axel

You groan, pulling the black turtleneck off your body and tossing it into the pile of clothes on your dirty bedroom floor. You never thought picking out a stupid outfit for Thanksgiving would be so hard, but the weight of him seeing you after acting like strangers, then never speaking to you despite giving him your phone number, while you rotted away in your dorm room, made it a lot harder. 

“Honey, the guests will be over in five minutes. You need to find something to wear,” your mother’s soft voice chimes in, a few taps against the wooden door, and you tip your head back in frustration.

“I know!” you accidentally shout to her, covering your face dramatically with your hands, tiptoeing across the landmine of old skirts and dresses, and sweaters. It seems impossible right now, anything fitting your body without suffocating you entirely.

Your eyes glance out of your bedroom window as a familiar vehicle pulls up; the glaring headlights make you flinch, and you quickly recognize the figure as it steps out, and your eyes widen. You hadn’t seen him since you returned from that camping trip, some random day in July.

It was November. 

With a yank, you grab some white sweater and slide it over your head, settling for a plaid skirt that makes your body look off and your movements stiff. It’s all you have; most of your clothing is hanging in your dorm room, waiting for your arrival on Tuesday. You’re left with scraps, most of which you wouldn’t wear.

“There you are!” your father beams when you emerge from your room, awkwardly standing at the top of the staircase, and you smile–it’s forced, your mother notices it and sighs. She notices everything, like how you’ve been wearing a ponytail almost every single day.

“Remember him?” your father laughs, nodding to someone currently hidden in the front foyer. A few steps to the side, he’s suddenly in your line of sight. “Taught you how to fish… while I did God knows what,” he jokes, your eyes widening. 

Your father’s best friend, there he stands. He hasn’t changed much at all; his hair is still slightly shaggy, but he’s caught up on the shaving, despite the slight stubble creeping at his jawline. It’s unfortunate how enamoured you are, and how dumb you look–seriously, a plaid skirt?

“Come on, sweetheart, help me set the table,” your mom beckons, waving you down the staircase as she stands at the bottom, leaning against the railing.

You hesitantly nod, swallowing hard as you finally walk down, bypassing the man who once had you squirming and whining, begging for more. His eyes linger on you while you pass, taking a mental note of your hair, tied up in a ponytail, the same red hair tie he used on you–it doesn't even match your outfit. 

“Are you feeling good?” your mom quietly asks you in the kitchen, gathering utensils while you reach for a few plates. You nod, refusing to look at her.

She watches you wander into the large dining room, leaning over the table, and placing a plate before each chair, and your mother comes in behind, setting a fork, knife, and spoon beside each dish. Your movements are slow and practiced, as if you have an audience, and you do. You know he’s watching from the corner of his eye, focused on you despite your father chatting him up about God knows what–his new job, his new business ideas. It’s going in one ear and out the other.

“Get your father and his friend, sweetheart, it’s all ready,” your mother says softly, gently patting your back, urging you to go to the men who currently stand by the front door, greeting a few more guests who pool in; your grandparents, and a few more of your father’s friends.

“Oh, my gosh, you look beautiful,” your grandma says excitedly, though you were trying to be discreet, and your father turns around, his friend as well, gazing down, now sandwiched between the two men.

“Thank you.. uhm, mom says it’s all ready,” you shyly say, gathering the courage to turn your head to the right, and he’s already looking down at you. He dares to smile, and he notices your eyes soften. How are you this weak? 

You inhale, holding the breath, each step feeling impossibly heavy in your own house. You find your seat at the end of the table, exhaling once you finally sit down, and you stare down at the ceramic plate, holding your breath again.

“Your semester good, kid?” a quiet, deep voice murmurs to you, and you lift your head, watching him take a seat beside you at the table. It takes everything in you not to start crying.

“Yeah… yeah, it’s good…” You whisper to him, squeezing your thighs together in a subconscious gesture, praying that the wooden table obstructs the view. His eyes wander down, noticing. 

“Good, I’m glad,” he hums, nodding, and you watch him copy your movements though his legs spread beneath the table instead, his boot nudging your cotton-clad foot. 

You blink slowly, keeping your head down, strands of hair falling from the ponytail, framing the side of your face. He watches with intent, the chatter from your few family members and friends fading, and all you're focused on is the man beside you.

Your hands clumsily pull down the hem of your skirt, an effort that’s to comfort you more than anyone else, and he’s watching–he’s always watching you, and you know he is.

The dining room is filled with laughter, your father obnoxiously telling stories, your mother occasionally adding in, your grandparents repeating stories everybody has heard, and you’re as quiet as ever, a fork aimlessly pushing around mashed potatoes. You’ve never had this little of an appetite.

“Studying hard, yeah?” That same voice mumbles to you, and you drop the fork onto the plate, flinching, and he can’t help but chuckle at how scared he's made you. You don’t find it particularly funny, and you look at him.

His head tilts in a knowing look, and you shrink in the wooden chair, looking away from him. You wish you hadn’t seen those eyes as he hovered over you, watching them flutter while he threatened to get you fucking pregnant. You swallow hard, squeezing your thighs together again, subconsciously.

“You okay?” he then asks, not turning his head, but he’s staring down at your legs; the black nylon straining against your thighs, the hem riding up with each movement of relief, and he’s restraining himself. And you’re counting how many times he asks if you’re okay again.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, the mashed potatoes and carrots pushed around your plate making you grimace, and you bite your lip. 

“Come on,” he urges, and you feel it; that warm palm sneakily resting against your thigh, and you practically whine at the dinner table. “Tell me about college,” he adds, squeezing your leg.

“Hey..” is all you plead to him under your breath, and you shift again, this time you accidentally press his hand between your thighs, and he is beyond unbothered; eyes looking around, his free hand poking his fork into his food, and you’re melting. 

You give in and look down; his large hand, warm and rough, right between your thighs, his thumb toying with the hem of your plaid skirt. He’s not moving it up further, but it’s already too much for your brain, which is actively turning into mush.

“And you, sweetheart?” Your father’s voice suddenly catches your attention, and you look up from your plate. Your mother, father, and every other damn person are looking down at you from the table. 

“Uhm… Yeah, yeah, college is fine, I’m… I’m fine,” you mutter and shake your head, feeling him squeeze your leg again, like he’s praising you for speaking up. You turn to look at him again, and he’s nodding along, like he isn’t groping you beneath the dinner table with your grandmother two feet away.

“She’ll be back on Tuesday, it’s a shame,” your mother chimes in with a soft sigh, taking a long sip of her wine, and you nervously laugh.

The rest of the dinner is an awkward limbo between you, with a lingering silence. You glance at him, and he doesn’t bother looking at you, but when you’re focused elsewhere, he’s looking right at you, his hand never leaving your thigh. It’s firm, strong.

You disappear right before dessert is served, running off into your bedroom under the guise of ‘needing to study’, and your grandparents were entirely on board with the idea; a smart girl needs to work even at home on her short Thanksgiving break, and your father somehow let it slide. It was a relief to be away from everyone, especially needy, handsy men who don’t answer your fucking calls for four months.

You don’t bother going down when the guests leave all at the same time–studying is far more important, despite not doing it at all. Most of the time was spent flipping through old magazines and looking at anything other than the work you should be doing on your laptop. Anything to kill time, anything to escape prying eyes.

Eleven o’clock blinks on the digital clock beside your bed, and you feel your stomach groan, the lack of Thanksgiving dinner catching up to you quicker than you wanted. You peel yourself out of your blankets and sheets, eyes peeking out of the cracked door. The house is silent, your parents’ bedroom door shut, not a sound.

You slip out and lightly shut your bedroom door, your thighs cold; you’re just wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of underwear. The lack of clothing is no concern; your parents are asleep, and being an only child gives you more freedom than most would understand.

The old stairs creak while you walk down, bare feet hitting the tile floor with a light thud. You venture into the kitchen, quiet, padding along, though something catches your eye. The television hums in the living room, and your eyebrows furrow.

“Mom? Dad?” you call, just enough for whoever is camping out in the living room to hear, and your eyes widen when you find who is sitting on the couch. It’s him, he’s sitting there.

“Just me, sweetheart,” says that deep voice, and you lean against the archway to the living room. He’s drunk, maybe just tipsy, but you hear it in the slur and slowed movement of his hand lifting the remote, flicking off the television.

“Why’re you here?” you ask with a raise of your eyebrows, unaware of how you look to him; innocence incarnate standing in a doorway, a warm light from the kitchen behind you drawing out the angelic look he’s always thought you had.

 He’s asking God if you were sent to him. It would have helped a lot if he believed.

“You know I live too far away,” he says, lifting a hand off his thick thigh, gesturing for you to come over. “Didn’t wanna drive back at night, the weather isn’t too nice,” he excuses with a shake of his head, and you glance out of the window, noticing the light snowfall.

A few hasty steps have you walking into the living room, and you stand in front of him. He sits on the couch, slumped deep into the leather, thighs parted, his denim jeans straining against his thick thighs. Has he been working out? You want to rip out your own brain and sift through the thoughts, to discard the perverted ones that poke and prod. 

“Missed this body,” he murmurs, two large hands finding your hips, and he’s guiding you between his parted legs. Your cheeks flush, and you shyly look away, feeling him squeezing your body through your shirt.

“Didn’t even call me,” you whisper, practically to yourself, but his sharp ears catch it, and his lips quirk into a smirk, head tilting to the side. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t be like that, baby,” he says, squeezing your hips again, hands finding your lower back. “I was busy, divorce and all,” he tells you, his voice dishonest, but his eyes compelling.

“Yeah… but, I don’t know, I missed you,” you admit, and he’s grinning up at you, that hazy look in his eyes that reminds you he’s not quite in the right state of mind. You don’t seem to mind, despite the resemblance to your father right now.

“Missed me?” he repeats quietly, letting one hand glide down your back to the side of your thigh. “Like I’m your boyfriend or something,” he teases, and his jaw ticks. You look away, breathing out heavily.

“Treated me like I was your girlfriend,” you respond, regretting the choice of words, and his grin only grows–it’s a condescending one, and you pick up on that.

“You want me to be your boyfriend?” he asks quietly, finding your embarrassment to be the most amusing thing ever. “And you’d be my little lady, yeah?” he adds, and you’re groaning as your head tips back, frustrated with his inability to remain serious.

“Come on, I’m… I’m just saying,” you stutter out, a whine creeping into your words as you look down at him, and his eyes soften. You’re all pouty and tired.

He reaches his hand up from your back, carefully cradling the side of your cheek. Warm and calloused, a gentle touch in the midst of the heat between your thighs, and the burning nestled behind your ribs.

“Too sweet, baby, you know that?” he whispers to you, your eyes meeting. “Don’t look at me like a kicked puppy, though,” he adds, giving your cheek a light pat, and you nod in obedience, like a puppy.

“I missed you,” you say again, and he’s rubbing his thumb beneath your eye. He likes that pout on your face, and he makes it obvious by the way he tugs on your bottom lip. 

“I know, baby,” he mumbles, pulling you closer. “Come here,” he whispers, slowly pulling you over him until you’re straddling his lap, in the living room of your own house.

His large hands hold your hips, and he stares up at you, his glossed eyes beaming through the slight drunkenness. You swallow hard, having a bad feeling about this; sitting in his lap, your parents sleeping just above the two of you.

“What did you miss the most?” he presses softly, head tilting to the side, and you know what he’s hinting at. A low chuckle escapes his chest when you refuse to answer, and he pats your hips.

“Forgot you’re the shyest thing ever,” he sighs, tipping his head back against the couch before looking back at you. “Miss my hands on you?” he adds, squeezing gently, and you innocently nod, giving in.

“That’s sweet,” he hums, and the slur in his voice is growing. You can tell he’s drunk, hence why he’s being so bold, why a hand is slipping up the side of your shirt.

“You touch yourself?” he suddenly asks, and your eyes widen as you quickly look around the living room before gazing back at him. He has that stupid grin on his face, proud of how embarrassed he just made you.

“Stop it, I don’t,” you whisper, awkwardly adjusting your hips on his lap.

“You haven’t cum since I made you?” he presses more, his thumb rubbing against the bare dip of your waist. You look down, nodding, shameful as ever.

“Poor body is probably so pent up,” he teases, squeezing the side of you before dragging his hand down to your bare thigh, gently rubbing. “Been months, sweetheart,” he adds.

“I know,” you mumble, your eyes finding him. “You’re drunk, though,” you whisper, head tilting to the side.

“And honest,” he corrects, raising his eyebrows. “Whole time we were on that stupid trip, just wanted to fuck you,” he admits, enjoying the way your eyebrows pull together, the pink flush bleeding into the apples of your cheeks.

You smile a little, biting your lip at his admission. It’s a sick and twisted perversion going through you right now, hearing him repeat back his own filthy thoughts he kept hidden so well.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper again, shaking your head as his hand slides further up your warm body, cupping your ribs. You groan quietly. 

“If I didn’t mean it… I wouldn’t have fucked you,” he grins and laughs quietly, the sound deep and coming from inside his chest. You smile, a real one, teeth peaking through, and he catches it. 

He lifts his head and grabs your face, it’s a bit more harsh, the alcohol making his movements sloppy and rough. You lean into his touch, and his thumb lifts your bottom lip, like he’s a dentist and you’re laughing still.

“What are you doing?” you mumble in the awkward position, and he’s busy examining your teeth and gums, poking and prodding with his thumb along the outer sides of your mouth, lips, and the corner of your mouth.

It’s quiet when he slips his thumb into your mouth, and you pause, looking down at him with the warm digit pressing onto your tongue. You blink slowly, and his lips part, and he gives you a nod as if to permit you to do something.

You do what feels right, and you lightly suck on it, straightening your posture. His lips pull into a grin as you look into his soft eyes, while you suck on his thumb and nod. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, pressing his thumb down a bit harder, watching the innocent shift in your facial expressions; a twitch in your jaw, averting your gaze from him.

The living room is quiet, the buzz of the refrigerator keeping you grounded, and he lightly taps the side of your hip. You’re not sure what he means, but he lifts his hips lightly, and you realize he’s encouraging you to grind against him.

A curious roll of your hips is all it takes for this thumb to slide out of your mouth, and he’s lowering his hand, gently holding your throat–not even close to choking you, just a light grab, and you pout.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he sighs, shaking his head, his hand on your hip, squeezing, applying enough pressure to keep you against him. He’s so warm, and there’s a stark contrast between his denim and your bare thighs.

His thumb rubs over the column of your throat, a slow drag, and he’s gazing up at you; your hips are consistent, sloppy grinds, and he finds it amusing. He notices you’re struggling, neither of you getting off, and pauses you.

“Baby, here,” he whispers, his hand sliding away from your throat, two hands now gripping your hips, and he carefully adjusts you. You straddle a single thigh of his; heat right through the thick limb, and you shift your hips.

“How’s that feel?” he questions, raising his eyebrows.

“Good,” you admit, nodding, looking down at the new position; it’s foreign, and you shift again.

“Now, grind again,” he tells you, sliding a hand down to your bare thigh. “Promise, you’ll feel good, sweetheart,” he reassures you, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks burning.

“On your thigh?” you ask shyly, swallowing hard at the idea. It seems awkward, but he’s insisting on it with a nod and a pat of your thigh.

“Come on,” he laughs a little, his tongue glossing over his front teeth. “Never humped your pillow before?” he asks, and you can tell it’s the few beers he had making him say these things.

“Okay, okay,” you relent, groaning a little. 

“Yeah… thought so,” he scoffs, his thumb rubbing just at where your underwear meets your thigh, taking a peek at it; cotton and soft, white. So simple, so you.

You look away from him as you roll your hips forward again, testing. It’s unfortunate how you immediately feel a wave of heat wash over you, only to come crashing down just as fast the minute you stop. He watches you with close his eyes, examining your movements–still sloppy, still a needy mess.

“I got you, kid,” he whispers, taking hold of your hips, lightly adjusting your body, beginning to guide you against his thigh. 

You moan, and it’s a whiny one, all drawn out, needy, begging. He smiles at the sound, but he’s also shaking his head. Your parents are just upstairs.

A soft hand rests on his shoulder, gripping it, your eyes squeezing shut to focus on the sensation. It’s a light pressure, a slow, painful throb between your legs that the slow grinds seem to fix. He knows that, and he’s encouraging you to go faster.

“Sweetheart, just follow along, yeah?” he asks softly, looking up at you through his eyelashes, his strong brow bone almost hooding over his eyes, and you’re nodding quickly, biting your lip.

“Feels good, huh?” his smooth voice drawls in the quiet room, and the stupid sofa squeaks slightly. He’s fixated on you, watching the fluid movements, though they stop and stutter, and he finds it endearing.

You’re letting out a string of whines and hums, barely even moaning, just a constant stream. You rock back and forth, the firmness of his thigh making it even harder to be quiet. It’s all muscles and taught fabric against the thickness, and you’re mindlessly moving your hips in an attempt to chase something. 

“Bet you’re making a mess all over me,” he comments dryly, dark eyes glancing down at where you meet his thigh. He clicks his tongue, staring at the smallest mark, damp and sticky, and it’s all your fault.

“I’m–I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you stutter out, but your hips say otherwise; they’re consistent and quick now, adjusting to the feeling and soaking it up.

He chuckles at your apology. “You’re fine, baby,” he reassures you.

Your moans grow louder, and his eyes glance up at the ceiling; you follow them. He’s reminding you of your parents just above, sleeping soundly, meanwhile you rut against his thigh, like it’s the last thing on earth.

“Sorry–sorry,” you apologize again, harshly biting down on your bottom lip, your head tipping back, feeling it all, too much of it.

“Making me hard, sweetheart,” he tells you, a hand lifting from your hip and gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, feeling just how feverish your skin is.

You look down into his lap, and he’s right; the bulge in his jeans, straining against the denim, and you swallow hard, looking back up at him.

“Gonna do something?” his eyebrows raise, and you slow down, mouth opening to speak, but you don’t say anything. Nothing comes out.

There’s a pause between the two of you, a silence lingering. He carefully moves his hands away from you, and he finds the clasp of his belt, long fingers unbuckling the metal, and he’s watching you the entire time. You breathe heavier, your thighs clenching around his.

“My girl, so curious,” he coos, though your mind only registers my part, where he’s claiming you as his, but you’re sure he’s just drunk. It means nothing.

He continues with the movements, sliding the belt open, followed by a soft pop of his button, and then the zipper drawing down. He doesn’t hesitate to reach into his boxers, and he leans further back into the couch, spreading his thighs, giving you room.

You watch it all; the way he throbs in his hand, fingers tightly wrapped around himself, and you’re biting your lip again.

“See what you were just doing on my thigh?” he asks quietly, and you’re trying to ignore the way he’s carefully stroking himself, but you find yourself leaning closer. “Gonna do that on my cock, okay, sweetheart?” he tells you, nodding. 

You’re cautious but nod a little, and you sit up a bit more, and he’s using a hand to help you adjust your position. You’re sprawled across his lap now, straddling him once again, and he’s sliding a hand under you. You look up at the ceiling, blushing helplessly.

He’s not bothering to take your underwear off, merely sliding it aside with a swipe of his thumb, though he’s not watching. He’s looking up at you; that long neck tipped back, those long lashes and soft lips. He can’t help but feel like he’s ruining you. 

“One big stretch, baby,” he tells you, lightly pressing his tip to your entrance, and you whimper.

It’s been months since you last had sex–it was him, the last time.

He pushes in, each hand now on your hip, guiding you carefully, lowering yourself onto him. He groans too, his head tipping back on the couch. You stop halfway, shaking your head.

“Shh.. you’ve got this,” he tells you, and you’re whimpering, feeling that bitter sting. “Brave girl you are, you can take it all,” he reassures you again, a hand sliding down to rub your bare thigh.

You focus on his gaze, tears brimming in your eyes, and he’s smirking at how overwhelmed you are; breathing heavily, shaking your head, though you slowly move down, letting his large hands guide you. The fullness is unbearable, and you whine.

“Atta girl,” he practically moans, feeling you around him; warm and tight, he hadn’t felt something like this in months. It’s all-consuming, your body heat, accompanied by the sounds that seemingly slip by your lips without second thought.

You lean forward, your nose brushing against his cheek, and he slides a hand around your hip and to your lower back, holding you against him. You can feel the huffs of his breath against your ear; it smells like alcohol and cigarettes, his cologne that’s uniquely him, and his sweat lingering in the background. You didn’t realize how much you missed something so easily, a scent.

“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he whispers in your ear, nodding, feeling himself disarm. “So good… around me, so stretched out,” he rambles on, letting you adjust to the feeling before starting any movement at all.

“It–it hurts, it hurts,” you mumble to him, biting your lip to hold it back from quivering, and he hushes you, rubbing your lower back.

“Supposed to hurt at first, sweetheart,” he says, kissing the side of your face, a damp mark. “M’too big for you,” he adds, though it’s more of an inside thought he lets slip out through a grunt.

You whine quietly, and he moves his hand up your back to the nape of your neck, gently holding you there, long fingers twisting through the strands.

“Remember… when I tied your pretty hair up?” he mumbles into your ear, and you smile through the contorted look on your face. “And… you wore it that way the whole time, baby?” he continues, his smooth words and attention to detail making you melt and making the situation slightly easier.

“Mhm… mhm,” you quickly nod, suddenly groaning when you accidentally shift your hips, and he’s poking around inside of you, twitching. “Even… even today,” you add through gritted teeth, and he’s chuckling.

“Even today, sweetheart, I noticed,” he whispers, kissing your cheekbone. 

He carefully slides his hand down from your neck, letting it rest against your hips again. He squeezes, a tender gesture, getting you ready.

“You’ve got this, my brave girl,” he whispers into your ear again. “One… slow rock, okay?” he pats your hip, and you instinctively roll it forward, igniting a flame between the two of you.

He groans quietly and tips his own head, letting his forehead rest on your shoulder. He quickly lifts it, swallowing hard, trying his best not to fuck up into you. He wouldn’t do that to you.

“Yeah.. just like that, sweetheart, again… come on, again,” and you can hear the impatience in his voice, his dull nails clawing in your soft flesh, and you slowly roll your hips forward again, and he’s groaning louder.

“It’s… It’s a lot,” you tell him, and he’s smiling at your innocence beaming through the corrupt experience, he’s nodding, breathing hard.

“You can take a lot,” he tells you, lightly patting your hip again to prompt you to continue, and you immediately listen. Another small rock forward.

You find a rhythm in the midst of it: slow rocks forward, a delicate roll of your hips, and he’s helping you with it, two strong hands guiding your body onto his. You hold his shoulder, all muscular and firm, and your noses are almost touching.

“Doing… so good, so good, doll,” he encourages, his praise only helping you ride the confidence he’s giving you. “So… fucking good, good girl,” he adds on, nodding.

It’s a sweaty, breathy tango between the two of you; you’re whining and moaning, he’s grunting and groaning, whispering sweet praises you’ll think about when you sleep, and the stupid couch creaks, and the grandfather clock down the hall ticks. It’s quiet in your house, in your living room, and your mind is racing a mile a minute despite turning to mush. All because of him.

He slowly transitions the movements into something more, elevating your body now, giving you room to bounce, and that’s when it grows louder–it’s not just mimicking his thigh, it’s letting him fuck you, and you can feel the way he thrusts back in, and how your jaw goes slack with each slide, punctuated with a squeeze of your hips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, and his head tips back onto the couch, and you’re whining louder. It’s concerning that your parents are just upstairs.

You lean forward and bury your face in the crook of his neck, right where his collar meets his jaw, and you bite down lightly to quiet yourself. He’s impressed by the gesture, and he pats your hip, all while guiding them up and down, alternating between slow rocks and deep thrusts.

“Gonna fill this pretty stomach up,” he groans into your ear, and your eyebrows furrow. “Make you.. All mine, stuffed with me, baby,” he says, not giving you a choice, and you don’t mind it.

He knows you, knows your body well; a hand leaves your hip, dragging down and into your underwear that’s still on, and absolutely drenched–he wants to just tear through the fabric, to rip it off you, but he refrains, and gently presses his thumb to your clit instead.

You bite his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut. You’re rocking your hips; slow lifts and grinds forward, providing both of you with enough friction to have him grunting, all while he rubs in slow circles, giving you an extra sensation to drool over. Literally, you’re drooling all over his shirt.

“So… so deep in you,” he drawls out, burying his face in the side of your hair. “God, you’re tight,” he digs his fingers into his hip again, all while his thumb picks up the pace.

You’re pretty sure it’s true love; you finish at the same time.

The warmth spreads in your stomach, tightening, wrapping into a knot so tight that it has your eyes fluttering, and he’s practically thrusting upwards into you, a mess of movements and emotions. He’s panting, grunting, and you’re whining, a wounded animal in his arms, and he’s holding on to your hip like it’s all he has left. You are all he has left.

You finish all over him, and he’s finishing inside of you, purposely pumping you fuller and fuller, thrusting even when you’re sure it’s all out. He makes the effort to push back in his own cum, to mix it with yours, until his jeans are a damp mess, and you’re all lazy and limp in his lap, head against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull out.

“You feel me in there, sweetheart?” he says, half-out-of-breath, a hand leaving your hip to run through your sweaty strands of hair. “All full, huh?” he asks, letting you rest your face against his shoulder, unknown tears streaming down your cheeks. He doesn’t know.

Another hand slides up, resting against the front of your stomach, and he rubs his thumb across your navel, then down your lower abdomen. He presses gently, applying enough pressure to have your hips tense up, and your eyes to squeeze shut harder.

“Felt you all here,” he whispers, his words following the way he pushes into your stomach. “All wrapped around me, sweet girl,” he continues quietly, praising you for how well you did.

“Took me like the perfect thing you are,” he tells you, grabbing your hair, mimicking the way he had pulled it into a ponytail and sees your face.

Tears stain your cheeks, and your eyes are heavy, a dazed look on your face. You’re absolutely out of it, not to mention, he’s still inside of you, twitching, reminding you of just how big he is.

He slowly pulls his hand back, cupping your cheek instead, holding you up. You’re all limp and lax, mouth open, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth. 

“Look at you,” he whispers in awe, blinking slowly, taking in your features. “prettiest thing I’ve seen,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your lips, though he leans back just a second afterwards.

“Feel good,” is all you mumble, practically drunk on the fullness that still lingers.

“Yeah? Your body feels good, baby?” he teases, the calloused pad of his thumb collecting stray tears. “All warm, tingly, too?” he whispers, his own dark eyes softening.

“Uh-huh,” you say, closing your eyes and letting his hand hold your head up.

All boneless in his lap, a mess he made, that’s exactly what you are. 

He finds it fascinating that you were always so sharp-tongued; bickering with your father on the trip, watching your eyes roll, the glares you give your mother when she does something you don’t like, the bitter comments you leave. Justified, all of it, and he understands.

Around him, you were vastly different, a mess of a girl; shy and blushing, eyes never looking at him, stumbling over your words, hinting rather than using full sentences. And now you’re in his lap, stuffed full of him, drooling over yourself. 

“I’ve got you,” he reassures you, biting his cheek. “You’re okay, baby,”

The sunlight seeps through the curtains of your bedroom, a dull pain throbbing between your eyebrows, and you look at the digital clock; it flashes nine o’clock, and you sit up lazily, rubbing your forehead with the back of your hand.

You’re still in your same old oversized t-shirt, but your underwear is different, a pair you usually don’t wear. You swallow hard, looking at your made bed, the way you’re so carefully tucked in, and you realize that you weren’t the one who put you to bed last night.

The hardwood floors creak when your bare feet hit them, and you wobble, uneasy. There’s a sting between your legs, a cruel reminder of what happened on the couch last night, and you tip your head back in frustration, mostly with yourself. You’re sure he doesn’t remember most of it.

After slipping on a pair of shorts, you head downstairs, your footsteps quiet, and you see him there, sitting at the kitchen table, holding a mug of black coffee, your father casually sitting across from him. You swallow hard and lift your head, preparing for the humiliation when you sit down.

“Didn’t see much of you last night,” your father comments with a grin while you slowly approach the table, laughing nervously as you take a seat. You don’t mean to, but you’re beside him, and he’s acting oblivious.

“I was studying,” you explain, bracing yourself when you sit onto the wooden chair, shifting your hips awkwardly. It hurts, and he knows.

“Right… studying,” your father laughs, and you furrow your eyebrows, glancing at the guest beside you, who is much more focused on his black coffee.

You feel a nudge against your ankle, and it’s him, his own foot pressing into yours. You turn slightly to him, and he’s grinning, holding the mug to his lips. You smile too, looking down at your bowl of dry cereal.

“You wanna tell her or should I?” your father suddenly asks, and you look up from your breakfast, a confused look knitting into your expression. 

“Alright… alright, I will,” your father laughs with a nod, gently patting his friend on the shoulder. “This guy… got a job offering last month; twenty-seven-hour drive from here, but the pay… beyond good than what I ever offered him,” 

Your mother beams from the sink, laughing in disbelief, and you are simply in disbelief. 

“Last month? You’ve known since last month?” You suddenly speak up, the obvious confusion written all over your face, and the tone of your voice.

“Last month,” he says, confirming with a nod, the mug held to his lips, and you scoff too loudly for your parents' liking when you lean back into the chair.

“We’re barely gonna see around here,” your father adds with a smug grin, and he might as well walk over to you and dig deeper into the wound that was just ripped into you.

There’s a beat of silence; you’re supposed to be happy, grateful that after being laid off and getting divorced, he has a new life, somewhere else to go. But you’re still stuck here.

You can’t help it; you stand up from the table and leave quicker than you sat down, uneven footsteps going up the staircase. Your thighs still hurt, and the reason they hurt is about to be a twenty-seven-hour drive away from you. 

You hear the confusion in your mother’s voice now, asking the two men at the table what caused you to get up in such a hurry. They both deny the reason, and you’re suddenly in your bedroom, face down in your bed, tears streaming down your cheeks again. 

It feels like you’ve been lying in that bed forever, sheets still cold, and the door creaks open, then softly shuts. You groan into your pillow.

“Mom… please, like, please do not ask me, I’m okay–I am okay,” your voice is firm when you sit up, but it’s not her at all, it’s him; he's standing in front of your closed door.

He’s putting a finger over his lip as he approaches you, shaking his head, already hushing you, expecting an outburst from you. 

You’re whining aloud while he approaches you, tears streaming down your warm cheeks again, and he’s so swift with it, you can’t even process that his lips are suddenly against yours, and he’s gently pushing you back against your childhood bed.

You’re kissing back, simultaneously fighting back, still crying. Your hands mercilessly grab at his shoulders, your legs kicking at him, but the kiss is all-consuming; his mouth is devouring you, and you’re giving in, letting your tongues brush, his nose pushing against your face.

He so easily climbs on top of you, nudging your soft thighs apart, his body slotting itself between the space. He’s heavy, and it feels like you’re in the tent again–it’s the same humidity, the same warmth and stealthness, trying to keep quiet.

You pull back, breathing more heavily than ever, tears still glossing your eyes, and he tilts his head to the side, staring at your glistening lips.

“You knew,” you whisper to him, and he nods, leaning down to kiss your cheek, trying to distract you from the fact that he’s leaving.

“I know, baby,” he mumbles against your tear-stained skin, slowly kissing down your cheek, finding your jawline, lightly mouthing at it.

“I hate you,” you groan, head tipping back against the pillow, and he’s lazily kissing at your throat now, lips finding your pulse.

“You don’t,” he shakes his head, and you can feel his morning stubble pressing into your tender skin, and his hand grabs at the side of your thigh, squeezing.

He’s moving his lips against you, urgent, hungry movements that defy all judgements you had–despite being drunk last night, it all seems real now. He’s just as eager, and you can tell by the way he holds your hand, lightly pressing it into the mattress.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing up to your ear. “You’ve always been so good,” he presses you further into the mattress, and it groans in protest, and you’re whining.

He’s kissing lower now, lips tracing your neck, and a large hand is pushing up your shirt, a warm palm splayed across your stomach. He does it again, gently pressing into your lower abdomen. 

“Gonna miss your body,” he tells you, ducking down, moving lower with slow, fluid movements until his nose is nudging at your navel. “You’re everything,” he whispers, now mouthing at the bare skin above the waistband of your shorts.

“Please stop,” you whimper, but you’re not telling him to stop at all. You want him to stop lying.

He doesn’t respond; he just kisses your hipbone, long fingers tugging at the waistband, swiftly pulling them down, revealing the underwear he had put on you. 

“You’re okay, doll,” he whispers to you, eyes glancing up at you, seeing that wide-eyed look on your face, similar to the one he saw in the tent the first time.

He slowly works his way back up your stomach, finds your lips again, and presses his mouth against them. It’s more than you can ask from him, and he’s lazily tugging your underwear down again, and you hate how easy you are right now.

Long fingers tug the underwear off you, discarding it on the floor of your bedroom. You tip your head back again, gasping for air, and he peeks up at you, shaking his head.

“Shhh,” he whispers, the hand that once pulled down your underwear is now sliding into the front of his sweatpants, feeling how uncomfortably hard he is. He doesn’t like that you do this to him.

A glance down, and he sees your thighs parting, inviting him, and he pants out. “Thought you hated me,” he mumbles, referencing the wetness gathering between your legs, and you whine at his comment.

“Stop,” you breathe out again, tipping your head back against the pillow, a long pull of your neck, and he uses it as an opportunity to kiss more; lips to the warm skin, mouthing at your pulse.

“Sweet girl,” he coos, adjusting his hips, dragging his tip between your folds, and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “You’re… so ready for me,” he whispers, almost laughing at how easily you give in.

A gentle thrust of his hips, and your eyes squeeze shut harder, nose scrunching at the sting again; you’re still sore from last night, and he’s breathing heavier, rubbing the side of your thigh.

“Still so warm,” he grumbles, looking down at you, noticing the tears still streaming down your cheeks, and he pulls his hand away from yours, gently cupping your cheek. He wipes the tears away.

“My–my parents–” you stutter, but your words barely come out, moans breaking through the cracks, and you reach up, gripping his shoulder.

“Out,” he whispers, nodding, not even giving your body time to adjust to him; solid, hard thrusts picking up speed, quick and calculated. 

You’re already wailing softly, cheeks damp, and he’s doing his best to catch each one, but he’s also getting lost in the feeling of your warm body. He lifts your thigh slightly, hoisting it up over his hip, giving him another angle, a deeper one, and you both make a low noise. 

His thumb swipes down your face, its tip resting against your bottom lip, and you part your lips, letting it slide in. You take it in, lightly sucking on it to keep yourself occupied, and his head tips back, grunting with each forceful thrust.

Your stupid bed creaks, the frame hitting the wall of your bedroom. You're cringing at the sound, and when you open your eyes, you're met with the light pink of walls, a colour you begged your mom to paint on just years ago, and now you regret it more than anything. 

He’s taking you, completely pounding into you, and you’re surrounded by everything that reminds you of your innocence from just years ago, before you grew up and went off to college.

“Focus on me, sweetheart,” he mumbles through gritted teeth, lightly tugging your chin, forcing your eyes to look at him, and he sees that dazed look in them; all fucked-out, still sore and tender from the night before.

“Taking me so good… my perfect girl,” he praises, sliding his thumb out of your mouth and wiping the saliva on your swollen lips, before dragging it down and resting it beside your head.

You nod to his words, the sweet words soothing the bitter feeling of him leaving, but all you can do is savour it; his scent, the feeling of him, how he fits so perfectly, the subtle noises, the right words he chooses. You’re drunk on it again, and he’s as sober as he can be.

A warm hand splays against your lower stomach, and he’s doing it again–why is he doing it again? It makes you dizzy every single time, and you draw out a slow whimper, like a wounded animal. He’s grinning, but it breaks when he shifts further, deepening himself.

“Feel me again, huh?” he sneers, his voice almost cocky when he watches your expressions; all messy and scrunched, a clear reaction to just how big he is. “Feel you, too, baby, all… wrapped around me, so fucking good,” he breathes out, like his own words are affecting him.

His thumb rubs slowly, poking against your abdomen, pressing, testing. He watches your eyes roll back into your head before you close them, and he lightly taps your warm skin.

“Gonna let me fill you up?” he asks, though it’s rhetorical; there’s no way in hell he’s leaving without pumping you full of him again, making it linger between your thighs. He likes leaving his mark.

You helplessly nod, gasping for air when he picks up even more, harsh thrusts causing you to squirm against the mattress. Your back arches, a flower bending towards the sun, and he takes the opportunity to slide one hand beneath your lower back, keeping you in that position; it feels good, and you pant.

You feel it again, that familiar burning in your stomach; the tightness, the way you suddenly feel like you have to hold your breath, every muscle tensing, and you let out a harsh cry, a drawn-out sound billowing from deep in your chest, and out to him. He feels the warm covering him, but he’s still deep, still thrusting and thrusting, and thrusting.

He swells with pride watching you finish, knowing just a few thrusts and his sweet words have your body melting, physically, a puddle against your bed, and a mess he’s willing to clean up.

“You’re okay, kid… I got you,” he groans, his head bowing, stray strands of sweaty hair falling in front of his face, and you can see him getting frustrated almost–his thrusts are sloppy now, and he’s losing it all, any ounce of control and restraint he has.

One final push has him groaning, a deep growl, and you feel the warmth bloom inside of you, filling you. He’s not even concerned with the fact that he’s finished twice inside of you in less than twenty-four hours, barely thinking about the implications.

“Oh, my god, you’re stuffed,” he mumbles, holding both of your hips now, shorter thrusts, barely slipping out of you, ensuring his cum is in you, as deep as your body lets him.

You’re breathing heavier, chest heaving, and you’re struggling to swallow, face painted with tears and sweat, his saliva on your lips, and he’s still pushed inside—all deep and warm and tight.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out again, shaking his head, eyes glancing to your stomach. “You’re so tight, I hate it,” he admits, though it’s not hate at all, it’s pure adoration, obsession.

You’re boneless, limp, and completely at his mercy. He can’t help but stare at you in this moment, how sweet you look, and how he’ll never be able to look at that pretty face again.

“You’re… too deep,” you mumble, scrunching your face, frowning slightly. It’s a consistent dull throb inside of you, a deep-rooted feeling that has you clenching, and each clench has him wishing he could fuck you all over again.

“Yeah… yeah, that’s the point, sweetheart,” he says, almost smirking, but you’re tense, and it’s making him threaten to pull out. “Just gonna stay… like this for a bit, baby.. relax.”

Your eyes drift to the ceiling again, and you stare at the stupid glow-in-the-dark stars that are still stuck to the roof that you didn’t peel off, and your thighs shake around his lower half. The moment has you dizzy, reminding you of where you are.

“Don’t want you to go,” you stutter out, looking at him again, and you physically see him soften; eyebrows raising, his gaze turning from predatory to… loving–you hope it’s loving.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your sweaty hairline. “I have to, though.”

“You don’t,” you plead, feeling the tears well up in your eyes again, and he notices.

“I do, baby,” he whispers, kissing down the crease between your brows, along the slope of your nose, ghosting his lips against yours. “I’ll visit you, yeah?”

“You won't,” you mumble against his lips, holding back that urge to kiss him again. “Didn’t call me… didn’t check in… in on me,” you add, trying to ignore the burning in your core.

“Shh, I know, I know,” he nods slowly, leaving a chaste kiss on your lips. “Promise, i will, doll, promise you, i will,” he reassures, patting your warm hip.

“You won't… You won't,” you ramble, and he notices the way you’re frowning but biting your lip, your tears glossing over your eyes, and he sighs.

“Calm down, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you feel it, the light thrusting again. “I’m… right here, inside you,” he tells you, and your lips part, mouthing hanging open.

You moan again, eyes fluttering, and you’re slowly forgetting what you were trying to argue about again. It’s on purpose; everything he does is.