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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

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

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

In cash, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely not nerves.

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

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d seen it all.

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

It didn’t.

You sat down.

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

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was coming over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

Monaco. France. Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Social law.”

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

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

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

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

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

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

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

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

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got in the cart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointless.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Macallan, no ice.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve ignored him.

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

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

Home time. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

“Drink?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

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

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smoooothoperator · 3 months ago

Text

What Was I Made For?

18: This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

childhood enemies, forced proximity, accidental pregnancy, enemies to lovers (👀)

Warnings: cute moments, but...

a/n: HELLO!!!!! So i found a moment to write! I hope everyone had a nice week!

if you want to play a game and ask things about Dafne

Masterlist

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Every way of feedback is very welcomed

Nesting.

That phenomenon when a mother thinks it is time to get the house ready for the arrival of a baby. That moment when a mother thinks a onesie of a cat or a dog would make your baby look incredibly adorable. That moment when you want to start buying every piece of furniture you find on the internet.

But nesting should begin only when you have a permanent place to call home.

The Tuscany house is not only mine. And even if this place was the first one that came into my mind whenever I thought about raising my kid, I knew that this won't be possible.

I realized I needed to find a new home, one where Charles and I could build our life together and raise our son.

“Hey, what keeps your mind busy?”

I closed my laptop and placed it on the coffee table, a weak smile on my lips. We should talk about it, right?

“Love, everything's alright?” he asked worried.

“Yeah, yeah” I sighed. “I was thinking…”

“Oh no, bad news” he teased, a grin playing on his lips. I rolled my eyes and gave him a playful nudge. “I’m just kidding!” he added, laughing.

“I was thinking about, well… Selling my apartment in Florence” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“What? Why?” he frowned. “But you love that place-”

“Oi, let me talk!” I exclaimed, laughing. “I want to sell the apartment because I want to buy a house with you!”

I glanced at him, my cheeks warming as I nibbled my lip. His surprise softened into a slow, growing smile.

“What about this house?” he asked, holding my hands, rubbing soft circles over my knuckles. “I thought you wanted to raise the kid here?”

“Yeah, but…” I sighed. “This house is not only mine. I can't keep Erica and Soleil away from this house only because I chose to raise our son here. It's too big for us…”

“And what were you thinking now, hm?” he smiled, moving closer to me and wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

“Well…” I smile softly, kissing his jaw. “I need a house for us, where we can decorate it how we want. Where… Where I can finally nest”

“Oh, it's that?” he chuckled. “Baby momma wants to nest?”

“You are such an idiot…” I sighed, nudging his side. “As if I was the only one who has been looking for things for the baby”

He chuckled and hugged me, kissing my temple.

“We should get things ready for the gender reveal” he whispered, kissing my cheek a few times. “Like… buying the confetti, the snacks, decorations…”

“Yeah, yeah” I giggled, hugging him.

Since the scare with Athena, we’ve been trying to make her more comfortable. The vet recommended a special diet for senior cats, so I’ve switched her food to match that.

But the worst thing was to know that she was getting older, weaker.

We try to make things easy for her, and somehow look after her whenever we find her going to hide somewhere, making sure she isn't alone.

“We should do it outside” I smiled, kissing his jaw. “On the table that has good views”

“Oh, yeah” he nodded. “The one who is under the tree?”

“Mhm” I nodded. “So we have more space for our friends and family, and in that way we can leave Athena here without stress”

“I'm sure she would love the attention” Charles chuckled. “But yeah, you are right. Less stress would make her feel better”

“Yeah” I sighed, cuddling him, getting comfortable with my back pressed on his chest as I placed my laptop on my belly..

“So… Buying a house” he smiled, playing with the curls of my hair. “Where? And when?”

“When…” I sighed, swallowing thickly while I rubbed the side of my belly. “I don't know, really… I can't stop thinking about Athena. I don't want to stress her more with another moving out”

“I know, love” he sighed, wrapping his arm over my chest.

“It's… God, it's so hard” I sighed, blinking away the tears that were threatening to fall. “It's like I'm walking over eggshells with her. I don't know what is going on with her, I don't understand why she's like this. She never had a problem with all the times she was out… I even brought her to some races. But now…”

“Have you thought about going to a better veterinarian clinic?” he whispered. “Dafne, the amount of weight she had lost is not normal, and she's sleeping more than she used to…”

“I know, I know” I swallowed thickly. “I’m scared of what they could say…”

Because somehow, I know what the answer could be. I can feel it whenever she looks at me lately, when she cuddles me at night, when she lays on my chest with her head on my belly.

Charles sighed, kissing my head and holding me tight. He knows what Athena means to me, he knows how important she is to me. And somehow, I know that she is important to him, too.

“I'll be with you all the time” he whispered.

“I know” I whisper, kissing his arm softly. “Thank you”

We were both walking over eggshells. Ever since Charles met Athena and she showed him trust and love, he took care of her like I did, treating her like his own.

“Anyway” I sighed, opening the laptop. “Why don't we go to Florence? We can buy things for the party there. And I miss walking around that city”

“Oh, sure” he smiled, kissing my neck. “It's a date, then”

“W-what?” I gasped. “Idiot!”

“Why? Can't I have a date with my girl, hm?” he smirked, kissing my neck. “I owe you so many dates”

“Whatever” I whisper, blushing.

He laughed, kissing my cheek again and again then turning my head with his hand and pressing his lips on mine on a soft kiss.

“But stop kissing me if you want to go there” I whisper against his lips, smiling.

“We have all day to be there” he murmured, kissing me again, grabbing my laptop and putting it back on the coffee table.

“Oh, now you are the horny one?” I laughed, feeling how he held my hips to make me sit on his lap.

“May I remind you how you woke me up today?” he smirked, making me gasp and hit his chest softly.

“I'm a pregnant woman who has her needs and hormones!” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest, smiling.

“And I never said I didn't like it” he smirked. “I just want to return the favor”

“Oh, then go on” I smile, kissing his lips, feeling his hands holding my hips and pulling me down on him.

“You don't need to ask twice”

dafne_morelli added a new story

charles_leclerc added a new story

f1gossip

liked by 14.179

f1gossip Charles Leclerc and Dafne Morelly were found today walking around Florence!

They looked very cozy, and Dafne looked more beautiful than ever. Some fans found them buying things in a supermarket and they suspect they will make a gender reveal soon, since they saw them buying punk and blue things.

What do you guys think of this new couple?

view all comments

dafneismymom I just can't wait to see her around the paddock with her baby bump!

dafnefanone she should be racing not being pregnant… Disappointed. dafneismymom dafnefanone you ok hun? dafnefanone she has potential to be a world champion. Instead of that she got knocked up by her own teammate. They fooled us.

fewawifwiens they look really cute! Can't wait to have updates of baby Morelli!!

The backyard of the house was full of people, of laughs. Our families came early in the morning to help us get everything ready, to set all the decorations and have lunch together before our friends arrived.

“Boy or girl?” my sister Erica asked.

“I don't want to jinx it” Charles smiled, biting his lip while he placed his hand on my belly. “So I'll keep it to myself”

“So…” Arthur smirked looking at us. “You two are dating?”

I looked at Charles, placing my hand on top of his and nodded, rubbing his knuckles with my thumb.

“Yeah” I nodded, looking at the youngest Leclerc.

“Fucking finally!” our siblings exclaimed, making our parents laugh.

“Is the best. We want to raise our baby together, as a family,” I said, glancing at Charles. The commitment in his eyes reassured me, and I knew we were on the right path.

Charles held my hand tightly and smiled, leaning closer to kiss my temple. He placed his hand in the back of my chair, playing with my hair.

“We always said that you two were going to end up together” my father said, mirroring Charles and placing his arm in the back of my mother's chair. “That those fights you had were only temporary”

“Oh yeah” Charles' mom laughed, looking at my dad. “Hervé and you had a bet, right?”

“He should give me like 50 euros” he laughed. “When you two were teens we made a bet. Hervé said that you two wouldn't get together before your thirty, and I said you two would. So… yeah”

I felt Charles moving on the chair, taking a deep breath. I looked at him with a sad smile, holding his hand and kissing it.

“I miss him,” Charles said, his smile faltering as he looked down. “I always imagined he’d be here longer… seeing us get married, meeting our kids”

Silence fell between all of us, smiling sadly. I held Charles' hand that was on top of my belly, holding it tightly.

“Anyway” his mother smiled weakly. “How is everything going?”

I took a deep breath and smiled, kissing Charles’ cheek softly.

“Good, yeah” I nodded. “Some days ago we had a little scare with my cat, but… Yeah, besides that, everything is good. The baby is calm, not kicking hard, and it's healthy”

“Oh? Athena?” Soleil frowned. “What happened to her?”

“She's old” I smile weakly. “Having health problems, I guess… We don't know yet. We went to the city the other day and a ver made some studies, they will send us the results soon”

“But she's okay as long as she doesn't get stress” Charles smiled, nodding and rubbing my arm. “We discovered she likes to sleep in the room next to Dafne's, so we made sure she's comfortable there”

“Little Athena wants attention, that's all” I smile weakly. “With the pregnancy and Charles being around, and the change of house again… We want to buy a house for us, but with her being sick…”

“Hey, it will be okay” Erica smiled, holding my hand. “If you need it, I can keep her with me”

“No, don't worry” I sighed. “I just…”

I swallowed thickly, looking at my belly. There's something inside of me that these are the last months I'm going to spend with her. Something inside of me tells me that she won't make it.

Charles pressed a gentle kiss to my temple, and I sighed, my eyes fluttering closed as I leaned into his touch.

“Today is a day to be happy” he smiled. “Smile, yeah? She is with us, don't worry”

I leaned into Charles, a soft smile tugging at my lips as I watched his hand gently trace circles on my belly.

“So… Buying a house?” my father smiled, drinking the last sips of his wine. “If you need help with anything you know we can help, right?”

“Yeah, just…” I sighed. “We want to wait a little. I started to have that nesting instinct, wanting to make the home more comfortable for the baby, but at the moment I don't think we can do it”

“We decided that we won't raise the kid in this house” Charles smiled. “It wouldn't be fair for Soleil and Erica, this is their house too”

“But you can stay here, guys…” Erica smiled weakly.

“We want to live together” I smiled softly, looking at Charles. “In our own house, watching our kid grow and make memories in a house that is ours. This place can stay as what it is: our summer house”

“So it's official, then?” Arthur smiled looking at us. “We are finally becoming a family, huh?”

“You already were” I smiled.

After lunch, we tidied up, the anticipation building as we waited for our friends to arrive.

Charles and I were sitting in the couch, enjoying the warm weather while we waited, already knowing that they were on their way to the house.

“We should find a name for our baby, hm?” he whispered, with his lips pressed on my temple.

“I want our baby to carry your dad’s name and Jules’ names” I said, pulling away a little to look into his eyes, placing my hand on his chest.

“Dafne…” he smiled weakly, placing his hand on my belly.

“They are not with us anymore, but I want them to be remembered” I whisper. “I want our baby to know about them, to know that he has their names because of two wonderful people”

He smiled and cupped my cheek, pressing his lips on mine and kissing me softly, pouring in that kiss all the words he can't say.

“Dorian Jules Hervé” he whispered, making me gasp and laugh

“Dorian? Are you sure?” I laughed.

“Come on, you showed me those TikTok edits about that character” he laughed. “And if the genetics are right, he has a fifty percent probability to have blue eyes”

“And a fifty percent probability to have green eyes” I laughed softly, pecking his lips. “But… I really like how that sounds”

“Dorian Jules Hervé Morelli-Leclerc,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple with each name, as if sealing the memory of those we love.

“Both surnames?” I whispered.

“Sure, why not?” he smiled. “We are not married, you don't have my surname”

I smile looking at him, kissing his lips softly. I love him, I accepted those feelings recently. But talking about marriage? Not yet.

Some minutes went by when Kika sent me a message saying that they were already in front of the gates, waiting for us to open it.

We got up from the couch, anticipation bubbling between us as we made our way to the front gates. The sight of our friends stepping out of their cars brought a rush of happiness, and I couldn’t help but smile, feeling the day’s excitement building.

“My god, you are glowing!” Kika gasped while walking towards me, hugging me, then looking down at my belly.

“Thank you” I chuckled, kissing her cheeks.

“How's everything going? The baby? How is it?” she smiled.

“Yeah, well… Good” I smiled, looking at her and then at Charles.

I smiled, looking around and then gasping softly when I saw Violet walking out of the car with a black puppy. I laughed, watching how Lando picked up the dog and walked towards us.

“And this little one?” I laughed, letting the puppy smell my hand.

“Meet Rhys” Violet smirked, laughing and looking at Lando.

“There's no way you named him after Rhysand” I laughed, shaking my head.

“And you want to name your baby after Manon or Dorian” Violet smirked, hugging me. “You look amazing, Dafne. I missed you so much”

“I missed you too” I smiled.

Somehow it made me feel good. They welcomed me as a new wag, even if it was still hard for me to accept that I won't race anymore. But knowing that they would be by my side, made me feel grateful.

“We bought some things for the baby” Lily smiled, standing next to me after kissing my cheek. “Since none of us knew the gender gets we decided to make some onesies of the teams”

“Oh yeah, McLaren would look amazing on the baby” Lando smirked, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend's waist.

“Our baby will be a Ferrari baby, so no, we won't accept that onesie” I laughed.

“Oh, don't worry, we will put it on when we'll have to babysit, hm?” Violet smirked.

“Like hell I'll ask you to babysit my baby” Charles laughed looking at them, wrapping his arm around my waist and kissing my cheek.

“I never thought thatI would live to see that” Pierre laughed. “But I'm glad you two are finally together, really”

I smile looking at them, then at Charles. Them, our closest friends, know how much we fought, how many times we said that we hated each other.

“Anyway! Let's go to the backyard” I filed placing my hand on Charles' chest. “Everything is ready”

We all walked together, and I couldn't be happier. Our son will be surrounded by amazing people, a family of many people that will love him and help him with everything. And our friends will be there whenever we need them, taking care of him and loving him.

Charles stood beside me, his hand resting gently on my lower back. I glanced up at him, catching the hint of a smile playing on his lips. We both knew what was coming, and even though we had known the gender of our baby, this moment still felt monumental.

The table in front of us was adorned with candles and flowers, a perfect setting for what was about to unfold. At the center was a large, beautifully decorated cake. The outside was a neutral white, with a few little pink and blue flowers. But inside that was where the secret was hidden.

"Are you ready?" Charles whispered, his breath warm against my temple as he gently rubbed my back.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I whispered back, a smile playing on my lips as I reached for the knife, my hand trembling slightly with excitement.

As the knife slid through the layers, the hush that fell over the crowd made the moment feel even more surreal. We lifted the first slice, revealing the bright blue filling inside. Gasps and cheers echoed around us, and I couldn’t help but laugh, the joy bubbling up inside me.

“It’s a boy!” Pierre shouted, followed by all of the boys screaming excited.

Even though we had already known this, seeing everyone else’s reactions, sharing that moment with them, felt like we were experiencing it all over again. My mother rushed forward, her eyes shining with happy tears as she hugged me tight. Charles’ mother wasn’t far behind, wrapping her arms around both of us as she laughed through her tears.

"You've been carrying a little prince all this time," my mother said, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Yeah” I smile, hugging her, feeling tears blurring my vision. “A little prince”

Charles couldn’t stop smiling, his pride lighting up his face like the sun. He embraced Arthur and then Lorenzo, while his friends clapped him on the back, laughter and cheers mixing with the joyful chatter of my sisters.

“I knew it would be a boy!” my sister Soleil laughed, walking towards me with Erica and hugging me.

Charles turned back to me, his eyes meeting mine with that look I’d come to love so much. He reached out, taking my hand in his, squeezing it softly.

He took a step closer to me and pressed his lips on mine, kissing me softly and sweet, the kind of kiss that felt like sealing a promise. The cheers around us grew louder, but for a moment, it was just the two of us, wrapped in this incredible feeling of love and anticipation.

The celebration was everything I had hoped for and more. The sprawling garden of the Tuscany house was filled with laughter, love, and the scent of roses. Family and friends gathered around the long, beautifully decorated table, toasting to our baby boy.

Charles stood beside me all the time, his arm wrapped around my waist, his lips pressing soft kisses on my shoulder, temple and cheek.

But then, the mood shifted. A sudden hush fell over the group, and I noticed our friends turning, their smiles faltering into puzzled frowns. My pulse quickened as I followed their gaze, and that’s when I saw her.

“Melanie?” Charles frowned.

She stood at the entrance to the garden, her presence like a shadow creeping into the light of our perfect day. Her chocolate hair caught the evening sun, almost giving her a caramel glow, but her eyes were dark, filled with something that made my stomach twist. She was holding her stomach, her hand resting protectively over what was unmistakably a baby bump.

I felt Charles tense beside me, his hand tightening on my waist as his gaze zeroed in on her swollen belly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was low, filled with a mix of disbelief and anger, setting my nerves on edge as confusion swirled in my mind.

Melanie started walking toward us, her eyes never leaving mine. I could see something cruel flickering in her gaze, something that made my pulse race with anxiety.

“Congratulations, Dafne,” Melanie said, her voice sweet but full of venom. “It seems we both have some news to share.”

“What are you talking about” I frowned, swallowing thickly. I can't stop looking at her stomach.

My heart pounded in my chest as she shifted her hand on her belly, making her pregnancy even more obvious. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what she was implying. She couldn’t be…

“I’m pregnant too,” she announced, her gaze piercing through me before shifting to Charles. “You are going to be a dad twice, how lucky”

“W-what?” I mumbled, looking at Charles.

My knees wobbled, and I had to grab onto Charles to steady myself. The world around me began to spin, and I could barely hear the shocked gasps and whispers from our family. All I could focus on was the sickening reality that was crashing down on me.

“Dafne, don’t listen to her,” Charles mumbled, turning to me, his voice desperate. “She’s lying. I swear to you, she’s lying.”

I can't breathe. No, I can't. This can't be happening.

“She’s lying,” Charles insisted, his grip tightening on my arm, desperation lacing his voice. “Dafne, it’s not true...”

But the words barely registered. The edges of my vision blurred, the scene before me fading into a dizzying swirl of darkness. The last thing I saw was Melanie’s cold, triumphant smile before the world slipped away.

“Dafne!” Charles’ voice echoed in my mind as I felt myself slipping, my body giving in to the weight of the shock.

And then, nothing.

taglist

@racinggirl @elisysd @alltoomaples @ssprayberrythings @rach3164 @yvonne-dump @deliciousfestsalad @janeh22 @hc-dutch @ninifee1802 @kakorrhaphiphobia @ssararuffoni @itsjustkhaos @scaramou @tapedeck-hearts @sltwins @glitterquadricorn @ladystardust05 @theseerbetweenus @vizzzashley @auawdo @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @leptitlu @green-thots @caterinemirandax_ @mid5nights @harrysdimple05 @nofingjustaninchident

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jynzandtonic · 1 year ago

Note

Ooooo how would any/all of the boys react to turning 40???

*Sigh* 40 is a damn fine age. Please accept these snaccs:

Charlie Barber: Henry's all set up to stay with his cousins for the week so you two can get away to the little villa he's booked in Tuscany for the two of you. You'll have the whole time to drink red wine, make homemade pasta, and fuck in the sunshine on the deck off the master bedroom.

Clyde Logan: He feels so damn lucky to be alive, to be with you. Growin' up with Jimmy, two tours in Iraq, all his adventures and misadventures, and he's finally settled down with you and happy as can be. All he wants is to sit with ya on the porch swing and watch the sunset with a beer in hand—but he won't say no to the butterscotch cake ya baked him.

Adam Sackler: Can't really believe he's fuckin' forty. He promises to put some of his commercial money in an IRA and take enough of a break from acting for a little staycation to fuck on every surface of your apartment together.

Flip Zimmerman: You sure you don't want to have a baby, sugar?

Phillip Altman: Perpetual man child. He offers to get matching cougar tattoos with you.

Rick Smolan: Motorcycle tour of Vietnam together, letting you take photos on his DSLR while you ride on the back of his bike.

Ronnie Peterson: Cabo San Lucas with you and all your friends. He wants to drink daiquiris, sing karaoke, and maybe get a sunburn at a nude beach!

#adam sackler #clyde logan #charlie barber #rick smolan #flip zimmerman #phillip altman #officer ronnie peterson #adam sackler x reader #charlie barber x reader #clyde logan x reader #ronnie peterson x reader #rick smolan x reader #phillip altman x reader #flip zimmerman x reader #adcu #jyn z snaccs #jynzandtonic writes

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girlactionfigure · 9 months ago

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THURSDAY HERO: Gino Bartali

Born in a small town near Florence in 1914, Gino grew up extremely poor. He escaped his difficult life by riding his bike from dusk until dawn around the hills of Tuscany. Building up exceptional strength and endurance, Gino started competing and winning races. Only a few years after his first race, he went professional. By the early 1930’s, Gino was a household name throughout Italy. Everywhere he went he was mobbed by fans. When he won the Tour de France in 1938, at age 24, Gino was hailed as the “King of Cycling.”

Gino wasn’t able to defend his title at the 1939 Tour because of worsening relations between Italy and France. He was drafted into the army and worked as a military bike messenger. In 1943, Germany invaded Italy and immediately began rounding up and deporting Italian Jews. A friend of Gino’s asked him to help save their Jewish brethren. Though married and with a young son, Gino did not hesitate. He immediately committed to doing whatever he could to save lives, whatever the risk.

Gino sheltered a local Jewish family in an apartment he bought with cycling money. He then embarked on a dangerous mission smuggling fake identity papers around Tuscany and Umbria, enabling Jews to assume false identities and escape deportation. Using his training routes between Florence and Assisi, Gino made 30-40 trips, saving at least 800 Italian Jews. He carried exit visas in his bicycle frame. Wherever he went, Gino was surrounded by fans, preventing German policemen from looking too closely at what he was doing. On the few occasions he was stopped and searched, Gino insisted that his specially-made bike was too delicate to be touched. A devout Catholic, Gino often traveled from Florence to Assisi and back in one day – a 200 km trip. In Assisi, Catholic clergy ran an underground railroad to hide Jews and provided them with Gino’s fake identity documents.

Gino was extremely modest and rarely spoke about his wartime heroism. He once told his son, “If you’re good at a sport, they attach the medals to your shirts and then they shine in a museum. That which is earned by doing good deeds is attached to the soul and shines elsewhere.” It wasn’t until after his death in 2000 that his family began speaking publicly about what Gino had done. In 2013, Gino was honored by Israeli Holocaust Museum Yad Vashem as “Righteous Among the Nations.”

For using his talent and fame to save hundreds of lives, we honor Gino Bartali as this week’s Thursday Hero at Accidental Talmudist.

#Thursday Hero

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bullet-prooflove · 6 months ago

Note

also prompt 23 “A subtle kiss that no one sees” w Nolan Price? 💗 🙏

Tagging: @kmc1989 @topmagtiger @ireadfanfictionontheweekends @flopiboni @evee87

Following the ongoing storyline:

How We Met - Nolan reflects on your relationship.

Happy Birthday - Nolan doesn’t celebrate his birthday.

Lifetime - There’s no future for you and Nolan but that doesn’t stop you loving each other.

Légende (NSFW) - Nolan remembers the last time you were together.

Blood - You support Nolan in the immeadiate aftermath of the subway shooting.

Together - You and Nolan can’t be together and you can’t be apart.

Down With The Ship - You make a decision that changes everything for you and Nolan.

It’s at the Policeman’s Ball that Nolan sees you again. It’s been three months since you transferred out of the 21st Precinct and his life is beyond miserable. He spends most of his time at the office, working too much, drinking too much.

“Get out of here and have some fun.” Nick Baxter had told him when he slid the ticket to the event across the desk. “You look like you need it.”

He can’t imagine anything worse but he has to represent the DA’s office because Baxter’s shooting off to Tuscany tonight for the final leg of his wife’s European tour and it’s Sam’s sister’s anniversary.

It’s at the bar that he lays eyes on you, he’s just ordered a bourbon when he glances up and sees you standing there talking to Jalen Shaw, your old partner. You tip your head back and laugh and that sound, it cuts through him like a knife. He decides to leave because being in your proximity and not being with you, it just hurts too damn much.

It’s on the way from the cloakroom that he runs into you, he’s pulling on his coat and you’re heading in to collect yours. There’s a brief moment of physical contact as he reaches out to steady you and that’s all it takes. He finds himself in the bathroom, his hands in your hair as he fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. It’s raw, messy, your dress hiked up your hips, his trousers halfway down his thighs. His mouth covers yours, stifling your ecstasy as you climax all over his cock and that feeling, Christ there’s nothing like it.

“I give up.” He whispers, his thumb tracing over your flushed cheek. “I don’t need a marriage, I just need you.”

Love Nolan? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#nolan price #nolan price x reader #law and order #l&o

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inchidentally · 10 months ago

Text

that person has me blocked so I'm guessing I shouldn't link to the post but I got the picture from it (I tried finding the original source but just got a dead link to pinterest)

but god yes I would love to talk about Oscar's beautiful face, holy shit

I did a very small amount of research and apparently the primary region of Italy that's produced Piastris is Tuscany - which was also why I have my vampire AU of Fernando discovering Oscar as a youth in Renaissance era Florence and that's also where I have his family set for my F1 royalty AU.

and when you look up 'people from Tuscany' wowwww you can see how much Oscar's features come from there:

and like holy shit the expressions on Modigliani and Botticelli?? that is Oscar's proud little lift of the head and cool appraising eyes !!

idk the other people but they're the ones closest in particular to Oscar's features with the almost heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, soft and sleepy looking almond eyes, a high nose bridge that ends in a soft round tip. and apparently gorgeous hair is pretty common in Tuscany wowwwww.

but I think apart from the soft romantic looking eyes my favorite features - especially for his profile - are those straight brows on a very low brow ridge which tbh make the unwavering stare even more unnerving bc his eyes aren't hooded or shaded at all and the light always catches his eyes

and the little flat cursive 'm' of his mouth with lips that are actually pretty plush and sit in a pout when he isn't speaking

which actually also adds to his look being kind of unnerving because his lips don't thin out at all when he smiles they just stretch wider and look so pretty. the only time his face is disarmed is when he does a full body laugh (Lando gets that out of him a lot as we know). otherwise his expression settles back into that eerily beautiful look that apparently is very traditionally Tuscan.

so going back to that first image it's why I love the way softness and sweetness is in his nose and his pretty mouth but then it's set in this very fine but well-defined bone structure and then those intense eyes and straight eyebrows. it's why vampire Oscar works so well to me bc he has that seductive stare but his face is so pretty that you think he can't possibly be dangerous!

that's when he gets his sharp top and bottom biters into you

#inchreplies #this was so fun #ty anon #mine #vamposcar #op lore #my writing

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formulauno98 · 1 year ago

Text

Once Upon a Time in Mexico | Chapter Nine

Three months on from the French Grand Prix, life was going more smoothly, until yet another hurdle appeared. With your Dad coming to watch a race, the pressure was on to impress this weekend.

Word Count: 8.5k

Warnings: Some very mild smut

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer, purely fiction, no-one is married in this alt-universe.

Three months had passed since your fateful meeting with the HR department and the Board and as promised, you and Toto had kept your relationship on a strictly need-to-know basis. Bar the interview with Christian, the media had not picked up on your relationship and it seemed as if ultimately no one really cared.

That being said, there were still only a few members of the team who knew the full truth as you had decided it just didn’t need to be addressed within the workplace. Time and time again you wished wholeheartedly that Lara wasn't one of them but thankfully she had dialled down the sassy comments. You still didn't quite trust her and you couldn't put your finger on why.

Since the French Grand Prix there had been several more races as well as the Summer break. You had taken this moment of peace and quiet to get to know Toto even better, away from the office, having travelled to Tuscany together for a short break at the beginning of the Summer. Things were going swimmingly and you were falling more and more in love by the day. Toto was keen for you to meet his two children and had suggested you take advantage of the impending end of the season to come to Austria and spend some time with them. You were apprehensive but hopeful that you would get along with them, although you weren’t holding your breath as they were teenagers at the end of the day.

During the shutdown, Toto had taken them on holiday to Costa Rica on an outdoorsy jungle adventure whilst you went to Portugal on a girl's trip. Those two weeks were the longest that you'd been apart since the beginning of your romance and you were happy to be right back at his side when racing returned.

Across the races that had transpired between France and Mexico, Mercedes had managed to claw back the points difference that had been lost and were now neck and neck with their arch rivals Red Bull. Toto was trying his best not to show it but you could tell that he was extremely stressed on behalf of the entire team and the manic energy flowing out of his veins was palpable by the time you touched down in Mexico City.

Fortunately, you had a distraction, your father was finally coming to a race weekend and you were looking forward to showing him what you did for a living. The only apprehension that you did have was the fact that you hadn't told any of your family about Toto, knowing that they would disapprove of the large age gap not to mention the fact that he was a divorcee with two children that you were still yet to meet. You hoped that you could keep your relationship under wraps in front of your father as successfully as you did with the team.

FRIDAY AM

One positive about Mexico City was that you and Toto were able to share a room without anyone from the team being aware of it. The way that the hotel was laid out, in various buildings around a compound, meant that you could easily get around without being spotted. This meant that you’d spent the last two nights in Toto’s rather impressive suite, cuddled up to your favourite man.

This particular morning you'd woken up to find the bed empty, guessing that your boyfriend had gone off to the gym as he often did in the morning. To kill some time you scrolled through your phone, grimacing at the barrage of emails that had already come in for the day. Just as you were about to scratch the surface of your inbox, the door opened to reveal a very sweaty-looking Toto.

“Y/N,” he said breathily, “You will never guess what I just saw.”

“I'm not sure if I've got the energy to guess right now,” you said, stretching and yawning as you sat up in bed.

“Well I was crossing the bridge from the gym back into our building and I saw Christian Horner walking out from the other section of the hotel,” he said excitedly, his demeanour much like a kid waking up on Christmas.

“Okay, I know you and Christian have a really special relationship but I'm not sure if that's that exciting,” you said, still half asleep and not thrilled with the idea of sharing a hotel with the nasty Red Bull team principal who had publicly outed your romance just a few months earlier, jeopardising your entire professional reputation.

“No no but don't you see?” said Toto, “Red Bull are not staying in this hotel. Why would he be here first thing in the morning?”

Now you understood why Toto was so excited, “Oh gosh,” you said, “I didn't think about that, weird.”

“Exactly,” said Toto with a wild look in his eye, “I'm going to ask at the front desk which other teams are staying here. I know Red Bull are on the other side of town but I think Ferrari are here.”

“Damn, I can't believe you of all people found some juicy gossip,” you said, now fully sat up and awake.

“I know,” said Toto, crossing the room to lean down and kiss you.

“Ew, Toto, you’re kind of sweaty,” you said, recoiling as he dripped on you.

“Well then I have to make you sweaty,” he said playfully.

Batting him away jokingly, you replied, “Should I be worried that you see one glimpse of Christian early in the morning and you're this horny?”

Toto laughed, “Maybe, I am actually going to go down to the reception and ask them now while it’s still quiet.”

“Sure knock yourself out, I'll be waiting for you here.” you said, bemused at his enthusiasm, “I might jump in the shower if you want to join me when you are back?”

“I would very much like that.” he replied, kissing you once more, “Right I will see you in five minutes.”

At that, he swiftly exited the room, on a mission to find out what was going on.

You couldn't help but laugh, Toto and Christian had a very strange and complicated relationship where they went from throwing relatively harmless schoolboy insults at each other to hitting below the belt as Christian had done at the French Grand Prix. Christian was an unpleasant character and wasn’t friendly with many of their counterparts, whereas Toto had a few more friends in the paddock. This meant that Toto typically took the high road and didn't retaliate but the French Grand Prix had shown Christian's true colours and he’d been looking for a way to retaliate for months.

Crossing the soft beige carpet of your suite to the bathroom you picked up the clothes that you'd strewn across the room last night as you'd made frantic love to Toto. You smiled as you picked up his crumpled white Mercedes shirt, thinking about how far you'd come in a relatively short time.

Having tidied, you’d barely made it into the shower when Toto returned, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Y/N, it’s me, can I come in?" he called out.

You laughed at his perpetual politeness, “Of course, it would be rude not to. How was your mission?”

“Successful,” he said with a smug grin as he stripped off his gym kit and joined you under the steamy water.

“Oh yeah?” you asked as you turned around to face him.

“Yes,” he said, so excited by his news he wasn't even distracted by the fact that you were fully naked and lathered up in the shower. “The woman at the front desk said it's only Mercedes and Ferrari staying here.”

“Ooh, that is juicy!” you said, “So he was either seeing someone from our team or someone from Ferrari at seven in the morning in their room?”

“Exactly,” said Toto, the wild look back in his eye, “And the best part is we know everyone who is staying here so we can figure it out.”

“Check you, Sherlock Holmes,” you said laughing, “What shall we do?”

Toto stepped behind you wrapping his arms around you and palming your breasts as if it would help him with his predicament, “I can think of a few things.” he said.

“You have a one-track mind, Mr Wolff,” you said, “I meant about this Christian situation.”

“I have some ideas,” he replied, continuing to caress your breasts absentmindedly, “I think maybe we invite the team out tonight. We conquer and divide, maybe you can ask Rosie as well. She seems to always be on our side?”

“It’s divide and conquer,” you said, creasing up as his attempt at an English idiom, “But if I ask Rosie, then George will know by extension and he's not great at keeping secrets or being discreet.”

“But he kept ours?” wagered Toto, “I guess you’re right, let's keep it to just us.”

“I reckon,” you said, “Besides, my Dad is coming. So I need to keep him entertained too.”

Toto's wandering hands stopped dead, “Oh shit, I had almost forgotten.”

“Really?” you asked.

“Kind of.” he said guiltily, “I hope he likes me.”

“How could he not?” you said, “And anyway as far as he is concerned, you’re just my boss.”

Toto’s hands began moving again, “Your boss who you let shower with you?”

“Oh yeah, do you not shower with our other colleagues?” you said with a smirk, grinding yourself back, pressing your ass against Toto’s growing semi.

“Can’t say I do,” said Toto, growling, his hands now roaming lower, towards your sweet spot. “Turn around,” he added commandingly.

As you turned, you leant up to meet his lips with yours, always a stretch due to your height difference.

“Mmm.” he said, “Let me soap you up. Get you all clean.”

“Always so diligent,” you said.

“It’s the job of a Team Principal,” he said dead seriously, squeezing shower gel into his large hands and starting to meticulously lather your behind.

“Oh, so you do this for everyone on the team?” you said with a smirk.

“Only the hot ones,” he said, working his hands up your back and around to your stomach.

“Oh, so Lewis too?” you said, laughing.

“You're such a nightmare,” he said, “I’ll have to teach you a lesson.” With that he bent down to kiss you once more, pushing his fully hard length into your stomach.

Just as you were starting to lose yourself in your lover’s arms, you were snapped out of the trance by a loud buzz.

“Fuck, what was that?” you said, as you jumped apart.

“I think it’s the door.” Toto said, stepping to one side, “I’ll go and check. God help whoever it is. Stay here.”

As Toto wrapped a towel around his waist and made his way out of the bathroom, you shut the water off and wrapped yourself in a large towel, padding over to where he’d left the door open just a crack.

“Rosie.” you could hear Toto saying, his tone surprised.

“Hi Toto, I am so sorry to bother you this early but I tried texting Y/N and heard nothing. There’s something you both need to see. I tried her room but figured she may be here with you but don’t worry, if not I can just show you.” Rosie rambled, clearly nervous.

“No, no come in, she’s just in the bathroom,” said Toto.

Guessing this was your cue to come out, you opened the door.

“Hey Rosie,” you said sheepishly, well aware of how it looked, with you and Toto wearing nothing but towels.

“I am so so sorry to have interrupted,” said Rosie awkwardly.

“It’s fine, we were just getting ready.” you said, “What’s up?”

Rosie sighed, “The press have got wind of you two, the Daily Mail has a photo of you kissing and they’re going to run it on Saturday.”

“Scheiße!” exclaimed Toto, sitting down on one of the lounge chairs in the living area of his suite.

“How do you know?” you asked Rosie, as you followed him through to the living area.

“We got a request for a comment from the journalist and I'm so sorry I only just picked it up because of the time difference,” said Rosie apologetically, as you paced up and down.

“Fuck, what are we going to do?” you said, stopping your pacing and turning to Toto.

“How should I know?” he replied, “You're the Director of Communications, that's why I hired you.”

“Touché,” you said “Well I think that what we should do is sit tight and see how this pans out. It might be a case that the story will be three-quarters of the way down the sidebar of shame and no one picks it up or thinks anything of it.”

“That's true,” said Rosie empathetically, “Sometimes these things don't take off in the sensational way that the journalists hope.”

“I certainly hope so.” said Toto, his tone serious, “But I know who will care about it.”

“Did they send the photo?” you asked Rosie.

“Yes, they did. Let me show you,” said Rosie, taking out her phone.

Glancing at Toto, you grimaced, wondering where this photo could have been taken. You hoped it hadn’t been in Tuscany as there was no denying it was a romantic holiday and you’d gotten carried away on your romantic picnics more than once.

“Here it is,” said Rosie, bending down to show Toto as he sat in his chair.

“Scheiße!” Toto exclaimed once again, “That was by the factory after we met with HR and the board.”

“Can I see?” you said moving closer.

“Sure,” Rosie replied, moving her phone across so that you could take a look.

Sure enough, it was blurry but it was undoubtedly you and Toto walking along the river bank after you had your meeting, cups of coffee in hand. To make matters worse, it wasn't just one photo, it was a series, one looking like you are deep in discussion, one with your hand on Toto’s chest and then the final one was him leaning down to kiss you.

You made a face at Rosie which she exchanged.

“Look it's obviously not great,” you said, “But honestly I think people don't care that much. Look at what happened after Christian tried to out us to Sky, no one cared. I just worry that the board will see this especially because it's near the workplace.”

“But do they know that it’s near the factory?” said Rosie, “It's not that obvious where that is if you don't know where it is. If that makes sense?”

“Robert will know,” interjected Toto, “I've taken him there for a coffee before.”

“Shit.” you said, “Although to the outside world, we're not wearing our uniforms it could just be any day.”

“That's true,” said Toto, “At least they can't say that we're bringing shame on the brand.”

“I'm so sorry guys,” said Rosie, standing back up and putting her phone away. “If there's anything I can do to help let me know. I’ll leave you alone now and again, I'm so sorry for coming to disturb you so early.”

Standing up from the chair, obviously feeling awkward about the fact he was only wearing a towel, Toto said kindly, “No, thank you, Rosie, I appreciate you coming to us. I'm sorry for not being so presentable this morning, I just got back from the gym.”

“Yes, thank you, Rosie, honestly it's good to have a heads up about things like this. At least we can start to think of a game plan,” you said kindly, “And again sorry that we're not quite ready.”

“Don't be silly,” said Rosie, “I'm just sorry that it was early and that I was the bearer of bad news.”

“It's okay, we'll figure something out,” you said as Rosie made her way back out of your suite. “Thanks again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“See you later,” said Rosie as she closed the door behind her.

“Are we ever going to get a break?” Toto asked as he sat down on the bed still only wearing a towel.

“Unfortunately, I think not,” you said, “If it gets to the Board again obviously I will go, please don't jeopardise your life for me. You've worked so hard for so long to build this team up, it would be stupid to throw it all away just because of something silly.”

“It's not silly when it's you,” he said very seriously, looking you in the eyes, his dark eyes flashing intensely.

“You know what I mean,” you said, settling down beside him on the bed and putting an arm around his shoulder.

“The thing I don’t understand is how there are so many photos. Why would a paparazzi be at the factory on a random Monday?” Toto said, leaning into you.

“I agree, it is suspicious. I am going to ask around and see if someone will name the source,” you replied, trying to reassure him.

At that, he managed a small smile, “Thank you. Do you want to finish in the shower and I'll come in afterwards? I love you but I'm not really in the mood now.”

“Don't be silly, we can still go together. We don't have to fill every moment with sex. I'm happy to just have a shower with you,” you said.

Toto flopped his head down on your shoulder in agreement, “Sure let's do it.”

FRIDAY PM

Having wrapped a successful Free Practice, you were now back in Toto’s hotel room, frantically deciding a game plan for the evening’s dinner. The news story Rosie had rushed to tell you about was due to come out in the early hours as it was running on Saturday morning UK time, and you just hoped no one would see it while you were all out. On top of that, Toto was still insistent on going through with his madcap scheme to find out what Christian was doing in your hotel that morning.

The team had been surprised by your sudden insistence to go out last minute on a Friday night but seemed enthusiastic about going for tacos and margaritas. You’d managed to convince most of the team to come along and ulterior motives aside, it was always nice to build some team spirit.

Crazy schemes aside, you also had to contend with the fact that your Dad was coming to join you for drinks after dinner, having landed in Mexico City that afternoon.

“So, what do I say to him?” asked Toto as he buttoned up his blue linen shirt beside you in the bathroom.

You sighed, “Nothing, you’re my boss, that’s all he knows. Say boss things.”

“I don’t like it.” said Toto, “But I’ll play along.”

“Good.” you said, kissing him on the cheek, “I just know he’ll be dramatic about his little girl dating a big scary man and we don’t need more drama this weekend.”

“Big and scary?” said Toto, raising an eyebrow, “I’m not sure I am big or scary.”

“Have you seen yourself?” you asked.

“You know what I mean.” he said, “I hope the team doesn't feel weird that I’m coming tonight.”

“I think you have a complex about this.” You said, “They love it when you participate.”

“I doubt this,” said Toto, tightlipped and unconvinced.

———

The atmosphere in the restaurant was jovial, with the team in high spirits after a successful Free Practice. It was a good turn out and Lewis and George had even joined for the evening, much to the team’s pleasure. Toto had been correct in his assumptions that people would be thrown off that he was joining you but it wasn’t long before the margaritas were flowing and they began to let loose, not worried about what their boss would think.

You’d divided up, working the tables to make sure you spoke to everyone in the team, casually dropping the fact that you were sharing the hotel with Ferrari here and there, hoping that someone might talk. It wasn’t long before you struck gold, with Bella.

“It must be nice being in the same hotel for once, no?” you asked, knowing that her husband, Gio, worked for Ferrari.

“Yeah, it almost never happens!” she said brightly, “Who do I need to speak to for us to always stay together?”

You laughed, before trying to subtly dig some more, “I guess the travel department but Ferrari would have to agree too. I’m not averse to it personally, I’d rather see them around than the Red Bull lot.”

Bella nodded in agreement before dropping her voice, “Yeah but do you not know about Christian Horner?”

“Huh?” you asked, playing dumb, “What do you mean?”

Bella looked around as if scared someone would overhear her in the loud restaurant, “He’s seeing one of the PR girls at Ferrari, Gio saw them a few weeks ago and he must have been in our hotel last night. We saw him creeping out this morning.”

You tried your best to feign shock, “No way! Isn’t he married as well?”

“Yup.” said Bella, pulling a face, “Nice guy right?”

“Indeed.” you said, “His poor wife. Although, actually, scrap that, if I was married to him, I’d be encouraging him to go off and find someone else.”

Bella laughed, sipping her margarita once again, “Same to be honest. They’re all whispering about it at Ferrari. I think they’re worried he’s doing it for information.”

“Oh really?” you asked, trying to catch Toto’s eye to signal that you’d uncovered what he was looking for, “But what does this girl look like? I’m sure he’s just a horny old man.”

“That’s true, she’s much younger than him, pretty and a redhead, so just his type.”

“Oof,” you said, finally managing to catch Toto’s eyes and winking at him.

Never one to miss a trick, Bella whipped her head around to see who you were winking at. “I still swear he has a thing for you, you know.”

Playing coy, you laughed it off, “Nah, he’s just goofy.”

“You like that though,” said Bella cheekily.

“I do like him, but just as a colleague,” you said, “I’m glad he’s our boss and not that slimeball Christian.”

“Me and you both,” replied Bella.

Just as you raised your glass once more you clocked a familiar face coming into the restaurant, “Bella, you’ll have to excuse me, my Dad has just arrived!” you said excitedly, “I’ll just go and say hi and bring him around to say hello to everyone.”

“Ah lovely, I’m looking forward to it,” said Bella, turning to chat with her colleagues who were sitting on the other side of her.

Crossing the restaurant, you were nervous, your Dad had never visited you at work before and you weren’t sure what he’d make of your increasingly rowdy colleagues.

“Mi hija!” he exclaimed loudly as he spotted you making your way towards him.

“Papa!” you said, warmly embracing him. It had been a while since you’d seen your father, having only gone home for Christmas, “How was the flight?”

“Good thank you,” he said, “How are you? How was the free practice?”

“Good thanks, it went well. I’m excited for tomorrow and so excited you’re finally coming to a race.” you said, “Do you want to meet my colleagues?”

You’d spotted Toto immediately clocking your father and straightening his collar. You couldn’t help but smile, clearly meeting the parents was nerve-wracking at any stage in life.

“Sure,” replied your Dad with a wide grin, “I want to meet the famous Rosie.”

Smiling that he remembered your friend’s name, you clocked Rosie, lurking in the corner with George and a few other members of the press team. Making your way over you spied Toto getting up to come over and join you.

“Hey guys, there’s someone I’d like you all to meet, this is my Dad!” You said, “Dad, this is Rosie, George, Olivia and Emily.”

“Nice to meet you, we’ve heard so much about you!” said Rosie, immediately leaping up to say hello. George followed suit, shaking your Dad’s hand and exchanging pleasantries before a scared look in his eye told you that Toto was standing somewhere behind you.

“Hey Toto,” said George nervously, clearly not sure if your Dad knew about your relationship.

“Oh Dad, this is Toto, our boss,” you said, turning around to allow Toto to make his introduction.

“Hello, so lovely to meet you finally,” said Toto, flashing a grin as he shook your Dad’s hand, “Your daughter is a superstar.”

“Likewise,” your Dad said, clearly pleased by Toto’s words, “I know, you’re very lucky to have her.”

“Believe me I know it,” said Toto, looking over at you adoringly. “Can I get you a drink at all?”

“That would be great, I’ll come with you to the bar,” replied your Dad, slapping Toto on the shoulder, despite the fact he was a good foot shorter, “Mi hija, would you like anything?”

“Can I please have another piña colada?” you asked.

“Of course, can I get anyone else anything?” your Dad asked, turning back towards Rosie and crew.

“We’re good for the moment but thank you,” Rosie replied.

At that, you watched nervously as your Dad and Toto disappeared off towards the bar. Settling down beside Rosie and George, you checked that Olivia and Emily were deep in conversation before saying “Eek I’m nervous.”

“Does he know?” asked George.

“Nope, we decided it’s better to go with he’s just my boss for now.”

“Oooh.” said George, “Well you need to tell Toto to stop making googly eyes at you, he’s so obvious about it these days.”

“I think that will be the least of our problems after tomorrow,” you said furtively, glancing at Rosie.

“I’m sure it will be fine.” she replied kindly, “As we said, no one really cares.”

“Hmm,” you said unconvinced.

———

As the night went on, drinks were now freely flowing and you could see some of your colleagues were too far gone. The younger mechanics always pushed it too hard and you were worried they’d be hungover and grumpy for quali the next day.

Your Dad was deep in conversation with Rosie and George and you spied Toto leaning against the wall, chatting to the senior engineers. Making your way over, you gently tapped him on the arm.

“Hey Y/N, how are you? The guys were just saying how much they like your Dad,” said Toto.

“Aw that’s sweet, I think he’s loving it!” you said, looking over to where he was now dragging Rosie up to start dancing.

“I can see that,” replied Toto. “Do you think we should try and wrap things up?”

“That’s why I came over.” you said, “Shall I do our usual trick?”

“Good idea,” said Toto, winking at you as his companions looked blankly, “You’ll see,” he said, turning to them.

You smiled as you sauntered over to the bartender. Having booked the restaurant out entirely you could easily call it a night.

“Hey, I know this is unorthodox but do you think we could do a last call? I don’t want everyone to be hungover tomorrow,” you said.

“Sure,” said the bartender, “Although I think it might be too late.”

As if on cue, you spotted Mo falling over his chair as he tried to get up. Sighing, you replied, “Maybe.”

Rejoining Toto, who was now standing alone, checking his emails and looking grumpy, you discreetly whispered, “I have the juicy gossip by the way.”

He perked up immediately, “No one was cracking, who is it?”

“Good news, none of our lot.” you said smiling, “He’s knocking off one of the PR girls at Ferrari.”

“How did you find out?” he said, his eyes lit up.

“Bella,” you said with a smirk.

“This is good,” said Toto, “I can use this.”

“Jesus, you’re as bad as he is,” you said. “I’ll tell you everything later, yeah?”

“So you’re coming back to mine?” he said excitedly, just as the last call bell rang.

“Of course.” you said, “But we need to be careful with my Dad. And on that note, what were you talking about with him at the bar?”

“Just chatting,” said Toto, folding his arms smugly.

“Sure,” you said suspiciously.

———

Having rounded up the troops, the team were now merrily making their way back towards the hotel. Thankfully it was just a short walk and you were happy to see your Dad getting stuck in and chatting away to anyone who would listen.

Toto was walking ahead with Bono and Lewis, deep in conversation about the coming weekend so you rushed to catch up with your Dad.

“Hey stranger,” you said, looping your arm through his.

“How are you my love?” he asked, “Your colleagues are very nice.”

“I’m glad you like them, it’s my favourite part of the job.” you said, “They were all excited to meet you so I’m sure you’ll be spoiled all weekend.”

“Yes, George said I can sit in the garage.” your Dad said smugly, “And Toto, he’s quite something no?”

“Did he now?” you said laughing, “Well it’s actually my decision who sits in the garage as a guest so I’ll be having words with George. But yes Toto is lovely.”

“He is in love with you.” said your Dad, turning to you on a more serious note.

“Huh?” you asked, taken aback by his frank admission.

“He only has eyes for you.” he said, “When we were at the bar he kept glancing over at you. Trust me I know these things. You could do a lot worse mi hija.”

Feeling guilty that your Dad was right on the money you sighed, “Well then, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Your Dad smiled, “I knew it. Just be careful, he is a little old for you.”

Smiling, you replied, “I will be. He was so nervous to meet you.”

“I could tell,” your Dad replied, “He kept telling me how brilliant you were at the bar and that he hoped you would work together forever.”

You laughed, “How romantic.”

“I could tell what he really meant.” said your Dad dryly, “He will have to meet your mother though.”

“I know.” you said shyly, “I hope she likes him too.”

“Of course, she will. You look so happy mi hija, I haven’t seen you glowing like this in a long time.”

‘Thanks, Papa,” you said, kissing him on the cheek. “Just so you know, only a few of our colleagues know so please keep it quiet.

“Of course.” he replied, “It’s wise in the workplace.”

Having reached your hotel, it was time to say goodnight, “I will come and meet you in the morning and we can go to the track together?”

“Sounds good, sleep well and thank you again for inviting me,” he replied, grinning widely.

SATURDAY AM

Waking up on quali day, you were very content with how the following evening had gone. Toto had been thrilled by the fact that you’d confessed your relationship to your Dad and that he semi-had his blessing. Snuggling into Toto’s broad chest, you were so comfortable that you almost forgot the shitshow that was going to greet you when you checked your emails.

Leaning up to kiss Toto’s neck you could sense he was stirring awake.

“Morning,” you said, kissing him once more.

“Morning,” he replied sleepily, clutching you closer into his chest and kissing the top of your head.

Knowing that you had to face reality as quickly as possible like a band-aid being ripped off, you extracted yourself from Toto’s vice-like grip.

“No cuddles?” he said, now wide awake and put out.

“I need to check my emails,” you said, sitting bolt upright and reaching for your phone.

“Oh shit,” said Toto, rubbing his eyes.

“Indeed,” you said.

You didn’t have to look far to find the article, it was the top search result for Mercedes AMG Petronas this morning, the glaring headline reading “LOVE IN THE PADDOCK, MERCEDES TEAM BOSS TOTO WOLFF COSIES UP TO YOUNG COLLEAGUE.”

Groaning you scrolled down the article, they’d gone in heavy on the fact that Toto was two decades your senior and that he was your boss.

“What does it say?” asked Toto, sitting up in bed and putting on his glasses.

“The tone is not great,” you said, continuing to read. “But it’s not very long and mostly just the photos.”

“Okay, so what do we do?” Toto asked.

“I think we let it be, I’m sure it won’t go far,” you said, hoping you were correct.

“Fuck,” said Toto, now checking his phone.

“What’s wrong?

“Robert has put in a meeting.” he sighed, bringing his palm to his face.

“Shit, when?”

“After quali.”

It wasn’t often that Toto looked nervous but he was looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Look, like I said, if he gives you a hard time, I will go,” you said bluntly.

“I don’t want you to,” said Toto, equally as bluntly.

“He’ll push for it,” you said.

“I’ll push back.”

“I know you will,” you said, reaching across and putting your arm around Toto. “But like I said, don’t jeopardise this for me. It’s a job for me at the end of the day. You built this team, it is what it is thanks to you and I wouldn’t ever forgive myself if anything came in the way of that.”

Toto pondered silently, obviously mulling things over. “Let’s see.”

———

Unfortunately, as your colleagues had started to wake up, your phone had started to blow up with messages asking what was going on.

Omg, Y/N! I knew it. Hope you are okay, the Daily Mail is brutal.

It was Bella. Then came a message from Tom.

Sheesh Y/N, no wonder you’re always smiling these days. I expect a full juicy debrief asap.

Not having the energy to reply yet you turned your phone off, turning to Toto.

“Everyone is asking me what’s going on,” you said flatly.

Toto sighed, “Well maybe it’s time to come clean. I don’t like lies in the team.”

“I guess,” you said, laying your head on his chest.

“Look, I know that you still feel everybody's going to think that you're trying to sleep your way to the top,” said Toto, “But you've more than proven yourself at this point. No one can possibly think that. Just that you're crazy for going out with me.”

“I hope so,” you replied, “Stop saying that, people will think that you're the crazy one for going out with me.”

“As if,” Toto snorted, “They’ll be jealous of me.”

You rolled your eyes, “I doubt this highly.”

“Let’s wait and see,” said Toto, leaning over for a kiss, pinning you down in between his strong arms.

SATURDAY PM

Quali had gone even better than you had dared hope, with Lewis and George obtaining P1 and P2. Despite the sore heads from last night's shenanigans, drinks were flowing once more in the garage as the team celebrated the first front-row lockout of the season.

Nowhere to be seen, however, was your affable boss. Toto had slunk off to his office to take his meeting with Robert, barely raising a smile at your drivers’ valiant efforts. Now that your relationship was common knowledge, you felt in a way that a weight was off of your shoulders, however, now the pressure was on.

“Where’s Toto?” asked Rosie, as you stood nervously in the garage, not participating in the celebrations as you awaited his return.

“Long story,” you said.

Rosie looked a little shocked at your glum demeanour, “I hope everything is okay.”

“Thanks.” you said, “I’m going to head to my office for a bit, can you please keep an eye on my Dad?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, looking concerned.

As you wove your way through the garage and down the paddock to your office you were a bundle of nerves. You loved your job almost as much as you loved Toto and it would kill you to give it up after the huge amount of work you’d put in over the last eighteen months. But in your heart, you knew you would never forgive yourself if Toto put his neck on the line for you as this was his team at the end of the day.

You grabbed an espresso before settling down at your desk in your office, desperately trying to distract yourself with your inbox. You could hear Toto murmuring next door but not loudly enough for you to pick out any words. Furiously typing a reply to an email, you heard his chair roll back and the door creak open.

A gentle knock on your door, “Y/N, I can hear you typing. Can I come in?”

“Sure,” you said, feeling awkward that he knew you had been trying to listen in.

Closing the door behind him, a serious-looking Toto crossed the space to sit on the sofa in your small office.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise I was that loud,” you said, embarrassed.

“No, not at all, I like it, I always know you’re close by,” he said, folding his arms. “Look, Robert is not happy with me but I managed to talk him around.”

“Really?” you said, eyes bright.

“Don’t get too excited, there is a but. He asked that you stay out of the spotlight, so no more press conferences, no more TV, no more media appearances, no more attending sponsorship events on behalf of the team.”

“That’s the but?” you asked incredulously, “Honestly, I’m fine with that.”

Toto smiled, “I know. But I pushed back.”

“Why?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

“Because whether you believe it or not, you are a huge asset to the team. I told him that you will continue your day-to-day role, and the fact that you are my girlfriend is incidental. And that one day you’ll be my wife and he’ll have to get used to it.”

Your mouth fell open. Wife? “Well, thank you, and he was okay with that?”

“He has to be,” he said bluntly.

At that you hopped up, making your way around your desk to lean down and give him a lingering kiss, his large hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you down onto his lap.

“Toto!” you squealed, “This is my office!”

“I know, and I also know no one will be up here for at least the next ten minutes,” he said with a smirk, pulling your hips down closer to his, his hands creeping up your now untucked team shirt. Sighing, you gave in, kissing him back voraciously and running your hands through his hair.

With your luck, it was only inevitable that at that very moment, there was a knock on your door.

Leaping up, you straightened your shirt and Toto tried to fix his ruffled hair.

“Hello, Y/N, are you there?” It was Rosie.

“Hey Rosie, yes, sure come in,” you said.

As the door opened to reveal a startled-looking Rosie who had caught onto what she was interrupting, she stuttered, “I can come back later. I’m sorry…”

“No, don’t be silly, I was just leaving,” said Toto, getting up from the sofa and flashing a grin at your flustered colleague.

“Oh okay,” she said.

“See you later Toto,” you said.

“See you,” he replied, closing the door behind him.

“I am SO sorry.” said Rosie, “I need to stop interrupting you guys.”

You laughed, “Don’t worry, he was just updating me on the Daily Mail situation.”

Rosie looked sceptical, “Sure, sure. I just came up to check if everything was okay. You looked super sad in the garage. And before you panic, George is with your Dad.”

“Thanks, Rosie,” you said, “I was worrying, but it seems to have been for nothing.”

Appeased by your cheerful tone, Rosie replied, taking a seat on the sofa, “I’m glad to hear that, I knew Toto would handle it. He’s always been good at smoothing things over.”

“I hope so,” you said, gazing off into nowhere. “I guess I should head back down, and rescue George.”

“He’s fine, he’s loving the attention.” said Rosie, “You know what he’s like, a sixty-year-old man in a twenty-something-year-old body. They’re kindred spirits.”

You laughed, “That’s true.”

“I’m sorry again about this morning, when Toto opened the door in a towel I was mortified,” Rosie said, looking nervous.

“Oh gosh don’t worry, I think he was more embarrassed than you.” you said reassuringly, “And for the record, we genuinely were just getting ready.”

“Still embarrassing.” said Rosie, “Although for the record, damn, he’s in good shape. I always thought he would be but sheesh.”

Laughing, you replied, “He’s alright I guess. And you can talk, George with his washboard abs.”

“Let’s see how long they last into retirement,” said Rosie wistfully.

“Ooh things are that serious?” you asked.

“I hope so, he asked me about maybe getting engaged soon,” Rosie said, looking down at her feet.

“Oh my gosh, Rosie this is big!” you leapt up from your desk, “I knew it.”

Rosie looked pleased, “Let’s see.”

“Shall we head back down?” you asked, “I came up here to answer some urgent emails and managed to smash through them.”

“Sure,” said Rosie, standing up.

———

A few hours later, the team were wrapping for the evening in an attempt to get an early night ahead of the race. Your Dad had already gone back to his hotel to freshen up for dinner leaving you alone with Toto once again.

Wandering through the paddock you were conscious that rival teams were now aware of your relationship and you hoped they wouldn’t take too much notice. As you walked side by side you were suddenly greeted by a loud wolf whistle.

“Ooooh, look at the happy couple!” It was Christian Horner, looking smug as usual, swaggering up to you from within the Red Bull hospitality area.

“Good evening Christian,” said Toto frostily.

“Toto.” said Christian, nodding slightly, “Y/N. How’s wedded bliss? I heard you were getting frisky in the factory recently.”

Sensing Toto’s body clenching beside you, you tried to diffuse the situation in the only language that Christian would understand, sarcasm, “Yes, all day every day, right in the middle of the boardroom.”

“You’re a lucky bastard, Toto,” said Christian, “How does the phrase go, you’re only as old as the woman you feel?”

Toto looked livid, replying angrily, “Well I heard you’re fond of a little Italian.”

The blood draining from his face, Christian fought to compose himself before replying nonchalantly, “And?”

Toto’s eyes narrowed, “I’m not sure your wife would be thrilled by the news.”

Looking defeated, Christian threw his hands up before backing away, “You’re a sly bastard, I’ll give you that. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you,” you said through gritted teeth, Toto still raging beside you.

Making your way towards the car park you turned to Toto, “He really is a piece of shit.”

“One hundred per cent.” replied Toto, “I hate bowing down to his level but he went too far last time.”

Stroking Toto’s arm lightly you tried to calm him down, “Oh, you got him good this time. He’ll leave us alone now, I’m sure of it.”

Toto’s brow furrowed, he was unconvinced. “I hope so.”

“I know so.” you said confidently, “By the way, I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of who sold the photographs to the Daily Mail and every source is a dead end. I think it has to be someone at the factory.”

Toto’s eyebrows shot up, “At the factory.”

“Well yes,” you paused, explaining, “It’s not always a paparazzi who provide images to tabloids, sometimes they buy them from a private individual.”

“But who would do that?” asked Toto.

“I can think of someone,” you said.

“Lara?” he asked, on your wavelength.

“I think so. She’s been suspiciously nice to me recently,” you replied, having finally reached the car that would take you back to your hotel. Sliding into the back seat beside Toto, you turned to him, “How has she been with you?”

“The same as always,” mused Toto, covering your hand with his.

“I just don’t get her,” you said quietly, aware that the driver could hear every word.

“I know.” said Toto, “I will do some digging tomorrow if I have time.”

“Well it’s race day so don’t get too distracted,” you said. “We can find out next week when we’re back home.”

“True.” said Toto, “On that note, I wondered if you would like to come to mine for dinner on Wednesday next week?”

Surprised by his invitation as you were yet to go to his place in England, you replied, “Ooh yes, I’m curious.”

“It’s nothing special but I’d like to cook for you,” he said sweetly.

“I’d love that,” you said, looking at him lovingly, “And after you said that about your house in Monaco, I’m not sure if I believe you.”

Toto smirked, “No, the Monaco place is nicer. But this place is cosy.”

Already envisioning cuddling up on the sofa, you couldn’t wait.

SUNDAY PM

As usual, race day flew by at an alarming pace, with you feeling as if you’d barely sat down in the garage when the chequered flag was waving. It was a double podium finish with Lewis taking P1 and George P2, a success that meant Mercedes were now even with Red Bull as constructors.

The team were elated and Toto had rallied the team to meet in the garage post-race, your Dad included. He’d had the time of his life this weekend and fortunately for you, with your demanding schedule, the team had doted on him constantly.

Standing in the garage beside Toto, you could tell that there were once again some curious glances being shot towards you. As more of the team gathered, Toto made his way across to you, sidling up beside you and bending down to whisper in your ear, “I’m going to tell them.”

You turned to him surprised, “Are you sure, is it not kind of weird?”

“No, it will be fine trust me,” he said, winking at you and walking towards the bar.

“Gather around everybody, there are a few words I would like to say,” said Toto, immediately commanding the attention of the team, the chatter instantly dying down. “First of all, I want to congratulate each and every one of you for today’s incredible effort and the results. We are now equal with Red Bull in the Constructor’s Championship and have the possibility of overtaking them.” He paused as the team applauded and cheered, “I’d like to say a special thank you to Lewis and George for their drives today, as well as our engineers and technicians who worked so tirelessly to gain us these crucial tenths of a second.”

“Thanks guys!” interjected Lewis, who was standing on the edge of the garage, listening in.

“Yes, thank you, couldn’t have done it without you,” said George cheerfully.

Toto laughed, “And as always thank you to everybody else in the team who makes these weekends possible.” he paused before glancing over at you, “I am also sure that many of you may have seen the story in the press about Y/N and I. As we are a team, I do not want secrets and I wanted you all to know that it is true, we have been seeing each other romantically for quite some time now.”

Murmurs echoed around the garage as heads turned around to look at you. Shrinking back behind the hulking figure of Bono, you had never felt more embarrassed in your life, until Lewis broke the tension with a cheeky wolf whistle.

“Ooohhh, tell us something we don’t know boss,” he said with a glint in his eye. “Just make sure you invite us all to the wedding yeah?”

Toto blushed and continued, “I just wanted you all to know straight from the horse’s mouth… is that the right phrase?” he looked at you pleadingly.

“Yes.” you said laughing, “For once.”

The team broke into laughter as your boss often confused English phrases and you always ended up correcting him.

“Thank you. Anyway, now that is out in the open, I hope you will join us in celebrating this weekend tomorrow evening at the factory.” Toto was beaming, clearly relieved to have got the news off of his chest, “Again, thank you to every one of you, this weekend has been good.”

Applause followed before the team started to mill about, some staying to pack up and others rushing off to the airport to make their flight. Fortunately, you would be taking the jet a little later so had no need to run yet.

Making his way towards you, Toto was smiling widely, his dimples out in full force. “Well that was easy,” he said.

“Worst kept secret in the paddock if you ask me,” said Bono, turning to you both, “Joking aside, I’m happy for you both.”

“Thank you, Bono,” you replied, wrapping your arm around him, “I’m happy too.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the engineer said, “Toto, this girl is special, you’re a lucky guy.”

“Believe me, I know,” said Toto, beaming down at you.

Through the throng of people your Dad emerged, walking straight up to Toto and slapping his hand on his shoulder, “Well that was interesting, young man.” he said.

Toto looked a little embarrassed, “I hope you didn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said your Dad, “If Y/N is happy, I’m happy. But you do need to come and meet my wife soon.”

“Dad…” you shot daggers at him, not wanting to make Toto uncomfortable.

“It would be a pleasure,” replied Toto. “Y/N is coming to Austria during the Winter break to meet my family so maybe we can come then too.”

“Perfect,” said your Dad, clapping his hands together and turning to you, “Your mother will be thrilled.”

Shaking your head, you couldn’t help but hope that this meant Toto was serious about your relationship. The casual comments about becoming his wife and the declarations of love pointed that way but you didn’t want to get your hopes up.

“Great,” you replied, “We’ll come in December sometime then.”

“Check with your Mother though!” said your Dad, backtracking slightly.

“Always,” you said with a wink, knowing full well that she ran things in the house.

“Right, well I think we had better head off no?” said Toto, conscious that you had a plane to catch.

“Indeed, you said,” leaning towards your Dad to say goodbye and thank him for coming. It had been a great weekend all around, both professionally and personally. As he bid farewell to Toto you had a newfound respect for your charismatic boyfriend. Your father was not an easy man to win over and he’d done it in a matter of minutes.

In the hubbub of the garage, what you failed to notice was the same pair of eyes that had watched you on and Toto the river bank, this time angry.

#formula one x reader #toto wolff fanfic #f1 x reader #fanf1ction #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #f1 fanfic #onceuponatimein...

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strawberrysainz · 2 years ago

Text

strawberrysainz’s playlist 🍓💌

i write for charles, george, lance, max, mick, lewis, carlos and lando. 🍓

charles leclerc 🧸

pretty visitors at carlos and isa’s wedding, you find charles.

romanticism being charles’ assistant is a piece of work.

secret garden the wine causes you to think the unthinkable in tuscany.

holocene your last day in london together.

about you. snippets of how you become slowly intertwined.

racing in the street it’s been a dream of his that’s evaded him for many years, winning the monaco grand prix…

carlos sainz jr 🌶️

paradise maybe you shouldn’t have asked your newly single, very attractive childhood best friend to that event. oh well.

lando norris 🎱

before i fall apart you, lando, a night in amsterdam, and the morning after.

moon river fwb never ends up as intended.

picture you a particularly lovely day in london with your beloved boyfriend. plus, you can’t get enough of each other.

max verstappen 🦁

i can see you toto wolff’s daughter and a forbidden romance.

supercut of us ew, max joins the group holiday. but there’s an underlying urge to pull him into your bed. xoxo

lewis hamilton 🧿

are we there? some dreams, a season and much else causes you to have a revelation.

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 11 months ago

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Hello, I hope you're well.

I've always wondered why Alice couldn't have gone to Volterra on her own at the end of New Moon to stop Edward? Couldn't she have gone to Forks, seen and spoken to Bella, gone and found Edward and shown him her thoughts? I vaguely remember Alice saying something along the lines of Edward not believing anyone apart from Bella, but I imagine Alice would've been faster if she didn't spend the time taking Bella along too. And surely sending Bella to sprint through Volterra while Alice sorted out the car wasn't the fastest option available?

I imagine Alice could've sped through the Italian countryside unseen once she arrived, and she would've had a great deal more strength than Bella to push Edward out of the sun. (Bella certainly seemed to struggle in the film). I haven't reached that part of the book yet, so maybe it's different to the film? Would Edward have been killed if Bella hadn't been there maybe?

So, the thing about the movies, is that they explain jack shit and then will change some things so they don't make any sense.

Why does Aro have Felix nearly murder Edward in Volterra only to then let him go two seconds later? It's unclear, I guess they ran out of run time for Michael Sheen. Why do the Cullens even do this human thing? Hold that thought.

So, there's a lot that the books do explain in some detail, that either never get a mention in the films or are extremely glossed over for run time, toning down, difficulty to explain in the medium, and various other reasons.

No offense if you like the movies, anon, I just hate them.

So, here's what Alice tells us in the book.

Bella and Jacob ask what you just did: why doesn't Alice go herself? Bella will only slow Alice down and Alice has to get Bella out of the country right this second when at the moment of asking she could only pray that Bella had a passport (Bella did so it worked out but if she hadn't I imagine Bella would have been placed in the cargo hold instead).

Alice responds that she has had visions where she runs through the city, yelling at Edward mentally that Bella is alive, but that Edward would not only not believe her but step into the sunlight sooner as he knows Alice is there to stop him. The reason he wouldn't believe her is that he would know Alice would know this is the only way to stop him from doing this. This is why, even if Alice doesn't think "Bella's alive!" she still can't go as Edward will realize his suicide attempt will be quickly thwarted.

Add in that it was a very sunny day in Tuscany and Alice would have had to take a very roundabout path to get to Edward where she would stay in the shade. Because she's dealing with vampires, not humans, this matters: Edward will kill himself before Alice can ever reach him.

Similarly, we have a problem in that Edward can't hear Bella's thoughts. As a result, even when Bella shows up, she can't stay outside the city/in range of Edward's gift if not his person, as he can't hear her think and wouldn't be able to recognize she's alive. Moreover, Edward's so fucking focused on killing himself dramatically, that he's not paying attention to thoughts around him, who might happen to see Bella's face but would likely think nothing of it. Edward's not looking for her.

The only way they can stop the suicide is if Bella runs and manages to catch him in time. It's not about pushing him out of the way, it's about getting there just in time to say "WAIT, I'M ALIVE, DON'T KILL YOURSELF".

Which is what fortunately happens.

What Alice doesn't mention is Edward's a little in love with the idea of killing himself over this. So, it's not shocking that nothing else will stop him.

Which yes, means she ultimately risks Bella's life, takes her to the den of the enemy, so that she can save Edward and does not make this clear to Bella.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #alice cullen #anti alice cullen #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #bella swan #meta #headcanon #opinion

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poggilunghi · 3 months ago

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Agriturismo I Poggilunghi offers farm stay accommodation with Eight romantic self-contained holiday apartments

Located in central Tuscany. Set on 6.5Ha of elevated private land, surrounded by olive trees and private woodland, the property benefits from panoramic views on all sides.

This pet friendly holiday destination facilities include: a large swimming pool with terrace, bbq/pizza oven, private bar area, mini-shop, dog run, laundry facilities and reception. Each apartment has its own fully equipped kitchen and bathroom, with hi-speed Wi-Fi and flat screen smart television.

#holiday apartments tuscany

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shannonselin · 10 months ago

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Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi by Joseph Franque, 1812

Elisa Bonaparte was born on January 3, 1777. She was not as well-known as her sisters, beautiful Pauline and treasonous Caroline, but she was more capable than either of them. In fact, she was the Bonaparte sibling most like Napoleon, although she had the least influence over him. Napoleon himself said, “Elisa has the courage of an Amazon; and like me, she cannot bear to be ruled.” In 1805, he made her the Princess of Piombino and Lucca, where she formed an elaborate court, in imitation of the one in Paris. She took her duties seriously, ruling as a benevolent despot.

Elisa did such a good job that, in 1809, Napoleon made her Grand Duchess of Tuscany, a place she had long had her eye on. She moved her court to the Pitti Palace in Florence, which she refurbished in competition with Caroline’s court in Naples. Elisa's husband, Félix Baciocchi, commanded the local military division under his wife’s supervision. The two lived apart and took lovers.

When Napoleon’s empire began to crumble in 1814, Elisa broke away from her brother, hoping to save her own position. It was no use, as the Tuscans showed no sign of attachment to her and Elisa and Baciocchi had to flee. They tried, unsuccessfully, to make off with the silver and furniture from several of the palaces.

When Napoleon escaped from Elba and returned to France in March of 1815, the Austrians arrested Elisa and imprisoned her. She was released once Napoleon was safely on his way to exile on St. Helena. Elisa was given permission to live in Trieste, where she assumed the title of Countess of Compignano. She died of infection on August 7, 1820, at the age of 43.

When news of Elisa’s death reached Napoleon, he shut himself up alone for several hours. When he emerged, he said, “There is the first member of my family who has set out on the great journey; in a few months I shall go to join her.” He died nine months later, on May 5, 1821.

For more about Elisa, see "Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon's Capable Sister."

#elisa bonaparte #bonaparte family #napoleonic era #napoleonic #elisa baciocchi

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camisulsul · 6 months ago

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***Tuscany

-Things are generally quiet, but I'm looking for an apartment for peace of mind.

-But you can live here.(Diego)

-What? Really?

-Sure, I'm already a married man who needs a double room, you can sleep in mine. (Diego)

-Or sleep with me. (Borja)

-Ha!

-Think about it, here you are always welcome. (Diego)

-Very very welcome. (Borja)

-Thanks my friend, but Clarissa will not come back?

-She lives with Bruno. (Diego)

-What? They're back together?

-Yes. (Borja)

-And you with her...

-No, it's been a long time. (Borja)

-Well, let's leave the lovebirds alone, my husband and I will be doing married things, don't disturb, please. (Diego)

#ts3

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passivenovember · 2 years ago

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don’t leave me waiting with all this love

A two-bedroom apartment falls out of the sky and into their laps because with the pooled weight of their hush money, they can afford it.

Steve’s lived in a castle since the day his parents brought him home, swaddled in blue fleece from Hawkins General, and Billy’s never had a room that felt like his own, and a two-bedroom apartment is a one-way mirror. It’s a shroud, it’s protection. A spiny defense to hide behind when their landlord raises an eyebrow and asks if they’ve got a girlfriend.

Not two girlfriends. A.

One.

Split between them, or something. As if the landlord knows they’re conjoined, down to their roots.

Steve tracks the way Billy’s shoulders pull tight, how his smile is a bit too sharp, his laugh so thunderous that their landlord doesn’t wonder why they have six months' rent upfront. Steve knows it’s a pacifier stuck between Mr. Morrison’s front teeth so he won’t ask any more questions.

They move their furniture that night, huffing up three flights of stairs in the July heat.

Steve yaps about ordering a pizza. He floats the idea of renting a video and they christen their apartment, their shiny new life, with letters addressed to the burning past. The worst is over. Billy’s lips and tongue and sweat-slick skin roll over Steve like fresh dirt, baptizing him.

Steve comes apart imagining home.

He sees blue eyes. Blonde curls tied back as the kitchen fills with the robust, lingering smells of Tuscany and his Nonna’s house in Indiana. Billy thrusts harder, faster, and in this dream world, their home smells like them. Sun-warmed blankets that never get washed, bathroom mirrors spackled with hair spray. In every luminous version of the future, Billy’s laugh runs through the very core of the Earth, rattling the tracks of the last train Steve will ever wave goodbye to, and it’s Graceland.

It’s bliss, until Billy offers to sleep on the couch.

He says it’s because he doesn’t have a mattress.

Steve hangs off the door jam in his fruit of the looms, “You can sleep with me,” He says, thinking he shouldn’t have to say that. His stomach shouldn’t clench with worry that for the first time in two years, Billy might so no.

It’s warmer in the living room right now than Hawkins ever was.

Billy’s hair sticks to his neck. He wipes at it, and Steve opens his mouth to insist he’s not above begging. Billy came inside him. Billy’s teeth sunk into his neck as if Steve were made of ripe fruit, and this is their house. This is their home. The second bedroom is just collateral.

I want to be with you, Steve imagines telling him, I want you next to me, inside of me.

“I’ll be alright,” Billy says, as if hearing every unspoken word. He turns away, he. Stares out the window with the same cold, empty expression he sometimes got when the night was closing in Hawkins. Steve thought they had washed their hands of that, and yet when Billy realizes Steve’s frozen to the floor, he grins. “I promise,” he says.

It’s empty, too. Horrible.

Steve goes.

Sleeping alone is like trying to make love on a burlap sack full of bowling balls. Steve tosses and turns and swears the door was shut when he went to sleep without a blanket.

Still, he wakes before dawn wrapped in the ugly knit Max threw at Billy’s head when he told her they were leaving.

–

“He’s probably an evil clone.”

“He’s not an evil clone.”

“Are you sure? He hit his head pretty hard on the tile. Banged his everything else against the fist of a space monster–”

“You’re not actually helping.”

“I’m just presenting the facts. He’s probably a government spy,” On the other end of the line, Robin’s slurping on something. Really taking her time with filing every single one of Steve’s nerves down to the cartilage.

Steve shivers. It’s the middle of the day in September, and he’s shrouded in darkness. “Bills couldn’t be a government spy.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Steve says, twirling the phone cord around one hand, “Because he still wants to shower together. He still likes Hershey's chocolate and little marshmallows in his peppermint tea. He’s afraid of the dark.”

“All of that’s just shit the clone learned from Billy’s personal file.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Billy doesn’t have a personal file.”

“Don’t be thick, we all fought monsters so we all have a personal file in the event that we decide to air Big Brother’s dirty laundry,” Robin tells him. “I don’t give a shit what you say, if he’s not fucking you anymore it tracks.”

“You’re an idiot, Buckley. ”

“Why, because I don’t believe that thing is really Bills?”

“You’re an idiot if you think even a robot version of Billy would stop fucking me.”

“God, that’s so gross. You’re so gross–”

“So you admit that I’m right?”

“No,” Robin Snaps, “Evil clones are not the strangest thing that’s happened to us. Not by a long shot.”

“--Robin–”

“And if you’re suggesting that the government isn’t homophobic, you should read more.”

“Robin.”

“I’m serious. The feds planted crack-cocaine in disco balls because that’s where all the gay–”

Steve scrubs a hand across his forehead. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, fine,” Robin groans, finally stopping to take a breath, “Billy’s not an evil clone and all that hush money wasn’t just a ploy to get you out there. Alone. So they could finish the job.”

Steve wants to laugh.

He aches to roll his eyes and call Buckley a bonehead before hanging up the phone and getting back to the three loads of laundry sitting on his-and-not-Billy’s bed, but. “What do you think the deal is?” Steve frowns, “Evil robots–”

“--Clones–”

“--Notwithstanding?” Steve asks, ignoring her. He perches the phone against his shoulder so that his hands are free to sort through the lights and darks.

There are a lot of lights here. Apparently, this Billy wears beige. And sea-foam. And that lovely shade of periwinkle from Billy’s senior picture that makes his freckles look like a million spattered treasure troves. Steve hates it. He loves the color and hates the change. Hates the meaning.

He’s so stupid for thinking this move would spell silver linings.

He’d never imagined in a million years that it would change Billy to the core, even though it used to be all he hoped for. That Bilyl would fall asleep and stay that way for a hundred years, and when he finally woke up again all the hurt inside him would gone.

But now. Steve’s wishy-washy. He’s a big fat washing machine man.

Robin hums, sucking at the dregs of ice in her piggly-wiggly cup. “Honestly, I think he’s happy.”

Steve drops Billy’s underwear as if it’s caught fire. “You don’t think he was happy before?”

“In Hawkins? I think he was trapped and miserable,” Robin says, “I think he was happier when he got you. You’ve always been his window into the outside world but now he’s got a doorway, you know? Being home again.”

Steve gets that.

No one’s meant to be anyone’s everything, and.

Steve could accept it, were it not for the other stuff. The huge shift in dynamic even though Billy’s the same as always, at the root of him. Laughing at Steve and wagging his tongue and fucking Steve nasty all over the apartment.

Avoiding the bed, though.

Shying away from any real intimacy, and all the domesticity that comes with waking up next to someone every day.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Steve grumbles, feeling like the last three years never happened. They’ve gone back in time, landing on the doormat of their relationship when Billy was still consumed with fear.

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“A few times,” Steve admits, “Mostly he just kisses my cheek and tells me he’ll be fine in the living room.”

“That is weird,” Robin says thoughtfully. “Listen. Don’t freak out, but. Right before my parents thought they were gonna get divorced–”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to hear anything about divorce or separation–”

“You guys aren’t even married.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve insists, bile cracking like an egg behind his breastbone, “If you’re going to sit there and talk about endings, I don’t wanna fucking hear it.”

“Alright.”

“We’re not your parents. This isn’t the first big sign of a falling out–”

“--Okay, Harrington, I believe you–”

“--Billy loves me,” Steve snaps, “Billy loves me so much.”

But the more he says it, the more it sounds like a swan song. Steve admitting, over and over and over again, that he would rather die than see the credits roll. That he’ll break his fingers before he lets go of Billy again.

“Don’t cry, Steve.”

“I’m not.”

“My parents never got divorced,” Robin tells him gently, like that’ll slap a bandaid on it, “Billy’s always slow on the take-up. He’s probably still adjusting to the move. His whole life has been one big change after another, you know? And all that shit with the Mind Flayer–”

“It’s just,” Steve tries, chin wobbling dangerously, “The first night we moved here and he said he didn’t want to come to bed I couldn’t remember the last time I slept somewhere without him. I know I have before, I just. Couldn’t remember. I still can’t,” Steve wipes his nose on Billy’s favorite pair of boxers, feeling dramatic and comical and lame. “Maybe I should call it quits. Give him an out–”

“No,” Robin snaps, so harshly that Steve’s tears crawl back inside his skull to hide. “Steve, if you break up with him–”

“God, I’m gonna split my skin. I’m crazy.”

“You’re not,” Robin assures him firmly, “It’s completely valid to wonder what brought on such a big change but it’s not what you think it is, and if you try to give him an out he’ll think it’s because you don’t love him. You know that.”

Steve nods, groaning when more tears slip out from behind his eyelashes.

“Billy’s as batshit crazy about you as you are about him, the feeling’s mutual,” Robin says. “Besides, he probably wants to come to bed but They haven’t programmed it into his memory board yet and he can’t recall the purpose of a mattress–”

“I’m gonna kill you with a brick.”

“Hey, there he is,” Robin chirps. Steve imagines her flying high above the trees and then swooping low, angry pigeon style, to bomb his head with the truth. “It’s going to be alright, Dingus.”

“I know it is.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

“I’ll be okay,” Steve snaps, clutching Billy’s dirty underwear to his chest like some disgusting, demented teddy bear.

He hopes, down to the pads of his bare feet, that Robin’s right about this. That things will turn out okay. Because if they don’t and this spells the end of the best thing that ever happened, Steve will sink into darkness and he won’t be able to find his way out again.

Call him dramatic. It’s just the truth.

–

Darkness leaks out of him, through snags and tears he wasn’t even aware of. The only plus is that once the crescendo happens and Billy’s strapped down, swallowing mouthfuls of the rot he’d been dribbling for years, he lives. He can imagine a world where all the shadows are cast out.

Maybe the ichor doesn’t seep out through harsh words, anymore, because there’s nothing left.

He’s empty. Wrung dry.

There’s all sorts of shit that comes along with that: hurt, pain, and guilt rotting inside him, growing teeth until they feed on each other. Billy’s nothing. He’s a non-issue.

Owens says it’s not productive to think of himself that way.

“What would your sister say if she heard you talking like that,” The Doctor says. In Billy’s memory of him, Owens always smokes black and mild cigars in a white jacket. “What would Steve say?” The Doctor asks, and it becomes like a chant, the evil cheerleaders in Billy’s mind playing both sides of the field.

Gloom, following him like a shadow.

What would Max think if she saw the way your eyes light up at the possibility of crashing your car into the gulch. What would Max growl at you under her breath if she heard the half-drunk promises you make to your teddy bear that the age-old dream of skipping town to find your mom would be an adventure? What would Steve think, crying big fat crocodile tears, if he heard you scream into the sky that you’re a devouring worm who’s going to eat and eat and eat through everyone’s love until they, too, are shining emptiness?

Owens always circles back to that. “You’re not a black hole, Billy,” He says, with so much feeling it almost seems like he believes it, “Your sister loves you. She’s happy you made it back to her. Steve loves–”

“I know,” Billy says. Doesn’t understand it. Never understands it–

“Do you?” The Doctor asks, cloaked in a milky haze so Billy can never tell if he’s leeching joy from Billy’s scarce reserves.

When Billy tells the doctor that he’s moving to California and Steve’s coming, too, Owens says it’s good. It’s something to celebrate. “You’re not a black hole. You’re a room waiting to be filled with dayglow,” The Doctor tells him, lighting his customary cigar, “California Dreamin’, right?”

Their sessions never make it past the thirty-minute hand.

–

On Wednesday, the phone rings. “Robin said that Steve said that you said–”

“This isn’t high school,” Billy relaxes into child’s pose and watches a bead of sweat fall, lazy as dew-drop rain, into the yawning hands of the carpet. “Might be a bit of a shocker, since that’s where you’re at in life but if you’re gonna do this telephone, he said she said bullshit–”

“Telephone?” Max interrupts.

“Yeah, you know. The game where you whisper into the ear of the person beside you, and they whisper into the next person’s ear, and then that fucker whispers–”

“God, you’re so old.”

Billy’s sweat is absorbed and digested into the putting green of the spare bedroom’s floor. He hikes himself into downward dog, willing his arms to stop shaking in their sinuous hold. “Just tell me what Robin said.”

“Not Robin,” Max clarifies, chewing on something crunchy, “Well, Robin told me, but really she heard from Steve that you said you aren’t in love with him anymore.”

Billy’s arms give out.

And really, gun to his head, it’s probably because there’s no future, no alternative timeline, no possibility in all the infinite choices and lifetimes Billy sometimes imagines when he gets too high, that he would ever stop loving Steve Harrington.

But, he’s also in recovery.

His hands don’t work quite as well as they used to and his stamina, in all things but especially in the demented world of his teenage sister, is for shit.

His forehead stings, “Ow, godammit–”

“What happened,” Max barks.

“It’s fine, just,” Billy rubs between his eyebrows, “Just give me a minute.”

“It’s not true, right?” Max demands because she can’t follow instructions. Because since the very beginning, even before Billy knew what to call this thing with Steve, she was rooting for them. Stapling pompoms to her hands to muster happiness when Billy said I’m going home and Steve’s coming with me.

For Max, anything involving Billy is better if Steve’s beside him.

It’s sweet.

It’s a thorn in Billy’s ribs, too, a dagger-tip poisoned with worry that when Steve realizes he’s too good for the life they’ve built together, it’ll break her heart just as much as it’ll shatter Billy’s.

Max isn’t crunching on the other end of the line, anymore. “You still love him,” She says, “Obviously, you still–”

“Why would Steve say something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Max says, in exactly the sort of stretched, wavering voice she has when she does know. When it’s her doomsday tale, come to fruition.

“Tell me what you know,” Billy demands.

“I already told you, dipshit, I don’t know anything. I only know what Robin heard from Steve who heard from–”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Billy tucks his feet under him, muscles sore and loose. His tendons trip over each other, clenching painfully to hold the rising tide of worry threatening to seep from his bones. “I don’t understand. Is he pissed that I threw out the boxed pudding last week?”

“You threw out all the boxed pudding,” Max repeats, and Billy imagines coppery horror dawning bright across her freckles.

“Owens said I need to cleanse my body, just like I need to cleanse my mind.”

“Yeah, that was a bad move,” Max reports glumly.

There’s not much Steve gets up in arms about. He’s as deep and as calm as a river, he’s moss-covered boulders and wisteria growing through cracks in the rubble of ancient buildings. He doesn’t simmer and boil over like Billy does, but Steve’s serious about dessert.

He’s got a sweet tooth the size of Mississippi that’s only gotten worse since Billy escaped death. They’ve got their ways of coping.

“He’s probably gonna kill you in your sleep,” Max tells him.

“Yeah, probably.”

“You’d deserve it,”

“I’d deserve it,” Billy tells her. For the pudding and for so many other nameless, faceless things that lurk in the past. Billy picks at the fiber of the carpet, “Still doesn’t seem right, though.”

“You think he’s worried about something else?” Max chuckles, “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s you he fell in love with, there’s always something to be pissed about.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m just saying, you do things all the time without thinking about it.”

Billy resists the urge to cross his arms and pout. “Like what?”

“You want me to name them?”

“Yeah,” Billy spits, losing the war, “I want you to name them so I can be better. For everyone, but. For Steve. And you.”

Max groans. Long and low and Billy’s grateful, somewhere past his resolutions, that some things and especially some little sisters, never change. Billy tries not to smile, “Look, tease me all you want, okay? Owens says–”

“Owens is a quack.”

“He’s not a quack,” Billy insists, and now his hands are shaking.

It’s a drop of a dime, these days.

It’s out of his control.

“I know, he’s a partial quack. He’s got quack-like tendencies.” Max works to make her voice kinder. Softer. It means the world that she would try.

It means even more that she doesn’t baby him.

Billy sits back against the wall in the guest room, tucking his knees up to his chin. He rifles through the last few months, unpacking every moment he’s shared in this apartment with Steve. They’ve cooked dinner together every night. They grocery shop and split the chores on Sundays, and Steve reads out loud to him from any book Billy picks up from the library, and.

“I thought everything was good,” Billy mutters, “I thought it was perfect. Steve is, and. I thought I could be.”

“You’re an idiot if you think anyone’s perfect.”

“I could try, Max. For him.”

“Look, is this about your survivors guilt, PTSD whatever?” Max demands. Billy hates the way he can’t hide from her. “We’ve already done the twelve-step apology bullshit, Billy. Everyone forgave you.”

He didn’t deserve it.

Billy bites down so hard on his cheek that he tastes blood. He shakes his head and can’t admit that he never deserved a second chance. Not happiness, not love, and not steve.

Billy clears his throat, “Not everyone.”

“Well, everyone who counts,” Max says quietly. “Bills. You need to forgive yourself.”

It stings, like the reopening of a wound.

Salt and rubbing alcohol burning in his nose when he breathes just like the Doctor taught him. Inhale joy, exhale pain. Inhale mercy, exhale–

“You have to forgive yourself,” Max tries again. Her voice wavers a little around the edges, fuzzy like it gets right before she starts to cry.

Billy hates himself, but. He hates that even more.

For so long he wanted to believe that he was on the road to keeping his head above water. That soon enough he’d be able to think of the dark ages and not give into its way of life.

Billy had thought that things were different.

In California, under sunny-bright skies, he’s a man made new.

Billy’s done everything right. He changed the way he eats. He does yoga. He sleeps on the mat on the floor to attone for the sin that still stain his hands like blood, he holds Steve far enough away that he’ll be safe but so Billy, selfish as he is, can still warm himself by the glowing light–

Billy sits up so fast that his head starts to swim. “I will,” He tells her.

“You mean it?”

“I’ll try,” Billy says.

It’s all he can do.

–

Friday night, Steve comes home from work and falls into bed with his shoes still on.

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. Billy hovers in the doorway for ten minutes to watch him sleep. Steve will wake up with a sore neck. His skin will ring itself red, indented with the seams of his pants.

Billy wants to enter the room. Feels like a sinner pacing the carpet outside confessional.

He’s seasick and guilty about that. It’s a line of thought that leads nowhere, it careens madly off the edge of a cliff.

Billy chews his nails and tells himself everything’s fine.

He can cross the threshold without invitation. He can make sure his lover is comfortable.

He can do this.

Just like this morning. Just like yesterday.

Billy gnaws at his thumb. Steve’s always more comfortable with his shoes off, soft and pliant with one sock clinging stubbornly to his foot. He can’t decide if it’s worth it to wake Steve or if getting the shoes off while he’s knocked out cold is even possible.

And once the shoes are gone, there’s the matter of Steve’s pants. Tight and scratchy denim and covered in drying finger paints and Billy knows even if he can manage to get Steve undressed, Steve will whine about the paint tugging on his leg hair, and then he’ll want to shower, and.

Well, Billy never could deny him.

–

The change in Steve’s breathing is like the first wave of a thunderstorm arching into the slow, lethal way the shadows in their room change shape and grow teeth.

“Billy?” Steve calls, thick and groggy, edging toward panic, “Bills, where–”

“I’m on the couch,” Billy says.

The whole house adjusts around the weight of Steve’s body. He runs down the hallway, appearing startled and out of breath, hair wild and cheeks lined.

“Jesus. I rolled over, and.” Steve runs a hand through his hair and Billy almost melts into the couch when those eyes slip like cool water over him, ringed with relief at the sight of him, tired and whole in their living room. “Nice to see you’re migrating closer to our bedroom.”

Our.

Billy shifts, freezing cold without a blanket.

Steve watches him for a long, quiet moment. “You scared the shit out of me,” Steve grumbles, padding toward the coffee table with his sneakers still on. Billy makes room between his legs without a second thought and Steve curls like a cat between them, burrowing his face into Billy’s stomach.

He sucks a mouthful of Billy’s stomach between his teeth, letting it fall doughy again before he presses a soft, firm kiss right above the worst of Billy’s scars.

Billy tangles his fingers into Steve’s hair, scratching and tugging at his scalp until Steve’s shoulders drop, until he’s breathing like he’s worried each inhale might be his last.

Billy wants to promise he’d give his own last breath to keep Steve alive. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You smell good,” Steve says, his tongue dragging lewdly over Billy’s happy trail.

Billy doesn’t deserve this. “I haven’t showered yet today.”

“Doesn’t matter, taste like vanilla bean,” Steve chews on him a little more, and Billy an feel every inch of his smile. “There is no more ‘yet,’ fyi. Today’s almost over.”

“Do you want me to clean myself up?”

“No,” Steve flails around, rolling and tucking his knees until Billy’s got a clear landing to his mouth, to the folded, unhappy lines of Steve’s forehead.

“You sure?”

“I like the way you smell,” Steve grumbles, carding his fingers through Billy’s leg hair. “It’s like aromatherapy for my trauma.”

“You’re a dork.”

“I was having a nightmare.”

Billy falters. He doesn’t know what to say, so he kisses Steve’s forehead, over and over again until the skin smooths itself out. Knows that even after all these years, Steve‘s gotta be smothered back to Earth when he wakes up screaming.

“Wanna talk about it?” Billy asks, tracing a thumb over the perfect swell of Steve’s mouth.

Steve kisses his finger. “You were gone,” He says softly, eyes unfocused and far away. “I pulled you out of a frozen lake and took all my clothes off so you could be dressed in something warm again, and I blinked. When I opened my eyes you weren’t there. You were gone.”

Billy should’ve been there. Next to Steve, in their bed. If he had swallowed his fear and just been there–

“You know I’m still in love with you,” Billy blurts suddenly. He holds tighter to Steve’s chest, fingers digging into the muscle around each one of his ribs. “No matter what you told Robin I did or what Max said you said Robin told–”

He may as well douse the fire. He may as well throw a blanket over passion, and a bucket of cool water on the night.

Steve frowns at him. He searches Billy’s face and he says, “I was worried,” like the knife is finally being pulled form his stomach.

Billy hates himself. “You never have to worry about me.” He swears, like a white-knight. A King.

Steve’s forehead wrinkles again. “You don’t touch me anymore.”

He wants to.

Billy aches, constantly, to the very atoms that make up the marrow of his bones, to touch him.

“I can’t. Because,” Billy tries. “Because I don’t deserve–”

“You’re wrong,” Steve says harshly.

Billy flinches. His throat closes up and Steve can tell, lurching into action so Billy doesn’t suffocate to death.

“Hey,” Steve says, sitting and twisting until his forehead tacks itself to Billy’s, “Breathe, c’mon.”

Steve demonstrates how to do it.

He patient. He’s beautiful.

“There you go, big guy.”

Bill holds onto the wrists that frame his face. Comes back to Earth, again, back home. Where he belongs.

He feels Steve’s pulse through every inch of his body, thumping Billy’s blood when he can’t do it himself. He looks into those eyes, honey-pools that followed him into the dark. “I’m trying to do better.”

“You are better.”

“I’m trying to be perfect,” Billy says, “For you. Before I start this new life in our house, I want to be–”

Steve kisses the rest of it out of him.

Everything, gentle licks and nips until all that’s left is fresh ground.

“You’re done apologizing,” Steve says bluntly. He tucks a piece of hair behind Billy’s ear, eyes gentle on Billy’s face. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to.”

“I needed it.”

“I know. But it’s not necessary anymore.”

“I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t want you anymore. I was worried that if I didn’t take this pilgrimage, something bad would happen and I’d hurt you.”

Steve kisses him. “You won’t.”

“I couldn’t take the chance before.”

“Let’s take it now,” Steve says. He sits back on his haunches, voice strong and true and bursting like dawn through the night. “The whole point of a fresh start is that we don’t have to crawl on our knees anymore, Billy. We get to be happy, now. We get to be together.”

Billy searches for the words he always thought were better left unsaid.

He quiets the shadows that whisper there’s no going back. If he opens himself up to this, for real and forever, he sacrifices control.

But if Steve’s the one he’s kneeling to–

“Can we go to bed?” Billy asks, small and uncertain.

He braces himself for the sneer, for the unkind word, for reality to come crashing like a furious wave.

Instead, Steve smiles.

When he takes Billy’s hand, a door is opened. And light pours through.

for the lovely @chrisbitchtree for Harringrove for Turkey!

I hope you like it and I’m sorry it took forever and ever.

all my love,

Jaz

#harringrove #harringrove for turkey #harringroveforturkey #angst

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