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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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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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vivwritesfics · 9 months

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No Need To Ask

Chapter Twenty-Four - Taken

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

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Lando Norris did exactly what he said he was going to do. Now that there were no threats held over them, he flew to the Netherlands. Only two of his men were with him as he used his private jet to pick up his sister.

His knee bounced as the jet landed in the Verstappen hangar. Lando had called ahead, told Verstappen what was going on. Verstappen was more than happy to oblige. (Verstappen was a very cold and calculating man. He didn't much care that Y/N was in his house and left Max to deal with her. She was more a bother than anything else to him and he was more than happy to get rid of her).

Max wasn't happy with Y/N leaving the Verstappen stronghold. In her he'd developed a friendship, and she had been something of a perfect (platonic) companion. Happy to spend time with him while he did his thing and she did her own thing.

They watched movies together, just happy to spend time around each other. It made the time that Carlos was away pass quickly and distracted her from missing him terribly.

But she did still miss him terribly.

Max stood beside Y/N, several of his fathers men surrounding them as Lando's jet touched down in front of them. "I'm gonna try and get into contact with Carlos, tell him where you've gone," He called over the sound of Lando's jet.

"Just don't make him worried!" Y/N called, Lando walking off of the jet. "I don't want him panicking while he's busy!"

Max nodded his head as Lando strode over, round sunglasses covering his eyes. "Let's go," he said the moment he reached his sister, grasping a hold of her arm. Behind his sunglasses his eyes glanced down, looking towards the bump that wasn't there yet.

But she didn't let him pull her away. Y/N stepped away from her brother and launched herself at Max, wrapping her arms around him. "Thank you," she whispered and kissed his cheek.

Lando gave Max a nod and grabbed a hold of his sister once again. He gently pulled her away, pulling her back towards the jet. This time she went with him, walking up the steps and climbing into the jet.

Before she knew it, they were in the air, leaving the Netherlands and getting further away from the country she now called home.

***

For twelve weeks Carlos was stuck in Spain, missing his pretty little wife. He had no pictures of her, nothing to remind him of her. In those twelve weeks, Carlos had never felt so lonely.

Was this how she felt during the start of their marriage? Regret filled him when he thought about it.

He wanted her home. Now.

But he couldn't. Carlos couldn't have her home until he knew the house was completely safe.

The first thing finished was the door, the one that needed a retina scan to get in. It was incredibly expensive, but Carlos would spend all of the money in the world to keep Y/N safe.

New cameras, new gates and new alarm systems had been installed. Carlos got rid of his at home golf course, filling in the holes and flattening out the banks.

Instead of the golf course, he had a play area installed. A little slide, a sand box, swings, and more. Carlos was also having a small slide installed in the pool. He was going to give their little one everything.

As the walls were built around the house, Carlos emptied out his room opposite his own. Well, it wasn't his room anymore. It was theirs, his and Y/N's. Anyway, he emptied out the room opposite, which was once a guest bedroom, and painted the walls.

Pink or blue were the colours he spent way too long debating over. But he didn't go with either colour, instead painting the walls a nice, olive green.

It was just the base. What Carlos wanted more than anything for their baby's bedroom was a mural of animals. A collection of jungle animals in trees, painted on the walls, or badgers and foxes prancing around in sweaters (but Carlos was leaning more towards the jungle animals).

His laptop was full of open tabs of baby things. A crib, a mobile to hang above the bed, a wardrobe (one pink and princess themed, one cream, ready for the couple to decorate it). He'd picked out giraffe rug to go with the potential jungle mural, and a collection of books, some in English and some in Spanish.

Carlos hated that he was doing it without Y/N, but it made him miss her just a little bit less, getting the room ready for baby Valentina or baby Oscar.

He ordered the crib, but everything else he'd do with Y/N. As Carlos sat on the floor of the baby's room, he smiled to himself. He couldn't wait to have the two of them home.

***

Oscar stepped out of the car, looking at the familiar house. It was fortified now, with high walls and two gates before you got to the main house. But it wasn't quite finished yet, the Spanish mansion looking like a construction site.

On Carlos's command, Oscar had been allowed through. Carlos opened the door, allowing him in, and Oscar ran up to the office.

But Carlos wasn't in the office. He was opposite and over one, in the room that was for the baby.

Oscar gently knocked on the door before allowing himself in. The door had been painted cream, a different colour to the rest of the doors in the house, with a space left for a name.

"Hey," said Oscar as he looked down at Carlos, constructing the crib. "Where did you send her?"

Carlos placed the piece of crib he was constructing to one side and let out a sigh. "I sent her to the Verstappens," he said and leaned back on his palms. "I sent her somewhere she would be safe, and Norris decided he wanted to bring her back to England."

Oscar glared at the floor. "Well, at least she's with family now," he said, trying to justify it as he leaned against the wall.

"Just one more week and I will bring her home," Carlos said and looked up at Oscar.

Oscar pulled off his suit jacket and got to work. He helped Carlos set up the crib and hung the mobile above it. The two of them worked together to put together the book case. "I was going to wait for Y/N to do all of this," said Carlos as they screwed the bookshelf into the wall, preventing it from ever toppling over.

"Sorry," Oscar said somewhat sheepishly as he pulled his suit jacket back over his shoulders. "But this was fun. Have you guys thought of names?"

Carlos only smirked.

***

The Norris house wasn't well fortified. It wasn't fortified at all. But Lando didn't have anybody he loved and wanted to protect, so he didn't do anything to make the house more secure.

There were a few extra cameras and a few alarms on the doors. But that was it.

And then Lando brought Y/N home. He brought his sister back to her house, a place she hadn't been to since their fathers funeral. So much had changed since then. She was carrying a child now, actually in love with the man she had been forced to marry.

Even though the Norris house wasn't well fortified, Y/N couldn't stop herself from feeling safe. This was her childhood home, where she had grown up.

Once again, just as they had at the start of this story, Y/N and Lando sat in the library, playing a game of chess. She was winning, as she always did.

Normality was nice. But, as nice as it was, Y/N missed her husband.

"Your chess game has gone down hill," said Lando as she took his queen. Yes she was winning, but it had taken a lot longer than Lando expected.

Y/N looked at her brother through her lashes. She hadn't played chess for the entire time that they had been in the safehouse. She knew she'd lost her touch, but she was still winning. Her time in this house was going to be spent playing chess.

Lando tried to spend as much time with her as he could. Who knew when Carlos was going to come and get her, to take his sister away from him again?

Y/N had been in the Norris house for four weeks before she started showing. Just a small bump, she didn't need to start wearing stretchy clothing just yet.

"Have you thought of names?" Asked Lando as they ate breakfast together after four weeks of living together again.

Y/N swallowed her breakfast. "Briefly, yeah. We talked about it just before he flew back to Spain," she said, leaning her head against her hand.

"If it's a boy would you name it after dad?"

Y/N looked at her brother. She hadn't even considered naming the child after her father. Guilt settled in her stomach as she realised she considered Oscar as the namesake before she thought about her father. But no, she wanted to name the baby after Oscar and that she was going to do (if it was a boy).

Time worked in a funny way. She had spent ten weeks back in her childhood home, twelve weeks in total away from her husband. Y/N didn't know it, but this was the day he was coming back to her, returning her to the home he had now made safe for them.

But she'd never find that out.

Like I said, the Norris house wasn't well fortified. Lando had only been targeted once and that was it, he didn't think he needed to fortify it more. Maybe it was his age, or his lack of experience as a head of family.

They broke into the house in the early hours of the morning. Those that had been on watch were tired after hours protecting the house.

It was easy for them to climb in through Y/N's bedroom window, knock her out before she knew what had happened, and take her away.

Taglist (CLOSED): @multi-universe21 @formulas-bitch @gills-lounge @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @carlossainzwho @f1lov3r @samaib11 @charli123456789 @queenofmanydreams @ironmaiden1313 @vellicora @glitterf1 @80sloverry @lightdragonrayne @moonayu @bellsalabanccini @topguncultleader @handsupforamiracle @cmleitora @jenniferrvsesi @barcelonaloverf1life @sbella13 @nicolettecallednikki @darleneslane @thehufflepuffavenger1 @champagneproblems17 @aespie @yukheizcigarettes @rewmuslupin @hollie911 @ashy-kit @ririgy @stqrgir1 @zaynzierulez @minkyungseokie @rafaaoli @carolinesainz @ashies-ln4op81aa22 @measimp @mizelophsun11 @eviethetheatrefreak @andydrysdalerogers @formulaal @graciewrote @biancathecool @evans-dejong @sparklyperfectionstranger @venusesworld @goldenharrysworld @cassie0sstuff @gracielukey @watermelonworries @celesteblack08 @shobaes @chonkybonky

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vividwritinglove · 1 year

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his boat - Carlos Sainz

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pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x fem!reader

words: 1.8K

warning: smut (minors dni)

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Now you are lying here. In the blazing sun, in a skinny bikini, on the most beautiful boat you've ever seen, in a bay of a Balearic island. You could not have imagined a more beautiful summer. In general, five weeks ago, you didn't expect to experience such a summer at all. And that with him, Carlos Sainz Jr.

You met him in a nightclub in Budapest at the after parties of the Grand Prix. He was the one who saw you first and immediately took the initiative to approach you. A casual conversation turned into a playful flirtation, which ended in a hot make-out session. After just a few hours, he desired you so much that he had to see you again! He wanted you. He needed you.

For you, it was a harmless fling that might end in a one-night stand. No kiss in the morning, no hard feelings. You enjoyed the moment and let yourself go. And before you knew it, you were smitten by him! Never before did you get this kind of attention. He made you feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. The sweet nothings he whispered in your ear with his strong Spanish accent would haunt you for months. You were sure of it!

He took you back to his hotel room and quickly it was clear where it was going. But he didn't just take what he wanted. He gave so much back. He was very attentive, immediately noticed what your body reacted to pleasurably and applied it conscientiously in the following rounds. Rounds, several. This man had the highest sex drive you have ever experienced. It is still a mystery to you how you kept up with him. Probably the curiosity and the secrecy he brought with him.

There was no thought of sleep and as soon as the first rays of sunlight fell into the room, you squirmed out of his arms and packed up your belongings. Your cell phone lay on a nightstand cabinet right next to him. As you were about to reach for it, his hand held you back by your wrist. Earlier, he had been sound asleep, so you look at him, a little startled.

"Stay." he murmurs in a raspy morning voice, with tousled hair and a sleepy dreamy look on his face, "At least for breakfast."

And breakfast turned into dinner, another night once again filled with lustful and mind-blowing sex, leading to another breakfast including a day on the golf course. He invited you to the Grand Prix in Belgium. You declined, your plane was going back home the next day and your work was already waiting for you. You exchanged numbers and wrote animated messages since you parted ways at the airport. You weren’t looking for anything. Men like him only break your heart. So stick to: Only sex, no hard feelings. You kept telling it to yourself.

The messages became more intense. More intimate. Until he wrote how much he missed you and couldn’t wait to see you again. You would be lying if you said you didn't like it. He wanted to get to know you and remained persistent. After Spa was the summer break and he wants to spend it with you. Only with you. All alone. He persuaded you with the tongues of angels. He's damn good at it. And in the end, he succeeded. You requested a workation and before you knew it, you were already spending the third week with him on Mallorca.

He pampers you from head to toe. Takes you out to the best restaurants, goes shopping with you, shows you his favorite places on the island and night after night you have uninhibited and passionate sex. It feels like a dream. Almost too good to be true. You enjoy every second of it. Like now, when you're tanning in the Spanish sun on his boat as your peace is suddenly disturbed by cold drops of salt water. You wince and pull your new sunglasses off your nose, "Hey!" you exclaim indignantly. You blink up at him, and he stands triumphantly above you, blocking out the sun. His facial expressions were barely visible because of the shadows. More drops of water roll off his well-toned, tanned torso and continue to land on you. He runs a hand through his hair and tucks it back.

"I don't want you to get burned..." he warns you, presumably referring to the sun.

"I won't." you reply confidently, but you don't really know what you mean by that.

Carlos runs his fingers over his mouth. He can't deny it. He is crazy about you. You've flashed him and he needs you in his life. Slowly, he gets down on his knees and settles between your legs. Gladly, you open them invitingly and grant him the space he needs. He leans forward and props himself up on his forearms next to your head. Immediately, you sink into his warm brown eyes, which seem so dominant and caring at the same time. His nose lightly touches yours and as soon as you feel the contact, you close your eyes and lift your chin. With a grin on his lips, he kisses you. Gently, almost tentatively. Rarely has anyone kissed you so well. His kisses taste salty from the seawater. Your hands wander into his wet curls as your kiss intensifies. He moans into your mouth and breathes your name excitedly. You want more. You want him. Now. In the middle of the day, on this boat. You don't care if or who sees you. Fortunately, today Carlos has headed for a bay that no one but you have visited so far.

He will follow your request. Immediately. His lips wander and now they caress the sensitive skin of the crook of your neck. In response, you wrap your legs around his middle and draw in a sharp breath as his wet and cool swim trunks touch your inner thighs. You feel more than just that. Greedily, you bite your lower lip as you feel his already stiff cock against your clothed core and you know what to expect. Carlos, on the other hand, continues to kiss your neck undisturbed and now goes down on your body. Starting between your breasts. With his hands, he parted your bikini top and caressed your two nipples. Meanwhile, you could no longer suppress a moan and lift your chest lustfully towards him. A sign for Carlos not to stop. On the contrary, he must take it to the extreme. His mouth wanders further down from your breasts to your belly and now lingers at the cuff of your bikini thong. He looks up at you and sees how you continue to bite your lower lip and squirm with pleasure under his touch and kisses. Grinning, he lets one hand wander up to your breasts again and grabs one of them hard. You moan louder now and press your thighs together.

He takes advantage of the moment and inserts his other hand into your thong. First he only lightly strokes your Venus mound with his fingers, then he goes with two fingers through your already wet folds. Again, you moan loudly and your grip in his hair becomes more hearty. "Carlos, please..." you beg for a release. Quickly, he strips the piece of fabric from the thong that is annoying for him from your hips and replaces his fingers with his tongue. Greedily, he sucks your clit into his mouth. Again and again he looks up at you and this time your eyes meet. He is so eager to give you the pleasure of your life that you are unbridled by his passion, which drives like electricity through your body. He adds his fingers and continues to watch you. You were about to explode. He knows exactly which buttons to push on you to get you where he wants you to be. Whimpering and begging for more. He loves to see you like this.

"Need you inside me. Now." You sigh demanding and it sounds like music to his ears. You don't have to tell him twice. He straightens his upper body and quickly strips his swim shorts off. He moans in release as his cock is finally freed from the now too tight shorts. You prop yourself up on your forearms and can't take your eyes off his beautiful body. Everything about him is perfect, as if he were made for you. He positions himself in front of your core, slowly and gently enters you and places his hands on your hips. Your hands run over his upper arms. His skin feels warm and soft under your fingers. He starts to move and quickly finds his rhythm, which gives you this special feeling. His thrusts become faster and stronger. Just the way you like it. You grip his upper arms harder as the knot in your abdomen tightens. By now, you are moaning together. Some strands of his hair have fallen into Carlos' face. Over and over, your eyes meet. His eyes are almost black and have something animalistic about them that makes you go crazy. You want to feel him more intensely, so now you put your legs on his shoulders. Carlos understands immediately. He loves this position. He wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you close to him. His rhythm increases again and lets you see stars.

His gaze continues to be directed at you. Your pleasure satisfies him more than anything. As you let your eyes roll into the back of your head, he loses all restraint. He squeezes his arms so hard now that you swear he will leave bruises on your thighs. But you don't care. You would wear them with pride. His thrusts become messier. It won't take him much longer and neither will you. The knot is about to burst.

"Carlos, I... I..." you gasp out, but you're lost for words. "Cum with me, Bebé." he hisses through his teeth, dropping his head back into his neck now and a loud howl escapes his throat. He looked so damn sexy right now. That sight makes you climax immediately. Your legs tremble and exhausted, you let them slide off his shoulders. Carlos is also out of breath. With a satisfied smile, he leans forward again, laying on top of you and burying his face in the crook of your neck again. His weight on you just feels divine.

Your nails roam in gentle circular motions over his broad shoulder blades. You hear a satisfied sigh and enjoy this intimate moment with him. "I wish I could stay here forever..." you whisper in his ear. He turns his head to look at you. He smiles at you, the sun's rays falling into his eyes, making them look amber, almost golden. "Join me. Next week. To Zandvoort." His previously demanding look now changes to a begging one that you can't resist. You have to grin and say, "I'll think about it..." already knowing your answer is yes.

#Carlos Sainz #cs55 #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz one shot #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 5 months

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141 Headcanons: On Holiday

John Price is 100% a dad type. He likes golfing and fishing and sailing. Activities that let him unwind, sometimes make new friends in the shape of other middle-aged men at the country club or at the docks or at the lake. Rents a little cabin by the lake, where you can take a soak or sunbathe, while he goes out with his little fishing boat and try (and fail) to catch something nice for dinner.

Johnny MacTavish is an adventurous type. He likes hiking and camping, stuff that lets him stay busy, and will definitely explore some forest or national park or mountain range. But he also likes fun activities. Music festivals, for example. He'll definitely book you all-inclusive 3-day-long tickets even though there's only one or two artists/bands you want to see, just so you can have that experience and have fun together.

Kyle Garrick is a family lad. His family is big and loving and they book a little trip every year somewhere fun. It might be a new destination, or it might be somewhere they've been before, or maybe somewhere to visit family. But he loves bringing his love along, go do all the touristy things, see all the landmarks, take loads of pictures, try new restaurants and new food, and do cultural things like reading all the plaques on statues and fountains and monuments.

Simon Riley likes peace and quiet. That's the jist of it. Needs it, in fact. So, prepare to rent a little historical cottage in the Cotswold, or maybe a beach condo, or a cabin in the woods. Doesn't matter, what matters it's that it's fairly isolated, with no neighbors to really bother him. He can sleep in late, with no one to force him to do things he doesn't want to do, no schedule to uphold, no people to answer to. He'll roll out of bed at noon, make himself tea and go sit outside and feell the breeze on his skin for once.

Crack headcanons: Beach Day Episode™️

John Price tends to burn, instead of tan, surprisingly. Probably because his uniforms tend to cover him from neck to toes, leaving only his hands and face showing... And if you'd expect his face to be immune to burning, you'd be wrong. Especially because he's terrible at applying sunblock. By the time you notice, his cheeks, nose and forehead are red, and there are white lines around his muttonchops/beard where the sunblock didn't absorb... so he just looks ridiculous.

Johnny MacTavish likes to say he's not English/British... until he goes on holiday to southern Europe and he's suddenly the perfect example of the stereotypical English tourist. Football jersey, denim shorts, socks and slides/sandals, his entire skin is burned to a crisp and red, and, of course, he's wearing the most stupid-looking sunglasses you'll ever see... And then he gets to the beach, takes off his shorts and he's wearing a red speedo.

Kyle Garrick is 100% the type to disappear off his towel while you're sunbathing and, by the time you notice, he's in a completely different side of the beach playing beach paddle ball, beach volleyball or beach football with a group of other blokes or even with little kids. And he does all this while wearing his little cap (but backwards) and while absolutely covered in tanning oil. Does he need it? No. But he likes the feel of it.

Simon Riley would not be caught dead in swimming trunks or a speedo. The man needs full coverage. He's in a wet/surf suit and wearing a facekini WITH his stupid dad sunglasses and, maybe even, a visor. He gets fidgety if he has to sit in his towel for too long so he's also the type who'll go for a walk out of nowhere, down the beach, and, eventually, cross paths with an Asian grandma who's wearing the same exact outfit as him.

#ikea writes 💚#masterlist #headcanon #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #cod headcanons #141 headcanons #holiday headcanons #crack headcanons #soap headcanons #ghost headcanons #price headcanons #gaz headcanons

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wileys-russo · 1 year

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blurb with Leah trying to teach reader how to play golf? Maybe it’s their second or third date but they aren’t official yet? Which is really just an excuse for her to get all handsy with you and try to flex and show off with her golf skills to impress you. All fluffy and soft for our LW6 :)

top golfer II l.williamson

"leah...why are we at a golf course?" your eyebrows scrunched into a frown as the blonde parked up, shooting you a grin and cutting the engine of her car.

"well where else does one play golf?" leah asked sarcastically, and though you did admit when the girl had asked you to play golf for your third consecutive date, you naively assumed she meant of the miniature kind.

"i thought you meant mini golf! i don't know the first thing about real golf leah." you laughed with a shake of your head. "well then you're in luck my girl because i happen to be a wonderful teacher." leah grinned with a wink, reaching into the back of her car and placing a grey golfers hat on her head.

"oh surely you're not wearing that." you scoffed in disbelief, leah feigning offence and clutching at her chest. "i most certainly am, i'm one of the pros!" the english captain winked, slipping out of the car and hurrying around to open the door for you.

"so chivalrous." you smiled as she bowed mockingly before slinging an arm over your shoulder, locking her car and walking the two of you over to the clubhouse. "so, up for 18 holes then?" leah asked casually and your eyes widened in shock as you arrived to reception.

"18?!"

"two passes for the driving range please, two hour session." leah smiled politely, sliding her membership card over the counter to the young woman who nodded, clicking away at her computer as you sighed in relief and pinched at her arm unappreciative of her teasing.

the receptionist explaining where everything was as well as pointing out the rules and behavioral expectations whilst at the range leah nodded, only half listening before she thanked the young woman and pulled you away.

"i don't know how you've convinced me into this, i happen to hate golf." you admitted honestly as the two of you arrived in your area, setting your things down on the small lounge as leah eyed up the clubs.

"you know its a crime to say those disgustingly hateful words here yeah?" leah hummed as she ran her fingers over a nine iron, pulling it out with a satisfied nod. "its a boring sport for boring rich old men with nothing better to do." you shrugged, taking a seat on the lounge as leah shot you a look.

"well boring old rich men and ego driven footballers who can't just be good at one sport and be satisfied with that." you teased as leah tee'd up a ball. "you better watch your mouth or i'll have you thrown out." leah warned, a smile tugging at her lips as she readied herself to swing.

"don't miss!" you teased right as she swung, throwing the defender off a little as what was supposed to be a perfect drive was mis-hit and merely rolled a few feet forward propelled by a rush of air, leah missing the ball entirely.

leaning on the club leah turned her body to face you as she stared you down in annoyance, you merely dropped your sunglasses down onto your nose and crossing your legs, settling back into the lounge and soaking up the rare bit of sun of a surprisingly warm day.

"i'm beginning to think three might be a cursed number, and this is the date where i realize you're just an insufferable brat." leah shook her head, you hardly able to take the girl seriously in her ridiculous baggy hat.

"gotta try before you buy right?" you grinned cheekily, leah humming and wagging a finger at you, re-teeing up her ball and shuffling back into position, ignoring your mocking words and connecting with a fierce back swing, smiling happily as the ball rocketed right to the back of the range.

"see? you're in the presence of a professional here." leah smiled smugly and you clapped, mockingly congratulating her. "alright then, your turn." leah offered you the club, teeing up the ball for you as you sighed, the two of you swapping positions as she now sat back into the lounge.

"go on babe, impress me." leah challenged, arms resting along the back of the lounge as she waved for you to hurry up. with a roll of your eyes you tried to copy the position she had just taken, leah holding back a laugh as you swung and completely missed.

you reset yourself and once again missed, huffing in frustration and setting yourself up one more time, another miss.

though as the club this time almost flew out of your hands leah decided to take pity on you, standing to her feet. "come on then tiger woods, i'll show you how to actually do it." the blonde chuckled, placing herself behind you, her front pressed into your back.

"hands like this." slender fingers intertwined with yours as she adjusted where your hands rested on the club. "feet apart more." her own gently kicked yours into a wider stance.

"stand up straight." the defender rasped, her breath warm on your neck as she pressed herself even more into you, hands coming to rest on top of your own. "now pull back until your hands are aligned with your shoulder." leah helped you lift the club, stopping at the right position.

"and...swing!" you did as she asked, her hands still atop yours, and your face lit up watching as you connected with the ball and it soared away from you. "much better." leah congratulated, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek before pushing herself back, your hands tingling from her touch.

"what was that?" leah asked as she tee'd you up another ball. "i didn't say anything?" you frowned in confusion. "yeah exactly, i was after a thank you leah." leah sarcastically held a hand to her ear, waving for you to speak.

"sit down leah." you smirked, pushing her away from you with the end of the club as the girl pushed it away, muttering about your lack of manners and taking a seat again. "well go on then!" leah waved, crossing her arms over her chest and waiting expectantly.

"watch the back of the net for this one." you boasted confidently, trying your best to copy the position the older girl just had you in, and swinging hard and...missing.

"oh ladies and gentlemen she's hit it out of the park! look out down below lads cause its raining golf balls!" leah stood to her feet, clapping and cheering for you loudly as you grumbled, kicking the ball instead as it bounced pathetically a few feet away from you.

"just for that i think next time i'll teach you how to kick a football ." leah whistled at the woeful attempt, shaking her head. "oh god please no more sports related dates leah!" you groaned in response.

"nope! we're not stopping until you can do this properly by yourself." leah tutted as you tried to hand her the club. "why do i need to know how to play golf? i can just sit in the golf cart and cheer you on when you play." you bargained with a grin, hugging the taller girl whose arms wrapped around your back.

"mmm my own personal cheerleader, the boys would be so jealous." leah hummed, dipping her head to press a sweet kiss against your lips, pulling away far too soon for your liking. "you can be a supportive girlfriend from the sidelines for football, you're learning how to play golf!" leah decided, turning you around and slotting herself in behind you again, not even registering what she'd just said.

"supportive girlfriend hm?" you asked with a small smile, feeling leahs body freeze up behind you, the blonde quickly stepping back and rambling out a hasty apology. "hey hey leah, i didn't say i minded." you cupped her face and smiled reassuringly, stroking her strongly defined jaw with the pads of your thumb.

nodding hastily and clearing her throat leah shooed you back to the driving mound, settling behind you again and reminding you of how to stand.

wanting to wind her up as she did, you pressed your lower half more into her as she spoke, feigning as if you were working on your foot position as you wiggled back and forth, hearing leah cough a few times behind you, hands moving off the club to sit on your waist, holding you still as you swung, squealing happily as this time you connected and the ball went sailing away into the distance.

"you're a natural." leah complimented with a wink, the rosy pink blush which once coated her cheeks having disappeared as she appeared back to her confident bubbly self.

"did you invite me on a golfing date just so you could show off your skills and get all handsy with me williamson?" you turned around with a teasing smirk, the blonde shrugging innocently.

"maybe, you'll never know kid. now go again! your back swing still needs some serious work."

#woso #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso blurbs #woso imagine #engwnt #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader

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solarisstyles · 1 year

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AT THE COUNTRY CLUB

Pairing: Golfer!Harry Styles x BarCart!F!Reader Word Count: 3.6k+ Warnings: fluff, teasing, public sex, protected sex(wrap it before you tap it!), smut, mentions of drinking and alcohol, 18+ MINORS DNI Summary: Harry likes to golf and you. A/N: none!

Out of all the jobs you’ve had, working as a bar cart girl at a high class country club was probably your favorite. All you did was drive around the course all day and sell old men alcohol. The tips were amazing despite the occasional creep you’d run into. Smoothing out your golf skirt and shirt in the locker room, you made your way out to the cart house to get the golf cart you’d use for the day. Checking over everything to make sure you were well stocked up, you began your rounds on the course.

“Good morning Mr.Anderson!” you called out to one of your weekly regulars. “You’re my first stop today. Can I get you anything?” you asked.

Looking up from his golf clubs, he beamed at you, “Ah, good morning dear! I’ll take some water for now. Catch me in a few holes and I might be ready for some liquor.”.

“Coming right up.” you said, stepping out of your seat and going to your cooler to grab a bottle of water. “Would you like it in a cup with ice or just a bottle?”

“A cup with ice please.” he politely said, approaching you and handing you some cash “There’s a tip in there as well.”. He was always looking out for you on the course so you genuinely appreciated his kindness,

“You know you don’t have to tip me for water.” you playfully scolded him, taking the money and tucking it away in the fanny pack you wore around your waist.

“I know. But you’re my favorite cart girl so I’m gonna take care of you.”, taking the cup from your hand, he held it up to you and smiled, “See you in a little while kid.”. Shaking your head with a smile of your own you got back in the cart and continued your way around the course. It was early so you didn’t get a lot of hits the first time around. The second time you made your rounds however, it was after lunch time and a lot busier.

Pulling up to some carts, you recognized the club bag as another regular of yours. You noticed he had a guest with him today which was always a nice surprise. “Hey Carter!” you called to him as he was picking out his club, giving him a flirty wave.

Looking up to see who called him, his eyes found you and smirked, “Hey yourself.” he replied, walking over to you.

“Can I get you and your friend anything?” you asked.

“I’ll have my usual.”, “Hey Harry! Do you want anything from the bar cart?” he called to his friend who’d just teed off.

You couldn’t help but admire him as he walked over to the two of you. You were thankful for your sunglasses or it would be painfully obvious that you were undressing him with your eyes. His tall, lean, but muscular build was exactly your type.

Harry was drinking in the sight of you just the same. Thankful for his own pair of sunglasses, he just hoped his attraction was obvious….elsewhere. “What does the lady suggest?” he asked you, a soft smirk on his face.

“Our vodka sodas are the most popular drink I sell.” you informed him, standing from your seat to start making Carter’s drink for him while Harry decides on his own.

Harry nodded thoughtfully at the suggestion, “What flavors do you have?” he asked.

“Pineapple, Grapefruit, Black Cherry, and Watermelon.”

“Which one is your favorite?” he then asked, catching you off guard.

You didn’t typically have men so invested in their drink orders. “Pineapple or Watermelon.” you replied, handing Carter his drink.

“I’ll try the Watermelon then.” he decided.

Reaching for the drink in your cooler, you popped open the can for him and handed it to him. “Anything else gentlemen?” you asked, looking between the two of them. Carter and Harry looked at each other, having a silent conversation.

“I think we’re good for now.” Carter said, pulling out his wallet and handing you his card, “Start a tab for me and put Harry’s drink on it.”. Taking his card and swiping it though your mobile card reader, you set up his tab, adding on the two drinks by his request.

“All set up.” you said, handing his card back to him with a smile. “Enjoy your time out here. Maybe I’ll catch you guys again later.”.

“I sure hope so.” Harry said, smirking at your now flushed cheeks.

You couldn’t help but giggle, “It was lovely meeting you Harry. Have Carter bring you around more.” you teased, getting back into your cart.

“Only if you let me try the Pineapple flavor next time.” he teased you.

“I’ll make sure to have some just for you.” you teased back, blowing him a kiss as you drove away.

You sadly didn’t get to see Carter and Harry again that day. But as you walked through the bar room of the club house, the house bartender called out to you, “This was left here for you.” he said with a smirk on his face. Taking the wad of twenties from him, you opened it to see a small piece of paper with a phone number on it, and Harry’s name scribbled beneath it. Rolling your eyes, you thanked the bartender and went to clock out for the evening. You thought about the phone number the whole way home, wondering if you should actually text him. You’ve never reciprocated anyone’s advancements towards you at the club house. But damn, was he fine. Collecting yourself you decided to play the long haul and not think with your imaginary dick. If he comes back again, you’ll consider giving it a try. You had to make him work for it somehow.

A week later, you were working inside at the actual bar instead of running the cart like normal. When you saw Carter walk in, you were excited, hoping to see Harry in tow. Your disappointment must have been evident on your face though when you realized he was there on his own.

“Damn don’t look too excited.” he said, sitting in front of you on a bar stool, crossing his arms.

You looked down bashfully, “Sorry Carter. I am excited to see you, I promise.” you apologized, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

He laughed, “You’re full of shit.” he called out, making you laugh with him, a soft blush dusting your cheeks.

“Your usual?” you assumed, already moving to make his drink.

“You know it.” he said, leaning against the bar. He watched as you made his drink, your body working on autopilot as you mixed the liquors together with the mixer and set it in front of him,

“Running a tab today?” you asked.

“No, I actually stopped by to play matchmaker.” he said, sliding some cash over to you and taking a sip of his drink.

Taking the cash over to the drawer, you looked back at him and raised an eyebrow in his direction. “With who?” you asked curiously, as you brought back his change.

“Keep it.” he waved your hand away. “And to answer your question, it’s you and Harry.” he smugly said, making you stop in your tracks and stare him down.

“What?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

He rolled his eyes, “Oh come on! A blind man could see the chemistry between the two of you last week.” he exclaimed, gesturing his hands outward in an ‘it’s so obvious’ motion.

“Yeah? Then where is he today?” you countered, putting your hand on your hip.

“With his bandmates in the studio.” he informed you, raising an eyebrow at you as if daring you to challenge him.

“Oh…” you mumbled, unsure what to say next.

“Listen, I know you get plenty of offers from men here but Harry is a genuinely good guy. Give him a chance.” he pleaded.

“Did he put you up to this?” you questioned, feeling suspicious.

“Not at all. He doesn’t even know I came to talk to you.” Carter assured you.

“He did leave me his number at the bar last week. I guess if you’re so sure about this I’ll text him.” you caved, feeling weak under the peer pressure of what you were fighting so hard to avoid.

“Really?” he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful looking.

“Yes, and ONLY because I’ve known you for years now and I trust your judgment.” you clarified.

Staying true to your word, you sent Harry a text later that night after your shift. You were glad he took it so well that you waited a week to text him. Texts quickly turned into facetime calls and daily good morning texts. It truly floored you how easy Harry was to talk to. It was truly effortless on both sides. The more you both talked and the more comfortable you got with one another, the more you both would start to flirt with each other.

“So, when am I going to see you again?” you asked one night as you facetimed each other.

“You miss me or something?” he playfully asked, smirking at you through the phone screen.

You bit your lip, admiring his exposed biceps, the tank top he wore leaving little to the imagination and it drove you wild. “Maybe.” you answered, making him smirk.

“I was planning on coming with Carter this weekend to the club house. Are you working then?” he asked.

You felt your excitement peak some at the prospect of seeing him again, “Yes, I am actually. I’ll be running the cart like normal.” you said with a bright smile.

He smiled back at you, flicking off the light to his bedroom and flopping down onto this bed, “Good, I expect the best of the best service then.” he playfully said.

You giggled softly, “I’ll drive right past you don’t tempt me.” The challenging but teasing undertone of your voice had him laughing too.

“I’ll leave a Yelp review,” he decided to challenge you back.

You gasped, holding your hand over your chest dramatically, “Not the yelp review! What do I have to do to make it up to you?”

“A kiss would make up for it.” he boldly suggested.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “I think I could manage that.” you both smile bashfully at each other. So far the conversation has been kept innocent between the two of you. Now it was turned up to another level and it made your heart race with anticipation.

The following days leading up to you seeing Harry again, the sexual tension between the two of you could be cut with a knife. Your replies to his innocent good morning texts were now photos of you posed suggestively in front of your mirror in your work outfit. The day he was meant to come to the course, you wore his favorite outfit, it was blue and the top was a little extra tight on you. It was guaranteed to drive him crazy and the thought of teasing him excited you.

Harry had texted you and let you know that he wouldn’t be there till later in the afternoon, so the morning felt like it was dragging.

You were on your fourth round around the course when you finally saw Harry and Carter. “About time y’all showed up!” you called out to them.

Harry beamed a bright smile at you, jogging up to you to pick you up and spin you around, making you squeal out a laugh.

Once he steadied you on your feet you smiled up at him, “What can I get you to drink?” you asked.

“Are you on the menu?” Harry flirted, his hands rubbing your sides softly. Your outfit choice was clearly having the desired effect on him, making you mentally high five yourself.

“Not while I’m on the clock.” you winked, swatting at his chest playfully.

He smirked, “I’ll try that Pineapple Vodka Soda then.” letting you go to get his drink.

Carter stood back and watched the two of you fondly, “I’m right here you know.” he said.

“I’m aware.” you teased, handing Harry his opened drink. “Would you like anything dear?” you teased, batting your lashes playfully.

Carter rolled his eyes, handing you some cash, “Get me my usual you twat.”.

You laughed, taking the money and putting it in your pouch before making his drink. “You guys gonna hang out for a while? I get off at five and I can join you at the bar.”

“I won’t, but Mr.Styles here will.” Carter teased, punching Harry in the arm.

Harry rolled his eyes, “Yeah I’ll hang out.” he smiled at you.

“Cool, see you then.” you said, giving them a small wave before continuing your drive around the course.

There were more golfers than normal out on the course this afternoon, and any other day you would be thankful since you were getting great tips. The burning desire to be back with Harry was making you antsy though. When you finally made it back to the clubhouse, you parked your cart and sighed, resting your head on the steering wheel for a moment. You loved your job but it could really be draining sometimes.

Taking a deep breath, you got up and started to break down the cart, taking the extra drinks and liquor into the walk-in fridge behind the bar. Looking up at the clock in the back area, you were thrilled to see you only had five minutes left before you clocked out for the day.

Making your way over to the locker rooms, you gathered your stuff and clocked out on the computer. Heading over to the bar where you would find Harry. He was exactly where you thought he would be, in one of the lounge chairs by the giant fireplace. Biting back the giddy smile you wanted to show, you admired how handsome he looked sitting there with a glass of whiskey in his left hand. Making your way over to him, your eyes admired the sharp outline of his jaw, the shape of his nose, his long lashes fanning against his cheeks as he blinked. He looked like a Greek God. “This seat taken?” you teasingly asked him, in reference to his lap.

He chuckled, uncrossing his legs as a silent invite, “I reserved it just for you.” he said back, matching your flirty energy.

A soft blush dusted your cheeks, sitting gently on his lap, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer.

“So, did you like the drink earlier?” you asked him.

He nodded, taking another sip of his whiskey, “I thought it was delicious. It’s perfect for being out on the course.” His praise made your heart flutter. Knowing he was pleased with your suggestion made you want to please him even more.

His fingers slowly dragged up and down your side, “Did you wear this just for me today? I remember telling you it was one of my favorites.” His eyes raked up and down your body, admiring the way your skirt rose up to reveal more of your thighs when you sat down, your tits pressed together more in your sitting position causing more of your cleavage to show thanks to the low cut of the top.

“Maybe.” you suggested, winking at him.

“You’re a tease. You know that?” he called you out, looking back up into your eyes.

You couldn’t help but giggle, leaning closer to him, “I don’t think you mind though.” you whispered, wiggling your hips down into his crotch, which was slowly stiffening beneath you. “In fact I think you like it.” you in turn called him out. Looking back into his eyes, you watched in satisfaction as his eyes flickered from your lips back to your eyes. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” you teased, his silence loudly telling you the effect you had on him.

Setting down his drink on a side table, his hand found its place on your thigh, rubbing it softly. He smirked at your remark, shaking his head a little. “Just thinking about how the bar tender over there would love to have me bend your over this chair and fuck you in front of him.” he softly spoke, making your breathing stop for a second.

You could suddenly feel the burning stare of another set of eyes, so caught up in Harry that you didn’t even notice.

“Lucky for you, I don’t like to share. So, why don’t we go somewhere more private.” he suggested.

You were all too eager to oblige, giving him a small nod and standing from his lap, offering your hand out to him. Taking your hand in his own, he stood up and let you lead him out of the bar, much to the disappointment of your co-worker.

You walked to the far side of the clubhouse you knew people were less likely to be at this time of the day, pushing open the door to one of the family restrooms, you pulled Harry inside with you, closing and locking the door quickly.

Just as fast, Harry spun you around and pressed you back against the door, holding your waist tightly. He pressed his forehead to yours, bumping his nose against your own. You could feel the warm breath from his lips against your own, driving you crazy.

“Kiss me.” you said with a desperate feel behind the request, almost whining into his mouth.

It was the green light he needed to go forward. Pressing his lips softly to your own at first, the kisses that followed growing more heated and desperate. His hands slid down your waist, around to your ass, groping you through your skirt. Your jaw went slack, moaning softly. Taking that as his opportunity to lick into your mouth, coaxing your tongue to lick into his own. You were enjoying this silent battle for dominance but you could slowly feel yourself losing. Your body becoming putty in his strong hands.

He bent down slightly, grasping your thighs and lifting you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist on instinct, he carried you over to the sink, sitting you down on the counter. Pulling away from your lips briefly, he had to ask, “How far do you want this to go?” praying you were both on the same page.

Smirking, you reached within your shirt and pulled out a square foil packet. He couldn’t contain his laughter, pressing his lips to yours once more and taking the condom from you.

Clothes were quickly discarded, both of you far too worked up to bother with any more foreplay. Both of you knew this would have to be quicker than you’d really like it to be out of fear of somebody catching you. The thought of being caught made it much more exciting though.

Tearing open the condom with his teeth, Harry was a man on a mission, rolling the rubber onto his hard cock. Pulling your hips to the edge of the counter, he positioned himself, gliding the tip of his cock between your wet folds. “Who got you this wet baby girl?” he teased, admiring the way his cock was lubricated even more with your arousal.

“Fuck, you Harry.” you whimpered, your eyes fluttering at the sensation.

Satisfied with your reply, he gently thrusted into you, making you gasp out and groan softly. His face fell into the crook of your neck, setting a gentle pace thrusting in and out of you, “Fuck you feel so good wrapped around my cock.” he breathed out, kissing your neck, up to your jaw till he eventually found your lips against his own again.

Moaning softly into the kiss, along with softly whimpering for him, his pace quickened. Reaching between your bodies, your fingers rubbed quickly against your clit, pushing you closer to your peak. “Don’t stop Harry please!” you begged in a hushed whisper against his lips.

“Mmm I won’t baby. Gonna make that pretty pussy cum for me if it’s the last. Thing. I. Do.” he thrusted deep into you to enunciate the last four words he spoke.

You gasped, throwing your head back and biting your lip to desperately try and stay quiet.

His lips once again kissed at your neck, trailing wet kisses down to your chest and sucking on your tits. Taking your nipple into his warm wet mouth, his tongue dancing in circles around your hardened nub.

Your chest was heaving, dangerously close to cumming. He could feel it with the way your pussy contracted round him, squeezing his cock tightly each time he thrusted deep into you. His hips slapping against your own each time he bottomed out inside of you. He grunted against your hot skin, “I’m so close baby.” he panted, eyes screwed shut in ecstasy. “Cum on my cock. Please baby girl.” he begged, wanting so bad to watch you come undone under his touch.

“Oh, fuck Harry!” you gasped, a particularly sharp thrust into your g-spot sent you spiraling. You fought hard to control the volume of your moans as he fucked you through your orgasm. Finding it hard to not scream out his name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” he grunted, the pulsing of your pussy as you orgasmed coaxed him to his own. Spilling into the condom, letting you milk him dry as you contracted around him.

Your hand rested on the back of his head as he laid it against your neck. The both of you had love sick smiles on your faces as you battled to catch your breaths, coming down from the high you both were feeling. “Round two at my place?” you offered, making him laugh,

“I like the sound of that.”

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #golfrry #sunny writes

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percervall · 9 months

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Mamma mia, here I go again {pt7}

Summary: A summer of poor decisions leads you to having to face the consequences of your actions —and the men involved. Pairing: Kevin Magnussen x fem!reader, Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader, Mark Webber x fem!reader Warnings: heart break Word count: 1022 Taglist: @ashy-kit @averagef1fansblog @barcelonaloverf1life @bradfordbantams @dannyramirezwife-simpaccount @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @exotic-iris13 @goldsainz @iloveneteyam @jaypreshpresh @laura-naruto-fan1998 @monzamash @norrisleclercf1 @opheliaas-stuff @roseseraj @szobosz @topguncultleader @vellicora @ystrolllll

Part 7 of the Mamma Mia series

They really weren’t kidding when they said ‘let us woo you’. The next two weeks fly by in a blur of data streams, flights and more dates, each getting more elaborate as time goes on. Mark takes you out for crazy golf while in Singapore, a suggestion by Oscar and undoubtedly Lando, although you wonder whether they suggested the murder mystery themed one. Lewis spoils you with a hot air balloon ride to watch the sunrise when you’re in Suzuka, the sight leaving you breathless, and Kevin treats you to a picnic after a bike ride through the park. You love seeing their own personalities reflected in the activities they plan for you, but also in the way they show their affection for you: Mark takes care of you, driving you to and from the paddock, making sure you eat by bringing you lunch. Kevin and you managed to keep your promise to spend more time together; he will often just come hang out at the Mercedes hospitality and chat with the mechanics or with Mick while you get some last minute bits of work done. It’s nice to have him beside you, to have the weight of his hand on your thigh every so often just to let you know he is still there. And then there’s Lewis who is so observant and spoils you in different ways. You mention once how your sunglasses broke and the next thing you know a new pair sits atop your desk. He even gifted you monogrammed loungewear embroidered in his colours after he overheard you talking about how your travel clothes are just no longer comfortable. It’s a clear display of his wealth and not something you’re used to, but seeing him smile as you use his gifts has your heart skipping a beat. It quite literally feels as if you’re in a romance novel, but while those usually end in a happy ending, you’re having a hard time believing that that could be you. Because romance novels and relationships are usually between two people and not four. Because no matter how hard you try not to, you’re falling in love in a way that terrifies you. It breaks your heart to know you are once again hurting them, but what other options do you have? There is no way that this, that a relationship can work because that would mean having to choose and you can’t. You cannot choose between them nor can you allow yourself to live in the delusion that there is a possibility that you don’t have to. It’s impossible, the choice feels impossible, so you make the only one you can; you’d rather live with the heartbreak and the knowledge that you hurt them, than choose between Kevin, Lewis, and Mark. And so you do what you have always done: you very slowly begin to withdraw yourself, rebuilding the wall the three of them had painstakingly brought down over the past four weeks.

It all comes to a head after the race that Sunday in Japan. Your emotions are all over the place, flitting between happiness and pride at Mercedes’ performance and bagging some much needed points to hopefully be able to secure that second place in the constructor’s championship, and absolute dread at having to have this conversation with them. And so you find yourself outside the Mercedes motorhome, the three men sat in front of you.

“Now that the month is almost over I thought it best to have this conversation now,” you begin, looking down at your mug. Your stomach is in knots and for once it’s not the morning sickness that’s making you nauseous.

“I’m really sorry but I can’t do this. I- I don’t have feelings for you. For any of you. I’m sorry for stringing you along and getting your hopes up, I really am,” you continue, voice barely louder than a whisper. The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t dare to look up because you know once you see the look on their faces your resolve will crumble like a house of cards.

“Bullshit,” Kevin says, his frustrations clear in his voice. Your heart breaks at the ice in his tone, but keep your eyes on your mug while holding back tears.

“Kev-..” Mark tries to placate him, but to no avail.

“No, don’t you Kevin me. This is her M.O. God, you can’t even look at us while you tell us you feel nothing for any of us.”

“We did tell her it would be up to her,” Lewis adds.You look up at both him and Kevin through your eyelashes, watching them share a look you can’t decipher. You watch Kevin’s shoulders slump before looking back at you. Quickly you avert your eyes, trying to keep your face neutral.

“Fine,” Kevin sighs, the dejection and resignation in his voice cut deeper than any knife possibly ever could, “forget it. See you around the paddock I guess.” And with that the Danish driver leaves.

“I’m really sorry,” you whisper, throat thick with tears.

“So am I, sweetheart,” Mark says, pressing a kiss against your temple before getting up as well. Lewis gives your hand a squeeze before following the Australian into the paddock for the final round of interviews, leaving you behind with the remnants of your shattered heart.

You somehow manage to hold it together until you’re back in your hotel room, catching a ride with another colleague to avoid having to see Mark again. Throwing your bag on a chair, you make a beeline for the ensuite, turning on the shower while silent tears roll down your cheeks. Stripping out of your team gear, you step under the hot water, wrapping your arms around your chest as sobs wreck through you, afraid that you might fall apart even further if you don’t hold onto yourself. You know that this hell is your own doing but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less, doesn’t make the pain any less. Little do you know, the heartache that is already all consuming is about to become so, so much worse.

Maybe the secret fourth option was choose pain? I can already hear someone throw her phone against the wall. Love you @szobosz

Again, the biggest thank you to @curiousthyme for being my beta reader, love you so much ives

Please let me know what you think! Your comments, tags and likes mean the absolute world to me 💜

#f1 fanfic #kevin magnussen x reader #kevind magnussen x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #mark webber x reader #mark webber x you #mamma mia fic

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darkphoenix5037 · 1 year

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Hey guys, I am a bit new to the fandom and this is my first fanfiction about any BTS members. Please be kind.

I hope you all like it.

TW-Mafia, Yandere, Non-consensual touching, breaking in, Kidnapping, stalking, threats.

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The weather was exceptionally warm as the sun slowly went down. It was sunny, and you had to squint your eyes as you watched the children at the swings in the playground. It was already 4:30 and most parents were late.

This was not a perk at the rich day care/school you worked at. Even though most parents had hours for personal grooming, poker at the country clubs or golf games, they were late to pick up their kids.

Always late with the same lines.

“It was a rather interesting game at the club!”

“The traffic was atrocious!” (Lies, It was far from rush hour)

Blah, Blah, Blah.

It was the same, every day.

As you was lost in your thoughts, you felt a hand on her shoulder. you looked up to her fellow teacher, Nicole.

“Have you seen that gentleman here before?” She asked pointing to a man on the other side of the playground’s fence. The man stood a few meters away, dressed in all black with a blond mullet. His long black coat accentuated his height making him seem like giant, you could tell he was well-built even at a distance.

“No. Should I ask?”

“Yeah”

You walked up to the man slowly, who looked at you as you neared, he took off his sunglasses as you neared. He was attractive, very attractive, dragon eyes, plump lips, smooth skin and jaw that could cut diamonds. He definitely won the genetic lottery, you thought.

“Hi, I am a teacher here. I was wondering if you were looking for someone, I haven’t seen you here before?”

The man smiled at her genially and said,” No, no I was just waiting for a colleague, his son studies here. I think his name was Mingyu? He was supposed to pick him up and drop him at home before we headed for a drink. It seems he is late.”

Gods, his voice could make men and woman weak in the knees.

“Oh, yeah Mr. Lee comes a bit late, I think he is stuck at work or that’s what he says. Anyways, I must get back to the kids. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No problem” His eyes had a strange glint in them.

You turned and headed toward Nicole quickly.

“He is waiting for Mr. Lee, Mingyu’s father, they were supposed to meet here.” you reassured Nicole.

“He is quite handsome, isn’t he? He was staring at you the whole time you were walking towards me.” She mused.

“I suppose he is.”

Nicole was about say something when Mr. Lee hurriedly neared the fence to pick up Mingyu. He didn’t notice the man as he picked his son up.

As soon as he did notice him, he went a bit pale. As if he had seen a ghost, he spoke something to the man. you couldn’t make out what he spoke. But the other man responded cheerfully and took Mr. Lee by the shoulders and walked him towards the direction of his home.

“Well that a bit strange.” Nicole murmured.

“Maybe he was a bit embarrassed to be late? Who cares?” you said.

“Yeah”

Nothing was said after that.

………………………………

“Don't turn around,” you whispered to Nicole and Hari, eyes firmly set on the tall frame of a familiar man that walked into the small coffee shop you and your friends had met up at. When they moved to turn, you hissed at them and they stopped mid-movement. Hari raised a brow at you in question.

“You remember the guy from last Wednesday? He's here, standing in the line. Second to last, tall, wearing a leather jacket and black boots. Don't make it obvious,” you said in a hushed tone.

You and Nicole had told Hari everything about the handsome mystery man and had listened to her moaning about how she would've loved to see him too because he sounded like a real snack from the way you were describing him. Well, now he was here and you weren't about to deprive her of the sight that he was.

“Damn, those shoulders are looking really-” Hari started as she swivelled in her chair to sit sideways on it and glance at the man. But she trailed off when she saw his face as he turned it in their general direction. She visibly blanched, immediately turning on the chair and facing you again.

“Do you know who that is?” she asked, her tone lowered as she leaned forward. You frowned, briefly glancing at the handsome specimen before shrugging and turning your gaze back to her.

“That is Kim Namjoon. I heard some nasty things about him from a friend. Haechan, you know him. He got involved with the wrong people and ended up being in Kim's debt. Let me tell you, that man is not someone you want to be indebted to,” she whispered frantically.

You would've shrugged this off as rumours, exaggerations or simply misconceptions and lies, but the scared look on your usually so collected friend's face made you stop. And the memory of this man, Namjoon, talking to the father outside the kindergarten. You knew something had been off. The way the man shifted slightly to stand in front of his child, his and the little one's discomfort. And Namjoon's imposing stance.

“I... are you sure? It does sound a little farfetched,” you tried weakly, but the look your friend gave you silenced any doubtful voices piping up in the back of your head.

“I'm serious. I don't know how Haechan got out of this unharmed, but he was really messed up afterwards. These gang people or whatever they are, mobsters, bikers, all the same, don't play games. You would do good to stay away from him if you ever come across him again.”

You nodded mutely, still watching Namjoon over Hari's shoulder. You froze when his gaze suddenly found yours.

“He's watching,” you bit out, trying not to move your lips and give yourself away, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Smile briefly and then look back at me, acting like we're deep in conversation,” she said quickly and then started to babble on about her week at work and the little fight she and her girlfriend had gotten into on Tuesday.

Meanwhile you sent a small smile Namjoon's way, acknowledging your recognition, and then turned your attention back to your still talking friend. You focused solely on her, nodding and laughing along as she told you about meaningless things.

You could still feel his eyes on you as you watched her talk.

………………………………

The following week was... anxiety inducing. You didn't know why, but Namjoon seemed to be following you around.

At first you tried to tell yourself you were simply paranoid and his appearances were mere coincidences. It wasn't uncommon to meet the same people at a supermarket or a coffee shop.

But the little book shop you'd discovered a few years ago, the one that was a hole on the wall, the one where you had never seen him ever, raised some concerns.

Then the tall menace started turning up along your way to work and back home, or lingered around the kindergarten, you were starting to grow restless and afraid. You had told Hari and Nicole about your observations and fears. After a talk with them, you had picked up the daily routine of texting one of them whenever you arrived at work and then got back home after.

Your suggestion to go to the police had been vehemently refused. It wouldn't be any good, Hari had told you. All it would do was get you more of his unwanted attention. So, you lived with your growing paranoia.

The aforementioned paranoia and anxiety skyrocketed at the end of the Monday after the first week of his eerie following you around.

You had just slung your backpack over your shoulder and were stepping out of the kindergarten building, your face turned up to the sky to soak up the afternoon sun, when a low hum from your right made you jump. Your eyes snapped open and your head whipped around. Your heart stuttered in your chest when you saw who had made the sound.

It was him. Namjoon stood casually leaned against the brick wall of the building you had just exited, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He smirked at your startled reaction.

“Hey there, princess. Didn't mean to startle you,” he said, not looking one bit sorry. You laughed nervously.

“Uh, it's alright. I wasn't paying attention,” you said quietly and glanced away from him. His staring was making you uncomfortable, the way he dragged his gaze over your body, taking in every inch before returning to your face. Nervousness made your heart beat a little faster.

“You're off to home then?” Namjoon asked, still watching you intently. You fidgeted on the spot, feet shifting and fingers digging into the straps of your backpack.

“uh-huh, just locked up,” you said and then cleared your throat nervously, “Well, I better get going.”

But when you started walking, Namjoon pushed away from the wall, matching your steps as you hastily scurried down the sidewalk.

“So eager to leave, sweetheart?” Namjoon joked, then added, “Oh, the name's Namjoon by the way. But I suppose you know that already judging by your behaviour. That's fine. I know yours, too.”

He proved that immediately by calling out your name again. Your heart stuttered.

You gulped, heart fluttering anxiously as you tried to come up with a response.

“Uhm, yeah. I've... heard of you,” you eventually got out, nervously glancing his way. He was still watching you with those dragon like eyes of his, a smirk curling the side of his mouth when he caught you peeking.

“No need to look so scared, sweetheart. I'm not going about hurting pretty things like you. Not really my style. You're perfectly safe with me.”

So, he knew that you had heard of his business. Or he at least suspected that you had. The lack of expression and your silence spoke volumes.

When you didn't reply to his utterance, he let out a low chuckle. It was a rich sound, full of amusement and something you would've enjoyed if it wasn't for the man making the sound.

“How about this, I take you out to dinner tomorrow and we can get to know each other better. You'll see that there's nothing to be afraid of. I can pick you up after work,” he suggested.

Your breath seized in your chest and your step faltered, almost making you stumble. Namjoon's hands shot out, grabbing onto your waist to steady you. His touch lingered as he told you to be more careful, palms sliding along your side and briefly settling on your hips and giving them a squeeze before he let the wandering appendages fall away.

“I- uh, I can't. Sorry,” you rushed out, your skin crawling from his touch. Then, without further ado, you rushed away, almost running as you rounded the next corner. You threw a look over your shoulder as you scurried over the sidewalk, but Namjoon was nowhere to be seen.

………………………………

To your misery and anger, your rejection didn't seem to deter Namjoon. He kept showing up at your work, joining you on your way to or from work. You were certain he knew by now where you lived. He would talk when he walked beside you, his long steps always catching up with yours no matter how fast you were walking, trying to escape him.

Namjoon didn't seem to mind that you didn't answer except to decline another offer at dinner or a drink. Every time you told him no, he merely chuckled in that amused way, as if you were just being silly, as if you were playing had to get and would eventually come around.

Well, you weren't.

Not if you could help it.

As if his oppressing presence wasn't enough Namjoon started to get handsy. Nothing serious, but the lingering touches on your waist or the way his hand would brush against yours when he was once more harassing you on your way to work were making you uncomfortable.

It was like a promise.

A promise of more than just slight touches and caresses. The thought made your skin crawl.

It made you nauseous with fear and anxiety.

It got worse when he started waiting outside your apartment building when you left for work in the morning. He even stood right in front of the door to your apartment, scaring the shit out of you when you swung it opened and stepped outside, only to leap back inside and slam the wooden barrier in his face. You'd waited for several minutes, but he wasn't leaving and you had to get to work.

“Come on out, princess. You'll be late to work,” he had taunted through the door, mocking you until you opened it again and stormed past him without sparing him a glance.

He upped his game by sending you flowers and other presents, jewellery, gift cards. A set of lacy underwear and bra was by far the most unpleasant one.

All of it was eating away at you, especially because you had no one to talk to about this madness. You had stopped telling your friend, assuring her you were fine and Namjoon had moved on because you didn't want her to worry about you constantly. You regretted your decision more and more with every day that passed, each one taking a bit of your sanity with it.

You were slowly going mad, paranoia a constant companion and your anxiety too happy to remind you of the looming presence of the dubious man every time you managed to push the thought of him out of your mind for more than a couple of minutes.

The fourth week into the madness you had started sleeping with knife by your bed side.

You slept with one arm dangling over the side of the bed so you'd be able to quickly grasp the knife should it be necessary. You practiced it for hours.

Your sleep was light since this whole thing had started, disturbances not uncommon.

That led to you being sleep deprived, agitated and short-tempered most of the time. But you had to reign it in at work. The children weren't at fault and they didn't deserve any harshness from you. So, you kept it bottled up, the toxic mix of frustration, anger, fear and lack of sleep festering away inside your chest.

………………………………

The deadly cocktail boiled over after a long and particularly trying day at work. The children had been disobedient and out for trouble, stirring up fights and causing all kinds of mischief. The only reprieve you got, was when you stepped outside after work was over and there was no sight of Namjoon. He didn't appear on your way home either.

But even that tiny bit of peace was destroyed when you unlocked the door to your apartment and stepped inside to find a bouquet of flowers sitting in one of your vases on the counter of your open-plan living room.

You certainly hadn't put them there.

He had been in your home. He had gone through your stuff to find the vase and then placed the flowers in it, putting them right there in your kitchen. He had been in your home.

The one place you thought could be safe.

The terror inside you spiked and you sprinted into the bedroom, grabbing the knife from your bedside table and then searching your apartment inch by inch to make sure the horrible man wasn't anywhere in your not-so-safe-anymore place.

When you returned to the kitchen, you slumped into a chair that stood by the counter with the flowers on it. You put the knife down beside you and glowered at the pretty bundle of colourful flowers. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, angrily staring at the bouquet. The longer you looked at it, the angrier you became.

How dare he to come into your life and turn it upside down?

How dare he harass and follow you, touch you without your permission?

And most of all, how dare he break into your place?

You were mad. The lack of sleep, anger, frustration and fear of the last weeks finally becoming too much as you sat there and stewed in your own dark thoughts.

A loud knock startled you out of your vengeful thoughts, your gaze snapping up and zeroing in on the front door. Another knock came and you growled.

“I swear to god, if that is his bitch ass on the other side of that door...” you cursed under your breath, grabbing the knife and tucking into the waistband on your jeans at your back. You felt like a criminal yourself as you stomped over to the door, ready to do whatever was necessary to finally get the obsessive man to lay off you.

You ripped the door open and your nostrils flared at the sight of Namjoon. It was indeed him, his usual smirk peeking out and taunting you as you stood in the door frame, shaking with rage. But before you could utter a single word, the man stepped forward, shouldering his way past you and into your flat. He pushed you out of the way and closed the door behind himself.

“How do you like the little surprise I left you?” he asked as he casually strolled through the room as if he owned the place. It made you snap out of your stupor.

“I don't give a shit about you or your presents. Leave my fucking home,” you growled and pointed at the door, your hand trembling.

Namjoon just laughed, tilting his head as he eyed you with slightly raised eyebrows.

“My kitten has claws after all. Where does that courage come from all of a sudden?” he taunted. “Not that I don't appreciate it. I enjoy a little fire in my woman. What I don't appreciate however, is that attitude you have going on, baby girl.”

“Don't call me that, asshole. I'm not your woman. I'm not your sweetheart or baby girl. I'm not your anything. All you are to me is a nuisance and I would appreciate it if you got the fuck out of my home and my life,” you hissed, voice wavering with rage.

“Careful, doll. Don't test my patience,” Namjoon said, the smirk gone and a steely expression in its place. You gulped and took a step back. But you didn't give up. You wouldn't, not so easily.

“I know you're probably not often told no, but I will do so, have done so. I am doing it right now. No, I don't want to go out with you, I don't want anything to do with you. Now please leave my home,” you pressed out between gritted teeth, forcing yourself to be firm but as calm as possible.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Namjoon started, slowly walking closer with his hands in his pockets, “You sound like you believe you have any say in this. One thing you are right about though. I'm not told no. I haven’t been told no since I took these streets, this city, this country. No one tells me no. You certainly don't tell me no.”

He came even closer, closing the distance between the two of you.

“And I will have you one way or another. You're mine and I decided as such, whether you like it or not. Accepting it makes it easier for both of us. Be good for me and I'll be good to you.”

He was closer now, almost at an arm's length. He pulled his hands from his pockets.

That was the last push you needed. That man wasn't going to give up, he had told you as much. You reached behind your back and pulled the knife out of your jeans. You brought it up in front of you, and brandished it threateningly at the blonde .

Namjoon's eyebrows rose up so high it looked like they were trying to escape into his hairline. It seemed you had managed to take him by surprise. After overcoming his initial surprise, Namjoon chuckled. This time it sounded almost impressed.

“When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn't expect my day would end like this,” he admitted, staring down the knife at your angry, but afraid face.

“You certainly have more guts than I gave you credit for. But who can blame me, really. You always seemed like such a timid thing. So sweet and friendly.”

You huffed. As if he knew anything about you. He only knew what he could gather from his obsessive stalking. He didn't know the first thing about the real you, the you, you were when you were alone or with your friends.

Namjoon's next condescending words pulled you from your upset musings.

“Do you even know how to use that, princess?” he asked, his tone obviously implying he didn't believe you did.

“My mother taught me,” you answered curtly.

“Did she now?” Namjoon said in a low voice, a threatening edge lacing his words. You didn't miss the dangerous glint in his eyes. You tried not to be intimidated by it.

“Find something fleshy and push.”

Your mother hadn't taught you how to stab. You didn't know the first thing about it. Your knowledge extended exactly to what you had just said. 'find something fleshy and push'.

“Is that so...” he said, his voice still threateningly low as he stepped closer, startling you when he approached until the knife was pressed right up against his throat.

Your hands trembled, fingers sweaty on the handle as you stared up at Namjoon, trying hard to hide your terror. It became stronger with the second, replacing the mindless rage that had guided your actions when you pulled the knife in your grasp.

Now you weren't sure about this anymore at all. And Namjoon knew it. You could tell by the victorious look in his eyes, the way the corner of his lips tilted up ever so slightly. Before you could further ponder and weigh your options, several things happened at the same time.

Namjoon moved, grabbing your wrist and twisting it until you let out a cry of pain and let go of the weapon. It was ripped from your grasp, the safety put on and then tossed to the other end of the room where it clattered noisily to the ground. Your legs were kicked out from under you and you fell to your knees. Namjoon's weight came crushing down on you, both your wrists gathered in one of his big hands and held above your head as he took you off your knees and pressed you flat to the ground, facing him.

Your lower half was restrained by his heavy body, legs tangled in his and unmovable. Your breath was coming in harsh pants as you tried to come to grips with what had just occurred in the span of the last five seconds. When you did, you began to struggle, shaken out of your shocked stupor.

“Let go,” you wheezed, his weight pressing down on you not only immobilising you, but also making it hard to breathe properly.

“No can do, baby,” Namjoon said, his breath puffing over your face as he held himself above you. He shifted, keeping your legs immobilised as he sat up, taking your upper body with his and pulling you up by your wrist as he got up fully. You stumbled to your feet, losing your balance from the sudden change in position and his impatient jerking.

Unable to catch yourself with your hands, you face-planted into his firm chest with a little 'oof', making him chuckle as he pulled you back and shifted your wrists from one hand into the other. His free hand reached up and brushed your dishevelled hair away from your flushed face.

You cringed away from his touch, shrinking in on yourself and pulling your shoulders up. He ignored your obvious distaste, grasping your chin between his long fingers and keeping your nervous gaze directed at his.

“I would really hate to punish you, princess. Behave,” he said coolly as he eyed you intently, taking in your dilated pupils and the fluttering of your pulse beneath the thin skin on your throat. His eyes followed the bob of your throat when you gulped.

All your earlier bravado was gone, the rage fuelled resistance and bravery all but obliterated by the man standing in front of you.

“I couldn't stop thinking about you after you approached me that day at the fence,” he said, still staring down at you. His touch on your face wandered, fingers drawing along your jawline and then tracing the shape of your cheekbones. You didn't dare move, your breath shallow as he kept touching you.

“Your pretty smile and beautiful eyes... I knew I had to have you,” he continued, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “So, I watched, I waited. I had to learn more about you before I could take you. Gotta make sure I know all I can so I can take care of my woman properly.”

A shiver wrecked your frame at his sick and twisted words.

“As for the things I couldn't find out...” his touch wandered lower, caressing your throat and then moving even further to drag his fingertips across the tops of your breasts, “Well, I'll just have to see for myself. I'm a fast learner. Adept. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate it very soon, princess. I may not be a good man princess but I will be good to you. In all ways possible.”

You shook your head weakly, a whimpered, “No, please” leaving your lips. Namjoon shushed you, hand coming to rest on your throat. He didn't squeeze, but you knew he would if you made a wrong move.

“Now, don't act up baby. I know you're a good girl, so I will forgive your earlier outbreak. Continue being bad and you'll come to regret it very soon,” he said, slightly tightening his grip on both your wrists and throat.

Tears rose in your eyes. They were tears of despair as the reality of the situation finally sunk in. You weren't going to get away from him. He wasn't going to stop even if you did manage to escape his clutches in some miraculous way. He had claimed you as his, chosen you and decided to take you without asking your opinion or stopping to take your feelings into consideration.

Kim Namjoon took what he wanted and he wasn't told no. He was never told no.

You didn't struggle when Namjoon dragged you over to your front door, pulling you out of your apartment and guiding you down the stairs, catching you several times when you missed a step or two in your haze.

He was muttering quiet reassurances the whole way, brushing his hands across your body, squeezing and grabbing without your consent. When you stepped out onto the sidewalk, your gaze rose from the ground and landed on a black car standing on the side of the street a couple of feet away.

Namjoon followed your line of sight, reading the silent question on your features.

“I'm going to take you home, princess. Our home.”

#yandere bts #namjoon x reader #yandere namjoon #mafia bts #kim namjoon #bts x you

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