#im also.....trying to draw him more broad chested u///u

[lemon-wedges]

Barok uniform practice

[unexpectedbrickattack]

Compiling some Peppino-centric hcs i have bc i would like to have something to look back on as a point of reference 😌 (this is so long. SO fucking long. Im sorry)

- starting w the basics: hes a short king; 5’2 (157cm). Hes like late 40s-early 50s to me. Hes got brown eyes i never draw bc i like drawing him w dots lol. Hes particular about his appearance and grooms very consistently. Has literally no issues w balding (exposed to balding bears in his youth; thinks they are hot now 😌) and it helps that he can literally cave someones skull in if they speak ill of him. He does have a couple of comfy hats incase his hair decides to be unruly in bad weather.

- very bulky build; think of olympic strongmen/ highland games but short. Visibly muscular arms and broad shoulder, fat chest and stomach, smoother legs (fat layered over muscle; v thick thighs and calves). Hes got surgery scars on his lower back from a bullet wound (only entry/no exit point). Debated giving him a scar around his sternum from heart surgery or some other crazy injury he had but im not sure yet; the bullet extraction scar is definitely staying tho.

-does NOT work out; he used to wrestle in his late teens/early 20s but otherwise he was (still is) a man who did lots of physical labor around his childhood home and grandparents shop. Continued the cycle when he got his own home and his own restaurant; cheaper to do his own (extensive) repairs than call for specialists/contractors when u are Fucking Poor.

- he DOES exercise; he is fond of jogging. He does this alot postgame, usually in the early mornings before he opens, and at the beach on his days off. He had it drilled in v early in his life that he Needs to stay active, so he will roll out of bed and do this almost daily. On his days off he will have random people come and join him; usually pepperman or noisette. Its too tedious/boring of a task for gus and noise, and vigi is out cold until sunrise at minimum.

- he owns a HOUSE; he does not rent an apartment. This is bc i think it would be reasonable to assume that anyone who OWNS a restaurant was at some point, well off enough to own a house instead of renting. And i like the idea of him using this house as collateral; if the shop goes under, so does his home (more stress for him…). (Ive seen other people treat his shop like a duplex ie shop on the lobby level and an apartment/living space on the second floor. This is ALSO v good and coincides w my want to have his home tied to his restaurant)

- the house is small; two bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, and a basement (where the 1/2 bath is located). BIG kitchen, small livingroom. It is surprisingly well furnished bc of his family donating things to him when he bought the house in his 30s. Lots of older wood based furniture. Hes not grossly messy (like food, bugs, etc) but he is disorganized beyond belief. Lives an ‘organized mess’ lifestyle bc of his high stress. Also extremely apathetic to his living conditions until postgame when his restaurant starts to take in profits again; less stress -> more positive time at home -> aware of the clutter as he spends more time at home.

- drives a beat up lookin car to and from work. Its his BABY; his ol reliable. He has to do lots of work to keep her intact and functioning. Eventually gets a newer car with his profits, but its rlly to help ease the strain on her so that he can take her out for drives occasionally.

-eldest of like 6 siblings; will not try to name them all just know that hes the only boy. Eldest daughter is only a year younger than him. Good relationship w all of them and his immediate family. Very matriarchal immediate family. Only a handful of uncles, his dad, and his grandpappy. Stubbornly cut off contact w everyone after the horrors (war) and refused to accept help w his failing restaurant (prideful). Eventually his (eldest) sister reaches out and he makes amends one at a time. (Gets an earful from his momma)

- works LONG hours. Awake by 4am, in noisettes cafe by 5am, in the shop by 6am. Preps and calls until opening at 9am. Closes at 9pm. Closes up FOR REAL at 10pm. Rinse n repeat. As the shop does better financially, he starts opening later and closing earlier (at the insistence of Gus). He still does his walks and his morning routine, just a little later, and he has enough time at home in the evening to cook for himself.

- on the topic of cooking, he is a good chef all around; pizza is just easier to market and consistently do Correct. Likes food alot. So much…..he isnt picky but he does go 😬 when eating something. Bad. And it happens Often.

- stress baked often. He felt bad about throwing out his food afterwards so he would give it away to his neighbors. No longer stress bakes but he will cook out of boredom which is not as bad but still not the best 😭 luckily he has so many freeloaders that will eat anything he makes (gus and noise)

- this is his second shop; the first one was in a larger city (think similar to pig city). Closed down due to insufficient payments, but reopened on the outskirts of the city (close to the forest) after putting up his house as collateral.

-first shop is where he first meets pizzahead. Hes offered a generous sum of cash to sell the business (which would then be converted into a ph brand shop). Obv declined. Later offered a position in pizzaheads business instead; nearly killed the man when scaring him out of his shop.

- Peppino is NOT some aggressive out of control beast (despite what pizzahead believes). He is vaguely neurotic and it is exacerbated by extreme stress and bouts of anxiety. So funny how removing the extreme stress and sources of anxiety makes him more Normal. (Somewhat encouraged by an official image i saw after i made this hc of peppinos attitude outside and inside the tower. He is relatively apathetic and inside the tower he is borderline manic. More hcs about that too)

- he is relatively fun to be with otherwise. He has some extremely dry humor. Hes incredibly sarcastic. He LIKES customer service…otherwise this would be impossible for him to endure. It helps that he Owns a shop, instead of only being a worker; he can yell at people who are rude and annoying to him and he knows (at least postgame) that he has loyal regulars.

- he is a bit of an asshole; he make snide remarks he shouldnt and hes been in his own fair share of fights bc of it. Has mellowed out drastically as he got a better grip on his emotions postgame. Only the most tolerant could really deal w him prior to postgame (gus) in part due to his anger (response to exacerbated neurosis and ptsd)

- also autistic. Extra stress bc of this. Easily overstimulated and the response to this is anger. Completely undiagnosed lmao but hes like late 40s; he just learned how to deal with it.

-common stress responses: bites on anything, usually his hand (Tried stopping this bc people would TOUCH him if he did that in front of others and that just made shit worse). Grinds his teeth. Jaw clenching. Making A Fist So Tight You Accidentally Cut Urself. Flappy hands, usually w hands balled up into a fist (specifically eyes closed; jaw clenched; head ducked, flappy hands over his ducked head). It looks ‘worse’ than biting but at least the excessive movement deters people from touching him.

- on a more positive note; knows quite a bit of magic tricks. Sleight of hand stuff is his forte. It is good for the anxiety and it keeps his hands busy. He is will consistently say that he is not good w kids but he loves entertaining them; they say the funniest shit and he likes being a bad influence on them 😈. Also teaching them tricks and letting them see behind the curtain is so fun for him; like they are so excited about silly tricks and it makes him feel a little cool….

- he is the kind of person whos like (dad voice) ‘not gettin a damn cat in my house’ and then has blackmail of him passed the fuck out with a cat on his stomach. He feeds the local strays by his shop and he cant help but feed the strays that end up by his house. He doesnt feel confident enough to take care of another animal when its so hard for him to remember to take care of himself so for now he just feeds them. But maybe soon he will take them inside…he also baby talks cats but if u caught him doing that he would kill u i think. (Pov u are the noise)

- silly hc that he has a real last name but he keeps it as spaghetti bc its funny to fuck around w people who ask him. No i dont know what his last name would be but i think it would be funny to have him ‘change’ it for branding and have people believe it. Also i think its funny to think of peppino saying this to ph somehow and he completely runs with it as gospel. Like ‘granny did u KNOW his last name is fucking spaghetti??’

- wrt young peppino, i say that w him being 20-23 in mind. Worked in his grandparents shop during this time. Worked as a line cook for some other restaurants as well (and saved up money to buy his own home while he lived w his parents and sisters). He was generally a sweetheart, just a bit odd (the Autsim and Anxiety), but that was (and still is) his charm point lol

- (SUGGESTIVE) cannot stop thinking of him as a little otter that hung out w older bears in the leather scene. He prob had his best years w them before he had to focus on other shit. He still keeps in contact w some of the peeps that were around his age postgame, and they meet up sometimes to hang along w vigilante. Now that hes older it is a bit surreal to now be the bear he used to look up to in his younger years. But its a bit flattering. Noise and Pepperman are younger than him and they both regard him w the same kind of wonder he used to give older bears. He thinks its cute lol (pepperman bc thats his muse and he sees his body type as PEAK human form, and noise bc i hc him as a bit sheltered despite the fame)

- (STILL SUGGESTIVE BUT THATS IT I SWEAR) adjacent to this; its weird for him to come back to this side of him bc hes been living in survival mode for over a decade. Got his house in his early 30s -> WAR -> comes back traumatized -> leaves family to cope -> dumps money into a restaurant to cope w leaving family. So he kinda missed it alot. Its fun to explore it w gus heehee and sometimes noise when he behaves.

-other things i wanted to mention but didnt know where to fit it. Peppino is a decent artist; he drew the logo for his shop and in general he is good at caricatures (another thing he can do to entertain a crowd; helps w anxiety to know how to not be awkward).

- Peppino is a bit of a mechanic (aka he learned bc he was broke and didnt want to call them for minor problems). Hes not a tinkerer but he likes the joy of creating sm and will make little. Creations. every once in a while. One of these creations is Peshino! He is a wooden windup toy made as a prototype for a more mechanical, mass produced version. He was intended to be sold as a cute little toy to help cement the branding for Peppinos shop but he never got the time or money for it, so peshino is collecting a bit of dust in his basement. Postgame, he takes peshino out and cleans him up; he feels a bit guilty about him….and the Big Peshino found in the tower plays music in Peppinos shop :) He also takes the time to clean him up and keep him functional.

Okay i think thats all i got for now byebye

[lesbobiwan]

8 with Hunter 🥺 Please and thank you 😇

#8: "If you're going to act like a little brat then I'm going to treat you like a little brat." + Hunter

warnings: spanking as punishment, cunnilingus, the joys of trying to have a sex life while being a parent to a nosy child

(lets pretend that the galaxy is nice and the bad batch has both omega and crosshair on board. because im the writer and say fuck u cowboy hat man. also u guys r here for porn. not plot)

It wasn't like you were being serious. You only wanted to have a little fun.

Crosshair was just... conveniently there.

"You must have very steady hands," you remark, holding up Crosshair's hand to inspect them.

He smirks from around his toothpick, totally aware of what little game you're playing but always ready to fuck with his brother.

His fingers are more slender than Hunter's, nimble in a way that's beneficial for a man who lives his life on the trigger of a gun.

You've always valued thickness over length.

You continue to inspect Crosshair's fingers regardless.

He lets you ooh and ahh at his fingers and in turn gets a nice confidence boost while fucking with Hunter. A beneficial relationship.

The vein on Hunter's is getting exponentially larger with every second you spend touching Crosshair, but it isn't until Crosshair offers to give you a personal demonstration of how useful his fingers can be that Hunter stands up.

"Alright," Hunter's voice is short and clipped and sure to cause the best kind of pain for your backside. "Everybody out." He stands up from his bunk, drawing the attention of Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Omega.

"What?" Echo's voice is incredulous as he looks up from whatever he was tinkering with.

"Where are we going?" Omega asks, bouncing up to her feet.

You would smile at her overabundant enthusiasm if it weren't for the fact that you wanted to be fucked. Now.

Being a new parent really puts a damper on your sex life, which was already had to be a little sneaky to begin with when you shared a ship with four other people.

Hunter falters, mouth falling open but staying silent.

"Um, Hunter and I just need to talk about something real quick, sweetheart," you cover, excitement starting to build in your gut.

Tech scoffs and mumbles something under his breath.

Wrecker elbows him hard enough to shove Tech into the side of the bunk.

"Oh," Omega rolls onto the backs of her heels, "what about?"

Yup, you're tapped out for trying to come up with excuses to get a child out of the house so you can have sex.

You look at Hunter and gesture out towards Omega. Your turn.

"Uhm... adult stuff," Hunter stammers smartly.

"C'mon, kid," Wrecker plucks Omega up around the waist and hauls her under his arm like a ball, easily leading her out of the ship.

Tech and Echo are the next to rise, both of them hauling little scraps of machinery.

"You do know we're in the middle of nowhere," Tech reminds the two of you on your way out.

"Out, Tech."

Crosshair is the last to get up, groaning with the obvious tremendous effort it takes to stand up. "You owe me," he informs you, pointing one of his long fingers at you.

"Bye, Crosshair," you sing, reaching out to graze a finger along his wrist as he steps past you.

The tension in the ship is palpable.

"I can't help but feel like you're mad at me," you point out, eyes trailing over the way that Hunter's broad chest rises and falls with each of his deep inhales.

You see Hunter's nostrils flair — most likely breathing in your arousal. No sooner than the thought enters your mind, Hunter's eyes dilate. Definitely breathing in your arousal.

Still, he doesn't say anything.

"Me and Cross were just having some fun," you defend, cheeks growing red.

Suddenly, your grand idea doesn't seem that grand anymore.

"Do you want to do this here? Or in the bedroom?" Hunter steps closer into your personal space, so close you can smell the GAR issued soap on him mixed with something distinctly Hunter.

He's offering you a small bit of mercy, a small portion of control in your punishment.

Then you have to open your big mouth.

"We could always use Crosshair's bun — hey!"

Hunter's hand closes around your hair within one breath and the next.

"Hunter!" you cry out, hands scrambling at his wrist, "What the hell are you doing? Let me go!"

He sits on a bunk and — oh, fuck it's actually Crosshair's bunk, Hunter's actually doing this — sprawls you across his lap, one heavy hand on the back of your neck.

Heat rushes to your cheeks and your cunt. "Okay, this isn't funny," you say, while internally you beg for him to keep going, "let me up."

You don't try as hard as you should to get out of his grasp. You think Hunter knows.

"No." Hunter's grip on your neck tightens while his other hand drags both your pants and panties over your ass until they get stuck around your knees. "If you're going to act like a little brat then I'm going to treat you like a little brat."

Shit. You rub your thighs together over his lap, one of your hands clasping around his ankle.

"How many do you think you deserve after that little stunt?" Hunter asks, though you know it's purely rhetorical. "Ten? Fifteen?" His hand swipes across the meat of your asscheeks, warming up the skin before he strikes it — another small mercy.

You hold your breath. You're sure any number you give will only be doubled.

Hunter huffs. "Smart girl," he comments at your silence. "Count."

That's all the warning you get before —

Smack!

You yelp at the first sting across your skin. The sound registers first before the pain. You jerk across his lap, kicking your legs out as you squeal.

The hand on the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly. "Forgetting something?"

"One!" you cry out, voice thick.

He offers you no praise. Not yet, at least. He knows this is light work for you. It's towards the end of your punishment that he'll have to start talking you through it.

Smack!

Hunter's palm lands on your opposite cheek, harder this time.

"Two!" you yelp, hands clenching around Hunter's ankle.

True to form, it takes more than a few spanks in order for you to begin to reach your limit. Your eyes get teary and you do your best to dig your face into the pristine sheets of Crosshair's bunk.

Still, despite your pain, you feel your inner thighs get slick with your arousal.

"That's my girl," Hunter coos, fingers turning almost gentle as he scratches at the nape of your neck. "Just a couple more, can you do that for me?"

His hand soothes the skin of your burning ass, but you jerk against him in sensitivity.

It's too much. Too much, you just want to be good for him now.

"Color?" Hunter prods, pulling his hand away from your stinging cheeks.

"Green!" you sob into the sheets.

Good girls take their punishment.

Hunter gives you one appraising squeeze to the back of your neck, distinctly different from how he grabbed it to get you under control, and wastes no time in delivering two succinct and brutal spanks — one to each cheek.

You wail out each corresponding number and allow yourself to devolve into tears against the sheets.

Hunter smoothes contact-warm palms over your ass cheeks, soothing the ache as best he can without getting up to grab some bacta. "Good girl," he praises, "such a good girl for me," his hand around the back of your neck slides up and begins scratching at your scalp just the way you like.

You feel your heart rate slowing down, and no doubt Hunter can too, under his careful ministrations. The ache in your ass is no less prevalent, but you can bare it.

Besides, you think as you begin to roll your hips against his thighs, there's another feeling you can focus on, instead.

Hunter chuckles, sliding the hand on your ass to dip between your thighs and ghost a finger along your folds, "Well, I suppose you do deserve a reward, don't you?"

You turn to look at him over your shoulder with teary eyes. "Please?"

Hunter flicks his thumb across your clit, and you jolt across his lap for a different reason this time. "Hands and knees, baby," he murmurs, patting your hip once to signal for you to move.

Your limbs feel sluggish as you pull yourself off his lap. "On the floor?" you ask as you start to lower yourself onto the cold ground.

A hand around your wrist stops you. "No. Right here."

Your eyes flew open. On Crosshair's bunk? Spanking you in one thing, but fucking you?

Your cunt burns in excitement. Crosshair will never forgive you and you'll never forget this.

You settle yourself onto your hands and knees on the worn-in mattress, and you don't have to wait long at all before broad, thick fingers are spreading your thighs open and a wicked tongue is pressing against your cunt.

"Fuck!" you cry out, back bowing as Hunter dives in.

His tongue is downright sloppy as he does his best to bury his face in your dripping folds. The sounds he's making against you are obscene and make your facial cheeks go almost as red as your ass cheeks.

Hunter groans against your cunt like it's the best thing he's eaten, and you tremble with the vibrations.

Fuck, you're so close already, it's not even fair.

His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks.

"Hunter!" you sob, falling face first into the mattress. Your thighs tremble beneath his hands.

After being spanked within an inch of your life, your orgasm is tittering along a cliff's edge, ready to be knocked over by the barest gust of wind that comes along in the form of Hunter sliding two thick fingers into your cunt and curling.

You fall apart around him, lips falling open in a wordless scream as your walls clench around his fingers. His relentless lips that sucked at your clit switch to slow licks as you ride out your orgasm.

Hunter pulls his fingers from your sopping pussy with a wet squelch. Immediately, he sucks his fingers into his mouth.

You watch behind heavy eyelids as Hunter licks up every last drop of your release — you also notice the large wet spot in the front of Hunter's pants.

The knowledge that he came in his pants like some fresh-faced cadet is almost enough to have you wanting a second round.

"C'mon, baby," Hunter rasps, "Let's get you cleaned up."

~

When the rest of the crew comes back, Crosshair takes one look his bunk, with a wet spot from your tears and the crumpled up sheets and immediately groans.

"You're both disgusting. You're washing my sheets," he complains, pulling them off his bed as best he can without touching too much of them.

"Why?" Omega asks, popping her head in out of nowhere. "What'd they do?"

Yeah, Hunter can deal with that one too, you think as you burrow your face deeper into his chest and close your eyes.

[buckyskorpion]

Do Something Bad, Too - Part 5

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: It’s like every single Alpha on the planet won’t rest until they’ve confessed their eternal wish for you to mother their children, and it’s getting old. Luckily, that’s a problem Bucky might be able to fix.

Warnings: language, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of violence

A/N: sooooo..... lets not mention the last time i updated this fic was four years, and get excited that im finally updating!! woo!! i really hope this was worth the wait, im very anxious about letting you guys down. let me know what you honestly think! love u all, thank u for sticking with me

series masterlist | main masterlist | my ko-fi

You stay in Nat’s apartment in the Tower for the rest of your heat, which lasts an entire week. Nat comes and goes throughout that time to make sure you’re drinking enough water, to make you dinner or run you a bath, or sometimes just to keep you company when you’re capable of that. She doesn’t stay long, though, aware her presence just makes the unbearableness of going through heat even worse. She also doesn’t mention Bucky’s clothes or anything about that first day, which you’re immeasurably grateful for. You don’t think you could talk about it without crying.

To say you’re humiliated is an understatement. Mixed with that is all this guilt and shame and self-hatred for inflicting that situation on you and Bucky. Mostly for Bucky. He had made it so very clear he was only comfortable helping you with the scent thing, and even with that there were boundaries. You had blown through them all by showing up to his apartment, triggering both your instincts to do things you couldn’t control, and now he probably resented you enough to never want to see you again.

You don’t blame him. It doesn’t stop it from hurting so much, though.

You’ve well and truly fucked yourself now. Not only is it omega instincts driving you towards Bucky now, but also your own stupid, naive heart. You miss his giant hands and broad shoulders that block out the world for a second, narrowing your scope to just the two of you. You miss the way you can breathe around him, how the world doesn’t feel so scary and foreign to you when he’s by your side. It’s crazy because you weren’t even close, you weren’t even really friends, but now you never will be because you’re so goddamn stupid it’s actually astounding.

Nat’s plan had not worked. And this time, you couldn’t even blame her for this colossal backfire. This is all your handiwork.

You’re back in your office, returning to work once your fever died down and you could stand to be in the vicinity of other alphas without passing out. Maybe you’re tapping rather aggressively on your keyboard, and maybe all the techies on the floor can hear you sigh and groan in frustration every two seconds and are sending you strange looks through the glass. Whatever, you’re their boss, they can’t say anything. Besides, your boss has requested some rather strange security upgrades and you’re not sure if it’s within your job description to email Tony Stark and say what the fuck?

It turns out you don’t have to, because Tony Stark comes to you. It’s not often he takes part in the day to day workings of Stark Industries - that’s your job, after all. But he comes striding into your office eating an apple and wearing sunglasses during the middle of the day, and points a ringed finger at you.

“You’re back,” he says, and you find yourself glancing down at your baby-blue pantsuit just to make sure you are, in fact, back. Stark takes a very pointed breath through his nose and adds, “You smell terrible. This is great!”

“Great?” You can’t help but sound bitter. Your smell is hardly great to you. Even after sweating out your entire body-weight and taking more showers than is considered healthy, you still smell like Bucky. You can’t escape him - not your thoughts, not your heart, and certainly not the way your skin seems to emanate him like he’s crawled underneath and set up shop. It’s embarrassing and humiliating, because it’s not real, and just serves to remind you of the terrible mistake you’ve made. You hope beyond hope Stark doesn’t recognise the other alpha scent clinging to your pores.

“Yes, great. I need your help,” he says, sitting down in a chair opposite your desk. You glance at the specs you have open on your computer, the strange security upgrades he wants you to make to the Tower, and then back to Stark’s million-dollar smile. It’s unsettling. You feel a headache forming before he even opens his mouth.

“If this has anything to do with these emails-“

“Those can wait,” Stark says, waving a dismissive hand at your computer. He lobs his applecore into the bin beside your desk as if to punctuate his point, then says, “This is a request on behalf of the Avengers.”

“Um,” you say, rather eloquently. Avengers? What on earth could they want with you, unless- you groan, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. “Natasha.”

“She highly recommended your expertise,” Stark says, and that headache brewing in your temples blooms into a full-blown migraine. He stands, smooths out his slacks, and says without room for question, “Follow me.”

This is how you end up back in the residential floors of the Tower, much to your chagrin, which Stark seems to pick up on. The closer you get to Bucky’s floor the more fidgety you become, heart racing and skin turning clammy until you watch the numbers fly by and you leave him somewhere in the clouds above Manhattan. The elevator doors ding open to a floor that seems to go on forever, full of gym equipment and fancy simulation tech you figure the Avengers must use to train. You find Natasha’s red head on the sparring mats, tackling someone to the ground with her thighs, and glare daggers as you follow Stark into the room.

“She’s alive!” Natasha calls across the room, ignoring your death glare for a knowing smirk. Her voice echoes through the warehouse-style gym floor, drawing the attention of the others in the room. The Avengers, and all of a sudden you feel like an eighteen year old kid watching aliens attack New York on a grainy satellite TV in the desert again. This is like meeting celebrities on another level. Steve Rogers finishes wrapping his hands as he walks over to you and Stark, Sam Wilson beside him, and Natasha gives Clint Barton a hand to help him up from the mats.

“What have you roped me into now, Nat?” you ask, not bothering to hide your frustration. You’ve just about had it with her meddling, but you should’ve known it was a pipe dream to think she would stop.

“We know you’re very busy, we won’t take up much of your time,” Steve Rogers says, extending a hand and introducing himself like he needs to. Captain America needs no introduction.

“I know who you all are,” you say, giving them a nod. “And you’re right, I am busy. So why am I here?”

“You and Nat must get along like a house on fire,” Clint says, earning him an elbow in the gut from Nat herself. You grin, all sharp in the way Nat tells you looks scary in a hot way, and watch as he subtly shifts behind Nat as if to hide behind her smaller frame. It’s only then that you register the scents mingling between them, and realise that Clint Barton is Nat’s omega. She grins at you, beatific and serene, as if she can read your thoughts and knows exactly what you’ve just figured out.

“Let’s not hold (Y/n) up any longer,” Nat says, grinning in a way that always spells trouble for you. “She’s a woman in high demand.”

Stark leads them to what seems to be a large empty space in the training facility, but it’s soon filled with hologram projections from a tiny Starkpad he pulls from his pocket. You fall into step beside Nat, using your height advantage to glare down at her and convey the level to which you want to strangle her right now. She just loops her arm with yours and kisses you on the cheek, frustrating your attempts at intimidation before you can even begin. Bloody Russian spies, you grumble to yourself as you come a halt in front of the holograms.

You’re looking at building specs, that much is obvious. Why, though, is entirely lost on you. The structure is a tall hexagonal building reminding you of a panopticon, with security floors in the centre and what seem to be prison cells surrounding them. Details jump out from Stark’s hologram - security cameras, miniature guards patrolling the floors, thermally sealed doors and electromagnetic force-fields on the cells. It’s a prison, you surmise, and you’re starting to get a bad feeling as to why you’re here.

You turn to Nat and say, “I’m not going back in the field.”

She pats your arm with only a tiny bit of condescension and says, “I’m not asking you to.”

“You’re my Head of Security,” Stark says, then gestures to the hologram building, “If you can design impenetrable security systems, surely you can undo them.”

“You want me to help you break into this place?” you ask. The team all nod, and you look back at the intimidating, virtual-blue building in front of you. “It’s a fortress.”

“Yeah, they really upped the anti on security since I was in there,” Sam Wilson says, earning him a reproachful look from Steve. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety starting to thread through your chest. Failing the Avengers doesn’t seem like an option, but from where you’re standing, neither is breaking into this facility.

“I’ll need to know what it is first,” you say, “Then I can try and help you. Emphasis on try. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s called the Raft,” Steve says, his face growing stony and set as he talks. “It’s a prison designed for enhanced persons by Secretary Ross. After Germany, I broke Sam, Scott, and Clint out. But Wanda-“

“We need to get her out of there,” Clint says. You pretend not to notice as beside you Nat discreetly takes his hand, rubbing her thumb across his bruised knuckles.

“Leave the search and rescue to us,” Stark says, and you watch him shift uncomfortably under some inscrutable looks Steve and Sam are giving him, “We just need your help on how to get into the joint.”

“Simple,” you breathe, but only Nat laughs. This seems like an impossible task, but from the look of  everyone around you, failure isn’t an option. You’re going to have to make the impossible possible. It’s a good thing you’ve had some experience with that - in the military, trapped into sand-filled corners with no foreseeable way out, it really did seem like you were working miracles to stay alive out there. You swallow past a dry mouth and blink through desert-gunked eyes, say, “I’ll need that Starkpad, and some time.”

“You have forty-eight hours,” Stark says. The hologram disappears in a blink as he throws the Starkpad, no bigger than your palm, which you only just manage to catch. Stark clicks his fingers, as if an idea as just occurred to him, and says, “Oh, I almost forget to tell you! The Raft is underwater. Completely submerged, middle of the ocean, super top-secret. Fun, right?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. Fun is not the word you you would use. Only forty-eight hours to break into the most secure facility in the country, if not the world? This day couldn’t possibly blindside you anymore.

As if the universe is conspiring against you, FRIDAY’s voice chimes in from overhead speakers to say, “Mr Stark, Sergeant Barnes is on his way to the gym floor.”

You feel your whole body lock up, heart seizing in your chest - Bucky? Here? You weren’t prepared to see him yet, or speak to him. What would you say? How could you apologise for one of the worst crimes you may have ever committed, and you’ve killed people? Natasha unloops her arm from yours, tries to soothe you with a hand on your back but it does nothing for the anxiety shooting sparks throughout your blood stream.

“How many times have I got to tell that illiterate Soviet popsicle, he’s not on the fucking team,” Stark grumbles, storming towards the elevators with a scowl. Steve clenches his fists, glaring after Stark but Sam holds him back. He mutters something only Steve can hear which makes him close his eyes and exhale sharp through his nose - frustrated, but calming by the nanosecond.

It’s a shame nobody thought to do the same for you.

“What did you just call him?” you say, ignoring Natasha’s warning murmur of your name as you follow after Stark. Maybe you still have some residually elevated hormones from your heat, or you really are just a lovesick idiot who can’t control her temper, but whatever it is has you absolutely incensed. Stark stops dead, clearly caught off guard by the venom in your voice, and spins on his heel to stare at you incredulously.

“Excuse me?” he says, blinking owlishly at you as you lean up into his space. You’re aware you’re overstepping the boss/employee line, but you can’t help yourself. The rage is brewing, and with each laboured breath Bucky’s scent grows stronger and stronger until it’s all you can smell. It settles over your skin like armour, and the urge to protect that hold on you, to protect him, is beyond your control - it’s primal.

“Don’t talk about him like that, ever,” you snarl, watching with satisfaction as Stark’s eyes turn round and wide.

He glances behind you towards his friends and says, “Are we sure she isn’t an alpha? Sheesh.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, but it’s too late. You use the palm of your hand to slam into Stark’s solar plexus. You kick out his kneecap and he drops on one knee, wheezing and gasping for air. It all happens so fast you can’t even think about the repercussions of assaulting your boss, let alone what’s driven you to do it in the first place.

“I don’t need to be an alpha to kick your ass,” you hiss, glaring down at Stark who looks up at you like you have, in fact, lost your mind.

At that moment, the elevator dings and reveals Bucky practically seething behind the elevator doors. He storms in, larger than life - in the week or so it’s been since you’ve seen him, you’ve somehow forgotten how physically intimidating he actually is. You immediately step back from Stark’s kneeling figure, feeling the strange need to hide your hands behind your back like a kid caught with the cookie jar. Bucky glances wildly between you, Stark on the ground, and the ring of Avengers in different states of attempting to intervene. He heaves ragged breaths and is emitting a scent that threatens to take you to your knees, too. Authoritative, powerful, protective.

That submissive, animalistic side of you makes you really hate being an omega sometimes.

“Why is she here?” Bucky asks someone behind you, probably Natasha. He swings his, frankly, frightening gaze to Stark and demands with just as much venom as you had, “What did you do to her.”

“Jesus Christ, nothing!” Stark wheezes, clutching at the spot on his chest you’ve definitely bruised. He points an accusing finger at you and cries, “She hit me!”

“I’m so sorry,” you say, feeling your hands start to shake where you clutch them behind your back. You look to Bucky like maybe he can explain, which makes you sick to your stomach because he’s not yours to look towards. Now, more than ever, that is abundantly clear. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do!” Natasha pipes up behind you, helpful as ever. Bucky glares at her for you this time, releasing you of his burning-hot stare. His gaze has the power to paralyse you, and you need to get away from him, this, all of it - right now. You don’t get a chance to, however, before Natasha once again sticks her foot in it and says, “She was defending your honour, James.”

“Yeah, and I’ve no idea why. One quick google search should tell you he doesn’t need any-“

It takes you a second to realise the snarling, growling sound echoing through the gym is coming from you. Your face burns as you roll your lips together, cutting the sound off completely. For your entire life you’ve been headstrong and confident, but this whole experience with Bucky from the very first day you met him has shaken your entire self-perception. Everything you’ve known has been turned upside down - it was easy when all alphas were assholes, and you were one omega they couldn’t fuck with. Now, you stare down at your shoes and refuse to look in Bucky’s direction because he’s affected you so much you can’t even control yourself anymore. The worst part is that it’s entirely your own doing, because Bucky made it very clear you aren’t the one he wants, so everything you’re doing right now is just incredibly humiliating.

“(Y/n)?” Bucky’s voice makes you shudder. Looking at him would surely make you burst into flames, from embarrassment of the last time you saw him which you can’t even think about, or from the shame of pathetically defending a man who doesn’t want anything to do with you. He doesn’t even want you here, storming up to ask why you’re in his home in the first place.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, giving Bucky a wide berth as you head for the elevators. You can’t get there fast enough, practically sprinting to press the close-door button as fast as you can.

“Wait-“

And then, the absolute worst thing happens. You almost crush the Starkpad still in your hand from clenching your fist so hard - you have to, in order to keep your hands by your sides and not in Bucky’s personal space. Because just as the doors are about to slide closed, he slips in between them and FRIDAY seals you both in. The elevator fills with Bucky Bucky Bucky, just like your heat-addled brain has been chanting at you since you stumbled into his apartment a week ago.

Bucky stares at you wide-eyed, and you stare back just the same. This could possibly be your worst nightmare come to life, especially when the elevator screeches to a halt and FRIDAY’s dulcet tones hammer your fate home.

“I appear to be having some technical difficulties,” FRIDAY says, sounding confused if an AI can sound like anything. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to fix this. It seems someone is manually overriding my control of the elevator.”

“Nat,” you groan, in unison with Bucky. So that’s it. You’re stuck in an elevator with Bucky and are being forced to face the music, by the powers that be. The powers being Natasha, a no good meddler who is going to be in a world of pain when you get out of here. Alpha be damned.

[danfanciesphil]

Give Me A Try (New Chapter)

Gay Instagram Model/Bartender Phan AU Part 2 

(Part One)

Also up on Ao3!

The Habenero bar is closed on Sundays, thank God. 

The owner of the establishment is, surprisingly, a devout Catholic that believes in resting on the Sabbath. Dan is not all for this Catholic tradition (ignoring, for now, all the oppression and homophobia) because after Saturday night’s hell shifts, he’s usually in need of some recuperation. 

He wakes up at 2pm on Sunday afternoon on his sofa in a shirt that doesn’t belong to him. His phone is stuck to his cheek, and there are crisp crumbs in his hair. There’s a fug of stale, smoky, sweat in the air, like the smell of the soaked dancefloor of the bar at the end of each night. Belatedly, Dan realises that he’s fallen asleep in what he was wearing when he got back last night, meaning that he’s still soaked in alcohol. 

Grimacing at his own grossness, Dan hauls himself up from the sofa and staggers into the bathroom to shower. It’s only as he peers up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink that he remembers the shirt. At first, it confuses him, as it’s far too nice of a garment to be his. It’s clearly fitted, tailored probably, with a subtly cinched waist, and neat, complex stitching around the hem and sleeves. 

He peers closer at his reflection to read the little label on the pocket. 

Givenchy

Dan jumps backwards, hands held aloft as if he’s about to mark the thing with his grubby paws. He needs to get this thing off him right now, it’s far too expensive to be on his body. How had he let himself fall asleep in this last night? It’s probably all crumpled, he’ll have to get it dry cleaned-

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he scrambles for it, heart pounding as he catches sight again of his snappily dressed reflection. It’s a text from Tyler, the last of several by the looks of things. He swipes to view them.

From: Tyler omg CANNOT believe what happened last night

From: Tyler can we get brunch today?? lots to discuss..

From: Tyler hellooo?? earth to dan?

From: Tyler did u die from overstimulation of the brain after giving ur all time celeb crush ur fREAKING NUMBER

From: Tyler message me when ur awake bitch x

The blood drains from Dan’s face as he reads through the messages, all of which confirm that the events of last night weren’t a dream, and that, yes, Phil Lester did saunter into the bar, flirt with him, and hand over his designer shirt so that Dan wouldn’t have to finish work in a soaked one. 

Not knowing how to respond to Tyler, Dan chooses to just ignore it for now. He places the phone down and begins carefully unbuttoning the shirt, fingers practically trembling when he thinks of how expensive it would be if he were to accidentally rip a button off. As his fingers open the lapels, his mind flashes up a helpful image of Phil doing the exact same in front of him last night, his methodical, pale fingers working to reveal his bare chest inch by inch, right in the middle of the god damn bar. 

Dan’s face flames, and he tries hard to think of something else. Once the shirt is off, he folds it as carefully as he can and places it on the counter beside the sink. He then shucks off his beer-soaked jeans, which do not get anywhere near the same treatment, and jumps into the shower. 

It’s only as the warm, comforting stream of water cascades over him that Dan’s frantic mind relaxes enough to slip back into the memory of the previous evening, and all that transpired. Phil Lester. Right there before him. 

The slow, flirtatious smile spreading across his broad, full lips. The familiar sweep of his jet black hair. The pulse of his glinting blue eyes in the swirl of coloured lights. 

‘I got distracted by the cute bartender, and forgot to order him another one...’

‘I could save you as cute bartender when you text me...’

Cute. Phil had called him cute. Twice.

The water seems scalding hot, suddenly. Dan’s body temperature rises by at least two degrees, he’s sure. He swallows down some saliva, and runs his hands through his wet curls. How on earth had any of this happened? Situations like this are so unlikely that they’re almost never heard of. 

He feels how he imagines Katie Holmes must have felt when Tom Cruise sidled up to her, all flirtatious smiles and pick-up lines, after she’d been staring at his poster for all her childhood, tacked onto her bedroom wall. 

Again, the thick, treacly gaze Phil cast across to him over the bar seeps into Dan’s mind. The memory of it covers Dan's whole body, as if it were pouring out of the shower head, slathering him in its intensity. The amount of time Dan has spent staring into those eyes on his phone screen is insurmountable, but having experienced them in real life, he now knows that he may as well not have bothered. Those eyes will haunt him for the rest of time. 

He feels the familiar scratch of arousal start to drag at his thighs, tingling at the tips of his fingers, so he turns the temperature down, trying to divert it. Now that he’s spoken with Phil, so recently, it would seem odd to jerk off to the thought of him. 

...Not that AmazingPhil is anything like a stranger in Dan’s mental storage of wanking material. 

It’s just as Dan is rinsing the shampoo out of his hair that he remembers the one, tiny hiccup in the exchange with his crush. Phil had stolen Dan’s phone to type in his number, and had seen that Dan had been stalking his Instagram. 

As he freezes, remembering this mortifying scene, the shampoo trickles down into Dan’s eyes, blinding him. 

“Fuck!” Dan shouts, loud enough that he’s sure the neighbours heard. 

*

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tyler shovels a slice of avocado toast into his mouth. He chews a bit, noisily, then continues speaking with his mouth full. “I trawl the billions of nasty vintage shops in the Laines for a designer shirt, and you get one handed to you for free?! And by a dazzling, incredibly hot model? Hand over your fucking magic lamp, Dan. Some of us need it more than others.”

Dan watches with a slightly downturned mouth as Tyler talks around his mouthful of food. “Err, I think I was due some good luck, actually.”

Tyler looks like he’s about to argue, but then shuts his mouth, staring down at his plate in reluctant acceptance. “Yeah, okay, true. But still. Can I at least touch it?”

Dan shakes his head, drawing the bag containing the shirt closer to his side of the table. He’s taking it to the local dry cleaning company after this, as well as giving the staff there a long, terrifying warning that if they do so much as snag a stitch, there will be hell to pay. 

“No way,” Dan replies. “You’ll nick the thing if I let you too close to it.” 

Tyler sighs. “You know me too well.” He bites his lip, staring longingly at the bag, and sighs again. “So, when is Mister Delavigne retrieving his garment?” 

Dan shrugs, poking at the poached egg on his plate with a fork. He has no idea why he ordered this, he doesn’t really eat eggs. But brunch is such a specific meal, he feels like he needs to order something aesthetically ‘brunch-like’. 

“Wait, you mean you haven’t set up a time to give it back to him yet?” Tyler asks, horrified. 

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Dan says. “Besides, he said he might stop in on Thursday for Bingo-”

“No no no!” Tyler cries, sounding scandalised. “Dan, are you this clueless? The man gave you his number!” 

Dan’s cheeks heat, remembering the incident that occurred during this scenario. “Yeah, to text him about getting the shirt back.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “No, you nonce, the shirt is irrelevant! It’s an excuse for you to get in touch with him.” 

This time, Dan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a fucking designer shirt, he just wants to make sure he’ll get it back.” 

“He was flirting with you!” 

“He’s a flirty guy. Trust me, I know everything about him. I’m like... a big fan.” 

A sigh of pity gusts across the table towards him. Tyler places a hand atop his, and leans forwards. “Dan, listen to me. Text that hunk of delicious, geek-chic muscle, and watch how he responds. I guarantee he will try and flirt more.” 

“I guarantee he will just say he wants his shirt back.” 

Tyler smirks. “You’re on, dumbo.” 

*

It takes Dan two and a half beers to summon the courage to text Phil. He spends Sunday evening scrolling through the photos on the AmazingPhil Instagram page, studying each one in great detail so that he can remember each minute feature of Phil’s perfect, Adonis-like face. 

He’s had the text message screen up for some time, the word ‘Phil’ at the top where he’d saved his number, as if he were just any ‘Phil’, rather than the Amazing Phil that has haunted Dan’s daydreams ever since he first stumbled on a photo of him years prior. 

For maybe the sixth time that night, Dan types out a potential message. 

From: Dan To: Phil Hey, this is Dan from Habeneros bar. I have your shirt. Would you like me to  send it back to you?

He doesn’t send it yet. Instead, he copies the message, and pastes it into his chat with Tyler. The response is practically instantaneous. Dan wonders, not for the first time, if Tyler actually has any semblance of a life outside of the bar. 

From: Tyler To: Dan wtf is that shit????

From: Tyler To: Dan r u trying to turn him off

From: Dan To: Tyler ?? what do u mean

From: Tyler To: Dan u sound like a bot

From: Dan To: Tyler im being polite!!!

From: Tyler To: Dan polite is not going to get you in his pants

Instantly, Dan’s cheeks catch aflame, and he feels his heart squeeze. Even the idea of such a thing is too much for Dan’s poor, wrung out brain to comprehend. He could never, in a billion years, be that lucky. After last night, where one of the most absurd of his sexual fantasies came true - Phil stripping off in front of him in public - he’s sure his luck has run dry. 

From: Dan To: Tyler shut up. tell me what to say then

From: Tyler To: Dan ‘hey sexy, still shirtless? i live nearby if u want some help with that...’

Dan splutters and chokes on his beer. 

From: Dan To: Tyler NO!!

From: Tyler To: Dan fine fine. prude. how about...

Teeth gritted as he wills his heart rate to settle back into a reasonable rhythm, Dan waits for Tyler’s next message. His fingernails tap on the edge of his beer bottle. Trit, trit, trit. 

From: Tyler To: Dan ‘hey! not sure if u remember me but u heroically clothed me in ur Givenchy at a bar on Sat. the lanky bartender covered in blue sugary liquid? i know, i know, super hot.  anyway :’) i have your shirt. you  should swing by the bar again! or i  can send it back. up to you dude!  but bingo nights are off the fuckin chain js. let me know :) x’

Dan reads the message through, only cringing slightly. Honestly, he was sure it would be way worse. It’s actually kind of funny, and weirdly sounds like him. Tyler has clearly been subjected to Dan’s lame sense of humour for far too long. 

Without thinking, Dan drains the rest of his beer, copies the message Tyler gave him, and pastes it into the text box he’s opened with Phil. He presses send before his alcohol laced mind can catch up, wanting to be rid of this conundrum. 

From: Dan To: Tyler ok, sent it. 

From: Tyler To: Dan omg what :O

From: Tyler To: Dan did you really?? :’’’D

From: Tyler To: Dan i thought you’d want to edit it a bit first!! wow ok looool

From: Dan To: Tyler dont say that! you’ll make me anxious

From: Dan To: Tyler besides you made it sound like me its fine

From: Tyler To: Dan uh huh... let me know what he says :’D

From: Dan To: Tyler i fucking hate u

From: Tyler To: Dan xxx

The corner of Dan’s mouth quirks traitorously. His relationship with Tyler is complicated. Never before has he been able to hate someone and love them at the same time. Just as he’s about to pocket the phone again, it buzzes in his hand. He glances at the screen to see that Phil has - oh, God - already texted him back. 

He almost drops the damn thing.

From: Phil To: Dan hey dan! yeah of course i remember you ;D surprisingly i dont strip off in the middle of a bar that often. or  for just anyone ;) omg id forgotten about bingo!! super excited. i’ll be there! what time should i swing by? xx

His hand grows clammy, and he can feel his heart picking up speed. It’s mental that just reading Phil’s words can have him so agitated. He wonders if Phil has already saved his name into his phone. Probably not. Dan’s still a complete stranger, just one that happens to have a very expensive item of his clothing. 

From: Dan To: Phil awesome. you wont be disappointed! bingo starts at 7 on thursdays :) ur  shirt and i will see you there! x

Dan dithers about the kiss. He deletes it and retypes it three times, wondering what sort of message it transforms into when it’s added. In the end, after careful analysis of Phil’s initial message (in which there are not one, but two kisses attached) he decides to leave it on. 

Dan more or less expects that to be the end of the conversation, and he breathes a sigh of relief as the text swoops out of his control, but the sight of the three pulsating dots on the left bottom corner of his screen stop him from closing the text window. 

He waits, heart palpitating, for Phil’s reply. 

From: Phil To: Dan are u feeding her well? i hope ur  taking her for a walk twice a day.  tell her i love and miss her, and will see her soon. xx

Dan snorts with laughter, realising that Phil is referring to the shirt. 

From: Dan To: Phil she just pooped on my carpet :/ buttons everywhere x

From: Phil To: Dan :o so sorry. will be sure to give her no treats when i get her back xx

From: Dan To: Phil what kind of treats does she like? x

From: Phil To: Dan moth balls, tide pods... she’s fussy  :/ xx

Dan’s sniggers into his jumper sleeve, eyes crinkling at Phil’s silly responses. Is this flirting, he wonders? Could Tyler have been right about this? 

From: Phil To: Dan gotta run! im sitting in makeup for a shoot and they just finished  prettifying me :’D see u thurs ;) xx

‘You’re already pretty’ is Dan’s instant thought for a response, but he deletes it as soon as his fingers begin typing the words. He shakes his head at himself, berating his brain for being so gooey and idiotic. 

From: Dan To: Phil cool :) see u! x

Much more appropriate, Dan thinks, then locks his phone. It hits him like a freight train as he sits on the edge of his bed, blank phone in hand, that he just arranged a follow up meeting with AmazingPhil. 

He remains perfectly still, sure that the second he moves, the impact of what he’s just done will send him into a full blown panic attack. He invited Phil to Bingo night of all nights. 

He drops his head into his hands, groaning. As he looks up through the slats between his fingers, he notices the Givenchy shirt, hanging proudly on the door of his wardrobe. 

“This is all your fault,” Dan tells it. It doesn’t respond. 

*

Bingo nights are one of the Habenero bar’s busiest. Tyler first came up with the idea around two years ago, being a self-declared Bingo-hoe, but filled with criticism of Brighton’s few and far between Bingo events. 

“Bingo should be about booze, glitter, and loud, obnoxious screaming,” Tyler used to say. “Brighton needs to up its Bingo game.” 

Finally, after months of pleading to Habenero's owner, Tyler managed to wrangle an opportunity to host an experimental Bingo evening, run on his terms. He spared no expense of the meagre budget he was permitted, and created Brighton's, and maybe the world's, first Gay Rave Bingo Extravaganza. 

There are several rounds to the game. The first is the ‘classic’ round, to get everyone into the swing of things. Players are in teams of up to five, they get a Bingo board between them with a selection of random numbers. Tyler, the charismatic host, hops up on the stage to crack a few jokes and welcome everyone. He then goes back to serve drinks whilst Dan calls out the numbers. 

Teams receive ten points per round if they win, five if they come second, one if they come third. 

The following rounds get a little... messier. There’s a ‘drag race’ round, where new boards are handed out, and photos of the RuPaul’s Drag Race contestants are projected onto a screen. Players must correctly identify the contestants in order to be able to cross them all off on their boards. 

This is followed by Dan’s favourite, the ‘closet smash’ round, where clips of famous ‘gay’ scenes from movies, TV shows, webseries’ or any other kind of media are shown on mute, and players must cross the unheard lines of dialogue off on their board. 

There’s a ‘guess the ballad’ round, where LGBT+ friendly songs are played that must be guessed, and finally one last round of just numbers, this time while everyone is significantly more drunk (drinking a sip or a shot each time a correct answer is guessed is highly encouraged, but not necessarily advised by the bar staff, due to the lawsuit that could ensue) and there are loud, booming Madonna hits playing. 

The team with the most points at the end of the night gets a £50 bar tab, along with a shower of glitter, confetti and applause. The losing team has to forfeit. 

Phil arrives in the nick of time, flanked by one intimidatingly attractive man, and a slightly older straight couple. Dan spots them straight away, and hops down from the stage, pink-cheeked, as Tyler continues welcoming the various patrons that have shown up. 

There is no shortage of teams this evening. Dan sincerely hopes Phil is prepared for what’s about to unfold here, although if he has ever been to a different Bingo night, he probably has a very different idea of what to expect. As Dan approaches, he can see the flicker of surprise that is so often found on first-timers' faces, flickering across Phil's gorgeous features.  

“Hey,” Dan manages, heart already clawing itself up his throat. 

Phil turns to him, a bright smile sweeping across his face at once. “Dan!”

A bright, white flash of electricity shoots down Dan’s spine; hearing his name on Phil’s lips is a little too much to handle, at present. He manages not to swoon on the spot, just. 

“You made it!” 

“Of course!” Phil grins. “How could I resist Bingo night?”

Dan smiles, melting under the pleasant, crackling campfire of Phil's warm greeting. Tonight, Phil is wearing contacts, and his eyes seem even bluer than they had the first time. As he stares into them, Dan thinks he can spot glimmers of gold, of violet, of lime. 

“Not sure this is quite the sort of Bingo night I pictured when you dragged me here, Phil,” the attractive man on Phil’s left says, breaking Dan out of his trance. 

Phil laughs, nodding in agreement. "Me neither. But I'm excited. This is PJ by the way, Dan." Phil jabs a thumb at the man. "And this is my brother, Martyn, and his girlfriend, Cornelia." 

Biting back a stab of jealousy, Dan shakes waves to each of them, ending on PJ, for whom he finds himself needing to bite back a stab of jealousy. How many attractive men does Phil just cart around with him, day to day?

"Oh don't get me wrong, Dan, I'm excited too," PJ says. "Anything glittery brings out the craft-wizard in me."

"Sophie's going to be so pissed that she missed this," Phil says, eyes still sweeping around the gaudily decorated bar. Tyler spares no expense for Bingo nights. Everything is covered in banners, in balloons, in... glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. It's a nightmare to clean up at the end of the night, every time. 

"Not sure it's acceptable to have two straight couples in a gay bar," PJ mutters in response. 

Ah, Dan notes, his jealous monster retracting its claws. PJ is perhaps not as much of a threat as he'd thought. Not that there's anything about Dan which would need threatening. His chances with someone like Phil are laughably non-existent, whether or not Phil's handsome friends are straight. 

"Oh, you're all very welcome," Dan assures PJ. "Bingo is a non-discriminatory sport."

"Sport?" Martyn asks, looking a little more on the concerned side than some of the others.

Dan chuckles. "Yeah, uh, our take on Bingo is a bit more... energetic, than you might be used to."

Phil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, obviously intrigued. Dan just smiles back enigmatically. “So, do you have a spare table for us?” 

“Hmm, we might,” Dan says, trying with all his might to look nonchalant as he sweeps a vague gaze across the room. 

By no means can Phil know that Dan has spent the last two hours in which he and his co-workers set up being relentlessly teased for insisting on saving the best table for AmazingPhil. He'd gotten to work early, in fact, and reserved Phil the table right near the front, not too close to the speakers, but with a fantastic view of the ball cage and the screen. 

As breezily as he can, Dan leads Phil and his friends to this table, and gets them seated with pens, a Bingo board, and some drinks menus. It’s at this moment that Tyler, who has been buffeting the audience about on the breeze of his easy, clever humour, decides to introduce him. 

“And this yummy little twink over here is Dan,” Tyler says into the mic he’s holding. He gestures down at where Dan hovers, near to Phil’s table. The audience all turn to him, spreading a warm, gradual blush over his cheeks. “Dan will be fondling all your balls this evening, so do please keep an eye on him. Tip him well, ladies. Fellas. Folks in between.”

The audience laugh heartily, including all of Phil's table, so Dan just glares at Tyler, then scurries onto the stage in preparation for the first round. As he draws the first few numbers from the ball cage, Tyler wanders through the tables, taking drinks orders and greeting some regulars. Dan watches him hawkishly as he goes, hardly concentrating as he calls out the numbers. Eventually, Tyler saunters over to Phil's table, which is a frightening thing to behold. Dan stutters as he calls out the number in his hand, too intent on trying to lip-read Tyler's words as he converses with Phil and his friends. 

Whatever Tyler is saying seems to be making Phil laugh, which is hardly a good sign. 

After a minute or so, Tyler moves away, and Dan relaxes into his routine, cracking jokes each time a vaguely sexual number is called out - everyone loses their goddamn shit as usual when he reads out 69 - and things pass without issue. He keeps an eye on Phil's table as subtly as he can, and from what he can make out, the four of them seem to be having a good time. 

It catches Dan off guard when a table near the back shout out "Bingo!", distracted as he is by Phil's presence tonight. He blinks at the winning table for a moment before remembering his duty, and calls them up on stage to check their board. 

"Alright, winner of the first round, table 22!"

"Our team name is actually Cougar Chasers," one glittery young man informs him. 

Dan just smiles awkwardly, not wanting to explain that team names have never been part of the Bingo rules. As the team leave the stage, Dan glances back down towards Phil's table just in time to see Phil mouth "this round?" to PJ. 

He smirks to himself, wondering how the infamous AmazingPhil will cope under the intensity of the next few hours. 

*

Phil does not cope well. 

His team struggles the most by a long way, which is perfectly normal for first time Bingo players at Habenero. They get some points, but only a few, and are often seen scribbling frantically, or having heated discussions amongst themselves, eyes wide, hands gesticulating, stirring the confetti that's gathered on the table. 

Despite his poor performance, however, Phil seems to be enjoying his experience thoroughly. His glasses may be steamed from the dry ice Tyler pumps out in excess, and his clothes and hair might be smothered in an inch of glitter, but he's grinning widely, and is clearly trying his hardest. His forté seems to be the drag race round, for which his team actually manages to place second due to Phil's apparent extensive knowledge of the show. 

He throws the board up in the air when he shouts "Bingo!", but unfortunately it's a fraction of a second too late, and another team snags first place. 

At the end of the final round, it becomes clear to Dan, with a slow sense of dread, that Phil's team has lost. The losing team gets a forfeit, and it's almost always the same thing. Tyler swans over to the stage to announce the winners, and Dan falls back, eyeing Phil's table with a prickling fear. 

"...so big round of applause once more for our winners, everyone!" Tyler shouts once he's announced everyone. The crowd cheer and whistle for the winning teams, who bow theatrically, blowing kisses to the audience. "Bring your sparkly asses up to the bar to claim your £50 worth of drinks. But, come on now folks. I know what you dramatic little hoes are really excited for." Tyler winks and they all laugh, cheering happily. "Our big losers tonight... I am most scintillated to announce, are..." 

Dan bites his lip. 

"Table 34! Otherwise known as our smoking celebrity presence this evening, Instagram's AmazingPhil," Tyler announces. "And friends." 

Phil's eyebrows shoot up in unmistakeable shock. The crowd cheers, bewildering him and the others at the table even further. To Dan's surprise, Phil looks to him, questioningly, as if he's asking Dan to explain. Dan sends him a pitying glance, wondering if there's any way to warn Phil of what's about to happen. It's usually fairly pointless to try and stop Tyler, however. And besides, the idiot is already speaking again. 

"So, I'm sure you all know by now what happens to our losing team each week," Tyler says, grinning down at them all. "Table thirty-four, please kindly follow me to the bar." 

A loud 'whoop' of excitement resounds around the room, and there's a scrape of chairs as people hurry over towards the bar, wanting to secure the best spots for the spectacle about to unfold. Dan reluctantly begins climbing down from the stage as well, at which point he feels someone grab his arm. He turns, surprised to find himself face to face with Phil, and stumbles on his way down. Phil, who still has hold of his arm, manages to stop Dan from landing smack down on the sticky floor, hauling him upright. 

Dan, mortified, stammers out some sort of thank you, much to Phil's amusement. "Don't worry," Phil tells him. "I surprised you, it's my fault. Though I have a feeling I'm not going to be feeling as chivalrous towards you in a few minutes." 

Phil raises an eyebrow at him, still questioning, and Dan just attempts an enigmatic smile. He's so flustered that he's sure it comes off as more of a grimace, but at least he tries. 

"Hey, mate, it's not my fault you suck at Bingo," Dan says, his daring comment scrounged up from a reserve of courage he wasn't aware existed. "The Habenero staff accept no responsibility for you not reading the rules of the event before participating." 

Phil huffs a laugh, and releases him. "Perhaps a certain bartender should have given me a list of these rules before allowing me to sign up?"

Dan throws his hands up in front of him, already backing away from the conversation. "Hey, all the rules are listed on our website. Now, sir, if you would kindly step up to the bar to accept your forfeit."

Just as Dan is about to turn from him and sprint off, Phil steps forwards, penetrating Dan's personal bubble with his intimidating presence. Dan stops breathing instantly, caught in a sudden limbo as the world slows around him, the movements of the crowd crawling to a snail's pace, the pumping music becoming a distorted drawl. Phil leans towards him, a smirk on his lips, which he brings to Dan's ear. 

"Kind of like it when you call me Sir." 

He leans away, and the world falls back into its rhythm, the music blaring, the lights swirling in a cacophony of colour. Dan blinks, or so it seems, and Phil has moved from him, is back with his friends, headed for the bar. Dan lets out the breath he's been holding in a sudden rush, his lungs screaming with relief. He takes a moment to gather himself as best he can, heart palpitating wildly, and shakily makes his way over as well. 

*

"So, Dan, tell me," Phil says, wiping his sodden fringe from his brow. "How is it that whenever I come within ten feet of you, I seem to have an overwhelming urge to remove my shirt?" 

Dan, who is having a great deal of trouble averting his gaze from the miles of smooth, glittery skin covering Phil's bare chest, shrugs, mouth moving without making a noise. Phil is dripping wet, covered in beads of moisture, his damp shirt slung over one shoulder. He looks delicious, like a cold, dewy, fresh apple, just begging Dan to sink his teeth in. Just then, Tyler wanders over, placing two shots down on the bar between Dan and Phil. 

"Don't worry, hot stuff," Tyler tells Phil, winking. "Dan's pretty, but his charms wear off eventually." 

"I doubt that," Phil replies smoothly. Dan splutters, reddening. Phil glances down at the shots Tyler handed over, frowning. "What's this?"

"Thought you deserved a drink after all we put you through this evening," Tyler says. "And I thought Dan might like to join you."

Dan glares at Tyler, who just beams back, happily, before sauntering away. Shyly, Dan turns back to Phil, who has picked up the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger, and is rotating it in the space between them, gazing into the clear liquid. 

"Sorry about him," Dan says, surprised that he's able to force the words out, croaky as they are. "And sorry about... y'know. Everything else." 

Glancing over the rim of the shot glass, Phil grins, eyes crinkling. "Are you kidding? This is the best Bingo night I've ever been to." 

"Even though we sprayed you and your friends with the soda hoses for losing?" 

Phil nods. "Which means you must be an excellent Bingo host." 

"I'm just the guy who reads the numbers," Dan says, dismissive. 

He refuses to take credit for the Bingo nights. They're Tyler's baby, he just helps out. 

"You clearly know your way around the balls," Phil jokes, winking as Dan splutters again. His cheeks feel like they're about to burst into flames, at this point.

"Hah, well..." Dan shifts awkwardly, adjusting his jeans - they have a tendency to slip down his hips without permission. "Good to know I have at least one talent, I guess." 

"So, are you going to drink with me, Dan?" 

Dan hesitates, looking down at the shot Tyler poured for him. The milky yellow colour suggests tequila, perhaps the strongest thing he could have given them. Dan has over an hour left of his shift still, and technically he's not supposed to ingest any alcohol whatsoever during working hours. However, that doesn't mean he never does. Customers buy him drinks all the time, and while he sometimes declines, or pretends to drink them... there have often been instances where he's given into temptation. 

As he stares across the counter at his all time crush, shirtless and dripping from where he'd been sprayed with lemonade and soda water, Dan kind of gets the feeling that this is going to be one of the times where his resistance falls through. 

Not trusting himself to speak, Dan just picks up the shot, and watches in quiet awe as Phil smiles, clinks his own against it, and throws it back, expertly. Caught on the tantalising bob of Phil's stubbled Adam's apple as he swallows the spirit, Dan almost forgets to drink his. He remembers just as Phil's eyes fall back to his, and downs it swiftly. 

Purely to show off, Dan reaches below the bar to grab some lemon wedges, and hands one to Phil, blushing. "Here, it's practically blasphemous to do a tequila shot without a chaser." 

"Well, I'm no stranger to sin," Phil says, but accepts the lemon anyway, grinning. 

Dan bites into his lemon wedge, cursing himself internally when he realises how unattractive his face becomes as he does so. Luckily, Phil just chuckles, and does the same, wincing. "Ugh, that was awful. Tell your friend I said thanks." 

Dan laughs. "I will."

"Well, I'd better get back to my friends," Phil says, scanning the immediate vicinity for them. "Not looking forward to another shirtless walk home though, I must admit. I got some... peculiar reactions from people last time." 

"Sorry about that," Dan says, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Oh, wait, what am I saying? I have your shirt from last time, you can wear that." 

"Oh, right," Phil says, laughing to himself. "I completely forgot that's why I came tonight."

"Having too much fun, clearly," Dan jokes, already scooting out from behind the bar. "Come with me, I left it in the staff room." 

Dan weaves through the thinning crowd of people. People tend to leave pretty quickly after Bingo night ends on Thursdays. He and Tyler will probably be able to close early tonight. Dan can feel Phil following behind, as if he's attuned to Phil Lester's movement, tapped into the heat of his body. He feels he'd be able to just sense if Phil was in a room, even if it was packed with people. Phil's presence pours out a specific, viscous aura, clogging Dan's pores, seeping into the workings of his brain and slowing them down, smearing a haze across his sight. 

They reach the door of the staff room, marked 'private', and Dan pushes inside, heading straight for the lockers on the far wall. His skin prickles, sensing that Phil has followed him in here. It only now occurs to Dan how strange this might seem, luring Phil into an empty, secret room under the premise of returning him something. He decidedly does not turn around, instead choosing to fumble with his locker key in the door. 

"I, uh, got it dry cleaned," Dan babbles, drawing the garment out of his locker. It's still on its hanger, as uncreased and pristine as Dan could manage. "I don't know if it was supposed to have any special treatment, but I told them to be extra careful-" 

As Dan turns, he realises that Phil has moved extremely close. Neither of them hit the light switch, so the room remains dark, only lit dimly by the coloured lights pouring in through the ajar door. Dan can hear Phil breathe, can hear the thump of someone's heart - probably his own. He's pretty sure the song playing in the bar outside is Britney's 'Toxic', but he can't be sure. The sound of his own desperate, roiling desire is deafening. 

"Thanks, Dan," Phil says softly, reaching for the shirt. "Wish I could've seen you in it." There's a pause; Dan can hear his own cells fizzing through his body. "Or not in it." 

In that second, Dan is sure he's about to be kissed. Every sign is there: Phil inching closer, leaning in, the flutter of his eyes, as if they're about to fall shut. Dan tries to brace himself for it, to prepare his frantic brain for something so miraculous, so improbably, so utterly wild as being kissed by AmazingPhil-

The door swings open. Blinding, fluorescent light floods the room, and Phil steps backwards, cringing from it. 

"Shit, sorry..." Lara says from the doorway. Her round, pretty face is filled with apologies. "My shift is over, Tyler said I could head home... fuck, did I interrupt-"

"Hey, it's okay," Phil says brightly, sending her a soft, reassuring smile. "Dan was just returning my shirt. I need to head home as well, anyway. Great night, guys! Thanks again for the shirt, Dan!" 

In the next second, he's gone, and Dan, a mess of emotions, is somehow on the floor, back against the lockers, mind utterly blank. He vaguely notes, in the background, Lara jabbering at him, a thousand apologies falling from her lips. 

*

For two agonising days, Dan hears nothing else. Aside from Tyler bringing the topic up every few milliseconds, Dan's life trundles on devoid of AmazingPhil. Even his Instagram is dry. The day after Bingo night, Phil posts an apology note on his Instagram story that reads:

overdid it at Bingo last night (dont laugh) - having a much needed hangover day in bed with sweet potato fries & a Buffy marathon. Posts will resume ASAP! xx

The day after that, Phil posts nothing. It's unusual. Instagram is Phil's job, so he posts at least once a day, normally. Of course, there are exceptions, like when he goes up North to visit his family, or is too busy and forgets. There's far from a regular upload schedule, but AmazingPhil can normally be relied upon to post at least once a day, and often more. 

Then, on Sunday, just as Dan is getting in from his shift at around six in the morning, his phone buzzes. Dan reaches for it as he's peering into his fridge. He's bone tired, but his stomach is not going to let him go straight to sleep. 

He checks his notification, and freezes, under the judgemental eye of the courgettes on the shelf in front of him. 

amazingphil just posted a photo

Dan swipes the screen carefully, his heart in his mouth. How is he going to handle seeing this man, again, after everything that's occurred? He holds his breath, picturing the slow steps Phil made towards him, the gradual descent of his plush, pink mouth, the glimmer in his round, blue eyes...

The photo flashes up, and Dan's stomach twists in shock. His heart plunges to his knees, and he has to cling onto the fridge door for support. The photo is of Phil, and someone else. That someone else is recognisably Charlie Hickory, the man Phil had brought with him the first time they met. 

They're kissing. 

Hey guys! Sorry for the lack of posts, as you can see I've been kind of busy ;) back to normal uploads now, I promise!! xx

As his eyes sting with white hot jealousy, Dan realises just how deeply he's stupidly, ignorantly allowed himself to wade into this swamp of yearning for a guy he could never, in a thousand years, hope to get. 

"Well, I'm a fucking twat," Dan sighs, and slams the fridge door. 

(Part 3!) 

[cityofnumbersix]

Electric Moment - Chapter 11 - Bonus 2

READ ON AO3

MOTHER POST

-

Bonus 2: Return of the Filler

Bonus: After The Drop-Off

Katsuki wasn’t going to lie, returning back to his own apartment after having dropped off Kirishima was kind of a bitch. They lived on completely opposite ends of the city, and trying to make his way around the stations, on and off each last train before it departed was the second most irritating thing he’d had to deal with tonight. He wouldn’t complain though, not when he’d been the one to make the decision in the first place. He knew in the back of his mind that taking Kirishima back to his own stop would mean he’d be rushing around trying to make trains before he was left stranded, but at the time all that had really mattered was making sure the redhead got home so that he didn’t have to deal with Mina’s wrath if the drunken boy got himself into any more trouble than he already had.

And maybe, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d wanted to partially act on the manners his parents had drilled into him from a young age. “Make sure they get home safe Katsuki” –though ‘they’ at the time had most certainly been ‘she’.

Katsuki was currently pressed back into the warm patch of seat where Kirishima had previously been sitting. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t sat down himself before, maybe it was the fear of being too close to Kirishima, of pressing their legs together, brushing their shoulders, but now that he’d sat down, he relished the relief the action brought to his legs, that he hadn’t realised were quite so tired until now.

Katsuki relaxed into the seat behind him. It was stiff, but the heat that radiated up from it was a comforting contrast to the chill he had felt when the train doors opened upon different platforms, letting in waves of the city’s early morning breeze. He tried his best not to think of Kirishima, he really did, but the harder he tried to fast his mind would flicker back to the bathroom. With his eyes pressed shut in a drowsy fashion, the memories of blood and the feeling of Kirishima’s hard abdomen under his fingers played like a picture show over the back of his lids.

His phone was continuously vibrating in his pocket. He assumed it was probably Kirishima, a reason he’d never allowed the boy to have any more than his Snapchat in the first place –he did suppose a few would probably be his friends though, Ochako, Deku, checking up on him and asking why he’d left without a second word. He’d come up with a lie later, a believable one that didn’t involve pretty red heads and bootleg Marvel Comic attempted rapists, but only once he’d drank some water and gotten some sleep.

The vibrations continued, one after the other, and it got to the point where Katsuki was pulling his phone from the depths of his back pocket, the skim of his fingers along the denim of his jeans being a subtle reminder of how Kirishima’s own fingers had done the same, less than half an hour ago.

When he pulled his phone out, there were a series of different notifications. He was correct about Ochako and Deku, but there were even a few from Mina asking if he’d seen Kirishima, if they were both okay, because no one else had seen them in a while. The rest were indeed, Kirishima and Katsuki absently wondered why the boy had the time to spam the shit out of Katsuki, but couldn’t take two seconds to let his own best friend know that he was alive and well.

The notifications from Kirishima varied, at first they were just Line messages, simple drunken things like:

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: omg I just saw Ms Nakamura from next doors cat run into the alleyway behind her house.

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: Do u think it will get mad if I try to touch it?

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: Im not sure where this alleyway goes tho

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: omg BakuBro I see the cat

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: omg I’m going to send u a picture

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: nvm she ran away

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: omg Im 2 drunk for this

Something jumped from within Katsuki’s chest, and he swore it wasn’t his heart. It wasn’t his place to take care of Kirishima, nor was it his responsibility to worry about whether the guy was running around intoxicated through alleyways that he didn’t recognise, but still. A part of him had wished he’d picked up his phone sooner, so that he could tell Kirishima that those actions were most defineantly not a good idea.

He also did too, almost swapped out his Line app for the phone one. Considered hitting Kirishima’s number, dialing him just to make sure the idiot hadn’t gotten himself killed. That was until he read on.

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: Ok im out of the alley

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: that was super exciting

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: like an adventure

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: lets go on an adventure one day dude

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: ok im home

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: I hope ur almost home 2

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: u should reply to me soon so that I kno

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: safety is important

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: u should always have a train buddy

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: thats wat mama says

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: thx for being mine

Katsuki shook his head as he peered down at the messages that littered his screen. He may have even laughed a little, drawing the attention of another passenger, the only other one who was on the train. They peaked up at him, and Katsuki glared, shooting them down and snickering proudly to himself as the guy let his own eyes drop.

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: Omg

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: omg

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: holy fuck

(LINE) <3 Kirishima <3: im gonna show u something on snap

(Snapchat) New Snap from Red Riot

(Snapchat) New Snap from Red Riot

(Snapchat) New Snap from Red Riot

Katsuki blinked down at his device. The screen was glowing brightly, illuminating his face and making his eyes hurt just enough that it was irritating. There was something within him that began to rumble. He wasn’t sure what it was that Kirishima wanted to show him, but for some reason the possibilities were turning his stomach into a mess. He didn’t understand why. It was probably just something dumb like another cat, or a some other strange, yet completely mundane thing like that. Looking back at it, he should have trusted his gutt, shouldn’t have opened the pictures in public, even if his only other company was some tired looking dude who was probably now far too afraid to look up.

When he opened Kirishima’s snapchat messages, he was bombarded with three –for once brief, pictures of Kirishima. The first one was of his face as a whole. His eye was more swollen now, and had started to take on the deep purple colour of an eggplant. It looked painful, even though the screen of Katsuki’s phone. The next picture was still of his eye, but it was up much closer this time, and Katsuki could see the way the skin was risen high against the phone, the red tinted edges of the forming bruise.

“Fucking intense.” Was the caption on both of them.

It was the next picture though, that caught Katsuki off guard, sent his body into hyper drive and may have even caused a temporary outer body experience to occur.

It was another picture of Kirishima, but this time it was of him standing in front of a full length mirror. He was in what Katsuki assumed to be his bedroom. He could see the set of bunkbeds in the rear of the photo, the mess of what he assumed was clothing and other items that littered the floor. A mess presumably belonging to both Kirishima and Kaminari.

In the picture, Kirishima’s shirt was most probably amongst that mess, because it was no longer present upon his body. His torso, chest, and broad arms were on display, the phone held up above his face and flash shielding what would have been the outline of his head, and his hair. Kirishima’s pants sat loose and low on his waist, unbuttoned and held up only by his underwear and thighs.

That’s when Bakugou saw them, four finger-point bruises lining the area beneath Kirishima’s navel. They too, had begun to turn purple, but were still red around their perimeter. Fresh, new, and Katsuki knew almost immediately where they had come from.

“These ones are my favourite tho” the caption read, and everything Katsuki was currently feeling went straight to his groin.

Katsuki ghosted the ends of his own fingers along there area of his own body where Kirishima’s bruises lay. He dusted his touch over his own abdomen, eyes staring down at the screen of his phone as the photo ticked away, before disappearing completely. Katsuki had done that, he knew it for certain. It was when he was panicked, when he had Kirishima pressed up against him behind the vending machine at the train station. He’d known at the time that his touch had been too rough, but he’d been more concerned with making sure that Kirishima didn’t accidentally give away their position, that his wrists had become ridged, and he’d been unable to let up.

Katsuki wasn’t sure what to say now. He had both his hands on his phone, thumbs typing out a multitude of different responses. Anything that he could think of in response to the pictures. Kirishima had sent them to him, he’d wanted Katsuki to see them, and Kirishima knew that Katsuki knew it had been him to inflict those marks. He didn’t know how to respond however, what to say. He typed out apologies, jokes, rants, but nothing stuck, nothing felt right. So he simply types out:

BakuBae: That’s what you get for being such a loudmouth. Had to shut you up somehow.

Katsuki’s mind was still reeling. A part of him hoped that Kirishima had already passed out, surcome to his drunken body and fallen into a deep sleep where he wouldn’t see Katsuki’s reply until morning. Katsuki hadn’t even had the chance to lock his phone though, when his Snapchat began to flicker beside Kirishima’s name.

Red Riot is typing…

Red Riot: Kinda takes a lot more than that to shut me up

Red Riot: tho im not complaining

Red Riot: strong string fingers u hav there

Red Riot: bet they’re good for more than just guitar

Surely this wasn’t happening. Katsuki was far too drunk. Maybe none of this had really happened at all. Obviously he was already home, drunk, deep in sleep and having some kind of toxically realistic wet dream, because he’d been too drunk to actually release his frustrations before sleeping. There was no way that Kirishima was flirting with him, this wasn’t flirting. This wasn’t suggestive flirting directly after Kirishima had sent Katsuki a shirtless picture. Things like this just didn’t happen.

BakuBae

Just how fucking drunk are you?

Katsuki typed out with shaking fingers, positioned the text over a quick snapshot of the train floor. He glanced up over his lashes for a moment, making sure the guy at the other end of the train was still preoccupied with his own device, replying to his own messages, or playing some stupid game against the surface of the touch screen.

He knew he didn’t really have any reason to be nervous. From the outside, he probably just appeared to be having a normal conversation with someone on his phone. No one could tell that he had just been sent a couple of suggestive messages from his drunken band mate, his drunken band mate who was exceptionally attractive, and who may or may not have been the subject of Katsuki’s thoughts for weeks now.

The reply didn’t come straight away. For a while, Katsuki actually believed that this time Kirishima had actually passed out –that whatever situation that had just been arising, had also passed with the closing of his eyes. But then his screen lit up in his grip, and Katsuki, with his leg jumping up and down, free hand tugging at the tight fabric of his jeans, didn’t even hesitate to open the notification.

Red Riot

It was another picture of Kirishima’s abdomen, but this time it wasn’t in a mirror. Kirishima was presumably laying down, the edges of his hips fallen shallowly into the depths of what appeared to be a blanket. He was in his bed, and he still didn’t have his shirt on. The picture was closer this time, and Katsuki could clearly see the intensity of the bruises he’s made on Kirishima’s skin. There too, was the navel piercing that had driven Katsuki insane the few times Kirishima had decided to show it off, but now it was on full display in the picture, glimmering under the flash of Kirishima’s camera.

“Hardly” It was captioned, and Katsuki swore he was ten seconds away from blacking out.

Katsuki run his hand along the length of his own thigh, eyes peering down at the slight tent that now edged along his thigh. It was embarrassing, but he had been drinking, and it’s not like it was something that he could control. Plus, Kirishima was totally, like, saying all this with purpose right? Even someone like Bakugou could see that, but his brain was a mess of so many things. So much had already happened tonight -his first concert, Deku’s dumb boyfriend, being attacked, Kirishima saving him from being attacked. It wasn’t Katsuki’s fault he was reacting this way, if anything; it was completely unavoidable in every sense. There were a lot of emotions there, and a pretty boy flaunting himself all over his screen. What’s a guy to do in this kind of situation?

BakuBae:

You’re drunk, idiot

It wasn’t what he wanted to say. If anything Katsuki really wished he could indulge himself right now. It had been so long since he’d let himself have that, to let himself crave another person and let go of all the tension he built up inside himself for sport. He wanted to give Kirishima the responses he probably expected, but he was raised better than that. Plus, he didn’t want to start something he knew Kirishima probably wouldn’t want to finish. They were the same age, but Kirishima seemed younger in some ways, more curious, less experienced. It would make sense, with the way both Mina and Kyoka seemed to want to protect him from almost anything, from Bakugou especially. Maybe there was something they knew that he didn’t.

Red Riot is typing…

Red Riot: u don’t have to do anything

Red Riot: if you don’t want to

Red Riot: but I kinda do

Red Riot: idk

Red Riot: maybe it’s the adrenaline from hittin that guy

Red Riot: but ur really hot

Red Riot: u probably kno that tho

Red Riot

The next notification to pop up was a picture, and Katsuki allowed himself a few seconds to breath as he considered whether it would be a good idea to open it. There were so many things that could go wrong with this situation. Suddenly, every warning that Jirou had given him previously, all started to come together and make a whole lot of fucking sense. This guy, Kirishima, he was really hard to say no too, so fucking hard to resist.

Katsuki tapped his screen, watched as another picture of Kirishima’s abdomen came up on the screen. Same angle, same bruise, same piercing, but Kirishima’s jeans were nowhere in sight now. Maybe they were on the floor, or maybe they were pooled around his knees or ankles. It was really hard to tell from just a picture. Katsuki kind of wanted to ask, but at the same time there was no way he was going to let himself buy into this. No way was he going to allow Kirishima to realise how very weak he already was for him. Katsuki was stone, solid and jagged, holding in an intense inferno that no other human would ever be able to control.

The picture faded from view.

Red Riot: Im gonna take ur silence as a yes

Red Riot: b cur silences always seem to mean yes

Red Riot: I like that about u y’know

Red Riot: u don’t hav to say things

Red Riot: bc people listen anyways

Katsuki gaped down at his screen, head reeling as he attempted to process Kirishima’s words. Was this what sexting was to guys like him? Polite compliments and rambles scattered with teasing pictures of his highly worked body and killer abdominal muscles? He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised, it was Kirishima after all.

BakuBae: Im on the train dumbass

It was meant to be a warning, a kind of “You don’t have to do this, you shouldn’t do this”, but it ultimately failed, because Kirishima sent through a series of messages anyway, followed by a picture than Katsuki was yet to work up the courage to open.

Red Riot: Thats ok

Red Riot: u don’t have to do anything

Red Riot: I mean like

Red Riot: it would be cool if u did

Red Riot: bc then at least I kno im doing it rite

Red Riot

Another picture of Kirishima lit up Katsuki’s screen, and this time, almost as immediately as he looked at it, Katsuki felt himself instantly tilting his phone in a direction that he knew would protect it from any wandering eyes. Mostly because, this time, the picture was less of Kirishima’s chest and abdomen, and more of the length of his toned thighs, spread wide against what Katsuki certainly knew now was his bed. Kirishima laid there in only his boxers and on closer inspection, Katsuki could quite easily tell that he was at least semi-hard beneath them. Kirishima’s hand –the one that wasn’t handling his phone, had its thumb looped in the hem of them, pushing them down his hip on one side.

If Katsuki wasn’t hard before, he most definitely was now. He tried to hold back any visible response other than that from his body, however. He kept his face stiff, but casual. He never once looked up from his phone –he didn’t want to seem like he was on the lookout for wandering eyes, though this was insanely difficult, because all he really wanted to do was be on the lookout for wandering eyes.

Kirishima was either nervous, or really eager, because no long after Katsuki had opened his most recent picture, another one was already there, ready to be opened. Katsuki didn’t want to keep him waiting. He didn’t want to make Kirishima feel insecure, even if he really should have been stopping Kirishima from doing this in the first place.

Red Riot

The next picture was a little different. Kirishima’s boxers still tilted to one side from where he had tugged them down in the last picture, but this time the angle had changed once more and Katsuki was peering up and over Kirishima’s body. He could see the rise of the boy’s boxers where his member sat hard, flush beneath their grip, and Kirishima’s hand was up near his face, fingers teasing his mouth, cheeks pink and blotchy with presumably intoxication and arousal. He looked good, insanely good, with his biceps bulging and hair let loose from its previous tie –allowing for it to fall and frame Kirishima’s face.

Red Riot: I was attracted to u from the first time I saw u

Red Riot: but u could probably tell

Red Riot: thats y I got ur snapchat from mina

Red Riot: I was kinda pissy she kept u to herself

Red Riot: pls forget I said any of this in the morning

Red Riot: I kno its super embarassinf

Red Riot: its just ur really great

Red Riot

Kirishima followed his ramblings with yet another picture of himself. This one had Katsuki choking on air, gasping as he inhaled a mixture of oxygen and his own embarrassment. The guy up the other end of the car twitched when he did, looking up, only to be shot down by another one of Katsuki’s murderous glares. He wasn’t sure how much of an insidious affect it probably had, with his face assumed to be as bright as a tomato and his back hunched in order to shield his progressive issue in his pants. Maybe he would just look really drunk.

The picture, as it were, was far more provocative than any of the ones before it. Kirishima was sitting up now, propped against a wall, underwear pushed halfway down his legs, his length in his hand. He held the phone above his head, an aerial view of his entire form. His thumb was teasing over the head of his dick, and Katsuki couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if it was his own hand in its place. How would Kirishima react, what would he sound like? He’d make him feel good; he knew that for a fact. He’d work his way over Kirishima’s body, finding every single place that made the redhead twitch; anywhere spot that could potentially make the younger boy dissolve.

Katsuki may not seem it from the outside, but he took pride in the way he cared for his lovers.

Katsuki was sunk deep into this phone, so far that he didn’t even notice when the next thing that came through on his app wasn’t actually a picture, but a video. He didn’t even consider the consequences when he immediately pressed it, the sound of Kirishima’s voice radiating out into the once quiet air of the train carriage.

“Bakugou…” Kirishima’s voice whined out through his phones speaker, causing Katsuki to flail his hands, dropping the device to the floor in front of him, and if he’d been doing a good job at concealing what he’d been up to until this point, he wasn’t anymore.

Everything around him appeared to go still in that moment. Katsuki could do nothing but sit there, in shock, staring down at the backside of his phone, its screen still lit and washing the edges of itself in its own light. He didn’t know if his fellow passenger was watching, but he probably was. There was no way he’d missed that in what had been one of the deadest silences in the history of silences.

Katsuki drew in a breath alongside the sound of the train’s automated announcement providing him with the necessary information that this next stop, would be his. He was grateful for it, because no matter how much stone Katsuki built around himself, there was absolutely no fucking way he was going to be able to continue sitting in this train car with that stranger after he’d just played Kirishima’s sex driven voice out loud like a symphony.

Katsuki scooped his phone up from the surface of the floor, just as the train began to shudder to a standstill. He gripped the device tightly within his fingers; eyes flickering up to knowingly meet the gaze of the man downwind from him, who watched him curiously, knowingly. Katsuki could do nothing but attempt to put up his wall. He smirk, smug and deep like it didn’t matter to him in the slightest if this guy knew what he’d been doing. He even made a show of it, adjusting himself in his pants so that it would be more comfortable for him to walk, not bothering to be subtle in any way.

Once he was off the train, that’s when he let himself breathe for the first time since Kirishima’s corpulent moan of his name had hit his ears. It was colder outside than he’d anticipated, and the chill from upon the platform was almost enough to cool the head of his skin, wind hitting his flushed face, neck and arms. Everything within him burned, with want, with desire.

He gazed back down at his phone, screen blinking as it vibrated repeatedly within his grasp.

Red Riot: uh so like was that too much??

Red Riot: I don’t kno ive never done this before

Red Riot: I dunno I just thought it might be hot for u to hear

Red Riot: do u think so???

Red Riot: oh shit

Red Riot: fuck I think someones hoem

Red Riot: ive gotta go

Red Riot: thx for like

Red Riot: letting me do that

Red Riot: yeah

Red Riot: don’t forget to call me in the morning!

Red Riot: I cant wait to hear ur voice ;)

Red Riot: be safe!

Red Riot: gn

Katsuki hovered in his place for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. It was dead cold outside, and he was in nothing but a pair of jeans and a t-shirt –his jacket still being with Kirishima, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He just stood, staring down at his phone, the messages from Kirishima, the memories of what had just occurred running races around his brain. He wasn’t much sure how he was supposed to react, but Kirishima seemed to feel casual about it, so maybe that was a start.

Kirishima had also said that Katsuki should forget this in the morning, pretend like it had never happened. Katsuki was good at that, acting like nothing had occurred, even when it was something near impossible to forget. He told himself that he’d do that. That he’d follow Kirishima’s wishes, and he wouldn’t bring it up. He told himself it was for Kirishima’s sake, but somewhere deep down, what he was really choosing to do was to protect himself.

With nibble fingers, and a few taps across the cold glass of his phone screen, Katsuki types out a final few messages.

BakuBae: its fine Shitty-Hair

BakuBae: gn

And that was that.    

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[georgeluz]

hey:) for the ask thing, im about 5'5, i have long wavy light brown hair and big brown eyes w olive skin. my myers briggs is campaigner&my star sign is a cancer! i'm kinda built (?) bc i do competitive sport, i play lotta instruments, and im v social. i have adhd yikes and anxiety YIKES but it's chill lol, sometimes that does get in the way though. for the fandom, BoB would be great:) also ya u are a legend i didn't mean another word for champ i deadass just meant legend. thanks ❣

NO MORE PLS.

Wow. But… if I were… a legend… I would’ve gotten this done FOREVER AGAOAUHDFgrihEJADF. I’m so SORRY. Babe. But to make it up to you, this blurb is fucking LONG. @v-esperteen 

The Character I See You As: Buck Compton. HIGHLY SOCIAL? SPORTS? ANXIOUS? You got yourself a recipe for BUCK COMPTON. Aka the wonderful, sweet lil sunshine that loves literally everyone and makes everyone feel so comfortable and relaxed (and sometimes not relaxed depending on how boisterous he gets). I love him because even though he has all of these amazing qualities, he is independent to a fault (daring to argue with Winters I scream he’s–), highly emotional (losing his friends literally KILLED HIM) and anxious (though he hides it well behind his EVERYTHING IS FINE face or his dead inside face).

Your Three Best Friends: Don Malarkey, Alex Penkala, Skip Muck (aka the squad)

The One You Don’t Get Along With: Henry Jones. Sweet, sweet Henry. It’s no one’s fault, but he’s so composed and so put together that you honestly don’t know what to do with him. Try and joke with him? He just stares at you (maybe smiles pitifully). Try and initiate conversation? Part of you burns because he takes himself so damn seriously and you decide never to try that again lmao. You like him… you just don’t know what to do with him and him with you, so you just stay out of each other’s hair.

Who I Ship You With: Shifty Powers. The ENFP plus the shy, cute, unassuming, but also incredibly brave and intelligent Shifty Powers? HELLO HOW FREAKING ADORA- I digress. Shifty is wonderful because he’s mellow and gentle, gets embarrassed easily if you try and shower him with affection, but somehow keeps cool in the middle of combat, never gets injured, etc. His name is Shifty for a reason, one minute he’s there and the next you’re like ?? hello ?? Shifty? ANYWAY. I love him a lot. He’s like the least anxious person. Whenever you have your anxious moments he’s there to cuddle you and tell you in his sweet lil accent that everything is gonna be just fine (dont mind me im crying).

Wildcard: Captain. 2nd Battalion Staff S-3. 101st Airborne.

Lil Blurb??: Your charisma got you here. Your athleticism, sharp wit, ability to make solid decisions under pressure, and aptitude for route planning got you here. You were a valuable assistant to Colonel Strayer. Your gender also got you here: pouring coffee for him at 6:30 in the morning, tapping your foot with a bright smile on your face. You pretended it was fine that you were reduced to such menial tasks. You knew it was too good to be true that you would be used for much after being moved from the WAAC to the 101st. You had trained hard with a handful of women to handle the difficulties of battle–you would never see combat, but you would get as close as any woman ever had.

But that still meant making coffee for all of the men, pouring it, and often being left out of discussions. You kept reminding yourself that it was insane that you were here, in England, part of the planning for D-Day. You wouldn’t get to drop though, not like the boys. Knowing that crushed you, not because you particularly wanted to see combat and death, but because you had grown so close to the everyone. To be left behind was cruel. You were a favorite on Easy Company’s sports teams. It was Buck Compton that had used his charms to sway you into joining their soccer game. You were just as uneasy as the men, but once the game started, it was like you’d been playing with them forever.

Malarkey, Penkala, Muck, you, Compton, and Luz versus Guarnere, Toye, Heffron, Talbert, and Skinny Sisk. It was the most fun you’d ever had, throwing elbows and repeatedly trying to trip Tab (who kept throwing hands and swearing he was just going easy on you). You even managed to get a laugh out of Toye, something you hadn’t accomplished before. You patted yourself on the back for that one. But damn, it would hurt to be cut from the friends you’d made. You had brothers. These boys were like your brothers now, far from home, keeping you company in the daylight.

But, despite those boys being the group you had become so close with so quickly, it was the charming Southerner that caught your attention right off the bat. Powers was all broad shoulders passed down from generation to generation; he was meant to hold a gun, you could tell by the way he cradled his rifle against his arm. It was like an extension of himself, but that wasn’t the only thing you admired about the unassuming Shifty. He was a hell of a shot, probably the best in the company, but he was about as quiet, humble, and bashful as they came. And you thrived on making him blush.

First it was through subtle compliments when you caught him alone, without Tab or Skinny by his side. You would sit while Shifty cleaned his rifle, admiring his perfect form when shooting or suggesting he was the best you’d ever seen. You didn’t push him, you read him well enough to know he was easily made uncomfortable. You asked him about home, about his favorite gun, about the squirrels he used to shoot up in Virginia. Shifty would smile fondly at you, then his shoes, and lean back against the wall or the back of his chair, tipping his head back and squinting his eyes. He always took his time talking–he was deliberate. You loved that about him. When you sat with him it was like time stopped for just a sweet moment, like the anxieties and the frustration that fluttered in the back of your mind stopped.

One night, after sharing a drink or two, you both wandered into the nearby cow pasture and he told you about the farm he grew up on. “I did always like cows the most,” he murmured, running his hands along the dew-ridden grass, the other hand rubbing his jaw. “Big eyes, big ears.” He trailed off, screwing up his nose, trying to think of other reasons why he liked them so much. “Well I suppose they never did want nothing bad for nobody,” he finished with a short nod, drawing both hands behind him to lean on. “Chickens were too cranky, and the horses were too smart for me. I almost got kicked once. My daddy almost lost it, started hollerin’ about how I needed to stop sneakin’ up on ‘em. I was too quiet.”

You, yourself, had never been so quiet in your life. You were laying on your side, fingers threaded through the grass beside Shifty’s hand. You wanted nothing more than to keep listening, to drink his words in, to know him from the inside out, but he stopped and furrowed his brow. “You know, I never tried cow tippin’ before.” You looked up through your eyelashes, face flushed from the alcohol that still burned in the back of your throat. 

“What do we do, huh, Powers? Do we just run at them?” You had never done it before either. It sounded just like something a boy from Virginia would want to do.

“S’pose so, I never thought about it.”

“Wanna do it?”

“No, I don’t think that would be very kind,” he replied, sliding back down until his head hit the ground. He rolled onto his side and blinked up at you, a crooked smile gracing his features. “I’m too tired to run anyway.”

“Mmhm,” was your defeated reply, still propped up on your elbow, hovering over him. You felt a little tired too, buzzed, slipping down until your face was right beside his. You laughed. He laughed a little too, but he also looked like a deer caught in headlights. You weren’t one for personal space, at least not with people you enjoyed being around, and you hadn’t thought that it might be pushing it for him to be so close. 

“Never kissed anyone neither,” Shifty murmured after a moment. You tilted your head slightly, leaning back.

“Really?”

“I didn’t play football. I didn’t live in town. I don’t think I had a lot goin’ for me. Bad luck.”

You quirked a brow. Your heart was hammering against your chest. You weren’t supposed to being doing this with an enlisted man. You were his superior, and the reason most had objected to women in the military was for this damn reason exactly. “Why did you bring that up, Shifty?” You were just antagonizing him now.

He was silent for a moment, searching your gaze for any emotion other than drunken amusement. “Well, Y/N, I-I rightly think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I was just thinkin’ that. I’m sorry–” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was thinkin’ I wouldn’t mind kissin’ you.”

“Well, Shifty Powers, I don’t know what those girls back in Virginia were thinking,” you chuckled, reaching to grab the fabric of his shirt. “I must do my civic duty after all, send you off to war right,” you murmur before planting one on him, gentle, careful, trying not to spook him. This was real, you reminded yourself. And it would be gone soon, so you’d best enjoy it while it lasted. He draped his arm over your waist, pulling you in close, the other hand supporting your cheek. 

Shifty was a quick learner, you found, and you also discovered it would be very, very difficult to reverse what you’d done. After that night, discreet as you tried to be, he nearly gave it all away with his puppy eyes and his silent begging. And you were a sucker, running off with him to the fields and pastures whenever you could under the cover of darkness to romp, wrestle, play, and kiss a little before he and the rest of the men were dropped over Normandy.