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girlrotterr · 5 months ago

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Milk Of The Siren.

captain!abby x siren!reader Summary: Captain Anderson is among the most skilled, effortlessly navigating countless ships. Yet, even the finest sailors aren't immune to the lure of sirens' hunger. a/n: new series for you angels!!! super excited for this one!! (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠) ⇢ part two𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A human laid before you, unconscious.

Her milky skin glimmered under the soft moonlight, her body reflecting the silvery glow. She was drenched, her clothes soaked through with seawater. Sand was plastered around her face, sticking to her skin like a constellation of freckles.

what a disturbance..

It was already past midnight, the only illumination coming from the moon and stars above. Their light dancing on the surface of the water, and the gentle glow of jellyfish drifted the sea. You had sought this place for solitude, yearning for some time alone. The cave lagoon was your sanctuary, a place where silence was a constant companion and disturbance was a foreign concept.

But now, that tranquility was shattered. The human's presence was an intrusion into your sacred space. This lagoon, with its crystal-clear waters and echoing silence, had always promised peace.

You emerged from the water, your movements graceful and deliberate. Your sleek, iridescent tail shimmered, casting ethereal patterns on the cave walls as it parted the waves. Each movement sent ripples across the surface, water cascading down your body. Your hair, the color of the midnight sea, clung to your back, your eyes. deep and mesmerizing, locked onto the human with irritation.

The soft sound of waves lapped against the shore, the only noise in the otherwise still night. You hovered over her, studying her face. She looked peaceful, almost serene, despite the obvious turmoil that had brought her here. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and you could see the faint pulse at her neck, a sign of life amidst the stillness.

Hovering down, you brushed a strand of wet hair from her face, feeling the softness of her skin. She was fragile, a stark contrast to the strength you felt coursing through your own body. This human had no place here, in your sanctuary, disturbing the delicate balance of your world. But there was something about her, something that stirred a feeling you couldn't quite name.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the salty sea air, and let it out slowly.

───────

"Captain Anderson," Isaac said, shaking Abby's hand in a formal greeting.

Abby returned the handshake firmly, "Isaac," she replied with a nod, taking a seat opposite him. "What brings you to seek me?"

Isaac smiled, a hint of admiration in his eyes as he leaned forward. "You've earned quite the reputation, Captain. Your skill and courage on the seas are well known,." He paused, leaning back in his chair. "I have a proposition for you. We have a cargo that needs to be sailed out to Europe, and I can think of no one better suited for the job than you."

Abby's expression remained composed, though inwardly, she felt a flicker of intrigue. Sailing across the Atlantic was no small effort, even for someone as experienced as herself. "Europe, you say?" she mused, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against the arm of her chair. "That's quite a journey..."

Isaac nodded. "Indeed, it is. But I have every confidence in your abilities. The cargo is valuable, and I trust only the best to ensure its safe passage."

Abby inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. She had earned her title through years of hard work and determination, rising through the ranks from a young deckhand to a respected captain known for her sharp instinct. Her ship, The Siren's Call, was renowned not only for its speed but also for the loyalty of its crew.

"As always, Isaac, I'm honored by your trust," Abby replied finally, her tone reflective of the weight of the responsibility he was offering. "When do we sail?"

Isaac smiled, relieved by her acceptance. "The Siren's Call leaves at dawn. I'll have the crew and provisions ready."

───────

Abby stepped aboard The Siren's Call at the break of dawn, greeted by the familiar salty breeze. The crew bustled about, preparing the ship for departure.

As Abby made her way to her quarters to stow her belongings, she felt a hand clap down on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Ellie Williams, a fellow hunter and friend from her days ashore in jackson. Ellie's auburn hair was tied back, her piercing green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Well, well, if it isn't Captain Anderson herself," Ellie teased, flashing a mischievous grin. "Off on another grand adventure, are we?"

Abby chuckled, giving Ellie a playful shove. "Always."

Ellie nodded knowingly. "Oh, I know all too well. Heard you're sailing for Europe this time. Quiteee the journey"

Abby nodded, "It'll be a challenge, no doubt. But Isaac trusts me to get the job done."

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "Isaac, huh? That old son of a bitch is at it again!" She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Any chance you'll find a European lady out there?"

Abby rolled her eyes with a smile. "Not likely.”

Ellie laughed, her laughter echoing through the corridor. "Well, you let me know if you change your mind. I've got some contacts who could arrange a meeting."

“I'll keep that in mind.” Abby shook her head, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a ship to prepare."

Ellie grinned, stepping back to let Abby pass. "Don't forget to send me a postcard!"

With a wave, Abby continued on her way, her mind already shifting back to the tasks at hand. She settled into her role aboard the Siren's Call, overseeing final preparations and ensuring everything was in order, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement.

The sea was waiting.

───────

As the Siren's Call cut through the Atlantic waves, Abby kept a vigilant watch, her eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of danger. The journey had been smooth thus far, the ship sailing true under her expert command. But just as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, a haunting melody began to drift through the air.

At first, Abby dismissed it as a trick of the wind, but soon, the melody grew stronger, more intoxicating. It was a song unlike any she had heard before — ethereal and enchanting, weaving through the air like a delicate thread. A chill ran down her spine as she realized what it was:

The song of sirens.

Glancing around, Abby saw her crew entranced by the music, their eyes glazed over, their movements sluggish as they were drawn toward the source of the melody. Panic surged within her as she fought against the mesmerizing tune, her hands tightening on the wheel to keep the ship on course.

"Keep steady! Fight it!" Abby shouted, her voice cutting through the enchantment like a knife. But the sirens' song was relentless, its allure growing stronger with each passing moment. The Siren's Call began to veer off course, its sails catching the wind erratically.

The ship was now beyond her control, rushing dangerously through the waves. The laughter of the sirens echoed hauntingly in the air, mocking their victory.

“Captain, we're losing control! The ship won't respond!"

"Damn it!" Abby gritted her teeth, her mind racing for a solution.

She knew the tales of the sirens, their irresistible songs luring sailors to their doom upon jagged rocks. Abby steadied herself against the wheel, trying desperately to steer away.

But it was to no avail.

The ship's structure collided with rocks, splintering wood and tearing sails. The world began to whirl as Abby was thrown overboard, the icy waters enveloping her in a shock of cold. Debris and bodies floated around her, the cries of her crewmates drowned out by the relentless roar of the sea. With a desperate stroke, she struggled toward the surface, fighting against the pull of the sinking ship.

Moments later, Abby's head broke through the surface, gasping for air as she scanned the scene…

The Siren's Call was rapidly disappearing beneath the waves, its masts jutting awkwardly into the sky before vanishing into the depths. The sirens' laughter echoed in the distance, a cruel reminder of their deadly allure.

“no...” Abby weakly whispered as darkness crept on the edges of her vision.

───────

“Ngh..” Abby jolted slightly awake, her eyes fluttering open as she groaned softly.

You instinctively backed away, giving her space to gather herself. She looked around, disoriented and clearly in pain, her body stiff and bruised. Confusion clouded her expression, and her gaze struggled to focus on you through eyes still adjusting to the dim light.

You remained cautious, observing her cautiously as she blinked.

"What has brought you here?" you asked, your voice tinged with a hint of anger. The disruption she had caused to your sanctuary was annoying enough.

Abby didn't respond immediately, her eyes still trying to focus on you. She seemed caught between fear and fascination, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she struggled to find her voice. The bruises on her skin stood out starkly in the moonlight.

"There is no place for you here, human," you snapped, your tone firm.

The rules of your world were clear — humans were outsiders, their presence a disruption to the delicate balance of your existence beneath the waves.

"You're... one of them," she whispered weakly, pointing a trembling finger in your direction. Her voice trembled, her gaze fixed on you.

Yes, you were one of the creatures of the deep, Your kind had legends woven around them—stories of enchantment and danger that humans whispered. For centuries, your kind had existed in harmony with the sea, guardians of its secrets and mysteries.

But Abby's presence had disrupted that harmony.

A debate stirred within you, a conflict between duty and desire. On one hand, your instincts urged you to follow the rules of your existence—to remain hidden, to protect your kind from the intrusions of humans. But on the other hand, there was a temptation—an urge that whispered of a different kind of need.

Abby's voice broke through your thoughts, her plea tinged with desperation. I don’t mean to intrude.."

Her words hesitated, exhaustion and pain in every breath. You could sense her vulnerability, her body moving with fatigue as she struggled to maintain her composure. The moonlight bathed her in a soft glow, casting a shadow that danced across her features.

In that moment, you saw her not just as an intruder, but as a fragile soul in unfamiliar waters, seeking refuge from the storms. A flicker of empathy stirred within you, a longing to ease her suffering and offer her safeness Yet, there were potential consequences—disrupting the balance that kept both your worlds apart.

With a conflicted sigh, you made your decision. "I will return," you said.

Abby's eyes widened slightly, a mixture of hope and fear flickering across her face. You could see the relief in her eyes, but you knew your reasons for helping her were far from kindness. If she recovered, she would leave your lagoon, restoring the peace and solitude you so cherished.

You slipped back into the water with effortless grace, your body merging seamlessly with the liquid embrace of the lagoon. The cool water flowed around you as you swam deeper, your mind racing with thoughts of what resources you could gather to help. Food, water, perhaps some herbs to tend to her wounds—all necessary for her recovery.

The underwater world welcomed you, its familiar sights and sounds a comforting balm to your conflicted heart. Radiant creatures lit your way, their soft glow illuminating the path through the darkened depths. You swam swiftly, your movements a blur of silver and blue as you navigated the corridors of your aquatic home.

First, you headed to a nearby kelp forest, where you knew you could find nutrient-rich seaweed. With practiced skill, you harvested a generous bundle, tying it together with a strand of your own hair. Next, you sought out a freshwater spring that bubbled up through the ocean floor, filling a small, hollowed-out shell with the precious liquid.

Eventually, you made your way to a hidden grove where medicinal sea herbs grew in abundance. You carefully selected a variety of leaves and stems, each one known for its healing properties. The weight of your decision still hung heavy on your heart, but the act of gathering these resources gave you a sense of purpose, a way to channel your inner confusion into something useful.

With your resources secured, you turned and began the journey back to the cave. The moonlight still shimmered on the water's surface as you emerged, carrying the gathered resources in your arms. Abby was where you had left her, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady. She looked even more fragile than before, a difference to the strength you could sense within her.

You approached quietly, setting the bundle of seaweed and herbs beside her.

"I have returned," you said, your voice a whisper. Abby's eyes fluttered open, and she looked at you with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear.

Gently, you handed her the shell filled with fresh water. "Drink," you said, guiding her hands to the makeshift vessel. Abby complied, sipping the cool water with obvious relief. You could see the color returning to her cheeks, a sign that she was beginning to regain some of her strength.

You showed her the seaweed. "Eat." you instructed, tearing off a small piece and offering it to her. "It will help you recover." Abby hesitated for a moment, then took the seaweed and began to chew, her expression softening as the nourishment began to take effect.

You turned your attention to her injuries. You crushed the medicinal herbs between your fingers, releasing their healing juices, and gently applied them to her cuts and bruises. Abby winced at first, then relaxed as the soothing properties of the herbs took hold.

You backed away, observing her. Abby's eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was a spark of trust in their depths.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves.

You stared at her for a moment, torn between your desire for solitude and a new connection that could bloom. Her presence was a disturbance, yes, but also a reminder of the world beyond the sea, a world you had long ago distanced yourself from.

You nodded, “The sea will watch over you."

Abby finally began to take in her surroundings. The beauty of the cave lagoon struck her with a sense of awe. Moonlight filtered through the entrance, casting a silver glow over the water. The walls of the cave were adorned with vibrant corals and sea plants, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that felt both magical and serene.

Her gaze shifted to you, the mythical being who had both frightened and saved her. You were a creature of ethereal beauty, your scales glistening in the dim light, your movements graceful and fluid. There was an undeniable allure to you, a magnetism that drew her in despite the fear that lingered in her heart.

But with that awe came a profound conflict. The sirens, your kind, were responsible for the tragedy that had striked her crew. Abby’s thoughts turned dark as she remembered the screams, the chaos, and the horror. Her shipmates, her friends, had been lured to their deaths by the enchanting songs of the sirens, and now here she was, under the care of one of those very beings.

How could she feel anything but hatred for the creatures responsible for so much pain? And yet, as she watched you move with such grace, as she felt the gentleness in your touch, she couldn’t deny the complexity of her feelings.

You noticed her conflicted expression, the way her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You helped me...” Abby spoke, her voice tinged with suspicion and curiosity. “Your kind... they killed my crew. Why didn’t you just leave me to die?”

You hesitated, “I seek solitude,” you replied, “Your presence here disrupts that. If you heal, you will leave, and I will have my peace again.”

Abby’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a hint of understanding in her gaze. “It’s for your own sake.” she murmured, more to herself than to you. “Well, if that's the case, thenn you will have to help me leave."

"I have helped you enough," you replied, your voice tinged with reluctance.

Abby's expression hardened "I can't simply swim to land," she insisted, her voice growing firmer. "I need to construct a boat—a small one, quick to build yet sturdy enough to carry me and the supplies I'll need until I reach safety."

You grumbled to yourself, the request catching you off guard. Helping Abby construct a boat meant prolonging her stay—something you had hoped to avoid.

Reluctantly, you nodded. "Very well," you conceded, your voice resigned. "I will gather what you need."

A faint smile tugged at Abby's lips, teasing and amused. "Good," she replied, her voice teasingly soft. "I suppose I should rest now. It'll make you grumble less."

Perhaps you should’ve eaten her.

#abby anderson #abby x reader #abby fanfiction #abby anderson x you #abby anderson au #abby smut #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x y/n

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occamstfs · 7 months ago

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Actually, They're Called Tetrominoes

Been holding out on some kinda Video Game trigger, here's a bit of an odd Russian cultural/racial TF, enjoy! -Occam

Michael could stand to be a more pleasant person. Day to day he is a pretty run of the mill head-down kinda guy, amicable but never really goes out his way to chat or make friends. Instead he finds his free time often used to prowl the internet looking for people to torment online in whatever way he finds funny at the moment. Born too late to be a goon on SomethingAwful he typically pages through Reddit threads and communities looking for someone sensitive or cartoonishly argumentative.

This is precisely where he finds himself tonight, being a pedant on some video game thread that he doesn’t truly care about. Some presumably Russian user, u/ZandrIvnov, seems to be quite proud of Tetris which Michael finds incredibly amusing. As an American he too takes pride in many of the cultural exports and ideas that his nation has sent into the world, including many of the deeply entrenched ideas about the Russian and Soviet people taught in world history. It takes especially little for him to decide to start taunting and baiting this man sitting at his keyboard a world away.

Michael launches petty taunts at the Russian, poking fun at his nationality and Eastern Europe at large, stopping short at making fun of the man’s less than perfect English, for now at least. Michael switches between accounts to upvote his responses and even add additional dunks on the Tetris-fan as needed. Try as he might though to get the conversation away from the ancient game and get some more personal and profane digs in there he finds it difficult to find any truly satisfying or clever insults.

Getting tired of hearing this man assert Russian superiority he prepares to pull the ripcord and move on before he sees the Russian misstep talking about the game he’s so invested in, as probably the only fun fact he has on deck comes to mind. After the Russian so eloquently compares Michael’s head to a Tetris piece Michael immediately replies, “okay lol big fan huh they’re actually called tetrominoes” and then moves on to find some other doofus to bully on the internet.

On the other side of the screen Sasha seethes at the man, so juvenile in his mockery “Проклятые американцы. (Fucking Americans.)” He takes to his own keyboard messaging Michael directly as his arrogant messages dry up in the thread proper, Sasha was going to have him put his money where his mouth was. He offers a challenge, “u americans are so proud da? how about we see whos country rly is the best”

Michael felt his pulse rise in excitement at how much he has truly bothered this man. Smug smile on his face as he types his response, “what did u have in mind, Zander?”

“Саша(Sasha) is my name. since u are so smart about tetris, why not see who is actual master of game da?” Sasha offers, knowing already that the troll is sure to accept out of pride alone. Michael wasn’t all that much of a gamer but surely he could show this dweeb what’s what yeah? He starts looking up tips to win Tetris as he replies “sure whatever dude, what are u thinkin”

Sasha smirks as he has Michael right where he wants him, “loser agrees with winner about national superiority? should not be problem if you americans are so good at every thing” Michael was already eager to give it a go and Sasha’s taunt only makes him all the more raring to go. Before he can even pause his meager attempt to study strategy, Sasha sends over a link to the game and Michael clicks over to play, leaving the cheat sheet open on a second monitor.

Michael types his name into the game and finds himself looking at a familiar screen. He’s never played the game competitively but it’s a pretty simple game right? He just needs to keep his cool once the pieces start flying in. He gets the cheeky idea to check the cheat sheet in between pieces. That’s that good-old red white and blue ingenuity, Michael thinks. Unaware that these are of course also of the Russian flag. There’s a ping from the board as Sasha uses the in game chat to ask “u understand the rules da”

Michael sends back a thumbs up and Sasha sets the game going. It is predictably uneventful at the beginning, neither man making any particularly interesting plays. Michael continues to skim how to best cheat the game while Sasha waits for the perfect moment to fuck him over. Michael finds himself enjoying the game more than he thought he would as he hears the familiar tune, it is awfully catchy isn’t it? He’s gotta hand it to the soviets for that. His gameplay slows down as he tries to speedread the page on his other monitor. Instead of forcing pieces quickly he instead lets them drift slowly while his board is relatively clear. Sasha sees this and decides to go in for the kill.

Suddenly as Michael’s eyes wander away from the game for just a second too long there is an unfamiliar sound. He darts his attention back only to see the floor of his Tetris board rocket up in response to Sasha doing an impossibly well timed combo of lines. Michael’s heartbeat increases at a shocking rate in response as losing becomes a very real possibility. Why is he so upset? His face grows red as he realizes just how outclassed he is. Obviously this is no big deal right? Just a game. But Michael cannot help but feel physically uncomfortable as the tides start to turn so swiftly.

There is suddenly a crick in his neck that he stretches to avail but only exacerbates as a soreness begins to spread further across his body. Man is he tensing up too much? It’s just, it’s just a game right? Trying to calm down he is hit with the thought as if it were a shot of adrenaline that he absolutely cannot lose this game. His eyebrows furrow as they begin to square and thicken, casting dark shadows over his rage-filled eyes. His limbs take turns cramping as he clenches his neck and jaw to distract from the pane, not noticing as the structure of his face begins to change.

His chest grows to join the chorus of muscle spasms as Michael struggles to keep up with even Sasha’s slower gameplay. Across the seas Sasha takes his time, knowing victory is in the bag, and savoring what he knows must be happening to his little troll Michael right now. He smirks as he imagines the discomfort in Michael’s changing body as he feels warmth grow in his own chest, and crotch, as he decides just how much he wants to play with his food.

Back in the states Michael finds the heat, the sweat, the tightness of his clothes increasingly unbearable. As he continues to mash buttons on his remote he is too intent on the game to notice as hair begins to darken around his forearms and begin to snake its way towards his hands. He rubs them each down to placate the tickle on his growing arms. This is absolutely nothing to the creeping itch that is starting to encompass the entirety of his rapidly expansive legs. He shifts his heavier thighs trying to soothe the discomfort, making a loud sound as they pull away from the sweat sticking them to the chair but not allaying the soreness or itch in the slightest.

He grunts and notices not how his voice has grown both deeper and gruffer in his throat. Michael struggles to keep the remote from slipping out of his hands as sweat trickles down from his hairy arms and into his palms. Before it becomes a problem however Michael takes advantage of the lull in Sasha’s gameplay and tries to quickly remove his far too strained shirt. It should be a simple task after all, just put the remote down for a second, slide it off, and then back to the game. He does a brief check in to ensure he has even that and after believing he does Michael starts to try and remove the shirt strained and sticking to his skin.

He has precious little time as the pieces continue to fall at their set pace in game. He gets one hand under the hem of his shirt and tries to wrench it while keeping his other hand on the controller, this lets in a breeze of cold air sending quivers of pleasure across his pulsating muscle, as well as igniting a burning ache in his chest and torso. His upper body grows even further, finally overfilling his shirt as the sound of tears ring out in his bedroom alongside the same repetitive folk song he knows well. The idea that this shirt was loose fitting when he threw it on this morning or that he just identified the Tetris theme as a folk song rather than an 8-bit annoyance don’t have a chance to come to mind as he struggles to remain focused on not losing the game.

He pulls the shirt up to his chest before it gets uncomfortably stuck “Ach, bog uh- god damnit.” He scratches at his chest as the soreness and growing muscle makes way for a fiery prickling as the few chest hairs he has been a tad ashamed of begin to thicken and darken on his chest. Swirling out from his nipples and inching higher on his chest with each breath, he continues to struggle to remove himself mindlessly. Finding his shirt caught on his expansive pecs he rubs his hand underneath it across his sweaty chest, and finding it pleasurably drag through more hair on his pecs than he would’ve sworn he had in his pubes, he resolves to remove the shirt however he can.

As soon as he finishes a line Michael tosses the remote down and goes to raise his shirt above his head, his thicker arms struggling as they adjust to their new range of motion. He wrests the tight shirt above his head, his chest bursting large once more, freed from the garment as the breeze tickles the sweat covered chest hair and forces his enlarged nipples to harden. Having overcome his suddenly massive pecs the neckline is now caught on his chin, his arms raised high above his head expose his pits to the cold open air. He feels the air con blow against his recently shaved pits as the hair begins to grow back. It starts to catch as the hair begins to grow thicker and longer than it had ever done before, curling together as new hairs begin to push out and form a bush thick enough to never see the skin beneath again.

This also brings his attention to new development in his body, with his face shoved into his shirt it would be impossible not to notice the unbecoming amount of sweat soaking it. Arms raised though he finally notices that he has an altogether far more powerful scent, on par with a macro-obsessed body builder or hygiene-phobic wild man. Michael feels a beard start to push out into the shirt still hugging his face. Shaving once a month was more than enough to keep him clean shaven but now he knew deep in his mind that he would never have a day again where his face would be smooth. It’s that Ru- That American blood in him, right?

He begins to feel himself lost in the scent as his mind begins to grow distracted, attention fading from the game despite the looping tune filling his mind. He turns his head to smell his pits through his shirt which is when he hears the dreaded sound of Sasha making a combo once more, “Gah! Nyo, I can’t lose” he shouts, not noticing as his rough tone begins to develop a slight accent. Ending the long-standing struggle against his shirt he simply rips it off and jumps for the controller, ashamed at how foolish and lustful he has suddenly found himself in the middle of this all-important competition.

He needs to make his people proud! He cannot let Amerika down, ya? His focus and vision return to the game as he stumbles through one more line before all the pieces fall from view and the game declares Sasha the winner. Mikael reflexively pounds his table shouting, “Ny- no! I, this!” struggling to find any words to make his loss okay. Unable to notice just how bizarre this game has affected him, though sure that something grave has occurred. He scrambles to the chat box where he sees Sasha has yet again beaten him to the punch, “gg Брат(brother) yes?”

Mikael’s eyes don’t even notice the language switch in the message as he quickly races to demand a rematch. Punching keys slower than the career-cyberbully is accustomed to, almost as if he would be more comfortable with a different keyboard format, slowly he punches his response “one more best dva out of tri ya?” Sasha laughs out loud seeing Mikael suddenly typing out anglicized Russian. He smirks and squeezes his crotch in excitement at just how far this American brat has fallen into his hands. Sasha responds in full Russian knowing that Mikael may as well already be his countryman. “конечно, почему бы и нет, брат (sure why not, brother)”

Mikael smiles as he prepares for yet another go against Sasha, he’s eager to learn from his, uh? Suddenly he can’t quite remember how he knows Sasha exactly as his memories of his persistent pathetic history of being a troll begins to fade from his mind. As the Tetris theme starts once more with the game Mikael finds himself singing along as the words to the folk song it is based on, blushing at the vulgarity therein.

The race is on once more and though he was sure this was a competition against his friend, no, his брат(brother), Sasha, He can’t help but feel a giddiness as the game progresses. He feels a warmth in his chest just from playing a game of his childhood, of his country? No he’s a born and bred statesman da? He’s from, uh Moscow is a city in one of the states too da? Though he finds himself distracted his body continues to expertly control the game subconsciously.

He blushes as he struggles to remember where he grew up, it was a smaller town for sure. Somewhere very far North for sure, after all why else would he grow so hairy! He launches into a hearty laugh as body hair continues to push out from every pore in his body, sure to be peaking out from every shirt collar on both sides. He scratches at his pubes as it becomes clear that even besides his massive package there will evermore be a bulge in his pants from this unkept jungle as well.

His eyes continue to follow the pieces up and down as they slowly begin to lighten and bleach themselves an icy blue. The itchiness that has made itself at home through the whole of its body is replaced with a burning pleasure as he thinks oh his home. Full days where there is only sun, long treks into the city to visit St. Basil’s, helping his mother fry pirozhki. The hair atop his head bleaches itself a sandy blonde while still thickening and pulling itself short as a lightbulb goes off in his head his voice rumbles in his chest as he reflexively speaks in what must be his mother tongue, “Конечно! я спр��шу у Саши (Of course! I’ll just ask Sasha).”

He goes to pause the game as he now knows he can do and types to Sasha in chat, “hey брат, wher am i от again?” Sasha smirks at just how easy this was stopping short from fully masturbating as he thinks of his new massive countryman living a world away as he replies, “недалеко от Москвы, Миша (just outside of Moscow, Misha).”

Misha’s eyes glaze over as he reads this, the room around him changes, American flags familiar patterns shift into the Russian tricolor. Any writing within the room shifts from English to the cyrillic alphabet and Misha sits there with a smile as he recalls his home. Long winters working alongside his best friend Sasha. His neck thickens and his waist expands as he thinks of long nights drinking alongside his friends to abate the cold. The game of Tetris continues on and he again feels a warmth in his chest at the chance to play with his dearest Друг(friend) Sasha.

For the life of him he can’t quite remember why he has moved to Америки though he is sure that Sasha will know. Sasha always knows the right thing to do. One thing is for sure though, he is going to do his Motherland proud.

#male tf #cultural change #hair growth #muscle tf #masculinization #racial change #mental change

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

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

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

In cash, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely not nerves.

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

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d seen it all.

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

It didn’t.

You sat down.

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

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was coming over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

Monaco. France. Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Social law.”

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

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

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

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

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

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

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

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

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got in the cart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointless.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Macallan, no ice.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve ignored him.

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

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

Home time. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

“Drink?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

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

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wholoveseggs · 6 days ago

Text

Dark Star {Part Two}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part Two

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} In a 13th-century convent, you’re drawn to the mysterious nobleman Elijah Mikaelson, who stirs desires forbidden in both heart and faith. In the present day, the Mikaelson family teeters on the edge, torn over what to do with Elijah, now trapped in torment by Klaus’s dagger. Haunted by memories of love and loss, Elijah relives the past, and his siblings face a grim choice: leave him in despair or risk the havoc he might unleash.

♡♡ Oh hi! did you think you had to wait a while for the next part?? surprise! I've already finished the whole thing {it's 40k words so strap the fuck in} ~ xoxoxo {Here is my playlist for the vibes} love yaaaa ... ♡♡

8.2k words - Warnings: much more angst, slightly spicy, more violence, heavy on the flashbacks in this part, sibling fight, Klaus being Klaus and then Klaus actually being merciful, so much drama, sins & a sex dream, lots of religious talk, Elijah being a flirt in a church, nuns, a rosary && a confession box....

{Part One}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

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Europe, 13th century

You sat in the back row of the church, head bowed, fingers slipping over smooth rosary beads as the scent of incense curled through the candlelit air. Around you, whispers drifted, murmurs from your fellow sisters.

"Do you see them? Up near the altar?" Sister Margaret’s voice was low, leaning over the pew beside you.

"Yes," Sister Claire murmured back, stealing a glance. “Nobles, I think. Staying at Lord Sanguelac’s manor.”

“What are they doing here? Doesn’t the manor have its own chapel?” Sister Claire’s frown was visible even in the dim light.

“Oh, it’s said they’re seeking brides, if you’d believe it,” Sister Margaret continued, her eyes bright with gossip.

“Brides? Here?” Sister Claire scoffed, incredulous.

You tried to shut out their chatter, keeping your gaze fixed on your lap as the rosary clicked through your fingers. But your pulse quickened, unwillingly drawn to the figures at the front of the church. You had glimpsed them from afar—their imposing frames, the way they moved, as if shadows bent to their will. And now, here they were, close enough to feel their presence, yet aloof, their faces unreadable, eyes dark as midnight.

"They’re rather striking, aren’t they?" Sister Margaret mused, her tone almost wistful.

"And wealthy," Sister Claire sighed dreamily.

"Focus on your prayers," a stern voice hissed from the pew ahead. Mother Mathilde glared at them, her long years in the convent having carved a sternness into her features. They instantly shrank back into their seats.

Sister Claire gave you a sheepish smile, her cheeks flushed. Sister Margaret shook her head and returned her attention to the priest.

The service droned on, and Sister Margaret couldn't resist stealing a glance at the noblemen. You couldn’t blame her. The way they were dressed was unlike anything you had ever seen. Rich velvets and brocades, jewels glinting in the candlelight, the cut of their clothing immaculate, their postures regal.

“I rather like the blonde one. What’s his name again? The tall one?” Sister Margaret murmured.

“Niklaus,” Sister Claire whispered, barely audible. “The dark-haired one is Elijah. They have another brother, but I’ve yet to see him.”

“Shhhh,” Mother Mathilde hushed them sharply. “Must I separate you two?”

“Apologies,” Margaret and Claire mumbled in unison, voices meek.

Suppressing a smile, you returned to your prayers, though your gaze wandered, almost of its own accord, back toward the nobles. And there, seated near the front, was the dark-haired man, his features etched by the soft glow of candlelight as he looked upon the cross. His beauty was striking, unsettling—a face that made your breath catch, that dared you to keep looking even when you knew you shouldn’t. There was a dangerous allure in his gaze, a temptation that felt like sinning even to witness.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked over his shoulder. His eyes found yours, and a slow smile spread across his lips. Heat rose to your cheeks; you quickly looked down, fingers tightening around the rosary. Your heart pounded, so loud you feared the entire church could hear.

“What is it?” Sister Margaret whispered, her gaze following yours.

“N-nothing,” you stammered, eyes fixed on your lap.

“Oh, he’s looking at you,” Sister Margaret grinned, nudging you with a teasing smile.

“Hush,” you whispered, cheeks blazing.

“You’re blushing,” she whispered, her eyes dancing. “Careful now, sister. That devilish charm is quite dangerous for the innocent and unwary."

"Enough, all of you," Mother Mathilde scolded, her tone sharp and commanding. "No supper for you, and you will sit in silence the rest of the service."

The three of you immediately fell silent, heads bowed in shame. Mother Mathilde huffed and turned her attention back to the priest.

Sister Margaret nudged your arm, and you shot her a look. She mouthed 'he's still looking' and tilted her head in the noble's direction. Your heart leapt, and you resisted the urge to glance up. Focusing on what God would expect of a proper nun, you tried to push aside your curiosity and focus on the holy words.

The service ended, and the congregation stood. You bowed your head, crossing yourself and reciting a prayer as everyone slowly filed out. A few people lingered, greeting the priest, chatting amiably.

"Good afternoon, sisters," a deep, velvety voice said.

You froze, your breath catching, eyes widening. You could feel him behind you, the heat radiating off him, the smell of incense and sandalwood, the scent of rich, luxurious leather. You knew exactly who it was without even having to turn.

"Good afternoon," Mother Mathilde replied, a smile in her voice. "It is wonderful to see you in our humble church," she continued, her tone warm and friendly.

"Yes, well, we are visiting, and it is always good to be closer to God," he replied smoothly, his voice rich and cultured, an accent lilting his words.

"How very true," Mother Mathilde smiled. "I trust you have found your visit enjoyable thus far."

"Very much so," he replied, his tone pleasant.

"Your visit brings light to our congregation. May you feel the warmth of our faith," Sister Claire chimed in, a hint of flirtation in her voice. Sister Margaret suppressed a gasp at her boldness, shooting her a glare, which she completely ignored.

"Thank you, sister. That is most kind," he replied, a smile in his voice.

"And you are also a welcome guest," Mother Mathilde added, she was being uncharacteristically gracious, her voice sweet and almost coy. "Our Lord welcomes all into His house."

"Indeed," he agreed, his voice soft.

You could feel his gaze, a weight on your back. It took every ounce of restraint not to turn and meet it, to see if the intensity was still there.

"If I may be so bold, what brings you to our little town?" Sister Claire asked, her tone innocent, but her intentions anything but.

"My family and I are looking for a place to settle, a quiet place away from the hustle and bustle of the city," he replied, his tone warm and amiable. "We are hoping to find a suitable home."

"I see," Sister Claire smiled. "Well, I am sure that, given time, you will find just the place."

"Thank you, sister," he murmured.

"It was lovely to see you, and a pleasure to speak with you, Lord..." Mother Mathilde began, a hint of confusion in her voice.

"Mikaelson," he supplied, a smile in his voice. "Elijah Mikaelson."

"Lord Mikaelson," Mother Mathilde smiled. "It was a delight."

"Likewise," he replied.

You heard him shift, the soft tread of his boots against the stone floor, the rustle of his clothes. He was leaving. You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to turn and look at him, your curiosity overwhelming.

Mathilde's demeanor swiftly changed once Elijah was out of earshot. "Sister Margaret, Sister Claire," she said, her voice low and warning. "Both of you return to the convent and clean out the privies."

"Mother, but-"

"Do not speak a word until you are finished. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mother," both sisters said in unison.

"Now, off you go," Mathilde ordered, her tone stern.

"Yes, Mother," they mumbled, obediently walking away.

"And you, sister," she turned to you, her gaze sharp. "The pews need to be cleaned and polished, as well as the windows."

"Yes, Mother," you nodded, averting your gaze.

She walked off, her robes swishing behind her. Once she was out of sight, you breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn't do for the Mother Superior to catch you looking at a man, no matter how noble or charming he may be.

You walked through the church, picking up a cleaning rag and a bucket of soapy water, getting to work. The sun streamed in through the stained glass, casting rainbow-colored patterns across the stone floor.

In the throws of your labor, you pulled off your habit, the hood covering your hair and ears, and draped it over a pew, tying the sleeves around your waist. It was stifling under the fabric, and the cool breeze that swept through the open windows was a welcome reprieve.

You were alone, scrubbing away at a particularly stubborn stain, when you heard the faint creak of the wooden door. You looked up, expecting a member of the congregation, or one of the younger sisters coming in to pray. Instead, a familiar figure stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.

"Hello," Elijah murmured, his dark eyes meeting yours.

"Hello," you breathed, a rush of emotions running through you, nerves and excitement and something else entirely.

You quickly got to your feet, straightening your robes. You felt suddenly self-conscious, exposed. The last time a man had seen you without the protection of the habit, you were a young girl.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. You realized, then, just how young he was. He couldn't be more than a few years older than you, and yet he carried himself with a confidence that seemed almost ageless.

You grabbed your habit draped over the pew and pulled it back on, your movements clumsy and rushed. Your cheeks burned, embarrassed at the way you must have looked.

"Please, don't," Elijah murmured, taking a step forward.

"Pardon?" you asked, your brow furrowed, confused.

"Don't cover yourself," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

You paused, your breath catching in your throat. He wanted you to disrobe? Surely, a nobleman wouldn't come to the church and request such a thing. You took a step backwards, unsure of his intentions.

"I apologize," he said, his eyes widening slightly. "That was too forward. Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to startle you."

You swallowed, your heartbeat quickening, hands gripping the folds of your robe. You searched his face for any sign of deceit, any indication of wicked intent, but all you saw was genuine sincerity.

"It is alright," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, his dark eyes warm and kind. "I simply meant that you should not hide such beauty. There is no need for shame."

His words, though soft and gentle, seemed to strike right through your soul. No one had ever spoken to you like this, not a single person.

"I am unaccustomed to compliments." you said, your voice wavering slightly.

"Perhaps not, but I think you are worthy of them."

You could feel the warmth creeping up your cheeks. His words were both kind and bold, a combination that left you speechless

"Forgive me for startling you," he said, returning your smile. "It was not my intention."

"You aren't of this faith are you?" You asked, curious.

"How can you tell?" he asked, tilting his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Just a feeling," you replied, returning his smile.

"A woman's intuition, perhaps," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"Perhaps," you echoed, unable to suppress a smile.

He took another step forward, the space between you shrinking with each step.

"You are right," he admitted, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I do not follow any faith, as such. But I believe in the goodness of those who choose to live their lives with honor."

“Does that not trouble you?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “To live without the hope of salvation, without the promise of something greater?”

There was a strange expression on his face, his gaze unfathomable, dark as the night sky.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that," he said after a moment.

"Why is that?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

"Because I fear I might not be able to explain myself well enough to satisfy you," he said, a hint of regret in his voice.

"Try," you challenged, emboldened by his closeness.

"Very well," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor, his brow furrowing, as if struggling to find the words. When his eyes met yours again, there was a look in them that made your breath catch, as if the secrets of the universe were trapped within their dark depths.

"I have witnessed terrible things," he said, his voice quiet. "Things that would give a man nightmares for the rest of his life. But through it all, I have learned one thing."

"What is that?" you breathed, transfixed.

"There is no salvation," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

A shiver ran down your spine, goosebumps raising along your skin. His words terrified you, but somehow, inexplicably, you knew there was a deeper meaning to them, one he couldn't bring himself to say.

"The priest here is quite kind," you began, choosing your words carefully. "I am sure he would help ease your mind and guide you to a better place."

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "That is kind, but I am afraid it would not work. I am beyond redemption."

"All men have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God," you quoted, unable to tear your gaze away from his. "I'm sure he would gladly hear your confession," you said softly.

"Oh, I'm sure," he chuckled.

"Do you not wish to confess your sins?" you asked, curious.

"I do not believe it would do any good," he replied, a wry smile playing on his lips.

"Why is that?" you asked, intrigued.

"I am afraid I would simply repeat them," he said, his voice thick with amusement.

"Everyone has sin in their heart," you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. "It is good to confess and seek forgiveness."

"What are yours?" he asked, his gaze piercing, as if he could see straight through you.

"I...," you began, a blush creeping up your neck.

By God's grace you were saved from answering. At that moment, a group of people entered the church, the heavy wooden doors creaking open, the sunlight pouring in. You were flooded with relief.

"Perhaps, some other time," he smiled, taking a step back, the moment between you broken.

"Yes," you murmured, your heart beating wildly.

He gave you a knowing smile and walked away, leaving you reeling. It was like he had crawled inside your skin and touched your soul, leaving a mark that would never go away.

That night, you lay awake, unable to sleep, your mind racing. You tossed and turned, your thoughts consumed by the mystery of the man that haunted you, the one who had crept inside your heart and left you with questions and fears and yearning. You knew the truth of it, even when your heart refused to admit it.

The devil had come for you, worming his way into your soul. And you, foolish girl that you were, had welcomed him in.

"You can’t keep him like that!” Rebekah's voice rang out, echoing off the cold stone walls of the compound. Her fiery gaze met Klaus's, a mix of fury and desperation churning within her as Marcel held her back, trying to calm her, but his efforts were futile.

“What would you have us do, sister?” Klaus retorted, his voice cold and emotionless, his expression hardening. “Let him run rampant through the French Quarter, killing indiscriminately?”

“You don’t know what it’s like, Nik,” she shot back, her jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. “I was stuck in that coffin for a century and a half, unable to move, the dagger burning in my chest.”

“Yes, yes, terribly sorry about that... but it was for your own good, as it is for Elijah’s,” Klaus snapped, irritation creeping into his tone.

“Bullshit!” Rebekah spat. “It was for your own good, so you could rule New Orleans without any dissenters, without having to face the consequences of your actions.”

"What's with all the yelling?" Kol's voice cut through the tension as he strode into the courtyard, his gaze flitting between his siblings before landing on Elijah's body lying motionless on the couch. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken fears. “Oh.”

“We’re discussing the best course of action for Elijah,” Freya said, she sat next to Elijah's body, looking exhausted. “Niklaus wants to leave him daggered, while Rebekah and I think he should be awakened, given the choice to heal.”

“Take it out,” Kol said without hesitation, his tone firm as he took a step toward Elijah. Klaus's hand shot out, grabbing his arm, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Don’t.”

Kol met his gaze, his eyes darkening. “Do you know what that dagger does?” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” Klaus grumbled, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Rebekah was kindly reminding me of her own experience.”

“Did she get to the part of what it does to the mind? How it makes you relive the worst moments of your life over and over again, trapped inside yourself, unable to break free?” Kol asked, his gaze flitting between his siblings, rage barely contained. “We all know what he’s witnessing right now, over and over and over.”

Silence descended, the weight of Kol’s words hanging in the air. No one dared to look at Elijah’s body—the dagger protruding from his chest, the blood staining his shirt, the expression of anguish frozen on his face. They all remembered the day Elijah found you, left on the streets for the entire world to see, broken and lifeless. The image of him carrying you into the compound, the sound of his screams as he called for their help, echoed painfully in their memories. The way his heart shattered before their eyes, pieces scattering across the ground, his soul torn in two.

“So,” Kol broke the silence, his voice hard and cold. “Take. It. Out.”

They exchanged glances, the unspoken question lingering in the air. Klaus was the one to finally speak, his voice low and hesitant. “If we take out the dagger, there’s no telling what will happen. We have no way of predicting how Elijah will react; he could very well become a danger to himself and others.” He sighed, expression grim. “The safest course of action is to keep him daggered.”

"Enter his mind," Kol said, his tone matter of fact, "Go on. Take a dive into what he's experiencing and then tell me we should leave him daggered. Go on," he added, gesturing to Elijah's body.

Klaus hesitated, his eyes darting around the room, seeking someone, anyone to support him, but no one spoke. "Very well," he finally agreed, albeit grudgingly.

Klaus sat next to Elijah, taking a deep breath. He reached out, placing his hand on Elijah's forehead, closing his eyes. His jaw tensed, his muscles straining and he was pulled into the depths.

Klaus found himself back in the village where he met you, the scent of rain and grass heavy in the air. Everything was the same—the sounds, the smells, the sights. He certainly didn’t miss this place; it was like any other village, filled with simple, boring peasants. Simply a place his family happened to pass through—a pit stop, as it were.

He didn’t expect to find anything here, but Kol had been adamant that Klaus experience what Elijah was going through, and Klaus had been too angry to refuse. Now, looking around, he felt an uneasy sense of familiarity, as though something dark lay just out of reach.

“This isn’t the memory I thought I would see,” Klaus muttered, scanning the scene, feeling a chill creep over him.

Then he heard it—the unmistakable slurp of a vampire feeding. He sped toward the sound, coming to an abrupt halt. His breath caught as he took in the sight of his younger self, feasting on an unfortunate woman. She was limp in his arms, her skin pale, her life slipping away with every drop of blood.

“Niklaus,” Elijah’s voice rang out, filled with shock and fear. “What are you doing?”

Younger Klaus’s head snapped up, fangs bared, blood dripping from his chin, eyes gleaming with a savage hunger. He looked feral, a beast wearing the face of a man.

“Don’t worry, brother,” Younger Klaus smirked, his voice dripping with arrogance and condescension. “I’ll make sure to save you a taste.”

Klaus’s gaze shifted to the woman in his younger self’s arms. She was barely conscious, her skin deathly pale— and she was you. Klaus felt a jolt of something he didn’t want to acknowledge, a flicker of guilt or something disturbingly close to it. How had he forgotten this?

Elijah rushed forward, his face twisted with fury, and pried you from Klaus’s arms, cradling you with a gentleness that made Klaus’s younger self scoff. “She’ll live,” Klaus said, his voice cold, as though it was nothing.

“No thanks to you,” Elijah snapped, his anger flaring.

“Then she shouldn’t have come out alone.” Younger Klaus’s voice was detached, dismissive. “She’s delicious, by the way. You can taste the virtue in her blood.”

Klaus watched as Elijah held you close, whispering words of comfort, his fingers gently brushing the hair from your face. The devotion in his brother’s gaze was unmistakable, even now.

“Elijah?” Your voice was a trembling whisper as you clung to him, desperate for protection.

“Yes, I’m here,” Elijah murmured, his voice soft and steady.

Younger Klaus rolled his eyes, turning away, clearly disinterested in your plight. “You really do have such a weakness for a pretty face, brother,” he sneered.

Elijah ignored him, focused solely on you, his face contorted with both love and pain. “She needs blood,” he murmured, as if forgetting Klaus was even there.

“So take her and leave,” Younger Klaus retorted.

Elijah shook his head, a spark of defiance flaring in his eyes. “I won’t let you harm her again, Niklaus.”

Klaus couldn't suppress a small smirk, knowing his younger self would be seething with anger.

Younger Klaus scoffed, a cold, derisive smile on his face. "That's fine with me, you can have her."

"You're just going to toss her aside, after what you did to her?" Elijah demanded, his voice filled with disbelief.

"I've been feasting on every peasant in this village, and she is no different. A taste was all I wanted," Younger Klaus shrugged.

Elijah's expression was thunderous, his eyes darkening. He gently laid you on the ground, rising to his full height, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You will never touch her again."

Younger Klaus laughed, a cruel sound. "And who is going to stop me? You?"

Klaus watched, fascinated, as Elijah launched himself at his younger self, his face transforming. The two brothers were locked in a deadly battle, fangs and claws flashing, their speed and strength almost too fast to track.

Elijah's anger was a force to be reckoned with, his blows savage and merciless. It was so clear that you were special to him, the ferocity in how Elijah defended you was proof of that, and he wondered how his younger self didn't see it, how blinded he had been by his own selfishness.

There was a loud crack as younger Klaus's fist collided with Elijah's face, a spray of blood bursting from his nose, but Elijah barely seemed to notice, his movements unfaltering. He lunged at his younger self, pinning him against a tree, his fingers wrapping around Klaus's throat, a murderous glint in his eyes.

"I don't care if you tear apart every human being on the planet," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "But I will not allow you to hurt the people I love."

Younger Klaus's eyes widened, his lips curving into a wicked smile. "Love?" he repeated, his voice taunting. "Don't tell me you've fallen for a simple, plain human girl."

Elijah's grip tightened, his anger flaring. He slammed Klaus's head against the tree, wood splintering. "You will never lay a finger on her again," he hissed.

Klaus watched with a mix of amusement, it was a strange sensation, watching his own life from the outside.

Younger Klaus relented, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, brother, alright," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Have your plaything."

"I don't need your permission," Elijah spat, releasing his grip on his younger brother. "Now, go. And if I ever catch you near her again, I will not hesitate to kill you."

Younger Klaus scoffed, rolling his eyes, and sped off, his disdain clear. Elijah turned his attention back to you, kneeling beside you. You were unconscious, your skin pale and clammy, the bite on your neck still fresh. He scooped you up into his arms, cradling you gently, and sped away, leaving Klaus alone in the memory.

Klaus shook his head, he didn't understand what Kol meant. This moment wasn't exactly high on the list of Elijah's greatest torments. This actually drew you and Elijah closer together, a memory of the early days, the beginning of something wonderful.

Klaus had been there, seen it unfold before his very eyes, yet it had slipped his mind. He had no idea that his brother's affection would turn into something deeper, more enduring, or that it would last for centuries. That you would become his family.

The world seemed to shift and distort, the colors melting into a haze, and Klaus found himself in a different time and place. He was standing in the present day, on the familiar cobbled streets of New Orleans. But it felt hollow, like one of his unfinished paintings, a mere echo of reality.

A sense of dread washed over him as he scanned the empty streets, his eyes falling on his brother in the middle of the road. He was kneeling, his back to him, his shoulders hunched. Klaus took a step toward him, the feeling of unease growing.

"Elijah?" Klaus called out, his voice echoing through the empty streets.

There was no response, no acknowledgment, and he tried again, louder. "Brother."

His voice reverberated, bouncing off the buildings, the silence stretching. He moved closer, cautiously, his senses on alert.

He knew, deep in his gut, exactly when this was.

"I'm here, brother," he said, his voice low and soothing. "You're not alone."

He didn't know why he bothered, Elijah couldn't hear him, and there was nothing he could do to change the outcome.

An anguished scream tore from Elijah's throat, raw and heart-wrenching. Klaus winced, his jaw clenched, as his brother clung to your dead body. He couldn't see your face, but he didn't need to. He remembered the sight, the image forever seared into his mind, his stomach twisting at the memory.

You were pale, eyes staring blankly at the sky, the color drained from your face, your expression frozen in a mask of agony. Your body was broken, limbs bent at unnatural angles, blood staining the concrete beneath you. Whoever did this to you, didn't want a quick, clean death. No, they wanted you to suffer, every second dragging on as the life slipped away from you.

Another scream ripped from Elijah's throat, his body shaking with the force of it. Klaus took a step forward, reaching out, his hand hovering over his brother's shoulder, wanting desperately to comfort him. But when he touched him, his fingers passed right through and he was pulled into another memory.

It was a private one, something he didn't exactly want to witness, but he was powerless to stop it.

You and Elijah were alone, judging by Elijah's hairstyle it was sometime during the renaissance. The two of you curled up together in bed, no clothing to be seen, only the sheets draped around your bodies.

Klaus felt awkward, but also fascinated to see his strong, closed off, brother so vulnerable and open. Elijah's hand was on your back, gently tracing a pattern on your skin, his expression tender.

"Elijah," You whispered, leaning into him. "I'm scared."

"Scared?" Elijah's brow furrowed, his gaze flitting across your face. "Of what?"

"Eternity," you murmured, your lips so close to his, your breaths mingling.

"Why is that?" He asked softly, his fingertips brushing along your cheek, his touch feather light.

"We can't stay here forever, can we?" you said quietly, your gaze dropping. "One day, we will have to leave, find another place to hide. Everything will change, over and over."

Elijah cupped your face, lifting your chin so that your eyes met. "Not everything will change, my love. I will be with you, always. Nothing can keep us apart."

"But...," you began, your words cut off as Elijah pressed his lips to yours.

Klaus felt like an intruder, a spectator to a side of Elijah he had rarely seen. A side untouched by the violence and chaos that haunted their lives. A pang of something. Envy, sadness, perhaps both, pressing down on him. He turned away, the intimacy too much to bear, and willed himself back to reality.

When he opened his eyes, his hands were on either side of Elijah’s face, his brow furrowed. He didn’t meet his siblings’ questioning gazes; instead, he reached forward and pulled the dagger from Elijah’s chest, tossing it aside with disgust.

“Take him to a bedroom and have Freya watch him,” Klaus commanded, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze lingered on Elijah, his voice softening ever so slightly. “And when he wakes, make sure he doesn’t leave,”

"What about you?" Freya asked, her brow creased.

Klaus's expression was unreadable, but a trace of bitterness tinged his words. "I'm going to find her killer, and when I do, there will be nothing left of them.”

13th Century Europe

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you whispered, your voice barely a breath in the dim, confining space of the confessional. The heavy scent of sweat and worn wood filled the small box, pressing in on you from every side.

"Go on, child," came the priest’s reply, his tone steady but firm, with the creak of shifting wood as he adjusted on the other side.

You took a shuddering breath, fingers clenched together. "I… I have been harboring impure thoughts about a man—a stranger." Your cheeks flushed, even here, hidden in darkness. "He passes through the village, and though I try, I cannot stop thinking about him."

The priest was silent, and in that quiet, shame twisted within you. "And is this stranger a man of God?" he finally asked, his voice laced with quiet judgment.

"No," you admitted, voice sinking low. "He’s an outsider. I know these thoughts are wrong, but I can’t keep them from my mind."

Another pause. "Have you spoken to this stranger? Been alone with him?"

"Once." Your cheeks burned hotter. "I have been tempted, Father."

"And have you prayed for these thoughts to leave you?" he pressed, a note of reproach in his tone. "Have you repented?"

"Yes, Father," you murmured, bowing your head, clinging to a fragile thread of hope for forgiveness.

"Then continue in prayer, and ask for God’s mercy. He will strengthen you, if you are sincere."

"Thank you, Father," you whispered, relief softening your chest, allowing you to breathe more freely.

You were about to rise when the priest spoke again. "One last question, child," he murmured. "These impure thoughts… tell me more of them."

You hesitated, teeth catching your lip, uncertain. Why would he ask? You tried to quiet the doubts, answering in a small voice. "They are wrong. I imagine being… with him, in ways that a woman of God should not." The shame that laced your words made your throat tight.

The priest was silent, and then his voice, soft, almost thoughtful. "Tell me, child. Have these thoughts brought pleasure to you?"

Your breath caught, eyes widening. Had he really asked that? You could feel your cheeks burning, hot as fire. What sort of priest would ask such a thing?

"Father?" A strange, uneasy chill prickled down your spine.

You pushed the confessional door open, stepping into the chapel’s silent gloom. No one was there. Candles burned low, flickering, shadows dancing across the empty pews.

"Is there anything else you wish to confess to me?"

You turned, your breath catching at the sight. It was not the priest who emerged from the other side but Elijah, cloaked in dark robes, his eyes sharp and unyielding, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the candles.

"What did you do to the priest?" you whispered, taking a wary step back.

Elijah only advanced, his gaze fixed intently on you. "Tell me, child," he murmured, his voice soft and low. "What is it you confess to God in secret?" His lips curved in a faint smile, one that was both beguiling and terrifying.

You opened your mouth, struggling to speak, to defy him, but he closed the distance swiftly. His fingers caught your wrist, holding it firmly as his other hand circled your waist, drawing you close.

"I know what you want," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "There’s no need to hide your desire from me."

A shiver ran through you as you felt his touch, his hand pressing against the small of your back, his face so close you could feel the heat of him.

"What is it that you long for?" His words slipped into your mind like a forbidden caress.

Your heart raced, any resolve melting as he held you, and the confession spilled from your lips unbidden. "You," you breathed, the word escaping in a moment of surrender, your voice trembling.

His smile widened, his hand tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise sending a thrill through you that you could not deny.

Then he was kissing you, his mouth hard and insistent, and the weight of the forbidden melted into a fierce, undeniable longing. You sank into the kiss, the world narrowing to his touch, his presence overwhelming, until his lips moved along your jaw, down your throat, nipping at the sensitive skin.

A soft moan escaped you, a plea, as he held you close, his mouth lingering on your neck. Then his mouth opened, his teeth grazing your skin—and a sharp, aching pain flooded through you as his teeth pierced your flesh. A gasp escaped your lips, your hands clutching at his shoulders as a strange, twisted pleasure swept through you, leaving you breathless.

When he drew back, his mouth was stained red, his eyes gleaming with something dark and consuming. You tried to scream, but his hand was on your lips, silencing you. In the next instant, he pressed you back against the confessional, his touch insistent, the world around you fading into shadow.

And then you woke, your body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, heart racing, breath shallow and uneven. The memory of the dream clung to you, its vividness lingering as if it had been real, as if his touch still burned on your skin.

For a long moment, you lay there, trembling, the temptation to return to that dark, forbidden fantasy searing through you. But guilt rose within you, and you clasped your hands together in prayer, pleading for strength. Yet even as you murmured words of repentance, your mind could not fully banish the echo of his touch, his voice, the thrill that had brought you so close to the edge of surrender.

You forced yourself to rise, stumbling out of bed and crossing the room to light a candle, the soft glow casting faint shadows. It was early morning, with the faint light of dawn creeping through the window, and you knew sleep would elude you. Instead, you sank onto the floor, kneeling before the wooden cross that hung on the wall, closing your eyes.

"God, forgive me for these sins," you whispered, the familiar prayer bringing some measure of comfort. "Please give me the strength to resist temptation, and the grace to see your will in all things."

You continued like this for some time, the words falling from your lips like a litany, until a knock at the door startled you.

"Come in," you called, your voice hoarse, as you stood.

Sister Margaret stepped into the room, she was holding a broom and a basket. "Are you alright?" She asked, her eyes flicking across your face.

You nodded, smoothing out the skirt of your dress. "I'm fine, just a bad dream," you assured her, flashing her a smile.

She frowned, studying you for a moment, before sighing. "We've got chores," she said, "More than usual because Sister Claire is ill," she continued, giving you a pointed look.

"Ill?" You frowned, "Is it serious?"

"It's the same sickness that has plagued the village, the one that leaves you weak and pale. You should be careful, and avoid the woods if possible," she warned.

"The woods? Why?" Your frown deepened, concern gnawing at you.

"That is where the sickness lies, amidst the trees and the mist."

"That doesn't make sense," you countered.

"It is what the villagers say," she shrugged.

You sighed and nodded, knowing it was no use to argue. The villagers believed the woods were cursed, a place where evil dwelled. It was nonsense, but that didn't stop the fear from taking hold.

"I will be out shortly," you murmured.

"Don't take too long," she warned, handing you the basket. "Mother Mathilde wants you to go to market and get some eggs and apples," she said, her expression softening.

"Okay," you nodded, taking the basket.

She turned and left the room, the sound of her footsteps fading as she descended the stairs.

You let out a long sigh, leaning against the wall. Your dream had rattled you, and the thought of leaving the safety of the convent, of walking alone, filled you with anxiety. But you knew God would guide you, and you could not refuse a direct order from Mother Mathilde.

You set the basket aside, quickly dressing and putting on a bonnet. You left your room, walking through the quiet hall, the silence broken only by the faint chirping of birds outside the window. When you reached the front door, you opened it, stepping out into the fresh morning air.

Mother Mathilde was tending to her garden, her hands caked in dirt, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up, her gaze growing darker when she saw you.

"Ah, there you are," she said, rising from the ground. "Did Sister Margaret tell you what we need?"

"Yes," you nodded, holding up the basket. "Eggs and apples,"

"Good," Mother Mathilde replied, brushing her hands on her skirt. "Go to market and hurry back, the sooner you return, the sooner we can begin preparations for mass."

"Yes, Mother," you murmured, turning and walking toward the gate.

"One more thing, child," Mother Mathilde called, her voice sharp.

"Yes, Mother?" You turned, catching sight of the stern look on her face.

"Remember that God is always watching," she said, her eyes narrowed.

"I know, Mother," you said quietly, your gaze dropping.

"Do not disappoint him," she added, her tone harsh.

"I won't, Mother," you promised, a lump forming in your throat.

She stared at you for a moment longer, before waving her hand dismissively.

You hurried down the path, walking quickly, eager to be away from her scrutiny. She was a strict, pious woman, who rarely spared a moment of kindness. She would rather scold than praise and her harsh words always stung.

You shook off the thought, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was a pleasant morning, the sun rising over the fields, the breeze fresh and cool, and you let yourself relax. The market wasn't far and the walk would do you good.

As you walked, your thoughts drifted, returning to the dream, the memory of Elijah's touch, his voice, filling you with a mixture of shame and longing. You shook off the thought, turning your attention to the sky, watching the clouds drifting by.

You reached the market, the streets bustling with activity. Vendors were setting up their stalls, hawking their wares, the sounds of haggling and laughter filling the air. You wove through the crowd, searching for the fruit and vegetable stalls.

You found one selling apples, and grabbed a bunch, tucking them neatly into the basket. You were about to hand the vendor some coins, when someone behind you reached over your shoulder and paid for you.

"Here, allow me," a familiar voice murmured, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned, heart pounding, coming face to face with Elijah, who looked even better than he did in your dream.

"Thank you," you managed, avoiding his gaze.

He inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "The pleasure is all mine," he replied, his voice laced with amusement.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. You didn't know why he was here, or what he wanted, but you knew that he was dangerous.

"I... I should be going," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Of course," he murmured, his gaze locked on yours. "Allow me to accompany you," he offered, holding out his arm.

You hesitated, uncertain, before slowly reaching out and taking his arm.

He led you through the market, and the crowds seemed to part for him, as if he commanded their attention. As you walked, you couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lingered on your face, a curious intensity in his gaze.

You felt yourself blushing, and tried to focus on the path ahead, fighting the urge to glance at him.

"Do you need anything else?" Elijah asked, breaking the silence, his voice soft.

You nodded. "Just a few dozen eggs,"

"Allow me," he offered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You followed him to the poultry stall, watching as he haggled with the vendor, his voice smooth and persuasive. He paid the man, taking the basket and placing the eggs inside.

"Thank you," you murmured, looking up at him.

"It's no problem, call it penance," he replied, a playful smirk on his face.

"Penance?" You echoed, confused.

He chuckled, the sound sending a thrill through you. "For my behavior at church, I made you uncomfortable, and I apologize."

"Oh," you breathed, a flush creeping into your cheeks.

"But...," his voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on yours, the intensity of it sending a shiver through you. "I do not regret it," he finished, a trace of defiance in his tone.

"It's not penance then, just an apology," you murmured, heat creeping up your neck.

"Perhaps," he replied, his tone teasing.

"How can it be a penance if you don't regret it?" You pressed, curious.

"A man can be sorry for his actions and not regret the outcome," he explained, his gaze unwavering.

You blushed, his words sending a strange, warm thrill through you. You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "I see," you murmured, unsure how to respond.

"May I walk you home?" He asked, his voice low.

"Yes," you replied, before your mind could catch up.

He offered you his arm, and you took it, allowing him to lead you through the market. As you walked, a sense of ease settled over you, despite the forbidden nature of his company. There was something about him, a calm certainty that put you at ease.

The path back to the convent was lined with high crops of wheat and corn, their stalks rustling in the wind. The sun was higher now, its warmth pleasant against your skin. You paused for a moment, lifting your face to the sun, feeling its rays on your face.

Elijah stopped too, watching you, his gaze curious. "Tell me, are the people of this village always so afraid of the woods?"

You nodded, lowering your gaze. "They say the devil dwells there," you admitted, the truth of the words sinking in.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through him. "The devil is a fickle creature, and he does not often linger in one place."

"Then what lies in the woods?" You asked, curious.

"Nothing more than a man's fear," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement.

"What do you mean?" You pressed, your gaze flicking to his.

"I mean," he began, his tone softening, "that fear is a powerful thing, and when men allow it to rule them, they lose sight of the truth."

"And what is the truth?" You asked, breathless, a strange excitement coursing through you.

"That fear is a prison," he said, his gaze locked on yours. "Only a fool would willingly lock himself away."

"I...," you trailed off, his words echoing in your mind, he was suggesting something that went against everything you had been taught. "I shouldn't be talking to you,"

"No," he agreed, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You shouldn't,"

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, his presence overwhelming. You felt as if he was challenging you, daring you to defy your beliefs, and you couldn't deny that a part of you was tempted. But you could hear Mother Mathilde's words in your mind, warning you, and you knew that she would be furious if she knew that you were here, speaking with a stranger, alone.

"I should be going," you said, tearing your gaze from his, forcing your feet to move.

He didn't move, his gaze fixed on yours. "I won't stop you," he murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"No, you won't," you replied, your resolve strengthening. You turned, walking away, determined to put as much distance between the two of you. But he continued to follow you, matching your pace.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" You asked, glancing over your shoulder, an edge of frustration creeping into your voice.

"Not until you admit the truth," he replied, a smirk curling his lips.

"What truth?" You asked, stopping, turning to face him.

"That you don't want me to leave," he answered, his voice a low murmur, his gaze locked on yours.

You shook your head, trying to suppress the surge of frustration and confusion. "You're wrong," you retorted, trying to ignore the way his words made your heart beat faster.

"Then why is your heart racing?" He murmured, his voice soft and dangerous.

You glared at him, clenching your jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response.

"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?" He asked.

"No," you said, your voice firm.

"I see someone who is lonely," he continued, "Someone who is searching for something, perhaps something they cannot name."

His words pierced your defenses, the truth of them cutting deep. "I'm not lonely," you argued, struggling to hold onto the last shreds of denial.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on yours. "It's a sin to lie," he murmured, his tone teasing.

You swallowed, trying to stay calm, to ignore the heat that was rising within you. He took the basket from your hand, placing it gently on the ground. Then he reached out, his fingers intertwining with yours, the warmth of his touch searing through you.

"I see a beautiful woman, full of life and passion," he continued, his voice a low murmur. "Someone who is capable of great things, if only she would let herself."

You drew a shaky breath, your heart hammering in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to break the spell he had woven around you, but his words and his touch held you captive.

"I can feel your desire," he whispered, his words sending a shiver through you. "Your body is betraying you, telling me what your words won't."

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze felt like it was burning through you. "Don't," you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper.

"What would God say?" He murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. "What would your sisters say?"

You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to give in, to surrender to his touch. But the temptation was too strong, the forbidden nature of it thrilling.

He pressed closer, his hand resting against your hip. "Would he approve of this?" He asked, his lips brushing against yours, a barely there caress.

Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I can't," you whispered, your resolve crumbling, desire flooding through you.

"Yes, you can," he murmured, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss.

The world faded, narrowing to the feel of his touch, his mouth against yours, the heat of his body. He pulled you into the tall wheat, the stalks brushing against your skin, the sunlight filtering through the leaves. You clung to him, lost in the moment, in desperation born of months of longing.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, a strange sense of peace settled over you. Whatever sin this was, whatever price you would pay, it felt right, like this was where you were meant to be.

He held you close, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours. You had no words, the intensity of the moment overwhelming.

Finally, he spoke, his voice soft. "So you feel this too?"

You nodded, unable to speak.

He chuckled, his eyes filled with relief. "Good,"

You smiled, a sense of freedom washing over you, a weight lifting from your shoulders. In that moment, all the shame, all the guilt, faded away, replaced by something far more powerful.

Love.

{Part One}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

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hotmentransformed · 4 months ago

Text

Team USA

The city of Paris was alive with excitement as the 2024 Olympics drew people from around the globe. Among the crowds of tourists and athletes was Jesse, an American traveler with a love for adventure. Fascinated by the event and the athleticism on display, he felt an irresistible urge to experience the Olympics from a closer perspective. He had always been a rather meek man but had envied the raw athleticism and power that these athletes embodied. After saving up since the previous games, he was finally able to afford a trip to Europe for these games. Driven by curiosity and a sense of mischief, Jesse decided to sneak into the Olympic Village, to get close to the Olympians he had admired for so long.

Knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in proximity to his idols, he had to make sure he made the most of this trip and didn’t fuck it up. Despite his meek statute, his confident demeanor and clever deception got him beyond the security, and he managed to enter the facility, blending into the vibrant atmosphere of the athletes' quarters. He wandered the village, soaking in the energy and marveling at the athletes he admired from afar.

Word of his entry got around, and soon guards were searching for him. As he heard French men shouting down the hall, he knew he needed to hide. Jesse twisted the nearest doorknob to him, and surprisingly, it was unlocked. Pushing it open, he threw his body inside and closed and locked the door behind him. Inside, the lights were dim. Now that he was safe from the guards, the adrenaline he had been riding was starting to wear off, and fatigue began to set in. Looking around the space, he noticed that the room was incredibly simple, with two beds with Paris 2024 sheets, a fan, and a clothes rack.

Exhausted from his adventure and his narrow escape, Jesse lay down on one of the beds to rest and regain his energy before making his daring escape. But the makeshift mattress was surprisingly comfortable, and even though the guards were still probably looking for him, Jesse quickly lulled into a deep sleep.

As Jesse slept, a peculiar warmth spread through his body, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. His limbs felt heavy yet relaxed as if they were being gently molded by an unseen force. His breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm. The sensation was soothing, yet beneath it was an underlying intensity, a pulsing energy that coursed through his veins.

His body began to change. His hands, once ordinary, grew larger and more defined, the fingers thickening with callouses. His arms swelled with muscle, biceps and triceps becoming well-defined, veins standing out against the skin. His shoulders widened, giving him a more powerful and athletic build.

His chest expanded, pectoral muscles firming up as his heart beat stronger and more steadily. His abdominal muscles tightened, forming a sculpted six-pack that spoke of strength and endurance. His legs, too, transformed, becoming muscular and sinewy, the calves and thighs bulging with new power.

Jesse’s jawline became more pronounced, his cheekbones higher, giving his face a more chiseled appearance. His skin, once pale from his travels, took on a healthier glow as if he had spent years training outdoors under the sun.

When Jesse awoke, he felt a strange surge of energy and vitality coursing through him. He sat up, blinking in the morning light, and noticed the gymnast's uniform hanging neatly on a chair, adorned with the letters USA. Confused but intrigued, he stood and moved towards the mirror.

The reflection that greeted him was stunning. Jesse stared, eyes wide, at the image of a powerful, athletic man. The person in the mirror was undeniably him, yet also a stranger. His body, now sculpted and strong, moved with a grace and ease that felt both new and familiar.

As Jesse struggled to understand what had happened, the door opened, and a young man in a Team USA singlet walked in. "Hey Brody, you're up!” the man said casually as if everything was perfectly normal.

Brody blinked, trying to reconcile the confusion in his mind with the reality before him. “You’re running late! The competition starts soon… you’d better get dressed!”

"Yeah, okay,” Brody with an unfamiliar deep voice.

The other man closed the door and Brody picked up the singlet. He pulled his now-massive thighs through the spandex and pulled the outfit over his muscular body. His bulky arms flexed as he held the singlet open for the rest of his body to enter. The spandex hugged his abdomen, displaying his six-pack through the fabric, and his pecs pushed against the top and he held the shoulder straps.

He let go of the straps of the singlet that he had been holding. With a snap onto his broad shoulders, he remembered everything: growing up in Tennessee, waking up early every morning to work out and train, enrolling at Stanford to compete, and qualifying for the Olympics.

Now knowing that he earned his right to be here, Brody strutted out of his room with a newfound bravado and through the Olympic village towards the shuttle to the gymnastics complex. Within the hour, he was there, on the mats warming up to compete for the gold in front of the world.

He was representing the best country in the world. He was the best of the best, and he was going to give the world one hell of a show.

#male tf #tf #transformation #transform #male transformation #muscle transformation #muscle tf #celebrity tf #celebrity #celeb tf #olympic tf #olympics #jock tf #reality change #athlete transformation

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pdriesta · 2 months ago

Text

a love like this — 1

an — a series of blurbs based on the main couple of "something real”. if you’re someone that read it, let me know if you have requests <3

masterlist

the champions league win party was alive with the kind of energy that only comes from a hard-earned victory. the room pulsed with music, laughter, and the collective joy of a team that had conquered europe. lights danced across the walls, casting playful shadows and giving the space an almost magical glow. in the midst of it all, jude stood on the dj stage, his face alight with exuberance and just enough alcohol to make him fearless.

y/n, who had always been the quiet observer, stood with the wives and girlfriends of the players, her heart swelling with pride. she watched jude, her eyes tracing the way he moved and spoke, her emotions a mix of adoration and gratitude. over the past nine months, she had witnessed his incredible growth, not just as a player, but as a person. his determination, his late-night training sessions, and his relentless pursuit of excellence had all led to this moment. and she couldn’t have been prouder.

their relationship had always been a secret, something they cherished for its intimacy and depth. while the world speculated about jude’s romantic interests, assuming he was involved with glamorous models, no one knew the truth. to them, y/n was a mere shadow, her name unspoken and her role in jude’s life a mystery. they had no idea that behind closed doors, jude returned home to her, where their relationship was quiet and true, far from the public eye.

but what jude couldn’t take his eyes off was her.

she wasn’t in her usual work attire tonight, no reserved outfit or team jacket. instead, she’d slipped into his jersey, cropped at the hem to show off a sliver of her stomach, paired with a black leather skirt that hugged her curves in all the right ways. her braids were pulled back just enough to show her face, glowing under the soft lights, and jude swore he’d never seen her look more incredible. the way the jersey hung on her—his number, his name across her back—made something primal stir inside him.

he’d never get to see her like this in public, not in front of the whole team, the media, the world. their relationship was theirs, private and tucked away from prying eyes. but tonight? she made an exception. for him.

he was losing his mind over it.

jude made his way through the crowd, eyes locked on her, his smirk widening as he caught the hint of a shy smile pulling at her lips. she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

"come here, baby?" he murmured as he reached her, his hand immediately finding her waist, pulling her close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of his jersey. his fingers traced the exposed skin just above her skirt, slow and deliberate, like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her. "my jersey... looks even better on you."

"thought i'd make an exception for tonight," she teased, her voice soft but filled with that playful edge he loved so much. "don’t get used to it."

jude leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear, the scent of his cologne mixed with the alcohol on his breath sending a shiver down her spine. “oh, i’m already used to it, baby. might need you to start wearing this more often… especially at home.”

her heart raced, the heat of his body pressed against hers, his voice low and sultry, dripping with unspoken promises. she felt the tension between them thickening, the flirtation laced with something far more heated.

"you look incredible," he whispered, his hand moving down to the curve of her hip, squeezing gently. "everyone's staring at you, you know? can’t blame them… but they have no idea that you’re all mine.”

y/n tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her lips parting slightly as she caught the hunger in his eyes. it was rare, seeing him this worked up in public, this openly enamored with her. she couldn’t help the flush that crept up her neck, knowing just how much he wanted her in this moment. “i’m not used to all the attention,” she admitted softly, but there was a teasing lilt in her tone. “you sure you’re okay with sharing me for the night?”

jude chuckled, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “sharing? nope. you’re just reminding everyone who you belong to.”

his words made her stomach flip, a mixture of pride and desire curling through her. she loved this side of him—the possessive, confident way he claimed her without ever needing to say it outright. it was in the way he touched her, the way his eyes darkened every time someone looked their way, like he wanted the whole world to know she was his.

and tonight, just for tonight, she didn’t mind. she’d wear his jersey, let the world speculate, because at the end of the night, they both knew exactly where they were going, and exactly who they belonged to.

“you’re trouble, jude bellingham,” she teased, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm.

he grinned, pulling her closer, his lips ghosting over the side of her neck. “you love it though.”

her breath hitched, the sensation of his lips against her skin sending a thrill of excitement through her. she knew they were still in public, that they had eyes on them, but the way he was looking at her made it hard to care.

“maybe,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the music, but jude heard it loud and clear. his hand tightened on her waist, his fingers grazing the hem of her skirt, dangerously close to teasing her even more.

“when we get home, you’re not taking this jersey off,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers, so close but not quite touching. “i want to see you like this for the rest of the night.”

her pulse quickened, a blush creeping up her cheeks at the thought of what was to come. “bold of you to assume i’m going home with you,” she teased, but her tone was playful, knowing full well they both knew where the night was headed.

jude’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with mischief. “oh, you’re coming home with me. you’re mine, y/n.”

her stomach flipped again at the possessiveness in his tone, the fire in his gaze. it was a side of jude she rarely saw in public, and it was intoxicating.

"we'll see," she whispered, but the challenge in her voice was light, playful, her heart already set on following him home.

he chuckled, pulling her even closer, his lips finally brushing against hers in a kiss that promised so much more than just victory.

a few moments later, jude was pulled back on stage before he take the kiss further. y/n continued causal conversations with the partners around her until she heard the music lower.

“buenas noches a todos,” jude began, his voice slightly unsteady but filled with affection. “good evening everyone.” he looked out over the crowd, his eyes searching for y/n’s face. when he found her, his smile widened, and he continued, his spanish slightly slurred but earnest. “i want to say a few words about someone very special to me.”

y/n felt her heart flutter as jude’s gaze locked on her. her cheeks flushed as she realized he was talking about her. she tried to hide her face, feeling a mix of embarrassment and joy.

“ella está ahí,” jude said, pointing straight at her. “she’s right there.”

the crowd turned, and y/n could feel the weight of their curiosity and admiration. she buried her face in her hands, trying to hide the blush that had spread across her cheeks.

“y/n es la razón por la que sonrío cada día,” jude continued, his voice filled with warmth. “y/n is the reason I smile every day.” the sincerity in his words made her heart swell, a tear slipping down her cheek.

their relationship had been one of quiet support and deep understanding. they had chosen to keep it private, a sanctuary away from the glare of the public eye. jude’s accomplishments, his dreams realized on the grandest stages, were always shared with y/n first. she had been there through the highs and lows, offering encouragement, sharing the burdens, and celebrating the victories.

“ella ha sido mi apoyo en cada paso del camino,” jude said softly. “she’s been my support every step of the way.” his words were a testament to their shared journey, to the nights spent talking about dreams and the days spent working towards them.

y/n’s eyes sparkled as she peered out from behind her hands, touched by jude’s heartfelt declaration. their love was something they cherished deeply, a beautiful secret that no one else understood. while the world saw only the surface, they knew the truth of their bond—how jude came home to her every night, how they built their lives together in the quiet moments away from the public eye.

“y te amo más de lo que las palabras pueden decir,” jude finished, raising his glass toward her. “and I love you more than words can say.” his gesture was filled with genuine emotion, and y/n’s heart ached with love.

as jude stepped down from the stage, his slightly unsteady gait did nothing to diminish the joy in his eyes. he made his way back to y/n, pulling her into a tight embrace. “how was that?” he asked, his voice a mix of playful and sincere.

y/n looked up at him, a mix of amusement and exasperation in her eyes. “jude, you told everyone my name and our relationship.”

jude’s face fell slightly, his inebriated mind struggling to keep up. “i forgot,” he admitted, pouting slightly. “i just wanted everyone to know you’re mine. please don’t be mad.”

y/n couldn’t help but smile at his earnestness, her heart softening despite her attempt at scolding him. she reached up and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, reassuring him. “i’m not mad at all,” she said softly. “it’s just that this was bound to happen eventually. i’m proud of you, trust me, i’m happy.”

jude’s face lit up, his earlier pout melting away into a genuine, joyful grin. “i’m glad,” he said, pulling her closer. “i want everyone to know how much i love you

y/n nodded, her heart swelling with warmth. “i know, baby, i know. and i’m looking forward to everything that comes next. the break, time with our families, trips together. everything as long as i get to be with you.”

with jude’s arm securely around her, and the room buzzing with celebration, y/n felt a sense of completeness. their love, once a secret, was now a cherished part of their journey, a testament to the strength of their bond and the bright future ahead. as they danced together, their hearts beat in harmony, a symbol of a love that was both private and profound.

the morning after the champions league victory was filled with the haze of a wild celebration. jude woke up with a pounding headache and a feeling of disorientation. he reached out for y/n, but the space beside him was empty. groggily, he stretched and stumbled out of bed, his movements slow and unsteady. the remnants of the night before clung to him, and he squinted against the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains.

as he made his way to the kitchen, the smell of coffee and breakfast wafted through the air. y/n was there, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. jude paused, taking in the sight of her in her comfortable clothes, her hair still tousled from sleep. he felt a pang of regret for not having stayed more present during the celebration.

reaching for his phone on the nearby counter, he glanced at the screen and was instantly hit with a barrage of notifications. there were countless messages, missed calls, and news reports. his heart raced as he saw headlines about him and y/n, snippets of their intimate moments from last night, and pictures that clearly showed them together.

“what the hell?” jude muttered to himself, scrolling through the messages in disbelief. his head pounded harder as the reality of what had happened sank in. he grabbed his phone and hurried into the kitchen, where y/n was busy at the stove.

“baby!” he blurted out, his voice strained with a mix of panic and confusion. “someone leaked our relationship. look at this!”

y/n turned to him, her expression calm but her eyes full of understanding. she raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “yes, jude, that person was you. last night, you got a bit carried away on the dj stage.”

jude’s face went pale as he tried to piece together the events of the previous evening. “i did? oh god, i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to—”

“it’s alright,” y/n said, trying to suppress a smile. “i’m not really into social media, so it’s not a big deal to me. but it looks like you’re going to have to fight off your fans for me.”

jude walked over to her and pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. “i’m really sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to cause any trouble. i just wanted everyone to know how much you mean to me.”

y/n looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with affection. “i know. and it’s sweet. we’ll just handle it together. besides, it’s not every day you get to have your love life out in the open.”

jude chuckled, his mood lifting despite the headache. “well, at least we can enjoy the fact that we’re finally able to be open about us. and if it means dealing with some extra attention, so be it.”

y/n grinned, teasingly nudging him. “just make sure you don’t make a habit of this. i’m not looking forward to fending off a horde of fans.”

jude laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “deal. and thank you for being so understanding. i promise to make it up to you.”

as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the earlier chaos seemed to fade away. the morning sunlight cast a warm glow around them, and despite the unexpected turn of events, their love felt as strong and genuine as ever. they shared a tender moment, savoring the intimacy and connection that had always been their anchor.

“now,” y/n said, pulling away slightly with a playful smile, “how about some breakfast? you look like you could use it.”

jude nodded, his eyes brightening. “sounds perfect. and maybe a bit of coffee to help with this hangover?”

y/n laughed, guiding him to the kitchen table. “coming right up. and remember, no more public declarations especially when you aren’t sober.”

jude grinned, settling into his seat. “i’ll try my best. but you have to admit, it was kind of romantic, in a crazy, public way.”

y/n shook her head, her smile widening. “you’re insufferable, jude. but that’s one of the many things i love about you.”

as they sat down together, enjoying a quiet moment of normalcy after the whirlwind of the night before, jude felt a deep sense of contentment. despite the unexpected exposure, they were still together, facing everything side by side. and that, in itself, was all that mattered.

taglist — @sinners-98-world @stephiii29 @kcharlyy @landosgirlxoxo @judesthighveins @ilovelifes-world @cinderellawithashoe @imnyt @miniemonie2001 @lunamelona @treble-snot

#pdriesta writes #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagines #football blurb #football imagine #football x reader #football smut #real madrid #football fanfic #jb5 #jb5 x reader #jude bellingham angst

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leo-muscle · 11 months ago

Text

Kings of the World: Europe's Protector

Dominic, for the most part, was what the gay community would consider average. He had some mass to him, though not much, and his junk was fairly average. He had light body hair and a short beard, though not enough to be considered an otter. Almost no one swiped him on any dating app, which did leave him feeling dejected. He was a top, though all of his few matches pegged him as a submissive bottom. Though, someday, he hoped that he would gain the strength he desired.

Alone in his apartment, Dominic was doomscrolling through Instagram, crying over pictures of happy men in love. It had been so long since his last hookup, let alone his last boyfriend, that he had become incredibly touch-starved. London's pool of gay men had been incredibly unkind to him.

KLUNK.

A single notification rang from Dominic's phone. A match! Dominic dove to his phone, and couldn't believe his eyes. An absolute stud of a man had decided to give Dominic his approval. His pecs and ass were perky and voluptuous, his dark skin accented his enormous muscles perfectly, and judging by his bulge, he was more hung than every other man Dominic had seen, combined. The crystal crown on his head, while a little tacky, only added to his allure. According to his profile, he was "King Leon."

That sure is a King of a man, all right. Dominic thought.

Soon, they began to chat.

King_Leon: Hey. I think you might have exactly what I'm looking for. Meet me at my place?

DomDom74: Absolutely! I'm on my way!

Dominic dashed to his car, and drove as fast as he could over to where King Leon said his address was. It was a tall apartment building, with an impressive view over Buckingham Palace.

King_Leon: Head to the Penthouse. I'll be waiting ;)

Not only is he immeasureably hot, but he's also rich? Dominic thought. This could not be going better.

Dominic sauntered up to the elevator, and hit the button for the Penthouse suite.

"Dom?" King Leon's Nigerian accent entered Dominic's ears like butter from the intercom. It was smoky and rhythmic, with a deep, rich melody that caused Dominic's cock to instantly harden.

"Y-yes?" Dominic stammered. He was already flustered, and he hadn't even met the man yet.

"I'm glad to see you could make it. I'll let you on up now." King Leon said.

Soon, the elevator opened into a lavish Penthouse suite, each room the size of Dominic's entire apartment. Relics and statues from every corner of the globe accented the space, though most were from Africa, where King Leon's throne resided.

King Leon himself was standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but a small towel. He was even hotter in person. His muscles, divine, his skin, glistening, his ass, superb, his incredible height and his enormous cock visible even through the towel.

"Dominic, it is so good to have you here." King Leon rumbled, his voice flowing over Dominic like a river, wearing down his inhibitions.

"S-same." Dominic stuttered. "You have to be the most beautiful man I have ever seen."

King Leon laughed. "Soon, you will be just as beautiful as I."

"What do you mean?" Dominic said.

King Leon smiled, and let the towel drop as he turned around, revealing his luscious, bouncy muscle ass.

"Why don't you come find out?" King Leon teased.

Salivating, Dominic ripped off his pants, and stuck his throbbing member into King Leon's hole. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt: King Leon's perfect ass seemed to be vibrating and massaging every square millimeter of his dick, creating pleasure unlike anything he had ever felt. Dominic's eyes rolled back into his skull as he lost himself in the pleasure, firing orgasm after orgasm into King Leon's ass, each one longer than the last. A gold fluid began to leak from King Leon's hole as the most orgasmic experience of Dominic's life finally came to a close.

As he removed his pulsing member from the King's hole, Dominic almost screamed. His cock was... different.

It had swollen up like a balloon, until it matched King Leon's size, inch for inch, a full foot in length and as thick as a beer bottle. His balls had turned into massive grapefruits swinging between his legs, churning with his own kingly fluids. Most surprising of all, his cock was pale, with a red tip, surrounded by a fiery orange bush. No longer was it a brown twig, but a mighty birchwood weapon, capable of slaying any ass.

"Wha... what?" Dominic asked.

"A king needs a weapon, does he not?" King Leon said.

"How? Why? Why did you change me?"

"I saw greatness in you, Dominic. You could be the protector of this whole continent, if you wished. A king, a warrior, a protector... the most powerful Dom in this land."

Dominic considered this. Power, prestige, strength... The choice was obvious.

"I'll do it. Where do I start?" Dominic answered.

"Only a moment of submission, for a lifetime of lordship. Impale yourself upon my sword, and drink of my fluids." King Leon said, his voice having a playful air to it.

King Leon sat down upon a wide loveseat, his enormous Black horsecock reaching far past his abs. His pecs throbbed, and his nipples called to Dominic, just begging to be sucked.

Trancelike, Dominic walked over to King Leon, and lowered himself onto his cock.

It was like paradise: There was no blockage, no pain, just pure pleasure His cock filled up Dominic perfectly, despite its egregious size. Dominic's mouth latched onto King Leon's perfect dark nipple as the King began to slowly thrust.

Soon, the King's fluids took effect. As King Leon pumped load after load of kingly fluid into Dominic, his muscles expanded. His biceps, wrapped around one of King Leon's enormous arms, suddenly blew up to match the guns they worshipped. His hands, once small and insignificant, became enormous mitts, digging and massaging King Leon's equally huge arms. His back and lats wrenched themselves apart, creating a sea of perfect ridges. His abs repeatedly clenched and unclenched, growing stronger each time, until the eight blocks that made up his core were as solid as stone. His legs, once skinny, became almighty pillars of strength as they expanded to well over the size of tree trunks. His feet did the same, becoming bigger and wider, to support the royal mass they carried.

The more fluid Leon pumped, the lighter Dominic's skin became, until it settled on a lightly-tanned cream color. His hair became a fiery red, his beard changing to match. His brow narrowed, and his jaw became square. His voice deepened, and took on an Irish accent as he started gyrating his ass to properly milk King Leon's dick.

"Yeh, you like that, don't you?" Dom said, in between chugs from King Leon's chest.

"Oh, I do... Daddy." King Leon said with a smirk. While he normally preferred to be the dominant one, for his fellow King, he would make a rare exception.

"My arse is going to milk your cock like you wouldn't believe." Dom said. With each slam of his ass on King Leon's mammoth dick, it bounced and expanded just a little more, until it became an enormous Irish booty, leaking an emerald fluid, which mixed with King Leon's golden fluid perfectly.

"Now, I want you to suck my pecs like your life depends on it." Dom ordered.

"Anything for you, Daddy." King Leon placed his soft, supple lips on Dom's left nipple, as Dom moaned with pleasure. His chest began to puff up, going from muscular, to voluptouous, to absolutely obscene. His massive muscle tits were just as large as King Leon's!

Soon, Dom wrapped his arms around King Leon, and tried to wrestle him to the floor. King Leon obliged, and pulled Dom close, pressing their sensitive muscle tits together, releasing a moan from both behemoths. Dom continued to grow in height until he matched King Leon while they rolled on top of each other, each man fighting for dominance. Dom pressed his face firmly against King Leon's, locking him in a passionate kiss. They wrestled and fought and loved for hours, until the pleasure finally became too much for the both of them, and they came from all orifices at once. King Dom's transformation had completed.

Both Kings laid there, exhausted. Soon, there would be more of them, and they could lead the world into a brighter age

#male tf #male transformation #race change #jock tf #irish tf #ass growth #butt growth #pec growth #Kings of the World

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satorusugurugurl · 5 months ago

Text

I Think He Knows: (Chapter Five)

Summary: When your novel takes off and becomes a best seller, doors of opportunities open for you. You can work on the series you have dreamed about all your life. And you’re also given the chance to stay in a tiny cottage in Europe for two years to help with inspiration! Your best friend, Geto Suguru, shatters at the news. How could he tell you how he feels when you leave him? His opportunity appears right before him when you confess that your editor thinks a change of scenery will help with your not-so-steamy romance scenes. They’re lacking a particular spice because you’re a virgin. So, Suguru does what any best friend would do. He offers to teach you how things work. Will you cross that line as friends? Or will you both say goodbye?

Pairing: Geto Suguru x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,197

Warning: Language, fingering, oral sex female receiving, horny reader, fuzzy feelings, pining!

A/N: Srry for the late update!! I struggled a bit with this chapter! But I hope y'all enjoy it!! 😘💚💚

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Sharing a bed with Geto was normal for you. He was always so courteous, snuggling when keeping his hands to himself. You always loved that about him. But as you lay in your bed, eyes focused on the morning rays of light peeking in through your blinds, you wished his hand wasn't under your pillow as he snored behind you. His other arm was draped over your body, his hand limply dangling close to your crotch, leaving a warmth tingling between your thighs.

Something was burning in your gut, a desire you’d never felt. You wanted Suguru to touch you and make you feel like he did the night before. To feel his lips on yours, to have his hand in your pajamas. Something had awakened inside you, and you weren't sure what to do with it.

A frantic feral desire urged you to rock back against your best friend. To have him touch you, kiss you, do so many other things to you. But how could you ask him to do that?! He was helping you with your book! Why the fuck were you being so weird? Why was your pulse racing? And why did you feel so wet?

Clutching your pillow, you fought against the urge to grab his hand and lead it between your legs. God, something was wrong with you. Amid your mental breakdown at eight in the morning, Suguru shifted, groaning as he moved his hips closer to you, making a slight moan sound in your throat. That sound, the feeling of your damp shorts, and the heat of Suguru’s body made you realize what was going on.

You were horny.

This yearning, the desire to have him touch you, the need to cum, was driving you insane. You shifted and squirmed, bringing your fist to your mouth and biting down on your knuckles. Of course, the first time you wake up uncomfortably horny is when Suguru is with you! You couldn’t just start rubbing your clit with him holding you or ask him for help. Because he wasn’t teaching you this ‘stuff’ because you were together, it was for research! You’d have to take care of this yourself!

Slowly lifting Suguru’s arm off you, you began inching towards the edge of the bed, but a hand grabbed you by the back of your tank top, pulling you back down. You yelp as his lark arm snakes around your waist, turning you so you are facing him, and god, he was a sight to wake up to in the morning.

Dark hair spilled out over your pillow; his eyes were slightly opened, dark irises searching your face as he licked his lips. He looked so fucking good; it made your wet shorts even wetter as he gently smiled, reaching out to brush back strands of your bed-messy hair. Your lips part before you shakily sigh, giving him your friendliest smile that doesn’t scream, ‘Touch me more!’.

“Good morning.” The tone of your voice is more breathier than you would have liked.

“Mornin’.” His voice is so grave and low that sounding that good this early morning should be illegal! “Where are you running off to?”

“R-running off!” You stutter, nervously laughing as you gently pat his chest. “W-What? Haha—no—no.” His chest vibrates with a low chuckle at your shy tone, and his muscles tense, leaving you wanting to touch him more.

Suguru’s hand rests on your hip, and he can feel you slightly jerk as if you are sensitive to his touch. Did you not want that? Maybe he should have checked before touching you so casually like that. Suguru slides his palm back, letting it dangle behind you instead.

The sudden lack of his touch makes your heart pot as you clear your throat. “Do you want to go get breakfast?” Suguru asks before clearing his throat. “Or do you have to get back to rewrites?” God, breakfast with him sounded so good, but you had so much editing to do. Plus, it didn’t help that you wanted to do nothing more than lie in bed with him and touch each other more.

Is fondling each other on the menu?

Suguru stiffens, and your eyes widen as he stares at you. Did you say that out loud? You open your mouth as he pulls back, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh my god—” he says softly. “Sorry, I probably—”

“I-I didn’t mean it!”

Suguru blinks, cocking an eyebrow, as you sit up. “Huh?” You realize you did not say anything when he just stared at you.

“I-I—”

“I was saying I should probably brush my teeth. What were you thinking about?” The smug tone in his voice has you scurrying away. You weren't sure what you were thinking. Because seeing you so flustered and jumpy had him following you close. A grin on his face as you scrambled out of bed towards the kitchen. “Where are you going? Come back here~!”

“I-I’m gonna make breakfast!”

Something in the way you rushed to the kitchen made Suguru’s heart swell. He flopped back down in bed, grinning happily. Suguru pictured waking up in bed with you, making breakfast, and being domestic. God, he could get used to this.

But if he wanted this to continue, he'd have to come clean and say that he didn't want to be your friend; he wanted to be more than that.

He'd get to that point eventually. For now, this was

good enough for him. Helping you out, in a strange way, was helping him build up the confidence to confess to you. Hopefully, he can do it before you leave for Europe.

Breakfast was terrific, omelets, coffee, and fresh berries. It was you, that was so strange. Suguru watched you closely, taking in how you shifted and kept your eyes on your plate.

“Hey,” he finally couldn't stand the standoffish behavior anymore as you stabbed a strawberry with your fork. “Are you okay?”

Oh, you were okay, aside from the undeniable horny fire and heat burning between your legs. “I’m fine, just tired.” Suguru didn't look at all pleased with your answer.

“Is it about last night?”

“Last night? No, it’s just got a lot going on.” in your shorts. “With the rewrites and plotting.” you took a bite of the juicy berry with a sigh.

“Oh, is there anything I can do to help out?”

If he could make you cum again, yes, he was more than welcome to do that. “No, I think I have enough uhm—” you cleared your throat, motioning between you both, “notes~ to help me with the next few chapters.” In reality, you wanted to do nothing more than stay in bed and have him show you what else he could do, like with his tongue and his coc—.

“Did—did I go too far last night?” You choked on a blueberry, eyes watering as Suguru looked off. You coughed and chugged down some coffee, trying to clear your throat. “Oh, shit? Are you okay?!” He jumped up, heading around the other side of the table, smacking your back as you coughed up the berry.

That was not what you wanted to choke on.

“Fuck—” you wheezed out, clearing your throat, “Oooh fuck.”

Suguru’s hands slid up, gently rubbing your shoulders, making you whine. “You okay?” His thumbs dug into your stiff muscles, kneading the soreness away.

“Mmm~ I'm good now.” you learned back, moaning softly. “A-And ahh~ to answer your question, you didn't go too far last night.”

“Oh, okay, good.” you could feel the relief in his touch as he squeezed your shoulders harder. “So, can I ask why you've been jumpy all morning?”

“No, you may not.”

“You’re no fun.”

You tilted your head back, staring at Suguru as he squeezed and massaged you. “I think you had a lot of fun with me last night.” Both his hands froze.

The tension from the night before began to build as Suguru smirked his hands, leaving the back of the chair and turning it for you to face him. He knelt so you were eye to eye, his bed-messy hair tied up in a bun, but his bangs fell in his face. Why did he have to look so perfect? So fucking glorious? Seeing him like this, cocky and knowing, had you pressing your thighs together.

You might not be able to actively tell him what you want. That was too embarrassing, especially when it was to benefit your book. But opening the door for him to make suggestions for you possibly wasn't something you were opposed to. Getting Suguru worked up might be the best way to get what you want without ruining your friendship.

“If I remember correctly, you had as much fun with me as I did with you.”

“Mmmm, if I remember correctly, you jerked yourself off mostly; I just rested my hand on top of yours.”

He closed the distance between you, his hands resting on top of your bare thighs. “Funny, I remember you pulling my hand off and jerking me off until I came all of your hand.” Your breath came out as heavy as his fingers slid under the edge of your shorts. “Is that why you’re so jumpy? Thinking about last night?” His whole hand slid underneath the edge of your shorts,

“M-Maybe—”

“Mm, soo if I did something like I don’t know—“ his hands slid to the inside of your thighs, “like this.” Suguru forced your legs open, making you gasp. “I wouldn’t see a wet spot on those pretty purple shorts?”

You knew there was a wet spot. You panted heavily, watching as Suguru's eyebrows rose at the sight of your arousal. Those dark eyes trailed up your body before he began massaging your thighs. They moved in slow circles up to where your thigh and hip connected.

“You’re soaked.”

“I am.”

“Thinking about your book?”

No, you weren’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “Yeah, thinking about the next chapter Sugu.” His fingers drew closer to your throbbing, dripping sex.

“Yeah? Need a little more help with research? I’d be happy to help; it’s for your book, after all.” Yeah, your book and nothing more than that. “So tell me, what happens in the next chapter?”

“Ilsan, uhm, licks her. Wanna help me?”

Suguru licks his lips, grabbing your shorts, hooking them under his fingers, revealing your dripping cunt to him. Suguru can’t help but groan, his fingers pulling your shorts off to the side as far as he can to get a good look at your pussy. It’s so wet and twitching with anticipation. He leans in, gently blowing in your sex with a grin as you jump.

“Princess,” he says in a deep, primal voice, “allow me to help you.”

“H-Huh?!” You flush as he tugs you towards the edge of the chair. “S-Sugu!”

“Shhh~ I got you.”

His tongue darted out between his perfect, pretty lips, licking at your folds. The sensation of his tongue running up and down your slick slit, your eyes rolling back. You thought last night with his hand felt good. This was a whole new level. His gentle, slow, and teasing, you cry out in ways you had never done before.

“O-Ohhh shit.” Your head tilts back as Suguru science, his tongue up higher and higher until the tip meets your clit. “Nnngh!!” You screamed much like you had last night, but this time, your whole body jerks forward.

Suguru groans against you, tasting your sweet, sticky essence, his eyebrows furrowing together and pure concentration. He doesn’t want to lose himself in your taste. But fuck is that hard to do. Tasting you, hearing you, being the one pleasuring you, had his dick throbbing in his pants.

He wanted to hear more of you, to make you scream, to taste you when you came on his tongue. So he slid his tongue down, caressing your entrance with a groan before sliding it inside of you. You squeaked, gripping his hair and tugging on the dark strands as he shoved his tongue deep inside of you, his eyes rolling back as he lapped and teased your walls. The sweet tang of your juices flooded his mouth like the most decadent wine. If it weren’t for your taste alone, your sounds would have urged him to continue to lap at you as if you were his last meals

Your fingers gripped the long, dark strands of hair as you felt your eyes fill with tears. The feeling of his tongue was much more intense than you ever imagined. You felt so full as his nose brushed against your clit, rubbing it as he furiously ate your pussy. It felt like you couldn’t breathe as Suguru ate the life out of you.

“S-Suguru!” You cried out, trying to close your legs around his head as the pleasure became almost too intense for you to handle. “S-Sugu! Suguru, p-please I-It’s so intense.”

“Mmmpmh—” he moaned into you as you clamped your thighs around him harder. “Mmm, princess, gotta stop that—trying to help you~.”

“I-It’s r-really intense!” You yelped as his tongue pressed up against your g-spot. “Oooh fuuuck! Su-Suguru!”

“Want me to stop?” His tongue flicked devilishly over your swollen clit. “I can.”

Your legs squeezed harder around his head. “D-Don’t stop! Please, I—” In one swift movement, Suguru yank your shorts down, holding them just above your knees. Your body curves as your ass is being lifted, causing your back to lean awkwardly against the back of your chair. It’s almost like he has you in a forty-five-degree angle. “S-suguru! A-Ahh!” His mouth latches onto your clit, sucking on it gently as he shoves two fingers inside of you, curling them up against your g-spot as he holds your legs up by your shorts.

Fuuuck why was this so hot? Your body felt like it was melting as you grabbed onto the sides of the chair, clinging to it for dear life. The man knew what he was doing, and he did it well. Between his mouth and his tongue, he left you a babbling, heaping mess of twitching limbs.

The low whimpers and the way you jerked against his mouth had Suguru humming around your sensitive clit. He was determined to make you feel so good that no one would compare. So with his eyes focused on your’s he curled his fingers inside of you, rubbing your g-spot as he sucked roughly on your clit. Your pretty eyes went wide, mouth falling agape into an ‘O’ as you focused your attention down.

”S-Suguru—wait a second!” The coil in your abdomen was tightening, like the night before, but it felt different. “Oh wait, wait—“ He pulled away from your twitching bundle of nerves, tilting his head to the side to look at you. “I uhm—I think I’m going to cum—“

”Cool, cum on my face.” He goes to bury his face between your thighs, only for you to pull away just a bit. “It’s okay—I want you to—“

“N-No, that’s not it! I feel different!”

”Different?”

”Yeah, I need to pee—so maybe we should stop.”

After hearing you say something like that, there was no way in hell he was stopping now. “You’re not going to pee; just let it go, princess.” Without so much as an explanation, Suguru’s mouth is back on you, swirling his tongue around your clit like it is the tastiest candy he’s ever eaten.

“S-Sugu!’ His fingers rub your g-spot, massaging the spongy tissue, making your toes curl as your chest heaves. “Fuck, oooh fuck, Suguru, please!” Your legs are shaking as he feels your walls fluttering around his middle and ring finger. “Please, fuck ohhhh fuck please!”

You weren’t entirely sure what you were begging for, but Suguru did. He picked up the speed of his fingers fucking into you as his mouth continued suckling your pretty clit. Toes curled as your eyes rolled back into your head. You had always wondered if getting eaten out was as good as it looked. From the one time you walked in on Suguru in the past, you assumed it was good. But now you were beginning to wonder if it was just getting eaten out that felt so good or if it was Suguru. If you were a betting woman, you would spend all your money on it, being Suguru.

The man was licking and lapping at you like it was his job. Like he was at risk for a promotion, making sure he put all his effort into it. It wasn’t just his technique that got you trembling and crying out; it was his pure enthusiasm that was getting to you. He was enjoying this as much as you were and wasn’t even getting touched.

That in itself was true; Suguru did love eating pussy, but never in his whole sexual experience had he ever gotten this into it. He was swirling his tongue, dipping it down to lap at the ring of slick forming at the base of his fingers. He never thought he would get the chance to be like this with you. And now that he had been given an opportunity to taste you firsthand.

He wasn’t sure he could ever let you go now.

Not when you. were screaming his name, one hand gripping the side of the chair while the other grabbed his bun, yanking it as your legs violently shook in the air above him. You were so close, oh so fucking close, he could taste it. His tongue started working faster, his fingers following their lead, slamming into you until you saw stars. Your back arched off the chair, a silent scream forming in the back of your throat as you inhaled sharply.

The coil in your lower stomach snapped with a release of pressure. Screaming his name as you came as a stream of clear liquid splashed against his face. His cock twitched twice before he felt himself cum; feeling and tasting your release had sent him over the edge. He was so into it that he dropped the hold of your shorts, freeing his hands to grab your hips, pulling you tighter against his mouth, allowing him to drink everything you were giving him in entirely. His mouth worked you through your most intense orgasm (your second one), not stopping until your legs were shaking and your hands were trying to push his head away from your oversensitive sex.

“Haaah—haaaah—“ you wheezed from the chair, your hands resting against Suguru’s head as he finally pulled away. “Oh, fuuuck.”

Your best friend chuckled, nipping gently at your inner thighs before he helped tag your pajamas back up your legs. “Feel good?” He asked as he gently massaged your upper thigh, trying to ground you as you came down from your high.

“Felt so fucking good.” You slowly slid out of the chair, joining him on the ground. “That felt so good.”

“It looked like it did, and hey, looks like you’re a squirter, that’s fun.”

Your cheeks burned as you noticed the mess of droplets on his shirt before covering your face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I could do that.” His hands gently grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands away.

“Don’t apologize for feeling good, I loved seeing you cum like that.”

“That’s good to know, uhm so—“ You pulled your hand away from him, sliding it up to grope his thigh. “Can I help you? Maybe you could tell me how to use my mou—” Suguru’s hand grabbed your wrist again, halting your advances toward his crotch. For a second, you thought maybe he wasn’t interested, but from the flush that spread over his cheeks, you assumed it was something else.

“I uhm—I came already.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I came while eating you out,” he motioned to the wet spot on the front of his shorts. “But thank you for offering.”

“Oh,” you were slightly disappointed, “Okay, well, uhm.”

Suguru interrupted your lack of words with a happy hum. “Are you free on Friday?” You blinked before nodding.

“I just have a meeting with Utahime to give her the newest chapter, but I’m free after that.”

“Great, how about dinner at my apartment on Friday night? Then, if you’re up to it, we could go over more ‘stuff’ for the book.”

You beamed up at him, nodding your head. “That sounds like a plan! I’ll make dinner.” His hand reached out, caressing your head with a fond smile as he shut his eyes.

Things between you two didn’t change after he returned home. You both were busy, so you didn’t have much time to hang out in the next few days. While you worked on your rewrites, he was busy working on a couple of commissions. But you always found time to text each other, ensuring the other was taking breaks and drinking plenty of water. Things weren’t different at all.

Aside from the fact you found yourself grinning like an idiot at your phone each time he would text or call you. For the first time in the years that you had been friends, you felt your heart race every time he’d text you. Was it the research you both had been doing? Or was it something more?

Even more strange was that you wanted it to be something more. You should have been terrified about a couple of folding sessions ruining your friendship, but you weren’t. What was happening between you and Suguru felt so natural and genuine. Like you both were growing and for the first time in your relationship, you were growing closer together.

That in itself was both terrifying and exciting.

Friday afternoon finally came around, and you were grinning at your phone

Suguru: Tell Utahime you have a date 😩 why does she need to read your rewrites in person?

You kicked your feet under the booth. He was so cute when he was impatient. With a quick bite of your lip, you quickly shot him back a messages

You: because she’s my agent. And strange, you never said my coming over was a date. 😏

Suguru: We’re eating food, drinking wine, and are going to snuggle. It’s a date with your best friend, as always. 🙄

You were about to ask what he would say if you wanted it to be a ‘date date’ when Utahime slammed the papers you handed her down. You winced quickly, putting your phone away. Her eyes were glued on the pages before she smiled wide, leaning back in the booth.

“This is some of your best work yet. It felt so real! Your writing has improved!”

It was funny how a little experience could go a long way! “Thank you. I had some help.” You glance back down at your phone.

“Oh my god, I’m so excited to see what you have planned for Oaklynn and Ilsan next! Can you get me the next couple of chapters in two weeks?”

“You got it!”

Utahime straightened the papers, sliding them into a binder before getting up. “Keep up the good work, sweetie; this will be big!” You followed her, fixing your bag. “Seriously, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

“Oh, I plan it, by the way. About the cottage, could you maybe do me a huge favor and ask the owners if it would be possible for me to stay a month? Uhm, I don’t need to stay the full two years.”

Utahime eyes you, fixing her baseball cap before chuckling as she flags down her Uber. “I’ll see what I can do for you.” She approached the back door and opened it. “They must be special.” Cocking a brow at your agent, you blink several times as she gets in the back.

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever had you grinning at your phone like a teenage girl. They must be special if they’ve become your muse. I’ll see you later!”

Utahime was right; Suguru was important to you. He always had been, and he always would be. He had been selfless enough to offer to help you when you needed it most, seemingly leading to a more profound relationship between you.

That prospect of what might come to be had you happily skipping back to your apartment building to the third floor. Tonight might be the best night to tell him how you had been feeling and how you wanted this best-friend date to be more of an actual date. The unknown was terrifying and exciting as butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you knocked on his door. As the door creaked open, you adjusted the brown bags full of groceries for your dinner.

“Oh,” a woman’s voice scoffed, “it’s just you.”

Your stomach dipped as Manami Suda leaned against the doorframe, looking down at you as if you were garbage. You usually liked a lot of people and rarely had issues with anyone. Manami Suda was the one person you couldn’t stand in the world, but you had to put up with her because she was Suguru’s agent.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks

Tag List (TO BE ADDED AGE MUST BE IN BIO)

@lemonintrovert01 @spankmydepression @renttheannihilator @witchbybirth @missmuffinr @lialia3945 @theobsidianempress @aquasan29 @toffeebrat @aussiemeerkat @chimichangagirl @zoroisminty @spankmydepression @em-aizawa @gojosimp26 @moonlightazriel

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manicpixiefelix · 10 months ago

Text

he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) // epilogue

{ head, heart, hand. masterpost }

Summary: Oliver is haunted by what he's done to get his happy ending in Felix's arms. His guilt is only made worse when he meets the first member of your family to actually remind him of you. Unfortunately, he does not find it to get better from there.

{ context; please read he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) first }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD IN THIS ONE, but you do get to haunt the narrative. congratulations?

Warnings: discussions of death/overdose, lots of guilt, manipulative oliver, felix being upset, vaguely unhealthy oliver/felix, lotsa angst, oliver quick reckoning with the sunk-cost fallacy.

A/N: 6828 words. first, i don't usually do part 2s when i say something is a oneshot, so this is a rare occurrence. secondly im sorry this is almost 7k there's something wrong with my brain i think. thirdly bro, bro, listen to me; ANGST. HURT NO COMFORT. HURT NO COMFORT. it's soft in the middle THE SOFTNESS IS A LIE. ITS GONNA HURT ALL THE WAY DOWN (apart from nana i love her nd i hope you will too)

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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One hour and fifty three minutes.

Rounded up, because all things considered, he should round it up, that's two hours.

Two hours. Like the blink of an eye in the scope of a whole life. But a very long time when you sit and count it out.

One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand, two hundred seconds. He's always counting two hours, seeing exactly how long it feels like, how he can fill that amount of time. Seconds pass like a steady heartbeat.

He can do a lot in two hours.

Oliver tries to occupy himself nowadays more than ever, and really tries not to be alone, but it's hard. Farleigh left for Oxford. Venetia, before she decided to backpack across Europe and find herself, wouldn't let anyone touch her anymore.

Oliver doesn't like leaving Felix alone, but sometimes he has to be. You're laying cold in a family crypt somewhere next to a grandfather you never knew, and while Elspeth and Sir James don't comment on it, they both scowled when your parents sprung the announcement on everyone at the funeral.

Felix spends a lot of time alone at the edge of the maze. He's making a fairy garden where you had waited. Sometimes he'll drive into town without telling anyone, and come back with quaint, second-hand miniatures to add. It's beautiful, shining with greens and golds when the setting sun hits it just right.

So Oliver finds time to occupy himself, when he's alone and all he can think about is you sitting by the maze. You laying by the maze. You alive when he'd run from the maze. And the two hours that followed.

Sometimes he leans out of his window and shouts to the gardeners so far away they look like ants; even at this distance, his voice carries, and he sees them turn, search for him, ask if he's okay. He is, and he apologises, and he think about how far his voice carries.

On occasion, out of the blue, he'll lift Felix up when he hugs him, able to get his feet off the ground as Felix wriggles and clutches him out of surprise. Of course Felix lifts him with ease in return, spins him around, but that's not the point. Oliver is stronger than he looks; he wonders if he could lift you, could carry you far, if he could have dragged you if it had come to it.

Some nights he wakes up in a fright, your rapid heart rate beneath his fingers and he swears he could hear you whispering for help amid your shallow breathing. Please. Pleading. Begging. You were alive when he'd left you. He presses two finger to Felix's pulse point beside him, and tries to calm his breathing, to focus on Felix's slow, steady heartbeat.

And some days he sneaks into the computer room and curses how long webpages take to load when he looks up statistics on overdoses. Symptoms. Niche forums where he can learn what it felt like from survivors. People luckier than you. Their words, their stories, the recollections of those horrifying sensations stick with him, even as he diligently erases any trace of his browsing history.

And he thinks about how fucking long two hours is.

"Nan's coming over later," Felix tells Oliver idly one Sunday afternoon, "we're having tea of you'd like to join us." They're laying out in the grass, Oliver in the grass finding shapes in the clouds, Felix on his side, chewing on the stick of a lollypop he'd finished an hour ago and gently tracing abstract patterns on Oliver's chest.

"I thought you said your granny haunted Saltburn," when Oliver looks at Felix, he still can't help the way his heartrate picks up. Felix Catton touching him in the most gentle, caring way; he'd never stop feeling lucky for getting here, and never forget what he did to earn it.

Felix's gaze moves with his fingertips, up Oliver's warm, bare chest, twisting two fingers in the delicate chain around his throat. He looks pensive; but shakes his head after a beat.

"Different nan," he says distractedly, plastic straw trapped between his teeth. He tugs the chain experimentally, like he's forgotten it's attached to Oliver at all. He's in his head again; Felix is always in his head nowadays, but there's still often echoes of who he was, echoes of what Oliver has fallen for in the first place.

And he's finding himself falling more and more for this version of Felix too. So he tell himself that it was all worth it.

"Love," all these pet names - Love, Darling, Sweetheart - because if he slips up, tries to call him Fi, Oliver knows he'll only get ice in return, "is everything okay?" Oliver carefully reaches up to cover Felix's large, warm hand by his throat with his own. Felix meets his gaze, and gives a faint smile, an attempt to reassure him when he says he's fine. It doesn't work, but Oliver lets it go, and lets Felix tug him in by his chain for a kiss.

"Tea sounds lovely," Oliver murmurs against his lips.

There's something about this visit has Felix alive and buzzing the he way he hasn't in a very long time. Still he's quiet, but his eyes are bright as he follows behind the staff members setting up tea and biscuits in the garden. He goes through all the DVDs the family has and picks out a stack he thinks would be suitable, making sure they're all perfectly stacked by the DVD player. Oliver floats along behind him, and simply allows himself to admire Felix's energy.

Still, Felix finally takes a moment to breathe right as it becomes noon, and decides to have a bath to freshen up before his guest's arrival; two hours before she'd be here, Felix reminds him.

Two hours.

Oliver feels drawn to his own room. He doesn't allow himself to be alone in Saltburn often anymore, doesn't like the thoughts that crop up when he does. Perhaps it's a kind of punishment, a painful reminder, penance for what he's done.

There's a scrap of paper that he keeps tucked in a book in his nightstand, his own handwriting stuffed amongst a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories, words he'd clung to and scribbled out the minute he'd gotten the chance so he'd never forget them exactly.

From the coroner's report, according to Duncan and Sir James. Time of Death; around 2am. Cause; narcotics overdose, and there were signs of alcohol poisoning.

On the back, he'd written '12:07'.

"Mum and dad both say it was a tragic accident," Felix's voice in the dead of night, the night they'd gotten the full report, riddled with guilt and unspilled tears, betrays his disbelief regarding the sentiment. Felix doesn't talk about how his last words to you were shouted with anger. Felix doesn't talk about how your last words to him were a desperate plea for him through tears. Felix doesn't think that it was an accident; only Oliver knows that he's almost right, just not in the way he thinks. Or dreads. But he has to bite his tongue on the truth, and let the man he loves live with this unjust guilt.

The water starts loudly draining for the tub, and Oliver isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, but he scrambles to stuff the page back into the book, and toss it back into it's drawer. He can smile again, and admire whatever outfit Felix chooses for the rest of the day, and pretend like he doesn't feel your rapid heartbeat or hear your shallow breathing every time he touches that paper, like he had the night he left you.

With the hour drawing ever closer to two, Felix keeps checking his watch. The minute he deems it to be time, he gives up all pretence of small talk - which had been another thing severely lacking as of late - and snatches Oliver's hand, pulling him through the house. They even outstripped Duncan and the footmen by the door when there comes a firm knock. Its the only time Oliver has ever seen any of the Cattons open the doors for themselves.

And it's not Felix's grandmother.

"Hi, nan," Felix sounds so genuinely happy as he hugs the older woman at the door with a warm smile and your eyes.

Oliver feels like he's frozen, like he's seeing a ghost. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Duncan actually standing aside, giving Felix and your grandmother a quietly fond smile.

"I swear you get taller every time I see you, oh, my lovely boy," she says with a warm laugh that sounds so damn familiar, "or maybe I've been shrinking, you get to my age and people tend to do that," and Felix laughs, actually fucking laughs. Oliver realises it's been a long time since he'd heard Felix give a proper laugh like that. As the hug ends, Felix let's her tuck her arm in his as she continues, "just you wait, one day you'll only be six-foot tall." Another laugh, and Oliver can see how genuine and broad he's smiling, how his eyes shine when their gazes meet. She's surprisingly sprightly for her age, it seems. Oliver recognises your grandmother from your funeral, but hadn't made the connection at the time, so he's surprised when Felix goes to introduce him and her eyes sparkle with recognised.

"Nan, I don't know if you've been properly introduced, but this is -"

"Your Darling, Oliver," and it's said with such warmth; her hug feels almost like home, "you strange, little thing," she laughs, "it's called a hug; are you not a hugger? I should have asked," but she doesn't apologise, nor does she let go for a few more beats. Oliver gives into this moment, closes his eyes tightly and hugs her back.

"Our Darling Oliver," Felix echoes with such admiration, and when Oliver opens his eyes, it's the first time since you'd passed where his gaze has held only the love and pride Oliver had been craving since he'd first laid eyes on him.

Once Nana - she'd insisted Oliver call her that too - lets him go, she tucks her arm in his, and is waving Felix over to her other side, briskly asking where tea was to be held. Duncan leads the way and she fawns over him too, apparently downright overflowing with love for Saltburn and everyone and everything in it. She talks more than she doesn't, but considering who Oliver is and who Felix has become, that suits them both just fine.

It's been too long since they've had tea together, she insists, and doesn't talk about why exactly that would be. She doesn't bring you up, not while you were all making your way through the house, but once she's settled outside, she takes a moment. The way she looks at Oliver in this moment makes him queasy; the smile, that look in her eyes, the way her gaze takes all of him in. A woman, whose time is so precious to her, taking her time to make him feel seen. Felix is quiet, intrigued by the exchange.

Your phantom heart beats beneath Oliver's fingertips.

"You're Y/N's grandma," Oliver says quietly, breaking the tension. Present tense still, they all play pretend. She smiles, and finally leans back. The moment is broken; Felix pours them each a cup of tea. Nana takes a jammy dodger and looks over the gardens with a smile.

"Of course, dear," she says sincerely, taking a bite of the biscuit, but being so eager to talk that she spoke through half a mouthful, "and when they were thirteen they told me I was Felix's grandmother too, because they'd overheard Felix's mum talking about how she hoped they'd get married some day." Felix snorted a laugh at that, turning pink around the ears as he prepared everyone's tea, as if on autopilot.

"Does that -" Oliver begins awkwardly, but he tries to smile, "do you think in time, they would have ask the same of you about me?"

"Considering how they spoke about you," there's a twinkle in your Nan's eyes as she turns back to him, smile knowing, "there's absolutely no doubt in my mind, my dear." All you had ever done was love him; love him and stand in the way of the love he desperately craved.

Oliver watches his tea for a long while, spinning the ornate cup on its matching saucer, while your Nana almost immediately picked hers up and took a tentative sip. Watching out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver notes the way her face goes on a journey of emotions, from pleased, to confused, to a sudden realisation as she looks to her cup.

"I should have asked you how you liked your tea," Felix realises too late, apology in his voice as Nana puts her cup down with a forlorn, yet fond look.

"No, darling, it's nice to know you know how my grandchild liked their tea," and she holds her cup delicately, looking into it's warm, brown depths, "just the same as I always made it for both of us when they were much, much younger."

"I am so sorry to ask," Oliver hears himself blurt out, unable to help himself, "but how does all this love just skip a generation?" It comes out far worse than he intends it to; he means to ask how someone so loving as you come from parents so uncaring, yet how did either of those parents turn out the way they did when the woman in front of him was clearly bursting with just as much love as you had been. Thankfully, instead of being offended, your grandmother laughs.

"My daughter is a wonderful, intelligent, compassionate, impressive woman," she begins, but sighs with unmistakable disappointment, "but my late husband was never capable of even trying to be a father over pursuing his own interests, and it's one of the few traits she actually inherited from him," she shook her head, "and she went on to fall in love with a man who loved her but suffered from that exact same defect," after a beat, she looked up with a warm, reassuring smile, "it's why I love Y/N so fiercely, and so hard," her grin turns soft and adoring, looking between the two boys before her, "the only way my daughter has ever disappointed me is as a mother, but I will never be disappointed in Y/N as my grandchild."

Oliver knows there's tears in his eyes, and Felix has ducked his head. Immediately Nan begins apologising, realising she'd set both of them off. Despite this, Oliver tries to wave her away, insisting it's fine, before he asks about her; he's heard bits and pieces he thinks, but Y/N had always been so cagey about their family. Honestly he's surprised that your grandmother knows so much about him when he feels like he's barely heard about her.

Despite turning out to be an incredibly decorated artist, with paintings selling for more than Oliver's pretty sure his own family's house is worth, your Nana is quick to downplay her own successes, simply insisting that it took decades of hard work. Again, he sees you in her eyes.

"We've got a few up around the house," Felix adds, "most of them actually from before we even met Y/N," and your Nana gives him a shove, as if flustered and embarrassed by the idea. But Felix is beaming, happy to be showing off her accomplishments, just as he always took joy in celebrating you; "there's one in your room."

"What?" Oliver asked, and your grandmother also seemed surprised, though touched by the thought.

"It used to be their room, actually, but Ollie moved in there, so Y/N was staying with me," he explains a little awkwardly, wanting to skim around as many implications as he could. Thankfully she doesn't comment. All she asks is which one. Felix and Oliver both think about the room; Felix about the few pieces of art on the walls, Oliver about your time of death in the drawer. You were alive when he left you -

"That one of the stars, and that person smoking; I think you actually gave it to them as a gift," he frowns for a beat, "for when they turned seventeen, I think?"

Oh, Oliver knows that one. It's enchanting, blues so deep, so rich it's like you could swim in them, stars that seemed to actually glow on the canvas, and the hazy, dark outline of the window in the foreground, and part of a figure against the windowsill, lit cigarette the lone spot of fire, of red or orange, that makes everything else warmer for it.

"That one really surprised me actually," Nana admits, giving Felix a shrew smile, though he only seems confused, "did they ever tell you anything about it?"

"Said you painted it for them; pretty sure I remember them crying about it," he says fondly, reminiscing, "one of the best gifts they ever got, I'm not lying, they say it every year. It's beautiful." Then, as if recalling what she'd actually said, he looks at her curiously, "surprised you?"

Her smile widened into something both knowing, and endeared.

"I asked them to send me a photo, a postcard, their very best drawing, anything, as long as it was their favourite place in the world - do you really not recognise it?" The tea and biscuits are gone by now, the tea portion of their afternoon is coming to a close. Felix shook his head, almost looking like a lost child, as if he was aware there was something he was supposed to be understanding but couldn't quite get it, "Felix, my dear boy, they sent me a photo of you; that's their dorm room window from boarding school."

Felix looks winded, and a bit like he's about to cry.

"Oh you two were impossibly sweet," she reaches over and holds his hand tightly, looking over to Oliver earnestly, "you take care of this dear boy and his heart, you hear me?"

"Yes," Oliver all but trips over his words to agree, "of course, nan." And she gives him a pleased grin.

They move indoors after this, Felix quiet but lending his arm to Nana, which she takes, while she explained that usually you and Felix would visit a few times a year when they were on break, but she thought it would be best to come to Saltburn this time, given the circumstances.

"You should come see the place when you get the chance," she insisted, patting Oliver's hand.

"It's mostly where Y/N was raised before they ended up staying at Saltburn," Felix supplied with a grin, piquing Oliver interest.

"Y/N's childhood home? Oh I have to see that," he grins, and your grandmother grins brightly for a long moment.

"I'm sure Y/N would love that, they can give you the grand tour -" but her face falters, falls, as if she'd just remembered. Sombre silence, the spell is broken. "I'd love to have you around, dear," she corrects, much softer this time.

Felix lets her pick a movie, while Oliver settles himself awkwardly on the sofa. He wants to reach out to Felix, to touch his cheek, feel his boyish smile and know that it's real. But Felix isn't really even looking at him. There's something childlike about his enthusiasm here, about how he sits on his knees on the floor, watching with rapt attention as your grandmother pores over them. He practically glows as she praises his choices. When she picks one, she hands it over and he scrambles on all fours across the short floor space to the DVD player, fumbling with the case like he can't put it in fast enough. There's a softness in your grandmother's eyes as she watches the boy who has seemingly forgotten the man he is; when she looks at Oliver, its like he sees her asking how easy is he to adore, what a beautiful young man.

"You don't mind watching a movie do you, Oliver, dear?" She asks, though it's clearly an afterthought. He's already shaking his head, assuring her it's fine. Felix is already scrambling back, remote in hand. Oliver tries to make space for him on the sofa between himself and your Nana, but he seems content to sit on the floor in front of her, leaning back against the sofa with her knees gently pressed against either of his shoulders. Handing her the remote, Felix twists to give Oliver an expectant smile.

"Come here, mate," he insists, patting his lap, his legs kicked out in front of him. At Oliver's obvious confusion, Felix blinks for a few moments. It's like he's waking from a dream. His face falls, he goes to apologise, strained smile on his face, "sorry, I know that's weird, you don't have to -"

Slowly, Oliver moves from the sofa, sitting beside Felix on the floor. Your grandmother's knee is pressed gently to his back, but he's not quite sure if he's capable of relaxing enough in this moment to mind. She's playing with Felix's hair, having already started the movie.

"This is what you and Y/N would do," Oliver said softly, and rested his head on Felix's shoulder. Felix takes his hand, and laces their fingers together.

"Do you like it when people play with your hair, Oliver?" Your grandmother asks idly.

"Um, sometimes," he answers, still feeling rather awkward. He hears her chuckle warmly.

"It's okay if you don't want me to; Felix likes it so much he lets me braid it when it's long like this."

"Oh, I know Felix loves it," Oliver hears himself agree, "if he were a cat he'd be the kind to purr any time someone scratched between his little cat ears." And while both he and your grandmother share a fond laugh, he can hear Felix's smile in his words. He gives Oliver's hand a squeeze.

"I can't even argue; I wish I could purr right now."

Oliver wants to bottle this moment forever, keep it locked tight in his chest.

But the movie is a long one. One hour and fifty six minutes. Two hours rounded up. A whole two hours. Enough time to fall asleep with his head in Felix's lap the way they both said you used to. He wakes with your heartbeat in his ears, rapid, alive, left for dead.

"You okay buddy?" Felix looks at him with genuine love and concern; it's been such a long time since he'd seen that look, even with everything that had been happening, "I'm here, you're okay," he assured. Over by the television, putting the remote back, your grandmother glances over at the interaction with a warmth that makes Oliver feel queasy in this moment.

And he'll look up from the book, from his notes from the coroner's report crammed in, obscuring the end of one story while The Tell-Tale Heart begins on the other. Felix will be getting ready for bed in the other room, but he won't sleep there. He can't sleep there. Can't sleep in that bed without you, can't move the costumes from that night that hang side by side as a reminder of the hole you'd left behind in his life. Oliver will read approximately two am in his own messy handwriting, and look at the digital clock on his bedside that had read 12:07 when he'd crashed into his room and locked the door and sunk down against it. The numbers had been shining red in the darkness. On the wall behind, that starry night sky and the hint of Felix and his cigarette; a home you'll never return to hung up in the home you'll never truly leave.

He put enough coke in that bottle to kill a fucking lion. He'd given you the bottle. He'd told you he loved you. He'd left you like that.

He knew you were dying.

He'd left you alive.

Two hours.

The book snaps shut. In the silence he thinks he hears your breathing. Please, Ollie, help. Paranoia is a cruel thing, he has to tell himself; paranoia and guilt.

"Can I ask you something?" Felix joins him just as he's putting the book back in it's drawer. Oliver, heart beat racing - never as fast as the memory of yours, oh now it's all he can think about again - nods quickly. Felix sits on the end of the bed, clearly preoccupied, fussing with the buttons of his pyjama shirt. The days are getting cooler now; Oliver misses his bare skin against his, but he still feels too precarious to make such an observation.

"It's about Y/N," Felix swallows, can't meet his eyes, "about that night." Oliver feels his mouth go dry; the worst fucking night of his life. The night he doesn't know if he'll ever figure out if he regrets all he'd done.

He nods again.

"Were you the last person they spoke to?" It's like Felix is forcing himself to not shy away from this moment, giving Oliver the attention he thinks he deserves for such an important question. Then, after swallowing hard, he can't help but drop his gaze, "why," he can barely get it out, there's already a lump in his throat, "didn't they come into the maze too?" Oliver can't even give him that.

You'd been such a mess on your way to the maze, even with Oliver supporting you. Crying, furious, apologetic; you were everything at once. Even when you couldn't bring yourself to go in, everything about you had been sliding from one emotion to the next. But then it had stopped.

"I can wait for Fi here." It's the most sure that he'd seen you all night. It's when he knew. It had to be you, even if he loved you too. He'd never forget how clear your smile was, how sincere you'd urged him into the maze to follow the tail of what he thought was right. The sight of you, waiting, obedient and loyal for your master to return; "I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

Oliver knew before he'd even entered the maze that Felix's return to you would be too late.

In the present, Felix waits too, diligent, expectant. Oliver thinks about lying. Oliver thinks about how the truth will break his heart. Oliver thinks about how close Felix will hold him in his guilt riddled grief.

"I don't think they wanted to interrupt -" Oliver tries to start, but Felix immediately swears, hangs his head.

"Can't fucking believe I did that," he spits, "I was angry, and off my fucking face, sure, but that was fucking low, even for me," he admitted, pitching himself back on the bed, whole face scrunched up with guilt, barking out an upset fuck far louder than the others, prompting to Oliver to tentatively ask what he means. Felix took a moment, as if forcing himself to calm down, before he admits, voice low like he was sharing a secret, "I never even took Eddie into the maze," he sighed. After a beat, he conceded, "no, okay I did, but we didn't do anything - we made out a bit, but -"

"You didn't fuck you ex-boyfriend in the maze," Oliver connected the dots quickly, "but you did fuck your best friend's ex-not-girlfriend who you kind of stole from them, out of spite after kicking them out of your the bed you've been sharing all Summer?"

"Fucking hell, Ollie!" Felix sounds especially wounded when he lays it all out like that.

"Sorry," immediately, Oliver apologises, knot in his stomach when he hears Felix's pained tone. He wonders if this was what it was like for you all through the night of his birthday. Fuck, he can't think about that.

"No, but you're right," Felix admits, eyes finally opening, looking all hurt and vulnerable. Oliver lays himself down next to Felix, going the other way, both of them looking up at the ceiling. Oliver's hands rest on his chest, trying again, softer this time.

"So was a special place to them?" He gets no response other than a guilty nose from Felix, "you think that's why they wanted to wait by the entrance?"

"They wanted to wait for me," Felix says weakly, clearly in his head about that night once more, "didn't want to interrupt even as I was fucking defiling our-" but he catches himself turning bitter again, mouth snapping closed, "after everything I said that night," he mumbles, "fucking hell," he chokes out. The pain in his voice is audible. This is the sweet spot, Oliver thinks.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver whispers amid Felix's faint sobs.

"What?"

"You asked me what their last words were," Oliver told him as softly as he could manage; Felix sits up, eyes wide, distraught, so full of guilt and love and - "only thing they were properly coherent about; waiting for you," Oliver props himself up, reaches out to wipe a tear from Felix's cheek.

"You're not- Ollie, please tell me you're not kidding," Felix practically begs.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver reiterates, making sure to meet Felix's gaze as he holds his face, "'s the last thing they said- they said; I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

God he can see it in Felix's eyes; it's like the man's entire world crashes down around him. But he clings just as Oliver had hoped he would. As Felix holds him tightly, Oliver can't look at the glaring, red numbers of the clock on his bedside, the constant reminder of the two hours where he could have done something. Two hours and those wouldn't have been your last words.

He looks at the painting. At the stars. At Felix and his cigarette and your idea of what home looks like. The stars look just like they did that night. Just as bright. Oliver closes his eyes. Guilt twists people into shapes they don't often recognise; Oliver just holds Felix, hopes they twist into something together.

Except Oliver's guilt isn't the kind that twists, it's the kind that bites. It's like moths, eating him from the inside out. The guilt leaves him with jagged edges and thoughts he'd rather not be having; there are shades of Felix Catton that he loves, but shame and revulsion bites just behind the guilt as the months pass and he realises more and more this is not what he wanted. This is not the Felix he wanted.

Felix is like an echo, like the sun without it's warmth; he can look just the same, smile, talk, charm just the same if it was required of him, but there was something clearly missing from every interaction. Guests to Saltburn would pull his parents aside and ask if everything was alright. He is, but he is not the same as he once was.

Every day Oliver looks in the mirror and sees something grotesque behind his eyes that no-one else seems to notice. Felix Catton was meant to be the prize, the one who tossed aside everything but the best, the one who made the world fight for his attention, and feel heartbroken when he merely looked the other way. After all this, Felix Catton was not someone Oliver expected to be bored by.

Oliver Quick had lied for, lied to, betrayed the trust of, worked to gain the trust back of, loved, made fall in love with him, and literally murdered the love of his life who he also loved and was themselves also in love with Oliver while still considering Felix the love of their life, just to get a chance to spend his life by Felix fucking Catton's side. He wasn't allowed to not want this.

Felix smiles at him, says he loves him, fucks him, but it's not the dream Oliver once had. Something is always missing. No. Oliver deliberately took that thing away. But he can never admit that, nor can he ever regret that; too far gone. Oliver doesn't want to talk about the past, Felix can't being himself to talk about the future. Trapped together in the present, living lives that no longer feel like enough. Their routine becomes suffocating. Even Venetia, the few times she's stopped back at Saltburn, can barely manage a disdainful look, as if merely inconvenienced by Oliver's presence.

The growing apathy of the estate and it's occupants is exhausting. The cost of this lifestyle has long since surpassed it's value. He's even bored of being haunted. Two hours feels like fucking nothing when the days drag on the way they have been. Behind his eyelids he doesn't see you begging for help, you hiss for him to run, to get out.

He should have listened.

"Ollie, can I show you something I found?" Felix sounds bright today, and though Oliver wants to roll his eyes at the idea of anything in this house being new or novel enough to show off, he smiles back instead.

"'course Felix, what is it?"

Except Felix isn't smiling at him. Felix is looking far more serious and determined, sitting on the edge of their shared bed. Oliver immediately frowns.

"Have you been hiding something from me, Ollie?" It's a trap; a forced confession. Oliver shakes his head, plays dumb. Felix takes a deep breath, the kind that shifts his whole body, his expression remaining firm, "before I show you this thing, I want you to be honest with me; you promised you wouldn't lie to me anymore, you remember?" Oliver tries to lighten the mood, leaning against the window with a warm smile.

"Of course, my lovely Felix, no more lying," he assures, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the way Felix remains quiet.

"What's seven-past-twelve mean?" Felix is watching him closely; too closely. Scrutinising his every move. It's like Oliver's been doused in ice water, even his tongue frozen in his mouth, "and what's it got to do with what happened on the night of your birthday?"

Felix doesn't even look at the night table as he opens it; his gaze is solely on Oliver. It's clear he'd done this before, pulling out the book, flicking through it's pages, and pulling the delicate, incriminating piece of paper out from where it had been safe for so many months.

"Felix, I-"

"What does twelve-oh-seven mean?"

Oliver is the deer again, trapped in Felix's accusatory gaze. For just a moment, Felix's voice drops, pleading with him for some other explanation, that Oliver wasn't somehow caught up in what happened, more closely, more malevolently than he'd ever said -

"Tell me," there's tears in his eyes, the furious kind, the ones where he's desperate to love and hope against all odds, "Oliver," he pleads through gritted teeth, "tell me you didn't know."

"Know what?" Oliver's voice is a hoarse whisper; he knows he is caught, all he has left now is borrowed time and a desperately silver tongue he doesn't know if he can rely on anymore. But Oliver's tragically weak denial is enough for Felix to all but jump to the right conclusion.

In a rush, Felix has Oliver by the collar of his shirt, pressed to the window -

"You knew they were dying and you fucking left them there."

This is the tipping point, the end of whatever good this had been. Felix could hurt him, Felix had hurt countless people on your behalf, he'd seen it himself. But Felix had always been the bleeding heart; you were the one who had to be kept on a leash. Felix could hurt him, could probably maim him for what Oliver was about to say, but he never shared your stomach for true Machiavellianism.

"Of course I knew," Oliver managed coldly, despite Felix attempting to crush all the air from him, "the amount of coke I gave them in that champagne could have killed a rhino-" it needed to be unforgiveable, the confession, so Felix would let him leave, would never want to see him again. He hadn't expected the force of Felix's rage to have the glass behind him give out.

Oliver falls from the second story window into the hedge garden below. Felix's shouting is tearing through the whole house it seemed, making his way downstairs, while Oliver tries to regain his breath and figure out if anything's broken. He's pretty sure it's not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt as Felix drags him by his feet from the hedges, demanding at the top of his lungs that Oliver get the fuck out of Saltburn.

Every single person who'd been in the house comes outside to view the commotion, to see Oliver struggling to his feet, to get away from Oliver. Elspeth looks helplessly between the two boys, wondering what happened -

"Tell her what you did," Felix demanded, once more getting into Oliver's space, jabbing at his chest, "tell her what the fuck you just told me -" and Oliver's strength isn't insignificant, but Felix is in a fury, flooded with rage and adrenaline, and he grabs the back of Oliver's shirt like he's scuffing a cat, shoving him towards his mother like an offering. Oliver struggles because he feels like he has to, feels wild, feels feral, but it's the most of anything he's gotten from Felix in so long. His mouth stays shut, won't give him the satisfaction of a confession.

"He killed them," Felix doesn't even let Oliver have his power play before he grows bored. He shoves Oliver just a little, grip unyielding despite Oliver's best efforts, like he means nothing to him. Elspeth and Sir James are confused, looking between them both, but Felix isn't done with stringing Oliver up for all of Saltburn to see, "Y/N; he intentionally dosed their drink and left them to die outside the maze."

The Catton parents immediately look crestfallen; it's the first time in months Oliver's felt genuine guilt again. Oliver stops fighting. Felix lets him go. Elspeth asks him if this is true; that heartbroken hope is going to make him sick.

"Just send me away already," he drops his head.

"Oliver," Elspeth's voice is firmer this time; when he looks up, she's stepping towards him, tears in her eyes despite how hard she's clearly trying to hold herself together, "is Felix telling the truth?" Is this it? Is this the final gate to his freedom from Saltburn.

"Yes."

Elspeth slaps him so hard her ring draws blood. Oliver hadn't thought that was even possible, but his head is ringing from the collision.

"Get. Out." She hisses with absolute malice as he's hunched over, clutching his face. Felix is by his mother's side in a heartbeat, arm around her, looking at Oliver with contempt. Behind them, Sir James is ordering Duncan and the other staff members to get Oliver off of the property as quickly as possible, but the look in Elspeth's eyes is burning, "this is my family, you monster."

At first, it almost feels worth it to leave Saltburn. To leave the Cattons and their bullshit and their games behind. He thinks he knows them well enough to trust that they don't want the kind of scandal a murder on their hands would be, and for the most part, he's right.

It's not the Cattons who haunt him after Saltburn, though they may be pulling the strings. It's you. It's you sitting on Felix's bed in his dorm room reading every single detail of Michael Gavey's file with threats on your tongue. It's the casual way you talked about being able to access his academic files to change his grades if he wanted. It's you, tipsy at Saltburn, admitting that you got Eddie transferred without his consent to a university on the other side of the country after he cheated on Felix with Venetia.

There's no place for Oliver to return to at Oxford... He's not entirely surprised about that, however, there's also apparently no record of him ever attending. Any calls or enquiries he makes are shut down with the kind of immediacy that seemed reserved for shows about government conspiracies. When applications open for other universities, it seems websites shut down the minute he fills out his damn name. Nowhere in the world seems willing to consider him.

Having him audited seems like overkill. When it happens the next year, despite no employer willing to even consider him for an interview, the existential dread of his situation sets in.

Felix never had the stomach to finish the job; he'd let you haunt Oliver forever.

#felix catton x reader x oliver quick #saltburn x reader #felix catton x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton imagine #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #oliver quick x reader #oliver quick x you #oliver quick x y/n #oliver quick imagine #head heart hand fic #manic writer

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