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frontmansbitch · 3 years

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Front man with serial killer reader that he bailed out of jail?

Fuck Respect (Front Man x Serial Killer!Reader)

♡ Synopsis || The games need an extra spice to keep things more entertaining. The Front Man has been tasked to settle an agreement with the one that has been found to be the most competent for this role, even if it means they are a notorious serial killer who is known to play by their own rules.

♡ Content warnings || Handcuffed, teasing, switching power dynamics, fingering, edging, basically hate fucking but there’s more hate than actual fucking

♡ Author’s note || Ooo, love how different this is, I like it! Unfortunately, that only makes it equally as hard to meet expectations. Most people want the porn instead of the plot, but there's more dialogue here than action, sorry. I am also a bit worried that I went too off-topic and OOC, the reader here is more of a brat than a serial killer. I hope this is still satisfactory for you and enjoyable for everyone else to read though!

+ The Reader does not have a specified gender or sex in this! They can be whatever you want them to be.

Just when you thought you got your ticket to freedom, you wake up in another prison. The last thing you remember was some men wearing hot pink taking you out of jail. Now, you are locked in a room with your dominant hand cuffed onto the chair you were placed on, trying to regain your senses.

“You are up,” a deep voice, almost mechanical, broke the silence.

“Who are you? Where am I?” voices echoed as you spoke at the dark figure in front of you.

“I am here to make a deal,” the dark blur continued. “We have observed your capabilities and have concluded that you would be a suitable asset for us.” It wasn’t long after until your vision cleared up, and you could see the person talking to you. He sat directly on the opposite side of you, looking inscrutable. Never mind, he wore an expressionless mask that covered his entire face.

“Tch, and I thought cheap Halloween masks were my thing.”

"We have heard about the machinery you can produce, and like them to be a valuable addition to our annual games."

"Games?" you question. "You brought me here to make some party games for you?"

"These games are different, and quite possibly may be of your liking," he said.

Ah, you get it now. "So you want me to help you create a killing game?" This definitely wasn't the first time someone asked you to build stuff for them. "What's in it for me?"

"We can guarantee your freedom and safety," the guy in black continued. He opened a large briefcase in front of him. "And we will also give you this."

Piles of money were stashed neatly inside. There was no doubt that there was at least ten million won in there, no, even more maybe. You’ll admit it, there was a lot, but it’s not anything new to you.

“I don’t need my freedom and safety to be in your hands,” you scoff. “And money means no shit to me”

“We understand that you are an independent individual, and have expected your reluctance,” he answered. “We still had hope that we could convince you to join. Trust us, we can all help each other.”

“Who the fuck is ‘we’?” you exclaimed. “I don’t even know who you are, how am I supposed to know about every other person you are referring to? Why the fuck should I trust you?”

“You are Y/N, an infamous serial killer who used advanced technology to eliminate your victims and discarded them in unique ways. Your years of murder were finally put to an end when you were caught in October 2007,” he said. “I am the Front Man here. The point of our organisation is to allow everyone an opportunity to redeem themselves here.”

“Well, looks like you have done your research,” you acknowledge. “Firstly, I don’t see myself as just a serial killer. I like to call myself more of an artist.” You slightly lean closer. “Secondly, if you know me so well, why did you leave one of my hands uncuffed? I can easily pick one of these,” a grin widened on your face, “aren’t you afraid I can kill you right here if I wanted to?”

“I know how foolish this may be, but this was to prove that we trust you,” he reached into his pocket and revealed a gun. “If you don’t cooperate, I can kill you right here if I wanted to as well.”

“Bullshit.” Your grin slightly grew. “If you trusted me, you wouldn’t keep using the term ‘we’. You are nothing but a minion, aren’t you?”

“I cannot disclose any information about the Host if that’s what you are implying.”

“I’m just saying, why should I accept your offer if you can’t do one simple thing of trusting me? Come here then, prove to me that you trust me as much as you trust your boss’s orders.”

“You have to promise to stay.”

“Sheesh, you must be obsessed with me if you need me that badly. Come on then, I will stay if you prove you actually have faith in me.”

Slowly, he followed your orders and crept closer to you. “Still so hesitant. Put the gun down, and come down here.”

The Front Man put his gun down, away from where he could reach. He kneeled down closer to you until you could see a little shine in his eyes behind the mask. The realisation of the power you now had soiled your brain. There was so much you can do now with your captor vulnerable like this, you decide you should take this opportunity to have some fun.

"You can see my face, show me yours now," you say as you slip your uncuffed hand underneath his hoodie, brushing his hair.

The Front Man grabs your wrist and pushes it aside. "I have already shown you my trust, now keep your end of the deal and join us."

"Did I say that?"

"You said you would stay."

"Yeah, stay here. It's not like I am going anywhere anyway," you let out a slight, maniacal giggle.

"This conversation is not leading anywhere. I will wait for your final decision,” he remarked as he was about to leave.

"Pff, boring. Don't you ever have anything fun to do?" As he was about to walk away, you grab his hand.

"Let go."

"Loosen up a little," you said. "I bet you never had real fun before." His hand slightly quivered, making you feel more powerful. "Did you know, fear can lead to arousal."

Within a second, you pull his hand towards in between your thighs. Biting your bottom lip, you lock his hand until all he could do is try to struggle to release it. "Aa, fuck~ You know you want to.~"

He stops after his second attempt to release his hand, staring dead into your eyes.

"You are making a mistake."

"Puh-lease, I am only helping you," you answer. "It's clear to me that you don’t follow anything beyond your orders. I am the one giving you a chance now, a chance for your freedom, a chance to take what you deserve."

"What exactly do you think you can give me?"

"Everyone needs a little slut to show what one is really capable of," you remark in a suggestive tone, "Or perhaps you actually like being a little bitch who obeys commands." He makes no comment.

Your moans mixed with small cackles as you grinded yourself on his hand. "Aaa~ Mister, or do you prefer master? You are going to make me come~"

Roughly, he pulls his hand away, claiming back his ownership. "That's enough."

“Pussy,” you pouted while you watch him take his gloves off. “You can’t stay like this forever. Even someone like you will end up snapping.”

“You act like you know what I need, but I can easily see what you truly desire.”

He certainly knew how to keep stoic. “And what might that be?”

“You act like you are divine, but even you know it’s to hide how pathetic you really are,” he stated.

“You better watch your words, Mr Front Man.”

“Along with that, the lack of physical contact has driven you to feel desire in many different ways,” he said while still sounding monotonous. “You have reached so low that you crave the slightest forms of touch. I can see the temptation right through your eyes.”

“What are you, a detective?”

“Maybe I was.”

You were about to make another silly remark, but while you least expected it the Front Man cuffed your free hand onto the chair.

“Hey, what do you think you ar-” before you could finish, the Front Man’s hand slipped in between your legs, lining up with your entrance.

The sudden loss of dominance silenced you. You tried to struggle your way out, but all you could feel was the presence of the man in front of you enjoying it. Maybe deep down, you actually wanted this shift of power.

His fingers outlined your passage. “This should help you behave.”

“I could kill you for this you know?”

“Why would you? ‘You know you want to’,” his final comment was before he forcibly slid one of his fingers in. Ah, you felt yourself wrap around him. His constant glaze at you made you feel more embarrassed than you should. God, he was really showing you who was in charge here. Slowly, he built up momentum, pushing his finger in and out of your insides. He explored through your tunnel in many ways, enough to prevent each other from getting bored.

Another one slipped in, creating a scissoring motion inside you. You bite your cheeks in order to hide any unwanted sounds coming out of your mouth. Fuck, why was he good at this? He penetrated his fingers in you steadily, but with a strong passion. He knows how to make you feel good. If he kept this up he might as well-

A third finger slipped in, and this time you bite yourself harder. This is the most you recall ever being in you. The glare from behind the Front Man’s mask intensified as he kept tampering with your insides. It wasn’t clear whether he was constantly observing in case you escape, to make sure you were enjoying it, or just for him to see you weak. You didn’t know whether to moan loudly to spite him or to keep silent and show how much you hate being used as a tool. Like that would matter, he brought you here to use you in one way or another. It didn’t matter whether it was for your labour or his own personal pleasure. Just when you thought you could not get any more exposed and helpless, his touch suddenly sent a shock through your spine.

“Found it,” he said when he noticed your reaction, despite how hard you tried to hide that pleasure. His police instincts made him more perceptive than anyone else.

“Fuck you.”

“No, I am the one fucking you.” He strongly brushed his fingers past that one sweet spot, making you grunt.

Oh god, you were close. How could you possibly already come this close? Surely you could last at least a few minutes, he barely even did anything to you. But no, you were coming, and he knew it. His mask may be emotionless but his lust was clearly seen. Just as you were about to climax, he drew his fingers back out.

“What the fuck?”

“I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t mean you could stop.”

“Why should I keep going? You are no use to me.”

Damn, he was making you do it no matter what.

“Fine, I will join your team or whatever. Just don’t leave me turned on here like this!”

“I can do whatever I want with you.” Man, was he really testing your limits. “Not only will you listen and work with us, but you will learn to respect the way we do things here. Only then, I will reward you.”

There was nothing you could do. Your desire had grown way too far, and there was no stopping now. You couldn’t kill him either, not like this. What was the worst that could happen?

“Alright, I promise I will be an obedient little pig. Just hurry up and finish what you started.”

#frontman #frontman squidgame #hwang in ho #hwang inho #squid game #squidgame #front man #front man x reader #hwang inho x reader #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game smut #front man smut #front man squid game #the front man #the front man x reader #hwang in ho x reader #frontman x reader

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slashhinginghasher · 4 years

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Social Engagement for Misanthropes: Jesse Cromeans x Marena Polunochnaya

Jesse Cromeans cleaned up nice, and he damn well knew it. It was one of the first skills he’d cultivated after leaving his shithole hometown. One of the best ways to get money, he’d found, was to look like you already had it. The looks he got from women (and some men) were a welcome (some would say unnecessary) boost to his ego, and a sharp suit could always be counted on to draw the piggies out of their pens. The first few times he’d worn designer had felt strange, like a kid playing make-believe, though after a while it became as natural as breathing.

Now, as he stood in front of the mirror in his walk-in closet and fiddled with a tie he hadn’t touched in over three years, he felt a bit like that broke, backwater kid again.

He didn’t particularly want to attend this event, but it was, unfortunately, somewhat necessary. Spann had called it “proof of life” when she handed him the invitation, an actual, physical piece of paper that had been calligraphed and embossed within an inch of its life. It contained phrases like “humble gathering” and “the pleasure of your company” and had, apparently, been mailed with an honest-to-god wax seal.

Pretentious prick.

Jesse had been to his fair share of “humble gatherings”; you couldn’t conduct real business without them. They were mind-crushingly boring affairs, a slow-moving social dance of caviar, expensive booze, and pathetic attempts at wit. If nothing else, the people-watching was usually interesting. For all their “good breeding”, wealthy families could be far more dysfunctional than the most slovenly of small town homes. Upper class socialites didn’t blink at multi-million dollar checks, but flash a bit of ink and they’d fall over themselves to choke on his cock while their husbands talked golf in the next room. He’d even picked up a piggy or two at a few events, though you had to be extra careful with that (chain of association and all).

But he hadn’t shown his face in public since it had been ripped off and reattached, and some of his business contacts were getting suspicious. Spann’s iron-clad assurances were no longer enough to quell the rumors that Jesse Cromeans had died, or been deposed, and that someone else was running the company under his name. And that just would not do. He’d RSVP’d immediately, memories of Preston’s failed takeover flushing his system with old rage.

At least he’d be guaranteed some interesting company tonight, he thought, smirking at the garment bag draped over the stool next to him as he tapped out a quick text.

💀🖕: COME UPSTAIRS, I HAVE A SURPRISE FOR YOU

Macarena: IF IT’S YOUR DICK I DON’T WANT IT

Jesse chuckled and went back to his tie, certain that either Marena’s curiosity or the urge to insult him to his face would bring her up shortly. He knew bow ties were traditional for black tie events, but wearing a fucking bow around his neck was a concession he’d never been able to force himself to make. Besides, he had a reputation for being… unconventional, and reputation was everything. Satisfied with the crisp Windsor knot, he shrugged on his black waistcoat, secretly pleased with the way it showed off the breadth of his chest.

“You look like a goth pirate,” came Marena’s voice from the doorway. “What the fuck.” As usual, he hadn’t heard her approach. She was the only person he knew who could sneak up on him, which was fun. Made things exciting.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘black tie’ before?” Jesse signed with a grin.

“Call me surprised then. Are we done?” In lieu of a verbal response, Jesse tossed the garment bag at her. Marena unzipped it enough to peek inside, then immediately re-zipped it.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nyet.”

“Can’t go to a gala wearing that,” Jesse replied, looking pointedly at her worn t-shirt and jeans. Marena threw the garment bag back and crossed her arms.

“How sad. Guess I won’t go.”

“Sure you will. I can think of a few things to make it fun.”

“So can I. Like not going.”

“Not an option.” Jesse was struggling to smother his laughter. The stubborn furrow of Marena’s brow was too cute to keep a straight face around.

“Why are you going?”

“Business.”

“And that has what to do with me?”

“You’re my plus one, little wench.” Marena visibly cringed.

“If we’re being pirates, I want a fucking sword. And I don’t mean your dick,” she snapped, cutting him off before he could sign a single word. Jesse’s shoulders shook with a full-body laugh, composure completely shot. He cupped Marena’s face in both hands and kissed her forehead, which he knew she hated, before pressing the garment bag into her hands once more.

“Try to look a little less like a corpse,” he advised, stepping around her to grab his dinner jacket. A litany of Russian curses followed him.

***

Marena’s concession to not resembling a corpse was a violently red lipstick that made it look like she’d been eating human hearts for every meal, which Jesse immediately wanted to smear across her face. The dress was black, of course, with a high collar and long sleeves. It would have covered her neck to toe had she not hiked one side of the skirt nearly up to her hip while she slipped a set of throwing knives into the holster around her slender thigh.

She made a compelling argument for ditching, Jesse thought, feeling a familiar tightening in his slacks. He couldn’t resist smoothing a hand along her exposed leg, fingers coming to rest just shy of her underwear.

“Once this dress comes off, it’s not going back on,” she warned.

“Noted and appreciated. You still have to come to this party.”

“Fuck.”

“Later.”

Marena said nothing, just glared at him through her curtain of hair - which she had brushed just enough that the messiness looked intentional - and let her skirts fall back down to her ankles. Jesse quickly ushered her out of the room before he could do something ingenious like cancelling all of his commitments for the next month and spending the entire time in bed.

The ride in the Bentley was tense and silent. A sick pit of nerves was brewing in Jesse’s stomach, all too similar to the way his boyhood self felt on the way to school, and that was ten kinds of bullshit. He was a grown man. He was motherfucking Chromeskull. He should not be feeling like a little kid about to face a playground bully. But he was finding it very difficult to push the feeling away. His face looked a damn sight better than it did several years ago, but it would never go back to the way it was before, and he was about to walk into a room full of people who treated a minute blemish like a national scandal. He wanted his mask. He wanted to say fuck it and just keep driving until he hit someplace tropical. He wanted to kill something, to drown his insecurities in blood and adrenaline.

He half-wished he’d flown Asa out to rig the whole venue beforehand in case things went south.

Beside him, Marena was deathly still, one white-knuckled fist gripping the fabric of her skirt. She looked a million miles away, lost in whatever personal hell her own brain was conjuring for her. Jesse reached over and squeezed her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. It was his version of a concession; a silent expression of gratitude. The fact that Marena didn’t push his hand away was a testament to how anxious she was.

“I still want a sword,” she grumbled. Jesse smiled and chucked her under the chin, which she also hated, and felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit.

***

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. People stared, of course, but they were too “polite” (which was money-speak for “two-faced”) to say anything to his face. There were far more eyes on Marena, which Jesse both loved and loathed. The women’s jealous eyes tracked her every move like sharks scenting new prey, which was admittedly hilarious to watch; but the barely-concealed desire on the men’s faces sent prickles of possessiveness down Jesse’s spine. He kept his hand glued to Marena’s lower back, low enough to skirt the line of what their current company would consider decent.

If there was one thing the rich understood, it was possession.

“Cromeans!” the host bellowed, arms spread like they were old friends. “Still alive and in the flesh, I see! Some of the lads were getting worried!” A few of the “lads” murmured noises of agreement while the host gave Jesse an overly enthusiastic handshake. Jesse could feel their gazes catching on the eyepatch and the new curl of his lip, and he almost wished one of them would say something, just to give him an excuse to lash out. But the host’s attention wandered over to Marena, whom he foolishly deemed to be a safer topic of discussion.

“And who might this lovely creature be?” he asked, ignoring the sinful glances his wife was casting Jesse’s way.

“No one of consequence,” Marena replied sweetly with a tight, close-lipped smile. The man tipped his head back and guffawed, trying not to wither under the combined weight of Jesse and Marena’s unimpressed stares. He forged ahead anyway.

“You always did have a penchant for… unusual company, Cromeans, I’ll give you that. Tell you what,” he rubbed his hands together eagerly, “I’ve got a bottle of Lagavulin with your name on it in the gentlemen’s lounge. I’m sure Genevieve here can handle your lovely companion for a bit while we talk business.” He beamed benevolently at his wife, who looked as though she’d rather eat glass.

“Of course, dear,” she said, pasting a megawatt smile on her botoxed face. “It’s such a treat to see a new face around here. I’m sure the other girls would love to meet you.” She swept away towards a group of tittering young women draped in diamonds and pearls, Marena following with the stiff spine of a person walking to their execution. Jesse felt much the same way as “the lads” filed into the oak-paneled gentlemen’s lounge.

“Business” was code for the same inane bullshit being discussed in the ballroom, with the addition of whiskey, cigars, and complaints about wives and mistresses. These conversations were usually a goldmine for Jesse. As a mute, he was rarely expected to be an active participant, and the number of weaknesses people revealed when they assumed they were surrounded by allies was astounding. Tonight, though, he was twitchy and bored, distracted by thoughts of Marena stabbing one of those debutante brats through the eye with the stem of a champagne glass. As if on cue, his phone vibrated.

Macarena: I’M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN THIS BUILDING

💀🖕: DON’T START WITHOUT ME

Macarena: IT’S CUTE THAT YOU THINK I WON’T TAKE YOU OUT FIRST

💀🖕: AWW YOU THINK I’M CUTE?

Macarena: I WILL RIP YOUR SPINE OUT AND BEAT YOU WITH IT

💀🖕: DON’T TEMPT ME WITH A GOOD TIME BABY ;)

Macarena: THIS FUCKER KEEPS TRYING TO GET ME TO DANCE

Macarena: CAN I KNEECAP HIM

Macarena: I’M GONNA KNEECAP HIM

The little bastard’s kneecaps were spared when a staff member scuttled into the lounge to inform the host of some dire emergency, effectively breaking up the little gathering. Jesse strolled back into the ballroom and spotted Marena at a table near the exit, cornered by a little bitch with slicked-back hair and a greasy smile. The waves of irritation coming off of the girl were palpable and her smile obviously fake, and Jesse couldn’t decide if the guy was too stupid to notice, or was ignoring it because he had that effect on every woman he spoke to.

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, and Jesse could have broken his neck just for that, “it’s just one dance. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”

Marena’s smile froze on her face, and Jesse could practically hear the Kill Bill sirens going off in her head. The barb would’ve worked on any other woman in the room - horror of high society horrors, to be considered ill-mannered! - but for people of Marena and Jesse’s backgrounds, it hit much harder and much deeper.

“No,” she said, rising slowly and deliberately from her seat. “She didn’t.” She turned on her heel, leaving the idiot to gape at the failure of his clumsy manipulation tactics. Jesse grabbed her elbow and she passed and made a beeline for the exit. Not that he didn’t relish the prospect of a bloodbath, but initiating one right now would make future business dealings… complicated.

He memorized the fucker’s face on their way out, though.

***

Marena spent the next few days in a well-deserved sulk, resulting in the destruction of two punching bags and a serious case of blue balls for Jesse. He’d really been looking forward to ripping that dress off of her, damn it. He distracted himself with work and few more personal arrangements. At the end of the week, he tracked her down on the rooftop deck.

“Say your piece and fuck off,” she growled as he stood silently next to her chaise lounge, hands behind his back. She sounded exhausted and looked as though she hadn’t slept in at least two days. Affecting an air of mock seriousness, Jesse moved in front of her and bowed, offering her conciliatory gift on open palms.

“You did not.”

The shashka’s scabbard was a deep midnight blue, with subtle patterns of tree branches embossed in the fine leather. The hilt was smooth, black horn. The blade gleamed in the afternoon light as Marena unsheathed it with a fluid schnick.

“You are the absolute worst fucking person in the world,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching dangerously close to a smile. A glint of wicked delight sparkled in her eyes as she gave the sabre a few experimental twirls and slashes.

“Only for you, baby,” Jesse replied with a cheeky grin. “Want to test it out?”

***

All it took was a pair of handcuffs and a dark warehouse to really bring out the bitch in some people. The asshole from the party (Jesse really needed to come up with a term for male piggies if this was going to be a recurring thing) had been tied up for barely a day and he was already a sniveling mess. Jesse, on the other hand, was in a great mood. He had his mask, his camcorder, and his favorite knife, and judging by the way Marena was practically purring as she traced her fingers around the shashka’s hilt, he was for sure getting laid tonight.

The rich bitch didn’t recognize Jesse with his face covered, but his eyes went wide and he started screaming obscenities into his gag when Marena stepped under the light. She yanked the fabric out of his mouth.

“You fucking cunt! You’ll fucking regret this! Do you know who I am? Do you-” All the blood drained from his face when Marena drew the sword and held it to his throat in a lightning-fast move. He swallowed hard, the tip digging in just below his Adam’s apple and drawing a bead of blood. She really was a natural with that thing, Jesse thought as he circled the tableau with his camera. It was hot as fuck.

“Hi,” Marena said.

The man sweated in silence.

“I wanted to go back to our conversation a few nights ago,” she continued. “About my mother.” She let the sword drop to her side and the man relaxed fractionally.

“See, she did not teach me manners, but she did teach me a lot of other things.” She pushed the gag back into place and patted him a couple times on his quivering, tear-soaked cheek. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a black butterfly knife.

“Lesson one: bleeding.”

#@slash-em-up: *calls Jesse a stupid name once*#me: *filing it away to use forever*#marena gets a sword because she deserves it #marena's name is ''macarena'' in jesse's phone because autocorrect kept changing it and he gave up #my writing #jesse cromeans #chromeskull #marena polunochnaya

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lightshadowverisimilitude · 7 years

Text

Painting meatballs

For @copperbadge: Sounds like you could use some cheering up this week. :)

Most days, being a superhero did not pay off. He’d been chased through probably twenty miles of tunnel, managed to drop his last nine arrows down an open manhole (who just leaves manholes open?), and it was only by the grace of his fingertips that he hadn’t gone down after them. He’d forgotten to go grocery shopping, he had a headache from somewhere south of hell, and he was almost hungry enough to share a bowl of Kibbles ‘N’ Bits with Lucky and call it a night.

“Happy freaking birthday to me,” he grumbled as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. By the time he realized that his keys had apparently gone the way of the arrows, he didn’t even have enough frustration left in him to swear. He dropped his head forward, hitting the door about ten million times harder than he’d meant to, and jerked away with both hands over his forehead.

He definitely didn’t think anyone could blame him for being a tiny bit slow to react when his apartment door opened by itself, but he did manage to have a knife up by the time the interloper leaned around the doorway.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is that a sharpened butter knife?”

Clint glowered at her and slid the blade back into his boot – one of only three, but his count, that hadn’t ended up buried in some guy’s thigh, or washed away in Shit River. “I had to improvise,” he defended. “Why are you in my apartment?”

The other eyebrow quirked up to join the first. “Why are you not in your apartment? Also, you smell like sewage.”

“Long story.”

She tipped her head to the left to examine him, and maybe he was projecting or something else that the group home counselor would have said was unhealthy, but he was positive she could see right through the smarting mark on his head and read his mind. Without a word, she stepped back to hold the door open and gestured inside with one hand.

“I’ll get you a beer.”

“Don’t have any,” Clint muttered. He had about half a bottle of Nat’s shitty vodka somewhere, though he’d used the whiskey for antiseptic the week before.

“Good thing Jan knows how to throw a party,” she said. Her smile softened slightly and she gestured in again. “Though Tony thought jumping out and yelling ‘surprise’ was a smart idea for all of twenty-two seconds.”

Clint shuddered just imagining the heart attack he would have had if he’d opened the door and yelling had been the result. He was suddenly grateful that he’d lost his keys – he’d forgotten all about Stark’s threatened birthday party, and he was more than a little surprised that everyone else had apparently remembered. Now that he was paying attention like an ex-assassin and current masked superhero with poor apartment security and lots of enemies should be, he could hear the faint chatter of about half a dozen people and the subtle clinking of forks on plates.

He glanced at the door and then over to the elevator. “Maybe I should just go get some chips or something.”

Natasha shrugged. “If you want. But your meatballs will probably be cold by the time you get back.”

Clint’s stomach emitted a loud snarl, and his mouth instantly flooded with saliva. Nat might have been kinder than most people gave her credit for, but she still laughed at him as he stood rooted to the spot, doing a good impression of a meatball-zombie.

“Please tell me they’re not those bullshit fancy meatless-meatballs or whatever Pepper had A Thing about,” he begged.

“Nope, they’re the cheap frozen meatballs you get out of a bag and dump in the oven.”

He could have kissed her. He definitely did moan, “My favorite.”

His apartment had been cleaned, and it smelled like Pinesol and sweet sweet processed meatballs fresh from the oven. Every lamp he owned had been moved into the living room, which had apparently not been enough, because there was an Iron Man suit standing in the corner and glowing like a six-and-a-half-foot art deco lamp.

“Surprise?” Tony offered, from the kitchen, and Holy Patron Saint of I’m never letting you live this down, was wearing a bright yellow apron liberally splashed with hearts and smiling sunflowers, a matching pair of oven mitts, and a lime green party hat.

“Why are you like this?” Clint blurted out with a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” Tony said, setting down a tray of freshly cooked previously frozen guaranteed delicious meatballs so he could point at Clint with one bemittened hand. His eyes transferred over Clint’s shoulder and he nodded faintly. “But I’m leaving this here when I go. You can thank Jan.”

“Happy birthday!” Jan said as soon as Clint turned to face her, looking like she was ready to burst. “I really want to hug you, but you have been out doing things that got you a little too close to a sewer. Air hug!” She announced and crossed her arms over her own chest, squeezing hard and twisting side-to-side.

It looked like a really nice hug, and Clint was even sorrier about the damned sewer. He looked between his bathroom door and the piles of warm meatballs, and made a noise that he normally would have blamed on Lucky, but Lucky was on his back in the middle of the living room, shamelessly soaking up the belly rubs from Thor and getting his muzzle petted by Steve.

Natasha pushed past him to the kitchen, piled a dozen meatballs on a purple plate with the Hawkeye symbol stamped in the middle, and nudged him away with one finger. “They should be cooled down by the time you wash your hands. Go!”

Clint eagerly took the plate, leaned over, and lipped one of the meatballs right off the top. He tried to smirk at her, but was too busy sucking air in around the molten mouthful as she pushed him toward his bedroom.

~*~

Despite orders to the contrary, Clint had devoured the plate of meatballs before his shower, and he felt less likely to gnaw someone’s arm off by the time he made it back to the living room. A long folding table had been wedged between the couch and the bar, and it looked like Jan had dumped the entire Hawkeye section of Party City on top of it. It was cheesy, and stupid, and perfect. He stood in the doorway for a second to just look it over – they were all pretending that he wasn’t staring at them, and that was what good friends were for when you just got off of a Hell Week leading into Nightmare Night. Lucky was up on his back legs so he could have his front paw on Tony’s lap and was doing his damndest to get at the mountain of meatballs in the center of the table.

“I’m not feeding you,” Tony told the dog seriously, but his hand was wrapped around Lucky’s ribs to rub at his belly. “Seriously, have I ever fed a single thing in your entire life? Why don’t you go to climb in Steve’s lap? He��s a dog person, and I know for sure that he’s fed you at least once tonight.”

“That was just a treat, Tony,” Steve protested.

“He said the word treat,” Tony told Lucky, which just got him a messy kiss across the cheek and Tony leaning comically sideways in the chair to in a vain attempt to avoid it.

“Just push him away,” Clint suggested, stepping into the living room and climbing over the couch to get the open chair.

Tony gave him a frankly scandalized look, but turned back to Lucky to say, “You’re not getting anywhere with this. I am immune to canine flattery.”

“Not all canine flattery,” Natasha muttered, and for some unfathomable reason, Steve blushed and kicked her under the table. Natasha neatly dodged, and held an open beer out for Clint, so cold that it had mist curling out of the neck and droplets running down the sides.

“I love you,” Clint told her very seriously.

“I know,” she answered.

He swallowed about half of it before pressing the cold bottle gently to his forehead and rolling it back and forth. This was the life – why did he not have a million roommates again? He set the bottle aside and looked down to realize that what he’d mistaken for plates were actually large plastic painter’s pallets with little cups of “paint” set around the edges. There was a bright purple cup of paintbrushes sitting opposite his beer, and a stack of napkins with the Avengers Assemble cartoon Hawkeye at his elbow.

Jan leaned forward to explain, but Clint just shoved his finger in the yellow paint and licked it off – spicy mustard, the kind he got at Chinese restaurants and poured over everything.

“Or you could just do that,” Jan finished, laughing. “It was Steve’s idea.”

“This,” Clint said, snagging a meatball off the pile and a paintbrush, “Is the best birthday idea ever.”

Jan nudged Tony, who was still not-really fending off Lucky’s affectionate begging. “And you wanted to bring wine,” she scoffed.

Clint had three painted meatballs stuffed in his mouth when Jan climbed out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned over to press their cheeks together and squeezed hard, rocking him gently side-to-side.

“Happy birthday.”

“’appy meathba’ ‘ay,” Clint corrected, but he reached up to squeeze her wrist and leaned back against her.

Maybe he was just imagining it or something, but it seemed like his headache was gone.

#ladyshadowdrake writes #ficclet #Clint barton #birthday parties #magic hugs chase away headaches #9/52 #52 for 52

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