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witchywithwhiskey · 6 months ago

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tempting fate on the terrace

pairing: father's business rival CEO!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you're relaxing on bucky's penthouse terrace and eating ice cream when he tempts you into something more

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, creampie, come play, light teasing, light overstimulation, finger sucking, choking, light bdsm, semi-public sex, little bit of exhibitionism, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, pet names (darling), unspecified age gap, fluff

word count: 2,900ish

a/n: y'all have @biteofcherry to blame for this follow up, because i couldn't get her idea out of my head and i just had to write it 😅 i'm so so so so so happy with how this turned out. i kind of can't get enough of these naughty little lovebirds, i just love them so much!!! and i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! ♡

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

The spring sunshine was perfectly warm on your face, and you stretched your legs out, sinking further into the soft cushions of the outdoor sofa as you considered whether you should trade in your Brooklyn brownstone for a Manhattan penthouse. Specifically a penthouse with a terrace as pretty as the one belonging to Bucky Barnes.

You licked your ice cream cone thoughtfully, gazing through the greenery that had been set up around the edge of the terrace to give it a sense of privacy. The whole of Manhattan seemed to sprawl beyond the edge of Bucky’s penthouse and you enjoyed the view almost as much as you loved the tree-lined Brooklyn street where you lived.

But your brownstone didn’t have a concierge to go buy ice cream and cones so you could have a delightful treat after being ruined by one of the most powerful CEOs in the city—who also happened to be your father’s business rival. That said, your apartment did have a bagel store around the block with the best bagels in New York City…

You were distracted from comparing the benefits of your home to Bucky’s by the door to the terrace sliding open with a soft sound. The man who had been nothing more than your father’s business rival—until he’d become much, much more—paused just outside the door, his hands slipping into the pockets of his lounge pants while he stared at you lazing about on his outdoor sofa.

You grinned, taking a long lick of your ice cream as you stared right back at him. He looked deliciously comfortable in his lounge pants and simple gray t-shirt, the soft cotton pulling tight across his broad shoulders. His brown hair was a little disheveled from how much you’d run your fingers through it, and his blue eyes sparkled in the golden late afternoon light.

“Y’know, darling, I could get used to seeing you looking so comfortable in my home,” Bucky rumbled as he prowled over to the sofa, lifting your legs and sitting down so they sprawled across his lap. Since he was closer, you could better see the way his eyes darkened as he raked them along your body. “And I could definitely get used to seeing you wear my clothes.” He fingered the bottom hem of the button-up shirt you were wearing—the one you’d stolen off his floor and put on because it smelled like him. “In fact, maybe it should be a rule that you only wear my clothes when you’re here.”

You laughed, the sound bright and airy as you tipped your head back, and you were still smiling when you looked back at Bucky. “You already made it a rule that I can’t wear panties while I’m here,” you pointed out, kicking him lightly with your bare foot. “At this rate, I’ll have to walk around naked, and I love your terrace too much for that—your neighbors are going to see me and we’re actually going to get that public indecency charge.”

Bucky’s hands had begun to massage your calves, slowly working their way up your legs but he paused in thought, his gaze going distant as he stared out over the city. “Y’know, I don’t think you can get charged for public indecency if you’re naked on a private terrace,” he said, then turned mischievous eyes on you. “Why don’t we test it out,” he teased in a deliciously warm tone, his hands slipping up your thighs to push the hem of your shirt up, revealing your bare pussy to his gaze.

“Jamie—someone could see!” you cried, laughing and pushing him away half-heartedly with one hand while you tried to hold your ice cream cone stable in the other. But Bucky turned and wedged his body between your legs so you couldn’t close them, his gaze heating as he stared down at the apex of your thighs.

“Christ, your pussy looks pretty with my come spilling out of it,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, his fingers trailing through your still sticky folds. Your hips stuttered up against his fingertips and you sucked in a gasp as he brushed gently against your sensitive clit. “So fucking pretty, darling.”

“Jamie.” That time, when you said his name, it was more of a whimper, the sound so desperate it made heat flood your cheeks. You and Bucky had already fucked three times since you’d arrived at his penthouse, it was amazing that your body was still hungry for more. It felt like you’d be hungry for Bucky for the rest of your life.

Bucky looked up at you, grinning when he saw the needy look on your face. “You might want to finish your ice cream, darling, because I’m fucking another load into your pretty cunt the second you’re done,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and making you shiver as warmth pooled between your thighs.

Grabbing the collar of Bucky’s shirt, you pulled yourself up to sit, your legs wrapped around his waist from the side and held your treat out to him. “Help me finish, Jamie,” you begged in a playful tone, giving him a sweet smile as if you didn’t hear the double entendre of your words.

Bucky held your gaze as he leaned forward and took a big bite of your ice cream, chomping on some of the cone and making you laugh. But the warm spring sunshine was hot enough that the ice cream was soon dripping down your fingers and you quickly licked it up. Bucky watched you for a moment before he wrapped a hand around your throat and dragged you in for a messy kiss, the sweet taste of ice cream filling your senses just as much as the rich taste that was all Bucky.

Together, the two of you finished off your ice cream, laughing and kissing and tasting each other. When the cone was gone, you licked the sticky sweetness from Bucky’s fingers, your tongue teasing over his skin while you watched his blue eyes darken with desire. Once you were done, he tortured you in much the same way, his tongue sliding between your fingers in such an obscene way, you let out a soft moan as you imagined his warm mouth pressed between your thighs instead.

By the time every trace of ice cream had been licked from your skin, you were soaking wet and desperate for Bucky; you pulled him in for a kiss. He made quick work of unbuttoning the shirt you wore and pushing it down over your shoulders while your fingers dove beneath his t-shirt. You raked your nails lightly through the dark hair that decorated his chest, delighting in the softness of it against your fingertips. He groaned into your mouth, breaking away only to pull his shirt off.

Then he was laying you down on the sofa and pushing his lounge pants off to pool at his feet before he climbed over you, covering your body with his broader form. His hips settled between your thighs, his hard length nestling perfectly between your slick lower lips.

“Fuck, you feel good, darling,” Bucky rumbled on a moan, moving his hips back and forth, just enough to slide the hard ridge of his cock against your puffy clit. “Wanna be buried in this cunt every fucking moment of the day—you’re tuning me into some pussy-drunk idiot,” he growled, kissing and nipping at your jaw while his hand circled your throat, his fingers digging lightly into the sides.

You huffed a sound that was half laugh, half shuddering moan, your legs hooking around the backs of Bucky’s thighs and using the leverage to grind against his bare cock. “If it makes you feel any better, all I can think about is how badly I want to be your cockdrunk little slut,” you murmured in his ear, nuzzling your cheek against the scruff on his jaw and delighting in the delicious rasp against your skin. “I think about sitting under your desk in your office, your cock in my throat, keeping you warm while you work.”

“Oh fuck—fuck, darling,” Bucky groaned, rocking against you harder, his cock growing wet and slick with your juices the more he slid through your pussy lips. “When you’re not here and I’m stroking my cock, I think about fucking you at one of your father’s boring galas,” he rumbled, his words coming faster to match the speed of his hips. “I think about sinking my cock into you and pumping you full of come and making you go back out to the party with my load dripping down your thighs beneath your gown.”

You raked your fingers through Bucky’s soft hair, clinging to him while your hips kept rocking together. His hard cock was rubbing your clit and his words were spinning delicious fantasies and it was too much. You felt your release swelling within you, threatening to overwhelm you, but you didn’t want to come against his cock, you wanted to come on his cock.

“Jamie,” you cried on a gasp, babbling words that you hoped made sense so he’d know what you wanted, “I can’t—I’m gonna—please, inside me—come, please!”

Thankfully, Bucky understood your nonsense and he chuckled against your cheek. “Remember to be quiet, darling,” he rumbled, the warmth in his tone telling you he was grinning. “Don’t want the neighbors to hear you and risk finding out about whether we can get a public indecency charge on my private terrace.”

Before you could even think to respond to his teasing, Bucky pulled back, the tip of his cock needing no guidance to find your dripping hole. He slid inside easily, stretching you out around his cock. Your cunt was so wet, and you were so close to coming, it felt like your body was sucking him in deeper, your inner walls clinging to him as he split you open with his cock.

Despite Bucky’s warning, you groaned loudly—not because you wanted to find out about the indecency charge, but because you simply couldn’t control yourself. No matter how many times Bucky fucked you, every time he pushed deep into your cunt, it felt so good your mind went fuzzy with pleasure. You never wanted it to end, you wanted him inside you all the time, always and forever.

When the head of his cock pushed against your cervix, he grunted in pleasure while you moaned your own delight. Bucky dug his fingers deeper into the sides of your throat, cutting off your sound of ecstasy while he lifted himself up enough to see you. His eyes roved hungrily over your face, eagerly drinking in the way your expression twisted in pleasure as he pulled back and thrust inside you again, his hips clapping against your thighs.

“Dirty, filthy girl,” Bucky grunted, thrusting into you to punctuate each word. “Can never be quiet when I tell you.”

You tried to smirk up at him, but another hard driving thrust had your eyes rolling back and your mouth falling open on a silent moan. With what you thought was a valiant effort, you mannaged to huff, “That’s because I like it when you make me be quiet, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed on you and his mouth twisted into a determined snarl. “You know I prefer when you call me Jamie,” he growled, fucking you harder and faster, pressing his face close to yours so you could feel his warm breath ghost over your cheek. “You call me Jamie when my cock is deep in your cunt and I’m about to pump you full of my fourth load today—d’you hear me, darling?”

It was so much fun riling Bucky up, and you were enjoying the result of your efforts, your body lighting up from within as he pounded into you. But you knew he wanted an answer to his question, so you parted your lips and babbled, “Yes, sir, you feel so good, Jamie—love it when you fuck me hard, Jamie, please!”

“There’s my good girl,” Bucky rumbled, his tone as warm as the sunshine falling across your bare skin. He brushed a kiss to your cheek and pushed your thighs wider, fucking you in deep, grinding thrusts that had his pelvis rubbing perfectly against your clit. “Now come on my cock, darling, wanna feel your cunt choking my dick like I’m choking your pretty throat.”

As if you could resist an order like that.

At Bucky’s filthy words, you came undone. The swelling pleasure in your core burst, and your body went taut as wave after wave of overwhelming sensation washed over you. Your lips parted in a scream that Bucky made sure stayed silent, his big hand gripping your throat so tightly, it made your entire being focus in on everything your body was feeling, every little spark and fizzle of pleasure that came from his cock, his hand—him.

“Good girl, so good, feel so fucking good, darling, fuck—fuck,” Bucky groaned, his hips thrusting wildly between your thighs until he pressed deep and let out a low grunt. His cock twitched and throbbed inside you and you knew he was coming, your clenching pussy milking every drop of his load from his balls.

“Jamie,” you murmured when he loosened his grip on your throat. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.” Your chanting words were a plea and a prayer, which Bucky seemed to understand because his arms dug beneath your body so he could cradle you tight to his chest until there wasn’t a breath of air between you. You rode out your releases like that, your bodies writhing together, clinging to one another, unwilling to let the other move even a millimeter away.

Slowly, eventually, the two of you settled, your body melting beneath Bucky’s while his cock softened inside you. His come spilled from your slit, sliding down between your ass cheeks. But you couldn’t be bothered by the mess the two of you had made, not when it felt too good to simply lay with Bucky, both of you naked and basking in the golden spring sunshine.

“Sooo,” you began, drawing out the word as you trailed your fingers through Bucky’s soft hair. He rumbled a short hum of acknowledgement. “D’you think any of your neighbors heard us?”

That had Bucky chuckling. He pressed a kiss to your neck, his lips finding the same spot where his fingers had dug in, making you shiver. “What’re they gonna do, tell me I can’t fuck my girlfriend on my own private terrace?” he grumbled.

You went still beneath him and Bucky could feel the change in you, immediately lifting himself up so he could see your face. At his questioning look, you whispered, “That’s the first time you’ve called me your girlfriend.” You hated how small your voice sounded, but you were suddenly very afraid it was a slip of the tongue that Bucky would take back the second you pointed it out.

But he didn’t. Instead, his eyes went soft and he ducked down to press a sweet and firm kiss to your lips. “You’re my girlfriend,” he said resolutely, but then paused and gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. “Unless you don’t want to be.”

Your eyes widened and your fingers dug possessively into the back of his neck. “No, no, I want to be, I want to be,” you assured him quickly, smiling when he looked relieved. You pulled him down for another kiss, though it was difficult because you were grinning so hard. “Does this mean you’re my boyfriend, Jamie?”

“Of course I am,” he growled, nipping playfully at your lip and making you giggle.

“OK good,” you said with a happy sigh, going back to raking your fingers through his hair. “Then as your girlfriend,” you began, a teasing lightheartedness in your tone. “I demand my boyfriend get me another ice cream cone—since he ate half of mine.” When Bucky cut his eyes to yours, you gave him your best innocent pout, even though you knew he saw right through you.

“Anything for you, darling,” he rumbled, dropping a kiss to your lips before he extricated himself from your body and sat up. He pulled his lounge pants back on and then tugged his t-shirt on over your head, a pleased smile curving his lips at the sight of you wearing his clothes.

When Bucky dragged you up from the sofa, you tugged the hem of his shirt down over your ass, not wanting to flash any neighbors who might be looking, even though the greenery around the edge of the terrace would likely block you from view. Still, if you ever happened to move into Bucky’s penthouse, you didn’t want to have a reputation for walking around naked.

Not that you could see yourself giving up your beloved Brooklyn brownstone.

Probably.

Unless Bucky asked you to move into his penthouse…

Thankfully, you were distracted from what a future with Bucky would mean for your housing situation by the man himself pulling your favorite flavor of ice cream from his freezer. He turned to you with a happy grin, looking devastatingly handsome and at home in his penthouse kitchen.

Right then, you decided you weren’t going to be tempting fate on the terrace again. It had been fun to fuck your boyfriend where any of his neighbors could have overheard or caught a glimpse of you, but you didn’t want to risk it again.

Just in case you did end up moving into Bucky Barnes’ penthouse.

tempting fate in the park (part 1)

tempting fate on the terrace (part 2)

tempting fate in the CEO's office (part 3)

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #ceo bucky barnes #ceo!bucky barnes #ceo au #sebastian stan #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan characters #witchywithwhiskeywork

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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Steve Harrington x fem!reader [14K] PART ONE OF TWO old money steve, an infatuated waitress, no labels, a disaster waiting to happen. some smut, some jealousy and too many mentions of monaco. 18+

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

He came into the dining room of the club one Saturday afternoon. Sunkissed, tall, broad, stubble on his jaw and a gold chain glinting from the collar of his white shirt. He had a navy sweater draped over his shoulders, expensive sunglasses in his shirt's front pocket, an unassuming looking leather strapped watch on his wrist - but you’d learned well before then how to tell the difference between new money and old money.

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

The watch cost more than your car and a year's rent on your apartment. Fuck, it cost more than you’d probably ever make working behind the bar of Hawkins’ country club. It cost more than the short black dress you were made to wear, the one that cinched you in at the waist and flared out over your thighs. It shone more than the gold plated name badge that was pinned on your chest, making your plunging neckline even more obvious. It cost more than the black heels that were part of your uniform, more than the five dollar balm that made your lips glossy and peach coloured.

But still, Steve Harrington and his old, old money noticed you.

—————

The restaurant was full, the bar even busier, the smoking lounge that sat through the double doors stuffed with leather chairs, studded couches, velvet footstools and table lined with cigars in wooden boxes. The full place smelled like bourbon and smoke, expensive cologne, perfume that cost even more.

The Lake House country club was Hawkins’ finest institute, an old Manor House that was built on the shore of Lovers Lake, across the water from where teens liked to lurk in their cars and between tree trunks. The Lake House was where the town's elite came to dine, to drink, to lounge and talk. There were brunches with champagne and whisky, afternoon tea with ladies who wore diamonds and pearls, dinners with wine from 1802 and business meetings on the golfing green. Money poured from the club and filled the cracks in the old bricks, men with their daddy’s money bringing in their daughters, their sons, their wives. And when the family drove home in their Bentley, girlfriend’s arrived in red bottomed shoes, perching on laps in the smoking lounge like it was their jobs.

Maybe it was. You weren’t supposed to ask.

Your job was to stay behind the bar, a huge mahogany thing that took up most of the back wall. Everything was dark wood and lined with green velvet, the bar stools suede and gold studded, the bottles of alcohol on the glass shelves nothing less than a month's paycheck each. Martini glasses glittered, whisky was in the air like car fumes and the lime you were cutting into wheels was making the cut on your finger pulse.

He walked in then, into the busy room like he owned it. The Harringtons were certainly wealthy enough to do so, but Michael Harrington and his wife simply liked to dine at the club on Sundays, take up on the tennis courts midweek and finish the day at the spa with a massage each.

Six hundred dollars a session to hire out the court, four hundred dollar scotch, three hundred dollar steaks (eighty dollars more for the potato dauphinoise), five hundred dollars for a couples massage. Oh, and a one hundred dollar tip for the fucker unfortunate enough to have to deal with them.

In cash, of course.

But their son? Steve Harrington moved out of Hawkins long before anyone could work out if he’d grow up to be as cold as his father. Away from small towns, rumour had it he went to New York, an apartment in Manhattan, a job on Wall Street where he started at the bottom and worked his way up on luck, expensive vodka and daddy’s money. But then again, others said he spent his summers in Europe, talks of Italian villas, vineyards in Tuscany, selling yachts to the elite in Cannes, spending his time trading money through casinos, long months in Monaco during the spring.

Seeing him back in Hawkins was unusual, uncommon, a goddamn rarity - but there he was, letting himself drop into the barstool in front of you like a Greek god etched from marble so expensive that you could barely afford to look at it. He sat with a friend, another twenty something that looked more man than boy because of their tailored trousers, crisp shirts, linen and cashmere and gold on their wrists, round their necks, family rings on their hands.

Steve Harrington didn’t click his fingers at you like other members of the club did when they demanded to be served, but he did rap two knuckles against the bar top, a gold band on his middle finger hitting the wood. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, careful and cuffed just below his elbows, the top three buttons undone to show off tanned skin and a smattering of chest hair. More gold, a thin chain settling in the dip of his throat, stubble along his jaw that looked like it was there deliberately, not because he’d forgotten to shave.

You held your breath when you approached. You’d never served the youngest Harrington before - fuck, you’d never seen him here - but you knew who he was and the reputation dripped from him.

Old money, older estates, acres of land, shares in companies that were so ridiculously rich you didn’t know what they were for. Fast cars, scandals in Europe, yachts with his name on it.

Stomach in knots, you straightened up, smoothed down then front of your dress and put on the same smile you used for all the club members. “Gentlemen,” you greeted, “what can I get you both?”

Steve looked at you but his friend didn’t, his back to you as he surveyed the room, mumbling comments about the lack of skirt that showed up this early in the afternoon. You recognised him, a regular in the later evenings, Jonathan Byers, a fiend for a good cigar, an even bigger fan of the girls that held the poker events on weekends.

“Two Macallans,” Steve told you, already fishing out a money clip from his trouser pocket. The clip was gold, engraved with his initials: SMH. “Twenty year reserve, no ice.”

He really looked at you then, thumbing through one hundred dollar bills, eyes raking up and down your frame as you stood and listened diligently. Even when you turned to pull the bottle of scotch off the top shelf, you could feel him watching, one eyebrow quirked, full lips parted just a little, the top of his tongue peeking from between. Steve looked interested, intrigued. Maybe just a little less bored than before.

You kept your head down, polishing the tumblers before you poured, a three finger amount of the dark amber liquid and the smell of fire and smoke filled your nose. You’d watched enough men sit around the bar and swirl their drinks under the nostrils, waffling about notes of chocolate and spice before they sipped. It all smelled the same, no matter what price was on the label, like car fuel and burning. Steve downed the drink in one when you handed it to him, like he wasn’t swallowing liquid fire that cost him more than you’d make in a week.

You watched as his throat bobbed, his lips coming away from the rim of the glass a little glossy, how he licked over his bottom one to catch any alcohol that lingered. Then he grinned, all perfect teeth and charm before he passed you six hundred dollars in notes.

You nodded your thanks and went to the cash register, smiling what you hoped was politely as you tried to hand him back his change. Ninety dollars, pressed neatly in a pile of twenties and tens. The boy waved you off, still paying a lot of attention to the bare skin along your neckline, gaze running up the column of your throat. His eyes found yours when he finally spoke and god, they were the same colour as the scotch he just shotted.

“Keep the change, honey.” Steve smiled again, a smug thing that made you aware of how warm your cheeks were. Then he slid on a pair of sunglasses he took from his shirt pocket and pushed his hair back with a hand, nudging his friend to drink up before they both slid off the stools. “Just make sure it goes in your own pocket, okay?”

You gaped at him. The Lake House’s policy when it came to tips - no matter how generous - was for them to be placed in a jar in the back office, ready to be split between staff, however hard individuals had worked, or not worked, that shift.

The money burnt your fingers. “Um, that’s very generous but I can’t—”

Steve lifted a navy sweater he’d draped on the back of his chair, crushing the soft fabric with one hand. He used the other to reach out, plucking the bills from your fingers so he could fold them all together. His gaze met yours when he leaned back over the bar, unblinking, knuckles grazing the bare skin above your chest when he tucked the money into the neckline of your dress. It stayed there, hidden and you had to snap your jaw shut when Steve grinned at you before he pulled away.

He raised a finger to his lips, like you were sharing a secret and not a sackable offence and his friend snorted, like he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had.

“See you next time, honey,” Steve drawled, fishing keys out of his pocket. The silver logo of BMW glinted in the low lighting. “Thanks for the drinks.”

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

The next time, he was with a group of people in the smoking lounge, all of them loud, most of them dirty rich and he had a girl on his lap. A waifish thing, pretty and delicate with a ruby pendant that settled in the dip of her chest. She held a martini glass aloft, one that you had to refill and you cursed The Lake House and its rules as your heels taptaptapped across the marble tiles. The hem of your dress swished across your thighs, your hand held a gold tray and the fresh martini swirled in its glass atop it, a well practised movement that made sure none of it spilled. The olive inside tumbled around gin and vermouth.

Inside of the lounge, smoke billowed. Cigars and cigarettes poised between fingertips, hanging from lips that couldn’t help but spill secrets about their dirty businesses, the people they slept with before, the people they’d bed tonight. Nobody moved out of your way as you squeezed past tables and between the low sofas, leather and velvet brushing the backs of your thighs until you were able to present Steve Harrington’s lap warmer with her new drink.

She took it from your tray, replaced it with her empty glass and said nothing. It was her hand on Steve’s chest that caused him to look away from the men he was talking with, a hushed sounding discussion about money in Monaco, about the company and its takings for that summer. He frowned at the girl and her pawing until he caught sight of you, his lips lifting in a smile that seemed more dangerous than welcoming.

You smiled back, polite to a fault, throat going dry when you watched Steve’s gaze drop to that bare expanse of skin above your neckline. It wasn’t obscene, it wasn’t even suggestive. In fact, there was barely any amount of cleavage on show at all per the clubs rules but Steve was fixated on a freckle below your collarbone and the feel of his eyes on you made you fidget.

You tucked the tray under one arm and tried not to shuffle on the spot. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

There was something in Steve’s reaction to your question. Maybe it was the ‘sir,’ the way you tipped your head towards him when you said it, soft and gentle and pretty. He knew you had to call all the members of the club such niceties but Steve’s eyes flashed and his lips parted, the hand he had on the arm of the sofa curling around the leather a little tighter.

“A Macallan,” he asked, just like the first time. “No—”

“No ice,” you finished for him, nodding. “I’ll bring that right over.”

You blew out a breath when you turned, heels clicking on the marble as you made your way back to the bar. The lights were dimmed throughout the club in the evening, wall sconces letting out a warm glow, the huge fireplace in the main lounge roaring, popping and cracking with wooden logs. The whole place smelled like pine, like cedar and smoke and expensive leather. Women laughed softly, hanging off their husbands arms, dripping in pearls, in jewels, in false pretences. You smiled nicely at passing club members as you poured Steve’s drink, hands a little shaky from you out down to missing your lunch break, not excitement.

Definitely not nerves.

You placed the chilled glass back on the tray, amber liquid shining inside the crystal, and made your way to the smoking lounge. Steve was alone when you returned, his lap empty, the girl gone. Not just from his lap, but from the room entirely. You scanned the lounge, expecting to see her on her way back, maybe with a complaint about the drink you made her, just to make you feel small but no - she’d been removed. Your heart skipped, an awful stuttering feeling that you didn’t want to feel. Lowering the tray, you offered Steve his drink, gaze cast down as you felt his on you the entire time. Steve leaned up, too close, taking his drink and smiling at you.

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

The rest of the room was as loud as it was before, music under voices, laughter mixed with a saxophone record, conversations in the smoke. But Steve’s voice rang out almost too clearly from amongst it all. Still, you blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Sorry?”

Steve nodded at the seat next to him as he sank back into the couch, an arm thrown over the back of it as he took a sip of his scotch. The watch on his wrist caught the low light as he ripped the glass against his lips, cheeks flushed from the log burner.

He was dressed in what you assumed he’d deem a little more casual than the last time you saw him. A black silk shirt, short sleeved and with the top few buttons undone again. No visible label, no ostentatious brand name on the chest but you knew well enough by then to know that just meant it was even more expensive. Black trousers, tailored for him and a pair of black boots with a sharp toe. His hair was less styled, maybe from the way his lost friend had been running her fingers through it earlier. Strands of it fell into his eyes and you swallowed hard when you realised you were staring.

“Take a seat,” Steve asked again, lips curling up in amusement at your flustered expression.

You blinked at him before you remembered to stand back up straight, tucking the tray back under your arm and hoping that none of the club's managerial staff were lingering nearby. You’d already spent too long away from the bar. “I, um, I can’t. I’m sorry,” you pressed your lips together and tried not to look too regretful. “I'm working.”

Steve snorted, a sound that should’ve been more unattractive than it was but it only made you want to hear what he had to say. He took another pull of his drink, barely wincing when the burn of it trickled down his throat. You did the maths in your head, wondering how it felt to be swallowing seventy dollar sips. He raised his brows and shrugged, looking around theatrically.

“And?” The boy smiled, equal parts pretty and smug.

You were a little flustered, both at how nice he looked when he smiled and how bold he was being. You opened and closed your lips before parting them again, another polite smile there. “I need to get back to the bar,” you explained. “I’ll get into tr—”

“Trouble?” Steve finished. He shook his head and grinned, a megawatt thing that made you understand that, yes, all the rumours were true. That the famed Harrington Charm was very much a thing. But fuck, his father didn’t smile at you like that. In fact, he didn’t smile at all. “Oh, honey. No one gets in trouble unless I say so. Worried Frederick is gonna fire you?”

Steve dropped the name of your manager like they were friends. They probably were. He looked at you expectantly over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, licking the liquid from his lips. You wondered if he tasted as expensive as his liquor choices.

You nodded, shrugging, grasping for a reason to say no to this boy - this man. The line at the bar was growing, annoyed looking men clicking their fingers at a flustered looking new girl who was trying to pour champagne into a wine glass. Guilt gnawed at your stomach.

“He won’t fire you,” Steve assured. He patted the leather next to him, gold ring glinting in the warm light. “C’mon. Sit. I want to talk to you.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

“Do you always get what you want?” You said it quietly, watching Steve’s lips curl into a grin when he heard.

Another smile, mega watt, just for you. He tipped his head back and laughed, a pretty sounding thing that made the muscles down his neck stand out, chin tilted up to the gold leafed ceiling.

“Yeah,” he told you, eyes dancing, cheeks flushed from the fire, the lights, the scotch. “I do.”

You shouldn’t have done it. You weren’t allowed. There were strict rules about staff mingling with club members - fuck, it was written in red ink on your contract. You were too used to some of the clientele pushing the limits, trying to soften your boundaries with wads of cash, talks of a private plane to some European city where their wife didn’t like to visit. Older men, rich men, business men, family men. All looking for someone young and easily led and agreeable to have fun with between meetings and luncheons, someone to light their cigar and top up their drink for them. They liked to look at you like something to eat up, to chew up, to spit out when they were done and Frederick inevitably hired someone new and younger and prettier.

You’d seen it happen before. Girls sucked into the lifestyle they could never have, coming into work with new shoes, red bottomed heels with their uniform dress, a Chanel lipstick in their purse, a Porsche waiting outside for them after their shift finished and in the end, a scorned wife in the dining room ready to throw a drink over them.

You’d seen it all.

But Steve Harrington was looking at you with so much intrigue. A pretty smile behind his tiny glass of three hundred dollar scotch, messy hair, bright eyes, that black silk shirt that looked easy to slip your fingers into. He was younger, more subtle with it all but the easy confidence in which he spoke to you had you squeezing your thighs together and wondering if your chest would stop feeling as tight.

It didn’t.

You sat down.

Steve grinned, victorious and he moved against the leather sofa so he was sitting back against the arm, turned to face you fully. He brought one foot up to rest on his other knee, hand curling around his leg, and from there you could see the tiny brand on his loafers, a little gold insignia. Yves Saint Laurent. You wanted to laugh. His shoes cost more than you made in three months.

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

You wore the same gold plated pin that every other staff member wore. The Lake House engraved on it along with the logo, a stupidly elaborate key. Underneath, your name was printed in bold letters, but Steve wasn’t looking at it. He was watching your face, brows raised expectantly. He wanted to hear you speak.

Pressing the tray to your lap, you lingered on the edge of the couch, eyes darting around for your boss, or worse, the girl this man was last seen with. Was it his girlfriend? Did he have a wife? You weren’t sure how old Steve was, but you didn’t see a ring on his wedding finger, not that that meant much in a place like The Lake House. Wedding bands frequented coat pockets more than fingers here.

You swallowed and told him your name, your voice cracking with nerves that you tried to laugh at but that came out wobbly too. Your shyness made Steve grin a little wider, his wide hands curling around his ankle as he lounged back against the cushions and appraised you with a look that shouldn’t have been proper for public.

He repeated your name back to you and it sounded so much sweeter on his lips. He said it slowly, a low murmur that made your tummy clench, like he was tasting it out, tasting it on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name,” he said. “I’m Steve Harr—”

You laughed, sharp and surprised. “I know who you are, Mr Harrington.”

If Steve was shocked by his news, he didn’t show it. It was your job to know the members, after all. Their names, their families, the work they were in. Their favourite table, their favourite drink, the time they liked to dine, their preferred slot for playing a round of golf. So instead he smiled and nodded before holding out a hand.

You took it and he squeezed gently, shaking it politely as he said, “well then, please call me Steve.”

You nodded, wondering if that was allowed. None of this was allowed. Fuck, you glanced around again, eyes a little wide, wondering if Frederick was in his office, god forbid, watching you through the cameras. Steve must’ve noticed this, because he swallowed down the last of his scotch and set the empty glass on the table. You’d have to move it soon.

“Relax.” His arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, tanned and corded with lithe muscles. His fingers tapped a beat on the leather, close to your shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

You laughed, a shaky, ironic sounding thing. You forgot who you were talking to, just for a second, your heart pumping. “That’s easy for you to say.” You swore then, a pained noise, because Frederick was marching out of his office, three piece suit right across his shoulders and his pocket watch swinging.

He was coming over.

You made a noise similar to a squeak, drinks tray clutched to your chest and you made to jump up but Steve’s hand stopped you. Warm and wide, it took up most of your knee and you blinked at it in surprise. He didn’t move it when you stared at him and he still didn’t move it when Frederick approached, red faced and nostrils flaring.

“Mr Harrington, sir, it’s so good to see you back at The Lake House,” your manager began, his voice a well practised purr. There was a slight British tinge to his voice, one you knew was fake. “Please take my sincerest apologies for you being bothered. I’ll be asking my staff to join me in the office for a much required conversation about professional boundaries. Please excu—”

“Fred,” Steve greeted warmly, his smile much more forced than the one he’d been giving you. Frederick twitched. “Nice to see you.” Steve’s hand still covered your lower thigh and squeezed slightly, in what you thought was supposed to be reassuring but his thumb on the inside of your knee made you too warm. “No need for anything like that, actually.” Steve said your name, wrapped it around his tongue and licked over his lip like he was savouring it before he continued. “—was invited to sit with me.”

The clubhouse manager hardened, a flash of annoyance going over his features and his neck grew more red in anger. He smiled through it, a tight lipped thing that Steve grinned at and you had to duck your head, panic ripping through your body. You couldn’t lose this job.

“How nice,” Frederick finally ground out. He clasped his hands in front of him and glared at you from the sides of his eyes before he smiled at Steve again. “I hope my staff is doing her utmost to keep you pleased, Mr Harrington. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

You hated the way he said it, like any club member could get anything they wanted from you, just because they had enough money to be here. It made you square off your shoulders and lift your head, emboldened. Steve was watching you, that look of intrigue on his face once more. He nodded at Frederick and then gestured to his empty glass.

“Actually, Freddie, could you be a pal and fetch me another?” His tone was too polite, bordering on patronising. Frederick’s tight smile grew tighter, a thin line that stretched across his ruddy face until you feared it might split. “A Macallan, no ice. Anything for the lady?” Steve turned to you and winked, a subtle thing that let you know everything was under control.

But you knew better than to rock the boat, better than that, you knew not to drink on the job. Especially from the club’s bar. The only thing you could afford from behind the mahogany counter was the one thing Steve always refused. Ice.

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

Your manager had no choice but to walk away, his back rigid, proverbial steam coming out from his ears. You watched him snap Steve’s order at a poor, unsuspecting barman who then brought it back over on another shiny tray. He raised his brows at you when Steve thanked him for it and you shrugged, not knowing what was going on either.

When he left, Steve turned back to you, leaning back into the sofa. He looked more tanned that the last time you’d seen him. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the warm glow from the sconces along the walls, the amber coloured shade on the lamp beside him. Maybe he’d just been back to Italy.

Monaco. France. Spain.

He took a sip, eyes dancing over you and when he brought the drink back down to rest on his knee, he spoke. “Have you worked here long?”

It took you a second to realise he was speaking to you again, his voice lower and softer than it had been with your boss. You noticed Steve has a habit of direct eye contact, always looking right into your own eyes as he spoke. It was a little jarring, the confidence, that bold type of charm that must come with always getting what you want.

“Uh, yeah,” you scrunched your nose, trying to remember months and years. “Three years now, or close enough.”

“I should’ve come back sooner,” Steve quipped back, his smile easy, his eyes roaming over you. His ring tapped against his glass of scotch and you didn’t know what to do. Was he flirting with you? “Do you live in town?”

“Couple miles out, smaller place near Sugar Creek.” You weren’t sure why you were telling him this.

“Yeah, I know it,” Steve replied. “Makes sense, why I hadn’t seen you around before. Did you go to school ‘round here?”

You felt like you were being interviewed. A handsome, rich man asking the questions, sitting easy in his throne and you had an awful, awful urge to please him with your answers. To do good. To be praised.

“I went to St. Mary’s High in Green Bay,” you swallowed, your tongue feeling too big for you mouth. Nerves bubbled in your stomach. “Then I was supposed to move to California— Berkeley.” You winced, remembering.

Steve looked surprised, eyebrows raised, nodding. “What was your major?”

“Social law.”

Steve hummed. “Smart girl.” There it was. That praise. You tingled with it. “What happened?”

You heard the words he didn’t say, the unasked question. ‘Why aren’t you there? Why are you here? Wearing that silly little dress and heels that hurt your feet and that fake, fake smile that makes your cheeks hurt so much you want to scream into your pillow when you get home every night?’

You pondered over what to say. How truthful to be. How blunt, how ugly and honest. Shit, you could’ve said. Family, parents, money, bad luck, worse circumstances. Housing, a broken down car, an apartment that fell through at the last minute, a scholarship that didn’t happen, an aunt that got sick, a mom who didn’t like to let go.

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

Steve gave you a wry smile in return, one that told you he could see through it all and he knew exactly what you wanted to say. Like he knew you weren’t allowed to and you were playing by the rules. Frederick was at the bar, staring at your back until you felt your bones crunch with the weight of it.

Steve finished his drink, slid his glass onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “It was nice to talk to you,” he said simply. He took your hand, not to shake it like last time, no. Instead he held it for a beat or two, and when he took his away, neatly folded bills were left between your fingers. They burned.

“For the table service,” he said as a way of explaining. You didn’t know if he meant the drink or you. “I’ll see you next time, honey.”

And then he left. You watched him saunter through the bar, nodding and smiling at people who greeted him, taking his jacket from someone at the door and then he was gone.

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

If you walk away, I'd beg you on my knees to stay

A week later you were clocking into work with the intention of heading to the staff locker rooms, ready to wrestle yourself into that black dress the club called a uniform. It was early afternoon on a Wednesday and The Lake House was quiet, a few greying women you knew to be part of the book club were sat having tea by a window, a group of men leaving the gym, sweat barely there, but the towels over their shoulders had designer logos stitched in the corners.

Frederick found you with your heels in your hand, a look of disgust on your face as you kicked off your sneakers. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the girls locker room, but he shook his head at you and took the stilettos from your hand.

“No,” he looked irritated, as if you should’ve known better. “You’re on the green today.”

You screwed up your nose at him. You were never on the green and you told him as such. “The schedule has me in the bar all day.”

Frederick huffed as if such questions were an inconvenience to him. He ducked, rooting around in your locker as his shoulder bumped your knee and he came back with the uniform you hardly had to wear. A white tennis skirt, bordering on too short with pleats that made the men tip well, even as their wives glared. A forest green sweater to match, the same colour as the club logo, white sneakers that were brand new from never being used.

“Special request,” your boss told you in lieu of a real explanation. “Get dressed, they’re waiting. Hurry.”

You gaped at him as he bundled the clothes into your arms. “Who’s waiting?” You called after him. “What hole?”

“Any of them,” Frederick yelled back as he walked out of the locker room and down the hall. His voice echoed back to you, a daunting thing. “He booked out the whole course.”

Driving the beer cart over the green was always a nerve wracking experience. The drinks rattled noisily and the breeze kept catching at your skirt, threatening to flip it up over your thighs as you tried to manoeuvre the buggy around the man made dunes and valleys. You weren’t sure where you were driving to, or who you were going to meet, but you kept an eye out at each hole for someone, anyone.

It could only really be one of two people, you guessed. Mr Donaldson was harmless enough, but he had a decade or three on your own age. Divorced and the owner of a film company in Atlanta, the man liked to frequent the clubhouse during the summers he spent back in Hawkins, pretending he was visiting his young daughter when he really preferred to lounge at the bar during your shift, trying to convince you that you just needed to see his condo in Georgia.

The only other person you could think of that would request you and you alone, was someone you haven't seen since the week before. You’d looked for him, watched the cars coming into the lot to be dropped off for the valet’s to park but you hadn’t seen any BMW’s. Steve didn’t visit the bar, didn’t spend any afternoons in the smoking lounge - you didn’t even see him with Jonathan Byers at the poker night on Tuesday.

You thought he might’ve left town again. Back to whatever European city he’d decided on for the week, for the month. Maybe he’d gone back to New York, maybe he had meetings. Maybe he had a girlfriend, one for each country.

Mr Donaldson was the harmless option. Annoying, sure. But bearable. Safe. Mr Harrington… he wasn’t harmless at all. You knew which one you wanted to see.

Sure enough, you turned the corner to hole eight to see a group of young men talking and laughing around their own golf cart. You saw some familiar faces, all known for being young, handsome and rich.

Billy Hargrove of Hargrove’s Vintage Motors. Crude, sharp witted, too flirtatious, he was the next in line to take over his father’s company and fortune, selling refurbished vehicles for prices that made your eyes water.

Jonathan Byers was there too, a young mogul who was up and coming in the art world. Once a critic, his photography had shot to fame after some black and white nudes of his then girlfriend were ‘leaked’ to the paper he once worked for. His family paid it all off as some sort of art nouveau exhibition, a look into scandal and sex in 30mm film. He lost his girlfriend but landed a gallery in the downtown neighbourhood of San Francisco.

Eddie Munson, someone you actually knew from high school. A decent guy, there because he worked for it, illegally, sure - but didn’t they all? One way or another? Selling weed and who knows what else to the majority of the population of Hawkins made for a popular man, but Eddie brought in bank when he started selling to the elite, the rich kids of Hawkins High who preferred powder at their parties. He got into The Lake House with cold, hard cash instead of his family name and he stayed in the background of it, usually.

A few other men lingered, clutching at clubs and practising their swings, Wall Street leeches that were stuck at the bottom of the totem pole but still decided they had enough money in their daddies bank to be able to click their fingers at you and smack your ass as their Rolex’s jingled.

Amongst them all, in black slacks and a white polo, was Steve Harrington. Sunglasses over his eyes, leather golfing gloves on his hands, he was smirking at something Eddie said before his head snapped to you. In fact, everyone was staring at you.

You tried to keep your head high and your expression neutral, turning off the engine to the golf cart and doing your best to swing your legs out without flashing anything you weren’t supposed to. You kept your hands on your skirt, smoothing it down, hoping that you could get through this shift without any embar—

A long whistle, salacious and eager, coming from Billy Hargrove. A few of the boy’s laughed and Billy grinned, sharklike, letting his eyes crawl from your toes to your tits. “Damn, Harrington. You paid for one of the good ones, huh? C’mere, Sugar, daddy needs a drink—”

You were frozen, standing awkwardly by the back of the buggy where the drinks were kept in a cooler, a thousand dollar pick ‘n’ mix of whisky, scotch and gin for the men to choose from. There wasn’t any Bud Light at The Lake House, not even on the green.

But Billy didn’t get much further into his catcalls, stopped by a hand on his elbow that tugged him away from you and the other men. The snickering stopped, a heavy silence falling over the group as Steve took Billy aside with nothing more than a touch to his arm. You watched as Steve slid his sunglasses off, his hard gaze on the other boy as he whispered something too low for you to hear. But Billy listened, albeit with a glare in his eyes, but he nodded, sharp and just once. His jaw flexed.

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know what to do. You found Eddie’s gaze, saw his soft smile, knowing. He winked at you, twirling a club in his hand as he waited for the game to continue. And it did, once Steve seemingly dismissed Hargrove. The other men started talking again, easy and light like nothing had happened, requesting different drinks from you that you pulled out of the cooler, ice making your hands wet and numb.

And all the while Steve lingered at the back of them, sitting in the driver's side of the other golf cart, waiting with his eyes on you. He didn’t approach once Jonathan left with his glass of Glenfiddich, in fact, he didn’t make out like he wanted a drink at all. So you stood by the cart like you were supposed to and watched the men take turns at swinging a stick at a ball, yelling profanities when they missed, yelling more profanities when they didn’t.

You couldn’t help let your gaze wander to Steve, the picture of luxury as he leaned back in the leather seat, one leg out of the cart and stretched across neatly clipped grass. He was lighting a cigarette, held between his lips as he lowered his gaze to his cupped hands, gold zippo flickering with an amber flame. He looked up as he blew out the smoke, eyes finding yours, grinning when you startled.

Steve took another drag and asked, “you not comin’ to say hi?”

Three years of ingrained obedience made your feet move forward, doing as you were told at the words of another rich man. You felt unsure, walking across the green empty handed, but Steve hadn’t asked for a drink, so you stopped just shy of where his leg was stretched out of the cart. If you moved any closer, you would’ve been between his spread knees. You clasped your hands in front of you, pressed against your little, white skirt. It lifted a little with the breeze, a sharper wind than the day before that told the town fall was coming.

Steve watched the hem catch and fall back against your thighs, brown eyes tracking the movement to see what little new skin he could watch but apart from that, he didn’t make any of the lewd comments his friend had.

“Mr Harrington,” you said as a greeting. “Good afternoon, can I get you anything to drink?” You were polite to a fault, well trained, good mannered, an expert in making yourself small and only seen when spoken to.

Steve ignored your question. He inhaled his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing out, lips pursing, jaw sharpening. He smiled at you as he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, the wind taking it away from your face. “I told you to call me Steve,” he said and his voice was quiet, a low thing that made your face heat up. You tried to apologise, but he kept talking. “How are you?”

You blinked, surprised at his question. You didn’t think you’d ever been asked that while at work. “Uh, I’m fine, thank you. How’re you?”

Steve nodded and flicked ash onto the grass, letting it sink into the course. “I’m great, thank you. Better now you’re here.” He grinned when you fidgeted, lips parting, hands unsure what to do. You twisted your fingers together a little tighter. “You okay being out here?” Steve let the cigarette balance between his lips and you watched it move as he spoke around it. “I can let you go back inside, if you’d like.”

Normally such words would be used as a trick, a trap, a warning. A subtle threat from an unhappy customer that would ensure you did as they wanted, even if it meant staying later than you were being paid for, adding extra time to their spa passes, even if it risked your own employment. But Steve looked and sounded genuine, his eyes watching you as you worked up the courage to tell him the truth.

“It’s okay,” you finally said, voice betraying how shy you felt. You sounded confident, in control. You felt nothing of the sort, especially when the boy grinned again, wider this time and god, he looked like he owned the world and everything in it.

“Excellent.” Steve flicked the stub of his cigarette away and pushed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He tilted his head at the empty seat beside him and said: “jump in.”

You stuttered over an excuse, an explanation, eyes a little wide as you looked back over to the rest of the group, the drinks cart you were supposed to man all day. “I— I can’t? I’ve to stay with the cart all day, if I leave it I’ll get into—”

Steve cut you off with a tsk and a shake of his head. His voice turned to liquid gold as he spoke, rich and sweet and awfully condescending. It made you drip. “What did I tell you last time, huh, honey? No one’s gonna tell you off unless it’s me. Now c’mon, you don’t wanna spend some time with me?”

You could’ve stayed. You were sure Steve wouldn’t have been mad. You should’ve stayed. You were breaking rules. All of them. But Steve was grinning at you from the front seat of the golf cart, tanned arms flexed as his leather gloves gripped the wheel and all of his friends played pretend, like they couldn’t hear what was going on behind them as they took another swing.

You should’ve stayed. Maybe went back into the clubhouse, took off your sweater and skirt and played nice behind the bar in your usual attire, serving clients old enough to be your grandfather as they slipped fifty dollar bills into your hand just so you’d lean over for them again.

You got in the cart.

Steve positively beamed, a hot smirk that stretched across his pretty face and you barely heard the whistles and yowls of his friends as he sped away as fast as the buggy would allow. He went off course, cruising alongside the green and heading towards the path between the woods that took you to lovers lake.

“Feeling bad today, Berkeley?” The nickname caused your heart to jump, confirmation that he’d been listening the last time you both spoke, that he’d remembered.

But still guilt and worry gnawed at your chest and you looked around at the empty course, half expecting to see Frederick chasing after you both in the drinks cart you’d abandoned so carelessly. What did it matter, really? The price of everything in the cart was included in whatever it had cost for Steve to book out the entire fucking course for the day. A stolen scotch or two didn’t matter. Not really.

You didn’t know how to reply, so you didn’t say anything at all, just sitting by Steve’s side like a baby deer caught in headlights, like a good little girl that wanted to know if it really was true, if Steve really could keep you out of the trouble he was leading you into. The boy must’ve seen your bleak expression ‘cause he laughed, pushing back the hair that the wind blew across his forehead.

“Honey, it’s fine,” Steve glanced over at you as he turned down the dirt path to the lake. You could see his eyes shining at you through his shades, amusement making them glitter. “I promise.”

So you nodded and tried to smile, doing your best to relax into the seat and when the cart bumped over a fallen branch that Steve didn’t bother to avoid, the jostle of it made your thigh bump into his. He grasped at your knee as an apology of sort, murmuring something you couldn’t hear over the wind, but his palm engulfed your bare knee once more and fuck, fuck, you couldn’t think of anything else. His gold ring looked pretty against your skin, his tanned hand complimenting the dough of your thigh nicely and you tried to remember how to talk.

“Is there something you needed my help with at the lake, Mr Harrington?” You didn’t think Steve needed any help on how to work speed boats or jet skis, but still, you weren’t sure what else to say.

Steve laughed again, a pretty sound that made your toes curl and he slowed the cart to a stop at a shaded area along the shore, far enough away from the sandy embankment that the men on the lake in their fishing boats wouldn’t be able to see you. “C’mon now, I thought you were a smart thing,” Steve pouted at you as he turned off the cart's engine. His hand left your leg and you mourned the loss of it, heart jumping again when his hand curled around the back of your seat instead. “What did I tell you to call me?”

Your chest warmed like you were back in middle school, getting scolded by a teacher who you didn’t want to disappoint. It bloomed across your neck and face, only getting hotter as the entire sensation of it made you squeeze your clasped hands between your thighs. Steve’s gaze dropped to your lap, a quick glance down that made the corners of his lips curve up.

“Steve,” you said quietly, sounding shy, reserved. Your body was giving away too much, you couldn’t let your voice join in.

Steve nodded and the hand that was resting against your seat moved a little, brushing against your sweater until he could rub a thumb against your shoulder blade. “See, she’s a smart girl after all, isn’t she?”

You could only nod. What the fuck was going on? Hidden by the trees, on the edge of the water that was across from where you usually spent weekday afternoons. You could see The Lake House from here, could practically feel Frederick’s gaze out of the bay windows, boring a hole into the middle of your forehead as you sat with one of the most affluent clients on the rolodex. Steve Harrington had his arm around your back, his eyes on your bare thighs, his other hand ghosting along the hem of your skirt. He pulled at it, bringing it down the mere centimetre it had ridden up, knuckles skimming your too hot skin.

He didn’t look away from it when he asked you: “And if you are a clever, little thing, d’you know why I brought you here?”

If it had been dark, if it had been closer to night, if the grounds had been empty and the lake was still, maybe you would’ve felt more scared than you were. If it had been anyone else, maybe you would have been sitting there in the shadow of the trees and cursing yourself out for being so stupid. Going with this boy - this man - letting him take you off alone and away from prying eyes, letting him touch your leg and get too close. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Despite what Steve said, this wasn’t smart, was it?

But you found that you didn’t care. You really didn’t fucking care. Not one bit.

You shrugged, cheeks warm, too wary to say anything out of turn, too cautious to say anything too bold for fear of losing your job. Or worse, being rejected.

Steve pouted. “No?” He tutted and sighed, a dramatic sounding thing and he let his hand fell back onto your leg, higher this time. You held your breath as he skimmed his palm upupup until his fingertips disappeared under the hem of your skirt that he’d just pulled down for you. “Well, I wanted to personally invite you the poker game with me tomorrow night. You know the one, don’t you? It’s in the lounge, nine o’clock.”

You tried to steady your breathing, exhaling sharply from your nose as Steve’s fingers wandered, never going higher, going slow and soft enough that you could slap his hand away if you wanted to. You didn’t. “I’m working that shift,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, his grin blinding. “Good, you’ll be there then.”

“Working,” you reminded him, the last syllable of the word hitching in your mouth as his fingers passed over your leg once more. You felt the cool metal of his gold band on the inside of your thigh. “I’ll be there to work.”

Steve nodded, like he understood, like he wasn’t planning to monopolise every minute of your shift, wondering how long he could keep you by his side at the poker table before you got too worried and scrambled back to the bar. “Of course.” He pulled back a little, his nose too close to brushing yours as you couldn’t help but lean in too, head tilted up to his like you did it all the time. “And then after that,” he took his hand from your thigh and you tried not to cry about it, ‘cause he used the back of his hand to push your hair away from your face instead. “You could come back to mine?”

Oh, fuck. You couldn’t help the smile that fluttered across your face, the giddy, shy laugh that followed. You were flustered and it showed, and as much as it made Steve smile back, it made him hard as a fucking rock.

“Shit, uh, god, sorry,” you shook your head, as if to clear it. You felt fuzzy, hazy, under Steve’s spell as he kept smiling at you, clearly entertained by your flushed face, your dazed expression. “I’m really not supposed to do that.”

You didn’t say no, Steve noted. You didn’t say that you didn’t want to. In fact, from the way your eyes dropped to his lips over and over again, Steve was pretty sure he could seal this deal with you faster than his last visit meeting with that winery in Sorrento.

That wasn’t to say you were easy, no. Just real fucking cute. He had a forty percent share in that vineyard and soon enough, he’d have you too.

“What?” He played dumb, all syrupy sweet smiles and his voice all soft. He traced a circle around your knee. “You can’t see me out of work? Surely Fredrick isn’t that much of a tyrant, honey.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the one that made you feel like he was undressing you. You were too warm and his innocent fingertips on your knee were making you wanna drag his hand back up your thigh and underneath the hem of your skirt. “We’re not supposed to involve ourselves with club members.” Your words felt dull in your mouth, heavy and cotton like.

Pointless.

Steve pouted, lips pursing like he was trying to get you to kiss him. He tutted; his warm, wide palm curling around your thigh again. He squeezed gently and your mouth fell open, panting, an invitation. “What if I want to be involved with you, hm? What then, honey?”

You let your head fall back a little, lips wet and parted, eyes closing briefly, because Steve let his fingers slide up a little further, the tips of his middle and pointer finger brushing, just fucking barely, across the cotton of your underwear. You knew you were wet and you knew that he did too. How could he not? The damp fabric dragged across his digits and you saw the realisation in his eyes, that flash of heat, that curl of his lips that made his smile a smirk.

“Remember what I told you?” He let his lips fall into ‘o’ at your small noise, an almost whine that sounded blissed out. God, he could have fun with you. “Do you? C’mon smart girl, what do I always get?”

You blinked at him, sucking in a breath as you fought the urge to grind down on his hand. Steve took his fingers away, the damp tips of them trailing back down the inside of your thigh as he waited for an answer.

“You told me,” you took another breath, looking around quickly, burning at the sight of the boats on the lake, the blurry people across the water by the clubhouse, sitting outside for afternoon tea. “You told me you always get what you want.”

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

The night after, you’d spent too long getting ready for your shift. Too long in the shower, letting the steam fill the tiny room, honey and peach scented body wash running in rivers down your bare skin, your razor chasing after it as you did your best to make every crevice of your body silky smooth.

You told yourself you weren’t going home with Steve Harrington. You told yourself you couldn’t, that you weren’t allowed to.

But you took the time to layer mascara on your lashes, fixing any smudges before finishing your makeup with a layer of gloss on your lips, tinted a rosy pink and drawing more attention to them than you’d usually want. Black dress, clubhouse mandated stockings and heels, freshly polished. You left for work with your heart in the back of your throat.

The Lake House was quieter than usual on poker nights, mostly because each guest had to buy their way in. All players had to place a ten thousand dollar deal in with the croupier, pockets emptied and jackets checked at the door. It made the smoking lounge feel bigger, men seated around a large poker table, the dealer in the middle, chips stacked high and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It smelled like tobacco, leather, expensive cologne and money, and god, the tips were good.

There were familiar faces around the table, Billy, Jonathan, Mr Donaldson, a few other men from the club that liked to order expensive drinks and call you things like ‘sweet cheeks’ and ‘sugar.’ The room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow that was kept in the room with closed drapes, velvet lined chairs, and bar staff that were trained not to speak unless spoken to. Everything was hushed and whispered, men talking money over glasses of liquor, cigars in one hand, their dealt hand in the other.

Then there was Steve, coming into the room a little late with another suit on, sharp and with a matching black shirt underneath, looking like he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t look at you as he took his seat, smirking at something Jonathan said and sliding a wad of stacked bills towards the dealer. He got his chips, he got his cards and the game began.

It took a whole twenty minutes before he raised his hand, a two finger salute that let you know he wanted a drink. You beat the other waitress to it, slipping in front of the new start - Vickie something - and your heels clicked as you made your way over to Steve. You already had a drink on your tray, poured the minute you saw his hand go up, his eyes still on his hand.

A Macallan, no ice.

You placed the tumbler on the table in front of him, knees bending slightly to make sure it didn’t spill. Without warning, Steve’s hand snuck along the back of your thigh as you placed your tray under your arm, ready to walk away. Fingertips traced over the crease of your knee, ghosting over your stocking. You watched his gaze flicker to the drink he didn’t have to ask for, a slight curve to the corners of his lips as he smiled his approval. He leaned back, head tipped up to you so you had to bend down slightly to meet him. His hand was slipping up the back of your thigh the whole time, hidden from the rest of the room, from the other players, your boss in the corner.

You bent at the waist, feeling your skirt rise up, feeling Steve’s hand do the same. His thumb ran along the crease below your ass, over the sliver of bare skin between your underwear and stockings.

“Smart girl,” he whispered in the shell of your ear, making you burn. His voice was low and a little rough from hardly talking, only communicating with nods to the croupier, dead face glances at his opponents. His chips were stacked high for his efforts. “You look pretty. How ‘bout you just stay beside me, yeah?”

You weren’t supposed to. But you did. You watched as your boss frowned, as Vickie looked surprised. Beside Steve, Jonathan snickered quietly and across the table, Billy narrowed his eyes.

“Breakin’ some rules?” He mouthed to Steve.

Steve ignored him.

The night came to an end close to one o’clock, once the bar was almost dry and Steve had most of the money. He accepted the passive remarks about his poker face, his ability to lie through his damn teeth, how he didn’t need all that money anyways. Then there were the handshakes and slaps on the back, good natured talks and invites to lunches, chats about business opportunities and stocks. And all the while you tidied, putting away empty bottles of thousand dollar whisky, pouring hundred dollar glasses of Malbec down the drain. Cigar ash on the table, white powder tipped dollar notes that everyone pretended to not notice. Heavy tips on the table top, damp from spilled drinks, pushed into your apron pocket while the men around you tried to get a peek up your skirt.

And then Steve was leaning over the bar top and still ignoring Billy. He was watching you clean, eyes tracking the way your hands slid the cloth over the mahogany, and while your cheeks warmed at his attention, you let him. You were off the clock, your shift over. Bar closed.

Home time. Maybe.

“—you even listenin’ to me, Harrington?” Billy sounded annoyed, words twisting on his tongue, whisky making them come out a little slower than he wanted them to.

“No.” Steve’s reply was short and bored sounding.

“I said, you fucker, that I need a ride. S’posed to be on a goddamn flight at five o’clock and this fuckin’ tequila is makin’ me piss like a fuckin’ racehor—”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off of you as he took his wallet from inside of his suit jacket pocket. Using two fingers, he offered Billy a fifty, holding the bill in front of the other man’s face. “Take a cab.”

Billy looked offended at the suggestion. Disgusted, actually. “A cab? What do I look like to you, huh? Huh? A fuckin’ peasant?”

Steve just shrugged and slapped the bill on the counter anyway. “I’m having company,” he told him. Then he drained the rest of the one drink he’d ordered from you all night and met your gaze straight on. “You ready?”

Not, ‘would you like to join me?’ Not, ‘would you like to come back to mine?’ No. Just a simple question. ‘Are you ready to go?’

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

Billy laughed, a sharp and mean thing as he looked between you and Steve. Then his gaze turned salacious, drunk and lazy as he took in your short dress, your shiny lips. He nudged Steve and nodded towards you. “You not sharing this time, Harrington?” He tutted. “What a shame.”

You didn’t know what to say. If you’d been at a bar in town, standing on either side of it, you’d have listened to the twitch in your hand and lifted it, letting your palm meet Billy Hargrove’s right cheek, regardless of how much money was in his wallet. But Frederick was by the door talking to Mr Donaldson about summers in the Bahamas and you couldn’t do shit.

So you turned your back, polished another wine glass and slid it back onto its shelf.

“You know,” you heard Steve murmur. His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous sounding. “You keep letting your mouth run like that, and I’ll make sure you don’t have a reason to get that five am flight. One call and there won’t be no fucking meeting in L.A, do you understand?”

You didn’t hear Billy’s reply. In fact, you weren’t sure there was one. Instead, Steve walked to the side of the bar and brushed some invisible lint off of his jacket as he waited for you to untie your apron. You hesitated, watching as Fredrick disappeared into his office and then, and only then, did you step out from behind the bar to join Steve, letting him place his hand on the small of your back and guide you out of the clubhouse.

He made it too easy to break the biggest rule in the book.

—————

Steve drove you to a townhouse on the edge of town, the opposite direction from your own home. He took you there in his BMW, a shiny maroon car that looked brand new, with leather seats and shiny detailing on the dash. He didn’t touch you in the car, he just opened the door for you to get in and get out, only offering a hand that you took as you stood on his driveway.

His house was lit up by lights on either side of the huge garage, another by the double doors. Three floors, a water feature in the front yard, a security system at the entrance. Steve pressed some buttons before something buzzed and clicked, and he opened the door with no grand flourish, extending an arm for you to enter first.

Everything was sleek and polished, not quite the bachelor pad you expected, but luxurious all the same. Wooden floors and a large fireplace in the living room, the leather and suede of the clubhouse swapped out for a huge sectional, covered in cushions and throws. There was art on the walls, scenes of Greek tragedies, half naked women with dreamy looks on their faces, full curves and thick thighs. A shiny kitchen that looked barely used, bottles of scotch and whisky and gin on a golden bar cart in the corner, a full wall of books surrounding the biggest television you’d seen. The house smelled like Steve, like his cologne, like new leather and oak.

His footsteps echoed across the room as he strolled into the kitchen, an open plan thing that let you watch him from where you stood by the front door. Steve held up a bottle of wine. Red, a label you recognised from work, something that Frederick charged far too much money for. In your opinion.

“Drink?” Steve asked.

You nodded, stepping into the room a little more. There were a few lamps on, a warm flow from each that cast shadows over the floor, up the walls. The curtains were closed, heavy drapes that kept out the night, kept in the secrets. Like you.

Steve appeared at your side, passing you a glass filled with a little ruby coloured wine. He grinned at your quiet thanks and offered his own for a toast. The glasses clinked and you took a sip, dark cherries and bitter chocolate swirling your senses, or at least, you were sure they would’ve if you hadn’t decided to gulp it down. Steve laughed softly and took your empty glass, setting it on the coffee table with his own. There was a stack of big books in the middle of it, something about American architecture and cars of the sixties, a candle that had never been lit and a cigar box with his initials engraved on the lid.

“Here, sit,” Steve suggested and you sank into the sofa with him. The boy immediately lounged back into the cushions, arms stretched out over the back of it as he appraised you, head tilted to his side. “You don’t do this often, huh?”

You turned to him, puzzled, your hands sliding nervously up and down your bare legs. Your dress suddenly felt shorter than ever and with the way Steve was looking at you - hungry, predatory, bold - you weren’t sure if you wanted to tug the hem down to your knees or take the full thing off and drop it at his feet.

“Do what?”

Steve gestured to himself, to the huge living room you felt a little bit lost in. He smirked, “go home with guys you barely know.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if it would seem rude if you reached out and stole the rest of his wine. If you’d feel braver and bolder if you were to gulp down more Malbec, if the price tag on the bottle would feel better on your tongue. “Not usually,” you said. You left out the part about how you’d be fired on the spot if your boss found out who you were going home with.

Steve smiled, eyes shining at you like he thought you were cute. He patted the space on the couch beside him. It felt like a million miles away from you. “Come over here,” he said softly. You noticed how he didn’t ask, or suggest. It was an order, as gentle as it was. “I won’t bite.”

You scoffed a little, enjoying the irony of his words despite how he’d looked at you all night, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you, like he wanted to just eat you up. “You won’t?” You asked him, doubtful, even as you slid closer, your thigh brushing his.

Steve dropped his hand to your knee, fingertips barely brushing your skin as she skimmed up and down, up and down. Each pass got him closer to the hem of your dress and you thought back to yesterday, in that stupid golf cart by the edge of the lake. How easy you made it for him, head thrown back, chest heaving, legs spread. You wanted that again, the feeling of his teasing fingers brushing up against the front of your underwear, lace this time, and already damp.

Steve flashed a grin, all teeth, more bite than a smile and you resisted the urge to clamp your thighs together, trapping his hand between. You’d never been this hot for a guy, never been this easy to fold. You felt delicate with Steve, ready to crumple, ready to fold.

“Not on the first date, no,” he assured you.

Your brows rose into your hairline. “This is a date?”

Steve flattened his palm against your thigh and squeezed, leaning into you, nose brushing your cheek until you ripped your head for him and it skimmed the line of your jaw. Your breathing changed too quickly, stuttering to a hitch until it picked up, your eyes closing as you felt Steve’s lips brush against you in the briefest of touches. It wasn’t even a kiss.

“What did you think it was?” Steve whispered, his words hot against your neck. You could smell his cologne, rich and peppery, could feel the slight stubble on his jaw scrape against your throat and you were desperate now, you needed him to kiss you. “What did you think I invited you here for, honey?”

His hand was higher now, fingers under the hem of your dress and you wanted to fall into him, you wanted to crawl into his lap and spread your legs, get properly dirty for him and pull your dress up around your hips and show him how you liked to be touched. Although, you had a feeling he wouldn’t need much help. “I, I don’t know—” you interrupted yourself with a gasp, Steve’s fingertips running along the lace edge of your underwear, teasing the crease of your thigh. “A one night stand, maybe.”

The boy laughed, a soft noise that was buried in the crook of your neck and he finally, finally, put his mouth on you. He kissed sweetly at the spot under your ear, grinned against it when you squirmed at the feel of him and then dragged his parted lips down the column of your neck. You felt the tip of his tongue, a tiny touch, teasing, warm and wet.

“Just one night?” Steve tutted, letting his fingers slip underneath the edge of your underwear. You were an elastic band now, pulled too right, fraught with unspent energy, ready to snap at the tension. “What if I wanted to keep you, hm?” His fingers ghosted over your folds, already slick and wet for him. If he was affected by it, he didn’t show it. He pulled at you gently, spreading you for him, a single digit touching your needy clit as he kept you open. It was filthy. “You’re too pretty for one night, aren’t you?”

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but you nodded anyway. You were sure you already looked wrecked, head slack and leaning against Steve’s shoulder, his lips now dotting over your hairline. Legs open, underwear pushed up and to the side by Steve’s hand, his one finger sliding up and down the seam of your cunt. The rubber band was getting tighter.

Steve hummed, a deep, warm noise that rumbled in his chest. “Look at me, honey,” he ordered and you did as were told, eyes heavy and haze unfocused as you turned your head to face him. He was so close, the only evidence he was as turned on as you were, were his blown out pupils, his heavy eyelids. “There she is, oh sweetheart, you’re gone, huh?” he cooed.

You thought he might kiss you then, you thought he might kiss you, finally. But he nuzzled his nose against yours - a surprisingly sweet thing - before he murmured, “take your clothes off for me.”

It was embarrassing, the way your lips parted and your cheeks went hot. You wondered if Steve felt it, the warmth that exploded from your skin at his words, the way your empty cunt clenched around nothing at his words. He gave you clit one more passing nudge before he moved his hands from you completely and sank back into the couch. One arm over the back of it, legs crossed, the other hand brought to his mouth so he could rub the finger he’d dipped along your pussy against his bottom lip.

It was obscene.

He nodded to the space between the sofa and the coffee table and licked his lips. “C’mon, honey, strip.”

You should’ve pulled down your dress and thrown what was left of his wine in his face before you slammed the door on your way out. This man, this rich boy with his big house and shiny car, was ordering you around like you were still at the clubhouse. Like he could flash his members only card and get what he wanted. He hadn’t even kissed you. He didn’t know your last name, and shit, the only reason you knew his, was because him and his family were at the top of the client list at the place you worked.

You could lose your job over this. Worse, you could get your heart broken.

Steve must’ve sensed your hesitation because he reached back over to brush your hair from your eyes, where it had fallen in a mess when you hid your face in the dip of his shoulder as he tapped at your clit again and again and again. He pouted, tsked in a way that sounded sympathetic. “Oh honey, are you shy?” Condescension dripped from him, words liquid gold, sticky sweet and trapping you. He ran the back of his knuckles down your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. It was as close to a kiss as you would get. “It’s okay, hm? Am I not playing nice? Am I being rude?”

You didn’t know what to say. You were being sucked in by this man’s charm, his caramel coated words, the way his brown eyes turned soft as he took your hand and led you to stand up in the middle of his living room. “I’m sorry, honey,” Steve whispered. “How awful of me. Lemme try again, huh?” He kissed your cheek, a soft, lingering thing before he left you standing, sitting back in front of you once more.

Steve pushed back his hair and let his eyes appraise you before he rolled his shirt sleeves up and leant back into the cushions. A king on his throne. And the entertainment for tonight?

You.

“Take your clothes off for me, honey,” he tried again, his voice softer this time, lower, dirtier. And then he smiled at you and added: “please.”

With shaking hands and a held breath that made your chest burn, you pulled the material down your shoulders, reaching around your back to tug at the zip. And when it fell open, exposing your skin to the warm air, it was too easy to let the entire dress fall down over your hips. It pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it, heels still on, legs covered in the sheer black stockings that the clubhouse made mandatory for poker nights.

Steve’s lips made a little ‘o’ shape, an appreciative thing that made you pulse with need. You saw then how his dress trousers were tented at the front, an impressive bulge that twitched when you smoothed your hands over your upper thighs, a nervous reaction to being so exposed.

“Oh,” Steve exhaled as he let his eyes rake over you. Soft skin between black lace, thigh highs pulled taught against your curves, tits pressed up in a bra you’d chosen as you thought him. You hoped he wouldn’t embarrass you, you hoped he wouldn’t ask you to do something like spin for him, show off for him. Because you would’ve. “Aren’t you a pretty fucking picture.”

He didn’t need to talk after that. He just lifted his chin towards your chest and you were pulling off your bra for him. You hated how the control of it all made you wetter, the space between your legs fucking throbbing as you waited for your next instruction. “Unless you want those ripped,” Steve was gazing at your underwear, eyes seeking out every dip and line he could make our in the wet lace. “I’d take them off too.” He didn’t let them hit the floor with the rest of your clothes, instead, extending one hand and crooking his fingers.

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

And you did, watching as he slipped them into his trouser pockets, keeping his eyes on you, trailing them over your thighs that were slick with how wet he’d got you. He’d hardly touched you, you scolded yourself, not even a kiss. It was embarrassing, mortifying. It was the hottest thing that had happened to you.

“Keep those on,” Steve murmured, talking about your heels and stockings. “And come sit back down for me, honey, yeah?”

The fabric of the couch felt soft under your bare skin and you hesitated before you let yourself relax into it. There surely would be a wet spot underneath you, evidence of how turned on you were, but Steve didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s it,” he encouraged softly. “Get comfy, hm? Such an agreeable, little thing aren’t you?” Steve was sliding off the couch as he spoke, one palm pressed to his crotch as if to stave off some of his own need. He knelt in front of you, mouth parting in a sigh as he dropped to eye level with your cunt. “Think you can spread those legs for me? Let me see you, honey, there’s a girl—”

He cut himself off with a low groan as you brought your feet up, heels on the edge of the couch as you spread your knees, sticky thighs parting. He could see all of you, fuck, he could probably smell you. The low light made every part of you glisten, the heavy rise and fall of your chest cast in an amber glow.

“Oh she’s real fuckin’ pretty, isn’t she?” Steve asked you, eyes tearing away from your pussy to look up at you. “Spread ‘em wider for me, baby, can you do that?” Another moan from the boy as you let your knees fall apart, almost touching the couch. Steve smoothed his hands up your tights, bracketing your cunt before he did the same as before and pulled your folds even further apart. “Look at that,” he whispered.

You couldn’t. You let your head fall back onto the cushion, eyes squeezed shut as you let your own hands fall onto your knees. You dug in your nails, crescent moon marks on your skin as your tried to keep a grip on reality. You were almost certain you’d come with just one touch.

“Want my mouth?” Steve asked you and his voice was back to that sugar sweet drip, it was thick with an affection, like he was being so nice for taking care of you. You already wanted to thank him. “Want my tongue?”

His thumbs rubbed up and down your folds, keeping them spread apart, a dirty massage that made your clit pulse with each tiny movement. You nodded, letting out a uneven breath and Steve tutted.

“You gotta look at me then, c’mon, Berkeley.” He nipped at your thigh, teeth biting at the skin and it made you cry out. “Look at me and tell me you want me to eat you out.”

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

You were under no illusion that giving Steve an order made you the one in charge. He played you like a puppet, a boneless girl that wanted nothing more than to come all over this rich strangers sofa. You had a one track mind, no shame left, not when Steve was pressing his mouth over you folds, not licking into you, not yet. Just kissing. You wanted to cry.

“Eat me out,” you begged, eyes glassy as you tried to lift your hips but Steve pulled away. He grinned at you, waiting. “Eat me out, please, Steve. Fuck, want your mouth yeah, please?”

“Where?” He asked, dragging it out. His voice was unholy. “Where do you want my mouth?” His thumbs were still moving, up and down and up and down. “Tell me.”

“My pussy, Jesus Christ,” you whined. You couldn’t ever remember being this pent up. “Please.”

“Oh,” Steve cooed, “she’s so polite.” And then he gave you no other warning, dipping his head so he could lick a stripe through your folds, the hot, wet contact of his tongue making you cry out.

You were unraveling too fast. His thumbs had you taught for him, every part of you feeling his tongue, his lips. Steve groaned into you, a happy, pleased hum that told you whatever game this was, he’d won. He kept his tongue flat, slow, broad strokes of it going from your entrance to your clit until you were curling over him and clutching his hair, doing your best to not suffocate him. But Steve moaned louder and moved his hands to your hips, sliding down until they cupped under your ass and he encouraged you to grind against his face. Tongue still out, kept flat for you to rock yourself on. It was pornographic.

Then Steve was mumbling into you, voice a rasp. “Good girl, honey, that’s it. Keep going, make yourself come on my tongue, yeah?”

So you did, obedient as ever, letting out a gasping cry as your legs shook, cunt still clenching around nothing ‘cause Steve had broken you with just his mouth. It was dirty hot, the way he dragged himself from your sensitive slit, tongue running over your folds even as you whined, licking over the crease of your thighs to get everything you’d spilled for him. You watched as he appeared between your knees, hair tousled, lips and chin shining in the low light, his cheeks flushed. It was ironic, how he looked more boyish after he made you come, expensive black shirt creased from where your legs had pressed against him, his own gaze a little fucked out.

Logic would suggest that perhaps you’d get a kiss then, something soft and sweet to soothe you down before he fucked you senseless, before you got to wrap your own fingers or lips around him. Steve looked big, if the solid press of him against his trousers was anything to go by. Thick and still rock hard, an easy eight inches trapped taught against his thigh, just as impressive as his wealth and status. Your mouth watered.

He kissed the inside of your knee instead, his heavy lidded gaze on yours before he offered you his hands to help you sit up and then said, “I better get you home.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Home,” Steve repeated. He passed you back your bra, your dress. Not your underwear though, no. They were still in his pocket. “I gotta be at the airport in—” he checked his watch, the picture of blasé. “—an hour.”

You pulled on your dress, a little speechless. This boy had just made you come harder than you’d ever managed yourself and now he was busying himself with lighting a cigarette he pulled from the packet in his pocket. Your eyes wandered, he was still hard.

“What about,” you licked your lips, suddenly shy. You nodded towards his crotch, the absolute monster he packed in his slacks. “What about you?”

Steve grinned, bending down to peck your cheek as you wriggled into your uniform, trying to pull yourself back together. “I’ll live,” he told you, blowing out smoke as he spoke. “We’ll call it an IOU, huh? But my plane leaves soon, honey. I’ll cash that favour when I’m back.”

“When?” You blurted out. It sounded like something a girlfriend would demand to know and you cringed, but Steve kept smirking. He helped you slip on your heels, cigarette hanging from his lips that definitely tasted like you.

“Unsure,” he told you casually, “there’s things I need to wrap up in Monaco before I can go to Tuscany for a few weeks. There’s problems at the vineyard and there’s a new plot I want to look at in Alassio too.”

All you heard was money money money. So you nodded and gave him a small smile, legs still a little wobbly from his touch, his mouth, his tongue. And when Steve dropped you off at the door of your too small apartment, he took your chin between his finger and thumb and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw, just below your ear.

The kiss goodnight to your lips didn’t come. You felt confused, a little stilted. But you got out the BMW and waved goodbye, wondering what you were supposed to do at three in the morning after Steve Harrington had tumbled your world upside down.

PART TWO

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot

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lumosinlove · 20 days ago

Text

Seeking hope and happiness, especially today, and found some in these three...

On The Line

Part Six

New York was much as Logan remembered it. This city seemed to do nothing but change, so its fast paced lights and sidewalks always seemed the same. Finn refused to stay anywhere but Manhattan, but if his happy expression as he stood at their suite’s large windows while sipping his coffee resulted in earlier mornings for the both of them, Logan didn’t care.

He poured a cup of his own and joined him at the window. Central Park’s leaves hadn’t turned yet. Early joggers and cyclists were out. People walked their dogs. The world felt awake and happy, and Finn’s arm around his waist was warm.

The qualifiers were over, the first rounds blown through. The semifinals were today. Logan had taken out Winter easily to get past the quarterfinals, and today he’d go up against Luke. Leo had fought hard to get through Black and succeeded, which had upset and surprised everyone—even those who were hoping for another grueling Tremblay-Knut match up in the final.

Logan knew he should be nervous for tonight’s match. He had to focus on Luke, who had a way of sneaking up on people. Instead, all he could think about was the prospect of meeting Leo in the finals.

“He sleeping?” Finn asked.

“Shower,” Logan said. “He was singing last I checked.”

“Singing what?”

“I don’t know.”

Finn scoffed. “Yes, you do.”

“Willow.”

Ah-ha.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but settled his head against Finn’s chest. The park looked so peaceful. The runners knew just where they were going around the circular track of the lake. The dog walkers would soon make their way back home. Logan didn’t know what would happen tonight—if he’d make it, or if he would lose this chance at another title. He wondered when he would get tired of chasing titles. It hadn’t quite happened yet. Something still ignited in his chest when he thought about winning. It was similar to the feeling he got when he thought about those two, prized first kisses he’d received. He liked Finn in the stands. He liked the grueling training Finn designed for him.

“How you feeling?” Finn asked, scratching his fingers through Logan’s hair. “You’re playing good. Smooth. I’m proud.”

Logan nodded, settling more of his weight against him. “I’m good.” He hesitated, but Finn would find out sooner or later. Logan would end up blurting it out in a different moment just like this one. “Nervous.”

“I know,” Finn said. “But we knew this was always a possibility.”

“But now it’s close. And real.”

“Oh, you’re so sure you’re going to take Luke.” When Logan just looked at him, Finn laughed. “Yeah, okay, killer.”

“I don’t want to hurt Le.”

Finn stayed quiet for a moment. Logan closed his eyes, letting him mess with his hair, rub his neck, do anything he wanted while he thought. One time he accidentally started doing it when a few reporters caught up with them around the practice courts, and there hadn’t been a camera there but they had sure gotten a few laughs.

“You’re not hurting anyone, Lo. You’re doing your job. Leo will be in the game longer than you. He’s talented and driven and younger.” Finn looked down at him. “I think the only thing that would hurt him is you…like, going easy on him or something.”

Logan scoffed. “Going easy?”

“Not that you would. God knows you’re too stubborn for that.”

Logan let his eyes unfocus, filled only with the green and brown smudges of the park far below. A siren wailed somewhere—a sound he always associated with the beginning of a grueling hardcourt season. He already knew Finn would be setting up multiple massage appointments for him—and thought about asking Finn to do it himself like he sometimes did.

“I want to beat him. That’s there, just like in practice,” Logan said carefully. “I just… I need a way to separate it.” Logan ran his hand down Finn’s arm until he reached his wrist. He traced over the taut tendons there from holding his coffee. “I don’t remember how I did it with you. I just—I need it to be about the game and not about us because…”

Finn’s fingers paused from messing with his hair. His thumb brushed Logan’s eyebrow, and Logan took the cue and looked up at him.

“Because I love him,” Logan whispered.

A new sort of flame caught behind Finn’s eyes. His laugh was soft, satiny, and he cupped Logan’s chin in light fingertips.

“Ouais,” Logan whispered against Finn’s mouth. “Finn, I do, I do…” Finn was hushing him, smiling, nodding, then kissing him.

“Shower’s free,” Leo’s voice said.

Logan looked to see him with a towel around his waist and another in his hands, drying off his hair roughly. The droplets of water on his chest shone as brightly as the gold chain around his neck.

“I mean,” Leo continued, grinning. “Technically, it was free while I was in it, too. If we’re covering all our bases here.”

“I have to shower,” Finn said, setting his coffee down. “So, why are you toweling off?”

Leo laughed and threw the towel in a perfect straight snap to Finn’s chest.

Finn just grinned, grabbing his face for a sloppy kiss as he passed by. He turned. “Lo, eat a light breakfast and stretch now so we can get some hitting in early. And Le…” He stopped in his tracks, halfway through the bathroom doorway before he retraced his steps and took Leo around the waist for a slower, softer kiss. It left his shirt damp. He hooked a finger in Leo’s gold chain. “See you for lunch?”

Logan still managed to forget Leo wasn’t coming down to the courts with him more often than not. He’d grown so used to spending every single moment together. Seeing him across the practice courts, alone, and tall, and beautiful, felt so, so strange. Sometimes Finn had to stop Logan from crossing the lines at the sound of Leo’s coach’s harsh barks at him…Sometimes Logan had to stop Finn.

Leo bit his lip, shoulders falling some, and shook his head. “Probably not.”

Logan frowned. He took it all back. This was the hardest part. The days where they hardly saw each other. “When?”

“I’ll stick around after I play Lupin,” Leo said, offering a smile as he wiped at the water he’d gotten on Finn’s shirt. “Watch you kick Luke’s ass.”

Logan brightened. “You will?” What if you lose? There was no way Leo’s team would want him out at Logan’s match for the camera to find if he lost.

“Fuck ‘em,” Leo said, reading his mind, then looked at Finn. “But I probably shouldn’t sit with you.”

Finn’s mouth pulled to the side unhappily, but he nodded. “I know…All right, well, have a late dinner with us?”

“Gotta ask coach,” Leo said. “But I want to. Will you text me where you guys end up?”

Logan set his coffee down too, mostly untouched. “Le, we won’t leave without you. Tell your team your having dinner with—with friends, if you have to.”

“They can’t deny you us.” Finn brushed his knuckles down Leo’s cheek. “We’re yours.”

“Sweetheart…” Leo caught Finn’s hand and kissed it. “You are.”

But Leo sighed, and it sounded so heavy and exhausted that Logan wanted to take them both back to his house, back to the sun and the pool, and the open kitchen that wouldn’t ever feel the same without Leo’s happy humming in it.

Logan crossed the room and fit into Leo’s other side. He settled his palm on his neck, making Leo look at him. I love you. I love you.

“I’ll try,” Leo said. He put his hand over Logan’s. “You know I’ll try.”

Leo won his match. Logan caught the end of it on the warm-up room televisions while rolling out his back on the mats. Luke was on the other side of the room. Maybe they would have been watching together, had they not been about to play, but Logan was glad for the quiet. Finn was off somewhere preparing Logan’s drinks and fruit. He’d started leaving little messages on the insides of bottle caps and the back of Logan’s plastic forks. Love you. The camera had already caught one that said you’re hot and so he’d been sticking to love. Logan had realized that the camera caught it and had shown it on the big screen once the crowd laughed, so he’d made a point of tapping it, eyes on the camera, and pointing to himself. That had won him big media points. One headline had even read Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day.

Leo was doing well. He looked strong and energetic, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet while he waited for a serve. Logan paused, letting himself rest with his neck on the roller as he took him in. He looked devastating in the outfit his sponsors had chosen. All black, all the way to the headband tied around his golden hair.

His returns were like water. He hit a backhand, forehand, backhand, before whipping the ball down the line so perfectly that Logan had to inhale and close his eyes, pushing the roller from his neck to shoulders. The perfect dig into his sore muscles couldn’t come close to Leo’s hands on him, especially with Finn’s dark eyes watching the two of them over Leo’s shoulder.

“I know what you’re think-ing a-bout,” Finn’s sing-song voice came.

Logan opened his eyes to see Finn standing there. He held a clear cup of fruit, and three water bottles. One was clear, untouched. The other was orange, filled with vitamin C, the third pink with hydration powder.

“Ha,” Finn said. He set the bottles down as he crouched by Logan’s side. “I was right, I can tell.”

Logan pushed himself up to sit. “You were right.”

“Actually. You were,” Finn said. He twisted a bottle cap off and flashed its reverse at him.

I <3 him 2

From the court, Logan found Leo in in the crowd easily, smiling and accepting congratulations for his win. He had shed the black, sponsored clothes. For Logan, he was sunny in white and light blue. Only a small smile and a slight flutter of his fingers let Logan know Leo had seen him, too. Hi, it might have said. Or, good luck.

When Logan looked to Finn, Finn flashed him a thumbs up and patted a hand over his chest. You got this. Love ya.

Logan liked all of his and Finn’s secret messages to each other while he was on court. He wanted more of that with Leo. He wanted to be able to know for sure what ever inch of Leo meant. Every movement. He wanted Leo to know in turn that he had seen him, that he—

“Time violation,” came the umpire’s voice.

Logan blinked. Around him the audience was murmuring. He jerked his head up to the chair. The umpire was looking at him impatiently. He didn’t remember coming to stand at the baseline, but he found himself holding the ball close to his racket like he was about to bring it up for a serve. How long had he been standing that way? He looked at Finn, who was now standing up and had concern written all over his face. Lo?

Leo. Logan found him in the crowd again. Sweet-eyed. Just as concerned. Nodding at him. What did that mean? I know? It’s okay? I understand? You got this?

Logan bounced the ball, once, twice, caught a glimpse of Luke’s taken off-guard face, and served. Ace. No one could touch that shot from him. Maybe Leo could.

Leo definitely could. With his reach, with his step, with his glorious elegance. Logan narrowed in again. This was his game. His war within as his body fought to reach the finals—even while his mind dreaded playing Leo. And longed for it.

Luke put up a fight, but he simply wasn’t as quick. Logan’s win came to him easily in the third set, off a slice that cut the ball to drop right over the net.

“Game, set, match, Tremblay,” echoed through the stadium.

Luke met him at the net, clasping his hand and slapping him on the back.

“Nice one. You good?” Look said in his ear.

“I’m in love,” Logan said.

Luke pulled back, giving him a look, then laughed. “Lucky you, then, Tremblay.”

Finn was waiting for him in the tunnel, as usual. Instead of the usual hard hug—which Logan had been looking forward to—he put oh-so gentle hands to Logan’s face, looking between his eyes for signs of harm.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “What happened with that time violation? You just…You just stood there for a second, I thought you were gonna pass out on me or something.”

Logan shook his head. “Where’s Leo?” Then, surprising himself, he laughed. He took Finn’s face in his hands, a mirror, and kissed him hard. “Where is he?”

“I…” Finn laughed, too, shaking his head. “I don’t know, maybe waiting for the car if he got away—”

Logan wrapped his arms tightly around Finn’s neck. He pressed a kiss to Finn’s cheek. “I love you, mon Rouge. Mon coeur, lumière, éternité…”

Finn’s hands pressed into his back. “I love you. God, I love you, too, but Lo, just say you’re good. Say it to me.”

“I am,” Logan said, tucking his face into his neck. “I am.”

Logan tried not to appear as insane as he felt when he was stopped to sign autographs. He was probably full on grinning in photos with fans more than he had in his entire career. Finn stood a step apart, like a watchful bodyguard. He signed a few autographs and took a few pictures of his own. He placed a hand low on Logan’s back and guided him out of the arena towards where the car would be waiting.

And there he was. Logan felt like some string had been cut then refastened. All the parts of him yearning to get to Leo in that crowd, standing frozen on that court, tethered themselves to the golden boy waiting at the curb.

He would have kissed him right there. He would have willed the world’s attention their way—but first them. Just them. First, this had to be theirs.

He didn’t have to call out Leo’s name. He heard them coming and turned. The grin he gave Logan was filled with the win he himself had under his belt.

He slipped his phone into his pocket. “Late dinner, yeah? Tastes fifty times better after a win.” When Logan got close, Leo wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in, away from the cameras. “Good game, Lo. You all right?”

Logan nodded and yanked open the door of the car. He guided Leo through, then Finn, who went with a wink.

The car was dark, darker than the night was outside with its people and camera lights. The door shut and took the noise with it. Finn and Leo sat in the seats opposite Logan. There was a driver, Finn was giving him a restaurant name, but Logan didn’t care. Leo had a hand on Finn’s thigh, accepting a kiss.

“He’ll say he’s fine, but you tell me,” Leo said. “Is he okay? On the court, I thought—”

Logan leaned across the pristine black carpet of the car. He steadied himself on the smooth leather seat with one hand, his other high on Leo’s thigh, and kissed Leo’s surprised mouth.

“Okay,” Leo mumbled, steadying Logan with two hands on his waist. “Moving car? Seatbelts?”

“If you’re in the stands, I want you in my box,” Logan said. “If I’m in the stands, I want to be in your box.” He feathered lighter kisses up Leo’s cheek. “I want to sit next to Finn. I want you to be able to hear us when you go for a towel. I want to be able to hear you both.”

Leo sent Finn a look through the kisses, smiling. “Okay…”

“I don’t care what your team thinks. I don’t care if they think I’m listening, or Finn’s plotting and stealing.” Logan pulled back to look down at him. “If they think I would use you in that way, they’re stupid.”

“You and adrenaline are quite the cocktail,” Leo said, but he was blushing.

Logan let himself fall back into his own seat. “And you look perfect in black.”

“A crazy cocktail, but he speaks the truth.” Finn held out a water bottle to Logan. “Drink that whole thing. Even the dregs, I’m watching you, Tremblay.”

Logan took the bottle, shaking up the hydration powder inside. “What do I get if I do?”

Finn just smiled. He was unwrapping silver foil from a piece of blue peppermint gum gum and he popped it into his mouth. “I’ll blow you in the restaurant bathroom.”

Logan blinked. “Really?”

Finn reached forward and flicked him on the forehead.

They reached Manhattan again quickly enough, and curled into the twisting streets of the West Village. Finn perked up, happy to be on familiar ground and popped the car door.

“After you,” Leo said, just as Logan motioned for him to go first. “Oh—ha. Lo, go.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “You.”

“Not that this isn’t adorable, but…” Finn leaned down. “If I’m hungry, you guys must be starving.” He held out his hand to Leo. “Guess what they have here?”

Leo put his hand in Finn’s. “What?”

“Deconstructed chocolate cake,” Finn said, helping him out.

“What the fuck is that?” Logan asked, following.

“Sugar. You’ll love it.”

Logan sent Leo a look as Finn jogged ahead and disappeared between large, wooden doors. Inside, Logan caught a glimpse of windows lined with candles. Leo would look gorgeous.

“That was pretty sweet back there,” Leo said. He took his hand as they walked. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I was fine on the court,” Logan said, pulling the door open. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” Leo asked.

The candlelight was already hitting him, and Logan thought about telling him right there in this doorway with Finn and a—blushing—waiter looking expectantly at them.

“Just thinking,” Logan said. “All good things.”

“Um,” the waiter tucked her hair behind her ear. “This way.”

“Thanks so much,” Finn beamed.

“Classic O’Hara,” Leo whispered. He moved Logan’s hand from his left to his right and placed his hand low on Logan’s back. “But we both won today. Who’s he gonna let taste the wine?”

Logan laughed. “It’s going to be you.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling I have.”

It didn’t feel like a day off. Not without Leo there. The two female finalists were playing their match today, and at dinner Logan had been relieved at the idea that he’d have a whole day off with Leo before they had to go against each other—until Leo told them his coach wanted him to stay away.

He woke up earlier than usual and in a too empty room. Finn, warm and solid against his back—but no Leo. He wasn’t sure why he was even awake until he felt the next stroke of fingers through his hair, absentminded and soft. It would put him straight back to sleep soon.

“Rouge,” Logan mumbled. His voice wasn’t quite there yet, coming out a gravely sort of whisper.

“Sorry,” Finn whispered back. “I was just looking at you. Go back to sleep.”

Logan pushed back against him. “I’m turned away.”

“I was looking at the rest of you.”

The sheets were near his hips now that he thought about it. Finn’s hand ran down the dip of his ribs and waist.

Logan settled into the feeling, but when Finn’s fingers moved back to his hair, he sighed and rolled onto his back, getting a hand under Finn’s head to pull him onto his chest. He closed his eyes, pressed five hard kisses to Finn’s temple, and felt Finn let out a long sigh.

“What’s up?” Logan asked.

“Leo. If there was any day he should have been able to be with us, it was today, when we have nothing going on, and the training is light because you play tomorrow.” Finn’s fingers began drumming on his chest, restless. A rare show of nerves. “He should be here right now.”

Logan could see Finn in Nice. In his library nook for the first time. Head in his hands, finally allowing himself to cry away an old life to let the new one in. This, he thought, was a version of it. Worries, brimming over because they had not been let out.

He passed his fingers through Finn’s hair. Kissed his temple and his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have talked to his team—”

“Non,” Logan said. “They’re angry people. I think. That wouldn’t have helped. But, hey. Look at me.”

Finn did. Sleepy brown eyes. He traced a thumb under one lower set of fair eyelashes. There was lilac there.

“No more worrying,” Logan whispered. He brushed his mouth, feather-light, over the delicate skin just under Finn’s eye.

“I’m not worried—no, I am.”

“It gets like this when you’re stressed.” Logan kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “It’s gorgeous, but it’s not good for you.”

Finn sighed and let Logan press him back into the pillows to be kissed. His jaw. His neck. “He’s not happy. I mean, he’s happy with us. But in the game. In this life. He used to be happier. At the Wimbledon Ball. He was happier.”

“How do you know? We weren’t seeing a lot of him then.” Logan’s mouth found the valley between his collarbones. Was there anything better than this? It woke him up like coffee, and settled him down like nothing else. Sometimes, panicking on the court, he pictured this. Soft and unhurried. Usually, Leo was there for him to kiss, too. “Let’s get dressed. Then call him. Tell him he has to have breakfast with us.”

Finn smiled. “What, or else?”

“Or else I…” Logan tried to think of something good, but honestly he wasn’t meant to be awake this early. He pressed his face into Finn’s neck, his hand to his cheek. He inhaled, kissed him there, then pulled back and kissed him properly. “I love him.”

Finn smiled. “I love him, too.”

It rang. Rang and rang.

“Hey, it’s Leo, sorry I missed you!”

Again. Logan leaned his forehead against the warm window pane, standing in a square of sun coming into their room.

“Hey, it’s Leo, sorry I missed you!”

“Fuck.” Logan turned, waiting for the beep.

Finn watched his face as he pulled a t-shirt over his head. His skin was still slightly damp from his shower and Logan, worried as he was, enjoyed the way it stuck to his chest.

“Hi, Le,” Logan said. “It’s us. Just wondering where you are…”

“Missing you,” Finn mumbled, bending down to lace up his shoes.

“We miss you, we are going to get breakfast at the place. Okay. Lo—Okay, cool.” Finn’s head snapped up with an open-mouthed smile. Logan flushed. “Okay, come find us, or we’ll find you.”

He hung up fast, staring at his phone. Finn crossed the room, taking Logan’s face in his hands.

“You almost said—” he began to say, laughing through the words.

Logan pushed up on his toes and kissed him silent. He pulled back, knowing his eyes were wide, and pressed three fingers to Finn’s mouth. “Quiet.”

Finn gave his chin a little jerk and took Logan’s fingers in his mouth, smiling around the gentle bite. Logan rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away.

“C’mere, lover.” Finn wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders. “I’ve got the room key. I’m taking you to a big breakfast full of eggs, ham, and calling Leo every five minutes.”

Finn got restless again and they had barely taken a sip of their coffees. Logan could tell. What they had started calling “the” place was a small coffee shop that Finn knew. It made generous omelettes with sides of potatoes and greens. Spicy beans and fried eggs with tortillas—Leo’s favorite. Logan had stared at it at the menu, wondering if ordering it would make him arrive faster.

A plate with a steaming chocolate croissant appeared in front of him, and Finn pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“There you go, sweetheart.” Finn slid into his seat. “I ordered for us. But I didn’t want to sit here with you while you’re hangry and drinking your coffee-milk, so…”

Logan shoved him, but Finn just pulled their chairs together and took out his phone. Logan ripped off a piece of the croissant and watched Finn find Leo’s contact. When he held it up to his ear, Logan watched Finn’s face. Hopeful. He caught Logan’s eye and put a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing.

“Hi,” Finn said, but the sigh in his voice told Logan no one had answered. “Hey, Sunshine. Us again. We’re here. Just…wondering where you are.” Finn looked at Logan, mouth pulling to the side. “Let us know.” He ran a thumb over Logan’s bottom lip. “Okay. Okay, love you, bye.”

Finn set his phone down, hand falling down to Logan’s lower back. “Maybe he’s sleeping and we’re assholes trying to wake him up.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Yeah…” Finn picked up the water pitcher on the table and filled Logan’s glass. Logan picked it up again and filled Finn’s.

“What did you order?”

“Got us the ham and tomato omelettes. Sound good?”

“Ouais. Thanks.”

They quieted, then laughed a little at each other when they realized they were both waiting for the phone to ring.

Finn was worrying the straw of his iced coffee when he set the cup down hard. “Oh my God.”

“Hm?” Logan got to the chocolatey center of the croissant and carefully bit so he got enough chocolate and enough pastry.

“Logan…”

Logan raised his eyebrows at his full name from Finn’s mouth. “Finn…” He mimicked his tone, but got serious when Finn put both of his hands in his hair, gripping. “Finn. Quoi?”

“I just—oh my God.”

“What?”

“I just…” Finn’s hands moved over his mouth. “Did I?”

Logan set the pastry down. “Did you what? Did you fucking what?”

He looked so panicked that Logan started looking around, trying to figure out the problem. But Finn grabbed his hand, pulling his attention back to him.

“At the end of the message, I said…” Finn whispered. “I said love you.”

Logan blinked. “What?”

They both stared down at Finn’s phone and its dark screen.

“Shit,” Logan said. “Wait, ouais. You—you did. Finn.”

Finn melted, folding his head into his arms and slumping on the table.

Logan laughed, but he wasn’t sure if it was actually funny. That wasn’t how he’d planned for Leo to know. Of all the opportunities they’d had. Dinners and late nights and soft afternoons.

“And after you made fun of me for almost saying it.”

“Shut up,” Finn mumbled into his arms. When he lifted his head, his face was flushed. “It just slipped out. I—shit. I was looking at you and your stupid chocolate, and then I saw the hot sauce on the table and I was thinking about him and the amount he puts on his fucking eggs—”

“You said okay, love you, bye.”

“I know that!”

“Two omelettes?”

They both looked up at the waiter, who took a step back—probably at the panicked look in their eyes.

“Um,” he said. “No? Not omelettes?”

“No, no,” Finn said. “I mean, yes, omelettes. Thank you so much.”

The man set the plates down with a look on his face like he wanted to get out of there. It probably had something to do with the way Finn still had his head in his hands.

Logan rubbed a hand down his back. “It’s fine. Baby, it’s fine. We do love him.”

“And he finds out on a voicemail?” Finn’s voice came out muffled through his hands. “So bad. Jesus.”

“Maybe he’s not gonna listen?”

“Maybe.” For a moment, Finn sounded almost placated, but he jerked his head up. “No phone.”

Logan nudged his plate at him. “Eat something.”

Finn turned his body towards him in his chair. “You’re playing tomorrow.”

“Finn, what the fuck?”

“I want you eating and drinking and resting.”

“Finn, what…” He gestured to his food. “Ouais. What does this look like?”

“When do you not have your phone?”

“When I’m…” Logan trailed off, finally understanding. “Non. That would be insane.”

Finn stood, gesturing to the waiter. “Let’s get this to go.”

They arrived at the practice courts in the heat of the day. Logan heard Leo before he saw him. He heard him like he’d heard him every day during those perfect months at his house. Leo had a rhythm all his own. His footwork. Quick shuffles, short squeaks of his sneakers on the hard court.

But Logan should not have been able to hear it right then. Not less than twenty hours before the U.S. Open final.

“Fuck,” Finn said, pushing a fence open. “He’s on the court.”

“Again!” they heard Leo’s coach shout.

“Fuck,” Finn cursed. “I’m gonna kill that guy.”

Logan watched him storm towards the next fence, past another player practicing with a hitter—who missed his shot when he saw Finn.

“Wait,” Logan called. “Rouge!”

Finn stopped, but barely. Every muscle in his body strained towards Leo’s court just ahead. Logan could see him now, just barely through netting and bushes and low court walls. Logan caught glimpses of blond hair as he jogged towards Finn.

“What?” Finn asked. “He shouldn’t be out there.”

Logan put his hands on his shoulders. “Stop. I know. But stop.”

Leo was on the baseline. His coach stood beside him, talking fast while Leo’s chest heaved.

“Let me go alone,” Logan said. “If it’s you, his team will get defensive. If it’s me, it’s not their business. It’s player to player.”

Finn looked conflicted. “I…” He looked towards Leo, too. “He shouldn’t be out there.”

“I know.”

“I do love him.”

“I know,” Logan said softly. “Look. I’ll get him in the locker room. You’ll be waiting there. Let me.”

He left Finn, all the while sure he would break and follow him. But he didn’t. Logan made it past another court and opened the chain-fence door into the sidelines of Leo’s. Leo was mid-rally, so his coach saw him first. The man scowled. Logan scowled back.

Leo’s hitter sent the ball into the net.

“Leo,” the coach called. Leo looked at him as he rolled out one of his ankles gingerly. A sharp nod directed his attention to Logan and, despite everything, the heat and how tired he obviously was, a smile broke over Leo’s face and jogged over.

“Hi,” Leo said, but held out his hand. “I want to, but don’t hug me.” He jerked his head subtly towards his team. “They already think I’m going to be soft on you tomorrow and I don’t…” Leo swallowed. He let out a breath. “Anyway. Hi. What are you doing here?”

Logan’s whole chest hurt. “What about I kiss you instead?”

That, at least, made Leo smile. One blue eye squinted shut against the sun. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Logan fired back.

He squirted Logan lightly with his water bottle. “You spying on me, Tremblay?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Logan said.

“That’s cute. A little desperate, but cute.”

“Leo.”

“I’m training,” Leo said. “I don’t know if you heard, but I’m going up against Logan Tremblay tomorrow. He’s pretty good.”

“Which is why you should be resting.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, then he looked around. “So, where’s Finn freaking out right now?”

Logan bit the inside of his cheek and looked towards the locker room building.

“You two are sweet, you know that?” Leo reached out and briefly stroked a knuckle down the center of Logan’s chest. “Look, I’m almost finished here. Then I’ll find you. I know how to take care of myself. Finn knows that, too, or he should.”

“He actually—We actually need to talk to you about something else.”

Leo frowned. “Oh?”

“Just—” Logan itched to take his hand. “Come? Please? Just for a moment.”

Leo still looked concerned, but he nodded. “Okay. Hold on.”

His coach had his arms crossed. His narrow eyes tracked Leo as he came towards him. The argument was hushed and intense. It ended with Leo grabbing his bags with an angry sort of strength. Logan knew how heavy those bags got. Leo swung them onto his shoulders like they were nothing, just beautiful baby blue and white leather there to make his hair turn even more golden.

When he reached Logan again, he looked more tired than before.

“Give me,” Logan said. Leo didn’t protest when Logan took his racket bag from him and shouldered it himself.

“You’re not supposed to be seen with Adidas.”

“They can kiss my ass.”

“Lo—”

“Then they can explain why they have a problem with me helping my boyfriend.”

Leo lightened up at those words like he always did. As they ducked away from the court, he wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulders and kissed him. Logan wanted to whisper the phrase into his skin until it stayed with him forever, kept in that sweet freckle just under his chin.

Finn was pacing when they walked in, and then he was rushing over, holding Leo’s shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing out there in the sun? You’ve got a match tomorrow.”

“Backhand,” Leo said. He glanced at Logan. “Mine’s not as good. Coach wants…” He sighed. Annoyance was all over him. Stress. Logan hated it. He wanted to smooth it all away with his fingers, wanted to touch every inch of him to make sure it wasn’t there. “I don’t know what he wants. Oh. By the way…” He leaned forward and planted a soft, quick kiss to Finn’s worried mouth. “Hi.”

Finn pulled him in, leaving one arm open for Logan.

“I’m so sweaty, sorry,” Leo said.

Logan pushed his nose into his chest. Okay, love you, bye.

“Missed you this morning,” Finn said. “We thought…We thought we’d get to…”

There were a million ways Logan would have finished that sentence. Sleep in, breakfast, kiss, lounge, shower, read, talk, sex, doze, stretch, breathe.

“So did I,” Leo sighed. Logan felt his fingers in his hair, a kiss pressed to his forehead and held there. “Fuck. So did I.”

“Do you have your phone?” Finn asked. “With you?”

“It’s in my bag.” Leo arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Finn just stared at him, but Logan saw each thought pass in his face as if he’d said it.

Leo saw it, too, though he didn’t know enough to understand and laughed instead, unsure. “What the hell is up with you two?”

“We’re in a locker room,” Finn whispered to Logan.

Leo looked between them. “O’Hara, what is happening?”

“I cannot do this in a locker room.”

“Do what?”

Finn groaned, then laughed, then sat down on a bench and covered his face. “I left you a voicemail today. Ugh. Well. We left you a few.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo began but Finn shook his head.

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s just—the last one I left…” His hands dragged down his face lightly, making his brown eyes look big and sad. “Ugh. Leo. I’m such an idiot.”

Leo sat down beside him, hand on Finn’s knee. “Finn…You’re not. You’re not an idiot.” He glanced up at Logan, all concerned and blue, sweat still dripping down from the ends of his hair. “The last one you left…what?”

Finn straightened. He set his hand over Leo’s. Then he held it in both and brought his knuckles to his mouth.

“When I was hanging up, I told you that I loved you,” Finn said. “And I do.”

Logan wanted to hear him say it again, in that soft way. He sank onto the bench on Leo’s other side, the very same words burning in his chest. He put his mouth to the warm fabric of Leo’s t-shirt shoulder, curling a hand around his bicep. There was a fine tremor to Leo’s muscles. Logan didn’t know if he was tired, or if it was the words, but Leo was shaking, just a little.

Logan couldn’t help it. Where he was tucked against Leo’s shoulder, he smiled. “Leo…”

The laugh jostled Logan first, and then it sounded, light and a little tearful, from Leo’s mouth. He grabbed for Finn’s shoulder, pulling him in for something that was more a smile than a kiss.

“You just blurted that out, huh?” Leo cupped the back of Finn’s neck. “Jesus, O’Hara, you had me so worried there.”

“I love you,” Finn said. “I—Logan…”

Leo laughed louder, freer, as Logan gripped the back of his t-shirt until Leo turned.

Logan swiped a thumb over Leo’s full bottom lip. He just wanted to touch that smile. He kissed him, hard, tasting the sweat from his practice.

“I love you,” Logan whispered. “I was supposed to say it first, I love you.”

“Supposed to?” Finn spluttered.

“Shh,” Logan said into Leo’s mouth. “Look how happy he is, I can taste it.”

“I love you, too,” Leo said. He pressed his nose against Logan’s cheek, then turned back to Finn. “Oh God, I love you, too.”

Logan watched them kiss. Laugh. Dissolve into each other—Finn’s chin on Leo’s shoulder, eyes closed, fingers scratching through the back of his hair. Logan put a hand on Leo’s back and felt his muscles relax. All the tension from the court earlier bled away. And tomorrow…Tomorrow’s match felt very far away.

“Let’s go,” Leo said. “I’m sweaty and hot and in love.”

“Wow, speaking Logan’s language,” Finn said.

Leo laughed, but when he stood he sent an almost nervous glance towards the door. “Quick. Before anyone tries to pull me back out there.”

“You shouldn’t have been out there in the first place,” Finn said.

Leo sighed with a smile. “Finn.”

Finn stood, hands up in surrender. “Let’s get out of here.”

Logan could relax because it was the three of them. He was finishing off a plate of pasta and chicken balanced on his thighs. Finn sat with his computer perched on the arm of the couch with Logan’s feet in his lap. One thumb dug perfectly into Logan’s arch. Leo was laying on the ground, stretching out his back and—well. Smiling the whole time.

“I keep thinking about the Wimbledon Ball,” Leo said.

“You scolded me for leading,” Logan said.

“I didn’t scold,” Leo laughed. “I wanted you to know you could trust me.”

Logan sat up and set his plate down on the hotel’s coffee table. He pulled his feet from Finn’s lap—Finn wrapped a hand around his ankle and held on long enough for Logan to lean in and kiss him. Logan pressed down against Finn as that hand smoothed up his calve, behind his knee. Up his thigh, resting on his ass for a moment before settling on his lower back to press them together harder.

Logan smiled against Finn’s mouth, then slipped out of his hold. He made his way to where Leo lay on his back and stood over him, one foot pressed against each of his hips.

“Trust you?” he repeated.

Leo stretched his arms over his head, grinning. He was wearing Finn’s sweatshirt. He’d caught the worn cuffs in his hands and it pulled the hem halfway up his chest. Logan wanted to put his teeth on the cut of his waist, he really did.

“Mhm,” Leo said. “You didn’t. You thought I was trying to get inside your head.”

“You were.” Logan narrowed his eyes. “You just said so—trying to get me to trust you.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. But you thought I was trying to beat you. And I wasn’t.” He pulled his arms down. Like Finn, his palms found the back of Logan’s ankles. Then his calves. Then the back of his thighs. Only, Leo pulled gently and Logan lowered himself into straddling his hips. Leo smiled and pushed down on his thighs until Logan let his full weight go. “I wasn’t trying to beat you. I was trying to win you.”

A soft laugh came from the couch. “I knew something had to be up when you blatantly asked to dance with my boyfriend.”

“Would have asked you, too,” Leo said, eyes trained on Logan’s as Logan lowered himself down onto his forearms. They were nose to nose now. “A boy can only find so many excuses in one night.”

“And what are you gonna try to do tomorrow?” Logan asked.

“Oh,” Leo whispered. He picked his head up just enough to capture Logan’s bottom lip gently between his teeth—a pull and release that sent Logan’s hips rocking down against him. “Beat you.”

“Please find the bed,” Finn said absentmindedly. His eyes were on his laptop, and he’d put his glasses on. “Your knees get enough stress as it is. And don’t go crazy. I need you rested. And not sore.” Finn looked over at them and Logan wondered if he knew how red his ears were. “Both of you.”

“I’ll find a bed, if you promise to find us when you’re done with that computer,” Leo shot back.

Finn slapped the laptop shut. “What computer?”

Coin toss. They weren’t even playing yet and Logan was already sweating with the sun at his back.

“Mr. Tremblay?” the Umpire presented him with the coin. “You will choose?”

“Heads,” Logan said.

“Very well. Heads. Mr. Knut, you will be tails.”

Logan was trying not to look at Leo too hard, but it was difficult. Every time they caught each other’s eye, they both had to suppress a smile. There was joy in this. Logan dreaded to win and dreaded to lose, but there was joy. Leo across from him. The game he loved. Leo, being his.

The coin flashed in the sun as it got tossed up. It rattled, looping around on its edges for a moment before settling between their feet.

“Tails.” The Umpire looked at Leo. “Mr. Knut, you will…”

“Serve first,” Leo said.

“Knut, first service. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes. If Leo thought he was going to get to take a few points off of Logan with that massive serve of his, he was wrong.

It seemed to take ages for the crowd to settle down. New York was always loud, but they were more riled by the idea of of Leo and Logan on the court once again. Logan leaned down to re-tie his shoes and tried to steady his breathing. He turned to look up at Finn, who had a baseball cap on—one of Logan’s sponsors—and was leaning forward on his elbows. He was rubbing his palms together, his eyes on Leo. When he noticed Logan looking, he dropped a wink.

Logan rose and gave his racket a spin against his palm. He bounced twice, then adjusted his feet into a poised stance.

Leo had his ball pressed against his racket, ready. He looked back at Logan once before lowering his gaze to his racket.

“Leo Knut to serve,” the umpire’s voice echoed over the chatter. “Play.”

Leo won the first set. He was gorgeous and lean, and their rallies lasted minute after minute after minute until the crowd was gasping after each stroke. Quite the even match, they were called. Too even, Logan thought. Everywhere else, they would give each other anything the other could possibly want. But not here.

Here, Logan’s t-shirt was soaked in sweat within thirty minutes, and it wasn’t from the heat. They were running each other hard. Leo’s stride equaled Logan’s speed, and his height, Logan’s strength. Logan was frustrated, sure. But he was also having fun. Leo hit a drop shot that had Logan sprinting to the front of the net, only to miss it by its backspin. Leo grinned at him when Logan jokingly hit his palm against his racket in applause. For a moment, it felt like they were back at his house in one of the faux matches Finn set them to.

But it only took three rallies into the second set for Logan to see that something was wrong.

Leo stopped moving well. He wasn’t even walking right. He seemed stiff, and then at changeovers, he spent long seconds with his face hidden in a cold towel.

On Logan’s next break before his serve, he turned away from Leo, wiping his face and wrists with his towel as he looked up at Finn. Finn tapped his thigh and squeezed his hand into a fist. Muscle cramps.

Logan winced, but part of him was relieved. Those were painful, but at least they were short-lived. He made his way back to the baseline and tested out a ball with a few bounces before discarding it and tossing it back towards the ball boy. He glanced up at Leo as he withdrew the second ball from his pocket. He was bringing his knees up to his waist, trying to get the blood flowing. Logan bounced the second ball. His serve clock was winding down and Leo didn’t look ready for his serve. Not at all.

Logan let out a breath, tossed the ball up, and brought his serve down. Ace. Leo barely got his hand back properly. Leo looked behind him, up at his box, and motioned something that Logan couldn’t make out, but what he figured was that he wanted to call for a trainer at the next change-over.

“Ah-ah,” came from Leo’s box. A scolding, horrible sound. Leo’s coach gave his head a sharp shake and he pointed towards the court. Don’t, it seemed to mean.

Finn was standing up in Logan’s box when he looked, his arms crossed. Beside him, Noelle pulled him back into his seat.

He took one more game off of Leo before he couldn’t take it anymore—watching the pained way he walked and the set of his mouth as he tried to hide it.

Logan looked to the chair and raised a finger. “Medic, please.”

The walk to his chair gave him one, tiny second to lock eyes with Leo. Logan wanted to tell him silently to call. Call while I’m calling. He didn’t linger long enough to see if Leo understood. He sat down in his chair, wiped sweat from his face, and looked at Finn. He was leaning back to say something to Logan’s mom. Maybe explaining the trick. Finn would know that Logan had absolutely no reason to call for a trainer.

Even still, a woman came jogging out onto the court. Logan heard the shush and mumble of the crowd as they figured out what was happening. She dropped her heavy supply backpack and knelt in front of Logan’s chair. She had kind eyes, dark hair pulled back into a slick bun, and when she spoke it was with an Australian accent.

“Hi, Mr. Tremblay. My name is Nicola. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Nothing,” Logan said in a low voice, and put his foot out. “Just check my ankle. Take your time about it.”

Nicola looked confused. “I…what?”

“Please,” Logan said.

She looked confused still, but slowly she reached out for Logan’s ankle. She began pressing at it tenderly, like she would if she had been checking for pain. Eventually, her eyes went to Leo’s chair. So, she’d figured it out.

“Is he calling?” Logan whispered.

“Yes, sir,” Nicola said.

Logan didn’t look Leo’s way, but relief flooded him. Another medic came out onto the court, heading Leo’s way. Logan didn’t care if anyone else saw through his trick. If he beat Leo, he didn’t want to do it like this.

He could only ask Nicola to pretend for so long, but when he looked over he saw that Leo had his eyes closed while the trainer dug his thumbs into his thigh in what was probably a good-pain way. Logan paced the baseline to keep his own muscles warm, then heard Finn’s voice in his head and ate half a banana.

When Leo rose to his feet, the crowd applauded, eager for the match to resume. Leo’s box got loud, too, but the tone sounded pressing, not encouraging. It made Logan want to make a noise complaint just so he could inadvertently tell them to fuck off.

One look at Finn told him everything he needed to know. Play, it seemed to say. Logan knew he was right. All he could do right now that wouldn’t hurt Leo, was play.

He tried to turn off everything but the game. The crowd was hardly there. Leo couldn’t be Leo just then. Logan had to turn him into just another player, or else Logan might looked down to find guilt gnawing its way through his chest. He even stopped looking at Finn. Finn now meant Leo, too, so at least for these few hours, there could be neither of them. There were no faces or features around him, just the yellow blur of the ball and the burn in his muscles as he took each point more easily than the last. This was what it had felt like to play when he had been alone, before Finn. The mechanical motions of the came combined with the small adjustments to strategy—treating his opponent like a machine to be figured out. A bleak headspace filled with gray and numbers. He didn’t like it there anymore. He never had.

When he took the win, it all snapped back in. The noise of the crowd roared into his awareness. The colors and court lights made him squint.

The pained flush on Leo’s face hit him right in the chest.

Logan turned and looked up at Finn. His hat was smushed between his palms, red hair a mess from his fingers. He didn’t exactly look like Logan had just become a U.S. Open Champion. He was on his feet and clapping now, but his eyes looked as exhausted as Logan felt. Imperceptible, if you didn’t know him. But Logan did know him. He didn’t know anything better than he knew Finn O’Hara. Finn hadn’t had the game to lock into. He’d been sitting there watching Leo in pain and Logan forcing himself into a brutal, winning pace.

Logan dropped his racket and rubbed his hands over his face. He should be smiling. He might have, had he not looked to see Leo with one hand on the net as he waited for him.

When Logan reached him, his hand was cold in Logan’s, and his breathing felt shallow as Logan rubbed a palm briefly up and down his back.

“That was some trick,” Leo said, drawing them closer to hide his words from any cameras. “With the trainer.”

“I love you,” Logan said. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Leo said. “Go see your family. Oh.” He squeezed Logan tighter for a moment. “I love you, too.”

No one let Logan climb the stands this time, but pointedly directed him to the stairs. He sort of wished Finn would just come to him. He would have all night to see his family. Right then, he wanted a magical sort of door that took him away from all the prying eyes and into Finn’s arms.

Burying his face in Finn’s warm neck when he reached his box would have to do.

“You were going to win,” Finn whispered. “You did so good. Don’t feel guilty, you made that match end as fast as you could.”

“The thing with the trainer,” Logan mumbled.

“I know.”

Logan pulled back to look up at him. Asking. Telling. Imploring.

Finn only nodded, then gave him over to be hugged by his family.

It was excruciating, watching Leo try to fake his way through his speech. He was disappointed. Frustrated. But he was sweet and funny. Logan saw each time a muscle seized up in the way he turned away from the microphone briefly to draw a slow, steadying breath. He saw the way Leo kept one hand on the podium while he gave his runner-up speech. That same hand used Logan for support when they took their trophy photographs. Logan stood ready for him, immovable until Leo pulled away first.

“I’m so grateful to have the support that I do,” Logan said, trying not to wince as his voice echoed back at him around the stadium. “And the amazing talent I get to go up against.” He looked back at Leo. “Every single player on this tour has been in your shoes and all I’ll be thinking about is when we get to play again.”

Logan wanted off the court, he wanted Finn and Leo to himself. He wanted an ice bath and then Finn’s thumbs digging into that one point in his back.

“Finn,” Logan said, then startled back from the microphone as the stadium went wild. He even heard Leo laugh a little from behind him. Logan felt tears claw up his throat and laughed, too. “Leo.”

Because they were one now. Nothing existed without the other.

Leo’s eyes, when Logan found them, had gone a little wide.

“Je t’aime,” Logan said, then waved a hand up to the crowd, who reached back. “Je t’aime, merci.”

Finn and Logan didn’t have to agree to find Leo, but he wasn’t where they thought he would be. He wasn’t recovering like Logan had just spent the last thirty minutes doing. He was in a lounge near the locker rooms, sitting on a couch with his long legs bent awkwardly due to the sag of the old sofa cushion. Four people seemed to be trying to talk to him at once.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” one of them said under their breath when they saw Finn and Logan. It made Leo look up. He looked tired. So tired. His silver plate trophy was on the coffee table in front of him, casting shimmery reflections across his drawn face.

Finn drew in a breath, about to speak, but Logan gave the back of his t-shirt a sharp tug and stepped forward instead.

“I need a word with Leo,” Logan said.

Leo was on his feet in a second, stepped out from around the table. He was still limping.

“What for?” the coach asked. “We’re in the middle—”

“Players business.”

“His business is my business.”

Leo didn’t look at them. He didn’t even turn around. His eyes were unfocused and trained on Logan’s chest.

“But mine isn’t,” Logan snapped. “Excuse us.”

He didn’t take Leo’s hand. He wanted to drag him out of there by both hands, but he stayed perfectly still with so many eyes on them. That wouldn’t help Leo just then. Obviously, he had already been told that loving each other made them weaker players. Logan wouldn’t give them something to point at. If they thought this made them weaker, they didn’t deserve to see even a glimpse of the strength that flooded Logan every time Leo so much as looked at him.

So, Logan made to turn away, knowing Leo and Finn would follow.

“O’Hara.”

Finn stiffened beside Logan and looked back over his shoulder. Leo’s team looked like they had been having a silent conversation, but now their eyes were on Finn.

“A word, if you don’t mind,” said the coach, and he scowled at Logan. “Coach business.”

“I have a few minutes,” Finn said. He looked down at Logan. “See you in a second.” His eyes flit wordlessly in the direction of the recovery rooms.

The room was simple. An examination mattress with a cushion against the wall. A side table, a sink, a few stools, and a small, humming refrigerator in the corner whose glass door showed cold water bottles and hydration drinks. Logan went to it while Leo pulled himself up onto the bed with a groan, stretching his legs out. He’d been icing his knee. Logan could see the redness that the cold had left behind.

“I’m…” Logan set the water aside. He wasn’t sure what to say. He put a hand on Leo’s thigh where the redness was and experimental kneaded his thumb into the muscle. When Leo’s eyes closed with pleasure, he did it again.

“I fired them,” Leo whispered.

Logan let out a breath. “You did?”

Leo nodded. His chest rose and fell heavily once, then he opened his eyes and looked at Logan tiredly.

“Maybe I’ll be like you were,” Leo said. “Try it solo. For a while.”

No. Logan hated that idea. He’d done the endless plane rides alone. The hotels, the mornings, the lonely nights that came whether he won or lost. He didn’t want that for Leo. He wasn’t sure Leo would be able to do it. He was a people person, far more so than Logan ever had been. He was like Finn. He liked to talk, to laugh, to be surrounded by others.

“Leo,” Logan began to say, but suddenly, voices from the other room could be heard plain as day. Finn was—

Leo and Logan looked at each other in surprise. Finn was shouting.

“No. Nope, nope, you saw, you saw what was happening! You do nothing? What did you want him to do, push through? He’d been playing for hours, he needed help, that’s what you’re there for, you know that.”

“It’s a fucking cramp! They go away.”

“He needs water, he needs sugar—”

“Hey. Hey, where do you get off trying to tell me—”

“He needs you not to be running him the way you were the day before the match, in the heat, in the sun. He needs you to not be rolling your fucking eyes when he asks for the medic, are you fucking kidding me—

“Oh, fuck off, O’Hara. You can do fuck all with Tremblay, whatever, but Leo’s not one of your fucking whores, all right?”

There was a shocked beat of silence. Leo and Logan stared at each other, wide-eyed. Logan didn’t catch the next thing Finn said, not until he raised his voice again.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“He’s not. Your. Player.”

When Finn spoke next, he sounded dangerous. Truly dangerous.

“That is not,” Finn began, “what you just said.”

If Logan didn’t know him, he would have been just a bit terrified. But he did know him. And he knew the second he came back into this room it would melt. If he was ever rough with the two of them, it only came out as pure pleasure.

“Call Logan that again,” Finn said. “Let’s see what happens. Go ahead.”

“You have no distance,” Logan heard the coach say. “You cannot run a player like you do, you have no discipline, no—”

“Run? Run a player? They’re not machines!”

“They can be! If they’re worked right—”

“They’re not animals either,” Finn thundered. “They’re people.”

“You don’t treat them like people, you treat them like playthings. Your playthings.”

Finn went silent again. Logan covered Leo’s hand with his, Leo did the same to him, and they waited. Waited.

“This can be a lonely life,” Finn finally said. “A very lonely life. And this is the last thing I’ll say to someone like you, but I am the luckiest man in the entire fucking world to have found love, real love, in this game.”

Logan closed his eyes. He felt Leo’s forehead meet his temple and turned into him.

“And if you ever call Logan or Leo ‘things’, or anything else, again, I’ll sweep your fucking world out from under your feet.”

Leo made a quiet, sad sound in his throat and tilted his chin forward to brush their mouths together. He pulled back to look at him.

“We are lucky,” Leo said.

Logan nodded.

Finn came through the door very quiet. He was red, cheeks flushed in his anger, but he looked at Leo so softly. Logan loved that about him. He loved that. Finn set down two cups on the side table, along with a banana.

“Sorry about that Le,” he said.

Leo shook his head, dazed and glancing towards the door. “No. I…”

Finn handed him the cup, then caught Logan’s eye. “Guess I’ve got no more ground to stand on when I tell you not to lose your head?”

“I love you,” Logan said.

Finn pressed a hand over theirs, then reached for a cup.

“Drink this,” he said to Leo. He cracked the banana’s peel. “You like these kind of green, right?”

Leo just stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

Finn pressed it into his hand. “Okay. Eat is slow.” He passed that hand through Leo’s hair. “Okay?”

“I’m sorry he said that to you,” Leo said. He looked at Logan. “God, to both of you, I can’t believe…He knows how much you mean to me.”

“Don’t apologize for him,” Finn said, and that angry flush began to bloom over his cheeks again. “God, I could just…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Le. Okay. Le.”

Finn sank down on the other side of the PT pallet. He put a hand on Leo’s thigh. “Baby, I don’t—It’s not just that I don’t like the way your team talks to you anymore. I don’t like the way they manage your health. I don’t fucking like it. That, today? That was avoidable.”

Leo looked down, nodding. Logan’s anger flared up so fast that he had to squeeze Leo’s hand hard between his own. The fact that someone could put a look like that on Leo’s face made him want to kill. He couldn’t understand how Finn hadn’t hit Leo’s coach clean across the face. Logan wanted blood on his knuckles as badly as he wanted to curl up into Leo’s side.

“I want to say…” Finn glanced at Logan, who nodded quickly, heart in his throat, then back at Leo. “I’d have to train you two separately. And in different ways. But…I would.” Finn took the empty banana peel and cup and set it down, then took Leo’s hands. “Le, I’d love to be your coach.” Finn paused. “If you want me.”

“Oh…” Leo’s voice was so faint.

Logan was nodding again, even though neither of them were looking at him.

“I’ve been in your shoes as a player,” Finn said. “I’ve leveled up Lo’s game and he was already a master. And you’re brimming with talent and skill and they’re fucking wasting it. I can—”

Leo reached out and put a palm to Finn’s cheek, stopping him. Slowly, his eyes filled with tears. “I fired them tonight.”

Finn straightened. “You did?”

Leo nodded.

“Oh. Then—can I beg instead?” Finn laughed a little, then quieted. He turned his face into Leo’s hand and kissed his palm. His eyes met Logan’s, and Logan felt, all over again, what it had been like for Finn to be his in this way for the first time. “Please, Le.”

“Please? Please?” Leo repeated, and Logan watched him trace Finn’s jaw. “I’ve…always wanted someone like you.”

Finn smiled and it made Logan smile. Love. Real love in this game.

“Okay, hey.” Another kiss to Leo’s palm, then his wrist. “Hey, don’t cry.”

“No, no, I’m just relieved.” Leo’s laugh tumbled out of him and he looked at Logan. “Lo?”

“He wanted this a long time ago,” Finn said. “You should have seen him.”

Logan pulled a face, and Finn touched where his nose wrinkled up. “I don’t know what you mean by that. Of course I want this.”

“Our living room has a new groove from his pacing,” Finn said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Leo sniffed as he laughed again. “What? But okay.”

“Okay?” Finn looked hopeful still, which was funny because Logan was sure it had been a done deal long before today. Somehow, Leo always seemed to have been theirs. Not knowing him and that foreign, guarded dance in a ballroom, felt long, long ago.

Leo looked at Logan. “You won’t feel strange? Sharing him?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re past that,” Logan said, raising his eyebrows. “And I’m pretty sure he likes it. I know I like it.”

“I mean sharing him professionally.” Leo rolled his eyes and wiped at his cheek. “God.”

“Are we talking about me like I’m not here?” Finn cut in. “Because that’s—fine. But hey, hi.”

Logan reached out and put a hand on Finn’s cheek before moving it to Leo’s. “Yes. I want you to have him as your coach, too. It’s the best decision I ever made.”

“Man oh man,” Finn said. “Boys just want me for my skills.”

“Professional decision.”

“I have a lot of skills,” Finn said. “In a wide variety.”

“Finn,” Leo said.

Finn let out a ha and pulled on of Leo’s ankles into his lap, beginning to massage his calf. Leo groaned, but didn’t pull away. “I am so excited. I am so excited, I love this fucking job.”

Leo had his brows knit as Finn dug his thumbs into his knotted muscle, but he huffed out a laugh. “Are you on the clock right now?”

“No,” Finn said. He propped Leo’s foot on his shoulder and turned his head to bite gently at Leo’s ankle. “Relax your ankle for me.” Leo complied and Finn adjusted his grip to one Logan knew well. His ankle felt twenty times better because of that grip. Leo dropped his head back. Finn flit his eyes to Logan knowingly. “Good. Now come here for a second.”

Finn gently lowered Leo’s ankle back to the bed and took Leo’s hand so he could sit forward. He put one hand on Leo’s chest, right where his heart was. Logan counted the freckles on the back of it, then took the free hand Finn held out to him and counted those, too. Like stars, like the miles he’d run for both of them, he lost count.

“My clock never starts or stops,” Finn said softly. The brown color of his eyes looked melted and beautiful in the dim light. “Same goes for Logan. I care about you. A game doesn’t change that. A green court, a blue court, a clay court with white lines doesn’t change that. Some people might say that’s a bad thing but I don’t care. There is no line for me. If anything, I’m standing on the line so I can reach both sides whenever I want.”

Logan pulled his feet up and pressed himself into Leo’s side. “Rouge.”

“Really,” Finn said, looking between them. “I’m not kidding. I used to think playing tennis was my dream, but this…” He smiled, shaking his head. “This.”

“Same goes for you,” Leo said. “Do you hear me? We’ve got championships on the line, we’ve got a shit load of money on the line.” Leo tilted his chin towards Logan. “This one’s gonna get buckets of attention and shit about his legacy.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “But none of that compares to you. D’accord?”

Finn smiled at them. “So we’re in agreement, then.”

Logan had toed the line for so long between the happiness of winning, adrenaline-soaked and nothing more, and the lonely emptiness of loss. When he’d gotten Finn, he’d saw the lines blur before his eyes and loved it so much that he’d wiped them clean with his own palms. Leo had redrawn them. Soft, and bold, and real, and theirs to cross.

“As much as I enjoy sitting here with your hands on me,” Finn said. “I would like you to drink this water.”

“Here he goes,” Logan mumbled and Leo laughed.

“You hungry?” Finn asked.

“Yep,” Leo said.

“Where do you want to go?” Finn put the next cup into his hands. “Anywhere you want. Drain that, even—”

“The dregs,” Leo and Logan said in unison.

“Anywhere?” Leo asked.

“Ouais.” Logan messed with his gold chains, watching Leo’s throat move as he drank as Finn commanded.

“For now, room service steak will do, but then…”

Finn raised his eyebrows, eager. “Yeah?”

Leo set the cup down with a soft, almost sheepish grin. “Then let’s go home.”

(And that's a wrap on On The Line! I loved writing this story so very much. Thanks for reading and all of your wonderful messages!! I love talking about these three with you all <3 This is a trying time right now and I hope this brought a spark of joy...all the love <3 <3)

#On The Line #On The Line lumosinlove #o'knutzy #Finn O'Hara #Logan Tremblay #Leo Knut #tennis au

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pleaseeeimjustagirl · 7 months ago

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🎀30 Day Glow Up Challenge🎀 - day fourteen

♡ Mindset : when I go out with my friends I detach from my phone for the day which is the best. While I made me way to Joe & The Juice I read a book called “Survival Of The Prettiest” it talks about beauty and the beauty industry. I love reading it definitely helps me pass the time when I’m commuting through out manhattan.

♡ Health : my friend and I have the same glow up goals and we love everything health and wellness and we discussed our goals and what we can do this summer together to help us reach our fitness goals. I live a 80/20 lifestyle so I try my best to not follow my usual meal plan when I’m going out with my friends or by myself. But I do extra walking and when you’re in manhattan you will walk alotttt. My friend and I walked so much purposely so we can get extra steps in. I hit over 10K steps.

♡ Self Care : I got a massage today at Chelsea Wellness it was soooo goodddd. I got the heated oil and hot stones treatment my body felt so relaxed after. While the lady massaged me I practiced my breathing that helps with cortisol and stimulates the Vega nerve I believe don’t quote me lol.

♡ Experience : I explored the city today which was so much fun especially doing it with my friend. Having a social life has definitely helped me through my glow up journey especially having friends on that same journey lol. I had Joe & The Juice I got the blueberry matcha chai latte so good a 8/10 and my friend gave me a piece of her Tunacado sandwich it was good 7/10. We went to Bubby’s Bakery after which was nice. The environment is very relaxed and homey. I got the Mac and cheese 9/10 so goodddd and I got the salmon bagel 6/10 it was good but the bagel was toooo hard. I couldn’t finish all my food so I brought left overs home for my siblings. Today was amazing 10/10 day.

Tell me how you’re doing babes I would love to know my inbox and requests are open<33333

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maladaptivefanfic · 28 days ago

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I Want a Nurse

Bucky Barnes x fem!Avengers!reader

(starts with Matt Murdock x reader but just trust me)

Rating: Mature (nothing yet)

Summary: Finding herself in unfamiliar territory, or unfamiliar times to be exact, an Avenger must find her way home or risk permanently altering her timeline. If only Bucky Barnes were less charming her task would be much easier.

Oh Bucky you little hypocrite.

Chapter Four - Just a Friend

Present Day, 4 Days Since Nightingale’s Disappearance - Avengers Tower - Bucky Barnes

From his place on the couch, ice pack to his forehead, his meeting with the Devil of Hells Kitchen was also at the forefront of his mind. And Bucky certainly remembered that night differently.

He remembered too kind for her own good Nightingale seeing the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen limping and nearly jumping off the motorcycle to help him.

He remembered waiting at the end of the alley way while she worked, hearing this guy’s groaning and moaning echoing off the walls and right into Bucky’s ears. He remembered hearing her laugh for him, that sleazy guy who kept calling her “pretty girl”

It was getting on Bucky’s nerves that this guy would be so inappropriate with a lady he’d just met, and Nightingale was too good and sweet to see what an ass this guy was. So yeah, maybe he snapped, maybe he was in a hurry to get away from him, but it was to get Nightingale away from him.

No he did not like the Devil of Hells Kitchen at all.

—————————————————

July 15, 1943 - Azzano, Italy - US Army Camp

Bucky groaned under her touch as she healed his shoulder. Under the guise of massaging the shoulder blade she gently worked the muscles back into working order. He’d still be sore, and it’d hurt in the morning, but he wouldn’t be on his ass for days.

“You’re an angel, you know that?” Again he groaned under her hands as he tried to turn back and look at her, ok maybe she was relieving some tight muscles while she was in there.

“Just a nurse Sergeant Barnes.” She laughed, pushing him back down on the bed.

“Bucky!” He yelled, but it was muffled by the pillow. She refused to call him Bucky, even as she laughed. Because calling him Bucky would mean they were friends, and Bucky Barnes was not her friend. His glares and sharp stares some 70 years from now made that very clear.

He’d probably yell at her for this if she got back to her time.

If, there was that horrible word again.

It was a few days shy of a month since she found herself in 1943, and there was no evidence that she would be brought back. Surely Sergeant Barnes knew, or rather remembered, she was here by now? Despite his attitude towards her in the future (present?) surely he wouldn’t leave her trapped here would he?

“Where’d your head go doll?”

The gentle words of the Bucky Barnes beneath her brought her back to her surroundings, seeing him propped up on his elbows looking up at her with a soft smile made her stomach flip.

“Home.” She hummed, checking over his back again. He’d live.

“Oh yeah, fancy Manhattan girl.” He wiggled his eyebrow with his jest. She’d mentioned where she lived, neglecting to mention that where she lived hadn’t actually been built yet, but it was Manhattan nonetheless.

“Stop that, I just live there I don’t own property.” She laughed, nudging this shoulder as she turned him over.

“Will you visit me when we get home, or is Brooklyn too far from your ivory tower?” He held his hand over his heart in jest and she rolled her eyes and she began to turn away from him.

“I’m walking away Sergeant Barnes”

“No don’t go, I’m injured, I’m pitiful.” He took her hand lightly as she started to walk away, bringing her knuckles gently to his lips “don’t leave a dying man all alone”

“You’re not dying Sergeant Barnes.” She laughed, relenting and standing beside him.

It was moments like this, with those bright blue eyes staring up at her with mischief, that she really felt the difference between Bucky and the Sergeant Barnes of her time. This Bucky was leaner, still strong but certainly not under the effects of a super soldier serum. He kept his hair shorter, and smiled often. There was the occasional scar across his arms or hands, which he would chalk up to boyhood escapades with Steve.

Whenever he would touch her with his left hand, moments like now, she would shiver slightly.

She had started to toss the idea around in her head, could she save him? Could she keep this Bucky from the horrors that awaited him as the fist of Hydra? But what would that do to her future, what would happen in this butterfly effect?

She might not even be around long enough to change anything, so it was easy to shove the thought from her head and instead focus on the soldier grinning below her.

“Couple of us are heading into town, there’s a bar there with a working radio so we can go dancing?” He continued to hold her hand, his thumb rubbing over the top of hers as he spoke.

“Thought I told you I don’t know how to dance?”

“Thought I told you I’d teach you?”

“What if I step on your toes huh? I’ll be the villain if I keep you from dancing with the other girls because I bruised your feet.” It was her turn to grin as she spoke.

“Oh no, you could never. I’ve seen you move, you’re like a ballerina dancing through this camp. Jitterbugs got nothing on you.”

Moving like a ballerina, that’d be her training from Nat, she chuckled to herself.

“I’ve also told you I have a man back home, why don’t you ask one of the many available young ladies who are head over heels for you?” The faster he diverted his attention to another nurse the better.

“I don’t want to ask them, I want to ask you, doll. And it doesn’t have to be romantic or a date, friends can go dancing right?”

“You’re incorrigible Barnes.”

“I heard encourage-able, thank you for encouraging me.” He smiled widely as he looked up at her, he really was too cute for his own good.

“Has nobody ever told you no before?” She huffed, but anyone could tell there was no real frustration behind it. This was a battle she was losing.

“Nobody has ever needed to!”

“Well somebody should!” She laughed, trying her best to keep it quiet in the tent, but likely failing.

“No can do, only people who call me Bucky can tell me no.” His grin grew as she rolled her eyes, he was going to win either way. As she tossed the idea around in her head trying to figure out which would make present day Sergeant Barnes more mad at her? She knew she couldn’t call him Bucky, but she had successfully danced with him before at galas - PR stunts but they still counted.

“If I say yes to the dance, can I have my hand back Sergeant Barnes?”

“Can I have my hand back….?”

“Do you want me to go dancing with you or do you want me to call you by your name?” Deciding to pick option one he kissed her hand swiftly before letting it go and jumping off the cot swinging towards the door, smiling so wide she was worried he’d hurt his cheeks.

“Tonight doll, I’ll be at your tent at 6 o’clock!” He called out as he skipped towards the door

“Remember, just as friends!” She called after him, but he was long gone, bolted before she could take it back.

She was in for quite the evening.

————————-

“What do you mean this dress won’t do?” She held it up in front of herself, frowning as her friends spoke.

“I mean you can’t wear your every day dress dancing!” Lorraine groaned, yanking the offending garment from her hands as y/n held it in front of herself.

“Well that’s the only thing I have outside of work clothes, thank you for sharing by the way.” She complained about this request for new clothes but couldn’t help being grateful to her new friend.

“We have something in this tent I’m sure! It’s Sergeant Barnes for goodness sake-“ Janet muttered as she dug through the dresses she had flung on her bed. Janet herself was eager for tonight as a certain Corporal had asked to accompany her.

“It’s not romantic, there’s no need to impress friends!”

“Sure there’s not, certainly not when he looks at you like you’re the last glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.” Janet sang as she and Lorraine laughed, while y/n blushed fiercely.

“I’m still taken! It’s not like I’ve forgotten my man back home!”

“I’m sure you haven’t sweetheart, your Matthew sounds like a real catch. But you’re allowed to have fun, and look good too!” Janet was sweet, jumping up with a squeeze to her shoulder before jumping behind her to dig through her chest “now I know I have something in here that’ll be perfect for you. Nothing flashy but still chic.” Y/n rolled her eyes and she watched her dig, pleading with Lorraine to stop her but all Lorraine offered was a shrug.

“Ah ha!” Janet called, pulling out a lovely blue dress “this’ll be perfect and just your size!”

Y/n reached out to touch the fabric, it felt too expensive and she pulled back “oh Janet I couldn’t, I’ve never even seen you wear it!”

“Oh goodness don’t be like that, my mother bought it for me and it’s not my style at all! Don’t get me wrong it’s cute, but I don’t even wear this shade of blue!” Janet forced the dress into y/n’s hands before digging around in the trunk again. “Now we need dancing shoes for you, and I might have a cute little purse to go with it, gloves…”

Janet trailed off as she gathered more and more pieces of the outfit, meanwhile Lorraine had wrangled y/n into a chair and was doing up her hair and make up.

“Now I’m not saying you need to go and fall in love with Sergeant Barnes, but we are going to go and have a good time. You got that?” Lorraine spoke sternly but gave a wink at the end of her speech. Y/n could only laugh with agreement. It was moments like this that y/n was reminded of Natasha. How many times had Nat dolled her up for events and galas, assuring her she would go and she would have a good time. It wasn’t until she began bringing Matt that she truly started enjoying them. He was her friend long before they started dating and he was more than happy to be a wallflower with her when she wasn’t feeling up to socializing. After they started dating two months ago nothing changed except a few more flirtatious lines from Matt that made her blush. She knew he had a crush on her long before she accepted the offer of a date but how was it possible he could get even more charming after she agreed to a date?

Before that she would sit quietly at a table, sometimes with Sergeant Barnes if he had been strong armed into coming by Steve or Sam. At first she would try talking to him, making comments about the venue, the food, the people, even complimented his appearance, but she was met with stony silence.

She couldn’t remember what she did to make Barnes so uncomfortable around her but she must have done something. Why else would he react so negatively to her while Bucky of this time was so eager to be around her?

“Speaking of, any word from your sweetheart?” Lorraine’s nails scratched lightly on y/n’s scalp as she twisted and moved her hair into place. She knew the girls were suspicious, it looked incredibly suspicious that she and her so called boyfriend weren’t planning to communicate at all. So many weeks without a letter? Especially when she had spoken of Matt’s friends so fondly, surely they could read a letter to him or write one on his behalf?

But she’d never expected to have to keep this ruse up for so long. She did love Matt but every day she spent trapped in this time she became more and more convinced that nobody was coming for her. How could they? The technology wasn’t Tony’s, it looked almost otherworldly. Maybe they had written her off as a lost cause, she couldn’t blame them. And she couldn’t blame Matt if he gave up as well.

Part of her hoped Matt would wait for her, but another part was furious at herself for expecting that of him. Matt had waited almost 2 years for her, 2 years of her pinning after Sergeant Barnes, 2 years of being her dearly devoted friend, 2 years of willing to wait and see if she would give him a chance. Sure he had dated, and told her that if she was only ever his friend he would die a happy man, but when she finally decided to give it a chance she goes missing 2 months into a relationship. If she couldn’t return to him, if she was stuck living out her life from here onwards, she wanted Matt to have a full life. She wanted him to find love, and be happy, not be hung up on a girl lost to time.

She hadn’t realized a tear was escaping her until it was too late.

“Oh honey I’m sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Lorraine was quick to grab her handkerchief.

“Don’t, really, it’s silly. I’m just thinking about him and - it’s silly, forget it.”

“No no it can’t be that silly, what’s wrong?” Lorraine’s hands gently rubbed y/n’s arms as she softly spoke, the hum of Janet working away to build an outfit in the background a peaceful white noise.

“I’m worried I won’t see him again…and it’s selfish. I don’t want him to have to wait for me, but part of me wishes he would. I don’t know if I’ll ever find anyone else who loves me like him.” Despite her wounded heart she wanted to add how he loved her despite the fact that she was hung up on a man who hated her while she admired him from afar, but she kept those thoughts tucked away. Maybe some of the tears she shed were her grief for not being able to love Matt like he deserved? And now she’d abandoned him and couldn’t help but feel horrible for causing him such pain.

“Oh dear” Lorraine hugged her as she contained her tears. There was her fear, out in the open. What if the whole world moved on without Nightingale?

“He would be a fool not to wait for you.”

“But i don’t want him to hold off on his own happiness waiting for me.” Hold off like he had been already for 2 years.

“Oh you’re worth the wait sweetheart, and any man with a brain between his ears could see that. Sergeant Barnes certainly does.” Lorraine tapped her nose with a wink, while y/n could only groan.

But it reminded her of a thought that kept coming back to her. If she was stuck here, would she allow herself to move on? Could she find love? Certainly not with sergeant Barnes, but someone. Would it mess with the timeline? Had she already, and that’s why nobody could find her?

Maybe her imagined plan to save Sergeant Barnes from his fate wasn’t so far fetched? Time travel was confusing and she was torn from her thoughts as Janet handed her a pair of nylons. She slipped them on easily, securing them to the clips of her garter. This was something she had picked up quickly, it was annoying all of the extra steps at first but the routine became a calming method. She was putting herself in the costume, becoming the version of herself in the 1940s and these clothes were just part of the act.

As she took care of her final buttons on her borrowed dress, the sound of footsteps and laughter outside made her smile.

“Ladies, we’re ready whenever you are!” Dugan called from outside the tent. Janet thought him charming and y/n and Lorraine agreed. They opened the tent to the men dressed sharply in their uniforms, Dugan smiled as he took Janet’s hand kissing it lightly. George attempted to mimic the action but Lorraine set him with an unamused look in her eyes as he led her to the jeep. Y/n was the last to follow behind as Bucky looped her arm in his.

“I wish Lorraine would just admit her feelings for George. Would certainly make things easier on all of us.” She whispered to Barnes with a sigh. He chucked as he leaned to whisper in her ear.

“Maybe she likes playing hard to get? Isn’t that one of the games you girls like to play with our poor hearts?” He winked as he moved back, hand firmly in her waist as he lifted her into the back of the jeep before jumping in behind her.

“Sergeant Barnes I would never.” She looked at him, all seriousness but on such a cute face Bucky was reminded of an angry kitten.

He smiled as he turned the thought over in his head. While many ladies of camp played at flirting with him, Y/n never fell for his lines or flirting. She was kind but stern, and fiercely loyal to the point Bucky was jealous of that man she had back home because he had this perfect woman all to himself. This sweet, beautiful, honest woman.

“No you wouldn’t do that doll, you’re absolutely right.” His smile only grew as the jeep turned back on and made its way out of camp.

Maybe it was different in the book but in the show Outlander it felt like Claire caved a little too quickly to Jamie so I’m trying to keep it reasonable before she inevitably succumbs. It’s not spoilers if we all know who the ship is right?

#bucky barnes x avenger!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n

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conversationsofyou · 4 months ago

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Chapter One:

The Only Living Boy In New York

"Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world."

~Marilyn Monroe

Song: Manhattan by Ella Fitzgerald & Buddy Bregman

Present day.

The perfect ringlets that form naturally at the ends of Harry's hair, which were there this morning, have metamorphosed into effortless beachy waves most people envy. The usual result from Manhattan humidity and overly fussing about with his fingers. It's a shampoo commercial moment as it falls against his back.

Harry squeezes the bridge of his nose, a temporary relief from sinus pressure. "Are we done?" he asks with his eyes closed.

He wonders if Zayn would notice if he took a kip on the chaise by the toilets.

“Never,” Zayn responds whilst his nimble fingers sort through a display of Celine totes.

He would.

To Zayn's dismay, Harry's met his limit of consumerism for the day. He typically loves to shop; specifically when it's time to restock his art studio. Although, he's accustomed to leisurely drifting in and out of thrift shops and vintage boutiques. He allows clothing and accessories to find him. This… this has been an Olympic event. Zayn warned him beforehand that his rookie status wouldn't be tolerated today.

After an extensive marathon of pampering and excess, Harry's eager to go home and decompress from their shopping extravaganza. He loves Zayn fiercely, but Harry's borderline fatigued. This is the sixth or tenth store they've been to; he's lost count. Each one, serving a different purpose. Zayn had to explain this to him, like he did at the last three stores.

"This isn't one of your nifty thrifty's, darling. There's no one-stop shop for all our needs. Well, maybe Bergdorf's."

A crash course in fashion's utility as such has been mentally and physically strenuous. If they’d concluded this field trip after facials at the spa and mimosa brunch, Harry’d be in complete nirvana.

However, the tranquil mood a much needed massage had granted him has now been replaced with extreme tension in his muscles. His sciatica keeps jolting his nerves into spasm and his toes are most definitely numb. He would've worn trainers instead of his beloved boots if he knew it was going to be this intense.

"It costs a lot to be this beautiful," Zayn throws some more fortune cookie wisdom his way as he picks up a Louis Vuitton bum bag.

"I lost my soul somewhere between Mercer and Broome," he responds dryly.

"We can't all be as cool as you."

“Matt got this shirt for me in Tokyo,” Harry tugs at the end of a vintage Queen t-shirt from the eighties.

Zayn looks up at him and smiles softly. “He had the best finds. I know it's sentimental, but I also know for a fact that Matt would've told you to buy whatever the fuck you please after selling out your first exhibition. This is a triumph for you. You're allowed.”

"I've bought some things since then."

"Interior design excluded." Zayn's mouth twitches.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry concedes. "So, what's on the menu here?"

There's no other option than to swim with the current force that is Zayn.

He looks at Harry, contemplating his wardrobe journey. "This place has phenomenal denim…" He holds his hands in the air, scanning the store, like a director setting up their next frame. "Thinking of some new washes. You'd look fabulous in a mid-blue rinse." Zayn turns back to him and tilts his head. "There are other colors besides black."

"What's wrong with black jeans?"

"Nothing. Doesn't mean you have to wear them every day. You're not Superman."

Harry arches an eyebrow. "Aren't I?"

Zayn ignores him while admiring a Givenchy satchel. He adjusts the collar on his gorgeous Alexander McQueen gunmetal leather jacket. It's not nearly cold enough yet for the biker chic inspired hide, but as he declared before they left Harry's flat, “We must suffer for fashion the same way we do for art."

Zayn glances over at him. "I do adore your vintage, starving artist tees and ripped jeans." He offers some reassurance. "Even though you could do with a little glam rock." Though he often makes fun, Zayn's admitted in the past he approves of Harry's style choices. No matter how eccentric they are. His eyes land on Harry's boots. "Starting with those."

Harry looks down at the worn out brown leather boots he found at one of the first thrift shops he visited in the city. He treasures them. They've given him so many miles. He'll never part with them.

He looks back up. "No."

“Veronica!” Zayn calls out and, like a best laid plan, a tall sales associate appears with silky raven tresses styled into a long bob haircut. Veronica approaches them wearing a stunning bordeaux Bowie inspired jumpsuit. Lipstick the same shade. It captures Harry's eye instantly.

She walks over and magically produces a large box with the Saint Laurent Paris logo printed onto it. Ignoring the box, Harry scans the details of Veronica's ensemble as he admires her whole look.

Zayn catches Harry's eye and asks, "Who makes this?" As he brushes a finger over the fabric of her sleeve.

"Custom," Veronica responds vaguely.

It's unique and Harry can understand her discretion.

"H, you'll sympathize as an artist. When anything innovative or gorgeous as this is mass produced, it usually turns to shit. There's something about a piece being one of a kind that's priceless."

Veronica nods her head once.

"I wouldn't share either." Zayn nods back and brings the focus back to Harry, who automatically shakes his head at the box he's holding.

Zayn clears his throat, ignoring his stubbornness and signals for the big reveal. Veronica lifts the lid and Harry swears a little golden light appears, leaving a glow shining from the box.

Zayn tilts the box closer to him for the full effect. "Harry, let me introduce you to your new friend, Chelsea."

He holds up the gorgeous, buttery tan suede heeled boots. "Classic and a forever staple."

"My mother, grandmothers, and aunts all passed down their retail D.N.A. to me. These," he gestures to the boots, "are an investment." Zayn imparts some more wisdom.

Harry ignores his rising heart rate and briefly hesitates. Inevitably he gives in, running his fingers along the soft leather. The sensation is divine and smells heady in the best way possible. Boots have always been his weakness. He succumbs.

"Fine," he says like it's an imposition and grabs the boots.

He sits down to try them on and takes off his old boots while placing the faded leather comrades next to a plush chair beside him. He's wearing his Hello Kitty socks today.

"Precious," Veronica comments and walks away towards another customer who's borderline distressed.

Song: Get On Your Boots by U2

Harry meticulously takes out all of the cardboard and packing paper. The boots slip on like a second skin. He stands up, beaming.

"Yeah. Thought so," he smirks. Zayn's super hero sixth sense always prevails. He knew Harry would eventually buckle for the gorgeous footwear.

Harry spins around in front of the mirror and does a little jig with his toes pointed.

Zayn shakes his head as he walks away. "I'm going to look for some jeans."

Harry gives him a salute and walks around the store, enjoying the boots that have already changed his life a little bit. They even have a slight heel. The soles produce a satisfying clacking sound against the stone floor as he strolls back to his old boots. They look so sad, slouching against the chair, out of shape and worn with holes. Harry frowns and picks them up. He knows it's corny but, "Still love you the best. Thank you for taking me where I needed to be," he says quietly.

Someone within his ear shot snorts, and he gently drops the boots. Harry looks up slightly embarrassed.

☆ This was definitely more than a snippet. A snip deluxe. I'd love to one day finish this fic I started seven years ago. All the inspo to my fellow writers and creators who have started something and life has gotten in the way or time is not of the essence. I empathize and relate on all levels.

Shout out to my Beta, Lau @nyxdaughterofkhaos , nothing but love and respect!!! Looking forward to continuing this journey with you ❤️

As always, if anyone has any art to share.

@kingsofeverything @crinkle-eyed-boo @twopoppies @beelou @fallinglikethis @femstyles @harryshandbag @andyouknowitis @lookslikefairytale @rhea-the-eradicator @toomanydreamers

#sunday snippet #fastlove #fastlove inspo #my fic #high art

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just-some-random-blogger · 5 months ago

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Less Dire Situations | 2

Part 1 2 3

Peter liked you the moment he met you after moving in with his Aunt May. Unfortunately, he never got the guts to talk to you. The idea disappeared after grade school and high school graduation, so you can imagine how surprised he was when you answered his ad for Advanced Calculus tutoring. It felt like he could actually get a shot with you… and then you jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.

Peter Parker x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, DD:DNE, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, themes of depression, social withdrawing, emotional masking, canon divergence, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

A/N: this is originally posted on ao3

My breathing is shallow as I sit cross legged on the top of the pillar of the Manhattan Bridge. I'm terrified to move, not just because the wind was threatening to blow me into the road, potentially traumatizing a poor driver, but because Spiderman was sitting down next to me.

He hasn't said a word since he's caught me. There's nothing but silence and the stars between us.

I can't believe Spiderman saved me.

"I can't believe you jumped."

I whip my head to him. He's already looking at me.

My mouth opens, "I- I didn't mean to say that out loud."

The masked man stares at me for a moment then looks front. He curls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them, "I did."

I turn to my hands and begin to pick at my cuticles. My throat constricts, and my eyes grow foggy with tears. He only said two words but they sounded personal, they sounded... angry. I feel my lips quiver. I mean, I don't blame him. He's probably had to save so many idiots from jumping to their death. He's so over this.

I would be too, if I were him. As if fighting criminals wasn't enough, now he's got to look after the mentally ill? That's above my pay grade, and I'm sure he doesn't get paid.

I scratch my eyes when I feel hot tears stream down my face. I shudder as I hear the call of the abyss. I look out into the body of water, glimmering under the city light, beckoning me. I shakily mutter under my breath, "sorry, Spidey."

I feel him looking at me. I feel him look at me the exact manner I hoped to never get looked at. He was pitying me. He had his face covered and I wasn't even looking at him but, dammit, I knew he was pitying me. Worse, he was genuinely sorry for me.

I rub my philtrum and curl into myself. I flinch when I hear him sigh. I slowly turn to him when he moves

He faces me, leaning on one leg, "I'm just shocked you'd want your last place on earth be Manhattan Bridge. Like honestly. Why would anyone want that? If you're gonna go through all that trouble, might as well pick a better bridge."

Spiderman cocks his head to the side, "like Brooklyn."

I look at him for a moment. I can't figure out if he's joking or if he was just from Brooklyn.

"Or something connecting to Staten Island."

I begrudgingly chuckle at his words. The sound I make actually surprises me.

I hear him mumble something under his breath as he looks away.

He brings his legs into his chest again, and so we're both just hugging ourselves.

I gasp when a couple of birds pass us. I cover my ears and watch as they fly away.

"You get used to it," he says as I watch a flock of birds disappear into the city.

I turn to my knees as he continues, "the world feels different up here. You're just one of the birds, looking down at this concrete jungle, just tryna avoid street signs and glass windows."

I wrinkle the fabric of my pants into my hands. A shiver runs down my spine as the wind begins to seep into my clothes.

I feel him scoot closer. "You want me to," he mutters, "bring you down?" He takes a moment before asking, "you want me to take you home?"

I rapidly shake my head, "I don't want to go back."

He sighs and rubs his nape, "sweetheart, I can't leave you here."

I sniffle and finally turn to him. He had both hands on his shoulders; he's massaging the area firmly as he looks around, clearly agitated. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, "you from Brooklyn or what?"

"What?" he turns to me.

My voice sounds like my nose is clogged, because it is, "I didn't think Spiderman was from Brooklyn, although, I think it kinda makes sense."

He chuckles out, "oh yeah?" He rests an arm on his knee, "how so?"

"You wear a Spider suit."

He sniggers, "and?"

"Only someone from Brooklyn would even think to pull that off."

Spiderman snorts. I chuckle under my breath as he throws his head back, "HA- you know what, I take that as a compliment."

"It is," I lean back to get a good look at him, "I used to have a such a crush on this one guy from Brooklyn."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he moved to Queens for a year but then moved back," I mutter.

"Ah, so you're from Queens."

"Yeah."

He nods and fidgets his feet, "what are you doing in Manhattan then?"

I shake my head and turn to my lap.

Spiderman feels the reluctance but he still asks, "what? No bridges over there?"

"Hmm," I brush my hair behind my ear. I release a shudder, "none quite like Manhattan Bridge."

He hums, "let me guess. You had your first kiss here."

"Nothing so obscene," I sigh and rub my arms. I cross my legs and hunch over. I shake my head, "this was the bridge I took into Manhattan, to my fucking dream school in my fucking dream city. It's all I ever wanted as a kid. It's all I prayed for, and I have it-"

My head begins to thump as I force-suck air through my clogged nose.

"I got a scholarship. I got a dorm. I do commissions to pay for what I need, but I hate it," my voice cracks as I begin to sob, "all my life I've had people shit on me for wanting to get an art degree. And now I'm thinking," I scratch my eyes, "yeah. Maybe they're right. The only way I'll have a stable living is if I work for some conglomerate and sell my soul."

I turn to Spiderman, finding his whole body was faced towards me. I sniffle, "I don't want to sell my soul, Peter."

A wind gushed between us.

"Fuck- sorry-" I wipe my face rough, "sorry. I- I have a friend named Peter. He's my only friend-" I break into a pathetic laugh, "but actually he's only my friend because I pay him."

Spiderman's gaze feels heavy on me.

"I don't know, I just- it's so exhausting to keep up with people from this fucking city. They're always doing something and I-" I shake my head, "I can't. I really can't. And I fucking can't lose my scholarship so I looked for a tutor, because fuck all as to why an Animation student needs to do Calculus-- and this kid named Peter Parker charges like 10 dollars an hour, which is really good and he's really good- and-

"-and it turns out the guy is actually from Queens too and, shocker, we went to the same grade school AND high school, but I had no idea who he was cause my overachiever ass had 100 clubs to focus on, and he remembers that horrible dance choreo I did with my friends-- who don't even speak to me anymore-"

At this point, I could feel that my eyes were so puffy and I could barely breathe from all the snot in my nose.

Still, I continued, "and eventually, I realized he was the kid people picked on, and then I wondered if any of my friends picked on him, and now I was asking him to help me, but he's just the sweetest guy ever. He's so just so smart, and patient, and funny, and kind, and sometimes I look at him and wish I could go back and stand up for him, or go back and I be his friend. But I liked how everything was for myself back then, so I didn't give a fuck and I didn't do a damned thing because I was a stupid kid- and- and-"

I take in deep, shaky breathes in the hope of calming myself.

"Hey, hey," Spiderman apprehensively places a hand on my shoulder, "I'm sure he doesn't hold it against you-"

"Well, he should," I snap, "neutrality is just as bad, or sometimes worse than being a bully. At least you can pick out a bully, at least you know they want to hurt you and you can get ready for a punch. But neutral people see that shit and decide it's not worth lifting a finger for. They pretend there's peace just because it's not their war. And they take that to their graves."

I feel a shiver ripple through my body. I shake my head rapidly, "I don't want to live like that. Peter never deserved that. And he deserves way better than being friends with a bystander."

"... are you still a bystander?"

"I- I don't know," I speak with a wobbly voice, " I haven't seen anyone get picked on, which probably means I am-"

"Now, hold on. Looking for fights where there aren't ones isn't the right way to go about the world."

I chuckle dryly, "but the world is just always one move away from a fight. There's nothing but unrest and uncertainty."

Spiderman links his hands together, "thats definitely one way to look at things."

"Please don't fucking glass half full me right now."

"I won't," he shakes his head, "trust me, I'm not qualified for it. And I'm a glass half empty kind of guy actually."

I wipe my face.

"Don't you think Peter should decide what he deserves though?"

I don't respond.

"The thing about accepting the glass is half empty is knowing there's space to add more to it," he moves in front of me, "maybe he was also excited to see someone familiar. Victims of abusers tend to stay because they think it's all there is--not that I'm calling you an abuser- but you- with the half empty analogy-"

"I get it," I raise a hand, "sometimes we're willing to overlook the bad for a little good... which is really fucked up."

"And you know," he points a finger, "if this Peter guy is as smart as you make him out to be, realistically speaking, I doubt he'd hang out with you if you made him want to jump off the Manhattan Bridge."

I chuckle. I actually chuckle. I wipe my nose, "you've got a sick sense of humor, Spiderman."

"Hey," he raises his hands, "you laughed."

I chuckle again then release a breath, "I can only hope so... I hope I'm someone in his orbit."

Spiderman doesn't respond.

"He's one of the few people in the world that's actually gonna do great things. He's so good at what he does. You know he's taking Advanced Calculus just because he can, and he's so good at it he teaches Math majors? He's a Bio-Chemistry major! And he's passionate about it... I wish I had that."

"Aren't you passionate about your drawings?"

I give a dry laugh, "I hate what I do. I feel like I've fallen out of love." I chortle, "but I can't quit it because it's all there is for me."

I shiver again. I rapidly rub my arms.

"You don't have to cross this bridge," he says, placing a hand on my knee, "people built other bridges because there are other ways to reach a destination."

I shake my head and laugh with no amusement. I whisper, "I just want to jump."

I watch him as he stands, his suit somehow appears like it's absorbing and deflecting the light from the city. "Okay," he tilts his head down, "then jump."

I, admittedly, am taken aback by his words.

I wait for him to do something, to say something, because there was no way he was actually taunting me to jump right now.

A pit in my stomach pressures me to stand and throw myself off to prove a point. I shakily push myself up, and that's when he reaches out to me.

"Or jump with me."

I look at his extended hand.

He stares at me for a long while then says, "we can keep jumping off Manhattan Bridge until you don't want to."

My cheeks begin to burn because of my hot tears.

"You have to take my hand though," he whispers, "if you chose to stop bullying yourself, you can't be a bystander either. You said it yourself."

I let out an ugly cry.

"Do for yourself what you couldn't for someone else."

My cold, trembling hand lands onto his gloved one. It seems he is equally as cold as I am, but then warmth cascades through my entire body when he clutches my hand in both if his.

I see my vague silhouette on the lenses of his mask. I must look atrocious.

He presses his lips onto my fingers then slowly let's me go. He steps back and looks out to the river, "jump."

What?

"It's okay."

I look at him with worry.

"Trust me," he places his hands on his chest, "I will catch you, no matter what."

The sentiment makes me want to puke. I feel deeply disturbed. I feel like I'm being made a spectacle of. Was vulnerability always so performative?

"I-" don't want to, I almost say. But I can't... I can't now, not when I'd already told the hero of New York more than I've ever told anyone in my life. Not when someone who I had been waiting on to come save the city came to save me.

My lips quiver at the realization.

He came to save me.

I turn away from him and close my eyes. I take one deep breath.

I leave my life into his hands as I step off the platform.

I descend. Faster, and faster, and faster and-

And faster I went-

I open my eyes and find the waves below me inching nearer. With my arms up and the wind ripping at me, I begin to scream in panic. The fear in my body makes me go rigid. I realize that I could get saved and still die in the process.

It dawns on me that--

With a grunt, I collide into a body and I'm being swung upward.

I grunt at the force of the impact. I shriek and cling onto Spiderman twice as tight as he he did on me.

I whimper.

He nuzzles against me, "I got you. I got you, sweetheart. I got you."

It feels surreal when my feet touch the ground. I feel like I'm in the clouds and my legs aren't meant to touch the floor.

I shudder against his embrace. Spiderman had been holding me ever since he brought us down and, honestly, I didn't feel at all like letting go.

I breathe against his trapezius, his scent was so inviting, so... safe. I was slightly up on my tiptoes to keep my arms around his shoulders. He had a bend to his posture to keep level with me. I knew I could not keep him like this forever because of this.

Against my will, I slowly break away and look at the man before me.

The streetlight by the river shoreline made his red suit look maroon. Spiderman parts from me just as slow, as if equally unwilling to separate.

My heart pounds when he rest his head against mine.

"Are we about to kiss right now?" I whisper.

He chuckles, slightly pulling back, "it wouldn't be right to take advantage of you in your state."

"Thrilling to know Spiderman would kiss me."

"Says the girl who's flirting with me right now," he tilts his head.

"I wasn't flirting. I was asking. It was to lighten the mood."

He says nothing for a moment, "I don't think anything can lighten suicide."

The mood dies. Coldness creeps up my spine.

Spiderman rubs my back and nods, "you doing okay?"

I chuckle dryly, breaking away all together. I turn to my feet. What a question. I fidget in my spot, my tongue itching to say I've not been okay for a long time, but instead I look back at him and smile, "I'm okay."

I continue to put distance between us. I wrap my arms around myself, expecting him to allow me space. My stomach drops when he steps closer.

His mask is expressionless but he sounds disappointed, "I don't enable crooks, sweetheart."

I flinch when he swipes my cheeks with his thumb.

"Quit cheating yourself."

I step back and cover my face; heat spirals over me when my hands find evidence of tears I've involuntarily cried.

I bury my face in my hands and turn away from him. I roughly wipe my tears; a wave of pathetic shame overcomes me.

I inch away from him. Each step was meant to encourage myself into composition but it does the opposite. I feel like a storm cloud-- heavy, dark, and pouring down. I'm crushed by my own weight.

Unable to control my sob, I break down and curl into a ball, squatting on the floor, hugging my knees.

I feel him come down to my side.

I whine against my elbow, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just-"

"Don't apologize. There's nothing to be sorry about," he sits down, "let it out."

I lift my head and look over my shoulder. Spiderman stares at me. My pathetic likeness is reflected on his lenses. I look away and wipe my nose, "I just- I don't- it's a lot. It's all too much- I..."

"Hey," he raises a hand, "you don't have to explain right now. Just let it out. I'm here."

I laugh. I'm here.

I pull on my sleeve and wipe my tears.

"What's funny?"

I look at Spiderman and shake my head. I chuckle again and repeat his words, "I'm here."

He is silent for a moment. He pulls his head back and sounds offended, "well, I am."

"I know," I say through blocked sinuses. I sniffle and wipe my nose, "I know."

He looks at me a few seconds then nods, "we can stay here as long as you like."

I sniffle, "what about... don't you have other people to save?"

"I'm saving you."

A pit of guilt grows in my stomach, "yeah, but what about people in burning buildings?"

"What about your burning building? It seems like it's been burning a while now."

I say nothing. I turn to my feet.

"And anyway, you can only walk towards one thing at a time, if not, you'd be walking aimlessly," he shuffles on his spot.

I can't see his face but I can feel him looking at me.

"Does that make sense?"

I nod, looking at the dirt beneath my feet.

He huffs, "I try not to think about the people I could have saved when I wasn't doing anything of," he does air quotes, "significant importance."

I look up at him as he stands. He stretches his arms with a grunt, "believe it or not, I'm just another New Yorker trying to get by when I'm out of this suit. I'm not a millionaire or a genius."

I watch him as he stretches his legs, "I believe you."

He freezes, "woah, woah, woah," he points a finger, "I don't like your tone."

"What tone?"

"What, like, Amazing Spider-Man isn't so amazing as a man," he straightens up and places a hand on his chest, "I'll have you know I am very much slightly above average as a man."

I give a clogged-nose laugh, "your girlfriends must love that."

"Oh," he places his hands on his hips and stretches from side to side, "they do."

I laugh, hard enough that snot threatens to spill from my nose. I wipe my philtrum and push myself up to a stand.

Spiderman stops stretching.

We stare at each other for a prolonged second.

"Can I take you home now?"

I rub my hands together, "will you be swinging me back?"

He chuckles softly, "I mean, if you want. I was thinking a walk would be good for you though."

My brows quirk, "you want to walk me? But you're in your suit."

"So?" he shrugs and crosses his arms, "wouldn't be the first time someone in a spiderman suit walked around New York."

I smile softly. He was right.

I nod and wipe my face in my hands, "okay."

He perks, "okay?"

I nod faster and chuckle, "yeah. It's quite a walk from here to my dorm though," I throw a thumb over my shoulder.

"Don't worry. My cardio's up to snuff," he shrugs and tilts his head, "my girlfriends love that too."

We walk down the streets in silence. For some reason, it was not a heavy or awkward silence. I felt like I could just keep to myself and it would be okay.

The problem with keeping to myself is that the silence feeds my thoughts which then eat at me.

The quiet street seemed loud now, everything felt like it was out to get me.

"Hey," I call out softly. For a split second I regret speaking out and I pray he didn't hear.

Spiderman did hear though. He whips towards me, "yes."

I barely manage to keep my eyes on him as I explain, "this is an odd request- but- do you mind holding my hand as we walk? It's just that, I don't know... I'm feeling overwhelmed."

He reaches out a hand to me.

I stare at his hand, finding it daunting to take it, "actually... can I just hold your arm?"

He offers his arm.

I take it.

We continue to walk.

"Yoo," a random passerby says, "hows it going spiderboy?!"

"Good, good," Spiderman says, waving at him.

We eventually reach my building.

I slowly pull away from him just before we reach the façade.

"This is me," I mutter, hands sliding down his arms.

Spiderman looks up at the building and turns back to me, "fancy."

I shake my head and smile, "it's a dorm. I'm a scholar, remember?"

He holds my hand just before I can pull away, "I remember everything you say, baby."

I am rigid when he lets go. The way in which he said that was so intimate, so earnest.

My chest tightens and I barely manage to whisper out, "please don't speak to me like that."

He stands still, "...what?"

My throat tightens.

"Earnestly?" he mutters.

Was he a mind reader? "Yeah," I speak with a broken voice. I watch passing cars, "you'll make be think you're in love with me."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yes," I snap, turning back at him, "you don't know me."

He is perfectly still, save for his hands that slowly raise in defeat, "I don't."

I sigh deeply.

"Which is why I'm honored to know you like this."

I chuckle dryly, "fucking hell."

I turn away from him and walk towards my building entry way. Half expecting him to follow after me, I am surprised to see he didn't.

"1 pm."

"What?"

"One o'clock tomorrow," he motions with a finger, "I'll meet you on your rooftop."

"What?"

"I've got stuff to do in the morning, but I'm free after 1. Meet me there then."

I step forward, "now, wait a sec-"

"Remember. One," he says, right before slinging away.

"Holy shit," Arnel, the dorm's night guard, says, "did that fucker just teleport?"

I turn around. The dark skinned man walks to my side and examines the scene. I shake my head, "no. It was web... things. That was spiderman."

"Damn, kid," he turns to me, "you're friends with the Spoods?'

I do not reply.

"Speaking of friends, Peter was begging to get in. He said it was important because you weren't answering your calls. I told him policy is policy," he explains, "that being said. He looked so frantic, I was about to let him in, but he bolted down the block."

My lips part.

"You good, kid?"

My heart pounds. I can't lie to Arnel. He's got a bullshit detector the size of the Empire State. I shake my head, "I got into an accident... I'm better now."

Still a lie, but Arnel doesn't note it if he catches on. The man presses his plump lips into a thin line, "alright, well go get some rest. You look like you need it."

I him watch me as I go inside.

When I get into my apartment, I feel bile rise up my throat. The sight of my place repelled me. I head straight to my bedroom, insides curdling when I see the boxes of stuff I had already packed. I turn to the middle of my bed where my phone and suicide letter was, the former lit up with a buzz.

I grab my phone and see Peter's ID.

Guilt eats away at me, yet it's not enough for me to answer.

When the call ends, I see the notification that it's been the 30th attempt.

I see 61 texts.

My eyes water.

I flinch when he rings me again.

With a gulp, I answer, "hello?"

"..."

"... Peter? Can you-"

"Oh my fucking go- do you have absolutely any idea how fucking scared I've been! Where have you been? Why haven't you been answering your phone? I tried to go to your dorm! They wouldn't let me in."

His nagging is as comforting as it is grating, "calm down, dad. I left my phone at my dorm."

"You called me then left your phone at your dorm?! Wow. That's some next level evil right there."

I sigh and crawl on my bed. I pull my shoes off and lie down. Tears drip the sides of my face. I take a deep breath before replying, "it wasn't on purpose."

"... well, damn, it feels like it is."

I stare at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, a sight I never anticipated seeing again. It clenched at my heart.

"Did you call to give me that Tawagoshi?"

My throat tightens.

"You love this 8-bit dog."

I do.

"What gives? I've got so many questions," he speaks my name, making electricity pulse through me.

"I bet you do," I mumble, mostly to myself.

Peter voice falls soft, "what's going on?"

My breathing is strangled. I do my best to keep it even as I respond, "I'm shedding some skin. I thought to try out calling, but damn--" I chuckle bitterly, "--this really could have been a text."

"Not this time," he blurts from the other line, "I'm coming over."

"NO!" I yelp, sitting up, "please. I'm exhausted-"

"And you still haven't told me why-"

"Tomorrow," I blurt.

"..."

I sigh, "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"..."

"I promise. I'll ease all your worries, dad."

"I don't want to be eased," he says firmly, "I want to be told the truth "

I shake my head and stare at my screen. The name Peter Parker stares back at me.

I am snapped into reality when he calls my name again.

"I'm still here," I respond.

"Breakfast at 5th?"

"... ok, Peter."

"Alright. Get some sleep."

"I will, dad. Love you."

"I-"

I end the call.

I wake up with a headache and stomach ache. Fitting, if you asked me.

I could barely open my eyes because of how crusty it was, the salt from my dried tears bunched up my lashes.

The air was cold. The sun wasn't shining yet. There was a distant siren whirring from afar. It couldn't have been any later than 5 am.

I look at the ceiling, as much as my crusted lids would let me, and gaze upon the faint neon glow of the stars on the surface. I think about how happy I was when I put them on during the first few days I moved in here.

I miss her.

I miss who I was then.

The siren sound gets closer. I prop myself up on my elbows.

I grab my phone. I see the the notifications I had for Spiderman.

Spiderman saves Manhattan Bridge jumper. Watch: Footage Of Spider-Man Saving Jumper On Manhattan Bridge Spider-Man Catches Manhattan Bridge Free-Faller

I press on one of the links. I curl my legs over each other as I scroll down the article. I do a double take when I catch the massive Help Hotline badge just below the headline. I stare at it for a second, then scroll down to the video footage.

The video is loud with street noise. The perspective is from a boat. It starts out with a 360 view of the scenery, then ends with a woman saying some things about Manhattan Bridge. Someone screams. The camera is shaken. It's far, but clear enough to see a figure descending from the bridge. There is panic within the boat. People scream in horror.

'Spiderman!' yells someone. The one recording fails to catch him when he'd just arrived but caught the moment he caught the body-- my body... me.

Goosebumps form on my shoulder when they cheer and thank God for him saving me. They laugh and hug themselves. The video ends.

My eyelids are no longer crusty. They are wet again, eyelashes beaded with tears.

I flinch when the sound of something heavy is placed on front of me. I snap out of my trance when Julia smiles at me, "pancakes and sausages."

I perk and watch as she places Peter's order in front of him, "bacon, eggs, and a muffin."

"Thank you," Peter smiles at her, moving his plate back to make room for the coffee Julia places in the middle of our orders.

"Enjoy, loves," she chirps, "give me a call if you need anything else, alrighty?"

Peter smiles again, "thank you, Julia."

Julia smiles back. I manage to return it when she looks back at me.

I stare at my food as she walks away. I look up and see Peter looking at me, rather seriously at that.

I smile and grab a fork and knife. I cut my food and take a bite, even though I wasn't hungry, "anyway, as you can see, I'm still in one piece. You don't have to worry about me. I'm just going through a burn out phase. You understand."

"No, I don't actually," Peter grabs a fork and stabs his muffin. He takes a bite, eyeing me as he set the muffin down, "this feels too scary to me. You can't just do such drastic things in one night and expect me not to be concerned."

"So, I gave away a few things and tried out calling," I chuckle as I pour syrup on my pancake, "it's not like I reinvented breathing."

Peter stares at me as I stuff my mouth with food. I chew and smile at him, even though it hurt to see him so distraught and disturbed.

I put my silverware down when he calls my name.

"You know about the jumper on Manhattan Bridge?"

I turn to my plate and shake my head, "I have a push notification for the Spoods, so duh."

"..."

I slowly look up at Peter. He rests his head on his hand.

"Morbid news to wake up to," he mutters, almost in a whisper.

"The dystopian reality is, it's just another day in New York city," I take a bite of my pancake, "another day in this dying world."

My stomach drops when he says my name.

I grab a glass of water, "mmm?"

"I saw it last night. I was terrified. I started to imagine what it would be like if it was someone I knew..."

I grip my glass tight. My face tightens and twitches neurotically. I release the glass with a thud and shake my head, "don't imagine things like that."

"I know, but it kept going. And I was so concerned about you--"

My spine tingles.

"--you weren't answering your texts," his voice is low, "I thoug-"

"Hey, I'm right here."

Peter stills.

I take his hand and clutch it, "don't worry about something in your imagination."

His face is hard and unreadable. He takes my hand and squeezes, "you know Ms. V? I talked to her yesterday."

My brows furrow.

"She said you weren't passing your requirements. She's concerned about you."

I pull my hand away.

He catches it, "I'm concerned about you."

Peter gently tugs my hand towards him and rubs my skin. My arm breaks into goosebumps. I rip my hand away.

A thick silence envelopes us. He watches me intently. He speaks my name slowly.

"It's burn out," I blurt and force myself to smile. It's a small one, a painful one, but it does the job of distracting me from crying, "Ms. Vasquez knows I could do better, and I can... but I can't."

I play with my food.

I look up and find Peter's unreadable expression. I smile, "it happens. It'll come back to me."

He says nothing.

"Of course," I sigh, "you wouldn't know that, Mr. I-Got-Everything-Figured-Out."

He doesn't budge when I give him a teasing look.a

"I mean, leave a few braincells for the rest of us," I cut my pancake. I stare at him for a moment then shrug, "I'm just relieved you're ugly."

Peter snorts. Begrudgingly.

I snort with him and watch how he relaxes. He leans back on his chair and shakes his head.

"We're having a serious conversation," he motions between us.

"Oh, I know Mr. Parker," I chew my pancake, "you are seriously ugly."

Peter shakes his head again and takes a bite of his muffin.

I am relieved that he is sated.

I turn back to my food.

Peter pulls out his Spiderman mask and opens his mouth. He stares for a moment. He tucks it back in his pocket and shift in his seat.

I look back at him.

He looks back at me.

I take some of his eggs.

Peter pretends to be annoyed, "you should have gotten your own."

I shrug, "snooze you lose."

#dd:dne #peter parker #peter parker fanfic #spiderman fan fiction #spiderman fanfic #avengers fan fiction #peter parker angst #marvel fanfic #marvel fan fiction #marvel au #peter parker x reader #spiderman angst #andrew garfield fanfic #spiderman andrew garfield #spiderman fic #spiderman au

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corn-fanfiction · 1 year ago

Text

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 6)

(Pt. 5) (Pt.7)

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

Rating: M

Author’s notes: no tws apply

What comes next?

More of the same. Fleeting glances, stolen moments that almost, almost end in contact. Laughter and information shared among friends. Friends.

Two weeks of this.

You're sitting in his residency room with Joe there as well. The three of you are studying- reading through different books on the psychology of religion, demonic cults, the works. You're reading for you, Damien's reading your notes from the Satanic ritual book you now refuse to touch, and Dyer is reading some long forgotten, translated tome about Judeo-Christian folklore. You all have been at it for hours. A half eaten pizza lies cold and forgotten on the cot next to Joe. You've taken up at the desk chair with your feet resting on the bed, and Damien has claimed the remaining chair in the corner. The window is cracked to allow the cigarette smoke to linger out and a radio is softly playing Pavarotti behind you.

All things considered, it's a perfect way to spend an evening.

At some point, Joe checks his watch. “Ah shit. I got to go. Dinner with a parisher and her husband. You two got it from here?”

“Not that we won't miss your genius contributions,” you mutter.

“‘Genius’ is the best you can do?”

“I'm tired.”

“Then go home.” Joseph puts on his coat and hat and bids you and Damien goodbye. Soon, you and Damien are alone.

The atmosphere instantly changes. The last time you two had been alone in here together you'd ended up sleeping next to each other. That isn't something you're looking to repeat tonight. You have class in the morning.

“Any closer?” Damien asks without looking up from the notes. You blow a raspberry.

“Maybe? I'm going cross eyed.”

A few minutes of silence. There's a soft singing that drifts in through the window. Craning your neck, you see a group of carolers across the street in front of a row of townhouses.

You'd almost forgotten that Christmas is in five days.

“Any plans for Christmas?” You ask and close your book.

“Visiting my mother in New York.” His eyes flick up to your face to gauge your reaction. “What about you?”

You shrug. “I don't know. Probably not. My aunt and uncle and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. I don't mind it. I've never minded being alone. But it'll…” your throat catches at the start of a truth you haven't spoken yet. “It'll be the first Christmas I have without them.”

Damien nods silently. You can feel the words before they escape his lips.

“You know-”

“No.”

He looks at you in shock. “What?”

“I know what you're going to ask. And the answer is no.”

“Well let's assume you're wrong about what I'm going to ask. Listen, I'm sure Mama wouldn't mind another guest. She makes enough food for ten people.”

“Damien.”

“All you'd have to put up with is my uncle pestering you with invasive questions.”

“I don't need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you. I feel empathetic towards you. Isn't that okay?”

“I don't want to intrude.”

“You won't.”

Won't. Not wouldn't. He already anticipates you saying yes.

“You don't have a car,” you say, taking one last drag of your cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window. You smash it into an ashtray on Damien's desk.

“No. I take the subway.”

“To Manhattan?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Right.” You nod. “With your luggage?”

“Just a bag.”

“What if it gets stolen?”

“What if the subway crashes into a giant rat? Are you coming or not?”

You watch the carolers diligently and let your eyes glaze over. There's a couple walking past with their young son. For a moment, you've never existed. Your parents and William somehow survived. But Damien would be alone right now.

No, you think. He has Joe.

Well, he's not asking Joe to Christmas, is he?

You don't have anything else going on. No better excuses than saying that you're afraid of crossing a line.

You shrug. What the hell.

“Sure. Why not.”

You don't leave until early Christmas morning as Damien drew the short straw for midnight mass on Christmas Eve. You guzzle down coffee and watch as Damien leads the parish in classic songs and hymns. You sing along under your breath. You suddenly think that you haven't listened to your music in a while. It's always you in the back of the church, enjoying Betty's company, watching as Damien or Joe, but usually Damien, give their homilies.

Once mass dismisses, Damien slips on a coat and you grab your things.

“Ready?”

You nod and squeeze your eyes.

“Are you going to make it?”

You nod your head through a nod. “I'll make it.”

Damien leads you to the closest subway stop; you've only been there once and it was during daylight. The good news is that the station is sparse. The bad news is that it echoes with loneliness. What few people there are seem to stare at Damien.

You look over at him and notice a stoic discomfort on his face.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“They're…staring at you.”

“It's the collar,” he says. “They never expect to see us outside of churches. And if they do, they want help.”

You two have made it to the northbound train stop. You glance around at some homeless people that stare at the two of you unabashed.

“And what kind of help are they looking for?”

“You never know until they're asking.”

“And you're above it?”

The sleep is talking. His face sours.

“No. But it's hard to stop. It's hard to start afterwards.”

You nod but you don't fully understand. The train comes soon and you both board. It's nearly empty. Over your shoulder you spare one last look to the men and women that continue to stare as you depart. They never asked you for help, sure, but you never offered it.

What a lonely place the world can be.

You awaken to Damien lightly shaking your arm. The voice overhead announces your arrival in Manhattan. Damien stands and offers you a hand.

“Were you awake the whole time?”

“I take this commute a lot. Come on, the next train leaves soon.”

You shuffle to the next stop. Thank god you're tired and Damien is surefooted. If you had to be any more alert you may just be terrified of the subway stations. The barrenness, the desolation. The way bodies drift in and out of tunnels like ghosts. At some point you lean against Damien slightly as you two wait for the second train. You steal a glance upwards. The swinging florescent light overhead casts a halo around his dark curls. How badly you want to touch them.

He looks down at you and smiles. From here, you notice something different. He's taken his collar off.

For the sake of comfort you decide not to address it, though you doubt in your current state you'd be able to with tact anyway.

There's the second train, then the third and final. You sleep the whole way through. Damien has many sleepless nights. What's a few hours on the train?

Christmas morning in Brooklyn is just as bustling as you had expected. You'd been to New York once: Times Square with your parents and a young William. You had gone to see The Sound of Music on Broadway. There was some humor in that, or perhaps irony, that you were still too tired to find.

You follow closely behind Damien as he leads you to a narrow sidewalk that borders a brown-stone apartment. Down the street there are children playing in the snow.

You can't help but notice, and you've gleaned some of Damien's past before, that this is a poor neighborhood. That there are dripping water stains and holes in the plaster inside the front entryway. Damien takes you upstairs to the third floor. He knocks on a door and then opens it.

“Mama? I'm here.”

You follow him inside and close the door behind you.

“Dimmi?” A stout elderly woman crosses from the kitchen. She is much shorter than Damien but they share remarkable features.

“Geia sou, Mamá,” Damien says as he kisses his mother on her cheek. You stand awkwardly in the doorway until she notices you.

“O, kalesnéos!” She exclaims and walks towards you. “And what is your name?”

You tell her and she breaks into a smile. She turns back to Damien. “Poly elkystikós!”

“Mamá,” Damien says. He sounds exasperated. You start to remove your coat but he notices and helps you out of it, hanging it along with his on a nearby hook.

“What did she say?”

Damien clears his throat. “Just that she's happy to have someone else here.”

You hum. Elkystikós.

“John! O anipsiós sou eínai aftós,” Mrs. Karras calls from the kitchen. Then, “Kai éfere énan kalesméno.”

Out of an adjoining room comes a man a bit younger than Mrs. Karras, but not by much. He comes over and pulls Damien into a hug.

“Dimmi, Dimmi, Dimmi. Still not too good for us, eh? And who did you bring with you?”

Damien introduces you to his Uncle John. The man nods, though his eyes keep flitting between you and Damien.

“Ah, anyway. Your mother has been cooking all morning. Help me set the table.”

John totters away with Damien at his heels, but not before he can turn around and give you a reassuring smile. You return it and rub your hands together, trying to shake the morning's cold.

You decide to head for the kitchen as Damien and John get set up in the living room for the meal. Mrs. Karras is busy at work, toiling over two pots on the stove and something else in the oven. You're almost afraid to interrupt her work.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Karras?”

She smiles at you over her shoulder.

“Come in! Just finishing up.”

“Anything I can help with? I'm not great at cooking- I'd burn water if given the opportunity.”

“You can stir?”

You nod and take over one of the pots, stirring it with a wooden spoon. She doesn't talk to you, just hums a tune you don't recognize.

“What are you singing.”

“Ah, kalanta.”

“Kalanta?”

“Christmas carols.”

“Oh! Well it sounds lovely.”

Mrs. Karras smiles at you and continues her work. You don't mind the quiet. Greek music- kalantas play on a nearby radio. There's something peaceful about settling into the task at hand.

“Dimmi!” Mrs. Karras calls. Damien comes to the kitchen.

“Mamá?”

“Take the pork from the oven, parakaló.”

Damien does, pressing his back to your back to slip into the small kitchen. He carefully takes the pork shoulder from the oven and places it on a rack on the counter.

“Anything else, Mamá?”

“Óchi, Dimmi.”

Mrs. Karras looks to you and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Okay. Dinner is on.”

Damien was right: Mrs. Karras cooked enough for ten people.

The pork roast, spanakopita, roasted potatoes, and of course wine. You had no problem loading up your plate with food.

“So, how do you know Dimmi?” John asks between bites. It’s not as casual a question as you’d prefer. There’s some skepticism laced within.

“I work at Holy Trinity.”

John’s eyebrows raise. “A priest?”

“No,” you laugh. “No, not for me. I’m a graduate student. I help Trinity translate Latin texts.”

“Ah, is there good money in that?”

You feel Damien stiffen slightly next to you. His chewing slows.

“Well, it certainly pays at least. It’s a pretty good deal to be paid through a degree.”

John hums. “Well. Sounds like you’ll put your degree to use. Not everyone does.”

Damien sets down his fork and wipes his mouth, setting a steely gaze on his uncle.

“Siopí , John!”

John lifts his hand in defense. “What did I say wrong? If there’s nothing wrong with it, Damien should not mind me speaking the truth.”

The table grows quiet. You clear your throat.

“Damien does really important work at Trinity,” you say through a smile. “Certainly more important than mine.”

“Don’t do that,” Damien tilts his head towards you.

“Don’t do what?”

“Belittle your work just to come to my defense. I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.”

“No, your poor mother only has to walk three flights of stairs.”

“John!”

“Speak plainly, Uncle John.”

“All I am saying is that you have a degree and could be making more money in private practice.”

“And what is it you do?”

John sets his eyes on you. You don’t know what’s come over you but your heart is pulsing in your ears. Damien rests a hand on your forearm under the table.

Your sleeves are rolled up.

The barrier has been broken.

“Factory accident when I was 56. Now I survive off my military pension. And what is it you do? Translate a dead language? Did you parents pay for you to get a useless degree?”

“Se proeidipoió,” Damien says.

“John, will you stop!”

At the mention of your parents you feel tears well up and you hate them.

“Now we're crying. Yes, yes. Meanwhile those poorer off suffer. I am very sorry.”

John pushes his way from the table and steps out into the hall. Damien tries to move his hand to sit atop yours but immediately upon contact you jerk away. Through tears, you gather up empty plates.

“I'll uh, get these washed, Mrs. Karras.”

You stumble into the kitchen and set the dishes in the sink as gently as you can, which may in fact have been anything but gentle. Somewhere behind you, the window opens and shuts.

Mrs. Karras comes in and takes the sponge from your hands as you scrub furiously against a plate.

“Próseche. It’s good china.”

You laugh through tears at Mrs. Karras’s kind smile. She jerks her head to the window.

“Go check.”

You nod, wipe the tears from your face. Carefully you go to the window and climb out onto the fire escape. Damien is looking out onto the street, the setting sun casting a rainbow hue onto the snow banks. Cigarette smoke curls into the cold air.

You wrap your arms around yourself and approach him.

“Is this where you came to brood as a kid?”

It is strange to think you’re actually in Damien’s childhood home. You think to yourself that you’ll have to check the walls for portraits of a chubby baby when you get back inside.

“You shouldn't have done that.”

You freeze and any humor you are attempting falls from your face.

“Shouldn't have done what?”

“Defended me.”

You draw closer. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me handle it.”

“He was treating you like shit!”

“He's my family.”

Damien’s trying to keep calm, but he delivers an intensity to let you know to drop it . Of course, you don’t.

“So? What does that have to do anything?”

He flicks out his cigarette and steps to you.

“If we were having dinner with your family and the same thing happened, what would you say?”

Shit . You think of that exact situation: in Aunt Grace’s gilded dining room, clean holly and poinsettias decorating the walls. Clean candles, perfect turkey, your young cousins sitting in their velvet Christmas best. And none of them can even look at you.

“It wouldn't be the same thing. You know what they'd say and you know how I'd feel.”

He takes a moment to look into your eyes. His face softens. “Well, maybe it's the same for me.”

You stutter. “But, you said…”

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

Damien’s eyes drop to the street below. “Snow’s really piled up down there.”

“When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Before the end of the day. Mama doesn’t have enough room for the four of us.”

You sneak a look to Damien. He notices.

“What?”

“Your mom made apple pie. She said it’s your favorite?”

Damien chuckles and hangs his head. Finally, a real reaction.

“She’s right. Alright, dessert.”

The four of you resign yourselves to a polite, if not tense dessert. By the end of it, you’re stuffed and listening to Mrs. Karras offers insight into Damien’s childhood. She walks you along the walls of the living room and shows you exactly what you wanted: chubby baby pictures of Damien. Then, Damien as a child in a school uniform. Then, Damien as a young adult, cheesing with a bloodied face and crooked nose, raising a trophy in the air.

“Holy…”

Damien comes up behind you. “Ah…didn’t think those were still here.”

“You were a boxer?”

“And a baseball player.”

“And a candlestick maker?”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.”

“I don’t think it is.” Your eyes move to a photo of Damien in a graduation cap and gown. “Was this seminary or medical?”

Damien considers it for a moment. “Seminary…I think.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I must’ve been twenty or something, and after two graduations you start to forget them.”

“And yet…”

He eyes you warily. Maybe there’s humor there. Maybe there isn’t. “And yet?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “I think I was going to attempt a joke but my subconscious thought better of it.”

Damien lifts his sleeve and checks his watch. “Gee, it’s already half past seven. We ought to head out.”

Mrs. Karras poked her head around the corner. “No go! Door blocked.”

“What do you mean blocked?”

“The snow! It blocks the front door. Cannot go in or out. You must stay the night.”

“Mama,” Damien sighs. “We both have to work tomorrow.”

“See for yourself,” Mrs. Karras waves dismissively. “Don’t trust your Mama, Dimmi. Me hercule!”

Damien looks to you. “Let me go check.”

He leaves for a few minutes and you continue to browse the many photographs and trinkets around the apartment. Soon, Damien returns.

“Well, she was right. Completely blocked off. We’ll have to wait until they clear it in the morning.”

“Didn’t you say your mother doesn’t have enough beds? I don’t want to put her out. I can probably foot it to a hotel-”

“No, absolutely not. Especially in this weather and time of day. No, Uncle John takes the couch, you’ll have my bed and I’ll take the floor.”

You cross your arms. “Absolutely not! You’re old. Floor’s bad for your back. I’ll take the floor.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Old’. Wisened.”

“Ancient.”

“Petulant.”

“Me?” You ask in mock offense. “Never.”

Mrs. Karras lights a fire and the four of you tune into the movie channel. It’s a Wonderful Life . The irony is not lost on either you or Damien. Each time a particular scene happens, you two share a knowing glance. An inside joke. A history.

Mrs. Karras goes to bed early and Uncle John needs the couch, so you and Damien sequester yourselves to his room. His childhood room. There, you see further proof of his life before priesthood. Secular books, boxing and baseball trophies, ribbons, medals. His bed is twin-size. Arguably big enough for two people, comfortably.

Damien lends you a spare set of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt promoting a local boxing ring. You test the size of the bed, scooching to the wall and making yourself as small as possible.

Damien has changed as well and is placing a single pillow and blanket on the floor.

“There’s room up here…” you mumble.

“There’s room down here, too.”

“Come up here or I’m coming down there.”

He doesn’t move.

“Fine.”

“If you’re not careful we’ll all start to think you just want to sleep next to me.”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable.”

You shift around. “I’m cold.”

“Put on a sweatshirt,” Damien mutters into his pillow.

“I’m lonely.”

“What else is new?”

“Ouch.”

Sleepiness begins to take you.

“Are you cold?” you ask. He doesn’t say anything. “There’s plenty more blankets.” You roll to the edge of the bed just enough to see Damien pulling the threadbare blanket tighter around himself.

He jumps when you toss the comforter on top of him. He’s right: there is more room on the floor. You flop a pillow onto his face for good measure and slink to the floor. With the now pile of blankets and pillows, you’re just as comfortable as before, and you notice Damien relaxing.

“Better?”

Damien hums. While you'd like to think you're approaching some friendly banter, you know you're both tired and decide not to push him. His back is to you and you figure that's a fine way to go to sleep.

And, at some point when you wake up in the middle of the night, Damien's turned to face you and you suddenly realize you've never seen him asleep, though he's seen you in that state. His mouth is parted slightly, his breathing soft, his face finally relaxed and looking at least ten years younger without the lines on his face being exaggerated by stress. You yearn to run your finger along his jagged features. To brush his soft hair away. To kiss him.

To what?????

You turn away abruptly and squeeze your eyes shut to block out the intrusive thought. No. No way.

You've gotten away with the ambiguity of it all until now. How could you let it happen?

But then, you remember. He has touched you. He touched you in the way you weren't supposed to. Innocuous, sure. But you both knew. You both know.

Maybe you're delusional. Maybe you're not. There's really only one way to find out.

#the exorcist #damien karras #damien karras x reader #fanfiction #the exorcist 1973 #the exorcist fanfiction

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