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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

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

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

In cash, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely not nerves.

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

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d seen it all.

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

It didn’t.

You sat down.

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

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was coming over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

Monaco. France. Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Social law.”

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

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

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

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

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

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

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

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

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got in the cart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointless.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Macallan, no ice.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve ignored him.

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

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

Home time. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

“Drink?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

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

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mediumgayitalian · 6 months

Text

The best part of being his own camp counsellor is that he can wake up whenever the fuck he likes.

Nico’s a fan.

Because, however, his dumb ass made friends with the camp’s head medic, he doesn’t get to sleep in as often as he would like. He is instead often woken up before the clock strikes nine, which is a tragedy and one of the forty thousand reasons he is going to be present on Will’s judgement day. (The scales tip any which way on a regular basis, but as of last week, Will is going to hell. Unfortunate. Nico’ll still visit him, though. Bring him one half of a twizzler or something.) So when he wakes up, one lovely morning, mouth tasting like something rotted in it and sun well past halfway across the sky, he is capital-C Concerned.

What a horrible tragedy that is. Finally, for the first time in months, he was able to sleep in. And his first thought is not gratitude. Solace may indeed have to die — Nico was not this way before he started planting his annoying ass front and centre in Nico’s life. He’s quite fairly certain he used to be frightening and badass. Now Will orders him to drink milk for the sake of his calcium and he does. Gods.

“Morning,” he hedges, approaching the archery range, feeling marginally more alive than twenty minutes prior.

Kayla raises an amused eyebrow. “Dude, it’s, like, two.”

“Well fuck you, then.”

She smirks. “Aw, did baby not get his Sunshine fix of the day? Is that why he’s so grumpy?”

It really sucks that Will is so fond of his siblings. Nico wonders if Will would still like him if he knew how many times he daydreams of transporting Kayla onto the moon per day.

“As soon as I figure out which god would appreciate you as a sacrifice, you’re gone.”

“Yeah, right,” she snorts, turning away and lining up an arrow. She lets it fly, watching as it shaves a splinter off a hunk of wood fifty feet away. “You couldn’t get close enough to kick my ass before I’d skewer you, di Angelo.”

Remembering the warning arrow Kayla had shot through his shoulder last week, he wisely chooses not to press the matter any further. The power visibly goes to her head. Fuck.

“Just — tell me where Will is.”

“Why?” She strings another arrow. The grin on her face is a level of shit-eating that Nico has only before seen on a Stoll. She should spend less time around Julia, or else the camp is in for some serious trouble. “What are your intentions with my dear brother?”

Nico, on principle, refuses to answer that question. Kayla shrugs, finishing her shot and then turning around to stick her tongue out at him.

“No answer, no location! Find him yourself, loverboy. And remember that I am always watching.”

Stomping away, and ignoring the smile twitching at his lips — she is so annoying, truly, gods above he owes Bianca a thousand apologies for ever opening his mouth — he heads towards the infirmary. There are only six locations Will is at any given time, after all, except when he disappears for several hours randomly but Nico doesn’t know how to bring that up yet. As he approaches the infirmary, though, he hears it absolutely blasting with music, like genuinely shaking the ground a little bit, and knows exactly where to find him.

As he approaches the door, wincing at the door, he finds it closed. Odd — Will likes a breeze when he works. Even odder is the hastily-written sign pasted onto it:

ANNUAL CLEAN OUT DAY. IF YOU NEED ME, TOUGH SHIT. IF YOU NEED A BANDAID, TOUGH SHIT. IF YOU’RE BLEEDING OUT, CALL AN AMBULANCE AND PRAY. I AM BUSY.

(‘Busy’ is underlined three times.)

In smaller print, under the all-caps monstrosity, is:

Unless you’re Nico, in which case disregard the previous sentiment. No, Cecil, this does NOT mean you.

The note is written again in Ancient Greek, Latin, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Mandarin, Italian, Polish, Korean, Morse Code, and another ten languages Nico can’t even name. Actually, wait — the top left is Klingon. And middle right note does not appear to be language, showing instead a poorly drawn stick figure in armour being shoved into a cannon and shot into the sun by another poorly drawn stick figure in a lab coat. Nico loves a man who’s multi-talented, indeed.

Hesitantly, Nico cracks open the door. He is immediately assaulted by a solid wall of sound, and then nearly bowled over by the enigma himself, William ‘I Can Restructure A Human Brain But Cannot Tie My Shoelaces’ Solace. He catches himself at the last second, and then barely manages to catch Will, grabbing him around the waist just before his head hits the floor.

“Nico!” he shouts over the music, smiling brightly. “Hi! You’re here!”

“I’m here.” He can physically feel his voice cracking, but luckily the music drowns it out. Hopefully. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

“Cleaning!” Will straightens up, although he stays within the circle of Nico’s arms. Nico tries real hard to keep his gaze firmly planted on his face and not on the hands he still has in his hips. “I do it once a year, kick everybody out and deep clean the place. Helps keep it fresh and minimize the bloodstains on the floor.”

“Ah. And the music…”

“It’s fun!” Will shouts. He gasps when the CD player skips and a new song comes on, heavy base and funky synths blasting so hard the window panes shake. “Oh my gods! I love this one!” He turns his bright grin at Nico full force, absolutely no holdbacks on the dimples or freckles, gods help him, and bows cheekily. “Can I have this dance, good sir?”

“It’s Britney Spears’ Outrageous,” Nico protests weakly.

“Yeah!”

…Very, very weakly.

“…Okay.”

Will whoops, grabbing his hands and spinning him around. Nico yelps, nearly tripping over a cot, but when he looks back up Will has his eyes closed and is shimmying not unlike a worm on a fish hook, and it’s so ridiculous that he can’t help but laugh. Will pries one eye open, grinning widely, and shimmies harder.

“You’re such a dweeb!”

“Join me in the dweebiness! Free yourself!”

Nico rolls his eyes fondly, squeezing Will’s hand, and lets himself get ridiculous. He’ll deny it if anyone asks, but it’s fun.

…And not just because Will is next to him, smile brighter than any star, dancing like a massive dork, hand clasped in his.

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soulrph · 1 year

Text

chaotic unhinged lines from 2022-2023 (prompt edition).

basically in 2021 i made a list of prompts inspired by lines in tiktok videos and instagram reels that made me laugh so hard i cried! and now i have returned with another list! these may provide an alarmingly clear image of what my sense of humor is (aka broken) but i figure a little levity is always a good thing! more prompts are forthcoming, but in the mean time: bon appetit!

knowledge has always chased you, but you've always been faster.

no... no, that was mango apathy juice. from the farmer's market.

of all these people, you are the one i understand the least. i want to get to know you better, but like, not that much better.

i-i will CHEW YOUR MEAT!! WHAT are you doing?!

ooooh god, no, you wouldn't be long getting frostbit!

you are evil. like a hobbit.

WHY MUST YOU FAIL ME SO OFTEN?!?!!?

i have had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.

AHEM!! fill my cup.

may god ignore you like you ignored my greetings.

i will avenge you mister van gogh.

call off work bestie, we need you to solve a murder. here's fifteen dollars.

you're not in love. you may think you are, you dumb fuck, but you're not.

go ahead and put the ranch away.

sadly, "hopefully" doth butter no parsnips.

forget school, i want to be an italian sandwich.

you shouldn't skip work, you are a lawyer and he is a hamster.

you can stop roleplaying now. you're free.

her coupon game was so fucking raw.

i'm sorry guys... he's making a salad.

you could get a straight guy here if you learned to make a good pasta. i'll teach you how to make a risotto that'll get you married and out of my basement.

hey, do you want me to get together a plate of roast beef and hide it in our room so we can have night meats?

it's not the most ethical thing in the world, but in a pinch you can hand off a cursed object to basically any baby.

no, children, you're wrong. once upon a time, there was a piece of wood.

and i'm not saying she deserved it, but i am saying that god's timing is always riiiiight.

hydrate or die-drate, ya DICK!

why did the monkey fall out of the tree? because it was DEAD.

new york city is a fictional place written up by someone with a sinister mind and a knack for comedy.

this is grindr my guy.

wait, i didn't finish teaching you the difference between human and wolf anatomy.

it's time to tell your grandmother that she was wrong. do not be afraid.

vanilla vodka... you fucking child.

without ash to rise from, a phoenix would just be a bird getting up.

you are fucking alive. do what you want.

why are you cradling me like a baby, friend? this isn't how guys of my generation hang out.

i hope a hedgehog shits in your cereal, you difficult person.

you know, i am not as mean as i would like to be. and i think people should appreciate that more.

see, i am not a kangaroo.

well, i'd like to help, but... you see... not as much as i'd like not to.

rest in peace you fucking onion fairy.

when god sings with all his creations, will a turtle not be part of the choir?

i fight for a seat in heaven, every. single. day.

map maker? can you find me somewhere on the map where this big man thinks he's the king?

you bald-headed demon...

so... there are 24 million pigs in australia... and 24 million people... so if you ever feel lonely, there's like, a pig out there that's sort of your cosmic twin.

remember, alcohol is god's apology for making us self-aware.

i'm straight!! stop CONFUSING me!!!!!

you guys want something to eat? because... i know we'll die if we don't eat.

he is a BIBLICALLY gorgeous man. i wanna feed him grapes. i wanna fan him with the frond of a date palm from the forests of Lebanon. i wanna find the alabaster vial of perfume oil that one woman broke for jesus and comb it through his hair. like... he's stressing me OUT.

i'm not sad! i'm freaking HUNGRY!

maybe, if we wait a little bit longer, a fuck will fall into my hand, and i can give it to you.

it's not my fault you thought you lived in this IKEA.

let's leave my mother out of this.

jason may kill people but he's not bad enough to kick a dog.

i run for LUMP!

oh no, i'm all out of caring, baby!

you don't think it mcbe that way... but it mcdo.

what is this enticing bowl of white?

serious question, do his nipples sparkle?

what in the reese's peanut butter fuck is going on here?

if your parents don't buy it, stop loving them!

i just hope you know just how much you've decreased productivity today.

that was poetry at its FINEST.

and if you let that motherfucker shenan ONCE, you best believe they're gonna shenanIGAN!

may god bless the dinosaur that died to make the fossil fuel that was treated to become petrol in the car that took her mom to the hospital to give birth to her.

that's modern milk for ya. what a time to be alive.

you have attachment issues. please fix it.

remember when people had secrets? we should bring that back.

the moon landing was an elaborate marriage proposal.

i don't like the cobra chicken.

i didn't know eggs were this expensive? it's time to lay my own, i fear.

so you're saying the reason i don't have a girlfriend is because i'm not a big enough threat yet.

god gave him a top lip, that's why he's so powerful.

it's a common mistake, but frankenstein was actually the author.

i finally got a pocket-sized diary!!! also i don't get the concept of life.

if a beautiful woman disagrees with me, i will immediately change my view. i've no principles.

how did you all end up married to such boiled potatoes?

if so much as one tear drops from their eye... i will slap you back into your mum.

you are ringing a phone that does not like to be rung.

look how Dr. doofenschmirtz had a fucked up childhood but didn't project his trauma onto his teenage daughter. he projected it onto a platypus.

it is mathematically impossible for you to get a wedgie.

i'm breaking up with you. i love you, it's just... i don't think you could protect me from a mummy.

if you can't do fractions....... you will fucking die.

that's right; in the year 1791, all of our bottoms were killed in a Big Bottom Massacre.

people always assume i'm mean. like CAN you BELIEVE THAT CRAP?! like WHAT would make you think i'm MEAN?! I'M THE NICEST PERSON ON THE PLANET!

the chocolate milk is strikingly overpriced and at the same time very easy to steal; another of god's little tests.

someone's gotta tell the waiter that i ordered mashed 'taters and it sure as shit ain't gonna be me.

if i had a week i couldn't list all the reasons that wouldn't work.

#rp meme #roleplay meme #sentence starters #dialogue prompts #writing prompts

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neonovember · 1 year

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Oh. My. God. Oh my god but imagine though, waking up around 8 or 9 or so on a day off where both you and Carmy have the day free. It’s a big deal maybe because oh my god Carmen’s in bed at 9 in the morning *affectionate sarcasm* holy moly Carmen settle down!

But just waking up with him, the sun coming through the window through the thin curtains with a little breeze, looking over and watching Carmy’s face form into the softest, most precious smile, his eyelashes fanning his cheeks as he slowly comes to and lets out a little sigh “Morning” his voice is all husky from sleep and lack of use. You smile back with that sweet giddiness and relaxation in filling your body as you softly whisper good morning back to him. Watching him shift as he sits up to lean over and place a long, soft and slow and tender kiss over your lips, still with that little smile on his lips (I am about to exPLODE-)*CRYING!!!!!!*

okay okay, i know i wrote a drabble similar to this idea here, and for some reason my mind fell back to the night before..y'all, imagine the night that resulted in a soft, needy carmen spending the day in bed with you, all sore and a mess of slick and cum-

Midnight Cars

summary: You’re not about to fuck in the car park. So you end up fucking in the car park. Your apartment’s one at least.

a/n: read @nolita-fairytale fic's about fiance!carmen, and god did that get my gears going. Her series is a mf masterpiece! Fiance Carmen is dirtyyy, even for Berzatto himself. There's public sex, I'm talking Carmen is knuckles deep in you swallowing you with praises whilst a few feet away from Auntie Susie, public.

warnings; filth, utter FILTH, this is kind of insane even for me, car sex, public sex, fingering, dry humping, cowgirl (yeehuh!) but carmen's doing all the work, fiance!carmen, wrap it before you tap it lmao, 18+ explicit, feral and a little deranged carmen, possesive! carmen

The tangy burst of vermilion and cherry grasps your tongue as you tilt the rounded bowl of your drinking glass towards your lips, gliding your tongue to catch any wayward drops of the wine being poured by waiters dressed down in black and white.

Your eyes don’t leave the dirty blond tresses that had long broken from their gelled back form through the night's progression sitting atop Carmen’s head. You can’t help the giggle you let out from your position against the bar, watching him join in a very drunk, but surprisingly harmonised rendition of “Ain't No Mountain High Enough" By Marvin Gates.

His tie sits undone around his neck, and his face is sort of flushed from the extended night, his cheeks a tinty rose and his lips turned red from his repetitive swipes of his tongue across them nervously.

All inhibitions are gone now, and you're able to indulge in the site of a carefree Carmen, left unaware of the never ending responsibilities he carried by the honey haze of a night just for him and his award winning restaurant.

The low lights of the speakeasy room sets the air into a mellow haze, hints of cocoa and aged bourbon waft through the corners of the room, across half finished plates of food on tailored tables, and the stage where your Carmen had won the very award that now sits dangerously close to the edge of your table.

You knew the James Beard Association was prestigious, but god had they truly left you dumbfounded when you stepped into the low lights of the speakeasy.

You didn't even know places like this still existed.

The speakeasy was tucked in a bricked alley, unassumingly between an Italian and a car park. You wouldn’t have ever guessed it to boast this attraction, with aged vintage black and white photos of late singers who’d sung on that very stage years ago hanging across the walls, polished dark exposed wood and velvet booth seats in corners surrounding round tables, even the parlour looked like it was out of an 80’s bar house. You think if you shut your eyes and reached out you would have touched the sequence dress of Etta Jones.

Carmen didn't get drunk, not often anyways, and even now, after winning the prestige of “Chicago's Up and Coming Restaurant of the Decade”, he waved off every raise of a glass towards him.

Carmen felt a level of unease at even touching a drop of liquor whilst driving you both home, no, every fiber of his being screamed at him to keep you safe at all times, and the taste of bourbon held nothing against the taste of you.

That didn’t stop him from enjoying himself, in fact he felt an unnatural sense of bubbly relaxation fall over him as his gaze fell towards you, sipping on a glass, looking the very bit the picture of gorgeous he’d ever seen.

Carmen had always been horrible at these sorts of things, getting doted on, sucked up to, boasted to. He hated every second of it, but even he can attest to the absolute wonder of a night this has been. He glided you against the dance floor, under the iridescent glass panes of the skylight window, the soft crescent moonlight shining through in a way that bounced against the glitters of low hanging ambient lighting and shimmers of dresses and disco balls.

The dance floor had been packed with family and friends but then? Then, it had felt like the entire world had stood still, it had felt like it was the both of you, infinitely, you in his arms like it was meant to be, forever.

And now you looked across to him, with those eyes, those fucking eyes of yours, comfortable in the vision of your gorgeous man looking at you under hooded lids, his bottom lip sunken into his mouth. The hint of a smirk tucks at the corner, and it takes everything in you not to jump at him then.

You motion with a manicured finger, and his eyes catch yours in a second, despite being in a group of people currently huddled around him, eager faces hanging onto his every word. He leaves them, in the middle of a mountain of questions they prodded at him, towards you, following your every desire, always, until the very end.

“I see congratulations are in order, Chef” You softly reply, when he makes it close enough that you take in the veins trailing up his forearm, left bare from his rolled up sleeves. The vision shoots straight to the heat building in your belly, and you have to press your drink to your lips to stop the bubbly moan from escaping.

Carmen looks down at you from his height, eyes trailing down the cut of your body hugging dress, lingering on your snug hips catching against the silky black fabric.

He wanted to feel them beneath his hands as he took you.

“Oh yeah?” Carmen replies, his voice like silk fluttering across your body. Heady in that way it always is.

“Mhm, but I didn’t get to really say anything since you were busy with the rest of them” You don’t have to gesture for Carmen to know about the huddles of people crowding his every move. Another thing he disliked about these sorts of things, they took him away from you.

“Does my girl feel neglected?”

“No” You draw out. “ I just want to show you how proud I am” You whisper through dark lashes. Carmen trails a tattooed fingers across your jaw, letting glide against the smooth skin until it bumps against your lips. Trailing your bottom lip fervently, his own pulled into his mouth.

“And how are you going to congratulate me hm?”

“That will just ruin the surprise, won’t it?”

Carmen let’s put a chuckle, before leaning into the crook of your neck

“Careful..you know I don’t like it when you keep things from me”

You can’t help the shudder that crawls up your spine at his words, flashes of being bent over his desk, of being pushed onto your knees corrode your mind and you feel the burning ache travel to your core.

Carmen tilts his head, a hint of a smile on his lips as he watches you, eyes glinting in want.

“No? You’re not gonna tell me?” Carmen replies in a low voice, and as he trails his thick digits across the sides of your dress, bunching up the silk material.

He trails his thick digits across the bodice of your dress, his hands dipping into the spill of cleavage before trailing it to the sides of your dress, bunching up the silk material. Surely he’s not?

“Mhm” Carmen nods, eyes flickering to you, reading your mind as he takes you in appreciably. His pupils are blown out in lust, the familiar ceruleans dipping into a depth only reserved for you.

You let out a squeal when you feel Carmen’s fingers trail up the slit on your thigh, squeezing the naked flesh before tracing his fingers along the lace trim of your panties. You’re up against the bar, shielded by the low ambient lighting and Carmen’s huge back obscuring every manoeuvre of your body to his every desire.

“Carmen-“ You admonish, eyes darting across the room now filled with happily drunk family and friends dancing or laughing amongst each other.

However your admonishment is light hearted, it trails off into the air when you feel Carmen press against you, then, you don’t really care, you miss him too goddamn much to.

“Been watching you the entire night you know? When you were dancing with your friends, god I wanted to drag you from the floor and just take you in the fucking coat closet” Carmen muses, his lips brushing against the pulse point behind your ear. Your drink long forgotten on the bar counter, your hands now gripping his shoulders as you bite back a moan.

“Yeah, just thinking about wrapping these thighs around me and letting that pussy grip me for hours”

“You’d take it all, right honey? You’ll be my good girl?” Carmen grunts out softly

All you can let out is a half hearted nod, your eyes falling dangerously closed as Carmen prods and sucks against every sliver of skin he can get ahold of.

His deft thumb drags along the fabric of your undergarments, cupping your mound as you let out a sharp exhale, making approving noises as the slick that has begun to already begun to drench your panties.

“Already wet for me Darling?” Carm replies, the hint of mirth surrounding his voice doesn’t allude you, and if you didn’t want to keep chasing that sweet friction of Carmens thumb against your heat you would have shoved him.

“Please Carm” You exhale with a sharp breath, trying to grind your hips onto the palm of his hand. He strokes you softly, featherlight touches that barely feel like anything.

And this man, this goddamn man, laughs. A roll of a chuckle rolls through his body and you want to scream at the denial of the pleasures he's keeping from you, before his deep baritone voice replies.

“All you had to say was please”

His rough fingers sink into your heat, it’s silky, and rough and hits you like liquor, straight to the building pressure. He drags your slick through your folds, arching his fingers ever so slightly when he bumps up against your clit. Never fully putting any pressure on that precipice of pleasure you want to dive head first into.

Dipping a thick tattooed digit into your tight hole, Carmen lets out a groan at the way you grip him so tightly, masking your pitched moan at the feeling of him circling his thumb against your bundle of nerves and stretching you out with his thick digits.

Carmen is practically holding you up, his large bicep wrapped tightly around your waist as you sink your teeth into his shoulder, letting the skin absorb the litter of stuttered mewls you let out at the swipes of his thumb against your clit.

The coil begins to tighten, and you can faintly hear Carmen softly whisper sweet nothings, proclamations, declarations, praises. They fall from his mouth like honey and push you further up the cliff.

“I know sweet girl, taking it so well, just keep taking it, let me make you feel good, yeah?”

A second finger joins the first, dragging your sopping slick up your folds, before dipping into your tight hole. Rough fingers massage up against your walls that grip him so tightly, Carmen knows your body inside and out, and it doesn't take long for him to find the soft spongy patch of skin deep within you, curling a third finger up into that spot, roughly thrusting into relentlessly.

Carmen watches the way your pussy swallows his thick tattooed fingers, thrusting them out slicker and wetter each time, the image has his jaw and slacks tightening and it takes everything in him not to sink his entire length into against the bar counter, fuck whoever else.

Your hips buckle beneath him, and he grips you harder into his chest, his mouth presses bruising kisses along your neck, jaw, clavicle. Your heated moans fail to reside in you as you begin to cant your hips into his hands, rubbing your clit rapidly on the flat side of his palm. The coil tightens within you, and you roll your eyes back, letting out a bubbling of half syllabus, your brain a mush from the saccharine pleasure curling your toes.

“M’ fucking you dumb baby? You getting off so good on my fingers you can’t speak?” Carmen groans out, he can’t stop himself from canting his hips forward, his erection bumping into your stomach.

The feeling of him pressed and thrusting against you, outlined by his suit pants is a vision that breaks you entirely, and you can’t even blink before you feel the band snap, the delicious white hot burn spreading through you like a wildfire.

“Carmen..s-..gonna” You manage to let out with a breath, and Carmen knows already, of course he does. He’s knuckles deep in you now, and his relentless rutting is inescapable, you can fucking feel him in your bones, down to your goddamn marrow. He continues his rapid thrusts into you, refusing to relent, pushing you further, and further through the waves of your unending.

Your head lulls back, but Carmen catches it with his arm, his mouth slatted over yours as you fail to keep in the loud yell of his name from your lips.

Carmen swallows your stuttered mewls, your swears, your please, he swallows it all and keeps it for himself. His tongue darting across the inside of your mouth, swiping along the roof of your mouth, across your front teeth.

His fingers continue to thrust into you, helping you ride through the burst of colours and stars that light your vision beneath your lids. You're pushed up against his hard chest, and it takes some time for your limp body to come back to life, your head a daze of pleasure.

“S’fucken good girl”

Carmen mutters so softly, almost to himself, his fingers are still cupping your heart, whisper grazes of his thumb against your drenched folds.

as he fixes your dress, smoothing the wrinkles formed, flickering his eyes to yours in a sweet smile.

Through hooded lids, you see a man approach you both, interrupting the heated gaze Carmen imprints down to your very bones. Carmen slinks his hand back, discreetly popping those deft digits into his mouth with a low groan, before wiping them on his suit pants. He carefully fixes your dress, smoothing the wrinkles formed, flickering his eyes to yours in a sweet smile as if he hadn’t just fucked you up into his knuckles, and goddamn tasted you.

The scene causes a shudder to roll down your back, reigniting the heat deep inside you once again, you never thought you could be this depraved, this-, but the way he sinks into you so perfectly has you nodding to every desire he has. He was a goddamn drug.

Your body is still recovering from the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you feel Carmen's heated gaze on you as you try and coherently respond to the stubby man who’d interrupted you both. The man rambles on, clearly oblivious to your state, too focused on the sound of his own voice. You nod along to his words, something about a farmers market or an Indian restaurant that had opened, but you're jittering in your heels and you can barely stand, opting to lean against the bar counter.

You look towards Carmen, to find him staring at you, amusement lighting his cerulean blues as he takes in your insatiability. Hell, it took him god near everything to not fling the man to the other side of the room so that he could probably taste you.

Remind him again why he agreed to this?

It gets to maybe the second inception of an animated story before Carmen is bidding the man goodbye with a shake of a hand, and all you can do is swallow the desire that no doubt has you salivating by the second. God if Carmen had made you wait even one more minute you would have tugged on his shirt like some petulant child.

“Took you long enough” You murmur, when Carmen eases out into the speakeasy car park with a hand against the small of your back.

A soft laugh escapes Carmen, scratching at his jaw as he shakes his head.

“If I didn’t already know, I would think you're the one that hates these things” Carmen murmurs with a teasing smile, as you make your way to the sleek black car that camouflages against the midnight.

You make a sound that sounds close to a snort, “Not when it keeps me from jumping my fiances bones” Your engagement ring seems to glisten at those words, and you don't miss the way Carmen’s eyes flash with a look of hunger, adoration, glee, even possession all mixed in one.

You’d been his since the moment he laid eyes on you, that was a given. Putting a ring on your finger just gave him something to latch onto, a mark that told the world you were finally his.

It anchored him, it made him feel good. It eased the anxieties that would flood his mind, washing them away like a current every time he kissed that damn princess cut.

Carmen wasn’t exactly all that sentimental, but with you? God did he mutter till death do us part like it was tattooed onto his tongue. And even then, when he’s a zombified version of his human self, traveling the underworld soullessly he’d find you.

Oh were you Carmen’s, but wasn’t he yours too?

“Language sweetheart, you make me sound like a piece of meat” Carmen murmurs teasingly shuffling so that he’s leaning over your body pressed into the passenger seat door.

“Language? Your talking about modesty after you just-” Your cut off by Carmen's rough finger pressed against your lips

“Would be careful about what you're going to say next sweetheart” Carmen raps in a low voice, tracing his finger against your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed as if the motion of his fingers brushed up against you was of utmost importance.

You gulp back the words you wanted to say, Carmen's blown out eyes flicker from yours to your lips, and you lift your head towards him. Carmen catches you with a hand wrapped around your jaw, pushing you further against him as he crashes his lips sweet against your own. Swiping against your bottom lip, dipping into the heat of your mouth as he groans against the taste of you.

“So sweet,” Carmen murmurs into the kiss, before pulling back. Amusement clouds over lust filled eyes at your immediate anger against his denial

“What about my surprise?”

“You can’t really get to enjoy the full experience in a public car park on Michigan Ave” You whisper, suggestivity laces your tone as you feel the heat of embarrassment flood through you. You were not good at this stuff, and yet the sharp sound of Carmen’s soft groan causes you to lift your eyes up to meet him.

“Then what are we doing standing here?” Carmen replies with a growl, it erupts from his chest, and as you stare up at him, you finally take in the wolfish expression on his face. He look’s insatiable, goddamn animalistic as he eyes you carefully, a darkness that prods at his blues.

You let Carmen place you into the passenger seat, the resounding click of the seat belt the only sound in the stretch of silence between you both. A heaviness laces the air in the car as you ride home, a headiness, a lurking desire beneath the illuminating light of the console, and the flashing lights of Chicago sitting against tinted windows.

Carmen spreads his thighs across the drivers seat leisurely, resting a hand on the steering wheel, whilst the other grips your thigh tightly. There's going to be a bruise there tomorrow, and you can't help but preen at the thought of his mark on you hours later.

You count the seconds that tick by as Carmen rolls into the basement garage of your shared apartment, parking silently as he cuts the engine and remains unmoving, except for his hand gripping your thigh which he squeezes periodically.

Carmen cuts his gaze towards you, the wolfish expression that overtakes his features and turns him into a predator tells you all you need to know, but his eyes soften ever so slightly, almost telling you the next move is up to you.

Carmen doesn't need to hear the seat belt unclasping before he's tugging you on his lap with rough skillful hands. His erection pushed against the softness of your belly as groan out in blissed relief, Carmen can’t help himself, grinding his hips up into you frantically.

“Need” Carmen breathes out heavily “Need to feel you, need to be inside of you. Right now, right fucking now” Carmen groans.

There is a fumble of clothes being ripped and thrown into the backseat, and Carmen shifts the driver's seat to lean back a little. The position is unforgiving, your back is pressed against the wheel, and the space is too small, but strangely, it’s a tight proximity you crave, too long have you gone without the ecstasy of Carmen’s skin against yours.

You settle your thighs on either side of him, his deft fingers drawing soft circles across your hips, his pressing fervent kisses along your jaw causing you to fall into the crook of his neck.

“Please, sweetheart, let me feel you, let me see you, shh, it’s alright, let me feel you” Carmen hums into the heat of your skin, tasting your sweat with the flat of his tongue as he grips your hips gently.

You lift them, and with Carmen's help, you finally, after what felt like centuries, sink onto Carmen's length, the sobbing slick drenching your folds causing him to slip in easily, eliciting a breathless groan from him as he feels the heat of you wrap around you.

You can hardly breath, all you can feel, all you can taste and see is him, the delicious stretch that comes with the first sink into you is glorious, its fucking ineffable. The entirety of his length sinks into you to the hilt, and you feel every vein and ridge of him graze against your tight walls as you let out a strained whimper into Carmen's shoulder.

“ ‘S Fucking velvet, pussy grip’s like a goddamn vice every time sweetheart” Carmen praises, pressing kisses to your skin, his eyes shut as if he was memorising the feel of you, savouring it in his mind like it was the last time.

Carmen always gave you a few moments to get comfortable around his thickness, but there was a neediness in the way he held you, like you would turn to dust if he let go, and the restraint he held earlier falls apart as makes that first thrust up into you without warning.

You cry out as the blanket of pleasure courses through you, your heart is in your throat, you can barely breath, and you throw your head back cause god don’t you want more.

You press your nails into his shoulder as you try to lift your hips, eyebrows furrowed at the feeling of pleasure that fills you with every inch of him that glides against your walls, your clit, your slick. You’re a mess, and Carmen tugs at your hips, sick of waiting, and thrusting into you mercilessly, maintaining an unforgiving pace as you quake above him.

“Take me so goddamn well, huh sugar? Doesn't my wife take my cock so well?’ Carmen grunts, his eyes watching the way his length sinks into you and leaves glistening with your slick. The sight nearly tears him into his undoing, nearly causing him to spurt into you, if only he had a damn polaroid.

Your head brushes against the roof of the car as Carmen pistons into you, his hands gripping your hips as he slams you onto his length, rutting into you as the velvet of your walls cling to him. It was like goddam silk wrapped around his length, the gooey slick of your arousal coating his every ridge, dripping down onto his balls and between the space where he’d thrust into you.

A litter of profanities fall from his mouth with every stuttered thrust of his hips, its uncontrolled, and Carmen shows no restraint, no signs of stopping as he chases the wet softness only you have, the decadent caramel, your natural addicting scent, the car fucking stinks of you, and it takes everything in Carmen not to rip you off him and drink from you like a fountain elixir.

His tip brushes against your cervix, thrusting impossibly deeper with every move of his hips, he changes his position, and it causes his length to brush up against that spot that causes stars to burst in your vision. You practically arch your back against him, lifting your hips up when you feel the white hot pleasure that drips down your back, exploding your senses.

“No no no, fucking take it” Carmen snarks, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you down deeper, further onto his length, till your filled to the brim, your slick gushing out of you.

A shudder rolls through you and the sound of Carmen's low voice, dipping into something untapped, something animalistic and merciless, something that would pull every drop of pleasure from you until you were a sobbing mess.

You roll your hips against his length, a shaking, stuttering mess of gurgling words and cries as you grind your clit against Carmen's length, whilst the girth of his thrust into the spongy spot within you that leaves you heaving.

The familiar burn of a coil tightens within you, and as Carmen presses a thumb against the swollen bundle of nerves, circling it softly. The contrast of his soft feather touches against your clit paired with his unforgiving pace thrusting into causes you to keen, arching your back against him as Carmen murmur below you fervently, like he's chanting something, worshipping every curve of your body.

“Open your eyes pretty girl” Carmen murmurs, the soft voice of his voice comes back, the rough demeanour falling away like dust as he takes in the signs of your closeness.

“Please Carmen” You beg, you don't know what for, but it seems like everything from the pleading lilt of your voice. Give me everything Carmen, your love, your pleasure, your skin and bones.

“I know Baby, I know, let me see you yeah? Let me see those pretty eyes” Carmen prods gently

You squeeze your eyes open and the vision that finds you almost snaps the coil tightening deep within your gut, bellowing with heat and pleasure that sizzles below your skin like electricity.

Carmen lies beneath you, his cheeks red with heat and blushing desire, his eyebrows are furrowed, and below them, below them lie cerulean blues that glaze over in a daze, hooded lids with curls lashes that brush against cheekbones. It’s like he's in a trance, his pupils blown out in lust and something else as they watch the bounce of your chest against him each time you shealth yourself onto his thick, hard length.

White teeth pressed into reddened lips watch you eagerly, imprinting you into his mind forever, he wanted you like this always, taking every inch, screaming nothing but his name.

“Fucking gorgeous”

The lilt of his voice, grown husky and low from pleasure breaks something in you, and you aren’t able to warn him, before you arch your back impossibly, driving yourself roughly onto his hips as you get the wave of pleasure wash over you. Colours of vermilion, blue, of the wine you had drunk and Carmen's cologne burst under your lids, on your tongue, everywhere. Carmen groans loudly below you, thrusts growing sloppy as he ruts into you desperately, chasing his own release brought on by your own unending.

Carmen barely controls the thrust of his hips into you, releasing spurts of thick cum, coating your walls endlessly. His arm wraps tightly around your waist, making you take everything he gives you, forcing you into the whirlwind of ecstasy and base desire you can’t escape from.

You both temporarily forgot about where you both are in that instance, the pleasure from the both of you transports you somewhere boneless, and for a second you feel your heart stop, the wave of pleasure that crashes over you as Carmen continues rutting into you, lengthening the wave as long as possible until you feel it swallow you both whole.

It’s somewhere between a few minutes to a few hours when you resurface, you don't know, your mind is a mess of sound and colour and the ecstatic aftershock of pleasure that still runs through you. You're nestled into Carmen’s chest, the scent of your coupling thick in the air, your thighs and the leather seat are covered with your combined slick.

The only sound between you both is your heavy breathing, you still nestled up to the hilt of Carmen, and when you slightly shift your hips Carmen shoots out a hand to stop you.

“Easy there sweetheart” Carmen replies in tight constraint, over stimulation washing over you both as the buzz of pleasure still hasn't quite dissipated.

“S-sorry” You reply, breathlessly, lifting your head tiredly to catch the soft gaze of Carmen watching you. His hands glide across your naked frame, pressing soft circles, shushing and smoothing out every shudder and shake of your legs. Carmen doesn't tell you the thought of you visibly shaking from him and he only causes his length to stiffen and his mind to reel.

“So..where’s my present?” Carmen’s teasing voice re-emerges, his eyes crinkling as you swipe at him playfully.

“You’re still in me, dick” You reply with a roll of your eyes, falling back against the hardness of his chest

“Mhm, and I didn’t even get to taste you” Carmen murmurs, tracing his fingers along the curve of your waist, cupping your ass as you shudder from his words. There was a finality in it, and you don’t know if you’ll make it to the elevator before he fulfills that very desire.

The obscenity of it, you love it, only Carmen could make you this depraved. And god do you thank him for it.

Taglist 🏷 (send an ask to be apart of my taglist for carmen)

@kpopgirlbtssvt @rooster-bradshaws

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hometoursandotherstuff · 28 days

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Lovely 1875 Italianate Victorian in San Francisco, CA has 6bds, 5ba, $3.995M.

The doors open to a side hall entrance.

The floors seem worn for this price, though, and I'm wondering if there were pocket doors that were removed and replaced by double doors. This home is very elegantly trimmed in gold.

Beautiful ornately carved fireplace.

Very elegant, ornate room.

Now, all of a sudden, the decor turns to delightfully whimsical. I love this room. Since it's right outside the kitchen, I'm wondering if it's the dining room.

I can't believe that this is the only photo of the kitchen. I appreciate that it's not renovated and modernized, but it doesn't look nicely finished either. Especially for a home in this price range.

The powder room.

The stairs are whimsical, too.

And, so this is a bedroom. I'm wondering if they left any paint for touching up the walls in here. It's a nicely painted bedroom.

Updated vintage bath.

This could be the primary bedroom. Love the color of the carpet. The paint in these rooms is amazing. The sink was removed from that alcove.

Isn't this beautiful?

Even this plainer room is nice.

I'm not sure if this is a rear stairway or another floor.

But, this is a lovely bedroom with a sink in the alcove.

There's a modern shower room here. Don't like the sink cabinet. I hope that's not mold between the floor and the wall.

And, a vintage half bath. The sink is nice, but the finishes on some of the wood in this house is done very sloppily. Like this room has paint showing thru and the finish is rough. A haphazard DIY job in a $4M home.

The attic is large and unfinished, but is that a wood stove there?

Apparently there's a bathroom up here.

This is a nice rooftop deck, but it's deteriorating.

The home has no yard. The houses are so close, they seem to overlap.

I know it's San Francisco, but I'm not feeling the $4M price.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/390-Page-St-San-Francisco-CA-94102/2060469081_zpid/

#italianate victorian homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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k-hippie · 10 months

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TARTOSA & MOONWOOD MILL : BOTH WORLDS ARE HERE :) SAN SEQUOIA IS ON ITS WAY ...

So, as said and shown in our previous post : Tartosa, the Wedding World and Moonwood Mill are finished and ready to download :)

TARTOSA : All grounds are now textured ! Some sidewalks were changed for a better look ( we think so ... Hope you'll like it )

Because of the light and many maxis glitches, we made more changes in Tartosa than expected ...But to get the mark to be an Italian getaway, we took some artistic liberties. We think the end result is not bad. It is clean, yet authentic and old looking. Tartosa now exults in lazy walks and languorous evenings ;)

Unsurprisingly, some files are connected to the Base-game : you have to re-download the K-505 base-game AND the K-606 files to get all the details <--- we made a silent update :)

Why a silent update ? Because, in order to update the whole K-Mods and be ready for the next expansion, we have to update many many files : it will be the case during all our Bold November and certainly in December too :D

MOONWOOD MILL : Compared to Tartosa, Moonwood Mill textures redux was much more enjoyable to do :) A bit tricky sometimes but so much grass ! and we love grass ! so much than we really have to update the K-707 as soon as possible :D

In order to get new wood roofs, and the updated wood floors, we updated the K-606 AND the K-101 files to get all the details <--- we made silent updates :)

SAN SEQUOIA : San Sequoia is coming :) soon :) very soon :) what else ?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Remember : Just as always, there’e … unexpected surprises. We had to make some changes into some other K-Mods to get it right. So, don't be mad, we try to make all this as convenient as possible for you, and we are not responsible for Maxis glitches and changes ;)

Certainly, there will be more updates to come, so stay tuned ...

If you think our work is worthing :)

Give us some caffeine : ko-fi // paypal

k-505 Wedding World download

k-505 Moonwood Mill download

k-606 Architek Mod download

k-101 Builder Mod download

Ans as usually, have fun !

PS : we are currently dealing with our host ( regarding all the downloads problems ) and hope to be hosted on new servers ... So, do not message us about now, wait a week, it is a work in progress !

xoxo

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drivepainting · 7 months

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https://paintingdrive.com/asian-paint-apcolite-all-protek-products/

#Painting Company #wood finishes #italian Finishes #spray painting services

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asexualsinner · 26 days

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More Ghoul Headcanons: Kitchen Edition

Mountain

Hides his snacks on the top shelf to avoid the others stealing them

Has to use a recipe when cooking

Likes hearty meals like stews

Is an excellent shadow, will assist any of the other ghouls or Copia when asked.

Likes to just be in the kitchen

Is the embodiment of a pioneer woman mom

Loves to bake

CanNOT handle spice

Thinks cayenne is spicy

Favorite food is chili and drink is tea

Favorite snacks are fig newtons (yes he knows that they're made with wasps, he thinks it's funny)

Carries epi pens on him for the others

Rain

Is obsessed with making smoothies

Isn't allowed to use the stove after using water on a grease fire

Nearly burned half the abbey down

It's fine, he prefers salads anyway

Do not trust this ghoul with a knife he will find a way to hurt himself by accident

Is just a disaster when in the kitchen

Favorite food is smoked salmon thanks to Dew

Fancy ✨bitch✨ that puts mint and fruits in his water

Is the only ghoul to like Kale

Has a high spice tolerance

Takes forever to do the dishes bc he'll play in the water instead

Dew/Sodo

Favorite snacks are seaweed sheets and Takis

His taste buds went "weird" after his transition

He can't decide what he likes anymore, spicy? Fish? So he decided on both. Sometimes neither

Loves to smoke foods, begs Mountain for dried wood flavors for it

Dew learning to smoke properly was heavy trial and error, some things were edible some were very much not

His favorite changes weekly, but ATM it's smoked veggies and tofu

Is a big garbage ghoul, will throw everything together on a plate and eat it

Drinks coffee but doesn't like energy drinks

Has moderate spice tolerance

Will try anything once

Surprisingly one of the better cooks in the pack

Is lactose intolerant. No this doesn't stop him. Why would it?

Doesn't need a recipe, cooks from memory or guesswork

Has everything labeled and dated

Swiss

NO spice tolerance

Tries to compete with Dew, Cumulus and Rain and it never ends well

Loves comfort food!!! Give this ghoul Macncheese or pierogies and he's happy

Can follow boxed instructions or strict recipes but tries to "improve" them

Survives off of Redbull

Doesn't know the difference between a chef's knife and a paring knife

Thinks bc he's a multi ghoul he can pull pans out of the oven without mitts - has been treated for burns multiple times

Hates doing the dishes

His go to snacks are gummy worms or jerky

Will eat expired food thinking it'll be fine - it never is

Is a 3am fridge raider

Phantom/Aeon

Loves pancakes, absolute favorite food though is fettuccine Alfredo. Has to be fettuccine noodles, spaghetti isn't the same

Has texture issues with food

Absolutely hates ground meats, the texture is bad

Has a sweet tooth

Is a surprisingly decent cook, can manage without recipes

Baking is beyond him

Mistook baking soda for sugar once and Mountain banned him from baking ever again

Doesn't like eggs

Is allergic to peanut butter

Favorite snacks are Oreos or rice crackers

Enjoys cranberry juice

Can't have caffeine - gives him headaches

Aether

One of the better cooks in the pack

Is one of the only ones that can finish the dishes without distractions

Is allergic to citrus fruits

Has an app on his phone to scan packages for ingredients

Will practically drink soy sauce he loves it so much

Favorite snack is cucumbers and Italian dressing

Prefers strawberry jam over grape jelly

Doesn't like seafood

Favorite food is deer chili - shares this with Mountain

Wears gloves when cooking to avoid cross contamination

Cumulus

SPICE QUEEN

Has done every spice challenge possible, downs it like it's nothing

Like Swiss, can read box instructions but don't trust her past that

Has burnt frozen pizza before

Favorite snacks are tortillas and ghost pepper salsa

Eats jalapenos like candy

Needless to say she terrifies others

Favorite food is homemade ramen - she begs the others to make it for her

Package ramen isn't the same

Likes to do the dishes and help out in the kitchen

Does need a step stool however

Favorite drink is hazelnut coffee

Aurora

Junk food junkie

Favorite snacks are Skittles and kettle cooked potato chips

Prefers vitamin water over regular water

Likes to make quick easy meals like grilled cheese etc

Eats at the oddest times, breakfast is 2pm and dinner has been at 4am for her

Leaves her dishes in the sink like a gremlin

Has been banned from eating in the living room

Gets easily distracted while cooking

If she puts her mind to it, can make really elaborate dishes for the pack

However she makes a huge mess of the kitchen when doing so

Cirrus

Can identify spices/ingredients after tasting things once

Is also lactose intolerant, takes lactaid frequently

Loves Korean BBQ

Likes differing temperatures (cold food that's spicy, mints, etc)

Loves blackberries and celery

Is a very good cook, can make most things after trying them once

Her favorite drink is bubble tea

Has medium spice tolerance, like spicy flavor rather than the heat

Would rather dry and put away the dishes than wash them

Has a massive sweet tooth like phantom

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artandthebible · 24 days

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The Baptism of Christ

Artist: Andrea del Verrocchio and Leonardo da Vinci

Date: 1472–1475

Medium: Oil on Wood

Collection: Uffizi Gallery, Florence

The Baptism of Christ is an oil-on-panel painting finished around 1475 in the studio of the Italian Renaissance painter Andrea del Verrocchio and generally ascribed to him and his pupil Leonardo da Vinci. Some art historians discern the hands of other members of Verrocchio's workshop in the painting as well.

The picture depicts the Baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist as recorded in the Biblical Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke. The angel to the left is recorded as having been painted by the youthful Leonardo, a fact which has excited so much special comment and mythology, that the importance and value of the picture as a whole and within the œuvre of Verrocchio is often overlooked. Modern critics also attribute much of the landscape in the background to Leonardo as well.

The picture depicts the Baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist on the banks of the Jordan River. There are two kneeling angels, one holding Jesus's garment, and the other with its hands folded, both in front of the symbolization of salvation and life, the palm tree. While barefoot in the river, John the Baptist is clothed in robes with a halo over his head. He is holding a staff with a gold cross at the top as he pours the river water on Jesus's head. Jesus has a halo over his head as he is depicted praying barefoot in the river. He has a small garment covering his genitals with visible pubic hair peeking through scroll by John's left hand contains the two Latin words "ECCE AGNIUS", a reference to a phrase in the description of Jesus' baptism in the Vulgate translation of John 1:29, Ecce agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi ("Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world"). There is also a bright-eyed raptor that swoops down over the head of John and into the trees in the background. God's hands can be seen at the top of the painting coming from heaven as it opens up. A dove and rays of sunlight shine through which symbolize the holy spirit shining above them revealing Jesús's divine nature.

#religious art #andrea del verrocchio #leonardo da vinci #baptism #john the baptist #jesus christ #bible gospels #desert #dove #angels #jordan river #christianity #christian faith #saviour #new testament #the lamb of god

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totothewolff · 5 months

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Season of Love (7/?)

+18 | Toto x reader fem!teamprincipal, romance, comedy, and some good drama.

Summary: One night on a pier in Monaco, while admiring the sea under the night skies, you tell Toto: "I came to the conclusion that love is simply not meant for me." That's the answer to a question you have been asking yourself for the longest time. But what if he proved you wrong? Author's note: This is a multichapter Toto Wolff x team principal reader fic set along a season of F1. It's a very immersive story full of drivers, team dynamics, races, mystery, and smut. You just bought the Williams team, but nobody really knows who you truly are.

< Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter >

The Color of Truth is Blue Arc Chapter 7: Red flagsss

Italy

You stay off-the-grid that entire weekend to everyone's concerns.

Your phone remains turned off and forgotten on the sofa at Seb's place, kilometers away from you now, as he takes you on a sudden road trip through the Italian Riviera in his 1995 classic blue Citroën DS19.

Knowing the beautiful scenery and brief stops at the Mediterranean towns' gorgeous tourist sites would keep your mind from hurtful thoughts.

And, boy, he was right.

Your mood gets less somber as you two enjoy your gelatos while peacefully walking the Giardini Botanici Hanbury, feeling the fresh breeze from the trees on your skin and hearing the birds chirping around you.

It turns out Seb is full of great love and life advice. He sounds so mature and open about it that it seems new and shocking to you.

How can someone love so freely and so fearlessly?

Seb watches you sigh as you finish packing the clothes you bought and wore during the weekend in your also new suitcase since touring Italy in his clothes seemed like something other than a fit for your aesthetics and ego.

Still, you chose to wear his vintage Monty Python t-shirt with mom jeans for the flight back, as you loved the graphic, its colors, and the fact that it fits you a bit oversized and comfy. It made you feel safe.

—Everything will be fine —he expresses.

—I know —you look at Seb and give him a shy smile, only if he knew.

—Ready, then? —he holds open the door for you.

—More than ever —you answer, and you are.

Hungary

Much to your poor nerves, the Hungary Grand Prix week is finally here.

And you need to meet Pascal on the outskirts of town so he can deliver you the device.

That nervous sensation in your stomach grows as the chauffeur/gunman drives you closer to the meeting point, which is inside the third floor of a decadent and abandoned old building from the socialist era.

It's been more than a decade since last you saw him in person, as he was getting violently pinned down to the floor and dragged away by a SWAT team as you screamed.

His piercing blue eyes and his handsome face were covered in blood coming from a deep wound over his eyebrow from the contact of a fist punch as he whispered a soft and reassuring "I will be fine; you will be fine."

That memory was forever tattooed in your brain, sometimes making you wake up with a cold sweat at night.

As you finish climbing the narrow swirl stairs that once may have been stunning, you open the enormous, washed-down, and scratched-wood double doors. They creak so loud, making the place echo, as the tall, muscular figure of a man looking out of an open, broken window turns your way, following the sound.

Your heart skips at the sight of him; you guess those feelings never truly disappeared.

He watches you approach him with the same expression as your heels clack loudly on the dirty, now opaque, tiled floor.

You rush your pace in the last couple of remaining steps. Reaching closer to Pascal's figure, a smile forms on his lips, expecting you to throw yourself into his arms.

But as you are millimeters away from his body, you slap him so hard, making his head turn. His lip bleeds a little bit from the contact before sinking into his neck as he pulls you in a really tight hug above the ground; your hand caresses his hair and cheek as you lay your foreheads in one another.

—It's great to see you, kid. We don't have much time —Pascal tells you as he places you back to the ground and points to the ankle monitor on his calf with a blinking light. —Inside this is the tracker; follow the protocol precisely as we practiced it, and everything will be alright. You are so brave —he hands you a green Hermes bag. —Go.

You want to talk to him more, say more, and let him know all that happened in your life after him and thanks to him, but he rushes you to leave, not wanting to expose you more than necessary, and for you to return to safety.

You slide your hand down his arm and squeeze his hand as you walk away, letting it go only when he gets out of your reach.

The weather at the track gets damn awful, umbrellas everywhere, grey skies, and all lights on, even if it's really early.

The free practice is a complete mess, thanks to the various puddles and Logan's car pinballing around.

Sam looks extremely uneasy that day under the stern scrutiny from Toto.

—Stop it. You are making me uneasy, too. What's with you? —he asks as Sam nervously moves around.

—Nothing, I don't want Lewis to crash or George to get hurt. That thing with Logan was awful —she lies quickly, as paramedics had to help him out of the car while many "ouchs" from the crowd were exchanged as he wasn't walking alright.

Toto looks at her with a deadly "Please, I'm not stupid" look.

But he lets it go before he overhears; Niki asks her directly as she reaches him. —Have you heard from her?

Sam knows exactly to whom (you) he is referring. —No.

And that's what makes her more nervous than anything. "Please, be ready," she thinks.

Toto raises an eyebrow at the interaction. Is something going on?!

You decide to show up until qualy.

You walk around the paddock and pitline as if following a path, but this is only noticeable if someone is paying you lots of attention, which Charles is.

He catches your step in the middle, distracting you; you cut him as he opens his mouth to say something.

—Not now, later —you look so authoritarian he doesn't protest. —I need to focus. Do you get it? —now you mutter to him, low.

He nods. —Take care, please —is all he says, and he walks away. He is not able to talk to you about what happened at the Gala and about all Seb told him; he only told him the bits Seb knew weren't to be kept.

Toto is there, too, observing your every move. The more he looks and follows you, the weirder it gets.

Judging by the expression you and Charles shared, how nerve-wracking Sam is acting, and how quiet Niki is, there is no way something isn't happening.

Could it be the aftermath of what happened at the Gala? To which he is the one to blame for.

Toto waits for the perfect moment to confront Sam. After the practice ends and everyone moves to the hospitality and headquarters, he notices the blond walking down the corridor of his office in the direction of Niki's. He quickly gets on his feet and follows her around. Sam notices and rushes her pace.

Out of nowhere, he pushes Sam softly against the wall to make her stop. —What's going on? Don't dare to lie to me —he looks dead concerned about it, borderline paranoid.

—It's not my place to tell you —she sadly replies and pushes him away too, roughly, knowing the last time she said those words, she ended up hurting a friend. —Don't push it! It won't work! My lips are sealed —she warns him as she fixes her shirt and returns to work.

—I know I fucked it up —Toto lets out, looking at Samanta's back as she faces the door down the hall as he leans one of his hands on the wall.

Fuck, he sounds so sad, almost wounded. Sam closes her eyes, feeling awful, before taking a step and walking away in total silence.

It's the eve of the Hungarian Grand Prix, and the paddock is abuzz with excitement and anticipation.

It's regular business with teams preparing their cars and mechanics working tirelessly to ensure every engine is revving if it wasn't for the extreme security present this time.

There are not-so-discreet gunmen in different places, catching the attention of some guests and team members.

Fans gather at the circuit, voices rising in cheers. The energy is palpable as everyone eagerly awaits the engines' roar and the tires' screech on the track.

This time, The Hungarian Grand Prix is more than just a race; today, it welcomes a peculiar, to say the least, special guest to participate in the opening ceremony: one political candidate, desperate to be in the spotlight and under the cameras, seizing the opportunity with the upcoming election just weeks from today.

It has been almost a year since your intelligence team confirmed to you that the juicy donations from Hungarian and Serbian accounts addressed to the FIA/F1 were the single most crucial lead to the man you have been hunting for years and years: Jószef Lenkov.

Lenkov had planned to tour the paddock on foot before arriving at the pit lane to participate in the committee during the country's anthem ceremony.

It's your only opportunity in decades to approach him, and you can't miss it. Your entire team and life depend on it; it's personal.

You feel sick to your stomach as you watch Lenkov and his entire entourage arrive. After all these years, he is there, in person, just meters away from you, as in one of your nightmares; there he is, the reason behind all the suffering in your life and the ones you love.

Even if you now have a different name and aspect and are being protected and monitored, a lingering fear is still deep in you.

You were just a child the last time you saw him.

God, how much you despise that man, how much you want to succeed in bringing him down, how much you want him gone for good.

You start casually walking closer and around them, near the distance but not enough to be noticed by all those guards protecting him.

You follow the path that you rehearsed thousands of times.

Everything goes according to plan until you make it to the pitlane on the final and most crucial move.

In a matter of seconds, your vision gets all blurry.

Your ear makes an awful whistling sound, and you feel stabs of pure pain on your right forearm, the one you just got up by instinct to protect you from smashing directly into the glass, which shatters enough to hurt you as you get pushed to the side against the glass barrier where Rolex had an interactive advertising booth for those with a VIP access.

Everyone near you watches the scene in genuine shock as one of the brutal security assholes of Lenkov forces you away from him.

As you approach the older man from behind, you are able to place your hands on his shoulder and just above his jacket pocket inside that entourage of suited security men as he waves the crowds of militants in the stands supporting him.

Lewis watches, shocked at how little you react to such a violent punch. There is almost no expression in response from you, no wincing, which raises all his alarms.

Samanta tries her best to look as surprised as the rest, and thank God Toto next to her is fuming with rage that doesn't pay her any attention.

Since yesterday, he has been suspicious that something is going on and has followed her closely the entire day, too, so she has remained as far from you as possible.

A lot happens around you as you recover; Lenkov doesn't even bother to turn around or give his attention to the commotion as he gets rushed away from the scene by his team of gorillas guarding him.

Your blood starts spilling everywhere on the pitlane concrete floor; it seems and feels like a deep cut on the forearm.

FIA security holds the violent bodyguard and escorts him out, and aid comes your way.

You compose yourself reasonably quickly.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice your entire team of mechanics and drivers moving towards the guy with killer instincts since everything is happening barely a meter away from your garage entry.

—Anyone who dares to move an inch gets out of this team —you warn them in such a dangerous, deep voice. Something no one has witnessed you do before.

Millie looks at you as you have transformed into someone else, like something buried inside you has come out.

No one dares to move.

You rush to grab one of the mechanics' jackets and tighten it around your arm, trying to stop the bleeding. Paramedics arrive as fast as possible and start working on your nasty wound.

Once inside the ambulance, you instruct them to take you straight to your hotel room against their will; you let them know it's an order, not an option.

You catch a glimpse of Pascal among the crowds near the pit stop. Now, he knows you have accomplished the job because of the smile you give him through the open door of the ambulance, like a lioness before eating her sleep prey.

After getting some provisional stitches and a fresh bandage, you arrive at the Corinthia Hotel.

The white gauze gets redder with every step you take. Still, you hide it well behind the space thermal blanket the paramedics give you, walking as fast as possible, trying to avoid grabbing the attention of the guests in the hotel on your way to your destination.

Drops of blood are on your expensive pink glaze tweed Valentino dress.

You knock on the room you got instructed to, using the signal number of knocks your team told you to.

You quickly enter the large double room once they open the door for you. The curtains are closed, and the lights are on. A team of six guys on computers with tons of cables and some devices wrapped in foil, along with a couple of gunned men, greet you.

An exceedingly handsome, fit man in an expensive Armani power suit sits on the couch, legs crossed, with a drink in his hand.

He turns to talk to you. —We got signal! Now we can trace him —he informs you; he notices you are hurt and instantly gets concerned, and his fierce eyes softened.

Everyone claps as you collapse next to him on the couch. He grabs your once again bloody hand and comes close to kneel in front of you, sharing an intimate moment as tears run down your cheeks, not knowing if it was the emotion of the moment or the pain provoking them.

—You succeeded! I'm so proud of you —Matt rubs a finger on your bruised knuckles and softly kisses them —The tracker you placed on Lenkov will lead us to his current quarters. I will take it from here.

You nod, exhausted.

—You are done more than enough; now I have to play my part —he informs you.

—What?! —you let out as your heart skips.

—If I don't cause a scene, it will raise questions.

—Wait, Matt, it's unnecessary! I don't think they notice; the FIA aren't exceptionally bright...

—You just got slaughtered in our team garage, and you think it is not necessary? —he looks at you with an exasperated face.

—You don't need to show up! I can handle this! I don't require you to intervene! —you enter complete panic mode; you need more time and want more time.

—What you need is a surgeon; that cut seems deep, but they will take you to the hospital now. I will meet you there after visiting the pitlane —Matt ends the conversation right there, his beautiful clear blue eyes looking authoritarian at you.

—Matthew, no, wait! —you know it is impossible to make that man change his mind; once he makes a decision, it gets done. You all live in a world that is his. You know how erratic, spoiled, and unreliable he is.

There it is, the control freak from which you ran away.

Your limbs get cold as you have this conversation, and moving causes you so much pain now, so you let your case rest, knowing there's nothing else you can do.

More tears run down your face, but not caused by the wound; it is your heart bleeding.

Samanta watches Matthew walk past the Mercedes garage's front like she is seeing a walking ghost.

He looks gorgeous, with perfect hair, on-point clothes, and swaggy steps, but this time, he has a lethal gaze.

He tilts his head and looks straight at her for a second. Sensing her eyes on him, Matt subtely smirks at Sam and keeps going.

Sam stays still, watching, knowing everything is about to change.

—All good? —Lewis asks her, concerned, witnessing the interaction.

—Yes, I'm just shocked and worried about what happened! I hope she's doing okay!

—We all do —Niki joins the conversation, looking somber, hands in his pockets. Then, he softly whispers to Sam. —I hope she succeeded.

—Me too —Sam answers, knowing that he knows.

Toto is quiet and reflective in his chair, far from them. Sam does everything possible not to cross his sight and avoids him the rest of the night.

He has many questions and needs your answers.

If you ever want to talk to him ever.

He prays God you do.

That you still want him.

Matthew arrives at the gruesome scene with a group of lawyers, who carry cameras and tablets and start taking pictures and collecting testimonials.

Of course, it is all pretend; your team is about to control the narrative of the events: "It was a non-related security brokerage" is about to fill social media, bots, press, and TV.

The FIA is about to be blamed for having weak security protocols for its people.

Matt is not pleased to see your blood spread all over the pitstop's concrete floors. He feels murderous inside, and he looks like it.

He notices many curious eyes set on him, but he is used to it; a man with his appearance always draws attention anyway.

Schumi walks to him. —Hi, Mr. De Vos. Is Y/N okay, boss?!

—I just got informed she is at the hospital right now getting surgery. I will be by her side soon. I needed to see it first with my own eyes. I can't believe this! —fuck he sounds pissed looking at the "crime scene."

The next day, the stewards were going nuts trying to manage the entire situation, and the busy FIA scheduled a meeting to discuss the violent events with all the astonished team principals.

To reassure them that they were handling the situation and that there was no need for anyone not to feel safe, and to say: "It won't happen again, we swear."

—I didn't know Ken existed in real life! —Otmar jokes under his breath with Mattia and Fred as they all watch Matthew having a call on the other side of the clear glass panel walls outside the meeting room.

All TPs are gathered in a vacant and enormous room, along with some team owners, waiting for Massi to arrive and discuss the gruesome circumstances of the night before.

Matthew enters the room, grabbing everyone's attention and provoking a "Who is this guy?" face on the men inside.

His blonde lawyer waits for him outside just by the door; they both look busy.

That blonde guy looks familiar to Toto. Oh, yeah! It's Sam's brother.

Matthew joins the circle of chairs. —Couldn't they get cheaper ones? —he jokes as the thing squeaks with his weight. He is very muscular but lean, like a model.

Everyone laughs, agreeing.

—We look like we are about to take fucking therapy —Gunther colorfully adds.

Horner chuckles at his comment.

—My name is Zack, and I'm addicted to speed —he teases.

—Hi, Zack! —three of them answer in unison.

—I'm Christian. I'm addicted to winning —Horner jokes, too.

—Mr. Lauda —Matthew greets him, standing to receive a hug from the older man as he joins the group.

—Oh, so handsome as ever! —Niki comments on Matt's good looks and pats his face. Matt doesn't seem bothered by it; he has quite an authoritarian presence and a stern face that could spam from the sweetest thing to a serial killer within seconds, but he smiles at Niki.

—How is she? —Niki asks, concerned for your well-being.

—She went through reconstructive surgery, which took five hours. The glass cut tendons and nerves, so she needs to take therapy to get her movement back. She can't feel pressure or heat on her fingers and has minimal movement on her entire arm.

—Yeah, all sense gets gone for a good couple of weeks —Niki states. He knows the procedures well; he went through some after his crash. —I'm calling her to advise her on how to deal with it; it gets frustrating.

—That would be fantastic. Y/N will very much appreciate your supporting words; she is still shaken by all that has happened.

—And what happened exactly? —Mattia inserts himself in their conversation. Matthew turns to him with a cold expression, a mixture of "you aren't part of this conversation" and "I don't have anything to explain to you."

—According to the FIA, it was just a simple "accident," but my team differs —Matthew answers him with sarcasm and deadpan.

Toto already dislikes Matt. He acts arrogant and entitled. Niki sits beside him, and Massi rushes in, followed by a group of stewards and his assistants.

—Apologies, it's been crazy! Oh! Mr. De Vos, thank you for joining us!

"Mr. De Vos?!" Toto's expression changes from annoyed to surprised as he stares for the first time straight at him, to which Matthew holds his look.

Matt instantly switches personalities as Massi addresses him. His pose goes from relaxed on his chair to dangerous, with one leg resting on his knee. His eyes look harsh, like a wolf about to bite the lamb's neck.

—This can't happen again —he says in the most authoritarian voice, with no greeting. Massi's eyes widen. —This wasn't an accident; it was incompetence from your security, your organization, and yours —Matthew destroys him.

He knows playing with your food is not polite, but he isn't the most successful man in his type of business by being kind or soft. —Bring your PR team. I need to have a word with them —Matt continues.

Massi looks at him, alarmed, but nods, agreeing.

—Now —Matt slowly and softly finishes saying.

Massi nods again and quickly goes out of the room.

—Can we hire you? —Stroll asks Matt in awe.

—You don't have that kind of money —he jokes back.

"Yes, he is insufferable," Toto thinks.

After an extensive meeting, Matthew gives the FIA two months to develop a new and better security protocol, or they will sue.

After receiving many concerned texts and "I hope you get better soon" mentions, you finally replied in the group chat: "I now have a bionic forearm, but it doesn't shoot lasers. Bummer!"

"I have something in my body that shoots too, but neither is my arm nor are lasers," Lando jokes.

Everyone laughs.

During the break that the Mercedes team takes to lunch, Sam visits you at the hospital, and she takes you tons of gifts. She is the only one who is allowed to visit you or knows your location.

Among the gifts is a letter from Toto that you don't dare to open.

After returning from the hospital, Sam joins the girl squad for a much-needed chat.

—He looks fake! It's like the Greeks marbled him —Millie says, checking out Matthew while he talks with a man obstructed by a poster with Sam, Angela, and Brigita beside her.

—He is so handsome! That's some cute, firm bubble booty —Angela lusts for him.

—And you haven't seen him without a shirt; he has abs for days —Sam informs them.

—One can only imagine —Brigita whispers.

Matthew is chatting with Alexi, Sam's brother, behind the sign, obstructing Millie's view until he moves.

As soon as she notices Alexi, she hugs and greets him. —Uncle! —she lets out, throwing herself into his arms, excited as they embrace each other.

Sam joins them against her will. —How lovely! A family reunion, yikes! —she says sarcastically, pretending to hate the thing.

They all candidly talk till Niki and Toto reach them.

—You don't remember Matthew?! Really? Are you sure?! —Alexi looks incredulous at Millie as he asks her.

She denies fiercely with her head.

—But he has been invited to many family gatherings!

—Nope! —Millie then gestures at Matt's body with her hand. —If I had seen this, I would remember it, believe me! —then she turns to him, a bit red on the cheeks. —With all due respect —she adds, and Matthew shrugs, amused.

—Don't boost his ego, please. It's already enormous —Sam rolls her eyes at them.

—No worries! —Alexi addresses his niece. —He is so used to this; a girl once fainted before him. No joking; it happened during our college years. You were so popular with the girls —then turns to face Matthew. —Y/N was the most envied girl on campus —Alexi finishes saying and then looks at the two men now joining them.

—You must be Sam's brother —Toto extends a hand to him, to Niki's right.

—Yes, I am! I have heard so much of you —he says as they shake hands. Alexi looks very friendly and chatty, utterly different from Sam and Matt. It could be more like Millie's genes; maybe it's that part of his family.

—I hope nice things! —Toto jokes.

—Apparently, this gremlin is fond of you —he smirks at a now embarrassed Sam at the revelation.

Alexi is Matthew's lawyer. They have been friends since childhood, since the womb as their families have been close for centuries. Yes, centuries, big old-timey money with insulting fortunes, the kind of money that would make someone sick.

They both studied law at Cambridge at the same time.

Alexi then quickly adds. —You haven't been introduced to each other, right? Matthew, this is Toto Wol..

—I know —Matt cuts him. —We just saw each other at the meeting.

None of them moves an inch to greet the other. An awkward tension is palpable.

—Oh, well, then. Anyway, this "knows it all" is Matthew De Vos, owner of the Williams team and Y/N's husband.

"Y/N'S HUSBAND! WHAT THE FUUUU-!" Toto struggles to play it cool.

To be continued... < Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter > - A new arc is here with lots to unpack and reveal! Finally, we are getting to more know about her! I hope you liked this chapter, but prepare for what comes next! Read you soon <3

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