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upsidedownwithsteve · 9 months

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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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just4uniquecom · 2 years

Link

#tips to buy clothes online #fashion style #office suit #shirts for men #stand collar sweater

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h34rtbeat · 5 months

Note

what about non con with Heeseung and Sunghoon

NIGHT SHIFTS

warnings: non con, oral (m.receiving), p in v sex, public sex (?) , slapping, hair pulling, degradation. HARD non-con, and hard dom!heeseung, softer but still hard dom sunghoon

working late wasn’t necessarily fun, nor was it boring. every now and then you’d get some crazy people, but it was a gas station, what could you expect?

sure here and there some person would come in, yelling and screaming, yet nothing was as scary as now.

two very attractive men walked in, not strange— many come in after clubbing. but these guys were clean. nice jawline, one of them paler than the other, yet both were shining.

working at a convenience store wasn’t ever bad, not until someone attractive walked in.

dressed in a black shirt, a skirt and some fleece tights. the black shirt being a collared polo, with the company logo. that wasn’t charming at all. sometimes paired with a simple black zip up like tonight, since it was chilly.

especially not when these two men are gorgeous— probably the hottest men you’ve seen walk in this stupid gas station.

they wore hoodies and sweats, though only one had a hood on. you didn’t know his name, yet he knew yours because of your name tag. grabbing numerous chip bags and some sweet bread from the isles, they approached.

“having a goodnight?” you asked, not because you were actually curious, but to make some small talk.

“…so so.” one of them replied. the other one- the paler one was either zoning out, or his stare was really just that intense.

“you have a pretty name.” the same one— tanned one, spoke. he pointed at your name tag, making you a bit flustered.

“thanks.” you replied, still scanning other items.

then, you saw one— the paler one— lean over and whisper something in his friends ear. you saw the other one, the tanned one, have a face feigning shock. not super shocked, like a “oh?”

“your total is 15.2-“ your sentence cut short by one, the paler one this time,

“i uhm.. forgot my wallet. is there any other way we can pay?” you look between the two men. they both looked a bit amused.

“do.. you have your card on your phone?” you asked, there was always paying methods.

the tanned one spoke out again “no, well.. we were thinking of other ways to pay it back.”

“uhm.. i’m sorry i can’t think of any other way? Unless you guys have some sort of membership here.” you gestured towards the window, showing that there was an app.

“damn, she’s stupid..” one rubbed his face.

then, the paler one looked directly at you.

“hey, can you show me where the bathroom is?” you were about to point.

“no, like.. can you show me?”

you gulped. but nodded. you stepped out from behind the register, and began to walk towards the bathroom. why were you terrified? you had showed the bathroom before. it was behind a storage room for some reason.

you checked behind your shoulder to make sure he was still following, but then you saw both of them. maybe both of them needed to use the restroom, right?

taking a turn, you finally reached the storage room. where the bathroom was.

“and.. it’s right over h-mmph!”

a slender hand grabbing you, shutting your mouth while your back ended pressed up against the other one. panic filled your senses, and your wrists were held by the other guy.

“you know, you’re a real pretty gas station worker. usually it’s some old dude, but you…” the tan one leaned in, “are just… so young and pretty.”

“do you wanna know who we are?” the tan one asked, and you looked up at him, shaking your head.

“our friends come here sometimes… one of them, he’s real young. he thinks you’re real cute. you seen him? he has.. blond-ish hair..” he scoffed, before continuing “never mind , there’s probably a thousand guys with blonde hair.”

“be nice, she doesn’t understand what we’re doing.” the pale one said. “why don’t we tell her our names? i doubt this chick will snitch anyway.” he unzipped your sweater, with one hand. he took his hand off your mouth, to discard your zip up.

you squirmed, thrashing against the tanned one, not wanting to be touched.

“stop it— don’t touch m-“ a tug of your hair, pulling your head back, and the tan one was tongue deep in your mouth, clashing your lips together.

“she’s gonna be loud, huh..” the pale one mumbled, already meshing your boobs together through the polo. “my name’s sunghoon.. his name is heeseung..”

heeseung pulled off your lips, releasing your wrists so he could start rubbing your waist. “you’re pretty and your body feels nice.. how in the world did you end up in a gas station?”

in any other situation that you’d create in your mind, you’d try to scream and punch, but your waist was gripped so hard that you couldn’t move.

sunghoon moved in, now he was kissing you. they were going to have their fun with you, even if you didn’t want to.

heeseung seemed to just be observing, sunghoons hands still clamped on your breasts as he was sloppily eating you alive. heeseungs hands slipped lower, til they found themselves under your skirt.

you let out a shriek in sunghoons mouth, but he would only pull away if he needed to breathe, not if you did. he didnt care if you didn’t like it, because he did.

“a nice ass too…” heeseung muttered, flipping your skirt up completely. sunghoon pulled off of you, completely moving his hands off.

you thought maybe then— they’d both stop. then, behind you, you heard a slight shuffling noice, and you were flipped around, shoved to your knees.

you couldn’t utter a word of defense, heeseungs cock shoved right between your lips.

“Fuck— oh, you’re real pretty, so pretty..” he moaned, pushing your head down so you’d take him fully. He wanted to torture you, to see how you’d take it.

Fully aware that sunghoon was still behind you, even as your nails dug into heeseungs thighs. All that could be heard in that silent store, was your choking and gagging noises, and heeseungs moans.

“She’s a slut, I told you..” you heard sunghoon mutter, you could hear him lean against one of the storage shelves as your mouth was being used like a fleshlight.

“Heeseung, lift her up.” Sunghoon said, and heeseung groaned.

“why? can’t you see.. she’s enjoying herself.” heeseung mocked, your eyes brimming with tears, having on his cock.

“i think she’s ready to fuck, that’s why.” sunghoon muttered.

heeseung tugged your hair, pulling your mouth off.

“guess we’ll just have to keep her bent over…” heeseung says, as he forced you up. sunghoons hands pushed at your back, so you bent over, your nose dragging along heeseungs dick.

you felt a breeze against your ass now, yet you didn’t hear a rip. seemed this guy had enough decent to not rip your fleece tights.

“this bitch is wearing fleece tights.. i can’t even rip ‘em.” sunghoon cursed, slipping your panties to the side.

“that means she’s cold. we gotta keep her warm then, yeah” heeseung laughed, as he kept rubbing his dick, moving it across your face.

“did you grab those condoms off the counter?” heeseung asked, putting himself back in your mouth, just the tip this time.

sunghoon fiddled with the band of his pants, bringing them down only enough for his dick to spring out.

“no. I wanted to fuck her raw.” your eyes widened, and you looked up at heeseung, as if begging him to say no.

“do whatever.” heeseung laughed. “this bitch wants to beg.”

“mhm..” sunghoon took one final look at your sopping cunt, before sliding right in. “oh.. fuck…” he almost came from how right you were.

“is this bitch a virgin?” sunghoon almost laughed, beginning his deep thrusts.

“don’t think so.. she’s suckin’ my dick like a whore.” heeseung continued his hair pulling antics, and your body was forced to take sunghoon and heeseung deeper, the thrust moving your body involuntarily.

“fuck.. uh.. ah..” sunghoon moaned, landing a light slap on your ass. “clenching tighter? bet you’re enjoying all this, huh? you liked being fucked by two guys at your workplace?”

“nasty ass slut.” heeseung cursed. he could hear the way you gagged around him, he likes it more now that your tears were actually spilling down your cheeks. the lip gloss you wore was smeared all over his dick.

“oh.. fuck.. i’m gonna cum inside of her, yeah..” sunghoon mumbles, and you made a noise against heeseung.

“bro.. what if she gets pregnant.” heeseung questioned, even though he was suffocating you with his dick.

“no fuckin’ way. ask her if she’s on the pill.”

heeseung slapped your cheek. “you on the pill?”

you wanted to lie, to shake your head no, but you felt that either way, they didn’t care. it was better to be honest.

you nodded.

“she wants me to cum inside.. uh.” sunghoon grunted, before you could protest, heeseung pulled your face off, making your tongue loll out. he painted your face with his semen, making sure to leave some on your tongue.

“good slut.. i’ll have to come back and fuck you like he did sometime. swallow.” heeseung tapped your chin with his thumb, and you complied, closing your mouth and swallowing.

sunghoon did his quietly, cumming inside your cunt and forcing you to keep it in. he didn’t say anything as he tucked himself back in.

some part of you kind of wished it didn’t end.

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shadowhearts-ponytail · 5 months

Text

christmas with abby anderson!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

a/n: I love winter so so much! and I love abby, so here you go!

warnings: this is just fluffy Christmas activities. there is a bit of a suggestive joke. but nothing too bad. let me know if I missed anything!

words: 1,066

abby is a Christmas girly. for sure. she loves Christmas. it is the most wonderful time of the year for her. by far. her favorite holiday. she goes all out.

abby has one of those mistletoe hats. the ones that hang mistletoe over you and another person. she wears it all the time as an excuse to pull you into a kiss. her hands on your hips as she leans down to plant a long kiss on your lips.

she has mistletoe all over your shared apartment. for extra kisses. in every single doorway. she keeps some mistletoe in her pockets to pull it out when you both are out so she can hold it over your head and pout for a kiss.

making Christmas cookies. she's a sugar cookie girl. simple. easy to make. plus, she likes decorating them with frosting after but will complain that the frosting "makes them overly sweet" when she's the one that drenched it in red and green icing and snowflake sprinkles.

she always makes cookies to give to her dad. she always makes him a big tin full of different kinds. chocolate chip, sugar cookies, oatmeal cookies, snickerdoodles, gingerbread men.

she's actually quite a skilled baker. old family recipes she knows by heart. muscle memory usually kicks in when she kneads the dough. she hums when she bakes. while she waits for the oven, she'll do a little dance if she thinks you aren't looking.

she makes fresh bread and cakes and so many sweets around the holidays. she's not one to eat sweets, but she loves making them for friends or family.

she makes enough to feed a damn army of 5,000 gren men and then sends them with you to work for your coworkers or to your family.

"no, baby. you know I hate cookies and cake. just give it to your family. or I'm sure your boss would love 200 cookies, right?"

"sure, abs. sure. whatever you say." you playfully roll your eyes at your girlfriend as she has once again gone overboard with the Christmas cookies, just like last year and the year before that. it's tradition at this point.

getting custom Christmas stockings with your names on them. the stockings mean a lot to her. getting to fill your stocking with little gifts, candies, and love notes would bring the purest smile to her face. and seeing her stocking next to yours. she loves seeing it. she's always wanted that. wanted someone to make her a stocking with her name on it.

she would get alice one and put it next to both of yours. full it with dog treats and chew toys. she says it makes you three a family.

abby buys alice a new collar every year and gets those doggy Christmas sweaters. she gets alice bones to chew on and toys and clothes to wear. that dog is spoiled rotten.

abby would want to take "family photos" with you and alice. she has alice wear one of the shirts in the photos.

she like hires a photographer, and everything. you go out to some field or somewhere nice to take professional pictures. she hangs them in your apartment and makes a Christmas card with them to send to both her family and yours from "The Anderson Family."

"I hope it's okay I used my last name. I'm sure you'll end up taking it anyway."

when she says this, you about choke on your water. "i-" cough, cough, "Yeah, that's fine, baby. I'm sure you're right." you tease with a little wink.

abby gets you small gifts every day of December up until Christmas. a small bouquet of flowers, a little handwritten note, candies. simple things. she sees it as an extra excuse to spoil you. not that she ever needs one. but she's just a sappy romantic like that.

she always wants to come home to you as soon as she gets off work to cuddle up and watch some Christmas movies, and warm up the apartment by cooking you dinner or baking.

abby probably isn't one of those people who's crazy particular about the ornaments on the tree. like they don't have to be all the same colors and shit. she would like handmade ones more. ones that were passed down in the family. sentimental ones.

she always puts the same star on the tree every year. one her dad got her as a gift. it'd very important to her. she packs it in a metal box wrapped in bubble wrap and blankets to keep it safe.

but she refuses to get on the ladder and out it on the tree. she's too scared of heights. she won't get further than the first step on the ladder.

"abby, cmon. just put the star on the tree. I'll get the ladder."

"No! I can't. what if I fall and break my neck?" she asks with puppy eyes and a big pout.

"abs are you serious? the chances of that are, like, zero!" you argue back to the muscled woman before you, "besides you're taller than me."

instead of arguing back, she picks you up in her massive arms and hoists you to sit on her shoulder.

"abby!"

"there. now you're taller. now you have to do it"

she wears boxers with Christmas prints on them. snowmen, reindeer, santa, snowflakes.

you guys are bickering about something meaningless, and to lighten the mood, she just unbutton her pants and push them down to her knees to reveal boxers with a mistletoe print on them then yell, "kiss it then!"

you can't help but burst into laughter and clutch your stomach as you double over in a fit of laughter.

abby looks at you with a cheeky grin, "still mad at me, baby?"

abby is a fanatic about Christmas lights. she likes going to the park closer to Christmas to see all the lights at night. she'd be so excited. begging to go every night until they take them down.

she brings you to the annual anderson family dinner. the first time she brought you, she was so excited, but you were so nervous.

she was practically bouncing with joy when her dad brought you into a tight hug the moment he met you. he immediately started to talk your ear off. making you feel welcome.

you are definitely invited to next year's dinner.

a/n: feedback is always welcome!

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meowzfordayz · 1 year

Text

gifting them a handmade sweater — hashira men

Author’s Note: tried to write these a lil silly, a tad awkward, and very sweet. 🥰

gifting them a handmade sweater — hashira men

Word Count: ~1,700

CW: explicit language, mild sexual content

Emergency Request Fulfilled: This may be a silly request. I decided to knit my boyfriend a sweater and like I tried my best but when I gave it to him he thought I bought it and went on about how I should return it because it looked awful and was laughing. I didn’t have the heart to say I did it and it shattered my heart 🥲Is it possible you could write a lil something of how the hashira men react to an f reader giving them a sweater they made for them? I feel silly requesting something so dorky.

~faqs~

Will it fit? is Gyomei’s first concern as his fingers peruse the fuzzy material shoved shyly into his awaiting hands

—HEHEHE 😏

—Will it fit? 😏😏

—Why do I always get struck by Horny Cupid™ whenever I hc for Gyomei? 🥲

—The man’s a stud 😏😏😏

—That’s why 😌

—Anyway

He doesn’t recall you asking to take his measurements

But then he remembers how often you borrow his clothes

#you don’t need to ask

#it’s OUR closet tyvm 😃

“What’s the occasion?” he questions softly, slipping off his current shirt in favor of trying on his new sweater

—HELLO ABS 😳🫠

—Nothing wrong w/ your partner undressing in front of you, nothing at all 🫢

“Y’know you can wear it over a shirt, right?”

So sue you if you’re suddenly a tad breathless 😅

Gyomei smirks at the hitch in your voice

He’s onto us you 😵‍💫

“I thought you’d be more appreciative of my method.” 😎

—Hrr 🥵

“Does it fit?”

“You tell me,” he chuckles, “Does it look okay? I’m not bursting at the seams?”

*cue unapologetic glance downward*

“N-nope, not bursting at the seams.” 🙃

“I’ll wear it,” he promptly answers your silently hovering question, “I’m honored by the time and effort you put into this gift. Thank you.”

“How honored?” you squeak

“Extremely,” as he reaches for your face, his mouth curving into a gentle smile as you settle your jaw into his cupped palms, “You are simply the best.”

He kisses your nose knowing it’ll make you giggle ☺️

“I can’t accept this.”

Help this man

Obanai is already a tomato 🍅

Say something nice, and he might just squirt 😃

“What is that supposed to mean?” you huff, eyes narrowed at his immediate rejection of your hard work

“I don’t deserve it!” ☹️

“The hell you don’t deserve? Is my effort not worthy of your wear? Am I not worthy of you?”

You don’t mean to play dirty or harshly, but c’mon

Immediate rejection of a gift stings, yanno? 😕

“No, no, no, your effort is more than worthy! Too worthy! I just-”

Obanai shuts up, grabs the sweater, and tugs it over his head in one only slightly tangled motion

“CnIhvesumhep?” comes his garbled voice from somewhere inside the sweater

Rolling your eyes, you guide the collar around the top of his head, exasperated smile tugging at the corner of your mouth when his head finally pops through

“I graciously accept your gift,” he mumbles 😅

“Yeah?” you smirk, arms crossing, “That was so gracious of you.”

Pouting, he flicks your forehead faster than you can step back, cheeks dusted rose as he murmurs, “I’m working on it.” 🥺

You vow then and there to shower your sheepish, brilliant man in more gifts, more often

Nothing like a lil exposure therapy to quicken his progress 😇

(ofc, you don’t go too overboard, bc respecting his boundaries and comfort is foremost)

“I love it!” Kyojuro declares, dazzling grin on his face, eyes wide with delight as he hugs the sweater to his chest ❤️‍🔥

“You haven’t even tried it on!” you giggle, shoving playfully at his bicep, “If it doesn’t fit, then I can make adjustments.”

“If it is too small for me, then you are welcome to keep it for yourself, and I will commission you to make me a bigger, matching one!”

You blink once, twice

He really likes it that much?

“Is this you being generous, or sincere?” you ask, not unkindly

“I am being both!”

Damn his beautiful, brain-slowing smile 😭

What were you about to say? 🙃

“What if it’s too big?”

“Then I will be all the more cozy, and I will still commission you to make yourself a matching, oversized sweater!”

“If you’re so interested in wearing matching clothes, then you could just say so,” you snort, cheeks warming at the sight of Kyojuro’s skin peeking out from under his shirt 🫢

(bc he did the whole arms-raising-to-put-on-the-sweater-and-oop-there’s-his-sexy-midriff thing)

“I am interested in supporting you and your creative ventures!” striking a pose, “This might be the most comfortable sweater I have ever owned!” 🤗

“You’re exaggerating.” 🥴

“Perhaps,” he admits, closing the gap between your skepticism and his enthusiasm, lips planted firmly on your forehead, “But I meant it when I said I love it, and it fits perfectly fine.” 🥰

“Is this homemade?” he demands

… 😬

“Yes, Sanemi.”

“I can tell.”

Oof 🥲

But he puts it on faster than your embarrassment can react

“It fits,” in his typical gruff-w/-hint-of-pride/affection tone

—Truth be told, he didn’t expect it to fit 💀

He makes sure to wear it at least once a week

Informs you about all the compliments it receives

(you can trust he isn’t lying bc he gets flustered and grumpy)

Doesn’t tell you about how he ~mildly threatens anyone who dares to even glance at it oddly 😃

Maybe it’s not his favorite sweater, but you’re his favorite person 💞

Sanemi’d never tell you this lest you took advantage, but: he’d swap out his entire wardrobe (and that includes his expensive items) for clothes handmade by you and only you 🥺

If you so desired to make him an entire new wardrobe, that is 😆

#he’d pay you, ofc #and he’d only miss his grey sweatpants ~a lil 😏 #emphasis on grey sweatpants 😏

—I need help

“I have a gift for you too,” Muichiro smiles, ears pink, nose crinkled happily

“Oh?”

“It’s not much,” as he wiggles into the sweater, “But it reminded me of you,” rushing off to fetch his present

“Tada!” he returns moments later, a mug cradled carefully against his chest, “I found it at a thrift shop.” 😁

Its coloring reminds you of the ocean after a storm, large and tall with a thick handle, textured sides providing dimension and uniqueness 🌊

“I thought you said we didn’t need more mugs,” you manage to mumble, cheeks already beginning to hurt from how widely you’re smiling 🥺🥰

“We don’t,” he shrugs, entirely unbothered, “But I’ll always need your happiness, and this makes you happy.”

It does 💓

—As a mug hoarder, Muichiro’s hcs are only ~very self indulgent of me 🤪

“You haven’t told me what you think about my gift to you!”

“It’s a bit tight around the shoulders, but the overall construction is phenomenal.” 👌

“I can adjust it.” 😅

“Yes please. I’ll wear it plenty if it fits properly.” 👍

Forwardness may not feel uber romantic, but well meaning honesty warms your heart all the same 😌

“It’s not holiday season,” Giyuu tilts his head, brow furrowed 🤨

“Are you calling it ugly?” you scowl, lips pursed, “Sweaters aren’t specifically for the holidays, Giyuu, they’re good for layering and style,” eyes narrowing, “Although perhaps the issue here is your overall lack of style?” 😐

“I’m not calling it ugly,” he deadpans, lump in his throat when he notices how shiny your eyes are, “Are you going to cry?” 😳

“NO.” 😖😢

“I’m not calling it ugly!” more urgent now, his expression softening as cool fingers brush gently against your cheek, “I suppose I do lack… style,” gruff tone coaxing a watery smile from you, “Will I regret asking for your expertise?” 😶🫶

“Maaaybe,” you finally crack an exuberant grin, turning your head to press a tender kiss into his palm, “There are a lot of rules.” 😃

“A lot of…” doing his best to conceal his noticeable grimace, “Rules?”

“There’re three main facets of fashion: comfort, utility, and just because.”

“Just because?” 🤔

—Confused Giyuu is my fave Giyuu teehee 😇

—Also: take my fashion ~advice w/ a grain of salt

—My main concern is color coordination

—Beyond that, I’m (almost) as oblivious/do-not-care as Giyuu 😂

“Sweatshirt and sweatpants combo? Comfort. Raincoat and rain boots when it’s raining? Utility. Athletic gear while working out? Utility. The incredible sweater I painstakingly made for you? Comfort and just because.”

Amusement flickers in his gaze as understanding slowly dawns 👀

“And what about pajamas?”

“Comfort and utility.”

“And,” his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Nude?” 🫢

“All three,” you wink, “Especially if it involves both of us in bed.”

Giyuu may lack style, but he does not lack the ability to end up in bed—nude—w/ you 😵‍💫😈😉

Tengen: Does it light up? 🧐

Suma: It’s gorgeous! 😍 *squeals excitedly*

You: Excuse me? 😐

Tengen: *pondering* Can you add glitter? 🤔

Hina: Tengen… 😕

Tengen: Don’t get me wrong! I love the design, and the fit is comfortable, but-

Makio: Did you not notice the interwoven tinsel yarn?

Tengen: *huffs* Is that what’s so itchy? 😒

You: TENGEN. 😑

Tengen: *pouts* I have sensitive breasts. 😞

You: *scowling* So wear a damn shirt underneath it.

Tengen: *wistful sigh* But then your love and affection won’t directly touch my skin. 🥺

Suma: Ooh babe, could you make me one next? ☺️ *bambi eyes*

Makio: Hold up, ME next! 😁 *gripping your hand*

Hina: *patiently* I’d love one too, please and thank you. 😇

Tengen: One of you could have mine, and then I could get a new one that doesn’t irritate my br-

Everyone sans Tengen: TENGEN! 😡

Hina: Be grateful, not greedy!

Makio: Shut up about your breasts.

Suma: I’ll take yours, and give it the appreciation and attention it deserves!

Tengen: *thoroughly berated* Thank you [y/n], I apologize for my insensitivity and selfishness. 😓

You: *amused* *Makio is tucked into your left side* *Suma into your right* Is it truly that itchy?

Tengen: *quietly* No.

You: I’ll make sweaters as your birthday gifts, does that seem fair enough? 💝

Makio: *thinking hard* Fine.

Suma: *wetly smooches your cheek* Perfect! Thank you!

Hina: If you wouldn’t mind teaching me, then I’d be content to make my own. *eyeing Makio, Suma, and Tengen* You already have your hands full, after all. 😝

You: *giggling* *meanwhile, the aforementioned trio glare @ Hina* It’d be my pleasure. 🫶

Tengen: Alright, alright, group hug! 😤

You: *cooing* Aww, do you feel left o-

Tengen: *proceeds to squish you, Hina, Makio, and Suma into a gigantic hug* *aka he most certainly does feel left out* 🙄💗

#hashira x reader #headcanons #modern au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #himejima gyomei #gyomei x reader #iguro obanai #obanai x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x reader #tokito muichiro #muichiro x reader #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader #uzui tengen #tengen x reader

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ellieloves2draw · 5 months

Text

at long last i have finished it!! this was so much fun :] ive wanted to do a character lineup for a while but havent really had the time/spoons, so it was really nice to have a convenient template on hand

template by @xmaruu11

closeups and ID under the cut

(ID: bust shots of each of the members of the life series, done in marker. left to right, top to bottom, they are: grian, scar, mumbo, jimmy, joel, scott, impulse, skizz, tango, etho, bdubs, cleo, martyn, ren, lizzie, bigb, gem, and pearl. each member is talking to and/or interacting with another member.

character designs:

grian has dirty blonde hair, a button nose, and pure black eyes. his hands are scaled and birdlike, and he has large deerlike ears. he is wearing small round glasses and a red sweater.

scar has brown hair in a ponytail, pointed, ears, a wide nose, and green eyes. there are a number of scars on his face, arms, and neck. there are also some grey streaks in the left side of his hair.

mumbo has black hair, black dot eyes, a button nose, and pointed ears. his mouth is obscured by a mustache. there are two strands of hair sticking up above his forehead. he is wearing a white collared shirt, suspenders, a floppy red tie, and black gloves.

jimmy has short dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, a straight nose, and a beard. I he’s wearing a white shirt, and unbuttoned blue shirt, and a bandana around the neck that is red-and-white striped.

joel has dark brown hair with a green streak in the front, pointed ears, dark brown eyes, a slightly hooked nose, stubble, and a small braid in the back. he’s wearing a loose, long-sleeved white shirt, and a dark brown vest that is loosely tied together.

scott has long blue hair with a braid next to his left ear, deerlike ears, a wide nose, and dark blue eyes. there are small yellow lights floating around his head like a halo. he is wearing a white shirt with a rainbow pattern across the middle, and an unbuttoned blue shirt on top. there are red flowers in his hair.

impulse has short brown hair with grey streaks, slitted brown eyes, a wide nose, pointed ears, and a beard. he is wearing a black, short sleeve shirt, a dark, gray vest, and a yellow bandanna tied around the neck.

skizz has salt and pepper hair styled similarly to wolverine from x-men. he has a chin beard, a large nose, and light blue eyes with white pupils. there are scars on his arms. there is a faint halo around his head. he is wearing a formal vest, red tie, and white collared shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

tango has long pointed ears, red eyes, a pointed nose, yellow blonde hair, and stubble. there are a pair of red lensed goggles on his forehead. he is wearing oversized red gloves, a red button up shirt, and black overalls.

etho has long white hair that is half tied up, a dark blue eye and a red eye, and a scar over the red eye. he also has stubble, which is barely visible underneath his mask. he’s wearing a dark green shirt, a dark blue vest with a fur collar, and black fingerless gloves.

bdubs has short white hair, very dark brown eyes, stubble, a large nose, and a missing tooth. he also has a black eye. he’s wearing a white collared shirt, a cloak made of moss, and a red bandana on his head.

cleo has pale green skin covered in stitches, long red hair, an upturned nose, and pure black eyes with light green irises. they are wearing a dark magenta leotard with purple off-the-shoulder sleeves. she has dark pink flowers in her hair.

martyn has long light blonde hair, parted in the middle and held back with a headband. he has blue eyes, a large nose, and a beard. he’s wearing a green shirt, a dark green jacket with a large collar, and black fingerless gloves.

ren is a dogman. he has long dark brown fur with slightly lighter fur on the face and hands. he has blue eyes. he’s wearing sunglasses and a red plaid short-sleeved flannel.

lizzie has blue eyes, long pink hair, and raccoon-like ears and nose. she has sharp teeth and claws. there is a dark raccoon-like marking over her eyes. she is wearing a blue vest and floppy tie and a white collared shirt.

bigb has dark brown eyes, a wide nose, a beard, and two ear cuffs. his hair is styled in a pompadour. he is wearing a blue poncho with a cookie patch sewn, and a lighter blue shirt underneath.

gem has antlers and deerlike ears, red hair tied in a braid, green eyes, a small nose, and freckles. she’s wearing a light green sweater and blue denim overalls.

pearl has long light brown hair, deerlike ears, and blue eyes with white pupils. she also has white freckles. she’s wearing a dark blue beanie and cloak, and a white shirt. the cloak has red patches sewn on.

end ID.)

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k-femdove · 1 year

Text

Teach Me || Q.K

inspired by the one and only dematus and gentlyfillmyveins on ao3!

pairing :: sub!qian kun x dom!gn!reader

warnings :: omegaverse, boypussy omega kun, kun is a TA, alpha!reader (has a dick- can be read whatever gender), reader is a student, mr. lee is taeyong, tutoring, porn w/o plot, like it’s just porn, reader loves his scent, omega slick, like lots of it, and cum too, not explicitly stated but 100% consensual, hickeys, cunnilingus, fingering, edging, overstimulation, kun is a tsundere, reader has a massive cock, fucking on a table, kun squirts once, reader calls him princess, mindbreak, breeding kink, kun is a slutty lil pillow princess, knotting, passing out, reader takes photos of him passed out, slight somnophilia (reader makes kun taste cum while he’s asleep), fucking with glasses on, jesus Christ how did I fit all of this

word count :: 2.5k... i got a little carried away with the content

Synopsis :: You've always had a thing for pretty, smart, older men.

playlist link here! or listen to “Promiscuous” by Nelly Furtado

You were never the best student. You didn't mean to be so unfocused; it just turned out like that. Whether talking with your friend or scribbling on your paper until it bore you to death, your attention would be on everything but the lesson.

"Y/n, could you stay for a moment?" Your professor, Mr. Lee, called out after most of the class had left. He sat at his desk, his younger TA next to him. Both were young- maybe less than a decade older than you?

"What's up?" You asked, leaning onto the desk.

Despite asking, you already knew it was about your grades. Even though your performance was lacking, it wouldn't hurt to improve.

"As you may know, your recent assignments have been lackluster." He began, looking the papers over. "It may be a good idea to get a tutor. I've spoken to Mr. Qian about it, and I trust him enough to provide you with the help you need. What do you say?"

Mr. Qian? You glanced at the TA next to your professor. Hm. So that was his last name. You had never really spoken before, so you knew him as Kun. He was soft-spoken and very well-mannered, always speaking eloquently. The man was never in the same part of the room as you, so you didn't pay much attention to him.

You smiled, turning back to Mr. Lee. "When do we start?"

When you agreed to private sessions, this was not what you hoped would happen. It was Sunday morning, and the warmth of fall was still present.

Then Kun walked in. As you opened the door to let him in, a strong omega scent hit you like lightning. It reminded you of strawberry candy, the type you'd find in those tiny plastic wrappers. You know, the ones you'd find in a typical Asian store. There was a strange depth to it that was more than just candy. The sweetness was intoxicating, so easy to breathe in and savor.

You could feel your mouth water as you led him to your coffee table- god, had he always smelt this heavenly?

Not only that, but he suddenly appeared much more attractive. His silver-rimmed glasses lay perfectly on his face. You began to scan his clothes discreetly, eyes pleasantly surprised.

He noticed your gaze as he let out an awkward chuckle. His hand moved up to adjust the sleeve of his sweater. It was a light blue with white stripes at the collar, like a vest he usually wore over a collared shirt. You glanced at the sweater again. He wasn't wearing a shirt underneath it.

"I guess I am a little underdressed. It's warm today- I hope you don't mind?"

"Oh, of course not." You said, snapping out of your trance. "I don't mind at all."

You didn't mind an hour ago. Now you wished you said otherwise.

As Kun was halfway through a lengthy and detailed explanation, you were practically glaring at him. A sleeve of his sweater slipped off his shoulder, exposing his collarbone.

Dirty thoughts filled your head. Him without the sweater. Him moaning as you marked his gorgeous collarbones. Him bending over as he begged for your cock-

"Y/n, are you listening?" He said, waving a hand in front of your face.

Your head jolted back up to look at his concerned face, desperately trying to hide your spontaneous boner. Fuck, you just got a boner from your teacher. This day couldn't possibly get worse.

"Are you okay? You've zoned out this whole time." He said, genuinely worried.

"I-I'm sorry." You blurted out, eyes darting around the room. "I'm just distracted."

"Distracted?" He asked, eyebrows furrowed. "Distracted by what?"

"By- well- this." You explained, gesturing to his hole whole appearance.

"This?" Kun repeats, now mildly offended. Then he looks down at your raging hard-on and back at your flustered face. "Oh... Oh."

Another wave of his scent fills the air around you. You begin to lose control of your senses, leaning in closer. Your pupils dilate, and your eyes fill with lust as you breathe it in.

Kun begins to panic as the scent of your arousal continues to trigger his, his panties already dampening.

He had to admit you were attractive, catching himself staring a few times in class, but he had never expected it to go this far.

"T-This is so inappropriate." He stuttered out. "I'm supposed to be your teacher!"

"Inappropriate? My entire apartment smells like you! You're the one wearing that stupid sweater!" You exclaimed.

"You've never had a problem with my scent before!"

"That's because you've never looked this fucking sexy!"

Kun falters for a moment, eyes wide open. "Wait, looked? I thought it was just the scent!"

"No, it's just you! Stop seducing me!" You say, hands on his shoulders.

"And if I don't?" He replies quietly, testing the waters.

You pull him in closer, inches away from his face. Kun starts to leak as your pheromones affect him.

"I'll fuck you until you can't even walk."

He whimpers as you kiss him, hand palming your erection. A small string of saliva connects you as you pull away. You trail kisses down to his collarbone, where you suck harshly on the skin you've wanted to mark, eliciting a faint whine.

You shove his back onto the table and pull his jeans off, throwing them god knows where. You’re met with the sight of his gorgeous legs, smooth to the touch. As your eyes move up his thighs, you move a hand to rub him through his soaked panties.

“Stop teasing me….” He pleads, unconsciously pushing his lower half onto your hand.

You laugh at his eagerness and place a hand on his hips, preventing him from moving.

You hum lightly and inch the pretty panties off him, placing them on the side of the table.

His scent grows stronger as you spread his legs, exposing a pink, hairless, and virtually untouched pussy. Your mouth watered as copious amounts of slick began to drip on the floor.

“God, you're going to be the death of me...” you mutter, feasting on him with your eyes.

You eagerly lean in and begin kissing his thighs. Kun groans as you guide your mouth everywhere but his pussy.

As Kun begins to grow irritated, a gasp escapes his mouth as you lick a stripe on his pussy. The taste of his arousal spreads through your mouth.

If the scent of him drove you crazy, his taste was on another level. It had vanilla and strawberry undertones, sweet and sugar-like.

You dove back in, licking circles around his clit. Kun mewled as you moved your tongue down to his entrance, hungrily tasting the slick he let gush out. Your tongue easily entered him, plunging in and out.

“F-Fuck,” he said, moans growing louder. “I’m so close.”

Just as his thighs began to shake, you pulled away completely. Kun let out a loud whine, desperately trying to chase after his lost orgasm.

Once you were positive that the buildup was lost, you easily plunged a finger into his hole. Slick or not, it wouldn't hurt to prep him a bit more.

You took your free hand and slid it up his sweater, caressing his nipple. Kun’s breath hitched and his thighs instinctively squeezed together.

You forced them apart again, inserting a second finger and sucking harshly on his clit. He let out a surprised yelp that quickly turned into loud, needy moans.

Your fingers curled up as you thrust them deeper, eventually finding his G-spot. You pressed up against it, thrusting in and out.

Kun’s entire body shook as he neared orgasm yet again, only for you to halt your movements. He makes a pained noise as he attempts to fuck himself back onto your fingers, but the stimulation was lost.

You laughed at his reaction, already pushing a third finger into him. The slide was incredibly easy and your fingers jabbed against his G-spot once more.

He sobbed as arousal pooled in his stomach, nearing his high again. He panted heavily and moved to take his glasses off, but you grabbed his hand.

“Don’t.” You said, looking at his disheveled appearance, his glasses beginning to fog from the heat. “They make you look sexy.”

Kun whimpers as you continue to finger fuck him, so close to the edge- closer than you'd ever pushed him. He squeezes his eyes shut in the hope that you’ll let him cum, only seconds away from his orgasm.

A broken sob escapes his lips when you pull your fingers out completely, licking them clean.

“You- You're so mean...” He cries, eyes glossy and beautiful.

“Me? Mean? I don’t think you should be insulting a student, Mr. Qian.”

Kun winces as reality hits him. He bites his lip and looks at you, teary-eyed.

“I hate you, y/n.” He whimpers, averting his eyes away from you.

You smirk at him, eyes filled with lust. “You say you hate me, but your slick is getting all over the floor... Again. Tell me, sir. Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

He bites his lip before glancing at you. “Please...” He whimpers again, spreading his legs farther apart.

You smile, unzipping your pants and pulling your massive cock out of your underwear. Kun widens his eyes at the size. He’d never taken anything like that before.

Your cock throbs as you swipe a glob of precum with your finger and point it at Kun’s mouth.

The man catches on immediately and eagerly takes your digits into his mouth, moaning from the taste. Another wave of arousal gushes from his entrance, and you lick it up before your floor can become even wetter.

Kun moans as you push your cock in, already pushing against his G-spot.

“Halfway there, princess.” You say, grasping his hips and pushing him farther down.

Only half? He thinks, already feeling filled to the brim.

He screamed as you shoved yourself inside, stretching his insides as you buried yourself balls-deep inside of him. He couldn't believe how full he felt, how much pain mixed with pleasure.

It only takes a few small thrusts before Kun already feels like cumming, his denied orgasms making him a thousand times more sensitive.

You grunt as his velvety soft walls begin to clench around you, so you pull out completely.

He cries out at the feeling of being empty, grinding his hips into the air.

“Fuck, please!” He whines.

“Please what?”

“C-cum! Please let me cum!” He pleads, but you pound into him before he can even finish talking.

His stomach bulged as you thrust deeper inside him, reaching places no one else could. He gasped as he felt himself stretch further than he thought possible.

The sudden sensation caused him to squirm wildly, trying desperately to escape the pleasure. It only intensified the feeling as he struggled to cope with it. The pain and pleasure were almost unbearable, yet it felt so good.

Before Kun knew it, his orgasm hit him like a truck. The room filled with his pretty noises as he clenched around your cock, cumming all over it.

Panting heavily, he rode out his orgasm before realizing that you weren't stopping. The pleasure turned to the pain of overstimulation. His thighs shook as you thrust into him, pleasure slowly taking over his body.

“Ah, wait- what are you doing?” He moaned as you pounded into him ruthlessly as if you didn’t care about how he felt.

“You said you wanted to cum, right princess?” You said, hand massaging his clit.

Kun screams as he squirts all over your cock before coming a second time, having no time to recover as you continue to thrust into him.

He cried out as you fucked him hard, causing his body to shake uncontrollably. Every nerve ending seemed to fire at once, causing him to feel like he was going to pass out. And then, just when he thought he couldn't take anymore, yet another orgasm washes over him.

“You good, princess? We’re nowhere near done yet.”

He nods lazily as you coax orgasm after orgasm out of him. His eyes are glued shut at this point and his voice is hoarse from moaning like a slut. He feels so faded that he can't even remember how many times he’s come, the morning turned to the afternoon as you fucked the living shit out of him.

“Fuck me harder!” He begs, his insides practically memorizing the shape of your cock. “Ah- please! Breed me full of your pups! ♡! ♡♡!”

You take a moment to admire your work. The once-composed and eloquent TA was reduced to nothing but a babbling mess. His sweet scent was long gone and replaced with the smell of pure sex.

You considered his request. You knew he wouldn't get pregnant, so what harm would there be?

Kun cums one last time, clenching even harder around you. You feel your knot expanding, catching against his rim.

With one final thrust, you bury yourself in him. Cum shoots deep inside him in regular 5-minute intervals, filling him up until you can see a faint bulge in his stomach.

Kun is pretty much passed out, so you scroll mindlessly on your phone until your knot comes down.

When the time comes, you ready your camera and pull your cock out. Thick and slick gushes out into a small bowl (you had prepared for this beforehand) and you snap one too many photos.

Kun looks majestic. He's wearing nothing but his oversized sweater and his collarbone is exposed, covered in dark hickeys. His hair is ruffled in a post-sex mess, and glasses laying on the tip of his nose.

You take a few photos of his gaping hole, pink and clenching around nothing. You hum before scooping a generous amount of the cum-slick mixture with your fingers and feeding it to him as he lets out a small moan in his sleep. You clean him up a bit before getting dressed and cleaning up your apartment, which smelled an awful lot like strawberry candy (courtesy of a large amount of slick on your floor), and your citrusy scent.

Once done, you lay in bed next to Kun before falling asleep, holding his body close to yours.

By the time you woke up, the man was already gone.

True to your word, Kun showed up to school the next day stumbling and with a noticeable limp. He had done a good job cleaning himself though, and all remnants of sex were gone.

You giggled as Mr. Lee and numerous students approached him asking if he was okay, concern painted on their faces.

Right before the lesson began, you approached Mr. Lee as he spoke with Kun.

“I've been having trouble with this lesson, so could Mr. Qian sit with me? I've learned over our session that he's good at many things.”

Kun’s eyes widen and he nearly chokes on his spit, face growing red.

Thankfully for him, the professor doesn't seem to catch on, and now Kun is taking a seat in the back of the class with you.

The tension seems to ease as you stay silent for most of the class, but you turn to him halfway through and place a hand on his thigh.

You can already smell his scent releasing again before you lean in and whisper something into his ear.

“We’re still on for that session Wednesday, right princess?”

a/n :: decided to post this while you guys wait for first love pt.2... it’s not very good but it’s what we have for now (i literally wrote this at like 3am bc I was horny or something...) i’ve been dreaming of tutor!kun and we need more boypussy sub!idol fics !!

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iloved1lfs · 5 months

Text

FIRST ENCOUNTER

PAIRING: thomas shelby x reader

SUMMARY: Takes place in season 1 of peaky blinders, you are grace’s sister. She was hiding something from you, so you followed her to where she works, the garrison. When you run into someone Grace has been hiding you from.

WARNINGS: age-gap (reader early 20s), no smut.

A/N: It’s a fluff nothing much is going on, but I think I am going to turn this into a series, comment and let me know what you think. If I should or not.

SONG: West Coast by Lana Del Rey

In a blink of an eye everything changed, you along with your sister Grace lived in Galway for awhile. Until one day your sister put news upon you that you’ll be moving to Birmingham for some time. You left everything behind, your friends, your things, the memories. You both were starting anew, you never recieved an answer as to why you had to leave your hometown. Grace would avoid the answer to that question many times, she was always leaving the house her job, which she never talked about. Grace overall seemed extremely overprotective especially since moving to Birmingham, she would always bring up these so called “peaky blinders” what a funny name. She would tell you to do what you got to do and come straight back home not getting distracted by anything else, or don’t go out at all. Which scared you, you needed answers. A conversation wasn’t going to get you the answers you need so you had to take matters into your own hands.

You were reading a book as you sat there on the couch, Grace was gathering her purse, curious to where she was going. “Where you going?”

“Work.” She replied keeping it short, you nodded your head.

“Grace,” She looked at you. “Where do you work exactly?” She paused her movements and hesitated to answer that question.

“The Garrison.” The Garrison. You asked what that was. “It’s a really good job I help doing finances for important people, an office job.” She gave you a smile, and you returned the gesture. She came up to you placing a kiss on your forehead and hugging you.

“Stay home I won’t be out too long okay.” You nodded your head and she opens the door, but stops to turn to you. “Don’t open the door for anyone alright?” You nodded quickly shooing her away and she smiles, while shutting the door behind her, leaving you alone.

You quickly drop your book beside you on the couch, running towards the window, opening the curtain slightly. Seeing where Grace was going you waited until she was no where in sight, today was the day you’ll find out what she is hiding or at least find out where she works.

You wore a collared white shirt, with a blue skirt and a black sweater, and putting on your shoes. You stepped outside the house, the gloomy chilly weather hitting you as you stepped outside. You made your way down the steps, and made your way to where you saw Grace heading.

You got lost after a few minutes of wandering around, you had to ask someone for help. You look around and see this man with his back facing you.

“Excuse me sir?” He turned to look at you as he smoked his cigarette. “I was hoping you can tell me where the Garrison is?”

He started laughing, you were confused at his reaction. “What is a pretty lady you going to the Garrison for?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” You grew impatient, just wanting to know where the place was. “Now please can you tell me the Garrison is at before I grab that cigarette of yours and burn it against your skin.”

He puts his hands up in surrender and huffing out smoke. “You go down that street there,” he points as you look at his gestures, as he continues to give you directions.

You thank him and make your way to the Garrison. The more you kept walking you felt more out of place, there was men everywhere that were looking at you like your candy. You saw a group of men come out of a building all drunk, laughing and causing chaos. You look up from the building they came out of and in big written letters it said ‘THE GARRISON’.

You took a deep breath and made your way through the big brown doors of the Garrison. Upon walking in there were loud chatting, many men sitting down at tables drinking their hearts away. This didn’t look like an office job that Grace mentioned. There was a sea of people in the place, smelled like alcohol everywhere making you scrunch your nose. You look around and see a glimpse of blonde hair, with a red sweater, you took a few steps closer and stop in your tracks.

It was Grace, serving drinks to a couple of men who looked that if they drank anymore they would pass out. She hadn’t seen you yet since she had her back turned towards you, you clear your throat. “This doesn’t look like an office job Grace?”

She quickly turned towards the direction of your voice, and her eyes widened upon seeing you.

She excused herself from the men, and made her way towards you. She reached you looking infruriated that you didn’t listen to her. “What are you doing here?”

“Grace you’re a bloody barmaid? YOU LIED.” You said loudly, she shushed you quick pulling you away from the middle of the pub, trying to not get the attention of the men, and bringing you near the far end of the bar counter. “Are you going to explain why you lied?”

“Please, Y/n go home and I promise I will explain everything to you.” She put her hand on her temples, stressing out.

“No Grace,” You shake your head and she is shocked. “I am done being kept in the bloody dark. This clearly doesn’t look like a fucking financing job or an office doesn’t it?”

“Y/n you can’t be here there’s dangerous people here,” You scoff.

“Please Grace I’m not falling for your stupid warnings, you clearly just want me to leave.” She grabs your arm tightly and you try to pry her hand off your arm.

“Leave now.” She said sternly, trying to take you out the pub, but you kept fighting against her tries.

“No I’m not leaving until you tell me everything.” You were both causing a scene that everyone around you were now looking at you. Screaming at you two to fight.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” Everyone stopped their cheering and screaming. Grace stopped and sighed, while closing her eyes. “You need to leave now Y/n.” she whispers at you, you shake your head.

“Fuck,” She said under her breath displeasingly. You were confused at her reaction.

The sound of footsteps got closer towards your direction, and you look behind you. You saw a man who looked a few years older than you, dressed up in a nice black suit, and a newspaper boy hat. He had light blue piercing eyes, and the most intimidating stare ever, his presence seemed powerful, but overall he was quite handsome. He looked at you up and down no emotion on his face, then looked at Grace.

“Who are you?” Before you had the chance, Grace stepped beside you and he looked at her.

“My sister, she was visiting me today.” You scoff at the lie she came up with, he glanced at you at your sudden reaction.

He turns around towards everyone who was surrounding you three. “Everyone go back to what you were doing. Nothing to see here.” Everyone does as they are told, and he turns his attention back to you two standing before him.

Grace grabs your arm pulling you beside her, you shake off your arm away from her. “I hope it’s not a problem, Mr. Shelby.” He stayed silent looking at us, and shook his head.

“Just don’t cause any more ruckus in my pub Grace, it’s quite simple.” She nods her head and you scoff in disbelief. The fact that he was setting orders to your sister, you couldn’t stay quiet.

“We weren’t causing a ruckus, your people are just nosy sir.” You challenged him. Grace looked at you with wide eyes and shushed you. He looked at you amused that you dared to speak back to him.

“Excuse her, Tommy." He took out a cigarette from his pocket, and placed it on his lips. He took out his lighter from his back pocket, then lit up the cigarette, and inhaled the smoke, all while looking at you. Usually if someone talked back to him, and challenged him he would put a bullet between their head, but he found you amusing instead.

He was intimidating, his stare is intimidating it felt like you were staring not his soul, but at the same time he looked quite attractive while doing so.

Grace got called over to serve some people. “Stay here don’t leave when my shift is done we’ll go home.” You looked at her as she left, leaving you alone with Tommy.

You looked at him as he observed you, he was curious about you. His stare was so intense that you had to look else where.

“I’m Tommy Shelby,” He said and you glance at him.

“I figured,” He chuckled softly, tapping off the ashes on the bar counter with his finger.

“You’ve got quite a mouth eh?” You’ve always been more opinionated than Grace, she was more of taking everyone’s shit. However, you were the complete opposite you weren’t going to take everyone’s shit and stay silent.

“Is that a problem?”

He smoked before answering. "No woman has ever spoken to me the way you do."

"Well I'm not most women Mr. Shelby." All he did was stare at you with an amusing smile. The way his name rolled off your tongue did unexplainable things to him, he was interested in you.

"I'm guessing you haven't heard then eh?" You look at him confused at his response, before he can even manage to get a word out, Grace cuts into the conversation, with her purse on her right shoulder.

"Tommy can I get off earlier, so I can take her home, I don't want her waiting for me late at night here." Tommy stares at you and purses his lips, then nods upon Grace's request.

She thanks him and Grace grabs your arm gently leading you away, not giving him enough time to say bye to you. You both make it out of the Garrison, making your way home in deafening silence.

After minutes of walking you both made it home, and before you can go to your room, Grace speaks to you. "Why did you go against what I said?" She said calmly which was quite intimidating, and you pulled your hand away sitting on the living room couch.

"You want the truth or a made up lie dear sister?" You sarcastically smile at her, and she sighed in annoyance.

"This isn't a game Y/n." She kept her cool.

"Well then, I wanted to know the whole truth as to why I have to be locked up here as a prisoner everyday, I didn't come with you to Birmingham out of the blue just to be a fucking prisoner," She opened her mouth to speak, but you cut her off. "I wanted to see where you worked and clearly that financial job you said was a fucking lie, so, instead of lying some more tell me the fucking truth I want to know everything. Why can't I be roaming the streets like a normal person or hang out with my friends?" She stayed silent and took a seat beside you.

"I can't tell you everything, but trust me everything is in control," You rolled your eyes. "All I can tell you is that I was trying to protect you from the peaky blinders." You furrow your brows in confusion.

"The man you met, Tommy," You nodded your head. "He is part of the peaky blinders, him along with his family and a couple other people they are apart of this gang, he's the leader of the gang."

"They are dangerous people they aren't as nice as they seem, HE isn't as nice as he seems, they kill people. I was protecting you from encountering them, but now you've caught HIS attention." Your mouth has gone dry and you regretted going out today, you felt guilty for not listening to her.

"I understand that you want to protect me, but I can't be a prisoner here," She looked down at her fingers. "I won't go to the Garrison no more, but I want to be able to go out to the cinema with my friends."

she stayed silent looking at you, you sat there pleading with your face. "Fine." You smiled and gave her a huge hug, as she hugged you back slightly laughing. "Don't back on your word then."

"I promise I won't."

However, that little encounter wouldn't be the last, it was just the beginning.

Originally this was going to be a fluff one shot, but I think I'm turning it into a sequel, what do you all think? Also I just finished school so I'll be able to write the ideas, I've been having recently. Next thing I'll be publishing is this Diego lainez x reader x Sebastian Cordova one shot! Stay tuned.

#cillian murphy #lainczgf #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #fanfic #fluff #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby #x reader

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paintyoureyeswithavividmind · 8 months

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close to home | chapter seventy

plot: the reader asks Daryl for something only he can do

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,084 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd, slight description of self harm A/N: chapter 70 wtf I feel like this is way too long lol

A week later, your life was returning to normal. Your heart was still mourning over what happened, and your dreams were haunted by Beta’s face and Alpha’s voice, but when you were awake, you were okay. Siddiq gave you a stamp of approval on the baby, and with no active pregnancies, Hilltop was sending over their machine for you and Rosita to use during your pregnancies. You’d have to figure out a way to thank Alden. It should be here by the end of the week.

You visited Tora’s grave every morning for the first week you returned. Through all the trouble, you’d forgotten. And though it still stung, you were happy she wouldn’t be around for the trouble that might come. Daryl helped you fix her collar so you could wear it as a bracelet.

Daryl opted not to return to the council on the grounds that he would be too busy. Gabriel tried to get him to stay, but he refused, and you didn’t want to push him. He was still healing, too. And the threat of the Whisperers was still out there.

Your belly was still the same size, but you knew it wouldn’t be long until you popped. By the end of the month, you’d be showing. You and Rosita rooted through all the maternity clothes you could find in the community. You knew you’d be wearing Daryl’s favorite black sweater a lot.

Aaron and Daryl were set to start working on the rooms upstairs within the next few days so they could paint the walls while it was cool enough to keep the windows open. You just hoped the expired paint would be okay. Otherwise, it was discarded wallpaper from the basement storage, and you did not want that. There were two other small rooms that would become storage, but neither of them were gonna finish it unless they had to.

You could not help them because of the pregnancy, so you did what you could. The last bits of crops were ready for harvesting and storing, so you helped.

You were exhausted when you walked into your bedroom that night. You hoped the men would finish the room before you were too pregnant to get everything set up there.

Daryl followed behind you, hands on your waist. You’d all had a very late dinner because of the late harvesting, and Michonne had to carry RJ up.

You sighed as you sat at the edge of the bed. “I think I’m going to sleep all day tomorrow.”

“Ain’ gonna sleep much. Me and Aaron are gonna start the walls in the afternoon.”

You sighed again. “I’ll go sleep on Rosita’s couch.” You heard him snort as you started to change for bed.

Your back was toward Daryl as you did, and just as you were putting your shirt on, his hands wrapped around your lower waist.

“Why ya hidin’ from me? Ya never used to care ‘bout me seein’ ya?”

You closed your eyes and unwrapped his arms from around you before he could touch his stomach. “I’m just changing, silly.” He gave you a look when you turned around that told you he knew you were lying, and you bit your lip. “My stomach… the words…”

“Ya don’ gotta be embarrassed ‘bout them. Ain’ ya fault.” He told you.

“I am embarrassed. It’s disgusting what they did to me. I can’t even look in the mirror.” You pulled down your jeans and sat down, kicking them off your legs.

“Ya ain’ disgustin’.” Daryl knelt before you and put his hands on your thighs. “Ya are so beautiful, (Y/N).”

You chewed on your lip before you leaned forward to kiss him.

It had been weeks since the last time you were intimate with him. You missed it. You missed him. So you grabbed his arms and tugged him. He knew what you wanted and pushed you backward onto the bed.

“I mean it,” He whispered against your lips. “Ya know that?”

You nodded, pushed off his vest, and then worked at the buttons on his shirt. “I know you do. I just don’t see it the same way.”

He grabbed the hem of your shirt, and you grabbed his hand to stop him. “Trust me, baby girl.” Slowly, you let go and decided to trust your husband.

***

Daryl watched you with a careful eye as you handed him his crossbow. The morning held a promise of winter, and as he swung the bow over his shoulder, you zipped up his jacket.

“Don’t stay out there too long, okay? Stay close to home.” You reminded him for the hundredth time.

“‘M just huntin’, be back in a few hours to start on the room.” He reminded you for the hundredth time, too.

You nodded and grabbed him, pulling him down to kiss. “Just be careful.”

Daryl kissed you again before he left toward the gate. With the Whisperers having their territory and the communities having theirs, he wasn’t worried about crossing into their lands. Especially since Alexandria was further out.

But as he approached the gate and heard the thunder, he sighed. Hunting in the rain wasn’t easy because the animals were hiding, and he knew you’d kill him if he went out. So he turned back around and headed toward the house.

With the main harvesting done, the community had to do nothing except prepare for winter. A wood crew was consistently bringing in firewood, but Alexandria would be quiet today with the rain.

As he passed the school, he saw RJ and Judith through the windows.

When Daryl walked through the house, Dog greeted him, and he set his crossbow down on the coffee table. The house was quiet. He wasn’t sure where Michonne was, probably poking around the community, and you were supposed to be caning dry goods for the winter. But the kitchen was empty, and when he went upstairs to your shared bedroom, it was empty, too.

He paused when he heard a thud on the floor above and quickly walked up the second set of stairs. Daryl could hear someone in the bathroom, and he pushed the slightly open door further back.

“(Y/N)...”

Daryl’s mouth parted in shock as he saw the blood on the counter. His eyes traveled to your bloody hands and then up your body. The top half of your body was naked save your bra, but his eyes remained on your stomach.

“What are ya doin?” He nearly yelled, his heart panicking as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your wrist to take the knife, but you pulled away from him.

“Stop,” You said. “Don’t, Daryl.”

“Are ya crazy?” Daryl yelled, trying to get the knife, but you blocked him again.”Ya can’ do this.”

“It’s my body!” You shouted. “It’s my body. And she cut into it like it was hers. I am not going to look at myself every day for the rest of my life and see her warning.”

“I can’ let ya do this, ya know I can’. Give me the knife.” Daryl said.

You shook your head. “Nothing you do will stop this from happening. So you can either sit by my side and be with me through this, or I’ll just do it again when you aren’t here.”

Daryl sighed and looked down at your stomach. You’d already gotten through three words. His stomach turned, and he felt like he would be sick. “The baby.”

“She’s fine. I cleaned the knife, and I’m cleaning the cuts as I go,” You said, “Honey, I need to do this. I don’t care if it’s crazy. And it’s not like I have any other options to cover this up. And I know you’ll breathe easier not seeing it, too.”

“I ain’ gonna breathe easy seein’ ya all cut up like that.”

“I see your back,” You countered. “I see the scars on your back and chest every single day, and it breaks my heart each time. But it’s you, Daryl Dixon. It’s my husband. And even though I’d kill your father if he weren’t already dead, I love them because they are a part of you. Just like I know you love every single scar on me.”

His eyes glanced at your gunshot scar, the stab from years ago, and all the other scars you’d received since he met you. He hated seeing each and every single one, and it made him want to kill everyone who’d ever hurt you. He didn’t care if it was right or wrong. If they’d hurt you, he wanted them dead.

But he did love them. They made you who you were. Each scar was a test of your strength and determination. They were a storybook of everything you survived and fought through. The Governor, Terminus, the Saviors, and now the Whisperers. Each scar made you the strong, independent, capable woman he loved more than life itself.

Finally, Daryl nodded while sighing. “Okay, okay. I ain’ sayin’ ‘m happy ‘bout this, but I get it. But if ya gonna do this, we gonna do this right. Don’ need ya doin’ this by yaself and bleedin’ out.”

Daryl took the knife from you and rinsed off the blood. Then he lifted you onto the bathroom counter and used a towel to wipe up the blood. You weren’t cutting deep, but enough to change the scars. If anything, it showed him how good you were with a knife.

“You don’t have to do this, I can do it myself.”

Daryl chewed on his lip before shaking his head. “I ain’ wanna hear any jokes from ya ‘bout this later on, sayin’ I cut ya up or bullshit.”

You leaned back as you smiled, wincing slightly. “Let’s just get this done, and when this baby is out of me, I’ll let you do one of the poke-and-stick tattoos you did on your hand. Okay?”

Daryl nodded, put his hand on your waist, and then brought the knife to the following letter. “Ya sure?”

“Just do it quick.”

He hesitated for a good thirty seconds before doing what you asked. Each delicate knife swipe was torture for him, and his eyes were rimmed with tears. He couldn’t believe he let you talk him into this.

And he knew it hurt. He was trying to be as gentle as he could, cutting deep enough to change the scar only.

He finished the first line when he set the knife down and started to treat it.

“Thank you,” You whispered. Your face was red from holding your screams, and you felt sick. “Seriously Daryl. Thank you.”

“Ya my wife,” Daryl said as he finished wrapping the first line. “Better or for worse.”

***

Winter embraced Alexandria with a foot of snow a few weeks later. You passed your twenty-week mark and were showing. The bump had grown exceptionally well, and Siddiq checked on the baby once a week.

As soon as you started showing, Daryl seemed to go insane. He wouldn’t let you stand guard at the walls, he wouldn’t let you go outside, he wouldn’t let you help him and Aaron with finishing the bedroom and baby room.

You were getting sick and tired of what you couldn’t do. But you returned the favor. He couldn’t go out alone anymore. He couldn’t go to Hilltop or the Kingdom. He had to stay with you. And he had to stop smoking. You had Michonne burn all the cigarettes you could find. She even helped you look for them all.

The two of you could live with the rules since they kept you both safe, especially for the baby.

The scars on your arms were baby pink lines, and your stomach looked like it’s been swiped with Lucille, but you couldn’t make out the words anymore. You were able to look in the mirror again.

And the best part was that there was no word about the Whisperers. You weren’t sure if it was because it was winter or because you were all sticking to the boundary. All you knew was that they were gone, which helped heal some wounds, too.

***

The street was icy as you carefully walked over it. Two mugs of hot cider were in your glove-covered hands, and you followed the sound of shoveling. Michonne was with you, carrying two others.

The barn had snowed in, and you knew Daryl had been helping Aaron, Laura, and Eugene clear it. Most of the kids were out playing in the snow, so you could hear laughter from all over the community.

You smiled widely when you saw Daryl, even though you saw him an hour ago. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy hormones or because you were starting to feel safe again, but you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Gabriel, Laura,” Michonne called out.

You crossed over a particularly icy patch before finally getting to Daryl and Aaron. “Hi, boys.” You smiled.

“Thank you,” Aaron said as he grabbed the mug. “It’s freezing.”

You handed the other one to your husband. “Yeah, I know. Figured you would be cold.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a hat. “And you forgot this, old man.”

Daryl rolled his eyes and tried to duck away, but you managed to put the hat over his head anyway. Then you yanked on the puff balls hanging from either side of the hat.

“Motherin’ already and the baby ain’ even here,” Daryl grumbled.

You smiled at his grumpy attitude and wrapped an arm around his. “You guys are almost done. Anywhere else?”

“No, we got the church steps already,” Aaron said.

You nodded and looked towards where the kids were playing. “Okay, well I’m gonna check on the kids.” You leaned up to give Daryl a kiss—because you knew Aaron would tease him about it—and then left to go see to the children.

Which led to both you and Michonne being ambushed by snowballs.

#daryl x y/n #daryl dixion x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl twd #twd #daryl dixon #daryl x you

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respectthepetty · 8 months

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Old Fashion (Colored) Cupcake

It's easy to get tied up in the magic that is Old Fashion Cupcake, so it can be difficult to notice all the colors. That's right! Nozue and Togawa weren't just sharing desserts, but colors because they are color-coded boys men in love!

Flirtatious and confident Nozue is a Red Rascal, and his loyal and trustworthy subordinate Togawa is a Blue Boy.

The series begins with Nozue in blue and barred in because he is feeling gloomy and trapped by his everyday routine.

But when he goes to work, he puts on a dark red tie showing a little of his rebel side by sneaking off to smoke cigarettes and avoiding meetings about promotions, while his solid and reliable Blue Boy comes to retrieve him.

After a meeting with a client, Togawa suggests they try some desserts when Nozue laments on his current woes in the park.

And even though Nozue gets the red-colored dessert, he still feels slightly down.

Togawa recalls when they first met, Nozue, in his bright red tie, encouraged him to embrace life and enjoy time away from work, and he wants to do the same for Nozue now in his time of need.

The next day, Togawa, in a lighter blue tie, suggests they go eat some more desserts together.

And he gives his boss, who is still in a darker red tie, a bright red drink to motivate him to be regain some of his youthful passion.

When they go to the cafe, Nozue wears a bright red jacket, while Togawa wears a blue shirt because Nozue is now remembering what it feels like to look forward to life outside of work.

And as usual, he gets the red dessert.

The two continue to try a variety of (red) sweets together, and Togawa proves his Blue Boy-ness.

He plans all the outings and records all the fun by taking pictures of his crush appreciating his efforts.

And even though still dark, Nozue starts gaining red in more places like the collars of his sweaters.

To show his gratitude to Togawa, Nozue in his light pink tie, takes the ladies from the office to lunch in an effort to ask them about more dessert spots to take Togawa to since Togawa usually plans all their dessert dates. However, Togawa misunderstands the lunch, and sulks in his black tie holding his blue mug until Nozue clarifies what actually occurred.

They continue their dessert dates, with Nozue's red tie being bright, but Togawa is still in his feels, and wears a dark blue tie.

So Nozue invites himself over to Togawa's apartment to cook for Togawa in hopes that he can finally repay Togawa for all the happiness he has given to him lately. Nozue sits on Togawa's blue couch and unknowingly flirts with his underling causing Togawa to lose his cool multiple times.

After parting ways, Nozue texts Togawa, yet believes Togawa is ignoring him. However, unlike his Blue Boy who turns black when sad, Nozue pulls their two colors together the next day and pouts.

When he steps outside, he sees a couple who are color coded just like he and Togawa are (red x blue), which makes him reflect even more on how much Togawa has come to influence his life.

Togawa's presence is requested at a dinner, which Nozue initially objects to since the purpose of the dinner is basically to play as matchmaker for the single employees of the company, but Nozue also attends this time completely blending his and Togawa's color together with his purple tie.

He takes Togawa home, but after Togawa's confession of love, Nozue retreats back into his dark red tie, while Togawa wears his light blue tie since, even though he is hurt, his feelings are now out in the open.

Nozue gets asked again why he won't accept a promotion, and although he is still eating a dessert, it isn't red. Throughout the conversation, he realizes he has changed (because of his time with Togawa), and finally tells his friend that he will think about the promotion.

Later, Nozue goes out with his department in his purple tie, and drinks too much, but Togawa rescues him and sends him on his way after handing him an umbrella.

Nozue realizes that he doesn't want to be sent home. He doesn't want to retreat back to who he was. He doesn't want to be blue and isolated. He wants to be red, and he wants to be with the person who brings that out in him - Togawa!

Nozue takes the promotion, and the two start dating in the brightest versions of their ties colors.

Togawa eventually proposes to Nozue in their respective colors because although Togawa brought out Nozue's color, Nozue helped strengthen Togawa's, and this Blue Boy has always been committed to his Red Rascal.

So Togawa turns his Old Fashioned (Colored) Cupcake into his Old Fashion Husband, and they get to enjoy the sweet life, together.

#old fashion cupcake #old fashioned cupcake #togawa x nozue #the colors mean things #color coded boys in love #the color exchange #it's all in the ties #the ties that bind

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joelswritingmistress · 5 months

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You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 5

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

Dr. Miller stood on the sidewalk in front of The Library and I felt like it was some kind of death march. With each step I tried to come up with some lame excuse as to why I had followed him from the school; why I had ended up on the same street as him. Nothing that was plausible came to mind.

I had a feeling he was one of those human lie detector types. Already I felt those dark, brown eyes studying me from afar. Up close, however, they appeared much softer.

“Care for a study session at The Library? You know.. since classes are cancelled this week.” He tipped his mouth up in a half smirk, “I mean, I'm assuming you had a question for me since you followed me all this way.”

I both admired and was intimidated by his bona fide candor. The man appeared completely see-through; honest. He wasn't about to spare me his sentiment on my Tuesday night blunder that left us both standing on the chilly street corner.

“I'm sorry. I..” I didn't have a proper response. Maybe I should have just been honest - to a degree. I had wanted to solve the mystery of the black Mercedes, though that hadn't been the root cause of my trip to Woodbridge on that cold, winter evening. Still, was it right to call him out for following me Thursday night?

You don't know that he was even following you, I reminded myself. Earlier I had convinced myself of the more rational idea that it was a coincidence.

Dr. Miller was entertained. That was another transparent element to his persona. Whether he knew it or not his expressions revealed a plethora of emotion. In this case, he was having fun with the way he had me on edge. It was my own fault. He could have been mad; weirded out. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was simply amused or even flattered.

He opened the door and motioned for me to enter ahead of him into the little bar. Immediately the ethereal scent of luxury washed over me. I was hard-pressed to define exactly what that meant, though it was eminently recognizable and potent - like leather, cigar smoke and a collection of unknowns I couldn't quite pinpoint.

“This way.” Dr. Miller nodded, only passing me when my body froze in place as I took in the surroundings. Leather couches. High top tables. Dim lights. Quiet conversations among small groups, all sipping on different bourbons, scotches or other drinks. An old Dean Martin song played as background music and a line of men dressed in fine suits sat at the bar.

I looked down at my navy blue sweater that was topped over jeans and removed my hat, attempting to straighten my hair out, or style it blindly in some way. When we sat at a small table in the back corner of the place, I stared across at him as he removed his jacket and sat down.

“I'm underdressed.” It was the least of my concerns.

Dr. Miller huffed a fleeting, quiet laugh and abruptly removed the tie he had on over a white, button down shirt, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. He then proceeded to undo the top two buttons and fluffed the collar.

“Feel better?” He asked.

My bottom lip detached from my top one when his selfless act revealed a trim patch of chest hair that gave even Tim McGraw a run for his money. This man was far too suave and experienced not to know what he did to women.

“Yeah.” I was at a loss for words and I had no idea what his angle was. Not to mention I was still utterly embarrassed by the circumstances that led us to the back corner of the fancy lounge that night.

When a waitress wandered over it gave me a moment to process things - though not for long.

“What are we drinking tonight?” She asked, prompting Dr. Miller to motion to me first.

“Oh, umm..” I cleared my throat. Despite the fact that we were in a bar I hadn't thought of a drink to order. “A Manhattan on the rocks, please.”

“I'll do the same,” he said with a nod.

“Easy enough.” The woman disappeared and he folded his hands on top of the dark, wooden table as he stared across at me.

“How old are you?” The question was simple but it still took me off-guard enough to allow for a few seconds of hesitation.

“Twenty-seven.”

The next question wasn't so generic. “Are you afraid of me?”

My eyebrows raised. I had given up all control of my facial expressions. “What?” I breathed the word aloud.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Well, what is it then?”

That one was more vague. I had an idea of what he meant, though it was more of an assumption. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes you do,” he challenged. Just as hotness swelled through my cheeks he motioned to me with his first two fingers. “That.. right there. I've seen your grades, undergraduate and graduate studies. You're an intelligent woman, mostly A’s. I've looked at your social media accounts - you seem to have a relatively active social life. So, why is it that you can barely look me in the eye or even speak to me?”

Wow. He had a set of balls.

“I don't know.” I was trying to process what felt like a hundred different things at once. How did he know about my grades? Why had he looked into my social media?

“Yeah ya do,” the man repeated.

“Two Manhattans.” The waitress returned and placed our beverages down but this time Dr. Miller didn't look away as he thanked her. The moment she was more than an ear shot away he pried into my psyche even more. “Tell me why you followed me down here tonight.”

I couldn't lie to him. Not when his voice demanded the truth and his eyes pervaded my soul. I went with the most impervious truth in my laundry list of reasons as to why I had followed him.

“Thursday night,” I paused for a moment and then just blurted out what was just the tip of the virtuous iceberg. “I thought I was being followed by a black Mercedes when I left the school, so I wanted to find out-”

“You were right,” Dr. Miller casually cut me off and sipped his drink for the first time. I watched as he set it back down leaving watery fingerprints behind thanks to the perspiration on the glass.

“Excuse me?” I gave a laugh and held his gaze now.

“I followed you.”

Frightened or flattered? Frightened or flattered? What was wrong with me that I couldn't decipher how the revelation made me feel? Shouldn't I be frightened?

“You did what I hoped you would do,” he added. “Especially after the tragedy that occurred on campus.”

I was confused now. What had he hoped I would do? When I didn't ask he proceeded to elaborate on his own.

“You sensed someone was behind you and you didn't turn down the street where you live.”

“How do you know where I live?” That one I blurted out.

Yes, I was freaked out now. Still not as frightened as I should have been, but freaked out nonetheless. The drumming in my chest grew more prominent as the milliseconds passed. Yet, my eagerness to be there across the table from him still came out victorious.

“I looked you up on the campus portal.”

“Why?” I didn't know if I wanted to ask him ‘why’ or ‘how’; but ‘why’ came out first and I simply waited.

Dr. Miller noticed my shaking hand as I picked up the Manhattan. His eyes dropped and rose in less than a second, as to not acknowledge it, though it was plain as day that he observed my involuntary action.

“I'll answer that question if you answer the one I asked you. Why do you get so nervous around me?”

“You know where I live, you know all my grades and you found my social media accounts,” I said, exasperated, “And you want an answer as to why I get so nervous around you?”

“Yes.”

What the hell was wrong with him? There was definitely something wrong with him. There was something wrong with me for not getting up and leaving.

“You want the truth?” Dr. Miller went on. “I was attracted to you the second you spoke to me in that differential, submissive way that just radiates off you, I'm assuming, whenever you're in the presence of a man you perceive as dominant or powerful.”

I took another sip of my drink. My hand was beyond shaking now. It was trembling. Dr. Miller placed his hand over mine on the glass as I went to set it down so it wouldn't spill. I didn't attempt to pull away.

The warmth of his hand sent my hormones into overdrive. I discovered right then that the Molotov cocktail of lust and fear was blocking out any form of logic. I would have been a great mind for a psychology student to study being so equally frightened and aroused at the same time.

“I think you get nervous around me because you know what I could do to you.”

What did he mean by that? I swallowed hard. I couldn't giggle my way out of this the way I often did if I was nervous. My body was in a state of shock and my mind was locked down.

“Is that why you know all that stuff about me?” I needed to know. “Because you're..” I cleared my throat, not fully able to believe what he had just said. “..attracted to me.”

Even after his formal announcement on the matter I still wasn't convinced. There was that stereotypical submissive behavior he was speaking of.

“That's part of the reason,” Dr. Miller confessed, “But I also wanted to..” he pondered for a moment, the first flounder in our conversation. “I wanted to make sure you were.. okay.”

“What are you talking about?” I shook my head

“I looked up your grades and your Instagram account, which you should put on private by the way, because I wanted to know a little more about you. But I looked up your address when I learned about the murder on campus.”

My eyes squinted when he made a casual suggestion about my Instagram account. What was it to him? Why did he care whether my account was set to public or private? He wasn't my dad or my boss or my.. anything else.

“There are some seriously fucked up people out there.” He almost smirked when he said that despite all the tension but his small smile quickly faded. “And all I could think of when I found out about the girl on campus was that it could have been you.”

“You don't even know me.”

“And you don't know me, yet here we are. Two people who took turns following each other home.” He raised his glass to his lips and the amusement was back in those teddy bear eyes of his as they continued to study me.

I glanced down now at my hand that was still shaking and he reached for it again.

“Don't be afraid of me.” It was a plea and a demand rolled into one.

“I probably should be.” I closed my eyes and spoke the words because I was still too chicken shit to look him in the eye as I made my confession. “But you're right.. I get so nervous around you because..”

I fantasize about you pinning me against the wall and kissing me and...

I still couldn't get the words out. When my eyes fluttered open, Dr. Miller let me off the hook.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I could tell right away.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“To me you are.” His hand released mine and there was a wave of disappointment. “And then tonight-”

“You knew I was following you.” It was half-question, half-statement.

“I saw you in the parking lot.”

“Dr. Miller-”

“Joel,” he corrected.

“Joel.” That fit. Joel Miller. I was so smitten over this man that even his first name made me weak in the knees - after he had admitted to violating my privacy on so many levels that should have sent me running, or even reporting him to the university.

Apparently, he was confident enough to think that I wouldn't do that. And he was right. Even for knowing one another for such a short amount of time, it felt like we were on some unspoken level of understanding; some kind of eccentric, warped version of kindred spirits or something.

“Are we on the same page?” He asked now. For the first time there was just the faintest hint of concern in his voice. His hazel eyes shifted back and forth just enough to advertise his uncertainty.

“I think so.” I did think so; but I hardly knew what book we were in.

The series of events were borderline perverse. Dr. Miller had dug into my personal life when he decided I was a perfect match for his antithetical impulses. As a result he felt some kind of connection that led him to follow me home in order to make sure I was alright after the murder occurred on campus.

I hadn't been able to put a halt to my own impure thoughts about him since the moment he walked in the door of class on that first evening. Similarly, there was a dominance and a confidence in the man that was so appealing. It awakened parts of me that I hadn't even realized existed. I wanted him. In the most primal of ways I wanted him.

The fact that he had followed me on Thursday night, I decided, didn't bother me. I could tell that he wasn't bothered in the least by the fact that I had followed him.

And here I was naive enough to call myself the predator and him the prey. Dr. Miller had known all along that I was there. He just waited until the moment was right to let me know that he was, indeed, in control.

There was a silence that had drifted over us but I knew he was reading my body language; deciphering if his decision to be entirely straightforward with me was the right decision. It was - or so that was how I viewed it. The fantasy that had been the focal point of my inner monologue as of late had presented itself on the table right in front of me.

“How old are you?” I lifted my glass again, hoping this time the shake in my hand would subside. It didn't, though I took a quick sip anyway and set the glass back down.

“Forty-four,” he said right away and then added, “Maybe we should play a game of twenty questions.. get to know each other.” That little smirk highlighted his dimples and I knew I was in full swoon.

“Okay,” I agreed.

“My turn,” came his immediate reminder, “Do you like my class?”

I gave a laugh, thankful for the lighthearted question. This one was easy. “Yes. I was disappointed that classes were cancelled this week, actually.”

“So that must've been why you came down to the university.” Dr. Miller winked now without attempting to be subtle about it. “Your turn.”

“Are you married?” It was bold. My face was fifty shades of crimson; but I had to know.

After a brief swirl of the brown liquid in his glass, a smile crept on his face that reminded a bit of The Grinch combined with The Cheshire Cat. “No.”

“Have you ever been?”

“I believe it's my turn.” Dr. Miller smacked his lips after another longer sip from the Manhattan. He smiled wider now and looked me directly in my eyes. I was smiling back at him. “What's your biggest fear?”

My chest tightened just a bit at the question and I saw his fingertips clench the glass a little tighter as the sentence rolled off his tongue.

“Dying,” I answered honestly and knew it was a dark answer. He was probably expecting me to say spiders or the dark. “I'm afraid of.. being forgotten and missing out on whatever's out there for me in the future. And upsetting the people who love me.” I shrugged as if it wasn't genuinely deep thought. It was. Actually saying it aloud was intense.

Dr. Miller's smile had faded. He was staring at me with such a solemn expression that seemed to match what I was feeling inside.

I hardly wanted to change the mood and so I managed a little grin. “It's my turn, I think.” I piggybacked my former question with the one he threw back at me, “Were you ever married?”

“Yes.” He held his glass between his hands by his face like a poker player making a more thorough attempt to hide his cards. “I was about thirty. It lasted less than a year. I haven't been married since.” Dr. Miller's eyebrows rose and fell once, and I could tell he didn't care to elaborate.

I nodded, not knowing if I was crossing the line in our back-and-forth, sophomoric way to get to know each other. Again, I wasn't wholly sure but he didn't appear to mind as his turn rolled around again.

“When did your last relationship end?” He asked.

It had been a while if we were talking about formal relationships. “I've gone out on dates here and there but..” I thought for a moment, “A boyfriend.. it's been over two years.”

“Why didn't it work out?” Dr. Miller leaned forward just a bit with his elbows on the table now. I knew I could have pulled the, 'it's not your turn’ card but I answered the question honestly.

“I was bored.” It was the first time I acknowledged it aloud. “Yeah.. I.. I just got bored and rather than drag it on, I broke it off.”

“No one else has managed to cure that boredom spell huh?”

Not until now. I would have loved to have answered him in that way but I wasn't exactly about to show off my full hand of cards, either. I simply shook my head and saw the squint of his eyes as I assumed he was hoping for a more in-depth response.

I had something on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to ask. The alcohol aided in letting my guard down enough to get it out.

“What are you hiding?” I asked because I knew he was. It was more than a haunch. I could almost see the skeleton in his metaphorical closet.

Disarmed. That was the only word I could use to describe the uplift of his eyebrows, the side glance of his pupils toward the wall, the uncomfortable shift in his posture. It was the first time that night where he truly looked subdued.

There is something. I knew it.

“Hiding?” Dr. Miller tried the cool smile again but it didn't erupt on his face in that same smooth manner the way it had every single time before that. His jaw was a bit strained and he cleared his throat.

“Aren't we all hiding something?” I tried to make the question appear more playful and lighthearted.

“What are you hiding?”

“I asked you first.”

“Well, uh..” His smile was a combination of forced and genuine now. “We’ll revisit that question another time.”

“Fair enough.” Another time. Sounded good to me. I wanted there to be another time. No, I needed there to be another time.

“Are you attracted to me?” Dr. Miller asked, as if he didn't already know.

I didn't beat around the bush. We were here. The boundaries that I so naively assumed would separate us had been breached and he had already made such bold admissions. What did I have to lose by telling the truth?

“Yes.” I was leaning forward now, my hands folded in front of my glass on the table. That one elevated my heart rate and I knew I had forfeited any power when I continued to allow him to ask me questions in rapid succession.

“Did it bother you when I told you I followed you the other night?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?” He asked.

My cheeks were scorching now. “Yes.”

“Are you going to feel weird when you see me in class from now on?”

“A little.”

Dr. Miller chuckled now and I laughed with him. Wow, how the mood had changed. I think it was possible that I had experienced every emotion there was to feel over the course of our time together. It was exhilarating.

When I saw him take the last swig of his drink I wondered what that meant. Was that a wrap for the evening? Would he order another? I hoped he would. I could have sat at that bar all night with him.

Dr. Miller lanced at my drink and I hurried to take a sip of it in case he wanted to leave.

“Don't,” he said right away, “Take your time.”

“Thanks.” I let out a sigh and he stared at me for so many consecutive seconds that I was starting to think I had something on my face.

“What do you do for a living?” He finally asked.

“For now, I'm a secretary at the board of ed in the next town.”

“So, I guess I'm not the only one getting up early tomorrow.”

“Quarter-to-six.”

“Mmm..” Dr. Miller glanced down and swirled the ice in his glass.

“Can I ask you one more question?” When he gave a little nod I asked, “Did you get in the elevator with me last week on purpose? I mean.. was it just to ride with me?”

His answer shocked me. Well, the detailed version of what I assumed, by now, would be a simple ‘yes' is what left me in a heated awe.

Dr. Miller's jaw tightened again and he spoke through partially gritted teeth. “When I saw you walking toward that elevator..” His eyes closed briefly and then opened again, finding my gaze immediately. “.. it took every ounce of restraint I had in me not to grab you by the throat, pin you up against the wall and shove my hand down the front of whatever pretty panties you happened to have on that night.”

And checkmate.

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