Chapter Text
“Ghezen, but he’s a sight,” Stefan mutters to himself as Dirtyhands waves Fahey away from the pool table corner that’s closest to where he sits, nursing his cup of kvas.
Reed hears him anyway. “Who, Dirtyhands?”
“Of course Dirtyhands; who else do you know who looks like that bent over?” Stefan barely gestures at Dirtyhands, bent deliciously over the polished wood frame to aim at the cue ball with his chalked up pole.
“Uh, plenty of people —” Reed tries.
“— not like this,” Stefan shakes his head as he takes a swig from his cup. “Not like this.”
Reed rolls his eyes. “Your little crush on the Bastard of the Barrel is going to get you killed, literally; knock it off while you still can.”
“Who said I can knock it off — oh, Ghezen,” Stefan groans into his mug as Dirtyhands steps back on his good leg over the pool table, stretching the curve of his pants over his fine as hell ass. “Fuck.”
Reed glances over at where Dirtyhands is standing upright again, his sharp, chiseled jawline hardening as his dark eyes narrow at where Fahey just sent the cue ball. “Okay, so he’s pretty. He’s the prettiest bastard in all of the Barrel, and what exactly are you going to do about it?”
Stefan is silent, watching as Dirtyhands limps around the table until he’s facing Stefan head on from across it. He doesn’t respond as Dirtyhands bends casually over the green fuzz the balls roll around on. His usually fully buttoned, white mercher shirt gapes slightly where he’s unbuttoned the top two or three little buttons at some point. With those magician hands of his —
Stefan glances at where Reed is suddenly looking vaguely uncomfortable. “What?”
“Fuck,” Reed whispers. “He’s got to be doing it on purpose. Right?” he glances back at Stefan.
Stefan shrugs helplessly. “If he is, it’s fucking working, isn’t it?”
“But he’s not. Is he.” Reed sounds dejected. It’s not a question.
“Nope. Not even a little bit —” Stefan shoves the rim of his mug into his mouth to stop from making any embarrassing noises at the way Dirtyhands just ran three gloved fingers through the carefully trimmed hair on the top of his head.
“Fuck me,” Reed gets out under his breath.
“I wish he’d fuck me, actually. I called dibs first,” Stefan tries for a joke that falls incredibly flat, because just then, Dirtyhands’ sharp, black eyes latch onto his face.
Stefan can’t breathe. That pale face sports pale pink lips that are ever so slightly opened just before he’s about to be yelled at, surely.
“Stefan,” Dirtyhands’ gravelly rasp calls out over the table.
Stefan puts his mug down nervously. “Yeah, boss?”
“I need you at the door. Now,” Dirtyhands barks.
“Yessir,” Stefan gets out before abandoning his place at the table closest to the pool table. He watches sourly as Reed takes up his exact spot instead.
He can see the pool table from the door, but not Dirtyhands anymore, so that negates the entire point of it anyway.
The next time Dirtyhands plays pool with Fahey, the banter between them is off the charts. Something about how Fahey needs to be more submissive if he wants to keep his job. Even Stefan can hear that Dirtyhands doesn’t actually mean it. And yet...
Reed stands close to where Stefan leans against the wall, both of them tempting an order from the Bastard by position alone. “How does Fahey manage to keep his dick so far from that ass?”
Stefan shrugs. “I’d have tried it within two days.”
“Yeah, but so would Fahey,” Reed points out. “Fahey would’ve tried within two days of meeting the man. So has he already tried? Or not?”
Stefan glares at him. “If I knew the answer to that, you think I’d be this hard watching Dirtyhands and Fahey play pool?” he snaps.
Reed raises an eyebrow. “You’d be hard no matter his relationship status, asshole, you’re the most horny for him I’ve ever seen —”
Stefan scoffs. “— as if you aren’t,” he challenges immediately, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left.
“I didn’t say that I wasn’t horny, I said you’re the most horny,” Reed points out.
Stefan wants to roll his eyes, but that would require taking them off of where Dirtyhands is gently massaging more chalk across the tip of his wooden stick. If only he’d gently massage Stefan’s stick too —
“Stefan,” Dirtyhands calls to him again. Stefan snaps his attention off of those rosy lips up to his dangerous eyes. “Any particular reason you’re standing there and not helping Anika with the bar?”
Stefan swallows. “No sir. I’ll...get right on it.” His throat’s dry.
Reed watches Dirtyhands warily as his sharp attention moves fluidly over to him. “I’ll — go help him,” Reed announces.
Dirtyhands looks unimpressed. “Do,” he dismisses them both, going back to where Fahey is laughing about something he said two minutes ago. “And as for you,” he says to Fahey pointedly as Stefan and Reed make their way over to the bar. “You’d better be about to naturally lose, or I’m making sure you do.”
Fahey laughs at him in the background as Stefan and Reed approach Anika.
“Hey,” Anika starts.
“Tell me, Anika,” Reed interrupts her.
Anika raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“When was the last time you wondered if anyone was properly banging the Bastard?” Reed asks as he accepts a rag to start wiping down shot glasses.
Anika’s face scrunches up in thought. “When Sturmhond last came to visit,” she decides.
“What about Sturmhond?” Stefan asks, feeling whiplashed by the sudden introduction of a new character.
Anika shrugs. “He looks at Brekker the same way Stefan does,” she says flatly.
Stefan’s face is red. “And what way is that?” he demands.
Anika is not and has never been shy about saying exactly what she means, unfortunately. “The way that makes it clear all he wants to do is drag him to a dark corner and fuck his brains out.”
Stefan frowns. “Nobody looks at him like that, let alone me,” he lies. “Besides. You can’t tell that kind of thing from just an expression.”
“Uh huh,” Anika says impassively. “So you and Sturmhond visibly can’t stop drooling over him, and I’m supposed to just ignore that? For the sake of your dignity? Give me a break, Stefan.” She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, like you’ve never drooled over Dirtyhands’ body,” Stefan snaps at her, rearranging the beers to her left to look more plentiful, less sparse.
“Of course I have,” Anika says flippantly. “Everyone has. I’m just saying, you and Sturmhond don’t hide it as well as everyone else does.”
Stefan glares at her, finally focusing exclusively on the beer bottles so he doesn’t go back to drooling all over Dirtyhands’ body the way he and apparently also Sturmhond frequently do.