Little brother, where do you run?

he leaves socks fucking everywhere, never loaded a dishwasher in his life, wouldn’t know how to work the washing machine if you stapled the instructions to his forehead.

he refuses to acknowledge valentines day.

“s’just another excuse to spend money, love. don’t need a special day to prove i love you. we’ll go out for your birthday, eh?”

only you never go out for your birthday. he’ll come home with a half wilted bouquet- the kind that’s been sitting neglected in the stagnant air of the local tesco for the past three days- and expect you to drop to your knees.

he’ll come home late from the pub, his last pint still heavy and bready on his breath. he’ll sprawl over the bed, lug his alcohol laden body on top of you and nudge himself between your legs. wakes you up, gets himself off, and rolls over. leaves you high and very dry, left to deal with the mess in the morning while he drags himself out of bed at noon and grumbles round the house like a bear with a bad head.

when you serve him the papers, he can’t believe it. can’t believe you’d do this to him and the kids.

keeps saying to a more than unsurprised simon how “the divorce came out of nowhere. we were happy.”

gets himself set up with a proper bachelor pad just on the outskirts of the suburb where the family home is. the fridge is always half empty but always half full of beer. there’s an ever growing pile of socks starting to engulf the chair in his bedroom. the television never leaves sky sports- if it does, he’s flicked around to the end of cable channels to babestation or something of the sort.

when he does come to get the kids every second and fourth saturday of the month, he bullies his way into the house.

i paid off the mortgage, love. still my house.

he’ll take the kids out for a couple hours, trying to get his youngest into football or rugby and away from bloody ballet.

who does he think he is? billy elliot?

when they come home smelling of grass and cold air, he sits down for family dinner. says to the boys to pick out a film for them all to watch together. as a family.

as expected, the boys are dead asleep before the film’s even halfway finished. he’ll pick them up and tuck them in bed, promises he’ll see them soon.

and then he’ll stalk back downstairs to where you’re waiting. yank you from the settee down the hall to your once shared bedroom. shove you onto the bed and eat your cunt until your brain is leaking onto the duvet cover. he’ll sit up on his knees between your legs, towering over your prone form, tracing the burns and scratches on your inner thighs from his thick beard.

he’ll shove himself in your hole without preamble or care, wants it to hurt a bit. make you hurt like you’ve made him hurt. his thumb presses heavily on your clit, so much so it aches when he lifts the calloused pad and a string of slick comes along with it.

your tits are abused and red raw by the time his mouth is finished with them and he moves to your ear to growl filth to you whilst he pumps his hips shallow but firm

you miss this, yeah? miss my cock?

gimme another babe, doll. we were so good the first two times. gimme a third, come on.

by the time he pulls out, leaving a puddle of cum deep inside you that leaks when he pushes another finger to the first knuckle into your sore cunt, you’re both breathless and spent.

so spent you don’t bother shoving him out of the house. you allow him to wrap his arms around your neck, allow him to drag you into his sweat-slick body, allow him to position you on his hairy chest so you can clearly hear his steadily slowing heartbeat.

when you wake, he’s in the kitchen flipping pancakes for the boys- something he hasn’t done since your oldest was a wee babe.

you smell the freshly brewed coffee before you reach the last step and walk on still aching legs towards him and the boys seated around the breakfast nook.

“there she is- say g’morning to your mum, lads.”

you manage to kick him out a few hours later but not without him trying continuously to convince you to let him come back home.

after that, you barely see him for two weeks. not until he comes back to pick up the boys for his custody day.

you answer the door with shaking hands, eyes glassy, dressing gown tucked around your trembling frame.

he looks at you with faux concern, barely concealed smugness in his eyes and the slight upturn of his lips.

him smug smile only widens when you drag him into the kitchen, shoving a plastic stick in his hands.

You've got yourself a quirk.

At least that's what Dutch calls it, just before he cups your chin between his fingers and swipes at your lips with affection.

If you're not sucking on mint leaves until they fall to pieces in your mouth, you're nibbling on pencils trying not to catch a splinter, or worrying your thumb until the skin wrinkles.

You don't know why—only that your jaw hurts every so often, and you always need something between your lips to soothe the ache.

But Dutch? He doesn't mind it one bit.

Says it makes you even more darling in his eyes.

That you're his favorite little thing.

Abigail keeps telling you the way you two go about things ain't healthy, that Dutch is using you. But if that's true, why does it feel so good?

Tonight, you're unsettled, squirming in bed while he tries to read, classical music drifting through the tent from the phonograph.

With a sigh, he puts the book down, glancing at you over it.

"You alright, sweet girl? You're putting up a fuss."

You meet his gaze through your lashes, lips pulled into a pout, fingers fiddling with the hem of your chemise.

"Mouth's hurtin' again," you mumble, looking down like you can't bear to see the look in his eyes when you say it.

He's never judged you for it, always reminding you to come to him for anything—that he'll take care of you.

And you believe it.

Anytime you need something, Dutch is there.

You can always count on Dutch.

"There now, sweetheart. Come here," he says, coaxing you onto his lap, his big hands settling around your hips.

His head tilts as he looks you over. Like an equation he's already learned how to solve. There's something soft there, accompanied by something predatory you've grown familiar with.

"I know what you need. You've gotten real good at it."

Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, fiddling with the buttons as your cheeks go red. "You think so?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "Bet it makes your mouth feel better, too, don't it?"

"Yeah," you mumble.

You won't admit it outright, won't say the thing you know he wants to hear.

That you like the way his fingers curl in your hair, guiding your mouth onto him. That you like that he gives you praise when he's halfway down your throat, calling you his pretty girl, his sweet little thing. That you like how proud he gets when you swallow him down without spilling a drop.

But the thought of it alone makes your hands go clammy all the same, your lashes fluttering, the words getting lost on your tongue.

"Can I?" you ask quietly, lifting your gaze to search his face.

He smiles, warm enough to melt away your worries. "You've been a good girl. Earned a little kindness, haven't you?"

You nod, fingers stilling against his chest. "I've been good."

"Anything you ask of me, if I can give it, it's yours." He brushes back your hair, hand stilling where it rests firmly across your nape. "So... What do you want?"

You learned quickly that with Dutch, there's no use hiding the truth. He has a way of coaxing it out of you anyway—and he always smiles when you finally give it to him. Like you've earned it.

You slide your fingers down from his shirt, resting them over the growing hardness in his pants.

"I wanna..." You mumble, pouting again. "Do I gotta say it?"

"If you want it, you'll ask me proper. Won't you, darlin'?"

His fingers dig into your skin, holding your head in place.

"Wanna use my mouth on you," you stammer out, feeling your face burn from the top of your brows down to the tip of your chin.

"There she is." He quirks his head, rubbing gently at your neck before moving his hand down to rest atop your thigh. His fingers massage at your bare skin, drawing a quiet sigh from your lips.

"See?" he asks. "Wasn't so hard, now, was it?"

"No," you say softly, shaking your head. "Can I?"

"'Course you can." He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheek. "I ain't ever denied you much, have I?"

"There now," he says, lying back and watching as you settle between his legs, undoing his pants with shaky hands. "Go on. Let me take care of you."

You hesitate once you've got him freed, feeling him heavy and hot against your palm, bigger than you remember.

But the moment you slip him between your lips, tongue dragging along the underside of him, the tension slips from your shoulders like water off a bridge. You exhale slowly from your nose, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers tangle between the soft strands of your hair, pulling just shy of hurting.

"That's my girl. Take it all the way."

He guides your head down onto him, pushing himself against the limits of what your throat can take. You gaze up at him through glassy eyes, blurry and unfocused. He murmurs his approval.

"Good girl. Look at you."

He brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. "Easy, darlin'. You're alright."

His praise goes straight to your head, warm and intoxicating all at once. That's the danger of Dutch van der Linde. He whispers sweet nothings until you're praying at his altar, even after he's done you wrong.

And you find yourself praying time, and time, and time again.

The ache in your jaw settles to a mere throbbing the more your mouth relaxes around him. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip as you work him deeper, whimpering softly.

"Mmm, that's it."

His low, velvet drawl reaches your ears, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine while the wet heat of your mouth works him over.

"I'm right there, sweetheart. Don't you go anywhere," he commands, tugging at your hair hard enough to sting.

When your eyes prickle with tears once more, he groans, his hips jerking unexpectedly. You take him deeper, your nose brushing against his stomach.

Your hands find purchase on his thighs, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your fingers as he swells against your throat. He inhales sharply, eyes dark with pride as he watches you take him.

He's right there on the edge. You know he is from the way his body is tensing, the way his breaths are going ragged. You redouble your efforts, sucking him down with quick bobs of your head.

With a final thrust, he holds himself buried in your throat as he spills into your mouth. You feel him throbbing, taste his release on your tongue.

He holds you there, forcing you to swallow every last drop, chest heaving as he comes down. You do so without hesitation, licking your swollen lips clean when he finally pulls himself free.

"You always do so well when you trust me," he murmurs, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, still catching his breath. "Your mouth's feeling better now, ain't it?"

You think about it for a moment. Then you feel it.

Nothing at all.

No pain, no ache, no soreness.

Just peace—and a quiet sort of satisfaction. You nod before you even realize you have.

"I feel better," you say, leaning into him and resting your head against his chest.

He drapes his arm around you, drawing you closer.

"See? Told you I'd take good care of you," he murmurs, like he'd known all along.

You giggle, smiling into his shirt.

"You always do."