#at everything

+bonus to first day bc PRETTYYYY

The Rebuilt Avengers Tower, NYC, Present day (or so)

You need to get out.

Right FUCKING now. Like, this instant.

Out of this team, out of this city, out of the state- dammit, the country, out of this godforsaken mess of a job and away from the absolute PSYCHOS you just had the misfortune of spending the last 12 hours with. 12? 24? How fucking long has it been? Goddammit.

You could just go back to England. Yeah. Back to England, back to your family, back to your girlfriend who they dumped with no hesitation, back to your FIANCÉE who you abandoned without a second thought. Yeah. You could do that. It’s not like you wanted to abandon them. You’re not that cruel. Honestly. But when you’ve spent the last few years in and out of jobs, you tend to get desperate. And when you have the opportunity to better your family’s life, you take it. And when your girlfriend says ‘it’s either me or America’, you pick America, because you can finally buy yourself a house, have a stable job, rebuild the life you’ve wasted, marry that damn woman you’ve adored all these years, right?

And it’s not like you left completely. You pay the bills, every month. Even when you were homeless, you were paying the mortgage and the taxes and everything. And for the first five years, you tried visiting Erica, and Erica’s parents said no. So again. Not your fault.

Erica’s parents never did really like their daughter dating an ex-con. They waited for any damn opportunity to get you out of the picture. This job was a blessing to them.

This job. Working for Tony fucking Stark. Until the bastard died. Not that you blamed him. He was a terrific man. Too terrific. Genius hotshot, kept you on your toes, but a helluva boss. (NOT A REFERENCE ISTG-) Parties, every damn week. Well, hebdomadally, as Tony used to say. You never went. Too loud. Too many people. They had work tomorrow. Or some other, shitty, barely-there excuse to justify you staying at home, where you would have been indulging in the Finnish pastime of ‘kalsarikännit’.

Now, you regret that a lot. Tony was a good guy. You didn’t spend enough time with him. Especially after all he did for you. He had been always there for you, after prison. You didn’t value that enough. And now he wasn’t there anymore. And you never got to say thank you.

You, Rye, power-walked (as well as they could, with their leg) down Park Avenue, towards one of the many bars, to pound whiskey or something. Whatever the cheapest way was to get drunk, you’d take it.

To think all this shit started 4 years ago. After the Blip. It was… rough. Tony died, and therefore you couldn’t keep your job. Grief swallowed you, so you swallowed alcohol, drugs, whatever kept you high or drunk enough to forget your closest friend. Tony got replaced by the bottom of the bottle; you saw that glass more than you ever saw Tony.

4 years ago. 4 years ago, you, Rye, were homeless on the streets, wasted out of your mind, singing like a drunkard. The alleys had become your home, a cardboard box your king-sized bed. The dumpster was your kitchen, and you shared your bathroom with the park. Stole whatever you could find, ate 5 star meals out of rotten takeout. Just pick off the mould and rat droppings, and you got yourself gourmet plastic noodles and chemically-flavoured sauce. Mmmm. Dinner.

Right. So, you’re drinking and feasting, and laughing like a madman, when you see a gal walk by. Pretty hot, mind ya. Red hair, green eyes- like Natasha, kinda. She’s uncomfortable. Why? Some buggar’s following her. Obviously. So, of course, you, Rye, the thrill-seeker you are, follow. The gal’s running in her high-heels, which are clacking down the road. She smells like daddy’s money, for sure, and looks it too. And the guy… eugh. Smells worse than you. And you’re homeless. The gal’s backed into a corner. The guy’s brandishing a knife. She ain’t surviving, that’s clear.

You therefore choose to take matters into your own hands. Tony taught you some attack methods. A grab here, a punch there, and a couple head-slams later, the guy’s dead, like, DEAD-dead, blood splattered on the walls of the alley. The girl fled, but the cops arrived, and now you’re in prison. So much for being nice. And after spending a few weeks in prison, a special someone comes a’knockin’.

Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Bails you out like nobody’s business. Says to join OXE. Clean-up-crew, she says. Okay. Great. A chance to get honest money as a cleaner, then. Janitor? Sure. You’ve never been one to shun from being a sanitation worker. Although why would one go through the trouble of bailing someone out of jail for that? You found out soon enough. ‘Clean up’ didn’t mean ‘trash’. It meant cleaning up OXE’s messes, little problems and such. Failed experiments, dead bodies, scientists who won’t keep their mouth shut, the likes.

The OXE Vault, Utah, Around A Day Ago (or so)

Present day. Well, nearly present day. A day ago, Val had sent you to Utah. Fun. Not too bad. Just go in, retrieve some data, and get out. From a vault. OXE vault. You thought they’d get to visit the Great Salt Lake. They thought wrong.

You entered the vault, quiet. No guards. Weird. But, not a complaint. Maybe Val had informed the guards that Rye was coming. Neat. Easy job, in and out. You didn’t even bother to carry a gun. Why would you? Plus, the entry was too easy. An elevator trip down, and you were already here.

Piece of cake. So, you were in the vault, now. It was… dark. Cold. Clearly was created to keep people out. The walls were thick, titanium-lined, and were sonorous when you banged your fist on them. The room was filled with boxes. Boxes upon boxes upon boxes. And a table near the side, scattered with papers, blueprints, designs, information. You took a moment to scan them.

Project… Sentry? You had heard Mel discuss it a bit. Another failed experiment, all hush-hush. They were planning to make a superhero more powerful than all the original Avengers, combined. Val said there’d be a computer. No computer. Not as of right now—

What was that? Your head perked up. Footsteps. Light. Careful. Almost intruding. Female. Okay. Not- not great. Yeah. Should- Val didn’t say there’d be other people. She’s not safe. She could be trying to kill you. And you didn’t bring a gun!

You ducked behind some boxes, out of sight.

A blonde woman walked in. Damn, she’s hot. Respectfully. Like in a ‘she’d-kill-you-with-no-hesitation-and-you’d-thank-her-most-graciously’ kinda way. Maybe she was a guard. Why were you panicking again?

She walked up to the table, eyeing the papers on the desk. For a moment, nothing was happening. Maybe it’s safe to come out-

Nope. More footsteps. Heavy. Angry. Male. The woman looked up to see CAPTAIN AMERICA?— no, must be a cosplayer— a fake Captain America— let’s call him Fake Captain America™— power-walking to her, before firing rapidly. She held up a briefcase, which (somehow) deflected the bullets. FCA™ threw out his mag to the side, landing dangerously close to your hiding spot. You picked it up, still concealed. Why- why throw this away? Does he not need it anymore? You pocketed it, because at least they’d have some proof on why you were escaping, so that Val didn’t blame you.

Time to abandon mission. Sorry Val, but you wanna live today. And this wasn’t the plan. Maybe the blonde woman was a thief, and FCA™ was employed as a guard to help. Yeah. That works. Yeah, Rye, don’t feel bad about abandoning the blonde, she’s probably bad. Just GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.

You traversed across the room, your prize the open vault door, the clang of metal and grunts behind them. At one point, FCA™ totally got body-slammed, which you just missed seeing, unfortunately. Then a whole lotta shouting, and bullets ricocheting of boxes wayyy too close to your head for comfort. But onwards you went, crawling to the doors.

Until the third challenger arrived. And the fourth. You missed the order, because they were both masked, but suddenly, Debbie Harry’s trying to kill Vanellope von Schweetz, who’s gunning down Skeletor, who’s shooting FCA™, who’s still after Debbie Harry, and now it’s clear to you that none of these people are guards, and you should REALLY get a move on before they become collateral damage, when Vanellope appears in front of Skeletor and shoots her in the head. Point blank. No warning.

Ho. Ly. Shit.

You make a break for it. Shit just got real. You ran for the door, out in the open, exposed. Someone fired, and a few piercing bolts of pain ran up your leg. You groaned, collapsing to the ground in pain, hot tears filling your eyes. Because yeah, you’re like an assasin, but you’re still a human, who still feels pain. This isn’t a Bollywood movie. You got SHOT, dammit.

You sobbed in pain, limping to the exit, gasping, until Vanellope appears in front of you, gun pointed at your head. Cue the waterworks.

“No, no, please, I don’t wanna die, please, I’m just doing my job, I swear, please don’t kill me—” and you’re pretty sure your nose is running like a Roman, all over your face, and your face is puffy, but you’re grovelling, aren’t you? And there’s nowhere to run. You backed up, crawling, until your back hit the wall, and you even contemplated scaling up the wall like Spider-Man, all while these three stared down at you, barrels a’blazin’. You dragged your wounded leg, blood blooming through your trousers, smearing on the floor. Was this it? This was it for you, wasn’t it?

You thought of Erica in that moment. Erica and Drew and Tony. Regretting leaving Erica for America. Regretting not spending enough time with Tony when you had the chance. Regretting never getting to say goodbye to Drew before you got incarcerated the first time. You squeezed your eyes shut. If this was the end, so be it. You didn’t wanna see the trigger get pulled though.

God, what was that awful clatter?

The box opposite them opened. A man in scrubs crawled out, coughing, retching, hands terrified. All weapons were now trained on him. Scrubs put his hands up, staggering to his feet. He tried running out of the vault, but the door slammed down, locking them all inside.

Shit.

“Is she actually dead?” He pointed at the dead woman on the floor.

“Who, Skeletor?”

“What- oh- oh, I see it. Yeah.”

“Looks like it.” You tried to get free, but Vanellope stood on your wound, pinning you to the spot. FCA cocked his gun at Scrubs, earning a squeak from the latter.

“Whoa. No. Hi. Hey. I’m- I’m Bob.”

Bob. Now, where have you heard that before?

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

“Who are you?” Vanellope walked away from you, closer to Bob.

“I’m I’m Bob. I told you. I’m, uh… Yeah. Bob.” Yeah. Just Bob.

“Jesus Christ. Stop saying ‘Bob’.” Douche much? You glanced up at FCA, still nursing your leg, picking at the bullet holes. The blood was drying, so your clothes were sticking to your skin.

“Who sent you, Bob?” Debbie Harry’s turn. Oh, she’s Russian!

Bob look confused. “N-Nobody. Why would I be sent? Were you all- You were all sent?”

Sent? The hell did they get sent for?

“You’re also here to collect data?” That got the others confused at staring down at you on the floor.

Vanellope rolled her eyes, putting her gun down. “Okay, I’m not sure what’s happening here, but you’re all exhausting and my job is done, so—” Debbie stopped her, pointing her gun at her target. “Ah, but you see my job is to keep an eye on you. You and them down there,” she said, gesturing to you on the floor. “So, no, you are not gonna go anywhere anymore.”

That earned a scoff from FCA. “So you’re keeping an eye on those two, huh?That’s a halfway decent cover for somebody stealing assets from OXE.”

“I’m not stealing. They’re stealing.”

Silence…

“Seriously, none of you are just here collecting data? Who- who even are you guys?!” You looked almost innocent now. Debbie sighed.

“Okay. It’s clear we have all worked for Valentina in some sort of shadow ops capacity.” Yeah. OXE. CUC.

“Yeah. So?”

“So all of this stuff is OXE’s secrets.” She gestured to the room. “But so are we. Which makes us liabilities that no one would miss.”

“Oh, speak for yourself.” FCA scoffed, crossing his arms and looking away.

“He’s right, my girlfriend’s gonna miss me—” Interrupted.

“We are the evidence, and this is the shredder. She wants us gone!”

…woah. Val wants them gone. That- that hurt.

You remembered when Val bailed you out. Back in the jumpsuit, you trailed after the Contessa through the cells. Usu remembered the cheers you got from the fellow inmates, rowdy like monkeys at the zoo. User hair was longer, and you were a lot paler, courtesy of your addictions. You remembered waving goodbye to the allies that you had made, Ripsaw, Asshat, Virgin Killer, smiling ruefully. They were criminals, but they had become family in the short timespan you had in prison. Not like your first incarceration. And Val had been so… nice. Firm, but nice. She had talked about how she had ‘sought you out especially’, had plans to make you ‘a real hero, with an actual purpose.’ No longer the Pariah. Something more. Something worth it. Something worth… living for. This job- this job had become just that. God, how foolish had you been to accept so easily?! Val didn’t need you, duh. You couldn’t kill— not without apologising 20 times first— couldn’t torture, barely could dodge bullets. You already knew you were expendable. Why were you seeking retribution? Why seek that when you were nothing in the first place?

“Your theory’s flawed.” FCA’s voice snapped you out of you spiral. Debbie scoffed.

“Oh, please. Go on.”

“Okay. Well, look at the facts.” FCA walked up to Vanellope, then past her. “The infamous Ghost. A SHIELD reject on the run from 15 nations ‘Cause the dead one over there, she destroyed half of Budapest—”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Debbie spat out, eyes dark.

“And you, former Red Room assassin. God only knows the blood on your hands.” You were still trying to wrap their head around this.

“And you!” FCA gestured down at you. “Arrested for years! And then arrested again! Both for murder! Honestly!”

“Uh, actually—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes sir.” You shut up. You didn’t need more bullets in your legs. You just glanced at Bob, who looked incredibly nervous, and flashed a weak smile at him. This was probably terrifying for him, wasn’t it? Stuck in a room with psychos.

“A-are you okay?” Bob was talking to you now. You barely processed it, but nodded. The pain was still excruciating, but had previously been dulled by fear. Now, it reared its ugly head, loud, hot and piercing, and you saw stars.

“…fuck…” you mumbled, turning away from everyone.

“Pretty ludicrous, coming from the dimestore Captain America.” Vanellope smirked, tilting her head. She had a point there.

FCA got reaaaaaal haughty then. “I’ll have you know I was actually the official Captain America, so…”

Debbie scoffed. “Yeah, for, like, two seconds, before you publicly murdered an innocent man on the streets. Do I have that right?”

“Really? Define ‘innocent’. Hey, look. I’m a decorated combat veteran, okay? I have a loving wife and a son. Let’s be honest, you guys are just cheap mercenaries. Okay?”

You raised you hand to interject. “I’m not a mercenary—”

“I said shut. Up.”

“Yup. Sorry.” You looked down again, silent. Just shut up, Rye, stop talking. Why— why do you wanna get shot again, eh?

FCA continued. “So, clearly, I’m supposed to bring you in.” This set Debbie and Vanellope off laughing. Hysterically. Belly laughs and all. FCA laughed too, a little less enthusiastically. You glanced at Bob, making eye contact, both nervous, before you both joined in too, albeit quietly.

Debbie sighed. “That was funny. Thank you. We needed that.” She smiled, tilting her head and helping you up, propping the wounded person against a box to sit in comfort instead of on the floor. “Sorry for shooting you. Mission, you know? Thought you were a spy—” you waved her concerns off dismissively, smiling ruefully.

“Not the first time I’ve been rendered more useless than I usually am. Really should have brought a gun. That’s on me, fully.”

Bob chuckled. “It was getting so tense in here for a second-” FCA shot Bob a sharp glare, eyes dark. Bob swallowed, nervous, and looked down. Why was this guy so intimidating? What’s up his arse?

“I’m not leaving here without completing my mission. Valentina gave me a clean slate guarantee, and I’m not screwing that up.”

“She gave us all a clean slate guarantee.” They knew what he was gonna say. Shut. Up.

FCA continued. “But this weirdo wasn’t part of the job, so I gotta know…” he cocked his head, smirking disdainfully. “How’d you get in?”

All eyes on Bob, who was scared shitless, clearly. He gulped, glancing around for an escape fruitlessly. “I don’t— I don’t remember.”

Silence.

“…Terrific answer.” FCA scoffed, walking past, before standing in front of the three others, authoritative. “All right, um… Tie yourselves up—”

“Wow. No—”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m so sorry, please let me interrupt here, sirs and ma’am’s.” All eyes on you now.

…

“…who even are you guys…?!”

SO THAT’S PART 1. Hasn’t even got to the bit why I WANTED to write this fic, but yeah.

FEEDBACK I BEG YOU

If you’re confused by the shitty nicknames and random characters, here’s a brief explanation without spoiling too much (feel free to skip):

-Debbie Harry is the lead singer of Blondie. She herself is blonde. I wanted to call Yelena ‘Blondie’ but that was too niche to me and Blondie was around in 1974 and Rye was around in 1974 so it felt more personal (for Rye) to see Yelena as Debbie Harry.

-FCA™ is short for Fake Captain America™. Unoriginal, ik, but also pretty obvious who it is (it’s Walker). It also is apart of the UK government (Financial Conduct Authority) which idk, it’s a little ironic. Also Rye spent time in England, so they’d know this. I want to call him Captain Shamerica, because one, Captain America, two, Chris Evan’s ‘shmaptain shmerica’ and three, Sham-erica, as in, because he’s fake? *badum tss*

I’m sorry.

-Vanellope von Schweetz is a video-game character from the Disney movie Wreck-It Ralph who has ‘pixlexia’, which makes her glitch a lot. She can teleport because of it too. It’s a disability which ostracises her but eventually she sees it as a gift. Also she isn’t born with it, it was forced on her. Kinda similar to Ava, idk, perhaps? Rye knows about it because Erica showed her. Erica also said that Ralph reminded her of them (aww).

-Skeletor is a villain from He-Man who has a skull for a head and a buff body. Taskmaster’s mask looks like a skull. So there we go. Also He-Man is a pretty old show, so fits, based on the timeline I made.

-Scrubs is the worst nickname I could ever come up with, he’s not even wearing scrubs, this is like Tony making a fake name called ‘Howard Potts’ in Endgame. I will do better for Red Guardian, I swear. Rye already knows who Bucky is. Rye also finds it strange how everyone knows who they are, but that reason will be explained later on.

-Erica is Rye’s fiancée who they abandoned years ago to work with Tony. They still love her. Unsure if it’s reciprocated yet.

-Drew is Rye’s fiancé from years ago who they abandoned because they got arrested. They also still love him, but he didn’t wanna see them again, for reasons I will explain later.

-Ripsaw, Asshat, Virgin Killer are just other criminals. They’re relevant for reasons I will explain later.

-Rye knows Tony because of reasons I will explain later.

-Rye is called the Pariah for REASONS I WILL EXPLAIN LATER-

Thank you sincerely for reading pt1 of this shitty fic. I appreciate it. And sorry I’m lowkey insane, swearing half of the time and being Downton Abbey the other half. I can’t change, but I’m trying, I assure you. Also all em-dashes are intentional. Not AI. In case anyone suspects that. All me.

this is my sweetest boy hyukie

kai is an absolute fucking fiend when it comes to going down on someone... i just know it. his eyes are too pretty and his nose is too perfect, he belongs between legs!!

he looks up at them from where hes slotted between their legs, eyelids heavy, his mouth agape, pretty lips shiny, red, and swollen from eating pussy as he usually does (as if its his last meal, as if hes a starved man, etc etc). his pupils are blown entirely, dark eyes sparkling dangerously in the dim evening light streaming in through the window. 

he breathes almost as heavily as the object of his affection, cheeks flushed rosy, his mouth, chin, and nose glistening with a mixture of spit and slick that elicits a physical reaction from whoever is lucky enough to see him this way. he simply looks too good to be true. surely some divine, otherworldly force has blessed all afab people by bestowing him with his priceless gift for eating pussy. 

he’s the type to hoist one leg (or both) over his shoulder to get better access and show off his strength (just a little). he’s a perfect split between a tongue fucker and a clit sucker, but when he gets his hands involved? man is on a fucking mission. as good as he is with just his mouth, his fingers are made to be inside someone, long and pretty and built perfectly to curl exactly into the right spots, working his partner open until theyre almost crying, begging for him to make them cum. not to mention the callouses from playing guitar... <3