happy boxing day! there's still time to read some porn around your loved ones !
(no) Guilty Party (2208 words) by fightingfuries
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Watcher Entertainment RPF, Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Characters: Ryan Bergara, Shane Madej
Additional Tags: Cheating, Infidelity, real life partner(s) mentioned, Unsafe Sex, Barebacking, unconventional lube
Summary:
The rest of the Watcher crew won't arrive in Chicago until tomorrow morning, but it is almost like another person follows them into the elevator at the hotel. The air in the small, brass-coloured box is charged enough to make the hair on Ryan's body stand on end. When he gets to his room, Ryan just holds open the door so Shane can follow him in. Then it all happens very quickly.
✩ a/n: ty shaw my beloved. my pookie. my stupid. i have like 89318 wips to finish but i'm choosing to ignore them ok!
✩ word count: 2.8k.
✩ warnings: fluff/slice of life shit. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so, there'll be eventual smut later on oops. reader is afab, but minimal physique descriptors.
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summary: part 1 (?). idk this started as a smut-shot idea, then a series, then a songfic for a hot minute, and now we're back to a series. maybe. originally supposed to just be you and ty fucking in the whataburger bathroom and now there's plot so. anyways you work at whataburger and formally meet ty for the first time. shit happens.
it's another late night. joints like these don't simmer down when the sky blackens—they pick up. not like a bar, and you're grateful for that. last summer you spent your nights getting shitty beer spilled on you for the consolidating prize of an even shittier tip and unsolicited comment. your friends suggested you trade the dim lights and rowdy crowds for fluorescent lights and the locals, and you couldn't be happier.
the shaw's are in tonight, double-boothed, one side debriefing the last rager while planning for the next and the other recapping the rodeo they all came from. they fill the whataburger with family chatter that runs as deep as the roots of their family tree. while you're not from west texas, and have hardly lived here long enough to fool an old-timer, you've made a lot of progress adapting and adjusting to the shift in lifestyles from where you're from. you've burned through the awkwardness of sticking out, of learning the unspoken dialect, of knowing which hat to wear with which boot, of abandoning the use of your horn, of the inflation of “excuse me’s” and the “no ma’am’s, yes ma’am’s”—not that you've changed yourself completely. being decent isn’t rocket science.
you're just less of a sore thumb out here.
Late night crawlers flood in, and an out-of-state baseball team of senior leaguers disrupt the layout of the restaurant's tables to drag them across worn tiles. They stick out like a sore thumb. Hyped up after a big win (you can only assume they aren’t this ecstatic over losing), ramped up on the varying colours of syrup their tongues are stained with by gas station snow cones: you just know the exhausted coach-turned-chaperone approaching your till is going to unload a long order on you that will piss off the kitchen.
“Hi there, what'll it be?” You smile politely.
The man fixes his hat, rubbing the sandstone dirt and sleep from his eyes as he stares at a crumpled piece of paper that’s just as worn as he is. He's struggling to spew out a list of written orders that you're positive aren't actually on the menu board behind you. His eyes are stuck in a perma-squint, blinded from a hot day in the sun, so you offer to save his last bit of energy by extending your hand towards him.
“May I?” Finger points towards his list.
As if relinquished by God himself, the man parts with the paper with a heavy sigh of relief. “Take your time with 'em, dear.” He offers, pointing a tired thumb behind him towards the team. “Boys won't even notice.”
You give him a nod, chipping into your pot of that learned Southern Hospitality for him. The group is a mix of 13 to 16 year old's, dirtied uniforms, medallions around their necks, a trophy sat like a large paperweight on one of their tables, and smudged eye-black on their cheeks that's been lost to a day of sweat. They wouldn’t even notice if you handed them uncooked meat between two buns.
Retiring the man back to the tables, you stand a bit dumbfounded behind the till, wrinkled paper in hand. You tackle what you know can be universally translated to the Whataburger menu: a couple of cheeseburgers, an array of large fountain drinks, and an assumed order of a few dozen fries for everyone. Some burgers are a bit more elaborate than others—enough to make you scratch your head in silent problem solving. A few trips back and forth between till and kitchen resolves only a few items, but you're stumped on what a Big Boy could mean without any other context clues. Tempting a glance towards the rowdy boys, the coach-turned-chaperone looks contently defeated at the head of the tables so you opt not to bother him. Instead, in your quiet gaze finds a boy, not from the baseball team, clinging to the rims of the counter.
Round-faced and innocently sweet for someone his age, you recognize him as one of the Shaw's; the youngest, who you've sworn to be called El Stupido every time he’s beckoned by his family.
Perhaps it had an affectionate story behind it. You hope so, anyway.
“Got any more napkins?”
His voice breaks your concentration, and you eye the server station by the doors. The napkin box has been depleted entirely. You look back at the boy. His high and tight haircut has grown out into inch-tall spikes, but it seems to fit him better this way. Eyes drop behind your counter where the excess of plastic utensils, single-use seasonings and condiments, and napkins are. You set the paper of orders down to take more napkins than you'd normally give, thinking he might need a few extras anyways—from the way ketchup and mustard gathers in the corners of his mouth. Sliding them across the counter, you give the youngest Shaw another polite smile.
“My brother likes Big Boys.”
You blink.
“I—sorry?”
“Big Boys.”
You understand that part, you think, however your confused gaze prompts El Stupido to turn the crumpled piece of paper he's taken the liberty of holding around. A round finger points to a scribbled section. Salt from his french fries dusts the counter with every little tap.
“Big Boys? My brother Ty likes 'em.”
“Oh!—” You look towards the Shaw's. The empty seat besides the eldest brother reveals more of him in the booth. He's got an arm propped up against the wall trimming before the window, the other outstretched along the back of the booth where El Stupido previously sat. You’ve seen Ty around, outside of Whataburger that is, but nothing more than a familiar face around town and at the oil field ragers.
El Stupido, who seems to be anything but that from the way he nearly reads your mind, speaks up again.
"Wanna talk to him?"
You clear your throat, “Uh, no—I mean! No, that's okay.” A beat, “Do... You know what a Big Boy is?” There's no point in bringing his brother up here anyways.
The boy shrugs. Before you can stop him, he cranes his neck in a half turn, calling back to his brother.
“Ty!”
Fuck...
At the sound of his brother’s call, Ty breaks away from his table's conversation, jaw in a half-chew of fries.
“What?”
There's an awkward exchange of both brothers talking over each other, then another awkward exchange of silence when they both hold their tongues at the same time to let the other speak. Eventually, Ty shimmies out of the booth, large drink cup in hand, and walks up to the till. You would've liked to just figure out what you could substitute a Big Boy on your own, now that's become a whole thing, but the younger Shaw still grips onto the paper of orders in his hand—and now it's in Ty's hand.
“Holy hell… Who's order?” Ty sifts through the list, patting his brother on the back as if to dismiss him back to their booth. El Stupido doesn’t forget to thank you for the napkins, and you give him a gentle smile as he marches back to their family booth.
Holding the edge of the till, you point a loose finger towards the, now, pushed together tables and the baseball team riling up around its perimeter. “Tried to be as creative as I could,” You begin, looking back down at your screen of the orders. “Big Boy kinda stumped me.”
Ty puffs out an amused scoff, lips pulling to the side as he shakes his head. “Big Boy? S'just a double-decker, hon.” He thinks you'll know what he means. “Double-decker? Texy Top Floor? Mucho Meaties?”
You're even more confused.
He sets his drink down, motioning with his hand that you step back a foot as he hoists himself up and over the counter. Ty starts punching things into the till, moving his finger like a stiff piece of wood against the screen. Normally, you would've stopped him—you should stop anyone that brings themself behind the counter and starts fucking around with the cash register. But you hear a few of the cooks in the back holler something out, an inside greeting or something adjacent to it, that Ty reacts positively to.
“Used to work here.” He informs you casually, still punching his finger away against the screen as he eyes the crinkled paper of orders in his other hand. “Eons ago.”
“And a Big Boy is...?” You're looking for something you can actually understand this time.
“Two patties.”
“Ah.”
In his confidence, Ty crumples up the paper of orders and tosses it into the nearest bin. Whatever it is he put through to the kitchen: you're just going to have to trust him. The till beeps, and your eyes find the overhead monitor perched up on one of the inner kitchen walls behind you. It flashes with an entirety of items, some of which are detailed as two-patty burgers. Ty hands you a new receipt, still warm from the printer, something you can give the chaperone for a bill. “Bingo.” He chirps.
He retrieves his drink, stepping away with his lips to the half-chewed straw, slurping what's left of his watered down Coke among the ice cubes. “I've seen you before. Seen you a lot, actually.” He says.
“Your family eats here a lot.”
Ty shakes his head, molars chewing along the plastic of his straw. “I mean at the ragers.” He recognized you, too? “You was at the last one, right?”
The last one—and just like the one before that: it's the same old story. “Everybody goes.” You say.
Waving over the team's coach with the receipt in hand, you begin to punch in the numbers. The man waddles over, exhaustion still present in his bones and perhaps weighing him down more than when he first walked in. He's knuckle deep in his wallet, palming a fairly kind amount of bills as Ty remains quiet at your side, watching as you handle the team's payment. The man wipes his brow beneath the bill of his ball cap, nodding to the both of you, before he returns to the rowdy table of boys.
“...Nobody went.” Ty finishes, quietly and to himself more than to you.
—
You pick up the last tray of food to bring to the tables: stacked a few burgers too high, loose fries spilled over the lining parchment, and three towering Cokes bubbling beneath their plastic lids. At the bar, you've carried worse while handling far worse before. Granted, you had an entire bar top to divide you from the rest of the chaos and its patrons. So the shockingly cold shower of sticky cola comes as a rocking surprise when a catcher's mitt soars through the air, luring the boy closest to you to leap from his chair and check the bottom of the tray with his shoulder in an attempt to catch it.
He does. It’s a great catch, actually.
But now you're soaked.
Your sharp inhale of being soaked turns the Whataburger silent, and the ice cubes that haven’t slid into your top softly hit the linoleum tiled floors with a wet splat.
“Way t’go Greenwall! You got the burgers wet!” One of the boys shouted, causing a distressing collection of teenage groans to echo in your ears as they mourn their food—pissing on your state of being drenched in Coke, actually. The coach struggles to wind the team down, avoiding your gaze with a guilty expression torquing his features. The boy that shoulder-checked the tray looks over at you with a sheepish apology, handing you a singular napkin as a peace offering.
“Gee, sorry Miss.” He murmurs, unable to keep his bubbling giggles to himself as his teammates start their upchuck of jokes. Yes, you’re currently working. Yes, you’ve been practicing your Southern Hospitality since you’ve moved here. Yes, you’re not an asshole and you’re rather patient when you don’t need to be.
But, fuck…
Your mouth opens, tongue sharpened in preparation of a well-deserved lashing against the entire table for distributing the place from the moment they walked in—then for whoever’s bright idea it was to play catch and volley with a baseball glove across the damn restaurant.
“—Hey!”
That definitely isn’t your voice. Your mouth shuts, breaking away from your statuesque position since being doused in three large Cokes, your head turns towards the Shaw’s booths. Ty is leaned over the table, elbow drilled into the table, finger pointing firmly at the baseball team. You don’t even process what it is he’s saying as he’s scolding them, or the fact that his sisters had evacuated their booth to guide you into the restrooms.
You blink once, you’re staring at Ty caddle up and reprimand the tables of boys like he was wrangling wild horses—you blink twice, and you’re staring at your drenched reflection in the restroom mirror as the two girls are working like medic veterans to de-sodafy your uniform.
“God, it’s everywhere…” Paris says, dabbing down on your chest and shoulders with a handful of scratchy, brown paper towels from the wall holder.
KC clicks her tongue, plugging one of the sinks up with a wad of toilet paper before filling it with water and hand soap. “What an asshole, seriously.” You feel another pair of hands pull at your soaked uniform polo until it untucks from your belted trousers. The orange colour, now a murky brown. The girls work in tandem, pressing lukewarm wraps of toilet paper and paper towels against your skin, leaving you at their mercy of hurried attempts to get as much Coke out of your hair and off your skin before it becomes a sticky, sugary coating.
“She needs a new shirt, KC.” Paris says, pinching at your uniform top. There isn’t a section of threads that isn’t soaked. “Hey, when does your shift end?” She asks you.
“...Midnight—”
“—Oh my God, she’ll be stuck in this for hours!”
“Do you have another shirt?”
“She’s not gonna have another shirt, Paris. Ty only got the one uniform when he worked here, remember? He got that stupid barbecue sauce stain on it like… The second day.”
“Shit, you’re right…”
You listen to the sisters go back and forth until Paris finally bolts out of the restroom in search of—well, you assume a new shirt—leaving you with KC. She stares at your reflection in the dingy mirror besides you, idly pinching the ends of your hair with her wettened fingers, finding any sticky sections she might’ve missed from before.
“Don’t worry,” She begins, “Ty’ll whip those idiots into shape.”
Although you aren’t all that concerned about reprimanding the baseball team for this, preferring you could just teleport to your apartment, into a clean change of clothes, and end this evening instead: it doesn’t hurt to know that the boys were getting wrung out.
“Yeah…” You huff, finally looking down to examine your cola-drenched state and the Shaw sisters’ efforts in getting as much off of you as they could. “Hey, thanks.”
KC smiles, phone in hand. She’s about to say something when the restroom door opens and Paris returns with a balled up plaid shirt in her hands.
“Here, it’s Ty’s.” She says, extending it out towards you.
KC sticks her hand out, interrupting the trade as she sours her face. “What? Ew, no. She can’t wear that.”
“KC—”
“—Paris, it probably stinks.”
You take the plaid anyways. It smells like cologne and campfires, and maybe a tinge of sweat—but it’s dry. Paris guides you into one of the stalls, giving you some privacy to change as you swap your sticky uniform polo for Ty’s plaid. Paris takes your discarded shirt, wringing it out over the sink as a splash of Coke drips from the orange fibers. It isn’t until you walk out of the stall, buttoning up Ty’s plaid shirt on your frame when there’s a knock on the restroom door.
Both Paris and KC look at each other, a little confused as to who would be knocking.
“Mama?” KC tries.
“No.”
El Stupido’s gentle rasp echoes in the restroom.
“Can I come in?”
Paris transfers your wrung-out polo into the sink filled with water and hand soap, while KC gives you a look. You nod, shrugging a bit. You were decent now, plaid buttoned up. She walks to the door, pushing it open for their youngest brother to softly waddle in. In his hands, he holds a crumpled stack of the napkins you gave him earlier.
“Do you need these?” He asks, hoisting the napkins up before you.
Your eyes round and soften at his attempt to help. You take a few napkins from him, wiping a bit aimlessly at your neck—the majority of the mess had been cleaned up by now. Still you, give the youngest a small nod. “Thanks.”
Like clockwork, another Shaw rapts at the restroom door with a firmer knock.
Would anybody be interested in a Glenn x Reader smut fic? (that man gives me serotonin) and i dont really see any fics for him. i have one written but i dont know if i should post it... !!!!EDIT: "downtime" is now up on my page! Please give it a read, lemme know what you think!!!!
how crazyinsane would it be if i stop this (cheating ssshhh) sex scene bc they didn't bring lube and then shane says 'well i brought coconut oil' and then ryan is like 'why??' and then shane says: 'for popcorn' and then they fuck using that?
i shouldn't do this right? i just don't want them to have lube bc of the aforementioned cheating and i couldn't figure out what type of nonsexual lubricant they would bring on a shoot.
Me: Writing a sex scene between two people with the same pronouns is tricky because you have to choose between using their pronouns and the reader not being sure which character you're referring to, or using their names and it feeling clunky.
My evil ass brain: write about two characters with the same pronouns... AND THE SAME NAME
