#golf shirts for tall men

[upsidedownwithsteve]

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

[babygorewhore]

Prey

Rafe Cameron x Fem reader

Part one

Part two

After moving to the Outer banks to stay with your cousin, John B after your parents death, you catch the eye of Kooks. After being invited to one of his parties as part of a bet, you realize that Rafe Cameron has decided to make you his. Even if that means he’s going to stalk you.

W.C over 3k

Thank you so much to @take-everything-you-can and @reidsbtch for beta reading!!

Warnings! FemReader is alternative and introverted! Parental death! Bullying! Implications of stalking and flashing! Reader is slightly naive and easily manipulated at first. No use of y/n. No smut in this part but it’s definitely going to be in part two and I’m crazy. Concept inspired by @sadfury and Haunting Adeline by H.D Carlton. Events after season two but altered because I said so.

John B let you settle into your new room as you slightly grimaced. This was the last thing you ever expected, moving here away from home. But after the death of your parents, you weren’t able to live alone, you didn’t have a choice. He was the only family you had left.

You couldn’t be more different. He was used to the beach life, a Pouge as he educated you on the drive here after you arrived. He was sunshine, tan and light colored clothes. Sandals and shorts.

You on the other hand were an all black wearing, band shirts, dark makeup and tall boots that gave you at least four inches. You stood out like a sore thumb.

It was hard to adjust to the passing of your parents after the sudden car accident. It couldn’t be more cliche.

If you weren’t in your room crying, you were usually scrolling aimlessly on social media looking at your photos of them.

Shy wasn’t the exact word to describe you, introverted was a better description and you completely dreaded the next day because John B was determined to show you around and introduce you to his girlfriend and friends. You tried to smile, practicing in the mirror but it looked painfully fake.

The weather was just as hot as John B mentioned. You were wearing a band t shirt, black shorts and he tried to convince you to wear flip flops but you kept on your converse shoes. The beach was crowded much to your distain and you desperately wished you brought an umbrella.

This part of the beach had a golf course not far away and you had never played golf a day in your life. You stuck to solitary hobbies.

“You sure you’re not gonna get too hot in that? I can buy you a swimsuit.” John B nudged you with his elbow and you shook your head.

“No, thanks. I’d rather wear something I’m comfortable in.” You forcefully smiled as you shield your eyes from the sun rays.

“So, uh. We have a library in town, a few shops nearby. We have a pretty good restaurant Kie’s parent’s own. I know you remember some-unless you want to be alone.”

“I think that’s good right now.” You confessed as you both settled your towels on a spot on the beach. The waves crashed and it was a soothing sound you didn’t expect.

“Wow, it’s so beautiful.” You nodded.

John B smiled. “I’ll take it.”

You laid down on the towel, gingerly moving off any sand that flicked onto your calves. You did bring a book you were determined to finish when John B growled. “Fucking prick.”

“Why so hostile?” You questioned, you never saw him angry. John b crossed his arms and pointed behind you.

You turned, twisting your back to see two men at the golf course. You squinted but you could tell one of them was pointing in your direction. They were both blonde, dressed in preppy light clothing while holding golf clubs. They looked rich.

“Who are they?”

“Kooks. The worst of them. That one is Topper, he’s Sarah’s ex boyfriend and the taller one is Rafe. Her insane brother who beat the shit out of me, Pope and JJ.” You scowled and turned around.

“Kooks are the…?”

“Slang for the rich people. You and I are the Pouges.”

A few minutes later, his friends joined you. They were nice, really nice and outgoing. You stayed mostly quiet, watching the interactions and the way they swam in the water. Kie stayed with you the longest, consistent in her question if you needed anything or wanted to join them. You declined each time. Needing alone time after the long trip and new environment.

You sighed, having enough of uncomfortable sun bathing and decided to get a drink. You still had some cash and it wouldn’t kill it to just buy a soda. You walked to a shack, quickly wiping off your shoes of all sand.

You started towards the counter, grateful there wasn’t a line when a a blonde male moved around and stepped in front of you. He was the same man who was pointing at you and John B. The friend of this infamous Rafe.

“Hi, you must be John B’s cousin.” You remembered his name. Topper. He stuck out his hand and you folded your arms.

“Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“Everyone’s heard about you, John B wanted to brag and Sarah couldn’t wait to meet you.” You internally winced at the not so subtle anger in his voice.

“Right, yeah.” You told him your name and started to step around him. “I’m just here to buy a drink.”

“Oh, let me,”

“No, really I’m fine-“ You both stood at the counter.

“I insist.” Topper paid for your soda and you wanted this interaction to be over.

“I’m not trying to be rude, but is there something you wanted?” You held the bottle protectively as he smirked.

“Sorry, I’ll get to the point. But I noticed how you were talking to the gang John b is friends with. And I wanted to see if you’d let a couple of Kooks let you show you around. You’ll actually get to see the island.”

Your hackles raised immediately and he sensed it.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna do anything. I just wanted to be nice. If you don’t want a tour, Rafe is throwing a party tonight. I wanted to invite you.” You raised an eyebrow and scoffed.

“No offense Topper but John B told me that Kooks wanted nothing to do with Pouges and how much you both hated him. Why would you be nice to me?”

To your dismay, he stepped closer. “Just because you’re John B’s cousin doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. And you don’t seem like you want to stay on the beach all day. Come on, maybe you’ll have a good time?”

You wanted to scream hell no, but something in your chest secretly wanted to get away, get a distraction for why you left home and John B unintentionally reminded you of your loss.

“I’ll-I’ll think about it.” Tooper smiled triumphantly and quickly wrote down on a napkin his number.

“Here. I really hope you come. And I can pick you up if you want.”

You gulped the bottle of coke and made your way back to the beach. After a few more hours of roasting underneath the sun, the invitation felt more and more appealing. The air conditioning didn’t work at John B’s house even though he was trying to fix it. And would one night really be so bad to let loose with a bunch of rich kids?

When you asked John b to drive you home, he kept asking you if you’d be okay alone and you firmly said yes. You left out the information of a party and Topper as you scrambled to find something to wear. Everything you had was black. Well. At least mostly everything.

You owned a pair of sparkly, silver high heels that you got as a birthday present two years ago for your twenty first and you hadn’t gotten a chance to wear them. Biting your lip, you slipped on a black dress that was mid thigh height, ruffles at the bottom of the skirt and it was a v neck exposing your bust.

Your hair was messy from the bun it was in all day so you braided it in two. Quickly slapping on makeup, you pulled out your phone and texted Toppers number.

“Is the offer still on the table?”

He responded almost immediately. “Of course! I’ll be there in twenty”

True to his word, he was there in twenty and you inhaled. You could do this. You could go to one party.

The ride was…okay. He talked to you about the landmarks and talked about who would be there. His friends since childhood and of course…he talked about Rafe. How great he was. How rich he was. How he took over his parents empire after his father’s death and he ran it alone. You withheld comments about being handed down rich lively hood as you kept quiet.

You dreaded if he made any advances towards you but he never did. He was ever the gentlemen when he parked in the driveway of the massive penthouse. Booming with music, you saw people dancing through the bare windows and the balcony.

You couldn’t believe you were here. John B probably wouldn’t assume you were out of your room and besides. You were a grown woman capable of your own decisions.

“Let’s go,” Topper opened the door for you and you followed him inside. It was crowded. More than any party you’d been too.

Several people turned and stared at you, you couldn’t tell if it was judgement or curiosity. You clutched your small bag where your phone was closer. You could call John B anytime, despite his probable anger.

“Can I get you a drink? I can introduce you to some people.”

“Sure, thanks.” You wanted to scream for him not to leave you alone but you stayed strong and drifted to a corner.

God, now you were having regrets as the music turned up and people started cheering. Topper was taking longer than expected and you decided to be brave. Fuck it. You moved from your place and wandered around. Your heels clicking over the wooden floors.

The kitchen was almost filled to the brim with people, several sitting on the island and girls immediately turned towards you and paused mid conversation. Topper held two cups as he talked to Kelce.

“Oh, hey! I was just about to find you.” Uneasiness settled in your chest as you took the red cup. “It’s okay. I just-.i feel a little awkward.” You whispered.

“Come on, I wanna introduce you to the man of the hour.”

You started gulping the alcohol to try and suppress your nerves as you both climbed the stairs to another lounge area with dark lights. People were doing lines, slurring from drunkenness and making out. Basically fucking as your eyes narrowed on Rafe.

Up close, he was fucking hot. Sharp jawline, blonde hair that was separated with bangs and crystal clear blue eyes that were currently focused on a girl straddling his lap.

They were tongues and teeth making you feel even more uncomfortable and another emotion hit you. You tried to shove it away, but his fitted light pants around his muscular thighs, t shirt that exposed his defined arms and large hands…thick fingers gripped her ass.

Oh god, you were fucking jealous over a man you hadn’t even talked too.

“Hey, man. Hate to interrupt, but this is the new girl.” You tried not to bite your lip and smear your lipstick as he pulled away from her.

His light eyes swept over you, pausing longer on your tits, hips and exposed legs. He gave you a nod before a small smirk slid towards Topper. “Get off,” he lifted the poor girl off and plopped her on the couch to her distain.

Your core tightened in anticipation as he drew closer. He couldn’t be more opposite. In clothes. In height. In status. He oozed power, money and sex. With a little danger.

“Mmm. Yeah. I saw you today with John B. Didn’t expect him with Tim Burton.”

You cleared your throat, offense rising but you tried to remember you were in his house and yelling at him probably wasn’t the best idea given he could crush you. You started to extend your hand but he turned.

“Hey, get your asses to the pool! Im tired of being up here!” He called out and everyone started moving quickly. His commands obeyed without question as he jerked his hand to point them downstairs.

“Oh, I don’t have a swimsuit with me-“

“You live on the beach. But you didn’t bring one, Tim Burton?” Rafe challenged, looking down at you with a hazed look. You couldn’t tell if it was dislike or anger.

Why would he invite you if he didn’t like you?

“Come on,” Topper gestured with his head for you to follow him.

The pool was lit from under the water where several half naked people were playing chicken, kissing and smoking. You didn’t exactly mind the scene but it was entirely out of your comfort zone. Your heels caught a puddle on the concrete and arms caught you.

You inhaled sharply, thinking for a second it was Rafe but you saw him sitting on a lounge chair with the same girl perched on his thigh. She was beautiful except for the death glare she was giving you. You turned around to see your savior. It was Kelce who gave you a smirk before you were launched over his shoulder.

You screamed, “What the FUCK?!” And then you saw Topper briefly before you sailed into the cold pool. The water stung your eyes as you flailed from the weight of your shoes and panic. You clasped onto the side and pulled yourself up.

Everyone was laughing. Even recording you.

Your chest burst with embarrassment, anger and utter heartbreak as you knew how stupid you were for believing this was a kind invitation.

You wiped your face as you got your bearings and black liner, lipstick and foundation smeared all over your hand. “Fucking shit.”

You went to climb up but you slipped again, causing more laughter.

You remembered your phone, oh god your phone. No, your purse was still held by Kelce. You let your anger heave you over and you crawled up, shakily standing before you yanked your heels off. Everyone was still laughing and recording but you locked eyes on Rafe himself.

He wasn’t laughing. But his eyes held a hint of amusement and the corner of his mouth was tilted up.

You wanted to run. Cry and scream. That’s exactly what they expected. Instead, you marched towards him, shoving people out of your way as you stepped in front of him and the girl.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You growled, pointing a dripping finger. “Is this your idea of some kind of joke?”

He shrugged. “It looks like I won five thousand dollars. Top didn’t think you’d actually come. I said you couldn’t resist some attention, Tim Burton.” He parted his legs further as he got comfortable.

You were seething but you were also petty. So you took the bottom of your dress, not caring if it exposed your black panties underneath around the crotch as his blue eyes immediately dipped down to the area. You flapped the skirt. Splashing water right in their faces. And when he stood up, the girl followed suit, you slapped him.

Hard but he hardly moved an inch as he chuckled darkly and took a small step forward. The water dripped from his brow and landed on the ground.

“Fuck. You.” You hissed. You turned around and flipped everyone off before he could get a chance to tell you off.

You stormed away, bursting through the house, ignoring the cat calls as you shoved open the front door. You didn’t have a car and it was late. You had ripped your purse away from Kelce and checked your phone. John B was calling you.

You answered. “Hello?”

“Oh my god, are you okay? I’ve been calling for an hour, where did you go?” He sounded worried and you winced.

“Um. Can you pick me up?”

“Yeah, of course. Where are you?” You cringed at his question but you had no choice.

“I’m at Rafe Cameron’s house.”

To say John B was angry was an understatement as you were sitting like a scolded child in his living room. You were still soaked like a wet cat as he rummaged to find a towel.

“I can’t believe you fell for it! I told you about those assholes. You can never trust them. Why did you even go?”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child!” You finally snapped, standing. “I made a mistake. Can we just let it go?”

“Let it go? Rafe Cameron is a monster and you were made as an example for Pouges and now he has more ammo. He’s never going to leave it alone. And you may never-“

“What? Show my face? Be accepted? Guess what, John B, I’m already fucking USED to it. And maybe I just wanted a distraction from what happened. For once, I just wanted to let loose. Obviously, I fucked up. I’m going to bed.” You ground out and moved toward your bedroom.

“Wait, I’m sorry-“ But you slammed the door and locked it.

You were too upset to even shower as you yanked off your dress, underwear and shoved on an oversized t shirt, put your hair up and flopped onto the mattress.

Now, the tears started as you looked on social media.

Somehow they found your account and tagged you in dozens of videos of the incident. Horribly mean comments underneath caused you to cry harder. You never should have gone.

You hugged your pillow, about to close your phone and throw it, when a text came through. You didn’t recognize the number but hair raised on your arm as you read the words.

“Maybe if you did more than flash your panties, I would make them take them down.”

You sat up immediately. Now this, this had to be a joke. Rafe Cameron was texting you.

“Go. Fuck yourself. And don’t text me. I’m blocking you.”

“Do you really think this is my only phone number, Tim Burton?”

Your mouth parted. He was right but you thought of another tactic.

“Fine. I’ll change mine tomorrow.”

“Good luck. I’ll find out what it is.“ You clenched your jaw. Half a mind to call and scream at him.

“Leave me alone.”

The reply came almost immediately.

“I make the rules here, princess. Not you.”

You then pressed the call button. It rang once, twice, three times. “Pick up, asshole.” You grunted.

Finally, it stopped ringing and you heard silence. “I know you’re there, douchebag. Don’t text me anymore and don’t fucking call me princess.”

“Are you still trying to have control, princess?” You had to breathe deeply so you wouldn’t wake the neighbors with your yelling.

“What are you doing, Cameron? Why are you talking to me? After what you did? After hurting me like that? Is this some sort of sick game? Well, I’m not playing it. Stay the fuck away from me, you son. Of. A. Bitch.”

“I would be very careful how you talk to me, little girl. What makes you think this wasn’t what I wanted? You. All to myself.”

Fear stilled you as you whispered, “You-you leave me alone. I don’t like you. In fact, I hate you and I hate what you did! Fuck off.” You then hung up.

You shut off the light and crawled back into bed. Your body went from boiling hot to now ice cold. You blocked his number. Quickly and you shut your eyes. Drifting into a nightmare filled sleep being tormented by Kooks. Rafe Cameron’s voice and then…you dreamed of his dark eyes trailing the outline of your pussy through your black panties.

You snapped awake at the knock of your door.

“Hey, uh…do you want to go to breakfast? If not, that’s okay. I just want to make up for what happened. I feel awful for yelling at you and this shouldn’t be your first impression.”

You were tempted to say no. Let him go alone but you were hungry. And you wanted a distraction from the event last night. Sighing, you got out of bed. “Yeah, I’ll be right out.”

You throw on a pair of black shorts and your converse. Still wearing your big shirt and ponytail. You were weary of your phone, but you forced yourself to move past your fear and you snatched it from the pillow.

Another number was on your screen but you could see part of the message. You could only squeak when you opened it.

“I hope you enjoy breakfast, baby doll. I’d hate for you to starve that pretty little body. But I want you to behave. Like a good girl. Or this will be harder for you.”

Your mouth was completely dry when you stared at the screen. Oh fuck. He was true to his word. This was another number. But how the hell would he know about this morning? You realized the reality of this situation. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

You were certainly fucked.

And not in a good way.

Tagging

@scene-and-dandylover @xxhellfirebunnyxx @slvt4jamesmarch @take-everything-you-can @drewstarkeyslut @ifeeltoofuckingmuch @emsgoodthinkin @imyourdaninow @reidsbtch

[solarisstyles]

AT THE COUNTRY CLUB

Pairing: Golfer!Harry Styles x BarCart!F!Reader Word Count: 3.6k+ Warnings: fluff, teasing, public sex, protected sex(wrap it before you tap it!), smut, mentions of drinking and alcohol, 18+ MINORS DNI Summary: Harry likes to golf and you. A/N: none!

Out of all the jobs you’ve had, working as a bar cart girl at a high class country club was probably your favorite. All you did was drive around the course all day and sell old men alcohol. The tips were amazing despite the occasional creep you’d run into. Smoothing out your golf skirt and shirt in the locker room, you made your way out to the cart house to get the golf cart you’d use for the day. Checking over everything to make sure you were well stocked up, you began your rounds on the course.

“Good morning Mr.Anderson!” you called out to one of your weekly regulars. “You’re my first stop today. Can I get you anything?” you asked. 

Looking up from his golf clubs, he beamed at you, “Ah, good morning dear! I’ll take some water for now. Catch me in a few holes and I might be ready for some liquor.”. 

“Coming right up.” you said, stepping out of your seat and going to your cooler to grab a bottle of water. “Would you like it in a cup with ice or just a bottle?”

“A cup with ice please.” he politely said, approaching you and handing you some cash “There’s a tip in there as well.”. He was always looking out for you on the course so you genuinely appreciated his kindness, 

“You know you don’t have to tip me for water.” you playfully scolded him, taking the money and tucking it away in the fanny pack you wore around your waist. 

“I know. But you’re my favorite cart girl so I’m gonna take care of you.”, taking the cup from your hand, he held it up to you and smiled, “See you in a little while kid.”. Shaking your head with a smile of your own you got back in the cart and continued your way around the course. It was early so you didn’t get a lot of hits the first time around. The second time you made your rounds however, it was after lunch time and a lot busier.

Pulling up to some carts, you recognized the club bag as another regular of yours. You noticed he had a guest with him today which was always a nice surprise. “Hey Carter!” you called to him as he was picking out his club, giving him a flirty wave. 

Looking up to see who called him, his eyes found you and smirked, “Hey yourself.” he replied, walking over to you. 

“Can I get you and your friend anything?” you asked. 

“I’ll have my usual.”, “Hey Harry! Do you want anything from the bar cart?” he called to his friend who’d just teed off. 

You couldn’t help but admire him as he walked over to the two of you. You were thankful for your sunglasses or it would be painfully obvious that you were undressing him with your eyes. His tall, lean, but muscular build was exactly your type.

Harry was drinking in the sight of you just the same. Thankful for his own pair of sunglasses, he just hoped his attraction was obvious….elsewhere. “What does the lady suggest?” he asked you, a soft smirk on his face. 

“Our vodka sodas are the most popular drink I sell.” you informed him, standing from your seat to start making Carter’s drink for him while Harry decides on his own. 

Harry nodded thoughtfully at the suggestion, “What flavors do you have?” he asked. 

“Pineapple, Grapefruit, Black Cherry, and Watermelon.”

“Which one is your favorite?” he then asked, catching you off guard. 

You didn’t typically have men so invested in their drink orders. “Pineapple or Watermelon.” you replied, handing Carter his drink. 

“I’ll try the Watermelon then.” he decided. 

Reaching for the drink in your cooler, you popped open the can for him and handed it to him. “Anything else gentlemen?” you asked, looking between the two of them. Carter and Harry looked at each other, having a silent conversation. 

“I think we’re good for now.” Carter said, pulling out his wallet and handing you his card, “Start a tab for me and put Harry’s drink on it.”. Taking his card and swiping it though your mobile card reader, you set up his tab, adding on the two drinks by his request. 

“All set up.” you said, handing his card back to him with a smile. “Enjoy your time out here. Maybe I’ll catch you guys again later.”. 

“I sure hope so.” Harry said, smirking at your now flushed cheeks. 

You couldn’t help but giggle, “It was lovely meeting you Harry. Have Carter bring you around more.” you teased, getting back into your cart. 

“Only if you let me try the Pineapple flavor next time.” he teased you. 

“I’ll make sure to have some just for you.” you teased back, blowing him a kiss as you drove away.

You sadly didn’t get to see Carter and Harry again that day. But as you walked through the bar room of the club house, the house bartender called out to you, “This was left here for you.” he said with a smirk on his face. Taking the wad of twenties from him, you opened it to see a small piece of paper with a phone number on it, and Harry’s name scribbled beneath it. Rolling your eyes, you thanked the bartender and went to clock out for the evening. You thought about the phone number the whole way home, wondering if you should actually text him. You’ve never reciprocated anyone’s advancements towards you at the club house. But damn, was he fine. Collecting yourself you decided to play the long haul and not think with your imaginary dick. If he comes back again, you’ll consider giving it a try. You had to make him work for it somehow.

A week later, you were working inside at the actual bar instead of running the cart like normal. When you saw Carter walk in, you were excited, hoping to see Harry in tow. Your disappointment must have been evident on your face though when you realized he was there on his own. 

“Damn don’t look too excited.” he said, sitting in front of you on a bar stool, crossing his arms. 

You looked down bashfully, “Sorry Carter. I am excited to see you, I promise.” you apologized, looking up at him and batting your lashes. 

He laughed, “You’re full of shit.” he called out, making you laugh with him, a soft blush dusting your cheeks. 

“Your usual?” you assumed, already moving to make his drink. 

“You know it.” he said, leaning against the bar. He watched as you made his drink, your body working on autopilot as you mixed the liquors together with the mixer and set it in front of him, 

“Running a tab today?” you asked. 

“No, I actually stopped by to play matchmaker.” he said, sliding some cash over to you and taking a sip of his drink. 

Taking the cash over to the drawer, you looked back at him and raised an eyebrow in his direction. “With who?” you asked curiously, as you brought back his change. 

“Keep it.” he waved your hand away. “And to answer your question, it’s you and Harry.” he smugly said, making you stop in your tracks and stare him down. 

“What?” you asked, trying to play dumb. 

He rolled his eyes, “Oh come on! A blind man could see the chemistry between the two of you last week.” he exclaimed, gesturing his hands outward in an ‘it’s so obvious’ motion. 

“Yeah? Then where is he today?” you countered, putting your hand on your hip. 

“With his bandmates in the studio.” he informed you, raising an eyebrow at you as if daring you to challenge him. 

“Oh…” you mumbled, unsure what to say next. 

“Listen, I know you get plenty of offers from men here but Harry is a genuinely good guy. Give him a chance.” he pleaded. 

“Did he put you up to this?” you questioned, feeling suspicious. 

“Not at all. He doesn’t even know I came to talk to you.” Carter assured you. 

“He did leave me his number at the bar last week. I guess if you’re so sure about this I’ll text him.” you caved, feeling weak under the peer pressure of what you were fighting so hard to avoid. 

“Really?” he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful looking. 

“Yes, and ONLY because I’ve known you for years now and I trust your judgment.” you clarified.

Staying true to your word, you sent Harry a text later that night after your shift. You were glad he took it so well that you waited a week to text him. Texts quickly turned into facetime calls and daily good morning texts. It truly floored you how easy Harry was to talk to. It was truly effortless on both sides. The more you both talked and the more comfortable you got with one another, the more you both would start to flirt with each other. 

“So, when am I going to see you again?” you asked one night as you facetimed each other. 

“You miss me or something?” he playfully asked, smirking at you through the phone screen. 

You bit your lip, admiring his exposed biceps, the tank top he wore leaving little to the imagination and it drove you wild. “Maybe.” you answered, making him smirk. 

“I was planning on coming with Carter this weekend to the club house. Are you working then?” he asked. 

You felt your excitement peak some at the prospect of seeing him again, “Yes, I am actually. I’ll be running the cart like normal.” you said with a bright smile. 

He smiled back at you, flicking off the light to his bedroom and flopping down onto this bed, “Good, I expect the best of the best service then.” he playfully said. 

You giggled softly, “I’ll drive right past you don’t tempt me.” The challenging but teasing undertone of your voice had him laughing too. 

“I’ll leave a Yelp review,” he decided to challenge you back. 

You gasped, holding your hand over your chest dramatically, “Not the yelp review! What do I have to do to make it up to you?”

“A kiss would make up for it.” he boldly suggested. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, “I think I could manage that.” you both smile bashfully at each other. So far the conversation has been kept innocent between the two of you. Now it was turned up to another level and it made your heart race with anticipation.

The following days leading up to you seeing Harry again, the sexual tension between the two of you could be cut with a knife. Your replies to his innocent good morning texts were now photos of you posed suggestively in front of your mirror in your work outfit. The day he was meant to come to the course, you wore his favorite outfit, it was blue and the top was a little extra tight on you. It was guaranteed to drive him crazy and the thought of teasing him excited you. 

Harry had texted you and let you know that he wouldn’t be there till later in the afternoon, so the morning felt like it was dragging. 

You were on your fourth round around the course when you finally saw Harry and Carter. “About time y’all showed up!” you called out to them.

Harry beamed a bright smile at you, jogging up to you to pick you up and spin you around, making you squeal out a laugh. 

Once he steadied you on your feet you smiled up at him, “What can I get you to drink?” you asked. 

“Are you on the menu?” Harry flirted, his hands rubbing your sides softly. Your outfit choice was clearly having the desired effect on him, making you mentally high five yourself. 

“Not while I’m on the clock.” you winked, swatting at his chest playfully. 

He smirked, “I’ll try that Pineapple Vodka Soda then.” letting you go to get his drink. 

Carter stood back and watched the two of you fondly, “I’m right here you know.” he said. 

“I’m aware.” you teased, handing Harry his opened drink. “Would you like anything dear?” you teased, batting your lashes playfully. 

Carter rolled his eyes, handing you some cash, “Get me my usual you twat.”. 

You laughed, taking the money and putting it in your pouch before making his drink. “You guys gonna hang out for a while? I get off at five and I can join you at the bar.”

“I won’t, but Mr.Styles here will.” Carter teased, punching Harry in the arm. 

Harry rolled his eyes, “Yeah I’ll hang out.” he smiled at you. 

“Cool, see you then.” you said, giving them a small wave before continuing your drive around the course.

There were more golfers than normal out on the course this afternoon, and any other day you would be thankful since you were getting great tips. The burning desire to be back with Harry was making you antsy though. When you finally made it back to the clubhouse, you parked your cart and sighed, resting your head on the steering wheel for a moment. You loved your job but it could really be draining sometimes. 

Taking a deep breath, you got up and started to break down the cart, taking the extra drinks and liquor into the walk-in fridge behind the bar. Looking up at the clock in the back area, you were thrilled to see you only had five minutes left before you clocked out for the day. 

Making your way over to the locker rooms, you gathered your stuff and clocked out on the computer. Heading over to the bar where you would find Harry. He was exactly where you thought he would be, in one of the lounge chairs by the giant fireplace. Biting back the giddy smile you wanted to show, you admired how handsome he looked sitting there with a glass of whiskey in his left hand. Making your way over to him, your eyes admired the sharp outline of his jaw, the shape of his nose, his long lashes fanning against his cheeks as he blinked. He looked like a Greek God. “This seat taken?” you teasingly asked him, in reference to his lap. 

He chuckled, uncrossing his legs as a silent invite, “I reserved it just for you.” he said back, matching your flirty energy. 

A soft blush dusted your cheeks, sitting gently on his lap, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. 

“So, did you like the drink earlier?” you asked him. 

He nodded, taking another sip of his whiskey, “I thought it was delicious. It’s perfect for being out on the course.” His praise made your heart flutter. Knowing he was pleased with your suggestion made you want to please him even more. 

His fingers slowly dragged up and down your side, “Did you wear this just for me today? I remember telling you it was one of my favorites.” His eyes raked up and down your body, admiring the way your skirt rose up to reveal more of your thighs when you sat down, your tits pressed together more in your sitting position causing more of your cleavage to show thanks to the low cut of the top. 

“Maybe.” you suggested, winking at him. 

“You’re a tease. You know that?” he called you out, looking back up into your eyes. 

You couldn’t help but giggle, leaning closer to him, “I don’t think you mind though.” you whispered, wiggling your hips down into his crotch, which was slowly stiffening beneath you. “In fact I think you like it.” you in turn called him out. Looking back into his eyes, you watched in satisfaction as his eyes flickered from your lips back to your eyes. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” you teased, his silence loudly telling you the effect you had on him.

Setting down his drink on a side table, his hand found its place on your thigh, rubbing it softly. He smirked at your remark, shaking his head a little. “Just thinking about how the bar tender over there would love to have me bend your over this chair and fuck you in front of him.” he softly spoke, making your breathing stop for a second. 

You could suddenly feel the burning stare of another set of eyes, so caught up in Harry that you didn’t even notice. 

“Lucky for you, I don’t like to share. So, why don’t we go somewhere more private.” he suggested. 

You were all too eager to oblige, giving him a small nod and standing from his lap, offering your hand out to him. Taking your hand in his own, he stood up and let you lead him out of the bar, much to the disappointment of your co-worker.

You walked to the far side of the clubhouse you knew people were less likely to be at this time of the day, pushing open the door to one of the family restrooms, you pulled Harry inside with you, closing and locking the door quickly. 

Just as fast, Harry spun you around and pressed you back against the door, holding your waist tightly. He pressed his forehead to yours, bumping his nose against your own. You could feel the warm breath from his lips against your own, driving you crazy. 

“Kiss me.” you said with a desperate feel behind the request, almost whining into his mouth. 

It was the green light he needed to go forward. Pressing his lips softly to your own at first, the kisses that followed growing more heated and desperate. His hands slid down your waist, around to your ass, groping you through your skirt. Your jaw went slack, moaning softly. Taking that as his opportunity to lick into your mouth, coaxing your tongue to lick into his own. You were enjoying this silent battle for dominance but you could slowly feel yourself losing. Your body becoming putty in his strong hands. 

He bent down slightly, grasping your thighs and lifting you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist on instinct, he carried you over to the sink, sitting you down on the counter. Pulling away from your lips briefly, he had to ask, “How far do you want this to go?” praying you were both on the same page. 

Smirking, you reached within your shirt and pulled out a square foil packet. He couldn’t contain his laughter, pressing his lips to yours once more and taking the condom from you. 

Clothes were quickly discarded, both of you far too worked up to bother with any more foreplay. Both of you knew this would have to be quicker than you’d really like it to be out of fear of somebody catching you. The thought of being caught made it much more exciting though.

Tearing open the condom with his teeth, Harry was a man on a mission, rolling the rubber onto his hard cock. Pulling your hips to the edge of the counter, he positioned himself, gliding the tip of his cock between your wet folds. “Who got you this wet baby girl?” he teased, admiring the way his cock was lubricated even more with your arousal. 

“Fuck, you Harry.” you whimpered, your eyes fluttering at the sensation. 

Satisfied with your reply, he gently thrusted into you, making you gasp out and groan softly. His face fell into the crook of your neck, setting a gentle pace thrusting in and out of you, “Fuck you feel so good wrapped around my cock.” he breathed out, kissing your neck, up to your jaw till he eventually found your lips against his own again. 

Moaning softly into the kiss, along with softly whimpering for him, his pace quickened. Reaching between your bodies, your fingers rubbed quickly against your clit, pushing you closer to your peak. “Don’t stop Harry please!” you begged in a hushed whisper against his lips. 

“Mmm I won’t baby. Gonna make that pretty pussy cum for me if it’s the last. Thing. I. Do.” he thrusted deep into you to enunciate the last four words he spoke. 

You gasped, throwing your head back and biting your lip to desperately try and stay quiet. 

His lips once again kissed at your neck, trailing wet kisses down to your chest and sucking on your tits. Taking your nipple into his warm wet mouth, his tongue dancing in circles around your hardened nub.

Your chest was heaving, dangerously close to cumming. He could feel it with the way your pussy contracted round him, squeezing his cock tightly each time he thrusted deep into you. His hips slapping against your own each time he bottomed out inside of you. He grunted against your hot skin, “I’m so close baby.” he panted, eyes screwed shut in ecstasy. “Cum on my cock. Please baby girl.” he begged, wanting so bad to watch you come undone under his touch. 

“Oh, fuck Harry!” you gasped, a particularly sharp thrust into your g-spot sent you spiraling. You fought hard to control the volume of your moans as he fucked you through your orgasm. Finding it hard to not scream out his name. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” he grunted, the pulsing of your pussy as you orgasmed coaxed him to his own. Spilling into the condom, letting you milk him dry as you contracted around him.

Your hand rested on the back of his head as he laid it against your neck. The both of you had love sick smiles on your faces as you battled to catch your breaths, coming down from the high you both were feeling. “Round two at my place?” you offered, making him laugh,

“I like the sound of that.”

[cipheramnesia]

Part 3: The Death, Rebirth, and Afterlife of Parasite Alice

The Riverside Clinic for Wellness and Long-term Care weathered safely the storms of the burn just as all the worst memories navigate the mindscape unimpeded. The venerable history of the red brick and white trimmed building carried it through the poor and homeless left in squalor to the airy chill of lobotomy and electroshock therapy, two wings wide and three floors tall. Its height well serviced its intent, too short for escape even via a yearning leap from the roof to its concrete driveway.

The persistance of such single-minded enclosure of the divergent mind carried forward to the interior, with mutiply sectioned floors along each wing navigable only through a network of stairwells. A more modern elevator spired through the center of the building, lever operated and gated by iron on all sides. None of the layers of white tile or muted gray carpet or soothing art prints or geometic wall paintings over the years could fully excise the prison lovingly built into the architecture. Inside, it promised no escape. Outside its dignified facade offered warm reassurance that aging loved ones to difficult children and everyone in between would be safely forgotten.

Some part of Alice understood all this as the square black truck complained about stopping at the brick stairs with their awkwardly late addition of a wheel chair accessible ramp, leading to wide white doors set with large windows blocked by gauzy white curtains. The driver helped her out of the car and she said, "I can do it just fine!" before almost falling as her legs wobbled. She didn't like strangers touching her, but now everyone was a stranger and she leaned on a stranger just for the simple task of reaching the door of the building where she will die of cancer.

The doors swung inward to reveal an average man with a surfeit of dignity to his gray peppered mustache and deep, dark eyes beneath a noble high forehead and a gently swept back head of mostly gray hair. His thick belly preceded his wide shoulders into any room, and his hands were noticeably large with thick fingers, moving quickly and nimbly to pull a wheelchair onto the small porch. He wore checked trousers, a pale yellow golf shirt, and his arms were exceptionally hairy.

"So good to meet you," he let one hand overtake his stomach to greet Alice, which she disregarded. "My name is Dr Hopewell, and I'm the administrator here at Riverside. I've heard quite a bit about you, and I wanted to make you comfortable right away. You're quite the special guest!" He smiled away the dignity of his profile.

"I don't need a wheelchair," she said. The driver shrugged and let her go, forcing her to grab to armrests to keep standing. "I'm just tired." She gave daggers out of her eyes to both men before maneuvering herself into the seat. "Don't get used to this."

The driver passed a clipboard over her head. "You gotta sign for the delivery, also initial there... and there. Sign and date there too. Okay, nice knowing you."

Dr. Hopewell was already turning her and rolling her into the building before the driver started the truck. "Don't worry Alice, we'll make sure you have the best of care here. You're a celebrity after all, but there may be a few bumps ahead!" They wheeled past a heavy wood door and a much larger orderly took over, pushing her down the hall then bumping up a flight of stairs.

"We specialize these days in unique individuals like yourself. I understand you won't persue treatment?" She folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, we can be ready to start immediately." The chair and orderly bumped back down stairs into another long hallway. "But here is your room, and we've put you with someone you should get along with. She's very unique."

The room was small, two beds with a curtain divider, wall mounted TV sets, a closet bathroom, one tall window and a few small sets of sad artificial wood drawers.

Another woman sat in a rolling tube frame chair in the far corner of the room. She was big and soft and still in pajamas, her belly stuck out a bit from under the top, and her sloping shoulders seemed to be a permanent fixture of her slouch while the sweeping curve of her neck to her chin echoed in her faint jawline. Her nose was long and straight and Alice thought it was very fine with her dark black eyes looking a thousand miles away and her arrow straight glossy black hair hanging behind the chair. Alice wondered what it would be like to hold her hand. Would she squeeze hard or gently? Interlaced or fingers to thumb.

She about the woman's hands and lips and eyes enought, it took her longer than it should have to realize the other woman was also shimmering with the golden glow of the burn.

[eyesxxyou]

*ೃ˚ :💾 richmiguel x bev-girl!reader

❝ warnings ❞ but of a power dynamic at play, exhibitionism, mating press, pussy slapping, creampie, rough fucking

Rich!Miguel who attends a country club on his off days, lounging in the sun, golfing, playing tennis, whatever ridiculously rich men do. He finds it mostly boring there, he wouldn't even attend if it weren't for you. His favorite bev-girl.

Rich!Miguel who makes it clear you're his favorite. Who gives lavish tips to all the bev-girls but hands you tips big enough to pay for your rent for the month. "For you, muñeca." You liked the way the word left his lips, like a purr. The other bev-girls can be jealous at times. Miguel was by far the most handsome of the bunch who flirted with them and of all people, he chose you.

Rich!Miguel who's just your type, tall, dark, handsome, and older. It's just a bonus that he's rich. You brazenly flirt back and watch the way he eats it up. There's only so much you can do on the clock. Technically, you're not supposed to keep conversation with any of the clientele but no one cares to keep such a rule. It's the clients who start them, their grimy hands touching where they can, smiles as they call the girls beautiful in the slimiest ways possible. Miguel remained respectful. He didn't touch unless prompted to, kept innocent conversation with the girls mostly just trying to do their jobs. All of the girls liked him, if not had a crush on him.

Rich!Miguel who offers to teach you how to golf on your break. You played dumb, pretended not to know how to because you wanted it to be just you and him so badly. You with your wide eyes and pouty lips, standing with a club too large for you. How could he say no to that? So he took to across the fields in the golf cart he rented out to a secluded course he knew was too easy for most players so was avoided all together.

Rich!Miguel who helped you with your posture by grabbing your hips and pulling them straight before pressing his body to yours and wrapping his arms around your body, his biceps as big as your entire head. "Keep your back straight, muñeca." His large hands wrapped over your smaller ones. You felt his firm body against yours and felt heat between your legs. All your nights imagining him this close to you and now you were creaming your panties the moment he touched you to help you out.

Rich!Miguel who watched as you bent over in front of him, in a skirt far too small to be playing any sport in, and showed off, with pride, the soft silhouette of your pussy through your panties and the wet spot that coated it. He decided then it was time to stop playing coy and for you to stop playing hooky. "You've been lying to me, cariño." You stood abruptly and looked at him, still with those big, oblivious eyes of yours. "Huh?" Miguel stood so close to you, you could smell his expensive cologne. He grabbed you and turned you around back into position, this time, with the beginnings of a hard-on pressed I to your ass. "You know exactly how to play."

Rich!Miguel who had your hands gripping the bars above your head on the golf cart as he seemed to make your body fold on itself. He had your legs pressed to your chest, the knobs of your knees on either side of your ears. His hands sat at the crease of your knees as he gazed down at the sight before him. His cock bullied apart your slick folds and pushed into your wet pussy. You begged him to slow down, you hand placed upon his barely exposed hip but he slapped it away. “Shut up and take it, stupid slut. This was what you wanted, right?”

Anyone passing by close enough would be able to see you, your heart raced with the exhilaration but Miguel forced you to keep looking at him. He loved eye contact, loved those eyes of your swelling with tears, loved the way your pussy lips parted from him. He did it so unceremoniously, simply shoving your shirt up your waist and pulling your soaked panties to the side.

Rich!Miguel who spanks your pussy when you moan too loud, who fucks you at just a the right angle to force a bulge to emerge from your lower belly, who fucks you so hard you think you might pass out. He fucks the air from your lungs, fucks you so that you go cross-eyed. "Migueeel!" You would moan into his calloused palm. Your pussy made his cock creamy and wet. Either he was too big or you were too tight, either way, each thrust meant his cock stretched you open in ways you’ve never been before. He forced you to mold to the shape of him, his tip kissing your cervix in ways that make you shudder.

Miguel! Oh my…fuck~ Miguel, pl-ease.” Your orgasm ravished you, made your muscles spasm as the whole car rocked with the brutality of his thrusts. Your pussy clamped around his tighter, shuddering and quivering and begging him to cum inside.

Rich!Miguel who came inside your pussy with something less than a roar and more than a groan. You whimper at the heat of his cum filling you slowly, coating your walls as he inched his way out and made more space for his hot sperm. He watched it come out of you in globs and quickly put your panties back in place to keep it there.

Rich!Miguel who kisses you and whispers in your ear. "I'll see you back on the clock."

[fanfictilltheend]

As promised (since I'm late sorry 😭) Snippet 5 of ❤️‍🔥Violent Heart❤️‍🔥 aka stepdad!mechanic!convict!joel x afab!reader fic

I SWEAR I WROTE THIS BEFORE HE WORE THIS OUTFIT ON GOD I LITERALLY SPOKE IT INTO EXISTENCE YOU CAN THANK ME BELOW 👇

Warnings: Nothing crazy just joel admiration and dressing him up 😍

Context: Joel is Y/N's ex step-father. He just got out of prison for killing David and Y/N (age 20) takes Joel shopping for a new wardrobe.

HERE IS A LINK TO A MASTERLIST OF VIolent Heart STUFF TO TIDE YOU OVER

You take Joel shopping. At his insistence it is nothing fancy, just the local department store. That doesn’t stop you from dressing Joel up in ridiculous outfits of your choosing. You make him try on a hawaiian shirt, some golf polos like your dad liked to wear, a pinstripe suit and he lets you because saying no to you has never been in his vocabulary. He acts grumpy on the outside, but you can tell he is amused. You know in the end you’ll just end up buying every flannel shirt and jeans combo they have in the store, but it’s just fun anyway. You watch the fabric hug his torso, his tummy, the slight bulge at his waist. At one point he comes out shirtless and you try very hard not to swoon as you stare at the hair lining his chest and his adorable little tummy that you for some reason have the urge to bite. The band of his Hanes boxers sticks up past his jeans and he looks so good. He even lets out a genuine smile. The middle-aged sales attendant who is helping you even takes a good look at him which makes the butterflies inside you swarm possessively. 

Finally you make him try on a proper white-collared button-down shirt and black dress pants with matching black shoes and he looks so good you’re actually at a loss for words when he asks you what you think. They hug the curves and lines and planes of his body so nicely. All you can do is ask him to put on a black tie to match and he does at your behest following some customary griping that he would never wear such a monkey suit in the first place. The effect that a fully dressed up Joel has on you is not one to be reckoned with. He might as well be wearing the mens version of lingerie for how it makes you throb and ache between your legs. He looks like a force of nature, commanding and tall. It makes you weak. All you say is,

“Looking good, old-timer.”

He snorts.

HERE IS A LINK TO A MASTERLIST OF VIolent Heart STUFF TO TIDE YOU OVER

[ssahotstuff]

Aaron Hotchner Playlist Collection 💕

I Found Someone by Cher here

Warnings: smut, age gap, oral, fem receiving, unprotected sex, alcohol use, cursing

Word count: 6k

Meeting your father's friends was usually something you didn't enjoy doing. They were boring men with wives that were too good for them, all into accounting or something mundane that didn't make for good conversation at the dinner table. You weren't sure what to expect when your father explained that his guest this evening was an FBI agent, a man named Aaron that he golfed with on occasion. Your mother was trying to play matchmaker, but you told her to keep dreaming; you couldn't help but be curious about the stranger though, eagerly awaiting his arrival.

"Now your father says he's a private man. He may not warm up to you quick," she warned, and you rolled your eyes, knowing you were the most lovable person on the planet and no one could resist your bubbly self, even a big, strong FBI agent.

You wore a shorter lavender dress and sandals, since the weather was cooperating. Your mother had repeatedly complimented your outfit, that's how you knew you'd done a good job getting ready. She was a tough woman to win over, but her idea that you and this secret visitor would hit it off was one she wasn't ready to shake any time soon. Your father had given you the go ahead if you were interested, because you were grown, and he said he was 'exactly your type' and that was an exact quote.

You had just started work on dinner when he arrived, your father inviting him to have a drink by the pool. You took a second standing in the bay window to admire him; he was your type. He was tall and broad, with dark hair and a strong, manly face. He looked like an FBI agent in his khakis and crisp baby blue dress shirt. You pulled yourself away from the window to focus on the meal you were cooking, your mother had abandoned you in the kitchen to see to her guest.

You checked on dinner which was nearly finished, all you needed to do was set the table. It was at this point the handsome stranger had decided to come introduce himself, standing idly by while you put plates in their proper place.

"Your dad tells me we have you to thank for dinner tonight," he shot you a dazzling smile from his spot by the door, and you gestured to the table, trying to make light of the situation.

"Mom means well when she starts, but she usually leaves me to it. I'm Y/n," you put out your hand for him to shake, noticing how his hands swallowed yours up, and it left your imagination to wonder as to what he could do with them. You wanted to scold yourself for being so shamelessly attracted to him but you couldn't help it, he was exactly what you wanted in a man.

"Aaron. It smells delicious in here. Is there anything I could help you with?" You were shocked at his manners, how helpful he was. He put silverware and napkins on one side of the table while you brought the food to the table. He made a satisfied hum as you sat dinner on the table and you took a moment to be proud that you'd learned something in the kitchen and could impress a man with your cooking skills.

"I'll grab your parents, if you want," he offered, so you poured the wine and waited on everyone to join you.

"Smells like the holidays in here," your dad chirped as he took a seat at the head of the table, Aaron taking the seat across from you.

"Wrong kind of bird," you'd made a chicken, baked to golden perfection with the right amount of seasoning and butter, hoping it was as juicy as it looked.

"Either way, it smells good dear. I don't know what I'll do when you move out," your mother not cooking was kind of the family joke—you always made meals, no matter who was coming over. Your dad loves your cooking and so did everyone else, you hadn't met a soul that complained yet.

"Starve or live off of microwave dinners," you shot back and he groaned, all while shooting your mother a loving look from across the table.

"Maybe you can still cook for me on Sundays," he was especially sensitive about you moving out and into your first home in a few weeks, his little girl all grown up and going out on her own. He'd helped you pick the house, deciding on a small, two bedroom home on the opposite side of town, but still close. You would only be five minutes away.

"Sunday dinner sounds doable," you bargained, knowing you'd be busy with your new job but the weekends were always free.

"Her apple turnovers are going to change your life," your dad told Aaron, making you blush. You weren't usually so bashful but your smiley guest had you on your toes, making you a bit more alert than normal.

"I can't wait to try them," he offered you a smile behind his glass, your mother tossing you a knowing look from her spot at the table.

"Tell us about what you do, Aaron. You're a profiler, right? Y/n took a couple of classes at the Academy," your mother beamed, hoping you'd have more than one thing in common with him. He explained briefly what it was exactly that he and his team did, how he was always on the road, and that it was a hard lifestyle to keep up with. He was saying these things to see how you'd react to the toll his job took on his personal life, if it scared you. You weren't the slightest bit intimidated, in fact, you would happily make your schedule work around something like that. You worked from home so it would be easy enough to manage a sporadic relationship, and you were more than interested in the man across from you.

"What do you do exactly?" He asked you, and you assumed your father hadn't explained to him.

"I teach homeschooled children four days a week, it's all on the computer so it's pretty neat. There are only 3 kids I teach regularly so it's a really personal experience," he clung to your every syllable, his gaze on you entirely as you spoke. You'd never felt so recognized; it was like someone was finally hearing you for the first time.

"When I retire from the field I think I'll teach at the academy," he told you, and it seemed that you had more than one thing in common—you could tell by your mother's perpetual happy face that she was excited the two of you seemed to be hitting it off.

"After dinner we'll show Aaron the pool table," your dad said, winking at you from his seat. You were the undefeated champion in your house, your dad had taught you well and you practiced nearly everyday having a table so easily accessible. It was your party trick, your go to at bars to hustle men out of money. You'd play dumb the first couple of games and then you'd sweep them under the rug, leaving them wondering how you did it.

"Something tells me I've been practicing the wrong sport," he was an avid golfer, and you went occasionally, if your dad asked you to. You hadn't been since summer ended, but if they were to invite you, you'd go, just to see Aaron play.

"Oh she's a hell of a golfer too. We should go before you move, take Aaron with us," he suggested and you agreed happily, knowing there was a white tennis skort in your closet that you were dying to wear in front of Aaron. It was long enough to wear in front of your dad but short enough to be rather scandalous, and what better way to tease the new object of your affections?

"I'm free this week," he told you, and so you all aimed for Tuesday, meeting at the country club to spend the day whacking balls around. When dinner was finished you stayed behind to help your mother with the dishes, Aaron and your father making their way towards the basement. Aaron shot you one final look before descending the stairs, a mixture of curiosity and anticipation on his face. Your mother was all giggles as you stood at the sink, washing as she dried.

"He likes you. I can tell," you felt yourself blush uncontrollably as you worked along side of her, trying to keep a straight face.

"He just met me, mom."

You had noticed his eyes on you through dinner, the way he couldn't pull his gaze from you no matter who was talking. He was more interested in your reaction to what was being said, or what you had to say.

"He gave you that look, and I know that look. It's the same one your father gave me," their age gap was similar to yours and Aaron's, which is why your parents were so okay with it in the first place. He was nearly forty, but you didn't mind—he looked really good for his age and it didn't intimidate you the way it might some women. You liked older men, preferred them in fact. He was right up your alley, as predicted by your parents.

"Don't get carried away," you finished up and joined your father and Aaron in the basement, your mom trailing right behind you. She poured the four of you a drink and you watched your dad and Aaron play pool; he was good, but your dad finished the game quickly, pocketing all of his balls first.

"Come play," your dad urged, giving you a chance against Aaron. You started off easy, making a couple of shots, giving him time to keep up with you. It wasn't until your third simultaneous pocket that Aaron started to get concerned he might lose.

"You're a lot better than I expected," he admitted as you won the game, your dad cheering you on from his chair across the room. Your game room was impressive, pool and air hockey tables in the center, a bar in the back, along with several loungers and chairs to sit in. You and Aaron played another game while your parents talked, but eventually your mom and dad went upstairs, leaving you alone with him.

"I know we're golfing this week, but seeing you again is at the top of my to do list," he said after taking a shot and missing, letting you have your turn.

"I'll give you my number and we can do something," you agreed, exchanging numbers before your dad requested Aaron's presence, so you followed him upstairs. They went out back by the pool, leaving you and your mother in the kitchen. She'd just put an apple turnover on a plate for you and then herself, sitting down at the table with you.

"Your dad sees it too. He wants you with someone who can take care of you," your mother explained, and you knew that as overbearing as they could be at times, they only wanted what was best for you.

"We're going to see each other again," you whispered, watching her gush with excitement for you, her hand on your arm.

"I hope you see him everyday."

You had been texting him nonstop. After he left your house, he sent you a message, and it was never ending after that—you always found something new to talk about, keeping conversations going for hours. Your phone hadn't been so glued to your hand since middle school when you'd first gotten one. You walked around the house with a smile plastered to your face at all times, feeling like a lovesick puppy at all times. He was just so sweet, constantly giving you compliments and telling you how he couldn't wait to see you again—it made you want to see him all the time.

You'd just closed your bedroom door for the night, climbing in bed so you could text him uninterrupted by anything else. His nights were spent clacking away at his phone, talking to you, and you loved being able to occupy such a large portion of his time. You especially liked that he made time for you despite his hectic schedule.

Instead of a text message, he was calling you, his name flashing across the caller ID, making you do a double take.

"Hey," you were surprised he was calling but you wouldn't complain about hearing his smooth, deep voice again.

"I don't know how you feel about calls, but I wanted to hear your voice before bed," he purred, making you sink further into the pillows, smiling to yourself.

"You can call me any time. Tell me about your day," you encouraged, and so he did. He didn't give you all the details, but he'd got to work locally the last few days, and he'd finished things up just in time for your golf day. It was tomorrow, and you'd had your outfit in mind for days, hoping Aaron liked it as much as you thought he would.

"I'm excited I get to see you again tomorrow," he told you, making your cheeks heat up even if he wasn't around to see it. He could reduce you to a puddle in no time, make you feel at the top of the world with his sweet words and kind nature.

"I've thought about it all week," you told him, his chuckle low and melodious on the other end of the phone.

"Me too. I was going to wait until tomorrow to ask, but while I've got you on the phone, I was wondering if I could take you on a date."

You agreed a little too happily, but you'd been expecting it in a sense. You knew you wanted to see him where you could be around him without your father and you were hoping he'd be a gentleman and ask you out instead of just asking you to come to hang out. You had no doubts that at his age, he was interested in something serious, and you could tell he knew how to treat a lady by the way he was always polite and courteous with you, making sure you were comfortable with him asking certain questions.

"Then it's settled. I don't want to sound impatient, but the sooner the better," you had craved a man that was all about you and it seemed as if you'd finally found one; Aaron was especially attentive, wanting to give you his undivided attention whenever he could. When he wasn't working, he was texting you, giving you updates about his day and asking about yours, or asking a question to learn more about you.

"Excited to see me?" You joked, and he hummed in response, making you eager to hear his response.

"I've been waiting to see you since I left your house. There's just something about you that I can't get out of my head," you were shocked to hear him so transparent but you appreciated his honesty. It had been a long time since you'd genuinely felt anything for anyone, and you'd given Aaron a spot in your life easily compared to other men you'd dated. Aaron was different; he was mature, he knew what he wanted and he wasn't afraid to tell you how he felt.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," you'd felt the same, the man had laced your every thought, making you feel like the most important person in the world with his sweet messages and desire to talk to you.

"Can I take you out tomorrow night? I'm off the rest of the week so any time I can see you, I want to."

You quickly gave him all of your free time, making plans to work twice as hard in between golfing and your date so you didn't fall behind.

"Tomorrow is fine with me. Should I drive?"

He told you that the two of you could meet at his house and you could leave your car there, that way you could come back to his place after dinner. You talked for a while, making plans for the week, just enjoying the conversation. Before you knew it, it was midnight, and you were yawning loudly into the receiver.

"Get some rest, sweetheart. I can't wait to see you tomorrow," you were anxious for the following day, nervous to be around him again. You hoped he still liked you after he spent more time with you, that he didn't get bored of you.

"I can't wait either. Sweet dreams, Aaron."

"Sweet dreams for the sweetest girl."

✨✨✨

"I can't believe you got a hole in one!" Your dad was still celebrating your triumph as you sat down for lunch; you won your round of golf free for making the shot, and they'd given you a gift card for the restaurant inside. You sat between your dad and Aaron, your eyes scanning the menu while Aaron's lingered on you. You hadn't missed his not so subtle stares all day, the longing looks he'd throw you when your father was taking his shot. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you, and the attention was driving you wild.

"You played such a good game today," Aaron told you, and your dad nodded in agreement, toasting his glass of wine to you as he took a sip.

"To you," Aaron clinked his glass against yours, his eyes lingering on your lips as you took a satisfying sip.

"What do you have planned for the rest of the day, Dad?" He was meeting your mother to shop in the city, which meant you could go home and work in peace with no distractions.

"Will you be home tonight?"

You shook your head, and he didn't press the issue, he didn't ask any invasive questions like your mother would have. He trusted your judgement, although he'd ask you everyday if you'd be home for dinner so he knew whether to make it a date night and take your mother out. You were going to miss them when you left, but your boxes had been packed for a while, and you were excited to start a more independent chapter of your life.

Your dad spied a friend across the restaurant and went to say hello, leaving you alone with Aaron for the first time all day. His hand brushed the fabric of your skort under the cover of the table before cupping your knee briefly.

"Did you wear this just for me?"

You nodded, blushing like mad as he smirked back at you over the rim of his glass. His lips were perfect, the most gorgeous shade of pink you'd ever seen, and his smile was something to be treasured. It was rare but you were getting to see more of it, and you adored it.

"I have another outfit for dinner though," he leaned forward slightly when he realized your dad was preoccupied, whispering low enough that only you could hear.

"You won't be home tonight, so I'm hoping that means you'll be with me?"

You took a sip of your water, needing to cool off. You hadn't thought about it when you told your dad you wouldn't be home, but you'd kind of hoped Aaron would keep you out late, or you'd just end up staying with him.

"Is that what you want?"

He nodded happily, sitting back as your food was delivered to the table, your dad rejoining you. The rest of the meal was spent reliving the victory on the course, your dad as happy and proud as you'd ever seen him. You knew he wanted to make the day a special one since you'd be leaving soon, but you'd already planned to make golf days with your dad a regular thing after you moved.

You all parted ways and you went home to work, not stopping until 6 when you needed to start getting ready. You fluffed your hair a bit, deciding it still looked good and slipped on a tight, baby blue dress, your bra and panties matching it. You were applying some lip gloss when he called you, obviously happy to hear your voice.

"I'm so excited to see you, sweetheart."

"I'll be ready in like, ten minutes," he was glad you were ahead of schedule so he sent you his address and it looked oddly familiar, but you couldn't quite place it. You promised to head over as soon as you got off the phone, so he let you go.

The reason his address seemed so familiar was because it was two streets away from the house you'd bought, so you'd live in the same neighborhood. You pulled up to his house and he met you at the door, his eyes trailing over you without abandon as he pulled you in for a hug.

"God, you're stunning. Look at you," he rasped, leaning back so he could take you in. He looked incredible in his black slacks and navy blue dress shirt, and you made sure to tell him so.

"You know that house on Orchard Street with the for sale sign is mine," you told him, his eyes going wide as he led you to the car.

"You mean you'll be a minute away from me all the time? I'll never get anything done," he helped you into his car and shut the door, joining you at the wheel. He let you control the radio as he drove you to a restaurant uptown, it was romantic and quiet, just how you preferred it. He took your hand and led you inside, the two of you ordering water instead of wine. You wanted to go into the night with a clear head, just in case you had to make any hasty decisions.

"I'm so glad you let me take you out. I would've done it sooner but work makes things, well, difficult," he was secretly terrified that his job would scare you off, but you took his hand from across the small table, lacing your fingers through his.

"I can live with difficult."

You didn't stop talking until dinner came, and even then you found things to talk about. It was so easy to speak to him, he was letting you in a lot easier than you'd originally anticipated. He was quick to tell you anything you wanted to know.

"I figured after this we could watch a movie at my place. I made brownies just for you. I remember you said they were your favorite," you'd had a brief discussion about baking a few nights ago when he complimented your apple turnovers, but you hadn't expected him to remember, but he did.

"Are you always this sweet, or is this just for me?" It was his turn to blush, leaning toward you to brush your hair over your shoulder.

"There's just something about you. I don't know what it is," for a moment as his eyes reflected back into yours, you could see a future with him. It was easy to imagine a life where you made yourself available to him and in return, he treated you like royalty. You could see it as clear as day when you looked into his eyes, and it made you want more of him, just like that.

"I feel it too."

By the time you made it back to his house, he was giving you a t-shirt to change into, which hung off your body just as your dress had, hitting the middle of your thigh. You could tell by the way he stared you down as you climbed into his bed that he'd wanted to see you in his clothes; it was possessive for him, like now that you'd worn his shirt, you'd always belong in his clothes.

"You find us something to watch while I change clothes," he excused himself and you browsed the channels, settling on a scary movie that had just started. He saw what you'd chosen and turned out the lights, climbing in bed next to you. Your nerves had completely disappeared and was replaced by a new feeling entirely—you wanted to get caught up in him, give yourself over to him if he'd allow it. You were half naked in his bed, hoping and praying he acted on it.

"Can I come a little closer?" His voice was like silk in your ear, and instead of responding, you moved into him, letting him drape his arm around you. His free hand was in his lap as he set his focus on the tv, but you could tell by the frequent glances in your direction that his mind was somewhere else entirely.

"You're effortlessly beautiful, do you know that? Not many people can look like this just sitting to watch a movie," his hand met your shoulder, squeezing lightly as you turned to face him.

"I really like the way you make me feel," he moved a little closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder through your shirt, but it still made you tingle all over.

"I want to make you feel good, all the time," he promised you, his head in the crook of your neck as his lips met your skin, featherlight and delicate, but it set you on fire, making you clamp your thighs together. His hand met your thigh, his fingertips pressing gently into the doughy flesh as he let his lips linger over yours.

"Kiss me," you pleaded, rewarded by his mouth meeting yours. It was everything you hoped it would be; his mouth was urgent and needy, his tongue dancing against yours as he brought you to straddle his lap. You could feel your panties, slick and sticky with arousal as you sat on his lap, his hand snaking between your bodies, creeping under your shirt.

"Can I see you, pretty girl?"

In a second you were tossing his shirt over your head, letting him look at you in your matching set as his hands wandered over every inch of you, stopping in the middle of your back to unclasp your bra. His mouth sucked a trail of kisses across your chest, taking each of your nipples into his mouth until they were stiff, tweaking them between his fingers as you tried not to grind against him.

"Gonna lay you down, sweetheart. Would it be alright if I taste you? I'll beg if you want me to," you knew by his tone that he was serious but you'd never make him beg, not when his eyes were darkening by the second as you climbed out of his lap and laid against the pillows. He made sure you were comfortable before he parted your thighs, examining the ever growing wet patch on the front of your panties. His fingers darted out to touch it, his thumb brushing your clit through the fabric, making you moan lightly. His eyebrow shot up and he did it again, this time slowly dragging his finger upwards with a bit of pressure, the sensation enough to make your legs shake.

"Sensitive girl, gonna have so much fun with you," his words went straight to your core, the fire you felt for him now an uncontrollable inferno, consuming every inch of you.

"Been dreaming about this since I met you," you told him, ducking forward to give him a kiss, his hands massaging your thighs, splayed across your skin beautifully.

"Mhm, I wanted you as soon as I met you. I couldn't stop staring—I still can't," you knew he only had eyes for you, he gave you too much of his attention, wanted you around as often as you could be. He grew tired of teasing and slid your panties down your legs, laying his head on your thigh, his eyes glued to your sex. His fingers slid through your arousal, making you sit up on your elbows to watch him explore your body. His fingers found your clit, rubbing at an agonizingly slow pace, making your brows pull together as you bit your lip, staring down at him.

"Already, baby? We're going to have so much fun," he was thoroughly amused as you came undone, shuddering under his gentle touch. His fingers flicked expertly at your clit, his thumb brushing over you lightly before he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your clit, peering up at you to gauge your reaction. You felt your mouth fall open as he did it again, this time swirling his tongue around your bundle of nerves. You let out a strangled noise that was music to his ears, because the kisses didn't stop, combined with the fluid movements of his tongue, you were whimpering his name in no time, gripping the sheets as he brought you to the edge.

"Tastes so good, let me feel you do it again," he slowed down dramatically, his tongue lapping at you at a more steady, precise pace. It was driving you insane, how quickly he could give you what you needed, his mouth moving against you like he'd always known what your body needed.

"Jesus, Aaron, your mouth is perfect," the words came out as a whisper, but he heard you, his lips curling into a grin as you went limp against the mattress, your head on the pillow, one leg tossed lazily over his shoulder. He was content, pleased to be pleasuring you. You were addicted to the way his hands gripped your thighs, pulling you further into his mouth as his tongue traced patterns on your swollen, sensitive clit. You'd had more orgasms than you could count under the mercy of his tongue, but he was sitting up, crawling on top of you so he could kiss you passionately, his hand cupping your face. He pushed down his pants and boxers, kicking them off.

"Are you okay with this, sweetheart? If you're not, that's okay," you pulled him forward, encouraging to slip into you.

"I don't have a condom," he groaned, but you told him you were on birth control, so with one final glance at you, he let himself slide into you, your walls stretching to accommodate his massive member. You let out a moan as he bottomed out in you, wiggling against him and he hadn't even moved his hips yet.

"Impatient, baby. Let me get used to you, feel you squeeze me tight," for a moment he stayed completely still, letting you clench around him as he throbbed inside of you.

"I love the way you feel inside me," you panted as you looked up at him; he began to pump in and out of you, especially slow, like he was trying to control himself. His eyes were barely slivers but there was a ghost of a grin on his lips as he buried himself inside of you, gripping him like a vice.

"You're so perfect, sweetheart. You feel so fucking good, my knees are shaking," he could barely keep his balance as he fucked you, struggling to stay upright as he thrusted into you, making you feel whole, completed. It was unusual that you didn't feel the least bit insecure with him; you hadn't had the chance. He made you feel like the most desired person in the world, it was hard to feel anything but wanted.

"Aaron, please," he sped up a little, the sound of his hips smacking your flesh bouncing off the walls as he let go and stopped holding back—his pace changed and he was pounding into you, making you cry out in ecstasy; you never wanted anyone else to touch you, only Aaron. You'd never been so sexually satisfied, and you didn't want to share him with anyone else. His thrusts were getting sloppy, his hips moving into you on a mission as his hands gripped your thighs tighter. When he finished inside of you, you held your breath at the sheer intimacy of the gesture, happy that he trusted you enough to do it. He kissed you hard on the mouth as he leaned forward to caress your face, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip.

"I can't get over the fact that you'll just be around the corner in a couple of weeks," he got up long enough to grab a towel, cleaning you up before he slid back into bed with you. You cozied right up next to him, feeling for his body in the dark. His hands found yours, his fingers weaving together with yours.

"I hope that means I'll see more of you," you'd be lying if you said you weren't already falling for him-it was inevitable, from the moment you met him.

"You want to see me again?" He sounded kind of surprised, like he hadn't expected you to be so eager to spend more time with him, but you were hooked; you didn't know if you'd ever be able to get enough of him.

"You're kidding, right? Of course I do. Unless you don't," you were scared for a moment that he only wanted you for the night, and nothing more, but in the darkness you felt his lips connect with your cheek as he settled in for the night.

"I want to see you as often as I can. Your dad invited me over on Sunday, he said you're grilling out and I can't miss that," it would be the last time you got to use the grill before summer was officially over, and it was kind of like your going away party since you'd be moving out the following day. Your dad had practically begged to do a cookout, as long as you agreed to cook everything. You were going to miss cooking for him, the little compliments about your meals that he'd always give you that made you feel special.

"I have a suspicion that they want us together," he chuckled, peppering your face with kisses as he rolled over, tossing his arm over you. Neither of you had bothered to get dressed, so your bare back was pressed against his chest; you'd never felt so secure, so safe with another person.

"Your dad told me the day I came for dinner that we'd be good for each other. I knew he was right by the time I sat down for dinner," he whispered, kissing your shoulder blade as he cuddled into you.

"He's hardly ever wrong," you yawned, his arm snaking under the blanket to wrap around your middle, his other arm tucked under your pillow. He seemed to be completely at ease in the bed with you, and it made you hopeful for the future, what you could be together; you hadn't expected someone to come into your life and flip it upside down so quickly, not when you were about to begin an entirely new chapter of life, but you were glad it was him.

Master tags: @wheelsupkels @periodtcevans @hausofwhores @criminallyobsessedcm @tojithesourcerkiller @fireworksinthesky @realdirectionx

[whereismyhat5678]

I know this is weird to dump on y’all but can I vent for just a few minutes? If this is even considered a vent since it’s not anything sad, I just wanna get this off my chest real quick.

(If you don’t want to read the essay I wrote scroll to the bottom and just read the TLDR 😅)

I like being a woman. I do. I like using she/her pronouns. I like wearing pretty feminine stuff. And in general I just like to be feminine. I’m happy being a girl.

But I just always wanted to just- try on a suit- JUST JUST HEAR ME OUT FOR A SECOND-

I wanna look like a dapper young gentlemen- like a very posh man that wears like- like one of those eyeglass thingys-

Like this fellow right here:

I also wanna have a mustache, LIKE THOSE ONES THAT ARE FLUFFY AND COVER YOUR MOUTH- the- THE PAINTERS BRUSH MUSTACHE!! Or examples like: The lampshade, the handlebar, the Hungarian, OR THE IMPERIAL (that one’s GODAM GORGEOUS-)

But more about the suit- I wanna- I PICTURE myself in a black slick suit with a white undershirt and a silk like tie, with nice shiny black buttons and some white gloves to match the undershirt. To show sophistication. With one of those top hats OH I LOVE THOSE!!

I’d like to see it on me but I wanna look more masculine in it like- like what I just said I wanna have a mustache and OH such a deep voice!! I wanna be those narrator voices that are soothing and just, you can fall asleep to them.

I wanna look dapper, I wanna look snazzy, I WANT TO WEAR A SUIT. I want to have a cane that I can lean onto while standing, I want other men to talk to me like if I were just another guy.

I WANT TO BE ONE OF THOSE GUYS- that are like, buff but also a bit fat since, ngl I would genuinely like to be a fluffy guy, AND REALLY TALL and look down at people. I want to be tall too not just as a man but as me because I just wanna be the size of my dad. At LEAST 6’0 that’d be AMAZING.

I WOULDN’T JUST WANNA WEAR A SUIT EITHER- I wanna be a gentlemen that wears warm cream colors and a nice soft brown sweater with a beanie and THOSE BOOTS. (You know the ones I’m talking about-). I wanna have big legs and wear those jeans that look HUGE to other people but are normal for you cuz you’re just a big guy! I wanna wear that, THAT AMAZING SMELLING COLOGNE GOD DO I WANT TO WEAR COLOGNE.

Okay- to wrap things up- sometimes, I just want to look masculine AND IF ANYTHING IF I CAN’T LOOK MASCULINE AND APPEALING (and smoke cigars like one of them guys in the movies, drink alcohol or beer even though I don’t like it- OH AND HOW HAVE I NOT MENTIONED WANTING TO HAVE THAT MAN GOLFER FIT-)

OKAY BUT REAL QUICK- I’d want to have like A BUNCH OF PAPER BOY HATS (I already wear them and I LOVE THEM SO MUCH- but if I looked like a man?? 🤯🤯) with like different colors to have one each day to match the shirt I’m wearing- with brown pointed at the tip shoes that are shiny and SO SO HANDSOME!!! I wanna look handsome I want someone to tell me I look handsome in like a vest and a red tie with a paper boy hat and nice cologne and A GOD DAMN SOPHISTICATED ASS MUSTACHE!- And when I go golfing with buddies I have the casual golfer fit, BECAUSE THEY JUST SO NICE AND SPIFFY AND HANDSOME I WANNA LOOK LIKE THAT!!!

I love being a woman, I REALLY DO- I like being a woman because in the future I wanna look beautiful in pretty dresses and nice necklaces and pretty shiny hair (short obviously-) and cute glasses to match my cute outfits! Heck I wanna wear some of these dresses:

Vintage I know- but you gotta admit they look GORGEOUS!!!

And I’ll admit I’m completely fine with being a woman because of this! I wanna look pretty in dresses, be called beautiful, have a dazzling outfit to make myself look even prettier!

But I also just, wanna look handsome! Wear a suit. Have a mustache. Have a nice deep voice and- funny story- I remember I saw an episode of Steven Universe where Pearl was wearing a suit and I thought she looked AMAZING!!

I ended up telling my mom that when I got to Prom I want to have a suit, which my mom laughed and jokingly said I would look like a lesbian. Of course I don’t like woman like that, I think they’re all beautiful but just not like that. But in general I thought to myself I just wanna see myself in a suit, a tie, nice shoes, a nice hat, with cologne. And I again don’t even have to look masculine, I just want to look handsome and spiffy!

I started liking the idea of having masculine facial hair because I can’t stop thinking about if I did have those things, they would be AWESOME!!

I’m sorry if I ended up writing too much or confusing you with my words, so in long short of it:

I like being a woman, wouldn’t mind wearing a suit, wouldn’t mind having a masculine voice features hair etc, and I wanna look handsome. But I still like dressing femininely.

I’m sorry for the long talk, I just wanted to spill my mind a bit, nothing much to it though 🤷‍♀️

[rugtopper]

THE INTERVENTION

BY RUGTOPPER

Vinny did not expect to find anything in his mailbox at work. He did not he know why he bothered looking in it. He had been an inter-office courier at Payton Publishing for three years. No one ever sent him messages; he was never invited out for a drink after work; and, no one even bothered to say hello to him in the halls as he made his rounds. Finding a handwritten note in his box was a shock. He was even more shocked to read that he was invited to watch a football game with some of the executives from the eighth floor this weekend. He hated going to the eighth floor. All the male executives would give him strange looks. They were looks he was not used to getting. They were looks of pity, but not in a condescending sort of way. It was a look of pity that you see someone give another human being when you know that that someone is about to help that human being. Regardless, it did not make Vinny feel comfortable. When he left the eighth floor, he always felt like he was about to be the next big project for the local Junior League to take on to make them feel good about themselves. He had no idea how wrong he was. He had no idea just how good he was going to feel about himself.

Vinny went to eighth floor, as instructed in the note. He waited outside Mr. Reynolds' office. Albert Reynolds was a tough man to size up. He was not the type of man you would see going to a football game, much less hosting a football party. He was more the type who might sing with the local chamber ensemble on a Tuesday night, and play golf on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Reynolds came out of his office with a big grin on his face. He was a slight man, maybe 5'7", if that tall; very trim with no facial hair. Aside from his height, his most striking feature was his fiery strawberry blond hair. At 43, he was still very youthful looking with his ruddy complexion and the flaming head of hair.

"Here are the directions to my house, Vinny. I hope you don't have any trouble finding the place. There are only going to be six of guys there, plus you."

"Should I bring anything, Mr. Reynolds?" Vinny asked.

"Well, Vinny, first call me Al. Second, if you want to you can bring some chips. The other guys are bringing the rest of the food. I'll be in charge of the grill out back."

Thanks, Mister . . . ah, Al."

"No, problem. See you Saturday at noon."

"Sure."

All week, Vinny looked forward to the weekend. Also, he noticed that the guys on the eighth floor looked at him differently. He wasn't sure what kind of look this was. Still, when they saw him, they did at least speak to him. That was the best change.

Saturday finally came. Vinny showed up at Al's house right at noon. He could hear the TV when he got out his truck. He grabbed the grocery bags and headed toward the front door. Before he even got to the porch, the door opened. It was Mr. Pierce. Perfect Pierce they called him. He once recalled a book that had had 10,000 copies printed because of a punctuation mistake on the last page of the book. He was not one to mess with at all.

"Hey, Vinny, glad you're here." Mr. Pierce said as he took the bags out of Vinny's hands.

"Hi, Mr. Pierce.

"Now, Vinny, we're away from work. Just call me Derek."

"Okay, Derek." Vinny replied.

"I think you know all the other guys here," Derek said as Vinny made his way through the door.

Yes, Vinny knew all of the men. After a quick survey of the room, he also knew why he might be there. He didn't really make the connection when Al gave him the directions, or even when Derek, with his stark-white preppy hairdo, greeted him at the door. Now he knew. There sitting in front of the giant screen television were the other four men from the eighth floor. All six were clothed in their khaki slacks, typical golf shirts and their obvious toupees. Here Vinny was in his blue jeans, faded t-shirt, tennis shoes, and ratty black hair. Now he knew that something was up.

Derek closed and locked the door. Al got up from his chair and came to shake Vinny's hand. Vinny was led over to the sofa.

One of the guys turned off the television.

"Now, Vinny, I bet you're wondering why we asked you here. Especially when you think we haven't even had anything to do with you all these years."

"Well, it is kind of odd, don't you think?" Vinny asked, as he ran his hands over his messy hair with the V-shaped hairline.

All the men just looked at each other and then at Vinny.

"Vinny, we want to help you. We think you're a great guy. We know you've been waiting for job to open up in editing. You've seen people come and go. You've even been overlooked twice. Most men would have left, but you've stuck it out. We appreciate that more than you know. But we can't help you until you decide that you need help. We need to know that you are willing to do what it takes to improve yourself for the job that you want."

"Look, uh, Mr. Steel, is it? I just came to watch the game. Yes, I'd like to move into editing. Yes, I'd like to remain in the publishing business. I've got time. It's been three years since I finished grad school. I've had a lot of offers, but not with a smaller publishing company like yours. I like what Peyton produces. I like their style. I like the fact that they really want to publish local authors."

"Yes, it is Mr. Steel, but you can call me Gene. We like what we see, but only in your resume, Vinny. There is plenty of room for improvement in so many areas of your life. We just want to help you, that’s all."

"Vinny, let me just cut to the chase. The way you present yourself on paper is suburb. The way you present yourself in public is another story. That is what we want to change." 

"Look, Al, let me make myself clear. I don't need your pity that each of gives me every day at work. I certainly don't need some sort of intervention to help me make it in the publishing world."

"True, Vinny, but believe me when I say that the publishing world is not busting down any doors to find the next best editor. It is a closed field. Everything is focused on the next author, the next bestseller. No one cares about editors or proofreaders. They are a dime a dozen. What I'm trying to tell you is that, as you are now, you will never stand out. There is nothing in your appearance that says, 'yes, I am a professional.' It says 'look at me, a man in his thirties who can barely make ends meet, who can't dress himself, and who is losing his hair.'"

"So, it comes down to that, does it? My hair. Is that what this is all about? This is rich. A room full of men in rugs giving me a lecture on hair loss. This day just gets odder and odder."

"Alright, Vinny. So what. So, we happen to wear toupees. The alternative is what you are quickly moving toward. We have all been there. We all know what will happen. We see what you do. We see you try to hide it at work. We see you use a lot of product to make the front look fuller. You brush down the sides to hide that growing V at your temples. We even see you slap on that awful ball cap when you get into your truck everyday when you leave. Is that how you want to live, Vinny? Are you prepared for what happens next?"

Up until this point Vinny and Al had been the only two involved in this exchange. Suddenly, Mr. Cappato spoke up. He was Italian, just like Vinny.

"Vinny, you and I are a lot alike. We both come from big Italian families. We both know how hard it is to be the one in the family who is losing his hair. Look at me Vinny. I was your age when all my thick, black hair started going down the drain." With that, Mr. Cappato reached his hand up to his full, coal black pompadour, and took it off. There sat Mr. Cappato with just a narrow rim of dyed black hair over his ears and across the back of his head.

Vinny just sat there in shock, speechless.

"This is where you are headed. Look at me, Vinny. Let me help you. Let us help you." Mr. Cappato pleaded.

"What, now all of you are going to take turns showing me your bald heads?" Vinny asked.

"We just might, but first I think we need to do something else."

That was Mr. Peyton, Jr., the boss’s son. He had the fakest head of brown hair you have ever seen. It did not even match the course salt-n-pepper hair on the back and sides. He didn't even bother to dye it to match.

"Vinny, I think you need to go to the bathroom and wash out all that product. I think you really need to see just what little you have up there."

"I think you might just need to make me, Junior." With that Vinny jumped up and snatched off Mr. Peyton's toupee. Not only did it reveal his bald pate, but it also revealed where his tan line stopped and his pasty scalp started.

"Well, I think that is enough childishness for one day." said Al. "Boys, I think Vincent here needs a bit of help. Please escort him to my barbershop in the basement."

When Al said this, two security guards from the building came in from the other room and lifted Vinny off the ground. One of the other executives, who had remained silent to this point, produced a large needle.

"This will make things easier, Vincent." said the executive with the tightly-curled wig.

Vinny found himself half awake in a barber's chair, strapped down and wearing only his teal-colored bikini briefs, surrounded by the six men. All of them were now totally bald. Their wigs and toupees were lined up in front of Vinny on stands just staring at him. One of the security guards was now dressed in a white barber's uniform. Vinny's hair was dripping wet. All of the black-colored mousse and fiber thickeners had been washed out. Gone was all the darkened powder used to hide his nearly hairless crown. Vinny just looked at himself for the first time. Then he looked at the men in the mirror. Lastly, he looked at the six Styrofoam heads staring at him.

With slurred speech, Vinny managed to say, "you're right, guys, I need help. I know if I ever want to advance to the eighth floor, I have to change my look. I've been denying it for over ten years now. I need to improve my image. I want a full head of hair like you guys. Mr. Cappato, I do want to look like you."

"Call me, Carmine, Son. I think that would be the best thing."

"Rex, go get a wig just like Carmine's out of the closet for Vinny here." Al told the barber.

While Rex was gone, the other security guard, now in full barber's gear came and began prepping Vinny.

Vinny's head was shaved until there was just a shadow left. Vinny was given two more shots. With this he passed out. Hours later, he awoke in the chair with a stiff neck. He was still hung over, but managed to open his eyes. In the mirror was this guy with eyes like his, who had a totally hairless, shiny dome. Rex was behind him mopping the floor. The smell was worse than a locker room. He knew that smell. He didn't need to think about what had happened while he had been out. The other barber came back into the room. He rubbed Vinny head with a clear liquid. This was cool and cleansing. It also completely removed the shine on his scalp. While the barber was doing this, Vinny noticed that there was only one wig stand in front of him. On it was a thick, black wig. The barber took this off the stand, applied tape to the underside and put it on Vinny's head. He pressed hard so the tape would adhere. He turned Vinny to the side and started combing and cutting. Next, he got out a steamer and started styling the wig. While Vinny was still groggy, Phil turned Vinny toward the mirror. Suddenly, Vinny was wide awake. Now he really recognized himself. This was the Vinny from high school. This was the cool Vinny that every girl and boy wanted to sleep with.

All six executives filed into the room. They were wearing their toupees and wigs.

"Vinny," Al said, "We have a change of clothes for you upstairs. We've recorded the game, if you want to watch it with us. Also, you are expected in my office on Monday morning to discuss your new position as a copy editor. Are we clear?"

Vinny nodded as Rex and Phil helped him up. Mr. Cappato helped Vinny up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Vinny put on his new casual clothes while Carmine watched and occasionally helped. Several hours later they eventually emerged from the guest bedroom each brushing down the back of his hair. The weekend turned out better than he had hoped. Vinny never watched the game, but spent the rest of the weekend with Carmine. Monday morning a whole new world began.

THE END

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My initials: A.O.L. (I’m a woman who prefers men)

My favorite colors(s): black & wine red

Song that reminds me of you: Just Like Magic by Ariana Grande

I’m subscribed and I followed your Instagram.

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Veiny hands

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