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My mother, Deb, was diagnosed with an aggressive dementia (FTD lvPPA) at o… Jay Berghuis needs your support for Support Deb’s Care in Her Ba
After failing out of Culinary School, you find yourself working at the world-renowned restaurant Obscura. You might also find yourself drawn to the kitchen despite your own hesitance. Or are you drawn to the man behind the restaurant?
9.5K Words
Tags: Chef!Jack Abbot x Aspiring Chef!Reader, Instructor!Robby, Robby is mean in this, Mild Burns, Mental health struggles, burnout, BFF! Trinity Santos, anxiety, panic attack, mentions of drinking, the writer has never worked in a restaurant, and it shows, Smut!, Oral (F1 Recieving), PIV sex, Unprotected sex, Dirtyish talk, Abbot loves a petname.
A/N: I HAVE NOT LISTENED TO YES, CHEF! This was written in anticipation and elation. (It was supposed to be done a day ago, but it was 20 pages long). Ofc it's unedited because if I have to seriously edit it, it'll never get posted. Not my photo above! I couldn't find what i needed as usual so I had to punt to google images.
The kitchen in your childhood home was a safe haven. A large alcove of hearty love served up with a simmering spice blend of tender love and care.
Saturday mornings were for joyous music outpouring through the old CD player, blueberry pancakes, and the robust smell of dark roast coffee percolating over the stove. Family dinners were sacraments taken in stolen sips of broth simmering over the stove for hours and hours. Holidays spent surrounded by generations of your family kneading, pulling, twisting, and shaping intricate dough pieces.
The kitchen a holy place, you it’s steadfast student. Truths diced into bite sized understanding. Secrets seared into place. There was nothing that couldn’t be understood with enough practice, no recipe too out of reach with the right tweaks. Everything was within reach with a little salt, fat, acid, and heat.
No one was surprised when you announced that you were going to culinary school after high school. No one questioned you, especially when you were selected to join a prestigious program out in New York City. Nouvelle Gagnaire.
It almost guaranteed a spot in a Michelin kitchen after graduation. It became clear, if you could last through the rigorous training, it could ensure a chef’s success. So, for the first time, you were just a breath away from the life you’d always wanted.
You had everything just nearly figured out.
Sparkling stainless steel tools sliced through the space around you, reflecting crisp white hopefuls all heads held high. It was an honor to stand in the kitchen where so many greats had studied. Significance came in droves in a place like Nouvelle Gagnaire.
Except the money you had saved was dwindling fast. The classmates surrounding you seemed to excel with ease, while you were slowly but surely slipping behind. The snide remarks of your peers meant very little to you. It was the lead instructor, Chef Robby, who seemed to take a dislike to your near constant shortcomings.
Every class was a testament to your inner strength. He would spend minutes, although it felt like hours, lecturing you on your cuts. He took particular glee in using your work as the backdrop for every mistake, his mood somehow improving once he’d taken a bite from your pride. His ego was stroked by the sight of your discomfort.
It had been manageable at first, you would stay late into the night, practicing the lesson twice over. You had actually begun to improve, albeit slowly, but then your bank account drifted into a concerning margin. It was a difficult choice, but you needed the money to stay in the program, so extra shifts at a local restaurant, some babysitting gigs, and even occasional dog-walking were the only way to stay afloat.
Then suddenly the oasis of stainless steel had become more of a prison. Nothing was ever enough. No dish came out quite right. No sauce left perfectly balanced. Desserts were dense and underwhelming, main courses over salted or under cooked. You felt disastrously useless every session, and Robby made a point to delight in it outwardly.
Every class was a new humiliation until nights were completely sleepless. Your hair had taken to falling out in chunks. Your nail beds were bloody and threadbare from anxious biting. You hardly recognized the person staring back at you. You couldn’t even remember why you were here, what you had wanted this for. Who would put themselves through all this for what? A nicotine addiction and middling praise?
It came to a head during a demonstration one morning. Robby had instructed the class on the perfectly whipped Souffle, one delicate enough to stay perfectly moist while structured enough to rise above itself. It had been a long night of tossing and turning, your back ached from the uncomfortable mattress you bought off facebook marketplace, your hands itched for the relief only a cigarette could give you anymore, and your eyes were throbbing from overuse.
Reaching into the oven you couldn’t remember if your shift at the diner tomorrow started at 10 or 10:30. Your landlord had promised to come fix a leaky pipe if he could come at 9:45. Your mom called twice about some cousin’s sister coming to visit. Your roommate’s boyfriend’s dishes piled up in the sink-
A searing pain shot up your arm, it had taken you far too long to realize you had forgotten your oven mit. Your hand flying back, the souffle tumbling back with it coating your thin black pants. It doesn’t take long for you to double over in pain, the students around you crowding your space in concern.
It’s not until Robby’s voice looms over you that you realize that any time has passed at all.
“Jesus fucking christ,” he’s more exacerbated than he is genuinely concerned. For some reason that made the damn in your chest burst, tears overflowing, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t-” you blubber he’s pulling you into a side office where they keep the more extensive first aid. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking-”
His eyes catch yours, wild, angry, and dark all at once. The hard lines in his face seem to twitch at the sight of your cries.
“That’s exactly the problem.” His tone is cold while he administers first aid to your hand. “This isn’t easy-bake oven shit. You don’t think. You’re lucky you haven’t been seriously injured.”
“I’m sorry Chef.” You hang your head in shame.
“Don’t apologize.” He steps back, his hands clasped behind his neck while he takes a deep breath. “Do not step foot back in my kitchen unless you’re ready to put your big girl pants on, wipe your tears, and do some real fucking work. Do you hear me?”
You nod silently, tears still streaming down your face.
“No, I asked you a question, Chef.” The way he spit the word Chef was insulting enough. “Do you hear me?”
A chill ran down your spine. Your eyes peaking up to meet him. “Yes, Chef.” Your voice sounds childish and small.
“Fucking useless.” is the last thing you hear before he’s turned and walking back into the kitchen.
In the end you can’t bring yourself to go back in. You can’t bring yourself to face the mess you’d made. It was the cowardly choice, but you simply didn’t have enough in your soul to stand in shoes you no longer felt like were yours to fill.
And just as quickly as everything fell into place, you had fallen apart. Quickly your spot in the intensive training program was filled by some bright-eyed nepo baby. One who, you imagine, quickly rose to the occasion in every way you never could.
You found yourself, for the first time in your life, utterly directionless. It irked you, how easy it was to succumb to the inky pool of darkness that seemed to well inside you. Laying in your childhood bed for days at a time, hardly moving enough to use the restroom and nibble on whatever plate your mom left at your bedside. Robby’s words echo inside your head until they crescendo into a dull roaring headache.
It was about a month of complete despair before your parents insisted you couldn’t live with them forever.
That was how you found yourself in Pittsburgh. Crashing on a friend’s couch in some half-finished basement.
Trinity was an old friend from culinary camp a summer or three ago. She was always good, but now she’d devoted her knife skills to her career as a budding surgeon. Or, she would be soon, once she finishes Med School you had no doubt she’d be heavenly with a scalpel.
“Working in a kitchen is not that far from working in a Hospital when you think about it,” She comforted when you had relayed your sob story over the phone, “It’s not too late to become a doctor.” You laughed, maybe for the first time in weeks.
“Trin,” your voice was nasal and shuttery, “I don’t even think they’d let me near the dead ones, that’s how bad it was.”
“I seriously doubt it,” You hear shuffling in the background, “But I think it might be good for you to get away for a while. Live a little, Y’know?
Your words are stuck in your throat for a long time.
“Mhm. Maybe” The thought of leaving your bed leaves your stomach churning. The thought of leaving your house makes your skin itch. The thought of leaving your hometown to live somewhere else for a while makes your eyes start to twitch.
“I’ve still got a free couch in my basement,” She mentions too casually to actually be casual. “Wouldn’t need to pay rent.” She threw it offhand.
“What,” you scoff, “I freeload off you while I have a crisis of faith?”
“Oh, no, you’d earn your keep. I want you to make dinners. Actually, I want you to make me lasagna.”
Your throat tightens around the lump that has been forming. Your eyes squeezed tight. Hands shaking around the phone. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
“I’m not…” You can’t seem to find anything else to say.
“Babe, I can’t cook for shit, and I can’t eat anymore ramen. My sodium intake is at its maximum. I need you more than you need me.”
You roll your shoulders back. Eyes still shut, even though she couldn’t see you. Neither of you say anything for a long time. His words echo again.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
“Maybe,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I can help you meal prep some stuff?” Your voice is more of a mumble than a statement.
“Thank god!” She nearly screams. “Okay, so depending on when you come down-”
She launches into a long story of some class presentation she finished. Then, almost as suddenly as everything fell into place, but not as suddenly as it fell apart. You were living with Trinity.
It only took two weeks before you were bored. It helped that Trinity had an endless supply of people who knew people. Not ‘friends’ but people she’d done this and that for, people who owed her one.
It was all at once, one night at a bar taking shots, lamenting on how much you hate men, dancing, meeting new people, new people meeting even newer people. Then it’s giving you numbers, and then it’s blurry, but somehow you wake up the next morning half stuck to the floor with a new contact reaching out.
Hi, this is Dana with Obscura. Parker passed your number along for the server gig. We have availability to interview tomorrow at 10 AM sharp.
You read the text maybe four times before the words unblur themselves and the symbols mean something to you.
Obscura was the most nouveau restaurant in Pittsburgh, hell, probably even Pennsylvania. It was reminiscent of a New York that didn’t even exist anymore. A farm-to-table rotating menu that was equal parts nostalgic and nuanced. It was a kitchen where food wasn’t picked apart and rebuilt like other masochistic gastro-pub types. The ingredients in Obscura sang.
Helmed by Chef Jack Abbot, a world-renown Chef who’d trained under the greats of the last generation. A Chef responsible for the incubation of some of the best minds in the culinary world today. He’s the only Michelin holder in the state, his third restaurant in a row to be ranked in the top fifty restaurants in the world. Chef Abbot was a paragon.
There was absolutely no way you could actually work for him in any capacity. Even as wait staff, especially as wait staff. Twinges of conflict stirred in your stomach. Being so close to the kitchen without being in the kitchen was a solar flare of jealousy. Yet, being back in any setting remotely culinary sets your body shivering in anxious waves.
And yet, it was an absolute once in a lifetime opportunity in front of you.
Before you can stop yourself you’re responding.
I’ll be there. Thank you so much.
You drop the phone and scream into the pillow half-shoved between you and the corner of the old couch you plopped over last night. This was a terrible mistake.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
It was only a matter of time before you fucked this up too.
Dana was a force to be reckoned with. You had to be to manage a restaurant like Obscura. Especially, under the watchful gaze of the media, the way she explained they were. Every single table is a Michelin guest. Every single dish served is for the next greatest culinary critic. Every move needed the closest attention. You were sure she hated you by the end of her speech; she just sat back and watched you.
“Have you got any experience in the kitchen, Hon?” She asked, watching your eyes linger over the tools when she was walking you through the back of house. The team was only just starting to trickle in. For now, it was just a shorter, mousy looking, line cook sharpening his knives in the back corner.
“A little,” you clear your throat nervously, “I was enrolled at Nouvelle Gagnaire until last spring.”
She tilted her head at you, a small strand of bleached blonde hair falling from her clipped back hair. She watches you, your finger tracing the edge of the steel tabletop.
“Hmm,” She chuckles, sprouting a smirk, “Sounds like more than a little experience then. What happened, why aren’t you itching to get in my kitchen?”
You shrug noncommittally, not sure what to say. Well, you know exactly what to say, but you hardly think it’s appropriate. Fucking useless.
“Ran out of money?” You finally say, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. “Never got to finish my courses.”
“Ain’t that a bitch.” She sighs before pulling you into a maternal squeeze. “Okay, let’s have you come in tonight to shadow Mateo, and we’ll go from there, huh?”
Your throat is too full to say anything, so you just nod in agreement. Absently, you hear the back door swing open, and blinding light pours into the kitchen. You peek your head and see the outline of a man, the sun bursting behind him in ethereal beams.
“Jack,” your blood runs cold as the door swings shut behind him, “Come meet the new server. Shadowing us for the night.”
He throws his bag down before coming to size you up himself. You can’t seem to figure out where to look. He’s wearing a borderline sinful black shirt that is spread like butter against his chest. His grey curls coiffed perfectly, effortlessly. You wondered if it lay like that or if he spent meticulous time twisting it back into the perfect tease of curl. His eyes squint, the predatory hazel eyes roam across your frame.
“Fresh meat?” He murmured sarcastically, “Welcome to the dark side, Kid.”
Dana let out a disapproving sound. You opened your mouth to say something, but promptly closed it at his self-amused smirk.
“Don’t listen to him,” She turned you both away and made your way up to the front, “His name may be behind this place, but he’s not your boss, I am.” Dana continued to say things about the space, things you’d surely need to know later, but the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach drowned all focus away from you.
You can’t help but turn and look over your shoulder to glimpse another peek at the man himself. A mixture of horror and delight bubbles up when you catch him watching you. He shoots you an arrogant wink before you snap your head away from him.
“Alright, make sure you’re here in all black at 4:30. Family is at 4:45, don’t be late.”
As you grab your purse, for the first time in weeks, you think your life might not be over. It actually might have just begun.
There were plenty of differences between being a server and being in the thick of the kitchen. For one, you had to look pristine. Presentation at Obscura didn’t end at plating, the entire experience was in your hands. Another was your pace, while neither of the jobs ensured lots of downtime for anything more than the singular savior of a drag from your cigarette, a server had the luxury of disappearing.
“A good server serves food,” Mateo had explained with casual confidence, “A great server knows where to hide when you need a break and shit is already hitting the fan.” He waits for you to react, but your brows furrow. Everything you knew about serving was from the back of house, where food died in the window and dishes were sent back for outrageous complaints.
“What about your tables?” You fidget with your apron. A standard issue charcoal canvas fabric that Dana handed you the minute you walked through the door. One that wonderfully blended with the dark, moody atmosphere set in the dining room. Only pockets of amber lamplight ever so particularly broke up the ambiance of existentialism.
“Top priority, of course,” Mateo looks at his apron around his waist, “But when you’re three hours deep in a rush, and some asshole thinks he knows the pre-fixe better than you, it’s better you take a sec to get that shit out, or it’ll end up killing you.” He shrugs like it’s common knowledge.
“What about the food?” Your eyes wander to the kitchen tucked behind the bend in the long back hallway. If you lean your body just a foot farther, you’d see them neck deep in prep. As much as you itched to give in to the temptation, you held back. Seeing that would only sour your mood, and besides, you were sure you’d see enough of it during service tonight.
“If you need a minute, we have a code word.” He stretches his arms side to side, like he is getting ready for some sort of intense workout. “If you say Hula-Hoop, we’ve got you.”
“Hula Hoop?” You nod. “Hula-hoop. Okay, thanks.”
“I usually hide out in the back alley. Kim likes the POS station. Bridget would go to the bathroom. You could go to the walk-in if you wanted.” He puts his hands on your shoulders. “It’s inevitable, it’s going to happen, don’t abuse it, but we’re a team here. If you need a minute, you need a minute.”
He stares down at you intensely. His brown eyes trying to imbue some great knowledge you hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” He pats your shoulder and backs off, “We’ve always got one floater, which is where you’ll be for a while until you get a sense of the sections. If you need anything, Dana is always on the floor or in the kitchen. She’s here to help, so don’t be scared to ask for what you need.”
“Got it.”
And just like that, a bell is rung and the family is called to eat.
Your first shift goes surprisingly well. You recount the whole thing excitedly to Trinity when you get home. She eats the leftover Pomegranate Osso Buco you’d taken at the end of service. She moans contentedly at the new flavors that bloom across your tongue.
You hadn’t spent as much time in the kitchen as you had thought you might. The usually chaotic pit of dishes infinitely emerging was surprisingly methodical. Floating meant most of your time was spent explaining specials, pouring wine, and fetching more spoons. The rare moment you were sent to run food was like a glimpse behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain.
Everyone moves with balanced intensity. Each station is a perfected ballet performed with precision. John Chen, Abbot's mentee with his own Michelin star accomplishment under his belt, oversaw the saute with calm precision, staying cool under the intense heat. Parker Ellis, whom you’d met through Trinity’s latest hook-up, bobbed to unheard music playing in her head, assembling dishes quietly. Occasionally, she’d shift her gaze upwards, and if you caught her eyes, she’d throw you a reassuring smile.
At the center of it all was Abbot. Who called out dishes with militant ease. No room for error, no need to waiver. Plates were examined under him with scrutiny; nothing passed through him unless the team was confident in its quality.
“Ellis, pull back the heat,” he corrected. “Any more heat and the Bisque will emulsify.” His words aren’t shouted. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t punish either. Parker, in turn, dutifully adjusted the large pot of bisque. Pulling it from the end of its own life.
“Yes, Chef.”
It hits you square in your chest that this is exactly what you had wanted for yourself. It was particularly hard to swallow the building upward heave of emotions when Abbot catches your eye between garnishing a small plate and saucing another.
“Need anything?” He’s not being condescending or rude when he asks. He genuinely wants to know. It only serves to tighten your chest. You nod silently. He narrows in on you, ready to ask again, you’re sure. But a ticket sprouts from the machine, and his focus is pulled away.
“Alright, table 13 is a go, let's get two plate greens and a fresh grain bowl going.” And you slip away like you’d never been there at all. Wandering through the rest of your shift with all the focus you could muster.
It itches at you, the urge to make something again, an itch you thought maybe had finally lost the good fight. You chalk it up to seeing the greats in action, who wouldn’t be inspired by their professionalism, their talent, their joie de verve. With Abbot at the helm, they made the art form look like just that.
A far cry from the sterile, suffocating perfection expected on exam day at Nouvelle Gagnaire. This warmth had shocked you into something hopeful for the first time in months.
For the first time in days the gravelled voice of Robby’s voice quiets in your head, in favor of Abbot’s steady praise.
It wasn’t long before your trial period had devolved into something more permanent. The steady rhythm was calming, even if the work was fast-paced and intense. The more shifts you worked, the more time you found to linger in the kitchen. Peaking around the corner. Pretending to be looking at something on the POS. Your eyes watched with wistful longing.
It was the only real love you’d ever felt. The bursting passion is barely restrained by the confines of expected perfection. Each night, a new rotation of the most inventive and succulent combinations. You had a habit of writing each night’s specials in a notebook, commenting on the ways Abbot reached and where he pulled from homegrown nostalgia. You were determined to find the throughline he’d been constructing for some weeks now, expecting one menu to be some sort of epic climax of wonderful dishes. Yet, the tension of expectation only grew.
That hadn’t been the only tension that had begun to grow. You had somehow caught the curious eye of the Chef himself. Your presence could only sneak for so long before his interest was piqued.
The first couple of shifts, you’d thought yourself subtle. You thought, surely, they were all so absorbed in their own work they hardly had time to notice your meticulous gaze. It became all too clear that there was no hiding from Chef Abbot.
His eyes seemed to follow you through a room, pinning you down to your spot with an intensity you’d only ever felt in malice.
He looked at you like a whole butchered cow. Like he was separating all the parts that needed to be shaved back to reveal something far more succulent behind it. Or gracefully dissecting each cut until he had every useful morsel of information. Perhaps he was deciding how he’d prepare you. Braised over a cheesy polenta? Flash-fried and encased in freeze-dried mushroom paste?
You wondered the flavor he’d invoke from your flesh often. You enjoyed the fantasy of trying to understand what you never would. A game you played with yourself to pass the time and ease the growing pit of unfulfilled destiny. All things swirled between you desperately. Yet, he hardly ever approached you.
Preferring to watch you, well, preferring to watch you watch them. At least once every shift, he would find himself between plates, usually when guests were teetering off, and the dense empirical pressure of never-ending chaos ebbed, he’d place his hands on his hips and watch you shamelessly.
For your part, you’re usually waiting on some final dessert plate or waiting to run a card at the system. You can’t help but relish in the carnage of the shift well-cooked. It was mid-disection, one of you is pulled away, never able to act on some sort of unspoken dance.
Until one night in late July. The kitchen had been hotter than you’d ever experienced, both in temperature and in attitude. There was a stomach bug sweeping through, and most of the team was off kilter. Capable and steady, but where there was usual ease, everyone’s brow seemed to furrow in focus.
The front of house team was no better. Kim was out, and Dana was already stepping in to ensure they had enough hands to cover the fully booked service. With all its trouble, you hadn’t let the sense of dread seep into your shift. You’d worked short-staffed before, and you were sure you’d get through it.
Pre-service is quick, team spreads until everything is hazy and translucent. You barely have time to write the specials for the night out before Dana calls you into her small office. She’s got her readers on, and she looks at you down her nose over the top rim like you’re in the principal’s office.
“You called?” You lean against the doorframe, looking at the chaos that has suddenly exploded through the room.
“I’m putting you in Kim’s section tonight.” She shuffled some papers in front of her, “So you’ve got our VIP.”
VIP’s weren’t rare here, per se; the classification seemed to send a wave of anxiety through you. Your palms start to itch with expectation. Celebrities you’d only ever seen on glossy gossip magazines had come and gone from these doors without so much as a whisper from Dana. Only once were they acknowledged, and that was only between you and Mateo when his favorite actor came in last month.
“Oh?” You played coy, taking a deep breath trying to calm your nerves. “Who is it?”
Dana gave you a tight-lipped smile. There was a crash behind you, and suddenly, the day is moving at a breakneck speed again.
“Sorry, Hun, Jack made the reservation at the last minute,” she brushes past you and into the chaos swirling. “What the hell happened?” you hear distantly.
You contemplate peeking at the guest sheet on her computer, but you too are pulled away at the sound of family bell.
Squeezed between Parker and Olive, you nudge Ellis with your elbow. “D’you know who the VIP is tonight?” Her eyebrows pull together.
She shakes her head and scoops more pasta into her mouth, preferring to eat family as quickly as possible so she can call her girlfriend in the back before service.
“Think it’s one of Abbot’s old buddies from Culinary.” Olive pipes in from the other side.
“Makes sense,” Parker supplies, “He’s changed tonight's menu twice. He hates when restaurant buddies come in.”
“Why?” you pick around the salad on your plate. Both of them just shrug in nonchalance.
“Who knows why Abbot does anything?” Parker replies. Suddenly, there’s a presence behind you.
“Talking about me?” Abbot inquiries. Your spine straightens. You peek over your shoulder, where Abbot is leaning against the wall casually. A soft white tee tight against his torso. A blue dish towel thrown over his shoulder, and a hearty bowl of pasta in his hand. His eyebrow is quirked down at you specifically, like he’d caught you in a secret. You’d be more nervous if it wasn’t for the playful smirk plastered to his lips.
“Always Boss,” Parker responds lazily, like being caught talking about your boss was an everyday occurrence. “We have to let the newbie in on all your quirks.” She made sure to drag the sentence out melodically.
Abbot only chuckles before nodding slowly. “If you wanted to get to know me better, all you had to do was ask.” He winks before taking a bite of his dinner.
You feel your face heat, your spine still ramrod straight. You can’t seem to respond with anything other than stuttered sounds.
“Gross.” Parker pushes her chair out and walks off before you can say anything else. Several others follow suit, breaking the tension between the two of you.
“I mean it, Kid.” He called out as he sauntered away. “I’m an open book.”
-
Service is a shitshow. Or it’s as much as Obscura would ever become a shit show. Tickets are running 2-3 minutes behind continuously. Guests are picking apart your spirit by questioning recommended wine pairings, insisting they know the menu better than you, or asking for wildly off-menu accommodations.
The kitchen is just as tense, with every complaint and question reported to Abbot only raising his hackles. If he’d been short when service began, he was positively snappy now. You’d already asked him twice for odd requests and pairings that had set his ticket time back, and Dana had already reminded the team not to take any of Abbot’s shortcomings personally.
You had made a silent prayer to anyone listening that the rest of the shift would be nice and smooth.
“Kiddo, VIP being seated at table 22.” Dana barked from the mouth of the kitchen, “Look alive.”
Turning the corner, you’d expected to see someone you recognized. You’d maybe thought Gordan Ramsey or some sort of Iron Chef adjacent someone. At worst, maybe it’d be some snobby French chef who looked down your shirt and commented on how ‘they’d have approached the branzino a little differently.’
The last thing you’d expected was to be face-to-face with the man who’d effectively crushed every dream you’d ever had. Okay, that was slightly harsh; you were burning out for many reasons. Chef Michael Robinavitch just happened to be the biggest, gloomiest, and most impending of all the reasons.
Sitting comfortably in the corner table, the prime table for someone looking for a long, luxurious meal to enjoy privately, was your former instructor. He wasn’t alone either; the back of the other man’s head was obscured, not that it mattered when you suddenly couldn’t move. Stopped plainly in your tracks, in the middle of the dining room, staring him down with wide eyes.
Mateo glides past you with an odd look, patting your arm quickly in a reminder, keep it moving. Then you’re moving, approaching the table, your throat suddenly bone dry, hands shaking so bad you have to clasp them behind your back to steady them.
He still hadn’t looked up at you when you began your spiel. You get about halfway through before he peeks up from the menu and locks in on you with the same intensity that had haunted you in your nightmares for months. You stumble over your words when his eyes narrow, placing you in his mind.
You can see the moment he realizes you’re in front of him. The same way he left, crying in his small office. The same you’d watch go from promising prospect to absolutely hopeless under his watchful and steadfastly critical watch. He sits back arrogantly, no longer listening to you describe the specials, preferring to let himself pick the small parts of you that you knew were slightly out of place.
“Can I recommend any wine pairings for you tonight?” You finish.
“Can you?” He inquires, dripping with condescension. “You don’t have a Maitre D?
You shake your head quickly before you remember you’re no longer standing in his kitchen watching him dissect your kitchen skills.
“No, sir,” You kick yourself for the formality, “Chef Abbot prefers to pick the wine selection himself.”
Robby lets out a self indulgent chuckle, shaking his head before turning him away from you completely. Your heart picks up until you hear the blood rushing through your head completely. Until you feel the ache in your knees locked under yourself.
“Classic Jack,” He rolls his eyes, “Still a control freak.”
“Can I get you started with any drinks?” You ask again, peeking at the other man at the table for guidance.
“We’ll take the red blend, whatever Jack recommends.” Robby interrupts with so much contempt it’s almost a sneer. You nod and scurry away before he can say anything else.
You keep your head down until you’re in the back, placing the order and inputting their ticket. You hear Abbot yelling about something in the kitchen, and it winds your anxiety tighter in your chest. This was Chef Abbot’s friend, Dana, who gave them to me specifically.
You take three deep breaths before you make a round to check your tables. You hardly make it around the corner before you’re pulled back into service.
Thankfully, you have little time to spend with the man of the hour. They receive their wine with little complaint, and Mateo delivers their appetizers while you’re busy ringing up another table. It’s not until well into their meal that you have a moment to go check on them.
“How are these plates for you?” Robby grunts in response, while his guest waxes his praise for the flavors. You smile politely.
“And how are you, sir?” You direct towards the looming presence.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just sighs. “How long have you been working here?”
“Just about 3 months, Chef.” The title slips before you can stop yourself. He relishes the power he still has over you. “Since mid-April.”
He shakes his head, disappointed. “It’s odd to see you in some place like this.” He remarks passively, shooting you a sarcastic smile. “I always had the impression places like this were too intense for you.”
The man across the table interjects with something, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood coursing through your ears. You can feel the lump in your throat building and building until your eyes go glassy over. You nod at whatever his guest is talking about.
He watches you until he catches sight of your eyes glazed over, and he huffs at your display of vulnerability.
You don’t remember how you ended back in the kitchen, but you knew there was food dying on the pass that needed to go out and a full house aside from the looming paragon of lost dreams. Somewhere between placing specialized entrees down and refilling glasses, you peeked up at Dana, who was standing talking to Robby.
He’s a VIP she has to talk to him. This is her job. But suddenly, that voice– his voice is back. You place a plate. Fucking useless. You ring up another dessert. Fucking useless. You pretend to laugh with an older couple celebrating an anniversary. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
You can’t help but peak up at him between tasks, as if he might suddenly decide that you do deserve the respect you so desperately crave. All you're met with is cold haughty amusement. He seems to delight in your squirming.
Under his watch you can’t do anything quite right anymore. You ring in the wrong wine for table 26. You almost run head on into Dana at the Pass, which earns you a stern warning from Abbot to ‘get your head in the game.’ Your head spins, your hands shake, you feel like you’re an ant under a magnifying glass, ready to combust at any moment.
It’s not until the end of their meal when you finally place the face across the table from Robby. Through the limited friends you had made in class, you recognized the face that had stared back at you in official group photos, unofficial hang outs, late night coffee runs, and even class bonding opportunities.
The man sitting across from Robby was the chef that took your place when you dropped the program. Frank something. He was a point of contention for you, and you’d spent nights lamenting pitifully to Trinity about how much better he probably was. How much faster, how much cleaner, how level headed he must be to thrive in that sort of environment.
It was surprising you hadn’t immediately recognized him with the amount of time you spent obsessing over him in the month after your swift departure. Yet, it wasn’t until three quarters into the meal when Robby requested Chef Abbot come meet his star Pupil.
That’s when you hit your wall. You nod absently and pass the message along to Dana before you make your way to the walk in, only hoping to take a calming breath before heading back out.
This was it. Robby was going to introduce Frank to Abbot, and maybe Abbot would offer him a job. Maybe Robby would tell Abbot what a failure you really were. Maybe he’d break it to him how utterly useless you are in the kitchen. It would only be a matter of time before everyone knew you’d failed out of Culinary. Not only that, the only reason Frank was here was because you were fucking useless.
It’s just that, by the time you make it in there, your deep breaths don’t fill your lungs. Your head spins from the lack of oxygen and sheer ironic terror coursing through you. Your legs shake underneath you until you grip on one of the shelves for support. You don’t realize you’re crying until someone else is in front of you.
Shen doesn’t really say anything, he just grabs the bundle of Chard from the side shelf before slipping back out into the kitchen.
You hear voices outside the thick metal door, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can hear is
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Circling the drain until you’re curled in on yourself against the cold metallic shelving.
The door opens, and it’s Chef Abbot. You scramble to stand, frantically wiping at your face, trying to conceal your breakdown. His eyes sharply assess you not as Jack, but as Chef Abbot. He sighs impatiently, looking over his shoulder.
“Someone grab Dana.” He says, no mirth, no joy, just cold calculation. You can’t seem to register any discernible emotion, just tense stress radiating off of him.
“I’m so sorry Chef,” you start, your voice wobbly and strained, not unlike a child who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You tremble under his uninterested gaze, no longer were you a fascination under him, you were a festering colony of Mold rotting his well run machine. A bad egg. You felt completely fucking useless. “I’m sorry, I just needed a moment. I can get back out there-”
He holds up a hand quietly, opening the door and ushering you out into the perpetually moving beast that is his kitchen. “You’re cut, kid.”
Your veins turn to ice at his words. You had expected more. Yelling. Berating. Apologizing. Perhaps even grovelling on your part. You can’t comprehend that he’d be asking you to leave. You were hardly the first person to cry during service. It was the first time you’d let yourself crack, and now it’s the last.
“Chef, I’m… I-” You stutter out.
“Not tonight Kid, go home.”
From behind him you see Dana. Who quickly ushers you from the inside of the walk in, through the back of the kitchen and into the alleyway where the damn bursts.
Ugly hiccupping sobs. Heavy heaving gasps for relief wrack you; you can barely speak. You can barely suck in enough air to expel in unexpectedly jagged repetition. Dana rubs your back and asks about a million questions before she relents and calls into the kitchen for a phone.
“D’you have anyone we can call, Hon?” She murmurs, keeping her voice soothing and low. Somewhere deep inside you, you thank god for Dana. She keeps you steady while you dial Trinity’s number.
She sits you on an old palette brushing the hair from your face with a maternal fervor that only she could muster. The phone’s dial tone echos against the sounds of service behind you. You take a shuddered breath to steady yourself.
You just about have a handle on breathing when Trinity answers, a benign greeting for any cautious young woman getting an unknown number call on a random Thursday Night.
“Trin?” You whine out, the feeling of relief crashes into you until the waterworks start up again, “I think I’m dying.”
You don’t hear anything from anyone for at least twenty-four hours. You’re stuck now, in a limbo of whether or not you were officially let go. When Dana piled you into the passenger seat of Trinity’s half-beaten to death Honda, she murmured placations that she’d see me on Monday. To get some rest, and call her.
Trinity insisted that you were certainly not fired. You, however, have the distinct memory of Jack Abbot’s cold disapproval piercing into your chest in the frigid walk in. You weren’t sure which sensation caused the chill up your spine, the memory of sharp stainless steel pressing into your overheated flesh or the lifeless way Chef Abbot ushered you into Dana’s hands.
You’d recounted the whole shift twice over the next morning over leftover pancakes with mixed results. Trinity was both wildly supportive, threatening death to all parties if needed, but insisting that Jack was far too infatuated with you to fire you for crying in a walk-in.
“I think Parker cried in that walk in like 4 times.” She remarked off hand. “And Abbot doesn’t even want to fuck her.”
“Abbot doesn’t want me.” You pick around a large blueberry on your plate. The two of you went in circles before Trinity announced she was needed at the hospital for her shift.
Somewhere in the second day haze of self-pity there’s someone at the door.
The last person you’d expected was Chef Abbot on the other side. In a classic pair of Blue Jeans and white henley t-shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the impressive pair of arms he sported. He didn’t have his usual backpack, nor did he seem to know what to do with his hands.
“Chef,” you say, voice tired with underuse. You look down at your clothes, an oversize t-shirt from your dad’s closet growing up and ratty bright colored sweats. Your cheeks ache with embarrassment. How pathetic could you look? “Hi, I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you.
“Hi,” he said simply. “Can I come in?” he crossed his arms uncomfortably before almost immediately releasing it in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Um,” you hesitate, scanning behind you for anything embarrassing. “Sure, sure. Sorry, I really wasn’t expecting company so I haven’t cleaned up.”
The kitchen is strewn with half finished baking projects. Steaming cookies sit on the counter, some stress relief for you that doubles as a thank you to your roommate who would be sure to hear all about your self-pity spiral for the upcoming millenia.
“Don’t worry about that, I’m no stranger to a lived in kitchen.” He remarks casually.
“Right. Of course,” You offer him a seat on the couch. “So, how can I help you?”
You have to physically sit on your hands to stop them from shaking.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” he clears his throat, watching you squirm against the plush couch.
“I'm fine, I didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to come check on me. Especially now.” You don’t elaborate, but you also can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.
"Especially now, what?" He pushes, brow furrowed.
"Especially since I'm dismissed?" You sound like a petulant child, but it feels satisfying enough. You don't bother reigning it in.
"Who the hell dismissed you? Dana?"
"You did! in the walk-in!" You grunt, exhausted. You flop back against the couch. "You said I was cut."
"Cut, yeah-" He compulsively cracks his knuckles down against each other, "for the night. You were having a panic attack in my walk-in." He says matter-of-factly and simply.
You suddenly feel small and stupid. Sitting in front of him like a child pouting over a misunderstanding. "Oh. I thought you were letting me go."
He shakes his head solemnly, "Not at all."
You take a deep breath. Squeeze your eyes shut. Then, finally, look up at him. "So, then what are you doing here? I thought you were going to ask for the apron back."
“Right,” He murmurs, running his hand down his face in exacerbation. “Well, I talked with Ellis, and she told me some stuff.” Your heart beat begins to speed up, and the perpetual vice in your throat seems to squeeze impossibly tight.
“What sort of things?” You can barely squeeze the words out through the anxious tugging.
“Things like- she told me you used to go to Nouvelle Gagnaire. That you were Robby’s student for a while. She told me you dropped out suddenly.” You buried your head into your hands, half out of shame. Half to process that not only did the one person you didn’t want to know you’d failed out of culinary school know now, but you also had a giant fucking mouth when you were drunk.
“Jesus Christ.” you mutter darkly.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Dana said you couldn’t afford to take more classes, if you needed money-”
Anger and indignation rises in your chest like bile. How easy for the golden boy chef to talk about Money when he’s only ever had critical success and commercial success wrapped in one beautiful bow. He’d known nothing of what it meant to be anything but a savant with a knife and a visionary with a culinary mind.
“I didn’t drop out because I couldn’t afford the classes, Abbot.” your teeth grind against each other in painful scrapes, it dulls the rage only slightly. “I dropped out because I couldn’t do it. Robby made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t cut out for his kitchen. He went particularly out of his way to inform me how fucking useless I was.” You stand, leaving him to process your admission on the couch.
“Wait- Kid, what are you talking about?” He follows like a lost puppy.
“I wasn’t good. I had a dream, but I wasn’t good enough. Robby made sure that I knew that, and when it came down to it, I just couldn’t cut it.” you shrug, flipping the sink on to let the dirty pots soak.
“I’m sorry.” He says after a long time.
“Why are you sorry?” You sniffle, hot shameful tears slip out again. You curse yourself silently for letting him see you cry again so close together. You wish you could just hold it together. “You’re not the one whose life is a mess. Last I checked, you were still a successful award-winning chef.”
He leaned against your counter, leaning over to turn the water off.
“Don’t do that, you’re not a mess.”
You sigh, letting your head drop back and your eyes shut. You try desperately to collect your thoughts. “I want more than anything to have what you do. To run a kitchen like yours, and have the talent you have. But some dreams work out and some don’t-”
“Please, Kid, everything I have comes from years of training. It’s not some predisposition, it's an obsession.”
“Okay, well then I’m not obsessed enough-”
Jack laughs, hearty and dark, turning until his hand is resting against your spine. It’s more comforting than you’d ever imagined. His heavy palm pressed until it was squeezing the tense muscles at the base of your neck.
It sends a euphoric sort of pain down your spine, it sends you spiraling off course until you can’t focus on your own self-deprecation. He hums contentedly at your sudden redirection, and takes the opportunity to step closer to you.
“You are enough. You have enough. The way I see you watching the kitchen, it’s the best part of my day.” He admits. “Watching the way you take it all in, it’s like for a moment you’re bigger than all of us. You see everything in one complete motion. You get this awestruck look like you can’t believe you’re here.”
He moves your hair to one side, and lets his fingertips dance across your skin. Not pressuring or directing, just as if he’d imagined what it might feel like a thousand times before and he can’t believe he’s being given this chance. He’s positively reverent.
“I thought at first, it was me.” You don’t need to turn your head to see the blush that dances across his features. The silly giggle that tumbles from your lips shocks you. “I thought you had a crush on me, but then once I got past my own ego, I saw it for what it was.” His forehead pressed against your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook. “You’re just meant to be on the other side of the pass.”
You don’t want to interrupt, he’s completely splayed you across the counter, pulling you apart until your most vulnerable parts of you are bare for him. You had never considered yourself mysterious but you realize Jack had seen right through you, right from the beginning.
“It was maybe a bit of both.” You admit, nothing to lose from full transparency, “Two things can be true at once.” You tilt your head until your lips brush the grey coiffed curls. You smell the sandalwood and cedar shampoo he used this morning, it sends butterflies coursing through your stomach.
“Was?” He clarified, peaking up at you, his hands coming to rest against your hips. His lips are only millimeters away from yours.
“Only one way to find out.” You quip, and his lips are against yours before you can finish. His hands are twisting your body until you’re flush against each other. The sound he lets out is sinful and greedy.
Your hands roam freely against his torso, tracing from his hair down across his broad shoulders, past the lower dip of his back and one settles teasingly against the delicious curve of his ass. He, in kind, tangles his hand into your hair, keeping your head steady while the other arm wrapped around you for control.
“Jack,” you murmured against his lips, “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to ruin everything.” You admit against him, breathing the admission into his mouth. He shutters with the intensity of the confession.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He promises, “I want you so bad.”
Suddenly you’re being positioned again, he pats the countertop, which you happily hop onto. Once settled he tugs your legs far enough apart to press himself against your completely.
Jack moves to kiss you again and it’s a delicious balance of fervid desperation with languished delight. He presses deep kisses, slipping his tongue into your mouth with practiced ease. He uses his leverage to guide you exactly where he wants you. You give him complete access to explore you as he wishes. The same intensity in observation seemed to translate into curious fumbling exploration.
His hips roll against yours, the seam of his jeans giving delightful friction against the thin cotton sweatpants you were sporting. Both of you give into the ebbs and flows of pleasure, chasing after something illusive and dangerous in each other’s mouths.
“Fuck, baby,” He groans after a particularly heady drag of his now burgeoning bulge against the damp gusset of your pants. “I need you-”
“Please!” you don’t wait, scrambling to tug the waistband of your pants down until you’re bare against the cold countertop. Jack wastes no time following suit. Pulling the hem of his shirt up until he’s bare.
Your fingertips explore the contours of his chest with aggressive focus. Mesmerized by the sculpted perfection you had access to. Jack in turn slips his hands up the large shirt until it’s slipped over your head.
Once bare he takes no time at all to palm at your tits, tweaking one of your nipples, watching your body respond in kind back to him. He plants hot open mouth kisses down your neck, stopping to leave attention over both tits thoroughly.
Your hand securely situated against his scalp, you writhe under his attention. His tongue hot over the peaking buds, sending shockwaves of pleasure before pulling away and blowing cool air against the same skin. He plucks and pulls sin from your mouth until you’re jolting with pleasure. His mouth only barely makes its way between his thighs before your thighs start to shake.
Jack considers himself a lucky man, but he could’ve never considered himself lucky enough to have you like this before him. Generally he was pretty reserved, he preferred work and everything else in his life to stay that way. You had come in with an awestruck sledgehammer to all his rules. One bat of your eyelashes and he was sure he was a goner.
Kneeling before you, between your thighs, watching you fall apart? He would burn his restaurant to the ground if it meant keeping you forever.
His lips wrapped around your clit, a finger pumping in slowly, slowly, slowly. The sounds coming out of your mouth were absolutely dumb.
“Like that?” he asks. “That feel good, baby?” He watches as you nod frantically. “Give me words. C’mon, tell me what you’re feeling.”
You open your mouth to respond, but he returns back to his ministrations. Lips suckling against the most sensitive parts of you. A slick sheet collecting against his lips.
“Can’t let you cum until you tell me how it feels.” He asserts before slipping a second finger in and scissoring you open.
You’re practically panting like a dog when you finally manage a response, “So fucking good, Jack.” You admit. “Don’t stop, please let me cum. Please!” You’re not above begging as your hips twitch and writhe against his face.
“Cum for me, let me see it.” He pulls back to watch you, rubbing his other hand harshly over your clit. Your body comes alive under him. A burst of wonderful life played out under his delicate touch. Your orgasm burst like the sun peaking out over the horizon, vibrant and beaming radiance.
He barely makes it upright before you’re tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t hesitate to unzip them, pulling the denim and the tight fitted underwear underneath with it.
“Want you to fuck me.” you mumble mindless from your orgasm.
“I’ll fuck you,” He promises, “I’ve got you baby.” You nod and wrap yourself around him like a koala. The head of his cock rubs lightly against you before notching against your entrance. “Open up for me, Open up baby.” He ruts forward stretching you sinfully full.
Your head drops back before rolling to the side mindfully. Jack takes the opportunity to leave testy love bites along the column of your neck. The bitter bites soothed by his skillful tongue, until you can feel the heat of his pelvis against your pussy. Mindlessly full and properly blissed out, your nails dig into his shoulders.
Jack’s tongue drags against the space of your neck, leaving a sticky trail behind. His hips grind impossibly deep, dragging your clit against the sliver wiry hairs at the base of his cock.
“Jack-” His hips retreat before slamming into you with exquisite power, his fingers plucking your nerve endings. “Jack. Y’so good.” You babble praises into his skin.
“So pretty, baby. Feels so good being on my cock, huh?” He keeps rhythm, tilting your head until you’re both looking into each other’s eyes. He tilts his hips up until the head of his cock is perfectly notched against your G-spot.
You press your lips to his, breathing empty headed moans into his mouth. Jack happily swallows your babbles, offering praises in return. The feeling of completion builds and builds and builds. The ache is a full body experience, a capsaicin burn tearing pleasure from your insides out until you’re bursting through.
Jack’s thrust seems perfectly time to make you completely desperate for more. He brings you just to the precipice of wholeness with him. His eyes locked onto yours, intense, wanting, and observant as always. Hazel blown out by pleasure, the cocky smirk left far behind in favor of blind vulnerable pleasure.
“Cum with me?” You hardly have time to say yes before his hips stutter, shooting his spend deep inside of you.
You, in turn, bloom like a ripened fruit, sweet and tart against his tongue, bursting with fresh juice. He thrusts deeper and deeper until both of you twitch and writhe with overstimulation.
“S’good for me baby.” he kisses along your jaw, up your cheek, over your closed eyes, across the bridge of your nose, until he finds a home against your lips again. “So good at everything.”
You scrunch your nose, still fuzzy from the intensity. “Thank you.”
His hands smooth out your hair, before pulling back to look him in the eye.
“Want to help me make family meal tonight?” You freeze against him, a wave of anxiety shoots through you. You hesitate to say anything for a long time.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” your shoulders curl in on yourself. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t, baby.” He promises, “ I want to cook with my baby.” he brushes his nose against yours in a sickly sweet butterfly kiss. “Just want to know what you can do.”
“Mmmm, not a lot.” You grumble. He chuckles at your attitude.
“That’s okay.” He wraps his arms around you. “By the time I’m done with you you’ll be better than me and Robby combined.” He affirms. You peek up at him with wide eyes, and a sad pout on your lips.
“You don’t have to Jack-”
“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You belong in the kitchen, baby.”
After failing out of Culinary School, you find yourself working at the world-renowned restaurant Obscura. You might also find yourself drawn to the kitchen despite your own hesitance. Or are you drawn to the man behind the restaurant?
9.5K Words
Tags: Chef!Jack Abbot x Aspiring Chef!Reader, Instructor!Robby, Robby is mean in this, Mild Burns, Mental health struggles, burnout, BFF! Trinity Santos, anxiety, panic attack, mentions of drinking, the writer has never worked in a restaurant, and it shows, Smut!, Oral (F1 Recieving), PIV sex, Unprotected sex, Dirtyish talk, Abbot loves a petname.
A/N: I HAVE NOT LISTENED TO YES, CHEF! This was written in anticipation and elation. (It was supposed to be done a day ago, but it was 20 pages long). Ofc it's unedited because if I have to seriously edit it, it'll never get posted. Not my photo above! I couldn't find what i needed as usual so I had to punt to google images.
The kitchen in your childhood home was a safe haven. A large alcove of hearty love served up with a simmering spice blend of tender love and care.
Saturday mornings were for joyous music outpouring through the old CD player, blueberry pancakes, and the robust smell of dark roast coffee percolating over the stove. Family dinners were sacraments taken in stolen sips of broth simmering over the stove for hours and hours. Holidays spent surrounded by generations of your family kneading, pulling, twisting, and shaping intricate dough pieces.
The kitchen a holy place, you it’s steadfast student. Truths diced into bite sized understanding. Secrets seared into place. There was nothing that couldn’t be understood with enough practice, no recipe too out of reach with the right tweaks. Everything was within reach with a little salt, fat, acid, and heat.
No one was surprised when you announced that you were going to culinary school after high school. No one questioned you, especially when you were selected to join a prestigious program out in New York City. Nouvelle Gagnaire.
It almost guaranteed a spot in a Michelin kitchen after graduation. It became clear, if you could last through the rigorous training, it could ensure a chef’s success. So, for the first time, you were just a breath away from the life you’d always wanted.
You had everything just nearly figured out.
Sparkling stainless steel tools sliced through the space around you, reflecting crisp white hopefuls all heads held high. It was an honor to stand in the kitchen where so many greats had studied. Significance came in droves in a place like Nouvelle Gagnaire.
Except the money you had saved was dwindling fast. The classmates surrounding you seemed to excel with ease, while you were slowly but surely slipping behind. The snide remarks of your peers meant very little to you. It was the lead instructor, Chef Robby, who seemed to take a dislike to your near constant shortcomings.
Every class was a testament to your inner strength. He would spend minutes, although it felt like hours, lecturing you on your cuts. He took particular glee in using your work as the backdrop for every mistake, his mood somehow improving once he’d taken a bite from your pride. His ego was stroked by the sight of your discomfort.
It had been manageable at first, you would stay late into the night, practicing the lesson twice over. You had actually begun to improve, albeit slowly, but then your bank account drifted into a concerning margin. It was a difficult choice, but you needed the money to stay in the program, so extra shifts at a local restaurant, some babysitting gigs, and even occasional dog-walking were the only way to stay afloat.
Then suddenly the oasis of stainless steel had become more of a prison. Nothing was ever enough. No dish came out quite right. No sauce left perfectly balanced. Desserts were dense and underwhelming, main courses over salted or under cooked. You felt disastrously useless every session, and Robby made a point to delight in it outwardly.
Every class was a new humiliation until nights were completely sleepless. Your hair had taken to falling out in chunks. Your nail beds were bloody and threadbare from anxious biting. You hardly recognized the person staring back at you. You couldn’t even remember why you were here, what you had wanted this for. Who would put themselves through all this for what? A nicotine addiction and middling praise?
It came to a head during a demonstration one morning. Robby had instructed the class on the perfectly whipped Souffle, one delicate enough to stay perfectly moist while structured enough to rise above itself. It had been a long night of tossing and turning, your back ached from the uncomfortable mattress you bought off facebook marketplace, your hands itched for the relief only a cigarette could give you anymore, and your eyes were throbbing from overuse.
Reaching into the oven you couldn’t remember if your shift at the diner tomorrow started at 10 or 10:30. Your landlord had promised to come fix a leaky pipe if he could come at 9:45. Your mom called twice about some cousin’s sister coming to visit. Your roommate’s boyfriend’s dishes piled up in the sink-
A searing pain shot up your arm, it had taken you far too long to realize you had forgotten your oven mit. Your hand flying back, the souffle tumbling back with it coating your thin black pants. It doesn’t take long for you to double over in pain, the students around you crowding your space in concern.
It’s not until Robby’s voice looms over you that you realize that any time has passed at all.
“Jesus fucking christ,” he’s more exacerbated than he is genuinely concerned. For some reason that made the damn in your chest burst, tears overflowing, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t-” you blubber he’s pulling you into a side office where they keep the more extensive first aid. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking-”
His eyes catch yours, wild, angry, and dark all at once. The hard lines in his face seem to twitch at the sight of your cries.
“That’s exactly the problem.” His tone is cold while he administers first aid to your hand. “This isn’t easy-bake oven shit. You don’t think. You’re lucky you haven’t been seriously injured.”
“I’m sorry Chef.” You hang your head in shame.
“Don’t apologize.” He steps back, his hands clasped behind his neck while he takes a deep breath. “Do not step foot back in my kitchen unless you’re ready to put your big girl pants on, wipe your tears, and do some real fucking work. Do you hear me?”
You nod silently, tears still streaming down your face.
“No, I asked you a question, Chef.” The way he spit the word Chef was insulting enough. “Do you hear me?”
A chill ran down your spine. Your eyes peaking up to meet him. “Yes, Chef.” Your voice sounds childish and small.
“Fucking useless.” is the last thing you hear before he’s turned and walking back into the kitchen.
In the end you can’t bring yourself to go back in. You can’t bring yourself to face the mess you’d made. It was the cowardly choice, but you simply didn’t have enough in your soul to stand in shoes you no longer felt like were yours to fill.
And just as quickly as everything fell into place, you had fallen apart. Quickly your spot in the intensive training program was filled by some bright-eyed nepo baby. One who, you imagine, quickly rose to the occasion in every way you never could.
You found yourself, for the first time in your life, utterly directionless. It irked you, how easy it was to succumb to the inky pool of darkness that seemed to well inside you. Laying in your childhood bed for days at a time, hardly moving enough to use the restroom and nibble on whatever plate your mom left at your bedside. Robby’s words echo inside your head until they crescendo into a dull roaring headache.
It was about a month of complete despair before your parents insisted you couldn’t live with them forever.
That was how you found yourself in Pittsburgh. Crashing on a friend’s couch in some half-finished basement.
Trinity was an old friend from culinary camp a summer or three ago. She was always good, but now she’d devoted her knife skills to her career as a budding surgeon. Or, she would be soon, once she finishes Med School you had no doubt she’d be heavenly with a scalpel.
“Working in a kitchen is not that far from working in a Hospital when you think about it,” She comforted when you had relayed your sob story over the phone, “It’s not too late to become a doctor.” You laughed, maybe for the first time in weeks.
“Trin,” your voice was nasal and shuttery, “I don’t even think they’d let me near the dead ones, that’s how bad it was.”
“I seriously doubt it,” You hear shuffling in the background, “But I think it might be good for you to get away for a while. Live a little, Y’know?
Your words are stuck in your throat for a long time.
“Mhm. Maybe” The thought of leaving your bed leaves your stomach churning. The thought of leaving your house makes your skin itch. The thought of leaving your hometown to live somewhere else for a while makes your eyes start to twitch.
“I’ve still got a free couch in my basement,” She mentions too casually to actually be casual. “Wouldn’t need to pay rent.” She threw it offhand.
“What,” you scoff, “I freeload off you while I have a crisis of faith?”
“Oh, no, you’d earn your keep. I want you to make dinners. Actually, I want you to make me lasagna.”
Your throat tightens around the lump that has been forming. Your eyes squeezed tight. Hands shaking around the phone. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
“I’m not…” You can’t seem to find anything else to say.
“Babe, I can’t cook for shit, and I can’t eat anymore ramen. My sodium intake is at its maximum. I need you more than you need me.”
You roll your shoulders back. Eyes still shut, even though she couldn’t see you. Neither of you say anything for a long time. His words echo again.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
“Maybe,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I can help you meal prep some stuff?” Your voice is more of a mumble than a statement.
“Thank god!” She nearly screams. “Okay, so depending on when you come down-”
She launches into a long story of some class presentation she finished. Then, almost as suddenly as everything fell into place, but not as suddenly as it fell apart. You were living with Trinity.
It only took two weeks before you were bored. It helped that Trinity had an endless supply of people who knew people. Not ‘friends’ but people she’d done this and that for, people who owed her one.
It was all at once, one night at a bar taking shots, lamenting on how much you hate men, dancing, meeting new people, new people meeting even newer people. Then it’s giving you numbers, and then it’s blurry, but somehow you wake up the next morning half stuck to the floor with a new contact reaching out.
Hi, this is Dana with Obscura. Parker passed your number along for the server gig. We have availability to interview tomorrow at 10 AM sharp.
You read the text maybe four times before the words unblur themselves and the symbols mean something to you.
Obscura was the most nouveau restaurant in Pittsburgh, hell, probably even Pennsylvania. It was reminiscent of a New York that didn’t even exist anymore. A farm-to-table rotating menu that was equal parts nostalgic and nuanced. It was a kitchen where food wasn’t picked apart and rebuilt like other masochistic gastro-pub types. The ingredients in Obscura sang.
Helmed by Chef Jack Abbot, a world-renown Chef who’d trained under the greats of the last generation. A Chef responsible for the incubation of some of the best minds in the culinary world today. He’s the only Michelin holder in the state, his third restaurant in a row to be ranked in the top fifty restaurants in the world. Chef Abbot was a paragon.
There was absolutely no way you could actually work for him in any capacity. Even as wait staff, especially as wait staff. Twinges of conflict stirred in your stomach. Being so close to the kitchen without being in the kitchen was a solar flare of jealousy. Yet, being back in any setting remotely culinary sets your body shivering in anxious waves.
And yet, it was an absolute once in a lifetime opportunity in front of you.
Before you can stop yourself you’re responding.
I’ll be there. Thank you so much.
You drop the phone and scream into the pillow half-shoved between you and the corner of the old couch you plopped over last night. This was a terrible mistake.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
It was only a matter of time before you fucked this up too.
Dana was a force to be reckoned with. You had to be to manage a restaurant like Obscura. Especially, under the watchful gaze of the media, the way she explained they were. Every single table is a Michelin guest. Every single dish served is for the next greatest culinary critic. Every move needed the closest attention. You were sure she hated you by the end of her speech; she just sat back and watched you.
“Have you got any experience in the kitchen, Hon?” She asked, watching your eyes linger over the tools when she was walking you through the back of house. The team was only just starting to trickle in. For now, it was just a shorter, mousy looking, line cook sharpening his knives in the back corner.
“A little,” you clear your throat nervously, “I was enrolled at Nouvelle Gagnaire until last spring.”
She tilted her head at you, a small strand of bleached blonde hair falling from her clipped back hair. She watches you, your finger tracing the edge of the steel tabletop.
“Hmm,” She chuckles, sprouting a smirk, “Sounds like more than a little experience then. What happened, why aren’t you itching to get in my kitchen?”
You shrug noncommittally, not sure what to say. Well, you know exactly what to say, but you hardly think it’s appropriate. Fucking useless.
“Ran out of money?” You finally say, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. “Never got to finish my courses.”
“Ain’t that a bitch.” She sighs before pulling you into a maternal squeeze. “Okay, let’s have you come in tonight to shadow Mateo, and we’ll go from there, huh?”
Your throat is too full to say anything, so you just nod in agreement. Absently, you hear the back door swing open, and blinding light pours into the kitchen. You peek your head and see the outline of a man, the sun bursting behind him in ethereal beams.
“Jack,” your blood runs cold as the door swings shut behind him, “Come meet the new server. Shadowing us for the night.”
He throws his bag down before coming to size you up himself. You can’t seem to figure out where to look. He’s wearing a borderline sinful black shirt that is spread like butter against his chest. His grey curls coiffed perfectly, effortlessly. You wondered if it lay like that or if he spent meticulous time twisting it back into the perfect tease of curl. His eyes squint, the predatory hazel eyes roam across your frame.
“Fresh meat?” He murmured sarcastically, “Welcome to the dark side, Kid.”
Dana let out a disapproving sound. You opened your mouth to say something, but promptly closed it at his self-amused smirk.
“Don’t listen to him,” She turned you both away and made your way up to the front, “His name may be behind this place, but he’s not your boss, I am.” Dana continued to say things about the space, things you’d surely need to know later, but the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach drowned all focus away from you.
You can’t help but turn and look over your shoulder to glimpse another peek at the man himself. A mixture of horror and delight bubbles up when you catch him watching you. He shoots you an arrogant wink before you snap your head away from him.
“Alright, make sure you’re here in all black at 4:30. Family is at 4:45, don’t be late.”
As you grab your purse, for the first time in weeks, you think your life might not be over. It actually might have just begun.
There were plenty of differences between being a server and being in the thick of the kitchen. For one, you had to look pristine. Presentation at Obscura didn’t end at plating, the entire experience was in your hands. Another was your pace, while neither of the jobs ensured lots of downtime for anything more than the singular savior of a drag from your cigarette, a server had the luxury of disappearing.
“A good server serves food,” Mateo had explained with casual confidence, “A great server knows where to hide when you need a break and shit is already hitting the fan.” He waits for you to react, but your brows furrow. Everything you knew about serving was from the back of house, where food died in the window and dishes were sent back for outrageous complaints.
“What about your tables?” You fidget with your apron. A standard issue charcoal canvas fabric that Dana handed you the minute you walked through the door. One that wonderfully blended with the dark, moody atmosphere set in the dining room. Only pockets of amber lamplight ever so particularly broke up the ambiance of existentialism.
“Top priority, of course,” Mateo looks at his apron around his waist, “But when you’re three hours deep in a rush, and some asshole thinks he knows the pre-fixe better than you, it’s better you take a sec to get that shit out, or it’ll end up killing you.” He shrugs like it’s common knowledge.
“What about the food?” Your eyes wander to the kitchen tucked behind the bend in the long back hallway. If you lean your body just a foot farther, you’d see them neck deep in prep. As much as you itched to give in to the temptation, you held back. Seeing that would only sour your mood, and besides, you were sure you’d see enough of it during service tonight.
“If you need a minute, we have a code word.” He stretches his arms side to side, like he is getting ready for some sort of intense workout. “If you say Hula-Hoop, we’ve got you.”
“Hula Hoop?” You nod. “Hula-hoop. Okay, thanks.”
“I usually hide out in the back alley. Kim likes the POS station. Bridget would go to the bathroom. You could go to the walk-in if you wanted.” He puts his hands on your shoulders. “It’s inevitable, it’s going to happen, don’t abuse it, but we’re a team here. If you need a minute, you need a minute.”
He stares down at you intensely. His brown eyes trying to imbue some great knowledge you hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” He pats your shoulder and backs off, “We’ve always got one floater, which is where you’ll be for a while until you get a sense of the sections. If you need anything, Dana is always on the floor or in the kitchen. She’s here to help, so don’t be scared to ask for what you need.”
“Got it.”
And just like that, a bell is rung and the family is called to eat.
Your first shift goes surprisingly well. You recount the whole thing excitedly to Trinity when you get home. She eats the leftover Pomegranate Osso Buco you’d taken at the end of service. She moans contentedly at the new flavors that bloom across your tongue.
You hadn’t spent as much time in the kitchen as you had thought you might. The usually chaotic pit of dishes infinitely emerging was surprisingly methodical. Floating meant most of your time was spent explaining specials, pouring wine, and fetching more spoons. The rare moment you were sent to run food was like a glimpse behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain.
Everyone moves with balanced intensity. Each station is a perfected ballet performed with precision. John Shen, Abbot's mentee with his own Michelin star accomplishment under his belt, oversaw the saute with calm precision, staying cool under the intense heat. Parker Ellis, whom you’d met through Trinity’s latest hook-up, bobbed to unheard music playing in her head, assembling dishes quietly. Occasionally, she’d shift her gaze upwards, and if you caught her eyes, she’d throw you a reassuring smile.
At the center of it all was Abbot. Who called out dishes with militant ease. No room for error, no need to waiver. Plates were examined under him with scrutiny; nothing passed through him unless the team was confident in its quality.
“Ellis, pull back the heat,” he corrected. “Any more heat and the Bisque will emulsify.” His words aren’t shouted. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t punish either. Parker, in turn, dutifully adjusted the large pot of bisque. Pulling it from the end of its own life.
“Yes, Chef.”
It hits you square in your chest that this is exactly what you had wanted for yourself. It was particularly hard to swallow the building upward heave of emotions when Abbot catches your eye between garnishing a small plate and saucing another.
“Need anything?” He’s not being condescending or rude when he asks. He genuinely wants to know. It only serves to tighten your chest. You nod silently. He narrows in on you, ready to ask again, you’re sure. But a ticket sprouts from the machine, and his focus is pulled away.
“Alright, table 13 is a go, let's get two plate greens and a fresh grain bowl going.” And you slip away like you’d never been there at all. Wandering through the rest of your shift with all the focus you could muster.
It itches at you, the urge to make something again, an itch you thought maybe had finally lost the good fight. You chalk it up to seeing the greats in action, who wouldn’t be inspired by their professionalism, their talent, their joie de verve. With Abbot at the helm, they made the art form look like just that.
A far cry from the sterile, suffocating perfection expected on exam day at Nouvelle Gagnaire. This warmth had shocked you into something hopeful for the first time in months.
For the first time in days the gravelled voice of Robby’s voice quiets in your head, in favor of Abbot’s steady praise.
It wasn’t long before your trial period had devolved into something more permanent. The steady rhythm was calming, even if the work was fast-paced and intense. The more shifts you worked, the more time you found to linger in the kitchen. Peaking around the corner. Pretending to be looking at something on the POS. Your eyes watched with wistful longing.
It was the only real love you’d ever felt. The bursting passion is barely restrained by the confines of expected perfection. Each night, a new rotation of the most inventive and succulent combinations. You had a habit of writing each night’s specials in a notebook, commenting on the ways Abbot reached and where he pulled from homegrown nostalgia. You were determined to find the throughline he’d been constructing for some weeks now, expecting one menu to be some sort of epic climax of wonderful dishes. Yet, the tension of expectation only grew.
That hadn’t been the only tension that had begun to grow. You had somehow caught the curious eye of the Chef himself. Your presence could only sneak for so long before his interest was piqued.
The first couple of shifts, you’d thought yourself subtle. You thought, surely, they were all so absorbed in their own work they hardly had time to notice your meticulous gaze. It became all too clear that there was no hiding from Chef Abbot.
His eyes seemed to follow you through a room, pinning you down to your spot with an intensity you’d only ever felt in malice.
He looked at you like a whole butchered cow. Like he was separating all the parts that needed to be shaved back to reveal something far more succulent behind it. Or gracefully dissecting each cut until he had every useful morsel of information. Perhaps he was deciding how he’d prepare you. Braised over a cheesy polenta? Flash-fried and encased in freeze-dried mushroom paste?
You wondered the flavor he’d invoke from your flesh often. You enjoyed the fantasy of trying to understand what you never would. A game you played with yourself to pass the time and ease the growing pit of unfulfilled destiny. All things swirled between you desperately. Yet, he hardly ever approached you.
Preferring to watch you, well, preferring to watch you watch them. At least once every shift, he would find himself between plates, usually when guests were teetering off, and the dense empirical pressure of never-ending chaos ebbed, he’d place his hands on his hips and watch you shamelessly.
For your part, you’re usually waiting on some final dessert plate or waiting to run a card at the system. You can’t help but relish in the carnage of the shift well-cooked. It was mid-disection, one of you is pulled away, never able to act on some sort of unspoken dance.
Until one night in late July. The kitchen had been hotter than you’d ever experienced, both in temperature and in attitude. There was a stomach bug sweeping through, and most of the team was off kilter. Capable and steady, but where there was usual ease, everyone’s brow seemed to furrow in focus.
The front of house team was no better. Kim was out, and Dana was already stepping in to ensure they had enough hands to cover the fully booked service. With all its trouble, you hadn’t let the sense of dread seep into your shift. You’d worked short-staffed before, and you were sure you’d get through it.
Pre-service is quick, team spreads until everything is hazy and translucent. You barely have time to write the specials for the night out before Dana calls you into her small office. She’s got her readers on, and she looks at you down her nose over the top rim like you’re in the principal’s office.
“You called?” You lean against the doorframe, looking at the chaos that has suddenly exploded through the room.
“I’m putting you in Kim’s section tonight.” She shuffled some papers in front of her, “So you’ve got our VIP.”
VIP’s weren’t rare here, per se; the classification seemed to send a wave of anxiety through you. Your palms start to itch with expectation. Celebrities you’d only ever seen on glossy gossip magazines had come and gone from these doors without so much as a whisper from Dana. Only once were they acknowledged, and that was only between you and Mateo when his favorite actor came in last month.
“Oh?” You played coy, taking a deep breath trying to calm your nerves. “Who is it?”
Dana gave you a tight-lipped smile. There was a crash behind you, and suddenly, the day is moving at a breakneck speed again.
“Sorry, Hun, Jack made the reservation at the last minute,” she brushes past you and into the chaos swirling. “What the hell happened?” you hear distantly.
You contemplate peeking at the guest sheet on her computer, but you too are pulled away at the sound of family bell.
Squeezed between Parker and Olive, you nudge Ellis with your elbow. “D’you know who the VIP is tonight?” Her eyebrows pull together.
She shakes her head and scoops more pasta into her mouth, preferring to eat family as quickly as possible so she can call her girlfriend in the back before service.
“Think it’s one of Abbot’s old buddies from Culinary.” Olive pipes in from the other side.
“Makes sense,” Parker supplies, “He’s changed tonight's menu twice. He hates when restaurant buddies come in.”
“Why?” you pick around the salad on your plate. Both of them just shrug in nonchalance.
“Who knows why Abbot does anything?” Parker replies. Suddenly, there’s a presence behind you.
“Talking about me?” Abbot inquiries. Your spine straightens. You peek over your shoulder, where Abbot is leaning against the wall casually. A soft white tee tight against his torso. A blue dish towel thrown over his shoulder, and a hearty bowl of pasta in his hand. His eyebrow is quirked down at you specifically, like he’d caught you in a secret. You’d be more nervous if it wasn’t for the playful smirk plastered to his lips.
“Always Boss,” Parker responds lazily, like being caught talking about your boss was an everyday occurrence. “We have to let the newbie in on all your quirks.” She made sure to drag the sentence out melodically.
Abbot only chuckles before nodding slowly. “If you wanted to get to know me better, all you had to do was ask.” He winks before taking a bite of his dinner.
You feel your face heat, your spine still ramrod straight. You can’t seem to respond with anything other than stuttered sounds.
“Gross.” Parker pushes her chair out and walks off before you can say anything else. Several others follow suit, breaking the tension between the two of you.
“I mean it, Kid.” He called out as he sauntered away. “I’m an open book.”
-
Service is a shitshow. Or it’s as much as Obscura would ever become a shit show. Tickets are running 2-3 minutes behind continuously. Guests are picking apart your spirit by questioning recommended wine pairings, insisting they know the menu better than you, or asking for wildly off-menu accommodations.
The kitchen is just as tense, with every complaint and question reported to Abbot only raising his hackles. If he’d been short when service began, he was positively snappy now. You’d already asked him twice for odd requests and pairings that had set his ticket time back, and Dana had already reminded the team not to take any of Abbot’s shortcomings personally.
You had made a silent prayer to anyone listening that the rest of the shift would be nice and smooth.
“Kiddo, VIP being seated at table 22.” Dana barked from the mouth of the kitchen, “Look alive.”
Turning the corner, you’d expected to see someone you recognized. You’d maybe thought Gordan Ramsey or some sort of Iron Chef adjacent someone. At worst, maybe it’d be some snobby French chef who looked down your shirt and commented on how ‘they’d have approached the branzino a little differently.’
The last thing you’d expected was to be face-to-face with the man who’d effectively crushed every dream you’d ever had. Okay, that was slightly harsh; you were burning out for many reasons. Chef Michael Robinavitch just happened to be the biggest, gloomiest, and most impending of all the reasons.
Sitting comfortably in the corner table, the prime table for someone looking for a long, luxurious meal to enjoy privately, was your former instructor. He wasn’t alone either; the back of the other man’s head was obscured, not that it mattered when you suddenly couldn’t move. Stopped plainly in your tracks, in the middle of the dining room, staring him down with wide eyes.
Mateo glides past you with an odd look, patting your arm quickly in a reminder, keep it moving. Then you’re moving, approaching the table, your throat suddenly bone dry, hands shaking so bad you have to clasp them behind your back to steady them.
He still hadn’t looked up at you when you began your spiel. You get about halfway through before he peeks up from the menu and locks in on you with the same intensity that had haunted you in your nightmares for months. You stumble over your words when his eyes narrow, placing you in his mind.
You can see the moment he realizes you’re in front of him. The same way he left, crying in his small office. The same you’d watch go from promising prospect to absolutely hopeless under his watchful and steadfastly critical watch. He sits back arrogantly, no longer listening to you describe the specials, preferring to let himself pick the small parts of you that you knew were slightly out of place.
“Can I recommend any wine pairings for you tonight?” You finish.
“Can you?” He inquires, dripping with condescension. “You don’t have a Maitre D?
You shake your head quickly before you remember you’re no longer standing in his kitchen watching him dissect your kitchen skills.
“No, sir,” You kick yourself for the formality, “Chef Abbot prefers to pick the wine selection himself.”
Robby lets out a self indulgent chuckle, shaking his head before turning him away from you completely. Your heart picks up until you hear the blood rushing through your head completely. Until you feel the ache in your knees locked under yourself.
“Classic Jack,” He rolls his eyes, “Still a control freak.”
“Can I get you started with any drinks?” You ask again, peeking at the other man at the table for guidance.
“We’ll take the red blend, whatever Jack recommends.” Robby interrupts with so much contempt it’s almost a sneer. You nod and scurry away before he can say anything else.
You keep your head down until you’re in the back, placing the order and inputting their ticket. You hear Abbot yelling about something in the kitchen, and it winds your anxiety tighter in your chest. This was Chef Abbot’s friend, Dana, who gave them to me specifically.
You take three deep breaths before you make a round to check your tables. You hardly make it around the corner before you’re pulled back into service.
Thankfully, you have little time to spend with the man of the hour. They receive their wine with little complaint, and Mateo delivers their appetizers while you’re busy ringing up another table. It’s not until well into their meal that you have a moment to go check on them.
“How are these plates for you?” Robby grunts in response, while his guest waxes his praise for the flavors. You smile politely.
“And how are you, sir?” You direct towards the looming presence.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just sighs. “How long have you been working here?”
“Just about 3 months, Chef.” The title slips before you can stop yourself. He relishes the power he still has over you. “Since mid-April.”
He shakes his head, disappointed. “It’s odd to see you in some place like this.” He remarks passively, shooting you a sarcastic smile. “I always had the impression places like this were too intense for you.”
The man across the table interjects with something, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood coursing through your ears. You can feel the lump in your throat building and building until your eyes go glassy over. You nod at whatever his guest is talking about.
He watches you until he catches sight of your eyes glazed over, and he huffs at your display of vulnerability.
You don’t remember how you ended back in the kitchen, but you knew there was food dying on the pass that needed to go out and a full house aside from the looming paragon of lost dreams. Somewhere between placing specialized entrees down and refilling glasses, you peeked up at Dana, who was standing talking to Robby.
He’s a VIP she has to talk to him. This is her job. But suddenly, that voice– his voice is back. You place a plate. Fucking useless. You ring up another dessert. Fucking useless. You pretend to laugh with an older couple celebrating an anniversary. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
You can’t help but peak up at him between tasks, as if he might suddenly decide that you do deserve the respect you so desperately crave. All you're met with is cold haughty amusement. He seems to delight in your squirming.
Under his watch you can’t do anything quite right anymore. You ring in the wrong wine for table 26. You almost run head on into Dana at the Pass, which earns you a stern warning from Abbot to ‘get your head in the game.’ Your head spins, your hands shake, you feel like you’re an ant under a magnifying glass, ready to combust at any moment.
It’s not until the end of their meal when you finally place the face across the table from Robby. Through the limited friends you had made in class, you recognized the face that had stared back at you in official group photos, unofficial hang outs, late night coffee runs, and even class bonding opportunities.
The man sitting across from Robby was the chef who took your place when you dropped the program. Frank something? He was a point of contention for you, and you’d spent nights lamenting pitifully to Trinity about how much better he probably was. How much faster, how much cleaner, how level-headed he must be to thrive in that sort of environment.
It was surprising you hadn’t immediately recognized him with the amount of time you spent obsessing over him in the month after your swift departure. Yet, it wasn’t until three quarters into the meal when Robby requested Chef Abbot come meet his star Pupil.
That’s when you hit your wall. You nod absently and pass the message along to Dana before you make your way to the walk in, only hoping to take a calming breath before heading back out.
This was it. Robby was going to introduce Frank to Abbot, and maybe Abbot would offer him a job. Maybe Robby would tell Abbot what a failure you really were. Maybe he’d break it to him how utterly useless you are in the kitchen. It would only be a matter of time before everyone knew you’d failed out of Culinary. Not only that, the only reason Frank was here was because you were fucking useless.
It’s just that, by the time you make it in there, your deep breaths don’t fill your lungs. Your head spins from the lack of oxygen and sheer ironic terror coursing through you. Your legs shake underneath you until you grip on one of the shelves for support. You don’t realize you’re crying until someone else is in front of you.
Shen doesn’t really say anything, he just grabs the bundle of Chard from the side shelf before slipping back out into the kitchen.
You hear voices outside the thick metal door, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can hear is
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Circling the drain until you’re curled in on yourself against the cold metallic shelving.
The door opens, and it’s Chef Abbot. You scramble to stand, frantically wiping at your face, trying to conceal your breakdown. His eyes sharply assess you not as Jack, but as Chef Abbot. He sighs impatiently, looking over his shoulder.
“Someone grab Dana.” He says, no mirth, no joy, just cold calculation. You can’t seem to register any discernible emotion, just tense stress radiating off of him.
“I’m so sorry Chef,” you start, your voice wobbly and strained, not unlike a child who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You tremble under his uninterested gaze, no longer were you a fascination under him, you were a festering colony of Mold rotting his well run machine. A bad egg. You felt completely fucking useless. “I’m sorry, I just needed a moment. I can get back out there-”
He holds up a hand quietly, opening the door and ushering you out into the perpetually moving beast that is his kitchen. “You’re cut, kid.”
Your veins turn to ice at his words. You had expected more. Yelling. Berating. Apologizing. Perhaps even grovelling on your part. You can’t comprehend that he’d be asking you to leave. You were hardly the first person to cry during service. It was the first time you’d let yourself crack, and now it’s the last.
“Chef, I’m… I-” You stutter out.
“Not tonight Kid, go home.”
From behind him you see Dana. Who quickly ushers you from the inside of the walk in, through the back of the kitchen and into the alleyway where the damn bursts.
Ugly hiccupping sobs. Heavy heaving gasps for relief wrack you; you can barely speak. You can barely suck in enough air to expel in unexpectedly jagged repetition. Dana rubs your back and asks about a million questions before she relents and calls into the kitchen for a phone.
“D’you have anyone we can call, Hon?” She murmurs, keeping her voice soothing and low. Somewhere deep inside you, you thank god for Dana. She keeps you steady while you dial Trinity’s number.
She sits you on an old palette brushing the hair from your face with a maternal fervor that only she could muster. The phone’s dial tone echos against the sounds of service behind you. You take a shuddered breath to steady yourself.
You just about have a handle on breathing when Trinity answers, a benign greeting for any cautious young woman getting an unknown number call on a random Thursday Night.
“Trin?” You whine out, the feeling of relief crashes into you until the waterworks start up again, “I think I’m dying.”
You don’t hear anything from anyone for at least twenty-four hours. You’re stuck now, in a limbo of whether or not you were officially let go. When Dana piled you into the passenger seat of Trinity’s half-beaten to death Honda, she murmured placations that she’d see me on Monday. To get some rest, and call her.
Trinity insisted that you were certainly not fired. You, however, have the distinct memory of Jack Abbot’s cold disapproval piercing into your chest in the frigid walk in. You weren’t sure which sensation caused the chill up your spine, the memory of sharp stainless steel pressing into your overheated flesh or the lifeless way Chef Abbot ushered you into Dana’s hands.
You’d recounted the whole shift twice over the next morning over leftover pancakes with mixed results. Trinity was both wildly supportive, threatening death to all parties if needed, but insisting that Jack was far too infatuated with you to fire you for crying in a walk-in.
“I think Parker cried in that walk in like 4 times.” She remarked off hand. “And Abbot doesn’t even want to fuck her.”
“Abbot doesn’t want me.” You pick around a large blueberry on your plate. The two of you went in circles before Trinity announced she was needed at the hospital for her shift.
Somewhere in the second day haze of self-pity there’s someone at the door.
The last person you’d expected was Chef Abbot on the other side. In a classic pair of Blue Jeans and white henley t-shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the impressive pair of arms he sported. He didn’t have his usual backpack, nor did he seem to know what to do with his hands.
“Chef,” you say, voice tired with underuse. You look down at your clothes, an oversize t-shirt from your dad’s closet growing up and ratty bright colored sweats. Your cheeks ache with embarrassment. How pathetic could you look? “Hi, I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you.
“Hi,” he said simply. “Can I come in?” he crossed his arms uncomfortably before almost immediately releasing it in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Um,” you hesitate, scanning behind you for anything embarrassing. “Sure, sure. Sorry, I really wasn’t expecting company so I haven’t cleaned up.”
The kitchen is strewn with half finished baking projects. Steaming cookies sit on the counter, some stress relief for you that doubles as a thank you to your roommate who would be sure to hear all about your self-pity spiral for the upcoming millenia.
“Don’t worry about that, I’m no stranger to a lived in kitchen.” He remarks casually.
“Right. Of course,” You offer him a seat on the couch. “So, how can I help you?”
You have to physically sit on your hands to stop them from shaking.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” he clears his throat, watching you squirm against the plush couch.
“I'm fine, I didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to come check on me. Especially now.” You don’t elaborate, but you also can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.
"Especially now, what?" He pushes, brow furrowed.
"Especially since I'm dismissed?" You sound like a petulant child, but it feels satisfying enough. You don't bother reigning it in.
"Who the hell dismissed you? Dana?"
"You did! in the walk-in!" You grunt, exhausted. You flop back against the couch. "You said I was cut."
"Cut, yeah-" He compulsively cracks his knuckles down against each other, "for the night. You were having a panic attack in my walk-in." He says matter-of-factly and simply.
You suddenly feel small and stupid. Sitting in front of him like a child pouting over a misunderstanding. "Oh. I thought you were letting me go."
He shakes his head solemnly, "Not at all."
You take a deep breath. Squeeze your eyes shut. Then, finally, look up at him. "So, then what are you doing here? I thought you were going to ask for the apron back."
“Right,” He murmurs, running his hand down his face in exacerbation. “Well, I talked with Ellis, and she told me some stuff.” Your heart beat begins to speed up, and the perpetual vice in your throat seems to squeeze impossibly tight.
“What sort of things?” You can barely squeeze the words out through the anxious tugging.
“Things like- she told me you used to go to Nouvelle Gagnaire. That you were Robby’s student for a while. She told me you dropped out suddenly.” You buried your head into your hands, half out of shame. Half to process that not only did the one person you didn’t want to know you’d failed out of culinary school know now, but you also had a giant fucking mouth when you were drunk.
“Jesus Christ.” you mutter darkly.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Dana said you couldn’t afford to take more classes, if you needed money-”
Anger and indignation rises in your chest like bile. How easy for the golden boy chef to talk about Money when he’s only ever had critical success and commercial success wrapped in one beautiful bow. He’d known nothing of what it meant to be anything but a savant with a knife and a visionary with a culinary mind.
“I didn’t drop out because I couldn’t afford the classes, Abbot.” your teeth grind against each other in painful scrapes, it dulls the rage only slightly. “I dropped out because I couldn’t do it. Robby made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t cut out for his kitchen. He went particularly out of his way to inform me how fucking useless I was.” You stand, leaving him to process your admission on the couch.
“Wait- Kid, what are you talking about?” He follows like a lost puppy.
“I wasn’t good. I had a dream, but I wasn’t good enough. Robby made sure that I knew that, and when it came down to it, I just couldn’t cut it.” you shrug, flipping the sink on to let the dirty pots soak.
“I’m sorry.” He says after a long time.
“Why are you sorry?” You sniffle, hot shameful tears slip out again. You curse yourself silently for letting him see you cry again so close together. You wish you could just hold it together. “You’re not the one whose life is a mess. Last I checked, you were still a successful award-winning chef.”
He leaned against your counter, leaning over to turn the water off.
“Don’t do that, you’re not a mess.”
You sigh, letting your head drop back and your eyes shut. You try desperately to collect your thoughts. “I want more than anything to have what you do. To run a kitchen like yours, and have the talent you have. But some dreams work out and some don’t-”
“Please, Kid, everything I have comes from years of training. It’s not some predisposition, it's an obsession.”
“Okay, well then I’m not obsessed enough-”
Jack laughs, hearty and dark, turning until his hand is resting against your spine. It’s more comforting than you’d ever imagined. His heavy palm pressed until it was squeezing the tense muscles at the base of your neck.
It sends a euphoric sort of pain down your spine, it sends you spiraling off course until you can’t focus on your own self-deprecation. He hums contentedly at your sudden redirection, and takes the opportunity to step closer to you.
“You are enough. You have enough. The way I see you watching the kitchen, it’s the best part of my day.” He admits. “Watching the way you take it all in, it’s like for a moment you’re bigger than all of us. You see everything in one complete motion. You get this awestruck look like you can’t believe you’re here.”
He moves your hair to one side, and lets his fingertips dance across your skin. Not pressuring or directing, just as if he’d imagined what it might feel like a thousand times before and he can’t believe he’s being given this chance. He’s positively reverent.
“I thought at first, it was me.” You don’t need to turn your head to see the blush that dances across his features. The silly giggle that tumbles from your lips shocks you. “I thought you had a crush on me, but then once I got past my own ego, I saw it for what it was.” His forehead pressed against your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook. “You’re just meant to be on the other side of the pass.”
You don’t want to interrupt, he’s completely splayed you across the counter, pulling you apart until your most vulnerable parts of you are bare for him. You had never considered yourself mysterious but you realize Jack had seen right through you, right from the beginning.
“It was maybe a bit of both.” You admit, nothing to lose from full transparency, “Two things can be true at once.” You tilt your head until your lips brush the grey coiffed curls. You smell the sandalwood and cedar shampoo he used this morning, it sends butterflies coursing through your stomach.
“Was?” He clarified, peaking up at you, his hands coming to rest against your hips. His lips are only millimeters away from yours.
“Only one way to find out.” You quip, and his lips are against yours before you can finish. His hands are twisting your body until you’re flush against each other. The sound he lets out is sinful and greedy.
Your hands roam freely against his torso, tracing from his hair down across his broad shoulders, past the lower dip of his back and one settles teasingly against the delicious curve of his ass. He, in kind, tangles his hand into your hair, keeping your head steady while the other arm wrapped around you for control.
“Jack,” you murmured against his lips, “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to ruin everything.” You admit against him, breathing the admission into his mouth. He shutters with the intensity of the confession.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He promises, “I want you so bad.”
Suddenly you’re being positioned again, he pats the countertop, which you happily hop onto. Once settled he tugs your legs far enough apart to press himself against your completely.
Jack moves to kiss you again and it’s a delicious balance of fervid desperation with languished delight. He presses deep kisses, slipping his tongue into your mouth with practiced ease. He uses his leverage to guide you exactly where he wants you. You give him complete access to explore you as he wishes. The same intensity in observation seemed to translate into curious fumbling exploration.
His hips roll against yours, the seam of his jeans giving delightful friction against the thin cotton sweatpants you were sporting. Both of you give into the ebbs and flows of pleasure, chasing after something illusive and dangerous in each other’s mouths.
“Fuck, baby,” He groans after a particularly heady drag of his now burgeoning bulge against the damp gusset of your pants. “I need you-”
“Please!” you don’t wait, scrambling to tug the waistband of your pants down until you’re bare against the cold countertop. Jack wastes no time following suit. Pulling the hem of his shirt up until he’s bare.
Your fingertips explore the contours of his chest with aggressive focus. Mesmerized by the sculpted perfection you had access to. Jack in turn slips his hands up the large shirt until it’s slipped over your head.
Once bare he takes no time at all to palm at your tits, tweaking one of your nipples, watching your body respond in kind back to him. He plants hot open mouth kisses down your neck, stopping to leave attention over both tits thoroughly.
Your hand securely situated against his scalp, you writhe under his attention. His tongue hot over the peaking buds, sending shockwaves of pleasure before pulling away and blowing cool air against the same skin. He plucks and pulls sin from your mouth until you’re jolting with pleasure. His mouth only barely makes its way between his thighs before your thighs start to shake.
Jack considers himself a lucky man, but he could’ve never considered himself lucky enough to have you like this before him. Generally he was pretty reserved, he preferred work and everything else in his life to stay that way. You had come in with an awestruck sledgehammer to all his rules. One bat of your eyelashes and he was sure he was a goner.
Kneeling before you, between your thighs, watching you fall apart? He would burn his restaurant to the ground if it meant keeping you forever.
His lips wrapped around your clit, a finger pumping in slowly, slowly, slowly. The sounds coming out of your mouth were absolutely dumb.
“Like that?” he asks. “That feel good, baby?” He watches as you nod frantically. “Give me words. C’mon, tell me what you’re feeling.”
You open your mouth to respond, but he returns back to his ministrations. Lips suckling against the most sensitive parts of you. A slick sheet collecting against his lips.
“Can’t let you cum until you tell me how it feels.” He asserts before slipping a second finger in and scissoring you open.
You’re practically panting like a dog when you finally manage a response, “So fucking good, Jack.” You admit. “Don’t stop, please let me cum. Please!” You’re not above begging as your hips twitch and writhe against his face.
“Cum for me, let me see it.” He pulls back to watch you, rubbing his other hand harshly over your clit. Your body comes alive under him. A burst of wonderful life played out under his delicate touch. Your orgasm burst like the sun peaking out over the horizon, vibrant and beaming radiance.
He barely makes it upright before you’re tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t hesitate to unzip them, pulling the denim and the tight fitted underwear underneath with it.
“Want you to fuck me.” you mumble mindless from your orgasm.
“I’ll fuck you,” He promises, “I’ve got you baby.” You nod and wrap yourself around him like a koala. The head of his cock rubs lightly against you before notching against your entrance. “Open up for me, Open up baby.” He ruts forward stretching you sinfully full.
Your head drops back before rolling to the side mindfully. Jack takes the opportunity to leave testy love bites along the column of your neck. The bitter bites soothed by his skillful tongue, until you can feel the heat of his pelvis against your pussy. Mindlessly full and properly blissed out, your nails dig into his shoulders.
Jack’s tongue drags against the space of your neck, leaving a sticky trail behind. His hips grind impossibly deep, dragging your clit against the sliver wiry hairs at the base of his cock.
“Jack-” His hips retreat before slamming into you with exquisite power, his fingers plucking your nerve endings. “Jack. Y’so good.” You babble praises into his skin.
“So pretty, baby. Feels so good being on my cock, huh?” He keeps rhythm, tilting your head until you’re both looking into each other’s eyes. He tilts his hips up until the head of his cock is perfectly notched against your G-spot.
You press your lips to his, breathing empty headed moans into his mouth. Jack happily swallows your babbles, offering praises in return. The feeling of completion builds and builds and builds. The ache is a full body experience, a capsaicin burn tearing pleasure from your insides out until you’re bursting through.
Jack’s thrust seems perfectly time to make you completely desperate for more. He brings you just to the precipice of wholeness with him. His eyes locked onto yours, intense, wanting, and observant as always. Hazel blown out by pleasure, the cocky smirk left far behind in favor of blind vulnerable pleasure.
“Cum with me?” You hardly have time to say yes before his hips stutter, shooting his spend deep inside of you.
You, in turn, bloom like a ripened fruit, sweet and tart against his tongue, bursting with fresh juice. He thrusts deeper and deeper until both of you twitch and writhe with overstimulation.
“S’good for me baby.” he kisses along your jaw, up your cheek, over your closed eyes, across the bridge of your nose, until he finds a home against your lips again. “So good at everything.”
You scrunch your nose, still fuzzy from the intensity. “Thank you.”
His hands smooth out your hair, before pulling back to look him in the eye.
“Want to help me make family meal tonight?” You freeze against him, a wave of anxiety shoots through you. You hesitate to say anything for a long time.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” your shoulders curl in on yourself. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t, baby.” He promises, “ I want to cook with my baby.” he brushes his nose against yours in a sickly sweet butterfly kiss. “Just want to know what you can do.”
“Mmmm, not a lot.” You grumble. He chuckles at your attitude.
“That’s okay.” He wraps his arms around you. “By the time I’m done with you you’ll be better than me and Robby combined.” He affirms. You peek up at him with wide eyes, and a sad pout on your lips.
“You don’t have to Jack-”
“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You belong in the kitchen, baby.”
pairing: ex-outlaw!michael robinavitch x f!reader x ex-outlaw!jack abbot
summary: leaving doc adamson's gang, jack abbot and michael robinavitch thought they were out of trouble. then, a young woman walks into their saloon dressed up like a man and demanding a turn on their piano.
wc: 23.4k
warnings: click this link to find them as well as a personal note!
a/n: i bet you all didnt expect for me to actually write it (jk jk jk). thank you from the bottom of my heart for 3k! (let's pretend like i hit it today and not a while ago...) please please please take this fic as my gift to you for the occasion! i hope you enjoy because i've been noodling on this since november, and writing it since january lol! <3 <3 <3 thank you again :)
*****
"We have an issue."
"Wonderful," Robby groans. He stretches his neck. He had hoped for a quiet night, one where he wouldn't have to throw his back out kicking out a drunk fella or breaking up a fight. "Where?"
Jack jerks his head down the bar, and that's where Robby sees it.
A woman. Dressed like a man. It's almost comical how much you stick out among the working men in the saloon. If they weren't all so drunk already, they'd be on you like a pack of wolves.
The Foothill Saloon is no place for a thing like you.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "The lost little birdie?"
Jack smirks, "Yup."
It's not the first time a woman has come into the saloon. In the year and a half since they opened the joint, Robby and Jack have seen their fair share of women. Some have been scared, lost or beaten women looking for help, and they've been more than happy to offer a bed and a warm meal. When they're just looking for just a drink or some downright trouble, Robby and Jack offer nothing but directions to the door. That is, of course, not including the handful of women working the floor, their low cut blouses drawing even the owners' eyes from time to time.
"Am I handling this or you?" Robby asks.
"Oh, you can handle it," Jack says like he's doing him a favor. "But I'll watch."
You smile when you spot the pair heading down the bar your way. Jack is behind it, but Robby's in front. It's how they operate, always have. Robby has an easier time maneuvering the floor. Plus, where Jack has always had better luck talking up women, men tend to listen to Robby a bit better thanks to his height.
"Evenin', fellas." God, you don't even try to sound like a man. Your voice is like a song, light and sweet over the cacophony of voices in the hall. "Busy night, huh?"
"Go home," Robby says. "We don't serve women here."
To your credit, you don't do anything ridiculous like ask how he knows you're a woman. Though, you do square your shoulders and keep your head held high as you retort, "There's plenty of women here."
Jack scoffs behind the bar. The rag in his hand glides along the edge of a glass in a practiced motion. "They're sporting women."
You shift, and Robby can't help but notice the way you carry yourself. Your posture is impeccable, better than every single woman they have working the floor. You're certainly not a working woman, nor are you a prostitute. You're too naive for that, eyes bright and hopeful as they look out into the crowd.
"I'm not here for trouble, sir," your voice, sweet and out of place, brings Robby back to you. "Just lookin' for a drink."
"Well, that's too bad," Robby cracks his neck. He's already tired of this conversation. "Because we ain't takin' your money."
You smirk, and Robby is struck by how pretty you are. Even in the men's clothes, your hair mussed and pinned in a more masculine fashion, you're undeniably beautiful. Robby has seen plenty of fine women in his day, but there's an unspoken grace to you that piques his curiosity.
"That's alright." Your eyes slide across the saloon. Robby follows your gaze to the piano sat on the raised platform in the corner. There aren't any musicians in this town, beyond the occasional traveling band. It's been many weeks since its ivories have been tickled. "I'll play for it."
Jack snorts behind the bar. You don't pay him any mind.
"I can play the pianoforte mighty well." Your voice oozes confidence. Robby has no doubt that you play well, even if you squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. "You've got nobody on that piano there, and I know all the dance hall songs. I'll play for free if you let me drink—"
A glass slams onto the bar top beside you. It's so loud, even Robby jumps. You both come to stare at Jack, sporting a mean scowl.
"How many times do we have to tell you to get lost," Jack grunts, eyes raking your trembling form. "Now it'd be best if you listened. We don't take no solicitors, 'specially not little girls like you."
"I ain't a solicitor, sir." You clear your throat, straightening. Robby wants to laugh at the show of bravado. You've got gall. Even Jack would give you that. "I'll play for free. I don't need your money."
Jack opens his mouth to speak, but for your sake, Robby steps in, "Why don't you and I continue this conversation outside?"
A few patrons are beginning to notice that something is awry. While they're too drunk to piece it together just yet, a few regulars down at the other end of the bar (probably waiting for Jack to finally serve them) are eyeing the three of you with curiosity.
You don't notice the growing danger you're in, because you say, "I don't feel safe goin' outside with you, sir."
Jack barks out a laugh. It's loud and mean. You look at him with wide eyes. For a moment, Robby thinks to himself, maybe you aren't a birdie, maybe you're a doe, a scared little doe. He cuts a look at Jack, who is already making his way to the other end of the bar. Robby shakes his head, without looking at you, he says, "You'll be safer out there than you are in here, birdie."
His words give you pause. For the first time since you walked in, it seems that you're recognizing the eminent danger that your presence in this saloon puts you in. To add fuel to the fire, the rest of the patrons are finally taking notice. Even the working girls in the corner are whispering to themselves as they gawk.
"Alright," you nod, looking a little green around the gills. "Fine."
He ushers you ahead of him. While your head hangs low, Robby makes sure to keep his chin up. With each leering patron you pass, Robby makes sure to give them his meanest look. The message is clear: messing with you means messing with him.
Robby takes you out back to the small stable. It's only big enough for one horse, which is fine because they only have one horse. It was all the gang could spare when they left, already in shambles from Doc Adamson's death.
Robby grabs his cattleman hat from a hook on the wall. It's dark enough that nobody should give him trouble, but Robby would like to play tonight safe. The last thing he wants is for someone to recognizing him riding at night with a strange woman. After that, he grabs the saddle and starts fixing Orleans up for the ride.
Orleans has been Jack's horse for fifteen years now, stolen one night after his old horse had passed. He was piss drunk when he found him, but managed to make his way back to the camp. It was Robby who found him, and when he asked Jack where the hell he found the steed, Jack slurred something about New Orleans. The only problem is that at the time they were in Kansas.
Robby found the whole thing so funny that he told everyone about it the next morning. The whole time, Jack's face was as red as his hair was at the time. It was Heather, barely twenty at the time, who first called the horse Orleans. Jack grumbled about it, but didn't have the creativity to come up with a better name, so it stuck.
Orleans is a well-tempered horse, though a little skittish with Robby, despite the three years of practice he has riding him. Jack can't ride him anymore, so Robby has picked up on taking care of him. He takes the responsibility very seriously. In a way, Orleans is all they have from their old life. When they left the crew, Jack still recovering from the loss of his leg, Orleans was all they had. Well, they had Dana, but it isn't like she stuck around too long.
You whistle lowly as Robby saddles Orleans up, "That's a beautiful horse, sir."
"Yes, he is." Robby hoists himself up on the horse with a grunt. It's getting harder and harder these days now that he doesn't ride as much. That and the fact that Robby's getting old. Fifty-five is around the corner. His pa didn't make it to this age, and while Robby's grateful for his longevity, he can't help but curse the limits of his aging body.
He envies you, a young, naive thing. You can't be much older than your early twenties, your face soft with youth.
Robby offers his hand, scarred and calloused, to you. You hesitate, your delicate hand hanging just above his, but you don't take it.
"I can walk."
"Come on," Robby says, "Orleans here is an old boy, but he can take two." What Robby doesn't say is that Orleans always hauls two. While him and Jack have taken to riding double on her, Orleans is a trusty boy and never once even whinnied at the inconvenience.
Reluctantly, you place your hand is his. Before he can think too much about how soft your hand is, Robby yanks you up. You yelp, and in a series of what are likely mini-miracles, you don't end up on your ass. Though, you are sitting aside, arms wrapped tight around Robby's waist like you're afraid of getting bucked off.
"What are you doin'?" Robby asks.
"Sitting."
He sighs, "If you dress like a man, you gotta ride like one."
"Like a man?"
"Leg over, sweetheart."
You gulp audibly. Robby would laugh if he weren't so fed up with this entire situation. He should be working the floor tonight, not playing chauffer for some lost little thing. At least you're pretty. That offers at least some consolation.
When you awkwardly lift your leg over to the other side of Orleans, Robby asks, "Now, where do you live?"
"I'll point the way," you mumble, shyly. Robby almost misses the brazen woman you were inside. "Just start riding."
Robby chuckles but starts moving, "Yes, ma'am."
The ride is longer than he anticipated. Not long, but just lengthier than he thought. You've led Robby outside of town, and he's starting to think you're leading him to a whole lot of nowhere. Just when he's about to question your directional skills, Robby spots what looks like fencing.
"We're nearly there," you say.
Finally, the road gives way to a broad clearing. Robby whistles at the sight.
"The saloon ain't no place for a lady." He warns, "Now I better not see you around there ever again, okay?"
"You really must stop calling me a lady," you say.
"That's what you are, ain't you?" The house and estate before him are grand. It's not just a house, but a manor. It would take a five minute ride from the gate to the front door alone. "I've got eyes, girl. This is a lady's home."
You gulp audibly. Robby would be laughing at it if maybe he was still in the saloon, pouring drinks with Jack. But no. He's stuck here way past town with some girl who's too curious for her own good.
Robby observes the sprawling estate before him. The moonlight is dim, but he can make out the basic features of the estate. There's fields of beautiful foliage, the main home and several smaller quarters, a stable, and what looks like a sprawling garden behind the home. It's all along the river. Dully, Robby thinks he recognizes the place.
"Ain't this where that one family lives?"
Your face pinches. You almost look offended as you ask, "Do you mean the Eastons?"
"Yeah, them."
"Yes."
Robby blinks, "Are you an Easton?"
You blink, "No." You shift, "I work for them."
He doesn't buy it. You come into the saloon, offer to pay for drinks and play the piano for free, and then you try to ride aside. Try to tell him you're a servant all you want, but Robby isn't stupid.
Still, he humors you. "Alright," he concedes, slowing Orleans to a stop. "Well, then I suppose this is good night."
"Ah… you're not dropping me off closer to the house?"
Robby turns to look at you. By the look on your face, eyes wide and pleading, you're completely serious. He decides not to yell at you, the poor pampered girl on the back of his horse, and adopts an only slightly sarcastic tone to say, "Well I would, but I don't wanna risk gettin' you in trouble with your steward."
You frown, "My steward?"
"I need a drink," Robby grumbles to himself.
"What was that?"
Ignoring you, he explains, "Your steward? Your boss?"
"Oh. Oh!" You force a laugh, "Yes… yes… my steward. Heh. Thought you said somethin' else."
Silence.
"Are you gonna get off?"
"Oh," you slowly, carefully lower yourself to the ground. It's an unpracticed movement. It looks to Robby like you're used to doing this with one person holding your hand and another stabilizing you at the waist. Hell, maybe there's a third person there just in case.
On the ground, you cross your arms, staring up at Robby with an indignant expression. The corner of his lips quirk upward.
"Well," you shift, tugging at the pants that cling to your curves. "Good night, Mr…"
"Just Robby, is fine."
You nod curtly, "Good night, Mr. Robby."
He opens his mouth to correct you, but all that comes out is a soft laugh. He merely turns Orleans away. When you're out of earshot, he utters, "And good night to you too, little birdie."
*****
Robby tends to be an early riser. Always up before sunrise to feed Orleans, he does make a habit of returning to bed for a few more minutes of peace before his lover wakes.
Jack has always been a night owl. It's a habit from when they spent their time holding up wagons for cash and goods or robbing rich folk blind, but now that they spend their time pouring drinks and serving up grub, Jack's eyes refuse to close for a long while, even when Robby's snoring in his arms. As a result, Jack also sleeps in long past Robby. Often times, Robby will have to rouse him sometime around ten to help prep for lunch service.
This morning, however, Robby wakes face down in a pillow instead of Jack's chest as the mattress shifts beneath him. By the time he manages to peel his eyes open, Jack's already sitting up, shirt already on and buttoned.
"Where are you goin'?" Robby croaks.
"The store," Jack grumbles. "I'm outta cigarettes."
That's enough to wake him up. Robby sits up, blinking languidly in an attempt to wake up. He asks, "Want me to come? We can take Orleans."
Jack shakes his head. He grabs the artificial leg next to the bed and begins to fasten it. "No need," he says. "I'm grown. Don't need help."
"It's muddy out. It'll be better for your leg if—"
"It's always muddy out," Jack stands. He shifts his weight from side to side, when he seems happy with the feel, Jack collects his trousers from the floor. "Sometimes you just have to walk through it."
Jack's sensitive about his leg, has been since he lost it. It was during their last job with the gang, the same one that took Doc Adamson's life. Jack got shot in the middle of his calf. Within hours it was showing sign of infection. They tried to save his leg, but there was no outrunning the infection with the little medical supplies they had left. Plus, Adamson was the only real doctor in the gang. Without him there, nobody really knew what to do other than cut it off.
Jack and Robby only stayed long enough for his leg to heal. Once three months hit, Robby went out to find Jack means of walking that wasn't just the old crutches laying around camp. Robby stole the artificial leg from a man who fought in the Great Rebellion. Though, he fought for the traitors, so Robby didn't feel any guilt when he stuck his gun in his face and demanded that the man hand over his leg.
Despite the artificial limb helping him regain some dignity, the leg is a sore spot. Everything changed that night for him, when he ceased being an outlaw and became simply Jack.
It changed Robby too, having to saw through Jack's flesh and bone, praying that the tourniquet would do its job. Dana shoved a belt in Jack's mouth to stop him from breaking his teeth. Even after loading him up with morphine and whiskey, the pain was just too much. Jack doesn't remember much of the amputation, only the pain. He didn't see the way Robby cried, how he prayed that night, so afraid that Jack would be taken from him before he and Robby could find a better life together.
As he recovered, Robby kept waiting for shit to hit the fan, Jack did, too. Except, it never did. Jack's recovery went well, physically, at least. Mentally, Jack didn't know what was left anymore. Robby was there the entire time, Dana too, but things were different. Things were always going to be different after that.
It's why Jack stays behind the bar most nights. People in town are nice to him, don't make a fuss or stare when he limps down the street, but that isn't to say he's immune to the odd drunken patron of the saloon. When they were still getting the place on its own two feet, it took only two men hassling Jack about his limp for him to resign himself to forever hiding behind the bar.
Robby sighs, "How about I meet you there."
Jack doesn't bother hiding his disdain for Robby's words, pulling a face. He always does this, tries to make Robby back down like he doesn't know the man well enough to know Robby won't. "Fine," he grumbles, pulling his trouser on. "Not like you'd listen to me if I said otherwise…"
Jack's out of the door before Robby is able to rouse himself out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, Robby trudges up the stairs to get dressed. They live in a sizeable quarters attached to the saloon. While they sleep in one, it's got two bedrooms for appearances if a drunkard were to ever go snooping where they shouldn't. Robby keeps all his clothing and personal affects in the one on the second floor.
In the bedroom, Robby takes a glance through the window. It was pouring rain last night, and from the looks of it, it's nowhere near dry out. He sighs, rubbing his face. Jack's leg is going to be screaming mad at him. It's tough with the artificial limb. It doesn't move like it ought to, rubs against Jack's residual limb, and makes the man mighty grumpy (grumpier than he was before he lost his leg, if that's even possible).
Robby quickly heads down and out to the stables. He was already out here before the sun came up to feed Orleans before heading back to bed. The horse chuffs when Robby saddles him up.
"Oh, don't be like that," Robby tuts. "You should be happy to go out."
Robby worries for the old horse. Orleans used to be so active back in the day, before he and Jack settled down. They lived a far more active lifestyle, long stakeouts, running on a job. It was a freer life. For them and Orleans.
Now Robby isn't a horse, but if he was, he'd want that life, not being stuck in a stable with only a small pasture to walk around in. Most of the time Orleans is out, he's dragging along a small wagon with supplies for the saloon.
Come to think of it, the longest walk Orleans has been on this last month without having to lug all that weight was when Robby went to the Easton estate to drop you off. Orleans was thrilled once Robby dropped you off, practically galloping all the way home. Robby had to take the reins to slow him down a few times, lest he fell off of the stallion.
As he fastens the saddle, Robby decides he'll take Orleans for a long ride today during the break between the saloon's lunch and evening hours. Jack would complain, but he's competent enough to handle the cleanup and prep.
"Come on, boy," Robby says as he hoists himself up onto Orleans. As his body yells at him for it, Robby wonders what will happen first, Orleans' death, or Robby's bad back finally catching up to him. "Let's head out."
It's pleasantly cool this morning, the kind that tickles the nose and calms any nerves. Robby takes his time on the short ride to the general store. It seems most folks are taking their time this morning. There's very few people on the street, and most people that are wandering are still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
Most.
As Robby hops off of Orleans in front of the general store, across the way, a young man in an old leather pinch front stares at him. He looks to be in his early twenties. His build is deceiving, a light frame, but Robby can spot the corded muscles of his arms from yards away. He's handsome in a soft way, the kind of face that girls would sketch in their journals.
The man waves at Robby and begins to cross the street. Robby rolls his eyes as he tethers Orleans to the hitching post.
"Howdy, there!" The man greets. He leans against the porch in front of the general store, a genial smile on his face. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
"That it is," Robby says, making no effort to sound interested in the conversation.
"Dennis Whitaker, sir," the young man removes his hat, holding it over his chest as he sticks his hand out. When Robby shakes it, Dennis continues, "Mighty fine horse you have here."
"Thank you," Robby says, "Michael Robinavitch. Call me Robby."
"Good to meet you, Robby," Dennis says, finally dropping his hand from the firm handshake. He steps back, whistling lowly as he takes in the full sight of Orleans. "I must ask, are you interested in studding him? We'd pay you plenty for it."
Pay? Well, shit, if Robby knew all he had to do to get cash was let his horse get frisky, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. It's a good deal. Too good, maybe.
"'We'?"
"Do you happen to know the Easton family? The ones livin' down by the lake?"
Of course Robby knows the Easton family. Well, knows of the Easton family. A small family— husband, wife, and kid. The wife died at some point after the baby was born. While the Eastons pay just about everyone's bills in town thanks to their mining enterprise, they tend to keep to themselves. But word of mouth travels fast, and Jack and Robby have come to learn plenty about these mysterious folks.
They're not from here— here being America. Easton, at least according to the drunks that frequent the Foothill Saloon, is a fake name, adopted by the husband and wife upon landing on American soil. American or not, doesn't really matter all that much to anybody, especially when the Easton's are the folks who've got the money around here.
Robby and Jack couldn't care less about them. The Eastons don't come into the saloon, but they pay the folks that do. Don't matter if times are tough, so long as people still want to whet their whistle. In fact, the first time Robby saw the family's estate was when he went to drop you off a few weeks ago.
"Yeah," Robby scratches his beard, "I know 'em."
Dennis smiles, "I work their stables, sir, and I think your horse here would make a great stud for one of their mares."
"A stud?"
Dennis chuckles nervously, "A horse that—"
"I know what a stud is," Robby scoffs. "I mean, you want Orleans here to… be a stud?"
"Well, that's for Mr. Easton to decide, but I think he'd be a great fit." Robby nods, and Dennis continues, "Like I said, he'd pay."
"For his come?"
Dennis blushes. He clears his throat, "Yes sir. You should drop by with the stallion if you're interested. Mr. Easton is taking callers all day. Just come on down, I'll tell him to expect you."
Dennis puts the hat back on. Up close, it looks comically large on the man, almost like he needs to grow into it.
"Well then, have a good day, sir." With that, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves.
At the same moment, a door opens behind Robby. He turns to see Jack stepping out of the general store carrying a pack of cigarettes. His gait is uneven, more than usual, and Robby shakes his head. He should have ridden with Robby and Orleans. Jack lights up a smoke before he can even step off of the porch.
"Who's that?" Jack asks. He tucks the rest of the cigarettes in Orleans' saddle bag, eyes following Dennis's retreat.
Robby shrugs, "Some kid who works for the Eastons."
"What'd he want?"
"Wants old Orleans here to stud one of their mares."
Jack's face lights up, he pats Orleans's rear and says, "Hear that, boy? You want a filly to fool around with?" To Robby, he adds, "How much they payin'?"
"If the Eastons," Robby shrugs, "We're probably looking at two, maybe three hundred."
Jack whistles, "Shit, wish someone would pay that much for my spend."
Robby chuckles. He takes a quick look around. There's nobody within earshot, nor is anybody looking their way. Robby leans close to Jack and utters, "You want me to start?"
Jack licks his lips, "Careful."
Robby steps closer, caging Jack between himself and the porch. He leaves a respectable amount of distance, enough that any wandering eyes might just think Robby's trying to intimidate him. Maybe he is.
"I say we have time before we open up shop." Robby jerks his head back in the direction of the saloon, "How'd you like to make a few bucks?"
*****
"Remember the girl a few weeks ago?"
Jack snorts. Of course he remembers you– the naive thing that came stumbling in looking like a fool in slacks and suspenders. He was spitting mad at the sight of you, trying to be confident as you looked him in the eyes. It's a good thing he caught you first. You were a pretty thing, even the men's clothes couldn't hide that. If the wrong drunk found you…
Jack doesn't want to think about that.
"I remember her plenty good," he says.
The Easton estate is even more beautiful and even more sprawling in the daytime. At least, that's what Robby says. To Jack, it looks like any other rich folk's home.
"She works here," Robby says as they ride down the sprawling path to the manor.
"No shit," Jack says.
His hands twitch from their spot on Orleans' rear. Jack tries not to wrap his arms around Robby's waist when they're riding, as much as he wants to. If Robby's riding slow enough, he merely steadies himself either like that or with his legs around Orleans.
God, speaking of his leg, it's aching something fearsome today. Not what's left, but what was there. He feels it most days, tries to scratch his artificial foot or curl his long-gone toes. Some days, it's pain. That's what he woke up to today, before the sun even rose, pain where there ought to be nothing. It drives him mad. Maybe he is mad, trying to move a foot that just isn't there anymore.
"Is everything alright?" Robby asks like reading Jack's mind like one of those traveling psychics.
"Yeah," Jack lies. His gone-limb is burning. "Why?"
"You seem angry at me."
"I'm not angry at you, Michael."
"You sure?"
"You'd know."
That's the end of that. They're too close to the house now to be talking about to be having a lover's squabble.
As they approach the stairs to the porch, a man's voice calls, "Over here, Mr. Robinavitch!"
A young man rounds the corner. It's the same one from the general store. He jogs over, waving enthusiastically at Robby. At the side of the horse, he tips his hat at Jack, "Hello there, sir. I don't believe we've met."
"No we haven't," Jack says. "Jack Abbot."
"Dennis Whitaker. I work the stables here for the Eastons."
"Good work."
"You bet," Dennis agrees.
Robby hops off Orleans. He hovers less than a foot away as Jack begins his descent. It's slow going, always is now. Jack's movements are deliberate, lest he lose his balance. At home, in the privacy of their own small stable, Robby usually helps him down, grabs his hand and holds his waist. Not here, though.
Finally on the ground, Jack shakes Dennis's hand. He's surprised by the strength of the boy's grip.
"I'll take him to the stables. You two can head on inside," Dennis jerks his head towards the house as he grabs a hold of Orleans's reigns. "Emery should let you in."
A pale woman meets them at the front door. Robby gives their names, and she shows them inside. The home is sprawling, but once again, nothing that Jack hasn't seen before. He does, however, make a show of being impressed. Robby does too. The Eastons don't need to know how many mansions they've been in during their lives. Not if they want to stay out of trouble.
The parlor isn't anything fancy. A nice room with some seats. A bookshelf on the far wall. Most of the space is taken up by a grand piano. It seems as though the entire space is angled for listening. They can't be sitting in there for more than twenty seconds before the woman returns with a man in tow. The man dismisses the woman and announces himself as Everett Easton.
"Good evening, gentleman," Everett greets. His voice is accented and smooth.
Everett Easton is not what Jack was expecting. He's a man of average build and height, perhaps even slightly lean, and while his face isn't necessarily kind, his expression isn't cold. Maybe Jack has seen too many of those cartoons in the papers, where the rich man is always a fat bastard with a mean scowl, because he finds himself enjoying this version of Mr. Easton.
Robby offers his hand first for Everett to shake, "Michael Robinavitch, but you can just call me Robby."
Jack steps forward then. It feels as though he barely sticks his hand out before Everett's hand wraps around his. Jack is surprised at the laxity of his grasp.
"Jack Abbot, sir," he greets.
Everett ushers them back into their seats. He takes the sole armchair near the two-seater Jack and Robby have crammed themselves on. While the armchair is perhaps only three feet away, it feels so much further with the piano in the middle sucking the air out of the space.
Everett speaks first, "I cannot say I was expecting two guests."
"Orleans ain't my horse. I just ride 'im," Robby jerks his head at Jack. "If you want to talk studding, Jack's the man to do it."
"And you two are…?" Everett looks between the two of them.
"Business partners," Robby answers coolly. "His sister was my brother's wife."
"God rest his soul," Jack says with the conviction of a man who believes it. "Lucky for me, nobody balances a book like Robby here."
That's the story they spun when they first came to town. A widow and her chaperones. Dana donned the demeanor of a grieving woman, while Jack claimed to be her brother and Robby the brother of her late husband. It wasn't their best cover, but it worked well enough. It's better than them knowing the truth. Three ex outlaws— a woman and two men who are having sex with each other.
"Yes, I believe I recognize you," Everett smiles. It's not exactly warm. "You gentlemen own the tavern, no?"
"Yes sir," Robby says. "Foothill Saloon. Been running it for three years now."
Everett stares at Robby. Jack wants to snap in his face, get the man to look at Jack, too. He usually lets Robby take the lead when it comes to talking the folks on account of his lack of conversational skills, but he can never shake the desire to protect Robby. A conversation is no gunfight, but his nerves don't always seem to agree.
Everett nods, though it doesn't seem like he's listening. "Your name," he says, ignoring Jack as he looks at Robby, "You say your name is Robinavitch."
Jack can feel Robby tense next to him.
Robinavitch, what's that mean?
Son of the rabbi.
Robby told Jack about his name many years ago. It's caused a lot of trouble, especially in the south. After one particular close call, where the wrong men caught word of a Jewish man in town and started circling threats to the point where the gang had to up and leave, Jack asked Robby why he never hides his name. Robby just shrugged.
He kept his name after the incident, but he stopped wearing his Magen David. When Jack asked about it, all he said was he didn't want to risk it. Heather later told Jack that Robby was afraid. He'd been called many things before, been scowled and cursed at, but this was different. It shook him.
Robby wears the Magen David now. It's almost like the old time, where Robby would let it peek through the collar of his shirt, shining right on the swell of his chest. It's the one piece of gold Robby owns that wasn't stolen.
So when Everett's eyes roam Robby's face, then dip to his chest, Jack has to resist the urge to grab Robby's hand. And when Everett asks, "You are a Polack?", Jack has to stop himself from slapping Everett across the face.
He knows what Everett's really asking. He can read between the lines.
Before Jack can divert, Robby opens his mouth, "My daddy was."
"Your mother?"
Robby's mother was a prostitute. She was from the old country, too. But she never made it overseas. Robby was born on the boat over, his mother dying in the process. One night, his father told Robby that he threw her body overboard when the stink got too strong to hide her death.
"My mama was an American, sir," he lies.
"Was?"
"She's dead now. Just like my daddy."
Everett nods, "Unfortunate."
Robby's lips twitch downwards. It's hidden by his beard, subtle enough that only Jack catches it. Jack prays Everett drops it, prays that they won't find trouble in this town just when they're finally getting settled.
First they ask about his family, his heritage. Then it's religion. Robby always says he's a Christian, but the next thing you know, people talk about how they never see Robby at church, not even on Easter or Christmas, and eye him sideways while they do. It may not be the south, but that doesn't mean folks here in Colorado are welcoming Jewish men and women with open arms.
But maybe Everett isn't a Christian himself. Maybe Jack is doing him a great disservice. Everett has already hidden his origins quite well. If it weren't for his accent, Jack wouldn't have guessed that he's an immigrant.
He hopes that's the case.
Jack butts in, finally unable to sit by, "Why don't we talk about the horse, hm?"
Everett raises his eyebrow. For the first time in what feels like hours, he looks at Jack, "Why don't we?"
"Your boy took him to the stables. We could head over and take a look at him if you want."
Everett shakes his head, "No, no. I saw the horse from the window. He'll do just fine."
Robby chuckles, "That's it?"
"That's it," Everett says. "I say five hundred is fair compensation?"
Five hundred dollars? Just to let his horse have a fuck?
"Sir," Jack nearly laughs, "That sounds more than fair."
Everett smiles. For the first time, it feels genuine. "Wonderful. Shall we discuss the logistics? I assume you gentlemen have only the one horse?"
"Yeah," Robby scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna ask about that—"
Outside of the parlor comes a hushed, though clearly agitated voice. Jack recognizes it as the pale woman from earlier, but there's another voice, another woman. For some reason, this second voice has Jack sitting up.
"Daddy," the second voice calls, "Why is Dennis saying he's gonna stud my— Oh."
It's you. The little birdie from the bar, frozen in fear as you stare at the men occupying the settee. Jack has to stop himself from standing straight up. If the clench of Robby's jaw is any indication, he's suppressing a similar urge.
You're not dressed like a man anymore, far from it. Where slacks once covered your curves now flows a soft, patterned skirt. From where he's sitting, Jack can even see the swell of your breast, how your cleavage spills over the neckline of a dress that looks closer to a morning gown than something a woman should be wearing in polite company.
Jesus. He can hardly believe you were hiding all that in men's clothes.
Robby's the first to speak, and thank goodness he does. Jack's lost recollection of just about every word he's ever known, and by the mortified, terrified look on your face, you're not ready to speak either.
"Howdy," Robby greets. He stands, bowing his head. "I'm Michael, but you can call me Robby. This here's Jack."
"Uh," you look at Everett whose face remains impassive at your intrusion. You clear your throat, turning to Jack and Robby. As you curtsy, you give your name, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Robby. Jack."
"The pleasure's ours," Robby says.
Jack must have waited too long to respond, because his good leg is being kicked before he knows it. Jack stands, but unlike Robby, he approaches you. Before you can step away, Jack has your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as he bows. Your skin is soft against his lips, and Jack can't help but notice the floral scent of your perfume as it tickles his nose.
When Jack straightens, it looks like you're ready to pass out. He tries not to smirk as he says, "It's an honor to finally meet you, Miss Easton."
Everett must not have liked the show before him, because he stands abruptly. Everett grabs you by the shoulders. Robby and Jack pretend not to notice you flinch, nor how your expression seems to grow faraway as your father boasts, "My little girl is most skilled at the pianoforte, aren't you, dear?"
You don't speak, don't move. Your father squeezes your shoulder, hard, and you return to the present. "Yes," you say, "I've been playing since I was a babe." Your father nudges you. Tightly, you offer, "I could play for you, if you'd like."
"Oh," Robby starts. Jack is already shaking his head. "You don't need—"
"She insists."
She most definitely does not insist, because you look ready to blow a gasket as Everett guides you to the grand piano, whose presence is beginning to make far more sense to Jack. A grand piano a the center of the room for the only family of a man who seems to have far too much wealth than he knows what to do with.
You lower yourself slowly. By the look on your face alone, Jack would guess you were being led to the gallows. You clear your throat as your hands hover above the ivory keys. Then, after a deep breath, you play.
The sound is beautiful despite the obvious stiffness in your posture. Jack wonders if this is the very piano you practiced all the dance hall songs on, if you were telling the truth about knowing them. It's quite difficult to imagine you, in your pressed dress and perfectly styled hair with your buttoned-up father, teaching yourself anything that couldn't be played in a concert hall.
At the end of the song, you fold your hands neatly in your lap, eyes averted as Everett leads the men in a measly applause.
"You make a fine pianist, Miss Easton," Robby says. If Everett picks up on the teasing lilt of his voice, he doesn't comment on it.
"Very fine," Jack tacks on. "We ought to have you play in the saloon."
You don't dignify Jack's comment with a response. However, he does feel Robby kick his leg.
"Careful now." Everett's tone is light, but his eyes are nothing but danger, "I'm sure that saloon is no place for a lady."
Jack fights the urge to look at you as he agrees, "No, sir. It is certainly not."
Abruptly, you stand. Your knees knock against the piano, clacking roughly against the wood. "Daddy, may I be excused?"
"Of course."
You scurry to your father's side to give him a kiss on the cheek. Jack stares, frowning at the way you pointedly avoid looking at him and Robby. You don't even bother saying goodbye to them. No, instead you step out of the parlor. Somewhere across the house, a door slams.
"Please excuse her," Everett explains, "She's been agitated as of late."
"Kids," Robby laments like he understands even part of whatever the hell Everett's talking about. It's good enough, because Everett laughs. It sounds at least somewhat genuine.
"Exactly, Mr. Robinavitch. Hopefully her future husband will give her some grace."
"You marrying her off?" Robby asks, frowning.
"Every young woman must be married sooner or later, no?"
From the corner of his eye, Jack spots a figure moving across the window outside. He glances at it, and even in the short moment that he can spot the person moving, he knows it's you.
"If you'll excuse me, my leg's acting up." It's only half a lie. Jack asks, "Mind if I take a walk around the property? Maybe go look at some of your horses?"
"Your leg?" Everett's gaze wanders down Jack's body. He openly scowls as he appraises him.
"My leg," Jack repeats. When Everett raises his eyebrows, Jack chuckles. Most folks in town knows Jack as the man with no leg, but he supposes Everett isn't like most folks. So, Jack pulls up the cuff of his pant leg. "As you can see…"
Everett's eyes grow wide at the sight of Jack's artificial limb, "Ah, I see. May I ask how this came about?"
"The war," Jack says. It's his usual method, just say the war and let everyone fill in the rest.
"Good man," Everett muses. "Please, the stables are past the gardens. Dennis— I believe you met him earlier —should be working. He can show you our little herd."
Jack shows himself out. Stepping onto the porch, Jack takes a deep breath. The fresh air is a blessing on his skin, soft and warm from the turning of summer. Though, he only allows himself to bask in it for a moment before heading in your direction.
It's in the gardens, filled with blooming flowers that tickle his nose, that Jack finds you again. More aptly, he hears you. He leans against an old tree, whose trunk is thick enough to hide him, and waits.
"Dennis, you didn't tell me it was the saloon owners!" Your voice is far more forceful speaking with the stable boy than you were either with your father or Jack and Robby at the saloon. It sounds more familiar, more petulant even.
Jack wonders if you're sweet on the stable boy.
"They are?"
"Yes, Dennis!" Jack hears you scoff. "Why didn't you say so?"
"Well how was I supposed to—" Dennis sighs. Softly, he continues, "I'm sorry. I should'a asked around more."
Jack hums softly. Even if you're not sweet on Dennis, he sure is sweet on you. Deciding he should make himself known before Dennis tries necking with you, Jack steps out from behind the tree. He lets his footsteps grow heavy in his approach.
Before he rounds the corner of the stables, you curse, "Oh damn."
It's not an incriminating scene before Jack, Dennis leaning against the stable wall and you standing out in the sun, yet, Dennis looks ready to hurl at the sight of him.
"Howdy," Jack greets, showing all his teeth.
"Uh, howdy." Dennis stammers, "D-Did you need somethin'?"
You roll your eyes, "Dennis, you can go."
The stable boy frowns, staring at you like you've grown a second head. He opens his mouth to protest, but at the singular raised eyebrow you direct his way, Dennis nods. He smiles tightly, and with one last glace your way, departs.
Just the two of you left, you avoid looking at Jack, grabbing a brush hanging off the wall. There's a handful of horses in the stable, all looking to be of fine breeding. You approach a mare with a striking black coat, the only mare in the stable if Jack's cursory glance is correct. She doesn't react much to your approach, not even when you begin to brush her.
Jack steps closer under the guise of running a hand along the mare's coat. You scowl at him over her back, but Jack can see how worried you are, the way your eyebrows haven't unknit since you spotted him. Jack decides to spare you.
"We won't tell your daddy, if that's what you're worried about," Jack says. "Not worth all the trouble, anyways."
"Sure it ain't."
"I mean it."
You huff, but don't argue. "What are you doing here then?"
"The horses," Jack pats the back of the mare. "Were asked if we could breed them."
Your chin dips, pulling your gaze from Jack. "You make it sound awfully dirty, sir."
He's met lots of girls in his day, women too shy for their own good. It's always been something that bothered him, finding himself put off by their lack of conviction. Somehow, Jack finds your bashfulness fresh, endearing. It's a vulnerability you didn't allow yourself to show in the saloon, but far more intriguing than the fear your father inflicted.
It makes Jack smile. "Isn't it?"
You kick at a rock. It flies a few feet away, shooting up a plume of dust as it leaves the ground and then lands back down. "I suppose."
"You know," Jack leans against the wall of the barn. He tilts his head, trying to get a better look at your face, "You can look at me, girl. I don't bite."
"I know." You still don't lift your eyes.
Maybe he and Robby got it all wrong. Maybe you're not a birdie. You're more a bunny, skittish like one and ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Now, Jack doesn't consider himself mighty dangerous anymore, but maybe to a sweet thing like you, it's easy to look like the big bad wolf.
"We ain't here to tell your daddy."
"I know. You said that."
"We didn't know he's your daddy."
"I know."
"Then why are you so afraid, girl."
"I don't know."
Jack rounds the front of the mare, grabbing the brush out of your hands. It's not like you were using it anyway. Still, you have the gall to look outraged by the action, snatching the brush back and stepping back. "If you're not here to tell on me," you bite, "Then why don't you just show yourself out."
"I don't want to."
Your jaw drops.
Jack gets the impression that you're not often told no. And now, it seems as though you've been told no the two separate times you've seen Jack. This second rejection has you floundering, mouth opening and closing as your face twists from irritation to utter confusion. Instead of arguing more, you start brushing the mare again, this time with a newfound fervor.
Jack dips his head into your line of sight. You scowl, but meet his gaze. His lips twitch, ready to say something else to ruffle your feathers, but the sound of approaching voices stops him. You both turn to
"How long until we get Orleans back?" Robby.
"Shouldn't be long. Juniper— that's Miss Easton's horse —she's almost ready for heat. I'll bring Orleans back after that." Dennis.
Jack licks his lips, "It's your mare?"
You huff, giving up on your mission of grooming the mare— Juniper —entirely. Glaring at Jack, you turn on your heels and leave, brush still firmly clasped in your hand.
"Hello there Miss—"
You cut Robby off with a harsh, "Good day, Mr. Robby."
Dennis is staring at your retreating form with wide eyes. Robby on the other hand, stares at Jack with reproach. "There you are," Robby says flatly.
Dennis quickly saddles their temporary horse up, pointedly avoiding looking at them. Robby tries conversing with him to little avail. Eventually, Dennis bids them adieu.
"So," Robby says as he hoists himself onto the stallion. "Do I want to know why I passed Easton's daughter left lookin' like she saw a ghost?" He offers his hand to Jack, helping him up with practiced ease.
Jack pats Robby's thigh. "No, you do not."
That's enough answer for Robby, who grabs the reigns and sets off towards home.
*****
Jack's wiping down a glass when he sees it, right in the corner of his eyes, sitting pretty and proud with your chin up in the air. He wants to laugh, truly. Had his and Robby's appearance at your home earlier today not scared you off? What gall you had, showing up again in their saloon not only after they kicked you out the first time, but knowing that they could easily snitch on you to your daddy.
Jack grits his teeth and stalks over, "What the hell are you—?"
"Ah, ah!" You smirk at him, "You want to hear what I have to say."
"No I—"
"I know what you are. You and your friend."
Jack flashes his teeth as he growls, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Truthfully, he's not very worried. If you really knew something troublesome about them, say their homosexuality or Robby's religion, you wouldn't be coming down to flaunt it because it would be your daddy who had the information. And if Everett Easton knew their secrets, if he wanted to destroy them with it, they'd already be in deep shit.
"Do you happen to know a man by the name of George Lambson."
George Lambson. Jack turns the name over in his head. He might have heard it before, at some point serving drinks and listening to patrons talk. Hell, he might even be a patron himself.
"Can't say I do," Jack rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time to deal with this. The dirty glasses are starting to pile up, and he only has so much downtime to clean them.
"Hm, interesting," you muse. "He and my daddy are good friends, and, you see, a few years back Mr. Lambson came to visit us and talked about some folks who stole a large, large sum of money from him."
Jack tilts his head, leaning in. He doesn't like the sound of your tone, even, confident, like you already know what's about to happen here. He also doesn’t exactly love the fact that you’re talking about a robbing.
"That's a shame," he says, suppressing a scowl.
"Isn't it. Well, it just so happens that he brought us a copy of some wanted posters, tellin' us to look out if we ever saw the men and women who did it."
Jack's lip twitches. He grits his teeth as you fish papers from the back pocket of your trousers. He grabs the papers before you can set them down on the bar, staring at you for a long moment before allowing himself to look down at the posters. It's striking how much the sketches look like them. With just a little more detail, they could be mistaken for a photograph.
"Don't worry, you can keep those. I've got another set at home."
Jack crumples the papers in his hand, "What do you want?"
You shrug, "I think you know what I want." Then, you turn your head away from the bar. He doesn't have to follow your gaze to know you're looking at the piano.
Jack can't tell if the smirk on his face makes him want to shake you straight or makes him proud. He doesn't know what exactly he expected from you, but it certainly wasn't blackmail.
Jack finds himself laughing. That's what finally wavers your confidence. The self-assured smirk slips, and you gulp loudly. Your voice wavers as you say, "I thought you may be interested."
"You know," Jack licks his lips, eyeing you up and down. He can't help but picture your figure, the one you're hiding with all those clothes. "You're a clever little birdie."
You smile, hopeful in a way that makes Jack's stomach flip, "Is that good?"
"No," he bites. "But it ain't what I expected."
The smile stays on your face as Jack fishes a bottle of whiskey from underneath the bar. The pour he gives you is heavy, but he reasons you've about earned it.
Sliding the glass your way, Jack says, "Go on." He jerks his head to the vacant piano. "Play us a tune."
*****
"What do you reckon she's doing?" Jack asks, slowing his pace as he walks Orleans down the street. They took the horse, to the general store, but Jack decided he'd rather walk back.
Robby shrugs, "No idea."
Your pale dress, tied with a ribbon around the waist, blows pleasantly in the wind as you speak animatedly with the sheriff. Sheriff Franklin is a tall, handsome man. He has a strong jaw and a shock of dark hair that pairs well with his pale skin and blue eyes. He'd be a fine man to marry if were wealthy like you. Then again, maybe not. Jack and Robby haven't associated with him much, too afraid that he'd see through them, ask too many questions that they don't have the right answers for.
Their little songbird, however, seems to be the apple of his eye, completely unafraid to make his acquaintance. You likely have nothing to hide, nothing other than your recent association with two formerly-wanted men.
Despite their best efforts, you've continued to show up at the saloon. Night after night, you grab a drink at the bar from a begrudging Jack and take your spot at the piano. They'd try to find some way to turn you away, scare you off, but the fact of the matter is your music is good for business. It gets more people through the door, and those people tend to stay longer, and when people stay longer they spend more money.
As much as they hate to admit it, they're stuck with you.
"Not about us," Robby decides.
"You sure?"
Robby nods. You wouldn't snitch. Despite the show you put up with Jack a few weeks back with those posters, Robby's gotten the sense that you're fond of the two men. Maybe even in the same way that the stable boy is fond of you. Jack thinks not, but Robby's seen the way you stare at them in the middle of playing, how you dip your head to thank Robby when he drops off another drink and wink at Jack all the way across the establishment, and he's felt the way you press your body against him on all those rides back to the estate.
That's not to say you're not fond of the stable boy still. You talk of Dennis often. Apparently, you two are close, having practically grown together at the estate. Dennis was employed young, as most stable boys are, but when it was time to replace him, you fought your father tooth and nail to keep him around.
"I'm sure." Robby nods, "If they were…" Robby slows to a stop, realizing Jack and Orleans are no longer walking at his side.
Orleans is pulling at the reins in Jack's hands. His head is tilted to the side, pointed towards where you and the sheriff are talking.
"Come on, Orleans," Jack urges. He tugs lightly, trying to redirect the stallion. "Let's go."
"No," Robby nods in your direction. "Let's say hello."
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You sure?"
"It can't hurt."
"But it can kill," Jack mutters as they walk over.
Your eyes widen as you spot them. "Oh," you clear your throat, but you run a hand along Orleans' coat without hesitation. "Hello there. Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."
Robby tips his hat, from the corner of his eye he sees Jack nod. "Hello, Miss Easton."
Sheriff Franklin looks somewhat amused at the exchange. "You gentlemen know Miss Easton?"
You answer before Jack or Robby can, "Yes, sir. Their horse bred my Juniper last month. Orleans here took a liking to me." You chuckle nervously, "It seems like he wanted to say hello again."
What you don't mention is that when you ride home every night with Robby, you sneak him sugar cubes that you stuff your pockets with. He yells at you for it, but never stops you when you sneak it to Orleans when you think Robby's not looking. It's worth it so long as it makes you happy.
Except, you're not smiling now. There's a thin sheen of sweat on your brow, and Robby would bet it's not just from the heat. It looks like their birdie is nervous on their behalf. He has to bite back a smile at the thought.
"It's been a while since I've seen him," you lie. "He must miss me."
"Speakin' of," Franklin strikes a match off of his boot, it reflects brilliantly off of the badge on his chest. Up close, Robby would bet that badge is made of real gold, straight from the Easton mines, he reckons. He lights the cigarette between his lips and throws the match to the ground to stomp on, "You best go find Miss Walsh. I bet she's looking for you about now."
"Oh," you blink, looking at Jack and Robby like they would give you permission. You flounder so long that Robby takes pity, smiling tightly at you. "Alright then. Good day Frank, Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."
The men each tip their head, and you stumble off. When Franklin isn't looking, Robby steals himself a glance at you. The very streets seem to part when you walk by. The sight makes him chuckle. One night, on the ride home you indulged that you don't make it to town very often, that you don't know many folks. It seems though that even if people around here don't know you, they can sense that your very presence is one of importance as they make room.
Franklin's voice draws him back to the present. "How's that saloon of yours doing?"
It's Jack who answers, spitting his chewing tobacco out onto the dirt street, "Good. You should come by one of these nights."
Sheriff Franklin has never come to the saloon in all the time that they've been operating it. About a year without him ever showing his face, Robby began to ask patrons about it, too drunk to remember his questioning but sober enough to give a good enough answer. As it turns out, the sheriff doesn't drink. Ever. Apparently it landed him in a lot of trouble in his youth.
As expected, Franklin shakes his head, "I'm not much of a drinking man. Plus, someone has to stay with their wits to keep your drunkards out of trouble."
"That so?" Jack asks, though it sounds more like a challenge.
"It keeps me in business."
They all force a laugh at that, like they're all friends. Robby isn't sure whether Franklin actually enjoys their company, or if he just acts friendly on account of his position in town. Robby guesses the latter. When the laughter dies down, a gaping silence sits heavy in the air.
It's Franklin who caves first, "Well, I gotta make my rounds. You gents have a good day."
Jack and Robby bid him adieu before Franklin can change his mind. They make it halfway back to the saloon before either of them speak.
"Frank," Robby scoffs. "Why the hell is she callin' Sheriff Franklin Frank?"
Jack tilts his head, squinting at Robby underneath the brim of his hat.
"What're you lookin' at me for?" Robby bites.
"You sound like you're jealous, Michael."
Robby scowls. "Trust me, I ain't."
Jack makes a face. It looks a lot like the one he pulls when he knows Robby's telling a lie. But he isn't.
"Alright," Jack grabs the reigns, stalking off towards the saloon. "Sure, Michael."
*****
Jack may have over served you tonight. He's surprised it hasn't happened before. It's not like he's ever really kept track. He always figured Robby would be doing it since he was the one always actually talking to you throughout the night, chatting you up whenever he drops off your drinks.
You're leaning against the bar, shirt unbuttoned and giving Jack a glimpse of your decolletage. He tries not to drink up too much of the view, not like this. It's not like he hasn't stolen a glance before. Jack may be old, but he's not blind and he's certainly still a red-blooded man.
He should feel guilty staring at your figure, hidden in men's clothes or on display in your normal wardrobe during the rare occasions that he spots you in town. Jack is in a relationship, after all. Though, it's hard to feel guilty when he sees Robby staring at you too. Even harder when they've been taking their frustrations out on each other.
They haven't fucked like this since the gang. Now, every morning, Jack wakes up with Robby's mouth on his cock, his fingers in his hole, slicking it with the oil they keep in a jar beside the bed. Between lunch and evening service, they stow away in the quarters for another quick fuck. But they don't talk about it, like an unspoken agreement not to discuss the woman who has Robby limping more than Jack these days.
The woman who is currently hanging off of Jack's arm and looking at him with heart-eyes.
Jack just hopes Robby's ready for a second kind of ride tonight.
"Y're so nice, Jack," you coo. Up close, he can smell your perfume, warm and floral. He doesn't allow himself to dwell on why exactly you put on perfume when you're disguising yourself as a man. "Lettin' me play the piano, givin' me drinks, lettin' me relax…"
He wrangles you onto a stool. A mistake, because you nearly fall backwards off of it. Jack has to stand behind you, his front pressed against your back, just to keep you upright. How the hell were you playing the piano like this? He grumbles, "You sure are relaxed…"
Robby's outside, getting Orleans ready for the ride to the estate. How you're going to get from the road to your home, unseen at that, is beyond Jack. All he cares about is how fast Robby can get back here and take you off of Jack's hands.
"I like you an' Robby," your words are over-annunciated as you fight your drunkenness to get them out. "You're nice."
Jack chuckles as you twirl a strand of hair, "You said that."
"Did I?" You bite your lip, leaning your head back to look at him.
"Yeah, birdie, you did."
"Birdie… I like it when you call me that," your tone alone has Jack's head spinning. Robby needs to hurry up before his trousers begin to tent, too. Drunk as you may be, it won't be easy to hide his hard cock, not when you're already pressed against him.
"You do?"
"Mhm," you sigh, blinking up at him. Then, you say, "You're handsome, Jack. Do you know that? Robby, too, but don't tell him I said that."
Fuck. Jack suppresses a groan. It's been a long time since he was with a woman, his late wife, in fact. He's forgotten how enjoyable the feeling of a woman pressing against him feels. As much as he loves Robby, there's something almost irresistible about the soft swell of your ass against him. It takes a great deal of willpower not to let his hands fall to your hips.
"I'm handsome?"
"Mhm. I'd marry you if I could. Him too. Except…" You trail off, pouting, "Oh, never mind."
Jack's never been the best decision maker, so he asks, "Except what?"
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it certainly isn't, "Well, you and him are homosexuals, ain't you?"
Jack steps away almost as if he was burned. You tumble backwards, but he lets you. Landing on your back with a grunt, you stare at Jack with wide eyes.
"Now what'd you do that for?" You pout at him. Any other time he'd swoon for it.
"What did you say?" Jack asks, voice low and dangerous. His hands are shaking at his side, and it takes a great deal of effort not to drag you out right now.
"I didn't mean nothin' by–"
"No!" Jack barks, "What did you say?"
"I…" You take a shuddering breath. There are tears welling in your eyes. "I asked if you two were… homosexuals."
Jack sees red. He doesn't hesitate to drag you up from the ground, paying little mind to your uneven footing. He drags you around the bar to the back door.
"I better not hear you say nothin' about that, you hear?" Jack's screaming in your face, spit flying and blood raging. It doesn't matter to him that you're beginning to cry, shaking your head and murmuring drunkenly. "Or I swear to God I'll show you exactly why we got those bounty posters."
Jack shoves you outside, and you stumble to the ground. You scramble backwards as best you can with the liquor coursing through your veins. He wants to feel sorry for you, wants to apologize for being so rough with you, but he's being guided by every single fear that he's kept hidden since he first allowed himself to act on his affections for Robby.
At the noise, Robby peeks his head out of the stable, brows furrowed at the sight of you scrambling. Jack grabs you by the collar of your shirt, hoisting you up just so he can push you towards the stables. He probably looks like a mad man, though it's not like he cares much right now.
"What on earth is going on here?" Robby yells. He runs up to Jack, trying to push him off you. As he attempts to pry his hands from you, Jack has to suppress his dormant instincts to sock him in the face. "Jack, stop!"
Robby just manages to strong arm him. If Jack still had his leg, it wouldn't slide, but Robby puts all his weight against Jack, and he's forced to relent unless he wants to fall on his ass. Robby collects you in his arms, cradling the back of your head as you sob into his neck.
You're babbling drunken apologies, explanations that Jack doesn't care enough to listen to. This is more than an argument, more than a drunken question. This is their life. If you were to say a word to the wrong person, people who are already a few questions away from discovering their lifestyle, there's no saying what would happen to them.
"The little birdie," he spits the pet name with venom. "Just asked if we were queer."
Robby tenses. A shadow crosses his face as his gaze slides to you, still clutching him like a lifeline. Unlike Jack, his fear doesn't drive him to violence. Robby lets you cling to him, even as every muscle in his body tenses, eager to push you away.
"Miss Easton," Robby says. His voice is cold, detached. Jack can see you freeze, see the way you hesitantly pull away to look up at Robby. "I don't see how that's any of your business."
"What?"
"I said, I don't see how that's any of your business."
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out beyond a stuttered breath. Your tears have grown silent, flowing freely down your face. Jack turns his head, can't bring himself to look at you and let the ache in his chest grow. Sympathy for you right now would get him nowhere he wants to be.
"Come now, Miss Easton," he hears Robby say. "Let get you home."
As you stumble away with Robby, crying and begging him to forgive you, Jack steps inside to pour himself a drink.
*****
"She get home alright?"
Jack is drunk now, that much is clear just from the way he sways on the stool and the drained bottle of whiskey sitting in front of the man. His artificial limb lays sideways on the ground. Robby wants to pour himself a drink, too, but he knows he'll need to carry Jack to bed. In this state, he'd be lucky to even pick the limb off the ground without falling flat on his face.
"More or less," Robby shrugs, sliding on the stool nearest to Jack. "Said she was sorry."
The ride back was pitiful. You cried the whole way from the saloon, begging Robby to forgive you, saying that you didn't mean anything by your question. You vowed over and over to not tell anybody. Robby believes you, but that doesn't make the knowledge any less dangerous. You could slip up, drunk or otherwise disposed, and Jack and Robby would be in trouble.
Jack snorts, head dropping, "I'm sure she did."
Robby throws an arm over Jack's shoulders. He stands, saying, "Come on, let's get you to bed."
Jack shoves his arm off, grumbling, "Don't wanna…"
"Don't give me that right now," Robby scolds. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."
Jack scoffs, waving his hand around, "Just go to your bed."
Your bed. The words shock Robby to his core. They haven't referred to that cold, empty room in the upstairs quarters as Robby's room since they first bought the place. Back then, they were overly cautious, not even allowing themselves to sleep in one bed as though doing it but once would tell the whole town what they were to each other. Though, he isn't surprised that's coming up now.
Jack had spent so long hiding his desires. He was stuck in grief from losing Marisol, his wife, and fear of what it meant– means –to be a homosexual. They were in the gang then, where people were more willing to turn an eye. Parker Ellis, for instance, would often sneak off with women at the saloons, and Jack would swear that he saw her sharing a bedroll with Samira once or twice, but that didn't mean it was welcomed. It was tolerated, especially since the women were cornerstones of the gang, especially after Doc Adamson's passing.
Robby just hopes this doesn't set them back.
"Leave me be," Jack slurs. "I'll get m'self to bed."
Robby scoffs, "Yeah? You and what leg?"
Jack's face twists in anger. If he had his leg on, Robby's sure Jack would throttle him. Though, before he can curse Robby out, he sighs, shoulders slumping as he lets his head fall to the bar. It thunks against the wood, but Jack doesn't acknowledge it. Maybe if he was sober he'd care.
"I hate you."
Robby rolls his eyes, "I know." He gets up off of the stool and sticks his arm under Jack's knees. Luckily, Jack has the mental capacity to sit up, making it easier for Robby to hoist him up and into his hold.
Jack doesn't meet his eyes, instead shoving his face into Robby's chest to avoid his hard stare. Robby sighs, shaking his head as he carries his lover out of the main hall and into the private quarters.
"'M sorry, Michael," Jack's voice is muffled. "I don't hate you."
"I know, darlin'," Robby says softly, setting Jack down over the covers. "Go to bed now."
Jack's eyes are quick to close, lids heavy already with booze and fatigue. Still, Jack manages one last confession, "I don't wanna lose you."
The words make his eyes sting, but Robby refuses to let himself cry. It would only give truth to their fears.
"Don't worry, darlin'. You won't."
*****
People like to complain about lots of things. Jack and Robby have known this since they opened the saloon. Their first customer complained that his beer was too cold, whatever the hell that means. Since then, they've been at the receiving end of countless complaints, all from people who don't have the slightest clue what it takes to run the joint. Not once have they ever thought the complaints were warranted.
Until tonight.
If they got a nickle for every time someone commented about the lack of music this evening, Jack and Robby would be richer than Everett Easton himself. Unlike the usual complaints, Jack and Robby can't even make sly comments to each other behind the customers' backs, talking about how ridiculous their complaints are. They're right. Every single one of them.
There's a you-sized hole in the joint. They trudge through the shift, plastering on friendly faces as Robby clears tables and Jack pours drinks. Every mention of the pianist sends a pang of regret through them. They expected not to see you tonight, or ever again for that matter, but they didn't expect it to sting so much.
Even cleaning up the hall is a miserable chore. Usually, they have you sitting on the bar and swinging your feet like you don't have a care in the world. You always chat their ears off, talking all about what gossip you overheard throughout the evening. Now, Jack and Robby only have each other for company. Miserable company.
Speaking of miserable, Jack's huffing and puffing as he limps around. Robby usually sends Jack to bed when his leg is acting like this, but Jack's been deliberately useless all night. Robby's had to do most of the cleanup work while Jack's been working slowly, pouting the whole time as if it isn't his fault for the silence in the place.
Now, though, it seems Jack's fed up with his duties. As he attempts to clean a spilled beer by the door, Robby spots Jack attempting to make an exit.
"Where the hell are you going?" Robby asks.
"Takin' a piss."
"Well you better come back," Robby calls as Jack steps out of the hall. He raises his voice, "These cups ain't gonna clean themselves!"
Robby sighs. Jack's been like this all day, grumpy as hell and just as avoidant. He won't admit it, but he's missing you, maybe even regretting his choice of words last night.
Robby knows how dangerous it is for someone to know about their sexuality, but even he has to admit that there was no reason for Jack's aggression. It isn't like you haven't trusted them to keep one of your secrets before. Hell, your entire relationship with them, coming into their saloon every night, was a great secret. You've spoken to them before about your fears, that if your father were to ever find out about the arrangement, you would surely be put under lock and key for a long, long time.
There's a mutual trust between you three. At least, there was. Who knows what's left now.
Robby shakes his head. As he's sopping up beer with a rag, he hears the familiar creak of the door shifting on its hinges. Then, footsteps.
"We're closed," he sighs.
No response.
Robby tosses the rag on the table. Unfortunately, it lands on a beer-less spot, soaking the unmarred wood.
"I said, we're–" Robby's voice dies out as he turns around.
It's you.
You're wearing a dress, a very fine one. Likely from one of the big cities, New York or Paris. It's darker in color than the dresses you've worn before, and the neckline is far lower than they're used to seeing on you. It accentuates your figure, drawn tight at the waist. You look far more grown than you do when dressing normally.
When Robby is finally tears his eyes from your figure, he finds your eyes puffy and red, like you've been crying.
"You're here," he says softly, almost convincing himself of it.
"Where's Jack?" You ask.
"I don't think he wants to see you."
"I want to apologize," you sniffle. "And talk."
Robby sighs, slipping behind the bar. Wordlessly, he pours you a drink, sliding it down to the stool you've found a home on. You down it, and he pours another. "He'll be back soon," Robby says. "There's still time to leave."
"You think I don't know that?" You sigh, then add, "Nobody knows. I would never tell anybody your… secret."
"I know," Robby says. Last night, however, he didn't know. He stayed up until sunrise, worried. Even half the day he spent stressed, jumping at shadows and avoiding eye contact with almost everyone in fear that they'd be able to tell his secret. By the time sunset rolled around, and nobody came knocking down their door accusing him and Jack of being homosexuals, Robby figured you had kept your lips sealed. A grace, though it hasn't done much to fix Jack's sour mood.
"He's angry."
You snort, "You think I don't know that?"
No. Robby knows you're smart enough to tell when you're in some trouble. "You don't know how he is when he's angry."
Your gaze hardens, "I think we both know that's a lie, Mr. Robby."
He opens his mouth to speak, to tell you that you're wrong, but all Robby sees is you being dragged by the collar of your shirt, sobbing and babbling for forgiveness. You may not know the depths of Jack's anger, how he shuts down and pushes people away, digs a hole so deep that few are able to drag him out, but you do know the immediate dangers of his temper.
"Right you are," he concedes.
"Where is he?"
"Pissin'."
You hum. "When's he gonna be back?"
Robby shrugs, "Not too long now."
No more words are exchanged. You trace the rim of your glass absentmindedly, looking anywhere but at Robby. It isn't until the rhythmic sound of boots on wood reaches the parlor that you straighten.
Jack stiffens when he sees you, his lip twitching in a way Robby can't read. Robby's afraid Jack's going to yell at you again, drive you out just as he did the night before. Even if it's the smarter thing to do, Robby doesn't know if he can let that happen again, doesn't know if he can sit by and watch Jack break you down like that again.
"Hi, Jack," you say, eyes on your glass.
"Howdy," he says slowly, like he's feeling the word out in his mouth. "You here to talk?"
"Yes, sir."
Jack sucks his teeth. He glances Robby's way, and Robby nods. Jack cocks his head, "Alright then. Talk."
Robby steps back, leaning against the liquor shelves. He's already forgiven you, never really was mad enough to need to find forgiveness. Now's the time for you to talk to Jack. The only reason Robby's staying is really to mediate.
You start simply, "I didn't tell."
"I know," Jack huffs.
"I won't tell." When Jack hesitates to respond, you continue, "I assure you, I will not tell a soul. You're very– very kind, and–" You clear your throat, but when you speak, your voice is shaky and thick with emotions, "You've given me something wonderful, and I'll miss it very much."
"You can keep playing," Jack says exacerbated.
"I can't."
Jack sighs. He rubs a hand down his face, "Yes, you can. I overreacted, and–"
"I'm getting married."
Robby is probably supposed to congratulate you, wish you luck in the marriage, but all he can muster is: "To who?"
Robby wants to ask more. This feels so sudden. Even though Everett spoke of a marriage in your future, you never did. He wonders if you were even a part of this decision. While it's still ultimately up to your father, the thought of you lacking any say in your husband– hell, your future –makes his blood boil.
He can't imagine that Jack's thinking clearly about this news either. Luckily for you and Robby, Jack keeps his mouth shut. The last thing anybody needs is for Jack and that mouth of his to upset you even more.
"Edward Lambson." You sniffle, staring at the glass of amber liquid in your hand. You down the whiskey and continue, "He and his daddy came for dinner. I didn't talk at all, but when Emery served dessert, Edward… he proposed."
"Jesus," Jack hisses.
"I didn't even say yes. Daddy did. Apparently he and George have been talking about this for a while. Edward's gonna marry me, take over the estate when daddy dies."
You were Everett's only child. It was only natural to expect Everett to marry you off. You were the sole heir to the estate. With Edward in the picture, he could guarantee the continuation of the business as well as growth with the inclusion of the Lambson's connections. It's protect the wealth and grow the legacy.
To Robby's surprise, Jack grabs your hand on the bar. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, "I'm sorry."
You let out a shaky breath. Hastily, you wipe away your tears with the back of your hand. "Yeah, me too."
Your face twists. This time, though, it doesn't seem as though you're going to cry. Your eyes find Robby, then Jack. Licking your lips, you ask, "You don't like women none?"
Jack chuckles. Robby eyes him carefully as he leans forward, grabbing your chin. Jealousy churns in his gut, though he finds it's directed towards the both of you. "No, peach," Jack soothes, "We like women just fine."
"Oh," you bite your lip. "You've… you've been with women?"
It's Robby's turn to answer. He leans on the bar, catching your eye. "Plenty," he jerks his head at Jack. "Mr. Abbot here was even married. His wife passed a few years before we got together."
Your brows furrow, "And you've been with plenty of men?"
They look at each other, amused. Robby shakes his head, laughing softly, "Some."
"Each other," you state, confirming what you already know.
"You're a curious little thing, ain't you?" Jack says. His tone is light, but Robby doesn't miss the way your face falls at the comment.
"Just want to know," you grumble.
"Seems like you already know plenty." Jack rounds the bar, he leans against it in front of you. He cuts an imposing figure, and while your body shrinks ever so slightly, you keep your gaze strong. "That we rob and steal, that we're fucking each other—"
"Jack!" Robby scolds.
"What?" Jack smirks, "All I'm sayin' is you're a lot of trouble for one little girl."
"I thought all was forgiven," Robby say through gritted teeth. Jack's anger is greatly misplaced right now. You've barely stopped crying for your marriage confession. Robby would like to continue the night with less tears.
"It is. I’m just teasin'."
"Well then why–?"
You cut Robby off, "Can I get to the point?" The question is sharp, irritated. Jack and Robby still, their attention now focused on you. You sigh, "Can you tell when a woman isn't a virgin?"
For the second time since you walked in, you've stunned Jack and Robby into silence. Maybe it's the admission that you, the mostly buttoned-up Miss Easton, aren't a virgin. Or maybe it's the fact that you're divulging this fact with them.
Jack's the first to speak, "You ain't a virgin?"
It's a reasonable followup to your question. Still, it isn't exactly appropriate. Robby clears his throat, "You don't need to answer that, birdie."
You ignore Robby, "No. I'm not."
"Who fucked you?"
"Jack–"
"Dennis," you state. "I asked him to. It was his first… congress as well."
Despite the situation, Robby feels a sort of vindication. He knows Jack does, too. They've spoken one or twice about Dennis, how they believe there to be something more between you and him. Maybe there's not now, but at a time there certainly was.
"Why?" Jack asks rougly.
"I was scared," you confess. "I didn't know what to expect, if it'd hurt—"
"It shouldn't hurt," Robby blurts. Your head jerks to face him. You stare at Robby, eyes wide in something that resembles fear. "Not if he ain't an idiot. Did it hurt with Dennis?"
"No," you answer quickly, shaking your head. "Goodness no."
Good boy, Robby thinks. Frankly, he didn't expect Dennis to have it in him. Robby's first time had been a mess. It was with a prostitute, and he was too young to know what he was doing. Robby was rough, bucking his hips into her like an idiot, too caught up in pleasure to even try to be gentle. If she had less experience, been a virgin like you– like you were when Dennis had you –he would have hurt the poor woman.
Robby learned since then. It took him an embarrassingly long time, but thanks to partners who weren't afraid to be vocal (and some advice from Jack once he became a married man), pleasing a woman became second nature. By the time he and Heather were together, Robby was far gone from his days of fumbling around.
"I thought you didn't want to get married," Jack says. "Now you're worried about how your husband'll like your pussy?"
"My daddy'll kill Dennis if he knew," you say sternly. "So will Edward."
Right. The entire reason why this whole virginity-talk started.
It's sweet how worried you seem to be for Dennis. Robby would remind you that your husband and father are just as likely to retaliate against you as they are Dennis, but then you add, softer, "They'll kill me, too.”
Robby himself has never had a virgin, but Jack sure has. Marisol hadn't been bedded when she married Jack. Once when he was drunk, Jack told Robby all about their marriage night, how Jack treated her with his mouth for a long while before he even sunk his cock in her. Robby yelled at him, told him how it wasn't polite to talk about his wife like that. Though, Robby's anger was likely more rooted in jealousy than desire to protect Marisol's honor.
Jack sighs, "Pussy is pussy."
Robby kicks his good leg. Jack stumbles forward, catching himself on the bar. He shoots a look at Robby, "What?"
"Be polite," Robby scolds. "She's a lady."
Jack scoffs. He grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like you're a lady. Louder, he concedes, "No, Miss Easton, a man can't tell when a woman is a virgin. Just act all nervous when you're in bed with him. Act like you ain't done it before."
"Are you sure?" You ask, blinking at Jack with bleary eyes. "That's all?"
"That's all, birdie."
You let out a breath, shoulders sinking in relief. "Thank goodness."
You pick at your nail beds. Robby can see small amounts of blood around the delicate nail. You were likely doing it the entire walk over. It's not a long walk, maybe thirty or so minutes, but it must have been a long time to spend with your thoughts.
Marriage is a big change. You must have known it was coming soon, maybe that's why you ever decided to come into the saloon. Though, Robby has to imagine that having your freedom taken so suddenly from you is greatly disorienting.
"So," Robby clears his throat. "Are we gonna see you around anymore?"
You laugh dryly. Your face melts into something sour as you shrug, "Maybe. Not here, but… I'll see you in town I think."
Your tone betrays you. Neither Jack or Robby need to push to know that you don't even believe that. You'll be in town just as much as any wealthy woman, but there's no world in which you could be seen speaking to Jack or Robby. As it is, they'll have to keep their distance from your future husband, who likely has their faces memorized from those wanted posted made after they robbed his father blind.
"You will," Jack says. "You will, birdie."
You lift your empty glass, wet eyes avoiding them as you hum, "Here's hoping."
*****
Riding you back is almost never quiet. You like to talk or hear Robby tell stories about the gang. He keeps it clean, steering away from the killing and sticking more to the robbing and embarrassing tidbits (usually about Jack). Tonight, though, little is said. Robby tried striking up conversation earlier, telling you about the time he and Doc Adamson had to bail Jack out of jail, but you don't bite. The only thing filling the air is the rhythmic beating of Orleans' hooves on the ground.
The Everett estate comes into view. Robby guides Orleans off the road and to the fence, the spot where he always drops you off. It's a long walk to the house. Robby always wants to stay and make sure you get back in safely, but the risk of someone coming by and noticing him is just too high.
Wordlessly, you lower yourself off of the horse. Like always, Robby tips his hat and turns Orleans around.
After a few paces, he hears your soft call, "Robby?"
He slows Orleans, looking over his shoulder. You're still on the road-side of the fence, and when Orleans stops moving, you step closer, placing your hands on Robby's thigh. His muscles tense under your touch, and Robby has to bite the inside of his cheek not to let the small proximity between your hand and his cock cause trouble.
"What's wrong, birdie?"
"Could I ask you something?"
Robby chuckles, "You and your questions. When are you gonna learn those are bringin' you nothin' but trouble?"
You laugh too, but it's short lived. "Well, can I?"
"Shoot."
"Could you kiss me?"
The question nearly knocks him to the ground.
"I thought you did that with Dennis?"
"His mama always said lips were for prayin', not kissin'," you chuckle. "Plus, I told him I wanted my first kiss to be with my husband."
"Well, birdie, I don't know if you know this, but I ain't your husband."
You sigh. Your eyes are wet, moonlight catching beautifully in the evidence of your grief, "I also wanted a husband I loved, but… I suppose I won't get that either."
Jack and Robby often call you girl. The truth is, you're a woman, more than two decades in age and with a mind to match. Yet, as he looks at you now, Robby is reminded of a girl, timid and melancholic as you stare at him. There are literal stars in your eyes as they reflect the night sky.
Maybe it's the youthful vulnerability or maybe it's the desire he's been hiding for so long that makes him say, "I'll kiss you."
Your lips curl upwards as Robby bends down. His face is level to yours, and his back screams at him for it. Robby doesn't care though. Especially not when your lips part, eyes flickering between his own and his mouth.
"Um," you clear your throat. His lips are right above yours. "I don't know how to–"
Robby takes the lead, pressing his mouth to yours. It's sweet how nervous you are, the little whine that leaves your throat when you finally realize what's happening. Robby keeps it chaste. He figures it'd be best not to scare you with tongue on your first go around.
He can't imagine what you're feeling right now, kissing for the first time. It certainly isn't Robby's first go around, yet he finds his own heart stuttering.
All too quickly, you pull away, not far though. Your forehead rests against his as your chest rises and falls.
"I don't want to marry him," you whisper, only a hair away from his lips. "Please, don't let me marry him."
Robby wonders if this is what he looked like to Heather all those years ago, when she told him that their relationship had to end. She was right, of course. Robby wasn't any good for her. She was a lady, much like you were, and getting caught up with an outlaw would be no good for her. He begged her to come with him, stay with the gang. It was a foolish request, one that surely would have gotten her killed. If not killed, then stuck in a life she wasn't meant for. Heather made her choice, now it was time for Robby to make his.
Against his better judgment, Robby kisses you again. You melt into it, moaning softly. This time, it's Robby who pulls away from it, only to promise you one thing.
"Oh, darlin', don't you worry one bit."
*****
"I kissed her."
Jack jolts upright in bed. "You what?"
Jack would chuck his crutch at Robby's head if it weren't for the fact that he would also kiss you if given the opportunity.
Robby explains, "She asked me to, said she didn't want her first kiss to be with her husband."
"Didn't she—"
"They didn't kiss."
"Well, shit." Fucking without kissing feels a bit… pointless.
Robby starts stripping, unbuttoning his shirt then trousers before sitting on the bed. He slides under the covers and finds Jack's hand in the darkness. Squeezing it, Robby asks, "Are you mad at me?"
Jack should be mad. He knows this. For Christ's sake, Robby practically snuck off to neck with you behind his back. Yet, it somehow feels like the natural progression of what's been building between you three.
"No," he says, and it's the truth. "I'm not, sweetheart."
Robby nods, "I'm sorry. Even if you ain't mad." Robby brings Jack's hand to his lip and kisses it. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now let's sleep. I'm tired as hell."
Jack lays down, but Robby stays in place. Hesitantly, Jack brings himself upright, "What?"
"There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about."
"I don't like your tone."
"Well, I don't think you're gonna like what I have to say."
Jack takes his hand back, swiping it down his face. He's too tired for this.
Robby takes a deep breath, and calmly says, "I promised I'd take care of the husband."
Jack scoffs. "'Take care'?"
"Yes, Jack."
"And how are we supposed to do that? Kill him?"
Robby goes quiet. Jack sighs, "You're ridiculous. Killin' a man when we're supposed to be gone straight…"
"Don't act like you wouldn't do it either."
"'F course I'd do it," he grumbles. "But I ain't got the legs to do it with, and I don't want you goin' out alone and gettin' yourself killed."
Robby goes quiet, but Jack knows better than to think he's won. If there's one thing he knows about Robby, it's that he's stubborn as a mule. So even in his silence, Jack's muscles are tense, waiting for the inevitable.
When it comes, it's spoken softly, like Robby knows the volatility that his words will bring, "Maybe I don't need to do it alone."
*****
The door swings open before Robby can knock.
"Dana," he breathes.
She flexes her jaw back and forth. "Robinavitch," Dana spits. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but…" She sighs, "Come on in."
Robby's been in Dana's home before. He helped her move in. Though, that was the last time he stepped foot in here, a whole three years ago. It hasn't changed much since then. All the furniture is in the same place, though it looks like Dana has done some decorating. If the doilies all over the place are to be believed, Dana's taken up crochet as a hobby.
Better than robbing and killing, he supposes.
"Sit down." Dana grabs two glasses a bottle of whiskey from the cabinets. She pops the bottle open and pours two healthy glasses.
Robby lowers himself down on the couch. "You sound like you don't want me here," he teases.
Dana huffs, "If i didn't want you here, you'd be dead by now."
From the looks of the gun leaning against the wall by her door, Dana isn't joking. It's not like she doesn't know how to use it. Dana was one of the deadliest shots in the gang. Maybe only Cassie had a better eye, but it was Dana who was quickest to a draw. She could down a man before he'd even know he was in trouble. It was her who taught everyone to shoot, even sweet Samira, who shook whenever a gun was in her hand, could hit a can on a log under Dana's guidance.
Dana hands Robby a glass and leans against the far wall of the space. "What do you want, Robby?"
"What, you're not gonna ask how I am? How Jack is?" He swirls the drink, studying the amber liquid just to give him something to do other than look at Dana, who is no doubt glaring daggers at him.
"How are you? How is Jack?"
"Good."
"Good. Now why are you here?"
Robby finally sips the whiskey. It's fine, familiar, the same stuff they stock at the bar. When they get a shipment, Jack always meets with her in town to drop off a bottle. He's always been better dealing with Dana's temperament. Or maybe he was simply less bothered by her quick tongue, less sensitive to the way she spoke her feelings without censor.
"I need your help."
She huffs, "I could'a told you that."
"I'm serious."
"Oh, I know," she downs her whiskey in a single gulp. "How much does it pay?"
"Nothing."
"You're crazy." Dana laughs, harsh and loud. She shakes her head and walks back to the table to refill her glass. "I assume we're stealin' something? Or killin' someone?"
"Killin'." Robby nods, "It'll be quick. Nothing we haven't done before. I just need you to watch while I go in."
Dana makes a face, "You insult me."
"Dana, please?"
"What's with the begging? Has civilization really softened you up?" Dana teases. "I'll do it."
"Good. We'll—"
"As long as you tell me why." Dana's always been as nosy as she is deadly.
"He's betrothed to a woman in town. She ain't happy. She's…" Robby's mind is filled with your face when you told them, filled with tears and terror. It isn't a matter of marriage to you. "Scared."
Dana nods, her gaze growing distant. Robby knows what she's thinking about– the time where she was no different from you. Scared. Alone. But unlike you, Dana didn't have help. Her only option was to run away. It was three years on her own before Dana found Adamson, who took her under his kind wing, taught her not how to be a woman, but an outlaw.
"Well then, count me in," Dana's voice shakes.
"Thank you," Robby says.
Clearing her throat, Dana teases, "Maybe you'll get a nice woman to marry out of this." All semblance of vulnerability is gone. It never stays long with her.
Robby controls his face, tries not to show Dana just how much he likes the sound of that. If he were a wealthy man, if he hadn't devoted his entire heart to Jack, he would make an honest woman of you. Wouldn't hesitate to do it.
Instead of falling down that spiral, Robby raises his glass in the air, "And may you find a nice man to marry just as soon."
Dana smiles. It looks the happiest she's been since Robby walked in. "Oh, I swore off men. They were never good to me."
"Wish I could say the same." Robby sips the drink.
"How is Jack?" Dana asks. This time, she really means the question. "Does he know about your girl?"
"She's our girl," Robby says as though it's the truth. He has to, maybe after so many times he'll believe that he could have you for real. That he could have Jack, too. "He would come if it weren't for the leg."
If that surprises her, Dana doesn't show it. "I see," she sets her glass down on a side table, right on a particularly intricate doily. "Well, why don't you tell me what the plan is?"
Her words send a jolt of excitement down his spine. It's been a long time since Robby has done something like this, Dana too. They're old. They're out of practice. Yet, there's an excitement that comes from a run that can't be found from caffeine or cocaine.
Robby leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "It'd be my pleasure."
*****
News of Edward Lambson's death spreads like fire.
Murder, they say, shot in his own bed.
Nobody would care had it not been for you, the betrothed of the young Lambson. People worry that you're next. After all, the murder of young Edward had been so unusual. Nothing was stolen. Nobody else was hurt. It seems as though the only crime that was intended to occur was the man's death.
Since news of the murder reached town, you've been scarce. Nobody has seen you on the street, and you haven't dropped by the saloon a single night. They figured this would happen, talked it over before Robby and Dana went off. Now it's two weeks since news hit, and they're beginning to worry.
"I heard she's been cryin' for ten days straight," says a man deep in the stew that the Foothill Saloon is serving for lunch today.
His buddy, also indulging in a bowl of stew, harrumphs, "Everett should send her my way. I'll show the girl some comfort."
The men laugh, oblivious to the way Jack scowls at them. Another time, years ago, if Jack had heard them talking about you like that, he'd break their noses. Even if he was free to do so, Jack can't strong-arm like he used to, too out of practice and too unstable on his feet. It's hard not to feel like half the man he used to be, when he can't perform half the acts that made up his livelihood.
Jack can practically hear Robby's voice in his head, scolding him for thinking like that. Plus, he'd also scold him for driving away two of the few customers they've had lately.
Business is slow, has been since the murder. People are scared, staying home more often than not. If a big shot can get murdered like that, than what's to say the normal folks are safe? Plus, without your music drawing folks in and keeping them in, even evening crowds have thinned. It seems the only foot traffic they're getting during lunches are Myrna and the occasional working men.
So when the door to the saloon slams open, every head in the joint turns. That'd make the fifth customer of the day, compared to their usual twenty by now.
Or, maybe it's not a customer, but Sheriff Franklin. As he hangs his hat, Jack tries not to think too much about why the sheriff has finally decided to visit their establishment today of all days. He's just glad Robby's in the back, watching the stew and not present to be under the sheriff's scrutiny.
Myrna, sitting in a corner, lifts her head and cheers, "Mr. Langdon!"
Jack knows Myrna has seen the inside of a cell more times to count. Though, by the friendly wave Franklin gives her, it seems like there isn't bad blood.
Jack hums. Curious.
Franklin makes his way to the bar, sitting at the far end, away from the chattering gentlemen and their soup. He nods at Jack, and the barkeep makes his way down.
"Franklin," Jack leans on the bar in front of him, "What can I do for you? Hungry? Thirsty?"
Franklin shakes his head, "Nah, not today, Jack."
Jack straightens. Trying not to let his nerves show, he asks, "Then how can I help?"
"I got some questions for you," Franklin knocks twice against the counter. "Wanted to know if you could help me."
"'F course." Jack keeps his breathing level if not for nothing but to calm his pounding heart. "Let's hear 'em."
Franklin sucks a breath through his teeth."Well, I was just wondering if you heard any folks talking about the Easton girl— or the Lambson boy for that matter."
"Everyone's talking about them," Jack says. "You'll have to be more specific than that."
"Anything unsavory? Threats or whatnot?"
Jack wants to laugh, though he figures laughing in the face of a very concerned sheriff wouldn't be the smartest move. Instead, he takes the opportunity for what it is. Jack's eyes slide slowly over to the men on the other end of the bar, and for dramatic effect, he furrows his brows, hoping it look something like concern.
Franklin takes the bait, following Jack's gaze. As he spots the men, growing rowdier as they finish their drinks and stew, he nods. "What's with them?"
Jack shakes his head, clicking his tongue in faux-disappointment, "Oh, nothing much. I did hear them talking about Miss Easton though."
"How so?"
"They were saying how they wanted to–" Jack cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. "Well, let's just say it wouldn't be proper to voice it in polite company."
Franklin licks his lips, nodding. He doesn't look at Jack as he gets up from the stool, "Thank you, Mr. Abbot. You let me know now if you hear anything else."
"Will do."
Franklin has always been a kind face in town. People trust him. But when he thinks you to be a threat, Franklin is anything but friendly. As his hands land on the shoulders of the two surly men, they tense. Jack just chuckles, averting his gaze as the sheriff begins asking questions.
Not long after Franklin asks about the men's whereabouts on the average evening, boots clink behind him. Jack doesn't need to turn around to know what looms behind him.
"What's that about?" Robby asks, concerned.
"Wanted to know about the Lambson boy, says he's worried about Miss Easton being targeted," Jack explains. "And these men here were just saying the most unsavory things about the young lady."
"Ah," Robby nods. When Jack turns to look at him, his shoulders drop and a light smirk makes itself known on his lips. "I see. So no trouble?"
"No trouble," Jack confirms.
*****
It's hot as hell.
Summer has moved beyond its peak. Now, nights are far more tolerable. Jack is less likely to push Robby away in the night, complaining about him being too warm and sweaty. Somehow, though, today sees to be the hottest day of the year. It's taken everyone by surprise.
Despite the heat, it seems that everyone else is in better spirits, too. Business is finally starting to pick up. At night, it's almost impossible to navigate from one end of the saloon to the other without bumping shoulders with one person or another. It's just like it was before the young Lambson's death.
Almost.
You still haven't shown your face in town, nor at the saloon. Where their nights used to be filled with the sound of cheerful music, now Jack and Robby are only met with chattering. The only comfort he has is knowing that you're free from that awful marriage. It won't last forever, but for now Dana and Robby may have bought you some freedom.
The door opens with a rush of hot air. Jack's lips curl at the thought of the place getting any more crowded than it is, of any more bodies sitting around to just generate heat. Except, when he looks at who walks through the door, he frowns.
It's Dennis Whitaker. He scurries up to Jack with a pleasant smile. "Howdy, sir," Dennis greets.
"Howdy."
Jack can see why you chose to fuck him. Even if it was truly platonic like you claimed it to be, Dennis is a fine young man. He's handsome in the face, and broad in a way that only comes from hard labor. Jack would go for the man himself if he was younger.
"How's Orleans?" Dennis says. He's fidgeting, hand twitching over the satchel at his side. "He doin' alright?"
"Orleans is fine," Jack says. "How's Juniper?"
Dennis lights up. In the blink of an eye, the satchel bag is open, and Dennis pulls a neatly-folded paper out of it. The paper has a wax seal holding it shut, and Jack recognizes the Easton crest pressed into the wax.
Dennis speaks quickly, "That's why I'm here, sir! Miss Easton gave me this letter to hand you. I believe it's a thank you for… uh… the breeding." Dennis hands the letter to Jack, "I believe it's for Mr. Robby– Mr. Robinavitch as well."
Before Jack can say another word, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves. The clacking of his boots on the floor is hurried, and as he retreats, Dennis looks an awful lot like one of those wind-up toys that an overeager kid twisted too much.
With the slamming of the door (and a new rush of hot air in) Robby peeks his head out from the back. "What was that?" He asks.
"Dennis," Jack says, turning over the paper in his hand. "With a letter from our little birdie."
Robby grabs Jack by the collar. Customers-be-damned, he pulls Jack to the back, away from prying eyes. It's so fast, Jack almost stumbles and falls on his ass.
"Well, go on, read it," Robby waves his hand at the letter.
Jack's always been a better reader than Robby. Robby was taught to read and can do it if he needs to, but he joined the gang young, and never got a formal education. Doc Adamson made sure that Robby had the necessary skills, but even he thought that there were more practical skills for a young outlaw. To him, it was more important for Robby to know how to clean and stitch a wound than to recite Shakespeare.
Maybe Adamson was right. It was Robby's skill that kept Jack alive when he needed to lose his leg.
"Alright, alright." Jack peels the wax off of the letter, unfolding it carefully. Immediately, he's struck by the scent of your floral perfume. You must have sprayed it on the letter before folding it up. Your penmanship is impeccable. Jack reckons you've had plenty of lessons since your youth. He skips over the date and salutation, going straight to the meat of it. "Alright, you ready?"
"Just read the fuckin' letter, Jack."
Jack whistles, but obliges, "I would like to thank you both for your generosity in allowing Orleans to stud Juniper. As you are aware, she is in foal. I hope you would be glad to know that I am keeping Juniper healthy during her gestation. I take her for rides every day around noon, down the river near the estate. Though, in her state Juniper often grows tired, and we must rest near the old willows."
"She isn't subtle, is she?" Robby chuckles. He grabs the letter, squinting at the slanted words, before handing it back to Jack, "Oh, never mind."
Jack keeps reading, "I hope to see you in town one day. I have enjoyed our brief encounters. Until then, I wish you both well." Jack crumples up the paper, shoving it in his trouser pocket.
"That's it?" Robby says, a smile slowly growing on his lips.
"That's it."
"Well then," Robby claps a hand on Jack's shoulder, "You itchin' for a ride tomorrow?"
Jack smirks, "I think I can find the time."
*****
This isn't what you meant to happen.
Juniper is a good horse, always has been. She's a tough one too, hard to spook. It's why your father gifted her to you for your sixteenth birthday. He knew Juniper would protect you, wouldn't buck you off or bolt at the sight of a snake.
Apparently, though, a low flying bird near the old willows was enough to send her rearing.
You didn't expect it, weren't exactly paying attention either. You've found riding her pleasant after meeting Jack and Robby, after Robby kicked you of the habit of only riding aside. Astride is easier, freer. You can ride better, further, faster. And apparently you can get thrown to the ground pretty easily.
Luckily, you don't bump your head. Somehow you went sliding off the back of the mare, with your left ankle catching the brunt of the fall.
That was ten minutes ago, and you haven't been able to weight-bear since. Thankfully, Juniper only reared. The ever-loyal steed stands only a few feet from you, chewing on some overgrown grass near the river bank. If it weren't for the fact that you took the tumble where you're meant to be meeting Jack and Robby, you would be mighty mad at Juniper.
Better being humiliated by the injury than standing the men up, you suppose.
Jack and Robby have already done so much for you. It was a gamble to walk into their saloon, demanding to play their piano, and it was an even greater gamble to walk right back in and tell them you knew of their criminal past. They didn't have to let you stay. They very well could have taken you right back to your father and told him what you were trying to do. Goodness knows you wouldn't have had the courage to tell your father the truth of who they were, what they did.
You wonder if they knew that. If Jack and Robby knew you were nothing more than a coward. At least, at the time you felt you were. Maybe not now. Disagreement comes to you clearer these days.
Acting for yourself has always made you feel a little queasy. The night you kissed Robby, you threw up once he rode away, right in the wild rose bushes along the edge of the estate. Whether it was from you asking him to kiss you or not to let you marry Edward, you don't know.
You knew exactly what you were asking of Robby then. Everybody's heard of Doc Adamson and his gang, the thievery and murders that have followed in their wake. Jack and Robby may not be running with the crew anymore, but you've seen their leftover instincts firsthand. They're dangerous men, not like they ever pretended to be otherwise.
And now, they're going to come upon you with a broken ankle like a fool. That is if they even show up. The letter is a long shot. They may read between the lines and decide to finally hang you up.
You kissed Robby, twice in fact, but it was only an act of kindness. You were scared, lonely, and about to marry a man you've never met. It was only the polite thing to do for him to indulge your wishes. You wonder if he told Jack or kept it a secret. Part of you hopes he told Jack, that it felt real enough to Robby for him to confess to his lover.
If Jack was there, you would have asked the same of him. They know you're sweet on them. Though it's unlikely they see it as anything more than a silly girl's infatuation. You've felt for them since your eyes were first blessed by them. For the sake of protecting your position on the piano bench, you've hidden those feelings. The kiss was a lapse. You were worried and thinking you wouldn't see either of them ever again.
Any dignity you retained from that incident may very well disappear when they spot you here.
They can't see you like this. Not if you ever want a chance of protecting your pride. Hiking your skirt up, you push yourself to your feet. You make it all of three steps before the pain becomes too much and you stumble to the ground. As you wallow in your shame, the familiar sound of a horse's hooves meets your ear. You bite your lip, pulling your skirt to try to cover your hurt ankle. It isn't very effective, nor does it do anything to hide the dirt all over the fine fabric.
You only have time for a few calming breaths before a familiar horse is poking his head into the clearing, bearing two worried riders.
"What the hell happened?" Robby hops off of Orleans, running over to you. He hovers, hands outstretched as he scans your dirtied body for injury. Behind him, you spot Jack slowly lowering himself off of the horse. He looks just as concerned, but less so when you send him a soft smile.
"Juniper got spooked. I fell off, hurt my ankle."
"Which one?" Robby asks, kneeling.
"Left."
Robby doesn't hesitate to grab the offending foot. You whine, and he frowns. Inspecting the swollen flesh, he murmurs, "I'm going to take a look. Move it around. It may hurt, but if it gets too much you let me know."
"You're acting like you're a doctor," you giggle, then hiss as Robby rotates your ankle.
"We are," Jack muses.
"What?"
"Well, Doc Adamson was," Jack says. "Before the gang. He taught us everything he knew."
"Why'd he stop?" Being a doctor feels like a much wiser career choice than running from the law.
"Got caught up with the Irish mob," Robby mutters. You're surprised he's even paying attention enough to answer. He's been focused on your ankle ever since you voiced your discomfort. "Couldn't save the boss's kid. They got pissed, so Doc closed his practice and ran off."
"Shit."
Robby nods, "That's right." He sighs, setting your ankle on the ground. He grabs the hem of your skirt. Before you can ask what he's doing, a loud rip echoes through the clearing. In Robby's hand is a large strip of what used to be your dress.
"Hey!" You yell, "What the hell are you doing?"
Robby starts wrapping the fabric around your ankle, "What does it look like birdie? You went and sprained the damn thing. I'm stabilizing it."
"With my dress," you pout.
"What else was I supposed to use?"
You look at Jack for support, but quickly give up, seeing as he's laughing at the whole ordeal. You roll your eyes, "How about your shirt? Like a gentleman would."
"So your daddy can know you were out galvanizing with a gentleman?" Robby tucks the end of the fabric into one of the several wrapped layers. "So he can know how you invited them to see you unchaperoned?"
"It isn't like that."
"No?" Jack muses. He lowers himself to the ground behind you, tugging you so your back is flush against his firm chest. "That's not what you sent that letter for? Covered in your perfume and telling us exactly where to find you all alone?"
You gape. It's not that they're wrong about your intent, but you never expected them to be so bold as to comment on your implications.
Robby sets your ankle down, but lets his hand linger on it, thumb rubbing the skin of your calf.
"You shouldn't touch me like that," you squeak.
Robby smirks, "Why's that?"
Why? Because it makes you feel like your bones are about to melt out of your skin, like you need to pounce on him and beg him to kiss you again like he did that night, beg him to take you, let you kiss him as he does unlike Dennis did. It makes you feel special. Like he may actually feel for you in the same way you feel for him and Jack.
Jack. Robby's lover.
"Because you're together," you whisper.
Jack chuckles, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Now come on, Miss Easton, were you thinking about that when you asked Robby to kiss you?"
"I–"
"I don't think so," Jack says. "And I think it just wouldn't be fair for you to kiss Robby and not me." You try looking at Robby, but Jack clicks his tongue. "Me, sweetheart, not him. He had his turn."
"But–"
"But nothing. Do you want this, birdie?"
Your jaw hangs open. You do. You want this more than anything. Against all logic, against the voice in your head screaming at you about how wrong this all is, you nod.
Jack is a rougher kisser than Robby. Where Robby was cautious, almost to the point of frustration, Jack has no hesitation consuming you. His mouth glides against yours, tongue pushing past your lips before you even know what's happening. It's only when his mouth has been on yours for much too long, when you're certain you're never going to take a breath again, does he pull away.
You pout, "Why'd you stop?"
"Because you look like you're going to pass out, Miss Easton."
You smile, lightheaded, "It'd be worth it."
"And here I was thinking you didn't want to do this."
"Never, Jack."
Robby's hand slides from your ankle up your leg. Your skirt slides up at the motion until it's fully rucked up at your waist and Robby's hand is on your thigh, nudging it apart from the other. The touch makes you tense, a heat growing between your legs where Dennis once entered you years ago.
Robby pulls your drawers down your legs and tosses them aside. He then settles himself between your legs, lowering his face so his mouth is level with your bare pussy.
"What are you doing?" You ask, concerned.
"Dennis didn't do that, hm?" Jack's breath is hot on your neck, "Didn't taste you?"
"N-No," you stutter. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
Robby pauses, mouth hovering inches above your pussy. His breath is hot, more so than the summer air. You resist the urge to clamp your legs shut at the way it tickles your sensitive flesh.
"No, I," you bite your lip, "I just haven't washed in some time…"
The men laugh, you find your face heating even more than before, if that's somehow possible.
"Don't worry about that," Jack teases. He kisses your cheek softly, "Robby much prefers a little sweat."
You blink, "What does that–?" You cut yourself off with a moan as Robby's mouth touches you. His lips wrap around the most sensitive spot between your legs– the button your friend Trinity once referred to it as –and sucks softly.
"Robby!" You gasp, "Oh, Robby! That's– That's– oh." You moan, eyes fluttering shut as you lean back against Jack.
Pleasure shoots through your body, all coming from the sweet lips between your leg. His beard tickles the flesh of your thighs, rubbing harshly against it in a way that is surprisingly not unpleasant.
Just when you think that his mouth on you is the greatest you could ever feel, a finger, thick and calloused, makes itself known at your entrance. You jerk, gasping as it presses inside. There's little resistance, less than there was when Dennis took you. The finger curls gently in the midst of your wetness, and you cry out.
"You like that, sweetheart?" Jack asks. His hand is on your breast, fondling it with a surprising tenderness. "Want more?"
"M-More?" You don't know how there could be more than this. "There's more?"
Jack chuckles, pinching your hard nipple through the thin fabrics covering your chest, "Robby, I think our girl wants another finger."
Robby laughs, and the vibrations wash through you.
You gasp. "I think…"
"Think what? Think it feels good?" Jack whispers.
All you can do is whimper at his words, combined with the building pressure in your gut. You've heard of it before, from the girls at finishing school. They always spoke of a mysterious peak, one that could only be given to a woman by her husband. But Robby isn't your husband, and neither is Jack.
Husband or not, you want to chase the feeling.
"Yeah, yeah, I can," you nod frantically.
"Good girl," Jack soothes. He adds, louder, "Robby, give Miss Easton another finger. I think she just about deserves it."
A second finger presses against your entrance, stretching the flesh there to what feels like an impossible degree. Robby hums again, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by pleasure.
You lose yourself as you moan, hips bucking and grinding as best they can against Robby's face. You babble frantically, asking for more but also to slow down. Thankfully, Robby doesn't listen to you, keeping on exactly how he was before, with the gentle sucking on your nub and the rhythmic curling of his fingers inside of you.
Eventually, the pleasure subsides. Your eyes flutter shut as you slump back against Jack. Robby thankfully senses that you're done, taking his mouth off of your and gently removing his fingers. As they leave your hole, you whimper.
"You okay?" Robby asks.
You groan, peeling your eyes open.
"You alive?" Jack adds on.
Then, you laugh. "That was incredible."
Behind you, Jack lets out a sigh of relief, "You scared us there, sweetheart. Can't get quiet on us like that."
"I didn't mean to," you turn your head to smile at him. "That was just…"
"A lot?" Robby finishes your thought, sitting up from his spot between your legs. He leaves your skirt rucked up, revealing your twitching pussy to the soft summer air.
“You alright there, Michael?” Jack teases.
“Shut up,” Robby says, hands brushing the front of his trousers where a large dark stain is evident.
“Is that…?” You trail off. You know perfectly well that the dark stain is nothing other than Robby’s spend. Even more heat pools in your gut at the sight. It feels impossibly dirtier than the act Robby just performed, than his face between your legs and licking at you.
Jack whispers, “Yeah, birdie, that’s his spend. Robby let go with his trousers just from how sweet you taste.”
Despite the redness that creeps up his neck, Robby winks at you. He holds your gaze in a heavy stare. On account of the way you’re feeling dizzy, you turn to Jack, “Did… did you?”
Jack chuckles lowly behind you. He pulls you back against him and you feel the hard length of his cock.“No, birdie,” he teases. “I’ve got self-control unlike someone.”
Robby snorts, “Try gettin’ between her legs. See how long you last.”
Jack laughs harder as you bury your face in your hands. You feel his hands on your wrists, tugging them away, but you shake your head. “Your mouth,” you whine, “So dirty.”
Jack kisses your neck, just below your ear. “Trust me, sweetheart, it gets a lot dirtier than that.”
Before you know it, Jack is sliding out from under you, sitting you up and putting you into Robby’s hold. Robby wastes no time in sliding his hand under your skirt, teasing your sensitive nub with delicate caresses. The touch almost distracts you from Jack, who is unfastening his belt and laying down on the ground.
Flat on his back, Jack fishes his hard length out. You gape at the sight. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a cock, and even then, you’ve only seen Dennis’s. Jack is just as long as Dennis, but thicker.
Jack sees your staring and smirks. He pats his lap, “Come on up.”
“What… what are you doing?” You ask. The words come out light, airy as you struggle to voice them with the fingers still circling your button.
“I can’t do the work birdie, not with this leg of mine.”
Your face heats. That's not how you and Dennis did it. He was on top of you, thrusting into you on the ground of the gardens with a hand clamped against his mouth. You had one clamped over yours as well, trying to keep as quiet as possible lest you wake anybody up.
"I don't…" You gulp, "I don't know what to do."
Robby's hand leaves your pussy. As he moves up your body, he murmurs softly, "That's okay, birdie. I'll help you." Robby jerks his head towards Jack. "Just get on top and I'll show you just what you need."
You chuckle nervously, "You sound like you two have done this before."
"Never," Robby whispers. He kisses you softly. "You're the first woman we've shared."
Robby helps you settle on top of Jack. He's erect, length standing proudly, almost inviting you to slide it into your pussy. You hover over him, thighs shaking from the effort despite the support of Robby's hands on your hips.
"You ready?" Robby asks.
"Yes," you whisper, looking at him, "I think so."
"Good," Robby says. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss. When Robby pulls away, you capture his lip with your teeth. "Jack, you ready?"
Jack pumps his length with his hand, "I've been ready, partner."
With his approval, Robby lowers you on Jack's cock. The stretch is more than you anticipated, but nowhere near unpleasant. When you finally seat yourself, hips meeting Jack's, you have to stabilize yourself on his chest as tight moans slip from your tongue.
They talk you through it. Robby tells you how good you're being for them. Jack praises how your pussy clenches around him. It's not long before you're able to pull yourself together, begging Robby to help you.
Robby guides you the whole way, showing you how to properly move yourself on Jack. You're lost in the feeling of riding him, his thick length sliding in and out of your already sensitive pussy. You're unable to stop your moans, not when Jack is grunting sinfully underneath you, too.
Eventually, you feel Robby's grip on your hips loosen. “You got it now, birdie,” Robby says, sliding his hands, one up to your breast and the other between your legs. “Just keep goin’ like that, make yourself feel good.”
“What about Jack?” You pant.
They laugh.
“Don’t you worry about me,” Jack coos. He bends his good leg, planting his foot in the ground to thrust up into you.
Everything’s so sensitive, from your throbbing button being massaged by Robby to the way Jack’s length reaches impossible depths. This is nothing like it was with Dennis. That was tentative, mere fumbling in the dark. Any uncertainty you had that night is gone. With Jack and Robby with you, whispering their gentle encouragements and praises, it's everything you could have ever wanted.
Before you know it, the pressure is back. This time, it's growing much faster than before as you ride Jack's length, Robby's rough finger rubbing against your sensitive nub.
“I think,” you gasp. “I think…” You trail off, moaning softly as Robby kisses you again.
"Good, baby," Robby soothes. He pinches your nipple, tugging it softly ever so often. The hand between your legs picks up in its assault. "Let it come."
It takes only a few more thrusts from Jack, thrusts you barely meet, for pleasure to overtake you again. You can't hold yourself up, and if it wasn't for Robby behind you, you would collapse onto Jack's chest. Instead, he holds you against him, lets you bounce on Jack's length as you moan and writhe in pleasure.
As you come down from the high, you feel Robby's hands on your hips again. He helps you lift yourself off of Jack. Jack grabs his cock quickly, pumping it a few times before spilling over himself. Blearily, you watch his spend ooze out of his tip, painting his hand and length a pearly white.
Robby kisses your cheek, "Just rest now, birdie." He lowers you against Jack's chest, before laying himself down next to the two of you, his head resting on Jack's outstretched arm. "You did so well for us."
"So well," Jack echoes, breathless.
"I–" The word gets caught in your throat, tears stinging your eyes. You let out a shuddering breath. In the silence Jack and Robby grant you, you let your breath catch up to you, following the rise and fall of Jack's chest underneath you. Robby's hand rubs your back the entire time.
Eventually, you manage to say, "Thank you. For everything."
"Oh, birdie," one of them says. You're too tired, too faraway to realize who it is that's speaking, "Thank you."
*****
"Oh, Victoria is smitten by Mateo."
You gasp quietly, slapping a hand on Trinity's leg, "Diaz?"
Trinity bits back her smirk, "Apparently he outgrew that overbite."
You howl in laughter. Trinity is no longer able to hide her amusement either. The sounds of your shared joy receive a few sharp looks from the parents in the room (and even a few of Trinity's siblings), but you pay them no mind.
With her father being one of your owns longest friends in this country, you've known Trinity since you were girls. You practically grew up together and later attended the same finishing school, a fact that your father said is the nail in the coffin of his peace. As much as you and she overwhelm him and her parents for that matter, he's never tried separating you.
"How long do you think until he courts her?" Trinity says.
You snort, "He could propose to her today and that girl would say yes."
"Right you are."
A familiar pale-face makes itself known in the front parlor. Immediately, you and Trinity cry, "Emery!"
Emery has to bite back a smile to retain her professionalism. If your father is displeased, he doesn't voice it. As much as he dislikes your friendships with Emery and Dennis, he's never stepped in or outright denied you the companionship. Little wins, you suppose.
"Mr. Easton," Emery says, amusement evident in her voice. "The final guests have arrived."
You frown, "More guests?" You were only told that the Santos family would be joining you for dinner.
"Yes, yes," your father says as he stands. "Come with me, dear." Then, to the guests, "If you'll excuse us."
"Wonderful," you whisper to Trinity. "Now we can finally eat."
Trinity snorts, elbowing you in the rib as you stand. You follow your father out of the front parlor into the entryway. There you find Emery with two familiar– very familiar –men. Heat floods your face as your knees buckle. For a moment, you think you may faint.
"Mr. Robinavitch. Mr. Abbot," you say, stunned.
There they are, in all their glory. You've never seen them in formal wear, and you're surprised to see how well-tailored their suits are.
Though, perhaps not as surprised as you are by their mere presence.
"Miss Easton," Robby nods at you. He has your hand in his grasp before you can understand what's happening, bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss. The way he bends at the waist, looking up at you through his lashes, it's too familiar. Suddenly, he's not looking at you from a bent posture, but from between your legs, and his lips are not on your gloved hand, but sucking your sensitive nub.
You feel heat again, this time it pools low in your gut, between your legs.
"Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Mr. Easton," Jack says coolly. Then, Robby drops your hand. Before it can hang too long at your side, like lead almost, Jack picks it up. He kisses it just as Robby did, but doesn't bother to hide the smirk on his lips. "Miss Easton."
Goodness, you hope your father can't see the heat in their gazes. Or yours, for that matter.
"Of course," you say, as though you were the host of the evening.
Your father pauses, but doesn't seem bothered enough by your words to question you. Instead, he says, "You're always welcome. It is but my thanks for the favor of lending us your dear Oklahoma."
"Orleans," Jack corrects.
"Yes, what a wonderful city!" Ignoring the twisted faces of Jack and Robby, your father calls loud enough so the guests in the front parlor can hear, "Shall we dine?"
The procession to the dining room feels a lot more like a funeral march. You're not unhappy, goodness no. You merely feel like your bones are going to jump out of your very skin. Jack and Robby walk behind you the whole way, and you swear you can feel their hands brushing your gloved ones several times along the way.
In the dining room, everyone quickly finds their seat. You stand at the door, watching everyone flit around, calling you're sitting here to another. It's a pleasant chaos. You've always enjoyed your father's dinner parties over that of other families, whose wealth and presence in this country date much further back than yours. Those dinner parties have always felt stuffy, and you've always felt like you were doing something wrong despite your extensive education telling you that you know exactly what you were doing.
Eventually, everyone is sat except for you.
"Dear," your father says softly. It's his voice that makes you realize that every pair of eyes in the room is on you. You pointedly avoid making contact with two of them. "Is everything alright?"
You blink. You avoid looking at the men sitting in the corner, because goodness knows you've looked at them plenty recently. Frustratingly, though, you can't find a single chair at the table for you. A tightness grows in your chest as the heat between your legs makes itself known once more.
It's Jack's voice that cuts the silence. Cool and smug, he voices the last thing you want to hear at this moment, "Miss Easton, I believe this is your seat over here."
Just as Jack said, between him and Robby is an empty seat. The only empty seat at the table. If they're trying not to look too pleased about the seating arrangement, then Jack and Robby are greatly failing.
"Oh," you muster up your best impression of a smile. "Isn't that wonderful?"
The only sound in the room is the clacking of your heels on wood. Before you reach the chair, Robby pushes himself up, making a grand show of pulling your chair out for you. You should say thank you, but all you can muster is a pathetic hum. It goes largely unnoticed in the room, but not entirely.
As he helps you push your chair in, you hear the softest utterance from Robby, his breath cresting the sensitive skin of your neck, "I thought ladies were supposed to say thank you."
Chatter starts up again. Everyone is talking to their seat neighbors, telling stories and exchanging pleasantries. Not you, though. You sit, gripping the arms of your chair. Sweat beads along your forehead. You practice the words it's just the heat in your head in case anybody asks you why you're sweating like a pig.
Then, the men on either side of you shift. You frown, lifting your head to look at Jack, who merely shrugs, then Robby, who smiles. You're opening your mouth to finally speak to them when you feel it– a hand on each of your thighs.
All of a sudden this dining room is looking a lot like a meadow, with the river flowing nearby. Your ankle hurts, a slight throb that should go away with sleep. Most of all, there's a man beneath you fucking up into you– your lover too, you suppose –holds you together.
Someone comes up behind you. As if you're underwater, you hear them ask if you want wine. You're barely able to utter a quiet yes, not when the hands on your thighs begin to stroke softly.
What you do manage to do however, is catch the eyes of Jack, then Robby, and say, "Thank you."
You'll be damned if it isn't just a long night for you.
the anon from the previous breeding kink fic. PAPA ME WANT MORE MOVIE!!!! maybe a continuation of that fic or a toby x reader or EVEN A RABBOT X READER. i’ll eat anything with a breeding kink uppp
Ok i was kinda thinking of waiting to write this tomorrow but RABBOT x READER BREEDING.... you're so welcome in this inbox anytime!!
So incredibly unedited- I wrote this 15 minutes after taking a melatonin gummy 🤩
It was no secret that you wanted them. You really made very few efforts to hide the affection you shared with them. They were well past their prime in some eyes, but to you they were premium.
Jack and Robby started out as just a couple you'd met at some bar trivia. A friend of a friend maybe dragged Robby and Jack tagged along. The details never really mattered, because once you saw them half tucked into the dingey dive booth you were hooked.
They were about as subtle as two men hitting on the same girl could get. They were together yes, but they had a certain edge of competition when it came to you.
They wanted to see who could make you laugh more, which turned into who could buy you the most drinks, which lead to who was going to ask you out first, and so on.
One date lead to another which lead to you stumbling through the door of their shared townhouse one night. You'd only vaugely remember teasing them on their illustrious man-cave.
"You're welcome to give it that feminine touch, Sweetheart." Jack nipped at your ear while Robby kissed down the column of your throat.
"You'd like that," you slide your fingers through his gray curls and tug, "having a little housewife to come home to every night?"
Robby tugs your body flush to his and lets out a deep growl. He wastes no time in unbuttoning your jeans to strip them from you.
"Be careful," Jacks hands slip under your top until he's tugging it over your head, "Robby would say yes in a heartbeat."
Robby stands to his full height in front of you. Watching, almost disapprovingly, at the scraps of clothes still on your body.
"Don't listen to Jack, he's projecting." Robby wastes no time pulling you onto the bed until you're all laid shoulder to shoulder.
They take turns kissing you, the gaps of space seem to fade until each touch, tongue, and tease becomes one. Robby's lips become Jacks, which return to you, then towards each other again.
"So pretty for us," Robby murmurs, letting his hand rub harsh circles on your clit through your panties. "So eager too, Jack."
Jack unclips your bra, letting your chest expand with wanting and relief.
"What do you say Rob?" he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, pleasure zips through you. "Want to keep her?"
"Mmmyes!" you scramble to get a hold of any sanity, when you can't you find solice in the crook of Robby's neck. The two men chuckle at your pathetic show, "Please..." you whimper.
"Poor thing." Robby relents, moving against you until he's stationed between your legs. "So needy for us. Who are you so worked up for?" he mocks, tugging your underwear upwards until the fabric puts a hypnotic pressure on your core.
Jack watches between marks sucked across your chest. Enjoying the feeling of goosebumps against his tongue.
"You! You n' Jack!" You practically slur, drunk on the almost satisfaction of their pleausre.
"Yeah, baby." Jack sits up trailing his fingertips across the contour of your torso. Distantly you feel Robby pulling your underwear down your legs, finally giving you the relief you crave. "Think we should keep you nice and warm in our big bed, huh?"
You nod blindly, chasing after them when they crawl away, leaving you propped up and wanting against their pillows. You toss your head to the side and linger on the familiar scent of Jack against the pillow case. You buck your hips and wine, starring them down the foot of the bed.
"Look at that Jack, she wants to stay." Robby runs his hands over his partners shoulders. Pressing tantalizing kisses across his neck from behind.
"You want us to keep you? Hmm?" You sit up, whining again. Reaching for them but also enjoying the picture of the two men and their love for each other.
"Please, I need you inside me!" you beg shamelessly. Robby takes his queue, stepping between your legs while Jack manuvers himself behind you. They're a wordles well oiled machine.
Jack's hands take your legs and keep them pulled back, exposing you to Robby.
"There you go," Jack settles you against him, "He'll go easy on you at first, just relax" He drops one leg to snake around and fondle your breasts as Robby slots himself at your folds.
Robby's first thrust knocks the wind out of you. You can barely hear the words of encouragement Jack is preaching behind you. His cock is long and it presses up against something deep inside you that burns.
His thrusts are rough and deep, he enjoys the euphoria of watching his cock dissapear inside of you. He takes a moment to grind himself against you, letting your clit graze against the course hair on his pelvis.
"Taking him so deep," Jack praises, dropping his hand to your clit, "Good job Baby." You cry out. Writhing and twisting between them.
"Fuck," Robby groans low and deep, "Fuck this pussy is incredible. S'good. Takes me so good." he punctuated every word with a hard trust.
"Want to stay in there forever?" Jack teases, but Robby is too far gone to reply with anything sharp.
"Want to fill it up," his head drops back, "Keep you so full of us." he fantasizes out loud. Jack's hips rut upwards underneath you. "Make sure everyone knows you're ours." He speeds up his pace. Jack's hand matching.
"You want that?" Jack asks seriously, "Want us to fill you up? Make you ours?" He tilts your head where you'd been mindlessly admiring Robby, until his lips could connect to yours,
"Like-" you gasp at a harsh thrust from above, "You want to-" You can't finish the sentence, the pleasure taking away your ability to speak.
"Yeah," Robby slows down, "want to breed you, baby."
You can't say anything, as the orgasm you'd been chasing crashes down all at once. You suck Robby's cock further into you. A cacophony of mewls and yesses echo out.
"Please Robby!" you beg, "Please, I need it."
"You want Robby to cum inside you? Hmm?" Jack pulled your legs up again, watching you ride out your orgasm. Robby follows quickly behind, watching the two of you share intimate breathless kisses under him.
His thrusts become sloppier and sloppier. Jack, taking notice, angles your head to look Robby head on. "Tell him what you want."
"Fill me up, Robby!" You can hardly finish the sentence before he's thrusted onto you completely with a final heave. His balls twitch as they empty rope after rope of cum deep inside you.
Floating away you relax against them until Robby softens enough to pull out and admire his work. Scooping up the white residue that had come pouring out he delicately pushes it back inside.
"So pretty," Jack announced, moving out from under you. He flips you over until he has your hips propped up angled perfectly for his cock.
"Jack?" you ask, turning your head to watch him.
"Gotta fill you up too Baby." He soothes his hands up your spine. "Want to know which one of us is going to make it stick, don't you Rob?"
And if Robby's in the bathroom scrounging for the last few of his little blue pills for the night, who's to say.
All you know is that competitive edge doesn't stop until theirs a gaggle of brunette and ginger babies filling their home.
A/N; so unedited- literally popped a meletonin then deleted to write this like idk man
You, robby and jack are best friends, best friends who kiss each on the lips, who puts their hands on your thighs when you're sitting next to each other. Best friends who sleep in the same bed with you in the middle in nothing but a cami and panties. Best friends who give each other hickies. You sit on their laps in cars (even though theres loads of space) with their hands underneath your skirt because you're best friends. Best friends who grind on each other in their sleep. Your best friends who have their hands up your shirt when you're watching movies. You're best friends.....
(you already know how I feel jfc) I may or may not have gone temporarily insane with lust, it's fine
perv!Rabbot x naive!reader goodness
reader is a too naive and gentle and these two fuckers are gross and I love them | mdni +18
You don't think about it too much when Robby offers you his spare bedroom after your lease is up. He insists on it, actually. Why spend so much money on a stupid studio when you can come live with him in his three bedroom condo for free?
You rationalize it. He says it's to help you save money, who are you to question it?
You also don't question when Jack volunteers his truck to help you with the move. You've filled it to the brim with boxes and bags, so much so that there's only one available seat for both you and Robby.
He settles in first, quickly grabbing you by the waist and pulling you to sit down over his lap. You shift briefly, adjusting yourself as something hard presses against you but you honestly don't mind. The drive is short anyways, you don't want to make Robby uncomfortable.
Robby turns slightly to pull at the seatbelt when he notices there's no room to click it into place. So instead his arms wrap around your middle, settling absentmindedly over your lap.
Something down there clenches at the touch, practically burning through your workout shorts as he presses down, holding you tight against him.
"Gonna have to hold onto you while we get there," he grumbles against your temple. "You okay with that?"
You hum sharply, not daring to move. You simply cannot be getting worked up over this. It's Robby you're talking about, sweet, caring, friendly Robby.
You will not make this awkward.
And you definitely do not catch the look Jack gives his friend through the rearview mirror as the truck starts moving.
You can't stop complaining as you sit on Robby's couch.
"I just don't understand why our taxes aren't going to important things like fixing all those potholes!" you flail your arms in emphasis. "I mean, one or two is fine, but eight? I can't even imagine someone trying to drive with a car lower to the ground."
Robby chuckles, handing you a beer as he joins you and Jack on the couch, squishing you against the two of them. You'd been comfortably sitting with your legs crossed, but the second that Robby settles, you make room for him, throwing your leg over Jack's and propping the other over Robby's.
"It's just crazy."
Crazy for you maybe. Not Jack who made sure to hit every single bump he could find, almost getting into a couple accidents as he kept glancing back in the rearview to catch your blissful expression as you bounced against Robby's obvious erection, the older man shamelessly pressing you down against him every single time.
Robby makes it a point to not set up your bed yet.
There's room on his massive kingsize, you can just sleep with him tonight. And well, look at the time, it's too late for Jack to go home anyway, especially not after spending dinner drinking, that would be irresponsible.
So while they insist you go shower while they clean up, Jack makes it a point to...misplace the boxes with your clothes. It's fine, they're just in the pantry.
You walk out in a towel, tightly wrapped around your body, a little tipsy from the beers and wine, happy to be starting a new chapter in your life with the two people you consider your closest friends.
You try to look for your clothes, you swear, but all you can find is a pair of tiny, lacy panties that you honestly forgot you had, mixed in with your winter clothes.
You grab them, walking into Robby's bedroom like you own the place, because you do, and rummage through his closet in search of a shirt you can wear.
You drop the towel as you can hear Jack in the living room and Robby in his own shower so you know you're alone. You quickly put on your panties, bending over and showing both men, who have strategically moved into the bedroom, the roundness of your ass and just the tiniest sliver of your pussy before you cover it all up with one of Robby's undershirts.
When you turn back around, they're no longer there.
You find yourself in bed a little later, Robby to your right, back propped up against the headboard, thick glasses handing off his nose as he checks something on his phone.
Behind you, Jack has already started “snoring”, putting on a show for you to let your guard down. One hand flops over your hip, casual and unassuming. You don’t flinch, don’t kick him off, you simply say goodnight to Robby and close your eyes.
It’s half an hour later, while you’re stuck in that weird in between awake and asleep fuzzy space that you start to feel it.
Behind you, Jack has pressed himself against your ass, his hips slowly rocking back and forth. You’re too tired to register it fully, losing yourself to the feeling of his hardness seeking your warmth.
You hum, back arching slightly to give him better access.
In front of you, Robby chuckles softly, adjusting himself so that his own crotch bumps into the tip of your nose.
“Robby?” You murmur, still pretty out of it, hand reaching forward to put some space between you and accidentally grazing his cock.
“Shhh, it’s okay honey,” he coos. “Just go back to sleep.”
You try to listen to him, but just as your eyes fall shut once more, Jack pulls his cock out from his boxers and slides it in between your legs.
The hotness radiating from him is enough to pull you away from slumber a little more as you begin to feel the roughness of your panties pressing against your wetness.
You groan, cheeks heating up at how pathetic you must seem to them, how uncomfortable you’re clearly making them. So you pretend to still be asleep. It’s not your fault they’re making you feel so good, if you’re not awake to witness it then it doesn’t count.
Before you know it, Jack's hardness is rutting swiftly against your soaked folds, his hisses and groans the only indication that you weren't going crazy and having a vivd dream.
Poor Jackie, he must be so far gone that he doesn't even realize he's doing it and who are you to judge your friend for that? For wanting to feel wanted?
You don't get time to process as you feel Robby's own leaking tip rock against your mouth. You don't even think, your lips parting on their own as your tongue sticks out to suck on it.
A jolt of electricity courses through Robby's entire body as he realizes you're actually rocking yourself to sleep while sucking him off, the gentle rocking movements actually calming you down and sending you back into a dreamy state.
The two men make eye contact then, identical devilish smirks all over their faces.
I need to be put in the most precarious dubiously disgusting happenstance........ I need that... Need to see what those man sluts are capable of.....BEAUTIFUL WORK
So like.... wasn't expecting that jack breeding fic to blow up.....
And now I need help!! I have some more stuff for Tethered that I've started on, but now I also want to continue the Jack Breeder-verse. Which would you like first?
i NEED jack abott x reader breeding kink pregnancy
THIS IS MY SLEEPER AGENT PHRASE. MY WAKE WORD. MY DREAM. actually unfortunately need Jack to breed me at this point.
Unfortunately, I have a sickness where I can't just write smut, so here's a 4k Jack one shot!
Content: Douchey! Jack, AFAB! Reader, Smut, Oral (F! Receiving always), PIV Sex, unprotected sex, Breeding kink, Creampie, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, Some mentions of alcohol consumption, reader is wearing a dress & has hair that can be put in a ponytail. UNEDITED!! I can't stress enough I was riffing after work and then i was 9 pages into a google doc
It shouldn’t be surprising you found yourself here, in the clutches of the very man you had been warned to stay away from. The very man who had made it his mission to make you weak in the knees every time you saw him. The exact same man who had a very nasty habit of making girls like you lustfully silly only to leave them high and dry once he was finished.
Jack Abbot was not to be trusted, that was all you knew.
Jack, who was actually your roommate’s boss, who had a reputation for bedding women no more than once. Jack, who had spotted you at a picnic last fall and has been hot on your trail ever since. Jack, who had you flat against your mattress, his body laid heavy on top of your own while he ruts against your jeans like a wild animal.
It shouldn’t be surprising, but you genuinely were shocked you managed to last this long. It had been well over six months of his flirting whenever you’d stop by to drop off Parker’s lunch, insisting he join girls nights as ‘protection’, and mysterious deliveries arriving at the door with the same scrawled script attached.
You were resolved to not become one of his pursuits, turning a blind eye and cold shoulder to each attempt. Ellis had told you stories in passing, Shen, who was a frequent guest at your shared apartment, had filled you in on his dirty details. And you, you had an imagination that could supply the rest.
Jack Abbot, the hot-shot emergency medicine attending, loved the chase. He liked to pick the women who were obstinate, focused, and borderline repressed. He liked the way they crumbled beneath his sly approaches. He liked the blind admiration he can garner when they do fall into step with him. He craved their borderline obsessive eagerness.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, Jack Abbot was someone’s husband. He was someone’s very attentive, loyal, devoted husband. One who yearned for the whole package, the white picket fence, the huddle of small children running around, the soccer games and dance recitals. Life did not sway in his favor. So now here he was, down half a limb, down a wife, and all he had to show for his life was a boatload of traumatic experiences.
The first girl he pursued was earnest and genuine, he thought maybe this was the next phase of his forsaken life. The morning after, walking up in his marital bed, turning over to the warm body on the other side, and not seeing his beloved wife was a punch of betrayal in his gut.
So, he had resigned to a life of celibacy. Until the next girl crossed his path, and he found himself at mercy to this vicious cycle.
You came into his life similarly enough to his others. Ellis had mentioned her roommate more than once, and how she was doing her a solid paying rent while she completed her residency. Abbot hadn’t thought twice about you, until he saw you at the annual picnic he’d been practically dragged to by Dana.
You were glowing under the midsummer sun. Your smile presence was smooth and easy around the team that seemed to operate as a machine without effort. He admired you at first, just from afar, and that was enough to warrant Parker’s harsh warning that you were off limits.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, that was what cemented Jack’s need to have a taste of you.
Six months of heavy flirtation later, he couldn’t seem to figure out what it is he wanted from you. Or, he could, and that’s what scared him. He wanted to sleep with you, but he also knew he wanted to take you to dinner every Friday night. He wanted to tuck the stray hair that falls out of your ponytail. He knew your likes, dislikes, fears, aspirations, and he couldn’t believe how well they seemed to fit against his own.
This blind pursuit of pleasure for him had spiraled into something much headier, affection. Dare he say it, but Jack Abbot was starting to feel the violet throws of love.
It all came to a head one Saturday afternoon. He knew Ellis would be working a double that day, so she was out of the house. He also knew you liked to take advantage of having the house to yourself for the rare occasions.
So, Jack, seemingly an expert at your preferences, picked up your favorite flowers from the elegant florist in his neighborhood, and made his way to your place. He had a plan, one that was going to win you over for good. Or at least he thought he did, until he knocked on your door.
You had swung it open expecting to see an amazon delivery truck pulling away from the curb, or maybe at most some sort of solicitor. You hadn’t expected Jack, or better yet Jack standing behind a giant bouquet of flowers.
“Oh!” You startled, “Jack! Hi!”
“Hi.” He said simply, trailing off. His eyes scanned over you dreamily. “Hi.” He repeated himself.
“Hi?” You laugh, short and angelic, the sound washes over him deliciously. “Um, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wanted to give you these,” He offers the large bouquet, laying them in your arms gently when you do take them. “And I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight.”
“Thank you Jack,” You brought the flowers up to your face to admire, “You really didn’t need to.”
“No, no” He rocked back and forth slowly, “I wanted to. I know you like them.”
You smile up at him sweetly. “I do. They’re my favorite, but I’m sure you knew that.”
He smirked in response.
“Jack, I...” You trailed off, “I’m not going to sleep with you.” You declare softly.
“Well, that’s forward, Sweetheart. I believe I asked you to dinner.” You shoot him a nonplussed look.
“It’s never just ‘dinner’ with you, though.” He sighed dejectedly, “Is it Jack?”
He grunts in frustration, just barely audible. “I’m not messing around here,” he raises three fingers, “Scouts Honor.”
“Were you even a Scout, Abbot?” You shoot back.
“Eagle,” He puffed his chest out, dropping the salute, “And just think of it this way. If I do anything untoward Ellis will have my head hung over your fireplace before dawn.” You bark a laugh at the image, which did inspire confidence.
“It would be a good look.” You bite your lip, imagining him in about a million other scenarios in, around, and next to the fireplace inside. “She does know where you live.”
“Right.” He brought his hand to lean against the door jam, until his head was level with yours. Perfect to give you a dose of his intense eye contact. “So, what do you think? Dinner at 7?”
You pretend to think for a minute before relenting. “Don’t be late, Abbot.”
You hardly miss the triumphed look he shoots you. You expect more of a gloat from his victory, but he doesn’t. He straightens out, smiles politely, and speaks softly. “I’ll see you at 7:00 sharp, Sweetheart.”
Watching him walk down the steps back out to his truck, you tried to quell the butterflies that began their swarm. It was too late, when Jack peaked back over his shoulder back at you with a brilliant smile, you knew he had you right where he wanted.
The date itself was a testament to how well both of you had gotten to know each other throughout this dance you’d been doing. Dinner was intimate and romantic, low candle light and endless conversation set the tone for the rest of the night. He was dependably himself, but kept you on your toes at the same time.
He’d told you stories of his late wife over dessert, listened to you lament about your frustrations while he laid his card down for the bill. Subtle, but absolutely pointed. He was sending the message loud and clear.
As long as you’re mine, I’ll be taking care of you.
“Okay, if you did stick to that plan, where would you be?” He asked, swirling the last few sips of wine around his glass.
“Honestly?” Your cheeks burn, and you stopped trying to figure out if it was the wine or how hard he made you smile. “I thought I’d be married by now.” You admit coyly. It takes Jack considerable effort to stay calm at the admittance.
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows, “Are the Men in Pittsburg so bad you can’t find a single one to settle down with?” He throws the line out and watches you circle it, once, twice, and then finally you sink further into the leather seat.
“Well, I thought so for a long time…” You bite down. “But now I’m rethinking it.”
He nods slowly, casually, even though the moment feels heavy between you. “What makes you say that?”
“I think you know, Abbot.” Your foot stretches out until it sits just next to his.
“Jack, please,” He inches his good leg to brush against yours. “I want you to call me Jack.” He blushes at the confession.
“Jack,” you test the waters, even though you’d said his name a thousand times. “S’a great name.” you mumble, earning a dry chuckle from him.
“So,” He deflected, “Married. What else?” He refocuses you.
You squirm under the weight of the question, you knew exactly what you wanted. And you also knew, with his reputation, Jack was the last person likely to give it to you. You hesitate, shying away from the vulnerability.
Jack, for his part, senses your unease and offers you his hand in reassurance. You let a moment pass before slipping into his grasp easily. His calloused palms are soothing, you let your fingers explore the planes of his palm, past his wrist and dance across his forearm.
“I want to be a Mom.” You admit, softer than you could imagine. Jack nearly misses the secret shared between you. He thanks every God in existence that he hadn’t. That you trusted him with it, that you said the just exact right thing as always. He felt his blood pounding through him.
“You will be,” He wraps his hand around yours, and gives it a soft squeeze. He catches your eyes with an earnest intensity you’d never seen before. “ You will.”
You're nodding before you even realize it, and he nods with you. You sit in this trance where all you can do is imagine if every right thing were to happen tonight, if the pieces just fit the way you wished them to. If Jack stayed, you could see a world of lovely things happening to you.
“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he nods to the door, “let’s get out of here.”
The drive home happened in the blink of an eye. Jack was the perfect gentleman, the only touch being his hand safely draped across your thigh. You can hardly think until you’re both standing, again, at your door. He’s respectful, walking you up, but not pushing you to open the door.
It’s you who makes the first move, as Jack takes a step back to end the night your hand finds itself curled around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back to you. You pull until he’s flush against you, and he responds immediately. His hands wrapped around your back and his lips against yours fervently.
Jack kisses like he’s starving. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your soft skin, letting your mind wander to other tantalizing ways it might rub against you. Your lips collide with clumsy passion. Your senses are overwhelmed by him, his cologne, the sound of his subtle groans, the steady presence of his hands keeping you anchored to reality.
“Come inside?” You ask innocently. He bites back a comment, yes, I will.
“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me, Sweetheart?” He teases, trailing his kisses down your neck until he finds your pulse point and attacks. Your head falls back against the door.
“Shut up,” You pull him by the grey curls until his mouth slots over yours again, “Don’t make me ask again.”
He nods against you, taking a moment to watch your eyes, to see if there was any lingering hesitation. He had to brace himself against you when you matched his eyes, the same wanton longing burning you alive.
So, now you find yourself sandwiched between Jack and the mattress you’d had since college. He’d pressed you down under him minutes, hours, days, years ago? You had lost all sense that wasn’t the wonderful sensation of him pulling pleasure from you. His erection digging into your core, a burning that once lived as an ache inside of you threatens to consume you with every touch.
“Jack,” You moan out, “Please I need you.”
He pulls away, looking at your blissed out expression. “Yeah?” You nod, he backs off of you, planting his feet back on the floor. His hands grip your hips and pull until you’re at the foot of the bed, laid in front of him.
“You’re so fucking pretty for me.” He murmurs, propping your feet up so that he has a better view of your soaked underwear. His thumb traces the outline of your clit, you shudder at the feathered sensation. “So responsive.”
“Please,” you flop your knees apart, “Please, I need to cum Jack.” You declare.
Jack drops to his knees, pulling your panties down with him. He hardly takes the time to fling the offending garment somewhere behind him before he’s licking you entirely.
Your mouth drops open, letting a symphony of sound through freely. Jack’s tongue finds every peak and valley of your sex, every appendage and nook before settling home with a long suck to your clit. The button pulses beneath his ministrations, blood pumping so violently through your body you forget how to respond outside of primal instinct.
Blindly your hand finds his hair, your hips twitch against him for resistance until you're practically gliding against him. His hand slips easily to penetrate you in the madness. You feel the stretch passively but he plays against your nerves like some kind of prodigy. He brings the precipice of madness to you on a silver platter, slipping another finger in.
Your fingers curl, your heart pounds, the impossibly tight coil in the pit of your stomach becomes even lighter, pleasure zips through you entirely. Somewhere far away from yourself you hear the babbling coming from you, something reverent and beautiful. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack!
He crooks his fingers experimentally, and doesn’t relent in positioning until he finds the exact right place inside of you that makes you go limp and brainless under him. You think you’ll fly away, and right when you think the pleasure can’t heighten further, he hums approvingly against that forsaken bundle of nerves.
You reel in all at once, your back arches off the bed, in near possession of pleasure. You cry out completely, your body sucks him in greedily, he takes the opportunity to scissor your opening out further. The pleasure that rocks over you is euphoric and spiritual, like shooting stars and becoming one.
It’s a long moment before your body is yours again. Jack waits, with reverence, for your body to subside its dance. He watches without blinking, how could he miss a second of this privilege.
“You’re so fucking good at that.” You whisper to no one and nobody. His laugh brings you back to sitting up, your dress pooling around your hips.
“You inspire greatness in me, Sweetheart,” He kisses you resolutely, “You’re perfect.” He whispers against you.
Neither of you waste time, he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt, you with a tug on your dress. It’s not long before both of you are bare before each other, spare Jack’s underwear. The snug fabric that reveals the outline of his impressive erection.
Your hooded gaze wanders over the impressive feature. You reach your hands out to touch it delicately, he hisses at the contact, but doesn’t move to stop you.
“I-” He gasps out when you tuck your hand into his boxers to wrap your hands around him. You watch him as you trace your fingers over the leaking tip. “I need to be inside of you, please.” He grabs your wrist softly. Your nod of approval is the last thing he needed before tugging the fabric down.
He lays you down, admiring you spread beneath him so sinfully. You return the sentiment, enjoying the carnal flush that’s spread over his broad shoulders and thick arms. He might be older than you’d usually date, but he was twice as handsome pulling your legs until you were practically folded in half under him.
“Is this position comfortable for your leg?” You ask genuinely. He groans, biting lightly at the ankle just by his head.
“So sweet to me,” he soothes the bite with a kiss. “It’s perfect.” He brings his cock up against you, rutting experimentally against your sex. The tip smears pre-cum against your clit, it twitches underneath the attention.
“Jack-” You start, fully intending to reach into your bedside for the little silver condom that sits for this exact reason. You mean to, you do, but you catch his eyes, and it’s like you can both feel the shift in the moment.
You wanted Jack, fully, entirely, completely, you didn’t want anything to sully the sensation. Jack locked his eyes fully onto yours before his tip caught your hole and he pressed in, slowly.
The stretch was immense, an expansive pleasure consumed you, he filled you deeper than anyone had ever done before. His girth inspired your body to come alive with sensation, and even more you could feel every ridge, vein, and contour of the member filling you.
Passively you thought, this is a bad idea. Jack could get you pregnant. But the thought only inspired your hole to flutter around him in pleasured spasms.
He kept moving into you slowly until you felt the familiar greeting of course hair tickling against you. He leant over, taking the moment to share an open kiss, checking in on you without words.
“S’deep.” You mumble against him, drunk on the feeling of fullness.
“Yeah?” He mocks, “So deep in you Sweetheart. No one ever been this deep?” He asks.
You shake your head quickly, “Never felt this good, Jackie, please move!” You all but beg.
Jack complies, setting a dangerously delightful pace, pulling almost all the way back before pushing down again, filling you completely. The air is knocked out of you, pushing little mewls and moans with it. Jack’s pace never faults, steady and strong through you.
“Feel so tight around me,” He grunts, “My tight pussy, yeah?” He mocks. You whine at the notion. “This my tight pussy?”
“Yes!” You can barely think, he shifts again, pushing against the deepest part of you. “Yes, yours Jack!”
He speeds his thrusts, a redness dawning over his shoulders, and blooming over his chest beautifully. Little groans and moans tumble past his lips every once and while, you savor each one like it’s gold.
“S’my pussy, I’m gonna make it mine.” He moves your legs until he’s got you perfectly angled for his thrusts to brush your cervix. “Little pussy loves me. Listen to her sing.” The sounds of slapping skin echo out.
“Jack! Jack, need you-” You gasp and writhe, pleasure tumbling through you, “Need you to come inside me-” You can barely get the words out before his pace becomes punishing.
“Fuck-” He breaks into maddening animalistic thrusts, “Want me to cum in your pussy, baby? Want me to make you a mommy?” He mocks, but the effect is instant. Your pussy flutters around him, the pleasure taking you away.
“Want me to fill this little pussy,” he can’t help himself anymore, the words tumble past his lips, “Want me to fill you up, get you pregnant. Want me- want me-” He trails off.
You simply accept his tirade, letting the everlong sensation of forbidden lust carry you through. Jack leans in until your lips are pressed against each other, breathes exchanged.
It’s surprisingly intimate given the filth he’d been spewing just seconds before. He watched you, and you returned the same, his thrusts begin to falter, your orgasm creeps dangerously close.
“Want to have your baby, Jack.” You declare suddenly, only moments before you’re sucked away into your second orgasm of the night. Liquid gushes around the base of his cock, making the sensation of your adventure that much more heightened.
Jack has about three more good thrusts before he’s slamming himself into you and letting himself empty deep inside of you. Your hips tilted upwards, the mess leaking further and further inside of you with every pulse of his cock. Your muscles are still contracting him closer and closer as you begin to return back to your body.
Neither one of you said anything for a long time. Jack lays on top of you, his cock softening inside of you, enjoying the feeling of his skin painted against yours. He traces every line of your body, trying to memorize the perfect plane of existence. The gift beneath him, that could be the answer to the prayer he’d lost hope on.
You feel similarly hopeful. There’s no doubt that Jack was going to take care of you, that he was going to make you feel safe and special. The lingering nag that reminded you that Jack’s track record didn’t rear its head until the morning after alerted itself. Before you can dwell on it, Jack’s pulling away and mumbling something about a washcloth.
You forfeit your worries for the night, preferring to enjoy the view of the man bobbing through your bathroom naked as the day he was born aside from the mechanical limb that he hadn’t taken off. Once he returns there’s no room for doubt.
It’s not until the next morning, when the door slams open and you can hear Parker calling for Jack from the living room.
“Abbot you have two minutes to get your old ass out here and explain why your Truck is in my spot this morning.” She called out distantly.
Abbot lets out a laugh, but tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, his hand snaking around to cradle your midsection. He wonders if it stuck, if he’d need to flip you over and try again this morning. Either way was fine with him, he wasn’t going anywhere.
A/N: Someone lock me up............. ANYWAYS. ENJOY!!
Put together a little mood board for Tethered! I'm putting together some more stuff for them, but I think I'd like to do some drabbles or one-shots before I put it out. Hope you enjoy this in the meantime.
Summary: What happens when an Emergency Attending in desperate need of control over his own life finds a sweet young thing that needs someone else to take hold of her leash?
Tags: F!Reader, Older Robby!/ Mid 20's! Reader, Suggestive Pup Dynamics, Inexperienced! Reader, Fluff, Angst if you really look for it, Smut, Oral (F! receiving), First time oral, titty sucking, dirty talk, Robby loves a nickname, & Robby is a secret perv but we knew this. First kiss.
A/N: First part, mostly introducing these guys but would like to get more into what freak shit they can do.
6.1K Words
Robby trickled into your life slowly, he saw you at the coffee place around the corner from your apartment. You saw him walking home from work. He helped you reach a box of cereal once in the grocery store. In turn, you ‘made too many cookies’ one evening and delivered them to the emergency room he worked at.
You were acquaintances that teetered into something more, and every moment lingered. Conversations were mostly polite, him talking about the weather, you asking about work. You met serendipitously each time, both of you letting the pauses drift in favor of polite goodbyes. It was all too intimate for strangers and too strange for anything more intimate.
He was old enough to be your father, but he didn’t seem to mind every time you ended up in his orbit. In fact, he spent most of your time together with a hungry look in his eye, trying to keep his eyes from lingering at the most intimate parts of you.
Your intentions were far more subtle. He was a handsome man, no one was denying that, and you had always wondered what it would be like to let someone take care of you like that. You liked him, he was always funny in a sarcastic way, but he never let you open the door for yourself. He was a gentleman like the men you grew up watching in movies. Or- that’s what you had thought at least.
The truth of the matter is that you had no experience falling in love. You had even less experience with lust. Growing up you were taught to wait, that your patience- virtuous and pious- would grant you something sweeter. You had hardly questioned the instinct to bury the feelings in favor of other’s approval.
Obedience was always something you had leant into. The relief of guidance and structure kept you upright. You’ve always been diligent and good. But now in a world where you’re considered an adult, and have every opportunity to make these choices for yourself everything feels much more overwhelming. You had every intention of being a well-adjusted successful social butterfly but you just had no idea how.
You had watched your friends in their own situations, watched them give in to their primal desires, and you watched in horror as their hearts broke. It was that bubbling humbling anxiety that kept you firmly rooted to your solitude.
There was little faith in your friend’s reassurances that one day you’d ‘find someone’. You had even less faith in the placating reminders that there is no right or wrong way to fall in love. Rationally, you understood this. Rationality had never been the issue, but the lingering pangs of longing fought against the brick walls you’d built yourself.
Robby was the first person you could possibly imagine letting yourself go for. No one had ever taken your breath away quite like he did, even from across the street on a springy Sunday morning. If he noticed your girlish babbling around him worsened, he never said anything.
You remember meeting him for the first time. A rainy afternoon in a packed coffee shop. It was one of those rain storms that started all at once, thunder clapped almost before the clouds deepened in color. An impossibly perfect seat tucked against the large bay window was secured. You had long since arrived, preferring to spend your afternoon cycling between watching the rain trickle against the glass and half-reading the book in front of you.
Your routine was interrupted by a polite apology.
“Is this seat taken?” The deep voice dripped with honey, the man dripping in rain. His old beat up hockey t-shirt and jeans betray his predicament. He quirks a polite smile, as he scratches the back of his neck. For the first time you notice the hoards of people who were slipping in for refuge against the storm.
“Yes,” You say moving your things off the table, “I mean no, it’s not taken, yes please sit.” You tuck stray items back into your purse.
“Thank you.” He sat in the plush leather armchair, setting down a large coffee and a well loved notebook. “It’s really busy here today.” Your eyes trailed his features greedily, lingering on the strong broad shoulders. Admiring the gray patches in his beard that made your heart skip a beat. You had to remind yourself to stay calm.
“Yeah,” You trail off watching him timidly, half hidden behind the paperback. “I didn’t think it was going to rain.” You admit.
“Same here.” And conversation was light from there. You hadn’t learned much from him, just that he was an emergency medicine doctor at the hospital around the corner, that he hadn’t remembered his umbrella, and his name was Robby. For your part he learned little about you, just your job and how you’d never met a doctor that wasn’t yours.
It was such a shame that when the rain started to peter out he slipped away with a simple, “Hope I see you around again, Kid.” As if he hadn’t threatened your cocoon of safe indifference entirely by existing.
It was embarrassing how much you already liked him. Had you liked him any less you probably would’ve run for the hills when months of unplanned meetings later he finally did ask you to come to his place for dinner.
Robby was this mythic man in your eyes, he was a doctor which was as impressive as it was hot, but he wasn’t cocky or condescending. He always looked you in the eye, like he was catching you in the middle of something bad. He always smelled like musky cologne, even when you can also smell the antiseptic hospital on top of it. He never seemed to mind that you could hardly string two complete sentences in front of him.
He was exactly the kind of person you’d wished for in every wishing well as a kid.
It’s just that, you were sure he didn’t think very much of you. He clearly liked you somewhat, he wouldn’t ask you over if he didn’t, but you were sure he didn’t feel so intensely the way you did. You couldn’t imagine him staying up late, wondering if you had gone to bed already or if you were up reading some new book. Nor could you imagine him daydreaming between cases at the hospital the way you did at work.
The floaty dreamy feeling of the fantasy of him seemed to keep you tethered, and the creeping sense that you were far too attached far too soon kept you alert. All the feelings jumbled into a mess leaving you feeling like a puppy tied up outside, waiting for their owner to come pat their head and take them home.
You had agreed to dinner easily, and it was easy! It was easy until you had to pick out the right outfit. One that conveyed your personality, looked nice, but still didn’t suggest something more than you were willing to do. Your years of balancing this obedience and coy shyness reared its head until you were half-buried in your closet.
It was easy until you were walking the steps leading to his townhouse, just two blocks away from your apartment. Easy- until you realized you were definitely still eagerly early.
So you stood on his stoop, waiting, trying to not look too desperate. Checking your phone constantly, you felt the ripping anxiety shooting through your body with every breath. You could hear him on the other side of the door, distantly. So you stood and waited, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths.
“I don’t want to scare you, but you can knock.” The familiar voice on the other side of the old wooden door spoke. You jumped, but before you had a chance to knock, he pulled the door open.
Deep, hot, embarrassment swirled in your stomach as you peeked up at him. A meek expression surely, but he paid no mind. He simply ushered you inside, closing the door softly behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, “I got here way earlier than I thought I would, and then I didn’t want to be rude so I wanted to wait-” he laughed at your rambles, a dark deep rumble that settled in his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here early, I was starting to get antsy.” Your body stops its frantic movements. Robby, capable steady Robby, was starting to get restless at your arrival. His voice moved behind you until it was directly behind you, his expansive chest pressing against your back.
You didn’t dare turn your head, knowing he was waiting for permission to invade your space. He was patient but he knew he didn’t need many tricks, not when you were so frantic for his approval. You wondered somewhere in the back of your mind, could he tell what a short leash he had you on?
“Should’ve let me know when you got here, Puppy.” Oh. Oh.
The evening from that point was simple. Once your brain started back up, your timid response only made him laugh.
He was cooking some pasta dish on the stovetop, an old vinyl record was playing from the living room, but it served more as reassuring filler than anything to actually remember. He was a lovely host too, he pulled your seat at the table out before you sat. He showered you with attentive questions.
“Would you like something to drink? I have a Wine Cellar downstairs.” He says with nonchalance, like that would be something anyone would just have. His smirk gives away the brag, he can’t help but puff his chest out at the accomplishment.
It’s a subtle reminder that Robby has money. Robby can take care of you. Robby wants to impress you.
“I could let you pick out a bottle.” He offers, leaning casually against the counter.
“You don’t have to do that.” You murmur quietly. “I don’t know that much about wine, actually.” You admit. “Your pick, I trust your opinion.”
He can hardly conceal the way the sentence punches the air from his lungs. “My pick then, baby.” He reaches across to his fridge where he has a bottle chilling. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” He answers confidently, as he pulls a cork from the bottle easily. “Just keep sitting there and looking pretty for me.” Your skin burns under his gaze, not sure how to signal him you’d give him anything he wanted if he just asked.
“Are you sure, Robby?” You ask, eyes rounded out. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything.”
“I want to, baby, I promise.” He pours you a glass and delivers it to you at the table. “Relax, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thank you.” You smile up at him sweetly, and he has to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid getting hard right there.
“How was your week?” He calls out, mixing together the last few ingredients over the stove. “Did you ever figure out what happened to the package that went missing?”
The conversation flowed easily, despite your anxiety Robby was adaptable and quick to fill in any lulls in conversation. He always remembered little bits from previous conversations to discuss. He never talked about himself for too long, but he wasn’t obtuse about it. He offered small stories here and there, but he was an expert of deflection.
Time passed easily while he finished his work, you hardly noticed time passing as you sipped the wine and chattered on. It wasn’t until the plate of food was brought over that you realized you’d been talking for the better part of half an hour.
“It looks really good Robby.” Your cheeks burned.
“Thank you.” He took his place across from you. “I hope you like it, I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, he always made you feel so special.
“Dig in pretty.” is said simply, no thought for what the nickname did to you.
Dinner moves as easily as it could. It was remarkable how he handled you, with complete understanding and absolutely no hesitation. He knew how nervous you were, he knew you felt on edge about being in his space, and he hadn’t given you the space to linger in it.
“So, what did you want to do after dinner?”
“What do you want to do?” He rebuttals swirling the crimson liquid around the bulbous glass. When he takes a sip he watches you, just over the rim, carefully.
You squirm, not unlike a child under the watchful gaze of an adult, not sure how to move or sit. Before you knew he was single you had kinda assumed Robby to be with someone a little more his speed. To have some elegant intelligent thing that doesn’t dangle off his arm awkwardly. Someone who knew what he meant when he talked about medical cases, or could at least understand the nuances of his adulthood.
You still felt a little overgrown and underripe for the picking. Robby didn’t seem to mind either way, always coming back for another taste.
Picking at the seam of your skirt you offered a juvenile solution, “Maybe we could watch a movie?” You half shrugged expecting him to laugh or maybe scoff at the idea of something like that. That he would maybe prefer more stimulating company.
But he didn’t, his face lit up again, simply. Nodding before setting his glass down, making no move to stand just yet. “Anything in particular?”
The movie title that tumbles through your lips is neither sophisticated nor popular. It was honestly the last movie your friends had mentioned in passing, one you had missed in favor of work. You don’t remember why you wanted to see it in the first place, maybe it had an actor you liked, or the director sounded familiar. Either way, Robby was nonplussed and eager to please.
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart.” Your heart flipped, he stood and offered his hand to you. You take it, the calloused skin skimming against your own. He hardly thinks twice before dipping his head to press a short sweet kiss to the back of your wrist.
“Go get cozy, I’ll join you in a sec.” And there’s no room for argument. Ever the obedient puppy you trot to the couch and sit without so much as a word.
Sitting pressed against him in the dim light of his living room was a test of strengths. Strength of willpower, yes, but also your cardiovascular health. The blood pumping through your system never slowed. The jackrabbit pace kept it’s intensity well into the first thirty minutes.
You hoped he couldn’t tell, despite the warm strong thigh pressed against your own, and the teasing presence of his arm wrapped behind you on the back of his couch. You could feel his breath, steady and calm, against your shoulder when his eyes flipped to your face. He seemed intent on gauging your reaction.
And it seemed to become an impossible task to act normally under his watchful eye.
“Have you seen this before?” He asked quietly, but the volume still startled you. You shake your head no.
“All my friends really like it,” He diverted his entire attention away from the screen. He’s devotional like that really, he isn’t one to be lost when something is in front of him. It could be something he’s picked up as his years in the ED grow, but it seems like such a distinctly Robby quality. He doesn’t ever do things by halves. “I- um - I never saw it in theatres or anything. After that I felt like I kinda missed my chance to watch it.”
He doesn’t offer a response farther than a noncommittal hum of approval. His hand, the one wrapped around the couch behind your head, answers for him. The slow presence of his arm leaves goosebumps against your skin as his fingertips skim lightly against your shoulder. He fiddles with the hem of your sleeve, his gaze slipping further down, before snapping back up to your face with a sweet smile.
“I’m glad you’re watching it then,” he dips his head slightly until he has to look up at you from beneath his eyelashes, “I hope you’re enjoying it.” And you are, but you don’t know how to express the real weight of your delight.
His hand slips until his palm runs down your upper arm, tugging you closer into the crook of his shoulder. You follow until your head rests against his chest. From here you can feel the wiry brush of his beard against your head, you can feel the solid muscle rise below your ear, you can see the way his hips angle perfectly in sight. Just enough to tempt you, to show you what you could be doing, enough to wonder if this was a suggestion or if he was genuinely enjoying the feeling of closeness.
These feelings bundle up in your chest, the thoughts moving a million miles an hour, and your hands start to twitch.
“Robby?” You peer up at him.
“Hm?” His answer is passive, but his hand travels further down, using his newfound leverage to roam your side. The touch is innocent enough, he certainly didn’t go straight for the areas of yourself you’d expected a man to gravitate towards. He was enjoying the time spent just stroking along the lines of your silhouette.
It was hard to understand what he was getting from this. You’d never really heard that guys liked things like this. Most of the stories your friends shared they had to practically beg their boyfriends to cuddle. Now you were cuddling on the first date, which you still weren’t sure if it was surely a date, with a man you’d been pining after for months. You’d half-expected him to tug you into his lap and stick his tongue down your throat, but when he didn’t it left you a mixture of confusion and relief.
It crosses your mind that you should just ask if he wanted to be with you like that. It also crosses your mind that you’d never be able to work the courage to ask Robby something that brazen out of nowhere. Who were you to ruin the nice evening by making it something unnecessarily sexual?
On the other hand, his touch certainly carried the weight of his intentions.
“Are you enjoying the movie?” You chicken out, changing the subject entirely.
“I’ll be honest, Puppy,” he chuckled, letting the vibrations travel against your neck and head. “I’m a little more occupied with something else.”
His hand stopped at your waist, settling protectively across your midsection. Heat flipped against your ribcage as your heart danced with searing speed.
“Oh?” Your voice squeaked out. “What are you thinking about?”
You don’t mean to sound so small, and you don’t really even mean to act so naive. The feeling that Robby gives you just makes you feel like you’re a girl again. You’re not sure if it’s his age, or the way he carries himself, but he brings out an innocent edge you’ve been trying to hide for years. You need his reassurance, his validation, to move forward. You need his guiding instruction.
The effect is felt with a low grumbling sound, escaping his throat, almost animalistic in nature.
“Thinking about you.” He flexes his hand, squeezing the meat of your torso. Your mouth drops open in shock before you shift to face him.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask again, this time you can see the way his eyes are lidded and dark. You can see the slight flush of blood rushing beneath his cheeks, and the way his teeth catch his lower lip without realizing. You watch him, like a subtle movement might give away his secret, like a deer waiting for danger to strike.
“Can I kiss you?” is said simply, his head moving in before the question is really asked. Stopping though, just far enough away that you’ll miss him if you pull back. Waiting, patiently, for the permission only you can grant.
You nod your head, but steady your hand against the base of his throat gently. Not as a gesture of power but as a plea for patience. He brings his hand over to steady yours, keeping his eyes locked to your own.
“Robby I-” He leans in closer, his hand twisting his fingers around yours, “I’ve never really done this before.”
His nose brushes against yours slowly.
“Done what?” You can feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Been with a man?” It would’ve been condescending if it were anyone but him.
“Kissed anyone.” You rush out, feeling white hot shame rip through you at the implication. Your shoulders drop and curl in. You turn your head away, not wanting him to catch sight of your own embarrassment.
In his defense, this does seem to catch him off guard somewhat. His hand going slack around your own, letting you escape from his grasp for a moment. The air was far cooler now that there was distance again, letting him feel the stark absence of your warmth.
He doesn’t react for a moment, and in your haze you feel the full weight of the silence. The confession was bitter, and you were hoping he would ease the pain by taking it away. Now though, in the moment of stillness you feel like every buried moment of shame is rising up your throat. Blood starts to rush through your ears and your eyes burn with unshed tears.
Of course you messed it up. You completely ruined the mood. He’s going to be so embarrassed.
You hardly squeeze out the breathless apology around the lump that digs into your throat. It’s not until you start to lean back and away from him that Robby seems to snap back into himself.
To be fair, he hadn’t expected you to be overly experienced, not in the way you’d carried yourself, or the skittish way you shifted around him. Hearing you had no experience was equal parts shocking and exhilarating. It was more of a confirmation of his newfound development brewing inside him. How he had never considered himself perverse until now.
He relished the momentary lapse of thought, imagining you spread open in front of him, knowing he would be your first. Possibly your only if he played his cards right. Peeling you back layer by layer until you’re just his. A little pup, eager and innocent, trained just for him, just for his pleasure. Closing his eyes, he let the lust consume him.
He hardly noticed the wilt in your demeanor until it was almost too late.
“Woah, woah, woah,” He sat up, chasing after your fleeting figure, “what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, not wanting to look down at him, not wanting to see the disappointment you surely expected there. You couldn’t stand to see it happen in front of you like that.
“Puppy, talk to me,” He murmured, bringing his hands to either side of your head until he could face you head on. “Am I moving too fast?”
And suddenly the floodgates burst, the trickle of tears tethered over the edge of your waterline, and your body shook with unshed emotion. Robby, for his part, dutifully waited, wiping away tears and tucking your hair behind your ears.
“It’s just-” you break off suddenly, almost frantic with energy and frustration, “I’m so embarrassed!” He doesn’t say anything, but he offers a sympathetic quirk of his lips. It treaded a fine line between empathy and mockery, but again it was something he wore well. “I’m fully an adult, and I have a job, and lots of friends, and a life, and-” you shudder out a deep breath.
“And- and-” You can’t stop the whine that builds in your chest, “And I just want someone to love me!” You blurt.
It could’ve been so pathetic, it probably was in some omnipresent view, but to Robby it was sinfully delightful. Here was his girl, the woman he’d been lusting over, pathetic and desperate in his lap just asking for him to love her. He could do that, he could definitely do that.
“Let me,” He murmurs into your hair when he presses sweet chaste kisses to your hairline. “Let me.” He murmurs again, catching the erotic sight of you half dazed, half crying, looking up at him. You suddenly have nothing to say again, so you settle with an obedient nod of approval. That’s all Robby needs before his lips are pressed against yours.
You’d imagined this moment before. Not this moment in specifics, but you had imagined the way everyone does. How it would feel to be pulled against someone in a fit of passion. How they might look or smell or touch. If they would be tender and sweet, like a nostalgic memory of playground love. Or perhaps something heady and twisted in some dank dark bar pressed against each other messily.
Robby was all these things and none of them all at once. His beard added a contrast your imagination couldn’t have conjured. The coarse hair was a reminder of the fact you weren’t a child having a clumsy kiss after homeroom. This was a man, a successful handsome man who wanted to kiss you. He was warmer than you imagined. His skin was molten against yours.
His lips were buttery soft against yours. The shock of being kissed lingered but Robby’s skill seemed to recover for the both of you. His hands steady against your head, angling you just the way you needed to be. His lust remained chaste with intention, until he pulled away to watch you take deep breaths. Your chest rises shakily.
“How was that? Good, hmm?” He pressed another kiss to your lips in small bursts, overwhelming your senses.
“Mmmm-” Your voice was high pitched and pathetic, “S’good.” The blood in your body coursed through rapidly leaving a dizzy float behind in its wake. He pressed another kiss to your lips. “Really good Robby.”
His eyes crinkled affectionately taking in your love-drunk appearance.
“M’glad.” he tugged you closer, pulling you into him.
“I don’t know how to be good for you.” you whispered into the peaceful pocket he created.
“Puppy,” he pulled you until you straddled his thighs, “You’re already so good.”
The euphoria that burst through you was enough to bolster the confidence you needed to surge up and connect your lips back to his, this time neither one of you held back.
Robby was perfectly attuned to what your body was calling out for. He was an answer to the hushed prayers of your youth. His mouth parted, and yours with it until you felt the velvet caress of his tongue against yours.
It was relatively tame, but it left you feeling breathless and wound up. His hands drifted to your hips where they squeezed and kneaded your flesh delightfully. He restrained himself from drifting further, but allowed himself the dalliance of feeling your response against him.
You had a harder time with your composure. Gasps of surprise and hums of pleasure seemed hellbent on making themself known. You could hardly control the way you responded to his expertise. Your back arched until your chest pressed against him, your hands roamed freely between his biceps and the back of his neck. Desperation climbing up your spine until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please-” his mouth tumbles down until he’s sucking gently against your neck, “Robby! Oh my god-” You feel like you might die, the blood that blooms under his touch burns delightfully.
“Use your words Puppy, what do you need?” He taunts before scraping his teeth across the newly minted mark.
“Touch me?” You offer meekly, your hips begin to chase something underneath you that leaves you only wanting more.
“Is that a question?” He stabilizes your rhythm, dragging you back and forth against his growing erection.
“Touch-” He slows you down even further until you can barely feel the friction from before, just the effect you have over him in return. The words die in your mouth.
“What do you want?” He asks seriously, meeting your eyes again.
“I don’t know.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m not- I don’t think-” You grunt at your own insufficiencies. Why couldn’t you just be normal about this? Why does everything have to feel so much harder than it needs to be?
“I don’t think we should have sex tonight.” It's a relief as much as it is a disappointment coming from his mouth. Part of you wishes he would just rip the bandaid off and take you, but the larger more rational part relaxes. Robby isn’t one to mince his words.
“Right.” You don’t mean to sound so disappointed. You don’t mean to feel the pang deep inside like you had somehow let him down. Despite the overwhelming relief you wonder if this could truly be something that he’d be satisfied with.
“C’mon, don’t pout.” He tucks your mussed hair back in his large hand. “Just because we aren’t having sex doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”
Curiosity strikes like electricity through your veins, igniting the flame that had burned through you just minutes before. A surge of passion that was built brick by brick, moment by moment restored with a simple sentence.
“Let me touch you?” It's a question this time, a question of yes or no but also a how and where. You guide him the best way you can in your own limitations.
“Will it be good for you too?”
“Of course it will be, it’s you.” And in one swoop Robby quelled your fears before his hand tucked itself under your skirt and into your panties to quell another part of you entirely.
"You're my Puppy." He whispered just before you felt his fingertips glide over your clit and your eyes roll back in your head.
The first pass over the bundle is borderline experimental. He’s hesitant, you can feel his eyes boring down on you. The heat alone from his attention courses through your veins. Still, through the hesitance, you know the rough calloused pads of his fingers are incomparably better than anything you’d been able to achieve yourself.
“Robby-” You mewl, your hand moving to wrap around his forearm for leverage. You lift your hips slightly, running from the blind pleasure that was possible from him. “I- I’m-” Your thighs shake in anticipation.
Robby takes the opportunity, sliding his hand around your back until it hugs you completely, chest pressed to his. You furrow your eyebrows, ready to question him, but before you can he maneuvers you so your back is settled against the cold leather of his couch. Robby’s wide frame surrounding you, until all you can think about is him.
His hands make quick work slipping your painties off before you can even think about it. He makes a big show once they’re untangled from you, meeting your lidded eyes as he brings them up and takes a long sniff.
The noise that escapes you is something you’d never heard from yourself, you had no idea you were capable of this. Robby let the sound settle over him like a grounding chill, especially as your legs flop open desperately in front of him.
“So pretty for me.” He compliments. “Smell so good, so sweet.” He cants back until he’s sliding up your legs. The short skirt rides up as his hands glide along the outside of his thighs until he’s sitting between them comfortably face to face with your pussy.
“Robby-” You try to close your legs, shy from the front row seat he has to your most intimate place.
“Ah-” He tuts, taking hold of your thighs, pressing teasing kisses to both. “If you want me to stop, then say so.” He waits. When you don’t respond he continues his pathway. “Good pup.”
His lips get closer, he switches legs. His hands are grounding, but the closer he gets to your center the less you can think properly. You wish you could sear this view into your mind forever, but at the same time you can’t bring yourself to watch. The conflicting feelings rage within you, and Robby, like some psychic, seems to understand perfectly.
“I’m going to eat you out,” he explains softly, “Is that ok?”
You nod quickly, reaching out until your hands cover his for reassurance.
“Will you use your words Puppy?” A chill zips down your spine at the name, you have to bite your tongue to stop from letting an obscene moan through your lips.
“Yes, sir.” You manage. It’s euphoric watching the words rush over Robby’s controlled demeanor. His head drops into the crook of your thigh, and you feel his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You yelp out in surprise, and when you see his eyes again they have to be two shades darker than before.
“Say it again,” he commands. “Call me that again, and I’ll make you Cum, Puppy.”
You fidget, feeling the odd sensation of want bubbling against the fire of arousal. You could feel your mind floating away, the parts of you that were cynical and objective gave way under Robby’s watchful eye.
“Please, sir!” You mewl out. “Please!”
You can hardly get the last word out before his lips wrap around your clit. The feeling, somehow infinitely better than his fingers, is unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Your head flew back onto the couch, your spine curved, and your hands blindly reached for his head. Desperate to chase this feeling for the rest of your life, you hardly seem concerned with the sounds coming from you.
All you know now is the alternating feeling of Robby’s sucks and soft licks as he explores the planes of your nerve endings. He’s expert in the way he can recognize each push and pull of your pleasure seemingly before you can. He watches you through his hooded eyes and chase his pleasure through him.
He caresses you with his tongue, the coil in your belly starting to wind to the point of insanity, then he pulls away softly. He watches as you mindlessly writhe out in front of him. He wishes, absently he could see you bare in front of him. In due time.
“That feels good, Pup?” He asks before giving a long suck, his teeth gentle and timidly scraping against your skin.
“Please, sir-” You gasp when you feel his tongue dip inside of you for the first time. “I’m going to cum- please!”
“Such a good puppy,” He mocks you, bringing his hand to circle your clit gently while he talks you through it. “Want to be my little pet? Hmm?”
You flood with ‘yes, please’ and ‘thank yous’, losing your mind with anticipation. Your whole body tense with the thought of almost there, almost there, almost there!
“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically, “You want this old man to own you?” He speeds up his hand before his other one can stop himself, he’s sliding up your shirt. You hardly think before you reach up to pull the hem up for him. It’s only seconds before he’s tugging your bra down to wrap his lips around your nipple.
“Yeah, Robby!” You buck against his fingers. His tongue swirls against your nipple and you think you might die. How this feeling could be wrong or bad, you had no memory. Everything was Robby’s eyes, Robby’s lips, Robby’s tongue, Robby’s hands, Robby’s mind, Robby’s words, Robby’s will.
You’d gladly heel to his control. He had your leash and you could feel hims start to tug.
“Whose pussy is this?” He asks darkly before switching to the other breast before him.
“Yours Robby!” You squeal, and suddenly something bursts, his fingers speed up, his other hand pinches your nipple while he sucks. You inhale possibly the last breath you’ll ever take before everything unravels.
Robby pulls back from your chest, watching as you twitch, spasm, and wring your very first shared orgasm out. Your chest heaving, your mind spinning, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth dropped open.
He feels the gush of wetness release underneath his other hand, he revels in a slippery new sensation against your skin as he slows his pace. Your body is still twitching with pleasure.
He doesn’t pull his hand back right away, he just watches as you catch your breath. He waits for your body to come back to your mind even a little bit. Then, and only then, does he slip his fingers away and bring them up to his mouth.
“My pussy tastes so sweet.” He murmurs, savoring the sweetness against his tongue. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, sir” You finally open your eyes to see Robby practically undone against you. You hardly have a chance to think before he’s pulling you up against him for a kiss. You taste your spend against his lips and it’s intoxicating the way you dip your tongue in for more.
“You’re welcome, Baby.”
A/N: Hiii I hope you like this. I wanted to wait a little longer to post and then work got crazy so it had to delay even longer. LMK what you think!
HI SRY IF YOU READ RIGHT AWAY I DECIDED I DID WANT TO POST FULL SMUT SO IT'S UNEDITED BUT THERE!
Summary: What happens when an Emergency Attending in desperate need of control over his own life finds a sweet young thing that needs someone else to take hold of her leash?
Tags: F!Reader, Older Robby!/ Mid 20's! Reader, Suggestive Pup Dynamics, Inexperienced! Reader, Fluff, Angst if you really look for it, Smut, Oral (F! receiving), First time oral, titty sucking, dirty talk, Robby loves a nickname, & Robby is a secret perv but we knew this. First kiss.
A/N: First part, mostly introducing these guys but would like to get more into what freak shit they can do.
6.1K Words
Robby trickled into your life slowly, he saw you at the coffee place around the corner from your apartment. You saw him walking home from work. He helped you reach a box of cereal once in the grocery store. In turn, you ‘made too many cookies’ one evening and delivered them to the emergency room he worked at.
You were acquaintances that teetered into something more, and every moment lingered. Conversations were mostly polite, him talking about the weather, you asking about work. You met serendipitously each time, both of you letting the pauses drift in favor of polite goodbyes. It was all too intimate for strangers and too strange for anything more intimate.
He was old enough to be your father, but he didn’t seem to mind every time you ended up in his orbit. In fact, he spent most of your time together with a hungry look in his eye, trying to keep his eyes from lingering at the most intimate parts of you.
Your intentions were far more subtle. He was a handsome man, no one was denying that, and you had always wondered what it would be like to let someone take care of you like that. You liked him, he was always funny in a sarcastic way, but he never let you open the door for yourself. He was a gentleman like the men you grew up watching in movies. Or- that’s what you had thought at least.
The truth of the matter is that you had no experience falling in love. You had even less experience with lust. Growing up you were taught to wait, that your patience- virtuous and pious- would grant you something sweeter. You had hardly questioned the instinct to bury the feelings in favor of other’s approval.
Obedience was always something you had leant into. The relief of guidance and structure kept you upright. You’ve always been diligent and good. But now in a world where you’re considered an adult, and have every opportunity to make these choices for yourself everything feels much more overwhelming. You had every intention of being a well-adjusted successful social butterfly but you just had no idea how.
You had watched your friends in their own situations, watched them give in to their primal desires, and you watched in horror as their hearts broke. It was that bubbling humbling anxiety that kept you firmly rooted to your solitude.
There was little faith in your friend’s reassurances that one day you’d ‘find someone’. You had even less faith in the placating reminders that there is no right or wrong way to fall in love. Rationally, you understood this. Rationality had never been the issue, but the lingering pangs of longing fought against the brick walls you’d built yourself.
Robby was the first person you could possibly imagine letting yourself go for. No one had ever taken your breath away quite like he did, even from across the street on a springy Sunday morning. If he noticed your girlish babbling around him worsened, he never said anything.
You remember meeting him for the first time. A rainy afternoon in a packed coffee shop. It was one of those rain storms that started all at once, thunder clapped almost before the clouds deepened in color. An impossibly perfect seat tucked against the large bay window was secured. You had long since arrived, preferring to spend your afternoon cycling between watching the rain trickle against the glass and half-reading the book in front of you.
Your routine was interrupted by a polite apology.
“Is this seat taken?” The deep voice dripped with honey, the man dripping in rain. His old beat up hockey t-shirt and jeans betray his predicament. He quirks a polite smile, as he scratches the back of his neck. For the first time you notice the hoards of people who were slipping in for refuge against the storm.
“Yes,” You say moving your things off the table, “I mean no, it’s not taken, yes please sit.” You tuck stray items back into your purse.
“Thank you.” He sat in the plush leather armchair, setting down a large coffee and a well loved notebook. “It’s really busy here today.” Your eyes trailed his features greedily, lingering on the strong broad shoulders. Admiring the gray patches in his beard that made your heart skip a beat. You had to remind yourself to stay calm.
“Yeah,” You trail off watching him timidly, half hidden behind the paperback. “I didn’t think it was going to rain.” You admit.
“Same here.” And conversation was light from there. You hadn’t learned much from him, just that he was an emergency medicine doctor at the hospital around the corner, that he hadn’t remembered his umbrella, and his name was Robby. For your part he learned little about you, just your job and how you’d never met a doctor that wasn’t yours.
It was such a shame that when the rain started to peter out he slipped away with a simple, “Hope I see you around again, Kid.” As if he hadn’t threatened your cocoon of safe indifference entirely by existing.
It was embarrassing how much you already liked him. Had you liked him any less you probably would’ve run for the hills when months of unplanned meetings later he finally did ask you to come to his place for dinner.
Robby was this mythic man in your eyes, he was a doctor which was as impressive as it was hot, but he wasn’t cocky or condescending. He always looked you in the eye, like he was catching you in the middle of something bad. He always smelled like musky cologne, even when you can also smell the antiseptic hospital on top of it. He never seemed to mind that you could hardly string two complete sentences in front of him.
He was exactly the kind of person you’d wished for in every wishing well as a kid.
It’s just that, you were sure he didn’t think very much of you. He clearly liked you somewhat, he wouldn’t ask you over if he didn’t, but you were sure he didn’t feel so intensely the way you did. You couldn’t imagine him staying up late, wondering if you had gone to bed already or if you were up reading some new book. Nor could you imagine him daydreaming between cases at the hospital the way you did at work.
The floaty dreamy feeling of the fantasy of him seemed to keep you tethered, and the creeping sense that you were far too attached far too soon kept you alert. All the feelings jumbled into a mess leaving you feeling like a puppy tied up outside, waiting for their owner to come pat their head and take them home.
You had agreed to dinner easily, and it was easy! It was easy until you had to pick out the right outfit. One that conveyed your personality, looked nice, but still didn’t suggest something more than you were willing to do. Your years of balancing this obedience and coy shyness reared its head until you were half-buried in your closet.
It was easy until you were walking the steps leading to his townhouse, just two blocks away from your apartment. Easy- until you realized you were definitely still eagerly early.
So you stood on his stoop, waiting, trying to not look too desperate. Checking your phone constantly, you felt the ripping anxiety shooting through your body with every breath. You could hear him on the other side of the door, distantly. So you stood and waited, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths.
“I don’t want to scare you, but you can knock.” The familiar voice on the other side of the old wooden door spoke. You jumped, but before you had a chance to knock, he pulled the door open.
Deep, hot, embarrassment swirled in your stomach as you peeked up at him. A meek expression surely, but he paid no mind. He simply ushered you inside, closing the door softly behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, “I got here way earlier than I thought I would, and then I didn’t want to be rude so I wanted to wait-” he laughed at your rambles, a dark deep rumble that settled in his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here early, I was starting to get antsy.” Your body stops its frantic movements. Robby, capable steady Robby, was starting to get restless at your arrival. His voice moved behind you until it was directly behind you, his expansive chest pressing against your back.
You didn’t dare turn your head, knowing he was waiting for permission to invade your space. He was patient but he knew he didn’t need many tricks, not when you were so frantic for his approval. You wondered somewhere in the back of your mind, could he tell what a short leash he had you on?
“Should’ve let me know when you got here, Puppy.” Oh. Oh.
The evening from that point was simple. Once your brain started back up, your timid response only made him laugh.
He was cooking some pasta dish on the stovetop, an old vinyl record was playing from the living room, but it served more as reassuring filler than anything to actually remember. He was a lovely host too, he pulled your seat at the table out before you sat. He showered you with attentive questions.
“Would you like something to drink? I have a Wine Cellar downstairs.” He says with nonchalance, like that would be something anyone would just have. His smirk gives away the brag, he can’t help but puff his chest out at the accomplishment.
It’s a subtle reminder that Robby has money. Robby can take care of you. Robby wants to impress you.
“I could let you pick out a bottle.” He offers, leaning casually against the counter.
“You don’t have to do that.” You murmur quietly. “I don’t know that much about wine, actually.” You admit. “Your pick, I trust your opinion.”
He can hardly conceal the way the sentence punches the air from his lungs. “My pick then, baby.” He reaches across to his fridge where he has a bottle chilling. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” He answers confidently, as he pulls a cork from the bottle easily. “Just keep sitting there and looking pretty for me.” Your skin burns under his gaze, not sure how to signal him you’d give him anything he wanted if he just asked.
“Are you sure, Robby?” You ask, eyes rounded out. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything.”
“I want to, baby, I promise.” He pours you a glass and delivers it to you at the table. “Relax, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thank you.” You smile up at him sweetly, and he has to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid getting hard right there.
“How was your week?” He calls out, mixing together the last few ingredients over the stove. “Did you ever figure out what happened to the package that went missing?”
The conversation flowed easily, despite your anxiety Robby was adaptable and quick to fill in any lulls in conversation. He always remembered little bits from previous conversations to discuss. He never talked about himself for too long, but he wasn’t obtuse about it. He offered small stories here and there, but he was an expert of deflection.
Time passed easily while he finished his work, you hardly noticed time passing as you sipped the wine and chattered on. It wasn’t until the plate of food was brought over that you realized you’d been talking for the better part of half an hour.
“It looks really good Robby.” Your cheeks burned.
“Thank you.” He took his place across from you. “I hope you like it, I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, he always made you feel so special.
“Dig in pretty.” is said simply, no thought for what the nickname did to you.
Dinner moves as easily as it could. It was remarkable how he handled you, with complete understanding and absolutely no hesitation. He knew how nervous you were, he knew you felt on edge about being in his space, and he hadn’t given you the space to linger in it.
“So, what did you want to do after dinner?”
“What do you want to do?” He rebuttals swirling the crimson liquid around the bulbous glass. When he takes a sip he watches you, just over the rim, carefully.
You squirm, not unlike a child under the watchful gaze of an adult, not sure how to move or sit. Before you knew he was single you had kinda assumed Robby to be with someone a little more his speed. To have some elegant intelligent thing that doesn’t dangle off his arm awkwardly. Someone who knew what he meant when he talked about medical cases, or could at least understand the nuances of his adulthood.
You still felt a little overgrown and underripe for the picking. Robby didn’t seem to mind either way, always coming back for another taste.
Picking at the seam of your skirt you offered a juvenile solution, “Maybe we could watch a movie?” You half shrugged expecting him to laugh or maybe scoff at the idea of something like that. That he would maybe prefer more stimulating company.
But he didn’t, his face lit up again, simply. Nodding before setting his glass down, making no move to stand just yet. “Anything in particular?”
The movie title that tumbles through your lips is neither sophisticated nor popular. It was honestly the last movie your friends had mentioned in passing, one you had missed in favor of work. You don’t remember why you wanted to see it in the first place, maybe it had an actor you liked, or the director sounded familiar. Either way, Robby was nonplussed and eager to please.
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart.” Your heart flipped, he stood and offered his hand to you. You take it, the calloused skin skimming against your own. He hardly thinks twice before dipping his head to press a short sweet kiss to the back of your wrist.
“Go get cozy, I’ll join you in a sec.” And there’s no room for argument. Ever the obedient puppy you trot to the couch and sit without so much as a word.
Sitting pressed against him in the dim light of his living room was a test of strengths. Strength of willpower, yes, but also your cardiovascular health. The blood pumping through your system never slowed. The jackrabbit pace kept it’s intensity well into the first thirty minutes.
You hoped he couldn’t tell, despite the warm strong thigh pressed against your own, and the teasing presence of his arm wrapped behind you on the back of his couch. You could feel his breath, steady and calm, against your shoulder when his eyes flipped to your face. He seemed intent on gauging your reaction.
And it seemed to become an impossible task to act normally under his watchful eye.
“Have you seen this before?” He asked quietly, but the volume still startled you. You shake your head no.
“All my friends really like it,” He diverted his entire attention away from the screen. He’s devotional like that really, he isn’t one to be lost when something is in front of him. It could be something he’s picked up as his years in the ED grow, but it seems like such a distinctly Robby quality. He doesn’t ever do things by halves. “I- um - I never saw it in theatres or anything. After that I felt like I kinda missed my chance to watch it.”
He doesn’t offer a response farther than a noncommittal hum of approval. His hand, the one wrapped around the couch behind your head, answers for him. The slow presence of his arm leaves goosebumps against your skin as his fingertips skim lightly against your shoulder. He fiddles with the hem of your sleeve, his gaze slipping further down, before snapping back up to your face with a sweet smile.
“I’m glad you’re watching it then,” he dips his head slightly until he has to look up at you from beneath his eyelashes, “I hope you’re enjoying it.” And you are, but you don’t know how to express the real weight of your delight.
His hand slips until his palm runs down your upper arm, tugging you closer into the crook of his shoulder. You follow until your head rests against his chest. From here you can feel the wiry brush of his beard against your head, you can feel the solid muscle rise below your ear, you can see the way his hips angle perfectly in sight. Just enough to tempt you, to show you what you could be doing, enough to wonder if this was a suggestion or if he was genuinely enjoying the feeling of closeness.
These feelings bundle up in your chest, the thoughts moving a million miles an hour, and your hands start to twitch.
“Robby?” You peer up at him.
“Hm?” His answer is passive, but his hand travels further down, using his newfound leverage to roam your side. The touch is innocent enough, he certainly didn’t go straight for the areas of yourself you’d expected a man to gravitate towards. He was enjoying the time spent just stroking along the lines of your silhouette.
It was hard to understand what he was getting from this. You’d never really heard that guys liked things like this. Most of the stories your friends shared they had to practically beg their boyfriends to cuddle. Now you were cuddling on the first date, which you still weren’t sure if it was surely a date, with a man you’d been pining after for months. You’d half-expected him to tug you into his lap and stick his tongue down your throat, but when he didn’t it left you a mixture of confusion and relief.
It crosses your mind that you should just ask if he wanted to be with you like that. It also crosses your mind that you’d never be able to work the courage to ask Robby something that brazen out of nowhere. Who were you to ruin the nice evening by making it something unnecessarily sexual.
On the other hand, his touch certainly carried the weight of his intentions.
“Are you enjoying the movie?” You chicken out, changing the subject entirely.
“I’ll be honest, Puppy,” he chuckled, letting the vibrations travel against your neck and head. “I’m a little more occupied with something else.”
His hand stopped at your waist, settling protectively across your midsection. Heat flipped against your ribcage as your heart danced with searing speed.
“Oh?” Your voice squeaked out. “What are you thinking about?”
You don’t mean to sound so small, and you don’t really even mean to act so naive. The feeling that Robby gives you just makes you feel like you’re a girl again. You’re not sure if it’s his age, or the way he carries himself, but he brings out an innocent edge you’ve been trying to hide for years. You need his reassurance, his validation, to move forward. You need his guiding instruction.
The effect is felt with a low grumbling sound, escaping his throat, almost animalistic in nature.
“Thinking about you.” He flexes his hand, squeezing the meat of your torso. Your mouth drops open in shock before you shift to face him.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask again, this time you can see the way his eyes are lidded and dark. You can see the slight flush of blood rushing beneath his cheeks, and the way his teeth catch his lower lip without realizing. You watch him, like a subtle movement might give away his secret, like a deer waiting for danger to strike.
“Can I kiss you?” is said simply, his head moving in before the question is really asked. Stopping though, just far enough away that you’ll miss him if you pull back. Waiting, patiently, for the permission only you can grant.
You nod your head, but steady your hand against the base of his throat gently. Not as a gesture of power but as a plea for patience. He brings his hand over to steady yours, keeping his eyes locked to your own.
“Robby I-” He leans in closer, his hand twisting his fingers around yours, “I’ve never really done this before.”
His nose brushes against yours slowly.
“Done what?” You can feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Been with a man?” It would’ve been condescending if it were anyone but him.
“Kissed anyone.” You rush out, feeling white hot shame rip through you at the implication. Your shoulders drop and curl in. You turn your head away, not wanting him to catch sight of your own embarrassment.
In his defense, this does seem to catch him off guard somewhat. His hand going slack around your own, letting you escape from his grasp for a moment. The air was far cooler now that there was distance again, letting him feel the stark absence of your warmth.
He doesn’t react for a moment, and in your haze you feel the full weight of the silence. The confession was bitter, and you were hoping he would ease the pain by taking it away. Now though, in the moment of stillness you feel like every buried moment of shame is rising up your throat. Blood starts to rush through your ears and your eyes burn with unshed tears.
Of course you messed it up. You completely ruined the mood. He’s going to be so embarrassed.
You hardly squeeze out the breathless apology around the lump that digs into your throat. It’s not until you start to lean back and away from him that Robby seems to snap back into himself.
To be fair, he hadn’t expected you to be overly experienced, not in the way you’d carried yourself, or the skittish way you shifted around him. Hearing you had no experience was equal parts shocking and exhilarating. It was more of a confirmation of his newfound development brewing inside him. How he had never considered himself perverse until now.
He relished the momentary lapse of thought, imagining you spread open in front of him, knowing he would be your first. Possibly your only if he played his cards right. Peeling you back layer by layer until you’re just his. A little pup, eager and innocent, trained just for him, just for his pleasure. Closing his eyes, he let the lust consume him.
He hardly noticed the wilt in your demeanor until it was almost too late.
“Woah, woah, woah,” He sat up, chasing after your fleeting figure, “what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, not wanting to look down at him, not wanting to see the disappointment you surely expected there. You couldn’t stand to see it happen in front of you like that.
“Puppy, talk to me,” He murmured, bringing his hands to either side of your head until he could face you head on. “Am I moving too fast?”
And suddenly the floodgates burst, the trickle of tears tethered over the edge of your waterline, and your body shook with unshed emotion. Robby, for his part, dutifully waited, wiping away tears and tucking your hair behind your ears.
“It’s just-” you break off suddenly, almost frantic with energy and frustration, “I’m so embarrassed!” He doesn’t say anything, but he offers a sympathetic quirk of his lips. It treaded a fine line between empathy and mockery, but again it was something he wore well. “I’m fully an adult, and I have a job, and lots of friends, and a life, and-” you shudder out a deep breath.
“And- and-” You can’t stop the whine that builds in your chest, “And I just want someone to love me!” You blurt.
It could’ve been so pathetic, it probably was in some omnipresent view, but to Robby it was sinfully delightful. Here was his girl, the woman he’d been lusting over, pathetic and desperate in his lap just asking for him to love her. He could do that, he could definitely do that.
“Let me,” He murmurs into your hair when he presses sweet chaste kisses to your hairline. “Let me.” He murmurs again, catching the erotic sight of you half dazed, half crying, looking up at him. You suddenly have nothing to say again, so you settle with an obedient nod of approval. That’s all Robby needs before his lips are pressed against yours.
You’d imagined this moment before. Not this moment in specifics, but you had imagined the way everyone does. How it would feel to be pulled against someone in a fit of passion. How they might look or smell or touch. If they would be tender and sweet, like a nostalgic memory of playground love. Or perhaps something heady and twisted in some dank dark bar pressed against each other messily.
Robby was all these things and none of them all at once. His beard added a contrast your imagination couldn’t have conjured. The coarse hair was a reminder of the fact you weren’t a child having a clumsy kiss after homeroom. This was a man, a successful handsome man who wanted to kiss you. He was warmer than you imagined. His skin was molten against yours.
His lips were buttery soft against yours. The shock of being kissed lingered but Robby’s skill seemed to recover for the both of you. His hands steady against your head, angling you just the way you needed to be. His lust remained chaste with intention, until he pulled away to watch you take deep breaths. Your chest rises shakily.
“How was that? Good, hmm?” He pressed another kiss to your lips in small bursts, overwhelming your senses.
“Mmmm-” Your voice was high pitched and pathetic, “S’good.” The blood in your body coursed through rapidly leaving a dizzy float behind in its wake. He pressed another kiss to your lips. “Really good Robby.”
His eyes crinkled affectionately taking in your love-drunk appearance.
“M’glad.” he tugged you closer, pulling you into him.
“I don’t know how to be good for you.” you whispered into the peaceful pocket he created.
“Puppy,” he pulled you until you straddled his thighs, “You’re already so good.”
The euphoria that burst through you was enough to bolster the confidence you needed to surge up and connect your lips back to his, this time neither one of you held back.
Robby was perfectly attuned to what your body was calling out for. He was an answer to the hushed prayers of your youth. His mouth parted, and yours with it until you felt the velvet caress of his tongue against yours.
It was relatively tame, but it left you feeling breathless and wound up. His hands drifted to your hips where they squeezed and kneaded your flesh delightfully. He restrained himself from drifting further, but allowed himself the dalliance of feeling your response against him.
You had a harder time with your composure. Gasps of surprise and hums of pleasure seemed hellbent on making themself known. You could hardly control the way you responded to his expertise. Your back arched until your chest pressed against him, your hands roamed freely between his biceps and the back of his neck. Desperation climbing up your spine until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please-” his mouth tumbles down until he’s sucking gently against your neck, “Robby! Oh my god-” You feel like you might die, the blood that blooms under his touch burns delightfully.
“Use your words Puppy, what do you need?” He taunts before scraping his teeth across the newly minted mark.
“Touch me?” You offer meekly, your hips begin to chase something underneath you that leaves you only wanting more.
“Is that a question?” He stabilizes your rhythm, dragging you back and forth against his growing erection.
“Touch-” He slows you down even further until you can barely feel the friction from before, just the effect you have over him in return. The words die in your mouth.
“What do you want?” He asks seriously, meeting your eyes again.
“I don’t know.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m not- I don’t think-” You grunt at your own insufficiencies. Why couldn’t you just be normal about this, why does everything have to feel so much harder than it needs to be.
“I don’t think we should have sex tonight.” It's a relief as much as it is a disappointment coming from his mouth. Part of you wishes he would just rip the bandaid off and take you, but the larger more rational part relaxes. Robby isn’t one to mince his words.
“Right.” You don’t mean to sound so disappointed. You don’t mean to feel the pang deep inside like you had somehow let him down. Despite the overwhelming relief you wonder if this could truly be something that he’d be satisfied with.
“C’mon, don’t pout.” He tucks your mussed hair back in his large hand. “Just because we aren’t having sex doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”
Curiosity strikes like electricity through your veins, igniting the flame that had burned through you just minutes before. A surge of passion that was built brick by brick, moment by moment restored with a simple sentence.
“Let me touch you?” It's a question this time, a question of yes or no but also a how and where. You guide him the best way you can in your own limitations.
“Will it be good for you too?”
“Of course it will be, it’s you.” And in one swoop Robby quelled your fears before his hand tucked itself under your skirt and into your panties to quell another part of you entirely.
"You're my Puppy." He whispered just before you felt his fingertips glide over your clit and your eyes roll back in your head.
The first pass over the bundle is borderline experimental. He’s hesitant, you can feel his eyes boring down on you. The heat alone from his attention courses through your veins. Still, through the hesitance, you know the rough calloused pads of his fingers are incomparably better than anything you’d been able to achieve yourself.
“Robby-” You mewl, your hand moving to wrap around his forearm for leverage. You lift your hips slightly, running from the blind pleasure that was possible from him. “I- I’m-” Your thighs shake in anticipation.
Robby takes the opportunity, sliding his hand around your back until it hugs you completely, chest pressed to his. You furrow your eyebrows, ready to question him, but before you can he maneuvers you so your back is settled against the cold leather of his couch. Robby’s wide frame surrounding you, until all you can think about is him.
His hands make quick work slipping your painties off before you can even think about it. He makes a big show once they’re untangled from you, meeting your lidded eyes as he brings them up and takes a long sniff.
The noise that escapes you is something you’d never heard from yourself, you had no idea you were capable of this. Robby let the sound settle over him like a grounding chill, especially as your legs flop open desperately in front of him.
“So pretty for me.” He compliments. “Smell so good, so sweet.” He cants back until he’s sliding up your legs. The short skirt rides up as his hands glide along the outside of his thighs until he’s sitting between them comfortably face to face with your pussy.
“Robby-” You try to close your legs, shy from the front row seat he has to your most intimate place.
“Ah-” He tuts, taking hold of your thighs, pressing teasing kisses to both. “If you want me to stop, then say so.” He waits. When you don’t respond he continues his pathway. “Good pup.”
His lips get closer, he switches legs. His hands are grounding, but the closer he gets to your center the less you can think properly. You wish you could sear this view into your mind forever, but at the same time you can’t bring yourself to watch. The conflicting feelings rage within you, and Robby, like some psychic, seems to understand perfectly.
“I’m going to eat you out,” he explains softly, “Is that ok?”
You nod quickly, reaching out until your hands cover his for reassurance.
“Will you use your words Puppy?” A chill zips down your spine at the name, you have to bite your tongue to stop from letting an obscene moan through your lips.
“Yes, sir.” You manage. It’s euphoric watching the words rush over Robby’s controlled demeanor. His head drops into the crook of your thigh, and you feel his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You yelp out in surprise, and when you see his eyes again they have to be two shades darker than before.
“Say it again,” he commands. “Call me that again, and I’ll make you Cum, Puppy.”
You fidget, feeling the odd sensation of want bubbling against the fire of arousal. You could feel your mind floating away, the parts of you that were cynical and objective gave way under Robby’s watchful eye.
“Please, sir!” You mewl out. “Please!”
You can hardly get the last word out before his lips wrap around your clit. The feeling, somehow infinitely better than his fingers, is unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Your head flew back onto the couch, your spine curved, and your hands blindly reached for his head. Desperate to chase this feeling for the rest of your life, you hardly seem concerned with the sounds coming from you.
All you know now is the alternating feeling of Robby’s sucks and soft licks as he explores the planes of your nerve endings. He’s expert in the way he can recognize each push and pull of your pleasure seemingly before you can. He watches you through his hooded eyes and chase his pleasure through him.
He caresses you with his tongue, the coil in your belly starting to wind to the point of insanity, then he pulls away softly. He watches as you mindlessly writhe out in front of him. He wishes, absently he could see you bare in front of him. In due time.
“That feels good, Pup?” He asks before giving a long suck, his teeth gentle and timidly scraping against your skin.
“Please, sir-” You gasp when you feel his tongue dip inside of you for the first time. “I’m going to cum- please!”
“Such a good puppy,” He mocks you, bringing his hand to circle your clit gently while he talks you through it. “Want to be my little pet? Hmm?”
You flood with ‘yes, please’ and ‘thank yous’, losing your mind with anticipation. Your whole body tense with the thought of almost there, almost there, almost there!
“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically, “You want this old man to own you?” He speeds up his hand before his other one can stop himself, he’s sliding up your shirt. You hardly think before you reach up to pull the hem up for him. It’s only seconds before he’s tugging your bra down to wrap his lips around your nipple.
“Yeah, Robby!” You buck against his fingers. His tongue swirls against your nipple and you think you might die. How this feeling could be wrong or bad, you had no memory. Everything was Robby’s eyes, Robby’s lips, Robby’s tongue, Robby’s hands, Robby’s mind, Robby’s words, Robby’s will.
You’d gladly heel to his control. He had your leash and you could feel hims start to tug.
“Who’s pussy is this?” He asks darkly before switching to the other breast before him.
“Yours Robby!” You squeal, and suddenly something bursts, his fingers speed up, his other hand pinches your nipple while he sucks. You inhale possibly the last breath you’ll ever take before everything unravels.
Robby pulls back from your chest, watching as you twitch, spasm, and wring your very first shared orgasm out. Your chest heaving, your mind spinning, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth dropped open.
He feels the gush of wetness release underneath his other hand, he revels in a slippery new sensation against your skin as he slows his pace. Your body is still twitching with pleasure.
He doesn’t pull his hand back right away, he just watches as you catch your breath. He waits for your body to come back to your mind even a little bit. Then, and only then, does he slip his fingers away and bring them up to his mouth.
“My pussy tastes so sweet.” He murmurs, savoring the sweetness against his tongue. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, sir” You finally open your eyes to see Robby practically undone against you. You hardly have a chance to think before he’s pulling you up against him for a kiss. You taste your spend against his lips and it’s intoxicating the way you dip your tongue in for more.
“You’re welcome, Baby.”
A/N: Hiii I hope you like this. I wanted to wait a little longer to post and then work got crazy so it had to delay even longer. LMK what you think!
HI SRY IF YOU READ RIGHT AWAY I DECIDED I DID WANT TO POST FULL SMUT SO IT'S UNEDITED BUT THERE!
Summary: What happens when an Emergency Attending in desperate need of control over his own life finds a sweet young thing that needs someone else to take hold of her leash?
Tags: F!Reader, Older Robby!/ Mid 20's! Reader, Suggestive Pup Dynamics, Inexperienced! Reader, Fluff, Angst if you really look for it, Smut, Oral (F! receiving), First time oral, titty sucking, dirty talk, Robby loves a nickname, & Robby is a secret perv but we knew this. First kiss.
A/N: First part, mostly introducing these guys but would like to get more into what freak shit they can do.
6.1K Words
Robby trickled into your life slowly, he saw you at the coffee place around the corner from your apartment. You saw him walking home from work. He helped you reach a box of cereal once in the grocery store. In turn, you ‘made too many cookies’ one evening and delivered them to the emergency room he worked at.
You were acquaintances that teetered into something more, and every moment lingered. Conversations were mostly polite, him talking about the weather, you asking about work. You met serendipitously each time, both of you letting the pauses drift in favor of polite goodbyes. It was all too intimate for strangers and too strange for anything more intimate.
He was old enough to be your father, but he didn’t seem to mind every time you ended up in his orbit. In fact, he spent most of your time together with a hungry look in his eye, trying to keep his eyes from lingering at the most intimate parts of you.
Your intentions were far more subtle. He was a handsome man, no one was denying that, and you had always wondered what it would be like to let someone take care of you like that. You liked him, he was always funny in a sarcastic way, but he never let you open the door for yourself. He was a gentleman like the men you grew up watching in movies. Or- that’s what you had thought at least.
The truth of the matter is that you had no experience falling in love. You had even less experience with lust. Growing up you were taught to wait, that your patience- virtuous and pious- would grant you something sweeter. You had hardly questioned the instinct to bury the feelings in favor of other’s approval.
Obedience was always something you had leant into. The relief of guidance and structure kept you upright. You’ve always been diligent and good. But now in a world where you’re considered an adult, and have every opportunity to make these choices for yourself everything feels much more overwhelming. You had every intention of being a well-adjusted successful social butterfly but you just had no idea how.
You had watched your friends in their own situations, watched them give in to their primal desires, and you watched in horror as their hearts broke. It was that bubbling humbling anxiety that kept you firmly rooted to your solitude.
There was little faith in your friend’s reassurances that one day you’d ‘find someone’. You had even less faith in the placating reminders that there is no right or wrong way to fall in love. Rationally, you understood this. Rationality had never been the issue, but the lingering pangs of longing fought against the brick walls you’d built yourself.
Robby was the first person you could possibly imagine letting yourself go for. No one had ever taken your breath away quite like he did, even from across the street on a springy Sunday morning. If he noticed your girlish babbling around him worsened, he never said anything.
You remember meeting him for the first time. A rainy afternoon in a packed coffee shop. It was one of those rain storms that started all at once, thunder clapped almost before the clouds deepened in color. An impossibly perfect seat tucked against the large bay window was secured. You had long since arrived, preferring to spend your afternoon cycling between watching the rain trickle against the glass and half-reading the book in front of you.
Your routine was interrupted by a polite apology.
“Is this seat taken?” The deep voice dripped with honey, the man dripping in rain. His old beat up hockey t-shirt and jeans betray his predicament. He quirks a polite smile, as he scratches the back of his neck. For the first time you notice the hoards of people who were slipping in for refuge against the storm.
“Yes,” You say moving your things off the table, “I mean no, it’s not taken, yes please sit.” You tuck stray items back into your purse.
“Thank you.” He sat in the plush leather armchair, setting down a large coffee and a well loved notebook. “It’s really busy here today.” Your eyes trailed his features greedily, lingering on the strong broad shoulders. Admiring the gray patches in his beard that made your heart skip a beat. You had to remind yourself to stay calm.
“Yeah,” You trail off watching him timidly, half hidden behind the paperback. “I didn’t think it was going to rain.” You admit.
“Same here.” And conversation was light from there. You hadn’t learned much from him, just that he was an emergency medicine doctor at the hospital around the corner, that he hadn’t remembered his umbrella, and his name was Robby. For your part he learned little about you, just your job and how you’d never met a doctor that wasn’t yours.
It was such a shame that when the rain started to peter out he slipped away with a simple, “Hope I see you around again, Kid.” As if he hadn’t threatened your cocoon of safe indifference entirely by existing.
It was embarrassing how much you already liked him. Had you liked him any less you probably would’ve run for the hills when months of unplanned meetings later he finally did ask you to come to his place for dinner.
Robby was this mythic man in your eyes, he was a doctor which was as impressive as it was hot, but he wasn’t cocky or condescending. He always looked you in the eye, like he was catching you in the middle of something bad. He always smelled like musky cologne, even when you can also smell the antiseptic hospital on top of it. He never seemed to mind that you could hardly string two complete sentences in front of him.
He was exactly the kind of person you’d wished for in every wishing well as a kid.
It’s just that, you were sure he didn’t think very much of you. He clearly liked you somewhat, he wouldn’t ask you over if he didn’t, but you were sure he didn’t feel so intensely the way you did. You couldn’t imagine him staying up late, wondering if you had gone to bed already or if you were up reading some new book. Nor could you imagine him daydreaming between cases at the hospital the way you did at work.
The floaty dreamy feeling of the fantasy of him seemed to keep you tethered, and the creeping sense that you were far too attached far too soon kept you alert. All the feelings jumbled into a mess leaving you feeling like a puppy tied up outside, waiting for their owner to come pat their head and take them home.
You had agreed to dinner easily, and it was easy! It was easy until you had to pick out the right outfit. One that conveyed your personality, looked nice, but still didn’t suggest something more than you were willing to do. Your years of balancing this obedience and coy shyness reared its head until you were half-buried in your closet.
It was easy until you were walking the steps leading to his townhouse, just two blocks away from your apartment. Easy- until you realized you were definitely still eagerly early.
So you stood on his stoop, waiting, trying to not look too desperate. Checking your phone constantly, you felt the ripping anxiety shooting through your body with every breath. You could hear him on the other side of the door, distantly. So you stood and waited, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths.
“I don’t want to scare you, but you can knock.” The familiar voice on the other side of the old wooden door spoke. You jumped, but before you had a chance to knock, he pulled the door open.
Deep, hot, embarrassment swirled in your stomach as you peeked up at him. A meek expression surely, but he paid no mind. He simply ushered you inside, closing the door softly behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, “I got here way earlier than I thought I would, and then I didn’t want to be rude so I wanted to wait-” he laughed at your rambles, a dark deep rumble that settled in his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here early, I was starting to get antsy.” Your body stops its frantic movements. Robby, capable steady Robby, was starting to get restless at your arrival. His voice moved behind you until it was directly behind you, his expansive chest pressing against your back.
You didn’t dare turn your head, knowing he was waiting for permission to invade your space. He was patient but he knew he didn’t need many tricks, not when you were so frantic for his approval. You wondered somewhere in the back of your mind, could he tell what a short leash he had you on?
“Should’ve let me know when you got here, Puppy.” Oh. Oh.
The evening from that point was simple. Once your brain started back up, your timid response only made him laugh.
He was cooking some pasta dish on the stovetop, an old vinyl record was playing from the living room, but it served more as reassuring filler than anything to actually remember. He was a lovely host too, he pulled your seat at the table out before you sat. He showered you with attentive questions.
“Would you like something to drink? I have a Wine Cellar downstairs.” He says with nonchalance, like that would be something anyone would just have. His smirk gives away the brag, he can’t help but puff his chest out at the accomplishment.
It’s a subtle reminder that Robby has money. Robby can take care of you. Robby wants to impress you.
“I could let you pick out a bottle.” He offers, leaning casually against the counter.
“You don’t have to do that.” You murmur quietly. “I don’t know that much about wine, actually.” You admit. “Your pick, I trust your opinion.”
He can hardly conceal the way the sentence punches the air from his lungs. “My pick then, baby.” He reaches across to his fridge where he has a bottle chilling. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” He answers confidently, as he pulls a cork from the bottle easily. “Just keep sitting there and looking pretty for me.” Your skin burns under his gaze, not sure how to signal him you’d give him anything he wanted if he just asked.
“Are you sure, Robby?” You ask, eyes rounded out. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything.”
“I want to, baby, I promise.” He pours you a glass and delivers it to you at the table. “Relax, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thank you.” You smile up at him sweetly, and he has to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid getting hard right there.
“How was your week?” He calls out, mixing together the last few ingredients over the stove. “Did you ever figure out what happened to the package that went missing?”
The conversation flowed easily, despite your anxiety Robby was adaptable and quick to fill in any lulls in conversation. He always remembered little bits from previous conversations to discuss. He never talked about himself for too long, but he wasn’t obtuse about it. He offered small stories here and there, but he was an expert of deflection.
Time passed easily while he finished his work, you hardly noticed time passing as you sipped the wine and chattered on. It wasn’t until the plate of food was brought over that you realized you’d been talking for the better part of half an hour.
“It looks really good Robby.” Your cheeks burned.
“Thank you.” He took his place across from you. “I hope you like it, I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, he always made you feel so special.
“Dig in pretty.” is said simply, no thought for what the nickname did to you.
Dinner moves as easily as it could. It was remarkable how he handled you, with complete understanding and absolutely no hesitation. He knew how nervous you were, he knew you felt on edge about being in his space, and he hadn’t given you the space to linger in it.
“So, what did you want to do after dinner?”
“What do you want to do?” He rebuttals swirling the crimson liquid around the bulbous glass. When he takes a sip he watches you, just over the rim, carefully.
You squirm, not unlike a child under the watchful gaze of an adult, not sure how to move or sit. Before you knew he was single you had kinda assumed Robby to be with someone a little more his speed. To have some elegant intelligent thing that doesn’t dangle off his arm awkwardly. Someone who knew what he meant when he talked about medical cases, or could at least understand the nuances of his adulthood.
You still felt a little overgrown and underripe for the picking. Robby didn’t seem to mind either way, always coming back for another taste.
Picking at the seam of your skirt you offered a juvenile solution, “Maybe we could watch a movie?” You half shrugged expecting him to laugh or maybe scoff at the idea of something like that. That he would maybe prefer more stimulating company.
But he didn’t, his face lit up again, simply. Nodding before setting his glass down, making no move to stand just yet. “Anything in particular?”
The movie title that tumbles through your lips is neither sophisticated nor popular. It was honestly the last movie your friends had mentioned in passing, one you had missed in favor of work. You don’t remember why you wanted to see it in the first place, maybe it had an actor you liked, or the director sounded familiar. Either way, Robby was nonplussed and eager to please.
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart.” Your heart flipped, he stood and offered his hand to you. You take it, the calloused skin skimming against your own. He hardly thinks twice before dipping his head to press a short sweet kiss to the back of your wrist.
“Go get cozy, I’ll join you in a sec.” And there’s no room for argument. Ever the obedient puppy you trot to the couch and sit without so much as a word.
Sitting pressed against him in the dim light of his living room was a test of strengths. Strength of willpower, yes, but also your cardiovascular health. The blood pumping through your system never slowed. The jackrabbit pace kept it’s intensity well into the first thirty minutes.
You hoped he couldn’t tell, despite the warm strong thigh pressed against your own, and the teasing presence of his arm wrapped behind you on the back of his couch. You could feel his breath, steady and calm, against your shoulder when his eyes flipped to your face. He seemed intent on gauging your reaction.
And it seemed to become an impossible task to act normally under his watchful eye.
“Have you seen this before?” He asked quietly, but the volume still startled you. You shake your head no.
“All my friends really like it,” He diverted his entire attention away from the screen. He’s devotional like that really, he isn’t one to be lost when something is in front of him. It could be something he’s picked up as his years in the ED grow, but it seems like such a distinctly Robby quality. He doesn’t ever do things by halves. “I- um - I never saw it in theatres or anything. After that I felt like I kinda missed my chance to watch it.”
He doesn’t offer a response farther than a noncommittal hum of approval. His hand, the one wrapped around the couch behind your head, answers for him. The slow presence of his arm leaves goosebumps against your skin as his fingertips skim lightly against your shoulder. He fiddles with the hem of your sleeve, his gaze slipping further down, before snapping back up to your face with a sweet smile.
“I’m glad you’re watching it then,” he dips his head slightly until he has to look up at you from beneath his eyelashes, “I hope you’re enjoying it.” And you are, but you don’t know how to express the real weight of your delight.
His hand slips until his palm runs down your upper arm, tugging you closer into the crook of his shoulder. You follow until your head rests against his chest. From here you can feel the wiry brush of his beard against your head, you can feel the solid muscle rise below your ear, you can see the way his hips angle perfectly in sight. Just enough to tempt you, to show you what you could be doing, enough to wonder if this was a suggestion or if he was genuinely enjoying the feeling of closeness.
These feelings bundle up in your chest, the thoughts moving a million miles an hour, and your hands start to twitch.
“Robby?” You peer up at him.
“Hm?” His answer is passive, but his hand travels further down, using his newfound leverage to roam your side. The touch is innocent enough, he certainly didn’t go straight for the areas of yourself you’d expected a man to gravitate towards. He was enjoying the time spent just stroking along the lines of your silhouette.
It was hard to understand what he was getting from this. You’d never really heard that guys liked things like this. Most of the stories your friends shared they had to practically beg their boyfriends to cuddle. Now you were cuddling on the first date, which you still weren’t sure if it was surely a date, with a man you’d been pining after for months. You’d half-expected him to tug you into his lap and stick his tongue down your throat, but when he didn’t it left you a mixture of confusion and relief.
It crosses your mind that you should just ask if he wanted to be with you like that. It also crosses your mind that you’d never be able to work the courage to ask Robby something that brazen out of nowhere. Who were you to ruin the nice evening by making it something unnecessarily sexual?
On the other hand, his touch certainly carried the weight of his intentions.
“Are you enjoying the movie?” You chicken out, changing the subject entirely.
“I’ll be honest, Puppy,” he chuckled, letting the vibrations travel against your neck and head. “I’m a little more occupied with something else.”
His hand stopped at your waist, settling protectively across your midsection. Heat flipped against your ribcage as your heart danced with searing speed.
“Oh?” Your voice squeaked out. “What are you thinking about?”
You don’t mean to sound so small, and you don’t really even mean to act so naive. The feeling that Robby gives you just makes you feel like you’re a girl again. You’re not sure if it’s his age, or the way he carries himself, but he brings out an innocent edge you’ve been trying to hide for years. You need his reassurance, his validation, to move forward. You need his guiding instruction.
The effect is felt with a low grumbling sound, escaping his throat, almost animalistic in nature.
“Thinking about you.” He flexes his hand, squeezing the meat of your torso. Your mouth drops open in shock before you shift to face him.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask again, this time you can see the way his eyes are lidded and dark. You can see the slight flush of blood rushing beneath his cheeks, and the way his teeth catch his lower lip without realizing. You watch him, like a subtle movement might give away his secret, like a deer waiting for danger to strike.
“Can I kiss you?” is said simply, his head moving in before the question is really asked. Stopping though, just far enough away that you’ll miss him if you pull back. Waiting, patiently, for the permission only you can grant.
You nod your head, but steady your hand against the base of his throat gently. Not as a gesture of power but as a plea for patience. He brings his hand over to steady yours, keeping his eyes locked to your own.
“Robby I-” He leans in closer, his hand twisting his fingers around yours, “I’ve never really done this before.”
His nose brushes against yours slowly.
“Done what?” You can feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Been with a man?” It would’ve been condescending if it were anyone but him.
“Kissed anyone.” You rush out, feeling white hot shame rip through you at the implication. Your shoulders drop and curl in. You turn your head away, not wanting him to catch sight of your own embarrassment.
In his defense, this does seem to catch him off guard somewhat. His hand going slack around your own, letting you escape from his grasp for a moment. The air was far cooler now that there was distance again, letting him feel the stark absence of your warmth.
He doesn’t react for a moment, and in your haze you feel the full weight of the silence. The confession was bitter, and you were hoping he would ease the pain by taking it away. Now though, in the moment of stillness you feel like every buried moment of shame is rising up your throat. Blood starts to rush through your ears and your eyes burn with unshed tears.
Of course you messed it up. You completely ruined the mood. He’s going to be so embarrassed.
You hardly squeeze out the breathless apology around the lump that digs into your throat. It’s not until you start to lean back and away from him that Robby seems to snap back into himself.
To be fair, he hadn’t expected you to be overly experienced, not in the way you’d carried yourself, or the skittish way you shifted around him. Hearing you had no experience was equal parts shocking and exhilarating. It was more of a confirmation of his newfound development brewing inside him. How he had never considered himself perverse until now.
He relished the momentary lapse of thought, imagining you spread open in front of him, knowing he would be your first. Possibly your only if he played his cards right. Peeling you back layer by layer until you’re just his. A little pup, eager and innocent, trained just for him, just for his pleasure. Closing his eyes, he let the lust consume him.
He hardly noticed the wilt in your demeanor until it was almost too late.
“Woah, woah, woah,” He sat up, chasing after your fleeting figure, “what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, not wanting to look down at him, not wanting to see the disappointment you surely expected there. You couldn’t stand to see it happen in front of you like that.
“Puppy, talk to me,” He murmured, bringing his hands to either side of your head until he could face you head on. “Am I moving too fast?”
And suddenly the floodgates burst, the trickle of tears tethered over the edge of your waterline, and your body shook with unshed emotion. Robby, for his part, dutifully waited, wiping away tears and tucking your hair behind your ears.
“It’s just-” you break off suddenly, almost frantic with energy and frustration, “I’m so embarrassed!” He doesn’t say anything, but he offers a sympathetic quirk of his lips. It treaded a fine line between empathy and mockery, but again it was something he wore well. “I’m fully an adult, and I have a job, and lots of friends, and a life, and-” you shudder out a deep breath.
“And- and-” You can’t stop the whine that builds in your chest, “And I just want someone to love me!” You blurt.
It could’ve been so pathetic, it probably was in some omnipresent view, but to Robby it was sinfully delightful. Here was his girl, the woman he’d been lusting over, pathetic and desperate in his lap just asking for him to love her. He could do that, he could definitely do that.
“Let me,” He murmurs into your hair when he presses sweet chaste kisses to your hairline. “Let me.” He murmurs again, catching the erotic sight of you half dazed, half crying, looking up at him. You suddenly have nothing to say again, so you settle with an obedient nod of approval. That’s all Robby needs before his lips are pressed against yours.
You’d imagined this moment before. Not this moment in specifics, but you had imagined the way everyone does. How it would feel to be pulled against someone in a fit of passion. How they might look or smell or touch. If they would be tender and sweet, like a nostalgic memory of playground love. Or perhaps something heady and twisted in some dank dark bar pressed against each other messily.
Robby was all these things and none of them all at once. His beard added a contrast your imagination couldn’t have conjured. The coarse hair was a reminder of the fact you weren’t a child having a clumsy kiss after homeroom. This was a man, a successful handsome man who wanted to kiss you. He was warmer than you imagined. His skin was molten against yours.
His lips were buttery soft against yours. The shock of being kissed lingered but Robby’s skill seemed to recover for the both of you. His hands steady against your head, angling you just the way you needed to be. His lust remained chaste with intention, until he pulled away to watch you take deep breaths. Your chest rises shakily.
“How was that? Good, hmm?” He pressed another kiss to your lips in small bursts, overwhelming your senses.
“Mmmm-” Your voice was high pitched and pathetic, “S’good.” The blood in your body coursed through rapidly leaving a dizzy float behind in its wake. He pressed another kiss to your lips. “Really good Robby.”
His eyes crinkled affectionately taking in your love-drunk appearance.
“M’glad.” he tugged you closer, pulling you into him.
“I don’t know how to be good for you.” you whispered into the peaceful pocket he created.
“Puppy,” he pulled you until you straddled his thighs, “You’re already so good.”
The euphoria that burst through you was enough to bolster the confidence you needed to surge up and connect your lips back to his, this time neither one of you held back.
Robby was perfectly attuned to what your body was calling out for. He was an answer to the hushed prayers of your youth. His mouth parted, and yours with it until you felt the velvet caress of his tongue against yours.
It was relatively tame, but it left you feeling breathless and wound up. His hands drifted to your hips where they squeezed and kneaded your flesh delightfully. He restrained himself from drifting further, but allowed himself the dalliance of feeling your response against him.
You had a harder time with your composure. Gasps of surprise and hums of pleasure seemed hellbent on making themself known. You could hardly control the way you responded to his expertise. Your back arched until your chest pressed against him, your hands roamed freely between his biceps and the back of his neck. Desperation climbing up your spine until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please-” his mouth tumbles down until he’s sucking gently against your neck, “Robby! Oh my god-” You feel like you might die, the blood that blooms under his touch burns delightfully.
“Use your words Puppy, what do you need?” He taunts before scraping his teeth across the newly minted mark.
“Touch me?” You offer meekly, your hips begin to chase something underneath you that leaves you only wanting more.
“Is that a question?” He stabilizes your rhythm, dragging you back and forth against his growing erection.
“Touch-” He slows you down even further until you can barely feel the friction from before, just the effect you have over him in return. The words die in your mouth.
“What do you want?” He asks seriously, meeting your eyes again.
“I don’t know.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m not- I don’t think-” You grunt at your own insufficiencies. Why couldn’t you just be normal about this? Why does everything have to feel so much harder than it needs to be?
“I don’t think we should have sex tonight.” It's a relief as much as it is a disappointment coming from his mouth. Part of you wishes he would just rip the bandaid off and take you, but the larger more rational part relaxes. Robby isn’t one to mince his words.
“Right.” You don’t mean to sound so disappointed. You don’t mean to feel the pang deep inside like you had somehow let him down. Despite the overwhelming relief you wonder if this could truly be something that he’d be satisfied with.
“C’mon, don’t pout.” He tucks your mussed hair back in his large hand. “Just because we aren’t having sex doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”
Curiosity strikes like electricity through your veins, igniting the flame that had burned through you just minutes before. A surge of passion that was built brick by brick, moment by moment restored with a simple sentence.
“Let me touch you?” It's a question this time, a question of yes or no but also a how and where. You guide him the best way you can in your own limitations.
“Will it be good for you too?”
“Of course it will be, it’s you.” And in one swoop Robby quelled your fears before his hand tucked itself under your skirt and into your panties to quell another part of you entirely.
"You're my Puppy." He whispered just before you felt his fingertips glide over your clit and your eyes roll back in your head.
The first pass over the bundle is borderline experimental. He’s hesitant, you can feel his eyes boring down on you. The heat alone from his attention courses through your veins. Still, through the hesitance, you know the rough calloused pads of his fingers are incomparably better than anything you’d been able to achieve yourself.
“Robby-” You mewl, your hand moving to wrap around his forearm for leverage. You lift your hips slightly, running from the blind pleasure that was possible from him. “I- I’m-” Your thighs shake in anticipation.
Robby takes the opportunity, sliding his hand around your back until it hugs you completely, chest pressed to his. You furrow your eyebrows, ready to question him, but before you can he maneuvers you so your back is settled against the cold leather of his couch. Robby’s wide frame surrounding you, until all you can think about is him.
His hands make quick work slipping your painties off before you can even think about it. He makes a big show once they’re untangled from you, meeting your lidded eyes as he brings them up and takes a long sniff.
The noise that escapes you is something you’d never heard from yourself, you had no idea you were capable of this. Robby let the sound settle over him like a grounding chill, especially as your legs flop open desperately in front of him.
“So pretty for me.” He compliments. “Smell so good, so sweet.” He cants back until he’s sliding up your legs. The short skirt rides up as his hands glide along the outside of his thighs until he’s sitting between them comfortably face to face with your pussy.
“Robby-” You try to close your legs, shy from the front row seat he has to your most intimate place.
“Ah-” He tuts, taking hold of your thighs, pressing teasing kisses to both. “If you want me to stop, then say so.” He waits. When you don’t respond he continues his pathway. “Good pup.”
His lips get closer, he switches legs. His hands are grounding, but the closer he gets to your center the less you can think properly. You wish you could sear this view into your mind forever, but at the same time you can’t bring yourself to watch. The conflicting feelings rage within you, and Robby, like some psychic, seems to understand perfectly.
“I’m going to eat you out,” he explains softly, “Is that ok?”
You nod quickly, reaching out until your hands cover his for reassurance.
“Will you use your words Puppy?” A chill zips down your spine at the name, you have to bite your tongue to stop from letting an obscene moan through your lips.
“Yes, sir.” You manage. It’s euphoric watching the words rush over Robby’s controlled demeanor. His head drops into the crook of your thigh, and you feel his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You yelp out in surprise, and when you see his eyes again they have to be two shades darker than before.
“Say it again,” he commands. “Call me that again, and I’ll make you Cum, Puppy.”
You fidget, feeling the odd sensation of want bubbling against the fire of arousal. You could feel your mind floating away, the parts of you that were cynical and objective gave way under Robby’s watchful eye.
“Please, sir!” You mewl out. “Please!”
You can hardly get the last word out before his lips wrap around your clit. The feeling, somehow infinitely better than his fingers, is unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Your head flew back onto the couch, your spine curved, and your hands blindly reached for his head. Desperate to chase this feeling for the rest of your life, you hardly seem concerned with the sounds coming from you.
All you know now is the alternating feeling of Robby’s sucks and soft licks as he explores the planes of your nerve endings. He’s expert in the way he can recognize each push and pull of your pleasure seemingly before you can. He watches you through his hooded eyes and chase his pleasure through him.
He caresses you with his tongue, the coil in your belly starting to wind to the point of insanity, then he pulls away softly. He watches as you mindlessly writhe out in front of him. He wishes, absently he could see you bare in front of him. In due time.
“That feels good, Pup?” He asks before giving a long suck, his teeth gentle and timidly scraping against your skin.
“Please, sir-” You gasp when you feel his tongue dip inside of you for the first time. “I’m going to cum- please!”
“Such a good puppy,” He mocks you, bringing his hand to circle your clit gently while he talks you through it. “Want to be my little pet? Hmm?”
You flood with ‘yes, please’ and ‘thank yous’, losing your mind with anticipation. Your whole body tense with the thought of almost there, almost there, almost there!
“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically, “You want this old man to own you?” He speeds up his hand before his other one can stop himself, he’s sliding up your shirt. You hardly think before you reach up to pull the hem up for him. It’s only seconds before he’s tugging your bra down to wrap his lips around your nipple.
“Yeah, Robby!” You buck against his fingers. His tongue swirls against your nipple and you think you might die. How this feeling could be wrong or bad, you had no memory. Everything was Robby’s eyes, Robby’s lips, Robby’s tongue, Robby’s hands, Robby’s mind, Robby’s words, Robby’s will.
You’d gladly heel to his control. He had your leash and you could feel hims start to tug.
“Whose pussy is this?” He asks darkly before switching to the other breast before him.
“Yours Robby!” You squeal, and suddenly something bursts, his fingers speed up, his other hand pinches your nipple while he sucks. You inhale possibly the last breath you’ll ever take before everything unravels.
Robby pulls back from your chest, watching as you twitch, spasm, and wring your very first shared orgasm out. Your chest heaving, your mind spinning, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth dropped open.
He feels the gush of wetness release underneath his other hand, he revels in a slippery new sensation against your skin as he slows his pace. Your body is still twitching with pleasure.
He doesn’t pull his hand back right away, he just watches as you catch your breath. He waits for your body to come back to your mind even a little bit. Then, and only then, does he slip his fingers away and bring them up to his mouth.
“My pussy tastes so sweet.” He murmurs, savoring the sweetness against his tongue. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, sir” You finally open your eyes to see Robby practically undone against you. You hardly have a chance to think before he’s pulling you up against him for a kiss. You taste your spend against his lips and it’s intoxicating the way you dip your tongue in for more.
“You’re welcome, Baby.”
A/N: Hiii I hope you like this. I wanted to wait a little longer to post and then work got crazy so it had to delay even longer. LMK what you think!
HI SRY IF YOU READ RIGHT AWAY I DECIDED I DID WANT TO POST FULL SMUT SO IT'S UNEDITED BUT THERE!
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