Dahliah’s Diary⋆

The phone vibrated against the bar table, one o’clock in the morning on the dot, a thread of unreadable texts from you.

Beau was seated in the dingy bar, his hand holding a glass of whisky, his hair a mess from a day's work–he was tired as hell, deciding to wind down at the local dive, only to be interrupted by you.

He glances at his phone, eyebrows furrowing at the notification; you were spam texting him, the contact name making him swallow hard; your dad’s name followed by ‘daughter’ in brackets, your number placed in his phone for mere emergencies, and clearly it was one.

The music was loud as hell, even when you were sitting on the porch, your mind in a drunken haze, your friends ditching you, your boyfriend cheating on you. It was a fucking mess, and there was no way in hell you could phone your parents–they’d kill you if they knew where you were: a party, drinking, doing drugs, doing everything they raised you not to do.

The last contact in your phone that made some sense was Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend, somebody you grew up with, and you hope you can trust, because you’re currently phoning him.

“Beau,” you slur over the phone, sniffling, the soft noise evident over the line.

“Hey… hey… y’okay?” Beau quickly asks, holding the phone close to his ear, already leaving the bar in a hurry. “What’s goin’ on, kid? You hurt?” he presses, already climbing into his car.

“No…” You murmur, glancing over your shoulder at the front door of the house, your hand shaking. “Don’t feel good…” You add, whining softly, and Beau is shifting his car into reverse, dipping out of the parking lot.

“Where’re you? You in town, sweetheart?” he asks, hitting the empty roads, aimlessly driving down them with his phone to his ear. Despite being the town sheriff, he was breaking the law, all for you.

“Mmm… some party… a house,” you mumble, biting your lip, feeling that fuzziness only growing stronger. “I… I don’t know where, no… no idea,” you add, and he’s cursing, gripping the steering wheel with one hand.

“Can ya’ send me y’er location, darlin’? Do that f’me, stay on the phone,” Beau asks, and you nod despite him being unable to see the drunk gesture.

Your shaky hands pull the phone away from your ear, and your fingers fumble, hanging up on him, but still managing to send him the location anyway. He’s cursing again, tossing his phone in the passenger seat the minute the line goes dead, but the address soothes some part of him, and he’s going forty over.

Beau finds the address quickly, navigating the roads of the familiar town easily, and he pulls up in front of the house, his eyes widening at the sight of you. You were sitting–slumped–on the porch, wearing a tight-fitting dress, short and riding up, an oblivious look on your face as you hold your arms, shielding yourself from the bitter cold. His heart lurches, and he’s parking his Land Rover, immediately climbing out.

Other young adults spill from the front door and the backyard, giggling obnoxiously, drunkenly swearing, and he’s trying his best not to pull out his badge and bust the whole fukcing neighbourhood for drugs, and God knows what, mostly because they left you in this state.

“Darlin’, Jesus Christ,” Beau mumbles as he approaches the steps, eyes sharp and staring at you. “C’mon, need to get ya’ home, quick,” he insists, reaching for your hand.

“No… no, Beau… can’t go home,” you whine, looking up at him with those heavy, drunk eyes, and he clenches his jaw. “My parents… m’dad…” you add, shaking your head, and he nods.

“S’fine… can take you to my house, kid, c’mon,” he reassures, and you take his hand, legs wobbly when you stand, and you’re practically falling into him. He catches you.

“What the hell did ya’ drink?” Beau asks as you walk across the damp lawn, and he’s mostly dragging you; his arms holding you up, and you’re tugging down the tight dress, trying not to show off too much of your legs.

“Don’t know,” you shake your head again, your hair draping in front of your face, head drooping, and he’s sighing at the sight of you.

“Never do it again,” he mumbles, opening the car door for you and helping you inside.

You’re all dead-weight and limbless, and he’s pulling down your dress for you, his large hands moving over your thighs, buckling you in. He pauses, still ducking to peer in at you, and he turns his head to look at you; eyes half-lidded, and you’re biting your lip.

“Baby girl,” Beau says under his breath, his chest squeezing. You look terrible.

He pats your thigh, quickly shutting the door and running across to the driver’s side. When he slides in, he’s looking over at you again, his gaze lingering on the way your dress keeps riding up, the scoop of the neckline inviting unwanted eyes, and he wishes he could’ve been there to protect you from that hell.

“Beau,” you whine quietly when he begins driving, and you rest your head against the window.

“What, darlin’?” he asks, glancing over at you, holding the wheel.

“M’feel weird,” you tell him, shifting your hips against the leather seats, and he clears his throat.

“Y’er drunk, baby,” he tells you casually, looking away when he makes a right turn. “Supposed t’feel weird, that’s the point of drinkin’,” he states, clicking his tongue.

“Don’t like it,” you mumble, shifting in your seat like you can’t get comfortable.

“That’s why m’takin’ you home,” he nods, sighing quietly when he makes a left turn and he notices the grin that suddenly pulled into your lips just as he glanced away.

“Taking me home,” you repeat, laughing quietly to yourself, and he furrows his eyebrows.

“Takin’ you home,” he confirms, nodding, fingers tapping the wheel.

“Like… for sex?” you ask, turning your head to look at him, and his neck practically snaps to look at you.

He can’t blame you for the question–you’re fucking inebriated, all drowsy and your lips are pouting, practically drooling on yourself. He huffs a breath, lifting a hand to rub across his jaw.

“No, not to have sex with you,” Beau shakes his head, and he notices the smile drifting away from your lips. “Met y’er boyfriend, kid,” he mentions, like that’s the only reason he won't have sex with you.

“Yeah… mhm… ex-boyfriend,” you correct, looking out of the window at the streetlights.

Beau goes quiet, choosing not to pry when you’re vulnerable and probably on the verge of puking and crying. He taps the steering wheel, keeping an eye on you, blinking when he notices the way your hands move around, grabbing at the uncomfortable dress you just want off.

Minutes go by before his car starts pulling onto the gravel road, leading him to the trailer he lives in. It’s small, just enough for a man his age. And he’s parking it, mentally preparing himself to deal with you for the rest of the night. He glances at you, and you mumble something he can’t quite understand.

Beau is already on the other side, fishing you out of the passenger seat. He practically has you over his shoulder, but still lets your feet hit the ground. He’s using all of his strength to keep you up, and you’re whining quietly, and he closes his eyes, pushing open the front door of the trailer.

Your hazy eyes look around when he flips on a light; just a couch and a coffee table, a few stray beer cans in the kitchenette, and a tiny hallway that leads to where he sleeps. It’s a queen-size bed, and he’s dumping your drunk body on it, and you groan.

“Jesus Christ,” Beau groans too, peeling off his corduroy jacket, hanging it up on the door behind him, ignoring you for just a second.

“What…” you whine to him, gazing up at him as he moves around his bedroom.

“Y’er fuckin’ smashed,” he mumbles, looking back at you again; you’re half on the bed, your legs mostly dangling off the edge, heels still on your feet, dress back to riding up, and he rubs a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah… can feel it,” you agree, not even bothering to deny the dozens of shots you took, and maybe a line you snorted under the guise of ‘coping’ with your boyfriend cheating.

“Not tellin’ y’er daddy or nothin’ but… c’mon,” Beau scolds quietly, almost standing over you, and you look up at him, eyes almost closing.

“No–Beau, don’t… m’gonna be killed, please, please, Beau,” you plead, a burst of drunken begs, and he’s shaking his head.

“I ain’t gonna tell him a thing,” he promises, huffing once again. “I will if ya’ end up like this again, though,” he threatens, and he watches your head tip back against his messy sheets. 

He’s trying not to look at you differently right now; every instinct is fighting against him, but it’s hard not to when your head is tipped back, and you’re whining his name, and you’re begging for something, and you’re asking him things, and you’re all pretty and drunk. He sighs again.

“Promise me ya’ won’t,” Beau starts, groaning as he moves to stand before you, slightly between your legs, and you look up at him.

“Beau,” you whine to him, and he’s reaching down, carefully picking up your ankle; a tender touch, rough fingers working to take off the uncomfortable heel.

“What, sunshine?” he mumbles, carefully dropping one ankle, just to pick up another one, repeating the same gesture.

“I like you… so much,” you whisper to him, biting your lip.

Beau’s eyes flick up to you, and he pauses, unsure of your implications; it’s either a middle school crush confession, or you just thanking him for getting you out of this mess. He nods in acknowledgment, setting down your ankle.

“I like ya’ too,” he tells you, standing between your legs, looking down at you.

“Yeah? Like… girlfriend-boyfriend,” you babble, and his eyes widen, quickly shaking his head.

“No–no, sweetheart, ain’t no girlfriend-boyfriend thing goin’ on here,” he immediately denies, shaking his head again, and he watches your lips curl into a frown in real time.

“But,” you mumble, biting your lip in distress, and your hips shift. “I… I want you to be my boyfriend, please,” you softly beg, and Beau is staring down at you, his green eyes sharp, his hair still messy from his long shift.

“My girl,” he laughs in disbelief, looking up at the ceiling, asking God for some assistance. “Y’er a crazy thing, always, especially drunk n’ stupid,” he decides to tease you a little, and you grin, refusing to give up.

“Crazy… crazy for you,” you giggle, and Beau is just watching, his tongue swiping across his teeth.

“Lost y’er mind,” he tilts his head to the side, looking down at the uncomfortable fabric of your dress, and you notice, and you have no issue speaking up.

“Take it off… me,” you tell him, smiling stupidly, and he blinks.

“M’will,” he drawls, his southern accent thicker to your drunk mind. “Jus’ cause it’s uncomfrotable, that’s why,” he confirms, nodding.

You bite your lip when he inches further between your thighs, and you slowly lift your leg, practically hitching your thigh over his hip. He catches it–the position has him realizing what it looks like: him between your legs, holding your thigh up, and he can see your underwear completely. He looks away, at the window.

His best friend’s fucking daughter. Your dad’s best friend.

“What?” you mutter, noticing the pause, and he looks back, scoffing.

“C’mon,” he practically whispers, begging you to stop testing every restraint. “Don’t be like this, baby,” he shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“Not doing a thing,” you deny, and he’s rubbing your thigh gently, his large palm moving over the soft skin, squeezing gently. 

You’re all sensitive and pliant from the alcohol, and the light touch sends your head back in awe, and he’s itching to see what else little touch can get from you. He needs to snap out of it; you were a girl he used to have on his lap at get-togethers, hands braiding your hair, and now he was rubbing your legs, and feeling himself getting hard.

“Right… ain’t a thing,” Beau mutters, shaking his head, and he looks between your thighs.

“Mhm…” you slur, feeling his warm hand remaining on your thigh, just rubbing, squeezing again.

“You feelin’ okay?” he then asks, sliding his hand up your leg and to where the hem of your dress meets your leg, and he lightly puts a finger beneath.

“Feel so good,” you nod, biting your lip, that drowsiness from the alcohol making your eyes flutter.

“Yeah? Feelin’ good?” Beau repeats, carefully beginning to slide up the tight dress, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth, jaw ticking.

“Ah–cold in here,” you gasp, feeling the cool air of the trailer brushing your bare thighs, and he carefully drops your hitched thigh onto the bed again. 

“M’know, sweetheart,” he nods, leaning down to help your dress up past your hips, and he looks down; your underwear, just white and soft, cotton, and then the strip of your bare stomach above it. He looks up at you, eyes darker.

“Sure you don’t like me?” you grin, your teeth showing, and your hair fanned behind your head.

“M’sure,” Beau grits, using both hands to slide up your hips, and he’s gripping the bare skin now. “Known ya’s since you were a lil’ thing, kid’,” he tells you.

There’s a pause in the bedroom, and your mouth hangs open in awe, feeling his hands holding onto your warm skin, your dress halfway up your stomach, legs spread. You look at him, blinking slowly, and he is too.

He slowly runs his hands down your thighs again, and you naturally pull your legs up, resting your feet on the bed instead of letting them dangle off the end of the bed. He clenches his jaw, the muscles twitching, and he leans closer, dipping down slightly until his knees press the edge of the bed.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, gently massaging your thighs, and your head tips back now, eyes falling closed fully.

“Beau,” you plead, the sound breathy and almost inaudible.

“Baby,” he mumbles back to you, and you spread your legs even further, and he notices.

“M’feel weird again,” you mutter to him, eyes gazing at the ceiling of his trailer. “All warm… fuzzy.”

“Where do ya’ feel warm n’ fuzzy?” he whispers, licking his lips.

“Between my thighs,” you mumble now, and his hands stop rubbing your legs, and his eyes narrow, swallowing hard.

“Between y’er thighs?” Beau asks for confirmation, looking between your thighs, at the front of your underwear; the wet spot, blooming right there, and he holds back a groan.

“Uh-huh… between them,” you whisper, lifting your hips off the bed, and he breathes out.

“Y’okay?” he murmurs, trying to deflect from how obviously wet you’ve gotten from him touching and undressing you.

“No…” you whimper, shaking your head, and he notices the switch in your demeanour; eyes filling with tears, and he instantly slaps himself for thinking anything else.

“Hey… hey, kid, what’s goin’ on?” Beau asks, moving further between your legs until they loosely wrap around his waist, and he’s practically on top of you.

“My… my boyfriend,” you start, sniffling, staring up at Beau. “Cheated on me,” you finish, nodding quickly, and his features settle.

“That why y’er all drunk n’ stupid, darlin’?” he asks quietly, a hand sliding from your hip to brush sweaty hair from your face, cupping it. “Boyfriend not treatin’ you well?”

“Never did, Beau,” you mumble, shaking your head, leaning into his warm palm. “Never… never, ever, was so… so mean, Beau; he didn’t do anything right,” you ramble on, and his thumb focuses on your cheekbone.

“Shh, y’er alright, baby,” he whispers, licking his lips again, and he leans down a little, closer to your face. “Wanna hear a secret?” he asks, and he watches your eyes light up.

“Yeah… mhm,” you mumble quickly, and Beau grins at your eagerness.

“Always thought that boyfriend of yours was a dick,” he mumbles, leaning a bit closer, bypassing your face and leaning towards your ear. “Didn’ deserve ya’, sweetheart,” he mumbles, kissing the side of your head. 

Beau pulls back and gazes down at you, using his thumb to rub the temple of your head instead. He focuses on you, eyes crinkling from the little smile pulling into his lips, and you look at his lips. Your drunk mind does it for you, and you kiss him.

He kisses back, lazily moving his mouth against yours, and he can taste the alcohol on your lips; sweet and bitter at the same time, and your noses brush and touch, pushing against your face, and he’s groaning, crawling further onto the bed.

His hand still holds your face, gently gripping it, and his other one is grasping at the flesh on your hip, and he pushes his own against yours. His denim is all rough against your bare thighs, the thick buckle of his belt leaving an indent, and your head tips back in the moment.

Beau doesn’t hesitate to start gently kissing your jawline, his scruff right against your soft skin, trailing down your neck and to your shoulder where your flimsy dress tips down your arms. He’s feverish and quick, all urgent and hungry, and your head is against his messy sheets, and you’re already moaning softly. You blame the alcohol. 

“Darlin’,” he groans, his strong nose running up the side of your neck. “What’re we doin’?” he asks, but he doesn't even buffer; he immediately licks a stripe, his tongue warm and wet. 

“Don’t care,” you shake your head, sliding a hand up to tangle into the back of his hair, leaving it even messier than it was before.

“Don’t care, huh?” he asks quickly, beginning to move further down your body, his nose suddenly nudging your navel, and your eyes widen.

“Beau,” you moan softly, and he’s mouthing at your lower stomach, leaving a trail of red marks from his stubble, and you whimper.

“Got you, baby,” Beau mumbles, his breath warm, and he dips his head, already pressing his lips against your underwear. He's wanted to ever since he saw them.

You gasp, and immediately moan louder, toes curling into his plaid sheets, and you tug his hair. He groans, nudging his nose into the wet spot, nuzzling, getting you off on just that; it has your back already arching, your head tipped back. 

“Smell… s’good,” he groans right into you, teeth nipping at the damp white fabric, his nose nudging into your clothed clit. “Sweetheart…” he drawls, that Texan accent unforgiving.

You’re limp against the sheets, all limp, and soft, and the alcohol is heightening every damn sense, and he’s already working your underwear down with hard, working hands, sliding them down your thighs and off your legs. He helps you, moving the dead weight around like it’s nothing, and he dives back in, groaning when his mouth meets your bare core.

Beau slides his hands to your hips, gripping them, holding them in place so you don’t writhe around too much. He holds you still, mouth moving against you; tongue lapping up the wetness, nose buried, and he sucks, and sucks, knowing every groove and spot, and you’re drunk–off pleasure and the dozens of shots.

“Fuck,” he curses against you, the sounds of your heavy breathing and moaning mixing with the sound of him devouring you. It’s obscene, and an endless stream of noises between the two of you. 

He’s running off the idea of this being so fucking wrong–going down on his best friend’s daughter after secretly picking her up, and she’s whining, pleading for him not to tell a soul. He’s groaning into you again.

“Mmm… please,” you whimper, the words sliding off your lips flawlessly, and he’s looking up from between your thighs, his green eyes finding you amidst the pleasure.

“M’got ya’... m’here,” Beau murmurs right into you, and the deepness of his voice runs vibrations through your abdomen, and you grip his hair tighter, tossing your head back again.

He’s relentless against you, sliding his tongue through your folds, focusing upwards and against your clit, lightly sucking, his eyes focusing on the faces you’re making. He even grinds into the mattress slightly, grunting, getting off just the look of you.

He’s losing his damn mind, and he slowly slides up, moving his mouth away from your core, and the whine you make has him dizzy. His hand is fumbling downwards, unbuckling his belt urgently, feeling how hard he is, straining right against the front of his jeans, and you’re helplessly squirming, dizzy as ever. 

“Gonna be s’good f’me,” Beau mutters, and you can hear his zipper faintly falling, his jeans loosely hanging on his hips in an urgent rush to get to you. You’re already wet; your own slick and his saliva. 

“Mhm… m’good for you,” you babble out, nodding, and he’s shifting up to you, your foreheads touching, and he’s panting heavily, pulling you back into a feverish kiss.

Beau goes back to making out with you, and you can taste your own sweetness on his lips, tongues tangling. You whimper into the kiss the minute his thick head rubs against your entrance, prodding, just reminding you of what’s to come. 

“Won’t tell y’er daddy about… you drinkin’,” he mumbles into the kiss, pulling back, saliva connecting your mouths. “If ya’ don’t… tell him bout’ me fuckin’ you, yeah?” he groans, and you’re nodding quickly, not even a second thought.

You’d still let him fuck you, even if he told the whole neighbourhood you got this drunk. 

Beau rocks his hips forward, burying himself into you, and your head tips back, both of you in awe of how it feels; he’s bigger than you expected, and you’re tighter than he expected, too.

“Oh, my gosh,” you whimper, grabbing hold of his shoulder, feeling his nose resting by your cheek. He’s panting, warm huffs on your skin.

“Darlin’,” he grunts, carefully beginning to thrust, prominent jolts of his hips right into you.

“Beau,” you moan again, and his eyes close, mouth hanging open, melting right on top of you. He’s always been an easy man. 

“Y’er… so fuckin’... tight, sweetheart,” he grunts out again, his hips fluid and slow, but quickening with each clench. “So… tight aroun’ me… God,” he huffs, burying his face in your shoulder.

“So… so deep,” you babble out, unbelievably not used to this; actually feeling whole, feeling each thrust, deep and intentional, completely unlike your ex-boyfriend.

“Yeah?” Beau mumbles, mouthing at your neck again. “Fuckin’ ya’ better than… any boyfriend you have, doll,” he groans, thrusting harder, quicker.

“Mhm…” you already agree, completely convinced nothing is better than this; your dad’s best friend.

“Ain’t gonna be… fucked like this again,” he mutters in your ear, his nose nudging at the shell of it. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me… every damn time,” his words spill out, his voice deeper, heavier. 

“Just you… mhm, just you,” you nod again, beyond drunk off his words and just how quickly he’s moving now, hitting deep inside of you. Too deep; you almost want to complain.

“So good f’me… perfect baby,” Beau nods again, and he can feel himself getting closer already, and you can too–it’ll be the first time in fucking forever, and he’s purposely keeping the pace and rhythm the same, noticing a look on your face.

“Gonna cum, huh? C’mon… darlin’, come on,” he mumbles, not changing a thing about the movement of his hips; he knows what to do well, clearly, knowing that what he’s giving you right now is enough. 

“M’close…” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, and your stomach clenches, and that’s when he presses his hand against it, long fingers splayed across your abdomen.

“In y’er pretty stomach, mhm, ain’t I?” he groans out, and the words are only coaxing more sounds of you, more reasons to finish. “Deep in ya’... can feel me, everything, yeah, sweetheart?”

You’re not sure if it’s because you’re drunk or because it’s the greatest sex of your life, but you cum hard, harder than any man, or even your own fingers will do; you groan, body shuddering, toes curling, and you clench around Beau. He groans, almost louder than you, just at how good you feel, how pretty you look while you finish. 

“Look at ya…” he whispers out, watching your features contorting in ways he hasn’t seen before, and he quickens his thrusts, chasing his own high.

It comes fast, and you’re instantly whining the minute you feel it in you; a burst of warmth inside of you, a foreign feeling. You never let a man cum inside of you, not even your boyfriend, despite the times he begged and begged, and now here Beau was, stuffing you full, and your eyes are almost rolling back at just how relentless he is.

“Mmm… darlin’,” he drawls out, refusing to pull out, wanting to keep you full and warm, a constant reminder of what you two just did. He’s pressing at your stomach, almost fascinated with the connection between you two.

“Beau,” you breathe out, words still slurred, your mind a mess, and he’s panting, pulling back to look down at you. His mouth glistens; saliva and slick, still. 

“S’good, all f’me,” he mumbles, his hand leaving your hip, red marks imprinted on the skin, and he brushes back your sweaty hair. “Feel me, yeah? All in ya’?” he asks, and you nod quickly.

“Mhm,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting your hips, and you both groan at the feeling.

“All in y’er stomach,” Beau adds on, rubbing his thumb over your lower abdomen, right where he’s stuffed inside. “Ain’t let any man jus’ do that to ya’, huh?” he asks, cocking his head to the side, and you hate how he’s right.

“Never…” you breathe out, and his chest swells with some sick pride. 

“Jus’ me… fillin’ y’up,” he nods, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Only me.”

“Only you,” you swallow hard and nod, your eyes finding each other in the heat of the trailer.

The next time you see Beau is too casual, too casual after what happened; you walking down the street, your dog on a leash, and Beau’s just pulling into your driveway, coming over to help your dad with something.

“Darlin’,” Beau greets as he hops out of his car, and you’re frozen in the driveway, your dog tugging to see him. “Someone happy t’see me,” he laughs, dropping to his knee to rub at your dog’s head, who is used to him being affectionate.

“Hi…” you mumble, shaking your head, taking a few steps towards Beau, swallowing hard. 

“Y’okay?” Beau asks you, looking up at you, his green eyes hitting the sun perfectly, loose strands drifting in the wind. 

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” you nod, your cheeks bright red, and the sun isn’t helping your case.

“M’glad,” he smiles up at you, standing to his full height, resting his thumbs in his belt. “Y’er daddy invited me f’lunch,” he nods, trying to act as normal as possible. You’re struggling. 

“Oh… nice,” you mumble, and he can tell what’s on your mind. He glances around the neighbourhood before stepping closer to you.

“Haven’t told y’er parents, kid,” he reassures you quietly, resting a hand on your shoulder, squeezing. “Y’er okay,” he whispers, briefly kissing your forehead before turning on his heel and heading to the front door.