#just because i curled up and started screaming in the middle of the asphalt. why don't people mind their own fucking business'

[crimeronan]

i'm currently having a fascinating flareup where everything in my body is on fire, but instead of sleeping through it like i used to, i'm combating the physical urge to leave my apartment at 4:30 AM in my good shoes and literally just run as far as i physically can before i finally collapse and have to call a lyft home. this is not a practical thing to do when you still have a migraine that means you cannot look at streetlights or headlights or the rising sun. so i googled "why does pain make me want to run," because i thought surely this isn't just a me thing, maybe there's a pinched nerve somewhere or a muscular issue i can resolve, i Know there are subreddits Filled with chronic pain tips, whatever. unfortunately, google is not built for this kind of literalism, and so the entire first page of results is just ["you forget to cherish her" voice] "Oh..... Sweetheart..... Poor Suffering Babbu.... Honey Bunches Of Oats..... You Are So Afraid..... Of Your Own Self....."

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Five Words

I’m back again ... this time with a requested ‘Leonard Betts’ follow-up ...

this tried to kill me a little bit ... not lying ...

@laurenclare88 @today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

No surprise to either Mulder or Scully, he was awake when she called, “hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, me, you okay?” Twisting his head back to see the clock behind him, “it’s almost midnight.”

“Feel like getting some hot chocolate? Coffee? Platter of waffles the size of your head?”

He heard something in her voice, and not sure if she’d been crying or sound asleep until five seconds before she called, he sat up, “well, Waffles and Stuff is open and in the middle so we can meet there, if you’d like, or if we hit Rolls and Holes, I’ll come pick you up.”

It was actually called Benny’s Café but they specialized in homemade cinnamon rolls and peanut butter donut holes, hence Mulder’s highly inappropriate, yet completely fitting, nickname.

She didn’t laugh like she normally did, juvenile as the nickname was, and he headed towards his shoes, wondering what could have happened since he left her yawning, at her front door, two hours ago, “Waffles and Stuff is fine. See you in ten.”

She must already be in the car because it took ten minutes to get there. Hurrying now, he tossed on a sweatshirt, then his jacket, heading out the door a minute later, turning left for the stairs instead of right to the elevator because hoofing it would be faster. The car ride there was quiet, traffic light, pavement dry.

Waffles and Stuff was empty this time of night, and as he parked, he spotted her already in their booth in the corner, having graduated from the counter a year or so back. Waving to both the cook and lone waitress, Max and Catherine as they had learned some time ago, he slid into the bench across from his partner, “fancy meeting you here.”

She didn’t feel like banter tonight, heavy burden weighing but not forming concrete thoughts able to be spoken out loud just yet. Instead, “you want to split the waffles or fly solo?”

“Scully.”

Hands on the table, she raised one in his direction, fingers waving absently, wrist bobbing in a ‘give me some time’ gesture, “I think I’d like to split a set of Belgian with extra butter and get bacon and sausage on the side. How’s that sound?”

Now she was just freaking him out. Stopping her flopping hand, “Scully? What happened? Is it your mom? Bill? Talk to me, please?”

She jerked her hand away from him, nearly taking out her water glass in the process, “just … they’re fine … I just …” frustration made her words stutter, nostrils flare, jaw tighten for a moment, “I haven’t …”

Not pushing in the moment, he leaned forward, holding his pointer finger up to stop Catherine’s approach, “do you want to eat here or get it to go? We can share in the car if you want.”

Eyes shutting, she took a deep breath, palms flat on Formica. Exhaling slowly, she found her center for a brief second, “just some hot chocolate for now.”

Mulder called the order to Catherine, adding a ‘thanks’ before returning to Scully, speaking slowly again, “are you okay?”

Her head shook a ‘no’, eyes glued to the table, fingers white. Mulder’s stomach tightened but venturing a guess that she’d had a nightmare about Betts and couldn’t form the words yet, he nodded, trying again to touch her, tracing his fingers over the cold knuckles on the back of her hand, “you’re fine here, okay? We can stay as long as you like.”

Caught between crying and screaming, she let him run his fingers over her for another moment before sliding back, hands dropping to lap as eyes bounced from his chin, then to his chest before landing on his still extended hand, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

She knew damn well she didn’t wake him up, but both realized she needed to steer them back to middle ground, neutral conversation, “you didn’t. I was watching ‘Golden Girls’.”

Not knowing this particular vice, she met his green eyes, almost smiling, “who’s your favorite?”

“Um, Sophia. What kind of asinine question is that?”

Hot chocolate arrived amidst the debate of Sophia vs. Rose and ordering their smorgasbord, things stayed light through another side of bacon and a second helping of hot chocolate. Stuffed by 1:15am, Mulder saw her drifting away again, heaviness settling where frivolity had been moments earlier. Tapping her ankle with his shoe lightly, she didn’t startle but refocused on him, “that better be you.”

Continuing, “it is.”

“Good. Otherwise, we’ll never be able to come here again.”

Catherine somehow managed to clean their table without disturbance, in, out, feeling the odd pall over them. Neither so much as glanced her way.

Subtly lifting his leg, he set his foot on the booth beside her, preventing any escape from his next questions, “what happened? Did you have a nightmare about Betts? Did you see something? Hear something?” He felt microscopic pressure against his ankle as her thigh muscles tensed to move but he held steady, not letting her leave. Voice dropping to a whisper, he leaned forward, “you’re starting to freak me out.”

Her face crumbled for a moment, then snapped back to normal 1 am, shifting gears a third time when her eyebrows crashed together, lip curling, chin wobbling in an instant, then back to normal. The gambit of emotions that crossed her face in under four seconds was heart-wrenching and Mulder followed along, panic about to overrun control.

Moving his foot, he shifted in beside her, arm around her shoulder, fear growing exponentially, his voice wobbling quietly in her ear, “what happened?”

“Betts told me I had something he needed.”

With the speed of a fucking bullet, realization froze his heart, and his other arm completed the circle around her, pulling her into his shoulder, burying his face in her hair, “Betts in a psychopathic fucker.” She couldn’t quite find words to tell him about the bloody nose that had sent her spiraling so she tried to move closer instead, wishing for a way to crawl into his lap without rebuke or reprisal. Ice still coursing through his veins, he choose denial mode as opposed to depths of despair, comfort instead of chaos, “he’s certifiable, Scully, why would you give him a second thought? A first thought, even?”

When she didn’t respond, he let go of her, standing, tossing money on the table and taking her hand, “come on.”

When he pulled away from her, she nearly sobbed, missing him in that second more than she’d missed him in … well … possibly ever. Seeing his extended hand started the roller coaster all over again and shifting, she followed in silence, little hand wrapped in big, not waving goodnight to their hosts, not seeing anything but his jacket inches from her nose.

Her nose.

And the slightest headache thrumming behind it.

She stumbled over the curb, running into his back, catching herself before hitting the ground. Her control was gone, her walls blown to hell, her mind focused on five words, four years, three drops of blood, two people, one soul and the suddenly ticking timebomb of a six-letter word.

She couldn’t say it.

Mulder had her face in his hands, trying to comprehend the unimaginable, eyes darting between hers, betraying any kind of cool exterior both knew he didn’t have, “you’re fine, Scully. You are going to be fine. Betts is … was … and ever shall be … nothing to us. He wanted to get under your skin and he knew how and he did it and he’s burning in hell right now and you can’t listen to anything he said. Do you hear me?”

Held still by large palms and calloused fingers, she let the tears escape, her voice reaching his ears in a wet, spitty, stilted stutter, “you … you didn’t hear … how he said it … Mulder. He … he had sympathy in his words, the look …” eyes closed for a moment, swallowing hard, “he looked genuinely sorry.” Choking inhale in, one sob shook both to their core, “he wasn’t saying it to be cruel. He was saying it … to be kind … and he’s dead and he can’t … he could have …”

Shaking his head, he finally pulled her into a hug, most of her upper body disappearing into his embrace, “he couldn’t have done anything, Scully. He removed tumors because he needed them. Doctors do the same thing. He didn’t cure, Scully,” he kept saying her name, needing to hear it out loud, prove she was still standing in front of him, his denial in place but his fear still winning, “he removed. Doctors cure, he mangled, he cut, he … he couldn’t have helped you but Leonard Betts doesn’t matter anymore because your fine and he’s gone and he was just fucking with your head because he could. He would have said the same thing to me had I been in the ambulance with you. I know enough about these people to know it would have ended with that phrase regardless of who was in the truck.”

Neither was sure who he was trying harder to convince and neither dwelled on it.

Instead, she stayed up on the curb while Mulder was one notch below in the gutter, hug evened out, height difference conquered with concrete and asphalt. A cone of silence enveloped them, traffic noise, barking dogs, airplanes overhead, all fading away, until, Scully, mess of emotions somewhat in check, spoke quietly into his chest, “will you take me home?”

“Of course.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Leaving his car behind, he drove hers to her apartment, both climbing stairs and locking doors behind. Her microwave clock now read 2:09am as she held out her hand to take his coat, walls still down, mind and heart exhausted, “would you mind sleeping in with me tonight? I wouldn’t normally ask but …” sentence running off to nowhere, she waited, eyes pleading in that Scully way.

“You got any sweats for me?”

Once in bed, not as awkwardly as either expected, they remained a civil distance apart but facing each other, eyes tired, eyes burning, eyes not breaking contact for fear the other would disappear in the time of a blink. Mulder, desperate to reach out to her, kept his hands to himself, “you’re fine. You will always be fine. You’ll go to the doctor if you need to tomorrow and he’ll tell you there’s nothing to worry about and then we’ll go ride roller coaster somewhere or run through the fountains of DC naked in celebration that I was right and you were wrong.”

She had already planned the following morning in her head but staying silent about that, she instead flashed him a small smile, trying her best to make it look genuine, to force her eyes to sparkle in amusement just enough to allow him to fall asleep in peace, “naked, huh?”

He saw through her bullshit like she was a plate glass window, “not on the roller coasters.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not on the roller coasters.”

Trying to keep his voice steady, “you’re going to be fine.”

Finally reaching towards him, his hand met hers halfway, “I know.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Sleep eluded him, preferring to listen to her stuffy inhale than to drift into slumber but even the great Fox Mulder eventually had to give in to sleep, drifting off around 4:15. Scully, faking until 3:30, woke at 5:45, slipping out of bed, five-minute shower, out the door by 6:30, leaving her partner behind.

Three favors later, she was trying to hold herself together in the MRI tube, magnets banging, head aching, muscles tensing with each new sound. How could that machine capture anything when her mind was racing so fast the images should just be a blur of thoughts, smudged terror captured in black and white, brought to you by the marvels of science?

She wished he was there so she could hold his hand.

&&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder could fake a few things as well. He woke when she left the bed, stayed still, eyes shut, while he listened to her shower. He heard her come back in, sort through her closet, open dresser drawers, felt the air in the room change as she did, donning armor for her day ahead. She was at the foot of the bed so not in his possible waking view but to know she was comfortable enough to do her routine with him asleep five feet away made him quake inside. He held it together, even as she returned to the room, keys lightly clinking in hand, to give him a lingering kiss on the cheek, to brush his hair back as her thumb ran over his forehead.

He waited five minutes after he heard the front door lock before rolling over, stretching, missing her beating heart and radiating heat. Staring at the ceiling when done, he refused to ponder, instead, two grunts and a back crack later, he was up, standing, heading to the shower.

Problem was, the warm water, the smell of her soap, the view of damp towel on rack and dry one beside, just for him, caught him off-guard. Halfway through soaping up, he broke down, standing under the water, sobbing tears covered by loud water pinging off the walls. He gave himself what felt like five minutes before straightening back up, finishing his shampoo and wash, ending with a steamy-mirrored pep talk during which he convinced himself Scully would be just fine.

Making the bed, he headed out, calling a cab to get him to the diner, then driving himself home, waiting impatiently for a phone call he knew was inevitable. He could have heading to the basement, he could have taken a nap, he could have stared at the wall and had a panic attack the size of Montana but instead, he read his email, his phone never far from his hand.

&&&&&&&&&&

Scully saw the mass, a bright white spot of dread in her sinus cavity, doctor explaining, in the background, diagnosis and treatment options, but most of her attention was filled with it.

It.

IT.

That thing settled comfortably next to her brain.

IT.

Mesmerized, she nodded when they asked if she’d like to be alone for a minute; if she would like to call someone.

And then it was quiet, the snick of the shutting door the only noise in the room.

Leaving just her and the bright white mass on the light board.

“Mulder. Could you come down to the hospital, please?”

She could hear it in his voice as he said, “which area?”

“Oncology.”

The sound of a fight building. The sound of defiance taking root.

Or denial.

“I’m on my way.”

[peantutbutter]

69. “We are not going to steal someone’s dog.” with Michael, Gavin and Jeremy please!

 69. (nice) “We are not going to steal someone’s dog.”

Trigger Warning for brief mentions of animal abuse. Nothing is graphically explicit and everything turns out ok and the dog is rescued, but the thought of an injured animal is triggering or otherwise too emotionally distressing for you, go ahead and keep scrolling

The Mad Lad’s Animal Rescue Agency [ao3]

It’s odd.

As far as Michael knows, both Gavin and Jeremy are what he would consider cat people. Pets aren’t allowed in the penthouse, of course, but both get swept up in conversations about what they would name potential future cats, and both go out of their way to set out food and water for the strays of the city.

So when the two come to him cooing and gushing about a sweet looking pit bull they’ve met, Michael is a little astonished when they start telling him their plans for whisking her away in the dead of night.

“We’re not stealing someone’s dog,” he deadpans, and he can’t fucking believe that he has to say it.

“Awww, c’mon Michael, why not? Lookat her!” Gavin whines, shoving his phone in his face.

And, yeah, alright, she’s fucking cute — chocolate brown fur; a light pink tongue lolling out of her mouth; a tail that’s blurry because it’s wagging so fast; and large, shining brown eyes that are staring adoringly at Gavin in the selfie he’s taken — but Michael can’t just let his boys go off and steal a dog for no good reason. “Because it’ll shit all over the goddamn floor!” he argues. “Where are we gonna keep her, Gavin? We gonna make her ride an elevator every time she needs to take a piss?”

But the thing about Gavin is that once he gets something in his head, there’s really no stopping him. And with Jeremy involved, really, all Michael can do is hope to mitigate the inevitable collateral damage.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning when Michael pulls into what is possibly the most boring middle class neighborhood and parks across the street from a house that looks like the dozens of others surrounding it. He cuts the engine of their unmarked van and looks to Gavin and Jeremy making their last-minute preparations in the back. The entire vehicle smells like peanut butter and Gavin slaps Jeremy’s hand away from the bag of bacon he had fried up before leaving. “That’s not for you!” he hisses.

Jeremy pouts indignantly, but lets it be. They grab a pair of bolt cutters, while Gavin stuffs his pockets full of treats and clips various dog toys to his belt. A brightly colored rope dangles from his hips, and right beside it a squeaky chicken. He pauses for a minute, tennis ball in hand, and frowns thoughtfully, trying to figure out where to place it.

Ultimately, he sets it down, deciding that his skirt of toys is sufficient.

Jeremy pulls on a pair of gloves and grabs a leash dangling from a hook. They shoot Gavin an eager look, which he eagerly returns.

“You look like fucking idiots,” Michael says, because one: it’s true, and two: he apparently has a compulsive need to kill the mood if it’s stupid, like this one. Gavin and Jeremy just look at him, still smiling, mischief gleaming in their eyes. Michael rolls his eyes and waves his hand. “Go get the damn dog.”

The other two excitedly scramble out of the car and crouch-run their way across the street, like they’re on some sort of actual heist. Michael barely suppresses an eye roll. It’s not like the hazy moonlight or streetlamps are illuminating the street or anything. Idiots.

He watches them stealth their way to a chain-link fence. On the other side, Michael can make out what appears to be a ramshackle doghouse, and a tiny figure curled up just outside it. He can’t hear it, but he assumes Gavin whistles or does something to get the dog’s attention, because the figure’s head pops up and it pushes itself onto it’s legs.

Or at least it tries.

Jeremy is clipping away at the fence when Michael notices how the poor thing’s back paws are dragging uselessly along the ground. Her tail wags furiously as she crawls over to Gavin, but she isn’t moving very fast.

Oh. That’s why they’d been so adamant about doing this.

His knuckles turn white, and the steering wheel creaks under his grip. That familiar burn courses through his body, licking flames up and down his arms and legs. The vein in his jaw throbs, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. Going in and beating the owner senseless is tempting — “How does it feel, huh? How does it fucking feel? — but running in blindly, fists flying, would be reckless and stupid. And while he has his moments, tonight he’s the sensible one.

Or at least that’s what he tells himself. But when a light flicks on in the house while Jeremy is in the middle of unhooking the dog’s chain and latching their own, all of Michael’s self restraint leaves him. There’s a shadow moving throughout the house, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He pulls the baseball bat from the passenger footwell and tears out of the van.

Gavin exclaims loudly as Michael rips past.

“Get the dog outta here, I’ll cover you!” Michael yells, and his lifetime of hopping fences pays off as he effortlessly scales the wire structure. His feet land on the ground with a soft thump and gets into position on the other side of the sliding glass door. He chokes up on the bat, ready to swing.

Jeremy finally manages to slip the hook of their leash through the loop on the dog’s collar just as the door slides open. The man inside is screaming angrily, but Michael doesn’t hear what he’s saying. He’s more focused on how he’s going to make this dickbag scream for another reason.

The guy steps outside, not seeing Michael where he hides just behind him, and he reaches for something tucked in his waistband. The second Michael realizes it’s a gun, he pounces, striking the guy in the back of the knees and bringing the bat down on the guy’s back with a satisfying crack.

He fucking whales on the guy, letting all that righteous anger course through him. Each strike shakes his bones, and he’s pleasantly reminded why this is his primary weapon of choice. There’s something so deliciously personal about taking a guy apart with a big stick. He keeps swinging until he’s sure Gavin and Jeremy have pulled the poor pup to safety. The bastard is curled into the fetal position, and his gun, which Michael had kicked away, lay just out of reach.

The horn of the van blares — one of his lads letting him know they’re clear — and Michael brings the bat down for a final strike. It makes a wet crunch against the back of the guy’s head. He’s not one hundred percent sure whether the guy is unconscious or actually dead. He doesn’t particularly care. He’s got no love for people who beat their animals, and, frankly, he’s killed for less.

His arms burn, and as he wipes blood from his face, he realizes that the lights in the surrounding houses are flicking on. The sound of an approaching siren kicks him into gear. He scrambles over the fence — a feat more difficult now that his limbs feel gooey with exertion — and books it across the street.

The engine revs as Jeremy puts the key in the ignition. Sirens are growing closer, and tired civilians are emerging from their homes to see what the fuss is about. The doors to the back are wide open, and Gavin, gently cradling the dog, yells at him to “Hurry up!”

Michael flings himself into the back of the van, and Jeremy takes off like a bullet, tires squealing against the asphalt, leaving behind the scent of burned rubber.

They fly out of the neighborhood, and Jeremy takes a few random turns, shaking any potential pursuers off their trail. All the while, Gavin is cooing at the creature in his arms. “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good Bella?” he asks. “Who doesn’t have to worry about that mean old man ever again? Yes, it’s you!”

He pets Bella until she calms down, mindful of her legs, which rest gingerly on the seat. Slowly, her eyes drift shut, and she falls asleep under his touch. He smiles softly, and Michael can’t help but do the same at the scene before him.

Then Gavin turns to look at him. “Thank you, Michael,” he murmurs, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Michael shrugs. “Don’t understand why you didn’t tell me why you wanted to steal this guy’s dog in the first place.”

“Ah, well…” Gavin pauses for a moment, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “Lil J and I kind of figured you riding out your rage would be the best cover in case we got caught. And that’s something that only really happens in the moment. So we needed you going in blind.”

Michael stares blankly for a moment, blinking slowly, trying to understand the reasoning. “You didn’t tell me,” he says slowly, “because you wanted me to be pissed off enough to attack a guy in case he caught you.”

Gavin presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah.”

Michael scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You two are fucking ridiculous,” he says. Then his gaze travels towards the peacefully sleeping dog. “What are you going to do with her?”

Gavin shrugs. “Gonna get our medic to take a look at her and see what he can do. After that…I dunno, try to find a nice place for her to live. Fredo’s been saying he wants a dog, so maybe he’ll be willing to take care of her.”

“So you never planned on her living in the penthouse, did you?” Michael asks.

“Of course not, Michael boy,” Gavin answers easily. His eyes sparkle with humor. “We’re not gonna make her ride the elevator every time she needs to take a leak.”

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 72: Ring Road

Chapters: 72/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: T

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent),

Summary:  A funeral for a giant.

You woke up to the gentle alarm sounded by Loki's magic. You were warm, and comfortable, and...mildly sore, but not too bad.

Oh, right.

Loki was curled protectively around you, snuggled up so close, he was like a second blanket. The sun had not risen yet, but that didn't mean much at this time of year. The sun was rising later and later, setting earlier and earlier. Winter was close.

You rolled over in his arms to face him, but he was already awake, gazing adoringly at you.

“You're still here.” He murmured.

“Of course. Did you think I wouldn't be?”

“I'd hoped you would.”

“Hey. Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “I'm not going anywhere, okay?”

He helped you dress, sensual and loving touch smoothing the wrinkles in your clothes, then shared a light breakfast with you. He'd had you start sitting under a special lamp once the days had started shortening; this was common for humans in Iceland, he said. To maintain health. So you had a portable one you could take with you most places-to lessons with Saga, to his rooms, even to the council rooms and throne room, so you could have simulated sunlight wherever you went.

“It makes you radiant.” He said.

“I wonder what people here did before these were invented?”

“Suffered, probably.”

You ate, bathed in light.

“Loki...”

“You have questions. I anticipated this. I do not know why I am so small compared to other Jotun, but I do know that I was born this way. I was not expected to survive, and so I was left to die in a special place, as part of a Jotun ritual.”

“That...sounds awful.”

“It is their way. In a way, Odin taking me with him was a final insult to their very culture. But it allowed me to survive.”

“Why can I touch you like this, but not like that?”

“This isn't an illusion. I am more than just an illusionist, I am a shapeshifter. You can touch me in this form, because it's real. When I am in Asgardian shape, I truly am Asgardian.”

He held out his milky hand, and you caressed his palm.

“Everybody else knows, don't they?” You asked.

Loki nodded. “Once I found out, I knew everyone else would eventually. I wanted to control the method of the revelation, so I...well I wrote a play.”

“A play? You can write too? Is there anything you can't do?”

Loki flushed. “A few things.” He admitted bashfully.

“I want to see it!”

“Not yet! I mean, we don't have facilities, or actors. We don't have the time. But someday, yes.” He seemed nervous. Maybe he was embarrassed about it. He never said it was a good play, after all.

“Loki, if you're Asgardian when you shapeshift into one, then why worry about being a Frost Giant to begin with? You can be anything, and it's real.” You asked.

“Humans are highly mutable.” Loki explained. “Your cultures move and change quickly. Even those whose identity goes back thousands of years will find that not all of their customs are exactly the same as they were. It's kind of admirable, actually.

But Asgard moves much more slowly. The war between the Frost Giants and Asgard is over, except that it isn't. It's barely been a single generation since then. Thor was born in the middle of that war; I was born at the end. It is within recent memory. I was raised around people who had fought, people who had lost loved ones. I was raised on the residual hate. It became a part of me.

Maybe that would be all I was grappling with, if I had known from the start. Maybe I would have had time to come to terms, to grow a thicker skin. But the centuries of lies on top of that; the man who raised me watching that prejudice grow in me and not bothering to do anything about it, as if he thought a lie could ever last forever with me around.”

“But it did, didn't it? Almost forever. Did you ever question?”

“Yes and no. I knew something was wrong, but I dismissed it. Ignored it. I didn't want to look into it.”

“The only person who can lie to you is you, huh?”

“Oh, stop being so insightful, will you?” Loki scowled.

“Sorry, can't. It's my job.”

                                                                        ******

Two days later, you were on the road again.

This was a funeral procession. You, Loki, and Thor, as well as ten einherjar and six masons, two cooks, and the Asgardian equivalent of a priest.

And, of course, the giant.

He had been tightly and carefully wrapped, almost like a huge mummy, to keep his head in place, and make him safe for transport and handling. He had been placed in a wooden cart, which would act also as his coffin. He had been veiled, and most of his possessions placed in the cart with him, along with what the Asgardians considered peace offerings. Honor, even towards an enemy, was a matter of common practice. After all, if one sent an opponent to Valhalla, it wouldn't do to leave them angry with one upon one's own entry.

And so a helmet had been placed with him, and a nice blanket, a pickax, a basket of wheat, and a pan flute. You had left him a book, but you wondered if that was any good as a gift. After all, a thousand years ago, your language hadn't existed in the form you knew. Saga had shown you what Old English looked like, and you hadn't even recognized it. It had made you feel strange and small.

Was it an appropriate gift? A book he couldn't understand? Or was it the thought that counted?

“We don't really do grave goods where I'm from.” You'd told Loki. “I don't really know what to give.”

“What do you value?” He'd asked. “If it means something to you, it should be fine.”

And so it had to be a book. Old stories of Americana-Mark Twain, and Maya Angelou, and Edgar Allen Poe. Little chunks of your culture over time, and from different perspectives. You hoped if he could read it in that big black hole in the sky, that he found some enjoyment from it.

You, however, were finding very little enjoyment on this trip. Not only was it violently cold, but the wind was a cruel whip that lashed at you until Loki draped his heavy cloak over your head, creating a tent. That kept the wind out, but also completely blocked your vision, forcing you to let him guide Acorn, instead of you.

Though Acorn was a sturdy and stalwart little thing, born and bred on the frigid Icelandic landscape, she was distressed by the Frost Giant in his cart. To keep her calm, Loki moved the two of you forward, closer to him, but that just increased your frustration.

You wanted to be close to Loki, and he clearly wanted to be too, but there was no time, no opportunity. You were frozen out on the road, and this was a funeral procession. There was propriety to observe.

From under Loki's cloak, you could not see any of the beautiful landscape around you, and while you were enveloped in his comforting scent, the cloak also blocked out what little sun the island got at that time of year. For the entire four day trip, you saw little light, other than the evening cooking fires when the procession set up camp.

Then, with the tents set up as a windbreak, and dinner cooking over the fire, you were able to look up as the crystal clear sky, scattered with diamonds and flowing ribbons of color.

You'd never seen the auroras before this, but you could see how people became enchanted by their otherworldly aura.

“It's like the Bifrost, isn't it?” You said to Loki, who was staring up into the night just like you were. He was tucked up close to the fire with you, stealing the only moments of intimacy the two of you could find. “Is that what they saw, way back when? A way to reach the gods? How many ways did people interpret this, if they didn't know the science behind it?”

“Knowing the science doesn't necessarily remove the magic, now does it?” Loki said. “We know how lightning and thunder works. We know what causes it. We know that men should not be able to command it, and yet...”

“Is it magic?” You asked, staring at the swirling colors.

“Perhaps.” Loki said. “Of a kind.”

There wasn't even any privacy to be had in the tents; they were large group affairs, meant to house several people each, with little dividers hanging between them. The best you could get was wriggling your hand under the divider to hold Loki's, but the cold permeated just enough that you couldn't do it for long. You eventually had to hunker down into your thick, fluffy sleeping bag until only your nose and mouth were exposed to the open air.

You dressed yourself in the mornings in very heavy, but much less elaborate clothing than usual. Loki had insisted that you wear some of your armor on the trip, your breastplate and helmet, just in case there were any opportunistic enemies out in the countryside.

“When you are writhing in my arms,” He had whispered into your ear. “I don't want it to be from pain.”

On Acorn's back, under Loki's cloak, you tried to come up with an appropriate blessing for the dead giant.

What could you say? You still felt some kind of responsibility. You hadn't tried to deescalate the situation. You hadn't tried to talk to the giant. Hadn't tried to calm him down, or warn him. Just threatened him, antagonized him, distracted him.

But the kids...He had already killed several people, injured Kolla right in front of you, and was threatening the children...

What would you have done, if you knew nothing about Frost Giants? If Asgardian prejudice had not been taught to you?

Screamed a lot and gotten squished probably.

Would it be insulting to the giant's spirit to beg forgiveness or show remorse? To consider his death a terrible accident that could have been averted? Would a warrior want words like that?

The funeral procession had traveled back to Akureyri to get onto the Ring Road, a highway that circled the entire island in a single, unbroken stretch of asphalt. It was much easier to navigate than cross country would have been, but went a little out of the way as well, taking you along the northern part of the island, when your destination was in the east.

It seemed they had drawn a lot of attention as well. There weren't many tourists at this time of year, only the most hardcore of explorers, but the Icelanders themselves used the road regularly. Every now and then you peeked out from under Loki's cloak to see an ever-changing entourage of people; on horses, in small cars or buses, all waving and calling out, either questions or encouragement, you weren't familiar enough with Icelandic to tell.

Loki and Thor took it well, chatting with people who were brave and careful enough to approach. Some of them expressed what you thought was probably fear or shock at the dead giant, but more reacted with curiosity.

That was the general reaction Icelanders had to Asgardians. Iceland was a Christian country, but not quite in the way that America was. The vast majority of Icelanders that you saw showed no hostility toward Asgard, even though they represented a major religious crisis. It was very different from the fractious contention Asgard generated back home. You definitely preferred this.

How long, you began to wonder, until you weren't American anymore? Was it possible, as an adult, to absorb enough culture from another land, that it made you something other than what you'd grown up as? Or would you always be a foreigner; exotic, but accepted?

The long road split off towards the eastern interior of the island, before reaching Rekjavik, leading you even further away from civilization, and into the wilderness. But Okjokull was a depressing reminder that civilization had reached out into the wilderness, and touched even the most remote of places.

Okjokull, or rather, just Ok now, had once been a glacier, covering an extinct shield volcano. Now, the volcano and the glacier were both extinct. Under Loki's cloak, you had studied on your phone, looking up pictures of the glacier back in the nineteen-eighties, when it covered the whole area. But now, the horses hooves ground the gravel of the exposed landscape; a barren area, with only a few scattered chunks of ice, here and there. Over the course of one human lifetime, the whole thing had disappeared.

It disturbed you. Icelanders certainly believed in climate change. They'd seen this happen. They'd held a funeral. And here you were for another one.

The masons fell into building, directing the einherjar. After getting permission from the government, Thor estimated it would take no more than a day and a half of hard work to build a decent barrow for the giant, whose decaying body might-might-help to rebuild the glacier.

If not, his presence here might become just another tourist destination, another relic of the islands past.

You watched them dig out a large hole, deep enough to roll the cart into, and cover it halfway. Then they began packing in the larger stones, building a large mound that would hold up under it's own weight. Next came a low wall, surrounding the entire grave at a distance of about ten feet, to indicate that this was no natural formation, and lastly, a bronze plaque, set into a large stone at the front of the fence, declaring what this was, and urging caution when approaching.

Thor had been correct; the entire thing was finished before nightfall on the second day. The entire entourage gathered as the priest said a simple farewell to the giant, and everyone present murmured their own blessings before releasing a glowing, golden orb of magic into the sky.

“If we meet in another life, I hope to learn your name.” You had said, while beside you, you had heard Loki mumble: “Rest. We will take care of them.”

Snow had begun to fall; fluffy white flakes sticking to everything. You wondered if it would get high enough to bury the barrow, as you were hustled off to sit on Acorn's warm back, wrapped up in Loki's cloak once more. Everyone packed up in a huge hurry: Thor told you that the procession needed to get back to the Ring Road quickly, before the smaller, country roads that led to Ok were snowed over. The Asgardians feared that if they got snowed in, you would be in danger of freezing, but the Ring Road was kept clear.

Once back on the open road, you peeked out from under the thick tent of Loki's fine cloak and gazed out over the wide countryside. Far in the distance, to the west, you could just barely see a dome of faint light that must have been Reykjavik. Loki had said he would take you there on the tour of the island he promised you this spring. But for now, this was as close as you would get.

It amazed you to think that you could traverse an entire country by horse so easily. Your old home just went on and on and on, forever and ever. It seemed no matter how many miles you traveled, there was always another mile of Iowa to go. Here, there was a single road that went all the way around. The country was self contained, surrounded on all sides by powerful and mysterious oceans.

A small flush of terror washed over you once again, at re-realizing how isolated and far away from everything familiar you really were. Floating in the frigid North Atlantic on a giant volcano, in the care of aliens. Participating in the funeral of a giant. Riding home on a horse, to hopefully fall right into bed with your divine, royal boyfriend.

Who even were you now?

[twokinkybeans]

COLD COFFEE - WINTERIRONSPIDER VAMPIRE!AU

Summary: “How good could one person really-” Tony freezes, eyes wide, nose twitching. Time seems to stop for a moment and it’s only when he spots Bucky’s grin from the corner of his eyes that he finishes his sentence. “-smell.” It’s exquisite. Intense. The only thing clawing at Tony’s mind right now is the need to know where the source is. His mouth salivates and his canines ache to push out. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually, Bucky speaks. “That’s him.” “I figured,” Tony replies through gritted teeth. He turns his head to look at Bucky with his jaw tightened. “Why would you want to share him?” Tony scoffs. “You could’ve had this all to yourself.” A wide smile spreads on Bucky’s face and it’s only now that Tony realizes that the tables have turned. The power has been shifted. Bucky unhooks his arm from Tony’s and cups the man’s face. “Oh, Tony,” he sighs. The look in his icy blue eyes is resolute. “I want to keep him.” 

.

Notes: Hi everyone! I've been working on this one shot since MAY! At a whopping 24890 words, it’s the longest one shot I’ve ever written on my own! It's also probably my favourite fic I have /ever/ written because it's the most self indulgent one and I had to take breaks in between writing cause it was too much omg. Half of this one shot is plot. The other half is smut. Good luck! I'm actually quite anxious sharing this, since it's so personal to me. I hope you all enjoy! <3

-Lien

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Warnings: Adult!Peter Parker, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Consensual Mind Control, Vampire!AU, Slight Dubcon at first but it’s Consensual Sex, NSFW, Smut/Fluff/Angst, Vampire!Bucky, Vampire!Tony, Human!Peter, Poor Peter, Dream Sex, Masturbation, Shower Masturbation, Anal Sex, Shower Sex, Oral, Dirty Talk, Morally Grey Characters, Rough Sex, BDSM, Master/Slave

Read Cold Coffee on AO3!

Or on Wattpad!

Peter Benjamin Parker The dog area in Central Park is the only place where Peter gets to unwind after a long day of doing unsatisfying labour in a commercial bakery. His alarm went at three this morning and with the other job he has lined up for tonight, he’s fairly sure he won’t see his bed until that exact same time, twenty-four hours later. He’s used to it at this point. His weekends simply look like this. Bakery work during the week and extra waiting jobs at events on Friday and Saturday night. Sleep all Sunday and start the grind again on Monday morning, three AM.  Since the dog area is right next to the bakery, he usually spends about half an hour there after work, just to relax for a bit. Get his smile back on his face. And though he would love to go straight home to crash and nap before tonight’s gala, he wants to give some well-deserving furry friends some pats. Right when he decides he wants to go home to get his needed between-sleep, someone screams. “MY DOG!” Peter looks up, only to see a large Dobermann jump the fence and make a break for it. Before Peter could put his thoughts in one line, he’s already on his feet, leaping over the fence himself and initiating the chase to help the owner get their dog back.  The dog is fast. Faster than Peter’s legs can go. His lungs ache in his chest and his reaching is pointless. He’ll never catch this dog. As a last resort, he shouts at the people in front of the four-legged rocket.  “Somebody, please, stop that dog!” Most people ignore Peter, as is to be expected. It’s still New York. One man, however, turns. He’s in the middle of the path and the dog is headed straight for him. His half long, brown hair is tucked neatly behind his ears and he’s wearing a long, stylish, wool trench coat and leather gloves. His eyebrows raise and the coffee he holds is quickly discarded; dropped on the ground and spilling everywhere, as he braces himself for the coming impact.  The Dobermann tries to swiftly evade the man. Peter blinks once and suddenly, the dog is stuck between the man’s arms, his grip tight. The dog yelps and struggles, baring his teeth with a growl. Peter slows down his pace slightly, the exhausted muscles in his body grateful that he can stop sprinting. The man flicks his head, the hair behind his ear now covering his face and soon after, the dog’s tail shoots between its legs, its growls turning into soft whines. When Peter’s close enough, his jog turns into a walk. “Thank you so much,” he exclaims through his panting. The man turns his head up to look at Peter and something seems to flash over his face for a split second. It’s a strange expression Peter’s never seen before and a strange tingle settles in his body. The unreadable look soon turns into a kind smile. The man’s grin is wide and white, with defined canine teeth. He has a short beard, well taken care of, and the bluest eyes. “This yours?” He asks as he slowly pets the dog, who’s gone strangely quiet. He stands up and hands the leash to Peter, who doesn’t notice the man’s touch lingering. He’s too caught up in the adrenaline of the chase, his heart still beating fast, pumping his blood through his body at a rapid pace in order to keep up with the sudden need for fuel. His stomach screams, having been empty so long. He shouldn’t have chased this dog, he didn’t have the energy for it. Yet he did. Simply because it’s the right thing to do. “No-” Peter scoffs a laugh, shaking his head and clenching the leash in one hand. “Well, I, eh-” He frowns, pointing back towards the dog area with both thumbs, trying to figure out how to explain the situation in as few words as possible. “Tori!” A woman shouts. She approaches the two men and the dog quickly, and lets out an exasperated, loud sigh. “Thank, God! You caught him- Thank you, boy!” Peter turns with an apologetic look on his face to tell the woman it was actually the other man who caught the dog, but he speaks first. “It was a spectacular catch, ma’am. He’s quite athletic.” “But-” “Ooh, thank you, thank you!” The woman wraps her arms around Peter, who tenses up and stares at the man wide-eyed, lips pressed on top of each other. When she finally lets go of Peter, she takes the leash out of his hand. “Have a wonderful day, boy.” “So, that’s it?” The man scoffs, causing the woman to look at him confused. “You’re just going to take the dog and leave?” “Well, it’s my dog.” “This young man just caught your dog for you. And all you say is thank you. Don’t you think he deserves a reward?” “Excuse you?” The lady straightens her back, her posture turning defensive. “It’s okay, sir, please,” Peter turns to the man with a pleading look in his eye and, once again, before he can think about what he’s doing, he rests his hand on the man’s upper arm. A shiver shoots through Peter’s entire being as he stares at the intense expression on the man’s face. Their gazes are locked and Peter’s thoughts cloud momentarily. Time seems to halt and the man speaks under his breath. “Let go.” Peter blinks a few times and it takes a second before he realizes he has pulled his arm back in. His thumb caresses his fingers on the same hand, the feeling of the man’s wool coat still lingering on the tips. The humming background noise of New York City fills Peter’s ears again and part of him wonders what happened. When he completely returns to earth, he turns, only to find the woman and the Dobermann gone. He frowns. When did she leave? Weren’t they in the middle of something? And where’s- Peter shivers when there’s a sudden cool breath tickling the back of his neck. He pivots quickly and has to tilt his head to look into a pair of icy blue eyes. The man smiles kindly and Peter subconsciously mirrors him; the corners of his mouth curling up to match the man’s expression. The strange, floaty feeling returns slightly. Something in the back of Peter’s head tells him he should be scared. But he’s not. It feels… Kind of good. “Are you okay?” The man asks. Peter’s eyes flutter and he takes a slow breath. “Y-yeah?” His voice is shaky. Soft. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t look away from the man’s eyes.  “What’s your name?” “Peter.” His reply is nothing more than a whisper. “Pretty Peter,” the man mumbles. “I think it’s better if you go home. There are a lot of predators out there.” If Peter really cared, he would wonder why this stranger is saying these things to him. But he doesn’t. In fact; he couldn’t care less. The eyes are too mesmerising. The man frowns and once again, Peter mirrors the expression. “Forget the last five minutes.” The man suddenly clears his throat and takes a step back. Peter snaps out of whatever he was in and he takes a breath of fresh air, head tilting down to look at the asphalt path below him to ground himself. He turns, only to find the woman and the Dobermann gone. He frowns. When did she leave? Weren’t they in the middle of something? And where’s- wait… Déjà vu? “Peter,” the man says. Peter looks at the man and smiles brightly. Right, he was here too. The man nods and presses his lips on top of each other. “Name’s James. Call me Bucky.” “Oh! Sir-” Peter steps forward and fiddles with his fingers. “Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t remember telling the man- Bucky- his name, but he doesn’t question it. A realization hits him and he shifts to look at the spilled coffee on the path. “Ah- your coffee-” “-Was already cold.” Peter scoffs. “That’s not the point, though.” He walks away from Bucky and bends down to pick up the empty cup. “I made you drop it. I owe you one.” Surprise flashes over Bucky’s face and Peter shuffles back to him, raising the cup to hold it between their faces. His eyes peek over to look into Bucky’s and he smiles. “I insist.” “Peter-” “Please.” Bucky’s jaw tightens for a second and he sucks in a breath. He then scoffs and shakes his head, closing his eyes and raising his eyebrows. When he looks back up at Peter again, there’s a mischievous sparkle there and Peter’s smile grows wider. “I have some things to take care of right now, but how does three o’clock sound?” Peter nods eagerly, somehow forgetting he’s supposed to be taking a nap. “Perfect!” He’s about to walk away when he realizes he doesn’t know anything but this man’s name. “Meet up again here?”  “Sounds good to me, doll .” A shiver runs down Peter’s spine, but his smile doesn’t falter. When he initially mentioned the coffee, he genuinely meant to pay it back, but now… It kind of feels like a date. “See you at three?” Peter skips once as he walks away in the direction of his apartment. Bucky nods and licks his lips. “Three.” James Buchanan Barnes Let go. He’d said. Let go. He didn’t want Peter to let go of him. He didn’t even want to let the boy walk away. But he did. He did, and he hates himself for it. He’s never this flustered around humans. He’s always focussed, confident and in control. Yet, the second he caught a whiff of Peter’s scent Bucky knew he was a goner. Knew he had to have him. Never in his afterlife had he ever smelled, seen, sensed someone as utterly captivating as Peter. Everything about the boy screamed at Bucky to split him in two on his cock and suck his veins dry until they’d burn. The last conscious thing Peter would do, is have the most intense orgasm he’s ever had and then his lifeless body would slump against Bucky’s chest. The man would hold him until he grows cold and… and… No. Bucky doesn’t want him to die. Wait. What? His feral urges want him to do everything he would usually do to his prey, except for the killing, which was odd since his entire existence is based on just that. The pick, the hunt, the seduction, the sucking, the sex… Always followed by death. Though, this time it’s different. Peter is different. Bucky is certain he’d go insane if that invigorating smell would be gone forever.  Maybe that’s why he let him go. Peter’s too precious to kill. Too… delicious. God, he must be delicious. Bucky can only imagine what he tastes like and he wonders why he didn’t steal a sip when the boy let go for him. He’s absolutely starving, given that he didn’t hunt yesterday because he was simply too lazy to. Oh, the regrets. Obviously , Bucky wanted Peter to just let go of his arm, yet the boy’s subconscious took it a step further.  “Let go,” Bucky had said. But instead of just uncurling his fingers from Bucky’s arm, Peter immediately slipped into pure submission. He let go of himself . The look on his face was everything to Bucky and his cock twitches at the mere idea of seeing it again. He still doesn’t understand why he didn’t just take Peter home. The boy obviously needs a good fuck, based on his response to the compulsion, and Bucky knows he is a good fuck. They would both get what they desire so much.  But no. Part of him wants to see how far he can take this. Would he even need to manipulate the boy’s mind, or is a smirk and a wink enough for Peter to fall to his knees? Probably. He looked so pretty, though. Jaw slacked, deep brown eyes glazed over as his mind turned off and his body turned on, listening to Bucky’s every word as he was told to wait until Bucky’d gotten rid of the ungrateful witch and her pathetic goblin of a dog. He could watch Peter float inside himself for hours. Who knows, he might even do that at some point. For now, though, he watches how Peter quickly jumps out of the subway train, evading other people who try to catch it before the doors close. Bucky keeps his distance, but he sticks close enough to keep Peter’s intoxicating scent in his nose. He stalks, enjoying how Peter sometimes looks back with a frown, looking for the source that makes him feel like he’s being watched. The boy knows he’s being followed and Bucky relishes in that part of the hunt. The uneasiness that the prey feels. Followed by the fear of the confrontation, which soon turns to immeasurable pleasure and then- no. No death. Not with Peter. After a short walk, Peter cuts into an alleyway. Bucky frowns and holds back for a bit, not wanting Peter to turn around on him in the alley. He takes the pause to have a look around, now his eyes are no longer strained on the frail, small body of his prey. They’re quite a bit away from the city center and the neighborhood is… Not great. Something about that irks Bucky. Why would a sweet, soft boy like Peter live in a place like this? When Bucky cuts the corner to follow him further, a door closes. Peter went inside one of the buildings. Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose. He’s slightly startled when the smell suddenly grows more intense and he looks up to where it’s coming from. A small window opened. Bucky smiles. There he is. Bucky crosses the street, quietly joking that he’s doing it to get to the other side, and swiftly climbs the building. He settles on the roof, hiding behind the heightened ledge and stares intently at Peter, who checks his phone at the opened window. Bucky suppresses the urge to quote Romeo and Juliet and flares his nostrils. His eyes roll back when the sweet, sweet scent of Peter fills his lungs. He studies Peter from afar. The boy is talking to himself, which has Bucky wondering if he’s lonely. He’s alone, that’s for sure. Peter grabs a tin can and sits down on his bed next to the window. Bucky frowns when Peter tips the can, a few dollars and a couple of pennies fall out of it. Peter bends down to put the can on the floor, for a lack of table in his little studio, and picks up the bills and coins to count. Bucky’s barely beating heart squeezes. The kid’s poor. Very poor. And now he’s counting this week’s cash in the hopes of having enough to buy Bucky a coffee. An expensive, useless, New York coffee. One he’d let go cold, just like all his other beverages. When Peter has gathered all the money, opting to just put all of the tin can’s contents in his bag as it’s only just enough for one overpriced coffee anyways, he flops down flat on his bed. “Thirty minutes…” Bucky can hear him mumble as he sets an alarm. Somehow Bucky hoped Peter would use those thirty minutes to play with his dick, but no. Peter closes his eyes, face relaxing almost immediately as he drops into a dreamless sleep. For now. Bucky shifts so he can see Peter more clearly and he can’t help but be amazed at how quickly Peter’s breathing steadied. He must’ve been exhausted. Bucky wonders when Peter had enjoyed himself last. Not sexually. Just generally. He smiled at Bucky, sure, but that was after Bucky turned off his brain for a minute or two. He’d chased a dog for some hag who didn’t actually put in the energy to catch her own pet, can barely scrape together ten dollars for a cold coffee for someone who doesn’t even deserve it and needs a nap in the middle of the day. Nobody his age should need to take a nap in the middle of the day. Worries must be clouding his mind so much that even the smallest suggestion to free himself from his anxious thoughts is enough to snap his willpower in half. A strong sense of pity urges Bucky to glance around the street to check if anybody would see him. When he confirms the coast is clear, it only takes him a second to jump over the road, get inside, and crouch down besides Peter’s bed. The smell is absolutely overwhelming. The entire room is drenched in the boy’s perfume and Bucky opens his mouth to taste it on his tongue. He glides it past his teeth and licks his lips before turning his attention to Peter. His jaw is slacked again, but his face is not as relaxed as it was when Bucky had complete control over him. Every fiber in Bucky’s body wants him to touch Peter’s face. Trace the lines of his veins from his neck down to his wrist. But he doesn’t. If the boy needs sleep, he needs sleep. That doesn’t mean Bucky won’t help him have the best thirty minute nap Peter has ever had.  Bucky inches closer, practicing the most self restraint he’s ever had to do, fighting his urges to sink his teeth into Peter’s exposed neck. He opens his mouth and releases a cold breath on Peter’s face. The boy’s eyebrow twitches. Bucky grins when his little magic starts doing its work. Peter relaxes even further and sighs. The corners of his mouth curl up and Bucky wants to kiss them. Press his cold lips against Peter’s warm smile. He holds back though, and closes his own eyes to guide Peter through his dream. Peter Benjamin Parker Peter opens his eyes, quietly frustrated that he can’t sleep. He doesn’t want to sleep. All he can think of is the strange man he met. How relaxed he made him feel. How nice. Bucky . There’s a tingling feeling in Peter’s abdomen and he licks his lips, taking a shaky breath. It doesn’t take him long to decide what to do in that half hour, knowing he won’t be able to sleep anyways. He takes off his pants, discarding them to the side, and puts his pillow against the wall. He rests his head against it, sitting slightly more upright so he can open his laptop. He puts in his password and opens his browser in incognito mode. With one hand, he scrolls through what Pornhub has to offer, while palming his dick through his underwear with the other. It’s already half-hard and Peter whimpers quietly when his thumb brushes over the clothed head. His eyes roll back and flutter shut as he squeezes the shaft, stifling a moan.  “Don’t hold back…” a voice says quietly. Peter’s mouth opens wide to let out the sound he was suppressing. He doesn’t recall hitting play on any porn, but he doesn’t really care. Whatever video he clicked on, the audio of it went straight to his cock. He keeps his eyes closed, continuing to palm himself. His hips start rolling slowly. Rhythmically. He’s only half-aware it’s at the same pace as his heartbeat, thumping through his dick. “You look so pretty when you enjoy yourself,” the voice whispers. It’s close, which Peter doesn’t really get. His laptop is next to his hip, how is he hearing the man speak right next to his ear? The man. Peter’s body twitches when he realizes he’s hearing Bucky. Bucky is saying all these sweet things to him. Bucky. “Does that feel good?” Bucky asks softly and Peter can’t help but nod, face contorting with pleasure. Because it does; it feels amazing. “Mmm…” Bucky’s hum vibrates through Peter’s body and he automatically squeezes his dick a little tighter. His free hand moves up to pinch his nipple. Suddenly, two cold hands pull down Peter’s underwear. One feels like skin, yet the other… Is that metal? The boy’s hips buck up involuntarily. “P-please,” he whispers. He’s unable to open his eyes and the situation has him thoroughly confused. How could his imagination seem so real? So vivid. It feels so good. “ Oh ,” Bucky exclaims quietly. Teasingly. “You beg so nicely.” Peter jolts when cold fingers curl around his shaft. His own hand immediately loses tension and falls onto the mattress. He didn’t even need to be asked. He wants to give in. So bad. Suddenly, soft lips press against his slacked jaw. Peter raises the hand that was playing with his nipple to cup the face of whoever’s kissing him, but there’s nothing there. Right. This is his imagination. He’s getting off to the idea of Bucky jerking him off. The man’s not actually here. "Beg some more, would you?” Bucky whispers and Peter’s muscles tense when the man starts pumping slowly. Both of Peter’s hands are helplessly laying next to him. He couldn’t even move them if he tried. Peter gasps under the attention and bucks his hips up into the tight grip of his imagination. How could something that’s not actually there, feel so real? “Please, feels so good, please- don’t stop-” His fists grasp at the sheets and he writhes on his mattress. “Not planning to, doll .” Peter could hear the grin in Bucky’s voice. “ Relax for me …” Bucky teases Peter’s ear with his deep voice, leaving kitten licks on the shell between his sentences. Peter’s body grows heavier and heavier with each stroke of Bucky’s hand. “ Let me take all your worries away …” Bucky increases the speed of his pumps and Peter moans obscenely. There’s a soft chuckle next to Peter, but he can’t open his eyes. He just can’t. Not when Bucky’s hands and kisses caress his body. Not when Bucky’s voice is like heavy honey, keeping him in place. “Do you want that?” Bucky asks softly. Peter has already half forgotten what Bucky is referencing to. All he knows is that his answer is the truth. “Yes- yes, please, take it. Take it all.” Bucky’s hand goes even faster, making Peter’s cock spurt precum onto his stomach. The man twists his wrist expertly as he pumps, pressing his thumb into the tip each time he reaches it. Peter’s a sweaty mess. His toes curl with every thrust he makes in the hopes of gaining even more friction. “ Such a good boy ,” Bucky whispers. His wandering mouth reaches Peter’s neck and leaves an open, wet kiss, suckling at the skin. After less than a minute of mercilessly squeezing Peter’s throbbing shaft, the room smells of sex. Peter knows his neighbors could hear him. But he doesn’t care. Wants to give all his worries to Bucky. The man’s voice orders: “ Open your eyes .” Peter does so and is immediately captivated by the stunning blue irises right in front of him. Is… Is this real? Is he not imagining this? Bucky smirks and Peter lets out a sob. He’s close. So close. Bucky’s words and actions have turned Peter into a desperate, wailing mess. “That’s it, Peter… Give yourself to me. Let go. ” Peter’s eyes shoot wide open at his alarm. He bolts to sit upright, chest heaving, and he looks down at the damp patch in his pants. He was right at the edge and he’s certain he would’ve come if that horrible alarm didn’t snap him out of it. It takes him a minute to let the adrenaline of the edge fade away. He considers getting off quickly. Just pull out his dick and hump into his hand until he explodes onto his sheets. But he can’t. He’s already late. He kicks his pants and underpants off and tosses them into the corner. His throbbing cock bounces against his abdomen as he hops into a new pair of underwear. He’s so horny it hurts . That dream was strangely intense. It felt so real. But it wasn’t. Bucky wasn’t here. Bucky’s at Central Park, waiting for Peter to show up. Peter hopes that next time he gets to get off, he’ll be able to dream like that again. He’s not even sure if he can look Bucky in the eye after this. For now, though, he considers excusing himself to go to the bathroom once he and Bucky get to the coffee shop. At least he won’t be too late then and he can still rub his painful erection away. He puts on his shoes and grabs his bag - double checking if he put in the twelve dollars and 70 pence he had left - before grabbing his phone and shutting the door behind him to rush to the subway. James Buchanan Barnes Bucky pushes up his sleeve to look at the time on his Rolex. As if he didn’t arrive a minute before Peter did and he had been standing in their established meeting spot for over ten minutes. He’s the reason Peter’s late. Not that he minds. Everything about Peter was absolute heaven in that little bedroom. Bucky hadn’t laid a finger on him. He just watched the boy as his body responded to the images Bucky put in Peter’s head. The only word Bucky could use to describe his new obsession is… Delicious . He looks delicious, he sounds delicious, he smells delicious and Bucky is sure that Peter would taste delicious too. For some reason Bucky still denies himself that pleasure. The number of opportunities he’s had to sink his teeth into Peter’s skin is laughable at this point. Other creatures like him would even be embarrassed. Bucky isn’t, though. Everything about Peter is too good to spoil. And so, he waits. He’s not entirely sure what for, but he waits nonetheless. “Bucky!” The man pulls down his sleeve again and looks up at his boy with a smile. His eye twitches once. Peter is his boy. Peter jogs, slightly out of stamina, cheeks rosy, hair tousled and clothes slightly disheveled. “Peter,” Bucky says quickly. Politely. “I was wondering where you were.” “I- eh,” Peter stammers and he stops right in front of Bucky, scratching the back of his head. “I have no good excuse, I’m sorry.” “Oh?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow playfully and smirks. “Now I’m curious.” Peter gulps and the red flush on his cheeks extends to his ears. Cute. Bucky thinks. “It’s nothing special-” Peter tries. “I just took a nap.” Bucky presses his lips on top of each other in a smile. He glances at the path ahead of them and nods in that direction. Peter follows Bucky’s gaze and returns the smile slightly before taking the first step, initiating a walk through the park. “I can’t help but notice the change of pants.” Bucky clears his throat and he can feel Peter’s muscles tense again. “And the lack of a coat. In November.” “I spilled in- on! On my jeans.” Peter slaps his forehead, but attempts to hide the gesture by pushing his fingers through his hair. “Coffee!” He yelps. “Yes, coffee.” A terrible excuse that makes absolutely zero sense. Cute. Bucky thinks. Again. “Alright, doll .” Bucky smirks, baring his teeth and Peter sucks in a breath. Bucky knows Peter’s alibi isn’t solid, but Bucky won’t pry further. He knows what’s up. Bucky doesn’t even have to look at Peter’s crotch to know that it’s still up. “And I assume the lack of coat is because you were late?” “I’m not cold if that’s what you’re asking.” Peter immediately contradicts his words by hugging his bare arms. The nerdy T-shirt is obviously not enough. Bucky scoffs to himself, taking off his leather gloves and only half ignoring Peter’s stare resting on his metal hand. Right, the boy had only seen the prosthetic in his dream, not in real life. This must be quite the mindfuck for him. Bucky puts the gloves in the pockets of his coat. He can’t believe he’s doing this.  One by one he opens the buttons of his sleek, wool trench coat and shakes it off his broad shoulders, revealing his grey three piece suit. Peter immediately stops in his tracks and raises his hands in front of him. “No, no, it’s okay!” Peter looks at Bucky’s fingers curled around the fabric. “It’s my own fault for forgetting.” When he tilts his head up to look Bucky in the eye, Bucky grasps him with his stare. “ Hold still. ” Peter’s frozen in place as Bucky walks around him, placing his coat over Peter’s shoulders. Bucky squeezes Peter’s upper arms as he leans over his shoulder. “Don’t want you to catch a cold.” “Cold…?” Bucky swears inwardly at Peter’s whisper. The coat should’ve been warm. It’s not. Cause he’s not. Bucky quickly hooks his arm into Peter’s and continues their walk, hoping Peter won’t ask any questions about it. However, when he realizes how close Peter is to him, his brain stutters. Just like when he was in Peter’s room, the smell is overwhelming and he now knows his growing thirst is certainly insatiable. How could he ever get enough? Could he stop when he starts? Could- “Are you okay?” Peter’s voice is small, just like his body against Bucky’s. “Yeah.” Bucky sniffs once, a habit he picked up spending time with Tony. Right . He was going to have to tell Tony about Peter. He looks down at the boy, who - in turn - looks back up at him with his big, beautiful brown eyes. A smile creeps onto Bucky’s face at the realization that he gets to share Peter with Tony. If Peter wants to, he reminds himself. Though, with how the boy’s been responding to Bucky, he’s fairly certain Peter would eagerly be dominated by both of them. “Just a little lost in thought, I suppose,” Bucky mumbles. “Something on your mind?” Bucky didn’t expect the honest question and before he can think of a better reply, his mouth has already said the word. “You.” Peter’s eyes widen slightly before he tilts his head to look down at his feet. Bucky guesses it’s to hide his everlasting flushed cheeks. It’s quiet for a few seconds. “You’re on my mind too,” Peter admits. Bucky would’ve laughed if it hadn’t sounded so utterly innocent.  “Hm,” is all he manages to reply. Bucky guides Peter to the exit of the park and nods at the coffee shop across the street. “You up for a cup?” He grins at Peter, who chuckles at the rhyme. “I think I’ll pass, but I still need to get you yours.” Bucky nearly forgot; the boy can only afford one coffee. “Peter.” Bucky’s tone is stern and Peter looks up at him with curled brows, wondering if he did or said something wrong. “I’m paying.” Peter tries to struggle free from Bucky’s grip, but the man won’t let him get away. “What? No! I made you drop your coffee, I’m not gonna make you pay for it, I-” “I’m paying. ” Peter’s lips squeeze on top of each other and before his mind catches up with what’s happening, he nods and lets himself be guided to the shop. . The coffee shop is cosy. Quaint. Bucky had let go of Peter to open the door for him. He quietly stalks behind the boy and can’t help but smile. Though it’s warm, Peter still hugs Bucky’s coat around him. It’s too big on him, which makes him look absolutely adorable. Peter tilts his head up, flaring his nostrils and taking a deep breath in through his nose with his eyes closed.  “Smells so good,” he sighs softly. Bucky stares at him, pretending that Peter’s soft moan didn’t surge through him. He knows Peter was talking about the baked goods, but Bucky can’t really smell anything but Peter. “You do.” “Hm?” Peter opens his eyes to look at Bucky, who clears his throat in an attempt to hide how flustered his own error made him. “It does,” he says quickly. “Apple-cinnamon.” He’s not smelling any of that, but given the time of the year, it’s his best guess. Peter smiles and nods, but Bucky doesn’t miss the expression faltering when Peter turns to look at all the displayed foods on the counter. Oh, no.

“Hungry?” Bucky asks softly, not wanting to make Peter uncomfortable.  “A little,” Peter mumbles. He doesn’t dare to look at Bucky, feeling slightly embarrassed. His eyes are strained on the many cakes and cookies. “When’s the last time you ate?” The question seems to startle Peter and he finally looks at Bucky again. “What, a meal? Or-” “Christ, kid, anything.” Peter shifts his weight back and forth from one foot to the other and fiddles with his fingers. “I mean… I had some popcorn yesterday.” He frowns slightly. “Or was that the day before?” “You’re telling me you don’t remember when you last had anything to eat?” “Please, Bucky, I’m not here to be pitied. Let’s just get the coffee.” Peter wants to step further inside but Bucky’s rough hand turns him by his shoulder and the boy’s knees nearly give in when Bucky makes eye contact. “If you could eat anything. Right now. What would you want?” “What-?” “Answer the question.” “Spaghetti Bolognese.” Bucky’s heart squeezes. The kid could ask for the most elaborate of meals. Buffets with endless options, an all you can eat menu... He could’ve asked for sushi, or Turkish bread. Yet, what he wants most is a basic plate of spaghetti with red sauce. Peter hides his face behind his hands and wiggles free from Bucky’s grasp. “I’m sorry, that’s stupid.” “It’s not.” Bucky frowns. “I just wonder why?” Peter visibly swallows and looks down at his feet. “My aunt always made that for me.” He chuckles, but his eyes betray his sadness. “She’s- she was a terrible cook. She could only make spaghetti.” “And your aunt…?” “Passed away three months ago.” Peter takes a deep breath and clears his throat to collect himself. “Cancer.” “I’m sorry,” Bucky mutters sincerely. “Is there no one you can go to?” Peter purses his lips and shakes his head with a quiet scoff. “Parents died when I was ten. My uncle died when I was fifteen. May was all I’d left.” Peter’s brows curl up into a frown and he turns away from Bucky even further. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.” “You’re alone,” Bucky states. The spoken truth seems to sting Peter. “Is that why you wanted to buy me the coffee?” Peter bites his lip. “Maybe. I don’t know.” Bucky stares at Peter for a second, before offering his hand to the boy. “Do you want to go get some spaghetti with me?” He doesn’t know why he wouldn’t compel Peter to just join him, whether the boy wants to or not. Perhaps he wants to see if Peter would take his hand without being urged to. He hopes so. Peter looks at Bucky’s hand, visibly holding back tears. “I can’t afford it.” “I can.” Bucky gives Peter an encouraging smile and he can’t help but feel both surprised and victorious when Peter’s fingers hesitantly curl around his palm. Bucky leads Peter out of the coffee shop they’d just entered and uses his free hand to haul a cab.  “I’ll pay you back,” Peter promises quietly. Bucky scoffs with a smile and lets Peter get into the cab first. “Sure, you will.”  . The cab ride to Bucky’s favourite Italian restaurant was pleasant. They had surprisingly normal conversations, but not out of formality. They discussed interests. Peter’s a nerd. Bucky learned Peter dropped out of MIT to take care of his aunt when she got sick. He doesn’t have the funds to go back there now, as the funeral cut into all his savings. MIT. Peter is smart. Something Bucky is certain Tony will take a liking to. The boy’s into Star Wars and, surprisingly, flowers too. And dogs. Which is why he spends time at the dog park every day. Bucky figures that’s the only thing keeping him sane with everything he’s got going on. Bucky glances at Peter, who gawks at the restaurant building in front of them. He can’t help himself and softly presses the palm of his hand against Peter’s lower back. The boy whimpers, holding more tightly onto Bucky’s coat still wrapped around him. “Like it?” Bucky grins. “Like it?” Peter repeats sarcastically, causing Bucky to laugh. God, if Peter knew what exactly Bucky is capable of- what Bucky is, he’d never have done that. “It’s a little much,” Peter admits, chuckling. “If we go here I probably won’t be able to pay you back within, I dunno, ten years?” “I’m not asking you to pay anything, Peter.” “But I want to.” Peter crosses his arms and looks up at Bucky defiantly. “My uncle always told me that being in debt to someone is the stupidest thing you can do. The only loan you should ever take is your mortgage.” “You were never indebted to me.” Bucky nods. “Solid advice, by the way.” “But your coffee-” “You keep saying that as if I wasn’t the one who tossed it to the side.” Bucky creeps his arm further around Peter’s back, until he’s pressing the boy against him by his waist. Peter doesn’t fight it and for a second Bucky forgets that Peter isn’t under any form of compulsion. He’s letting this happen. Does he want this? Peter ignores Bucky’s comment and, instead, looks back at the restaurant. The sign outside proudly shows that it has a Michelin star. “I don’t fit here- I don’t look the part.” Peter looks down at his worn sneakers and denim jeans. He purposefully skips his T-shirt with a nerdy pun on it. It would only make him feel worse. “They’ll never let me in.” Bucky squeezes into Peter’s side, causing him to yelp softly and look up. The boy immediately freezes when Bucky’s eyes capture his. “Don’t worry. You’re with me.” Bucky’s cock twitches at the sight of Peter’s glazed over eyes. He didn’t expect Peter to reply. His thralls never reply. “I’m with you…” Peter’s lips barely moved when he spoke and Bucky has to suppress the urge to call him a good boy. To help control himself, Bucky looks away from Peter, who blinks a few times as he snaps out of it again. Bucky starts walking up the stairs towards the entrance of the restaurant, his hand still on Peter’s back, and Peter quietly follows Bucky’s pull. . Peter’s an eater. When given the chance to take his fill, he takes. And Bucky relishes in giving Peter what he deserves. Peter’s thoroughly enjoying the pasta and the six sides Bucky ordered for him. Carpaccio, stuffed zucchini, pumpkin gnocchi, stuffed mushrooms, grilled tomatoes with basil leaves and olive oil and – Bucky’s favourite – garlic bread. It should be enough to feed at least two people, but Peter is like a vacuum. Bucky would’ve made a comment about how Peter should take the time to taste the dishes, if Peter wasn’t so vocal after every bite. It’s not enough to disturb the other people at the restaurant – not that it’s busy, it’s not even four o’clock yet – but it’s enough to have Bucky squirm in his seat. The boy moans every time the fork disappears into his mouth, lips wrapped around it, enjoying the explosion of flavour on his tongue that has been denied the pleasures of good cuisine- any cuisine- for so long now. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Peter breaks the silence and Bucky realizes he’s been staring at Peter eating for at least ten minutes now. Bucky straightens his back and shakes his head with the corners of his mouth curled up. “I’m alright.” Peter is about to put a piece of garlic bread in his mouth, but he halts halfway up. He cocks an eyebrow and pushes out his arm to give the bite to Bucky. Bucky stares at the piece of bread. Or well, the hand that’s attached to it. And the wrist. The veins. “Peter, I-” “Come on, it’s really good!”  “I know.” Bucky says through gritted teeth. Peter pushes in further, the most innocent smile on his face and Bucky chooses to just hold his breath. It’s no use. If he weren’t already dead, this boy would’ve been the death of him. “One bite?” If only he knew. Bucky’s going to lose control. He knows. But he doesn’t want to. He can’t just run out on Peter. He wants to… He…  He leans in. Slowly. His mouth opens slightly and his canines ache with the need to push out. Bucky’s breath hitches in his throat and he closes his eyes. Maybe if he can’t see Peter, he’ll manage. He realizes doing just that was a big mistake. His lack of vision immediately intensified the smell. The only thing he can do is repeat all the swear words he knows over and over and over again in his mind. Peter is so close. So horrifyingly close, that Bucky can hear his blood pump through his wrist. He opens his mouth further and further and his lip trembles when he feels Peter’s body heat vibrate against his skin. Almost there. Almost. He bites down, the crunching of the bread bringing him back to the present. His eyes open wide and he stares at Peter, who has a curious look on his face. The boy carefully lets go of the bread and pulls his hand back in, leaving the snack to stick half out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky swiftly brings his own hand up to catch it from falling out and he sits up straight again, ripping the bread to a size he can chew. He can barely believe he was able to hold back. He would never deny that he wanted to stop Peter from pulling back- that he wanted to grab his lower arm and kiss his skin until it turned red from the pressure. He’s yearning to taste Peter. Why won’t he just do it? “It’s good, right?” Peter says with a bright smile. The question reminds Bucky to chew further. Humans do that. They don’t just swallow their food in one go. Bucky supposes that’s one of the few perks about being what he is. The liquid diet. Saves a lot of time. It’s been a while since he had food in his mouth, but he can’t say he hates it. It’s actually pretty good. He’s not sure if it’s the food or Peter’s presence that’s making it better, though. “It is.” . “So, you’re telling me you work at a bakery? But you don’t eat?” Bucky rests his head in his hand, elbow on the armrest of his chair. He’s leaned back, legs spread slightly, but Peter can’t see it with the table in the way. Not that it matters. The boy is still occupied with stuffing his face for the first time in forever. “Company considers it theft.” “Even the loafs that aren’t pretty enough for the stores?” Peter sighs and looks at his nearly empty plate of pasta. “They want a good image so they give the ugly stuff that won’t sell to homeless shelters. Which is fair, to be honest. The homeless need it more than I do.” Bucky’s baffled by Peter’s words. “Didn’t you tell me less than an hour ago that you’ll be evicted within two weeks if you don’t find a better paying job? Means you’re homeless too. You deserve the food just as much.” Peter leans forward again, cocking his head. “Not homeless yet. Not eligible for food.” He takes another bite and speaks with his mouth full. Normally Bucky would’ve minded. Not with Peter, though. “Besides, I’ve got a job interview on Monday.” “For something that makes you enough money to keep the sad little studio you live in now?” “No, but-” Peter stops in his tracks and stares at Bucky, who realizes he ran his mouth. “You know where I live?” “No!” Bucky straightens his back and evades Peter’s piercing gaze. “I just assumed-” “Well, guess you assumed right.” Peter’s voice is strained. Oh, no. This is the last thing Bucky wants. Peter puts down his fork rather aggressively and crosses his arms. “Do you do this more often? Find someone poor, in need of help? Groom them? What is all of this?” “Peter, I-” “I’m paying,” Peter repeats Bucky’s words with a mocking tone. “Does that make you feel better? Knowing you did your good deed of the day?” Bucky is stunned. He has no clue what to say next, but his silence was enough of an answer to Peter. “You know what, I’m done.” Peter pushes his chair back and stands up, nearly causing his glass of water to tip over. Bucky quickly drops way too much cash on the dinner table and rushes after him. When the cold November air hits their skin, Bucky finally speaks again. Though, it’s more of a plea. “Please, don’t go.” Peter isn’t planning on slowing down and glances at his phone, cursing quietly at the time. “Peter-” The boy whips around and it aches Bucky to see tears in his eyes. “Thanks for the food, but-” He looks at his feet and his face contorts. “I gotta go anyways, I got work.” “Work? You’re going to the bakery, now?” Peter looks up to the grey sky and scoffs. “Some people work multiple jobs to make ends meet, Buck. I’m waiting at a gala tonight.” He waves his hand and continues walking away. “Why am I even telling you all of this. Just leave me alone.” No. Bucky isn’t letting him go. He wants to make him let go. For all different reasons. Bucky moves fast and grabs Peter’s hand. He makes Peter turn around to face him and he gives the boy a stern look. “Do you really want me to leave you alone?” “Yes.” “Are you lying?” “Yes.” “Why?” Bucky moves to invade Peter’s space, maintaining eye contact and rubbing soft, slow circles on the exact spot he wanted to bite into when Peter offered him the garlic bread. “I don’t want to be pitied.” Bucky presses himself against Peter. The boy can step away whenever he wants. Bucky doesn’t control his body right now. Yet, Peter stays. Right there, flush against Bucky and looking up at the man with his beautiful, distant, brown eyes. “What do you want?” Bucky whispers, only half aware that his mouth is inching closer to Peter’s. Slightly stunned that the young man still isn’t fighting him. “To be loved.” A shiver runs through Bucky’s body and he can’t help but smirk. His free hand reaches up to cup Peter’s face and his skin is so soft. “That can be arranged…” It’s quiet for a second, neither of them knowing exactly what to say next. “I actually received an invitation for a charity gala tonight. Time’s Square. Is that where you’re working?” Peter nods shyly. “Are you going?” He asks quietly. A kind smile spreads onto Bucky’s face. “I wasn’t planning to… Do you want me to go?” Peter presses his lips on top of each other and closes his eyes. His breath is warm against Bucky’s lips. So close. “I do,” Peter whispers, before finally pressing his lips against Bucky’s. The man gasps and opens his mouth to push his tongue against Peter’s flat kiss. The boy immediately complies and grants Bucky access, allowing him to to taste all the flavours Peter just experienced at the restaurant. Peter kissed him. Of his own accord. The mere idea has Bucky groan in pleasure. After a few seconds of kissing, Peter’s eyes blow wide open and he takes a big step backwards, breaking free from Bucky’s hold on his wrist. He apologetically bows his head. “I’m sorry- I, I have to go now, I really do.” Peter turns and runs. As fast as he can. With any other human, Bucky would’ve initiated the chase. It was part of what he liked so much about the hunt. But he’s frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. What to say next. What to think next. All he can muster up in his mind is Peter. Peter-Peter-Peter-Peter. The boy kissed him. His lips were so soft and warm and Bucky wants to kiss them again. Envelope himself in the scent that’s now slowly fading away. It takes a few minutes for Bucky to come to his senses and he blinks, looking at the high rises around him to ground himself. The gala’s tonight. He’ll see Peter again tonight. Wait. Tony received an invitation to the gala as well. Bucky could introduce them. He laughs loud. Once. It catches the attention of a few people, who soon decide the man isn’t a threat - wrong - and continue with their lives. Bucky walks to the street and hauls a cab. He wants to go back home and tell Tony all about his new fixation. His Peter. Anthony Edward Stark “You’re in a good mood,” Tony quips from his lounge chair. He’s absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, half-ignoring Bucky stomping into the penthouse. “Bad feed?” “No feed,” Bucky growls as he throws his coat over the couch. “Wha- no feed?” Tony sits upright and cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t feed yesterday either. Aren’t you starving?” The look in Bucky’s eyes says enough and Tony relaxes back into his seat until… His nose twitches. “What’s that?” He eyes the coat that Bucky had just tossed aside. There’s a strange, faint scent coming from it. It’s… Good. “My prey.” Bucky picks the coat back up and tosses it to Tony. He presses the wool against his nose and takes a whiff, cock stirring at the sweet scent. “Jeez. And you didn’t feed?” “Not from him.” Bucky groans as he drops himself on the cushions of the couch.  “I can’t stop thinking about him.” He hides his face behind his hands. “About how he might taste.” “Wai-wai-wait.” Tony tosses the coat over Bucky’s head. He instinctively hugs it, pressing the fabric against his nose and smelling the remnants of whoever his prey is. “Why does your coat smell of your prey?” “He wore it.” “Jesus Christ, Buck,” Tony exclaims when he gets up from his chair to grab them both a straight whisky. Double. “Had him right where you wanted and you let him go?” Bucky doesn’t reply. Tony figures he’d feel stupid for saying yes. Same as that he would feel stupid for lying. Tony can hear Bucky lick the coat, tasting the smell of his prey on his tongue and moaning softly. “We’re going to that gala tonight,” Bucky states. Tony immediately protests, placing Bucky’s whisky on the coffee table and sitting back down in the lounge chair with his own glass in hand. “I literally told you this morning that I don’t feel like going.” “He’ll be there.” “And why should I care? He’s your prey.” “Smell it again.” Bucky growls as he throws the coat back to Tony. The billionaire groans and reluctantly inhales again. Sure, it smells better than average, but it’s not worth going to a party for. If Bucky wants this guy he can go get him himself. “He wore that coat three hours ago.” Tony’s eyes go wide at that comment. “Three hours?” He stares at the coat in disbelief. Bucky’s scent is intense and overpowering. Anything he touches smells of Bucky. Yet, this prey Bucky’s been describing... If he wore this coat three hours ago and Bucky wore it all this time after that, it shouldn’t have smelled of his prey anymore. All that should’ve remained was Bucky. Yet… “Is he that intense?” Tony asks, brows curled up into a frown. “Is that even possible?”  Bucky picks the coat from Tony’s hands and curls his fingers around it. He moves to sit on top of Tony and grinds himself down onto Tony’s crotch. Bucky presses the coat against his face and moans as he slowly ruts himself down into Tony.  “Oh, Buck,” Tony growls, pressing his fingers into his lover’s hips and baring his sharp teeth. A grin spreads on his face when Bucky speeds up slightly. “You’re hooked, aren’t you?” “I need him, Tony, I-” Bucky whimpers. “So bad-” “Well, then.” Tony puts down his whisky to unbutton Bucky’s shirt. “Let’s get changed.” . The entire car ride to the gala, Tony teased Bucky. The man was uncharacteristically nervous. A little antsy, but nothing Tony can’t handle. He curls a lock of Bucky’s hair around his finger and leans in. “If you’re so desperate for him, why would you want to share him with me?” Bucky turns his head away from Tony, who sees it as a challenge to get the man to look at him again. He takes Bucky’s chin between his thumb and index finger and tugs playfully. “Bucky bear, tell me.” “Don’t call me that,” Bucky growls, yet he lets his head be turned under Tony’s touch. “You’re a grumpy bear, I just call you what you are,” Tony says with a smirk. It falters and his expression turns serious. His stare is intense and if Bucky wasn’t like Tony, he’d have answered without second thought. Fortunately, compulsion doesn’t work on him if he doesn’t want it to. “Tell me why.” “You’ll find out,” Bucky sighs. He grabs Tony’s wrist with his metal hand and guides Tony to his crotch. Tony immediately cups the shaft through Bucky’s pants and scoffs a laugh. “Your cock’s almost as hard as your arm, Buck.” He pulls back, much to Bucky’s dismay, and crosses his arms. “That boy must really be worth it.” The car pulls over and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “Trust me, he is.” “Sure, sure,” Tony chuckles. The car door is opened for them and Tony swiftly gets out. He offers Bucky his hand, but the man gets out of the car himself. Still grumpy.  “You might want to put on a smile if you want him to like you. Or… Do you want to scare him off?” Tony jokes, hooking his arm into Bucky’s and initiating their walk up the stairs outside the building. “I’m seconds away from ripping out your heart, please choose your next words carefully.” Tony stops them, halfway up the steps and stares Bucky with a nonchalant look before leaning in and whispering. “I love you.” It’s soft. Genuine. “And however much I may be joking, I am honored you want to share something so precious to you with me.” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, but presses a quick kiss on Tony’s lips before continuing their way up. “You’re awful,” Bucky sighs. “You always get away with it.” “Only because you let me, Bucky bear.” Tony laughs softly. The next help opens the double doors for them. “Besides, this is more for you than for me. How good could one person really-” Tony freezes, eyes wide, nose twitching. Time seems to stop for a moment and it’s only when he spots Bucky’s grin from the corner of his eyes that he finishes his sentence. “-smell.” It’s exquisite. Intense. The only thing clawing at Tony’s mind right now is the need to know where the source is. His mouth salivates and his canines ache to push out. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually, Bucky speaks. “That’s him.” “I figured,” Tony replies through gritted teeth. He turns his head to look at Bucky with his jaw tightened. “Why would you want to share him?” Tony scoffs. “You could’ve had this all to yourself.” A wide smile spreads on Bucky’s face and it’s only now that Tony realizes that the tables have turned. The power has been shifted. Bucky unhooks his arm from Tony’s and cups the man’s face. “Oh, Tony,” he sighs. The look in his icy blue eyes is resolute. “I want to keep him.” Peter Benjamin Parker “You’re in a good mood,” Betty quips, shaking Peter out of his thoughts.  “What?” “Seriously, Pete?” She laughs as she loads her tray with more champagne glasses. “You’ve had this goofy smile on your face all evening. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you this energized.” Peter straightens his back and turns to help Betty with her work. She jumps. “No, wait, let me guess!” Peter chuckles. The tray is halfway filled now and he shifts to grab a new champagne bottle to fill some more glasses. “Whatever you think it is, you’re wrong.” “Oh, so you didn’t meet someone cute?” Peter tenses up and his head whips to face Betty. She squeals. “I knew it!” She hops in her place, evading the stare of their asshole manager, Quentin Beck, who was lazily scrolling through his phone. “So? What’s she like?” “He.” “He! Ah, I knew it!” “Betty-” “Sorry, sorry! I did it again,” she sighs and rolls her shoulders before pressing into Peter’s space again. “Tell me everything!” “Betty!” Beck’s loud voice echoes through the kitchen and she flinches. “Stop distracting Peter and get your pretty ass to table S2, they requested a waiter and that’s your area.” “Yes, sir.” Betty smiles embarrassed at Peter before making her way out onto the floor. Peter quietly continues to pour the champagne glasses, trying his best not to anger Beck any further. When he’s done, he picks up the heavy tray and balances it expertly as he walks onto the floor. The second he sets foot into the dimly lit space, a strange, yet familiar feeling washes over him. It’s the same as what he felt when he walked home after the dog incident. Like he was being watched. It’d be rude to stop and stare to find the source of the uneasy sensation, so he powers through and continues walking to his area. Once his tray is empty, cheeks hurting from the fake smile on his face, he turns to make his way back to the kitchen. However, he didn’t expect Betty to be right behind him and he runs into her. “Woah!” He exclaims, catching her before she loses balance. When they’re both standing up straight, he notices something is off. “Are you okay?” He asks, squeezing his hand that rests on her upper arm. She stares up at him and blinks a few times. “Yeah! Eh… They asked for our deepest red wine.” “Who?" “Oh, the, um…” Betty frowns, but collects herself. “The people from table S2?” “And you’re telling me this… why?” Peter leans in to check Betty’s pupils. Unfortunately, this wouldn’t have been the first time some gross guys tried to drug her while working. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, save for her behaviour. “They want you to get it for them.”  “Me?” “You.” Peter stands up straight and cocks his head. He suppresses the urge to turn his head and look at table S2. He’s still being watched. He’s not sure if he likes where this is going. Peter wipes a stray lock of hair behind Betty’s ear and gently pushes her in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s get you a glass of water first.” Betty sits on one of the few chairs in the kitchen and stares at the glass of water in her hands. “I’m fine, really, all they asked is for Peter to bring them our deepest shade of red wine.” Beck scratches the back of his head and puts his hands on his hips before turning to look at Peter. “How familiar are you with the S area?” He asks. Peter purses his lips and takes a second to think. “It’s not what I’m used to, but I think I got the numbers down.” He looks down at Betty with a frown. “And if they made you so out of it, maybe it’s better if you don’t take their orders anymore.” Betty’s eye twitches and she looks up to lock gazes with Peter. “...Orders?” It’s quiet for a second. Mr. Beck breaks it with a sudden clap of his hands. “Alright, Peter, Betty’s fired. You’re taking her area together with your own.” “What?” Peter exclaims. “You can’t fire her for something like this!” “I can and I did.” Beck glares at Peter. “Now, off you go, they’ve been waiting long enough. And no, you’re not getting double pay.” Beck suddenly stops in his tracks and points both his index fingers to the ceiling. “The wine!” He turns to the wine cellar and disappears, offhandedly shouting something about wine glasses to Peter. That man is mentally unstable. Peter will never understand how he became the manager. Peter turns to Betty once more. “I’m… I’m so sorry.” Betty nods slightly and she curls the corners of her mouth up. Her eyes don’t smile along. “I’ll be fine,” she says. It’s forced. Peter frowns. “You had to switch places with me anyways.” “Wha- why did I have to? The S area was always your thing, you always claimed it during prep.” “I don’t want the S area anymore. It’s okay. I’ll find another job. They want you.” Peter’s officially worried now. He takes Betty’s hands in his and stares her down, trying to read her. “They?” He mumbles. “They.” Peter was hoping she’d give a little more information, but he probably won’t get it. And she’s out of it. Really out of it. Who would ask specifically for him at a gala? Nobody knows he’s working here… Peter freezes when it hits him. Bucky. “Peter, I thought I asked you to grab the glasses!” Beck shouts annoyed when he returns with a bottle of red wine. Peter stands up straight and nods apologetically, eyeing Betty once more before turning to the cupboards. It’s not long before Peter finds his way onto the floor again, balancing his tray with two glasses and a bottle of red wine on a shaky hand. He sniffs, trying not to look at the S2 table while he’s making his way there. His heart thumps loudly in his chest. “Excuse me?” Peter is almost grateful that someone stops him and he smiles at the lady. “Good evening, ma’am, how may I help?” “The waitress who just helped us, where is she?” “Oh,” Peter says as he turns his body, lowering the tray slightly. “She suddenly felt dizzy, so she’s, eh… She’s taking a break. I’m taking over the tables here.” Honesty gets you further. May’s words still linger in his head. The lady frowns worried. “Oh, dear, I hope she feels better soon. Did our order come through?” Peter quickly peeks at their table number, trying to remember what he saw on the order board in the kitchen. S4. Awesome. That means he can say- “Yes, ma’am, it came through. They’re working on it right now.” He nods, glad he was able to give good news. “I’ll be serving you tonight.” Peter’s startled by someone coughing loudly, choking. He turns and rushes over without second thought, putting down the tray on the table and placing his hand on the shoulder of the hunched over man.  “Sir, are you alright?” He glances at the table number out of habit, freezing for a second when he reads S2. The man who’s choking, collects himself, grabbing his glass of water and taking a sip. Peter can’t help but stare at him. He’s beautiful. There are lines on his face, but they only accentuate his features. His eyes are deep. Brown. He’s not young, but aged like fine… Wine, the wine, right. Wait. Is that… Tony Stark? Tech giant, richest man of New York, Tony Stark?! “Peachy,” Tony forces out, suppressing another cough. He looks up at Peter. The boy is immediately captivated. The only one he’s ever seen with eyes that entrancing is- “Ah, Peter, took you a while.” Peter barely manages to break eye contact and looks up startled at Bucky, sitting next to the Tony Stark. After a few more seconds of stunned silence, the man speaks again. “You can let go now.” Peter realizes his hand still rests on Tony Stark’s shoulder. His words shoot through Peter like a missile. It wasn’t an order, but… Let go.  Before he can move away, Tony captures him again with his eyes. “Unless you don’t want to.” “I-” Peter’s breath hitches in his throat, and it takes him a second to collect himself. “I have to work.” His fingers uncurl from the man’s arm and he stands up straight again with a nod. “Oh?” There’s a mischievous gleam in the Tony’s eyes. “Does that mean you wouldn’t have let go of me if you weren’t working right now?” Let go. Let go. Let go. The words keep echoing through Peter’s head and it makes him tingly. He can’t right now. He has to work. He opts to ignore the inappropriate question. “Your wine,” he says quickly as he places the glasses from the tray onto the table. He then opens the wine bottle, holding it with a cloth. He pours both men a sip to taste, evading eye contact with Bucky. Their kiss still lingers on his lips. He takes a step back and waits for Bucky and Tony to purse their lips, pushing the wine around in their mouths. “It’s a Sagrantino di Montefalco.” Peter says quietly. “Our deepest shade, as per your request.” “Perfect.” Bucky grins and pushes out his arm for Peter to fill his glass further. He complies and tilts the bottle until the glass is adequately filled. The other man does the same, wordlessly, and Peter fills his glass too. “Oh, right, Peter, this is my partner, Tony Stark.” Peter’s eyes go wide. Peter kissed Tony Stark’s partner. In his panic he accidentally tips the bottle too far, overfilling the glass and coating Tony’s hand with the wine. “Oh, sh-” Peter catches himself before he swears and puts the bottle down, immediately using the cloth he held the bottle with to take the glass from Tony’s hands. “I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t-” Before Peter can hand Tony the cloth, the man brings his wine coated fingers to his lips. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. He shivers, which has Peter wonder why. It’s not exactly a good smelling wine. Is he smelling something else? Peter’s jaw clenches when Tony pushes his digits into his mouth. It all seemed innocent enough until he made eye contact with Peter. And held his gaze. Peter is glued in his spot. Body stiff, slightly shaking. Bucky leans over Tony’s shoulder and nudges his head against Tony’s. The man complies, takes his fingers out of his mouth and presents them to Bucky, who licks them clean of the last bits of red wine. Peter isn’t certain what he’s looking at, but he knows for sure that he can’t look away. His gaze is still locked with Tony’s and… Are Peter’s pants getting tighter? “We share everything, Peter,” Bucky says with a grin as he pulls back. Tony presses his fingers together and smirks. He finally breaks eye contact with Peter, but the boy can’t stop staring. Did that just happen? “It did,” Tony quips. Peter’s eyes go wide. Did he say that out loud? He turns away, picking up the wine bottle as he goes. “Peter?” He stops in his tracks, quietly hoping to disappear into the floor. He kissed Bucky. He kissed him. And now he’s here with his- With Tony. He requested Peter to wait their table and now… This. God, this is embarrassing. And hot. Unfairly hot. Peter slowly turns around, but keeps his eyes strained on the floor. “Thanks for the service.” Peter can hear Bucky’s shit eating grin, but they’re testing him. He knows. He’s very aware of what they want him to say and so, he’ll indulge. “My pleasure.” He nods at the floor and shifts to move back to the kitchen. Table S4’s order should be ready to go. He’s not sure how, but it’s like he can hear Tony’s voice in his head. Whispering. Tickling his ears from the inside. “Your pleasure.” James Buchanan Barnes “Did you see the look on his face?” Tony is the giddiest Bucky has ever seen him. “He’s perfect, Buck, absolutely perfect.” “I know.” Bucky leans back smugly and crosses his arms. Tony takes another sip of his wine, settling the excitement with some ineffective alcohol. “I want to keep him too,” he says quickly before letting the liquid coat his tongue. “How do you suggest we go about this?” He cocks an eyebrow at Bucky, who can’t help but smile. “We offer him a job.” “A job,” Tony repeats, raising his other eyebrow as well. Bucky cocks his head, not listening to whoever is talking on stage. Galas are the worst. “A job.” “Why?” “He’s poor.” Bucky sniffs and leans towards Tony to tell him the story. How Peter hadn’t eaten a meal for a while until Bucky took him out for spaghetti earlier today. How Peter, from the kindness of his heart, chased the dog and then offered to pay for the cold coffee Bucky had dropped, even though he didn’t even have fifteen dollars to his name. How Peter will be evicted from his home. Bucky talked about the subjects discussed on the date. Peter’s all alone and stuck in a vicious cycle until he manages to break free. He just needs the means to break free. And Tony and Bucky have those means. And their own needs. “Still a little shady.” “What? We’re just offering him a way out. Just a job.” “As what?” “I dunno. Personal assistant?” Tony snorts at that and puts down his glass. “To cater to all your wishes.” “Well, yeah?” Bucky shifts in his seat and rests his head in his hand, leaning his elbow on the table and taking a sip of his own glass of wine.  “You haven’t seen how he was this afternoon.” “You’re right, I haven’t. You told me about the ‘let go’ part. Had a lot of fun messing with his head just yet.” “Okay, but that means you saw it too.” Bucky tilts his head. “He’s stressed. On edge. Tired. Hungry. And most of all; he’s touch starved. And mind you, he kissed me. I didn’t ask him to. I didn’t compel him to. He just did it. By himself. He wants this.” Tony sucks at his teeth and Bucky groans. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me he’s making you second guess your morals.” “I don’t want to use him.” Bucky stares at Tony in disbelief. “So, all the people you feed from aren’t being used by you?” “I don’t want to use him.” “Fine. Fine, me neither.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into his hand and rubbing it. “But I can’t let him go.” “How about we let him decide? We ask him. He can say yes or no.” Bucky tenses and sends Tony a worried look. “What if he says no?” He realizes he sounds scared. Bucky Barnes. Scared. Bucky from yesterday would laugh him in the face. “Then we’ll convince him,” Tony says determined. He nods and pushes a lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “The old fashioned way. Without dark magic.” “You’re saying we should stop playing with him?” Tony laughs and shakes his head. “No.” He takes his glass and chugs it, only to chug Bucky’s immediately afterwards. Empty glasses means a certain waiter would have to show up at their table again soon. “We won’t force him to be with us, but we can still play.” “How morally grey,” Bucky chuckles. “You’re disgusting.” “Love you too, Bucky bear.” . “It’s okay to feel uncomfortable with us, Peter. Are you uncomfortable?” “No, sir, I’m not,” Peter mumbles, staring into Bucky’s eyes after giving them their fourth glass of wine. Bucky knows it’s all formality. The boy’s still at work. He can’t say that to the people he’s… Serving. “Are you lying?” “Yes.” “Don’t lie when you’re with us, Peter.” “Okay.” “Jesus, Buck, go easy, someone’ll catch on something’s off,” Tony says quickly and quietly. “Look at him, Tony, isn’t he wonderful?” “I’m… I’m right here,” Peter mutters, a slight frown curls his brows. “We know, we know. Forget we said that and go do your thing.” Peter blinks and his wide, fake, waiter smile returns. “Your food should be ready soon,” he says, bright and awake.  “Thank you, Peter.” Tony nods curtly and Peter shuffles where he stands before mumbling his reply and rushing off. “Mm. Pleasure.” . “Why are you uncomfortable with us?” Tony tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow. “I, eh…” Peter stutters as he pours their ninth glass of wine. “Tony knows about the kiss,” Bucky adds nonchalantly. Peter stops pouring their beverages and takes a slight step back. He’s startled and takes a second to find his words. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you-” “I don’t mind,” Tony says with a grin. Peter stares at him wide-eyed, which makes Bucky chuckle. They’re going to have so much fun with him. Heck, they already are. “In fact…” Tony leans forward on the table and rests his elbow on it, placing his cheek in his hand. “...I’d like you to kiss me too.” Bucky can literally feel Peter’s hard on from where he’s sitting. The boy swallows and the steady but fast, beating of his heart thrums in Bucky’s ears.  “I’m working,” he replies and it has both men smile up at him. He didn’t say no. Peter quickly tilts the bottle again, emptying it with his lips pressed tightly on top of each other. It’s Bucky’s turn to show his gratitude to Peter, so he does. “Thank you, Peter.” The boy squirms where he stands and pivots to rush back to the kitchen. Though, his soft whimper didn’t go unnoticed. “Pleasure.” . “Oh, please, you haven’t resisted us before, why now?” Tony leans forward, obviously taking a whiff of Peter’s scent before curling up the corners of his mouth, fluttering his eyes innocently. “Work,” Peter pushes out, eyes strained on the bottle he’s tipping to pour Bucky’s seventeenth glass. He’s caught on that actually looking at the men makes him lose himself. Especially when they talk like that. Bucky wonders if Peter has any suspicions about what he and Tony are. Not to mention the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed at this point. He’s smart. He must know something is afoot.  “Well, we actually had a proposition about that.” Bucky’s regular voice gave Peter the confidence to look up at him, which was a mistake on his part, honestly. Bucky immediately traps him with his stare. “Proposition?” Peter asks quietly. “See, we were just discussing that we want to-”  Their conversation is cut short by a short yelp and the sound of glass shattering behind them. The scare breaks Peter away from Bucky and the boy immediately puts down the bottle to rush to the problem. Someone dropped their glass, coating the floor in white wine and covering it with thousands of tiny pieces. Some other guy rushes over, while Peter squats. He uses his tray to quickly pick up the larger glass pieces and asks the other waiter to grab a broom. Bucky and Tony stare hungrily at how Peter is bent over. Their imaginations run wild with the endless possibilities. All of them involve Peter in that exact position. Naked. Suddenly, Peter winces and sucks in a breath, cursing quietly. The enhanced scent immediately hits Bucky’s and Tony’s noses. Their pupils dilate fully and they grab onto each other to hold themselves back. Blood. Blood. Blood. They stare at how Peter raises his hand to look at the damage, only to put his blood covered index finger into his mouth. Sucking on it. “Jesus Christ-” Tony spits out through gritted teeth. Bucky can only growl. The smell and the sight are dizzying and the need to sink their teeth into Peter is becoming overwhelming. “Peter!” The other guy returns and has spotted Peter’s situation. “Bwad-” Peter tries to speak, but his finger is keeping him from pronouncing all the letters. He takes it out of his mouth to show it to ‘Bwad.’ Tony and Bucky are shaking. The blood flows fast, already trickling down his fingers, so he swiftly puts it back into his mouth. Bucky wishes he didn’t hear Peter’s soft sounds. Yet, he wants to hear nothing but those soft sounds.  “Sheesh, Pete, go get a bandaid for that. And some alcohol-” ‘Bwad’ says disgusted. “And stop sucking on it, you’re not a vampire.” Peter freezes when ‘Bwad’ says that and he whips his head to look at Bucky and Tony with large eyes. Bingo. He caught on. Bucky grins wide, no longer trying to hide his fangs and he raises one eyebrow, using his head to gesture at the finger still in Peter’s mouth. Peter takes a deep breath and rushes to the kitchen. . Bucky isn’t surprised to see Peter walking out of the kitchen again, a new wine bottle in hand. The boy is bold and he obviously knows what he wants. It’s the exact reason why Tony and Bucky didn’t chase him. They knew he’d come back. “You were talking about a proposition?” Peter initiates the conversation this time, aiming to pour the next glass for Tony. However, the man catches his wrist and pulls Peter’s hand with the bandaid closer to his nose. “I thought you said the wine you’re serving is your deepest shade of red.” “Not anymore, you drank it all.” Bucky is surprised by Peter’s sudden sassiness. He’s no longer the polite waiter. He’s Peter again. For them. And he’s not afraid of what they are. “Well, then…” Tony sighs, closing his eyes and pressing Peter’s bandaged index fingers against his nostrils. “Why don’t you give us your deepest shade of red?” “Is that why you’ve been doing all of this?” Peter asks quietly, not wanting to gain attention from anyone around them, yet also not pulling back his hand. “You want to suck me dry?” “No,” Bucky says with a kind smile. “We want to do so much more than that.” “The proposition.” Peter stares at Bucky, who guesses he’s waiting for the man to compel him again, but he doesn’t. “We want you to be our personal assistant. An exciting job that matches your intellect, good pay, insurance, great sex, a roof over your head, we even got dental-” “Woah, woah, wait-” “Sex. Yeah. I said sex.” Bucky grins. “Don’t you want that? Want us?” Tony tenderly kisses the bandaid and Peter shivers. “I do.” Peter frowns and takes a second to collect his thoughts. “But I can’t just- I can’t-” He looks back to the floor and the kitchen and Bucky follows his gaze. His manager’s eyes are on him. This could get him fired. On the spot. “Peter, trust me when I tell you that never in our entire undead lives have we met anyone as utterly captivating as you are. We don’t want to kill you. We don’t want to hurt you. We want to keep you.” “Keep…” Peter mulls over Bucky’s words, turning his head to look at the two men again. “So, I’ll be your pet?” “You’ll still be you. You’ll have a life. Just… With us in it.” Tony shrugs. It’s almost strange how casual they are about this. “Will you…” Peter stops talking, slightly embarrassed at what he wants from them. “Will we…?” Tony looks up at him, patient but curious. “Will you compel me?” “Do you want that?” Bucky asks immediately. He knows what it does to Peter to be controlled like that. “I… It’s not something I want to discuss here.” “Tell us,” Bucky orders. A shiver goes up Peter’s spine and he closes his eyes, complying straight away. “The feeling is so nice, I- It makes me horny.” “Oh, does it?” Tony coos. “You’ve been so submissive all evening already. And now you’re telling us it’s because we can control your mind? Most people would run if they were in your position.” “I want this,” Peter mumbles. “I’ve got nothing left to lose anyways.” “Oh!” Tony exclaims, trying to stay quiet in order to keep the other tables from looking at them. “He wants this,” he says to Bucky, before turning to Peter again. “You want this! We truly hit the jackpot, Buck.” “You’re really not going to kill me?” Peter asks quietly. A bit of fear seeps through and Bucky immediately takes Peter’s other hand in his, tracing the tips of his fingers over the prominent veins on his wrist. “And waste all of you?” Bucky whispers, looking up at Peter in awe. “I’d rather kill myself.” “What’s so special about me anyways?” Peter sucks at his teeth, trying to ignore Tony’s soft lips and Bucky’s cold fingers against his skin. “You could have anyone. Why me?” “You have no idea how good you smell,” Tony sighs. “S-smell?” “We’re going to have to take a look into why you’re so intense and addictive, but believe us when we say that you’re making us lose our minds,” Bucky chuckles. “With us, you’ll be the safest you’ve ever been. No one will touch our flower. You’ll live with us, we’ll share our riches with you. We want to give you everything, Peter; A fulfilling life, a purpose, all the pleasure you can imagine. More.” It’s quiet for a few seconds as they all realize what this means. “Will you...?” Peter asks again. “Will we...?” Tony replies playfully. Peter nods slowly, doing his best to find the courage to finish his sentence. “Will you compel me?” “With pleasure.” Bucky immediately takes hold of Peter’s mind. “You want to stop worrying, don’t you, pretty Peter?” The mention of the nickname Bucky had used on him before has Peter twitch where he stands. Tony has started kissing his entire hand, licking the veins on his wrist. “Yes.” “Do you want us to take all your heavy thoughts away? Replace them with good thoughts- thoughts we want you to think?” Peter nods, eyes strained on Bucky’s. “Do you want to let go for us?” “Please-” “Let go.” Peter’s knees give in for a split second, but it’s enough for Bucky to have to catch Peter as he drops. Peter Benjamin Parker Peter’s snapped back into reality sandwiched between Tony’s and Bucky’s shoulders. Their arms are wrapped around his waist, keeping him upright. They’re walking down the stairs of the venue, but Peter doesn’t recall walking out. The cold November air hits his skin and he takes a deep breath. “Hello, there,” Bucky chuckles. “H-hey?” “No worries, we just want you to know where we’re taking you. We’ll put you back under when we reach the bedroom.” Peter jolts, standing more sturdy on his feet at the mention of their destination. “PETER!” He turns his head to see Beck, staring at him wide-eyed, arms spread in confusion. “Your shift’s not done, where do you think you’re going?!” It’s quiet for a second, but Peter doesn’t even consider lying. He knows he’s in good hands. He knows they speak the truth. He knows he’s better off without Beck. Without this job. “I quit,” he whispers. Both Bucky and Tony stare at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?” Beck yelps. Peter stands up more straight and rolls his shoulders, finding the courage to repeat himself, but louder. “I quit.” “Y-you can’t just-” “I can. I quit.” Peter moves to get into the car and tosses his black apron on the sidewalk. “What about all the guests?” There’s a hint of desperation in Beck’s voice and Peter shakes his head. “Pull your own weight for a change.” The car door shuts. Peter is still pressed between the two taller men, who stare at Peter. Stunned. “Did- did you tell him to say that?” Bucky mumbles to Tony. Peter scoffs a laugh. “I didn’t,” Tony answers honestly and ends it with a groan. “Kid, you’re gonna be the death of us.” “Aren’t you already dead?” “Touché.” . Stark Tower. The building Peter could only dream of working at during his time at MIT. The dream crumbled when he dropped out. He didn’t dare think about setting foot into this place without a degree or doctorate of some kind. He couldn’t imagine getting the attention of Tony Stark, the man he’d looked up to since his childhood. And now he’s here. In the elevator to the penthouse, the living quarters, being held by Bucky and his boyfriend. Tony Stark. If he really is dreaming right now, he never wants to wake up again. But it feels too real. Their cold fingers wrapped around his arms, stroking his skin delicately and gently. They make terribly casual conversation for the current situation. Peter answers all their questions, though. Tries to engage, but he can’t stop looking around. Perks of a glass elevator is that he can see every floor. All the labs, all the test areas. Some floors are blinded for their own reasons, which is fair, but it’s obvious Tony has the glass elevator installed to show off. Peter falls quiet in the middle of a sentence about the last project he’d worked on when he was still at MIT, involving nanotechnology, and frowns. The question leaves his lips before he realizes how rude it is. “How old are you?” Tony bursts out laughing. “Older than I look.” “No- but-” “Bucky’s nearing… Three centuries?” “You wound me, Tony, you don’t even remember my age?” “Details, details, Buck.” Tony smirks. “How old am I, then?” “You’re a young sprite. Got your ninety-second birthday coming up, don’t you? I sired you when you were forty-seven.” Bucky puts up a cocky smile and raises one eyebrow. “Now you’re just making me look bad.” Tony pouts. “Why don’t people wonder about that? Y-your age, I mean?” Peter purses his lips, trying to recall a time when magazines and news outlets questioned Tony’s looks compared to his age. He doesn’t. “Well, I took over from my ‘father,’ obviously,” Tony chuckles. “Wait, that was you too?” “The resemblance is striking.” Tony looks incredibly pleased with himself. “That’s… That’s insane.” Peter stares ahead, trying to have it all make sense in his brain. “How old are you?” Tony asks with a genuine smile. “Twenty-three.” “Only a babe,” Bucky chuckles and Peter turns to face them both, cheeks puffed. “I’m not a child!” “You say to the two-hundred-seventy-six year old man.” “What- you want me to call you great great great grandpa?” “Dear god, no.” “Then don’t call me babe-” Peter gets pulled against Bucky’s chest, a wide grin spreads on the man’s face. His cold breath tickles Peter’s skin. Peter shakes, but can’t help but push in too. Bucky’s hard and he gently grinds against Peter. The boy whimpers. “Not even in the bedroom?” Peter flutters his eyes, now very aware what the gesture does to the men he’s with and he whispers seductively. “Only in the bedroom.” . This isn’t a bedroom. It’s a small palace. Dark granite tiles, a gigantic glass bathtub in the middle of the room, the bed is so large it could fit five people generously. The sheets are a deep shade of red and the room even has space for an extensive sitting area. It’s insane. His studio would barely be considered a cupboard compared to this. “Here’s where the magic happens.” Tony places his hands on Peter’s shoulders and leans over. He looks at Peter expectantly, but all Peter can do is stare, mouth opened slightly. “Is it too much?”  “You haven’t seen where he lives, Tones-” That comment snaps Peter out of it and he turns to give Bucky an accusatory glare. “So you did know about my studio!” “I followed you home. Shoot me. You smell too good.” “Thanks.” A short awkward silence falls and the slight frown on his face betrays that Peter is thinking about something. “My dream…” “Was nice, wasn’t it?” Bucky grins and takes a step closer to Peter, taking his hands to lift them to Peter’s heart. They feel the beat quickening slightly. “You’re unbelievable.” Peter’s breath is shaky. Bucky leans in until their noses touch.  “Hey, you were obviously enjoying yourself. Too bad you set that alarm. I’d have let you come.” “You gave him a wet dream?” Tony scoffs and slightly squeezes his fingers into Peter’s shoulders.  “I did,” Bucky says proudly. “It was very convincing.” Peter chuckles and shakes his head. “Like I said; unbelievable.” “Hmm, but Pete… Did you end up coming at all?” Tony’s words tickle Peter’s ear and he shivers, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Oh, the torture.” Tony’s hands slowly move down Peter’s arms to caress his waist and then grip his hips. “You want to come, don’t you?” His trimmed beard scratches Peter’s jaw. All Peter can do is nod, paired with a soft whimper. Yes. He wants to come. Let go. For them. Suddenly, both Bucky and Tony let go of Peter and he sucks in a breath. “Let’s give him a tour of the room, shall we?” Tony claps his hands once and Peter’s quiet, frustrated groan doesn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t be so needy, babe-” Bucky says with a smirk, but Peter quickly replies. “Don’t call me that.” Bucky raises an eyebrow and gestures at the bed. “Well… We’re in the bedroom, aren’t we?” James Buchanan Barnes Tony and Bucky show Peter every corner of the room. In the least sexual way possible. And it’s driving Peter nuts. They can tell how much he’s aching for their touch by how he fiddles his fingers, how his shoulders are slightly raised and how he holds his breath whenever either of the men speaks. Bucky opens the door to the bathroom and guides Peter in, Tony right behind him. Once again, dark tiles, lots of glass, another tub, some lounge chairs, nothing Bucky hasn’t seen before. Peter, however, is stunned and both Bucky and Tony notice the kid is not really taking in any part of the bathroom, except for the shower. It’s separated from the bathroom with a glass wall and you can walk into it from two sides. The look on Peter’s face is difficult to place. Curled up brows, a trembling lip and dewy eyes, strained on… The shower. Oh, no. “What’s going through your head?” Bucky asks carefully. He doesn’t want Peter to feel called out, but he knows what’s up. Peter immediately drops his gaze and stares at his feet, pressing his hands together embarrassed. “I- Nothing.” “Nothing?” Tony steps around Peter to look at him from the front, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you like it?” “Tones-” Bucky raises one hand to stop his boyfriend from speaking. He’s been rich since birth, he doesn’t know what poverty is like. What hardships it brings. “Talk to us, Pete. Tell us what you want.” Peter turns to lock gazes with Bucky. He holds his head high, but he’s obviously not happy with what Bucky asked of him. “I don’t want your pity.” “I’m not pitying you, Peter.” “You are!” Peter hugs himself and steps away from the two significantly older men. He breaks eye contact and sniffs. “I’m- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.” “Sheesh, kid, it’s gonna take a little more to ruffle our feathers than a slightly raised voice.” Tony cocks his head and sucks at his teeth. “I’ll rephrase, okay?” Bucky says with a nod. “Why were you staring at the shower?” “You know the answer.” “Not the specifics.” “Is this some kind of insider thing that I’m not a part of?” Tony asks, confused. The younger vampire glances at the shower, and when Bucky notices, it suddenly hits him. “Warm water.” “Fine! Okay, you got me. It got cut off a little over a month ago. I needed the place more than the hot water, so I compromised,” Peter confesses, turning his back so he can hide his red face and the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. Bucky had already seen them, though. “Would you like to take a shower?” “N-no.” “Peter,” Tony threatens. It’s soft, though. He steps forward and curls his fingers around Peter’s shoulders again, slowly turning him around so the boy faces them again. Peter lets it happen and he gasps quietly when Tony moves to unbutton his white dress shirt. “We want you to feel good. To enjoy yourself. If you want that shower… We’ll gladly join you.” Peter stares up into Tony’s eyes and right when the two men expect Peter to give in, he places his hands over Tony’s. “Why are you so kind to me?” He glances at both men. “Honest to god, kid, I wish I knew.” Tony scoffs a soft laugh, but Peter doesn’t smile along. “I smell good to you now. You like me now,” he frowns. “I just quit my weekend job. What if, tomorrow, you don’t like me anymore? You’re just gonna toss me out, aren’t you?” “No,” Bucky says resolutely, taking a large step towards Tony and Peter. The young vampire takes a slight step to the side, allowing Bucky to stand in front of Peter as well. “Not after everything that’s happened today. I’d never.” The man cups Peter’s face with his cold hand and his lip quivers. “I will make you feel loved and cherished- will give you anything and everything, so long as your promise to be mine.” He takes a deep breath and corrects himself. “Ours.” A strange silence settles between the three of them. Bucky’s words were a promise of sorts. A promise that meant more to Peter than either of the immortals could ever fathom. The boy’s voice is fragile when he speaks. “What if I don’t want to be yours?” “Then you’d be lying.” “Probably,” Peter mumbles, averting his gaze. He takes a breath in through his nose. “Are you going to lock me in here?” “Of course not,” Tony says softly. His smile is kind and genuine. Tony never smiles like this with anyone other than Bucky. His hand moves to caress Peter, push through his hair and let the boy lean into him. “We’re not monsters. Well- we are, but not like that.” Peter gives them a lopsided smile, crooked. His cheeks flush, but his eyes water more and more until Bucky catches a tear with his thumb. “This isn’t real,” Peter whispers. “I’m gonna wake up, aren’t I? And you’ll be gone.” Tony immediately moves to stand behind Peter. Bucky shuffles until he’s right in front of the small, stressed, young man, so he can press his forehead against Peter’s. Tony wraps his arms around Peter’s waist in an embrace and gently scratches his beard over Peter’s skin. “Allow us to prove you wrong,” Bucky whispers, his cool breath mingling with Peter’s warm one. Peter has his eyes closed, but his shoulders twitch. “How?” “Share your night with us.” Tony’s deep voice creates goosebumps all over Peter’s skin. Bucky leans in closer, wanting to taste Peter on his lips again. The man is pleasantly surprised when Peter, against all expectations, takes initiative by pressing his mouth against Bucky’s in an open kiss. Bucky smiles into it, licking Peter’s lips. The boy immediately grants him access and Tony continues his proposition.  “Entangle your body with ours- let us take away your stress, your worries. Sleep and wake, with your head on our chests, our fingers caressing your glowing skin as we kiss it. Kiss you.” Tony pairs his sweet words with gentle pecks and a slight drag of his pointed teeth over Peter’s skin. Peter gasps, his hips automatically pushing forward against Bucky’s thigh. The man breaks their kiss and whispers. “If you decide that this is not what you want, we will let you go.” “I- I want this,” Peter moans, pushing back in to continue their kiss, hands finally raising to grab Bucky’s face- tug his hair. “Want it all-” Tony’s hands move up to continue undoing the buttons of Peter’s shirt, pressed between Bucky’s and Peter’s body. “-Want it to be real.” “It is.” The shiver that goes down Peter’s spine does not go unnoticed and the men grin. “How about I run that shower?” Tony mumbles as he slips the shirt down Peter’s arms. Peter breaks free from the kiss and looks at Tony wide-eyed. “No- actually, I…” He stutters and the men both look at him quizzically. “I…” “Tell us what you want, Peter,” Bucky says softly, tilting his head to try and catch Peter’s averted gaze. When Peter looks up, there’s embarrassment, yet… Arousal. Oh. Bucky knows exactly what Peter wants. “Tell us what you want.” Peter’s eyes glaze over slightly and he whimpers. All Bucky can think of is how lucky he and Tony are to have found someone like Peter. This deliciously sweet, submissive young man whose cock twitches when he gives up his mind, is right here in front of them. He wants to be controlled. Wants them. And oh, how they want him too. “Do it myself.” Peter sounds slightly embarrassed. “Wh- shower?” Tony says with a cocked head, slightly amused. Peter nods shyly, not breaking eye contact with Bucky. An idea sparks in Bucky’s mind. It’s filthy and voyeuristic and most likely exactly what Peter wants too. “Oh, Peter… Go have that shower. You deserve it.” His hands caress Peter’s face one more time before letting go. “Do what feels right. What feels good. This is your bathroom. We’re not here.” Peter blinks a few times, processing the command, before stretching his back and letting his shoulders slouch a little more. Bucky and Tony don’t exist anymore. It’s just him in this bathroom. Tony grins at Bucky and tosses the white shirt on the floor, pushing his hand through his hair and sitting down in one of the lounge chairs. Bucky gives him a sly smirk and cocks an eyebrow. Both men have their attention pulled back to Peter, who kicks off his pants and socks. They suck in a breath at the sight of Peter’s physique. He’s more toned than they’d expected him to be. Lean, yet strong. How his clothes hid his true shape, is a mystery to them. Bucky can feel his cock stir when Peter cups his own shaft through his underwear while turning on the shower with his other hand. Oh, yes… Bucky thinks. This oughta be good. Peter Benjamin Parker Peter turns on the tap and stares at it for a second. He’s suddenly unsure how to use it, which is weird cause this is his bathroom, right? How could he forget how his own shower works? He fiddles a bit with the faucet until the water turns warm. Something inside him is confused. Didn’t his hot water get cut off?  “Ah, well,” he mumbles to himself. It’s a habit he picked up in all those months spent by himself. Not having anyone to talk to resulted in him just filling up the empty space with his own words. “Might as well enjoy it while it lasts...” He takes off his boxers and absentmindedly cups his hard shaft like he did before. The underwear is lazily tossed to the side and Peter reaches his hand into the shower. It’s strange to feel the warm water on his hands after so long. It makes him realize how cold he actually is. Slowly, he steps under the stream of warm water and turns it up a tad, just because he can. God, this is nice. It’s not long before he pushes his head under, holding his breath as his hair clings to his forehead. It’s been forever since he’s had a shower like this. For now, he can’t even be bothered to figure out where he put the soap. He just wants to stay right there. Forever. Warm. A small smile creeps onto his face when he remembers Bucky’s coat, enveloping him earlier that day. Though it was cold at first, it quickly warmed up through Peter’s body heat. Not a surprise, everything about Bucky made Peter feel hot. Bucky. The man had haunted his thoughts all day. Heck, he even dreamed about him. Peter’s arousal spikes at the memory of Bucky’s metal hand wrapped around his shaft, his lips next to Peter’s ear to whisper filth and make him beg. Peter pulls his head out from under the stream and topples it backwards to take a big breath, open mouthed, eyes closed. The hot water hits his chest, causing his nipples to spring to attention. The fingers he has still wrapped around his shaft, squeeze softly. Peter lets out a shaky breath and stifles a moan. His eyes are pressed shut. He imagines the metal hand caressing his skin. The thought alone has him shiver. His hand moves slowly at first, pumping and squeezing and, God, it feels insanely good.  “F-Fuck,” he whimpers, raising his free hand to start tweaking one of the sensitive buds on his chest. His back arches slightly and he sticks out his butt a little. Suddenly, there’s a presence on either side of him. He opens his eyes, but there’s nothing to be seen. His sight is slightly warped, but something in the back of his head tells him everything is just fine. He’s there by himself. In his bathroom. “You’re holding back again…” Peter’s eyes go wide and he looks further up, confused at where the voice came from. Was that… Bucky? “Thinking of me, pretty thing?” Peter blushes. How is his imagination so vivid? So real? It sounds like Bucky is right there, in front of him and- Peter gasps when two cold fingers suddenly tease his other nipple. What is- Where is- “Answer me.” “Yes.” Peter doesn’t know where he’s looking but he can’t look away. His gaze is locked with something in front of him. Someone. Taller. But there’s nothing there…? “Gah,” Bucky groans quietly. “I just can’t get enough of you.” A tongue presses against Peter’s lips and he immediately complies and parts his own. The invisible tongue curls in and comes back out only for the imaginary mouth to suckle on Peter’s top lip. Peter closes his eyes and moans again. “Wish you were really here,” Peter sighs. “Mm…” Bucky chuckles and out of nowhere a second pair of hands glide over Peter’s wet, naked body. His hips buck when the other’s index finger dips into his crack and caresses past his hole. “We are,” another voice whispers into Peter’s ear from behind. Tony Stark. Holy- Peter opens his eyes again and gasps under the attention. Tony’s hands grab Peter’s hips to angle him and grant better access to his ass. Peter’s back arches further, brain completely confused at what’s happening. His limbs hang limp. He’s convinced he’s by himself. But how is this happening? He’s alone? He’s not? He’s- what’s going on? His mouth opens, wanting to say something, but he’s halted when a digit plays with the rim of his hole. “M-Mr. Stark?” “That’s me, baby, let me have a taste…” The fingers at his entrance are replaced with a tongue, immediately dipping in. Peter moans obscenely and bucks even further back, craving more. “Eyes on me, Peter,” Bucky’s voice says in front of him. Peter didn’t realize he’d shut them, but when he opens them again, there’s still no one there. He’s by himself. In his bathroom. This… This is his bathroom right? He can imagine them, though. Vividly. Bucky’s piercing blue eyes, right there. “E-Eyes on you,” Peter stutters, flinching with every flick of Tony’s tongue in his ass. “Good boy.” Peter’s jaw falls slack at the praise. His eyes would’ve rolled back if he wasn’t forced to keep looking into the icy blues that weren’t actually there. Or… Were they? No…? His confusion keeps getting mixed with pleasure as the two pairs of hands ignite every inch of skin. Hot water splashes all over the bathroom as Peter’s lifted off the ground. His head is all over the place. He’s certain he’s alone. There’s no one else here. But then, how is any of this happening? How are his feet completely detached from the floor? He’s pressed against a cold body and instinctively wraps his legs around the ghost figure. He’s up relatively high, cock pressing against imaginary Bucky’s abs and- is this really imaginary? “Can you keep up with yourself, Petey?” Bucky coos. Peter pants with yearning, his brain overloading with the mixed messages it’s receiving. He’s completely and utterly convinced he’s alone, yet he’s not. He’s being taken care of by two people. By Tony and Bucky. But he’s not. He’s alone. And fuck, it feels so good and he needs more but he can’t move his arms, but how could he possibly get there without touching himself because he’s alone? A whine slips from Peter’s lips. “Makes n-no sense, can’t- can’t make sense-” His head swims with pleasure as Tony’s tongue keeps lapping at him, hands squeezing the cheeks of Peter’s ass. Bucky is still keeping him up in the air, softly rubbing Peter up and down against himself with his strong arms. Peter’s eyes are still strained on the nothing in front of him, but his forehead rests against imaginary/not imaginary Bucky’s. Peter’s unaware he’s still babbling gibberish until Bucky’s voice vibrates the air around him. “Ssh… Pretty Peter...” Peter’s entire body slacks in Bucky’s hold and he could practically hear Bucky grinning through his words. “Does it have to make sense?” Does it? Does it really? A faint smile spreads on Peter’s face when he truly gives in. Not that he was fighting before, but it feels like whatever Bucky said just shut down his brain completely. It doesn’t have to make sense. He’s alone. He’s not alone. It doesn’t matter. He’s feeling good. So good. Wants to feel even better. All he has to do is… “Let it happen…” Bucky’s tongue flicks Peter’s upper lip just as Tony’s tongue dips in far enough to graze past his prostate. Peter gasps and jolts but almost immediately relaxes again, letting his feet practically dangle. He knows he’s taken care of. He doesn’t have to do anything. Doesn’t have to worry about anything. He just has to feel good. Let it happen. His mind is turned off, yet his body is turned on. Very much so… Peter doesn’t know how long he’s like this, floating, the warm stream of water massaging the skin of his back, cock rubbing against Bucky and ass eaten by Tony Stark. But it feels like heaven. He can barely remember his name when he’s brought back to his feet, though he can’t stand. Not by himself. “You’re beautiful,” Bucky whispers. Peter wants to protest Tony’s tongue leaving his hole, but he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. He feels too good to even barely function. He was pretty sure he was still breathing, but that was about it. The ghost hands gently scrub Peter’s tired body clean. The orchid scent fills his nostrils and clouds his mind even more, though he wasn’t sure if that was even possible. He shivers when one of the hands grabs his shaft and starts massaging it, moving up to cup his balls and fondle them. “Perfect,” Tony sighs against Peter’s shoulder, pressing kisses on the freshly washed skin. “You are absolutely perfect…” “Nng-” Peter drops his head back against Tony’s chest, lazily rolling his hips into the hand that’s giving him all the attention right now. “Our perfect, pretty, puppet - Peter Parker…” “Puppet…” Peter sighs and smiles, turning his head to the side to press a kiss on the invisible figure of Tony Stark. If his brain still worked, he’d have known he was suckling on Tony’s collar bone. “Yours…” “Oh, I’d kill to get those soft lips on my cock,” Tony whispers in his ear. Peter looks up into nothingness, doe-eyed and yearning, imagining Tony’s face close to his. His hair sticks to his face and the hot water tickles his sides as it runs down his body. “Please?” The dark chuckle that follows, turns Peter to putty. “Did you just beg to suck me off, sweet thing?” A blush creeps onto Peter’s face and he turns to hide himself against Tony’s chest. The ghost embraces him, pressing their cocks together and massaging Peter’s scalp. Peter whimpers and rubs himself against nothing. Or something. It doesn’t matter. It feels good. “You’re a lot less innocent than you seemed when I first met you, aren’t you?” Bucky coos. One pair of hands lets go of Peter and not much later the water pressure decreases. Peter glances to the side to watch the faucet turn by itself until the shower is no longer running. A towel floats towards him and he’s gently wrapped into it. Peter sways on his feet, mind still turned off, as he’s turned around. “Look at me,” Bucky orders. Peter obeys and stares up at the eyes in the back of his mind. “Come back to us, remember us, see us.” James Buchanan Barnes The look of realization on Peter’s face is absolutely everything. The haze that had covered his eyes slowly fades and after a few blinks Peter tenses every muscle in his body and freezes in place. Everything he had ‘imagined,’ turned out to be real. “Hello there,” Bucky coos as he immediately wraps his fingers around Peter’s cock again. The young man gasps and bucks, and the way his face twists with pleasure tells Bucky everything he needs to know. He squeezes at the base, preventing Peter from cumming his brains out. His brains might have already been jumbled up, but Bucky isn’t done with him yet. He’ll truly make Peter lose his mind later. Peter’s body convulses and twitches- wants to get away from Bucky’s grasp so he can shoot his load, but Tony holds on to him. Keeps him where they want him. A sob escapes Peter’s lips and his muscles lose tension until he lets himself hang in Tony’s arms like he did before, completely void of any strength to keep himself upright. “Did that feel good?” Tony whispers in Peter’s ear. Peter can only nod, eyes rolled back and jaw hanging slack. “Good.” Peter shudders, only barely holding onto the towel that’s still wrapped around his body. Tony swiftly picks him up and nods at Bucky, who opens the door for them so they can put Peter on their bed. The boy immediately curls up in the towel and babbles something incoherently. “What was that?” Bucky lays down behind Peter and wraps his arms around him. Peter’s bare ass is protected by the layer of towel between them, but Bucky knows it won’t be long now… “I’ve never felt this good before,” Peter whispers. Tony chuckles and sits down on the other side of the bed, one leg pulled in, showing off his hard cock right in front of Peter’s face. Peter stares at it with a dark hunger in his eye and Bucky’s pretty sure that if Tony were to scoot slightly closer, Peter would eat it. “W-want you to feel good too.” “We are feeling good,” Bucky sighs against Peter’s neck. He takes a deep breath, relishing in Peter’s scent and leans in further to kiss the skin, feeling the veins throb beneath it. His hand snakes into the towel to trace his thumb back and forth over Peter’s cock. The shaft twitches and Peter moans. “Wanna make you- oh- make you feel even better, then.” Peter pushes his ass back against Bucky’s crotch. Bucky glances up at Tony and both men grin. “We’ve had decades and centuries to get our fill…” Bucky’s sharp teeth glide over the prominent artery of Peter’s neck. “Quite literally,” Tony adds with a nod. “Surely, we should be able to only give for one night.” Peter stays quiet for a second and then wiggles and turns in Bucky’s arms until he’s on his back so he can look at both men. Bucky leans back a little to give Peter some space. “What if I want you to take?” Bucky’s grin grows even wider, canines baring, and he pushes his thumb against Peter’s cock with a tiny bit more force. Peter is already slightly rolling his hips again and Bucky can’t help but wonder how in the world they managed to be so lucky to find him. “Then we’ll take.” The obscene moan Peter makes then, has Bucky growl and pull the towel from between them to throw it to the floor. His hips push and roll until his erect cock breaches the crack of Peter’s ass . The young man immediately arches his back to press further, eliciting a moan from Bucky. Jesus, this kid feels amazing. “Please,” Peter begs. And, oh, he begs so beautifully. “Please, take it all- take me, use me.” “Oh-” Bucky groans and pulls Peter even closer to him, entangling their legs and spreading his cheeks with one hand. The drag is dry and coarse, but one glance at Tony has the younger vampire rush to the nightstand to grab the lube. “How could we refuse an offer as tempting and gorgeous as that? As you?” Peter whines again as his hand grasps back to grab onto Bucky. His fingers dig into the immortal’s skin, while his ass is slowly going in circles “P-please-” “Please, what?” Buck grins as he turns them over, propping himself up against the bed rest and seating Peter on his thighs with his legs on either side, back freed from Bucky’s chest. He can no longer see Peter’s face, but the way his shoulders raise and his head ducks, is all Bucky needs. “Petey, please, what?” Peter shivers. Bucky has no way of telling what expressions wash over the younger man’s face, but suddenly, Tony gets on the bed again, sitting down right in front of Peter, on top of Bucky’s legs. “Look at me,” Tony orders and Peter’s muscles immediately relax when his eyes lock with Tony’s infinite browns, demanding and swirling like a pouring bottle of scotch. Bucky never admits it, but both men know Bucky is just as weak for Tony’s compulsion as any mortal is. Something about his sire is so intoxicatingly entrancing. He might have many years on Tony, but when the billionaire’s in charge, all he has to do is practice his black magic and Bucky turns into an eager, submissive fucking machine, ready to obey and serve his Master and his cock...  Wait.  Bucky turns his head away and scoffs a laugh. “You’re horrible.” “Hmm, it was worth a try...” Tony’s cheeky grin was evident through his words. His attention is quickly turned back to their new toy. “Peter…” “Yes?” Peter’s reply was a delayed sigh, sounding slightly distant and detached, as is usually the case with their thralls, if they even replied. Most weren’t strong enough to even move their lips. Peter is special, Bucky is certain. “Tell us what you want. Tell us exactly what you want to do. What you want us to do. The words we should use. The ones you want to use. Tell us.” Peter nods along gently with every word Tony utters, like a bobble head refusing to cease its movement, delicately bouncing up and down. “Everything.” As Peter attempts his arousal fueled monologue, Tony caresses his jaw and lifts his chin until Peter has no choice but to follow up and detach his ass from Bucky’s thighs. Their eyes are still locked together and the billionaire’s intense stare ensures Peter complies without protesting the loss of friction. Tony tosses Bucky the lube who licks his lips and gets to work, lubing his cock generously and stroking himself as he watches the scene unfold in front of him.. “I- I want…” Peter’s breath is shaky. Still uncertain. Scared. “Hey,” Tony whispers as he scoots closer, pulling Peter in by gently tugging at his chin. Their breaths mingle and Peter flutters his glassy eyes. “You don’t have to worry anymore. We got you. We’re going to take care of you.” Their noses touch and Peter nearly goes cross eyed.  “Let go.” Peter gasps and pushes in to press their lips together in a desperate kiss. His hips roll, cock twitching and thudding against his lower abdomen. Bucky groans as he strokes his cock faster, relishing in the display happening above him. His metal hand creeps up and squeezes Peter’s ass, resulting in a filthy moan, muffled against Tony’s lips. His lube-covered index finger then wiggles its way towards Peter’s hole. The young man twitches when Bucky circles the rim teasingly. Tony’s fingers are curled around Peter’s throat, possessively rubbing the tips into the skin and over the veins. He breaks the kiss and his voice is low. “Tell us.” “I want you to love me. Own me. Want to stop thinking and be mindless. Willing. Suggestible.” With every word Peter moans, Bucky pushes his finger in further. “Want to be yours and u-used. A slut for your cocks. A slave for y-your touch.” Bucky adds a second finger and pumps a little faster, curling his fingers in the search for Peter’s sweet spot. Peter relaxes so easily around his digits. Bucky can’t wait to rail him. “Want you to put me under your spell. Make me addicted to your sex. Ready and waiting for you to fuck my prepped holes at any time as you see fit. Want it all.” Peter moans as Bucky’s metal hand digs into the skin at his hip and pulls him down, lining him up with Bucky’s cock. “Want to be filled.” Bucky immediately grants his wish and replaces his finger with the head of his dick. Slowly, he pushes in. Peter can barely hold his composure as he continues. “H-horny and desperate, hard and aching-nng-” “Good boy,” Tony praises as he slowly lifts Peter’s hips and pushes him back down to bottom out. “Such a good, pretty boy.” Peter shivers and throws his head back, only to be pulled up straight again by Tony’s calloused hands. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Peter blinks twice and moans at the drag on his insides. Bucky guesses the boy is becoming familiar with the hazy feeling, succumbing more easily with every wave of enforced submission that washes over him. Bucky knows the feeling all too well. Loves it all the same. Bucky lays still, savouring the feeling of being inside Peter. He’ll let Tony do all the work. “Look-Luh… Ye…” “What’s that, puppet?” “Yes.” “Yes… What?” “Y… What- what do you want me to call you?” Bucky lets out a surprised laugh. “Oh, we get to pick?” “You’re in charge,” Peter mumbles honestly, still staring straight into Tony’s eyes. “P-please, tell me what to call you-” Bucky’s cock twitches inside Peter and the vampire groans quietly. “Hmm,” Tony hums, inching closer to Peter again and letting his hands roam the younger man’s sides. “You want to be our slave, don’t you?” Peter barely moved, but it was obvious he nodded. “Yes-” “You want to serve us? Please us? Obey us?” “Yes, yes, please-” “Be our pretty puppet? Our toy?” “Please-” Tony rolls his ass once and Bucky’s face twists with pleasure. “Play with me?” “Oh, doll, of course-” Bucky growls as his hands grab Peter’s hips in an attempt to push him even further down onto him, if that were even possible. “We’ll play with you all night…” “After too?” The words would’ve sounded so innocent if they weren’t paired with an obscene moan. “Forever, if you’ll let us,” Tony whispers as he licks a stripe over Peter’s collarbone. “Forever-” Peter repeats breathlessly, raising himself up with the last strength he has so he can fuck himself on Bucky’s cock. “God, doll, you feel so good around me,” Bucky moans as he pushes his hips up to meet with Peter’s. Tony sits back up straight again so he can capture Peter with his eyes once more. “Doing so well for us, Peter,” he praises, taking Peter’s face in his hands, cupping his jaw and drawing circles over the skin with his thumbs. Peter shivers and clenches around Bucky, eliciting another moan from him. “Not too fast, sweet thing,” Tony chuckles. “Savor it... Keep your gaze locked with mine as you go up and down on Bucky’s cock.” He speaks slowly, with a dark undertone, and Bucky has to remind himself to keep his shit together, or he will fall for Tony just as hard. “Up…” Tony waits patiently for Peter to get to his knees again. “And down… Thaaat’s it. Again…” “Good boy…” “Just like that…” “Up… And down…” “Feels good doesn’t it?” “Doing as told…” “Obeying my commands…” “Up… And down…” “There’s so much pleasure in obedience…” “Just let it happen… Let go…” “Up… And down... “ “Feel the drag of his cock inside you… How it throbs and pulsates…” “That’s right, moan for me…” “So pretty…” “Good boys.” Peter Benjamin Parker Tony’s words bounce through Peter’s head just as slowly as he’s bouncing on Bucky’s cock. Peter is floating yet again. He knows he’s riding Bucky, but he can’t feel how his muscles ache with overuse. He has no idea how long he’s been here, staring into Tony’s infinite pools of darkness, pushing himself down to be filled so deliciously. But he feels good. And that’s all that matters. “Peter… Repeat the next word Bucky says. Can you do that for me?” Peter nods, head bobbing rather than giving a clear confirmation. “Bucky,” Tony suddenly says, quite casually. “Master.” Peter shudders at the word, unsure why Bucky of all people would say it? Did… Did Tony put him under too? “M-” Peter could barely bring the word to fall from his lips, pleasure tensing up every one of his muscles. “Master.” Tony immediately tugs at Peter’s hair, making him moan again. “Oh, aren’t you two my good boys… Turn around for me, Peter, go have a look at who’s fucking you so well…” Peter barely registers how Tony helps him switch positions, until he and Bucky lock gazes. There’s something distant about the usually so piercing blue eyes and both men moan when they’re joined together again. “Go on, my pretties… Find Peter’s sweet spot. Make yourselves feel good for me. Make me proud.” Tony chuckles darkly. “Not too fast, though.” Peter’s head swims as he rolls his hips to come together with Bucky’s. The older vampire’s eyes are the polar opposite of Tony’s. From deep woods to blue ice. Bucky is like a machine. His thrusts are calculated. Precise. Rhythmic. Mind-numbing. It takes a few tries and a few angles, but when Bucky’s cock pushes in just right, Peter freezes in place, mouth opened in a silent cry. “Keep going.” Yes. Peter wants to keep going. And so, he does, feeling Tony pressing his body against Peter’s, cock against his back and arms looping around so his fingers tease around Peter’s leaking shaft. “Look at him, Peter.” The young man had never looked away from Bucky in the first place, but the order solidifies it all. “Bucky is your Master…” Tony’s lips caress the nape of Peter’s neck. “Say it.” Peter whines softly. “B-Bucky is my Master.” He wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but he can’t look away or turn his head. He’s stuck in this overwhelming situation, but he’s certain he never wants to get out. Bucky’s hands on Peter’s hips squeeze, digging their fingers into the skin. “You will do whatever he says.” “I will do wh-whatever he says.” Peter’s obedience is rewarded with a pinch of both nipples, and with Bucky hitting his prostate every time, he’s sure he looks like a mess. He’s sweaty, nearly drooling, as his cock already is. “I am Bucky’s Master.” “You are Bucky’s Master.” Peter knows where this is headed and he’s living for it. Can’t wait to say the words Tony wants him to say. “He does whatever I say.” “He-” Peter clenches around Bucky’s cock, putting his hand on the tensed and toned chest below him for extra balance. “He does whatever you say.” “Now, pretty Peter… You’re a smart, good boy, aren’t you? What does that mean?” Bucky is Peter’s Master. Tony is Bucky’s Master. The math is simple. “You’re my Master,” Peter breathes as he bottoms out again, straining every part of his body. “I will do whatever you say.” “Thaaat’s it… Such a good boy.” Tony’s fingers trace over Peter’s cock and he gasps with a wide smile on his face as his body finally manages to relax again. Whenever either of the vampires uses that voice on Peter, he turns to mush. It’s soft and delicate, yet demanding and forceful. Disobeying it is impossible and every word feels like an attack on all of Peter’s sensitive spots. It fucks with Peter’s head deliciously. Immeasurable pleasure. Insanity. Addiction. Lust. It’s everything. Bucky is unreadable. Stern. Hot. Peter has no idea how close either of them is to coming, but that is honestly the last thing on his mind right now. Or whatever is left of his mind. All that matters are Tony, Bucky and Peter’s ultimate submission. “You two look so wonderful together,” Tony sighs. “Made for each other… That dog was a blessing in disguise.” Tony toys with Peter’s cock; squeezing it, tugging at it, circling the tip like a spiral. Peter and Bucky still stare at each other, completely infatuated with the other’s presence as Peter goes up and down… Up… And down.... “And you solidified his obsession with you by making a fuss over his Cold Coffee.” “I- I made him drop it-” Peter stammers, half-surprised that part of his brain turned back on at the memory of his worries. “I had to offer him another one, even if I didn’t have the funds-” “Stop.” The whole scene comes to a halt just as Peter bottoms out again, sheathing Bucky’s cock inside him. There’s a veil of shame and guilt covering his shoulders, pushing him down. “You’re not allowed to think bad thoughts. Only good ones,” Tony whispers into Peter’s ear. “Nothing else matters than what is currently happening in this room, do you understand?” “I understand.” “Look at your pretty cock, Peter. Look down.” Peter obeys and topples his head. “See all of this?” Tony’s thumb glides over the head, collecting part of the precum that was dripping out. Peter half-nods. “These are all of your worries, seeping out of your body with every inch of pleasure that we give you. And once they’re out, you can’t think bad thoughts anymore…” “Can’t think…” “They come out of your cock because pretty boys like you think with their dicks, don’t they? And the more that comes out of your shaft, the less you can think. So, why bother thinking at all?  Why not give in to me? To us? Give us your mind and your body. Feel your thoughts drip out with every pump of my hand…” It clicks with Peter, what Tony says. Master is right. He’s always right. If Peter’s mind is in his cock and his cock is leaking, then surely, he’s quite literally losing his mind… “Feels good to turn off your brain, doesn’t it?” Peter nods slightly and a rush of arousal shoots through him when Bucky nods along as well. “Continue.” Slowly, they start making love again. The concept of time eludes all three men. They’re completely caught up in each other, lost in pleasure. Something in the back of Peter’s mind tells him he should be sleeping. That he’s tired. But then, Tony didn’t tell him he’s tired. Nor did Bucky. So, he’s not tired. He keeps going, gently gyrating his hips with every push and pull, trying to milk Bucky’s cock of all its cum. He wants his Master to coat his insides and fill him up until the slickness squelches and squeaks with every movement. Peter wants it so bad- needs it. But Bucky hasn’t come yet and it’s only when Peter realizes that Bucky needs permission to release, that Peter clenches down particularly hard, eliciting the filthiest moan from the man underneath him. “Hold it there, lovelies,” Tony coos, caressing Bucky’s shivering legs and Peter’s sides. Peter has absolutely no clue where he is right now, but the grounding feeling of Bucky’s cock still inside him is all he needs right now. “Mmm… Bucky, you’re doing so well for us. So beautiful. Keep thrusting. Claim your thrall with your sex.” Tony hifts his attention after Bucky moans, sucking up the pleasure with every breath he takes- every word that’s uttered. “Peter?” Peter’s mind catches up with itself, realizing he closed his eyes. He moves his head so he can look at Tony, who has apparently stood up and walked around Peter over the mattress. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is his Master’s big cock, slowly swaying back and forth in front of him. “What do you want?” “You,” Peter sighs happily. “All of you. Both of you.” “Good boy.” Tony grins above Peter, but the young man is too enamoured with the dick in front of him. Tony angles his hips so he can drag the tip over Peter’s cheek. “Bucky’s an ass-man. Figured he should be rewarded with a good view of mine as I fuck your mouth.” Tony cocks his head. “Do you think he deserves to be rewarded, Peter?” All Peter can do is nod. Of course, Bucky deserves a reward. He’s the one who got Peter to be in this exact position. And he never wants to leave again. Tony pulls back slightly, chuckling at how Peter goes a little cross-eyed in order to keep his sights locked on his cock. “Gooood boy. Continue.” With every roll of Peter’s hips, Tony’s dick seems to dance in front of him. He wants to catch it with his mouth and relishes in the sensation of feeling it slap gently against his cheeks. “See this, Petey?” Tony asks coily. Peter nods, licking his lips and then parting them, wanting to feel soft skin on his tongue. “Your cock is nearly empty now. No bad thoughts left in that fuzzy little brain of yours, am I right?” Peter’s eyes half-close and he nods. “My cock, on the other hand, is so full with good thoughts. It throbs and aches with them. And I want to share them with you, pretty Peter… Can I give you some?” Peter throws his head back, eyes never leaving his Master’s cock, and he opens his mouth invitingly. He wants his Master’s cum- wants the good thoughts instead of the bad ones, even though - right now - he has no idea what those bad thoughts once were. What kind of man he used to be. All he knows is that he’s better now. And he feels better too.. He’s ready for them; for the good thoughts. He craves them and yearns for them. He hopes a desperate moan can convince his Master to use his mouth. Peter sticks out his tongue and enticingly flutters his eyes. “God, I’m so hard for you, sweetness. Can’t wait to sink my teeth into your flesh. Oh, I bet you taste so good.” Peter can’t reply. Not with the cock that’s now being shoved down his throat. He suckles and licks it, toying with the head as he keeps grinding. Shit, this feels terrific. Every molecule in Peter’s body is screaming at him to make Tony and Bucky, his Masters, feel terrific too. He’s convinced Bucky already is, so now, the focus will go to the throbbing shaft that rests on his tongue. He lets his teeth glide over it, tugging at twisting and- “Jesus Christ, kid, who taught you this-?!” Peter lazily looks up and moves to take his mouth of Tony’s cock to give his answer. However, Tony’s hand quickly grabs the back of Peter’s head, pushing the young man’s nose against his bush. Peter nearly gags. “Don’t reply, just keep- fuck- keep doing what you’re doing.” After a short gasp, Tony manages to angle his head down again to look Peter in the eye. “Make us cum, Peter. Make us spill.” Peter doesn’t have to be told twice. His rutting on Bucky’s cock quickens and he pushes down more deeply.  At the same time, his tongue swirls around Tony’s shaft. He can’t stop moaning, the ecstasy is too overwhelming. The longer it goes on, the more erratic Tony’s movements become. With a growl and a sigh, he tenses up and shoots his load into Peter’s throat. The young man swallows eagerly, lapping it all up. Peter keeps absentmindedly suckling on the softening cock as if it’s a popsicle, while he rides his other Master. “Oh, Bucky bear,” Tony coos and for the first time in a while, Peter hears Bucky whine. “Been on the edge for so long now, haven’t you?” “Y-yes-” “How does your thrall feel? Hmm? Tell him.” “So- so good, Peter, you’re so good for me, so good to me, oh-” Peter squeezes every part of himself, digging his fingers into Bucky’s sides. “I want to taste you, so bad-” “Would you be okay with that, Peter?” Tony gently pulls Peter off his cock. By the look on his Master’s face, Peter assumes he’s quite the sight. Puffed, red lips covered in cum- glazed over, teary eyes… “Bucky hasn’t fed in days… He’s starving, little one.” Tony caresses Peter’s face, all the while smearing his cum and saliva stained cock over Peter’s cheeks again. “May he feed from you?” “Does it hurt?” Peter counters the question with one of his own. Part of him still wants to think things through. Ask questions, on which he can base his own answer more properly. “It won’t if you don’t want it to.” Tony’s fingers slip under his jaw again, caressing the artery on his neck. He leans in slightly, capturing Peter with his eyes once again. “I’m going to tell you a vampire secret, sweet Peter… Feeding makes everyone involved feel good. So good, even, that if it tips you over the edge, you’ll stay on that high until the feed is done.” Peter shivers. He’s unsure if it’s true, or if it’s something Tony is just saying to win Peter over. But does it matter? If his Master orders him to cum, he will. For however long his Master so desires. Still, Peter is curious by nature. “H-how long?” “Hm…” Tony grins and presses their noses together, possessively squeezing Peter’s throat. “Shortest feed I’ve ever had was about a minute… But we can drag it out, my pretty. We can make you come for hours if you want to. You do want to come, don’t you?” Peter blinks once. He hadn’t given cumming much thought up until this topic came to light. His mind was mostly occupied with the pleasure his Master’s experienced. He felt absolutely amazing, yes, but coming? Only now, Peter realizes how much his own cock aches. How blue his balls must be. How desperate he is. “I want to come,” he whispers. “Good boy,” Master coos and Peter shudders. “Now, answer my question. May Bucky feed from you?” Peter moans when Tony drags his fingers from Peter’s neck down to his chest. “Yes-”  Peter manages to shut his eyes as he is moved into a different position. He’s the one on his back now, finally able to relax his muscles. He doesn’t notice how his legs are pulled up and spread and how Bucky follows every single one of Tony’s commands as he realigns himself with Peter’s gaping hole. They both grunt when he pushes in and bottoms out again. Peter’s eyes fly open as Bucky immediately hits the right spot in this position. “Fuck him hard, Buck,” Tony encourages. “He’s your thrall after all. Your toy. Your doll.” When Tony utters the last word, all the fog seems to clear from Bucky’s eyes and it’s replaced with aggression. Apparently, the word ‘doll’ was his trigger to snap out of it. “How dare you!” Bucky growls as he starts his relentless thrusts into Peter’s hole in order to chase his high. With every quick, desperate movement, Peter gasps and whines. It feels so good and Bucky’s frustration is so hot. And he’s strong; metal arm pinning Peter in place. Peter’s helpless. And it’s absolutely perfect. “What?” Tony chuckles. “Your orgasms are better after a few hours of denial. You get to feed tonight, Buck. You get to have Peter. He’s yours. Use him.” “Oh, I will.” The metal fingers move to curl around Peter’s throat, pulling at him and exposing his neck. Peter’s eyes roll back at the knowledge of the impending explosion of pleasure. “So…” Tony sounds so casual, so nonchalant. His voice is far away. Is he… In the bathroom? “How long are you gonna make him shake?” “As if I’m telling ya after whatcha just pulled.” “Hey, don’t get angry with me, I wasn’t even trying to put you under the second time. You just fell, I didn’t have to look at you once.” Somehow the fact that Tony and Bucky were arguing while Peter was used as a fucktoy did things to Peter. He wasn’t sure if he liked being ignored like this. Though, the fact that Bucky doesn’t even have to pay attention to make Peter moan with pleasure does add a bit to the tingles in his abdomen. However, he’d rather have his Masters pay attention to him. He manages to raise his hand to trace his index finger over Bucky’s chest. A blissful smile spreads on Peter’s face. With every rut of Bucky’s cock inside of him, he feels happier and happier. He wants Bucky to feel happy too. “M-Master?” Bucky’s head whips back to Peter and the man immediately realizes what he’s doing, seemingly shocked that he managed to talk over Peter. He doesn’t stop humping, though. No, he increases the speed when he sees Peter so utterly fucked out. His icy eyes darken and he bares his fangs. “Yes, darling?” He asks sweetly, a polar opposite of his movements. “Come for me?” With a loud cry, Bucky suddenly erupts inside Peter, not halting his movements as he keeps pumping and pumping and, oh, Peter feels so good. And out of nowhere, Peter’s head is turned even further and he feels two small pinches in his neck. He gasps when the sudden floods of mind numbing pleasure crash onto him wave after wave. His whole body shakes and twitches and convulses and he spurts his come all over himself. He’s lost it, babbling and moaning and screaming because nothing in his life has ever felt this mind shatteringly amazing. Bucky’s tongue and mouth are wet against his skin, lapping and sucking and Peter can feel how he’s being drained of his deepest shade of red. So good, feels so good, so good- It just keeps going and going and going and he expects it to become too much, to be overwhelmed and overstimulated, but his body just takes it and loves it and accepts it. More, more, more. Keep going. Keep cumming. Good boy. Such a good boy for you Masters. . Spent. It’s the only word Peter can conjure up when Bucky’s soft lips and flaccid cock finally detach themselves from him. He lays still, pale and exhausted. Awake, but not entirely present. Sweet praise fills his ears as he’s lifted off the bed and carried away to god knows where. It’s not a long walk and Peter gasps when he’s gently placed in a bathtub with nice, warm water. It smells like lavender… Peter doesn’t realize he’s holding onto Bucky, until the man uses his voice to part the fog in Peter’s mind. “Let go,” he orders. Peter only moans quietly, sinking deeper into the water and dragging the man with him. “Of me, sweetness, let go of me,” Bucky laughs softly and Peter’s hands relax their grip on Bucky. Peter’s head is held up above the water to prevent him from dipping under. There’s no strength left in his muscles to do so himself. The water ripples when both men join him in the large tub and start washing him gently. Every touch tickles Peter’s skin. He’s empty. A vessel for his floating mind. The four hands take care of him, cleaning every inch of his skin. They also make him drink something sugary and hand-feed him something salty. It’s when he’s on his third bite of the savoury meal - he guesses it’s some sort of cracker - that he manages to open his eyes. “Good morning,” Tony coos. Peter blinks a few times and then spots what Tony means. Golden streaks of sunlight break into the bedroom, illuminating the room with heavy yellow and orange tones. They… They went all night? “H…” Peter tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His exhaustion is just about as overwhelming as the loving warmth he’s feeling. How many hours has he been awake now? He manages to look down and notices he’s in the large glass bathtub he’d spotted the night before. “It’s okay, Peter, you don’t have to talk.” Bucky’s voice is strangely soft now. Less strained. Is it… Is that because he fed? Peter wants to turn his head to face Tony, who he only now realizes is spooning him from behind, softly petting the skin Bucky had bitten into. “We know it’s a lot to handle all at once,” Tony mumbles. “All we need to know is if you’re okay.” Peter nods slightly and Bucky moves in closer to feed him another bite. The water dances around them and he happily complies, wanting to satiate the hunger in his stomach. “You were even more than we had hoped you would be, doll.” Bucky’s thumb wipes a few crumbs from the corner of Peter’s mouth, an adoring smile on his own face. “And now, we hope you enjoyed yourself as much as we did.” Tony’s fingers twist into Peter’s curls, playing with them. Peter huffs out some air and smirks, but it falters with his lack of energy. He nods again. “Good,” Tony says staccato. His words carry so much differently when he’s not using his voice.  “We’re going to dry you up and put you into a clean bed so you can finally get the sleep you deserve so much,” Bucky explains. “Is that okay with you too?” Another nod. “Sleep with me?” Peter’s voice is hoarse, barely audible. Bucky smiles again. “Of course, pretty Peter… We’re not leaving you unless you want us to.” Peter is lifted out of the bath and carefully dried before being gently placed into the soft sheets. He curls up into them immediately and sighs happily when he feels Tony and Bucky sandwich him. They press flat pecks on his head, his shoulder, behind his ear as they continue their praise. Peter can’t believe any of this actually happened. But he’s glad it did. After months of being stuck in an endless cycle of repetitive work, he finally feels like he has a purpose again. At least, if they keep him. But, in all honesty, Peter is pretty sure they will. James Buchanan Barnes Bucky turns in his bed. The last time he looked at the clock, Peter had been sleeping for 18 hours. Well, Peter woke up a few times to eat more of the crackers, drink some, and pee, but he would always immediately stumble back to bed and crash again straight away. Tony spent the day in his lab and went back to bed quite late. Bucky stayed with Peter to take care of him whenever the young man needed him too, but he didn’t quite catch himself drifting off as well… Bucky reaches out, aiming to pull Peter close to him, but then his nose twitches. The bed smells of his delicious Peter, but it’s… Distant. Bucky pats an empty space next to him and his eyes open wide. A bit further away from him is Tony, peacefully sleeping, but Peter… Peter’s gone. “Tones-” Bucky slaps the man on the shoulder. Tony jolts awake and sits upright, looking around confused. “Wha-?” “Where the fuck-” And then they hear it… Soft hums, singing a tune neither man recognizes, and the clanking of pans. Tony and Bucky turn their heads to look at each other and then at the door. They then quickly scramble out of the bed, rushing towards their living space. When they open the door, they’re met with Peter in their open kitchen. He’s… Baking? Peter looks up surprised and fails miserably at hiding his laughter at the two feral, naked men, sheets still clutched in their hands. “Good morning to you too,” Peter chuckles. “I, eh…” He gestures at the messy counter in front of him. “I got hungry, but you didn’t really have any food, so I figured I’d bake some bread?” Tony and Bucky visibly relax, lowering their shoulders. “You can bake?” Tony asks bewildered as he sits down on the bar stool at the counter, legs spread to give his dick some space. “I mean, I do work in a bakery, you know?” “It smells amazing,” Bucky praises as he walks towards Peter, around the kitchen counter. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that Peter opted to wear nothing but the apron this morning. “You smell amazing.” “Thank you.” A lovely blush creeps onto Peter’s face. Bucky wraps his arms around Peter, pressing his morning wood against Peter’s pert ass. His lips find the skin he’d bitten into on their night of fireworks and he sticks his tongue out to gently rub it over the sore spots his sharp teeth had left. Peter gasps and immediately pushes back against Bucky’s cock.  “B-before we do anything else-” Peter stutters. “Hm?” “We need to discuss a few things.” Tony frowns and approaches them as well. “Oh dear,” he quips. Bucky lets go of Peter and gives him the space to do his talking. In the meantime Peter turns around to make the three of them a good cup of coffee to start the day. “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” Peter says with a smile. “I just need you to do one thing.” “Oh!” Tony claps his hands in delight. “You already want to make use of our skills? Cheeky.” “No!” Peter exclaims, grinding the beans. “All I want is for you to offer Betty a job.” “Who’s Betty again?” Peter sighs exasperated at Tony’s question, but the billionaire quickly remembers. “Oh! The other girl who was supposed to be serving us on Friday?” “Yes.” Peter turns on the coffee machine, frothing their milk as he speaks. “She lost her job because of your little stunt.” “Wait, what?” Bucky scratches the back of his head. “That was never our intention.” “Well, tell that to Beck.” “The guy you told to pull his own weight?” “Yep.” Peter finishes up the first cup of coffee and passes it to Tony. “He fired her cause she could barely walk.” “Jesus. Alright, what’s her skillset?” “She’s studying biochem here in New York. Super smart. I’m sure she’ll be an asset to your company.” Tony roars a laugh and slaps his bare knee. “Look at you,” he coos. “You’re gonna make a great personal assistant.” “Just-” Peter shakes his head, finishing up the second coffee. “Just help her out, okay?” “Don’t you worry about her, Peter.” Bucky pushes himself against Peter again, still allowing him enough space to make the last coffee. “We’ll offer her a job.” “Thank you.” “Anything for you, lovely.” Bucky kisses the top of Peter’s head and the young man immediately leans in for more. He shifts and turns, placing the last cup on the counter to kiss Bucky back properly. His hips start rolling again, rutting against Bucky’s leg. Bucky’s fingers move to untie the apron behind Peter’s back and he pulls it out from between them so Peter can hump Bucky’s thigh more freely, cock already aching again. Peter moans, letting his hands roam Bucky’s chest.  It’s not long before Tony joins them, once again sandwiching Peter between the two of them. They can hear the blood rushing through Peter’s body and they grin at how Peter’s neediness grows with every second. Tony and Bucky had promised themselves to let Peter replenish all of his stamina before putting him under again, but their discipline crumbles when Peter moans. “M-Master?” Bucky lifts Peter up just like he did in the shower and walks him back to the bedroom. Tony follows and raises an eyebrow at Bucky. “Quicky?” He asks. “Quicky.” Bucky confirms. But with how their sloppy kisses and needy rutting was evolving into more, Bucky was sure he’d come back out of the bedroom to a cold coffee.

[peachyteabuck]

of pleasure ~ act ii, “if we ruled the world”

summary: a sort-of non-avengers au where everyone has their powers and absolutely no one is in a highly powerful mob (or, at least, that’s what the feds think). 

or, a commission in three parts for anonymous, who asked for a series about wanda x natasha x reader.

pairing: wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader (focus on natasha romanoff x reader)

words: 3,502

trigger warnings: flashback, angst if you squint, heavy smut, sub!natasha, mention of violence/self doubt, alcohol as a coping mechanism

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

READ ACT I HERE

Natasha awkwardly ushers Wanda out, biting at her nearly-bleeding nail beds and carefully avoiding the wide, prying eyes of the large bodyguards she has stationed outside of her office at all hours. If she were in a more level-headed state she would glare and snap at them and threaten to fire them – she would be Natasha Romanoff, head bitch in charge and a woman whose firey hair gets its color from the blood in her veins.

But she’s not Natasha Romanoff, she’s Nat – a woman who can barely make it to the plush chair behind her desk before memories of the best fuck in her life are pouring over her. She doesn’t know how she remembers so much, but every time she blinks the room looks more and more like the bar you two met in.

It was Natasha’s bar, but it looked nothing like it did now. Then she had just risen in the ranks, was still earning the respect of patrons and those below her. It was a difficult night; Bucky had gotten hurt and Nat was drinking her fears away – desperate to corral them into some corner of her mind instead of letting them run loose.

If she couldn’t protect her best friend, how could she protect the mob? Her hands nearly shook as she took another shot. The assets? The people that had just begun to work under her? Was she meant for this? Was she good enough?  

She was on her third vodka tonic of the night when you intervened, taking up the empty barstool to her left. She had seen you before – you were a bartender who was a previous hire but worked hours Natasha was often busy which meant the two of you rarely crossed paths.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Natasha scoffs, though a little slurred, hoping to avoid something akin to a PR nightmare.

You shrug, replacing her alcoholic drink with a tall glass of water. “Part of my job is making sure the sad drunks don’t do anything they’ll regret later. Now drink some water, I don’t want to clean vomit from the grout of my bar.

“YOUR bar?” Natasha rolls her eyes, her words starting to slur and movements beginning to slow. “Don’t you know this is MY bar?”

You sigh. “When the owner is too drunk to see straight, line of succession dictates it is now my bar.”

Natasha furrows her brow and shakes her head as two of the biggest women you have ever seen carry her out of the establishment and towards her apartment. “…But I’m a lesbian…”

Somehow, through the hazy parts of that night, that incredibly embarrassing memory reigns clear as day.

Natasha’s retching into a toilet she does not recognize in a bathroom she’s never seen before. To be fair, though, she did not have much time to admire/familiarize herself with the décor before she ripped off her shirt and then vomiting up everything from her appendix to her lungs. If she was anything more than a shell of a woman after this night, she’d be the luckiest girl on the face of the Earth.

“Sh…sh, it’s okay,” she hears your voice in the distance and feels your hand on the small of her back. “It’s okay, get it all out.”

When she’s finally done, you hand her a tall class of cold water and many, many painkillers. Natasha understands what to do without prompting – swallowing everything you give her with as much eagerness as a dog finding a pill within a spoonful of peanut butter. Makes the same face, too.

By sheer luck, you get her into your bed without her vomiting on anything. Natasha falls asleep easily, eyes unfocused as they close.

“Thank you,” she mumbles just before falling asleep.

“No problem,” you tell her.

You end up sleeping on the couch a room away, waking up every few hours to check on her. The only time she wakes up is when you’re making breakfast the next morning – eggs and turkey bacon and coffee black as the asphalt Natasha would’ve eaten if you didn’t help her home. You gesture with the spatula in your dominant hand, the other on the handle to keep the pan steady.

“Sit, come eat,” you tell her – voice comforting but direct.

Natasha follows the orders easily, her eyes downcast until you take your place in the chair across from her. Only then does she look up, struggling to avoid your heavy gaze.

“Bad night?” you ask between bites of food.

Natasha sighs, swallowing down her food with coffee. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, not a fan of reliving something I tried to forget.”

“You wanna fuck about it?”

Natasha nearly spits out the remnant of her eggs onto the table. “Are you serious?”

When she meets your eyes, she doesn’t see you laughing or smiling or even about to laugh or smile. All she sees is a beautiful woman offering her sex after what is quite possibly the worst night of her life.

While Natasha gazes at you in sheer horror, disgust - you look almost…relaxed. Chill. Decompressed.

Natasha stays quiet as you speak, with one eyebrow raised and your lips curled into a smirk. “Are you?”

The woman across from you doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything back. For a long while, she remains statuesque – both in beauty and in stillness. She doesn’t say anything until she’s finished her food and placed her plate gingerly into the kitchen sink. Even then, she avoids your eyes ad grips the edge of the counter like a lifeline.

“Only if I can shower first.”

You laugh with your head thrown back, deep and loud and boisterous. It’s the most beautiful laugh Natasha’s ever heard, and her heart aches when you finally speak.  

“Sure thing, Red. Towels in the third shelf in the cabinet, use as many as you like.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even meet your eyes as she follows muscle memory to the place where she puked her guts up in the night previous.

Once she figures out your shower and turns the knob marked with a red H all the way on, Natasha looks around, peaking in the cabinets and under the sink – a bad habit from the days of training. She doesn’t know what she’s expected to find, but nothing of the sort piques her interest. It’s all…quite regular, normal even.

Under the sink she sees tons of cleaning supplies, what she guesses are doubles of various beauty/hygiene products, empty travel-sized bags.

The mirror-fronted cabinet is filled with over the counter medication, sample-sized beauty products, and enough skin care merchandise to leave all of Manhattan pimple-free.

When she closes it, the thick steam turns her reflection into a mere blob, and only then does Natasha Romanoff strip off her clothes.

The water burns her skin, bites at her cuts, makes her bruises sting. If she was anywhere else, she’d probably scream and cry, maybe pick at the scabs starting to form.

Here, though, she swallows the stone that’s accrued in her throat and ignores the even bigger boulder that’s made its home in the center of her chest. She grabs for the shampoo (then body wash, then conditioner) and tries to clean herself.

The spicy mint liquid (did she mention that everything was coordinated? Not even the same brand, just a perfectly harmonized sympathy of scents) works for the dirt, for the sweat, for the weird stickiness she doesn’t recognize that clings to the skin of her thighs and palms and, somehow, places inside her.

She doesn’t know how long it is when she finally steps out – pads of her fingers and toes wrinkled and her lungs clouded with the steam. She can barely breathe, but she has a feeling its not because of the thick air.

The towel – deep and maroon – is the fluffiest and softest thing Natasha’s ever felt against her skin. She pads back to the room she slept in last night, only a little shocked to find the bed made and you, barefoot in a baggy t-shirt and running shorts, reading a thick book you’re about halfway through.

She catches flashes of the front cover – something she dismally recognizes. It’s a spy novel, one of those cheesy romance ones that are incredibly popular with middle-aged moms and lonely Christian college students.

“Whatcha readin?” Natasha asks.

You look up and smile after looking her over. “Some garbage. Borrowed it from a friend after she said I’m, well,” you let out a self-deprecating laugh. “that I’m ‘super lonely.’ Which isn’t not true.”

Natasha smiles back. “Still sounds kinda mean.”

You shrug. “Truth hurts, I guess.”

There are a few moments of silence as you and her stare at each other – the kind of silence Natasha doesn’t seem to mind. Normally she hates the quiet, feels the need to fill whatever void she feels is created by lack of speech.

Still, she’s the person to break it. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“That towel,” you say, smirk still on your lips. “Matches your hair.”

Natasha smiles a little, avoiding your gaze as she searches for the dirty clothes from last night. Without hesitation, you push the clothes toward her with your foot – except now they’re clean, folded, fresh.

“Thanks,” Natasha mumbles. “I…thanks.”

You shrug, telling her its no problem. “Assumed you wouldn’t want to put on your dirty clothes, so…”

Natasha nods but says nothing, reaching for the clothes. She stops when she notices you putting your book to the side and readjusting against the headboard. Natasha stands there, clutching where the towel tucks into itself – waiting for whatever you’re going to say next.

“C’mere,” you say, beckoning her over with a single crooked finger.

She follows, still silent, walking to the edge of your bed with shaky hands and awkward legs. She hesitates, waiting for confirmation.

“It’s alright, baby girl, c’mere,” you say again, opening your legs further. An invitation, Natasha realizes. It makes her heart speed up.

She gives you a small nod before moving forward, adjusting her towel along the way with her eyes trained on the bed.

You guide her so that her back – still covered by the towel – presses into your chest.

“If you ever want to stop,” you whisper, intertwining your hands with hers. The pads of her fingers are still slightly wrinkled and sensitive and she nearly moans as her skin meets yours. “Just tell me, okay?”

Natasha gives a small nod, moving closer to you.

“This alright?” you ask, moving to undo her towel.

She nods again, then tenses as her damp skin is exposed to the cool air. Your warm hands make goosebumps erupt over her soft, sweet-smelling skin. Her breath hitches as your teeth trail across her back - leaving kisses along her shoulder and up into her hairline then on the shell of her ear.

“Just relax, baby,” you tell her. “Don’t worry about anything, just let me take care of you.”

Natasha nods silently, readjusting before pressing back into you. The towels falls as she does, and as it bunches uncomfortably you grab at it to throw it to the floor. With her last veil of modesty tossed carelessly aside Natasha blushes, moving to cross her arms over her chest.

You tsk, moving her arms from in front of her. “Don’t hide from me, baby,” you mumble into her ear. “Don’t ever hide your beautiful body from me.”

Natasha stays silent, hands resting outside your knees. She does nod, though, and presses into you once more. One of your arms goes across her chest, keeping her own arms in place at her sides. The other trails between her legs, fingertips ghosting over her thighs and across her lower stomach. You can hear Natasha’s breath hitch each time your skin meets hers.

“You like that, baby girl?” You ask. She nods again, small squeaks leaving her as you collect some of the slick that’s dripping onto your sheets. “You like it when I touch you like this?”

Natasha moans as you plunge one, two fingers into her. She watches for a few thrusts before clenching her eyes shut and letting her head fall back into your shoulder and panting into your bare neck. It’s not long before you can feel her pussy clenching around your fingers, her breath coming out in light pants and moans deeper than before.

“I-I’m,” you can hear her try to swallow despite the dryness of her mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

You smile and bite at the shell of her ear. “It’s okay, baby girl, you can come, you can come all you want tonight.”

It only takes a few more crooks of your fingers, a few more circles around her clit for Natasha to throw her head back and nearly scream – her legs shaking as she gushes over your fingers and wrists and sheets. Her whole body – once quite tense – now slacks against your chest. You’re a little taken aback by her squirting, and that this is normal enough for Natasha that she has no problem ruining another lover’s bed. Somehow it makes it that much hotter, makes you that much wetter, as you manhandle her onto her back. She’s pliant, laying nice and open for you - even as you grab the strap and cleaned cock from the back of one of the drawers in your nightside table, even as you slide one of your biggest toys into her soaked, aching pussy.

Natasha’s whole body is tense, each individual muscle chasing pleasure. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest, one arm holding them in place and the other gripping your sheets. She doesn’t remember the last time she’d been folded in half, but now she wishes she could spend every day like this.

“Oh, god,” she moans, high-pitched and whiny. “God, it feels so good.”

You laugh a little, catching her lips in a kiss as you thrust shallowly into her. “Yeah, baby girl? You like getting fucked like this?”

Natasha nods, gasping each time the leather of the strap brushes her clit. “Yes, fuck yesyesyes.”

Your hand wraps around Nat’s throat, pushing her further into the bed. “Yes, of course she does. My big powerful mobster loves getting her pussy demolished, doesn’t she? Needs to be fucked so that she can focus on her job?”

The woman in question is nodding and babbling absolute nonsense – and, in the low light, you’re sure you see tears fall down her face.

One of your hands comes down to properly rub at her neglected clit. Natasha nearly screams as you do, hips bucking in a wild, animalistic way.

“You gonna come like this?” you whisper, leaning down to kiss between her brows. “Is my nasty little slut gonna come from me fucking her this good?”

Natasha nods again, each thrust soliciting another desperate, high-pitched moan from somewhere deep in her throat.

“Yeah?” you faux-pout, voice dropping as you watch her eyes roll back into her head. You spit on her cunt, Natasha wailing as the slick collecting there allows you to rub harder, faster at the most sensitive part of her.

She comes with a shout – with a loud, deep moan you wish you’d recorded. It takes you a moment, takes the pounding in your chest and ears a moment to recede, for you to realize your abdomen (as well as hers) were covered in her wetness. Her dry lips and flittering eyes only give more credence to your understanding, to your realization that she had squirted all over you.

Natasha groans as you pull out, the delicateness of her pussy as well as the emptiness combining into a cognitive dissonance she could feel in the tip of her toes.

You get her something to drink – an unmarked Gatorade bottle you’re praying isn’t spiked (you’ve been a bartender long enough to usually know what is and isn’t, but somehow Natasha seems like someone able to escape your watchful eye).

It takes a few minutes for the color to return to Natasha’s face, for her to ask if she can get you off, too. You smile and kiss her again, silently sitting up.

You finally come with your pussy hovering over Natasha’s panting mouth, her face becoming soaked with your wetness and, soon, your cum. She’s able to find the mental focus to clean some of it up, and it takes all of you not to pounce on her as you watch her, with hooded eyes, desperate to for praise as she licks at her face.

“You good, darling?” you coo, wiping at her cheeks with your thumbs.

Natasha sniffles. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.”

You nod, running your hands through her sweaty hair. “Alright, I’m gonna grab you another Gatorade, okay? I’m not gonna be gone long, I promise.”

She nods, making no effort to move. Natasha lays there, practically inert as she hears you leave the room. She’s too tired to look at anything but the ceiling – the terrifying reality of what she has to do next settling over her.

Still, she closes her eyes and listens to you padding into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. The faint sound of the bottle opening, the cap being thrown away and hitting the side of the metal trash can. It’s all so mundane but everything Natasha needs right now – reprieve from her mistakes and the consequences of them.

You help her up, when you get back, so she can drink without coughing and sputtering and drowning on dry land. One hand remains occupied with holding the bottle of liquid, while your other arm wraps around your back. It rests at her side, with your thumb rubbing circles into the heated skin.

You coo sweet praises into her hairline, your legs bracketing her in. When the dull-orange liquid is gone you toss it to the side – pulling Natasha down with you.

You fall asleep easily, Natasha resting on your bare chest. She knows when you’ve fallen into unconsciousness because your fingers stop carding through her hair, working through the knots that have found themselves there.

She waits, listening as your heartbeat and breathing slow to an even pace. Natasha lays there for a long while, savoring the feeling being in your arms – of the delicious tiredness in her muscles. Wide awake, she waits until the orange-yellow sun begins to light up the room.

You lay there, wonderfully oblivious to Natasha getting redressed and finding her dead, now-cracked phone; unaware of her holding her shoes until the front door was closed softly and silently.

She doesn’t put her shoes on until the gets in the elevator, and doesn’t cry until she finds her way home.

The memory is long, vivid – she can nearly feel your skin under her fingertips. It’s then that the reality of the situation hits her, that what she thinks is happening is, in fact, really actually fucking happening:

Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff’s best friend and right-hand woman, is dating a woman Natasha has lowkey been in love with for about a year.

Has she seen you since that night? No. She’s got a picture of you, one she found after cleaning out a thick stack of photos (like, physical ass photos) from the bar. It’s you, happy, pouring drinks with both hands. She’s got it tucked away somewhere in her bedroom beneath old medications she never finished and note she scribbled.

Has she made an effort to? No. Never to look at the photo, or to find you. It should be easy, considering you work at the bar she owns – but ever since that night…she’s avoided it. The bar.

Does she still feel a gut-wrenching guilt gnawing at her as she folds herself into a fetal position on her office floor? Absolutely.

Natasha finds herself in the center of an ethical dilemma of the worst kind; the rare kind that a gun or knife or sly smile can’t get her out of. For what is likely the first time in her whole life-slash-professional-career, she probably actually should really deal with whatever corner she’s backed herself into.

Isn’t there some girl code, or whatever, that says she should tell Wanda what’s happened? Shouldn’t she at least warn you? But, even if she wanted to, how would she do that, given she hasn’t so much as looked at you since she snuck out of your apartment? Should she warn Wanda? What would she even say!?

“Hey, trusted fist of my multi-billion-dollar operation and also girl I know who has superpowers and is definitely hiding from a few governments, I got fucked by your girlfriend about a year back and I haven’t been the same since! She railed me until I was a new person! It’s that hilarious! Please laugh at this with me!”

Natasha groans and lets her head drop to her desk. She is royally and totally fucked.

(And, to her dismay, not in a good way).

[thenightmarecollector]

The Angel In The Church

Content warning for gore, religious themes, and graphic violence to a child.

A man drives down the highway in an old sedan. He is running away from something. What it is, we do not know. Perhaps, we never will. He is speeding, dangerously above the limit, but there is nobody there to see it, not on this quiet road on this quiet morning. The light is soft, and almost beautiful, in the just-after-dawn, but he does not see it past the white of his knuckles cramped and clutching the steering wheel, and whatever he keeps looking over his shoulder hoping not to see.

He careens past the open-gated graveyards at the mouth of the road when he turns the corner onto the main street of a frosty little nowhere-town. He does not see her until it is too late. Her name is Celeste Leah Davidson. She is eight and three-quarters years old, and her favourite colour is lavender. Her mother did her hair this morning, and she likes her backpack because of the stars she glued on with her sister. She says they protect her from monsters by glowing in the dark. None of that matters when she is splayed backwards over the front of the car for a second, then under it, out of view. There is a scream held in the air like the last note of a song, suspended. There is a snap, then two dead-still thumps of the tires on the ground over her body, lying in the street. 

It takes the man two tries to open the car door, his hands shaking, and he falls to the bloody asphalt, head cradled in his hands as though he cannot bear the light of day. 

“Dear God, what have I done?! What have I done?!”

If he is begging for forgiveness- an answer- from the Lord, the Lord does not hear him.

Still, he is aware of whatever is behind him getting closer and closer- an unrelenting pursuer, the constancy of whatever happens after grief. He trembles as he picks up the body from the road, delicately at first, but then rushing as the panic sets in. There’s a quiet crunch from the body as it is shoved into the trunk, and if anyone was watching, they would see the man shudder.

When he is driving again, his knuckles are drenched in blood, and the stains seem to creep into his bones. He scrubs at them, but it never seems to go away. 

Something makes the man keep driving, that night. Something just at the edge of his head, on the tip of the devil’s tongue, waiting for him when the adrenaline fades.

The night after that, when he pulls over to the side of the road to sleep, he thinks he hears something. He wakes up in the middle of the night to what he thinks is the girl’s scream repeated in the wind. He tries to rest as little as he can after that, and when the quiet encroaches, he turns up the radio, but all he can find is static. He turns it up all the way anyways, until he starts to hear a voice in that too.

It is the middle of the night, a month in, when he is falling asleep, and the car begins to shake in the middle of the night- thumps and screams from the back of the car. He shakes like a leaf in the wind, slamming his hands into his temples until the light of the radio goes black with his vision cutting out, hoping that it will kill him.

The next night, he dreams of blood- soaking the walls, pooling in the road, filling the earth like a biblical flood. When he wakes up screaming, delirious with exhaustion, he stares down at his hands while the lid of the trunk rattles. At the bloodstains that will not come clean, no matter how long he scrubs them raw in gas station bathrooms. With hands delicate and steady- hands with skill from another life, he pulls out a penknife. Methodically, steadily, he makes a slit along the back of his left hand, and slowly, slowly, pulls away the skin until the edges are turned inside out. If it hurts him, he does not show it- perhaps he is past the point where pain ends already. He stops when the blood loss makes him woozy, and starts again the next morning. For two days in the sedan parked in a field, the man skins his arms up to the elbows, until the only bloodstains are his own. 

The next day, he stops at the edge of a town, and finds someone who will take the car for a bundle of cash. When he’s walked to the next one, his shoes are soaked with the water from blisters and blood. His eyes are sunken and hollow. The man who he buys a gun from at the edge of town thinks he might be half-dead already, and says nothing about the gloves of scabs stretching painfully bloody around his knuckles when he is handed the wad of cash.

He shoots himself in a flax field that night at sundown, and they do not find him until harvest that fall, when the combine spikes drive through his bones, picked at by crows in the field til they are bare. When the teenaged boy driving it steps down to look at what has happened, he sees the blue flax flowers growing from where his eyes once were, and the skin cracked dry and rotten-wet in equal measure. He throws up, and the image haunts him every time he closes his eyes for the next month, until they find him hanging in the barn from a rope tied to the rafters, an old wooden chair tipped over underneath him.

The car waits, empty in the used car lot at the edge of town. Two months later, a man walks in and buys it for his son’s birthday. The owner brings out the paperwork. He does not tell the man how he has not had a night’s rest since he bought it- about the dreams he has of blood and skin and knocking in the middle of the night. He does not tell the man about how he swears he sees it shake at night sometimes. He does not tell the man about the one with the scabbed hands and empty eyes who left it behind. Perhaps he does not know how to say it, or perhaps he wants the money, or perhaps he is made desperate by his visions- desperate enough to pass them on to somebody else. He breathes deeply through his mouth when he drives the car over to deliver it, and tries not to think about the plastic shopping bag of skin rotting in the compartment in front of the passenger’s seat, no matter how much he knows the scent will cling to his skin afterwards. 

The boy’s name is Dylan, and he knows that his father doesn’t love him- knows that the car is made for him to open in front of his father’s friends, and nothing else- smells the heady, icy stench of rubbing alcohol on his father’s jacket and the sharp glint of eyeteeth in his father’s mouth when he hugs Dylan like he would never do without all eyes on him. Maybe that’s why the first thing Dylan opens is not the door of the car, but the trunk. Maybe he was looking for revenge, but what he finds is salvation instead.

The smell of months of shit and piss and rotting bedsores and the vomit from before the girl knew anything but this is still suffocating even after the trunk is opened, saturated into her skin and the fabric and the very essence of what she used to be. Her fingers were the first to go. “Delicate”, her mother had called them, once upon a time. “Artist’s hands”. She had lasted two days before sinking her teeth into her knuckles and lapping up the blood that swelled there, and another week before starting to rip into her fingertips with her canines. It has been night for so long. A long time ago, her mother told her she was named for the stars. She loved the stars. She does not remember the stars. She does not remember her mother. All she remembers is the infinite darkness, and the stench of her own decomposing and her broken bones healing curled up in the trunk, and the deep, animalistic pleasure of digging her teeth into meat and flesh still warm, still bloody, still breathing. 

Her arms are a hollow framework all the way up to the elbows- like a man, lying as carrion in a field for the crows, with arms skinned up to the same spot. Her fingers, as delicately boned as before, are picked the cleanest- smooth white with bite marks across their surface. She had lost the beaded friendship ring from her best friend a day before the accident. The finger that it wrapped around is broken twice, once by the wheels of the car, and the second by her own teeth, sucking the marrow out.

As Dylan staggers back from the trunk, a whisper swoops across the crowd. “Godly,” they say. “Body and blood. A miracle.”

They lift her out gently, and snap all her bones when they splay her out from crumpled on the altar. The knife, good and sturdy from the basement kitchen, slices through the half-decomposed, abscessed skin above her shoulder blades, with the same firm hand as there must be the moment before you bring a chopping knife down on your fingers and slice all the way through bone. Pus leaks out, and the wings- made of white dove, stitched together alive and starved and dried, a frame of feathers- slip in. The meat hooks are pushed through the back of her arms, her collarbones, her sides, her thighs. Cleansed in fire, they brand her skin when they touch it, still hot. The flesh roasts. She has enough consciousness now, full on the communion, to know how to scream again. They hang her from the angled planks of the cathedral ceiling in the chapel, where the crucifix used to be. 

A great joy in the parish is always best shared with the community. They hold a potluck in the chapel’s basement, and there is laughter and hymns and prayer. The widow’s son is a talent on the piano- he always plays in the balcony for services- and old Mrs. Hargreaves brings a pot roast from the recipe her mother always used. The girl who used to be named Celeste weeps above, scrabbling with skeletonized hands for a memory the scent rising from the basement brings up, of hiding behind her mother’s skirts, of playing tag on summer days, of dusty catechism books. She cannot remember, and for that she weeps more. 

The wine always makes her head hazy, enough to slip away. They always give her a lot of it, to keep her from wailing during the sermons. Every year, for the first communions, they bring up the children to kneel in front of her. When her skin is pierced, they drink of the blood of heaven, and they all lie that it is as sweet as water. Her eyes watch the choir, as though she thinks she is already dead, but still her skeleton breathes, and her eyes blink glassily behind the curtained halo of her hair, tangled and matted with the ends still in the braids her mother carefully brushed out and tied so long ago.

They do not know her name from Before. If they did, they would not use it- would not care. 

They call her Heaven now. Heaven Mercy Faith. The angel in the church on Crow’s-Elm Lane.

[pergaias]

aron & aaron?

here you go, anon! idk if this is considered fluff, but it’s definitely not angst lmfao

“I miss you,” Aron said into the phone, wrapping a blanket more firmly around her shoulders. “It’s cold here—really cold. Ummm what else—my socks have holes in them and there’s no one else I can complain to.”

Aaron’s voice was warm and teasing, his accent more prominent now that he was back home for the holidays. “Ru, you can complain to anyone about anything. And I miss you too, you know that.”

Aron sighed dramatically into the receiver, making a face at Luna when she popped her head out of her bedroom door to gag. “It’s a gift.” she said sadly, wiggling her toes. There was a huge hole in the heel of one that Aron had clumsily patched with a piece of another shredded sock. 

Aaron was humming a song—some nameless generic Christmas carol—and Aron could hear him clattering around in a kitchen, perhaps. It was around dinnertime in his timezone. 

Snow was lazily falling and banking against the house’s eaves. Ty and Tate were snuggled next to Aron on the couch, and Aron’s chapped fingers were gently stroking Ty’s silky ears. She was—for the first time in a while—content.

“Did you get the postcard I sent you?” half of a smile played across Aron’s face as she petted Ty’s head and tucked her feet under the blanket and scrunched her nose at Tate, who was chewing on a loose piece of yarn that had unraveled from the sleeve of Aron’s sweater. 

“Ahh yes,” Aron could hear Aaron’s smile, “Wish you were here but not really but wait actually I do, xx Your-Name-But-One-Less-A.”

Aron laughed. “Hearing you say X-X is very strange, to say the least.”

“X-O baby,” Aaron teased. Yes, he was definitely clattering around a kitchen—Aron could hear pots clanking against each other and the faint sound of something simmering. 

Aron groaned. Aaron laughed. They both sat in comfortable silence, and Aron imagined what Aaron might be doing. Maybe he was wearing sweatpants, and was barefoot in his kitchen cooking something for a family dinner. She could picture his brown hair, messy like it was when he didn’t bother to style it. She could picture his wry, crooked smile, and if she focused hard, she could pretend that he was sitting there next to him.

You didn’t realize the space someone took up until there was a hole in their place—the holiday season was a time to be spent with people that you loved. Aron had her parents and her siblings, and of course the three Milans—Mara with their ferocious sense of right and wrong, Maia and the gravity she had about her, Maven and his outstretched arms, kinder than his sisters but just as stalwart.

And then there was Aaron and the place he had started to fill—the person he had become. Her friend, her secret, and now her . . . what could she even call him that summed it up? Boyfriend, lover, soulmate?

No, her soulmate was Maia. You didn’t have to love someone romantically to be the other half of them in that way—Aaron was the other half of her that she didn’t know was missing. He smoothed out her jagged edges, brought calm to her chaos, peace to her storm. 

The line crackled. “You still there, Ru?”

“I’m here, Swift.”

“I miss you,” Aaron’s voice was low, wistful. “I wish you were here, meeting my sister and my parents and my cousins.” 

Aron smiled, heat creeping into her cheeks. It was such a strange feeling, to be wanted. It was the kind of wanting that wound Aron’s heart into a spring, waiting, waiting, waiting to burst.

“I wish you were sitting next to me and I could put my head on your shoulder and complain about my busted socks.” Aron managed a wry smile, combing her fingers through her newly-cropped hair. She lifted a finger to her lips and tore at the callused skin of her fingertips, letting the silence of the call wash over her. It was a good kind of quiet, the quiet that came when two people understood each other.

“When I come back we’ll drive to the coast,” Aaron said suddenly, and there was a clattering of cookware. “We’ll take your car.”

Aron rolled her eyes and drew her finger across her throat at Luna, who had put a pillowcase secured by a headband on her head and was dramatically walking down the hall, a bunch of fake flowers in her hand like a bridal bouquet. 

“There’s an unfortunately high chance of the Beetle breaking down halfway to the coast,” Aron smirked good-naturedly. “And why the coast? It’s the middle of December, and it’ll be bitter January when you get back.”

The words were a punch to the gut. Two more weeks of phone calls and sporadic FaceTimes, with Aaron usually cutting short because his mom needed him or Aron’s siblings barging in and demanding her attention. 

“True,” Aaron mused. “Hmmm . . . we can drive up to Tahoe and go skiing.”

“Neither of us know how to ski, and you don’t know how to snowboard,” Aron said amusedly, her fingers tracing the waves in Ty’s soft fur. Tate had stopped chewing on her sweater and had started dozing against Aron’s thigh.

Aaron laughed. “You could teach me with your wonderful, patient teaching skills.”

“That’s just mean,” Aron whined, her mouth curling into a smile against her will. “I’m not patient by nature and you know that.”

“Am I pushing it saying ‘I’m the only person who can tease you like this and not get brutally murdered in my sleep’?”

Aron smiled again, wider. “Possibly.”

More clattering of pots and pans from Aaron’s side of the line. Tate yawned contentedly, her little pink tongue stretching out. Outside, Hadley was almost completely dusted in snow, softening the little town’s hard edges and severe lines.

In Aron’s hand, her phone started shrilling out her ringtone for Maia Milan. “Crap, Swift, hate to cut this short but—Maisey’s calling.”

She heard the mild surprise in his voice, startling a particularly Southern-accented sentence out of him. “Of course, Ru, I’ll call you back later?”

That thought brought a smile to her face. “FaceTime me tonight?” she asked, almost shyly. She combed her fingers through her hair in the heartbeats between her question and Aaron’s reply. “Sounds good. I’ll be up later.” she could hear his smile, and her chest felt strangely warm.

“Merry Christmas, Aron,” Aaron said, bashfully, and hearing her name—not just Aaron’s pet name Ru—felt strangely intimate. 

Aron mustered a smile, ducking her head. “Merry Christmas, Aaron. I miss you.”

She swore she heard his light chuckle before the line clicked silent, and Aron flopped back onto the couch and let her heart pound for a second. She felt—she felt—

Her phone rang again, and this time Aron picked up. “Hey, Maisey!” she couldn’t help it. A grin slowly overtook her face, one that not even the sourest of Aron’s moods could have dampened. 

“You’re sounding chipper,” Maia’s British-accented voice, melodic and silvery, floated from her speaker. “What’s up?”

“Why did you call? You first,” Aron insisted, crossing her legs and patting her lap, looking pointedly at the two black-and-white dogs. Ty wagged his tail and stumbled onto Aron’s lap, promptly falling asleep. 

Maia laughed into the receiver. “I just wanted to say hello, Ronnie. Also, Leora and I just came back from an impromptu date and—” Maia dissolved into giddy laughter. “I’m gay panicking so badly, I should do this with my sister. Anyways—enough about me, what have you been—”

“Aaron and I were calling,” Aron said softly, propping her elbow on her leg and resting her chin on her hand. “I—I really like him, Maisey. I really do.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Maia groaned. “Don’t tell me that I cut your talk on the telly short—”

Aron waved it off. “It’s fine, it’s fine, we were talking for ages before and he was already cooking dinner.”

Maia laughed into the receiver again, but it wasn’t the giddy lovestruck laughter of earlier. It was full-blown cackling, and Aron knew enough about her friend to know that she was probably swaying back and forth. “You really like him? Darling, good job, you’re officially the last person to know.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aron rolled her eyes, but then glanced around to make sure Elliott wouldn’t pop up out of nowhere and scream QUACK in her face. 

“But—do you—” Maia’s voice lowered conspiratorially, and Aron had the vague sense that the two of them were at a sleepover and Maia was trying to coax Aron’s deepest secrets out of her at 3am. “Do you feel forever about him?”

“Maia Milan, I’m seventeen.”

Maia clicked her tongue. “Ahh yes, you don’t know anything.”

Aron snorted. “But I know I miss him.”

“You two are so in love it hurts,” Maia sighed. “I’m glad you’re happy, Ronnie, I really am.”

There was a tiny bitter note in her voice, but it was quickly covered. “I love that you love him. I—you two have something that a lot of people would be lucky to find.”

“We’re seventeen,” Aron said again, laughing. But something was in her chest, almost like a string tied around her heart. It was easy to imagine an invisible string connecting her and Aaron. “And what about you and Leora? Every time I see you two together I want to gag.”

“The feeling’s mutual, love,” Maia deadpanned. But she sighed wistfully, and there was an oomph from the phone, like Maia had fallen backwards onto a pile of pillows. She did that a lot. 

“Anyways,” Aron’s throat was tired, from talking for so long. “I should probably make tea or something, it’s getting really cold.”

“Get your pyromaniac sister to start a fire or something,” Maia advised. “She started one here this morning when Mavey called her over—it’s still burning, bright as new love—”

Aron squinted suspiciously at her phone. “Am I picking up what you’re putting down?”

“I put down nothing at all, Aron Rucyznski.” Maia lied unconvincingly, Aron’s last name newer and prettier in her accent. Rucyznski. All the hard sounds smoothed by her voice, like stones in a river.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Love you,” Maia air kissed the receiver and it clicked dead. 

Aron stared out the window, at the snow slowly falling into soft white heaps against dead grass and concrete and asphalt and roofing tiles. She felt content. It was such a strange feeling, to not be wound up as a kid’s toy or so stressed that she felt like breaking down on her bathroom floor every few minutes.

She smiled. 

[caffeinated-mendes]

Wanted - Shawn Mendes One-Shot (Gov/Spy AU)

masterlist

word count: 1.9 k

synopsis:  You're a spy for your country, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere. After stealing back a necklace that was rightfully your nation's, the entire Toronto Task Force is after you, including one of their top officials, Shawn Mendes.

a/n:  Hi guys! First off, I want to say that I'm not Canadian, so please excuse if I totally misnamed the group that handles these sorta situations in this one-shot (I looked up the Canadian equivalent to the US' Swat Team, and the ETF is what I found). So yes, if I'm being completely stupid, ignore that. Anyway, I took some inspo from the literal goddess herself, Natasha Romanoff, for these fight scenes/takedowns/chases. I really wanted them to be action packed. I hope you enjoy! Comments and likes are always appreciated <3

warnings: none

*if you prefer, you can read this on my ao3 instead of here

The wind whistled past your ears, hair whipping behind you as the motor of your bike revved and whipped past the black SUVs chasing you. Your mission: collect something that had been wrongfully taken and return it to your country, its home. Your country was a small one, but powerful, and you had to invade the expanses of Canada to get this item: a necklace that belonged to your royal family. Skirting into an alleyway, you managed to avoid the cars but a single person on a motorcycle followed yours, so you had to make a risky move. Turn right onto a street in oncoming traffic. Looking back into your mirror, you saw the figure. In big white letters on the breast of his bullet proof vest said Emergency Task Force.  His hair, curly and brown flew back in the wind, but because of the darkness, you couldn’t see much else.

Making your sudden turn, you decided to swerve between lanes, hoping to make the cyclist stop in his tracks, but he followed you, putting himself in danger, too. At this point, you had to think quick, and the sound of incoming helicopters didn’t help. You’d meet your partner in another alleyway about a kilometer away, so you just had to hold out until then. “Move off the street, and you will not be shot down!” screamed the voice from behind you.  

Conveniently, you swerved into the alleyway, and seeing your partner, a woman in all black, a slicked-back blonde ponytail, you said in your mother tongue, “Get out, take it before he sees you!”She understood, holding her hand out as you slammed the box into her grasp. Pulling herself up onto a railing above, she nodded behind you. The man saw you, not her, and you floored it, running further down the alleyway.

You knew you couldn’t escape as you entered a street with the black vehicles in a U-shape, closed in by your pursuer. Getting off your bike and taking off your glasses, you raised your arms above your head, slowly. At least twenty guns were pointed at you. You inhaled, closed your eyes. Now. You stamped your foot on the ground, and from your ankle shot tear gas. You slammed yourself into the closest adversary, sweeping him to the ground as another came behind you. Grabbing their gun, you smacked his head into it, and he fell to your feet. Taking two down in one go, you kicked one into the other and soon enough you had a pile at your feet of task force officials.

The last standing, and deliberately ten feet from you, stepped into the streetlights, a dark sky above. It was the guy on the motorcycle. “Who are you?” He asked. You could see his features now; tall, prominent cheekbones, dark eyes and baby-like pink lips. You ran towards him, and jumped onto his shoulder, swinging yourself around him until you pushed him to the ground, sitting on his back. Moving your face towards his ear, you placed a kiss on his cheek, seeing a satisfying red print left behind. 

Your accent was nonexistent, “You’ll have to find out.” While you said this though, you lightened up on the pressure put on his back. This was your great mistake, as he bucked you off him and landed onto the hard asphalt. Not shielding your head, it slammed onto the ground, your vision fuzzy. He leaned himself over you, and placed a tablet in your mouth that dissolved. All you could catch of him were his eyes, pupils blown up, and the kiss mark on his cheek. 

He said one thing; “I think I will.” Everything faded to black.  

*

You woke up with your head throbbing and legs aching on a metal chair. A bright light was just turned on as you batted your eyes one, two, three times. Looking down at your scratched hands, your right was cuffed to the table. In the corner of the room stood your pursuer closing the door, and as he moved towards you you could see the scrape on his chin from being pushed down by you. “Alright, I’ll just start off easy. I’m Shawn, and I work for the ETF. You are someone, a spy possibly, and you stole one of our most precious artifacts that’s worth millions of dollars.”

You wanted to say it’s not your artifact, but you knew better than to speak. Keeping your mouth shut, you narrowed your eyes as he sat in front of you, across the table. “We’ve tried to run our databases for you, but you’re clearly using a fake identity. We know you’re not Lillian Davis. It’s got depth, but not enough. So why don’t you tell us where the artifact is?” He leaned forward on the table, holding his hands together. They were calloused and scarred. You’d guessed Shawn was in the field for a while, but he seemed young. No older than twenty-five. 

“Okay, I guess you’re not gonna talk.”

You smirked, “You’re very pretty. Is there anything in that head of yours?” 

Shawn’s face went pink at this remark, and he responded, “Look, no one’s watching you. There’s no cameras. I’m the only one here. Just tell me why you stole the artifact and we’ll let you go.”  He walked to your side, uncuffing the cuff on the table leg, putting it on your left wrist. You took your chance, knocking his forehead and sending him sprawled onto the floor. He got up fast, pushing you against the wall. You could feel his pulse pounding. With a quiet laugh, you slammed your knee up in his crotch. Not a technical move, but one that worked.

Your anger got the best of you as you opened the door, telling him, “It was never yours to keep.” Running down the empty hall, you bolted for the first door you saw, which thankfully led outside. You didn't realize you were still in the clothes you wore before you got knocked out, but you didn’t know the day, either. Last time you were awake, it was August 24th. The door creaked behind you, and you made a quick scan of your surroundings. There was a garbage container on the side of the building, so you ran, hiding behind it. 

From the cover of the container, Shawn walked out into the cold morning air, the sun rising from behind the skyline. From his belt, he pulled out a walkie-talkie. “The female suspect is missing. Repeat, the female suspect is missing. Anyone in the station’s nearby area, please search now.” Miscellaneous voices responded to him. As you thought of what to do next, he ran in the other direction, down the street to the city. Looking at what was behind you, you saw that there was a bus stop behind the government building. Pulling up your hood and searching for a few dollar bills in your sock, you walked over to the bench. It was a minute or so before the bus arrived, and thankfully none of the ETF personelle were there to find you.

You had just enough money to make it to where your partner would be: a private airfield with your country’s jet. Hopefully they hadn’t taken off yet, as they’d leave at eight in the morning. From the bus stop, you saw the heavy metal gates that bordered the airfield. Walking up to the booth near the passcode entryway, you glanced at a man asleep inside. As quietly as you could, you put in the passcode to the gates. You slipped through them soundlessly and ran to meet your partner boarding the small jet. “About time,” She spoke from the door at the top of the steps. 

“I got held up. Law enforcement.” She nodded and turned, walking inside. Taking the steps into the luxurious jet, you closed the door behind you.

*

It had been a month or so since you’d disappeared, and it wasn’t hard, as you lived in the condensed capital of your country. The tiny island brought the shining sun into your villa, which kept you from getting cabin fever. One afternoon, as you were in the kitchen when you heard the door creak shut. Your blood went cold and you reached for the cleaver that lay on your cutting board. Being on the most wanted list in Canada didn’t help your paranoia, either. Your feet padded on the brown tiles, and you turned into the living room, holding your breath. The figure was dressed in all black except for a faded green cap that they wore. 

You groped for their arm, pinning it against their back as you held the knife to their throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said a familiar voice, scratchy under the metal, “I didn’t want anyone seeing me.” That’s when you realized, as you saw the brown hair curled at the nape of his neck, back pressed against your front, who it was. You set the cleaver down on the table by the entryway, still holding his wrist. Turning him around to see his face, you took of the green cap, a head of curls flattening out onto his forehead. 

Pressing your lips to his, he reached for your waist, fitting it into his hands. He tasted like mangos, and you breathed in his recognizable scent. “You acted pretty amazing last month. Even when I told you there were no cameras.” His hands smoothed out onto your back and you grinned, looking into his eyes. He looked so right in this setting. The browns and oranges and tropical vibe of your home compliment the warmness of his hair and his eyes, a sort of honey-ish brown. “Though you didn’t need to knee me.”

“It was all part of the act, love,” smirking slightly, your hands reached his hair, massaging his scalp, “I’m sorry we had to act like that. I didn’t know they’d send me on a mission to Canada, and of all places, Toronto. But if I didn’t follow through, they’d exile me.”

“Hey, I knew this would happen someday. It’s just how it is, you being their spy. And that necklace was yours, anyway.” He cleared his throat, and took your hands instead, “I would fake what happened a hundred times if it was what I had to do to see you again.”

Pushing a piece of hair behind your ear, you grinned, “Let’s run away. Once I get everything settled, we’ll make a life for ourselves. I know the royal family would grant it. Without me, so many plans would’ve gone down the drain.”

“Done. I don’t want to keep meeting like this. I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.” You felt a sort of peace within yourself, and you actually preferred this to the adrenaline spike you’d get in fights. Ever since Shawn, you realized that your past opinions about conflict being better than love changed. He’d loved you in a way you’d never have thought of.

Placing a kiss on his cheek, the exact place you did the month before, you took his hands and pulled him into the kitchen. “Come help me with dinner.” 

After getting into the hang of chopping and placing food in pots or pans, Shawn asked, “You think you could show me that flip you did when you nailed me to the ground?”

Laughing, you replied, “Maybe. Kiss included?”

“The kiss is always included.”

[8osbabe]

HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY AND NEVER BE FOUND

unedited : warnings in the tags

THERE was no escape without the key in the left pocket of dallas winston’s tattered blue jeans. it was a lesson your handcuffed wrist, scratched red and raw, knew quite well.

you wanted to retch at the suffocating poison he spewed out with every breath of the cigarette that made its home between his fingers. but your surroundings were poetic in their justice.

you and him, you were this room ; paint chipped sheetrock walls that looked tough and impenetrable, although a determined hand could punch through to the hollow inside. a motel room as neglected on the inside as the building was on the outside. a kind of room that could have been anywhere, but remained damaged and uncared for and crumbling. your chests as tight as the cigarette butts and forgotten bags of weed pressed between the mattress’s headboard and the wall.

an ironic sign sits on the nightstand closest to dallas ; “No Smoking.” a rule they weren’t keen enough on enforcing, as they seemingly hadn’t bothered to install any kind of alarm or detector in the room. a rule meant for faking, for breaking.

you can’t hear any of the ambient sounds you’d expect in tulsa. there was no soundtrack to the middle of nowhere, save for the couple who had checked into a room a few doors down, who were either fighting or rampantly fucking.

nothing absorbs the noise other than your own mind, which was happy to muffle everything except for the words that kept ringing through your brain since he’d said them as he tightened a cuff on your wrist and then on a low hanging ventilation pipe ; “there. just like daddy did to mommy.”

the words wanted to gnaw at your treacherous heart, and you bit the inside of your cheek until the familiar taste of warm copper flooded your mouth to remind your heart exactly who was the boss. dallas didn’t deserve pity, not for what had been done to him, not after all he’d done. you knew it. you wanted to know it.

his smoking addiction was already bad— ‘likely to be dead by his fortieth birthday’ bad. but it flared up like this when he was thinking— deciding — only taking breaks from drags of his cigarette to sneak glances at you, teeth worrying his lips.

he had to know that the sight and the smell of tobacco was torturing you, that you couldn’t stand it. ‘did i ever tell him why?’ you were stupid and naive and in love, so you probably had, along with spilling your guts about all of your feelings, your memories, opening yourself up to being crushed— an opportunity dallas never missed. you push away the picture of your skin bubbling and seething as your uncle set his cigarette into your skin when you were six, and the one of his breath, smelling of jack daniels and tobacco as he spit in your face when you were fourteen.

his sharp inhale pulled you from the memories, as he flicked a still-lit cigarette onto a place on the floor where the sheets of the unmade bed touched the floor, setting alight a small flame.

ice crawls up your spine as you become acutely aware of the heat, a few feet away from where you sit, handcuffed to this room. you subconsciously shuffle away from it, backing into the wall. he notices you move. he chokes the flames under his shoe and the fire dies, leaving only charred cotton as evidence it had once lived. the flickering lamp is once again the only thing lighting up the room, with the bruising horizon offering no help.

your gaze locks with his now, and you wonder who will break the stare first. you should know better, that the two of you could sit like this for centuries, refusing to surrender to one another.

there’s a question sitting on his lips. you wonder if it’s the same as yours.

who are we?

what have we done to each other?

• • • • • •

“WERE you aware of dallas winston’s suicidal tendencies?”

yes.

“he wasn’t,” you answer, bored and disinterested, at least as far as the tulsa county police department was concerned.

even in the assaulting white light of— whatever room you were in— you can see the sheriff’s cheeks flush and his eyes narrow. most of your answers thus far had consisted of non-commital shrugs and vague stares, so he detects that something about dallas’s suicide must have gotten a rise out of you.

nodding at you, he leans down toward the floor near his chair, pulling a file out of a banker’s box that looked like it was full and close to bursting.

you stifle a smile. dallas’s police record. surely there must be more boxes around here somewhere, in a room specifically for dallas’s files. you imagine that the cops occasionally mess around with them, covering the boxes graffiti, ‘banker’s bastard’s box.’

the sound of the manila file sliding across the polished metal table separating you and officer friedman pulls you from your thoughts. your eyes dart up to meet his, which motion you to open it yourself. your cold hand reaches to flip it open, and you become acutely aware of the burning smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol as you see what’s inside.

you hiss, looking away instantly and scolding yourself for giving him a reaction.

he takes the file again, now grabbing the photograph it had contained and holding it out to you.

“this scar was fresh on his body when we first got a look at him. angle and location suggest self infliction, and the entry matches that switchblade he carried.” the picture is sharp and focused, not at all like any photograph there was of dallas winston. this one looks posed, medical as though he hadn’t been moving when it was taken.

he never would have just let them take that picture, not of that scar on his arm, not so easily. he hadn’t been conscious, hadn’t been— alive?

“he wasn’t,” you bark through grit teeth. your nails dig into your palms now, your hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

“he wouldn’t have died like that— not shot to death by pigs he hated, not bleeding out on the asphalt in front of his family.” you think of darry curtis and the gang. of ponyboy. you shudder.

friedman sits back in his chair, glancing through the one way mirror and smiling, as though he was in on a joke with the unseen person behind the glass.

“—and he didn’t. he died of his wounds a few hours later, in a jail cell waiting for transfer. his death certificate was filed two days ago. he bled out nice ‘n slow, “tuff” like he wanted.”

your chair emits an ear-splitting shriek as you stand, and the officer follows suit, instinctively patting his holstered gun in silent warning.

you want to scream, to claw his eyes out, to show him “nice and slow.”

instead you speak through labored breaths. “i’m leaving now. i came here as a favor to a friend, to try to help. this clearly isn’t going anywhere.”

you power towards the door, but his hand is on the doorknob before you can reach it.

“—and why help? to what does this department owe the pleasure of hearing your supposed omniscient knowledge of this case?”

you take a step closer to him and snarl. “good people don’t just suddenly wake up and decide they should kill themselves.”

officer friedman backs away, satisfied. he tugs a key from his belt and reveals the door you were headed for had been locked anyhow. he opens the thick metal door and gestures for you to exit.

“maybe dallas winston wasn’t a good person.”

______________

NOBODY stops you as you head for the door, the small lobby of the station quickly becoming blurry through your glassy eyes.

you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted, that they expected this outcome. the ‘meddling little girlfriend’ scared off from looking any further, threatened by the truth of what she might find. you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted.

you push the front double doors a little too hard, maybe hoping that the sound of the slam might muffle the sound of cops talking about autopsy and bury.

getting onto the sidewalk, you see two-bit leaning on his car— waiting, just as you’d left him.

he was fiddling with his switchblade, something he often did when he was idle, looking up as you approached him with his usual, goofy grin. it fades as quickly as it came, though, when he sees your expression, your labored breathing.

you and two could talk like that, without saying a word. he knows the score, and he’s more like family to you than your real one had ever been.

he’s ready to catch you when you collapse against him, finally allowing yourself a broken sob.

“i knew. i knew! i killed him!”

he pulls you into an embrace, allowing you to dampen his muscle shirt with your cries, all while not letting anyone see.

his eyes dart quickly around the perimeter of the station, making sure nobody was with earshot, before gently ushering you into the car.

you’re already embarrassed by the time he’s shut the driver’s side door and started the car.

“dallas is out there, he can’t be dead. i thought you knew that,” two-bit says matter-of-factly, betrayal thick in his voice.

you press your forehead against the window, not able to keep from wondering if you and two had been lying to yourselves, to each other, this whole time. that the house of cards that manifested from your shared grief was one that was quickly crumbling.

neither of you wanted to feel the pain of dallas winston’s absence, not so soon after johnny’s. your mere implication that it may be time to mourn dallas is not one two-bit takes lightly.

“those crooked cops? they think they’ve got you figured— another dim-witted greasy girl that ain’t worth half the air socs breathe— don’t make them right. you’re supposed to be smarter than that,” he huffs, not caring to let you weigh in on the subject.

not that you would, anyway. greasers never get to cry, and sometimes outbursts like these were the only real ways to grieve. you’d let him have this.

“so don’t give me any of that “he’s dead and it’s my fault” shit, because he ain’t dead, and you’re not to blame.”

it’s silent for a few minutes after that, and his expression softens as he focuses himself back on the road. he only speaks again when you turn to him as he drops you off at buck’s.

“it wouldn’t be your fault,” he says, gently resting a hand on your shoulder. “i mean, even if he was.”

you bite your lip, doubting him for a moment, before you nod, letting him squeeze you shoulder before you get out of the car and go home.

if you could call it that.

kicking your shoes off near the entrance, you take in the familiar aspects of the place. torn carpet under your bare feet, the rough feel of the scratched up balls on the pool table, the red lights reflecting off of liquor bottles on the makeshift bar, buck merill crashing on the couch, and— a lifetime ago— dally snoring in his bed upstairs until at least 2 p.m.

that one had been your favorite.

now, though, you only creep toward buck to take the still-lit joint in his sleeping hand. that kind of smoke didn’t bother you half as much as that of actual cigarettes, and even though you tried to keep your lungs as clean as possible, you’d hate to let good tree go to waste. so you pluck it from buck’s fingertips, nestle it in between your lips, and fumble up the stairs.

it doesn’t hurt to be in here, in his room. lying in his bed and still feeling his scent on the sheets, it’s easier to pretend that he’s still around somewhere, that this is still his room, that he’ll come back to it.

crawling into his bed, you wrap yourself into the sheets, feeling your skin buzz in the kind of comfort that can only be felt when you’re high.

the room begins to dim as the sun goes out, and you let yourself drift off, and relive the memory you see every time you close your eyes.

• • • • •

the boys have never looked more beautiful.

even you managed to clean up a bit, too, borrowing one of sylvia’s longer dresses.

you’re a few paces behind the curtis’s, as ponyboy sobs into darry’s dress shirt, and darry let’s him. he’s stifling tears of his own, ever the strong brother since they got the news.

how could this be possible? darry had been filling out college applications two days ago.

and now he was his brothers’ makeshift parent.

nobody had mentioned the fact that dallas hadn’t made an appearance. you didn’t even think anybody noticed. some sort of dread pools in your stomach at his absence. you couldn’t help worrying about him, even if he hated it.

the sick feeling in your core doesn’t extinguish when you see him, a few yards to the side, away from anyone’s line of sight.

the feeling doesn’t fade because when his eyes, red and raw from— crying? —flit to the coffins, and his fingernails dig deep enough to the skin of his palm to bleed, you know he’s about to do something stupid.

you shadow him, far away enough not to provoke his wrath by letting him see you.

he walks for less than fifteen minutes, and you stop following him as he hesitates in the middle of the bridge next to the highway.

something seems to have newly occupied his mind, and the churning of your stomach quickly turns into gasoline, setting alight as he jumps onto the concrete railing.

you will yourself to move forward, taking slow steps and breathing carefully so as to not startle him.

“dallas?” your voice sounds small when you say it.

he chances a glance at you, but his eyes look empty and his face blanched. he’s drunk, maybe, but he wasn’t carrying any kind of alcohol you could see.

he was grieving. he’d been closer with the curtis parents than anyone had known, you later find out.

“dallas,” you say now, more assertively, while trying to stifle the panicked shouts in your mind.

you only hear yourself shriek when he’s set both feet off the bridge, too late to stop his from plunging into the arkansas river.

you were more matched for dallas than either of you knew, you think as you stand in the same spot seconds later, and jump.

the fall feels more like the gravity is pulling you to dallas, until your body breaks into the surface of the ice cold water, seeping through your dress and into your skin.

beneath the surface, you see him drifting, eyes shut in near unconsciousness. he looks almost at peace, you think as you swim further to reach him.

he’s lighter than you expect when you’re wrapping your arms around his chest, feet kicking gently to propel you toward the surface.

it takes bringing him back up to open air to wake him, his shallow gasp for air his first signs of life. he shakes water out of his hair, his eyes before he can really look at you, his stare fascinated and probing.

you remember feeling shy and embarrassed, like he was seeing you for the first time. he could make you forget what had just happened.

“did you jump?”

“yeah,” your voice comes out rushedly, you hadn’t realized how short of breath you’d been. “yeah i jumped. are you okay?”

in the midst of everything that had just happened, his lips curl into a smile, and he laughs. “you’re fucking crazy!”

you nod, starting to laugh, too, the sound coated in nervous relief.

he leans in closer, his hands holding you steady at the nape of your neck as he touches his forehead to yours.

“i’m so tired,” he breathes.

you only get the chance to hum in response as his head tilts to capture your lips with his. his free hand travels up your thigh, guiding it around his hips before resting his hand on your lower back.

you wind your lips with his like you want to siphon his pain away, to be a vacuum for his pain and hurt. your fingers find a tighter grip on his hair, your slight tug eliciting a low, throaty sound from his lips. your head can’t be still as he teases your lower lip with soft bites.

the moment exists in a universe of its own, one where you aren’t greasers without a red cent to spend, one where his lips taste like fresh water forever.

it doesn’t last long, before you both need to break for air.

you thought this was it. that things could be better now. the world had given you permission to be better now.

you never talked about the incident again, or told anyone about the first time you’d kissed, or how you’d started going together.

but dallas had nearly died. you couldn’t save him forever.

you were both so naive.

you were sixteen.

• • • • •

YOU FIND that your best mornings are not the ones where two-bit wakes you up with a pillow to the face.

“eat,” he says, rather aggressively, throwing a paper bag next to your spot on the bed. “we’ve got a long day.”

sitting up and digging your palms into your eyes, you try your best to look mean and angry, but the breakfast he got you smells really good.

you open the bag to find a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a can of pepsi, the latter of which reminded you of the youngest curtiss

“what’s this,” you gesture to the soda can. “did you jump ponyboy to get this for me?” you giggle at the thought.

two-bit only half smiles. “no, he just picked it out for you. he’s been picking up shifts at the dx every now and again.”

you look sheepishly up at two bit, your mouth already stuffed with half a grilled cheese.

“have you...talked to him? to any of them? i mean, for more than a few minutes.” you’re not really sure why you ask. you already know the answer.

keith inhales sharply. “no. they still don’t take kindly to our “dallas isn’t dead” tirade. i don’t blame them for wanting to move on but..”

you let him keep talking, but you stop listening. you know this story, about how the boys hadn’t really felt up to speaking to you or two-bit lately. if you were being honest, you were mad at them, too. they’d left you alone in your grief.

instead, you pay more attention to the way two speaks. he speaks more carefully, with less slang and hood-talk than he might’ve a few years back. you chalked it up to his new job valeting at an upscale restaurant on the soc side of town. they tipped him far more when he’d learned to shut up if he wasn’t spoken to, and to talk classy when he was.

“—don’t pay it any mind. the car’s running outside, be down in five, ‘you hear?”

he doesn’t wait for you to answer before slipping out of the room as quickly as he came, his footsteps on the stairs echoing through the hallway until he’s out of earshot.

he’s in a rush, and you don’t even know what for. but you try to move through the room as quickly as possible, splashing your face with cold water, then scrambling to find your pants somewhere on the floor, and finally taking one of dallas’s jackets from a hanger as you pick a few stray remnants of ash out of your hair.

when you fall into the passenger seat next to two-bit, you catch sight of yourself in the rear view mirror, and try not to think about how dead you look.

he’s already speeding on the highway when you ask him where you’re going.

“to find dally.” he leaves it at that, and you don’t pry, even if the certainty in his voice is enough to send chills down your spine.

the wind starts to whip your hair in all directions when it pushes in through the open window, and you feel like a bird.

the thought is only pleasant for a moment.

you quickly feel yourself become a vulture, feeling more hunter than hummingbird.

you sink your claws into cold bodies hoping to find some way to keep living inside something that is long dead.

[luluwquidprocrow]

you’ll find it again

originally posted: september 3rd, 2020

word count: 2,390 words

rated: teen

wally brando & becky burnett & ruby

friendship,  emotional hurt/comfort,  mental health,  loneliness,  season 3,  ruby at the whims of the supernatural vs. ruby’s own mental state,  dissociation and uncomfortable sensations that occur after a breakdown,  growing up is hard and life is hard and friendships are hard!,  one instance of language because have you met me

summary: and ruby had been screaming, but that was not important.

opening notes:

for @cerealninjakat for @countdowntotwinpeaks wonderfulxstrange 2020, who asked for "wally and becky try to help out ruby after her breakdown". i hope i delivered!

title from don’t see the sorrow by au revoir simone

.

becky and wally had argued again; ruby could tell, because she focused on becky so she wouldn’t think about herself. becky drove ten miles over the speed limit through the darkness, her knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, her tongue pushed into her cheek. from the backseat, ruby couldn’t see wally, but she knew he was looking right ahead at the road. an argument meant wally had just said something true that becky didn’t like and she’d done a lot of yelling. they’d still come and got her, though. together. like ghosts out of the night, bursting into the roadhouse, when the crowd had throbbed around ruby like a heartbeat that wouldn’t ever slow down. and ruby had been screaming, and

don’t think about that, she reminded herself. she curled her hands into the cuffs of her sweater, searching for the loose thread she knew was there but couldn’t see. think about becky and wally.

becky had parted the crowd, snapping at anyone who got in her way, while wally kept close behind her. ruby was screaming but that was not important. becky got down beside her and put her hands on either side of ruby’s face, blocking out the roadhouse, asking ruby to look at her. wally knelt next to them and took one of her hands and he’d been wearing his motorcycle gloves, and that had made a line in ruby’s head that split her panic into the uncontrollable previous second and the too-conscious next, because he didn’t have to wear them inside. ruby clutched his hand and she was crying now and she could deal with that. then they were at the bar, and wally was trying to put an ice cold glass of water into her hand but she couldn’t hold it, and then time pulled forward and ruby was in the back seat of becky’s mom’s car, becky’s sweater draped over her own and her cheek against the window.

“how,” ruby had tried, meaning to ask something like, how were you there, how did you know where i was, because becky and wally weren’t who she was meeting at the roadhouse.

wally said something about just knowing all of a sudden—ruby couldn’t catch all the words—until becky had punched him in the shoulder and almost drove over the yellow line in the middle of the road and swore something awful, and then no one talked.

becky drove like she was in a hurry, she always had. it was probably better than wally driving, because while ruby was sure wally was a good driver, he would’ve had them both on his motorcycle, and just all of them crammed onto one seat would’ve been terrible. when they were little, becky had convinced wally to let ruby sit behind him on his tricycle and to let becky ride on the handlebars, and they’d made it halfway down the street like that, wally slowly peddling along while becky shouted to go faster and ruby held on to wally for dear life anyway, before becky’s dad saw them and caught up in an instant. ruby turned her head and watched the streetlights hit the cracked curb, weathered street signs, the graying asphalt road, in stark white bursts every few minutes that blurred as becky sped on by. a red light lingered somewhere ahead and becky screeched to a halt at a traffic light.

the only sound in the car was becky’s harsh breathing as she waited for the light to turn—no, it was ruby. it was ruby’s own breathing, so loud in her own ears in the quiet, waiting for becky to race forward and fill everything up again. ruby pulled hard at the thread on her sweater and the cuff puckered, the soft knit pushing into her wrist. it didn’t make sense. the roadhouse was too loud, the car was too quiet, her sweater was unwinding and so was ruby again.

wally reached for the radio and turned the dial. he skipped over static, a guitar cord that made ruby’s shoulders seize, dr. amp shouting into the night, until he found some soft keyboard song, keeping the volume low. green filled up the car, and becky took off.

they were almost there, wherever becky was going. ruby could tell. dread started to shudder to life inside her. she’d have to move. she’d have to talk. she closed her eyes and let the car jostle her against the seat belt.

gravel crunched under the tires, and ruby knew exactly where they were. she opened her eyes to see wally’s parent’s house on the other side of town, with the big yard and long driveway, the dark wood siding and the old brick chimney, little white flowers by the front steps that turned yellow in the porch light. becky got out, and then wally, and then ruby, opening the door slowly, holding becky’s sweater around her. the night air was hot and sticky on her face, and it fogged her glasses.

the brennan house reminded her of her mom’s house, and that was why ruby liked it. they both had shelves crammed with books, and oversized chairs draped with handmade blankets, and when you walked in it didn’t just feel like someone else’s home and you were a visitor, it felt like your own home too. when was the last time she’d been here with wally and becky? it couldn’t have been that long. new years, when wally was back and becky smiled so easily and ruby was still in college. but that couldn’t have been this year. maybe it was forever ago. when was the last time she’d seen becky and wally at all? wally sent her postcards from the road and ruby hung them all up around the kitchen. becky was so sparse nowadays, with steven. ruby was just trying to figure out what she was supposed to do with herself, in a place as small as twin peaks, as big as the whole wide world.

ruby felt that prickling stab of staring at something without really seeing it, like she should be somewhere or someone else. she swayed on her feet, looking up at the house over her glasses, tears in her eyes again.

they all went inside together.

the lights were off inside, and wally turned on some of the lamps in the living room, bathing the furniture in patches of warm gold. ruby and becky took off their shoes, but wally kept his on, but he had his gloves tucked into a pocket now.  

“where are you parents?” ruby asked. her voice sounded raw, and she cleared her throat a few times.

“it is thursday,” wally said, “which means it is the night my parents spend together, away from worldly concerns.”

“it’s date night,” becky muttered.

“ruby,” wally said, “would you like some hot chocolate?”

she didn’t think about the glass of water at the roadhouse. she thought about a ceramic mug hot on her fingertips. “sure.” she watched wally drift into the kitchen and take mugs down from the cabinet. ruby’s mom was always leaving cups of tea places, on wooden coasters on the coffee table in the living room, on the little desk by her easel at the big window, by the old chair in ruby’s room, all of them half full. she told ruby that sometimes it was more about the company and the feeling than the tea itself. ruby liked that a lot.

“becky?”

becky sighed. “yeah, okay.”

she and ruby sat down on the couch by the wall, like they’d always done, ruby cross-legged and becky’s left leg bent with her arms wrapped around it. wally’s mom liked to knit, and there were large, uneven blankets all around their house, because her tension was always too lose. ruby’s mom had tried to teach her, but mostly they baked together instead, and wally’s mom’s blankets stayed holey but comfortable. ruby tugged a soft blue one from the back of the couch on top of the two of them. and then she waited.

who had she meant to meet at the roadhouse? ruby couldn’t remember. she had just been there. there was supposed to be someone there and she was supposed to meet them. like wally said, she’d just known too. so she’d gone. and she’d been waiting and waiting, and no one had come. she’d stared off towards the stage and tuned it all out and thought she saw something, once or twice, a flicker of blue light out of place on the stage, the edge of a black jacket sleeve off to the side, thought she heard a voice by her ear, but no one had come. ruby was alone, until someone was lifting her out of her seat, and then—everything was breaking apart.

but becky didn’t ask about the roadhouse. she looked at ruby, her eyes flicking back and forth between ruby’s.

“is there anything i can do?” she asked.

ruby blinked a few times. “no,” she said, shaking her head. “no, no—no.”

“anything you need me to do?”

“mm-mm.”

becky fell silent. she looked down at her hands, twisting her rings on and off, and as ruby watched she felt thick shame and embarrassment start to sink inside her. it hadn’t been the first time, not really, not if she was honest, that everything felt like it was falling out from under her. sometimes she felt so impossibly sad and so helpless, and her whole life was quiet but it wasn’t unbearable, it wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t like that at all. but in the roadhouse the loneliness had clawed at her as the world moved on and no one cared, more than ever, and the emptiness of it had scared her so much. not just ruby’s emptiness. everyone’s. the only thing she could do was scream. why had it happened like that? why had becky and wally had to see her like that?

“i don’t know what happened, i don’t,” ruby whispered. she had to fix it. they had to still like her. they had to like the ruby who double majored, the ruby who smiled at cats, the ruby who made cucumber sandwiches for picnics, the ruby who shared clothes with becky, the ruby who played the bongos while wally could not play the guitar and didn’t care. they had to keep that ruby. they had to like that ruby who did all those things and forget about the ruby screaming in the roadhouse, forget they saw the ruby who could fall apart. both of them couldn’t exist. “i’m—i’m okay, though.” she scrubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of becky’s sweater, bumping her glasses.

“hey.” becky took her hand. she pushed a lock of hair behind ruby’s ear, then hesitated. “you know i love you, right? because i do, ruby.”

ruby knew, or she had known, and forgotten. it was good to hear it. it was good to know. it was good to know. she smiled a little, because she knew if she smiled the whole way she’d cry again. she held onto becky’s hand.

wally walked back in, carrying three mugs on a big wooden tray. he gave becky the mug with a cat stretching against the side for the handle, and he gave ruby the one with roses bursting all along it, and he took the one that had instructions for cooking eggs next to little drawings. he put the tray on the floor and sat down on ruby’s other side, a few inches between them but close enough, and ruby draped the other end of the blanket over him too. then she wrapped both hands around the mug, her skin tingling with the warmth. she didn’t trust herself to swallow properly yet, so she kept it there. her mom was always right. she could hold the mug in her hands and have becky and wally beside her and feel a little more like okay. she thought about the roadhouse, for a moment. she thought about whoever was supposed to have been there. maybe she’d tell becky and wally about them, but later. maybe she’d tell them a couple things. not now. but she hoped, whoever they were, that they felt close to okay too, if they needed to. she thought they might.

there was a vase of little pink flowers across the room, in a halo of light from a nearby lamp. wally’s dad bought them, but sometimes he picked them instead, at the little spot by the lake where the picnic tables were. they’d all gone on lots of picnics when they were younger, and even into high school, when just ruby and becky and wally would go, without their parents, and spend hours in the afternoon breeze off the lake, the three of them naming ducks and throwing food at each other and skipping stones on the water. that was good, too.

“do you remember,” ruby said softly, “when we used to have those picnics? by the lake?”

“we should go again,” wally said.

“we can go tomorrow,” becky said. “my mom still has all the baskets.”

“i can drive,” wally offered.

“nope,” ruby said. “becky will drive, and we’ll all die.” she patted becky’s knee.

becky giggled; then she bit her lip, her face scrunching up. “fuck,” she said. “fuck—no, i’m gonna drive the speed limit. i’m gonna be the best driver.”

“then that makes you the best,” wally said, simply.

becky looked across ruby at him, and then tapped her mug against his. “thanks.”

wally smiled. it was a quiet smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth only slightly, but it was his best smile. in unison, the three of them took sips of their hot chocolate. it went down smoothly, comfortably warm in ruby’s chest.

“you know what this needs?” ruby said.

“potato chips,” becky said.

“potato chips,” ruby agreed.

wally looked thoughtful. “i think that can be done. but we’ll have to adjourn to the kitchen.”

he and becky were up in an instant, racing towards the kitchen like they were kids again, becky shouting when her hot chocolate tipped, wally’s steady voice assuring her that his parents had napkins. ruby got up, took becky’s sweater off from around her shoulders, and then ran into the kitchen after them.

ending notes:

ruby is now an immovable piece of this friendship and i will THROW DOWN for her

[taylorroger-s]

𝔢𝔵 𝔫𝔦𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬 // a six underground story

----- ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ -----

a/n i don’t want to preface this too much but this isn’t really a fanfic? there’s no pairing at the focus, and it’s really just a story in the 6u world because there is no way i’m letting micheal bay waste the potential of 6u. I worked extremely hard on this and the later missions and i’m really proud of it! so i hope you enjoy, there is much more to come! so here’s my masterlist, and no warnings except for swearing. enjoy :)

‎

𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚖, 𝙽𝚈𝙲 ----------

‎

“nine, you have to get out of there.” one hisses into his headset, drawing the attention of the waiting driver. she rolls her eyes, anxiously scanning the block for any law enforcement or her team. 

“you think i don’t fucking know that? but y’all better get your asses over here. feds are swarming even on the other side of the park.” nine gritts her teeth at every police cruiser slithering by, their flashing lights only adding to her growing anxiety. 

“my hands are kinda full right now!” four shouts, breathing heavily into his microphone. things went south fast, and even their planned escape had been shaky at best. the mission failed and they need to get out of the city fast. 

“get over here, and i’ll get you out. remember, i’m on columbus and west 92nd in front of the party city. ten minutes. now make like ghosts and disappear.”

‎

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑 & 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚊 

‎

tires squealed against the beat-up asphalt as two early model corvettes shot down an empty stretch of highway 75. bitter cold nebraska winter winds cut through to the bone as the pair curved around a rough bend of road surrounded on both sides by sprawling fields. the sun hung low on the horizon, struggling to light up the endless farmland. the only sound within ten miles was the roar of combustion engines mingling with crickets chirping as they passed by. 

“cmon,” a woman muttered to her car, eyes narrowed as she scanned the makeshift racetrack. she couldn’t make out the taunt called out to her from the other driver, responding only with a raised middle finger and a sharp push on the accelerator. her car’s heavily modified engine purred under her touch, advancing on her opponent’s ride. 

a window of opportunity finally appeared before her. she was no more than a foot behind him, another bend visible in her peripheral vision. exhaling slowly, she brought her left foot from hovering over the clutch to the brake. the turn came closer, wrapping around a hill. she could just about hear the squeal of her opponent’s brakes, pressing on her brake at the same time. they hurtled around the bend at dangerous speeds. coming out of the turn, her opponent switched his right foot from the brake to the gas pedal to accelerate out of the turn. but her foot was already there, giving her just a fraction of a second edge over his car. her ride edged up on his, a devilish grin spreading across her lips. 

just as her dark red car was about to overtake his, the flash of distant headlights made them both freeze. she wanted to scream in frustration, but there was no time to think, lest she wanted to risk a head on collision. she very reluctantly pulled in behind his car, various scenarios for vengeance cycling through her head. their race was over. she had lost. 

the semi truck passed them by without a second look, and after a few minutes the pair pulled into a decades old rest stop. the woman ran her fingers across the smooth dashboard of her car, thumb brushing over a small mark right by the unused radio. they made it fifteen miles before their race was rudely interrupted. a sudden knock on the windshield stirred her from her thoughts. 

“too slow once again darling.” the man cooed, poisonous edge to his words. that was the third race she’d lost to him in six weeks. it was starting to damage her reputation as a notorious street racer in an innocuous corner of small-town america. the mechanics shop she worked for was the not-so-clever front of their racing circle - essentially the only friends she had - wherein she was the best. at least until that start up showed his face in gretna, nebraska- of all places. 

“oh fuck off.” she grumbled, keeping her eyes trained on the last rays of the sun sinking below the horizon, plunging the rest stop into a chilling darkness. the sky was just beginning to show the shimmer of distant stars, rolling across the countryside in a thick blanket of night. constellations blinked into existence against the dark. a saying from her latin classes in college came to mind: natura non constristatur. nature doesn’t give a shit about you.  

“as you wish. same time next week?” her rival called, already waltzing back to his car, hood shimmering silver in the burgeoning moonlight, a small rosary and fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. it was about ten years newer than hers, but not nearly as slick. at least in her opinion. 

“one week and i’m gonna destroy your ass.” she responded, words almost drowned out by the subsequent start of his decades old engine. he loudly revved it a few times, overtaking any words she could possibly try to curse him with. there were a few choice latin phrases she had stored up.

“in your dreams!” he shouted, pulling onto the road and heading north, back to her hometown. and so she was left alone with her thoughts, only finding company in the infinite sky and hum of wildlife. the cold winter night started to pick away at her fading adrenaline, causing her teeth to quietly chatter as her eyes stayed focused on the heavens. what was she doing? she would never get out of nebraska, and her life would all be for nothing. but before she could fully spiral into existentialism, the allure of her bed came to mind; an area much more comfortable than the freezing drivers seat of her 1986 corvette. 

she tore her eyes away from the nighttime sky with a huff, hand drifting to the gearshift. she started the engine, slowly moving the car into reverse. she didn’t think to check in the rearview mirror until a shout rang out over the hum. she slammed her foot on the brake, just before hitting whoever decided to fucking walk behind a moving car. the anger slowly simmering below the skin after her loss decided to boil over. she hopped out of the car before she even turned off the engine to tell off the prick who decided to ruin her moping. 

"what the fuck man?” she was fuming so much the mystery figure could probably see the smoke pouring from her ears. she couldn’t quite make out their face since the only lamp within five miles lit them from behind. crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the trunk of the car, glaring at the intruder while she waited for an answer. 

“wasn’t expecting that reaction. hello-” okay so definitely a guy, she thought, squinting harder to try and make out his face. he brushed off his pants before looking up at her, face obscured by shadow and sunglasses. at night. the tone of his voice irked her; infuriatingly playful even in the weird circumstances. 

“what the hell are you doing out here?” she growled, bracing her hands on the burnished metal of her car. her nails tapped rhythmically against it, shifting her expression to appear as calm and intimidating as possible. there wasn’t another car visible in the parking lot as far as she could tell, and the man certainly didn’t appear to be a fallen angel. how and why was he there? but there was another, more concerning question picking at her mind: if he was there for her, how did he find her?

“is that how you always greet strangers?” the man quipped, still avoiding her question. a stranger was exactly what he was. general knowledge suggested to not talk to strangers, especially in an empty rest stop parking lot. in the middle of nowhere. fear crept up on her as the man smiled, whispering worries in her ear the longer he dodged her questions. 

“what do you want?” she gritted her teeth, fingers slowly curling into fists. her instincts kicked into high gear as he took a few steps closer. his hands were tucked into his back pockets, and he looked disturbingly nonchalant as he approached her. 

"heard about your racing. pretty good from what i’ve heard." now that threw her for a loop. why did he want to hear about her racing? however, logic was soon overshadowed by a wave of pride and she lifted her chin, looking straight into the man’s eyes through his sunglasses. it was too dark to glean anything from his expression, but she didn’t waver. she was better than pretty good. 

"the best. now who's asking?" she nearly spat the last words out through gritted teeth, pushing off the car and taking a step forward. the man smiled at her bravado, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"i have a job for you." she scoffed, shaking her head. it suddenly popped into her mind that he could be a criminal looking for a getaway driver or a scapegoat. but the seed of curiosity burrowing inside her brain won out. 

"so you mind going into specifics?" she questioned him with heavy doubt in her voice. 

"not here cupcake. but i need a driver.” the illegal path seemed more and more likely. ‘not here’ oh yeah, not suspicious at all. she was tempted to shut the conversation straight down and run, but there was nothing she could really lose by hearing more. worst case scenario, she gets frostbite and maybe put on a hit list. best case? there was no way of knowing.

"and why me?"

"like you said, you’re the best. and you have next to nothing tying you here. your skill is being wasted, but i can fix that. i can give you a cause to believe in. so how would you like a chance to actually change the world?" that stopped her. she hadn’t done anything worthwhile in a very, very long time. and believing in something? that was a distant memory. she didn’t believe in this man either. 

"aquila non capit muscas. i’m not here for your nonsense.” she was aware that quoting her latin professor would earn herself an eye roll from the mystery man, but she wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries nor dreamy exaggerations. she was starting to think he was insane. and yet, something in his words tugged at her heart. he sounded suddenly sincere. it was like he had read her mind. 

“okay shakespeare, there certainly is some nonsense in this offer, sure. but it’s your best shot to get out of here. i am offering you freedom from everything holding you back.” five seconds passed. ten. fifteen. thirty. she mulled over his words over and over again, quickly disregarding how horribly vague they were. there really was no reason to take him seriously, and he had provided no details into this “job” which was starting to sound more and more illegal. 

still. she turned to look at her car, scanning all its dents and imperfections. so many memories, so much history that had slowly made her jaded and cynical. so much to break free from. even though there was no evidence that this job was worth it, or that his promise of freedom rang true, she was tired of the bullshit. 

“i’m listening.” a sharp smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. 

"good. but there's one thing i need you to do before we get started. i need you to die"

-----

hey mary, and whoever else is reading. i guess this is goodbye. sorry you had to find out this way. 

it doesn’t matter what i once wanted to be. i didn’t get it. but this is what i want. i promise. i’m sorry to ghost you. but this is what’s right for me. see you on the flip side. 

faking her death was almost disturbingly simple. a burning car at the base of a ravine, suicide note found just outside the melted frame. no reason to pursue an investigation. attending her funeral was the most surreal part. until then, the weight of her decision hadn't felt real. she watched as her sister, her coworkers, and even her racing rival said their last goodbyes at what they thought was her final resting place. she couldn’t watch anymore when her sister began to sob, and the man, who had identified himself as one, dragged her away before she had a chance to break down

the night before she faked her death, she sat on her bedroom floor, chopping off locks of hair and silently contemplating what she was about to do. the rules that one gave her were simple in theory, but horribly complicated in reality. 

cities you have never been to. people you have never met. numbers instead of names. only talk to your fellow ghosts. plural. she was about to be thrown in with a band of hungry revolutionaries with similar shady pasts. at least, she assumed that's who she would find once one took her to the last home she would ever know. last home. she cycled through the pros and cons for the hundredth time, weighing them over and over.

no more taxes. no more criminal background. no crazy ex chasing her. no expectations to leave behind. pure freedom, if she followed the rules of course. the homegrown american girl she once was would die, and in her place: nine. 

cons? those were a little more iffy. her sister mary was a senior in highschool and just turned 18. mary was all she had left, and vice versa. even though mary was technically an adult and could fend for herself, she still felt guilty. more of her hair fluttered to the ground. if she was going to have a new name, she might as well get new hair. it was rough around the edges, horribly uneven, and made it look as though she had lost a fight with a weed whacker. fitting. 

not too long after, she was in a plane on her way to nowhere. she was completely alone in the cabin, one piloting from the cockpit. nine was mesmerized by the sprawling land thousands of feet below as they moved west. it was her first, but definitely not her last time on a plane. 

was it insane? yes. was it almost a certain ticket to an actual early grave? definitely. and yet, every time she finished looking through her list, there was only one outcome that came out of it all. a death with more meaning than her life would ever bring. she would miss her sister, and the few friends left behind, but for the first time in a long time, the apathy faded away. 

‎

𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 ----------

‎

“alright motherfuckers, i finally got our asses a driver.” one called out into the dark belly of the old aircraft, lit only by a few glowing screens. nine followed him in, holding tight to her small duffel bag full of the only possessions one let her take, the logo of her high school plastered on the side.

“wow, only took you six months.” one flipped on a light switch, turning on a few lightbulbs in the center of the room, illuminating six figures gathered around a rusted metal table. each one looked like they were from a completely different planet. 

“thank you for the attitude four, i hate it.” one cheerfully pointed to a chiseled blond man wearing a worn blue hoodie. she assumed rightly that he was four, and based on the accent, also british. she idly wondered how he ended up in the same place she was, or in the same place as the rest of one’s mismatched crew. a crew that she was now a part of. 

“six was already too fucking much. then seven. and now eight.” a slightly scary, tall blonde woman spoke, thick french accent coating her words. despite the venom, it almost looked like she had never moved her lips, an eerily blank expression stuck on her face. nine suddenly felt extraordinarily childish with her “gretna dragons” bag, the faded green fabric full of pulled strings and various stains. just the way she stood make nine feel in over her head. one took it all in stride. 

“well i don’t see you volunteering to give up your handguns and get in the driver's seat, and eventually you agreed to eight for the same reason, so shush.” nine looked between one and two, and their silent standoff. two rolled her eyes, essentially surrendering to nine’s presence. nine let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. she had a feeling it would be a shit idea to be on that woman’s bad side. 

“this is nine. nine, this is two, three, four, five, seven, and eight.” one pointed to them each in turn: the tall blonde woman, a hispanic man with a full beard, the startlingly attractive blond man, a woman with aviator sunglasses hanging from her shirt, a tall dark-skinned man who seemed much less stony than the others, and a tall girl wearing an excessive amount of leather. but there was something else that worried her more than the mismatched group one presented. a number was skipped. 

“wait, could i get a quick rundown of who does what?” nine assumed there was a reason for each person to be there.

“i’m a billionaire and…”

“i’m blaine. that’s camille, javier, billy, amelia, and sofia” seven - blaine - cut one off. nine was caught off guard; it seemed one declined to mention that ‘numbers instead of names’ were more of a formality for the rest of the team. the rules she was told must have been one’s original vision.

“seven-” one tried to silence blaine, but was stopped with a glare. apparently one was equally against the names as seven was with numbers. it was intriguing, but nine wasn’t willing to dig further into his mind, nor was she okay with sharing her name. she wanted to leave everything behind. 

“nope, she’s part of the team now. numbers are for missions. what’s your name?” she seized up, eyes moving to each person to identify names with faces, something she had never been good at. numbers just seemed so much simpler. 

“no.” nine responded flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. seven froze, but held his hands up in surrender. one nodded approvingly to nine, and continued with his explanation of everyone’s roles. 

“she knows what’s up. now, two is the spy, three is the hitman, four is the skywalker…” though one’s titles didn’t give extraordinary detail, having ‘the skywalker’ as a job description was simply puzzling.

“the hell does that mean?” she asked, eyes flicking just for a moment over to four before returning to one. 

“he does parkour, five is the doctor, seven is the sniper, eight is the scout, and you are…” one continued without missing a breath, and nine suspected he predicted that question. four caught her eye and winked. 

“the driver?” the sly smiles suddenly slipped from the ghost’s faces as they exchanged guarded looks. nine had a sinking feeling as to why. 

“that was six, our last driver. let’s hope you avoid the same fate.” his grim words carried a little-too-lighthearted tone. well that’s reassuring, she thought. not worrying at all. one rubbed his hands together, walking over to one of the walls in their airplane shell meeting room. nine pieces of paper were on the wall, eight of them with roman numerals going up from two, and one with a photo of a man who had a giant red x on his face. his face tugged at nine’s memory. he must have been on the news. this operation might just be bigger than she expected. 

“gather around the fire, cleavers, target two. corporate mogul noah kenneth carpenter,” one took down the page labeled “ii” and behind it hung a photo of the titular capitalistic businessman. nine felt like she was about to hurl. she knew that face. any guilt for leaving faded away in one fell swoop; this was the vengeance she yearned for. her sister mourned her loss, but nine could now strike back stronger than the girl she was could ever dream of. 

“been accused of fraud, sexual harassment, shady international dealings, labor abuse. textbook scumbag, yet rich enough to keep himself in the clear. and we’re going to take him down. there are three simple steps, except there’s more than three and they’re not simple.” there was a beat of silence after that, which nine used to take a closer look at her new teammates. three had his feet propped up on the table, two standing behind his chair with her hand on his shoulder. four leaned forward on his elbows, green eyes focused on one. five had her arms crossed over her chest, and seven had his attention focused on one’s presentation, posture perfectly straight. 

“what’s the first of these not-so-simple steps?” eight asked, picking at the thin blade of a small knife in her hands. she was a step behind the others, on the other side of seven. no longer the newest on the team, but still separate from what nine could tell. she couldn’t help but feel for the other girl. 

“glad you asked kiddo,” one grinned, a dangerous edge to his expression. “nine, i’m assuming you heard of the major disruption of the peace in florence eight months ago, and the subsequent coup in turgistan?” there was something bordering pride in his voice. nine could see small, sharp smiles from the ghosts as they glanced to each other. 

“vaguely, not much international shit made its way to me.” that was true. local news stations only showed things like county fairs and local robberies on the rare occasions nine would turn on the tv, and she didn’t care enough to go in search of global issues that didn’t concern her. 

“well that was us, and this is about to be on a similar scale. except for the unstable geopolitical aftermath. probably.” nine raised her eyebrows. it was difficult to wrap her head around these six underground vigilantes rocking the boat with nothing but varying, potentially deadly, specializations. it made her even more curious as to what she could do with them, and what she could do to noah carpenter. 

“anyway, the mission. the ultimate goal is to get him locked away, preferably not dead so he can rot in federal prison, but you can never tell with two and three on the squad,” two and three glared at one in unison, three miming slitting someone’s throat, but one just smiled. nine was starting to catch on to the group dynamics. 

“but before kenny can get a messy prison tat, we have to dig up some major dirt on him. something to destroy his legacy, drag his company through the mud, take away everything he took from the people.” nine could feel a dark smile spreading across her lips. a cause to believe in indeed. 

“so, there’s a big tech meeting thing in new york next month, and we are going to be there, along with mister exploitation over here,” one gestured crudely to the photo of carpenter pinned roughly to the thin wall. the sneer on the businessman’s face made nine’s blood boil. she was already on board with whatever the plan was going to be, and couldn’t wait to lend her driving skills to take him down. 

“what skyscraper am i crawling up now?” four sounded uninterested, cocking his head to the side. 

“it’s the guggenheim, and you’re not exactly crawling, more like sneaking. step one is going to be infiltrating. i have gotten intel saying that some shady deal is going down between him and a foreign mogul guy. we need to hear it all. the following missions are a little more iffy, and if we don’t find any dirt or evidence… well this is gonna take longer than anticipated.” 

“this is almost as vague as our last plan.” three quipped, idly invested in the small pistol in his palm. he aimed it at various spots around the room with disinterest, to which everyone responded by ducking and dodging his aim. 

“and that’s how i like it. no logical order means no one will expect what is coming.” nine just blinked at one in astonishment. her fantasies of justice tilted towards the farfetched with one’s confident admission of having no foolproof evidence to jump off of. 

“doesn’t that make it harder for us?” nine asked, unsettled by how calm everyone else seemed to be. her initial worries about one’s offer being vague came back to the forefront of nine’s mind. her instincts on the night she met one might have been more accurate than she realized, but she was in much too deep to change her mind.  

“you get used to it,” two admitted. nine almost flinched when she heard the slightly scary blonde woman speak. the comfort caught nine off guard more than two’s words. 

“now here is what our first mission is gonna play out…” one pulled out blueprints from a box under the table. pens and sharpies in hand, he started to draw out how their mission would go. he was about to start talking when he looked over his shoulder to see nine still standing a few feet from the group. he flashed her a winning smile and beckoned nine forward. the rest of the group was facing her, softening towards their newest ghost. here goes nothing.

nine took a deep breath in, then out, and took a step forward, officially leaving the past behind and entering her new death. 

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

yaydyfyaydfyasoudfhasode it’s posted!!! I have the first chapter underway and way too many ideas for how this is going to go. but here’s some hints for the future: a sparring scene, city traffic, hiding in a castle and much tension to come! stay tuned :)

lmk if you want to be on the taglist!

[banditthewriter]

Take A Ride With Me - Billy Russo

Decided that since it’s my anniversary, why not treat you all to some fluff AND some smut?

Warning: Smut! Car sex! Really unsafe driving practices. Like... really unsafe? Drive carefully!

Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists! *gif is mine* Enjoy!

The last car that had passed had been an hour ago. Billy was driving the speed limit but he had told you that he wanted a relaxing ride. It had been his idea for a road trip and you had accepted immediately but now you were wondering if maybe you should have just opted to fly instead. He had said that you weren't going to stop until you got to your destination, but that was hours away. You were half asleep in the passenger seat. You'd leaned it back at some point but you weren't able to fully drift off. The air was on in the car so you were comfortable, but there was something else. With your eyes mostly shut, you peered out at Billy secretly. He was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the tune of the song that was playing softly on the radio. You could sit up and maybe draw him into a conversation to pass the time. Or... Or. His hand was on your knee and had been there for a while. He had this thing about touching you when you were sleeping as if he was trying to anchor you there with him. It was a cute habit that he had but it had never really been something you paid much attention to before today. You twisted a bit in your seat so that your leg tilted just enough that his hand slid down to your thigh a bit. His fingers flexed out of reflex but didn't move other than that. Careful to make it look natural, you rotated again so that the skirt of your dress raised a bit more as you let your legs fall open. From your half closed eyes, you watched as Billy's eyes darted to your legs before he looked back at the road. He licked his lips and you tried not to smile in success. Then his hand moved to your skirt to tug it down a bit to cover you. Trust Billy to be a gentleman when you were trying to seduce him. He just loved to be contrary. Before he could move his hand, you covered it with yours. It was pressed to your thigh and you slid your fingers over his knuckles a bit before you settled down once more. You had to do this in small movements or he'd catch on and you weren't done playing yet. The next time you shifted, you used your hand over his to drag it up your thigh a bit more. The movement had the added bonus of pushing your skirt back up. You were so close to your goal. You could feel yourself getting wet at the game you were playing. His fingers flexed against your thigh again, a little harder than before. With a little noise as if you were still asleep, you tugged his hand a little closer as you clenched your legs around it. This time when his fingers moved, they barely brushed against the soft fabric of your underwear. There was a bit of uneven asphalt at just the right time and while he was focused on the road, you shifted your hips so that his hand was pressed directly against your pussy. Just that little touch made you throb. You curled your fingers which in turn curled his against you. You rubbed his middle finger between your lips, the fabric rubbing against your clit deliciously. "Y/N," he warned, his voice low and hoarse, "I know you're awake." "Not at all," you said as you rotated a bit, still with your eyes closed, "very much asleep over here." "Oh really?" He pushed your underwear aside so that he could slide one finger inside you. "Still asleep?" He thrust the finger in and out, making you arch your back a bit. You looked over at him and bit your lip. "Wide awake." He pushed a second finger in, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit as he fucked you with his fingers. You moved your hips into it, bracing your elbows on the back of the car to give you some leverage. "You're so wet for me," he mumbled as he teased a third finger at your entrance. "Can you take another one for me?" You keened as he inserted three fingers at once. One hand reached up to clutch at your breasts through your dress while your other hand wrapped around his wrist. You tried to slow down his fasts thrusts but he didn't change his pace. "Gonna come," you whined as you rode his hand, so close that your breath was coming out in pants. "Make me come baby." "Spread your legs wider," he demanded with a growl, his eyes darting from the road to where his fingers were disappearing inside you. He rotated his wrist a bit so that his thumb could circle around your clit, dragging his nail across it and making you arch forward and slam a hand against the window as you came. He kept moving them inside you as you rode the high of the orgasm. "Fuck." He laughed as you slumped back in the seat. When he pulled his hand from between your legs, you were in awe of how wet they were. Obvious that he was trying to figure out what to do with it, you grabbed his wrist and pulled it to your mouth. Your tongue curled around his fingers, sucking them clean. He groaned as you did that which turned to a hiss when you bit the fleshy part of his palm. "Want a taste?" He glanced over at you as you unbuckled and shifted over to his side. You turned his head a bit so that he could still see the road even as you kissed him. Your tongue twirled around his, letting him taste you as you kissed. You leaned back and kissed his cheek. "Y/N," he warned again as he wiped his hand on his pants leg a bit, "I'm driving." "You didn't seem to mind when your fingers were inside me," you teased, making him shut his eyes for a second. A look down showed that he was hard in his jeans. No wonder he was so tense. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, and up to his ear. You sucked on his earlobe for a moment before you bit down and tugged on it. "Keep your eyes on the road," you whispered before you moved back a bit. He looked confused at first until you moved to kneel on the seat. Your hand moved over his thigh and towards the button of his jeans. "Jesus," he swore once he realized you were about to do. You pushed his shirt up a bit and undid the button on his jeans, pulling the zipper down as you placed a kiss on his stomach. It took some adjusting but he put the car in cruise control and lifted his hips so that you could pull his pants down to mid thigh. "I really hope I don't crash with my dick out," he said as you lowered his briefs as well. "What a way to go though?" You wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it a stroke. With a grin, you leaned in and swirled your tongue around the head. He moaned and you could hear the steering wheel groaning as he gripped it harder. Leaning down more, you ran your tongue up and down his cock as you gripped the base. His hips were twitching upwards and you hollowed you cheeks as you sucked. As you worked your mouth up and down him, you could feel him twitching in your mouth. You moaned around him and his hand went to the back of your head to guide you up and down. The pressure made you moan again. "Fuck," he groaned as he pushed you down a bit harder, "this should not be so hot." As he got closer to his climax, he pushed your head down to take him all the way in. Your throat contracted around him and he swore as he came. Each pulse went down your throat until he moved his hand and you were able to pull back enough to catch the last of it. You pulled off of him and started to sit back in time to see him swerve over to the side of the road you had been traveling on for a while. He used the lever on the side of the seat to let it slide all the way back before he turned off the car and threw the keys onto the dash. His hands were on your hips as he tugged you up and over to his side of the car. Thankfully he had rented a car for the trip because there wouldn't be enough room in his car. His hands skimmed up your hips until he found your panties. With a grunt, he pulled them down enough so that he could slide his cock into you. "Oh god," you whined as he moved your hips, making you fuck down on him hard and fast, "yes, right there." He tilted his head so that he could kiss you, still fucking up into you while he guided your movements on him. One of your hands fell to his stomach, feeling his muscles contract as you both moved. Your other hand was on the headrest of his seat as you used it to grind down on him. You were lost in the feeling, both of you desperately chasing your climaxes. You could feel yours coming up on you so you spread your legs a little more and leaned back so that he was even deeper. "Look at you," he said as he raised up one of his hands to pull down the strap of your dress and bra, his mouth finding your nipple and biting down on it. "Come on, fuck, come for me." It didn't take much more than that and the friction on your clit from your own hand before you were screaming. He tugged you into a kiss, his mouth dominating yours as he slammed his hips into yours a few more times. This time when he came, you felt the rush of warmth inside you and you moaned into his mouth. You slumped against him, your forehead pressed against his shoulder. Coming back to your senses, you realized that you both had just fucked your brains out in the front seat of the car in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the day. "What are you laughing about?" Billy tilted your face up and smiled when you were unable to do more than laugh. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his grinning lips. "Just the thought of an indecent exposure charge. You're the one that didn't want to make any stops," you teased as you rocked against him. "Easy," he complained, sensitive at the moment. "There's some napkins in the console. Let's not make a mess in the rental please." It took a bit to maneuver yourself so as to not make a mess, but once you were both cleaned and redressed, Billy grabbed the keys and started the car once more. "That going to hold you over long enough for us to get to the vacation house?" You pouted but he grabbed your chin and pulled you into a kiss. With a laugh you settled back in your seat. He pulled back onto the highway and started to drive once more. Not far from where you two had parked, you saw a sign that showed a rest stop and a motel. "Hey Billy," you said as you checked how many miles to the motel. When he looked at you, you made a show of pulling your dress up and sticking your hand in your underwear. "There's a motel in three miles." His eyes moved over you hungrily before he swore, stepping on the gas a bit. "You're going to be the death of me." That in mind, you pulled your hand out of your underwear and held it out for him to lick. He sucked on your fingers eagerly. You were ready to place nicely at least until he got to the motel, but he guided your hand back to your thighs. "Keep playing," he said with a wicked grin, "but don't come yet." You bit your lip and grinned as you spread your legs a bit more. Good to know that Billy wanted to play as well.

X

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[wolf-555-writer]

Still Breathing Part 5

Hope you enjoy this part :)

Special thanks to @kaddistar who helped filling in the gaps and made the story complete with her awesome ideas ;). Thank you so much! :D

Read part 1; part 2; part 3; part 4

Alex Danvers x Reader

Word Count: 2,018

Strolling on the pavement, lit up by street lights, it finally stopped raining. Roads still covered in rain from the downfall as you step in a puddle of water. Blaming yourself for making that stupid, unnecessary joke about a sensitive topic named the DEO.  

“I mean... why? Why did I do that? Who knows what could have happened otherwise tonight... ”

On your way home, walking because it's not that far away, you feel like you're being followed. Looking cautiously over your left shoulder, you identify two shady guys. Sternly eyeing you from a distance. And both carrying weapons? One is wearing brass knuckles while the other has a club attached to his belt. You scoff. These two? Yeah, you can fight them with ease. No problem. 

As you turn your head around again, a couple of other guys are standing in front of you. Waiting and blocking the way. One holds a baseball bat, the other is unarmed and in the middle someone with a beat up, swollen face, also gripping a wooden bat tight. You slightly recognize him, but it costs a lot of effort. It's the DEO Agent you viciously beat up earlier today at DEO headquarters. Trying to protect Alex as it, um- escalated a little. 

“This time I’ll take you down! I will break you”, he howls at you, aggressively signing the bat while you keep your distance.

So… five guys, almost all armed. Can you take them all by yourself? Being slightly injured and unarmed? 

“How about no…”. You don't hesitate and sprint away as fast as you can. Crossing the dangerous street and dodging the moving cars, only concentrated on escaping. The five men initiate their manhunt for you and accelerate fast. A few seconds later you catch the sound of screeching tires and a car honking loudly. Apparently one of them got hit by a grey sedan. Knocked out cold, motionless on the hood of that vehicle. One down, four to go. 

Swiftly evading other pedestrians that you encounter in your flight as you ended up on the pavement at the other side of the road. Going back to where you came from, hoping you will reach Alex’s apartment in time. You perceived your bulky chasers had crashed into some people, hearing them cursing and shouting furiously. Guess they're not that light-footed as you. You have to admit, you're scared. No envision of how this will end. 

“Pick up, pick up!”, hollering at the phone as you had quickly pressed speed dial. You had to call her. To inform her of what’s going on right now. Desperately in need of her help since you’re on the run, attempting to get away from these crooked men. But she’s not picking up, still hearing the phone ring. You cry out again.

“Come on Alex… Just pick up the damn phone!”. She’s sure as hell mad at you, you know that. Is that the reason she’s not answering? You give up. But, no- wait, you can’t. You can’t give up. Not now. You try her again. Still nothing as the call switches to voicemail. You grunt in anger, but decide to leave a message. It’s at least something... Heavily panting as you’ve kept on running, you speak:

“Hey Alex… I’ll make it quick. Um- I’m kind of on the run... as some men want to, eh, attack m-

The call is disrupted. You make an unpleasant landing on your right shoulder and your head smashes onto the concrete. Watching your phone crack on impact because it slipped out of your hand.

“Fuck...”, you growl. One of them catched up, faster than the others, and had thrown you on the wet, dirty pavement since he ambushed you from behind. You slowed them down right?! You should have never made that useless call. Only a block away from Alex. You were almost there...

The others have also reached you while you’re still struck down. Disoriented due to your crash on the sidewalk. They start beating you up pretty bad, for sure using their weapons. Luckily you inflicted some damage, disabling one. You kicked him right between the legs. The perfect spot. Now he’s on the ground next to you, in what seems to be in insufferable pain. Good. However, there are three left, who as of now have you surrounded. It’s too late to escape. You’re trapped, seeing the baseball bat approaching fast. 

It broke a couple of your ribs. Now having difficulty breathing as you’re gasping for oxygen. Hearing the awful, disturbing sound everytime the blunt object smashes you. Curling up from the pain, bringing your knees to your chest. But one still managed to brutally kick you in the stomach with his solid boot. Only makes breathing even harder... The metal brass injuring your face while you desperately try to keep your guard up. The taste of blood dominating in your mouth and feeling excruciating pain in your whole, damn body. Not able to sense where the pain is as it’s everywhere. You can see bystanders watching, too afraid to interfere. However some are on their phone, hopefully calling 911. 

“Why aren’t they doing something?! Help me! Help...”. You try to scream, get these words out, being in a serious miserable state right now. Except no sound is generated. Not that it mattered though, judging by the look on their faces and lack of action from the people observing you. You slowly lose consciousness, unable to keep your heavy eyes open. Pain getting worse and worse by the second. Still breathing and trying to think of happy thoughts...

///

[Flashback]

Heavily panting and sweat pouring out ‘cause you’re running up a great amount of stairs. In pursuit, chasing an alien with fire powers. Alex is in front of you, leading the team of Agents, including you, while you’re all fully packed and geared up. The old staircase is barely lit. So you use the flashlight mounted on your rifle to provide the little light needed to find the correct pathway. You’re almost out of breath as you eventually enter the rooftop of the building through a rusty door. Having passed all eighteen floors... This absolutely qualifies as a killer workout. Feeling sweaty and extremely heated in the uniform you're wearing with a heart rate somewhere around 170 bpm. The bright sunlight blinds you for a short period. Using your arm to cover your eyes, considering you need some time to adjust due to the transitioning from darkness into the light.  

“Stop! Don't move, you're under arrest!”, Alex yells while you see another team of DEO Agents rappelling down from a transport helicopter to provide the needed backup. Except the alien doesn’t obey at all. Was to be expected... Alex reacts, firing her gun, as the alien also fires- um... fire?

“Look out!”, shouting while you quickly sprint towards Alex, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her away as she was almost burnt to a crisp. Sensing the heat radiating from the flames closeby, you both land on the gravelly rooftop. Noticing a curtain of fire had appeared, separating Alex and you from the rest of the DEO team who were still behind. Supergirl is not available at the moment since she and Director J'onzz are busy with another important case. But that’s okay, as of course, you have the situation completely under control... *cough*  

“Great...”, you exclaim as you watch the alien rapidly turning around and flee while jumping to another building nearby. Alex had already freed herself from your tight grip, because your arms were still wrapped around her, and picked herself up from the ground. She doesn’t hesitate. Focused on the fugitive, she sprints towards the building’s edge and leaps. Landing majestically on the other building’s rooftop. Seeing her, you stand up and follow. But abruptly stop at the edge. 

“How the hell do I do this? Don’t look down. Don’t look down...”. You want to continue, assist Alex in the arrest and have her back, but waver. Obviously you had peaked over the edge, following all those eighteen storeys down. Now staring into the depth. Lastly gaze focused on the distant harsh asphalt beneath, located between the two tall buildings. Suddenly gasping for air, unaware you stopped breathing for numerous seconds.      

“How does she do this so easily?”. Apparently Alex doesn’t have any form of fear. “It’s now or never”, you speak to yourself, trying to provide the immensely, well-needed courage. You take some steps back, accelerate, and jump, as powerful as you can. Heartbeat hammering in your chest. Landing on the other building while rolling over your shoulder. You experience a rush of adrenaline bursting through your veins. Seeing them in the distance, you start to race towards the alien and Alex with all the energy left. They clearly have a head-start. Hearing the helicopter blades whirring, you look over your shoulder and see the other DEO team up in the air, tracking you. Petrified every time you jump from rooftop to rooftop, but you do it anyway, not being able to forgive yourself if something happened to Alex. You hop several buildings until there is no way out anymore. Still behind, you notice the alien is now aiming for the black DEO helicopter. Most certainly wants to shoot it down. You have to act right now, or it will crash and explode, costing all the Agents inside their lives.

Slightly panicking now that you feel the pressure of executing this flawlessly. There is no room for error. You look around, focussing, searching if there is something you can throw its way. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it can be used to distract the alien long enough. Turning your head while still running, your eyes lock with a metal object. Probably from an air-ventilation system. Grabbing it while in pursuit, you aim, calculating the perfect speed and trajectory.

“Alex! Duck down!” you scream with your last breath while powerfully swinging your dominant arm. Releasing the metal fragment. Brilliantly spinning through the air towards the runaway.

The alien already had their arms locked on the DEO chopper. Ready to blast flames to set it on fire. Suddenly it gets startled by the piece of metal striking their head painfully as Alex loyally followed your instruction. Slowing your pace down, being completely exhausted and now really out of breath, you see Alex. She has the situation perfectly under control. After she ducked down to evade the flying element, she swiftly jumped on the fugitive. Who as of now is a prisoner since Alex has pinned them down to the ground, easily cuffing the suspect. If you didn’t throw that object, the events could have played out an entirely different way…

Arriving at DEO headquarters, exhausted from the chase and definitely transmitting an awful, stinky scent, you enter the main floor. Stepping inside, you hear a loud clapping sound. Quickly looking up, you notice DEO Agents applauding, including J’onn and Kara who had returned from their mission. Alex walks up to you, probably due to your peculiar expression. 

“W-why are they clapping?”, stuttering as you stare at them in confusion.

“You’re the hero of the day (Y/N)!”, she brightly answers, while you’re still perplexed. 

“But… I-I just did my job. And you were the one that actually captured the fugitive”.

“Yeah… They’re also praising me you know. This is not all for you ”, Alex sarcastically returns, wide grin on her face. “You prevented what could have been a disaster. So you deserve this (Y/N)”, while she placed her hand on your shoulder.

“Come on”, Alex gently moved her hand to your arm and pulls you towards the group of Agents. You don't like to be in the center of attention which your face is currently displaying, skin coloured vibrant red. You just did your job, right? But you obviously can’t complain. This feeling of complete joy and happiness, overflowing your entire body. It feels right. You embrace it. Every second of it. Deeply breathing in this moment of total appreciation as you feel completely wanted, right here, right now.

Continue with part 6

[chillmichelle]

Not Enough For You

Angst with a happy ending for once, haha

Rain is dropping harshly on the worn out asphalt pavement below my sneakers. By now my hair is drenched, but i’m in no rush to grab the groceries from the backseat of my car.

“You lied! I’m not sure if that isn’t a big deal to you but I need to know these things Harry!” I scream. Tears are slowly encapsulating my eyes and i’m tired from classes today as well as the personal issues i’m dealing with.

My hands are full with bags of heavy groceries as I walk to the front of the apartment complex. The man who works at the front desk hurriedly opens the door for me and I slowly walk to the elevator as my feet drag along the tiled floors. I can’t help but reminisce on the events that conspired earlier today.

“I don’t see what the problem is! You knew I was going to have to leave soon, you knew what came with my career, and you know for a fact that I would support you no matter what. So why is this such a big deal to you?”

I click the elevator button and as I wait the grocery bags are making small red imprints in the palms of my hands. I can’t seem to remember the last time I purchased groceries for my own apartment.

“The fact that she knew before me! You know I don’t like her and yet you purposely choose to tell her all of the important details in your life rather than even thinking of telling me. I’m so tired, Harry. I just want to be with you but you’re making it so hard for me.” I cross my arms, trying to keep my composure as he stands emotionless and tired in front of me.

The doors finally open and a middle-aged man with a pudgy body and a blonde beard steps out of the crammed room. He smiles as he walks past me and I try to compose myself and be sincere, even though i’m not in the mood to do so. I drag myself onto the elevator and push the silver ‘4’ button.

There’s a long pause before he finally speaks up.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? I don’t feel like fighting with you tonight. Please, I want to fix this but i’m not sure if I can right now. I have things to do to prepare for my tour.” he follows his words with a lengthy sigh and I can already tell that he’s annoyed.

The elevator halts at the 3rd floor and a girl that looks just a few years older than me hops on in sports attire. I move over to make space for her, still painfully clutching onto the heavy bags in my hands. For some reason, I refuse to let them go.

“No, I completely understand Harry. I’m just not a priority to you. The fact that she knew before me and the fact that she made an effort to know before me might just be telling me something.”

The elevator doors open and the small box is on the 4th floor. I zone out and don’t notice that the I need to get out until the girl beside me nudges my shoulder. I let out a small ‘sorry’ and smile weakly at her before stepping out of the elevator and walking down the halls of the complex to my room.

“You’re overreacting! God, if you’re going to be like this, if you’re going to overanalyze every person who walks into my life and yell at me for every little thing when half of the time you aren’t even there for me, I think we should just…” He trails off. I gulp down some air and shakily ask him.

“We should what, Harry?” I ask him. He averts his gaze away from me and now seems to show a hint of remorse.

“Y/n-”

“I think you’re right. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Or when you get back from tour, be sure to let me know when you do, by the way. Or, you know what? Maybe i’ll just hear it from her again.”

“Hey, wait, don’t-”

And I shut the door behind.

I slide the silver key to my apartment through the lock and twist it softly, opening the glass door. As I enter, I finally let down the groceries and my hands feel strange and pained from carrying them for so long. There are small bleeding cuts on my hands and I slightly wince at them but decide to leave them alone.

Taking off my bag that sits attached to my shoulder, I pull out my phone and remember how it died hours ago. I walk towards the bedroom after maneuvering my way through the bags on the floor. I attach my phone on the charger and rest my eyes until it turns back on, trying to shut out the events of today.

My hair is wet from the rain and my clothes drench the silk sheets on the bed but I don’t attempt to fix the puddles of water developing. I turn on my Macbook and open a netflix tab.

My phone turns on and almost immediately begins buzzing with text messages. I can see that a few are from a group chat, and most of them are from Harry.

‘Please talk to me’

‘I’m sorry’

‘We need to talk. I’ll drop by your place in 30 minutes.’

I check the time that the last message was sent, and realize that it was nearly 40 minutes ago. I know for a fact that he is not capable of knowing what floor or apartment I was in and I sigh temporarily of relief.

I walk over to my closet and grab a large hoodie along with some underwear, preparing to take a shower and rinse all of the rainwater out of my hair. Grabbing my clothes, I begin walking towards the shower. The intercom in my living room begins to beep.

‘y/n, there’s a guy here. Says he needs to see you and wants your room number.’

“Tell him I don’t feel like talking to him” I reply hesitantly as I wish for him to leave me alone. Remembering the hurtful things he said to me makes me never want to see his ridiculously handsome face again.

I take my finger off of the button and proceed to the restroom.

The warm water rushes down and I automatically feel relieved. I can feel my makeup wash off of my face when I lather my hair with shampoo and conditioner. I stand for a few moments in the shower before I hear a rhythmic thumping sound on the walls. Panicking, I wash the conditioner out of my hair and hurriedly change into my clothes as I proceed to the living room.

The door is shaking as the person on the other side continues to knock at it. I look through the peephole and greet a face I didn’t feel like seeing tonight.

“Harry, go away” I tell him through the door. He can’t see me, but I can clearly see how his tired face falters slightly. He knocks harder, hand now banging on the door.

“Leave!” I yell. I know he hears me telling him to go back home, but he refuses to stop slamming his hand into the door. The neighbors are probably annoyed by all of the loud noise and filing complaints by now. Annoyed by his stubborn nature, I open the door only to immediately shove him away from it.

“Leave! I don’t want to see you. You made your decision and you said all that you needed to say and I don’t want you here.” I tell him as I push against his chest one more time. My hands are burning as the cuts from before are still hurting. My desperate shoves don’t seem to do anything but nevertheless I keep trying.

He grabs my wrists and it forces me to stay still as I finally look at him. He looks tired as there are light circles tracing under his eyes and his cheeks remain blotchy and discolored.

“I love you” he tells me.

“No, you don’t ju-” He cuts me off

“Yes, I do love you. I love you and I infinitely apologize to you for not letting you know that I was going on tour. I know for a fact that you are the most supportive girlfriend I could have and I am so, so sorry.” He tells me as he loosen his grip on my wrists.

“It’s not just about that, Harry” I begin. I then realize we’re both speaking extremely loudly in a hallway with other residents at 9 o’clock P.M. “Come inside so I can talk to you”.

He steps into my spacious apartment and I realize that his hair is damp, a curl falling over his left eyebrow. I fight the urge to reach up and brush it back, sitting across from him on the couches.

“I care about you,” he stares at me intently as I pause for a second before continuing.

“People like Harry Styles, the people who are on Billboards and advertisements on time square. The ones who have number one albums and platinum singles.” I pause for a second before briefly staring at the clock hanging above the television.

“You always seem to date actresses. Models. Someone you can pose on a Vogue cover with and someone who you would casually bump into at a red carpet event. The people who don’t have to try as hard to fit you into their schedule because they already have such a similar schedule to you.” I’m trying to articulate my words, to communicate them properly so he’ll understand.

“I’m trying so hard to be that for you. I want you to tell me the events that are happening in your life so I can be there for you. And when I see you talking to her…when I see you telling her about your life and when I see you both talking about music and modeling and the industry.” I softly gesture as it helps me think of what to say. He pays attention closely to the words i’m saying.

“ It makes me feel like by going to college, by missing your concerts because I have exams or not being able to fly out to Europe to see you because I don’t have the money.” My voice begins to crack.

“ I just feel like i’m not enough for you sometimes. And I know I can’t see you in Europe, or in America, or in Japan, or wherever you go because I know I can’t make time for it.” He reaches his hand out and slowly places it on my cheek.

“So…so, I try to spend as much time as possible with you while i’m here. But you keep leaving me behind to go tell her about all of these things that I should be there for. You tell me not to be involved in your musical process and then scream at me because I’m not there for you. And I might be overreacting but I just - I just want to be there for you but it feels like she’s doing that more than I am.” I grab onto his arm and rub circles onto it with my thumb.

He stares at me intently and there’s a sadness wavering off of him.

“When I first started taking off, I realized that this was what I wanted to do.” He tells me, his voice low and raspy.

“But I also realized that I would have to leave all of my friends behind to pursue my music career. That I would never get to let loose and live the college life with the people I grew up with.” I nod my head as I urge him to continue.

“I push you away sometimes because I feel like you have better things to do than be with me. I write songs and I perform them, but you’re in college. You’re studying to change someone’s life one day. I feel insignificant sometimes because I don’t want my life to affect yours detrimentally. I don’t want you to worry about letting loose and sacrifice your college life like I had to, just because i’m doing that as well.” He sighs, I realize that he averts his gaze and rubs his eyes with his forearm.

“So I tell her about these things, these music things, because I don’t mind taking time out of her day. I don’t mind wasting her time with my boring life because she isn’t doing anything significant. Granted, I now realize that I love you and that I shouldn’t be afraid to share the highs and lows of my career with you.” He stares at me again, bringing his head closer to mine.

“I love you. And if I could have a second chance at this, I know I would make it work.” He presses his forehead against mine while resting his fingers against the sides of my face.

“I need you to tell things to me. I should be the one you tell these things to.” I tell him. He nods, letting out a breath of relief at my forgiveness.

“I love you” I tell him, pressing my lips against his. He gladly kisses back before briefly breaking apart to talk.

“Did you buy any ice cream? I was so worried that I forgot to eat.”

And you nod, heading towards the freezer to pull out his favorite flavor that you bought just in case.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot: “Fair Play” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Blaine has a crush on the head cheerleader from another school, so he does something kind of desperate to get his attention. Will pretending to be team captain for one game work out the way he hopes it will? (3244 words)

Notes: Okay, I'll admit I cheated on this one. It's another re-write. My brain is Swiss cheese, and it's been very difficult for me to think. But aside from that, as a person who has lived in the shadow of an older sibling who was always a few grades ahead of me, I have always been intrigued by the possibility of this dynamic between Blaine and Cooper. Plus, I love this story line. So, I hope you enjoy it. Dalton Blaine Anderson/Cheerio Kurt Hummel

Read on AO3.

“Please, Cooper?” Blaine begged, bearing down on his brother as the older boy tried to avoid him. “It’s just this one game.”

“I said no, Blaine!” Cooper veered toward the parking lot in hopes of losing his annoying sibling amidst the rows of cars. “You just made varsity this summer. You don’t have the stones to play team captain, even for one game!”

“It’s a scrimmage! No big deal!” Blaine whined, keeping pace with Cooper from one aisle of cars over. “Carter did it last year when his folks came down from Michigan!”

“They were getting a divorce.”

“Wes did it! And Jensen did it the year before that! It’s practically a Dalton tradition!”

Cooper shook his head in defiance, but Blaine was right. Hell, Cooper had tried it his sophomore year, trying to impress a girl from Crawford Country Day. The majority of boys who try to front as team captain do it to impress a girl. No harm in that. But Cooper swore as team captain he wouldn’t cave to ridiculous requests, and this one was about as ridiculous as they got.

“Why would you want to pretend to be captain of the lacrosse team for a lousy scrimmage anyway? There’s probably only going to be twelves of people in the stands. Leading the team to victory for this one? It’s not like it’s going to make you a lacrosse God or something.”

“I … have my reasons,” Blaine replied, his voice dropping.

“And I haven’t heard any of them. I mean, come on! You want me to go against one of my principle tenets of leadership and you won’t even tell me why? That’s not right, Squirt. We may be brothers, but we’re also teammates. And I thought we were friends.”

“We … we are friends! Coop, I …” Blaine cut himself off, waiting until he’d caught up with Cooper so he wouldn’t have to yell across the cars when he told him his secret. “It’s because … we’re playing against McKinley.”

“Yeah? So? They’ve only had a lacrosse team for about three years, and they suck. They suck hard. Why would you even want to …?” Cooper stopped short, a devilish grin overtaking his entire face. “Oh, I know what this is about!” He turned on his brother, jabbing his index finger accusingly at his chest. “It’s their head cheerleader, isn’t it? That guy … uh … Kevin! No, not Kevin. Kirk!”

“Kurt,” Blaine corrected, his voice going dreamy as he sighed the name. Cooper rolled his eyes. Oh God. It seemed that puberty had finally caught up to his little brother. It wouldn’t be any skin off Cooper’s nose to let Blaine do it. The odds of anyone in the stands knowing the difference was negligible at best. But he deliberated, searching his brain for a reason to say no. Blaine was his baby brother, after all. Cooper couldn’t let the guys on the team think he was doing him special favors because he was family.

But then Cooper realized, he couldn’t care less either way.

Let Blaine try to woo his cheerleader. Win or lose, this could be amusing to watch.

“Fine.” Cooper grabbed the shoulder of Blaine’s jersey and led his starry-eyed brother to the field. “But you know you’re going to owe me. Big time. This is my reputation on the line here.”

“It’s a scrimmage,” Blaine huffed, “against the worst team in the high school league. I would say that you owe me.”

Blaine followed Cooper to the Dalton side of the field. Spectators had started filling the stands, but huge gaps took up more space than actual bodies. Cooper was right. Barely anyone came to scrimmages, and the ones who did were killing time till later when the after parties would get underway.

Cooper motioned to the boys warming up and running drills on the grass. “Fall in, guys. Come on. Fall in, fall in,” he said, bringing his team in for a huddle. “Alright, gentlemen, we’re going to be changing things up for today’s scrimmage. In the grand tradition of Dalton boys who've ever wanted to bang an away team cheerleader, Blainey here” – Cooper put heavy hands on his brother’s shoulders and shook him like a rag doll – “will be taking over as team captain. Let’s try and make him look good. If he manages to get himself laid, drinks are on him.”

One boy bitched about nepotism being expressly against the Dalton Academy charter, but the rest of the team hollered, clapping Blaine on the shoulder and making suggestive remarks about the inadequacy of his ball and stick handling as they retreated to the locker rooms to suit up. They passed through the parking lot as the McKinley buses rolled onto the asphalt. Blaine dropped back, walking slowly and peeking over the cars to see if he could catch a glimpse of the cheerleaders’ bus. It was a long shot that the varsity cheerleaders would even be there. Sometimes only the JV cheerleaders accompanied the lacrosse team on away games.

The varsity Cheerios were National Champions, and the McKinley lacrosse team was that bad.

No need to send rock stars to cheer on a sinking ship.

The guys caught Blaine lagging and grabbed him. They surrounded him, dragging him through the parking lot, not giving him a chance for any further investigation.

“You … you jerks!” Blaine grunted, trying to pull away, but four boys had him, one on each limb, and that was enough to subdue him.

“Calm your tits, Anderson,” one of the seniors said. “Your cheerleader’s here.”

After that, Blaine gave up the struggle. That was all he needed to hear.

***

When the Dalton team came back out onto the field, geared up and ready to play, the McKinley team was already there, gathered in a huddle, talking over their plays. The cheerleaders had assembled on the sidelines, some of them stretching, some practicing cheers. In the middle, helping a junior cheerleader thread red and white ribbon curls into her high pony, stood Kurt. He looked as miraculous in his formfitting uniform today as he did the first time Blaine saw him, at their first Dalton/McKinley scrimmage, which took place at McKinley High last season. Ever since then, Blaine’s had been a long distance infatuation. He followed the cheerleading blogs, signed up for a fake student account on the McKinley website so he could view the team’s student access only webpage, and went to every cheerleading competition he could in order to cheer Kurt on. Blaine stalked Kurt on every form of social media, sending him anonymous messages on Tumblr and poking him on Facebook. And when Kurt’s boyfriend of two years broke up with him, Blaine ‘liked’ his Facebook status and silently cheered, hoping that this was the year he might get his chance.

Blaine had to come up with a gesture, something big to win Kurt over, but first, he had to make sure that Kurt knew he was alive. Being team captain was part one of that master plan. (There wasn’t really a part two. After Cooper’s initial ‘being a member of the Dalton lacrosse team is an honor and a privilege’ speech, where he outlined that under no circumstances would any player be receiving preferential treatment no matter who they were or how well they played, Blaine didn’t think he’d get this far.)

But it didn’t matter, since it didn’t seem to be doing the trick. Even when the Dalton team took to the field and the announcer went through the team roster, mentioning that Blaine would take the place of team captain for the scrimmage, Kurt barely looked his way, deeply embroiled in a discussion with two other cheerleaders over the correct way to land a round off-whip-double back handspring-layout, a move that Kurt demonstrated so effortlessly, so flawlessly, Blaine couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

Blaine didn’t know how much Kurt was paying attention during the actual game, but the opposing team figured out fairly early on that Blaine was distracted, and he became their main target - a critical failing of McKinley’s team. But the majority of their lacrosse team was made up of football players after McKinley’s ‘acting principal’ disbanded the football team in order to redistribute football funds to the cheerleading squad. No one knew the whole story. Most people assumed it was a joke. Regardless, the Dalton team readjusted their strategy, and it eventually worked to their advantage.  

Blaine wanted to keep an eye on Kurt, to see if Kurt was watching him, or just to watch Kurt flip, which Blaine could do all day, but he had to keep his head in the game or he was going to make a bigger ass of himself than he had already. He only saw Kurt in snippets and side-glances, cheering for his team, one time performing a jump split that almost stopped Blaine in his tracks. The next time Blaine got a chance to look Kurt’s way, there was a guy standing beside him. Blaine didn’t know if Kurt knew the guy. He wasn’t wearing Dalton or McKinley colors. From what Blaine could tell, Kurt didn’t seem very comfortable around him. The boy introduced himself, and Kurt nodded politely. The boy talked to him, and Kurt took a few steps away. Then Kurt excused himself, going back to his bag for a water bottle, and while the other cheerleaders formed a pyramid, the boy grabbed Kurt. He put a hand over Kurt’s mouth and dragged him toward the bleachers. Dalton had control of the ball when Blaine saw, but whether they did or not, it only took him a second to decide what to do.

“Time out!” he screamed. “Time out! I’m calling a time out!”

“Dalton Academy has called for a time out,” the announcer said over the sound system, then continued to jabber on about how this was their first time out, what the score was, and yada-yada-yada. Blaine didn’t care. He’d stopped listening, zeroing in on the boy with his hands all over Kurt.

“Blaine!” he heard Cooper yell. “You can’t call a time out now!” but Blaine was already running across the grass towards the far bleachers.

The McKinley cheerleaders knew Blaine had a thing for Kurt. They’d been teasing Kurt about it for most of the game, which was why he had drifted away from the pack - to escape the persistent jokes for a while. When the giggling girls saw Blaine coming, face set as stone, eyes seething, they realized that Kurt wasn’t with them. They fanned out along the sidelines, looking for their missing captain. A brunette cheerleader found him and his attacker. She grabbed at the larger boy’s shoulders and shoved him. He stumbled forward, but didn’t let go. He had a firm hold on Kurt’s waist, and took Kurt down to the grass with him.

“Get off of me!” Kurt screamed, spinning around and getting in a right hook that made Blaine wince, both for the impact to the boy’s jaw and Kurt’s fist. “Let go of me!”

One of the other cheerleaders kicked the boy in the side while another tried to pry Kurt up, but the boy on the ground was too massive for any of it to be effective.

The people in the bleachers were too far away or too preoccupied to see the attack going on, but other players on the field began to take notice. One exceedingly tall boy (whom Blaine had heard referred to as ‘Frankenteen’ by one of his teammates) bellowed, “Kurt! Oh my God! Kurt!” from the field behind them.

“Hey! Butt wipe!” Blaine yelled, throwing down his stick. “Let him go!”

The boy on the ground looked past a fighting Kurt in his arms to Blaine standing over them and chuckled. “Or what, prep school?”

Blaine didn’t say. He simply walked up to the boy and planted his cleated heel into the boy’s crotch. The boy, wearing sweat pants, wailed in pain. He reached for his groin and Kurt took the opportunity to bolt from his arms.

“Or that,” Blaine said, more sadistic than smug, as he stood and waited for the boy to stand, or for an official, a coach, or a referee to come out and do something. Blaine could have left it at that. He could have walked Kurt away and let the officials take over, but then the boy on the ground sat up, and he had to open his big, dumb mouth.

“You can have the fucking slut,” he grumbled through gritted teeth. “He’s not worth it.”

That’s the moment when any shred of Blaine’s good judgment flew straight out the window and he slugged the boy in the nose with the force of seven years of boxing and three years of Dalton Fight Club behind it.

“Holy fuck!” the boy screamed, hands cupping his face, blood dribbling past his palms and down his chin.

Ironically, that’s when the adults took action. In about half-a-second after Blaine’s punch, the officials and the referees made a ruling.

“Acting team captain for Dalton Academy Blaine Anderson has been disqualified for un-sportsman-like behavior!”

The stadium roared, spectators from both sides who had witnessed the scuffle on their feet when the announcement was made. The McKinley cheerleaders rushed the officials’ box, both teams converged on the referees, everyone vying for a reversal of the call considering the circumstances. But Blaine knew it wouldn’t happen. He’d gone a step too far, and there was nothing he could do about it.

But he wasn’t going to apologize. No frickin’ way.

Blaine didn’t hear anything else. He didn’t look to see what was happening. He knew that Kurt was with his team and safe, and that was all that mattered. Aside from that, he didn’t want to be there anymore. He picked up his stick and walked off the sidelines, feeling the eyes of the school, the crowd, and Kurt, watch him go.

Blaine walked straight back to the locker room and started to undress. He packed his uniform in his gear bag, deciding he’d wait to take his shower at home. He didn’t want to stick around. He should probably just leave his gear there. He blew it this time. Not only did he not win the guy, he was going to get tossed from the team for sure.

And knowing his brother, he’d be hand-washing jock straps all weekend long to boot.

Somewhere between putting his sneakers on and starting to tighten them, he heard a throat cleared. He assumed it was Cooper, fresh off the field to mock him and tell him what for, rib him for throwing his high school lacrosse career away for a guy he didn’t even get. It would be dubbed ‘a classic Blaine maneuver’ from now on. Anyone who screwed up in anyway anyhow trying to get a date will be said to have pulled a Blaine.

And he had a whole year of hearing that to look forward to.

But Blaine didn’t have time to mope about that because he had bigger issues ahead. Without lacrosse, Blaine would have to search out other extracurriculars, like yearbook, or photography. Maybe stamp club was looking for a president, provided they were willing to have a loser of his caliber head their organization. But he needed something to pad his NYU application since lacrosse was off the table. The Warblers would be next after word got out. This isn’t a Warbler activity, but they have a morals clause. If he is caught displaying behavior unbefitting a Warbler at any time, he could be expelled.

Blaine had read the Warbler bylaws from cover to cover. Fighting was considered a one-strike offense.

He’d figure something out. He just didn’t want to figure it out now, and not with Cooper’s inevitable sarcastic excuse for help. Cooper was his only brother, so he should be sympathetic, but Blaine always got the feeling that Cooper thought he existed solely for his amusement.

“Look, Coop” - Blaine kept his head lowered as he tied his shoes so he wouldn’t have to see the I told you so grin on Cooper’s conceited face - “whatever you’re going to say, save it. I’m not in the mood for your crap.”

“I was going to say thank you.”

Blaine’s eyes snapped up. It wasn’t Cooper … thank God! Blaine smiled, surprised to see Kurt standing in the doorway. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Kurt said, stepping into the locker room. He had his red-and-white cheer duffle thrown over his shoulder, and he favored his right hand, which was wrapped in an Ace bandage. “I wanted to talk to you, but you left so quickly.”

“Being disqualified will do that to you.” Blaine tried to sound bitter but failed with this handsome cheerleader’s beautiful blue eyes gazing at him with admiration.

“They’re still discussing that, actually. The game’s a wash, but after all the people who rushed the field to vouch for you, you might get off with a warning.”

“Yeah?” Blaine felt relieved, not that helping Kurt wasn’t worth getting disqualified over. It totally was, but it was nice to know that so many people went to bat for him … which probably meant Cooper did, too.

Shoot. Now he owed him two.

“I just came by to … I wanted to … you know, thank you, for coming to my rescue.”

“You’re welcome.” Blaine let himself feel hopeful, but not too carried away. “But you don’t have to thank me. That guy was an ass. He got what he deserved.”

“And then some.” Kurt chuckled, thinking back on the boy lying in the grass with his hands over his nose, blood pouring out like a geyser.

“No.” Blaine stood and took a step up to Kurt with anger simmering behind his eyes. “No, he got exactly what he deserved. No less.”

Kurt bit his lower lip and nodded, taken back by Blaine’s conviction.

“Anyway,” Kurt said, “I thought that maybe since you forfeited a scrimmage to help me out, I might introduce myself. You know, properly.”

“Uh, sure. Okay.” Blaine held his right hand out for Kurt to shake, mildly uncomfortable now that the time had come for him to tell the truth. “I’m Blaine Anderson. I begged my brother Cooper to let me be captain for the scrimmage so that maybe you would notice me.”

“And it worked.” Kurt reached for Blaine’s hand, but at the sight of the bandage, he switched, shaking Blaine’s hand awkwardly with his left. “I’m Kurt Hummel. I spent the last hour or so watching you get your ass handed to you, and I wanted to know if maybe you’d consider getting coffee with me?”

“Don’t you have to go back with your bus?” Blaine asked, mentally kicking himself right after for not saying the words, “Yes! I’d love to!” instead.

“Well, I am head cheerleader,” Kurt said, rocking back and forth on nervous feet. “I can pretty much do whatever I want.”

Blaine liked the sound of that, since doing whatever he wanted might include dating a member of an opposing team.

“Yeah,” Blaine said, tossing the last of his stuff into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good,” Kurt said, taking Blaine’s arm when he offered it. “I didn’t want to think you were stalking me on Facebook because you were some run-of-the-mill creeper.”