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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

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

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

In cash, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely not nerves.

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

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d seen it all.

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

It didn’t.

You sat down.

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

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was coming over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

Monaco. France. Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Social law.”

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

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

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

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

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

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

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

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

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got in the cart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointless.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Macallan, no ice.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve ignored him.

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

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

Home time. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

“Drink?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

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

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herlondonboy · 8 months

Text

arms tonite, clarisse la rue

summary: I cry in the afterlife I cry hard because I have died, and you're alive I try to escape afterlife I try hard to get back inside your arms alive VERY loosely based off of this request

warnings: mc death obviously, sad everyone, my lack of knowledge on the battle of manhattan because i read the books 7 years ago

wc: 1.7k

you sit against the ancient tree, the bark rough against your back, a painful reminder of the chaos that unfolded. your fingers clutch your stomach, the pain intensifying with each passing moment, a stark contrast to the distant roars of battle. your chest throbs where the drakon's claws had viciously slashed you moments ago.

the air is thick with tension as you watch your friends and family, armed and determined, engage in the fierce battle of manhattan. the clash of weapons, the echoes of spells, and the monstrous roars resonate through the air, creating a cacophony that drowns the world around you.

your gaze shifts from one familiar face to another, each caught in the chaos of combat. the weight of your injuries pales in comparison to the heaviness in your heart as you realise the magnitude of the conflict. the realisation that more lives are at stake than just your own sends a shiver down your spine.

tears blur your vision as you witness the sacrifices being made for the greater good. the ground beneath you trembles with the resonance of battle, a painful reminder of the fragile line between victory and defeat. you wipe away the tears, a silent vow to honour those who fight alongside you.

despite the searing pain and the exhaustion that threatens to consume you, you summon the strength to stand. your every step is a battle against your own limitations. as you move towards the frontline, determination replaces despair. the stakes are too high, and you refuse to let the sacrifices of those around you be in vain.

with each step, you feel the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. the tree, once a refuge, now seems like an anchor holding you back. but you press forward, driven by a desire to protect the ones you love.

the battlefield unfolds before you like a tapestry of chaos, but you find a rhythm within it. your own pain becomes a fuel, transforming into a relentless determination. you join the fight, your weapon cutting through the air as you face the challenges that threaten your world.

in the midst of battle, you catch glimpses of your friends, their resilience mirroring your own. the scars on your chest throb in sync with the beating heart of the battle, a constant reminder of the price of survival. yet, you fight on, not just for yourself, but for the future of those you hold dear.

the battle of manhattan rages on, a testament to the strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity. and as the dust settles, you stand amidst the fallen, a survivor, a witness to the sacrifices that define the heart of heroes.

locked in the chaos of battle, your eyes meet clarisse's across the tumultuous field. the concern etched on her face speaks volumes, a reflection of the scars left by the loss of silena beauregard. the memory of silena's sacrifice lingers, and clarisse fears history may repeat itself.

summoning every ounce of energy within you, you manage a reassuring smile for clarisse, a silent promise that you'll make it through. the connection between you two transcends the battlefield, a source of strength that fuels your determination.

as you let out a ferocious battle cry, it echoes through the turmoil, a proclamation of defiance against the forces that threaten your world. the resonance of your voice, joined by the battle cries of others, creates a symphony of resistance that shakes the very foundations of the battleground.

with renewed vigour, you charge back into the fray, your weapon slicing through the air as you engage with the enemies that stand before you. clarisse fights by your side, a formidable duo that refuses to be broken by the looming shadows of kronos.

the battlefield becomes a dance of blades and magic, each movement a calculated effort to turn the tides of war. your connection with clarisse strengthens your resolve, and together you weave through the chaos, fighting back the forces of darkness.

clarisse's concern transforms into determination as she witnesses your tenacity. the bond between you becomes a beacon of hope in the midst of despair. silena's sacrifice, though painful, serves as a reminder of the strength that arises from unity and love.

amidst the clash of weapons and the eruption of spells, you and clarisse carve a path forward. the battlefield is a canvas of struggle, but your shared commitment to each other becomes a driving force that propels you through the hardships.

as the battle unfolds, you find moments to lock eyes with clarisse, exchanging silent reassurances that you're still standing, that the darkness hasn't claimed you. the weight of her worry lessens with each shared glance, replaced by a growing confidence in your resilience.

the battle of manhattan rages on, but your bond with clarisse becomes a source of inspiration for those around you. the echoes of your battle cry reverberate through the hearts of allies, spurring them on to face the challenges that lie ahead. together, you fight not just for survival but for a future where love triumphs over the shadows that threaten to engulf the world.

tears stream down your face, mixing with the dirt and blood on your cheeks. the pain radiates through your body, each breath a struggle. clarisse's hands, stained with the battle's residue, continue to apply pressure to the wound, her movements desperate and unyielding.

"sorry," she mutters through her own sobs, her voice breaking with every apology. but despite the pain, you recognised the strength in her touch, the fierce determination to defy the cruel hand fate has dealt.

you wince as her hands press against the wound, the searing pain intensified by the pressure. your breath catches, and you find it harder to form words. finally, you manage to muster the strength to speak, "sto... stop!"

clarisse's hands fall to the side, and she looks at you with a mix of sorrow and regret. you can see the pain in her eyes as she watches you, helpless in the face of impending loss. "stop, please," you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible over the battlefield's cacophony.

she apologises again, her hands cradling your head as if trying to shield you from the cruel reality. you can feel her trembling, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. in this shared vulnerability, the world around you seems to fade, leaving only the raw, painful connection between two souls entwined by love and loss.

as the battle continues to rage, clarisse stays by your side, her gaze fixed on your face. the chaos unfolds around you, a stark contrast to the stillness of this intimate, heartbreaking moment. in the hushed pauses between your sobs, you confess the fear that grips your heart, the terror of facing the unknown, of losing everything you hold dear.

"clarisse, i’m scared," you admit, your voice a fragile whisper.

clarisse's eyes well up with tears, but she brushes them away with the back of her hand. "you're not going anywhere," she insists, though the lie hangs heavy in the air, a bittersweet attempt to offer comfort in the face of inevitable tragedy.

the battlefield's rhythm continues, a cruel reminder of life's relentless march forward. you feel the grip of mortality tightening, each breath becoming shallower. clarisse leans in, her forehead touching yours, a final act of closeness in the fleeting moments that remain.

in the quiet between the clashes of war, your final breath escapes you. clarisse's hands still cradle your head, her eyes closed, as if trying to hold onto the fragile threads of your presence. the battlefield's chaos, now distant, becomes the backdrop to a heartbreaking silence.

clarisse stays there, lost in a mix of grief and disbelief. the world around her continues to turn, but in that stillness, she remains with you, holding onto the memory of love and loss amidst the echoes of battle.

clarisse, fueled by the searing pain of your loss, rises from the ground, her eyes reflecting the torment that lingers within. the battlefield, now stained with the blood of the fallen, becomes the canvas upon which she paints her grief and rage. without you to return to, her actions are untethered, reckless in the face of her newfound solitude.

she charges into the fray with a ferocity unmatched, each swing of her weapon cutting through the enemy lines. the air crackles with the energy of her relentless assault, a testament to the storm of emotions that rages within her. clarisse fights not only for victory but to drown out the haunting echoes of your final moments.

as she carves a path through the chaos, a determination burns in her eyes, a fire fueled by the memory of your courage. the world around her blurs, and she becomes a force of nature, unyielding in her pursuit of justice. her every movement is a declaration that your sacrifice will not be in vain.

the battle rages on, and as percy confronts kronos, the culmination of their struggles unfolds. in the aftermath of percy's victory, clarisse stands amidst the wreckage, alive but changed. the victory is bittersweet, and the reality of a world without you sets in.

chris rodriguez, battle-weary and scarred, kneels beside clarisse. he sees the turmoil in her eyes, the weight of a heart burdened with grief and guilt. without a word, he offers her a silent comfort, a presence that understands the scars etched into the soul.

clarisse, attempting to remain stoic, fights against the torrent of emotions threatening to consume her. but as the battlefield falls into an uneasy silence, she crumbles. tears stream down her face, a torrent of pain and regret released in a torrential downpour.

"i couldn't do it," she chokes out between sobs. "the one thing i was born to do, and i couldn't protect them." the realisation of her perceived failure gnaws at her, leaving her vulnerable in the aftermath of the war.

chris, with a gentleness unexpected from a seasoned warrior, places a hand on her shoulder. he understands the depth of her grief, having faced his own demons. in the quiet aftermath, they share a moment of shared sorrow, acknowledging the harsh reality of a world that demands sacrifices, even from those who fight with everything they have.

as the first light of dawn breaks over the battlefield, clarisse rises from her emotional abyss, a survivor forged in the crucible of loss. the scars of battle may fade, but the wounds of the heart linger, a reminder that even in victory, the cost can be immeasurable.

you cried that night. because you died in the arms of your lover, and it couldn't have been more perfect.

#clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse my beloved #clarisse la rue #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x you #clarisse pjo #elijah writes #lyric fic #angst #YIPPEE #please reblog

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pigfacedbitch · 2 months

Text

Way Back Home

summary : visiting May Castellan after the Battle of Manhattan

word count : 1.1k

type : imagines

pairing/s : Sibling! Luke Castellan x Reader

warning/s : death, mourning for loved ones, and the unfairness mortals go through because of the gods

here is my masterlist!

Note : I'm not going to lie, I thought about this for a long time. I picked Phillipa Soo from Hamilton because she's perfect for the role. I SWEAR THAT IF THEY CHOOSE ANYONE ELSE, WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A PROBLEM! DON'T THEY SEE THE POTENTIAL?

After the battle, like everyone else, you mourn for your lost. Specifically, Luke Castellan.

Sure, he was the traitor who betrayed your trust, caused the death of friends and siblings, and nearly brought the world to ruin by aiding Kronos. But before all that, he was your brother.

Your loving, funny, patient, older brother, the one you always confided in. He gave you affection and encouragement when you needed it, and for a time, the anchor in your fucked up demigod life.

As much as you want to forget him, you can't. You loved him dearly.

While going through the belongings he left in the Hermes Cabin, you come upon a picture of his mother.

When you first asked Luke about her, the grim expression on his face was enough for you to never ask about her again.

Until he opened up to you, saying she was cursed by the spirit of Delphi and this made him run away from home.

You thought of Rachel O' Dare, the red headed girl who is now Apollo's Oracle, and what it means for May Castellan.

Is she okay? Is her curse lifted anyhow? Is she aware of what happened?

Then it hit you. You can visit her and see for yourself, but you didn't want to go alone.

When you suggested it to Annabeth, she was hesitant.

After all, she had her own painful memories in that house; particularly May's glowing green eyes and manic behavior.

However, she knew it was necessary. It will give her the complete closure she needed with Luke, as will you.

As expected, Annabeth told Percy, Thalia, and Grover about it. While they were doubtful that it would end well, they agreed to come along for both your sakes.

Just as you were about to leave Camp Half-Blood, you are surprised to see some of your siblings waiting by Thalia's tree.

"Leaving without us?" Travis asks with a smirk as you approach.

"May we go with you? We promise we won't trash her house." Connor adds.

"What are you guys—" Travis cuts you off, the usual mischief in his eyes replaced with solemnity.

"Luke was our brother too." He says, walking closer to pull you in an embrace. "So, we're not going to let you go through this alone. Got it?"

"Excuse me, we're here!" Percy remarks, sarcastic. "We're also supporting her.”

"Do you hear anyone, guys?" Connor asks, feigning confusion. "Because, I don't."

"Why, you son of a bitch—"

"True, but that's not the point. Let's go!" Connor interjects. The rest try to muffle their laughs, including you.

You arrived at the Castellan residence— a once-beautiful home with white fences and a front lawn. You can almost imagine Luke as a baby, carefree and happy with his mother and Hermes.

Oh, how that poor child turned out.

It was you who knocked on the door, with everyone else on standby. A woman, looking lost and broken, answered with a meek "H-Hello?"

She wasn't as Annabeth had described, but she wasn't the youthful, beautiful woman from Luke's pictures either.

The sight of her alone made you wanted to march to Olympus and shove your foot down your dad's ass.

Nevertheless, she invited you into her home. You frown upon seeing the mess, especially the Kool-Aid and moldy sandwiches in Tupperware containers.

As you, Annabeth, and Thalia explain what happened; you braced for a violent reaction. Instead, she just cries.

Without thinking, you got emotional and pulled her into a hug, apologizing frantically for something you didn't even fully understand. Was it guilt for Luke's downfall? Anger at the gods for the suffering they caused innocent mortals like like his mom?

You immediately pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the broken woman who, like so many others, had lost a child whose life was just beginning.

The others started to help around the house while you console her— cleaning up the mess, fixing the lights, plumbing, even mowing the lawn and painting the fence. You had no idea where they got the supplies from, and when you asked Travis, he just winked.

Percy was having a blast with the water, Annabeth had to calm him down.

May wept once more, this time from overwhelming happiness. Her home wasn't the same as before, but it's getting there. It'll be better with time, like her.

She managed to gain composure after a while, and thanked all of you for coming.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anything to offer right now." She says, mustering a smile. "But if you need assistance, don't hesitate to come over."

As you all drove off, you could hear the neighbors complain about missing cleaning house supplies. Annabeth turns to your brother with a frown.

"Travis!"

"What? We needed it!"

Chiron was pleased to see how it turned out. Due to your initiative, he proposed an idea. Every fallen demigod must be honored, not only by burial rites, but their mortal families shall receive visitations and gifts if they choose to accept it.

The program is ongoing, and he specifically asked you to handle it.

Wow, too much work with no pay but okay.

May occasionally gives you and your siblings gifts and generously welcomes demigods in need, offering them food and shelter during their missions. She even entrusted you with a baby picture of Luke, a cherished keepsake among your belongings.

Then one night, Hermes visited you in your dreams. You've met him before, but this time he seem different. Happier. At peace.

He expresses his gratitude, and offered you anything you wanted.

"I want to punch you. Not as a god, as a human."

You expected him to smite you on the spot, but Hermes just laughs in amusement and agrees.

When you swung, you transferred all your pent-up emotions into your fist. It landed squarely on his perfect jaw, and you couldn’t help but smirk as he fell to the ground.

"You're stronger than I thought." He says.

"Well, I had to be."

Hermes’ smile falters at your words, and awkward silence followed.

"He's happy, dearest. Luke… He's in Elysium with the others."

Unfazed by the bruise forming on his jaw, he presses a kiss on your head.

“He's fine now. And you will be too.”

“I know.”

The next day, you woke up with the biggest smile on your face, gloating that you got to punch Hermes himself.

You're pretty sure that most of your siblings are now praying to him for the exact same thing.

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo x reader #pjo imagine #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #may castellan #riordanverse

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astradreaming · 7 months

Note

So a luke castellan x Apollo!reader

Idek how this would work but I had this idea after I read your ‘My Sweetheart’ blurb-

So tlt and Luke’s betrayal has occurred and the reader was in a relationship with Luke, pretty much exactly like ‘My Sweetheart’.

So ofc she’s still really offended and traumatised from that debacle. But she still loves him deep down. Anyway (at any point during the series, you decide) they’re going to use her as bait for Luke to come here. She agrees bc she doubts he’ll come, if he betrayed her surely he didn’t love her that much. But he does.

Anyway the campers give them some privacy and they have a really deep conversation, and she accepts that she still loves him. And then they all jump out and attack him and he realises she betrayed him, and he gets grievously injured.

But somehow, before they can realise she isn’t back yet, she goes back and heals him, bc she can’t leave him for dead, and she leaves him healed but hurting.

If you wanted to be evil you could even end it with ‘if you’d only been there to heal him that night in Manhattan.’ Feel free to change anything this is just a very long thought, xxx

house on a hill

this is a part two but it can be read separately :)

a/n: so sorry this took so long love, exams have been kicking my ass but i hope you enjoy this anyways ♡

masterlist

Luke Castellan admitted it.

He admitted it all, betraying camp to help rise Kronos, poisoning Thalia's tree, stealing the lightning bolt... Everything they said he did. He openly admitted.

He proudly admitted.

When you'd followed Annabeth into the woods after hearing Percy yelling for help, you didn't expect it to end you up at a Miami beach on Clarisse's quest.

After dealing with pirates and sirens, fighting a cyclops and a hydra you'd had your fair share of scares during this quest. But your biggest horror stood with a sword pointed at Percy.

Luke Castellan.

You'd thought long and hard about what you'd say to him, if you'd ever got the chance. Something along the lines of why? how dare you. why would you ever do this? or at the very least, was everything a lie?

But all your heartache and rage got stuck in your throat like a bad cough. All you could do was stand frozen and hope that it was all a bad dream.

He had the audacity to meet your eye. He stepped forward in your direction.

"Y/n I-" His voice broke as he quietly spoke.

Every single bit of shock in your body vaporized in a second, being replaced by lover's rage.

"Y/n? Y/n what? What do you possibly have to say to me" Your voice laced with venom.

He staggered froward, eyes shining with guilt. He tried to say something but you cut him off again.

"Do you know how long I defended you? Do you have any idea how stupid- no pathetic i felt when i got your letter telling me I was wrong about you. Do you know what it was like having everyone in camp thinking I'm a traitor too. Do you even care?" Your lip quivered as you leaning into yourself.

No matter how much you willed yourself not to, you felt the tears fall down your face. You were too blinded by emotion to notice the others regrouping behind you both.

"Of course I care y/n. I'm doing all of this because I care!" With each step he took towards you, you took stepping back.

"No! You're doing this because your spiteful!"

"I have every reason to be and you know it" He yelled his face contorted with fury. Flinching back you find what's left of your voice.

"You're being manipulated to start a war! And you're too hurt to see that. Luke, please. You've broken my heart but I still love you, don't play into the Titan's hand, come back to camp and right your wrongs. Together." Your voice a broken whisper, only to be heard by him and the Fates.

You swore to the Fates you saw a flicker in his eyes, a break in his warpath.

"All I want is the house we talked about, the one on the hill. With the trees out the front. With as many animals as you want, with the stupidest names we can come up with." His eyes fixated to the floor. He cleared his throat and looked so deeply at you it was like he was speaking to your soul.

"To get that life, a life with you. The gods must die. Their way is broken and wrong. It's just our turn, and only then will we be able to have peace y/n. Together.

While you stand frozen, appalled at the man in front of you, gone was the version on Luke you made those plans with, instead stood a pawn of a Titan.

Unbeknownst to you both Percy had finished summoning an Iris message to camp.

Luke finally noticed, ordered the monsters his army to attack in retaliation. You and your friends outnumbered when suddenly The Party Ponies narrowly come to the rescue. However you'd stayed stunned throughout it all.

Centaurs, half bloods, Cyclops' all fought one another. The loud sound of battle didn't render, instead silence ringing through your head.

You wanted to believe the old Luke was still in there somewhere, but as your focus zeroed in on him. Watching him fight without mercy. You saw no resemblance of the boy you love.

Perhaps if you kept hope, kept faith in him. You could have helped him long before Manhattan. Maybe there was another universe where Annabeth wasn't the only one who could see the old Luke buried down below. And maybe in that universe you both got that house on the hill...

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #pjo #pjo fandom #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo x reader #percy jackson fanfiction

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ussgallifrey · 4 months

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(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 24

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Avengers: Age of Ultron, descriptions of injuries, language, momentary jealousy, people talking through their issues like actual adults; references to the Eternals, the difficulties of immortality, and the Lavender Scare; Steve Rogers actively choking on his feelings.

✦ Word Count: 9.5k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

[Master List]

As they fly over the smoldering ruins of Midtown Manhattan, the city disappears behind them, giving way to towering trees and swaths of gray interstate. Small towns dot the landscape as the jet soars through the clouds, darting between the rose-tinged stratus and cumulus rows. Eventually, all you can see through the windows are the towering Hemlocks and blooming Maple trees of the Green Mountain National Forest.

You haven’t moved from your position beside Tony.

The physical sensation of imaginary eyes on your back keeps you from moving, let alone glancing away from the passing view. Was it cowardly? Perhaps.

But to see a look of disappointment on their faces; on Steve’s face, that would be the worst possible scenario. So, you guard yourself in the only way you can by focusing your attention on the coordinates you are nearing in on.

At least you knew that Sam and Maria were safe. Clint had been in contact with them when you arrived on the jet. They had managed to run to the roof when Rumlow’s gun jammed, allowing them to borrow an older model quadjet and escape. Hill was set to remain in the city, coordinating with search and rescue efforts as well as keeping an eye on the Legion situation while the Stark Foundation dealt with the aftermath of your collective failures.

“Uh, we’re one hundred percent on this, yeah?” Tony questions, dropping his voice to a lower register to keep the others from overhearing.

You glance down at the radar and then back out at the ascending tree-covered hill in the distance.

“Yes.”

“It’s just that, well, I’d like to keep this intact - ”

“Tony,” you force his gaze, “The coordinates are correct.”

He holds up his hands as if to say it’s your funeral. But just before you’re set to land, he pulls the autopilot offline and takes hold of the gears.

“Okay, seriously though.”

You give him a sigh, knowing why he was entirely apprehensive.

Below the quinjet, a few hundred feet down, was a continuous forest. Thick-trunked trees lined so tightly together that the canopy kept the ground itself from being viewed from above. There was nowhere to land, not a clearing in sight. And yet…

Slowly, you ease your hands over his.

“I’m friends with a very nice inventor and a very talented illusionist,” and before you can explain yourself any further, you push the throttle forward.

The billionaire gapes at you, seconds away from calling out for you to stop before the jet passes through a shimmering blue barrier.

You pass over the controls once again, allowing Tony to land the jet -

“Just over there, if you don’t mind.”

He’s wide-eyed, but otherwise silent, as he maneuvers the quinjet through the open field surrounding the imposing white Victorian-style house. You can feel someone’s presence behind you, but your eyes remain glued to the land in front of you.

As the wheels settle into the soft ground and the engines cut out, Tony drops his hands into his lap and turns his chair toward you, blinking owlishly up at you.

“So, you have a number for this inventor friend, or - ”

“Sorry,” you smile. “He doesn’t take personal contracts anymore.”

He gives a light whistle as he moves to stand at last.

“And when you said off-grid, you really mean - ”

“Land-line and solar. Paper records only. Can’t even find the information online.”

“Right,” he claps his hands together before he raises his voice for the rest of the team to hear, “‘Kay, anyone with a phone! Power it off, we’re keeping a low profile - don’t wreck it for us.”

At last, you turn to look at the others. You’re somehow surprised and not surprised at all to see Steve standing there beside you, staring down at you with an indescribable look in his eyes.

One by one, the rest of the team turns off their phones; Clint, Natasha, and Tony, of course; before the ramp drops down into the dew-kissed clover. Thor stalks off first, ready to be as far away from the rest of you as possible. The archer guides the redhead out, followed by Tony who offers a hand to Dr. Banner. Leaving just you and the supersoldier alone in the cockpit.

There’s that look again, resting in his too-dull eyes as he gazes down at your face.

“Come on,” you implore, gently pushing past him. “They’re waiting on me.”

“You’re bleeding. You know that right?”

Pausing just a step away from him, you glance down. Taking in your armor at last, you finally notice the crimson stains weighing down your white dress, the slow-dripping liquid that’s covered your left leg. With a sort of distant fascination, you take in the damage before lifting your gaze.

“I’m fine.”

“Athena.”

“I heal faster than you, Rogers. Didn’t even feel it. Now, come on.”

The supersoldier gulps down whatever words he was working himself up to say and instead silently follows after you, swiping up his go-bag from the bench as you descend down the ramp.

The late afternoon sun casts its golden light upon you all, leaving your skin with a sickly sticky feeling as you avoid the stares of your teammates. Tony’s straining his eyes against the sunlight just to look at the sky over the house, as if expecting to see the illusion at play from down here.

As if Sprite and Phastos would make a creation that obvious.

Past the old hand-hewn fences of a disused animal pen and the patches of wild violets, you make your way up the creaking wooden steps of the porch. The paint has long since chipped away, leaving flakes of the original gray-toned wood underneath the layers of white varnish.

“Uhm,” you finally chance a glance back at the others who have slowly followed after you. “Home sweet home,” you say as you push your shoulder into the unlocked door.

Stepping to the side, you allow the others entry. One by one they file into the old house’s central hallway. They carefully side-step the piles of books and manuscripts, while Clint unhelpfully flicks a light switch on and off with no results. Their movement alone unsettles the dust that drapes itself over every surface, their hands pull away from the walls and the cabinet only to wipe the gray mess from their fingertips.

“So, this is…” Tony draws out the question as he looks around at the strange configuration he’s standing in.

“My mortal residence, yes.”

He gives an unsure nod as if admiring the work of an elementary-aged artist and you suddenly feel even more uncomfortable at the notion of having any of them stepping foot in this place.

“Uhm, I need to go power on the generator. Top two floors have guest rooms; take your pick, nowhere’s off limits. Water should be good to run, it’s well-based. Just… make yourselves at home?”

Pressing past the tight line of people, you make for the front door. Grateful to have proper fresh air gracing your lungs as you break free. You can hear the low chatter of their voices as you disappear, probably questioning how they were supposed to make themselves even remotely comfortable in such a mess.

Releasing a breath riddled with tension, you round the side of the house where the generator box lies, covered with a simple blue tarp. In the distance, on the edge of the property where the grass grows tall and the deer like to graze, Thor stands in reflection.

With no hammer and no cloak, the dressed-down God appears to all the world as a moment of divine solitude. One you have no interest in disturbing.

It takes three tugs to get the generator powered up, and it groans and chugs as the mechanical engine kicks back to life. You can see lights turning on through the dusty window panes. But as you stand there, in the place in between two worlds, you find yourself unable to move.

Inside, the others await their host. Their likely bottled-up hatred and distrust toward your actions and decisions today remains. And across the yard, there stands your fellow immortal with his own list of accusations to throw at you.

Never before, in all your years of existence, have you felt such a massive urge to just… run away.

To disappear, in a flash, back to Olympus where you can hide out with your cowardice. Who were you, Goddess of many things? Today, surely, you were the Goddess of failures.

So, you press away from the house and move instead to rest your forearms against the wooden fence. At least, for a few moments more, this could be your own place of solace.

The breeze ripples across the long grass, picking up the hem of your linen dress. The warm earth bares with it its own unique scent that helps guide you back to your senses. And, as you gaze down at the silver pendant still dangling from your neck, you take it into your hand.

Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to unclasp the latch, you just stare at the simple facing. Two raised vines twist along the outer shell before coming together at the top, where a single drop of flame shines downward.

You're snatched from your thoughts by the deep coo of Pallas as he soars down to the fence, landing just beside your right elbow.

“Sensed I was in trouble, did you?” you hum as your hand gently drifts up to his head. While your fingers graze over his soft downy feathers, you continue, “I’ve made a real mess of it. Should have listened to the All-Father long ago. Meddling in human affairs only leads to trouble.”

His approach is quiet, but not nearly soft enough to avoid your ears.

You turn to watch him, striding through the clover, haloed by the sun’s golden rays, as Steve nears your side. He’s stripped the upper half of his uniform away, residing in a simple gray t-shirt and his combat pants and boots. He lets out a long sigh as he moves to rest his arms against the fence on the other side of Pallas.

“You keep finding me,” you chide, eyes daring to meet his gaze.

He gives a slight shake of his head, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Well, you’re hard to miss. Immortal owl and all.”

The bubble of a laugh bursts past your lips before you can even hope to stop it. Your fingers accidentally brush over each other as he lays a careful hand on Pallas’ back. You pull away, inspecting your nailbeds with a sudden fascination.

“I just…” he trails off for a moment as if waiting for you to meet his gaze. And when you do at last turn your head to look up at him, you find the blue of his eyes to be nearly obscured by the bright light of the overhead sun.

“I didn’t want you to be alone right now.”

You let out a scoff, “I think you’re the only one.”

An arched brow meets your words.

With a shaky sigh, you explain yourself, “I’m the reason the tower is destroyed, why Manhattan is on red alert. I let the mutant in, and Rumlow, and I didn’t stop either of them. Or the Legion bot. Hell, Steve, I let them get away with the Abomination without even a spare thought.”

“I thought Sam and Maria were there with you.”

“They were, obviously,” you push off from the fence, moving to pace the calve-high grass. “But it is my responsibility. My job. What honest use am I right now if I can’t even see a threat when it’s standing three feet away from me?”

At that, you turn, holding your arms out in an exaggerated motion as the anger; the bitter taste of guilt and defeat, coats your tongue. When you’re met with his silence, you pull your arms inward, absently rubbing at your bare skin as you look away from his judging eyes.

“I mean, just look at us.”

You stare at Thor, still standing at the edge of the property line.

“Two Gods reduced to this,” you glance over at the supersoldier. “I don’t even have a plan for you; for Tony. I can’t tell you where Ultron is or what he’s planning to do now that we’re out of sight.”

“And the rest of us,” you continue, “I mean! You and Barton seem to be the only ones stable enough to do anything right now. Tony hides it well enough behind his jokes and his sarcasm, but - ”

“I’m not.”

You blink, words fizzling out in your throat before you can voice them.

“What?” comes the strangled sound from your lips.

Steve heaves a sigh before he too pushes away from the fence and walks over toward you. His hands are balled into fists at his sides and he’s the one avoiding your gaze now.

“I’m not okay. Not after…” he clears his throat. “I saw hell down there today. My own personal hell.”

“Steve - ”

“No,” he holds up a quick hand. “It’s just… I don’t think any one of us is hanging on by much more than a thread right now. Even if we have to be.”

His hand, a warm and gentle weight against the uncertain world currently spinning around you, slides itself against your palm. He squeezes his fingers against yours and you find your feet becoming more grounded to the Earth and your head clearing up as you gaze into his shining blue irises.

“But… I think we can be… alright.”

A soft smile eases its way onto your face for the first time in hours as you look up at the man before you.

“You’re right, probably. Like always.”

“Hey,” his fingers wrap around yours even tighter now. “Don’t blow too much smoke, I don’t have the ego for it.”

While his eyes are fixed upon your face, you find yourself being pulled into a sudden tight embrace. You welcome the pressure, the feeling of security that drapes itself over your body as solace is found in Steve Rogers. His hands settle on the dip of your spine as you find your own arms circling his solid torso.

“Fine then,” you say, voice muffled against his shirt. “If we’re going to even dream of fixing this, I need to talk to Thor.”

At that, he gently pulls you back. A pinched brow meets your eyes and all you can do is shrug.

“I promise this place will still be standing by the time I’ve finished.”

He tilts his head lower, his gaze looking even more severe. You swat at his side.

“At ease, Captain. I know that my performance today speaks of the contrary, but I promise that I do in fact know how to be diplomatic when the time calls for it.”

So, despite Steve’s concerns, you still find yourself crossing the pasture to speak to the God of Thunder. You know that the supersoldier remains on watch, right beside Pallas, in case anything goes awry. But there’s a renewed force to your step as your desire to right the wrongs of the day pushes you forward.

“I think it wise that we refrain from speaking,” he calls over his shoulder before you even make it five feet away from him.

“Where would the fun in that be?” you question as you continue forward.

He turns, and already you can see the desire to fight gleaming in his eyes like a dancing flame.

Instead, you stand beside him, overlooking the valley of the forest laid out before you. The silence sits for a moment longer before you allow the words to come to pass.

“We are not our fathers.”

You can feel the turn of his head as he looks down at you.

“We do not need to abide by the role they set for us. We can, I think, make amends when the time calls for it.”

At this, you turn to face him fully. While his muscles ripple and tense with the memory of where you had just been standing a near hour ago, ready to rip one another to pieces like the times before, you notice the flicker of something else in his crystalline eyes.

“So, in this case, God of Thunder… I’m sorry.”

He sniffs, crossing his arms.

“We are better than mindless fights. Today, many lives could have been lost due to our desire to see battle. The ones we claim to love, those that we desire to protect, their very lives could have been forfeit thanks to our choices.”

His arms drop and a startling look takes place on his usually stoic face.

“I will not deny…” he begins, “That I may have been… brash in my actions. Though I do not regret them.”

“Of course,” you nod, allowing the words to pass.

While you certainly didn’t agree with the sentiment, it would do nothing to further the conversation if you spoke that opinion.

“Now,” your tone lowers as you get to the heart of the true issue. “I believe that I was not the source of your anger today. Nor, do I think it was Ultron.”

He scoffs, looking away from you, “You speak out of turn.”

“I say only what is obvious.”

Settling a hand upon his large forearm, you force the God to look at you. His guilt-ridden eyes eventually dare to meet your gaze.

“What horrors did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Now who speaks in lies?”

With a heaving sigh, Thor takes a step away from you. His boots kick through the billowing long grass as he reaches his next few words.

“I had a vision; of things to come,” he turns back toward you, his face open with a strange vulnerability. “I fear I will not find my answers here.”

“Where will you then?”

He scuffs his boot against the dirt, looking away as he answers you, “The Well of Wyrd.” Based on your incredulous expression, he elaborates, “I must seek out the waters where the Norn reside. They will give me the answers that I seek.”

“Fates,” your surmise.

“But better,” he immediately replies, unable to stop himself from comparing your pantheons.

A smile cracks at the corner of your lips as you cross your arms.

“Could your vision not be induced with the aid of some… say, mythical plants? I have several on hand.”

“Now that,” he points, voice raising to something nearly akin to glee. “That does surprise me.”

“I do hate to be too predictable,” comes the familiar phrase.

His smile begins to wane and you realize what is about to happen as the moment itself quickly approaches.

“How long will you be then?”

“You know I can not answer that. The Norn can be… difficult.”

“Well,” you sigh, chancing a look back at Steve. He’s still there by the fence, a furrowed expression on his face. “I can only wish you safe travels then, can’t I?”

“Since ripping one another apart is off the table for the time being,” he agrees with a jovial laugh.

Mjolnir comes soaring across the field, landing in his hand.

“Then yes, My Lady. My time here is done.”

Your gaze hardens, “You will return once you have the answers you seek, though. Won’t you?”

“Ah,” he guffaws. “To be predictable, would be tiring.”

You take a step back, and then another, giving yourself just enough space as Thor lifts his hammer into the air and soars upward in a sudden gust of wind that sends your hair and dress billowing backward.

He disappears over the horizon, cresting the forest’s canopy, before he vanishes from your line of sight.

You remain there for just a moment further before you turn to make your way back to the house. Steve is already jogging across the field to meet you halfway.

“What happened?” he questions, looking from you to the sky.

“He has business to attend to. Answers to seek that he will not find if he stays here.”

His features deepen into a severe frown, “More important than what’s going on right now?”

You give a shrug. Steve might be an understanding man, but the realm of Gods and visions would never be fully understood by a mortal.

“Apparently,” is all you can say in return.

While he doesn’t seem to like the answer you have for him, he nods and walks alongside you through the clover and overgrown grass.

“This is Vermont, right?” he asks after a beat of silence.

“Yeah. Athens, Vermont.”

He stops and you have to turn back to wait for him as he blinks, then laughs.

“You’re kidding me.”

A smile tugs at your lips, “Little on the nose, I know.”

“Very.”

“Hey, the price of land was good in the 40s. I couldn’t complain back then.”

You resume walking, Pallas ruffles his feathers as you approach. Steve nudges your shoulder with his upper arm and you can’t help but turn your head to look up at him.

“How much?”

“How much did it cost, you mean?”

He nods, a slightly boyish smile on his lips as he says, “Yeah.”

It takes a second, as you round the side of the house and near the covered porch, to remember the exact estimate, but it does come to you.

“Think it was… about five dollars for the land itself, thirty in clearing costs, and around fourteen hundred in building and masonry costs. So… $1700, give or take?”

Steve stares at you before his eyes slowly lift, taking in the three-story house, before they drop back down to your face.

“In the 40s?”

“The 1840s.”

He blinks.

You push his shoulder, walking away as you laugh, “Come on, Rogers. You honestly should know better by now.”

From behind, you can hear him making a little humming yeah, yeah I should before he follows after you, up the steps of the porch and back into the house.

While the others have at least moved from the hallway, the sound of your approach has garnered the attention of the billionaire, who sticks his head out of the archway left of the stairs. He leans against the wooden frame, crossing his arms, as he watches the two of you.

“Well, that’s nice. Glad you two can find some humor in the situation.”

Your smile falls from your face in an instant at the abrupt coolness of his words.

“Come on, Tony,” Steve sighs, trying to ease his way past you as if to stand as a human shield in front of you.

“No, no. By all means, laugh away. It’s not like we’re at our lowest point. In fact, let’s break out the good glasses and pop a bottle of bubbly,” he trails off, striding back into the main living room.

Seated on one of the cleared-off sofas, sits Bruce, with a large blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. The sound of Tony’s voice seems to cause an immediate agitation as the doctor clutches his head in his hand.

Tony remains oblivious to his discomfort, however, as he gently smacks his shoulder, “Come on, pal. We’re celebrating our unanimous defeat.”

“Knock it off,” Steve commands, tone low as he fixes his hands on his belt.

“Or, what? You wanna go a round like Blondie and 007? Speaking of, where is Break Point?”

“Gone,” you intone, meeting his dark eyes with a challenge.

His features drop for all of a microsecond before he forces an obnoxious smirk, “Fantastic. You know, this day is really shaping up to be one for the record books.”

“I think,” you start, pushing yourself past the two men to stand beside Banner, “We could all use a break away from each other. And then, when we’ve decided to focus our attention on the actual problem, maybe we can regroup.”

“You know what I think,” Tony starts to say, but Steve pushes a hand against the billionaire’s chest, effectively guiding him across the room.

“She’s right and you know it.”

“Well, just because she’s the Goddess of Wisdom doesn’t mean she’s been actually knowledgable in that struggle today - ”

You force your attention away from the verbal sparring match, kneeling down beside Bruce instead.

“Hey,” you offer, voice lowered for his benefit.

Slow-blinking eyes meet your gaze from behind a shell of sweat-drenched hair as Bruce peers up at you.

“I’m not a startled animal.”

With a slight quirk of your lips, you reply, “I never said you were. But I can’t imagine that that - ” you spare a look over your shoulder where Tony and Steve are still going at it, “ - is helping the situation. Is there… anything I can do?”

He lets the question mull over for a moment before he moves to sit up.

“Actually, do you have somewhere more… uh, not… you know… isolated?”

Your heart drops, but you nod all the same.

“I might have somewhere more secluded if that’s what you need.”

Bruce nods, “Please.”

You offer the doctor your arm, which he takes with a very careful grasp of his fingers before you haul him up and usher him out of the room. The argument pauses for only a moment as the two men watch you exit.

While you hated the idea that Bruce felt he needed this, you understood that his situation was beyond your personal comprehension. At the Tower, before you even arrived, he had a whole system in place to deal with the aftermath of his transformations. But today had been unprecedented. So, with a weariness in your chest, you guide him out of the house toward the old barn at the edge of the cleared property.

Steve stares at the archway for a moment longer, having missed your entire conversation with Bruce. Even Tony seems a little surprised by your sudden exit as the fight drops from his shoulders and he begins to pace around the room.

He can hear the muffled words you’re speaking to Bruce now, all the way from outside, but he certainly can’t make them out.

“Really has a thing for Bollywood movies.”

The supersoldier turns only to find Tony kneeling down next to a cabinet overflowing with VHS tapes and a small stack of DVDs. He’s holding one in his hand, scrutinizing the cover image before he grabs another, and then another.

Steve looks away, out of respect.

You may have invited them into your home, your home away from Olympus, but that didn’t entitle them to look through your things.

“Hah, would you look at that,” the billionaire grins.

In his hand, he’s holding up a white piece of stationery with a triumphant look on his face. The paper itself has yellowed some around the edges, but the careful penmanship is still fully eligible.

“Aww, to my biggest fan, Minnie - Minnie? Enjoy this free copy on behalf of your favorite actor. All my love, Sri Kingo.”

“Tony, come on.”

“What?” he blinks, pulling the note away from Steve and clutching it to his chest like a rare treasure. “Tell me you’re not the tiniest bit curious. I mean - ” he stands up, holding his hands out toward the room, “How often do we get any kind of insight into this girl’s life? Mythology books aside. Which, did you know she was supposedly birthed from the head of her own father?”

“That’s enough.”

Something entirely dangerous flashes in his eyes as he snaps the words.

Tony tilts his head.

“Man, Romanoff said you had it bad, Cap. But I gotta say, this is quite the look for you. Anyway,” before Steve can even form a retort, Tony’s already smacking his shoulder and walking away. “Better claim a room before all the good ones are gone. Which does beg the question… why so many guest rooms? Little Miss Solo Artist doesn’t strike me as the kind to make friends along the way.”

Steve looks down at the maroon carpet, “None of us are, not really.”

The billionaire’s features sort of drop for a second, before he forces the act of nonchalance back into place.

“Won’t hear me admitting that any time soon,” he says, swiping down to gather his go-bag before he backs out of the room.

With him gone, Steve finally takes the time to look around the living space. It was like a strange amalgamation of time periods all stuffed into one room. It looked far more lived in than the temple back on Olympus ever had. Here there were no halls of marble or columns of gold. Everything was not neat and kept perfectly clean. What a strange dichotomy for the literal goddess who walked among men.

Leaving the room as he found it, Steve returns to the hallway where his own bag lies in a heap. Shouldering the duffle bag, he heads up the stairs. On the second floor, the hall splits off in two directions. He can hear water running somewhere on the right and muffled voices to the left. Looking toward the second set of stairs, Steve ascends to the final floor which holds only silence for him when he steps off.

Under his feet, the floorboards creak. In the sliver of sunlight peaking in through the windows, dust particles dance in haloed rays.

He finds a series of doors, all cracked open, and just chooses one along the right-hand side of the hall.

The room is musty but otherwise tidy. A canopy bed resides in the center of the room with a set of dressers occupying the rest of the space. He drops the bag down on the lilac-colored bedspread before taking a seat on the edge of the bed to begin pulling the rest of his uniform off.

As he yanks his boots free, he glances around at the scarcely decorated bedroom.

A very faint rose-patterned wallpaper covers the majority of the walls. There’s a standing mirror in the corner just opposite of where he’s sitting. And two windows; one overlooking the back of the property and the other overlooking the pasture and pen.

When he stands to begin pulling his pants free, he notices a figure walking across the yard. He nears the window and watches as you walk away from the wooden barn, chancing a look over your shoulder as you go.

A frown forms on his face when he looks back at the barn, realizing, after a beat, what’s happened.

Pulling away from the window sill, he tugs off the pants to his uniform and quickly digs out the spare set of jeans he has stowed away in his bag. For good measure, he switches out his socks as well.

After zipping the duffle closed, he carefully sets it down beside the standing dresser. That’s when his attention falls to two simple wooden frames residing on the lace runner on top of the set of drawers.

He can’t help it as he picks up the one directly in front of him.

He’s transfixed, staring down into your sepia-toned eyes as you look toward the camera.

Dressed in an elegant shirtwaist dress, your arm is carefully resting on the back of the chair where a man is sitting. He’s handsome, with tight-coiled hair and a bright grin as he gazes up at the camera too.

There’s a white flower, pressed and preserved, in between the portrait and glass frame.

Steve tries to set it down just as he found it, his fingers carefully rearrange the lace runner as he takes a step away. The other framed picture is that of a watercolored beach, with the word Caloundra in puffy yellow words above the painted skyline. But his eyes drift back to the portrait.

You look happy.

And while it was foolish of him to presume that your attachment to the human race had only been a recent occurrence, he knew how implausible that was. You even said it yourself, you had been working at SHIELD since Peggy was director. The house was from the 19th century. Clearly, you had people and acquaintances outside of this strange group of superhumans.

So, why does it tug at something in his chest with such a painful grasp when he sees you in this picture?

He wasn’t the first. Maybe that was it. The fact that he wasn’t the only man in human history to have wanted more of your time, to get to know you in such a deep fashion.

“Hey.”

Steve startles back, looking up with widened eyes as you gently push the door of his room open.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to - ” You gesture vaguely at him. “I just wanted to see if you were settled in okay.”

“Yeah, I mean. Yeah, I’m good.”

You give him a little nod as your lips form a slight pout. You’ve changed clothes since he last saw you and he’s grateful to note that any signs of dried blood have since been cleaned away. Steve stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“Okay, well, I was just doing the rounds. I’m working myself up to talk to Tony.”

“Maybe give it a few minutes?” he proposes, raising his brows in a playful gesture.

Your body seems to sag then as you offer him a tired smile, “Probably for the best, yeah.”

You waltz into the room then before you drop down on the edge of the bed. The exact spot he had been sitting in just moments prior.

“Cronus,” you sigh, shaking your head as you rest your feet on the bed frame, kicking up the frilly bed skirt. “I feel like I’m wading through deep water right now. Like I can barely keep my head up long enough to take in everything around me.”

Well, damn. As if Steve hadn’t experienced that very same thing just hours ago. He bites his tongue instead of unleashing all of that upon you. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he could put that vision into words yet.

“I think I know the feeling,” he says instead as he moves around the bedpost, taking a seat beside you next to the pillows.

The silence permeates the room for a moment too long as you gaze at the wall opposite you. Steve can see the reflected image you both make in the standing mirror. How close he’s sitting to you, how near your right knee is to his left. How small you appear.

“I have no idea what we’re going to do next,” you admit with a choked sound to your voice as you manage to get the words out.

Steve rests his hand upon yours, imploring you to meet his gaze.

You do, in an instant.

“We’ll figure that out together.”

He squeezes your fingers tightly for assurance.

“God, even outside of the motivational speeches it seems like you always know what to say,” you laugh with a slight hiccup.

Your fingers wrap around his and squeeze back.

“With you,” he starts. “Words seem to come a little easier to me.”

“I’m not going to ghostwrite your speeches, you know.”

You release his hand just to shove your arm into his side, laughing as you pull away.

He cracks a smile in return, “Would never dream of it.”

Steve finds you to be simply beautiful like this. With your hair in its natural form, free of your helm and armor. Wearing casual clothes and looking at him with such a warm expression he nearly wants to speak the words that have been caught up in his throat these past few months.

But then his treacherous eyes drift over to that picture frame once again as he mentally notes the differences between the woman sitting next to him, right here and now, and the woman smiling for a camera.

Your smile wanes as you follow his gaze.

“Oh,” you say with a lingering sort of melancholy.

Before he can do anything of use to regain your attention, you’re pulling away from the bed to nab the portrait. You drop down beside him once again as you carefully dust off the frame with your thumb.

“I don’t usually do pictures. Anything that could be put into public. Well, I didn’t use to,” you give a little laugh, but your eyes are still locked on the picture. “Now it’s just candid moments caught by reporters and everyone has a camera phone these days.”

He can’t stop himself from asking, “So, what made you change your mind for this?”

Your gaze lifts for just a moment, just so you can share a look before you return your attention to the portrait - to the man seated in front of you.

“Ralph was more convincing than even Tony. We met at the premiere of Singin’ in the Rain at Radio City Music Hall, March 1952. It was my first week back in the States after being in Europe since… well, for quite a long stay.”

Steve immediately understands what words you’ve excluded. You told him you had been in Warsaw for the reconstruction process. God only knows where else you spent your time in the post-war years.

“Anyway! This guy in line kept trying to strike up a conversation and, Cronus… he was funny. I can’t even tell you what happened in the movie outside of the giant ‘Good Morning’ dance scene. We almost got kicked out for all the gabbing we were doing.”

A strange laugh slips from your lips and Steve can see the exact moment when your emotions take hold.

“He was… he was a really good guy. He was CIA actually, set to become the youngest head of his department from what he told me. Spring of ‘54, he came banging on my door at two in the morning - I lived in Tribeca back then - well. It was the age of McCarthy and Roy Cohn and… he was set to be investigated, but someone at the office tipped him off.”

You give a shrug, “I brought him here, helped him get his papers around and the next morning he was gone. Next thing I know, seven years pass and one day I get a postcard - ” you nod your head at the watercolor beach scene on the dresser, “ - filling me in on the last few years of his life. Got himself a partner, Gary. Became your typical boring officer pusher.”

“I never…” you cough. “We never saw each other again. I mean, he tried. Definitely wanted to. But this,” you gesture vaguely at your body. “I don’t change. And nearly a decade goes by and I look the same? He was persistent though, every few years he’d ask where I was, tell me where he was, ask if we could meet up again. I always had an excuse though. Never could bring myself to tell him the truth.”

Your eyes meet his and Steve can see the palpable sorrow residing in your solem irises.

“That’s the problem, you know. Walking in eternity,” you gaze down at the picture for just a moment longer before you rise up and return the frame to its rightful resting place. You offer him a sad smile as you say, “I get to watch my friends go on and age and, one day, die. I might seem isolationist with my whole refusal to do teams thing,” you laugh. “But I promise you, that’s not the real reason. It just hurts too much.”

Before you can shrug your shoulders, or change the topic, Steve rises from the edge of the bed. He’s staring right down into your eyes with an intensity he can physically feel pounding in his chest as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into the tightest of hugs.

“Oof, okay. It’s - Steve, it’s okay, really,” you murmur into his chest.

He squeezes you even tighter as he buries his face into your shoulder.

God, what right did he have to feel jealous, for even just the briefest of moments, when the truth of your hidden grief had just been a simple story away? How had it never once occurred to him what your fate was? To have decades and centuries and millennia pass you by, watching the ones around you grow and fade into obscurity.

“I’m sorry.”

He can feel you pull back slightly, but his arms are secured around your waist so you don’t get very far.

“For what?”

Steve lifts his head just so he can see your face properly.

“For everything, I suppose.”

Your lips quirk up into a small smile.

“I don’t think you need to apologize for anything like that, Rogers. You’re too good of a friend.”

Something halts in his chest, for just a beat of his heart, before it restarts once again. There were so many things he wanted to tell you, to reveal to you. But now was certainly not the time. So, he gives you another squeeze before he fully releases you from the embrace.

“Yeah, I could say the same about you too, you know?” he quips.

Even though his arms are no longer around you, you remain exactly where you stand.

“As much as I miss the anonymity of my past cover. And as mad as I was at Nick and, well, Thor actually, for breaking my cover. It’s nice, sometimes, to know that I don’t have to hide my true identity from you; the team, I mean.”

“But,” you add with a pointed finger. “I’m still not thrilled about the knock-off toys.”

Steve chuckles, tucking his hands back into his pockets, “Try having your face on collectible trading cards. And comics, and lunch pails. And, well, pretty much anything you can imagine.”

Your smile breaks free as you look up at him, “Well, if it hasn’t already been done I’m sure Tony will trademark it soon enough. Ooh, speaking of which - ” you look toward the door, “I should probably…”

“Yeah,” he says with a sad smile.

You make it a few steps away, hand on the door before you turn back to him.

“And Steve? Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

With a parting smile, you disappear into the hallway and down the stairs. Steve wants to smack himself as soon as you’re out of sight.

Thor has not returned by nightfall. Not that you were expecting him to, but the others do seem concerned by it. At least Bruce felt comfortable enough to wander back into the house before the stars came out, possibly lured by the smell of food simmering on the stove.

The pickings were slim, considering you hadn’t been to the house in almost a year now. But your pantry had been well-stocked with canned items just for an occasion like this. It was a simple stew, but it would be filling.

Steve’s been hovering close, ever since the encounter with Tony earlier that afternoon. So, you don’t fault the supersoldier when he offers to help out with the meal prepping. At least it was giving you both something to do while you tried to lull over the thought of what next currently circulating through everyone's heads.

Clint and Natasha wander down just before the food is served, both of them appearing rested and clear-headed.

“Smells good,” the redhead comments as she slips past you to grab a bowl for herself.

“I can only hope it tastes half as good as it smells,” you offer in return as you finish ladling up another bowl for Clint.

“I mean, I could kill for a pizza right about now. But I’m not gonna say no to free food,” the archer smirks as he moves to join Bruce and Natasha at the table.

It’s only when the six of you are seated at the table in the kitchen, either inhaling your food like starved animals or too distraught to do much more than push the stew around with your spoons, that Tony begins the dreaded conversation.

“Alright, let’s get it out,” he sighs, pushing away his barely touched dinner. “What’re we gonna do about this?”

“Do we?” Bruce questions, carefully looking up from his bowl. “I mean, do we need to do anything about it? Outside of the scepter, I mean.”

“And the Abomination?” you question.

“The what?” his eyes widen.

Oh, shit.

“No one told you,” you realize.

“Uh, yeah. That would have been… what happened there?”

“Yeah, actually,” Tony interjects, turning an accusatory tone toward you.

You stare down at your food for a moment before you push it into the center of the table, resting your arms upon the wooden surface as you gather your strength.

“Blonsky was spotted in London just after you left. Sam and I went in to deal with him. Legion drones came in and subdued him, which made us think, and assume, that they must have been sent in by Stark - ”

“Which, why the hell would I do that?” he questions with an incredulous voice.

“I made an incorrect assessment,” you fix your gaze upon the billionaire. “We set up a transfer with the acting commander and that was that. But… obviously, we were played. By Ultron.”

“Obviously,” Tony clucks.

Steve drops his spoon, making it clatter against the bowl as he glares at Tony. The billionaire quirks his lips but otherwise keeps his mouth shut.

“Back at the tower, we encountered the male mutant who was working with Rumlow.”

You can feel the supersoldier’s attention on your face, but you choose to ignore it, just in favor of getting the rest of the story out.

“A rogue bot came in, freed the rest, and from there the tower was in chaos leading to its collapse.”

“You saw the other mutant?” Natasha questions around a mouthful of food. With a nod from you, she continues her train of thought, “So, they’re both working with Ultron.”

“Maria assumed they were being promised something from him. Security, protection. I’m not sure.”

“You know,” Clint starts. “For the supposed global peacekeeper he says he is, he’s dealing with a lot of unsavory people. I mean,” he begins ticking off his fingers. “We got Strucker, and an ex-HYDRA member, and two mutants, and maybe… what was his name?”

“The Abomination.”

“Yeah, him too,” he nods. “I mean, either this guy’s wiring is a little screwball or I’m missing something here.”

“But,” Steve clears his throat. “He did gain control over the situation in London, right? And those drones were actively assisting with the injured in the city.”

“Okay, so what’s his deal then? He’s helpful when he wants to be and evil when he doesn’t?” Bruce questions, tone increasing.

Tony taps his fingers against the table for several hectic beats, “Or, Katniss is right. We’re missing something. Something bigger. I mean - ” he quickly stands from his seat, just so he can begin pacing the length of the kitchen floor. “I’m a big bad robot. I want world peace and I think the guys that have been handling it are doing a crap job.”

“He did say he wants to eliminate us,” Natasha adds.

The billionaire hums, “So, he needs to get us out of the picture. That’s why he goes to Strucker - ”

“To get the information on Klaue and the vibranium,” Steve nods, seeing the picture opening up before him.

“But once he has that information, he doesn’t really need Strucker around,” you begin. “Unless… you need him to do something else for you? I mean, he still has the scepter at this point. But what would he need vibranium for exactly?”

“And where do the terror twins and the other two fit into this?” Clint wonders aloud.

There’s a beat of silence as everyone seems to contemplate the different scenarios.

“A distraction,” you realize. “You’re fighting one battle on one continent, I’m dealing with another on a separate continent. Before we can even regroup - ”

“There goes our meeting point,” Tony finishes.

Bruce huffs, “That’s great and all. Still doesn’t explain why the drones are actually helping people though.”

“Well, if his endgame is just to get rid of us but still remain an actual peacekeeper,” Steve ponders. “He’s got to have his hands in different pools, right?”

“And, uh, back to that global peacekeeper thing,” Bruce interrupts, pushing back in his chair to give himself a little more space from the rest of you. “Why is no one else saying it? He’s right.”

There’s a shattering silence that drapes itself over the dinner as you all stare at the doctor with varying forms of confusion and incredulousness on your faces.

“What?” he questions, a little too loudly. “I mean, he was right. You remember his little spiel at the tower, I’m… the Hulk… it’s a time bomb. You guys look at him and see an ally, but just look at Johannesburg right now.”

“Bruce,” Natasha begins to say, “That wasn’t - ”

“But it was me. All of that was me. And you!” He looks up at Tony. “You already had a failsafe made, just in case. I mean, thank God! Right? But do you have one for all of us, or am I just the special case?”

Tony, disturbingly enough, looks sheepish and nearly guilty when you turn your attention to him. Your eyes narrow at his sudden silence.

Wow. He did have something set for the rest of you.

“Man,” Clint snorts. “Are you actually siding with the thing that tried to kill us today? Cause, not a great take, gonna be honest.”

“Okay. Rage monster; one. Two destructive gods from another realm; there’s two. An assassin, a spy - ”

“Do you honestly want to finish that thought?” Clint’s attitude has fully changed as he now moves to push away from his chair.

“I mean, tell me I’m wrong here! Was today not just a sign of how fucked we are as a team? Raids on empty bases are one thing, man. But when shit is actually on the line, are we even close to being a cohesive force? Cause I don’t think we are!”

“This isn’t helping anything right now,” Steve placates.

Bruce sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“All I’m trying to get at is… what if this guy takes it from here for us? We… hang up the gloves and step away from it. Just… go back to being real people.”

Your eyes immediately land on Steve.

Was that not a conversation you two had shared right after the Battle of New York? The possibility of him ever returning to a normal existence? The man seated next to you would never be able to hang up the shield, to put that part of himself away and be a normal man. No, just like yourself, there was too much fight left in him to ever dream of that scenario.

“Yeah,” Tony grins. “That’s not happening.”

“Well, maybe I’d just like to be able to walk away from this,” Bruce finally admits.

With a knowing sigh, you offer him a gentle look. While you understood where the doctor was coming from with this line of thinking, you definitely could not agree. And you voice as much.

“AI, in itself, is unstable. Even the best-made artificial intelligence will never be superior to a human brain. The way an actual living person is able to connect ideas and things together will never be achieved by a technological form. I mean… look no further than Project Insight.”

At your words, Steve’s face is drawn with instant understanding.

“HYDRA may be different than Ultron, but who and what gets to decide what is or is not a threat? What if one day it decides half the planet is deemed a risk?” The supersoldier questions. “He can just make that call? I mean… we might not be the best suited, or even the most cohesive. But I trust that, in our hands, we will make the right judgment call.”

“Not sure if I could say the same about the T-800,” Clint drawls, glancing at Bruce.

“Okay, still doesn’t answer the main question though,” Tony sighs, rubbing his forehead with a tired hand. “What the hell are we gonna do about him?”

“Well,” Natasha starts. “First things first; we gotta stick together.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “No more splitting up, jumping on separate missions. He’s intelligent and he wants to use our basic instincts to have us go running at the first sign of trouble.”

“Oh, so we’re just going to ignore danger now?” Bruce questions.

You fix him with a look, “That’s not what I mean.”

Steve’s hand settles over your left wrist.

“All I mean by that,” you restart. “Is that we need to focus on the big threat, not the tiny ones. We need to figure out where Ultron - the one with the vibranium and the scepter - is currently. And then we need to figure out how exactly we’re going to take him down.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Look, he took us down to buy himself more time. With us out of the way and his image turning favor with the public…”

Right, there was that entire side of the situation as well. One you had been aware of, but had been doing your best to ignore. Between the articles about an extravagant party from the Daily Bugle to the reports of drones saving London from a monstrous attack, the true nature of Ultron had never been shown to the general public. And distaste for you and the team had been steadily rising in the aftermath.

“And we still have to assume that he’s trying to access more than just vibranium,” Steve mulls. “Hill said he was trying to go after weapons factories and launch codes.”

“But he hasn’t gotten them?” Natasha questions with an arched brow.

Tony scoffs, “I cracked the Pentagon’s firewall in high school, on a dare.”

Steve fixes the billionaire with a look.

“So, what’s stopping him then?” Clint ponders.

You all sit on that thought for a moment longer.

“Well, something or someone has to be doing something. If he wanted that information, he’d have it in an instant unless something was circumventing him.”

Tony clicks his tongue, “I should probably call someone about that, actually.”

He gestures at the hallway where your rotary phone resides and you ultimately nod your head. You watch him disappear around the corner before the conversation at the table picks back up.

“I’m a robot,” Clint starts. “I want a team of superheroes dead. I have an alien scepter that can make anyone do my bidding, but I also want vibranium.” He rocks back in his chair, pillowing his head with his arms as he stares up at the ceiling. “Why do I need the vibranium?”

“Strongest metal on Earth” you add, chancing a glance at Steve.

The supersoldier hums in reply, clearly stewing over that same line of thinking.

Bruce sighs, pushing away from the table to take his empty bowl to the sink, “Whatever way you slice it, he’s looking for a way to end us. He thinks he’s better than us and that whatever we do, he can do it in an entirely superior way.”

“And he has a robotic army at his disposal,” Natasha adds, kicking her boots up onto Tony’s vacated seat.

The questions simmer for a moment, then two, before Steve raps his knuckles against the table.

“Did you guys notice, when we faced him on the ship, that he was harder to take down than at the tower?”

The redhead nods, “He’d had repairs done too.”

“Yeah, he was way more metal than the last version,” Clint snorts, resting his hand on the back of Natasha’s chair.

You blink, finally seeing the picture coming together from a handful of mismatched puzzle pieces.

“So, you’re saying the bot you faced had been… upgraded?”

Your eyes meet Steve’s as he offers you a nod.

“I’m a superior intelligence,” you say, standing from your chair. “I see what humans and gods and other creatures are doing to try and protect the world, but I know how to do it better.”

You begin pacing as the thoughts blur together into a single line of musical notes, all ringing crystal clear in your head. You follow after the melody.

“But I can’t do it in my current form. I need… I need vibranium. It’s strong, it can go blow to blow with their best. But… I’m still not physically at a point where I can take them down. I need… I need…”

The word slips free from your thoughts before you can speak it.

And as you turn to the others, hoping they’ve caught on to your line of thinking, you find three curious faces looking back at you. But Bruce… Bruce is staring at the framed creatures near the kitchen window.

The perfectly displayed Libythea cinyras, the Xerces blue, the delicate Urania sloanus. Now extinct butterflies that you had managed to find and preserve so very long, long ago.

The doctor’s wide eyes meet your knowing face.

“He needs to evolve.”

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

#steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel fan fic #series: shameless wonder #my fic

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drdemonprince · 10 months

Text

The red ribbon awareness campaign started in the spring of 1991 when costume designer Marc Happel attended a Manhattan meeting of the Visual AIDS artist caucus. He had an idea for an awareness symbol they’d been searching for. He proposed the red-ribbon design you see above. He said he took inspiration from yellow ribbons he’d seen tied around trees to honor servicemen. The artist caucus loved Happel’s idea and ran with it. Local businesses donated supplies. Cutting, folding, and pinning soon went into overdrive at “ribbon bees” — like quilting bees, only designed to raise awareness of HIV/AIDS. Within a few weeks, the ribbons were often spotted on NYC streets, though few people knew what they meant.

Then Daisy Eagan, the 11-year-old star of The Secret Garden, accepted the show’s first award, best featured actress. And she was wearing a red ribbon! Kevin Spacey also wore a ribbon. So did Penn and Teller. By the end of the show, almost every celebrity who walked onstage had worn a prominent red ribbon, though no one told viewers why — possibly because the network threatened to cut audio if anyone talked about AIDS. That mystery-marketing tactic was probably unintentional, but it couldn’t have been more powerful if professionals had planned it. By the end of the next day, the whole nation was buzzing. Why had all those famous actors worn identical ribbons? Why didn’t they talk about them? What’s going on? Answers came fast as celebrities and AIDS activists gave interviews to local and national media. To paraphrase: “HIV/AIDS is a humanitarian crisis killing our friends and neighbors. We as a nation are not doing nearly enough. We wear the red ribbon to call for greater love and more action. We ask you, all of you watching, to wear the ribbon too.” The nation responded, and not just in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Yes, from the Oscars and People’s Choice Awards to beauty pageants and town halls, red ribbons became de rigueur fashion, but the ribbons weren’t just for celebrities. I flew home to visit family in a conservative state in 1994, surprised to see flight attendants, baggage handlers, bartenders, grocery-store cashiers, and even one cab driver wearing little red ribbons on their chests. I didn’t yet grasp why they were important. Grief had traumatized me. Important activism had focused me. I didn’t look up to see the bigger picture: Americans everywhere were wearing their consciences over their hearts. People who had been members of silent majorities were speaking up in daily public solidarity. Maybe they didn’t know much about HIV/AIDS. Maybe they would never do more than say, “We wear the red ribbon to call for greater love and more action.” But by making that silent daily statement, they normalized support, caring, and hope. They said no to hate and fear.

A wonderful history and a contemporary call to action from my buddy James Finn. Until very recently, I have been cynical about symbolic, sometimes "performative" gestures like these. Like a younger James, I was cynical because I'd seen so many people profess to carry certain values but then not live up to them. That's changing for me now.

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jungle-angel · 21 days

Text

Random Salem's Lot Headcannons: Part 1 (Ben Mears x Reader)

Warnings: Parenthood, communal living, mentions of child abuse etc.

Notes: I did include two separate versions of Dr. Cody in these. In this universe, I have the movie version as a relative of Jimmy Cody (haven't decided between sister-in-law or aunt)

Tagging: @floydsmuse @attapullman @lewinblue @rhettabbotts

You and Ben decided that with all the vampires and monsters running amuck all over the lot, you guys would need to form a coven of monster hunters

Everybody pulled their money together and decided that after you guys got back from your honeymoon, they'd buy the house

You and Ben spent a full week up in Boothbay Harbor after you got married and by the time you got back, the guys had already bought the house

But ya'll were NOT expecting the house to be a giant fixer-upper

The first clues should have been all the memes that Matt Burke and Mike Ryerson were sending you guys, joking about how the rats were bigger than their heads, the stacks of leftover porn in the closets, the weird tentacled creature coming out of the toilet (no seriously, Father Callahan ran out of the house one day yelling about how the toilet needed an exorcism)

It took you guys until the beginning of September to be able to fix that place up. Whoever said fixing a gigantic Victorian house at the end of the street would be easy was a dirty liar

You and Ben moved in first as soon as it was done. You guys had officially adopted Mark Petrie and Randy McDougal the week before so they already had their rooms ready. Mark literally has shelf after shelf in his room filled with books. Randy was only two months old when he was taken away from his birth parents and placed with you and Ben, but Mark loves having him for a little brother (Randy's nursery was in one of the rooms that had no windows just for safety reasons)

Father Callahan moved in some weeks later. He was still the priest at St. Andrew's but Mrs. Curless was driving him nuts and he didn't wanna deal with it anymore. He's awesome around the house but under no circumstances is this man allowed to make a Manhattan while he's cooking dinner

Matt Burke was the next familiar face to move in. He just randomly showed up one day with milk crates full of books, cassette tapes and rock n' roll records

Mike Ryerson moved in after his asshat of a landlord jilted him on his rent. His first words as he walked in the door were "he asks me for rent one more time and my foot's going inside him!!!" (lol)

Jimmy and Jennifer Cody moved in not even a week after Mike. The hospital had to cut a bunch of people's pay but they were more than happy to pay whatever they could for rent, but you and Ben wouldn't have it

Bonnie Sawyer and Corey Bryant were next. Reggie had gotten arrested and had to sign the divorce papers while he was serving his jail sentence, leaving Corey and Bonney to be together. Mabel Wertz, Nolly Gardiner and Parking Gillespie were the last three to move in

You guys will all team up together and go out on late night hunts on the weekends. As soon as Mark's done with his homework, you guys will gear up and head out into the woods. Ben will carry Randy on his back and everybody has a cooler bag with their dinner in it

There was a huge, hairy creature living in the woods that was attracted to loud noises so any opportunity to attract it, the guys took it. You guys all sang along to "No Diggity" by Blackstreet (damn Father Callahan and Ben can both rap like CRAZY) and the creature came loafing right out of the trees. Don't worry, he's friendly

To Be Continued in Pt. 2

#ben mears #ben mears x reader #matt burke #mark petrie #father callahan #dr. cody #salem's lot #salem's lot headcannons

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liminalmemories21 · 6 months

Note

18 (because I know you keep things and I love seeing the bts things) and 23 please Lim!

Thank you!

Okay, doing this in reverse order.

#23 - pick three keywords that describe your writing

hmm, okay, this is hard. Introspective? Funny (I hope)? Kind (I really hope)?

#18 - if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

Do I ever keep things. So, there was a whole section I wrote for We were in screaming color where they went to New York for Passover, and I really loved it and had to cut it when it turned out they'd apparently never been to New York (!?!). Anyway, this is a small part of it.

Enzo has classes on Monday, but they're not leaving until Tuesday morning, and they take the time to go out to Gwen's grave. They take Jonah with them, and Carlos keeps an eye on him as he toddles around the cemetery while TK folds himself down next to the temporary marker. The unveiling will be in late July, and Carlos has already put in for vacation time to come up for it.

He takes a few steps away to give TK privacy to talk to Gwen, and crouches to take the stick that Jonah solemnly hands him. He turns at TK's voice, raised just loud enough to carry.

"Hey, Jonah, come say hi to Mom."

He takes Jonah's hand to help guide him over to the grave, and then lets TK settle Jonah on his lap. Jonah squirms a little, and doesn't really understand what they're doing here, but he catches enough of TK's mood to settle for long enough to obediently say hello to Gwen and Carlos feels his heart clench when Jonah offers TK a small rock he has clenched in his fist. He can see the tears on TK's lashes, but his voice is somehow steady when he tells Jonah, "That's perfect, honey. Do you want to put it on her grave?"

Jonah looks a little dubious, but puts it on the marker and then looks at TK for approval. TK kisses the top of his head. "It's a way for us to remember her," he explains to Jonah. He scrubs surreptitiously at his eyes and pushes himself up. He looks at Carlos. "You want to talk to her?"

He nods, and squeezes TK's hand as TK stoops to pick Jonah up and walks a little bit away for them to look at the buds on the fruit tree nearby. He sits on the ground in front of the grave, in the same place TK had. He's never really done this before, never really had anyone that close to him who's died. He feels a little awkward, but, "Hi Gwen. Your son asked me to marry him, and it was the best day of my life. I know I screwed it up a little after that, but he's got more patience than most people give him credit for, and he's got so much patience with me even when I don't think I deserve it." He puts a hand on the ground. "I promise you, I am going to love him for the rest of my life, and I am going to try every single day to make him happy." His voice catches in his throat. "I wish you could be there, to dance at our wedding, and tell me you told me so, and make him laugh. But, even if you aren't there in person, I know that you will be there in TK, and in Jonah, and in the memory of every person you met and loved, and through me for him. And, I am so grateful for that. I don't think I have words for how grateful I am for him, and that you trusted me with him. I won't let you down, I promise.."

When he looks up, TK's watching him with a small tired smile. They go to lunch afterwards at the tiny dim sum shop on Spring Street, and they cut up a dumpling into little pieces and let Jonah gum at them. The owner remembers TK, and looks sincerely upset when he tells her that Gwen passed, and brings them out a plate of bao they hadn't ordered, and when TK says thank you Carlos can hear the tears in his voice. "They were her favorite," TK says when they're alone. "I can't believe she remembered that."

When Carlos suggests they just go home after lunch TK only makes a token objection. "I was going to show you Manhattan."

He nudges TK towards the subway, and hopes he's remembered the right one. "We'll be up here a lot more times, you have years to show me New York. Right now I think we all need naps, and he nods at Jonah who's already conked out in his stroller.

TK's mouth twists with amusement. "I think I envy him a little."

They're playing blocks with Jonah when Enzo gets home that afternoon, and he makes a face as he sits down on the carpet with them. "I am too old for this." He points a finger at them, "Let this be a lesson, have your children when you're young. Or," he reaches out to cup the back of TK's neck, "acquire them when they're past the age of crawling on the carpet." TK grins and ducks his head, and offers Enzo a hand to lever him up off the carpet.

TK gets quieter the later in the evening it is, but it isn't until after they've put Jonah to bed that he says, "I really miss Mom."

Carlos curves a hand across his knee, anchoring him, and Enzo reaches out a hand to TK and holds it firm when TK takes it. "I know, kid. Me too. Every day."

#asked and answered #tarlos #911 lonestar #outtakes #S4 Interstitials

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collegetennisoriginstory · 1 year

Note

Oooh if you do end up going the NYC route for Tobin, there is a place that immediately makes me think of them. It's not specific to New York, but there's a French based Gelato Boutique called Amorino and they have very few stores in the US - like 20ish? total - and 3 of them are in Manhattan.

They have a ton of different non-traditional flavors of gelato and when they serve it, they shape them into flowers on the cone or in the cup. Could absolutely see a NYC-based Tobin and MC going on dates there, trying out different flavor combos - especially ones that don't make any sort of sense but make for a pretty flower - maybe grabbing some macarons to share on the train ride back.

(Also love the idea of MC being super impressed by the place - maybe talking to D about it? - and G being kind of confused by the novelty because there's literally more of those shops in Paris than there are in all of North America 💀)

AHH HELLO THIS IS ADORABLE. THANK YOU <3

I could absolutely see Tobin and MC goofing around in a gelato store and Tobin charming their way into getting a billion samples. Also them making up bullshit about the different flavors "this one tastes like going to a park at lunch hour with an office colleague you have a crush on".

Also love the idea of MC being super impressed by it and gushing about it, only for G to semi-jokingly, semi-competitively say "wait till you see the ones in Paris".

(And then for MCs who are into kissing, there could be the potential cuteness of...)

After going through about 18 different free samples, bickering (or 'intellectual discussion', as Tobin calls it), Tobin and MC finally settle on the flavor they want to buy. Then, with their respective gelato scoops in hand, they head out of the shop and head for a recently-vacated bench under a big tree.

Their 'intellectual discussion' continues as they dig into their scoops, big broad grins on their faces as they battle against the afternoon sunshine to finish their gelato before it melts.

Tobin finishes first, and dips their spoon into MC's cup, only to be playfully smacked in the arm. "I'm helping," they protest, managing to steal one more spoonful before being elbowed away.

MC finally finishes their scoop with a small contented sigh. "Man, that was good," they say, leaning back. "You know what would be better?"

Tobin smirks knowingly, and opens their mouth to speak.

MC cuts them off. "It would be better if I had my whole scoop of gelato instead of being robbed in broad daylight by someone I thought I trusted."

Tobin dissolves into surprised laughter. "I thought you were going to say something sappy about wanting to kiss me," they protest, still snorting.

"Someone's very full of themselves," MC says, grinning. A second later, before Tobin has had the chance to fully form the frown on their face, MC laughs and pulls them in for a kiss.

When they finally pull apart, Tobin's almost-frown has turned into a broad smile. "Gotta say," they lick their lips, then wink. "You're my favorite flavor."

#ct:os #college tennis: origin story #interactive fiction #if #Tobin

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adventure-showdown · 11 months

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What is the greatest Doctor Who story ever told?

Everything has been split into groups of 32 that I think are of similar levels of notoritiy, but likely not popularity. Seeding within the groups decides the matches. At the end of the round groups are paired up and mashed together to do it all again.

What that means right now is the order the matches below are listed in has no baring on what they'll be against in the next round

There will be 16 matches a day with Fridays off

Lastly, you can still submit propaganda for posts here

ROUND 1

ROUND 2

Day 16

The Metaphysical Engine or What Quill Did vs Alien Avatar

The Last Oak Tree vs Dead Man Walking

Black Hunger vs Dream-Eaters

From Out of the Rain vs Detained

A Day in the Death vs Nightvisiting

Fragments vs Taphony of the Time Loop

Lost Library of Ukko vs The Custodians

Sirens of Ceres vs Children of Earth

K9 and Company vs Regeneration/Liberation/The Korven

Mutant Copper vs Reset

For Tonight We Might Die vs The Lost

Miracle Day vs The Cambridge Spy

Mind Snap/Angel of the North/Last Precinct/Hound of the Korven/Eclipse of the Korven vs Fear Itself

Exit Wounds vs Something Borrowed

Co-Owner of a Lonely Heart/Brave-ish Heart vs Oroborus

The Fall of the House of Gryffen vs The Curse of Anubis

previous and future days under the cut - unfortunately i've had to get rid of the links because there were too many and the post broke, however they are all tagged #round 2

Day 1

The Mind Robber vs Galaxy 4

The Moonbase vs The Daleks' Master Plan

The Evil of the Daleks vs The Space Museum

The Gunfighters vs The Macra Terror

The Dalek Invasion of Earth vs The Celestial Toymaker

The Reign of Terror vs The Daleks

The Rescue vs The Ice Warriors TIE

The Ark vs the Romans

The Tenth Planet vs The Web Planet

An Unearthly Child vs The War Machines

The Invsion vs The Keys of Marinus

The Underwater Menace vs The Aztecs

The Edge of Destruction vs The Massacre

The Sensorites vs The Seeds of Death

The Chase vs Marco Polo

Planet of Giants vs The Time Meddler

Day 2

The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances vs Love and Monsters

Human Nature/The Family of Blood vs The End of the World

The Waters of Mars vs The End of Time

The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit vs Fires of Pompeii

Blink vs The Unquiet Dead

Boom Town vs Utopia

Army of Ghosts/Doomsday vs Father's Day

Daleks in Manhattan/Evolution of the Daleks vs Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways

Dalek vs New Earth

Rose vs Planet of the Ood

The Runaway Bride vs The Sontaran Stratagem/The Poison Sky

The Girl in the Fireplace vs Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead

Partners in Crime vs The Christmas Invasion

School Reunion vs The Stolen Earth/Journey's End

The Unicorn and the Wasp vs The Sound of Drums/Last of Time Lords

Tooth and Claw vs Midnight

Day 3

A Death in the Family vs The Eleven

Ship in a Bottle vs Blood of the Daleks

Albie's Angels vs Phobos

No More Lies vs UNIT Dating

Horror of Glam Rock vs Companion Piece

The Grey Man in the Mountain vs The Love Vampires

Human Resources vs The Widow's Assassin

The Company of Friends: Izzy's Story vs The Side of the Angels

Day of the Master vs The Crucible of Souls

1963: The Assassination Games vs The Red Lady

Stranded vs The Sonomancer TIE

The Doomsday Chronometer vs The Silver Turk

Absent Friends vs The Eighth Piece

Paradox of the Daleks vs Better Watch Out/Fairytale in Salzburg

Inside Every Warrior vs Robophobia

Stop the Clock vs To the Death

Day 4

The War Games vs The Abominable Snowmen

The Sea Devils vs The Time Warrior

The Time Monster vs Fury from the Deep

The Tomb of the Cybermen vs Terror of the Autons

The Three Doctors vs The Ambassadors of Death

The Highlanders vs The Power of the Daleks

Doctor Who and the Silurians vs Carnival of Monsters

The Faceless Ones vs The Daemons

The Enemy of the World vs The Monster of Peladon

The Mind of Evil vs Frontier in Space TIE

The Claws of Axos vs Inferno

Spearhead from Space vs The Ark in Space TIE

The Horns of Nimon vs The Seeds of Doom

Planet of the Spiders vs The Web of Fear

Colony in Space vs The Green Death

Invasion of the Dinosaurs vs The Curse of Peladon

Day 5

Vincent and the Doctor vs Closing Time

The Snowmen vs The Beast Below

The Doctor's Daughter vs The Rings of Akhaten

Vampires of Venice vs The Doctor's Wife

Gridlock vs A Town Called Mercy

The Wedding of River Song vs Amy's Choice

The Girl Who Waited vs Time of the Doctor

Hide vs Smith and Jones

The Eleventh Hour vs Curse of the Black Spot

A Christmas Carol vs The Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone

A Good Man Goes to War vs Name of the Doctor

Dinosaurs on a Spaceship vs The God Complex

Day of the Doctor vs Asylum of the Daleks

The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood vs The Impossible Astronaut/Day of the Moon

Rise of the Cybermen/The Age of Steel vs 42

Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS vs Turn Left

Day 6

The Lumiat vs A Spoonful of Masters

Nightshade vs Rhys and Ianto's Excellent Barbecue

Solitaire vs Paradise 5

Serenity vs The Last Post

No Place vs The Hollow King

Warfare vs Square One

The Cars that Ate London! vs Out of Time

Iterations of I vs A Full Life

I am the Master vs Forever Fallen

The Creeping Death vs Expiry Dating

Peshka vs The Forgotten Village

First Days of Phaidon vs The Scorchies

Gallifrey IV vs The Queen of Time

Wink vs Death and the Queen

Too Many Masters vs Peri and the Piscon Paradox

The Concrete Cage vs The Fifth Citadel

Day 7

City of Death vs The Creature From the Pit

The Key to Time vs The Ribos Operation

The Keeper of Traken vs The Masque of Mandragora

Image of the Fendahl vs The Brain of Morbius

The Horror of Fang Rock vs The Armageddon Factor

Terror of the Zygons vs Mawdryn Undead

The Sunmakers vs The Androids of Tara

The Sontaran Experiment vs The Pirate Planet

Genesis of the Daleks vs Destiny of the Daleks

Warriors' Gate vs The Invasion of Time

The Stones of Blood vs The Hand of Fear

The Leisure Hive vs State of Decay

Logopolis vs Robot

Full Circle vs The Face of Evil

The Deadly Assassin vs Pyramids of Mars

Meglos vs The Robots of Death

Day 8

Heaven Sent vs Cold War

Under the Lake/Before the Flood vs The Zygon Invasion/The Zygon Inversion

Flatline vs The Return of Doctor Mysterio

The Angels Take Manhattan vs Dark Water/Death in Heaven

The Magician's Apprentice/The Witch's Familiar vs Empress of Mars

Smile vs Extremis

Hell Bent vs Knock Knock

The Rebel Flesh/The Almost People vs The Husbands of River Song

Mummy on the Orient Express vs The Power of Three

Twice Upon a Time vs Listen

Face the Raven vs The Eaters of Light

Robot of Sherwood vs The Pilot

The Pandorica Opens/The Big Bang vs The Girl Who Died

The Pyramid at the End of the World vs Oxygen

Time Heist vs Deep Breath

The Lodger vs World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls

Day 9

The Bekdel Test vs The Blood Cell

Human Nature vs Doctor Who and Shada (fan novelisation)

The Book of the War vs The City of the Dead

The Adventuress of Henrietta Street vs The Stranger

Mad Dogs and Englishmen vs The Crooked World

Anachrophobia vs Alien Bodies

Harvest of Time vs Interference

The Blue Angel vs Vampire Science

Lungbarrow vs The Turing Test

Oh No It Isn't vs The Eleven Day Empire/The Shadow Play

Living Legend vs The Gallifrey Chronicles

Engines of War vs The Year of Intelligent Tigers

Scratchman vs The Scarlet Empress

Psychodrome vs Camera Obscura

This Town Will Never Let Us Go vs Unnatural History

The Martian Invasion of Planetoid 50 vs A Photograph to Remember

Day 10

The Caves of Androzani vs Warriors of the Deep

Revelation of the Daleks vs Paradise Towers

Snakedance vs The Mysterious Planet

The Visitation vs Ghost Light

Survival vs The King's Demons

Black Orchid vs Battlefield

Planet of Fire vs Frontios

Attack of the Cybermen vs Enlightenment

The Curse of Fenric vs Mindwarp

Terror of the Vervoids vs The Mark of the Rani

Kinda vs Trial of a Time Lord

The Two Doctors vs Earthshock

The Five Doctors vs The Ultimate Foe

Terminus vs Vengeance on Varos

Castrovalva vs Ressurection of the Daleks

Delta and the Bannermen vs Remembrance of the Daleks

Day 11

Whatever Happened to Sarah-Jane? vs Kerblam!

Flux vs The Caretaker

Eve of the Daleks vs Revolution of the Daleks

Praxeus vs Last Christmas

Village of the Angels vs Revenge of the Slitheen

The Ghost Monument vs War of the Sontarans

Nikola Tesla's Night of Terror vs Resolution

The Tsuranga Conundrum vs The Haunting of Villa Diodati

Demons of the Punjab vs Eye of the Gorgon

The Halloween Apocalypse vs Rosa

The Woman Who Fell to Earth vs Once, Upon TIme

Ascension of the Cybermen/The Timeless Children vs Spyfall

The Power of the Doctor vs Can You Hear Me?

Invasion of the Bane vs Fugitive of the Judoon

It Takes You Away vs The Witchfinders

Arachnids in the UK vs Thin Ice

Day 12

Downtime vs Sil and the Devil Seeds of Arodor

Dalek Weetabix advert vs The Fallen

Divided Loyalties vs The Land of Happy Endings

Summoned by Shadows vs Space in Dimension Relative and Time

More than a Messiah vs Step Into the 80s/On Through the 80s

Famine Appeal vs The Devil of Winerborne

Unnatural Selection vs Lepidometry for Beginners

Ground Zero vs Merry Christmas Doctor Who

The Zero Imperative vs When to Die

Fear Itself vs 12 Doctors, 12 Stories

Zygon: When Being You Just Isn't Enough vs The Room With All the Doors

The Terror Game vs Eye of the Beholder

Old Friends vs In Memory Alone

Wall's Sky Ray lollies advert vs Nothing at the End of the Lane

Something Borrowed vs The Flood

The World Shapers vs The Star Beast

Day 13

The Chimes of Midnight vs Minuet in Hell

The Holy Terror vs Spare Parts

The Happiness Patrol vs The Company of Friends: Benny's Story

Dragonfire vs The Company of Friends: Fitz's Story

Doctor Who and the Pirates vs Singularity

The Condemned vs The Greatest Show in the Galaxy

The Girl Who Never Was vs Neverland

Other Lives vs Caerdroia

Scherzo vs The Company of Friends: Mary's Story

Jubilee vs The TV Movie

The Harvest vs Seasons of Fear

Terror Firma vs Storm Warning

Zagreus vs Arrangements of War

Master vs The Natural History of Fear

The Marian Conspiracy vs The Apocalyse Element

Loups-Garoux vs The Kingmaker

Day 14

Death of the Doctor vs The Gift

Lost in Time vs The Mark of the Berserker

Small Worlds vs Secrets of the Stars

Sleeper vs Everything Changes

Countrycide vs To the Last Man

They Keep Killing Suzie vs Out of Time

Cyberwoman vs The Nightmare Man

Combat vs The Temptation of Sarah-Jane Smith

The Wedding of Sarah-Jane Smith vs The Empty Planet

Random Shoes vs Adam

Goodbye, Sarah-Jane Smith vs The Mad Woman in the Attic

Prisoner of the Judoon vs Ghost Machine

The Curse of Clyde Langer vs The Lost Boy

The Last Sontaran vs Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Sky vs The Day of the Clown

Mona Lisa's Revenge vs Captain Jack Harkness

Day 15

Time Crash vs Tardisodes

Dreamland vs Dr Who and the Daleks

Shada (webcast with 8) vs The Battle of Demons Run: Two Days Later

Ronald Rat Continuity Announcement vs Pond Life

P.S. vs The Shrink

The Daleks' Invasion of Earth 2150AD vs Doctorin' the TARDIS

Farewell, Sarah-Jane vs The Infinite Quest

Shada (1992 version with linking narration) vs An Adventure in Space and Time

Night of the Doctor vs The Doctor's Meditiation

Real Time vs Dimensions in Time

Clara and the TARDIS vs The Great Detective

Rain Gods vs Scream of the Shalka

Doctor in Distress vs Space Time

Night and the Doctor vs The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot

Shada (2017 animated reconstruction) vs Born Again

Search Out Space vs The Curse of Fatal Death

#doctor who #round 2

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likestvrlight · 2 months

Text

* 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 human tree law . but her new neighbour had taken it upon himself to cut down her trees just so that he could have a better view of manhattan . so here she is looking into tree law and human laws , aiming to cause the neighbour the most possible pain for this , as she loves her trees , whether in the faerie realm or not . so now , she's settled on a blanket in central park . lila and ripley are settled on either side of her , simay strapped to her chest and kayra is playing with esma and chilli . “ why would anyone think it is okay to cut someone else’s trees ? ” she grumbles , probably loud enough for people close by to overhear . she glances up at kayra just as she notices @dihstarters approaching , speaking before they can touch lila . “ i wouldn’t pet her if i were you . she’s not exactly the friendliest . ”

#𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏 — prose .#likestvrlight — starters #dih.starter

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silent-raven13 · 1 year

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Okay for my Modern Welcome Au fanfic, I’m making a Mother’s Day chapter, and I decided to draw all the moms. Everyone except for Miss Beagle is my own thoughts how they would look.

Miss Beagle belongs to Clown aka PartyCoffin. I just fan drew her in a cute Barnaby’s paw print apron (You can see his pup print and the large one) and I decided to give her a first name for the fanfic, since she needs one and a cute mama nickname. “Big Mama Betty”

Anyway in order!

Monique Dear “Mama Dear”: Mother of Eddie Dear lives in Louisiana and is a post-man. Her husband die in a terrible truck accident before Eddie was born. She is a feisty, spunky woman that loves to go out doors, train for anything survival. She is a sweet mother and big tiger mom. When she sees her groan son, she would give him a bear hug and pick him up like he was a toddler. Very accepting and would sound like Carol from OK KO (VA: Kate Flannery) She’s always working out, since she have to lift heavy packages, and can cook!

Eleanor Frankly “Mother Frankly”: Mother of Frank. A calm, soft spoken woman. She is a Neurosurgeon, has the most steadiest hands. When she uses knives or scissors, she always cuts beautifully; one thing Eddie finds amazing because hello Crafting! She’s very intelligent, comes from a very wealthy family. Lives in New York, specifically Mid Manhattan with her husband. Yes, they are happily married, but once they saw Monique... 🤭 let’s just say they wanted to do a poly relationship.

Serenity Joyful “Mama Llama”: Mother of Julie. A funny nickname Jonesy came up when he was a toddler and stuck to the Joyful family. Don’t mind the colorful vomit skirt, rainbow monsters love to represent their family. Since, Serenity is all about Maximalism boho-chic outfits, she loves to represent her children’s colors. Believes in nature, spirituality, crystal healing, and listens to trees. Very laid back, sweet, and always goofy. Believes problems can be solved with yoga and Chamomile tea. Lives in the Rainbow Forest not far from the Welcome Home Residents.

Charlotte Partridge “Mama Lottie”: Mother of Poppy. She’s exactly like Poppy, but sweeter like honey! Very caring, hates cursing, and she knows how to cook. Her socks were made by Poppy, when she learned how to sew. Loves to support and protect all her children. She will treat everyone like her own kids. Lives in West Virginia!

Maria Gloria Pillar Garcia “La Jefe or Tu Jefe”: Mother of Howdy. In my fanfic, Howdy is Mexican American. As a joke, him and siblings like to call their mom, the boss or say, “Tu Jefe esta llamando” It’s a thing I noticed with Latino Americans say about their parents like the joke, “Your mom is calling you or My mom...” You don’t have to get it if you don’t. It’s a thing I’ve seen. Anyway, she’s the boss of the family, and knows how to run things. I mean this woman gave birth over 300 caterpillars, so she has the right to run her family and the family’s ranch. What I can say about her? She’s a Monarch butterfly, lives in Michoacán, Mexico. Used to live in East LA.

Chantelle Darling “Mother Darling: Mother of Wally. Lives in Atlanta, Georgia. She’s funny, nice, but cross the line with her and she’s the first to fight. Very protective of Wally, and his a widow. So her and Monique are gonna get along just fine.

Miss Beagle “Big Mama Betty”: Mother of Barnaby. That dog is a HUGE mama’s boy! Everyone in the neighborhood knows her, she’s sweetest Mother Hen.

I’ma say this too. If they were Humans, All of them except Maria and Monique would be African American/black! Monique would be biracial. Maria would be Mexican American with dark brown skin tone. My Au is about inclusivity for BIPOC/POC.

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newsiesgolgotha · 6 months

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Sunday of the Passion: Pape Sunday

The Liturgy of the Papes

Gospel: Kelly 21:1-11

When they had come near the lodging house and had reached Lower Manhattan, at the bridge of Brooklyn, Jack sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go into the borough ahead of you, and immediately you will find a horsey tied, and a smaller horsey with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord Jack Kelly Christ Superstar needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.” This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, “Tell the daughter of the King of New York, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a horsey, and on a small horsey, the baby of a horsey.” The disciples went and did as Jack had directed them; they brought the horsey and the smaller horsey, and put their papes on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their papes on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of Jeck! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” When he entered Manhattan, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?” The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesdus of New York.”

#golgotha #newsies #newsies golgotha #jack kelly christ superstar #jack kelly #palm sunday

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blouisparadise · 2 years

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Today’s rec list is filled with bottom Louis fics where Louis and/or Harry are agents, police officers, or spies. There are a ton of amazing fics on this list that you’ll want to check out. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Fuck The Police | Mature | 2349 words

"It's been a while, Louis. I bet you haven't changed at all. I bet you still think about all the things we've done. I bet you still get off to that thing I used to do to you in bed...you remember that?" Louis blanched, face turning white as a ghost.

"You can't talk to me like that anymore, Harry. It's not okay." Louis spoke up, although his voice wavered as Harry guided his body so that his back was flush against the wall, facing the younger lad.

"Talk to you like what? Like the dirty whore you are? You know you still want me, Lou. Admit it." Harry murmured lowly, eyes taunting.

2) Bleeding Love. | Mature | 2414 words

Note: This fic has been locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Harry is a cop, Louis is his boyfriend. Harry wants to marry his boy.

3) If We Catch A Criminal | Not Rated | 2759 words

The one where Harry is a policeman and Louis will do just about anything to avoid going to jail.

4) I’ve Been A Bad Girl, Officer | Mature | 3425 words

Louis has done something mildly bad, and Harry is a cop.

5) Are You Fucking Kidding Me? | Explicit | 4760 words

Louis barks up the wrong tree, so Harry punishes him for it.

6) Moles Before Hoes (Which In This Case Does Not Apply) | Explicit | 5201 words

A Criminal Minds AU where Louis is a technical analysis for the FBI, and Harry is the agent who cant control himself, not even while looking at a murder scene.

7) I’d Make Wine From Your Tears | Explicit | 6731 words

He's the one Forbes writes about, who has bank accounts all over the world, a gold ring on each finger, and a tiger of his own in his huge mansion in the heart of California. Harry Styles, a devilishly rich stockbroker, is accused of a number of financial crimes. And Louis Tomlinson, the FBI agent leading the investigation, finally gets hold of evidence against Styles and shows up at his party to arrest the broker.

“Your body is the only form of currency in this world.”

8) Brown Hair And A Golden Boot | Mature | 12995 words

Harry is mistaken for a secret agent, he wears one golden boot, and Louis is in charge of getting information out of him.

9) The Blood Is Rare (And Sweet As Cherry Wine) | Explicit | 14270 words | Sequel

"Officer, I see you're giving away my secrets already," Harry said as he entered the room.

"It's hardly a secret," Louis accepted the delicate glass, cutting a glance at the man when the underlying scent hit him, "A little early to indulge in such things, isn't it?"

"You've had a long morning, I'm sure. Merely looking after your health, Officer," Harry smiled.

"You don't need to concern yourself with that."

"Someone has to."

10) Don’t Call Me Angel | Mature | 16648 words

Manhattan is a dangerous playground for the rich and entitled Alphas of New York. Those same wealthy Alphas are robbed after spending one night in the presence of a blue-eyed Omega and Officer Styles is assigned to the case.

11) Angel Of Small Death And The Murder Scene | Explicit | 20634 words

Ever since Louis read about the new up and coming Detective in town, he had immediately disliked the man, despite never having met him. So, naturally, it can only be the worst thing that could have happened to Louis when he gets stuck with Detective Styles trying to solve a murder during his supposed to be relaxing vacation over the seas.

12) You're The Smell Before Rain, You're The Blood In My Veins | Explicit | 21945 words

“It was him you talked about, when you used to call me late at night, saying you were missing your ex? Was it him, your important five-year long story? Was it him the person you had thought about proposing, one day?” Nick asks with a low voice, almost inaudible, almost like he’s talking to himself “He’s my boyfriend…” he whispers again, without looking up.

“I know! And you shouldn’t worry, because you don’t have a single reason to do so. He’s yours now, he’s with you. I really don’t understand why you came here, honestly” Harry says defending himself out of instinct, even if he has no reason to react like that. He just- just wishes for Nick to leave his room and go back home to Louis. Because at this point Nick has Louis and fuck, why can’t he just go fuck off for once? Doesn’t he have enough shit do deal with already? Does he really need to get into this as well? Right now?

13) Sunflowers, Sunshine, And You | Explicit | 28778 words

Sunshine county is small but mighty and Harry takes pride in knowing nearly each and every person that lives inside of it. For nearly eleven years now he’s been sheriff, and not one of them he’s ever regretted settling down here.

He knows the road names like the back of his hand, knows the people and the animals and the way the world works here. In all of the time he’s been here, not a thing has changed.

So, all things considered, when he starts seeing a beat up pickup truck roaming through town with plates he’s never seen before, Harry, to be frank, jumps on that like a fly on fresh dog shit.

14) You Fill My Lungs With Sweetness (Can I Be Close to You?) | Explicit | 29884 words

Busy picturing Harry’s stupid face on the stupid dummy, Louis goes through a series of kicks before returning to a low guard and cycling through punches. Harry’s still talking, gesturing with his hands as he rounds Louis, standing to his back. “You do a few butt-shaping exercises, tighten this up a little bit,” he smacks Louis’ arse and the omega freezes while Harry cheerfully continues, “you could pull this off.”

“You know what?” Louis snaps, lifting on his tiptoes to get the leverage so he can wrap his arm around the alpha’s neck, forcing him to bend in half while Louis locks him in a chokehold. “Pull this off,” he snarls. They stagger over a few steps, Louis gritting his teeth as Harry tries to break free. “Is it because Payne hates me?” he complains, voice edging on an annoyed whine, “Or is it, like, an omega thing?”

Too late, Louis realizes that Harry has got a grip on his leg and this time as he pulls against Louis’ hold, it loosens, the alpha lifting him in the air before slamming his back into the mat, breaking Louis’ grip completely. Harry kneels on the mat, hovering over him with a sneer, “Don’t kid yourself. Nobody thinks of you that way.”

15) Once Upon A Dream | Explicit | 33319 words | Sequel

Louis is psychic and gets caught in the middle of a murder investigation led by FBI Special Agent Harry Styles.

16) A Matter Of Uniforms | Not Rated | 36606 words

In Birmingham, just after the Great War, veteran Harry Shelby leads his gang, the Peaky Blinders, making money from illegal betting and the black market. Inspector Campbell, charged by Winston Churchill to arrest the man, plants Louis Burgess to spy on Harry's activities.

Soon enough, it becomes hard for the gangster to pretend he's heartless, and even harder for the spy to pretend he loathes it all.

17) Falling Without Caution | Explicit | 50350 words

Louis Tomlinson, a wanted criminal, was captured by the FBI after years of chasing. Instead of being locked up in a high-security prison, he was offered a deal. What was supposed to be the end of a decade long chase turned into a morally grey circumstance for Agent Styles.

18) Rookie | Not Rated | 54352 words

Louis is the youngest candidate to be selected for the police academy in ten years. At nineteen he has a hard time fitting in, especially with how Agent Styles and the other training sergeants treat him. He’s been nicknamed Rookie and has to put up with it for the rest of his training.

What happens when Louis graduates and things become personal, he’s lost everything before...will it happen again.

19) Never Let Me Go | Explicit | 55949 words

Harry and Louis have been friends forever, but they couldn't be more different. One night, with a little too much alcohol, they make a pact to marry in ten years if they're both still single.

Now, one month before the deadline, Louis is willing to do whatever it takes to avoid ending up with his best friend. But is he, really?

20) Somethin’ Bout You | Explicit | 59855 words

Of all the government agents in the world, Louis had to go and land the most charming one.

21) Derail The Mind Of Me | Explicit | 77323 words

The Behavioral Analysis Unit gets called in to help a small town police department find the killer leaving behind a string of victims with a particularly jarring signature. FBI profiler Harry Styles must work with his team to uncover the unsub responsible for a slew of gruesome murders and just might discover his own hidden feelings for BAU Technical Analyst Louis Tomlinson along the way.

22) Waiting On You | Explicit | 76584 words

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

23) Morality | Explicit | 82857 words

An AU where the boys all work for the FBI in Washington, D.C., working together to catch an unsub who's closer than they ever thought. In the process, Louis uncovers Harry's deepest secret, forcing the two enemies to live a life together to ensure their safety.

24) The Rose Of Whitechapel | Mature | 100182 words

Jack the Ripper AU - Detective Constable Harry Styles and his partner, DC Liam Payne, lead the case on the Whitechapel murders. Louis Tomlinson, the Rose of Whitechapel, is harbouring secrets of his own, along with a dark and sordid past. When their paths cross, truths are revealed, and perhaps hearts are mended...

A darkness is brewing, and it's finally come to collect on the promise it was made.

25) Shadow Dances | Mature | 101591 words

Louis Tomlinson has a begrudging gift, he’s able to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Often against his will, and almost always at the most inconvenient of times.

He and his partner, Zayn Malik, work for a covert division of the New Haven Federal Bureau of Investigations. They aid in all kinds of cases, though their talents lie in the obscure and unsolvable.

It’s when a strange new case falls onto their desks that they’re left questioning the extent of their abilities, and whether they were ever truly alone.

Harry Styles was brought into the FBI for not only his skills, but his ability to mitigate the influx of spirits surrounding the elusive and obnoxiously infuriating sharp-tongued medium he’d been assigned to. Louis gets under his skin, he’s impulsive and a risk to the team according to Harry.

They do however have to find a way to set aside their sordid history, and their reluctant attraction, to track down the murderer plaguing their coastal city.

26) Halfway Home | Mature | 103158 words

Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson were improbable childhood friends, much to Harry's dismay. They were thrown together each summer when Harry was forced to visit Louis' grandfathers' ranch in Black Hills, South Dakota. With each passing year their friendship blossomed into something more. When trail rides turned to stolen kisses, and tragedies turned to confessions, until they could no longer deny the inevitable draw they felt for one another.

Though life and their future plans soon set them on different paths.

Ten years later, Louis is the proud owner of Halfway Home Wildlife Refuge. Harry returns to the ranch to escape the perils of his past in London, and though their memories still haunt Louis, he won't let that deter him from his goals. However, someone has been keeping a close eye on the refuge, and possibly Louis specifically, and Harry's return may have unleashed more that just old passions. There's a hunter lurking in the Hills, someone who's decided they've bided their time long enough.

27) Beautiful War | Mature | 103379 words

Five years ago, Louis was nearly the next victim in a string of murders plaguing Portland, Oregon. He managed to escape and the Angel Killer was apprehended and sent to prison. Now, Louis' a best-selling author that assists state police with minor cases. He still suffers from the events of the days he'd been held hostage, but he's found ways to cope.

That is, until the killings start up again. A body was found in the woods. A body that bared the same signature the media had dubbed: The Angel of Death.

Special Agent Harry Styles leads the case, and he doesn't buy into the clairvoyant bullshit that Louis spewed to save face five years ago. He's certain that Louis Tomlinson was involved.

Until they meet, and they're both left questioning everything they'd thought to be true.

28) ROUGE | Not Rated | 117624 words

Submissive Louis Tomlinson is a misjudged criminal who is accused of beating his own Dominant until unconciousness. But the truth is not like that. In fact, Louis has been a victim of severe abuse by his Dom, he only fought back to defend his own life. One could imagine how many times the Dom has raped the Sub, how many scars from canes and whips are there to litter across his body, how many times his flesh has been split open, how many nightmares he has endured that leaves him lose all hope in life.

Sent to the BDSM prison for "behavioural correction", Louis meets the warden there, Dominant Harry Styles. Dominant above all Dominants, Harry is cold and harsh on the outside, but secretly a lonely man in the inside.

Louis supposes he could find his solace here in prison, a time for his scars to heal, both physical and mental ones. But what if Harry starts befriending the Sub, seeing through all the false accusations? What if Harry wants to seek justice? Does Louis even want his name cleared anyways? But the most important question is,

Will Harry be able to give Louis the love he deserves?

If only Louis could tell him the truth.

29) Drops Of Jupiter | Mature | 121821 words

In a small, sleepy town ruled by prejudice, Louis Tomlinson runs his grandmothers shop for the occult. He finds comfort in his tarot cards, his friends, and a dog that he doesn't have room for. He thought the worst he'd have to deal with would be bigotry, until a new sheriff arrives with a headstrong little girl that's impossible not to fall in love with.

But what happens when a string of break-ins leads to a brutal attack, and the towns' darling is murdered right under their Sunday hats? A murder that just so happens to bear the same modus operandi as similar homicides in neighbouring states. Has the killer been circling Virginia, or is he a local of Lavender Hills?

And what will Louis do when the charming Sheriff Styles starts to suspect him of such a heinous crime?

30) Life And Love Finds A Way | Explicit | 165244 words

Post-apocalyptic world after a plague had taken out more than half of the world’s population. In the midst of the pandemonium caused by so many people passing away, the population that was left had turned greedy and started attacking each other for food and resources now that there weren’t enough people to farm or work essential jobs. After being shot by a looter while he was on patrol, Harry had decided to leave the police department and move away to find somewhere remote to live. What he didn’t expect was for an omega to weasel his way into Harry’s heart.

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