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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

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

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

In cash, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely not nerves.

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

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

You’d seen it all.

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

It didn’t.

You sat down.

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

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was coming over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

Monaco. France. Spain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Social law.”

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

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

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

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

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

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

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

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

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got in the cart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointless.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Macallan, no ice.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve ignored him.

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

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

Home time. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

“Drink?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

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

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roosterforme · 6 months ago

Text

Covering the Classics Part 11 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: When Anna hits rock bottom, she knows she needs to figure out how to put herself back together. But she also knows that leaving Kevin behind once and for all will require her to give up the only thing she wants from him. Maybe a shot at happiness with Bob would have been worth it.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, 18+

Length: 4400 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more!

If this wasn't rock bottom, Anna didn't want to know what was. She spent Sunday night laying on the floor next to her bed alternating between crying and hyperventilating. Apparently she couldn't do both at the same time, because her body kept giving each activity its full attention before switching again. When she finally started to fall asleep around three o'clock, her ribs were aching so much, she didn't see how she would be able to teach in a few hours. But it didn't matter. She wouldn't be going to campus anyway.

When she woke up at six, she crawled to her computer and emailed everyone in her classes, informing them that she would not be in today and to work through the syllabus independently until their next class with her. All of the other professors pulled this kind of thing all the time, but she still felt guilty which triggered more tears. If Kevin somehow cost her a full time tenure position along with her happiness, she didn't know what else she had that he could possibly take from her.

When she thought about Bob, it hurt so badly she had to run to the toilet. And when she thought about Advanced Calculus and Advanced Physics, it hurt almost just as much. She was in love with so many things in San Diego, but she'd dragged her past here along with her even if she didn't want to acknowledge that fact. She'd brought this dark shadow along that tainted everything and left her wondering if she could fix any of it at this point. If she could even figure out how to start.

As she hiccupped alone in her bathroom, she knew she needed to mentally backtrack to New Jersey for the first time in a long time before she could focus on San Diego. When she crawled back toward her bed, she located her phone and found the contact information for her lawyer's office. It was late enough on the east coast that someone answered after one ring, and soon Anna had to use her scratchy, raw voice to try to communicate.

"When will my divorce be final?" she managed to ask as she propped herself against the wall. She left herself hungry every day, and she was living in this tiny room simply so she could pay these people to help her sort out her life, but the response she got was not ideal.

"Ms. Webber... your husband still has three days left to comply, but he has not done so yet."

Anna wanted to scream, but her throat felt like it was constricting. Why wouldn't he just let her have the one thing she wanted? She wasn't asking for anything extra, just the thing she worked so hard to make her own. She didn't even care about all of the money. But he wouldn't let her have it. Even though she didn't want to fight for anything else in the house, he still wouldn't comply. He was making hundreds of thousands of dollars now, and she wanted none of it back, but he knew that her manuscript was the one thing meant something to her. He would happily drag this out until she had nothing left.

She knew she needed to wait it out. It was her fault she hadn't filed sooner. She let Kevin's words destroy her even when she knew he was sleeping with Alyssa. She let him convince her that she needed him for way too long. "What happens in three days?" she finally asked.

"If he doesn't comply, then you can restructure your end of the divorce agreement, and we can try again."

Anna knew what that meant for her, but she didn't know if she could pull the trigger. Restructure it? There was only one thing she could remove. Kevin would come out clean as a whistle, and she would lose everything she hadn't already.

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When Bob knocked on the door at seven in the morning after barely sleeping at all, Jessica looked concerned when she opened it, and Jake looked annoyed. "What's wrong?" she asked, reaching out and running her hand along his stubbled cheek. "Why haven't you shaved? Why do you look so upset?"

"Why are you even here?" Jake called from the kitchen where he was cooking breakfast in his uniform.

"I need to talk to you," Bob croaked, and Jessica pulled him inside and gently guided him toward the couch. She rubbed his back and didn't rush him as he sat there, and Jake even stopped turning to glare from in front of the waffle iron.

"Did you know Anna's married?"

Bob could tell by the sharp intake of breath and the way Jessica's hand came to a screeching halt on his back that she had no idea.

"She's what?"

"Married," he repeated without any feeling whatsoever. The handful of hours he'd spent around her were some of the best of his life, but he would have never let his friends try to push them together if he'd know. He should have let her keep him in the friend zone when she tried to let him know that's what she wanted. Mutual attraction be damned, she'd made marriage vows to someone else. He just wished he would have known.

"No," Jessica said adamantly. "How? She's got no rings, and she said she lives alone. She mentioned an ex before, but I'm virtually certain he's still in New Jersey. She... struggles with certain things, and if she was married, someone would be helping her make ends meet. I don't know where you came up with this, but no."

Bob took his glasses off and set them down on the arm of the couch while he ran his hands over his exhausted eyes. "Jessica. She told me she was."

"Well," his friend said as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, "I'll ask her about it at lunchtime today. There must be some sort of miscommunication."

"I don't think so," he groaned softly. "We... slept together, and those were her parting words as she ran out of my house."

"You slept together?!" Jessica practically shrieked.

"It's about damn time!" Jake called from the kitchen, clanging his spatulas together and whooping loudly.

But Bob was shaking his head and staring at the floor through his slightly fuzzy vision. He had his phone in his hand all night, trying to decide if he should call or text her, wondering if she went home to climb into bed with her husband. Scared that this was the reason why she squeezed herself into her apartment door before closing it abruptly when he drove her home.

"I should have backed off when she friend zoned me the first time. I should have never believed that I could be with a woman like her." A woman that inspired the best poetry he'd ever written in his life. A woman who made him want everything.

It finally dawned on Bob that there might be an irate husband in his future, and he would just have to take whatever came his way. Because there wasn't a chance that Anna didn't have her spouse wrapped around her fingers. Even if she had a lapse of judgement when it came to Bob, Anna's husband would know how good he had it and want to fight for her. Bob would just have to take it on the chin.

When Jessica kissed his cheek and whispered, "I'll try to sort this out," he just nodded with his shoulders slumped and his elbows digging into his thighs. But there was nothing to sort out. Anna would never be his, and now he would have to pay the price for the way she told him she was married about an hour too late to take it all back. Honestly, he never thought accidentally sleeping with a married woman was something he would ever have to deal with in his wildest dreams, and now that he was forced to do it, he was getting pretty mad.

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

Anna managed to give her Classics lecture on Tuesday morning with a sore throat after screaming into her pillow off and on for most of Monday afternoon. She hadn't eaten in days, and if anyone noticed her puffy, red eyes, they didn't mention it to her. She had quizzes to grade and reports to read, but when she went back to her office, the overwhelming scent of bread from the cafeteria made her gag.

There was a pack of peanuts in her desk along with a room temperature can of ginger ale, but she had no appetite yet. She was just in survival mode until she decided what to do when Kevin's time was up. Until she worked up the courage to talk to Bob and apologize.

He was the sweetest man she had ever known, and her lapse of judgement was going to cost her any chance with him in the future as well as her friendships. In fact, none of them were ever going to want to speak to her again, and that's what she deserved. If she would have just been honest with Bob, she wouldn't be in this mess. But San Diego was like a balm for her senses, making her feel normal where she knew she wasn't. Maybe Bob would have been willing to wait a few more months until she figured out her next steps. Maybe he would have accepted that she was legally separated from Kevin if her husband would just sign the fucking paperwork.

Tears were burning her eyes again just as someone knocked on her office door. She sat perfectly still, silently begging them to go away, praying that everyone would leave her alone until she could sneak out and go home later.

"Anna?"

She knew that voice so well, and she was shocked to find that it sounded more concerned than angry.

"It's just us," came the second voice, and without another thought, Anna was on her feet, wrenching the door open as she started to sob. "Oh, Anna," whispered Jessica as she collected her into her arms.

Anna stood in the middle of her tiny office and cried and cried in Jessica's arms while her other friend studiously locked the door and dimmed the lights before reaching for the box of tissues on the shelf. "Here," she whispered, and Anna accepted a wad of tissues from her.

She tried to mop at her face, but it was a lost cause. Jessica pushed the loose strands of her red hair back from her eyes as she said, "Anna, we're here for you, but I think we need to talk. For real."

"We have some... concerns."

Anna tried to take huge gulps of air into her burning lungs as she gasped, "I'm really not okay. I hurt Bob."

Her friends looked at each other before Jessica said, "I think it's time you backtracked a little bit. Maybe all the way back to New Jersey."

"I hated it there," she told them immediately, wiping at her eyes as she sat on the edge of her desk, bracing herself for the interrogation to come.

Advanced Calculus eyed her sympathetically before a look of steel locked in her gaze. "Are you married?"

Anna nodded slightly, cringing as she pictured Kevin's face. "Technically, yes."

"Anna!" Jessica exclaimed. "You slept with Bob!"

They knew. They knew everything. Bob told them, and they knew what she'd done. She cradled her forehead in her hands and said, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I hate Kevin. I don't think we were even married two years before he started cheating on me. I'm trying my best to divorce him, but he just won't fucking let me."

"What do you mean he won't let you?" Advanced Calculus asked, cutting off Jessica before she could screech again.

"He is ruining my life," Anna whispered, finally starting to feel more anger than anything else. "Like an idiot, I've let him ruin my life. I put him through medical school. I dropped out of Princeton to work two jobs to put my husband through medical school." Her voice faded into a soft yet harsh whisper. "Kevin promised he'd take care of me after that so I could finish my Ivy League PhD. But then he started cheating on me because I was always tired and boring and no fun. Because all I was doing was working to pay his tuition for four years straight while he fucked another medical student between classes. I caught them having sex in my car."

"No," both women gasped at the same time. But she just nodded as the memories she had tried so hard to keep at bay since she moved to California came roaring back.

"That's not a marriage," Jessica practically growled, reaching out for Anna's hand that she hadn't even been aware was shaking. "Not really."

"You're right," Anna agreed. "I'm a joke." She honestly felt like one. Images of Bob's face and the memory of his kind voice flooded her system. The way he looked at her and touched her felt like love. The things he wrote about her had her almost convinced he could love her back.

"You're not a joke, Anna," her friend told her. "You're a smart, capable woman who should have come to her friends months ago with all of this information."

"I hate Kevin!" Jessica shrieked before biting down on her own fingertips, and it was so comical, Anna might have laughed if she was in a better frame of mind.

"Yes," Advanced Calculus agreed. "Kevin sounds like an asshole. But you know who isn't an asshole? Bob. But right now, he kind of feels like one."

Anna closed her eyes as the tears started welling up faster. "I tried so hard. You have to believe me. But Bob is perfect. And he didn't think I was boring. But I wasn't planning on falling in love ever again."

"You love him?" Jessica snapped loudly. "You love him? Because Bob thinks you are in a loving marriage with your spouse!"

"Jessica, go sit in the desk chair and calm down," the other woman commanded, and Anna watched the petite, bespectacled blonde stomp around her desk. "Now, Anna, why didn't you explain this all to Bob before you rocked the man's whole world and then ran off into the night like Cinderella?"

"I freaked out," Anna whispered, swallowing hard. "He's the perfect man. He did everything exactly right, and he was exquisite." She looked down at the floor as she said, "I haven't been touched like that in years. Like I was worth something. I'm not even thirty yet, and my husband ditched me for someone else while actively bankrupting me." She was mortified by what she was telling them, but she couldn't stop herself now. "Kevin always said I should dye my hair, and he loved it when I wore makeup. But Bob... he likes my hair and my freckles. He likes the books I read. He thinks I'm smart." She felt her face warm up as she thought about his poems. "We had sex, and then he was looking at me, and he started talking about us. I can't be an us with someone when I can't shake Kevin."

Anna could practically feel Jessica freaking out in the chair behind her, but she kept her eyes on the floor. "If you need help with Kevin or money for a lawyer or something-" Jessica said, but Anna cut her off.

"No. I'm fine. But he's going to force me to decide if I'd rather have my freedom or my self worth. And right now, I can't decide what I want to let him get away with when he already took so much."

"Hey," her much calmer friend said softly, and Anna finally met her eyes. "We're here for you. Anything you need, okay? But I need you to promise you'll talk to Bob. The sooner the better." Then Anna watched her reach for her tie dye lunch box which she apparently brought in with her and pulled out one of her fancy containers. "Bradley made you some hummus, and I packed you crackers and veggies to go with it. Please make sure you're eating. And please talk to Bob. I need to go teach Differential Equations, but I'll text you later. Jess, you have Physics III in fifteen minutes."

Anna received two hugs that she barely returned, and when the two women were gone, she sank into her chair and managed to eat some of the hummus without gagging. Then she texted Bob, because if nothing else, she needed him to know how sorry she was for running out on him. How sorry she was for all of it.

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

Anna wanted to talk to him on Thursday evening. Bob had to fight the urge to offer to pick her up on campus and save her from having to take an Uber to his house, especially after the few details that Jessica told him about her finances. She confirmed that Anna was married. She also promised him that there was no angry spouse waiting to jump him in the In 'N Out parking lot. She also told him that he needed to give Anna a chance to clear the air. So he agreed. He was free on Thursday. It wasn't like he'd been doing anything except going to work and coming straight home all week, even avoiding Suzanne as much as he could. And he wasn't going to break his promise to Jessica, even though Nat told him to delete Anna's number.

Bob sat in his living room, staring at his new bookshelf in disgust. He'd let himself fall into a fantasy where he imagined someday Anna's books would get mixed up with his on the shelves. Where all of her dog eared novels would live alongside his pristine ones. He'd been subconsciously thinking about it since he met her.

His insides were churning with anxiety. Part of him wanted to scream at her that none of this was fair to him, but the other part knew that no matter what, he still didn't want to see tears in her brown eyes. He couldn't let her take all of the blame for this anyway. He'd even told Jessica that she pushed a little too hard and that she shouldn't do that again in the future.

When there was a knock on his door, it was hard for him to stand up. How was he supposed to do this? He dragged himself across his living room to his front door and carefully opened it to find Anna with the saddest expression imaginable on her face. She looked somehow smaller and paler than she should. She looked like she hadn't slept. And that's when Bob realized he must look the same way to her.

"Hi," she whispered, brown eyes darting around his face nervously. She held out a small bouquet of blue flowers and the books she had borrowed in his direction, and Bob noticed her hands were shaking. "Um, I got these for you. They look like the flowers on the cover of the Whitman poems, and I thought of you when I saw them at the store."

"Anna," Bob groaned as he took them from her along with the books. He moved out of the doorway so she could come inside, and somehow he still couldn't decide if he was angry at her or not.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, turning to look at him once she was halfway across the room. There were several feet of space between them, but he could smell her hair. She was wearing the jeans she wore last time she went to the Hard Deck. He knew what that shirt felt like between his fingers. He could tell she was trying not to cry as she said, "I'm just really sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me you're married?" he snapped, unable to hold back. He knew his tone was harsh as he added, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I should have been divorced by now!" she practically shouted, and Bob was instantly more soothed by that sentence than he should have been. "You think I want to be married to the worst man I know?" He had so many questions already, but something told him to just let her keep going. "That's why I'm here. In San Diego. He was supposed to sign the papers so I could get on with my ridiculous life, but he won't!" She sucked in a deep breath before she said, "And it's eating me alive knowing what I kept settling for when you exist! Knowing that I could have been with a man like you."

Her lips were moving like she was shivering, and her eyes were wide and watery. Red blotches covered her freckled cheeks, and Bob just knew she was going to panic again. She made a helpless noise and rushed forward, ready to run, but this time he caught her in his arms, the books and flowers falling to the floor. He let her struggle for a few seconds as she cried, but he held on tight.

"Anna," he said softly. "You can't keep running."

Her body slumped against his. She looked up at him as he held her, and a few seconds later, she let her cheek come to rest against his chest. She nodded against him as she whispered, "I don't really have anywhere to go anyway."

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

Bob kept his distance while also somehow always being nearby. Anna knew he was probably expecting her to vanish again if he turned his back for too long, but she was too mentally and physically exhausted to move from his living room couch while he fixed some tea. It was getting dark outside, and it was nearly impossible to try to think about anything other than Sunday night when she felt truly free for the first time in years.

Similar thoughts must have been on Bob's mind, because he was still occasionally looking at her like he used to. Then his cheeks would turn pink, and he'd duck his head before showing her a completely neutral expression. She took the mug of tea he handed her and whispered, "Thank you," as he sat down as far away from her as he could. She cleared her throat as she looked into her drink and said, "You're one of the kindest, most generous people I've ever met." She forced her gaze to his face. "I'm sorry I took that for granted. And I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you and the ladies."

Bob nodded but didn't speak for a minute. His voice was as gentle as always as he eventually said, "I'd like it if we could talk."

"Yeah," she agreed softly now that she felt like the fight inside her was gone and the tears had finally dried up.

"Where's your husband?"

She pictured Kevin standing in the perfect kitchen in the beautiful house on the cul-de-sac. "In New Jersey."

"Right," Bob replied in a reassuring tone. "You said you should have been divorced by now, so does that mean you don't want to be married to him?"

"I hate him," she whispered, back to staring into her mug. "And I'm sure he hates me, too. No, I don't want to be married to him any longer."

"You're separated?" he asked softly.

Anna shrugged, wishing more than anything that she could scoot a little closer to Bob and feel his hand on hers. "Not legally. He won't sign anything."

"Right," Bob repeated again. "Would it be too much for me to ask what happened? Because I really don't understand. I'm trying, but I'm still so confused, Anna."

Her brain was screaming at her to start crying again, begging her to fall apart or hyperventilate, but she didn't even have the energy for it. She took one long sip of her perfect cup of tea before setting it aside and turning to look at him. Even now, he had sympathy in his eyes. Whether that was because he now knew she and Kevin weren't really together or because he was always this sweet, she couldn't say. But he was everything she wanted and would never have again.

"The short version is that I put him through medical school while he cheated on me. The long version is that he used up every bit of my money, let me work myself ragged, prevented me from finishing my PhD at Princeton, belittled me, and flaunted his extramarital relationship in my face. It was humiliating knowing he was cheating. It's humiliating eating sandwiches and peanuts for every meal now. But the worst thing is that he is holding my manuscript hostage, and no matter what I do, he won't let me have it back."

"Jesus, Anna," he gasped, making the slightest move like he wanted to reach for her before pulling back.

She slowly stood, and he looked up at her, trying to gauge what she was going to do, but she just looked down at him as she tucked her shaking hands behind her back. "You're perfect," she whispered. "You're Sky Writing. You're the handsome man from the bookstore who smells like tea and soap. You're Bob, the guy my friends knew I would fall in love with as soon as I met them." She took a step back, barely able to handle how he was looking at her like she still mattered. "But I don't know how to be an us with you. I know that's what you want, but I never wanted to fall like this again. I tried my best not to. I can't do this with Kevin's shadow behind me all the time. And I'm just really sorry I let it go as far as it did. Because now that I know so much about you...."

That's when the tears arrived, and that's also when Bob stood up. "Anna, I feel like-"

When he cut himself off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air for a few seconds, she took one long, last look at him and whispered, "I'm going to go." He didn't stop her from stepping over the flowers, walking out the door, and heading to the end of his street where she waited for a ride as the night air made her shiver, and her tear streaked cheeks finally started to dry again.

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

Oh, they both fell for each other. I'm not sure if Bob feels better or worse now. Kevin is an absolute dick, and we will hear from him in the next chapter. Keep fighting, Anna. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 12

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workersolidarity · 4 months ago

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[ 📹 Smoke and dust billows out into the air as the Zionist air forces bomb residential buildings in the Al-Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City. The Israeli occupation army ordered the mandatory evacuation of several neighborhoods just hours before its air forces began bombing residential neighborhoods of Gaza City. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

GAZA GENOCIDE DAY 276: SURPRISE INCURSION INTO SOUTHWEST GAZA CITY DISPLACES THOUSANDS ONCE AGAIN, UNRWA CALLS FOR INVESTIGATION INTO BOMBING OF SCHOOL HOUSING DISPLACED CIVILIAN FAMILIES, 6 JOURNALISTS KILLED IN GAZA IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, PALESTINIAN CHILD DIES OF STARVATION AS GENOCIDE CONTINUES

On 276th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 3 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 40 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 75 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

The Director-General of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestinian Refugees (UNRWA), Phillippe Lazzarini, called on Sunday evening for an investigation into the bombing of the UNRWA's Al-Jaouni School, housing displaced Palestinian families in the Nuseirat Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, killing dozens of civilians and wounding scores of others.

In a post on the social media platform X, the Director-General of the UNRWA said "Once again, [a] UNRWA school [is] hit by the Israeli forces."

"The school, in the middle areas, was home to nearly 2'000 displaced, dozens of casualties were reported," Lazzarini continued, adding that "since the war began, nine months ago today, more than half (or 190) of UNRWA's facilities have been hit, some multiple times, some directly."

He went on to state that "as a result [of Israeli attacks], 520 people were killed and nearly 1'600 were injured while seeking some safety. Too many were women and children."

Lazzarini goes on to confront accusations from the Israeli occupation that UNRWA facilities are being "used by Palestinian armed groups."

Responding to the accusations, the Director-General declared "These are claims I take very seriously. It is exactly why I have repeatedly called for independent investigations to ascertain the facts and identify those responsible for attacks on UN premises or their misuse."

Lazzarini stated that those responsible for such crimes must be held accountable for violating International law.

"Nine months on in this brutal war, I call once again for a ceasefire under which people in Gaza and Israel would finally get respite and protection, and all hostages would be immediately released," the Director-General declared.

Lazzarini concludes by saying that "the longer this war goes on, the deeper the rift will become, and the more suffering people will endure."

"Enough is enough," the Director-General added.

In more news, medical sources with Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in the city of Deir al-Balah, in the Central Gaza Governate, have announced the death of a six-year-old child as a result of starvation and dehydration, bringing the total number of deaths as a result of malnutrition in the Gaza Strip to 41.

The same sources previously warned that more than 50 Palestinian children continue to suffer from malnutrition and famine in the northern Gaza Strip alone.

At the same time, medical sources with Kamal Adwan Hospital in the city of Beit Lahiya, north of Gaza, have warned that signs of malnutrition were recorded in more than 200 children in the Gaza Strip, portending a humanitarian catastrophe in the north of Gaza, while the spector of famine looms over the horizon.

Reporting in the Palestinian media warns that around 700'000 civilians from the northern Gaza Strip are suffering from an acute shortage of food and vegetables as a result of the Israeli occupation's continued closure of various border crossings, in conjunction with the failure of humanitarian aid trucks to enter the north, bringing famine conditions to the region, according to local officials and international organizations.

Beginning on May 7th, the Israeli occupation army took control over the Palestinian side of the Rafah and Karm Abu Salem crossings on Gaza's southern border, burning down the border crossing facilities in Rafah and cutting off the flow of humanitarian aid into the Gaza Strip, while also blocking the severely sick and wounded from traveling overseas for treatment abroad.

As a result of the Zionist entity's control over the crossings, and the blocking of desperately needed food and medical aid, the threat of famine and a humanitarian catastrophe has been exacerbated, particularly in the northern Gaza Strip, while citizens have exhausted much of the remaining food stocks and medical supplies that still remained in the enclave.

In more news for Monday, the Palestinian Journalist's Syndicate issued a statement declaring that a total of 6 journalists were killed in the Gaza Strip during the month of June.

In a report published by the Syndicate's Freedoms Committee, the Syndicate stated that three of the Journalists killed by the Israeli occupation died as a result of direct missile attacks on their homes, while a fourth was killed after being targeted by a Zionist army drone, and a fifth was killed after shrapnel from an occupation missile struck the reporter.

Lastly, the sixth journalist to lose her life died as a result of the lack of medical supplies and medicines at Gaza's healthcare centers, due to the continued closure of the border crossings by the occupation army, and the blocking of humanitarian and medical aid from entering the Gaza Strip.

The report goes on to confirm an escalation in the targeting of journalists by the Israeli forces and Zionist colonial settlers, which target journalists in the Gaza Strip, occupied Al-Quds, and the occupied West Bank, with more than 127 recorded violations.

The Israeli entity also targeted the homes of six journalists, which were bombed by the occupation army in Gaza, killing at least five relatives of reporters.

The report continues by pointing out that in the month of June, a total of 8 journalists were injured and required transportation to hospitals and medical centers for treatment.

Additionally, two journalists were arrested or detained in the month of June, while at least 5 other journalists were summoned for investigation in the Gaza Strip, the occupied West Bank, and occupied Al-Quds.

The report finishes by concluding that at least 45 journalists, including male and female reporters both, were detained and prevented from doing their jobs by the Israeli entity.

Meanwhile, in other news, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) continued their systematic violence and aggression against the Palestinian population of the Gaza Strip, slaughtering dozens of Palestinians like cattle and wounding scores of others.

Further, the Zionist army launched a new incursion into large swathes of southwestern Gaza City, forcibly displacing large numbers of civilians and laying siege to a number of other families in their homes in several neighborhoods.

According to local reporting, the occupation army raided the headquarters of the UNRWA in Gaza City, while simultaneously carrying out airstrikes and firing smoke grenades in its vicinity, even while civilian workers remain stranded inside.

The report also stated that Zionist snipers have posted-up on the rooves of nearby tall buildings that surround the UNRWA building, while at the same time, occupation armored vehicles penetrated the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, southwest of Gaza City, as well as the Industrial area, in addition to the invasion of the southern outskirts of the Al-Rimal neighborhood, even as occupation aircraft and artillery detatchments fire intense waves of shells and bomb the southwest of the city.

Huge explosions have been reported as occupation warplanes and artillery bombed and shelled the eastern, central and western neighborhoods of Gaza City since dawn, targeting some neighborhoods for the first time in more than three months, when the Zionist army carried out a deadly operation in the Al-Shifa medical complex and it's surrounds that left nearly a thousand Palestinian civilians dead in its wake, back in March.

The local media reports that paramedic and civil defense crews continue to attempt to reach the dead and wounded to evacuate them, even as the Israeli occupation forces continue bombing and shelling in the vicinity of the sites of previous bombings.

Witnesses report that thousands of Palestinians have been displaced from southwestern neighborhoods of the city, migrating to the northwest, with countless families forced to sleep in the streets as their homes remain besieged by the invading Israeli army, even as the Zionist forces shell and shoot anyone that moved near targeted areas.

The latest ground invasion comes just hours after the occupation army issued orders of mandatory evacuation to the Al-Shujaiya, Al-Daraj, and Al-Tuffah neighborhoods, east of the city of Gaza, forcing families to migrate to the western areas that it began attacking at dawn.

In the meantime, in the central Gaza Strip, local civil defense crews managed to recover the bodies of four martyrs and two wounded after occupation warplanes bombed a residential apartment belonging to the Eid family in the Bureij Camp.

The Zionist army also continues ground operations and carpet bombing of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, for the third consecutive month, while it continues leveling entire residential neighborhoods, detonating residential housing with explosives and bombing other homes in central and western Rafah, under the excuse that many buildings are booby-trapped by the Palestinian Resistance.

In further atrocities, the Israeli occupation forces bombed a residential house in Jabalia al-Nazla, in the northern Gaza Strip, killing at least 10 Palestinian civilians, wounding several others, and leaving a number of missing persons lost under the rubble.

Occupation fighter jets also bombed a residential house in the Musbah area, north of Rafah City, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing a woman and wounding three of her children, while at the same time, violent airstrikes hammered the Bureij Camp, in the central Gaza Strip.

Local civil defense personnel managed to recover the bodies of 4 Palestinians after the occupation's air forces bombed the Holy Family School housing displaced families west of Gaza City. The dead and wounded were transported to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in the city.

Local sources are also reporting that Zionist warplanes bombed a residential home in the Bureij Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, resulting in the deaths of three Palestinians and wounding several others who were transferred to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah, as well as Al-Awda Hospital in the Nuseirat Camp.

Al-Awda Hospital said it received the bodies of two martyrs, who were targeted by the occupation army on the Wadi Gaza Bridge in central Gaza.

Medical sources also reported that two citizens were killed after the occupation army bombed a gathering of civilians in the vicinity of the Shafut restaurant in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

Additionally, a citizen was killed as a result of Israeli artillery shelling that targeted the Golden Hall, west of the city of Beit Lahiya, in the northern Gaza Strip, while another occupation airstrike targeted the east of Rafah, killing one and wounding a number of others.

Meanwhile, additional reporting on this morning's assaults on Gaza City stated that dozens of Palestinians were killed, and many more wounded, as a result of the Israeli occupation forces bombing of various areas of Gaza City.

The reporting states that since dawn on Monday, the Israeli occupation forces bombed the Al-Tuffah, Al-Daraj, Al-Shujaiya and Old City neighborhoods of Gaza City, killing dozens of civilians and wounding many others who transported mostly to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in the city.

Witnesses reporting seeing and hearing massive explosions as occupation warplanes launched a series of violent raids on the aforementioned neighborhoods, rocking the entire city, while echoes of explosions reverberated all the way to Gaza's northern and southern extremities.

In one of the reported attacks, the Israeli occupation army bombed a residential apartment belonging to the Kashko family, in the vicinity of the Industrial intersection south of Gaza City, killing two civilians and wounding several others.

Similarly, occupation fighter jets bombed a house near the Tayaran intersection, also south of Gaza City, leading to the death one civilian and wounding 7 others.

In another attack, occupation forces bombed a group of civilians in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, killing 4 Palestinians and wounding a number of others.

Occupation gunboats also fired artillery shells and machine guns towards the fisherman's dock area, west of Gaza City.

Occupation artillery shelling also pummeled the Khirbet al-Adas area, north of Rafah City, in the southern Gaza Strip, resulting in the injury of 11 Palestinian civilians.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing war of extermination in the Gaza Strip, the endlessly rising death toll now exceeds 38'193 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and at least 10'000 women, while another 87'903 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

June 8th, 2024.

#source1

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keep-both-eyes-on-trump · 6 days ago

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I grew up in a swing state, in a rural county, surrounded by white people and steeped in traditional Catholic values. I grew up staunchly conservative surrounded by similarly conservative people. My neighborhood was all white. My mom once told me a story about how a black family had been run out of our small town. My school class had almost one-hundred fifty students with one black girl who’d been adopted into a white family and one native american boy. In high school there was one out gay boy who wasn’t even in my grade and six teen pregnancies that were in my grade.

As I was approaching official adulthood, the ripe old age of eighteen, I was already drawing away from some of my family’s core values. I was no longer attending church on Sundays, to my father’s existential horror that he had failed to save my soul, having reached the conclusion that their teachings on the sins of queer people and the expected submissiveness of women were wildly off base. I was generally in favor of then President Obama’s policies despite my family’s overt assertions that he was one of the worst presidents in recent history. Though I had been a supporter of John McCain in 2008, unable to vote, by November 2012 I was in my first semester of college surrounded by more diversity than ever before and tentatively supportive of Barack Obama and even more tentatively hopeful he would win again.

When asked, I told my parents truthfully that I hadn’t voted and received a lecture on my failure to uphold my civic duty. I did not mention that I was more than satisfied with the outcome of the election.

Like many who attend higher education, especially those in my chosen field of social work, I became more and more democratic with my views during my three years spent completing my degree. By the time I moved to one of the largest cities in my state to complete my graduate degree, I was what Trump would refer to as “radically” and “dangerously” left and, as you know from my first post, voted for the first time for Hillary Clinton in 2016.

This time, when asked if I voted, I lied. I also began to test the waters, bringing up topics to discuss that I had previously avoided only to discover that my family was as conservative through and through as I remembered and more than a few of them were openly dismayed at how college had “libralized” me even though I had admitted to nothing.

Since then I’ve remained silent when politics are brought up, when racist or sexist comments are made, and when my cousin called her gay principle “disgusting” for having a family photo on his desk. I’ve said nothing when family called President Biden a failure or a “fucking idiot”, claimed that women shouldn’t be president, and believed Trump did the best he could with COVID-19 pandemic, if they even acknowledged it as a pandemic at all.

I stayed silent out of fear. I was, am, afraid of their reactions, of what they would say to me and about me if I voiced just how divergent my opinions are from theirs. If I said outright, “I am Pro-Choice, I believe in supporting LGBTQ+ rights and protections and teaching comprehensive sex education to children, I agree with universal healthcare and free public post-secondary education and student loan forgiveness.”

I’ve lied out of fear too. Lied about voting, lied about getting flu and COVID vaccines, lied about being queer.

And now it’s time to stop. And this is the first step. Putting metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper, shouting out into the void and entrenching myself in what I used to ignore. It may take a moment before I challenge anyone in my life outright but that’s okay. It’s the steps forward that count, it’s holding on to what you believe and speaking out in whatever way is achievable for you.

If you, like me, find yourself surrounded today by those who subscribe to far-right beliefs, remember: they may be louder, they may be meaner, but you are not alone. We are here with you.

The Watcher

#us politics #democratic party #democrat #republican party #republican #donald trump #trump #barack obama #obama #kamala harris #harris #joe biden #biden #conservatives #democracy #personal #politics #trump 2024 #harris walz 2024

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capybaracorn · 9 months ago

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‘Massacre’: Dozens killed by Israeli fire in Gaza while collecting food aid

Desperate residents under Israeli attack while trying to get flour for families as famine stalks the strip.

Dozens of Palestinians have been killed or wounded after Israeli troops opened fire on hundreds waiting for food aid southwest of Gaza City, as the besieged enclave faces an unprecedented hunger crisis.

Gaza’s government media office accused the Israeli army of “committing a horrific massacre”. More than 70 people were killed and about 250 others were wounded, it said in a statement on Thursday.

The citizens had congregated at al-Rashid Street, where aid trucks carrying flour were believed to be on the way. Al Jazeera verified footage showing the bodies of dozens of killed and wounded Palestinians being carried onto trucks as no ambulances could reach the area.

“We went to get flour. The Israeli army shot at us. There are many martyrs on the ground and until this moment we are withdrawing them. There is no first aid,” said one witness.

One Palestinian man told the Quds News Network the military attack was a “crime”.

“I have been waiting since yesterday. At about 4.30 this morning, trucks started to come through. Once we approached the aid trucks, the Israeli tanks and warplanes started firing at us, as if it was a trap.

“To the Arab states I say, if you want to have us killed, why are you sending relief aid? If this continues, we do not want any aid delivered at all. Every convoy coming means another massacre.”

Jadallah Al-Shafei, the head of the nurses department at al-Shifa Hospital, said that “the situation is beyond any words”, adding that “the hospital was flooded with dozens of dead bodies and hundreds of injured”.

“The majority of the victims suffered gunshots and shrapnel in the head and upper parts of their bodies. They were hit by direct artillery shelling, drone missiles and gun firing,” he told Al Jazeera.

The mass shooting was the latest instance of systematic attacks on hungry people waiting for scraps of food. Over the past few days, Palestinians gathered in large groups waiting for aid trucks on Salah al-Din Street near Gaza City have been shot at by Israeli forces, said Al Jazeera’s Hani Mahmoud, reporting from Rafah in the enclave’s south.

Recently, a truck that was supposed to deliver aid to people in Gaza tragically turned into the truck carrying those injured and killed, he added.

With aid agencies unable to deliver supplies to northern Gaza since January 23, many are taking a long trek towards the south by foot.

Famine

On Wednesday, Carl Skau, deputy executive director of the World Food Programme (WFP), told the United Nations Security Council more than 500,000, or one in four people, were at risk of famine, with one child in every six below the age of two considered acutely malnourished.

“The risk of famine is being fuelled by the inability to bring critical food supplies into Gaza in sufficient quantities, and the almost impossible operating conditions faced by our staff on the ground,” he said.

He described dangerous conditions for WFP trucks trying to get food to the north earlier this month. “There were delays at checkpoints; they faced gunfire and other violence; food was looted along the way; and at their destination, they were overwhelmed by desperately hungry people,” said Skau.

Aid agencies claim that Israel has been delaying deliveries. Israel denies that charge. It submitted a report to the International Court of Justice (ICJ) on the measures taken to avert suffering in the besieged enclave. Rights groups say Israel acted in breach of the ICJ order issued in January.

Philippe Lazzarini, the head of UNRWA, the UN agency for Palestinian refugees, said on Sunday on social media that calls to allow food distribution in Gaza amid the ongoing hostilities between Israel and Hamas have been denied or “have fallen on deaf ears”.

Warning against “looming famine”, the UN official said the situation is becoming a “man-made disaster”.

Israel launched a deadly offensive on the Gaza Strip following a Hamas-led attack on October 7. More than 30,000 people are reported to have been killed to date, mostly women and children.

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 3 months ago

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Only Wanna Be With You

At last my long-promised (emphasis on long) Priest/Flora fic is finished. I wanted to write a deep-dive on what their hidden relationship would look like if he got sick while preaching, and I think I accomplished that pretty well.

There are lots of religious elements in this story. Worship services, prayer, mentions of the saints, etc. There is a lot of "priest doing priest things" here, and I won't be offended if that doesn't suit many of you. But it's what my brain wanted to write, and I think it's important to the themes of these characters.

That being said, I might start writing things further down their timeline, so if anyone has any other ideas for these two (non-church encounters? free time? smut? sick Flora?), my ask box is open! Thanks for reading :)

Coming down with a cold is never convenient, especially for someone who makes their living by speaking. However, when Father Luc began to feel the telltale signs of burgeoning sickness the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, it was more than an inconvenience. In truth, it felt akin to a death sentence.

Holy Week is the gauntlet every liturgical minister must run each church year. Palm Sunday was only the start. Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday would follow close behind, meaning Luc had to oversee and preach a total of six special, important services within four days. All of this of course was on top of the hundred other things a minister is expected to do each week. Even thinking about it was exhausting, and now he would be sick on top of it all.

He had been so careful, too, or he had tried to be. He took extra care to stay healthy in the weeks leading up to Holy Week so he would be equal to the huge task before him. He talked to so many people and shook so many hands every week, though. There was no way to say for sure when or where he picked up a bug. All he knew was that after the final Lenten service that Wednesday his throat felt tickly and scratchy, which he initially chalked up to dryness from preaching. However, by the time he went to bed that night he was chilled and sporting a headache, and he feared he was in for the worst.

The cold had officially set in by Saturday night, and it was a doozy. His head and ears were packed tight and aching, his sinuses felt like they'd been filled with concrete, and his throat was raw from postnasal drip and the resulting persistent, irritating cough. Every few hours the nasal congestion transitioned from running out of his nose to swelling up in his sinuses, then transitioned back again (and he wasn't sure which was worse) but either way, this cold was noticeable and persistent. There was nothing to be done for it, however, and there was no hope of taking a sick day. Every priest in the country was just as busy as he with the upcoming week of services. Brutal head cold or no, he would be preaching Holy Week.

Palm Sunday morning arrived right on schedule, and if anything his cold was worse, not better. Yet when the bells began to toll for the opening of the service, Father Luc was standing before the congregation just as he had every Palm Sunday since he was ordained. He may have been loaded with decongestant and DayQuil, but he was present, and that was a win as far as he was concerned.

He hadn't spoken to Flora since he'd come down sick. They didn't chat much as a rule in their day-to-day lives. It was safer and easier that way, with fewer messages to hide and fewer opportunities for others to ask awkward questions. Luc and Flora’s lives were already too intertwined in this small town, and the more they could avoid scrutiny, the better. Whenever he was sick, though, he wanted to be with her more than ever, and he knew she felt the same way. Still, he couldn't afford to be sneaking around with how much he already had on his plate this week. And what if he got her sick? No, it was better to stay safe. Until service time, Flora would have no idea he was under the weather.

For that reason, he couldn't help but watch her out of the corner of his eye when he opened the service that Palm Sunday. She was easy to spot, sitting with her parents in their normal row. It would be obvious to her from his voice that he was sickly. How could it not be, between the dulled consonants and hoarse voice? And sure enough, before the end of his first sentence her head had snapped to attention and her eyes were boring into him. He flushed under her scrutiny. He longed to meet her gaze, but had to refrain, not knowing what his face might betray.

Somehow he made it through the service without incident, though he wasn't certain how, between his fixation on her and the demanding cold symptoms. Soon enough he was making his way to the back of the church to greet the people. Naturally, Flora and her parents were almost the first to reach him. His lover rushed to shake his hand, throwing nonchalance to the wind. At last he was forced to look at her, and the air rushed from his lungs in a moment of rapture and yearning, leaving him speechless. She was more focused, though, and her gaze probed his.

“Are you feeling alright, Father? Your voice sounded a bit different today,” she said levelly, revealing nothing.

“I've picked up a spring cold, I think. Nothing too serious,” he replied, hoping he seemed equally calm.

“Oh dear. I do hope you feel better soon! We can't have you sick for Easter,” Flora’s mother tutted.

“I'm sure I'll be fine in no time. But I appreciate your concern.”

Flora hesitated another moment; she was holding up the line now. Finally she squeezed his hand tightly. “Be well, Father.”

“Thank you, Flora,” he managed, flushing again.

There was a text from her waiting on his secret phone when he arrived home after Sunday luncheon. “Why didn't u tell me u were 🤢?”

“There was nothing u could do,” he replied. “Just a cold. Has to run its course.”

“I could’ve kept u company tho.”

“I was busy every night this week. There wasn't a good time.”

“I'm guessing ur busy the next few days too?”

“Holy Week. Busy doesn't even begin to describe.”

“😞 Miss u. Meet up a week from tomorrow? Hotel on me.”

“👍 Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“❤️ it's a date. Try not to be too sexy until I'm with u, ok?”

He was grinning like an idiot as he replied: “I'll do my best ❤️”

With a sigh he locked the phone back up in his cabinet. This cold had come a week too early. There was nothing he wanted more on earth than to be lying in Flora’s lap as she stroked his hair, but he'd have to wait eight more long, exhausting days. Time couldn't pass quickly enough.

~~~

He fully expected the cold to clear up by Holy Thursday for sure, but to his horror, it was holding on as fiercely as ever when that day dawned. The week of constant low-level headache, sneezing, sniffling, and coughing had sapped his energy stores, and he was going into his longest four days of the year running on fumes and feeling like garbage. There was prayer on his lips the whole day through to any saint who might be listening for strength, endurance, and perhaps a miraculous healing.

Thursday's work day and evening worship service passed in a haze. He must have said the right things at the right times, but he felt disconnected from what was going on due to the sensation of his head being stuffed to bursting with cotton. He wasn't even excited to see Flora for once. There were still several days to go before they could spend some interrupted time together, and seeing her at a distance made the wait feel that much longer. He kept his eyes away from her all through the service to minimize his yearning. As he spoke the closing words at the end of the hour and made his way to the back of the sanctuary, he prepared himself to simply smile and nod at her like any other parishioner and avoid revealing how pathetic he felt. When she was several people back from him in the exit queue, though, he unintentionally caught a glimpse of her. Her eyes were full of tender love and concern, and his heart fluttered. He hadn't realized how desperately he needed to know she cared. She reached him a short time later, ducking in front of her parents to clasp his hand in hers, subtly scrutinizing him.

“You look tired, Father. And it sounds like your cold is still bad. How are you feeling?”

The care was obvious in her voice and his heart fluttered again, but he almost chuckled at her frankness. She was close to going past the line of what they had agreed was safe to say in public to one another. Still, he couldn't bring himself to mind.

“I AM tired, and my cold isn't any better. But I'm doing as well as can be expected.”

Flora’s forehead was furrowed with worry as her mother chimed in: “Oh dear, what an awful time for you to be sick. I'll pray even harder that you recover quickly.”

“I certainly appreciate any prayers on my behalf, and thank you for them gladly.”

“Do let me know if there's anything I can do for you. I'll bring ‘round some soup tomorrow if you're still not feeling like yourself.”

Like mother, like daughter. Luc almost laughed at the irony, and he could see Flora holding back a smile too. “I'll be sure to reach out if there's anything you can do. Thank you so much.”

“Take care, Father,” Flora said, with one last meaningful look. He'd been chilled for a week now, but that long gaze warmed him for the rest of the night with a heat no sickness could touch.

~~~

Luc was not well come Friday morning. The congestion was lodged and unmoving in his nose and the back of his throat, making his whole face feel swollen and raw. The aches and headache had increased significantly. His cough had gotten worse, and now any time he inhaled too deeply or quickly he would spiral into a coughing attack. In short, he was in rough shape and all he wanted to do was wrap himself in an extra blanket, take a heavy dose of NyQuil and sleep the day away. Instead he got up, aching, shaking, and miserable as he was, and began to shower and dress like always. The goal for the day would simply be to survive. He couldn't manage any more than that.

Just as he was about to leave his house, he heard the secret phone vibrating in his file cabinet. He unlocked it to find a text from Flora:

“Any better today?”

“No. Worse :( “

“Hang in there. I'll see you later and I'll make sure I get a chance to hug you somehow ❤️”

Luc couldn't think of a response that wasn't outright pathetic so he left it at that, locking the phone back up before getting the last of his things together and dragging himself out the door.

He arrived at his office close to his usual time, and was glad to have accomplished at least that. Resisting the urge to immediately lay his head on the desk and fall asleep, he instead pulled out his notes for the day's service and tried to get himself in the proper mindset. He would lead worship services at 1 pm and 7 pm, but other than that, today he simply had to be present for any questions the staff members or parishioners might have, and do his duty as the church figurehead on this most sacred of days. There were a dozen other things he needed to work on in preparation for the upcoming weeks, but working ahead wasn't part of survival mode. The only thing he cared about today and tomorrow was trying to rest as much as possible so he was able to stand upright and speak come Sunday. Everything else would have to sort itself out.

His eyes were on the order of service and homily notes in front of him, but his mind was unfocused and he was comprehending maybe one word in ten. An unknown amount of time later, his secretary Rhonda‘s knock at the door startled him out of his stupor.

“Come in,” he called, trying to make his voice sound normal.

The matronly woman pushed the door open with her hip. In her hands was a to-go bag from Starbucks and a drink. She wore an amused expression as she placed the items in front of him.

“You should've told us you were DoorDashing Starbucks. Jan and I would've gotten something too.”

Luc had not ordered DoorDash, but he had a good guess who had. He flushed and stammered for a moment, trying to cover his surprise.

“Oh it was… a spur of the moment thing. I didn't even think to tell you. I just… really needed coffee, I guess.”

Rhonda raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Well you certainly look and sound like you need it, so I won't hold it against you. But that means you're treating next time.”

“Sure, sure. Thanks, Rhonda.”

She gave him a last, searching look before making her exit, and Luc had a flash of anxiety. Rhonda was sharp, which made her very good at her job. He couldn’t help but wonder how much she knew about Flora and himself, or at least guessed.

He forced his thoughts away from such worries and turned his attention to the meal delivery. It was his exact Starbucks order, Irish Cream cold brew and egg bites, and he knew of only one other person who would know that. This wasn't the first time they had sent one another anonymous deliveries, though they couldn't do it often to avoid suspicion, but today he wanted to weep with gratitude. Those first few swallows of coffee might as well have been the nectar of life, because he immediately felt more awake and alive, and the egg bites were exactly the sort of simple food his body was craving. Dear Flora… she always seemed to know exactly what he needed whether she was present or not. He wondered if this was what she meant by giving him a hug today.

The sustenance (and the love behind it) gave him the boost he needed to push through until the afternoon service, and he actually managed to get a few easy things done that morning to boot. He ducked into the sacristy extra early, though, to avoid having to talk to anyone unnecessarily and hopefully save his voice.

When the time came for him to emerge for the service, he couldn't help but scan the crowd for his girl. She wasn't present, but her parents were. She was working, then. At first he was disappointed, but that meant he would see her in the evening service instead. Leaning on that hope, he launched into his greeting, trying to display energy that he didn't feel, and hating the hoarse, congested sound of his voice and everything it revealed.

The service was far from smooth, but he made it through. It hurt, though. His head hurt and his throat hurt and his joints hurt and his nose hurt. He was shaking by the end, but at least he didn't have to greet the people after this solemn, mournful service. He could slip quietly into the sacristy and remain hidden until everyone had departed. He heaved a quiet sigh of relief as the sacristy door closed behind him. Four more services to go.

There was a single chair in this tiny room, and not a very comfortable one, but his body was screaming for a break, so without even taking off his robe he let himself fall into it, tipping his head back against the wall.

He startled awake almost two hours later, completely disoriented. He staggered out of the chair, groaning as he freed himself from the sweaty, wrinkled robe. Less than ideal didn't begin to describe the situation, and the worst part was, he felt worse after the nap than he had before. He let himself out of the room and hurried through the dark, silent hallways of the church. He saw no sign that there was anyone else in the building. He had informed the staff that they could take the afternoon off, so this wasn't surprising, but he hoped they hadn't needed him for anything before they left.

He went straight to his desk once he was back in his office and dug out his phone. Sure enough, there were several confused texts asking where he'd gone, as well as a handful of new sticky notes from Rhonda on his computer. He quickly responded to the texts and made sure none of the notes were urgent, then collapsed into his desk chair, holding his head in his hands. He felt wretched in every possible way. Sick during Holy Week… this was his personal hell. This was punishment for what he was doing with Flora, he was certain of it, and, worse, he knew he deserved it.

Thinking of Flora made his heart flutter in yearning, though, damnation notwithstanding. He needed her cool hands on his face and her soft lips in his hair, and her arms around him. There was nothing else on earth that would make him feel better at this point.

After a while he lifted his head, and his eyes fell on the low bookcase across from his desk. Sitting on top of it was a travel mug and a canvas bag that didn't belong to him, and he went over to investigate. In the mug was hot green tea sweetened with honey. In the bag was an insulated container full of beef chili. What little he could smell of it made his mouth water. On top of the container was a note:

“Get well soon, from the De Luca family.”

Luc was grinning like a fool as he sat down at his desk with his afternoon meal.

“Flora De Luca, you are a lifesaver,” he whispered. While Flora’s mother Barb may have been responsible for the chili, he had a hunch her daughter had suggested the tea. He wasn't sure which part of this second "hug" he appreciated more, but either way he felt notably better after eating once again. He sipped at the tea for the next several hours, right up until he was dressing for the evening service, trying to help his abused throat in any way possible.

With a feverish sense of Deja Vu, Father Luc was once again standing in front of the church at 7 pm that evening. His legs were already trembling beneath him and wished he was in bed, or really anywhere but here. He was sure he looked and sounded as sickly as he felt, but he was beyond caring. As the bells ceased pealing, he found Flora’s eyes in the crowd and clung to her gaze like a drowning man, drinking her in. Refreshed, he took a careful breath, being sure not to cough, and opened the service.

He looked at Flora far too often during that service, but it was the only thing that kept him going, like sips of water in a trek through the desert. He wasn't sure what kept making him think of water metaphors, except that his throat felt like it was on fire before he was halfway through, and his voice grew more hoarse every minute. Also he was craving a shower after being covered in sickly sweat all day.

After another agonizing hour the service came to a close, and he could once again quietly escape to the sacristy. He was careful not to sit this time lest he sleep the night here, but snuck back to his desk by cutting around the outside of the building. He kept the shades drawn and the lights off in his office until the sounds of people departing had totally faded, than waited a further fifteen minutes to be safe before creeping out to the sanctuary of his truck and the road home.

Of course there was a car parked beside his truck in the otherwise empty parking lot, and he almost turned around and went back inside, but then he recognized the vehicle. He quickened his pace until his open arms met Flora’s in a desperate embrace.

“I thought you fell asleep or something,” she whispered in his ear as her fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head.

“Nearly. I'm beyond exhausted,” he croaked, letting his head fall onto her shoulder and nuzzling into her neck.

“You poor, sick baby. I can't believe you're still preaching like this. You're burning up.” She let the back of her hand rest against his forehead to further confirm, tutting in concern.

“I don't have a choice. I literally cannot imagine what would happen if I canceled church during Holy Week. I'd probably be burned at the stake and sent straight to hell.”

“They'd have to go through me first,” she said fiercely, giving him a possessive squeeze. “Oh, Luc. What am I going to do with you?” she sighed. “Only you would get this sick during your busiest week of the year.”

“Only me,” he agreed with a wheezy sigh of his own. He could feel himself starting to doze off on her shoulder, so he reluctantly stood straighter and pulled away from her, even as his legs shook. “But I've gotta get home. I'm honestly about to collapse right here.”

“Then you definitely shouldn't be driving. I can–”

“It's too risky, love. I can make it three miles to my place. I'll be alright.”

Her face was crumpled in frustration, but she nodded, staring at the ground. “I hate this so much– all the hiding, everything being ‘too risky’. The only thing I want is to be with you, and you want that too. I shouldn't have to stay away. It's not right.”

“Nothing is right about this,” he whispered. “But it's all we have right now. I wish I could give you better. I'd give you the world if I could. But all I've got to give is me, holding your hand in the dark.”

“You're enough, and always will be. But I reserve the right to be upset that my guy is sick and I'm not allowed to take care of him.”

“Granted,” he chuckled, which turned into a cough. “As long as I can reserve that right too, considering I'm the sick guy in question.”

“I'll allow it,”she murmured, pulling him in for another long hug. After several moments, she sighed again. “But you'd better get going before I change my mind and kidnap you after all.”

“Don't tempt me with a good time,” he groaned, pulling away from her warmth reluctantly. “I'm going, but I'll have our phone nearby tonight and all day tomorrow, so call and text whenever you can.”

“Will do. I'll see you Sunday okay? You better be feeling better by then. You're seriously worrying me….” she added. He imagined it was because he was visibly swaying where he stood. He had to brace himself against his truck to keep from buckling, but he hoped she didn't catch that part.

“I just… need to rest,” he managed. “I have all day tomorrow to recover. I'll be okay… I think. Love you like crazy. I'll talk to you soon, okay?”

He blew her a kiss, then pulled himself into his truck, barely making it. He tried to catch his breath as he started the engine, waiting for the dizzy spinning in his head to stop. Three more miles, he chanted to himself as he put it in drive. Three more miles until he could collapse.

Collapse he did, nearly as soon as he was in the door of his house. He didn't even bother to change or take a much-needed shower, just stripped down to his undergarments and staggered into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. His final, conscious thought was gratitude to Flora for convincing him to install a doggy door for Charlotte the golden retriever so she could let herself out whenever she needed to.

~~~

Luc slept for a long time, but he was haunted by fever dreams all night. He couldn't remember the details other than a sense of rising panic for his loved ones that would bring him just to the edge of waking before shifting and changing again. He was also very hot, to the point that his dream-self was sure he was boiling alive because hell was coming to swallow him up for his sins.

He woke up gasping around noon on Holy Saturday. He was shaking with chills yet simultaneously drenched in sweat, and for several moments he could only lay in bed and try to breathe. Charlotte was pressed against his side, and focusing on her solid presence helped to ground him. Eventually his breathing and heart rate stabilized, but this only served to show him how truly awful he felt. He couldn't even pinpoint what was worst–the respiratory symptoms, the sore throat, the fever chills, the body aches, the malaise–all were equally unbearable. He needed to take some medicine immediately, and probably drink and eat too, so he dragged himself out of bed though his deepest instincts screamed against this.

He pulled on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, then his robe and slippers when he couldn't stop shuddering, before making his staggering way to the bathroom. He had a well-supplied medicine cabinet, so he took a concoction of things that he prayed would do some good before continuing on to the kitchen. It was then that he remembered his promise to Flora and groaned when he had to double back to retrieve his secret phone. Sure enough, she had texted him several times and called him twice. He quickly pushed the button to dial her. She picked up on the second ring.

“Luc, finally! Where were you?”

“Sorry, love. Just woke up,” he croaked, digging in the fridge for milk to make instant oatmeal.

“I was honestly about to come check to make sure you were alive. I’ve never seen you sleep so long.”

“Not sure I AM alive. I feel awful.”

“Worse than that chest cold when we first got together?”

“... Yeah. Worse than that,” he mumbled, leaning heavily on the counter as he stirred his cereal. He needed her, and he needed her now. He didn't know how he would survive the day otherwise. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to come take care of him like she had been begging to do, consequences be damned, but then he registered the background noises of her "Getting Ready" playlist, her quick footsteps, zippers being pulled, and a water bottle being filled. He recognized the cadence, and his heart sank.

“You're breaking my heart, Luc,” she was saying with a groan. “I can hear how much you're hurting from your voice. And of course I got called into work. But you need me. I can still cancel. I'll call them back, tell them I'm sick–”

“No, don't lie for my sake,” he cut in quickly. “They need you, too. Go save lives. I'll be okay.” The words sounded like a lie even to him but he forced them out even as a miserable tear or two rolled down his cheeks and his legs began to tremble.

“If you're sure… If you want me to come get you, though, you have to promise to tell me. I have no problem leaving. I'll just tell them I got food poisoning. I can be with you in minutes.”

Luc couldn't help but smile as he dragged a kitchen stool over to the counter and sank into it to wait for his breakfast to cook. “Okay, hon.”

“And I'll call you on every break to check on you.”

“Maybe text instead of call,” he croaked. “Trying to save my voice for tomorrow.” Every word currently felt like a dagger in his throat. He tried not to imagine having to preach in his current state.

“Oh gosh, of course. Okay, well then I'll let you go. I'll be praying for you. Be good and take it easy and get lots of rest. I love you.”

“Not sure I can do much else. Love you too. Do good.”

“Bye, babe.”

“Bye.”

Luc let his head fall into his arms on the counter until the shrill beeping of the microwave roused him. He couldn't ever remember feeling so poorly. It was going to be a long day.

~~~

One way to make a day feel shorter is to sleep through most of it, as everyone knows, and Luc embraced this solution willingly. After eating and showering and changing his sheets, he went back to bed and hardly moved for the rest of the day. It wasn't a light sleep, either–he was out cold for long stretches of time. He felt bad for Charlotte, knowing he'd hardly paid any attention to her all week, but she was faithful as ever, keeping him warm by staying cuddled up against him. When he did wake, usually to take more medicine, he made sure to send a few texts to Flora. Looking at the screen for long made his headache worse, though, so he kept his replies simple. He knew he was probably letting her down, too, but there wasn't much to be done about it, and he felt too horrendous to care much.

He woke close to midnight. After getting water and meds yet again he returned to bed but found for the first time all day that he couldn't get back to sleep. He felt overly rested, in fact, and dread started to creep over him at this realization. He would need to be up in less than five hours for the sunrise service. Right now he should absolutely be sleeping, disgusting sickness notwithstanding, and instead he was wide awake and still feeling awful. Panic started to build in his chest.

Thankfully Flora’s shift ended at midnight, so he quickly fired off a text to her:

“Please pray for me. Slept all day and now I can't sleep when it matters most. Very worried about tomorrow. I don't know how I'll manage preaching. My voice is basically gone.”

He had been sparingly using his voice, just talking to the dog every once in a while, and he had heard it declining all day until it was barely a hoarse whisper.

Flora replied quickly: “Absolutely praying. I'm believing everything will work out. Just do what you can and leave the rest in His hands.”

She also sent instructions for a throat soothing rinse, which he made and used right away. He wanted to keep texting her, but he knew she would get ready for bed and crash as soon as she got home, and he didn't want to keep her from sleeping even if he was wide awake. Mentally he wanted to watch TV or read but physically he knew this wasn't wise, so he lay in bed and tried to will himself to sleep.

Time passed slowly, but he refused to look at the clock. There came a time, though, when he couldn't stand to lay in bed for a minute longer. After pacing a few aimless laps around the house, he found himself in the bedroom again. Instead of laying down, though, he knelt at the side of the bed, pressed his face to the sheets, and began to pour out his heart in prayer. He sensed the listening ears of the saints and was comforted immediately. He expressed his worries and fears and asked for any and all help they would be willing to give. As he closed his prayer a sense of deep peace settled over him, and he noticed the illness symptoms seemed a bit better. He was also sleepy again, so he crawled back into bed, closed his eyes, and was out like a light in moments.

~~~

When his alarm went off a few hours later, he was more painfully aware than he had ever been before of how early it was. He dragged himself out of bed as the weight of his illness crashed over him yet again. However, he felt fairly steady on his feet, and his head and lungs seemed okay. Charlotte jumped down behind him, wagging her tail in greeting.

Luc swallowed, noting the mild pain in his throat. “Good morning, Charlie.”

To his surprise his voice was… okay. He still sounded sick and congested, but the strained whisper from the night before was replaced by something resembling his usual tone. He wanted to weep with relief. He could stand and he could speak. He could preach the Easter services.

In a strange twist of fate, though he would never forget the circumstances of this particular Easter, he couldn't remember much of the detail of what transpired that day. He knew from the beginning that he was still running a decent fever, though he didn't bother to check how high it was, and he attributed his lack of awareness and memory to this. His body was almost moving of its own volition, taking him where he needed to go and doing what he needed to do with little external input needed. The one conscious decision he remembered making was to tell Rhonda that he would be taking a sick day tomorrow and to please clear his schedule. Other than that, he simply let the day unspool before him. He preached three services, presided over two Easter breakfasts, spoke to dozens of people, sniffled or coughed or wiped his nose hundreds of times, and somehow, though he would never know quite how, survived the whole ordeal. By 1 pm the church had emptied, his duties were complete, and there was nothing left for him to do except pack up and leave, which is exactly what he did.

He had been invited to several Easter gatherings this year (including the De Luca’s), but between yesterday and today he had politely declined them all, stating his poor health as the reason, and of course everyone understood and wished him well. He was free to retreat to his quiet home, take a long shower, make a huge mug of hot tea, and not move or speak for the rest of the day if he chose. When he sank into his couch after the aforementioned shower and tea, the relief of this washed over him like a tsunami. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply breathe.

It didn't take long before loneliness and self-pity set in, however. He was still sick and miserable and all he wanted–all he'd wanted for days on end–was for someone (well, one person in particular) to hold him and kiss him and take care of him. It seemed cruelly unfair that this wouldn't be possible for another twenty-four hours, and that he would only get maybe twelve hours of coddling out of the deal. He needed more than one night with Flora. Deserved it, in fact, after the horrible week he'd had. With this in mind he began to concoct a desperate plan, praying it would work.

~~~

That Easter Sunday evening found Luc sitting in front of a rest area Starbucks, nursing a coffee and watching the door. He had been dropped off here by a confused Uber driver thirty minutes ago, and he'd been waiting ever since. Flora’s last update put her arriving any minute now, and he would have been bouncing up and down with anticipation if every joint didn't ache.

Luc tried to distract himself with his phone, but he felt very exposed here, like every eye in the nearly-empty rest area was on him, a clearly unwell traveler sitting by himself. He was shivering worse than ever between the fever chills and the anxiety, and this made the aching, whole-body soreness nearly unbearable. Every moment he waited for her was agonizing on many levels, so when beautiful Flora breezed through the doorway, he leapt to his feet, almost sending his chair clattering, and ran to meet her, weak with relief.

“My Flora, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” he murmured in her ear as she pulled him into an embrace.

“You just saw me this morning,” she giggled, burying her face in his chest. He was glad he'd decided to wear a spritz of cologne at the last minute.

“Yes, but under very different circumstances. I couldn't even touch you then,” he whispered into her hair.

“True enough.” She pulled back slightly to scrutinize him in her usual way. After a moment she stretched up to press a hand to his sweaty forehead, frowning at the obvious heat she felt. The frown only deepened when her hands brushed over the huge lymph nodes in his neck. “Come on, sick guy, let's get going. Meeting here was a brilliant idea, but I'm not wasting another second of our day together in this creepy place. I've always hated rest areas.”

She took him by the hand and tugged him out the door to her car. After making sure he and his luggage were secured, she climbed into the driver's seat and pulled out onto the freeway, heading toward the next major city, about an hour away.

“So how are you feeling, love?” Flora asked once they were underway. “You look awful, no offense.”

“I feel pretty awful,” he agreed in a hoarse whisper, already fighting sleep. “But I'm already a bit better now that I'm with you.”

She gave him a concerned, sidelong look. “Is that really all that's left of your voice? You sounded fine this morning.”

He nodded. “I prayed hard last night that I would be able to preach today, and my prayers were answered. But I took a nap while I was waiting for you to be ready and this is how it was when I woke up. I think my body has reached its limit.”

“Then shush, you don't have to talk anymore. I can't even imagine how sore your throat is. Just rest and let me take care of everything from here, especially you. For the next thirty-six hours, you're mine and mine alone.”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Luc mumbled with a smile, already drifting toward sleep.

#sickfic #everyone is hotter with a fever #priest 'verse #cw priest #Luc and Flora

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maccreadysbaby · 6 months ago

Text

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER. Get ready for a bittersweet ending my friends 🥹 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR LOVE AND SUPPORT ON THIS PROJECT. It means so much to me🥹

part forty-six

❝ EVERYTHING IS OKAY? ❞

SUNDAY — SEPTEMBER 20 — 3:04PM

LIFE WENT LARGELY BACK TO NORMAL (IN IT'S TYPICAL STRANGE WAY).

The Secret Keeper was dead. The metahumans were released from mind control. Gotham was cleaning up, getting ready to rebuild. Everyone was okay.

For a while, Bentley was nothing more than a whole lot of sore. Everything hurt, like his internal organs and all. He was practically living off of ibuprofen and other painkillers. He wasn’t allowed to eat anything super hard to digest, so he’d been inhaling soup and jello and tea in favor of being in the least amount of pain possible.

Nico’s parents came to get him a few days after Bentley’s surgery. It was a dramatic reunion, as expected, and Bentley was glad about it. Nico seemed glad about it, too. They thanked Bruce for his help and took Nico home without a moment, to maybe, hopefully, talk things over.

Asten was staying at the Wayne Manor until further notice. Bruce had been talking to the right people and already had some kind of court date or something set up. Bentley wasn’t sure what that was all about (maybe something about sending Asten back to Brazil? Which would suck), but he did know that Asten was doing pretty good for a kid who’d been dead. He was more closed off and quiet than normal, and had refused a guest room in favor of sleeping on the other side of Bentley’s bed, but it was okay. Nico made sure to call them nearly every single day and talk about everything and nothing, which Asten seemed to enjoy. He’d be okay.

The Wayne family was there in full force to make sure Asten and Bentley were okay and taken care of and happy. Not a single Wayne stayed hidden, not a single one left — they all made sure to come to dinner every night and tell stupid stories, to have their nightly time in the den watching movies they’d all seen too many times already, to coax Alfred into playing games around the table with them, to hang out in the backyard with the dogs, to have huge spontaneous sleepovers downstairs when their movie marathon got a little out of hand. The Wayne’s were back to how they’d been when Bentley first got there. They were the real Wayne’s again.

And for the first time in a long time, everything was okay.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Nico showed up on the doorstep of Wayne Manor a week and one day after Bentley’s surgery with bad, bad news.

“You’re what?” Asten growled.

Nico looked down at the concrete beneath his shoes. His parents were behind him in their car, doors closed but windows rolled down, talking to Bruce, who was standing out next to the vehicle. Nico’s eyes and nose were red. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping — it was a nice, not freezing Monday afternoon. But that didn’t matter.

Nico scraped the toe of his tennis shoe across the concrete, not bringing his red-rimmed blue eyes up. “We’re moving.”

Bentley (decked out unabashedly in his sailboat pajamas) and Asten (also unashamedly wearing the same pjs he’d had on for at least two days) stared blankly; one shocked, the other on the edge of livid.

Nico was… leaving? Like really leaving and never coming back?

Bentley muttered: “Where?” At the same time Asten spat: “When?”

Nico still didn’t look up, but instead, stared at the bottoms of his black sweatpants. “Missouri. A week from today. My… parents don’t think it’s safe here anymore. They have friends there.”

Bentley glanced over at Asten, who was staring, calculatively. His green eyes flicked back to Nico’s parents’ car with the same fire in it that he had the day he knocked out Jesse Todryk. “Your parents' friends can piss right off.”

“Asten,” Bruce warned from the car (he really does have Batman ears). “Don’t make this harder than it already is for him.”

(Oh yeah, did Bentley mention that Bruce had already eased into dad-mode with Asten? Because he had. No one in the Manor expected much less, really.)

Nico kept staring dutifully at the ground.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, hardly audible, voice wavering slightly. He brought the sleeve of his blue hoodie up to rub at his eyes. “I… I don’t have a choice.”

As it became prominent he was crying, Bentley stepped up and hugged him. Nico didn’t bother putting his arms around him, choosing to instead keep covering his face, but Bentley didn’t mind.

One of Bentley’s only two friends was really leaving? For real?

Don’t. Freaking. Cry. That would make it so much worse for him. Bentley blinked back a dull sting behind his eyes and forced it away.

They were all quiet for a minute.

“I told them everything. It’s my fault we’re leaving,” Nico muttered, bringing his arms up and around Bentley after a moment. “They-they said there’s someone in Central City that will train me. The same guy that saved my life when I was a baby.”

Bentley hummed. Didn’t the super fast guy who was on the Justice League with Bruce live in Central City?

There was no way Nico was going to train with The Flash, was there?

(Was the Barry from the adoption letter The Flash?)

Bentley rubbed his back lightly. “That’ll be good for you.”

He and Asten shared brief eye contact, during which Bentley made his best please just be supportive face, and after a moment, Asten walked away, disappearing back into the manor without a single word.

Bentley sighed lightly.

“Asten’s pissed,” Nico muttered, and he felt Nico grab onto the back of his shirt. “I knew he would be.”

“He’s just sad,” Bentley tried, rubbing his back a little again. “He is your best friend.”

“And so are you. It’s like they don’t even care that I’m having to leave you guys behind. That this affects more than just me,” Nico groaned in annoyance.

Bentley breathed in, glancing at Nico’s parents’ car. They were smiling, chatting with Bruce. “If it’s going to be better and safer for you, then… I’d rather you go.”

Nico pulled away from him, giving him a deadpan look. “No offense, Bentley, but if you were told it would be better for someone if you cut off your own legs with a handsaw, you’d do it.”

“I would not,” Bentley argued, and Nico wiped at his watery eyes. A moment of silence passed.

“This isn’t really something we can change, so we should make the best of it, right?” Bentley questioned. “Maybe you can come over one more time before you leave.”

“Maybe… I’ll ask,” Nico replied, sighing lightly, running a hand through his hair. “I hate this.”

“It’ll be okay,” Bentley reassured. (But would it really be okay?) “We can talk to you on the phone every day.”

“But Asten-“

“Trust me, we’ll take care of Asten,” Bentley replied, attempting the patented Bruce Wayne reassuring smile. “You’re going to a new place to train with someone who has superpowers, away from creepy Gotham and Jesse Todryk and supervillains. I think it’ll be great. And you can call us whenever you want to.”

Nico sniffled, then stared at the ground. “But, Asten’s whole family got killed and now his best friend is leaving. What if this, like, pushes him over an edge? Again?”

Bentley shrugged lightly. “We have a Jason for that.”

“Bentley, I’m serious,”

“So am I,” He replied, glancing back at the car momentarily. “Everything will be okay here.”

“What if I don’t want it to be okay?” Nico questioned, catching Bentley off-guard. Their eyes met and there was some level of hurt in his blue irises. “What if I want you guys to need me here?”

Bentley sighed lightly, blinking a few times, looking around. “You’re our friend. We’ll always need you.”

“You can say that now, but we’re all just going to forget about each other in a few years. That’s what happens every time I move,” Nico muttered, crossing his arms.

“We broke into our teacher’s cabin, got kidnapped and turned into metahumans, and went into a war zone together. I don’t think there’s much of a risk of us forgetting each other,” Bentley stated, snickering lightly. “It’ll-“

“Yeah, but one day you’re going to have a bunch of new friends and just say something like oh yeah once me and this blonde kid played superhero. That’s always what happens when someone moves. And I’m just going to be stuck at home being homeschooled and doing nothing forever.”

“Nico, we’ve gotta go, bud!” His father called from the driver's side window.

Bentley sighed lightly, glancing back at Nico, whose eyes were watering again. “Nico, I promise I will not forget about you, okay? None of us will. We’ll talk all the time.”

Nico nodded in response, but didn’t say anything else. Instead, he turned and silently made for the car, passing Bruce on the way, who patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Bentley watched Nico climb in the car, and Bruce made his way back to the manor, settling with him in the doorway.

The car pulled off.

One of Bentley’s first ever friends was leaving.

Bruce’s hand landed between his shoulder blades and rubbed his back there. “You okay, chum?”

“I don’t think so,”

(He didn’t cry until Nico’s car was long gone.)

—

SUNDAY — SEPTEMBER 27 — 2:23PM

Asten was pissed for the whole week. Whatever small progress had been made to pull him out of his shell and help open him up after his uncle’s death disappeared completely. He was back to hardly talking to anyone, like he had been right after he’d started staying there. (Bentley pretended to be asleep when he heard Asten crying the night after Nico told them.)

He still came to dinner and the den and everything, but he just wasn’t talking. Not when Bentley tried, not when Jason tried, not when Bruce or Dick tried.

But, even with Asten in silence, time went on too fast. Days passed where Nico called just to cry and Asten never said anything, so Bentley took up the comforting role as best he could. Astern didn’t talk again until Nico came over on Sunday afternoon, to spend some time with them before he left on Monday morning.

Bruce was in town for the court time he had set up. Dick had gone back to Bludhaven for the day and would be back for dinner. Damian was very obviously hiding and avoiding the emotional mess. Jason and Tim had gone somewhere (Together? Which was weird. And suspicious. Bentley was pretty sure they were trying to avoid an explosion, too.) which meant that, besides the dogs and Alfred, who appeared occasionally, there was no mediator. So the time Nico was over was mostly spent in the front courtyard in silence. The dogs were playing with each other in the sunny grass in front of Wayne Manor, running the driveway and having the time of their little lives, but Bentley, Nico, and Asten were sitting quietly on the stairs. Saying nothing. Doing nothing.

Nico was obviously not taking the move well. As soon as he’d arrived, it was obvious by the flushing on his face that he’d been crying again. Bentley would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt a little. After all, Nico was literally one of his first friends ever. They’d been through a lot of crazy crap together, and he was being dragged away because of it. (Did that mean it was technically Bentley’s fault he was moving?) Not to mention how much Asten had been through with him.

It didn’t matter anymore anyways, they couldn’t change his parents' minds.

For now, they settled for sitting on the steps. In silence.

For a while.

Until Nico exhaled shakily, on the verge of crying again. “This is torture.”

Bentley, completely clueless as to what he should say, scooted closer to him and squeezed his shoulder instead.

“It’ll be okay,” Was what he settled on whispering.

“No it won’t,” Was Nico’s quick response. “It’ll be a nightmare. How am I supposed to just leave? Asten’s practically lived with me for two entire years. We’ve gone through so much crap in these past few months and they just want to take me away? Without asking? Most of my life has been in Gotham and now they want to change that?”

Bentley hummed. “Have you told them that?”

“Yeah. They’re all like we understand honey but it’s not safe here anymore,” Nico mocked. “They don’t even-“

At that very moment, Nico’s parents drove through the gate of Wayne Manor.

It suddenly hit Bentley that he might never see him again.

As soon as Nico saw the car, he started full-on crying, hard.

The three of them stood up as Nico’s parents approached like they were about to get sentenced to prison. Nico turned on a dime and hugged Bentley, hard, and Bentley hugged him back.

“I’m so sorry,” Nico muttered. Bentley blinked a few times, trying to be strong and subdue the faint burn that was surfacing behind his eyes.

“It’s okay,” He replied, in a whisper, just in case his voice were to break.

After a minute, the car pulled up to the house, and Nico pulled away, glancing over at Asten. “I… I’m so sor-“

Before he could finish, Asten grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“You’re going to be the most epic superhero ever,” He said, though his face was mostly hidden, and Bentley assumed it was because his voice was a little thick. “I’m... gonna miss you.”

As if Nico wasn’t crying hard enough already. He pulled an arm out of the embrace and extended it toward Bentley, offering him one last hug.

Bentley accepted, engaging in the very first group hug of his life. (He liked it. He would’ve liked it more if they weren’t all almost crying, though.)

“Nico, bud, it’s time to go,” Came his father’s voice.

They all separated, looking around with slight horror on their features. Asten was crying, too — only a little, but he did have real, actual tears on his face. Nico was sobbing and kept hiding his face away in his hands. Whatever will to be strong in front of them that Bentley had kept up cracked, and he started crying, too.

Nico didn’t say anything else on the way to the car.

Bruce pulled into the driveway.

There was a long time where no one said anything. Bruce parked and went to Nico’s parents’ window to bid them goodbye, and Asten and Bentley stood on the steps, silently.

The car left.

Bruce approached the manor with that same sympathetic look on his face that he always had when something like this happened. He was in a nicely pressed suit from his time at court, his hair sleek and perfected. He climbed the stairs and settled between Bentley and Asten, watching Nico’s car go down the driveway and disappear down the road with them.

Now their trio was down to two.

Bentley hiccuped lightly, and he felt Bruce’s hand land on the back of his head.

What were they going to do now?

—

Dinner was only a little quieter that night. Everybody was aware and considerate of Bentley and Asten, that they might not be up for much talking, which was nice, because everybody was still talking to each other. Sometimes it made Bentley feel better just to listen.

He and Asten had been at a loss pretty much all day, settling down for the most part in the den to sit and halfway watch movies. It was weird, knowing that they wouldn’t see Nico anymore. And it kind of really sucked?

At the dinner table, Bentley was sitting between Asten and Damian, directly across from Dick, who was between Jason and Tim. Duke, Steph, and Cass were on the end of the table, Steph at the head opposite from Bruce. Of course, it was Dick who was doing most of the storytelling and joke making. Alfred had made spaghetti for dinner again (given that it was both Bentley and Asten’s favorites.) and it was really good.

It would be okay. It would — his family was alive and fine and happy. It would be okay.

“I have an announcement to make,” Bruce said suddenly, and the table quieted, everyone’s eyes drifting over to him. His icy irises flicked around the table warily. “As you all know, I went to court today to address the issue of sending Asten back to Brazil, to be put in the foster care system there. There were Gotham and São Paulo officials there who were… mostly inclined to send him back to his home country.”

Bentley deflated like a balloon.

The trio couldn’t turn to one already.

He saw Asten deflate, too, immediately hanging his head.

“…And I won,”

The table suddenly burst into excited chatter, and both Bentley and Asten’s heads came up with a snap. Bruce was looking straight at Asten now, that Bruce Wayne smile on his face.

“I won emergency custody of you, Asten,”

Asten cried at the dinner table.

(Everything was okay.)

—

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