You’re a bartender at the pub the boys frequent. It’s close enough to base and has good prices for beer, plus their pool tables aren’t all ripped up like the bar closest to base.
You’re younger, trying to get your feet out under you. The boys show up intermittently, but enough that you start learning their orders and names. Eventually you learn they’re in the military, hence their unreliable schedules.
They think you’re cute. Polite, sweet, sometimes you even give them a free beer if your manager isn’t looking. What really gets you brownie points is one day they come in after a rough mission on their own soil. A bombing in London they were unable to prevent. What the general public didn’t know was there was supposed to be 4 more bombs—those they did stop. Still, whenever lives are lost they get a little low.
So they slink into the pub more solemnly than normal, find their usual seats near the back and huddle up tightly. Like they don’t want anyone to get into their group.
You’ve seen the news. Heard about what happened, knew about the military presence there to stop it. Based on their demeanors it’s not hard to deduce they were in the brunt of it.
So when the incident comes on the TV, you’re quick to switch the channel. Apparently not quick enough, because some other drunken asshole you’ve had problems with in the past already got a look at it and is now raging.
“Bloody useless,” he slurs, barely able to keep himself up in his chair, “cannae comprehend how my taxes are goin’ to support these useless motherfuckers! What’s the point if they cannae prevent our own bloody people from dying? If I—“
You cut him off. “Sir, you’re entitled to your own opinion, but we’re not entitled to hearing whatever bullshit you’ve conjured up. Quiet down or I will have you removed.”
Your eyes flicker to the boys in the back. It’s not just that they’ve begun to grow on you, but you know that whatever happened in London they did their best to prevent it. They’re probably already punishing themselves enough if the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed today is any indicator.
They seem to have heard the exchange which…isn’t ideal. You’d prefer if they hadn’t needed to hear any of that. Still, you get sent a couple nods and that makes you glad you intervened.
After that they are definetly more aware of your presence. You had been their bartender for a while now, but now they had a respect for you beyond what they offered to just anyone.
So when they’re once again tucked into their corner and notice a ruckus involving you, they’re immediately paying attention.
You normally stayed behind the bar, of course you were the bartender, but also to avoid situations like this. They were unfortunately far too common.
Still, one of your beloved regulars had broken his leg, so you told him to sit down and you’d bring him his drink. Which was fine, until you passed a particularly rowdy table who thought it was a good idea to smack your ass as you passed.
You flip around, prepared to rip him a new one when you hear the loud screech of chairs being pushed out rapidly, followed by the bang of them falling on the floor.
You turn to look only to find your ragtag band of military regulars moving with an intimidating speed toward the douchebag. They had apparently witnessed the spectacle and decided they were going to respond. You weren’t even their target but you were still about ready to shit your pants at the look of them.
The one they called Ghost who always wore a half skull mask and eyeliner had a glare on his face that spelled danger. Their captain was leading the charge with large strides and clenched fists like he was ready to throw down. Kyle and Johnny who were usually incredibly sweet to you sported a different energy, looking less likely to sweet-talk and more likely to crush someone’s skull.
All plans of yelling (and maybe slapping) this man went out the window, because now you were more concerned about preventing a murder in the establishment. That would not be good for business.
They were on you in no time. John grabbed your waist and simply picked you up and plopped you to the side with a, “‘scuse me, sweet’eart.” Opening the way for Ghost to grab this guy by the collar and lift him off his feet. They didn’t stop, simply sweeping this guy out of the establishment. The door swung open and cold air blew in. Only then did you begin to comprehend what just happened. The speed at which they responded to your crisis was honestly astonishing, and the fact that they had the forethought to deal with this outside was gracious. Still…you were incredibly curious.
You followed their path and took a peak outside, only to find what you assume was the last of the blows he received. Simon was holding the guy by his arms, he seemed to have taken several punches, and was now met with John’s finger in his face. John was presumably lecturing (threatening) him. The moment Simon let him go he scrambled away. You…didn’t know how to feel about that. Violence on your behalf.
When they came back in, John patted you on the shoulder and gave you his eye-scrunching smile. “He won’t be botherin’ you again, love.”
You just nodded dazed as they went back to their seats like nothing happened.
It definetly sent a message, though. People were far less inclined to mess with you after that.
simon ghost riley works as a bouncer in the local town club, a small place notable for its signs that are barely blinking in the dark of the night, a type of shebang for its own people, making money from stable patrons, most often ordinary alcoholics and crowds of crazy teenagers who only look like adults, but in fact are not, although he should not care, he's here only for particularly serious cases of beatings or worse, sometimes even so that the cops called to the scene forget why they're here.
to stand on a damp street, sinewy back leaning against a cold brick wall very close to the main door, and people still get frightened of him every time, especially late at midnights, when only the silhouette of a skull on a balaclava and bottomless charcoal eyes are watching them from the corner, even the blonde eyelashes that frame his eyes oddly delicately do not help, but somehow he got used to it, learned to be amused by every squeak and gasp he received, both women and men reacting the same.
the job has its advantages, he could eat snacks from the bar in immeasurable quantities, because, one way or another, not many could refuse him, as well as allow himself a couple of sips of not at all cheap bourbon, but most of all he liked you, a cute, pretty little bartender, dressed to attract the eye not only with those tricks with drinks, but also with your revealing appearance, because of which simon more than once pulled all sorts of tipsy perverts away from you by the scruff of their neck, atlough he himself was no better than a dog.
you're just a doll, seriously, pouring into his glass despite the fact that you've already received a warning from your superiors, giggle sweetly at his old fashioned army humor, put your soft palm on his strong biceps in fits of laughter, thinking that simon doesn't notice that you're doing this only to him, grow sheepish when he ogles brazenly at the deep neckline of your cleavage in this work top, after he had drunk a little too much and no longer hides a slight grin on his thin, nicked lips, damn, you even flutter close to ask him if everything is okay when he smashes his knuckles on the face of another asshole.
and you also let him pound your soppy little cunt in the club's dingy storage room, squelching wet and needy around the jerking, veiny girth of his cock, pulsing walls gripping tight at the fat tip as his broad, scarred hips withdraw back, thrusts turning choppy as he forces himself deeper, knocking choking keens out of your drooling mouth, calloused thumb pulling harsh at your lower lip, making your jaw go more lax, opening up for his spit and gurgling when he bends to smear it all over your mouth palate and teeth with his own tongue, your shaking hands curling into the stretched fabric of his shirt on the ample chest.
there's advantages for sure, because there's nothing better than watching you try to work while his cooling cum drips between your legs and down their length, throwing offended angry glances simon's way and shuddering when he catches you passing by, wide palm smoothing over the clothed swell of your ass with a teasing grope, reminding that your slick drenched panties are now stuffed in the pocket of his cargos, lacy fabric barely peeking out, and this may well be considered a bonus for good work this week.
summary: Steve’s a bouncer, you’re a bartender, and you’re absolutely not into each other. It’s flirting, it’s harmless fun.
tags: 90s au, painful flirting, steve is desperate, hints at steves past suffering (cuz i love angst), inspired off this lil thought, writing in present tense again kinda nervous
wc: 1.9k
Bad Rabbits Bar, June 1994
Indianapolis, not too far but not too close to home. It’s a three hour stretch from Hawkins, sometimes four if the traffic is especially bad. It was far enough for Steve to escape. From a comfortable distance.
Steve wasn’t escaping Hawkins. No, he was just letting go of the past, preventing himself from being stuck in it. He didn’t need to stay in Hawkins, if anything, he needed to leave. He should’ve left years before he did.
But all the kids had graduated, gone off to college, grown up. His friends had left the town before him. There were no more babysitting or monster-hunting paths he could take.
The only path he had left to take had the brown marker sign that said “Leaving Hawkins, come again soon!”
And Steve took it.
And found himself wound up in the biggest city in Indiana.
He scored a decent apartment, not too nice, but a lot nicer compared to the others he’d seen (because the Harrington name still sticks with some of the big business guys outside of Hawkins.)
He scored a job as a bouncer after he found a weird mix of a bar and nightclub in the downtown area of the city.
A popular spot near a hotel, it was a plain sports bar during the day. Leather booths and wood tables against the wall, neon signs shaped like the beer logos hung up, stools at the polished wood counter with a few box TVs sitting in the corners playing reruns or the current sport seasons game.
In the later hours on the weekends they’d open up the stretch of empty floor to become the dance floor, lights would reflect off the cheap disco ball that was strung up from the ceiling, and every once in a while, they’d hire an actually good DJ. Whoever built the place clearly had the idea for it to be a nightclub only, but the current owner wanted both a flashy techno nightclub and sports bar at the same time.
That’s why everyone loved it so much, painful, but you could get the best of both worlds if you wanted. It was cheap, next to a hotel, and a tourist spot in one of the biggest cities in the country. Plus, if you paid extra bucks, you could get a private show from the go-go dancers.
It was a tacky little roadhouse.
For Steve, decent pay, decent job. Nights could be boring, but there would always be kids with fake IDs who liked to argue, drunk girls batting their eyelashes in attempts to get in, rich business men with wallets filled with hundred dollar bills, office workers looking for somewhere to destress, pissed off or ecstatic sports fans, all kinds of patrons would show up.
At least the regulars at the bar were nice. Or quiet.
It wasn’t exciting to talk about, it wasn’t the dream, but it was a job. It was easy.
And after going through a four year streak of hell that blended into his teenage years and early adulthood, Steve needed easy.
He was perfectly fine with the job of checking IDs and dealing with intoxicated people. It was dull work, but it wasn’t all bad.
Especially once you showed up not long after he was hired.
Thursday night is always boring. There’s only a few patrons sitting at the bar, most people are in bed or on their way to it, the old box TV on the counter is playing an episode of The X-Files (Marty always asks you to switch it to Fox Network or he’ll go on a rant about “hiding from the truth”.) and you pretend to not be interested in it.
This quiet and stale atmosphere compared to the chaos of Friday night lights always makes it feel like the clock hands are stuck moving through syrup. Basically, Thursday nights are slow.
You wash, wipe, and put away glasses while mindlessly staring at the TV, you’ve seen this episode before, Scully and Mulder are stuck in a research station in Alaska with scientists and everyone's losing their minds, you know what happens. They’ve replayed this episode too many times.
Knuckles rap against the counter in a familiar pattern.
Knock. Knock. Beat. Knock.
You can’t help the smile that creeps up on your face, you turn around and you’re met with who it always is.
“You being good?” Steve teases, his crossed arms sitting on the counter. His arms flex against the short sleeve of his black shirt, his biceps all on display.
“Depends. Is your shift over or do I have to tell you no drinking on the job again?” You shoot with a smirk, your feet are already slowly turning in the direction of the mini fridges.
“Uh-uh. I’m off the clock.” He uncrosses his arms and holds out his hands, drumming them on the table.
You've figured out what Steve’s choice of drink would be after his shifts by his body language and tone of voice. He’s hard to read, kind of a closed book, but at least you’ve cracked the code in what beer he likes.
Tonight he’s tired, not exhausted, just a bit tired. It’s been a boring night, he’s not looking for anything to wake him up.
You turn and grab a bottle of Budweiser and set it down in front of him. Instead of using the opener mounted to the bar counter, you let him do the honors and hand him a spare bottle opener.
“Oh, thank you.” He sighs out like he just had a heavy bag removed off his back. “Any guys try slipping you their numbers tonight?”
“Nope.” You pop the p as you copy his original sitting position and lean your crossed arms against the counter. “Any girls try to flirt their way into here tonight?
“Nope.” He copies your cadence, “Uneventful tonight. What?” Steve notices how you’re staring at him through narrowed eyes.
“Nothing, I just heard a woman talking about the really sexy brunette bouncer she tried to talk to.” You shrugged, taking a coaster and spinning it under your finger.
“Well, there’s a lot of women who come here, I don’t pay attention.”
Steve is a statue when he’s at the door, you’ve seen it. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t really move around, he’ll rock back and forth on his feet if he’s really bored. He’s an animatronic, he takes your ID, checks it, gives it back, and lets you in.
“You don’t pay attention to the pretty women that are right in front of your face?” You pout at him.
“The only pretty woman I pay attention to is you.” Steve tilts his head to the side, that stupid cocky smile on his face means he’s telling himself still got it, Harrington.
You roll your eyes and fake a gag, you gotta crush his spirit from time to time. Keep him humble.
“Real smooth mister.” You push yourself up and the bar counter, “Buy me a drink first.”
“When does your shift end?” He shoots back and you have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes again.
“Midnight.” You grimace and throw your head back. Three hours. Three more fucking hours. You don’t know how many more times you can handle hearing The X Files theme song tonight.
“Have you had your smoke break yet?” Steve’s question pulls you out of your tiny moment of misery, your head snaps back up.
Marty is too focused on Scully and Mulder pointing guns at each other on the TV, but you tell him his next drink will be on the house if he keeps watch of the bar and doesn’t touch anything.
The brick wall of the bar is cool on your skin, the old light on the side of the building is yellowed and occasionally flickering, little bugs are circling it.
Steve’s already lighting your cigarette before you can even reach for the lighter in your pocket. His cig is laying unlit in the corner of his mouth, he always lights yours first for you.
“You think I’ll get in trouble if I close an hour early?”
“No, it’s not like Jerry’s here to see it happen.” Steve struggles with the lighter for a minute, he can’t seem to get it to spark fully with the wind blowing it out. “Everything alright?” He’s trying to shift the focus to you, he’s getting more and more embarrassed with the lighter not fucking working.
“Mm. Just bored, no one’s here.” You sigh, blowing out smoke while you let your head fall back against the wall. Steve is finally able to get an actual flame out.
“I’m here.” He juts out his bottom lip and shrugs before he matches your position. You just smile and close your eyes for a minute.
You’re tired, he’s tired. There’s not much to talk about. But the quiet is nice, the wind on your face is nice, Steve’s presence is nice.
You can hear Steve’s feet shift in the gravel but you don’t think much of it, you let yourself take a moment before opening your eyes again.
When you do, Steve’s turned around facing the wall, his cigarette has been replaced with a pen cap, he’s got a napkin pressed against it and a pen- the pen from your apron, must’ve slipped it out while you weren’t looking, he’s writing something down.
“Maybe, I can make up for all the missed numbers tonight.” He hands you the napkin, there’s a small tear in it from the ragged wall.
“You’re gonna play the stranger who slips me his number tonight?”
“Stranger?”
“Co-worker.” You correct.
“Well, ow. I thought we were friends.” He puts the cap back on your pen, and slips in back into the front pocket of your apron. Your stomach sucks in a tiny bit at the feeling of his hand against it through the fabric.
“I don’t know anything about you!” You laugh.
“Yes you do, I talk to you all the time!”
“You talk to me on my smoke breaks or when you stop by after your shift.”
“Well, my name is Steve, I just turned 27, I work as a bouncer, and my favorite flavor of ice cream is butterscotch.” That last part was a lie, Steve couldn’t stomach that flavor anymore, not after that summer. God, when was the last time he ate ice cream? “Nice to meet you, what’s your name?” He gave you a shit eating grin and stuck his hand out.
You couldn’t help smiling again, you ignored his hand.
“I think you’re drunk, you should go home.” You stomp out your cigarette and make your way towards the back door, the napkin with his number is still in your hand.
You hear Steve scoff and when you face towards him again his hands are on his hips.
“Go home, Steven.” You groan as you open the door.
“Look! We’re on a full first name basis already!”
You turn around and stare at him, you lean your body slack against the doorframe, your hand is lazily holding onto the knob.
“Go home.” You give him a tired smile. You’re enjoying his company, you feel bad telling him to go. There’s something in you that’s trying to tug back at you telling him to go.
“Fine.” He says defeated, the same tired smile on his face, but he won’t let up “But give me a call when you get home, let me know you’re safe, ‘kay?” He’s slowly beginning to walk backwards, his car is already parked in the back lot.
“Yeah I will, I will. ‘Kay?” You tease as you mock his voice, “Goodnight Steve.”
You spin around after he says it back and close the door behind you, you stare at the number on the napkin. You make a mental note to yourself and fold it before shoving it in your back pocket where your wallet is.
You’ll close up early tonight.
phone call blurb hehe
thanks for reading! lemme know what you thought! <3
Summary: Life has battered & bruised you, so you aren’t expecting to find solace in a bar-regular, and yet you do.
Pairing: re4!Leon x bartender!reader
WC/Tags: 4,552 / one night stand, semi(?)strangers to lovers, p in v, heavy kissing, hand holding, talk of abuse, implied physical abuse, MDNI
A/N: I listened to FME by Ethel Cain when writing this. For day 18 of @juneofdoom ‘how long have you been like this?’ Comments & likes are always appreciated
His cheek is still tender.
The punch had come out of nowhere, some asshole that had heard about the ‘new special agent’, and wanted to make a statement. Of course. This isn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last. Doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
The beer he’s nursing is his third. Normally he doesn’t drink, but it’s the weekend which means he doesn’t have to wake up at four am the next day, that he can indulge in a hangover, so he plans on having probably a dozen and then stumbling back to base. It isn’t the best plan but it also isn’t the worst, and besides, it’s not like he has anything else.
Leon swallows the last of the bottle, placing it on the bar top before raising his hand. You had been expecting it, and walk over quickly, tilting your face. “Another?”
He nods once, sharp and quiet. His eyes are dull, not from alcohol yet, but something deeper. The bar’s dim light catches the faint bruise blooming along his jawline.
He doesn’t smile when you tilt your head. Doesn’t thank you either, just watches as you grab the next beer, twist off the cap with practiced ease, and slide it over. His fingers wrap around it, cold glass against calloused skin, and he brings it to his lips without hesitation this time.
Your cheek is also tender. You didn’t bother to cover it up with makeup, the swelling had already gone down and the bruising was light. The actual pain was more than skin deep, but that didn’t matter. That kind of bruise doesn’t show.
Rag in hand you wipe down the counters, toss away old coasters as Leon sips. You’ve seen him before, but this is the first time you’ve seen him stay, seen him drink. Normally he has a beer or two and leaves, but now his eyes bore into the wood of the counter like it holds the universal answer.
“Stare at it harder,” you jab, if for nothing but boredom. “Maybe it’ll speak to you.”
Leon blinks. His expression is flat, unamused. The kind of look that could freeze a man’s spine. A beat passes before he takes another sip from the beer bottle, longer this time.
He doesn’t respond with words, just sets the bottle down with a soft clink and finally looks at you properly: tired eyes scanning your face like he’s reading between the lines of the bruise on your cheekbone, how quickly you moved to refill his drink, how casually sharp your tone was despite it all being fake lightness.
His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. No comeback. Just silence heavy as lead in an empty bar after midnight.
You aren’t sure where the tension came from but it’s thick. Heavy. Your stomach flutters with that gnawing want to be ravished, to be held and maybe not squeezed so tightly; but your boyfriend, exboyfriend, doesn’t fuck like that and you aren’t sure if you really deserve that anyways. That kindness.
Leon finishes his bottle and asks for another in a quiet voice. You hand it to him, preparing to move on when his eyes move to your face.
“When do you get off?”
You blink at him, curious if he’s feeling the pull too. He looks lonely enough. “‘Bout an hour.”
He nods, the beer already at his mouth. “I can wait.”
“You making assumptions?” You ask, leaning a hand on your hip.
His expression cracks into a small smile, and it looks odd on his face. “Am I wrong?” Heat crawls up your neck and you look away, dropping the rag to the counter. The dirty bar floor suddenly looks very interesting. Leon chuckles and his beer clinks on the table. “Didn’t think so.”
The chuckle still hangs in the air as Leon leans back on the barstool. He’s not handsome in a flashy way; his face is all angles and shadows, with barely there stubble, but tiny smile makes him look younger. Softer.
He watches you avoid eye contact with quiet amusement before taking another sip of beer.
An hour isn’t long, but it feels like one when your pulse is hammering.
You grab a mop from behind the counter, not because you need to clean now, but because standing still feels too hard under his gaze. The clatter of metal against tile fills the silence while he sits there calm as ever: two bottles down, no sign of slurring or clumsiness yet, the man can hold his liquor better than most soldiers.
After a minute or so, he speaks again without looking up: “You got someone waiting for you?”
“Aside from you?” You reply, and shake your head. “No, not anymore.”
He doesn’t reply, and you go back to mopping.
When your shift ends, you empty out the trash and return inside to wash your hands. You can feel his eyes on you as you move, and you try not to look up, try not to imagine what it’ll feel like to have his eyes on your bare skin.
Closing the register, you return the key before spinning to look at him. You inhale, coming around the bar and approaching his right side. “Mine or yours?”
Leon stands like his back aches, which is odd considering he can’t even be in his 30s yet. The barstool scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back. He’s taller than you expected up close, broad-shouldered, solid like a soldier should be, but his movements are quiet.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a set of keys, military-issue keychain with dog tags clipped to it, and turns them once in his palm before looking at you.
“Yours,” he says simply. “I’m on base.”
His voice is assuring, like that settles everything. Like this is already decided and all that’s left is walking out together under the dim streetlights outside.
He pockets the keys again without another word, then holds out his hand toward you. You blink at it and consider him, consider yourself because what if he’s crazy? What if he’s harder than your ex, harsher? You aren’t sure if you can stomach that right now.
Taking his hand you lead Leon from the bar without protest. He nods to his car, and you get into the passenger seat as he turns it on. You give him directions, and he doesn’t speak as he drives, just obeys in a quiet manner.
When he pulls in front of your trailer, a good 10 miles from the military base, you get out first. Your cowgirl boots kick up dirt as you close the car door and fish your keys from your purse. Leon follows you, quiet as ever when you push open the trailer door.
The trailer is small, tidy in the way your shoes are lined up by the door, a coat hung neatly on a hook. There’s soft lighting from a single lamp, and faint music playing low on an old radio: something slow and nostalgic.
You kick off your boots near the entrance. Leon steps inside behind you after removing his jacket. He doesn’t take off his boots but pauses just inside to scan the space: no photos on walls, no cluttered surfaces. Just order.
He shuts the door gently behind him.
For someone who carries guns every day and has seen war zones firsthand, he moves like this moment matters more than most.
He isn’t rushing. No grabbing at you yet, not even when you turn to face him in that dim light wearing jeans and that thin sweater that hugs your shoulders just right.
“Live alone?” He asks and you nod.
“Yeah,” you reply. “It was my dads ‘til he left.”
“He coming back?”
You shrug. “That was a few years ago, so. Don’t think so.”
Leon nods, his eyes travel over you once, then meet yours again, dark blue meeting hurting loneliness, and finally, he reaches out for you.
His hands are warm.
Large, calloused from years of combat training and gripping rifles in the field, but his touch is careful. One hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone where that faint bruise still lingers. The other settles gently on your waist through the soft fabric of your sweater.
No words.
Just breathes between you growing heavier in the quiet space, then he leans down slowly and kisses you.
It’s not aggressive or hungry like most first kisses after tension like this would be. It’s soft at first, testing lips meeting yours once, twice, a third time with slightly more pressure as his mouth moves against yours with surprising tenderness.
Your hands find his belt and his moves to the hem of your shirt.
He doesn’t move exactly slow but he doesn’t move fast either, your clothing falling to the floor in pieces. Toeing off his shoes, he tugs at his jeans while you find a condom. You sit on the couch, a tattered red one your mother had stitched more times than you can count, and lean back, your head on the arm rest. Leon rips the wrapper with his teeth, sliding the rubber over his length and his hand dips between your legs, pressing over the only fabric left on you. You shiver at the touch, and he tilts his face, watching your reaction.
“The one that gave you that,” he asks, and nods at your face. “He still around?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
Leon grabs your panties and you lift your hips, helping him pull them down. “Good.”
You spread your legs further, one thigh pressed to the back of the couch and the other tipping over the side of it, foot planted on the ground as Leon leans over you, between your legs. With the condom on and the panties are gone, Leon hovers over you, kneeling between your thighs with that focused intensity he probably uses in his line of work, but now his attention is all on you.
He leans down first to kiss you again, deep this time, and one hand slides up your bare leg from ankle to hip while the other cups the soft skin of your breast.
No roughness, testing how you respond, mapping warmth and shivers like a man relearning tenderness after years of hardship.
His mouth trails lower, over your jaw and throat, to your collarbone, then slower as he kisses down your chest. His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh just before his lips finally brush where you want him, and then he’s kissing there too.
Your lips part as he licks at your nipple, a hand coming up to brush through his hair. His face tilts up to yours and a smile blinks across your mouth.
“The one who gave you that,” you nod at his bruise. “They still around?”
“Unfortunately.”
You make a tsking sound. “You should give em hell.”
Leon exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not completely. He doesn’t smile at your words like someone would if they were joking.
“Already did,” he mutters before lowering his mouth again, this time catching your nipple between his teeth gently, a small bite that makes you gasp, then soothing it with warm swipes of his tongue. His hands are busy now: one sliding down to grip your hip firmly while the other trails lower over your stomach and belly button.
The way he touches isn't rushed or frantic; every movement is controlled.
Like even in intimacy, Leon S. Kennedy operates with precision, a soldier who knows exactly how to handle something fragile without breaking it, unless ordered otherwise, and he seems very focused on not hurting you.
His head lifts and his mouth finds yours.
You find you like the way he tastes.
His hips are bracketed by your thighs, and your hands run down his chest as he positions himself at your entrance. You try to relax, try to keep still and not make a sound, but then he’s pressing in, filling you, and you can’t help the moan that escapes.
His eyes, half-lidded before, focused on your face, darken instantly. You aren’t sure you like that. He freezes just halfway in, letting you adjust to his size, jaw tight with restraint. You can feel the tension coiled through his shoulders and arms where they brace above you.
For a second he doesn’t move at all, slow inhales through his nose as if counting seconds or praying silently. He kisses you again, tongue swiping at your lip, and slowly pushes the rest of the way in until there’s no space left between you.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, quiet, like he didn’t mean to let it out. His forehead drops to yours as he stays buried inside you, giving your body time. His mouth moves with yours while his hips begin to rock forward in small increments. No urgency yet.
Each shallow thrust is testing friction, heat, and when another soft moan escapes your lips? He feels it against his own mouth and something shifts.
His hands tighten slightly on your hips before one slides up under the curve of your back for leverage, then he starts moving properly, deeper rolls of his pelvis now that match a steady rhythm.
“Shit,” he grunts, his pace picking up, and your nails dig into his upper shoulder. His thrusts are deep, full, and you let your head drop, eyes flutter before his face leans close to yours. “What do you need?”
His question catches you off guard, and you blink at him. “W-what?”
His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb running over your bottom lip. “How do you like it, so I can get you there?”
The question is unexpected, not because Leon isn’t capable of tenderness, but because men like him, tough guys, soldiers who’ve spent years in survival mode, they usually take what they want without asking.
But not him.
His thumb stills on your lip. His breathing is heavy now from the pace but his focus hasn’t wavered. Those blue eyes are sharp even as sweat starts to form at his temples.
He’s waiting for an answer, and you aren’t sure what to say.
“I-” you inhale, then grip his wrist and move his hand to your throat. A muscle in his jaw jumps and his hips slow to a roll, making your lashes flutter.
“That what you like,” he murmurs, and he’s so close his mouth brushes your as he speaks. “Or what he liked?”
The hand on your throat doesn’t squeeze. It just rests, warm palm against your pulse point, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of it like he’s checking your heart rate.
He studies your face, the way you breathe faster now that his touch is gentle pressure instead of force, and then kisses you again slowly this time, a deep kiss with more feeling than friction.
When he pulls back slightly to watch for any sign, any hesitation or discomfort, he rolls his hips once more deliberately slow and asks again. “You want me to keep going?”
With shaking fingers you grab his wrist and pull his hand from your neck. He lets you instantly, and when you lace your fingers with his, you wonder if he’ll judge you, or ignore the intimacy of it completely.
He does neither.
Instead, with his fingers still intertwined with yours, he drags your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles before settling your joined hands back by your head.
Then, he fucks you.
His hips are sharp, quick, and you’re gasping as you clench around him, your fingers squeezing his while moans pour from your lips. He drops his head to the crook of your neck, grunting into your skin as his hips snap against you.
The change is sudden, gentle fingers to hard thrusts, his mouth on your neck now with hot open-mouthed kisses and the scrape of stubble against sensitive skin. His breathing is ragged in your ear as he fucks you with a rhythm that’s relentless but controlled, like every snap of his hips is measured to hit just right.
Your joined hands stay pinned beside your head, not trapped, just held there while he moves over you, all muscle and heat.
He doesn’t kiss you again, not yet. He’s too focused on chasing this feeling, the tightness around him when you clench involuntarily from pleasure, the way your moans vibrate into his shoulder where it rests against yours, how perfectly warm this trailer feels despite its sparse walls.
When you come it’s white hot and fast, your legs locking around his waist and your fingers squeezing his so tightly your nails dig into his skin.
Leon feels it the second you clench around him, the sudden, pulsing tightness that nearly stops his breath.
His hips stutter for half a beat before he groans in his throat, a raw sound muffled against your shoulder as your legs squeeze around him like you’re trying to pull him deeper. The pressure of your nails biting into his hand only fuels it, pain mixed with pleasure sharpening everything.
He doesn’t slow down but chases his release now, fucking through yours with deep thrusts that makes the couch creak beneath you. His jaw is clenched tight again, eyes shut or maybe just squeezed closed from intensity.
And then, he’s there too.
He moans, low and muffled and you can’t help but wrap an arm around his shoulder, holding him to you as his hips jerk, and then still. Both of you are panting hard as you loosen your vice grip on his hand, and gingerly he sits up, blinking down at you before pulling out of you completely.
The separation is quiet, careful.
He sits back on his heels between your legs, still catching his breath. The condom’s full now, and he handles it efficiently: knots the end and drops it onto the coffee table beside them with a soft thud. No shame or awkwardness in how he moves, just routine for a man used to cleaning up after himself.
Leon looks at you again, your flushed face, hair messy from being pressed into cushions, lips swollen from kissing.
Without speaking, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before leaning down to press one slow kiss against your forehead. The movement is so tender, so rare to what you’re used to that you nearly flinch, your breathing shaky.
Leon pulls back a little to watch your expression. “I- sorry. If that was too much.”
You blink up at him, surprised not just by the kiss, but by that. An apology, for a gentle touch
His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, like he genuinely thinks he might’ve overstepped some invisible line. And suddenly you realize this isn’t just about sex for him either. This was connection. The thing you’d been missing since you’d last been hit, something rare for someone like him who keeps people at arm’s length.
“No,” you say softly before reaching up to cup his face with both hands and pulling him down into another kiss, gentle this time, lingering on his lips as if to say it wasn’t too much.
He kisses you back, his hand on the back of your head, running over your hair until you both pull back and blink at eachother.
You thought you’d both been looking for one thing, a one night stand, when it seems you both were craving something else entirely.
He reaches down to hand you your shirt and you take it as he tugs his boxer back on. You excuse yourself, moving to the restroom and take inventory of yourself. Your eyes are rimmed but not so dark, and there’s the smallest hickey just below your collarbone. You touch it with your finger tip, twisting your lips.
When you come back into the living room, Leon’s mostly dressed aside from his shoes, leaning back against the couch cushions that he had just had you spread out on. You walk to your fridge, grabbing two beers and handing one to him wordlessly.
He takes the beer without a word, cracking it open with his teeth like before. He lifts it slightly in your direction, not quite a toast, more of an acknowledgment, then leans back against the cushions again. The trailer is quiet now, only the hum of the fridge and occasional creak from old wood settling.
He doesn’t look at you like he’s waiting to leave. Doesn’t check his watch or shift impatiently toward the door. Just sits there drinking quietly beside you on that red couch where not ten minutes ago everything had changed.
“You know when you took me home,” he says gently. “I didn’t realize how much I’d want to stay.”
You blink, tucking your legs beneath you as you sip your beer. You need a second to process that, to understand its meaning. “I didn’t know you’d want to either.”
He turns his head slightly, watching you over the rim of his beer bottle. The dim light catches the bruise on his jaw again, still there, still tender, but right now it feels less like a wound and more like part of him.
“Didn’t plan to,” he admits quietly. “Usually don’t stick around after. But this is… different.”
It’s not romantic phrasing or poetry from Leon S. Kennedy; no flowery words about your eyes or how soft your lips are, he expresses things in actions more than declarations anyway.
You smile and give a shrug. “Don’t know what you mean.”
You know exactly what he meant, but one of you has to be levelheaded. Neither of you can afford getting carried away.
Reaching for the remote, Leon flicks on the tv as if he’s been here before, like he has a history of touching your things, and sets back. You stretch your legs out, and your ankles rest on his thighs. Eyes on the tv, his unoccupied hand runs over your skin, to your feet, the chipped polish dull in the limited light, and begins to massage.
His fingers press into the arch of your foot with surprising gentleness for hands that snap necks and break ribs in combat. The massage isn’t rushed, a mix of steady circles, working out tension you didn’t even realize was there.
The TV plays some late-night infomercial about kitchen gadgets, neither of you watching it seriously. He takes another sip of beer before setting it down on the coffee table and refocusing on his task, caring for your feet like this is normal couple behavior.
There’s something unbearably intimate about it, the quiet domesticity after sex that could’ve just been a fling but clearly wasn't. His touch lingers over every callus and dry patch without judgment, and while his eyes are on the tv, your eyes are on him.
You wonder if you could really like him, could give this a chance. You wonder if he could really like you.
Settling your head back against the arm rest, you twist your neck so you can watch the flashing screen too.
You aren’t sure how long you both sit there, but eventually Leon pats your thigh, whispering that he has to go. You’re drowsy and content as you nod, sitting up before you stifle a yawn. You watch him tug on his boots, lacing them up and then he stands, eyeing you.
Leon isn’t a man who lingers, but now he’s standing by the door with his jacket on, one hand already on the knob; yet he doesn’t turn it yet. You move beside him, tucking your arms around your middle. “Well I.,.I’ll see you around?”
For a second, something unreadable flickers across his face. Then he’s bending to kiss you again, this time slow and deep like goodbye kisses should be when they might lead somewhere else later. When it ends, he brushes his thumb over your cheekbone once before pulling away completely.
“You will,” he says with a nod. He glances around your apartment and picks up a sharpie on your coffee table. He takes your hand and flips it, tugging the cap off with his teeth before writing down a number on your skin. “I mean that.”
He holds out the pen to you and then holds his hand upright, and you can’t help smiling a little as you write your number into his skin. “Thanks for the ride home. I hate walking.”
His palm is warm when you take it, and the sharpie smells faintly like ink as you write your number in neat digits across his skin. He watches you concentrate, your expression doesn’t go unnoticed, and when you finish, he gives your hand a quick squeeze before pulling his back.
Leon hands you back the pen without a word and finally turns the doorknob. Cold night air slips in for just a second, but instead of stepping out immediately, he pauses on the threshold and looks over his shoulder at you, hair messy from lying down earlier, eyes soft with sleepiness but also something warmer beneath it all.
“Leon?” You aren’t sure what makes you stop him, what makes you call his name but he looks at you, waiting. You shift under his gaze. “How long have you been like this?”
He freezes, and you can see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His eyes flicker, that unreadable soldier mask slipping just enough to show the young man underneath.
“Like what?” he asks quietly, not turning fully back around but not walking away either. He’s giving you space to clarify without pressure. The night air hums between you, and you shift again, not knowing if you should ask.
“Alone,” you whisper. “How long have you been alone?”
Leon’s shoulders loosen a fraction, and he rubs at his jaw. When he sighs, it’s a quiet sound of defeat. “Since 1998.”
His face doesn’t change much, still composed and handsome, but something in his eyes dims when he says it out loud for what might be the first time ever to someone who actually listened, not just heard. He didn’t answer since my ex or since I joined the military.
No, he went back further than any of that. To before everything else had even started going wrong yet, when it all began, loneliness carved into him like scars from war zones nobody remembers but him.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re grabbing his hand, and squeezing it. Your bare feet are chilled on the steps of your trailer. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
His mouth is set in a line when his eyes meet yours, and they bounce over your face. “Neither do you.”
He squeezes your hand one more time before he lets go, moving down the steps in slow succession and stepping into his truck without another word. You fold your arms around your middle as you watch him reverse.
You aren’t sure how long you stand there, watching the road long after his car disappeared. Dragging your hand eye level you read the numbers written into your skin, before closing your fingers, and pressing your fist over your heart.
Hiii!! How about Reader is a bartender and the team goes to the bar for drinks. Reader is trying to hide how she's oggling Hotch but eventually blurts out something like "I'm sorry, but it should be illegal to look this good. Can you stop being hot for a minute, cause I keep messing up drink oders?" Or something like that? Thank youuuu
Order up | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x bartender fem!reader | WC: 1.8k | CW: Alcohol, bar setting.
A/N: I fear half of this was written in a state of fever last night, so hopefully it's coherent 😅
The bar pulsed with the chaos of a Friday night, of every Friday night, glasses clinking, laughter bubbling up from clusters of office workers, bachelorette parties, and regulars engaging in idle conversations about the game currently playing on the screen.
Neon signs flickered against the brick walls, casting a warm glow over the bar counter where you'd been stationed since your shift kicked off at six.
Your feet throbbed at this point, and your arms burned from the endless shake-stir-pour cycle, but you kept that practiced smile locked in place. You were used to it at this point. Plus, tips were good on nights like this, and a little charm went a long way toward padding your pockets.
You wiped down a spill from a spilled beer, chatting with a regular about the latest baseball scores, when the door swung open with a whoosh of cool night air. And in walked a group that immediately commanded attention, not rowdy college kids or tipsy couples, but a tight-knit crew that moved with the confidence of officials. They were suits, mostly, though a few had shed jackets in deference to the bar's much more casual vibe than theirs.
You pegged them right away as feds, or something close, maybe detectives, politicians even; the way they scanned the room wasn't predatory, but assessing, like they cataloged exits and faces without thinking twice.
And leading the pack, or at least anchoring the center, was him. You'd seen his face on the news once or twice, or at least reckoned that was why he seemed so familiar. It had been some big case. FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, you vaguely remembered, and this one was the one with the unyielding jaw and eyes that seemed to pierce straight through the cameras.
In person, he was even more magnetic, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit hugging his frame like it was tailored for intimidation—which it probably was. His hair was neatly combed, a few strands escaping in that effortlessly disheveled way, and when he glanced toward the bar, those intense brown eyes locked on yours for a split second. Your stomach did a traitorous flip, and you nearly fumbled the cocktail shaker in your hand.
"Earth to Star Command," your coworker muttered as she bumped your hip, sliding past with a tray of empties. She followed your gaze and smirked. "Hot stuff at eleven o'clock. Don't drool on the ice, yeah?"
"Shut up," you hissed, heat flooding your cheeks as you busied yourself with restocking lemons. But it was no use. The team claimed a high-top table near the back, close enough that you could hear snippets of their banter. The blonde woman ordered first, a simple vodka soda with lime. And as you made your way down the line, taking orders, you couldn't help but steal glances at the man practically demanding your attention since he had entered your bar.
And then it was his turn. He leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange between you and his team with that calm authority he exuded, before murmuring, "Scotch, neat. Thanks."
Your pen scratched across the notepad, but your mind was elsewhere, trapped on the way his sleeves strained against his forearms as he gestured, or how his voice carried that low, gravelly timbre that vibrated right through you. Focus! You turned, heading back behind the counter to mix the drinks, but your eyes betrayed you, darting back every few seconds. He was listening to the one with glasses rattle off some statistic about bar fights, a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth.
The first screw-up came with the blonde one's drink: you squeezed lemon instead of lime, handing it over with an apologetic grin. "Oops, my bad! Here, let me fix that."
"No worries," she said kindly, her eyes twinkling like she knew exactly why your brain had short-circuited.
The charming one's whiskey? You had stirred it absentmindedly, earning a raised eyebrow from him when he took a sip. "Sweetheart, this tastes like it's been on vacation in the tropics. You good?"
"Peachy!" you lied, flashing a thumbs-up while your cheeks burned. Inside, you were screaming. Get it together. He's just a guy. A ridiculously hot, brooding, federal agent guy who probably profiled people like you for fun.
But then he shifted, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves just enough to reveal the taut muscles of his forearms, veins tracing lines that screamed you straight in the face.
He was laughing, actually laughing, at something the black haired woman had said, a deep, rumbling sound that cut through the bar's din and landed square in your chest. Your hands froze mid-shake of the fruity monstrosity, pink liquid sloshing over the rim.
(A/N: I'm gonna use the team's names from this point, even though reader doesn't know the names. I just can't be assed to keep finding ways to describe the team without saying their names at this point.)
By the time you delivered his scotch, the table was eyeing you with varying degrees of amusement. Reid was mid-explanation about probability errors in high-stress environments, ironic, much? And the others were stifling grins. You set the glass down in front of him, careful not to meet those eyes, but he looked up anyway, his gaze steady and warm, like he saw right through your flustered facade.
It was too much. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, loud enough to halt the conversation at the table. "I'm sorry," you blurted, gripping the edge of your tray like a lifeline, "but it should honestly be illegal to look that good. Can you stop being hot for, like, one minute? Because I keep messing up drink orders, and it's all your fault."
Dead silence blanketed the table for a heartbeat, the kind that echoes in your bones. Then chaos erupted. Reid nearly choked on his ginger ale, sputtering into a coughing fit while Penelope whooped with delight, clapping her hands. JJ buried her face in her palm, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Emily leaned back with a wicked grin. "Oh, honey, I like you already."
Morgan slapped the table, booming, "Boss, you gotta own that one. The lady's got taste!"
You stood there, mortified, wishing for a trapdoor or spontaneous invisibility. Your face was on fire, and you braced for the shutdown, the polite deflection from a man like Hotch, who probably dealt with overzealous admirers on the daily.
Instead, his lips curved, just the faintest hint of a smirk, but it lit up his whole face, softening those sharp edges. His eyes held yours, with a spark of something playful lurking beneath. "I'll... try to tone it down," he said, his voice low and even, laced with dry humor that sent a shiver down your spine. He lifted his glass in a subtle toast, the smirk deepening just a fraction. "Thanks for the drink."
The table dissolved into more laughter, the tension shattering like ice in a shaker. You mumbled something incoherent, an apology wrapped in a laugh, and bolted back to the bar, heart pounding as if you'd just run a marathon. Your colleague was waiting, eyes wide. "Did you just tell a freaking FBI agent he's too hot for you to function? Iconic!"
"Kill me now," you groaned, burying your face in your hands. But even as you replayed the humiliation, a thrill buzzed under your skin. He'd smiled. At you.
The night dragged on in a haze of redemption orders, fixed drinks, extra garnishes to smooth over the mishaps, and stolen glances. The team settled into easy conversation and stories of cases veiled in vagueness. Hotch was quieter, but when he spoke, everyone listened. And every so often, you'd catch him watching you, not staring, just a flick of his gaze over the rim of his glass, warm and assessing, like he was piecing together your profile: the bartender with the quick wit and quicker blush.
As the clock ticked toward closing, the crowd thinned to stragglers nursing last calls. The team began to wrap up, jackets shrugged on, hugs exchanged. Morgan clapped Hotch on the shoulder with a teasing, "Don't forget what she said, Hotch, dial back the smolder." Emily shot you a conspiratorial wink as she passed the bar, whispering, "Figure out a smoother recovery next time. Or don't, he looked like he didn't mind."
You waved them off with a laugh, relief washing over you as the door swung shut behind the group. Finally, peace.
Except... footsteps approached the bar again. You looked up, and there he was, lingering with his empty tumbler in hand, the others gone into the night.
He slid the glass across the counter. Up close, without the team's buffer, he was even more imposing, and intoxicating. The faint scent of his cologne, woodsy and clean, mingled with the bar's lingering haze of citrus and liquor.
"Sorry about earlier," you said quickly, before he could open his mouth. "That was wildly unprofessional. Blame the late hour... or the full moon. Whatever."
His expression didn't shift to judgment; if anything, his eyes softened, crinkles forming at the corners like he was holding back a real smile. "No apology necessary. Honesty is refreshing." He paused, leaning one elbow on the counter, closing the distance just enough to make the air feel electric. "In my line of work, people don't often say what's on their mind. Not like that."
You swallowed, fingers twisting a bar towel before swinging it over your shoulder. "Well, it wasn't exactly poetic. More like... word vomit."
A low chuckle escaped him. "Poetic or not, it worked." He straightened slightly, but his gaze stayed locked on yours. "For the record, you turned a rough week into something memorable. Thank you."
Your breath caught. "I... you're welcome? I mean, glad I could help. Even if it was by embarrassing myself."
That smirk returned, subtle devastation in the curve of his mouth. "You didn't embarrass yourself. Far from it." He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, but instead of just settling the tab, he slid a folded bill under the glass, a tip that was more than generous. Tucked beneath it was a business card, crisp and official, with his name and number scrawled in neat ink on the back.
The implication hung there, unspoken but electric. Call me. Or don't. But you could.
"Goodnight," he said softly, reading your name from your badge without a glance. His voice wrapped around it like velvet.
"Night, agent," you managed, the title feeling bold on your tongue.
He nodded, his smirk lingering as he turned toward the door. The bell jingled softly behind him, leaving you staring at the card, heart hammering a rhythm that echoed long after the bar emptied.
Your colleague locked up with a grin an hour later, but you were already lost in replays, the laugh, the look, the promise of more. Haunting your dreams? Understatement of the year.
This was the start of something that could unravel you entirely. And damn if you weren't ready for it.
omg i NEEED one mulled wine with stripper!mattheo!
love yaaa
𐔌 🍷 — mulled wine ⋆˙⟡ 𐦯
› male stripper!mattheo x bartender!reader
› dining table
having the same schedule as your stripper roommate could be seen as both a blessing and a curse. a curse because sometimes, you’d both come home at the ass crack of dawn, tired and huffy, and would annoy each other to no end until both of you finally went to bed. a blessing… well, because nights like that also existed—when both of you were too hyper after a particularly lively night at the club and would end up fucking like rabbits on (or against) any random surface.
the dining table in your shared apartment was already worn and creaky, and the fact that mattheo was plowing into you from behind on top of it didn’t help. your nails were digging into the plywood, adding to the numerous indents in the cheap material. all in all, the treatment of furniture in your place was far from perfect, but you hardly cared—not when mattheo’s cock stretched you out so good, hitting all the right spots that made you forget about failing to reach the tip goal you set for your work shift.
“been dreaming of pussy all night.”
despite your back being turned to him, you could hear the smirk in mattheo’s voice—only he could so nonchalantly talk while railing you stupid. you knew he was looking down between your bodies, watching his glistening condom-wrapped cock slide in and out of your cunt; he loved when it shone, coated in lube and your sloppy juices.
“had a vip with a bachelorette party,” he continued to the sound of your moans and skin slapping skin, as if it was just another casual conversation. “horny as fuck, those ones. pretty sure the bride was gonna suck me off, but their time ended just about.”
despite the pleasure building up rapidly in your belly, you chuckled. “so what, i’m your fleshlight now? i’m not gonna suck your dick, matt.”
“eh, don’t need to,” mattheo brushed you off, snapping his hips forward so hard the table shifted forward underneath you. “pussy’s just fine.”
all the words you have left to give
michael robinavitch x gn!bartender!reader pt. 1: first meet
— as a bartender, you've seen it all. the odd, the insecure, the poor souls who walk in through your doors and walk out drunker than all get out. you've never once expected much out of it; you did not expect friendships, or a relationship for that matter. but then one dr. michael robinavitch walks through your life and you wonder if there's more to meet the eye than what the poor sad doctor shows.
word count: 2k words
a/n: i have an idea but it may take a few posts/parts to get it all out. i introduce to you: robby x bartender!reader. bartender!reader has an ex-fiancé named piers colfield (sorry if that is somehow your name. i will never recover if it is. please forgive me). will post parts here and on ao3. :) also pls ignore me trying out new formats again. there's just so much happening on here.
you'd first noticed him toward the end of the bar. a little off-kilter, most definitely only there to get away from whatever demons were chasing him. his shoulders held so tense you couldn't help but wonder if the man ever had any kind of stress relief. so, you did what any bartender would do. you talked.
"what's on your mind, stranger?"
those were the first real words you spoke to him. you ignored the fact you'd asked him earlier what he wanted to drink. this was the first time you were really talking to him.
stranger. you swear you'd seen him somewhere before. he looked so familiar and yet all recognition left as soon as he acknowledged you.
he looked up from his whiskey, eyeing you warily. but after a moment, the realization that you were just being nice hitting him, he let out a hefty sigh. it wasn't without reluctance that he spoke.
"nothing much," he simply said.
"bullshit," you retorted, unable to hide your smile as you dried off a clean glass and sat it where it belonged. "you've got sad eyes, mister. i'd be a fool not to catch them."
oh, hell, diving right in, huh?
"ah, don't do that," he said, shaking his head. a hand brushed against his forehead, before said hand waved off your words. "don't call me mister."
"yeah? then what should i call you?" you asked with palpable care in your words, tossing down your bar towel as you looked right at him.
"robby works."
"alright then, robby," you said, nodding in understanding. you looked to his nearly empty glass. "need a refill?"
"if you wouldn't mind."
"not at all. it's my job."
you picked up his favorite whiskey (he'd told you just a moment before he'd ordered the first time), filling his glass halfway. he'd ordered off the rocks, which fair if you really wanted the buzz, but you kept an eye on him. he'd never been to your bar before (or at least, not when you've been on duty; maybe ilya or tomás had served him before—then again, you were here most often than not, being that this was your main source of income).
"you come here often?" you asked, curiously getting the better of you. usually once the bar-goers had a drink or two, they were all words and spewing them at that.
he raised a brow. "no." his glass tilted in hand, swirling the liquid around, before he took a sip of it. "no, i've not been here before."
ah. so your assumption was right. it was nice, sometimes, knowing things before anyone said it. it wasn't really a parlor trick, more of a, i've worked here for so long it just happened kind of trick.
"what brings you out here tonight?"
god, if you would've had more customers, you would've paid attention to them. but it was nearly 9 pm on a tuesday, and many of your regulars were nowhere to be seen.
"you're awfully nosy, huh?" he hummed, dark brown eyes finding yours over the rim of his glass.
those eyes went right through you.
you gave a soft smile. "sure," you said, shrugging. "i'll leave you be. i'm just right here if you need someone to talk to, though. here all night, really.”
he was silent in return, but the small smile he gave showed you hadn’t been too nosy.
you left him to his own devices, serving a few randoms and a regular, tom, who had come in straggling the hour. said regular was all blubber and disregard, and you cut him off after one drink, calling a cab just for him (he’d enough pocket change to get home, thank god). tom knew not to mess around—he knew you’d put him in his place in an instant, if need be. he must've been out drinking again, kicked from one bar to the next. poor guy. it was sad, if you really wanted to divulge into the ineptitude of the man.
tom did, however, before the cab came along, look to the newcomer and eye him warily.
tom leaned forward on the countertop, getting as close to you as he possibly could before he whispered in a not-so-quiet manner: “he’s a doctor!”
your eyes flicker to the man only to find his eyes already on you. a small smile found your face but you looked to tom, shaking your head.
“keep it to yourself, tom. no one needs to know his business.”
“but—“ tom insisted, quick to stop at the crass glare you give him. “fine.” the older man slouched in his seat, burying his face in his hands as he waited for his cab.
“drink this while you’re waiting,” you said, sitting a glass of water in front of him.
his nose scrunched at the sight of it. “what is it?”
“another drink. just one for the road.”
“is it free?”
“of course, tom. your last drink is always free.”
he downed the drink in one go, tastebuds failing to register the neutral drink finding its way down his gullet.
the only other employee, a busboy/waiter/host (he’d received so many titles you started calling him a jack of all trades), came to the bar.
“cab’s here,” he said, hitting the countertop with two quick pats.
“thanks, nate.”
“no problem. need help getting out, tom?”
tom waved him off and climbed down from his seat, throwing down a few bills to pay for the only real drink he’d been given. he waved to you, glared at the doctor, and left for his cab waiting just behind the confines of the darkened joint.
nate mumbled a quick, “going on break,” to which you, of course, accepted gracefully. you could handle a crowd, if it were to happen. however, as of now, it seemed rather unlikely.
you took tom’s money and cleaned up his mess. you made your way toward your whiskey drinker, putting the cash away in the register.
“want any more, dr. robby?”
“not unless it’s free.”
an instant smile appeared. “the only thing free is water.”
“water?”
“yeah,” you let out a laugh. “tom’s a drunk, so it’s pretty easy to convince him to drink water by the time he gets here. he’d do anything for free.”
his lips purse together and he finished off his whiskey. the glass hit the countertop with a click, a bit louder than he expected.
“shit. sorry,” he said.
“you’re alright,” you said. “sure you’re done?”
“i think i could go for a water.”
you took his glass, grinning all the while. so, dr. robby traded out his whiskey glass for a tall glass of water.
the crowd was still nonexistent. seemed like it, anyway. you could risk a conversation with him.
"so what do you do for work? was tom right?" you asked, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the counter as you leaned back, admiring him. you couldn't help it. he was a handsome man, years of hard work evident in the lines on his face. dark brown eyes that warmed you from the inside out, piecing together a feeling you'd long since left behind.
he raised a curious brow. "really?"
"yeah, really," you returned. "tom seemed to know who you were, so humor me, dr. robby. medical doctor or doctor of philosophy?"
"medical doctor."
you perked up a bit at that. medical doctor. he may know... no. no, he wouldn't, would he?
"where at? you nearby?"
"not too far, no," he said, shaking his head. "the pitt."
your breath caught in your throat, palms growing clammy as you kept a steady gaze on the man. oh, shit. oh shit. oh shit oh shit oh—
"you're at the trauma center?" your voice was steady and cool. you thanked whatever was out there listening that you could still do that—sound like you weren't about to lose your godforsaken mind.
he nodded, sipping at his water. "yeah."
the meat of your cheek caught between your teeth. he would know him. surer than hell. fucking piers. why did it even matter?
"you know about it, then?" he asked, sitting his glass down. his arms moved to rest against the counter, fingers laced together as he leaned forward, eyeing you curiously. "the pitt, that is."
"yeah. i know of it. know it's a hell of a time, too."
"oh?"
"yeah, you wouldn't believe how many complainers run through here acting like they've been persecuted by god himself. not your fault you've got like, what, minimal funding at best?"
brown eyes stayed glued to yours. he let out a soft hum, tilting his head as he did so. he was trying to figure you out. did he know you? for whatever reason, you weren't exactly striking him as familiar. hell, this was the first time he'd ever come to this bar (he just needed something different—anything different than the same things over and over again).
he'd be back again. he liked the sound of your voice.
robby pulled out his wallet, pulling out a twenty dollar bill. he handed it to you, to which you took with furrowed brows.
"you done?"
"yeah, i should probably head home. no rest for the wicked."
"tell me about it," you said, snorting softly. "let me get you some change."
"no, it's okay," he said, standing up and finally coming to his full height. he shot you a soft smile. "keep it. thanks for listening to me."
"again, it's my job, but it's not like i had much to listen to," you retorted, putting aside the change that would've been left for his tab. you'd either keep it for him if he came in again, or you'd use it for another cab (or two) for a few stragglers who came in spouting they were about to drive home drunk.
he shrugged. "could say that, but i'm sure i'll be back."
your eyes flickered up to his. you tried to hide your soft smile. "i'll be counting the hours, dr. robby."
"please. just robby."
"alright then, just robby. have a good night."
a tense smile, a nod of the head, and then dr. robby was gone.
immediately after the door was shut, you let out a loud groan, burying your face in your hands. of fucking course.
your job afforded you to meet so, so many people. so many people that seemed to interesting, thousands of stories walked through your doors on a week-to-week basis. every now and then, you found your curiosity getting the better of you. that's where piers came in, a few years ago. and of course, of fucking course, piers worked in the same damned hospital as dr. robby. that's why you recognized him. had he recognized you in any way?
piers was just a phlebotomist, most likely floating to whatever floor they needed him, but damn, there was no questioning it.
last you'd been around the hospital was nearly a year ago, after piers deciding to go and fuck everything up by cheating and getting the woman pregnant—girl, really, only just having turned twenty-one. piers could eat your shoe and then some.
asshole.
a voice piped up from across the bar. "you good?" nate. he was a good kid. er, was he even a kid? damn, you didn't even know. he looked like he was younger, but then again, you may not be the best judge of age given that some people said they were far younger than your initial assumption.
you took in a deep breath and looked up, smiling in his direction. "yeah. i'm good."
he raised a brow. "you're a shit liar."
you nodded, lips pursed. "yeah. thanks for that one."
"no problem."
well, what's done is done. if dr. robby showed back up, then maybe you'd humor yourself. but until then, these glasses weren't about to wash themselves. you got to work, your focus quickly taking precedence, the noise of your mind turning to a mumble instead of a full on shouting match.
When Ghost enters through the door you are the first thing he notices. The bar is dimly lit and crowded. The buzz of many loud conversations filling the air. The heat having smacked in to him the second he entered. His eyes fell on you through a gap between heads. You, at the bar. A shaker in hand, messy hair tucked behind your ears. A smile on your face as you chat with a customer. You're in a well worn tee, the way it fits you makes it clear why.
Johnny leads the way to the bar and he is the first one of them you see. His mohawk sticking out from the rest of the crowd. The smile on his face could be seen from a mile away.
"I'll be with you in a sec", you say to him before serving the previous customer. Pouring their drink before sliding the card reader their way.
"Now, what can I get you fellas?" You turn to them. Eyes scanning over their faces. Lingering on Ghost's masked one for just a second longer. That extra second is what did it in for him. What captured him if he hadn't been before. His eyes didn't leave you for a second. Even as you talked to the others. As you poured the four pints they'd ordered. Nor after they had sat down at a table. You were oblivious to it and that might have been for the best. Having a tall, masked man staring at you might have been reason enough to call security.
The rest of his task force, on the other hand, were not as oblivious. Price noticed first. Though he didn't mention it. It was rare for his lieutenant to be so entranced by someone. It was an amusing sight he would undoubtedly talk to him about at a later time. Gaz noticed second, but he was still too sober to say it out loud. Soap did not need any alcohol in his system to tease him. Ghost, the stoic lieutenant who had turned down women time after time, suddenly infatuated with a bartender of all people.
Ghost managed to dodge Soaps teasing by ordering the next round. Not without a few smiles and quiet comments for his teammates. But they fell on deaf ears. Simon was to busy thinking. What should he say to you? How should he say it? Should he lean on the bar? Nah, that just screams dickhead.
You see him approach. You recognise the mask from earlier. You smile at him, he just stares.
"Another", you ask him. He nods. You made it easy for him. His eyes trace your every move. From you hand on the glass to the one of the lever. Your focused eyes as you pour it.
"Add it to the tab", you ask as you slide the four glasses over too him. He nods as he picks them up. Your "enjoy" follows him as he walks back to the table. You combined with beer on tap, he might need to become one of your new regulars.
Authors note:
Just trying something new. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know your thoughts! /Polt🌻
