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candy-and-writing · 4 years

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What A Triple Lutz Can Do

Dark! Bucky x Ice Skater! Reader x Dark! Steve

Summary: Steve and Bucky have found each other again, after everything they've been through. When Steve meets you at the Winter Olympics, he decides you're the perfect little doll for their plan.

Warnings: non con/dub con, stalking, drugging, kidnapping, male masturbation, pet names—kitten, oral sex (female and male), fingering, poly relationship (m/m/f), somnophilia, light bondage, more to be added as the story goes on

A/N: This is loosely based off @henchry post about Chris Evans dating an ice skater. I read it and instantly had this idea, I’ve just never posted it. I think I unintentionally used bunny by @buckybarney as inspiration in making final edits. They also helped me figure out how to make this moodboard, so thank you! Please let me know if you enjoyed this, I had a lot of fun writing this!

I am NOT responsible for your media content consumption. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and/or dark themes. By reading this work you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work posted on any third party app or website; if you are seeing this work anywhere other than tumblr and archiveofourown, it has been reposted without my permission.

Before the war, before Bucky had fallen off the train and Steve crashed into the ice, before the Avengers and before and the world made Steve Rogers harder—colder—he liked to call himself a hopeless romantic. He wanted to meet eyes with someone across a diner and feel the fireworks explode in his chest. He wanted to buy a girl flowers, he wanted to walk down the streets of Brooklyn while it was snowing with her hand warming his. He wanted to buy his girl a ring, he wanted to get married, have a family.

He thought he would get that with Peggy, but he missed his chance. When he woke up in another century, he thought for sure he would never get his happily ever after. The women today were so. . . brash. A lady was supposed to be kind, polite, and dutiful. He understood that times were different, but that shouldn't excuse the ungrateful attitudes.

Then he found Bucky again, and the crazy world he had been forced into didn't seem so hopeless anymore.

Tony had received a call from the International Olympics Committee, formally inviting the Avengers to the Winter Olympics. They were in Italy this year, Milan and Cortina. It was the first Olympic Games to be held in two cities, according to Bruce.

The committee had asked Steve to conduct the medal presentations for ice skating and hockey. They wanted Thor to carry the torch for the opening ceremony, but he was off-world and unavailable.

So here Steve was, sitting in the Mediolanum Forum venue next to Sam so he could watch the ice skating events. He figured if he was going to be giving the winners their medals, he should see why they won.

The committee had given the team access to front row seating, and that's where he was when you came out.

You were the third skater, and the first American representative, to take the ice. Your hair was pulled into a braided braid low on the side of your head with a blue flower pinned above the bun. The little dress you wore was modest—the same shade of blue that matched your flower and a sleeveless neckline that connected to a sheer fabric for sleeves and a higher neck, the little flowy skirt stopping in the middle of your thigh. Lines of little jewels dipped along your bust, beads varying in size. You had makeup on, like all the previous girls, but yours was light and glittery—save for the ruby red lipstick, but even that looked classical on you. It reminded Steve of the makeup women would wear back in the thirties.

He was so focused on you that Sam had to elbow him in the ribs to get his attention. He shut his jaw then, listening to the way your name rolled off the commentator's tongue, the syllables lining and matching each other perfectly.

You were twenty-one, and this was your first time competing in the Olympics. You've competed in other national and international tournaments, and you've done good in them if he was understanding correctly. It made an odd sense of pride swell in his chest. You were skating to Disney's Beauty and the Beast.

You moved to the middle of the rink as the announcer informed the stadium who conducted and performed your piece. You had four quads set in your routine, two in the first half and two in the second. It got quiet in the arena as you raised your arm over your head and arched your back like a ballerina. Steve counted five seconds before the music started and you spun around slowly. You started to move your body and—

Oh. Oh.

Steve was sure his jaw had dropped to the floor. The way you moved was bewitching, beautifully languid yet articulate. It was like the music moved through you, coursing through your veins as you made it entirely your own, bringing something so utterly delicate and ethereal out of the melody. You made it show in your body, in your movements.

The first of your quads were coming up, something called a quadruple lutz. Steve didn't know what it was, but when you threw your leg back and jumped, spinning in the air before landing and the crowd erupted into applause, he figured you did it correctly.

Your feet glided across the ice as you skated backward, your muscles tensing—you were preparing for your next quad. You kicked your leg back and used it as momentum to jump, spinning and landing what the commentator called a quadruple flip. The crowd cheered again.

Your expression—the raw focus and determination hiding behind your eyes—was gorgeous. Your crimson lips were parted slightly, eyelids hooded as you brought your head up. The delicate expression, the way your shoulders tensed as you jumped and spun in the air once, twice, three times before you landed gracefully on your toes had the breath leaving his lungs.

It was art. You were a work of art. So beautiful he wanted to lock you behind a glass cage and put you on display. You commanded the ice as if you controlled it, with such a degree of intricacy that Steve thought if you jumped high enough or spun fast enough you would grow wings and fly away.

You were in your element. You kicked your foot back before bringing it forward, using it to start your jump. You spun in the air and landed on one foot, your other leg spread out and leading the twirl you used to end the jump. The stadium cheered, Sam said something about a triple axel.

Steve wished the song lasted forever, wished he could watch you forever, but soon there was a flute trilling and you slowed, circling back to the center of the rink and just like that—your performance was over. The crowd exploded into cheers, throwing flowers, stuffed toys, anything they had in their pockets.

You broke into a smile, your plump lips parting and bringing out your dimples. Steve swooned as you waved to the crowd, bending to pick up a rose. Your gaze met his, and he swore he felt fireworks erupt in his chest. You smiled at him before skating off the ice, hugging a man sporting a red lightweight jacket with the USA logo embroidered on the sleeve, his dark hair slicked back. Steve watched as you smiled at him, not missing the way he stared at your ass as you turned away.

Then, suddenly, you were in first place. Your eyes went wide and you jumped up, hugging the man in the red jacket—Steve assumed he was your coach. He heard your squeal above the rest of the cheers.

Even from where he was sitting, your eyes were bright, brighter than your smile. Steve was proud of you, pride swelled in his chest as he watched you speak with a reporter. His eyes stayed glued to you as you shook hands with the reporter, your coach walking you to the locker rooms. He watched you until he couldn't anymore.

A strange desire pulled at his heart as he pulled his Stark Pad out, looking you in F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s database.

After watching your performance every other skater seemed dull, incomparable, to you. The judges must have thought so, too. You stayed in first place, winning the competition.

According to F.R.I.D.A.Y, you grew up in Chicago, but you moved to Manhattan for college. You got a new coach, Adrian Tucker, who was a gold and silver medalist back in the nineties. You're a junior at NYU, majoring in Art History. You have an Instagram, some sort of social media Peter had been trying to convince him to get, and Steve created an account immediately just to follow you. You had pictures of yourself, of friends, of the rink, even a pair of ballet shoes.

So you did ballet, good to know.

The award ceremony couldn't come soon enough. The idea of being closer to you sent butterflies fluttering through his stomach. Ever since he had gotten him back, Steve and Bucky have been talking about settling down—creating a life with a girl and starting a family. But they haven't found the right partner, but maybe. . . ?

When he stood in front of you, he swore he almost stopped breathing. You were gorgeous. Your hair had been taken out of the bun, cascading down your shoulders in loose waves. Your makeup was still done the same, but he noticed light freckles dotting along the bridge of your nose. Your eyes sparkled up at him—good God, you barely stood past his chest—your painted lips parted in a smile as you took him in. He placed the gold medal around your neck, congratulating you. You whispered a small, "thank you, Captain," and Steve felt a spark of electricity jolt down his groin.

Your voice was light, melodic, quiet. You were respectful, something he valued in people, in women. He could almost imagine you posed as the perfect housewife. With the perfect husband—or husbands—with the white picket fence, the kids. He could imagine your belly swollen, the little children running around calling you 'mama'. You were young, right at that age where women would start becoming wives and mothers back in his day. The thought only made his cock harder as he watched you on the platform, waving to the audience with the biggest smile on your face.

As he sat back down next to Sam, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He pulled up Bucky's contact and sent him a picture from your Instagram.

'I think I found her,' he typed.

Bucky remembered the first time he realized he was in love with Steve—he was sixteen. He had danced around with plenty of girls already but none of them ever really seemed to stick. He had saved up enough money to spend Steve's birthday at Coney Island, that was the day he made Steve ride the Cyclone, back when he was still skinny. He had bought Steve a hotdog, which a pelican attacked him over. Bucky was crying from laughter, face red and stomach aching, when he looked over at Steve. Something just clicked then.

The past couple of months, Steve and Bucky had been making plans to add a third partner into life. After all this time, fighting Nazis and being mind-controlled and saving the universe time and time again, they both agreed they deserved it—that they deserved a family. They had both been selfless for so long, was it so wrong to want someone to be selfless for them? To want someone soft that could share their love?

Steve and Bucky were great together—the love of each other's lives, in fact—but they shared an overwhelming need to dominate, to control. On and off the field. When they fucked they were ruthless, full of scraping nails and biting teeth. Fingertips that left bruises that lasted for days. They needed someone else, someone they could focus that control on, someone who could take them so gently and lovingly, a way they rarely took each other.

Then he got Steve's text. You were young, and it wasn't hard to find out almost everything he needed to know about you. Steve helped him use F.R.I.D.A.Y to figure out where you live—a small apartment that was close to your college campus. You could walk to class if the weather permitted it. It also wasn't too far from the ice rink you trained at. It was easy for Bucky to find a building across from your suite where they could watch you. You liked to keep your window open, let the sunlight in.

They took turns sitting on the roof of the neighboring building, looking through a pair of binoculars. They would watch you for hours—watch you do simple things like reading. That was Bucky's favorite, the way your lips moved ever so slightly as you read the words on the page. You enjoyed reading horror novels—Steven King, Mary Downing Hahn, an author named Chuck Palahnuik. A worn copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sat on your bookshelf. At first glance, Bucky never would have pegged you as a horror kind of girl, you were too sweet and too timid. As he continued to watch you through the cameras Steve had him install, though, he saw that you very much liked psychological thrillers. You would watch a show on YouTube about true crime and haunted locations, a couple of amateurs who didn't quite know what they were doing. They were funny, though. Steve and Bucky would watch you laugh as you stared at your phone, smiling to yourself.

You trained at a ballet studio in lower Manhattan, worked out at a gym a block away from that. They were quick to memorize your routine once they started. You'd wake up at five-thirty every morning and make yourself some breakfast. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday's you hit the gym and the studio; you'd go to whatever classes you had that day, grab a coffee at the campus cafe, then head to the skating rink for two hours. Two and a half hours max. You went home, studied, and then you were left to your own devices. Sometimes you read, sometimes you baked and God, Bucky almost couldn't stop drooling at the thought of tasting your cooking. You'd watch television in your small living room and be in bed no later than eleven o'clock every night to start your day again.

One Monday morning, Steve and had followed you to the gym. They'd been doing that the last few weeks. At first, Steve reasoned it was so they could watch over you, in case you got into some trouble. Some mornings they planned on running into you on the sidewalk, pretending it was an accident—there was a flower cart along your route you liked to stop and admire, sometimes buying a bouquet of daisies for your little bachelor pad—but the timing never seemed right. Steve was never wearing the right shirt, or Bucky's hair was always a mess from the wind.

You took a cab, which Steve followed a couple of cars behind on his motorcycle. The air was brisk, the first signs of spring coming into the city. Some of the trees had started growing their leaves again, vibrant greens against the grey winter sky. He parked his bike underneath a plotted tree that had just started to turn, the tips of the leaves a bright green as blossoms began to bloom, pastel pinks against vibrant greens with petals blowing in the wind. He bought a newspaper from a vendor a couple of stores down and sat on a nearby bench, catching up with the world as he counted down the minutes. You would be in there for an hour and fifteen minutes almost exactly.

Steve almost couldn't sit still. He was itching to get his hands on you, to feel you. He and Bucky have been watching you for a long time now, waiting for the right moment to get their hands on you. Steve was growing impatient.

At forty-five minutes, his eyes began to flick up at the building every few minutes. He knew it wasn't time yet, but there was always a chance you got done early.

At an hour, his gaze hovered just above the paper. Ten more minutes, he told himself.

At an hour and twelve minutes, you emerged. Steve watched as you hugged your coat to your chest and began walking. The studio you danced at was only a block away, so you wouldn't have to be out in the cold for long. Still, Steve couldn't help but chastise you for not wearing something warmer. All you had on were a pair of thin leggings—that hugged your ass beautifully, he might add—and a compression tank top under your lightweight sweater.

Steve rushed to his bike, folding the newspaper in his hand and revving up the engine. He drove down the block, parking in front of a cafe across from the ballet studio. He watched you enter the studio and sat at a table, ordering a cup of coffee. He saw you through the floor-to-ceiling windows, your let stretched up over your head. He reached for his sketchbook and pencil, laying it out on the table before him.

The night of the Olympics, the first time after Steve had seen you, he stayed up all night drawing you. He found a video of your performance on the internet, watching it on repeat as he drew you in different positions. The first sketch he did was of you with your arm over your head, just before you started skating. He found he loved drawing the shape of your lips, so the next sketch was a portrait of your face. Your long lashes were hooded, eyes downcast and your lips parted slightly as the pencil scratched against the paper, your plump lips etched in charcoal. The expression Steve caught you in was oddly ethereal, the kind of innocence that Steve found absolutely breathtaking.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Steve sighed, pulling the device out of his jeans. Cursing, he reread the message Sam sent, looking back up across the street. You were still in front of the window, leg propped up on a bar with your upper body reaching for your foot. He sighed, closing his sketchbook as he stomped toward his bike.

Steve and Bucky trudged back into the Compound, exhausted and irritated. Not only have they been unable to see you for a week and a half, forced to watch you through the cameras hidden throughout your apartment, but the mission had been a complete bust. They had been sent away to Northern Peru, where Fury had given them intel about a group of HYDRA smugglers shipping illegal weapons into the country. Unfortunately, Steve and Bucky spent twelve days in a cramped, boiling building across from the target's warehouse and managed to find nothing before Fury called them back.

Steve was sweaty, Bucky hadn't taken a shower in a week, and they missed you. Bucky wanted to touch you, he wanted to kiss you until you were breathless. He watched you on his phone when he could, often opting to watch the camera feed than to sleep.

Once they were in their suite, Steve stripped his uniform off, leaving it in a heap on the floor to pick up later. Right now he just wanted to feel clean. He turned the shower on and peeled his boxers off as Bucky undressed, Steve stepping below the showerhead. The warm water felt nice against his taut muscles, his shoulders relaxing under the water pressure. He watched the dirt and grime from the mission get washed away, down the drain in muddy-grey color.

As he massaged shampoo through his hair, his thoughts wandered back to you, fingers itching to run against your skin. The way your lips always looked so soft, how utterly delicious you would look with them wrapped around his cock. The sweet little noises you would make as he forced himself down your throat—you were so small, it wouldn't take much to make you choke on him.

Steve groaned as his fist wrapped around his length. Almost two weeks without imagining you on your knees, imagining your mouth on him and he was oh so sensitive. He cursed, running his thumb over his slit. He pictured your tongue dragging against his girth, your wrecked expression as you struggled to take him deeper, as Bucky struggled to fit himself in behind you. He fisted himself faster, gasping out your name.

"Yeah, baby," he mumbled to himself. "Just like that. Fuck."

He could only imagine how beautiful you would look when you came. Your skin sweaty, hips bucking, your innocent little eyes rolling to the back of your head as you squealed. Oh, you were definitely a squealer. They would make you cum over and over and—

He bit back a moan as he came, hot white spurts coating his stomach as he slowed his movements, nerves on fire. He sighed, rinsing himself off before he turned the water off. He was still hard, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get himself off.

The tips of his fingers buzzed as he redressed himself and Bucky hopped in the shower. Steve didn't know if it was the stress of the mission or the adrenaline you gave him, but he couldn't wait anymore. He didn't have the patience to wait anymore.

He was watching the camera feeds in your apartment when Bucky came out of the bathroom. All it took was one look from Steve—they already had it all planned out, they just had to put it into motion.

You struggled to unlock your door, twisting the key in the lock a few times, cursing as you pushed your shoulder against the door, stumbling as the door swung open. You managed to catch yourself before knocking over your vase of daisies, straightening as you waited for your world to stop spinning.

You knew it had been a bad idea when you agreed to go out tonight. You're such a lightweight and after just three shots and half a glass of wine, you're going to have a killer hangover in the morning. God, and it's three a.m. But Annie had begged you to come with them. You haven't hung out with her in so long, you were desperate to see her again. You just wished she hadn't dragged you out to a bar.

You dropped your handbag on your little dining room table, opening the refrigerator to pour yourself a glass of orange juice. You drank half the glass in a couple of gulps, letting out a sigh as you set the glass down. As you moved to pull your phone out of your purse, you heard the floorboards creak, like someone was taking a step.

You froze, looking down the hall. The boards in your bedroom creak like that when you step down on a certain spot, but you've been in the apartment long enough to learn where it is exactly and step around it.

As quietly as you could, you made your way down the hall, checking the bathroom. You've seen enough horror movies in your life to know never to close the shower curtain when you weren't using it, so with a quick glance you knew the room was empty.

Your bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door cracked open. You walked in, carefully looking around. Your closet door was open, the windows were closed, you turned and looked towards your dresser mirror and—

You saw the figure behind you before you could react. Your eyes went wide, their hand coming up to cover your mouth before you could muster a scream. Your hands flew up to the hand, legs kicking out as the intruder dragged you out of your bedroom. You screamed into the hand, thrashing as you felt a sharp prick in your neck.

"It's alright," they cooed. "Shhh, it's okay, doll. You're just gonna go to sleep for a little while, okay?"

You shook your head frantically, tears streaming down your face as you felt your body getting tired. You blinked furiously, trying to fight the sleepy feeling. Your muscles felt like dead weight, you stopped kicking your feet as your grip on the man's cold hand went slack.

"That's a good girl," he crooned. "Just relax, kitten. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. Your vision blurred, and then everything went black.

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venilegiamavi · 5 years

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Travis Miller moodboard from xSnickerss Wattpad stories Rebel One/Trained One

Also, we were talking about it, so I accidentally wrote more. I haven't edited this because I am lazy also, I included part 1 of my AU for those who haven't read it.

“Travis? Hey, Travis!”

“Hm?” I slowed the drumming of my hands against the lunchroom table and glanced over at Allen, one of my teammates. His eyes shifted past me and he continued, “Is it just me, or has that creepy new girl been stalking us?”

I rolled my eyes, “Creepy? She’s not creepy,” I glanced around the room until my eyes met hers. She was biting her lower lip with creased brows as she stared directly into my eyes. I gave her a wolfish grin, “She’s hot.”

The girl’s blue eyes bore into mine as she brushed her hair from her face. She wasn’t far from our table, probably close enough to hear us even, but who gives a fuck. The hot girl had transferred here a few weeks ago.

“She can be both.” Allen reminded me, then he leaned forward and whispered to me, “That Lacey girl is silent. She has been here for three weeks and she never speaks to anyone, she wears nothing but black, and she doesn’t make a sound when she walks. Can we get ready for class,” his voice was almost inaudible as he hissed, “before she cuts us down with her scythe and sends us to hell?”

“She’s not the grim reaper.” I reminded him, finally breaking eye contact with the hot girl- no, Lacey. That’s what Allen had called her.

“She could be.” He insisted.

“Ugh, I am so tired of this fucking city. I can’t wait until we graduate so I can get the fuck out of here.” I groaned, and Allen just rolled his eyes, “Yeah, right. Your mom won’t even let you go anywhere for our tournaments. You think that she is magically going to allow you to leave when you graduate?”

I ignored him, eying the fire alarm, “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

Allen followed my gaze and his eyes widened.

I tried not to grin as we followed the pack of students out of the building. Allen was in front of me, and he had finally stopped complaining about my ‘rule breaking’ and ‘issue with authority’. Whatever. I reached the bottom of the stairs, still rolling my eyes at the back of Allen’s head, when something covered my mouth. I could hear my own muffled yelp, but Allen continued walking, completely oblivious as the alarm loudly continued. Behind me, I could feel the soft body of a woman press up against my back, just as I began to wonder if I could just break free, I felt nails scape against my scalp as she grabbed a handful of my hair. I winced as she tugged sharply on my curls as she dragged me underneath the stairs.

She shoved me against the wall, and I grimaced at how cold it was against my face and chest. I still couldn't see her, and I realized that I couldn’t hear her breathing or moving; all I could hear was my own heart, thundering in my chest. It was a familiar rush of adrenaline that I often got during tournaments when our team got to host at our school. I swallowed hard, trying to calm myself down.

“Shhh, shh, shh.” The voice calmly whispered to me in a similar tone that most would whisper to a frightened pet. I glowered at the grey wall in front of my eyes and tried to stop tapping my fingers on my thighs. I gave an experimental lean into her hands, trying to shift away from the wall a bit, but the hand in my hair yanked back even farther and I hissed in pain before relaxing and letting her hold me tightly against the wall. She was still pressed up against me. Her body felt small and lithe, and I tried to stop thinking about it. Think about anything else or this was going to be embarrassing, I willed myself. The doors clicked closed, and there was a beat before her grip slowly loosened, and she stepped back a bit to give me some room to turn around.

“Sorry,” Lacey began, removing herself from my personal space. Too bad, I mused. “I wanted to talk.”

I raised my eyebrows as I looked down at her, “Have you considered just passing me a note in class?”

She pinched her blonde brows together slightly as she pursed her lips, and after a moment she whispered in an almost nervous voice, “Isn’t that against the rules?”

Damn, she was cute. I tried to focus, “Well, yeah,” I shrugged, “but so is kidnapping someone during a fire and murdering them.”

Lacey’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief as she smirked, “I saw you pull the fire alarm.”

“So, you’re not going to deny murdering me?” I could feel myself leaning in towards her as I returned her smirk. Lacey crossed her arms, but her voice was still playful, “Is there a reason that I should murder you?”

I couldn’t help it. My eyes wandered down her body. She was shorter than me, very slight, with blonde straight hair and blue eyes. She moved like water. Fluidly, graceful, and with a confidence that her voice didn’t seem to match.

“I am not going to murder you.” She reassured seriously, and I wondered for a moment if she had realized that I was joking, but she continued before I could reply, “I want to talk to you. After school. When the fire alarm isn’t incessantly screaming. Ditch your accessory.”

“Who, Allen?”

“Sure.” She shrugged, disinterested.

I nodded, more confused than anything else.

“Good.” She nodded, and then turned and left the school, leaving me leaning on the wall underneath the stairs, trying to figure out what had just happened.

I was even more antsy for the rest of the day, Allen had been confused about why I had changed my mind about skipping school, and even moreso when. I declined when he offered me a ride home, but I waved him off.

She was nowhere outside, so I decided that I would wait. Leaning across a bench, I propped my legs up on one side and pulled out my phone. There were a few texts from my mother. One from my step brother, and one from Allen about practice tomorrow. I had answered the first two, when I glanced up over my phone, I jumped- Lacey was sitting on the back of the bench with her legs neatly crossed, just barely perching her feet on the bench not touching me.

She looked down at me, frowning, and shrugged, “How was your day?”

I paused before slowly urging my heart rate back down, “Fine, I guess. How was yours?”

She shrugged and stared into the distance. A few moments passed, and I restlessly jiggled one of my legs on the bench, “so,” I said, “any particular reason for the impromptu chat? Not that I am not enjoying it, just, you know, was a bit of a surprise.”

Lacey chewed on her lower lip for a moment before she looked me in the eyes, “I think we should date.”

What? I stared at her, but she didn't add anything to her statement, which made me throw my hands above my head as I asked, “Date? Do you even know anything about me?”

Lacey, apparently unbothered by my reaction, curved her lips into a smirk and said, “Travis Miller. You were raised locally, moved here with your mother at a young age when she settled down with your step father, you have a younger brother Nate who also attends school here. You joined the school paintball team last year and are considered a natural, and you like to make sure people know that. You spend almost all of your spare time with your team or friends. You are relatively popular and well liked here. You also,” she added, putting a hand on my leg to still it’s jiggling, “make a lot of noise and can never sit still.”

I stared at her, stunned into silence for once, and she raised her brows, tilting her hear curiously, “Did I get anything wrong?”

Snapping out of it, I drummed my hands nervously at my sides, “Oh, uh, well, no. All right. So, do you know everything about everyone? Or just me?”

Lacey's smile grew a bit, and a bit of a chill passed through me. After a moment, she admitted, “I don't really, you know, fit in.”

I raised my eyebrows, and she ignored me, “I’m not very good and making friends and socializing. People skills are not necessarily my thing.”

I could see that. Resisting the urge to be rude, I nodded. She continued, “So, if we are dating, then you can teach me. That way, I will be able to fit in better.”

Carefully, I shifted my legs to get up off of the bench without disturbing her, and I stood. Frowning at her for a moment before I paced back and forth and thinking it out. I balanced my options. On one hand, she was drop dead gorgeous, and it could be fun. On the other hand, she seemed like a crazy stalker.

Hating myself a little bit, I hesitated, “What’s in it for me?”

#xsnickerss #wattpad #rebel one #trained one #jschristine #mine #but mostly hers #i am just playing

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