summary: long before she was caring for gator after the incident, she could barely stand to be in the same room as him. he was the sheriff's deputy, and as the preacher's daughter, she was supposed to stay away from boys like him. until one night they get tired of following rules.
c/w: enemies?? to friends with benefits. this is technically a part two, but it actually takes place in the past and tells the story of how they got together. so gator is not blind yet. he's reckless, cocky, a little rough around the edges and kinda a fuckboy (ugh sorry). mentions of religion and religious expectations. breaking rules. innocence. first sexual experiences. (both gator and reader are adults). smut (18+). p in v. no protection. dirty talk. orgasm.
words: 9.3k
⭑ part 1 ⭑
It’s impossible not to feel his eyes on you.
In a town as small as this one, everyone watches you. Being the preacher’s daughter means walking under a magnifying glass every single day of your life.
The older women in the congregation notice if your skirt is half an inch too short, and the older men notice if you don’t smile brightly enough during the opening hymn.
But there’s something entirely different about the way he looks at you. Something heavy, unholy, and thick enough to make your throat go dry.
It makes you feel things that are hard to put into plain words — a dark, electric coil of tension in your chest that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
Not that you’d ever admit it. Never in a million years.
Gator Tillman thinks that just because he’s the sheriff’s son and wears a deputy’s star on his chest, he can run right over the whole world. He walks around town with that slow, arrogant swagger, acting like he owns every acre of farmland from here to the Canadian border.
But he knows deep down — even if his pride won’t let him say it out loud — that he could never walk all over you. Not back when you were both teenagers sitting in the back of the high school cafeteria, not now, and not ever.
You turn your head slowly, your eyes cutting across the small, sunlit parish to find him sitting near the back doors.
His dark eyes are fixed right on you. They are so deep and so impossibly dark that it makes you think not even a million prayers, spoken on bended knees until your skin bleeds, could ever wash away what’s hiding behind them.
You break eye contact first, turning back toward the wooden pulpit and forcing your eyes down.
And that’s just how it goes, every single Sunday.
He normally rolls up to the chapel with his family, trailing right behind his father like a loyal hunting dog. He wears his black shirt tight, shoulders thrown back, believing he looks so tough and dangerous, when in reality he’s just living inside his father’s shadow.
When the service is about to start, your father stands at the heavy double doors, greeting the townspeople, welcoming every soul with a warm hand on the shoulder and a solemn blessing.
Ironically, you stand right next to your father. You smile when you’re supposed to smile, nod when you’re supposed to nod, taking up your assigned spot as his dutiful, perfect shadow.
This particular Sunday morning seems like it’s going to be just like any other.
Your father sent you to the chapel a full hour early, just as he always does.
The air inside the sanctuary is cold and still, smelling of old pine, floor wax, and the faint, bitter scent of burnt candle wicks from last week’s vespers.
The early morning sun bleeds through the glass windows, casting long yellow rectangles across the empty wooden pews.
Your job is simple: straighten the hymnals, dust the altar rail, and smooth out the thick white linen cloth over the communion table before the townspeople start trickling in to receive the holy words of the town’s beloved preacher.
Just the thought of your father makes a tired sigh slip past your lips as you pull the edges of the white tablecloth taut across the dark wood.
When you were a little girl, your father felt bigger than life itself. He seemed six feet tall with a voice like thunder. Heck, when you were seven or eight years old, you almost believed he was God in the flesh — or at least that he had a direct line to heaven, sitting up on his high throne while the rest of the world knelt in the dirt.
That was what he wanted you to believe, anyway. He cultivated that saintly image with every sermon, every solemn head tilt, every rehearsed smile.
But now, as a young adult with your teenage years fading behind you, the pedestal he built has completely crumbled. Your father gets further and further away from that celestial figure every single day.
Behind the closed doors of the parsonage, when no one from the church is watching, he starts looking more and more like what he actually is: an ordinary, deeply flawed, and bitter man. A man who snaps at dinner over cold soup, who counts the offering tithes with greedy fingers, and who treats his family like props in his weekly theater of piety.
“Your ol’ man around, angelf?”
The voice booms through the silent chapel, dropping low and heavy into the stillness. You jump, your heart leaping into your throat, and spin around so fast your long skirt swirls around your ankles.
You let out a harsh, frustrated breath when you see who’s standing at the entrance.
“Gator…” You turn back around, adjusting the fold of the tablecloth with hands that you desperately try to keep from shaking. “No. He ain’t here yet. Got a call from the Olson ranch early this morning.”
The heavy sound of his tactical boots begins to echo against the hard pine floorboards as he walks down the center aisle.
You close your eyes for a split second, taking a deep, steadying breath to gather every ounce of patience left in your body.
It’s never easy dealing with Gator Tillman. It never has been, not since you were kids pulling each other’s hair by the creek, and certainly not now that he’s grown into a broad-shouldered man with bad intentions.
“You know if he’s gonna take long, then?”
He stops right before the three low steps that divide the chapel floor from the elevated altar. He leans his hip slightly against the railing, tilting his head up, his dark eyes searching your face.
“I don’t know,” you say, turning around to face him from the top step so you can keep the advantage of height. “He left about twenty minutes ago. Said their youngest daughter had a real bad fever, so he might take his time prayin’ over her.”
You take him in as he stands there. He’s wearing his full deputy uniform — taut cargo pants, heavy utility belt, a stiff black vest, and his dark deputy cap tucked low over his forehead. His thick hands are casually hooked into the front of his vest.
“You want me to tell him you stopped by?” you ask, keeping your tone as cold as the morning wind outside.
Gator grins. It’s that slow, lopsided, infuriating smirk that he’s had since high school. His eyes slowly slide down your body, taking his sweet time coming back up to your face.
Suddenly, the long, modest white dress you put on this morning — the one that buttoned all the way to your collarbone — doesn’t feel very modest at all. It feels thin. It feels like he’s looking right through the fabric.
“Nah, don’t worry yourself none, sweetheart,” Gator says, his voice a low drawl. “I’ll just wait right here for him, yah?”
He turns on his heel, his heavy boots squeaking against the polished floorboards as he begins to slowly pace up and down the aisle between the pews, his eyes trailing over the empty wooden seats like he owns the place.
You roll your eyes, letting out a soft humph as you turn back to the altar table to finish straightening the brass candleholders.
“What’d you need to see him for anyway?” you ask over your shoulder.
“Ol’ man sent me over so we could settle some business matters,” Gator says, pausing to run a finger over the top of a wooden pew. “County stuff.”
You nod, your voice dripping with sweet, fake sincerity.
“Right. Your dad.” Gator stops in his tracks. He lets out a short, sarcastic laugh that bounces off the high timber ceiling.
“What's that supposed to mean, huh?”
You shrug your shoulders casually, not botherin’ to look at him as you smooth out another crease in the linen.
“Nothin’. Just sayin’... it ain’t exactly a shock to see you runnin’ errands for your daddy.”
“Well now, girlie,” Gator says, his voice dropping an octave as the heavy sound of his boots starts coming back toward the altar steps, faster this time. “That’s what a deputy does, ain’t it? Helps out the sheriff. Don’t ‘cha know how the law works?”
“Sure it is,” you reply smoothly. “Whatever you say, Gator.”
Gator clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle tick beneath his clothes.
He hates when you do this. He knows damn well he shouldn’t fall into your traps. You’ve known exactly which buttons to push to drive him completely out of his mind since you were eight years old.
You make him feel small, you strip away that tough-guy deputy persona he works so hard to project, and it drives him crazy.
But no matter how hard he tries to play it cool, he always ends up taking the bait.
He steps up to the very first stair, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his heavy belt clinking. He rests an elbow on the wooden altar rail, leaning in close.
“So... how’s that boyfriend of yours?” Gator asks, shifting tactics, his dark eyes flashing with a wicked spark of provocation. “Haven’t seen his holy little face around these parts lately.”
You freeze for a microsecond before smoothing your features. You finish with the candlesticks, pick up a stack of spare hymnals, and walk down the altar steps, passing right by him — so close that you catch his sharp scent.
“First off,” you say, stopping a few feet away in the central aisle and glaring right into his eyes, “he ain’t my boyfriend no more. Not that it’s any of your business, mind you.”
Gator’s eyebrows shoot up, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips.
“And second,” you continue, keeping your voice steady, “he went down south on a mission trip for the rest of the year.”
Gator lets out a long, low whistle that cuts through the silence of the church. He turns around fully, his dark eyes drinking you in as you stand there holding the hymnals against your chest like a shield.
“Is that so?” Gator says, stepping off the altar stairs and closing the distance between you, step by slow step. “So the sweet little preacher’s daughter is single again. Yah, well... those are news that’re gonna fly around this town real fast, betcha.”
You stop moving and spin on your heel to face him head-on. He stops just inches short of bumping into you, towering over you, radiating a suffocating, terrifying heat.
“Don’t you got your daddy’s boots to lick somewhere else?” you snap, your voice barely above a whisper, but sharp enough to cut glass.
Gator doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t get angry.
Instead, his grin just gets wider, dirtier, more confident.
He reaches out a hand, his rough, calloused fingers slow and brazen as they reach up to catch a stray strand of hair that escaped your hairpins. He gently tucks it behind your ear, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. The touch sends a jolt straight down your spine, making your skin burn.
“I know a few other things that could use some lickin’ right about now,” he mutters, his voice turning thick and raspy, his dark eyes dropping straight down to your lips.
You smack his hand away.
“You’re disgusting, Gator,” you spit out, taking a step back, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“Yah,” Gator chuckles, stepping right back into your space, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees feel weak. “But you love it, don’t ‘cha?”
“I’d rather be dragged straight to hell by the devil himself,” you whisper fiercely, staring him down, refusing to drop your head.
Gator’s smile turns dark and sharp. He opens his mouth, leaning down slightly, clearly about to utter some filthy, shameless comeback that would make the saints on the stained glass blush.
The deep, heavy idle of an old engine echoes from the gravel driveway right outside the chapel doors. Tires crunch over the dirt, followed by the squeal of brakes.
Gator stops cold. He glances sideways, looking past your shoulder toward the front windows of the parish.
The grin stays on his face, but the immediate, reckless heat in his eyes settles back down beneath that cool, cocky mask.
He looks back into your eyes, leaning in just an inch closer for a fraction of a second.
“Saved by daddy,” he whispers softly.
Before you can throw a hymnal at his head, the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel swing open, flooding the foyer with the bright, cold morning sunlight and the rushing sound of the wind.
Your father steps through the doorway first, shaking the chill from his heavy black coat.
Right behind him steps Sheriff Tillmam.
The transformation between you and Gator happens in less than a second. It’s an instinct, a survival mechanism born from years of growing up under the thumbs of the two most powerful men in the county.
Gator instantly straightens his spine. He steps back from you, wiping every trace of that dirty smirk off his face. His hands go behind his back, his shoulders lock into place, and he instantly morphs into the disciplined, quiet deputy almost standing at attention.
You instantly drop your gaze, hugging the hymnals tighter against you, stepping gracefully back toward the side pews. You lower your shoulders, slip into your meek, quiet posture, and become the pious, gentle preacher’s daughter who wouldn’t dare utter a cross word.
“Ah, Gator,” Roy Tillman’s rough, gravelly voice booms as he walks, his heavy boots making the exact same sound as his son’s. “I see you made it here on time. Good boy.”
“Yes, Sir,” Gator replies crisply, his voice completely devoid of the low, flirtatious tone he was using just five seconds ago.
Your father walks up toward the altar, giving a curt nod to Gator before his dark eyes land on you. He inspects the altar table, checking the alignment of the tablecloth, the polished silver, and the placed Bibles.
“Everything in order here, daughter?” your father asks, his voice deep, resonant, and carrying that familiar, practiced weight of divine authority.
“Yes, Father,” you say softly, keeping your voice sweet, humble, and quiet. “Everything is ready for the morning service.”
“Good,” your father says, though there is no real warmth in his eyes. He turns back to Sheriff Tillman. “We have about twenty minutes before the congregation begins to arrive, Sheriff. Let’s step into my study and go over those county permits.”
“Lead the way, Preacher,” Sheriff Tillman says. He looks back at Gator over his shoulder. “Gator, stay out here in the nave. Keep an eye on the door and greet the folks as they start comin’ in, hear?”
“Yes, Sir.” Gator nods respectfully.
Your father leads the Sheriff down the side hallway toward his private office, the heavy oak door closing behind them.
The moment the door shuts, the sanctuary falls silent once again.
You stand by the third row of pews, holding the hymnals, refusing to look up. But you can feel him. You can feel Gator standing right there in the middle of the aisle, his eyes boring holes into the side of your face.
“You gonna stand there all morning, sunshine?” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, but vibrating with that same dangerous, hidden arrogance. “Or are you gonna help me greet the people?”
“I have work to do,” you say quietly, slipping the hymnals into the wooden racks behind the seats, keeping your back turned to him.
“Yah, sure you do,” Gator chuckles softly under his breath. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
Within fifteen minutes, the quiet sanctuary begins to fill with life.
—
The only place in this whole godforsaken town your father ever lets you go out to on a Saturday night is the downtown bar.
And it isn’t because he’s finally decided to trust you, or because he thinks you’re old enough to make your own choices. No, it’s a calculated leash.
He lets you go there for two very simple reasons.
First, because he knows every single soul inside that place. Old Hank behind the bar owes your father a favor from three winters ago when the church paid off his back taxes, so he makes sure you are in all your senses.
Second, because he’s got the whole town acting like his own personal surveillance network; half the elders from the congregation sit in the vinyl booths sipping their draft beers; and every eyesore of a local farmer in there considers it their christian duty to report back to him even if you laugh too loud.
God knows how bad it would look if the preacher’s precious daughter got caught getting wild at some low-rent dive bar.
Even then, getting out the front door every weekend is an exhausting ritual.
It takes twenty minutes of endless negotiations at the kitchen table. You have to stand there while your father sits with his black coffee, staring at you over his reading glasses, making you repeat your promises like a child reciting Sunday school verses.
“Yes, Father, I’m staying right beside my friends. No, Father, I won’t stay out past eleven. No, Father, not a single drop of alcohol will touch my lips.”
None of those rules are usually hard to keep.
Usually, you sit in a corner booth, sipping a flat diet soda out of a plastic cup, listening to your friends gossip about county boys, waiting for the clock to tick down so you can go home and crawl into bed.
But tonight... tonight feels completely different.
Maybe it’s because the rusty speakers hanging from the wooden rafters are pumping out country music just a little louder than usual, sending heavy bass vibrations right through the soles of your shoes.
Maybe it’s because, for the first time in your entire life, you finally got sick of being the good little girl.
When one of your friends slid a cold bottle across the sticky table under her purse, whispering “Go on, take a sip, nobody’s lookin’,” you didn't say no. You drank half the bottle before you even realized what you were doing.
Now, the icy, bitter liquid is sitting in your stomach, sending a strange, warm buzz floating right up behind your ears, loosening the tight coil in your chest that’s been wound up tight since you were even born.
Or maybe — just maybe — it’s because of the pair of dark, dangerous eyes that haven’t stopped burning into you since the very second you walked through the front door.
It isn’t hard to spot him. Gator Tillman doesn’t know how to blend into a room even when he tries, which he never does.
He’s sitting at his usual high-top table way back in the darkest corner of the bar, far away from the neon sign humming on the wall. He has his dark leather jacket thrown on over his black shirt, his cap turned backward over his perfectly styled brown hair, and his heavy boots prop casually up on the metal ring of his stool.
He’s surrounded by his usual crew. They’re laughing, slamming shot glasses onto the wood, and shouting over the jukebox. But Gator isn’t paying much attention to them.
Every single time you glance up from your drink, his eyes are already right there waiting for you. He doesn’t turn away when you catch him staring. He doesn’t blush. He just sits there, his chin resting in his palm, his dark eyes tracing the line of your collarbone, your lips, the way your dress fits, with that lazy, arrogant smirk carved into his face.
He looks at you like you are a puzzle he’s already solved, just waiting for the right moment to come pick up the pieces.
You try to ignore him. You really do.
You turn your chair around, you force yourself to pay attention to your friend talking about her cousin’s wedding, and you take another slow sip of your stolen beer.
But the skin on the back of your neck keeps tingling, burning like you are standing too close to an open flame.
Toward the end of the night, right around ten-thirty when the air in the bar is thick with cigarette smoke and stale fried food, you finally can’t take it anymore. You spin casually around on your stool, glancing over toward his corner just to see if he’s still at it.
Your heart does a sudden, violent drop right into your stomach.
The high-top table is empty. His buddies are still there, drinking, but Gator’s stool is totally vacant. His leather jacket is gone.
A weird, sharp sting of disappointment flares up in your chest before you can stop it, instantly followed by a surge of pure anger at yourself.
He probably took off with some local girl. Everyone in town knows how Gator operates. He has a reputation that stretches from here to the border — taking girls out down the gravel county roads in the back of his truck, whispering sweet bullshit into their ears before dropping them off at dawn and never calling them back.
You heard the rumors. Half the girls in your graduating class had cried over him at one point or another.
You set your empty bottle down behind your friend’s purse, letting out a small, tired breath, and reach back for your coat.
“Lookin’ for someone, sweetheart?”
The low, gravelly voice rasps right against the shell of your ear, so close and unexpected that you nearly jump out of your seat.
Gator is standing right there in your space, leaning one heavy forearm against the bar top. His dark eyes are dancing with a wicked, teasing light, his face just inches from yours.
You swallow hard, forcing your shoulders to drop, forcing your face into a cold, flat mask as you roll your eyes up toward the water-stained ceiling tiles.
“Not you,” you snap, keeping your voice as sharp as a knife.
Gator lets out a low, raspy chuckle that vibrates right through his chest. He leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes dropping down to your mouth before coming back up to lock onto yours.
“Is that right, huh?” he murmurs, thick and slow. “Could’a sworn your eyes were wanderin’ over to my corner all night long, girlie. Thought maybe you were finally gettin’ lonely over here with the choir girls.”
“In your dreams, Gator," you mutter, trying to lean back, but the bar counter is pressing hard into your hips. “Don’t you have some poor farm girl to go lie to?”
Gator’s smirk just widens. He reaches out, his thick fingers lightly tapping the wooden bar right next to your waist.
“What d’you say I take you home right now, mama?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr that sends a sudden, unwanted shiver straight down your spine.
You frown, your eyebrows pulling together as you look at him suspiciously. “Why on earth would I ever go anywhere with you?”
Gator tilts his head, his backward cap shifting slightly, casting a shadow across his dark brow. “Because those are the orders, honey.”
You blinked, staring at him. “Orders? What are you talking—”
Then, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, the truth hits you.
The way he has been watching you all night. The way he hasn’t left the bar. The way he’s standing here right now, acting like he has every right to dictate where you go.
“My dad,” you whisper, your voice turning deadly quiet as real anger begins to boil in your blood. “My dad sent you to spy on me?”
Gator makes a loud, cheerful ding-ding-ding sound with his tongue, snapping his fingers in the air like you’d just won a carnival prize.
“Give the preacher’s girl a medal, yah? Ol’ man called the sheriff’s station ‘bout an hour ago. Said he had a feelin’ his little angel might be stayin’ out past her curfew. Told my dad to have me swing by and make sure you got home safe and sound.”
“He sent you?” you hiss, stepping forward so your chest almost bumps against his, completely ignoring how dangerous it’s to get this close to him. “Of all the people in this town, he sent you? You’re the worst deputy this county has ever seen, Gator! You’re a mess with a badge!"
Gator’s smile stays on his face, but you see the exact moment your words hit their mark. His eyes narrow just a fraction, the muscles along his jaw tightening so hard a visible pulse ticks under his skin.
He hates being reminded of what people whisper about him. He hates that you refuse to bow down to the shiny star pinned to his shirt.
He leans down slowly, bringing his face right into yours until you can feel the hot breath leaving his lips.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice flat, drops low enough so your friends sitting a few feet away can’t hear.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you say, folding your arms tightly over your chest. “I’ll walk.”
“Listen real close to me, sweetheart,” Gator growls, his voice turning dark, heavy, and completely devoid of playfulness. He steps into your space until his boots are practically touching yours, crowding you so completely you can’t move an inch. “You’re gonna get your jacket, and you’re gonna get into my truck right now. Or else... I walk right back over to that phone by the hallway, I call your ol’ man, and I tell him his precious little daughter has been sitting at the bar sloshing down three cold beers.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart gives a frantic, terrified kick against your ribs. “It was one beer!” you blurted out, your voice cracking slightly.
Gator’s dirty, arrogant smirk flashes back onto his face like a flipping switch. He leans in, his cheek almost touching yours as he whispers right into your ear.
“Who d’you reckon he’s gonna believe, sweetheart? His sweet, innocent daughter who promised on the holy Bible not to touch a drop... or the deputy who smelled it on her breath?”
You glare at him with pure, unadulterated poison in your eyes. You want to smack that cocky grin right off his face. You want to scream at him, to tell him to go straight to hell.
But you know he’s right. Your father will crush you. He will ground you until you are thirty years old, lock you in the curch, and make your life a living nightmare of endless prayer meetings and public repentance.
You clench your teeth so hard your jaw physically aches, letting out a sharp, furious breath through your nose.
Gator just stands there, watching you surrender, looking pleased with himself. He steps back just an inch, opening up a small gap for you to move.
“That’s a good girl,” he purrs softly.
“Shut up,” you whisper.
You grab your heavy coat off the hook behind the stool, turn around, and give a brief, forced wave to your friends, who are watching you with wide, shocked eyes. You don’t even give them a chance to ask questions. You march straight toward the front exit, intentionally driving your shoulder right into Gator’s chest as you pass him.
He barely budges, but a loud, dark laugh bursts out of his throat as he turns and falls into step right behind you, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
The cold night air hits your face like a physical slap the second you push through the heavy wooden doors of the bar.
He hits the remote unlock, the truck’s yellow lights flashing twice in the darkness, the heavy engine hum emitting a quiet sound.
You don’t wait for him to open the door. You grab the cold handle, pull yourself up onto the high running board and into the passenger seat, slamming the heavy door shut behind you with enough force to rattle the glass.
Gator climbs into the driver’s side a second later, bringing a blast of freezing wind inside with him.
Neither of you says a word as he shifts the truck into drive and pulls out of the bar parking lot, the tires crunching loudly over the loose gravel before hitting the smooth, icy asphalt of Main Street.
The silence inside the cab is thick, heavy, and suffocating.
The only sound is the low, faint static coming from the truck’s radio and the steady, rhythmic sound of Gator whistling along out of tune. He sits back in his seat, one hand resting lazily on the top of the steering wheel, his dark leather jacket rustling every time he moves.
You sit as far over to the passenger side as physically possible, pressing your shoulder against the cold window glass, your arms locked tightly across your chest, staring out into the pitch-black darkness.
Every few seconds, Gator reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a sleek, black vape device, brings it to his lips, and takes a long, slow drag. A small blue light would glow on the tip, illuminating his jawline in the dark cab, before he’d exhale a thick, sweet cloud of flavored vapor that fills the air between you.
After the fourth cloud of sweet smoke drifts over to your side of the truck, you let out a loud, dramatic groan of disgust, waving your hand in front of your face.
“Can you stop doing that?” you snap, glaring at him sideways.
Gator doesn’t even turn his head. He just keeps his dark eyes on the empty two-lane highway ahead, a small, amused tilt on the corner of his mouth. “What's the matter, princess? Don’t like kiwi?”
“It’s disgusting,” you say flatly. “It smells like chemical trash, and it’s annoying.”
Gator clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, letting out a soft sigh. “Ain’t disgusting,” he mutters quietly.
But to your complete surprise, he slides the black device back into his jacket pocket and doesn’t touch it again.
He turns the heavy truck off the main highway, cutting down the quiet, tree-lined street that leads to the small apartment you just moved in two weeks ago.
Gator slows the truck down, the heavy engine rumbling as he pulls up to the curb right in front of the main entrance stairs.
You immediately reach for the door handle, desperate to get out.
“Hey,” Gator rasps, his voice dropping into that low, quiet register again.
You freeze, your hand resting on the cold plastic handle. You don’t turn around.
“What?”
Gator shifts in his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking in the quiet cab. He leans his elbow on the center console, coming closer to you.
“Can I come up and use the bathroom real quick?” he asks, his voice sounding entirely too casual. “Sippin’ water at the bar all night’s got my bladder about ready to burst, yah?”
You turn your head slowly, glaring at him like he’d just asked you to jump off the water tower.
“What? No! Absolutely not! Don’t even think about it, Gator!”
Gator lets out a low grunt of frustration, throwing his head back against the headrest. “Ah, come on, girlie! Be reasonable, would’ya? My ranch is a good twenty-minute drive out past the county line! You really expect me to hold it all the way out there in the freezing dark?”
“I don’t care what you do!” you spat out, pulling your hand back from the door. “Go find a tree! Pee in the bushes! I don’t give a damn!”
Gator lets out a long, dramatic sigh, turning his head on the headrest to look straight at you. His dark eyes are glinting in the soft glow of the dashboard lights.
“Man, you are somethin’ else, you know that?” Gator mutters, shaking his head. “I drive you all the way across town, keep your little secret from your ol’ man, make sure you don’t break your neck on the ice... and you won’t even let a deputy use the bathroom? That ain’t very Christian of you, preacher’s girl.”
“I didn’t ask you to drive me!” you shouts, your voice rising in the quiet truck. “You blackmailed me!”
He sighs, his thick hand resting on the gear shift lever, making a show of moving his fingers over it.
“Well now... I guess if I gotta drive all the way back to the station with a full bladder, I’m gonna be in a real bad mood. And when I get in a bad mood, my mouth gets real loose. Might accidentally call up around midnight just to chat with your dad about—”
“Fine!” you scream. “God! Fine!”
You shove your fingers through your hair in pure, frantic frustration.
“Fine,” you whisper fiercely, pointing a finger right at his face. “But you park this damn truck around the back, under the big oak trees in the alleyway. Do you hear me? If any of my neighbors see your shit parked right in front of my door at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night... if my father somehow knows you’re inside my apartment... I swear to God, Gator, I will kill you myself!”
Gator sits there for a second, taking in your flushed face, your heavy breathing, and the wild, furious fire burning in your eyes.
Then, he lets out a dark, wicked laugh, shifting the truck back into drive.
“Rude,” he mutters under his breath, turning the steering wheel with one hand as he guides the truck slowly down the narrow side alley toward the dark shadows of the oak trees.
You grab your purse, yank the door handle open, and practically throw yourself out into the freezing night air before the truck has even fully stopped moving.
“Asshole,” you growl under your breath, slamming the door shut so hard the whole truck shakes.
Gator cuts the engine, the bright headlights dying instantly, plunging the alley into deep, silent darkness. The driver’s side door clicks open, his heavy boots hitting the gravel with a sharp sound right behind you.
—
You can hear Gator whistling some old, slow country tune from behind the thin bathroom door. Sometimes, you really hate how small your apartment is.
You lean back against the cheap kitchen counter, pressing your cold fingers against your temples, rubbing the headache away. Maybe drinking that cheap beer wasn’t the brightest idea.
The old heater in the corner of the room is buzzing loud, trying hard to fight off the freezing wind that rattles your thin windows.
The bathroom door clicks open. Gator steps out. You don’t even look at him fully at first, just waving a hand toward the front door.
“Out. Time to go.”
Gator clicks his tongue, making a wet sound in his mouth. He adjusts the waist on his tactical cargo pants, looking way too comfortable in a place that isn’t his.
“Jeez, relax, would ya?” he says, his accent dragging out the vowels.
His heavy winter boots start thudding around your tiny living room. He doesn’t leave.
Instead, he just paces around, looking at your stuff like he’s shopping at a yard sale.
“I still can’t believe your daddy let you move into a place all by your lonesome,” he says. He reaches out and picks up a framed photo from the small side table. It’s a picture of you as a little girl, standing right in front of the chapel in your Sunday dress. “Specially considerin’ how much he likes to keep his precious little girl locked up safe and sound.”
You walk over quickly, snatching the wooden picture frame right out of his big, rough hands. You set it face down on the table with a loud smack.
“Well,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “the difference between your dad and my dad is that my daddy knows he can actually trust me.”
Gator lets out a loud, rough laugh. “Oh, yah? And what the heck is that supposed to mean? You think my dad wouldn’t have made me his deputy if he didn’t trust me?”
You tilt your head, giving him a flat, cold look. “I think the sheriff gave you a badge so he could keep you on a real tight leash, yah. So you don’t go messin’ things up worse than you already do.”
Gator’s jaw tightens. His playful mood drops for a second. He clicks his tongue again, looking away toward the frosted window.
“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath. He starts to pace around again, his boots scuffing your worn rug. “Absolute bullshit, dontcha know.”
You sigh, dragging a hand down your tired face. You are so exhausted. You are tired of this freezing town, tired of the snow, and mostly tired of him. “Can you just leave now, Gator? It’s getting late.”
“Relax,” he says, stopping by the wooden coffee table. He reaches down and picks up the heavy leather Bible sitting right in the middle of it. “Can’t we just spend a little time together? Just hang out, like friends do?”
“It is never just 'like friends' with you.”
“I got plenty of female friends,” Gator says. He flips through the thin, gold-edged pages of the holy book without really looking at them.
“Girls you screwed in the back of your truck don’t count, Gator.”
“Guess I got none, then.” Gator smiles. He looks right at you with that boyish, dangerous grin of his. It almost pulls a smile out of you, too, but you hide it fast. You look down at the floorboards, biting the inside of your cheek.
He drops the Bible back on the table with a heavy thud. “You know, this whole setup here is a real darn waste.”
“What is?”
“This,” he says. His voice drops a little lower. He takes a slow step toward you. “Havin’ a nice place all to yourself... and wasting it like this. Nothin’ but quiet.”
“What exactly are you trying to say, Gator?”
“You know exactly what I’m tryin’ to say.”
You look up at him. Of course you know. But it is not like you want to talk about it out loud, especially with him.
Sure, you have had your dirty fantasies late at night when the whole town is asleep in the snow. But the hard reality is that you have always been a good, obedient girl. Your father’s perfect daughter. God’s perfect daughter.
But those wild, hot thoughts are still there, hiding right under your skin.
“That is absolutely none of your business, Gator,” you snap, trying to keep your voice steady.
Gator stands tall over you now. He tilts his head down, that cocky smirk still playing on his lips. “Guess not.”
You hold your ground. You do not step back. “Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“This. Come crawling into some girl’s house to hide when your day was total crap and your daddy chewed you out?”
Gator’s face changes instantly. The smirk vanishes. His jaw locks so tight you can see the muscle jumping under his skin. “It wasn’t—”
“Oh, come on, Gator,” you smile now, a mean little smile. “It’s a small town. People talk real fast around here. I heard all about how you couldn’t catch those crooks today at noon. I heard they slipped right past you and ran off to the next county. And I heard your dad was about ready to paddle your backside right there in the middle of the town square for everyone to see.”
His eyes go dark. He stares at you, breathing heavy through his nose, but he doesn’t pull away. The air between you two feels thick and hot.
“I mean,” you continue. Your hands slowly reach up, lightly touching the cold fabric of his uniform jacket. “Isn’t the beating your dad gives you enough? You gotta come looking for a beating from my dad, too?” You step a fraction closer, looking up into his angry eyes. “What do you think would happen if my daddy found out you screwed his precious little girl, huh?”
You can hardly believe the words coming out of your own mouth. But you blame whatever you can find — the cheap beer warming your blood, your father for never letting you breathe, Gator for being so annoying, this freezing damn town, maybe even God himself.
Gator looks genuinely shocked by the raw, dirty words coming from the good preacher’s daughter. He stays completely quiet for a second, his chest rising and falling fast. Then, he lets out a dry, mocking chuckle and looks away, breaking the spell.
“Right,” he says, his voice flat. He takes a big step back, pulling away from your hands. “Have a good night, then.”
You roll your eyes hard as he turns his broad back to you and starts walking toward the front door.
“There goes the scared little lizard,” you call out to his back, playing with his name.
Gator stops dead in his tracks. His hand freezes right above the doorknob. The whole room goes totally silent.
“What did you just say?” his voice is very low. Very dangerous.
“You heard me, Tillman,” you say. You cross your arms tight over your chest to stop your hands from shaking. “I always knew you were a loser. I just didn’t know you were such a quick chicken, too.”
You can see the muscles in Gator’s back go completely rigid under his jacket. Everything happens so fast after that. You don’t even have time to react before he turns around.
He crosses the small living room in two terrifying, deliberate strides. There is no hesitation in him, no second thought about where he is or whose house this is. He grabs you by the waist with calloused, thick hands and slams your back against the wall.
“You like runnin’ that mouth of yours, dontcha?” Gator growls. He pins your wrists up above your head with just one of his massive hands, his fingers wrapping all the way around them like iron bands. “Think ‘cause your old man stands up behind a pulpit every Sunday that makes you untouchable, sweetheart? Think I’m scared of a little preacher’s daughter?”
“I ain’t scared of you, Tillman,” you whisper, though your voice trembles so hard the words almost catch in your throat. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but the sheer heat radiating off his chest makes your whole body flush hot.
“Yah, you keep sayin’ that,” he mutters, his dark eyes flashing with a dirty, dangerous intent. “Let’s see how brave you are in a minute.”
He doesn’t give you a second to think, to negotiate, or to back out.
He kisses you.
The kiss is filthy, rough, and completely careless. He crushes his lips over yours, forcing your mouth open with his tongue, tasting you like he owns you. There is nothing sweet about it.
One hand wraps around your neck, keeping you in place, but is not like you were going to pull away anyways.
He walks you to the couch, your body landing on the cushions heavily and drops his weight between your thighs, shoving your legs apart with his knees.
He doesn’t bother with gentle touches or slow foreplay. He doesn’t care that you’ve never had a man touch you like this, nor does he care that your father’s heavy Bible sits on the coffee table just three feet away.
With his free hand, he rucks up the modest fabric of your dress, pulling it up past your knees, past your thighs, all the way to your waist in one rough, impatient yank.
“Gator—” you choke out, your eyes widening as the cool air of the living room hits your exposed skin, quickly replaced by the heat of his body.
He hooks two fingers into the band of your cotton underwear and tears them down your legs, discarding them onto the floor without a second glance. The sight of you completely exposed beneath him makes a dark, low sound rumble deep in his chest.
You feel his thick knee force your legs wider, locking you in place. You’re completely helpless beneath his bulk, trapped between the back of the sofa and six feet of muscle and raw aggression.
His hand moves to the neck of your dress. He yanks the collar open, popping two small buttons that scatter across the rug.
There, resting right against the dip of your collarbone, is the rosary your mother gave you a few years ago. The small silver crucifix catches the dim light of the lamp.
Gator freezes for just a fraction of a second. His calloused thumb reaches out and brushes against the smoothed beads.
You hold your breath, wondering if the sight of God’s cross will finally bring him to his senses, if he’ll remember who you are and back off.
Instead, Gator leans down. His jaw scrapes against your sensitive skin as he wraps his thick fingers around the beads. He lifts the small cross up to his lips, staring right into your wide, dark eyes, and presses a slow, heavy kiss right to the silver figure of Christ.
“Lord forgive me for what I’m ‘bout to do to the preacher’s sweet little girl,” he whispers against the metal, his breath hot. “But she’s been askin’ for it all winter long.”
He lets the rosary drop back onto your chest with a soft click against your skin, and then his mouth plunges down onto yours again
He bites down gently on your lower lip, making you moan into his mouth, a high, desperate sound that only drives him wilder.
While his tongue hungrily explores your mouth, his right hand moves down to his pants. You hear the the sharp scrape of his zipper coming down. He doesn’t take off his clothes. He doesn’t take off his heavy jacket or his boots. He just shoves his trousers down enough to free his hard, throbbing length.
When his bare skin aligns against yours, you gasp against his lips. He is huge, hot, and completely unyielding.
“Look at ya,” Gator growls against your cheek, his breath coming short and ragged. His hand slips down between your legs, his rough fingers finding your slick, wet core. He doesn’t ease you into it. He rubs his thumb hard over you once, twice, making your hips arch up off the sofa completely on instinct. “So wet for me. Knew you were a little liar. All righteous on the outside, but down here you’re just dying for a real man to ruin ya.”
“Gator, please—” you whimper, gripping the shoulders of his heavy jacket. You don’t even know if you’re asking him to stop or asking him to hurry up.
“Yah, I’m gonna give it to ya,” he mutters near your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Hold on tight, mama.”
Without another word, he positions himself at your entrance and pushes forward in one hard, relentless surge.
A sharp scream catches in the back of your throat as he breaks right through your innocence. The pain is bright and sudden, making your legs lock around his hips, your fingernails digging deep through the denim of his jacket.
Gator pauses for half a second, feeling the tight, unyielding wall inside you. A swear word slips past his lips, raw and dark.
“Jesus Christ,” he pants, his eyes dark with absolute desire. "You really hold onto that purity promise."
“Just... don’t stop,” you sob softly, your body trembling beneath his as the initial bite of pain begins to blur into a deep, throbbing ache that turns rapidly into intense heat. The shock of having him fully inside you, filling you so completely that you can barely breathe, drives out every single rational thought you’ve ever had.
“Damn right I ain’t stoppin’,” Gator growls, his tone turning completely ruthless.
He grips your hips with both hands, his fingers bruising your soft skin, and pulls back just enough before slamming back into you with full force.
The sofa groans loudly beneath the violent rhythm. The springs squeak in a frantic pace that fills the silent apartment.
He drives into you over and over, careless of how loud it is, careless of the bruises his grip will leave on your waist tomorrow morning.
Every time he thrusts forward, his heavy body slams against yours, knocking the air right out of you.
“Yah, just like that,” Gator rasps, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he works you. His hips snap against yours with a wet, dirty slap that makes your face burn with shame and pleasure. “Take it all, girl. Show me how bad you wanted this.”
You lose control completely. Your hands clench into his jacket, your head throwing back against the armrest of the sofa.
The rosary resting on your chest bounces with every rough, deep thrust, the silver cross tapping rhythmically against your bare collarbone. The contrast between the holy metal on your skin and the filthy, unforgiving act happening between your legs threatens to snap your sanity in half.
He turns you into a complete mess. His mouth finds your collarbone, leaving dark red bite marks, while his lower body works you with an ungodly speed.
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t check if he’s being too rough. He just uses your body to quench a thirst he’s clearly had for a long time, sliding in and out of your tight, hot passage with relentless power.
“Gator... oh God, Gator!” you cry out, unable to keep quiet anymore. The feeling building deep in your lower stomach is getting so tight, so unbearably intense, that you feel like you’re about to snap in half.
“Don’t bring Him into this, girl, He ain’t the one fuckin’ ya right now,” Gator grunts, his voice completely raw. He pulls his hips almost all the way out before sinking in again, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you that makes your vision go completely white. “I am. Say it. Say who’s inside ya.”
“Y-you,” you sob out, arching your back off the sofa as a massive wave of pleasure crashes over you. “You, Gator! Oh God, please!”
“That’s it," he growls, feeling the walls of your body begin to contract violently around him, milky heat squeezing him so tight he can barely move. “Yah, squeeze me, girl. Squeeze me real good.”
The realization that he’s driving you over the edge pushes Gator past his own limit. His thrusts turn frantic, heavy, and completely undisciplined. He slams into you three, four, five more times, each strike deeper and harder than the last, until his whole body goes rigid above you.
With a low, guttural roar that vibrates straight into your chest, Gator buries himself as deep as he can go inside you and fills you with his hot, heavy release.
His body shakes violently as he comes, his hands crushing your hips down against the sofa cushions to hold you pinned while he empties himself completely inside your pure body.
You cry out again, caught in your own orgasm, your inner muscles pulsing around him, swallowing every drop he gives you.
For several long, agonizing minutes, the only sound in the living room is the heavy, ragged sound of both your breathing.
Gator stays heavy on top of you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling.
Gradually, the fog of pleasure begins to lift from your brain, and cold, terrifying reality comes crashing back in like an icy wave.
You look up at the ceiling. You feel the wetness between your thighs, his sticky heat combining with your own on the sofa fabric. You look at the rosary tangled around your neck. Panic, sharp and sudden, clutches your throat.
“What have I done?,” you whisper, your voice trembling violently.
Gator lifts his head slowly. His hair is messy, sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are still dark and heavy with satisfaction, but as he looks down at your pale, terrified face, his expression settles back into that cool, unreadable mask.
He shifts his weight and slowly pulls himself out of you with a soft, slick sound that makes you flush all over again.
He stands up beside the sofa, his tall frame towering over you in the dim light. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest. He casually tucks his hard length back into his trousers and zips them up.
You scramble to pull the hem of your dress back down over your bruised, sticky thighs. Your hands are shaking so badly you can barely adjust your collar to hide the bite marks on your neck.
“You need to go,” you say, your voice rising in pitch as you stare up at him from the couch. “Right now, Tillman.”
Gator pauses; his grin is not on his face anymore. “Angel—”
“No.” you snap, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, though every muscle in your lower body aches with a deep, throbbing soreness. “Nobody can ever find out about this. Do you hear me? Not a single soul in this town. If anyone hears about what you just did—”
“What we just did,” he corrects you softly, stepping closer and leaning down until his face is just inches from yours. The scent of him still fills your lungs. “Don’t go puttin’ it all on me pretending you didn’t want it.”
You swallow hard, tears of frustration and panic pricking at the corners of your eyes because you know he’s right. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. We are never, ever doing this again. You understand me? Never.”
Gator just looks at you for a long moment. A slow, infuriating smirk spreads across his face, reaching all the way to his dark eyes. He doesn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth, and the worst part is, neither do you.
“Whatever you say, angel,” he says smoothly, his accent thick and mocking.
“Don’t go out the front door,” you say frantically, listening closely to the silence outside the house, terrified that a car might pull up into the driveway at any second. “Out the window.”
Gator shakes his head with a quiet chuckle, but he doesn’t argue. He walks over to the heavy wooden sash window on the side wall. He unlocks it, slides the glass frame up with a quiet scrape, and cold winter air immediately rushes into the warm room, cutting through the heavy smell of sweat.
He swings one long leg over the sill, stepping out before turning back to look at you one last time.
You’re still sitting on the couch, your hair a messy tangle, your lips swollen, holding your mother’s rosary tightly in your hand like a lifeline.
“Get yourself cleaned up, girl,” Gator says, his voice low and raspy against the whistling night wind outside. “And don’t bother washin’ that sofa cushion too hard. I’ll be back soon enough.”
“Gator—” you start to shout, but before you can finish, he steps down into the shadows of the yard and disappears into the freezing darkness.
You rush over to the window and slam it shut, locking it tight with trembling fingers. You lean your forehead against the cold glass, watching the dark tree line in the distance.
Deep down in your chest, beneath the fear and the guilt that will surely consume you come Sunday morning, your heart is still racing with a dark, wicked excitement.
Because as much as you hate to admit it, you both know he’s right. He’ll come back, and you’ll let him get inside.
And so it was; that night was the first, but not the last.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Can you write soldier boy kidnapping the reader on the side of the road and he pounds into her without saying anything in his car
The Hitchhiker
Pairing: Soldier boy x f!reader
Warnings: Dead Dove~Age gap, unprotected p in v, power imbalance, trauma, non-consensual(wc:456)
Masterlist
Requests
University wasn’t for you. You came home from your first fall semester and immediately hated everything about it. The people, the teachers, the assignments everything about it made you revolt against it.
When you came home that winter break and on that crisp Christmas morning, you told them you didn’t want to go back for your spring semester.
You didn’t really remember what happened after it was all a mess. Still, you do remember shouting at your mom and your dad, screaming at you for being a failure. You tried reasoning with them. Still, they made it very clear that they didn’t want anything to do with you, so on that joyful Christmas night they kicked you out of their house, saying something along the lines of not letting uneducated children live in their home.
Leaving you walking on the side of a main road with a backpack filled to the brim with random stuff you threw in while your parents were rushing you out.
You weren’t one to beg people, but this small town you lived in for your whole life was cursed, so the only way to escape without money was to hitchhike; maybe, just maybe someone would pity you.
You were so consumed with your thoughts you didn’t even hear a car roll up beside you, parking. You glanced at the car; your eyes widened as you saw the shadow of what looked like a broad, older man. You ran before he could get to you.
You weren’t fast enough never fast enough. The man managed to get hold of you from behind and lift you into his arms.
“Help!” You screamed helplessly, moving in his grip, trying to escape as he carried you to his car.
“Hold still.” He mumbled, unlocking the backseat door and slamming you into it as his muscular figure towered over you.
“Please no.” You cried out as he ripped off your sweatpants, spreading you out like an offering.
Nothing else was heard from his end except the rips of clothing being thrown aside.
Before you could scream for help again, he aligned himself at your entrance, giving you no time as he thrust deeply into you.
You gasped at the sudden movement as he began to thrust harshly into you. You wanted to fight him off of you to run away from him, but there was something so filthy about this situation that made you want to take it.
You swore you felt the car rock as he kept slamming into you repeatedly over and over again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping this was a dream, but as you felt his load shoot up into you and warmth filled your core, you knew this was your reality.
summary: you finally left your house to have a girls day. shopping, food, friendship- the works. robin and nancy always had your back but eddie- he was your best friend. hes the one who knew you inside and out. but is that all you wanted him to be? maybe a fashion show will change things.
warnings/tags: best friends to lovers, shy reader, typical eddie bullshit, fluff, comfort, alternating POV, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, eddie trying not to nut in 30 seconds, squirting)
masterlist // join the taglist
You were three stores deep into the kind of afternoon that only happened when Robin got bored and Nancy decided retail therapy was a legitimate coping mechanism.
Your phone buzzed in the back pocket of your jeans just as Nancy was holding up a soft gray sweater against you, head tilted in that critical way of hers. It's not your style but you like to appease her.
Eddie:
bored.
come over.
i have leftover chinese and a new playlist that will either heal your soul or destroy it. your pick.
You smiled at the screen before you could stop yourself. Robin noticed immediately.
“That’s the Eddie face,” she said, already leaning in. “What’s he want?”
“He wants me to come over.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to say no because…?”
You typed back while Robin peered over your shoulder.
You:
can’t. already at the mall with robin and nancy. not being a hermit for once.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Eddie:
the mall.
you’re at the mall???
and no one thought to invite me?
i’m hurt. actually offended.
also tbh you’re gonna get overwhelmed and start doing that weird thing you always do
i’m coming.
You stared at the message.
You:
eddie you don’t have to come
Eddie:
already in the van.
tell robin to stop making that face. i can feel it through the phone.
Robin was, in fact, making that face.
Twenty-seven minutes later you were standing near the big fountain on the lower level, arms full of bags. You'd dragged the two of them into Hot Topic and Spencers. Nancy had somehow convinced you that you needed new jeans— so you bought some black ones. Robin had dragged you into a candle store “just to smell things.” And then, because the universe had a sense of humor, the three of you had ended up in Victoria’s Secret.
You were still a little pink about that one.
The pink-and-black bag swung from your wrist every time you shifted your grip. It felt louder than the rest of them somehow. Like it was announcing itself.
Robin was mid-rant about this hot girl who keeps coming into her job when a familiar voice cut through the mall noise.
“Well, well, well. Look at this delinquent little shopping squad.”
You turned.
Eddie Munson was walking toward you like he owned the entire second floor, black jeans with the knees blown out, a faded Dio shirt under an open sleeveless flannel, rings catching the harsh mall lights. His hair was a little messier than usual, like he’d driven with the windows down the whole way. He had that grin on—the one that said he’d already decided this was going to be fun for him and mildly embarrassing for you.
Robin lit up. “Munson! You actually showed.”
“Had to make sure no one was bullying my favorite introvert into buying things she’ll never wear.” His eyes flicked to you, soft for half a second before the performance kicked back in. “Speaking of which… Jesus Christ, look at you.”
He stopped a couple feet away, taking in the armful of bags. His gaze snagged on the Victoria’s Secret one and stayed there just long enough for heat to crawl up the back of your neck.
“Wow,” he said, voice dropping into something almost reverent. “You actually went shopping. I’m proud. Also mildly concerned.”
Nancy smirked. “She needed jeans. And then Robin got involved. And she dragged us into her own stores. And then the lingerie section happened.”
Eddie made a wounded little sound, hand over his heart. “You took her into the den of sin without me?”
You shifted the bags, trying to hide the pink one behind the others. “It’s not that dramatic.”
“It’s a little dramatic,” he said, stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint mix of cigarettes and that cheap cologne he always wore even though he claimed he didn’t. “You okay? You’ve got that look.”
You opened your mouth to say you were fine.
He just raised an eyebrow.
“…I’m a little overstimulated,” you admitted, quieter.
Eddie’s whole posture softened. He reached out without asking and carefully took two of the heavier bags from your arms, including the Victoria’s Secret one. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just hooked the handles over his wrist like it was nothing.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’re doing one more lap so Nancy can finish buying a new pantsuit or whatever, then I’m extracting you. Chinese food’s getting cold and my couch misses your weight on it.”
Robin grinned. “He’s so soft for you it’s disgusting.”
Eddie didn’t deny it. He just looked at you over the top of the bags, eyes warm and knowing in that way that always made the rest of the mall feel a little farther away.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low enough that only you caught the full weight of it. “Somebody’s gotta make sure she doesn’t disappear into the void.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours.
“Lead the way, shopping gremlin. I’m your official bag mule for the next twenty minutes. Use me wisely.”
By the time you’d made it halfway through the next stretch of stores, the worst of the overstimulation had started to loosen its grip.
It was Eddie. It was always Eddie.
He walked half a step behind you, still carrying the bulk of the bags like it was the most natural thing in the world, occasionally bumping his shoulder into yours just hard enough to make you stumble and then catch yourself with a laugh. Nancy and Robin had drifted a few feet ahead, deep in a debate about whether a particular pair of boots were too much for the upcoming summer and who wears boots in summer anyway? That left the two of you in your own little orbit, the mall noise fading into background static.
“You’re quieter when you're with them,” Eddie said, voice low enough that it stayed between you. “Not in a bad way. Just… smaller. Like you’re trying to take up less space.”
You glanced at him. “And with you I’m suddenly loud?”
“With me you’re you.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “The version that likes to talk shit and snorts when she laughs. I like that version. Miss her when she’s gone.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m correct.” He shifted the bags so he could free one hand and reach over, gently tugging the sleeve of your hoodie. “Look at you. Five minutes ago you were about to jump into the void. Now you’re about to roast me. Progress.”
“I wasn’t going to roast you.”
“Liar.” His grin was slow and crooked. “You were definitely going to say something about the way I’m carrying these bags like a peasant. Go on. I can take it.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “You look like a Victorian servant who got lost on the way to a metal show.”
Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest hard enough that the Victoria’s Secret bag swung wildly. “How dare you. I’ll have you know this is high fashion. Wore my favorite rings just for you.”
“Your rings make you look like you stuck your hand in an antique store display and just bought whatever stuck.”
“Rude.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping into that teasing register he only ever used with you. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mean. Otherwise I’d leave you here with all these bags and go find people who appreciate my good looks.”
You bumped him with your hip. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
“You wouldn’t.”
"Try me."
"There's some mall rats over by Hot Topic. Bet they'd love you."
Eddie looked at you for a second too long, something softer flickering behind the performance. The kind of look that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip. He always looked at you like that when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile, or the way your eyes crinkled when you were actually relaxed. Like you were the only thing in the entire building worth staring at.
You felt it. You always felt it. And you looked back at him the same way, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
Robin’s voice cut through from up ahead. “Are you two flirting or fighting? Because from back here it sounds like both and I hope she wins.”
Eddie didn’t break eye contact with you as he called back, “We’re engaged in battle, Buckley. Mind your business.”
“Sure,” Robin said, entirely unconvinced. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Munson.”
He finally looked away, but the corner of his mouth stayed curved. He shifted the bags again and, without asking, reached over to take the last one from your hand so you were completely free.
“There,” he said, quieter. “Now you can actually exist without any extra weight in your hands. You’re welcome.”
You flexed your fingers, still warm from where the plastic handles had dug in. “You’re being weirdly nice today.”
“I’m always nice to you.” He said it like a fact, not a defense. Then, softer, almost under his breath: “Especially when you look like you’re about two seconds from disappearing into your own head again.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just walked beside him, the space between your arms brushing every few steps. Nancy and Robin had stopped in front of another window display, giving the two of you another pocket of privacy.
Eddie glanced sideways at you, rings catching the light as he adjusted his grip on the bags.
“For the record,” he said, voice low and almost careful, “I like when you let yourself be loud with me. Even when you're being a butt head. Cause I know you're only like that with me. Makes me feel special."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And for a second the rest of the mall—Robin’s laughter, the distant music, the fluorescent lights—dropped away.
“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet. “I like it too.”
Eddie’s smile this time was smaller. Softer. The kind he only ever gave you when the banter peeled back and something truer sat underneath.
He didn’t say anything else.
The drive back was easy in the way things always were with him.
Eddie had the windows cracked just enough to let the warm spring air in, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he was half-tempted to reach over and take yours. He didn’t. He just talked the whole way—about how Robin’s taste in shoes was a crime against humanity, about how Nancy had looked at a seventy-dollar candle like she could actually afford it. You laughed more than you had all day.
His apartment was on the second floor of a tired brick building two towns over from Hawkins. The kind of place with a sticky front door and a hallway that always smelled faintly of someone else’s cooking. He’d worked doubles and sold half his vinyl collection to make the deposit after graduation. It showed in the way he talked about it sometimes—quiet pride mixed with the usual self-deprecation.
“Home sweet dump,” he announced as he kicked the door open with his boot, still carrying most of your bags. “Couch has been waiting for you milady.”
It was exactly as lived-in as always. Band posters peeling at the corners. A thrifted couch that had seen better decades. A kitchen table covered in sheet music and empty coffee mugs. The faint smell of the dragons blood incense he always used because you once said you liked it.
He dropped the bags by the couch with a dramatic groan and flopped down, immediately stretching his legs out and patting the cushion beside him.
“Sit. Argue with me. I’ve been waiting all day to be wrong about something.”
You sat. The couch dipped under your combined weight the way it always did.
It started with Iron Man versus Batman, because of course it did.
“I’m just saying,” you said, turning to face him fully, “Tony Stark would fold Bruce Wayne like a lawn chair. The man has an entire AI, flight, repulsors—”
Eddie held up a finger, rings glinting. “Batman has prep time. Prep. Time. That’s his whole thing. He would study every single one of Stark’s weaknesses, build a suit specifically designed to counter the arc reactor, and then—”
“And then Iron Man would still vaporize him from the air before Batman even finished monologuing.”
“You’re underestimating the power of pure spite and a utility belt.”
“You’re underestimating the power of literally being able to fly and shoot lasers.”
Eddie threw his head back against the couch with a wounded sound. “I can’t believe I’m friends with someone this wrong.”
You poked his knee with your socked foot. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.”
“I’m mad because you’re smug about it.” But he was smiling, soft around the edges, the argument already losing steam in favor of watching the way your face lit up when you got competitive. He loved that version of you. The one that forgot to be quiet.
After another minute of half-hearted defense of Batman’s honor, Eddie finally held up both hands in surrender.
“Fine. Iron Man wins. Happy? You destroyed my entire worldview. I hope you’re proud.”
You grinned. “Extremely.”
He huffed a laugh, then his eyes drifted toward the pile of bags near the arm of the couch.
“Alright,” he said, voice shifting into something lighter, curious. “Show and tell. What’d you actually buy, shopping gremlin? Besides the jeans Nancy forced on you and whatever candles Robin convinced you to buy.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck almost immediately.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His expression gentled, the teasing dialing back just enough.
“Hey. No pressure. You don’t have to—”
“Can I…” You hesitated, fingers twisting in the hem of your hoodie. The shyness was back, but different this time. Softer. Safe, because it was him. “Can I give you a fashion show?”
Eddie went still for half a second.
Then the slowest, softest smile spread across his face. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his voice drop into something almost reverent.
“Yeah?” he said, quiet. “You wanna model for me?”
You nodded, small.
He sat up a little straighter, like he was preparing for something important. “Hell yeah you can. Go on. I’ll be the most supportive, least judgmental audience you’ve ever had.”
He gestured toward the short hallway that led to his bedroom. “Use my room. Mirror’s clean for once. Take your time.”
You stood, gathering the bags with slightly shaky hands. Eddie watched you the whole way, that same look from the mall settled deep in his eyes—like he was trying not to hope too hard, and failing.
Just before you disappeared around the corner, he called after you, voice warm and a little rough around the edges.
“And for the record… whatever you got in that pink bag? I’m already a fan.”
You didn’t answer.
But the door to his bedroom clicked shut behind you with a soft, anticipatory sound, and he leaned back against the couch, his heart doing something stupid and hopeful in his chest while he waited.
Eddie barely had time to scrub a hand over his face and pretend he wasn’t already halfway gone before the bedroom door creaked open.
You stepped out in the black jeans first—ones that actually fit like they were made for you instead of the baggy shit you usually hid in—and a soft, flowy crop top that kept flashing a strip of skin every time you moved. You did a little half-turn, arms sort of awkwardly out like you weren’t sure what to do with them yet.
“Okay,” you said, voice still quiet. “First one. Jeans and… this. It’s kind of floaty. I don’t know.”
Eddie swallowed. His brain helpfully supplied approximately forty different compliments and zero of them felt safe enough to say out loud.
“Floaty’s good,” he managed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so he had something to do with his hands. “Floaty’s very good. You look… hippie. Very Stevie Nicks. Ten out of ten. No notes. Except maybe do the turn again so I can fully appreciate the jeans.”
You huffed a tiny laugh and spun slower this time. The confidence was still shy around the edges, but it was there. He could see it.
God, he wanted to bottle that sound.
You disappeared again. He let his head drop back against the couch and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him strength. It did not. All it offered was a water stain shaped vaguely like a middle finger.
The door opened a second time.
Black mini skirt. Tight black velvet crop top, cut to look like a bat. The kind of top that looked like it had been designed specifically to ruin his entire life.
Eddie forgot how to breathe for a full three seconds.
“Shopping for summer, you know?” you said, a little stronger this time, doing a small sway that made the skirt flip against your thighs. “Figured I should own at least one thing that isn’t a hoodie.”
“Summer,” he repeated, voice coming out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Summer. Very… seasonal. The bat is a nice touch. Extremely on-brand for hanging out with me. I’m choosing to take that as a personal compliment.”
You smiled—actually smiled—and did a full turn this time. The skirt flared just enough. The velvet caught the low light of his shitty lamp. Something in his chest went tight and warm and stupid.
Look at you. Look at you getting braver every single time you walk out here. Like you’re remembering you’re allowed to take up space. Like maybe you trust me enough to let me see it.
“You’re staring,” you said, but there was no real accusation in it. Just a little spark of something playful.
“I’m observing,” Eddie corrected immediately. “Very different. Scientific, even. For example… observation one— the skirt makes your legs look criminal. Observation two— I’m going to have dreams about that velvet bat. Observation three— you’re getting less shy about the spins and I am thriving.”
You laughed, bright and real, and the sound did something catastrophic to his heart rate.
Third time.
You kept the mini skirt. Swapped the velvet for a ridiculous shirt from Spencer’s—a bunch of dachshunds with the phrase "Everyone loves wieners" and it's so perfectly you that Eddie felt his face do that soft, helpless thing he could never quite hide around you. You struck a little pose in the doorway this time, one hand on your hip, the other up in the air like you had no idea what to do with it. You probably didn't.
“Behold,” you declared, voice full of mock grandeur. “The intellectual peak of my shopping trip.”
Eddie clapped. Actually clapped, slow and dramatic.
“Masterpiece,” he said solemnly. “I feel smarter just looking at it. The skirt and the wiener dog shirt combination is inspired. You’re a visionary. I’m obsessed. I hope you wear this exact combination to your next outing.”
You were grinning now. Fully. The shy little glances had turned into actual eye contact, like each outfit had peeled another layer of hesitation off you and left something brighter underneath. He watched it happen in real time and felt like the luckiest bastard alive for getting front-row seats.
You walked closer this time, stopping a few feet in front of the couch, doing a slow turn without him even asking. The skirt flared up, giving him the slightest glimpse of the supple curve of your ass underneath. Eddie’s hands flexed against his knees.
You’re going to kill me. You’re going to stand there getting more confident by the second and I’m going to sit here and fall harder every time you laugh at your own joke. And you’re never going to know, because I’m a coward who would rather keep you forever as my best friend than risk saying the quiet part out loud.
You stopped spinning and looked at him, cheeks a little pink but eyes bright.
“Okay,” you said, softer again, but steady. “Are you ready for the finale?”
Eddie felt his entire soul short-circuit.
He sat up straighter, tried to play it cool, failed miserably, and ended up just staring at you with his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little wrecked. “I’m ready. Show me.”
The bedroom door opened again and Eddie’s brain helpfully decided it was obsolete.
You stepped out wrapped in the fluffiest pink bathrobe he’d ever seen in his life. It looked like someone had murdered a cloud and dyed it the color of cotton candy. Your hands were buried in the pockets, shoulders a little hunched, that familiar shy tilt to your head that always made him want to gather you up and hide you from the entire world.
“Okay,” you said, voice small. “Finale. Don’t laugh.”
“I would never,” Eddie answered immediately, and he meant it. His voice came out softer than he intended. “C’mon. Show me.”
You hesitated for half a second longer, then slowly tugged the belt loose.
The robe slipped open.
Eddie’s entire nervous system short-circuited so hard he was pretty sure he blacked out for a full second.
Hot pink. Barely-there hot pink lingerie that looked like it had been designed specifically to end him. A tiny bralette that clung to the soft curve of your chest, delicate straps, and matching bottoms that sat high on your hips and left almost nothing to the imagination. The kind of set that made every inch of bare skin look deliberate. Completely fucking lethal.
You didn’t even seem to notice the way his soul left his body. You just stood there in the middle of his living room like this was normal. Like best friends did this shit all the time. Like you weren’t currently rewriting every single one of his brain cells.
Jesus Christ.
He grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shoved it into his lap so hard. His jeans were already getting tight in a way that was going to be extremely obvious if he didn’t hide it. He tried to look casual. He failed.
“Holy shit,” he managed, voice cracking just enough that he had to clear his throat. “Okay. Wow. That’s… yeah. That’s the finale alright.”
You gave a tiny, embarrassed little smile and did a slow twirl.
The bathrobe slipped further down your arms, hanging loose around your elbows like a soft pink frame. The movement made the tiny scraps of hot pink shift against your skin. And then the smell hit him—your perfume, the same floral kind you've worn since the day you met him, the one that always lingered on his hoodie for days whenever you borrowed it. It wrapped around him like a second heartbeat.
Eddie dug his fingers into the pillow hard enough that his nails pressed little crescent shapes into the fabric.
You’re actually going to kill me. You’re standing there in the middle of my shitty apartment in the tiniest fucking lingerie set I’ve ever seen and you think this is just friend stuff. You have no idea. You have no idea that I’m two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging. That I’ve wanted to put my mouth on every single inch of you for months. That the only reason I’m still sitting here like a functional human is because I refuse to ruin the best thing in my life by being a horny idiot.
You finished the turn and looked at him, cheeks pink, completely unaware that he was actively dying.
“Is it too much?” you asked, tugging self-consciously at one of the straps. “I almost didn’t get it. Robin said the color was cute though.”
Eddie let out a sound that was half laugh, half wounded animal.
“Too much?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d just asked if the sun was a little bright today. “Baby— I mean. No. It’s not too much. It’s… fuck. You look unreal. Like someone drew you. The pink is doing something illegal to my brain chemistry. I’m serious. I might need medical attention.”
You laughed, soft and shy, and the sound went straight through him.
He adjusted the pillow again, very carefully, and tried to remember how to breathe like a person who wasn’t currently imagining peeling those tiny pink scraps off you with his teeth.
“C’mere,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. He patted the cushion beside him even though he was pretty sure sitting next to you right now was going to finish him off. “Let me look at you properly. Without you doing the nervous shuffle from six feet away.”
You stepped closer.
The perfume got stronger.
Eddie was so completely, utterly fucked.
The shyness came flooding back like a switch had flipped the moment you stood in front of him.
Eddie watched it happen in real time—the way your shoulders curled inward just a little, the way your fingers twisted in the loose sleeves of the bathrobe still hanging off your arms, the way you suddenly couldn’t quite meet his eyes even though you were standing close enough that he could see each mark on your body. Close enough that the heat of your skin felt like it was already touching him.
He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady.
“Hey,” he said softly, tilting his head to catch your gaze. “None of that. You’re allowed to stand here looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had and still get a little shy. I can handle both.” He let his eyes flick down for half a second before forcing them back up. “You look… soft. And dangerous. And like I should probably be on my knees right now saying thank you, but I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman instead of a complete disaster.”
You let out a tiny, nervous huff of laughter. The sound went straight to his dick.
Eddie kept talking, walking that razor-thin line between honest and too much. “The pink is killing me, by the way. Like actually ending my life. And the way it sits on you—fuck—it’s not fair. You’re standing in my living room looking like that and I’m supposed to just… what? Act normal? Impossible. You’re making it impossible.”
You shifted your weight. The movement was small.
The left strap of the bralette slipped.
It slid down the curve of your shoulder in slow motion, delicate and pink and devastating, and Eddie’s brain broke in half so hard a low, wrecked moan tore out of his throat before he could stop it.
The sound hung in the air between you.
You both froze.
Eddie’s eyes went wide. The pillow was still crushed in his lap. His pulse was hammering so loud he was pretty sure you could hear it. Heat flooded his face so fast it felt like a fever.
You stared at him, lips parted, the slipped strap still resting halfway down your arm.
“…Did you really just do that?” you asked, voice quiet and a little disbelieving. A tiny, dangerous spark of something flirty flickered underneath the shock.
Eddie let out a strangled laugh that was half embarrassment, half pure desperation. “Yeah. Yeah, I really just did that. In my defense, the strap moved and— Completely involuntary. I’m a victim here.”
Your mouth twitched. “A victim.”
“Exactly.” He gestured helplessly at the strap still hanging off your shoulder. “Look at it. It’s torturing me. It’s doing it on purpose. You’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you said, but your voice had gone softer, warmer. You didn’t fix the strap. You just stood there looking at him like you were suddenly seeing something new.
Eddie couldn’t take it anymore.
The careful distance he’d been clinging to for years—the jokes, the looks he thought you never noticed, the way he always stopped himself right at the edge—snapped clean in half.
He surged up off the couch, pillow tumbling to the floor, and closed the space between you. One hand came up to cradle the side of your face, rings cool against your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’d been dying to put it there for years.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was years of wanting poured into one desperate, open-mouthed press of lips. He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like the taste of you might actually save him. His fingers slid back into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it, and a low, broken sound rumbled in his chest when you made a tiny noise against his mouth.
The slipped strap was still hanging off your shoulder.
Eddie didn’t fix it.
You broke the kiss with a soft, shaky inhale, lips still brushing his as you pulled back just far enough to see his face.
Eddie’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-bitten and a little shiny. His hand was still cradling your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
“How long?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”
His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone. He didn’t look away.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Eddie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, low and rough. “Jesus. Okay. No lying.” He swallowed. “Months. Longer than months. Since before I even had this apartment. Since you started doing that thing where you’d steal my hoodies and really all my clothes. I’ve wanted to kiss you every single fucking time you walked into a room since the moment I met you.”
Your heart did something violent behind your ribs.
You didn’t think. You just lifted your hand and gave his chest a playful little smack, right over the faded print of his shirt.
Eddie jerked back half an inch, eyes wide with pure betrayal. “What— why? What was that for?”
“Because I’ve liked you too, you absolute idiot,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. Heat flooded your face but you didn’t look away. “I’ve been sitting here in this dumb pink robe thinking this was just normal best-friend fashion-show territory while you’ve been dying over there with a pillow on your lap. We’ve both been ridiculous.”
For a second Eddie just stared at you.
Then a helpless, disbelieving grin broke across his face, soft and a little wrecked.
“We’re both idiots,” he said, voice thick with something that sounded a lot like relief. “Complete, hopeless idiots.”
And then he was kissing you again.
This time there was no hesitation. One of his hands slid down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair, and he pulled you with him as he dropped back onto the couch. You went willingly, knees bracketing his hips, the fluffy robe slipping further down your arms as he settled you fully into his lap. The tiny scraps of hot pink lace were the only things between you now, and Eddie made a low, punched-out sound against your mouth the second your weight settled over him.
His hands found your bare thighs, rings cool against overheated skin, and he kissed you like he’d never get the chance again—deep and open and a little desperate, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real and in his lap and kissing him back just as hard.
You sank down harder into his lap and the kiss turned messy, open, wet. Eddie’s hands slid higher up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath the edge of the hot-pink lace. Every time you shifted, the thin material of the bottoms dragged against him, and the second it slipped to the side you both felt it—heat against denim, almost nothing left between you.
Eddie broke the kiss with a ragged sound, forehead dropping against yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. So pretty. Always so god damn pretty.” His voice was low, reverent, already half-ruined. “I’ve wanted to worship you for so long it makes me feel stupid. Wanted to get my mouth on every soft inch of you and take my time. Make you feel how gone I am. Hope you're okay with that or I'm about to look like the biggest jackass in the world.”
You rolled your hips once, slow, and watched his eyes flutter.
The unspoken rule sat between you both like a ghost. You never talked about anyone else. Neither did he. No stories, no casual mentions, nothing. You’d always told yourself it was just boundaries. Now, with his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear, you understood. It had never been about boundaries. It had been about not having to picture each other with anyone else. About protecting something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
Eddie seemed to realize it at the same time. His expression went soft and a little pained.
“We never talked about it,” he murmured, thumb stroking along the waistband of the lace. “Not once. I used to think it was because you didn’t… you know. Because you never brought it up. I thought maybe you hadn’t… done much. And I didn’t want to push.” His laugh was quiet, self-deprecating. “Turns out we were both just trying not to break our own hearts.”
"Think you're right about that."
"I'm always right sweetheart."
You ground down again, deliberately this time— partially to shut him up and also because it felt so damn good. The lace shifted fully out of the way. The friction dragged a broken noise out of both of you. Eddie’s head tipped back against the couch, throat working.
“Jesus Christ—”
His hands slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of the bralette with surprising care. He unhooked it slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred, and the hot-pink scrap loosened. You shrugged it off the rest of the way. The second it hit the floor Eddie went completely still.
He stared.
No jokes. No dramatic commentary. Just pure, speechless hunger as his eyes dragged over you—bare chest, flushed skin, the way the remaining lace sat low on your hips and did nothing to hide how wet you already were.
“Holy shit,” he finally whispered, voice cracking. “You’re… fuck. You’re perfect. Look at these.” One hand came up to cup the soft weight of your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple like he was testing whether you were real. “Soft and pretty and already so fucking responsive for me. I’ve been dying to see you like this. Dying to get my hands and mouth all over you and make you fall apart.”
He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, then lower, dragging his lips over the curve of one breast while his other hand squeezed gently at your hip, encouraging you to keep moving against him.
“Keep grinding on me like that,” he murmured against your skin, filthy and soft at the same time. “Use me. Wanna feel how wet you are through these tiny little things. Wanna make a mess of both of us before I even get my mouth between your legs.”
"What if I want you now Munson? What then?"
Your voice was wrecked. And the way he looked up at you—like you were something holy and filthy all at once—made it very clear that Eddie Munson planned to take his time worshipping every single inch of you.
Eddie moved like a man possessed.
He broke away from your chest just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and throw it somewhere behind the couch. His jeans were next—belt undone with clumsy, impatient fingers, zipper dragged down, fabric shoved past his hips until he could kick them off. He left the black boxers on— the hard line of his cock already tenting the front obscenely.
You reached between you without thinking, palm sliding down the plane of his stomach until your fingers wrapped around him. The second you pulled him free of the last bit of fabric, your breath caught.
He was thick. Heavy in your hand. Bigger than you’d let yourself imagine in all those late-night thoughts you never admitted to.
Eddie watched your face and let out a low, breathless laugh that was pure nerves and ego all at once.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I get that look a lot. Don’t worry, sweetheart—I’ll go slow. I’m not trying to ruin my favorite person on the first night I finally get to touch her.”
You stroked him once, just to feel the weight of him, and his hips jerked up into your fist with a punched-out little sound.
But he didn’t let you keep control for long.
Eddie gently caught your wrist and guided your hand away, eyes dark and focused. “My turn first. Been dying to get my mouth on you. Need to get you nice and open for me before I even think about putting that in you.”
He moved with surprising care for how wrecked he looked—hands on your waist, guiding you down until your back hit the couch cushions. One of your legs was carefully lifted and draped over the back of the couch; the other he guided down so your foot rested on the floor. The position left you completely spread for him, the tiny scrap of hot-pink lace still clinging to the side of your cunt.
Eddie knelt between your thighs on the floor and just stared for a long second, hands resting on the insides of your knees like he needed the anchor.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re really here. In my apartment. In that tiny pink shit. Legs open for me like this. I can’t— Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”
Then he leaned in.
The first drag of his tongue over your clit was slow and filthy, broad and wet. He moaned against you like the taste alone was enough to ruin him. One hand stayed splayed on your lower stomach to keep you still while the other stroked up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing along the soaked edge of the lace.
“So wet already,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick. “All for me. Gonna take my time opening you up, okay? Want you dripping before I even try to fit.”
He licked another slow stripe through your folds, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked gently while one long finger pressed inside. The stretch was easy—you were already so ready—but he still worked it carefully, curling and stroking until your hips twitched. A second finger joined the first sooner than you expected, scissoring gently, stretching you while his tongue kept up that steady, filthy rhythm on your clit.
“That’s it,” he breathed, glancing up the length of your body. “Look at you taking two already. So fucking pretty like this. Can you give me one more? Want you nice and ready for me.”
The third finger pressed in slow, the burn sweet and deep. Eddie groaned like he was the one being stretched, forehead dropping against your hip for a second as he felt you clench around him.
“Fuck— there you go. Three. God, you’re perfect. So tight and hot around my fingers. Keep breathing for me, baby. Gonna keep working you open just like this 'til you’re shaking.”
He curled all three fingers and rubbed firmly against that spot inside you while his tongue flicked faster over your clit, wet sounds filling the quiet apartment. His free hand gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, holding you spread wide open while he worshipped you with his mouth and hand like he’d been starving for it.
You were already shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his head, when the need finally spilled out of you in broken little pieces.
“Eddie— please— I need— fuck, I need you, I can’t— please just—”
He lifted his head immediately, mouth shiny, three fingers still buried deep inside you. His eyes were almost black.
“Yeah?” His voice was wrecked. “You need me right now, baby? Need my cock instead of my fingers?”
You nodded frantically, hips twitching down against his hand. “Please. Now. I need you inside me—”
Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then surged up over you. One hand shoved his boxers the rest of the way down while the other stayed braced on the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread exactly the way he wanted.
He knew you had an IUD—he’d driven you to the appointment months ago, sat in the waiting room with his knee bouncing, bought you a milkshake afterward like it was the most normal thing in the world. So no condom. Nothing between you.
He wrapped a hand around himself and dragged the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds once, twice, coating himself in how wet you’d gotten for him. Then he lined up, the blunt pressure of him settling right against your entrance while your legs stayed open—one hooked over the back of the couch, the other dangling toward the floor.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered, voice low and shaking with restraint. “Gonna go slow. You’re so fucking tight and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, deep, almost overwhelming. Eddie’s mouth fell open on a broken sound as the head of him sank inside you, and he kept going—inch by thick inch—while a steady stream of praise spilled out of him like he couldn’t stop it.
“Holy shit— look at that. Look at you taking me. So fucking pretty stretched around my cock already. That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re doing so good. S' good for me.”
His hands gripped your thighs harder, rings pressing into soft skin as he sank deeper. Another inch. Another. His stomach was trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Fuck, you’re s' warm inside. Sucking me in so perfect. Knew you’d feel like this. Dreamed about it. God, you’re taking every inch like you were made for me— almost there, almost— there. That’s all of me. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
He bottomed out with a punched-out groan, hips flush against yours, and stayed completely still so you could adjust. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice cracking with pure awe. “You’re perfect. So tight and wet and mine. Just stay right here and let me feel you for a second. Let me feel how you grip me when you’re full.”
He kissed the side of your throat, soft and reverent even while his cock throbbed deep inside you, and kept murmuring filthy, worshipful praise against your skin like he never planned to stop.
Your cunt clenched around him—tight, wet, perfect—and Eddie’s brain short-circuited all over again.
“Move,” you whispered, voice wrecked and needy. “Please, Eddie, move.”
He lifted his head, eyes searching your face even as his hips twitched with the desperate urge to thrust. “How do you want it?” he asked, voice low and rough. One hand stroked up your side, grounding both of you. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Soft,” you breathed. “Start soft. Then… rough when I’m close. When I’m about to come.”
Eddie nodded like you’d just handed him sacred instructions.
“Soft first. Got it. I can do soft.”
He pulled out slow—dragged every thick inch of himself almost all the way free until just the head stayed tucked inside you—then pushed back in just as carefully. The wet heat of you swallowed him again and a broken sound punched out of his chest. He did it again. And again. Deep, rolling strokes that kept him buried to the hilt for a long second each time, letting you feel every ridge and pulse of him.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth, kissing you between words. “I could die happy here. So fucking soft and warm inside. Look at you. Perfect. You’re fuckin' perfect.”
He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in the same lazy rhythm as his hips. One hand stayed braced on the back of the couch near your knee, keeping that leg hooked high; the other cupped your breast, thumb stroking over your nipple in time with every slow thrust.
Internally, Eddie was losing his entire mind.
Holy shit. Holy shit, this is real. You’re under me on my shitty couch in that tiny pink lingerie, stretched around my cock, telling me exactly how you want it. I’ve jerked off to this exact fantasy so many times it’s embarrassing and now you’re actually here, actually clenching around me, actually letting me have this. Don’t you dare fuck this up, Munson. Go slow. Make it good. Make it so good she never wants anyone else. God, the way she feels— dripping down my balls already. I’m not gonna survive this. I’m going to come embarrassingly fast if I keep thinking about how long I’ve wanted to be right here.
He kept the pace steady and deep, every thrust deliberate, every kiss lingering.
“You feel unreal,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking with restraint. “So tight every time I push back in. Think your body’s trying to keep me. Fuck— I love that. Love how wet you are for me. I'll give you anything you ever need baby.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding against you at the end of the stroke so the base of his cock rubbed your clit, and another filthy, worshipful groan spilled out of him.
Don’t rush. Don’t you dare rush. She’s trusting you. She’s asking for soft first. Give it to her. Worship her. Make her come so hard she forgets anyone else ever touched her. God, I still can’t believe she’s mine right now. Even if it’s just for tonight. Even if—
He kissed you harder to shut his own spiraling thoughts up, and kept moving—slow, deep, devoted—exactly the way you’d asked.
Eddie's hand under the thigh that was still draped over the back of the couch lifted you up and pushed it higher, folding you open even more. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust, and he groaned into the side of your neck.
He leaned in fully, chest pressed to yours, and put his mouth on your throat.
Soft kisses first—open and wet along the column of your neck—then the careful scrape of teeth. He found a spot just under your jaw and sucked hard enough to leave a mark, then another lower, closer to your pulse, worrying the skin between his lips until he knew it would bloom purple later. Every time he bottomed out he did it again, marking you like he needed proof this was real.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. “Gonna leave these all over you. Want everyone to know I had you like this. Want you to look in the mirror tomorrow and remember how deep I was.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies.
Eddie felt the moment your fingers found your clit—felt the way your cunt fluttered hard around him in response—and his hips stuttered.
“That’s it,” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to watch. “Take what you need angel. Let me feel it. Wanna feel every bit of you.”
She’s getting close. Fuck, she’s getting close and I’m still inside her and she’s touching herself and I can feel every single clench. Don’t come. Do not come yet, you absolute fucking idiot. She asked for soft until she’s about to finish. Give her that. Hold it together. Think about literally anything else— guitar tabs, the broken latch on the van, the way Robin would mock you forever if you finished in thirty seconds flat— anything except how perfect and hot and wet she is around you.
Eddie pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, still rocking into you in those same controlled, deep thrusts even as his thighs started to shake.
“You’re tightening up on me,” he whispered, almost in awe. “I can feel it. You’re getting close, aren’t you? Keep rubbing that pretty clit. Wanna feel you come on my cock. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. Just let it build.”
He kissed you again, messy and open, and kept moving exactly the way you’d asked—holding that leg high, marking your neck, fighting every instinct that screamed at him to snap his hips and chase his own release—while your cunt kept clenching tighter and tighter around him.
“Harder,” you breathed against his mouth, fingers still working between your bodies. “Eddie— harder, please—”
The magic words.
Eddie pulled almost all the way out and then snapped his hips forward, the slow, worshipful pace shattering as he gave you exactly what you wanted. He kept the build gradual at first—each thrust a little faster, a little deeper—until he was driving into you with real force, the hard wet slap of skin on skin filling the apartment. The new rhythm forced him against your cervix on every stroke; he felt the firm resistance and the faint, unmistakable nudge of your IUD against the head of his cock and he did not give a single shit.
Not when you were taking him like this.
“Fuck— there it is,” he groaned, voice wrecked as he held your leg higher and leaned into every thrust. “Feel that? That’s as deep as I can get. Taking every fucking inch like you were built for it. God, you’re perfect— so perfect—”
Your cunt clenched down around him so hard it punched the air from his lungs.
Then you gushed.
Hot, sudden wetness flooded around his cock, squirting in pulsing waves that soaked his stomach, his thighs, the couch cushion beneath you. The sound was filthy and unmistakable. Eddie’s eyes went wide, a broken, awed noise tearing out of his throat as he watched and felt you come apart under him.
“Oh my god— you’re— fuck, you’re squirting on me—”
That was all it took.
The tight, rhythmic pulse of your cunt milking him while you kept spurting around his cock ripped his orgasm out of him with zero warning. Eddie buried himself to the hilt and came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you in thick, pulsing waves. He kept thrusting through it—short, messy strokes that forced his cum deeper while you were still gushing around him—mouth open against your neck, one hand locked under your thigh, the other braced on the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
“Shit— shit, baby, I- fuck— feel that? Feel me filling you up while you’re still making a mess of me? Fuck, you’re incredible— so wet and tight and perfect—”
He stayed inside you through the aftershocks, cock twitching as the last of your squirting eased into trembling little pulses. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath coming in ragged, disbelieving gasps, every muscle in his body still shaking from how hard he’d finished.
The couch was ruined.
He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Eddie stayed exactly where he was—chest to chest, cock softening in the wet heat he’d just filled. His breath was still coming a little uneven against the side of your neck. One hand stayed hooked under your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let you close your legs yet.
He lifted his head after a long moment, eyes dark and a little dazed, and looked down at you.
“…Did you know you could do that?”
His voice was rough, still wrecked around the edges, but there was pure curiosity underneath it. And a little bit of awe he wasn’t even trying to hide.
You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, and gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Eddie stared.
“Yeah?” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that made his softening cock twitch inside you. “You’ve been walking around knowing you can do that and you just… never mentioned it? Not once? We’ve talked about every stupid thing under the sun and you never thought to bring up the fact that you can soak a couch?”
You shrugged as much as you could with him still on top of you. “I didn’t know it was gonna happen with you.”
Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Then dropped his forehead back to your shoulder with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god. You’re serious. You actually didn’t know.” He sounded personally offended and deeply smug at the same time. “So what you’re telling me is that I did that. Me. Eddie Munson. Made you squirt. On my couch. And how often does that happen?”
"By myself? A lot. With other people? Not as much."
"So you're saying I'm a sex god?"
"I'm not not saying that."
He lifted his head again, grinning now—soft and a little filthy, hair a mess, lips still kiss-bitten.
“I’m never recovering from this. You’re never living this down. I’m going to be so insufferable about it. Just warning you now.”
He shifted his hips the tiniest bit, still half-hard and sliding through the mess of both of you, and made a low, content sound at the feeling.
“Also,” he added, voice dropping into something warmer, “for the record? That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. You just— just… gushing all over me while I was coming? Jesus Christ. I thought I was going to black out. You ruined me. Completely.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, lazy and fond, and didn’t pull out.
“We’re gonna need to burn this cushion,” he murmured against your lips, clearly not sorry at all. “And probably the whole couch. Worth it. So fucking worth it.”
Eddie cleaned you up with a care that made your chest ache.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, still bare and soft-eyed, and wiped between your legs with slow, gentle strokes like you were something precious. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee when he was done, then another to your hip, and helped you stand on slightly unsteady legs.
“C’mon,” he murmured, voice still rough. “Bed. Couch is a crime scene and I’m not making you sit in it.”
His bedroom was dim and lived-in—unmade sheets, a pile of band tees on the chair, the faint smell of his cologne and laundry detergent. He dug through a drawer and tossed you a soft black shirt that was definitely his and a pair of boxers that hung low on your hips. You pulled both on while he watched, something warm and possessive flickering across his face when the shirt settled over you and the boxers disappeared under the hem.
Then he tugged you down into the bed with him.
You ended up half on top of him, head on his chest, one of his arms wrapped solidly around your back while the other worked the remote. Some random late-night show played at low volume, the light from the screen flickering across the ceiling. His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine under the shirt. Every so often he pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head like he couldn’t help it.
The quiet stretched long enough to feel safe.
You traced a fingertip over one of the tattoos on his chest and finally asked, voice soft, “What are we now?”
Eddie let out a short, incredulous laugh that rumbled under your ear.
“Are you serious?” He shifted just enough to look down at you, dark eyes soft and completely certain. “You’re asking me that while you’re in my clothes, in my bed, still smelling like me and sex? Baby. I’m not letting go of you now. Not after that. Not after years of wanting you and finally getting to have you.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You’re my girl. That’s what we are. Official. Permanent. Whatever word makes it sink in. You’re mine.”
He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your mouth—slow and sweet.
When he pulled back there was a familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Also,” he added, “I’m keeping those ruined little pink panties. They’re mine now. Evidence. Trophy. Whatever. I’ll buy you a new set. Hell, I’ll buy you ten new sets if it means I get to ruin them the same way. Fair trade.”
He settled back against the pillows, tugging you more firmly against his chest, and turned the volume on the TV up just a little.
“Now quit overthinking and watch the show with me,” he murmured into your hair, already sounding half-asleep and completely content. “My girl needs rest. I’ve got you.”
Summary The Playboy business is a filthy business to get into; you work as a model for the magazines to pay for your college. What happens when your stepfather finds out you are a Playboy bunny(2.0k)
Warnings Age gap, choking,Degradation,unprotected p in v, hair pulling,fauxcest, exhibitionism,forced drug use, blackmail
A/n: Enjoy!! Requests are open
MASTERLIST
REQUESTS/CHAT
The long night shifts were the worst. You would sit there for hours, getting your hair and makeup done. It was a never-ending circle. Younger you would be so disappointed in your 19-year-old self. Exploiting yourself for money, you thought about quitting last month, but why would you quit a job where you are on the cover of every Playboy magazine?
“They want me to have my own edition?” You asked, shocked, as you sat down in your manager's office.
“Yes, ever since we put you on the cover of our magazines, our sales have increased significantly”. Your manager responded. And believe me, once you have an exclusive edition, our revenue will triple”.
“Will the pay remain the same?” You asked hesitantly.
“Sweetheart, the pay will take care of you. Trust me, it’s more than enough”. He smiled.
—-
“Heard you are getting your own edition”. The makeup artist exclaimed as she applied eyeshadow to your face
“Oh, I didn’t realize the word would spread that fast”. You laughed awkwardly.
“Oh, people talk, especially if you didn’t sleep with any head executives to get a whole explicit magazine of just you.” She laughed, putting the eyeshadow palette down. “It’s a shame a girl like you is working in this type of business”.
You shrugged, getting up from your seat and fixing the lace bra strap. “It pays well, and every time I go to the Playboy Mansion or the galas they host for their most loyal subscribers , those old guys always slip me a couple of 100 bucks.”
“And I’m guessing that goes to your university tuition”.
“Yes, and with this edition thing, I just might graduate from college with no debt”. You smiled, putting on your bunny ears.
“I bet your parents are going to wonder why you aren’t swimming in student loan debt.” She joked.
“Oh, trust me, they would kill me if they knew I was a Playboy model, especially my stepdad.” You shuddered at the thought of your stepdad Ben finding out you were a whore prancing around in lingerie.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t ask your stepdad for money; isn't he really rich?”She asked, confused.
“I mean, yeah, he’s well off, but I don’t want to live off of him. You should meet him; he’s so rude. He doesn’t know what boundaries are.” You replied. “I know if I asked him for money he would treat me like I was his property or something; he wouldn’t let me live it down.”
“Yeah, that would be tough”. She gave you a sympathetic smile.
“Where’s y/n!” The photographer yelled from the photoshoot area. “Our main bunny isn’t even here!”
“Well, I better go.”You sighed, walking out onto the stage, waiting for instructions for whatever degrading pose they made you do.
—-
After the long photoshoot, you drove home with the music blasting so you wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel. You parked in the driveway, glancing at yourself in the mirror, rubbing off the remaining glitter off your cheeks before getting out of the car.
“Ah, there you are,” Ben exclaimed as you entered the house. “Where have you been? It's 4 in the god damn morning”.
“Sorry, I was studying at the library. I didn't realize the time ”. You lied, putting your bag down.
Ben scoffed, his eyes trailing all over your body even with your hoodie on, and you felt exposed. “Please knowing how much of a slut you are you probably slept with a little college boy, maybe his friend too.”
“ I was studying for midterms ”. You said, walking up your staircase, not sparing Ben another glance.
—-
Nobody warned you about the physical and mental toll of having your own playboy edition. Every day to you felt like a never-ending cycle of challenges.
After your last class of the day finished, you drove straight to the Playboy set for another shoot with no end time in sight. With each pose, they made you feel more degraded than the last, but you did what you were told, and the magazine of your very own edition was out.In your honor, the Playboy Mansion hosted a gala, but this time you were the star of the show.
“Ah, you look so beautiful”. One of the head executives, Peter , said as you entered the Playboy Mansion. I tell you, we made the right decision to have a whole magazine full of photos of you.
“Thank you”. You smiled, already turning your head toward the crowd of older men who were usually the ones putting 100-dollar bills up your dress.
“Can you believe it? It's only been a couple of days since your edition got printed, and it’s almost sold out”. Peter mentioned as he walked alongside you.
“Wow, that's unbelievable”. You replied, already imagining the things you could finally do with your new masses of money.
“I know it is unbelievable. I can talk all night about how unbelievable it is, but right now I'll let our guests celebrate you”. Peter said, glancing at the two older men approaching you and him.
“Y/N!” One of the older men said excitedly, putting an arm around your shoulder.
“William, it's good to see you.” You replied.
He kissed your cheek, letting his eyes drift to the tight-fitting black dress you had on. “Stunning as always”.
“Thank you”. You said, shifting your gaze to the other man behind William. I dont think I've seen you around here before”.
“Oh, this guy he's a little shy; he's a friend from work, Danny”. William said, pushing Danny aside from him. “Doesn't want his wife to find out about his collection of Playboy magazines”.
“I'm a big fan of yours, y/n; real talent you got”. Danny spoke up, shaking your head.
“Come, y/n, let's go sit down”. William said, placing his hand on the small of your back.
—
An hour went by surrounded by older men. William placed you on his lap and made sure you smiled and laughed at the right moments, securing your $100 bills as they talked in detail about the photos in your exclusive edition.
“I tell you, y/n, you sure looked flexible in that one photo”. William laughed while taking a sip of his beer. “I'm sure you guys know which one I'm talking about, fellas”.
You smiled at William’s comment, glancing at the rest of the party. People were dancing, clashing glasses of champagne together. You couldn't believe the wealthiest men in the country surrounded you. From the corner of your eye, you saw a man walking up to your table.
You assumed it was another man completing your talent of taking explicit photographs, but as the man reached your table, your eyes widened in fear as you turned your head, meeting the gaze of your stepdad,
“Ben”. You said, shocked, immediately getting off of William’s lap.
“Who's that?” William asked
“I'm her father, actually”. Ben said, pulling you against him, holding your arm tightly as he pulled you through the crowd.
“Ben, it's not what it looks like”. You said loudly over the music that was playing.
He pulled you into a quieter area of the mansion, letting go of your arm, turning to look at you.
“Oh, I knew something was up with all that late-night studying at the library bullshit; it doesn't work on me.” He said, shaking his head.
“It's not what it looks like, I swear. I got this job to pay for college”. You said.
“Oh really? Because I flipped through those magazines underneath your bed, it sure does look like you were having a great time taking those slutty photos”. Ben laughed.
“You were snooping in my room?” You replied, annoyed. “I deserve privacy”.
“Oh please, a whore like you doesn't deserve privacy.” He retorted. “Tell me how many of those fuckers did you sleep with in there”.
“None, the job just pays well, it's not like I enjoy it all that much”. You said.
“Really, not even back there when you were sitting on that guy’s hard-on”. Ben said.
You were about to reply with a snarky comment, but you realized Ben might tell your mom about this, and for the rest of your life it would feel like hell on earth.
“Please don't tell my mom about this”. You pleaded.
Ben smirked, walking closer to stand directly in front, inches from your face. “Maybe I'll consider keeping your secret if you consider doing this one thing”. Ben said, wrapping his large hand around your throat, squeezing it slightly, making you gasp.
“What is it?” You gulped.
“Show me what they taught you in those photoshoots”. Ben whispered into your ear, biting the nip of your ear, letting his lip drift to your jawline.
“But there's people here”. You said nervously.
“So most of the guys here already saw your half-naked body. Ben said before smashing his lips against you, moaning into the kiss. Ben took that advantage to slip his tongue in.
“Get on your knees”. Ben said, pulling away from the kiss and pushing you on the ground. You obeyed, getting on your knees; your eyes met with the outline of his cock straining his jeans.
“I'm not going to lie to you; the lingerie they put you in fuck me, made me hard just by looking at them”. Ben unbuckled his belt, letting his jeans fall on the ground. “I want tears in those eyes”.
You nodded your head as you took his cock in your hand, stroking it gently, watching him groan at the feeling, which made an ache form between your legs as you placed his length in your mouth, his calloused hand tangled in your hair shoving all of it in your mouth bobbling your head back and forth himself like he was punishing you taking control of the act at hand.
“Fuck, I'm close. " Ben said as he thrusted in and out of your mouth more than you could take. Your eyes filled up with tears as his load shot into the back of your throat. He moaned, pulling your head away from his cock, tilting your chin to look up at him to see for himself the damage he had left.
“Get up”. Ben commanded, pulling your hair, making you get on your feet. “Pull your dress up”.
You obeyed by hiking your dress up so your panties were visible, watching him do a line of coke on the counter.
“Come here, do a line”. He said, pulling you so you were caged between the counter and him.
“Oh I don't really-”.
“I'm not asking you, I'm telling you”.
You looked down at the line of this Coke. It was either this or him telling your mom you were a playboy model. You snorted the line up, wiping your nose after.
“So did the photographer tell you what poses to do?” Ben asked if he ripped your panties off, aligning himself with your entrance.
“Um, yeah, most of the time”. You replied, gasping loudly as you felt Ben’s length seep deeply into you.
“Really, so he was the one who told you to pretend you’re touching yourself?” Ben said as he thrusted into you. That's a real marketing strategy, I tell you”
You couldn't even respond as he thrusted so rough it pained you, but the pleasure was overriding the pain as your eyes fluttered closed.
“My favorite photo of you was the one where you were in a little bikini on all fours; god, that really got me going”. Ben groaned as he grabbed your hips to move you how he liked on his cock.
“I can't-” You moaned as your hips buckled, the pleasure mixed with pain overwhelming you as you took all of Ben’s size.
“Oh c'mon, be a good girl for daddy, okay? Let this whole mansion know who owns you first”. Ben said, delivering his last thrusts as his load shot into you, making you come shortly after.
Ben pulled away from you, pulling his pants back up, letting you catch your breath. “I bet those damn photographers would love to get a photo of you like this”. Ben said.
summary: you take in a newly blinded and broken gator tillman as he faces the law; bringing him the comfort, care, and quiet stability he so desperately needs in the dark.
c/w: blind gator. wounds description. parental abuse mention. trauma. mentions of prision/legal trouble. angst. fluff. caretaking. emotional healing. (gator is so soft and kinda a loser in this one i'm sorry but that's how i imagine him when he's vulnerable)
words: 8.1k
The hospital hallways are freezing, and the bitter frost outside doesn’t help at all. It feels as if the cold has crawled straight through the concrete walls and seeped right into your bones.
It doesn’t take you long to find the room he is in. The receptionist at the front desk was clear enough with her directions, but honestly, you didn’t even need them. The two armed police officers standing guard right outside the door are impossible to miss.
They stand tall with their arms crossed over their vests, their heavy boots making them look entirely out of place against the pale floor. They glance at you as you walk up, their eyes tracking your movement, but they don’t stop you.
They already know who you are. After all, the preacher’s daughter doesn’t go unnoticed in town.
When you push the heavy door open and see him sitting there on the narrow hospital bed, you can’t deny that your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
He looks so different, yet so painfully familiar.
His upper lip has a nasty, swollen split with a dark red line of dried blood, looking as if he took a direct hit straight to the mouth. A heavy, purplish bruise covers his cheekbone, already deep and dark, looking like it will only get worse and turn yellow-green over the next few days.
But what hits you the hardest aren’t the bruises or the cuts. It’s his eyes — or rather, the thick white gauze wrapped firmly around his head, covering the place where they used to be.
The nurse who called you earlier had already warned you about it over the phone, but seeing him like this in person is entirely different. Hearing a description over a static-filled phone line doesn’t prepare you for the reality of seeing a man who usually moves with so much confident energy sitting completely helpless in a sterile white room.
“Oh, hello,” the nurse says, turning around as the door clicks shut behind you.
She uses your name, and the moment the word leaves her lips, Gator’s entire body stiffens. He straightens up in the bed, his shoulders locking. His head tilts and turns toward the sound of your voice, moving instinctively as if his eyes could somehow pierce right through the thick layers of cotton and tape.
The nurse quickly walks over to you. She takes you gently by the arm, guiding you toward the far corner of the room, away from the bed. She leans in close, keeping her voice down to a low whisper.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, her eyes filled with quiet stress. “I know all of this is very sudden and confusing, but we had to call you because—”
You gently shake your head, cutting her off before she can apologize any further.
“It’s okay. Really,” you say softly. You nod your head over toward the bed, looking at him. “So… how is he?”
The nurse sighs, turning her head to look at Gator. There is a deep, genuine pity in her eyes as she watches him sitting there in the quiet.
“He’s gonna need a lot of care,” she admits in a low whisper. “The wounds on his face and body are deep, but physically, he’ll heal up fairly quickly. The issue isn’t just his recovery.” She turns back to face you, her expression grave. “The real problem is who is going to take care of him when he leaves. His father is already in prison, and when we tried contacting his other folks, none of them were willing or able to step up and—”
“I’m blind, not deaf,” Gator’s rough, raspy voice cuts through the quiet room.
Both you and the nurse freeze, turning your heads to look at him. His voice sounds dry, like sandpaper rubbing together, but the defensive bite in his tone is unmistakable.
You let out a long, slow breath.
“Let me talk with him a second,” you tell the nurse.
She looks at you for a moment, then nods in understanding. She steps toward the door, giving a small signal to the police officers outside to give the two of you a moment of privacy. As the door quietly clicks shut behind her, the room suddenly feels much larger and far too quiet.
You take a step forward, your boots squeaking faintly against the clean floor. You walk slowly, carefully, as if any loud noise might startle him. You stop right in front of the bed, looking down at his face.
The idea that he can’t see you — that he can’t look up and catch your eye like he always does — still doesn’t quite make sense in your mind.
“Hey…” you say softly, your voice tender.
Gator lowers his head a little bit.
You can tell he feels embarrassed, maybe even ashamed to be seen like this — broken, bruised, and stuck in a hospital gown. But underneath that shame, you can see a tiny shift in his posture. He settles down just a bit. You know him well enough to recognize that, deep down, he’s deeply relieved to hear a voice he actually knows.
“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, his voice low and flat. He keeps his head down, staring blankly at the blanket covering his lap.
“Yeah, well,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light to hide how hard your heart is pounding. “Seen as I’m apparently listed as your emergency contact on your phone, it felt a little rude not to show up.”
He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, shaking his head.
“About that…” he starts, his fingers twitching against the thin hospital blanket.
“It’s fine, Gator.”
“No, I just… I put your name down a long time ago without really thinking about it,” he says quickly, his words tumbling out as if he’s trying to defend himself. “It’s not like I sat down and thought, ‘Oh yah, I definitely want her to be the one to get called if everything goes south.’ You know? It was just a random night, I needed to put someone down, and—”
“Oh,” you interrupt, stepping back half an inch and turning your shoulders away from him. “Well, in that case, I guess it doesn’t matter if I just leave then.”
“No!”
The word rips out of his throat before he can stop it. His arm shoots out blindly, his hand moving fast through the empty air. His fingers catch the side of your hip first, gripping the fabric of your jeans, and then quickly slides to your arm until his rough palm clasps tightly around your forearm.
He freezes, breathing heavily through his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, his fingers digging into your arm just enough for you to feel his tension. “I can’t… I can’t see where—”
“I know…,” you whisper gently.
You move your arm, sliding your hand down into his. You slip your fingers between his, entangling them completely. His grip on you is tight, almost desperate, his knuckles pale under the dim hospital light.
You pull a small plastic chair closer to the edge of the bed and sit down beside him. You don’t let go of his hand.
He lets out another long, shaky breath, his head dropping back. He shakes his head slowly, the bandage around his eyes moving against his hair.
“Who survives in prison being blind?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The anger is gone now, replaced by a cold, terrible reality.
“They don’t even know if you’re going to prison yet,” you tell him softly, trying to sound far more confident than you actually feel.
Gator lets out a short, bitter laugh. He shakes his head again.
“Course I’m going,” he says quietly. He pauses, his thumb rubbing uselessly against the side of your hand. Then, under his breath, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, “And I got it comin.”
The words hit you right in the chest. You press your lips tightly together, feeling a hot, painful knot forming in the back of your throat.
You look away from him for a second, staring at the gray window where the frost is thick on the glass, trying desperately to keep the tears in your eyes from falling. You refuse to break down in front of him right now. He needs you to be steady.
The quiet in the room is broken a moment later by a soft knock on the door. The nurse opens it slowly, stepping inside. Right behind her, the two police officers follow, their heavy belts clanking as they walk. They look at you, offering a small, polite nod of acknowledgment.
You start to stand up from the small plastic chair, but you don’t let go of Gator’s hand. His grip tightens slightly the second he hears the heavy footfalls of the officers entering the room.
“We gonna need you to sign a few papers before we move forward,” one of the officers says, pulling a clipboard out from under his arm. His tone isn’t mean, but it’s dry and mechanical — just another part of his daily job. “We’ve already tried reaching out to every single one of his listed relatives and contacts. None of them are willing to take responsibility for him, which means house arrest is completely off the table. Because of that, we’re preparing to transfer him to the medical ward at the detention facility later this afternoon—”
“What if he comes with me?”
The words fly out of your mouth before you even have time to fully think them through. Your sudden, hasty offer cuts the officer off mid-sentence.
It’is completely out of character for you — you are usually careful, cautious, and deliberate about every choice you make. But this didn’t come from a place of logic or careful planning. It came straight from the deepest, most raw part of your heart.
Beside you, Gator’s hand instantly squeezes yours so hard it almost hurts. His brow furrows deeply. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out. He remains completely frozen, listening intently.
“I mean…” you press on, taking a small step forward while keeping your grip firm on Gator’s fingers. “Is that an option? Is it possible?”
The officer stops, looking down at his clipboard, then glances up at his partner. The two men exchange a brief, silent look.
“Well… yeah,” the officer says slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “Technically, yes. A judge will have to review the paperwork and make the final decision on his custody, but if an individual with a clean record agrees to act as a primary caregiver and host, it can be filed. It’s definitely something that can be done.”
Gator leans closer to you, his head tilting toward your shoulder. His voice is very low, frantic, and laced with a sudden, sharp panic.
“What about your dad?” he whispers tightly. “What’s he gonna say?”
You look at Gator’s battered face — at the stitches on his lip, the deep bruises on his cheek, and the thick bandages hiding his wounded eyes. You think about the cold, lonely prison cell they’re ready to drag him to before his wounds even have a chance to close.
“That’s a problem for later,” you answer him quietly, your voice steady and unshakable.
You turn your attention back to the officer, meeting his gaze with total determination. You tighten your grip on Gator’s cold hand, feeling the warm pulse beneath his skin.
“Come on,” you say softly, leaning down close to Gator’s ear so only he can hear you. “Let’s get you home.”
—
Gator is not a light man. Even beaten down, bruised, and drained of his usual restless energy, he is tall and heavy and built. His heavy leather jacket drags against your shoulder, his dead weight leaning hard into your side as his boots scrape uselessly against the concrete steps.
“Watch the step,” you whisper tightly, adjusting your grip around his waist. Your fingers dig into the thick fabric of his jacket. “Two more steps, Gator. Just lift your feet.”
“I’m liftin’ ’em,” he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He tries to pull himself up using the handrail, but his balance is completely shot without his sight. His shoulder slams heavily into the wall with a dull thud. He curses under his breath, a sharp, bitter string of words, his jaw clenching hard.
You finally reach the top step.
Your small apartment sits right at the end of the narrow hallway. It took you months of quiet fighting, endless arguments, and tears to get your father to agree to let you get this place.
In your father’s eyes, a young woman living on her own was a tragedy waiting to happen. “Living alone just increases the temptation to sin,” he would tell you every single Sunday over dinner, his voice stern and cold as he stared at you across the table. “A woman needs a household to keep her mind pure.”
It had worn you down to the bone, but you had stayed patient. You nodded, you smiled, you kept your head down, and bit by bit, you persuaded him to let you take this tiny one-bedroom unit above the old repair shop.
It wasn’t much — just a cramped living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom that barely fit a full-sized mattress — but it was yours.
And now, here you were, bringing the most notorious deputy in the county through the door in the middle of the day.
You fumble with the ring of keys in your pocket, your fingers numb from the cold. The metal keys clink together loudly in the quiet hallway.
“You could put a little effort into this too, ya know?” you sigh, finally getting the key into the deadbolt and turning it with a heavy click.
The door swings open into the dark, quiet apartment. The air inside is warm, smelling faintly of your cologne, dry heat from the clinking radiator, and old coffee.
Gator stumbles over the wooden threshold, his heavy boot catching on the edge of the small welcome mat. He sways instantly, his hands shooting out into the empty air, reaching wildly for something to hold onto until his fingers catch the frame of the door.
“I could handle myself a whole lot better if I knew the layout,” he snaps, his tone sharp, though the wobble in his knees completely ruins the bravado. “But seeing as you never let me come in through the front door, then it’s not really my fault.”
You catch him by the arm before he can trip over his own feet, taking his full weight back onto your shoulders. You can’t help but shake your head, a soft, weary breath escaping your lips.
Well, he has a point there.
That was the one secret your father never found out about. Ever since you moved into this place a few months back, Gator Tillman had a habit of showing up.
He’d park his county patrol car down the block, out of sight beneath the bare oak trees, and sneak up the metal fire escape in the dead of night. He’d tap on your bedroom window with his knuckles, wearing that heavy sheriff’s vest, his uniform hat cocked slightly to the side, smelling of tobacco smoke, cold winter air, and cheap cologne.
He never came through the front door. You would never allow it.
If the elderly neighbors down the hall saw the Sheriff’s son walking out of the preacher’s daughter’s place at three in the morning, your father would have had you moved back home before sunrise.
“Well, it’s not my fault you’ve got such a bad reputation, Tillman,” you murmur, bracing your legs as you drag him past the tiny kitchen counter toward the small living room.
With a heavy grunt, you guide him down until his knees hit the edge of the worn cushion, letting him sink onto the sofa.
Gator drops heavily onto the cushions. The old thing squeaks in protest under his weight. He leans his head back against the wall, breathing heavily through his mouth, his chest rising and falling beneath his coat.
“Like that isn’t the main thing that drew you to me anyway,” he says, his voice falling right back into that familiar, arrogant drawl. A faint, crooked smile tries to form on his face, but it cuts off immediately as his split upper lip stretches too far, making him wince and pull back with a sharp hiss.
You roll your eyes, leaning your hands on your hips as you stand over him in the dim light.
Still, despite the sharp ache in your chest as you look at his face, a tiny part of you feels relieved. It’s good to see a little bit of his old, insufferable self shining through the wreckage, even if it’s just a front.
For a minute or two, neither of you says anything. The only sound in the small room is the clinking of the old water pipes in the corner and the heavy, uneven sound of Gator’s breathing.
You stand there in the center of the room, looking down at him.
It feels completely surreal to have him here like this. On those old nights — the nights when he used to climb through your window — he would practically take over the whole room the second his boots touched the floorboards. He’d throw his heavy gun belt onto your desk with a loud metal clatter, kick off his boots, and stretch out across your small bed like he owned the entire building.
He was loud, he was cocky, and he was always talking about what he and his dad were building out on the ranch.
He moved with a restless, arrogant energy, like a man who believed nothing in this world could ever touch him because his last name was Tillman.
Now, he sits hunched over on your secondhand couch, his broad shoulders pulled inward as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.
His uniform jacket is gone. His dark hair is messy. And worst of all, the upper half of his face is dominated by thick, white layers of surgical gauze and medical tape, wrapped tightly around his head to cover the deep wounds where his eyes used to be.
You swallow down the knot in your throat, trying to keep your hands from shaking.
“Let’s get that jacket off you,” you say quietly, stepping closer to the couch.
As soon as you move over him, Gator flinches. His body goes rigid, his hands snapping up defensively in front of his chest.
“It’s just me, Gator,” you say softly, keeping your voice calm and steady. “It’s just me. Relax.”
He pauses, his fingers twitching in the air before he slowly lowers his hands back to his lap. He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, turning his face slightly toward the floor.
“Yah,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a low, embarrassed murmur. “Right.”
You reach down and gently grab the sleeves of his jacket, pulling the fabric off his shoulders. He sits there quietly, letting you pull his arms out of the sleeves, completely obedient in a way that feels utterly wrong for him. You fold it and lay it across the arm of the chair nearby, then reach down to unlace his muddy boots.
When you touch his ankle, he stiffens again, but he doesn't pull away this time.
Your eyes focus on the ankle monitor for a second, but you quickly clear your throat. You slip the boots off his feet, setting them neatly by the front door.
“I’m gonna go grab some water and some clean towels from the bathroom,” you tell him, standing up. “I need to clean up around those bandages. The nurse said we have to keep the edges dry and clean so it doesn’t get infected.”
As you turn to step toward the bathroom, Gator’s hand suddenly shoots out blindly into the empty space between you. His broad palm sweeps through the air until his fingers collide with the fabric of your jeans. His grip is tight and frantic.
“Don’t—don't be long, alright?” he says, the cocky drawl completely vanishing from his tone, replaced by a raw, desperate edge that makes your heart ache. He sounds like a child trapped in the dark. “Just... hurry up, would ya?”
You stop, looking down at his large, bruised hand wrapped around your leg.
“I’m just going to the sink, Gator,” you whisper softly, reaching down to place your hand over his cold knuckles. “It’s three feet away. I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds on for a second longer, his thumb pressing into your denim, before he slowly relaxes his grip and lets his hand drop back to his knee.
“Yah,” he clears his throat, trying quickly to put his tough mask back on, though his voice cracks slightly. “Yah, fine. Take your time, then.”
You walk into the small bathroom, clicking the light switch on. The bright, yellow glare of the bulb reflects off the small mirror above the sink.
You lean over the porcelain basin, resting your hands on the cold edges, and take three long, slow breaths.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
Your eyes are tired, dark smudges hanging beneath them from the sheer stress of the last six hours. You had gone from sitting quietly in your apartment reading a book to standing in a cold hospital hallway listening to police officers debate whether to throw a blind man into a county jail cell.
You turn on the hot tap, letting the water run until it steams. You fill a plastic basin with warm water, grab a small bottle of mild antiseptic liquid from the medicine cabinet, and pull two clean washcloths and a fresh roll of white gauze from the drawer.
When you walk back out into the living room, Gator hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting dead still on the sofa, his head tilted slightly toward the hallway, listening intently for the sound of your footsteps.
You set the plastic basin down on the small coffee table in front of him. You kneel down so you are eye-level with his face.
“Alright,” you say quietly. “This might be a little bit uncomfortable at first.”
You dip one of the soft washcloths into the warm water. You gently reach out, resting your left hand on the back of his neck to steady him, while your right hand brings the damp cloth up to his face.
The second the warm cloth touches the deep purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone, Gator flinches sharply, pulling his head back.
“Jeez,” he grunts, his brow furrowing beneath the thick bandages. “Watch it, will ya?”
“I’m being as gentle as I can, Gator,” you say softly, not pulling your hand away from the back of his neck. Your thumb slowly rubs the tense muscle right at the base of his skull, feeling the tight knots of stress locked in his shoulders.
He lets out a low, grumbling breath, but he stops pulling away.
You move the cloth carefully, cleaning around the dark, angry split on his upper lip. The skin is swollen and raw, stitched up with black thread near the corner. You wipe away the crusty, dark blood that had dried against it.
Every time he winces, his hand twitches against his thigh, his fingers gripping his pant leg so hard his knuckles turn white.
“How bad does it look?” he asks quietly after a long silence.
You pause for a second, your fingers hovering over his temple.
“You’ve looked better,” you admit softly, trying to sound lighthearted. “The lip’s pretty swollen. Cheek’s black and blue.”
A tiny, bitter huff of air escapes his nose — not quite a laugh, but close enough.
“Yah, well,” he mutters. “You should see the other guy.”
The joke hangs in the air for a second, heavy and awkward, before it completely falls apart.
You both know there wasn’t a "guy" he beat up.
You both know what happened out on those snowy roads, even if neither of you wants to say the names out loud.
You know about the strange, terrifying man who had come for him — the man who had left Gator broken and sightless as retribution for the things Gator had done for his father.
You move the washcloth up toward his forehead, carefully cleaning the skin right along the top edge of the thick white bandages.
The hospital staff had done their work well enough, wrapping his head securely to protect the raw, hollow wounds underneath. You don’t dare touch the heavy inner padding — the thought of what lies beneath those layers makes your stomach turn with a deep, nauseating sorrow — but you carefully replace the outer strip of gauze that had gotten frayed and dirty during the ride over.
As you wind the fresh white cloth around his head, your fingers brush through his dark, messy hair. It’s softer than it looks, free of the heavy grease and hair product he used to pile into it when he was playing the big-shot deputy.
Gator stays completely still while you wrap the tape, his eyes hidden, his chest rising and falling in deep, quiet rhythms.
For a few minutes, sitting there in the dim yellow light of your apartment with the snow beating against the window pane, it almost feels peaceful. It feels like the old days — just the two of you tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden far away from your father’s watchful eyes and his father’s dark, oppressive shadow.
But the peace doesn’t last long. It can’t. Not with everything that happened.
You finish taping the edge of the bandage, letting your hands drop into your lap. You pick up the dirty washcloth, rinsing it out in the basin of water. The water turns a light, pale shade of pink as you wring the cloth out.
You look at him sitting there, his hands resting on his knees, his face clean now, though still terribly bruised.
The quiet in the room suddenly feels far too heavy. The questions that have been burning in the back of your mind ever since the news broke across the county start pushing their way to the surface.
You had spent weeks listening to rumors at the grocery store, watching the local news reports about the missing women, the armed standoffs, the federal agents filling up the county diner, and the terrible things that had taken place out at the Tillman ranch.
You set the washcloth down on the wooden edge of the stool.
“Gator?” you ask softly.
He doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense up instantly. He can hear the change in your tone — the sudden lightness leaving your voice.
“Yah?”
You hesitate, pressing your lips together. You look down at your hands, then back up at his bandaged face.
“Why did you do it?”
The question falls softly between you, but it hits the room like a heavy weight.
Gator’s head tilts back slightly. His jaw tightens, the muscles along his cheeks twitching.
“Do what?” he asks, his tone turning flat and defensive, instantly building up that familiar, prickling wall he always uses when he feels cornered.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Gator,” you tell him, your voice steady, though your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. “The farm. The house. Dot…. all those people your dad had you hunting down.”
Gator lets out a loud, harsh laugh through his nose, turning his head away toward the far wall.
“I was a deputy,” he says sharply, his voice rising, trying to regain that old, authoritative bark he used when he wore his badge. “I was executing lawful orders for the Sheriff’s department. Taking care of business for the family. Protecting our land. That’s what a deputy does. That’s what a son does.”
“That wasn’t deputy work, Gator!” you say, stepping closer, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and deep sadness. “You kidnaped people! You helped him lock people away! You helped him turn that entire ranch into an armed fortress! You killed people, Gator!”
“We were protecting what’s ours!” Gator snaps, his hands slamming down onto his knees as he tries to stand up.
He rises quickly, but without his sight, his balance immediately betrays him. He sways dangerously to the left, his leg crashing right into the edge of the coffee table. The plastic basin rattles loudly, warm water sloshing over the side and spilling onto the floorboards.
Gator curses loudly, reaching out wildly to steady himself against the wall. He stands there, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling over his forehead, looking completely lost and furious.
“You don’t know anything about it,” he spits out, his raspy voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like out there! You sit up here in your neat little apartment thinkin’ everything is real simple — thinkin’ there’s good guys and bad guys! My old man... he built everything we had! Everything!”
“He’s a monster, Gator!” you shout back, the words tearing out of your throat before you can stop them.
The room drops into a sudden, terrifying silence.
The clinking radiator seems to freeze. The wind outside rattles the window glass.
Gator stands frozen against the wall, his mouth slightly open, his bandaged head turned toward you as if you had just struck him right across the face.
You swallow hard, feeling tears burning behind your eyes. You take a step toward him, but you keep your hands down.
“He is, Gator,” you say softly, your voice breaking down into a quiet, painful whisper. “Look at what he did to this county. Look at what he did to those families. Look at what he’s doing to you right now. Where is he, Gator? Where is your dad while you’re sitting here blind on my couch waiting for a judge to send you to prison? Is he coming to help you? Is he calling the lawyers?”
Gator doesn’t answer. He turns his head away, his breathing ragged and sharp.
“He’s in a federal holding cell,” you continue quietly, step by step walking closer to him until you’re standing right in front of his shaking frame. “He abandoned you the second things went south out on that road. The nurse told me... she said when they tried to reach out to his legal team, they didn’t even ask how you were doing. They didn’t care.”
“Shut up,” Gator mutters under his breath. It’s not the angry shout from a minute ago. It’s a small, weak plea. “Just... shut up.”
“Why did you follow him so blindly?” you ask, reaching out gently to touch his jaw. “You knew what he was doing was wrong. I know you, Gator. I know you’re cocky, and I know you act like a jerk half the time, but you aren’t evil. You aren’t like him. So why? Why did you do all of it?”
Gator stands there for a long time, his body trembling beneath your hand.
He tries to speak. He opens his mouth, his chest expanding as if he’s about to launch into another loud, arrogant speech about duty, about the Tillman name, about being a real man out on the range.
“He... he needed me to—” Gator starts, his voice loud, but the sentence immediately dies in his throat.
He stops. He shakes his head, trying again.
“If I didn’t... if we didn’t hold the line, then—” He cuts off again. His hands fly up to his face, his fingers clutching at the air near his ears, pulling at his hair in absolute frustration.
He tries so hard to find the words — to pull out the rehearsed excuses his father had drilled into his head for years.
He wants so badly to say the words that will make him sound like the brave, tough deputy he always pretended to be. He wants to explain that he was just being loyal, that he was being strong, that he was being the son Roy Tillman always demanded he be.
But the words won’t come.
Every single excuse he tries to form turns to dust in his mouth the second it hits the cold reality of the room.
He can’t say he was protecting the ranch, because the ranch is destroyed. He can’t say he was serving the law, because he broke every law in the book. He can’t say his father loved him, because his father isn’t here.
“I just...” Gator stammers, his voice dropping an octave, cracking down the middle. “He said... he said if I couldn’t handle it... if I couldn’t do the job...”
He stops again. His broad shoulders suddenly slump downward, all the fake posture and manufactured bravado draining out of him like water running down a drain.
“He called me soft,” Gator whispers, his raspy voice trembling so violently it’s hard to hear him over the wind outside. “Every time I hesitated... every time I asked a question... he’d look at me like I was nothing. Like I was just some useless kid he was stuck with. He’d tell me my mother made me weak. He’d tell me if I couldn't take care of business, he’d find someone who could.”
Gator’s hand reaches out blindly, grabbing the front of your sweater, clutching the fabric tightly in his fist as if he’s drowning.
“I just wanted him to look at me and say I did good,” Gator chokes out, his head dropping until his forehead presses hard against your shoulder. His entire body shakes with heavy, silent sobs. “That’s all. I just wanted him to think I was a real man. I did everything he asked me to do. Everything. Even when my stomach felt like it was turnin’ upside down... even when I couldn’t sleep at night... I just did it. And he still... he still didn’t give a damn about me.”
You close your eyes as tears finally slip down your cheeks. You wrap your arms around his broad, shaking back, pulling him close against you.
You hold him tight as he breaks down in your small living room. The grand, terrifying legacy of the Tillman family — the fear that had held the entire county in a chokehold for years — collapses right here into the arms of a terrified, broken boy who just wanted his father to love him.
You stand there together in the middle of the room for a long time, holding onto each other while the cold wind batters the building outside.
You know that pain. You know it in a completely different way, but you know the terrifying weight of living beneath the thumb of a father who demands absolute control over your soul.
Your father used the Bible, Sunday sermons, and cold, suffocating guilt to keep you quiet and obedient, making you feel like every independent thought you had was a sin that would drag you straight to hell.
Gator’s father used violence, guns, and the toxic myth of family legacy to turn his son into a weapon.
Both of you had been built by men who viewed their children as property rather than people.
Slowly, Gator’s heavy shaking begins to subside. His breathing slows down, turning into long, shuddering gasps. He stays leaning against you, his forehead resting heavily on your shoulder, his hand still loosely gripping the front of your sweater.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your shoulder, his voice completely raw, stripped of every ounce of pride he ever possessed. “I’m real sorry.”
“I know,” you whisper, resting your cheek against his dark, messy hair. “I know you are, Gator.”
“I ruined everything,” he says quietly, shaking his head against you. “I’m gonna go to prison. I’m never gonna see anything again. I’m useless.”
“You’re not useless,” you tell him firmly, pulling back just enough to hold his face between your hands. Your palms rest against his warm, bruised cheeks. “You made terrible choices, Gator. You listened to a man who didn’t deserve your loyalty, and you’re gonna have to face the consequences of what you did. But you are not useless. And you aren’t going to face it alone.”
He stays silent for a second, his head tilting toward the touch of your hands, as if absorbing the warmth from your skin.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks softly, his voice full of genuine confusion. “After everything I did... after never even lettin’ me come through your front door... why did you bring me here?”
You offer a small, sad smile, even though he can’t see it.
“Because somebody has to show you what real care looks like,” you tell him gently. “And seeing as I’m your emergency contact, I guess I’m stuck with you for now.”
A faint, trembling breath escapes his lips — the closest thing to a real smile he’s had all night.
“Yah,” he whispers, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “I guess you are, then.”
You slowly guide him back down onto the couch, making sure he sits down safely without bumping into the spilled water on the floorboards.
You fetch a fresh towel from the bathroom, wiping up the small puddle near the coffee table, then grab a heavy, knitted blanket from the foot of your bed. You spread the warm blanket over his lap and legs, tucking the edges around his feet.
Gator doesn’t fight you on any of it now. The exhaustion has finally caught up with him, pulling his broad frame down into the soft cushions.
The sheer physical and emotional drain of the day has left him heavy-lidded and quiet.
“You need anything else?” you ask softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch beside his hip. “Some water? A painkiller?”
“No,” he mutters, his head leaning back against the wall. “I’m alright. Just... stay here a second?”
“I’m right here,” you say.
You slide your fingers into his hand, entangling them completely. His grip on your fingers is gentle now, no longer frantic or tight, just a warm, steady pressure holding you in place.
Outside, the storm continues to blow across the frozen streets, driving heavy white snow against the trees. The world outside is cold, harsh, and waiting for the morning light to bring the police, the legal papers, and the uncertain future that Gator will eventually have to face.
But inside the small, warm apartment, sitting together in the quiet space beneath the yellow lamp, the room is quiet.
“You know what the worst part of all this is?” he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the radiator.
You look at him
“What is it, Gator?”
He swallows hard, his throat moving with a tight, painful gulp.
“It ain’t even the thought of prison,” he whispers, turning his head slightly away, as if embarrassed to admit it. “And it ain’t even bein’ stuck in this damn dark all the rest of my life, neither.”
He stops, his jaw clenching tightly. He takes another shaky breath before continuing, his words tumbling out low and raw.
“It’s thinkin’... I’m never gonna see your face again.”
The words hung in the warm air of the small room, hitting you straight in the chest with a sudden, sharp ache.
“Gator...” you begin, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.
“No, listen to me,” he insists, his voice trembling slightly. “All those nights... when I used to climb up that fire escape and tap on your window... I’d stand out there in the freezing cold just waitin’ for you to pull back the curtain. And when you did, you’d give me that little annoyed look, like you were mad at me for showin’ up, but then you’d smile. Just a little bit.”
A small, bitter huff of air escapes his nose.
“I took it for granted,” he admits quietly, staring blankly straight ahead into the blackness behind his bandages. “I thought I’d always just be able to look at ya. I thought I’d always have my eyes, and I’d always be able to see you standin’ there. But now... it’s just black. And I’m scared, okay? I’m scared that as the months go on, as the years go on... I’m gonna start forgettin’ what you look like. I’m gonna forget the shape of your eyes. I’m gonna forget your face.”
You sit there watching him, feeling a warm tear slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. You just look at this arrogant, foolish, broken boy who has lost everything, sitting in your living room grieving the one thing he had loved quietly in the dark.
You take a slow, deep breath, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.
“No, you’re not,” you said softly, your voice clear and steady.
Gator’s head lifted a fraction, his bandaged face turning toward the sound of your voice.
“What?”
“You’re not gonna forget my face, Gator,” you tell him gently. You reach out, placing your hands over his large, trembling wrists. “You’re just gonna have to learn to see me a different way, then.”
He frowns, his brow furrowing beneath the white gauze.
“What’re you talkin’ about? I can’t see nothin’.”
“You’ve got hands, Tillman. You’re just gonna have to learn to recognize me with ‘em.”
Gator stiffens, pulling his hands back a couple of inches, looking suddenly flustered and uncomfortable.
“I don’t... I don’t wanna look like an idiot,” he stammers, his raspy voice rising slightly in panic.
“You’re not gonna look like one,” you murmur, taking both of his large, calloused hands in yours. “Come here.”
You bring his hands up through the quiet space between you, guiding his broad palms until they are hovering just inches from your face.
“Go on,” you whisper softly, resting your left hand against his wrist to steady him. “Take your time.”
Gator hesitates for a second, his chest rising and falling heavily. He swallows hard, his fingers twitching in the air. Slowly, cautiously, as if he is touching something delicate made of thin glass, he lets his broad fingertips settle against your skin.
His fingertips touch your chin first. They are cold from the room, rough and hardened from years of manual work, but his touch is impossibly light.
“Start right here,” you whisper, keeping your voice barely above a breath so he can focus.
Gator’s hands tremble slightly, but as his skin makes contact with yours, he settles down. His long fingers begin to move slowly, tracing the line of your jaw. He feels the soft curve of your chin, moving his thumbs up to trace the sides of your jawline heading up toward your ears.
“You got a small jaw,” he murmurs under his breath, his tone dropping into a focused, quiet whisper. “Feels... real soft.”
“Yah,” you murmur softly, smiling just a bit. “Keep goin’.”
His thumbs slide inward, gently tracing the shape of your lips. He feels the bow of your upper lip, the softness of your lower lip, tracing the outline over and over until he knows the exact width of your mouth.
As his thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, he pauses.
“You’re smilin’,” he says quietly, his tone a mix of surprise and wonder.
“A little bit, yah,” you admit. “How’d you know?”
“I can feel the skin pull right here,” he mutters, his thumb gently pressing against the small dimple near your cheek. “I remember that.”
A tiny, genuine breath of relief escapes your chest as you watch his face. The tense, worried lines on his forehead are starting to smooth out. He is concentrating so hard, his bandaged head tilts slightly, mapping every millimeter of your face in his mind.
He moves his hands higher, his broad palms resting gently against your cheeks. His thumbs met in the middle, tracing the bridge of your nose, feeling the slight slope of the bone, sliding down to the soft tip.
Then, his fingertips move up to your eyes.
He hesitates for a second, his fingers hovering over your eyelids.
“Close 'em,” he whispers softly.
You close your eyes, letting out a quiet breath.
Gator gently lays his fingertips over your closed eyelids. He feels the soft, delicate flutter of your long eyelashes brushing against his calloused skin as you blink softly beneath his touch. He traces the shape of your eye sockets, the gentle curve of your eyebrows, feeling the fine hairs beneath his thumb.
“Your eyes are closed now,” he mutters softly, his fingers lingering over your brow.
“Yah,” you whisper into the quiet room. “So we’re both in the dark right now.”
A faint, soft breath escapes his lips at that. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands move higher, sliding up past your forehead and into your hair. His long fingers comb through the strands, feeling the length and texture, letting the soft hair slide through his rough knuckles.
“Your hair’s softer than mine,” he observes quietly. “Smells like that citrus soap you keep in the dish.”
“It’s lemon,” you tell him gently.
He slides his hands back down, letting his palms cup the sides of your neck. His thumbs rest lightly over your pulse point, right beneath your jawline. He stays still like that for a long moment, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his hands.
“You’re real warm,” he says softly, his voice sounding deeper now, calm and steady.
You take his right hand, guiding it down from your neck to your collarbone. He traces the sharp, delicate line of the bone beneath your sweater.
“You took your rosary off..." he points out. You just hum, offering no explanation as to when or why.
He moves his hand over the curve of your shoulder, feeling the width of it, then slides his broad palm down the side of your arm, tracing the shape of your elbow, your forearm, down to your wrist, feeling how small your arm feels compared to his heavy grip.
He moves his hands to your waist, his palms resting against the sides of your ribs over your sweater. He feels the narrow shape of your waist, the gentle flare of your hips, learning the exact proportions of your body through the slow, steady movement of his hands.
Every touch is tender, careful, and deeply respectful. There is no rush in his movements, no arrogant posturing, no slick confidence. It’s just Gator, quiet and attentive, memorizing every line, every curve, and every soft inch of you with his hands.
Finally, his hands come to a rest around your waist again, his thumbs tucked lightly into the fabric of your sweater.
He sits there for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, his bandaged face turned toward yours, just inches away.
You slowly move closer, leaving a soft kiss right in the corner of his mouth.
“Got it memorized yet, Tillman?” you ask softly, reaching up to lay your hands over his wrists.
Gator lets out a slow, contented breath.
“Close,” he whispers, a tiny, faint trace of his old smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Might need to check again tomorrow just to be sure.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head.
“Yah, well. I suppose we can do that.”
The heavy wall between you is completely gone now. The fear, the anger, and the dark shadows of the past feel far away, pushed back by the warmth of the small room and the quiet comfort of being together.
You rest your shoulder against his chest, tucking your head comfortably in the notch beneath his chin.
Gator pauses for a second, adjusting to your weight against him. Then, slowly, he wraps his long, heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close against his side. His broad hand rests flat over your hip, holding you secure and steady against him.
He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head, his dark hair brushing against your forehead.
Underneath your cheek, you could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. It’s slow and calm now, free of the frantic panic from earlier.
“You okay like that?” you ask softly, pulling the thick blanket up over both of your shoulders.
“Yah,” Gator whispers into your hair, his voice heavy with deep, peaceful exhaustion. “I’m good. Real good.”
Gator tightens his arm around you just a fraction, tucking you closer to his chest. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, his body finally relaxing completely as deep sleep pulls him under. You close your eyes, resting your hand over his arm, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing as the night rolls quietly on.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Summary The Playboy business is a filthy business to get into; you work as a model for the magazines to pay for your college. What happens when your stepfather finds out you are a Playboy bunny(2.0k)
Warnings Age gap, choking,Degradation,unprotected p in v, hair pulling,fauxcest, exhibitionism,forced drug use, blackmail
A/n: Enjoy!! Requests are open
MASTERLIST
REQUESTS/CHAT
The long night shifts were the worst. You would sit there for hours, getting your hair and makeup done. It was a never-ending circle. Younger you would be so disappointed in your 19-year-old self. Exploiting yourself for money, you thought about quitting last month, but why would you quit a job where you are on the cover of every Playboy magazine?
“They want me to have my own edition?” You asked, shocked, as you sat down in your manager's office.
“Yes, ever since we put you on the cover of our magazines, our sales have increased significantly”. Your manager responded. And believe me, once you have an exclusive edition, our revenue will triple”.
“Will the pay remain the same?” You asked hesitantly.
“Sweetheart, the pay will take care of you. Trust me, it’s more than enough”. He smiled.
—-
“Heard you are getting your own edition”. The makeup artist exclaimed as she applied eyeshadow to your face
“Oh, I didn’t realize the word would spread that fast”. You laughed awkwardly.
“Oh, people talk, especially if you didn’t sleep with any head executives to get a whole explicit magazine of just you.” She laughed, putting the eyeshadow palette down. “It’s a shame a girl like you is working in this type of business”.
You shrugged, getting up from your seat and fixing the lace bra strap. “It pays well, and every time I go to the Playboy Mansion or the galas they host for their most loyal subscribers , those old guys always slip me a couple of 100 bucks.”
“And I’m guessing that goes to your university tuition”.
“Yes, and with this edition thing, I just might graduate from college with no debt”. You smiled, putting on your bunny ears.
“I bet your parents are going to wonder why you aren’t swimming in student loan debt.” She joked.
“Oh, trust me, they would kill me if they knew I was a Playboy model, especially my stepdad.” You shuddered at the thought of your stepdad Ben finding out you were a whore prancing around in lingerie.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t ask your stepdad for money; isn't he really rich?”She asked, confused.
“I mean, yeah, he’s well off, but I don’t want to live off of him. You should meet him; he’s so rude. He doesn’t know what boundaries are.” You replied. “I know if I asked him for money he would treat me like I was his property or something; he wouldn’t let me live it down.”
“Yeah, that would be tough”. She gave you a sympathetic smile.
“Where’s y/n!” The photographer yelled from the photoshoot area. “Our main bunny isn’t even here!”
“Well, I better go.”You sighed, walking out onto the stage, waiting for instructions for whatever degrading pose they made you do.
—-
After the long photoshoot, you drove home with the music blasting so you wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel. You parked in the driveway, glancing at yourself in the mirror, rubbing off the remaining glitter off your cheeks before getting out of the car.
“Ah, there you are,” Ben exclaimed as you entered the house. “Where have you been? It's 4 in the god damn morning”.
“Sorry, I was studying at the library. I didn't realize the time ”. You lied, putting your bag down.
Ben scoffed, his eyes trailing all over your body even with your hoodie on, and you felt exposed. “Please knowing how much of a slut you are you probably slept with a little college boy, maybe his friend too.”
“ I was studying for midterms ”. You said, walking up your staircase, not sparing Ben another glance.
—-
Nobody warned you about the physical and mental toll of having your own playboy edition. Every day to you felt like a never-ending cycle of challenges.
After your last class of the day finished, you drove straight to the Playboy set for another shoot with no end time in sight. With each pose, they made you feel more degraded than the last, but you did what you were told, and the magazine of your very own edition was out.In your honor, the Playboy Mansion hosted a gala, but this time you were the star of the show.
“Ah, you look so beautiful”. One of the head executives, Peter , said as you entered the Playboy Mansion. I tell you, we made the right decision to have a whole magazine full of photos of you.
“Thank you”. You smiled, already turning your head toward the crowd of older men who were usually the ones putting 100-dollar bills up your dress.
“Can you believe it? It's only been a couple of days since your edition got printed, and it’s almost sold out”. Peter mentioned as he walked alongside you.
“Wow, that's unbelievable”. You replied, already imagining the things you could finally do with your new masses of money.
“I know it is unbelievable. I can talk all night about how unbelievable it is, but right now I'll let our guests celebrate you”. Peter said, glancing at the two older men approaching you and him.
“Y/N!” One of the older men said excitedly, putting an arm around your shoulder.
“William, it's good to see you.” You replied.
He kissed your cheek, letting his eyes drift to the tight-fitting black dress you had on. “Stunning as always”.
“Thank you”. You said, shifting your gaze to the other man behind William. I dont think I've seen you around here before”.
“Oh, this guy he's a little shy; he's a friend from work, Danny”. William said, pushing Danny aside from him. “Doesn't want his wife to find out about his collection of Playboy magazines”.
“I'm a big fan of yours, y/n; real talent you got”. Danny spoke up, shaking your head.
“Come, y/n, let's go sit down”. William said, placing his hand on the small of your back.
—
An hour went by surrounded by older men. William placed you on his lap and made sure you smiled and laughed at the right moments, securing your $100 bills as they talked in detail about the photos in your exclusive edition.
“I tell you, y/n, you sure looked flexible in that one photo”. William laughed while taking a sip of his beer. “I'm sure you guys know which one I'm talking about, fellas”.
You smiled at William’s comment, glancing at the rest of the party. People were dancing, clashing glasses of champagne together. You couldn't believe the wealthiest men in the country surrounded you. From the corner of your eye, you saw a man walking up to your table.
You assumed it was another man completing your talent of taking explicit photographs, but as the man reached your table, your eyes widened in fear as you turned your head, meeting the gaze of your stepdad,
“Ben”. You said, shocked, immediately getting off of William’s lap.
“Who's that?” William asked
“I'm her father, actually”. Ben said, pulling you against him, holding your arm tightly as he pulled you through the crowd.
“Ben, it's not what it looks like”. You said loudly over the music that was playing.
He pulled you into a quieter area of the mansion, letting go of your arm, turning to look at you.
“Oh, I knew something was up with all that late-night studying at the library bullshit; it doesn't work on me.” He said, shaking his head.
“It's not what it looks like, I swear. I got this job to pay for college”. You said.
“Oh really? Because I flipped through those magazines underneath your bed, it sure does look like you were having a great time taking those slutty photos”. Ben laughed.
“You were snooping in my room?” You replied, annoyed. “I deserve privacy”.
“Oh please, a whore like you doesn't deserve privacy.” He retorted. “Tell me how many of those fuckers did you sleep with in there”.
“None, the job just pays well, it's not like I enjoy it all that much”. You said.
“Really, not even back there when you were sitting on that guy’s hard-on”. Ben said.
You were about to reply with a snarky comment, but you realized Ben might tell your mom about this, and for the rest of your life it would feel like hell on earth.
“Please don't tell my mom about this”. You pleaded.
Ben smirked, walking closer to stand directly in front, inches from your face. “Maybe I'll consider keeping your secret if you consider doing this one thing”. Ben said, wrapping his large hand around your throat, squeezing it slightly, making you gasp.
“What is it?” You gulped.
“Show me what they taught you in those photoshoots”. Ben whispered into your ear, biting the nip of your ear, letting his lip drift to your jawline.
“But there's people here”. You said nervously.
“So most of the guys here already saw your half-naked body. Ben said before smashing his lips against you, moaning into the kiss. Ben took that advantage to slip his tongue in.
“Get on your knees”. Ben said, pulling away from the kiss and pushing you on the ground. You obeyed, getting on your knees; your eyes met with the outline of his cock straining his jeans.
“I'm not going to lie to you; the lingerie they put you in fuck me, made me hard just by looking at them”. Ben unbuckled his belt, letting his jeans fall on the ground. “I want tears in those eyes”.
You nodded your head as you took his cock in your hand, stroking it gently, watching him groan at the feeling, which made an ache form between your legs as you placed his length in your mouth, his calloused hand tangled in your hair shoving all of it in your mouth bobbling your head back and forth himself like he was punishing you taking control of the act at hand.
“Fuck, I'm close. " Ben said as he thrusted in and out of your mouth more than you could take. Your eyes filled up with tears as his load shot into the back of your throat. He moaned, pulling your head away from his cock, tilting your chin to look up at him to see for himself the damage he had left.
“Get up”. Ben commanded, pulling your hair, making you get on your feet. “Pull your dress up”.
You obeyed by hiking your dress up so your panties were visible, watching him do a line of coke on the counter.
“Come here, do a line”. He said, pulling you so you were caged between the counter and him.
“Oh I don't really-”.
“I'm not asking you, I'm telling you”.
You looked down at the line of this Coke. It was either this or him telling your mom you were a playboy model. You snorted the line up, wiping your nose after.
“So did the photographer tell you what poses to do?” Ben asked if he ripped your panties off, aligning himself with your entrance.
“Um, yeah, most of the time”. You replied, gasping loudly as you felt Ben’s length seep deeply into you.
“Really, so he was the one who told you to pretend you’re touching yourself?” Ben said as he thrusted into you. That's a real marketing strategy, I tell you”
You couldn't even respond as he thrusted so rough it pained you, but the pleasure was overriding the pain as your eyes fluttered closed.
“My favorite photo of you was the one where you were in a little bikini on all fours; god, that really got me going”. Ben groaned as he grabbed your hips to move you how he liked on his cock.
“I can't-” You moaned as your hips buckled, the pleasure mixed with pain overwhelming you as you took all of Ben’s size.
“Oh c'mon, be a good girl for daddy, okay? Let this whole mansion know who owns you first”. Ben said, delivering his last thrusts as his load shot into you, making you come shortly after.
Ben pulled away from you, pulling his pants back up, letting you catch your breath. “I bet those damn photographers would love to get a photo of you like this”. Ben said.
do i touch the way you want me to (4.5k) 🦴 - too much wine, and not enough thinking you make a comment that robin can't shake. you reassure her, but the blonde takes it upon herself to go a step further. proving to herself there's nothing she can't give you without a little help -> @barnesonfilm
bad idea (3.8k) 🐖 - your mom invites her friend from high school and her family over for dinner. the only problem is that their daughter is your ex-best friend, and also the reason why your thoughts have been up keeping you up at night -> @idontknowanythingatallsblog
“All alone, I sit home by the phone waitin’ for you, baby.”
Summary: Michael Jackson is the neighbor and close friend you used to spend your summers with. Only this year, he’s started to blow you off for work and you worry that you’re going to lose him to his growing stardom.
Content: fluff, miscommunication, loneliness, Jackson family dynamics, mentions of domestic abuse, flashback scenes, (wc 3.6k)
Masterlist+Recommendations
—————
July nights were particularly hot in Southern California.
You could hear the faint chirp of crickets from outside your bedroom window, the small bugs finally coming alive without the burden of the blazing sun.
So far the summer had been isolating. Your days were filled with neighborhood walks and dips in the pool, and while those activities were nice, you longed for your best friend to do them with.
Lying in bed, you kicked your feet up onto your wall. The small pair of sleep shorts you were wearing slid up your upper thigh, exposing the skin to the small tufts of air emitted from small fan in your room. Your mind was in a heat-induced haze, but one thought rang clear and true.
Michael.
Upon his move from Indiana to California a couple of years prior, the two of you grew close due to your closeness in age and love for swimming and water sports. But he was constantly traveling with his brothers around the country, so the days you saw him were few and far between.
But, summer was a time where things usually slowed down for them.
Longer stretches between gigs.
Time for relaxation carved out of their rehearsal schedules.
There was time for friends during the summer, time for you.
In the privacy of your bedroom, you recalled those special days where you and Michael would enjoy the weather and each other's company from dawn till dusk. Scenes of heated board game competitions, speedy races in the Jackson’s pool, and movie marathons played in your mind.
You groaned.
Ever since the summer break started and you had returned to your California home, you had been waiting around for him to have some free time like some obedient dog.
You called the Jackson home a couple of times early in June to see if Michael was home, only to be met by the voice of an apologetic housemaid who claimed that the boys were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour. You brushed it off then, you were used to Michael’s demanding schedule. He frequently missed planned hang outs and failed to return your calls due to rehearsals running late. But after over a month of radio silence, you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. And even worse, you couldn’t help but feel needy and pathetic.
Making your way across your bedroom, you took your personal phone book into your hands and scrolled the pages.
Surely there was someone else to spend time with.
—————
A few houses away, Michael Jackson stared at himself in a floor-length mirror in Hayvenhurst's rehearsal studio. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face as he watched his brothers take a break by the front of the room. He wiped his face with his sleeve before joining them.
“I think we’ve just got to tighten up that last section and then we’re good.” He told his brothers.
Upon saying it out loud, his brothers erupted in groans.
“Oh come on, Mike! It’s nearly eleven and we’ve been at this all day!” Randy complained.
“Yeah Mike, let’s call it a day.” Marlon laughed. The brothers stood up again, ready to disband.
“Ten more minutes, guys! I swear we’ve almost got it perfect.” Michael said eagerly.
“No! I won’t be stuck in this room with you all summer.” Tito said hotly. “Don’t you got a life outside of this?”
“Yeah, let’s go watch a movie or something, man. Call it a night.” Jermaine said while patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael smoothed a hand over his damp curls, consulting their words. “No, no, no movies, guys. Come on, let’s focus.”
“Fine, have fun in here by yourself.” Tito said as he excited the room, Marlon and Randy following behind him.
“No, guys!” Michael called out to get their attention, but the three had already left.
“Mike, it’s no good for you to be working yourself like this. Go call up a friend and make some plans.” Jermaine said.
“I don’t ha-“ Michael stopped himself as his brothers watched on. “I just wanna work on this for a little longer.”
“What about [name]? Why don’t you call her? You two used to be thick as thieves.” Jackie said as he started to collect his things.
At the mention of your name Michael froze. He had meant to call you at the start of the summer but you were pushed out of his mind by the preparations for the upcoming tour. Now, he just felt guilty for inadvertently ignoring you. He wasn’t sure if he could just approach you like old times after he blew you off.
At his silence, Jackie perked up. “Uh oh, trouble with the missus?”
“She’s not my missus.” Michael stated defensively.
“Well she ain’t gonna be if you spend your whole summer in here! Call her. Come on, Jermaine.”
As the two older boys left the room, Michael resumed looking at himself in the mirror.
Lately, he’d been having trouble recognizing himself. He had been starting to see himself the way that they did- the fans, the media, all of it.
The pressure to become a greater version of himself overcrowded his thoughts, making it impossible for him to simply be. Whenever he tried to get lost in simple pleasures, his mind wandered back to the work ethic Joseph had bullied into him. Whenever he tried to get along with people his own age, he felt like a poser.
But there had been a time when it had all felt simpler.
A time where pleasure wasn’t about the rush of adrenaline at a sold out show or the rare praise he received from his father after another career milestone. A time where singing and dancing felt like a privilege instead of labor.
Allowing his mind to wander, Michael kept his hand hovering over the play button on the sound system, and he thought about a brighter time- summers past.
Cerulean ribbons of water circled your frames, shielding you both from the brazen sun. It was the summer the both of you turned eighteen- days that symbolized a shy start to the beginning of your adult lives. A milestone, a turning point.
But for now, it was just a summer day, and for now you were simply teenagers.
Michael’s hand found a lock of your hand submerged under the water and let it fall into his palm. He enjoyed the way it flexed and billowed in the pool, an image so simple but still so strikingly beautiful.
“What are you doing back there?” Your playful voice sounded from just a few inches away after feeling a tugging sensation on your head.
Michael, still shy in your comforting presence, immediately went to drop the lock of hair and swam to face you. “Me? Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah? Then what was in my hair?” You questioned daringly.
Michael shrugged, suppressing a sly expression.
“You are a terrible liar, Michael.” You said playfully as you swam away.
Michael dropped his hand from the sound system before immediately bringing it up to his face.
He felt tired. The type of tiredness that settles into your bones.
His senses felt clouded by his overwhelming thoughts and overworked body. Finally conceding, he lowered himself onto the floor and rested for a moment.
And as his mind went back to old memories and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, his body betrayed him and he quickly fell asleep.
—————
When Michael awoke the next morning it wasn’t to the sound of morning birds chirping, or a result of the awakening sun flashing over his eyes.
It was to the sound of his younger sister's screaming voice.
“I found him!” Janet yelled out to the others circling the property.
Michael sat up immediately and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. The lights in the studio were still on and the small blinking light of the sound system chirped from the corner.
He had fallen asleep in the rehearsal space.
Before he could move to stand, Katherine and Jackie shuffled into the room with concern ebbed onto their faces.
“Michael! What are you doing here so early? It almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your bed empty!” Katherine said loudly.
“Oh my, what time is it?” Michael asked.
Jackie quickly checked his watch before responding. “It’s nearly noon, Michael! What, were you in here all night?”
“I must have just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” Michael said meekly. He quickly got to his feet and turned the sound system completely off.
“This is not okay, Michael. You can’t be working yourself like this.” Katherine pleaded.
“Mother, I’m fine. I just fell asleep.”
“No, no, I won’t hear of this.” Katherine dismissed whilst pacing the room. “Locking yourself in here for these long hours- I barely get to see my son anymore!”
“What’s the big deal? You got five others!” Michael quipped back.
“You-“ Katherine began.
“Come on, Mike. You’re the only one that actually likes watching those horrendous old movies with her. Don’t stick that on us!” Jackie whined.
“I want you out of this room. Now, Michael. Go wash up and make some other plans for the day, cause you ain’t spending another beautiful day locked up inside.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael asked earnestly.
“That’s for you to figure out, Michael. Go do something with your sister. Janice?” Katherine called out to the young girl.
Janice emitted a low groan at the suggestion. “Aw, come on Mother, don't make me hang out with him.”
“Fine. Jackie?” Katherine called out.
“I wish I could, Ma. But, Leslie’s coming over today and I don’t want any little brother of mine hanging around.”
Katherine groaned. “All of you out!” She yelled as she ushered the group out of the rehearsal studio. Janice disappeared immediately towards the gardens while Jackie jogged over to the main house.
“Don’t waste God’s beautiful day, Mikey.” Katherine said simply before tapping Michael’s chin and following Janice to the gardens.
—————
Going out for a late breakfast with your favorite cousin, Amaya, was the perfect cure for your loneliness. The two of you giggled over shared plates of french toast and mugs of coffee that got progressively more cold the more intense the conversations got. You left the restaurant feeling bright and fresh, like the summer still had the potential to be interesting.
You had arrived back in Encino around one in the afternoon. After peeling off your handbag and a few accessories, you settled onto the loveseat in your bedroom and picked up a magazine that was recently delivered. In your good mood, you even clicked on your radio and tuned it to your favorite channel.
It was then that your good mood came crashing down.
From your lap, a photograph of none other than Michael Jackson was staring up at you.
In the photo, Michael was beaming. There was a slight glow to his handsome, blushing face, which was thrown back in a fit of laughter.
You paused, slightly smiling at the photo. Until your eyes fell onto the thin girl that was clinging onto your friends left arm- Ms. Diana Ross.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough, the large headline read:
JACKSON AND ROSS IN GREAT SPIRITS AT LOS ANGELES GALA
Your heart stuttered as your eyes went wild looking back and forth at the pair’s beautiful faces. The two of them had made headlines before, with their curious friendship and never ending rumors of scandalous encounters. But as you sat there in your bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel hurt and blindsided by this particular article.
No wonder Michael hasn’t returned my calls.
He has other, more glamorous friends.
You longed for the companionship of your boyish best friend, but perhaps that just wasn’t who he was anymore. Maybe you were longing for something that no longer existed.
In worsened spirits, you moved to click off the radio as the opening notes of Blame it on the Boogie started to fill the room.
—————
Despite his mother’s orders, Michael didn’t do much that day. He more so just wandered around Hayvenhurst, peeking into rooms, not staying anywhere for too long. He skipped lunch. He was planning on skipping dinner.
Fortunately, the entire Jackson family had plans for the evening. Katherine took the girls to visit her younger sister, Hattie Mae. Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito had gone out for the night under the premise of ‘finding a new muse’, or more so finding a new fling. And Randy had borrowed Bill to take him to a baseball game.
Although he would never say it, Michael was relieved that his family was gone. Or more so, that he wouldn’t be restricted by his family’s unwavering supervision and pitiful looks at his lonesomeness. Sure he felt a little lonely, isolated by his lack of true friends and confidants, but not anymore than he usually felt.
You had been a good friend to him. Truly.
But he was too scared to approach you for the same reason you were too scared to approach him- he didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Also, he simply didn’t know how.
“Rebbie made some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” You said as you walked over to Michael, who was preoccupied with the hydrangeas that were just planted by the gardeners. At your arrival, Michael lazily looked up at you and watched as you sipped from a tall glass of the aforementioned drink. A small drop of condensation from the glass dripped onto your finger and danced down your skin. Michael traced it with his eye as it descended from your palm, to your wrist, to the meat of your arm.
“Don’t you want some?” You asked him. Michael didn’t respond with many words, instead humming a quiet ‘no’ before turning his attention back to the flowers. You sat down next to him on the brick pathway and moved to pick a stray leaf off of his neck.
At the sudden contact, Michael’s body seized up and he placed a protective hand over his head. His expression, once dazed and lost in thought, quickly transformed into one of anxiety.
You were truly startled by his sudden motion. And as you watched him now, contorted away from you, a feeling of sadness emerged from your heart. Your eyes traced over his form carefully, which was as still as the tall tree shading the two of you.
A pit formed in your stomach. His prior movement had allowed his shirt to ride up, exposing the faint blooming of purple skin on his lower stomach to your eyes.
When he snapped out of his daydream, Michael saw that his hand was quivering. And before he could give it another thought, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
—————
Similarly to the previous night, you were lying on your bed with your legs kicked up onto the wall.
You had spent the rest of the day going through things in your room, finding small tokens and keepsakes you previously thought had been lost. Your new revelation about Michael’s fame triggered a downwards spiral about your own future. You felt stagnant in your own life, unlike Michael’s rising stardom.
Then, the phone rang from your nightstand.
Preserving your position, you twisted your upper body strenuously to reach the phone. The bed creaked under you with the movement.
A sigh of relief escaped your lips as your fingers grasped the device and you brought it up to your ear.
“Hello?” You muttered lazily into the phone.
You could hear someone breathing on the other end of the call. After a moment of silence you spoke again.
“Hello?”
The next thing you heard was the sound of the dial tone. The person who called had abruptly hung up on you.
“Cool.” You said under your breath before twisting to place the phone back on the hook.
The silence engulfed you once more.
“What’s all this?” You asked Michael curiously upon entering his bedroom. After closing the door behind the two of you, he turned to face where you were idly standing.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “-that.” A faint blush crept onto his face as you started to circle around the piles of mail he had received from fans recently. The piles were scattered around his bedroom floor, creating a sort of labyrinth in the once familiar environment. He joined you where you had taken a seat next to a particularly large stack.
“I mean, I know you got fan mail occasionally, but this?” You paused, motioning around the room, “This is just wild, Mike.” You took an envelope and turned it over in your hands.
“May I?” You asked coyly.
Michael smiled back at you. “Go ahead, girl. Just don’t get it mixed up in the pile, I’m trying to respond to as many as I can.”
With his permission, your fingers worked quickly to get to the letter. When you unfolded the piece of paper, a small deck of Polaroids tumbled out and hit the carpet. Naturally, you moved to pick them up.
However, upon seeing the small deck his mind went back to the last deck of Polaroids he had received- pictures of strange women in suggestive clothing, captured in multiple positions and angles. Protectively, Michael rushed to collect them, immediately hiding them in his large hands.
“What?” You mused. “I wanna see.”
You moved to take them from his hand but he kept a firm, protective grip on them- shielding them from your vision.
Noticing how his expression faltered at your persistence, you backed off and returned to the letter. “Whatever, Michael.”
Michael watched as your attention turned back to the scrap of paper. And when he knew it was safe, he allowed himself to check out the photos.
The first one was an image of a newborn baby, all swaddled up in what looked to be a hospital.
The second photo was another image of the baby, only now he was placed on a young woman’s chest. A man close in age to the woman was crouched awkwardly in the photo with a look in his eyes that could only be described as clear adoration and bliss.
“Oh, Michael! This woman said she named her son after you because her and her husband adore you!” You said in awe as you read from the letter.
Michael looked up at you as the knot in his stomach settled. Pictures of a newborn baby.
He breathed a sigh of relief and then passed you the photos without a word.
“Is that why you hid the photos?” You teased. “You wanted the first peek of the baby?”
Michael smiled, slouching against the paneling of his dresser. “Don’t be silly, girl. I didn’t know what those pictures were.”
“Well, Jesus, the way you fought me for them made me think I was about to see something horrible.”
Michael sighed. “You never know.” He said quietly, mostly to himself.
The phone rang again a couple of minutes later. This time you were a little more slow to answer it.
“Hel-“
“[Name],” You heard Michael say through the phone. “It’s me- Michael.”
As soon as you heard his voice you swung your legs over until they hit the carpeted floor.
“Michael,” You said carefully, “Uhm- hi, hey. How are you?”
He was quiet on the other end for a moment. “It’s been…. uhm-“ he began.
“Is everything okay?” You blurted out before you could think about it.
He breathed slowly. “No, not really. I’m sorry, [Name]. You know- for not returning your calls.”
Your eyes fell onto the magazine you had been reading earlier, the one of Michael and Diana embracing. A twinge of jealousy appeared in your stomach. But you brushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on Michael.
“I understand, Michael. You’re a very busy guy these days. It makes sense why you wouldn’t have time to hang out. I’m not mad or anything.”
“I just- I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be mad at me for sort of blowing you off.” He took a breath. “And then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how to approach you again.”
“I mean, I was a little disappointed at first,” you said quietly into the receiver. Michael’s breathing paused for a moment, awaiting your next words. “But, Mike, I was more just worried about you.”
His heart leapt. “You were worried about me?”
You smiled. “Of course I was! I was thinking about you consta-“ You cleared your throat to avoid finishing the sentence you had regretfully started.
Michael’s tone switched. “Constantly, huh girl?”
“Oh, quiet. Don’t make me out to be like one of your fan girls, Mike.” You giggled into the phone and heard Michael do the same.
“Aren’t you though?”
“Sure, Michael Jackson. I’m your biggest fan.”
Michael hummed into the receiver. “Mhm, my number one girl.”
“All alone, I sit home by the phone waitin’ for you, baby.”
Summary: Michael Jackson is the neighbor and close friend you used to spend your summers with. Only this year, he’s started to blow you off for work and you worry that you’re going to lose him to his growing stardom.
Content: fluff, miscommunication, loneliness, Jackson family dynamics, mentions of domestic abuse, flashback scenes, (wc 3.6k)
Masterlist+Recommendations
—————
July nights were particularly hot in Southern California.
You could hear the faint chirp of crickets from outside your bedroom window, the small bugs finally coming alive without the burden of the blazing sun.
So far the summer had been isolating. Your days were filled with neighborhood walks and dips in the pool, and while those activities were nice, you longed for your best friend to do them with.
Lying in bed, you kicked your feet up onto your wall. The small pair of sleep shorts you were wearing slid up your upper thigh, exposing the skin to the small tufts of air emitted from small fan in your room. Your mind was in a heat-induced haze, but one thought rang clear and true.
Michael.
Upon his move from Indiana to California a couple of years prior, the two of you grew close due to your closeness in age and love for swimming and water sports. But he was constantly traveling with his brothers around the country, so the days you saw him were few and far between.
But, summer was a time where things usually slowed down for them.
Longer stretches between gigs.
Time for relaxation carved out of their rehearsal schedules.
There was time for friends during the summer, time for you.
In the privacy of your bedroom, you recalled those special days where you and Michael would enjoy the weather and each other's company from dawn till dusk. Scenes of heated board game competitions, speedy races in the Jackson’s pool, and movie marathons played in your mind.
You groaned.
Ever since the summer break started and you had returned to your California home, you had been waiting around for him to have some free time like some obedient dog.
You called the Jackson home a couple of times early in June to see if Michael was home, only to be met by the voice of an apologetic housemaid who claimed that the boys were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour. You brushed it off then, you were used to Michael’s demanding schedule. He frequently missed planned hang outs and failed to return your calls due to rehearsals running late. But after over a month of radio silence, you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. And even worse, you couldn’t help but feel needy and pathetic.
Making your way across your bedroom, you took your personal phone book into your hands and scrolled the pages.
Surely there was someone else to spend time with.
—————
A few houses away, Michael Jackson stared at himself in a floor-length mirror in Hayvenhurst's rehearsal studio. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face as he watched his brothers take a break by the front of the room. He wiped his face with his sleeve before joining them.
“I think we’ve just got to tighten up that last section and then we’re good.” He told his brothers.
Upon saying it out loud, his brothers erupted in groans.
“Oh come on, Mike! It’s nearly eleven and we’ve been at this all day!” Randy complained.
“Yeah Mike, let’s call it a day.” Marlon laughed. The brothers stood up again, ready to disband.
“Ten more minutes, guys! I swear we’ve almost got it perfect.” Michael said eagerly.
“No! I won’t be stuck in this room with you all summer.” Tito said hotly. “Don’t you got a life outside of this?”
“Yeah, let’s go watch a movie or something, man. Call it a night.” Jermaine said while patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael smoothed a hand over his damp curls, consulting their words. “No, no, no movies, guys. Come on, let’s focus.”
“Fine, have fun in here by yourself.” Tito said as he excited the room, Marlon and Randy following behind him.
“No, guys!” Michael called out to get their attention, but the three had already left.
“Mike, it’s no good for you to be working yourself like this. Go call up a friend and make some plans.” Jermaine said.
“I don’t ha-“ Michael stopped himself as his brothers watched on. “I just wanna work on this for a little longer.”
“What about [name]? Why don’t you call her? You two used to be thick as thieves.” Jackie said as he started to collect his things.
At the mention of your name Michael froze. He had meant to call you at the start of the summer but you were pushed out of his mind by the preparations for the upcoming tour. Now, he just felt guilty for inadvertently ignoring you. He wasn’t sure if he could just approach you like old times after he blew you off.
At his silence, Jackie perked up. “Uh oh, trouble with the missus?”
“She’s not my missus.” Michael stated defensively.
“Well she ain’t gonna be if you spend your whole summer in here! Call her. Come on, Jermaine.”
As the two older boys left the room, Michael resumed looking at himself in the mirror.
Lately, he’d been having trouble recognizing himself. He had been starting to see himself the way that they did- the fans, the media, all of it.
The pressure to become a greater version of himself overcrowded his thoughts, making it impossible for him to simply be. Whenever he tried to get lost in simple pleasures, his mind wandered back to the work ethic Joseph had bullied into him. Whenever he tried to get along with people his own age, he felt like a poser.
But there had been a time when it had all felt simpler.
A time where pleasure wasn’t about the rush of adrenaline at a sold out show or the rare praise he received from his father after another career milestone. A time where singing and dancing felt like a privilege instead of labor.
Allowing his mind to wander, Michael kept his hand hovering over the play button on the sound system, and he thought about a brighter time- summers past.
Cerulean ribbons of water circled your frames, shielding you both from the brazen sun. It was the summer the both of you turned eighteen- days that symbolized a shy start to the beginning of your adult lives. A milestone, a turning point.
But for now, it was just a summer day, and for now you were simply teenagers.
Michael’s hand found a lock of your hand submerged under the water and let it fall into his palm. He enjoyed the way it flexed and billowed in the pool, an image so simple but still so strikingly beautiful.
“What are you doing back there?” Your playful voice sounded from just a few inches away after feeling a tugging sensation on your head.
Michael, still shy in your comforting presence, immediately went to drop the lock of hair and swam to face you. “Me? Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah? Then what was in my hair?” You questioned daringly.
Michael shrugged, suppressing a sly expression.
“You are a terrible liar, Michael.” You said playfully as you swam away.
Michael dropped his hand from the sound system before immediately bringing it up to his face.
He felt tired. The type of tiredness that settles into your bones.
His senses felt clouded by his overwhelming thoughts and overworked body. Finally conceding, he lowered himself onto the floor and rested for a moment.
And as his mind went back to old memories and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, his body betrayed him and he quickly fell asleep.
—————
When Michael awoke the next morning it wasn’t to the sound of morning birds chirping, or a result of the awakening sun flashing over his eyes.
It was to the sound of his younger sister's screaming voice.
“I found him!” Janet yelled out to the others circling the property.
Michael sat up immediately and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. The lights in the studio were still on and the small blinking light of the sound system chirped from the corner.
He had fallen asleep in the rehearsal space.
Before he could move to stand, Katherine and Jackie shuffled into the room with concern ebbed onto their faces.
“Michael! What are you doing here so early? It almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your bed empty!” Katherine said loudly.
“Oh my, what time is it?” Michael asked.
Jackie quickly checked his watch before responding. “It’s nearly noon, Michael! What, were you in here all night?”
“I must have just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” Michael said meekly. He quickly got to his feet and turned the sound system completely off.
“This is not okay, Michael. You can’t be working yourself like this.” Katherine pleaded.
“Mother, I’m fine. I just fell asleep.”
“No, no, I won’t hear of this.” Katherine dismissed whilst pacing the room. “Locking yourself in here for these long hours- I barely get to see my son anymore!”
“What’s the big deal? You got five others!” Michael quipped back.
“You-“ Katherine began.
“Come on, Mike. You’re the only one that actually likes watching those horrendous old movies with her. Don’t stick that on us!” Jackie whined.
“I want you out of this room. Now, Michael. Go wash up and make some other plans for the day, cause you ain’t spending another beautiful day locked up inside.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael asked earnestly.
“That’s for you to figure out, Michael. Go do something with your sister. Janice?” Katherine called out to the young girl.
Janice emitted a low groan at the suggestion. “Aw, come on Mother, don't make me hang out with him.”
“Fine. Jackie?” Katherine called out.
“I wish I could, Ma. But, Leslie’s coming over today and I don’t want any little brother of mine hanging around.”
Katherine groaned. “All of you out!” She yelled as she ushered the group out of the rehearsal studio. Janice disappeared immediately towards the gardens while Jackie jogged over to the main house.
“Don’t waste God’s beautiful day, Mikey.” Katherine said simply before tapping Michael’s chin and following Janice to the gardens.
—————
Going out for a late breakfast with your favorite cousin, Amaya, was the perfect cure for your loneliness. The two of you giggled over shared plates of french toast and mugs of coffee that got progressively more cold the more intense the conversations got. You left the restaurant feeling bright and fresh, like the summer still had the potential to be interesting.
You had arrived back in Encino around one in the afternoon. After peeling off your handbag and a few accessories, you settled onto the loveseat in your bedroom and picked up a magazine that was recently delivered. In your good mood, you even clicked on your radio and tuned it to your favorite channel.
It was then that your good mood came crashing down.
From your lap, a photograph of none other than Michael Jackson was staring up at you.
In the photo, Michael was beaming. There was a slight glow to his handsome, blushing face, which was thrown back in a fit of laughter.
You paused, slightly smiling at the photo. Until your eyes fell onto the thin girl that was clinging onto your friends left arm- Ms. Diana Ross.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough, the large headline read:
JACKSON AND ROSS IN GREAT SPIRITS AT LOS ANGELES GALA
Your heart stuttered as your eyes went wild looking back and forth at the pair’s beautiful faces. The two of them had made headlines before, with their curious friendship and never ending rumors of scandalous encounters. But as you sat there in your bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel hurt and blindsided by this particular article.
No wonder Michael hasn’t returned my calls.
He has other, more glamorous friends.
You longed for the companionship of your boyish best friend, but perhaps that just wasn’t who he was anymore. Maybe you were longing for something that no longer existed.
In worsened spirits, you moved to click off the radio as the opening notes of Blame it on the Boogie started to fill the room.
—————
Despite his mother’s orders, Michael didn’t do much that day. He more so just wandered around Hayvenhurst, peeking into rooms, not staying anywhere for too long. He skipped lunch. He was planning on skipping dinner.
Fortunately, the entire Jackson family had plans for the evening. Katherine took the girls to visit her younger sister, Hattie Mae. Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito had gone out for the night under the premise of ‘finding a new muse’, or more so finding a new fling. And Randy had borrowed Bill to take him to a baseball game.
Although he would never say it, Michael was relieved that his family was gone. Or more so, that he wouldn’t be restricted by his family’s unwavering supervision and pitiful looks at his lonesomeness. Sure he felt a little lonely, isolated by his lack of true friends and confidants, but not anymore than he usually felt.
You had been a good friend to him. Truly.
But he was too scared to approach you for the same reason you were too scared to approach him- he didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Also, he simply didn’t know how.
“Rebbie made some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” You said as you walked over to Michael, who was preoccupied with the hydrangeas that were just planted by the gardeners. At your arrival, Michael lazily looked up at you and watched as you sipped from a tall glass of the aforementioned drink. A small drop of condensation from the glass dripped onto your finger and danced down your skin. Michael traced it with his eye as it descended from your palm, to your wrist, to the meat of your arm.
“Don’t you want some?” You asked him. Michael didn’t respond with many words, instead humming a quiet ‘no’ before turning his attention back to the flowers. You sat down next to him on the brick pathway and moved to pick a stray leaf off of his neck.
At the sudden contact, Michael’s body seized up and he placed a protective hand over his head. His expression, once dazed and lost in thought, quickly transformed into one of anxiety.
You were truly startled by his sudden motion. And as you watched him now, contorted away from you, a feeling of sadness emerged from your heart. Your eyes traced over his form carefully, which was as still as the tall tree shading the two of you.
A pit formed in your stomach. His prior movement had allowed his shirt to ride up, exposing the faint blooming of purple skin on his lower stomach to your eyes.
When he snapped out of his daydream, Michael saw that his hand was quivering. And before he could give it another thought, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
—————
Similarly to the previous night, you were lying on your bed with your legs kicked up onto the wall.
You had spent the rest of the day going through things in your room, finding small tokens and keepsakes you previously thought had been lost. Your new revelation about Michael’s fame triggered a downwards spiral about your own future. You felt stagnant in your own life, unlike Michael’s rising stardom.
Then, the phone rang from your nightstand.
Preserving your position, you twisted your upper body strenuously to reach the phone. The bed creaked under you with the movement.
A sigh of relief escaped your lips as your fingers grasped the device and you brought it up to your ear.
“Hello?” You muttered lazily into the phone.
You could hear someone breathing on the other end of the call. After a moment of silence you spoke again.
“Hello?”
The next thing you heard was the sound of the dial tone. The person who called had abruptly hung up on you.
“Cool.” You said under your breath before twisting to place the phone back on the hook.
The silence engulfed you once more.
“What’s all this?” You asked Michael curiously upon entering his bedroom. After closing the door behind the two of you, he turned to face where you were idly standing.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “-that.” A faint blush crept onto his face as you started to circle around the piles of mail he had received from fans recently. The piles were scattered around his bedroom floor, creating a sort of labyrinth in the once familiar environment. He joined you where you had taken a seat next to a particularly large stack.
“I mean, I know you got fan mail occasionally, but this?” You paused, motioning around the room, “This is just wild, Mike.” You took an envelope and turned it over in your hands.
“May I?” You asked coyly.
Michael smiled back at you. “Go ahead, girl. Just don’t get it mixed up in the pile, I’m trying to respond to as many as I can.”
With his permission, your fingers worked quickly to get to the letter. When you unfolded the piece of paper, a small deck of Polaroids tumbled out and hit the carpet. Naturally, you moved to pick them up.
However, upon seeing the small deck his mind went back to the last deck of Polaroids he had received- pictures of strange women in suggestive clothing, captured in multiple positions and angles. Protectively, Michael rushed to collect them, immediately hiding them in his large hands.
“What?” You mused. “I wanna see.”
You moved to take them from his hand but he kept a firm, protective grip on them- shielding them from your vision.
Noticing how his expression faltered at your persistence, you backed off and returned to the letter. “Whatever, Michael.”
Michael watched as your attention turned back to the scrap of paper. And when he knew it was safe, he allowed himself to check out the photos.
The first one was an image of a newborn baby, all swaddled up in what looked to be a hospital.
The second photo was another image of the baby, only now he was placed on a young woman’s chest. A man close in age to the woman was crouched awkwardly in the photo with a look in his eyes that could only be described as clear adoration and bliss.
“Oh, Michael! This woman said she named her son after you because her and her husband adore you!” You said in awe as you read from the letter.
Michael looked up at you as the knot in his stomach settled. Pictures of a newborn baby.
He breathed a sigh of relief and then passed you the photos without a word.
“Is that why you hid the photos?” You teased. “You wanted the first peek of the baby?”
Michael smiled, slouching against the paneling of his dresser. “Don’t be silly, girl. I didn’t know what those pictures were.”
“Well, Jesus, the way you fought me for them made me think I was about to see something horrible.”
Michael sighed. “You never know.” He said quietly, mostly to himself.
The phone rang again a couple of minutes later. This time you were a little more slow to answer it.
“Hel-“
“[Name],” You heard Michael say through the phone. “It’s me- Michael.”
As soon as you heard his voice you swung your legs over until they hit the carpeted floor.
“Michael,” You said carefully, “Uhm- hi, hey. How are you?”
He was quiet on the other end for a moment. “It’s been…. uhm-“ he began.
“Is everything okay?” You blurted out before you could think about it.
He breathed slowly. “No, not really. I’m sorry, [Name]. You know- for not returning your calls.”
Your eyes fell onto the magazine you had been reading earlier, the one of Michael and Diana embracing. A twinge of jealousy appeared in your stomach. But you brushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on Michael.
“I understand, Michael. You’re a very busy guy these days. It makes sense why you wouldn’t have time to hang out. I’m not mad or anything.”
“I just- I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be mad at me for sort of blowing you off.” He took a breath. “And then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how to approach you again.”
“I mean, I was a little disappointed at first,” you said quietly into the receiver. Michael’s breathing paused for a moment, awaiting your next words. “But, Mike, I was more just worried about you.”
His heart leapt. “You were worried about me?”
You smiled. “Of course I was! I was thinking about you consta-“ You cleared your throat to avoid finishing the sentence you had regretfully started.
Michael’s tone switched. “Constantly, huh girl?”
“Oh, quiet. Don’t make me out to be like one of your fan girls, Mike.” You giggled into the phone and heard Michael do the same.
“Aren’t you though?”
“Sure, Michael Jackson. I’m your biggest fan.”
Michael hummed into the receiver. “Mhm, my number one girl.”
“All alone, I sit home by the phone waitin’ for you, baby.”
Summary: Michael Jackson is the neighbor and close friend you used to spend your summers with. Only this year, he’s started to blow you off for work and you worry that you’re going to lose him to his growing stardom.
Content: fluff, miscommunication, loneliness, Jackson family dynamics, mentions of domestic abuse, flashback scenes, (wc 3.6k)
Masterlist+Recommendations
—————
July nights were particularly hot in Southern California.
You could hear the faint chirp of crickets from outside your bedroom window, the small bugs finally coming alive without the burden of the blazing sun.
So far the summer had been isolating. Your days were filled with neighborhood walks and dips in the pool, and while those activities were nice, you longed for your best friend to do them with.
Lying in bed, you kicked your feet up onto your wall. The small pair of sleep shorts you were wearing slid up your upper thigh, exposing the skin to the small tufts of air emitted from small fan in your room. Your mind was in a heat-induced haze, but one thought rang clear and true.
Michael.
Upon his move from Indiana to California a couple of years prior, the two of you grew close due to your closeness in age and love for swimming and water sports. But he was constantly traveling with his brothers around the country, so the days you saw him were few and far between.
But, summer was a time where things usually slowed down for them.
Longer stretches between gigs.
Time for relaxation carved out of their rehearsal schedules.
There was time for friends during the summer, time for you.
In the privacy of your bedroom, you recalled those special days where you and Michael would enjoy the weather and each other's company from dawn till dusk. Scenes of heated board game competitions, speedy races in the Jackson’s pool, and movie marathons played in your mind.
You groaned.
Ever since the summer break started and you had returned to your California home, you had been waiting around for him to have some free time like some obedient dog.
You called the Jackson home a couple of times early in June to see if Michael was home, only to be met by the voice of an apologetic housemaid who claimed that the boys were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour. You brushed it off then, you were used to Michael’s demanding schedule. He frequently missed planned hang outs and failed to return your calls due to rehearsals running late. But after over a month of radio silence, you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. And even worse, you couldn’t help but feel needy and pathetic.
Making your way across your bedroom, you took your personal phone book into your hands and scrolled the pages.
Surely there was someone else to spend time with.
—————
A few houses away, Michael Jackson stared at himself in a floor-length mirror in Hayvenhurst's rehearsal studio. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face as he watched his brothers take a break by the front of the room. He wiped his face with his sleeve before joining them.
“I think we’ve just got to tighten up that last section and then we’re good.” He told his brothers.
Upon saying it out loud, his brothers erupted in groans.
“Oh come on, Mike! It’s nearly eleven and we’ve been at this all day!” Randy complained.
“Yeah Mike, let’s call it a day.” Marlon laughed. The brothers stood up again, ready to disband.
“Ten more minutes, guys! I swear we’ve almost got it perfect.” Michael said eagerly.
“No! I won’t be stuck in this room with you all summer.” Tito said hotly. “Don’t you got a life outside of this?”
“Yeah, let’s go watch a movie or something, man. Call it a night.” Jermaine said while patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael smoothed a hand over his damp curls, consulting their words. “No, no, no movies, guys. Come on, let’s focus.”
“Fine, have fun in here by yourself.” Tito said as he excited the room, Marlon and Randy following behind him.
“No, guys!” Michael called out to get their attention, but the three had already left.
“Mike, it’s no good for you to be working yourself like this. Go call up a friend and make some plans.” Jermaine said.
“I don’t ha-“ Michael stopped himself as his brothers watched on. “I just wanna work on this for a little longer.”
“What about [name]? Why don’t you call her? You two used to be thick as thieves.” Jackie said as he started to collect his things.
At the mention of your name Michael froze. He had meant to call you at the start of the summer but you were pushed out of his mind by the preparations for the upcoming tour. Now, he just felt guilty for inadvertently ignoring you. He wasn’t sure if he could just approach you like old times after he blew you off.
At his silence, Jackie perked up. “Uh oh, trouble with the missus?”
“She’s not my missus.” Michael stated defensively.
“Well she ain’t gonna be if you spend your whole summer in here! Call her. Come on, Jermaine.”
As the two older boys left the room, Michael resumed looking at himself in the mirror.
Lately, he’d been having trouble recognizing himself. He had been starting to see himself the way that they did- the fans, the media, all of it.
The pressure to become a greater version of himself overcrowded his thoughts, making it impossible for him to simply be. Whenever he tried to get lost in simple pleasures, his mind wandered back to the work ethic Joseph had bullied into him. Whenever he tried to get along with people his own age, he felt like a poser.
But there had been a time when it had all felt simpler.
A time where pleasure wasn’t about the rush of adrenaline at a sold out show or the rare praise he received from his father after another career milestone. A time where singing and dancing felt like a privilege instead of labor.
Allowing his mind to wander, Michael kept his hand hovering over the play button on the sound system, and he thought about a brighter time- summers past.
Cerulean ribbons of water circled your frames, shielding you both from the brazen sun. It was the summer the both of you turned eighteen- days that symbolized a shy start to the beginning of your adult lives. A milestone, a turning point.
But for now, it was just a summer day, and for now you were simply teenagers.
Michael’s hand found a lock of your hand submerged under the water and let it fall into his palm. He enjoyed the way it flexed and billowed in the pool, an image so simple but still so strikingly beautiful.
“What are you doing back there?” Your playful voice sounded from just a few inches away after feeling a tugging sensation on your head.
Michael, still shy in your comforting presence, immediately went to drop the lock of hair and swam to face you. “Me? Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah? Then what was in my hair?” You questioned daringly.
Michael shrugged, suppressing a sly expression.
“You are a terrible liar, Michael.” You said playfully as you swam away.
Michael dropped his hand from the sound system before immediately bringing it up to his face.
He felt tired. The type of tiredness that settles into your bones.
His senses felt clouded by his overwhelming thoughts and overworked body. Finally conceding, he lowered himself onto the floor and rested for a moment.
And as his mind went back to old memories and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, his body betrayed him and he quickly fell asleep.
—————
When Michael awoke the next morning it wasn’t to the sound of morning birds chirping, or a result of the awakening sun flashing over his eyes.
It was to the sound of his younger sister's screaming voice.
“I found him!” Janet yelled out to the others circling the property.
Michael sat up immediately and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. The lights in the studio were still on and the small blinking light of the sound system chirped from the corner.
He had fallen asleep in the rehearsal space.
Before he could move to stand, Katherine and Jackie shuffled into the room with concern ebbed onto their faces.
“Michael! What are you doing here so early? It almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your bed empty!” Katherine said loudly.
“Oh my, what time is it?” Michael asked.
Jackie quickly checked his watch before responding. “It’s nearly noon, Michael! What, were you in here all night?”
“I must have just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” Michael said meekly. He quickly got to his feet and turned the sound system completely off.
“This is not okay, Michael. You can’t be working yourself like this.” Katherine pleaded.
“Mother, I’m fine. I just fell asleep.”
“No, no, I won’t hear of this.” Katherine dismissed whilst pacing the room. “Locking yourself in here for these long hours- I barely get to see my son anymore!”
“What’s the big deal? You got five others!” Michael quipped back.
“You-“ Katherine began.
“Come on, Mike. You’re the only one that actually likes watching those horrendous old movies with her. Don’t stick that on us!” Jackie whined.
“I want you out of this room. Now, Michael. Go wash up and make some other plans for the day, cause you ain’t spending another beautiful day locked up inside.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael asked earnestly.
“That’s for you to figure out, Michael. Go do something with your sister. Janice?” Katherine called out to the young girl.
Janice emitted a low groan at the suggestion. “Aw, come on Mother, don't make me hang out with him.”
“Fine. Jackie?” Katherine called out.
“I wish I could, Ma. But, Leslie’s coming over today and I don’t want any little brother of mine hanging around.”
Katherine groaned. “All of you out!” She yelled as she ushered the group out of the rehearsal studio. Janice disappeared immediately towards the gardens while Jackie jogged over to the main house.
“Don’t waste God’s beautiful day, Mikey.” Katherine said simply before tapping Michael’s chin and following Janice to the gardens.
—————
Going out for a late breakfast with your favorite cousin, Amaya, was the perfect cure for your loneliness. The two of you giggled over shared plates of french toast and mugs of coffee that got progressively more cold the more intense the conversations got. You left the restaurant feeling bright and fresh, like the summer still had the potential to be interesting.
You had arrived back in Encino around one in the afternoon. After peeling off your handbag and a few accessories, you settled onto the loveseat in your bedroom and picked up a magazine that was recently delivered. In your good mood, you even clicked on your radio and tuned it to your favorite channel.
It was then that your good mood came crashing down.
From your lap, a photograph of none other than Michael Jackson was staring up at you.
In the photo, Michael was beaming. There was a slight glow to his handsome, blushing face, which was thrown back in a fit of laughter.
You paused, slightly smiling at the photo. Until your eyes fell onto the thin girl that was clinging onto your friends left arm- Ms. Diana Ross.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough, the large headline read:
JACKSON AND ROSS IN GREAT SPIRITS AT LOS ANGELES GALA
Your heart stuttered as your eyes went wild looking back and forth at the pair’s beautiful faces. The two of them had made headlines before, with their curious friendship and never ending rumors of scandalous encounters. But as you sat there in your bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel hurt and blindsided by this particular article.
No wonder Michael hasn’t returned my calls.
He has other, more glamorous friends.
You longed for the companionship of your boyish best friend, but perhaps that just wasn’t who he was anymore. Maybe you were longing for something that no longer existed.
In worsened spirits, you moved to click off the radio as the opening notes of Blame it on the Boogie started to fill the room.
—————
Despite his mother’s orders, Michael didn’t do much that day. He more so just wandered around Hayvenhurst, peeking into rooms, not staying anywhere for too long. He skipped lunch. He was planning on skipping dinner.
Fortunately, the entire Jackson family had plans for the evening. Katherine took the girls to visit her younger sister, Hattie Mae. Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito had gone out for the night under the premise of ‘finding a new muse’, or more so finding a new fling. And Randy had borrowed Bill to take him to a baseball game.
Although he would never say it, Michael was relieved that his family was gone. Or more so, that he wouldn’t be restricted by his family’s unwavering supervision and pitiful looks at his lonesomeness. Sure he felt a little lonely, isolated by his lack of true friends and confidants, but not anymore than he usually felt.
You had been a good friend to him. Truly.
But he was too scared to approach you for the same reason you were too scared to approach him- he didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Also, he simply didn’t know how.
“Rebbie made some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” You said as you walked over to Michael, who was preoccupied with the hydrangeas that were just planted by the gardeners. At your arrival, Michael lazily looked up at you and watched as you sipped from a tall glass of the aforementioned drink. A small drop of condensation from the glass dripped onto your finger and danced down your skin. Michael traced it with his eye as it descended from your palm, to your wrist, to the meat of your arm.
“Don’t you want some?” You asked him. Michael didn’t respond with many words, instead humming a quiet ‘no’ before turning his attention back to the flowers. You sat down next to him on the brick pathway and moved to pick a stray leaf off of his neck.
At the sudden contact, Michael’s body seized up and he placed a protective hand over his head. His expression, once dazed and lost in thought, quickly transformed into one of anxiety.
You were truly startled by his sudden motion. And as you watched him now, contorted away from you, a feeling of sadness emerged from your heart. Your eyes traced over his form carefully, which was as still as the tall tree shading the two of you.
A pit formed in your stomach. His prior movement had allowed his shirt to ride up, exposing the faint blooming of purple skin on his lower stomach to your eyes.
When he snapped out of his daydream, Michael saw that his hand was quivering. And before he could give it another thought, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
—————
Similarly to the previous night, you were lying on your bed with your legs kicked up onto the wall.
You had spent the rest of the day going through things in your room, finding small tokens and keepsakes you previously thought had been lost. Your new revelation about Michael’s fame triggered a downwards spiral about your own future. You felt stagnant in your own life, unlike Michael’s rising stardom.
Then, the phone rang from your nightstand.
Preserving your position, you twisted your upper body strenuously to reach the phone. The bed creaked under you with the movement.
A sigh of relief escaped your lips as your fingers grasped the device and you brought it up to your ear.
“Hello?” You muttered lazily into the phone.
You could hear someone breathing on the other end of the call. After a moment of silence you spoke again.
“Hello?”
The next thing you heard was the sound of the dial tone. The person who called had abruptly hung up on you.
“Cool.” You said under your breath before twisting to place the phone back on the hook.
The silence engulfed you once more.
“What’s all this?” You asked Michael curiously upon entering his bedroom. After closing the door behind the two of you, he turned to face where you were idly standing.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “-that.” A faint blush crept onto his face as you started to circle around the piles of mail he had received from fans recently. The piles were scattered around his bedroom floor, creating a sort of labyrinth in the once familiar environment. He joined you where you had taken a seat next to a particularly large stack.
“I mean, I know you got fan mail occasionally, but this?” You paused, motioning around the room, “This is just wild, Mike.” You took an envelope and turned it over in your hands.
“May I?” You asked coyly.
Michael smiled back at you. “Go ahead, girl. Just don’t get it mixed up in the pile, I’m trying to respond to as many as I can.”
With his permission, your fingers worked quickly to get to the letter. When you unfolded the piece of paper, a small deck of Polaroids tumbled out and hit the carpet. Naturally, you moved to pick them up.
However, upon seeing the small deck his mind went back to the last deck of Polaroids he had received- pictures of strange women in suggestive clothing, captured in multiple positions and angles. Protectively, Michael rushed to collect them, immediately hiding them in his large hands.
“What?” You mused. “I wanna see.”
You moved to take them from his hand but he kept a firm, protective grip on them- shielding them from your vision.
Noticing how his expression faltered at your persistence, you backed off and returned to the letter. “Whatever, Michael.”
Michael watched as your attention turned back to the scrap of paper. And when he knew it was safe, he allowed himself to check out the photos.
The first one was an image of a newborn baby, all swaddled up in what looked to be a hospital.
The second photo was another image of the baby, only now he was placed on a young woman’s chest. A man close in age to the woman was crouched awkwardly in the photo with a look in his eyes that could only be described as clear adoration and bliss.
“Oh, Michael! This woman said she named her son after you because her and her husband adore you!” You said in awe as you read from the letter.
Michael looked up at you as the knot in his stomach settled. Pictures of a newborn baby.
He breathed a sigh of relief and then passed you the photos without a word.
“Is that why you hid the photos?” You teased. “You wanted the first peek of the baby?”
Michael smiled, slouching against the paneling of his dresser. “Don’t be silly, girl. I didn’t know what those pictures were.”
“Well, Jesus, the way you fought me for them made me think I was about to see something horrible.”
Michael sighed. “You never know.” He said quietly, mostly to himself.
The phone rang again a couple of minutes later. This time you were a little more slow to answer it.
“Hel-“
“[Name],” You heard Michael say through the phone. “It’s me- Michael.”
As soon as you heard his voice you swung your legs over until they hit the carpeted floor.
“Michael,” You said carefully, “Uhm- hi, hey. How are you?”
He was quiet on the other end for a moment. “It’s been…. uhm-“ he began.
“Is everything okay?” You blurted out before you could think about it.
He breathed slowly. “No, not really. I’m sorry, [Name]. You know- for not returning your calls.”
Your eyes fell onto the magazine you had been reading earlier, the one of Michael and Diana embracing. A twinge of jealousy appeared in your stomach. But you brushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on Michael.
“I understand, Michael. You’re a very busy guy these days. It makes sense why you wouldn’t have time to hang out. I’m not mad or anything.”
“I just- I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be mad at me for sort of blowing you off.” He took a breath. “And then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how to approach you again.”
“I mean, I was a little disappointed at first,” you said quietly into the receiver. Michael’s breathing paused for a moment, awaiting your next words. “But, Mike, I was more just worried about you.”
His heart leapt. “You were worried about me?”
You smiled. “Of course I was! I was thinking about you consta-“ You cleared your throat to avoid finishing the sentence you had regretfully started.
Michael’s tone switched. “Constantly, huh girl?”
“Oh, quiet. Don’t make me out to be like one of your fan girls, Mike.” You giggled into the phone and heard Michael do the same.
“Aren’t you though?”
“Sure, Michael Jackson. I’m your biggest fan.”
Michael hummed into the receiver. “Mhm, my number one girl.”
“All alone, I sit home by the phone waitin’ for you, baby.”
Summary: Michael Jackson is the neighbor and close friend you used to spend your summers with. Only this year, he’s started to blow you off for work and you worry that you’re going to lose him to his growing stardom.
Content: fluff, miscommunication, loneliness, Jackson family dynamics, mentions of domestic abuse, flashback scenes, (wc 3.6k)
Masterlist+Recommendations
—————
July nights were particularly hot in Southern California.
You could hear the faint chirp of crickets from outside your bedroom window, the small bugs finally coming alive without the burden of the blazing sun.
So far the summer had been isolating. Your days were filled with neighborhood walks and dips in the pool, and while those activities were nice, you longed for your best friend to do them with.
Lying in bed, you kicked your feet up onto your wall. The small pair of sleep shorts you were wearing slid up your upper thigh, exposing the skin to the small tufts of air emitted from small fan in your room. Your mind was in a heat-induced haze, but one thought rang clear and true.
Michael.
Upon his move from Indiana to California a couple of years prior, the two of you grew close due to your closeness in age and love for swimming and water sports. But he was constantly traveling with his brothers around the country, so the days you saw him were few and far between.
But, summer was a time where things usually slowed down for them.
Longer stretches between gigs.
Time for relaxation carved out of their rehearsal schedules.
There was time for friends during the summer, time for you.
In the privacy of your bedroom, you recalled those special days where you and Michael would enjoy the weather and each other's company from dawn till dusk. Scenes of heated board game competitions, speedy races in the Jackson’s pool, and movie marathons played in your mind.
You groaned.
Ever since the summer break started and you had returned to your California home, you had been waiting around for him to have some free time like some obedient dog.
You called the Jackson home a couple of times early in June to see if Michael was home, only to be met by the voice of an apologetic housemaid who claimed that the boys were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour. You brushed it off then, you were used to Michael’s demanding schedule. He frequently missed planned hang outs and failed to return your calls due to rehearsals running late. But after over a month of radio silence, you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. And even worse, you couldn’t help but feel needy and pathetic.
Making your way across your bedroom, you took your personal phone book into your hands and scrolled the pages.
Surely there was someone else to spend time with.
—————
A few houses away, Michael Jackson stared at himself in a floor-length mirror in Hayvenhurst's rehearsal studio. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face as he watched his brothers take a break by the front of the room. He wiped his face with his sleeve before joining them.
“I think we’ve just got to tighten up that last section and then we’re good.” He told his brothers.
Upon saying it out loud, his brothers erupted in groans.
“Oh come on, Mike! It’s nearly eleven and we’ve been at this all day!” Randy complained.
“Yeah Mike, let’s call it a day.” Marlon laughed. The brothers stood up again, ready to disband.
“Ten more minutes, guys! I swear we’ve almost got it perfect.” Michael said eagerly.
“No! I won’t be stuck in this room with you all summer.” Tito said hotly. “Don’t you got a life outside of this?”
“Yeah, let’s go watch a movie or something, man. Call it a night.” Jermaine said while patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael smoothed a hand over his damp curls, consulting their words. “No, no, no movies, guys. Come on, let’s focus.”
“Fine, have fun in here by yourself.” Tito said as he excited the room, Marlon and Randy following behind him.
“No, guys!” Michael called out to get their attention, but the three had already left.
“Mike, it’s no good for you to be working yourself like this. Go call up a friend and make some plans.” Jermaine said.
“I don’t ha-“ Michael stopped himself as his brothers watched on. “I just wanna work on this for a little longer.”
“What about [name]? Why don’t you call her? You two used to be thick as thieves.” Jackie said as he started to collect his things.
At the mention of your name Michael froze. He had meant to call you at the start of the summer but you were pushed out of his mind by the preparations for the upcoming tour. Now, he just felt guilty for inadvertently ignoring you. He wasn’t sure if he could just approach you like old times after he blew you off.
At his silence, Jackie perked up. “Uh oh, trouble with the missus?”
“She’s not my missus.” Michael stated defensively.
“Well she ain’t gonna be if you spend your whole summer in here! Call her. Come on, Jermaine.”
As the two older boys left the room, Michael resumed looking at himself in the mirror.
Lately, he’d been having trouble recognizing himself. He had been starting to see himself the way that they did- the fans, the media, all of it.
The pressure to become a greater version of himself overcrowded his thoughts, making it impossible for him to simply be. Whenever he tried to get lost in simple pleasures, his mind wandered back to the work ethic Joseph had bullied into him. Whenever he tried to get along with people his own age, he felt like a poser.
But there had been a time when it had all felt simpler.
A time where pleasure wasn’t about the rush of adrenaline at a sold out show or the rare praise he received from his father after another career milestone. A time where singing and dancing felt like a privilege instead of labor.
Allowing his mind to wander, Michael kept his hand hovering over the play button on the sound system, and he thought about a brighter time- summers past.
Cerulean ribbons of water circled your frames, shielding you both from the brazen sun. It was the summer the both of you turned eighteen- days that symbolized a shy start to the beginning of your adult lives. A milestone, a turning point.
But for now, it was just a summer day, and for now you were simply teenagers.
Michael’s hand found a lock of your hand submerged under the water and let it fall into his palm. He enjoyed the way it flexed and billowed in the pool, an image so simple but still so strikingly beautiful.
“What are you doing back there?” Your playful voice sounded from just a few inches away after feeling a tugging sensation on your head.
Michael, still shy in your comforting presence, immediately went to drop the lock of hair and swam to face you. “Me? Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah? Then what was in my hair?” You questioned daringly.
Michael shrugged, suppressing a sly expression.
“You are a terrible liar, Michael.” You said playfully as you swam away.
Michael dropped his hand from the sound system before immediately bringing it up to his face.
He felt tired. The type of tiredness that settles into your bones.
His senses felt clouded by his overwhelming thoughts and overworked body. Finally conceding, he lowered himself onto the floor and rested for a moment.
And as his mind went back to old memories and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, his body betrayed him and he quickly fell asleep.
—————
When Michael awoke the next morning it wasn’t to the sound of morning birds chirping, or a result of the awakening sun flashing over his eyes.
It was to the sound of his younger sister's screaming voice.
“I found him!” Janet yelled out to the others circling the property.
Michael sat up immediately and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. The lights in the studio were still on and the small blinking light of the sound system chirped from the corner.
He had fallen asleep in the rehearsal space.
Before he could move to stand, Katherine and Jackie shuffled into the room with concern ebbed onto their faces.
“Michael! What are you doing here so early? It almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your bed empty!” Katherine said loudly.
“Oh my, what time is it?” Michael asked.
Jackie quickly checked his watch before responding. “It’s nearly noon, Michael! What, were you in here all night?”
“I must have just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” Michael said meekly. He quickly got to his feet and turned the sound system completely off.
“This is not okay, Michael. You can’t be working yourself like this.” Katherine pleaded.
“Mother, I’m fine. I just fell asleep.”
“No, no, I won’t hear of this.” Katherine dismissed whilst pacing the room. “Locking yourself in here for these long hours- I barely get to see my son anymore!”
“What’s the big deal? You got five others!” Michael quipped back.
“You-“ Katherine began.
“Come on, Mike. You’re the only one that actually likes watching those horrendous old movies with her. Don’t stick that on us!” Jackie whined.
“I want you out of this room. Now, Michael. Go wash up and make some other plans for the day, cause you ain’t spending another beautiful day locked up inside.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael asked earnestly.
“That’s for you to figure out, Michael. Go do something with your sister. Janice?” Katherine called out to the young girl.
Janice emitted a low groan at the suggestion. “Aw, come on Mother, don't make me hang out with him.”
“Fine. Jackie?” Katherine called out.
“I wish I could, Ma. But, Leslie’s coming over today and I don’t want any little brother of mine hanging around.”
Katherine groaned. “All of you out!” She yelled as she ushered the group out of the rehearsal studio. Janice disappeared immediately towards the gardens while Jackie jogged over to the main house.
“Don’t waste God’s beautiful day, Mikey.” Katherine said simply before tapping Michael’s chin and following Janice to the gardens.
—————
Going out for a late breakfast with your favorite cousin, Amaya, was the perfect cure for your loneliness. The two of you giggled over shared plates of french toast and mugs of coffee that got progressively more cold the more intense the conversations got. You left the restaurant feeling bright and fresh, like the summer still had the potential to be interesting.
You had arrived back in Encino around one in the afternoon. After peeling off your handbag and a few accessories, you settled onto the loveseat in your bedroom and picked up a magazine that was recently delivered. In your good mood, you even clicked on your radio and tuned it to your favorite channel.
It was then that your good mood came crashing down.
From your lap, a photograph of none other than Michael Jackson was staring up at you.
In the photo, Michael was beaming. There was a slight glow to his handsome, blushing face, which was thrown back in a fit of laughter.
You paused, slightly smiling at the photo. Until your eyes fell onto the thin girl that was clinging onto your friends left arm- Ms. Diana Ross.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough, the large headline read:
JACKSON AND ROSS IN GREAT SPIRITS AT LOS ANGELES GALA
Your heart stuttered as your eyes went wild looking back and forth at the pair’s beautiful faces. The two of them had made headlines before, with their curious friendship and never ending rumors of scandalous encounters. But as you sat there in your bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel hurt and blindsided by this particular article.
No wonder Michael hasn’t returned my calls.
He has other, more glamorous friends.
You longed for the companionship of your boyish best friend, but perhaps that just wasn’t who he was anymore. Maybe you were longing for something that no longer existed.
In worsened spirits, you moved to click off the radio as the opening notes of Blame it on the Boogie started to fill the room.
—————
Despite his mother’s orders, Michael didn’t do much that day. He more so just wandered around Hayvenhurst, peeking into rooms, not staying anywhere for too long. He skipped lunch. He was planning on skipping dinner.
Fortunately, the entire Jackson family had plans for the evening. Katherine took the girls to visit her younger sister, Hattie Mae. Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito had gone out for the night under the premise of ‘finding a new muse’, or more so finding a new fling. And Randy had borrowed Bill to take him to a baseball game.
Although he would never say it, Michael was relieved that his family was gone. Or more so, that he wouldn’t be restricted by his family’s unwavering supervision and pitiful looks at his lonesomeness. Sure he felt a little lonely, isolated by his lack of true friends and confidants, but not anymore than he usually felt.
You had been a good friend to him. Truly.
But he was too scared to approach you for the same reason you were too scared to approach him- he didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Also, he simply didn’t know how.
“Rebbie made some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” You said as you walked over to Michael, who was preoccupied with the hydrangeas that were just planted by the gardeners. At your arrival, Michael lazily looked up at you and watched as you sipped from a tall glass of the aforementioned drink. A small drop of condensation from the glass dripped onto your finger and danced down your skin. Michael traced it with his eye as it descended from your palm, to your wrist, to the meat of your arm.
“Don’t you want some?” You asked him. Michael didn’t respond with many words, instead humming a quiet ‘no’ before turning his attention back to the flowers. You sat down next to him on the brick pathway and moved to pick a stray leaf off of his neck.
At the sudden contact, Michael’s body seized up and he placed a protective hand over his head. His expression, once dazed and lost in thought, quickly transformed into one of anxiety.
You were truly startled by his sudden motion. And as you watched him now, contorted away from you, a feeling of sadness emerged from your heart. Your eyes traced over his form carefully, which was as still as the tall tree shading the two of you.
A pit formed in your stomach. His prior movement had allowed his shirt to ride up, exposing the faint blooming of purple skin on his lower stomach to your eyes.
When he snapped out of his daydream, Michael saw that his hand was quivering. And before he could give it another thought, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
—————
Similarly to the previous night, you were lying on your bed with your legs kicked up onto the wall.
You had spent the rest of the day going through things in your room, finding small tokens and keepsakes you previously thought had been lost. Your new revelation about Michael’s fame triggered a downwards spiral about your own future. You felt stagnant in your own life, unlike Michael’s rising stardom.
Then, the phone rang from your nightstand.
Preserving your position, you twisted your upper body strenuously to reach the phone. The bed creaked under you with the movement.
A sigh of relief escaped your lips as your fingers grasped the device and you brought it up to your ear.
“Hello?” You muttered lazily into the phone.
You could hear someone breathing on the other end of the call. After a moment of silence you spoke again.
“Hello?”
The next thing you heard was the sound of the dial tone. The person who called had abruptly hung up on you.
“Cool.” You said under your breath before twisting to place the phone back on the hook.
The silence engulfed you once more.
“What’s all this?” You asked Michael curiously upon entering his bedroom. After closing the door behind the two of you, he turned to face where you were idly standing.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “-that.” A faint blush crept onto his face as you started to circle around the piles of mail he had received from fans recently. The piles were scattered around his bedroom floor, creating a sort of labyrinth in the once familiar environment. He joined you where you had taken a seat next to a particularly large stack.
“I mean, I know you got fan mail occasionally, but this?” You paused, motioning around the room, “This is just wild, Mike.” You took an envelope and turned it over in your hands.
“May I?” You asked coyly.
Michael smiled back at you. “Go ahead, girl. Just don’t get it mixed up in the pile, I’m trying to respond to as many as I can.”
With his permission, your fingers worked quickly to get to the letter. When you unfolded the piece of paper, a small deck of Polaroids tumbled out and hit the carpet. Naturally, you moved to pick them up.
However, upon seeing the small deck his mind went back to the last deck of Polaroids he had received- pictures of strange women in suggestive clothing, captured in multiple positions and angles. Protectively, Michael rushed to collect them, immediately hiding them in his large hands.
“What?” You mused. “I wanna see.”
You moved to take them from his hand but he kept a firm, protective grip on them- shielding them from your vision.
Noticing how his expression faltered at your persistence, you backed off and returned to the letter. “Whatever, Michael.”
Michael watched as your attention turned back to the scrap of paper. And when he knew it was safe, he allowed himself to check out the photos.
The first one was an image of a newborn baby, all swaddled up in what looked to be a hospital.
The second photo was another image of the baby, only now he was placed on a young woman’s chest. A man close in age to the woman was crouched awkwardly in the photo with a look in his eyes that could only be described as clear adoration and bliss.
“Oh, Michael! This woman said she named her son after you because her and her husband adore you!” You said in awe as you read from the letter.
Michael looked up at you as the knot in his stomach settled. Pictures of a newborn baby.
He breathed a sigh of relief and then passed you the photos without a word.
“Is that why you hid the photos?” You teased. “You wanted the first peek of the baby?”
Michael smiled, slouching against the paneling of his dresser. “Don’t be silly, girl. I didn’t know what those pictures were.”
“Well, Jesus, the way you fought me for them made me think I was about to see something horrible.”
Michael sighed. “You never know.” He said quietly, mostly to himself.
The phone rang again a couple of minutes later. This time you were a little more slow to answer it.
“Hel-“
“[Name],” You heard Michael say through the phone. “It’s me- Michael.”
As soon as you heard his voice you swung your legs over until they hit the carpeted floor.
“Michael,” You said carefully, “Uhm- hi, hey. How are you?”
He was quiet on the other end for a moment. “It’s been…. uhm-“ he began.
“Is everything okay?” You blurted out before you could think about it.
He breathed slowly. “No, not really. I’m sorry, [Name]. You know- for not returning your calls.”
Your eyes fell onto the magazine you had been reading earlier, the one of Michael and Diana embracing. A twinge of jealousy appeared in your stomach. But you brushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on Michael.
“I understand, Michael. You’re a very busy guy these days. It makes sense why you wouldn’t have time to hang out. I’m not mad or anything.”
“I just- I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be mad at me for sort of blowing you off.” He took a breath. “And then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how to approach you again.”
“I mean, I was a little disappointed at first,” you said quietly into the receiver. Michael’s breathing paused for a moment, awaiting your next words. “But, Mike, I was more just worried about you.”
His heart leapt. “You were worried about me?”
You smiled. “Of course I was! I was thinking about you consta-“ You cleared your throat to avoid finishing the sentence you had regretfully started.
Michael’s tone switched. “Constantly, huh girl?”
“Oh, quiet. Don’t make me out to be like one of your fan girls, Mike.” You giggled into the phone and heard Michael do the same.
“Aren’t you though?”
“Sure, Michael Jackson. I’m your biggest fan.”
Michael hummed into the receiver. “Mhm, my number one girl.”
“All alone, I sit home by the phone waitin’ for you, baby.”
Summary: Michael Jackson is the neighbor and close friend you used to spend your summers with. Only this year, he’s started to blow you off for work and you worry that you’re going to lose him to his growing stardom.
Content: fluff, miscommunication, loneliness, Jackson family dynamics, mentions of domestic abuse, flashback scenes, (wc 3.6k)
Masterlist+Recommendations
—————
July nights were particularly hot in Southern California.
You could hear the faint chirp of crickets from outside your bedroom window, the small bugs finally coming alive without the burden of the blazing sun.
So far the summer had been isolating. Your days were filled with neighborhood walks and dips in the pool, and while those activities were nice, you longed for your best friend to do them with.
Lying in bed, you kicked your feet up onto your wall. The small pair of sleep shorts you were wearing slid up your upper thigh, exposing the skin to the small tufts of air emitted from small fan in your room. Your mind was in a heat-induced haze, but one thought rang clear and true.
Michael.
Upon his move from Indiana to California a couple of years prior, the two of you grew close due to your closeness in age and love for swimming and water sports. But he was constantly traveling with his brothers around the country, so the days you saw him were few and far between.
But, summer was a time where things usually slowed down for them.
Longer stretches between gigs.
Time for relaxation carved out of their rehearsal schedules.
There was time for friends during the summer, time for you.
In the privacy of your bedroom, you recalled those special days where you and Michael would enjoy the weather and each other's company from dawn till dusk. Scenes of heated board game competitions, speedy races in the Jackson’s pool, and movie marathons played in your mind.
You groaned.
Ever since the summer break started and you had returned to your California home, you had been waiting around for him to have some free time like some obedient dog.
You called the Jackson home a couple of times early in June to see if Michael was home, only to be met by the voice of an apologetic housemaid who claimed that the boys were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour. You brushed it off then, you were used to Michael’s demanding schedule. He frequently missed planned hang outs and failed to return your calls due to rehearsals running late. But after over a month of radio silence, you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. And even worse, you couldn’t help but feel needy and pathetic.
Making your way across your bedroom, you took your personal phone book into your hands and scrolled the pages.
Surely there was someone else to spend time with.
—————
A few houses away, Michael Jackson stared at himself in a floor-length mirror in Hayvenhurst's rehearsal studio. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face as he watched his brothers take a break by the front of the room. He wiped his face with his sleeve before joining them.
“I think we’ve just got to tighten up that last section and then we’re good.” He told his brothers.
Upon saying it out loud, his brothers erupted in groans.
“Oh come on, Mike! It’s nearly eleven and we’ve been at this all day!” Randy complained.
“Yeah Mike, let’s call it a day.” Marlon laughed. The brothers stood up again, ready to disband.
“Ten more minutes, guys! I swear we’ve almost got it perfect.” Michael said eagerly.
“No! I won’t be stuck in this room with you all summer.” Tito said hotly. “Don’t you got a life outside of this?”
“Yeah, let’s go watch a movie or something, man. Call it a night.” Jermaine said while patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael smoothed a hand over his damp curls, consulting their words. “No, no, no movies, guys. Come on, let’s focus.”
“Fine, have fun in here by yourself.” Tito said as he excited the room, Marlon and Randy following behind him.
“No, guys!” Michael called out to get their attention, but the three had already left.
“Mike, it’s no good for you to be working yourself like this. Go call up a friend and make some plans.” Jermaine said.
“I don’t ha-“ Michael stopped himself as his brothers watched on. “I just wanna work on this for a little longer.”
“What about [name]? Why don’t you call her? You two used to be thick as thieves.” Jackie said as he started to collect his things.
At the mention of your name Michael froze. He had meant to call you at the start of the summer but you were pushed out of his mind by the preparations for the upcoming tour. Now, he just felt guilty for inadvertently ignoring you. He wasn’t sure if he could just approach you like old times after he blew you off.
At his silence, Jackie perked up. “Uh oh, trouble with the missus?”
“She’s not my missus.” Michael stated defensively.
“Well she ain’t gonna be if you spend your whole summer in here! Call her. Come on, Jermaine.”
As the two older boys left the room, Michael resumed looking at himself in the mirror.
Lately, he’d been having trouble recognizing himself. He had been starting to see himself the way that they did- the fans, the media, all of it.
The pressure to become a greater version of himself overcrowded his thoughts, making it impossible for him to simply be. Whenever he tried to get lost in simple pleasures, his mind wandered back to the work ethic Joseph had bullied into him. Whenever he tried to get along with people his own age, he felt like a poser.
But there had been a time when it had all felt simpler.
A time where pleasure wasn’t about the rush of adrenaline at a sold out show or the rare praise he received from his father after another career milestone. A time where singing and dancing felt like a privilege instead of labor.
Allowing his mind to wander, Michael kept his hand hovering over the play button on the sound system, and he thought about a brighter time- summers past.
Cerulean ribbons of water circled your frames, shielding you both from the brazen sun. It was the summer the both of you turned eighteen- days that symbolized a shy start to the beginning of your adult lives. A milestone, a turning point.
But for now, it was just a summer day, and for now you were simply teenagers.
Michael’s hand found a lock of your hand submerged under the water and let it fall into his palm. He enjoyed the way it flexed and billowed in the pool, an image so simple but still so strikingly beautiful.
“What are you doing back there?” Your playful voice sounded from just a few inches away after feeling a tugging sensation on your head.
Michael, still shy in your comforting presence, immediately went to drop the lock of hair and swam to face you. “Me? Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah? Then what was in my hair?” You questioned daringly.
Michael shrugged, suppressing a sly expression.
“You are a terrible liar, Michael.” You said playfully as you swam away.
Michael dropped his hand from the sound system before immediately bringing it up to his face.
He felt tired. The type of tiredness that settles into your bones.
His senses felt clouded by his overwhelming thoughts and overworked body. Finally conceding, he lowered himself onto the floor and rested for a moment.
And as his mind went back to old memories and he felt that familiar pang in his chest, his body betrayed him and he quickly fell asleep.
—————
When Michael awoke the next morning it wasn’t to the sound of morning birds chirping, or a result of the awakening sun flashing over his eyes.
It was to the sound of his younger sister's screaming voice.
“I found him!” Janet yelled out to the others circling the property.
Michael sat up immediately and blinked away the sleep from his eyes. The lights in the studio were still on and the small blinking light of the sound system chirped from the corner.
He had fallen asleep in the rehearsal space.
Before he could move to stand, Katherine and Jackie shuffled into the room with concern ebbed onto their faces.
“Michael! What are you doing here so early? It almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your bed empty!” Katherine said loudly.
“Oh my, what time is it?” Michael asked.
Jackie quickly checked his watch before responding. “It’s nearly noon, Michael! What, were you in here all night?”
“I must have just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” Michael said meekly. He quickly got to his feet and turned the sound system completely off.
“This is not okay, Michael. You can’t be working yourself like this.” Katherine pleaded.
“Mother, I’m fine. I just fell asleep.”
“No, no, I won’t hear of this.” Katherine dismissed whilst pacing the room. “Locking yourself in here for these long hours- I barely get to see my son anymore!”
“What’s the big deal? You got five others!” Michael quipped back.
“You-“ Katherine began.
“Come on, Mike. You’re the only one that actually likes watching those horrendous old movies with her. Don’t stick that on us!” Jackie whined.
“I want you out of this room. Now, Michael. Go wash up and make some other plans for the day, cause you ain’t spending another beautiful day locked up inside.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael asked earnestly.
“That’s for you to figure out, Michael. Go do something with your sister. Janice?” Katherine called out to the young girl.
Janice emitted a low groan at the suggestion. “Aw, come on Mother, don't make me hang out with him.”
“Fine. Jackie?” Katherine called out.
“I wish I could, Ma. But, Leslie’s coming over today and I don’t want any little brother of mine hanging around.”
Katherine groaned. “All of you out!” She yelled as she ushered the group out of the rehearsal studio. Janice disappeared immediately towards the gardens while Jackie jogged over to the main house.
“Don’t waste God’s beautiful day, Mikey.” Katherine said simply before tapping Michael’s chin and following Janice to the gardens.
—————
Going out for a late breakfast with your favorite cousin, Amaya, was the perfect cure for your loneliness. The two of you giggled over shared plates of french toast and mugs of coffee that got progressively more cold the more intense the conversations got. You left the restaurant feeling bright and fresh, like the summer still had the potential to be interesting.
You had arrived back in Encino around one in the afternoon. After peeling off your handbag and a few accessories, you settled onto the loveseat in your bedroom and picked up a magazine that was recently delivered. In your good mood, you even clicked on your radio and tuned it to your favorite channel.
It was then that your good mood came crashing down.
From your lap, a photograph of none other than Michael Jackson was staring up at you.
In the photo, Michael was beaming. There was a slight glow to his handsome, blushing face, which was thrown back in a fit of laughter.
You paused, slightly smiling at the photo. Until your eyes fell onto the thin girl that was clinging onto your friends left arm- Ms. Diana Ross.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough, the large headline read:
JACKSON AND ROSS IN GREAT SPIRITS AT LOS ANGELES GALA
Your heart stuttered as your eyes went wild looking back and forth at the pair’s beautiful faces. The two of them had made headlines before, with their curious friendship and never ending rumors of scandalous encounters. But as you sat there in your bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel hurt and blindsided by this particular article.
No wonder Michael hasn’t returned my calls.
He has other, more glamorous friends.
You longed for the companionship of your boyish best friend, but perhaps that just wasn’t who he was anymore. Maybe you were longing for something that no longer existed.
In worsened spirits, you moved to click off the radio as the opening notes of Blame it on the Boogie started to fill the room.
—————
Despite his mother’s orders, Michael didn’t do much that day. He more so just wandered around Hayvenhurst, peeking into rooms, not staying anywhere for too long. He skipped lunch. He was planning on skipping dinner.
Fortunately, the entire Jackson family had plans for the evening. Katherine took the girls to visit her younger sister, Hattie Mae. Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito had gone out for the night under the premise of ‘finding a new muse’, or more so finding a new fling. And Randy had borrowed Bill to take him to a baseball game.
Although he would never say it, Michael was relieved that his family was gone. Or more so, that he wouldn’t be restricted by his family’s unwavering supervision and pitiful looks at his lonesomeness. Sure he felt a little lonely, isolated by his lack of true friends and confidants, but not anymore than he usually felt.
You had been a good friend to him. Truly.
But he was too scared to approach you for the same reason you were too scared to approach him- he didn’t know if that was what you wanted. Also, he simply didn’t know how.
“Rebbie made some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” You said as you walked over to Michael, who was preoccupied with the hydrangeas that were just planted by the gardeners. At your arrival, Michael lazily looked up at you and watched as you sipped from a tall glass of the aforementioned drink. A small drop of condensation from the glass dripped onto your finger and danced down your skin. Michael traced it with his eye as it descended from your palm, to your wrist, to the meat of your arm.
“Don’t you want some?” You asked him. Michael didn’t respond with many words, instead humming a quiet ‘no’ before turning his attention back to the flowers. You sat down next to him on the brick pathway and moved to pick a stray leaf off of his neck.
At the sudden contact, Michael’s body seized up and he placed a protective hand over his head. His expression, once dazed and lost in thought, quickly transformed into one of anxiety.
You were truly startled by his sudden motion. And as you watched him now, contorted away from you, a feeling of sadness emerged from your heart. Your eyes traced over his form carefully, which was as still as the tall tree shading the two of you.
A pit formed in your stomach. His prior movement had allowed his shirt to ride up, exposing the faint blooming of purple skin on his lower stomach to your eyes.
When he snapped out of his daydream, Michael saw that his hand was quivering. And before he could give it another thought, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
—————
Similarly to the previous night, you were lying on your bed with your legs kicked up onto the wall.
You had spent the rest of the day going through things in your room, finding small tokens and keepsakes you previously thought had been lost. Your new revelation about Michael’s fame triggered a downwards spiral about your own future. You felt stagnant in your own life, unlike Michael’s rising stardom.
Then, the phone rang from your nightstand.
Preserving your position, you twisted your upper body strenuously to reach the phone. The bed creaked under you with the movement.
A sigh of relief escaped your lips as your fingers grasped the device and you brought it up to your ear.
“Hello?” You muttered lazily into the phone.
You could hear someone breathing on the other end of the call. After a moment of silence you spoke again.
“Hello?”
The next thing you heard was the sound of the dial tone. The person who called had abruptly hung up on you.
“Cool.” You said under your breath before twisting to place the phone back on the hook.
The silence engulfed you once more.
“What’s all this?” You asked Michael curiously upon entering his bedroom. After closing the door behind the two of you, he turned to face where you were idly standing.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “-that.” A faint blush crept onto his face as you started to circle around the piles of mail he had received from fans recently. The piles were scattered around his bedroom floor, creating a sort of labyrinth in the once familiar environment. He joined you where you had taken a seat next to a particularly large stack.
“I mean, I know you got fan mail occasionally, but this?” You paused, motioning around the room, “This is just wild, Mike.” You took an envelope and turned it over in your hands.
“May I?” You asked coyly.
Michael smiled back at you. “Go ahead, girl. Just don’t get it mixed up in the pile, I’m trying to respond to as many as I can.”
With his permission, your fingers worked quickly to get to the letter. When you unfolded the piece of paper, a small deck of Polaroids tumbled out and hit the carpet. Naturally, you moved to pick them up.
However, upon seeing the small deck his mind went back to the last deck of Polaroids he had received- pictures of strange women in suggestive clothing, captured in multiple positions and angles. Protectively, Michael rushed to collect them, immediately hiding them in his large hands.
“What?” You mused. “I wanna see.”
You moved to take them from his hand but he kept a firm, protective grip on them- shielding them from your vision.
Noticing how his expression faltered at your persistence, you backed off and returned to the letter. “Whatever, Michael.”
Michael watched as your attention turned back to the scrap of paper. And when he knew it was safe, he allowed himself to check out the photos.
The first one was an image of a newborn baby, all swaddled up in what looked to be a hospital.
The second photo was another image of the baby, only now he was placed on a young woman’s chest. A man close in age to the woman was crouched awkwardly in the photo with a look in his eyes that could only be described as clear adoration and bliss.
“Oh, Michael! This woman said she named her son after you because her and her husband adore you!” You said in awe as you read from the letter.
Michael looked up at you as the knot in his stomach settled. Pictures of a newborn baby.
He breathed a sigh of relief and then passed you the photos without a word.
“Is that why you hid the photos?” You teased. “You wanted the first peek of the baby?”
Michael smiled, slouching against the paneling of his dresser. “Don’t be silly, girl. I didn’t know what those pictures were.”
“Well, Jesus, the way you fought me for them made me think I was about to see something horrible.”
Michael sighed. “You never know.” He said quietly, mostly to himself.
The phone rang again a couple of minutes later. This time you were a little more slow to answer it.
“Hel-“
“[Name],” You heard Michael say through the phone. “It’s me- Michael.”
As soon as you heard his voice you swung your legs over until they hit the carpeted floor.
“Michael,” You said carefully, “Uhm- hi, hey. How are you?”
He was quiet on the other end for a moment. “It’s been…. uhm-“ he began.
“Is everything okay?” You blurted out before you could think about it.
He breathed slowly. “No, not really. I’m sorry, [Name]. You know- for not returning your calls.”
Your eyes fell onto the magazine you had been reading earlier, the one of Michael and Diana embracing. A twinge of jealousy appeared in your stomach. But you brushed those thoughts away and tried to focus on Michael.
“I understand, Michael. You’re a very busy guy these days. It makes sense why you wouldn’t have time to hang out. I’m not mad or anything.”
“I just- I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be mad at me for sort of blowing you off.” He took a breath. “And then so much time had passed and I didn’t know how to approach you again.”
“I mean, I was a little disappointed at first,” you said quietly into the receiver. Michael’s breathing paused for a moment, awaiting your next words. “But, Mike, I was more just worried about you.”
His heart leapt. “You were worried about me?”
You smiled. “Of course I was! I was thinking about you consta-“ You cleared your throat to avoid finishing the sentence you had regretfully started.
Michael’s tone switched. “Constantly, huh girl?”
“Oh, quiet. Don’t make me out to be like one of your fan girls, Mike.” You giggled into the phone and heard Michael do the same.
“Aren’t you though?”
“Sure, Michael Jackson. I’m your biggest fan.”
Michael hummed into the receiver. “Mhm, my number one girl.”
“You don’t wanna leave me, but I’m tryna self-discover. Keep me in your orbit and you know you’ll drag me under.”
Summary: Billy comes looking for you after you step out on him to go to Tina’s Halloween Party.
Content: alcohol consumption, billy’s mean asf, cursing, slight degrading language, (slut, whore), not really proofread, (wc 2.8k)
series masterlist
The sound of The Cure’s latest cassette was playing from the corner of your room as you finished applying mascara to your lashes. Tonight, Tina was throwing a house party to celebrate the start of the summer break. You had just finished your junior year at Hawkins High.
Setting the tube of mascara into a small bowl on your dresser, you rose out of your vanity to find your black kitten heels. But as soon as you spotted them, you heard the roar of a car engine pulling into your driveway, followed by a small thud of the car door closing.
You grab the heels with one hand and head out of your bedroom to the foyer, balancing on each foot as you slide them onto your feet. Before you reached the staircase to the ground floor, you heard your front door open and close.
“You up there, sweet thing?” You heard a voice beckon from downstairs. Smiling to yourself, you break into a small jog to meet your boyfriend in the front.
Once his eyes hit your figure descending the stairs, a cheshire cat grin spreads across his face, before turning skeptical and reserved.
“Hey, baby,” you smize as you fall into his arms. You extend yourself onto your toes, placing a small kiss on the crook of his jaw.
“What are you doing here?” You ask.
His hands settle against the small of your back. “What, a guy can’t come out to see his girl when he wants to?” You giggle and his hands reach the hem of your skirt, testing.
“What’s all this? What are you so dressed up for?” Billy questions.
“I’m going to Tina’s tonight. Don’t you remember her inviting the lunch table earlier this week?”
A puff of air leaves his mouth. “Yes, I remember. I just don’t remember saying that we were going.”
Your eyebrows sink. “Well- I just figured we were. We go to all of her parties.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just- not feeling it tonight. Plus, I’m supposed to be in charge of Max.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I can just go on my own then. Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. Your body angles away from him slightly to pull away but his hands remain cemented on you.
“Whaddya mean ‘go on your own’. You’re not going anywhere tonight.” He says, staring down at you.
You scoff. “Why the hell not?”
“Cause- you can’t go without me.” He states. “You’re my girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to go anywhere without you.”
“No, it means that your not allowed to go to parties without me. Do you know how many greedy bastards there are out there? Looking where they’re not supposed to? Trynna touch where they’re not supposed to?”
“I can hold my own, Billy. I’ll be fine, promise.” You assert.
He takes a small step back from you, taking you in with his eyes. The short skirt, low-cut top, dark red lips.
“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere dressed like that without me.”
“Dressed like what? Billy, I dress like this all the time.”
“Yeah, and it’s fine when I’m around. But I’m not. So, just lose the slutty outfit and you can hang out with me tonight.”
“I don’t wanna babysit with you, okay? I told Tina I’d be there and I’m going!” You huff.
“Hey! Watch your tone with me.” Billy said. “You’re not going to that party without me, so drop it. Honest to God woman, you’re starting to get on my nerves.” His hands fly up to his face, rubbing softly against his jaw.
Turning on your heel, you rummage around in the coat closet for a few moments before pulling away with your purse and a denim jacket. Slinging it over your arm, you return to your place in front of Billy. You didn’t want to leave him so mad at you.
“I’ll catch up with you this weekend, okay? We can- I don’t know, go for a drive, or I’ll come by your basketball game at the park.”
You reach up to place a hand on his denim-clad shoulder, but he brushes you off.
“If you walk out the door dressed like that- don’t fucking bother.”
A sharp pain shoots through your chest at his harsh words. Sure, Billy had been overprotective sometimes, but he was never cruel.
“Billy-“
“I mean it. You go out there dressed like that? You’re gonna get exactly what you’re asking for.”
With a sunken demeanor, your mouth flies open.
“You’d break up with me over something stupid like this?” you cry.
“‘s not stupid. It’s disrespectful.”
You look at him once more before pressing your shoulders back and tilting your head up.
“Fine. Whatever, Billy.”
And with that, you swung the door open and started the six block walk to Tina’s.
—————
“Oh, Billy isn’t with you?” Your friend Tina asked you from behind a Red Solo cup. She was leaned against the wall in a hallway off the foyer of her home, a guy from your Latin class clinging onto her waist. You knew that she had a thing for your boyfriend, but you didn’t make a thing out of it.
“He’s busy,” you replied curtly, ducking past her to get to the kitchen.
Once you arrived, you immediately dunked a plastic cup into the bowl of punch and started chugging. Sure you had gotten what you wanted- you were here at the party, wearing your tiny outfit, drinking something that tasted like it was made by someone with their eyes closed- but the argument you had with Billy moments prior was weighing on your mind.
Was that it?
The relationship was over because of a small skirt?
You figured Billy wouldn’t be that crushed. It was only a matter of time before he had a new girl on his arm, and for a moment, Tina popped up in your head.
Yeah, good luck with him. He’s all yours.
———
The obnoxious engine of Billy’s blue Camaro roared in the parking lot of Hawkins’ most popular arcade. They had agreed on an eight thirty pick-up, and with every passing minute Billy grew agitated.
He grunted once, then layed on the horn.
Max appeared a moment later and immediately saw Billy in the parking lot. With a scowl, she stomped over to the car and ripped open the door.
“Jesus, Max. You're lucky I even agreed to pick you up. Get in the car.” Billy yelled from the open window.
Max chose not to say anything. She sat down in the passenger's seat and stared down at her hands.
“The fucks wrong with you?” Billy asked, like it pained him to care.
“It’s none of your business. Let’s just go home.” She huffed.
“It becomes my business when it’s making you late, wasting my time.”
“Oh, please. ‘Wasting your time.’ I know you’ve got nothing better to do.”
“You know what? Just sit there and keep your mouth shut. Forget I even asked.”
And with that, his car roared to life and the two zoomed out of the lot.
“And for your information, I do have things to do. I’m going out after I drop you off at home.” Billy hissed.
“No you’re not- Mom said you had to order dinner for us.”
Billy made a particularly sharp turn, sending Max cowering into her seat.
“Whatever, Max. Order your own fucking pizza. I need to find my whore of a girlfriend.”
Max perked up at that. “Don’t call her that, Billy. God, I don’t know why she puts up with your sorry ass.”
“Shut your mouth.” He barked.
The two of them sat in silence until the car pulled up next to their home. Billy put the car in park and stared down at his hands gripping the wheel. Max sprang for the car door and slammed it shut behind her.
And before Max made it into the house, Billy was already speeding towards Tina’s.
——-
You were on your third drink when you started to feel out of place at the party. It was lonely, really. People approached you but you could feel them looking for Billy, who they assumed would be in your vicinity.
It had been like that for a while, people assuming you came as a package deal. Whether it was out of a sense of possessiveness or pure admiration, Billy often showed up wherever you were.
You thought it was weird that he hadn’t burst through the doors of the party and started eyeing down the crowd looking for you.
Surely, he still cared? At least a little bit?
A quivering sigh left your mouth as you set down your near empty plastic cup on the kitchen counter.
Were you really throwing away your relationship for this dumb party? Hell, it wasn’t even that much fun.
You started to feel stupid in your outfit. All glittering makeup and tight clothes. It was nothing but a cheap reflection of the girl you thought you could be.
With one last look around the room, you turned on your heel and disappeared out the back door, unbeknownst to you that Billy had just parked his Camaro in front of Tina’s.
“Hey, where is she?” Billy called to the first guy he recognized from the basketball team. People gawked as he entered the room, but Billy wasn’t focused on them.
“Hey! I asked you a question,” Billy said hotly. The guy opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly he felt someone wrap a hand around his bicep. He let out a puff of air, ready to face you again.
Only it wasn’t you, it was Tina.
He shrugged her grip off his arm and looked down at her. “You seen her? Was she here?”
Tina’s face flickered a hint of disappointment before quickly conforming back to that of pure adoration.
“Yeah, she was here. I think I saw her leave a couple of minutes ago though. She was with some blonde guy, practically dragging him out by his belt buckle.” She chuckled lightly, eyeing Billy’s reaction. “ ‘s a real shame. But, I always knew you deserved better than her.”
Billy stilled under the collective gaze of the room. He ran a hand up and down his jawline. “What guy?”
Tina blinked, unsure how to proceed. “It-it doesn’t matter really. Hey, why don’t you just enjoy the party!”
She leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you want to join me upstairs? I can help you get your mind off that slut.”
Billy pulled back slightly and looked at her face.
There was a time, before you, where he would’ve gotten a hard-on from shit like that. Girls throwing themselves at him, like putty in his hands.
And yes, he used to love the attention. He loved the way it made him feel- popular and in control.
But as he looked down at Tina’s face, he felt something snap in his brain. Like, he remembered why he came down here in the first place.
Not to punish you for leaving him.
Not to drag you back home.
All he wanted was to protect you, and he wasn’t about to lose anymore time entertaining Tina.
Without a word, Billy made his way out the front door and got in his car. He was going to find you before something happened with that guy.
—————
After about 18 minutes of walking, the combination of cheap liquor, loud noises, and leftover heartache from your argument with Billy rendered you tired. When you left the party, you walked in the direction opposite of your house so that your nosey neighbors wouldn’t catch this sight of you late at night. It seemed like a smart idea at the time, but as your legs grew more sluggish you wished you had just gone home.
Now, you found yourself in front of a small gas station with blinking fluorescent lights and a humming generator. With nowhere else in mind, you opened the door to the small store.
It was near empty. You could only see two guys a little older than you standing near the coffee station. Sighing, you dragged yourself over to the fridges in hopes of getting either water or a Gatorade.
The plastic wattle bottle felt heavy in your hands. Cold. Slick with condensation.
You turned it over in your hands a couple of times as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Sorry, can I just-“ You heard a voice say from somewhere close. Immediately you straighten up and turn towards the sound. It was one of the guys from the coffee area. He was tall, had the darkest hair you had ever seen, and equally dark eyes. His hand gestured to the fridge of waters you were blocking.
“Right, sorry,” you say shyly before backing up.
“You’re alright,” he responds coolly, stepping towards the fridge. “Long night?”
A sigh falls from your lips. “You have no idea.”
“Oh, that good, huh?” He chuckles sarcastically.
You give him a harrowing, yet playful, glare as he closes the door to the fridge.
“Whatever it is, I bet my night was worse.” He challenges.
You sling your purse higher on your shoulder. “Oh, poor you. What happened?” You giggle.
“Well, I just got back to Hawkins. Cause I’ve been at college in California.”
”Mhm,”
“I met up with a few buddies of mine from high school at this bar a few blocks away,”
“Sullivan’s?” You pondered.
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, and as soon as we got our drinks they ditched me for this group of girls.”
“Okay, rude,” you chide in.
“I know! But the worst part is,” he leans in closer and eyes around the store for a minute, “the worst part is that I’m stuck with my old friend Patrick because he’s my ride home.”
“What’s wrong with Patrick?” You laugh.
“Oh he’s a terrible drunk. Gets real loud.”
“So, your drunk friend is your ride home?”
He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he stifled a laugh. “Shit.”
“Ugh, rookie move. Why didn’t you just go with the girls, then? Not enough to go around?”
“Oh there were plenty, believe me. It’s just- I don’t think my girlfriend would’ve liked that very much.” He chuckles.
At that, you let out a pretty hearty laugh. Not because it was that funny, but because this was the most stimulating conversation you’ve had all night.
Suddenly, you hear the bell for the door chime, signaling a new customer entering the store.
You spared a glance towards the direction the sound came from, but then quickly turned back to the stranger.
“So, what made your night so bad?” The stranger asked.
You opened your mouth to speak but then froze when your eyes landed on the man who entered the store.
“Billy,” you whispered in disbelief.
“Billy?” The stranger laughed, “Who’s Billy? Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, bud. You got a problem with that?” He said from a decreasing distance.
You and the stranger froze in his presence. The stranger looked to you, silently asking you if you knew what the hell was going on, but your eyes remained glued to your boyfriend in disbelief.
Billy gave the guy a once over- he was a blonde just like Tina had said.
“This him?” Billy asked bluntly. “This the guy you’re fucking now?”
“Woah, buddy you don-“
“Did I speak to you, dickhead? Get the fuck away from her.” Billy said hotly. He grabbed you by your bicep and pulled you into his side.
“Shut up!” You yelled up at him. “You have no right to do this right now! You’re causing a scene.”
“Fine.” Billy said simply. “Let’s do this somewhere else.” And before you could protest, his grip tightened again on your arm and you felt the cool night air hit your face as the two of you left the convenience store.
—————
The ride back to your place was silent except for the several obnoxious roars of the cars engine. Billy didn’t even say anything as the two of you pulled into your driveway.
When you moved to open the door, he quickly locked it from his side, trapping you in there with him.
He stared down at his hands as he gripped the wheel, testing the feeling of the tight leather against his hand. Your legs were cold from the night air spilling in from the open window, but you didn’t dare move.
Then, almost inaudibly, Billy spoke in a dark voice.
You were tucked into your bed in Los Angeles, California with your laptop propped up on your stomach as you let the queued YouTube video play. Lately, most of your nights, and days, had been like this- lounging around and mindlessly watching videos. Call it lazy, but it was becoming a new routine.
“Today’s another review video. I picked up this, uhm, fruit punch flavored vape-“
You had been subscribed to kurtsworld96 for the past couple of months. There was something about him that kept pulling you back in. It was almost like you didn’t want to leave him lonely, after all, his videos rarely hit the triple digits. If you didn’t keep up with his content, who would? The idea of some guy you’ve never met essentially speaking into the void made you kind of sad, so you liked to keep him company in a way.
From what you had seen, Kurt didn’t seem to have much of a life outside of content creating. All of his videos featured him either working his Spree, giving review videos no one asked for, or cursing out a computer screen after his character died- again. His whole account screamed desperate loser, which was probably why you found it so comforting. It wasn’t only easing your conscience that you were giving his online presence the attention and validation he craved, but it also made you feel like even at your lowest, you would never be alone.
You let the video play out for its entirety, chuckling slightly to yourself every time Kurt started rambling on about nothing or how he spaced out whilst taking a hit of the vape. Your attention was half there, half not. However, your attention was recaptured towards the end of the video.
“So, Kurties, I know I’ve been uploading content pretty consistently for the past few years; that way you guys have access to some great, interesting videos…. and I just wanna say thank you.”
You turned the volume up on your laptop.
“We hit one hundred subs!”
Suddenly, confetti flew across your screen and party horns sounded in the background.
“Thank you guys for watching my videos! I love the community we’ve built here on Kurt’s World. And my way of saying thanks is gonna be a lot more great content- so make sure you stay tuned this next week for some awesome videos!”
One hundred subscribers?
Your mouth frowned a little once you saw his palpable excitement. Kurt was putting a lot of effort into his channel and you felt bad that he wasn’t getting the recognition that he craved.
Even you had more than one hundred followers on your Instagram, and you weren’t even trying to be an influencer!
Sure, Kurt wasn’t the most interesting or professional creator you watched, but he definitely deserved more than he was getting. So, you typed his username into your Instagram search on your phone and scrolled to his DM’s.
You paused as you watched your cursor blink in the little gray box. What could you say?
I’m sorry your channel is flopping? Never give up?
With a sigh you turned to your alarm clock and saw that it read 1:58 AM.
What are the chances he’ll see my message, it’s way too late.
1:59 AM @ coolcatgurl55 hi! i just wanted to tell you how much i <3 ur youtube vids!
sent.
Rubbing your eyes, you set your phone down on your nightstand, close your laptop, and scooch down into bed.
When you awoke the next morning, it was 9:47 AM. After wiping the sleep from your eyes you spring for your phone on the nightstand so you can scroll Instagram before you start your day. However, your finger freezes over the screen once you register the notifications you got overnight.
2:02 AM @ kurtsworld96 AYYY much appreciated
❗️kurtsworld96 started following you
2:02 AM @ kurtsworld96 Woah…. Just saw your profile…..
2:02 AM @ kurtsworld96 U R gorjus 😍😍
❗️ kurtsworld96 ❤️ your photo
❗️ kurtsworld96 ❤️ your photo
2:04 AM @ kurtsworld96 Cute dog btw
2:05 AM @ kurtsworld96 OMG NO WAY! UR from LA?
2:05 AM @ kurtsworld96 Maybe we could meet up? ⬆️ 🆙
2:07 AM @ kurtsworld96 HAHA… JK JK 😂😂🤣
2:08 AM @ kurtsworld96 …..unless….. 🙃
❗️ kurtsworld96 ❤️ your photo
❗️ kurtsworld96 commented “😍😍🔥” on your photo
2:33 AM @ kurtsworld96 Are you still awake?
2:35 AM @ kurtsworld96 Gunna head to bed soon 🔜 🛌
3:13 AM @ kurtsworld96 Goodnight! 😴💤🌙
You were completely stunned.
Sure, guys had reached out to you through your DMs before, but never so aggressively.
Just like his Youtube videos, you found his messages to be awkward and desperate. His way of texting reminded you of your younger brother, who was currently in middle school.
But still, your mind wandered back to why you continued to watch his videos in the first place.
His loneliness.
His irrelevance.
Him.
If you didn’t respond to his message you’d be doing the exact opposite of what your intentions considered.
So, you clicked down on the keyboard and contemplated your response…
