Summary: You were just an underling at the GDA. Someone who filed reports, stayed out of the way, and went home when told. When Conquest stopped mid-flight, no one questioned it. You did. A man that size should be easy to find-But it's too late when you realize he's already in your home.
★★★★★
Going to sleep was hard.
Tossing and turning, flipping and fluffing your pillow.
You would think that with how tense your muscles were with Conquest around, your body would just drop, but no. At the end, sleep evaded you. The sun rose, and you had to get ready for work.
In the mirror, your eyes were red. It was like you aged ten years in a single night. Skin around your nose was congested. You swallowed, and your mouth tasted sour.
You figured time was not on your side, and it was gonna take a lot of work to get you looking somewhat passable.
In a hurry, you did your hair, washed your face, and moisturized with a gallon tub of cream.
Satisfied you looked somewhat presentable, you stepped out of the bathroom to your living room, ready to confirm last night and maybe face the fact that you're fucked, life sucks, and you have been visited by a living, breathing atomic bomb.
In the living room, you looked around. There was no crater-like dent in the couch. There was no slightly ajar door, and there was no sound of air wooshing through an open window.
Like having an alien abduction.
Did that shit really happen?
The Pentagon was still going crazy.
It was like when you used to work in fast food, and the rush of customers made service sloppy, leading your coworkers to ignore the smaller things.
At the end of the day, nothing changed; you were never given the time of day.
—--------
It eats at you. Makes your chest hurt.
Every light was green as you headed home, like the universe was serving you up on a platter. You actually wished there was some traffic. What if you were wrong? What if last night was actually real, and Conquest was gonna kill you at a place you thought was safe?
You expected something. After all that, the boogeyman did say he would be back.
But there was nothing. You checked everywhere.
You can’t help but think he was watching you sometimes. While washing the dishes, you poked your head up to the sky. Clear.
You liked keeping the windows open; there were no neighbors, but it made you paranoid. You shut the blinds. Double checked the windows. Attached a chair to the door as a stopper. Threw flour on the floor. Realized that was dumb; that thing could fly. Instead, you strung threading wire in and around your house. Kept the lights on in every room. Put a large knife under your pillow. Set an alarm to ring every two hours and repeated your mission. Looked around the house again while carrying said knife. Researched defensive attacks for enemies online. Ran drills on where to run and where to hide. Last resort, ran the numbers on how long it would take to call the GDA to your place. This was every day for a week straight; the only real vacation was work.
In the second week, morale died off, and you, too, were getting tired. You stayed late at the headquarters not because you wanted to get a promotion, but to spy on your coworkers, maybe they knew something you didn’t. They talked about sending choppers to areas of interest, and you swerved your car to the side when city helicopters whirled above.
You can’t eat. You spent your paycheck on over $2,000 worth of motion detector cameras with 360-degree motion, HD video, 2-way audio, and infrared night vision.
Maybe you were going overboard. It was tough, meticulously going frame by frame on a one-minute video of a civilian captured during the Conquest fight, only to realize the camera was pointed in the wrong direction. The only information you gathered was that the cameraman had poor eyesight.
You rationalized that it really was stress. It was getting to you. It was an open secret that talking to work therapists in the GDA meant your job was as good as gone, so no, you weren’t gonna risk it.
—-----------------
Work was starting to go back to normal. A small dedicated team was left to Conquest’s whereabouts, and you were back to dispatching heroes.
You spent your lunch with your associates. Money was tight, and you stole a few pinches from their plate.
You stopped hesitating about inserting the key into the knob of your home.
When you opened your door, you didn’t stand by ready to run at any sound. You swung it open and tossed off your shoes and clothes.
You were worried you would have another stress-induced hallucination, so you took it upon yourself to relax. You actually started cooking more home-cooked meals. Took the time to sit down at the table. Even started considering getting a gym membership.
It didn’t mean you stopped being aware; you still checked the locks before bed. But for now, you were starting to get hopeful. Life, at least at home, was somewhat serene. Besides, all those stupid cameras did was capture a squirrel getting run over on the other side of the street.
To clear your head, you put on some music. Loud, contagious. The salad on the island needed more dressing.
You swished your body around, twirling toward your fridge.
Kneeling down, you scavenged. Ranch? No. Ceasar. Proud of your choice, you stood up and lost all feeling in your fingers. Sauce plopped and exploded. A single drop landed on white boots.
Your gaze climbed upwards. Prickly heat like a thousand tiny needles scattered over your cheeks.
Right in front of you stood Conquest.
You stopped breathing.
No.
No, it can’t be, he’s not supposed to be real. He’s not supposed to be here.
The more mass an object has, the harder it is to stop its motion. Ask yourself how someone like Conquest was able to move across your living room to your face.
With one hand, your cheek was in his palm. He tilted your head upward. You were face-to-face with what you thought was a manifestation of your anxiety.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” you said, gasping as the hand around your jaw tightened. “I never told anyone, I promise,” you repeated, your face remained squeezed by Conquest; the pressure from his hand was increasing. He’d pop your head like a grape, splatter the juices around.
He squinted. “I believe you. Else I would've had a worthy fight.”
He stilled. “Fascinating how long it takes your blood to calm.”
He lowered himself to your head, mustache brushing over the tips of your ears before sinking to your neck.
Your heart battered against your ribs. Eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Lifted inches off the ground, you hovered and realized you were flying.
He lowered to the floor far more gently than expected. It's almost too delicate, as if he were aware of how weak you were.
Music rolled on. Some ridiculous ad featuring car insurance played.
The floor was hard and cold; it stung where your shirt had risen. Your hands tingled as they traced the ridges in the vinyl floor.
Limp legs were pried apart. Your panties ripped like tissue. You focused on your breathing.
At first, you didn’t react to what he was doing; you could feel it, but you didn’t dare look down and confirm what you suspected. It's fear that allowed you to ignore the sensation.
“I don’t have much experience in this. Most of the time, this sort of thing is solely about procreation. Sad, I wasn’t sent to this planet for that purpose.”
Knees on either side of your legs.
Both his enormous hands engulfed your waist, splaying out on the bare skin below your rib cage.
They stayed there for a moment before rolling down over to the curves of your hips.
Pausing, one hand rested on your hip, and the other trailed down toward the middle of your thighs.
The lower his hands slid, the more you could feel his warm breath venting against your neck.
You kept your eyes up, searching for irregularities on the ceiling. You were doing everything you could to not remind him that you were a living being. You wanted him to think of a toy. Grow bored with your existence.
You felt it then, a prod below. Two fingers pressed at your entrance. The other hand remained at your hip. He didn’t force himself in; he lingered, waiting for your body to respond. Then he ran it down your slit. It made your stomach clench.
Leaning his weight further on your chest, his mustache pressed against your collarbone. He mumbled straight through your breastbone, but you didn’t know what he said.
His thumb found your clit, grazing over it, running down the slit, and back up again.
He applied pressure. Sluggishly dragging the pad of his thumb over the bud. Despite the fear, your body betrayed you, slicking against his thumb. Your anatomy’s way to protect you from the roughness.
You wished he had finished, but he didn't remind you of a sex-crazed individual consumed with lust. There was no fight in you either, no way for him to fulfill some sick power fantasy. If he wanted power, he got it in the fight with Mark. This was something different. It felt like he was running a checklist.
Conquest hummed against your chest. You listened to the smacking of his digits on your skin, gathering the slickness. He spread two thick fingers and inserted, but not too much. It was massive, stretching. He held them inside you, turning his wrist to map you internally.
After aimlessly rubbing and touching, it was getting to be too much. He found that you reacted more when his thumb landed on your clit. Your hips involuntarily buckled and twitched.
You closed your eyes when it came. He didn’t increase his speed. He anchored over your swollen clit, the other hand clipped to your pelvis. Muscles contracted, a gasp tore out, spine arched, and your thighs trembled. For a few seconds, horror turned to an explosion from your nervous system.
When you opened your eyes, you felt light. Nothing to fasten you to the ground, you finally looked down. Conquest once again was gone, but this time you knew he was here, for the floor beneath you was lubricated.
Summary: You were just an underling at the GDA. Someone who filed reports, stayed out of the way, and went home when told. When Conquest stopped mid-flight, no one questioned it. You did. A man that size should be easy to find-But it's too late when you realize he's already in your home.
★★★★★
The ground was shaking. Miniature earthquakes kicked up specks of concrete.
Conquest was winning. Mark and he were launching each other into buildings, well, it was mainly Conquest fulfilling this task. It was like watching fireworks. Nice from a distance, but you never wanted to be too close, and you never wanted to be the one holding the pyrotechnics when the flame reached the fuse. So, was there any wonder why you were internally screaming, "Hurry up and get me out of here"?
Why’d the higher-ups have to send you into the battle? Not like you were much of a trooper. But here you were decked out in layers of synthetic Kevlar fibers, hands shaking as the tips of your fingers typed away on your electronic tablet, stopping when sounds of explosions quelled.
You looked up. Head swiveling side to side. Eyes scanned over the prettiest shade of blue. It was a beautiful day.
It wasn’t good for the wrangle to hush. It just meant that the fighting bodies were traveling.
Your job should have guaranteed you a nice spinny chair, coffee, and watercooler talk, but no. You're just a simple underling reporting on and dispatching heroes to fight or help any remaining civilians.
In your ear, “manage the scene near Omni Kid” sounded out, and you were teleported near the child, Oliver, you believed. The kid looked bad. Real bad. Your eyebrows scrunched up, and your mouth twisted, and right before you could give your condolences, the director appeared in the corner of your eye.
In a crisp blue suit, and brow cocked up, he yelled to the men in his ear, asking if anyone or anything was ready to be scrapped together.
As the medics prepared Oliver, it was as if everyone, in that moment, gained a sixth sense.
This large meatball of pure muscle managed to evade Cecil’s orbital sensors, but it couldn’t avoid detection from those on the ground.
Only a few feet away lay the absolute perfect killing machine. A cosmic butcher. With its singular beady eye hidden beneath its lowered lid, its face was blank. It skimmed over each face, and your heart began to thrum. Only Conquest’s own weighty breaths were audible.
Suddenly, its symbolic upper hair twisted upwards. Its mouth opened, revealing a mashing of teeth. The goliath had found prey.
Your vision blurred, and your feet felt light. Its gaze was fixed directly on you.
—------
“Lost him?! How can we lose someone like that…FUCK.” Cecil’s fist slammed on a desk.
As abruptly as Conquest materialized, he evaporated. Windows shattered as Conquest blasted through the air, and hands shot to cover your eyes. All in the ‘safety’ of the indoors, you were left to watch the rest of the fight onscreen.
A bizarre report then traveled a few minutes after. At the request of Invincible, left in a bloody puddle, a truce or something more ominous was agreed. All that beast said in response was “I'll let you rest, but I expect a better fight soon,” as he projected through the sky.
The Pentagon frenzied.
You, on the other hand, tried to keep your cool. You were hallucinating, yes, that was it. Surely your eyes were starting to fail.
For once, you were grateful for your bottom-tier position. This time, it was the higher-ups scrambling to locate enemy number one. As the clock neared quitting time, you robotically gathered your uneaten lunch and headed home.
You don’t remember entering your car, buckling in, or driving as far as you did, just the squeezing on the steering wheel.
Eyes roamed as you arrived in the suburbs. Only affordable because the area was still under development, most houses were skeletons. No neighbors.
Getting out of your car, you rummaged in your bag for your keys. Grunting as you reached the bottom of the bag and sighing as you finally entered the key in the knob.
Like steam, the stress of your job rose above your shoulders.
Your home looked dark even when you went to turn on the lights. The shadows were too long.
You sluggishly get out your work clothes and shower. Rubbing the suds in your hair, all you think of is what happened out in the field, how scared you were. You blinked and rubbed your eyes. You were finally out with a long shirt and pajama bottoms.
You get out to the kitchen and shimmy around trying to find something good to eat in your nearly empty refrigerator. After considering a browning salad bag, you opted to get a metal spoon and a tub of half eaten icecream.
Grabbing the remote and plopping down on your couch, you scrolled endlessly on your chosen streaming service and finally decided that, since your ice cream was starting to melt, you would watch a lazy reality show.
Spoon dangling from your mouth and finally resting your head back on the couch, your eye noticed movement.
There, sitting down beside you, almost floating, not even causing an indent, sat the most wanted man on earth. The man who had beaten Invincible into a red pulp. Conquest.
The spoon dropped with a clank, and when it fell, the whole house quieted save for the dramatic music emitting from a tense moment onscreen. That scar looked deeper in his skull, and the metal from his fake arm shimmered on.
Mouth agape, you could not speak. You wished you had just jumped up from your place, but your heart grew heavy and shackled you down.
You don’t move. Eyes stayed glued to a corner of the floor. Had it always looked that uneven?
How easy it was for him to drag Invincible’s body through a city and cause that much destruction.
Your thighs tighten as he moves closer to you. His breath doesn’t feel heavy or grunting, more like a trained dancer, graceful and light. It’s actually starting to make sense as to why he was never detected when he entered Earth’s atmosphere.
Everything freezes. Maybe he’ll grow bored and leave. Or maybe he’ll give you a fast death. Please don’t drag it out.
You think it worked.
He lets out a sigh.
With his good hand, he touches your bicep. The tips of it grazed over whatever hair remained there, dragging down to your forearms.
A normal response to such stimuli would be to shiver, but your body locked up tighter, turning you into a living marble.
“Even your breathing is different. Unique. No creature on Viltrum compares. I'm starting to realize why that worm was so sentimental.”
He grasps under your armpits, pulling you in the middle of his lap.
You were never much of a fighter, even if all GDA agents were required to attend a yearly seminar.
With your back to his chest and his rib cage rising, the TV in front of you is clearer to see and blurrier. The voices drone on.
“Look at me,” you aren't given much time to fulfill his request before he grabs the bottom of your chin.
Facing him on the monitors is different from seeing him in person. Every pore, the white from his eye, that scar across his face is magnified.
His mustache twitches upwards.
“You're different from the Viltrumite women.” he drops his smile, and you wish it weren’t so abrupt. “Soft?”
He slides his arm across your stomach, and his hot breath on your neck snaps you back to the TV.
Conquest laid his head on your shoulder. He reached down and picked up the spoon from where it had fallen and inspected it, twisting the metal as it shone and gleamed in the television's blue light. He cleaned the spoon with his uniform as he picked up the sloshing bucket of melting white cream. Then he dipped the spoon and scooped out a chunk.
“Here. Nutrients, I suppose.” The spoon neared your face; afraid he would shove the metal into your lips, you complied and opened, taking in the white cream. It tasted too sweet now, but as you were about to swallow it, Conquest put a finger on your neck, the exact spot where he would be able to feel you swallow. You downed it, and his finger ran chasing the sensation until it landed in your stomach. Grabbing at you. Kneading fists full of pudgy flesh.
—--------------
Conquest keeps you trapped. His thighs are like a bear cage.
His hands are still on your stomach he remains like that for a while. Your breathing is shallow; you don’t move at all.
“Are you afraid?” There’s a pause, and you contemplate whether responding meant more constriction around your waist. Before you could reply, he answered his own question. “You should be.”
He sighs.
“I’ll return for you afterward. And if you tell anyone, I'll flatten the land around you.”
Like a doll, he pulled you off of him.
You remained still, certain that the predator would return. Maybe he was playing a trick on you, and when you fell for it, well, God only knows what he would do to you.
After a few minutes spent analyzing every sound and buzz, your thighs unclenched, and they felt tired. Like removing a few tons from your body. Maybe this feeling would help you get just a few minutes of sleep, you hoped at least.
You didn’t let your guard down. Your ears adjusted to every sound, even jumping when your refrigerator began to buzz.
You should tell someone. Yeah, you should, but all that answered back was the words from Conquest.
Besides, what would the GDA do? Being around the director gave you a front seat to some of his more questionable tactics. They would treat you like a dangling piece of cheese in a grand trap, or worse, an experiment, guilt-tripping you into thinking it was for the greater good, when you knew full well that the director valued a more utilitarian view of morality.
A sharp pain in your fist, and you realized that you had clenched your fist so tight that the nails were starting to dig in.
Shakily, you got up from your couch and headed toward sleep.
A life not all that grand. A job working in the city. Los Angeles. Mini skirts and bellbottoms.
Drinks and socializing.
A roommate you hung out with on the weekdays—bars, dances, vibrant music, and never a moment of quiet.
Hearing the sound on the radio: “A hotel on the California-Nevada border has burned down. Reports suggest several guests and one employee are presumed dead. Authorities continue to investigate the circumstances of…”
You took a sip of your drink. An immediate sadness. What other hotels were on the border?
Those last words you told him before you left. You hoped that he hadn’t taken them to heart; even if he did do all those things, it didn’t mean he deserved death. You hoped his last moments were spent in peace.
“Here,” your friend hands you a coin. You take it, rubbing the edges of the coin on your fingers, and put it in the juke box. A song comes on. The people around you relax.
The clinks of the drinks, cigarette smoke, and the sound of the music shake the floorboards.
A man comes over and asks for a dance, you accept, and those thoughts you had are whisked away from your mind.
Nerves. A vibration in your fingertips. Holding the photo, the details start to blur—a muddled mess. Blinking only makes it worse. You don't even bother to look through the rest of the canisters.
Head bobbles as you get up from the ground. Is there any way to rationalize this? He didn’t mean this. None of this is real. Like a punch to your lungs, the air's suctioned out, and you're heaving, breathing through your mouth. You swipe your palm over your forehead, and the room's getting hot. Why did you come here in the first place? Oh, right, the keys, a way out.
Hands attach themselves to the door frame, and you push yourself out. Autonomous. One foot after the other. Slow motion. Your mind tries to keep up with the movements.
You're already in a hallway opposite and away from the front desk, going deeper and deeper—a velvet draped over your eyes. A powerful otherworldly force in the back of your head is telling you the answers you're looking for are ahead. There's a light in the distance, dull and yellow, waning, faint. It seems to be coming from a window.
The shock has died down. A buildup of saliva, and your throat tightens. You read in a book somewhere that if you clenched your left thumb in your fist, the feeling could pass. You do, and a throbbing ache from the pressure still isn't enough to stop the disgust of what you're seeing. Room after room after room. Rooms you cleaned. Rooms you remembered having personally escorted guests to, all displaying what should be a shelter, a home outside of home—instantly tainted.
You touch a random window, grazing the light layer of dust. Dirt’s accumulating on the edges; it hasn't been adequately cleaned. You move along to the next window, and it's when you get to the most familiar one that the blood drains from your face. Your coat is on a seat. Your suitcase is jutting out from under the bed. Boots are near the entrance of the door. You lay a fingertip on the pristine, almost transparent glass. The difference is clear. There’s no film of dirt, no cobwebs on the corners. It’s transparent; you're convinced you could walk right in.
Retreating, you hit a stiff metal shape and gulp loudly. Mouth agape, you turn, and it's a propped-up camera. Brows stitched together. You look, and there doesn’t seem to be any film. Fiddling with the contraption, an undeniable sixth sense, or maybe just a change in the temperature, drives you whirling.
A defined black shadow. A rim of light illuminates only the outer portions of his figure. Swallowing a gulp of air, you ask, “What is all this?”
He's not moving. Maybe if you don't either, he won't see you, but you know the truth. He’s analyzing you. It hasn’t been long since his breakdown, and to see him like this—you shudder.
“There's a lot of bad things I’ve done in life, and this isn’t the worst of it,” he says, pausing; he seems hesitant about what to say next. “I was planning on telling you eventually, but I guess you already know the gist.”
It’s strange; one second, Miles is feet away from you, and in the next instant, he's right in front of you, hand clasped around your wrist. “Miles,” you shake your head. “Let me leave, and we can pretend this never happened.” You don't even notice you're crying until Miles wipes a thumb, smearing your cheek with the change of temperature. Still holding your wrist, he swings the other arm around your waist. You're so close to him as he's pressed against you. Mindful of what's underneath your silk robe, or the lack thereof, you're reminded of the Swiss Army knife you used to open the door, hidden in your pocket.
With as much care as you can, and trying to bury the fear within you, you slither a hand covertly into your pocket and grasp the Swiss Army knife. Shuddering in the crook of your neck. He shakes his head. “I never intended to do this. Any of this.”
“I can help you,” you lie. You push at his shoulders with just enough force. No need to let him panic. Trigger him to escalate the situation. A small space between you, he shifts his attention to your room. Looking at the reflection in the window, his face seems defeated. Eyes hollow, a spark gone.
“Can you?” he whispers.
“...yes.”
Too slow. You can hear your hesitance, and you don't doubt he can, too. His eyes ask a question. And you don't want to answer. Sucking the inside of your cheek and covertly shifting your eyes, you take in the surroundings. Dark stains on the concrete ground. A stool sitting against the wall. He wants a response, but you can't give it to him. He's not a bad guy. He’s not a bad guy, you repeat in your head. But actions are louder than words, and his actions were perverted.
“I killed…one hundred… and twenty three…I can still hear ‘em.” You take a step back, and he follows you. With each step you take, he does too. “I know nothing can ever fix that, but I'm trying every day.”
As you take the small knife out of your pocket, you aim to stab him in the ribs, but he grabs the object, twisting and hurting your wrist, and the knife drops with a clang. Still upright, he hasn't let you go, but without much strength, you pull and step backward, hitting the mirror. A knee between your thighs, forcing it open as you're standing up. A forceful kiss. Nothing like the first time you were together.
You're sure that your lips will swell and darken. A hand on the back of your neck. You're breathing heavy from the action and the adrenaline, while Miles' breathing comes from something erratic. The fingers on the back of your neck hurt, gripping like the skin is being stapled behind. Twisting your head, Miles tries to keep upright, but you both land on the cold concrete.
Knees scraping and Miles' damp limbs fail to hold your legs.
“I wanted to talk it out. But you're making it difficult.”
Uncomfortable, wet, gross. Snot and tears rub on your exposed flesh. You have to pull the bandage, “you will not be saved. No amount of repentance can save you, Miles.”
His chin is shaking, and even in the dark, you can see the red corrupting the white in his eyes. Miles' shouts are loud and raspy, coming from the back of his throat. “I don’t kill anymore.” You can't tell if he’s talking to himself or you.
"I don't care, Miles." You shake your head. "I…I don't think anything can help you besides yourself."
There really wasn't much that you thought Miles could say. Maybe he would again try his tactic of trying to change your mind about how much he could change, or that he was getting better, maybe even something about finding a purpose, but instead, he looked away, shuffled behind, and let his face scrunch at the one-way mirror.
You didn't want to know if this stuck or if this was him reprogramming himself for another round, but you thought it best to just leave.
Hi yeah I might have an idea about the obsession thing maybe the reader is a tillerson the younger sister of Billy, Luke and Trevor and of course the Abbott and the Tillerson family hate each other of course that’s over land but when it comes to the reader and Rhett the reader well it’s not really hate it’s more creeped out being the same age they sort of grow up together and it’s always seem to be the same everywhere the reader was Rhett seems to be there at first the reader thought it was because he had a crush on Maria being her best friend the reader would always hang out with her and when they went out Rhett always seems to be there but when Maria left for college the reader thought things would change and Rhett would stop but he didn’t in fact instead of just being there he would come and talk to the reader asking her out every time of course because him being a Abbott she refused but he kept being everywhere and keeps asking her out to the point where the reader decides to finally saying yes to a drink hoping that maybe if the reader has a drink with him he then might start leaveing her alone
👏 yes! I'd 💕 love to write this. Great 💡 idea. I'll start planning.
Hi I have a question and a request the questions is would you be thinking about doing a part 2 of your a freak and the fic of where Rhett finds out he has a secret son please? because I was wondering for both stories of what happens next and my request is that would you please write a Rhett and reader where the reader tries to leave Rhett after learning he cheated on her but Rhett isn’t letting her go so easily
Thank you for reading, and I like your enthusiasm. 🥳🥰
Regarding sequels, I feel that, for now, "you're a freak" is finished. I could write a sequel sometime in the future, but it would mainly focus on the supernatural; I'm writing some other things right now.
As for your request, you had for the cheating trope—I understand the appeal, but I don't really like writing cheating in general. I focus more on the obsession and power struggles, and if you have something that fits those themes, I'd love to hear.
TW: NONCON, mentions of weight gain, supernatural elements, toxic relationships, unreliable narrator, body horror
Summary: Grief is a liar. Two years without Rhett, and you’ve seen him everywhere. But the thing in your home isn’t a trick of the mind—it’s an abomination.
★★★★★
Cue the orange vests, scanning the fields and creeks. Lights shining through empty cars. Dogs sniffing, sheriffs asking questions. Nosy neighbors crowding into his home, bringing casseroles and apple pie.
In all honesty, most people weren’t too worried, not even his parents; everybody chalked it up to him being on a bender—something not to be taken seriously. You didn’t take much notice either. It was simply a quirk he had.
One of the final memories that you held with him. Both of you singing to country music, purposefully off-key, his hand playfully swatting yours when you tried to change the radio. The sky was the color of orange icicles. He dropped you off at your trailer. He gave you a knowing look. But you shook your head. You had work the next day, and you knew he wouldn't let you sleep.
You wished you had said yes.
“Don't worry, he'll turn up eventually, asking for a warm meal.” A pat on your back from Cecilia. “All we can do is pray and wait.”
Royal grunts and shakes the town's paper. In agreement, you hope. Perry mutters something about Rhett being full of it.
“Syrup?” Amy waves the bottle toward you, and you smile, continuing to finish your plate.
In due time, he’d turn up, ask for your forgiveness, tell you he wouldn’t drink, and then a month later do the same thing all over again.
It’s when a day turned into three that you started to get worried. You looked for him in the barn near those squares of hay where he slept when he didn't want to wake the house up. You looked for him in those patches of open land where nothing, not even time, seemed to touch. You looked for his truck, that blue tin he lugged around, so proud of it, what it meant to him, to have something to call his own, something his family couldn't take away. All of it, all of him, was gone.
On the fifth day, you drove. Endless time was spent on those empty roads until the sky went dark. If you got out right now, you wouldn't be able to see your hand right in front of you. You wouldn’t be able to detect if you were alive or not. You could close your eyes and not tell if you did. Is that what Rhett was seeing?
There were times when you blamed yourself, and you lay down in your little trailer on your short mattress. The thoughts consumed you, an unbearable pressure in your head where only a sharp pain could silence the moment. All sorts of things could have happened to him. You knew he didn't think before he fought, and maybe this time he lost. Had his car sunk in a lake? Or was he lost in the vast land of Wyoming?
You willed yourself not to believe that, not to pull your hair, squeeze your head with the bottom of your palms. Only ending up succumbing to twitching and turning, even when your body begged to sleep.
Maybe that was the reason you imagined so much. The lack of sleep made you see things in the corner of your eyes: black shadows and bugs crawling on the wall. It made you scared of mirrors; the reflections made you think something was drawing you in. Then there were the noises coming from the vinyl floors, clicking and pops that only you heard.
Sometimes you thought you saw him. Across the street, he carried his groceries in a paper bag with his brown hat. The one that protected him from the rays of heat overhead, the one that hid those long brown curls, the one you thought made him look so handsome, like a real cowboy. He'd tilt it to say hello to a little old lady when he entered his truck. “Ma’am,” you thought he'd say, and you'd get angry. Angry that he didn't come your way to say hello to you. Furious that he didn't come right in front of you and say, “Sorry, I’ve been busy… let's do something together this Saturday.” You wouldn't accept his apology, but it would make you feel better to know you weren’t being ignored.
Distractions. Distractions helped. More work. Longer shifts at the little mom-and-pop shop. And when you weren’t working, you were laboring in your garden. You spent hours there, but nothing seemed to grow; yet, you held out hope. There had to be something.
There was a silver lining. No bodies were ever found. No sign of life lost or taken. No fragments of fabric, a car, or a hat. A possibility you hoped that he had simply forgotten to tell everyone he was in Tennessee or another faraway state, riding bulls. Found a nice girl and made plans to marry. If that was the case, all he had to do was call. Let everybody know they didn't have to fret.
When nothing grew and you gave up (Rhett could have done it, helped, I mean), you turned to painting the landscape, but just like gardening, nothing came to your liking. The perspective was wonky, and the colors were dull.
There were moments when you did like what you painted, but then the thought came. Why were you happy when he was gone?
Weeks turned into months.
You didn't dare touch anything in your home.
A coat Rhett left on one of your kitchen chairs remained untouched. Traces of hair on the ground, you could swear they were his; you just couldn't prove it. Did he lay a hand on the table? If he did, you wouldn't wipe it.
Was the dust on the ground from his boots? Well then, you wouldn't broom. Did the fibers on your mattress capture the scent of his musk or the indents of where your bodies lay once? If there were a way to capture his breath, you would put it in a jar near your windowsill and never allow it to leave. Your trailer has been transformed into a museum, preserving everything. Ultimately, you chose the couch for slumber. Cracked leather underneath. One eye on the TV screen, never turning it off. A drone.
Everybody said it would get better.
You thought they only said that so you could get over it quickly. After all, you weren't married to him; that's what the red-headed lady said to you when she came in looking for foot fungus cream. All you could do was squint and give her your best customer service smile. She was right, but it hurt just the same.
These days, you avoid them, the Abbotts, and you think they did, too. No use in reopening old wounds. Only it makes you think, did they blame you as you did yourself?
Now and then, you saw a member of the family walking past the store. Sometimes they would tilt their head toward you and give you an obligatory smile, but you always prayed they would never enter your store.
When you first came home with Rhett, his family was polite; they gave the mandatory greetings, perhaps thinking you wouldn't last long. Yet as soon as they noticed how often you came and how devoted you were to each other, it changed.
Rhett's niece would tell you how much she liked you compared to the other girls, and Cecilia would tell her to hush. Perry would joke that you had changed Rhett. From what? You don't know, but it would earn a punch on his shoulder. Royale never seemed to say much, and your father never did either, so that didn’t trouble you.
Days to weeks to months to a year. Then another.
A blur.
You told yourself that things were going back to normal. You showered, you cooked. You ate and ate. There was no reasoning; your body failed to signal when you were full. You felt like you had a hole in your stomach. Your jeans got tighter. You didn't replace them. You kept painting. Instead of landscapes, they were people. There was always something off about that, too.
It's on a day like the others when it happens.
You’re on your knees in the small garden, pulling at weeds. Dirt underneath your nails. Underneath the gloves you wore.
Duration? Unknown.
It's uncanny how the sky is divided by a clear division of orange and black. Sunsets came about gradually, but this was different. It was unnatural—a slice between sky and ground, a permanent fixture. Shadows were dark, all-consuming, but there was still a semblance of light.
A moon bloomed so big and bright you were sure it would fall down on Earth from its weight.
The air blew cold, but the heat of the sky burned. An itching under your skin like something crawling underneath. When that happened, you knew it was time to call it quits. Go to sleep before those noises come: a buzzing in your ear, swinging around your head. Men speaking in low, harsh tones, unable to discern their meaning.
You wiped your hands on your jeans. Stumbling inside, you lie on your couch, pulling your legs up to your chest.
Your eyes shifted under your eyelids when you heard a creak. This was different, unfamiliar from the distinctive sounds that came from your head. It came closer to you, but you didn't dare open your eyes. Perhaps if you ceased moving, it would depart. But it kept coming closer. Now it was in front of you. The shift made you think it sat on the coffee table, right in front of you.
You couldn't see, but the prickling on your arms alerted you. You could sense the thing in front of you, leaning. But there was no wind being expelled from its lungs; only a change in pressure—a phantom weight lying down on your muscles.
Pulling the bandage, you finally open your eyes, and he's staring at you, looking so strange and deformed.
Rhett.
A pale twisted form.
Glass skin, smooth and shiny. Polished with high-grade wax.
Brown hair was glowing, and his already dark eyes looked inky.
Your lips parted a centimeter. You were sure that if you could speak, only a whimper would break out.
His rigid back shifted to a relaxed one. Shoulders drooped, and he twisted his figure to look out the window at the moon. You couldn't see his front. With his back to you, the button-up shirt he wore resembled a fresh layer of snow, unblemished by marks or creases, as if it had been cleaned with industrial-strength bleach and steam-pressed with starch. It was snug enough to notice a twitch of muscles contracting, not a show of breathing, more like an animal lying in wait for their prey to move.
Truthfully, your idea of a reunion had passed with each day after Rhetts' disappearance. You held visions of seeing a man walking through the tall wheat-colored grass. He would be tired, dirty; from far away, you would notice the sweat on his upper lip, his hand swiping at bugs floating around the surface. His steps would be long and drawn out. His chest would rise and fall.
He merely had to lift his head, and you would recognize him immediately.
You'd drop everything in your arms and run toward him. Scared he'd disappear; you’d advance to a sprint. Crash into him. Tumble to the ground, lifting dirt into the air. “Rhett, I have so much to tell you,” you’d cry out, and he wouldn't say anything; he would just wait for you to continue. And you wouldn't continue. You’d just hug him tighter.
Some part of this vision delivers. You didn't say anything.
“What's for dinner?”
Lifting your torso gradually, the strength of the action knocks the wind out of your lungs.
Hands cold and rigid, body controlled by something otherworldly. You traveled to the kitchen and pulled out some leftovers. Cold chicken in stained plastic Tupperware with the lid still on. You dropped it on the table.
Rhett had his back resting against the chair where his old coat, left behind, still hung. Under normal circumstances, you would have screamed. How did he travel this fast? But that's not what you concentrated on.
His hands dropped to his sides like he had no strength to pick them up. They looked long, two extra inches too long, as if he could touch the ground if he tilted down more.
You walked behind him and, without touching him, you yanked at the jacket hard, which was a difficult thing to do as there was weakness in your fingers.
Still in the kitchen, you saw your body in third-person perspective floating back to the couch, and shut your eyes. The sounds of slobbering, wet-dog-like noises, and heavy masticating jaws echoed. He couldn't bother to close his mouth. Was he trying to make sure you heard, or were the hinges broken, expanding to an unnerving degree? If you moved, would he eat you?
_____________________
It's weird. There's no chirping, no pops, no wind, not even a conjured-up racket. All sound has deafened.
Now, you loved the warmth on your face, a natural alarm to prepare you for the day. But you didn't need an alarm. You didn't sleep one bit. You were permanently frozen on the couch—a corpse in the beginning stages of rigor mortis. No one would be able to move your stiff arms to uncurl your fingers from the heavy jacket tucked into you like a bouquet of flowers; you looked as if you were being presented, as the very corpse Rhett was supposed to be.
You had all night to think about the circumstances of his arrival, to rationalize his existence. There was fear at first. It didn't look like him; it was deformed, mashed up.
A sloshing effect in your stomach began, and bile threatened to rise when you thought about it too much.
Nothing could change your mind. You saw that monster. No, heard that monster. Eating the leftover chicken, you were fully prepared to eat. You had grown lazy, and preparing another meal annoyed you so much, considering all the hard work of marinating and the time spent sizzling…
Next came the headache, the guilt. You thought about him a lot, especially at the start of his disappearance. Over time, memories became muddled, but you made a point of setting aside thirty minutes in the evening to remember him. And as those thirty minutes evolved to ten, then five…
You just had to remind yourself of the positives: maybe he was with a nice little blonde girl and was in preparation for a gender reveal. And when that gender reveal came, they would inadvertently burn down a section of forest with blooming clouds of blue. His face would turn up on the news for accidental arson, and you would be assured, finally, that he was alive.
Following close behind in emotion came the anger, and that's what really kept you up—all that time worrying. The volunteers, old and young. Men and women, scavenging high grass. Some of them could have been bitten by ticks attaching themselves to the supple, unsuspecting skin of the unwilling.
Why did he come here? Why not to his parents? Who blamed themselves for not looking sooner. How about his brother, whose face bore pain; his voice always quaked, well, he always sounded like that, but it got worse with Rhett gone.
How about the sheriff? Literally anyone else. The thing that pissed you off above all else? You, not having received a proper reunion. Where was the running, the embrace, the kiss, the emotion?
All you got was “what's for dinner”. You could laugh, after all, Cecilia did say that Rhett would return for a warm meal.
Perhaps because of this anger, you finally lifted yourself up. Dropped the jacket to the ground. A thud. In that moment, all grief was gone, the fear of what you saw last night pushed behind three hundred tons of whatever it took not to shove Rhett on the ground and demand a rehearsal of what you don't know.
Ready to confront him, you straightened your spine.
Your trailer was already pretty small. The kitchen could be seen from your position on the couch by just pivoting.
Lack of sleep made you see things. They were usually not as vivid as last night, and lately your REM sleep had been increasing. Perhaps this had been the final blow from your active imagination —a finishing whack to the creative power of your mind, for there was nothing to see: no remnants of seasoned chicken, or dirty tossed tupperware. Where was that demon, that grotesque abomination that favored Rhett only in shape, and only if you were ten feet beyond his face?
You walked slowly to your room with a weapon —a preserved rose encased in round glass, clunky and blunt, which slipped from your fingers a few times, definitely not a good weapon.
Your toe entered before you did. You would not announce yourself. When assured there was nothing, you checked the bathroom. Yanking at the shower curtain and satisfied that it was a fantasy, you brushed your teeth, then your hair. You made sure not to open the cabinet's mirror, mindful of not evoking the image of a killer appearing behind you in the reflection.
You buttoned up into a neon green shirt with red and purple dots, made to resemble sad confetti. Hideous, but it was the uniform provided by the generous owners of the mom-and-pop shop.
The uniform did not help with the growing reputation you seemed to have been cultivating. The small town had taken great lengths to address your supposedly deteriorating mental state. Customers would enter the store and confess that you looked different, and when you told them it was just the uniform, they would give you a puzzled look and politely smile, saying, “Bless your heart.”
It's when you get outside with your keys that things get even weirder. That little garden you slaved away for two whole years? Blooming with flowers, sprouting with green vegetables as if someone had come to plant them.
Inspecting closer, you had a feeling that the flowers in particular were made of plastic, wire, and cheap adhesive. You plucked a petal. Rubbing it with your fingers, there was nothing fake about it. All of it was completely real.
Shake it off, you think. You get in your truck and head to work.
Work ain't hard. Just organize and check the people out while you're going through an existential crisis. The whole world is falling apart, and all they care about is how easy it would be to come in here and get some Chapstick.
While you're crouched down, taking out some inventory from the box, you find a pair of cowboy boots, polished, with your reflection visible in them.
A cough.
You look up. It's Arthur, right? You've seen him around—blonde kid. You graduated a year before him—one of the few people in town who still talked to you after Rhett's disappearance. He's holding a basket of cucumbers.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” you repeat.
“Just wanted to check up on you…” He continues on. He likes to talk about himself, but you welcome the distraction. A little part of you feels relieved for the time being.
This is normal.
_______________________
At home, you took a brief ten-minute nap after you sat on a stool. You are fully awake when he crawls through your window, limping, a shadow of his former self.
Holding a ball of garlic, you stand up, raising it, “Be gone, demon,” you say. You practiced the line numerous times in front of the mirror, your voice powerful and commanding, but now it comes out trembling on each syllable.
You threw the ball of garlic at him with all your might, hitting him squarely on his chest. It fell, bouncing before rolling under your couch.
Wonderful, that was your only defense, and you threw it at him. It may have worked had you peeled it beforehand, but you didn't want the smell on your hands.
So swift, so quiet, he was right next to you. The feeling of blood rushing in your veins departs for safer avenues like your heart.
“You look good,” he says casually. He's not looking at you; his head is angled to the window like the first night he came into your little run-down trailer.
If there were a way to look at the scene from afar and forget the context and the feeling of wanting to piss yourself, you could probably say that you looked like the couple you both used to be. Not a happy couple, more like one in the middle of an argument.
“So,” he says, reaching toward your elbow, his touch is cold. Metallic. “What’ve you been up to? Still working at the store?” you nod tensely like a gate with rusty hinges.
“Figures.”
He shifts slightly, his dark eyes flickering to yours.
“I'm sorry I didn’t…” he bobbles his head, “stick around. I was hungry.” His lips tighten.
“Was good. The chicken.”
A beat.
“Had to fill up with some other things, though.”
There isn’t much else said after that—just two marble statues waiting for the other to move.
You focus your eyes on the ground. If you concentrated sufficiently, would it be enough to prevent the inevitable loss of consciousness?
“See you around then,” he said, his tone low and depressing. Was he expecting you to shout for him? To beg him to stay?
He lets go. You sway.
Without hesitation, he grabs your bicep—a firm hand leading you to your couch, where you passed out.
_____________
Morning.
You tumbled off the couch, woozy, eye movements slow to catch up with what you're seeing.
The first time, you couldn't sleep. Last night you passed out, and now you were certain the same event would happen again. Maybe this time, he would grow bored and swallow you whole. Before your assured extinction arrived, you had questions you wanted answered. The main one being: what the hell happened to the real Rhett?
You're grateful that today is your day off. You wouldn't know how you would have managed to get through the day if it weren't.
Plan.
Plan what to do next. You cannot be afraid. You need answers. Answers for his parents, his brother, and his niece. And when you had those answers, you would gift them. They deserve the truth. No, they deserve more than that. They deserve not to have their head filled with that abomination.
You boot up your laptop and start researching. What are some common ways to get rid of demons? Salt. Well, you had some pink Himalayan salt in your cabinet. Garlic didn't work. How about some silver? You could throw some coins at him. The store owners let you keep the leftover change. If all else failed, you could impale him with…You looked around your cluttered living room. A fork? A back scratcher? Well, it would come to you when it happened.
Next, you grabbed a notepad, a pencil, and sat. Hmm… now what do you ask a demon? Naturally, the most important. “Where did you come from?” You erased that. “How did—” No. “What are you?” Yes, that should be the foremost question. You tapped the pencil against your noggin. Damn, you are smart.
Leaning away from your notes, you sighed. You couldn't think of anything else, and it was still morning.
You massaged your leg and leapt into the air. Hurdling out the door, you ignored your ever-growing garden, whose leaves were starting to grow on the outside walls of the trailer, climbed into your truck, and headed to civilization.
What better way to spend the little time you have than by purchasing or indulging in high-quality ingredients? Given your recent streak of bad luck, you want to ensure that this will be the very best last meal you’ll ever have.
You opted to head to a grocery store, one of those corporate giants that rolled into town a few years ago. Guilt washes over you and evaporates. You need the good stuff.
Inspecting veggies, picking chicken, and obtaining a chocolate cake, you don't catch your cart closing in on a man in front of you. A hand holds the cart steady. It's the blonde guy. Arthur.
“Big night?” he asked. You tilt your head, and he raises his eyebrow down to your cart.
“Oh yeah. Might even be my last night,” you deadpan.
He chuckles, “I get it.”
You smile crookedly. “Well then, I should…” You move a little, and he follows your direction.
“I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t really have an excuse, but I've been painting so—”
“There's a church potluck next Sunday.”
“Oh, really. Well, I'll have to keep that in mind,” you say.
“You had anything weird happen to you?”
You stopped. Did he know—no. Deflect “well—”
“I had a weird day.”
You hum slightly at being interrupted, “Like what?” you ask cautiously.
He shrugs, “My pops just bought this truck, real big. We got it detailed on the…” Arthur's a real big talker. It’d be a shame if your last moments on earth were spent listening to his rambling. “...Oh yeah, and one of my mares went missing.”
That makes you pause. You want to ask when this might have happened, but would that be too obvious? You shake your head and blow some air out, “Yeah, that'll happen.”
After paying and entertaining his thoughts for a while, you leave.
__________________
An oven-baked chicken alfredo. A glass of wine on your right and the chocolate cake in the fridge telling you, “Hurry up, and eat me already.”
All of it looked good. However, not a single satisfying bite was executed. Nibbles you could manage were slow and small. Seemed like your stomach was already too full of dread to fill with any food.
Time melts, and you watch TV, one of those reality shows, nothing exciting. Your eyes droop.
Then a clang.
Your heavy head whips up, and you witness him. No longer limping, he enters your window stronger. Taller?
Damn, the salt. Good thing you had those quarters.
“Hold up,” you say, “let's have a discussion”.
He pauses, a smile stretching his taut skin. Perhaps he thought it disarming, like the one he would give you at the bar you're both used to frequent before his accident.
“What’d you like to discuss?”
He takes a step in your direction, “Hold up.” You snatch the quarters, and with that very same hand, you move it to cover the front of your body like a shield.
He frowns and pushes his eyebrows down in disbelief, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Without taking your eyes off him, you rummaged the table where your notes and wine were, dropping a glass in the process.
You grasp the notebook and glance down for a second, “wha-what are you?”
He blinks, and his eyebrows stitch together.
“I said, Who are you?” you say louder.
“C’mon now—” he takes a step toward you.
“Stand back!” you shake your fist full of quarters at him. “I'm not fu—”
In an instant, he has a hand wrapped around your wrist. A tight grip, so cold it burns. His face next to yours, there's nothing to exhale from your lungs besides a huff.
“I'm sorry,” you rush out.
His brows crease more. “What are you talking about?”
“I didn't—” you shake your head, “I'm sorry,” you repeat.
He squints. “You think I'd hurt you? I missed you, and all you do is treat me like some sort of monster.”
You won't tell him he's right. He'd take it the wrong way, and things only’d get nastier for you. You'll placate him for now.
You smile widely, loosening the upturned shoulders you had not paid attention to. “Of course not. I missed you, too. It's just that I was… scared. I'm scared of the dark,” you whisper.
He's still in your face, but his grip loosens slightly. “Yeah,” he nods. “You were always scared of the dark.”
Still holding the quarters in your palm, you lower them. Feigning comfort.
You ask, “Why didn't you say much when he first came here?”
Rhett shrugs, then mutters, "Didn’t need to.”
You hum.
"Just wanted it like old times. Just…you and me." He reaches out, moving a piece of hair away from your face. The action is so soft, like a faint breeze passing through.
“I would love that,” you lie.
You finally move away from him and look around your cluttered house. “How about a movie?”
You move to grab the remote. Rhett holds your hand once again. He gently pries it open. Silently, he clasps your quarters, takes the remote, pulls you to the couch, and you both watch a comedy. His arm wrapped around your waist. So close to each other, it feels like you're cuddling. Sleep overtakes, and like always, you doze off.
________________
During work, you had some time to assess the situation.
This resulted in subpar service. Staring at customers for too long as they browsed. Fumbling change.
Things were better, you suppose. At least he wasn’t gonna eat you— you think—you hope. What was his plan…
When you got home, you cleaned. It hurt, but you needed to set the scene. It would make you feel better about getting rid of the thing.
You shouldn't feel guilty. He has passed and been replaced. Still, you kept some hair you thought was his. And that sweater he left behind, well, you buried it deep in your closet.
You went to the mirror and took a good look at yourself. You looked strange. You changed, too. Mutated. Hair was unkempt, and was it really any shock that your pants were tighter? Had the town noticed your transformation, too?
But as much of a freak as you were, he was the real freak.
You put on a lovely dress and did your hair. If you put some effort into it, would he remember you, drop his act, or slip up?
You breathed shakily and shook your head. Thinking too far now. Heart palpitations be damned, you drank an energy drink.
At the table, you wait. Playing games on your phone until he comes by.
Then…
“You dressed for me?” his voice gruff.
“Yes, Rhett. All of this.” You touch your chest. “All of me is for you”. It was like acting on one of those shows that rerun on TV. Leave it to beaver, right?
“You're glowing,” he said.
Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you pass a plate of pizza in front of him. He didn't know it, but that piece came from a microwaved meal. After all, it's the performance that matters.
Sitting down across from him. You took a bite, burning the tip of your tongue from the still-sizzling sauce.
He looked down, but he didn't touch his slice. You could almost swear there was a glimpse of disgust.
“Here,” he gestures to you, “sit here.” You bring your chair right next to him, and he grabs the slice, angling toward your mouth.
You look at him sideways.
Waving at you, waiting for you to open it, you take a bite.
As you're chewing, he's watching. Piercing. Needles prickling your skin. His eyes follow every motion of your jaw, tasting it through you.
“Don’t swallow yet,” he says.
You almost choke. What kind of order is that?
You keep chewing. Cheeks bulging, spit building. He leans in, studying you. He presses a hand under your chin, keeping it tilted.
“Let me see.”
You want to chuck it out. Instead, you force your jaw shut. His eyes seem to track onto every individual muscle, and when you think you can’t hold it in longer, he nods, and you swallow.
He pulls you to his lap. Landing on his cold slab of concrete, you're force-fed like a bird.
“Don't you think you should be eating too?” you say, chewing the plastic-like consistency of the pizza, never swallowing.
He smiles, “Remember when we got drunk and you cried about your dad?”
“Yeah…I remembered,” you said.
He nods big and proud. Of course, he thinks he's right.
You had a great relationship with Dad, even if he didn’t talk much.
Still chewing the pizza and unable to break down the gum-like material, you ask, “Have you thought about your…folks?”
You don't know how, but his body grows tougher. Any artificial warmth he generated was gone. His face, illuminated by a single light from the dining room, made him indistinguishable from a rubbery mask in a run-down horror store.
“I don't remember much, but I do remember you. Isn't that enough?”
He leans into your face, an eye twitching, “They didn't come looking for me here, have they?”
His arm holding your waist starts to hurt; talons onto prey.
“No. No,” You grab on the arm around you, trying to slide it off, when it becomes obvious he's not letting go, you endure the pain. “You're right. We're fine. All fine now.”
His gaze does not drop, but his grip loosens and falls to the small of your back.
___________________
That night had ended with a movie, and it was awkward. Rhett laughed at everything, even the scenes that weren't supposed to be funny, like when the ending had a small child abandoning their dog.
Nights grew longer. You called out of work more. Sooner or later, the owners would call for a replacement. But you were so close.
You had grown ‘comfortable.’All a ploy for him to spill his secrets. Taking a note from cheesy eighties spy movies, you seduced him.
You'd run your fingers through the synthetic fibers sprouting from his skull. His own hand wandered over yours, feeling the bones shift, muscles contract, and tendons stretch.
Testing the waters, you asked him to do things you used to do together, like fishing, dancing, and rides. “One ride,” you begged. He grabbed your hand, and each time he did, the clasp was tighter.
The only nugget you ever got from him: he couldn't eat with you watching him. What good does that do for you? Other than that, he told you of memories he imagined.
For this simple truth, he wanted something in return. His yields were larger than yours. He wanted to know about your day. Work, the town, chores. He wanted to know it all. When you said you had done nothing, he would ask you to describe the sky, the clouds, the sunset. What hue did your hair take in the morning? How did the salt taste when you licked it from your own skin?
He rubbed his finger over your lips. Smearing traces of food, studying the shine.
You wished he had eaten or drunk. It would make you feel better about him staring all the time. He asked to see your legs, your tongue, and your shoulders. Now, if it were sexual, as wrong as it might sound, it would be easy to dismiss. But it wasn’t. He asked to see the back of your knees, the hair on your arms, and trace the shell of your ears.
Your working theory was that with enough information, he would construct himself into an artificial machine.
Trust was being earned in big steps, sometimes at the cost of privacy or sanity. He would enter only at night, and he would stand over until you slept.
He brought you food, always something stale. Ignoring you until you forced it down your throat.
Was it cause he couldn't taste, or was it a punishment for asking him questions?
Your obsession with giving his family closure grew. When they entered town, you'd ask to take a break and follow close behind. Sometimes they went into the diner down the street, other times you'd sit in your truck watching them through your windshield when they went to the bank.
How would they react to your stalking? Or how about that their son had become a creep?
______________
History will tell you that all your plans for control have failed. Yes. But you were stubborn. Stubborn not to let those customers' opinions about your appearance enter your mind. And stubborn to get Rhett in your stupid truck. That's all you wanted, for god's sake. Then, after, let him do whatever you wanted, even if he didn't tell you what it was. Let him turn you into a lampshade, a nice pair of boots, or a book cover.
The primary goal is for the Abbotts to achieve closure. To be assured that Rhett didn't die from some horrible accident or suffer excruciating pain. Well, you couldn't be 100% sure of that, considering…
Lights dim in the kitchen. Yellow. Uncaring. Normally, the yellow would evoke warmth in most people, but for you, the yellow lighting brings to mind cramped, closed closets at the back of the store where you work. Yet now, you appreciated the single light; the shadows created an illusion that there were wrinkles on his otherwise smooth skin.
Inserting a planned normalcy, you prepared food for him.
“I don't see why there's any use to this. It's not like I'm gonna eat with them,” he says.
That makes you want to scratch his face off. But you sigh and try to explain to him: “If, for whatever reason, they offer coffee or something, you don't want to look like a weirdo. Do you?”
He shuffles his feet. You lay a plate in front of him and place a singular cookie on it. He lifts it up, inspecting the curves and the unevenness. Maybe you should have gotten something more appetizing. Looking at it, you silently agreed it reminded you of the surface of the moon.
He opens his mouth. Vast, uncanny, all teeth on full display, an unnatural white. Canines sharp and glistening. He bites down and chews. And chews. And chews.
“All you have to do is swallow,” you prompt.
He pauses and looks at you.
If looks could kill.
===========
This was the ultimate test. The universe would forgive you for your past sins and then bless you as long as this paid off.
You're alone in the middle of nowhere. You had a fear of traveling this far this late and alone. Well, not entirely alone, he was here, but all things considered, you could say you were alone.
You'll admit that in some ways it brought back memories of the past. Only a blanket of blue, tunes, and his singing would have made the thought true.
After all your hard work, you had convinced him. How?
“I told you already — I wanna be with you. Seein’ my family ain’t gonna change that,” he said.
“But that’s how I know you're something else. The real Rhett would've never forgotten his family. He’d crawl right to them.”
All you and Rhett had to do was go to his house. Have Rhett apologize for having gone missing for two years without involving the police. Then leave, and well, you really didn't know what would happen afterwards. You really never thought some of your plans through.
Veins filled with an unknown substance protruded under his flesh. Highlighted by the chalk white knuckles on the steering wheel.
You offered to drive as it was your car, and you didn’t know what happened to his. But he said he’d handle it.
Rhett swears off the road to the grass, and your hand clasps the handle above the door.
“You sure you know where you're headed?” you mutter. You're trying to keep calm, but with each bump over the unpaved, uneven terrain, you exhale. The headrest cushions the impact of your skull as it rocks back and forth.
"Don't worry 'bout it. You think I forgot where I lived?" he chuckles, but it sounds hollow, and the accelerator pushes on. The engine roars, and debris kicked from the wheels lashes past like snow.
Your eyes feel like they're held open by hooks; looking away means a guaranteed death. You know you can't save yourself. Your reaction times are a joke. You’d be dead by the time you get your hands on the wheel. And you're proven right when his hands land on your chest, preventing your further propulsion when the car slams to a stop. The seat belt digs into your skin.
Blowing out the remaining wind in your lungs, your eyes focus still out the windshield.
The car’s still on as he reaches between you and unbuckles you. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping some imaginary crumb off. It travels down to your jaw, and twisting your head, he leans in, his lips brushing yours. There's no warm breath out of his mouth. Lips are glacial. Numbing.
His face presses into yours. Noses smash. There's no faint noise coming from his chest, no distinguished smell of faint musk. It's like kissing a robotic toy.
A claw reaches behind your neck, pulling you in more. His mouth opens wider, and it feels like you're being consumed; a snake enlarging its mouth to swallow up your lips.
He moves your head, twisting to an uncomfortable angle. A metal arm wraps around, securing your placement. He tears his mouth away to whisper, “I said we’d go see my folks… but don’t this feel better?” he pauses and says, “Been waitin’ long to have you like this.”
His lips peck at yours. A chicken plucking away at stray seeds.
Your breathing gets harder. Panting, you tried to grasp onto something to help you pull away, only connecting to the switch above.
“You're so soft,” he whispers. "I haven't had something like this in a while. Something so tender. I know you'd go great with a drink." You can hear a smile in his voice as he says this.
Every time you tried to move away, Rhett followed along, and it was starting to hurt. Rubbing your faces together felt like lying your head on a sanding belt.
"Rhett… please… " your hands on his shoulders, trying to push away, but he's not budging. "Let's have a break…please."
He holds your jaw, pressing hard so you'd open wide. His tongue rams in, running over yours. He pulls out.
“Better’n I remembered,” he goes down, lowering his smooth face to your neck, kissing. "Might be more where that came from."
Gasping at the sensation. " I…I can't breathe."
He laughs a genuine laugh, deep and throaty. "Why didn't you say so?"
Finally, he releases you, and the force you had while pushing his shoulder knocks you to the car door. Chest heaving, ready to curse him out, you were rendered motionless. With the interior light, he comes into full view. Why didn’t you see it before?
His tan skin speckled with freckles from working on the land with his father was substituted with porcelain flesh. A faint flush of red under the translucent tissue on his cheeks was meant to make him look like a painted cherub. But all it reminded you of was a hand-painted wooden puppet.
Where before you could see the growing effects of UV radiation slicing lines on his nose and mouth, now his skin was stapled behind his ears. The corners of the eyes pulled a fraction too wide, giving way to a delirious, almost frantic stare.
Those one or two hairs on the side of his head where the base was starting to turn snow white were swapped; in fact, the whole mane transformed to a lighter, almost glowing shade of brown, and if you had time to gawk, you could swear it nearly looked blonde.
Where was that cute, peculiar jut of his chin? Where was that shadow, that small crease between his eyebrow, or the imperfect raised peak on one side of his lip?
Typically, visible with the light source, his eyes would have appeared dark blue, like the deeper end of the sea; however, his eyes were not this. The pupil was gone, blended into the opaque black of his eyes.
He had a craving, anticipatory look on his face, waiting for you to say something, but you held the same expectancy.
"Close your eyes," you say dully.
He tilts his head. You will not be tricked.
"Close them," you repeat.
He smirks and, like a father playing along with the make-believes of their kids, dramatically covers his eyes.
Your hand reaches behind and grabs the handle.
Fuck head.
You pushed open the door and fell hard on your ankles, tumbling to the ground—knee scraping. Palms burning. Karma for those moments, making fun of final girls in horror movies; for three seconds, you lay on the pebbles before stumbling up.
He was already out and directly in front of him, you panted, his eyes begging you not to run. It was as if you were a deer waiting for the huntsman to pull the trigger. Would the hunter drop the gun and say, “I can't”? Could the hunter's heart increase tenfold, get a heart attack, and drop dead on the spot?
“Why are you doing this?” he said. “Why—just why,” he whined.
You relax your stance and push your shoulders down. The crease between your eyebrows smooths out as your teeth become more visible, widening. Your noticeable gasps are replaced by a deep, long inhale. Calm him.
His body mimicked yours.
Good.
And you ran.
Despite popular media, the moon doesn’t help with vision. Perhaps under certain conditions, it was true, like the position of Earth's axis or however many particles of pollution should and shouldn't be in the air; regardless, it's not helping.
It can be hard to calculate how long you ran. Judging by the stinging in your lungs and the lactic acid building in your calves, it's about five minutes. Thank god for adrenaline. But how long will that last?
Suddenly, you feel a weight on your back. Your chest flattens against the grass. Hips pinning your lower body. The winds knocked right out like someone trying to squeeze the last remaining toothpaste. Wheezing, you know who it is.
“I never wanted this to happen.”
“Then why do this?” you hiss out. “At least do me the favor of seeing them. Then you can kill me.” And for a moment, you think it's finally wrapped in his head.
His grip tightens on the back of your shoulders. Your cheek rubs the gravel patches where grass fails to grow.
“How many times do I have to say this. I am— let me show you who I am.”
With one hand, he hauls your wrists together and forces them behind your lower back.
His knees spread your thighs apart. His weight stays heavy over you.
Keeping you on your shoulders and knees. He pulls your pants down. It feels like you're an animal being hog-tied. A pig moving back and forth, aware that the next step the farmer took was not going to end in your favor. Yanking your jeans, you feel a light breeze coming from the thin garment.
His hands roam your rear until you hear a smack. You jolt forward. Moving away.
He lays a hand down, caressing the area. Soothing it until he pulls the rest down.
Always holding both your hands with one, he wraps the other around to touch the front of your stomach. “So soft I could sell your hide.”
He goes lower until he gets to your cunt his hands caressing the exterior folds. You buckle more. “Easy there,” he says, his weight on top of you. How could it be possible that your breath gets shallower?
He finally enters a middle finger, softly and rhythmically, he strokes the top of your clit. You hold your mouth shut, but as the pressure builds up, a gasp escapes. “That's right, that's all you need, it's alright.” He lets go of the arm he was holding and smooths your hair like calming a struggling animal.
“Now don't move. Let's be gentle.” You hear a jingle, followed by the sound of a zipper. Your heart quickens, but before you can react, Rhett pulls your hips up, hauling your ass up higher, almost like he was inspecting you.
Your legs were kicked apart, and your head’s held down. He gathers the slick that's running out of you, and from what you can hear, he slathers it on his cock.
Preparing yourself for the inevitable, you pay close attention to the individual blades of grass. This was unhygienic, no, this was public, what if someone drove—
Your back arches as you feel the first inch enter, and Rhett himself gasps. “Fuck.” he takes a moment, unmoving. “God, why’d I wait till now to do this?”
He pushes himself in more. Inch by inch, filling. Your cunt grasps and contracts around his cock.
“This is what you wanted, right? For me to be like the old me again. The real me. Rhett.”
When he's fully inside, he doesn't move. “I'd love to your face,” he says to himself. You're glad to be facing the ground away from him. It's keeping you from screaming.
His hips shake. Sluggish, taking his time, he brings himself out and then rams back in, his pelvis slamming on the curve of your ass. He repeats the motion, and each time you moan.
He lets go of your arms and focuses on steadying himself by holding you by your hips.
Each thrust into your cunt is announced with a cry from you. Slow hard.
You're trying to grasp onto anything, the grass, the dirt, but nothing is helping with the sensation. A hand wraps the front again, focusing on the left side of your tingling clit, which earns a choke. “You always did like it when I did that,” he says.
Ribs strain. Your claws dig into the soil. Your body trembles, and your toes curl.
There's no way to determine how long you must have been pounded into. Your mouth’s wide open, sounds come out, mixing in the growing squelches from your lubricated pussy. You're drooling. A sheen of sweat covered your forehead, dripping dots onto the moving ground.
That building is coming. Cumulating. “Don't worry. Well, do it together,” he says gruffly.
With that, you clench. Pulsating, walls filling with warm liquid. You feel him softening. He drags out with a pop. Collapsing on your side, you lay there. Your jeans and panties are halfway down your thighs—cold air lashing. Thick goo gradually spilling out, running down your thigh.
You're trying to catch your breath, and Rhett lies right beside you. His face is calm. Studying you like a hunter satisfied with their catch.
You close your eyes.
“You know. That day, before you left, we spent the morning in bed, and the sun was so warm. Our bodies wrapped together, the sheets underneath were so soft and comforting. You ate this sandwich, and a little sauce was left on the collar of your shirt.” You smiled faintly.
“We took a trip to the fair. You won this plush, big and pink. I could barely hold it. Then you took me home, and you kissed me. There was something there, something in your eyes, but I said I had work. And I knew that if I let you in, we would never be able to sleep. But god, I wish I had let you stay. Then none of this would have happened. You’d be drinking coffee with your folks. Helping them on the ranch. Taking a ride at the rodeo. You’d be alive.”
There's no response. No rebuttal.
Rhett says nothing.
You open your eyes and he's gone.
Entering your car and heading home, you pass your garden whose leaves seem to have begun falling. The green turning a dark grey. You shower. You sleep.
_________________________
There's a crunch of wheels—a huff of an engine.
Pulling apart the curtains, it's the sheriff. Sheriff Joy.
You open the door, and when she sees you, she lowers her hat into her hand.
“You have a moment?”
You scan the empty lot. “Me?”
She nods.
“Sure,” you gesture for her to go inside. She looks around, inspecting but never touching anything.
You both sit down at your dining table.
“Oh, pardon me. Any water, coffee?”
“That won't be necessary, I won't be long here,” she sighs. “I know that life's been difficult. Even I've had moments where things been…rough. But” she lays a hand over yours. “That doesn’t mean life has to stop.”
You nod. “Ok”
“Honey…they found his car.”
“Ok”
A pause.
“Rhett's car. Along with his garments. They have been found. Figured you deserved to know. We're closing the investigation.”
She pauses, then asks, “You sleeping okay?”
You plaster a smile and give a knowing nod. “It's the uniform,” you confirm.
She looks at you from head to feet. Then feet to head again. Her face scrunched as if she had bitten a lemon whole.
“Take care,” she mumbles.
She leaves. You hear the door shut behind you, and you're left at the table.
Looking at the clock hanging by the door. You acknowledge the time. The owners wouldn't mind you arriving a few minutes late. Hopefully, they wouldn’t.
Tw: implied/referenced noncon situations, arranged marriage, and toxic relationships
Author's note: request
Summary: Your father wanted to be a cowboy. Rhett's father wanted to save his land. Now, in your marriage, you're learning love is just another name for ownership.
★★★★★
An eccentric man with an eccentric dream uprooted your whole family to a rural town in Wyoming to gain the authentic cowboy experience.
When he landed, he purchased a significant portion of land and entered the small, bustling center. Was it a surprise that the people did not welcome your father's shiny, custom-made ostrich boots or his premium mixed fur felt hat? There had to be a way to prove his legitimacy.
Your father was a tall man with a midsection rounded with fat, an outward sign of the intrusive, overbearing male within.
But oh, was he sharp.
He had found a crack in one of the families with a reliable name—the Abbotts.
The Abbots were not an unwelcoming family, but they were separate. They stayed on their land, ventured to the city center only when needed—the stereotypical lone wolves.
And your father? A hunter.
He tightened the pressure where it hurt: water.
Grazing reserves were his greatest leverage.
Royal declined, but with your father's knowledge and resources, when applied strategically, worked in his favor: lawyers, environmental groups, and money pumped into local politicians. Pressure. Enough to make the board bend.
What other choice did Royal have?
Lose his land, which was everything and had been in their family for generations, the only guaranteed thing in life, or lie down with his belly cut up and nothing to prove he was alive.
“Sometimes love comes later,” kind words offered right after hearing the news of your marriage.
A house on the land, far enough away to be isolated, close enough to say that you weren't. A gift from father. A reward.
Painted a bright lime green. The inner walls were not exempt from the bizarre palette; all rooms were painted a warm yellow, a color that reminded one of a slimy lump of curdled custard. Meant to be inviting, gave a feeling of being wrapped so tightly that you were asphyxiating.
The house might have felt spacious, had it not been filled with large, gaudy furniture. Corners blocked pathways around the house. Tuscan and overtly ornate.
Elaborate carpeting, a large plasma TV mounted with two screws. Bizarre paintings of angelic children frolicking in gardens that spanned half a wall.
A kitchen with new appliances, high tech, and chrome. Only the best for you.
It was embarrassing to have guests over to bear witness to your surroundings. Scratch that, it would have been embarrassing.
No one came anymore. Not friends. Not family. Those who understood you or claimed they did started to disappear. Rhett said not to worry about that, they had “ulterior motives.” Whatever that meant.
Before that, Rhett had taken you with him to explore the town. Under your father's request, no doubt.
Your arm intertwined with his—monkeys in a barrel type of situation. When someone came along, it was all smiles. Ladies gave their approving nods, and from what your father had told you over the phone, men tapped their hats.
All according to plan.
These frequent trips became irregular and sporadic. You had better predictions of the number of clouds or amount of Cheerios in your bowl of cereal than when your next outing would be.
You were not naive to the circumstances of the marriage: No proposal. No discussion. The contract, the deal.
Rhett had told you—and anyone else that would listen— that he wanted out of Wabang: to venture to the city, see the lights, the bigger world. And bull riding was his ticket out. He was good at it, reckless and hungry.
But then his accident ensued. And then the wedding came.
He never looked at you with hatred, and he never said that he resented you. But he didn't have to; you could feel it in your bones, how there were days he would look right through you. You hoped it had more to do with the structure you represented, the land, and both your fathers' control—fat chance you would ask him, though.
An unspoken weight between the two of you, and it hurt that underneath that fatty flesh of disappointment lay the tender meat of something sweet.
Sometimes, that tenderness only came after. When he was still inside you, breathing hard, his hand firm around your thigh like he didn’t want to let go.
A year before, you’d known him as a little awkward and quiet—charming in his own way.
Small smiles. Glances across the room. You reciprocated, making it obvious you liked him back.
Nothing really bloomed, but there was a dance.
You hadn’t pegged him for a dancer. But there you were, stepping on his feet, heels digging into his boots.
“You have big feet,” you’d joked.
“You'll get used to it,” he said, almost smiling.
That year also surprised you: the dusty ‘otherness’ of the country, the quiet pace, the rodeo, the community. Oh, how you wished that didn't fade.
________________
Now you'll admit you were not well-versed in the cultural lifestyle of Wabang or Wyoming in general. You had come from a different land, and it seemed like Wabang was about 15 years behind the rest of the world. Clothing was modest, mindful, and purposeful, not a thing you objected to. Your fundamental opposition was the color.
Like your father, you appreciated the unorthodox shades, but Rhett made it clear, with passive remarks, that he and most of the town found the displays too garish.
“You don't think that's a little loud?”
Red rustic colors, dark navy blues, linen white; patriotic Americana was the face of your closet; everything else got put into plastic bins hidden in the depths of your closet.
There was a single item that stayed—a colorful woven bracelet you had given him hanging on the mirror of his truck, swaying.
You never bothered asking why. He’d probably grunt, and if he did, you would clench your fist because that response was growing into an annoying itch.
_________
When Rhett was working with his father, you had stepped out to town. Only thirty minutes. You’d pay for that later with a long-winded explanation.
You were just about to hide the evidence of your departure when the sounds of his boots stomped on the wooden floor. He stood at the entrance with sweat and dirt on his face.
His eyes looked you up and down. And then his left eye twitched, and you already knew what he was about to say. “You headed off somewhere?”
Shifting your feet. “Nowhere. Just got some fresh air.”
His eye pointed at your balled fist, clearly holding car keys. He says nothing for a moment, just juts his lip. “With those? Why don't you just take a hike out back?” and nodded to the back door.
You looked down at the floorboards. With an even voice, “Thought I'd go book shopping.”
He blinks. Fuck. Maybe you threw too many things at once.
“Book shopping, what's wrong with the things we got?”
Carefully, from your pockets, you pulled out the flyer. The gloss was shiny and reflective. Screaming to be seen; he’ll be sure to witness it.
Might as well confess now. If you brought it up later, he’d only hold it against you.
“Please… just the rodeo. It's not like I'm asking for the whole world,” you whispered.
He shifts, looking away from you. “Didn't say you could go,” he wavers. He runs a hand through his hair, clenching at the strands before letting go.
A pause.
“Didn't say you’d need to go,” the voice said softly. A self-correction that made you bite your lip.
He stayed silent. His jaw clenched. Sweat still glistening from the afternoon's work.
“You really want to go that bad?”
At last, he grunted, “Fine. But no detours. And stay close.”
You swallowed, nodding quickly.
______________
“It's nice to be out,” you whisper. You wrap the shawl around your shoulders.
Rhett turns to look at you, squinting. You shouldn't have said anything.
“You're up next, son.” The attendant motioned for Rhett to head to the bull pen.
Rhett opened his mouth before closing it shut, jaw straining.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, then didn’t; instead, he spat to the side and nodded, following the man to his fate. As they walked away, a voice from another rider cut through the noise, “Didn't think I'd see you ride again…”
A pair of brown eyes meets yours, stinging. You snap your head to the other riders as Rhett gets ready for his debut. Buzzers and announcers are like bugs in your ears. Bulls buckle, twirl, and kick their feet.
Those same pair of eyes keeps burning into you, and you can't focus. You had seen them before. A cattle hand from your father. Brown eyes, dark tan skin. One of the first people in this town you had gotten to know besides Rhett. Told you small things like where to eat. Best places to fish. Things you wouldn't do, but were grateful to hear. To not feel like a stranger.
A big smile and wide open arms head your way. “Aye, you came.”
Smiling, “I've been.”
He looks you up and down in exaggerated disbelief. “Then how come I haven't seen you before?”
You shrug your shoulders. “Well—”
“Why don't you go to the stands. I know exactly where to sit.”
“I can't”
“What. Why not?”
“I promised Rhett I'd stay here.”
His gaze lingers unblinking before adding, “I know a really good view. Come on.” he grabs your arm, pulling you up. Well-intentioned.
Your eyes stayed locked on the arena. Rhett would be out anytime soon. That’s when you hear the announcer call his name, the roar of the people—those few seconds when he's in the zone.
________________
Foggy windows. Crowded limbs. A slight rocking.
He's kissing you. Smiles and breathless laughs. A drunken happiness blooms when you lift your hips to slip your panties. It's a workout— thighs tacky and sticking together— the already present wetness suctioning your skin to them. You're infected by his energy. Something buzzes in the air.
For eight seconds, Rhett held on to that bull. He rolled onto the dirt ground as the rodeo clowns wrangled the animal behind him. He stood tall, looking for you in the area where he had left you. And then he wrung his neck to the stands where he spotted you. He paused—you could tell something was wrong— but then his name and score were called by an overly enthusiastic man with a thick accent, and Rhett reanimated.
The kisses are long and sweet. Sliding entirely off the seat, backs pressed to the ground. It's so cramped and small. Legs bump into the backs of the seats. It's uncomfortable, but that doesn't matter.
His kisses run down your neck. Wet patches of saliva hit the skin there.
A hand on the back of your neck, holding your head up, steadying your posture. The sound of his buckle coming undone, the fast huffs of air. The zipper falling.
A hand on yours, guiding you through the motions. Nostrils flaring, he wraps his fingers around his cock, hard and twitching.
You climb onto his lap, straddling the sides of his thighs, “You did good out there,” you say breathlessly.
You can hear a huff near your ear.
“Maybe.’’
Rhett rolls you to your back. You're still smiling when he pulls your thighs apart.
Lips on your jaw. It's frantic. “You had fun?”
You hum in agreement, nodding your head. Chest rising in anticipation. The wet sensation is starting to pool between your legs.
You shake your hips a little. He takes the hint and positions himself. He chokes when he pushes the first inch in. A jam inside your walls, suctioning him in. He gasps, his brows— even in the dark— illuminate the crease in his forehead.
The stretch stings and makes your eyes flutter. He’s slowly watching your expression shift.
He grabs your hips tightly. A few methodical pumps— a warmup of what's to come. But he stops midway.
Confused and waiting, you wiggle, but he stops you.
“You know him,” he says lowly.
“Wha— what are you talking about?”
“That guy.” He tilts his pelvis, pressing deeper. “I saw him.”
“Rhett—”
He pushes in forcefully. No warning. You pant. A moan escapes.
Rolling his hips, you brace your hands on his stomach.
“He works for my dad,” you cough out.
“That's why you wanted to go so bad. So you could see him.”
His hands move to your waist, fingers gripping the skin tightly.
“Say his name,” Rhett whispers, “I know you remember him.”
You strain to move. To distract him. But he won't let you.
“You thought about him, didn't you. His hands. His mouth…,” his voice is low and charged.
“Stop that,” you say, turning your head away from him.
“No,” he growls, “look at me. I want you to think about it. Picture it.”
He drags his cock out and holds your head to face his.
Your gut twists. He slides a hand between your thighs. He lifts it up to your face. Fingers glistening in the low light. “Would you let him? Let him taste you?”
He wipes it on your thigh, pressing forward, the tip of his dick glides in—your back arches.
“He'd probably grab you. Pull you somewhere dark,” the wet slick’s coating his dick.
“I'd love to see that.” his eyes are glassy and far off. “Letting him do whatever he wants to my wife.”
The word wife feels like a slap.
“You'd be crying. Begging me to help…” he says, looking away from you. “But I wouldn't stop it. I'd watch. Maybe you'd like it.”
“This isn't funny,” you snap, “You're disgusting.” Your hands move to push at his chest. He's solid. Unmoving. He pins you down with his chest, and his cock throbs.
“Yeah,” he grins lazily. Dark. “And, you're still clenching me.”
Your face burns red hot.
“He'd flip you over, shove your face in the dirt. Keep going.” He's gathering speed. He's breathing heavier like one of the bulls he rode not too long ago.
He leans down, closing his eyes, gathering your hands on his chest.
“I’d be stroking myself. Thinking of how sweet you sound when you beg.” Strands of hair fall from his face. His eyes open, bearing something…
“You want something different. I see how you look at me sometimes.”
“No,” you try to move away, but he's not letting go.
“Liar.”
Forehead to yours, a drop of sweat drips off onto your cheek. With each thrust, your breasts are in constant motion. Nipples brushing beneath your top. Obscene squealches. The sound of slick. The shock of the noises had died, turning into a uniformed chorus.
Always on the verge but never quiet. There. He stops when he senses you grasping him.
You try to hide it by biting your lip, holding your breath, but you know he can feel the stiffening. He bucks harder, vigorously, and earnestly.
You feel him coming. The sputtering of his hips, the tightening grip on your hips, the brutal rhythm growing desperate.
You didn't like him finishing inside, and as embarrassing and demeaning as it was, you preferred for him to pull out and finish on you. But he kept going, lifting you up to a new angle, his eyes closed as he was going faster and harder. It didn't matter to him. You grabbed his wrist, nails digging in. “Rhett—” you moan out.
A warm spillage, and you knew he was done. Still inside, he pulled out. Liquid threatened to drip onto the floor.
You knew it was safe, you were on the pill, still, nothing in life is ever guaranteed.
With no towel. You shift to keep it from dripping. Without saying a word, he adjusts himself, puts on his pants, and crawls to the front seat as you lie in the back.
You expect the silence, the cold.
The engine turns on, and so does the heater.
The truck idles. Leather seats shift. “I didn’t mean to…” he sucks his teeth. “I just. I don't know. I don’t think sometimes.”
Looking at you from the small mirror. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” he reaches down and hands you an old flannel shirt. “Here.”
You grab it, but he doesn’t let go.
“I don't know how to be good at this,” he says as he drops the shirt in your grasp.
Your chest compresses. You want to believe him. Believe he wouldn’t hurt you.
He puts the truck in gear, and the ride home is hushed. Trees blur, and your head sways.
_________________
It got worse after that day. The leash grew shorter.
He was softer. Gentler. His voice lowered, rich, and slow. You want to get lost in it, but the memories of him describing those acts lingered stubbornly at the back of your mind. He made it seem inevitable.
You tensed, and you thought he noticed, but he doesn’t comment.
He didn’t stop you from wearing your colors anymore, bright and bold. His eyes flickered over you. Approval? Or something darker? You decided on your own that the clothes would remain subdued.
After a while, private trips to the grocery store transformed into rides with him instead. The radio was off. His fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. His arm rested around your waist. He’d angle his body in front of you when someone asked for directions.
An older lady commented on how cute a couple you were, how well you matched, and how your family had grown to fit into the standards of Amelia County.
The only thing missing was a healthy baby, preferably a boy; girls were always a hassle, she said, laughing.
It was getting to be too much, but then the final straw: You spent many nights alone while he was at the bar. You let him go, catching up on painting and cleaning. But despite his brother's annoyance, Rhett began drinking more at home. Here, there was no one to cut off his drinks.
“If I'm stuck, we should at least do it right.”
Hearing those words spoken so brazenly and without care, it hurt you. And you knew he meant them.
It hadn’t hurt when your wardrobe altered, your home transformed, or your life rearranged—but this did.
Lying in bed, your thoughts wandered.
Having a baby is what a man should do. Maybe this is the new goal. It's not supposed to be logical. There is no logic in Wyoming, only check marks.
A family wouldn't change what was between you; it would only make the foundation shakier. You wouldn't stay to see it crumble.
In your thin night gown, wrapped tight, you left his bed.
Rubber rainboots. Half-done hair. A packed blue suitcase from under your bed filled with clothes that you didn't wear anymore. Money from your father. Rhett didn't like handouts.
A creak of the door and you're gone. Running toward the truck and slinging your bag into the back. Hands shaky as they unravel the mess of keys. An unsteady aim of insertion when you do find the right one. A gasp when it slips to the floor.
A motion sensor light from a shed turns on, shining through the clear windows, blinding and scorching.
Rhetts appears in the front—an apparition.
He floats to your door. Opens it. A faint hand leading you back home.
He sits you down in one of your giant, clunky dining chairs.
He leans down and removes each boot carefully. Sets them down next to each other.
Callused palms tackle your mane—an impractical desire.
He unpacks your items one by one on the table. His touch airy as if each object could be shattered with just a little more pressure.
He grabs your shoulders, leaning down. Your vision is hazy, but with him being this close, you can make out the pigmented ring around the black pupil.
“We're done. We're gonna make this work.”
______________________
1 year later.
Looking at you from afar. The room is stuffy. Dead skin cells and dust mites float around the room. You had asked for an air purifier, but Rhett said that boys needed real air.
He's in the doorway. Dirtied forehead and shirt. Hats covering his features.
The room is quiet, the only thing that cuts through:
“I don't think it's right for a kid to grow up alone.”
Lying the kid down on a soft blanket.
“He don’t look like me,” he drawls.
You resisted the urge to correct him. No. He doesn't look anything like you.
Hi I really enjoy your dark Rhett Abbott fics I don’t know if your open to requests but I had idea for a dark Rhett Abbott x reader x where Rhett and the reader are married of course she felt like she didn’t have a choice it more of arrange marriage between Her and Rhett’s families and Rhett is controlling and abusive in their marriage he controls her over everything what she wears she not aloud to go out of the ranch unless it’s either with him or she goes to the rodeo with his family she not aloud to talk to anyone especially men which has effected her relationship with both her family and friends but the reader plans to leave Rhett especially now his planning to expand their family
TW: creepy behavior, photos without consent, themes of control
Summary: Miles Miller is the kind of man who prays before he touches you. But he touches you anyway. Fleeing a broken life, you find a different kind of cage in Miles — a hotel clerk whose quiet kindness masks a possessive obsession. What begins as shelter turns slowly into surveillance, into dependence, into something that doesn’t quite feel like love… but doesn’t feel like safety, either.
★★★★★
Morning.
You're awake, but you don't open your eyes. You can sense the time. The early light filters through the shut blinds and warms your face. As much as you don't want to move, your body aches —limbs begging for comfort. Still, you remain as you are.
You're not lying down on the bed—you're sitting on a loveseat, nightgown pulled on after Miles had his “event”. You feared he would cling to you, pull you back down—instead, he cried himself to sleep.
You didn't know what to expect. Perhaps a rustling of the covers or a snore, but there's nothing.
One eye cracks open. Squinting, you can make out a figure on the bed. A large lump with legs twisted, a lack of a visible head, and a body covered with pale, sprawled arms.
You lift your heavy head, inspecting the scene. Clothes lie on the ground. The light on the nightstand is still on.
You hear him then. A low groan escapes him.
Your heart jumps, no, it freezes. You hold your breath in. When nothing else comes, you peel away from the seat, careful not to activate the springs beneath you.
Still in your nightgown, you tiptoe your way to a robe and pristine white slippers laid on a stray chair and pull the strings tightly around your waist.
Using your fingers, you pry the door open. Dry heat and no wind attack your senses. You squint. You shut the door behind you with as much care as you had opening it.
Detached from the room, you begin the slow walk to the lobby. You begin to think.
You knew you couldn't stay here; a disgust had been building since last night.
That feeling of comfort has vanished. If you leave, would Miles make it? Have a good life, I mean.
Cracks were already there when you got here, but you chose to ignore them. Miles would probably try to hold you back, but you couldn't have that happen.
If Miles stayed focused on the Hotel, managing it, a distraction, things would work out. Miles would let you leave because he was kind and because there was a fundamental need to right the wrongs of his past, whatever they were.
The lobby comes into full view. Those large, heavy mahogany doors will save you. A separate room away from Miles, a chance to gather your things— your keys, your clothes, the little money in your possession—maybe on the Nevada side. Then you can finally leave.
As you push open the doors, a melancholic heaviness settles in your chest. A realization of what would come afterwards enters you as you remember your troubles. An uncertain future. Shortage of money, no connections, nowhere to go.
Juke box off, TV off, no people, no noise. A stillness in the air, you journey to the cabinet behind the desk.
Your hands are clammy; you don't know why. It's a struggle to open the cabinet of keys.
When you do, it takes a moment to realize what's in front of you, or rather what isn't in front of you. Nothing.
It's completely bare.
Paralyzed, the gears in your mind begin to turn once more.
You blink, and walking backward, you spin. The door. The one behind the desk. You grab and shake it. You slam it with your side. When the sweat starts to pool on your forehead, you leave it be.
Under the desk, you shuffle around, looking for something—OW! You lift your hand up and see a prick on your finger. You shake it. Continuing on, you grab the small plastic case containing the knife, and you unwrap it.
You jam it into the gap between the door and its frame.
When it's done, you head to the closet.
The hallway leading to the closet is dark. It's hard to find the entrance to the closet. Your hand on the wall helps lead you to your destination.
The pounding of your heart grows with each step. You swore you would never return here. But something, let's call it a force from the universe, is compelling you.
The closet door is still ajar; maybe it can't be closed.
Hand hovers over the wood, separating the view from inside. You pushed through with a shaky hand.
A pitch black room. But you can still discern the smell of the stale, earthy mattress Miles slept on.
You lower yourself until your hand lands on the small lamp nestled on the cabinet of towels and cleaning supplies.
When that's done, you turn on the other small lamp next to his mattress. Those two puny lights help you perceive the room.
It's a mess, just like how it was at the beginning. An irrational fear rises— that whatever made Miles break for him to become like this might overtake you, too.
With the tips of your fingers, you cautiously shift the towels and linens around. When it seems like there's nothing around you, use your slipper-covered foot to move his flat, dirty mattress to the side. Nada.
You swipe your foot over the crookedly made desk, careful not to drop anything.
Finally, you cave, dropping to your knees. You move things around, taking in how things were placed so you could move them back to where they were.
You grow more desperate as time ticks by. Frustration builds. Your movements are getting chaotic.
There's so much junk. Letters, handwritten notes, and film canisters, so many canisters—was there a theater somewhere?
You grunt loudly, slamming the canister down. The lid pops open on impact.
Notes fly out, photos scatter. One catches your attention the most. Claire. The last guest you had met in this deserted area.
Her pose is high and rigid. Hair clean and polished, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off her heels, another hand near her cheek, rearranging an earring—soft, diffused lighting. The wallpaper looks familiar.
You remember how she acted when she arrived, always looking around. Could she sense what you did? An inescapable loneliness, but with every action feeling amplified. Was it all contrived?
All you knew for sure was that Claire didn't take these; Miles did.
TW: power imbalance, handjobs, sexual harassment, DARK (reader beware)
Summary: You're a tired maid at the El Royale, ready to go home. But Miles, the manager, is in your room. Now you have to pick: fight him or keep your job.
★★★★★
A tired night working at the El Royale. Guests were rowdy; although there weren't many, it got tiresome. Running around, scrubbing rooms, and fake smiles at all the requests. Your feet felt so heavy afterwards. The heels of your feet pounding, the arches burning. You needed this job. There weren't many places that were looking to hire someone like you. You had people depending on you back home.
Soon you'll relax. Just a short walk to your room. Just a short walk. You repeat the mantra over and over again.
The sides of your shirt cling to the sides of your waist with a film of sweat as you approach the rented little cabin behind the hotel. Your hand reaches into your bag, rushing to pull out the key from the bottom.
It's hard to find anything in there. Wrappers, coins, receipts, lipstick, expired coupons all block the view.
Eventually, you do. Inserting into the keyhole and twisting the knob. You hear a commotion. Your hand remains glued to the door. Holding your breath in, your eyes widen. Hand fixed on the doorknob, ears pointed, concentrating on the noises. You don't move.
With a steady hand, you reach into your purse again. A thick, smooth plastic coating the outside of a Swiss Army knife.
You were no stranger to defending yourself.
This wouldn't be any different. There weren't many things you possessed, but what you did have, you protected dearly.
You unwrap the knife from its compact form, revealing the sharp edge. One foot in front of the other. Shoulders hunched, your free arm covers the front of your body.
You open the door as wide as it goes in case things don't go your way. The room is dark, with a single white bed pressed against the wall, green walls only making it more obscure, but a small lamp lights the little cabin.
Your eyes quickly scan the area. Something catches your eye, and you don't know whether it's the shadow or a slight movement of the covers rustling, but whatever it was, you knew what you had to do.
You wouldn't give them a chance.
Pushing down the pain of your feet and the aching of your back, you made your steps as light as you could make them.
Just as you were about to fight for your life, a "Wait, wait, wait," cuts through the dark. A figure scrambling back, pleading. He sits up from the ground. Both hands raised.
"Miles!" You use all your will power not ot shout out profanities. You scoff, "What are you doing here?" He doesn't put his hands down, it's only then that you notice your still raised knife so close to his face.
Lowering it. Your face scrunches. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"
He doesn't say anything. He only looks at you with those wide eyes. A child like shame making him appear younger than he was.
You're annoyed and tired. You want to yell at him. Kick him out, do something. But you can't, you can't do any of that.
You always tried your hardest to be nice to Miles. Polite at least. He was only a kid. After all, most people never were. But it didn't justify how he looked at you now.
He made himself look so little. So you say "sit," and Miles sits on the carpet, back against the edge of your bed, awaiting punishment. He outranked you, and maybe that's why it was so hard to say no.
"Don't tell anyone," his voice cracks. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just curious..." he trails off.
He keeps rambling, but it's a drone. You kneel, knees aching as you hit the floor. As you did, your gaze lifts to the open door. With cold practicality, you stand to pull it back—the click of finality.
"Breathe miles. Calm down," you sit again, he nods quickly, shutting up.
"I wanted to be close," he whispers.
You don't want to know what that means, but it seems Miles does. His shaking fingers pull his shirt off.
Your brows knit.
Then his pants. Folded. Set to the side.
And without any warning, he's in his boxers. All of this seemed rehearsed. What the hell did he think this was?
Miles lies back like he was offering himself. Like you're the one that needed to be soothed. Exposed. Naked. His chest rising and falling. He's not entirely built. There's a thin layer of fat on him—a soft layer. But you knew the truth was that as soon as you pressed down on him, there would be hard muscle underneath. The light focuses on the delicate fibers rising around his chest.
A long pause between you. Maybe if you reached out, you could end this, whatever this was before it went too far.
You brush a hand over him. Fingertips running over his chest, he looks like he's straining not to move, not to shiver. Your knees hurt. The carpet digging in, but you ignore it for what you can see now.
He's not looking at you. He's looking at the ceiling. He's breathing in so slowly like he was sleeping. You have to look at his face to see if he is sleeping. He looks so nervous. There's a faint pulse in his neck. His hands clenched to his sides.
You lean down to the side of his head. "It's okay, Miles."
He says nothing. But you can see him swallow, hear the lump in his throat traveling down.
Your lips purse, and with a delicate hand, you grab his chin, pulling it towards you.
Gaze fully locked on you. You notice all the details in his eyes. Pupils so large and dark they make his blue look like a pool of tar. You almost want to recoil from it.
You stay planted. Still leaning down on him, you run a hand over his cheek. He opens his mouth, and you insert your thumb, running it along the inside of his cheek. Warm and wet. Your thumb gliding over the rubbery, slick muscle. He closes his eyes, wrapping the rest of his mouth around your digit, sucking. The middle of his eyebrows smoothed out.
You run your thumb on his tongue, a shudder escaping him.
Miles's thin boxers tent up. A bulge growing underneath. His inner thighs clench and release. He spreads his legs wide, an unconscious invitation. He continues to suck, his cheeks hollowing.
You don't think he notices the soft rolling of his hips. Perhaps it was the sensation on your thumb, or maybe it was the visual before you, you don't know, but a spark between your own legs made it hard to concentrate on the task. You clench your jaw; it's not desire, it's just your body reacting.
He lets go suddenly with a moist pop. Your thumb is wet and glistening. Miles grabs it, kissing your hand before you can wipe away his saliva on your work shirt.
You're doing this to shut him up. To keep things quiet. Safe.
You know what you have to do. It's not something you'll be proud of in the morning. Miles' eyes shine glossily; he needs release, a comfort only you can give.
If you don't, would he refuse to leave? Run and tell others how he'd been in your room? A ripple effect on your job.
As a maid, you were already disposable. Easy to replace.
You squint your eyes, wouldn't it make you feel better to just leave him like this? To let him wallow in his own pitiful pool of disgusting desire.
You shake your head. Just get it over with.
You grab the elastic edge of his boxers. Miles lifts his hip, his half-hard cock springing free bopping his abdomen beads of precum forming at the soft pink tip.
He lets out a whimper. His face is a deep red. Unable to meet your gaze, he looks away at something you couldn't even see. The wallpaper? The lamp?
Your veins pump softly. "Do you want me to touch you?" you ask. You feel like a mother asking her son if he needed help cleaning up a mess.
His stomach clenches. He nods. You ask again louder, "Do you want me to touch you?"
"Yes... Please," he whispers.
Your hand gathers the pooling liquid at the tip, coating his length, making it slick and shiny—a tiny mewl on each stroke. Thighs trembling.
You stroke slower, wanting to make him last longer. To keep him in that pathetic, needy state. He's growing in your tight grasp—his head and back arching.
Without warning, he springs up. Arms wrapping around you, dragging you down. He kisses you. It's sloppy, desperate. His tongue forces its way into your mouth. His dick presses up against your work shirt, you can feel a damp spot growing.
All you can let out are mumbles as you push away from him. He's surprisingly strong despite his small frame.
"Miles. Let. Go," you manage to mumble.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out, lips quivering, "I...I just need you." Tears glitter his water line.
That's no excuse, you say to yourself, but you don't say that to him. You pull out a sickly, sweet smile. "It's ok, Miles," you lie, "let's just help you out," you say.
You push him down on the carpet again. Your hand is shaking when you grasp him.
He nods. Those tear-filled eyes come again. You grip him tighter, your palm gliding over the head, you don't look at his face, your mind is just on the thought of not throwing up.
He gasps, his hips stuttering and bucking in your hand. You know he's close, you just have to squeeze a little tighter, twist your wrist just enough. His twitching and throbbing, short pants, body locking up, and a high-pitched noise fill the room.
Then a sudden release, ribbons of cream coating your fingers and onto his stomach and the carpet. You already knew who had to clean that up.
Hand sticky. You sit there, heart pounding. He reaches out to you again, seeking comfort.
You don't move.
"I never meant to scare you," he said in a small voice.
He crawls toward you. He's exposed covered in sweat and cum. He brushes a hand on your cheek. "Please don't be mad." He bites his lip
You look down at his softening dick. Red and puffy, returning to its normal size.
Maybe he thinks you're looking at the mess, and he looks down too. "I'll clean it up, I swear".
"Get dressed, Miles," you say, "and leave."
You wait for the door to close. Then you cry, only for a minute, before pulling yourself together.
Does not contain graphic content, but warning: Some harassment, suggestive behavior, and creepy Bob, unwanted kissing
Summary: You're just playing around — or at least you think you are. Bob offers a ride, and things get weird.
✦✦✦✦✦
You're dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a light sweater wrapped around your waist. A layer of sunscreen on your skin. Greasy. San Diego heat can be comfortable…as long as you stay in the shade. Of course, here at the fair, there is no shade. The sun shines on you like a kid magnifying ants.
You thought it’d be fun to go on the Fourth of July. You go here every year on this day.
The thing was that as often as you came on this day, you always regretted it. You kept thinking it’ll be different this time, but it never was.
You and your friend have food: one of those rice chicken bowls in a half-pitted pineapple. It's big and clunky. You've already taken a bite with your flimsy plastic fork, and yes, it's cold. Again, you did this last year. When will you learn?
Both of you have spent the last twenty minutes trying to find the few shaded canopy seats to no avail.
There are so many people around, swarming. All your steps are small, afraid of bumping into people. You have to hold onto Elena, your friend, shoulder to keep from losing one another.
Music blares from the vendors on the right, left, back, and front. Country music, Mexican music, hip-hop, and pop all blend into a soup of noise.
You hear your name suddenly. Loud, even with all the commotion and people.
You whip your head from side to side, scanning the countless faces blurring like watercolors.
Your name's called again, and this time it's closer. You see him. Mickey.
Mickey, aka “Fanboy,” calls you over with an exaggerated wave. You shift Elena over to him. He turns his back, and you assume he wants you to follow.
Leading you to the very back, almost behind the vendors. The music lulls, and you're taken to some sort of garden. You've never been here before. Hell, you didn't even know this place existed.
Before you can say anything, you see it—a table with empty chairs. Sweet relief.
You almost drop your bowl when your friend practically runs to the seat.
You, on the other hand, take your time. Your steps are heavy and sluggish. Maybe seeing the seat from afar activated your brain to acknowledge just how tired you already were.
You plop into the metal chair, and it finally dawns on you how many people you know in the area.
Nearly all are Fanboy’s “squad,” all dressed in plain clothes.
Pizza boxes and plastic cups of beer sprawled on the table. Many of them were talking to one another. It feels like someone just plopped the Hard Deck in the middle of the little garden.
You look around, really taking it all in. It's fresh. A large awning covers the area, and green bushes surround the sides.
Other tables in the garden have memorable faces. A gaggle of girls gathered around Hangman, Coyote, and some of the other handsome men.
When you're finished looking around, Phoenix gives you a silent nod across the table. You raise your hand and give her a small wave.
“You tried those deep-fried Oreos yet? I've been getting Bob to try them since we got here.”
She nudges her elbow, and you finally see Bob right next to her.
His shoulders slumped, picking at the slice of pizza in front of him. You wouldn't have noticed him if she hadn't named him.
“CUZ!” A booming voice in your ear makes you flinch. Fanboy slides the chair closer to you and your friend, and you can't help but notice how your friend stiffens next to you when he nears. You internally shake your head. That’ll be a problem for later.
“It took me forever to find you, " he says, picking up a piece of pizza, the cheese stretching in the process. “Ma told me you'd be here,” he adds.
You can only hum at that. You pick at your chicken, taking a slice in your mouth, sweet and savory, but still cold.
“Don't be rude, offer them a slice,” Phoenix scolds.
“Oh dang. Here,” Fanboy places two plates before you and Elena. He opens the box and slides it toward both of you.
You're happy for the option, but a tiny part of you feels guilty over having spent the money on the overpriced pineapple. Oh well. At least you still had enough money to buy good seats for the fireworks.
Fanboy leans in his seat, wiping away at his greasy fingers.
“Alright, now that you've been fed. Booth seats?”
Hello? You raise your eyebrows mid-bite.
You lower it. “You offering me VIP treatment? What about Hangman, Coyote, your other friends?”
“Trust, they already made plans,” he says, shaking his head, looking at the ever-growing crowd of women.
“Cmon. Cushioned seats, free snacks. Oh, free beer,” he wiggles his brows.
“Oh, I know you want to drink,” you widen your eyes for dramatic effect.
“You really wanna sit in those concrete seats?”.
“Aye, I like my concrete seat,” you say sweetly, “builds character”.
Fanboy throws his hands. “Convince her, Elena.”
Elena looks up from her soda, clearly trying not to blush. “I mean it does sound nice”.
You give her a side-eye, “Now, whose side are you on?”
You brush the crumbs from your jeans. “I don't want to be rude-”
“You are,” Fanboy interrupts.
“Like I said, I don't want to be rude, but I already planned everything out. Middle seats to the right. I've been coming here for years.”
Fanboy rolls his eyes dramatically.
“Free food, free seats? You want me to steal your uniform and join the Navy?” you ask pointedly.
“Hell no, you'd scare the admirals.”
“You scared?” you say, smirking.
“I know you bite,” he points at you with his plastic cup.
You glance at Bob. “You scared, too?”
Bob blinks. His mouth opens and closes, caught off guard, “Should I be?”
“Probably.” You stretch in your seat, the hem of your shirt riding. You notice him glancing before snapping to your face.
Phoenix looks at Bob catching him. She coughs and hides her grin.
“You already got my attention. I think that’s pretty dangerous,” he says quietly.
Your smirk falters for half a breath.“Careful there, you almost sounded too smooth.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
You raise your brows, a little impressed — a little unsure.
“Dang, Bob,” says Fanboy. “I think you’re getting better at talking to women. I think.”
Eventually, the buzz of the conversation comes to an end. You checked the time, and if you wanted those tickets, now was the time.
____________
It's getting late. The place is starting to cool down. The little, flimsy sweater isn't helping you either.
You approach the older lady behind the glass.
“I was wondering if I could get a ticket-”
“Sorry,” she interrupts. “All tickets have been sold.”
To say you're stunned is an understatement.
“But I'm here early, how is that -”
“Online. All bought up.”
You clench your jaw. Of course.
“You can still head to the front of the park to see everything. Course, you'll have to hurry.”
You nod. It's no use running to the other side of the stadium. It's probably already packed, too.
You turn back to your friend, shaking your head.
Her shoulders slump, deflating.
You and Elena head outside. The weather is getting cooler. Evening. 6:30ish.
“Now what?” she says. Kicking a pebble.
“I guess we'll just have to walk around, maybe ask someone who works here where the next best seats are.” You walk for a moment and, sensing nothing behind you, you turn around, and she's gone.
Your heart hammers. Where—
You see her walking in one of the exhibits dug into the stadium—a craft museum, one that catered to minerals and wood carvings.
You run in when you see her next to the Fanboy. Seriously!
You sigh. And get closer. They're looking at Amethyst. She's giggling, and honestly, you're not even gonna bother to understand the appeal of the rock and of Fanboy.
You spot Bob and Phoenix at the other end of the exhibit. Phoenix is gesturing at the wooden sculpture. Bob's nodding along a slow, patient nod, one that told you he had no idea what he was being told but wasn't about to say so out loud. You don't think they saw you yet.
You lean on the display next to them.
Fanboy looks at you. “So I've been told the tickets are sold out.” You squint, and Elena gives you a pointed look.
“Told you to come with us,” he hands a ticket to Elena, who gladly accepts and holds the other out for you.
“Or would you rather stand and fight with a crowd?”
“No, it's fine. I'll go”.
After half an hour of wandering the museum, you, along with Elena and Fanboy, all climb the stairs. It's starting to feel like you're a third wheel. Both of them are so close. You cringe. You're not opposed to love or your friend's happiness. But what if things didn't work out? It could happen.
As you're all finished climbing up the stairs. Fanboy turns to you. “Well, this is your room”.
“Huh?”
He leaves, and all you hear is a distant “Enjoy the room with Bob”.
____________
In the booth, it's loud and also quiet. Humming comes from behind the closed door; other people filing to their own rooms. Down below, roaring from the crowd, trying to get comfortable sitting down on the hard asphalt.
You blow out a slow breath.
He's there. Waiting. Was this all planned? No, you shake your head.
He doesn't turn to look at you, but his head shifts. You suspect you see his eyes looking at your feet, but you don't even want to think about that too much. You take your place on the thick blue seat. You thump your hand on your thigh and crane your neck to the back, waiting for more people to walk in.
When no one does, you turn to raise an eyebrow at Bob. No use trying to make this awkward. Someone's gotta break the ice. “Milkshake?”
He looks at the cup in front of him. “Uh, yeah, Mint.”
“Looks good,” you nod. He takes a sip. You shiver and lean in your seat, trying to make yourself comfortable. With the warm weather fading, the cold wind begins to pick up. Since the fair was so close to the ocean, it made sense, but that didn't mean you were fully prepared to handle the breeze.
Your head jerks as your eyes suddenly focus on the extended garment.
You open your mouth.
He jiggles it. “Here. I run warm.”
“I bet you do,” you say, a sly smile playing on your lips. You grab the jacket, your fingers brushing his in the handoff. He snatches his hand fast. “That's one way to flex on me.”
He gives a shy smile.
“You know.” You lean your face into his, your face so close his eyes darken, flickering to your lips. “That milkshake looks so good, I might have to steal it off your lips.”
Already close to him, he leans in more. Your heart pounds, and he adjusts the jacket higher up your shoulders.
You lean back and drape the jacket over your shoulders like a blanket.
You know you shouldn't play around like that. It's been a while since you did. And considering the last time you did…
Something gnaws at the back of your head. “Anyone else coming in?”
“Well, I think so. Else it's a waste of money.” Another sip.
He gave you his jacket. You have it over yourself not wearing it. It's just sprawled over your body for now. You'll give it back to him later. An arm next to yours. You can feel the warmth.
It feels like every millisecond he gets closer to you. You try to focus all your attention on the lights and the fireworks popping into the sky. Whenever a light runs up the dark sky, you wait for the boom and the explosion of light. You don't want to turn to face him. You're scared of getting caught off guard; if you move your eyes away, you know you'll jump.
Warm breath, minty, on your collarbone, you feel a shiver crawling up your spine, but you suppress it. It creeps higher. Now you can feel it on your cheek. Your heart thumps. You still focus on the lights, but now you don't notice the colors or the presentation.
Do you look at him? Will it encourage him to go further? If you move now, will he think you're rude? Tell others how much of a bitch you are? No, he wouldn't do that. He's a nice guy.
You almost look at him. But call it weird, you want to wait until after the last moment. You wanted to wait for the barrage, the grand finale. A fantastic cathartic moment to end the night with. It was your favorite, and that moment can't be ruined.
There's a moment when nothing happens, but then it starts. People cheer, a series of unbursted shells are launched into the already smoky sky. The symphony of explosions, patriotic music swelling. A hand on your forearm. Pulling. Your head shifts to him, but your eyes remain glued in place.
When things are finally down and the last two lift-offs ascend, your eyes finally land on Bob. He's staring at you with a glazed and glossy look, gawking directly at your lips.
He tilts his head, leaning in, his eyelids gradually closing.
“I thought about this a lot,” he says lowly. “I kept thinking it had to mean something when you laughed or when you looked at me.”
Your stomach drops, and he continues to lean in.
You move your head back when you realize what's about to happen, but it's too late. Your noses smash awkwardly together.
His lips lock on yours, and a hand moves to the back of your neck, preventing you from moving away.
You move your hands to the front of his chest. Pushing him. As much as you would like to think of him as small and weak, his chest is firm. Obviously, since he was in the military, he needed to be healthy and up to date on his fitness.
You don't want to think of Bob's lips on yours, how soft they were, and you definitely don't want to think of Bob's tongue swiping across your bottom lip, asking, no begging to enter.
A small sound escapes his throat. Perhaps a way to encourage you. He applies more pressure, and eventually, your lips part. You don't move. You're frozen. You knew that he was the one who caused this scene, but a small part of you wondered if you really wanted this.
You can taste him. A layer of creamy sweetness from the whipped cream. The smell of the lingering mint is not enough to sting your nose, but it is enough to distract you from the sound of the wet lips smacking, an obscene sound even with the commotion of the fair.
You release a moan, panicked, you're having a hard time breathing. His thigh shifts against yours. He's getting carried away.
You already know that you'll have a hard time pushing him off, so you slide your hands down. Down to his belly.
It flexes under your palm. He shudders. Is he enjoying this? Does he think it's mutual?
A moist pop before you take a large gasp, panting. Even in the dim light, you can see the flush of color on his face, his swollen lips, his chest rising rapidly to catch his breath—a trail of spit on the corner of his mouth. Your lips are wet and raw. Before either of you can say something, the door behind you opens. Your heart drops, and you don't breathe. Your eyes widen.
It's your cousin, Fanboy.
A big, fat smile on his face. His eyes shift from you to Bob and Bob to you again. His smile waning and his eyes squinting. Until a half grin appears.
It hits you at what you think he's thinking. A rush of blood goes to your face. It's hot, burning.
“Sooo… I guess we're catching up on old times,” a twinkle in his eyes.
It felt like a knife cutting you. You couldn't bother to keep looking at them. You turn your attention to a dry patch of gum on the rough floor.
“Yeah, something like that,” you hear Bob mumble.
You hastily stand up, dropping Bob's jacket. Still looking at the ground, you nearly stumble into Fanboy and head towards the stairs where the crowd gathers to leave the stadium.
Stuck behind the slow-moving horde on the escalator, you began to think. You had choices, sure, but what would the others say? You could walk away, but what kinda of explanation could you give them? That you left because you flirted with a guy so much that he thought there could be something, and now you want to act like some sort of victim.
Besides, it was too late to turn back now. A large row of people is already behind you. If you turned around, you would be crushed. Juiced. Like some sort of empty can of soda with a film of liquid still clinging to the inner metal.
Does not contain graphic content, but warning: Some harassment, suggestive behavior, and creepy Bob
Summary: You're just playing around — or at least you think you are. Bob offers a ride, and things get weird.
✦✦✦✦✦
Kids run around, and you almost get knocked down. Instead, you bump into the back of your aunt's plastic chair. She turns around, raising an eyebrow, and you give her a tense smile.
You continue making your way to where your father is flipping the sizzling meat on the grill. From what you can hear, he’s talking with your uncle about Mickey, aka Fanboy; that's what he told you to call him. You think it's dumb. Why did you have to call him that? You weren't in the Navy, but you didn't want to argue with him. What good would that do?
When you got here, you had an almost permanent smile on your face. The sounds of your family, music, and the smell of the food filled your chest, and that was what you felt for the first 20 minutes you were there. But that changed when you overheard your aunt talking about your cousin Mickey and how he was going to bring a friend around. You knew where this was gonna head. Was this the universe punishing you for being too friendly?
You've been avoiding the topic for a while, skirting the many questions your cousin had. Why have you been drifting for a while now?
You didn't want to think about that, about what had happened. You felt a strange sensation in your chest about the previous circumstances. Sometimes, when things were slow at work, which tended to be most evenings when you were there, your thoughts would stray back to that moment, the moment in the car. Small flashes of his hand on your thigh, however brief, made you queasy. You used to laugh it off and tell yourself it was his shyness, his naivety in women, something you could worm out of.
You used to spend all your time after work at the bar, but now you've been avoiding it, opting instead to head directly home. Text messages from Fanboy about meeting at the Hard Deck went unanswered. Finally, he ended up calling you.
“Hello?” you said.
“Aye, where you at?”
“What do you mean?” You clicked the remote and surfed through the TV channels. “I'm chilling.” No response.
You heard him sigh. “Did I do something wrong?”
You bit your lip and leaned back further into your seat.
“No, I'm just… busy.” You were lying, and you knew he knew you were lying.
“Right, I'm not buying that. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, but don't lie. Are you at least okay?”
That was a week ago.
Your foot taps the ground too fast to be in rhythm with the music.
The gate creaked open.
“Hey, everyone, we're here,” Mickey's voice boomed. Your folks near him exchange greetings, handshakes, jokes, and laughter. You can hear them get louder and closer to the table you were at.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second. It was just one second. If you made a big deal now, you’d sound crazy. You force a bubble of laughter up. “Well, I thought you were lost at sea,” you yell out across to Fanboy.
“Eh, nice one, but I know you want us here.”
Us. That's when you finally focus on the figure standing next to Fanboy. He looks awkward. A shuffling weight on each foot.
You will yourself to get up and meet them, your feet heavy.
Now, standing before you, you see them fully. Both of them dressed casually. T-shirts and jeans. You force what you think is a casual smile, but you resist the urge to keep looking at Bob.
You nod your head at them. “Ha, yeah, I want you here. As much as I want a pimple on my back,” you lightly punch Fanboy on his arm; the gesture feels stiff even for you.
“Well,” he pats Bob on the back. “Couldn't leave this one around either. He’s been wanting to catch up.”
Fanboy grins, his arms still over Bob. “He's a good guy, this one…” He leans in closer to you, his voice dropping just a bit. “Just remember what we talked about. Be encouraging,” he gives you a quick smile.
You push whatever feeling you have down your chest, and you turn and look at him. Really, look at him. He’s wearing those Aviator glasses, the ones that hid too much of his expression. His head is tilted down, but he's still looking at you through his eyelashes. He gives a lopsided smile.
“What are you trying to stalk me now? I thought I was safe at my own home.” You try to keep your voice light and playful.
He moves his head up, and a familiar red starts to creep up his neck. That's what I've been missing, you think.
“Ha, good one,” Fanboy says rather loudly. “See, I told you you'd like this place. C'mon, let's take a seat.”
You, Fanboy, and Bob all slide into the chairs. Others offer drinks. Fanboy gets a beer, and Bob waves away his in favor of a lime soda. You get one, too.
Fanboy looks around. “So they still making you work at the bakery.”
“What do you mean by making me? My family owns that place.”
“Funny, I figured they'd kick you out by now,” he says. Bob offers a “mm-hmm” and a faint smirk your way. Fanboy laughs. You try to focus on Fanboy, but in the corner of your eye, Bob is focusing all his attention on you, even when he takes a sip of his soda.
You manage to let out a brittle laugh as you try to regain control. “Careful, Bob. You're gonna make Fanboy think you like my company way too much now.” You give him a quick, exaggerated blink.
Bob doesn't fluster. His gaze is calm, a hint of a smile on his lips. He takes another sip of his soda.
Did your game end, or was this the final straw?
The banter continues, and in a way, it's starting to feel like the bar. Before that moment. The moment in the car.
You're all sitting there taking bites of food. Then, all of a sudden, you hear an aunt calling for Fanboy. “I'll be right back,” he says, pushing out his chair.
Now that he’s gone, you and Bob are all alone. You used to be able to enjoy the silence between the two of you. You’d even find ways to fill it. Some light, playful flirting, but now you were still a bit apprehensive.
“This is better than the Hard Deck, isn't it?” You raise an eyebrow at that and lean forward. Bob’s voice is quiet. “You looked at me differently that night. I remember. I'm sorry if I… misread things.”
He doesn't say anything else. Instead, Fanboy arrives back in his seat. Bob finally looks away from you, and things turn back to the way they were.
Warnings: dark Miles Miller, dubious consent, power imbalance, mentions of drug use and trauma, emotional manipulation, oral (female receiving)
Summary: Miles Miller is the kind of man who prays before he touches you. But he touches you anyway. Fleeing a broken life, you find a different kind of cage in Miles — a hotel clerk whose quiet kindness masks a possessive obsession. What begins as shelter turns slowly into surveillance, into dependence, into something that doesn’t quite feel like love… but doesn’t feel like safety, either.
★★★★★
Your knees hit the ground near his makeshift bed. He grabs your shoulders, pulling you closer. You can't make sense of what's happening. Your heart starts to beat a little faster. You glance around the room more. The picture of the woman to your right starts to look… familiar. A slight resemblance to Miles?
His head is in your neck. You can feel a faint dampness in the curve where his face rests. His arms wrapped around you. You can feel his chest rising, a noise coming from his chest—a slight whimper.
You pat his back, half comforting and half signaling to him to back off. He's so desperate for you. In a way, you are almost disgusted. He's crying. Yes, you comforted him at his lowest at the very beginning, but now it’s unappealing. Maybe it's the new context of the situation. Now you find him deplorable.
You can't help the gesture on your face—a wrinkle in between your eyebrows. Your lips are threatening to curl and reveal a flash of teeth.
You grab his upper arms, prying yourself away. Just far enough to look at his face. His eyes are wide and foggy. His chin shakes. His shoulders are hunched, making him seem smaller.
“Miles…” you say slowly. “What's going on?”
He swallows. “I… I need it. I need an escape,” he whispers to you.
You shake your head. “An escape from what?”
“It helps me forget. Forget the things I saw.” he looks away, seeming to focus on a crack in the ground. “The things I did”.
For the most part, you knew he was in the war. You knew he felt some guilt, but you were never given all the details. You never wanted to pry, fearing he would block you off. On the rare occasions you did talk about the war, his jaw would wind tight, and a film of haze would cover his eyes.
“I'm not the man you think I am.” his voice is barely audible.
You're right, you think; I didn't think this was what you were up to, but you don't say that to him.
Growing up, your parents and the people around you were conservative in their view. Those who participate in such activities are considered criminals in your hometown, and you held the same opinion, but now, someone in front of you made you feel different. This man didn't make you think criminal; rather, you felt immense pity.
“Say something…” he finally lets your arm go, his shaking hand grabbing at yours. “Please…”.
What can I say, you think?
“Help me,” he says urgently. “I don't want to be like this,” his voice breaking.
A weight settled in your chest. “Ok…ok. I think we can do something about this”. You give a short nod.
His shoulders seem to relax, and a small smile touches his lips.
______
Miles was different. He disappears and then reappears, seemingly clearer, and then gone again. You told yourself he was getting better; you want him to get better. Meanwhile, the hotel clings to you tighter. Your responsibilities are growing. Now, you're the one cleaning and making coffee. You didn’t think it was possible that the hotel could be even lonelier, but with Miles gone…
A ringing and the sound of the large brown doors being opened. You see a woman. Clean looking, polished compared to you. You wore the extra uniform that was kept behind the desk. It was ill-fitting and tight at the same time. She carried two large pieces of luggage by her side, and even though she looked more polished and clean compared to you, she reminded you of yourself; she carried an uncertainty and a bit of hope on her face.
Her heels click as she walks on the stones leading to your desk. She pauses as she eyes you.
“Welcome,” you introduce yourself as you force yourself to remain as cheerful as you can.
“Hello, I'm Claire... I'm looking for a room”.
“Of course.” you leave your desk. You give the same speech that Miles spoke when you first got here.
She nods, and her eyes dart around the lobby before they settle on your face. “Are you always alone here?”
You tilt your head. You open your mouth before closing it shut. Never, at any time since you arrived, did you think to openly question the loneliness.
“I mean,” she says gently, “it must get lonely. Managing this whole place by yourself.” She glances around, maybe to see if someone else might appear.
You shake your head and continue your smile. Deep down, it unnerves you. How can she read you so well? “Well, ma’am, I can help you sign in. The hotel has two options: California and Nevada”.
“I'll take California,” she says softly. It's the pricer option. You get her ready, and she signs the ledger. “You do a wonderful job at maintaining the place.” Her tone is sincere, with a hint of concern. You can't help the chill that runs up your spine.
You have never had a chance to see many guests. Maybe there is something that unnerves them when they arrive, but they always leave as quickly as they come. She turns around, her heels clicking on the worn stones. A brief connection vanished with her. You were alone again.
______
A day after Claire leaves, things turn back to normal. That's how you figured it was.
You finish mopping the grounds. And then you knock on the door right behind the desk, the door that hid Miles when you found him. You tug on your uniform. When you don't hear a response, you sigh, “Good night, Miles.”
You leave the coat and walk out of the lobby. The night makes you feel paranoid. The sounds of the crickets make you feel like you are in one of the few horror movies your parents allowed you to watch.
You get ready for bed—with a nightgown on. You stare up at the ceiling and roll to your side. You feel exposed and watched. You steady yourself and sleep alone on your mattress.
______
A dip in your bed and the low creak of the springs stir you. Not enough to jolt you awake but enough to pull you from the depth.
You feel a presence beside you.
Your eyelids are heavy. It feels impossible to keep them open. Each time you do manage to keep them open, the figure grows clearer.
Its Miles.
His pale skin glowed even in the dark. He reaches out a hand, his fingers brushing over your cheek. You try to pull away, but your body is so heavy.
The bed groans. He sits on the edge with you, his fingers continuing to brush your cheek. His breath is hot as he leans down. He's almost trembling. As you get more awake, you start to notice the look in his eyes. He looks rabid, an animal in a cage. He bites down on his lip. He looks like he is trying to hold himself back. His fingers continue to trace your jaw. He's gentle, but there's a certain urgency to his movements.
Your body is almost fully awake. You squint, trying to focus on him. You open your mouth, then close it; you lean away from his touch and force your hand to grab his hand and pull it away from your face.
He lets out a choked whimper and jolts back. He's breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He fidgets on the corner of the bed.
“Please…” he whispers, “don't pull away.”
"Wha... what are you doing?" you manage to say groggily.
Using all your core strength, you finally lift yourself up. You turn on the light next to your bed. Miles flinches from the brightness, and he comes into full view. He's sweating, his skin glistening, his hair is a mess, and his shirt is crumbled. He looks unhinged.
"Miles," you whisper as you lay a hand on his shoulder.
“I need you,” he says hoarsely.
“What do you mean?”
"I'm trying to get better, I really am... but I..." he shakes his head. "When I'm near you… it's the only time the noises stop."
“What noises?” you scoot closer to him. He looks to be on the verge of tears.
The noises. You can infer their meaning, but you don't voice that out loud. You don't want this, at least not like this, but you know what’s coming, and you don't pull away from Miles when he leans in to give you a kiss.
He’s holding your hand as your lips make contact. He pushes you down with a soft shove; it's not a lot of force, but your back practically bounces down the bed.
His lips are soft. The first time you did this with him, he was trembling. It felt like you were the one giving him something, but now his hands are everywhere, trembling not with fear but with desperation.
His hands land on the straps of your nightgown. You took your time to lower your own bra straps when you first got together, but now Miles almost yanks them down.
He pulls down, and you suck in the air as the wind hits your exposed chest. Your arms fold instinctively, but he takes hold of your forearms, prying them down.
He quickly unhooks it and tosses it aside. You gasped. His mouth lands on one of your buds, the flick of his tongue a wet pressure you recoil from as he sucks on them. Your pulse pounded. He moans into your chest, and you tangle your fingers into the back of his head, grasping at the soft hair, pulling not to encourage him but to pry him off.
His moans grow louder. He finally pulls away with a wet pop, his lips swollen and red—a cold, damp film on your chest where his mouth had been.
He looks feral, his eyes dilated and unfocused. He pulls down harder on your nightgown. “Please… I need more”.
Reluctantly, you shift onto your knees on the bed, slowly peeling the nightgown off, letting it fall before slipping out. You remain only in your panties, the only modesty left.
Meanwhile, without taking his eyes off you, Miles begins unbuttoning his shirt, pulling so hard that one of the buttons flies off. He gets off the bed to take off the rest, only remaining in his loose blue boxers. His erection already tenting underneath the fabric.
He climbs back on the bed, kneeling between your legs and crawling towards you. He grabs one of your calves, anchoring himself as he presses a kiss.
He's digging his fingers into your flesh. His eyes are fixed on your panties, and his breathing is heavy and uneven as he presses kisses along your calf. He moves up and kisses the inside of your knee, pulling them apart. Higher and higher he goes until he reaches your inner thigh.
You don't say anything. All of this is way too much. You want this to stop. Maybe under normal circumstances, this would be fine, but this isn't normal. Miles doesn't seem right.
“You…you want this, don't you? You do. You have to.” he rasps. He hooks his arm beneath your thigh, lifting it slightly as he buries his face in your crotch, inhaling deeply. He presses his face into the fabric of your panties, kissing and sucking through the material.
His nose pushes against your clit. His hot breath dampened the thin material.
“Miles, look at me. I don’t think this is a good idea. You don't seem well”.
He freezes, his face still buried. Then, slowly, he lifts his head up. His eyes meet yours. They're glassy, his eyes so dilated the blue in them almost gone.
You shake your head and sigh. You grab his head, trying to pull him up, but he doesn't budge.
“No,” he growls lowly. It's as if someone flipped a switch. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he shakes his head. “You said you’d help me. That you’d make me feel better”.
"Miles... I meant that I can help you get better. Not that I would make you feel better." you shake your head.
He ignores your words, pulls down your panties in a swift motion, and before you can react, he buries his face in between your legs. You gasp, and your head falls back toward the ceiling. His tongue pushes inside you roughly. He's kissing and licking like it's the only thing that's keeping him sane.
You scoot back, pushing with your elbows and heels to move back from his advances. His hands grip your hips tighter, holding you in place. His tongue is relentless. The slurping and his muffled moans filled in the silence of the room.
His hips rock into the mattress, humping it like a dog as if he couldn't control himself. His nose presses against your clit with each movement.
You feel yourself get wetter, and he spreads your legs farther. The creaks of the springs intensify with his speed. You can tell he's getting close.
And then it comes. You orgasm, and you feel your walls clenching. Your hands shoot down to grab Mile's hair, pulling. A loud moan is released from you.
Miles groans against you, his tongue still deep in you. Perhaps the sudden pull of his hair spurs him to chase his own release.
He gasps, and a slight tremble of his body tells you he's finished. He collapses in between your legs; he slowly lifts his head away from you. A wave of disgust washes over you.
He doesn't look at you, but you can see the red from his neck creeping up to the back of his ears. He slowly starts to pull away, his body shaking slightly. With his back turned away from you, he pulls himself into a ball. His knees to his chest, he begins rocking.
You can't help but let your eyes wander to the wet stain on the bed. You grasp at the sheets next to you, covering yourself. You continue watching him. There was something about the way he moved that made you pause. He reminds you of a small child. Maybe there was a reason no one was around him. Why, he seemed to be alone even when other people came to this hotel. He was just too needy. No one was forcing you to stay chained to this hotel. You left home for a sense of freedom, so why stay here?
Summary: You hide your son and after three years away from Rhett he wants a chat
Muddy grounds, patches of overgrown grass, and the faint, dim yellow lighting. Plastic floorboards with mold under them. It's a crowded place, but this is where your trailer lies. You try to keep everything clean, but the lack of space makes that hard to do.
Money is sparse. You rely on neighbors and your community church to get your necessities—bread and canned veggies. You feel some guilt. You don't want to let your kid feel like there is something missing in his life, so you try everything in your power to make sure he is shielded away from the harsh reality.
Maybe there's a part of you that likes to self-sabotage. Things could have been so much easier. You could have lived on a ranch with clean air and plenty of room for your kid. A sense of freedom. A sense of peace.
This wasn't planned. It started with Rhett; it always started with him.
You were engaged. Things were good. Sure, there were some things you didn't like, but you figured you would deal with all that when you were finally married.
Rhett was kind of sincere. He promised you a future just out of reach, but you were scared of his drinking. Your father had drunk, and you saw how he acted. You didn't want that life for your kid.
Rhett came home late drunk, but it wasn't a daily thing. Maybe it was your fault for nagging him, you thought. You only did it cause you cared for him, but the result ended in a hole through a wall.
In the morning, he held you in his arms. "I'd never hurt you," he'd whisper. You didn't say anything, and sometimes, it feels like you go through this cycle every few weeks.
It happened—a missing period, a panicked trip to the convenience store, a cheap pregnancy test, a stick with your fate at a dollar store bathroom—but now, staring at the two lines, you were calm; you accepted your fate.
You left the store, and a strange calmness overcame you. Things happen that affect how you cope. When things are awful, you just think that's what the universe thought you could handle.
Maybe it was a combination of numbness and acceptance. This was your new reality. When it's time to react, you'll respond.
When Rhett comes home late, you don't get mad, you don't nag, you accept it.
Rhett looks at you, his eyebrows furrowing. He squints his lips tight, but the tension fades; a smile replaces it. Maybe he's thinking, why question a good thing?
You make plans, save what little money you have, and gather your stuff, not all at once. It's slow. Things start to leave your shared room slowly. Shoes go, clothes go, and your shampoo isn't in his bathroom.
You work at some sort of mom-pop shop. They took pity on you and allowed you to work there. Flexible hours and whatnot. You were grateful. How could you not be? Plus, you also get discounts there. The only thing was that your pay was low.
You wave goodbye to the older lady and head out, with a small bag of groceries in your arms, to your little old truck.
You pick up your small boy from your aunt.
"He ate?" you ask, slipping your kid into his seat.
"Yeah, he's real cool...I don't wanna be a bitch, but I'm not gonna be able to take the kid tomorrow. I ha-"
"It's alright," you stop her. "I get it. I'll find someone else."
She raises her eyebrows together, her lips pursed.
"Yeah. Sorry then," she says. She lays a hand on your shoulder. "I'll take him next week." She gives you a short smile.
Your kid is sleeping. The ride home is quiet. You've come to treasure this. No questions, no demands, just the sound of your old truck.
You heard Rhett's name earlier this week—a whisper among the people around your small town—but you ignored it and laughed it off. After all, you hadn't heard that name in a long time.
You pull into the muddy dirt road that leads to your trailer. You feel that tight feeling in your stomach. Maybe it was nothing.
You hop out, careful not to wake him when you get him out of the car.
There's a light in one of the windows. Did you really leave that on? That's what you get for leaving in a rush.
You carry your sleeping kid. His snores light next to your ear.
When you finally reach your door and your hand is on the knob, something starts to feel off. You can't put it into words, but it's a feeling. The only physical change is the way your welcome mat is positioned—crooked. It's small, but it makes you pause. You push the door slightly and take a step inside. That's when you see him—Rhett.
He's sitting on one of your ripped kitchen chairs—the one with a slight tilt. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Instead, his eyes fall on the small, breathing lump you carry on your shoulder. His jaw tightens, and his eyes are cold. They latch onto the familiar curve of his chin, the eyes so similar to his own.
A shift in your arms. Your kid raises their head up slightly. "Mama..." he shifts his head slightly toward Rhett, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Hey there, what's your name, cowboy?" your kid looks at you. He blinks slowly as he looks at you. You give a forced trim smile. You mumble your kid's name.
"That's a nice name...He yours?" he asks quietly. You don't answer. He moves closer, and you resist the urge to move away. The toes in your shoes move anxiously as a way to self-soothe you.
"Well then. I can see you need the sleep; how about you rest up, and I'll talk to Mama?" he taps your son under his chin.
Your kid shifts in your grasp as you walk past Rhett.
You set him down on your mattress in the corner of the room. You tuck him in with his dinosaur blanket. You kiss him and leave.
You turn around, and Rhett is at the doorway. "Let's talk." it's not a yell, but it feels commanding. You nod and head back to your couch.
You sit on the couch, your back straight, your legs unmoving, and you try your hardest not to make your breathing too rapid.
Rhett sits across from you in that same seat. He breathes a long breath through his nose. "How old is he?"
You swallow "Three."
He opens his jaw. You think he's about to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he springs to his feet. You clench your nails in your fist until he's done pacing and sits back down.
The way he looks at you makes you feel like a child.
"When were you gonna tell me?"
You blink. You never liked confrontation, and you weren't gonna start making that a new thing that you did.
"You just gonna keep quiet? Were you ever gonna tell me? Or was this your plan? I had to find this out from a friend, you know." he wipes his mouth. An eyebrow arches up on his face.
"You think I wasn't gonna find out." he leans in. "Three years. Three whole years." he clenches his fists. The knuckles turn white. "All that time gone..." he closes his eyes for a second. His voice shakes, and there's a slight tremor in his words.
You know why you left, but having to explain that to him felt impossible at this moment. "I did what I had to do."
"He's my son. I won't let you keep him away from me". The quiet hum of your refrigerator was the only thing filling in the silence. Yeah, this wasn't over, not by a long shot.
Hello! I love your writing! There aren’t many writers who have Lewis Pullman content, and I appreciate your work 💕 I was wondering if you were willing to write dark!ex!Rhett Abott finding out you’ve been hiding his kid from him.
Hey! I was wondering if you do commissions and for how much. Love your work! ;)
Thank you so much for the kind words, I really appreciate it. Sorry, I didn't answer sooner.
This is a hobby of mine, so if you want to request something, you can. I'm always open to ideas. If you have a prompt in mind involving a Lewis Pullman character, feel free to share it.
