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tropes-and-tales · 1 month ago

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Kind of a Sh*thead

(Rhett Abbott x F!Reader)

CW: Angst; family-type healing; allusions to and threat of violence; bit of fluff at the end.

Word Count: 5256

AN: This was originally requested by @elegantmusicdragon from a long-ago Christmas prompt list: "trying to hide their sadness during the christmas celebration" from the sad christmas prompts? Definitely angst...maybe with a little hope at the end?"

AN: This is the next piece in the "Mending Fences" miniseries, found here.

It will shame Rhett in the future, how long it takes for him to realize what has happened.

That night at the bar, he sat waiting for you: nursing a beer, his eyes on the door, ready to get a little loose with you and maybe head out to the open range and fool around.

Then Maria appeared in front of him. Like magic. Like an angel spirited back to Wabang and right in front of him. It threw him off completely, his world tilting sideways He found himself dazzled by the fact that the girl he pined over for years was suddenly in front of him, smiling, laughing, touching his arm and squeezing his bicep while he subtly flexed it under her fingers.

It wasn’t until last call that Rhett surfaced for a moment, the spell lifting for long enough to remember he was supposed to meet you, yet you were nowhere to be found.

She must have been held over late at work, he reasoned, and even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie.

It will shame Rhett in the future, but it will take months before he really feels that shame. He’ll find out you left early for school, but by then, he will be entirely wrapped in the magic of Maria, dumb with lust and love that he thinks is finally reciprocated. He'll send you a handful of texts, bland little things that you read but don’t respond to.

Months later, when Wabang is sliding fast to a cold winter and Maria is gone again, disappeared as quickly as she appeared, Rhett will feel shame.

And you’ll be long gone.

*****

Wyatt wishes he knew what he was doing. Hell, he’d be happy for an inkling.

When his sister and brother-in-law died, he didn’t even hesitate to step up and take his niece in. No brainer. Blood is blood, but Wyatt loved his sister something fierce, and taking you in was like holding on to a part of her even if she was gone.

Didn’t hurt that Wyatt loved you for you. That he had loved you from the first time his sister set you in his arms, a bundle only a few days old. You’d set your wide eyes on him and blinked sleepily, then puked up a torrent of milk on him that reeked something fierce.

Love at first sight, it was.

But hell, love wasn’t enough, was it? What did he know about raising a little girl? What did he know of walking that tricky line between being overprotective and being too blasé, of giving you space but making you feel safe?

Cecilia had stopped over a lot in the beginning, had soothed his fears. Had reassured him that love was enough, that he was doing a good job. He was kind and well-meaning, and you had been a smart kid who became a smart woman, and on the balance, he would have agreed with Cecilia and said he did alright.

Nothing about this feels alright, though.

Wyatt always guessed it was Rhett Abbott who left you stranded at that hotel when you were a senior in high school. Little fucker skulked around that entire summer, scampered away like a cat with a lit tail when he saw Wyatt coming. Something had happened between the two of you.

When you came back to Wabang finally, you took up with the little fucker again, and Wyatt thought maybe he had been unkind. Ungenerous. He tried to be nicer to Rhett, but the kid barely ever met his eyeline.

What the hell, Wyatt thought. The Abbotts can be a squirrelly bunch. As long as he doesn’t hurt her.

All those years ago at the hotel, Wyatt was never sure who it was that left you stranded and tear-streaked. This time, though?

You confirmed it that evening when you got home, eyes unseeing as you charged past him, thundered up the stairs, started packing. When he confronted you, you burst into tears and spilled the entire sorry affair.

You and Rhett, hanging out all summer. You in love, and Rhett…not. Not with you, anyway.

Wyatt wasn’t stupid. When you said hanging out, he could guess what you meant.

Seeing his niece hurt like that made him see red, but he has a modicum of maturity, which means he bides his time in most things.

*****

Maria’s been gone for months.

You’ve been gone for longer.

Winter in Wyoming is no joke. Wabang gets less snow than other parts, but the wind cuts marrow-deep, and the days are short, grey affairs. The holidays could be a break from the doldrums, but Royal has been on a tear lately, lighting into Rhett for every little thing, so Thanksgiving, then Christmas are tense and joyless.

For the first time in his life, Rhett truly considers his future. What his life may look like in five, ten, twenty years. Will he always wake to grey mornings that sit on his chest like a stone? Will he become bitter and mean, the way his father has despite having a wife and sons and a granddaughter?

He sends you texts. Little one-liners, asking how you are, saying he misses you. He tries to feel you out, but you leave him on read and never respond.

Once, he gets blisteringly drunk and tries to call. You don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a message.

By now, the shame has settled into him and made itself at home.

He can guess that you came by the bar that night. He can guess that you saw him and Maria, and that’s what caused you to flee. Layered on top of the shame is an annoyance with you and your knack for running. He may be an asshole but you’re a child to run and hide when shit gets tough.

Then, on top of the annoyance, another layer of shame. Of course you run. The death of your parents left you with that wound, the inability to handle hurt in a healthy way. You flee and tuck yourself in a corner, tend your wounds alone. It’s a flaw, but it’s understandable why you do it.

Rhett had been your best friend, and for the briefest summer, he was your lover too. He should have been the one person to help you work through that fear. Instead, he only cemented it further.

*****

March. The leaden skies start to take on some blue, high up in the atmosphere. The sun burns a little warmer. The barnyard thaws into a swamp, and Wyatt has to handle the anxious animals, pawing and snorting and half-mad from a winter of cabin fever.

March is a tough month, though, because you call and tell him you aren’t coming back to Wabang for the summer. You got a coveted internship with a specialty vet hospital in the city, and while Wyatt knows it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you, it’s far easier to blame that fucking asshole Abbott boy.

It’s easy to blame Rhett when Wyatt eats dinner alone each night. When he runs a vacuum over the floor of your bedroom, keeps it dust free like you may turn up any day and take your place back on the family ranch. When he studies the row of family photos on the mantle, sees his sister’s face and feels like he’s failed her in the care of her daughter.

He’s not irrational about it. He knows he has to let you fly and trust you’ll return. Vet training is a long process—it’s not like you went off to Cheyenne for a handful of bookkeeping courses. He knows, deep-down, you would have always left for your schooling.

Still, that fucking Abbott boy has built up a tab, in Wyatt’s eyes. March is when that tab comes due.

-----

He knows the boy drinks at the Double Deuces. It’s common gossip how he overdoes it and either gets ornery with the Tillerson’s or pukes himself silly in the parking lot. There’s whispers of the fights between Royal and the boy, how the elder Abbott is tired of bailing out his youngest son, though no one would ever accuse Royal of having any patience, especially where Rhett is concerned.

If it were anyone else—any other dickhead young buck—Wyatt would chuckle in sympathy. He used to do the same when he was younger. He knows what the Wabang drunk tank looks like. Hell, maybe his name is still there—he scratched it into the pea-green paint of the wall decades back to commemorate his first overnight stay.

But Wyatt doesn’t confront Rhett at the Double Deuces. He doesn’t seek him out at all.

Rhett comes to him.

It’s a Saturday night, and Wyatt is lazing in front of the TV, watching the recaps of the week’s basketball games. He’s half-asleep when he hears the heavy, scuffing tread of boots on his porch, then a thumping fist at the door.

When he peeks out of the window to see who it is, it’s the fucking asshole. Rhett sways unsteady on his feet. Wyatt opens the door, and he can smell the reek of cheap beer and brown liquor. When he peers out farther, he can see where the fucking asshole parked his truck, half in the driveway and half in the yard, the tires sunk deep in the soft spring turf.

“You drive here like that?” Wyatt asks, though it’s obvious.

The kid nods.

Wyatt sighs, scrubs his hand over his jaw. “Tell me you came from next door. Tell me you were drinking at home and not out on the roads fucking loaded.”

Rhett stares at him, his eyes bleary and blood-shot, his blinks slow and deliberate. “Came from t’bar,” he slurs.

“Fucking prick.” Wyatt breathes it out.

His vision wavers for a moment, the rage that courses through him is so hot and sudden. He moves towards the kid just as Rhett sways towards him, and in a blink, Wyatt finds his hands on him, his sweat-dampened t-shirt twisted in his fists. This close, the beer fumes make his eyes water, and when Wyatt studies the kid’s face, he sees blank stupefaction.

“You fucking little prick.” He pivots, turns, hauls Rhett away from the front door, down off the porch. He half-drags, half-carries him, and once they are on the soft grass of the front yard, Wyatt shoves him away.

“Stupid, selfish. So fucking selfish.” The rage feels good, like a narcotic in his veins. “You could have killed someone, driving like this.”

“I didn’t…” Rhett sways on his feet, struggles to get his balance. “Didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t t-think—”

Wyatt is on him again, his hands firm on Rhett’s chest as he shoves him in earnest, sends the kid stumbling back on his ass. “You never fucking think, do you? Jesus fucking Christ, my sister…her husband…they were killed by a fucking drunk driver, and you have the fucking balls to…you asshole…you fucking piece of shit. You—”

But he can’t even finish. His sister and brother-in-law, your parents. Years ago now, but the pain is still fresh, a keen edge of a knife blade that takes his breath away. It was after a rodeo, a random Saturday. One stupid fucking decision and Wyatt lost his family, you lost your parents, and the rest of the world had the bad taste to keep on going.

There’s a roadside memorial on the road out of Wabang that marks the site of the crash. It makes that knife blade of grief twist in Wyatt’s gut every time he sees it.

Anger—rage—is such a close neighbor to grief. Grief is something one has to feel, but anger? That’s something to embrace, to lean into. To do.

Wyatt advances on Rhett, his big fists opening and closing as the kid struggles to get back on his feet. Wyatt wants to beat the shit out of him, wants to see him bruised and bloodied on the ground: for hurting you years ago, for hurting you more recently, and now this. For taking his life and the life of anyone else on the road into his own stupid, selfish hands.

Rhett manages to find his knees, and he kneels in the grass but can seem to get no further. Wyatt towers over him.

“Get up,” he orders. His voice is low, deadly, and his tone must penetrate the booze-fog because the kid tilts his head up and looks at him.

“Get up,” he repeats. “Get up and face it like a man.”

Rhett only manages a dumbfounded, “huh?”

“You wanna drive a big truck like a big man? Drink at the Double D’s like a big fucking man? You wanna fuck around with my niece and break her fucking heart like a big man? So stand up and take what’s coming to you like a man.”

The kid seems to track Wyatt’s meaning. His bleary eyes clear a fraction and fix on where Wyatt’s fists wait, eager to offer some payback for his sins. Rhett nods, as if to himself, and he takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes, opens them. He struggles to stand, staggers a little, but eventually finds his feet.

“Make it her.” It comes out one slurred word, makeither, and Wyatt’s anger cools by the barest degree. He unclenches his fists, holds them looser.

“What the fuck you trying to say?”

Rhett coughs, sways. Coughs again, then enunciates, clarifies.

“Make it hurt. Make sh…sure. Make sure it hurts.”

Wyatt’s fists uncurl more. “Now what are you—”

“Am. Piece of shit. I am.” The kid sways more but takes a wide step, braces his legs wide to keep himself upright. “Y’right. Imma piece a’shit.”

As quickly as Wyatt’s rage came on him, it flees him just as fast. He sees it just as clear as day, how Rhett Abbott ain’t a man. He’s just a boy playing at it, fucking up as he goes. Wyatt knows as well as anyone the sort of father the kid has, Royal Abbott is no model of what a man should be.

The kid standing in front of him is just a hurt animal: hurt by his own father, hurt by his own behavior because he has no idea how to not take out his hurt on others.

He waves his hand at the kid, a dismissive gesture, and he starts to turn away. He is halfway back to the house when he hears the kid coming for him, feels the weak glancing blow of the punch that has no aim or power because the kid is too drunk.

He wants to be punished, he thinks as he turns back around to face Rhett. He knows Royal is hard on his youngest son, can guess that the kid’s been knocked around plenty. His own father…well, he keeps that buried in the past, but sometimes it pops up like a bad penny. Like now.

He wants to be hurt because it’s the only thing he knows, he thinks. Like I used to.

Maybe Wyatt only fell into fatherhood because of a tragedy, but he gets more of it right than he will ever give himself credit for. He faces the kid, and when the kid comes swinging at him again, spoiling for a beat-down Wyatt will never deliver after all, Wyatt only opens his arms and lets Rhett step into them. The kid struggles for a beat but he’s drunk, and he seems tired down to his soul.

It only takes a moment for the kid to stop struggling in Wyatt’s bear-hug, then sag against him in exhaustion, then weep in dry, barking sobs that feel like they’ve been building up for his entire life. And Wyatt knows exactly what sort of pain the kid is bleeding out because it was his pain, and his sister’s too, until they both fled their unhappy childhood home and made a happier one here on this ranch.

“Christ almighty,” Wyatt says after the kid calms. He doesn’t let him go—he only gets an arm around his shoulders, and he leads him inside.

No sense sending him home to his father. He’s here now, so he might as well sleep it off on the couch.

-----

It’s less than a month before Rhett returns. Maybe a handful of weeks later, the kid turns up on Wyatt’s step, sheepish. Looking small.

Wyatt will never be clear exactly why Rhett and Royal fall out so terrifically. Who can say? The Abbotts can be squirrelly fucking assholes, back to Royal’s father and probably even further back, but Rhett finds himself kicked out with nowhere to go.

He takes the couch for a night, but the next day, Wyatt thrusts some fresh sheets in the kid’s arms and directs him to the guest room down the hall. Past your bedroom.

“Might sleep better in an actual bed,” he tells the kid, his voice gruff.

“I’ll be out as soon as I can.” Rhett’s ears burn red in shame. “Just gotta line up a place.”

“No rush.”

“Seriously, I’ll—”

“I got plenty of room. You ain’t putting me out.”

-----

Wyatt is never sure the right way to tell you that Rhett Abbott is currently crashing with him. A month passes and then another, and he starts to feel guilty that the kid who broke your heart has been living down the hall from your childhood bedroom, sitting at your kitchen table. That he parks his truck beside yours, and that he’s caught the kid—more than once—lingering by your bedroom door, lingering by your truck, like your ghost might manifest if he stands still enough.

Every time you call. Each Facetime. Wyatt wants to say something and doesn’t.

Wyatt ends up taking the coward’s way out: he sends you an email. Keeps it short and sweet, apologizes for not saying anything sooner. He alludes to the situation between father and son, but clarifies that Rhett is in no way forgiven for how he treated you. It’s just that the kid needed a soft place to land, and he had the ability to help, so he felt it was his God-given duty to do so.

But I can ask him to leave, if you want, he writes. If it makes you uncomfortable. You’ll always be my first and top priority, kiddo.

It takes you two days to reply, but that means nothing. You have a brutal schedule and often go radio silent for stretches of time. When you do reply, it makes Wyatt smile.

I can’t be mad about it, you write back. How many times did you look the other way when I brought a stray home? I guess you deserve a stray of your own. Might want to take him in for his shots though. :-)

Wyatt grins when he reads your email, then glances over at where Rhett is sitting on the couch, watching TV. The kid does act like a stray; he cringes the barest bit if Wyatt moves too suddenly or too close to him, but like a stray, he relishes the comfort of a warm home, food in his belly, and even the tamest praise.

You got a heart of gold, kiddo, Wyatt texts you, and your response is immediate.

Got it from my uncle.

-----

Through the summer and autumn, the two men fall into a rhythm. It isn’t so bad living with the kid, once he starts to get his sea-legs under him. Once he starts to feel like the bottom won’t drop out. Rhett puts in an honest day’s work on the ranch, and Wyatt pays him. The first time he presses money on the kid, he tries to push it away, embarrassed at what he thinks is more charity on top of the charity of room and board…

“You work for me, you work for me,” Wyatt said, blunt. “Means you get paid by me. Take it or leave.”

Wyatt won’t know it until years from now, when he’s an old man and Rhett has grey in his own hair, but this stretch of time—the two men working and living together—is when Rhett starts to learn how to be a man. That Wyatt is the gruff but kind, slightly awkward father-figure Rhett always needed.

There are lessons embedded in their days working the ranch. The lessons ease Rhett out of the fog of his life, the strange liminal space of being in his early twenties but still just a kid.

When Rhett royally fucks up a stretch of fencing, ruins a day of work. Wyatt only grunts, shakes his head, then claps Rhett on the back.

“You can either take the time to plan out a job, or plan on doing the job twice,” is all he says, and he guesses that Royal would have belted his son into the dirt for such an error.

When Wyatt tasks Rhett with a simple rewiring job in the barn, replacing some light fixtures, and the kid has no idea where to even start. He spends half the day sweating about it, a sick feeling churning in his stomach, until he decides to throw up the white flag and admit he has no experience working with electrical fixtures.

“Well, hell, kid. Why didn’t you say something?” Wyatt jerks his chin towards the barn. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

When at the rodeo, Rhett is tossed from the bull within seconds, a humiliating display. Afterwards, his body bruised but his ego far worse off, Wyatt only chuckles at him, says life will throw you off like that sometimes and it’s the getting back up that shows character.

“You got back up,” he tells Rhett. “That means something.”

“Means I didn’t want to get trampled,” he grumbles.

“Still means something.”

-----

Always, though, there’s the specter of you.

Wyatt catches the kid standing in the doorway of your bedroom sometimes still. Peering in at the time capsule of your stuff: the clothes you’ve left behind, the framed photos, the beat-to-shit stuffed bear on your bed.

Wyatt mentions you in passing, but he never brings up that long-ago night at the hotel or your sudden flight from Wabang the summer before. He guesses Rhett already feels terrible all the time, so why bother bringing it up and making it worse?

The kid eventually broaches the subject all on his own, just as winter descends on Wabang again. It’s been over a year since either of them have seen you in person, though Wyatt Facetimes you at least once a week.

Rhett makes himself scarce during those calls, but Wyatt’s always had the impression he’s not far off, maybe straining to make out your voice through the wall.

In early December, you break the news that you aren’t coming home for the holiday break. Wyatt would suspect that Rhett might be the reason, but your eyes practically glitter with excitement as you talk about a massive stray animal sweep you’ve helped plan, a Christmas-into-New Years take-to-the-streets movement to find and rescue as many street dogs and cats as you can. You’ve been working with local Girl Scouts to build feral cat cold-weather shelters, and you’ve been raising money and donations, and you’ve built a strong foster network, and local clinics are ready to spay and neuter and administer vaccines—

Heart of gold, indeed. It makes Wyatt tear up, first from so much pride it feels like his chest might burst, then from that knife edge of grief that his sister isn’t here to see what a force for good her daughter turned into.

When Wyatt breaks the news to Rhett later, though, the kid sorta deflates, and that’s when he brings it up himself.

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles. “She’ll never come back if I’m here.”

“Not true.” Wyatt goes to the refrigerator and snags two bottles of beer, then hands one off to Rhett. He settles in his easy chair and studies the kid. “You know she loves animals. She’ll come back eventually.”

“She hates me.”

“Nah. I don’t know if hate is something she can even feel. Dislike, maybe. Disappointment. Not hate.”

“She should hate me. I deserve it.”

And then it spills out, one clipped sentence at a time. The entire history of you two, from best friends in childhood to passing acquaintances to an awkward moment in a hotel that Wyatt now knows was not actual sex but just some fooling around that ended in cruel words. When Rhett gets to the part of the story about your summer together, Wyatt holds up a palm, says, “yeah, don’t want the details at all,” and Rhett slouches against the couch and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, you know. Sounds fucking stupid, but at the time, I didn’t even realize what I was doing to her.” Rhett glances over at the man, fixes his eyes back on the floor. “Looking back, it felt like I was sleepwalking through that summer, and now I’m awake and see all the damage I did.”

Wyatt chuckles sadly. He knows the feeling. He has his own hurt women in his past, experienced the same sort of heartless sleepwalking.

The kid shakes his head and continues. “Wasn’t worth it. Maria, I mean. I don’t even know what I saw in her.

“You were thinking with the wrong brain,” he tells Rhett. Wyatt may have no lost love for Maria Olivaries, but he’d admit she was a pretty gal. He could see why the boys went a little stupid around her.

“Wasn’t thinkin’ at all.” Rhett says your name, a sigh in his mouth, then adds, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Look.” Wyatt sets his empty beer bottle aside, leans forward. “You gotta try to make it right with her. How you square it up is up to you. Maybe she’ll forgive you, maybe she won’t, but you gotta make an honest try at it.”

“How?”

“Damned if I know. But take it from me, kid. I had a girl when I was your age, and I fucked it up completely. Even once I realized how badly I fucked up, I was too proud to try and set it right. Now it’s been years and it’s far too late. So you gotta try, so even if she never forgives you, it’ll set right in your chest that you did everything you could.”

Rhett stares at him for a long beat, then nods. Then there’s a beat of glassiness in his eyes, near-tears, that Rhett blinks away almost angrily before he turns and clears his throat.

“I don’t mean to, you know. I don’t mean to be a piece of shit,” he says, his voice rough-edged.

“Aw hell, kid.” Wyatt heaves himself out of his chair and starts to make his way back to the kitchen for another beer. He stops in front of where Rhett sits, slouched over, and he lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit,” he tells him. “I just think you’re kind of a shithead.”

Rhett snorts. “What’s the difference?”

“First one is a lost cause,” Wyatt says. “Second one is just an idiot trying to do his best. Like most of us.”

*****

Christmas day at a bachelor’s ranch is not as sad as it might seem.

Wyatt brings in a tree but they only throw some lights on it to give it a bit of cheer. They build a fire in the fireplace, exchange no gifts, settle in and watch the football games.

Christmas dinner is a pot of Wyatt’s ulcer-inducing chili and a pan of cornbread. Cecelia drops by in the morning with a plate of cookies and a handful of gifts for Rhett, but it’s just the two guys for most of the day.

Until you call to Facetime your uncle.

You take Rhett unawares; you call off-schedule. You usually call in the evening but this is the afternoon, and Wyatt mutes the football game and take the call from the couch. Rhett starts to stand up, but the man waves him to sit back down. No need to hide out like he usually does.

So Rhett gets a full accounting of your life from you directly. He can hear your voice, and you sound like you have a sore throat. You tell your uncle about your big rescue mission, how it’s bitterly cold in the city but how you’ve saved so many dogs, so many cats, and how you can’t wait to head back out after you warm up a bit.

“I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” you tell Wyatt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Your uncle glances over at Rhett, nods in his direction. “We’re doing okay for a couple of guys.”

“You decorate a tree?”

“Just string lights.”

“The prettiest part of a tree anyway. What about dinner?”

“Chili.”

You laugh, and the sound makes Rhett smile – when was the last time he heard it?

“Happy Birthday, Jesus. Here’s some indigestion,” you joke.

“Good thing the kid went to Costco and got a gallon bucket of Pepto,” Wyatt jokes back.

It draws another laugh, which makes Rhett laugh, which makes you stop and ask your uncle if Rhett is there too.

“He is,” Wyatt admits. “We’re watching the football game.”

There’s a beat of silence from you that seems to stretch out forever but is probably only a second or two.

“Merry Christmas, Rhett,” you say, and Wyatt hesitates, then tilts the screen so Rhett can see you and you can see him. He almost doesn’t want to look but he can’t help himself.

You’re smiling at him. Not as broadly as you usually smile when you’re delighted in something or someone, but it’s a medium-sized one that touches the corners of your eyes.

It’s genuine.

It’s a place to start. It’s a sliver of hope. It’s not a door slamming shut in his face but a door left ajar by a fraction, and maybe Rhett can toe it open if he can just find the right way to try and square things up with you. It’s confirmation that he’s not a piece of shit, just kind of a shithead, and if he tries his best, maybe that will be enough.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies, and if you notice the gruffness in his voice, you don’t react.

“Thanks.”

Wyatt holds his phone there a moment, starts to turn it back to him, but Rhett blurts out, “be careful out there, okay?” so Wyatt turns it back.

Your smile grows the barest bit. “Will do.” A pause. “Don’t let my uncle work you too hard.”

A toe in the door. A sliver of hope. The fire snaps in the fireplace and the string lights twinkle on the tree, and Rhett may be an idiot just trying his best, but maybe that’s enough.

“I barely work at all,” he jokes. “Gotta leave plenty of work for you when you come back.”

It makes you chuckle. It’s not a laugh, but it’s something.

“In that case, Uncle Wyatt, work him into the ground,” you joke back, and Wyatt turns his phone back to him this time, and Rhett is left with perhaps a bit more than a sliver of hope. He leans back against the couch and thinks that yes, maybe he can salvage this after all.

Maybe trying his best will be enough.

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and tales #rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott imagine #outer range

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linasofia · 2 years ago

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Le Désir

Part 3

Fandom: Pilgrimage

Relationship: Raymond de Merville x OC Cecilia

Summary: Raymond is travelling along the coast of Ireland when a storm forces him and his men to seek shelter at a remote inn. When he spots the innkeeper’s daughter, he realizes the stay has potential to be more exciting than he first thought.

Warnings: 18+

A/N: This is the final part of this fic. You can read the previous parts here.

She was warm—a lot warmer than usual—and when she tried to move in her bed, she scratched her elbow against the rough wall. There was not enough room to rotate, and her hazy mind started to slowly put things together. The warmth under the thick blanket was not only hers; she was not alone. Cecilia woke with a gasp, and a few heartbeats passed before she remembered where she was. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she noticed the large candle in Lord Raymond’s room was put out. She had no memory of seeing the knight—who snored peacefully beside her—blowing on the flickering flame. It could only mean she fell asleep before he did. Had he watched her sleep? The thought made her uneasy.

She made a new attempt to move, and this time she managed to roll to the side without getting trapped in the sheet. Lord Raymond let out a groaning sound and stirred in his sleep. Cecilia froze. He reminded her of a wild animal—a predator even—and she did not want to wake him. She was not ready to deal with his piercing gaze yet. Lord Raymond exhaled loudly and relaxed the fine muscles on his face. The traces of dirt were gone, and considering how clean he smelled when he first lowered himself over her, she assumed he visited the inn’s massive wooden tubs to refresh sometime during the previous day. Long, dark lashes framed his eyes, and even if she could not see his irises, she had no trouble remembering their unusual blue shade. Cecilia found it difficult to guess how old the knight was. His hair was dark—both on his head and chest—and his beard thick. It was still completely unaffected by age. He had the physique of a warrior at the peak of his life, but the lord was not a young, inexperienced man. Time had carved small valleys around his eyes, and when he smiled at her the previous night, they appeared deeper. She liked his smile, for it brightened his features just as the sun chased away shadows during the morning’s earliest hour. The deep scar on his face looked old, and once again, Cecilia wondered how he got it. It must, no doubt, have hurt enormously. Even if she was certain he had done far worse to many opponents, she felt a hint of pity for him. Suddenly she wanted to trace the rough line of the scar with her fingertip but she quickly pushed the idea away. Lord Raymond touched every inch of her body the night before, and she caressed a good part of him in return, but a touch like that felt too intimate. She smiled when she thought about how he admired her curves after peeling off her stockings. It was hard to believe the same gentle fingers later wrapped her braid tightly around one of his hands and firmly forced her to arch her back as he took her from behind. He seemed to have endless stamina, and as the night fell over the green hills, Cecilia was pulled into his world of desire, lust, and satisfaction. It was not strange, Cecilia thought, that she had fallen asleep in his bed. The last memory of the night was how Lord Raymond came to rest beside her and pulled her close so her back rested against his chest. His burning hot sword left traces of his silvery stream on her skin as he pressed himself against her.

Soft light seeped into the room, and Cecilia prayed it was early so nobody would realize she did not sleep in her own bed. She knew she was expected to feed the animals and then return to the main hall as soon as possible, but leaving the bed was not easy. Inch by inch, she slowly moved away from the warm body resting next to her. As quietly as she could, she then stood from the bed and collected her clothes. She had no options except to dress in the middle of the room, so she began the process while keeping an anxious eye on the soundly sleeping knight. When she was finally done tying the lacing in her dress, she proceeded to make her hair presentable. Her braid was completely destroyed after a night in the lord’s bed, and when she ran her fingers through her locks, it felt unmanageable. Cecilia let out a frustrated sigh as she tried to comb it with her fingers, and when she finally succeeded in arranging her thick copper hair into a new braid, she hoped it looked decent enough. Then she quickly walked over to the door, took a final look at the alluring man in the bed—and turned the key in the door’s lock.

A clear blue sky met Cecilia when she stepped outside. With a surprised smile, she blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust to the brightness. It felt as if the storm was a bad memory, soon to be forgotten, and only the broken branches on the ground gave witness to the incredible forces nature released over the eastern coast of Ireland. The small birds with orange chests had returned to the old apple tree, and Cecilia could hear their distressed alarm calls as she walked by on her way to the stable.

Raymond woke from a deep, satisfying sleep and found the spot next to him empty. He sighed heavily. When he fell asleep the previous night, Raymond was certain he would start the following day buried between Cecilia’s lovely thighs. If she slept with her back against him, he would have gently lifted her leg and teased her most sensitive parts before slipping through her wet folds. But if she, for some heavenly reason, slept on her stomach—Raymond grinned at the thought—he would not have bothered with the teasing. He wanted to silence her again and listen to her muffled plea as he selfishly took her one last time. Just the thought of it made the blood boil in his groins. Absently, he stroked himself and groaned as he summoned the memory of her aroused smell and the feeling of her slickness around him. With another groan he grabbed the pillow next to him and buried his nose in it. The sweet, feminine scent that made him feral last night still lingered on the fabric. Raymond inhaled deeply and felt a rush of arousal flooding his body. One thing was certain; he needed relief before he could eat his morning meal.

The horses welcomed Cecilia with curious eyes. The stable smelled of horses and straw, and as she handed out piles of hay, she could not resist thinking of the fascinating man she left while he was still sleeping. She made it from Lord Raymond’s room undiscovered, and so far, her secret was intact. A part of her longed to be back with him to be able to feel the warmth from his body and bask in his heated gaze. His embraces were overwhelming—but she liked the way he handled her—and his superior strength was both intimidating and arousing.

When all horses were fed, Cecilia stopped at Éclair’s side. The mare looked at her, then sniffed expectantly on her stretched-out hand. Cecilia smiled, pulled out the apple she was hiding in her pocket, and offered it. The horse took it gently from her hand, but then the apple was gone in the blink of an eye. Only a few loud chewing sounds were heard before Éclair swallowed the pieces. Then she inspected both of Cecilia’s hands one more time with an expectant expression in her dark eyes. When the mare realized Cecilia did not have any more treats, she turned her interest back to the hay again. Éclair had the clear contour of a saddle on her back. Dried sweat made her silky coat coarse, and Cecilia decided to go over it with the bristle brush she used on their gelding. As soon as she started brushing, the horse came to rest one of her hind legs by tilting onto the toe of the hoof. She let out a long, pleased sigh in a clear sign that she liked being cared for. Cecilia took the time with her, and when she finally was done, she patted the mare’s neck. Éclair was a sweetheart, and Cecilia had a hard time imagining the beautiful buckskin during battle.

”I thought I would find you here.” The dark voice behind her made Cecilia jump. How in heaven’s name did he get inside without her noticing? Éclair lifted her head and looked at her master as if he was truly interrupting an enjoyable moment. Hay hung from her mouth, and she kept chewing as he approached them.

Cecilia gave him a shy smile. ”Where else would I be, My Lord? The horses need their morning hay. It is my responsibility.”

”I would have prefered if you were still in my bed,” he responded with a dark smile, making Cecilia blush like the sky on a warm autumn evening.

”I thought I stayed too long, My Lord.” Her voice sounded a bit unsteady, and she bit her lip.

”Not long enough,” he groaned as he stopped by her side and placed his large hand on the horse’s back. Cecilia took a step back, unsure what to do. Lord Raymond ran his hand slowly over the now soft coat, and Cecilia could not help glancing at his fingers—the same fingers which he used to give her great pleasure the previous night. Then he turned to Cecilia.

”I promised you a reward if you took extra good care of Éclair. I can clearly see that you kept your word.” He reached for the pouch in his belt and opened it. What happened next filled Cecilia’s mouth with an unwelcome, sour taste. Lord Raymond placed two silver coins in her hand. She stared at them—it was too much. ”For your excellent service,” he said with a tone she was uncertain how to interpret. It was a possibility, of course, that he really meant the extra attention she gave his horse. But Cecilia felt dirty, just like one of those women she had heard stories about. The unfortunate ones who earned their money by taking a countless number of men to their beds. She knew it was bad enough that she had followed him to his room, but to accept payment for it—that was something completely different. Yet she knew how much her family needed the money, so Cecilia slowly closed her fingers around the coins. They burned in her hand, just as the shame on her cheeks.

”Thank you, Sire,” she mumbled as she backed away from him. “Please, excuse me, I have to go.”

For the second time in two days, she left the stable in a hurry, but this time tears stung in her eyes. The sun blinded her as she slammed the door unnecessarily hard, and she almost expected Lord Raymond to come after her. But he did not. Instead, she reached the main building undiscovered and fled to her room. She needed to be left alone, if only to pull herself together. With a tortured whine, Cecilia collapsed on her bed. She wrapped the blanket around her and buried her face in the pillow. Then she screamed as loud as her lungs allowed her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and while she pressed the pillow harder to her face, her tears wettened the soft fabric of the pillowcase. Cecilia blamed herself and her weakness for the pain in her chest. She should have known better than to listen to her body’s deepest desire. If one played with fire long enough, it was unavoidable to get burned.

Eventually, Cecilia ran out of tears, and when only quiet sobs caused her lips to tremble, she tried to collect her thoughts. Deep inside, it was not the acts of the previous night she regretted—it was the way she had reacted after Lord Raymond gave her the silver coins. She had accepted them, knowing the sum was too high for the grooming of his horse. She had accepted payment for her body. Suddenly she recalled him saying that he would not pay for her delightful company, and it made her feel even more stupid. Of course, he could say that when he handled his transfers of money so smoothly. Her skin still smelled of him, and she cursed the heated memories it awoke. Cecilia lay on the side and pulled her knees up so she could hug them. She felt lonely and exhausted. Every part of her body ached—a reminder of the rough treatment she received the night before. She lost count of how many times she saw the white light that caused her body to explode in a storm of pleasure. During the late hours, she learned that Lord Raymond possessed impressive control over his lower body.

A quiet knock on her door pulled her from her thoughts. ”Cecilia, are you in here?” Her youngest sister’s clear voice easily penetrated the thick door. It made Cecilia question how long she had stayed in her room.

”Yes,” Cecilia answered and coughed as she tried to clear her voice.

”May I come in?”

Cecilia sighed. She wanted to be alone, but she could not say that without waking the worry in Alice’s compassionate heart.

”You may,” she replied and pulled the blanket over her head. The door made a familiar squeaking sound as Alice pulled it open. Then followed her sister’s light footsteps as she walked over the wooden planks. Finally, she felt how Alice sat down and took her hand.

”Are you not feeling well?” The warm concern in her youngest sister’s voice made Cecilia’s throat tighten as if someone had put a rope around her neck. Or a hand.

”Not really, no.”

”Have you eaten? Can I get you anything?” The blanket was gently pulled from her face. ”I can tell father that you—,” Alice went silent. With a deep sigh, Cecilia met Alice's worried gaze. She knew her eyes were swollen, and there was no point in denying she had been crying. But she was not ready to share the reason behind her tears. At least not yet.

”What is wrong?” The soft words were enough to make Cecilia flinch under the weight of her self-loathing.

”It is nothing really, I am just being stupid and emotional. I already feel better.” The last part was a lie, but Cecilia tried to avoid questions. An approaching headache, as a result of her tears, started to spread at her temples.

”Is it that time of the month?” Alice suggested with a kind smile. All three sisters suffered from mood changes once a month, and they had formed a mutual understanding between them. They all knew the sacrifice their bodies had to endure.

”Yes,” Cecilia lied again. A sigh of relief left her when Alice squeezed her hand. They were necessary lies, and if it could prevent further questions from her sister, Cecilia would do it again. Alice did not continue, and it made Cecilia relax her shoulders. Neither of them spoke, and Alice stroked the upper side of her older sister’s hand.

”The cruel-looking knight and all his men are gone,” Alice suddenly said. Something in her tone caught Cecilia’s attention. ”I think it is a relief. Father made good money—I’m sure he did—but I did not like having them here. I do not trust them.”

Cecilia nodded quietly. So Lord Raymond was gone. She did not have to face him anymore, yet she was not sure how she felt about that. Alice looked at her with an uneasy expression in her eyes. Her sister seemed to hesitate as if she wanted to speak of something but was uncertain of how. A dark shadow fell over Alice’s sweet face, and it cut like a knife in Cecilia’s heart. She could sense something was wrong. Suddenly she became afraid Lord Raymond laid a hand on Alice, and it made her feel nauseous. If he did, it was her fault. She should have stayed in the stable with him and allowed him to satisfy his hunger. Her youngest sister was, as far as Cecilia knew, still untouched, but what if—

“The knight approached me when they were finished with their meal. First I was scared, thinking I did something to upset him. But he wanted to leave a message—for you. He made me promise to say this when we were alone. He wants you to know that he will take the same route again when he gets the opportunity. And he requests the same stable hand. What does he mean, Cecilia?”

Cecilia felt how the blood left her face. She knew exactly what kind of message Lord Raymond meant to send. He intended to come back—only God knows when. Cecilia deliberately bit the inside of her cheek to avoid revealing the conflicting emotions rushing through her body. She was certain Lord Raymond wanted to make his intentions known because he was convinced he had gained control over her. That she would gladly accompany him in his bed and welcome his feral behavior. Her heart raced at the thought of being trapped beneath him once more, and his scent seemed to grow stronger in her nose as if it wanted to make sure she had not already forgotten him. But he was right, she admitted, as the memories of his exploring hands made her body ache. She would gladly give herself to him again. That cruel-looking bastard was right.

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