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cw: biting (?), [dad]dy kink, fauxcest

kitten!reader gets nervous when people get too close. what if you have a bad day and everyone who claims they love you realise that they can't handle someone who flips out like that ? what if they run ? what if you're not as good as you think you are ? granted you didn't think you were all that good to begin with but what if someone notices ?

so you put your worst foot forward. you're a brat, you have an attitude uncontainable even with the highest placations. and for some reason richie doesn't balk. he keeps taking care of you, brings dates to you if you refuse to go out, leaves you his shirts and sweatshirts and loose pairs of briefs without making any comment about how you shuffle them into your wardrobe.

and you bite.

at first they were just little nips at richie's shoulder, at his hand if he held yours, at his arm when he dropped next to your on the couch. and when that didn't make him budge you went harder, teeth digging into the flesh until you felt him tense. still, he kept coming back. kept grinning when you walked into the room. kept kissing you and holding you and it was damn near driving you crazy. you'd pick fights, scowling at his laughter, bit him hard enough to bleed.

the first drop of blood was the first time his hand clamped down around the back of your neck like scruffing an unruly kitten that wouldn't stop chewing on wires. he pulled your head up from his shoulder, eyes narrowed while he watched the first flickers of shame hit your expression, tears welling up in your eyes. this was it, here was the big one-two, the thing you've been waiting for but now can't face.

"now i know my girl isn't bad. didn't raise you to be bad, did i ? am i that bad of a dad ?" it's a guilt trip and it works like a charm. the tears spill right over your cheeks, head shaking furiously side-to-side... as furiously as you can manage in his grip anyway.

"no ! no, you're not a bad dad ! you're not, 'm sorry. 'm sorry, i didn't mean it i- i just wanted- i didn't-" you sputter, sniffling and trying to squirm out of his grip so you can hide away in his shoulder. "you're a good dad. 'm just... 'm bad. 'm bad and you're not bad and you'll realise i am bad and you'll leave and if i make you leave it won't hurt as bad and and and..."

"shh, hey. look at me. you are not bad. i'll tell you every damn day if you need me to, kit. but you aren't bad. you've never been bad. i wouldn't have a bad daughter. i'm not going anywhere unless you wake up one day and decide to fuckin' dip out, so knock that thought outta your damn head. now, you gonna keep biting ? 'cause i heard you've been biting everyone."

you shake your head again but it's small, muted. no, you won't bite anyone the way you did today... but you can't promise not to bite ever.

"just keep the teeth between you 'n' me, okay, kid ?"

"okay dad..."

certainly he'd find out bc kitten!reader couln't stop snickering every time he entered a room but no... no, carm finds out because he's swinging by richie's to pick up a change of shirt (you spilled ketchup on yours and if there's one thing you cannot tolerate it's feeling sticky in any regard).

there, poking out from beneath your pillow, is a little polaroid. sue him for looking ! it was practically calling for him like skin beneath some nice lingerie... and yeah, sure, he assumed it'd be a picture of you (maybe with richie involved, maybe not. but whether that had carmen inclined to look more or less wasn't something he had the mindfulnesss to contemplate just yet).

at first it's confusion. it's sure as shit not you, and carm's seen richie shirtless enough times to know it's not him either. there's a disconnect at recognising his own body on film and the second it clicks his brain just shuts down. he came here to get a shirt and that's what he'll do so you don't start biting people in the restaurant. a shirt. yeah. he's here for a shirt. why the fuck do you have a picture of him under your pillow ? a shirt !

he tucks the polaroid back under your pillow, pulls it back out, puts it back, back and forth a few times before finally deciding to slip it right back where he found it. careful precision like plating a dish— this angle, no a little to the left, a bit more tucked, no not quite, yes ! okay, yes ! as if you'd even notice. you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached to your neck.

by the time he gets back, handing you a fresh shirt with a dead-locked stare, you're already sitting under the desk in the office, hands shaking a bit in front of you. he might as well be gd handing you a clean shirt and you're so focused on that you don't register the stare.

carmen is never gonna bring it up. gun to his head ? the gun's going off. no chance is he bringing it up. unless he catches you staring every time he stretches upwards, a little flash of skin at the hem of his shirt and your bottom lip pulled between your teeth like it's something far more scandalous than it is. maybe then he'll have to bring it up, just for the chance to see you go all defensive.