✿°•˚Barley˚•°✿

John always thought that should he ever have a child, he would want a boy. A son, the spitting image of him, who he could raise in his own honor. A young boy who could fulfill his bidding and be his own perfect, little soldier. It would be perfect, he thought, to have a mini-him walking around, just as strong and capable, just without the weaknesses that he detested himself for having. No trauma to weigh him down and make him vulnerable. 

Then, he had you and his mind was promptly changed. 

He was sickened by the idea of ever having a son, post-haste. Boys were messy, he figured, and noisy. They were rude and aggressive, showed no respect, and were far from kind. They couldn’t give him the warm-hearted, gentle validation he needed. A boy wouldn’t cling and love and treasure him as a father. And what if a son tried to usurp his status, rather than compliment it? What, did he need another disturbance in his life? Another thing to cause him problems and add to the heaping pile of stress that was his day-to-day life? A boy would be an issue for him. A real burden.

From your first breath, you were an angel. You were tiny and fit exactly in the palm of his hand. Your crying had been soft music to his ears rather than the grating annoyance he thought it would be. He had never been near something so delicate and not felt a desire to destroy it until now. Usually, weakness in any form sickened him to his core. Not you, though, his perfect daughter. He would die before he would let anything irritate you, let alone hurt you. 

He raised you himself, with the helping hand of only the best nannies available. Your mother, some broad he had saved on patrol and had a little fun with, was promptly discarded after your birth. He didn’t want her in the picture, influencing you, changing your mind about him.

He kept you tightly locked away from the outside world, Vought Towers being your only home. You lived, learned, and flourished there for all of your life, surrounded by supes and feeling only the best sides of your father that he saved specifically for you. 

You heard the heat of his cruel, commanding tone he had to take with others. Never felt scorned or berated by him. He kept it all so separate in order to keep you happy and sweet for him, fully satisfied. Even without powers, you were perfect. His little princess. You listened, he rewarded, and that was the natural state of your relationship. 

Until your eighteenth birthday. Then things seemed to change. 

You were still his little darling, of course, but you had become brattier. This had never happened before, he wasn’t used to it in the slightest. His precious angel hit a mean streak—it rocked him, at first, but he couldn’t say he fully minded it. He liked you with a little bite, even when it was aimed at him. Mostly, though, he liked to hear you mouth off at others. 

Recently, the Deep had become one of your recent targets, a fact that Homelander was ecstatic about. 

He had never liked your relationship with him. You insisted on calling him “Uncle Kevin,” snuggling up to him during meetings, hanging his posters on your walls. He was the closest thing you had to family, next to your father, and you grew extremely attached to him, completely unaware of how he perved on you. It made your father sick, but far be it from him to take anything, or anyone, you liked away. He was just grateful that you seemed to find spite for Deep yourself.

You were at the head of the meeting table, sitting in your daddy’s chair while he stood behind you, running a gloved hand through your hair. The members of The Seven trickled in slowly, taking their proper seats. 

The Deep walked in last, eyeing you with confusion. Normally, you were all too eager to sit with him, curled on his lap or wrapped around him in a suffocating embrace during meetings. Now you were across the table and grumbling under your breath, knees to your chest. 

“What, too good to sit with me now, sweetheart?” Deep teased, eyebrows wiggling at you. He tapped his thigh and looked at you expectantly. “Come sit.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Deep. Someone’s moody,” your dad said, voice teetering on severe yet his hands remaining gentle as they threaded through your hair. “Isn’t that right?”

You huffed and mumbled something about going back to your father’s penthouse, to which he responded with a resounding, cooing “no.” 

“Let me turn that frown upside down," Deep said, giving you his signature smirk that usually wore you down. Not this time, apparently.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms tightly against your chest, leaning back into the plushness of the chair. “I don’t even want to be here,” you whined, lips pursuing, “and I don't want to sit next to you either, Uncle Kevin. Leave me alone!”

Your dad chuckled softly, slowly running his hands down your little shoulders, feeling the tension in them. 

“Well? You heard her.”

Your grandfather was slowly also earning himself a spot on your list of annoying, stupid men who agitated you. 

You loved Soldier Boy because your father did, but you always knew he was an old creep. It never bothered you enough to speak out, not when he used to let his eyes trail over your body and made thinly-veiled sexual comments. He would tease and touch you whenever he got the chance. He was a relic of his time and you understood that, but he was grating your nerves more than usual today.

He had you perched on his lap, smoking a cigar, recounting what he referred to as his glory days. His hand gripped your hip, keeping you still while he slowly bounced his knee, knowing exactly what he was doing. 

Trailing off from his story, he hummed and stroked your hipbone. “You know,” he said languidly, “I got real lucky with you, didn’t I? You’re just a doll.”

You let out a soft sigh and placed a foot on the floor, trying to still his movement between your legs. God, he was persistent. “Thank you, grandpa,” you rehearsed. He did this every single time your father dropped you off. He’d start off innocent enough, chatting you up, then he’d strike. 

“And you really are a pretty little thing,” he continued, blowing smoke right into your face with a deep laugh. “And so nice to Grandpa Ben, sweet as syrup. Let me get a look at you.” He lifted your chin with his free hand, examining your face under the dim light. “Mm, what a blessing. Not like your father,” he said through a sneer, “that fuckin’ loser. How’d somethin’ like him make somethin’ like you, baby? Doesn’t make sense, now does it?”

You had bit your tongue before. It was tolerable when he was creeping on you and babbling about your looks and figure, but you hated it when he spoke about your father like that. Your dad was off limits and he knew that, and now he had really earned himself a taste of your attitude. Only you could speak on your father, for better or worse.

“You’re one to talk,” you spat, pushing off of his lap. “You’re the real loser, sitting around, day dreaming about when you were relevant, what, seventy years ago?”

“Excuse me?” your grandfather asked, intrigued but far from shocked. 

“Stop talking about my dad like that,” you said, pointing your finger right in his face. “He’s twice the hero you ever were and—” you paused, unsure of what to say next, “—and you’re just an old creep!”

He raised a brow slightly before stubbing out his cigar and standing to his full height. While you knew your father would never strike you, your grandfather was a wildcard, and odds were that the 1950s never truly left his spirit. 

He grabbed your arm and tugged you towards his chest, staring down at you with a half-snarl, half-smirk. “Back in my day, women knew when to keep silent,” he chided, pressing a finger to your plump lips. “My babydoll’s growing up to be one of those ‘independent’ women, huh? I won’t have you acting like a bi—”

Your grandfather’s words were cut short by your father appearing in the doorway, his smile tight and artificial.

“Dad,” he said as curtly as possible, nodding to your grandfather with unreadable eyes. 

Ben begrudgingly let go of your arm, giving you another once over. “So, what? I suppose you’re here to take my granddaughter away from me again? She’s my girl too, you know.”

John hummed, barely humoring your grandfather. “Well, she’s still got a bedtime, dad. Come on, princess,” he said, flashing you an apologetic look. He knew how his own father could be; Ben wasn’t appreciative enough of your preciousness. 

“Yes, daddy.” You hooked your arm through his and breathed a sigh of relief. “Bye, Grandpa Ben.”

“We’ll visit grandpa another day, hm? Maybe a day where all three of us can be together,” he said, clear warning lining his voice as he gave his father a final look, guiding you out of the door. 

“You’re always leaving,” you spat angrily at your father, watching him prepare himself for a scheduled mission.

This was set to be a big one—-some drug ring facade meant to push Vought’s conservative image. Ashley had been riding his ass about it for weeks, squawking in that tinny, irritating voice of hers about public approval rates. Apparently he had fallen just under the predicted quota, so of course everyone made it their business to agitate him about a missing tenth of a percentage. 

He would be gone for a few days, a week or two minimum, leaving you all alone in his penthouse. He had asked Ben to keep an eye on you while he was away, but God knew you had something to say about that too. 

He adjusted one of his gloves, giving himself a quick look in the mirror. His eyes glazed over seeing himself, flashed his artificially signature smile, and spoke. “You know that last thing I want to do is be away from you, princess,” he said, peeking at your fuming reflection in the glass. “I have to work, don’t I?”

You stayed perched on the couch, arms folded and face twisted in a scowl. 

Honestly, you weren't sure why you were so upset. Your father was practically the most important man alive and you knew that it came with responsibilities. This was nothing new, in fact, you used to be excited when he would go on longer missions. It gave you time to be mischievous without his watchful eye on you. 

Now, though, his absence felt like a personal attack and a betrayal. Did he think you didn’t need your daddy anymore? Now that you had reached eighteen, you were to be left without? As if you no longer mattered—just something to be cooped up and kenneled like a shelter dog when he was busy?

You bit your lip at the thought, losing yourself in hypotheticals that only served to piss you off further. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, turning around to give you one of his real smiles, small but genuine. Those were special, only for you, his special girl.

“Yeah, well, don’t hurry back,” you said, letting the words out quickly like acid on your tongue. “I’m fine without you. More than fine.”

He felt his eye twitch at your tone but ignored it, instead choosing to press a sweet kiss to your forehead before he left. 

That only made you feel worse. 

You wished he would lash out at you, just once. Put you in your place and take notice of your behavior. Part of you was doing it out of true frustration, but the other part was desperate for attention, and he wasn't giving into you the way you craved.

“What’s the issue now, angel?” your father asked as you draped yourself on his lap, whining to yourself with your head to his chest. 

“You don’t love me anymore.”

He nearly snorted, knowing this was just your melodrama at action. Should you have ever actually felt that way, he would simply die, but the mewl in your tone told him you were just feeling needy. 

“Why do you think that?” 

You leaned your head forward, slumping into yourself while he kept your body still with one arm loosely wrapped around your waist. “Because I’ve been so mouthy lately,” you explained, pouting. “You always say I’m your good girl, but I’ve been bad all week. Been mean to everyone, even you, daddy. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not true,” he said, running his palm over your tummy, easily trailing over your body in comforting waves. “My sweet princess could never be bad. You just feel a little neglected, don’t you?” He took a deep inhale at the crown of your head, groaning to himself at the warm, decadent scent of you. “I haven’t made enough time for you, no wonder you have acted out.”

He felt a brief flash of shame and guilt course through his body. He knew you were likely being dramatic with your need for attention, but the thought that he was depriving you at all hurt him. He knew first hand what it felt like—emotional starvation—and he had subjected his baby to the same thing. 

You felt John slip his hands under your panties and rub slow, gentle circles. You writhed against him, leaning your head backwards against his shoulder. “Daddy?” you whined, confused at the new feeling. “What’re you doing?”

A big finger curled in, sneaking its way through your folds and into your tight cunt. There was resistance, a tight ring of muscle to fight through, but that only made your father try to work another digit in. His sweet, virginal girl.

“She’s never had anything in there, has she, baby?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “It feels a little funny, doesn’t it?”

You weren’t being bratty on purpose, he figured. You just weren’t used to the neediness and desire that came with being a girl your age. You had never needed this type of attention from your daddy before, but now that you did, he would give it to you in spades.

“No, baby, I don’t think that’ll fit you,” you said softly to your boyfriend, shaking your head at the shirt he held out in front of his chest. “Maybe a size or two up, yeah?”

Dennis was running out of clothes. He didn’t go out a lot, practically living in his scrubs, but what few outfits he did have were growing tattered. He had planned a nice date for the both of you and needed something to wear, but refused to go alone since he needed your opinion when it came to anything fashionable. So, he dragged you to the mall with himn—not that you were complaining! You had scored pretzel bites and a new pair of heels out of the trip already. 

Dennis frowned softly, digging through the clothing rack. “But this is the biggest one,” he said. He looked at the tag on the shirt, sucking in a breath at the ‘M’ that stared back at him. “I really like this one, it matches your dress. It’ll probably fit. Can we try it on?”

The shirt might have fit a few months ago, before he had hit that growth spurt that transformed him from scrawny to swole, but now it would take a miracle for him to fit even a single bicep in it. You knew damn well that shirt wouldn’t work for him, but he looked so hopeful. 

You hated to kill the poor man’s dreams, so you kept your mouth shut and simply nodded. “Sure, Den. Fitting rooms are that way, I think.” You took his hand and led him towards the back of the store.

You sat on the little bench in the fitting room, scrolling on your phone mindlessly while Dennis struggled. You knew it was only a matter of time before he relented, he wasn't that proud of a man.

“Uhm,” he huffed, one arm at his side and the other wedged halfway through a sleeve, “I think you were right.”

“Oh, do you?” you teased, watching his face heat up. “You’re bigger now, Den. Those sexy muscles couldn't squeeze into a medium if you paid them to.”

He tried to pull his arm out of the shirt with a groan. He realized that he wouldn’t fit in the shirt, but he hadn’t yet reckoned with the fact that he wouldn’t be able to get it off himself either. He struggled with the tight fabric until he had almost gotten out, only to be stuck again, somehow now with both arms stuck above his head and in the sleeves. 

“A little help here, please?”

You slunk towards him, eyeing his exposed abdomen. His waist was still rather slim, not thickening with muscle near his torso, but his abs had started to poke out more. They looked perfectly defined, especially with the wispy trail of hair that led up to them. 

You clicked your tongue. “Not yet, mister. Don’t I deserve a little something, you know, because of the whole I-was-right-and-you-were-wrong thing?” You fiddled with the buckle of his belt and popped it open. 

“Wait—” Dennis tried to speak, to remind you that you two were in public, but the second your mouth connected with his and he felt your hand dip into his boxers, he was weak. You slipped your tongue against his, running over the length of it with a ravenous appetite. “Just, uh, gotta be quick, okay?”

“Of course,” you said, slotting yourself against his chest with your hand still in his pants, pumping quickly at his cock. “Won’t take much for you, will it, Den? I feel you aching.”

He would have been terribly embarrassed if it did not feel so good. The thrill of being so close in public sent waves of warmth through his tummy; your hand was awfully skilled. Felt like your palm was sculpted by God just for him—his exact match. 

“You look so sexy,” you said, using your other hand to grope at one of his trapped arms. You squeezed the muscle and nearly moaned at how hard it was under your grip. “You were always perfect for me, but you’re even better now. Didn’t know it was possible.” You took a short break from fucking into his mouth with your tongue to kiss his temple, tip-toeing to reach. 

That was what did it for him, out of all things. A sweet peck from you and he was gone, shooting his load right in his boxers. He allowed himself a guttural moan, unable to cover his mouth. “Oh God,” he panted for a moment and licked his lips before looking down at the mess he made. His pants were stained, a dark patch forming. “Shit, m—my pants.”

Your boyfriend was getting big. As hell, actually. 

Dauntingly big. 

Scarily big. 

Panty-droppingly big. 

When he had first moved in with you, he was a scrawny thing. Obviously, he had a layer of muscle from working on a farm, but poor nutrition and stress had thinned him out. After a few months of staying with you and getting his eating habits in order, though, he became a whole different breed. 

You noticed it in his shoulders first. They got broad quick, taking up more room in your small apartment’s doorway each day, expanding centimeter by centimeter. He was constantly bumping into things now, knocking into the walls and confused about his own clumsiness. He hadn’t quite noticed the change in his physique, how he took up so much more room with those thick, corded muscles of his.

You tried not to think too much of it, men usually hit a tiny second growth spurt in their mid-twenties anyways.

It was hard not to notice how he started to completely dwarf you, though. His hugs were less of the gentle cradling you were used to from him and more of a smothering embrace that drowned you in his newly widened chest. 

His appetite changed, too. He was ferocious, cleaning your cabinets out in a matter of days most weeks. You didn’t mind, it was good to see him taking care of himself, but it was jarring to see just how different his eating habits had become. He used to nibble here and there, normally a light eater, but now he was clearing his plate and then some. Seconds of every dinner, thirds if you weren't looking. This new, strong body of his needed its fuel. 

Then there were his arms. Fuck, they were huge.

You had lost yourself in many a conversation with him through your staring, watching as they inadvertently flexed. You had started asking him to open jars and such for you just to see his biceps bulge without interruption. 

And the best part? His muscles weren’t just for show. Far from it.

You were evil for teasing him, you knew it. Your poor boyfriend had just gotten off of an extremely long shift and he needed you so badly, but you decided to have a little fun. 

You asked to ride him and he, of course, obliged. You were earnest at first, letting your walls adjust to his size as you sunk down. Then, you stopped at the halfway point. He assumed you were just achy and taking a little break. You lifted yourself off of his cock almost entirely, keeping only the tip inside, and shallowly fucked yourself with it. 

“Huh?”

You giggled softly into his neck, arms wrapped loosely around his wide, hard shoulders. “That’s all you get tonight,” you said with a devious smile, half-assedly working your way up and down on his length. “Just the tip.”

He groaned and rolled his hips upwards, begging for more. “Don’t do this to me,” he mumbled, hands taking purchase of your waist. They were gentle, but firm. Even his fingers had gotten slightly thicker lately. He let you egg him on for a few more seconds before he gave in and flipped you on your back, slotting between your legs with ease.

You gasped, feeling your body hit the mattress so quickly. You had never been handled like that, so easily moved around. The simplicity of his movements made you feel small and weightless in the best way. 

When he started to pound into you, hands keeping you firmly planted into the bed, you let out a strangled moan and grabbed his wrist. You wondered how it would feel to have him use all that strength to finger you, his whole arm’s effort put into it. You squeezed softly and mumbled something under your breath, trailing your hand up his sinewy forearm.

“Fuck, princess, you okay?” Dennis’s hips had stilled, not pulling out but merely pausing. “What’s wrong?” His jaw went slack for a bit as he tried to catch his breath.

That was another thing. His jaw had gotten remarkably sharp. Sometimes, you missed how soft and sweet his little face used to be, but the man he had blossomed into made your cunt clench with need. 

Your hand ran up his bicep and groped. “You’re so big now, Den,” you said. “My big, strong boy. S’like you could do whatever you want to me now.”

When he finally aligns himself with your cunt and shoves his way in, he groans at the resistance. "Give it a second," he would say through clenched teeth, eyebrows pinching together. He fucks into you anyways, ignoring your pained whines. Once you adjust to his size and give up on trying to get him to stop, your body relaxes just a bit and your pussy forms a precious little creamy ring around his cock, slicking him up nice and good. "What'd I say, huh? Always getting wet for me."

Porn-brained Deep who grows obsessed with the idea of choking you during sex. 

The girls in the videos he watches love it, so he tries it without warning. At first, his hand just wraps around your throat enough to hold you in place, keeping you anchored against the bed while he pummels his cock into you. 

Unfortunately, he did zero actual research on safe breathplay and pushes down further on your throat, nearly crushing your windpipe. He sees the way you squirm and assumes it's because of how much you love it, so he adds his other hand, stupidly unaware of how strong he actually is. 

"Fuck, your face is getting so red, baby. Must really like this." He shoves his tongue into your breathless mouth, stealing what little bit of air you have left. "Didn't know you were such a freak."

Porn-brained Deep who is personally offended when you can't squirt for him. 

He takes it as a slight against him, as if he isn't fucking you well enough. He thinks squirting is just the female equivalent of ejaculating, so when you tell him you came but he didn't see you squirt, he thinks you're lying to save his feelings and he doesn't like that one bit.

He's folded your legs to your chest, pushing them the farthest they can go. One hand is planted on your lower belly, pushing down on where his cock is hitting, and the other is abusing your clit. "I'm not fucking pathetic, I don't need you to lie to me. I can make you cum whenever I want," he would say, mostly to himself, as you are a lost cause—nothing but a sobbing mess at this point. 

"Can't do it anymore," you managed to shriek, feeling your eighth orgasm creep down your spine. It's not enough for him. It's not real if he can't see it. "Please, no more! F—fuck!"

He clamps his hand over your mouth to shut you up and lifts your lower body up with his other hand. This angle lets him hit even deeper, abusing the spot that aches for him. He's also managing to hit your bladder, too, though, and with each thrust, little sprays of piss leak out of your sore cunt. 

"That's it," he would goad, pulling his dick out and smacking it against your sopping pussy. "You're gonna keep fuckin' squirting for me until I'm done. You've been holding out on me."

Porn-brained Deep who treats you like a doll.

He moves you in any position he wants, pulling and shoving you like you're weightless. If he wants you face down and ass up, then that's how he'll maneuver you. He rips your legs apart without a care, sliding himself between your thighs like it's his rightful place. 

"Take it," he would coo. "Every inch, now. Don't squeeze me out."

He's rooted behind you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, slamming into you at a murderous pace. When you try to catch your breath and lift your head, he smothers your face back into the pillow, using his foot on the back of your head. 

He degrades you physically and praises you verbally, giving you whiplash and keeping you dizzy, drenched, and dumb on his cock.

Porn-brained Deep who doesn't let you swallow his cum. 

When you blow him, he refuses to let you swallow. That's too clean, he wants you messy. 

Sometimes, he makes you slowly drool it out so he can watch it pool down your neck and chest. 

Sometimes, he wants you to blow bubbles with it, drooling over his balls and slicking them up with his own diluted cum. 

Sometimes, he kisses you right after and steals his own cum from your mouth, swishing it around with his saliva before spitting it back out onto your face with a dazed smirk. 

Most of the time, though, he takes hold of your hand, brings it to your own mouth, and tells you to spit. He lets go of your wrist and nods. You know exactly what to do.

You bring the messy hand to your cunt and smear it all over, coating your folds with his cum. 

"Don't forget—yeah, good," he would hum, watching you shove your cum covered fingers into your hole. "Good girl, that's right. Fuck it back inside."

Porn-brained Deep who forces you to watch videos with him.

"See that? Don't you wanna be a nasty girl just like her?"

Cum funnels, gangbangs, anal, double penetration, all of it. Anything sick, perverted, or icky is his holy grail. 

He slowly pets your pussy, mentally taking note of which scenes make your panties wetter and which ones make your clit throb under his touch. When a video of a woman tied up to the bed pops up, a vibrator assaulting her helpless cunt, he feels your pussy twitch. 

"Yeah?" He looks over at you, an eyebrow raised. "You like that?" He rubs you more purposefully, focusing on your swollen clit.