"Hey, isn't that Steve?"
Billy almost drops the vase in hand. It's about a hundred and thirty fucking degrees out anyway and it's not even noon so his palms are tiny oil slicks, but he's done good, so far.
He's been careful. Happy to finally unveil his fall collection to the hundreds of Instagram follower's who've been on his ass since July--
But Heather opens her mouth and says, "Shit, Bill, I think that is Steve," peering over Billy's shoulder with these comically large brown eyes, and usually it would be kinda funny.
But the thing is, Heather's working his last fucking never in the way only a best friend can.
She had to be dragged out of their apartment this morning, kicking and screaming until Billy forked out ten bucks to get a starbucks coffee in her even though they already agreed to split today's profits 90/10 because he needed help with the maker's fair.
Billy didn't even get a coffee himself, they were running so late, and by the time the Camaro screeched down Millwork street, kicking up a cloud of dust as Billy frantically searched for the vendor entrance, it was almost 10:00 am. The bitchy volunteer at the gate almost refused to give him the tent he shelled out $200 for because check-in was at 8:00 am and it's almost 10:00, now.
Like Billy can't tell time. So.
He's not in the mood for games or jokes or teasing. Really not in the mood, like. He might drop the cashier lock box in Heather's hands and vanish, all, take your 10% and shove it in your ass, not in the mood.
But Heather trips around the folding table, dropping Billy's favorite plaid table linen in the dirt to clutch and grab at his shoulder like a scared kid.
"Heather," Billy snaps, stooping to save it from the dust with his free hand, "Holloway, I swear to fucking God--"
"Look," Heather spats. Her nails dig into his armpit when she spins him around, and.
Steve's there.
Huh.
He's wearing a volunteer t-shirt. And a fanny pack. And his extra-strength 50 SPF sunscreen hasn't been rubbed into his cheeks all the way so they look like sugar glazed apples where he sits in his little folding chair, two tents over at Robin's candle booth. Laughing.
And. Billy hasn't heard that laugh in what feels like a lifetime.
His bones ache with it, rebuilding around the loss he never really processed but has grown to ignore out of survival's sake. Steve's laugh, it. It's Billy's favorite sound in the entire world.
They haven't spoken in three months.
Not since Steve was inside of him, pumping slow and hard with his hands behind Billy's knees, folding him in half as he mouthed sweetness into Billy's throat.
You're so beautiful, tongue lavish against Billy's fluttering heartbeat, You're mine, baby. I want you to be mine. I love--
Behind them, Milk & Marigold's assistant drops something heavy and it shatters. Hundreds of eyes turn in their direction, dozens of frazzled vendors and their teams alarmed at the sudden stillness, and.
Robin, who grins widely at Heather, and. Steve. Locking eyes with Billy as all the color drains from his face.
"Holy shit," Heather's nails press deeper into Billy's arm, somehow, and Billy thinks, distantly, that she might draw blood.
He doesn't care.
Steve's looking at him. For the first time in months, the world is right and Billy can breathe again and about a trillion and thirty things rush through head, rapid firing so he doesn't have the mental space to register the way plot seventeen aches to topple to the parking-lot under foot.
Somewhere, back on Earth, Milk & Marigold's assistant gets his ass handed to him for being so reckless, and slowly. Shyly. Steve lifts a hand and waves.
Billy's going to drop plot seventeen. He grips its amber neck, instead, carless of the rippling clay under his fingertips. "Very funny," Billy says, turning on his heel. He sticks the vase between plots sixteen and eighteen, his jaw so tense it could hack and slash the sky. "I can't believe this. This is such a fucking joke--"
"--Shit--"
"--I can't believe I thought I wouldn't see him here, I mean. Robin's got a business too, right? A side hustle?"
"Candles, or something. Yeah."
"Of course she'd be here. And if she's here then. Fuck, I should've thought about this more," Billy says, tugging all ten fingers through his hair, "God, I should've just launched the fall collection online, like a normal--"
"Billy?"
Billy stands ramrod straight. All the air rushes from his lungs, his hair standing on end as if the tent overhead has grown lips and is talking to Billy in his father's voice.
It's not that.
Steve could never be that because he's better. Holy.
Steve's so much more real, up close. His hair is longer than the last time Billy saw him, his cheeks and jaw dusted with a prickly 5'oclock that gives way to a mustache up top.
It's incredibly sexy.
Billy hates it, on site, because Steve's moles are hidden like a secret. A sun-ripe memory of the first thing Billy ever loved about him.
"Wow. I didn't think I'd see you here, today," Steve says. His eyes hunt over Billy's face, warm and familiar and so, so soft despite all the shit that Billy said the last time they saw each other.
It hangs in the air, stuck like a wedge between them.
"Billy," Steve says again, soft and full of wonder and ready to scale the enormity of their past. Billy forgot how his name holds weight, when Steve says it. Extra syllables and consonants, worth their stake in gold.
Billy clears his throat. Longs for a glass of water, "Hey," He says, when really he means, I'm sorry, and, please never go away again. I'm a bad man and I was afraid but if you give me another chance, I promise I won't push you away, because I love--
Heather clears her throat.
Billy jerks his head in her direction, dizzy as the world fades back into focus. "Sorry," He says, weary, "I'm an asshole. Steve, this is--"
"Heather," Steve shakes her hand, smile gorgeous and winning, "I know, we met, I think. Once or twice when I was on my way out of the apartment."
Billy's going to pass out.
He's dizzy and sick to his stomach, and then. Steve looks at him, and his gaze settles like a warm, solid weight over Billy so he can't float away. "It's a nice apartment," Steve says shyly, "Felt like home."
Billy wasn't expecting this. To see Steve, let alone talk about the apartment, and--
"Billy," Heather says, clapping her hands together once, "How about I go and see if Robin has any extra tent weights?"
"Sure," Billy says, and Steve smiles at him, and then Billy smiles because Steve's always had that effect on people.
Heather scampers off and Steve shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets. "You look good," Steve says.
Billy's palms are sweating. "So do you."
"Thanks. I feel like shit. I didn't realize you'd be here, even though I could've guessed, if I had a moment to rest with my own thoughts. Robin's working on her fall collection--"
"--Right--"
"--and I guess you are, too. Well," Steve tugs a hand through his hair and it poofs up big like fresh whipped cream, and Billy has missed him so desperately that his ribs rack and break, "That's a lie. I don't have to guess. I know for a fact you're fixing to launch your fall collection."
Billy frowns, "How do you know that?"
"I follow you on Instagram," Steve says, like he's expecting to get told off.
But.
It does something, to the atmosphere. Shifts things. Billy thought he'd blocked Steve on everything, after the first drunken voicemail, but.
Apparently not.
"Yeah, well. The suburban moms love my shit," Billy crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly freezing.
Steve's gaze gets caught on the swell of Billy's arms. "Billy," He starts.
"Look, it's almost noon," Billy says, heartbroken.
Steve doesn't seem to get it. But then his eyes get big and watery, like Heathers, and Billy wants to wrap him in a blanket. "Right," Steve says, "Market's opening soon."
"Right."
"Sorry, I know you still have to set up."
"No sweat."
"Look, Billy--"
"It was good to see you, Steve."
It presses down on them. Everything.
Steve's eyes close like doors. "Sure," He says, and then he's gone.
--
Apparently, word gets around for events like this.
For the first few hours Billy doesn't have time to mull over his interaction with Steve, because they're slammed with wave after wave of eager Saturday Morning buyers.
Billy's feet ache by noon as Heather works the cash box and he makes laps around the tent, restocking and catching up with repeat buyers.
The event volunteers swing by every thirty minutes or so to make sure they have everything they need, dropping off bottled water and drink tickets, and by two Billy's happy he won't be going home with a trunk full of merchandise.
He counts the cash box, whooping when he realizes that their 90/10 won't shake out too badly. "We did pretty damn good, Heath, and it's only 2:00."
Heather's already used her drink tickets on a couple of Bloody Mary's. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"I heard there's a fried hotdog thing on a stick down by the food trucks," Heather says, and she giggles like any sort of weenie could pique her interest. "That doesn't sound good to you?"
"Eh," Billy says, leaning back in his chair, "I've been trying this intermittent fasting thing. I eat a big fuckin' breakfast of mostly protein, and then a light lunch around 3:00, and a small dinner--"
"That's so fucking stupid."
Billy frowns, "Gotta keep in shape."
"For who?" Heather demands. "It's not like you're whoring yourself out anymore, and you're not gonna let one of your old flings back into the apartment., much less your heart."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Heather's cheeks are red, as if she's been sitting in the sun all morning. Billy knows her well enough to get that she probably doesn't mean any harm by it, but her words sting, anyway.
"There are other guys in New York, Heather."
"You don't want to get to know other guys, Billy."
"Bullshit. I know you're a nosy lesbian with too much attitude wedged in her a-cup bra to notice, but some of us aren't looking for love. Some of us would rather fuck random losers."
"That's so not you."
"It's a good distraction. I could use one of those."
"It's kinda hilarious," Heather rolls her eyes, "Even you don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about protecting people."
"People like Steve?"
Billy snaps the cash box shut. "You're so bad at conversation Segway's."
"Fuck you, I'm really clever and stealthy."
"Did you talk to Robin about this," Billy demands, watching slack-jawed and furious as pink floods Heather's cheeks. "My thing with Steve isn't any of your business, and it's not interesting enough to warrant all your fucking medaling."
"I just think--"
"I don't care what you think."
"Why would you react like that when you saw each other?" Heather sits flush to the edge of her lawn chair, shoulders squared for a fight. "If what happened between you meant nothing and you'd really rather skip the greasy market-food for some imaginary sex pot you can blow and dump on Cornelia Street the second you're through with him, why would your heart stop beating when--"
Billy shakes his head. "I don't care what you and Robin have to say, I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a piece of shit, alright?" Billy snaps. "What happened with Steve, it. It was inevitable, okay? He said he loved me, and I loved him and I still do but that doesn't fucking matter because he's Steve and I'm Billy and I could never be half good enough, alright? Happy?"
When Heather doesn't say anything, Billy shoves back from the table.
"Where are you going?" Heather asks, voice small and awful.
"I'm having my two drinks," Billy says, padding quickly onto the already crowded street.
--
As far as Billy's concerned, calories don't exist when it comes to alcohol.
He finds the nearest bar cart and orders two shots of dark liquor, even though it usually makes his stomach go on strike, and shells out seven dollars of his own single-person salary for a French 75.
Then he starts walking.
And walking.
At another bar cart, Billy can't stop thinking about the first time he ever saw Steve, pulsing like a brand new heart under club lights, pretty with the kind of looks that made Billy mentally ill. So he shells out another $20 on a girly pink drink with a paper mâché umbrella.
It tastes like strawberries and Steve used to taste like strawberries in the summertime. Billy can't remember what he was so upset about, before.
He feels good. In control.
But then he gets lost somewhere near Broadway and just as he figures out how to get back to his tent, where Heater is likely up to her eyeballs in impatient customers and guilt about being endlessly right in all things, Billy spots Steve balancing a funnel cake on one arm.
His nose is red. Strawberry dappled, which means he's drunk, and he's got a cup of pale ale pinched between his teeth as he figures out how to hold his market load.
The only problem is, Steve's gorgeous and so, so fucking stupid he can't figure out that he's got two hands.
It makes Billy's heartache, thumping a little harder to the left, and he can't remember why he ever left Steve rumpled in a hotel room that night, half-hard and brokenhearted, so Billy takes the rest of his drink like a shooter, and marches up to Steve and says, "You really should be locked up somewhere."
It's meant to hurt. And bruise.
But Steve's whole face lights up and he drops the ale down the front of his volunteer shirt. "Billy," he says, sounding way too bright and happy. Soaked through.
"Shit, your uniform--"
"It's okay, thing's almost over anyway."
"Stop being so nice."
"Okay," Steve says easily, "You're an asshole, and you broke my heart, and now I'm all wet."
"Well, since we're being honest."
Steve frowns. "I dreamed about seeing you again, you know? How you'd. Have too many drinks and look at me and say you haven't been able to get it up since we split.
"I can always get it up," Billy tires flatly, and Steve smirks. It's small and barely there, but. Billy swallows thickly, "I am an asshole. You're right. A drunk asshole."
"Me too. I know."
"I was worried about hurting you," Billy admits in a rush, "I didn't want to disappoint you. I thought I wasn't ready for what we had to be more than just sex, but it already was."
"--Okay--"
"I never bottomed before," Billy blurts out. "I can get it up. You make me pop too quick, you're just. You're perfect and you're kind. You're every wet dream I ever had rolled into one, Steve." The sidewalk is waving, a little. Steve looks like he wants to touch Billy, to reach out and steady him, but he's already holding a funnel cake.
Steve nods.
Encouraging and soft and kind as ever, and Billy's never felt safe with anyone, like this. So, Billy says, choking a little, "I never let another person touch me, like that. My body or anything else. I never did. You're so good, Steve. So I let you touch me and it changed me and I don't know how to be anything else than a drunk, whining asshole. But we happened and I never ached for it before, it fucking. Knocked me on my ass, Steve. You came in and you knocked me on my ass, and--"
"Billy--"
"God, I love it when you say my name," Billy says. He wonders, distantly, what kind of mojo they put in that girly little cocktail because he can't stop talking.
Steve doesn't seem to mind, but he says, "You really hurt me," Picking at the golden crisp of his funnel cake. "Seriously, Bill, I didn't think I was gonna survive it."
Billy's knees almost give out, he's. Hot all over. Burning up with feverish grief. "I'm sorry," he says. He's a hole in the center of the universe.
"I know."
"I was afraid."
"I get that," Steve says. He shuffled the funnel cake in his hands, and Billy wonders how the bottom's not soggy yet, damaged and ready to fall out. Steve puts it on the ground. "Shit's gross."
"Yeah."
"Do you wanna," Steve says, frowning, "We could walk. And talk about it, more."
"Sure."
"I'm not saying we can get back together yet--"
"--Yet--"
"I missed you," Steve says, and he's bright as the sun.
Billy's been freezing to death his whole life, so. He draws close. Takes Steve's hand, "I missed you, too," He says. "Maybe we should get you a dry shirt?"
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smile for me // sam golbach
A/N: i'm not sure why, but while i was writing this, i felt the need to leave everything lower case. i usually don't like writings that are like this but idk lol i kinda like it. this was a lot of fun to write, along with the one i wrote for colby. not the same story, but it’s similar in one way that you’ll see ;) hope you enjoy ! let me know what you think.
prompt: a stalker has made it its mission to leave you unsettled in your own home. everyone is looking out for you, your fans, your security team, and even the paparazzi. || famous!reader x paparazzi!sam
trigger warning: stalking, home invasion, cursing, creepy stalker, surprise ending, angst
word count: 1805
~~~~~~~~
your face was everywhere: magazines, tv, movies, instagram, twitter, tiktok. you were being talked about daily. every move you made was followed by paparazzi. you couldn't even get a drink at starbucks without stopping for a mini meet and greet. everyone knew about you.
especially sam.
sam didn't love being a paparazzi. times were changing, and celebrities didn't really need to be photographed by random strangers to gain popularity anymore. hell, most times paparazzi would get tipped off by the celebs themselves by their posts on instagram or snapchat. and you in particular... you marked your every move. and sam followed it.
over the few years of your celebrity status, you had come to know the faces that would follow you around the most. sam was one of them. he was the nicest out of all the paparazzi. never yelled at you, never asked invasive questions. he would just ask for you to smile for him, and then he would be on his way.
you knew every day you were out, you would see him. and weirdly, it made you happy. it was a nice common occurrence you could count on in your ever-changing daily routine.
one morning when you woke up, something felt very off. the air around you was colder than usually, like someone left a window open. as you stepped out of bed, you felt something plastic underneath your foot. you looked down and found a polaroid. you picked it up, turned it over, gasping loudly at the image.
it was of you. sleeping. from last night.
you immediately called your security team and they checked out the house. that night cameras were installed all over your property, something you had been meaning to do for the longest time. your security team was on high alert for the next few days, and so were you. it was hard to go to sleep knowing someone could sneak into your house and photograph you. but at least with the cameras up and running, you felt a little bit safer.
a couple days later, you saw sam. he told you he heard the news about the break in and understood if you didn't want to be photographed. but you smiled for his picture nonetheless, and then decided to ask him a question.
"i know this might be weird, but do you know of any paparazzi that use polaroid cameras?"
sam squinted at you. "it wouldn't make sense to use that type of camera, especially for everyday use like us. but i can ask around. maybe see if any of the new guys are a bit on the weirder side of things and would do something like that."
you nodded, "thank you. that would mean so much to me."
you felt safe that night and went to sleep peacefully. but in the morning, you woke up to another polaroid of you sleeping. but not just one, multiple. and throughout your house. in your bathroom, in your kitchen, all the way leading up to the front door.
you checked the cameras, knowing this stalker would have to be on there.... but nothing showed up. not a single blip of a person appeared in the hours of footage. how is that even possible? it's not like a ghost was taking photos of you! your security team figured that someone hacked the cameras and deleted the footage. there wasn't much your team could do. they tried to make your cameras less hackable, in case there was another attempt at a break in.
you barely slept the next week. this time security was outside your bedroom the whole night. there was no way someone could break in and take a picture of you asleep.
things grew quiet for a couple months. the press and the general media felt bad for you and were disgusted by this apparent stalker. the police were involved too, making sure to drive by your neighborhood often. you felt safe, but only by a little.
even sam started checking in on you every so often. it was nice to know you had someone looking out for you that you weren't paying to, even if it was some random paparazzi.
but every time you let your guard down, that's when it would strike.
you weren't sure how it happened, but this time you woke up when it came in. you heard your bedroom door close. you were confused at first, thinking maybe it was someone on your security team peaking in to check on you. but a quiet click of the lock startled you fully awake. you tried to remain calm, knowing any sudden movements would give you away. you weren't sure what to do. you prayed that maybe this was just some weird nightmare, but you soon realized how real it was.
the stalker approached your bed, making sure to face you. you could feel its presence by your bedside, the light from outside growing dark from the looming figure. a hand gently brushed hair out of your face, and it took every nerve in your body not to scream.
"smile for me, baby." the stalker whispered, then suddenly there was a flash.
it took a picture of you.
you heard the whirling of the camera, the image sliding out and dropping to the floor. you wanted to turn your head away from the stalker, get some distance between the two of you, but before you could even think that, you felt the bed dip. it climbed on top of you, but never touched you. you could feel it's breath fan across your face as it got close to you. you held your breath, your heart banging out of your chest. you breathed out hard, and all was still.
suddenly hands wrapped around your throat, squeezing it close. you jolt your eyes open, finally looking at your stalker. the face was covered by a mask, but from the grip alone you could tell it was a man. you tried to scream out, but only a gurgled cough escaped. you gripped his wrists, trying to pry them off, but it did no good. your vision began to grow black, the edges blurring. you were going pass out if you didn't fight harder!
you glanced over at the glass of water that sat on your nightstand. hastily you reached over and grabbed it, smashing it into the back of the guy’s head. he groaned loudly, falling off you and onto the floor. you coughed, trying to breathe, and scrambled off your bed, racing to the door. he was already up before you could reach it to unlock it, so you ran into your bathroom, letting out a weak scream. you locked it tightly, tears pouring down your face.
he rushed up to the door, slamming his body weight into it multiple times. he jiggled the handle over and over. your body fell to the floor, your chest heaving with sobs.
"smile for me, y/n! SMILE FOR ME!" he screeched demonically.
you screamed out. "no!! leave me alone!"
he cackled, still banging on the door repeatedly. "keep screaming, y/n! they're all watching you! they want to hear you. scream louder! smile!"
you covered your ears and wailed, letting out the loudest scream you could. by the time you stopped your voice was sore, your face soaked with tears. the banging had stopped, but you could hear the rush of footsteps coming up to your room.
"y/n?! are you alright?! open the door!" you could hear it was your security team, but you couldn't move, your body locked into place.
they were able to break down your bedroom door, and finally get you out of your bathroom.
the next month or two was a blur. you moved out of that house, and planned to move out of the state for that matter. you issued a statement about the stalker, telling your fans you were going on hiatus until you felt safe again. you considered going into hiding, but only decided to do so when you found out the footage from that night got leaked online. you watched in horror as the events you experienced played out for all to see. you didn't even realize he had a camera on him when he was trying to kill you. maybe you were so blindly trying to survive you didn't pay attention to that.
the only positive was that the audio had been corrupted when it was posted. no one could actually hear you pleading for your life. the police searched for who posted it, but every lead got them nowhere closer to who could have done this.
you flew to vegas that night, hiding yourself in some random townhouse for a couple months. your security team was with you at all times. you didn't go online ever. you took time off, painted, wrote a lot, talked to your family back home. just... anything to keep yourself preoccupied.
you eventually decided that you wanted a change of scenery, that vegas had lost its charm. you figured about going out to new york for a while. the day before you were planning to move, you went for a drive with your bodyguard. you decided to stop at a 7/11 to get some food. you told your bodyguard to wait in the car, only running in to get a slurpee and some nachos. as you walked up and down the aisles, you heard a familiar voice behind you. "y/n?"
you turned around and gasped. you walked up, smiling, and gave him a sweet hug. "oh my god, sam! it is so nice to see you! what are you doing out here?"
"oh, i'm in town for a job. there's a big event happening at one of the major hotels on the strip. lots of celebs to capture," he joked, wiggling his camera from side to side. "what about you?"
"just... hiding out. i'm actually gonna leave town for a while. probably go out east, go see some family." you stated.
he nodded. "that sounds like a good plan. i'm so sorry... about everything."
"it's okay. i'm just trying to put it all behind me." you hummed.
"of course, of course. i won't ask for a picture. i know you need your privacy." sam confirmed.
"hey, you know what? you have always been the nicest paparazzi to me. and i know the tabloids are just dying to see a picture of me out and about. so, if you want..." you offered.
sam gaped. "are you sure? i don't want to make you feel-"
"no, you're totally fine. you were there for me when i needed you. i appreciate you. so... go ahead. just make sure to get my good side." you giggled, posing for a second.
"alright," sam laughed, lining up the shot. "smile for me."
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