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blurscolours · 1 year

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The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea | Part Thirteen

Masterlist

Summary: An attack on Arthur’s imprisoned brother Orm leaves him with no choice but to rely upon you, a friend made due to unfortunate circumstances nearly a decade ago, to provide safe haven while he restores peace to Atlantis. Suddenly tasked with sheltering a sullen former king results in a very different summer vacation than you had originally envisioned, but changes both of your lives forever.

Warnings: Discussion of Reader's Injuries and Recovery, Near Miss Fall From A Ladder, Orm Is Still A Man of Few Words, Mature/Explicit Themes [nipple play - f receiving, manual stimulation - f receiving, oral - m/f receiving, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration] - 18+ only.

Word Count: 3218

Amnesty Bay, Maine – Fall/Winter 2019

You were beginning to wonder if time passed differently beneath the waves of the ocean. The first time Arthur had left you, back in August, he had said it would not take long. It had been nearly a month before he had reappeared. And again, when he had left with Orm in September, he had said it would not take long.

Watching the snowflakes meander their way to the rapidly whitening ground outside your office window, you sighed softly. It was now early December and there had been no word from them.

Tom had been so very kind, taking excellent care of you as you used up every last hour of sick leave from your job to convalesce at his lighthouse. Wayne Enterprises had delivered your car and belongings to the lighthouse in Maine, and you found yourself frequently glancing at the neatly packed duffle bag holding Orm’s scant surface possessions as your thoughts drifted to his whereabouts and welfare.

There was no human on the face of the earth who understood you better than Tom. He recognized the way you watched the ocean out the window. The way you walked to the end of the dock with him as Atlanna had also been called upon to assist Arthur with quelling the rebellion. He knew what it meant to be left behind. To be rooted to the spot where your Atlantean had parted from you, loathe to leave it on the chance of their return.

And so, when you had run out of sick time, and then the very last of your vacation days, it had been Tom’s suggestion that you request a remote working arrangement. After the tsunami incident last year, he had purchased some property up the road and was gradually fixing it up with the intention of renting it out for some additional income. He insisted you move in there, given that the lighthouse did not have space for a home office, and flatly refused to accept any form of payment.

Much to your surprise, your company had agreed and sent your computer and some other equipment via courier. Your best friend had also been kind enough to collect and send some more seasonally appropriate clothing as the weather grew cold.

Using the subterfuge of companionship, you had in fact found a way to repay Tom by eating several meals with him each week – and celebrating any thin excuse for a holiday together. You always made the shopping run and cooked the food; refused repayment, just as he did for the cottage’s rent. It seemed to infuriate him to no end, which was only fair considering the stubborn old goat refused your rent money.

Your email chimed with the notification of a new message, and you opened it up, accepting the meeting for Monday before glancing at the clock, letting out a pleased sigh that the workday, and work week, had come to an end. You logged off and shut the door to the office behind you, turning your attention to the box of holiday lights you had purchased on your last trip to the larger neighbouring town where the best shopping was.

After a quick snack, you slid on a few more layers before taking the box outside into the gathering dark of early evening, stopping by the shed to grab a ladder. Tom had already come by to help you secure the clips onto the gutters, all you had to do was snap the lights into place now that you had bought them, and you were eager any additional source of light to fight off the gloom of early winter. Planting your ladder firmly into the skiff of snow on the frozen ground, you manipulated it slightly to be sure it was stable before carefully climbing up.

You began by plugging the string into the outlet flush against the soffit, immediately smiling at the warm glow of the soft white lights, before unravelling the length and clipping into along the front of the house. Once the next clip was beyond your reach, you climbed down and moved the ladder before resuming the task of stringing the lights. You continued at a steady pace, making your way around the perimeter of the cottage as the darkness of the evening set in.

Nearly finished, you climbed the ladder for what you hoped was the last time when you heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow. You turned your head towards the sound, fully expecting to see Tom making his way over from the lighthouse, but when your eyes fell upon a blonde figure in black armor you did not fully trust your vision in the low-light. Something you had wished to see so fervently, he could easily be a figment of your imagination.

You turned your body fully, leaning forward into the dark to try and get a better look. The ladder groaned in protest before lurching to the side, wrenching a shriek from your throat as you felt yourself falling. While your landing was not as forceful as you expected, the surface which you landed on was as hard as steel. Opening your eyes, which had reflexively clenched shut, you saw that Orm had somehow closed the distance between you, catching you in his armor-clad arms.

“I see you are just as reckless as when I left you.�� His voice rumbled through you, making your heart skitter against your ribs as it lost its natural rhythm.

You looked to his face quickly, swallowing tightly to see his cerulean eyes glowing in the low light. He was so close that you could see the still-falling snow flakes collecting in his eyelashes. Yet for his physical closeness, he may as well have been an ocean away. He felt like a stranger to you, after the way you had parted, after three months absence with no word. With how he held you away from his body, setting you down and taking a step back.

“Thank you.” You straightened your coat self-consciously, picking up the ladder before it became a tripping hazard. “You seem alright…I’m glad.” You glanced back at the house before looking at him. “Would you like to come inside?”

He nodded silently and you led him into the cottage, kicking off your snowy shoes. Once he stepped inside, you closed the door behind him, turning to ask if you could get him anything. He had just set something down onto the entry table, though you did not have time to process what the object was as he was suddenly pulling you close, burying his face in your hair.

“I’ve missed you more than words can express. More than I could bear.” He inhaled your scent deeply, his words bringing a blur of tears to your vision as your heart throbbed.

It had been real.

“Orm…” You whispered tremulously, helpless to form words more coherent than that, trying to wrap your arms around him in return but the bulk of his armor made it nearly impossible.

He pulled back, cupping your face gently, looking you over intensely, inquisitively.

“You are well?” He rasped and you nodded quickly, tears briefly clinging to your lower lashes before trailing down your cheeks as you gave him a watery smile.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you leaned in to kiss him, gasping in delight as he closed the distance quickly, pressing his warm lips to yours. You slid your arms around his neck, lest your legs give out as they were threatening to do, holding tightly as the heat of him seemed to liquefy your bones. Feeling you waiver in his arms, he slid his hands down to grip the backs of your thighs, lifting you up against him as he walked further into the house.

You grunted a little, shifting as you tried to find a comfortable position against the steel plate he wore, wanting to be closer but it honestly hurt. He turned and gently set you down on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Apologies…” He murmured, stepping back to begin stripping the interfering articles, laying them carefully onto the nearby rug, not wanting to dent your floor.

Gnawing on your lip, you sat on your perch watching him with wide eyes as the hard shell was removed to reveal the sort of advanced wet suit he had been wearing when you had first met. You were pleased to note that this one was fully in tact, giving you hope that he had not arrived with injuries this time. As he began to peel that last layer away to reveal his flawless skin, pulled taut over well-defined muscles, you squirmed against the stone of the countertop, pulse quickening.

He glanced at you knowingly before shedding the last of his clothing, hanging the suit up by the door, walking around your home in his naked glory without a second thought. You licked your lips, rooted to the spot by the sight, until he returned at last, pulling you flush against him as his mouth sealed against yours hungrily.

You sighed deeply, wrapping your arms around his bare shoulders, clinging to him. On each inhale you could smell the sea water that still dampened his hair, begging your fingers to run through it. Stretching a hand up, you carded your fingers through his golden locks, earning a throaty moan as his tongue licked into your mouth, commanding entrance to taste you.

You whimpered in return as his slick, wet muscle stroked yours, lifting your legs to wrap around his hips and pull him tighter to you. He growled a little and pulled back to nibble at your lower lip.

“You are entirely overdressed for the occasion.” He complained before his fingers slid up under your clothing to trace along the skin of your back.

You jumped at the searing heat of his touch, obediently lifting your hands over your head as he pushed the layers up and off your body, huffing as he was then confronted with your bra. His mouth scorched a wet trail down your neck that had you greedily lolling your head to the side, offering your skin in sacrifice, as he worked the offending garment off before he was at last able to cup the bare flesh of your breasts in his expansive hands.

You groaned needily, fingers tugging at his hair as your hips rutted against his unconsciously. You could feel his rapidly hardening cock growing against the fabric of your pants and your cunt began to weep at the memory of what it felt like to have him inside you. As his fingers gently rolled and tugged at your nipples, your back arched, pressing your breasts into his hands and he chuckled smugly before lapping and sucking at each of the hardened peaks in turn.

“Please, Orm…” You whimpered needily, hips pressing your core against him, huffing in frustration at the barrier of your remaining clothing.

He hummed in agreement, lips crashing into yours heatedly as his fingers made quick work of your pants and underwear, stripping your lower half. His long fingers massaged into your thighs teasingly, drawing ever closer to your dripping folds until at last he cupped your core with his fiery palm. You whimpered into his mouth, hips bucking to his touch as he collected your arousal with his fingertips to circle and stroke your clit. Your lips fell back from his as you gasped for breath, chest heaving as you gulped for air, each exhale a whimper or exclamation of pleasure.

He pressed his forehead against yours, your fluttering eyelashes allowing you only snippets of the hungry look in his near-black eyes, his glowing blue irises pushed to the very edge by his blown pupils. The way he watched you had you clenching around nothing, swallowing audibly, nails ghosting along his scalp. It was overwhelming and yet it was not nearly enough. As his forefinger sank into your desperate cunt, your head fell back with a ragged moan, hips wantonly pushing closer to his hand, drawing his finger inside you as far as he could reach.

His harsh breaths echoed yours, resounding in tandem in the dark of the cottage as his finger thrust into your body, making you tremble unsteadily on the cool stone of the countertop. His free hand slid to press against your spine, fingers splayed to cover as much skin of your back as he could reach, holding you upright as he added as second finger. All the while, his eyes never left your face, hungrily watching your reactions, listening to your whimpers and cries. He curled his fingers forward, toward the front of your body, stroking along the spongey spot deep inside you. The pleasure of it makes your hips rocket from their place on the counter and your torso would have crashed into the unforgiving surface of it if he had not been holding you up.

With his target located, his motions were merciless and driven, utterly determined to push you over the edge. He did not have to wait long before your release shattered over you in a thousand prismatic shards, an aurora of colours flowing one into the next behind your eyelids as your walls clamped down viciously on his fingers. You slumped forward against his chest, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses across his collarbones in reverence before whining as he starting to sink out of reach, onto his knees.

You planted your hands on either side of your hips, locking your elbows as you tried not to fall over, watching him settle between your thighs. He licked his lips before sealing his mouth over your folds to lap at your release like a starving man. Your thigh clamped down on either side of his head, still trembling from your first orgasm as he was lay the foundation for your second.

“Please…Please Orm…” Pleas were falling from your lips onto his deaf ears as he growled against you, lapping and nipping and suckling at your overly sensitive clit and folds, teasing your entrance with his tongue.

Your chin fell to your chest as you moaned incoherently, fingertips digging into the unyielding surface you sat upon, trying to anchor yourself lest you be swept away.

“Fuck!” You swore harshly as he pointed his tongue and thrust it deep inside you, rubbing at your bundle of nerves with the tip of his nose.

Of their own volition, your hips rutted against his face, moving in time with the rhythm he set, speed increasing with that of his movements as every muscle of your body went rigid until that tension snapped. You arched back with an anguish wail, hips levitating as your body gushed with release before you slumped onto your back weakly. Covered in a sheen of sweat, you watched him rise to his feet with a look of tremendous satisfaction on his glistening face. He wiped it clean as your chest heaved, gasping for breath as your body still suffered from the aftershocks of your climax.

Gathering you into his arms, he cradled you against his chest before murmuring into your ear.

“Where is your bed?”

You lifted an arm that felt many times heavier than normal to point down the hall and he followed your silent direction, finding it easily. As he moved, you became more and more aware of the feel of his hard, throbbing cock pressed against your hip. Of the damp smear of precum it left against your skin. Feeling somewhat more coherent as he lay you on the bed, you sat up to bring yourself face to face with his length, reaching out to lick at broad stripe from root to tip with your tongue.

The rich groan that greeted your ears made you shiver in delight and you wrapped your fingers around the base of him, repeating the motion before taking the crown of his length between your lips. He grunted in pleasure; fingers moving to cup your jaw and gently force your head back. You looked to him, somewhat confused, but he leaned down to kiss you deeply.

“I want to be inside you.” He said in a rare moment of verbal communication during intimacy, hand moving to cup between your thighs, making you gasp and squirm.

“I need you…” You replied in an open display of shameless vulnerability.

He froze a moment, staring at you without moving. Without breathing. Until he lunged forward to kiss you fiercely and climb over you as he pulled you beneath him. He smoothly pressing the head of his cock to your cunt, sliding into your well-slicked heat until he was fully seated inside you. Orm pressed his face into the side of your neck, taking deep, slow breaths, causing an eruption of goosebumps along your skin. You clung to him, doing some deep breathing of your own as you tried to adjust to the feeling of fullness that came with having him inside you.

As his breathing evened out, he pulled his hips back, making your eyes roll into the back of your head at the feel of him dragging against the sensitive flesh inside you, only to slide back in with an eager groan.

“Oh god, yes! Orm, please! More…” You babbled freely, letting every thought flow from your lips, too far gone to try and make sense.

His cock twitched inside you, your walls clenching in silent reply, making him bite off a curse before he set an demanding pace. Demanding your body to surrender one last climax so that he might join you in release. Snaking your legs around his hips, you clung to him for dear life, each clash of his hips against your stimulating your clit and driving the air from your lungs. You could hear him panting, lips moving against the skin of your neck to form words, but your overstimulated brain was slow to process until at last you realized he was repeating your name. There was a tone of reverence, giving it a prayer-like quality, and the way your heart spasmed in your chest you were certain you had taken your last breath.

The orgasm that erupted through your body could have happily been your last experience upon this earth – it erased all sight and sound, bathing you in a white-hot light as every nerve-ending vibrated in ecstasy. You went slack on the bed, eyelids heavy but somehow obeying your desperate command to remain open and focus upon his face as he thrust erratically against you, through your rhythmically clenching walls to chase his own release. You watched his jaw mouth fall open in a choked-off cry as his eyebrows knit together, hips slamming into yours as his climax began to fill you, rocking against you to wring every drop of release from his body, shuddering head to toe.

Orm pressed a few notably tender kisses to your brow and cheeks before sliding from your trembling cunt, making you whine at the loss, before stretching out of the bed beside you and pulling you close. You leaned up to press gentle kisses of your own his nose and chin before kissing him softly.

“Thank you for coming back…” You whispered tremulously.

He nodded softly, pressing his lips to your temple.

“Thank you for remaining here.”

Masterlist

#orm x reader #orm marius x reader #orm imagine #orm fic #orm marius imagine #orm marius fic #ocean master x reader

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blueskrugs · 8 months

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come back...be here | Chris Kreider

I don't think this can really count as demi's birthday bingo anymore but it was written with that intent so happy extremely belated bday @wyattjohnston. my life got flipped on its axis this summer, but i think I'm finally settling in again, and I did promise this fic. it's only a few months late... length: 6.6k words

This is falling in love in the cruelest way This is falling for you when you're worlds away

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It wasn’t supposed to start this way, either.

What started as a fun summer fling turned into so much more before going down in flames.

Eleanor Cross was launched to international superstardom after being cast as the lead in a BBC miniseries. With her face splashed across every social media site and tabloid and desperate for one last normal summer, Eleanor trades the UK for New England.

Eleanor is on a run in Scalzi Park—and ignoring increasingly insistent phone calls from her agent—when she meets Chris for the first time. Really, she meets Chris’s dog for the first time, when Chris passes her in the other direction and his German shepherd happily tugs across the trail towards Eleanor. She startles to a stop.

The man holding the dog’s leash stops, too, yanking out his headphones. His dog sits, tongue lolling out. Eleanor can’t help but giggle.

“I’m sorry,” the man says. “He gets excited when he sees other people running, I’m trying to work on it.” The dog holds up a paw, and Eleanor shakes it obligingly. The dog’s owner chuckles. “Chewie says hi."

“It’s very nice to meet you, Chewie,” Eleanor says. “And—?” she trails off, looking expectantly up at the man.

“Oh, Chris,” the man—Chris—says. He extends his hand as well. Eleanor straightens back up to shake it.

“I’m Eleanor,” she says.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Chris says.

Eleanor laughs. “Did the accent give me away?” When Chris grins and nods, she continues. “I’m just here on holiday,” she says. Here as long as she can escape the clutches of her agent, avoid signing her life away on whatever new contract they’ve negotiated for her.

“Well, I’d, uh, love to show you around some,” Chris says. “Only if you want, of course,” he adds, flustered.

Eleanor finds herself smiling. “I would like that, actually.” She doesn’t know anybody in Connecticut, and she’s found herself rather lonely, even though she’s only been in the States a little over a week. “Here, um,” she says. She unlocks her phone and hands it to Chris. “Text me, and we can get breakfast in the morning, or something.”

Chris beams at her. “That’d be amazing.”

Chris texts Eleanor the address to a coffee shop not far from the park, and that’s where they meet up for breakfast the next morning. He’s already waiting at a table in the crowded cafe when Eleanor steps in. She shoots him a smile and waves; Chris waves back over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Sorry I’m late,” Eleanor says as she finally slides into the seat across from Chris, coffee and pastry in hand.

Chris shakes his head. “You’re not late, I’m just always early.” He sets his coffee back down. “What brings you to Connecticut, anyway?”

Eleanor sips her coffee and regards Chris. She bites her tongue before she says something like, “You must not watch much television.” Or have any social media. Eleanor’s “disappearance” has been everywhere since Couriers of Dusk became an online sensation—and since she missed a cast event and her agent couldn’t provide an excuse. That had been nearly two weeks ago. So far, no one in Connecticut has recognized her, although she’s mostly been holed up in her Airbnb with a stack of books since she landed.

Instead she says, “Oh, just wanted to get away for a while, a change of scenery.” It’s close enough to the truth, anyway.

A year ago, Eleanor was a struggling actress, being told she was too old for the roles she wanted and too young for everything else, close to giving up entirely. Then she’d been cast in Couriers, and the internet and casting directors suddenly loved her. She still wasn’t sure how to handle all the new scrutiny.

“And what about you?” Eleanor asks. “Are you from around here?”

Chris looks caught off guard by his own question being turned on him. He stalls and takes a sip of his coffee. “No, I’m from Boston.” Eleanor…vaguely knows where that is. “But I work in New York for most of the year, so this is sort of like a vacation for me, too.”

Eleanor tries to think of jobs that would allow someone to work only most of the year and be off in the summers. “Oh, are you a teacher?”

Chris blinks at Eleanor for a moment. “Uh, yeah. Of sorts.” There’s a bit of a strange look on his face, but he doesn’t say anything further. He doesn’t ask any questions about Eleanor’s career, either, so she lets the subject drop, moving into safer conversation territory.

They sit talking for so long that the morning rush ends, and the cafe tables around them empty. The dregs of Eleanor’s coffee have long since gone cold. Chris’ phone, mostly forgotten on the table next to them, vibrates suddenly with a text, then with another, startling them both.

Chris breaks off a story he was telling about his dogs. “Sorry,” he says. He picks up the phone, and Eleanor watches as he reads his messages. He swears and stands up quickly. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot I had a meeting, and I’m late now.”

“Oh,” Eleanor says, standing up too.

“Tomorrow?” Chris says. “I haven’t gotten the chance to actually show you around yet.”

“Sure, yeah,” Eleanor says.

Chris is already rushing towards the door. He shoots her a dorky grin over his shoulder. “Same time, right here!” And then he’s out the door.

True to his word, though, he’s waiting at the same table in the cafe when Eleanor walks in the next morning. They fall into a routine—coffee and breakfast before what Chris starts calling their “Roman Holiday adventures”: sometimes they just go for a walk in the park with one or both of Chris’ German shepherds, sometimes Chris has something else planned, like a trip to the aquarium, or the lighthouse, or whatever else he thinks is interesting in the area. Almost every afternoon, Chris disappears for a “meeting,” and it feels less and less like getting ditched each time it happens.

It’s been nearly two weeks of their little routine before Chris changes things up.

“How do you feel about taking a drive into the city today?” Chris asks. He’s waiting by the counter for Eleanor instead of at their table. “It’s a longer drive, but my afternoon is free today, so I figured we could go to some museums or something.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to The Met,” Eleanor says.

Chris is grinning as he swings his car keys around his finger. “Excellent,” he says. The barista calls his name, and he grabs two coffees from her. “I already ordered your coffee, let’s go!”

Eleanor can only laugh as Chris dashes out the door. He’s still waiting for her when she steps back outside, though, goofy grin still in place. He falls into step next to Eleanor.

“You know, I knew there was a reason we got along so well,” Chris says. He takes a drink of his coffee and winks at Eleanor.

“Oh, yeah?” she says.

“I’d spend all of my free time at a museum if I could,” Chris tells her. He leans in, lowers his voice as if he’s telling Eleanor a big secret.

She elbows him playfully. “I used to go to the National Gallery in London on my days off,” she admits. It’s gotten much harder to wander around London these days.

“See? Chris says. “A woman after my own heart.”

New York City turns out to be Chris and Eleanor’s first mistake.

They’re so wrapped up in each other and the hours they spend walking through the museum that Eleanor never notices the paparazzi. They notice her, though, hiding around every corner with their cameras.

Chris drops Eleanor off at her Airbnb later that night, after dinner and a long drive home. He walks her to the front door and everything. He looks nervous for the first time since Eleanor has met him. He runs a hand over the top of his head. His hair, which had been shorn short when they met, has started growing out into little waves; Eleanor’s finding that she quite likes the look.

“Same time tomorrow morning?” Chris asks awkwardly.

Eleanor has nowhere else to be, and nowhere else she’d rather be, anyway. “Of course.”

“Uh, can I— is it okay if—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Eleanor says. She pulls Chris in for the kiss she knows he’s angling for. Eleanor’s hands are fisted in Chris’ shirt, just above his hips, but Chris flails for a moment, unsure of what to do with his hands. Finally, his hands settle on Eleanor’s shoulders. Chris is taller than Eleanor, and she has to pull away before her neck starts to hurt. “Better?” she asks.

“Elle, oh my God,” Chris says. Eleanor giggles. “I need to go before I do something really, really stupid. But tomorrow? Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eleanor says, still a little breathless. Chris steals another kiss before he runs back to his car.

Eleanor watches as he pulls away before unlocking her front door and stepping inside. She pulls her phone out of her bag for the first time in hours, and finally sees all of the notifications on her screen. She peers at the top one—a tweet from TMZ.

“Oh, shit,” she says, slumping against her closed front door.

There’s a magazine sitting on the table that Chris is sitting at when Eleanor reaches him the next morning. It’s sitting face-up, one of their paparazzi photos staring accusatorily up at Eleanor. She’s already seen it, and the half dozen others included in the spread—her agent had called her, and emailed her, and texted her with them before 7 AM. Eleanor and Chris holding hands walking into the museum, standing close in front of exhibits inside The Met, Chris’ arm around Eleanor’s shoulders as they stroll through Central Park in the early evening.

Chris has his arms crossed and is staring stonily at the magazine. Eleanor flips it over without looking at it.

“You’ve been lying to me, Elle,” Chris says.

Eleanor splutters. “I’ve lied? You told me you were a teacher! Not some hotshot professional athlete.”

Chris scoffs. “You’re the one who said I was a teacher—”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and cuts him off. “And you didn’t correct me!” They’re beginning to attract stares. Eleanor refuses to look around. She wonders how many cameras are pointed at them right now. “I’m leaving.” It’s Chris’ turn to splutter. Eleanor talks over him. “You can follow me, and we can talk, but I’m not fighting with you here.”

She scoops up her bag, her coffee and her croissant, walking out the front door of the cafe without bothering to wait and see if Chris is following her.

He does follow, swearing under his breath while he collects his own coffee and that damn magazine. Eleanor keeps walking.

“Elle, wait,” he says. He reaches for Eleanor’s wrist, but she yanks it out of his reach. She still doesn’t stop walking. Chris huffs, still a half step behind her. “Can we start this conversation over?”

Eleanor turns and spins on her heel so quickly that Chris has to pull up short to avoid running into her.

“I don’t know, Chris, it started out so strongly the first time.” Chris winces a little. “I especially liked the part where you called me a liar.”

‘Why didn’t you tell me?” Chris asks softly.

Eleanor laughs, and Chris looks stunned. “You’re not serious. Didn’t it occur to you that there might have been a reason I escaped to the States? I wanted a normal summer before I end up in whatever big contract they’ve found for me, and telling one of the only people who doesn’t already know who I am, ‘Oh, hey, by the way, I’m an actress, you might have seen my show,’ kinda ruins that.”

Chris looks a little sheepish now. “I, uh, don’t watch much TV,” he admits.

Eleanor laughs again. “I’ve gathered as much.” She pauses. “Why didn’t you tell me you played hockey?” she asks. “Isn’t it the exact same idea? How often do you meet someone who doesn't know who you are and doesn’t care?”

Chris shrugs. “Not very often, but more than you might think.”

“And what were you thinking, bringing me into the city where you play?” Eleanor asks, exasperated.

“I was thinking that I’m not usually tailed by paparazzi!” Chris sighs. “Can we try this again?” At Eleanor’s hesitation, Chris continues. “I’ll start. My name’s Chris, and I play for the New York Rangers.”

A woman walking down the street near them does a double take. Eleanor bursts out laughing.

“My name’s Eleanor, and I don’t know the first thing about hockey.”

Chris grins at Eleanor. “Works for me.” He offers a hand to Eleanor. “Walk with me?” Eleanor doesn’t hesitate this time, taking Chris’ hand and letting him pull her along, pull her in close. “You know, now that I think about it,” Chris says as they walk, “I remember some of my teammates talking about your show earlier this year. I just never really got around to watching it.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Eleanor says.

Chris knocks his cup of coffee against Eleanor’s playfully. “So no dates to watch the show together with popcorn, got it.”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Eleanor laughs. Then, “Wait, is that what this is?”

“What? Dating?” Chris asks. He shrugs, jostling Eleanor’s hand that he’s still holding. “I mean, yeah?” They walk a few more steps in silence. “Is—is that okay?”

Eleanor pretends to think about it. “I suppose it is.” She points the last bite of her croissant at Chris. “You better start taking me on more real dates, too, though. No more of this coffee shop bullshit.”

Chris pretends to look offended for a moment before he softens. “We can do whatever you want.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “We are continuing the coffee shop thing, though. I kinda like it."

They do continue the coffee shop thing, almost every single morning before Chris rushes off to whatever training session he has in the afternoon. They continue their other adventures, too, and the weeks pass in a blur of sunshine and laughter and Chris. A morning at the Maritime Aquarium. A hike up in Naugatuck State Forest that is much more Chris’ speed than Eleanor’s. A trip back into the city to wander around the Museum of Natural History, then another to go to the Bronx Zoo. Both of those trips land them squarely in the gossip news cycle for a week, but Eleanor finds that she doesn't mind too much.

Chris even invites Eleanor to his house for dinner a few times. Eleanor learns that Chris is a fantastic cook, and it’s also where they really get a chance to get to know each other. Safe from others overhearing their conversations, Eleanor asks Chris all kinds of questions about hockey and growing up in Boston, and Chris asks her about working as an actress and living in England. It’s nice—the way Chris’ eyes light up when he talks about his family, or the way he’s patient and doesn't laugh at Eleanor’s inane questions about hockey.

They settle in to watch a movie most times, after they eat dinner, an empty bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen counter. Chris starts to tease Eleanor about watching Couriers of Dusk, but those taunts end quickly when Eleanor threatens to turn on YouTube videos of Chris’ highlights instead.

Those movie nights only devolve into making out once or twice.

Chris changes their routine up on Eleanor in late July. Another month of Eleanor ignoring texts, phone calls and emails from her agent, trying her best to ignore the fact that her summer is dwindling.

Meet me at my house in the morning, Chris texts one evening.

He refuses to answer any of Eleanor’s further questions, so she arrives at his house the next morning utterly clueless as to what he’s planned.

Chris is waiting for her at the front door. He’s in the middle of shooing someone who must be a younger teammate out the door—the Rangers shirt is a dead giveaway—but he waves when he sees Eleanor. The other man winks at Eleanor as they pass on the front walk, but he doesn’t stop to chat.

Eleanor doesn’t even get to ask before Chris is saying, “Teammate. He came by to work out this morning.” He leans down for a quick kiss. One of the dogs barks excitedly from inside—Eleanor is pretty sure it’s Binks—but Chris pulls the door shut behind him. “You ready to go?”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow at him. “Ready to go where, exactly?” she asks. She lets Chris take her hand and guide her to his car.

“You have to go to Coney Island,” Chris says. He opens Eleanor’s car door for her and steals another kiss as she ducks into the passenger seat.

“Oh, I have to, huh?” Eleanor echoes once Chris is also in the car. All she knows about Coney Island is from that Taylor Swift song. “And why is that?”

Chris shrugs, half-focused on backing out of his driveway. ‘’It’s just one of those places everyone should get to go to.” At Eleanor’s skeptical look, he adds, “We’ll ride the Ferris Wheel and walk the Pier, I promise it’ll be fun.”

Eleanor still isn’t quite sure she believes him, but she settles in for the now-familiar drive into the city. Chris doesn’t even complain when she picks up his phone to fiddle with the music playing over his Bluetooth.

“I don’t know the last time I had this much fun,” Eleanor admits breathlessly hours later, spinning into Chris’ side as the sun begins to dip.

Chris chuckles and steadies Eleanor with a hand around her waist. “Worth it after all?” he teases.

Eleanor tips her chin up for a kiss. Chris obliges with a soft smile. “More than,” Eleanor says quietly when they part. “Truly, I don’t know the last time I’ve had a day like this.”

She had spent the better part of the last year and a half filming the two seasons of Couriers, and she certainly had not had the freedom or luxury of spending a day gallivanting around. And gallivant they had: they’d done everything from wander the shops to riding the Ferris Wheel to racing each other in go-karts and teeing off in a round of mini golf. Chris is sunburnt across his nose, and Eleanor is absolutely exhausted.

She can’t remember the last time she was this happy.

Chris leads Eleanor down the boardwalk and onto the beach. Eleanor munches on the edge of her ice cream cone, thoughtful. It’s not late enough that the beach is empty yet, though the families dotting the sand have grown sparse. Eleanor simply slips her hand into Chris’ and tangles their fingers together. They continue walking until they reach an empty section of beach.

Eleanor drops Chris’ hand and dashes forward until the dark water washes over her toes. It’s cold, even this far into summer, and Eleanor shivers. She glances back over her shoulder at Chris. He’s settled into the sand a few paces back, watching Eleanor with a smile on his face. Eleanor shivers again.

“C’mere,” Chris calls softly. Eleanor doesn’t need any convincing. She steps back up the beach and sits in the sand next to Chris. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and Eleanor leans into him.

It’s darker now, and quiet all along the beach. Eleanor hates to break the silence.

“My agent has another job lined up for me,” she whispers. She doesn’t look up into Chris’ face.

Chris squeezes her shoulders. “Elle, that’s great.” Eleanor hums noncommittally. When she doesn’t say anything further, Chris asks hesitantly, “Isn’t it?”

It’s supposed to be great. She’s booked for a lead in some new movie franchise that’s supposed to be a blockbuster. Eleanor should be ecstatic. But, “I’m not ready to leave.”

She’s certain she’ll be on the next flight back to London as soon as she stops dodging her agent’s calls and accepts the role.

“Oh,” Chris says.

Eleanor can’t help but laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, oh.”

They haven’t ever talked about it—the future, what happens when the summer’s over—but Eleanor isn’t kidding herself. There is no future; this relationship has always had an expiration date. Chris doesn’t say anything.

They sit in silence for a little longer, listening to the waves coming in. Eleanor eventually flops backwards into the sand, stretching her arms out above her head. The sky is dark, only a few stars visible between scattered clouds. Chris shifts, too, turning and propping himself up on one elbow. His other hand brushes the exposed skin of Eleanor’s stomach.

“Do you think I could sleep here?” Eleanor asks.

Chris wrinkles his nose. “I’d advise against it.” His fingertips wander higher, brushing against her ribs. Eleanor squirms and giggles breathlessly. She watches as Chris’ eyebrows shoot up. “Elle, are you ticklish?” he asks.

Eleanor tries to tug her shirt back down, shoves uselessly at Chris’ hand. It’s too late; Chris has discovered a weakness, and even in the dark, Eleanor can see his wicked grin.

Eleanor stifles a shriek as Chris straddles her, but she does yell a little when his fingers dig into her ribs. She squirms again, even as Chris kisses her quiet. He forgets that he’s supposed to be tickling Eleanor, instead turning the kiss slow and deep. His hands grip Eleanor’s sides. Eleanor sighs into the kiss and melts into the sand.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been lying there when Chris pulls away. He doesn’t go far, brushing his nose against Eleanor’s as she tries to catch her breath.

“Elle,” Chris gasps. “I think I’m in love with you.” His hands slip underneath Eleanor’s shirt again. She doesn’t try to push them away.

Eleanor doesn’t say anything foolish like, “I think I love you, too.” She slides a hand around the back of Chris’ neck and pulls him back down for another kiss. It’s answer enough for now.

They stay like that for several more long minutes, lost in each other. Chris’ hands keep exploring Eleanor’s body—along her ribs, over the cups of her bra, down her stomach—leaving goosebumps in their wake. There’s an unspoken question there, and Eleanor sits up, lets Chris pull her shirt over her head.

When she realizes he’s caught staring, she knees him gently in the side. “Chris,” she says softly. “Take me home.”

Chris shakes himself and gets off of Eleanor. He brushes the sand off his knees before offering a hand to Eleanor. He pulls her close for another lingering kiss once she’s standing, the hand not holding her shirt sliding around the small of her back.

Eleanor makes a face as she tries to shake the sand out of her hair. Chris only laughs at her.

“Can I have my shirt back? Please?” she asks.

Chris holds it out of her reach. “For another kiss.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and tugs Chris down for a kiss. He hands her her shirt back with a smirk. She rolls her eyes again as she shakes it out and pulls it over her head. “Because you haven’t already had enough kisses.”

Chris offers her a hand. “Thought you said something about taking you home.”

Eleanor takes his hand and lets herself be pulled back towards the boardwalk.

Chris keeps an apartment in the city. He’d explained it once, a few weeks back, that it's much easier during the season to be closer to games and practices. Eleanor is thankful for it now. She’s not sure she could bear the long drive back to Connecticut with Chris’ hand burning on her thigh. Not to mention the sand in unsavory places at the moment. Chris may have been right about not sleeping on the beach.

Chris all but drags Eleanor through his building lobby, into the elevator, to his front door. Eleanor doesn’t even get to pause and take in the lavish apartment building Chris lives in, too busy being intermittently led by the hand and pressed up against the nearest wall for a make-out break. It’s a wonder they make it through the front door with either of them still clothed.

Chris is already tugging at Eleanor’s shirt again as they stumble down the hallway. It’s dark in the apartment, and Eleanor swears when she stubs her toe on something. It’s enough to get Chris to pause and flip a few light switches.

He looks sheepish, flushed and rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, got kinda carried away, I guess.”

Eleanor reaches to reel him back in. “I don’t remember telling you to slow down.”

They make it to the bedroom without further incident, and after that everything passes in a haze of carelessly strewn clothes and Chris’ hands on her bare skin.

She wakes in the morning with a jolt. It’s full daylight outside Chris’ windows, and the twisted sheets on the other side of the bed are empty. Eleanor’s phone must have died some time in the night, and she fishes it from her bag, mixed up in the pile of her clothes. She plugs it into the charger on Chris’ side of the bed, leaves it to turn back on.

There’s a sick feeling in Eleanor’s stomach that she can’t place as she pulls one of Chris’ shirts on and treads carefully down the hall. She half-fears finding the rest of the apartment empty—Chris gone, leaving Eleanor to find her way back to Connecticut on her own.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she rounds the corner and finds Chris sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but that relief dissipates fast when she sees the furrow between Chris’ eyebrows.

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?” she asks, rushing over to Chris.

His face brightens for a moment when he notices her, but it darkens again quickly. He swivels on his stool to allow Eleanor to step between his legs, absently leans in for a kiss. One of his hands wraps around Eleanor’s hip.

“Chris, you’re worrying me,” Eleanor says again.

That’s when she sees Chris’ phone, unlocked and face-up on the counter. When she sees her own photo staring back at her—shirtless on the beach with Chris the night before.

“I swear I had no idea,” Chris says. “I thought we were alone, I wouldn’t have—”

“Chris, it’s—” Well, it’s not exactly fine, is it, Eleanor thinks. “I know,” is what she says instead. “I have to—” Her phone, still in the bedroom. She runs back down the hall to it, collapsing on the bed. Her screen is flooded with notifications—her agent, her mother, her social media accounts.

She frantically swipes through them. Demands for Eleanor to call her agent. Links to the photos, in case she missed what all the fuss was about. Half-joking, half-scandalized messages from school friends and former co-stars. More irate messages from her agent, and four missed calls.

A one-way flight ticket back to London, dated for the day after next.

Eleanor swears under her breath again. Chris has made his own way down the hallway and is leaning against the doorframe, watching Eleanor nervously.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. Eleanor gives him a flat look. Chris grimaces and sits carefully on the bed next to Eleanor, rubbing her back.

It’s comforting, actually, and Eleanor lets herself lean into it for a moment before she says, “We need to get back to Connecticut.” She has to stop herself from calling Connecticut home. It’s certainly begun to feel that way after the last few months with Chris.

But it could never be home. Eleanor has always been running away from her life in London. She just couldn’t run fast enough this time.

Chris looks like he wants to argue, like he’d rather hide in his condo until this whole mess blows over and the gossip cycle moves on, but he just nods.

They hadn’t really been in the condo long enough to make much mess, but Chris makes the bed and Eleanor idly tidies the rest of the room. They’re both stalling.

“Shall we?” Eleanor asks at last, when there’s nothing left to pretend to pick up. Chris takes her offered hand without a word.

Neither of them say much of anything on the long drive back to Connecticut. Chris offers to pick up breakfast sandwiches, but Eleanor’s not sure she can stomach anything right now. They keep driving. Chris holds Eleanor’s hand across the console as he drives, some audiobook playing lowly over his car’s Bluetooth.

When Chris pulls up in front of Eleanor’s Airbnb, neither of them move to get out. The clock on the dashboard taunts Eleanor, reminds her that she’s out of time. This stolen summer has been stolen from her. After a few long minutes, Chris sighs and turns off his car. He opens the door and climbs out, and Eleanor clambers to open her door and follow Chris up the front walk.

He waits patiently while Eleanor fumbles with her keys and tries to unlock the front door. He grabs at Eleanor’s arm before she can push the door open and step inside. She turns, tries to memorize his face, the way he looks at her.

When Chris kisses her, it’s gentle, one hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek. Eleanor clutches at Chris, his wrist, his hip, the back of his neck. She’d turn the kiss desperate, funnel every emotion she feels into it—frustration, longing, love— but Chris gentles her every time she tries. Finally—too soon—Chris pulls away with a sigh. Eleanor’s eyes burn suddenly with tears she refuses to let fall.

Chris opens his mouth to say something.

“Don’t,” Eleanor says first, afraid she already knows what he’s about to say.

Chris ignores her. “I love you, Elle.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” she says. “Please don’t say that.”

Chris smiles ruefully. “I know,” he says.

“I wish this were different,” Eleanor says. She’s not sure what else to say. In another lifetime, maybe it could be different.

“I know,” Chris says again.

Eleanor’s phone starts ringing suddenly. She chances a glance at the screen; it’s her agent again, surely checking to make sure Eleanor is getting ready to head to the airport.

“I need—”

“Yeah, of course,” Chris says.

Eleanor pushes the front door open at last. She doesn’t watch as Chris walks back to his car and drives away.

Eleanor didn’t bring much with her on her escape to the States, and it doesn’t take more than a few hours to shove her meager belongings back in her suitcases. She finds traces of Chris all around her little house. A book she bought on a date. A Rangers sweatshirt she doesn’t even remember stealing. A museum map.

She considers leaving it all behind, the way she’s leaving Chris behind. In the end, it all ends up carefully packed away amongst her clothes.

In the morning, Eleanor flies into Heathrow. Her agent meets her at the gate. She lectures Eleanor the entire way through baggage claim and into the back of a cab, waiting to take Eleanor back to her flat. There’s a stack of papers and a pen thrust into her hand—the contract for the new films her agent has booked her. She’d read it on her laptop the night before, along with a few pages of the script. She signs without looking any closer now.

By all means, Eleanor should be excited. She can’t muster up any passion for anything right now.

She’s given strict instructions to “forget that stupid boy.” Eleanor doesn’t bother protesting that Chris is neither stupid nor just a boy, or that she probably won’t ever forget Chris and the most perfect summer she spent with him.

Before they’ve reached her flat, Eleanor’s phone begins to blow up again. News of her new contract must have hit Twitter. She turns her phone off and shoves it deep in her purse.

When Eleanor finally turns her phone back on before bed and sifts through all of her messages, there aren’t any from Chris. She guesses she shouldn’t be surprised, but she’s still disappointed. She’s not supposed to talk to him anymore, not supposed to be in love, she reminds herself, tossing her phone to the other side of the bed. It slides across the sheets and hits the carpet with a dull thud.

The next weeks pass in a blur. Eleanor meets her new co-star, Zach, the man her management will paint as her new boyfriend for the next several years.

“So that you’ll forget that hockey player,” her agent tells her, yet again. “And maybe so will everyone else.” Eleanor just forces a smile and tries not to flinch when Zach takes her hand and they step outside.

Filming starts; Eleanor never hears from Chris. She wears his Rangers sweatshirt into the studio one day, mostly by accident, and winds up in the gossip cycle for a week. She sees her own topless beach photos cross her timelines more than a few times.

It all dies down—the hype for the films, the gossip around Eleanor’s relationship status—but Eleanor still misses Chris every day. As hockey season starts, Eleanor starts checking the Rangers’ social media accounts for glimpses of Chris. It just makes her more heartsick.

In January, they send Eleanor and a few of her co-stars to New York to do a bunch of press junkets. She considers texting Chris—a warning, a plea to meet up—on the flight over. She goes as far as opening up their long-since abandoned text thread and starts typing out a message.

She never sends it. Instead, she falls asleep with her head on Zach’s shoulder and wakes up as they land in JFK to find that her agent had taken a picture of them and posted it to Eleanor’s own Instagram story. Eleanor takes a moment to be thankful that Chris doesn’t have any social media of his own.

On the third day of their little press tour, Eleanor slips away in between sessions to find a coffee shop. It’s mid-morning, and the shop is quiet enough when Eleanor steps in that she feels calm for the first time in days. She breathes in the smell of fresh coffee and bagels and lets her guard down.

She’s about to step up to the counter to order when someone bumps into her on their way out of the shop.

“Sorry—” Eleanor starts to say, at the same time as the man who bumped into her. Eleanor stops short. “Chris?”

The man does a double take. He hadn’t noticed Eleanor, but he’s gaping at her now, iced americano in one hand and bagel breakfast sandwich in the other. “Elle?”

Someone clears their throat behind Eleanor. She still needs to order.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Chris says, already reaching for his wallet again. He sticks the sandwich in his mouth to dig it out of his pocket, and Eleanor stifles a giggle. Eleanor takes his coffee from him before he can drop something. They step up to the register together. “Vanilla or caramel?” Chris asks Eleanor.

“Uh, caramel,” Eleanor answers.

Chris turns back to the register and orders an iced caramel latte and cinnamon roll before Eleanor can say anything else. She follows Chris to the side to wait for her order.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Eleanor asks. Chris seems to be in no hurry, casually taking his coffee back from Eleanor and leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed.

“Huh? Oh, no, we just finished morning skate, and I wanted to pick up something to eat before heading home.”

Home, the apartment Chris keeps in the city. They must be nearby. Eleanor suppresses a shiver when she thinks about Chris’ hands on her body in that very apartment.

She should probably be a little worried, she supposes, that some wayward paparazzi will come across her standing in this coffee shop, but she can’t really bring herself to care. She steps closer to Chris under the guise of getting out of the way of another patron, lets her elbow press against his.

The barista calls Eleanor’s name, and she has to stop leaning against Chris to grab her coffee.

“What brings you to New York, anyway?” Chris asks. Eleanor’s sure he knows better, but she thinks he almost sounds hopeful as he carefully follows her out of the shop.

She doesn’t look at him as she says, “Press tour,” over her shoulder.

If Chris responds, it’s lost in the bustle of the street beside them. They stand awkwardly for a moment. Eleanor hates every second of it.

She wants nothing more than to pull Chris close and kiss him again, to hell with the media and her agent and anyone who sees. But she sighs and says, “I should get back, they’re going to be looking for me." She’s not sure when she was supposed to be back for the next media session, but she’s probably cutting it close.

Chris smiles at Eleanor, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Which way are you going? I’ll walk with you, I have to head back to the Garden for my car.”

Eleanor points up the street, back from where she came. At least, she’s pretty sure that’s the direction she came from. She suspects Chris is just going to walk with her no matter which way she goes. Chris grins again, and this time it’s a little more real.

They fall into step together. Eleanor chokes back the words that are burning her throat—I miss you, I wish you’d call, I think I’m still in love with you. Eventually, the building Eleanor’s supposed to be in comes back into view.

“I could run away again,” Eleanor suggests, only half joking. Beside her, Chris laughs. They’re approaching the doors. It might be Eleanor’s last chance, so she steels herself and says, “I miss you, Chris.”

Chris stumbles like he missed a step. “Elle, you can’t say that.” He grips Eleanor above the elbow, steers her to the side.

Eleanor suddenly feels defiant. “I can say whatever I want.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t sting. Eleanor recognizes the fondness there. “And what are we supposed to do?” Chris asks. “They’ve got you in a relationship with your co-star now, and you’re across the ocean.”

Eleanor doesn’t ask how Chris knows the relationship with Zach is fake. “I miss talking to you.”

Chris softens. “You can always call me, baby.”

“You’ve never called,” Eleanor argues.

“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Chris admits. “But I miss you, too,” he adds. “I think even the dogs miss you.”

Eleanor laughs. If she wasn’t late before, she definitely is now. Fuck it, if she’s already going to be in trouble for being late, might as well make it worth it. It’s reckless and a little dumb, but Eleanor loops her arms around Chris’ shoulders and pulls him close to her for a kiss.

She catches Chris off-guard, but he responds quickly, the condensation from his iced coffee soaking into Eleanor’s shirt at the small of her back where Chris presses his hand. The kiss doesn’t last more than a few seconds, too long and not long enough.

“I love you,” Eleanor whispers as she pulls away.

“I know,” Chris whispers back. He takes a step away. Eleanor itches to reach out to him again. “Goodbye, Elle,” he says, louder.

“Eleanor!” someone yells from the front doors. It’s time to go.

Chris has already turned to walk away.

Eleanor hopes no one can tell she’s been crying when she settles in front of the camera for her next interview.

#cait writes things #chris kreider fic #chris kreider imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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