Thinking about how the Cody boys notice the new girl at one of their parties. and they all try their charms on you.
Baz is first, offering to get you a drink. You shake your head. Not interested. You're not stupid, know he has a girlfriend. You have no interest in being the other woman.
Craig tries to impress you by jumping off the roof and into the pool. You frown as his entrance causes the pool water to splash onto your new bikini. You just roll you eyes and smooth your hair down.
Even J tries. He's way too young for you. Still got his baby face.
The boys are confused. This has never happened before. All of them getting turned down. How the fuck did this pretty little thing even know to come to the party if you're not trying to hook up with one of them.
They watch from the kitchen as you finally stand up from the sun lounger. Watch the soft bounce of your breasts against your bikini as you walk into the house. You suck in your lower lip before your whole face lights up. You all but run into the den where the eldest Cody boy is sitting nursing a whiskey.
Pope's arm is stretched across the back of the couch. You curl your whole body into him, pulling your feet under you as you cuddle into him. You stretch up to kiss him before resting your head on his chest. His hand moves then to wrap around you, slowly dragging his fingers up and down your arm.
The brother who Baz had snarled that no one would have a kid with. The brother they all thought was just a bit off-kilter. The brother they all thought would never get a woman to dote on him.
Well here he sits with the girl they all want draped around him.
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𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
summary: as an R3 in the pitt you interact with patients who adore you, administrators who tolerate you, and coworkers who are enamored by you... some more than others
contains: MDNI! no use of y/n, editing of canon, detailed description of blood donation, smut, angst, fluff, MEDICAL INACCURACIES!!!
word count: 12.5k
author's note: playing around a little with formatting and structured some of this like an episode of the pitt! mixed and chopped the timeline a little, story is chronological, days are separated by banners, hours indicate time in one day. please drop a comment if you enjoyed this! your feedback is valuable to me :)
TUESDAY 7:00PM
The ER is chaos. There’s blood and bodies everywhere. You’ve been in the red zone with Robby, Samira, and Abbot for what already feels like hours, the four of you weaving around patients with precision.
“Pulse is weak and thready,” you say, fingers pressed to the throat of your patient, “she's bleeding out from her liver lac. I need O-neg!”
“O-neg's gone, honey.” Dana calls across the hectic room, “Gloria's got more flying in. Eight to ten minutes.”
“She’s gonna have to get by with a liter of saline,” Robby says with his finger on her femoral artery.
“No, no, she needs blood, not crystalloid,” You huff.
“She's next to go, as soon as we get an open OR,” Abbot says, trying to keep you level.
“She's not gonna last that long,” You say, eyebrows furrowing together.
“Well unless you brought a bag of blood with you to work today…” Robby says, turning towards another patient.
You let out a sharp breath, turning and storming towards Central 7. You yank open the storage cart pulling out a butterfly needle, needle holder, blood bag, tourniquet, antiseptic, gauze, and bandaid. You snap on a pair of gloves and hook up the needle holder to the blood bag which sits on the overbed table. You wrap the tourniquet right above your elbow, grabbing one end between your teeth, the other end in your hand, pulling tightly. You wipe off your median cubital vein and make a fist. You take a slow deep breath then breath out, pushing the needle into your arm, taping it in place and releasing the tourniquet.
Abbot has been watching the whole thing across the ER, with his eyes still fixed on you he taps Robby on the shoulder.
“What?” Robby turns, his eyes following Abbots. He’s immediately heading your way, Abbot close on his heels.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Robby snaps.
“I’m taking out the bag of blood I brought to work,” you say pointedly, “I’m O-neg and our patient isn’t gonna last ten minutes without it,”
“It would take hours to screen for HIV and hepatitis,” Robby crosses his arms.
“Well, I have neither, and I donate all the time,” you look back at him with determined ferocity. Robby looks at Abbot hoping his fellow senior attending will back him up but Abbot shrugs almost as if to say she’s right.
“Fuck it.” Robby throws his hands up, “If the patient's gonna die before they get to the OR, then the benefits outweigh the risks.”
“My man,” you smile at him.
“Listen up. Central 7, 8, 9 is now the blood donor center,” Abbot shouts across the ER, “anyone who's O-neg or O-pos, we need you to donate now. Hands where I can see them, Dana?”
“OK, let's do this,” Dana answers, headed towards you. You finish your bag and Dana’s wrapping hot pink gauze around your arm, your foot bouncing in anticipation.
“All set kid,” She says.
“Thanks D,” you say, already back on the floor, running alongside a new patient who’s in desperate need of intubation.
“Need some help with an airway!” You call out.
“What is it?” Abbot steps next to you.
“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy…” you say, your hand on his neck, “I can't intubate him, probably hit the carotid.”
“OK. I'll do the airway,” Abbot steps across from you.
“What do we need? A 6.5 and a bougie?” you say, grabbing them.
“I got the bleeder. Foley catheter with a 30 cc balloon.” Abbot says, his finger in the patient’s neck. Jesse hands you the Foley and the balloon. Your eye catches the tube running down Abbot’s leg, a blood bag held around his ankle by gauze.
“Are you donating?” You smile up at him.
“What can I say,” he smiles back at you, “you inspired me,”
“Uh,” you bite back a smile shifting your focus back to the patient, “it's too bloody to see a bougie,”
“Not for this. Three-step process. Step one, scalpel. Step two, finger. Step three, bougie. OK, railroad in the tube.” Abbot says, and you gently push the tube in the patient's neck, “good, that's far enough, bag him.”
“Walsh, you have an OR for a head-and-neck case? MCI-48,” you call to the surgeon.
“We've got 16 ORs up and running,” Emery answers, “we've got room for one more.”
You and Abbot push the gurney towards Walsh who grabs it along with a few nurses, pushing towards the elevator. Just before they get onto the elevator Gloria steps out into the chaos of the ER.
“Robby, are you okay?” Robby kind of half nods at her, not giving her his full attention. “Well, I got some good news. County Public Health is sending out a truckload of supplies from Magee-Womens and Mercy.”
“Gloria, are we gonna have to call in more blood donors?” Dana calls across the room.
“Already done,” Jesse says.
“Donated!” Samira adds.
“Wait, hold on. W-what does she mean, more blood donors? You didn't use unscreened blood donations, did you?” Gloria crosses her arms.
“We did what we had to do to save as many people as we could.” Robby bites back.
“You're killing me, Robinavitch,” Gloria throws her hands up.
“Better than killing patients,” Robby turns his back to her, heading towards the doors to the ambulance bay, another patient being wheeled in. You shoot Abbot a quick, concerned glance and he gives a small shrug and nods you over to where a new patient, a young cop, is wheeled in. Princess already has a clamp in the young man’s neck.
“Ah, too much blood,” you shake your head, “move that kelly to the right a little bit,”
“Any better?” Princess asks.
“Not really,” you click his tongue, “radial pulse?”
“Still has it, maybe a little weaker,” Princess says with her fingers on his wrist, “I can try and give you a bubble?”
“Yeah, yeah, go for it,” You say, and she gives a firm push on the patient’s chest, you shake your head, “no, nothing. I'm not seeing anything, let's bag him. I wanna prep the neck.”
“You don't have a bougie,” Princess furrows her eyebrows.
“I have an 11 blade and a prayer,” you say, scalpel in hand.
“Without a bougie, you could create a false passage on top of the trachea and kill him,” she says.
“You're doing a crike?” Abbot steps up beside you.
“Yep. No skin hooks, no bougie…” you say, bending forward towards the patient, “old school,”
“I got a tactical airway in my bag here,” Abbot says, reaching into his go bag and pulling out a small plastic tube.
“What is that?” You furrow your eyebrows.
“It's a control crike kit,” he smirks at you.
“Woah, that's perfect,” you look up at him with a little disbelief and a lot of admiration.
“Use that on the battlefield,” Abbot says, “works in the pitch-dark when you're under fire. I can do these with my eyes closed,”
“Keep ‘em open for now,” you scrunch your nose.
“For you, okay,” Abbot says, starting the procedure, “the knife leaves a trach hook behind, so you can't miss, right? Just... good. You slide in the introducer, feel the tracheal rings… Good. Bob's your uncle.”
“Are you always that fast?” you smirk at him.
“Eh…” he smirks back, “balloon is up,”
“Why don't we stock these?” You ask.
“No room in the budget,” Abbot shrugs.
“Yellow on end-tidal,” Princess says.
“He’s okay now?” The officer who brought him in asks from along the wall.
“Yeah,” Abbot nods at him.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” you say to him, fluttering your eyelashes at him.
“Okay, let's pack the oral cavity with Kerlix and see how fast Head and Neck can take him up to the OR,” Abbot playfully rolls his eyes at you as he speaks.
“What else you got in your go bag?” You smirk, walking towards the door where another patient is being rolled in.
“Oh, just wait and see,” He says, eyes following you as you walk away, a small smile on his face.
9:00PM
“Dilated right atrium and right ventricle,” you say, pressing the ultrasound to your patient's chest, “right-sided strain with bowing of the septum.”
“Sounds like a PE,” Walsh crosses her arms, “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?
“Way too soon for a DVT. Trendelenburg ASAP,” Abbot says to Jesse.
“What for?” You furrow your brow at Abbot.
“Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it's blocking blood flow to the lungs.” Abbot says.
“Need a CT to confirm.” Walsh crosses her arms.
“They're still backed up with other patients,” you say with frustration.
“Well, maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I'll go check.” Walsh says, leaving the room.
“I need a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter.” Abbot looks across the room to Jesse.
“He doesn't have a collapsed lung?” You say, confused.
“Yeah?” Abbot looks at you with an eyebrow raised.
“So what are you going to do?” You look at him incredulously.
“I'm not gonna do anything.” Abbot smirks. “You are.”
“The fuck am I gonna do?” You say with a short laugh.
“You’re gonna aspirate the air with the pigtail cath,” Abbot says, handing you the line kit.
“Uh,” you take the kit reluctantly, hands shaking a little.
“Hey,” Abbot rests his bloody hand on your shoulder, “I know you can do this,”
“Ok,” you say, leaning fully into his confidence in you. You make an incision in the young man’s side, “I got the IJ,”
“Okay,” Abbot stands beside you, watching closely, steady and calm, “guidewire and introducer,”
“What the hell are you doing?” Walsh storms back into the trauma room and you flinch and almost imperceptible amount but Abbot notices.
“She is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Abbot says firmly.
“With what?” Walsh walks further into the room with fury.
“5 French pigtail catheter,” you say, voice low, eyes trained on the ultrasound screen.
“What the actual fuck?” Walsh snaps. “If it's showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber.”
“He'll be dead by then,” you say desperately.
“Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh huffs.
“We don't have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” Abbot turns to her with an annoyed look on his face.
“Everyone stop saying pants,” you say sharply, firmly holding the central line, “if we don't get the air out of his heart, he'll die,”
“This is not the standard of care,” Walsh bites.
“Oh, fuck standard of care,” Abbot tries to shrug Walsh off on your behalf, “If we want to save him, we go in now.”
“Maybe I should…” you say, pausing your movements, eyes flicking up to Abbot.
“Thread in the pigtail? Excellent idea, doctor.” Abbot says with a firm nod, “Go down to 24 centimeters, and then we'll confirm with X-ray,”
Your hands move with slow, steady precision, threading the pigtail catheter through the incision, hooking up the plastic syringe to the end of the tube.
“Good.” Abbot says, calm and measured. “Now aspirate, see what you get.”
“Pulling back blood from the heart…” you pull back the plunger slowly, blood filling the tube and with a small pop, an air bubble enters the chamber, you let out a breath of relief, “along with some air.”
“How about that?” Abbot looks pointedly at Walsh, before turning back to you, his whole demeanor shifting back to his calm, commanding nature, “pull the pigtail back to the RA.”
“Step aside,” Walsh tries to push between you and Abbot but he holds an arm out, keeping her in place.
“Pull the pigtail, doctor,” Abbot looks at you with a knowing confidence, “you got this.”
“Normal sinus rhythm, 92.” Jesse says, reading the monitor. “Pulse ox is improving. BP's 112 over 84.”
“Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” Abbot stands to his full height and crosses his arms. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”
Walsh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. You and Abbot watch as she grabs the edge of the bed, wheeling the patient out. You let out a sharp breath, feeling an immense weight lifting off your chest.
“You were incredible,” Abbot turns to you.
“That was your save, not mine,” you say, almost laughing.
“Take the win, doctor,” he says and you can’t help but smile at him, “besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself.”
“That’s so not funny,” you say, shaking your head with a small smile still on your face.
FRIDAY 7:00AM
You stand looking up at the board drinking your coffee and trying to fully wake up while the ER moves around you, humming and fuzzy in the background. You only snap to attention when you see Robby out of the corner of your eye.
“Hey Robby,” you give him a soft smile and he lifts his mug towards you as a greeting.
“Gloria is looking for you,” Dana says to him, looking over her glasses.
“No guts, no Gloria.” Robby says, “must be time for my weekly spanking.”
“Try to be nice, for all our sake.” Dana gives him a once over.
“Yeah… has anyone seen Abbot?” Robby says.
You sigh and point upwards, indicating to Robby that his buddy is on the roof.
“Again?” Robby sighs and you and Dana watch him disappear up the stairwell.
“Surprised you didn’t go lookin’ for him…” Dana says, pushing her glasses up to rest on her head before giving you a once over,
“Me?” You turn back to her. “Why?”
“You know he’s got… a soft spot for you,” Dana says warmly.
“Please,” you breath out a laugh, sitting in front of a computer, keying in and pulling up yesterday's unfinished charts, “Abbot would flirt with a chicken sandwich if it was in front of him,”
“Not what I’m talkin’ about,” Dana gives you a knowing smile. You look back at her, biting back a smile of your own.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why you mean,” you turn towards the computer and spot Robby and Abbot walking off the elevator. A naked patient runs across their path with his IV bag dragging on the floor with Perlah and Princess in pursuit.
“Look at the bright side…” Abbot says, keying into the computer next to you, “...at least it’s a quiet day.”
“Jesus, Abbot,” you cross your arms looking down the hall where the naked patient ran off to, “what were you doing last night?”
And as if the universe is playing a little joke on you, a mother and her newborn baby are being wheeled behind Robby on a gurney right in your line of sight.
“Dr. Abbot!” The mother says as she rolls by slowly, reaching out towards him, “thank you again for everything. You’re a miracle worker.”
“My pleasure.” Abbot turns and smiles down at you, “I was performing miracles”
“Oh please,” you playfully roll your eyes, “women have been having children on their own for a million years.”
“Not with complete breech presentations,” Abbot smirks.
“I hope she got one of your fan club t-shirts,” you say mockingly as you lean back in your chair.
“Will you two give it a break? It’s seven in the morning,” Robby says. You hold your hands up in surrender.
“Rounds in five?” Abbot says, as Robby nods before he heads to the staff lounge to fill his coffee mug.
“Hey, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something before you take off,” you turn to Abbot touching the side of his boot with the toe of your sneaker, you don’t notice the tips of his ears go red, “that french pigtail cath aspiration during pitt fest…”
“I remember,” he nods with a smile.
“I was thinking of writing up a case report and trying to publish it…” you say, seeming a little sheepish in a way Abbot had never seen before, “maybe in a cardiology or emergency med journal…”
“Ok…?” Abbot crosses his arms with an eyebrow raised.
“Well,” you scoff with a smile, “do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Of course,” Abbot pulls his head back a bit, almost shocked you feel like you have to ask.
“Do you- would you co-author it with me?” You ask, looking at him with a vulnerability that tugs on his heart.
“I- yeah- yes-” Abbot stammers.
“Yeah?” You raise your eyebrows, a look close to glee on your face, “ok, I’ll uh, I’ll do a write up and send it to you? Or, is it fucked up I assume you prefer prints outs?”
“Ha ha,” Abbot fake laughs as you stand and round the desk, a cheeky smile on your face.
“So I’ll print it,” you scrunch your nose at him, resting your hand on the hub in front of him for a second. His eyes linger on you for just a moment too long but your head is already turned towards the board where Robby gathers the day shift.
“Careful,” Dana says, stepping next to him, looking down at the tablet in her hand.
“What?” Abbot scoffs.
“Pretty young resident…” Dana shrugs, “just keep your head on straight,”
“I’m not gonna- my head is straight,” Jack shrugs on his back pack.
“Yeah, that’s the problem…” Dana chuckles, “but for what it’s worth… I get it, she’s-”
“She’s smarter than all of us,” Jack says, eyes still fixed on you.
Dana pats Jack on the shoulder with an expression somewhere between sympathy and pity before shifting back to her computer. Jack sighs before walking towards the ambulance bay. Of course he’s thought about it, you’re a brilliant, beautiful, confident doctor. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little if it means saving a patient or sticking it to insurance companies. Gloria is certainly not your number one fan but with the second highest patient satisfaction score in the ED it’s in her best interest to keep you around, a point that Jack has reminded her of multiple times.
You just have a way of knowing exactly what a patient needs: a laugh, a gentle touch, a little tough love… of course you have a bit of a stubborn streak, going toe to toe with a couple of less-than-cooperative patients or family members when they got in between you and your plan of care. Hence, second highest score. But Jack likes that about you, you aren't a push over, you're grounded and principled… and gorgeous. It wasn’t a line he ever planned to cross, but you continue to be a subject of his fantasies…
THURSDAY 6:00PM
“How’s your Le Fort patient?” Robby says, stepping beside you at the hub.
“Floating face?” You grit your teeth and take in a sharp breath, “he’s on his way to the ICU-”
“Hey, Fruitcake.” A raspy, old voice cuts across the ER, making you turn your head. Simultaneously you have opposite reactions, Robby lets out a sigh of distress and the corner of your mouth curves up into a smile.
“Hey, I'm talking to you, Fruitcake,” Myrna says as Robby reluctantly turns to face her.
“Myrna, I told you a hundred times my name is Dr. Robby.” He says, almost pleading, he turns back to you and mumbles under his breath, “Jesus.”
“Hey, don’t take it personally,” you tilt your head to the side sympathetically, “you’re just not her type,”
Robby cocks an eyebrow.
“And what would you know about her type?” Robby crosses his arms, his expression shifting from annoyed to amused. Your smile only widens.
“Hi Myrna,” you turn to the wheelchair bound, or shackled, woman, giving her a soft smile.
“Fruitcake, it’s a crime you’ve got a girl with legs like that wearing those pants all day,” Myrna gestures up and down in the direction of your body and you shoot her a little wink. You turn back to Robby with a look of utter glee on your face, scrunching your shoulders up with a devious little grin.
“I don’t even wanna know,” Robby holds his hands up before turning and walking away from you.
“Don’t be jealous, Robinavitch,” you call after him, “it doesn’t suit you!”
He gives you the middle finger as he continues down the hall of the south corridor.
“Hey,” you turn to Myrna with a pointed finger, “behave yourself,”
“For you angel, I will,” Myrna folds her hands in her lap as you shake your head with a smile. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Abbot.
“Abbot, hey,” you catch up with him as he walks out of a patients room, “I have a very, very rough draft for you, I left it with Lena in case I didn’t catch you,”
“Good, yeah,” Abbot says, clearly focusing on the incoming trauma that Lena just gave a two minute warning for, “I’ll take a look,”
“You’re the best!” You call after him and he gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder.
FRIDAY 8:00AM
Abbot is just leaving the hospital, today’s handoff taking longer than usual, and he’s certain it’s because you aren’t working today. He gets into his truck, slamming the door shut and taking a deep breath in the silence. He pulls out his phone and sends you a text.
Abbot: Hey. I didn't know you were off today. I have notes for you.
He doesn’t expect it but you respond immediately.
You: jesus, that bad?
Abbot: What? No, it’s really good.
You: oh
You: you just sounded like you hated it
Abbot: I don’t hate it. It’s good.
You: do you always text like this?
Abbot: Like what?
You: Curt.
Abbot can’t help but smile at the way you mimic his texting style.
Abbot: I don’t know how to text any other way.
You: lol ok
You: can i swing by and grab it from you? is that weird?
His heart tightens briefly.
Abbot: No, not at all. I’m just leaving the hospital. I’ll be home in twenty.
You: i can just grab it from your mailbox or something ??
Abbot: I can just hand it to you.
Abbot: 5139 Penton Road
You: Okay, Dr. Abbot.
You: ur the best !!
You: is now ok?
Abbot: Yes, now is ok.
You: ok i’ll be there asap
Abbot drives home faster than usual, feeling a little ridiculous at his eagerness to see you. After all he had seen you the day before, and in between he spent half the time he should have been sleeping pouring over the draft you left him. The draft was not ‘rough’ as you had claimed, it was clear, concise, and thoughtful. Was there anything you couldn’t do well?
He makes it home in record time and paces around his living room trying not to be so anxious. He never feels this way around you. If anything you calm him down more than most people. But the idea of you in his house… the boundary he swore he’d never cross feels like it’s getting hazier. The doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. He walks to the front of the house, his leg aching against his prosthetic after a chaotic shift.
Pulling open the door his breath hitches slightly. You’re wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans which hug the curve of your hips in a way he can only describe as unfair, your hair is half up, flyaways framing your face like a portrait. You get one look at him and the corner of your mouth turns up.
“Tough night?” You say, in a tone that blends sympathy and amusement.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says in mock offense.
“You look tired,” you say, something in your voice softer now, “I’ll- uh- I won’t keep you- if you have the paper,”
“Oh- yeah-” he says, the tips of his ears turning red, having temporarily forgotten that the paper is the only reason you’re here. He walks back into the house to where his backpack sits, haphazardly thrown on the counter, pulling the paper out of his bag.
“It- uh- it’s really good so far-” he says, eyes moving across the first page as he walks back to the front door where you wait with your hands in your pockets, “I just had a few suggestions and minor corrections,” he hands the paper to you and you take it.
“Thank you for doing this,” you say, looking down at the notes he had written in the margins before flicking your eyes back up to him, “I owe you one,”
“Nah, you don’t owe me anything,” he says, running his hand up the back of his neck, trying to ignore how warm it is, “it’s no big deal,”
“Well, it is to me,” your gaze drops back down to the paper, “really, I- thank you,” you hold the stack to your chest like he had just given you something precious.
“Happy to help,” he gives you a small smile and the two of you just stand there for a second looking at each other, before you take in a sharp breath.
“I’ll uh- let you get some rest-” you say, slowly backing down his front walk, as if you don’t want to go.
“I don’t look that tired,” he says, crossing his arms, playfully furrowing his brow. You suck in a breath through your clenched teeth.
“You’re putting all your weight on your left leg,” you say, turning slowly before looking over your shoulder, “go sleep.”
Abbot shakes his head, a smile on his face as he pushes the door closed. He glances out the glass panel alongside his door, watching you get into the car. After you shut the door before holding the paper up, he assumes you’re going to sit there and read it but you don’t… you take the paper and literally press it against your face, you seem to let out a deep breath. You pull the paper back, looking down at it, your bottom lip between your teeth, biting back a smile. You place the paper in the passenger seat before starting your car and driving off.
After a hot shower he does get into bed, the black out curtains wrapping him in darkness, but as tired as he is he can’t fall asleep, his mind unable to move away from you. The simple beauty of you in jeans and a t-shirt, no more revealing than your scrubs but for whatever reason it felt much more intimate to see you like that, at his house… If he had asked you to come inside would you?
He feels his cock twitch in his boxers. God, this is wrong, and he knows it. But you’ll never find out, no one will ever find out, he thinks as he moves his hand down his body, palming his crotch lightly. He imagines you on your knees in front of him, gagging and sucking as he fucks your face. He grasps his firming cock in his face, picturing how it’d feel to hold your soft hair back for you as you choke on his dick. He thinks of your soft mouth wrapping around his tip, your hands furiously stroking his hot shaft as he does the same to himself.
He imagines his name on your lips, how sweet it sounds coming from you. Jack, he can almost hear you saying it right now. He wonders how you’d taste, how you’d feel squeezing around him, how you would sound as he fucked you. He can feel heat building around his pelvis as he tightens his grip. You flash before his eyes as he closes them, your mouth, your skin, your scent, smile, eyes, he wants to be consumed by you.
He quickly brings his hand up spitting on it, increasing his pleasure as he twists his fist around his cock, pushing hips up in desperation. He runs his fingers over the thick vein along the underside of his cock, brushing his thumb over his tip. He moans your name out loud, imagining his hand is yours. His stomach flips as the tension releases, he groans as a hot ribbon of cum shoots up over his pelvis and hand. His body shivers in contractions of pleasure.
After laying still for a moment, his softening cock still in his hand, Jack slowly sits up assessing the mess he made, what you had done to him… and you weren’t even here.
SATURDAY 4:00PM
Having time off as a night shift doctor is always a little strange and wanting to keep his sleep schedule as consistent as possible Jack is only starting to get up in the evening. He checks his phone and tries to ignore the twinge in his stomach when he sees that he has a text from you.
You: hey, i know ur not working this weekend, would it be presumptuous to ask you some questions about ur notes?
Jack smiles down at his phone, typing out a reply.
Abbot: How do you know I’m not working?
You: i asked robby
You: is that weird?
Abbot: No, it’s not weird.
Abbot: You can ask me anything. What’s up?
You: i didn’t mean over text !!
You: at least let me buy you a beer or something for your trouble
Abbot: That’s not necessary. I’m happy to help.
You: can you just say yes?
Abbot: How about you just bring a six-pack to my place and you can ask me as many questions as you want?
Shit. Maybe that was too forward. He throws his phone across the bed. He should have waited until he was more awake before answering you. The thought of you in his house was clearly still lingering in his mind after yesterday. You probably don’t want to come over to your boss’ house and drink with him… his phone buzzes and he flops over, reaching for it desperately reading your text and his breathing slows.
You: yes!!!
You: what time is good? i don’t want to mess with your fucked up sleep schedule
Abbot: 8?
You: i’ll be there :)
He lies back down, resting his hand on his forehead. You were about to be in his house. The two of you, alone, without the prying eyes of the Pitt staff. He tries to slow his breathing and his racing mind. This was purely a work related meeting that happened to be taking place at his house, that is the only reason you’re coming. But still, he can’t help but feel excited.
7:30PM
The closer it gets to your arrival the more jittery Jack gets. At the hospital he knows all the rules, all the expectations. He’s your superior, and sure, he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. But as time went on he started to realize he actually meant it with you. It seems that others, Dana at the very least, have begun to pick up on that as well. Of course it doesn’t hurt that you happily flirt back, and you never miss a beat, always prepared with a cute chirp for whatever he throws at you. But here, at his house, the rules aren’t so clearly defined. Are you just you and is he just Jack? Or is he still Dr. Abbot, one of your attendings?
By the time you ring the doorbell he’s decided that he’s Dr. Abbot and you’re here to work. The paper is work related and so he’s going to keep it professional. He kept his prosthetic on to try and keep this whole thing as close to working in the hospital as possible but as he pulls open the door he feels his resolve wavering. You’re trying to tuck your hair behind your ear but the warm breeze is blowing it across your face.
“Hi,” you breathe with a smile.
“Hi,” he swallows, trying not to let his eyes wander down your body but he can’t help but notice the small cut out on the neckline of your black tank top held together with an iridescent button. He feels like he’s buffering, wondering if you had been wearing that all day or if you put it on just for him, before he steps to the side, “uh, come in,”
“I, uh, hope you like lager,” you say holding up the six pack, “I just guessed,”
“No, that’s great,” he wanders towards the kitchen table and you follow, sitting next to him instead of across, setting the beers on the table.
“So,” you pull out a notebook, and a stack of papers, the paper he had given you yesterday, right down to business, he thinks. You sigh, looking down at the small pile you just created, then reach across the table and grab two beers out of the pack. You use the first bottle to open the second one, and then grab the disposed bottle top, pressing it between your hand and the sealed bottle, making a little leaver, popping open the second. Your eyes flick up to him as you slide one of the bottles towards him.
“Sorry,” you say, “I’ve been working on this all day, I need to not think about it for one second.”
You clink your bottle against his and bring it to your lips and take a long drag. Jack feels his heart in his throat.
“How the fuck did you do that?” He says, bringing the bottle slowly to his mouth.
“Oh, just a little party trick I picked up in college,” you smirk.
“You are full of surprises,” he says, setting his bottle back on the table.
“You have no idea,” you say, putting down your beer as well, “uh- so, ok,” you shift your papers around pulling his copy of notes out and setting it next to your new draft, “can I just tell you what I added and then talk about if it’s ok?”
“Yeah,” Jack sighs, his mind still lingering on your little bottle cap trick and how sexy he thought it was.
“Ok, so, first I added a section about methods for prolonged pleural space drainage in the beginning where I say, ‘blah, blah, blah, application of a pigtail catheter for pleural effusion,’” with your right hand you hold up your imaginary catheter, “enter the rib space slightly above the rib below, to avoid major neurovascular bundles running underneath the rib, and collaterals running above the rib,” keeping your eyes on the paper you reach towards him, running your finger along the side of his chest, feeling for his ribs. Jack’s breath catches in his throat and hopes you don’t notice. Clearly you don’t, focusing on reading your notes and doing a mock performance of the procedure.
“Advance your needle in small increments,” you pretend to push the imaginary needle in, “aspirate first, and then inject. After you enter the pleural space, pull back again until you feel resistance again. Does that make sense?” your eyes flick up to his, your eyebrows are furrowed.
“Yeah, no, that’s good,” he says, sitting back in his chair and you move to tuck your hair behind your ears.
“Ok, yay,” your eyes move back down to the page that you then push in front of him so he can read it better, “then I added the thing you said about reexpansion pulmonary edema…”
The two of you sit around his kitchen table for hours, pouring over the paper, other case studies you printed out, making notes and plans for scans and x-rays you need to get a hold of. Eventually the two of you devolve into talking about the craziest cases he’s worked on.
“CIPA?” You say in disbelief, “you diagnosed someone with congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis? No way, I don’t believe you.”
“Swear,” he holds up his hands, “a guy in my battalion, didn’t even realize he had been shot,”
“That’s called adrenaline,” crossing your arms, empty beer bottles scattered across the table.
“No, no,” he shakes his head with a laugh, “we did tests in the field hospital after,”
“There have been, what, three hundred documented cases ever?” You raise an eyebrow, “you’re such a liar,”
“Why would I lie?” He crossed his arms back at you, a small smile on his face.
“To impress me,” you tilt your head to the side. He can feel himself blush as he looks down to his lap, shaking his head.
“What would it take to convince you?” His eyes flick back up to you and you’re biting back a smile.
“That you diagnosed someone with CIPA?” You look up to the ceiling and purse your lips, pretending to think hard. “Uh, his medical records and a diagnosis from someone not named Jack Abbot.”
“I might be able to make that happen,” he smirks, “and if I’m right?”
“I will cover any holiday you want for the rest of the year, including arbor day,” you smile. “And when you’re wrong?”
Jack laughs, looking around his kitchen, his eyes drift to the bar cart in the living room, standing and walking through the house. You follow, quick on his heels, all whipped up from this little debate. He pulls a bottle off the cart as you plop yourself on his couch, eyes fixed on him.
“This is a Macallan Highland single malt scotch whisky,” he holds it up.
“Ok…?” You squint your eyes at him.
“I will give you this really nice bottle of scotch if I’m wrong,” he says, running his finger over the label.
“I don’t even know if I like really nice scotch,” you say with a mischievous grin. He sighs playfully, setting the bottle down and pulling a crystal decanter with dark amber liquid and a matching glass, sauntering over to the couch and sitting next to you. You turn towards him as he sets the glass on the table pouring a finger of scotch, then holds it out to you.
“Hm,” you say, taking the glass from him as he tries not to enjoy the feeling of your fingers brushing against each other so much.
“Cinnamon, orange zest, walnuts, nutmeg, lemon oil,” he says as you bring the glass up to your lips and he tries not to watch your mouth too closely.
“Yeah, you’re full of shit,” you laugh, coughing on the burning liquor, “that taste like lighter fluid,”
“Ok, but,” Jack laughs, “smell it, you gotta try smelling it,”
“Ohhhh ok,” you roll your eyes bringing up the crystal glass to your nose, “mmm… smells like lighter fluid too,”
“Are you always this difficult?” Jack cocks an eyebrow with a small smirk on his face.
“Tell me honestly that you smell cinnamon, or lemon oil, or whatever other bullshit you just said,” you shift onto your knees moving closer to him, so close that your knees are almost brushing against his thigh, and hold the glass up to him. He shakes his head with a laugh and leans in, his nose an inch away from the glass, taking in a deep breath. You raise your eyebrows.
“Yes,” he practically whispers.
“Are you always this difficult?” You murmur. He grabs the glass from you and throws back the rest of the scotch, placing the empty glass on the coffee table.
“Yeah,” he smirks, you drop your mouth open in shock.
“My disgusting drink!” You laugh, “that was my disgusting drink,”
He looks at you and shakes his head, a smile on the corner of his mouth. And the way you’re looking at him… he just can’t stop himself from leaning forward.
He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. You go still against him. He pulls back in a sharp jerk. Your face has completely changed, the flirty smirk you had before has melted away to an unreadable expression, your lips parted and an almost astonished look in your eye.
“Sorry,” he says, a look close to horror on his face, before he buries his head in his hands, “I am so sorry,”
“Jack,” you say softly, resting your hand on his forearm.
“I’m sorry-” he presses his palms into his eyes.
“Jack,” you cut him off, reaching across him, taking his jaw in your hand and pulling him back so he’s looking at you. You let out a short breath, eyes flicking down to his mouth, moving towards him slowly. You press your lips against his with tender intention, sliding your hand up his neck, threading your fingers through his silver hair. It’s his turn to go still as you pull back only slightly, looking up at him through your dark lashes, a blush spreading across your cheeks.
Jack whispers your name, almost pleading. The two of you press into each other, mouths moving slow but desperate. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your cheek and dragging his finger against your smooth skin. His chest aches at how soft your lips are, at the little breaths that escape you, at the feeling of your fingers in his hair. Your lips part against his and you slip your tongue in his mouth, tangling together with eagerness.
His hands glide down your side, past your waist as he grabs your hips lifting you into his lap. You straddle his legs, sighing into his mouth, you pull back just barely so your mouth brushes against his before pushing back in. You bite down on his lower lip lightly, grazing your teeth across his mouth and he lets out a throaty groan against you. He slips his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt, you take in a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough fingertips against your plush sides. He smiles into the kiss at your reaction to his touch.
“Take it off,” you breathe against him.
“Are you sure?” He rasps, gripping down on your skin.
“Yeah,” you sigh and his eyebrows furrow in desperate anticipation. His knuckles drag against the soft skin of your sides, pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side. He leans back against the couch, looking up at you while your hands rest on his stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” he runs his hand through his hair, eyes tracing the black lace of your bra. You bite your lip smiling and shaking your head, “come here,” he says, voice gravely. Before bending forward you grip down on the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Your hands immediately find his face again, fingers running along the silver pinpricks of his scruff as his big, warm hands travel down the expanse of your back, pulling you flush against him as he falls back into the couch. You lick against his cupid’s bow and he pushes his tongue into your open mouth with a desperate whimper.
Jack feels like his heart is in his throat. You are on top of him, smooth skin pressing against one another, sighing and panting into each other’s mouths. You roll your hips down into him, slowly grinding yourself on him, denim rubbing on denim as you both make pathetic sounds at the pressure. He wraps his arm around your waist and you make an adorable gasping sound, gripping on his silver curls as he tips you over so you’re flat on your back and he can’t help but smile against your mouth again. Your lips move together fast and feverishly as you slide your hands from his hair.
Jack pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, aching at the loss of contact, but his chest tightens as he watches you unbutton your jeans, squirming out of the denim beneath him. Fully out of your pants Jack lets out a groan at the sight of you in your lacy black bra and matching panties. He sits back slightly, running a hand down between your tits, over your stomach, settling on your hipbone, tracing small circles on your black lace thong.
“Did you put this on for me?” Jack says, voice low and rough. You bite back a smile and let out a breath like a laugh, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back down on top of you.
“You fuckin’ wish,” you smirk before wrapping your arms around his neck, molding your lips against his.
“I do,” he groans into your mouth, cupping your tit in his warm hand, running his thumb over your hard nipple through the thin fabric. You let out a little whimper at the sensation and you’re having trouble focusing before you manage to speak, “take off your pants,”
“I need to take off my leg,” he breathes, feeling a prick of heat spread in his chest.
“That too,” you whisper without missing a beat. He forces himself to push off of you, immediately missing the warmth of your body beneath him. You sit on your knees next to him, hands already trying to get his belt off, your mind hazy with lust.
“Leg first,” he says with a smirk, resting a hand over your frantic ones.
“Ok,” you breathe before you lean forward, pressing hot kisses to his neck as he pulls the leg of his jeans up. He rolls the sleeve down his shin, exposing where the prosthetic meets his leg.
“Step on the foot,” he instructs, voice still raspy with desire.
“Step on your foot?” You repeat with a touch of hesitation, and it’s just so endearing he grabs your neck and pulls you in, kissing you deep and firmly.
“Don’t worry,” he pulls back, running his thumb along your jugular, “I won’t feel it,”
“Ha ha,” you say, flatly, a small smile playing on your perfect mouth. You swing your leg off the couch and press your foot down onto the sneaker. He pulls his leg straight up and barely yanks the sleeve the rest of the way down before your hands are on his belt again, tugging it off, pulling his jeans down his muscular thighs.
“Come here,” he tugs you back towards him, your back to his chest, hauling one of your legs over his lap so you're spread out for him. He unhooks your bra and yanks the lace down your body.
“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says, moaning at the sight of your perfect tits, full and round, nipples hard, aching to be touched. You reach your hand up behind you, snaking it around his neck, twisting your fingers into his curls at the back of his neck, pulling him towards you, lips pressing together with heat and passion as you slip your tongue back into his welcoming mouth.
“Jack,” you whisper against his lips with urgency, “touch me.”
He lets out a soft moan, before grasping your tits in his hands as your tongues twist together with desperate, aching fervor. He slides one hand down your body as his other hand massages the soft flesh of your tit. He traces the hem of your panties at a teasing pace before cupping your clothed pussy, making you whine into his mouth and try to press back into him further. He slips his hand beneath the damp, black fabric, dragging a finger up your wet slit and he can’t help but gasp against you.
“Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so wet,” he says, lightly toying with your clit. You let out a pathetic whimper as he starts to rub slow, tight circles on you. He can’t believe how slick your pussy is just from kissing him and he’s dying to make you drip and cream and squirm all night. His thick fingers rub so deliciously against you that you can already feel your orgasm building in your stomach.
“Jack, please,” you whimper, “fuck me with your fingers,”
He groans hearing those filthy words fall from your mouth, something he’s fantasized about so many times before he can hardly believe it’s really happening. You, in his lap, soft and wet and at his mercy. As bad as he wants to make you beg for it he wants to hear the pretty sounds you make more, so he slips his middle finger all the way inside you. You make a whining squeak that goes right to his cock, straining against his boxers, as he slowly starts to pump his finger into your tight pussy. The way you squeeze and tremble around his one thick finger… he can hardly imagine what you’ll feel like gripping down on his cock. He can’t get over how sensistive you are, he’s been fucking you on one finger for only a minute and you’re already shaking against him gripping his thigh with one hand and the edge of the sofa with the other.
“Fuck,” you whine, leaning your head back against his shoulder, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come-”
He drops his head forward, sucking on your neck, his left hand cupping your tit, flicking and teasing your pretty nipples, his right hand pumping his middle finger in and out of you at a relentless pace. He’s curling up inside you, hitting your g-stop over and over, making you feel like you’re on fire.
“Come for me beautiful,” he growls into your skin, addicted to the squelching sounds your pussy is making. Your nails dig into his thighs and he feels your walls start to flutter around his finger. You squeak out, gripping his thigh with your right hand, grabbing his left wrist with your other hand as he tweaks your nipple which aches with sore pleasure.
“Jack-” you feel the coil inside you break and you tuck your head into his shoulder, biting down on his neck as you come, hips shaking, “I’m coming- I’m coming- I- fuck-”
Jack keeps fucking you on his fingers through your orgasm, only slowing his pumping as you try to come down, shaking against him, already a mess. He pulls his finger from your pussy in a long, deliberate drag, making you let out a little oh sound as the loss of him inside you. He brings his finger up to his mouth, sucking off all the cum you just gave him. Your chest is still heaving, his eyes fixed on your perfect tits, one of which is still in his warm hand. He gives your breast a soft squeeze which makes you take in a sharp breath and look up at him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his warm breath fanning over your flushed cheeks. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your jaw and pulling you into another slow kiss. You sigh against him, keeping your lips pressed to his you stand between his legs, resting your hands on his meaty thighs. You pull back from his mouth, ghosting your lips down to his neck, kissing, licking, and sucking your way down his body. He runs his fingers through his hair in aching anticipation, just the sight of you on his knees in front of him makes his stomach feel hot and tight. You hook your finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs before gathering your hair to one side.
Jack holds his breath as you lick a long flat line up the underside of his aching cock. Your spit drips down his throbbing shaft and he drops his head against the back of the couch. If he’s gonna last anywhere close to a respectable amount he can’t look at you, he can’t focus too hard on your warm wet mouth and how it feels, fuck, how it feels closing around his tip. You let out a small moan, sucking on him like he’s a fucking lollipop. You drop your head down further, twisting his shaft with your soft hands while you lick around the head of his dick.
Jack grips the back of the couch trying to think of anything other than you on your knees between his legs and his cock in your pretty mouth. Pleural effusion, neurovascular bundles, pulmonary edemas, anything other than the sound you make as you press your nose to his pelvis: wet, gags as you swallow around his cock. Jesus Christ, he can’t help but drop his eyes down to you but the second he does he wishes he hadn’t. Your lips are swollen as you suck on his pink tip, hand shimmering with your spit as you pump up and down, your other hand… Fuck. Your other hand is in your panties. You’re touching yourself while his cock is down your throat.
He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you off his dick with a wet pop. You look up at him with his cock still firmly in your grasp, your lips shining with spit, and a look he can only think of as innocence. God, you’re so young. His chest tightens. Should he even be doing this with you? He doesn't think he’s ever wanted anything more. But he’s your boss. And you’re such a brilliant doctor. And he knows something like this would follow you around much longer than it would follow him. And you’re standing, and pulling your little black panties down, and climbing into his lap. And he’s not stopping you. Because he doesn’t want to. He just can’t. He grips your hips as you straddle his legs, taking his face in one hand, pressing a searing kiss to his lips.
Jack’s breath catches as you grind your glistening core against the hard line of his cock. Your mouth is on his neck and you’re biting and sucking and he is just melting. He can’t believe you’re about to let him fuck you raw… he’s clean and he implicitly knows that you are too, that you would never put him in harms way. But is he putting you in harm's way by doing this?
“Jack,” you whisper, snapping him out of his spiral, “are you okay?”
He’s gone partially rigid beneath you. Your fingers are twisting into the curls on the back of his neck and the way you’re looking at him, desperate and hopeful and almost smitten… he silently decides that this is it. He’s only going to let this happen once, right now, so he’s gonna fucking enjoy it. He takes your face in his hands, pulling you into him, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.
“I’ve just-” he strokes your soft cheek with his thumb, forehead resting on yours, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” You let out a breath like a laugh at his earnestness.
“Me too,” you whisper, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. You rest one hand on his shoulder before you reach between the two of you, gripping his hard shaft before pushing yourself onto your heels, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock against your slick, little pussy.
“Fuck,” he groans, looking down between the two of you, his mouth dropping open as you sink down, sucking his cock up inside you. He grabs your hips, not sure if he wants to slow you down or slam you onto him, your skin under his fingertips turning shades lighter at the pressure he’s applying. You bring your other hand up to his shoulder, clinging onto him. The way he’s stretching you creates a delicious, aching, burn in your core.
“Fuck- you’re so big- I” you whimper, moving down his shaft at a glacial pace, trying to get used to the way his girth is splitting you open.
“Come on, pretty girl,” Jack almost growls, forcing himself to keep his hips still, “that’s it,”
You’re halfway down his cock and Jack loses all ability to speak, overcome with the way you pulse around him. He watches himself squeeze in between your legs, his mouth open letting out a low moan as he tries to focus on making this last as long as he can. Finally, you sit with your ass flushed against his thighs, his dick fully inside you, the pair of you already breathing heavily. His stomach tightens, making his cock flex inside you, and you squeak out a small sound. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, then you raise your hips and he reflexively bites down on your bottom lip.
Jack whimpers your name and you let out a breath into his mouth, slowly starting to move up and down on his hard shaft. He reaches up, taking your soft tits in his hands, kneading them, tweaking your nipples, trying to get more sounds out of you.
“Jack,” you whine and start riding him faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. He watches your tits bounce with a hunger that he has never felt before. Your eyebrows furrow together in pleasure as his thick cock stretches out your pussy, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. You already feel like you’re ready to come again just looking down at him: his cheeks flushed, lips parted in burning desire, salt and pepper curls wild.
“Fuck-” Jack groans as you bounce on top of him, “your pussy- so tight-”
“You feel so fucking good,” you say, switching your movement from up and down to back and forth, hips grinding down on Jack. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling the other around in his fingers. Your clit catches on his abs as you push yourself backward and your hips stutter.
“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” He manages to groan. He takes your hand in his and pushes your fingers into your own mouth and pulls them out sharply. A string of spit falling from your mouth to your fingers, catching on one of your nipples as you bring your hand in between your bodies.
“Jack,” you moan as your legs twitch, you grab the back of his neck trying to hold yourself up. He takes your face in his hands, kissing you hard. Your kiss turns sloppy, tongues rolling against one another, mouths sleek with spit, sucking each other's lips between teeth. You moan into him as you rub tight circles on your clit, feeling the warm pressure crescendoing in your core as you grind down harder.
“That’s it,” he groans, the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him, “you gonna make a mess on my cock? You gonna come for me again?”
“Yeah-” you whimper against his lips, “I wanna come for you-”
“Where do you- want me to come, gorgeous?” He sighs, feeling his orgasm rising in his abdomen, “ah- fuck- you’re so perfect,”
“Inside me,” You breathe into his mouth, fingers rubbing tightly against your clit, and with this request Jack feels the tension inside him snap.
“Holy shit- I’m- fuck-” he whimpers.
“Jack- I’m coming-” You squeak, burying your face in his neck and he pulls your hips up and down, impaling you on his cock over and over.
“I’m coming- I’m-” He pushes forcefully up inside you, pulling your body tight against him filling you with his creamy load. He grabs your jaw, holding you in place, kissing you hard. The two of you grip onto each other like lifelines as you ride out your synchronized orgasm, shaking and panting against each other.
As his come drips slowly out of your pussy his kisses turn soft and unhurried, licking against your tongue languidly. You let your full weight come down on Jack who relishes in the feeling of you pressing him down into the sofa. He runs his fingers down the line of your back, the feeling of your sticky body against his, his cum dripping down your legs and onto his stomach, is euphoric.
SUNDAY 11:00AM
The sun streams through Jack’s bedroom window, his blackout curtains hanging open. This rare occurrence of him going to sleep at night had rendered them almost pointless and he couldn’t be happier that the morning light is filling his room because it illuminates you in his bed. You’re sleeping on your stomach, the sheets bunched up around your waist, your hair tousled and fanning over your face obscuring it from his view. He turns to his slide, leaning on his elbow and watches the slow rise and fall of your breath, tracing the long line of your spine with his eyes.
The two of you had gone to bed last night deliriously giddy. After laying together on the couch in a tangled sweaty mess for a while you had slipped on your panties and his t-shirt while he pulled on his boxers. He watched you disappear around the corner heading for the bathroom and was delightfully amused when you came back riding his wheelchair like a scooter, your knee resting on the seat while the other pushed you towards him.
Jack had pulled you down onto his lap, your back flushed to his chest, before rolling the two of you towards his bedroom. He playfully bit your neck when you asked him what the mileage on this thing was, drinking up the sounds of your giggles. He watched you crawl onto his bed before hauling himself up next to you.
“You’re probably gonna want to take this off,” he gripped the hem of his t-shirt which hung loosely on your body, “don’t want you to overheat,”
“Mm,” you hummed with a smile, “is that your professional opinion, Dr. Abbot?”
“Oh, definitely,” he smirked, sliding his hand up your side, pushing his shirt up as you lifted your arms. He threw his shirt across the room, before he pulled you on top of him and dragged the fluffy comforter over the pair of you.
“You’re so warm,” you sighed, stretching your arm across his chest snuggling yourself into his side.
“I told you- overheating is a real risk,” he smiled as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you against his body.
Jack can’t help himself any longer and reaches forward, brushing your hair out of your face with a gentle swipe and something about seeing you like this, so vulnerable and innocent sends his mind back to the promise he made himself last night: this was a one time thing. His chest is already starting to pinprick with nerves. The last thing he wants is for you to feel used or, god forbid, taken advantage of, but he needs to cut this off, before it gets out of hand, for your sake. He knows you’re a big girl and you can make your own choices about your body and what, or who, you do with it, but he has experience… and this could get messy. Jack isn’t willing to let his relationship with you suffer because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.
At such an early point in your career you’re already such an amazing doctor. There goes the future of medicine, he has caught himself thinking multiple times as you walked by him in the Pitt. He wants to be a springboard for you, not a weight around your ankles, and if whatever this is happens again he fears that he could become the thing that holds you back personally and professionally. No. He wants to be the person in your corner pushing you forward. You’ll understand. You’ll probably already be thinking the same thing he is. The two of you just operate on the same wavelength…
Your breath shifts as you turn your head into the pillow letting out a soft groan. You turn your head in his direction, tucking your messy hair behind your ear, barely opening your eyes before closing them again. You reach your hand out for him, rolling onto your back and pulling him on top of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing in deeply as he buries his face in your hair.
“Mmm,” you groan softly, “good morning.” Jack smiles against your locks, his resolve already wavering.
“Morning,” he murmurs, tracing a long line down your side with his fingers, “did you sleep ok?”
“So good,” your voice is raspy with sleep and he tries to push away the thought of how much he likes it. Hearing your tired voice. Having you in his bed. He tries to hold his ground, rolling onto his back, but you just follow, settling yourself onto his broad chest. Fuck you’re making this hard and you’re not even trying, you’re still half asleep for christ’s sake. You let out a soft, content hum and start tracing small swirling patterns on his chest. Fine. After you leave today, this will be done. Jack wraps his arms around you, trying to memorize the feeling of your smooth skin beneath his rough palms.
“Jack,” you say gently, shifting in his arms so you can look up at him, “I think we should talk about… what this means…”
“Ok,” he says, entirely unsure what direction you’re about to take this and having trouble focusing with your naked body pressed against him.
“I- I’m really glad this happened-” you start slowly.
“Me too,” he says, his heart fluttering at how you look away shyly before flicking your eyes back up at him.
“I just- I don’t know if this is a good idea-” your eyes flicker with sadness which ripples through Jack’s chest, “not because I don’t want to- you know- do this again- I just,” you pause and take a deep breath, “please don’t be annoying about what I’m about to say,”
“Ok,” He furrows his brow.
“I love working with you,” your eyes drop down to where your fingers trace little stars on his chest, “it’s one of my favorite parts of my job. And if something bad happened between us, and we couldn’t, or wouldn’t, work together anymore… I don’t know… I think I’d be really upset,”
“I’d be upset too,” Jack’s heart feels like it’s bursting at your sweet confession, but he’s trying so hard not to be overly sentimental so he pivots, “does this mean I’m your favorite attending?” He says with a cheeky smirk. You let out a little breath, rolling your eyes with a smile, god he adores your smile.
“Do you really need me to answer that?” You say, a small blush spreading across your cheeks.
“Well you’re my favorite resident,” he says, brushing his thumb across your shoulder… have your faces been this close together this whole time?
“I already knew that,” you murmur, your nose almost brushing against his.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head the slightest bit and you let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” you whisper and it’s like the two of you just can’t help yourselves.
You press up into him, molding your mouths together with a slow eagerness, his hand cupping your jaw trying to keep you close. You’re already all whimpers and breaths, twisting your fingers into his curls trying to get him closer. He rolls over to his side so your tits squish against his chest, his cock hardening at the feeling of your supple skin against his. He traces the curve of your body while you slip your tongue into his mouth, rolling against each other in aching passion. He hitches your leg up over his hip, gripping down on your thigh and you let out a little gasp which he gladly swallows. You roll onto your back, pulling him between your open legs the pair of you grabbing at each other desperately.
“Just one more time, ok?” you say breathless.
“Yeah,” he pants, “one more time,”
You tilt your hips up, pressing your knees to his side are you rub your core against his shaft, fuck, you’re already slick. Jack groans at the feel of your sticky pussy grinding up his cock.
“Fuck-” he groans your name, “you’re already so wet for me,”
“Jack,” you whimper, shifting beneath him, “please fuck me,”
He reaches down, takes his hot cock in his hand and gives two little taps to your clit with his flushed pink tip making you jolt. He dips the head in just barely before pulling back out, smearing your wetness across your pussy lips.
“Don’t tease,” you squirm below him, pushing your hips up, trying to force him inside of you. He holds the base of his cock with one hand, the other hand resting on your knee which pushes up against your chest. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, notching himself into you before pressing in at teasing, slow pace.
“Oh,” you squeak as his thick cock stretches you out deliciously. You watch him squeeze inside you with your mouth parted, you can hardly believe he fits. Jack’s eyes are locked on you, your plush lips, the blush on your cheeks, your brows furrowed in anticipation, your chest heaving with pleasure.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps, and you listen, your gaze flicking up to him as you take one of your fingers into your mouth, biting your nail. The pair of you stare at each other, faces painted with desire as he fully pushes into you. You look so pretty, so desperate. Jack stops for a moment after he’s fully inside you, overwhelmed by the feeling of your pulsing around him. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders as your breath shakes at the sensation of his dick flexing in you. You’re both breathless at the feeling of him stretching you out.
“Fuck,” he says hanging his head forward, resting in the crook of your neck, “your pussy feels so fucking good.”
“Jack,” you moan, rocking your hips up, trying desperately to get some relief at the ache burning inside you, “fuck”
You grip onto the back of his neck, tangling your fingers into his salt and pepper curls as he starts to fucks you slow and hard. He’s pushing in with such force that your tits jiggle with every thrust, brushing your nipples against his hard chest making them sore with pleasure. You feel entirely consumed by him: the weight of his broad body against yours, his cock stretching you out creating a hot coil deep inside you, his lips on your neck, his whimpers in your ear.
“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” he says against your throat. You slide your hand between your bodies, rubbing quick circles on yourself. The whimpers and moans you make are intoxicating. Feeling his own orgasm already building in his abdomen he pushes himself up on his arms so he can look down at you, your face flushed, tits bouncing, body glistening with sweat. You’re a mess, the look on your face is one of pure bliss and it’s all for him. He cups your jaw, trying to memorize you like this but you turn your head slightly and suck his thumb into your mouth.
“Oh my god,” he groans as he thuds his cock into you over and over, “you’re so fucking sexy,” he pulls his thumb from your swollen lips, rubbing the spit across your top lip before dropping down to his elbows, kissing you with reckless desire. You lick into each other's mouths, devouring one another’s breaths and whines.
“Jack,” you whimper, your fingers moving faster, “I’m gonna come,”
You look up at him with desperation in your eyes and he can't believe he has you like this, falling apart on his cock. His stomach tightens as he feels his orgasm rising in his core.
“Yeah?” he says, a small smile on his face. You pull him down to kiss his lips again, rolling your tongue over his passionately.
“Mmn,” you sob into his mouth, “I'm gonna- I'm coming- ”
“Good girl,” he manages to groan out before the pulsing and throbbing of your pussy around his cock sends him over the edge, “fuck- I’m coming,” his abs flexing and hips stuttering, as he bites down on your bottom lip and releases his hot load deep inside you. He keeps fucking you through both of your orgasms, the sound of his cum squelching out of you filling the room as his lips stay pressed against yours. His thrusts slow until he stills, staying pushed inside you as your arms remain wrapped around his neck, his hands gripping your waist.
The two of you are heaving, sweaty messes, pressed up against each other. After a moment you shift your hips slightly and his softening cock slips out of you as you begin running your fingers up and down his back.The room seems to be filled with a heavy sense of stillness, both of you unwilling to move much because once you do then this moment, the two of you together, will be over. He moves first, turning his face into your neck and places light kisses along your throat.
“Jack,” you whisper, running your fingers through his soft curls.
“Mm,” he hums against your neck.
“I meant what I said,” you say softly, trying to bite back a smile at his sweet affection.
“Me too,” he says between kisses, “not gonna happen again,” kiss, “you’re too important to me,” kiss, “my favorite doctor,” kiss.
“I’m telling Robby you said that,” you blush. Jack lets out a groan and rests his forehead against your shoulder.
“Please don’t talk about Robby right now,” he murmurs as you giggle. Jack lifts his head, unable to do anything besides smile at you.
“He’s the perfect mood killer,” you say, pushing a curl off his forehead. The two of you stay like that for a moment, looking at each other with longing before you sigh, “I- uh- I should probably go,”
“No- yeah- ok” he says, reluctantly shifting to his back, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the duvet back up over his lap. He watches you climb out of his bed and slip on your panties, padding out to the living room where your clothes had been discarded the night before. Jack tries not to linger on your body for too long. You come back after a minute fully clothed and sit next to him on the edge of the bed.
“I- we probably shouldn’t tell anyone at work about this,” you say, looking down at where your hand rests on the crisp, white bedspread, dangerously close to his. You move your pinky just slightly so it brushes against his and he flexes his hand in your direction too.
“Probaby not, no,” Jack says, his voice raspy. Your eyes flick back up to his and you cup his face, running your thumb over his jaw, a look on your face that Jack can only think of as wistful.
“Bye Jack,” you say softly before standing.
“I’ll- uh- see you Monday,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as you back out of the room.
“Yeah,” you give him a gentle smile, “see you Monday,”
You turn and walk out of the bedroom. He listens to the sound of you gathering your papers from the kitchen table before you walk to the front door, opening and closing it softly. He runs his hands over his face letting out a groan. He is so fucked.
It was just a normal morning.
An overworked, emotionally exhausted single father snapping at his daughter.
A stubborn, defensive teenage daughter snapping back.
Three words that should have never gone unsaid remaining unspoken.
Just a normal morning - until a boy brought a rifle to school.
Part 1 | Part 2
Words: 13,2k
Content: School shooting, Hurt/Comfort, Gun violence, injury, single dad!Robby, Reader!daughter, No major character death
No use of Y/N
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
A/N: Heavy angst incoming :D
I got guns in my head and they won′t go
Spirits in my head and they won't
I've been lookin′ at the stars tonight
And I think, oh, how I miss that bright sun
I′ll be a dreamer 'til the day I die
And they say, oh, how the good die young?
But we′re all strange
And maybe we don't want to change
- Spirits by The Strumbellas
“Morning.” Jack chirped, far too cheerful for it being seven a.m. and him having just worked a twelve-hour shift on - presumably, but also most probably - three hours of sleep.
Robby merely grunted in response as she stripped off his jacket and reached for his thermos.
“Who pissed in your cereal this morning?”
Determined to drink his coffee while it was still hot, Robby took a large sip, just to scrunch up his nose and almost choke. He forced the scorching hot coffee that’d been desecrated by the violet coffee syrup you used for the cold brewed teas you made at home down, fighting his own gag reflex.
“Ah.” Jack said with a smirk he didn’t even bother to conceal. “Robby jr.”
“Nah, she lost the right to my name.” Robby scowled at the thermos but not without a healthy dose of heartbroken yearning.
There went his only shot at good coffee for the next twelve hours.
Jack took a sniff of it and chuckled. “Coffee-based warfare. She must be pissed, brother. What happened?”
“When,” Robby said after a longsuffering sigh and braced his underarms against the counter, peering up at Jack with tired eyes. “Did it somehow become acceptable to go to school with one’s entire midriff out? Not to mention that it’s against dress code and I can’t be driving up to her school in the middle of the day to pick her up because she earned yet another violation!”
“Urgh, I hate that I can’t find any shirts that aren’t cropped anymore.” Javadi sighed. Mel next to her nodded along eagerly. Jack and Robby turned at the same time, staring the unsuspecting med student down. She looked up, realised she had said that out loud, blushed and scurried away. Mel followed closely behind.
At least those two had enough shame to run and hide when caught eavesdropping, the same could not be said about one Trinity Santos.
“Honestly, power to her. School dress codes are dumb.”
Robby blinked, slowly, like a frog on sedatives as he tried to process Santos’ audacity he might never get used to.
“Be that as it may, I expect my seventeen-year-old daughter to wear more than what’s basically a glorified sports bra to school. Shouldn’t you be finding Cruz and Ellis for handovers? And when did this become a public conversation anyway?”
“Gee, sore spot I guess.” Santos muttered and sauntered off. She had barely even looked up from her tablet the whole time.
Had Robby lost his bite?
Jack watched her leave for a moment before turning back to Robby. “So, I’m guessing you told Robby jr in your usual soft and understanding way to change, and she blew up for no reason?”
“May not have been very soft or understanding.” Robby grunted and pressed his fingers into his temples to ease the whisper of a headache sneaking up on him. That was the last thing he needed today.
“Mhm.” Jack sounded as if he had already expected that answer.
Robby grunted again. He sighed and folded his arms against the counter to hide his face against them. “Nobody warned me a teenager would be worse than the defiant phase of toddlerhood. You didn’t know her then, Jack, but fuck, I wanted to throw the whole kid away and start over.”
“Amen.” Dana murmured with a quiet chuckle. “Raised three of ‘em and still don’t know how I survived it.” She peered at Robby over the brim of her glasses. “And I didn’t have to do it alone.”
Robby bristled. As much as he talked about you, fawning over you and how proud he was of you every damn chance he got, he didn’t speak about that part.
Dana and Jack knew he was a single parent. The rest assumed he and your mum were separated, but not that the sole responsibility of raising you rested on him.
Only Jack knew all the details of your mother walking out on both of you when you were just five. He’d been at work, unaware that his whole life was about to change. Unaware of the irreparable damage being done to you that he would spend the next twelve years scrambling to somehow fix. He was at work, back when Dr Adamson was still with them, before he became department chair, when he wasn’t yet drowning in work and paperwork as he was now. He was still working a lot, too much, but not the way he was now.
Robby went home after a long, gruelling shift, excited to see his family. His chest was lighter then, even when he lost patients, even when everything went to shit. Coming home to you and your mother was the best he had ever experienced, and after growing up without his parents, with only his grandma trying her best, he swore to himself you would not go through that.
He swore to himself you would have a real family, stability - everything he didn’t get. And in the end he could give you none of it.
He unlocked the door and found you, five years old and so small, so young and innocent, but no longer bright-eyed, curled up by the front door with your blanky, sobbing so miserably he was afraid you couldn’t breathe.
He found your mother’s note on the kitchen counter while you sniffled into his shoulder, tiny hands clinging to his filthy scrubs.
I’m sorry, Michael. I just can’t do this anymore.
Robby knew she wasn’t happy. Not exactly. He was trying. He was a good partner! For her, he had been a good partner. Getting groceries after work, cleaning, laundry, taking you to parks and playgrounds and the doctors. He knew what size you wore and what food you liked that week and your vaccination status. He was a good father, a great father, and a good partner, back when he still knew how, but it hadn’t been enough.
Your mother didn’t want children. You weren’t planned, and even though Robby left the decision up to her, and even though she chose to keep you, she never grew into her role as mother.
She regretted not getting out of the car outside the clinic Robby had driven her to the whole five years of your existence.
And then she left. She didn't reach out. She didn't talk to him. She pretended everything was fine until one day she just... disappeared from both of your lives.
She locked the door so you wouldn’t wander away and just walked away, leaving you home alone for nine hours while Robby was at work. The thought of all the things that could have happened to you still made him wake in a cold sweat at night all these years later. What if there had been a fire? You would have been trapped. What if you fell and hit your head?
He would almost call it lucky that all you’d done was cry for hours on end, waiting for your mother to return, terrified and lonely. The show your mother put on before leaving was not nearly enough to keep a five-year-old from realising she was home alone, all alone…
And just like that, Robby had become a single parent without a fucking clue how to navigate any of it.
Not for the first time, Robby wondered whether things would be… easier if you still had a mum. How was he supposed to relate to the daily hurdles, big and small, of being a teenager frighteningly fast on her way to being a young woman?
This felt so much worse than the period disaster…
Jack braced his hands against the counter and leaned forward, chasing eye contact with Robby in that infuriating way of his. He had the habit of stripping him off his defences just by looking at him, and Robby really didn’t need that to happen in the middle of the goddamn ER.
“It’ll be fine, man. You both are stubborn as mules, but no matter how much you clash, it never lasts long, does it? You’ll be out of each other’s hair for the coming twelve hours, that’ll give everyone time to cool down. You’ll see. Pick up some KFC on the way home, and all will be forgiven. This-” He gestured towards the thermos and the ruined coffee within. “-tells me it’ll be okay. Robby jr doesn’t do shit like that to people who pissed her off so bad she doesn’t care about them anymore. She doesn’t waste her energy on them. She did this so you’d think of her every time you take a sip. Remember the time she put neon pink hair dye into my shampoo and curl cream because I ruffled her hair in front of the boy she had a crush on, right before sending her into school?”
“You had pink hair for weeks.”
Jack was grinning, looking as if it was one of the fondest memories he had.
"And I rocked that shit!"
He always loved your mischievous side, ever since he met you when you were just five years old, shy and frightened and shut off in a way you had never been before. Jack somehow managed to get you out of your shell, a little bit more every time you met. Robby had already gotten on well with him then, new to the team and still a little bruised and battered from war, but seeing the way you responded to him was the true kickstart to their friendship.
“No girl wants to be told what to wear by her dad. We’re boring, brother. We’re embarrassing and lame. And she has an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex because she’s a teenager and can’t gauge the full scope of her decisions yet, so lame af Dad sometimes has to step in. She knows this, even if her nervous system in the moment didn’t let her see it. You’ll see, come tonight you’re both sitting on the couch watching one of her shows together - like always.”
Jack slapped Robby on the shoulder and, probably deeming this conversation a job well done, walked away to help an intern who looked like he was about to cry.
Robby did not deem the conversation a job well done.
He fiddled with his phone, staring down at the dark screen between his fingers - his nails filed, oiled, and cuticles trimmed thanks to your inability to watch a show without occupying your hands (manicures were better than those black peel-off face masks that felt like they were skinning him alive at least) - and tried to figure out why the heavy, gnawing pit in his stomach remained.
Jack was right. Your coffee warfare, past fights, and just the overall good relationship you two had (a far better relationship than he’d ever have expected from a father and his teenager daughter, if Robby was being honest - perhaps he had done some things right after all, judging by the late nights you spent huddled together on the sofa, discussing gossip from the Pitt and school with whatever mocktail creation you came up with that day) all pointed towards this just being a fight.
A stupid fight between a daughter who was getting ready to leave the nest, discovering herself, testing boundaries and a father who, perhaps, was a little too willfully ignorant of that impending change, but also saw too much shit every day to not be at least a little overprotective of the one good thing in his life.
And you were.
You were everything.
You were the reason Robby sat on the couch with you after a shift so gut-wrenching, so brutal it left him feeling raw for days to come instead of taking that step off the roof.
You were his greatest joy, his biggest pride, his treasure, his whole world.
Perhaps it was the lesson his grandmother instilled in him, and Robby in turn instilled in you. ‘Never go to bed angry.’ which Robby turned into ‘Never part ways angry’ since he often didn't get to tuck you in at night, and eventually ‘Your parting words may be the last you ever say' because Robby had seen too many parents, spouses, friends - you name it - part ways while angry and wound up reuniting here in the Viewing Room.
No matter how furious Robby was, he never left without saying that he loved you.
Not when you set fire to your curtains with a scented candle and called him at work, all panicked instead of using the fire extinguisher that’s been in the kitchen since you were six! Not when you lied to Jack that Robby allowed you to go dirt biking with him and ended up needing stitches on your chin. Or when you incited Jake to start a secret, rigged betting ring at your middle school with you.
When he had to leave for work, it was always with a ‘I am so angry right now, but I love you, and I will always love you’ as his parting words.
Always.
For seventeen years.
He didn’t say it today.
Robby couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t said it. He went over the morning in his head over and over, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that still sat deep in his bones after his last shift, exhaustion of a thousand shifts over the years piling higher and higher. Maybe the fact he’d been sleeping worse and worse for weeks now. Stubbornness and pride because you were in the wrong, and maybe, just maybe, after fighting to keep the peace at work for twelve hours every day, he didn’t want to be the one keeping the peace at home too!
You wanted to act and walk around like a grown-up, then perhaps it was fucking time for you to start acting like one too. Maybe if you did, Robby wouldn’t have to be on your ass all the time!
Robby ran his hand over his face and down his beard and unlocked his phone. He was greeted by the wallpaper you’d set up, a picture of you and Robby making faces at the camera during one of the rare occasions he had taken time off work to take you on a trip. Robby opened your chat and pulled up the keyboard, thumb hovering over the screen-
“Dr Robinavitch?”
“Yeah.” Robby locked his screen and shoved the phone into his pocket as he turned around to the expectant R3 waiting for his help.
He was swallowed by the ER after that. Without his coffee, he was in a foul mood, but not yet desperate enough to surrender to the fate of breakroom coffee.
He was getting there though.
Jack stuck around, for one reason or another, Robby wasn’t entirely sure. Jack just… pulled a double sometimes for no reason. He didn't use to while his was still alive.
He wasn’t going to complain, not when the department was already a mess, Gloria hounding him for some paperwork he’d entirely forgotten about and he… well, he missed working with his friend. Was that a crime? With Jack banishing himself to the nightshift, Robby barely got to see him anymore. It had its good sides, sure. You and Jack were spending a lot more time together now, and Robby was glad to know you weren’t hanging out at the apartment all alone all day, or god knows where with your friend, even if he sometimes envied Jack when you sent pictures of the two of you out and about, at your weekly laser tag date or just grabbing lunch after school.
It was doing Jack good too.
About three hours into his shift, Robby’s feet found their way into the break room after all. He poured himself a cup of shitty coffee and slumped down on the sofa, out of view of the little window in the door to catch a moment of quiet and peace - just a moment. He wasn’t asking for much! But at the first sip of coffee he took, coffee that was not brewed from his favourite coffee beans, you were back. A ghost in his mind, or more like a pesky little mosquito.
His mind dragged him back to the drive that morning. How you sat next to him in the passenger seat, stiff and refusing to take your eyes off the road, arms crossed in front of your chest. You’d put on a different shirt under your hoodie - his hoodie, actually - but you were making your displeasure known by refusing to talk.
Driving you to school was never so quiet. It felt… eerie. Wrong. You were always talking, telling him about this and that while Robby understood approximately one out of five words that left your mouth - what was a red flag, and why was your best friend’s boyfriend saying she and you were spending too much time together one? - or you were giving running commentary to some podcast you put on. Or ranting about politics. Robby couldn’t remember being so political at your age. A lot was going to shit around him, but seeing the way you and your peers rose amidst all the shittyness was nothing short of inspiring.
You wore a whistle around your neck. You had ever since ICE made more and more appearances on the streets. Your whole friend group spent an entire weekend handing them out at the mall alongside laminated cards educating people on their rights in different languages.
He and Jack had been in Jack’s truck in the parking lot keeping watch over you the entire time, just in case some asshole wanted to start some shit - he never told you. You never saw him.
Robby’s hands had been curled tightly around the steering wheel the entire drive, anger and exasperation running hot in his veins. It was a reasonable request, Robby still thought so, to tell you to mind the school’s dress code. It wasn’t even that Robby policed what you wore. If you wanted to wear that skimpy half-shirt when you met your friends, knock yourself out! But you had to learn there was an appropriate and not-appropriate way to conduct yourself at school, and later college, and after that work. School wasn’t a goddamn fashion show!
And he knew pressure on young women was different in this time than it had been when he was young. And he knew some boys at your school were huge assholes. And he knew the manosphere podcast bullshit was doing damage - both to boys and the psyche of girls.
But Robby thought he raised you to be above that kind of shit!
Before Robby knew what he was doing, he had his phone in his hand again, your chat open, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
It was simple.
Two words. Seven letters. One apostrophe.
It should be simple.
I’m sorry.
He could have handled things better, he was sure of it because lately… lately he could be handling everything better. His grandmother spent his whole life trying to teach him to be the bigger person. That it took less effort to be kind than it did to be an asshole. To own up to his mistakes, and you were his daughter. If Robby couldn’t even get over his pride and apologise to you, how were you ever supposed to learn to be the kind of person who can put their pride aside and say I’m sorry. Would you end up learning to accept this behaviour as normal from a future spouse? Was Robby messing you up the same way he was messed up?
You were stubborn and prideful and infuriating sometimes, but really, who was to blame for that?
The speakers calling out a code blue tore him from his ruminating thoughts. His coffee was forgotten instantly. His phone locked and back in his pocket - the words he never typed, never sent still tingling at the tips of his fingers.
The gnawing pit in his stomach remained.
Robby was just leaving the trauma room an hour later when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Faster than usual, and not without Dana noticing the hurried gesture, Robby pulled it out to check the message.
I’m sorry.
Robby slumped against the counter, staring at the phone in his hands, brows furrowing.
He watched the three dots dance under the bubble with your text, and dance- and stop.
The pit in his stomach grew to the size of a fucking boulder.
“Brother?”
Robby hadn’t noticed Jack looking up, nor that he’d been watching Robby stand still and silently stare at his phone for several minutes.
Robby didn’t react. Jack quickly put his tablet back into the charging port and rounded the counter, coming up next to Robby.
“What’s the matter?”
Robby tilted the phone towards him.
“That’s… I mean, that’s good, right?”
Jack didn’t sound convinced. Jack knew you almost as well as Robby. You would not apologise in a text. Not like this.
Something was wrong.
Robby felt physically sick. He barely heard the red telephone ringing. He stared at the screen of his phone and waited for the dancing dots to come back. For you to send the message you’d been typing.
“She’s at school.” Jack murmured next to him. “She probably- she probably just doesn’t have time to- to do her big voice message thing.” He shifted uncomfortably next to Robby. “She’s not even supposed to have her phone, isn’t she? Maybe a teacher-”
“Yeah.” Robby whispered, unconvinced.
“Oh god-”
Both men looked up at the same time, meeting Dana’s horror-stricken, pale face. Her hand trembled when she hung up the red phone. She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice again, something that he, in all his years working with Dana, had never seen.
Robby felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
His grip tightened around his phone.
The feeling of impending doom that had been following him all day crashed into him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
I didn’t tell her that I love her.
“We- There’s a school shooting. We don’t know how many injuries to expect but- but we should prepare for the worst.”
“Which school?”
Robby’s voice was tiny compared to the shocked, distraught murmur cutting through the ER, momentarily silencing all background noise.
Dana was still calling out orders, preparing her nursing staff for the expected influx of patients the same way Robby should be doing with his doctors, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t-
He stared down at his phone, at your message in its blue bubble right beneath the meme you sent him last night. He knocked on your door because he didn’t understand it. You were sitting in your bed already, reading the book you picked up from the library earlier when Robby and you went out to buy new gym shoes for you because you had gym class today and of course you forgot to tell him you needed new shoes. You always did-
“Dana.”
The charge nurse did not turn around.
“Dana!” Robby slammed his hand down on the counter. “What school?!”
Dana’s shoulders sank, and Robby knew the answer.
He knew the answer before she opened her mouth.
A picture of you flashed through his mind. You slamming the door of his car and taking a step towards your school. You hesitating, turning around, looking at him through the rolled-down window, waiting.
Waiting for him to say it.
Robby had only gripped the steering wheel tighter, lips pressed into a thin line beneath his beard, and stared at the road ahead of him. Your shoulder sank, just like Dana’s had a moment ago. Sadness flashed across your face for a split-second just to instantly be replaced by renewed rage. You turned on the spot and marched away.
Robby watched you go.
Robby watched you go, knowing he’d made a mistake, but not doing anything to rectify it.
And he drove away. Just like that, he drove away.
I didn’t tell her that I love her.
Robby shook his head. It wasn’t true. If he didn’t accept it then- then it wouldn’t come true-
“Hers.”
The sound that left his lips was that of a wounded animal, raw and bleeding, wrenched from the very depths of his being. His knees gave out under him, and if it weren't for Jack next to him, he would have collapsed on the ground like a puppet whose string had been cut.
Jack barked orders that Robby didn’t hear over the buzzing in his ears. People around him moved, gathering supplies, moving patients, calling in support, and all Robby could do was clutch his phone to his chest, the taste of bile on his tongue and slowly slip to the ground with his back to the nurses’ station.
You almost missed the first shot.
You’d been buried deep in your own thoughts, the hallway pass - a ridiculously big rubber ducky your history teacher found hilarious (he was right, it was iconic, not that you’d admit it) - tucked under your arm as you leaned against the sinks in the girls’ bathroom.
It didn’t sit right with you how you and your dad parted ways that morning.
Why didn’t he say it?
He always said it!
Had you finally gone too far? Pushed too hard?
You didn’t even really want to wear the stupid shirt! Mira wanted you all to match, including the guys in your group, to make a statement against the stupid, sexist dress code. Robby was going off on you before you had any chance to explain and then… well fuck him. What happened to sorting out your issues like adults? Which he talked about just last week. What about innocent until proven guilty? He made you feel like a stupid little girl who couldn’t be trusted to dress herself, and you- you just closed up. Like a clam deciding this shit wasn’t worth her time.
You got defensive and bitchy and then froze him out, refusing to talk or even look at him. A part of you was pissed because you told him how difficult it was to find a shirt that wasn’t cropped lately. Even sweatshirts! Who wanted a cropped sweatshirt?
What right did you have to feel upset now because he didn’t say I love you after you acted like a bitch?
You hated that you’d have to sit with this pit in your stomach until this evening. You even contemplated visiting him at work after school, but that would probably not go over well, not with how angry he must be if he didn’t even tell you that he loved you.
He always did.
You of course knew that Gloria had been hounding Robby more than usual and budget cuts were affecting the staffing of the ER, which led to him doing more overtime. He’d been barely sleeping since PittFest too, not that he’d ever admit as much to you, but you could hear the TV in his room at night, and you overheard Jack trying to convince your dad to go to therapy more than once.
You knew he was struggling, and you understood it when he was more exhausted or a little less patient than usual with you - but to not say I love you? Over a stupid shirt?
The shot tore through your thoughts.
You flinched and almost dropped your phone you’d pulled out of your pocket as you considered just texting your dad, just clear all this shit up instead of carrying it with you for the rest of the day. It wasn’t worth it. This stupid argument wasn’t worth any of the stomach ache it had given you.
The door to the bathroom was pushed open, and a frantic, harried-looking Mira stumbled in.
“What’s going on?”
Mira flinched so violently at the sound of your voice that you knew, you just knew something terrible had happened. Mira rushed towards you without explaining, hands trembling- was that blood?!
“Shh-” Mira hushed you, one hand pressed to your mouth and dragged you towards the stalls.
“Mira-”
“He’s got a rifle. A fucking rifle!” She hissed through her teeth. Tears were running down her cheeks in thick rivulets, spreading her mascara over her skin.
The words sent a chill down your back. You grabbed Mira’s wrist and got her to climb up on the toilet seat with you.
“We have to lock- lock the-”
“No.” You whispered and shook your head. “We lock it and he knows we’re in here. Just be- just be quiet.”
With trembling hands, you tapped your code into your phone. Your fingers were too sweaty for the sensor to recognise your fingerprint. It always did that in summer, but your father refused to get a newer model for you while this one was still working.
You barely saw the chat with your father through the tears clouding your vision.
I’m sorry.
You’d been so stupid. So silly. You didn’t even want to wear the damn shirt. It was just Mira’s idea to make a point against the dress code, which you knew wouldn’t even work. It would just get you in trouble, and your dad couldn’t come pick you up from school in the middle of the day. And the guys chickened out anyway.
I love you.
The bathroom door hit the wall hard from the force with which it was thrown open. You pressed your hand to Mira’s mouth and forced yourself to be quiet. You pressed your forehead to Mira’s, her trembling arms slung around your shivering body, clutching you as tight as she could. Tears burnt in your eyes. You missed the send button by a hairbreadth, but you didn’t know that. You thought you sent it.
Steps sounded heavy against the tiles, the noise amplified by the tiled room. You heard the mechanical click of the assault rifle. You knew that sound. You knew that kind of weapon. Your godfather Jack took you to a shooting range a few times, something your father didn’t know.
It felt like hours passed, hours of standing there, mere inches away from death, from some person who decided to bring a fucking gun to school and shoot up the place. And not even some stranger, you thought bitterly. It was never a stranger, was it? Or rarely. Too rarely to matter in this moment as you stared at the closed stall door and wondered which of your fellow students had been planning to run fucking amok in your school.
Your school wasn’t the greatest. It was a school. It had shitty lunch and a shitty dress code and some of the teachers acted as if they hated kids but- but it wasn’t awful.
You couldn’t make sense of this.
This couldn’t be real- couldn’t be happening.
The door opened again. Closed again. Silence. Stretching long like taffy, suffocating, drowning. Then - gunshots in the distance.
“Oh my god.” Mira whispered after peeling your hand away from her mouth. “Oh my god!”
“Calm down.” You muttered, panicking yourself but already unlocking your phone again. You closed the chat with your father without looking at it, your brain running on autopilot.
You dialled 911.
“Fucking reception!” You hissed and, tentatively, fearing an attack despite knowing the attacker had moved on, pushed the door of the stall open. Nothing. The room was empty, aside from the bloody boot prints on the ancient tiles.
You ignored them.
Forced yourself to ignore them.
“Give me a lift.”
Mira, and you really had to hand it to her because she didn’t have a lowkey crazy uncle who liked to use your weekly laser tag date as active shooter drills (he thought you didn’t notice, but you did), managed to gather herself quickly and rushed over to you. With her help, you managed to pull yourself up on the narrow ledge beneath the small window. You cracked it open, back bent at a painful angle to accommodate the ceiling right above you and tried again.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Oh thank god.” You exhaled through your teeth. “My reception is crap, but- fuck, there’s an active shooter at my school. He- he has a rifle- Mira!” You looked down. “What did he wear?”
“What?”
“What did he wear!?”
You passed along Mira’s description to the 911 operator. Jack always said that precise information was the most useful thing a witness could contribute. Anything could become important, and often people held back important details because they thought they were unimportant.
“It was Jeremy.”
“What?”
You stared down at Mira, stunned.
You knew Jeremy.
You caught yourself when the operator said your name, asking whether you were still there.
“Jeremy Connors. The shooter is a boy called Jeremy Connors. But I don’t know whether he is alone.” You gave them his address. You didn’t remember the exact house number since you’d never been at his place, but you figured it was better than nothing, though you weren’t sure how it would be helpful.
“Can- my dad works at PTMC. Dr Robinavitch, and- and my godfather, Jack Abbot, he works there too, but he’s a SWAT medic as well. Can- can someone-” tell them I’m alright, was what you were going to say, before you realised that by the time any message would reach them you might, with increasing probability, not be okay. How many students were killed at the school shooting in Arkansas last week? Three? With ten mortally wounded? How many people were injured during PittFest?
“These things get recorded, right?” You sniffled. “Because- because I had a big fight with my dad this morning and I- I just want to tell him I love him.” You bit back a sob that threatened to choke you off. “I love you, Dad. I love you, Jack- fuck- I’m sorry I was being such a bitch, daddy. I’m not mad at you. I’d never really be mad at you. I love you-”
The line beeped. You wiped away your tears to glance at your phone.
No reception.
“Fuck.”
You jumped down onto the ground and shoved your phone into your pocket before pulling it out again to turn it on silent. Mira did the same.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not mine.” She whispered, sounding hoarse. “Should we- stay here?”
“I- don’t know.”
“He shot Dwayne.” Mira sniffled. “He just- he came out of nowhere and shot him. I ran as fast as I could, but- how could I just leave him there?”
You shook your head. “You did the right thing.”
“He’s probably still lying there! And I left.”
“We-” You licked your lips. Your chest tightened with the thought. It wasn’t wise. You probably shouldn’t. Jack would want you to find a place to hide and wait for the police to arrive. You called 911, now it was time to hide, but you couldn’t.
The thought of Dwayne lying somewhere out there, wounded, maybe already dead-
“I have a- I have a med kit in my locker.” You whispered. You had one in your bag too, but that was still in the history classroom because your teacher didn’t let anyone take it to the bathroom. “Come.” You took Mira’s hand into yours, and together you crept out of the bathroom. The bloody boot prints led away from the bathroom and in the opposite direction of your locker.
“He’s heading deeper into the school.” You whispered to nobody in particular. “Probably the cafeteria.”
Anything the shooter drills the school did every once in a while tried to teach you was gone, evaporated from your brain the second you realised what Mira’s terrified expression meant. You weren’t supposed to be running around in the hallway, you thought, very distantly and not for very long, not when there was someone bleeding out and needing medical attention.
Were you medical attention? Barely, but you watched all seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs and ER, your father and godfather were emergency physicians, and you practically grew up at PTMC after your mother abandoned you.
You knew how to stop some bleeding.
In theory.
You thought you could stop some bleeding, in theory.
You miraculously reached your locker and peeled the med kit out from under your books. You closed the door of your locker as quietly as you could and turned-
“That’s Jeremy’s locker, isn’t it?”
Mira followed your gaze.
“I think.”
You bit your bottom lip, contemplating for a moment.
“Give me a bobby pin.” You were already on the way towards the locker in question. Mira, the true ride-or-die that she was, handed you the pin without asking questions. You picked Jeremy’s lock with relative ease - thanks to Jack - and inhaled a sharp breath when you opened the door.
“Knew it.”
“Is that-”
“Ammunition.” You nodded. “Help me get that shit out. We’ll- fuck it, we’ll put it in my locker. Just- just away from him. Let him run out, right?” You glanced at Mira, hoping for an answer that would put your own anxiety at ease.
“He probably has more on him.” She whispered. “He always wears those hoodies with the big pockets.”
“Yeah, but- we can’t leave this here?”
As quickly and as silently as you could, you gathered the boxes of ammunition and brought them over to your locker. It felt illegal to put so much ammunition into your (however technical) possession, no matter how good your intentions were.
“Is that a gun?”
Mira whisper-called from Jemery’s locker. You joined her.
“Yep.” You picked up the handgun and checked the magazine. “Probably a back-up or something.” You put on the safety and shoved it into the waistband of your trousers.
Mira hissed your name. “Are you insane?”
“No. But my godfather is.” You closed Jeremy’s locker. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You can’t take that!”
“Why not? Why should he be the only one who gets to shoot at us?!”
Mira looked like she wanted to argue, but you were already making your way down the hall, following the bloody trail, med kit clutched in your hand. She ran to catch up with you.
“Do you even know how to use that thing?”
“Yep.” You let the p pop. “Told you Uncle Jack is lowkey insane.”
“Does your dad know?”
You emitted a nervous chuckle. “God, if my dad knew everything I do, I’d already be grounded until I’m sixty.”
Despite your casual conversation, both you and Mira were hypervigilant of your surroundings. Mira used her handmirror to peer around corners ("What? Saw that in a movie"), and your hand never strayed far from the handgun digging into the small of your back. You weren’t sure whether you’d actually be capable of shooting at another person, but that gnawing pit in your stomach was at least slightly eased by its presence.
“Dwayne!” Mira hissed through her teeth and, forgetting all previous caution, ran towards the closed door a thick trail of blood led to.
“It’s us.” You said, knocking softly against the door. The curtain covering the window in the door was pulled back, revealing Oliver’s terrified, pale face. You waved. The faint click of the door echoed through the silent hallway, and you were ushered inside.
While Mira and Oliver worked to block the door again, you rushed towards Dwayne, who sat in a corner of the room, pallid, trembling, so very weak.
Your eyes roamed over him quickly, assessing his state as best as you could. Your head felt as though wrapped in cotton. It was difficult to reach through the fog and find the information you needed, but you knew it was there. Pounded into you by your father and Jack and growing up in the ER.
You knew your first aid.
“Okay.” You murmured and wiped the back of your hand across your forehead. “Come on, Jack doesn’t call you Robby jr for nothing. Come on…” You grabbed your med kit and quickly slipped on gloves before searching the depths of the once-organised kit for some gauze. Hemostatic gauze specifically.
Dwayne’s lips and fingertips were already turning blue, you realised with increasing panic. His breathing was shallow and strained. His skin was cold and clammy, and he was barely conscious at this point.
“He’s in shock, I think-”
“You think?” Mira squeaked.
“I’m not a paramedic!” You hissed back. “Here, put this in his mouth.” You gestured towards a thick wooden ruler. “Oliver, hold him down. His shoulders aren’t injured, dunce! Hold him down. This’ll hurt like a motherfucker.”
You loosened Dwayne’s belts and any other tight clothing before grabbing a pair of safety shears from the kit to cut open the hole the bullet tore through his pant leg. Beneath lay the gunshot wound, deceptively small but bleeding continuously.
“The bullet is still in, but I can’t do anything about that.” You whispered, more to yourself than your friends. You knew you had to keep a clear head now or Dwayne would not make it to the hospital. Who knew when police would arrive. How much time had passed since you made your call? What was the response time for these things? You thought to remember reading once that it was 20 minutes, but was that applicable to downtown Pittsburgh too?
You ripped open the gauze package and started pushing the gauze bit by bit deep into the gushing wound with your fingers. Mira wrinkled her nose and looked away.
“Shouldn’t we- I don’t know, put his belt around his thigh or something?”
“A tourniquet?” You muttered. “Do you know how to safely use a tourniquet? Because I sure as fuck don’t, and I think this is way too far up anyway. This gauze is hemostatic, don’t ask me what that means, but it helps with clotting or something.”
Dwayne groaned softly and tried to move away from what you imagined must be excruciating pain, having someone shove gauze into an open gunshot wound without any meds, but Oliver did as you had told him and kept his hands firmly on Dwayne’s shoulders, keeping him from twisting out of your grasp.
“There.” You wrapped a bandage around his thigh, over his pants and over the packed wound, before pressing your palms down on the now covered wound to wait for the clotting agents to - hopefully - do their job. “Can you get the sharpie from my kit, please? Don’t worry, I think Dwayne is unconscious.”
“Is that bad?”
You shrugged. “He can’t feel the pain now?” You took the pen and wrote down how much gauze you used. You pressed your fingers into his neck and stared at the watch by the door while counting his heartbeats. You wrote his heart rate down on his leg as well, next to the current time.
“He’s lost a lot of blood.” Mira whimpered.
“It’s difficult to estimate liquids on the ground. It’s probably not as much as we’re thinking.” You didn’t even convince yourself with that one. “Fuck.”
“Jeremy blocked the doors.” Oliver said. “I was hiding in here after he hit Dwayne. Saw him do it.”
“What did he use?”
Oliver shrugged. “Mostly zipties, I think. And bike locks.”
“One with numbers? Or a key?”
“Key, I think.”
You and Mira exchanged a look.
“You’re crazy. We’re never gonna make it!”
“We have no idea how long it’ll take the police to start their sweep! If Jeremy locked all entrances or if he’s taken hostages, it could be hours, you do realise that, right?”
“This isn’t happening-” Oliver muttered, burying his face in his hands and smearing blood onto his cheek in doing so. “You were hanging out with him, why didn’t you realise this-”
“Oh, it’s my fault he’s shooting up the fucking place?” You hissed. “I barely hung out with him! I- fuck, I took pity on him, okay? He’s always alone and kinda weird, I figured- jesus, I figured he was autistic or something and people just couldn’t handle it. I was just being nice! And no! I didn’t realise he was going to do this. He barely even fucking talked to me.”
You thought you were extending a helping hand to some loner, some bullied kid the whole school had already forgotten about. You didn’t like seeing him sit all by himself every lunch and recess. He looked sad. So you- you just started sitting next to him. You tried talking to him, not that he ever replied much. He didn’t leave either, or told you to fuck off, so you figured he didn’t mind? Dwayne, Oliver and Mira eventually started to join you because they were tired of you always missing from their conversations.
You never thought being nice to the weird kid would end with this…
“Dwayne can’t wait for help.” You decided as you fumbled with the packaging of an emergency blanket.
“I’ll go check if the coast is clear.”
You left, instructing Mira to lock the door behind you. You crept along the deserted hallway, blood pounding in your ear, Dwayne’s blood sticky against your bare legs.
You found the closest door. Oliver had been right, though the bicycle lock was one of those cheap ones and easy enough to pick. You cut the zip ties with your emergency shears.
Time acted strange, warping and shifting around you. The way to the doors had felt like it stretched on forever, but the way back was over within the blink of an eye.
Dwayne wrapped in the thin, silvery film of the emergency blanket, you and Dwayne all but carried him to the door. You heard sirens in the distance, and relief washed over you.
One foot already out of the door, you stopped.
Oliver whispered your name. His panicked eyes flicked from you to the dark hallway behind you. “Come on!”
“I-” Your mouth felt dry. Shots and screams echoed behind you, had for the whole time it took to scout the hallway and then bring Dwayne here.
It was how you knew Jeremy wasn’t anywhere near you.
“I can’t.” Your voice came out small and pained. You winced at your own words, even as you felt them reverberate through your chest and heart.
“What the fuck do you mean, you can’t?!” Oliver snarled. “There’s a fucking shooter in there! He isn’t going to care that you offered him some chips during lunch!”
“Who knows how long it’ll take them to go in? What if- what if more people are hurt?”
“And what- you are the only one who can save them? Are you shitting me?”
You licked your lips and gave a small shrug. “Who else is there? Look- you go. Take Dwayne, get him help, but- but I can’t leave.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yeah.” You sighed, because he was right. Common sense was screaming at you to run, to save yourself and never look back, but you’d watched your whole life as the two most important adults in your life threw themselves into madness over and over to save lives.
How could you walk away now?
“If you’re staying, so am I.” Mira stepped forward. She interlaced her fingers with yours and did her best to put on a brave face.
Oliver shook his head slowly. “I don’t know whether you guys are dumb or hella fucking brave.”
You shrugged again, grip tightening around Mira’s hand. “Depends on whether we survive this, I guess.”
The chaos of the Pitt was different today.
A collectively held breath pressing in on all sides. Tensed, as if waiting for the first punch to land but not knowing when or how hard it would.
Nobody knew how many patients to expect. One or two? Or another PittFest? How many shooters were in the school? The school was on lockdown and surrounded by police forces, but information was scarce.
Robby could not take his eyes off the TV playing the new broadcast. A helicopter shot footage from above. There was no audio, but his head supplied the gunshots all on its own. Somewhere in there were you. Somewhere in that building he drove you to for years, you were fighting for your life.
And Robby wasn’t there.
He couldn’t do anything. He felt like the greatest fucking failure. Wasn’t a father supposed to protect his child? Not that Robby knew much about fathers…
He thought he knew how to be your father. He thought he had done a decent job at it, for the most part. You were the only thing besides his work here that still mattered in his life. The only good thing. The only thing Robby ever even left the hospital, because he knew you’d be waiting for him at home, eager to tell him the latest school gossip or internet drama.
But, he supposed, he was always bound to mess it up.
Everything he touched caught fire sooner or later, and Robby had never had a woman in his life who wasn’t worse off after having the misfortune of being important to him.
His mother, his grandmother, your mother, Janey, Heather… even Mohan he had managed to fuck over…
“My SWAT commander just called me.” Jack said softly, stepping up next to Robby. “Robby jr called 911.”
Robby inhaled a sharp breath.
“Shortly after texting you. She was in the bathroom at the time the shooting started.”
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard. White spots danced before his closed lids. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t right. She should be in a classroom that could be locked down. She should be in a school that was safe! She should never have had to partake in a goddamn active shooter drill just to get her education, much less be dragged into an actual shooting!
“He told me she was with a friend. She- Robby she left a message. She said she loves you, and that she’s not mad. That she’s sorry.”
Tears crept past Robby’s hands and rolled down his cheeks, disappearing in his beard. You used to find it hilarious to pull and tug on it when you were little… He felt the sudden, overwhelming desire to shave it off. To be rid of every reminder of your affection, remove you before the world could take you because if he had some semblance of control over the decision, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
“She gave a description of the shooter and even his home address. She did really well.”
“Don’t you dare.” Robby hissed through his teeth.
“She is a smart girl, brother. She’ll-”
“What?!” Robby snapped, swirling around to stare at his best friend he could not recognise at this moment. Was he truly standing there and telling him you would be fine?! “Last I checked, bullets don’t give a rat’s ass about how smart someone is! This is going to scar her, Jack! Even if she miraculously makes it out physically perfectly fine, she’ll be scarred for life!”
“Losing ourselves in worst-case scenarios isn’t going to help her.” Jack said with infuriating calmness. It pissed Robby off all the more. His daughter, his little girl, was trapped in a building with a monster who wanted to maim and kill as many as he could before cowardly ending his own life - optimism felt like a fucking slap in the face.
“Easy to say about another man’s child, isn’t it?” Venom dripped off every word. That finally cut through Jack’s iron composure that had once been forged in desert dust, IED explosions and bullet rainstorms.
“She’s my goddaughter. You made her my goddaughter, Robby. She isn’t mine, but I love her as if she were. Don’t stand there and pretend that isn’t true. That this isn’t tearing me apart just like it does you.”
Robby knew he’d gone too far, just like this morning, but he couldn’t stop.
“What the fuck are you even still doing here?!” His voice boomed through the department. It enraged Robby how much everyone was moving like this was just another day, just another fire waiting to be put out. How they were tiptoing past him like he was a loose canon they were afraid of setting off and not a father experiencing the worst pain he’d ever felt.
“If you insist on being a fucking self-martyr with your goddamn SWAT hobby, at least make yourself fucking useful and save my daughter!”
“I am leaving.” Jack said softly. “As soon as Al-Hashimi is here.”
Robby scoffed. “You think I can’t take care of my department without a babysitter?”
“Not right now, you can’t. You shouldn’t be here, Robby.”
"Where else am I going to be?” Robby whispered, rage and hurt and terror deflating, leaving behind an empty shell, exhaustion and deep, gut-wrenching fear. “My baby is out there-” His voice broke.
“I know.” Jack put his hand on Robby’s shoulder and ducked to catch his gaze. “And we’ll get her back, brother. We will. Losing faith now solves nothing.”
“I told her-” Robby inhaled a trembling breath. It stung in his throat, burning with the aftershock of the words he hurled at you this morning with such unjustified anger. It was just a shirt.
Just a stupid fucking shirt!
Robby grasped at Jack’s arm as if that would stop him drowning. As if anything could right now while those words played in his head on a loop, followed by the expression on your face. The anger, the disgust, the pain.
“I told her she’s just like her mother.”
Robby tilted forward precariously, colliding with Jack who stood firm and unmoving, even as Robby’s arms curled around him, hands grasping helplessly at his scrub top. He sobbed, suffocated, broken wails filling up his throat until he couldn’t breathe.
“The last thing I said to her- I don’t why I said it- I didn’t even fucking mean it.”
“She knows that.” Jack soothed, holding Robby. “She said she’s not mad. She loves you, Robby. She’ll be fine. Come on, brother. Your kid is one tough nut.”
“GSW to the upper thigh, two minutes out.” Dana called over to them.
Robby bristled. How many gunshot wounds had he treated in his career? More than he could ever begin to recall, though every single one treated in the Pitt during PittFest would be forever seared into his brain.
This was worse.
“Do we know-?”
Dana didn’t need him to finish.
“Male, seventeen. That’s all I know.”
He nodded weakly. He felt awful for even having asked. As if a patient that was not his daughter was any less of a fucking tragedy. He kept thinking about Jake and his girlfriend. Kept thinking how he couldn’t save her and the almost debilitating fear he felt knowing Jake was at PittFest all alone, when Robby had been supposed to be there with him.
Why was this worse?
It shouldn’t be.
Was he a horrible man? That the threat to the life of his daughter terrified him more than the threat to his quasi-son had?
He raised Jake for several years and stayed a fixture in his life even after the breakup with Janey. Robby just never managed to commit to a woman the way he’d committed to your mother again; Janey came closest to it though. You and Jake were as close as siblings. He used to come over every Sunday for basketball well after the separation, while you usually went out with friends or planned something with Jack.
Robby had been afraid you could be jealous to share your dad with another kid, but you just shrugged it off.
Janey would do the same for you in a heartbeat, and Jake would ‘share’ his mother with you just the same, without hesitation or jealousy, but you just never managed to trust another female caregiver figure again.
In school, you’d always been wary of female teachers, especially the passionate, devoted kind every other kid adored. It had taken years for you to be at ease around Dana again, and perhaps you only managed that because you’d known her before. Before your mother left.
Whenever you came into the Pitt to do your homework in the break room or drop off some baked goods when you were experimenting with recipes again, you did your best to avoid Baran. You were cordial with Perlah and Princess, but you’d never be more. You didn’t get along with Santos at all. Whenever you two were in a room together for too long, it ended in disaster.
Something about her personality and your trauma just didn’t mix.
Out of all the residents, you got along best with Mel. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. Everyone got along with Mel.
“You should be sitting this one out, brother.” Jack muttered as he fiddled with his safety goggles. “Nobody would think less of you.”
Robby sniffed, arm tightly crossed in front of his chest, swaying restlessly on the spot. “I have to do something. I can’t- I’ll lose my damn mind if I just sit around.”
The ambulance bay doors opened. The brief moment of silence crumbled under the calls of the EMTs and the stench of blood and panic.
“Male, seventeen, GSW to the right upper thigh. Reported signs of beginning shock, but his condition has been stable since he’s been with us. First aid was administered on scene by another student.”
“Oliver?” Robby had noticed the blood-stained boy trailing behind the EMTs.
“It’s Dwayne.” He sniffled. “Jeremy just fucking started shooting at him out of nowhere. And- and- she- she patched him up and picked a lock so we’d get out-”
“Where is she?” Robby craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the ambulance bay, waiting for you to stumble in and crack one of your jokes you always used as a shield against all the heavy shit of the world.
But you didn’t come.
Maybe you never would again…
Oliver swayed precariously, and Robby reached out to hold the trembling boy by the shoulders to steady him. The shock of the day clung to him like a thick, heavy cloak.
A weight far too heavy for such a young man to carry.
He knew Oliver. He knew him well. Robby knew his parents and his pizza order. He could recognise his shoes when they were blocking his door when Robby came home after a long shift just to find you, Oliver, Dwayne and Mira lounging on his sofa, your homework long forgotten. He was a good friend. The kind of friend a father would want for his daughter. He picked you up at the door when the whole group went out and made sure handsy guys stayed away from you. Once you’d gotten shitfaced at a house party and Oliver called Robby. He stayed with you by the curb and didn’t leave your side until you were strapped into the seat next to Robby.
“I told her to come with us!”
Jack reappeared at Robby’s side. Robby barely noticed.
“But- but she said she couldn’t.” Oliver wiped his snotty nose with the back of his hand. “That she had to stay and help the others who got shot. There were so many shots. Just- the entire time. In the background. Bang bang bang- and screaming- she- she stopped the bleeding. Said she used something- hemo-something and just shoved it in.”
“Hemostatic? Did she use hemostatic gauze?” Jack asked.
Oliver nodded weakly. “Said it would help clotting. Will Dwayne be okay?”
“We gave him blood, and now he’s going straight up to the OR. He’s in good hands.”
Jack gestured for Perlah, who swooped in with a warmed blanket she put around Oliver’s shoulders before gently pulling him away to get checked over by Whitaker.
“She could have left…” Robby murmured, hands trembling again now that there was no patient to focus on. “She could have gotten out, but she went back in.”
“I call her Robby jr for a reason.” Jack replied dryly, earning a glare from Robby. Jack shrugged. “You’re not known for turning your back on people who need help, brother.”
“I am not one to run towards bullets!”
“Yeah.” Jack shoved his hands into his pockets and shot Robby an apologetic look. “I might not set the best example there.”
“Stupid.” Robby hissed under his breath and crossed his arms again. “Stupid, brave- wonderful girl. Fuck! Why- why can’t she just have some common sense?”
“She has plenty of that, brother. But she also has your heart.”
“I wish she didn’t.” Robby whispered, because when had his stupid, ever-bleeding heart ever not brought him pain?
Yes, you were just like him, and most days… most days Robby tried to figure out how he could ever ask your forgiveness for that, because Robby could not think of a worse fate than to be Robby jr.
Jack never told you that the worst part wasn't the bullets or the screams.
It was the silence.
Silence so consuming it felt like it was a living, breathing thing. A creature born of terror and darkness that knew nothing but to feed to stay alive. Feed on your resolve, your hope, the very essence of your person.
It was deafening, stretching on and on and on until you thought it was finally over, just to be interrupted by a new wave of bullets and screams.
Mira was clutching your hand as tightly as you were hers. The cuffs of her blouse were stained pink from blood, the same blood that coated the bare skin of your legs. You wished you had put on a pair of jeans instead of these shorts, just so you would have to feel it.
The situation seemed to grow more bleak by the second. You could hear the sirens outside and helicopters whirring above. Occasionally the light of the police cars and spotlights fell through the windows, but it felt distant and cold.
You’d patched up four more kids with Mira’s help. Two terrified freshmen, one junior and another one of your classmates. Every deserted hallway you carefully made your way through was littered with bullet holes. In the walls and the lockers, bullets stuck in the bulletproof glass in the doors…
You wondered whether Jeremy had already noticed he had no backup ammunition…
You still could not wrap your head around any of this. Jeremy was quiet and weird, and at this point it was almost a meme that the weird loner kid was secretly a psychopath, but Jeremy?
He never even made a strange comment that would reveal something darker, more sinister lurking under the surface.
What could drive a person to do something so horrible?
You had a couple of teachers try to make you stay with them and their class, stay behind a locked door, hidden from sight, and a part of you wanted to do nothing more than that. Just… find a blanket and hide under it like you did when you were five years old, and you were still waiting for your mother to come home, but you couldn’t.
How would you ever live with yourself if people died here today and you hadn’t tried what you could to help?
You weren’t an idiot. You knew your fragmented knowledge of medical emergency measures would not guarantee anyone made it out of here alive, but to stop bleeding was better than to not stop bleeding! You could pack a wound. Robby and Jack showed you how and let you practise on the training mannequins the hospital had for the interns and residents when you were stuck at the hospital and bored out of your mind. You knew the signs of shock and what to do until paramedics arrived. You knew more than your classmates and probably more than most teachers, so did you not owe it to them and their families and yourself to try?
You hoped Dwayne was okay.
“Why aren’t they coming in?” Mira whispered next to you, glancing at the flashing blue and red lights filtering into the hallway. “Aren’t they- I don’t know, supposed to come in? Engage the shooter as quickly as possible?”
You shrugged. You really had no idea what the protocol for these things was. “If he’s taken hostages, they wouldn’t, right? Like… to not put them in danger? Hostage situations take forever, Uncle Jack said that once.”
“Do you think he has?”
“I don’t know?! How would I know?”
“Don’t snap at me!”
“Sorry.”
You kept walking. There hadn’t been another shot fired in a while. You wanted to feel relieved, but something in you couldn’t let go of that tension, that anticipation.
You bit back a laugh. Mira looked at you as if you’d lost your mind.
“I just realised we’re just like Yang and Mer in that episode of Grey’s Anatomy with the shooter. Where they just causally stroll through the locked-down hospital.”
“Oh my god, you’re right.”
“And Derek finds them and can’t believe they thought it was just a drill.”
“I feel like that’s exactly how your dad is going to react.”
You winced. “And Uncle Jack… though… yeah, no. Not Uncle Jack. He’s more likely to give us a high-five.”
“He’s such a bad role model.”
“The worst.” You couldn’t help the smirk sneaking onto your lips despite everything.
Both of you fell silent the moment you saw the thick, bloody drag mark leading towards the cafeteria.
Faint noises grew louder the further you followed the bloody trail. You crept forward slowly, staying pressed against the wall and out of sight. Through the windows set into the cafeteria doors, you watched movement - Jeremy, pacing frantically. He looked unstable, physically. He was swaying and muttering to himself, clenching and unclenching his hands around the rifle strapped to his chest. Unraveling.
That’s not good, you thought, biting your bottom lip bloody.
“That’s why they aren’t coming in.” You whispered and nodded towards the injured pair of police officers sitting slumped against one of the tables.
“Fuck…”
Your principal knelt in front of Jeremy. His hands had been tied behind his back with zip ties. Duct tape covered his mouth. He was bleeding heavily from a wound on his forehead.
“No.” Mira hissed, already realising what had gone through your head. "Absolutely not. Do you have a death wish?”
But any chance to make a decision was taken from you when Jeremy suddenly swirled around and spotted you just as you tried to duck and hide from his gaze.
He called your name and pointed his rifle at the principal.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
An ice-cold shudder ran down your back.
You subtly made sure your hoodie - your dad’s hoodie - concealed the gun still pressing into the small of your back and gripped your medkit tighter, stepping forward and into the cafeteria.
The stench of iron bit into your nostrils.
“You!” Jeremy hissed at Mira. “Get over there.” He gestured towards a cowering group of students, lunch staff and teachers in a corner with the muzzle of his rifle.
You peered at Mira and nodded, lifting your hands to make yourself seem like you weren’t a threat. You were a meek, compliant, submissive little thing. You didn’t have a gun in your waistband. Nope.
“Jeremy, what are you doing?”
You could tell the fact that the school was surrounded by police and the constant assault of sirens was stressing him out. Whatever his plan had been, it had gone off the rails a long time ago. He now was nothing more than a wild animal pushed into a corner about to consider chewing his own limb off to escape.
“They deserve it.” He spat. “My brother went to this school. Did you know that? Five years ago.” Jeremy swirled around, shoving his rifle into the principal’s face again, who flinched. “He killed himself! He died because of you! Because you didn’t stop them! All you had to do was do your job and stop the people tormenting him every fucking day!”
Your principal flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. A muffled whimper made it through the tape stuck over his mouth.
“Jeremy.” You said, keeping your voice soft and soothing, the same way you’d heard your father comfort frantic patients moments away from becoming violent. Jeremy glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry about your brother. That’s horrible.”
Jeremy’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Whatever determination and thirst for revenge had led him at first, it was quickly waning, replaced by the reality of what he had done and the fear the police presence outside struck into his heart.
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone else. Just him.”
Liar, you thought, remembering well the weight of ammunition in your hands as you removed it from his locker. Why bring so much fucking ammunition when all you wanted was to kill a single person?
If this was about revenge, about the place he blamed for the loss of his brother, then he wanted the entire school, the whole staff and county to feel the same pain he had been in.
“Of course.” You said anyway. “You’re a good person.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Jeremy muttered and resumed his pacing. “You’re the only one- the only one here who understands.”
Not that he ever truly spoke to you. Is this what you get for trying to make the weird loner kid feel included? Ending up at the centre of some nutjob’s delusion?
“This is very scary, Jeremy. Can you put the gun down?”
He whirled around, raising his rifle and pointing it at you. You felt all warmth leaving your body, blood freezing in your veins, breath stopping-
The principal screamed behind his gag. Mira emitted a panicked shriek somewhere behind you. Shock and fear rippled through the assembled group of hostages.
You kept your hands lifted, your posture submissive, but you let the fear show on your face.
“Jer?”
Jeremy blinked. As though in a trance, he lowered his weapon. “I wouldn’t hurt you.” He said it with a scoff, as if it was ridiculous you’d even think he would.
You looked at the police officers. “May I help them, Jer?”
Submissive, meek, cooperative, non-judgemental.
“They’re going to go easier on you if you let me. You’re a good man. You don’t want to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, I know you don’t. Please? I don’t want them to hurt you because they are too stupid to see that.”
Jeremy gave you a tight nod after a moment of consideration. Without taking your eyes off him, you walked towards the police officers. You knelt down on the bloody ground and opened your med kit with trembling hands.
One of them was dead.
Jeremy watched you. He realised it the same moment you did. When your trembling fingers left his clammy, cold neck where no pulse thrummed beneath his skin to still the bleeding of the second officer.
Jeremy pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and cursed, pacing even more frantically than before.
The second officer had been hit on the neck. A grazing shot that luckily missed all major arteries, but he’d been sitting here for a long time and lost a lot of blood. You gave the officer a tight-lipped smile and opened one of your last packs of gauze to press to his neck wound.
“What’s your plan, Jeremy?” You asked after a while of silence, only interrupted by fearful whimpering, the sound of his boots against the ground and the sirens outside. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t.”
“If you go out now, unarmed, and with your arms raised, they aren’t going to shoot you.”
“Shut up, you dumb bitch!” Jeremy snarled. “You don’t know shit! I’m not making it out of here- I-” He stomped over to the principal and pressed the muzzle of his rifle against his forehead. He stared down at him, finger curling around the trigger-
Jeremy screamed, pent up and frustrated, and dropped his rifle against his chest before stalking away again, resuming his pacing.
It’s easier to shoot at running kids than execute a grown man, huh, you thought bitterly while bringing the officer’s hand to his neck to hold the gauze in place himself. He tried to grab your wrist and shake his hand, but you were already on the move.
“You can still make it out of here alive.” You said softly, keeping a deliberate distance from Jeremy. He was wearing tactical gear. Shooting him with a handgun, even from close range, would not slow him down enough. The impact of bullets on body armour still left bruises at the very least, or even broken bones, but he had his rifle strapped to his chest. Unless you aimed for his head, and miraculously hit, you couldn’t stop him.
And you couldn’t shoot somebody point-blank in the head.
Not even Jeremy, who had the object of his full hatred kneeling at his feet, after shooting down countless people, could do that.
“I don’t want you to die, Jeremy. Your mom already lost one son…”
Oh, you were not the only one with mommy issues in the room.
You realised your mistake right away, but the words had already left your mouth, and you could not stop them or take them back. Jeremy’s eyes grew hard and cold. He made two steps towards you, drawing himself up to his full height and glared down at you with all the hatred of a starved, abused, radicalised animal.
“And what would you know about mothers, huh? What makes you think mine is any better than all of them, huh?! Fucking kike bitch.”
Your jaw set, nostrils flaring as you tried to contain your rage. Your star of David necklace you inherited from your great-grandmother burnt against your sternum. It was part of a set. Its twin had been proudly worn by your great-grandfather for many, many years and now hung around your father’s neck.
You saw movement from the corner of your eye. Men in tactical gear, closing in on the cafeteria. Panic and rage surged alike inside you.
Jeremy was spiralling. He was losing it, and if the SWAT team moved in now, he’d start shooting blindly. And there were so many civilians around. Would they return fire?
Your body moved before your mind could catch up with the situation.
You punched Jeremy - square in the face, using every bit of momentum you could get to generate force and smashed his nose in, just the way Jack taught you how.
The slur he hurled at you after you’d done nothing but be nice to him all year still had your blood boiling. You grabbed his shoulders and buried your knee in his groin. Jeremy went down with a muffled groan. You were on top of him immediately, pushing him to the ground with the weight of your body. You reached behind you, drawing the gun to shove it in his face and keep him down or- something.
You had no idea what you were doing!
Your body was running on instincts, survival and primal fear.
Jeremy recovered much faster than you anticipated. He grinned at you with blood-smeared teeth.
“You’re not going to shoot me.” He hissed and, proving his words right, tried to grab the gun from you.
The problem was that you wanted to live - and Jeremy only cared about not dying before killing the principal.
You grappled for the gun. SWAT stormed the cafeteria. Shots were fired. You scrambled to get away, but Jeremy already reached out to grab you. He dragged you to your feet with him and pressed the muzzle of the handgun against your temple.
Your eyes met Jack’s across the room.
He was covered from head to toe in tactical gear, and between the mask and helmet, only his eyes were really visible, but you knew those eyes.
He stared at you intently, then, lifted his fist to stall the team. He nodded at you, once, and you knew what to do.
You widened your stance, took a steadying breath and grabbed the barrel of the gun to yank it away from your head as quickly as you could, catching Jeremy by surprise and breaking his grip on the handle. He tried to reach for the gun, but you grabbed his wrist with your free hand and slammed your elbow into his face. You scrambled away. Jeremy went after you.
Jack fired five shots, each one hitting Jeremy square in the chest. He collapsed.
It was almost comical.
As if someone had dropped a fabric doll from a set of stairs.
How could something so menacing stop being terrifying from one second to the next?
With trembling fingers, you removed the magazine and ejected the bullet from the chamber before dropping everything to the ground.
You didn’t want that thing in your hand.
You never wanted it in your hand in the first place.
You became painfully aware of all the drying blood clinging to your skin and clothes. Your father’s hoodie you’d stolen and not taken off despite your fight now ruined. Maybe he knew some tricks to clean it. He got blood on his clothes all the time despite the PPE. Sometimes there wasn’t time for PPE. Maybe Dana would know something…
A shuddering, painful sob tore through your throat, a sob you’d been holding back all day, pushing the trauma and fear to the very back of your head and ignoring all the physical symptoms in favour of helping other people.
Controlled chaos erupted around you. SWAT members helped carry the injured officer out and free the principal from the tape and zip ties. The terrified hostages were led outside. Jeremy was searched for weapons.
You stood in the cafeteria, the same place you sat in with your friends for years, complaining about the food and cracking jokes. The usual loud atmosphere of lighthearted jokes and animated chattering was now forever replaced by the sounds of bullets, shouts and screams - and the stench of blood.
You didn’t know if Jeremy was still alive as you stared at his unmoving body.
A part of you didn’t care. Another, meeker, almost ashamed part of you, the part that had honestly tried to help a lonely, excluded boy feel less alone, did care. It cared a lot, despite everything he had done and everything that had happened.
You could not consolidate either part with the other.
“Hey, Robby jr.” Jack secured his weapon and stepped up to you. He brushed a strand of sweaty hair out of your face. Finally, the tension coiled tightly around you since Mira stormed into the bathroom, covered in blood, evaporated. You sagged against Jack. He caught you with ease, keeping you upright.
I’m so glad to see you, you opened your mouth to say, your brain already having sent the order to your tongue and lips, but only a gargled noise made it out.
Blood trickled down your chin.
You watched Jack’s face shift from relief to utter terror. The strength in your legs disappeared. You were dragged down by the earth’s gravity. Pain exploded through your insides, dragging a groan to your lips that was accompanied by the taste of old, rusted iron.
Jack was calling your name, but it sounded distant. As if someone had stuffed cotton into your ears.
You felt his hands on you, tearing down the zipper of your ruined hoodie that had been concealing the blood spreading across your stomach fully.
Adrenaline truly was a remarkable thing… your brain mused as it was already powering down.
You hadn’t felt it… three gunshot wounds tearing through your insides, and you hadn’t felt them until you were safe in Jack’s arms…
Final Part
Please feel free to let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3
summary: after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.
wc: 13k words
warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic
a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesn’t have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear i’ll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray
Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work.
While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore.
Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.
The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.
He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all.
He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.
Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips.
God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants.
It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.
But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.
Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you.
The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days.
Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast.
Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.
"My name is-"
But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again.
Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.
For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.
He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.
"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”
His eyes catch yours.
“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."
You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants.
The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty.
Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs.
And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room.
What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator.
As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring.
You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut.
You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.
But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt.
Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina.
By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting.
But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.
Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.
He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.
After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.
At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.
He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled.
"Could you stay for a moment?"
Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.
By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.
As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ.
He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.
"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.
Jack clears his throat.
"Right. Yes."
Very articulate.
"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."
You blink.
"The situation?"
"The fact that we've met before."
"Oh."
You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.
"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."
Jack immediately shakes his head.
"No, it's okay. You're good."
Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening.
"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."
Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.
"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."
His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence.
"I wasn't suggesting-"
"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."
Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.
You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.
"Right," he says finally.
A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down.
You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there.
Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.
For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.
Then you nod, still staring at the floor.
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, good."
Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.
"I should go."
"Yes, thank you for staying back."
You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him.
“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”
Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.
The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff.
That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.
Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.
It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick.
You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake.
And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special.
And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before.
God you sound fucking pathetic.
And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations.
In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too.
Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face.
Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.
As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you.
Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.
And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.
The feedback only makes it worse.
Critical analysis underdeveloped.
Needs greater engagement with course material.
More depth required.
Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.
Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.
Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.
You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.
Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.
Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not.
Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes.
And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.
The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.
Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.
After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak.
Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.
Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.
You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.
Fuck your life.
His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop.
“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name.
“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”
You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him.
You set your paper on his desk and mumble.
“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”
“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”
You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything.
"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."
He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints.
He sighs.
“Wait, let me get my readers on.”
You sneak a glance up.
Oh fuck.
He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles.
Yeah, pussy exploded.
You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart.
When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk.
"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."
Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.
"It's actually the opposite."
“What?"
"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.
"But?" you whisper.
His mouth twitches.
"But I don't think you pushed yourself."
Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.
"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”
Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-
“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?”
You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap.
Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack.
“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”
He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.
“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”
He inhales.
“Look, follow my breathing.”
You try to, but it comes out stuttered.
"Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."
He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.
“In, and out, just like that.”
It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries.
Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest.
“You breathin’ better now?”
You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.
“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”
“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”
He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.
You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.
"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."
The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.
Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful.
"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."
Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again.
“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”
“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart.
He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.
“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”
You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.
“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.
You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again.
“Yes, thank you.”
It slips out before he can stop it.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices. You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes.
“I could help you, you know.”
You blink, confused.
He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral.
“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”
He pauses.
“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”
Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”
“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”
His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands.
Slowly, you nod.
“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”
He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up.
“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”
You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair.
“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”
You nod again.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Dr Abbot.”
He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.
He’s so handsome.
Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”
Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under.
“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”
“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?”
He taps your head.
You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’
You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”
“Please, Sir, please touch me.”
“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”
Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please.
He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining.
He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on .
“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
“Fuck- right there.”
You buck up in his hold.
And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.
“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.”
You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.
You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.”
“That’s my good girl.”
And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.
You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.
“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”
“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky.
And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over.
You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.
In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.
“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”
The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you.
Did he just… orgasm?
Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive.
And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens.
You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place.
"Fuck."
The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.
You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you.
“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”
The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.
“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows.
What the fuck?
You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.
And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes.
Fuck old men. You hate old men.
After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.
He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you.
The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.
It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again.
Because you get a text from an unknown number.
Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.
That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.
Then two minutes later.
And I wanted to check in.
Are you feeling better?
Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself?
The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable.
Stop.
Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm.
And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant.
So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half.
Hey, i’m okay thanks
Wow, look at you go.
His reply is almost immediate.
Good.
Good girl.
You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words.
You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious.
You type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely.
What are you supposed to say?
Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?
Sorry for crying in your office?
Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?
After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.
Can I see you?
Please.
Your breath stutters.
yeah sure
When do your classes finish today?
At 3pm
Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.
Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once.
But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes.
And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.
Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.
He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.
What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.
And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will.
You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.
Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.
He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.
And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.
But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope.
And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone.
He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that.
But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it.
And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.
Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.
And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up.
Abbot, no.
But the words slip out as you reach him.
“Hey sweetheart.”
“Hi Dr Abbot.”
You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior.
He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
He withholds a wince at the awkwardness.
“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”
The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.
“Good, that’s good.”
Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.
For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.
Get your shit together, Abbot.
"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."
Your eyes finally lift from the table.
“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”
He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?
That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?
None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense.
"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."
That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms.
“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”
Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.
“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."
"I thought so."
You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.
"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."
His shoulders loosen slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You shrug.
"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."
The honesty makes him wince.
"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”
You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply.
“Apology accepted.”
The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.
Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously.
"What?" you question.
"That isn't coffee."
"It literally is."
"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."
You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.
"It has espresso."
"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."
"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."
You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.
For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.
He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell.
Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar.
“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”
Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."
Your grin grows, eyes sparkling.
"Why?"
"Because I'm fifty."
That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it.
Interesting.
Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.
And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.
Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.
Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice.
"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."
The words leave his mouth casually.
Your eyes flicker up.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I could come see you."
"In my office?"
You immediately look embarrassed.
"Only if that's okay."
God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lift.
"It's okay."
The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay."
"Okay."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.
"Dr Abbot-"
"No."
"I can pay for myself."
"I know."
"Then-"
"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.
Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”.
Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life.
So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor.
Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt.
Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes.
Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so.
Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare.
He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit.
You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek.
“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.”
But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.
“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice.
And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.
You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk.
He’d made you lick it off.
Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense.
The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks.
Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need.
But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you.
Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.
Surely he's put two and two together.
And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck.
He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.
Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.
A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.
You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.
He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.
And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow.
Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you.
Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.
And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.
And for now, maybe it is.
The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.
Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks.
Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating.
But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.
He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.
The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife.
And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.
“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour.
He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something.
“What?” he huffed out.
Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words.
“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”
He jolted, hips thrusting up.
“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”
You said his name again, more firmly.
“Stop dodging the question.”
He paused.
“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”
“Jack.”
He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before.
“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”
He stayed silent.
You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him.
“I want to taste you, please.”
Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.
“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.”
He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Get off, c’mon.”
Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.
He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room.
Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly.
“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”
You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs.
Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out.
It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest.
You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around.
Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him.
“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”
You smirked, you vixen.
“Shove it in, I dare you.”
He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch.
Until you gagged.
Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually.
“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”
You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth.
Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.
“Just like that, sweetheart”.
“Yeah, grip it harder”.
“Suck the tip, just like that.”
And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue.
He had never come that hard in his life.
Panting harshly, he patted your head.
“Swallow.”
Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life.
There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything.
While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either.
But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.
He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him.
However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.
Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.
All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.
Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.
He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy.
When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk.
Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you?
As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him.
His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.
Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.
Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm.
Fuck.
Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy.
Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.
Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.
Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.
After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.
Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.
Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it.
He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance.
If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you.
By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.
Because what exactly are you guilty of?
Making a friend? Talking to somebody?
The answer is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight.
Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you. You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck.
He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together.
Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.
You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.
The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you.
And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.
You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about - or maybe pretending to be shocked.
Instead he'd practically fled the room.
By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over.
Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.
A gruff voice immediately answers.
"Come in."
You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.
His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.
And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.
He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.
“Who the fuck was that boy?”
You’re confused.
“Who?”
“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”
“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”
His jaw visibly tenses.
“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?
“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”
“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.
The correction slices straight through you.
“What?”
He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you.
“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.”
You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you.
Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask.
You swallow hard.
“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”
The words taste bitter.
“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”
His brows furrow immediately.
“That's not what-”
“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”
“Enough.”
You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.
“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.
You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.
“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”
Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.
“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.”
You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid.
Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave.
“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.
You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.
“Please.”
You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.
Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown.
His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye.
“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”
His voice cracks.
“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”
Then he inhales deeply.
“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
You still.
Your lip quivers as you stare at him.
You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes.
The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.
“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"
“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”
Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.
“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”
“Shh.”
His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.
“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”
Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.
You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him.
Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human.
Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.
But he stayed. And he saw you.
You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.
“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately.
A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.
Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.
Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.
Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.
That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating.
Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.
And perhaps, you realise, so have you.
That’s when you know.
“I’m ready,” you breathe out.
Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”
“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”
He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.
“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.
“Yeah.”
Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time.
And God, its everything you fucking imagined.
His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other.
After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.
Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor.
He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.
“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.
You moan, pressing against him harder.
“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”
You nod.
“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”
He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.
His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love.
You glance down at his prosthetic.
“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”
He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.
“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”
Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in.
“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”
You whine.
“What are you waiting for then?”
He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you.
“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”
A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.
He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk.
Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks.
Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick.
“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”
You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips.
Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick.
He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly.
It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips.
“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine.
“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”
He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply.
“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”
You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true.
“Take your time, old man.”
He stills at that, grips your waist harshly.
Looks up at you, his eyes darkening.
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain.
“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear.
You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside.
Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you.
With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder.
“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”
You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines.
“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.”
Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck.
You nod, slurring your words.
“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”
“That’s it, good fucking girl.”
Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you.
When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately.
“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?”
He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck.
“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”
You shake your head, words muffled under his palm.
“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!”
He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you.
“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”
God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk.
“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”
Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes.
He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw.
“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”
You open your eyes, moaning.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”
“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”
He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.
“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”
He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack.
You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.
“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”
His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills.
“What’d you just call me?”
Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit.
You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”
“No. Repeat it.”
He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly
“What did you call me?”
“Daddy,” you whisper out.
He pouts mockingly.
“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”
And then he starts thrusting, harder than before.
“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder.
Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him.
He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.
“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?”
You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard.
His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
You moan at his words. But you still have to come.
“Jack please, please keep going.”
He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily.
He grips your chin in his palm.
“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.
And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes.
He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.
You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”
You laugh softly nodding.
“Mhm.”
He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms.
After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.
“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”
Your brows immediately furrow.
“Jack-”
He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you.
“Let me speak.”
You sigh, but nod.
“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”
Your breath stutters.
“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”
He pauses.
“I wanna be the person you come home to.”
Your breath catches.
“As your other. If you’d want.”
You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.
“I love you.”
Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears.
“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.
You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.
“And I’d love to be yours.”
Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.
Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you.
As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly.
You both still. Before you burst out laughing.
“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“Fuck you, shut up.”
You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.
“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.
His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.
“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”
You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old.
Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out.
“But my mouth still works,” he smirks.
Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers.
“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”
You whimper softly against his mouth.
“Okay.”
“Okay, who, pretty girl?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He grins.
“Good girl.”
omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.
anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo
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(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Part 1
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet- i am just letting my imagination run wild after episode 7. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. Injuries. Hostage situation. Gunshots. Angst.
wc◇5.1k
"What the hell!"
Trent Norris’s voice cut through the department like a gunshot, loud enough to make conversations snap in half and hands freeze mid-motion. For a split second, even the monitors seemed quieter.
“You are not searching me!”
Silence followed, heavy and immediate. Heads turned in unison, Perlah halfway through adjusting an IV stopped with her fingers still curled around the tubing, Santos and Javadi leaned out from behind a curtain, eyes wide and hungry for distraction. Even Joy and Ogilvie who had been at each other's throats in front of doctor Mohan and doctor Langdon lifted their chins toward the sound.
At the center of it stood the CEO himself, face flushed an angry shade of red, jaw tight, chest puffed up like indignation alone could grant immunity.
Agent Jareau, blonde, composed, and visibly running on fumes, looked towards Morgan with the expression of someone who had exactly one ounce of patience left and was deciding whether this man deserved it or not.
“Mr. Norris-” Morgan began, hands open in a gesture that could have meant either calm down or don’t make me do this.
He didn’t get far.
“Listen here,” Norris barked, stepping forward as if volume would guarantee his authority. “I am the damn CEO. You think I will have a weapon here? That I am working with someone to terrorize my own hospital?”
By now, everyone was watching. Some nurses had fully stepped into the hallway, a respiratory therapist lingered openly in a doorway, no longer pretending to be subtle, even the paramedic at the far end of the room slowed down to a stop.
“Frankly, sir, we don’t care.” Yn's voice cut clean and precise through the air.
Morgan and Jareau shifted away gradually, creating space without looking like they were retreating. It was subtle, the way they did it, years of partnership compressed into a single silent agreement; when Hotchner wasn’t present, they all knew who commanded the room.
Yn stepped forward. Her posture was straight and controlled, her gaze steady and unwavering as she looked up at the larger man without a hint of intimidation.
“You will be searched,” she continued, each word deliberate. “Just like we searched the patients. Just like we searched your staff.”
The emphasis was subtle yet sharp.
“You think one of the people who work here- who give their lives to this place more than you ever did- would bring in a weapon? Hell no. But they were searched.”
Her voice hardened.
“And so will you.”
Norris opened his mouth again, but whatever he intended to say stalled under the weight of her stare.
“Stand still,” she finished, her tone now edged with steel, “and shut up.”
The department held its breath. Yn didn’t shout, she didn’t need to, there was something far more dangerous than anger in her voice- certainty.
Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching, unyielding and full of disrespect. The kind of gaze that had stared down serial killers, liars and men who believed their power and position exempted them from consequence. It didn't.
Trent Norris, CEO of the hospital, sputtered for half a second longer before the fight drained from his shoulders. Not because he’d been convinced, but because he’d been overruled and outranked by someone who didn’t care about his title, it was someone who only cared about protocol.
He lifted his arms stiffly, muttering under his breath as she stepped closer. The contrast was almost absurd, her well built yet smaller frame- precise movements, calm hands checking his waistband, jacket, ankles- while he stood rigid and offended.
No one laughed, but the tension shifted. Yn finished quickly, stepping back once she was satisfied.
“You’re clear,” she said simply.
No apology. No emotion. Just fact.
Norris lowered his arms, smoothing down his collar as though reclaiming his dignity through the fabric. He cast one last glare in her direction, but it faltered under the steadiness of her expression.
Across the station, Robby felt something low and warm curl in his chest that had nothing to do with soulmate bonds and everything to do with pride. Jack, beside him, looked dangerously close to smiling.
God, she was terrifying. And entirely theirs.
Yn turned away from Norris without another glance, already scanning the room again, recalibrating. Asomething lingered in the air; respect, not for the CEO, but for the FBI agent who shook him down with a stare.
“Okay, everyone,” Robby called out, his voice cutting through the restless hum of bodies and machinery. He glanced around at the nurses hovering near the nurses’ station, at the residents lingering with charts clutched to their chests, at the nosy patients pretending to look for nurses just to stay within earshot of the FBI agents. “Get moving.”
The spell broke, gowns and scrubs scattered back into motion, the hospital floor breathing again, even if the air still felt tight.
Yn stepped closer to the younger blonde agent at her side, lowering her voice just enough to keep it between them. “Any word from Garcia yet?”
Agent Jareau shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked composed, she always did, but there was a thin line pulling at her forehead. “No. Rossi and Spencer are saying everyone over there is clear.”
A broad shadow fell over them as Derek Morgan joined the duo, scanning the corridors like he expected their unit chief to materialize from sheer force of will. “Where the hell is Hotch?”
“He went back to Westbridge,” JJ replied.
Yn’s gaze snapped toward her. “What? Why is he there if everything is clear?” Her eyes swept the chaotic floor again, patients being wheeled through, orderlies weaving between IV poles, doctors murmuring urgent updates.
“Bomb threat.”
The words settled heavy in her chest. Now her eyes locked on JJ’s, dark and sharp.
“Fuck me.”
“Is that only in Westbridge or?”
“So far.”
“So far,” Yn echoed under her breath, the phrase tasting bitter. She straightened, the shift in her posture subtle but immediate, command sliding into place like it belonged there. “Okay. We’re spreading out. Keep your eyes open. If anything feels off, handle it slow. Don’t rush.” Her voice dropped lower with each word, controlled and deliberate. “This is an emergency department, they’ve got enough to worry about without us adding to it.”
Morgan gave a short nod while JJ’s shoulders squared.
“I’m calling Hotch,” Yn added, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. “We need Bomb Squad on standby. Just in case.”
They split without another word.
Yn moved through the corridor with purpose, phone pressed to her ear, her voice hushed but urgent as it connected. Doctors and nurses passed her in a blur of scrubs; she didn’t spare them a glance, didn’t let her focus drift- until she saw Dana weaving through the chaos with brisk determination.
“Hey, pretty,” Yn murmured, tilting the phone slightly toward her shoulder to muffle her end of the conversation, her tone softening just a fraction. “Can you let Dr. Robby know I need to speak with him? As soon as he’s free. I’ll need ten minutes of his time. Thanks.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. The phone was back at her ear, the professional mask settling firmly back into place as she continued speaking to her on-paper supervisor, her steps never slowing.
Dana was already moving. She navigated the sea of people with ease, scanning for the tall figure who usually stood out in any room. She didn’t find Robby, but she did find his counterpart.
“Hey,” she called, stepping toward Jack Abbot. “You seen Robby?”
Jack stood shoulder to shoulder with Javadi and Mel, gloves snapped snug around his wrists, posture alert and ready. “No. Why?”
“Agent Yn wants to talk to him.”
The reaction was almost subtle, but it was there. The flicker in his eyes, the tightening along his jaw. He turned to the two younger doctors, already stripping the gloves from his hands. “Doctor Javadi, you’ll handle the procedure. Doctor King, assist her if needed.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.
“Did she say why?” he asked Dana as he stepped closer.
“No. Seemed urgent though.” Dana studied him, taking in the subtle signs, his jaw ticking, the faint crease between his brows- not his usual frown- this one meant something was wrong, something she wasn’t being told.
She stopped walking, forcing him to stop too. “What’s going on, cowboy?”
Her tone was light and teasing, but her eyes weren’t- they were sharp, searching.
Jack and Robby had never let anyone see the names inked into their skin. They’d talked about it once, early on when they first met, when everything was still new and raw and overwhelming. They’d agreed it was fine if people knew they were soulmates, it was fine if people knew there was a third- it would’ve been impossible to hide that anyway, not with the wrist to elbow cover sleeve sticking to Jack’s forearm everywhere. But the name? That was sacred, private. Just for them. Years had passed since that conversation. Years of learning who could be trusted and who would gossip. And Dana could be trusted, she would help.
Because right now, with FBI walking around their halls, they needed someone steady, someone rational, someone who could keep things contained if everything went sideways. Someone who would make sure the three of them made it past this godforsaken day.
Jack glanced around once, scanning for watching eyes, then jerked his head towards an empty patient room. Dana followed without hesitation. Inside, he pulled the curtains shut, barely muting the chaos beyond them, the fluorescent light hummed overhead and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jack reached for his forearm and slowly he began rolling back the fabric of his cover sleeve, the ink emerging in careful strokes of dark lettering, stark against his skin. There was no mistaking it.
YN LN.
The name stared up at Dana like a confession and a threat at the same time. She exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and frustration. “Goddammit, you two.”
The first time Yn looks at Robby, really looks at him, it isn’t cinematic. There’s no swell of music in the background, no fluorescent lights flickering at the exact right second, no cosmic ripple that makes the entire ED pause mid-step.
It’s painfully, almost insultingly, normal.
Yn straightens from where she’s been leaning against the counter, the movement subtle but deliberate. Her spine aligns, her shoulders square, and she lifts her chin just enough to meet his eyes. There’s nothing soft in her expression, nothing dreamy or awestruck. She studies him the way she studies a crime scene, the way she studies a suspect. Calm, clinical and focused.
Her gaze drags over the lines of his face like she’s cataloguing evidence. The faint crease between his eyebrows that looks permanent from years of stress and responsibility, the exhaustion in his eyes- the kind that only comes from running a department that never sleeps.
She could almost feel it.
Not pain- not sharp or burning or anything that would make her gasp. It’s pressure. A slow, tightening pull beneath her sternum, like someone’s hooked a string around her ribs and pulled it taut. It’s familiar in the way a word sits at the tip of your tongue- almost there, almost pronounced.
If she’d had one more hour of sleep, if she’d looked at him twenty minutes earlier- before possible bomb threats and ransom demands swallowed her focus whole- if she’d met his eyes with just a fraction more clarity instead of running on caffeine and adrenaline she would have connected the dots. She would have seen past the navy scrubs and the title of Chief Attending, she would have double-checked the badge clipped to his chest, the one displaying his full name in clear black lettering. The one right in front of her goddamn face.
But she doesn’t.
Because she’s sleep-deprived and tense, her weight resting more on her right leg as she talks about explosives in the corner of a hospital corridor.
“So,” Robby says, arms folding across his chest in a defensive reflex he doesn’t even realize he’s making, “you want to tell me that what- there might be a bomb in here?”
“No, Doctor Robby.”
God, he hates that she sounds so calm. But God, does he love the way she says his name.
“I’m saying that one of the other two hospitals attacked by the same group is currently being threatened for ransom, and they’re claiming there’s a bomb.” Her voice is even. “Is there actually one? No. Whoever’s behind this isn’t brave enough for that.”
Just because she’s standing there with that steady gaze and that pretty face, just because her name is inked into his skin in dark, permanent script, just because she is his soulmate does not mean he isn’t absolutely panicking.
“And what about when they do get brave, huh?” His voice lifts despite himself, frustration and fear tangling together. “What happens then? What about the people working here? The patients? The nurses?” His breath catches before he can stop it. “My soulmates.”
The words slips out, raw and incomplete.
You have one fucking job, Robby. Don’t mess it up.
He understands now why Agent Hotchner had insisted he and Jack keep quiet, why he’d warned them that knowing could complicate everything. Because right now, standing in front of her, every instinct Robby has as a doctor, as a leader, as a soulmate, is screaming at him to get her out, to get Jack out, to get them both far away from any potential blast radius.
His mind is already mapping exits, stairwells, underground parking. He’s calculating how long it would take to clear the beds, how fast he could move critical patients without causing chaos.
“I understand your panic,” she says, and the words snap him back to her. "And your fear. Believe me, Doctor, I do.” There’s no mockery in her tone, no dismissal, just firm acknowledgment. “But profiling, understanding how the unsub- the attacker- thinks, that’s my job. I know what I’m telling you.”
“Are you that sure that he won’t-”
“Yes.”
The interruption is sharp but not cruel.
The confidence in her voice hits him harder than her words.
He’s been a doctor for decades. He’s delivered diagnoses in rooms so heavy with grief it felt like breathing underwater, he’s reassured parents while knowing there were no guarantees, he’s trained interns to speak in probabilities, in data, in outcomes that always have margins of error.
He has never- never- been able to offer one hundred percent certainty out loud.
And yet she stands here, in the middle of his emergency department, with absolute conviction threaded through her tone like steel.
“I’ve been with the BAU for twenty-three years,” she continues, eyes locked on his. “I’ve seen my fair share of everything.” The weight behind that statement is unspoken but undeniable. “I’m not saying you’re staying here. I’m saying we need to be discreet about how we get everyone out.”
Robby exhales slowly, the air leaving him like a deflating balloon. The situation settles heavier on his shoulders, pressing down until he feels the full gravity of it. This isn’t just about him or his soulmates, it’s about hundreds of lives- fragile ones, ones attached to ventilators and IV lines and beating hearts monitored by machines.
“I’m not trying to risk anyone’s life,” she says, her voice softening just slightly- not weak, just human. “I need you to help me clear this place without causing panic. Let Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan, and I de-escalate this before anyone gets caught in any possible crossfire.”
Crossfire. The word doesn’t belong in a hospital hallway, it doesn't belong in his department. Not like this.
He studies her again. Really studies her this time; the exhaustion around her eyes, the faint tension in her jaw, the way she holds herself like someone used to carrying responsibility whether she wants to or not.
The scream tears through the corridor like glass shattering.
It’s high and shrill and wrong. And before Yn could even begin telling Robby anything about evacuation routes or controlled exits, she’s already moving. Gun is in her hand in one smooth motion, body racing toward the sound as her voice cracks through the ED like a whip.
“Everybody down! On the ground!”
People drop, instinct winning over pride. Monitors beep wildly, carts rattle and several people start crying.
By the time Yn and Robby reach the end of the corridor, Derek and JJ are already there, guns raised, shoulders squared, forming a sharp, thin line of protection between the threat and the huddled staff.
“Emma,” Robby breathes.
The name barely leaves his mouth.
The young nurse is trembling in the grip of a man who looks barely older than she is. Late twenties, pale, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, too wide, flicking between the three agents before locking onto Robby like he’s personally offended by his existence.
“Get down!” he screams. The gun presses harder into Emma’s temple. “Get down!”
Yn glances over her shoulder at Robby. Just once. A small nod.
Trust me.
Robby lowers himself to the ground with the others, jaw tight, eyes already scanning- where’s Jack, where’s Jack-
“Come on,” Morgan says, voice steady, soothing, the kind you’d use on a cornered animal. “Let her go.”
“Please, please, just let-” Emma sobs as the barrel digs harder into her temple.
“Shut up!”
“Tyler,” JJ says gently, stepping forward inch by inch. “Holding her hostage isn’t going to help you.”
His head snaps toward her. “How do you know my name?” His grip tightens on Emma’s shoulder; she winces, tears spilling freely now. “Tell me how you know my name!”
He’s rattled. They can all see it.
“Those earphones,” he barks suddenly, eyes locking onto the white device hidden beneath JJ’s hair. “Take them off! Take them off!”
JJ’s gaze flickers to Yn, asking for confirmation, for leadership. Yn nods once and JJ slowly removes the earpiece, placing it carefully on the ground.
“Get out!” Tyler screams at her and Morgan, waving the gun wildly. The movement sends another ripple of panic through the department- people huddling tighter, prayers whispered under breaths.
“We can’t-”
“Get out!” His voice cracks, manic and sharp. “I just want Yn Ln here.”
The way he says her name is wrong.
“I’ll only talk to Yn Ln.”
The air changes.
It was tense before, thick with fear, but now it’s something else entirely- something personal, something targeted.
Robby feels it like a punch to the gut and Jack, somewhere across the room, feels it too. Because when a man with a gun asks for your soulmate by name, you're not just panicking anymore, something different, something feral wakes up inside you.
“JJ. Derek. Leave.” Yn commands, never taking her eyes off Tyler.
They hesitate, of course they do, but they obey.
“I want you out too,” Tyler snaps at hospital security. “And lock that door!”
One by one, the three security guards filter out. The silence grows heavier with every step, it presses down on everyone left behind, thick and suffocating and full of unspoken terror.
“Slide your gun to the left,” Tyler orders, breath coming faster now, almost panting. The more he stares at her, the more unhinged he looks. “Empty it first.”
Yn doesn’t argue.
She ejects the magazine, racks the slide- letting the bullets clatter loudly against the tile- then she lowers the weapon slowly and slides it across the floor toward a cluster of nurses who scramble backward like it’s still live.
“Your other gun too.”
Her head tilts slightly.
Someone has done their research.
She crouches, fingers disappearing beneath her jeans at the side of her ankle, retrieving the secondary weapon and repeating the process with the same unhurried precision.
Tyler laughs under his breath, manic delight creeping into his features. “Fucking Yn Ln,” he mutters. “All quiet now. How the fuck did you catch my brother with that dull head of yours?”
Jack recognizes the silence on her face, it’s not submission, it’s calculation- she’s mapping distances, counting faces, tracking exits, measuring how far she can lunge without the nurse taking a bullet. He just hopes she’s factoring herself into the equation.
“I don’t want to hear your voice anyway,” Tyler rambles. His words start tumbling over each other, logic slipping. “Throw me the knives you keep on you, and the keys to the cuffs.”
Yn pauses only to scan the room again; who’s closest to the exits, who’s too frozen to move, who’s young, who could help if needed. She memorizes it all.
“Now!” Tyler shrieks, spit flying. “Or I will shoot her!”
Emma looks seconds from fainting. She is too innocent for this. Everyone in this room is too innocent for this.
Yn complies. She sets the knives down carefully alongside the cuff keys. Never breaking eye contact, then sliding them with her hand towards him- her composure makes him twitchier- and as she straightens, her shirt rides up slightly. A flash of white beneath dark clothes caught Tyler's attention.
“What is that?” Tyler snaps, gun swinging toward her fully now.
If Emma wasn't still in his grip, Yn would’ve already thrown the small hidden pocket knife from her back pocket into his forehead.
“Just a bandage,” she says evenly. “An injury I got thanks to your brother.”
His breathing turns erratic.
“No. No, no, no.” His thoughts are spiraling, racing, eating themselves alive. “Take off your shirt.”
“It’s just-”
“Take it the fuck off!”
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.
She reaches back, gripping the back of the neckline, pulling the fabric over her head in one smooth motion. The silence that follows is different, still afraid, still tight, but now also stunned.
Robby’s breath leaves him entirely. He has never understood why soulmate names land where they do. Why fate chooses ribs for one, arm for another. Why his name rests on Jack’s thigh while Jack's name rests on his back. Yn’s name is inked into his ribs while his name is written neatly across the center of her back, just beneath the strap of her bra. Clean, deliberate letters. And on the back of her shoulder rests another name. Jack's.
Two names permanent and now visible for everyone in the ED to see.
Tyler’s eyes flick over her almost naked front, searching for weapons. Finding none, he continous his instructions.
“Put the cuffs on yourself,” he demands, voice growing steadier with every ounce of control he’s gaining. “Arms in front. Secure one wrist. I’ll come over with her and she can lock the other.”
It plays out exactly like that. Yn retrieves the cuffs from the back of her jeans where it sat in place in its utility pouch, snaps one around her left wrist as Tyler drags Emma forward, forcing her to finish the job. The nurse’s hands shake violently, whispered apologies echoed through the quiet as she clicks the second cuff into place. Yn gives her a steady, reassuring smile in response.
Tyler shoves Emma away. She stumbles, skidding across the floor before Dana is there instantly, dragging her back into safety.
“Let’s go, Agent,” Tyler sneers as he shoves Yn around.
“Let’s go," The cold barrel presses into the center of Yn’s spine. "Don’t worry, I’ll find your soulmates. Apologize to them before I kill them.”
The room goes still. Yn wants to break his teeth against the tile, instead, she tilts her head back slightly. Her eyes find Jack's. Black shirt, cargo military pants, colored eyes blazing. One look, that’s all it takes for him to understand what she needs. Distraction.
“Hey-”
Jack stands; brave, stupid and perfect.
Tyler whips the gun toward him, and that’s all Yn needed.
She pivots sharply on her left foot, twisting hard. Her right foot plants onto the floor as she grabs Tyler’s wrist, forcing the barrel downward toward her own thigh as she drops her weight to the ground.
The gunshot explodes through the department, the sound deafening. Pain detonates up her leg, white-hot and blinding, but she doesn’t stop- she can't. Before Tyler can process what just happened, her elbow slams into his jaw. His grip falters and the gun clatters away from his grip. She drives her uninjured leg upward using her knee, knocking him off balance, then flips them, her weight crashing onto his back.
Her right knee digs into his spine while her left boot pins his wrist.
The handcuffs, still attached to her wrists, loop up and over his throat. The chain presses hard against his airway. He chokes, gurgles and thrashes.
“Unlock the doors!” she roars to whoever would listen and move.
Her fists brace beside his ears as she adjusts pressure- just enough to cut air, not enough to kill. Tyler tries sliding his neck onto the floor- a poor attempt in clawing at the chain- eyes bulging now, all the manic confidence gone. Reduced to desperate, ugly gasps.
The sound of JJ and Derek crashing through the double doors barely registered over the roar of blood in Jack's ears.
“It’s okay, we got him,” JJ was saying, voice steady, as Tyler’s body sagged, consciousness slipping like sand through open fingers.
But Jack wasn’t looking at Tyler, he wasn’t seeing the agents taking control, or the cuffs being unlocked, or the way the ER began to reassemble itself into motion after those suspended, suffocating seconds. He was looking at her.
Yn staggered back on instinct, as if the moment the threat shifted away from her, her body allowed itself to fail. Blood pooled around her legs- too much, too fast- soaking into floor tiles that had seen everything and yet, somehow, never this. Not like this. Not hers.
For a split second, everything went quiet in Jack's head- not the room, the room was deafening, monitors screaming, shoes squeaking, Dana shouting for a gurney and someone calling for a trauma bay- but inside him there was nothing. Just a hollow, cavernous silence where his training should have been.
He had spent his entire life running towards blood, towards injured soldiers with gunfire flying over his head. But now, when he needed to do so the most, he couldn’t move. Robby was at his side before he realized he had crossed the distance. Neither of them touched her at first, they just stood there, two physicians rooted to the floor, staring at the crimson blooming across her leg like it wasn’t real. Like if they didn’t acknowledge it, it might reverse itself.
This can’t be happening.
Robby’s mind tried to compartmentalize, his mind screaming at him- entry wound, possible exit wound, femoral artery?- but every clinical thought fractured the second it collided with the truth; that was her blood. The woman whose name was etched into his skin, bleeding out on the floor and he couldn't even twitch his fingers. He couldn’t hear his own breathing over the thunder of his heartbeat.
He should be moving. He knew he should. Years of surgical precision and muscle memory were screaming at him to take control, to bark orders, to apply pressure and secure a line and stabilize her before she stops breathing.
The thought paralyzed him.
“Excuse me.”
Melissa King and Trinity Santos physically pushed past their attendings, their shoulders knocking into Robby’s chest and Jack's shoulder. Jack barely felt it and Robby barely registered the sharp edge of Santos’ voice as she cut through fabric, scissors slicing through denim soaked dark with red.
Dana arrived with the gurney, wheels rattling against tile as if even it understood the stakes.
“On three- one, two-”
Hands moved. JJ, Mel, Santos, and Jack lifted her.
Jack’s hands are steady when they touch her, he doesn’t know how, he can feel the warmth of her blood soaking through his fingers, and he wished that he never moved. Meanwhile, Robby realized too late that he hadn’t helped. That his arms had stayed at his sides while others carried her. The guilt hit him like a physical blow.
Yn’s head lolled as they transferred her. Her eyes- those steady, unflinching eyes that had held his in an argument about a possible bomb threat barely minutes ago- were unfocused now. Glassy and fighting.
“She’s starting to lose consciousness,” Jesse says. The sentence cracked something open inside them.
“Her breathing’s rapid and shallow,” Santos adds quickly, eyes flicking up between Jack and Robby as if they're supposed to anchor this. “She’s going into hemorrhagic shock.”
Hemorrhagic shock.
Robby had said those words to families before. Calmly and apologetically, but now they felt like a death sentence.
“Hey!” JJ snapped, fury crackling through her tone as she rounded on the older attendings. “What the hell are you standing there for? Do something!”
Robby opened his mouth but nothing came out, he couldn’t. Because the second he tried to step forward, the image of her going still- truly still- flashed behind his eyes and his body betrayed him. What if his hands shook? What if he missed something? What if he was the reason she-
You had one job. Protect her. And you failed.
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct told him to push everyone aside and take over, to anchor himself in procedure and numbers and sutures and clamps, but his mind wasn’t sharp- it was frayed. He wasn’t thinking like a surgeon or even an army medic, he was thinking like a man watching the person tethered to his soul bleed out in front of him.
If I touch her and I lose her, I won’t survive it.
The thought wasn’t rational, he knew that, but it was raw and ugly and honest.
Santos finally looked JJ dead in the eye.
“They can’t.”
JJ frowned. “What?”
Dana didn’t hesitate. “They're her soulmates.”
The words shifted the air in the room, understanding dawned slowly across JJ’s face, Derek’s expression tightened, anger dissolving into something heavier.
From the outside, it made terrible, awful sense- of course they couldn’t move, of course two brilliant doctors would freeze when the person tethered to their soul was bleeding out in front of them.
"Trauma two is ready." Doctor Al-Hashimi's voice echoed through the chaos.
They started moving- fast- wheels rattling violently as Jesse steered toward trauma. Santos and Mel kept pressure on the wound, calling out vitals in clipped bursts to doctor Walsh and doctor Garcia.
Robby walked beside the gurney but didn’t touch it, Jack did. Not to treat or to intervene, just to stay connected. Every step felt like walking a tightrope between rationality and collapse. They know that they should scrub in. They know that they should lead, but they also know that right now, if they saw her chest stop rising under surgical lights, something inside them would fracture beyond repair.
And as the trauma doors swung open and swallowed her from their view, the ER staff watched the two men left standing in the aftermath. Not useless, not weak- just undone.
Two physicians who could save anyone- except, maybe, the one person they longed for the most.
Summary: set in s1. Reader is married to Anthony yet he cares little for you. Head only filled with Sienna. Making you feel alone and miserable at any given time. Making you question why he married you in the first place. His brother Benedict starts spending time with you to fill in his brother's lack. Till one day, he finds himself in love with you [part 2 & part 3 & part 4 & part 5]
Holding you by your elbow, he opened the door. Pushing you inside. With stumbling feet you moved inside, nearly losing your balance. It was the first time you saw his room, making you take it all in with curiosity. When Anthony brushed past you, you looked back down. Expression settling with confusion as he moved from side to side.
Suddenly a coat on his arm as he made his way back to the door. Hand on the handle, door slightly creaked open as you spoke. – “Are… are you not staying?” – you asked. Anthony sighed loud, briefly closing the door more. – “I am leaving for tonight.” – he responded. – “I…I don’t understand.” – you answered with furrowed brows.
“You can stay here, but I shall leave.” – he informed you, making himself clearer. – “But… but it is our wedding night. Surely you can stay with your newly wife right?” – you moved a bit closer to him in the hopes of understanding him. – “I shall speak with you later.” – he said moving the door more open, wanting to disappear through.
“Is there truly something more important than our marriage?” – you questioned. Anthony lowered his head with a deep sigh. – “I am not going to debate this with you.” – he answered firm, merely looking over his shoulder at you. – “I merely want to understand. You need to tell me…” – nearly begging him to make it clear.
“I do not need to do anything. I decide!” – he suddenly snapped at you, raising his voice. Making you blink surprised at the change of tone in his voice. – “I have decided, I am your viscount!” – words trembling with anger and force. Settling you back with fright. Making you move back, folding your hands together in front of you.
“My mistake.” – you responded, lowering your head. – “I thought you were Anthony. Forgive me, my viscount.” – sounding dull and formal, you curtsied at him. – “I shall not delay you any further.” – curtsying again in humbleness at him. The sudden shutting of the door with a loud thud, made you jump out of your skin. Threatened with such a harsh sound.
Aware of a coldness clasping around your heart, it set a heaviness in your chest. Stumbling back, you came sitting down on the edge of the bed. Staring in silence before you. Staring in wait for your newly husband to return. After a few hours, you laid yourself down under the covers.
Remaining quiet when you heard the door open creakingly. Pretending to be asleep, you listened in to the sounds. Footsteps shuffling in the room towards the other side of the bed. The blanket being lifted up. The warmth of a body joining you in the bed. The flowery perfume of a girl. A girl.
With your back against him, you slowly opened your eyes. Needing no words for he had been with another girl. Another girl he felt more interesting than his newly wife. Soft snoring filled the room, letting you know he had fallen asleep. Slowly closing your eyes, a teardrop found its way down. His body barely touching yours. As if he was too afraid to get close.
Feeling rejected by him, you buried your face in your blanket to deafen out your sobs. Wondering what you had done wrong for him to seek comfort with a stranger instead of his newly wife. Feeling him turn in the bed, you held your breath. Arching your back as you didn’t want his touch. He deserved none.
His hand neared your back, inches away from it. Still hearing his soft snoring. The smell of her perfume on him fresher than ever. The nauseating smell made your stomach turn. Bathed in her scent, you could tell just how close they had come. Shaking your head, you didn’t want to smell it. Slipping out of the bed.
Creeping barefoot towards the door. Closing it behind you to be released from the clutching grip of her presence. Sighing soft, you stared into he empty darkened hallway. Knowing the entire household would be sleeping.
Not wanting to return to bed, to him, you went down the stairs. Quietly. Leaving tiny footsteps in the house’s belly. Reaching the drawing room, you went inside. Lighting a few candles. Wandering around, letting your finger trail over the table’ s edge.
An unfinished game of chess untouched from Hyacinth and Gregory’s game. Exhaling soft, you picked up a pawn, resetting it. Intrigued, you started to re-arrange all the pieces in their beginning’s position. Sitting down with a sigh. Letting a pawn balance under your finger. Boringly you moved the pawn forwards.
Gaze resting on the empty seat in front of you. Staring mindlessly at it for you had no one to play with. No partner as the loneliness started to kick in. Needing to do your very best to not cry. If this what marriage presented, you didn’t want it.
Upon a presence barging into the room, made you jump out of your skin with a loud gasp. – “Y/n?” – Benedict breathed out confused, lowering the candleholder in his hand. Exhaling loud as he needed to settle down. – “What… what are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.” – Benedict spoke setting the candle holder away.
“I could ask you the same.” – you responded, staring back at the chess game. – “I…I… couldn’t sleep. Hells Y/n I thought there was a burglar upon seeing the light come from under the door.” – he panted out, his heart rate slowing down as the danger had passed.
“I’m sorry.” – you responded, looking down at your lap. Benedict approached you. – “What are you doing here all by yourself. Should you not be with my brother?” – his brows furrowed in confusion. You could not respond, for you didn’t know what to say.
His gaze went down on the chess board, seeing a pawn being set up ahead. Curling up a smile, he pulled the other chair back. Coming to sit opposite from you. – “Playing chess with yourself is awfully dull. May I join you?” – he asked. Shrugging your shoulders a bit, you didn’t mind.
Benedict came leaning forwards, fingers holding his chin with a thoughtful expression. Moving his hand to the board, he moved a pawn forwards. – “Has my brother given you hell?” – he spoke, gaze glued to the board. Pawn in your hand, you froze. Gaze widening as you wondered how he knew.
Benedict furrowed his brows once more when you didn’t seem to respond. Seeing the frightful glance in your eyes, made him chuckle. – “I was just teasing.” – responding to wave the matter away with no attachment. You nervously set your piece down.
Benedict set upon his turn a piece. Watching you and your next move. – “I don’t know what he is giving me.” – you said softly. Benedict frowned. You noticed it, smiling softly. Moving yourself up your seat, you came leaning over the board to press a finger against his forehead.
“Didn’t your mama tell you that frowning too much makes wrinkles?” – you laughed out. Benedict stared at your face for a moment. Taking your finger from against his forehead, lowering it to his chest. – “Maybe I like wrinkles.” – he responded, moving your finger from side to side. You laughed again.
“I very much doubt that.” – sitting yourself back down as he let go of your finger. – “No one likes wrinkles.” – you added, brushing your hands over your skirt. – “Maybe I do.” – Benedict responded, frowning his forehead specially for you. Making you laugh more at how he was toying with you.
He scrunched his nose with a silly smile, as it nearly made you choke on your laughter. – “Calm Y/n, calm. Don’t go dying on me now.” – Benedict spoke haven risen from his chair. Slapping your back as you ended up coughing. – “I’m… I’m fine…” – saying out of breath, you moved your hand behind you for him to stop butchering your back.
His slapping turned to soothing. Palm running lovingly over your back. – “You good?” – questioning a second time to be certain. Humming loud with a nod, you let him know it was alright. – “You should head back to bed.” – he stated with a concerning glance. – “I…I don’t want to.” – you really didn’t want to.
You didn’t want to be infected by her venomous perfume that captured your husband. Looking up, you felt the loneliness kick in again. It was stilled for a moment with his presence. Now that he appeared to be leaving, it roared louder than before. – “Will you stay?” – asking. Begging.
Benedict saw the pleading in your eyes. Making himself lower down to make it easier for you to look upon him. Crouched by the table. One arm resting on the table, the other over his knee. – “Of course.” – his voice soft and soothing. Nodding shakingly, you were relieved that he wished to stay with you. Benedict got back up, sitting in the chair to finish the game of chess till early in the morning.
Anthony was barely surprised to see you were up early. Unaware that you had not slept the night in his bed. – “Morning family.” – he addressed, looking over at his siblings. You curled up a smile, awaiting to be addressed. Perhaps last night was a mistake and now he would fully dedicate himself to you.
Anthony let his gaze go briefly to you. – “Wife.” – he said before going over to the table where Gregory and Hyacinth were. The choice of words was gut-wrenching. Tearing you apart for you had hoped he would have given you mercy. Smile immediately faltering. Your gaze locking briefly with Benedict from across the room.
His brows once more furrowed, clearly trying to understand his brother’s approach. After breakfast you went over to your husband. – “Anthony I thought we cou-“ – words suddenly caught off by him. – “I have no time.” – he responded, taking his coat. – “Are… are you leaving again?” – you questioned.
“Yes, is that a problem?” – he stated, narrowing his eyes at you. Daring you to say it was. Slouching your shoulders, you took a step back. – “No.” – saying softly with a lowered head. – “Good, don’t stay up for I shall not be here.” – were his final words as he took his leave. The slamming of the door making you jump out of your skin.
Turning saddened around, your gaze widened upon seeing Benedict by the door opening. Having listened in. Ashamed, you fluttered your eye lashes quickly to avoid crying. – “Y/n.” – Benedict said when you walked past him. – “Y/n!” – he repeated going after you, reaching for your hand to take.
His grip went around your wrist, pulling you towards him. Making you nearly bump against him. – “I…I have no excuses for him.” – he said in a way to apologize for his brother’s behaviour. – “I don’t want any.” – you responded, pulling your hand out of his grip. Running away from his presence as you couldn’t take it anymore.
The demising words of your husband. The lack of love. The care for another that you could never be. Making you wonder why he ever married you in the first place. For all the charm he had towards you burned the moment he got married to you. Making you wonder if he ever loved you.
That night you were back downstairs. Sitting by the window, staring outside in the darkness. The door creeped open once more, uncaring to you. – “I figured you would be here.” – Benedict speaking as he entered more, closing the door behind him.
Nervously he approached you. – “May I keep you company?” – he asked, fumbling with his hands. You slowly looked upon him with teary eyes. Staring at him, captivating. Nodding with an agreement, surrendering to his presence. Benedict neared, coming to sit with you on the sofa. Looking out of the window as well.
“I’m sorry for my brother.” – he said. – “You keep apologizing for him.” – you responded, fidgeting with your nails. – “I know…” – his voice hoarse. Exhaling soft, you let your head rest on the railing, laying on your arm. Batting your eyes up to him. Benedict came laying his head down as well. Gazing back at you in silence. Bathing in your presence with a hidden smile on his lips.
Night after night you went downstairs. Whilst your husband was visiting the other girl. Benedict kept you company. Sitting in silence with you or playing games of chess, cards or pass the time outside. Anything to pass the hours. Anything to make you forget about your husband and the marriage you had found yourself in.
On a fortnight you found yourself once more downstairs. Standing by the window. Staring outside. Benedict approaching you. Coming to stand beside you. Sensing him near, made you glance briefly at him before looking back at the glass. – “It hurts me to say this, but it hurts me more to stay.” – speaking a truth you had been harbouring inside you.
Fingers bleeding from picking up the pieces Anthony made of you. – “Y/n, please.” – Benedict responded touching your elbow. – “I just want anything that's left of me.” – words hoarse with a whisper for you didn’t know how much more you could take.
Turning your head, you lifted your gaze up, meeting up with his saddened eyes. Blinking softly at his staring gaze. Brows slightly furrowing with the anew emotion inside of him. Something you rarely had seen. – “Please…” – he begged again, fingers setting deeper into your elbow.
“I don't want any of it anymore.” – you responded with tears in your eyes. Benedict moved his hand to your cheek, shuddering out a breath. – “Take your heart somewhere else.” – he whispered nearing his face to you. Nose almost touching yours. Pulling a bit back, hesitant for what he was about to do. Yet in this moment he didn’t want to lose you.
If his brother could not see what he cherished, he would. With a shuddering breath, he guided his head more down. Lips pressing gently on your cheek. Taking his time before moving his face in front of you once more. Gaze downwards to your lips. Lowering to kiss your lips tenderly. Short and still hesitant. Yet the moment his lips had touched yours, he surrendered kissing you once more. Longer and deeper for you to feel his love. A love his brother couldn’t give you.
summary. you started acting at a young age and by sixteen, everybody knew your name. by twenty, you were known as ‘that one girl who peaked in high school’. when a close friend invites you to a party, she introduces you to semi eita: an up-and-coming musician who has secured a large fanbase despite not having any official releases. when you’re caught together hitting it off, you both come under fire. but with both your names now in the headlights, you realise there’s no need to get out of it. you can both get some attention for a couple months and then go your separate ways.
summary. you started acting at a young age and by sixteen, everybody knew your name. by twenty, you were known as ‘that one girl who peaked in high school’. when a close friend invites you to a party, she introduces you to semi eita: an up-and-coming musician who has secured a large fanbase despite not having any official releases. when you’re caught together hitting it off, you both come under fire. but with both your names now in the headlights, you realise there’s no need to get out of it. you can both get some attention for a couple months and then go your separate ways.
SUMMARY: After losing sleep over the events that took place over dinner, you find something more than the comfort you were seeking in the arms of your brother.
ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ: Aemond Targeryen x Targtower! fem! reader
WORD COUNT: 2.2K
T.W: Targcest, making out, morally ambiguous, reader and Aemond don't do much pass kissing, slight negative connotation on the view of god, Incest (sibling relationship), sexual tension, explicit implications, emotional manipulation, morally dubious themes, canon divergence.
ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ: @cafekitsune
It was never supposed to be this way.
He was your brother. Your own blood. And yet somehow the feel of your fingers threading through his silky locks could never evade you.
’Twas the night of the ninth moon—the hour of the crow, nonetheless— and despite your efforts, your attempt at finding repose remained fruitless. It was unlike you to stay awake this late, the gods would have blessed you with rest by now on any other night. Tonight however, sleep seemed to be right out of reach.
To say you had tried was an understatement of your efforts. You had done every method that had serviced you before as well as whatever the maesters had advised. Yet , your mind kept roaming back to the way your nephews had laughed the minute a pig was placed in front of your brother at dinner.
Frustrated, you sat up, silken hair falling in tangled waves as your nightgown slipped loose against your skin. Restless and sleepless, a strange sensation you hoped to never be acquainted with. The Red Keep slept — all but one within its stone walls.
It was a curious bond you shared — from a childhood spent in each other’s orbit to the distance that now lay between you. It wasn't a matter of the gods — but rather time — that had kept the two apart, that and the cruel nature of your thoughts. As the two had grown, their paths — once combined — now diverged into separate roads.
He who had always been the more reckless out of the two had continued down that path of chaos and bloodshed. While you, had taken a path vastly different, nurtured and sculpted by your own mother towards the path of the gods.
It was rather ironic to say the least. You and Aemond had once mocked your mother's naivety in believing in the gods when there was no such proof of them — the two finding belief to be a rather disdainful act. That was until you had bled for the first time when you were the age of ten and two, in which your mother has found it a necessity to raise you in the manner a 'proper' lady should. Stripping you away from the presence of your brother dearest before raising you as though a Hightower lady, and not a Targaryen princess who'd had too much of her brother's influence.
The winds seemed to howl louder now, almost as if rejoicing in your state of solitude. Having had enough of feeling so helpless, you swung your legs over the bed, tugging your nightgown close as you rose and crossed toward the wooden doors of your chamber.
The gods had blessed you: the King’s Guard who should have stood watch outside your door, had found himself absent tonight. His post deserted at the very moment you chose to slip into the Red Keep’s hushed corridors.
As you moved through the corridor, you knew well enough where your steps would lead—knew too that wisdom urged you back to the safety of your chambers. Yet still your feet carried you onward, toward the place your heart had once feared to tread. Shadows stretched along the stone walls, your footsteps not nearly as loud as the pounding of your heart.
Without granting yourself the mercy of doubt, you pressed against the heavy oaken door that guarded your destination and slipped within. Candlelight spilled warmly across the chamber, bright in defiance of the keep’s chill. It was almost as though nothing had changed. From the tapestry hanging above the four-poster bed that dominated the room, …to the very carpet upon which you had once played at being husband and wife. The room had always carried this air of familiarity, though you were unsure if the warmth came from the splendor or from the man who occupied it.
He had barely acknowledged your entrance, as though your absence had felt more out of place than your presence ever could.He sat where he always did—a table he had used for his not-so-discreet plotting against the crown— except now, answering to the affairs of the realm, a role your eldest brother should have taken on as next in line.
"Lēkia, (brother) I fear you might find yourself accused of treason if you keep planning a war that hasn't come." You spoke, voice low as you walked to where he sat. Your hands moving to rest on his shoulder as your eyes travelled down to the parchments he was so thoroughly engrossed in.
He sighs, barely even looking up from the inconvenience of having to read the letter of some lowly northern lord, though not pulling away from your touch. "Treason? Did Mother plant those ideas in your head when she whispered about the gods?" He smiles, eye flicking up to you as though attempting to figure if the girl who stood before him was the one he'd known since infancy or the shell of her their mother had used as a puppet. "Skoros gaomagon issi — ñuha hēdan, nykeā tolie? Hen ñuha ābrar belma udra ao se crown tepagon ao mērī nyke ūndegon?" (What is it you fear — my head, little sister? Or that the crown would pass you if not for me?)
"I fear your eagerness to rule makes you hasty." A smile grazed your lips as you leaned down to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek, the chill of his skin betraying the long hours he had kept vigil over his parchments. His eye lingered upon you a moment too long before you drifted toward the grand bed that dominated his chambers. "I too long for the same, Issa jorrāelagon lēkia (my dearest brother), yet the gods have not decided whether Father will live another day, while you busy yourself with planning for a future that may never come."
The hearty chuckle that escaped his lips drew your attention, a sound you had rarely heard from him outside the intimacy of your private conversations. Your gaze caught upon his figure—still hunched over the parchments, though his eye flicked to yours, watching as you settled yourself upon his bed.
“How the realm would crumble, if they knew of your late-night visits.” A smirk plastered to his face as his gaze returns back to the letter awaiting him on his desk. "And to what do I owe the pleasure? Have the gods whispered in your ear, or is it your own curiosity that drags you into my path?" He speaks, voice low as though daring you to reveal to him your true intention of visiting him so late into the night.
"Līs nyke emagon nykeā drīve naejot visit issa jorrāelagon lēkia? (Must I have a reason to visit my dearest brother?) Perhaps I simply long to see you" You teased, leaning back against the pillows that adorned his bed. "Are you planning on laying with me at all throughout the night or are you contented with the words of some lord who's only interest is to marry off his only daughter to you?"
He smiled—just barely—pulling his eye from the letter, a task made easy by the dullness of its contents. Rising from his chair, he crossed to where you sat upon his bed. Unfazed by his nearness, you shifted only slightly, denying him the satisfaction of second-guessing his choice to stand so dangerously close.
"Join me?" You whispered, eyes locked onto his with that glint of innocence the realm seemed to fall for every time — a tactic that you hoped would work on Aemond. His eye lingered on the way the silk nightgown had clung to your figure before forcing himself to place his focus elsewhere. He shifts, situating himself beside you, though his rigid posture vastly differed from your state of relaxation.
It was in that moment when you had realised that he too had been dressed in a white tunic, an outfit you had never once thought you'd see, nor the vulnerability that he possessed in an intimacy shared only between the two.
"If I had planned to whisper to you about the gods, issa jorrāelagon lēkia.." (my dearest brother) Trailing off before leaning forward in that teasing way you know would leave any man curious, let alone the one that believed he knew you like the back of his hand. "I doubt you'd be so tense."
A smile curved at your mouth as you shifted, slow enough for him to notice but not enough for him to predict. He blinked, uncertain, the brief flicker of confusion almost amusing. You leaned in — close enough for your breath to meet his skin — before finally pushing him back and slipping onto his lap, your arms curling around his neck, fingers ghosting through his pale hair.
"Nyke've missed ao." (I've missed you) You purred into his ear, shifting slightly, lips brushing against his neck in almost gentle, feather like kisses. "Muñnykeā's mirre īlva apart syt tolmiot tolī bōsa.." (Mother's kept us apart for far too long..)
Aemond felt his skin catch fire. His little sister — you — straddled him on his own bed, looking every bit the wanton thing he should have turned away from, yet couldn’t. As though his hands had a mind of their own, he found himself aching for your closeness. They steadied on your hips before pulling you toward him, letting you settle in his lap — letting you feel what had been stirring in him since the moment you stepped into his chambers in that devastatingly tempting nightgown no other man should ever see.
An amused laugh left your lips as your hands made their way around his neck, toying with his hair as your eyes never leave his. "I saw you training this morning.." your words trailing off as you tilt your head, placing tiny kisses along his jaw. “You deserve better than Ser Criston.”
He hums in response, the sound sending vibrations through you as he pulls you impossibly closer, his hand that had previously rested on your hip, moves to your waist, almost as though cherishing the feel of you so close and in such an intimate position.
"Have I made you speechless?" You smiled, teasingly nipping at his jaw before pulling back to face him. Your fingers crept up to his eyepatch — something he had not stopped you from doing — pulling the leather away before revealing the bright blue sapphire that took the place his other eye would have occupied. "Hmm" you hummed, fingers carefully brushing over the scar that had tainted the purity of his face.
His hand crept up, hesitant—almost afraid you might pull away at the mere touch. He brushed a stray lock from your face, tucking it behind your ear, his gaze never once leaving yours. "Tell me, nykeā tolie (little sister), have you any clue what you do to me? Or am I simply a monster who longs at the thoughts of filling you with my bastards?"
Caught off guard by the sheer depravity of his words, you froze, pulling back to meet his gaze — his pupil blown wide with desire, the innocence it once held now long extinguished.
"Whatever are you implying? " You mumbled, half of you already knowing what he meant yet the other half was more eager to hear him admit it once more.
"You enter my chambers, clad in nothing but your sheer night gown." He spoke, hands moving to rest on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him. "Sitting on my lap, testing my restraint, all while you look at me as if you were the gods themselves." He smiles, eye locked on yours before he leans forward, capturing your lips with his.
His lips pressed against yours, warm and unyielding, a heat that seemed to seep through every nerve. His hands remained firmly at your hips, not letting go, not daring to, each heartbeat between you dragging time taut. You threaded your fingers through his pale hair, tugging just enough to make him inhale sharply, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. The kiss lingered, teasing, almost daring, and yet a single inch of distance remained between your bodies, a line neither of you wanted to cross — not yet.
“Nyke despise muñnykeā syt taking ao qrīdrughagon hen issa.” (I despise Mother for taking you away from me.)
His words broke against your lips — breathless, trembling, and far too human for the man who never faltered. When he pulled back, the air between you felt charged, raw, and heartbreakingly fragile.
His fingers trembled at the silk tie of your nightgown, but you caught his hand before it could go further.
“We can’t,” you whispered, the words barely sound — not a denial, but a plea. Your thumb brushed along his jaw, a touch that soothed more than it resisted. Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his brow — a kiss that felt both like an ending and a promise.
“Not like this.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his hand fell away, resting against your thigh — neither letting go, nor daring to hold on.
"Pār nyke shall ōregon ao ēva pār." (Then I shall hold you until then) He whispers, shifting before allowing you to lay beside him instead, holding you close before feeling the comfort of your head resting on his chest.
A sigh escaped your lips as you felt his arms encapsulate your figure. The night deepened, yet it was in the warmth of your brother’s arms that you felt, at last, where you truly belonged.
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SUMMARY: After losing sleep over the events that took place over dinner, you find something more than the comfort you were seeking in the arms of your brother.
ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ: Aemond Targeryen x Targtower! fem! reader
WORD COUNT: 2.2K
T.W: Targcest, making out, morally ambiguous, reader and Aemond don't do much pass kissing, slight negative connotation on the view of god, Incest (sibling relationship), sexual tension, explicit implications, emotional manipulation, morally dubious themes, canon divergence.
ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ: @cafekitsune
It was never supposed to be this way.
He was your brother. Your own blood. And yet somehow the feel of your fingers threading through his silky locks could never evade you.
’Twas the night of the ninth moon—the hour of the crow, nonetheless— and despite your efforts, your attempt at finding repose remained fruitless. It was unlike you to stay awake this late, the gods would have blessed you with rest by now on any other night. Tonight however, sleep seemed to be right out of reach.
To say you had tried was an understatement of your efforts. You had done every method that had serviced you before as well as whatever the maesters had advised. Yet , your mind kept roaming back to the way your nephews had laughed the minute a pig was placed in front of your brother at dinner.
Frustrated, you sat up, silken hair falling in tangled waves as your nightgown slipped loose against your skin. Restless and sleepless, a strange sensation you hoped to never be acquainted with. The Red Keep slept — all but one within its stone walls.
It was a curious bond you shared — from a childhood spent in each other’s orbit to the distance that now lay between you. It wasn't a matter of the gods — but rather time — that had kept the two apart, that and the cruel nature of your thoughts. As the two had grown, their paths — once combined — now diverged into separate roads.
He who had always been the more reckless out of the two had continued down that path of chaos and bloodshed. While you, had taken a path vastly different, nurtured and sculpted by your own mother towards the path of the gods.
It was rather ironic to say the least. You and Aemond had once mocked your mother's naivety in believing in the gods when there was no such proof of them — the two finding belief to be a rather disdainful act. That was until you had bled for the first time when you were the age of ten and two, in which your mother has found it a necessity to raise you in the manner a 'proper' lady should. Stripping you away from the presence of your brother dearest before raising you as though a Hightower lady, and not a Targaryen princess who'd had too much of her brother's influence.
The winds seemed to howl louder now, almost as if rejoicing in your state of solitude. Having had enough of feeling so helpless, you swung your legs over the bed, tugging your nightgown close as you rose and crossed toward the wooden doors of your chamber.
The gods had blessed you: the King’s Guard who should have stood watch outside your door, had found himself absent tonight. His post deserted at the very moment you chose to slip into the Red Keep’s hushed corridors.
As you moved through the corridor, you knew well enough where your steps would lead—knew too that wisdom urged you back to the safety of your chambers. Yet still your feet carried you onward, toward the place your heart had once feared to tread. Shadows stretched along the stone walls, your footsteps not nearly as loud as the pounding of your heart.
Without granting yourself the mercy of doubt, you pressed against the heavy oaken door that guarded your destination and slipped within. Candlelight spilled warmly across the chamber, bright in defiance of the keep’s chill. It was almost as though nothing had changed. From the tapestry hanging above the four-poster bed that dominated the room, …to the very carpet upon which you had once played at being husband and wife. The room had always carried this air of familiarity, though you were unsure if the warmth came from the splendor or from the man who occupied it.
He had barely acknowledged your entrance, as though your absence had felt more out of place than your presence ever could.He sat where he always did—a table he had used for his not-so-discreet plotting against the crown— except now, answering to the affairs of the realm, a role your eldest brother should have taken on as next in line.
"Lēkia, (brother) I fear you might find yourself accused of treason if you keep planning a war that hasn't come." You spoke, voice low as you walked to where he sat. Your hands moving to rest on his shoulder as your eyes travelled down to the parchments he was so thoroughly engrossed in.
He sighs, barely even looking up from the inconvenience of having to read the letter of some lowly northern lord, though not pulling away from your touch. "Treason? Did Mother plant those ideas in your head when she whispered about the gods?" He smiles, eye flicking up to you as though attempting to figure if the girl who stood before him was the one he'd known since infancy or the shell of her their mother had used as a puppet. "Skoros gaomagon issi — ñuha hēdan, nykeā tolie? Hen ñuha ābrar belma udra ao se crown tepagon ao mērī nyke ūndegon?" (What is it you fear — my head, little sister? Or that the crown would pass you if not for me?)
"I fear your eagerness to rule makes you hasty." A smile grazed your lips as you leaned down to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek, the chill of his skin betraying the long hours he had kept vigil over his parchments. His eye lingered upon you a moment too long before you drifted toward the grand bed that dominated his chambers. "I too long for the same, Issa jorrāelagon lēkia (my dearest brother), yet the gods have not decided whether Father will live another day, while you busy yourself with planning for a future that may never come."
The hearty chuckle that escaped his lips drew your attention, a sound you had rarely heard from him outside the intimacy of your private conversations. Your gaze caught upon his figure—still hunched over the parchments, though his eye flicked to yours, watching as you settled yourself upon his bed.
“How the realm would crumble, if they knew of your late-night visits.” A smirk plastered to his face as his gaze returns back to the letter awaiting him on his desk. "And to what do I owe the pleasure? Have the gods whispered in your ear, or is it your own curiosity that drags you into my path?" He speaks, voice low as though daring you to reveal to him your true intention of visiting him so late into the night.
"Līs nyke emagon nykeā drīve naejot visit issa jorrāelagon lēkia? (Must I have a reason to visit my dearest brother?) Perhaps I simply long to see you" You teased, leaning back against the pillows that adorned his bed. "Are you planning on laying with me at all throughout the night or are you contented with the words of some lord who's only interest is to marry off his only daughter to you?"
He smiled—just barely—pulling his eye from the letter, a task made easy by the dullness of its contents. Rising from his chair, he crossed to where you sat upon his bed. Unfazed by his nearness, you shifted only slightly, denying him the satisfaction of second-guessing his choice to stand so dangerously close.
"Join me?" You whispered, eyes locked onto his with that glint of innocence the realm seemed to fall for every time — a tactic that you hoped would work on Aemond. His eye lingered on the way the silk nightgown had clung to your figure before forcing himself to place his focus elsewhere. He shifts, situating himself beside you, though his rigid posture vastly differed from your state of relaxation.
It was in that moment when you had realised that he too had been dressed in a white tunic, an outfit you had never once thought you'd see, nor the vulnerability that he possessed in an intimacy shared only between the two.
"If I had planned to whisper to you about the gods, issa jorrāelagon lēkia.." (my dearest brother) Trailing off before leaning forward in that teasing way you know would leave any man curious, let alone the one that believed he knew you like the back of his hand. "I doubt you'd be so tense."
A smile curved at your mouth as you shifted, slow enough for him to notice but not enough for him to predict. He blinked, uncertain, the brief flicker of confusion almost amusing. You leaned in — close enough for your breath to meet his skin — before finally pushing him back and slipping onto his lap, your arms curling around his neck, fingers ghosting through his pale hair.
"Nyke've missed ao." (I've missed you) You purred into his ear, shifting slightly, lips brushing against his neck in almost gentle, feather like kisses. "Muñnykeā's mirre īlva apart syt tolmiot tolī bōsa.." (Mother's kept us apart for far too long..)
Aemond felt his skin catch fire. His little sister — you — straddled him on his own bed, looking every bit the wanton thing he should have turned away from, yet couldn’t. As though his hands had a mind of their own, he found himself aching for your closeness. They steadied on your hips before pulling you toward him, letting you settle in his lap — letting you feel what had been stirring in him since the moment you stepped into his chambers in that devastatingly tempting nightgown no other man should ever see.
An amused laugh left your lips as your hands made their way around his neck, toying with his hair as your eyes never leave his. "I saw you training this morning.." your words trailing off as you tilt your head, placing tiny kisses along his jaw. “You deserve better than Ser Criston.”
He hums in response, the sound sending vibrations through you as he pulls you impossibly closer, his hand that had previously rested on your hip, moves to your waist, almost as though cherishing the feel of you so close and in such an intimate position.
"Have I made you speechless?" You smiled, teasingly nipping at his jaw before pulling back to face him. Your fingers crept up to his eyepatch — something he had not stopped you from doing — pulling the leather away before revealing the bright blue sapphire that took the place his other eye would have occupied. "Hmm" you hummed, fingers carefully brushing over the scar that had tainted the purity of his face.
His hand crept up, hesitant—almost afraid you might pull away at the mere touch. He brushed a stray lock from your face, tucking it behind your ear, his gaze never once leaving yours. "Tell me, nykeā tolie (little sister), have you any clue what you do to me? Or am I simply a monster who longs at the thoughts of filling you with my bastards?"
Caught off guard by the sheer depravity of his words, you froze, pulling back to meet his gaze — his pupil blown wide with desire, the innocence it once held now long extinguished.
"Whatever are you implying? " You mumbled, half of you already knowing what he meant yet the other half was more eager to hear him admit it once more.
"You enter my chambers, clad in nothing but your sheer night gown." He spoke, hands moving to rest on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him. "Sitting on my lap, testing my restraint, all while you look at me as if you were the gods themselves." He smiles, eye locked on yours before he leans forward, capturing your lips with his.
His lips pressed against yours, warm and unyielding, a heat that seemed to seep through every nerve. His hands remained firmly at your hips, not letting go, not daring to, each heartbeat between you dragging time taut. You threaded your fingers through his pale hair, tugging just enough to make him inhale sharply, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. The kiss lingered, teasing, almost daring, and yet a single inch of distance remained between your bodies, a line neither of you wanted to cross — not yet.
“Nyke despise muñnykeā syt taking ao qrīdrughagon hen issa.” (I despise Mother for taking you away from me.)
His words broke against your lips — breathless, trembling, and far too human for the man who never faltered. When he pulled back, the air between you felt charged, raw, and heartbreakingly fragile.
His fingers trembled at the silk tie of your nightgown, but you caught his hand before it could go further.
“We can’t,” you whispered, the words barely sound — not a denial, but a plea. Your thumb brushed along his jaw, a touch that soothed more than it resisted. Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his brow — a kiss that felt both like an ending and a promise.
“Not like this.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his hand fell away, resting against your thigh — neither letting go, nor daring to hold on.
"Pār nyke shall ōregon ao ēva pār." (Then I shall hold you until then) He whispers, shifting before allowing you to lay beside him instead, holding you close before feeling the comfort of your head resting on his chest.
A sigh escaped your lips as you felt his arms encapsulate your figure. The night deepened, yet it was in the warmth of your brother’s arms that you felt, at last, where you truly belonged.
Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI
summary; how would meeting the hound as a new servant go... just fluff - no smut (yet) might fuck around and make this a series. not sure yet. Divider not mine. From @zaldritzosrose
You’d been scrubbing dresses for hours. Hands pruned. Eyes stinging with salt of your sweat, and soaps. Nearly chafed your knuckles raw.
You fell into a trance of it. Your work. Watching the pretty red, gold and peachy skirts billow out in the cloudy water. Before you’d peg them out to dry in the searing sun, then start on another. The embroidery so fine on them. One dress cost more than you’d ever earn in two years. Twined with pink flowers or rose vines, intricate gold beads that formed stars.
You’ll never get stars or flowers. You worked as a handmaiden. All you got was leftover scraps, dirt and toil.
You were a step up from a kitchen wench in a soiled russet dress near worn to rags, that was true enough. But you’re not sure the leers from hungry filthy guards, the occasional cup of watered down wine, and long hot hours of work are worth the meagre station.
But you’ve never really known anything else.
A harsh bellow of your name roused you to attention. It bowled its way to you from the doorway to the kitchen’s. Shattering off the stone in its displeasure.
Standing and stretching out your legs was a welcome relief. Taking your hands from the cloudy water and drying them on a rag. You leave your fellow maid, Alssa, with your workload.
You trudge inside. The heat sticking your thin dress to your back. Hair coated in long strings to your neck. You huff, holding your skirts, and trudging down the uneven steps, sloping drunk with age and gravity, to the bustling, noisy kitchens.
The wall of heat is suffocating when you walk in. It’s a dank cellar with no windows and no natural light. The corners crawl with dirt and rodents. The air fugged with heat and spice. Continuous chopping fills the air.
Candles shake light on numerous surfaces. Some glimmer with blood and entrails from animals being plucked or carved. Some where bread is being rolled. A huge stove where iron pots are stirred over tongues of flame.
Cook is waiting on you. Darria. A permanently cross, elder woman, with meaty arms, numerous chins and jowls, and a grey scowl that could curdle milk. Salt and pepper hair scooped back to sag like old ribbons off her craggy face. Concealed in a linen cap.
“Raela is sick. I’m short a girl. You’re the most presentable. You’ll do.” She snips at you.
“Do for what?” You ask. A simple enough request. But none of the ladies here are quite used to the boldness of your tongue. Time in royal service hasn’t blunted the razor edge of your courage just yet.
“Hells teeth girl.” She curses. Slapping a cloth down on a surface. Fingers caked in dried blood and cooking burns scarred in old rosy flesh up her arms. “To take a tray to a lords room.”
Wafting her cloth in the direction of said tray. Upon sat a flagon of Dornish wine. A goblet. A plate piled high with roast chicken, bread and cheeses.
“Which Lord?” You ask with careful derision.
“The Hound.” She declared. Unfeeling.
She reroutes her attention to wiping down the surface near to her. Ridding it of slimy black blood and chicken guts. Slopping it into a basket on the floor. The red seeping into the cracks of her skin and knuckles.
You sigh. Swallow your dry throat. Because you can’t exactly refuse.
No matter how much stories of his ferocity turn your fellow maiden girls stomachs. You’ve heard tale how he’s cleaved men in half with that sword of his. With no more effort than cutting through a cooked ham. A fierce swing of his huge arms.
He was impossible to miss at court. A towering plinth of armour by the spoilt boy princes side. All growl and bark. A nasty bite too. Lurching along in big strides like a leashed stray in clanking armour.
Always he was armed to the canines. Swords. Daggers. Eyes stormy cynical and hunting for blood. A scowl that could chill hell - made more severe by the twisted flesh of his half burned face. Covered only slightly by an unruly mane of dark waves.
And you were apparently late to deliver his supper.
Starving dogs only made them crueler.
You’ve no choice in it. You keep promising yourself you won’t walk into danger; so careful to creep silent in the shadows to avoid it. Yet here you are; apparently welcome to drop food into its lap.
“Of course.” You come for the tray and hoist it into your hands. The edge digging into your middle.
“Step lively.” She barks at you. “Wouldn’t do to keep the big brute waiting. Lest he knock the pretty teeth out your head.” She threatens. A smirk showing her twisted teeth. Ill delight.
“Excellent.” You remark archly. Under your breath.
If she heard your sniping comment, she doesn’t show it. Too busy you suppose. Feeding near 200 people was a trial on its own right. As she reminded you all so often.
You make for the steps and begin the climb from out the warm twisted bowels of the keep. Air becomes clearer. More civilised. Threaded with roses rather than dirt and sweat. You see gardens and gilded rooms. Climbing flowers reaching round yellow stone columns. Footsteps echoing off tile and courtyard. There’s pattering fountains and pleasant oasis gardens to stroll in.
You pass a group of guards posed outside a door. A royal bedchamber. You feel their glistening eyes wander and climb over you. Like you were juicy quivering prey waiting to be devoured. Some of them call after you. Their words harsh and lewd. You don’t pay them any mind. Let the words roll off your back like beaded water.
Another thing about this cursed keep. You too had to guard your steps. Tread soft as velvet. Keep a shining dagger from a smith in Volantis concealed in your skirts. You never dare invite attention in this poisonous snake den.
You travel along corridors and wind up more stairs. Eventually coming to the hounds lair. Or kennel, as Joffrey often calls it.
Fetch my dog from his kennel.
You get a whiff of the strong deep red wine as you shift the tray and knock upon the door with your elbow. A growl from within tells you to come.
He’s at table when you enter. Blocking out half the light from the window.
Sat curled on a chair at the round table in his room. The chair he occupied pulled back far from the hearth. Almost turned with his back to it. Like he didn’t want to acknowledge it.
Really for one of his station, his room is sparse. Monklike even. Really he’s lucky they didn’t just put straw down for him. Throw him a hambone and keep him chained til they have use of him.
His rooms boasted hardly any decoration. No saffron curtains, and ornaments. No frills or statues like the rest of the knights or golden lannisters rooms you’ve seen. Those lions certainly lived for their fucking gold.
He has one very wide chunky wooden bed. All solid sturdy oak. Thickly carved with a white linen canopy curtain messily tied at all four post corners. Cushions sagging, and covers messed and mushed in the middle.
One trunk at the end of it. Worn. A faint insignia painted on its top. Gold background with three running black dogs.
A chair nudged between the shaded windows. Light spotted in patterns through the wooden shutters. Casting a shaft, one that danced with dust mites onto the floor like spilled cream.
“Took your fucking time. Where’d you go for those shagging chickens girl? Essos?” He growls.
“My apologies ser. We were short a maid.” You apologise. You won’t turn meek. You’ve learnt to keep your back to the door. Be snappy. Be polite and then turn your heel and flee.
He grunts. Inconsequential.
You cross the room and set the tray on the table. Out of habit you take the flagon and pour the wine into the goblet.
Then you discover the reason why every word he says, comes dragged through a vile growl. Why there’s sweat beading on his forehead. How he seems to curl into himself like a wounded animal. Teeth ready to bare and snap.
He’s injured.
His shirt is half pulled off his shoulder, fingertips left blood smears in the linen, he’s trying with fumbling too-big fingers to mend a jagged wound to his shoulder. Lacerated at the edges. Not a clean sword wound. It looked more like a bite. You could see indents of teeth where they’ve made their home deep in his trapezius.
You put the flagon down. He snatches hungrily for the goblet. Blood coming in slow thick rivulets down his shoulder. He wipes at it with woven cloth.
He grunts in pain again. A low simmer of a growl coming under his breath.
That’s when you let your eyes and mouth stray; just enough. Just when you were busy being careful.
“That will fester if you stitch it up without washing it.” You warn.
“Don’t bother, maid.” He snarls. Hiding his pain behind a shield of anger, and then a wall of aggression. He was more shielded than a fortress. Wine sunk its heavy spices onto his breath
You take a step towards him. “I’ve tended wounds before, Ser-“ you begin to explain.
The chair scrapes the floor like a dying wail when he stands abruptly. Strange for a man of his size to move so quiet as he did.
His whole body engulfs your attention. Designed to intimidate. Wide shoulders. Huge chest. He couldn’t half move quick - sharp. Ruthless as a hot knife through butter - when he needed too. In his case you’re sure it was life or death; the matter of being quick on his feet.
“I don’t care if you’ve fucked the shagging maester before. I don’t need help.” He spells out plainly. Grunting every word harsh. They fall like rocks from his mouth. With crushing intent.
His shadow fell over you. Big as a damn grizzly bear. Made you think of the tales spun to you as a child, of when they used to pit bears against lions in the arena for sport. Big. Lumbering. Ferocious temper and teeth to match. Carpeted in dark fur. Get on the wrong side of them they’d maul you to shreds.
That seems to apply to him too.
You couldn’t fail to notice he was as hairy as one. His shirt had fallen even wider from his shoulders. Over his sternum now. The wide neck draping down over his shoulder. Nearly down to his pectoral.
His chest was carpeted in dark hair. Every muscle was crude and rounded. He was so widely built, you couldn’t take your eyes away.
“I need wine.” He snatched the flagon and poured more into his cup. Nearly sloshed it over the edge.
“Having a belly full of wine won’t help you stitch it.” You point at his shoulder. Voice laced with derision.
He gave you a look that was all thunder and cut glass. His hair shading his ruined eye. “Works fine for me.”
“I’ve seen bigger bastards than you, succumb to wounds smaller than that.” You warn.
He twisted his face into a sneer. Lip curled. Showed his blunt teeth. The ruined side of his face twitched and pulled with it. He sinks back into the chair. It’s hard to know what groans more. The wood or him.
“Aye?” He challenges.
“I’m big fucker. Tougher to kill.” He assures you. Grunting as he tries to mop away more blood.
“I can’t imagine the prince would be pleased to lose his loyal hound to infection.” You intone darkly. He glares.
“Shall I send for maester Pycelle?” You offer.
“Fucking doddery cunt.” He growls. You take it as a ‘no.’ He continues trying to stab at his shoulder with a curved needle and slowly reddening thread.
You turn. Taking his onerous mood and the lull in the speech as your queue to leave. He didn’t exactly strike you as one who waved or dismissed servants at his leisure. He was high-born but he didn’t act it.
His voice stops you when you hand touched the door.
“Not seen you here before, little maid.” He snarls the name at you like it’s filth. He grits his jaw around the words.
You step back. Face him across the room.
“I joined not sennight ago. Ser. Whilst the King was away in Winterfell.”
He grunted again. You come to realise that’s how he answers most questions.
“What kind of maid knows how to sew bloody wounds and pretty dresses?” He seeks. Dark look blazing your way. Searching into places you’d rather he didn’t dig.
A true hound with a bone to pick.
“One who hasn’t spent all her life in a wretched slum in flea bottom, living on scraps.” You answer snappily.
“And where has the little maid spent her life?” He asks.
You frown. Tilting your head. He barks at you. Tried to intimidate you. Bites your head off at every word. And now he’s asking after your life before this keep. The duality set your head spinning.
“The North. Living on scraps.” You tell.
“Where?”
“The cold bit.” You jest. Eyes narrowed.
“Your accent isn’t northern.” He points out.
“No. I’ve worked for many houses since I left the north.”
The slightest curl of his lip tells you he almost found that comical. He almost had a reaction. Almost let a huff of amusement crash through his chest and out his nose.
“You stitched up lots of men then. Big northern fuckers too.” He stated.
“Aye. And even spitting fury at their worst, they were still more polite than you.”
He laughed. It sounded like stones and grit grinding against each other. An underused noise, you feel.
“We can have this very illuminating conversation or I can leave now and let you bleed and fester to death. Pass me the fucking needle.” You open your hand.
He has the brass balls to look mildly impressed that you, a handmaiden, is daring to raise your voice at him. It makes a healthy change from stares, grimaces, and wailing children who cry at his very monstrous appearance. From people scurrying away from his glares.
“Stubborn wench. Aren’t you. You gonna call me to heel girl?” He challenges.
“Someone has too. Dealing with mullish bastards like you. Hound. As I said, I’m not from the south. I wasn’t raised with pretty manners and a silver spoon like every lady you bow before.” You tell him acidly.
“Yet you got yourself here without those pretty manners.” He snipes.
“I’m a good liar.”
“You’ll need that to survive here.” He warns darkly. Makes your stomach drop to hear it.
“Needle. Dog.” You command.
He sneers. “Least you didn’t call me, Ser.”
The needle glints in the candlelight as he hands it over. It looked a ridiculous implement in his huge fingers. Like something doll sized. You take it gently. Hand brushing against his. Back of his knuckles wearing the same coarse hair as his body.
“You’re not a ser? You’re of the kings guard.” You explain. Coming to his side. Approaching carefully. Some lingering advice of being wary when coming near wounded animals. Keep your hand flat and you won’t loose fingers.
“Not a ser. Didn’t want to take the oath. I’ve seen what knighted ser’s do to small folk like you.” He snaps bitterly. You don’t dive into that one. You knew that well enough yourself.
You shift more stringy hair off his neck. Soaked thick with blood. It still followed a wave.
“You’ve soap? A basin?” You ask.
He jutts his chin across the room where it sat next to a bowl and a smeared cracked mirrror. A small cake of misshapen soap in a wood bowl sat to the side.
You cross to it and lather a fresh cloth in some water with the soap. It’s the simplest. Barely any scent. No decoration or gild to anything. It was clear he preferred living without it. Or wasn’t afforded it. You don’t know which is more likely.
He does a double take when he glances at your back. Eyes gliding over your shoulder blades.
Because a twisted scar knots and tugs across the smooth skin of your back. One he recognised but nowhere near as ugly as his.
Your pain wasn’t born by fire. The flesh looked like it had been torn into. By dagger or tooth. It wasn’t clean or delivered by the sword. Great pulls across the flesh, now knitted back together, skin catching almost silver pink and new in the half light.
You had really survived tougher things.
No missish maiden, indeed. They were ten a penny in this place. Clearly you were forged of greater mettle.
Takes a lot for a person to survive wounds like those. He would know.
You bring the jug back. Set it on the table near him. Pour some into the small soap bowl. Begin to wash and mop at the injury. Water trickling down that large chest. Darkening his breeches and his blood smeared shirt.
You feel him tense. The muscles in his shoulders ruck up. He turns his head away.
“I won’t hurt you.” You reassure. Voice softer than dove feathers.
“Are you soft in the head girl? Look at my face. Think I haven’t been hurt before.” He barks. Teeth gnashing.
“I’ve no desire to add to your collection.” You tell.
You continue mopping blood. He winces, grunts at the sting of the soap.
Mending in silence. You continue mopping blood out the way to see what you’d be stitching. Cleaning as best you could as you went.
He drinks his wine. Rolls the taste in his mouth as he considers you.
You’d stepped awfully close to him. Brave.
Soft hands working at his neck to cleanse. Taking away the rotten ruined flesh. One thing he couldn’t get over; the scent of you that now seemed like it filled the damn room. Filled his damn head.
The salt of clean sweat. Soap. Sunny yellow jasmine. The softness of your body draping under that ridiculous pink dress. Braids tied around your neck. Gathering over your very nice tits. It clung to your hips and legs. Certainly a pretty sight.
Your hair is what fascinated him the most. Fell in soft waves over your back. Redder than cinnamon.
Fell past your shoulders. Twined with the scent of those yellow petals like the damn rest of you.
He wondered if he were to take those locks in his hands, how smooth they’d be. How full of scent they’d be if he put his nose to the crown of your head. Silk and perfume. All things good.
How could he dare touch something soft and kind for once in his life.
His big scarred hands had only ever touched, with the intention of bringing back blood. Only knew how to touch with knives and swords. He knew violence. Dealt it. Lived it. Breathed it.
Grizzled old dogs like him shouldn’t sniff after pretty maids like you.
“You got a name, little maid.” He turns his head. Gaze seeking for hours.
You meet it. Again, brave.
“Aye.”
You give him your name.
That tugs a laugh out him. Like pulling something hewn to a rock.
“That’s a northern cunt name if ever I heard one.”
You scoff. “Do you talk to all the handmaidens like this? Call them cunts…”
“Usually. On a good day.”
“Bet they love that. You must be popular.” you remark dryly.
Everything you’d come to know about southern bred ladies. Like the rest of your fellow handmaids here.
They were all very docile and easily flustered. Weak as doe deer in the presence of any sort of rough behaviour. Life in service scared some of them. Exposure to men and nobility and their true violence.
Some girls came to this keep green as grass to the ways of the world.
You came to it knowing full well. You held no faith in stories of knights and fair maidens anymore. You pitied those who did.
“Run a mile usually. Cower out of here crying. Clutching their pretty little skirts for dear life.”
You contemplate him a long while. Squeezing water out the rag before repeating your bathing.
Watching that big body slumped in his chair. Curling over like an autumn leaf. Hair curling like a curtain over his damaged eye.
Lords was he big.
He took up all the air in the room the way lightning steals ozone. You swear you can smell petrichor and fresh dirt. Though that could be the grit on his boots from the training field.
It’s his face that interests you more. The rough whiskery beard across his jaw and bearing only his pink lips. The sturdiness of a thick black brow whose twin had been burned away. The slight drooping of eyelid where his eye gazes out with nothing but contempt. Stitched himself together with wine and spite. This is a broken man who never disrobes himself for anyone.
Yet here you stand with your hands knotting his very flesh back together.
If you told your fellow maids you’d tended the hound, they really would call you soft in the head.
“You’re not half as frightening as you think you are.” You admit quietly. Starting to thread the needle.
He huffs. Disbelieving.
“Cross swords with me you’ll soon find out.”
That makes you smile.
He doesn’t know why but he cherishes that a little. Making a pretty maid smile. He tucks that somewhere in his big chest. Some secret pocket somewhere only he knew of. So he could take it out again later in a quiet moment and laugh bitterly at how an ugly old dog could make a maid laugh with him - not at him.
“I just wash the linens. Pour wine. And empty the chamber pots. Remember?” You sass.
“That why you got a dagger in your dress, girl.”
Your spine prickles. A hot sweet fluttering coarses through you.
Especially when one big paw of his lurches out and a finger taps to the side of your thigh. Straight onto the hilt of the dagger. He taps it. Sends a shock rippling right through you.
You shift on the spot. Annoyed. Caught out.
Clever dog.
He winces when you pierce his flesh with the needle.
“I’ve seen worse than you bearing down on me Clegane. Dealt with worse.”
He flashes you the full scarred side of his face. He leered like he should terrify you. A sick smile on his mouth that usually worked in deterring others. “Doubt it.”
“Takes more than the sight of a burn to send me running. If you’re looking to scare me, you’ll be waiting a long wait. I know scaring people gives you joy.”
You concentrate on the stitches you’re making. Pulling the skin taut. Making sure it comes together.
Surprised he didn’t have a squire to help him. Then again, if he didn’t want a title, you doubt they’d offer him a squire for this kind of work.
“Killing gives me more joy.” He insists.
“You must enjoy your orders then. The ones that come screeching out that princelings spoiled brat mouth...”
“Some of them.” He admits.
“But never say that where the walls could have ears.” He warns.
You nod. You know full well what a royal court is. It’s backstabbing snakes and spies and disloyalty disguised as cooperation at every turn. There are those in this castle who would turn on you for very little coin at all. Rife with venom.
People who liked to deal in snide whispers and ill intent. You kept well away. Head down. Did your duties. Cursed the lot of them.
Fuck the lot of them.
You finish looping the thread into his wound.
His hand finally unclenched from a huge fist on the table. Relaxing if only a little. The way a rock relaxed from the onslaught of rain. Barely.
“There…” You say. Finishing with a knot to hold the stitches well and true.
“Try and wash it with soap and keep it dry if you can. Seven help you it should heal clean.”
He peers around and once more makes a guttural grunt.
Your work was neat. Small stitches that spoke of a practised hand.
You wash your hands in the bowl and take the bloodied rags away. Dispose of the ichor stained water. You leave his needle and thread the soap bowl. Knowing he’d need it again.
“Anything else, my lord?” You ask.
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
“Certainly.” You fire back.
Gathering yourself to move the used utensils and cloths into your arms.
You made to leave across the room. Light treads creaking across the wheezing floorboards.
He chews his teeth around the words lodged in his throat. They finally birth past his tongue.
“How’d you get that scar. On your back?” He asks. Voice grisly.
Hand on the door. You give him your clever answer before you step through.
Your smile is devastating when you explain.
“Mauled. By a hound.”
You shut the door to his sneering expression. You think you almost hear laughter before the door shuts into place.
-
Some moons later, you trudged back to your room. Fully intending to climb into bed for a handful of hours of sleep if no one caught your attentions.
The kitchen thankfully was dark and empty. The silence laying thick in the keep from outside and within told you that even the rats in the kitchen had gone to sleep too.
You rubbed your eyes. Sluiced in sweat that you’d have to rise early and wash off. Bathe yourself in perfumes and present yourself prettily for your service tomorrow. Run soap and oils through your hair. Make sure your dress was spotless.
You were to be helping see to the Imp on the morrow.
You’d need your wits about you. You’d been warned he was dastardly when he had a mind to be. But he liked cynical girls and sparkling wit. Cook grunted. Said you’d be perfect for him.
You weaved through the labyrinthian corridors where the maids slept. Straw down on the cobblestone floor. Rats clinging to the edge of the halls. You come to your door and the wood whines like a howling gale when you open it.
You were lucky to have the tiny fucking rat trap they called a room to yourself. The maid whose meagre straw bedded pallet stood a hairs width from yours, had wanted to room with another.
You didn’t give two shits. Meant you got some peace and space to breathe when you retired to bed in the small hours. Just when the pink of dawn knocked slanted into your room in rosy lilac hues.
You sunk into the sagging itchy mattress. Only made bearable by thin linen sheets and a semi decent bolster pillow.
The candle on the tiny washstand flickered, melting into a puddle of wonky wax, dripping against the wood. The light cast in flickering tongues up the mouldy mustard walls.
All your earthly belongings heaped in a trunk under your bed. Your very few dresses pegged for dear life on hook in the corner. You hung dried flowers - lavender and jasmine - up to bleach in the sun, in the small spit of a window. Barely enough to shift light into the room that felt more like a cell than decent living quarters.
You hide your earnings in a leather pouch in the wall behind your bed. You know full well maids or little birds come snooping when you’re not there. You sleep with your dagger under your pillow. The lock on your door broken and old. Unserviceable if someone decided to bust their way in.
You lay back in your bed and untie your leather slippers. Your feet raw and throbbing. You sigh with ease. Shoulders straining against the bed.
You’re toeing the line of sleep and consciousness when comes a scuffle at your door. Instantly your hand sinks under your pillow. Snatches for your dagger. Warm in your hand. Deadly.
“Whose there?” You call out. Voice a terrible strain in the silence. It hums. It burns for more.
No answer comes. Just the clank of heavy steps back down the halls. Then you’re left with the silence punctuated by the squeaks of rats outside. Their little nimble tickling footsteps. And the roar of torches that barely light the way.
You open your door. Peering down. Catching the corner of a dirty white cloak and the back of a dark wavy head as it disappears round the corner with a shifting click of armour.
You look to your feet. There sits a small whetstone. With a sprig of yellow jasmine flowers tied in a clumsy ribbon. Merry yellow and green.
You smile as you turn the stone in your hand. The flowers you lift up to savour their sickly scent.
His way of thanking you. Making sure you always had tools to sharpen your dagger. This was his way of giving you the best safety he could. Perhaps the only way he knew.
He really wasn’t the fearsome grizzled old dog they made him out to be.
tagging some hound peeps - i'm new to this guy - be gentle with me! I've tagged based on all the wonderful hound fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde @abirdinthehouse @childofheresy @perkqularkreashions
summary — being home for summer break means finding a bit of odd and steamy comfort within the chef who catered your younger brother’s baseball banquet.
word count — 24.4k
warnings — 18+ MDNI, porn w/plot (f&m oral, protected&unprotected pinv sex, public sex, naughty texts), age gap (reader 20, mikey 50-51), pet names (hon, lil’ thing, pretty thing, etc.), no use of y/n, very vague prior suicide attempt mentioned, mention of opioid addiction, na meetings, social drinking, terrible banter & jokes, questionable decisions/bad communication, natural bodies, rude & vulgar language
author’s note — no, this did not trigger a vague memory for myself…i say unconvinced
chicago summertime, the air was maybe still a little musty and thick, but the wind whipped enough to diminish the smell that usually made your nose scrunch. hot, earthy air with a mix of preteen boys wearing entirely too much salt and pepper body spray was not ideal, but you still stood smiling, urging your brother and his friends to squish together for a picture. you were thankful that the body spray was masking some of the musk from the few teammates who clearly had a hard time remembering their deodorant.
they seemed grown up in their little suits and knock-off baseball chains, each one sporting their number. thirteen hung around your little brother’s neck; most thought it was unlucky, but he made it his own proudly. they didn’t have on mucky cleats or red clay stains in their britches; they were little gentlemen standing on a faux red carpet. of course, their acne-ridden faces, crooked ties, and suit jackets that sat a little too large on their shoulders were a little laughable. no one attending this banquet would deny how happy the team looked together. they were all acting like they were major league players, and no one was going to halt their excitement.
they were halfway through their season, and the coach was exceptionally proud—he had to be proud because he was your dad. maybe even more proud because your little brother, cameron, was showing an overwhelming amount of potential, especially when he would start attending high school the year after next. if your brother continued on this uphill climb, his college would be paid for much like your own. although an athletic scholarship didn't send you to live out of state, you weren't nagging the “free” money from the academic successes you were reaping the benefits from.
in contrast to the team’s peak attire, the family and friends that were in attendance had toned down their appearance. you were in a two-day-old pair of ripped jeans and a “go cubbies” shirt because that was the cleanest laundry out of your overpacked suitcase that was sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom. you had only been in town for a day, feeling too tired from the packing and traveling to do anything with the mess you had brought home to even attempt to organize it.
the interior of the gymnasium had cheap streamers and a balloon arch to make the banquet seem like more than it really was, but no one seemed to mind because of the hilariously awkward cue cards the local commentator, benny amato, from the sports park was reading that your father and assistant coach had written.
you were brought a plate of food by your mother as you swiped through the group photos you had taken, trying to find at least one “serious” one that all their mothers wanted. your eyes widened seeing the overfilled plate, large meatballs smothered in some well-seasoned pasta sauce, and the noodles seemed to be handmade, none of that overcooked, soggy dining hall food you managed to choke back when attending school. your father was right behind her with bowls of caesar salad that she couldn't manage to carry for you both; even the salad had a healthy slab of garlic bread on top, so buttery and fragrant.
you slid your phone into your pocket as mr. amato was finally getting to the awards portion of the banquet after he had passed his long and draining introductions. people loved a good meal and entertainment to go with it because this wasn't some fancy event; this was high class. this was the dundies from the office, but adding adolescence in a crumby gymnasium and taking away the ability to overdrink in a chili's.
‘eye on the ball’ was the first golden bat trophy to be awarded. it wasn't given to jace kowak for his exquisite ability to catch a multitude of plays, it was for the three black eyes he'd acquired so far this season. and even with this first crumby joke out of the way, you knew you'd be sitting through twelve more while stuffing your face with food that you planned to eat cold while standing in the light of the fridge later tonight.
the dorm room meals you managed to cook in the shared kitchen weren’t anything fancy, but they were tasty. however, you were sitting here thinking you’d receive some subpar food like at every other community event you’ve ever attended, but no, this—this was something remarkable. this wasn't watered-down pasta sauce, gummy noodles, and tough, questionably sourced meatballs—this was so good. you were looking forward to your mother’s cooking after you’d been away, but even her home-cooked meals would be hard to top this.
you looked up from your plate to see another player proudly collecting his golden bat for “true grit.” imagine that—the kid was awarded for getting a mouthful of sand on his latest slide from last week’s game. benny amato’s voice was grating. you were managing to only filter out some of it, and the other half was causing you to stifle any eye roll that was surfacing. you had to remind yourself that you were being a good sister and that you loved your brother.
luckily, your brother was next, walking to the stage with his head held high. he had to anyway. he just was given high honors on the “ball buster” trophy. oh yeah, the week before last he took one right to the sack…and still kept running. you didn't expect to receive that call when you were drunkenly eating sushi beside your roommate as you scrolled on tinder. fortunately, the emergency room cleared him as quickly as he came in.
“never seen cam look so proud,” your mom laughed as she nudged you. you were continuously snapping pictures for her as your dad cheered as if he was oblivious to the fact that his son was getting an award. maybe his yelling was just a little more obnoxious than needed, or maybe it was only obnoxious because of your tiredness.
when your brother returned to his seat, you were slinking out of your chair. “i’m going to the bathroom,” you mumbled, excusing yourself from the table.
you made your way outside for a breath of fresh air. you had barely a moment of peace since returning home. the ride home from the airport was deafening. everyone was crammed into the car, speaking at you rather than to you. each one of them with a new set of questions from last time. your father was prodding about the storage unit you were renting, your mom was wondering why your friend lizzie wasn't in your final day pictures, and cameron was digging through your school bag, questioning every item.
the street lights had not yet turned on. the summer sun was taking its time setting. cars were buzzing along the road carelessly. the ‘l’ added that extra sound that made it home. it was the moment you needed because you did miss chicago, but not enough to stay. this three-month venture would be the longest you've been home since you graduated from high school. last summer, you visited for two weeks because you crashed in your friend’s apartment until you were able to move into a new dormitory. you were stuck at home this year because the leasing arrangement with your new apartment fell through until two months into the new school year. so, you lugged your things into a storage unit and flew back home.
“sorry, didn't know somebody was moping out here.”
you turned your head, straightening your posture. “i'm not moping,” you responded to the caterer, only able to recognize his job by his navy shirt with thick white writing on the pocket—“the bear–berzatto owned.”
“sure as hell looks like moping,” he chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “upset you didn't get a trophy for fighting the ump?” he leaned against the wall next to you. the siding of the gymnasium was warm and oddly comforting. he had his apron thrown over his shoulder. he had tanned italian skin a in similar fashion to lots of locals in the area, broad shoulders, a crooked nose that seemed to have seen a fight or two before, and that smug smile that seemed to draw you in to look for more.
a smile began to flicker against the corner of your mouth, taking more of this man’s appearance in as he took a drag of his cigarette. “no, just annoyed that i’m home,” you shrugged, pausing to look ahead rather than at this stranger that your eyes had been giving far too much attention to. the silver in his dark hair came in streaks, and his beard had those same shiny flecks in them that were definitely not exiting your mind as you looked ahead to the roadway. “i think i'm going to kill my entire family before the summer is over.”
a laugh came from the caterer. “i’m going to act like i didn't hear a premeditation to murder, but what i can do is give you a little peace,” he offered his cigarette to you.
you gave a nod of appreciation, taking the smoke between your fingers and inhaling steadily before handing it back.
“what’s got you so worked up that you're willing to take a life sentence?” the caterer questioned after a lull of silence. you finished exhaling as he began inhaling.
“summer off from college, and i can't stand being here,” you were finally looking at him again. “this is home, but i'm not living here,” you gestured loosely as the older man forked over the cigarette again. he knew you needed it. his arms were tattooed; the line work seemed like it was time for a touch-up. “now i'm dropping all my complaints on you, and i don't even know you.”
“michael berzatto,” he didn't wait to introduce himself because it seemed like he didn’t mind listening.
he said he preferred mikey over michael. when you gave your name, it seemed like he’d never say it because he had a multitude of pet names at his disposal that would be easier.
you shared names and cigarettes. you shared blown smoke and some weird, unspoken mutual decision to silently flirt back with your eyes. both of you thought nothing bad could happen from a little camaraderie.
“i was gone a while too,” mikey confessed, vaguely with very little explanation. “but i’m back now.”
“i feel like i can't breathe here. i don't know how you came back,” you retorted, letting your newfound confidant have the final smoke of his cigarette. it wasn't long after he stamped it out that he lit another one. maybe it was to keep you talking, or maybe it was because he wasn't satisfied after the first one.
mikey wasn’t a polished guy, but you’d be lying if you said you weren't still looking, but the strange part was that he was looking back. not looking past you or even afraid to make eye contact. he had his focus set. he was soft around the middle, a slight wrinkle in his forehead and around his eyes when he made any face other than his resting one, and his hands had seen work—scarring, burns, cuts, all of it.
“still can't breathe, not on some days, but better than where i was,” mikey concluded. the cigarette rested between his fingers for a minute before passing it to you to take the first inhale of the burning tobacco.
he's gentle, and you didn't know how gentle he was in reality, but the version you were receiving right now seemed peaceful and likable. he wasn't agreeing with everything you said or pushing you to speak. words fell out of your mouth because they seemed easy to spill with him. it was silent again between the two of you, but that seemed to be loud enough while the cigarette moved back and forth again.
“you guys did good with the food and all,” you added when it got just a bit too quiet, especially when you found yourself standing a bit too close. you didn't move away when you noticed.
“i think if we woulda brought any more food coach woulda been rolling his players outta here,” mikey chuckled, flicking the ash to the side of him. his last name matched the one on his shirt. you cracked a smile.
“you own it? the restaurant, i mean,” you shook your head when he offered the cigarette back. you had enough to calm your nerves already.
“me and my brother, the short one, not the lunatic who was handing out drinks,” mikey rubbed the underside of his nose with his index knuckle, watching as you tugged up the waistband of your jeans. “we renovated a few years ago, still got the original beef window on the side, but it's nicer on the inside.”
“nothing fancy?”
“hell no, kids are knockin’ their juice over in their pasta, it doesn’t have a dress code, and the kitchen is still good at yellin’ at each other,” he stamped the cigarette out. “but that’s what's good about it.” what mikey meant to say was that it wasn’t a shit hole anymore because he had his head screwed on the right way around.
“glad i got to try it,” you looked back towards the door. you knew you had to return soon to avoid questioning from your mother. “i guess my dad can get on my nerves, but he knows how to pick good food.”
“coach’s daughter? i’'m goin’ to hell,” mikey let out a breathy exhale, no longer leaning on the wall. connecting those dots fully seemed to make his eyes widen.
mikey casually smoked with some little college hottie that just so happened to also be the daughter of the man that was paying him tonight. shit always seemed to follow him, yet there he was still enjoying your presence.
“nah, you’re going to hell because you smoked two cigarettes with a twenty-year-old,” you took a step towards the entrance. “and you liked it,” you put your fingers into a cross and teasingly rubbed “shame” in his direction. you heard a chuckle as you walked back into the gymnasium.
“you sure you don't want me to wait until you come out?” your father pestered again, looking at you about to reenter the empty gymnasium. the banquet was a success. the entire team went home happy and fed. most of them were toting plates of leftover food, including you. you couldn't let it go to waste, especially not after your appetite was curbed from smoking. you handed the plate to your mother as she walked by, knowing your late-night snack would be safe in her hands since they were going straight home.
“dad, i'll be fine. i just forgot my phone,” you assured him as he gave that skeptical glance about not being able to watch you safely leave in the sedan you were borrowing from your mother. “i need to stop by walgreens anyway and get another charger; mine is busted,” you explained, hope that would be enough to allow him to leave.
forgetting your phone may not have been an accident. after being on the cleanup crew with your family, you may have strategically placed the device on the table nearest the catering station.
the car keys were hanging loosely in your hand as your father looked back at his single-cab truck. cameron and your mother were piling inside.
“alright, be safe tonight, baby girl,” he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing it lightly.
as you re-entered the gym, you saw mikey counting the fold-out tables he had stacked against the wall. his final task for the night was to load all the tables and chairs into the restaurant’s van and bring them back. richie, his best friend and drink slinger for the night, had already gone back with carmen, the shorter caterer, to clean all the serving equipment.
“left somethin’?” he asked, pulling your phone out of his pocket when he heard the door close. his head was slightly cocked when he looked at you. as he handed it over a picture of you and your friend from your university semi-formal lit up with the time. he didn’t have a hard time knowing it was yours.
“yeah, thanks,” you mumbled, not understanding why you had now become so nervous. the lights in the open room were buzzing. the commotion of the families caused you not to notice how much the white noise had been drowned out.
you looked around, playing with the phone in your hand, letting it clack against the key ring.
“did you forget somethin’ else?” he asked, reading off a checklist.
“your number,” you blurted out quickly as if you were ripping off a band-aid. the keyring slipped into your back pocket with your phone.
“my number?” mikey’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “you fuckin’ with me?” he asked, his voice lighter as he was about to laugh. he wasn’t taking you seriously at all.
“no,” you assured him, looking around again. that twinge in the back of your mind was pressing, saying ‘what the hell am i doing?’ this was a moment of realization, getting yourself into something that might haunt you for the rest of your nights. potential rejection was scary, but what was more horrifying was the fact that you were asking a man who clearly had the upper hand on your age. “just needed something to get through the summer.”
“they all left,” mikey uttered, knowing you were scoping out the area, but his statement seemed like permission. his lips were slightly parted as if he wanted to say something else, but you didn't give him a chance. your hand was resting on his forearm. his hand flexed, only able to grab the closest thing to him to bring you closer—the hem of your cubs shirt. he preferred the red sox, but the cubbies were bringing home the win tonight.
god, you reminded him of his younger self—desperate, hungry, hard to control, but easy to talk.
it was a split second before your hands scrambled to the back of his neck. mikey leaned down, pressing his lips to yours. you were sharing those cigarettes again—more intimately than before—adding a touch of desperation to them. you could taste the stale menthol, somehow it was surprisingly refreshing, knowing you might have possibly been making the biggest mistake of your life.
this wasn't another bar crawl with your shitty fake id, picking up some asshole from a fraternity; this was older and bolder. you didn't feel nervous outside of illinois in the local college bars as you inspected your potential prospects while sipping a vodka cran, but michael berzatto haphazardly walking backwards with you in an empty gymnasium as you sloppily made out with him was anxiety-inducing.
you gripped the back of his shirt. your fingers grazed the back of his neck. your mouth opened to catch a partial breath, and another clumsy step backward sent both of you knocking into a stack of chairs. your eyes opened. your cheeks were flush, and your heart rate spiked as you pulled yourself into mikey's chest to try and protect your sneaker-cladded feet from the domino effect of the chairs.
mikey licked his right canine tooth. he was just shy of the clear portion of the wall where he meant to back you into, unable to successfully do it moments ago. his attention had been focused on you while deepening the kiss and guiding you blindly backward.
“christ, i haven't—” mikey tugged you to the side of the fallen chairs. your head softly thudded on the wall behind you. he was placing quick kisses against your jawline. his scruffy beard was brushing against your cheek. “—done this in a long fuckin’ time,” he finished, resting his hand between your thighs and running his thumb across the light-washed denim.
“i think you're doing fine.” it was possibly the quickest you felt any type of growing arousal, especially as he captured your lips again. this was clumsy and unorganized, but not unlikeable. it was wonderfully awkward, and somehow knowing a stack of chairs crashed down was comforting because it felt natural and carefree. mikey’s confession also helped, settling some of the tension that you felt on your shoulders.
one of your hands trailed to the waistband of his jeans. your fingers were hooked into the top of his cotton boxers. his fingers are gently stroking higher on your inner thigh. the softest touches held the heaviest meaning behind them. this time, it was him pulling away from the kiss.
“wait,” he held your wrist, though your fingers didn’t retract. “you got—y’know a condom or somethin’?” he asked, though you laughed.
“no, i brought my phone and keys that aren’t even mine.” you bit your lip, quickly apologizing for laughing and for your lack of preparation.
he started laughing too. he couldn’t help himself. he didn’t bother looking through his pocket when he knew he didn't have anything useful. “i’m fifty. the most protection i have is a roll of tums to prevent heartburn,” he looked up at the ceiling. his laughter increased only because otherwise he would begin thinking far too much about how risky this situation was.
“i-i’m on the pill,” you cleared your throat, though more giggles were peeking through as he swatted your hand away from his pants.
“jesus,” mikey sighed as he began cracking up again. “bad idea waitin’ to happen.” his hand was still between your thighs. he wasn’t backing off, and neither were you. you were looking up at him. the hand that was on his boxers was now resting on his chest.
“you’re right,” you swallowed hard, but you didn’t move. you didn't want to admit it, but he was right. your eyes darted from his soft eyes to his lips. he wasn’t pressing or rushing. you were staring, and he was too.
his laughter faded, dipping his head again. you met his lips. even after the laughter and moment of cognizance, the excitement was still there. he was focused on tasting the remnants of your chapstick—a flavor he couldn’t quite place—it was cherry, but something deeper than just the fruit. maybe something nutty.
his hand slipped from your thighs and began to unbutton your jeans. he was toying with your zipper. his fingers grazing your panties—the funky floral ones that came in every basic four-pack of underwear—you were wishing you had made a better decision when digging through your suitcase.
“listen to me, i’m too old for that leg lockin’ bullshit,” mikey muttered against your mouth, working down his own pants. trusting within the age-old pull-out method was something mikey hadn't done since he was your age, but in this moment, he needed to believe in something.
“got it,” you mumbled, stepping out of your sneakers to tug down your jeans. you understood where his nervousness was stemming from, much like him, you didn't want a pregnancy scare at the end of this little excursion for pleasure.
mikey’s hands were grasping at your thighs. you were palming the front of his jeans, his semi-hard erection was growing by the second. neither of you wanted to stop. if anything, the touches only grew more hasty and hungry.
with your jeans discarded and your horrendous floral underwear on display. your legs were spread and his fingers were toying with the wet splotch you had created on your panties just from a few simple times of mikey’s fingers grazing you. you were unfastening the button to his jeans.
mikey was kissing your neck, a soft sigh coming from his mouth as he felt your hand move past his boxers. your heart was pounding as his fingers slipped past the seam of the gusset of your panties and applied the slightest bit of pressure. your legs were already trembling.
his thumb grazed past your clit after one affirming touch to signify he was capable. two of his fingers then slipped inside like they were meant to be there. there you were dripping into the palm of his hand with your eyes closed, feeling the outline of his thick cock through his pants.
your underwear was bunched to the inner crease of your right thigh. they were moved over just enough so mikey’s fingers could coat themselves in the sweet arousal you produced.
you had your other hand gripping the dark curls that graced mikey’s neck. with your lips slightly parted, you were pushing against his hand, trying to collect more sensation than he was allowing you to have.
the hollow gymnasium only embraced the sound of the smallest whine you uttered, echoing loudly off all the walls. mikey brought his head up to rest on yours.
you rocked against his middle and ring finger as he thrust them inside of you, falling into him as your jeans gripped the midsection of your thighs. he just had to be sure that you were ready, and a small part of him was enjoying the fact that someone was already falling apart for him.
there was no way he could keep you against that wall without his hip or back making a noise that would be embarrassing and even more telling of his age. he already had on a knee brace under his jeans after he had to single-handedly rearrange the walk-in after having to perform maintenance on one of the cooling fans when fak the handyman wasn't available. he could save himself from another hint of embarrassment because he wasn't walking around with a salonpas patch across his lower back today.
the gym floor it was. if you didn't think about it too hard the scuff marks would be less noticeable and the faint smell of wax would be concealed by the overwhelming sensation of him hovering over you, helping you drag off your bottoms and letting your panties hang around one ankle so they wouldn't be hard to track down when you needed to make your leave.
you gave your jeans a final kick. you looked wide-eyed at your mismatched no-show socks. one was neon pink and the other was a basic white; that was the least of your concerns compared to the full tent in mikey’s jeans.
his apron over his shoulder had been shrugged off into the same pile as your jeans. mikey was wasting no time, mostly because the longer he would wait would mean, the less likely he was to get antsy.
his pants were soon bundled at his knees, cock sprung outward freely instead of being contained by his pants and underwear. he gave his cock a generic stroke using the remainder of your wetness and a palm full of spit to coat his shaft. he gripped the base of his shaft and balls for a little support.
the tops of his meaty thighs were hairy as well as his pubic region. his wiry hair was wild and unkempt—a full bush—but that meant one thing: he was a real locally grown man. he had nothing to be embarrassed by, as seen by your surprised face, but he couldn't help feeling a little vulnerable. you had to feel that way, too; the only easy part about this situation was that you both had no strings attached. even if there would be a repeat a few days from now, you both didn't know each other enough to care.
him entering made you dig your nails into the back of his biceps as your back arched off the ground. your wet pussy was already clenching around him, unable to fully comprehend the amount of his dick you were taking.
you realized you weren't breathing when mikey was lightly patting your cheek with his free hand. “hey, hon,” he mumbled. “y’with me, lil’ thing?” he asked as his eyes raked over your expression.
“y-yeah, fuck, just give me a second,” you swallowed, feeling that stretch from some girthy italian dick wasn't what you were accommodated to. the last guy who got lucky with you was average—that was the nicest way to say it anyway.
mikey was slowly rocking his hips into you as he pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, trying to help you adjust to his size further.
this was like a porno with some clickbait title like: COLLEGE GIRL GETS FUCKED RAW BY OLDER MAN **IT DOESN'T FIT!!**
time was of the essence, mikey had to return to the restaurant, and you still had to do the walk of shame into a chain convenience store to get a new phone charger and a plan b just to be safe before your parents suspected you were gone too long.
he ran one hand under your shirt to rub circles into your waist. every touch he placed was intentional, however, it was somewhat hurried.
mikey was rocking his hips gradually, an uneven exhale left his mouth. his jaw was slack, hearing the soft whines of pleasure slip from your lips. your stomach would tighten and release, only gripping him inside of you further. he had said not to lock your legs, but you were completely out of control with the way your pussy was clenching his shaft.
“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, tightening his hold on your elevated leg. every time he thrust, your body was rocking back from the sheer amount of force he was exuding. he couldn't stop, not with the pretty little sounds that were so determined to keep him going. he couldn't understand how tightly your pulsing cunt was begging him to keep him inside.
mikey's shirt began to bunch. the mild annoyance was enough to take his hand off your hip and slip just the hem of it into his mouth. his pudgy, wooly stomach was meeting you each time he pushed his throbbing cock into, each time just a bit further than before, his swollen tip just barely kissing your cervix. his balls were slapping against you.
shame was beyond recognition at this moment. it was the two of you having deep, quick, naughty, and highly inappropriate sex. this was somehow the most comfort either of you had experienced for a long time. your peers from college in their five-inch inseam shorts wouldn't ever fuck you like this. even in its quick nature, it didn’t take away from your partner's attention to detail. mikey's last romp was with some crazy-eyed single mom that he totally dodged a bullet with over half a year prior. it was decent sex that got his rocks off, but he had never blocked a number so fast in his goddamn life.
mikey rested his head on your calf as he continued to engulf his rock-hard cock in your needy pussy. his soft grunts and moans were now muffled by the bit of shirt fabric in his mouth. you, on the other hand, only got louder, especially when mikey managed to adjust your hips upward.
he didn't know you, but he knew your body. he was lusting over that sweet squelching noise as he railed you. he was involved in every ounce of you, anchoring his hand firmly into your waist to keep you in place.
right there, where he has you sprawled out on the gym floor, yeah, that was the closest to heaven—maybe it was closer to hell—you had ever been. hitting it just right, opening you up just a bit more, trying to visualize the soaking cunt at his disposal.
your wet folds spread so pretty as his tanned dick slid so easily between your legs. he reached the hand he had over your thigh to your clit.
you tried to moan but were taken aback by the sudden increase in pleasure as mikey circled over your swollen and desperate clit.
what you thought was exceedingly pleasant before was now elevated. which was good for mikey because he didn’t know how much longer he could trust the load he was holding back.
“mikey,” you whined, your nails etching deep half-moon patterns into his forearm as he continued to stimulate the spot you needed most. “m-my god.”
his sweaty temple pressed further into your calf. he could tell you were unwinding, his dick stuffing you so full in some unconventional spot on the gym floor while thumbing at your clit, your echoing moans and pleads bounding off the walls.
“c’mon, pretty thing,” he muttered, letting the shirt between his teeth go. “y’gotta let go. gotta let me see you finish,” he encouraged with a bit of determination behind his voice to finish what he started.
he placed a couple of sloppy kisses on your calf, trying to hold off the ache in his cock. he had you right where he wanted you, writhing against his shaft with a slight flush on your face with your mouth agape, releasing a breathy and sharp gasp.
your head was back for only a moment, picking it back up to watch his thumb flick against your clit. you were leaning on your elbows, closer to him than before, still grasping the hell out of his arm. your breathing was uneven as the teary look in your eyes began.
“uh-uh, there y’go,” mikey praised, watching you unwind in front of him. his rocky thrusts were getting more uneven, feeling your unrelenting pulsing pussy wrapping him so tight.
you were riding that faithful high of satisfaction. mikey was pushing your leg into your chest, getting the final and deepest fuck he could before the heaviness in his balls was too much to bare.
a quick pull out, and he was spilling into his hand and into the apron he gathered from the ground. it was like your body was on fire now, the moment he felt his release, he was letting go and pulling away.
with his hand wiped, he was tugging up his boxers, trying to steady himself while also offering a hand to you, though you declined it. stepping into your panties uneasily, you fished for your jeans.
you were pulling back on your clothes, pushing back your hair, trying to straighten out what little dignity you had left as if you hadn't been obnoxiously moaning for a man who was as old as your dad. the wobble in your legs was noticeable. you'd be taking a couple of extra laps around the store just to sort your bearings out again.
you had snagged his number, which only solidified the fact that this encounter wouldn't be the only one you were destined to have with mikey.
there were a couple of final moments glancing back and forth while mikey tossed his soiled apron in the garbage can. he was still trying to catch his breath and attempting to fix the knee brace under his jeans.
mikey’s night wasn't close to over.
he half-assed cleaned himself before leaving the gym, loaded the rest of the restaurant's equipment in the van, and locked the venue.
he played his music a little too loudly, drumming his fingers against the wheel as he drove, trying to shove down the smile he had creeping onto his face.
stupid. it was really fucking stupid, but god, did it feel good to do something that felt a little wrong.
at the bear, mikey lugged all the rental tables and chairs into the basement, the only non-renovated spot of the entire restaurant.
he and carmen had taken another loan from their late father’s friend, jimmy, to begin redesigning the basement storage space. it wasn’t a bad idea, the dusty and cluttered room needed a revamp, but each time carmen would look into contractors, mikey would become nervous.
the entire restaurant had already changed, and it looked better, ran better, hell, it even smelled better, but the final room was hard to part with. mikey saw too much of himself in his father to completely tear the entire place apart. maybe the basement would be completed another day.
“where the hell you been, man?” richie heard mikey clattering around as he pushed the final table into place.
he pretended like he didn't hear richie, pulling the corner of the table even with the others he had previously stacked against the wall.
“mike,” richie called as his friend tapped the banister to the stairs as he began walking upwards. “where you been?” he questioned again.
mikey couldn't admit that he was balls deep in some college girl because that was stupid. that was immature and maybe a little damning. he'd be open to more criticism than he wanted after a long day, but even thinking back to you sprawled out on the gym floor made him want to laugh. it was eye-opening, heart-stopping sex that made him not feel so old.
he was halfway up the stairs, shrugging off richie’s question. he was looking at his feet as he trekked up the stairs, knowing he wouldn't be able to look at his friend with a straight face.
“had to recount, thought i was missin’ something when i loaded everything.” that was a blatant lie, and richie knew it by the twitch on mikey’s lip when he said it. mikey was trying to push away the smirk he had formed.
“cousin, what the fuck is that look?” richie questioned as mikey made it to the top of the stairs.
“nothin’, just happy we’re done with that shit so we can go home,” mikey waved him off, flicking the lights off as he walked in the hallway. richie was trailing him.
carmen had heard the two talking, slumping as he walked out of the newly cleaned kitchen. he was leaning against the hallway door frame with his eyebrows furrowed. he had told the rest of the staff to leave for the night when they were halfway done cleaning. he wanted to finish the rest himself anyway.
“what did you do?” carmen wasn't trying to dodge the question that needed to be asked. his brother wasn't exactly being subtle. that shit-eating grin was threatening to spread across his brother’s face and his tone of voice was faltering.
“nothin’. damn, what is it with you two?” mikey played the game of avoidance again, an awkward laugh leaving his mouth as he attempted to push past the two.
“you look like someone fed you and let you finish,” richie chirped back, earning a gag from mikey.
mikey pointed his finger at his friend, now unable to stifle a laugh and smirk that was forming. “you're a fuckin’ animal, man,” he chuckled, itching the back of his neck.
“oh yeah, got laid. i called it. i was right. you see that, carm?” richie pestered, taking mikey by the shoulders and jiggling him a bit. “he didn't deny it!”
“mikey, what the hell?” carmen’s expression fell. he realized richie was right, and knowing his older brother was banging someone at a catering event wasn't exactly endearing.
“stop, i’m just in a good mood,” mikey cracked another grin.
“you bitch about gettin’ those tables up and down the stairs every time we cater, and now you're grinning stupid,” carmen retorted, pressing a little further. he had to hear mikey say it for himself, and not base it off of richie’s factoid—correction—suspicion.
richie dismissed carmen, turning his attention to mikey, looking directly into his eyes. “where? and how hard?” he did a mocking whistle after.
“you're a goddamn dog,” mikey pointed at his friend, being jostled around a bit more.
“don't tell me it was on the tables. we'd have to throw ‘em out and get more,” carmen accused, hoping that mikey had some sense of respect in his questionable decision making.
“not on the tables,” mikey waved off his brother and then turned his head. “not sayin’ it was anywhere else either,” he corrected himself, hearing richie’s laugh grow louder.
“jesus fuckin’ christ,” carmen muttered, holding the bridge of his nose. “let’s go the fuck home.”
mikey’s morning narcotics anonymous meeting went as expected. a refresher, if anything, a reminder that he was sober. a reminder that he was still an addict even after seven years of sobriety. a mental reset to start the day on a fresh note after tossing and turning the entire night thinking about you.
that post-nut-clarity hit differently when he finally realized that sleeping with a client’s daughter probably wasn’t the smartest move. the client’s daughter who was thirty years younger than him, with whom he barely second-guessed dropping to the gym floor with.
he had that little black key ring to remind himself that he was “clean and serene for multiple years of recovery,” but that still didn’t stop him from attending two meetings a week to keep himself in line. it was routine at this point. one at the beginning of the week and one at the end.
he could go without them; he really could, but there was something about sitting with a group of people with the same problems. he didn’t always talk, but on days that he really felt shoddy, he spilled.
mikey had his life put together in a certain way; what used to be unevenly stacked bullshit that always came crumbling down was now a science. he had to rebuild everything. it was like gaining a second life on top of the old one. he was the same person, only now able to make clear and conscious decisions about fixing everything his addiction had once broken. he was still paying money to the irs in back taxes and penalties because he was prepared to leave the world and his mess for someone else to clean up. that wasn't mentioning all of his credit cards, loans separate from jimmy's 300,000 dollars he had stored away, and the endless number of people he said he would pay back. his life was better now, steadier. the income from the restaurant was now worth it. carmen helped him make something safe.
seven years later and he was still wary of taking tylenol or over-the-counter cold and flu medication because he was worried it might trigger him. he didn't drink because his mother, donna, who still hadn't received help for her suspicious drinking habits, made it seem like an easy vice to become hooked on.
he had his head above water, treading carefully but with purpose.
but you. you were new and unexpected, and delightfully terrifying. because why the hell was he staring at a picture of your tits at ten o'clock on a sunday monday morning. he was standing in his office overlooking the invoices natalie, his sister, had finalized when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
you had no shame, not even a little. you were sitting in your childhood bedroom, procrastinating the need to unpack because living out of a suitcase seemed easier than committing to fully being back in chicago. your discarded sleep shirt was sitting in your lap, one hand bundled your cleavage together as you snapped a picture.
10:03 AM
you: think you missed something last night
you: *attached an image*
10:05 AM
mikey: didn't have time
mikey was sitting back in his chair, palms sweating ever so slightly as he looked over the photo again. your sheets lay over your lap, sitting up, not showing your face. imagine breaking in a new contact like that, sending a ridiculously scandalous picture of your breasts to a man who had priorities and real responsibilities.
10:05 AM
mikey: willing to try harder when i see u again
eesh, he knew this would happen. absolutely no shame within himself to so easily send that message.
10:10 AM
you: *attached a video*
you: promise?
not safe for work at all. your hand had dropped, and you were on display on his cellphone when he was supposed to be double-checking that all the invoices were lining up with the monthly budget.
not safe for work at all. your hand had dropped, and you were on display on his cellphone when he was supposed to be double-checking that all the invoices were lining up with the expected income from the client list. his open documents on his office computer had gone dim. his attention was fully on the technology in his hand.
mikey had watched the short clip a couple of times. watching your hand drop so effortlessly to let your breasts fall and then you giving an assist to jiggle them. if his pants weren't tightening before they sure as hell were right now. he pulled the crotch of his jeans down to find more comfort in his sitting position.
10:12 AM
mikey: i know what i’m getting into now
mikey: my place tonight?
10:12 AM
you: lucky for you my schedule is very open
you: but you owe me $51.13 for hitting it raw
you: *sent a payment request for $52*
10:13 AM
mikey: i'm going to be out 87 cents
10:13 AM
you: i know my worth
10:14 AM
mikey: i’ll be showered by midnight
mikey: *shared an address pin*
mikey was bouncing his foot anxiously, though he was dawning that signature smirk that he was wearing the night before as he was heckled by richie and carmen.
10:23 AM
you: see you later
you: buy condoms thx
read at 10:23 AM
mikey was staring blankly at his phone screen, knowing today would seem like the longest day of his life because he had to wait to see you again.
“hey, you good?” carmen knocked on the doorframe of mikey's office. with a single click mikey's messaging screen snapped to black. he cleared his throat, tossing his phone next to the invoices. his hand on his lap quickly, like he had been caught in something.
carmen seemed to be asking more than just how his day was going, but not wanting to fully commit to his questioning, last night was enough. without richie in the room, it seemed harder.
“yeah,” he assured his youngest sibling. “just finishing this up.” he gathered the printed papers in his hand and nudged his computer mouse with his hand so the virtual spreadsheet would reappear.
“alright, you're on beef with ebra today. church down the street did a fundraiser and i jus’ know he's gonna be slammed after service lets out,” carmen explained as his eyes darted around mikey's office.
“good call,” mikey nodded. he was like the floater and didn't mind it. it allowed carmen to keep the level of control he liked, and it allowed mikey to be where he was needed, keeping busy all the time, whether it was front of house, main kitchen, beef window, or maintenance.
“alright,” the shorter nodded, drumming his fingers against the door frame.
“alright,” mikey agreed, the rolling chair underneath him giving a slight squeak as he moved his shoulder blades back.
“yeah,” carmen mumbled, patting the door frame one last time, backing into the hallway.
“carm, ‘m good.” mikey knew his brother was lingering. he couldn't blame him too much. he had every right to question his well-being after putting him through hell for so many years prior.
“thirty-five minutes ‘till we're bustin’ our asses again,” carmen cleared his throat as he called out the final warning on time before service began. he couldn't say much else. he had to take mikey's word for it, and whatever weird impulsive decision he had made last night was nothing to be concerned about.
carmen was always nagging natalie for her incessant ability to ask how people were, and now he always saw himself doing it with mikey because he wasn't around when his brother was struggling the most.
“heard,” mikey gestured loosely, facing his desk again to find his focus again. he had to check just a bit of the documents before he slid himself into the kitchen for the tail end of prep.
it was just past midnight and there you were, standing in your bright blue and orange university sweatshirt and free people shorts, in the middle of mikey's living room, letting him pull you into his chest. he was pushing back your hair, making sure not to let it snag on your earrings. your fabric purse was still hanging off your shoulder.
small talk occurred for less than five minutes, mostly him making sure you had arrived safely. you didn't ask how his day was until he asked about yours.
mikey’s apartment was clean for the most part. he had a laundry pile stacked on a chair that seemed to never be used other than for that purpose. the curtains were a little crooked as well. his shoes were nestled by the door, and keys were thrown on the counter next to his cigarettes and wallet. his clutter was mostly on his coffee table, mail, loose pens, sharpies, and cups that hadn't made it to the sink. his knee brace was also there. he had no use for it right now, although he thought that he might regret not having a little extra support later.
he had many pictures, all of which had some sort of rae dunn frame. you assumed they were gifts, although you didn't know mikey well he didn't seem like the person to pick stark white frames saying things like “live, laugh, love,” or “family,” in that signature thin, black capitalized font.
he had one hand on your cheek, caressing his thumb against it. he had the opportunity to actually take his time with you now. he was appreciated every bit of you. this didn't have to be quick tonight seeing as you were both safely in the confines of his own home.
he smelled clean, his outgrown hair was still a little damp. he seemed like he had at least taken the time to trim his beard before you came, lining up more evenly with sharper angles.
mikey didn't know where to begin because his hand was still resting on your cheek, trying to gauge your expression. you weren't trying to hurry him, but you were certainly not waiting. you were on his turf, but claiming just a bit of it for yourself by leaning in to kiss him.
it felt right to live in this moment, feeling him take the subtle kiss you started and turn it into a more developed moment. your bottom lip quivered against his, drinking in the desire he had for you in one simple motion. he parted your mouth, edging his tongue inside of your mouth. his thumb was still resting against your cheek.
he guided your waist closer with his other hand, two of his fingers were hooked inside the thick band of your athletic shorts. you were flush against him, angling your head more to allow his tongue to inch further.
you were running your hands underneath his shirt, feeling chill bumps appear as you touched him.
“y'wanna take this somewhere more comfortable?” he mumbled, kissing your cheek. he had a conventional spot that was far more pleasant than the gymnasium floor.
you agreed, being led back to his bedroom, which was more bare than the den. his closet door was slightly cracked open. there was a clothes hamper in the corner that wasn't overly full. a candle he had never used was sitting on his dresser. the condoms you had told him to buy were unopened on his nightstand. his bed frame was metal, and squeaky. when you sat down you slightly cringed from the noise.
“sorry ‘bout that, i got it second hand a few years ago because my sister told me i couldn't be forty-five with my mattress on the floor,” he was standing in front of you, watching you reach over and put your purse next to the box of condoms.
“she sounds like a smart woman,” you had a faint smile on your face. mikey had his hand resting between your thighs, beginning to crawl over you, replacing his hand with his knee, dividing your legs.
you laid back as he was inching his way on top of you, helping him tug off his shirt. the faint hum of the window unit kicking on could be heard as he helped you out of your collegiate sweater and lacy bralette.
you spent entirely too long pulling apart your suitcase to find that bralette and matching panties and he pulled it off of you without a second thought. it showed how much he truly cared about those floral panties and mismatched socks from last night.
his knee was firmly placed at your crotch, feeling that small bit of pressure was enough to send you spiraling. his lips were dragging across your chest, the tip of his crooked nose was nudging the side of your breast. a bulge in his gym shorts was as things were only escalating by the second.
he was nipping at your skin, adding another layer to this entire experience, littering your skin with twinges of pleasurable pain. he always stopped right before your erect nipples, only ever giving them enough stimulation from his breath and nothing more.
you were biting into your bottom lip as if it would save you from his teasing. his knee only further pressing into you. you were pushing yourself into him, both your clothed bottom half and your exposed top half arching ever so slightly off the bed.
mikey pushed your chest down, holding one finger to your sternum once you were lying flat on the bed. “lil’ thing, you gotta let me enjoy you for a bit.”
a whine left your mouth as his lips grazed past again. his top lip rested on your skin and his bottom lip was on the band of your shorts.
“couldn't get enough'a you last night,” he mumbled into your stomach, giving it one final kiss. “and right now you're tryin’ to rush me when i'm tryin’ to take my time.” he picked up his head, a loose silver curl falling from his bangs.
“you're not being nice about it,” your fingers were running through his full chest of hair, still grinding against his kneecap until he grabbed your thigh.
mikey chuckled, watching you grab his wrist in protest. “i’m not tryin’ to be nice, i’m tryin’ to enjoy myself before i start thinkin’ with my dick.” he took your hand off his wrist, kissing it gently, smirking against your skin for a split second before dropping it on the bed and giving some much-needed attention to your nipples.
you couldn’t expect him not to do it after your teasing video from this morning. he was partially distracted the entire day, having to switch with ebraheim to wrap and bag rather than talk to customers.
he was lightly thumbing at your right nipple as used his tongue to toy with your left. you were arching upwards again. mikey was finding it amusing with how easily you could fall apart, continuing to suckle on your protruding bud.
you were holding his head in place, aching for more as his tongue curled around more. he wasn’t letting up because the moment he switched to your other breast you were in the midst of expressing a breathy gasp.
there wasn’t a good reason for mikey to make you like this. hormones coursing through you knowing if you had any ounce of self-control you probably wouldn’t be reacting like you were.
then came the soft bites at the sides of your breasts and sides, burying further into your skin, purposely now forcing his knee further between your legs.
you sighed with relief shimming down further to meet his leg. mikey’s large hands had a tight hold on your upper body, letting both of his thumbs rub the curve of your breast.
he was staring, really staring. he was watching your eyes close instinctively as you found the right spot on his knee to grind your clit against.
it was a short fleeting feeling. your shorts and underwear were digging into you adding just a bit too much padding to keep generating the correct balance for your pleasure.
you ran your hands up to his face. the moment you opened your eyes was the moment mikey stopped looking, staring at your chest instead.
“what?” you mumbled, snaking out of his hold partially. the rough texture of his facial hair felt jagged against your palms.
“decidin’ how i wanna fuck that lil’ pussy.” mikey wasn't shy about it, dragging your shorts off only to see the same lace pattern on your underwear that he hadn’t acknowledged on your bra in the first place. he tilted his head, beginning to slide off your panties. he glanced over the side of the bed briefly trying to locate your bra but was unable. “‘cause i think you already got an idea on how y’want this night to go—”
“—‘cause you came prepared,” he teased, stepping off the edge of the bed to finish removing your panties and his gym shorts. he had a kind of patience that drove you crazy, watching his hands drag down your legs with certainty in mind.
“not really,” you fibbed, following his lips that dragged from the tip of your right toe, and up the curve of the inner portion of your leg.
“y’show up to my place in matching lingerie the second time you see me, and you're tellin’ me you're not ready?” he was now nipping at your inner thigh with the same aggressive tenderness that he showed your chest.
“i know y’know what y'want,” he continued trying to coax it out of you. he was right, but you didn't expect him to call you out on it. “y'knew what y'wanted last night pretty fast, lookin’ at me with those fuck me eyes before y'even came back for your phone,” he pressed the conversation, letting his chin rest in the crease of your leg. “so, how’d you expect this to go?”
you raised yourself on your elbows, both of you fully exposed, trying to share another moment together if you’d pull yourself together and answer him.
he was looking up at you awaiting a response, halting even his smallest touches to give you his full attention.
“i wanna ride.”
you didn't want to give an explanation, and luckily he wasn't looking for one because you couldn't admit you enjoyed looking at the way he reacted to being inside of you. you had just about killed him the night before, all sweaty, trying to pace himself because although he was feeling younger he really wasn't.
“there it is,” mikey praised, crawling his way past you to reach the box of condoms on the nightstand. you pulled yourself to your knees, scooching out of the way so he could fit comfortably on the bed.
mikey was rolling on a rubber, you were caressing his chest hair as you swung your leg over him to efficiently straddle him. he had a firm hold under your bottom. his throat was getting tight as you fished for his protected cock, anticipating what was coming next.
you were sinking down, your palms flat against his wooly biceps. he moved one of his hands to grip your wrist as you were letting all of your natural lubrication immerse his manhood.
you could feel him wholly inside of your stomach, nestling yourself onto his center shakily. he was rubbing at the slight hump of your wrist bone, helping you settle into that stretch you had yet to forget.
he was looking at you with that same expression of a mixture between worried and needy with his inherently sad brown eyes that seemed to carry more weight than you knew about.
“y’good?” mikey wanted to clarify as he licked over his bottom lip, not daring to inch into you this time, seeing as you had such a determined glint in your eye.
“mhm,” it was almost like you weren't trying to break concentration as you had now known what to prepare for.
that ache between his legs was being satiated the moment you started to find a rhythm within your bounce, lowering your chest to meet his and spreading your knees a bit further apart to get the full length of his substantial shaft.
there was a soft squelch every few moments from repeatedly sliding up and down. you were so wet, and mikey was loving every second of it, not daring to move your positioning especially since you were moaning directly by his ear. he was cupping the curve of your ass feeling the supple skin as your bouncing turned into more of a twerking motion. the squeaking bed frame only became louder by the second.
the fat of your ass jiggling against his lap and hand as you continued to throw your pussy back. mikey was choking back a slurry of groans, burying his forehead into your shoulder while your breast knocked into him.
your legs began to cramp after the multiple minutes of repetitive fucking, and mikey could sense it. your once-calculated motions were slowing and you began trying to find your pattern again by leaning on one leg more than the other.
mikey brought you closer, both of his hands steadying your thighs to gain even an ounce of control. he pulled you flush against his chest as he leaned back, lifting his hips upwards to get a feel for you in the modified position. of course, it felt fucking good with your pussy still wrapped around his cock. his balls already began slapping against you as his upward thrusts fiend for more of your tight, wet cunt.
you gasped softly, turning our face away from him to not accidentally scream into his ear. your entire body tightened.
“right there.” your tone was halfway praise halfway forceful, not wanting whatever spot mikey had found and taken over to stop.
your sweaty bodies were pressed together in his bed creating sweet, dangerously addicting sex. he gave a low breathy chuckle that was almost helpless in a way, nipping your arm as he pounded upwards trying to give you the satisfaction you had just found.
mikey could feel you tightening around him, only continuing to find that spurts of squirt were now beginning to exit your pussy. his head was dizzy, giving into every bit of unadulterated lust within him. you were a mess with your eyes closed tight and frizzy hair, grasping him for dear life.
you were helpless against him only baring your hips down further to contain yourself as you reached your high, panting hard and whining as it coursed through your entire being.
a second film was added to the franchise: AMATUER COCK RIDE LEADS TO SQUIRTING *!WET & MESSY!*
mikey was unraveling as you were, and a final gush of fluid began coating his thigh with his final upward thrust, trying to reach further than was possible with his cock to release. you were whimpering a string of curses as the control he took over your body only became rougher. he was holding the small of your back essentially using you as a toy to finish his orgasm.
penetration alone causing you to climax was surprising, to say the least, and the pool of liquid you coated his chest and lap in was not unheard of, but very uncommon in their occurrence and mikey had single-handedly done both in the two days he had known you.
he released his hold, settling his body back into the mattress. you unsteadily pulled off of his cock, catching your breath momentarily.
mikey let his head hit the pillow as he felt you crawl off of him. his chest was sweaty and heaving. his eyes were closed until he felt the bed even out from your lack of weight on top of the mattress.
“you leavin’?” he asked breathlessly, raising onto one elbow, now pulling the sheets to his waist. he felt exposed now with your quick exit strategy. last night was different, you were both in public. he didn’t know what he expected from you, but it wasn’t to act like nothing just happened.
he wasn't upset about his soaked sheets or the fact that he would be up for another half an hour to change them before he showered; his ego felt slightly deflated knowing you could so easily gather yourself and head out the door, but even that took time for you to perfect.
“well, yeah,” you stated as though it was obvious. your face was still flushed as you were searching for your discarded sports bra. you quickly scooped up your florida gators sweatshirt hand and guarded your chest—as if it was some private sector—not like the man on the bed didn't just take his time kissing and licking your entire body.
“do y'always leave like that?” mikey rephrased his question, watching you pull your bralette out from under the rickety bed frame.
you shrugged. “i don't sleep in strangers’ beds.”
that made mikey not want to be so much of a stranger.
“y'need me to walk you out?”
“i can open the door, mikey,” it wasn't rude, just true. you said it with a smile like you were old friends.
“no, i know,” he nodded, sitting up a little further. “just be safe, y’know?”
you were tugging on your sneakers, seemingly unfazed by the sex and more concerned about taking your leave. “i’ll lock the bottom.” you purse off the nightstand and then did just as you said you would as you left his apartment.
a month had passed, yet there had barely been a day that mikey wasn't making time for you. he seemed to be committed to making your summer as bearable as possible. you weren't staying the night. you were barely talking in person when you were showing up at his apartment. he was giving you an ungodly amount of unholy sex that his neighbors probably despised him for.
this saturday you were at the ballpark, watching your brother in a quick weekend tournament because he had begged you to watch a couple of his games. you had nothing better to do this summer. other than your nightly rendezvous with mikey the days were open other than the occasional rekindle with your friends from high school.
you were sitting in a camping chair, phone in one cup holder, a sweating diet coke in the other. your father's scorebook notebook was in your lap, filling it in for him as the game continued. you were wearing one of his jerseys that you modified to fit better with a hair tie, the team hat, and a pair of denim shorts with stars embroidered on the pockets. the chicago five points was the team your father coached. white jerseys with yellow writing graffitied across the fabric with the addition of bright stars. there was smudged eye black on your cheek from having cameron attempt to take his number off your cheek. there wasn't a chance in hell that you could let him attend a game without letting him get teased just a little bit by his fellow teammates.
the game was wrapping up and you were adding the final scores to the booklet. there would be about an hour and a half until the next game because your brother's team was advancing. if they won the majority of their games today they would be playing at a park further away next weekend.
you looked up from the booklet to see mikey leaning over the fence, waiting for a lull to grab your father's attention. you sunk back in your chair, dragging the capped pen over the scoresheet. after settling his team and telling them what field to return to, he sighed when he saw mikey, already beginning to explain how sorry he was for his outstanding balance from the banquet.
“damn michael, i'm so sorry,” your father apologized again for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in the conversation.
the entire time you were trying to stay focused on the booklet in your hand, trying to replay the plays the team made in your mind rather than honing in on your summer situation talking to your father.
“hey, it's all good coach reggie,” mikey shrugged, sliding the folded check into his pocket. “i know you aren't trying to skip out on a balance.”
“i really did try and pay online, but it wasn't working the same way from when i did the deposit. i called, hell, i don't remember her name, at the restaurant, and she tried to walk me through it but it still wasn't working,” your dad explained, trying not to seem like a total asshole for withholding money he wasn't meaning to withhold in the first place.
“that was probably my sister nat,” mikey was being casual. “like i said it's not a big deal, but if this check bounces you better be prayin’ that i don't start swingin’ one of these bats on you, coach,” he teased, making your father return his humor with a firm pat on his back.
“thanks so much for stopping to get the check by the way, we're living at the park this weekend,” your father joked.
“ain’t a problem, we're even now,” mikey then bid his goodbye. you were trailing up to the fence right behind where mikey was once standing.
“dad, i'm getting a bite to eat from the concession stand, you want anything?” you called out, mikey's head turned as he walked. he heard you, and suddenly he was hungry too.
“no, baby girl, i'm alright,” your father concluded, watching his players exit the diamond.
you had a boat of nachos, nothing fancy, just that thick neon artificial cheese piled on round, salty tortilla chips. leaning against a post near the covered and crowded picnic area, you had napkins under the red and white boat watching mikey come closer with two drinks in his hand.
“stalking me while i'm with my family?” you quipped, taking a bite of one of the cheese-loaded chips. you were extending the tray to him, and with a quick adjustment of the drinks he took a chip.
“your dad is the one who asked me to come over here and pick up his check, thank you, miss smart ass,” mikey covered his mouth as he swallowed the concession stand food. he knew it was going to be bad. “you can have those, i think i've gotten too old for the artery-clogging fluorescent cheese.” he offered a soda to you, as he twisted the top off.
“and you can keep that because i only drink diet,” you ate another chip from the boat like it was nothing.
“so you'll shove down a tray of fake nachos, but get your panties inna twist over full sugar soda?” mikey laughed, taking a long drink of his soda to rid the aftertaste from his mouth.
“i never said i made any sense,” you acknowledged his truth. you may not have made any sense but you knew what you liked.
“don't worry, i know you don't,” mikey retorted, taking a drink of his soda. “but y’know if y’want some real food you can come get some hot italian beef, right?”
you both paused, staring at each other wondering who was going to break the silence by laughing first. it was you, holding your knuckle to your mouth, trying not to choke on the food you were chewing.
“jesus, do you hear yourself?” you questioned through a laugh, wiping your fingers on the napkin under the food tray.
“no, you made it weird. i just asked if y’wanted a sandwich.” mikey was still chuckling.
it was that refreshing silence again, where you were just enjoying each other.
“i gotta bounce, lil’ thing,” mikey held his gaze a little longer. “brother bear's gonna start textin’ in all caps, and then i'm screwed for the rest of the day,” he kissed the top of your cap which made you tense up. “try not to make too many kids cry.”
“no promises,” you itched the side of your arm while looking at the picked-apart nachos in your hand. “gotta keep them humble somehow.”
it wasn’t long before you helped your dad move all of the equipment to the next diamond. the assistant coach was helping the players warm up. your dad was checking over the roster.
“you know that guy i was talking to?” your father asked, watching you line up the batting bags in the dugout in a neater fashion.
“what guy?” you knew what guy, but you had to play stupid.
“the one i was talking to after the last game? you were sitting right there.”
“oh, the one you paid for the banquet,” you mentioned earning a nod from your father.
“yeah, michael—he turned his life around, not many people get that chance.” your father had unknowingly walked into a minefield. you didn't know where this conversation was going when it first began, but this wasn't what you expected at all. you knew you enjoyed what mikey was providing you with, but you didn't know him. your father was just trying to make conversation.
“i don't know him that well, but i know that he was on drugs pretty bad, his brother had to take over the restaurant while he was recovering,” he continued while sipping on a cup of gatorade that was mixed in the nearby cooler. “we ran in different circles, but he’s always been a nice guy, just got a little unfocused for a bit.”
it all felt a little too personal and too real. you had gathered the score booklet again, wanting to take your seat in the camping chair again to comprehend what your dad was really saying.
“that had to be almost ten years ago, give or take, i don't know if other people still like him, but i respect that. he took initiative to get back where he needed to be.”
that left a sinking feeling in your chest. you were volunteered information and now you didn't know what to do with it.
“sounds like he got it figured out.” those were the only words you could muster as you exited the dugout to begin setting your chair up for the next game.
later that night you were lying on your stomach in bed with aloe vera slathered across your cheeks to minimize the sting from the hot sun. you knew you needed a break from mikey, just until you could figure out if you wanted to continue seeing him.
10:10 PM
you: got to wrap up a few things this week. busy sry
11:50 PM
mikey: lmk when ur free
mikey hadn't expected a full week to pass with no contact. he knew you said you were busy, but it was a little unsettling to know you could so easily brush him aside. he knew it would eventually end, but didn't know it would be so soon. he wanted to text and see what you were doing, but he knew better than to try and chase after someone who didn't want him.
“fak, wait,” mikey grumbled, setting down his end of the shelving that needed to be moved so they could put in new wall anchors.
“why am i waiting? you have to actually try to pick it up,” the handyman said defensively, adjusting his backward cap.
“i am pickin’ it up, but you're not turnin’” mikey groaned, knocking his hand against the metal with an eye roll.
fak held his hands up, attempting to offer peace, giving a tilt with his head. “on three?” he offered to try to defuse the situation, knowing his employer was more than a little agitated.
that didn't seem to work at all because the shelf went crashing down, causing mikey to throw the towel he had off of his shoulder. it was hot enough in the kitchen without something going wrong.
“watch it,” carmen spouted from his station, hearing the loud bang against the floor. mikey shot him a glare.
“thank you baby bear for addin’ that wonderful insight to this shitty situation,” mikey was holding his temples as richie stepped in to help them pick the shelving up to the standing position. “the fuckin’ floor is goddamn cracked,” he added, bending down to look at the tile.
carmen didn’t look up, only shooting brother the middle finger.
“cousin, bring it down about half an inch from dick to slightly less of an asshole,” richie suggested, walking backward as he and fak efficiently moved the shelf out of the way.
“don't worry about him, he's only mad because his summer situation benched him,” richie’s snarky comment made mikey throw his hands up. “she probably got sick of his ugly mug and traded up.”
“shut up, rich,” mikey warned, collecting his stud finder and measuring tape to begin the process of installing the l-brackets.
“bro, that's an easy fix,” fak claimed, his face lighting up as he had learned of the new information.
“we are not talkin’ about this,” mikey grunted, not looking away from his handy work on the wall, ensuring both sides were even.
“you gotta schmooze her,” fak claimed.
carmen, although at his station, was muttering a jesus christ, under his breath because the last person anyone would want dating advice from was fak. that burly tattooed maintenance man had ideas, but so did every other living soul on the planet—it didn't mean you took them.
“get her one of those edible arrangements. bitches love fruit,” fak pointed his finger certainly before he got another idea. “or–oh! what about you get her one of those big stuffed animals? all cuddly and shit, yeah she’d want that.”
mikey let fak go on his tangent, half-mindedly paying attention while he got out the drill.
“and boom! romance! works every time,” fak insisted as if he had just solved a world crisis.
monday night—technically tuesday tuesday according to the time—full nine days since you last talked to mikey.
you hadn't warned him that you were coming. you just showed, giving a soft knock on his door and waiting patiently. you didn't even expect him to open the door, but he did, shirtless and in a pair of sweats.
he let you in without much hesitation. he was happy to know you were okay.
“this is weird and i’m sorry,” you apologized, setting your keys on his coffee table. “i should’ve texted you first.”
“it’s okay,” he assured you.
his half-made peanut butter and jelly was waiting on the counter. he wasn’t very concerned with it right now, knowing you were standing in front of him.
“am i screwing with your sobriety?” you asked abruptly.
“next time start with foreplay,” he suggested with a laugh.
“mikey,” you mumbled. “really?”
“first off, i’m a grown man you don’t needa start worryin’ about where my head is. second, i know what i’m doin’ with you.” he was more serious this time, walking back into the kitchen as he spoke.
he put the bread in the toaster and then casually popped the lid off the jam jar.
“i don’t want to be the reason that pulls you back down.” you were standing on the opposite side of the counter watching him.
“i have made worse decisions than you, pretty thing, and plenty of ‘em,” he took the toasted bread out of the toaster and laid it on the paper plate in front of him. his knife was pointed at you before it dipped into the opened peanut butter. “but you and whatever the hell we have goin’ isn’t gonna screw with my sobriety.”
after smearing in the jelly, he cut the sandwich into two triangles taking his side off the plate and then sliding the other half to you. “you know what you’re doin’ though? fuckin’ with my sleep schedule. hard.”
you smirked, looking down at the freshly made sandwich. he was leaning on his hand as he took a bite.
“i’ll blame you forever for that,” he teased.
that night was calm for once. you didn’t end up in his bedroom or even naked for that matter. you sat on the couch with him enjoying the half a sandwich he had made.
you were leaning into his chest watching some low-budget movie on amazon prime. you weren’t fleeting away at any little touch; you were accepting all of them.
you had eaten and your arms were folded over on your chest and your knees were curled up. you were comfortable. you looked at him, really looked at him. the screen would occasionally brighten and you could see that worn tired expression that he wore so well. the wrinkles by his eyes that made him squint just a little when he smiled.
“i’m sorry about earlier.”
mikey shrugged, leaning down to kiss your temple. “don’t apologize for askin’ questions you didn’t know the answer to.” he knew you only asked because it was coming from a good place. you had him in mind and you barely knew him.
“i don’t want to be the reason i mess up what’s working because you have it figured out, and i’m all impulsive and junk…” you trailed off awkwardly.
“pretty girl, you’re supposed to be like that. you’re twenty,” he reminded you, meeting your gaze.
“yeah, but i just don’t want to be somebody’s relapse,” you mumbled, letting the tension soak in the air for just a moment.
“eesh, way to kill the mood,” mikey did a faux shiver, bringing you closer. his back dug into the couch, knowing your words had weight to them. he knew he had to shed a little light on the situation.
“i’m seven years into this, and like you said, i know what works for me and i know what doesn’t. if i knew you were screwin’ me up i’d say something,” mikey admitted, watching your eyes go wide with surprise.
“i mean it—i’ve made enough mistakes to get where i’m at right now.” he held your chin gently. “you’re not even close to ruinin’ me, hon.”
it was oddly comforting to know that you weren’t ruining mikey’s chances at a better life. he had real issues, the kind that had some grit to them. it wasn’t scaring you off knowing he had them.
“but now, it’s my turn to ask questions,” he turned your face to the side to place a kiss right under your ear lobe. it was like he was trying to butter you up to get the answer he wanted. “what makes you hate bein’ home' so bad?”
you hummed slightly in thought, closing your eyes. “i feel like i’m wasting time… like i'm forced to stall my life,” you were now staring at his ceiling watching the fan spin with the occasional sound of the wobble from the blades. you didn't know how to pull your thoughts together fully. “i left because i wanted some freedom,” you cleared your throat, now realizing that you were fidgeting with your hands. “it's cliche, i know, but i needed to find myself and not be smothered.”
mikey was nodding slowly, taking your hand apart from each other, rubbing his thumb over the top of your hand instead. “so since you've been gone have y’found anything worthwhile?”
you nodded though not fully convinced of yourself. “a few things, but i'm still getting where i need to be.”
those words said enough. you weren't fully settled in your new life although you had been living there because your current moment was just a stepping stone for something larger and more important that you wished to achieve. although coming home felt like regression mikey had been doing a great job to keep you from dwelling on that feeling.
you stayed the night. a sexless night of him waking up slumped over on the sofa with you. the entire night he had his arm draped over your side. you weren't use to sleeping in anyone else's home, much less the man you had been religiously letting plow you, but somehow it felt right to spend extra time with him.
the next morning you both woke up to his alarm blaring in the next room over.
your mom was at the kitchen sink, sipping her coffee while she read the back of a boxed cake mix, trying to take an early jump on the pineapple upside-down cake she was bringing to a work potluck the next day. your father had already left for the day for his job in building inspection, coaching was a side gig.
“you didn't come last night,” she commented, glancing at your tired appearance. “daddy said you've been going out late almost every night.”
it was a little unnerving to know that your parents had been paying that much attention to your whereabouts. you thought that you were being quiet, going in and out of the house at odd hours. neither of them had said anything to you. they didn’t want to rock the boat because you were finally home, but they were observant of your actions—for the most part.
cameron was smirking at you from his bowl of cereal, knowing you were in a bit of trouble.
“just out with friends,” you shrugged, taking a drink of your own coffee. you had spent the entire night tossing and turning on mikey's sofa because there wasn't much room for the both of you.
“you could've texted,” she mentioned, taking out a mixing bowl.
“i will next time,” you nodded slowly, avoiding the gaze she brought as she began dumping the contents of the mix into the glass bowl. “just lost track of time.”
“alright,” she squinted her eyes slightly, just enough to make sure you knew she was aware that she knew something was different.
a heartthrob walking up to the beef window wasn't uncommon and it wasn't overlooked, and you were no exception. wearing some little ribbed low-cut baby tee with a dewy face, sunglasses pushing your hair back, and the summer sun was sticking to your skin like you were a walking advertisement for hot girls near you.
richie has his head halfway out the window, looking down at you. he was hitting his pen against his receipt pad. ebraheim was glancing out the window, wrapping a few to-go orders that were about to be picked up. he like richie knew there was nothing good to come out of anyone that was carrying themselves the way you were. you seemed determined in a way like it wasn't only lunch you needed.
“and what can i get for the smoke show?” richie asked, unknowing of who you were and where you came from. all he knew was that you looked good and had that look of trouble glinting in your eyes.
you gave him a playful smile, leaning in a little closer, your hands resting on the bar of the window. “mikey promised me a sandwich when he wasn't busy.” it was sweet and innocent, but it had such a loaded meaning.
ebra was glancing at richie with a look that said did you just hear her. and yes, erba, richie did, loud and clear because now he was putting together the pieces of this very suspicious puzzle.
“did he now?” richie asked, backing into the window a bit.
“mhm, said i could swing by whenever,” you confirmed.
“hold on sweetheart,” richie smiled, dropping his pen onto the counter. “lemme go get your daddy for you.” his voice was laced with a thick veil of sarcasm.
richie disappeared into the kitchen, not able to wipe the look of surprise off of his face.
“hey, cousin,” he was close to mikey’s station, watching him wipe away vegetable scraps into a clear container to be used as broth for later on. “someone is here for you,” he cleared his throat, earning a shrug from mikey. plenty of people came by needing to see him and in this moment he was doing something.
“i'm almost done with this, just gimme a second,” mikey was wiping the edge of his knife on a clean kitchen towel.
“she asked for you by name and is practically flashing’ the entirety of river north.”
mikey set his knife down, elbowing richie as he began progressing towards the beef window. “coulda started with that you, jackass.”
“that's the girl? mikey, the fuck?” richie groaned. he was looking too, but actually knowing his friend was engaging with the trouble on two feet was worrisome.
mikey was shushing him as he entered the beef area. he glanced out the window, seeing that you seated yourself at a table under an umbrella. he was too far gone the moment he saw you. he wasn't paying any mind to richie now that he knew you had taken his offer for a sandwich seriously.
mikey had slid past ebra, wrapping a quick sandwich, tray and all lined with parchment, an addition of extra napkins and he wasn’t forgetting the drink. the soda that dribbled down the side of the cup was wiped up like it really mattered—it didn't but it needed to look nice for you.
ebra although he was occupied with his work was still watching through the window covered in decal stickers at you. it was silent judging, but not towards you or your outfit—towards mikey.
“ebra, shut it,” mikey warned when he was halfway out the door.
“i did not say anything, michael.” ebra paused before opening the sandwich window to give out the to-go orders in brown paper bags.
“you didn’t have to with that face.”
ebraheim shut the window, a kind of helpless glance towards richie who was standing towards the back of the beef kitchen.
mikey walked the completed tray out to you, and your face lit up when you saw him.
“didn't know you were comin’ today,” mikey carefully set the tray down, letting you excitedly unwrap the parchment on your sandwich.
“i was hungry and in the neighborhood,” you shrugged, taking a bite, a content expression washed over you.
“well eat, lil’ thing,” mikey set the napkins under your cup so they wouldn't fly away. “diet coke this time—’cause i remember shit,” he bragged on himself a little.
“look at you being a gentleman,” you teased, leaning in to take a sip of your drink.
“the one and only,” he plucked his work shirt like he was a big shot.
“i should’ve texted,” you admitted after taking another bite of the hot sandwich, having a hint of embarrassment scratching at your brain. “i think your cashier was a little surprised to meet me.”
“i woulda been too if someone so fine asked for him,” mikey jested from his seat, resting his hands on his knuckles to look at you with his full attention.
meanwhile, richie had disturbed carmen because he needed to know what his brother was doing; that was their duty after mikey's rehab in which they would both be responsible for him. it had been a while since they had to call on each other, but there they were staring out the beef window watching you make mikey laugh, which was somehow more disturbing than if it were him trying to make you laugh.
“do you see why this is more important than the fuckin’ sausage and peppers?” richie asked, gesturing loosely out the window. carmen had handed his station over to sydney for the time being. “i mean do you really fuckin’ see it.”
“jesus, okay, i get it,” carmen was still looking out the window.
“he wiped her drink,” ebra chimed in, earning a slow head tilt from carmen. ebra held his hands up in defense. “in my country we called that expensive.”
“that's not helpin’,” carmen slightly shivered. “it’s already bad ‘nough without all the extra.”
“we gotta talk some sense into him,” richie groaned, peering out the window to see mikey holding the soda straw to your lips so you wouldn’t have to pick it up while you held your sandwich.
the moment you left carmen and richie practically picked mikey up by the scruff of his neck to drag him into the alleyway. richie brought out a pack of cigarettes and carmen scooted three crates next to each other with his foot.
“alright,” richie clasped his hands together. “what the fuck are you doing?”
“startin’ with a subtle approach i see,” mikey took a cigarette from his friend and a seat in the middle.
“mikey, you didn't say that she’s younger than me,” carmen was popping a couple of pieces of nicorette gum, itching at the scar on his hand. your youth had been the first thing that anyone would notice, especially when placed next to mikey.
“i didn't say anything,” mikey reminded them, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “are we really having an intervention in the middle of lunch?”
richie had his foot placed on top of his crate, looking down on mikey. he didn't find it very funny, so unfunny that he was staring at his lit lighter, unable to even light his cigarette.
“no, we aren't doin’ this not now, not later,” mikey leaned back some, his back hitting the concrete wall of the restaurant.
“yeah we are,” carmen interjected. “because richie’s picked you up too many times for you to walk out right now.”
richie gave an appreciative nod towards the younger brother. “dude, you got past the rocky shit and you think bangin’ some chick is the right answer?” he asked, playing with the igniter wheel.
“i feel like you guys are comin’ on a little strong.” mikey was playing the game of avoidance again, not wanting to reveal too much about anything.
“you’re too involved—”
“y’can’t tell me how involved i am when you don't know how it is,” mikey had his elbows on his knees looking at the mural on the building across the street through the chain link fence.
“i think we saw how it was,” carmen rolled his eyes, a slight scoff leaving his mouth.
“bear, don't start that passive-aggressive bullshit with me when you—”
“me? we aren't talkin’ about me right now—we're talkin’ about you bein’ balls deep in some chick actin’ like your bullshit has gone away.”
mikey whipped his head around to look at his younger brother. “oh-ho, look at carmy gettin’ pissy again about shit that doesn’t pertain to him.”
carmen inhaled sharply, only nodding his head. “you wanna be like that, right now? because i didn’t have to leave new york when your psychotic ass was going through withdrawals. i didn’t want to keep findin’ pills in your desk when i was cleanin’ this shithole up. i didn’t have to keep watchin’ you fall apart a thousand times before you finally pulled it together. so yeah, it's not my shit but i keep steppin’ in it because you put yourself in it.” carmen's tone was low and snappy. it was lethal in a way, making both mikey and richie shift uncomfortably.
“and as for richie he’s dealt with your shit a fuck ton longer than i have and i'm your own goddamn brother. so let him fuckin’ talk,” carmen concluded, chewing his gum with a little extra agitation.
richie took a moment before speaking. carmen had just unloaded enough. “we're not tryin’ to judge,” he uncomfortably took a seat. “it's just that we know you worked hard to get where you are now.”
mikey flicked his cigarette to the center of the pavement then ran his hands over his face. it felt like he was having the same version of the conversation he had with you, although the difference was that richie and carmen knew all of his struggles and not just the vague understanding of his past with drugs.
“it's some stupid summer bullshit. she’s goin’ back out of state soon anyway. that's all this is; that’s it,” mikey was still in his spot, not willing to look at either of them now.
“what happens when she’s gone?” richie pressed, looking at the smoking cigarette on the ground.
“i show up. i do my work. i go to meetings,” mikey recited quickly like he had done it many times before. that was his normal routine, though his current routine was to show up, do work, go to meetings, and enjoy you he knew he'd be at a loss without you.
carmen wiped his sweating palms on his knees. he was still annoyed. “don't let this get outta hand or i'm tellin’ sug,” the younger brother warned.
mikey grumbled under his breath as he watched carmen stand. “low blow, carm.”
natalie, sugar, was the last line of defense because carmen knew mikey couldn’t be the reason for getting her wound up with those sad puppy-dog eyes she wore so well. he couldn't cause her any more pain. she had enough to worry about without starting to worry about him again.
she had given mikey more help than anyone, more than he would like to admit.
2:10 PM
mikey: r u busy?
2:15 PM
you: not for you
2:15 PM
mikey: slip in my office and help me out?
2:16 PM
you: please?
2:17 PM
mikey: u don’t have to beg
2:17 PM
you: *eye roll emoji* *middle finger emoji*
you: be there in a few
planning for an impromptu fourth of july barbeque to be held in the parking lot of the bear was one of the biggest headaches that mikey had encountered in a long time. between that and a lunch rush from hell, he needed a pick-me-up before dinner prep because the stale coffee wasn't working anymore.
it wasn't long before you arrived, nestled secretly under his desk after a couple of playful kisses.
mikey was sitting back in his office chair, his fingers curled around the armrests while he watched you wrangle his erect cock.
you were slurping on the curvature of his cock with glossy eyes, a bit of salvia falling out of your mouth. your cheeks were hollow, following part of his shaft down as you used your tongue to attempt to reach a little further.
one of your hands was cradling his balls; it occasionally slipped up to stroke the base of his manhood that you were unable to fit in your mouth.
you began to brush back your hair although mikey took notice of this, taking the liberty of holding it back for you. there you were, working up and down his girth like you owned it, choking lightly when you went too far.
spit was dribbling out of your mouth and onto the office chair where he was manspread. your swollen lips taking the liberty of working at his tip; his salty precum flooding your oral senses.
with his fingers intertwined securely in your hair he took his free hand to caress your cheek, a small bit of praise for your much-appreciated work. you were very expecting of this, trying to force your throat a little further each time even if it meant your eyes only got more watery.
mikey was gentle. he wasn't pushing your head and making you take every inch of his well-endowed tool. he was letting you enjoy yourself and in turn, was enjoying himself.
you knew you had him wrapped around your finger when his stomach would cave ever so slightly. your eyes were meeting his.
you began to bob your head a little faster, watching him exhale shakily as the combination of your strokes and mouth seemed to make his erection extra stiff, especially when you pointed your tongue to place extra pressure on the prominent vein of his cock.
that's when the door rattled, making mikey jump. you couldn't pull your head back fast enough, and even with mikey fishing for his pants, it was too late. the door certainly wasn't locked. this could've been avoided.
“michael—” jimmy, as in the jimmy that had given him and his brother hundreds of thousands of dollars, as in the jimmy kalinowski that had long been a family friend with the berzattos had entered. his eyes were darting around the room frantically, like a bad car wreck he was unable to look away from.
and in this rendition of the pornos, it is titled: HOT CHICK SUCKS THICK OLDER COCK UNDER DESK **CAUGHT**
“mother of fuck!” jimmy roared as he stumbled out of the room and down the hallway.
mikey was trying to get his bearings together while also checking on you, which wasn't great because his heart was pounding out of his chest.
“i am so fucked,” mikey groaned, tugging up his pants the rest of the way with part of his shirt stuck in the waistband. “jimmy—fuckin’ a’, man,” he was talking to himself in a panicked manner.
“hey, hey,” you tried to calm him, adjusting your shirt and wiping the corners of your mouth.
“you gotta go,” mikey was rushing. he was right. you really did need to leave. he was dragging you by the wrist, down the hallway. you were also appreciative of mikey's quickness to get you to the door.
the kitchen doors were rushed open. it was like jimmy was on a war path.
“somebody put a leash on michael before he catches a fuckin’ statutory!” jimmy barked, suddenly the entire kitchen fell silent. no pots were clattering, no talk of their day, no squeak of the required non-slip shoes. everything stopped.
“yo, what the fuck?” richie was the first one to speak up.
jimmy’s announcement wasn't exactly subtle. it was painful and embarrassing and gross.
“your friend’s stripped down to his skivvies in his damn office getting a mid-day treat from some floosie, rick.” jimmy threw his hands up angrily.
oh fuck—nothing about jimmy's outburst was beneficial to busy kitchen.
carmen didn't leave his station; he was urging everyone to keep working as an uproar of comments were being made. he had too much to do other than entertain the chaos. he and richie knew exactly what this was about based on jimmy’s comment even before he had to explain himself.
the rest of the kitchen was stunned, immediately blabbering back and forth before richie struck two skillets together urging them to be quiet.
jimmy then saw mikey leading you out, pausing his kitchen outburst to catch the imbecile who had started this whole saga.
“what the fuck are you doin’?” jimmy confronted mikey harshly. he then looked at you with his head tilted. his glasses a little crooked. “and sweetheart what the fuck are you doin’ with him?”
you swallowed hard. jimmy’s tone had changed drastically when he had spoken to you. “do i need to call him a lawyer?” he pressed a little further.
“no, what? no, i’m twenty. i go to school. i have a license,” you rambled though none of it provided any solid proof unless you were to pull out your cardholder you were nervous. your hands were shaking and mikey was still edging you to the door.
“alright, wonderful, so you have a fuckin’ brain then why are you using it to be with him?” jimmy prodded. your shoulders were still tense, staring at him wide-eyed.
“unc, let her go,” mikey sighed, looking at the exit sign above the door. jimmy was practically blocking the hallway. “then you can keep yellin’ but don't let her be mixed up in it.”
“i spend all this goddamn money for you go have a co-ed under your desk? be like your fuckin’ brother for god’s sake and throw a goddamn knife or scream in the fuckin’ walk-in,” jimmy spat one last time before scooting out the the way.
“i’ll take that note,” mikey grumbled, ushering you out the back door.
walking into the kitchen seemed like the right thing to do at the moment, but immediately regretted it once he was in there. he had heard jimmy’s outburst and already knew the staff was talking.
it was silent when mikey came in, all the conversation halted immediately. if that wasn't a sure sign that people were conversing about the sudden drama then he didn't know what else was. there was never a dull day at the bear.
“this has really gotten outta hand,” mikey announced from the hand washing station, lathering his hands and forearms up. “and i didn't mean for it to get this far, but it did,” he groaned trying to phrase his words correctly.
“baby, you can't be doin’ that,” tina responded. “like some shit you just don't do.”
“unprofessional,” sydney added softly, her round eyes darting around. “really inappropriate—and like—gross, right? we’re a whole restaurant.” she gestured loosely.
mikey was drying his hands, staring at the blinding lights on the ceiling. “alright, i fucked up, we got that, thank you,” he was leaning against the wall, knowing if he even began kitchen duty his head would be too jumbled to achieve anything.
“told you it was a bad idea,” richie coughed, having to add the ‘i told you so at the worst moment.’
“you knew? and you let him keep doing it?” sydney pressed further, unable to look at anyone other than tina who was also shaking her head.
“he wouldn't have stopped anyway…college chick has initiative,” richie shrugged. it earned a couple of groans of disapproval. everyone was rightfully awkward and wary of the situation.
“sis looks like she’s committed her thesis study to daddy issues,” marcus tried to lighten the situation, and a couple of chuckles were heard.
“no, no, she's pledged to tri delta and her philanthropy mission is to support recovering addicts,” sweeps butted in, carrying a basket of unfolded napkins.
mikey stood with his arms crossed trying not to laugh. he deserved the heckling. not everyone found it amusing, but it was definitely helping mikey recover from the initial shock and surprise of being walked in on.
“mystery baby was just trying to use the last points on her campus dining plan, cut her some slack,” marcus hit a witty rebuttal.
“mystery baby is her new name, fuckin’ brand that shit,” richie called out.
“okay okay, have we had enough fun?” mikey asked with a fading chuckle. “maybe we should get the hell back to work before carmen blows a gasket,” he offered, knowing their slow hands wouldn't be helpful by the time service started.
“yeah, probably for the best because i texted sugar,” carmen didn't even look up.
“motherfucker.”
natalie had been at the hardware store attempting to pick up a list of supplies from their morning meeting about the barbeque carmen had proposed. though the moment carmen’s 911 mikey text came through she dropped everything.
they were sitting in her office. pictures of her daughter and husband littered her desk, and it was more organized than mikey’s office by far. color-coded tabs and coordinating pens to highlighters along with an actual color scheme. carmen had briefed her on the entire situation before she even sat down with her oldest brother.
mikey was tapping his foot anxiously. he didn't know where she was going to start. with the fact that she had plucked mikey off the state street bridge night so many years ago when he was half conscious and at rock bottom, maybe the night she bailed him out of jail for petty theft, or when she had given him a place to stay after he couldn't stay at their mother's house in the early stages of recovery, or even maybe the fact that she had helped him find the meetings he so regularly attended. he could go on and on about what his sister had done for him.
“bear, what’s goin’ on with you?” she asked softly. worry filled her eyes.
“nothin’,” mikey shrugged. he felt like he was in the damn principal’s office.
“do you think carmy texted because it was nothing?” she had a point, but he didn't expect their youngest sibling to actually go through with his threat.
“no, jeez, sug, i'm grown. i have my head on straight now. i participate in my meetings. i’m clean—”
“mikey,” natalie stopped him. “i know you're good. you’ve been good. i’m proud of you, but i’m not proud of this girl.”
that stung. mikey furrowed his brows as his arms crossed over his chest. sugar had a million things she could've brought up and she chose the one that mattered.
“i know you’re grown, but she isn't. she’s still somebody’s kid,” natalie was taking this in a different perspective, different than what carmen had to say and everyone else. she wasn't touching on his sobriety, not now at least. mikey was expecting her to want to kill him.
“she’s two and a half times younger than you. when we were twenty our family didn't care, but her’s might.” she was thinking about it like it was her own daughter years into the future.
“no one was supposed to find out and then—”
“then you started thinking with your dick, bear,” natalie sighed, wrapping her brother in a hug that he didn't reciprocate. “that was reckless and really fucking stupid, and now i want to hit your head against the wall.” she had such a serious tone that mikey couldn't help but chuckle. he patted his sister’s back.
“i probably deserve it,” mikey agreed. this was more gentle than he thought it would go. natalie wasn't crying or making those big guilt tripping eyes. but what else could she do other than say something? she wasn't tracking anyone down and giving them a lesson. mikey was responsible for his own doings...even if they were ridiculous.
“no probably about it,” natalie flicked his forehead before pulling away.
jimmy was sitting in the furthest booth from the door, mindlessly eating his lunch with no complaints to be had, seeing as he was sitting by himself. he was occasionally looking up at the door in between bites, just a little peace to separate himself from the chaotic week.
“hell, is that jimmy k?” your father asked, a tray of food in his hand from the deli, but had yet to set it down at a seating arrangement.
“oh shit, that's reggie,” jimmy perked up a bit, a welcoming smile gracing his face. “you wanna take a seat?” he offered the opposite side of the booth to reggie.
years back jimmy had given reggie extra work when he needed it. they had rarely kept up with each other besides the occasional run in, but they always seemed to chat like old friends that had never forgotten where they once left off from previously.
“long time no see, man,” reggie greeted, unwrapping his sandwich. “same old, same old?” he questioned, breaking into conversation easily.
“little of everything, you know me,” jimmy mentioned casually.
it was all normal until the conversation shifted from family to work. reggie was mentioning he was still married, one kid about to start high school, the other in college, and was still coaching. jimmy mentioned his son and some other odds and ends, but then he turned to money. jimmy seemed a little annoyed to be mentioning how much money he loaned his “nephews” to redo their sandwich shop into an actual restaurant, and how even after all their renovations, they were still fucking up.
“you're talking about the bear, right?” reggie was now placing all the pieces together, remembering how jimmy was friends with michael and carmen’s father. “they catered my kid’s banquet a few months ago.”
“yeah, yeah, the fuckin’ bear,” jimmy groaned. “let me pick your ear about somethin’ okay, reg?” he wasn't really asking. he was going to talk anyway. “mikey is the most lovable fuck up, but right now i could kill him. how would you feel knowing you spent a bunch of goddamn money and then walk in his office and catch him with some college kid?”
“what?” reggie repeated, the conversation having shifted heavily. he put down his sandwich. those words seemed to hit a little too close to home because his twenty-year-old daughter hadn’t been present practically the whole summer, coming home late every night, and being oddly secretive.
“not kiddin’ you, walked into his office about a week ago and he had some twenty-year-old gettin’ down on her knees in the middle of the work day,” jimmy repeated, not noticing how still reggie had become.
jimmy was just blabbing because he was annoyed, not knowing that he was inciting a panic in his old employee.
“you know anything else?” reggie swallowed hard. his hands were shaking under the table. his dad sense was screaming at him that it was his daughter making some stupid mistake.
“no—oh, reg, no—” jimmy finally caught on to reggie’s face that had seemingly lost a little color.
“hey, you know, i gotta get back to work, but i’ll see you around,” reggie cleared his throat. he had barely eaten on his lunch break. he was going to sit in his truck and use the rest of his time to call his daughter.
the staff alternated days off. this week it was mikey’s monday off, and there was no place better to spend it than with you, grasping the meat of your thighs. his elbows help to keep you spread wide, absorbing himself in his own world between your legs. even after the scare with jimmy the two of you had an inability to keep your hands off of each other. it was like you both knew that the summer was soon going to end in just three short weeks.
he had no other care in the world than to be with you. he was lapping at your cunt. his flattened tongue easily maneuvering over your folds. he had a certain technique that you thought would never be able to be replicated by anyone else.
your hands were laced in his loose curls while you crossed your toes from the sheer pleasure you were on the receiving end of. you gasped as his mouth opened a bit more, sucking your outer layers and the dripping arousal that fell from your pussy.
he was looking up at you, knowing good and well what he was doing as he spread your folds further apart with his oversized fingers. he had a direct contact with your clit in moments, beginning with a soft suckle which transpired into a greedy moment of his beard being buried into your soaking pussy and his aquiline nose brushing against your pubes all while staring at you.
his elbows dug into you although it was worth it because of the instinctual want to close your legs as the stimulation began to become more overwhelming. you might have been tugging at his hair too harshly, but he didn't say anything, only continuing to show your cunt the utmost respect as he ravaged it with his mouth.
soon his fingers dipped inside of you, fully and easily being coated with everything you had produced. you gave an unsuspecting whimper looking down at mikey still directing his oral attention to your clit and his digits curled upwards to satisfy you even more.
he had to breathe. his forehead was sweaty and he was a bit breathless as his fingers worked in and out of you.
his jaw was aching ever so slightly which caused his determination for his fingers to become more direct with their targeted movements. his other hand was toying with his dick trying to coax his erection to stay up fully. he had been concentrating fully causing his once rock hard erection to soften just a bit.
“need ya to turn over, lil’ thing,” he directed, the wet splotches on his beard were noticeable as the light filtered through his thin bedroom curtains. mikey has taken his fingers out, licking the reminits of your sweet slick off of them.
you began shifting to get on your knees, mikey helped rotate your hips. he grabbed your ankle to situate your positioning, giving his cock final a hearty stroke as he did. he gave your pussy one final long, dragged out lick from your hole your ass, which caused a shiver to run down your spine.
his balls were hanging heavily as he reached over you to grab a condom wrapper.
you felt his covered tip prod at your entrance. mikey held apart one of your asscheeks to oversee the full entry. it was the perfect fit, he was absolutely drowning in that blissful feeling. his eyes rolled back a little as you shimmied your ass back ever so slightly.
the smutty saga continued with: SALT N’ PEPPER MAN EATS PUSSY AND FUCKS PRETTY BABE *HOT* *YOUNG*
instead of mikey's hair your fingers were now pawing at his sheets trying to find a good grip. the bedframe would never not be squeaky, but it had upgraded slightly, with a pillow between the headboard and the wall.
“y'feel so good,” he praised, gradually increasing the pace of his rocking hips.
“so do you,” you murmured halfway between talking and moaning.
“don't think y'get what i’m sayin'” he mentioned, taking his hand off of your ass and the other off your hip to bring his tattooed arms under your armpits. he hooked his hands to the front of your chest, leaning over you to feel closer. his pudgy stomach brushed against the small of your back. “you're drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy today.”
you released a small grunt only for it to be suppressed by an increase in moans as his humps increased in effort, rocking into you with vigor and need.
you brought your head back some, feeling his wiry beard hair brush against your ear. his palms were sweaty, having to adjust his grip on you to keep you against him. he was pressing soft kisses to your hair that smelled of dry shampoo and his downy detergent after being so comfortable in his bed.
“i’m serious…y’gotta hold on me today,” mikey rasped, his knees buckling slightly as he felt your pussy pulsing. he nipped at the shell of your ear, his breath lingering. “fuckin’ hell,” he sighed, feeling another twinge from your lethal grip.
“i-i can't help it when you’re talking to me like that,” you stuttered, hanging your head low into the bed, though he followed you, resting his cheek on the back of your head gently. his thrusts were unsteady and deep.
he had already tortured you by eating you out, overly prepared to take his cock, and you were still on the receiving end of pleasure—overstimulated was the most simple way to put it. you and mikey were both belting sounds of pleasure.
you had your eyes shut tightly unable to speak or give any warning that you were close to climax. he was pressed against your back engulfing your body in warmth and ecstasy as his rigid thrusts only became more heightened. your cunt was doing a quick squeeze and release. he knew he had you close in more ways than one.
“oh—” you dug your fingers tightly into the sheet. you were uncoiling while he was still so deep inside. he was edging against your cervix over and over.
“pretty girl,” his voice was husky in your ear. he pressed his body into you further muffling your moans and pleads into the bed. “this pussy gonna make me cum?”
“y-yeah, y-yeah,” you sounded a little dumb and a little whiny but you could barely think straight, especially with his ridiculously mind-boggling movements. he was chasing those final moments.
“pussy is unreal,” he huffed, though seconds later his jaw went slack. that same hazy feeling you were experiencing. if it was humanly possible he would've been closer as he fucked out his peak, only able to continue his final few thrusts with the rest of his energy briefly.
he laid on you for a while, conscious enough not to squish you, but still not letting you go anywhere, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck.
you were then showered and redressed, and currently, happily perched on mikey’s kitchen countertop. you were watching him prepare thinly fried zucchini battered in an italian breadcrumb which was going to be served with parmesan cheese sprinkled over the top.
mikey was whisking his egg and milk together, already having his separate dish of breadcrumbs prepared. the oil in the skillet was heating up, the convection fan was already circulating.
and your job? that was to sit and look pretty or so he said. you gave yourself an extra task which was occasionally stealing some of the freshly grated cheese out of the bowl.
watching mikey cook was sexy. he knew what he was doing, knew how he wanted it to come out, and knew that it was going to be delicious.
he was standing at the stove watching the breaded zucchini in the bubbling oil, tongs in his hand ready to take them off the heat when the shallow fry had completed its task at getting them crispy and golden brown.
“alright, hopefully, you’re not full on cheese so you can actually eat,” he offered one of the almost paper-thin spears to your lips.
you nodded as you chewed. perfection, all of it. every single crunchy bite. “holy shit,” you mumbled, a sort of warmness spreading through your chest.
“good, huh?” he was back at the stove pulling the last few pieces of zucchini out of the oil and placing them on a paper towel.
“yeah, almost like you’re a chef or something.”
mikey laughed, setting the tray next to you on the counter, offering you another piece. one hand was on your thighs, looking into your eyes as he let you have another bite.
your phone started ringing, making you snap out of the trance you were in caused by mikey and his delicious food. mikey saw the contact name, as soon as you did. he scooted to the side some. you hopped off the counter and answered in one swift motion.
“hey dad.”
“hey, baby girl.” he didn’t sound happy although you didn’t expect a call mid day to be any good. he was supposed to be at work. “you busy?”
“um, a little,” you replied, glancing at mikey in the kitchen, trying to put a little space between you and him as you talked to your father. “what’s up?”
reggie didn’t know how to answer that. he still hadn’t fully decided on what to say. he just knew he needed to call you.
“i ran into someone i used to work with, been a few years since i’ve seen him,” he explained. your gaze never left mikey, who was cleaning up the kitchen.
you had every reason to be nervous because your father was never the man that would call in the middle of a work day.
“how was that?” you questioned, knowing that your dad was taking longer to get to his point than normal.
“i don’t know,” your father sighed. “but he told me something—something you might know about.”
you were fidgeting with the end of your shirt, phone pressed against your ear and shoulder.
“he said he’s sorta family to the owners of a restaurant,” your dad was stalling which was only making you squirm more. you swallowed, the sides of your throat burning a little.
“when he was there last week he said there was a college girl under the owner’s desk.” it made reggie sick to say that outloud. having to say those exact words to his daughter should’ve been punishment enough.
“dad—”
“he didn’t know your name. he didn’t even say it was you, not like he picked you out of a lineup or something, but jesus—kid, you’re acting like you did it without me even having to ask…”
mikey is now staring because you look ill, standing in the middle of his living room looking so guilty. he knew what this is about without having to eavesdrop.
“what are you doing, baby girl?” he sounded exhausted. it sounded like he had just had too much. “what did you decide to get yourself into?”
you felt meek. “it’s not like that.”
“don’t tell me that because it is exactly like that.”
you wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. the lull of silence was too much right now. that once tasty platter of zucchini now looked inedible.
“you think you’re grown up, but you’re not. you’re twenty and you’re going after some guy like you don’t think is going to ruin your life, but he will.”
you couldn’t say anything because if you did you’d be breaking down.
“baby girl, come on. you’re so much smarter than that,” he pressed a little further, digging that knife a little deeper.
“i’m worried about you,” he finally expressed.
“okay,” that’s all you could manage.
“okay?” he asked, wondering if that’s all you had to say.
“i’ll be home later,” you choked out. your thumb nail was digging into your leg. you hung up.
mikey put down the cloth he was using to wipe the counter. he joined you in the den, hoping he didn’t have to be the first one to say anything but he was.
“…he knows?”
“mhm,” you mumbled. “knows jimmy, used to work with him…isn’t that something?”
mikey was walking slowly as if any sudden movements would send you running. he stopped at the coffee table, taking a seat to look at you. he tried to grab your hand but you wouldn’t let him.
“that tracks,” mikey coughed a bit, trying to pull his words together. he was speaking very gently. “look—if I would’ve known they knew each other i wouldn’t have—”
“—wouldn’t have let me suck you off at work?” you completed his sentence earning a sigh from him.
“no, come on, if it wouldn’t have gotten back to your dad then—”
“the only thing that matters right now is who we got caught by?” you wouldn’t let him get a word in not right now. “not that we got caught at all?”
“i shoulda known better,” mikey was uncomfortably running his hand through his hair. “i didn’t mean to screw this up.”
“do you think you’re screwing me up?”
“that’s not what i said,” mikey said pointedly.
“that’s what my dad said,” you retorted, though your voice wasn’t very loud. it was painful and quiet. “that you’re gonna ruin my life.”
mikey tilted his head. his hand fell in his lap.
“are you going to ruin my life?” you tried to coax out an answer from mikey. you didn’t want to believe he could, but unfortunately this illicit secret was out and spirling out of control.
he didn’t really like that question.
“i don’t wanna…” mikey was searching for more words. “but i worry about it because i’m older than you—you have your entire life ahead of you. you can probably screw up three good times from now until you're my age and be better off than me. but me? i‘ve fucked up enough. i’m outta chances, pretty girl,” he was resting his head in his hands. he wasn’t going to give you a minute to respond now, so he continued. “i don’t regret a single thing, i really don’t—but i can’t be the reason your life is screwed up. i like you a helluva lot, and if i knew i was the reason i screwed you up i don’t think i could forgive myself.”
you looked like he had punched you in the gut, breathless, not making a noise as you cried. just silent tears falling, looking at each other trying to convince each other that any feeling you had was fake.
“you gotta say something,” mikey urged.
you didn’t, not right away. your mouth was closed in a tight line, trying to hold your crying self together. you grabbed your purse next to where mikey was sitting. he knew you’d be gone in an instant. your mind was already somewhere else. you weren’t mentally still in mikey’s apartment.
“hey, please don’t go, not just yet,” mikey swallowed, standing as you started walking for the door.
“i really need to go.”
“i can walk you out,” he stood up, going to follow you, but you stopped him.
“i got it,” you choked out.
and like that, you were gone and mikey was alone.
this was the last weekend before you returned to school. keeping your distance from mikey was so difficult, but your father wasn't exactly thrilled to learn of your summer affair. you were trying to lay low so that embarrassment would stop eating at you, but in all actuality you could barely stand to make eye contact with either of your parents.
you were trying to be on your best behavior because after all your parents did let you stay with them all summer, paid for your gas, and flights to and from school, among countless other things.
that was the hardest part for them, knowing you were grown, having to see you leave, and now watching you make one of the stupidest decisions of your life while still trying to remain proud of you because your success in school wasn't nothing.
the disappointment was rough because you had proved over and over again that they could trust you to be a responsible adult away from home, but your lustful tailspin had them questioning where they went wrong as parents.
they never yelled at you. not once. the moment your dad called he wanted to vomit because he had that inkling that you were doing something—someone—that you weren’t supposed to. they knew you knew better. you knew you knew better.
you kept trying to downplay how bad it was, but every time you thought about mikey it only got worse. you wanted something to keep you occupied, and it did, but at what cost?
your childhood friends knew your final moments in chicago were coming to an end. they wanted to see you and you thought it would be a good way to take your mind off of the clusterfuck you had helped create. they suggested a party, an end of the summer rager at someone’s parents' lakeside rental property.
it was loud, the house was so hot from the movement of people combined with the door from outside being constantly opened and closed. even outside you couldn't escape the heat, but it was probably your burning face from the drinks you had so easily thrown back.
you were chatting—more like drunkenly rambling—with one of your old girlfriends about the courses you decided to register for at the edge of the lake. only your feet were resting in the water because you already pulled your shorts back over your damp bathing suit bottoms. you had your jacket half zipped over your top, unsure of where the shirt you originally had over your bikini went.
you began to feel too dizzy for your own good, peering uncomfortably into the solo cup of a badly mixed drink. you excused yourself from your friend after she was unable to answer what time the designated driver was bringing you all back to your corresponding homes.
“when are we leaving?” seemed to be the question of the night that no one could give you a straight answer to. you felt like garbage. you wanted to leave. you had your sneakers in one hand, walking around aimlessly trying to get a direct answer from your final friend in your group after ditching your solo cup on a random counter.
you were regretting coming at all when all of your drunk friends and even the singular sober one were unable to coordinate a time to leave. you were sitting on the steps of the porch the faint sound of another megan thee stallion song blaring even through the closed door. your stomach was churning and you had a pained expression on your face while you stared at the lawn.
you couldn't call your parents. you had already screwed up too much to make them unhappy for another moment this summer. you only had one more option. it was approaching half past one in the morning and there you were calling mikey, ruining his sleep schedule yet again.
it didn’t ring for long.
“hello?” he murmured, almost shocking you to your core to hear his voice again, especially all groggy from sleep.
“hey,” you paused, shutting your eyes for a brief second as if you were working up the courage to ask him a favor. “can you come pick me up?” you slurred, holding your temples trying to keep your focus.
“you okay?” you could hear some rustling coming from his end, knowing he was already attempting to pull himself together to rescue you.
“yeah, uh, my friends invited me out but i really wanna leave, and i couldn't call my dad,” you were plucking at the grass on the bottom of the steps.
“i'm comin’, hon,” mikey assured you like it was nothing out of the ordinary. “just text me the address.”
you felt small. you had so easily left him, ran out, and avoided conflict and now he was helping you without a second thought. “thanks, mikey.”
within the hour you were seated in mikey's car, pulling your knees into your chest. you had dropped your sneakers to the ground. you were leaning your head against your seatbelt.
“you answered,” you noted, staring at the radio in mikey’s car—more specifically the time.
mikey didn't look much different than normal, other than that he had let his beard become a little more unruly than normal. he always looked a little tired and a little sad.
“of course, i did,” he didn't look at you, but he meant what he said.
“i'm sorry for waking you up.” you sounded like a child who didn't want to be scolded, trying to soften the blow by buttering up their guardian.
“i'm glad y’did.”
you were staring out the windshield unsure if you should thank him again or not.
“y’made the safe choice,” he added, flicking on his blinker that seemed louder in the dark of the late night.
“i missed you.”
mikey was unsure of what to say. you were drunk and clearly spaced out all while still being conscious. he drummed his fingers against the wheel. “missed you too, pretty girl.”
you looked up for a brief second and then back at the road, time seemed to be moving a little too slowly.
“can we talk?”
“we're talkin’ right now.” he held the wheel a little tighter, unsure of what your drunken state was trying to express.
“you're not looking at me.” it was true, not once since you had gotten in his car had he even glanced at you.
“i'm drivin’,” he reminded you, though it wasn't very fast and it didn't seem like he was rushing to get you home.
“you can pull over,” you suggested, so he did.
mikey had taken his time to turn his head, knowing if he saw you he would be able to forgive you leaving within a second, and he did. his gaze was softened as one hand rested on the shifter.
“you're like what i needed,” you unbuckled your seatbelt, stretching out in the front seat. you were picking up the hair from the back of your neck and tossing it just to get a breeze of air. you were leaning into the air vents soaking in the chill. “like you're just so hot and you like really got me, you know?”
mikey didn't know—well—he did to an extent. he was silently staring at you, watching you unzip your jacket to let the air con hit your chest.
“and like i really missed you,” you were now sitting to face mikey.
“yeah.”
“you didn’t miss me?” you were offended. you were resting your hands on the center console.
“you walked out,” he reminded you. “you left.”
“now, i’m back,” you mumbled uncomfortably.
“who picked you up, lil’ thing?” mikey questioned, clearing his throat. “who’s takin’ y’back home?”
“you.”
“uh-huh, i answered. i gave you space. i’m the one tryin’ not to lose you when i know i’m gonna lose you anyway.”
you leaned a little closer, bridging the gap between you and mikey. your palms laying against his silver-specked beard, letting the hair scrape your soft skin. he didn’t react much, only watching. your forehead rested against his, stunning him for a moment.
your dizzy head was stabilized for a moment, pressing your lips against his. it wasn’t nearly as sweet as you’d thought it would be when you noticed he wasn’t reciprocating.
he was gently pulling your hands off his face, and moving his head back. it was one of the hardest things he had to do after not seeing you. you were practically halfway over the center console.
“no, you’re drunk and we’re not doin’ that,” mikey said firmly, kissing the tips of your fingers instead. he helped you get situated in your seat again.
“i know what i want,” you mumbled defensively, looking down at your lap.
“pretty girl,” mikey began, clearing his throat. “i’m not gonna be that guy.”
you were mildly sulking and on the verge of tears. the alcohol was really settling in and all of your thoughts that had come with it.
“y’don’t think i don’t want to? i haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left.” mikey was trying to be consoling but it didn’t help when you were left defeated. “i’m not makin’ this worse between us.”
“i fucked it all up…you wouldn’t be able to make it any worse,” you confessed guilty.
“this wasn’t ever goin’ to work,” mikey stated with his chest tightening. he held his index knuckle to his lips.
“you said you were okay with this.”
the entire situation was conflicting.
“i know what i said, but it doesn’t mean it was gonna work,” mikey cleared his throat harshly. you could’ve sworn you saw a tear drip down his face. “i gotta stay and y’gotta go back to school.”
mikey had pulled off of the street, continuing down the road. he had to get you home before he was past a solitary tear.
you were fidgeting with your fingers with an uncomfortable churning in your stomach. you didn’t know how you were managing to keep yourself together; maybe it was because you had already embarrassed yourself around him enough.
you were practically gagging yourself to keep your tears down, knowing you’d never be able to listen to “the scientist” by coldplay again without thinking of this very moment when the silence was trying to take over but chris martin’s voice over the late night radio was peeking through like daggers in ballistic gel.
“this was supposed to be fun,” your voice wavered uncomfortably. you were finally starting to realize how far everything had come. it all came around, all at once, completing the circle with a deathly kill.
“it was,” mikey’s knuckles were white because of the sheer force he was using to grip the wheel. “but this is the part that wasn’t ever goin’ to be fun.” his jaw twitched slightly.
“i didn’t think i’d like you so much,” you confessed, watching as your street came into view. you were rubbing your thumb over your right temple to soothe your impending headache. your other sleeve was wiping your tears as they spilled, hoping mikey wasn’t paying too much attention.
mikey felt like a bullet had ripped through his chest, trying to convince himself that you were drunk enough that you didn’t know what you were saying, but even that didn’t help. it just hurt.
he parked in your driveway, watching your gather your shoes. he was taking initiative this time, not letting another time when he could have chased you be wasted. he was walking you to the door. one of his large hands at the small of your back guiding your drunken self to the door.
“i’m always gonna be around.” he shouldn’t have said that but he did. you only gave a shaky nod.
he could see your empty eyes and puffy face in the motion-activated light of the doorway. he gave your head one final kiss and returned to his car. he watched the door to your house shut.
it never got cold in florida, not like the illinois cold anyway. exams were coming close before the sweet relief of winter break would start. you were studying or trying to at least.
it had gotten lonely and that was probably due to the fact that since starting another undergraduate year at uf you had distanced yourself from practically everyone.
lizzie, who was your closest friend at university, had tried everything in her power to pull you out of this weird lull you were trapped in. she knew something was wrong based on your demeanor and the sad girl playlist you had put on repeat. you kept in touch while you had gone home for the summer, but you hadn’t said anything about mikey. that would be far too hard to explain. when you returned you said you regretted the summer, but that simply wasn't true. you regretted being too young, too naive, and too involved with someone you knew you shouldn't have been. you were impulsive and dumb and it was hard to admit that to anyone other than yourself.
you had gotten in far too deep with mikey and that was a fact. you wouldn't have been thinking about him so much if you hadn't gotten attached.
the final title to the erotic summer films would be: FEELINGS FUCKED HARD *SHE CRIES* LEFT WITH GAPING HOLE
you moved into your new apartment when you returned from chicago, having lizzie and a few others from your study groups help pile everything from your storage unit into the space. all your decor that was once in your dorm room was hardly enough to cover all the blank walls. it was too sterile. so when your stipend from your scholarship hit your bank account, you spent far too much money trying to clutter the walls and console your aching heart.
you felt like your social life was in the gutter. the last party you attended before school had to do with your embarrassingly drunk confession to mikey. mixers, frat ragers, and the post-karaoke bar crawls would land you feeling even worse than you initially went out. it didn't feel right receiving drinks from other guys, much less drinking at all.
halloween had been one of your most favorite times of the year, especially when attending college, but this year's activities were basically halted. you were dolled up like the sluttiest cowgirl to match with lizzie. you had only gone out for an hour. you interacted with your lyft driver more than anyone in the bar and immediately had to tell him that you were sorry for crying.
your social media which was once buzzing with photos from everything had also taken a turn for the worst. everything from the end of may to the beginning of august was just reminders of mikey, although he was in none of the photos. lounging by the pool? yeah, that was the swimsuit he had liked the most. pictures at the ballpark with your brother? it only made you think about mikey having heartburn from concession station nachos. that dumb picture you had taken of your half-eaten beef sandwich? that one hurt the most because mikey had made it. you tried to cover those posts in your feed with updated ones of your apartment decor, your work on the school communications page, and your paid internship with a local news station, but it never felt like enough.
your family visited for the weekend before thanksgiving to see the apartment. your father was being himself, picking at every little thing about how awful college apartments could be. he had walked through the entire place, asking if you had seen the cracking on the molding or the uneven flooring in the bathroom. you didn't care because anything was better than the dorms. your mother brought a set of embroidered dish towels and a carry-on suitcase full of cleaning supplies. your brother had weaseled his way into staying one night in your apartment rather than at the hotel, which was fine because you stayed up late watching a rented movie and eating an overpriced doordash delivery. it was refreshing to have some sense of normality because no one dared to mention the summer; not like they would speak of it anyway. you had taken enough pain and embarrassment away from it for them to discuss it with you present.
so no, the end of august to mid-december had not been going entirely “well” for you. the only thing you could think to do was return home so you wouldn't be alone for the holidays. you knew your family wouldn't turn you away even if you wanted to turn them away most days. when you called your mom and told her that you wanted to be home, she was ecstatic. within the next hour, she called you back explaining that she had booked your flight for three days after your exams were completed.
in your current studying session, you had been picking up your phone in between making flash cards. your hand was cramping and you were unable to stay completely focused. you leaned back in your desk chair glancing between your computer screen, notebooks, and the index cards sprawled on your desk. you rubbed your cramping hand uncomfortably, massaging your inner palm.
it wouldn't be long until you'd be back in chicago, but right now you are stuck in your apartment with upcoming deadlines and tests to prepare for. you couldn't explain why you were reaching for your phone again. you had just checked a random notification from a video lizzie had sent to you on your social media. you paused the music that was playing, staring blankly at your phone screen before inching your fingers to your messages.
11:11 PM
you: i'll be home for christmas if you're still around
your heart was racing, thinking that unsending it might have been easier, but it was too late. the deed was done. you were hastily putting your phone down with the screen facing the wood of your desk.
you stood from your desk, hitting your palm against your forehead with a groan. your leg began to bounce anxiously, trying to rationalize the decision you had just made. the bear didn't close until ten, mikey always said it took at least an hour or an hour and a half to get everyone out and everything cleaned, so no, he wasn’t going to respond right away. he had priorities. he had a business to run. he was fifty with a goddamn life, probably doing a lot better than you were right now—he wasn't. he wasn't doing any better because if he was he wouldn't have responded.
WC: 7k, rewritten. No edits aside from Google Docs
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, mentions of abuse, canon typical young Beth behavior.
Summary: You and your father move to Montana.
You were 15 when your father got the call. Moving had sucked for you. You had to leave all your family and friends behind. You had to leave school behind, for Montana. For John Dutton.
You wanted to curse his name and your father’s for that matter. You only had him back for a year, he had found a good job working with animals, something as you found out, he had also wanted to do as a child besides fight for his country. I guess that’s a perk of being an animal doctor with military service also at your belt.
You packed everything up and took a plane out to Montana. It’s the first time you’ve ever been on a plane, and unknowingly not your last.
You thought you would hate it. That was the first thought to cross your mind.
“I hate John Dutton, I hate Ranchers, I hate Montana.” As your dad pulled into the large gate of the ranch though, you somewhat changed your mind. You hadn’t seen anything so big, so spacious yet secluded. It made you smile.
Dad parked the truck at the front of a large brown house and turned to you with a smile just as big as yours, possibly bigger.
“I knew you’d like it. Maybe someday when you’re older you’ll have one just like this.”
You shook your head slightly, doubting yourself as a dark thought entered your mind.
Stop being so weak! You don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve anything.
You clenched your fist as tightly as you could, hoping to break the skin. You could hear her voice so clearly, it haunted you. Almost as much as the other thoughts did.
So into your own head, you didn’t hear your dad get out of the truck until he poked your shoulder, with a sad yet expectant look on his face. He somehow always knew when you were thinking of her.
As you get out of the car, you immediately take notice of a boy around your age with curly dark brown hair and a curious yet guarded expression on his face. The two of you gaze at each other for a long while, before he shakes his head and walks away.
You shake your head wondering why you felt like you were supposed to go after him, but something unconsciously was stopping you just as hard. Almost like telling you it wasn’t your time.
Your dad walks towards the door of the large house after telling you to wait a moment, taking the moment, you decide to get your duffle bag out of the back of the truck to get a book. He stands there at the door for a moment before taking a deep breath and knocking with 3 loud raps.
After a moment the door opens and a tall young man seemingly in his early 20’s opens the door.
“Can I help you?” He spoke cautiously, peeking his head around as he saw you. Before your father gets the chance to answer another man, this time around your fathers age comes to the door.
“Lee, whose at the-.” the other man stops himself when he sees your father. The man's face broke into a smile so genuine it looked like it hurt. Like he hadn't smiled in years. Seeing his fathers face, Lee quickly determines that the man at the door is a friend and not a threat. With that information he takes his leave.
“Samuel.”
“I told you, I would come John, did you doubt me.”
“Not for a second. I see you brought your daughter with you.” The two men turn to look at you, who was sitting on the back of the truck, reading a book.
“Yeah. I told her she could stay with Carly while Alex went to school, but she chose to come with me.” There was a small stagnant silence at the mention of the woman's name.
“Well hopefully she'll learn a thing or two. How's she with horses and cattle?” John said after a moment.
“Better than I was at her age.”
“Perfect. I'll have Lee show you to your rooms.” John spoke, before heading back inside. Your father nodded, before going back to the truck to get you and the bags. Which wasn’t long. You both didn’t bring much, just clothes and other essentials.
As the two of you entered the large house, following John, you took the time to ponder about the decor and pictures. It all looked so simple yet there was something dark underlying all of it. Something that unconsciously felt familiar.
“You know, you haven’t been here since you were 3.” Your father spoke up after a moment of comfortable silence, most likely feeling the same feelings you were about the large house.
“Really? I don’t really remember any of that.” Your dad nodded at your response, before remarking that you wouldn’t, that it happened a long time ago. You unconsciously make a sour face, as her face enters your mind.
“Oh, before I forget, there is another boy here your age, Rip. Hopefully you’ll be good friends.”
So that's his name.
As you make it to the dining room where Lee, and two other people were sitting. Another girl around your age, maybe a bit younger and a boy that looked a bit older.
“Beth, Jamie, this is Samuel, an old friend of mine and our new Vet, and his daughter Y/N, they'll be staying with us. My other son, Kayce, is around here somewhere, I assume you’ll see him throughout the day.”
Jamie gave a cordial hello, before going back to what he was doing while Beth rolled her eyes.
“Great, we’re letting the help stay with us. What next, helping the homeless.” Both Lee and Jamie’s head snapped over towards her, before gauging their fathers reaction.
John sighed in slight annoyance, shaking his head. You make a face, while glaring at her softly and she glares back.
“Beth be nice. Lee, would you show them to their rooms.” Before he apologized quietly to us. Lee stood up, before guiding us away from the dining room and towards the steps, he took your father to his room first before showing you to yours.
As you take in the large room, Lee takes this moment to once again apologize for his sister's behavior.
“I wanted to apologize for what Beth said. She can be a real bitch sometimes. But if you get to know her she's not always like that.” You again make a face, wondering if you should feel offended for Beth on the fact that her own brother called her a ‘bitch’ but decide against it.
“She should apologize, not you. You didn’t do anything.”
“That's very kind of you to say.” You turn towards him, shaking your head.
“Not kind. It's the truth, people need to own up to their own mistakes and transgressions. If it's one thing I hate, it's when people blame others for what they've done.”
Lee nods, noting the sad tone in your voice. As you turn and place your bag on the bed, you once again think of her.
“I’ll let you get unpacked and let you guys know when supper is ready.” You nod, before hearing the door close. After a long moment you hear the door open again.
“Hey kiddo. How are you feeling?” For a moment you didn’t answer, didn’t face him.
“Dad, why did you want to come up here? There were tons of veterinary options back home.”
He sighs, before coming around to face you, looking you in your eyes.
“It’s a lot to explain right now. Maybe I'll tell you when you're older. All you need to know is that this will be good for us. Good for you. Can you at least try and be happy? Try to engage?”
“I’ll try.” He smiles at that.
“Who knows, you might actually like it here. This could be our new home. This could be our heaven.”
“And what if you're wrong? What if this becomes my version of hell?” You retort quickly. He sighs, not sure how to respond.
“I’ll come get you when supper is ready.”
This time, you nod. After a moment your dad leaves. You walk towards and lay across the sheetless bed for a moment before getting up and opening the window blinds.
As you do, you see him again. You get that weird feeling again. He looks up right at your window as if he can sense someone staring at him, and you duck down to the ground awkwardly. You stay on the ground for a long moment before getting some balls and taking a small peak out of the window. He was gone.
Please don’t be wrong dad. Please let this be good. Please don’t prove I’m right.
3 hours later after you had finished unpacking and putting the bed sheets on, as you were reading your favorite book, supper was ready, Lee had guided you and your father back to the kitchen.
Ever the gracious host, it seems.
As you entered the dining room, you took notice of a boy that wasn’t there before.
This must be Kayce.
Your suspicions were confirmed by John introducing him to you and your father.
For a moment you and your father stood there awkwardly and definitely uncomfortable as the small family stared at you.
It was your father that broke the silence, asking if there were specific seats.
“Sit wherever.” John remarked, Beth's head snapped up at that, silently praying that neither of you sat in her mothers seat. With that you both sat down, you sat next to Jamie, while your father sat on the opposite side of you.
As you all waited for supper to be served, John started asking questions, a small attempt to make conversation, a large attempt to get a glimpse into your future.
“So Y/N, your daddy tells me, you do very well in school.” Your dad looks over at John warringly, as if warning him of something. You turn towards him to answer.
“I do pretty well. I'm no genius or anything but I get by.” John nods, taking note of your humility.
“Any subject you think you could see yourself building a career around or at least going to college for?” This question piques the interest of his oldest son. He had once been asked a question like this, back when his father was deciding what he wanted him to be when he had gotten older. It sends a small chill down his spine.
It especially piqued your interest as it was a very odd question to ask a guest. You want to say something about it to your father, but instead you quickly glance at his reaction to see him looking at you. Clearly wanting to know the answer. That was when you made your decision, take note of what was said and hold it in your head.
“Well sir, I like English and History. Back home we were learning about Shakespear, and in History we were learning about why the kings and queens all died.”
John nodded chuckling, just then the food was served. As you all filled your plates with food, you felt someone staring or more glaring at you. Looking up, you notice Beth. the two of you have a small stare off, only broken when she moved, apparently not able to keep up.
Feeling more relaxed with the nice conversation, and especially the good food, you continue to hold the conversation up.
“I also like gym and science. If I had to pick my top 3 majors to go into, it would be Agriculture, History or Biology like my dad.” Your dad smiles at that. John hums softly, still chewing on his food.
After a few more questions you all eat your food in a comfortable silence. When supper was finished, you headed up to brush your teeth, Beth quickly following after you.
Heading to your new room, you close the door only for it to open a second later. You spin around in surprise only to see Beth, and roll your eyes.
“What do you want, I need to get ready for bed.”
She steps towards you slowly, as if to intimidate you. Which already wasn’t going to work seeing as you were taller than her.
“Let me make this clear little girl. You and your dad may live with us, hell you can work on the ranch but you will never be family.” She spoke cooly, smirking, expecting you to tear up or cry. To do something.
She wasn’t expecting you to completely ignore her.
“Yeah whatever, can you get out? I want to get in the shower and just because we have the same body parts doesn’t mean I want you looking.”
She huffs in annoyance and turns ready to walk away.
“Oh, and call me a little girl again, I’ll punch you and tell your father I did it.” She walks away after that, slamming your door closed in the process.
That girl needs to get her ass beat or get spanked by her dad.
With that thought you walk to the bathroom, take your clothes off, put a shower cap on and hop in the shower. Once you are done, you moisturize your body and hair, then pick out some night clothes and get into bed.
It takes a minute to get used to the large bed. You had a twin sized bed back home.
After a while you slowly fall asleep trying to rest for whatever comes tomorrow. Not realizing it would be a storm.
The next morning you wake up to the sun gleaming beautifully bright into your room, you lay in bed for a long while before getting up and getting ready to start the day.
You felt good even though it has only been half a day since you’ve been here. You walk to the bathroom, handle your business, wash your hands, brush your teeth and then hop into the shower. Once you’ve finished you moisturize your skin and fix your hair.
Then you get dressed, deciding to pick something simple from your currently limited clothing collection. Jeans, a long sleeved shirt, a jean jacket and some boots. You knew you'd be hot but at least it covers you up.
On your way out, you check yourself in the mirror, nodding in approval before officially heading downstairs to the dining room for breakfast.
As you enter the dining room you see everyone but Beth at the table.
“Good morning y’all. How are you doing this morning?” You greet them all as politely as possible. Everyone greets you, and as your father greets you he stands to pull a chair out for you.
You hear someone snicker softly, your head quickly turning to the sound in confusion.
It was Kayce. He shook his head as if trying to vehemently deny something.
“Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before. Y’all. Isn’t that a Texas thing?”
You relax, before shrugging and looking to your dad for an answer. He always had one.
“Everyone uses that phrase at some point in their lives, whether they’re from the south or on the east coast.” That was the simplest answer he could come up with to that question.
Kayce nodded before continuing to eat his food, your dad doing the same.
You grab some food for yourself and start eating. You oddly felt at peace right now. It was weird, you didn’t feel like that yesterday, maybe you still don’t.
If you were being honest with yourself, it was as if you were waiting for the other shoe to drop, or in country terms “waiting for a tornado in a trailer park.”
As if on cue, Beth walked into the dining room, a skirt on with a flannel, along with an angry expression on her face.
“Good morning honey.” John greeted Beth, she greeted him as well her brothers, before taking notice of you. Your father greeted her but she ignored him.
She sat in her chair, staring harshly at you as John cleared his throat. Beth turned to him and after a second rolled her eyes, before greeting your father.
She grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl and picked it apart.
“Good morning Beth.” You greeted as kindly as possible. Her eyes snapped up to you before throwing the orange onto her empty plate and storming off.
“Well that went well.” Lee spoke up after a few uncomfortable moments. John, Kayce and Jamie nodded, agreeing with him.
“Ok, I’m going to go help Lloyd and Rowdy with the foals. Maybe Rip can help today, we could use some extra help with them.” Lee informed everyone, standing up, though he was mostly talking to his father.
You stopped moving at the sound of the boy's name. You felt so uncomfortable about whatever it was that you were feeling. You hadn’t even met him officially and yet he has your heart pounding like a drum.
You hated it.
“No, Rip works the barn. Take Y/N with you, show her the ranch. If that’s ok, Samuel?” You looked at your father with a hopeful expression on your face.
He looked at you for a moment before sighing.
“You can go, but stay on the sidelines only roping and tagging. If you want to have a career in Veterinary science or agriculture you might as well get some extra training.” You squeal in excitement quickly getting up and hugging him as he continues to sit. He hugs you back, smiling softly. As you are just about ready to run out, you get called back.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” You stop, turning confused before a look of realization comes across your face.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Dutton.”
“No need to thank me. Your dad’s told me you like animals. And you can call me John sweetheart.” John smiles at you.
“Thank you John.” With that, you and Lee head out the door.
Unbeknownst to any of you, Beth had been sitting on the steps, listening. She felt sad that her father seemed so happy to have a girl who wasn’t afraid of horses or seemingly didn’t have any trauma. But she wouldn’t cry. Crying was a sign of weakness. Her mother taught her that, her own father reinforcing it. Still she couldn’t stop a sad thought from entering her mind.
He has a new daughter. A daughter who still has her own father. He’ll love her more. He’ll love someone who’s not family more. Someone who’s not me.
She ran upstairs, trying to form a plan.
Maybe if he saw how weak she was, he would ignore her. Maybe I could get his attention again, his approval.
With that thought a plan entered her mind, she smirked.
Outside, you and Lee had walked to the barn to grab some horses and supplies. On the way, you met Lloyd, Rowdy and a pervy older guy. He made you especially uncomfortable, it sent a shiver down your spine.
Entering the barn you see him. He was cleaning a horse stall, sweat dripping from his forehead despite not being in the sun. You notice his sharp facial features, greenish blue eyes and what you think might be freckles.
You were broken out of your deep thoughts by Lee tapping your shoulder with a playful smirk on his face. Your face flushed slightly, not that anyone could tell, and cleared your throat. Somehow gaining his attention.
“Rip, have you met Y/N yet?” Lee asked knowing full well he hasn’t. Lee grabs a saddle, motioning for you to grab one as well. Rip shakes his head, and quickly puts the shovel he had in his hand down, rushing to help you.
“Well, Rip this is Y/N Y/L/N, she's going to be staying with us while her father doctor’s the animals. Y/N this is Rip Wheeler, a ranch hand. He's been with us for a couple months.” Rip makes a small face at the subtle reminder which you notice, before handing you the saddle. You nod in appreciation.
“Nice to meet you, miss.” He stared at you for a long moment. The moment was broken by a horse snorting in anticipation to be outside. Lee walked by with a horse trailing behind him from the reins. He walked the horse outside before grabbing your saddle and fastening it to the horse like you didn’t know how to do it yourself. Ok, so you’ve never saddled a horse by yourself but no one needs to know that. Especially Rip.
‘Nice to meet you Rip.” Rip went back to work while you followed after Lee, watching sharply and listening intently as he taught you how to tie the saddle to the horse safely. After he showed you, he undid it all and asked you to repeat what he did. You did it almost perfectly. Almost. Given that it was your first time saddling your own horse, he didn’t give you any crap for it, just asked you to start over. On the fourth try you got it down.
With that Lee ran back to the barn, grabbed and saddled his own horse. Normally he would have Rip do it, but since the teenage boy was still cleaning the stalls, he let it go. Besides, he was supposed to be the one teaching you, not Rip.
Lee led you out to pasture 12, teaching you about the land and giving you a small history lesson of how his family came to have the ranch. At least all that he could tell.
As he was giving you this ‘history lesson’ you could tell in his voice that he was hiding something. You gave him a once over and noticed him fidgeting slightly with his rope, so you decided to speak up on it.
“Are you nervous or something?”
“What?” Lee turned his head towards you sharply, before continuing on up the pasture.
“Are you nervous?”
“No, why would you ask something like that?” His voice had gotten a little deeper.
He was lying.
“People have a tendency to fidget with things in their hands or go to an old most likely destructive habit when they’re nervous. Or lying.” You purposely added that last, wanting to catch him off guard. And it worked.
“You’re a nosy little thing ain’t you.”
“Not nosy, just observant.”
“So, what do you think I'm nervous about?”
“Not nervous, lying. And you clearly don’t want to be, but I have a feeling someone doesn’t trust you enough to tell the whole truth.”
“Sure ok. Lying. What do you think I'm lying about?”
“This ranch. I can feel it, there’s something in the air. It’s dark.”
Lee shook his head, chuckling softly. He didn’t say anything for a couple moments, and you took that as neither confirmation nor denial.
“Come on, gotta get these foals up to the pasture and back before dark.” The two of you continued on, with the rest of the gang of people trailing somewhat farther behind.
In the house, Beth ran downstairs, to share the news of her wanting you to go to her school. As she got to the great room where she could hear her dads voice along with yours she stopped hearing her fathers voice. She stepped a little closer, peaking her head into the room slightly, making sure to stay out of sight, trying to listen in.
“I don’t understand how she could do that.” John spoke up, perplexed.
“She was going through something, something I couldn't help her with.” Samuel said softly, he took a sip of the whiskey he had in his hand.
“But to do that to your children. To stab your own daughter, that’s more than going through something.”
Samuel nodded in agreement, he left out the fact that she had done something to Alex as well.
“I wanted to get them away from her, but by the time I did, it was too late. She made them both watch. Thankfully the cops and ambulance showed up in time but the damage was already done. I’m just thankful that Carly was able to take them for a little while.” Beth perked up at the woman's name.
Who’s Carly?
As if he could hear her thoughts, John spoke up again, but it wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.
“How is she?”
“She’s alright. She and Jason are doing well, not that that’s what you wanted to hear.” Samuel stated, with a grim tone.
“I’m fine. I've moved on, I have Evelyn. I had Evelyn.” John swallowed harshly as if just remembering his wife had died. He shook his head, frowning.
Beth swallowed, she started to get angry, tears coming to her eyes at the mention of her mother. She left, figuring she could execute her plan another time.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Samuel nodded in understanding. Sure, he was willing to open up sometimes, to people who could understand, but John wasn’t like that. John was stagnant. Mostly stuck in his ways.
After a few moments of silence John sighed, taking a large swig of his whiskey.
“I know I shouldn't feel this way about it. About her, but I do and I don't know how to stop it. I just get so mad at her sometimes, all I see when I look at her is Evelyn. And I hate it. I hate that I sometimes secretly wished it was her instead of Evelyn.”
“You really loved her, huh.”
“She’s the mother of my children.”
“So was Carly.” Samuel quickly mentions before grimacing.
John froze. He hadn’t thought about that since he was a teenager, he had moved on. But did he really? He still keeps those letters and those pictures under a broken floorboard in his room.
A small tear escaped his left eye, unafraid to show at least some emotion in front of his old friend. His almost brother in law.
After a long moment, John sighed and stood up and placed his glass back on the table. He prepared to walk by Samuel but before he did, he declared one last thing.
“I loved Evelyn.”
Samuel pushed him, pushed him to try to admit the truth. The truth he kept from his children, from himself.
“The same way you love Carly.”
John walked away, heading upstairs. As he did this, he repeated it to himself, to the air.
“I loved Evelyn.” He declared trying to convince everyone or maybe himself, but no one was around to listen.
It was around 7 when you and Lee got back in the house, you were buzzing from excitement. You wanted to wash up quickly, taking notice of how you both smelled like the outside, but Lee said it was fine. So all you opted for was washing your hands.
When you both got to the dining room, supper was already served and everyone was sitting at the table.
“Hey. How was it out there?” Your father greeted you, pulling your chair out. He smiled, seeing you smile, it had been such a long time since he’d seen you smile. Not counting yesterday.
“It was amazing, we went up to pasture 12 and fed some of the foals, and I saw a trout today. Oh, I also taught them a new rope trick when we were roping the foals and cattle. It was so cool.” You sat down, in between your father and Jamie.
“Oh, yeah.” John remarked, he had his hand on a glass of whiskey. “What was the trick?”
He took a large sip of the whiskey, before placing it down, waiting for you to respond.
You happily explain the rope trick. As you move your hands around, your dad observes your body, looking for scratches or bruises. He spots a small scratch on your nose and one on the back of your hand.
He exhales through his nose silently.
When you're done with explaining the rope trick, Lee praises you and confirms that it was a solid rope trick especially for a ‘city girl’, everyone begins eating.
All throughout supper, you could feel someone staring at you or more, glaring at you. You knew who it was but you wanted to confirm before saying anything.
You quickly glance up and see you were right. Beth was glaring at you. For what, you didn’t know but you weren’t going to let it continue.
“Is there a problem?”
You might as well have screamed it at the top of your lungs. Everything seemed to freeze the moment you spoke up, breaking the comfortable silence.
“What?” Your father questioned, turning his head towards you.
Shaking your head, “Not you, Beth.”
You put her on the spot and you know it. Now everyone’s attention is on Beth, who is still glaring at you.
“Beth, is there a problem?” John spoke up, seeing his daughter glaring at his young guest.
“Yes, there is a problem. Why are they here? They could be anywhere, and yet they're here. Why?"
“Beth, don’t be rude. You know why they’re here. We need a new vet.”
Beth scoffed, “We need a new vet. What happened to the other one, he was perfectly fine.”
Lee perked up at this, making a face of disgust. He knew why they really needed a new Vet. The old vet made some sexual comments about his baby sister, overhearing this he immediately went to his father.
He was there when his dad asked Lloyd to get rid of him. He was there, when Lloyd took the guy to the train station. It was that night that he was shown the truth of the ranch. It was that night that changed the course of his life.
“The other Vet left. Ok. I know Samuel and I trust him, they will be staying with us for the foreseeable future until he decides to get a place of his own. That’s all you need to know.”
Beth huffed and slumped in her chair, about to concede the argument when the thought popped back into her head.
“Ok, fine. But doesn’t she need to be in school, I mean, clearly she wants to be just like her dad. We should enroll her at my school. Right daddy.”
“What is happening? What school, I just got here.” you finally spoke up, after watching the two Dutton’s talk like you and your father weren’t in the room. Like no one was in the room.
“Beth, stop. She’s right, she just got here and besides, it’s not my decision. Samuel? What do you think? Should she go to school with Beth and work after or just keep her working?”
“It’s not my decision either, it’s what she wants to do. Although I do recommend going to school and then work.” Your father responded.
Your brain was hurting, first with Beth putting you on the spot, then with everyone seemingly planning your school life like you weren’t there.
“I need a moment.” You quickly excused yourself and went upstairs to your room.
Downstairs an argument had erupted. John was scolding Beth for putting you and Samuel on the spot. Especially over something that wasn’t needed at the moment.
After a couple more minutes of hushed angry speeches, Beth walked away, sneaking outside to see Rip.
“I’m sorry. She hasn’t been the same since Evelyn.”
Samuel nodded in understanding, but just because he understood, doesn’t mean he was going to allow that type of confrontation to happen again.
“You should get her under control, John.”
Samuel stood up and walked away, upstairs towards your room, ready to check on you.
Reaching your room he knocked on your door softly. Your brain was swirling, those dark thoughts edging closer and closer. In between all that, you heard her voice.
“It’s ok. It'll make us all feel better.” You could still feel the blood splattering on to your face, feel it leaking out of your body. The hot liquid, pooling around the both of you as your older brother lay unconscious.
You stood up and walked towards the mirror on top of the drawer. You glanced at the scissors by the small journal you keep but don’t write in. You reach for them, but stop yourself, hearing your fathers voice break through the fog.
“Angel, can I come in?” He peeked it open, just enough to hear you more clearly. You sit back on the bed, body slightly shaking.
“You can come in.” He opened the door more and stepped inside. He sat down on your bed with you and glanced around your still bare room.
“You know dad, you don’t have to ask for permission every time you want to come into my room right?”
He sighed, nodding before responding quickly.
“I know that, but you're growing up, and as much as I don't like it, you're going to be a young woman soon, you need your own space. And everyone should knock before entering a room, it's just common sense and decency. I wanted to talk to you about school.”
“I was thinking about that too.” You lie. “I would like to go back, but I would also like to know about all the important decisions you have involving me before you make them.”
“Tell you what, anytime I have an important decision involving you, I will talk to you about it so that way we can formulate a good plan for both of us.” Your dad said, curious to know your thoughts on that plan.
“I would like that. And I'm ok with school first, work later.”
“Ok. Now tell me why you have a scratch on your nose and hand.”
“I kinda hit myself in the face with a branch, and I fell off the horse.”
“Why didn’t Lee help you, I thought I made myself clear.”
“It wasn’t his fault, I kinda got cocky and excited, ended up spooking the horse a little.”
“Well are you ok?”
“Yes, dad. I’m fine.”
“Ok.”
“Ok.”
“So why do you think Beth wanted me to go to her school?”
“I guess she's coming around to you.” You let out a small laugh.
“No she's not. She's probably planning something, a humiliation ritual or something of the sort.”
“Go easy on her. She's going through a lot, she lost her mom a couple months ago. Not that that's an excuse but if anyone can understand that it should be you.” You made a sour face as you thought about her.
Instinctively you reached for your midsection just below your training bra, then you thought about that night. Slowly you became angry.
“That’s different and you know it.”
“Look I'm not saying you have to be best friends with the girl, just be nice.”
“I’ve been nice, she's the one acting like a bitch. I guess she thinks someone dying gives her a free pass to be one. Newsflash it doesn’t.”
“Look, we're getting off topic. Lets just see how this work and school thing goes then go from there, ok.”
“Ok.” With that, your dad got up to leave but before he did a dark thought entered his mind. Something that made him pause.
“Baby?”
“Yeah dad.”
“You know life doesn't always go your way, right?”
That confused you for a second. But still, you nodded despite his back being towards you.
“I just want you to know you can always come to me. No matter what it is. And if you want to try to handle it on your own, I'll still support you. I’ll always love you.”
“I know, I love you.” You responded after a second, still confused. Your dad nodded, before finally facing you, his eyes locked onto yours, his pinky out.
“Promise me. Promise me, no matter what it is, you'll come to me.”
“I promise.” You linked your pinky with his maintaining eye contact.
“Good. Good night.”
“Good night.” With that your father left the room leaving you wondering what caused him to make you make that promise. Unbeknownst to you, he was thinking about both her and Carly.
Outside Beth walked to the barn on a mission. She entered and knocked on the small door at the corner of the end of the barn. She waited for a moment before it opened, Rip standing on the other side.
The boy wiped some sleep from his eyes, squinting at the 13 year old girl standing in front of him.
“What is it? What happened?” Rip questioned her, seeing her angry face. She didn’t respond, only grabbed his face and kissed him harshly.
The boy grunted in surprise, stumbling backwards, before pushing her away softly.
“Beth, wait. What’s wrong?”
Beth stopped, panting heavily despite the kiss only lasting for about 3 seconds.
“She’s stealing them. She thinks I can't see it but I do.”
“Who’s stealing who?” he was very confused, from her erratic behavior to her rambling which he sometimes liked, but right now, it's too late for it and he’s exhausted.
“That girl. Y/N. The new vets daughter. She’s stealing my whole family.” She tried to grab his face again but he stopped her, grabbing her hands.
“Beth, stop. No one can steal your family.”
Beth grunted in annoyance. She glared at him for a second before walking away muttering that he was ‘useless and didn’t understand’.
She went back to the house, walking in as quietly as possible. She headed up to her room but stopped, when she walked by your room.
She opened the door, causing it to bang against the wall loudly. You were in your bed looking at pictures of her when this happened.
You jolted in surprise, before seeing her standing there with an angry look on her face. You got out of bed slowly, walking towards her, eyes locked onto hers. The pictures were still in your hand.
“What?” She looked down, seeing the picture of your family. Aunt Carly, Uncle Jason, Alex, your dad, her and you as a baby.
Beth hummed, “You’re the sentimental type huh. You know my dad is going to get bored of you. And when he does, I'll be there.”
A dark thought entered your mind, her voice loud and clear.
Don’t let anyone disrespect you. Break her. Destroy her. Get rid of her. Get a knife!
You hummed, mocking her as you looked her up and down analyzing her, “And you’re the projection type huh. Can’t admit any of your faults, can’t admit when you're wrong. Always looking for a way out. You know what’s so sad. You think you don’t deserve anything in this life. Keep acting like that and life will prove you right.”
Beth glared up at you, but didn’t say anything, only walking out of the room to her own. When she left you closed the door and went back to bed. Only you couldn’t sleep afterwards, hours passed and those dark thoughts were still swirling inside your mind. Silence is not your friend tonight.
As if on autopilot, you went to the bathroom, grabbed some hair shears from the bottom cabinet and looked at yourself in the mirror.
The thoughts got louder, screaming at you. ‘Just do it. You’ll feel better. It can end. You’ll be happier.’
You shook your head hoping to dispel them and when you looked up you saw her. Gasping and jumping back, you dropped the scissors onto the floor.
You look at the scissors in shock before walking out of the bathroom, out of your room and out of the house completely. The house was still as everyone had gone to sleep.
You walk towards the corral that's nearby and stand there, looking up to the dark Montana night sky.
The thoughts were still trying to take over, still clambering at your brain. As you stand there in the darkness with your own abyss like thoughts, you don't hear footsteps coming up behind you.
You feel a hand come onto your shoulder and you quickly turn around and swing your left arm. You felt your fist make contact, before you heard a loud grunt of pain and saw someone falling to the ground.
As you slowly make out the figure in the darkness, you see its Rip.
Oh my gosh, I just punched Rip.
“I’m so sorry. Oh, god, I'm sorry.” You quickly apologize. Rip stands up, rubbing his jaw.
“It’s fine, I'm ok. I shouldn't have snuck up on you.You know, you pack a mean punch.”
You laugh softly, “It’s not ok. I should’ve been paying attention. And I know, my brother and I used to take boxing lessons.”
Rip nodded in response. “Well, you’ll be happy to know, I think this might bruise.”
You smile sheepishly and apologize once again. Then the two of you stand there in a comfortable silence.
“So, what are you doing out here?” You ask him after a couple minutes.
“I was gonna ask you that.”
You scoff in response. “I couldn’t sleep.” It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
“What about you? Why are you out here?” You repeat the question.
“I couldn’t sleep.” He gives the same response you did. You chuckle and nod, before rubbing at your head softly.
The thoughts still hadn’t stopped, instead they changed.
Get away from him. You’ll ruin him too. Just get a knife and end it. Just go, everyone will be better off.
You shivered slightly at the wind blowing, before realizing you were only in your sleep clothes. Rip noticed this and took off his jacket and put it over your shoulders.
“Thank you.” You look him in his eyes, his beautiful greenish blue eyes. He nodded in response, then he looked at your eyes as if trying to memorize them before glancing at your lips.
“No problem, sweet girl.” Your face flushed softly and you turned away feeling slightly overwhelmed.
He exhaled harshly, shaking his head, breaking the small moment. You look at the ground slightly hurt. Unsure of why, it's not like anything was ever going to happen between you two.
“So, how are you liking it here?” He spoke up after a moment.
“It’s alright. I’m not really used to it yet, it's only been 2 days so far. Some people could definitely be better.” He nodded in understanding, quickly realizing you were talking about Beth. He recalled the day he met Beth.
That girl is a firecracker.
Rip watched you as you stared off into space for a moment. He noticed the way your hair was neatly braided into a ponytail. It was long too.
You probably had easier access to certain hair products or something.
He liked the way you styled your braids in different ways too. One minute it would be in a bun, next curled, the minute after that pig tails.
He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of a yawn. He smiled softly as you scrunched up your face softly.
“Come on. It's getting cold and you're clearly tired darlin’.”
You shook your head, trying to deny it but another yawn escaped you.
You sigh and let him lead you to the barn out of the cold. He opens a small door, which you thought was a closet, but clearly wasn’t. It was his room. You entered, careful not to step on anything, standing just 3 feet from him. You looked around, noticing there was only work equipment in the room, along with a twin size bed.
Nothing of his. No family pictures, no band or movie posters. It was almost like he didn’t exist. Like he didn’t know what he was outside of this ranch.
It made you sad. Then it slowly made you angry, but you pushed it down.
“This is nice.” You speak up trying to hide your disappointment, he had nothing in here.
Who could treat such a sweet, kind and handsome boy like this. Handsome?! What the heck, calm down girl.
“It's alright.” Rip shrugs.
He doesn’t think he deserves better than this. I'll prove it. I'll prove this and more.
“Why don’t you have anything of yours here?” You bluntly ask after a minute of silence.
He looks at you shocked as if no one has ever asked him that before. He takes a second to think of his response, sensing the thickness in the air.
“Because I didn't have anything when I came here.” Y/N nods, taking a step closer.
“And where did you come from?” Another step. He inhales through his nose quietly, smelling the soap you had used previously to shower. It was intoxicating, in a good way. Not the type that made him get a headache like when Beth wears that expensive perfume. He also notices that the smell is mixing with his, from the jacket and that, that makes his head spin.
“I don’t know.” He exhales softly, this time taking that last step towards you.
You look at him from under your eyelashes, a distant look in your eyes, before focusing on him again.
“You don’t know?” It came out as a question but was really a statement. Rip shook his head. You hummed under your breath, looking away and you heard him grunt softly under his breath.
You looked back at him. He damn near lost his mind. It had been so long since anyone has looked at him like that.
Like he was just Rip. Not some kid whose dad killed his mom and little brother. Like he wasn’t some fragile breakable thing. Like he didn’t need pity.
He didn’t need pity. He needed someone there, he needed to be bigger. He needed to be safe. He needed a home.
The air in the room had gotten so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
“I should go, my dad is going to realise I'm gone.”
Rip nodded despite wanting you to stay. As you walked by him, you remembered his jacket and handed it to him. As you did this a small electric shock went through the both of you, causing you to flinch back.
Thinking this was a recoil of him, he looked at the ground. Thinking of what to say, nothing could come. Nothing but,
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” He repeated, taking a step towards you.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. For Beth.”
You sighed in annoyance, “I really wish people would stop apologizing for her. She’s her own person capable of doing and saying things on her own. Whether she does or not is on her.”
Rip chuckled but didn’t respond for a moment.
“Good night, darlin’.”
“Good night, huckleberry.” You turn ready to walk away, when you hear his voice again.
“Huckleberry?”
“Huckleberry.” You confirm, smiling at him. He lets out a laugh, watching you leave and walk back to the main house.
In all this time, as you walk through the door of the house, up the stairs and towards your room as silently as possible, you hadn’t even realized the thoughts had stopped. They were gone. For now.
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Dearest Gentle reader, as another season starts so do the surprises. It has been said that we are to welcome the Queen and King of Genovia for the first half of this season, and not only that but to witness the very first public appearance of their eldest, Princess Y/N Devereaux.
I'm sure the Queen will want us to be the most gracious hosts, even if this family of royals have a reputation for enjoying scandal.
Isn't it exciting when life becomes a fairytale of sorts?
(Bridgerton x Princess Diaries crossover)
Chapter 1. Fun Times & Potty Rooms
Chapter 2. The Botanist
Chapter 3. Faux Pas
Chapter 4. The Artist
Chapter 5. Drawing Lessons
Chapter 6. Thoughts & Ink
Chapter 7. A Moment of Enlightenment
Chapter 8. An Offer From a Gentleman
Chapter 9. Wallflowers
Chapter 10. Lilacs
Chapter 11. Gilded Feathers
Chapter 12. Roses
Chapter 13. Hyacinths
Chapter 14. Ivy
Chapter 15. Red Catchfly
Chapter 16. Oak-leaved Geranium
Chapter 17. Weeds
Chapter 18. Little Joys
Chapter 19. Lavender
Chapter 20. Moss Rosebud
Chapter 21. Uncharted Waters
Chapter 22. Michaelmas Daisies
Chapter 23. Pear Trees
Chapter 24. Reveries
Chapter 25. Hydrangeas
Chapter 26. The Oddities Parade
Chapter 27. Cabbage Rose
Chapter 28. The Knight
Chapter 29. Lemon Blossoms
Chapter 30. Peach Blossoms
Chapter 31. The Kettle-Head
Chapter 32. Yellow Tulips
Chapter 33. Double Reds
Chapter 34. A Minute of Sunshine
Chapter 35. Lint
Chapter 36. The Royal Family
Chapter 37. What Is It to Truly Admire a Woman?
Chapter 38. Forget Me Nots
Chapter 39. The Critter (July 26th)
Chapter 40.
18+ story (Minors DNI!) so yes it's smut with A LOT of plot
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has only one goal for this upcoming social season. To find a wife. What will he do when a young woman with no desire for marriage comes waltzing into his life?
