A.N./ Ok, I hate doing these cuz I feel like it gets in the way of the story but I deemed it necessary and important enough. So here it goes. I re-read my whole story and I realized that the very first chapter was completely wrong, and by that I mean that I skipped a really important part in the sequence which was [Why Pepper changed her mind so quickly?]. Ya' know how she was badgering Tony for not doing his work then suddenly she pulls a 180 and tells him to stop working? Well yeah, my bad guys. Total fail from my part. So I fixed it (plus a lot of grammatical errors), so if you'd like to go back and read it again, by all means do. Then I fixed the second chapter which was full of grammatical mistakes, so you are welcome to re-read the story if you'd like. (I'm sorry; I'm just a die-hard perfectionist and suffer from a case of OCD called stupidity.) Moving on! So here's the third chapter. Sorry for being so late. I've been lazy as hell and school hasn't made it any easier. (I'm in my high school senior year, can you blame me? Oh well, yes you can.) Hope you guys like it! :) Happy reading!
His eyes hurt.
His nose was runny.
His face itched.
His stomach churned.
His head throbbed.
His body was sweaty.
His life was shit.
Or so he thought.
For someone who was generally chipper and content, his current mood could put any depressive psycho killer to shame. He had the oddest urge to just punch someone in the face or set the most random thing on fire.
(And really, who could blame him?)
He sniffed and used yet another tissue to wipe his nose. The aforementioned body part was sore and red and terribly abused. He groaned as he sat straight up in an effort to take off his t-shirt. Once the offending garment was peeled off his sweaty body (or living corpse as he referred to it) he threw it rather violently at the hamper, promptly missing his target and landing on the floor.
He scowled and growled at the piece of black fabric (or mutherfucking asshole, same difference).
His right arm shot out and slammed against his desk as he violently searched for someth-Oh! There it is!
He grabbed the small contraption and pressed a button on it. (It's a remote! How did you guess?) A few moments later he pressed yet another button and then his room was filled with music. His satisfaction was not met, so he smashed his finger repeatedly on the volume+button until he could feel the bass vibrating in his skull and rattling his teeth.
That did nothing to help his headache.
(Ugghh…)
He ignored the- rather rhythmic -pounding in his head and turned back to stare at the magic window of light he called a monitor. (Not to brag or anything, but his so-called-monitor was actually just his laptop hooked up to his 32inch HD TV.)
A big thanks to Sony and their Bravias, eh?
As I was saying, he stared at his monitor (TV) as he read, over and over, the lines of text he had written only minutes ago. He checked the spelling and grammar for what felt like years until he was satisfied with his outcome. Once he was done with that-
-he checked it again.
Steve Rogers was a smart cookie. He was brilliant in fact! He had graduated High School with high honors and quite a high GPA. Yes, he was smart and he excelled at most of what he did.
Except English.
Or anything that required writing for that matter. He could read hundreds upon thousands of books and he could talk your ear off about pretty much any topic. But writing? He had some sort of mental atrophy that only allowed him to write the most horrid of atrocities that no one had the pleasure of ever understanding. It was, in a sense, correct if you really thought about the meaning and/or context in which his words where placed.
But his grammar sucked ass.
He was better off writing in form of a text message (because those he could write perfectly) instead of having to put together articulated words and fancy-shmancy referential phrases which, in all-do-respect, seemed pointless and moronic to him.
Truth be told, he could do it; of course he could! He could write perfectly if he so desired (he was smart remember?) but his attention span was that of a mosquito whenever it came to writing down whatever happened to float around his estranged mind. Give him a book to memorize and have him recite it completely and he will most likely do it.
Give him an hour to write five pages of "Why Music is Essential to Man Kind's Life" and he will most likely die.
All exaggerations aside, Steve really was under pressure and the fact that he was sick didn't make things any better.
He grumbled as he took the remote from his desk and began smashing the volume+button again. But, for some reason, the volume did not rise. He looked back at his radio and pointed the device towards it, bashing the button yet again. Still, the music did not get any louder.
He cursed and turned back towards his computer.
Deciding to check his email, he fired up his browser and set out to read his most recent messages. Skipping over all the junk mail, he came upon his weekly "Your Personal YouTube Digest" email and he clicked on it to see what new videos were out.
The music suddenly stopped and he grumbled. He had forgotten to press the repeat button and now he was stuck without music. He dragged his mouse over to a Ray William Johnson video and clicked on the link.
While the video loaded he played with his mechanical pencil (who uses #2 pencils anymore?) which consequently slipped off his grasp and fell to the floor. (And since it cannot ever stay where it lands, it just had to roll under his desk. He sighed as he leaned down to pick it up.
"HEY WHAT'S UP YOU GUYS!?"
Steve's head promptly slammed against the underside of his desk. "FUCK!" He shouted and crawled away from the offending piece of furniture. (Everything was offensive today.) His pencil had again slipped from his fingers, but right now he did not feel like looking for it.
RayWilliamJohnson was screaming at him and he was panicking over how to lower the TV's volume.
Isn't it funny how things disappear right when you need them the most?
The motherfucking controller just disappeared! I mean, what the fuck, really?
RWJ was still screaming at him and his videos where even louder. His head was crumbling on the inside and he had the sudden urge to sit down and cry.
He snarled at the vlogger and reached behind his desk to pull the muti-plug electric outlet from its socket. He pulled the cable and when it popped out, Ray automatically shut the fuck up.
He cursed his luck but thank the heavens at the fact that his laptop could work properly without the need to be constantly plugged into an electrical source.
He sat back down on his chair and raised the lid of his computer.
Windows is Shutting Down
"MOTHER FUCKER!"
One Hour Later
The door slammed behind him as he made his way towards his car. He quickly tossed in all his belongings before he remembered he was supposed to lock the door.
He scurried back to his front door and fished out his keys. Once the door was properly secured he sprinted back towards his car and jumped in. He tied his shoes as fast as he could and zipped his pants up before they decided to slip off. His t-shirt lay in the passenger seat but he had no time to deal with another one of those monstrosities.
(Because really, if you didn't get the message earlier, he is quite offended with these pieces of crap today.)
He jammed the key in the ignition and twisted until his car roared to life. He threw the gear on reverse and backed out of his drive way, he threw the gear on drive and screeched down the road. His neighborhood flew by in a blur as he sped down the street and into the main road. Thankfully he was one of those (very, very few) people that got a 90% in their driving test. Sadly, he was also one of those people that became desperate under pressure.
So as he stomped on the gas pedal, he fumbled with his seatbelt until it snapped into place besides his hip.
He was late and he was late. Late, late, late… Very late.
"DAMMIT!" He cussed as his eyes traveled from the road to the clock on his dash and then back again.
He came to an intersection and stomped on the brake pedal as hi saw the light change from green to red. (Where the fuck did yellow go?) He was changing colors too and it wasn't just because he was sick. The grip on his steering wheel was becoming tighter by the minute and he swore he felt it bend into the shape of his hands.
There were no cars coming from either side and he was tempted to just keep going.
If only there wasn't a cop lounging under a tree right in front of him.
There he was, right there in the corner. Leaning on his "bike" (because let's be honest, those are just customized mopeds with race lines). He had a clear view of the streets (and his iPhone which he was fervently tapping on).
Maybe Steve could make a run for it. The guard wouldn't notice. He most probably wasn't even paying attention to the traffic lights.
He revved the engine and let the car stall forward only a few inches.
The guard looked up and dropped his jaw when he saw the sleek black car inch forward.
"Dammit! You're not supposed to be looking!" Muttered Mr. Rogers. He sighed and thumped his forehead against the stirring wheel as his lungs let out an exasperated sigh.
He turned his attention to the vehicle that came to inhabit the left lane of his street.
There was a white minivan occupied with what looked like soccer moms. (Because those are easily identified) and they all seemed to be sneaking glances his way and whispering amongst themselves. He arched and eyebrow and lifted his head from the steering wheel, chancing a look back at the traffic light. Nope, still red.
Another grunt and he went back to looking at the minivan.
Why where they pointing at him with their cellphones?
An itch settled between his shoulder blades and his hand shot back to eliminate it instantly. At first he was mildly confused when his hands made immediate contact with bare skin. But when he realized he didn't have a shirt on, he flailed his arms and practically dove to the passenger seat to retrieve his t-shirt.
He knew he was read as a tomato (or a fire truck, same thing) and ready to drop off the face of the earth.
Unbuckling his belt, he made an attempt to pull the shirt over his head, but he had to be the smart-ass he always is and pick one of those tight t-shirts (the ones that show off his big muscles) and obviously the hole which his head was supposed to go through was relatively smaller than the aforementioned appendage. It took some struggling but the shirt finally went through his head. His arms had also found their way through and unceremoniously smacked against the first thing they found.
Poor car roof.
"Fuck!" Steve muttered when he pulled back his throbbing hands.
The blast of a car horn distracted him from the pain and he immediately looked up to the traffic light.
It was green.
Thus he stomped on the gas like it was a gigantic bug and sped away towards the university.
But he didn't get quite far before police lights reflected his mirrors and the annoying siren invaded his ears. The mantra of "Fuck fuck fuck fuck" was impossible to miss.
He growled (as much as humanly possible) and stopped on the road-side. He looked on his rear view mirror and saw none other than the corner-under-the-tree guy. (Lucky him, eh?) The cop made a show of getting off his bike (moped), grabbing his ticket-book and strutting forward towards Steve's window. Once there, he leaned on the side of the door and slowly raised his sun glasses.
(Asshole alert! Asshole alert!)
"Sir, do you know why you've been detained on this fine afternoon?"
"No." ("Enlighten me, bitch.")
"You are driving without your seatbelt."
"I am not!"
"Sir you are not wearing your seat belt!"
"Yes I am that is the first thing I do-" His hands came empty when he made a grab for the belt that was supposed to be right over his torso. His eyes widened and he looked at his (now clothed) chest. His eyes landed on his left side and he saw that, indeed, the belt buckle was hanging in its unbuckled position. Taunting him and cursing his existence.
Steve closed his eyes and dropped his forehead (quite painfully) on his steering wheel.
"Shit in a bucket."
30 Minutes Later
"You're late."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"Care to explain?"
"Traffic." Steve held up the nice little ticket that the cop was eager to give him.
"I see."
"I can still hand in my work, though, Right?"
"Yes, but you will be penalized for tardiness."
"Alright then." Steve sighed and handed over his essay. The thing was a bitch to write and he hoped he'd at least get an 80 out of 100. He scurried over to his desk and looked at the clock. It was almost 11:00am and he had a lot of things to do.
Three Hours Later
Steve sneezed in a violent manner. He was in a foul mood (again) and all he wanted to do was take the rest of the day to just sleep. His nose was runny and his eyes were burning. His allergies were acting up in the worst way and he didn't like that all.
Then again, who does?
He had finally gotten home and the first thing he did was flop on the couch and let out a big groan.
First a ticket. Then a tardy. Then shit in a bucket.
His day hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. His allergies acted up during most of his classes and he had ended up walking out of class and cooping himself up in the bathroom where he spent majority of his day emptying up the paper towel dispensers and blowing his nose every two seconds.
Today was not a good day.
But Steve couldn't do much about it. He had to suck it up and get ready for work. He went to his kitchen and opened the medicine cabinet. He took a bottle of Singulair and downed the pills in a swift motion. His eyes landed on the stove's clock and he suppressed the urge to groan. If he didn't get ready soon, he would be late for his shift and that wouldn't benefit him at all.
He trudged up the stairs to his room and began peeling his clothes off throwing them wherever he deemed fit. He had no time to focus on being tidy and he simply didn't care at the moment. Buck naked, he strode across his room in search of a towel. Of course it was in the closet, neatly folded and tucked away.
(He could be neat! What the hell 'you thinking?)
He padded into the bathroom and slung the tower over the curtain pipe. He jumped in and started the shower. The warm water beat against his body and he sighed as he felt the tension dissipate from his muscles. He rolled his shoulders and his neck, trying to relax even further. Once he felt he had been relaxed enough, he began the process of washing himself.
He washed his hair in an automatic fashion. There wasn't much to wash so he was quick to get through it. The rest of his body went through a similar process. That was, of course, until he got down to his nether regions.
He had always been a Gillette fan. He loved their products and his bathroom was stocked with a many Gillette related products as possible (or as needed) and he had no shame in it. In this case, one of the many reasons he liked Gillette so much was for the fragrance of their products.
When that manly scent hit him, he got turned on like a switch and it was hard to come down from his high. He had to either work on it or ignore it. Ignoring his little (actually quite big) problem was not something he was good at. So (to put it bluntly) when he touched himself down south and the smell of Gillette Body Wash™ hit his nostrils, he got as hard as a brick. He breathed in deeply and debated whether he should plow down his apparent situation or just turn the other cheek and get to work.
The curtain was pulled back and he checked on the small plastic digital clock he kept in the bathroom… for obvious reasons…
25 minutes left until he had to leave for work.
25 minutes where enough.
He would just have to go quick and hard. It could be done if he was concentrated enough.
He breathed in and grabbed his dick. A shudder racked his body immediately and he sighed as his hand began to pump. His fingers were slick with body wash and they glided over his skin easily. He bit his lip as a certain stroke made his lower stomach tremble. He threw his head back and leaned against the tiled wall which was warm from the hot water's splash.
He pumped faster and harder, his whole body beginning to heat up in the midst of his ministrations. He imagined being stroked by someone else's hand. He pictured a lean, tan body, as it grabbed him and stroked him hard and fast. He moaned as he pictured himself being serviced by big warm hands and sultry eyes.
He handled his length and imagined all the things he'd like to be doing right now. The kind of things he'd like to do with someone else. The kinds of things that made his face turn into a lazy grin as waves upon waves of pleasure saturated his senses from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.
His hips began thrusting into his tight fist and his other hand reached up to tweak a nipple. He gasped and moaned out loud. His thrusts quickened as did his breath. The hot water poured over his thighs and his free hand roamed all over his exposed torso. His chest, his abs, his arms, his legs, everything was touched and caressed.
He fondled his testicles and groaned as his pleasure intensified tenfold. His head began twisting from side to side, his hands played with his dick, and his breathing had become heavy. His moans came in regular intervals now and the steam in the room made his skin tingle with anticipation.
A few more pumps was all it took before he came and moaned loudly. His voice echoed in the bathroom walls and he shuddered as the waves of pleasure racked his body. He stood there, under the spray of water for a few moments until he felt his legs recover from their earlier unbalance.
He straightened up and used more body wash to scrub the rest of his body. The water washed away all evidence of his activities and he was left feeling somewhat satisfied, yet no completely fulfilled.
He'd have a long love session with his hand and his computer when he got back home from work.
He finished his shower, turned off the water and climbed out of the stall. He took a look at the clock…
"I'm fucking late!"
He scrambled to get ready when he noticed that instead of taking 25 minutes, he had taken 45.