day.’

The front door opens and while the cab drives off, my dad rushes towards me. I’m nailed to the gravel, but tears still escape my eyes and roll over my cheeks.

I missed him so much.

‘Come here,’ he says, as he pulls me in his arms, engulfing me in one of the safest hugs in the world. No matter what happened, a hug from my dad always helps. When I scraped my knee when I was younger, when I didn’t get a part I really wanted and now.

A hug from my appa is sometimes the only thing that makes me feel a little bit better under shitty circumstances like this.

‘Appa, I’m so sorry,’ I whisper against his shoulder.

‘Don’t,’ he tells me. ‘You are here. I am here. Eomma and I love you very much, no matter what.’

He can’t be this sweet, not after what happened. ‘I screwed up.’

‘You did not.’ My dad holds my upper arms and forces me to look at him. He actually seems a bit pissed when he says: ‘He screwed up, not you. Never.’

I wipe my tears away, but the tap is open now, so they are replaced by others in a split second. He holds my hand tightly in his and pulls me inside, as we both carry a suitcase.

‘I’m happy you’re home,’ he tells me. ‘I missed you.’

‘I missed you too.’ And that isn’t a lie. I missed him dearly and holding his hand, brings me back tons of years ago, when I would hold his hand as he was wandering around the house, trying to ease his mind and not let his worries get to him. I barely took walks with him, so pacing around our tiny house, was the only time I could pretend we were like every other father-daughter pair: he would hold my hand as he guided me through life, my obstacles how significant or insignificant they seemed.

When I walk inside, I see my mom already waiting for me. I run towards her and hug her tightly. She presses a kiss on my cheek and says: ‘Where is this Henry? I have to see him, so I can run him over with wheelchair.’

I can’t stop my chuckle, but that chuckle turns into a soft cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I let you two down.’

‘You didn’t let us down,’ she says. ‘Henry Cavill did. I thought he was nice. Good for you. He is an idiot.’

‘Don’t,’ I start, but when I see the death glare my mom sends me, I quickly shut up. Besides, who do I think I am? Sticking up for Henry when a) he can’t even hear me and b) he hurt me badly and lied to me?

What on earth possesses me?

The entire flight I thought about it. About Henry and me. I can’t believe I was this blind, I totally fell for it and just believed him. This is obviously partially my fault of course. Hadn’t I done this, hadn’t I been this blind, I would’ve just become friends with him and then my heart wouldn’t have been severely broken like it is now.

My parents and I go to the kitchen and we prepare some tea. I talk to them about the show and how they enjoyed most parts of it. ‘It was good to see you like that,’ my father says. ‘You don’t have to be so private and serious all the time.’

I simply nod, not knowing exactly how to respond to it.

‘We love you,’ mom says, ‘and we always will, dasom.’

‘I love you too.’ My phone starts to vibrate on the counter and I look at the screen.

David?

‘I have to take this,’ I say and while I walk out of the kitchen, I pick up the phone. ‘Hi.’

David Castañeda sounds cheerful when he asks: ‘Hi, Adelaide, how are you?’

‘You honestly have to ask that?’ I mumble, before I go to the conservatory and plop on a couch. I look over at the backyard, where the sprinklers are on.

‘Stupid question,’ he says. ‘I’m terribly sorry. Thought Henry Cavill was a real nice dude, but this was pretty shitty. You want to be distracted? I have pretty exciting news.’

‘Please, tell me something fun. I could really need it..’

‘I got the part.’

It takes me a few seconds before I understand it. ‘You got it?’ I ask, a smile creeping up on my face. A new project means distraction and distraction means not thinking about Henry. ‘Oh my, are you serious? This is amazing.’

‘I know right, so just when I cut my hair short again, they told me to start growing it out,’ he chuckles.

I start to laugh, as I envision him as I close my eyes. ‘I can’t wait to see you again,’ I say in all honesty, because it’s true. I can’t wait to see him again. I know David and I know what an honest and lovely guy he is. I could open up to Henry, but he didn’t deserve it. David does deserve my honesty and I know the he will never betray me like that.

‘I can’t wait to see you,’ he tells me. ‘Production starts in two months, but I sure hope you and I can meet up before that? I mean, if that’s okay with you?’

‘That’s more than okay, David. I really want to catch up. I don’t have much to do, so I can  meet up and start binging season two of the Umbrella Academy.’

‘You still haven’t done that?’ He scoffs. ‘Deeply insulted, Adelaide Park.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I have been pretty occupied these weeks.’

David sighs deeply, knowing instantly what I’m referring to. ‘I’m so sorry that this happened during a live stream. Are you okay, though?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lie, but I’m not even convinced by that myself, so I quickly add: ‘Well, I’m not, but I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Understandably so,’ he tells me. ‘I do have to go now, but I just had to tell you this. We’ll catch up soon, Adelaide.’

◎ ◎ ◎

Angela Bassett: Darling, I’m so sorry this happened to you. I spoke to Henry and while I understand you don’t want to talk to him, he really wants you to know he’s sorry.

Adelaide: You’ve been talking to him?

Angela Bassett: I have, yes.

Adelaide: Could you maybe tell him something from me?

Angela Bassett: Absolutely

Adelaide: That I don’t want to see him ever again, nor talk to him.

◎ ◎ ◎

◎ ◎ ◎

It has been two weeks since the terrible livestream. However, I do realize how insanely lucky I am with my fans. The once prior and after the Celebrity Project. I read so many comments about how I didn’t deserve this and that I’m better off without him anyways.

I just had my first event after The Celebrity Project and the responses to it were so overwhelmingly positive, my heart simply swelled when I was reading them. Sure, people were tagging Henry in it and that made me pretty furious, but I feel like I can actually overcome this.

I walk through the park, staring at my phone screen. David and I are supposed to meet up and he shared his location with me, however I can’t seem to find him. According to the app, he should be on my right, but I don’t see him when I look up. When I stare back at the phone, the bubble indicating where he is has moved and is now somewhere else. I growl out of frustration.

Does it really have to be this difficult?

‘There she is,’ I hear a voice saying me behind me and when I turn around, I see it’s David. A smile breaks out on my face and I run towards him. When I wrap my arms around his shoulders, he pulls me close to his body. ‘I missed you, Adelaide.’

‘I missed you too,’ I smile and I let him go to take him in. ‘Oh my, look at you. Are you excessively working out again?’

‘Diego Hargreeves is supposed to have a very low body fat percentage,’ he tells me with a cocked eyebrow. ‘But, I have been doing absolutely nothing these past few weeks, as preparation for our movie.’ He holds out a cardboard holder with two paper cups in them. ‘I brought you an iced cappuccino with vanilla syrup, just the way you like it.’

He remembered… ‘You are amazing, David, thank you.’ We take a seat on a park bench and I look to the side. ‘What?’ I ask him, when he looks at me.

‘You look good.’

‘Don’t even start,’ I say, before taking a sip.

He must sense I don’t want to talk about the whole Henry thing. ‘Tell me something else then: are you excited for the movie?’

‘Of course,’ I say with a smile. ‘And they are going to bleach my hair soon.’

‘Ah really? I love this color.’

‘I do too, but the director has a very specific type of journalist in mind for this movie. Besides, I think a refreshing blonde is a nice contrast when it comes to your brooding character.’

‘Brooding is what I do best.’ David takes a sip of his drink and closes his eyes, as he soaks up the sun. ‘Is there anything you want to do in Switzerland?’

‘I heard there was a special class to learn to do the waltz. Maybe you and I can do that.’

‘Dancing with the Adelaide Park? Sign me the fuck up.’

I nudge him in the side. ‘You’re an idiot.’ Before he can be even slightly offended, even if it were fake, I smile. ‘Joking.’

He smiles. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about the Celebrity Project, but I do have to say something.’

‘Better make it quick then and I have to warn you: I don’t want to hear his name.’

He nods. ‘I just wanted to say that it was good seeing you like this. I have always wondered what you were like. I mean, I knew you were nice, but you were so serious from time to time, so private, even after filming for so long and doing interviews together. I get that it can be hard to open up, but knowing these things about you now, after watching the show, made me realize you have been putting on a brave face for way too long.’

I take another sip. ‘Well, I’ll try and do better.’

‘Don’t try and do better,’ he says. ‘Try and be yourself, because being yourself is better.’

‘Oh, how wise,’ I chuckle, rolling my eyes.

‘Should I write this down and post this with an inspirational picture on Instagram?’

‘To delete it twenty minutes afterwards?’ I slap his arm. ‘Hopeless, David, very hopeless.’

He smiles. ‘Just pinky promise me you can try to be honest with me. Practice being open and yourself around me, okay? I won’t judge.’ He holds out his pinky and I chuckle, when I hook my pinky through his and say: ‘Pinky promise.’

◎ ◎ ◎

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x oc #henry cavill x adelaide park #henry cavill x asian ofc #asian ofc #adelaide park #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fandom #the alluring charm of henry cavill

[therollingstonys]

Last Stop Before Malibu

A very happy birthday to my best friend and co-mod, Tina!! Hope you enjoy love!! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve leans against the side of the building, watching as cars flow by, the stench of diesel heavy in the air and thick in the back of his throat. For many the travel day is ending as the sun fades, but for Steve, his day is just beginning. 

 He’s had a few customers already, nothing too fancy, just bathroom blow jobs and handies—nothing that will pay the bills though. He’s hungry and there’s not much left in his fridge, or his bank account, and the fifty bucks in his back pocket won’t do much to pay the rent at the shitty motel he calls home. 

 Shoving a hand under the rim of his ballcap he runs a hand through his sweat damp hair, nose wrinkling at the sensation—he could use a shower despite the short time he’s been out here. It’s August in the desert and that means sneakers melting on hot asphalt and two showers a day—not that he can afford to use that much water a day. 

 So he’s hot, and sweaty and maybe a little dehydrated, but he can’t waste his hard earned cash on a drink—not till he’s made at least two hundred bucks. 

 An eighteen wheeler rolls in and Steve looks up, brows lifting when a woman with red hair and curves for miles hops out. She gases up the rig and is joined a few moments later by a man with dark hair and the oddest looking prosthetic arm Steve’s ever seen—he didn’t know they came in metal. 

 The man eyes him hungrily when he strides past into the gas station and when he comes back a few minutes later he smirks at Steve on his way past. The couple stands by the rig, shooting him looks before they approach and it’s the woman who does the talking, head tilted at an angle as she studies him. 

 “How much for us both?” she asks softly, gaze trailing down his body. 

 “Two hundred.”

 It’s said fast, greedily—he’s had others ask for a threesome before and most don’t mind shelling out a little more, so he hopes that holds true for these two. They look well dressed and clean, a lot better than he’s dealt with in the past. 

 The woman nods and smirks, “Two hundred it is.” She glances around and her gaze lands on the nearby motel, “There,” she murmurs, jerking her chin toward it, “Get a room and we’ll meet you.”

 Steve nods and waits till they start to walk away to hurry over to the motel. He pushes the reception door open and is engulfed in cool air that smells like coolant from the machine vibrating under the window. 

 He smiles at Wanda and baby Peter, “Hey guys,” he says with a finger wave to the little boy, grinning when he laughs and claps happily. “Can I get a room?” he asks Wanda, sliding her a twenty when she hands over a key wordlessly. 

 She knows how he makes his money and doesn’t judge—her dead husband was the one who found her on the street, strung out and beat up by a bad john. He brought her home, gave her a new life and a baby and then died a month after Peter was born—heart attack. 

 Steve nods his thanks and waves goodbye to Peter, his laughter bright as the door swings shut behind him. Hot air engulfs him like a furnace and he shifts uncomfortably as the fabric of his shirt sticks to the small of his back. 

 He unlocks the room door and steps inside just as the eighteen wheeler pulls up. He makes eye contact with the couple and nods before closing the door, pulse skipping faster as he debates stripping and prepping himself. 

 Some clients like to do it themselves, others prefer it to be done already—and he’s not sure which these two will be. 

 The door swings open behind him and he turns, jeans half undone and hanging from his hips, to find the couple watching him hungrily. The woman saunters forward and circles him, slides a hand over his back and down to grab his ass and he shivers at the touch, pushes back into it a little.

His gaze is locked with the man’s, dark and hungry and watchful and it makes his gut clench with need. There’s a soft laugh from behind him and then a tongue swipes up the side of his neck, a hum of pleasure following it and then soft lips and softer words brush his ear.

 “Oh honey, we’re gonna have such a good time.”

 Steve emerges from the hotel room hours later, stiff, sore and tired. He shuffles down to his room and pushes inside, swaying with how exhausted he is. Stripping his sweaty clothes off takes more energy than it should and he almost cries when his shirt gets stuck on his ear for a minute and his hip bangs into the shitty Formica countertop of the bathroom sink, but then he’s free and naked and stumbling into the shower. 

 He stays in longer than he normally would, letting the water get fully hot instead of just the chilly blast he spends too little time under in the mornings. Leaning against the wall of the shower, he closes his eyes and lets the heat sink into his skin and ease away the aches.

 The woman—Natasha she’d called herself—and her partner James had used his body for hours before none of them could go anymore and his body feels every inch the used and wrung out thing it now is. 

 He’d lost count of how many times he came—the last two had left him sobbing, his cock raw feeling and his prostate so sensitive it hurt. He’s covered in hickies and scratches and his ass aches and it all feels so damn good that if he wasn’t half asleep and wrung dry, he’d be hard. 

 He stumbles out of the shower when the water turns cold and wipes a towel over his skin before flopping onto the bed, groaning as his aching body protests. The red numbers on his alarm read 12:53am and he stares at them till his lids droop and he sinks into dreamless slumber, drooling into his lumpy pillow. 

 A wad of cash lays on the bedside table, thick and smelling faintly of strawberry lube—$350–a night well spent and money hard earned.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Steve’s fridge is full, his phone paid up for another month and his room is paid up for two weeks and he still has ten dollars left over so he puts it in the safe he’d bought when he first landed here eight months ago and sighs when he sees the measly amount he’s managed to accrue in that time. 

 He has plans to go to Los Angeles and get an apartment and work on his art, but it never seems like he’s saved enough. Every month that passes brings a new expense—he still hasn’t managed to finish repairs on his motorcycle, and with every week that passes he’s not sure he’ll ever have enough to get it back to working order.

 He’s only earned two hundred dollars in the last three days—a slow week for him. He pays for yet another test at the local clinic to make sure he’s still clean and takes the PREP they give him—most clients are willing to use condoms but he’s been stealthed a few times and he’d rather deal with the side effects than have HIV. 

 He’s dusty and dirty, coated in grease and sweat as he works on his bike, cursing the wrench as it slips for the third time and his knuckles smack into the sharp edge of the carburetor. 

 “Shit! Fuck! Fucking piece of shit!” 

 He rises to his feet and sucks the blood from his knuckles, pulse thrumming as he restrained himself from kicking the damn thing over. 

 A low chuckle has him spinning to find a man more handsome than a movie star smiling at him, beard trimmed to perfection and eyes bright with amusement from behind tinted sunglasses. 

 “That’s a thing of beauty, what did she do to you?” 

 Steve huffs and laughs softly, shaking his head, “Damn bolt won’t loosen,” he says with a wave of his hand toward the bike. 

 The man nods and then grins, “Mind if I take a look?” he asks taking a half step forward. 

 Steve looks him over incredulously—his suit looks more expensive than all of Steve’s possessions and cash combined; “You’re gonna ruin your suit,” he points out, waving a hand at himself to make his point. 

 The man just shrugs and starts taking off his jacket, tosses it over the handlebars and goes to work on his crisp white sleeves. “I’ll buy another,” he says carelessly and then holds his hand out for the wrench dangling uselessly from Steve’s fingers.

 Steve hands it over and watches as the man crouches down and starts working the bolt loose by inches, sweet talking to it the whole time in a way that makes Steve’s blood heat in a way that has nothing to do with the sun pounding down on them. 

 There you go darling, loosen up for me, just like that. 

 Yea you just need a gentle touch, huh? 

 Ahhh that’s my good girl, let go for me 

 Steve turns away, flushed and thirsty, though the water he gulps down seems to do little to actually quench his thirst. 

 “There we go,” the man says and Steve turns to find him smiling brightly, a pleased look on his face as he holds out the bolt in question. His shirt and forearms are smeared with grease and Steve frowns—he’d warned the man. 

 “Uh, thanks,” he murmurs, reaching out so the man can drop it into his palm. 

 The man grins and waves a hand at the bike, “I haven’t seen a 76 Triumph since I was a kid,” he says excitedly, “Where did you find it?”

 Steve pockets the bolt and grabs the hem of his tank top, pulling it up to wipe the sweat and grease off his face as he replies, “It was my dad’s. He was a Vietnam vet,” he explains, straightening out his shirt and looking up at the other man in time to see a familiar look of lust pass over his face before it’s replaced with something polite and urbane. 

“Very nice,” the man murmurs with a nod, “well, I uh, I should let you get back to it,” he says, hesitating for a second before extending his hand to Steve, “Tony, and uh, thanks for letting me tinker with it.”

 Steve takes the proffered hand and is surprised by the calluses—this man seems more like the type to have manicured nails than work roughened palms. 

 “Uh yea sure, anytime,” Steve murmurs, smiling softly, some soft longing in his gut as the older man starts to walk away, jacket tucked over one arm. He doesn’t want him to leave, and before he can stop himself he steps forward and calls out. 

 “There’s a great diner about a mile away, has the best shakes and fries,” he blurts, “you wanna grab a bite?” 

 Tony stares at him for a long moment and then cracks a grin, “I could eat.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 They talk over burgers and fries and it’s around the time that Tony’s telling him a funny story about his best friend James that Steve realizes he hasn’t smiled and laughed this much in years. 

 He likes Tony, a lot more than he should, and more than that, he wants him. The way Tony’s hands move is distracting, enticing thoughts of them on his body and he flushes, trying to pull his attention back to what Tony’s saying. 

 When he does focus in he realizes that Tony’s smiling at him knowingly, twirling a fry in his fingers. 

 “So, I hate to be presumptuous, but if I offered to take you back to my hotel to spend the night, would that be more or less expensive than this meal?”

 Steve flushes and ducks his chin; there’s something about Tony that makes him weak and hot, desperate feeling. “It uh, it wouldn’t cost anything,” he murmurs, looking up at Tony through his lashes. 

 Tony’s brows rise for a moment before he smirks and shuffles out of the booth and pulls his wallet out, throws a handful of bills on the table and then cocks his head, “You coming sweetheart?” he asks. 

 Steve scrambles to his feet without hesitation, limbs feeling gawky and too large for the space they occupy. He follows Tony out to the flashy Audi he’d drove them here in and slides into the seat, pulse fluttering as Tony winks at him and revs the engine before pulling out. 

 They whip through the night till the town appears on the horizon and then minutes later screech into the parking lot below the building, the cheap fluorescent lights making his skin look golden as they pass beneath them. 

 It’s quiet on the elevator ride up, tense and heavy with expectation, want building between them like an electric charge. Tony’s hand weighs heavy at the small of his back, guiding him toward the oncoming door. 

 When it shuts behind them Tony presses him up against the door in a move that leaves his head spinning and guy clenching with need. Dark eyes stare up at him, smiling and hungry, the hand at the base of his throat pinning him in place. 

 “You know what safewords are?” he demands of Steve, fingers pressing into the skin of his throat, lips curving upward. Steve nods breathlessly, breaths harsh and excited between them, the heat of Tony’s hand searing into him. 

 “Good, tell me yours then get undressed,” Tony commands and steps back, dark eyes glinting. 

 “Shield,” Steve gasps, hands shaking as he works the buttons of his shirt open, heart pounding beneath his ribs as Tony walks to the bar and pours himself a drink, gaze never leaving Steve. 

 It’s a heavy thing, Tony’s gaze, like a warm, heavy blanket and he shivers under it, shoving his worn jeans down after kicking off his boots. He’s naked, exposed, and Tony’s smirking as he moves to sit on the couch, legs spread wide and an arm thrown over the back of the couch.

 He’s the picture of indolent pleasure, gaze hooded as he beckons Steve over with a lazy wave of his wrist. It feels like there’s a tug beneath his ribs, a lure pulling him closer, connected to the hand that Tony holds out to him. 

 He’s aware of every inch of his body from the cool marble beneath his bare feet to the hot heavy weight of his cock between his legs, the hot pool of arousal in his gut making him twitchy and desperate for touch. 

 He pauses between Tony’s legs and swallows hard, fighting the urge to squirm as Tony sips his scotch and smirks up at him. “My my aren’t you a big boy,” he teases, lifting a brow and giving Steve’s cock a pointed look. 

 Steve flushes a deeper shade of crimson and ducks his head, shoulders bowing forward as Tony chuckles. “You look so pretty like that darling,” he murmurs, “but why don’t you come here,” he says, motioning toward his lap. 

 Steve hesitates for a moment and then moves to straddle Tony’s lap, gasping softly when his cock drags over the silk, hips rocking forward into the sensation. Tony’s free hand falls to his hip and steadies him, grinning when Steve whines at the loss of stimulation.

 “Now darling, be patient,” Tony murmurs with a soft tutting sound, “I want to play with your pretty cock, you just sit still and be quiet,” he orders. Steve swallows hard and nods, though he can’t hold back his gasp when Tony’s hand closes around his cock. 

 Tony hushes him again and strokes him just once before stopping to play with the head of his cock peeking out from his foreskin. Steve shudders and bites his lip, holding in his gasps as Tony strokes his thumb over the head of his cock, the pleasure like electric shocks, surging under his skin and up his spine. 

 Tony watches his face as he pulls back his foreskin slowly, thumb pressing into the tender skin just below the fat head of his cock, and Steve can’t help the gasp that rises from his chest, head falling back at the rush of pleasure in his veins. 

 It stops abruptly and Steve whines, head sloping back down to find Tony has stopped touching him in favor of sipping his scotch, a smirk playing around his lips. “Wh-why?” he gasps and Tony chuckles, sips his scotch. 

 “I told you to hush darling, if you can’t do that maybe we should stop,” Tony murmurs, rueful amusement in his voice. Steve shakes his head, desperation roaring through his veins, hips arching in search of pleasure. 

 Tony chuckles again and sets aside his scotch glass, condensation from the ice shining on the sides of it and then Steve’s gasping and arching as Tony runs a cool, wet finger down his cock. 

 It’s like ice against his too hot skin and he gasps, shuddering at the sensation. Tony hums softly and does it again, gathers more wetness and trails it over Steve’s cock, watching him writhe with dark hungry eyes. 

 Steve’s never experienced anything like it; the cool pearls of water drag over his skin, teasing against his heated skin, Tony’s fingers follow behind, scaldingly hot and he’s trapped between wanting to get away from it and wanting more. 

 He’s not sure how long it continues, all he knows is that it burns and aches, and every time he whines or cries out Tony stops and waits till he’s under control once more to start touching him again.

 He’s slick with sweat and harder than he’s ever been before and Tony, Tony is hard in his slacks and watching him eagerly, but makes no move to let him come or touch him further. 

 Tears blur his vision and he’s panting, chest aching when Tony smirks and pushes him away, off his lap and down onto his knees. 

 “Stay,” he orders, pausing to smirk at Steve before striding away. Steve listens to him move about in the other room, cock throbbing and aching with every breath he takes. 

 Tony’s back a moment later with no shirt on, torso bare, trousers riding low on his hips and a bottle of lube in one hand. He motions for Steve to rise and sits back down, “C’mere,” he orders, motioning once more to his lap. 

 Steve can barely contain the eager noise he makes as he crawls back into Tony’s lap, shaking with the need to be touched. Tony chuckles and wraps a hand around the nape of his neck, “Kissing ok?” he murmurs, pulling Steve down till all that separates their lips is a breath.

 He nods eagerly and gasps when Tony closes the distance, kisses him so thoroughly it seems to steal the air from his lungs. He’s dizzy when Tony pulls back, panting as the other man grabs the bottle of lube and slicks his fingers. 

 The cold touch at his hole makes him shiver and gasp, the sound sharpening into a keen as one finger slides in easily. Tony watches him as he fingers him slowly, slicking the way before he comes back with a second finger and slides it in alongside the first. 

 Steve keens and gasps as Tony scissors his fingers, opening him up in slow, aching movements. “That’s it sweetheart, open up for me,” Tony murmurs softly, eyes bright and avid on his face. 

 He finds Steve’s prostate with unerring accuracy and focuses on it, stroking it relentlessly as Steve whines and arches, cock twitching against his belly, leaking pre cum heavily. 

 “That’s it sweetie, look how nice your cock leaks for me baby,” Tony croons, pressing harder on Steve’s prostate till he’s all but sobbing and can feel the pleasure in his gut growing like a burning ember given oxygen. 

 Tony is relentless, crooning praise in his ear as his fingers move within Steve with slick movements that drive him slowly crazy. He sobs, the desperation within him to come building to a frenzy, his cock twitching and leaking as it grows relentlessly within him. 

 “There you go baby, lets make you come from that pretty ass,” Tony croons, his stroking growing harder, faster. Steve sobs and arches, the pleasure growing into an inferno in his gut. He wails, the pleasure crashing into him, hips grinding down into Tony’s fingers as he comes. 

 He sobs Tony’s name as he writhes, Tony’s fingers still moving inside him, the pleasure sharpening in his gut till it’s like a knife. Tony relents and slows, fingers stilling inside him as he pants and sobs, lashes wet with tears. 

 His heart thunders in his chest and he barely registers the hand on his face for a few minutes as he gasps, breath hitching in his chest. When he can manage opening his eyes he finds Tony staring at him in wonder, breathing unevenly, hand on his face gentle. 

 “You are so lovely,” Tony murmurs pulling him down for a kiss that robs him of his remaining breath. He tastes like scotch and heat and Steve sinks into it, buries his hands in Tony’s hair and hangs on as the older man grips his hips tight enough to bruise.

 When they break apart neither of them are steady; he can feel Tony’s fingers tremble against his ribs. They tighten and Tony smiles up at him, softer than before, “C’mon big guy, lets go to bed,” he urges, pushing and guiding till Steve’s on his feet, cock still hard between his legs as he’s led to the bedroom. 

 Tony pushes him back into the bed and he goes willingly, knees falling open, watching with hungry eyes as Tony stares at him, entranced for a moment before he shoves hastily at his trousers and briefs, shucking them off before crawling into the bed and hovering over him. 

 He kisses Steve greedily, moaning low in his throat, fingers twining through his hair, tugging till Steve moans and arches into him. Steve's panting when they part, moaning when his cock slides alongside Tony’s. 

 The older man grins and pulls back, leans over and grabs a condom from the bedside, pausing when Steve grabs his wrist. “I...you don’t have to use one,” he murmurs, averting his gaze when Tony looks at him, curious.

 “I think I do,” Tony replies, “unless you’ve got proof you’re clean?” he questions. 

 Steve nods and waves a hand towards the other room, “My phone, I have my test results for the last six months there,” he tells the other man. Tony stares at him for a moment before pulling away, striding into the other room, his ass tight and round, flexing as he goes.

 Steve sits up and contemplates his cock—he’s never come like that before, solely from his prostate, and the force of it had left him breathless and aching. Tony seems to know how to play his body, teasing out pleasures he’s never known before.

 “Heads up.”

 He looks up in time and lifts a hand to catch his cell phone, thumbing at the screen for a few moments before he turns it and shows Tony the test results. The older man studies it and then grabs it, flings it away and presses him into the mattress before he can protest the damage to his phone.

 Tony’s hands are firm behind his knees, pushing them up to his chest as he kisses him, desperate and hungry. Steve feels something at his hole and then gasps into Tony’s mouth as he pushes in, hole fluttering as Tony’s cock stretches him open. 

 It’s thick and hard and hot and he clings to Tony, gasping against his lips, dizzy as he’s taken slowly, Tony’s cock pressing into him, firm and unyielding against his soft insides. 

 It’s overwhelming, the thick length relentless, until finally Tony’s hips are flush against his and the older man is cursing and panting. Tony kisses him, inelegant and demanding, “Fuck, baby, you’re so good,” he pants, “so tight, fuck.”

 He starts rolling his hips, the drag of him over Steve’s prostate sending pleasure firing through his neurons, sparks lighting up in his brain as Tony fucks him. 

 “That’s it baby, so good,” Tony pants in his ear, “god you’re fucking perfect.”

 Tony sucks a mark beneath his jaw and then another and another, one of his hands sliding through the slick sweat on Steve’s chest to toy with his nipples. 

 Sharp pain shoots through him as Tony pinches and pulls on them, pleasure shuddering through him as Tony fucks him, cock slick and hot between them. 

 He’s unable to silence the cries that fall from between parted lips, bitten and swollen and slick from Tony’s kisses. Tony seems determined to make him scream, hands traveling over his body, teasing and torturing. 

 The cock inside him is relentless, driving deep with bruising thrusts that leave him aching and sobbing, begging for more. Tony fucks him harder, teeth closing on his throat as he wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock, stroking hard and fast.

 Steve shouts, spine pulled taut like a marionette as pleasure wraps around him, slicing into him like a razor wire embrace. 

 “That's it baby, come on my cock,” Tony growls in his ear, “god, you’re fuckin perfect,” he pants, thrusts growing wild and harsh. 

 Steve sobs, “Please, please,” he begs, writhing beneath Tony, more desperate to come than he’s ever been. 

 “Fuck wish I could stay inside you forever,” Tony says breathlessly, “so hot and tight.” Steve keens as Tony’s hand on his cock tightens, the ache enough to tip him over. 

 Cum falls in stripes across his chest as he screams and then chokes on the sound, body twitching as Tony pounds into him, hole spasming around his cock. 

 He barely registers Tony coming, hears his shout and then feels the heat of him as he spills deep inside Steve, hips pumping it deeper till finally the older man collapses onto him, breathing heavily.

 Steve floats for awhile, limbs tangled with Tony’s while the sweat on his skin cools. Eventually Tony stirs and kisses his throat, peels himself away and disappears through the door to the bathroom. 

 He’s back moments later with a warm damp cloth, wipes Steve down before tucking the sheets in around them and pulling them close together. Steve nuzzles into his throat and sighs happily, the warm rush of hormones in his veins making him soft and sweet. 

 Lips press to his temple and he smiles, falling asleep in gradients, shades of red behind his lids as he sinks deeper into the haze of sleep. 

 When he wakes the next morning it’s to an empty bed and a note on the bedside table. He picks it up and frowns at the check that slides out and into his lap. 

 His fingers feel numb as he picks it up and stares at the exorbitant amount of zeros on the paper. 

 Hands shaking, he picks up the note once more. 

 Steve, 

 I know you said it wouldn’t cost me anything, but I want you to have this anyway. Use it to get out of here if you want, fix that bike of yours, go see the world. 

 Maybe I’ll see you in Malibu sometime.

 Tony Stark 

 Steve sits for a very long time, a little numb, as his brain races. 

 He’d slept with Tony Stark. 

 Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist…

 And that man had just paid his way out of this shitty little town. 

 Tapping the check against his lips, Steve grins slowly.

 He’s always wanted to see Malibu. 

#steve x tony #stevetony #Steve Rogers #tony stark #superhusbands #truck stop hooker!steve #not family friendly #happy birthday tina!!! #steve rogers x tony stark #stony #i know the pictures disrupt the flow of the story but they're necessary ok??

[jojoreadwhat]

you're all in my hands tonight, tonight I'm a rock 'n' roll star. / honey & smoke - m.h. x OFC story

Four Days Later, On A Friday.

Matty's POV

Computer Education had already given me a sour taste in my mouth and I only sat through two of its lectures. One because I knew majority of what was listed on the slides Professor Nolan was scheming through. I really had no explanation why I applied at UNI in the first place. I had high hopes that the tapes the boys and I sent into Capital Records would hit a soft spot. Sending us on a one way trip to success, where none of these qualifications would matter as long as I wrote out the music.

Then again if it all went down hill where I'd arrive at my flat with a box of tapes with the word 'denied' repeatedly stamped over it like fragile, even though my heart would be the fragile piece in that box. It would open the door behind the scene, the little paper of a degree with my name. A ticket of being able to tweak the shitty tunes on the radio that replayed like the TV movies do on Sundays.

Two, Professor Nolan was a bit of a drag. A fine dapper looking gentlemen in his early fifties. His hair slick back dirty blonde with what looked like emerald eyes the last time I stood close. A close shaved beard that extenuated his sharp jaw line. Dressed to the nines that if you seen him on the streets, you would've thought he had millions and a white collar type business. Even though, his Gucci navy suit that my father had exactly and bought for fifteen hundred dollars could make you believe he sat on a green mountain of dollar signs.

I felt his personality and aura resembled a present me. Barely in tune with all the new things happening but completely in tune with the young ladies that gave any advantages to pass. But in his case the young ladies could pass as daughters if the sucker had any.

"Open Audio Access on your laptops." He commanded, changing the slides that was accompanied with taps and clicks from everyone following along. I sighed to myself, everything that was on those poorly designed boards. I had edited and achieved on a new track the boys and I had recorded last night.

I slouched back in my seat, listening to Nolan's cocky Mr. Know-It-All demeanor. His degrees decorating the back of his desk fact it in that he knew more. Only giving him the approval of having Professor in front of Nolan instead of Mister.

++

After commenting on Mindy's plaid skirt, Professor Feast-A-Lot finally dismissed us.

I still had a class within the hour, just some simple music class that I signed up for the laughing matter. Always stating my answers to bands I drowned myself in as the other students wanted to cuss me out. Sighing to themselves, like that mop got the spill of answers.

With the time I had between I decided to get some coffee. The tea I had earlier with George talking about his night wasn't living up to it's strong expectations. Even though the class I just left could stand as a contender of an explanation.

I walked with the rush of the hundreds in the halls, making my way to left wing lounge and turning the corner of muraled up wall, covered in vibrant flowers and weird shapes from the art program.

Waiting at the counter I turned to scan the little lounge, just many studying with their textbooks as heads. Some talking to another. Just the common vibe of any little coffee shop you stepped your foot into.

One of them sticking out like a sore thumb.

Lucy.

Writing in her leather bound journal that rested on her crossed legs, playing with the slight tear in her in the hem of her playful colored dress.

Relaxed and looking out the window on the purple wing-back in the cafe lounge. Watching the shades of orange, red and yellow converse against the blue sky. Admiring her side profile, a high cheek bone with a light dusting of blush against her milky skin, her perfectly rounded jaw. Her lashes curled with a coding of mascara that complimented her baby blues.

I watched as she grazed her bottom rosy lip with the back of her pen in thought.

The red headed barista asked for the second time what I wanted before realizing that she was even speaking. Finding it hard to take my eyes off the scenery near the window. I ordered my black coffee, then pointed out Lucy who looked disappointed in the last drops of her cup. Dark roast, light with vanilla, sugar and two shots of the sleep she had lost the night before.

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

Lucy's POV.

I was finding myself becoming a frequent patient with my therapeutic glances of the vibrant trees and the sounds of the espresso machine. Sitting in the same wingback, looking about the window, stuck in what I was going to jot in my journal next. My first week of being in London and enduring classes was wrapping up, nothing worthy had happened yet to write about and I was finding myself running around a writer's block.

As much as I wanted my creative juices to keep blending. I couldn't complain about how things were going. University has been so far treating me well. I've met a good handful of my professors in Week A, many have taken a liking to me which I couldn't quite grasp. But it wasn't a bad feeling to know about, plus Professor Jones really liked my thesis of A Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Putting a good word into the librarian of the Uni's library and landing me a interview for Monday.

Things at the university housing with Liz and Abby was going pretty well too. I was growing more fond of them by the minute, both interested in the same type of books, music and films. Liz was a bit realistic and logic about life, which kind of put a damper on things if you were trying to live in a fantasy world with reality biting you in the ass. Then Abby was more free spirited and self aware of what made an individual very much happy, even when the world was not so happy.

Then lastly, home. I finally Skyped my brother Eric and my dad. It was early for them but quite late for me. But in all I was mixed with emotions, both joyful and sad that I wasn't home. They are doing well so far.

I sighed to myself, resting my leather bound on my lap and retreating my blue eyes to the shades of orange, red and yellow. Reaching for the coffee I had finished moments ago, but reluctant to get up and grab another.

But that was before one was brought to me instead. By another thing that I had happened to come across this week.

"Am I intruding?" The English native that I met my first night here had greeted, handing me the warm paper cup with pretty botanical flowers repeated. I shook my head, gesturing my free hand to the wingback across.

Matty sat down, folding his long legs over one another. His eyes meeting mine, smiling softly as his mouth indulged in a sip. Giving me a few moments to admire before another word.

He wasn't wearing his glasses today but his hair was the same as the night I met him. Pulled back into a bun with loose curls shaping out his face. My eyes leading down to his lined out jaw. His collarbones, the tattoo that always made an appearance no matter what type of shirt he wore this week. To the lasting hole over his knee.

I was broken from my stare when he had chuckled, possibly figuring out that I was staring long.

"Anything new?" He asked, his eyes gesturing to my open leather bound. I shook my head, slowly closing it against my knee before my eyes met his again.

He looked at me surprised and in disbelief, "So the storyteller doesn't have a story to tell?" He questioned, resting his cup on the table aside us. I shrugged, it was truly hard to believe but as my mind moved fast the world outside of it didn't and I was at a stand still.

"It just been classes, reading and then some." I finished, finally taking a sip of my coffee.

Matty smiled at me again, a smile I could watch curl at the ends of his mouth like a favorite part to a movie. "We may have to change that." He said, looking at me with tricks under his sleeves and me swimming in his over sized sweater.

I had to cut my coffee break short when I realized I had time run to my next class, Woman Studies.

Shortly becoming my favorite class as we debated fundamental rights and she played Kathleen Hanna fronted Bikini Kill winning my anarchy heart.

"Don't forget to read The Second Sex and please have your reasoning's sent in by 12 AM on Monday." She dismissed. I followed suit with the rest of the class as I packed away my things for the weekend.

Making my way to the hall to get lost in the hundred of others trying to head out and not miss the next Tube coming by. The boy in a leather jacket that I was sharing a coffee with an hour earlier was leaning against the wall next to the door.

His devious smirk gracing upon his face, "I'm feeling like you're onto something." I commented, a small smile plastering across my cheeks. Matty rippled a contagious laugh that I could listen to like an album on my turntable.

"Can't a gentleman just walk a lady home safely?" He remarked.

++

"No! That's a lie!" I laughed, hitting Matty's forearm lightly. We had moved onto music since Matty offered to walk me home. And let's just say we had a few differences.

Matty loved older music, which I did too. But I found Prince to be a bit cooler than MJ. Which didn't sit well with Matty. "Have you heard the magic in Rock With You?" He mentioned, "It's fucking legendary!" It was so funny to see him go off, but I never said I didn't like the man! I knew how the sounds had your hips moving. I was just a Purple Rain kind of girl.

Matty stood in front of me, walking backwards down the sidewalk.

Girl. Close your eyes... He began singing, moving his hips to the beats that played out in his head. Taking my hand, and pulling me close.

Let that rhythm get into you, don't try to fight it. Placing one hand above my hip, the other still in mine. Directing my hips into a sway, as his voice hit me like sweet serenity.

He went on, and I was enjoying every bit of it. Music was his muse like books were mine and he wasn't ashamed to show it. His hips showing that he never stopped moving either.

We had arrived to the front of my flat, Matty belting more songs of MJ.

"I have to get in," I mentioned, not really wanting to do so. Matty's lips kept moving "Not until you change your mind." Singing in the measures of Don't Stop Till You Get Enough.

I chuckled, still dancing with him till I finally caved in. "Alright, Michael Jackson is better." I confessed, meaning every word that fell from my mouth. He just chuckled, pulling me closer and bringing his lips to my ear.

"I think you're lying" his warm breath grazing my lobe. Sending chills down my spine. I went to protest when Liz and Abby got out of their car. Interrupting our manifest. They just softly smiled, saying Hello before retreating up the porch. I looked up at Matty, who still had his hand around my waist.

Matty pulled away with a soft but questionable expression on his face. I wondered what was on his mind.

"Come watch us play tonight." He said, "The boys and I are playing at the bar George's bartends in. I'd like to see you there."

Many different excuses ran through my mind. Studying, catching some sleep, watching the same three episodes of The Office, outline my far along memoir that would be a flop. Just a rush of things that could've fallen from my mouth.

"Alright, sounds like fun." Happened to be the better option.

Matty's smirk turn a bit shy, looking to the ground before he looked back up at me.

"I'll pick you up at 6?" He questioned, I nodded. Still confused on why I was agreeing to this extravaganza in the first place. A smile gracing his face once more before turning on his Vans to head back to where his road led him.

"See you soon, Blue."

#the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy imagines #slutforbritdick #wattpadarchives

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 11: Stitches

(Don’t give up.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 11: Stitches

Word Count: 1686

Relationships: logince (pre-relationship)

Warnings: Splitting stitches, stab wound (no actual stabbing occurs in this fic! he only breaks the stitches in a still-healing previous injury), blood, mentioned transphobia/transphobic bigotry, cursing, slightly delirious behaviour

A/N: i know it’s a day late. i’m awful. sorry. hopefully dumbass gay roman being smitten with trans boy logan makes up for the wait a little bit

Okay, so maybe Roman should have listened to Patton when he said not to strain himself. And maybe it was a little rash of him to get up and punch the guy despite the strain it caused him. But he doesn’t regret it! Nope! He will gladly take the pain of ripped stitches any day if it means punching a transphobe in the face. 

And. Well. Maybe “pain” is a bit of an understatement, because holy shit why does it hurt so much is he dying? According to the cute boy he literally fought a bigot for despite never meeting him before in his life, no. He’ll be fine if he stops squirming, the guy says, but Roman can’t sit still when he’s literally falling in love with this cute stranger, so. Time for funeral arrangements. Maybe his new husband will come weep at his grave, bring him a single red rose to place on his tombstone. It’ll be so poetic, and it’ll be beautiful, and he’ll lay his ghostly hand on his new husband’s shoulder in comfort, and he’ll laugh at Virgil from the grave because he got a boyfriend first!

“Hey! Prince Charming! Don’t zone out on me like that,” his new husband commands, and who’s Roman to ignore such a pretty face? A pretty face, which is currently a lot closer than he anticipates, and Roman almost knocks their heads together when he jolts up in surprise. His new husband is pressing hard on his opened stitches, and although Roman’s sure he knows what he’s doing (he has glasses, and all the smart people have glasses, everyone knows that), it still hurts like a bitch. Pretty boy sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he examines Roman’s stomach, and although the small detail makes Roman’s heart go doki-doki in his chest, he can’t seem to look away from the stranger’s own sharp, focused gaze. Who gave him the right to have eyes like that? All shiny and silvery like metal, or maybe Roman’s third-favourite shade of nail polish. 

“I’ll try to wipe off some of the blood, but I can’t do much more than that, not here. It’s too unsanitary and I don’t have proper equipment. I won’t risk infection with impatience. The paramedics will take care of it,” his new husband says plainly, brushes his fingers against Roman’s side, and Roman is pretty sure he’s dying. There’s no way that this isn’t an angel. Although, Roman never expected that angels would be so… bossy. The handsome stranger instructs him to keep pressure on his side, details how exactly to hold his hands to his stained skin. Maybe he could be a little gentler about it? Especially when he puts his hands over Roman’s own, and presses harder, and draws a groan from Roman’s throat. “Oh, stop whining. It’s your fault you decided to be unnecessarily reckless for no reason.”

“Ha! For-- For no reason? I would punch that guy ‘gain for you if I h’d the chance!” Roman exclaims, slurred in pain yet loud in the buzzing energy of the outdoors cafe he's probably gonna die in. Honestly, maybe he's okay with dying right now. Yeah, he's sitting here sprawled in a cafe chair bleeding out, but he also has his new husband with him, so who's the real winner here? 

"Your new husband, huh? I wasn't aware that we were married already. Shouldn’t you at least ask your potential suitor on a date first?" the pretty stranger muses, face stoic, but there's a teasing glint in his eyes and a subtle smirk as he uses some napkins to wipe a spot of blood off of Roman's hip. The touch sends a shiver down his spine, lends itself to a sense of familiarity despite them never having met before now. Is he talking out loud? Those thoughts were supposed to stay in his head. Hopefully his new husband isn’t annoyed by long rambles at two a.m., because that’s like… Roman’s whole aesthetic. “Although, I suppose the legal and financial benefits of marriage are a positive, despite the tradition itself being an unnecessarily exorbitant game of ‘who can spend the most money and look as rich and successful as possible’ whilst perpetuating wildly amatonormative societal expectations of seeming stable to your friends and family purely through means of surface appearance. But sure, weddings are fun.”

“Haah… Y’sound like Virgil,” Roman mutters as he knocks his head back to rest on the table behind him. The handsome stranger immediately puts his cleaner hand underneath his head and lifts it up, cradling the dead weight with a small frown. “H-- Sorry, wanna… wanna sleep. Virgil a’ways says that weddings are stupid. You guys’d get along. Wait, no, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of shitty ideas.”

“Mm, I’m sure you have. Punching a transphobe for a stranger is definitely one to add to the list. Don’t fall asleep, Prince Charming. You’re not losing that much blood. Hey, you-- how far away are the paramedics?” And… wow. Even the way he speaks makes Roman want to snatch him up. He’s so authoritative, and obviously doesn’t take shit from anyone, and Roman could probably listen to him talk forever. He’ll be like his own personal audiobook. An ASMR YouTuber that lives in his house and shows off that amazing voice of his but also gives him cuddles because that’s what cute husbands do together. That’s the dream.

“An… ASMR YouTuber? You sure have strange priorities.”

“‘S important! Oh, hey… wha’s your name? I have to know how t’ introduce y’a to my friends. ‘Oh, hey Virgil, this is my husband… Bob McBookshelf. I got a cute boyfriend before you, give me fifty dollars.’ Y’know, like that,’ Roman asks, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t even really know what he’s talking about anymore. He just knows that talking makes him more lucid, and his new husband told him to stay awake, so he’s going to try his best to do just that.

“Ah. Well, my name unfortunately is not Bob McBookshelf. It is Dr. Chae, professionally, but you may refer to me as Logan if you’d like,” Logan says, Dr. Chae, and Roman is taken aback. Not only is his new husband cute, and has the best voice he’s ever heard, but he’s also smart? And a doctor?!

“Woah. That’s so cool. I can’t believe I’m g’nna marry a doctor. Wait, does that mean I get your last name? Roman Chae. That sounds weird. Fits you better. Guess we don’t have to change our las’ names. And! You’re a doctor, ‘f course y’a can’t change it now. Wow… a doctor. You are the coolest person I’ve ever met. And I met Beyoncé once. She didn’t see me or talk to me, but it was still awesome. And you-- you’re a doctor. You must be suuuuuper smart. Already got a college degree ‘n’ stuff. But you… don’t look old.”

Logan’s eyes flick up to meet his, incredulity written across his face, and then it morphs into something almost fond as he lets out an amused huff of a laugh. He looks beautiful, even as he shoves his hands back on Roman’s open wound again, and Roman thinks maybe he’s a masochist or something. He should be angry at the rough treatment, but somehow, he doesn’t really care that much. Oddly enough, he trusts this stranger, his new husband, and Roman could probably get stabbed again except this time by this guy and even so he’d be the one apologizing. “I’m 24. My school experience went by very quickly.”

“Ohhhhh… you’re one of those. Those… smarty-pants people. Smarty people. Pants people. Logan, am I dying?” Roman feels delirious, and he probably is. Logan snickers quietly, smiles small and soft and-- and--  Roman has a feeling that if the blood loss doesn’t kill him, Logan’s adorable smile will. Thankfully, he can hear sirens outside, and that must mean an ambulance is here.

Wait.

“Wai-wai-wait, Log’n, why’d y’a call an ambulance? I’m fine,” Roman asks, reassures even as he moans dramatically when another stinging ache reverberates from the wound. “It hurts but I c’n take it! Had t’a… had t’a before! Got stabbed, did’ja know that? It sucked. My best friend… ex-best friend did it to me. Thought she was cool. She was… not cool. But! I don’t need a hospital. Jus’ a… just a little. Little papercut. Small. I c’n sleep it off. I’m strong.”

“You absolutely can not. You do understand that you didn’t just get stabbed, right? Your “ex-best friend” slashed at your stomach. The laceration is at least eight inches in length, who knows how deep, and you broke a majority of the stitches with the stunt you pulled. There is a very real possibility of you bleeding out without medical assistance. Sit still so I can make sure pressure stays on the wound, and then the paramedics will pick you up, and then your stitches will be re-sewn. There is no need for panic, but you can’t fall asleep, either.”

And, well. Maybe Logan has a point. She did yell something about splitting him in half when she did it, but Roman doesn’t really remember the encounter that well. But Logan’s a doctor! And he’s smart! So he obviously knows what he’s talking about. He can’t die before he gets married to his beautiful doctor husband. That would be the worst ending to the Disney movie that is his life. Well, if Disney had stayed true to the source content and featured a lot more gore and dramatic gay lamenting.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be your doctor husband, as you say, as long as you take me on a date first. Now hold. Still,” Logan demands, exasperated, and Roman isn’t even aware he was moving. Maybe he’s just wiggling because all of his love for his cool new husband is bursting out of him. And he says so, manages to get Logan to crack that pretty smile again, and Roman’s injury hurts just a little less.

#whumptober2019 #no.11 #stitches #ts sides #sanders sides #ts roman #roman sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #transmasc logan #logince #romantic logince #pre-relationship logince #stab wound #wound #tw injury #tw blood #cursing #transphobia #mentioned transphobia #bob mcbookshelf is the only good piece of content i've ever written #mentions of: #ts patton #ts virgil #jasper's writing

[junieyes]

paint me like one of them dead girls (2)

Your first objective is to find a bathroom.  

Raccoon City might be dead and the world may be ending but you still have dignity. You refuse to release several bottles worth of pee and crap when you finally kick the rusty ole bucket. How degrading would that be? You’d never live it down in the afterlife.  

Surveying the main hall lit up by warm, yellow lamplight, an odd sort of serenity settles into your bones. As quick as it came, the adrenaline driving on the freeway in your body finally takes an exit off, leaving you exhausted.

To your right is a little plaque on the wall denoting a bathroom symbol. Just what you need. The direction it’s pointing to is one of those high-security doorways that reminds you of the folding garage door in your apartment complex. It’d be perfect and wholly convenient if not for the fact that someone had stuck a note to it blatantly saying, “KEEP OUT”.

There’s also the matter of the crushed skull and pool of blood. You hold in a barf. This isn’t a horror movie: if it says keep out, you’re keeping out. Guess that means no bathroom break – and no vomit break either.

You look away.

Bodies are littered across the floor like random trash at a park; blood is smeared across almost every bench and every other object that isn’t nailed down is strewn chaotically across the room. You don’t need to imagine the havoc that happened here because you can already see it your head. It’s an awful reminder of the first night when everything went to shit.

All these people – all your friends…

You cry.  

Quietly, in shuddering breaths and little sniffles. Your entire body trembles. It feels worse than when you cried for yourself – loud, unrestrained selfish sobbing in a stranger’s tiny bathroom. Here, the endless downpour of water cleanses your cheeks from dirt, sweat and blood. Your chest twists painfully. Maybe if you cry hard and long enough, all the pee from your bladder will travel up to your eyes and come out as tears.  

God, you should’ve just stayed at the apartment.  

You’re so fucking stupid. It must’ve only been one zombie. It probably hadn’t even known you were there. You don’t think it would’ve gotten through the door, barricaded by a heavy desk and some chairs; everything that you could pick up and stack, you did.  

You could have starved to death safely curled up on the couch, hidden underneath a scratchy blanket that didn’t belong to you, listening to the dreadful music of their groaning. It would have been some shitty last days, but you wouldn’t have had to run for your life like you did outside, and you wouldn’t be here seeing, well – all this. Dead horror hangs in the air.

It’s an impossible fate to escape. There’s only one way out. This deadly solitude is as scary as the enraged, glutinous horde outside.

You curse yourself. The apartment had a bathroom. The toilet was clean, and it had toilet paper too. Why hadn’t that been a good enough reason to stay? You still need to pee.

You rub your eyes and take a deep breath. Come on, slow breaths. Hold for seven, release in six, breath in for another four. Emotionally, you’re not feeling any better, but you’re not so unsteady on your feet anymore after several minutes of this. It’s time to start moving and explore. That gun isn’t going to magically find itself.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

You muffle a startled shriek and snap around to the officer that appeared out of nowhere. Your heart races so hard you swear it’s two seconds away from pumping its way out of your chest.  

It’s a person. Oh, God, it’s a person. A real, live, living person.  

Your mouth drops open. Nothing he says makes sense; your ears are totally zoned out because you’re just so in shock. But you see his lips moving, forming words rather inhumane screeches.

Holy shit. You find it hard to believe. Because fuck, a person.

You must be psychic because you swear you have a vision; suddenly you see a spark of hope in your future. Just a little snap of yellow and blue on an almost empty lighter. It’s so little that it shouldn’t mean a thing, but Lord this is the most hope you’ve felt in the past five days that suddenly you can’t even think about killing yourself.  

You throw that plan in a deep ditch at the side of the road. The coyotes can eat it for all you care.

“Ma’am, I can’t help you if you don’t speak to me.”

“I–I’m fine,” you croak and wipe your wet cheeks till they dry. “better than fine.”

The officer gives you an uncertain look, but nods. He’s got a hand protectively against his side, blood soaking into the blue of his shirt. You know what that means, but it doesn’t damper your newfound spirits. He looks like he still has some life left to him; a bit pale in the face and sickly, but his body is alert. He could help you get out of here. And, if worse comes to worst – he’s got a threatening looking gun in that holster of his.

“Are you injured?”

You shake your head.

He sighs, face pained and nods over to somewhere behind him. “Over here.”

In the next five minutes you learn that his name is Marvin Branagh, he is thirty-six years old, has been married once but got a divorce a few months back, has three dogs named Wags, Cattle and Derek, and his favourite colour is yellow.  

You tell him that you’re only nineteen – his face falls and swears something unholy under his breath – and that you also have a dog, her name is Dumpling, your favourite colour is pink, you’ve never been married but you’d always hoped you would when you got older, and that you were going to be a history teacher when you finished university.

You’ve never felt so good about having simple small talk with an officer. What really makes your day, however, is when he tells you that there are, in fact, three people currently still alive in this station. You, obviously, and him, but also a rookie cop by the name of Leon Kennedy.  

You blink, looking around the room as if he’ll suddenly appear if you search hard enough. “Where is he?”

Marvin points to the giant statue of the goddess nearby. It’s an odd piece of artwork for a police station. “You see that statue? It opens up to a tunnel that leads out of here – but it’s missing pieces. That’s what Leon’s doing, right now. Looking for them.” You feel inspired. He must be doing that on purpose.  

But then he looks at you, and sighs, and then groans in pain. You watch him worriedly as he repeats this cycle, feeling helpless. “He’ll be happy to see you. There’s not much living things in here.”

First off – what the fuck? Why the hell does a police station have a secret door? For what purpose does it even need one? You won’t lie, it fills you with immense pleasure knowing that there’s another way out of here other than the front doors, but you’re also incredibly cautious about this. It just doesn’t seem normal. Nothing about these past five days have been normal.  

What if it’s booby-trapped, like Indiana Jones or James Bond? You can’t outrun giant boulders. You’ll die of fright first.

Putting the negativity aside though, it’s pleasing news nonetheless. Because really, how convenient is that? A secret entrance? Sure, the puzzle thing sucks, who the hell has time for that? Couldn’t a bookcase have been easier? But there’s a way out, so you start crying again.  

You thought you were going to die dirty and tragically. You haven’t showered in five days and it’s disgusting. Walking in the rain doesn’t count. Your shoes are gone, which you spent fifty dollars on, and your very nice jacket which is just so in trend this season is absolutely ruined – it looks like you accidentally got a bit of blue and orange on your bloody jacket than the other way around. And your jeans! There are holes in your jeans. Not stylish, fashionable holes but holes that look like you decided to take an illegal joyride on a motorcycle and crashed stupidly into a tree.  

Poor Marvin, looking at you helplessly and distressed. You smile tearily. “I’m just really happy. Really, really happy.”

It’s a waiting game after that.  

You use the time to explore the main hall, feeling more confident than you have in days. You’re not afraid to turn boxes over, move stacks of books around and push cabinets back into place. There’s a lot of random items lying around. You try not to think about how they probably belonged to the people lying dead on the ground.

You pick up a sturdy RDP backpack. It’s got an unopened water bottle and some granola bars, hand-wipes, and a new copy of  Pet Sematary by Stephen King. You take the book out and lay it on top of a cabinet. You won’t be needing that.

Across the other side of the room in some drawers you find a pair of handcuffs. You dangle it from your finger, curious. You get the feeling that this shouldn’t be out in such an open area where anyone could steal it – like you – but it sure is handy. Maybe you won’t be handcuffing some zombies and detaining them for arrest but you can think of a few ways to lock some doors and windows if it comes down to it. You stash them in your bag.  

Digging deeper into the mess, you make the ultimate discovery: a first aid kit. And not one of those basic ones either. It’s got just about everything you could possibly need for any occasion. It’s too big to fit into the backpack but you don’t see the need to empty it out when it’s already organised so well. You bring your findings to Marvin.

“I found this hidden by some seats,” you say, showing him the green first aid box, shaking it by the handle. It’s not heavy. You can definitely run around carrying this. Now you won’t be so useless. You’ll be the unqualified, on-field medic. “We can patch up your side. Here, I’ve taken a first aid course before.”

You did it with your friend's ages ago. Friends who are probably dead. You hope it serves you better than it did them. You lean forward with an inviting hand, but Marvin stops you.  

“No,” he grunts, shaking and leaning away. “it’s too late now. I only have a few hours left; I can feel it. Hopefully you’ll be out of here by then.”

You frown, uncertain. Not because you think he can be saved – he can’t, he’s already infected and there’s no coming back from that; you’ve accepted this reality days ago – but because the least you can do is make him comfortable. No one deserves to die a slow, agonising death. You sift through the variety of foil pill packets and pull out one that you recognise. “How about pain killers?”  

He shakes his head again. “No–no–you might need it. I can’t.”

You purse your lips, unhappy with his decision but don’t push it. You don’t want to upset him. It might make his condition worse. You’re not a scientist or a doctor but you’ve read it in an article somewhere that stress can make an illness worse.

(you’re also a little thankful – you might actually need it later)

You decide to venture the second floor instead. There’s not much hiding up there but you do spot a few red and green herbs. Delighted, and thinking how weird but also amazing it is that the station is stocked with so many handy things, you gently carry the little potted plants back downstairs with you.

They taught you this important piece of info in high-school: the green herbs are for wounds, fatigue and infection, red herbs to enhance the effect, and blue herbs for poisons. You don’t remember their scientific names or even the general names, but the colours of the herbs are distinct enough that it’s pretty easy to identify.  

After cleaning your hands with the hand wipes, you start to start to pluck the leaves from the green herb, piling them neatly on a clean sheet of parchment. Marvin watches interestedly as you start rinsing the leaves and tying them into bundles – four is enough to chew on and make a paste – before stacking them neatly in the first aid kit. You make sure to add one red leaf to every roll of green.

When you pulled all-nighters during school, which is – had been – a still common occurrence in university, you’d pop a green leaf and chew on it while you worked. Besides its health purposes, it’s also basically the equivalent of taking a shot of straight nicotine. Coffee? Forget coffee. Have some weed herbs.

You chew on one right now, feeling a little less tired and more awake again.

Having exhausted all the actions you can think to take right now, you curl up on the floor for a light doze. Just a little cat nap. You deserve it after everything you’ve been through.  

You’d have taken the other couch, but you’re not that stupid. If Marvin turns without you noticing, it’s easier to book it from the floor than it is from the couch. You’d have to jump across the caches and random assortment of objects to get safely away.

Muttering to yourself in the same way you’ve taken to in the past several days living alone, cataloging everything in your bag and what you can recall is in the first aid kit, your eyes soon flutter shut.  

You hope that when Leon finally comes back to the main hall, he’ll be able to help you find a pair of shoes. A pair that you don’t have to take off of someone’s feet, preferably.  

[--]  

An unexpected growl sends you shooting onto your knees, fingers grabbing the nearest, sharpest object: an oddly shaped, bronze trophy. You don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but it has a lot of pointy branches and that’s all that matters.  

Your heart beats rapidly and several squeaks escape your throat. Every nerve in your body is suddenly awake and vigilant.

Your first instinct is to throw it. You stop that instinct. Last time you followed it you’d lost your only weapon and the zombie hadn’t even died.

It’s a woman this time.  

Her ankle is broken and heavily bruised, the bone jutting out through a break in the skin. She moves like she doesn’t care that she’s grievously injured; her arms are raised towards you, hands and forearms drenched in blood. You think she’s in her thirties and only recently turned because her face isn’t as grotesque and hideously ruined like many others you’ve seen. There are still patches of red eyeshadow above her tired lids and if you dare chance a quick look at her mouth there’s a faint hint of blue lipstick under the dark, thick blood spilling out from between her yellow teeth.

You absently think that if she wasn’t so obviously dead and ready to eat your guts out, she’d be superiorly pretty. Supermodel pretty even. In need of a better wardrobe maybe, but those cheekbones are killing it.

This saddens you for a moment – but only a moment because then she makes an ear-splitting noise that has you flinching away and stumbling over your feet when she surges forward.  

Get yourself together! Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.

You scurry back, constantly keeping yourself out of arm’s reach. You vaguely note how Marvin doesn’t seem to have noticed anything happening, and then belatedly realise that you can hear grunting. Not the type of grunting the dead make, like they’re constipated and starving at the same time – but the grunting of someone possibly struggling from an intense workout. Or, you know, a life or death situation.

Shimming up the stairs on the right side of the hall, you quickly reach over and snatch an abandoned and chewed up tennis ball. Why it’s there, you don’t know, but god if it ain’t convenient. You throw it and it hits her forehead hard, momentarily stunning her.  

And that’s your opportunity.  

Without thinking it through, you rush down, dodging her swinging right arm and aggressively slapping her left arm away; raising the trophy towards the ceiling you smash it forcefully through her eye and deep into her brain. It makes a wet squishy sound, kind of like when you slap raw chicken onto a cutting board and fondle it. Or when you stick your fingers into smelly putty.

It’s no less disgusting than every other time you’ve done it. You’ll never become desensitised to this; you don’t think you’re capable of that.

Her eyes are cloudy but you swear you can see that behind it, whoever she’d been before she became this – she fades. Her body slackens and falls, and you let go of the trophy.  

She’s gone.  

You swallow heavily and look away. Just one more dead thing to plague your sleep.  

Someone grunts again, followed by a deep, guttural sound.  

Shit. That doesn’t sound good. Understatement of the fucking year.

Quickly, you jog up the rest of the stairs, turning sharply around the corner leading onto the upper left walkway.  

There’s a guy in police gear lying on his back and fending off a zombie. The double door is half open and you can partially see another trying to crawl its way through. His gun is a yard away lying next to a dead body.  

Weary and upset, you don’t think. You just do.  

Blink. The gun is in your hands. The only familiarity you have with firearms is a familiarity born from watching too much crime TV.  

Just point and shoot, right?  

You clench it tightly between your bloody hands and aim at the zombie’s head.  

Blink. The trigger pulls. Your arm jerks, going up, and the bullet hits it in the lower back. Way off aim.

The sound rings loud in your ear, causing you to squint. Your eyes having nothing to do with your ears but it’s the only functional body part currently willing to listen to your brain.  

Although the shot went wild it’s enough of a distraction that the officer – it must be Leon Kennedy, it has to be – can finally shove the zombie away. He leans up and twists, smashing his elbow down into it’s face, cracking its skull and spilling brain matter brutally across the floor.  

You stare blankly, mouth hanging stupidly open.  

He stands up, limps towards you and gently takes the gun from your slack hands, before expertly killing the pathetic zombie stuck in the door. It’s dead after three shots.  

Well, alright. Now you know how stupid your initial plan was. You’d have missed your fucking head if you tried killing yourself.  

Shit. Holy shit. You need a nap, a really long and nice nap that’ll leave you feeling sweaty and thinking it’s the next day when you wake up.  

Or a drink. You hate vodka but you can acknowledge that five shots straight and your down for the count.  

And dammit! You still need a bathroom.

“Hey, are you alright?”

The curious and kind voice snaps you out of your funk. There’s a gloved hand waving in your line of sight and you stare at it dumbly for a few seconds until you realise it’s an offer for help.

You take it and haul yourself up. When did you fall down?

“I,” you start on a deep inhale, a tad breathless. “am doing so fine. Great, actually.”  

You’re not but if you say it enough you might eventually be.

Leon grasps your elbows, holding them firmly. It grounds you down into reality. “Are you injured? You’re not going to die on me, are you? We just met,” his smile is soft with concern, looking you up and down. “I don’t think it’d look good on my record if you did.”

Hah. Funny.  

You shake your head rapidly. “No, no, but I think I might pee myself.”

He blinks, startled, and laughs. It’s a lovely laugh. You haven’t heard anyone laugh in five days. The mere sound of his voice, that smooth, breathless quality to it – something inside of you quiets. Truly quiets. You could listen to him talk for days.

You don’t feel as jittery anymore, and very consciously you realise that you’re not trembling either. It’s a miracle. Is it his laugh? You should make him do it some more. Or maybe it’s meeting another living person who, as far as you can see, isn’t about to die or seriously wounded. It was nice talking to Marvin, but you won’t fool yourself. He’ll be dead before this night ends and there’s no stopping it.

“I’m Leon–“

“Kennedy? Leon Kennedy?” you interrupt, desperately, and introduce yourself. You nod over to the first floor when confusion wrinkles his forehead. “Officer Branagh told me. He said you were solving that statue thing.”

Leon shakes his head. “Yeah, I am. I actually have two right here.” He pulls them out from one of the endless number of pockets he has and shows you the two bronze medallions; one with a unicorn embossed on it, of all things, and the other a lion. You tentatively run a finger down one, thinking that this really is a weird-ass police station. Why do they just casually have these lying around? Who made this shit up and thought they were being clever?

After re-pocketing them, Leon rubs his neck, brows furrowed, but sends you another small smile when you give him a worried look. “This probably sounds a little weird,” he interrupts himself, laughing again. It’s tired, a little warier. Not as humoured. “But I’m really glad to meet you. I’ve barely seen anyone alive, it’s – uh, nice.”

You get what he means.  

“When did you get here?” he asks. He looks down at your feet. “And where's your shoes?”

You shuffle, eyeing your socks. The cute dog pattern is gone, stained red and brown. You wiggle your toes and grimace at the sticky feeling between some of them. It’s incredibly gross and makes you want to cry again. If it were just Marvin you wouldn’t fight the tears from falling loose – but for some reason, you really don’t want to give in to that urge and break down for fiftieth time this week.  

Maybe it’s so you can prove to Leon that you can hold your weight, that you aren’t a little wuss. That you won’t start crying over the most stupid and inane things, no matter how appealing that sounds.

Because like hell will you let him leave you down here in the main hall, waiting anxiously for him to come back safely while Marvin gets worse and worse. You refuse to be left on your own, even if you are a deadweight. You’re gonna help him get the both of you out of here if it’s the last thing you ever do.  

(which it probably won’t be – the last thing you’ll do is cry at the futility of life or something)

“Not that long ago?” You shrug and finally toe off the socks, kicking them indignantly onto the dead body near your feet. It’s insensitive and a little rude but you don’t think they have it in them to quite care anymore. They’d sooner eat you than take this up to court.  

You wiggle your toes. The nail polish gleams immaculately in the warm lighting. Despite the horrors of this night, at least there are some things that can still make you happy, your pretty blue polish being one of them. “I, uh, had to climb the wall outside. There’s a herd out there; one of them grabbed my shoe and the other kind of just fell off.”

“Wait, you climbed?”

Oh, shit, he’s a cop and you just admitted to fence-hopping the police station. But what’s he gonna do, arrest you? Nobody’ll take your case. There’s nobody to take your case.

“Yes,” you sniff. “You got a problem with that?”

“What?” Leon shakes his head. “No! That’s – pretty cool, actually. It’s convenient. I don’t think I could have done that.”

“Oh,” you blink, and smile, a little embarrassed. It’s not the most life-saving skill, to be honest. You’re pretty sure you’ve used up all your chances; you’re out of jumping ammo now. “Thanks.”

He grins, and you suddenly notice how close he is and how he’s still holding onto your arms, grip tightening just a little. If this was happening at any other point of time in any other city, you’d be swooning by now; usually you’ve got a whole deck of pick-up lines that you aren’t afraid to share with the world. But you’re not feeling yourself right now and all you can think about is how good it feels to be held by someone that doesn’t want to eat you for a change. It’s not flirty in the least.

If –  when  – you get out of this damned city, maybe you’ll ask him out for coffee, or to the circus, anything. Because you’ve got eyes, and Leon is pretty. Really pretty. And it is really, really not the time for this.  

(He’s got those eyes, the ones that burn your retinas like a garden of bright, baby blues. In a charming way, of course. He dips his head when he smiles at you, that totally trendy haircut framing his face adorably, and his nose screws up in a move of absolute perfection. You wouldn’t mind waking up to that face every morning. Or having his babies. Or, you know, just talking to him like any normal person would.)

He looks down at your feet again. “We need to find you a pair somewhere around here. It’s not safe to walk around.”

Confidently, Leon toes your bare feet with his shoe. You really hate feet, but you forgive him for this transgression. It’s not like whatever gunk is on his shoes can get you any dirtier. But mostly because that spark of hope? It isn’t just a spark anymore. It’s starting to feel like a flame, and it leaves you absolutely delighted and warmed. All thanks to him. He deserves some slack.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

Down in the main area, Marvin’s got a laptop out showing some live surveillance tapes on screen. When did he bring this out? Last you saw he looked three-fourths dead. Leon peers around to check it out, but you’re more interested about Marvin’s coughing – actually, coughing is too nice of a descriptor for the bloody hacking that makes him shake with every wet rattle that forcefully leaves his throat. It sounds like every organ in his body has combined efforts to procure the sickly sound.

“You two, have a look at this.” Marvin types something, bringing up a camera from outside of the station it looks like. It’s a little hard to see because of the grainy quality and the blinding white light from what seems to be a lamppost – but you see it. Or her, actually.  

You gasp.

Another human! A girl! This night just keeps getting better and better, and you don’t even mean that sarcastically.  

But God, how sad is it that current highlight of your week is discovering that living people still exist? Everything about this is so messed up.

“Yes!” Leon exclaims, relief flickering across his face. “I knew she’d make it!”

“You know her?”  

“Yeah, her name is Claire.” His eyes are glued to the scene. “I came into town with her.”

Marvin sucks in a painful breath. “You can get to that courtyard through the second floor, east side.”

“I’m on it.”

You look up at the second floor, where Marvin pointed. “You think she’ll have extra shoes on hand?”

Leon shakes his head. “We can probably find some boots in the locker rooms. I’ll go there first, and then meet up with Claire.”

“Nuh-uh,” you interject, grabbing his arm. “I am so not staying here while you go off running around. I’m coming with you.”

He grabs your hand, squeezing it comfortingly before letting go. “Hey, I know you’re scared, but you’ll be safer here. Promise. And between you and me, I have training. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry.”

You squint, annoyed by his tone of voice. It’s that smooth, cliché, condescending ‘talking to a civilian’ tone that the cops always use on Crime TV. You are so not falling for it. “It’s not safe anywhere. You know how many people must’ve come here in the past several days? Probably like, half the city that was still alive! I’m pretty sure they’re all dead by now.”

You’re right and he knows it. He purses his lips. “Can you defend yourself?”

“Well,” you stutter, and then shrug shamelessly. Well, no point hiding it. “I can run. And dodge. And I can carry things for you! Like ammo and herbs and stuff.” You excitedly show him your backpack and the first aid kit you found earlier. “And I have a little first aid knowledge. So, yeah.” You nod firmly and stand taller, trying to show him the determination that had steadily built itself up inside of you as you stood your ground. “I’m coming.”

Leon worries his lip and sighs. It’s maddening because you can tell he’s still not that convinced, but he does look a little conflicted. Yes. Yes, that’s what you need. You want to butter him so that he’s not so salty when you eventually start tailing him.

“I still think you should stay here. You can – you can keep the Lieutenant company.”

He’s grasping at straws.

You both turn to Marvin, who, despite looking seconds away from door’s death still has the energy to roll his eyes.  

“Get out of here, the both of you.”  

And that settles it. You send Leon your smuggest smirk, teasingly crossing your arms when he rolls his eyes.

It’s nice to have validation. Of course, even if Leon had continued to insist that no, you should stay here and sit pretty, backed up by Marvin’s words, you still would have followed him anyways.

Because, again, what’s he gonna do? Arrest you because you didn’t follow his orders? You’re pretty sure that the law has like, nullified or something since the breakdown of total society within Raccoon City. As if you’d listen to an authority figure who probably knows better when you could literally die out here. You’re nineteen! You’re a stupid teenager with occasional signs of intelligence.  

And this occasional sign of intelligence is telling you right now that if you don’t go with Leon then you’ll probably die a painful and traumatic death. There’ll be intestines and brain matter all across the marble floor and it’ll be horrible.  

Having no choice but to follow his higher up, Leon begrudgingly takes you to the locker room. Technically it’s the Safety Deposit Room, but same difference.

The travel is nerve-wracking but safe – for the most part. It’s dark as shit and wherever Leon moves his flashlight you see a bloody smear across almost every object. The worst of it is on the walls, as if someone’s head was deliberately smashed against the wallpaper, cracking their skull before dragging it around like they were trying to recreate Blue Poles or something else equally as abstract.  

Your critical opinion is that the RPD is a grotesque piece of art. It sells clammy desperation, gut-curling dread and iron-scented horror like none other.

Leon valiantly tries to cover the lying bodies from your line of sight, even physically moving you around so as to avoid them, but it’s nigh impossible. You commend him for his efforts. It’s touching, but concealing it won’t make you feel better or change the fact.  

At least the locker room is well lit and save for the dead body slumped over in the corner, it’s completely clear.  

Leon starts rummaging through the lockers; the noise makes you anxious but that’s an anxiety easy to work around. You’d like to think you have some experience in that now.

“You need to be quieter,” you say, wandering slowly and peering into the clear, locked lockers. All of them are empty save for a few. “The noise attracts them.”

Leon looks over his shoulders, raising a brow. He’s got a book in his hand that is definitely not a shoe. You think of book shoes. Hah, if you carve a hole then you could stick your feet through. You imagine doing it to your textbooks. Take them into the exams and claim it’s a fashion statement. “I thought it was smell?”

You shrug, eyeing the shotgun and key card scanner. Maybe you could smash it? Leon could definitely use a bigger gun, something with more strength than the handgun he’s got. “Yeah, that too. But I don’t think it’s very strong for them. I was thinking it’s mainly sound, cause if you whistle from far away it gets their attention still.”

“How do you know that, about the whistling?” He brings you a pair of boots and kneels by your feet, comparing your foot size. “No, these are too big. I found some socks though – they’re clean, but I don’t know who’s they were, sorry.”

You take them with a grimace. A thankful grimace, but still, a grimace. It’s disgusting wearing someone else’s socks but you’re sure they won’t mind. You clean your feet off with hand wipes and stuff your toes into the thick, white socks. “I had to distract a few on my way here. Throwing things helps too, they can’t tell where it comes from but they hear the crash so they always go over to check it out.”

While he turns back around to look for shoes, you instead turn your attention to the other lockers: 102 and 103. “How come you haven’t opened these yet? They’ve got stuff in them.”

You point to the lockers and the keypad when he looks up to see what you’re talking about. “The keypad’s missing some keys.”

You blink. “So? You can still press it down.” And you do exactly that, digging your finger into the squishy little stub where the original key should be sitting, hard and persistently until the 2 and 3 register. You hit enter, hear a buzz, enter the next sequence, and then walk around to retrieve the items when the second locker also buzzes in confirmation.  

“See!” You grin proudly and hand over a box of ammo and a knife.  

Leon takes them, looking slightly mystified. “Uh, there’s a few other lockers.”

He lets you input the other locker sequences in, still wearing the same expression as he clips his new hip pouch to his belt and stores the box of shotgun shells for later.  

You get the impression he’d seen the missing keys, thought damn, and figured he’d maybe come across them while exploring the rest of the station.

“You hadn’t thought of that, did you?”

“Nope.” He hands you some boots. “I think these’ll fit.”

You let him stew in mild embarrassment as you stuff your feet into the loose pair of boots. They’re not your size, but the thick socks make up for some of the wiggle room. You tie them up hard and double-knot them so they don’t suddenly fall off when you’re in a sticky situation that definitely requires shoes.

“Thanks, they’re a tiny bit big but they’ll do,” you say, smiling gratefully. It feels really good to smile.

Leon shrugs bashfully, rubbing his neck. “You’re welcome. Ready to go?”

“Totally!” you cheer, optimistic and ready to meet another living being. You’ve never been so excited in your life, eagerly taking the combat knife Leon gives you and a flash grenade that you stuff into the pocket of your jeans.

You don’t know how to use it, but you’ll set fire to that bridge when you get to it. The knife goes through your belt hoop, replacing the butcher’s knife you lost outside. Now this you can use.  

“You’re sure?” Leon asks, watching bemused as you shuffle and hop around on the spot. Hey, you need to give all this new stuff a test run. S’not worth carrying it all if you’re just gonna trip all over your feet.  

But he’s got a little smile on his lips, so you count it as a win.  

You wave towards the door. “Lead the way.”

[--]  

You slap a hand to Leon’s mouth, rudely cutting him off. Not that you don’t want him to keep talking you eat off with that lovely voice of his, but…

“Do you hear that?” You ask, straining your hearing. It sounds like buzzing and gnarling. You can’t quite tell where it’s coming from.

His brow furrows. Turns his head like a dog listening for a squirrel. Your heart melts a little.

(who knew you were one of those adrenaline-horny types?)

“Yeah…” standing slightly in front of you, Leon draws his gun, moving further down the hall. You follow just as quietly. The rumbling noise gets louder and louder until you both turn the corner and it comes to a head.

Outside the window, a helicopter flies down and crashes into the hallway up ahead. You flinch at the sound of screeching metal, bumping into an equally startled Leon.  

Both of you share a glance and take off towards the crash. The doors have torn from the main frame and crumple around the sides; the blades move slowly, dented and uneven. Miraculously, the pilot is still alive. He groans, and Leon surges forward.  

“I think we can get him out of this, here–“ he puts away his gun, climbing over the rubble trying to get closer. You watch with no small amount of worry. While Leon fusses over the injured pilot, you wonder what caused him to crash in the first place.

Is he gone? Bitten? was there something else on the helicopter? But you don’t see anyone else.  

It worries you. And also, that really fucking sucks. You and Leon could’ve hightailed it out of here via helicopter. You’ve never been in one, and now you're only opportunity to escape this hell hole of a city like the action-flick protagonist you are is ruined.

Leon slings the pilot’s arm over his shoulder. “Almost got you…”

Standing out of the rubble as you are, you see the exact moment when the helicopter shifts – like in those slow-motion film scenes when there’s a terrible car crash, and the hero is watching their best friend or loved one inside. They always see the moment the fuel starts flowing out and onto the asphalt.  

You know what’s about to happen.

“Leon!” you squeak, and without thinking you lunge forward and grab him by his vest, pulling them away with every bit of strength you have.  

The pilot lets out a garbled half-sob half-scream as his legs are dragged out from the front seat, and Leon lets out a hurried, “Shit!” You stumble back and fall on your ass underneath both men, which mind you, are fucking heavy. It’s like having a half-ton of car sitting on top of your chest. Or a cow. A tiny cow, but still a cow.

You let out a low groan, greedily trying to suck in air with your abused lungs.  

All of this happens seconds before the helicopter blows up and catches aflame. It spews fiery debris that somehow manages to miss the three of you sprawled across the floor. The explosion wracks your hearing.

“My liver,” you wheeze. “I think you fractured my liver.”

“Shit, sorry.” Leon shuffles over, rolling off of you and pulling the pilot with him. They settle against the wall. Out of reach from the flames but close enough to feel the heat. It’s so fucking bright it illuminates the hallway and all of its bloody blemishes like acne in the morning light. You want to hope that the sound didn’t attract anything, but you know better.  

Pushing yourself to your knees, you help Leon pull the pilot onto his feet. He cries out, his legs giving way and nearly pulling both of you down with him.  

You and Leon share a look. He won’t be moving by himself anywhere.  

It takes longer than you’re comfortable with to lug him back to the waiting room. It’s well lit and the couches should keep him comfy for now.  

Once he’s settled, no longer groaning but breathing heavily, Leon pulls you aside.  

“You should be safe here.” He nudges your first-aid kit. “Think you can help him?”

You purse your lips, running through the list of items in your head. It looks like he’s got a broken leg, which you can’t do much about other than set a splint. You could try break down some of the chair legs, see if it’ll help, or check out that art room. It’s probably a storage closet by now, so there’s gotta be something helpful there. But other than that, the only thing you can do that might be worth a damn is give him some painkillers.  

It’s not a lot, but...

You’ll do it. This is the fourth person you’ve seen alive. Like hell are you just gonna let him die.  

You pat Leon’s arm confidently. “Go find Claire. It looked like the gate was locked. She might be able to climb over? Make sure you tell her that.” You nod, waiting for him to nod along with you. “Be safe.”

Leon smiles, just a cute little quirk of the lip, but he hesitates. Darts a glance towards the pilot, then you.  

Any other time, you’d wait it out. Let this moment linger. This is supposed to be romantic, or homey, say something deep about friendship like in those flicks, yeah? That is, discounting how you literally just met the guy. But now isn’t the time and you’re worried Claire might be in trouble; the crash was way too loud and you’ve got a pilot to fix.

“What is it?” you prompt, leaning in closer. He leans in automatically too. You’re jealous of how clean he looks. You wish you had some soap on you when you left the apartment, you could’ve taken a shower in the rain.  

He grabs your wrist. “If he, you know.” He throws a simultaneously concerned and wary glance towards the man. “I want you to run. Go back and find Officer Branagh.”

You frown. “I can take care of myself.”

His grip tightens warningly. “I know you want to, but leave it to me. Just run if he does, okay?”

You’re a little offended. No, scrap that. You’re fully offended. He’s spent what, five hours in Raccoon City? You’ve been here for five days. You don’t like his attitude.  

(sure three were spent hiding like a hermit, but you were running plenty the first two, dodging dead people left and right. You're not that helpless... okay, maybe you are a little helpless. But you can still do it if you have to! You know it's not a good idea to leave them roaming around freely, it'll just bite you back in the ass later on. All that running and dodging only works if you don't plan on revisiting, and you get the sense you'll be wandering the station for a little while longer.)

In this new world, you do what you have to. Do what you have to survive. You've managed to take care of yourself without him just fine until this evening.

You don’t tell him this though. Not yet, anyway. Now is not the time. But he'd best believe that you'll be having a talk later.

So, you straighten your back and lift up your chin. “Go find Claire. We’ll be fine.” You wave your hand. “Shoo.”

He presses his lips, pausing like he’s still got something he wants to say. He doesn’t. Only gives you one last look and leaves.

You turn to the pilot, hands on your hips. “Alright. It’s just you and me now. I promise you I can’t make this any worse than it already is.”

The pilot – who seems to have regained some consciousness in the past several seconds or minutes – snorts, followed by a pained moan.

You sigh. You’ve got your work cut out for you.

#leon #leon kennedy #leon kennedy/reader #re2 #resident evil 2 #remake #zombie #reader #you #reader-insert

[midrashic]

[headcanon] a map of hidden places i: new york city

{ a map of hidden places }

the first time james visits new york is more accident than anything; there’s a weapons expo and it’s january, and surely new york in january can’t be any more unpalatable than scotland in january. there are restaurants and boutiques whose names were, even then, synonymous with luxury, but james spends most of his time in the hotel room with the nanny playing with the puzzle ball he’d received that christmas. enid takes him to the natural history museum to see the mammoth bones, to central park to stare at the bare, shivering tree skeletons while he mounds old snow into various blobby shapes.

he doesn’t remember any of this; by the time he’s ten, new york is just a vague smear of concrete and solitude in his imagination, a glimpse of a faded marble facade that blends into all the other glimpses of all the other cities of everywhere else his father has ever had a conference.

for years, there’s the odd holiday abroad with his aunt, a trip with a school friend whose father owns a major hotel in the city or something. then there’s the navy. he learns new york in thirty-six hour stretches of shore leave, and he learns new york through the eyes of dozens of royal navy sailors, which mainly means that he learns very fast which bars near the harbor serve something roughly as strong as paint thinner for a measly two dollars per drink, or a dozen for a twenty.

but he learns other things, too. he saves up the days of walking on solid earth for the weeks when his feet won’t touch dry land and wanders into the neighborhoods that his well-to-do parents and guardians never let him anywhere near: bushwick, the lower east side, basically all of the bronx. new york city’s just hit its peak for violent crime, though someone only attempts to mug him once and gets a broken jaw for his trouble besides. the strangest thing for a brit is the gunshots that will ring out randomly, multiple times a night, but that’s true for every american city he’s ever visited.

he experiments with the subway. the tube in the 80s and 90s was no picnic, but hell, he learns, is a suspiciously empty new york subway car.

one strange thing: over the course of one particular weekend, he runs into a girl he slept with on shore leave in kingstown in a pizzeria named something uncreative like “48th street pizza,” an old university professor in a rare book store, a boy who was in the class above him at eton in bryant park, and then the girl again at a bar that night. (there is indeed a repeat performance.) this is a statistically accurate sampling of how often he recognizes a face from his past. back then, it was the third-largest city in the world, after tokyo and osaka, but it could sometimes feel very fatalistically small.

& then he’s in new york fairly often as a junior agent, but he doesn’t really tap the veins of the city until he’s a double-oh.

the thing about new york is that, for all that you tend to run into people you haven’t seen in years fairly frequently, it’s a great place to disappear. there’s no way to cover every possible exit when planning an ambush and a thousand laundromats, bars, and, hell, magic shops to duck into when you’re being tailed. vaguely seedy fleatraps that bill themselves as “youth hostels” where you can rent a room for four months and leave without anyone having asked you your name. the city seems to boast a disproportionate number of people sitting alone in the corners of coffeeshops, bars, hotel lobbies. it’s the first thing he thinks of when the name shows up in a mission briefing or news article: the pure relief of being quietly ignored, of being anyone, of being no one. he kills a drug kingpin and sips espresso at a café patio ten feet away as the police begin to boredly take statements. he garrotes a man in a bodega bathroom and no one notices for three days because it’s always out of order anyway. new york makes it so easy, so very easy to let a face become a file become a statistic. it has a carelessness with its people that he’s used to seeing in the third world, in places where the corruption is overt, in places that don’t even pretend to have a functioning police system. new york doesn’t care about you.

it also makes it so very easy to pick people up.

in a lot of ways, new york is a lot like london. it’s not every city in the world where you can get a sandwich at four am because the son of a bitch you were surveilling spent five hours haggling over uranium shipments with his contact, which was four hours and fifty minutes longer than he needed to spend. there’s a certain level of mercenary profit-seeking required to keep a sandwich shop open all night, damn circadian rhythms.

but new york takes it to excess. in london, you can probably find 24/7 takeaway within a reasonable walking distance, but in new york, you’re guaranteed to have at least five in the immediate neighborhood and eight more if you’re willing to go a little further for a substantial uptick in quality. during a particularly frustrating bit of downtime not longer after the quantum incident, bond strolls into a midnight karate class for no other reason than he’s bored and wants to see what kind of people can only do karate in the middle of the night. it’s a surprisingly friendly bunch, two night shift workers, a sleep-deprived college student, a jumpy little tweaker, and a single mother who decides to do this with her scant two hours of free time weekly. it’s taught by a petite woman who hits with the precision of an architect and used to practice jiu-jitsu competitively until a back strain caused her to switch to a sport with more standing and less rolling around on the ground.

he does try to sleep with her, but they actually end up sharing a platter of nachos in between (fittingly) manhattans at a bar and chatting about differences in karate conditioning techniques and shitty b-movies. the bartender joins in for the latter. he walks away that morning to another endless round of negotiation with the cia feeling strangely refreshed for a man who got no sleep and no sex.

bond ends up censoring his new york reports more than any other locale, not because missions go wrong in new york more often than anywhere else, but because they tend to go wrong in utterly baffling and sometimes embarrassing ways when he’s in new york. in the reports, he changes the timely plague mask-wearing flash mob that allowed him to escape his pursuer to a traffic jam, the girl wearing a dress made of lettuce that beat a terrorist into submission with her tomato purse into a well-placed police officer, the message he got painted on his nails in gold glitter to a simple note (it worked, the fsb searched him and found nothing and apparently manicured men in brioni are common enough in the city that no one even gave him a second look). new york is many things, but it spits on the dignity of the profession.

felix hates new york, hilariously. he calls it “the big asshole.” he hates the garbage sitting out on the streets, the way you can never tell whether a puddle is rain or urine, the flimsy little metrocards, the food deserts, the traffic, my god, the traffic. (bond has to agree: it’s bad. he once walked to laguardia instead of waiting for a taxi.) the only places he hates more than new york are minnesota and south sudan, which are the foreseeable consequences of a boy from texas spending his first winter away from home in the midwest and being a sane person with a functioning sense of smell. but for some reason, international criminals turn up in new york a lot more often than they do in ann arbor or south sudan, so felix has no choice but to spend sometimes weeks or months at a time in his third-least-favorite place in the world.

(bond knows why he really hates new york: in 2003 he was chasing a jewel smuggler and ran straight into a fruit cart. he was washing fruit juice out from behind his ears for a week and he lost the target. after that, anyone would hate this place.)

when bond is in midtown west, he makes a point of stopping by the trenta tre pizzeria, which boasts pizza that isn’t oily, isn’t too chewy or crisp, and boasts a sauce with a salty-to-sweet balance of flavors that make his eyes roll back in his head. he’s had the real deal, pizza lovingly crafted by hand, topped with buffalo mozzarella, and wood-fired in a tiny neapolitan back room. he knows better than to tell an italian--or anyone who he needs to think of him as a well-traveled sophisticate--but he prefers this.

coincidentally, the pizzeria is located next to a bodega that displays its fruit on wooden stands on the sidewalk. behind the peaches lives a cat, well-fed and sleek and a shameless thief of chicken parm pizza toppings. he doesn’t know her name--the owner is from rural ethiopia and doesn’t speak english, mandarin, arabic, french, german, spanish, russian, or any of the four other languages bond speaks--but in his head he’s named her selina after that greatest of feline burglars, catwoman. selina is good company after a violent mission, and almost never sheds on him, which is more than he can say about the other cats in his life. if he lingers after the pizza to pet her a little longer, no one needs to know.

the events, the new trends, the previews, the releases, blah blah blah. the access is touted more than it actually matters. he’s sure that- if he actually lived in new york he would appreciate the convenience of dwelling in the obligatory stop of every tour and the go-to place to drum up media attention. but he doesn’t and he has enough frequent flier miles that his grandchildren will probably be getting complimentary upgrades and if he really wants to be at the premiere of a much-hyped performance of la traviata he’ll make it there somehow. he does notice that the access has given new yorkers a strange sense entitlement--when a fashionable event happens someplace other than new york, the resentment is deeper, the sense of loss sharper--as if everything important should happen in new york. still. he brings home a tea flavored with the newly discovered ruby chocolate months before it becomes widely available as a souvenir for q. there are compensations. 

when q finally punches down his fear of air travel for long enough to make it to new york, bond keeps him out of manhattan. they drift around brooklyn and queens, wandering streets balanced on the knife edge of an existence that is almost suburban--dogs everywhere and strollers between the specialty shops and markets. they sit in a soda fountain famous for its egg creams and share a sundae named after elvis. q orders three different sodas--he’s a connoisseur of exotic beverages--and pronounces the house blend the best cherry soda he’s ever tasted. bond smiles at him around his ice cream float. the place is packed, every seat filled, but here, at a little round table tucked into the corner, he and q might as well be invisible, being aggressively ignored by everyone except the soda jerks. just two people, forcefully alone together. the last two people in the world.

#007 fest #teambondvillains #fandom: this is the end #relship: your loving arms (keeping me from harm) #ch: secret agent man #ch: shiny new steamship #event: gee brain what do you want to do tonight 2019 #ella headcanons #series: a map of hidden places

[indigoire]

It Read-through Chapter Three: “Six Phone Calls”

God. One hundred pages into IT and I only just got done with chapter three. This book can and will kill me. 

Warning for racism, suicide, blood, gore, abuse, assault, misogyny, and Bill Denbrough’s shitty opinions.

Intro Chapters One and Two

Silly me thought, oh, twenty-four chapters, one thousand one hundred and thirty-eight pages, that’s about fifty pages per chapter, I can crank that out no problem. I was reading full novels over the course of a day when I was in school. Easy peasy. 

Real whoppers like this chapter have me doubting myself. I’ll probably have days where I’ll break the chapter in half just so I’m not reading for three straight hours like I was tonight. 

Anyways, on to the chapter itself. It’s really more like six chapters crammed into one, all introducing us to an individual Loser with the exception of Mike. 

Let me sum up my reaction to these intros with my own tweet, having just finished Bev’s introduction:

And like, I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the fanworks, I know a lot of the lore. I even read past chapter three as a kid, I remember Bill’s intro so clearly now. I feel like I have my own form of amnesia, but the shitty memories I’m uncovering are of reading this book. So believe me when I say I knew going in that the Losers would be an amalgamation of mommy and daddy issues or just plain issues, anti-Semitism, misogyny, repression, trauma, long-buried PTSD, abuse…like, there’s a reason they’re Losers. 

But King feels like he needs to beat us over the head with this information. 

For example, let’s start with Stanley. Good old Stanley. Hey, did you know Stan was Jewish??? A simple mention wouldn’t be enough though, let’s throw every anti-Semitic word at the wall, but it’s okay because it’s from the viewpoint of a Jewish character, his wife. The Jewish wife can call herself a kike all day long, why not, let’s just go ahead and do that. 

Like. Come on Stephen. My notes say “at SOME point this just feels fuckin’ racist, dude.” 

Stan himself is lovely. We get to see him from Patty’s point of view (and, point of order, I just realized that all of the Losers are introduced from the viewpoint of another character, with the exception of Richie and Eddie), and Stan is a level-headed, smart, steady man. He seems to be “preternaturally confident” about his life choices, whether that’s choosing where Patty should apply to for work or starting his own accounting firm, and he always seems to find success. 

Stan also finds out about Bill and his books, but before the telephone call from Mike, before the Derry memories are supposed to rush in. Stan is reading Bill’s new book when he gets the call in fact. 

He also makes an oblique reference to the Turtle around Patty, “the Turtle couldn’t help us”, and then seems to shake it off without going into it with her. 

So. Either Stan remembered more than he let on, or something happened that made him aware. More aware than the rest of the Losers. Like, the Losers all seem to find wild success, supernatural success really, but to them it all seems to happen suddenly, at random. Not so with Stan. When Patty and Stan try to have children but can’t conceive, Stan says he knows the problem lies with him, he just doesn’t know why exactly. He then goes on to say that he’s in the eye of some storm, the calm between something terrible in his past and something terrible in his future. 

Of course we soon learn what terrible something is lurking in Stan’s future. One evening he gets a call from Mike Hanlon, telling him to come back to Derry. Stan answers the call, responds to Mike’s questions, then tells Patty he’s going to take a bath. She ends up watching TV a little too long, then realizes something is Off. She finds him locked in the bathroom with slit wrists and the word IT written in his own blood on the wall. 

The neighbors call the cops she screams so loud. 

We then move from Stan to Richie, whose name I have never been more happy to see in my whole life. Finally, finally, one of my favorite characters. Richie answers Mike’s phone call with nary a hiccup. He puts on a Voice to answer, not something silly but a sort of adult “everything’s going to be okay” Voice. He then arranges things with his travel agent and somewhere along the way he has to go back to his normal voice. “Now he had to go back to being himself, and that was hard–it got harder to do that every year.” Richie is building walls around parts of himself with his Voices, avoiding the real him. 

He does a couple of voices for the travel agent, she laughs hysterically, and he arranges his trip to Derry, and calls out of work. After it’s all taken care of, the memories start to rush back, the people, and he thinks of Georgie, with his arm ripped off, and then and only then does Richie vomit. He makes it to the toilet at least, but he empties himself entirely. He then removes his contacts. 

A rather short intro, but to me a nice reprieve. 

Ben’s intro is a lot better than I remember it being. I think I conflated it with his intro in the miniseries, where he brings home a girl and tells her about him being fat before they have sex. Here, not a whisper of that. There’s actually a bit where a woman asks Ben’s local bartender if Mister Hanscom is gay. “Mister Hanscom ain’t no sissy.” Cool. Thanks, Stephen. 

Basically, Ben haunts this one tiny bar in Nebraska in this tiny podunk “town”, where he gets to know the bartender, a Ricky Lee, very well over the years. He comes every Friday and Saturday night, no matter where he is. When he’s working on the BBC Communications Tower in London he still flies back home every Saturday to get his drinks. He never takes anyone home from the bar and he consistently tips well. The bartender enjoys his company. 

The night of the phone call, we see Ben head into the bar and there’s a terrible desolation hung over him. He tells Ricky there’s been bad news from home, and Ricky is sympathetic. He goes into some of the memories, of Bowers carving the H into his stomach, and shows Ricky the scar. He then orders a STEIN of whiskey, which Ricky, somewhat foolishly, gives to him, on the house. 

Ben then, mentioning an anecdote about the natives in Peru, snorts straight lemon juice and then downs the whiskey like beer. He then gives Ricky Lee three pure silver dollars that his father gave to him before he died. He makes mention of a fourth one that he gave to Bill…and a mysterious reference that Bill or Bev somehow used that silver dollar to save his life at some point. Meanwhile, Ricky is horrified. He keeps thinking of a bar patron that once hung himself after coming to the bar, and how Ben has the same look about him. He’s suddenly struck that Ben is dead, a dead man walking. 

But Ben walks out of the bar all the same, drives off, even while the waitress scolds Ricky for letting Ben drive, saying “he’ll kill himself”. And Ricky, who had thought the same thing not five minutes before says no he won’t. 

It’s a common through-line, the Losers being dead men (and woman) walking, everyone comments how scared they seem to be, how overwhelmed by fear, with the exception of Richie, who has no one with him, but Richie notes that he’s a dead man walking all the same. 

We move on to Eddie. In my notebook I wrote “EDDIE!!!” and immediately felt a renewed zeal to read. 

Eddie is introduced not by physical description but by what we find in his medicine cabinet. I couldn’t tell you the purpose of half of the items listed, a lot of them no longer exist, and as much as I’ve been busting out google for this book I wasn’t keen on looking up an entire pharmacy. I did note that one, there’s a lot of products for, as the book puts it, “moving the mail” (I wrote down “get the feeling Eds gets constipated a lot, needs more fiber in his diet”), and then I noted that Eddie also has some serious painkillers, along with some uppers and serious downers. You know a book was written in the eighties when “Quaaludes” gets name-dropped. 

I also wrote “Eddie is balding :C”, just so you know where my priorities lie. 

Of course we wouldn’t be able to talk about Eddie without mentioning Myra. Right after Eddie basically empties his medicine cabinet into his bag, Myra comes thundering up the stairs. Oh yeah, chalk down some good ol’ fatphobia from King. Literally every shitty character is fat in this book. 

Myra gets a bit of an interjection, though Eddie remains the central viewpoint for most of the chapter, and in her interjection she notes that she somewhat wants to trap Eddie (in the closet, jesus, very subtle) until “this madness had passed”. 

Eddie presses Myra into taking over for him in his driving business, and she hasn’t driven in years so she’s terrified, all while half trapped in his memories. He remembers his mom laying into his gym teacher for making Eddie take Phys. Ed. with asthma, but the teacher notes there’s nothing physically wrong with him. All the same, Eddie goes for his aspirator, takes a deep puff of it. 

He reflects that he knows how fucked up his marriage is, he knows he married his mother. Before he’d taken the plunge he’d placed a photo of Myra on the mantle next to his mother. He noted then that the two of them could be sisters. But he’d been weak and fallen into old habits. The jabs he could take, the jokes about Jack Sprat from his coworkers, but he really does seem ashamed of himself for taking the easier path, the one familiar to him. 

He truly cares for Myra if nothing else. He doesn’t want to hurt her in any way. Even semi-harsh words make him feel guilty and remorseful. He contemplates telling her everything, but it would only make her anxiety and distress worse. 

Also, two things of note: Eddie mentions that Myra “was really very sweet and had had even less experience with men than he’d had with women.” 👀 This and his pet-name for her, that makes her giggle to hear it, is “Marty.” I feel like this is far more telling of Eddie than the “marrying his mother” thing. He has affection for this woman, to be sure, but far more because she is safe, she doesn’t know much about men, she reminds him of familiar routines, she keeps him medicated and stable. He affectionately calls her a man’s name. 

And she? She wants to lock him in a closet to keep him safe and docile to her. 

As he leaves he briefly sees her transform (only for him, only mentally) into someone older, his mother back from the grave, “old and fat and crazy”, and a memory of his mother terrifying him in a shoe shop comes to mind. He shakes it off and asks her for a kiss, while saying to himself “if we were in water she’d drown us both.”

And then he flees to his taxi, on his way to the station and Derry. 

The next introduction is terrible. It made me so mad to read, I remember it disgusting me when I was kid, but it just infuriates me now. 

King’s only female protagonist, the only female in the Losers Club, Bev Marsh, is a walking punching bag. 

This part is told from the viewpoint of Tom Rogan, Bev’s husband, and he talks about how he got her under his thumb, how he could sense her vulnerability. And one, it reads like how every man assumes female abuse victims work, secretly wanting the abuse and having the choice to leave at any time but unable to, and two, it is some highly toxic misogynistic shit. And obviously it’s told from the viewpoint of a highly misogynistic character, an abuser through and through (who, by the way, is also fat, so there’s that fatphobia popping up again). 

But Tom knows that in times of extreme stress Bev is able to find her inner strength and push through. She becomes manic to do what she needs to do, and in those times Tom knows that his abuse wouldn’t be able to touch her. 

I filled up a quarter of a page with the words “FUCK TOM >:C” just so you know where my head was at as I read about him “teaching Bev a lesson” and beating her until she “learned”. He even knows that when he beats her she regresses back to being a child. A *gag* sexy child at that. His disgusting words, not mine. 

Of course Tom has parental issues of his own, of course! Match made in heaven. His mom beat him with a belt and he intends to do the same to Bev, put her in her place, give her a “whuppin’” as it’s phrased in the book. But Bev isn’t having any of that tonight. As Tom attempts to beat her for smoking and packing and daring to defy him, she fights back. She throws glass bottles at him and, as he gets more crazed, eventually tips the vanity on him. That isn’t even close to enough to keep him down though, so she snags the belt and whips him, first across the face, and then across the balls. Then and only then does he go down. 

She flees, shoeless and penniless into the night, and laughs once she realizes she’s out and probably out for good. My notes read “Tom can and will rot in hell.” 

Then my notes segue smoothly into “oh boy it’s Bill :|” and honestly, that could be the mood for the whole segment on Bill. 

Bill…Bill is so obviously Stephen King. Any time there’s a writer in a Stephen King novel you can bet that the writer is a stand-in for Stephen King. This is why it was amusing to me to have his cameo in It: Chapter Two roast Bill, his self-insert. I also should note that in the last chapter Adrian is noted to have been working on a long-languishing novel, and being in Derry inspired him, and just reading that made me groan. Not because I have anything against writers, lord knows, but because I know King included that detail to tie Adrian to himself and to Bill. I know it will come up later. I know King has to make every character him before he can empathize with them. 

Anyways, Bill gets the call from Mike all the way in England, where he’s staying in a cottage with his wife Audra. Beautiful, statuesque, red-haired Audra. “Why can’t you be the woman I want you to be” indeed. Not a line Bill says in the book by the way. At least not yet. 

Audra wants to know why Bill is shaking and why he pours himself a stiff drink before breakfast, so Bill begins filling her in on the details. And as he does we’re treated to memories of Bill in college, in his creative writing class. 

Now. Here is where I begin to lose patience with Bill and with King. King is clearly writing from experience. I know he had issues with his own college creative writing class. 

Basically, the class is pretentious, concerned with inserting political opinions into everything they write, going on about how war is sold by sexist capitalists and so on and you can just TELL that King is projecting hard. Bill’s works, fun sci-fi stories and mysteries, are given fairly low scores by the professor.

Then one day in class, during a period when another student is talking about her work, filled to the brim with socio-political commentary, Bill stands up and basically says that he doesn’t get what they’re talking about and “can’t you guys just let a story be a story?”

Which like, dude, okay, I get it on some level, this shit sounds pretentious as hell. But it’s COLLEGE. If you can’t get a chance to be pretentious in college then when else can you be? Also, you know for a fact that King is twisting this story to make himself look favorable, because it is clearly a story from his own past. So obviously the students have to be talking about buzzwords that have no meaning, instead of, oh I don’t know, expressing their political beliefs? Everything has politics in it dude! Even your shitty ass story reflects the political landscape of America in the eighties for fuck’s sake!! It, the novel, would not be what it is if it weren’t mired in politics. It has a lot to say about race, gender, and class, and if the message is muddled and directionless it’s only because the author, Mister King, didn’t put any thought into what he was trying to say, but rather wrote a story that was meant to shock. 

Anyways, Bill says the story thing, and it’s just the sort of malarky you would expect to see on the front page of r/braincels, with the top comment being “and then everyone clapped” because it is ridiculous. The teacher reprimands Bill, and Bill slinks out of class.

But OH BOY, Bill shows him! Because he writes his first horror story shortly after, and the story damn near pours out of him, and he brings it to class. The professor gives it an F and calls it pure pulp. 

Bill sells it for two hundred bucks to a shitty magazine, drops the class, and with the drop out note, well. I’ll let King take over here:

“Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor’s congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor’s door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I’m going to kill myself, because I won’t know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do.”

“Bill Denbrough,” my notes read, “kill yourself.” 

The rest of the section continues with Bill falling into the lap of success with his stories, meeting Audra while working on a screen adaptation of his novel, the shoot going unnaturally well according to Audra, and his following years of success. He slowly fills Audra in on the blanks. His brother’s murder. His scars, from the Losers’ vow, which have suddenly reappeared on his hand after the phone call. How Stan was the one that cut their hands, before turning the glass on himself. How Stan at first mimes slashing his wrists, as a supposed goof, but Bill almost stops him all the same. 

He then realizes he can’t tell Audra everything about what went down in Derry, but makes her promise not to come with him, to stay away from Derry. His stutter, which has slowly crept back in over the course of the conversation, scares her into promising

““And when do I see you again?” she asked softly. He put an arm around her and held her tightly, but he never answered her question.”

With that, thus ends chapter three. 

This chapter took it out of me. It was all so familiar and yet all so new and horrible at the same time. I honestly can’t say I’m having a good time, but I’m certainly interested in what I’m reading. It’s like reading about a parasitic wasp, what it does to the host. It’s gruesome and disgusting, but you keep reading because you want to see the end result. But the fun’s only just beginning.

Catch you all tomorrow, bye for now. 

#holy shit this was a long one #I spent three hours reading and two writing. So uh...yeah. #IT #Stephen King's IT #It (book) #It (novel) #Stephen King #IT Readthrough #Richie and Eddie are my only joys in reading this #I can't believe how much I hate Bill Denbrough

[bittysvalentines]

Secret Admirers are for Chumps

From: @secretgeniusshittyknight

To: @wlwboomboom

“Oh, those are fancy. Tiger lilies?” Holster asked, popping his head into Ransom’s cubicle.

“Yeah. They’re my-”

“Favorite,” they said in unison.

“Jinx,” Holster said with a wink. “Who are they from?”

Ransom looked at the small card tucked into the bouquet of flowers. “It doesn’t say. Just says, ‘You are a wonderful person whose smile brightens my day.’ Nothing else.”

Holster reached over and tousled Ransom’s hair, not that it did anything; the tightly coiled curls were cropped too close to his scalp. “Sounds like someone has a secret admirer. That’s cute.”

Ransom shrugged. “If you say so. I hope they don’t like expect me to just date them because they sent me gifts.”

A flash of an indecipherable emotion washed across Holster’s face, but it vanished in an instant. And without another word, Holster left Ransom’s cubicle and went back to work.

For the rest of the day, Ransom tried to put the flowers out of his mind. Yet, his thoughts kept drifting back to his mysterious admirer.

***

“These are fucking fantastic. Oh my God, Holtz. You have to try one!” Ransom didn’t give Holster a chance to object before he snatched a truffle from the box and held it to Holster’s mouth. And if his fingers happened to brush Holster’s lips, well whoops. “Best damn chocolates I’ve ever had.”

Holster mumbled in appreciation, his mouth full of confection. “Mmhmm.” After a beat of silence wherein both of them finished chewing, he spoke, “Do these have a card too?”

Ransom nodded, handing the card over. This time, instead of a small note, there was a crudely drawn handmade card with a slice of pizza on it.

“‘You have a pizza my heart.’ That’s adorable.”

“Check the inside. There’s more.”

Holster read, “You deserve the world, but no one in the world deserves you, not even me. You are one of a kind.’ Well, that’s...something.”

Ransom rubbed the back of his neck. “Whoever they are, they have good taste and seem to know me well.”

Nodding as though deep in thought, Holster chuckled, “You think it’s someone at the office? What if it’s Agnes on the fifth floor?”

Ransom gave him a playful smack in the arm. “Agnes is like my grandmother. Calls me the grandson she never had. Not only do I doubt she thinks of me that way, but I pray she doesn’t.”

***

“Okay,” Ransom said, dropping a box on the kitchen table when he got home. It hit with a thud and made Holster, Shitty, and Lardo look over at him from what looked to be an intense game of Mario Kart. “This is getting ridiculous. First, it was flowers, then chocolates, then a six-pack of that limited edition porter from All Ahead Full. You know the one…”

“Iceberg?” Shitty said.

“No the other one.”

“Ah, Hard to Port,” Lardo chimed in.

“Yes, That’s the one. And let me tell you, it’s fucking amazing. Please, do yourselves a favor and try one.”

Holster stretched his arms high above his head with a yawn, making his shirt ride up. Ransom absolutely did not stare. Nope. He didn’t even glance in that direction. “But wasn’t it like fifty dollars a six pack? I remember we asked about it when they announced it.”

“I know right? These gifts are getting extravagant. It’s almost like they’re trying to buy my affection.”

Holster sank down into the cushions of the couch. “Maybe they wanted to get you nice things? But you’re right, probably trying to buy your love.”

Was that a hint of bitterness? Ransom was about to ask, but he noticed the television out of the corner of his eye just in time to see Holster’s race rank drop from first to seventh as a blue turtle shell crashed into him. Lardo...was ruthless when it came to Mario Kart. “It’s been a week and a half. Flowers, chocolates, movie tickets, beer, and so on. I have no idea who this is, but it’s getting to be a bit much.”

“Yeah,” Holster mumbled, then cackled as he got retribution on Lardo’s blue shell by rocketing across the finish line just ahead of her. “Ha! That’s what I call karma!”

“Incidentally, what’s in the box?” Shitty popped the cap of one of the aforementioned bottles of porter.

“Oh, it’s...a Bruins t-shirt. A Bobby Orr shirt. In the correct size mind you. I didn’t think people at work listened when I talked about hockey. Hey Holtzy,” he said without looking as he pulled the shirt out of the box, “can you remember who it was I was telling about my favorite team? Was it Mark or was it Daphne?”

“Uh yeah, I think Holster went to take a piss or...something.” Shitty stroked his mustache, looking suspiciously like a supervillain when he did so.

***

To his surprise, the next day’s gift from his secret admirer was far less extravagant than he was suspecting, just lunch from Jimmy John’s. His usual order. It was starting to look more and more like Daphne from two rows of cubicles over was his secret admirer. She’d joined a bunch of them on a lunch outing more than once. Unfortunately, there was no card this time.

As annoyed as he was that someone in his office had this much of a crush on him that they would spend so much money on gifts for him, he was also quite curious, a fact which he mentioned to Holster, Shitty, and Lardo over dinner that night. “I think it could be Daphne. I should talk to her tomorrow.”

“I think,” Holster said with an entirely too full mouth, “that is a terrible idea.”

“Why? I know I talked about hockey with her, she would know what I ordered on my sandwich. She’s gone to happy hour at All Ahead Full, so...like she would know these things I like. I’m going to ask her.”

Holster didn’t elaborate on why he thought it was a bad idea to simply ask Daphne upfront if she was his secret admirer. Perhaps after Ransom had relayed all his evidence, Holster agreed with him. However, he remained strangely quiet for the rest of the night.

***

“Well, as it turns out… Daphne is a lesbian. She thought it was adorable though that I was convinced- Wait, where’s Holster?”

Lardo gestured to the bathroom, “Shower.”

“I thought we were supposed to have a movie night.” Ransom rubbed his forehead. “No, wait. That was tomorrow.”

“So,” she said, looking over at him, “what’d’ya get today?”

He shook the Mason jar of pistachios at her, pink and red glitter flaking off and falling to the ground as he did so. “Whoever they are is apparently, and I am quoting verbatim, ‘Nuts about me’. I don’t particularly care for pistachios, but it’s a cute idea. I guess.”

“Ransom,” Lardo walked over and put her hand on his shoulder, “you were uncomfortable when they were fancier gifts of things you liked, and you are annoyed when it’s homemade gifts of things you don’t like. That…”

“Sounds spoiled. I know. It’s more that I just want to know who it is. It’s unnerving… starting to feel like a stalker. That’s all.”

She hummed in contemplation. “You want to know what I think?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I think… you already know who it is.”

“I knew it! It is Mark. So how do I tell the guy I am not interested in him? He’s...I don’t know...utterly boring. Nice, but boring and should have told me all this to my face. Dunno, it’s becoming kind of creepy if you ask me.”

Lardo rolled her eyes, “Real insightful there, bro. Is it creepy, or are you just annoyed that they’re not coming from the person you really want to send you gifts?”

“Wait-” he called to her retreating back. “What was that supposed to mean?”

***

Three more days of increasingly simple gifts before Ransom came into work to find only a pink envelope decorated in that same pink and red glitter as the jar of pistachios, the homemade snowglobe, and pizza card on his desk. Inside was a machine printed note that said, ‘ Sorry. I’ll stop. Didn’t mean to freak you out. I tried to tell you in person, but I chickened out… again like the coward I am.’ There was badly drawn chicken with a sad face at the bottom of the note, but no name.

Huh, well how about that?

Ransom got up from his desk to go relay the latest events in this secret admirer saga to Holster, only to find his desk empty, computer off.

“Looking for Holster? He was here for about five minutes. Looked miserable. Boss sent him home sick.”

What? Holster wasn’t sick. He’d seen the guy just this morning just before he walked into the bathroom. He looked fine, and even if he was sick, why hadn’t he said anything to Ransom? They usually played nurse for each other when under the weather.

Baffled, Ransom sat down at his desk and tried to work, but for the better part of the day, his mind was elsewhere.

***

When he walked through the door that afternoon, after feigning illness (and why shouldn’t he? If his roommate got sent home ill, it stood to reason that he might also have caught the same bug. A total lie of course, but a believable one), he found himself met with total silence. Perhaps Holster was sleeping, as well he should be, but Ransom knocked on his door just to check on him.

“Hey, Holtzy...can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure. They said you looked like you felt terrible. Least let me come in and give you the cursory check.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Which one of us took a crapton of biology classes?”

Inside Holster’s room, he heard rustling, but eventually, Holster came and opened the door. The first thing Ransom noticed were his red-rimmed eyes and puffy face. He’d been crying. That or he had the worst case of stuffy-cold-watery-eyes face (trademark pending) that Ransom had ever seen. He was about to ask what the matter had been when his eyes caught sight of a bag, the contents of which were spilling onto the floor as though it had been haphazardly stuffed under Holster’s desk.

This, in and of itself, wouldn’t be too noticeable, but the bag of pistachios, a package of glass jars, scraps of construction paper...and a container of Valentine’s Day themed glitter which had opened and poured out onto the carpet caught his attention. Caught it, and kept it.

Pieces of the puzzle all slotted into place. Lardo had been right; he was upset because someone had been giving him all those gifts and it bothered him...because they hadn’t been from Holster.

Or so he thought.

Holster followed his line of sight, and a panicked squeak the likes Ransom wouldn’t even have thought possible from him escaped his throat. Ransom turned to look at him, noticing all the color had drained from his face.

Holster swallowed hard, eyes wide as though he was staring into the headlights of an oncoming car. Ransom swore he could see all the thoughts racing around in his head.

“I-” he began, but stopped, turned, and flopped down on his bed face first, burying his face in his pillow. What followed next, on any other day, Ransom would say was just Holster being overdramatic, but today… Holster screamed, the pillow muffling most of the noise. Then, he groaned, “Just get it over with, Rans.”

Get what- Oh. “Well, you could have gone about it in a less...weird way.”

Holster rolled over onto his back, covering his face with an arm. “I thought people found the idea of a Secret Admirer romantic. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

“Was this all a joke?” Ransom had to be sure before he said anything else.

Holster peeked out from under his arm. “What? Why would you think that?” With a long suffering sigh, he said, “First, I was just going to get you flowers. Then waltz over and say, ‘Surprise! Those are from me.’ But I panicked, and then, well you know” he gesticulated wildly with the arm not covering his face.

“It snowballed?”

“Yes. Exactly. So I tried to up the stakes. Nicer gifts each day, but you didn’t seem to like that. So, I went homemade. And well, then I overheard you talking to Lardo. So I gave up. Just if you would kindly put me out of my misery before leaving my room, that would be just grand,” he groaned.

Ransom pondered the thought. Holster was a large guy with larger emotions, who had the tendency to go over the top with most things. Why would declarations of romantic feelings be any different? And it was not as though Ransom didn’t think of Holster that way. In fact, it was the opposite. He adored him but had written off those feelings as purely platonic (most of the time. He was only human. So sue him) because Holster hadn’t shown any interest.

This was a case of differing preferences. Ransom preferred subtlety and Holster...did ostentatious work here? Yes, ostentatious. Had Ransom at any time grabbed a megaphone and shouted, ‘I think you’re great! I’d really like to kiss you...among other things!’, or had Holster just left a custom crossword puzzle on Ransom’s desk which spelled out, ‘You and I work great together. Date me?’ then they wouldn’t be in this mess.

So, he walked around to the other side of the bed, lying down on his back beside him. Then, he pried Holster’s arm away from his face and kissed his hand. “The beer was a nice touch. I thought they’d sold out of that one.”

Holster stared at him, flabbergasted. “I- you- what?”

Ransom rolled over and kissed Holster’s cheek. “Don’t hurt yourself there, Holtzy.”

“So...wait! This is a mutual feeling?” he shouted.

“Ding, ding, ding. Now he gets it.”

Holster burst out in ecstatic laughter. “You have got to be kidding me! But I um, sort of waited in line from like six am day of release. They sold out two people behind me.”

“Worth it,” Ransom said, lacing their fingers together.

“So um...I had a gift I decided not to give you and figured I would just see if you wanted to go with me...instead of you know…”

“Going with the mystery secret admirer?”

“Bingo. I have a pair of second row tickets for tomorrow’s game against the Aeros.”

Ransom reached over and tugged at him until Holster rolled on top of him. He kissed him on the nose. “I would love to.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It certainly is.”

#holsterransom #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

[crashdevlin]

Good Things: Part 2

part one 

You were lucky, when the demon started making its way through the wake, to be wearing a silver anti-possession amulet. Elvis, Alicia and Jody weren't so lucky. 

At one point, you were searching the manor with Mary, the stunningly beautiful and young mother Winchester. "I saw how Dean was looking at you. His father used to look at me like that." She said, quietly, not looking at you. She concentrated on clearing the room.

"Oh?" You couldn't think of anything better to say.

"I rejected John when he first asked me out. He was a Marine. I didn't want a soldier. Spent my whole life around hunters, didn't need more of the macho BS in my world." Mary finally turned to look at you. "Dean looks at you like he's trying to figure out how to win you over."

You cleared your throat. "I... don't... Dean has a reputation." You weren't sure why that was what came out of your mouth.

"I've heard." She confirmed.

"And I'd've been fine with that rep, but he was talking about some chick he had a connection with and I'm not the kind of chick guys like Dean cheat on their girlfriends with... I mean... I can't... Look at me."

"He doesn't have a girlfriend." Mary put her hand on your shoulder. "You should talk to him when this is over."

You did. After the exorcism, as you were watching Asa, Randy and Elvis being sent home in smoke, you bit your lip and approached him. "Thought I should actually say 'Goodbye' this-"

"You should come to breakfast with us." He interrupted. "We're takin' Mom to get some bacon. What do you say?"

You smiled. "Well, does this look like a body that says 'no' to bacon?"

You sat between Sam and Jody in a diner booth in North Dakota. Dean sat across from you, sharing a large plate of bacon with Mary. "Okay, craziest thing you've ever hunted?" Dean asked.

"Uh, probably the transsexual witch who cursed her community college to wake up in the body of someone of the opposite sex so they'd understand how she felt." You answered, before taking a bite of pancake.

"When you say 'she'..." Sam trailed off. It was a genuinely curious question.

"Born 'Michael', became 'Michelle'."

"What'd you do with her?" Mary asked, drinking down some coffee.

"Well, she hadn't actually hurt anyone, just confused the fuck out of 'em for about 16 hours, and she did it out of an overwhelming desire to be understood, so I put her in contact with a Wiccan priestess I know. Last I heard, she was flourishing in her new coven, really embraced the 'Harm ye none' thing."

"Wicca is new agey white-" Dean started to explain, but Mary shot him a death glare.

"Gardnerian witchcraft has been around since the Fifties, Dean. 'Wicca' replaced 'Witch' because the hippies wanted to beat the negative connotations, wanted everyone to know they weren't wart-covered crones in candy houses trying to curse everyone and eat little children."

"Oh, we met her." Sam spoke up.

"Who?" You and Jody chimed in together.

"The witch from 'Hansel and Gretel'. She was turning crappy adults into shitty kids so that she could eat them. Hansel was in on it."

You looked between the brothers. "You're bullshitting."

"Swear to God. She was one of the last old-timey witches from the Grand Coven. Probably only a small handful of 'em left. Rowena doesn't count." Dean answered Sam's unasked question.

"Who's Rowena?"

"A tiny Scottish ball of fury and dark magic. Not really evil, but definitely not one of the good guys." Dean responded.

"She got kicked out of the Grand Coven for being too ambitious." Sam followed up.

"Not to mention: you know Crowley? That's his mom."

"Crowley, the demon?" You asked.

"Crowley, the douchebag." Jody snorted derisively.

You laughed. "Okay. Somebody else, weirdest hunt you ever been on?"

"There was a Shifter who spent a year following Paul Simon's tour. He was killing people who had tickets to the shows so he could take their spot." Mary said, around a piece of bacon.

"Being the reason Bobby Singer found out Leviathans are allergic to borax was pretty weird." Jody provided.

"What's a Leviathan?"

"They almost ate the world, what, five years ago?" Sam asked Dean, who nodded. "They were seriously low-key about it, though. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of them."

"You sound like a hipster." You laughed. "So, what about you two? The legendary Winchester Brothers must have been on some ridiculous hunts."

"Oh, all kinds. Let's see, top of my head. Bloody Mary, killer clown ghost, haunted movie set where I got really into my role as PA, we killed Santa, the angels once wiped our memories and gave us new identities working office jobs. There was that time with the dragons. Oh, and when we went back in time and met Samuel Colt and killed a phoenix." Dean went through the list alternating between excitement and boredom.

"Not to forget everything Gabriel did to us. That was all ridiculous. Oh, and that alternate universe Balthazar sent us to where our lives were a moderately successful primetime TV show." Sam added.

"And Chuck's books about us."

"And finding out that Chuck was God."

"And not dying in the dust-up between God and his sister." Dean turned to Mary with a smile. "And getting Mom back as reward for mediating a reconciliation between them."

You stared at the table, going through everything you just heard. "Holy shit." You gasped out, finally. "I... I knew you guys started and stopped the apocalypse a few times, but... holy shit. Back and forth through time, alternate realities, you know God and he has a sister?!"

"You should stick around. We're bound to blow your mind some more. Crowley and our angel friend, Cas, are working together to find Lucifer, who was most recently seen in the body of has-been glam rocker, Vince Vincente."

"Oh, holy... Lucifer was in Ladyheart."

"No, Lucifer was in a dude who was in Ladyheart." Dean corrected.

"Wow. Your lives really are legendary."

"Well, you never know. Stick around. It might rub off on you. Then, you could be a legend." Jody nudged you, lightly, as Mary looked down with a smile. The moms were conspiring together.

"Yeah, well... I'm not sure if I could handle that."

"You don't know til you try, do you?" Dean smirked at you from across the table.

You took a deep breath. You had one more tool in your tool-bag to try to fend off whatever the hell was happening here: blunt, honest confrontation. "You are putting in a lot of effort here to get your 'I Fucked A Fatty' badge, aren't'cha?"

Everyone at the table jerked and the mood immediately fell into a limbo of apprehension as Dean blinked at you. "What?" He said after several long seconds.

"Oh, come on. This is obviously some Playboy Scavenger Hunt, right? Your list of conquests, a 'Fuck-it List'?" You took a bite of your pancake and looked pointedly across the table at him. "I'm a novelty, right? Bang a black chick, bang a latina, a milf, a mature... twins?"

Dean nodded, slowly, and licked his lips. "You think I've been flirting with you, trying to get you in bed, so that I can cross 'fat chick' off my list? Just makin' sure I got this right." You took a drink of your coffee and returned his uncomfortable gaze. He nodded again, then leaned forward. "When I was twenty-three, I met a chick named Ursula Green at a bar. She was five-foot-nothing, three hundred pounds, wearing a red halter top and a skirt with a split in the side clean up to her hip. She danced like no one was watching and threw a beer bottle at the redneck who told her to 'take her fat ass home' and I grabbed two nice big handfuls of her ass when I took her back to her home that night."

You swallowed. His green eyes bored into your soul as he continued. "She crossed 'fat chick' off my list." The way he said it was like he couldn't believe he was saying those words. "Now, I don't know what you've heard about me and I'm sure that I've earned a bit of that reputation... but I am not gonna sit here and let you think that I've been talkin' to you just because you're a little on the chunky side and that makes you a novelty. I don't know what kinda men you generally let into your life, y/n, but I don't play games like that."

You opened your mouth but no words came out. The other three occupants of the booth table all looked very uncomfortable, so you cleared your throat and stood. You threw a ten dollar bill on the table and walked out of the diner. 

"Where the hell are you going?"

"I'm going home, Dean." You grabbed the handle of your driver's side door and pulled your key.

"Yeah, I got eyes, y/n." He growled, putting a hand on your car door to keep you from opening it. "Why?"

You turned to him, exasperated. "Because I don't know what to do!" You shouted, pulling away from your door and leaned against the backseat window. 

"I've never had a man want me for anything more than a single-night novelty fuck, or worse a pity fuck, Dean, and I don't know what to do about a man like you wanting-"

"What do you mean, 'a man like me'?" Dean interrupted.

"A preposterously handsome biblical hero who shouldn't even look at a woman like me."

"What do you mean 'a woman like you'?" Dean shook his head. "Look, y/n, more than what I saw from you last year and-and what I saw from you with Jael last night, I have asked about you. Every hunter I've talked to since Spirit Lake has a story about you, some way that you've helped them in the past." You opened your mouth to argue that you weren't anything special and you'd always just done what any hunter would do, but Dean stepped closer to you and you were suddenly struck with how tall the man was. "You think outside the box, you put others first, you are the epitome of selfless and goddamn it, you're gorgeous."

You looked down. "That's not true..."

"Stop acting like you don't see it." Dean demanded.

For some reason you needed to resist him. "See what? I've got mirrors in my house, Winchester. I see-"

"You obviously don't see. You don't see what I see."

"Are you kidding me?! You really expect me to believe that you met me, spent two days with me, and I-I somehow impressed you enough that you've spent the last year with me on your mind? I'm not an idiot!"

"Yeah, not an idiot but you sure are blind." Dean took another step closer to you, looking down at you with a confused annoyance. "Fuck, y/n. Why the hell won't you-"

"Because it's too good to be true!" You exclaimed, pushing off from the side of your car and standing up to him, ignoring that his height was so intimidating. 

"Good things don't happen to me, Dean, they never have. So when I have a stunningly handsome man telling me I'm gorgeous, it sets off my bullshit alarm."

"Good things don't happen to you because you run away as soon as they start!" Dean insisted. "You think those extra pounds around your middle are your defining characteristic, but they aren't. That weight is nothing and you need to stop focusing so much on it. I didn't even clock you as fat until you started that shit inside. This isn't bullshit, y/n. I leave my lies for when I'm on a hunt."

You bit your lip and looked up into his stunning green eyes. "Dean, I-"

His face softened. "I'm not trying to get you to jump in bed with me, y/n." He reached out and brushed a stray hair out of your face. His hand rested against your ear and his fingers twirled your hair. "But don't run. Stay. Let the good things happen... in their own time."

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and presented it to him. "Put your number in. I'll text you."

"You're still gonna leave?" He asked, disappointed, as he took a step back and took the phone out of your hand.

"I've got a hunt in Tennessee. Only reason I'm not on it already was for Asa." You answered. "But... I'm interested in... letting the good thing... this good thing... happen."

"The cautious approach. I'm all right with that." He said, tapping his thumbs against the screen of your cell phone. "I just texted myself so that I have your number, too. A warning: I drunk text." He smiled as he handed your phone back.

"Okay. As long as you don't send pictures I haven't requested... I'm okay with that."

"There gonna be pictures you do request?"

You chuckled, turning your forgotten key in the driver's door. "Maybe, Winchester."

"Can I request pictures?" He asked, as you got into your car.

"Not yet." You smiled as you turned your engine over and headed out. 

Part Three

#spn #reader-insert #fanfic #dean/reader #eventual smut #plus size reader #self esteem issues #cassie writes stuff

[luckyukhei]

Decisions

Word Count: 2.1k! This one beats "Okay, Twilight" in length.

A/N: I've been working on this idea for ages! I'm finally doing it!

Summary: In her third year of going to a school notoriously known for its high population of Seoul's richest kids. In a world where her economic class is the most important thing about her, she's now faced with a more prevalent question. What Will You Choose?

AU: High School, Rich Kids

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader x Jaemin

Teaser Jaemin Version - Teaser Jaehyun Version

The first day of school was stressful just because of all the talk of class fees that your scholarship didn’t particularly pay for. Your group of friends waited for you as you made a call to your cousin asking if they had shifts for you to pick up at the family restaurant.

Making your way back to the group as they started walking with you. They were on scholarship to this school as well but, you were the poorest of the group. Being the goofs they were they were playfully horsing around. While you were quiet. 

You felt a hand on your shoulder and Jaemin’s voice manifested directing itself at you, “What did your cousin say?”

“Oh,” You covered his hand in yours, “She’s picking me up to talk to my uncle about it?”

Haechan’s voice interrupted the small moment with the mentioning of someone else, “Chunja looks like she changed a bit over the summer. You going to slide up on her?” 

“Who says that?” Renjun squinted at the unarguably most wild of the bunch.

“I do, No fun Renjun.” Haechan raised his fist to pretend to hit Renjun but, instead, he nudged Jaemin.

Jaemin rubbed his neck,” I dunno maybe. You think she’d be into me?”

Your heart barely had time to swell in an odd feeling when the whole group slowed down. You didn’t have much of a choice because of your position in the middle of the group but, to stop as you heard the speeding of a car pass the group with hooping and hollering. 

You looked at Mark as he mumbled, “God. They’re such asses. Rich kids...”

The group continued their own conversations even causing Chenle’s dolphin laugh ring out among the group.

You squeezed through to stand next to him, “Don’t you hang out with them sometimes?”

He nodded in response, “That’s only because my uncle has money and makes his stepson take me with him so my mom feels like I’m assimilating fine.”

“Look at you! Using big words! Sounding all educated.” You laughed at him and he gave you a big brother seeming smile. 

They always dropped you off at your house first then Jaemin as he lived right next to you. This time you took notice of your cousin’s car in the driveway along with your mother’s.

“Movie night at Mark- Hyung’s on Saturday!” Jisung reminded you.

“Jisung, it’s Monday. What are you gonna do? Remind her every day?” Jeno teased as they left. 

You walked inside greeting your siblings, who excitedly talked about the first day back from break, and mother, who always took the first day of school off of work.

“Jiwoo is waiting for you in your room. We’ll talk about your day when you get back.” Your mom winked at you as she continued listening to your young sister.

“Yes, ma’am.” You nodded at her and walked to your room.

After years of saving up and asking for certain decorations for your birthday or even creating some of them, including a wobbly desk that served as a reminder of why you and the “Dream Team” shouldn’t be anywhere near Woodworking class or power tools in general. One thing that wasn’t apart of your room was your cousin who was lounging on your with two big bags set on the floor.

“What did you bring me?” You asked, tossing your bag in your desk chair.

“Well, hello to you too,” Jiwoo chuckled and wobbled on her knees to the edge of the bed, “I figured that since the girls at my college really liked you from your visit, they wanted to add on to this set of hand me downs. They even gave you old jewelry and shoes. Those are in my car. Although it seems lame that you’re wearing others clothes and stuff.”

You smiled as you looked through the clothes, “Are you kidding me? These are all so pretty and nice!”

“Yeah. They’re nice but, you deserve clothes you bought not preowned.” She told you with sadness laced in her voice.

“That’s why I work hard now, Ji... Tell them I said thank you,” You gave her a big smile as you held up a crop top and a pair of jeans, “For now, let’s try on this cute outfit.”

You sat with Jiwoo and ate ice cream that she leaves in the freezer just in case she has to stay in the restaurant late. You both eat ice cream out of the tub and talk.

“Today, on the way home Haechan was talking to Jaemin about Chunja,” You started scooping out a spoonful of ice cream.

“And this is significant why?” Jiwoo asked, sipping her drink.

“First off, Jaemin is my best friend and he has never, ever, said anything about this girl to me.” You put the spoon in your mouth.

“Is sweet little Y/N jealous?” Jiwoo teased.

You rolled your eyes, “No, I’m not jealous. Just worried. Chunja is one of the most popular girls in school and I think she’s-”

You dragged your eyes to look at a group of boys who started to wave you over. 

“Those kids go to your school?” Jiwoo asked looking over.

“Yeah. They’re Flushes.” You told her standing.

“Flushes?” She asked tilting her head. She grew up rather middle class so some slang she just hasn’t heard.

“Shitty rich people.” You told her before walking over to the table.

You knew of all of them. You knew Lucas fairly well. He hung out with you and The Dreamies every now and then. He was a cool person and fit right in but, he only hung out with the group if his rich friends. He did tell you when he hung out with his friends if you or anyone in the group saw him call him Yukhei.

“Hey, Yukhei!” You gave him a fist bump and a wink.

“Hey, beautiful. I’ve got a few questions for you.” He told you with his ‘playboy’ voice.

“Anything for you.” You nudged him.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas smiled.

“I hope your hoodrat friends aren’t here,” Taeyong muttered before being hit by Jaehyun.  Taeyong was known for his distaste for the scholarships. He would go out of his way not to be associated with any of them except Mark.

“My family owns this place.” You answered ignoring the comment and the assault of Taeyong.

“They do?” Jaehyun inquired seemingly interested. You had a few classes with Jaehyun but, you never really talked because you had at least one member from your group in your classes. But, this year he has two classes with you. One filled with his friends and another with you and two of your friends.

You nodded and looked at Yukhei, “Next question. “

“That ice cream you had looked really good... Do they sell it here?”

“No, sorry.” You chuckled and rubbed on your neck.

“See I told you,” Jungwoo hit Yukhei’s shoulder then looked at you, “Yukhei’s is wrong about most things.”

Jaehyun spoke up,” He was right about one thing.”

“Oh? What was that?” You asked playing along.

“You definitely are beautiful,” Jaehyun took your hand gently, “We’re having a party this Saturday. I would love for you to come.”

You looked around before leaning toward the center and beckoning them to lean, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want a hoodrat messing up your party. Plus, I’ve got better things to do than hang out with a bunch of Flushes.”

Before any of them could respond you did a full 180 and waved them goodbye, “Bye, boys. Don’t forget to tip your waitress. I know you’ve got the cash.”

You slid into the office where your uncle usually counted money at night and where the security footage was collected. He told you to wait in there while he finished some things up. Jiwoo was seated on the table and started clapping as you slipped in.

“I have no idea what you did but, they tipped Ms.Kim fifty dollars,” Jiwoo smirked at you,” One of them left you his number.”

“Toss it.” You told her.

“Y/N... He’s a rich kid. Maybe his your way out.”

“He’s a Flush and I’m my own way out.” You couldn’t continue because your uncle came in.

“Y/N, I can’t give you any shifts.”

Your heart dropped, “I need the money...” You were willing to do anything. You worked hard to make sure you were helping your mom out in any way. As long as her and your siblings were taken care of you would work every minute you weren’t in school.

He held out a stack of bills,” That’s why I’m handing it to you. Y/N, you work so hard for everything you have so now it’s time for us to let you relax. You’re still a kid. You aren’t an adult you shouldn’t work like one. Just maintain good grades and get out of the lower class and I’ll help take care of you.”

Your eyes began to water before tears quickly made their way down your chin before you hugged the old man with as much strength as you could muster, “Thank you so much.”

Little did any of you know that the blessing to relax would come at the cost of teenage drama.

That night you were putting your new clothes, shoes, and jewelry away while playing music. There was a knock on your window. You jerked your head towards the window and saw a smiling Jaemin at your window. This was a frequent occurrence that started in middle school. When Mark wanted to hold a group meeting or Jaemin just wanted to come over.

You unlocked the window and slid it open, “Are you staying or are we going?”

“We’re going. Put a jacket and some shoes on.”

“Yes, sir.” You pulled a pair of shoes on and a jacket before taking Jaemin’s hand and climbing out the window and on to the raggedy old roof. From there you climbed down the tree by your house that connected your backyards.

You both dusted your hands off and stuffed your hands in your pockets. You two didn’t really talk. There were a few reasons for that.

A group of voices and smell of distant weed was one of those reasons. Instinctively Jaemin yanked your hood to cover your head and then covered his. He brought you into his side and shielded you. 

The group watched you two walked by. They used to be your friends. You grew up with them but, ever since your group got scholarships to the “rich kid school” they felt like your group was trying to become “Flushes”. Although that wasn’t the case.

Another reason was keeping quiet until you got to the rest of the group as it was in your best interest not to get caught as rumors spread fast in a school full of snobby kids who are all watching all the time. Looking for reasons to justify the want in the separation of both groups.

The meeting place was at the picnic table by the swings in the park. Jaemin hopped the fence and you followed suit. 

The smell of pizza caused you to run to the spot and grab a slice of pizza. 

“Hello to you too,” Chenle commented and you lovingly leaned on him.

With a mouthful of pizza, you asked,” Who’s to thank for feed yours truly?”

Mark raised his hand and you blew him a kiss.

“What’s the meeting about, great leader?” Jaemin asked in a joking manner.

“It’s about Saturday,” He leaned on the pole,” Johnny, my uncle’s stepson, invited us to a party this Saturday.”

“Okay... Did you say no?” Jeno asked eating some pizza.

“I told them we’d be there.” Mark sighed at the chorus of groans.

“Saturday is for the boys plus, Y/N not a bunch of rich kids we don’t like.” Jisung voiced.

“For once in his very young life, Jisung is very right.” You spoke up.

“Guys, this is our chance to befriend the rich kids. Show them that we aren’t that bad. So, Saturday, I want you in your best party clothes. I want you guys to show those Flushes how we ‘hoodrats’  get down.” Mark got his leadership voice and you raised your hand.

“We can meet up at my place since it takes me the longest to get ready.” You offered.

“I’ll take my dad’s van and pick everyone up,” Jeno suggested.

“Sounds good,” Mark nodded, “Y/N, did your uncle give you any shifts?”

“He told me to stop working like an adult and to relax then handed me money for class fees “ 

Haechan smiled at you, ”Thank Goodness. Now we don’t have to hang out at the restaurant when you work. What are we gonna do with all this time with our favorite girl?”

“Get through the party with the rich kids,” Jaemin answered.

#worldwidehansum #nct #nct mark #nct dream #nct 127 #nct u #nct 2018 #jaehyun nct u #jaehyun nct #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun #jaemin #nct jaemin x reader #jaemin x you #nct jaemin #jaemin x reader #jaemin nct dream #nct highschool au #nct rich kid au #nct renjun #nct haechan #nct chenle #jisung nct #nct jisung #nct jeno #nct love triangle

[phoenixmakeswords]

This Thing Needs A Name Ch.1

I thought I might share the first chapter of the AU I’m working on with y’all. I’m actually enjoying writing this more than I thought I would. TW: CSA mention (nothing graphic) and brief anxiety attack.

The icy December wind cuts through my clothes as I make my way down 23rd street to The Inked Moose. I hate winter. Especially Chicago winter. If I had any sense, I would’ve driven my car, but I never claimed to be smart. Ask my mama; she’ll say the same thing.

Stepping inside the tattoo shop feels like coming home. I'm more familiar with the bright orange walls, black tile floor, and lime green ceiling than I am with almost any other place in the city. The eclectic décor is mostly local artwork that’s also for sale. Herbert the moose is the exception to the rule. Sporting oversized, green novelty sunglasses, he watches over the lobby from his place behind the front desk. Mardi Gras beads hang from his massive antlers.

I'm too early. I know that. But I'm always early.

Ransom, my regular artist, smiles warmly when he sees me. He’s honestly the most beautiful man in the city. I'm not just sayin’ that ‘cause he does amazing tattoos for me either. I could get lost in those jade eyes of his. I’d love to knot my fingers in that curly black hair of his and kiss him breathless. I’d be lying if I said he isn’t in my fantasies every time I jack off.

I deal with the paperwork and browse the variety of plugs and tunnels in the display case. I could probably do the paperwork in my sleep. I don’t want to bother him while he’s working.

“You know, we’re actually needing help,” the owner, Riley, remarks casually.

“How’d you know I'm needin’ a new job?” I’ve lived here since I was thirteen but I haven’t managed to trade my New Orleans accent for that of Chicago yet.

“I didn’t. I can get you an app while you wait on Ransom. It’s not an artist’s position. You’d be the receptionist. Still interested?”

“Riley, I’d live here if I could.”

Filling out the app takes the perfect amount of time. Ransom’s finished the sketch just as I’ve finished the app.

“Like it?” he asks, toying with his blue Star of David necklace. He does this when he’s nervous. I think it’s cute.

I'm in love with it. The Falcon tattoo looks awesome!

“Let’s do it,” I grin.

I watch eagerly as he sets up. This is when my nerves really set in. He looks perfectly at home here. He hums softly to himself as he gets the inks out. He’s taped a picture of the Falcon to the cabinet so he can match the colors.

“You look terrified,” he remarks.

“I am. This is gonna hurt.” I set my glasses on the guest chair so I don’t send them flying when I take my hoodie and t-shirt off. It makes me nervous for another reason. I'm half-naked with the guy I have a thing for.

Once the transfer’s been placed and my skin’s clean, I lie on my left side in the chair, facing the wall. I have other ink. I’ve gotten all of it from him. But none of it’s been on my ribs.

“So, we might be working together?” he asks, starting his machine.

“Yeah. I'm still going to school too.” I swear I can feel the needles vibrating in my bones. It hurts! I thought it was painful when he tattooed over the tendon in my forearm on my phoenix. Nope, this is worse.

“What happened with the bakery? I thought you were happy. You good?”

“I fucked up. Yeah, I'm good.”

“What’d you do, Kris?”

“Slept with the brother of one of my coworkers. Now the guy’s bein’ a complete jerk to me.”

“You are going to get the crap beat out of you one day for that. What if the guy has a boyfriend and you don’t know it?”

“Well, I guess I'm screwed.”

He chuckles softly at that, a low rumble in his chest.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” I tell him. I'm starting to get used to the pain. I wish I could watch; watching him do the tattoo helps.

“Oh, yeah? What’s up, buttercup?” Amusement flickers in his eyes.

“I like you.”

“That’s not a question.” He sounds confused. Go me.

“How do you feel about hookups?”

He worries his full lower lip between his teeth for several heartbeats. I’ve gone too far. I’ve screwed up the one good thing I had going for me. He might never want to tattoo me again.

“Friends with benefits?” he asks quietly, wiping off excess ink and rubbing my skin with Vaseline.

“Yeah.”

“Alright, if this is fucked-up, it’s your fault. You completely derailed my brain.” He sighs softly as he touches the needles back to my skin.

“My tattoo or us?”

“Both.”

“You don’t have guys asking to sleep with you all the time?” The idea surprises me. Surely I'm not the only guy who thinks he’s hot.

“Not generally, no. Tonight?”

“Your place or mine?”

“Mine.” A slight smile plays at his lips as he works.

We both lapse into silence for a bit. I can hear Kaiden and Raphael, the other two artists, working on their own respective clients. The buzzing of the machines is a comforting sound to me. Too bad white noise machines don’t have tattoo machine noises as an option; they might actually help me sleep then. The Kids Aren’t Alright plays from the speakers and I hum along to it softly.

“So, which do you like? Top, bottom, or doesn’t matter?” he asks quietly, stirring me from my thoughts.

“Bottom, usually. I don’t mind topping once in a while.”

“That works. I’ve almost got the outside outlined. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? You know that.”

“I'm good for right now.”

“I think they interviewed your sister about being a piercer.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Serious as a heart attack. You guys don’t look alike.”

“I look like Mama. She looks like him.” I can’t help the extra emphasis I put on the word. It’s all caps in my head. Has been for years.

“Him being your dad?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ perverted bastard.”

“Whoa. Chill with the ice before you give me frostbite.” He pauses to scoot closer, leaning over me as he works. I don’t know if it’s the hand a couple inches above my hip or the sudden closeness, but I can’t breathe.

“Break.” I barely choke the word out. He leans back immediately.

“You okay?” He sounds worried.

“Gimme a minute. Please.” Shutting my eyes, I try to remember how to breathe. I don’t need to have an anxiety attack. There’s no reason for me to freak out like this. It’s Ransom. He’s not going to attack me.

“You alright?” he asks gently.

“Anxiety.”

“Did I do it or did what we were talking about do it?”

“I don’t know.” It’s several moments before I can breathe again. He doesn’t complain, though. “You can go ahead.”

“Are you still liking your classes?” He goes back to work.

“They’re not bad. I'm excited to graduate, though.”

“Still planning on opening a bakery?”

“Of course. If I ever don’t want to, I'm probably an alien.”

“Do you wanna just come home with me after my shift?”

“Sounds good.”

I don’t complain of it hurting until he starts filling the tattoo in. The pain is more constant now, more of a pulsing throb in each of my ribs. I don’t ask for another break. I don’t want another break.

I exhale shakily in relief once he’s done. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until my muscles relax.

“You needed another break,” he remarks, cleaning my new ink gently. I flinch each time he touches my tender skin.

“I didn’t want one.”

“You’re impossible.” The smirk’s audible in his voice. “Wanna see it? Can I take a pic?”

It looks awesome! It looks straight out of one of the movies, which makes sense ‘cause that’s where the reference pic came from. I love it.

“You rocked it,” I grin, knocking my knuckles against his. His face lights up at the praise.

He doesn’t say anything until after he takes the picture on his phone.

“I'm glad you like it. Remember your aftercare instructions?” he says, pressing Saniderm sheets over the Vaseline-coated tattoo one sheet at a time.

“I might need an extra set of hands covering it. I think I’ve got them memorized.”

“I’ve got Saniderm at home, but you’ll have to get more salve. Not sharing that.”

“You’re willin’ to fuck me but not share your tattoo salve?” I wince as I slide my shirts back on.

“That’s what condoms are for.”

I dig out my wallet and press a fifty dollar bill into his palm.

“That goes in my new car fund,” he jokes, stuffing it into the front pocket of his tight black skinny jeans.

“I’ll be up front, okay?” I squeeze his hand tentatively. He smiles shyly in response.

I buy a couple little jars of tattoo salve before making myself at home in one of the plush chairs in the lobby. This is my biggest piece so far, so I know I’ll go through a lot of salve.

I glance anxiously at my phone once I get comfortable. I haven’t heard from my family since last weekend when I came out as gay. I’ve sent texts, but all I’ve gotten is radio silence. And it hurts. It twists inside me and wraps around my heart and digs in with little thorns until I can barely stand it. “Ready to go?” Ransom asks, startling me. He’s 6’3” and as silent as a housecat. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” I just want him to fuck me. And then on tomorrow night, Clare and I will go out and I can drink and forget for a little bit.

“You look pretty upset.” He puts on his coat and shoves a red beanie over his curly hair.

“Drop it. Okay?” The good mood I had when I got here has evaporated.

I barely say a word on the drive to his apartment. I might tell him. I might not. I’ll probably tell Clare later; I tell her everything.

“I'm not sure how you like doing this, but I wouldn’t mind spending a little time with you first,” he remarks in the elevator.

“I don’t really care for porn.”

“I was meaning dinner and talking to you. Not just screwing your brains out.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I need right now.” I sigh in relief when the elevator stops. I just wanna have sex and feel a little less shitty than I do right now.

“Are you mad at me?”

“It’s not you.”

I barely wait until he’s locked the apartment door behind us before I'm kissing him hungrily. I have to stretch to kiss him; he’s almost a foot taller than I am. He hesitates a moment before he kisses me back. His lips taste like pina colada.

“Have you been drinkin’?” I ask, pulling back. I'm not a rapist. I'm not a monster.

“Lip balm. Like it?” He guides me gently to his white couch. I don’t want gentle. Right now, I don’t need gentle.

“Yeah.”

“Kris, if this is some convoluted self-harm thing, we’re not doing anything tonight. I’m not helping you fuck yourself up.”

“I’m already fucked up. I don’t need help.” I glare at him irritably. I wish he’d quit trying to therapize me and get with the screwing.

“What changed? If you think I’m gonna spread nasty rumors or blackmail you or some shit like that, I’m not. I don’t do that.” He traces the outline of my phoenix tattoo with his forefinger.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Alright? I asked you to drop it, so fuckin’ drop it.” My voice breaks pathetically. Great. Now he’s gonna think I’m moody and pitiful.

“Are you hungry? I’m gonna eat before we do anything, okay?”

“Go ahead. I’m fine.” I haven’t felt like eating for a couple days. I should probably eat something, but it feels like too much effort.

“If you change your mind, just say something.” He squeezes my knee gently before going to the kitchen.

I pull out my phone as soon as he’s gone. Nothing. My messages have been delivered but not answered. I feel like wrapping myself in a blanket and disappearing for a while. Maybe if I’d had some idea this was going to happen, it wouldn’t be as bad. I mean, it’d still be soul-sucking and depressing, but I could’ve at least anticipated. Instead, I’ve been blindsided.

And I feel like absolute crap. He’s nice. Like, he might be the most considerate guy I’ve been with.

“I don’t usually do this,” I murmur, snuggling against him.

“Do what? Stay the night or sleep with your tattoo artist?” He runs his fingers carefully through my hair. Like I might break if he’s anything but gentle.

“Both. I, um, I usually go home. After—After what happened, it’s hard for me to stay the night. Plus, I don’t exactly have the greatest taste in men. No offense. You’re great.” I tense as I wait for him to pepper me with questions. I don’t like talking about why I live in Chicago and not New Orleans. Why I don’t feel safe ever going back. Why I have nightmares so bad I wake up screaming. I don’t want to explain. I don’t feel like explaining. But he’ll ask, so I’ll answer.

“Is there anything I can do to make it less scary? You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

I raise up to stare at him in shock.

“You’re serious?” I whisper.

“Of course.” He brushes his thumb gently along my cheekbone.

“This wasn’t what I expected.”

“The sex or me wanting to help you?”

“The last one.” I go back to lying against his chest.

I hadn’t expected him to care about how big of a deal this is to me. It’s kind of nice.

#my writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #alternate universe #original fiction #original fanfiction #lgbt romance #lgbt fiction #first chapter #kris is a mess

[foolgobi65]

we can be heroes if we just close our eyes (head first, can’t lose)

k so this is chapter one of an unfinished fic i started writing 2 summers ago i’ve got like ... maybe 5/12 chapters written? its been hanging out on my shitty drive for too long so i figured id find out what you guys think!! its .... a ...... b99/avengers/megamind/amnesia fic. i know it makes no sense but it has a plot i promise. 

plEASE reblog im desperate for attention and validation and i have no shame whatsoever thanks love u all <3 <3 

“Jake’s gone and robbed another bank,” Black Widow says, filing her nails. She tosses a glance at Amy, filing away the last of her paperwork and pauses. “.....you could go stop that, if you’re in the mood, Cap.”

Captain America rolls her eyes and signs the last form. “Make sure that Holt gets this, alright?” Amy wonders whether she should put on her uniform, before deciding to just grab her shield. It’s not as if Peralta’s expecting anyone else.

“Excuse you, but I am a highly ranked Agent of this fine, international organization,” Gina says, “I’m like, second in command of all this shit. Go find a real secretary to do your dirty work.”

“You’re playing Kwazy Kupcakes,” Amy observes. Gina raises an eyebrow without looking away from her phone.

“And I snapped three necks between my thighs before 9 a.m,” Gina drawls. “I’m magical, bitch. Get on my level.”

Amy sighs, rolling her shoulders a little. “Just...make sure Holt sees the report, okay?”

“Jake’s probably robbed two banks in the time it took for us to have this little chat, but whatever.” Gina waves the fingers of her free hand vaguely in Amy’s direction. “We’re having a bit of a morale issue so don’t do any property damage, use two types of birth control, you know the drill.”

Amy does, in fact, know the drill. She strides into the elevator and checks the instructions that Gina’s managed to send her on the way down. It’s a screenshot of a series of text messages Peralta sent Gina about ten minutes ago, if the timestamp is correct. She reaches the ground floor, nods at a passing Agent and heads out to the parking lot still scrolling through the images.

stealin sme shit from the bank on prk ave

tell america 2 wear her civvies

her leather jacket is A+

she shud wer more leather less pantsuits

k the alarms r off c ya l8r sk8r

Amy looks down at her gabardine pantsuit and realizes two things simultaneously. 1) She needs to change out of her chunky heels, and 2) She’s going to have to wear her leather jacket, and Peralta will never let it go.

One change of shoes and jacket later, she’s on the road, cruising through traffic on her motorcycle. A child notices her shield strapped to her back and yells out excitedly, a young couple whistles three times before Amy is too far out of range to hear. Grandparents walking on the sidewalk salute, and Captain America Santiago switches between waving and a gentle smile, befitting her status as national icon.

Sometimes, she kind of loves her job. And then other times, she has to go fight Iron Dude in the streets of Manhattan.

“Ayyyy America!” Peralta shouts when she arrives. He’s currently occupied with throwing handfuls of what look to be hundred dollar bills from a giant bag he’s carrying in his left hand, repulsors keeping him airborne as he makes it rain money on the good denizens of New York. “Come to collect some extra cash? They can’t be paying you very well at SHIELD.”

Amy rolls her eyes, taking her gun out of its holster and shooting at the bag. Peralta moves slightly and they both watch as the bullet misses its target by inches.

“Were you even trying?” he asks laughing. Peralta throws another handful of bills into the air. Amy shrugs, grabbing some cash off the ground. Definitely hundreds, then. She readies her gun and fires again, this time repeatedly, anticipating any way he might move and meeting him with a bullet.

One of the bullets grazes Iron Dude’s hand, another three puncture the bag in quick succession. It drops on the pavement, and Amy smiles. Peralta groans, sound only slightly incongruous when filtered through the voice modulator of the Iron Dude suit.

“You’re the worst, America. All I wanted to do was even out the distribution a little, fight the power, you know?” Amy rolls her eyes.

“Then write a letter to your Congressman, Peralta. And stop calling me that.” He comes back to Earth, and steps forward.

“Stop calling you what, America? It’s your name, isn’t it? Tell me, did your parents know they were visionaries, or did they just assume they were when they named you. I mean what a coup for the propaganda: Captain America’s legal name literally being America Santiago.”

“Like I told you the last like fifty times you’ve asked me that, no my parents are not prophets, or fortune tellers nor are they actual fortune cookies you can purchase from Panda Express for three dollars,” Amy says with only a little hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. She forces down a distressing urge to place her hands on her hips. “And only my friends can call me by my first name.”

Iron Dude gasps, placing his hands over his heart. “I thought we had something, oh Captain my Captain! Was it all.....a lie? Say it ain’t so Cap-i-tan!”

Amy rolls her eyes. “I’m surprised you’ve even read Walt Whitman.”

Peralta cocks his head. “Who? I was quoting that Robin Williams movie, you know the one with the kids who stand up on their desks?”

She blinks. “The Dead Poets Society?” Peralta nods. “Yeah, that one! My eighth grade English teacher showed it to us ‘cause she wanted to like, inspire everyone to read poetry and crap but we all kind of just spun in circles and jumped up on our desks.” He strokes the chin of his helmet. “I think she got fired after the principal caught us playing leapfrog on the tables.”

Amy thinks she can be forgiven for throwing her shield. She takes a perverse pleasure in watching the way it makes stupid Peralta stumble backwards, and the hollow sound his Iron Ass makes when it touches the ground. She catches the shield when it boomerangs back and cocks her head.

“Jake Peralta,” she begins. “You have the right to remain silent, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of--”

He rises, brushing himself off. Amy debates the merits of actually engaging in a fight, looking around for a moment as she performs a cost-benefit analysis in her head. Pros: she gets to bash in his stupid looking suit. Cons: they always manage to take down a building or two, and then Amy has to clean up the rubble while the Times takes a bunch of candids for the print edition and Snapchats the rest.

Their Snapchat following has shot up through the roof, mainly because Amy reached a deal where she’d give a quick interview while she worked if the photographers made sure not to publish the dorkiest looking pictures they take of her. She knows what she looks like in battle, and the way she grits her teeth is definitely not something she wants to see on the front page of her Sunday Edition.

Amy checks to make sure Peralta doesn’t have anything but his suit on him, and throws her shield one more time. She smirks at the satisfying bang, and hope it really hurts when he starts flying again, waving as he jets over her head.

“This was fun and all,” he says, “but I’ve really got a prior engagement. Byeeeeeee”

Amy barely resists showing her middle finger, but most of her impulse control right now is coming from the small child she can see staring across the street. She notices people staring, most likely curious at why she let a criminal fly off into the sunset.

“Money’s a little tight in Albany,” she says to the crowd. “No one really wants to pay for another fallen building...and he left the money, right?”

Everyone laughs, nodding their head at her explanation. Amy starts picking up the cash on the ground, and wonders if she should have made better life choices. Ones that wouldn’t end up with her using a very expensive vibranium shield to hold hundred dollar bills she’s picking up off the road.

“Captain America! Oh my god, Mom, it's Captain America!” Amy turns to see the little girl jumping up and down across the road. “She’s the coolest, oh my god do you think she’ll sign something for me?”

Amy smiles faintly and turns to face her adoring fan, crossing the street to give her a hug and an autograph. Maybe a little clean up isn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

She looks back at the road, notices the milling bank executives and groans.

Fucking Peralta.

#b99 #avengers #megamind #b99 fic #jake peralta #amy santiago #peraltiago #peraltiago fic #b99 au #brooklyn nine nine #brooklyn nine nine fic #avengers fic #avengers au #my fic