Emily. 27. A place for me to post my fics and works. 18+, House of the Dragon, Ewan Mitchell, Tony Soprano is my current blorbo. Submissions open. Sideblog for dreamymoomin.
Warnings: Smut, implied age difference (reader is in her late 20s, Tony in his 40s), afab, semi-public
Word Count: ~10,000
Summary: NYC, USA, 1998. Reader is a TA at Columbia just trying to get her students through the semesters mock exams. One very pushy parent can't help but try to get under your skin... and into your pants.
Tagglist: @puppychainsaw @dreamilypurplepillar (tagging because you seemed keen lololol)
*This has not been beta'd I'm just having fun and wanted to post :3
The room smells faintly like dry-erase marker and burnt coffee. Academic despair in two scents. You cap your pen with a quiet click and glance up from the half-finished diagram on the board.
“Okay,” you say, tapping the marker against the margin. “If you’re still mixing up correlation and causation at this point, well, I’m going to assume it’s a personality choice.”
A couple of undergrads laugh nervously. One of them, Chad, perpetually confused, blinks at you like you’ve just delivered the entire tutorial in Latin.
“It’s just-” he starts.
“It’s just that you didn’t read the assignment fully.” you cut in, not unkindly. “Which is fine. But don’t try to gaslight the data you’ve collected, okay?”
More laughter. Looser this time. You soften, just slightly. “Look, I’m not trying to ruin your lives. I’m trying to make sure you pass this year.”
There’s a slight pause, and then the door creaks open.
You don’t look immediately. People drift in late all the time and half your job is pretending not to notice, but something in the room shifts, a subtle kind of collective awareness as chairs creak and backs straighten.
You glance over to the door. There he was. Not a student - and that’s just the first thing.
The man standing in the doorway was, in a word, hulking. Broad-shouldered, thick-chested, the kind of presence you feel before you even see him.
He wore a smart dark suit jacket tailored to perfection, layered over an expensive polo with the top buttons undone to reveal a sweep of thick dark chest hair. A thin gold chain and medallion glinted against the soft expanse, and a gold signet ring on his pinkie caught the light with every subtle movement.
His smile was boyish, cheeky and slightly crooked, and his eyes raked over you in a way that makes the base of your spine tighten. Not subtle, and certainly not shy. It was bossy. There was a glint there, like he was teasing you already. A private joke between you both and you didn’t know the punchline.
You freeze, open-mouthed.
He was older, maybe in his forties, and so clearly used to being in charge. You could tell in the tilt of his jaw, the way his weight shifts on those impossibly long legs, the lazy confidence that radiated from every angle of him. That grin of his was infuriating and magnetic all at once. It made your pulse skip and your thoughts a little less coherent than they should have been in a classroom setting.
He stepped inside, scanning the room, then locking his gaze on you. He didn’t just look, he leered. You held his stare for a second too long than needed, then turned back to the board, trying to act unfazed.
“As I was saying,” you continue smoothly, “if X changes and Y changes, that doesn’t mean X caused Y. It could be that-”
“Hey.”
The interruption is low, casual. Directed at no one in particular and somehow everyone all at once.
You stop and slowly turn.
“Yes?” you say, clipped.
The room goes completely quiet.
He gestures vaguely toward the seats. “Is this class open, or…?” he asked in a thick New Jersey accent, voice smooth, eyes still twinkling with that teasing glint.
A beat.
You take him in properly this time. The confidence just oozes out of him. The faint smirk like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it.
“Are you enrolled in the course?” you ask.
He tilted his head, considering, letting that smirk linger. “Depends. What, I gotta take a test or somethin’?”
A ripple of laughter teeters around the room. Not yours. You don’t smile.
“That would be a yes or no question,” you say.
Another beat. His grin widened just a touch. “Then no.”
“Then no,” you echo, impatiently, turning back to the board. “This is a scheduled tutorial.”
“Right. Tutorial,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word.
“Statistics,” you continue flatly.
“Statistics,” he echoes stepping inside anyway. “Sounds important.”
“It is.”
A couple of students glance between you like they’re watching a tennis match. He doesn’t move. Just watches. Relaxed, confident and faintly amused. Like you’ve surprised him.
“Right,” he says finally, nodding once. “Got it.”
He stepped back toward the door, then froze, eyes still on you. His gaze traced slowly, deliberately, from the curve of your ankles, up the long line of your legs, pausing where it wanted, lingering, hungry, and unashamed before sliding over your hips and chest, taking it all in. His dark eyes snapped back to yours, sharp and possessive.
“You the teacher, or something?”
A flicker of irritation flashes hot up the back of your knees.
“Something like that, yeah. I’m the teaching assistant,” and it slips out before you can stop it, “I have a Doctorate and everything.”
Christ, why did I say that? I don’t need to impress this man. I shouldn’t even want to.
His eyes move over you slowly like he’s taking inventory, assessing. Measuring. Deciding. And something about the way he does it makes your skin prickle, a feeling not entirely pleasant.
“That right?” His gaze flicks to the board, then back to you, assessing whether you could keep up with him. “That tracks. You do seem like the one in charge, Doc.”
The nickname lands heavier than it should, a little too possessive and familiar. You ignore it.
“Is there something you need?” you ask hotly.
“Yeah,” he says casually, leaning against the door frame again, crossing his arms. “My daughter. Meadow Soprano. I'm here to pick her up.”
And there it is.
Of course.
You’d seen his face before. Not in person, but on the news, in the headlines, in those careful, noncommittal reports that said words like alleged and suspected all the while meaning something far more certain. He was the kind of man who existed in the margins of legality and somehow never got caught in the center of it. They’d been trying to catch him in a RICO for years.
Racketeering. Corruption. Organised Crime.
Charges which hung around him like a smoke which never cleared.
Tony Soprano.
Obviously.
The University knew, everyone did.
But money talked and had a way of smoothing edges and turning discomfort into polite silences. Tony had donated over $50,000 to the school board, all for Meadow’s name on a plaque on the new Colombia Teaching Centre.
Your stomach tightens. Looking at him now, it’s not just confidence and charm you see, it’s what sits underneath. Worse, it doesn’t stop the pull. If anything, it only strengthened it.
You scan the room. Meadow isn’t here.
“She’s not in this session,” you say, turning your attention back to the rest of the class. “Unlike you guys, she handed in the coursework on time.” The room shifts, guilty students averting your eyeline.
He shrugged, slow and loose, one broad shoulder lifting higher than the other, that crooked corner of his mouth hooking into a smirk that promised mischief. “Figures.”
Another pause stretched. He didn’t leave.
You feel it before you look at the weight of him still in the doorway. Not just standing there, but occupying the space. One massive hand braced casually against the frame, fingers splayed, gold ring catching the light with every subtle shift. His posture was lazy, effortless but deliberate, every inch calculated. Like he knows exactly how much room he’s taking up.
Exactly how much attention he’s pulling. And worse of all how much of yours.
You set the marker down more carefully than necessary. A small, controlled movement. “Anything else, Mr Soprano?” you ask.
He studies you again.
Not a glance. Not polite. His gaze crawled over you, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the curve of your neck, the line of your shoulders, the subtle sway of your hips. It lingered, heavy and knowing, before sliding back up to lock on your eyes. His jaw flexed just enough, a quiet, unspoken calculation there, mixing with amusement, curiosity, desire. Something that made your pulse hitch and your thoughts scatter in delicious disarray.
“Nah. Guess not.” he says finally.
But he doesn’t move.
There’s a beat where he just stands there, weight tipped slightly forward, like he might step back into the room instead of out of it. Like leaving is optional.
Your pulse spikes, and you hate how aware you are of every detail, the subtle stretch of his sleeve over a strong shoulder, the effortless ease in the way he holds himself, the quiet command in his stillness. No fidgeting, no hesitation. Just… him.
He just… waits. Like the room will adjust around him.
Your students start to relax before you do. A chair creaks. Someone exhales. And the moment is broken.
With an uncomfortable cough, you pick the marker back up, forcing your attention forward. “Okay, so if you’re done disrupting my session,” you say, voice cool and measured, “I’d like to continue with the class.”
Then there's that low chuckle again.
It’s quiet, almost to himself, but it lands anyway. You feel it, something warm and rough that settles low in your chest in a way that immediately irritates you.
“Alright,” he says. This time, he shifts pushing off the doorframe, straightening. But even that movement is unhurried, more like he was choosing to leave, not being dismissed. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You look at him.
You shouldn’t. But you do.
And he’s already openly staring at you.
Not surprised. Not caught.
Waiting for you.
There’s something in his expression, not just amusement, but recognition. He’d clocked something in you. Something you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.
Your stomach tightens as he holds your gaze a second too long.
Then he steps back into the hallway, the door swings shut and the entire room exhales.
You turn back to the board immediately, picking the marker up again, writing before your thoughts can catch up.
“...Okay…” you say. “Where were we?”
Your handwriting is sharper now. Pressed harder into the board than usual. You keep talking, keep teaching, trying to keep your voice steady. But your focus isn’t clean anymore. Because under the irritation, under that very real, very rational awareness of exactly who he is, what he represents, everything about him that should put you on edge, there was something else.
Something quiet and dangerous. You can feel it in the undeniable heat building between your legs. That way he looked at you. Like he had time. Like he’d already decided you were worth it. The way he didn’t rush. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t try. Just stood there, solid and certain, like the room would bend around him if it had to.
Like you might bend.
Your grip tightens on the marker.
You can feel the burn of his gaze, lingering where it shouldn’t. Like he already decided you were worth it. Your hips. Your mouth. The back of your knees, for some ridiculous reason.
God.
You press the marker harder against the board, the squeak sharp and slightly unhinged.
Annoyed.
At him.
At yourself.
At the fact that of all the reactions you could be having to a man like that, your brain has apparently decided to fixate on the way his New Jersey accent had sounded when he said “Doc.”
… Or the deeply unnecessary amount of chest he was showing in a strictly academic environment.
… Knowing he could pin you against a wall or scoop you up in a heartbeat and that you’d trust him, want him to…
You exhale through your nose, writing faster now.
Because attraction? Attraction is inconvenient. Attraction, in this case, to a student's parent, a suspected Italian crime boss no less, is frankly a terrible professional decision. And yet, it lingers in your mind. A certain heat. Persistent. And embarrassingly wet.
You underline something on the board a little too aggressively, “and that,” you say, voice just a touch tighter than usual, “is why we don’t jump to conclusions based on incomplete data.”
A pause. You glance at what you’ve written. It’s… not what you meant to write.
You’ve drawn an arrow pointing to absolutely nothing. Chad raises his hand, hesitant. “Uh… is that part of the model?”
You stare at the board for a beat. Then, very calmly, you cap the marker.
“…No,” you say. “That’s what we call a confounding variable.” before wiping it away and cursing under your breath.
It was the kind of afternoon where the campus corridors smelled like warm books and cheap cafeteria coffee. You were walking past the student dorms, mind buried in your teaching planner, when you noticed it.
The corkboard in the common area was exactly as chaotic as ever, layers of flyers stapled over each other, corners curling, ink fading, a graveyard of forgotten sign up sheets and half-committed study groups.
And there it was.
Your TA tutor flyer.
You’d spent hours on that flyer in the copy room. Formatting it properly. Clear headings, legible font, your contact details neatly aligned, eye-catching pink paper and, yes, the little tear-off tabs at the bottom, each one carefully cut so they’d come away cleanly.
You step closer. And immediately feel your mood sour.
The tabs were wrecked.
One had been ripped off, not torn, ripped, jagged and uneven, like someone had just grabbed and yanked at it without even looking. And in the process, they’d taken two, maybe three other tabs with it, half-detached and hanging there uselessly, your number now split awkwardly across what remained.
You stared at it, incredulous.
Seriously?
You reached out, flattening one of the bent strips back into place, though it didn’t fix anything. It just made the damage more obvious.
It had been fine this morning.
In fact, you squint slightly, it had been fine for weeks. No one had touched it. Not one tab gone. You’d actually been considering taking it down yourself and re-printing something less optimistic.
And now suddenly?
Someone decides to grab one like a barbarian.
You huff under your breath, arms folding for a second as you look at the mess. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, more annoyed than you should be.
Students, obviously. Who else?
Except…
You pause.
Your eyes linger on the tear again, the way the paper had been pulled sideways, not down. Too rough. Too careless. Not rushed, just completely unconcerned.
Not someone who seemed like they wanted to study to pass an exam. Just someone who wanted the number. Your mouth presses into a thin line.
“Of course,” you mutter, though you’re not entirely sure why that thought feels so specific.
Jesus Christ Y/N, stop obsessing over that guy.
You smooth the flyer one last time, futile, and step back, still faintly irritated.
Because it’s not just that someone ruined the flyer.
It’s how they did it. Like the rest of it didn’t matter.
And for some reason, that bothers you more than it should.
—
Later that evening, the landline on the desk rang out while you were grading papers, a red pen poised mid-critque in one hand, and a glass of pinot grigio in the other.
You sighed as you braced yourself for the usual panicked question from your mentees, picking up the phone with a soft click.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Doc.” came a low, teasing voice sliding through the line, smooth as silk.
You froze. That voice. His voice.
Your fingers tighten around the receiver before you can stop them, your pen rolling forgotten across the desk.
“I’m… sorry, who’s this?” you asked, keeping your tone professional and carefully neutral.
There's a soft chuckle and you can practically see the smirk on the other end.
“Tony. Tony Soprano? Meadow’s Father.”
Oh.
That Tony Soprano.
The man who had barged into your study session earlier, cheeky smile, eyes raking over you in a way that made your pulse stutter. Immediately, your spine straightens, like he can somehow see you through the phone. Your eyes flick to your bedroom door out of pure instinct.
“And how did you get my number, Mr Soprano?” you asked cautiously.
“Relax,” he says, smooth and casual. “Saw it on the study board. Little pink flyer with those little tabs? Very cute. And convenient.”
You close your eyes briefly exhaling. “Unbelievable.”
Of course he did.
“Technically,” he continues, voice low and amused, “you put it out there.”
“Technically,” you repeat dryly, eyebrows raised.
“Technically.” he echoed playful, as if daring you to hang up.
You shift in your chair, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder as you try to sound unaffected. Your fingers reach for the cord without thinking, wrapping it once, twice around them.
Bad idea. What am I? A horny teenager?
“Look,” you said, straightening in your chair, trying to regain control, “I don’t even know why you’d be calling me. You’re not a student. You shouldn’t be-”
“Meadow,” he interrupts smoothly, “I wanted to talk about Meadow’s grades.”
You pause. Reasonable. Plausible. Safe.
You let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from your shoulders though your fingers don’t stop twisting that damn cord attached to the phone.
“I see,” you said cautiously. “Well, you know I can’t discuss student grades with parents over the phone like this. Strictly teaching protocol.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. “I get it. I'm not asking for any numbers.” A pause. Then, softer, “Just wanna know how she’s doin’. From the source.”
There’s something about the way he says it, from the source, that makes your stomach flip in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with Meadow, or your study hall class.
You clear your throat. “She’s doing well. Smart. Stubborn. Likes to argue and debate.” A beat. “Sound familiar?”
He hummed, pleased. “Ah,” he said, mock-serious, “the apple doesn’t fall far. Makes sense.”
“Unfortunately.”
That earns you a low laugh, sweeter this time, like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted.
There’s a pause. Not empty. Not awkward. Just… lingering.
And you realize, with a slow, creeping awareness, that your finger is still looping the cord tighter and tighter, the plastic pressing faintly into your skin.
His voice drops just slightly when he speaks again. “But, truthfully…” he says, unhurried, “that’s not really why I called.”
Your breath catches just a fraction. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says, and you can hear the smile now, clear as day. “Just wanted to see if the woman who runs that classroom like a freakin’ courtroom talks as good as she looks.”
Your grip on the receiver tightened, a shiver running through you. You crossed your legs, trying to focus. “That’s-” you started, then faltered.
Reset.
Come on, back to Teacher mode.
“That’s inappropriate.”
“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. Too easily. Like he’s been waiting for you to say it. “I know,” he adds, softer. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
Your pulse stutters. Annoyingly. You tug the cord loose, only to start winding it again a second later. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” you mutter. “You can’t just show up to my class, steal my phone number, call me in the middle of the night-”
“Sure I can.”
You inhale sharply. “You’re not serious”
“Oh, I’m serious.”
You open your mouth, quickly closing it again.
Damn him.
The silence stretched just long enough to feel deliberate, before he spoke again, voice light but threaded with something intimate, something you couldn’t place.
“Listen,” he says, “no pressure. Just figured I’d take a shot. Maybe we could grab lunch, you know? You grade your papers, I… keep you company. Learn a thing or two.”
“You mean to distract me.” you say.
A quiet beat. Then, softly, “Maybe.”
You hate the way that lands.
“I’m not looking for distractions this semester.” you say, more firmly now.
He laughs low, smooth, pleased. “Sure,” he says. “No distractions. Just a very interested man trying to charm a very clever woman.”
Your cheeks blush despite yourself. You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs like that might help ease that undeniable ache spreading from your stomach to the inside of your thighs.
It doesn’t help.
“I…” You hesitate. God. “I’ll think about it.”
There’s a pause and you can practically feel his satisfaction through the line. “Perfect,” he purred. “Think about it. Just don’t think too hard, now.”
“Mr Soprano-”
“I’ll bring lunch,” he cuts in, easy as anything. “Something good. Not that cafeteria crap.” A beat. “You’ll like it.”
Before you can respond-
Click.
The line goes dead.
You slowly lowered the receiver, still loosely looped in your fingers, feeling the faint pressure of the cord against your skin. Your heart was racing, your cheeks flushed. Grading papers forgotten, your thoughts entirely his.
You stare at the phone for a long second, then at the paper in front of you. Then back to the phone again…
“…Unbelievable,” you mutter.
You reach for your pen again, writing one word…
Before you stop again.
Because all you can hear is his voice.
“Doc.”
You drop the pen to the desk, reaching into the bottom drawer of your bedside table…
The room fills with a low buzz. Grading papers be damned, you shove your sweatpants down, your finger dragging slowly through the soaked mess he’d made.
“…I really need to take that fucking flyer down.”
…
You came three times that night.
The knock came just as you were trying (and failing) to sort through a stack of papers during lunchtime the next day.
You don't even need to look up, because you already know who it is.
You’d been up all night imagining what those hands might feel like on your tits, for Christ’s sake.
And sure enough, there he is.
Tony leans against the doorframe, one shoulder braced, his body loose and unbothered. The silk cuban collar shirt he’s wearing is loud, dark, glossy, hanging open just enough to show a white wife-pleaser beneath.. and the solid, immovable shape of him was underneath it.
So broad, and heavy. Your stomach twists again.
It’s all very fucking unhelpful.
His grin hits next, slow, easy, like he’s been enjoying this moment since before he knocked. And then the scent reaches you, warm, expensive, something smoky underneath it, like cologne layered over cigars and pure confidence.
Fuck.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar already in a way it shouldn’t be. “I brought lunch.”
He lifts the paper bag slightly, like a peace offering he already knows you’re not going to refuse.
“Thought you’d be hungry, working hard like you do. Thought I’d make this… study session of ours a little more civilised."
“Civilised, huh?” you mutter as he pulls out a small bottle of wine. “Mr Soprano, this isn’t exactly-” You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly, like you can physically press the reaction out of your body.
“Classroom appropriate?” he finished for you, grin widening. “Yeah, I know.
He pushes off the doorframe then, finally, stepping inside without waiting to be invited.
“Oh sure, ‘come on in, Mr Soprano!” you call, dryly, already resigned.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, tone amused. “I’m here strictly in the capacity of… a concerned father.”
A beat.
“Very concerned.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Concerned fathers don’t usually steal my number from the students' noticeboard.”
“Hey, relax,” he says lightly, already crossing the room like it’s his. “Those tabs were there for a reason. If you didn’t want to make yourself so available…”
He sets the bag down on your desk with a casual sort of flourish, like he’s done this before, like showing up uninvited with lunch is a perfectly normal thing to do, and then, without asking, perches on the edge of your desk.
Too close.
Way too close.
His leg stretches out, brushing near yours, his shoulder just there in your space, like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate.
Heat creeps up your neck and you feel yourself swallow.
“I’m here for Meadow,” he says, like that explains anything, eyes locking onto yours with that same glint, playful, yes, but sharper now. More deliberate. “Technically.”
A pause.
“Well, mostly…” His gaze drags over your face, slow, unhurried,“I figured I’d like to spend some time with the woman who keeps all those rich smart kids in line.”
Your throat tightens.
You lean back in your chair, subtle, controlled, but you feel it then, how little space that actually gives you. How he just… fills it anyway.
“Technically,” you say, voice a touch tighter, “I don’t even know why you’re here. Meadow is doing just fine this semester.” Your hand shifts on the desk, steadying yourself against the edge. “I don’t even know how you can possibly think this is acceptable.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. Leans in slightly, just enough to follow you. Just enough that you notice the heat radiating off him.
“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping, quieter now, rougher at the edges, “I like a fuckin’ challenge.” His eyes flick down quick, but not quick enough to miss him leering at your chest then back up again. “And maybe I like watching you try to act all professional while looking like this. All flustered.”
Your breath catches. You hate that it does.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter.
“And yet,” he whispers, leaning just a fraction closer, like he’s sharing something just with you.
A slow beat.
“Door’s still open.” His eyes flick briefly to the frame, then back to yours, dark and assessing. “That… tells me everything.”
Your lips press together. You can feel the heat in your face now, creeping higher, betraying you in real time.
You should tell him to leave.
You should stand up. Create space. Reassert control.
Instead, “I… need to focus on these papers,” you stutter out.
Weak. Jesus Christ.
You hear it. He hears it.
“Focus?” he echoes, tilting his head, grin turning sharper, more knowing. “Sure.”
He reaches for the bag, unwrapping it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got all the time in the world, like he knows you’re watching even when you’re pretending not to. “But let’s focus on lunch first. I’ve seen Meadow studying, you career girls don't eat enough.”
The paper crinkles under his touch. The smell hits you next, fresh bread, something hearty and rich. “Italian,” he says, setting it down beside your papers like it belongs there. “Extra provolone.”
He glances up, eyes lingering. “And some fruit. Brain food.” His tone is soft, teasing, like he’s indulging both your appetite and your curiosity.
You exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, shaking your head.
“Ton- Mr Soprano, I’m not… this is…” You gesture vaguely, like you can physically indicate how inappropriate this is. “This isn’t okay.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. Too easily. “I know.”
And then, quieter, just for you, “That’s what makes it fun.”
Your stomach flips again. Annoyingly becoming a habit now.
You drop your gaze to the papers in front of you, trying to anchor yourself in something normal. Structured. Safe.
But it’s impossible.
Because he’s right there, close enough that every small movement registers. The shift of his weight, the brush of fabric, the quiet confidence in how comfortable he is in your space. It’s like he’s already decided he belongs there. And worse, like part of you is letting him.
You pick up your pen. Try to read the exam paper in front of you, failing immediately.
Because the words on the page blur, all you can feel is him, how easily he’s walked into your life, how close he’s sitting, how he hasn’t once acted like you might actually say no.
To whatever it was he wanted to ask you. To take from you.
You press the pen harder against the page, gripping it like it might anchor you.
“…This is a terrible idea,” you mutter under your breath.
“You know,” he says softly, pressing closer just enough that his voice brushes the shell of your ear, intimate and deliberate, “I don’t usually get this kind of one-on-one attention.”
Your breath catches. “Those students are goddamn lucky, huh?” he continues, quieter now. “Getting to listen to you talk for hours every week.”
You cough lightly, flustered, shifting your notebook like it might shield you from the way his voice seems to settle under your skin.
“I- I need to grade these,” you say, a little too quickly, flipping a page you don’t actually read.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, not budgin’. If anything, he shifts a little closer, shoulders relaxed but deliberate. “I’m right here, Doc… ain’t like you can ignore me.”
He’s so close that you can feel the warmth of him at your side, the subtle shift of his weight as his elbow comes to rest on the desk behind you. Casual. Boxing you in without making a show of it.
“Funny thing,” he goes on, voice low, conversational, like he’s sharing something just with you, “I stopped by one of Meadow’s lectures last week.”
You blink. “You what?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Just sat in the back. Thought I’d see what all the college fuss was about.”
A beat.
“Boring,” he decides.
You turn to him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“Not you,” he says quickly, amused, hand lifting slightly like he’s calming you down. “Relax. Some old guy. Glasses halfway down his nose, droning on about… what was it? Economic models or some shit.”
He leans a little closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “The guy kept licking his finger to turn the page,” he adds, making a face. “I’m tellin’ you, Doc, I almost walked out right there. Breath coulda knocked a guy over.”
Despite yourself, you laugh, and the nickname that had been making its way around the staff coffee room slips out, “I bet it was Halitosis Hawkins, right?”
It slips out before you can stop it.
He catches it instantly, eyes lighting up, nodding like he’s just solved the world’s greatest puzzle. That grin, boyish and wide, spreads across his face, the kind I’d seen on boys half his age in the classroom when they'd successfully chatted up a girl. His knees start bouncing a little, like he can’t contain himself.
“Yeah, Hawkins! That guy,” he says, voice teasing, almost giddy. “Seriously, the guy smells like he gargles old gym socks for breakfast. That was one long parent-teacher conference, I tell you.” He laughs at his own joke, eyes sparkling, clearly thrilled that you’re laughing too.
And yeah, it was pretty cute. Annoyingly cute.
Looking deeper at him now, Tony’s face was disarmingly young, almost reckless in its expression, yet those eyes, so steady, dark, knowing, gave away the man underneath. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to laugh with him or melt under his gaze, and that uncertainty made your heart hammer.
Stop it now…
“See?” he murmurs, resting on the edge of the desk just a hair closer, voice low and teasing. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re wasted on those classes.”
Your stomach flips. His eyes, seemed to flick over you with a playful curiosity, as if he were seeing you for the first time and could already guess what you were thinking. Your pulse caught every time they landed on yours, too sharp to look away, too warm to resist.
You look back down at your papers quickly, trying to recover. “I am not ‘wasted,’ I’m- I’m doing my job.”
“Yeah,” he says, twinkling eyes still on you. “Yeah you are.”
The way he says it makes it sound like something else entirely.
Your pen hovers over the page, unmoving.
You can feel him watching you again, that same slow, patient attention, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
“I’m not… easily charmed, you know,” you say, quieter now, not quite as convincing as before.
“Yeah?” he says.
He shifts, just slightly but it's enough that his knee brushes yours for half a second before settling, as if it had always belonged there.
“You’re already laughing at my jokes,” he points out, voice soft, teasing and smug. “That counts for something right?”
You roll your eyes, but it’s weaker this time. “I’ve heard better.”
“Hey, hey… don’t go sour on me now,” he says, leaning in like he owns the space, eyes dark and amused. “You coulda’ hung up on me last night, you know.”
A beat.
“Coulda’ told me not to come.”
Another.
“And you still haven’t kicked me out.” Your breath catches.
Damn, he’s right about that. You hate how accurate that is.
“I don’t even know why I’m letting you sit there,” you huff, though there’s no real bite left in it.
“Because,” he says easily, tilting his head, watching you like he’s already figured you out, “you’re curious.”
His gaze drops to your chest, watching the thin fabric of your shirt showing your pounding heart, then comes back up.
“Admit it.”
Your throat feels dry.
“And,” he adds, intimately like it’s just between the two of you, “you might be enjoying this more than you wanna think, Doc.”
Heat blooms at the back of your neck, impossible to hide.
“Don’t push it, Tony,” you murmur, voice weaker than you’d like.
“Push it?” he echoes, shifting back just slightly but not far enough to give you real space.
Never that.
“Me? Nah… never,” he says, grin slow and dangerous. “I’m just checkin’ on Meadow, makin’ sure she’s gettin’ what she needs. That’s all.”
Your pen hovered over your papers, shaking slightly. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook, and his knee nudged yours, deliberately, or maybe “accidentally,” enough to make your stomach do little flips.
You tried to focus, tried to grade, but your eyes kept darting to him, to that grin, to the way he leaned just a hair closer than necessary.
“So… Doctorate, huh?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, tilting his head toward your notes. “Impressive. What made you go all in? Most people shy away from this kind of work.”
You cleared your throat, cheeks glowing pink. “I… like the challenge. The research. Solving problems.” Words that normally slid off your tongue smoothly now felt heavy, deliberate.
“Mm,” he said, eyes sparkling, voice teasing. “Smart and… disciplined. I like that in a woman. But tell me, what about outside work? You can’t be all papers and grading.”
“I… I read. I cook sometimes when I have time. I run…” you muttered, trying to sound casual, trying not to notice the way his gaze followed your arms, down your legs, then back to your face.
“Running,” he repeated, leaning just a little closer so you felt the warmth radiating off him, his knee brushing yours again, for longer this time. “Good. I can certainly see that….” He licked his lips slowly, “But what about fun? Dangerous hobbies? Wild secrets? Any skeletons in the closet?”
Heat crept up your neck, and you scowled, half embarrassed, half irritated. “I don’t have wild secrets. Or skeletons in my closet.”
“Not yet,” he said smoothly, edging closer so that your shoulders almost touched, his voice dropping lower, teasing. “But I’m willing to keep asking questions until I find one.”
You laughed despite yourself, trying to sound stern. “You’re insufferable.”
“True,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the corner of your notebook as he leaned back, thick fingers grazing yours. Your breath caught. “But you’re smiling again. I’ll take that as progress.”
His eyes lingered, dark and playful. “You know,” he added, almost conversationally, “there’s something about a woman who’s… professional. Sharp. Headstrong. Reminds me… of someone I know who knows exactly what she’s doing with people’s heads.”
“And you,” he said softly, voice low and intimate, leaning even closer so that the heat of him pressed against your arm, “you’ve got that same… control. That same… knowing. It’s… very hard to resist. Sexy.”
You bit your lip, heart hammering in your chest trying to focus on your papers. But the desk suddenly felt impossibly small, the air between you electric and every subtle movement of his, brushing just a hairs breadth away against your arm, pulling your attention away from everything else.
You flushed, fumbling the pen in your fingers, and muttered, “Tony…” as a faint, deliberate nudge caught your attention.
Tony’s shoe.
Light, teasing, precise, he had nudged yours under the edge of the desk.
You froze. Heart skipping. Was he… doing this on purpose? Seriously? Playing footsie?
“Hmm?” he murmurs, leaning back, one arm draped over the chair like he’s got the whole room under control, smirk crooked and sharp.
A soft, low, husky laugh escaped him, vibrating through the small space. Your stomach lurched. “What?” he asked innocently, though his thigh had already pressed lightly against yours, brushing slowly, teasingly.
Every rational thought screamed at you to stop him. Draw a line. Maintain professionalism. And yet… the closeness, the thrill of his teasing, dangerous energy made it impossible to act entirely detached.
“Nothing,” you muttered, cheeks burning, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Harder?” His voice dropped, just a hair lower, teasing. He leaned in so slightly that the heat of his shoulder pressed near yours. “Sweetheart… I’m barely trying.”
Your hands trembled slightly. You scribble faster, trying to convince yourself you were still in control. But under the desk, his shoe nudged yours again, slow, intimate and testing.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours, smirk widening. “You’re… very easy to… distract.”
Your cheeks flamed, heart racing. Part of you wanted to snap, slam the brakes, pull the line tight.
Part of you… oh God, part of you wanted to see just how far he’d go if you let him.
You dared a glance upward. Mistake.
He was watching you, that infuriatingly confident grin curling on his face, every inch of him knowing exactly the effect he was having. The room felt too small, your chest too tight, your pulse too loud.
And you were utterly, helplessly, fascinated.
Tony reached under the table, his large hand sliding from your knee to your thigh slowly, watching your face the whole time as if he was waiting for you to slap him away.
Tony’s grin widened, so confident and smug. He’d expected protest, pushback. When you didn’t, when you bit your lip instead, he took that as permission.
His hand stroked up the meat of your thigh again, heavier this time, caressing upward, warm and solid, moving ever closer to the edge of your pencil skirt. Every subtle inch, he watched your face, cataloging every reaction, reading you with dangerous precision.
You didn’t pull away. And that told him everything.
He leaned closer, letting his voice drop, low and rough, silk over steel. “Look at you, biting your lip like that,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up to you eyes, “... makin’ it real hard for me to leave, Doc.”
You swallowed hard. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The air between you vibrated, thick, electric.
“I told you,” he goes on, voice velvet and tease wrapped together. “I’m barely trying.”
A beat.
Then his thumb brushes beneath the hem of your skirt, light as a feather, but it felt like fire shooting straight through your spine.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he says voice velvet-thick, his thumb traces slow, deliberate swirls, inching higher. “Hell…” His smirk widens. “...you’re not even breathing right now.”
Your chest is tight. Pulse hammering in places it shouldn't be pounding during office hours with an overinvolved parent.
You found your voice, thin, breathless. “This… is so far outside professional boundaries.”
“Mmm,” he said, nodding slowly, feigning thoughtfulness. “Probably true.” Then his eyes locked on yours again, darker now, dangerous charm coiled beneath the surface. His grin teasing, but the glint in his eye made it clear, he knew exactly what he was doing.
“But we both know you’re not calling HR about this little visit.”
Another pause. "So what's gonna happen now?"
You can’t help the soft involuntary sound that leaves your lips as his hand squeezes hard at the inside of your thigh, your legs parting open on the chair almost subconsciously. You want to fight him, but this is the horniest you think you’ve ever felt.
You don’t answer, because you can’t.
Because your body is already reacting, heat pooling low, pulse racing, your breath uneven.
Because he’s right.
And you hate that he’s right.
The soft moan hits him like a spark. Tony’s breath hitches and his eyes darken, full of fire and something hungry. He sees it all. The way your legs part, the way you glance at the door not to escape, but to check if someone might walk in. That look, that flicker of nerves and want, makes his grin go crooked, pure sin and filth shooting right to his groin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough now, low as smoke, watching you like he’s memorising every reaction, “there she is.”
His hand slides higher, thumb brushing against the damp outline of your now swollen folds through your panties. Possessive.
“You thinkin’ ‘bout who might catch us?” he asks, licking at his lips suggestively. “Huh? Wondering what they’d see?”
You can’t answer. Just bite your lip again, harder this time, almost breaking the skin.
He leans in closer still until his lips are almost grazing your ear. Warmth floods from him, the heat of his body, that thick cologne wrapping around you like a promise.
“I’ll tell you what they’d see.” His voice drops to a growl. “They’d see me with my hand up your skirt... making you make that sound again…”
“And sweetheart,” he adds silkily, pulling back just enough to watch your face flush deeper under his gaze, “you ain’t fighting me…”
He shifts a little in his chair, the bulge in his slacks impossible to ignore. His thumb continues its idle, possessive strokes down the length of your pussy through lace, mapping you out. You're flushed all the way down your neck and collarbones now, heart hammering so hard you're surprised he can't hear it. Tony's lips quirk in a knowing smirk.
"You're so quiet," he comments, voice teasing.
His finger circles your clit.
You swallow hard. Can't even think straight. There's a part of you that wants to protest, to stop this before it gets too far. But you can't deny that crude desire in you to find out just how many of his fingers you'd be able to take.
He was just so big.
“Wouldn't be nearly as fun if they didn't almost catch us, would it?”
He circles you again slower.
Another soft moan trembles out of you before you can stop it, and this time his hand stills completely because even he's holding his breath now at just how responsive you are.
There’s a shift in him then, subtle but unmistakable. Something in the way his posture changes, the way his gaze sharpens. Like he’s made a decision.
His eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, everything stills. The room. The tension. The space between you. Then he moves up fast enough to catch you off guard, but slow enough that you can see it coming. Tony’s hand leaves your thigh as he stands up from the chair and coolly saunters to the door of the office, closing it with a soft click and locking the latch.
The click of the lock echoes in the quiet office like a verdict.
You barely have time to process it before he’s rounding the desk with that predatory grace of his, closing the distance properly this time. Papers get swept aside without ceremony. No more pretense. No more games.
Just him. Too close again. And somehow not close enough.
He leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other cradling your jaw with firm insistence. His thumb drifts over your bottom lip, soft but deliberate, teasing as he tilts your face toward his. Without thinking, your tongue flicks out, brushing the tip, and a low, needy groan slips past your lips.
Those brown eyes of his eyes bore into yours. Not laughing now. Not teasing. Just hungry.
“You gonna keep lookin’ at me like that, Doc.” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges now, “or you gonna do somethin’ about it?”
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Your chest rises fast. Pulse fluttering in your throat where his large hand was resting.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, his body betrays him: hips shifting slightly forward against the edge of the desk like they’re aching for contact; breath hitching when you don’t pull away from his touch but lean into it instead.
Not should we. Not is this okay.
You want this?
His thumb lingers against your bottom lip, then slides in, meeting your tongue with a deliberate, teasing pressure. A shiver races through you, trembling under the heat of it, caught completely in the pull of him.
And god help you, you breath out:
“I want you.”
And that's enough for him.
Tony stalks around the desk, heat in every step, and hoists you up onto the desk pushing in between your legs brutishly. The world narrows to just the feel of his hulking body between your thighs, how easily he took control and just how much you want him this way. You gasp and shudder, legs falling open wider without thinking, hands trembling as they slide to his broad shoulders. His large hands paw and grip at the waistband of your skirt, fingers spreading across the bare skin beneath your shirt now. He’s closing the distance, heat radiating off him, close enough that you can feel the rapid rising and falling of his chest.
He leans down to groan directly in your ear, “Still thinking about those papers, Doc?” His voice a rough growl, as he licks the shell of your ear, down to your throat.
You finally break and your hands move before your brain catches up, grabbing the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. You pull his face down to you, mouth crashing into his in a desperate tangle of heat and tongue and need that makes your head spin. He responds instantly, taking control like he was born to dominate, pushing you back against the desk, hands roaming to grip your thighs to spread you open wider, making room for his big body between them.
You gasp softly, arching into him, pressed against the hard planes of his chest and stomach against yours. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your sides, grounding you and anchoring you to the desk like you might drift off if he let you go.
His grip slides to your thighs, drawing you flush up against him, letting you feel every inch of him, how thick and hard he is, how much he wants you, pleasure shooting straight through you. And then he finally pulls back just enough to break the kiss, lips swollen, bruised, and maddeningly warm.
"You've been driving me crazy all day... Doc." He groans into your mouth, guttural and hungry. One hand fists in your hair, the other dragging down your back to pull you flush against him, erasing any last pretense of space between you.
You whimper. God, it feels good, wrong, but so good, the way his tongue owns yours like it already knows every secret part of you. His lips are rough and sure and hot as sin. You arch into him without shame, letting go, because fighting was just an act. You wanted him to ruin your control.
He breaks the kiss just enough to drag slow, heated nips along your jaw, finding that tender spot beneath your ear before his voice drops to a whisper.
“I want your lips…” Another bite, sharp, deliberate. “I want your body… your mind…” His breath ghosts lower, sending a shiver through you. “Still wanna be professional?”
His hips roll forward once, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against where you’re already aching through his slacks, and a soft gasp slips free of your lips, he feels it. Like the cat that got the cream.
His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, dragging the fabric of your shirt higher and higher to expose your skin as he claims your lips again with a hunger that makes your head spin. A soft sound slips from you, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to pull a low, rough reaction from him. “Touch me,” you whisper, the words barely there, more felt than heard.
And then…
A knock.
Hard and sudden at the door.
You freeze against him mid-kiss.
Tony doesn’t stop right away. He lingers for one more slow, filthy stroke of his tongue against yours before finally pulling back with a dark chuckle. His lips glisten from you both and his gaze heavy with want and something dangerously close to "I don't give a fuck."
He turns toward the door without stepping back from you, still caging you between his arms on the desk, and calls out smooth as silk:
“Occupied.”
Another beat of silence on the other side... then footsteps retreating down the hall.
For half a second, there’s complete stillness.
Then Tony huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin, low and disbelieving. “…Fuckin’ students,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. His forehead drops to yours, lingering there, breath warm, and a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
“You hear that?” he murmurs. “That’s fate cockblockin’ me.”
You let out a breathless laugh, trying and failing to compose yourself. “This is a classroom, I mean-”
“No, seriously?” he cuts in, lifting his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark but glinting with amusement, “I had no idea.”
You try to hold his gaze, to stay firm, but he’s already watching you, already reading you.
“C’mon…” he murmurs, softer now, smirk easing into something warmer, almost fond. “You were right there with me.”
And just like that he leans back in, stroking your face with the same fingers he’d traced your wet folds with earlier, the smell of you musky and hot. “Where were we?” His voice drops lower than before, his touch so familiar now it makes your breath catch. “That’s right.”
He paws his hand under your shirt, dragging his thumb over your pert nipple, before pinching hard and teasing it.
“You wanted me to do that…”
The pathetic mewl that leaves your lips is wanton and desperate as your hands dart down to the belt around his waist, making quick work of it as he unbuttons your shirt, head diving down to lave and suck at your nipple through the fabric of your bra.
You arch into him with a gasp soft, desperate as his mouth finds your nipple through the lace, sucking hard, tongue flicking in slow, deliberate circles that make your toes curl and your hips lift off the desk without permission.
His belt gives way under your fingers just as he ruts against you slightly, grinding the thick length of him where you need it most. You’re reckless now, needy and wanting, and Tony lets you touch him, palming at his hard length through his boxers.
God, he felt big. You knew he would be. He had to be.
He growls against your skin, one hand sliding up your skirt, thick fingers pulling aside your already soaking panties to find your hot centre.
“Jesus… look at you.” His voice was thick and raw. “So damn eager for me.” he murmurs, voice dropping lower now, rougher, like the good cop act he'd been playing was long gone.
You feel yourself coming undone against his hand, his fingers languidly dipping into your wet heat and swirling up to your clit in a way that makes you shiver and he can't deny it.
"That's it…" He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear. "You're so fucking wet for me, sweetheart…"
That word, sweetheart, on his lips sounds like a sin, dangerous and tantalizing all at once. He knows the effect it has, the way it makes you tremble, how it makes you cling to him tighter like he's the only thing holding you together.
"Can you stay quiet for me?"
He’s pushing his fingers into you now, stretching you out, his thick index and middle fingers making a scissoring motion. He was getting you ready for him. You quietly thank God that he moved those papers you were grading earlier because the desk underneath you was a slick mess.
“Uhuh…” You pant out, him releasing another slew of filthy words against your neck and shoulder.
"Jesus Christ, you're beautiful like this... falling apart for me…"
A part of you wants him to make you scream his name for all the office to hear. And then tell them he's the reason. But you stay buried into his neck, kissing and panting against the skin there, as lewd slick noises fill the room, his fingers pumping into you over and over.
Then he crooks his fingers up to hit that perfect spot inside of you that makes you see white. He leans down, lips feather light against your ear, his voice dropping to a growl. "That's right... all over my hand," he growls, watching you come apart with a dark satisfaction in his eyes.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body arching toward him like you can't help yourself, and you can't, not when he’s stretching you so perfectly, curling those thick fingers just right.
“Tony-” Your voice cracks on his name again, barely above a whisper.
He picks up the pace, fucking you deeper now, smirking against your neck. “Yeah? You wanna say it again? Louder?” He crooks his fingers deep. “I know you want to scream it.”
You shake your head frantically, but it’s weak. Your hips are grinding up on his hand now without shame or thought.
“You don't? Afraid someone will catch us?” He pants into your ear, he's working you hard now, his voice teasing you.
“Mmm… liar.” He adds a third finger slowly, filling you completely now, relentless and slick as sin. “I think you want to be caught.”
With this you’re coming hard and fast, squirting onto the desk and the front of his boxers, practically falling into his arms.
"Oh I know, I know… good girl," he coos, catching you as you tremble in his arms, so soft, pliant, and utterly wrecked. His fingers slow but don’t leave you just yet, drawing out every last pulse of your release like he’s savoring it. You’re breathing hard against his neck, skin flushed everywhere he touched and more.
He holds you through it, fingers gently stroking your back with a surprising tenderness while your hips ride out each contraction, before slowly pulling away. He raises his fingers to his mouth to taste you, his tongue deftly licking and sucking each thick digit, groaning aloud.
He’s holding you close, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing softly against yours in slow, tender kisses. His hands cradle your hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles over the tender skin above your skirt, and each press of his lips makes your chest flutter, pulse hammering in delicious anticipation.
“You taste just like I imagined,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, rough with need but softened by that rare tenderness he’s giving you. “And better than I deserved.”
You can’t stop the shiver that runs through you, the small moan that escapes as his fingers press just a little closer, brushing along the curve of your hip. “Tony…” you murmur, voice trembling, barely more than a whisper, tilting upward to press a kiss to his lips.
His lips meet yours briefly, breaking to trail down to your jaw, teasing your ear with soft, wet kisses.“You’re… something else,” he whispers, nipping gently, careful and patient. “Smart, stubborn… gorgeous…”
You shiver, pressing as close to him as you can, hands clutching at his shoulders and nervously glancing at the clock on the wall. Lunch was practically over already.
“I… I wish I had more time…” you murmur, voice small, cheeks flushed. “I want… to… you know… return the favour.” Your hand slides down to grab at his ass, the other slipping up his shirt and scratching your fingers through his chest hair.
Tony’s low chuckle vibrates against you, his large hand pressing just a little more insistently to your hip. “Yeah? You wanna make me come?” he teases, grin soft but devilish.
He tilts your chin up, pressing his lips to yours with slow authority. “Mmm…” he growls, nipping your bottom lip, eyes dark and sharp. “Yeah… that’s what I like to hear. You want me… just like this.”
You can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes your throat, breathy, light, both hands now continuing to map the expanse of his chest, stroking down that sinful trail of dark hair that disappeared below the waistband of his boxers. “I don’t- I don't usually do this… but I thought about you all night.”
He lets out a short, amused laugh that rumbles through his chest against yours. “Yeah I figured… and by the way? That laugh of yours?” he murmurs, “that’s my favorite sound right now.”
A boyish grin tugs at his lips. “Well… my second favorite, anyway.”
He tilts your chin up, lips brushing yours again. “And I swear… I’ve been thinking about you too.” His grin softens, almost bashful, like a kid confessing a crush on the playground.
Bong.
The college bell cuts through the haze of the classroom, a sharp reminder neither of you can ignore. Tony groans, reluctantly pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you, lips curved in that infuriatingly dangerous grin.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, low, amused. “Not enough time to fuck you.”
Your chest rises and falls, cheeks flushed, pulse hammering as your hand slides over the thick bulge pressing against him. “I… I wanted to…” you whisper, soft, almost pouting, letting your palm linger.
Tony’s grin softens, warm and mischievous, tilting close enough that his lips brush your ear with a featherlight touch. “I know,” he murmurs, his hand resting possessively at your hip, grounding you. He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, then threads his fingers through your hair, holding you close without rush. A soft laugh escapes him against your ear, tender in contrast to his usual confident swagger. “You gonna be okay, or do I gotta carry you to your next class?”
He exhales a low, triumphant chuckle, breath warm against your neck. "Yeah... thought so."
Careful, almost gentlemanly, he starts fixing your clothes, tugging your shirt into place, straightening yours and his own pants, clearing up the forgotten lunch on the desk (and the floor) like he hadn’t just unraveled you completely.
"One problem though," he says quietly as he tucks himself back in and straightens up.
“What?” you whisper, still dazed, fumbling with your buttons.
"This… was way too much fun..."
He leans close, lips grazing your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “…So we’re doing it again. Dinner. After your last class.” That grin, boyish and infuriating, lights up his face.
“You know…” he murmurs, voice low and playful, tracing a finger along the line of your jaw, “I’ve been thinking about something… very academic.”
You blink, chest still fluttering. “Oh really?”
“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head, eyes glittering. “There seems to be a… strong correlation here.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “You being right here, me being right here… and you turning me into a horny teenager.”
You groan softly, laughter escaping, burying your face against his chest. “Tony…”
“Now, of course,” he murmurs, nuzzling your temple softly, “correlation doesn’t prove causation… but with us? I think it just might.”
If you enjoyed, check out the sequel!: It Ain't About the Money (It's About You)
💬 1 🔁 5 ❤️ 6 · It Ain't About the Money (It's About You) · Tony Soprano x Reader One Shot
Rating: Mature/Explicit
Warnings: Smut, implie
Silly Self Reblog to celebrate the fact this reached 100 notes today! A while ago I joked that if I wrote a Tony fic that like 5 people might read it, so this is a huge and lovely surprise! (And this fic got me back into writing!)
Rating: Teen / Mature themes (no explicit content in this chapter)
Warnings: Canon‑typical family dysfunction, mild language, weed mention, college chaos, implied abusive relationship (Richie), 1970s setting
Word count: ~4.5k
Funny warnings (just for me): Janice Soprano being Janice Soprano, Richie Aprile being the worst man alive, Gina trying to study through a spiritual crisis and a drug deal, Many Saints Tony showing up in a letterman jacket and being adorable
Summary: It’s 1979, New Jersey. Gina’s just trying to survive the semester in New York City. Calculus, incense‑soaked dorm rooms, and Janice Soprano’s never‑ending phases. But when Janice’s little brother shows up to drag her home for the weekend, Gina finds herself facing a new problem entirely: he’s attractive, he’s definitely trouble, and Janice would absolutely kill her if she even looked at him twice. Right?
And yes - before I get comments about the fact Jan ran away and didn't go to college... this is an AU and I'm taking creative liberties. Let me play with my dolls in peace!!!
Also, feel free to listen to Billy Joel whilst you read, which inspired Chapter 1's title!
It was 1979, New Jersey, USA. The air was filled with sea salt, hormones and a not so subtle dash of Catholic guilt. The semester had just started and the first taste of freedom was fresh. Growing up in Newark, Gina had never dreamed she'd make it to college, let alone to NYC with free student housing and a view of a life she wasn’t so sure she deserved. The Vietnam War was over, the King of Rock and Roll had left the building, and changes were coming that were a hell of a lot bigger than her choosing between majoring in calculus or social sciences.
Gina couldn't quite recall the first time she'd met Janice, but one thing was for sure, Janice Soprano wasn't the sort of girl you'd forget. A firecracker to say the least with the hair to match, a mass of red-brown curls that framed a round face and smouldering brown eyes that promised you trouble. She was a typical Italian-American, loud and proud in all of the ways that Gina wasn't. Maybe that's what had drawn her to Jan in that first year.
Gina strolled into the apartment complex and fished for the keys to her dorm from her hemp satchel, stuffed to the brim with books from her latest traipse to the school library. Just as she presses the key into the lock, the chain slides inside and a flash of red painted fingernails shoot out to place an old gym sock on the handle, the corridor now reeking of hash.
“Gina!? Don’t come in!” Jan flailed the sock frantically in the gap of the doorway, narrowly missing Gina’s face, “Richie is over,” a beat passes, “oh, fuck off Richie, she's fine. She won't tell my Ma about the grass. Or you staying over.” She peeks out of the crack at Gina, “Right?” added with a mischievous wink.
As much as she liked Janice’s spunky nature, one thing really sucked about her: her terrible taste in men. Janice had been dating Richie Aprile for 5 months now. Richie was from the same neighborhood as the girls in the Down-Neck of Newark, and whilst he was older, he was not so wiser. Her best friend dating a made guy had its benefits though. Richie was never short of any cash and booze, opening doors to the hottest clubs and bars on the scene. The only problem was his shitty attitude and shittier Napoleon complex, which usually meant that any bar they went to he'd leave with a bloody nose soon after.
“I won't need to tell her,” Gina slides down the wall in front of the dorm, zippo flickering to light a cigarette, “she'll smell it all the way over from Newark, Jan.”
“Oh ha-ha. Comic genius.” Jan shoots back, disappearing for a second before her voice floats through the crack again, muffled by what Gina assumes is Richie’s hand on her waist. “We’re kinda in the middle of something. Can you… y’know… give us ten?”
“Ten?” Gina exhales a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Jan, we have a midterm on Monday. Monday. Professor Klein already hates us. I’m not failing calculus because you’re too busy playing house with Newark’s angriest lawn gnome.”
From inside, Richie’s voice cuts through, nasal, irritated, and absolutely uninvited.
“Yeah? Maybe Newark’s angriest lawn gnome don’t like bein’ talked about like he ain’t standin’ right here,” he snapped. “Why don’t you go study in the hallway like you always do? Ain’t that your thing? Sittin’ out there like some sad little hall monitor.”
“Bet you prefer it out there anyway, nobody to bother you, nobody to notice you. ’Cause every time I see you in a room, people look right past you like you’re part of the damn wallpaper.”
Gina rolls her eyes so hard, because of course Richie would say something that stupid. “Wow, Richie. Real original. You talk to your parole officer with that mouth?”
Jan snorts, a laugh she tries and fails to smother. Richie doesn’t appreciate it.
“Oh, look at this one,” he fires back, voice rising. “Always runnin’ her mouth. Maybe if you weren’t such a tight-ass, you’d have someone knockin’ on your door. Instead of you knockin’ on ours.”
Gina flicks ash onto the linoleum, unbothered. “Right… Because every girl dreams of a guy who uses his girlfriend’s dorm as a stash spot.”
The door goes dead quiet. Then Jan hisses, “Gina!”
“What?” Gina shrugs, tapping her cigarette. “It’s not like the RA doesn’t already know someone’s keeping ‘oregano’ in here. The whole floor smells like a Grateful Dead concert.”
Richie’s tone shifts to one defensive, sharp, door pushed open to square up at Gina. “I don’t keep nothin’ here. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Oh please,” Gina says, leaning her head back against the wall. “You think I didn’t see you shoving that baggie behind Jan’s psych textbooks last week? Real subtle, Einstein.”
Jan groans. “Gina, please-”
“No, no, let her talk,” Richie barks. “Little miss perfect wants to act like she’s better than everybody. Like she ain’t from the same block as us.”
Gina stands, brushing off her flared jeans. “Difference is, Richie, I’m trying to get out of the block. Not bring it with me in my underwear drawer.” Another beat of silence. Then Jan’s hand appears again, sock dangling like a white flag.
“Alright, enough,” she says, exasperated. “Both of you. Jesus. Richie, put your shirt back on. Gina, stop antagonizing him. And for the love of God, can we just… figure this out before someone calls campus security?”
Gina crosses her arms. “I’ll figure it out when you let me into my own damn room.”
Jan sighs. “Five minutes?”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Fine.”
The sock disappears. The door clicks shut. Gina takes another drag, muttering to herself.
Richie had been prowling near the door for the last few minutes, pacing like a dog that smelled rain. He kept adjusting his jacket, tapping his fingers against the frame, glancing at Gina with that simmering irritation he never bothered to hide. Finally, with a sharp tug, he yanked his coat off the chair and shrugged into it. “I’m goin’,” he muttered, already halfway into the hall. But he paused, turning just enough to let his eyes drag over Gina. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, thin and mean, the kind that always made her skin prickle.
“Do yourself a favour, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and oily. “Keep an eye on her while I’m gone..” He didn’t wait for a reaction. The door slammed behind him, hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Gina let out a slow exhale, shoulders loosening as if Richie’s presence had been a weight pressing between her shoulder blades. She rubbed her palms down her jeans, grounding herself, then turned to Janice with a softness in her eyes. “You do know he’s an asshole, right?” she said quietly, looking Jan up and down in a way that had become all too familiar, checking for any sign of bruising.
Janice rolled her eyes, but her gesture lacked conviction. “He’s… complicated.” Gina stepped closer, her voice lowering, warm and steady. “Yeah. So’s a gas leak. Doesn’t mean you should stand next to it with a match. I worry about you with him.”
Janice huffed a laugh, small, unwilling, but real. Gina smiled at that, nudging her shoulder lightly, the way she always did when she wanted Janice to feel safe, not judged. “I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do,” Gina said, softer now but deliberate. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. Not by him. Not again.”
Janice’s gaze faltered, something vulnerable surfacing before she could hide it. “I know,” she murmured. “I know you’re lookin’ out for me.”
“Always,” Gina said. No drama, no lecture, just the truth, worn smooth by months of pulling each other out of the wreckage. That was just college, right? And for a moment, the room felt warmer. Quieter. Like the storm Richie and New Jersey left behind couldn’t touch them here.
A few days later, the dorm was back to its usual state, half‑cleaned mugs on the windowsill, textbooks spread open with spines cracked, and the faint smell of burnt incense clinging stubbornly to the curtains. Gina and Janice sat cross‑legged on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and half‑finished notes, the soft scratch of pens the only sound in the room. Outside, the late‑afternoon light slanted gold through the blinds, striping their pages in warm bars of sun.
Gina was mid‑sentence, something about the exam on Monday, when the door banged open hard enough to rattle the hinges.
A lumbering boy stood in the doorway, all broad shoulders and restless energy, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to fit inside his own size yet. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, wearing adulthood awkwardly, the way a child wears his father’s coat.
Janice’s little brother was tall. Taller than she'd expected from the photos on Jan's wall of the little boy with buck teeth peeking out from a mischievous smile. That last part hadn't changed all that much from what she could gather, taking in the boy with the Cheshire Cat's grin in front of her.
Tony Soprano. The brother she’d heard so much about filled the doorway like it was built too small for him. His letterman jacket clung to linebacker shoulders, the fabric creasing where muscle met habit. His flared jeans were worn pale at the knees and scuffed at the hems, swallowed by a pair of battered All Stars that made his stance look heavy, almost clumsy, a body still learning its own strength.
Janice had only really told her two things about her brother: he was at Seton Hall, and that he was a perpetual pain in her ass. She hadn’t however mentioned the rest: the brutish, blocky frame, the way he seemed to take up all the air in the room without trying, or those soft brown eyes that didn’t match any of it whatsoever. His eyes were too wide, too doe‑like, sitting above a crooked, boyish grin that made him look, for a fleeting second, like he was still that five year old boy in the photo on Jan’s wall.
Tony quirked his head into the dorm room, taking Gina in with a glint that was half‑curious, half‑smartass. He had Jan’s same warm brown eyes, she noticed, which set a warmth in her chest she found hard to ignore.
“Hey Jan. What’s all this crap?” he said, waving a hand at the open textbooks, highlighters, and half‑cold mugs scattered across the floor. “You two havin’ a… what, study date? Jesus, Jan, you really know how to have a wild Saturday night.”
He snorted, stepping fully inside like he owned the place. “Look at this. Books everywhere. Notes. Christ. You stayin’ up late whisperin’ about… I dunno, philosophy and boys?” He smirked, then flopped down onto Jan’s bunk with the graceless confidence of someone who’d never once asked permission to sit anywhere in his life.
“Oh c’mon, Ton’. At least take your shoes off—”
“Ma wants you to visit. Sent me out here to ‘remind you to visit the woman who spent twelve hours pushin’ out all eight pounds of your sorry ass.’” He jeered, making a shrill voice that you could only imagine was supposed to be their mother, Livia, before turning to Gina with a boyish quirk to his brow, “Even said you could bring ‘that mouse of a dormmate’ of yours.” His eyes flicked over her, quick but curious. “So I’m guessin’ you’re Gina?”
At this Janice unceremoniously chucks a sneaker at the boy's head “Can it, Ton’. Don't be a jerk,” muttering curses under her breath whilst he only laughed harder, sprawled comfortably across the bed like he owned the place, hands folded behind his head.
“Car’s outside,” he said, rubbing the spot where the sneaker hit with exaggerated drama. “So you better pack a bag. You’re lucky Ma didn’t send Uncle Junior,” Tony says, eyes cast down with a teasing glint. “He’d have hauled you back to Newark by your ear. Still says his wallet’s lighter every time you visit.”
Janice muttered something murderous under her breath and stomped off toward the bathroom to gather her things.
Tony rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, “Jesus Christ,” watching Jan slump into the bathroom to collect her things. Gina presses her cigarette between her lips, trying to smother the grin threatening to break through. Tony was just like Janice, it seemed, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Tony catches the smile anyway. His gaze flicks to her again, slower this time. Like he was sizing her up.
“So,” he ponders, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees, “you really live with my maniac of a sister?”
“Unfortunately,” Gina answers dryly.
Janice gasps, sticking her head out of the door for a flash. “Traitor.”
“C’mon,” Gina says, giving her a knowing look. “I finally got that Hare Krishna guy to quit stopping by every morning, and then your incense goes and almost torches our curtains last week.”
“That happened one time.”
“Three times.”
Tony laughs at that, a real one, rough around the edges, young in a way he probably hated that lights up his whole face.
“See? This is what I’m talkin’ about,” he chuckles, pointing at Gina like she’d cracked it. “She’s normal. You could learn somethin’.”
Janice hurls a balled-up shirt at him, “I am normal, asshole.”
“Yeah, alright. Enlightenment by arson, huh?” Tony mutters, “Hare Hare, Krishna Krishna, whatever the hell it was. Ma thought she’d joined a cult. I told her no, cults got better fashion sense. Jan out there looking like a traffic cone.”
Janice huffs, crossing her arms like she’s bracing for more.
Gina, meanwhile, just raises her eyebrows, clearly used to this level of chaos with Jan.
Tony shakes his head, still grinning. “I’m tellin’ you, Gina, you should’ve seen her. Bells, robes, the whole thing. She’s out there chantin’ at sunrise like she’s tryin’ to summon the school bus.”
“Tony,” Janice snaps, “you don’t know anything about spiritual practice. It was a beautiful, transformative time in my life. Sorry if that threatens you.”
“Yeah, okay, Guru Jan. Whatever you say…cough all three weeks of your life.”
Gina snorts a quick, involuntary sound and Tony’s head turns toward her like he’s just noticed something interesting.
“Oh, she laughs,” he drawls, pointing at her again, but softer this time. “See, Jan? Some people gotta sense of humor.”
Gina shrugs, leaning against the dresser. “I mean… you did look like a traffic cone.”
Tony barks out another laugh, delighted. “Thank you! Thank you. Finally, someone in this place with eyes.”
Janice groans. “Unbelievable. You two deserve each other.”
Tony ignores her completely, his attention sliding back to Gina. “So what’s your story, huh? You livin’ with this one on purpose, or you lose a bet?”
Gina smirks. “Rent’s cheap. And she’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining,” Tony echoes, amused and nodding his head. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.”
Janice throws her hands up to protest. “I’m right here!”
Neither of them look at her.
Gina steps around the clutter carefully, setting her books onto her desk before crouching near the tiny cooler. “You want a beer?” she asks absently, glancing over her shoulder.
Tony looks mildly surprised by the offer, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Sure.”
She tosses him one and he catches it one-handed without thinking.
“Football player,” Janice says flatly, noticing the small amused smile growing on her friend's face. “Don’t encourage him. His ego’s already terminal.”
Tony smirks, cracking the can open against the edge of the desk.
“So you go to NYU too?” he asks, eyes finding Gina’s again not just looking this time, noticing.
She shakes her head. “Scholarship. Different program.”
That stops him. His eyebrows lift, impressed in a way he doesn’t bother hiding.
“No shit?”
She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”
Tony lets out a low whistle, leaning back a little as he looks at her — really looks at her.
“Smart and puts up with Janice,” he exclaims, impressed. “You’re a saint.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Gina replies. “She’ll start charging me rent.”
Again, that laugh of his.
He chuckles, that rough, almost childish sound, and when his gaze settles on her, it lingers. A beat too long. Warm. Curious. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone like her ended up in his sister’s orbit.
From the hallway Janice groans loudly.
“Oh my God, don’t start flirting in front of me, I’ll throw up.”
Tony snatches up a sneaker before she can throw it. “Who’s flirtin’?”
“You got that stupid face you make.”
“I got one face!”
“You absolutely do not.”
Gina laughs despite herself, and Tony’s eyes flick toward her immediately at the sound like he’s been waiting for it. His grin softens for just a second, something gentler slipping through before he looks away again.
Janice clattered around in the bathroom, muttering curses at the universe. Tony leans back on the bunk, his attention drifting toward Gina once more. Not the quick, sizing‑up glance from earlier, this one lingers, like he’s trying to match the girl in front of him to whatever picture he had in his head.
“You know,” he starts, voice dropping into something almost private, “Jan talks about you a lot.”
Gina turns her head, caught off guard. “She does?”
He nods, a small, crooked grin tugging at his mouth as he huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Yeah. I figured you’d be… I dunno. Different.” His eyes flick over her again, lingering on her mouth before he catches himself.
“But she sure left out the part about that smile of yours.”
It’s clumsy and hardly smooth, the kind of compliment he probably didn’t plan on saying out loud. And for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, like he’s not sure what she’s going to do with it.
Gina feels it immediately, that tiny, traitorous spark low in her chest. A warm buzz she absolutely shouldn’t have for her best friend’s little brother.
But he wasn't really Jan's 'little' brother. He was tall. And big. Very big. And cute. She thinks to herself internally kicking herself. Gina looks away, though not before her gaze slips to his mouth. Stupid. Obvious.
And he notices.
Of course he does.
She feels the smile he’s talking about tugging at her mouth, and that only makes everything worse. Heat creeps up the back of her neck and she drops her gaze, pretending to fuss with the hem of her sleeve. Her eyes flick, just for a heartbeat, to his lips as he presses them together, like he’s trying not to grin too wide.
Tony’s eyes soften, quietly delighted, and the air between them tightens, charged with something neither of them names.
Before Gina can say anything back, Janice reappears with a bag slung over her shoulder, completely oblivious to whatever just passed between them.
“Alright, let’s go before Ma has a coronary.”
Tony straightens up fast, clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon.” He grabs her bag without being asked and heads for the door. Gina slips on her jacket and follows them down the stairwell, Janice complaining about the cold while Tony pretends not to hear her.
Outside, the streetlights buzz faintly over Tony’s car parked crooked at the curb. He swings open the back door for Janice with exaggerated chivalry, then glances at Gina over the roof, that same warm, lingering look, like he’s still trying to figure her out.
“Shotgun’s yours,” he calls over, casual on the surface, but not really.
She slides into the passenger seat.
He smiles, small and involuntarily before turning the key. The engine rumbles to life. New Jersey waits, and a quiet unease settles under Gina’s ribs, the sense that this weekend might change more than she’s ready for.
This has been purely for my own enjoyment and I have a skeleton of a plot mapped... so watch this space!
Rating: Teen / Mature themes (no explicit content in this chapter)
Warnings: Canon‑typical family dysfunction, mild language, weed mention, college chaos, implied abusive relationship (Richie), 1970s setting
Word count: ~4.5k
Funny warnings (just for me): Janice Soprano being Janice Soprano, Richie Aprile being the worst man alive, Gina trying to study through a spiritual crisis and a drug deal, Many Saints Tony showing up in a letterman jacket and being adorable
Summary: It’s 1979, New Jersey. Gina’s just trying to survive the semester in New York City. Calculus, incense‑soaked dorm rooms, and Janice Soprano’s never‑ending phases. But when Janice’s little brother shows up to drag her home for the weekend, Gina finds herself facing a new problem entirely: he’s attractive, he’s definitely trouble, and Janice would absolutely kill her if she even looked at him twice. Right?
And yes - before I get comments about the fact Jan ran away and didn't go to college... this is an AU and I'm taking creative liberties. Let me play with my dolls in peace!!!
Also, feel free to listen to Billy Joel whilst you read, which inspired Chapter 1's title!
It was 1979, New Jersey, USA. The air was filled with sea salt, hormones and a not so subtle dash of Catholic guilt. The semester had just started and the first taste of freedom was fresh. Growing up in Newark, Gina had never dreamed she'd make it to college, let alone to NYC with free student housing and a view of a life she wasn’t so sure she deserved. The Vietnam War was over, the King of Rock and Roll had left the building, and changes were coming that were a hell of a lot bigger than her choosing between majoring in calculus or social sciences.
Gina couldn't quite recall the first time she'd met Janice, but one thing was for sure, Janice Soprano wasn't the sort of girl you'd forget. A firecracker to say the least with the hair to match, a mass of red-brown curls that framed a round face and smouldering brown eyes that promised you trouble. She was a typical Italian-American, loud and proud in all of the ways that Gina wasn't. Maybe that's what had drawn her to Jan in that first year.
Gina strolled into the apartment complex and fished for the keys to her dorm from her hemp satchel, stuffed to the brim with books from her latest traipse to the school library. Just as she presses the key into the lock, the chain slides inside and a flash of red painted fingernails shoot out to place an old gym sock on the handle, the corridor now reeking of hash.
“Gina!? Don’t come in!” Jan flailed the sock frantically in the gap of the doorway, narrowly missing Gina’s face, “Richie is over,” a beat passes, “oh, fuck off Richie, she's fine. She won't tell my Ma about the grass. Or you staying over.” She peeks out of the crack at Gina, “Right?” added with a mischievous wink.
As much as she liked Janice’s spunky nature, one thing really sucked about her: her terrible taste in men. Janice had been dating Richie Aprile for 5 months now. Richie was from the same neighborhood as the girls in the Down-Neck of Newark, and whilst he was older, he was not so wiser. Her best friend dating a made guy had its benefits though. Richie was never short of any cash and booze, opening doors to the hottest clubs and bars on the scene. The only problem was his shitty attitude and shittier Napoleon complex, which usually meant that any bar they went to he'd leave with a bloody nose soon after.
“I won't need to tell her,” Gina slides down the wall in front of the dorm, zippo flickering to light a cigarette, “she'll smell it all the way over from Newark, Jan.”
“Oh ha-ha. Comic genius.” Jan shoots back, disappearing for a second before her voice floats through the crack again, muffled by what Gina assumes is Richie’s hand on her waist. “We’re kinda in the middle of something. Can you… y’know… give us ten?”
“Ten?” Gina exhales a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Jan, we have a midterm on Monday. Monday. Professor Klein already hates us. I’m not failing calculus because you’re too busy playing house with Newark’s angriest lawn gnome.”
From inside, Richie’s voice cuts through, nasal, irritated, and absolutely uninvited.
“Yeah? Maybe Newark’s angriest lawn gnome don’t like bein’ talked about like he ain’t standin’ right here,” he snapped. “Why don’t you go study in the hallway like you always do? Ain’t that your thing? Sittin’ out there like some sad little hall monitor.”
“Bet you prefer it out there anyway, nobody to bother you, nobody to notice you. ’Cause every time I see you in a room, people look right past you like you’re part of the damn wallpaper.”
Gina rolls her eyes so hard, because of course Richie would say something that stupid. “Wow, Richie. Real original. You talk to your parole officer with that mouth?”
Jan snorts, a laugh she tries and fails to smother. Richie doesn’t appreciate it.
“Oh, look at this one,” he fires back, voice rising. “Always runnin’ her mouth. Maybe if you weren’t such a tight-ass, you’d have someone knockin’ on your door. Instead of you knockin’ on ours.”
Gina flicks ash onto the linoleum, unbothered. “Right… Because every girl dreams of a guy who uses his girlfriend’s dorm as a stash spot.”
The door goes dead quiet. Then Jan hisses, “Gina!”
“What?” Gina shrugs, tapping her cigarette. “It’s not like the RA doesn’t already know someone’s keeping ‘oregano’ in here. The whole floor smells like a Grateful Dead concert.”
Richie’s tone shifts to one defensive, sharp, door pushed open to square up at Gina. “I don’t keep nothin’ here. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Oh please,” Gina says, leaning her head back against the wall. “You think I didn’t see you shoving that baggie behind Jan’s psych textbooks last week? Real subtle, Einstein.”
Jan groans. “Gina, please-”
“No, no, let her talk,” Richie barks. “Little miss perfect wants to act like she’s better than everybody. Like she ain’t from the same block as us.”
Gina stands, brushing off her flared jeans. “Difference is, Richie, I’m trying to get out of the block. Not bring it with me in my underwear drawer.” Another beat of silence. Then Jan’s hand appears again, sock dangling like a white flag.
“Alright, enough,” she says, exasperated. “Both of you. Jesus. Richie, put your shirt back on. Gina, stop antagonizing him. And for the love of God, can we just… figure this out before someone calls campus security?”
Gina crosses her arms. “I’ll figure it out when you let me into my own damn room.”
Jan sighs. “Five minutes?”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Fine.”
The sock disappears. The door clicks shut. Gina takes another drag, muttering to herself.
Richie had been prowling near the door for the last few minutes, pacing like a dog that smelled rain. He kept adjusting his jacket, tapping his fingers against the frame, glancing at Gina with that simmering irritation he never bothered to hide. Finally, with a sharp tug, he yanked his coat off the chair and shrugged into it. “I’m goin’,” he muttered, already halfway into the hall. But he paused, turning just enough to let his eyes drag over Gina. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, thin and mean, the kind that always made her skin prickle.
“Do yourself a favour, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and oily. “Keep an eye on her while I’m gone..” He didn’t wait for a reaction. The door slammed behind him, hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Gina let out a slow exhale, shoulders loosening as if Richie’s presence had been a weight pressing between her shoulder blades. She rubbed her palms down her jeans, grounding herself, then turned to Janice with a softness in her eyes. “You do know he’s an asshole, right?” she said quietly, looking Jan up and down in a way that had become all too familiar, checking for any sign of bruising.
Janice rolled her eyes, but her gesture lacked conviction. “He’s… complicated.” Gina stepped closer, her voice lowering, warm and steady. “Yeah. So’s a gas leak. Doesn’t mean you should stand next to it with a match. I worry about you with him.”
Janice huffed a laugh, small, unwilling, but real. Gina smiled at that, nudging her shoulder lightly, the way she always did when she wanted Janice to feel safe, not judged. “I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do,” Gina said, softer now but deliberate. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. Not by him. Not again.”
Janice’s gaze faltered, something vulnerable surfacing before she could hide it. “I know,” she murmured. “I know you’re lookin’ out for me.”
“Always,” Gina said. No drama, no lecture, just the truth, worn smooth by months of pulling each other out of the wreckage. That was just college, right? And for a moment, the room felt warmer. Quieter. Like the storm Richie and New Jersey left behind couldn’t touch them here.
A few days later, the dorm was back to its usual state, half‑cleaned mugs on the windowsill, textbooks spread open with spines cracked, and the faint smell of burnt incense clinging stubbornly to the curtains. Gina and Janice sat cross‑legged on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and half‑finished notes, the soft scratch of pens the only sound in the room. Outside, the late‑afternoon light slanted gold through the blinds, striping their pages in warm bars of sun.
Gina was mid‑sentence, something about the exam on Monday, when the door banged open hard enough to rattle the hinges.
A lumbering boy stood in the doorway, all broad shoulders and restless energy, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to fit inside his own size yet. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, wearing adulthood awkwardly, the way a child wears his father’s coat.
Janice’s little brother was tall. Taller than she'd expected from the photos on Jan's wall of the little boy with buck teeth peeking out from a mischievous smile. That last part hadn't changed all that much from what she could gather, taking in the boy with the Cheshire Cat's grin in front of her.
Tony Soprano. The brother she’d heard so much about filled the doorway like it was built too small for him. His letterman jacket clung to linebacker shoulders, the fabric creasing where muscle met habit. His flared jeans were worn pale at the knees and scuffed at the hems, swallowed by a pair of battered All Stars that made his stance look heavy, almost clumsy, a body still learning its own strength.
Janice had only really told her two things about her brother: he was at Seton Hall, and that he was a perpetual pain in her ass. She hadn’t however mentioned the rest: the brutish, blocky frame, the way he seemed to take up all the air in the room without trying, or those soft brown eyes that didn’t match any of it whatsoever. His eyes were too wide, too doe‑like, sitting above a crooked, boyish grin that made him look, for a fleeting second, like he was still that five year old boy in the photo on Jan’s wall.
Tony quirked his head into the dorm room, taking Gina in with a glint that was half‑curious, half‑smartass. He had Jan’s same warm brown eyes, she noticed, which set a warmth in her chest she found hard to ignore.
“Hey Jan. What’s all this crap?” he said, waving a hand at the open textbooks, highlighters, and half‑cold mugs scattered across the floor. “You two havin’ a… what, study date? Jesus, Jan, you really know how to have a wild Saturday night.”
He snorted, stepping fully inside like he owned the place. “Look at this. Books everywhere. Notes. Christ. You stayin’ up late whisperin’ about… I dunno, philosophy and boys?” He smirked, then flopped down onto Jan’s bunk with the graceless confidence of someone who’d never once asked permission to sit anywhere in his life.
“Oh c’mon, Ton’. At least take your shoes off—”
“Ma wants you to visit. Sent me out here to ‘remind you to visit the woman who spent twelve hours pushin’ out all eight pounds of your sorry ass.’” He jeered, making a shrill voice that you could only imagine was supposed to be their mother, Livia, before turning to Gina with a boyish quirk to his brow, “Even said you could bring ‘that mouse of a dormmate’ of yours.” His eyes flicked over her, quick but curious. “So I’m guessin’ you’re Gina?”
At this Janice unceremoniously chucks a sneaker at the boy's head “Can it, Ton’. Don't be a jerk,” muttering curses under her breath whilst he only laughed harder, sprawled comfortably across the bed like he owned the place, hands folded behind his head.
“Car’s outside,” he said, rubbing the spot where the sneaker hit with exaggerated drama. “So you better pack a bag. You’re lucky Ma didn’t send Uncle Junior,” Tony says, eyes cast down with a teasing glint. “He’d have hauled you back to Newark by your ear. Still says his wallet’s lighter every time you visit.”
Janice muttered something murderous under her breath and stomped off toward the bathroom to gather her things.
Tony rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, “Jesus Christ,” watching Jan slump into the bathroom to collect her things. Gina presses her cigarette between her lips, trying to smother the grin threatening to break through. Tony was just like Janice, it seemed, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Tony catches the smile anyway. His gaze flicks to her again, slower this time. Like he was sizing her up.
“So,” he ponders, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees, “you really live with my maniac of a sister?”
“Unfortunately,” Gina answers dryly.
Janice gasps, sticking her head out of the door for a flash. “Traitor.”
“C’mon,” Gina says, giving her a knowing look. “I finally got that Hare Krishna guy to quit stopping by every morning, and then your incense goes and almost torches our curtains last week.”
“That happened one time.”
“Three times.”
Tony laughs at that, a real one, rough around the edges, young in a way he probably hated that lights up his whole face.
“See? This is what I’m talkin’ about,” he chuckles, pointing at Gina like she’d cracked it. “She’s normal. You could learn somethin’.”
Janice hurls a balled-up shirt at him, “I am normal, asshole.”
“Yeah, alright. Enlightenment by arson, huh?” Tony mutters, “Hare Hare, Krishna Krishna, whatever the hell it was. Ma thought she’d joined a cult. I told her no, cults got better fashion sense. Jan out there looking like a traffic cone.”
Janice huffs, crossing her arms like she’s bracing for more.
Gina, meanwhile, just raises her eyebrows, clearly used to this level of chaos with Jan.
Tony shakes his head, still grinning. “I’m tellin’ you, Gina, you should’ve seen her. Bells, robes, the whole thing. She’s out there chantin’ at sunrise like she’s tryin’ to summon the school bus.”
“Tony,” Janice snaps, “you don’t know anything about spiritual practice. It was a beautiful, transformative time in my life. Sorry if that threatens you.”
“Yeah, okay, Guru Jan. Whatever you say…cough all three weeks of your life.”
Gina snorts a quick, involuntary sound and Tony’s head turns toward her like he’s just noticed something interesting.
“Oh, she laughs,” he drawls, pointing at her again, but softer this time. “See, Jan? Some people gotta sense of humor.”
Gina shrugs, leaning against the dresser. “I mean… you did look like a traffic cone.”
Tony barks out another laugh, delighted. “Thank you! Thank you. Finally, someone in this place with eyes.”
Janice groans. “Unbelievable. You two deserve each other.”
Tony ignores her completely, his attention sliding back to Gina. “So what’s your story, huh? You livin’ with this one on purpose, or you lose a bet?”
Gina smirks. “Rent’s cheap. And she’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining,” Tony echoes, amused and nodding his head. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.”
Janice throws her hands up to protest. “I’m right here!”
Neither of them look at her.
Gina steps around the clutter carefully, setting her books onto her desk before crouching near the tiny cooler. “You want a beer?” she asks absently, glancing over her shoulder.
Tony looks mildly surprised by the offer, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Sure.”
She tosses him one and he catches it one-handed without thinking.
“Football player,” Janice says flatly, noticing the small amused smile growing on her friend's face. “Don’t encourage him. His ego’s already terminal.”
Tony smirks, cracking the can open against the edge of the desk.
“So you go to NYU too?” he asks, eyes finding Gina’s again not just looking this time, noticing.
She shakes her head. “Scholarship. Different program.”
That stops him. His eyebrows lift, impressed in a way he doesn’t bother hiding.
“No shit?”
She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”
Tony lets out a low whistle, leaning back a little as he looks at her — really looks at her.
“Smart and puts up with Janice,” he exclaims, impressed. “You’re a saint.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Gina replies. “She’ll start charging me rent.”
Again, that laugh of his.
He chuckles, that rough, almost childish sound, and when his gaze settles on her, it lingers. A beat too long. Warm. Curious. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone like her ended up in his sister’s orbit.
From the hallway Janice groans loudly.
“Oh my God, don’t start flirting in front of me, I’ll throw up.”
Tony snatches up a sneaker before she can throw it. “Who’s flirtin’?”
“You got that stupid face you make.”
“I got one face!”
“You absolutely do not.”
Gina laughs despite herself, and Tony’s eyes flick toward her immediately at the sound like he’s been waiting for it. His grin softens for just a second, something gentler slipping through before he looks away again.
Janice clattered around in the bathroom, muttering curses at the universe. Tony leans back on the bunk, his attention drifting toward Gina once more. Not the quick, sizing‑up glance from earlier, this one lingers, like he’s trying to match the girl in front of him to whatever picture he had in his head.
“You know,” he starts, voice dropping into something almost private, “Jan talks about you a lot.”
Gina turns her head, caught off guard. “She does?”
He nods, a small, crooked grin tugging at his mouth as he huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Yeah. I figured you’d be… I dunno. Different.” His eyes flick over her again, lingering on her mouth before he catches himself.
“But she sure left out the part about that smile of yours.”
It’s clumsy and hardly smooth, the kind of compliment he probably didn’t plan on saying out loud. And for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, like he’s not sure what she’s going to do with it.
Gina feels it immediately, that tiny, traitorous spark low in her chest. A warm buzz she absolutely shouldn’t have for her best friend’s little brother.
But he wasn't really Jan's 'little' brother. He was tall. And big. Very big. And cute. She thinks to herself internally kicking herself. Gina looks away, though not before her gaze slips to his mouth. Stupid. Obvious.
And he notices.
Of course he does.
She feels the smile he’s talking about tugging at her mouth, and that only makes everything worse. Heat creeps up the back of her neck and she drops her gaze, pretending to fuss with the hem of her sleeve. Her eyes flick, just for a heartbeat, to his lips as he presses them together, like he’s trying not to grin too wide.
Tony’s eyes soften, quietly delighted, and the air between them tightens, charged with something neither of them names.
Before Gina can say anything back, Janice reappears with a bag slung over her shoulder, completely oblivious to whatever just passed between them.
“Alright, let’s go before Ma has a coronary.”
Tony straightens up fast, clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon.” He grabs her bag without being asked and heads for the door. Gina slips on her jacket and follows them down the stairwell, Janice complaining about the cold while Tony pretends not to hear her.
Outside, the streetlights buzz faintly over Tony’s car parked crooked at the curb. He swings open the back door for Janice with exaggerated chivalry, then glances at Gina over the roof, that same warm, lingering look, like he’s still trying to figure her out.
“Shotgun’s yours,” he calls over, casual on the surface, but not really.
She slides into the passenger seat.
He smiles, small and involuntarily before turning the key. The engine rumbles to life. New Jersey waits, and a quiet unease settles under Gina’s ribs, the sense that this weekend might change more than she’s ready for.
This has been purely for my own enjoyment and I have a skeleton of a plot mapped... so watch this space!
I want you to know it doesn’t matter if you think your art or your writing is bad because there will always be people who are just happy someone is making content for the thing they like, especially in a small fandom
I'm disappointed in the lack of tony soprano fanfics there are on this site or anywhere, like i know the show is almost 30 years old but !!!!!! He's THE DADDIEST OF ALL DADDIES and i feel you pervs are sleeping on him
He went to therapy and caught feelings instead of accountability, weaponised emotional repression, “say something real” (he will not), freud is somewhere rolling in his grave, this is what happens when you intellectualise your problems for six seasons, no one is happy here and that’s the point, i made the fire symbolism everyone’s problem~
Summary: Somewhere between memory and dreams, Tony Soprano finds himself sitting on the wrong side of the room. Dr. Melfi is his patient.
The office is almost the same, but not quite. The boundaries are still there, carefully constructed, quietly suffocating. Only this time, he’s the one enforcing them.
Her office is wrong.
Tony knows it in that instinctive, dream-like way, where recognition comes before logic has a chance to catch up with him. The desk beneath his hands is solid, familiar and expensive in a way that’s meant to impress, but everything around it feels softened, as if the room itself has been sanded down at the edges.
The walls are painted that same muted beige he associates with her, patience and restraint, the kind of color that makes people lower their voices without realising they’re even doing it. There a painting hung on the wall, muted colours showing a farmhouse with a tree rotted out to the core. There’s a couch where there shouldn’t be a couch, angled just slightly toward him, and a low table with a square box of tissues placed carefully at its edge.
And then there’s the fireplace.
That’s the part that doesn’t belong anywhere near this version of reality, and yet somehow it’s the most solid thing in the room. It’s built into the wall like it’s always been there, flames burning low and steady, casting a restless light that shifts across the furniture like the turning of a kaleidoscope.
Two distinct flames rise from the same bed of coals, separate and alive in their own way, but always leaning toward one another, drawn together in a way that never quite resolves itself. Every now and then the kindling spits under the heat, potential crackling in the room as it always had done between them for almost five years now.
Tony finds himself gazing into flames longer than he should. But then that uneasy awareness settles in. The logic of the dream.
Right. He isn’t Tony anymore.
He straightens slightly in the office chair, adjusting his posture with a kind of unconscious mimicry, folding his hands together in his lap in that deliberate way. The way she always did.
Here, he was Dr Soprano.
Across from him, his patient Jennifer Melfi sits on the couch.
At first, she looks exactly the way she has for a long time now, not dramatically broken and not visibly unraveling, but worn in a way that seems to have settled into her over years. It shows the most clearly within her eyes, in the quiet heaviness there, and in the way she holds herself just a little too tightly, as if she’s constantly bracing for something that never quite arrives. Her hands are clasped together in her lap, fingers pressed firmly enough that the knuckles have gone pale, and her gaze is fixed on the fire rather than on him.
“Please, take your time,” he finds himself say, in a voice a far cry from his own. This voice was calm, even, carefully measured in a way that feels like an imitation of her.
Inside though, a thought came to him unfiltered.
Jesus, she looks exhausted. Is the look on her face my fault? I'd never ever hurt her. She knows that. Doesn't she?
There’s a pull in him to say it, to break whatever script he’s supposed to be following. He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to keep doing this, that maybe she should step away from all of it for a while, go somewhere quiet, someplace where she doesn’t have to carry other people’s weight on her shoulders.
But that's what Tony would do. That isn’t what Dr. Soprano does.
“I’ve been thinking about… boundaries,” she muses, testing the words in her mouth.
Of course you have, he thinks, though his expression doesn’t change as he nods steadily.
“Go on.”
She takes a slow breath before continuing, choosing each word carefully. “There are moments - lapses, really, where I feel my judgment is compromised.”
Those words land with a familiar weight that he feels in the bottom of his stomach.
“And what do you think is causing that?” he prods, leaning back in the chair to study her.
She hesitates, and in that pause, the fire in the mantle shifts and cracks once again. One of the flames bends toward the other, stretching thin as if it’s reaching out for the other before drawing back again.
“I think,” she says, her voice restricted and quieter, “that I’ve developed an attachment.”
Tony remains still, though something in him tightens in his chest.
“An attachment to…?”
Now she looks at him with those piercing green eyes. Something about it feels off, though it takes him a moment to understand why. It isn’t wrong exactly, but it feels unstable, like the image isn’t fully settled in his mind's eye.
“To you.”
The words tumble out so easily, but they don’t lose any impact because of it. Tony leans forward slightly, resting his elbows against his knees in a posture that feels so clinical and unnatural to him.
“Tell me what that means to you.”
She shifts on the couch, and this time her hands loosen just a fraction, to worry the nail bed of her finger.
“It means I think about you outside of our sessions,” she says, “more than I should. I find myself wondering about you- your life, your choices, whether or not you’re…” She pauses briefly. “…happy.”
The word almost draws a reaction out of him, something close to a bitter laugh, but he holds it back.
Happy? He thinks to himself, You told me, my Mother was incapable of experiencing joy. Those putrid Soprano genes that I carry with me every day.
As she speaks, something begins to change.
At first it’s subtle enough that he questions whether he imagined it completely, but the longer he watches, the clearer it becomes. The light from the fire catches her face differently, smoothing out the lines that have settled there over time, easing the tension that usually sits in her expression. The heaviness in her eyes seems to lift, not all at once, but in increments, as if something is slowly being peeled away layer by layer.
“You’re describing a common phenomenon,” he says, reciting the words she'd said to him all those years ago, keeping his voice steady. “Transference. It’s not unusual for patients to-”
“I know what transference is, I told you, remember?” There’s an edge to her interruption, but it’s not the same edge he’s used to. It’s sharper, less worn down by repetition and fatigue.
The flames in the fireplace brighten just slightly, reflecting in her eyes with a flash.
“I care about you,” she declares.
Now the change is undeniable.
She looks younger.
Not in a clean or consistent way, but in flickers, as though the dream itself can’t fully commit to one version of her. One moment she is the woman shaped by years of sitting across from him, carrying the weight of everything he has brought into that room. The next, something in her has been lifted, leaving behind a version of her that feels lighter, less burdened. Her hair was shorter (and her skirt), a smile etched on her features like she'd uncovered a secret only he knew.
“I care about you,” she repeats, more quietly.
But he forces himself to remain composed, playing the role of doctor and patient. “Care can take many forms,” he says. “In a therapeutic setting-”
“I lo-” She stops herself.
The unfinished word hangs between them, suspended in the air like smoke. The fire surges in response, both flames rising higher and higher, twisting toward one another in a sudden, urgent motion. So close to touching, flames licking the sides of the mantle like any moment they might break free.
When she looks at him again, the shift is complete.
There she is.
The Melfi he first laid eyes on.
The Melfi he'd fallen for the first time all those years ago.
His own memories start to crackle just like the flames do.
‘I think about you all the time. I can't get excited about other women.’
There is no more hesitation in her gaze, no layered caution beneath her words, no visible weight pressing down on her from years of knowing him. It is her as she was at the beginning, before everything became complicated, before the boundaries blurred and stretched under the pressure of his psyche.
“I love you.” she says.
The simplicity of it is what makes it hit as hard as it does. It breaks his heart.
For a moment then, everything else falls away. The office, the fire, the careful structure of the roles they’re supposed to be playing…it all fades into the background, leaving only her and the certainty in her voice. Something inside of him screams out, something so instinctive and deeply buried, pushing forward with a desperate urgency to burst.
Say it back.
‘I’m in love with you. I'm sorry, that's just the way it is.’
Tell her and mean it.
But even here, even in a space that isn’t real, he doesn’t let himself do it. Just the way she had. She was always so restrained.
He draws in a slow breath. “What you’re feeling is real,” he says, his voice clipped and measured. “But it isn’t about me.”
Her expression falters, confusion and hurt breaking across her features. “It certainly feels like it’s about you.”
“I understand that,” he replies, “but we have to consider the context in which these feelings developed. The environment is controlled, structured in a way that can create-”
“But I love you.” she says again, more firmly this time.
She flickers. Young, then older, then somewhere between the two, as though both versions of her are trying to coexist at once in his head. Each one means it. All those years and the feelings never changed.
At least for him.
Tony presses his hand more firmly against his knee, grounding himself in the sensation.
Stop the fucking script.
Say something real.
Just once.
“It can create the illusion of intimacy,” he says instead.
The younger version of her recoils in disgust slightly, while the older version simply looks tired, as though she has heard something like this before.
“So you don’t feel anything?” she asks, her voice breaking on that last syllable.
The question cuts through everything else.
Inside, the answer comes immediately.
Yeah. I do.
I feel so fuckin’ much that I can't bear it.
But he buries it.
“My feelings aren’t the focus,” he says quietly. “What matters is helping you understand yours in a way that doesn’t cause harm.”
She lets out a small, hollow breath. “This feels like harm.”
“I’m sorry.” he says, and this time the sincerity isn’t so manufactured.
Behind her, the fire begins to strain, the two flames pulling apart now, stretching thinner and thinner as if something is forcing them away from each other. The oxygen in the room is thinning.
“I wish things were different,” she whispers, gazing at the flames, now becoming dimmer and dimmer and placing the room into twilight. For a brief moment, she is young again when she says it, and that fleeting return of hope is what unsettles him the most, because that version of her still believes in the possibility of something better. A possibility that she could help him, that maybe they could work out; one day.
The words echo in his head:
‘I'm a man. You're a woman. End of story.’
Tony feels his throat tighten, his head pounding from the dream. But all he does is nod, “It’s important to accept reality as it is.”
Even to him, the words sounded cold. The flames collapse inward abruptly, merging into a single, uneven light that flickers weakly against the walls of the mantle.
She stands, and as she rises, the transformation resolves itself completely. By the time she is fully upright, she is older again, the years restored to her face and posture diminished like a familiar weight settling back into place. That distance between them returns just as cleanly, reestablishing itself as something firm and immovable.
A diamond pin rests on her lapel.
She doesn’t look at him, “Thank you, Doctor.” Her voice composed and professional, stripped of everything that came before.
A firm handshake. And that was that.
She exits, the door closes behind her with a soft, final click leaving him alone staring at the fireplace.
The single flame flickers once, striving for life against all odds, then suffocates leaving only ashes behind.
‘After all the complaining and the crying and all the fucking bullshit… Is this all there is?’
Tony wakes from the dream with a sharp inhale, his body jerking slightly as if he has been pulled back from somewhere far too deep. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is, only that it’s cold in a way that doesn’t belong to any place he would call his own. The air feels thinner, unfamiliar, carrying none of the comforts of home. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his throat, and his under shirt clings to his skin with the dampness of his sweat.
It's then he becomes aware of the weight in his arms.The rifle pressed tightly against his chest, his hands wrapped around it with an instinctive grip that never loosened, even in his sleep. The metal is cool, solid, real in a way that cuts cleanly through any of the lingering fragments of the dream.
The safe house.
Right.
The memories return in pieces, sharp and incomplete. The tension that had been building, the sense that something was closing in around him, the moment where it all finally turned explosive, and then the aftermath.
No Carmela.
No AJ.
No Meadow.
They'd all gone into witness protection.
The boys were all dead, except for maybe Paulie. Fuckin’ traitor.
There’s nothing.
No one.
No movement outside the room, no distant voices, no indication that anyone else exists within the same space. Just silence, heavy and complete.
Tony stares up at the ceiling, taking in the cracks that run through it, the faint stains of mould that suggest this place has been used and abandoned more than once. None of it belongs to him, and none of it is meant to.
And despite himself, his thoughts circle back.
Not to the business. Not even to his own family.
But to her.
Not as she is now, but as she had looked in that first meeting. She was so beautiful, so certain she could help him, and untouched by the years that followed. The version of her that hadn’t yet been worn down by the weight of listening, by him, by everything that came with sitting across from him week after week.
He exhales slowly, the sound barely audible in the stillness.
What if?
The thought comes quietly, but once it’s there, it lingers. Like cinders burning, left behind in a fireplace. There was a time something might have been.
‘You have a nice face.’ Her voice echoes in his mind like it was yesterday.
What if he had pushed harder, earlier, before things settled into the cruel shape they took? What if he had said something real instead of circling around it, hiding behind the same defenses he always used? What if they had met differently, not in that office, not bound by rules and expectations, but somewhere else entirely, somewhere that didn’t come with all the misery?
He can almost picture it. A version of her that laughs more easily, that isn’t holding herself together quite so tightly. A version of him that isn’t constantly bracing for the next thing to go wrong, or the next threat to emerge from the edges of his life.
Something quieter.
Something simpler.
Soft, and gentle… like a mandolin.
But even as the image forms, it starts to dissolve, because he knows, on a level deeper than anything he could ever put into words, that it was never really an option. Not for him, not Johnny Soprano's son. Not with the life he built, not with the choices that shaped everything that came after.
That kind of life belongs to someone else.
Not to him.
His grip on the rifle tightens slightly, grounding him in the present, in the weight and reality of what is actually in front of him. The metal presses back against his chest, solid and unyielding, a far cry from the soft illusions of her.
The room remains silent.
No fire burning, no voice, no trace of her.
All that was left was the bitter understanding settling in without resistance, that whatever might have been exists only in the space his mind creates when it has nowhere else to go.
Pairing: Dunk x Tanselle (Modern AU)
Warnings: None for this teaser - will be updated for the full fic.
Summary: For the @hotd-bigbang prompt meme challenge - I chose the prompt "first love".
“Took you long enough,” Tanselle said, looking up from where she sat, her back leaned against the trunk of the elm tree.
Dunk smiled apologetically, holding up a plastic bag by way of explanation; the glass bottles inside clinked noisily, the weight of them causing the carrier bag handles to dig painfully into his fingers, turning the undersides red and swollen. He didn’t even feel it, not when his heart pounded like a drum against his ribs and knots furled and unfurled ceaselessly in his belly.
Full fic coming May 9th.
She saw you in a storm cloud... @in-a-mountain-pool - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
