daddyhetfield

Hometown zero turned mega-rockstar, Dungeon Master turned guitar god, formerly ridiculed and believed-to-be-devil-worshipping town pariah Edward Phillip Munson was getting married.

TMZ had broken news of the engagement long before Eddie had gotten the chance to make any of the long-distance calls required to tell anybody himself. Which wasn’t terribly surprising, truth be told. It had been months, close to a year in some cases, since anyone from your small hometown had been in regular contact with Eddie.

The cost of fame, you all supposed.

But no one seemed to mind it so much once they had that envelope in their hands.

Robin had called immediately upon opening the one that was delivered to her and Nancy’s place, talking rapid fire as usual, asking if you wanted to fly out early with them to sightsee, if you wanted to go in on the AirBnb with them, if you thought rock stars still registered at Bed, Bath & Beyond or was there some other super-exclusive place they got their linens and dishware?

You forced out a laugh, trying to sound as good-natured as you could when you said you’d have to let her know. Normally, you probably would have accepted without a second thought. 

Normally, you might have been joking with her about how celebrities slept on sheets with thread counts higher than your income. Normally, you’d be over the moon to see a Save the Date for the wedding of your oldest and closest friend.

Except you had yet to receive yours.

It was surprising, to say the least, to come home on the day everyone had been showing theirs off, waving them in the faces of anyone who had eyes to see, to find your mailbox barren—not so much as a catalog or a predatory credit card offer.

Still, you told yourself to keep calm. And actually managed to do so, for the most part.

There were a million and a half possibilities for why it hadn’t arrived. Maybe they had been sent out in batches. Maybe the ink smudged and it had to be returned when the post office couldn’t decipher your address. Maybe Eddie had forgot to put your new address and sent it to the trailer park where you no longer lived instead of your apartment on the other side of town.

You told yourself all these things and more, over and over again like a bedtime story. Trying to reassure yourself that nothing was amiss.

Because why would it be?

And yet your mailbox remained empty. Cluttered with the typical assortment of drab bills and junk mail, with no sign of the weighted, cream-colored cardstock bearing Eddie’s full government name written in a script so elegant you’d think he was a Duke or an Earl of some sprawling English estate rather than a gangly metalhead who hailed from the humble beginnings of Forest Hills.

Anyone you mentioned it to tried to soothe you in the same ways you tried to soothe yourself.

It has to be a mistake, they all said. Lost in the mail, delivered to the wrong address, insufficient postage—they gave endless explanations for the inexplicable. Of course you’re invited. You have to be. He wouldn’t dream of getting married without having his best friend there!

Eventually you resolved to just call him, knowing it would likely go straight to voicemail; knowing it would take a few days for him to get back to you as it always did. But just as you sat down in your living room to dial, your phone buzzed in your hand as a call from him came through.

“Hey!” you said brightly, all the hurt you had been plagued by the past few weeks having evaporated the second his name flashed on your caller ID. “That’s so weird, I was about to call you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

His voice was rougher than expected, raspy and haggard. It sounded the way it did when he’d just gotten off stage, after he’d finished screaming his own lyrics to thousands. Except there was no joy behind his exhaustion, no exhilaration or elation cracking through the way it always had whether he was singing for a sold-out crowd at MSG or the same five drunks at the Hideout.

“You okay?” you asked. “You sound funny.”

“Yeah, yeah, just ahhhh…we were in the studio all day. I’m really beat.”

It wasn’t a lie—he was a shit liar, you could always tell when he was—but there was most definitely something he wasn’t telling you.

Your spine instantly went rigid, panic spiking with a sharp pinch to your nose, and you tried to sound as normal as possible while you picked at a piece of loose skin hanging around your thumbnail.

“So…what’s up? To what do I owe the pleasure?” The teasing edge to your voice came out hollow and phony, lacking all the natural ease that normally came along with talking to him.

It had been years now since he moved out to Los Angeles but you never really felt the distance until his music career took off. When he first got there, he still called you nearly every night. And as you laid in your bed with the phone pressed to your ear, it was easy to imagine he was just a few trailers down stretched on his own lumpy mattress instead of 2000 miles away.

Secretly, you sort of longed for those days—for the nights he poured himself into bed after a shift bartending or caterwaiting or whatever other odd job he had fallen into that week. And still the one call he always made, even if he was bordering on passing out from pure exhaustion, was to you.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he explained solemnly. “About the wedding.”

“Um…me too, actually.”

“Yeah?”

There it was again—that crack, that fissure, that slight waver in his voice so unfamiliar it made him sound like a stranger. Too serious. Too stoic. Too unlike the boisterous boy you’d always known.

“Yeah, uh…this is kind of awkward,” you chuckled again, the sound of it riddled with nerves, and you wondered if he could tell how much you hated to ask, how long you’d waited, trying to put it all off. “But I was wondering about your Save the Dates? Because everyone else got theirs and I—”

“I didn’t send yours.”

The words are maudlin. Almost pained, like he’d just told you someone died. And your reaction is more or less the same as if he had.

“…Oh.”

“I’m—I’m looking at it right now.”

You tried to imagine him in California, sitting in his fancy penthouse the record label had helped him secure just as the paparazzi began to swarm his humble fourth floor walk-up. You’d only seen it in pictures, and not even ones he had sent you—Architectural Digest had done a piece on it that came out around the same time the news broke that he had started dating Carli West.

Was he stretched out on his massive leather sofa looking out those floor-to-ceiling windows at the twinkling metropolis laid out at his feet?

Holding the phone to his ear with one hand while the other clutched an envelope with your name and address stamped on the front? 

Or maybe he wasn’t even there. 

Maybe he had finally moved into his girlfriend’s—fiancée’s—mansion in Westlake Village.

“She, um…” his voice cracked again. “She asked me not to invite you.”

The ancient springs in your plaid recliner squeaked in protest as you sank into it, wobbly legs threatening to give out underneath you. Your mind was a blank, eyes staring unfocused at the walls, totally dumbfounded. A low buzz began to drone in your ears, steadily getting louder until it was all you could hear, like a deafening static drowning out every sound in existence.

“I’m so sorry. I swear, I tried. We’ve been having it out for weeks and she won’t budge.”

“B-but…why? I’ve never even met her! What could I have possibly done to—”

“It’s not you,” he insisted firmly. “Seriously, it has nothing to do with you. She just thinks—”

Whatever explanation he was about to sputter, you didn’t hear. The simple press of a button with a red icon is not nearly satisfying enough, though. You desperately miss the harsh clang of a landline being slammed back into its cradle, its metallic reverb echoing in the emptiness and silence.

As it is, all you can do is toss your phone away and blink back tears as it bounces off the couch cushion and thumps to the floor. You opt to leave it there, reaching instead for your keys where they sit in the middle of the coffee table.

You’re not even sure where you’re headed as you follow the same roads you’ve driven most of your life, tires swerving on asphalt that’s still wet with melted snow from the barrage of winter storms you’ve had over the past couple weeks. The night is pitch black in front of you, the air stinging and harsh, threatening yet another cold snap.

It’s not until you’re halfway downtown that you realize you left your wallet at home and have to head for The Hideout. You certainly would prefer not to spend an evening surrounded by countless memories of listening to Eddie’s band play, sitting at the end of the bar watching him bob and weave in and around stumbling patrons to clear empties and wipe down tables—all while razzing Peg with his ineffable, nigh insufferable, Munson charm.

But its the only place you know will serve you with nothing more than lint in your pocket.

You posted up at the near-deserted bar, downing two beers in half as many hours, staring into the middle distance contemplating the impossible.

A movie star hated you. A movie star you’d never met, who had sucked face with half of Hollywood—professionally or otherwise—and who lived in a mansion with nine bedrooms, and who pulled in millions of dollars at the box office…hated you.

That was the only conclusion you could draw from this information, right? It couldn't possibly be an issue of space. They were inviting the entire goddamn universe as far as you could tell. 

So it had to be you. Unless…

Distantly, you register the song on the jukebox changing and the opening chords of melancholy piano playing over Bonnie Tyler’s gritty voice, making you reach for your beer and chug.

“Hey there, Bright Eyes.”

The voice of Steve Harrington might have been the last one you wanted to hear right now, and yet it’s exactly what filled in your ears. You rolled your eyes purely out of instinct as he walked over, and it caused a single traitorous tear to roll down your cheek. You swiped at it, praying he didn’t see.

“Whoa, whoa. What’s with the water works?”

He slotted into the stool next to you and a wave of his scent washed over you, the aroma made up of something gourmand and surely expensive. A few stray pieces of chestnut hair fall forward into his shining eyes as he leans his elbows on the bar and tilts his head to get a look at you.

“Just allergic to your cheap cologne,” you sniffed, the bitterness of your insult undercut by the creak of your voice. Steve’s lips quirked in a small smile. 

You knew well as he did, he never wore anything cheap.

With an overdramatic sigh, he clutched his hand to his heart and wobbled in his seat as he leaned far back like he’d been struck there. It made your chest pang, thinking how that was one of Eddie’s bits—except he probably would have fallen right to the sticky floor just to make you smile.

“She wounds me, Peg,” Steve lamented when he caught the bartender’s eye. “Can we get another round over here, please? And a couple shots?”

Steve might have been the only person on the planet who could charm a smile out of ever-surly Peg. It was a small one, barely eking out, but it was there. She retrieved another beer for each of you and then placed down two shot glasses, which she filled with brown liquor that sloshed over their rims as she slid them over. Pretending not to be pleased when Steve winked at her.

“Alright. Come on, now. Out with it,” he said, pushing one of the shots in front of you.

Reluctantly, you picked up the glass and stared down it for a second like it was the barrel of a gun before knocking it back. The liquor burned down the center of your chest, like a knife slicing you down the middle. It made your throat spasm with the need to cough, but you forced it back.

“It’s not a mistake,” you said gravely after a long pause. Steve’s lips automatically pursed.

“What’s not?” he asked.

“My Save the Date isn’t lost,” you sighed heavily and pushed your empty glass away. “They didn’t send one, because I’m not invited. Because he doesn’t want me there.”

For once in his life, Steve was silent. Speechless. He stared at the side of your face until he made a sucking sound with his tongue behind his teeth.

“Nope. There’s no way that’s true.” He shook his head. “He actually said that?”

“Not in so many words,” you muttered.

Steve’s strong brow pinched, his handsome features furrowed, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek and then slipping out past his lips as he tussled with that bit of information.

“I don’t buy it,” he said, shaking his head again. You rolled your eyes.

“He said she doesn’t want me there. Except I’ve never even met her, so clearly it must be him.”

Your words started to wobble the longer you spoke, and you had to swallow the rest before they came spewing out of you like that shot nearly did. Steve picked up his beer and stared at it, his lips still pursed as he thought. It was the most pensive you’d ever seen him.

“Well…maybe she’s intimidated,” he offered after a long pause, punctuated by a swig of beer.

“She’s got a fucking Oscar, Steve,” you snapped. “In what universe would I intimidate her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you and he were like conjoined twins your entire lives? If he’s told her anything about his life before California, you can be damn sure your name came up.”

You scoffed, rapidly blinking your eyes as more tears stung behind them, threatening to spill over. Most of the town, much like Steve, thought if they ever saw a Save the Date with Eddie’s name on it, yours would be the one written alongside it. 

But you and Eddie were just friends.

Nothing more.

“He’s not—”

“Right, right,” Steve sighed, waving his beer back and forth, his eyes rolling back, “he’s not, you’re not, there’s nothing going on, yadda yadda.”

“Well, there’s not,” you snarled sourly. Never had been, never would be. “We’re just friends.”

Steve’s brow arched. “You and I are friends, and you wouldn’t be sitting here cutting your whiskey with tears if you weren’t invited to my wedding.”

“Like anyone would ever marry you,” you sniped.

The skin around Steve’s hazel eyes crinkled with a smile, seemingly pleased he managed to draw out that little attitude you always saved just for him.

“Well, then it sounds to me like there’s only one thing left to do,” Steve said.

You turned your head with a questioning glance and watched as he pushed his own shot in front of you. With a resigned sigh, you wrapped your hand around it and knocked it back. 

Another slice right down the middle.

“C’mon, champ. Time to get you home,” Steve said, lifting one of your limp arms and draping it over his stupid broad shoulder to help you to your feet, bracing you against him as you swayed.

Last call had long since come and gone. And between Steve’s credit card and Peg’s soft spot for you, you had most definitely been over served. The formerly near-empty bar was now completely deserted—tabs all closed, stools all placed on top of tables, drunks all carted away for the night.

With one notable exception.

“No,” you whined weakly against Steve’s chest as he hoisted you up. “Don’wannagohome.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” he said, shooting Peg a grateful smile en route to the door.

You grumbled some more as you tried to get your feet to cooperate in spite of your brain’s decision to abandon them. “Steve, really—please, not home. Anywhere else. Anywhere.”

Even in your current state, you knew you couldn’t be trusted within dialing distance of your phone. You would almost certainly say something you regretted, and maybe even moreso, you were terrified to see whether or not Eddie called.

Honestly, it was tough to say which would be worse—returning home to a slew of missed calls and texts you didn’t trust yourself to answer; or the just as unbearable absence of them.

Steve helped you walk across the gravel parking lot to his car and opened up the rear door. With what little control you had left of your limbs, you climbed into the backseat and tried not to think too much about how many girls he’d had back here in much more compromising positions. 

The world went horizontal as you slumped over on your side and you pinched your eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop it from spinning like a merry-go-round. The car jostled as Steve climbed into the driver’s seat up front and cranked the engine, revving it to get heat flowing through the vents.

“Steve?”

Your voice is tiny. Quiet as a pin dropping in the dark as snow began to fall outside the windows. Steve’s head swiveled to look back at you and his jaw clenched at the sight. Your head hung off the edge of his backseat, your neck barely able to hold it up. Your face was lit only by the lone streetlight overhead that reflected off the wet trails of tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You inhaled a stilted breath, bottom lip quivering. It’s the smallest you’ve ever felt. 

Smaller even than when you were a little kid and fell off of the shoddily constructed “treehouse” you and Eddie made together, thinking it was the worst pain you’d ever feel in your whole life.

More tears leaked out of your eyes, dripping off your chin. With a shaky exhale, you finally asked the question that had been running rampant around the inside of your head all night.

Longer, actually. If you were really being honest with yourself.

“Is he really gonna marry her?”

Steve made as little noise as possible as he shuffled down the hallway, passing the guest room after stopping at the door to listen for the sound of your gentle snoring on the other side. 

You’d agreed to sleep at his house without nearly as much cajoling Steve anticipated, even going so far as to whisper a quiet thank you to him as you pulled the comforter up to your neck.

To say you were in a rare state last night would be putting it lightly.

He had never seen you so upset in all the time he’d known you and he could count the number of times he’d seen you cry on one hand, with four fingers left over. If there was a list of people you would have chosen to confide in about all this, Steve wouldn’t have made the alternates.

And yet it was his shoulder you cried on as he helped you inside his parent’s house. His was the name you gurgled out as you tried desperately not to vomit up everything you had drunk on an empty stomach. His was the hand that rubbed your back when you finally curled up in bed.

How things would go this morning, though, Steve didn’t have the faintest idea.

He’d just put the coffee on to brew when his parent’s landline started to ring and he sprinted into the living room to snatch up the receiver. No one ever called that number anymore except for a few former clients and colleagues of his father’s who hadn’t got the memo the Harringtons had       long since relocated to the city, leaving both Hawkins and their son in the rearview.

“Harrington residence,” Steve chirped.

“Hey, man. It’s Eddie.”

“Oh. Hey. How, um…how are you?”

“I’m, uh…I’m okay. Listen,” he sighed, “I have kind of a weird favor.”

Eddie promptly launched into his rendition of what happened, giving Steve an abridged version of the events he had heard your side of last night. Eddie hit most of the same points as you, but he didn’t give much more than a vague explanation of what exactly had upset you to begin with.

And he ended it all with a heavy, labored sigh.

“I’ve been calling all night trying to reach her, but she isn’t picking up. I just need to know she’s ok. Can you…I mean, would you mind going over there and checking on her?”

Steve’s tongue pushed against his teeth. “Ahhh…so, here’s the thing. She’s actually here.”

“Here?” Eddie echoed. “Here where?”

“At my place. With me.”

The line crackled as Eddie fell silent on the other end. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. Like Steve had suddenly started speaking a foreign language.

“She’s with you?” he said finally. “She’s there?”

Before Steve could answer, he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He zeroed in on your form as you shuffled down the hallway into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup of coffee.

You actually looked a lot more cognizant than he expected. There was still some mascara smudged beneath your eyes, but the black trails left on your cheeks had been washed away. A curious look on your face, you held up the coffee pot and raised a brow, wordlessly asking if he wanted a cup.

Steve’s thumb came up to his lip and he took the nail between his teeth, gnawing on it.

He was positive you had no idea who was currently on the phone. You would have run over and yanked the receiver out of the wall if you did. As it is, you just stared back at Steve blankly.

The plan forms rapidly in his head—not really a plan, per se, more like a nebulous outline of one. And before he knows it, or before he can think better of it, he’s inhaling sharply into the phone.

“Yeah,” he said firmly, eyes still locked on yours. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

letting this one out of the vault because a) I like it and I can do what I want, and b) idk, I guess it’s sort of my goodbye. I don’t feel particularly inspired to write anything new, and I haven’t in quite some time. I originally saw this as a series, but I’m going to say there won’t be any more of this coming.

i'm not leaving leaving, i'll still be scrolling and reading when I can, but I feel like it would be disingenuous to act like any day now I'm gonna be cranking out a new series or updates.

I truly love everything i’ve got to make on here, and I'll never forget the feeling of creating them, the words flying out of my fingers, scenes taking shape in my head faster than I could get it down on the page. I'll never not miss it, I think. And I'm so grateful for all the people I've gotten to know through our writing and all the stupid, silly fun we've had <3

fixes things around you/that belong to you before you even realize theyre broken

physical touch is his default love language. hand on your knee while driving. bumping shoulders. nudging you with his foot under the table.

absentmindedly drums his fingers against your knee to the beat of a song.

instinctively reaches an arm across your chest if he brakes suddenly.

in another universe where dean went to highschool, he would’ve absolutely been that guy to do crazy embarrassing promposals

alwayssss rolls up his sleeves bro

lets you steal food of his plate

remembers which songs you skip and skips them before you do

walks half a step behind you in crowded places so he can keep an eye on you. 

always saves you the last bite if he knows it's your favorite

automatically grabs the grocery bags that look heavier. doesnt matter if youre stronger than him, or if you’re bigger than him.

likes buying you dumb little gas station gifts. plastic dinosaurs. novelty sunglasses. your favorite candy. 

⟢ sam winchester

puts his hand on the doorframe so you don't hit your head getting into the car.  

remembers little errands you mentioned and does them while he's already out. 

reaches things off the top shelf without making a joke about it, and will do it regardless of how tall you are

slows his pace to match you without realizing it

always offers you the better/comfortable option of seating

also automatically gives you the side of the booth instead of the chair

but if its a two-sided booth, he’ll sit next to you

researches things just because you mentioned being interested in them. 

quietly takes things off your plate without making a big deal out of it if he notices you not eating something, even if its a food he absolutely despises

if you have long hair, he always keeps an extra hair tie on him

gets jealous, but internalizes it first, and spends an hour wondering if he’s being irrational. 

will brush your hair out of your face or adjust your collar while you’re talking, without breaking eye contact

stays up with you if you can’t sleep, and will ask if you want to do something, go out, or if you’d rather just lay together quietly

compliments things that you chose, not just things you cant control

will do chores you hate doing for you, like laundry or dishes

⟢ castiel novak

watches you with absolute complete attention while you’re talking and will pointedly ignore anyone else that talks to him, even if they started talking first

straightens your necklace if the clasp turned around. 

learns your weaknesses and incorporates himself without you needing to ask. if you struggle with brushing your teeth, he'll place the toothbrush on the sink with the toothpaste already on it.

will argue with people over your preferences even if its miniscule  (ex. someone sits on your side of the car or uses your favourite mug)

waits for you without complaint before going anywhere, if you’re tying your shoe or if you’re going back inside to change your shirt

stands incredibly close to you and doesnt understand the concept of a personal bubble. attatched at the hip, because he realizes that he's allowed to

asks before holding your hand the first few times, then forgets to ask because now it just feels right and normal

tends to your things if he notices theyre out of place, like untangling your earbuds or putting your shoes back on the rack.

watches your footing if the ground is uneven and keeps his hand on your back 'just in case.'

stares at your face while you're talking because he likes watching expressions change, tilting his hedad like a dog.

will do things that make him uncomfortable if it makes you happy without question. sees it as his duty as your partner.

sees you in everything and thinks its a sign from heaven. thinks dean is quite odd when he tells him thats just how being in love feels

actually enjoys doing mundane thing with you, even things that other people would find boring, like cleaning up after baking

his version of flirting is solving your problems before you notice them

he does compliment you, but he thinks that its odd that humans considers such as flirting. he thinks its just matter-of-fact

When he lifted his gaze and saw you standing on the stairs, something changed in his green eyes.

For a second, the man who had always carried you on his shoulders and taught you to shoot with a bow in the backyard disappeared. Only that dark, heavy gaze remained, almost guilty.

"Stay upstairs," he told you with a hoarse, low voice, as if he could still protect you from all of this.

Your father stood beside him, his face drawn, saying nothing as the officers lifted him up. He didn't resist. He only looked at you one last time before they led him out the door, his head slightly inclined, but his back straight.

Ten years had passed since that night.

Your father's car drove along the secondary road that led to the state prison. The sky was gray, heavy with low clouds, and the silence inside the vehicle was uncomfortable. You sat in the passenger seat with your arms crossed, looking out the window without really paying attention to the landscape. You were not happy to be there.

"Why do I have to come with you?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "You could have come alone."

Your father sighed long, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Because he was important to this family for many years. And because I'm asking you, just this once."

You crossed your legs and rested your head against the glass. You had accepted reluctantly. You knew your father felt indebted to him, but that didn't mean you had to be part of this reunion.

After a while, curiosity got the better of your irritation.

"And why isn't his wife coming to pick him up? That's what wives are supposed to do, right?"

Your father took a few seconds to answer.

"They're going through a rough patch. He preferred she wouldn't come."

You frowned. You didn't even know he had gotten married. The idea seemed strange to you: how was it possible to get married while in prison? Apparently it was, because he had done it. With a woman you and your father knew practically nothing about. Only that her name was something like Lisa or Laura... you weren't sure. A stranger who had entered his life while he served his sentence.

It took about ten more minutes to reach the exit area. The access road to the prison was long and flanked by barbed wire and guard towers. Your father drove in silence, hands gripping the wheel, and just a few meters before coming to a complete stop, you saw him.

He was standing outside, next to the curb, with a dark canvas bag at his feet.

He had changed a lot. He was no longer the man you remembered. His figure had broadened, his shoulders wider and his arms stronger, as if the years in prison had hardened him rather than broken him. He wore a worn beige jacket over a denim shirt, his brown hair a bit longer and disheveled, and a thick, well-groomed beard that covered his strong jaw. His green eyes were still intense.

A strange sensation ran through your body at seeing him: a mix of nerves, curiosity, and something you didn't want to identify. Your heart beat faster and you felt uncomfortable warmth rise up your neck.

Your father stopped the car. Barely turning off the engine, he got out quickly and walked toward him. The two men met halfway and embraced with force, patting each other's backs.

"I missed you, brother," your father said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "It's been too many years."

He returned the embrace with the same intensity, though his expression remained more contained. When they separated, he took a step back and looked toward the car. His eyes landed directly on you.

"Is that her?" he asked with a half-smile, that deep, hoarse voice that seemed to have matured with time. "Damn... you've grown so much."

Your father let out a low laugh and waved you over with his hand.

"Come on, come here."

You hesitated for a second, but finally got out of the car. You closed the door and walked toward them with slow steps. When you were close enough, he looked you up and down with that disarming intensity. You leaned forward slightly and kissed him on the cheek.

In that instant, you felt the brush of his thick beard against your skin. It was rougher than you imagined, but warm at the same time. A shiver ran down your spine and, for a moment, you liked it more than you were willing to admit. He smelled of soap, fresh air, and something masculine that felt unsettlingly familiar.

He went still for a second, as if he had felt something too from that brief contact, and then gave you a small, almost private smile.

Your father patted his friend's shoulder and nodded toward the car with his head.

"Come on, get in the car. No point in staying here any longer."

You moved first and got into the back seat without saying anything, leaving the front seat for him. It was the most logical thing to do, but you still felt a slight tension as you settled in. He took his bag, left it in the trunk, and sat up front. The aroma of his jacket and his skin filled the interior of the car subtly but inevitably.

When your father started the engine and began driving away from the prison, he broke the silence:

"We have a room ready for you at home. She helped me get it ready these past few days," he said, looking at you in the rearview mirror with a grateful smile.

He turned his head slightly back, observing you for a moment.

"Thank you," he murmured with that deep voice. "It wasn't necessary, but I appreciate it."

Your father nodded, visibly happy to have him back.

"We have a lot to talk about, friend..."

You couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at you.

"And why don't you go with your wife?" you asked, looking at his neck. "I also wanted to know... where does she live?"

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Your father gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"That's enough," he cut you off with a firm tone. "You shouldn't ask those questions."

He, however, raised a hand in a calm gesture.

"It's fine," he said calmly, turning slightly to look at you over his shoulder. His green eyes met yours through the rearview mirror. "I'm not going with her because we're going through a rough patch. And she lives in Texas."

You nodded, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

You settled better in the back seat and stayed quiet for the rest of the trip, looking out the window as the fields sped by. However, you couldn't help but be aware of his presence. Every time he spoke with your father, his hoarse voice reached you and, from time to time, you felt his gaze shift toward the mirror to watch you.

They arrived at the house as the sun began to set. Your father parked at the entrance and everyone got out. He took his canvas bag from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder with ease, as if it weighed nothing.

"Come on, I'll show you your room," you said, trying to sound natural.

You guided him down the first-floor hallway to the guest room that you had helped prepare. You opened the door and stepped aside to let him pass. The room was clean, with fresh sheets, folded towels on the dresser, and a window overlooking the back patio.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice, setting the bag on a chair. His green eyes scanned the space before resting on you. "I really appreciate this."

"It's nothing," you responded, shrugging your shoulders. "Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, let me know."

You left the room somewhat nervously, your pulse a bit quickened. You closed the door behind you and headed straight to the kitchen. You opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and poured yourself a glass. You drank a long sip, trying to calm that strange unease you'd felt since seeing him outside the prison.

Less than two minutes had passed when you heard footsteps. Both he and your father appeared in the kitchen entrance.

"Your boyfriend's at the door," your father announced with a half-smile, gesturing toward the front entrance.

You let out a sigh of annoyance and set the glass on the counter with more force than necessary.

"He's not my boyfriend," you protested, irritated. "I've told you that several times."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen and headed toward the front door, feeling the gaze of both men on your back. Especially his.

That night you came home quite late. You had spent the rest of the day with your "boyfriend," trying to distract yourself and get away from the strange tension that had settled in the house since his arrival. Your father didn't scold you for the hour; you were always late coming home.

You walked down the hallway in silence, shoes in hand so you wouldn't make noise. Your room was at the end, just after the one he now occupied. As you passed his door, you noticed it was slightly ajar. A warm light came from inside, along with the clear sound of his deep voice.

You couldn't help but stop.

He was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless. The lamp light highlighted every line of his torso: the broad shoulders, the chest and abdomen muscles marked by years of hard exercise, even in prison. A thin layer of hair ran down from his chest and disappeared below the waistband of his pants. He was speaking on the phone in a low but clearly angry tone.

"...don't start with that again. You know perfectly well why I'm here," he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "No, I'm not going to discuss this now."

He turned and dropped into the chair next to the window. As he sat, his pants tightened against his strong thighs, and for a second your gaze dropped without you being able to help it. Everything was clearly visible on him. He was large. The word appeared in your mind before you could stop it, accompanied by sudden warmth that rose through your stomach.

You shook your head quickly, trying to erase that thought. What the hell is wrong with you? you reproached yourself silently. He was your father's best friend. He had just gotten out of prison. He was married.

You took a careful step back, your heart beating hard. Before he could turn around and see you, you moved away down the hallway and entered your room, closing the door softly behind you. You leaned against the wood, breathing heavily.

You went to sleep with your head in a mess, but sleep took a long time to come. You tossed and turned in bed for hours, with the image of his bare torso and that deep voice arguing on the phone repeating in your mind. When you finally fell asleep, it was restless sleep.

The next morning you woke up in a bad mood. You had dark circles under your eyes and a slight headache. All you wanted was a strong coffee. You walked barefoot to the kitchen, still in your pajamas, expecting to find the coffee pot full like every morning, but the pot was empty.

That finished making you furious.

You entered the living room with a frown.

"Why is there no coffee?" you asked grumpily.

Your father, who was sitting on the couch reviewing some papers, looked up.

"Sorry, honey. He finished it," he said, nodding his head toward the other side of the room.

There he was, sitting in one of the armchairs with a cup in his hand, already dressed in a tight black t-shirt and jeans. He looked at you calmly, but you gave him a sharp look in return and went back to the kitchen furious, opening and closing doors with more force than necessary.

Not even ten seconds passed when you heard his footsteps behind you.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, coming into the kitchen. "I didn't know it was your coffee. Let me make another one, no problem."

"I don't want anything," you responded without looking at him, opening the refrigerator just to do something. "I just want you to leave."

He stayed silent for a moment. Then he spoke with a lower but firm voice.

"You're being very rude. I was just trying to help you."

"I don't need your help," you replied, closing the refrigerator with a bang.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made the t-shirt tense across his shoulders.

"You weren't like this when you were little," he commented, looking at you with a mix of surprise and something like disappointment. "You were a sweet girl who was always smiling."

You turned to him with fire in your eyes.

"A lot of years have passed," you answered curtly. "I've changed. And so have you."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen angrily, brushing his arm as you passed. The brief contact sent a shiver through you that you preferred to ignore as you headed back to your room.

You sat on the edge of your bed with a heavy sigh and picked up your phone, scrolling through messages without much interest. You were still angry, but the anger was beginning to mix with a feeling of guilt. About ten minutes had passed when you heard two soft knocks on the door.

"Come in," you said.

The door opened and there he was, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He had changed t-shirts and his presence filled the doorway. He entered carefully, as if he didn't want to invade your space.

"I brought this," he said, extending the cup. "And I wanted to apologize again for drinking your coffee. I didn't know you were so territorial about it."

You accepted the cup with a small embarrassed smile. The aroma was perfect.

"Thank you..." you murmured before taking the first sip. The coffee was exactly how you liked it. "I'm sorry for how I treated you earlier. I slept terribly last night and waking up without coffee was awful. I got in a really bad mood."

He nodded, accepting your apologies. Then, without asking permission, he sat down next to you on the bed. The mattress sank noticeably under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him. Being this close made you very aware of his size, his body heat, and the slight smell of soap and clean skin that he gave off.

You looked at him sideways.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile.

"You're already asking," he replied with a teasing tone.

You laughed softly, feeling some of the tension ease.

"Another question," you clarified. "Why did you go to prison?"

He was silent for a few seconds, looking at the cup in your hands. Finally, he spoke in a calm voice.

"I was involved in illegal business. Mainly weapon trafficking and stolen goods. They caught me in a big operation. It wasn't something planned to hurt innocent people, but it was still serious."

You frowned.

"I thought it had been something much worse... given how many years you served."

He let out a low, dry laugh.

"They gave me more years than I deserved because during the trial, I lost control and beat up the judge. It wasn't my best moment."

You looked at him surprised, your eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Yes," he confirmed, looking directly into your eyes. "Really."

The silence stretched between you for a moment. Then he stood up.

"I have to go, your father is waiting for me to talk about some things."

As he stood, he placed his large, strong hand on your thigh to push himself up. The contact lasted just a few seconds, but it was enough. You felt the weight, the heat, and the firmness of his palm through the thin pajama fabric. A shiver ran across your skin and all the hair on your arm stood on end. It was a big hand, calloused, powerful.

He withdrew his hand and left through the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving you alone in the room with your heart beating hard and the coffee still warm in your hands.

The rest of the week passed in a strange but growing routine of cohabitation. Little by little you learned to share the same space without the atmosphere becoming too tense. You arrived home late almost every night, after spending time with your friend or simply trying to distract yourself.

Every time you came into the house, he was usually awake. Sometimes he was sitting in the living room watching television with the volume low, and he would greet you with a simple "you're home" or a slight nod of his head. Other nights, you would pass his half-open door and hear him arguing in a low voice with his wife. His tone was always grave and tired, and you forced yourself to keep walking toward your room without stopping.

During the day, he helped your father with everything he needed: fixing things in the garage, moving furniture, mowing the lawn, or simply accompanying him on errands. You tried to keep your distance, but you couldn't help noticing how, from time to time, his gaze landed on you with more intensity than necessary.

When you cooked, when you read on the couch, or simply passed through the hallway. And you... also looked at him. More than you wanted to admit.

By the end of the second week, the tension between you had become more palpable, though neither of you said anything.

That afternoon you were in the kitchen preparing dinner while you waited for your father to come home from work. You were cutting vegetables with precise movements when you felt his presence. He came in and leaned against the counter, observing you with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit his shoulders and arms, and he looked at you with that calm half-smile that was starting to seem dangerous to you.

"Are you just going to stand there watching?" you asked without looking up from the knife.

He let out a low, hoarse laugh.

"I can't help much, I don't know how to cook."

You rolled your eyes but smiled a little.

"Help me anyway. Hand me that pan behind you and the oil from the top shelf."

He obeyed, stepping closer than necessary to hand you the things. As he handed you the pan, his fingers brushed yours for a second.

"Of course, princess," he said softly, using the old nickname he used to call you when you were a child.

You went still for a moment and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Does it bother you that I call you that?"

"No," you answered, turning back to the pan. "I like it."

The atmosphere became warmer. He handed you the ingredients you asked for, moving around the kitchen with that imposing presence that filled the entire space. From time to time you felt his gaze on your neck, on your hips, or on the movement of your hands as you cooked.

At one point, his phone rang. He looked at the screen, frowned, and moved a few steps toward the living room to answer. He returned several minutes later with a tense jaw.

You didn't want to ask, but the words came out on their own.

"Who was it?"

"My wife," he answered curtly, putting his phone in his pocket.

"Oh," was all you said, and you continued stirring the food in the pan.

He approached slowly from behind, stopping at a distance that was too short. You could feel the heat of his body.

"She wants to come visit me this weekend," he commented in a low voice.

"That's not my problem," you responded in a neutral tone, though you felt a knot in your stomach. "Tell my father. This is his house, not mine."

He didn't move. Instead, he took another step closer. The smell of his skin and the slight brush of his arm against yours made your breathing accelerate. You moved to the side, pretending you needed something from the other end of the counter.

Just then, the front door opened.

"I'm home!" your father announced from the entrance.

The two of you separated immediately. You continued focused on the kitchen as if nothing had happened, while he turned toward the living room to greet your father.

Neither of you said another word about the subject.

The three of you sat down to dinner at the dining table. The conversation flowed relatively normally: your father asked how his day had been, and he answered calmly, commenting on the things they had fixed together. Toward the end of dinner, he mentioned casually.

"My wife wants to come visit me this weekend. If there's no problem, of course."

Your father nodded without hesitation.

"No problem at all, brother. This is also your home. She can stay as long as she needs."

You remained silent, poking at your food with your fork. You didn't say anything, but you felt an uncomfortable pang in your chest that you preferred to ignore.

After dinner, you began to gather the plates and utensils and he got up too.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"You don't need to," you responded without looking at him. "You can go to sleep if you want. I'll take care of it."

He observed you for a moment, but finally nodded and withdrew down the hallway. Your father went to his room shortly after, leaving the house in complete silence.

You stayed alone in the kitchen, tidying everything with methodical movements. You washed the dishes, cleaned the counters, and put away what you could. However, when you tried to place a heavy glass container on the highest shelf of the cupboard, you realized you couldn't reach it. Even standing on a chair, you couldn't reach it well, and besides, it had to go in a specific position to fit with the other things.

You sighed, annoyed. You didn't want to leave it sitting on the counter. After hesitating for a few seconds, you walked down the hallway and knocked softly on his door.

He opened almost immediately. He was shirtless, his wide, marked torso completely exposed under the dim light of the room. The muscles of his chest and abdomen tensed slightly when he saw you, and that line of dark hair running down toward the waistband of his sweatpants distracted you more than you would have liked.

You swallowed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.

"Can you help me for a second?" you asked, gesturing toward the kitchen. "There's something I can't put away up high."

"Of course," he answered without hesitation.

He followed you down the hallway. Once in the kitchen, you grabbed the heavy container with both hands.

"Put it there," you instructed him, pointing to the upper shelf. "It has to be pushed toward the back so it closes properly."

He approached from behind. When he stretched his arms to take the container, his body pressed against yours. His broad chest brushed against your back, and you could clearly feel the heat of his bare skin through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His height and build made you feel completely surrounded.

For a moment, your traitorous mind imagined what it would be like to lean back, arch against him, and let him touch you right there, just for him. To feel those large, strong hands holding you. The idea hit you with force and heat.

No. This is wrong, you mentally scolded yourself. He's older. He's married. He's dad's best friend. There's nothing good in this.

As soon as he finished adjusting the container, he lowered his arms, but didn't move away immediately. His body remained pressed against yours for a few more seconds, firm and warm. Then he took a step back.

"Done," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.

"Thanks," you said, not meeting his eyes.

He gave you a long last look before heading toward the hallway.

"Good night, princess," he said in a low voice.

"Good night," you responded, almost in a whisper.

When you heard his door close, you released the breath you didn't know you were holding and leaned against the counter, your heart racing and uncomfortable heat coursing through your entire body.

That night you had planned to go to bed early. You were tired after a long day and the heat wasn't helping, but your phone vibrated on your bed.

It was Tony, asking you to go out for a bit. You hesitated for only a few seconds before responding that you would.

You changed quickly in your room, opting for something cooler: a thin sleeveless t-shirt and a short cotton skirt that felt light against your skin. It was too hot that night. You fixed your hair a bit, grabbed your keys and phone, and left down the hallway, trying not to make noise. You wanted to avoid your father knowing you were going out so late, but as you passed the door of your father's best friend, it suddenly opened.

He was there, shirtless again, only with sweatpants low on his hips. He looked you up and down with a frown.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a low but firm voice.

You quickly put a finger to your lips, silencing him.

"To see Tony," you whispered. "I don't want my dad to know, it's already late."

He crossed his arms over his chest, marking his muscles even more.

"What you're doing is wrong. Going out at this hour without your father knowing..."

"You're not the one to tell me what's right or wrong," you answered curtly, meeting his eyes. "You're the last person to give lessons."

At that precise moment, the sound of your father's bedroom door opening at the end of the hallway was heard.

Without giving you time to react, he grabbed your arm and dragged you inside his room with a quick but controlled movement. He closed the door carefully, almost without sound. Suddenly you found yourself pressed against his body. Your back was against his bare chest, and one of his large hands firmly positioned itself on your stomach, pulling you against him to keep you from moving. You could feel the heat of his skin, the firmness of his muscles, and the strong beat of his heart against your back.

You stayed completely still, nervous, with your pulse racing. The smell of his skin surrounded you and you felt every inch of his body pressed against yours.

Neither of you moved.

You heard your father walk down the hallway, open the bathroom door, and after some eternal minutes, return to his room and close the door. Only then did he loosen his hand on your stomach and slowly open his door.

He took a step back, creating distance between you.

"Sorry," he murmured, looking at you with intensity. "I didn't want him to see you."

You said nothing. You had rapid breathing and flushed cheeks. You just looked at him for a second longer before leaving his room without a word and walking quickly toward the front door.

You felt his gaze fixed on your back until you left the house.

You left the house without looking back and got into Tony's car. The night didn't go well. Things between you had been tense for weeks, and that outing ended in a strong argument. You got home around 4 in the morning, with eyes swollen from crying. You tried to come in as quietly as possible, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

But as soon as you closed the front door, you saw him.

He was sitting on the living room couch in the dim light, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked up as soon as he heard the door and stood immediately, his expression changing when he saw you.

You tried to hurry past toward your room, but he was faster. He caught you gently by the arm before you could escape.

"Wait..." he said in a low voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you murmured, trying to free yourself and without meeting his eyes. "Let me go."

He didn't let you go. Instead, he turned you toward him carefully, and seeing your red eyes and tears still fresh on your cheeks, his expression hardened.

"Tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time.

As you didn't respond, he raised a hand and gently took your face, forcing you to look at him. His palm was large and warm against your cheek. His green eyes observed you with an intensity that disarmed you.

"Talk to me," he asked in a low voice.

You ended up telling him everything between contained sobs: the argument, how Tony had made you feel, how frustrated you were. He listened without interrupting, with a frown and tense jaw.

"You're not going to see him again," he said when you finished, with a firm and protective voice. "He doesn't deserve you. You deserve something much better than that."

You stayed silent for a moment, processing his words. Then, with a trembling voice, you asked.

"Can I hug you?"

He nodded without hesitation.

You moved closer and hugged him tightly, burying your face in his bare chest. His arms wrapped around you immediately, completely enveloping you. One of his large hands slowly caressed your back, while the other rested on the back of your neck. You felt small and protected against his warm, strong body. He smelled like him, something deeply masculine. You stayed like that for several seconds, letting him comfort you.

"Why are you awake?" you asked without separating.

"I couldn't sleep until I made sure you got home safely," he answered with a hoarse voice, still holding you.

You slowly separated from him, though part of you didn't want to. You stood on your tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, very close to the corner of his lips.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I'm going to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," he responded, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.

You walked toward your room feeling his gaze fixed on your back. You closed the door and leaned against it, your heart beating hard and a mix of emotions you didn't know how to handle.

You spent two days avoiding him as much as possible. You barely exchanged words with him, left early and came home late, or locked yourself in your room with some excuse. He seemed to notice, but didn't pressure you. He just watched you from afar with that intense gaze that made you nervous.

The weekend arrived and you woke up around 10 in the morning in a very bad mood. You didn't know exactly why, but you felt strange, irritable, and with a heavy sensation in your chest. You got up, put on an oversized t-shirt and some shorts, and headed to the kitchen. Your father was alone, drinking matelot at the table, a drink just to start the day.

"Where is he?" you asked while making your coffee.

"He went to pick up his wife at the airport," your father answered naturally. "They should be arriving soon."

You felt an uncomfortable pang in your stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. You didn't want to analyze it too much. You just nodded in silence and continued making your coffee, trying to make sure your expression didn't give anything away.

Around 11:30 you heard the sound of a car parking in front of the house. Your heart jumped. You didn't want to go out to greet them, so you quietly approached the living room window and peeked through the curtains.

He got out of the car first. He looked imposing as always, with dark jeans and a black rolled-up shirt. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door.

Then you saw her.

His wife was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had long, dark, wavy hair and a voluptuous body: pronounced curves, wide hips, and generous breasts. She dressed casually but elegantly, with fitted pants and a blouse that marked her forms. She was beautiful, with a confident smile and a presence that filled the space.

She looked nothing like you.

That bothered you more than you were willing to admit. You felt a knot in your throat and an unpleasant heat in your chest. You moved away from the window before they could see you, with your heart beating hard and a discomfort you couldn't explain.

You heard the voices outside: your father coming out to greet them, the introductions, the polite laughs. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to wash your coffee cup, though really you were just trying to calm yourself.

After a few minutes, you managed to calm down enough. You took a deep breath, fixed your hair a bit, and went out to the front of the house with a forced smile.

"Hi," you said as you approached.

He looked at you immediately. His expression was unreadable, but you clearly felt his eyes landing on you.

The woman turned toward you with a friendly smile and extended her hand.

"Hi, I'm Laura," she introduced herself with a warm, confident voice.

"Nice to meet you," you responded, shaking her hand. You tried to smile as best you could, though you felt like it wasn't quite natural.

You moved instinctively closer to your father, almost seeking protection, while you felt his gaze fixed on you. Laura started talking animatedly with your father about the trip and how grateful she was to be received. You barely heard her. Your attention was on something else: his large hand resting possessively on Laura's waist, not letting go at any moment. His fingers looked firm against the fabric of her blouse.

That image stirred something inside you. When everyone came into the house, Laura looked around with interest and smiled.

"If you don't mind, I can cook something," she offered enthusiastically. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen and I want to make a good impression."

Your father accepted immediately, clearly pleased.

"Of course! That would be great."

You didn't open your mouth. You knew that if you spoke at that moment, you would probably say something sharp or out of place. It bothered you deeply that someone else would invade "your" kitchen, the space that felt like your own. You'd never been good at hiding that kind of emotion: your expression became more serious and your body visibly tensed.

Laura seemed to notice, but said nothing. She continued talking with your father as they headed to the kitchen. He, on the other hand, stayed a few seconds longer and looked at you intensely, as if measuring your reaction.

You avoided his gaze and followed them in silence, with an uncomfortable knot in your stomach and a mix of jealousy and anger that you didn't want to feel.

You stayed in the kitchen watching her.

Laura moved around with confidence, as if she already knew the place. She cut vegetables, seasoned the meat, and talked animatedly with him, touching his arm or back from time to time. She acted as if he hadn't spent more than ten years in prison, as if she hadn't practically abandoned him as soon as he got out. Every laugh, every touch, irritated you more.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"I won't be able to have lunch," you announced suddenly, interrupting the conversation. "I have things to do."

Your father frowned, visibly annoyed.

"That's very disrespectful, honey. We have a visitor."

"I'm not hungry," you answered curtly. "I'm going to see Tony. I'll be back later."

You took the keys from the table and left through the front door without waiting for a response, ignoring the heavy gaze fixed on your back.

You came home near midnight. You had spent all day with Tony, though being with him felt increasingly like torture. The conversations were forced and his goodbye kiss in front of the house tasted empty. Still, you reciprocated, letting him kiss you with more intensity than you really wanted.

What you didn't know was that from the living room window, he was watching you.

You came into the house trying not to make noise. Everything was silent and dark. For a second you hoped to find him awake, like the other nights, but there was no one there. That disappointment fell on your chest like a weight. You went straight to your room, changed clothes, and got into bed with your phone.

An hour later, when you were already half asleep, you heard it.

At first you thought it was your imagination. Muffled moans, the rhythmic sound of the bed against the wall. But no, they were real and they came from his room. That made your blood run cold.

You got out of bed with your heart racing and opened your room door. You walked barefoot down the hallway, attracted to the sound as if you couldn't help it. His door was barely ajar, letting out a hazy beam of dim light.

You approached and looked.

He was on top of Laura. Completely naked, his back and arm muscles tense as he moved forcefully against her. His thrusts were deep and forceful. Laura moaned without shame, with her nails dug into his back and her legs wrapped around his waist, clearly enjoying every movement.

His large hand gripped one of her hips with possession.

It churned your stomach. A knot of nausea, jealousy, and something much darker tightened your chest. At that moment, he turned his head toward the door.

His green eyes met yours directly, and for one eternal second, neither of you reacted. His gaze was dark, intense, almost animal, as he continued moving inside Laura. You stayed paralyzed, mouth dry and pulse pounding in your ears.

Finally, you managed to react. You stepped away from the door and walked quickly down the hallway back to your room, with burning cheeks and a whirlwind of emotions you couldn't control.

That night you barely slept at all. Every time you closed your eyes, the images came back: his muscular back moving forcefully, his large hands gripping Laura's hips, her moans.

You remembered too clearly how big he looked, how deep and powerful every thrust was. And the worst part was that part of you couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to be in Laura's place... to be the woman underneath him.

You were so embarrassed.

The next day you didn't leave your room all morning. The mere idea of seeing him made you feel a knot of anxiety and humiliation in your stomach. You couldn't look him in the face knowing what you had seen, knowing what you had wanted.

Around midday, your father knocked softly on your door.

"Are you okay?" he asked from outside.

"I don't feel well," you answered with a dull voice. "I think I'm going to stay in my room today. I have a really bad headache and body aches."

Your father sighed, but eventually accepted.

"That's fine, rest. If you need anything, let me know."

You were alone again, curled up in bed. The shame wouldn't go away, and with it came a much more painful feeling: the certainty that you weren't enough.

Laura was a woman his age, mature, with a voluptuous body, pronounced curves, and generous breasts, and a confidence you still didn't have. You were very young compared to him. You had a good body, slender, firm, attractive, but it was nothing like hers. You didn't have those wide hips, or that generous bust, or that presence that seemed to fill a room. What could you possibly offer him that could really call his attention? He was an experienced man with a wife who, despite their problems, shared his world.

You were just the daughter of his best friend.

Too young. Too... insufficient. That idea ate away at you inside as you covered your face with the pillow, wishing all those thoughts would disappear from your body before you had to face him again.

You spent the afternoon locked in your room, but around five in the afternoon your father knocked on the door.

"We're going to the beach. Laura wants to cool off a bit. Do you want to come?"

You jumped out of bed.

"Yes, I feel better," you said quickly. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

You hurried to get everything: a towel, sunscreen, sunglasses, and your best bikini. You chose a black one, high-waisted with a pronounced neckline that made you feel confident in your body. You changed quickly, put on a light dress over it, and went out with your things, acting as if nothing had happened.

You got into the back seat of the car next to Laura. During the entire drive, you barely spoke. You answered with one-word responses when they asked you something and kept your gaze fixed on the window.

When you arrived at the beach, you all got out and settled in a good spot near the water. Laura was the first to want to go into the water.

"I'm going to cool off," she said with a smile, taking off her summer dress and revealing a red bikini that highlighted her voluptuous curves. She headed toward the water, swaying as she walked.

You desperately hoped he wouldn't follow her immediately. And he didn't. He stayed sitting on the towel, with his legs stretched out and his gaze fixed on the horizon.

That put you in a better mood.

You slowly took off your dress and left it to the side. You stretched out on the towel face down. You could feel his eyes scanning you, even though he said nothing.

Your father got up a little later.

"I'm going to buy something to drink. Do you want anything?"

Both of you shook your heads, and your father walked away across the sand. You stayed alone, and after a few minutes of silence, you decided to break it.

"Can you put sunscreen on my back?" you asked in a casual tone, handing him the bottle.

He looked at you for a moment, tensing his jaw.

"That's not a good idea," he answered in a low voice. "It can be misinterpreted."

You felt offended, turned your face to the other side, and rested your cheek on your arms.

"Never mind then," you murmured.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence closer. You heard the bottle opening and, shortly after, his large, warm hands rested on your back.

You smiled to yourself, hidden against your arms.

His hands were firm but careful. He started with your shoulders, spreading the sunscreen with slow, circular motions. He moved down your spine, pressing lightly with his thumbs. He reached your waist, and then his fingers brushed the edges of your bikini, going a bit further than necessary.

"You're very tense," he commented in a hoarse voice, almost a murmur. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"

"Now I am," you responded softly, without turning around. "Thanks."

His hands continued, spreading the sunscreen with slower and more deliberate movements. The warmth of his palms and the pressure of his fingers caused you pleasurable shivers.

"Is that okay?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.

"Mm... yes," you whispered. "You can go lower if you want."

He hesitated for a second, but his hands continued, extending the sunscreen with movements that were slower and more deliberate. The atmosphere between you became dense, charged with something neither of you named.

He removed his hands from your back just as he saw your father returning in the distance with drinks in his hand. He moved away a bit and sat on his towel as if nothing had happened. You remained there, face down, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin and the pleasant tingle you still felt where he had touched you.

A little later, Laura returned from the water, shaking out her wet hair and smiling. She sat down near your father and started talking enthusiastically.

"This is delicious. Now that I'm here, my husband can come back with me to Texas whenever he wants. It's time we got our lives back together."

Your father nodded, though his expression became nostalgic.

"It's a shame. He's just back and already leaving. I'll see him very little."

Laura smiled with understanding.

"They can visit us whenever they want, or he can come back to visit. Our house is big and there's always room."

Those words hit you like a bucket of cold water. The idea that he would leave, that he would go back to Texas with her, caused a deep discomfort in your chest. You didn't want him to leave, you didn't want him to abandon you, but you couldn't say anything. You just tightened your jaw and kept your gaze fixed on the sand.

He noticed the change in your expression. He watched you in silence for a few seconds before speaking with a calm but firm voice.

"I'd really like to stay a bit longer," he said, looking at your father. "I've missed so many years away from you, brother. If you don't mind, I'd like to stay a few more weeks."

Your father's face lit up.

"Of course it doesn't bother me! In fact, I love the idea. Stay as long as you need."

Laura seemed a bit surprised, but maintained her smile.

"As you wish, honey," she said, though her tone had a slight undertone of discomfort.

You, on the other hand, felt an immense relief that you tried to hide. You lowered your head and smiled slightly against your arm, without anyone seeing you.

The rest of the afternoon turned out to be more fun than you expected. After a while taking in the sun, everyone got into the water. The waves were perfect, and between laughs, splashing, and light conversations, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Laura seemed to be in good spirits, your father was happy to have his friend nearby, and you managed to enjoy the moment despite everything.

At one point, while you were near the shore, a boy approached you. He was tall, with light-colored hair and blue eyes, probably a few years older than you. You started talking and didn't take long to laugh at his comments. He was fun and knew how to keep a light conversation. You felt flattered, and for a few minutes you forgot about everything else.

Suddenly, he appeared at your side.

"Your father is calling you," he said in a neutral tone, but with a look that didn't allow for discussion.

You looked toward where your father was and didn't see him particularly rushed, but the boy politely excused himself and you moved away with him.

You walked together across the sand, away from the water.

"I don't like that boy," he commented in a low voice, not looking at you.

"Why?" you asked, still with a small smile on your lips.

"He looks too old for you."

You shrugged.

"I don't mind age."

He stopped for a second and looked at you with intensity.

"You need to stay away from that type of boy."

You suddenly stopped on the sand, forcing him to stop too.

"Why?" you asked directly, looking him in the eyes.

He took a few seconds to respond. His jaw was tense.

"Keep walking," he said finally, with a deep voice.

You obeyed, but the question hung between you for the rest of the afternoon.

When it was time to leave, you gathered everything and headed to the parking lot. There you ran into some family friends who had also gone to the beach. After exchanging greetings warmly, the friends asked if you could give them a ride to a certain point because their car had broken down.

Your father accepted without problem.

"Of course, but we'll be a bit crowded."

Everyone managed to fit the bags and towels in the trunk. Your father organized the seats:

"You sit up front with him," he told you, since you were smaller, they would fit better. "Laura, do you mind sitting in the back with them?"

Laura shook her head, though her smile seemed a bit forced.

"Not at all."

Your father sat behind the wheel and Laura sat in the back with the two family friends. You stayed standing next to the passenger door, nervous.

He had already settled into the passenger seat. He looked at you and opened his legs a bit to give you space.

"There's no other option," he murmured just for you.

You took a deep breath and got in. You sat carefully on his lap, trying not to lean too much. But it was impossible. His body was large and solid, and you ended up completely settled on his thighs. His chest was pressed against your back, and one of his hands naturally positioned itself on your waist to stabilize you.

The trip became a slow, silent torture.

Every bump in the road made your body move against his inevitably. At first you tried to keep yourself as rigid as possible, but it was useless. With each jolt you clearly felt his strong thigh under you, the heat emanating from his body, and slowly, something more. It seemed to grow under your weight, pressing against you in increasingly obvious ways.

He tensed. His hand on your waist tightened slightly and his breathing became deeper near your neck. You knew it was making him uncomfortable. It wasn't the right time, place, or person. Laura was sitting right behind, talking with the family friends, and your father was driving concentrated on the road.

You didn't know how to feel either. A mix of shame, excitement, and nervousness ran through your entire body.

At one point, you took his right hand, the one on the side of the door, where no one could see, and simply squeezed it. You didn't say anything. You just interlaced your fingers with his and held them tightly, seeking an anchor as you felt every small movement of the car.

He didn't pull his hand away. On the contrary, he returned the squeeze, his large, warm palm wrapping around yours.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, only the conversations from those in the back and the engine noise could be heard. You kept your gaze forward, with your cheeks burning and your heart beating hard.

When they finally arrived at the house, everyone started getting out of the car. You stayed a moment longer inside, pretending to arrange something in your bag to give the others time to get out first. You needed Laura and your father to move away a bit.

He didn't move immediately either. He waited until the others started taking things out of the trunk. Only then did he release your hand that he still held and speak in a very low voice, almost against your ear.

"You can get out now."

You got up carefully, clearly feeling his body react to the movement. You got out of the car without looking directly at him and helped unload the things, trying to act normally.

You helped carry some things inside the house, but as soon as you set the bags down in the living room, you murmured that you were tired and went straight to your room.

You closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing heavily.

You'd had too many sleepless nights, too much tension built up. Your body was desperately asking for release. You felt both embarrassed and excited. You took off your still-damp bikini and lay in bed wearing only a thin t-shirt. With shame and excitement mixed together, you closed your eyes and let your hand slowly move down your body.

You thought of him. Of his large hands spreading sunscreen on your back, of how they felt against your skin, of his body pressed against yours in the car, of that growing hardness you had clearly felt under you. Of the image you had seen that night through the half-open door: him moving with force, powerful, dominant.

Your breathing became faster as you touched yourself, imagining that it was his hands that were exploring you, that it was his hoarse voice whispering in your ear. You felt guilty and ashamed, but that only increased the intensity. You came with his name muffled in your throat, biting the pillow to avoid making noise.

When you finished, you stayed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, chest heaving and deep shame invading you. What am I doing? you thought. He's my father's best friend... he's married...

You got out of bed on shaky legs and went straight to shower. You let the hot water fall hard on your body. His presence seemed to have gotten under your skin, and it wouldn't wash away easily. Some time later you came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, with wet hair and your mind still in a mess.

You left the bathroom wrapped in a soft towel, wet hair dripping over your shoulders. You changed in your room with slow movements: you chose a loose cotton t-shirt that barely reached the middle of your thigh and simple black lace panties. You didn't put anything else on. The afternoon heat was still clinging to your skin, and the excitement of what you had done in bed was still pulsing between your legs.

You walked barefoot to the living room. The house was silent. You heard your father's shower running in the main bathroom and, from down the hallway, the distant sound of Laura moving in the guest room, probably changing clothes.

You dropped yourself onto the big couch, stretching your legs across the cushions. You rested your head back and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind that was still spinning inside you. The cool leather of the couch against the back of your thighs made you sigh.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence.

He entered the living room without making a sound. He stopped for a second when he saw you, as if deciding whether to approach or not. Finally he sat down next to you, leaving barely a palm's width between your bodies. The couch sank under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence was dense, charged. You could hear his slow, deep breathing. You felt the heat coming from his bare leg so close to yours. Your heart started beating faster, but you stayed still, pretending you were just resting.

After a long while, he spoke. His deep, hoarse voice was barely a murmur, just for you.

"Sorry for what happened in the car. That shouldn't have happened."

You slowly turned your head toward him. His green eyes looked at you with a mix of guilt and something much darker. You were so close that you could see the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw and the pulse beating in his neck.

"Don't be sorry," you whispered, holding his gaze. "I liked it."

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through his nose. His large hand rested on his own thigh, his fingers tense.

"You shouldn't say those things," he murmured, with an even lower voice. "You're my best friend's daughter. This... is wrong."

You bit your lower lip and turned a bit more toward him, letting your knee gently brush against his thigh.

"I would do it again," you said without hesitation, almost defiantly.

He turned his head to look at you. His gaze had darkened. For a moment he only observed you: your parted lips, your damp hair falling over your shoulders, the way your t-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your collarbone.

"You're perfect," he said finally, almost painfully. "And very foolish for wanting me."

A slow, soft smile appeared on your lips. You felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Without saying anything, you slid your hand across the couch until your fingers brushed the edge of his thigh. You moved upward slowly, feeling the hardness of the muscle under the thin fabric of his shorts. He tensed visibly, but didn't stop you immediately.

"I can be whatever you want," you whispered, moving your face a little closer to his. "Just tell me."

Your hand continued moving up until your fingers brushed the bulge that was starting to form under the fabric. He let out a very low growl, almost inaudible.

Suddenly, his large, strong hand caught yours, stopping it just above his groin. His fingers wrapped around yours with firmness, but without pushing you completely away.

"No," he said with a hoarse voice, almost pleading. "There are people in the house. Your father... Laura..."

"I don't care," you responded in a trembling but determined whisper. You moved your fingers under his hand, gently caressing the hard shape that was growing against your palm. "I want to feel you. Just a little. Please..."

He swallowed hard. His jaw was so tense you could see the muscle flexing. For one eternal second, only the breathing of both of you could be heard, each breath heavier than the last.

Finally he released your hand... but only to move his up to your face. His large, warm palm gently cupped your cheek. His thumb slowly brushed your lower lip, parting it slightly.

"You're so beautiful when you ask for something," he murmured, his voice so deep you felt it vibrate in your own chest. "Too beautiful."

You leaned slightly into his touch, kissing the base of his thumb softly. Your fingers, now free, resumed their movement over him with slowness, exploring the long, hot, hard length that was hardening more under the fabric. You stroked him from top to bottom with your fingertips, feeling how it pulsed and grew with each touch.

He didn't stop you this time.

His breathing became deeper, and his eyes closed to half-mast as he let you touch him. The hand on your cheek moved slowly down your neck, stopping at the curve where your pulse raced. His fingers spread across your skin, possessive but controlled.

The sound of your father's shower continued running in the background. Laura hummed something softly in the distant room. And in the living room, the air was so charged that it seemed like everything could break at any moment.

The tension in the living room was so thick you could almost touch it. Your fingers continued moving slowly over him, feeling his erection growing and pulsing under the thin fabric of his shorts. He had his eyes half-closed, his breathing heavy, and his large hand still held your face like he was afraid you would disappear.

Suddenly, you heard soft footsteps down the hallway.

Laura.

He reacted with speed. In one smooth movement, he grabbed one of the large cushions from the couch and placed it over his lap, covering himself. You pulled your hand away just in time and settled back into your place, pretending you were just checking your phone. Your heart was beating so hard you thought Laura would hear it.

She appeared in the living room entrance, already in pajamas: a soft camisole and short shorts that marked her curves. She looked at both of you with a tired smile.

"I'm exhausted," she said with a yawn. "I'm going to sleep. Are you coming, honey?"

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice calm.

"I'll be right there. I want to shower first, I'm full of sand."

Laura nodded, barely paying attention, and headed to the bedroom. When she disappeared down the hallway, he looked at you. His green eyes were burning.

You got up from the couch on shaky legs with a secret smile on your lips. You walked toward your room without looking back, feeling his gaze fixed on your back.

Once inside, you closed the door and leaned against it. A low, happy laugh escaped your throat. You brought your hands to your hot cheeks. He had confirmed it. He wanted you. As much as you wanted him.

You smiled like a fool against the door, with your stomach full of butterflies and a dangerous warmth between your legs.

That night no one had dinner. Everyone was exhausted from the beach day. Your father went to bed early, Laura also. The house fell silent before ten.

You heard the shower turn on in the main bathroom. You thought he was actually going to shower... until, a few minutes later, your door opened carefully.

You jumped slightly in bed, scared. You were lying down with just a black lace underwear set, the light sheet covering you up to your waist. When you saw it was him, fear turned into a slow, bright smile.

He closed the door behind him with great care and turned the key. The sound of water still running in the shower was perfect cover.

He approached the bed without saying anything at first. You sat on the edge, watching him. He stopped in front of you, observing you from head to toe: your damp hair, your smooth skin, the black lace contrasting against your younger, more delicate body.

"You look like an angel," he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost reverent.

You stood up and wrapped your arms around his neck naturally, pressing your semi-naked body against his. You could feel the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt.

He took your face in his large hands, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. His green eyes dropped to your lips. He leaned down slowly, giving you the chance to pull back.

You didn't.

His lips brushed yours with surprising softness. First it was a light touch, almost tentative. Then, with more pressure, more hunger. He kissed you slowly, deeply, savoring you. His tongue gently caressed yours with slowness, exploring, while one of his hands moved down your bare back to rest on the low curve of your waist, pulling you more against him.

You melted into his body. The kiss became more intense but still controlled, as if he were holding himself back with all his strength. When you finally separated, both of you were breathing hard.

"Do you really like me?" you asked in a vulnerable whisper. "I look nothing like your wife... I don't have her curves, or her experience, or anything to really offer you."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His expression was serious, intense.

"You're more than perfect," he said in a deep, low voice, almost a vow. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. It's not just your body... it's the way you look at me, the way you tremble when I touch you, how you dare to ask me for what you want."

His hand slowly moved down your back, tracing your spine with his fingertips, stopping just above the fabric of your panties.

"I don't need you to be like her. I want you exactly as you are."

He kissed you again, this time with more urgency, while pressing you against his body. You could feel his hard erection pressing against your belly through his pants. His large hands explored your back, your waist, moving downward with slow possession until gently gripping your ass, lifting you slightly against him.

A soft moan escaped you against his mouth and he smiled against your lips.

"Shhh..." he whispered. "You have to be quiet, princess."

He gently pushed you toward the bed. You lay down on your back, looking at him with shining eyes full of desire. He undressed with a single movement, revealing his broad, marked torso covered by that fine layer of dark hair. He climbed on top of you, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you.

He kissed you again while one of his hands moved slowly down your body. He slid his fingers under the fabric of your lace bra, touching your already hardened nipple. He squeezed it gently, then with more force, drawing a gasp from you. He moved his mouth down to your chest, pulling the lace aside with his teeth. He sucked on one of your nipples hard while his free hand moved between your legs.

His thick fingers brushed the wet fabric of your panties.

"Damn, you're so needy..." he growled against your skin, feeling how soaked you were.

He moved the fabric to the side and slid two thick fingers between your folds, caressing your swollen clit with slow, circular motions. Then he lowered them and pushed one inside you, deep and slow. You moaned, biting your lip to keep quiet.

"So tight..." he murmured, adding a second finger. He started moving them in and out with a torturous rhythm, curving them to touch that spot that made you tremble.

Your hand moved down to his pants, seeking his erection. You felt it huge, hot, and pulsing. You stroked it over the fabric at first, then put your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around it. It was thick, heavy, much bigger than you had imagined. You masturbated him slowly, feeling how it swelled even more in your hand.

He growled against your neck.

"Fuck, you're doing it so well..."

He pulled off your panties with an impatient movement and lowered his pants just enough to free his cock. It was large, veined, with a thick head glistening with pre-cum. He rubbed it against your entrance, sliding it between your wet lips, hitting your clit with each stroke.

He looked into your eyes as he positioned himself.

"Fuck, it won't fit..." he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost concerned, seeing the difference in size.

"I want to try... please," you pleaded, opening your legs more for him.

He pushed the thick head against your entrance. It was slow, very slow. You felt how he opened you, stretching you in an almost painful but delicious way. Inch by inch, he entered you. Your insides squeezed him tightly, pulsing around his thickness.

"Go ahead, take it like a good girl," he whispered against your ear when he was already more than halfway in. "Breathe... that's it."

You moaned softly when he was finally completely buried inside you. You felt completely full, completely filled by him. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and breasts while his large hands gripped your hips.

He started moving. First with slow, deep thrusts, coming out almost completely to re-enter all the way to the bottom. Each time he reached the bottom, a muffled moan escaped from your throat.

The rhythm gradually increased. His hips collided with yours with more force, but controlled. The wet sound of his cock entering and leaving your pussy filled the room.

You clung to his broad shoulders, digging your nails into his skin. He looked directly into your eyes as he fucked you harder.

"You belong to me. Just me. Say it. Just me."

"Just you..." you gasped, barely able to speak. "Just you... please..."

"Again," he demanded, accelerating the rhythm, hitting that spot inside you with each deep thrust.

"Just you... Damn, just you!"

He kissed you hard to muffle your moans while he fucked you faster. One of his hands moved between you and he rubbed your swollen clit with his thumb, pushing you to the edge.

"Come for me, princess," he growled against your mouth. "I want to feel how you squeeze me."

The orgasm hit you hard. Your insides contracted violently around his thick cock, trembling and squeezing him while waves of pleasure ran through your entire body. You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He kept fucking you through your orgasm, deeper, wilder, until with a low, hoarse growl, he came inside you. You felt the hot bursts filling you, his cock pulsing hard while he filled you completely.

He stayed inside you for a long time, both of you breathing heavily, sweating, and trembling. He kissed you softly on the lips, on your forehead, on your cheeks, as if he couldn't stop touching you.

"You're mine now," he whispered against your skin, still buried deep inside you.

You remained connected for several more minutes, with him still buried deeply inside you. You felt his cock pulsing gently inside, his warm cum filling you completely. Neither of you wanted to move. He stroked your hair with one hand while the other moved slowly down your back with gentle caresses.

"I could fuck you all night..." he murmured against your neck, with a hoarse and satisfied voice. "I wouldn't get tired of this."

You smiled, still trembling from the orgasm, and tightened your internal walls around him.

"You could let me..." you whispered, kissing his jaw. "You could do whatever you want to me, all night."

He let out a low, deep laugh that vibrated against your chest. He lifted his head to look at you, with that dangerous half-smile you loved so much, and kissed you deeply, slowly, and affectionately this time.

When he separated, he rested his forehead against yours.

"I have to go, princess," he said softly.

"No..." you protested in a low voice, wrapping your legs around him more tightly. "Stay a bit longer. I feel so full... I like having you inside."

He closed his eyes for a second, as if struggling with himself.

"I need to go back with Laura," he said gently. "If I don't, she'll suspect."

Those words felt like a blow to your chest. Suddenly you felt a knot in your throat and, without being able to help it, tears started falling down your cheeks. You tried to turn your face away so he wouldn't see them, but he didn't let you.

"Hey..." he whispered tenderly. He carefully pulled out of you, causing a moan of emptiness to escape your lips. He lay down beside you and pulled you against his bare chest. "Don't cry, please."

He cleaned your tears with his thumbs, kissing each one of them. His lips brushed your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"Everything will be okay," he murmured against your skin. "This is complicated right now, but I'll fix it. I'll see you later, yes? I promise."

You nodded in silence, though the knot in your chest didn't fully disappear. He kissed you again, this time softer, longer, as if he wanted to carry your taste with him.

Then he got out of bed reluctantly. You stayed lying there, watching him as he got dressed: first his pants, then his t-shirt. Each movement of his muscles reminded you of what had just happened.

When he was ready, he bent over you one last time. He took your face in both hands and gave you a kiss so deep, so long, so desperate that it seemed like goodbye.

"Go to sleep," he whispered against your lips.

He dedicated one last look, charged with desire and something softer, and left your room with the same care he had entered. He closed the door softly.

You were left there, naked on the rumpled sheets, with your legs still open and his cum slowly running between your thighs. You felt full of him, marked, used in the best way possible.

A silly smile appeared on your lips as you brought a hand to your belly, still feeling the echo of his thickness inside you. You were happy. Very happy. But at the same time, a deep sadness settled in your chest when you heard his footsteps moving away down the hallway toward the room he shared with Laura.

You turned to your side, hugging the pillow, and closed your eyes. Happiness and sadness mixed strangely inside you.

You had crossed a line that had no turning back... and part of you didn't want it to.

The Fourth of July, the damn biggest event in your neighbourhood, and your dad was the one who hosted it every time.

Families gathered in your backyard, kids running around, neighbourhood moms bringing their homemade goods, and all you had to do was sit back, smile, and tell the silly stories about college. It was pretty easy, and your boyfriend sitting beside you made it easier.

You’re sitting at one of the tables scattered around the yard, giggling to your boyfriend about something, his hand on your thigh, rubbing where the edge of your denim shorts stops. You met him in college, and he’s currently the talk of every grandma who comes by you, immediately accusing the young guy of being your future husband.

Yeah, right.

Your dad stands by the grill, quietly cursing to himself, and it catches your attention; he’s messing around with the propane tank beneath it, mumbling something about being out. He’s clearly stressed out; the entire neighbourhood’s stomach depended on him serving something.

Slipping off the lawn chair, you hurry to your dad’s side, and he turns to you.

“Dad, what’s going on?” you ask, eyes glancing at his struggle, then back at the kids behind you, asking their parents when the food will be done.

“Left the new friggin’ propane tank in the garage,” he groans, peeking up at you through a wrinkled brow. “You don’t mind grabbin’ it, do you, honey?” he asks, giving you a nervous-needy smile.

“No–no, I don’t mind,” you mumble, shaking your head and glancing at your boyfriend, who should be the one grabbing it, but he acts like he doesn’t notice. You roll your eyes.

You bypass the parents and kids, go through the side gate of the house, and head to the front yard, then to the garage.

“Kiddo,” a familiar, deep voice drawls behind you, and you quickly turn around, seeing him, in all his stupid cowboy glory; Beau Arlen.

He stands in your driveway, a grin curling at his lips, his beard untrimmed and unforgiving, his green eyes roving over your body, his hair messy, strands falling over his forehead. How the hell has this man babysat you before?

“Sheriff Arlen,” you say in disbelief, not having seen him in about three years, and his grin widens.

“C’mon,” he laughs with a shake of his head, taking long strides towards you. “You use’ta call me Uncle Beau, and now I’m Sheriff Arlen?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s–it’s just been so long,” you stutter, shaking your head as he approaches. “Like… not since I went off to college, type of long,” you laugh, finally smiling.

“And ya’ missed me that entire time, yeah?” he teases, lifting his hand to ruffle your hair. “C’mon, give me a hug,” he says, not even offering; he just opens his arms, and you naturally find your way into his.

It’s not the same as when you were twelve, and he hugged you to calm you down after you fell off your bike. 

He’s all firm and muscular now, warm and thick, his cologne wrapping you up just like his arms, and his large hands rest against your back, pressing into the white cotton of your shirt. It’s a longer hug than usual, gently squeezing your frame.

“Cannot believe the size of ya’,” he says, looking you up and down. “Remember when you were jus’ a little thing, could fit in my arms,” he shakes his head, looking back at your height.

“Yeah.. yeah, it’s been a while,” you agree, shyly backing up, and he adjusts his belt with one hand.

“Your daddy givin’ you trouble?” Beau asks, his grin still stuck on his face. “Even when you were off at college, still pissin’ me right off, callin’ me over and all that,” he laughs, briefly wetting his lips with his tongue.

“No… no, he’s been fine, everything has been fine,” you nod, and he huffs, resting his hands against his hips.

“Good… I’m glad,” he agrees, looking past you at the open garage. “Need help with somethin’, darlin’?” he asks, noticing you’re not in the backyard with everyone else having a good time.

“What on earth is taking you so long?” your dad suddenly blurts, stepping into the front yard to see you and Beau standing there, and he instantly drops the dad-mode he shifted into.

“Beau, finally, thought you were skippin’ this year,” your dad laughs loudly, instantly forgetting the conversation, leaving you to stand awkwardly there. You ignore the propane tank completely and walk back into the backyard to find your boyfriend again.

“Hey, babe,” your boyfriend grins as you return, and you cringe at the silly pet, giving him a small smile. “You mind if we leave before… like eight?” he shrugs, looking beside him as you sit down.

“Fireworks don’t even start until nine?” You furrow your eyebrows, staring at his boyish features twisting into an obnoxious glare.

“You wanna watch fireworks?” he laughs in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. “We have my car, babe… you know… maybe,” he teases, reaching over to pinch your waist, and you shift away, rolling your eyes.

“In your dreams,” you groan, crossing your arms, looking away, and sighing.

You watch as Beau enters the backyard; all broad and smiling, his strong hands carrying the tank. You swear you’ve never seen him this way, but it’s hard not to when everyone around him is fawning over him, and his jeans fit him a little too well. You look away when you notice him approaching.

“Beau,” you say softly when he reaches you and your boyfriend, and he glances between the two of you, suddenly eyeing the young man instead of you.

“And who’s this?” he drawls, his southern accent heavy.

“My boyfriend,” you nod, looking to him; he’s busy doing something on his phone, ignoring the Sheriff’s hand that’s currently hanging in the air, waiting for your boyfriend to shake it.

God, you want to crawl into a hole.

“Seems like a gentleman,” Beau says sarcastically, turning to you, and that’s when he finally looks up.

“Oh, hey,” your boyfriend mumbles, shoving his phone into his shorts. “You’re her uncle?” he asks, looking back at you.

“Close,” he shrugs, his thumbs resting in his belt as he stares down at the two of you. “She’s like m’daughter, ya’ hear?” he mumbles, and there’s a threat laced into that tone that makes you shift in the plastic chair.

“Yeah… I hear…” your boyfriend mutters, mostly confused, awkwardly looking away from the much taller man, whose eyes do not leave that poor son of a bitch.

“You havin’ fun, sweetheart?” Beau asks, switching his attention to you, and he looks at your shy body, curling into itself in the chair.

“Yeah,” you mumble with an unenthusiastic nod, and he knows you well, so he purses his lips.

“Why don’t ya’ come with me? I’ll make you somethin’ to eat,” he offers, waving you over, and you look to your boyfriend, who is currently flipping through something on his phone.

You hesitantly nod, but smile the minute Beau grabs your hand. It’s like you’re twelve again.

“Piece o’work, I’ll tell you that, darlin,” Beau mumbles quietly to you, still holding your hand as he walks towards the table filled with food others brought. “That boy… the hell are you thinkin’?”

“Shut up,” you mumble to him, laughing a little, and he grins at the way he’s made you laugh more than your boyfriend ever has.

“No… no, darlin, I’m serious,” he laughs along, stopping in front of the table, and he releases his hand from yours, gently resting it against the back of your arm. “Dumbest decision I’ve seen ya’ make… and I use’ta watch you go barefoot in ponds,” he shakes his head, clicking his tongue.

“He’s better when you get to know him,” you explain as Beau hands you a paper plate, and you reach for one of those sugar cookies that make your teeth rot. “He’s just… shy, awkward,” you defend, shrugging.

“Mmm…” Beau hums, giving you a knowing look as you shuffle down the long table. “We’ll see,” he shrugs, reaching over to add another sugar cookie onto your plate. He knows your taste buds more than you do.

After the two of you finish loading your plates with food, treats, and appetizers, Beau carefully walks you back to the table you were sitting at; two random people have taken the other spots, and your boyfriend stands there idly, realizing there are just two spots left.

“I don’t know what the fuck happened. I left to take a piss, and suddenly they’ve taken up the spots,” your boyfriend rambles on, and Beau cringes internally at the foul words leaving his mouth, and he glances at the disgust curling in your features.

You deserve better, and a mere 10-minute observation tells him everything.

Beau had been there before you could even remember; he was in the audience at your middle school graduation, watching you win award after award, and he even made it to your high school graduation, your GPA as high as ever. He couldn’t have been prouder of you. He braided your hair, tied your shoelaces, wiped your tears when boys picked on you, and now you were grown as ever, with a boy who did not deserve you.

“I got you, kid,” Beau suddenly chimes in, taking a seat in one of the chairs and immediately glaring as your boyfriend awkwardly takes the other. 

Unfortunately for the poor kid, it plays into his plan.

You look between him and your boyfriend, suddenly noticing Beau patting his thigh, and your eyes widen.

“C’mon, it’ll be like y’er ten again,” he laughs, and you look at your boyfriend; back on his phone, completely oblivious to Beau asking you to sit on his lap.

You look at Beau, and he’s looking right up at you; those green eyes pour into yours, eyes crinkling in the corner from his gentle smile. You look back at your boyfriend again, then slowly turn around and lower yourself onto Beau’s lap.

“There’s m’girl,” he mumbles happily, leaning back in the plastic chair, one hand holding the plate, the other resting lightly against your hip. This feels a lot different from how it used to.

You glance down at your plate and realize your appetite is mostly gone; the pressure of Beau’s thick thigh between your legs is doing for you more than your boyfriend’s lousy thumb has ever done. You really want to die right now.

Your shaky hands pick at the food on your plate, lifting the sugar cookie to your mouth and taking a slow bite. You glance at your boyfriend, who is either oblivious or simply doesn’t care that you’re sitting on another man's lap. You sigh. 

“Ya’ doin’ okay?” Beau draws quietly from behind you, and you turn your head slightly to glance at him; he’s looking right up at you, and the summer breeze stirs the stray strands of his hair that fall against his forehead. 

“Yeah… yeah, of course,” you smile nervously, and Beau’s eyebrows furrow as he glances at your mouth.

“Hey, c’mere,” he mumbles, and you look around nervously, laughing at the way he lifts his hand. “Icin’ on your chin,” he explains, his thumb lightly wiping away the red-and-blue mess.

Beau smiles in satisfaction, looking up at you. Maybe he really does see you as the little girl he drove to school, but it’s hard to tell with the way he’s gently rubbing your hip with his free hand.

“Hey,” your boyfriend suddenly mumbles to you, nudging your shoulder, and he grimaces when he realizes the position you’re in; on Beau’s lap, his warm hand holding your hip.

“What?” you ask quietly, trying not to let Beau tune in to the conversation, but he already has a hand gently squeezing the soft skin beneath his palm.

“Too hot out, can we go to your bedroom?” he asks, his tone casual and carefree, glancing back down at his phone. Your cheeks burn red, knowing Beau obviously picked up on his implication. 

“No… no, we can’t,” you mumble awkwardly, looking away from your boyfriend, who is huffing dramatically, shaking his head. You feel the embarrassment creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks, all red and warm. 

A silence settles around the table, and you shift on Beau’s thigh, looking down. You make the softest noise when you do, and he lightly taps the waistband of your shorts with his thumb, and you shift again. 

Beau looks at you from behind; your hair draped down your back, the white cotton shirt glowing in the warm sun, and he has the strongest urge to slide his hand right up the back of it. He holds back and shifts his hips in the chair, glancing at your dad, who occupies the barbecue. 

“Ya’ havin’ fun, kid?” Beau suddenly asks you, and you look behind, seeing those eyes looking right back at you. God.

“Of course,” you say, smiling and nodding.

“I can get ya’ somethin’ to drink if y’er thirsty, or anythin’,” he offers, nodding towards the cooler packed with drinks. He taps your waistband again, watching your expression shift in real time.

“I’m okay,” you practically whisper, and he pats your hip in confirmation.

“Jus’ makin’ sure, baby,” he drawls quietly, and you feel yourself melt onto his thigh, all soft and warm, and it’s not from the July heat.

By the time dinner is finished, the evening has fully settled in; the sun is setting, and it begins to cool down, soft lanterns lighting up the backyard, kids already with sparklers. You’re still on Beau’s lap, the half-eaten plate in front of you, while he chats with another neighbourhood dad, all the while you occupy his thigh.

“Babe, hey,” your boyfriend says, and your eyebrows furrow as he stands up, looking down at you. “Gonna head out now… something going on with my friend,” he lies, gesturing toward the backyard gates.

“What?” you ask in confusion, standing up too, and Beau naturally guides you with two hands, not breaking away from the conversation he’s having with the man beside him. “Fireworks are in like, forty minutes, you said you’d stay.”

“Yeah… but, you know, there’s booze at this party,” he laughs, acting like you’d understand his reason for dipping early; his friends are having a better party, with alcohol.

“Yeah… but you said you’d stay for fireworks, and then you were going to sleep over,” you explain more, shaking your head. “My parents don’t care if you sleep in my bedroom.”

Beau raises an eyebrow, glancing at the two of you as you have a light argument, then returns to talking about the things Sheriffs usually talk about.

“Yeah, like we’ll have sex,” he scoffs, and you grimace at how loud he’s talking. 

“Stop,” you mumble through gritted teeth, and he rolls his eyes, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” he waves you off, looking around the yard, crossing his arms.

“Fine, then go,” you say, dismissing him, not wanting to beg someone to stay who clearly doesn’t want to. “Just… I don't know, text me when you get there,” you shrug, looking away from him and back at Beau. 

Your boyfriend scoffs and turns away from you, slipping out of the backyard and bypassing the kids running around with their moms. You sigh, taking a seat where your boyfriend once sat instead of Beau’s thigh, and groan quietly to yourself.

There’s a beat of silence before Beau chimes in, leaning forward a little, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Kid,” he mumbles quietly, clearly seeing that interaction. “You doin’ okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, raising your eyebrows at Beau in defence, and he sighs quietly, realizing he had missed most of the angry young-adult stage.

“No, you’re not, darlin’,” he drawls just as quietly, and before you can snap back, he reaches over and gently pats your knee, shutting you up.

“Remember when you were jus’ a lil girl?” Beau starts, blinking slowly, gazing at the side of your face. “I use’ta drive you aroun’ whenever you got upset, to calm ya’ down,” he explains, and you slowly turn your head to realize what he’s offering.

“Right now?” you ask in surprise, remembering all the times he had you sit in the passenger’s side, driving you around town, buying you ice cream, and sneaking you back in when your parents were tucked away in bed.

“Right now,” he agrees, and you quickly smile, standing up from the chair, and he’s standing too, with a soft groan, quickly remembering he’s pushing fifty and can feel it in his knees.

Beau lightly takes your hand again, and you pass your dad, who is currently hunched over, messing around with fireworks in a way that would make anyone who knew anything about them have a panic attack. You don’t bother interrupting him.

Stepping into the front again, and you immediately spot it; the red Land Rover, years old, much too outdated, but it fits him perfectly; the rugged sheriff, spending his days off drinking. You remember it like it was yesterday and quickly head to the passenger side.

Beau watches you run across the lawn and towards it. He remembers hoisting you up, grabbing your waist, and you’d giggle when he buckled you in, wide eyes staring up at him, and now here you were, grown as ever without needing his help.

“Hold y’er horses,” Beau laughs as he jogs across the road, finding his way into the driver’s side.

“I remember all of this,” you smile, gazing at his dashboard, the CDs discarded in the centre console, bands and artists you didn’t know. He had a knack for that.

“M’sure ya’ do,” he smiles, quickly firing up the engine and rolling down the windows, immediately taking you down the street. 

The summer breeze blows through the windows, your hair messy and blown out, and he can do nothing but watch you; streetlights occasionally dust across your pretty features you’ve grown into, and your teeth aren’t crooked anymore, all fixed by braces, taken off before he could notice them. He’s in awe of you and what you’ve become, and he knows that kid doesn’t deserve an ounce of your time.

You and Beau speed into the town square, and most people know his vehicle by now–dark red and completely vintage, and they smile as he drives by, occasionally waving. You forgot just how renowned he was in this small town, and you suddenly feel lucky for getting this time with him.

You glance back at the sudden loud sound; fireworks are going off in the background, being lit from your backyard, though you don’t care at all. You’re currently with Beau Arlen, soft music on the radio, the summer breeze in your hair, and all he can do is eye you. The pretty thing you are.

“Ya’ wanna watch em’?” Beau asks over the radio, reaching over to gently rub your shoulder when he notices you’re focused on the bright explosions behind you.

“You don’t mind?” you ask softly, and he instantly shakes his head, quickly making a sharp turn down a back dirt road, taking you both out of town.

“Use’ta take you here when you were just a lil’ girl,” Beau smiles with a slow nod, and he’s pulling up to a small clearing in a cornfield. “You loved it–the fireworks, watching them all damn night,” he explains further, taking a left into the driveway that leads to nowhere.

Beau parks the Land Rover on the dirt road, and you instantly hop out, taking his hand in yours as he guides you a little farther down the endless dirt driveway. Crickets buzz around you, and it’s still as humid as ever, but he’s taking you to the light clearing right beneath the stars. He’s always known this place.

With a thud, the two of you land on the hard ground, and he smiles at you, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close and into his side. You lean into him, resting your head onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pressing a gentle kiss against the side of your head. Warm and grounding.

“Listen,” Beau starts quietly, and you lift your head up, turning it to face him. “That boy…”

“Beau,” you cut him off, biting your lip with a light tilt of your head.

“C’mon, baby,” he scoffs, shaking his head and lifting a hand to brush your hair back. “Smartest lil’ thing I’ve ever known, and y’er with him?” he asks in disbelief, eyes widening.

“Who should I be with, then?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, but you’re smiling now, and he lets his hand cup your jawline, a warm thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You tell me,” Beau nods, his eyes narrowing, his tongue swiping over his teeth.

“No,” you refuse softly, shaking your head, and he finds it the most endearing thing he’s ever heard in his life.

Beau pauses and gazes at you, green eyes darker in the nighttime, and he slowly leans in, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t kiss you, no, he merely lets his forehead rest against yours, noses innocently brushing, and you’re still not breathing.

He leans in just a bit more, breathing quietly against your lips, and his tongue barely slips out, running over your lower lip, which is drooping from your mouth being agape right now. You exhale, and that’s when he finally leans in, pressing his lips against yours.

A soft sound slides by your lips, slipping right into his, and Beau doesn’t hesitate to carefully slide his long fingers in the back of your hair, long fingers curling into your strands, tugging, and you pull back, moaning softly at the grip. You’ve never been treated like this.

“Baby,” Beau breathes out at your reaction, staring at the way you’re already melting, breathing heavier. “He never touch ya’ like this, yeah?” he asks, and you quickly shake your head.

He immediately kisses you again, pressing his warm lips right into yours, tugging even harder to get that sound out of you again–a soft moan breaking out of your mouth and right into his. He’s basking in it, the feeling of you finally experiencing something, instead of just serving some stupid boy.

You’re kissing back sloppily, not used to being kissed properly. You lift your hand and gently hold the side of his face, his light beard pressing into your palm, and you slide your hand down, resting it against Beau’s chest, and he grins into the kiss.

You pant softly as he carefully maneuvers you, slowly but surely moving you to lie on your back, right against the dirt ground, and you whimper, and the thought of your shirt getting dirty. 

Beau is nudging his way between your thighs now, gazing down at you; eyes wide, and soft lips parted and glistening in the mix of your saliva, and he swears this is the prettiest he’s ever seen you.

He moves down against, this time lightly kissing your jaw and then down the side of your neck, mouthing at the warm skin–he’s quick and feverish, breathing heavily, running on pure adrenaline, and your head is tipped back, gazing at the darkened sky and stars.

“Beau,” you moan softly as he lightly bites into where your neck meets your shoulder, and you grip his shoulder, squeezing. “Someone–someone is gonna see us,” you plead quietly.

“M’know this place like tha’ back of my hand, darlin’,” Beau mumbles into your neck, his hand briefly sliding down, long fingers finding the button of your shorts. “You trust me, dont’cha’?” he whispers, pulling back to look down at you.

You hesitantly nod, and he’s carefully unbuttoning your denim shorts, unzipping them. You gasp quietly when he lets them open, and he takes a look at your underwear; that’s when the guilt slips in, but he’s too far gone to stop now. You don’t even want him to.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he whispers, lifting his hand to rub the side of his jaw as he shakes his head. “Prettiest thing ever,” he shakes his head again, fingers hooking into the denim waistband, and you whine.

“Beau,” you whisper again, and he looks up at you, his eyes narrowed. “I… I’ve always wanted this,” you admit quietly and nod, and he practically groans at your admission. Beau curses quietly under his breath, breathing heavier now, clearly affected by your sweet words.

“Good, baby, that’s good,” he nods, reaching downwards, tapping the side of your hip, and you instinctively lift them, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide your underwear down with your jean shorts.

Beau leans back on his haunches, eyes blown out at the sight of you; spread out on the dirt ground, hair splayed behind you, wetter than you’ve ever been in your damn life–the pathetic sex you have with your boyfriend doesn’t compare.

“My God,” he mumbles in awe, glancing down between your thighs, and his jaw ticks; he sees the slick gathering, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide his hand down, two long fingers gathering it.

You moan softly the minute he touches you, head tipping back, and he quickly realizes how neglected your body is.

“He never touches ya’ does he?” Beau asks, referring to your boyfriend, who is off at some party, oblivious. “He don’t deserve a second with ya’, baby,” he shakes his head, shifting further between your legs.

You whimper, your white sneakers digging into the ground beneath you, and he lightly slides a free hand up your shirt, the other one mercilessly exploring your folds; he’s just touching around, almost analyzing. Your head is tipped back, mouth agape, breathing ever more heavily.

“He don’t know how to fuckin’ touch you,” he practically groans in disgust, his thumb immediately pressing onto your clit. “Can’t fuckin’ do anythin’ for my girl,” he growls this time, rubbing in quick, even circles.

You moan louder than you ever have–you didn’t think you could, not with the way you’ve been touched before; your back arches and your hips stutter, a small hand reaching to wrap around Beau’s strong forearm.

“Yeah? M’makin’ you feel good? Better than he ever could, huh?” Beau sneers, pressing harder than ever, and you feel every nerve in your body twitching and igniting. Dear God.

“Yeah–oh, my gosh, yeah,” you pant out, whining through a bitten lip, feeling the cool earth ground beneath you. It’s firm, keeping you somewhat grounded.

“This is all you ever should feel, sweetheart,” he mutters, watching your eyes practically rolling back into your head. “Sucha’ shame you’re datin’ some loser.”

“Sorry–I’m sorry, Beau,” you whine, feeling him picking up the quick circles, only to pull back, immediately going towards his leather belt.

“Don’t apologize for nothin’,” Beau says, quick fingers undoing the clasp, the soft clink clattering amongst the crickets. “Jus’ upsettin’ you’ve never been fucked properly.”

Your eyes widen at the vulgarity dripping from each word, and you glance down; he’s hard as ever, a prominent bulge right at the front of his denim jeans, thick and throbbing. He notices the look on your face and scoffs.

“Lemme’ guess,” he croons, letting his belt hang open as he pops open a button. “Doesn’t compare to ma’size either?” he practically laughs, his zipper following suit, and your eyes practically pop out of your damn head when his large hand wraps around himself, pulling it out of his boxers.

“No… no, not at all,” you shake your head in disbelief, helplessly staring at the way Beau is stroking himself, long fingers careful, his thumb rubbing the tip, and your legs fall open further, an invitation.

“Could tell,” Beau ticks his head, nudging further in between your thighs, his free hand resting on your bare knee. “Squirmin’ around like a worm on ma’knee… knew right then and there that no man has ever pleased ya’ in y’er life,” he shakes his head, and you whine at the call out.

“No… no, don’t get all shy on me,” he laughs, shifting closer, aligning himself with your entrance, just a slight pressure. “It’s me… jus’ me,” he coos, and you bite your lip.

Beau doesn’t hesitate to rock forward, pushing in without a single ounce of care in the god damn world–he just wants to make you feel better, wants to make sure you know what it’s like to be fucked by an actual man, and not some douche who uses you like a living breathing sex doll.

You cry out the minute he’s in fully. You didn’t know sex was supposed to feel like this; pure fullness and pleasure, your body instantly clenching around Beau, tightening and constricting, and he tips his head back, groaning aloud.

“Fuck, no man deserves this,” he groans out, one hand now holding your hip, the other one gently spreading your thighs. “So.. fuckin’ tight, baby,” he pants, not even in disbelief.

You whine, feeling him push even deeper, and your head is tossed back, right in the dirt beneath you, and he instantly is thrusting, gripping your hips tighter than he can even think. 

“Beau,” you moan louder into the night air, feeling the light breeze against your bare thighs, the soft echo of fireworks crackling behind the two of you. “Beau, oh, my gosh,” you cry.

“M’right… right here,” Beau grunts, each word punctuated with a hard, deep thrust, sending your body rocking. “M’got you… gonna make you feel.. So good, so deservin’ of feelin’ good.”

You’re seeing stars, and it’s not the one in the sky; it’s behind your closed eyes; a burst of light and warmth, and all you can feel is Beau Arlen, back and forth, deep, consistent thrusts. You can’t even think; all you can do is mewl and whine, still gripping his forearm.

“Look at ya’,” he mumbles, staring at that pretty face, all flushed and sweaty from the summer heat. “He ain't seen ya’ like this, never will,” he taunts, relentlessly thrusting.

The mere thought of your boyfriend being unable to do this is motivating the ever-living life out of Beau, and he feels he can’t stop himself as he moves deeper and deeper, watching your head loll back, limbs limp and blissful. 

“Gonna look so.. So pretty, filled with me, so pretty,” Beau mumbles, his head tipping back, groaning and grunting, just thinking of filling you up, stuffing you, not your stupid boyfriend.

You’re just taking it and taking it, whining loudly, your voice suffocated by the emptiness of the field you’re currently lying in. 

“He ever cum in y’er pretty tummy? Ever make ya’ all full and warm?” he asks, and you’re shaking your head, knowing you never let him despite taking birth control every fucking day.

“Yeah… yeah, savin’ yourself for me? My girl… my sweet girl,” he mutters through gritted teeth, and he’s it; the twitch in your hips, the tensing of your chest, and he knows you’re close. First time in your life you’ve ever been close.

“First time cummin’ too,” Beau comments, and you whine louder, nodding to his words. “Pathetic boy he is, gonna teach him a fuckin’ lesson or two,” he’s getting himself angry, and it’s turning you on more than you’d like.

You feel it; the tightness, the knot, the coil that has your toes curling into your shoes, and your back arches, and Beau watches it, and feels it; warmth all over him, the loudest sound you’ve made in your entire life slipping by your lips. He swells with pride, and it only pushes him further and further.

Beau still fucks into you despite you finishing, and he’s just as close now, his hand pushing down on your hip, applying pressure, and he’s breathing heavier and heavier, eyes closing in bliss as he feels it build, and build. He cums without a single warning; just a loud groan, and a warmth blooming deep inside of you.

“Atta girl… mhm, stuffin’ you,” Beau groans, his other hand resting right beside your head, holding himself up, panting heavily, letting himself just stay pushed inside of you. He wants you to feel it, every inch, the warmth.

“Only… I can ever do this to ya,” he mumbles, out of breath, shaking his head. “He don’t deserve… any of you, baby, nothin’,” he rambles on, just groaning and grunting, refusing to pull out.

You’re blissed out, head still tipped back, eyes fixed on the stars above you, glowing and bright. You can hear the fireworks still, mixed with his breaths and pants and groans, and you’re completely out of it, just high on him.

“My girl,” Beau finally claims, fingers pressing into your hip.

The trees hang high above, an arch over the long dirt driveway, a never-ending trail leading to the small cabin secluded in the woods, backing onto a beautiful lake.

You remember the year before you went off to college; running around the backyard, laughing, holding sparklers, your family around you. It hasn’t been the same since your mom passed away–most summers you spent tucked away in your room, reading and writing, distancing yourself from everyone around you; your dad’s biggest heartbreak of them all.

You’re sitting in his truck, his tires chugging along the gravel, and he turns to look at you. Your head is against the window, staring out the glass, watching the familiar mailboxes pass by, and you know it won't be the same this year, even though Beau promised you over the phone it would be. 

“Honey, you can’t sulk the entire time,” your dad mumbles to you, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to pat your knee. “Actin’ like this is only goin’ to make it worse, you know that,” he drawls, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“You really expect this to be the same? Without mom?” you shoot, glaring at him, and he clenches his jaw.

“No, I don’t,” he shakes his head, huffing out a breath. “But I also know she wouldn’t want you actin’ like this either,” he tells you, looking at you from the corner of his eye, and you know it’s true.

Full of life she was, a smile bright enough to cast away rainy days, and a voice loud enough to send you into your room crying–a complicated relationship you had with her. Two personalities that clashed, and you still found yourself mourning her, every single damn day of your life, even when there were days you were face down in your pillow, wondering why she treated you that way. You swallow the grief when your dad parks the car.

You look up from your lap, not even realizing that a few tears have run down your cheek, and you immediately wipe them away, hiding the evidence. You step out of the truck, slinging a backpack over your shoulder, and there he wanders out of his cabin, an unmistakable smile curled at his cheeks: Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend.

“Took you long enough,” Beau immediately jokes, his boots crunching on the gravel, and he looks at you, his retired Sheriff instincts immediately picking up on the mood shift, the way you look away when he tries to make eye contact.

“Yeah… yeah, we forgot your place is in tha’ middle of nowhere,” your dad jokes back, walking around to the truck bed, pulling out the few duffel bags for your three-week-long vacation.

“Better than the city, huh,” Beau quips, and you’re awkwardly standing there as he approaches you. You look down at your sneakers, swallowing hard as he steps into your shadow.

“Kid,” he mumbles quietly to you, already knowing the impact your mother’s death had on you. “Can show ya’ your room, finally get one to yourself this year,” he tells you, tilting his head to the side.

You were used to most vacations: having to share with your cousins or Beau’s relatives, squished in a shitty twin bed, resorting to the couch in the living room, where Beau would wake you up earlier than you wanted to. It was nice having the place to yourself, but the weight of your mother is what holds you down.

“Okay,” you breathe out and look up at him; he’s already staring down at you; those green eyes, his hair a little longer than when you last saw him, his beard needing a little maintenance, but he’s smiling, and you crack the tiniest one. You somehow manage.

“I got her,” Beau calls to your dad, and it’s a relief for him. Dealing with you and the grief has been a burden that he carries too.

Beau carefully takes your bag from you, removing only the physical weight from your shoulders, and leads you into the wood cabin. It’s tinier than you remember; a small kitchenette, an even smaller living room, and three bedrooms, a bathroom, and the longest damn dock you’ve seen in your life.

“Here, darlin’,” he mumbles, stopping in front of the large door and swiftly opening it. “All yours this year,” he grins, and you step inside–yep, still smells like musk and a signature Beau scent you only ever smell when he gives you his jacket around the campfires.

“A lot bigger when I’m not sharing it with three other people,” you joke, and he’s smiling, placing your bags on the bed. “Thanks, Beau,” you say, and turn around to see him loitering by the doorway now.

“Ain’t a problem,” he shakes his head, scratching his jawline. “Can even take my room if it’s not big enough for ya’,” he teases, knowing the bed is big enough for you.

“It’s okay… I’m okay,” you reassure, and he sighs, seeing a completely different girl than when he last saw you.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he mumbles, and he knows to leave you alone, even if you don’t want to be alone, not at all.

Beau disappears from the doorway, and you wander over to the temporary dresser, carefully putting your clothes for the trip: your bathing suit, you’re sure you won’t wear, and other articles you mindlessly put away, knowing your head was elsewhere. You sigh and look out of the window. 

You see Beau with your dad in the driveway, the two of them smiling, bags slung over their shoulders, and your jaw clenches. You wonder how both of them are so unaffected by your mother’s death. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath; that’s what your therapist started to tell you to do, and you’re pretty sure it's the dumbest thing you’ve been told. You wish a deep breath took away the grief, but it only smothered you.

Two knocks on the door snap your head back, and Beau stands there, rubbing his jaw, and gestures behind you when you look.

“C’mon, kid, rowboat ride?” he asks, and your lips part at the offer–you just got there, and all you want to do is curl up in the bed, and drown in the sheets, and close your eyes. You nod.

You shut the drawer and pass by Beau at the door, and he lightly pats your back as you stand in front of him. You remember the cabin like the back of your hand, and you find your way to the back door, and he’s watching you carefully; your hair cut differently, the way you carry yourself differently, everything different, and he squeezes his hands into fists.

The two of you head down to the shoreline where the old boat sits, and you smile at just the sight of it. Some of your fondest memories were on that old thing. You remember drifting out accidentally with your cousin, screaming and crying for help, just for Beau to come on another one and scold the living daylights out of both of you. You were just sixteen.

“You remember this thing?” Beau asks, watching your eyes graze over it. “Taught you how to steer, damn disaster,” he tells you, and you laugh, remembering that moment too.

“Yeah, I remember that,” you nod, sucking in a breath, and he smiles.

“You kept thinkin’ the thing was gonna flip, and I was tellin’ you it wouldn’t. Started cryin’, beggin’ me to take you back to shore,” he reminisces, and you’re smiling for the first time in a minute. “Took you to the lil’ island over there, and you said it was the best thing ever.”

“It was,” you nod, looking over at him. “Tons of those… really cute birds,” you vividly remember; you were with those things, always whining, wanting to see them again, and Beau gave every time.

“Birdie,” he says softly, and your cheeks grow warm. “Called you that for the rest of the trip, and you kept complainin’ about it,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that, too.

“Thought it sounded so silly.” You raise your eyebrows, still thinking it does. 

“You still think so, birdie?” Beau teases, and you shoot him a fake glare, and you see his tongue just behind his teeth. He sighs, gesturing to the boat.

You silently follow the order and head towards the wooden boat, awkwardly balancing when you step inside, and he watches, bending slowly to push you into the cold water. He follows behind, jumping in just as it begins to float. You laugh at the way it sways, and he sits directly across from you.

“Bringin’ you back?” Beau asks, his strong arms reaching for the paddles. 

“Kinda,” you shrug, and he’s doing all the work, giving firm pushes to send you both out into the centre of the vast lake.

He grunts quietly with each push, and you look up at him; his head turned, looking behind him as you two leave shore, and his hair is blowing in the wind slightly, his jawline sharp, and you suddenly become aware of the way your knees are touching; his denim jeans against your bare legs, and you shift.

Beau sighs when the two of you are finally out in the open, but deep into the lake. He adjusts the plaid shirt over a white one, pats his thighs, and looks at you.

“Tell me, sweetheart, what’cha been up to,” he asks, tipping his head forward as he briefly adjusts his shaggy hair, pushing it back. He looks back at you, and he grins.

“Nothing, just… I don’t know, reading,” you shake your head, knowing just how boring your life had been lately. It was embarrassing, and you didn’t want to tell him how you spent your days.

“Readin’ is great,” Beau praises, nodding as he wets his lips. “Keeps you smart,” he quips, and you grin, enjoying the way he always seemed to make everything better, even if it came out all wrong and sad.

“Yeah,” you mumble, looking down into your lap, and he follows your gaze, lightly nudging your knee with his, and you look back up at him.

“You holdin’ up?” he shifts the conversation, and you hold your breath.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, not wanting to unpack the effects of your mother’s death right now, on a boat, in the middle of a lake.

“You always been an honest girl,” you drawls out, almost like he’s saying that you aren’t being one right now. He’d be right.

“I am being honest, Beau,” you shoot back, and he ticks his jaw, seeing that attitude you never had slipping out, and he has the urge to patch every hole it seeps from.

“I believe ya’, darlin’,” Beau nods, running his tongue along his teeth as he looks around the lake, squinting. “Jus’ don’t want you hidin’ stuff from me.”

“I don’t,” you say flatly, sighing heavily as you look past him and at the shore.

“Ain’t say you were,” he counters, and that shuts you up–not the words, but the look in his green eyes, and you curl into yourself, shifting on the wooden boat.

A silence settles between you, just the distant sound of birds when they pass over the water, and a gloomy sky settling above the two of you–most days were like this at the cabin; rainy and cloudy. You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble in defeat, and he blinks, dismissing your apologies with a hand.

“Get outta here, kid,” Beau laughs, and you look at him, confused. “Don’t have to apologize for nothin’, I wasn’t tryin’ to make you feel bad,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.

“I know, but I still do,” you tell him, slumping forward a little, and he follows the gesture, leaning forward too, resting his elbows on his thighs.

He taps his fingers against your bare knees in front of him, looking up at you, and you feel goosebumps prickling on your skin, and he can, too.

“No apologies startin’ now, okay?” Beau tells you, his palm settling fully over your bare knee as he rubs a bruise. “Don’t wanna hear a lick of nothin’ from you,” he grins, and you do too.

“Okay,” you nod, and he pats your knee, leaning back away from you and reaching for the paddles. “I won’t say anything.” 

He sighs. “Can tell it’s gonna rain in jus’ a few seconds,” he shakes his head. “Busllhit weather this year,” he grumbles out, but you can still feel the warmth he left behind, and you press your knee around his. He barely notices.

You watch as he carefully rows the two of you back to the shore, and you feel the drizzle picking up. You tilt your head back, looking up at the sky. The dark clouds hang heavy, and he’s going as fast as he can, and you can’t help but giggle a little. It’s the first time that sound has left your mouth in months, and he’s grinning, but he’s also scrunching his face when the rain comes down heavier.

You laugh louder and lift your hands when it suddenly pours, and Beau is cursing to himself, laughing too, and his hair is getting damp, and his shirt is sticking to him, and you hate that’s what you notice right now. 

The minute the boat hits the dock, he’s scrambling out and grabbing your hand to help you off, but he does something that immediately makes you scream when you’re on land: he lifts you just a bit, keeping your feet off the ground. You’re laughing louder now, and he has you in his big arms, strong and all muscle.

Beau’s moving quickly along the wet grass, and you’re practically screaming, the both of you getting soaked in the rain. He’s purposely holding off going inside, letting your hair get completely wet, your clothes soaked through–he’s always been like this, and you’re realizing how much you missed it, missed him.

He still has you in his arms as he steps into the cabin, and he’s dragging you to your bedroom. You’re still laughing louder than ever, squirming in his strong arms, and you have no idea where your dad is right now. He’d cuss out Beau and throw him out of his own place if he saw what it looked like.

He tosses you onto your own bed, right onto your back, and you squeal, knowing just how wet your sheets and blankets are about to be. He doesn’t stop there; he nudges his way through your legs, and you’re suddenly growing warm, and he reaches down, cold hands reaching out to tickle at your waist. He used to do this when you were smaller, but something has shifted now, and you can tell he notices, too.

Your head tips back as you groan out, your wet body withering against the blankets, and Beau is leaning over you, drenched himself, and the droplets from his longer hair drip onto you. You’re laughing still, but it’s strained as he grabs at your waist and hips.

“Jesus, you’re still ticklish, sweetheart,” he jokes, but when he looks up, he immediately has to clear his throat; your eyes closed, lips parted, neck back. He reaches down and grabs at your bare thigh, stopping you from moving around.

“Beau, come on,” you shake your head, your mouth hanging open as you writher around. “I can’t take it,” you whine, gasping for air, the laughs still trying to escape you as he tickles your body.

He has to take a step back when he hears that, his mind reeling; you whining his name, saying you can’t take it. It’s suddenly not just tickling, and he knows that; he knew that the minute something in his body told him to grab at your thigh.

You sit up when he finally stops, your hair drenched, your shirt too, sticking to your body in ways that make his eyes trail down, and you notice it, too. You’re panting, out of breath from the way he was forcing those laughs right out of you. Beau rubs the side of his jaw, shaking his head–not at you, at himself.

“Rain came outta nowhere,” he says casually, and you can only smile, feeling the odd tension.

The both of you feel oddly lucky when your dad comes in now instead of moments earlier, knocking on the door that’s already swung open; his best friend, his daughter on her bed. He doesn’t make a face, but he looks to Beau and clears his throat.

“Looks like we can’t barbecue tonight,” your dad says, and you just sit there, trying to act like you still can’t feel Beau’s hands on your waist, hips, and thigh. “Shame the weather is so bad,” he shrugs, and Beau nods.

“Don’t worry, got other stuff that don’t need barbecuin’,” Beau reassures and pats your dad on the shoulder. “Gonna get changed, n’ then I can show ya,” he tells the other man, and he pats his upper back.

You watch the two disappear from the bedroom, and you sit there damp and cold, but an undeniable warmth settles in the centre of your stomach, one you hadn’t felt in a long time. The warmth settles there, but dips in between your thighs, and you can’t help it; Beau was in between your damn legs, grabbing your thighs, his hair resembling a sweaty man who had just fucked you for hours. You cringe at the thought and physically shake your head.

When you emerge from your bedroom just a few hours later, you find Beau in the kitchen, your dad in the small living room, drinking a beer and watching the television with the worst signal ever. Constant flickering and skipping, buffering and pausing, and you hear your dad’s groan each time the game stops on a part he was ‘just watching’.

You shamelessly let your eyes rake over Beau; now just wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants, not his usual cowboy-esque attire you remember him always wearing. It’s casual, and there’s something in you that churns.

“Hey, darlin,” Beau drawls when you wander into the kitchen, hair and pjs dry. “Didn’t come out for dinner,” he mentions, and you shrug, looking over at your dad, who must’ve told him not to pry when you choose not to do things–even eating dinner.

“Got distracted; I was reading,” you explain, wandering towards the counter, standing beside Beau, and he’s cracking open beers.

“Want one, kid?” he offers, and you immediately shake your head, never liking the bitter taste.

“Don’t tempt her,” your dad jokes from the living room, glancing over the back of the chair, and you roll your eyes.

“Ain’t temptin’ her,” Beau shakes his head, holding the two beers, and nodding for you to join him on the couch.

You follow behind him and glance around the small space. Your dad is resting in the only chair, and the only thing left is an oddly small couch. Beau sits down on it with a groan, and you pause, and he gestures with two fingers, patting the side beside him.

Hesitantly, you sit beside him, and the couch sinks further under your weight, an odd pressure point causing the centre to sink, your shoulder pressing right into his, your body basically nestled against him. He knows it would be inappropriate to put his arm around your shoulders, but it would be the perfect time to do so. He holds back and just glances at you.

To make it less awkward, Beau tries draping a blanket around the two of you instead, but it only makes it worse, and the minute the knitted garment covers your bodies, it’s like another level of secrecy is thrown in: the secrecy of what’s going underneath, the warmth building, your dad oblivious. You suck in a breath, looking at the sports game.

Beau’s one hand holds his beer, which he takes occasional sips from, and you watch his lips each time they wrap around the bottle, and you wonder when you became so perverted. You feel the light brush beneath the blanket, and it’s his pinky finger sticking out, poking the side of your bare thigh.

You turn your head to look at him; he’s watching the game, and you feel his hips shift beneath the blanket. You shift, too, and he’s just letting his pinky run over your bare skin, a gentle, constant touch.

“Geez,” your dad suddenly groans out, and you feel Beau’s hand pause on your leg, his finger coming to a stop. “I don’t think I can be watchin’ this anymore,” he jokes, shaking his head. “Team keeps losin’, it’s hell!”

Beau laughs at your dad’s complaint, flashing his white grin at him, and he doesn’t have a clue as to what’s happening so subtly beneath the blanket. He’s just worried about his team losing, so much so that he begins to stand up, shaking his head.

“Can’t watch,” your dad laughs, and Beau looks up at him, shrugging. “Need to head to bed anyway, drove for too long,” he mumbles, turning to look at you. He begins walking over, and you clear your throat, shifting.

“Night, honey,” your dad mumbles, leaning down and kissing your forehead, and you’re just praying he doesn't decide to lean down and rip off the blanket.

“Goodnight, Dad,” you say softly, and grin up at him, swallowing hard, still feeling that pinky finger moving against your bare leg.

Your dad disappears from the living room and walks into his bedroom, the door quietly shutting, leaving you and Beau alone in the living room. It’s quiet, only the sports game playing, and the soft rain still carrying on from earlier. He slides his hand from your thigh and settles it around your shoulders, squeezing gently. You’re in the clear.

“You enjoyin’ yourself so far?” Beau asks, turning to look at you, and you nod.

“Mhm, it’s nice here,” you tell him, and he slowly lifts his hand, brushing your hair out of your face. He notices the blush flooding your face, your lashes batting. 

“Good, m’glad,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb across the tip of your nose briefly. “Can take you to do all sorts’a things tomorrow,” he smiles, wetting his lips.

“What about the forest?” you prompt, your eyes looking into his; green and sharp.

“The forest?” he repeats, biting his lip and nodding. “Can take ya’ to the forest,” he agrees.

“It’s pretty there, and I remember they had those wildflowers last time, really… really liked it,” you grin, and Beau would do just about anything to keep that look on your face; innocent, maybe happy.

“First thing we’ll do tomorrow,” Beau promises with a firm nod, his hand cupping the side of your neck, rubbing the pulse point. “Might wanna head t’sleep now,” he suggests, nodding to your bedroom.

You don’t want to sleep; you want to stay here with him on the couch, where he’s talking to you like a human, and not as ‘the girl whose mom just died’. You hesitantly nod, knowing he knows best.

“Atta girl,” Beau mumbles as you stand up from the couch and he pats the back of your thigh as you pass by him. “See you in the mornin’, sunshine,” he smiles, and you nod again, disappearing back into your small bedroom. 

The bedroom is dark, and your mind is swimming; the absolute worst thoughts you can conjure up suddenly slip in through the cracks, and you toss and turn. It’s your mother; her crying, asking you why this had to happen to her, why your relationship with her had to be so poor, yet her death was one of the worst things that happened to you—you thought the nightmares would stop when you left home, but they seemed only to grow worse.

You sit up in a sweat, panting, your chest heaving and the bedroom black. The crickets buzz outside, and the television no longer lingers in the background. It’s late, and you don’t know how long you’ve been sleeping, but your drowsy mind has you standing up and wandering out of bed.

The cabin is hard to see in, and you wander towards another bedroom door, footsteps quiet against the wooden panels, and you slowly grip the handle, turning the knob. You look around the room, sighing quietly to yourself, embarrassed as ever.

“Dad,” you mumble softly, shutting the door behind you, knowing this ritual: climbing into bed with him, cuddling him, and him playing with your hair and letting you cry. It’s been happening since your mother was in the hospital.

You walk towards the bed, quietly moving along, until you’re standing at the edge. You blink in the darkness, reaching out when he doesn’t respond, nudging his shoulder—firm and muscular, and your eyes widen the second you realize it. It’s too late to slip out.

“Sweetheart?” A soft voice drawls out, and it’s not your dad’s; it’s Beau’s, and it’s groggy and low, sleep-riddled, and you stand there frozen.

“Baby… what? What’s wrong?” He grumbles, sitting up slightly, rubbing his eyes, peeking at you in the dark room. “Your daddy okay?” He asks, 

“Yeah—” you mumble, shaking your head and looking over your shoulder. “Everything… yeah, he’s fine.”

“What’s wrong, then?” He whispers, wondering why the hell you just stumbled into his bedroom at three in the morning if nothing is wrong. 

“Just—I can’t sleep,” you excuse yourself, and Beau furrows his brow, wondering why you didn’t walk into your dad’s room instead.

“Hm,” he groans, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them and waving a hand. “C’mere.” 

You freeze when he suggests you climb into bed with him, but you do anyway; slowly but surely, climbing in beside him. The wooden frame groans, and you feel your body completely still when you lie down beneath the covers. He doesn’t hesitate to let his warm arm drift over your waist, his palm flat against your stomach, a soft anchor amidst the chaos in your brain.

Your eyes close and you exhale, feeling Beau’s warm, firm body against yours from behind. His breath against the back of your neck, slow puffs as he breathes steadily, and you’re more focused on forgetting the nightmares that keep you awake. They slip out of your head when his thumb moves across your abdomen, a gentle brush to soothe you, and you shift.

“Easy,” he murmurs when you squirm, and he presses his nose into your hair. “Relax f’me,” he adds, calming you down and trying to make you forget the uneasy feeling the nightmare left behind.

When the sunlight drools in through the curtains, you stir awake, groaning as you roll over. The bed is empty, Beau missing, and you assume that he’s already left for something–maybe driving into the small town to grab stuff, or maybe helping your dad with something. But you’re not sure how he’d explain his daughter sleeping there, in his bed. 

The cabin is just as quiet when you step out of the bedroom, and you rub your eyes, looking around. Breakfast isn’t made, but the two men are already on the long dock, resting in two lawn chairs, fishing rods held in their laps. You blink and carefully open the screened door, walking down barefoot to them, and Beau notices you first. 

“Look who woke up,” Beau teases, and your dad turns to glance over his shoulder at you; still sleepy, your hair a mess, and your pjs flimsy and loose.

“Hey, honey,” your dad drawls out, waving you over. “Beau was tellin’ me about last night–sleepwalkin’ into his room, forcin’ the poor guy to sleep on the couch,” he laughs, and Beau is looking at the lake, knowing he can’t face your dad when he lies.

“Yeah… got confused when I got up to go to the bathroom,” you shrug, taking steps across the wooden panels. “Didn’t even notice until I just woke up,” you tell your dad, and he grins.

Beau is still looking out at the lake, at the way it glistens in the sun, at some fish jumping out of the water, and at the occasional bird swooping in for a hasty landing. You look to Beau, and that’s right when he looks at you, too.

“Said I was gonna take her out,” Beau says to your dad, nodding towards you. “The forest.” 

You nod a little when your dad looks at you for clarification, and he smiles, patting his leg. He just wants you to be happy on this trip, and if that means going into the forest with Beau and giving up prime fishing time, then he’s okay with it.

“You two have fun,” your dad nods, and Beau is already standing up, groaning. “And wear bug spray, honey,” your dad points, and you smile, looking to Beau. 

Beau follows you back to the cabin, stepping inside when you do, following you towards your bedroom. He leans on the wall beside the door, patiently waiting for you to finish getting ready. You step out in shorts and a t-shirt, nothing special, and he grins, patting your shoulder.

“All ready?” he asks, clicking his tongue.

“Mhm,” you tell him, already slipping on your sneakers in your bedroom, and the two of you are off.

The walk to the forest is short, just a small distance from his cabin, and the two of you begin following a familiar trail. You remember wandering it just years ago, looking for wild berries and pretty flowers, and you’d pluck each one, giggling when Beau praised you for your find. And now you’re walking it, completely quiet. 

Beau has his hands in his jeans pockets, trailing slightly behind you as you make your way through the dense trees. He stops, and you notice when you hear the gravel stop moving. You look behind him, and he’s just standing there.

“What?” you ask softly, tilting your head to the side.

“Remember that game,” he drawls out smoothly, and your eyes rake over his body. “M’would chase you n’ your cousin through this damn forest, n’ you’d be cryin’ and screamin’, mostly laughin’,” he tells you, and he starts walking again.

“I remember,” you say, specifically recounting the adrenaline rush of hiding between trees, trying not to get caught by Beau. You almost did it every day. 

“Want a headstart?” Beau quips, quirking his brows, and your lips part.

“You… want to do that?” you ask in disbelief, laughing as you look around. “Not as fast as I was before,” you shake your head, and he’s chuckling.

“And you think I am?” he counters, wetting his lips. “C’mon, sunshine, I’ll count to ten,” he pulls his hand out and gestures.

“But–” you mumble, and he’s already starting to count down.

You don’t hesitate to turn on your heel, immediately taking off down the dark trail, and you’re trying your hardest not to laugh. You look behind you, and you see him turned around, rocking his feet, waiting until he reaches one to find you somewhere.

A large tree trunk calls out to you, and you immediately duck behind it. It feels familiar, like this was a hiding spot you picked when you were fifteen, playing the same game with multiple players. This was just a game of cat and mouse this time; no one else was on Beau’s radar except for you. 

You clasp your hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh when you hear him calling your name. It takes you right back to the last few summers; you look over your shoulder, peeking, and your eyes widen the minute you realize he’s actually right there.

You let out a loud laugh, and Beau grins, instantly moving closer to you. Your hiding spot is given up, and he walks over, standing in front of you, acting like he doesn’t see you sitting down, huddled.

“There ya’ are,” Beau drawls out when he crouches down before you, and your back is against the tree, and you bite your lip, shaking your head.

“Not even fair,” you mumble, your knees pulled up to your chest. “I haven’t played in years,” you protest, and he reaches out, brushing the tip of your nose again.

“I ain’t either,” he shakes his head, gazing at you. “Seems like you jus’ ain't the best, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the stump, and he leans forward, getting onto his knees instead of crouching. He kneels before you, and you stare at him, blinking slowly. 

Beau is slow with it, and your jaw goes slack the minute both of his hands are on your bare knees, parting them so he can move closer to you. You keep your eyes on him, his green ones heavy and dark, and you tilt your head, leaning closer to him, and he follows, a hand sliding down your thigh to your hip.

He kisses you, pushing you against the tree a bit more, the old oak groaning as your back presses harder against it. Your lips tangle in his, and he’s still a bit taller, even on his knees; your head is tipped back lightly, his large hand lifting to cradle your face. It’s slow and hungry, two mouths moving in the same rhythm, and he tastes as you expected.

Beau pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. It snaps back on his lip, and he licks it up, staring down at your flushed cheeks and blown-out eyes. He breathes more heavily, realizing he just crossed a boundary he is sure he can never set in place again, not after how blurred the lines are and how easily you gave in.

“Darlin’,” he groans, shaking his head, and your eyebrows lift.

“No… no, I liked it,” you whisper to him, nodding quickly, sitting up a bit more. “I liked it.”

It’s a high you haven’t felt in a long time; adrenaline coursing through you, knowing how wrong it was, how you shouldn’t be doing anything like that; making out with your dad’s best friend, and liking it, wanting more than just a kiss or a makeout session.

“Can’t do this, kid.” Beau shakes his head, pulling back a little. “Not fair to you,” he mumbles.

“What?” you ask, leaning closer to him. “No… no, no, I liked it,” you ramble again, swallowing hard as his eyes meet yours.

“Corruptin’ a lil’ thing like you ain't right,” he mumbles, his jaw clenching. “Too innocent, sweetheart, gonna make you into somethin’ you ain’t,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.

“I… I don’t care,” you shake your head, and his eyebrows at how needy you are suddenly, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You will,” Beau says plainly, his hand still cradling your jaw. “Ain’t supposed to be a man like me, doin’ things to you,” he says, and you can hear the conflicting emotions, the way they clash.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice almost a whine. “Beau… I haven’t felt things in so long, and… and I wan’t something,” you plead, and he lifts his hand away from your face, drying his sweaty forehead.

“Not from me, ya’ don’t,” he counters, sitting back on his haunches. “Known your daddy since high school, can’t be messin’ with his daughter, sunshine, not you,” he tells you.

“So… so if I wasn’t his daughter?” you ask, swallowing hard. “You’d… you know? You’d like me, want me?” you add on, and he’s scratching his jaw at his fucking wrong this is.

“Yeah,” Beau admits, and you feel your heart pumping faster and faster, a warmth blooming in your stomach.

“I wouldn’t tell him,” you whisper, and he shoots you a glare. “Wouldn’t tell him a thing.”

“Baby,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “That would eat ya’, inside n’ out,” he tells you, his hair falling out of place. 

“It wouldn’t,” you promise, almost whining, as he starts to stand up.

“C’mon,” Beau mumbles, reaching down to help you out, and you begrudgingly take his hand, standing up to your full height.

“Now what?” you ask him as the two of you start walking down the trail. “I have to act like we didn’t almost make out?”

“Ain’t complicated,” he drawls, shaking his head and looking at you out of the side of his eye.

“It is,” you counter, staring at him as you walk, but he’s focused on getting the hell out of the forest instead.

“Not gonna talk about this, darlin’,” he shuts down the conversation, and you feel an emptiness settle in your chest–it was already there, but it’s gaping now, and Beau is unfazed by doing it to you.

The walk back to the cabin is awkward, and you have to act like you don’t taste Beau Arlen on your tongue, and that your shirt wasn’t hiking up, and that his hand was your hip, and that you weren’t willing to lie onto the grass and let him do whatever he wanted to you.

At lunch, it’s worse: the three of you are surrounding the kitchen table, and Beau is across from you, biting into the burger your dad had barbecued when the two of you disappeared into the woods to mess around. You pick around at your plate, barely eating a thing.

“Somethin’ wrong with it, honey?” your dad speaks up, chewing his food on one side of his mouth. “Can throw it on if it’s raw, or somethin’,” he offers, reaching for a glass of water.

Beau peeks up from his food, looking at you; his eyes focus on the way you bite your lip and shake your head, just refusing to eat it. He clears his throat, and you look up at him.

“Can take ya’ to the small store up the road, kid,” Beau offers, putting down his burger and dusting his hands. “Candy, that kinda’ stuff,” he tells you, and you grind your jaw, nodding.

“You don’t gotta do things like that for her,” your dad says, laughing through a mouthful of food, and you extend your foot, rubbing it against Beau’s ankle.

He almost chokes on his food he’s still chewing when you do that, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Anythin’ for that girl.” 

Beau opens the door to his Rover when the two of you leave after lunch, and you climb into the passenger side. He pulls out of the gravel driveway, and it’s quiet between the two of you, both of you acting like there isn’t this sexual tension that has him adjusting his hips and you shifting in your seat.

“Do I have to wear a seatbelt?” you ask Beau, and he glances over at you, his hair messy from the cracked windows, one hand on the steering wheel.

“Not really,” he drawls out quietly, shaking his head. “Ain’t anyone on these roads, for miles, sweetheart.”

You unclip the buckle, and your shoes come off next, and he’s glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, wondering what you’re up to. He can hear the shuffling, and then your toes curling right into the bulge against his jeans.

 “Jesus Christ, kid,” Beau groans when he looks over at you; your back against the door, your body completely turned, your sock-clad foot stretched across the centre and into his lap.

“What?” you ask quietly, purposely rubbing your foot against him, and he’s leaning over, gripping the steering wheel.

“Cut it out,” he grits through his teeth, feeling your foot moving against the bulge, and he’s shaking his, glaring at you.

You have a stupid grin on your face, and you press harder, feeling him getting harder. He’s breathing heavier, tipping his head back against the headrest, one hand coming down to grab your ankle. He doesn’t stop you; he just holds your foot there, letting it move.

“Not bein’ a good girl, not at all.” Beau shakes his head as the vehicle still moves along the road, and he’s about to pull over. He can’t focus.

“Why would I be anything for you?” you ask softly, biting your thumbnail. “Don’t even… won’t even touch me properly,” you mutter, and he’s growling in frustration and pleasure.

“Cause m’tellin’ you to,” he groans out again, his head tipping back as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuckin’, stop it, kid,” he shakes his head, looking down at your foot, and he’s panting.

You slowly pull your foot away and let its arch rest on the curve of his thigh. His hand slides up your ankle and rests against his shin, holding it there, his thumb indenting on your warm skin. He shoots you a look, and you have the tip of your thumb in your mouth. 

You wish it were authentic, the way you’re acting, but you’re just coping, wanting attention, something from anyone–it’s Beau you want it from, anything you can get when you feel like you have nothing at all.

Beau groans when he pulls into the tiniest parking lot you’ve seen, and you sit up, looking out the window: the tiniest store, too, with barely anyone around. It was smallest town you’ve seen, and it’s all he ever knows.

“Look what you fuckin’ did,” he growls, nodding down to his lap, and you look; a hard line right there, bulging out of the denim, undeibaly hard, and he puts his hand over it, pushing down.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

“Don’t give me that,” he shoots, glaring at you. “Touchin’ me with your foot like that? What? Gonna give me a hand job to make up for it?” he rolls his eyes, and you almost want to.

The two of you step out of the Rover, and you look over at Beau as he awkwardly loops his thumbs into his jeans, adjusting them, pulling them up, then tugging them down at his thighs. The material is incredibly uncomfortable right now, and he notices you staring.

You run ahead of him and enter the small-town store, immediately heading to the candy aisle, as Beau suggested. He’s walking behind, praying no one can tell that some girl almost gave him a fucking foot job while he was trying to drive. He almost came in his pants.

He gives a friendly wave to the older man working the counter, and he finds you in the aisle, your eyes wide at the display: gummies and chocolate, candy bars, everything you want.

“Pick somethin’,” he gestures to the rack, scratching the back of his neck, feeling himself throbbing, pressing against his boxers, and against his zipper. 

“I’m looking,” you say softly, but end up grabbing a bag of gummy cherries, and Beau takes them quickly, not even bothering to ask if you want anything else. He just heads to the counter and tosses them onto it.

You stand behind him, watching his hands fish out some cash and drop it in front of the old guy, who comments on the candy choice. Beau looks back at you, and those innocent eyes stare right back at him.

After paying, the two of you head out of the small store, and Beau is holding the candy for you. He’s walking quicker than you’d like—it’s urgent, and you know why; you just made the poor guy hard as hell, and forced him into a store.

“Never doin’ anythin’ like that again,” he grumbles the second the passenger door shuts, and you slump in the seat, bringing one knee up, your foot on the leather. “Ya’ hear me? Ain’t doin’ things like that ever again.”

Beau’s voice is firm, and you’ve only heard it like that when he was shouting at one of your cousins again, yelling at your dad for forgetting to dock the boat that one time. And he was using it with you, all because you got him hard without release.

The car drives down the gravel road, and your eyes are out of the window, but it comes to a slow stop at the side, and you look to Beau; his eyes are narrowed, and he’s lifting his hips, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“What?” You say softly, looking at him with those confused eyes, and he’s undoing his belt, the buckles clicking.

“Ain’t get to do stuff like that without consequence, darlin’,” Beau shoots, and your eyes widen as you quickly realize what’s happening; his strong hands work the button on his pants, then the zipper.

“Beau—” you mumble, and he shakes his head, reaching over to press the small button to undo your seatbelt.

“C’mon, ain’t startin’ shit with me just to not finish,” he flashes you his green eyes, and you swallow hard.

“Never learned… that,” you gesture to the way his hand is slipping into the front of his jeans, and he groans when his hand touches himself. He’s harder than he’d like to be.

“Looks like you’re gonna learn today,” Beau quips, and you’re almost pouting, breathing heavier.

You slowly lean over the centre console, mimicking what your leg once did, and he has his hand in his jeans, carefully pulling himself out; your eyes widen at the sight, looking at his thick head throbbing, the veins pulsing, and there’s pre-cum on the tip–it was from the teasing, from your dumb foot egging him on. Now he’s aching, absolutely begging for you.

“C’mon, baby,” Beau mumbles, his drawl thicker now, reaching behind you, grabbing a fistful of your locks, and guiding your head down. “Pretty mouth of yours need to do somethin’ about this; you caused it, didn’t ya’?”

You whimper but nod, and your tongue sticks out, lapping up the cum that had already trickled out, and his head tips back against the headrest, a low groan slipping by him. His big hand is still running through your hair, almost as if he's petting you. It’s salty on your tongue.

“Atta girl,” he pats your head gently, feeling the way you focus on the tip. “Mhm… knowin’ jus’ where to start, yeah? Smart thing, you are,” he praises, swallowing hard.

You’re moving your mouth over the head, lapping, leaving saliva against him, and he’s in awe. Beau hadn’t experienced anything like this in a while–he mostly lived alone, drove into town occasionally, finding girls his age, and they mostly were married, not wanting to mess with a man like him. Ever since quitting being a sheriff, it’s been lonely as ever, and your mouth is keeping him company. 

You slowly take more of him, and he moans, a deep sound coming out of the back of his throat. He already hits the back of your throat, a gentle poke, and you gag at the feeling. He’s twitching, already leaking down your throat, and his veins throb on your tongue. You lift your head and dive back down, a slow bob starting, and he’s guiding you with his own hand, holding your hair.

“Jus’ like that, sweet thing,” Beau breathes out, his eyes falling shut. “So good f’me, makin’ up for what’cha did,” he taunts, and you mumble something around him; your mouth is so full.

He pats your head again, his hips lifting in an urgent movement, and it hits the abc of your throat again. You choke, and he grins, his other hand lifting so he can briefly rub over his scruff.

“Barely takin’ me in,” he mumbles, and he groans when you go deeper. “Stuffin’ me in that lil’ mouth, makin’ me fit, perfect,” he praises some more, and your eyes are almost rolling back as saliva drips down your chin and onto his jeans.

Beau cums with little to no warning, and you know that’s a part of the punishment, making you take his load, and you immediately swallow back and lift your head. He’s panting along with you, gazing at the way your eyes are heavy, and tears brim your eyes from the sheer force of trying to fit him with your mouth. 

His hand slides from your hair and to your face, wiping the mess with his thumb, and you blink slowly, mouth agape, still panting. He’s never seen you prettier.

Walking back into the cabin, you keep your head down, and your dad instantly greets you. He’s been working at the kitchen table since you two left, mindlessly reading the newspaper, a pen circling the crossword out of boredom, and you barely say a thing to him. You can’t face him, not right now.

Beau watches the back of your head dip into the bedroom, and the door shuts right behind you. He sighs, adjusts his belt, swallows, and looks at your dad, who is still sipping coffee despite the day growing later and later.

“Still on for that fishin’?” Beau asks your dad, and you can hear it from inside the bedroom. You hear the chair squeak, and your dad immediately stands up, eager to resume the usual marathon they do at the cabin.

You spend the rest of the night in your room, reading and writing in your diary, attempting to use the phone to call your best friend, desperately wanting to tell her about what happened: sucking off Beau, trying to get him off with your damn foot, making out with him in the woods. The line cut out every time, and you cursed being an eight-hour drive from home. 

Beau and your dad have been fishing for hours, both drinking and laughing, and you can hear their conversation from the lake–the sounds bounce off the water and seem to climb right into your room, and your heart clenches at the sound of Beau’s voice and laugh: that drawl, that thick sound and accent. You’re on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

The door creaks open with a slow ease, and you sit up immediately, eyes wide, when you see Beau standing there, slightly drunk, leaning on the frame. He clicks his tongue and tilts his head, staring at your small form on the bed. 

“Beau?” you say softly, looking around your room. “Where’s my dad?” you ask quietly, wondering how he had the guts to saunter into your room, his best friend feet away.

“Mmm… down at the lake… drunk as a skunk, darlin’,” Beau slurs out, and you realize he’s drunker than he’d like to be. You shift on the bed when he shuts the door behind him.

“Been thinkin’ bout you that whole time, baby,” he drawls out, his tongue lazy and his words sloppy. “Felt… so good, you know… jus’ wanted ya’ back, wanna be inside ya’,” he murmurs, and your jaw goes slack at his drunk admission.

“Beau, you’re so drunk,” you whisper to him, and the bed creaks the second his two knees deep onto it, and he’s crawling across it, finding you.

“M’know, sweetheart… makes stuff like this a lot easier,” he whispers to you, and doesn’t hesitate to kiss you.

You kiss back, tasting the whisky on his tongue, and the few cigarettes he must’ve smoked for fun down at the lake. He can taste the cherry gummies you’ve been eating, and he slides his tongue into your mouth. He’s sloppier, a lot sloppier now that he’s inebriated, and you moan into the kiss. 

Beau nudges his way between your legs, parting them for you, putting you down onto your back, and he’s right on top of you. The bed, not used to holding two people, groans; it creaks louder, and you whimper when his hand is travelling up your thigh, and already down into your shorts. 

“Wet f’me… Christ,” he groans as his lips find your neck, and his hand is just cupping your core, that warmth, that slick, all it takes is his rough thumb rubbing in circles to get you going. “Feelin’ good, ain't ya?” he asks, mouthing at your jaw.

Your head tips back, and you whine, nodding quickly, feeling the way he’s toying with your clit; a firm pressure with quick circles, tight ones that send you into a bliss-like state, just from his damn thumb. You’re basking in it, arching your back. 

“Can stuff ya’ elsewhere…” he mumbles out, and he’s fumbling with his belt again, drunk hands struggling with the thick clasp, and he’s pulled back, his head hanging low. “Stuff… mmm… yeah, that… that tummy of yours,” he whispers, and your eyes widen at his filthy words. 

Beau, already with his jeans hanging low, manages to pull his hardened cock out before you can even register that his other hand is also sliding down your flimsy shorts. You groan the second they’re discarded onto the cabin floor, and you squirm when his head nudges your entrance.

“Ah–” you gasp, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “You–you’re not gonna fit, Beau,” you whisper quickly to him, remembering just how big he was earlier, how your mouth could barely take him. 

“Oh, sunshine,” Beau mumbles, his hand sliding down to tap your hip. “Your body, mmm? Knows what it’s doin’, will stretch, all f’me,” he slurs, and he slowly begins pushing in, and God, you feel it.

He’s thick, thicker than you remember, and you can feel your body trying to adjust to the sheer size, feeling like he’s about to fucking split you in half. His head tips back, and he lets out a heavy breath, holding your hip, the other one on your knee, keeping you spread open.

You whine louder, and he grins, feeling the way you adapt and clench, that sting something you’ve never felt before. He pushes all the way in, letting you feel it, that settles in your lower abdomen. His hand slides from your hip to over your stomach, pressing down. 

“See… baby, makin’ me fit,” Beau taunts, his thumb rubbing your navel. “Takin’ me like a champ, yeah? Takin’ every inch I give ya’,” he groans, pulling out just a bit.

The faintest release washes over you when he pulls out slightly, but he slams back in just as quickly, sending your head back and a loud moan out of your mouth. He clicks his tongue in disapproval, your sound being much too loud for what you’re doing. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, and you can feel tears streaming down your cheeks, crying softly at the pain, and he notices, shaking his head.

“Oh, baby girl…” Beau then mutters, slinking down slowly, pressing deeper when he’s just trying to comfort you. “Let it out… bein’ good f’me, through the tears,” he coos, and kisses at your cheeks, still buried inside of you.

You didn’t expect it to be like this–it’s not his fault; he’s big and thick, and relentless, and your body is seizing up, reacting to the size difference. It still feels good, that pressure burning. 

“My lil’ darlin’... cryin’ for me,” he whispers, kissing away your tears. “Cryin’ cause she can’t take me… but she is, so well,” he praises, kissing at your cheeks and over your nose.

The words are sweet, and the feeling is bitter, and he’s starting to thrust, moving back and forth.

You whine through the tears, and he covers your mouth with his to hide the side, but he pulls back and goes back to kiss your tears that don’t seem to stop coming. They’re warm and wet, and he’s thrusting, deeper and deeper.

“M’got you… m’here, got you,’ he reassures, kissing up to your temple, and then back down. 

You groan and your back arches more, feeling him pushing and your clenching around him, squeezing, and he’s groaning now, hating how quickly he needs to cum. 

“Gonna let me cum… all inside ya’? Feelin’ me for hours?” Beau whispers, your noses brushing his beard, scratching your face. “Gonna cum too, baby? On my cock, yeah?”

You whimper through the tears, nodding quickly, biting your lip at the consistent pressure, the way it’s building and twisting, and how aggressive his thrusts are becoming. It’s too much, for the both of you, way too much to handle. You tip your head back, and he captures your mouth the minute he knows you’re gonna cum.

It happens at the same time; you finish, and he does too, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. Your release and his cum clash, but he still buries deep, ensuring none of it leaks out, wanting it to mix and keep you full and warm.

Beau rubs your stomach still, soothing that dull ache that’s only worse now that you’re absolutely stuffed, and he waits there, just letting the both of you pant, trying to register just how good it feels, how drunk he is, how drunk you are. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your neck, twitching inside of you when your body still clenches. “Mmm… feel me in there? All… warm, deep inside ya’…” he whispers, kissing your neck.

Your hand is on Beau’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly as you try to keep yourself calm, but he’s not pulling out; it’s like he refuses to. And your dad is so oblivious, drunk at the lake, and you are Beau, tucked away in the bedroom.

“Makin’ you feel good… so good, birdie,” Beau whispers, and your lips part, a flush going over your cheeks at the nickname. 

Your face scrunches, and you whimper, and he’s kissing your neck, whispering, and whispering, lulling you both into a state you can’t explain. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain this, not to your diary, to your friends, nobody–this is a secret, and you know it is. 

“My girl…” he whispers to you more, never pulling out, refusing to. “Promised ya’... you’d have a good summer, baby,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that phone call days before leaving.

“Can make it even better, you know?” Beau whispers, nodding. “Makin’ this pretty body… feel good, all the time,” he adds, and you’re not sure if you can do this every day for the next three weeks.

It had nothing to do with missing your old mates or the achingly slow routine you’d left behind two years earlier. Hell, it wasn’t even because you missed your parents — which you did, obviously — but that wasn’t the reason you were planning to move back.

New York was, for lack for a better, great. Truly. It was everything you’d dreamt about throughout your teenage years — multicultural, freeing, authentic in a way that demanded respect, with a shit ton of opportunities Hawkins couldn’t even dream of offering.

But it was also… just too much.

Too loud. Too smelly. Too busy. Too anxiety-inducing.

Hawkins, on the other hand, wasn’t amazing. Most of the time, it wasn’t even fun.

But it offered a quiet that you never realized you needed until you moved to the East Coast, without ever asking anything in return.

It wasn’t a place that expected — nonetheless demanded — you to keep up, nor did it punish you for slowing down and taking a breather. You could leave the house without planning every minute of your day around subways delays, packed sidewalks, and whether or not you could afford another ridiculously overprices coffee just to justify sitting somewhere for an hour.

In Hawkins, you knew the cashiers at the grocery store and which roads flooded first after heavy rain. You knew which diner stayed open the latest, where to get your tires replaced without getting ripped off by some surprise inspection tacked onto the bill, and exactly which back roads to take if you simply wanted to drive with the windows down for a while.

It was the kind of comfort you missed in the big city.

So the moment your final summer break before your last year of graduate school rolled around in the middle of May, you’d already made up your mind — you were going home for the first time in two years.

Unfortunately, your bank account had other ideas.

Rent in New York — even while sharing a shoebox apartment with two other girls — had a funny way of reminding you that dreams didn’t pay themselves, and neither did tuition. So instead of immediately packing your bags and hopping on the first plane to Indiana, you picked up every extra shift your manager was willing to throw your way.

Mornings behind the espresso machine turned into afternoons. Afternoons bled into closing shifts. Before you knew it, six weeks had disappeared somewhere between burnt coffee, impatient tourists, and people who genuinely believed ordering six different modifications somehow made them easier to deal with.

It wasn’t until the first week of July, when your savings account finally looked healthy enough, that you were able to point yourself towards Indiana.

Not forever. Come mid August, you’d be squeezing back into your apartment, picking up where you’d left off, and tackling one final year before graduation. But for the next month and a half, Hawkins was home again.

Funnily enough, the cheapest flight back from New York to Indianapolis landed in the middle of the night on the Fourth of July — only forty bucks cheaper than the alternatives, but still. An extra forty bucks for a college student meant not eating ramen for four consecutive days.

And, considering, you hadn’t given your parents an exact date for your return, arriving early on the holiday made for a nice surprise.

What wasn’t a nice surprise, however, was the half-hour delay it took to get off the plane. The two-hour drive from Indianapolis to Hawkins in a cramped rental car wasn’t exactly enjoyable either, although the endless stretches of cornfields and the occasional herd of cows were enough to pull a small smile onto your face again.

The weather had already been bordering on suffocating at almost ten in the morning when you passed the Welcome to Hawkins sign, and the cracked windows of the car did little to help in that regard.

But it was the Fourth, and that meant your parents were probably putting up the pool — if they hadn’t already done it the day before — and that an endless supply of ice-cold drinks was already waiting for your surprise return.

You instinctively turned the volume of the radio down as you made the familiar right turn into your old neighbourhood.

The early morning sunshine stretched across the quiet streets, warming the asphalt as it spilled between neat rows of modest houses and leafy trees. Tall utility poles and tangled power lines framed both sides of the road, looking exactly as they had the day you’d left.

Your foot eased off the accelerator almost automatically when the familiar house came into view. The wraparound porch looked exactly as you remembered it, supported by simple wooden posts and bordered by a railing that had hosted more lazy summer afternoons than you’d probably ever admit missing.

And then you noticed the ridiculous red, white and blue decorations your dad insisted on dragging out of the attic every year.

A massive American flag covered nearly the entire front window. Patriotic garlands hung from the porch ceiling. And, judging by the perfectly coordinated flower beds, your dad had somehow convinced your mom to plant red, white and blue flowers just in time for the holiday.

Jesus fucking Christ.

That… was definitely something you hadn’t missed.

You’d save the annual debate about nationalism, capitalism, and the political and economical state of the country and why you didn’t believe the Fourth of July and its founding fathers were something worth celebrating for another day. Preferably one that didn’t involve your father.

The engine died with a quick twist of your wrist, followed by the familiar click of your seatbelt, but you didn’t get out just yet. Instead, you sat there for another moment, your shoulders relaxing almost instantly as you looked at the house you’d once spent every waking moment trying to escape.

Your street had barely changed. Down the road, Mr. Flynn was moving his front lawn like he did almost every morning, while the kids of number 61A were already testing fireworks far too early.

Your lips curled into a small smile as you finally pushed the car door open and made your way to the trunk to grab your bags.

The fence around the house had recently been given a fresh coat of lacquer, and the brick path leading to the backyard had clearly been scrubbed clean days earlier.

Pushing open the familiar creaking gate and stepping into the backyard pulled a content sigh from your chest as you finally set the heavy bags on the ground.

“You here already, Ed?”

Your dad pushed the screen door open with one hand while carrying a heavy-looking cooler in the other.

“Who is Ed?” you asked when your eyes landed on your greying father.

A heavy thud echoed through the otherwise quiet backyard as he let the cooler slip from his hands, standing frozen between the back door and the patio.

“What the fuck?”

“Please don’t curse this early in the morning!” your mom called from somewhere inside the house.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll be cursing too if you saw what the fuck I’m seeing.”

While your dad remained rooted to the spot, eyes still wide with disbelief, your mom mumbled something unintelligible as he made her way towards the backyard.

The towel she’d been drying her hands with joined the cooler on the ground.

“What the fuck?”

“Told you.”

A disbelieving chuckle escaped you as the two of them simply stared.

“I told you guys I was coming home from the summer.”

“But not that you were coming today!” She hurried over and wrapped her arms around you, only pulling back enough to cup your face between her hands. Her eyes searched every inch of it like she hadn’t seen you in decades. “Why didn’t you call? We could’ve picked you up from the airport.”

“I wanted to surprise you guys.”

Your dad finally seemed to reboot.

“Did you rent a car?” was the first thing out of his mouth.

“Hi to you too, Dad.”

“How much was it?”

“That’s your first question?” You tilted your head in disbelief.

“Oh, Pigeon,” your mom whispered, still holding your face. “You’ve lost weight. Have you been eating properly?”

“Mom, I’m fine—”

“Rentin’ a car is expensive,” your dad muttered, already fishing his phone out of his back pocket. “On top of paying New York rent? Jesus, Pigeon. You should’ve called.”

“Dad, I rented the car for three days—”

“I’m sending you money.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Almost twenty-one years old, and you were still their baby girl — apparently incapable of looking after your own health or your own finances.

Not that there was any point to trying to convince them otherwise, their minds had already been made up.

The cooler had been completely forgotten beside the screen door as your dad wrapped his hands around the handles of your bags — despite your repeated insistence that you were more than capable of carrying them yourself — and made a beeline for your childhood bedroom.

He was still going on about the rental car as you followed him up the creaky staircase, only abandoning the subject once he’d nudged open the familiar white bedroom door with his foot.

The door was still decorated with stickers. The walls were still painted your favourite shade of pale green, and the embarrassingly emo and scene band posters you’d sworn you’d take down before leaving college were still scattered across them.

Aside from the new rug in the middle of the room, nothing had changed.

“You should call your friends,” he said as he set your bags down on the bed. “See if anyone’s around to hang out.”

“I kinda lost touch with everyone, Dad,” you replied with a small shrug. “I’m perfectly happy hanging out with you two.”

“Well, us two and Eddie.” He scratched at his beard. “And a handful of our other friends too.”

“Who’s Eddie?” You frowned.

“Eddie Munson.” He pushed the sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt farther up his arm, revealing the tattoo he’d gotten the year before. “He moved back last year when his dad got sick. Opened a tattoo studio downtown not long after.”

Your hand reached out almost on instinct, fingertips brushing over the healed ink.

The words of an embarrassingly sentimental poem you’d written in elementary school curved neatly around his upper arm, permanently preserved in your own unmistakable chicken-scratch handwriting.

And just above it sat a black-and-grey coloured realistic pigeon.

You still weren’t entirely sure which tattoo was more ridiculous.

“I still can’t believe you actually got this tattooed,” you snorted, looking back up at him.

“Yeah, well,” he chuckled, tugging his sleeve back down. “Can you blame me for being obsessed with my only child?”

“If your obsession makes you do stupid things?” You folded your arms. “Then yes. Absolutely.”

He raised an eyebrow and rested his hands on his hips in that particular way that always told you your dad was about to call you out.

“Says the girl who got 1D tattooed on her ankle when she was fourteen.” He pursed his lips for a moment before they curled into a disbelieving grin. “Still have no idea how you managed to get a tattoo back then.”

“Black ink from a pen and a sewing needle.” You shrugged as you unzipped one of your bags. “Saw a tutorial on YouTube.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Your giggles echoed through the bedroom as your dad simply shook his head, muttering something about teenagers while backing into the hallway.

“Put your bikini on. It’s gonna be hot today,” he said, pausing in the doorway to rap his knuckles against the frame, and then pointed a finger at you. “And then get downstairs and help me with the grill.”

“Aye, captain,” you laughed. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Good.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and silence settled over the bedroom once again.

You let yourself sink onto the edge of the mattress before eventually falling backwards with a soft whump, the old springs protesting underneath your weight just as they always had, and you let your eyes wander across the familiar room.

The glow-in-the-dark constellations were still stuck to the ceiling. The bookshelf tucked beside your desk still leaned ever so slightly to the left after you’d tried to climb it when you were ten. The faded Polaroids hanging from the mirror still showed smiling faces you’d long since lost touch with.

Nothing had changed — not really.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you were kind of grateful for it.

It took you a few more seconds of studying an older, more innocent version of yourself before you finally pushed yourself off the bed to change into a bikini like your dad had suggested.

For a second, while pulling open one of the drawers, you considered putting on the ridiculous American flag bikini as a joke, but the thought of your dad embarrassing you by saying something along the lines of, “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Celebrating the American spirit!” was enough to make you think better of it.

So you opted for another one instead — the one with the gold sequins and pink beads you’d bought during your junior year in a desperate attempt to impress Andrew Harrington.

Despite what your mom had claimed downstairs, you hadn’t actually lost weight. If anything, somehow surviving almost exclusively on ramen and bread had convinced your body that your chest needed to grow another cup size. The bikini still fit, but the straps leaned a little more to the digging into your shoulders side.

A pair of light-washed denim shorts covered the bottom half of your bikini, and your sneakers were swapped for sandals.

The familiar creaks of the staircase were drowned out by the unmistakable roar for a pickup truck pulling into the driveway as you made your way downstairs.

“Dad,” you called as you stepped into the kitchen. “Need anything from inside?”

“Uh…” he thought aloud for a second. “No, Pigeon. I think we got everything already.”

You hummed in acknowledgement and wandered over the fridge instead.

Having a beer at ten-something in the morning wasn’t exactly frowned upon if it was the Fourth of July, right?

You grabbed one from the bottom shelf before popping the cap off against the edge of the countertop, taking a long sip as the icy bitterness settled pleasantly against the summer heat that had already begun creeping into the house through the open windows.

Outside, a car door slammed shut, and your dad’s voice carried through the open window almost immediately.

“About time you got here!”

A man’s laugh answered him.

“Had some things to sort out.”

You were halfway through another sip when your dad called again.

“Pigeon! Come out here for a sec!”

Beer still in hand, you made your way towards the backyard, already half-expecting him to need help moving the grill or finally dragging the pool out of the garage.

Your dad stood barefoot on the grass, tongs in one hand and a bag of charcoal in the other, a broad grin already spreading across his face.

Beside him stood a man in a faded band t-shirt and a pair of dark three-quarter shorts, two six packs tucked beneath one arm.

Greying curls brushed his shoulders, a pair of sunglasses resting on top of his head. Tattoos disappeared beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, and you were fairly certain you caught the glint of a small silver hoop through one of his nostrils.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He looked up at the sound of the screen door creaking open.

“Well,” he chuckled. “I’m guessing this is the famous poet who wrote Lovely Purple Pigeons.”

A warm laugh escaped you as you finally snapped out of your thoughts. Shaking your head, you walked down the few steps towards the two men before offering him your hand.

“Well, I’m no Emily Dickinson,” you joked, “but I’m glad you enjoyed my greatest work.”

You ignored the feeling of your tongue sliding over your bottom lip when a large, calloused hand wrapped around yours, his handshake firm without being overbearing.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said with a smile. “Kinda impossible not to become a fan of your work.”

“I’d say the same,” you replied, “but I still think letting my dad get that tattoo counts as a felony.”

That pulled another laugh from him.

Meeting new people had never exactly been your favourite thing. While you weren’t the most sociable person in the word, you weren’t exactly an introvert either. More often than not, though, first conversations felt painfully awkward.

Meeting Eddie was nothing like that, and conversations came surprisingly easily.

He laughed at your jokes — whether because they were actually funny or simply because he was being polite, you had no idea — and every question he asked felt genuine instead of obligatory.

More importantly, he never once spoke to you like you were still fifteen. Considering most of your parents’ friends still seemed convinced you were, that alone was enough to make you like him.

Your dad, who had wandered over to the grill while you and Eddie were talking, pulled you out of your thoughts when he spoke again.

“Emily Dickinson has nothing on you, Pigeon,” he called over his shoulder before doing a double take. “…Is that a new one?”

Your eyes followed his line of sight to the palm-sized, fine line design of a little fishing boat resting against your ribcage.

“Uh, yeah,” you admitted. “Got it during spring break with a friend.”

“You don’t even like boats.” He frowned.

“It’s an inside joke from when we were, uh,” You hesitated for a second before taking another sip of your beer, “…stoned.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“There was something about boats and Led Zeppelin.”

“I don’t even wanna know.”

“Tattoos and Led Zeppelin?” Eddie laughed beside you. “Oh, I definitely wanna know.”

You looked over at him, only to find warm brown eyes already fixed on yours, and your mouth opened and then immediately closed again.

A stupid little laugh escaped you as warmth crept across your cheeks.

“It’s really not that interesting,” you warned.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Jokingly rolling your eyes at him, you gave in anyway.

You told him about spending spring break in Florida with one of your roommates, getting far too high one evening, and somehow ending up in a twenty-minute conversation about whether Led Zeppelin sounded more like the name of a rock band or a fisherman boat.

Somewhere along the way, your roommate started pronouncing Zeppelin in an exaggerated Southern accent that had reduced the two of you to tears.

Looking back, it wasn’t even that funny — not unless you’d been there, at least.

“See?” you finished with an awkward shrug. “It’s one of those stories.”

The crowfeet beside his eyes deepened as he laughed.

“No, I get it.” Eddie smiled. “I’ve got a shit tone of those too.”

Adjusting the two six-packs, he nodded towards your side.

“Mind if I take a look?”

You returned the nod before turning slightly, lifting your arm just enough for the tattoo to come into view.

Eddie stopped closer — not enough to crowd you, but just enough to see the details.

“Can I?”

You nodded again, and his fingertips brushed lightly against your skin as he gently stretched it, the touch careful and practiced in a way that immediately gave away years of experience. Professional. Matter-of-fact, even.

Which definitely didn’t explain the fresh wave of heat climbing into your cheeks.

“It healed really well,” he said quietly, studying the delicate shading. “Nice line work.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “I’ll pass the compliment along.”

“Ribs are a bitch to get tattooed.”

“It honestly wasn’t that bad,” you admitted. “It tickled more than it hurt.”

“Huh.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “That’s a first.”

He let his hand fall away before straightening to his full height, and only then you realised just how much taller he actually was.

Well over a foot, if you had to guess. Which definitely wasn’t something you were thinking about either.

His eyes lingered on yours for just a second longer before he looked over towards your dad.

“So,” he said, lifting the six-packs. “Where do you want these?”

Your dad muttered something unintelligible while gesturing vaguely towards the house.

Eddie looked back at you.

“You wanna show me where the kitchen is?”

You raised an eyebrow at that.

If Eddie was more than just your dad’s tattoo artist — which, judging by how comfortably the two of them interacted, he clearly was — then he absolutely knew where the goddamn kitchen was.

But still.

“Sure.”

Turning on your heel, you led the way inside.

Entering the kitchen, your mom had just put the lid on the bowl of potato salad before turning around and making a beeline for the backyard.

Balancing the bowl on her hip, she pulled Eddie into a quick side hug, asking how his dad had been while you set your bottle down on the counter and opened the fridge.

“I’m gonna see if your dad needs any help,” she said over her shoulder. “Be right back.”

You hopped up onto the counter beside your beer as Eddie stepped over the fridge.

“How long are you staying?” he asked absentmindedly while tearing the plastic wrapping off one of the six-packs.

“I fly back on the twentieth of August,” you answered lightly.

A low whistle escaped him before he spared you a quick glance as he returned to stocking the already overcrowded fridge.

“That’s a long time to spend in a town like Hawkins.” He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Especially when you’ve got New York to go back to.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, reaching for your bottle again. Your fingers absentmindedly started peeling away the label. “It’s just…”

The sigh that followed was almost drowned out by the refrigerator humming as it struggled to keep up with the summer heat and the open door.

“It’s not what you expected?” Eddie offered.

“No, it is.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “More than I expected, actually.”

You looked down at the bottle slowly turning between your fingers.

“But I guess I found out there’s beauty in simplicity, too.”

Silence settled comfortably between the two of you after that.

Eddie finished squeezing the last few cans into the fridge before his eyes drifted towards the nearly empty bottle in your hands.

Without asking if you wanted another one, he reached in one last time and grabbed two cold beers.

“I spent twenty years trying to escape this place.” He popped the caps off both bottles with a battered old lighter before holding one out towards you. “Now I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip as your fingers curled around the cold bottle. “I’m thinking about moving back next year.”

His eyebrows lifted at the confession.

Taking a long sip of his beer, he stepped closer to the counter and leaned against it, turning his face towards you.

“It’s the rent, isn’t it?” He teased.

“Definitely.” A laugh escaped you before you took another sip.

The sound of clattering dishes and your parents’ laughter drifted through the cracked kitchen window, filling the comfortable silence that settled between the two of you.

“So…” you spoke up after a few moments. “Your own studio, huh?”

Eddie’s eyes, which hadn’t really left your face since he’d walked over, softened into a smile before he glanced down at his boots.

“It’s busier than I expected,” he admitted, scratching thoughtfully at his beard. “Guess Hawkins isn’t the conversative little town it used to be.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Oh, yeah.” A disbelieving chuckle slipped from him. “The principal called my old man the first time he saw this.”

He swapped the beer into his other hand before extending his right arm towards you, and your eyes immediately fixed on the faded marionette inked across his forearm.

“Master of Puppets by any chance?” you asked quietly.

His gaze lifted from the tattoo to your face. “You’re a Metallica fan?”

You tipped back the last of your first beer before answering.

“I went through a metal phase,” you admitted with a sheepish smile. “Always skipped that song, though.”

Eddie tilted his head back dramatically, placing a hand over his chest as though you’d personally offended him.

“Oh, fuck off.”

A laugh burst out of you at his antics.

“Welcome Home was my favourite.”

“Jesus,” he sighed. “That’s somehow even more depressing to hear, sweetheart.”

The word settled somewhere low in your stomach.

Not because it was particularly intimate — if anything, it rolled off his tongue with the effortless ease of someone who’d probably called half the town sweetheart at one point or another.

But it somehow felt different directed at you.

Heat crept into your cheeks as you looked away, your tongue absentmindedly sweeping across your bottom lip before your attention dropped to the empty bottle in your hand. You rested it against the windowsill, intending to throw it away later.

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged, searching for the right words. “Guess I–”

“Pigeon!” Your dad’s voice boomed from the backyard. “Help me light the goddamn grill, for the love of God.”

You squeezed your eyes shut before answering.

“Coming!”

Eddie’s snort of laughter followed you as you hopped off the counter.

“I should probably go save him from himself.”

“Probably for the best,” he grinned. “I’d hate for your old man to burn his eyebrows off before lunch.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you headed for the back door.

Being your parents’ only child, your dad had spent the better part of twenty years making sure you knew how to do just about everything he could think of — from managing your finances, although he sometimes questioned your abilities, to cooking what he insisted was the perfect steak.

Which was why, apparently, you were the only person capable of getting the grill started.

The very same grill he’d begged for two Father’s Days ago after doing, in his words, extensive research on the best one money could buy.

Your beer instantly found a home on the folding table beside it as you crouched down to inspect the brand-new gas cylinder.

A sigh escaped through your nose as you shot your dad a quick glance before you reached down and connected it to the grill.

“Just tell me your knees are hurting next time.”

“That’s slander.”

“No,” you replied, straightening back up. “That’s old age, Dad.”

Somewhere behind you, Eddie laughed.

You glanced over your shoulder just long enough to catch him leaning back in one of the lawn chairs, beer balanced against his tattooed knee and a grin still lingering across his face.

Your dad, meanwhile, looked thoroughly offended.

“I’ll have you know these knees still work perfectly fine for my age.”

“Clearly.”

You turned the gas valve before pressing the igniter, and the grill roared to life on the first try.

“There.” You dusted your hands together. “Happy?”

“I would’ve gotten there eventually.”

“But you wouldn’t have gotten back up.”

The familiar creak of the backyard gate interrupted whatever comeback your dad had been preparing.

A chorus of cheerful greetings immediately followed as a handful of familiar faces filtered into the yard, coolers swinging from their hands and bowls of homemade food balanced carefully against their hips.

Your mom was already making the rounds, hugging nearly everyone before they had both feet inside the gate.

It didn’t take long for the backyard to settle into the kind of comfortable chaos that only existed at neighbourhood barbecues. Someone had already claimed the lawn chairs beneath the shade, while another group gathered around one of the many coolers in search of cold drinks.

Laughter drifted across the yard, blending with the occasional pop of early fireworks somewhere in the distance as the late-morning sun climbed steadily higher.

“You wanna help me with the pool?” Your mom asked as she approached, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “God knows your father will take too long getting it out of the garage.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Keeping her arm around you, the two of you made your way towards the garage.

During one of your many phone calls, your mom had mentioned she was planning on spring-cleaning it, but you hadn’t actually believed her until you stepped inside.

Gone were most of the shelving units that had once covered the entire back wall, along with the countless heavy boxes that had sat on top of them. The concrete floor looked freshly swept, and judging by the faint smell that still lingered in the air, the walls had recently been given a fresh coat of paint, too.

“So,” your mom started casually as she searched between the remaining boxes, “what do you think of Eddie?”

You turned towards her just in time to stop yourself from looking quite as startled as you felt.

“Uh…” You cleared your throat. “Yeah. He’s… cool.”

If she’d noticed the slight hesitation or the awkwardness creeping into your voice, she didn’t let on.

“He’s handsome too, isn’t he?”

“Mom.”

She dismissed your protest with a wave of her hand, a grin already spreading across her face.

“Oh, come on. I’m not blind, Pigeon.” She crouched down to tug at a large carboard box before looking back up at you. “And I’m closer in age to him than I am to your father.”

Right.

The age gap between your parents was practically the size of the Atlantic Ocean.

But still somewhat smaller than the Pacific Ocean-sized gap between you and Eddie.

Guess having a thing for older men ran into the family.

“He kind of looks like one of those boys you have all over your bedroom walls.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Just… older. And without make-up.”

“I guess.” You shrugged, hoping the conversation would die there.

The sound of cardboard scraping against metal shelves echoed through the garage as your mom finally managed to wrestle the pool box free.

She let it drop onto the floor with a heavy thud before turning back to you, the faint smile she’d been wearing slowly softening.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” You nodded a little too quickly before reaching down for one side of the box. “Of course, Mom.

She studied you for another second or two before deciding not to push any further, and offered you a warm smile.

“Come ne.” She grabbed the other end of the box and nodded towards the backyard. “The longer we wait the longer it’ll take to fill the pool.”

The box was just as awkward to carry as you remembered, and your mom laughing at the disastrous way the two of you shuffled back towards the party definitely earned her a look.

Somehow, the two of you managed to carry it across the backyard before dropping it onto the grass with a heavy thud.

You immediately crouched down to pry open the cardboard flaps, fishing the instruction booklet from the top for a quick refresher. A few pages flicked by beneath your thumb as your eyes skimmed over the familiar diagrams.

“We’ve been putting this thing up for almost a decade, Pigeon.” Your mom looked down at you as though consulting the instructions was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever witnessed. “We don’t need the instructions.”

“Last time I was here, this thing nearly collapsed,” you muttered dryly, still scanning the pages.

A teasing smile spread across her face. “What happened to all that loud Girl Power thing of yours?”

“I turned the volume down,” you deadpanned, setting the booklet aside before reaching for the folded blue liner.

The plastic unfolded with a dramatic whoosh, nearly knocking your backwards. Your mom burst into laughter, gripping the edge of one of the folding tables to steady herself.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You carried me for nearly ten months. I’m literally capable of reading your thoughts, Mom.”

Still chuckling, she helped you spread the liner across the grass while the metal poles clicked together with familiar little snaps.

As always, the liner refused to cooperate, folding in on itself every other minute before one of you inevitably sighed, untangled it, and started again.

From the other side of the backyard, Eddie tipped his bottle back before glancing over at the two of you with quiet curiosity.

“Should we help them?”

Your dad looking over his shoulder, and a chuckle escaped him before he turned his attention back to the burgers sizzling on the grill.

“Not if you wanna keep your head.”

By the time the pool was finally standing upright instead of threatening to collapse every five minutes, the sun had climbed high enough for the backyard to shimmer beneath the relentless July heat.

Burgers and hotdogs had long since disappeared from paper plates, coolers had been emptied and restocked more than once, and you’d already claimed the half-filled pool despite the water still being cold enough to make you swear.

The other guests drifted in and out of the house as though it were their own, someone had put on a questionable summer playlist that crackled through the garden speakers, and every now and then another firework echoed somewhere across town despite it only being four in the afternoon.

Somewhere between rescuing your dad from overcooking another batch of burgers, helping your mom carry dishes back and forth, and watching Eddie seamlessly weave himself into every little task the afternoon seemed to produce, he had quietly made it a habit to bring you a fresh beer whenever he got one for himself.

You never asked. He simply remembered.

You’d spent the last ten minutes talking to one of your mom’s friends about New York, college, and the seemingly endless questions of the existence of someone in your life.

“So you’re still studying psychology?”

“Art therapy,” you corrected with an easy smile, grateful for the change of subject.

“Oh, right!” she laughed. “I keep forgetting.”

She excused herself to the bathroom not longer after that, and before the chair she’d left beside the pool had even stopped rocking, a smudge of black dropped into it.

Eddie leaned back with a satisfied sigh, one arm draped over the backrest of the pool.

“First Zeppelin, then Metallica, and now art therapy.” He took a slow sip of his beer as his eyes drifted towards you. “You’ve got a surprisingly eclectic résumé.”

A laugh escaped you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.”

Silence settled between the two of you for a few seconds before he broke it again.

“I gotta admit,” he started, unable to stop the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?” Your eyebrow lifted.

“I don’t know.” He answered truthfully and took another sip of beer. “I’ve heard so much about you over the last year that I think I accidentally invented an entirely different person.”

He looked you up and down — but not once did he linger anywhere below your clavicles.

“You’re considerably more interesting that I had imagined.”

Your tongue swept across your bottom lip as you tilted your head to the side.

“I would’ve thought you’d have learned how to flirt better at your old age.”

Eddie barked out a surprise laugh.

“Old age?”

“You heard me.”

He was still too busy laughing to notice your fingers curling around his beer bottle. You stole it from his hand with surprising ease before taking a slow sip without ever breaking eye contact.

His laughter faded as you tipped the bottle back.

“Careful. Keeping doing things like that,” he smiled, “and people are gonna think you like me.”

“What if they are right?”

Your fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary against his when you handed the bottle back.

“I don’t know.” He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle again. “You tell me.”

Neither of you looked away, and after a moment, Eddie scratched thoughtfully at his beard.

“You wanna know something,” he began slowly, his eyes dropping briefly to the bottle in his hand before finding yours again. “I’ve been trying very hard not to flirt with you all day.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded once.

“Thought it’d be inappropriate.” His gaze flickered towards your parents for the briefest of moments before returning to you, shrugging lightly. “You know… Me being friend with them and all.”

The pool creaked softly as you leaned back against the wall, cool water lapping gently around you. Tilting your head back just enough to let the afternoon sun warm your face, you closed your eyes with a quiet sigh.

“You’re forgetting there’s a big age gap between them too,” you murmured.

Silence settled for another moment — long enough for you to become acutely aware that he still hadn’t looked away.

In fact, you were fairly sure his eyes had trailed somewhere past the tight straps digging into your shoulders.

“Thirteen isn’t quite the same as twenty-three, sweetheart,” he replied distractedly.

“No,” you admitted as a quiet laugh escaped you, opening your eyes again. “I suppose not.”

“It’d be different if I didn’t know them.”

You studied him for a moment, catching the way his gaze indeed lingered on your bikini before trailing up to meet yours.

“You know,” you stared slowly. “You’ve been doing a terrible job with the whole not flirting thing.”

“Yeah?” Eddie barked out a laugh. “Thought I was being subtle.”

“There wasn’t anything subtle about the way you just stared at my breasts, Eddie.”

You bit your bottom lip to stop the smile threatening to spread across your face as you watched his mouth fall open.

That was clearly not something he’d been expecting, and for what was probably the first time all afternoon, he looked completely speechless.

His mouth opened once, only for him to close it again. then he clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth, clearly searching for something — anything — to say.

Somewhere behind him, your dad’s booming laugh cut through the silence that had settled between the two of you.

“Ed!” he called from the grill, and pointed towards the man standing next to him. “Get over here. You gotta hear this.”

Eddie’s eyes flickered back to you for one last glance before he pushed himself up from the chair.

“Try to pay attention,” you called after him before he’d fully turned around, and then lowered your voice just enough as you continued. “And try not to imagine them without the bikini.”

If he hadn’t been flustered before, he certainly was now — the flush spreading across his milky cheeks deepened as he paused mid-step, his mouth opening before immediately closing again.

A quiet laugh escaped you when you noticed his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Then, as he started walking backwards towards your dad, he pointed the neck of his beer bottle in your direction.

“We’re not done with this.”

A grin tugged at your lips.

“Promise?”

For a split second, he looked like he’d forgotten how words worked.

Then he simply shook his head, mumbled something and laughed under his breath as he finally turned away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The rest of the afternoon slipped away much the same way the earlier hours had.

Somewhere along the way, your dad had insisted on putting on his classic rock playlist after declaring the previous one too depressing, despite nobody remembering who’d put it on in the first place. A few more neighbours filtered through the creaking backyard gate with desserts balanced on plates, while the coolers slowly emptied for what had to be the fifth time that day.

Every now and then, you’d catch Eddie looking your way.

Sometimes he’d smile. Other times, he’d simply lift his bottle ever so slightly in your direction before absentmindedly dragging his tongue across his bottom lip and returning to whatever conversation he’d been pulled into.

And every single time, your stomach betrayed you over the smallest breadcrumb of attention he offered.

The relentless July sun eventually began to lose some of its bite, giving way to a softer warmth that settled over the neighbourhood, while the sky above slowly traded its bright afternoon blue for streaks of peach and pale gold stretching lazily between the telephone poles.

The water that had felt heavenly just an hour earlier had cooled enough for goosebumps to creep across your arms. With a quiet sigh, you climbed out of the pool and reached for the towel draped over one of the lawn chairs.

As you dragged it over your arms, your gaze wandered across the backyard.

People were sitting instead of standing now. The grill had long since been turned off, paper plates were stacked in uneven piles on the folding tables, and the softer evening light settled gently across everyone’s faces.

This was exactly what you’d missed; not the fireworks, or even the stupid holiday, just this. People lingering without watching the clock. Conversations drifting from one topic to the next. Nobody in a hurry to leave.

After drying your feet just enough to slip your sandals back on without worrying about eating shit in front of half the neighbourhood, you made a beeline for the house.

You had barely let go of the screen door behind you when it was pulled open again from the other side. The damp strands clinging to the back of your neck barely shifted as you glanced over your shoulder.

Eddie.

“…Toilet,” he mumbled, though the word lost some of its conviction when his eyes betrayed him and briefly flickered to your hard nipples peeking from underneath the bikini before snapping back to your face.

“Right.” The corners of your mouth twitched as you turned around and continued walking. “You know where that is or do you want me to show you that too?”

The screen door slammed shut behind him.

“Funny,” he muttered, falling into step a few paces behind you.

Resting you hand against the banister, you paused just long enough to watch Eddie reach for the downstairs bathroom door, only to find it occupied.

“Be out in a minute,” your dad’s muffled voice called from the other side.

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you watched Eddie pull a face.

“There’s one upstairs you can use,” you offered softly before turning towards the staircase without waiting for an answer.

The heavy footsteps against the old wooden steps were enough, anyway.

Once upstairs, you silently pointed towards the door next to yours before disappearing inside your own room.

Pretending to have forgotten to close the door behind you wouldn’t hurt anybody, right?

Biting your thumb, you waited for a moment until the loud flush from the bathroom next door slipped through the cracked bedroom door, followed shortly by the brief hiss of the sink before throwing the bikini on the wooden floor with a wet slap!

A content sigh escaped you at the freeing feeling of finally peeling it off, the towel quickly finding its way across your chest before you leaned over your bed in search of the first oversized shirt you could find in your bags.

While pulling the shirt out of your bag, the familiar stick-covered door creaked further open again.

“Interesting interior design.”

You glanced over your shoulder just enough to Eddie leaning casually against the doorframe, his eyes slowly wandering across the pale green walls before landing on you.

“One Direction and Black Veil Brides posters weren’t exactly what I was expecting.”

“That seems to be a recurring theme today, huh?” you replied with a small smile before turning back and throwing the towel onto the bed before pulling the shirt over your head.

It took him longer than expected to find a reply.

“You keep surprising me.”

Behind you, Eddie wandered farther into the room with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his shorts, taking his time looking over the bookshelves and framed photographs scattered between rows of well-loved fantasy books.

You’d long since stopped feeling embarrassed every time someone looked at your old pictures. If anything, they only made you feel strangely nostalgic now.

“How old were you here?” he asked quietly, his attention fixed on a framed picture of you and your dad and a sea of strangers behind you.

You followed his gaze, landing on the picture your mom had taken at your very first concert.

Mark Knopfler — not exactly your first choice, but after your parents had failed to find someone willing to babysit, you’d ended up having to tag along anyway. Looking back, it had eventually become one of your favourite childhood memories.

“Twelve, I think.”

Taking advantage of Eddie’s attention remaining glued to the picture, you stepped out of your damp bikini bottoms before pulling on a pair cotton shorts you’d fished from your bag.

The quiet rustle of fabric followed by the metallic clink of a small tin opening finally pulled his attention away from the picture. His eyes settled on the weathered little metal box resting in your hands, the dents and scratches along its surface giving away years of previous owners.

“You smoke?” you asked, holding up the small resealable bag tucked.

A crooked smile slowly spread across his face.

“I used to deal when I was your age,” he admitted with an almost sheepish shrug. “Obviously I don’t anymore but…” His eyes flickered briefly towards the bag before finding yours again. “Yeah. I still smoke on occasion.”

Your eyes wandered over him almost absentmindedly, taking in the faded band shirt, the tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric, the rings decorating his fingers and the curls brushing his shoulders before one corner of your mouth tugged upwards.

“Yeah, I can see that.” One teasing eyebrow lifted. “I bet you had the whole bad-boy thing going on.”

A warm laugh rumbled from his chest.

The silence that followed settled comfortably between the two of you as you returned to the task at hand — grinding the buds, laying a thin layer of tobacco onto the rolling paper, and tucking a paper filter into one end.

Heavy footsteps echoed softly against the walls as Eddie wandered farther into your room before eventually settling onto the edge of your bed beside your begs.

“Not bad,” he murmured, watching your fingers roll the paper back and forth before your tongue swept across the adhesive strip to seal it shut.

The brief glance at your mouth hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Many years of experience,” you chuckled.

“You say that like you’ve been smoking for a decade.”

“Eh.” You shrugged. “Half of one.”

You tapped the finished joint against the little metal tin a few times to pack the contents before pushing yourself off the bed and making your way over to the window seat.

Eddie’s eyes drifted towards the open bedroom door.

“Your parents don’t mind?”

A laugh escaped you as you accepted the lighter he held out before patting the empty cushion beside you.

“My dad doesn’t care as long as I’m not doing coke,” you replied with a shrug. “And my mom will probably ask for a hit later.”

The old wooden window seat creaked beneath the added weight as Eddie settled beside you. It was just wide enough for the two of you, provided you both kept your legs on the ground or close to your chests.

The excess paper burned away beneath the warm flame of his lighter, and before long the room filled with the familiar earthy scent you only let yourself indulge in every now and then.

The first drag hit the back of your throat in a sharpness that almost made you cough — though, thankfully, not quite to embarrass yourself — and left behind the grassy, slightly citrusy taste you’d always associated with summer evenings.

Just like that, the joint began making its way back and forth between the two of you while the muffled sounds of laughter, music and clinking bottled drifted up from the party downstairs.

“So…” Eddie finally spoke after another drag, exhaling the smoke slowly through his nose. “Art therapy.”

You looked over at him.

“What do you actually do?”

“It’s pretty much in the name,” you smiled, handing him the lighter when you noticed one side of the joint had started burning unevenly. “Traditional therapy doesn’t work for anyone.”

Eddie took another drag while he waited you to continue. When you didn’t, one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Tell me more.”

“You sure?” A small smile tugged at your lips as you accepted the joint back from him. “Because once I get started, I tend not to shut up.”

“I enjoy flirting with you,” he admitted with a quiet smile, “but I’d like to get to know you better, too.”

The warmth that spread across your cheeks had absolutely nothing to do with the weed of the last few remaining streaks of golden sunlight.

Your eyes dropped briefly to the lighter turning absentmindedly between his fingers before you took another drag and handed the joint back.

“We guide clients through different themes and encourage them to express themselves through art,” you began, speaking a little slower than before as the familiar fogginess settled comfortably over your thoughts. “Afterwards, we reflect on what the creative process might be communicating rather than focusing on whether the artwork is actually… good.”

Eddie nodded quietly, never once interrupting or taking his eyes off of you.

Encouraged by the genuine interest in his expression, you found yourself explaining how different materials could encourage different forms of expression, why the finished piece almost never mattered, and how every client inevitably communicated something unique through whatever they created.

Only when you heard yourself wandering into the four levels of expression did you finally stop.

“Sorry,” you mumbled with a sheepish smile, scrunching your nose.

“What are you apologising for?” Eddie asked gently, tilting his head before offering the joint back to you.

“I tend to…” you shrugged, lighting the uneven edge again before taking another drag. “Ramble.”

“You shouldn’t apologise for being passionate about something.”

His words settled over the room almost as softly as the evening sunlight pouring through the open window.

“You’ve got this look on your face when you talk about it, you know.”

“What look?” You frowned.

“The same one people get when they’ve found the thing they’re supposed to do.”

It took a few long seconds for his words to truly settle while all you could do was look at him.

No teacher, no classmate, not even your parents had ever described it that way.

And somehow, hearing it from a man you’d only met that morning made something warm settle quietly in your chest.

The grip you had on the joint faltered ever so slightly as your lips slowly parted.

Before you could think twice about it, you pushed yourself away form the wall and reached up to cradle his face between both hands, gently pulling him into a kiss.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Eddie’s lips were every bit as soft as they looked.

It took him the briefest moment to realise what was happening before his eyes fluttered shut and his head instinctively tilted, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.

One of his ringed hands, warm and calloused, settled naturally against your waist, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the fabric of your shirt before you slowly pulled away again.

“…Sorry,” you breathed, slightly out of breath.

Hazy brown eyes searched yours for a quiet moment while his free hand reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You really gotta stop apologising, sweetheart,” he murmured with a chuckle, his gaze drifting briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“Sor–”

The word died somewhere behind a bashful laugh as your eyes darted anywhere but his face. When you finally looked back at him, he still hadn’t moved.

This close, you could make out the crow’s feet fanning gently from the corners of his eyes and the faint smile lines that years of laughter, cigarettes and sunshine had carved into his face. Even the way he smelled was somewhat different now that there was hardly any space left between you — a clean, woodsy scent with something faintly minty lingering beneath the warmth of a sunny afternoon.

Almost distractedly, your tongue swept across your bottom lip before you leaned forwards once more, pressing a lingering peck against his lips.

“Why tattooing?” you asked quietly as you settled back against your side of the window seat.

Eddie’s hand lingered on your waist for just a second longer before reluctantly slipping away.

“That’s one hell of a subject change.” He replied with a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

A quiet laugh escaped you when you realised you were about to apologise again before stopping yourself.

“I know.”

He reached for the joint absentmindedly, brushing his fingers against yours for a moment longer than necessary,

“Because it isn’t only about tattooing.” His eyes found yours again after he lit the joint. “It’s about making people feel heard for a couple of hours.”

He shrugged lightly and took a drag before continuing.

“The ink’s just the excuse they give themselves for walking through the door.”

“That sounds familiar,” you murmured, gently taking the joint from his fingers.

Eddie’s eyes drifted briefly toward your bent legs before he wrapped a hand around your shins and effortlessly pulled them across his lap.

“I guess that’s another thing we have in common, huh?” you added with a small smile.

Somewhere across town, the first proper fireworks of the evening split the sky open, their heavy booms rolling across Hawkins until they drifted through the open bedroom window.

You’d been too distracted by the bursts of colour blooming against the deepening purple sky to notice that Eddie hadn’t looked away once.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to assume you don’t have anything planned for the rest of the evening?”

An easy laugh escaped you.

“It would, yes,” you admitted, slowly catching your bottom lip between your teeth as you turned back toward him. “But you’d also be right.”

“Good.”

The smile that spread across his face was slow and unhurried.

He looked at you through his lashes for a quiet moment before his lips pulled into a smile. 

“Would it be presumptuous of me to invite myself over to your place?”

Your attention barely lingered on the dying joint as you stubbed what remained of it against the brick windowsill outside before looking back at him.

“I was actually hoping you’d say that.”

His thumb, heavy silver ring catching the last of the evening light, traced slow, absentminded circles just above your ankle while the fireworks continued blooming somewhere beyond the open window. 

Your eyes drifted past him and landed on the open bedroom door, where the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking bottles still floated up from the backyard.

“We should probably head back down,” you suggested quietly.

Eddie let out a thoughtful hum.

“Probably.”

Neither of you made any move to leave just yet. His thumb continued tracing slow circles against your ankle while your eyes slowly found his again.

“…Definitely.”

Another few seconds passed before the two of you finally laughed and pushed yourselves off the window seat.

You slipped your sandals back on before turning around to find Eddie leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What?”

“Just admiring the view,” he answered lowly.

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you shook your head.

“You definitely don’t know how to flirt.”

“And somehow I still got you to kiss me, hm?”

Uncrossing his arms, he reached out and gently pulled you toward him by your waist.

Under the warm glow spilling in from the hallway, his eyes looked closer to amber than the deep brown you’d grown used to over the course of the afternoon.

His gaze wandered painfully slowly down your face before settling on your lips, his tongue absentmindedly sweeping across his own.

Then he leaned down until his lips found yours again.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly against your waist as a quiet, involuntary sound escaped you when his tongue brushed softly against your bottom lip, and for one brief moment the rest of the house disappeared entirely.

“Now we can go downstairs,” he murmured when he finally pulled away.

Eddie stepped back as though he hadn’t just turned your already hazy mind into complete mush, only sparing you a grin over his shoulder before making his way toward the staircase.

“You comin’, sweetheart?”

The conversations in the backyard hadn’t even faltered when the two of you stepped outside again.

Well… Almost.

Your mom looked up from her folding chair, her slightly bloodshot eyes moving from you to Eddie and back again while one eyebrow slowly lifted.

The smile threatening to tug at the corners of her mouth was barely contained before she decided to let whatever she’d noticed slide.

“Did you seriously smoke without offering your own mother a hit?” she asked instead, narrowing her eyes at you before finally giving in to the grin.

“You were busy,” you shrugged, reaching for her beer and stealing a quick sip.

“Was I now?”

“There’s more than enough upstairs if you want to roll yourself one.”

By the time your mother had finally worked up the motivation to leave her chair and roll herself a joint, and the first few proper firework bloomed overhead, most of the neighbours had settled into folding chairs scattered across the backyard.

The conversations had quieted, drifting lazily beneath the warm July night while bursts of colour painted the sky overhead every few minutes. Somewhere between the booming fireworks and the shrieks of the neighbourhood children slowly fading as midnight approached, the backyard gradually began to thin out as people responsibly decided they’d had enough to drink and wandered back home.

It hadn’t taken long for your mom to return with a slightly wonky-looking joint between her fingers before settling back into the chair beside your dad, while he and Eddie effortlessly fell back into conversation.

You had quietly started making your way around the backyard, gathering abandoned paper plates in one hand and empty beer bottles in the other.

“Leave it, Pigeon,” your mom called softly from her chair. “We can do it tomorrow.”

“It’ll rain tomorrow,” you replied absentmindedly as you dropped another stack of paper plates into a garbage bag. “Besides, I don’t mind.”

Somewhere between politely turning down the joint your mom offered him and your dad deciding to get up and help you, Eddie quietly slipped inside to use the bathroom.

While you held the garbage bag open, your dad tossed in whatever disposable cups, napkins and paper plates he’d come across, the two of you working together in an easy silence that only came from having done this after every barbecue for as long as you could remember.

“You know, Pigeon,” he started quietly after a while, glancing up at you before pointing toward his nearly white hair, “as you can probably tell… I wasn’t born yesterday.”

You merely blinked at him before reaching for another abandoned plate.

“And I’m not blind either.”

“Dad—”

“I’d be a hypocrite to, I don’t know…” He vaguely gestured over his shoulder. “…tell you not to see him.”

“Jesus Christ,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut for a brief moment as warmth crept steadily up your neck. “I really don’t want to have this conversation.”

“Me neither,” he admitted with an awkward chuckle. “Glad we got that sorted.”

His attention drifted toward the screen door just as the faint sound of the downstairs bathroom door opening echoed through the house, followed by the familiar weight of heavy footsteps making their way back outside.

“Listen, I’m just saying…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you wanna go with—”

“Dad.”

“Yep. I’m done talking.”

He clapped his hands together once before plucking the garbage bag from your grip. Turning on his heel, he made his way toward the large bin just outside the fence gate, leaving you standing in the middle of the backyard with burning cheeks and absolutely no desire to think about the conversation you’d just had.

The backyard had grown quiet by the time the very last neighbours wandered — more like stumbled — home, offering lazy waves and promises to see one another before the next barbecue.

Your mom stretched with a content groan as she pushed herself out of her folding chair, gathering the last few empty bottles with her joint carefully balanced between two fingers, while your dad carried the final cooler back towards the garage.

Eddie stepped back into the backyard and held the screen door open for your mom before making his way over to where you stood.

“So…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You still serious about inviting yourself over?”

The way he stood awkwardly in front of you — absentmindedly rubbing at his neck while looking at you with an expression that betrayed far more nerves than he’d probably care to admit — pulled a small smile onto your lips.

It was surprisingly easy to forget the age difference when he looked at you like that.

“If I’m still allowed to be presumptuous.”

“Always.”

Silence settled comfortably between the two of you while your eyes drifted somewhere over his shoulder.

Your dad had apparently taken the long route back inside through the front door and now stood in the kitchen beside your mom, and had his back turned towards the backyard.

Mostly.

Every now ant then, he’d steal a quick glance over his shoulder while pretending to be far more invested in the conversation he was supposedly having with your mom.

A quiet sigh escaped you.

“Can we get out of here before my dad tries to talk to me again?”

Eddie followed your gaze towards the open kitchen windows.

“Did he say something?”

The question came so casually that you almost answered it. But instead, your eyes squeezed shut for the briefest moment.

“Please don’t ask.”

“That bad?” A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You really don’t wanna know.”

“Oh, but now I’m invested.”

Before you had the chance to explain that no, he really didn’t, your mom reappeared in the screen doorway and leaned casually against the frame behind it. Her eyes wandered from you to Eddie and back again while she absentmindedly patted her pockets in search of her lighter.

“Take your keys,” she mumbled around the joint tucked between her lips before finally lighting it and taking a slow drag. “You’re too old to be sneaking in.”

A horrified groan escaped you.

“Mom.”

“You’re complaining like I’m not a cool mom or something,” she laughed, completely unfazed by the look you shot her as you brushed past.

“Right now?” you muttered while disappearing into the kitchen. “You damn straight you aren’t.”

Your keys were still sitting exactly where you had dropped them that morning.

By the time you stepped back outside, Eddie had pressed his lips together so tightly they had almost disappeared, and the warning finger you pointed at him did absolutely nothing to help.

“Don’t.”

His shoulder bounced ever so slightly, while a reluctant laugh escaped you despite your best efforts as you guided him towards the fence gate. By the time the two of you stepped out into the quiet street, your parents had already disappeared upstairs for the night, leaving only the warm porch light glowing beside the screen door.

The walk to Eddie’s truck passed in an easy silence — the kind that settled naturally after spending an entire day talking.

He unlocked the passenger door for you before making his way around to the driver’s side, and it wasn’t until he’d pulled away from the curb that the two of you finally looked at each other.

Neither of you said a word for a moment. Then, almost simultaneously, the memory of your mother’s comment caught up with you. The first laugh escaped Eddie, while yours followed a heartbeat later.

Within seconds, the cab of the old Ford filled with the kind of helpless giggles that only came after an exhausting — but undeniably wonderful — day.

“She’s unbelievable sometimes.”

“Your mom really doesn’t have a filter, huh?”

He glanced over at you, his grin softening as he brought the truck to an easy stop at a red light.

Your own smile lingered with the familiar streets of Hawkins rolled quietly past outside, the last few fireworks still blooming overhead as Eddie shifted the gears once the light turned green and turned onto the road leading towards downtown.

There was little movement left at that hour and even less sound, save for the occasional firework rumbling somewhere in the distance.

The warm glow spilling from inside one of the storefronts caught your attention long before Eddie slowed the truck to a stop. The neon sign above the tattoo studio had been switched off for the day, but a lamp somewhere inside still cast a welcoming light through the front windows. Through the glass, you could make out framed flash sheets and posters covering the walls, the familiar outlines of tattoo chairs sitting further back in the room.

Eddie switched off the ignition before turning towards you.

“This is me,” he said quietly, gesturing towards the apartment above the studio.

“Must be nice,” a small smile tugged at your lips as you followed his finger, “never being late to work.”

A laugh rumbled from his chest as the click of your seatbelt echoed through the cab. “You’d be surprised how often I’m late.”

“Eddie.” Your eyebrows lifted as you turned towards him.

“How would they know I wasn’t upstairs finishing someone’s design?” he replied with a grin as he pushed open his door.

The heavy door of the old Ford creaked far louder than either of you would’ve liked as he walked around to open yours, though neither of you paid it much mind — compared to the occasional boom of fireworks still echoing somewhere over Hawkins, it barely made any sound at all.

Eddie pushed the passenger door shut behind you with one hand while digging through the front pocket of his short for his keys.

The warmth of his palm settled against the small of your back as he guided you towards the unassuming door tucked beside the storefront window, its surface covered in layers of old stickers and faded spray painted tags.

The lock gave way with a quiet click before he nudged the door open with his foot and gently tugged you inside by your wrist. After pushing it shut behind the two of you, he shot you a quick glance over his shoulder as he led you up the steep staircase.

Neither of you made any attempt to fill the comfortable silence by the time you reached the top. The moment Eddie stepped into the narrow hallway leading towards the living room, he crouched down to loosen up the laces of his boots before straightening again and flicking on the lights.

And suddenly, the apartment was there — like it had been ripped straight out metalhead magazine.

The polished wooden floors carried a dark lacquer that caught the warm light overhead, while the walls had been painted a deep shade of grey that border on charcoal and decorated with framed vintage band posters. It wasn’t overly tidy, but it wasn’t messy either.

Just… extremely Eddie.

Your eyes wandered curiously around the living room as you stepped farther inside.

Eddie lingered in the doorway leading to what looked like the kitchen, his lips pursed slightly as his gaze quietly followed you taking everything in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at his beard. “You want something to drink?”

Your tongue swept across your bottom lip as you slowly approached the leather couch, your fingertips trailing absentmindedly along the backrest.

“Are you nervous?” you asked gently instead of answering.

A quiet, awkward chuckle escaped him.

“Kinda, yeah,” he admitted with a bashful smile. “It’s, uh… been a while.”

Your gaze lingered on his face for another moment.

The thin silver hoop through his nostril caught the warm light overhead, and his salt-and-pepper curls had become just frizzy enough throughout the day that they felt impossibly soft beneath your fingers as your hand found the back of his neck.

Had it not been for the genuine uncertainty and awkwardness swimming in his brown eyes, it would’ve been impossible to believe what he’d just said.

Not when he looked like that. Like he had just stepped out of a fucking Lana Del Rey music video.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your nails lightly scratching at the curls near the nape of his neck. “It’s been a while for me too.”

The nervous glimmer in his eyes slowly melted into something closer to disbelief as his hands settled more firmly against your hips, gently drawing you closer.

“Bullshit,” he snorted, fingertips pressing playfully into your sides. “You’re way too smart and ridiculously beautiful.” His eyes wandered across your face. “No way you don’t have an entire fucking queue of men begging for your attention.”

A bashful laugh escaped you.

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged lightly. “New York’s full of douchebags who think playing Hey There Delilah on an acoustic guitar is the secret to get girls to hop on their dicks.”

“Hey There Delilah?” Eddie’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Seriously?”

“Either that or Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.” You rolled your eyes. “And believe me, neither of them sound particularly romantic in that annoying Dave Mustaine kind of twang.”

“Hey, now,” he said, lowering his voice. “No Dave Mustaine slander in my home.”

A grin slowly tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Or what?”

The faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the apartment settled between the two of you while Eddie simply looked at you.

Long enough for three cars to pass somewhere out on the street below.

Of all the shit you’d thrown his way throughout the day, surely this wasn’t going to be the thing that finally made him reconsider inviting you over.

A startled shriek escaped you when he suddenly swept you off your feet and effortlessly threw you over one shoulder.

“I’m getting real tired of that fucking mouth of yours,” he muttered, unable to hide the laugh threatening to break through his voice as he carried you out of the living room and back towards the hallway.

While the view of his ass was admittedly nice, it also meant you had absolutely no idea where he was taking you.

The dull thud of his foot against a door echoed through the apartment before old hinges creaked in protest, followed by the faint rustling of fabric somewhere in the darkness as Eddie stepped inside the pitch-black room.

Finally pulling you off his shoulder, another wave of shriek-induced giggles escaped you when your back met a surprisingly soft mattress, the old springs dipping beneath your weight.

For a brief moment, all you could make out was Eddie’s silhouette standing over you, tall frame and broad shoulders, barely outlined by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtain.

Your heart stumbled over itself when the faint outline of his body disappeared around the other side of the bed before he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

There was something inherently unfair about the way the warm amber light settled across his face when he looked back at you, turning his eyes into something closer to honey than brown.

You couldn’t remember who moved first. One second you were still leaning back on your elbows, and the next Eddie was straddling your lap, both hands buried in your hair while your mouth instinctively parted for his.

He kissed you slowly at first, like he wasn’t feeling the same desperate drop in his stomach that had just swept through yours. Then, the moment your barely contained sigh reached his ears, the kiss deepened.

He tasted faintly of the last beer he’d had hours earlier, and it only made your head spin faster when his familiar, comforting scent settled around you. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the heavy silver rings scratching lightly against your scalp while the other cradled your cheek as though you were something impossibly delicate.

This wasn’t anything like the kiss you’d shared back in your childhood bedroom — not even close.

He kissed you like a starving man. Teeth brushed against teeth, his tongue met yours with an urgency that stole the air from your lungs, and his fingers tightened gently around the strands of your hair before giving them an experimental hard tug.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured, his voice rough as he slowly pulled back just enough to look at you.

A dry lump settled in your throat beneath the weight of his gaze, and swallowing around it became nearly impossible when his hands drifted from the back of your neck to the curve of your waist.

“I mean… That fucking bikini?” A quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle escaped him as he pushed a few loose curls away from his face, holding them back for a moment while he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Teasing me like that all day was fucking unfair.”

The slightly nervous, awkward man from just minutes ago had disappeared, his voice lowering into something quieter, more confident — and just a little condescending.

Eddie was the first to lose his shirt, tugging the dark fabric over his head and making his curls bounce free in the process.

“Fuck.”

The word slipped from your mouth before you had the chance to stop it.

The loose-fitting shirt he’d worn all day hadn’t done his body any justice. He was built in that particular way that wasn’t overly muscular, but just enough for the ink stretched across his skin to move with every shift of his shoulders and every steady breath he took.

Your eyes couldn’t decide where to settle — on the large neo-traditional Saint George slaying the dragon spread across his stomach, on the mirrored goats framing the saint, or on the blacked-out star that had replaced his left nipple.

Warm fingertips gently harshly into your cheeks finally pulled your gaze away from the artwork scattered across his chest and back, forcing your eyes to meet Eddie’s once again.

A knowing smile had already settled across his lips by the time you looked up.

“If you could only see yourself right now, sweetheart,” he chuckled, giving your cheek a couple of light, teasing taps. “Looking all dumb and drunk…” His grin widened ever so slightly. “…And I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Eddie’s expression softened just enough as he lowered his voice.

“You tell me if I start doing something you don’t like, yeah?”

You merely blinked up at him for a few long seconds, your mind too busy trying to catch up with everything he was making you feel to form a coherent thought. Eventually, you gave him a small, stiff nod, his fingers still gently pressing into your cheeks.

“Words, sweetheart.”

A quiet groan escaped you.

“Yes, Eddie.”

His eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly searching for any signs of hesitation or discomfort before he finally let go of your cheeks when he found none. The bed creaked beneath the two of you as Eddie pushed himself off your lap and stepped to the foot of the bed instead.

The loss of his weight and the overwhelming warmth of his presence was immediate. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed the way your eyebrows had drawn together ever so slightly, a quiet chuckle escaping him as he slowly peeled off his shorts, his eyes never once leaving your face.

You couldn’t help the way your gaze wandered lower with every new inch he revealed.

He really was a walking piece of art. A faint trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, different tattoo styles stretched across his legs, and scattered freckles and little moles interrupted the ink here and there, making him feel all the more real beneath the artwork.

And then your eyes trailed back up, stopping right at the ridiculous volume he’d been packing underneath his clothes.

The heavy denim hit the floor with a dull thud before Eddie made his way around the bed once more. He gave your cheek another three gentle taps before helping you to sit up, only to step in behind you a moment later. The mattress dipped softly beneath his weight as he settled against the headboard, drawing you back with him until his bare chest rested flush against your back.

“The first thing I’m gonna do,” he murmured absentmindedly, his hands settling around your thighs as his thumbs alternated between slow strokes and gentle squeezes, “is take a good, long look at whatever you’ve been hiding from me underneath that shirt.”

His fingertips gradually wandered higher until they found the hem of the oversized fabric.

“Then,” he continued, his voice dropping another notch as he slowly began gathering the fabric in his hand, “when I’m done teasing you…” The shirt slid painfully slowly up your frame. “I’m gonna do what I’ve been wanting to do all fucking day.”

One hand left your waist and slowly travelled upwards until it settled against your cheek, gently turning your face towards the full-length mirror standing against the opposite wall.

It had been hidden behind his frame when he’d stood at the foot of the bed, but now there was nothing shielding your reflection from view.

Eddie rested his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing featherlight kisses along your skin while the hand curled around the hem of your shirt continued slowly pulling the fabric higher. Only when the fabric reached your shoulders did he finally have to lean back from you, lifting it the rest of the way over your head. The oversized shirt fell to the ground without either of you paying much attention to it.

His warm hands trailed your arms as the two of you looked at your reflections in the mirror.

Your breath, already quick and shallow, hitched as Eddie leaned to kiss the crook of your neck. His lips left intense and tingling kisses in their trail, and it felt like his dark eyes, transfixed on the way your ribs expanded as you fought for air, bore holes in you.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he mumbled against your neck. He propped his chin on your shoulder, leaning forwards and flickered his gaze down to your breasts, warm fingers trailing to meet the spot where his gaze had been fixed. “They’re even better than I’d imagined.”

Your fingers were tearing all the loose skin around your nails and your throat went dry when Eddie’s hands cupped your breasts. Four of his ringed fingers found the underside of your boobs, while his thumb traced soft circles right above your nipples.

When Eddie felt your face angling to meet his eyes, he immediately curled his thumb and forefinger around your nipples, tugging hard to get your attention.

“Eyes on the mirror.”

The hard squeezes he gave you only made your back arch away from his chest, which was apparently something else he wasn’t satisfied with; he put more pressure on your breasts, not only on the fingers around your nipples, but to pull you back flush against his chest.

“F-fuck.”

You blinked, taken aback by the way Eddie was playing with your chest. The warmth of his fingers and the harsh tugs sent a thrill down your spine. The world narrowed to the press of his chest against your back, the way he touched you, the slide of his lips against your neck.

Eddie’s fingers rolled your nipples, relishing the way you kept arching away from him only for him to pull you back twice as hard. His dark eyes found the mirror again, and the reflection showed him everything – the parted sheen of your lips, the feverish glaze of arousal in your eyes. It was dizzying, intoxicating even, and he’d decided then and there that he could watch you come undone like this forever.

“M-more,” you whimpered. “Please.”

A condescending chuckle escaped Eddie at your request. He increased the pressure, pinching and tugging at your sensitive nipples until you’re choking on your own breath and writhing against him.

He kept drinking in the sight of you, desperate for more. Reverently, he covered you with his hands once more, thumbs circling your nipples before he ducked to suck the spot right beneath your ear. The hot suction made you cry out, fingers reaching out to tangle in his greying curls to hold him closer. Teeth grazed lightly before soothing with flicks of his tongue.

The way you’d started to rock your hips against the bed hadn’t gone unnoticed by him — not when the small of your back hit his erection every time you ground back and forth.

“You’re so responsive,” he praised huskily, trailing biting kisses across your neck and shoulder. “Gonna make you fall apart.”

The wicked promise sent a fresh wave of heat flooding your veins. You could only nod frantically, surrendering yourself to whatever the fuck he wanted to do to you.

When a broken whimper escaped you, Eddie gentled his touch, caressing your trembling form with soothing strokes. He let go of one of your breasts and cradled your face in his hand. He pressed tender kisses to your temple, to your cheekbone, to the corner of your mouth. He traced the delicate line of your jaw, the graceful column of your throat, marvelling at the power he wielded over you.

He let go of your face, not without turning you back towards the mirror, and trailed his hand down your abdomen, dipping just below the waistband of your shorts—

Only to immediately retreat with a teasing nip at your belly.

You feel his lips, still resting against the side of your cheek, pull into a smirk when another broken whimper escaped you.

Eddie flickered his eyes up to meet your through the mirror. He drank in the sight of you drunk and desperate in his hold. With deliberate slowness, he hooked his free hand in your waistband, dragging the elastic just low enough for him to find a thin lined tattoo that had been hidden under your bikini all day — he couldn’t read what it said from where he sat, but he’d find out soon enough.

“P-please.”

“Please what, sweetheart?” he purred, trailing his hand lower until his fingers were met your drenched folds. He slowly circled your aching clit, watching your body bow off the mattress with dark eyes. “This?”

“E-Eddie—”

“Or maybe this?”

Without warning, he plunged two thick digits inside you, pumping steadily as his palm ground against your swollen clit. Your shattered moan was music to his ears, spurring him on. He worked you mercilessly, curling and stroking your inner walls until you’re writhing mindlessly, chasing the feeling.

Eddie abruptly withdrew his fingers, leaving you bereft and whimpering. He caught your pleading gaze through the mirror, a wicked glimmer dancing in his dark eyes.

“I’m not done teasing you, sweetheart.” He sucked harshly at your throat, sinking his teeth in the skin before smoothing it out with his tongue.

His calloused hand mapped the contours of your body, cupping and teasing until you were all but a puddle on his bed. Deft fingers plucked at your nipples, rolling and tugging until the sting blended into electric pleasure.

And then his touch is nowhere to be felt — not his hands on your breasts, his plush lips against your neck, or even his warm chest against your back.

Standing up from behind you, he guided you until you were perched on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the mattress. He knelt before you, the heat of his gaze searing as he slowly pulled your shorts down your thighs, inch by torturous inch until you were bare in front of his eyes. Your breath came even shallower and faster, skin prickling with anticipation.

Eddie froze at the sight of your tattoo, his eyes darkening and his lips pulling slowly into a smirk.

“Valentine, huh?”

He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his tousled hair. His gaze darted between your face and the ink marring your skin. Slowly, he reached out to trace the still-healing letters with the tip of his finger, watching your skin jump and quiver under his touch.

When he lifted his eyes to meet yours, the look in them is dizzying. His ringed fingers danced higher, teasing the creases of your thighs. He parted your legs with a practiced touch, exposing you fully to him.

The first swipe of his tongue is electric, drawing a broken moan from your lips. He growled low in approval, doubling his effort until you were trembling and whimpering helplessly.

It was one thing when boys eat you out, but this?

Eddie acting like he was hungry, making out with your pussy?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Dark grey curls tickled the insides of your thighs as pressed his face harder against your slick folds, nose bumping against your swollen clit and tongue circling your leaking slit.

With one final, devastating lick, Eddie pulled back, leaving you gasping and desperate. His dark eyes bores into yours through his lashes as he issues a husky directive.

“Keep those pretty eyes on yourself.”

He hooked one trembling leg over his broad shoulder, spreading you wider. Cool air met your dripping core, followed by the hot rasp of Eddie’s tongue painting your slit. Your reflection was debauched perfection – hair mussed, the thinnest layer of sweat covering your forehead, lips parted on breathy cries.

Just as you crested the peak, teetering on the knife’s edge, Eddie retreated once again. Denial clawed viciously at your insides. He grinned at your anguished whimper, clearly relishing in the control he held over your pleasure. Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, pupils blown wide with need. Eddie drank in the sight, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh as he prepared to drive you wild once more.

Then, without taking his rings off, he pushed two fingers in your dripping pussy, pumping steadily as he leaned back down to suck at your clit. He maintained his punishing pace, alternating between deep, probing thrusts and fluttering licks that made you see stars.

“F-fuck. Ed-Eddie!”

The coil wound tighter with each pass of his tongue, with each hard, curling thrust of his fingers, until you writhed shamelessly, reduced to garbled curses and pleading whimpers of something that vaguely resembled his name.

Ecstasy crashed over you in dizzying waves, every nerve ending alight with bliss. Eddie worked you through it, wringing out every last shudder and aftershock until you collapsed bonelessly against the mattress.

You watched through hooded eyes as he rose, stalking towards you with a shiny lips pulled into a knowing, cocky smirk and a glint in his eyes.

His knees made a faint cracking sound as he climbed up the bed. With tender care, Eddie gently pulled you upright, gathering your limp form into his arms. He claimed your mouth in a deep, searing kiss, swallowing your dazed whimpers at the taste of your own release.

You clung to him, moulding your arms around his neck as his tongue brushed against yours. He guided you onto his lap, cradling you against his chest. The solid heat of him grounded you even as residual tremors wracked your frame. Calloused fingers trailed reverently over your sweat-slick skin, mapping every dip and swell.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered when he pulled away from your lips, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “Just breathe.”

Eddie continued cradling you close, murmuring soft reassurances. His wandering hand slipped lower, deft fingers pushing his boxers down just enough to free his straining length. You felt the swollen tip notch against your slit, poised to claim you fully.

“Gonna fill you up now, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice gravelly with need.

His other hand still held the back of your head, pushing you down to keep you in the crook of his neck while he pushed himself deeper and deeper, until he sheathed himself to the hilt.

“Ed– Mhmm!” Your cry is muffled against his sweat-dampened skin as he started to move, rolling and grinding until you were a boneless, pliant thing in his arms. His hand roamed restlessly, mapping every hidden place that made you gasp and writhe until reaching your ass, pulling you harder against him.

“Keep looking in the mirror f’me, weetheart.”

The filthy visual drove you wild — tangled limbs, sweat-slicked and tattooed back, the depraved picture the two of you painted together. Eddie’s murmured command urged you on, hips moving in filthy counterpoint to his steady thrusts.

“F-fuck. Just like that,” he groaned approvingly, fingers digging bruises into the globe of your ass.

He moved faster, harder, grinding deep until you were sobbing wordlessly. Distantly, you registered the crude slap of skin on skin, the lewd squelch of his cock working in your sopping cunt. Tension coiled tight and taut, winding higher with each precise hit against that delicious, hidden spot. You were so close again, watered eyes staring back at the ridiculous way Eddie had your eyebrows pulled together and your teeth sunk in his shoulder.

You convulsed in his arms, wailing your release to the ceiling. He worked you through it ruthlessly, wringing every last drop until you collapsed limply against his tattooed chest, utterly spent.

Eddie, not being a complete monster, gave you a brief moment to catch your breath before gently pushing you onto your back. He positioned himself between your spread thighs, looping one leg high up over his hip. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, stretching you deliciously.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he groaned out as he gave you a hard thrust. “Crying as I fuck you stupid.”

His intense gaze locked with yours, dark with hunger and devotion. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew until just his tip remained nestled inside your slick walls. Gripping your thigh, he rolled his hips in a slow, sensual grind, until he had you arching into his touch.

“P-please, Eddie,” you whimpered.

Eddie’s eyes gleamed with delight at your breathy plea. He maintained his torturously slow rhythm, leaning down to capture your nipple in his teeth, grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth. He soothed the sting with a swipe of his tongue before switching to the neglected nipple, lavishing it with the same devoted attention.

“Hm? You want more?” Eddie rumbled, voice dripping in sin. “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.”

He straightened up, hands gripping your raised thigh as he powered into you with deep, jarring strokes. The change in pace had you seeing stars, inner walls clamping down desperately. Eddie set a brutal pace, grunting with effort, determined to unravel you one more time before he even considered letting himself come.

Eddie’s calloused finger found your swollen clit, circling maddeningly as he pounded into you. Electric shocks of pleasure radiated outward as he varied his technique — brushing feather-light, flicking firmly, rubbing in maddening figure-eights until you’re writhing beneath him, incoherent with need.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he groaned out, eyebrows knitted together as he stared at the salty tears rolling down the sides of your face. “Just one more, that’s it.”

Another finger joined the fray, plunging deep in tandem with his thrusts. The dual stimulation proved too much, and your orgasm barrelled through you like a freight train, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Eddie’s eyes widened as your release gushed forth, wetting the base of his cock and the lowest part of his stomach.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, momentarily stunned by the sight of you squirting over him. “So beautiful when you let go f’me.”

He didn’t relent, continuing to pump into your spasming heat. Overstimulation warred with reluctant pleasure, keeping you suspended on a razor’s edge. Eddie’s grip tightened, anchoring you as he ground deeper, working you through the overwhelming waves of your orgasm.

“I’m almost there, sweetheart.” He placed an open-mouthed kiss at the side of your neck as he quickened his pace, desperate for his own release. “I– Fuckfuckfuck.”

Your spasming walls milked his cock mercilessly. With a guttural groan, he hilted deep, painting the insides of your pussy in thick, milky ropes of cum.

Wave after wave crashed over the both of you, seemingly endless. Through it all, he kept your trembling form anchored, murmuring praises into the sweaty crook of your neck.

“Good girl, took me so well.” Eddie placed a lingering kiss against your throat.

Eddie held himself up, gazing down at you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide with satisfaction, damp grey curls clinging to his eyebrow. A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on his sculpted torso, highlighting every ridge, valley and detail of his tattoos.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he whispered.

“I’ve never–” You gulped down, licking your lips as your eyes trailed down to the base of his cock. “Not with somebody else, I mean.”

Eddie followed your gaze to the few translucent beads decorating his happy trail, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached down, swiping a finger through the slick trail, bringing it to your lips for a taste.

The gesture made a whole new wave of heat spread across your face. Hazy with the aftermath, your lips instinctively parted further, while Eddie hummed at the sight of you sucking his finger.

A broken moan spilled from your lips as Eddie slowly pulled out. The loss of the fullness left you aching, empty in a way that bordered on painful with your muscles fluttering weakly in protest, seeking to draw him back in.

Eddie pressed soothing kisses to your dampened temple. Carefully, he arranged you atop the tangled sheets, cradling your spent body flush against his larger frame. One hand drifted low to gently clean his leaking cum while your fingertips traced the bold lines on his stomach.

“Didn’t take you–” You cut yourself off with a broken hiss when Eddie’s fingers thrusted back into your pussy. “F-for the rel-religious type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled — whether it was at your comment or on the way you’d reacted at the intrusion, you didn’t know. “Just have a thing for dragons.”

His deft fingers continued their shallow thrusts, coaxing forth fresh waves of sensations.

“What about that Valentine tattoo of yours?” he urged, voice low and enticing as he ignored the strangled whimpers spilling from your lips. The pad of his thumb found your swollen clit, circling with maddening slowness. “Tell me about it.”

“J-just thought it’d be hot.” You gulped down at the sight of Eddie’s lips stretching into a grin. “Someone reading it if they went—”

Eddie’s grin widened at the confession. His free hand traced idle patterns across your skin, while the other continued abusing your overly sensitive pussy.

“P-please, Eddie,” you begged. “I c-can’t.”

“Just one more?” he whispered back, biting his bottom lip. “Please, sweetheart.”

His eyes had softened at the broken sounds spilling from your lips, but there was no mercy in them. The answer you gave him, another broken whimper, was punctuated with a curl of calloused fingers, grazing that deep spot.

Your spine arched helplessly, mouth falling open on a silent scream as new tears rolled down the sides of your face. Through the haze of overstimulation, Eddie’s face came into focus above you, awash with smug satisfaction.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just one more, that’s it.”

“Eddie!”

He gathered you tenderly into his arms as you shuddered through the aftershocks, ragged breaths mingling with your whispered name.

“Atta girl,” he murmured approvingly, stroking damp strands of hair from your eyebrow. “You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

You felt absolutely boneless in his embrace, barely incapable of pushing his hand away when he gave your clit one last, teasing, flick. Eddie’s fingers mapped soothing circles across your back, gentling you from the high.

“I could really use that drink now,” you mumbled tiredly against his chest.

A quiet chuckle rumbled beneath your cheek. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Eddie shifted carefully beneath you before easing you back onto the mattress. The bed dipped as he climbed off, pausing only long enough to brush a few strands away from your face before disappearing through the bedroom door.

The room fell strangely quiet without his presence. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the old floorboards creak beneath his footsteps somewhere down the hall while the occasional boom of another firework echoed faintly through the open bedroom window.

The corner of your mouth tugged upwards before you could stop it.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You’d left New York that morning convinced you were coming home for nothing more than a quiet summer with your parents. Instead, you’d somehow ended up in the apartment of the ridiculously handsome tattoo artist you’d met at ten-something in the morning.

Eddie reappeared in the doorway carrying two empty glasses in one hand, a bottle of water tucked underneath his arm and a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

“There she is,” he smiled when he found you exactly where he’d left you. “Didn’t know which one you’d want.”

“Water, please.”

He crossed the room and handed you the bottle before settling back onto the mattress beside you, balancing a on one thigh while he poured himself a generous splash.

The water was almost painfully cold against your dry throat. You hadn’t realised just how thirsty you were until nearly half the bottle disappeared in one go.

“Damn,” Eddie chuckled, watching you lower the bottle. “You weren’t kidding.”

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you wiped the back of your hand across your mouth.

The room settled into another comfortable silence. Outside, another firework bloomed over Hawkins, briefly washing the bedroom in flashes of red and gold before fading back into the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp.

Eddie rested against the headboard, his shoulders brushing yours as he lazily turned the whiskey around in his glass.

“So…” he said after a while.

“So...”

A teasing smile spread across his face. “I think your mom likes me.”

That pulled a laugh from you loud enough to echo around the bedroom.

“Obviously. You’re her friend.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He tilted his head.

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged, taking another sip of water. “She’s probably thinking you’ll tattoo her for free now, since you fucked her daughters brains out and all that.”

Eddie barked out a laugh, nearly spilling his whiskey.

“I knew there was a catch.”

“There always is.”

He looked at you for a moment, the grin lingering on his face. He swirled the amber liquid around his glass for another second before speaking again.

“What’s yours?”

“My what?” You frowned. “My catch?”

“There’s gotta be one, right?” He took a slow sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down on the nightstand. “Because a girl your age, pretty and smart and funny, doesn’t just sleep with someone my age after meeting, what? Fifteen, sixteen hours ago?”

You looked at him for a long moment, the crease between your eyebrows deepening the longer you held his gaze.

“That’s not fair.” You ignored the confusion that flickered across his face, and turned to set your water bottle on the nightstand before reaching for your discarded shirt.  “Not to me, and not to you either.”

“Sweetheart, wait.” His voice lost every trace of teasing. Before you could pull the shirt over your head, his hand found your wrist, not enough to stop you by force, only to make you pause. “I didn’t mean…”

He sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“I wasn’t trying to put words in your mouth.” His eyes searched for yours as he let out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “I guess I still have a hard time believing someone like you would look at someone like me and think, Yeah that’ll do.”

“I didn’t come home with you because you’re some hot, older tattoo artist.”

He stayed quiet, and you could almost see him trying to work out what you were going to say next.

Your eyes drifted away for a moment, replaying the day in your head. The beers he’d quietly kept replacing before you’d even realised yours was empty. The way he’d helped your dad with the grill without being asked. The way he’d sat beside you in your childhood bedroom, genuinely listening while you rambled his ear off about art therapy.

“You looked at me all day like I was someone worth getting to know.” A small smile found your lips, and you slipped your fingers around his. “You actually listened when I started rambling.”

A soft scoff escaped you, followed by easy chuckles as your eyes trailed him up and down.

“The tattoos are nice, and the curls definitely helped too.” Your expression softened. “But I came home with the man who made me feel like the most interesting person in every room we walked into today.”

Your eyes drifted down to the floor, finding his black shirt lying forgotten close to where yours had been. Without saying a word, you tossed yours back down next to it and reached for his instead.

Neither of you felt any need to fill the silence while you slipped your arms through the sleeves, the fabric hanging far too large on your frame and carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and mint, cigarettes and whatever laundry detergent he used.

When you turned back around, you found Eddie staring at nothing in particular, absentmindedly worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Hey.”

His dark brown eyes lifted immediately.

“C’mere,” you whispered.

You eased yourself back onto the mattress before shuffling closer and gently tugging at his arm until he followed, settling onto his side to face you.

His hand found your waist almost instinctively while yours came to cradle his jaw, your thumb lazily tracing circles along the stubble covering his cheek.

“Do you work tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “Studio’s closed on Sundays.”

“Good.” A small smile found your lips. “I want a private tour. After you make me breakfast.”

“Oh, wow.” The grin that spread across his face was slow enough to make your own grow wider. “Demanding, are we?”

“Only when I know when I want.”

permanent tag list? just ask!

“Welp,” Dean sighed, taking another swig of his beer. “I’d say we’ve earned that day off—or, well, the six hours before we meet up with Bobby.” He continued, rambling basically to himself as Sam’s gaze drifted past Dean’s shoulder. “Whad’ya say? Little daylight pub crawl?”

At the resounding silence, Dean finally noticed his brother. 

Brown eyes wide. Mouth slightly opened. Hand stalled mid air with his glass.

“Sammy?” Dean waved in his little brother’s face. “You listen to a word I said?”

Sam was still frozen, eyes glassy and fixated on something across the bar. “She’s beautiful...” His voice trailed off, breathless and entranced. 

If Dean hadn’t turned to see what the hell he was watching, he might’ve thought Sam had been under some spell. But he looked—at the corner booth over near the pool table—and nearly choked on beer.

Two women were sitting across from one another. Relatively young, late twenties at most, and fucking gorgeous—both of them. Maybe that should’ve been the first warning, but who was Dean Winchester to not notice some pretty girls?

One kinda fluttered in her seat, hands animatedly moving. Around her shoulders was a dainty purple cardigan, and the equally pretty smile she wore practically glittered under the bar lamps. Meanwhile the other seemed to have a perpetual smirk, listening intently to what the purple girl was rambling about as she leaned back languidly into the vinyl. 

As bright and shiny as the first girl was, this one drew him in. Even from across the bar, Dean could see the dozens of puzzling layers that he wanted to spend hours unwrapping—or, more likely, undressing. He couldn’t help it as his eyes trailed across her form. Focus landing squarely on her chipped nails tracing lazy shapes in the glass’s condensation. Then, almost painfully slow, one hand wrapped around the glass, lifting it up to her lips. A single drop of her drink slid down her mouth. 

Slack jawed, Dean watched as her tongue chased the droplet. Her lips still pulled up in a slight smirk.

Dean whistled low. “That.” He enunciated by gesturing the bottle neck towards the woman. “Is trouble. You aren’t messing with that.”

Sam whipped his head around, trance broken and a thin pout now pursed on his lips. “What the hell does that mean?”

His older brother grinned, glancing back at the table just in time to see the smirking one peel off her jacket, revealing a tight green v-neck hugging just the right places. 

“Sorry, Sammy. But you can’t possibly handle all that.”

Sam’s brows pinched, pouting further as he saw exactly where his brother was looking. “Wha—I was talking about the other girl.”

“Purple sweater?”

Sam aggressively nodded, reminding Dean of the time when Sam was twelve and he had a deadly crush on the public pool’s lifeguard.

Dean looked towards the booth again, right on time to seen the green subtly glance back. She locked eyes with him, just once, and then casually resumed her conversation—as if she hadn’t just sent a perfect volley right into his court.

“Bingo.” Dean slammed his empty bottle down, arms now free to wrangle his little brother by the scruff. “C’mon, Sammy. Show time.”

Sam’s eyes widened, fiercely fighting the pull. “Dean—absolutely not.”

But his brother was still grinning wildly as he manhandled the lanky giant. It was far too late for any of Sam’s excuses anyways, as Dean had swiftly parked them right in front of the corner booth. Perks of being in some rundown dive bar in butt-fuck nowhere, this place was smaller than a shoebox.

“Dude—,“ Sam protested right before his brother swiveled him to face the table.

Dean cleared his throat, putting on his signature honey-sweet tone. “Ladies, I was wondering if you could help me and my brother out, we’re in a bit of a pickle here.”

Both girls turned towards them, but Dean instantly watched the green. 

It was like as soon you’d looked at him, smirk mirroring his own, there was nothing else he could see. Blinders on. A hazy vignette perfectly framing your face.

Up this close, however, you looked familiar somehow. But being Dean, he simply swatted it off as the growing buzz of booze and the moment.

Instantly, you perked up. Voice more chipper and bubbly than he was expecting. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Eyes trailing down Dean as you not so subtly leaned forward, arms pushing your cleavage together.

Well, Dean was in for a world of trouble tonight—and he was ecstatic. 

“What angels.”

This time, your smile glinted as you giggled. “Are you just gonna stand there?” Painted nails gesturing to either side of the booth.

Across from you, the other girl was fidgeting with her hair, far more afraid of holding Sam’s eye contact than you were with Dean. Sam didn’t look put off in the slightest though. In fact, he looked like the place could catch fire and he’d still be staring at her, equally as entrance as the moment he first spotted her across the bar.

Gulping a little, Sam attempted a calm, easy tone. “This seat taken?”

The purple girl smiled sweetly as she fiddled with the long sleeves of her cardigan. “Not at all.”

You grinned. “Well, ain’t that peachy?” Holding Dean’s eye contact as you slid farther into the booth, making a suggestive amount of space for him.

Hell of a way to top off a hunt.

Over the next ten minutes, you’d told the boys all about the roadtrip—your little sister’s graduation present. The names you gave were believable enough, even if Dean had a sneaking suspicion you were fibbing. 

It honestly made him even more intrigued, reflexively leaning closer with every giggle and teasing squeeze you gave to his bicep. Your aura was intoxicating, increasing by the second—so much so that he didn’t pick up on the ways you kept popping in to answer every question, especially the ones thrown your sister’s way. Under normal circumstances, Sam and Dean’s alarm bells would’ve been ringing to hell. But staring at you two had all sense silenced from their minds.

All according to your plan.

Across the table, your sister coughed. “Um, it’s almost half past.”

You pouted dramatically in your seat, Dean’s eyes still trailing your every minor movement. “Gosh darn! I’m sorry boys, we’ve gotta head back. We walked here and our motel’s almost twenty minutes away.”

A lightbulb flickered behind Dean’s eyes, glancing excitedly at his brother. “Walk? At this time of night?” He shook his head at you chastisingly, still smirking. “We can’t have that, I’ll be tied up in knots wondering if you’re safe. How ‘bout we give you both a ride? Our motel’s not far off either.”

In fact, Dean knew there was only one motel in town.

You batted your lashes at him, running your nails down his leather jacket. “As long as it’s not too much trouble.”

Dean leaned his smirk closer, eyes darting down to your lips. “I’d say the only trouble here is you.”

Your eyes flared as another high pitched giggle bubbled out. Dean just thought he was just real funny tonight and you were real into it. It only made you laugh harder, positively tickled by how clueless he was by the ironic joke he’d accidentally made.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” Your fingers now fiddling with the collar of his jacket.

“What a shame.”

Sam coughed awkwardly, giving your sister a ‘sorry for my brother’ kind of smile when she rolled her eyes at you two. 

“That okay with you?” He asked so tenderly it made your sister visibly gulp.

“Um, yeah, absolutely. Thank you.”

He only nodded, still locking eyes with her. They’d been doing that for the past thirty minutes, basically silent save for your conversation. It was so nauseating you almost forgot yourself and allowed your eyes to roll. Instead, you leaned more into the ditz bit and giggled next to Dean’s ear.

With a grin, Dean clapped his hands, relishing in the feeling of your manicured hand resting on his bicep. “Well, Shall we?”

After parking the car, Dean had an arm draped across your shoulder whilst he showed off Baby—off course, only since you insisted on the full tour. Like you said, you don’t know anything about cars, but they look so darn cute! 

And would you look at that? His car was parked around the back. No one in sight and barely any windows facing that way. Dean, however, didn’t pick up on the fact that there weren't any cars in the parking lot—at all—except his.

“Fixed her up myself.” Patting Baby’s trunk like as slap on the ass.

Your eyes were wide as you stared in awe at Dean. “Goodness gracious! So what do you and your brother do for work? Seem real capable.” The exaggerated giggle making your sister now roll her eyes. 

Dean couldn’t give a shit about your borderline desperate flirting, he’d done far more embarrassing things to sleep with a chick. He was just happy to be at the receiving end of it. 

“We’re mechanics. It’s a family business.” The other arm going out to hook around Sam’s neck. “I do most of the heavy lifting, though.”

Dean somehow grinned even wider as you giggled again. “I bet.”

Beside him, Sam grunted awkwardly. His elbow roughly poking Dean in the rib, hands clawing to remove the arm from around his neck. “I don’t feel so good, man.”

Past Sam’s shoulder— and thankfully out of their eyeline—your sister’s head whipped up. Angry recognition flitting across her face as she stared at you. 

Dean shoved Sam’s hand away, glaring out the side of his eye. “You’re fine. Drink some water or something.” However, the sudden motion seemed to remind him of how many beers he must’ve had that night. Head spinning for a moment before he twisted back to you.

Still smiling, you also ignored his brother—and the sniper dot practically appearing on your forehead from your sister’s glare. “You travel a lot?”

Dean squinted, the dizziness whirring around his vision once more. Voice coming through muddy and warped. 

He coughed, “Sorry, I’m, um—a little. Here and there for jobs.”

In an instant, your smile sharpened. Bubbly tone snuffed out. “That why you got stolen plates?”

“Wha—fuck.” 

Dean was slumped over in a second, dropping at the same time as Sam. Whatever they’d been given was strong, but it certainly wasn’t meant to knock them out cold. Still, they were both beyond dizzy, uncontrollably groaning from the piercing squeeze contracting their abdomens.

Not sparing a second, you leaned down and plucked the keys out of Dean’s pocket. “Night night, pretty.”

“Did you really have to do that?” Your sister whined, boots stomping on the pavement as she trailed behind you back to Baby. “All we needed was his wallet!” 

But even with her fussing, you sister quickly scurried into the passenger side. Heart drumming through her ears as she watched Sam doubled over in pain.

You cackled with unbridled glee. Flipping the keys around your pointer as you slid into the driver’s seat. “You need more whimsy, bug. Bit of a flourish here and there ain’t gonna kill you.”

“But it could kill them!”

Casually, you leaned out the car window, peering over at both brothers still groaning on the ground. Dean’s eyes caught your own, still keeled over from the stomach pain, and you smirked—far more supicious and fox-like than he’d realized. 

“They’ll live.”

Through a groan, Dean barked out, “I’m gonna find you, bitch!”

You mockingly laughed as the engine fired up. “Oh I hope so, pretty boy.” 

Baby’s tires smoked as they peeled away from the motel, high tailing it to the interstate.

Now, in the pervading silence, all that was left was the two of them double over and stupidly moaning in pain. The infamous Winchester boys, brought down by a pretty smile and a perfectly placed trap. 

Sam choked on a cough, “Dean, we—jesus—we need’a call Bobby.” A fist coming up to nudge Dean’s shoulder.

Thankfully, you hadn’t been so cruel as to take all their belongings. Still, when Dean messily fished out his wallet and phone with shaking hands, even he was stunned to find them both there. The leather was definitely lighter, all of the cash swiftly slipped from the folds—but everything else was there, even the credits cards.

You could’ve robbed them blind and they’d have no way to follow you for hours. So why not? 

In a more sane and less poison-full state, Dean would wonder what the hell that was about. 

Dumbly, Dean continued groaning on the ground. Fumbling with the buttons as he dialed Bobby’s number.

He grunted in relief when the receiver immediately clicked. Barely letting a second go by before he was grumbling out through gritted teeth, “Bobby, we need’a ride—frickin hell.”

Notes: I giggled uncontrollably writing the last bit, hoping y'all like it!! ;p

Taglist: OPEN

Taglist: @heartsandheadcanons @ariesxmoonn @rubyverone @so-chill-mochill @kazooparoo @marcspectorondeeznuts @tq-cherri @diorgirl444 @batbat377449 @something-dramatic @moonz33 @still-fking-single @moosewithabackstory

It wasn't like you hadn't hunted together before. In fact that's one of the things he enjoyed most about his time with you, the way you'd cut through a vampires neck without missing a beat, or exorcise a demon without a second thought. But normally that would end with a fuck in the back seat of the Impala, or a blowjob so mind blowing he'd still be jacking off to the thought months later.

Ever since Sam caught wind of how distracted Dean was getting, though, he'd be trying to tell you both to back off, cool it for a few days until the hunt was done. When he'd phoned you, telling you him and Dean were in the area, that they had a case you might be interested in, you'd agreed to his conditions easily, your mind fixed on the hunt. Dean was more difficult to persuade, the idea of seeing you and not immediately taking you back to his motel room so you could moan his name for hours on end being incomprehensible.

And he'd turned out to be right- kind of. While you seemed to be holding up okay, his need for you was causing more distraction than actual sex ever did.

"Dean-" Sam clicked his fingers in front of his brother's face, "-are you even paying attention?"

He blinked hard, trying to clear his thoughts, "Yeah- uh- what?"

"She asked if you're ready to go?"

Dean looked at you again, biting your bottom lip in a smile, knowing you'd caught him out.

"Yeah, I'm ready..."

You walked over to him, smoothing out the creases on the shoulders of his black shirt, the feeling of your hands rippling over him making him hold his breath. You took another look at both of them, a grin from ear to ear, "You two look positively virtuous."

That's more than could be said of your outfit, a short white dress that Dean couldn't work out if you genuinely thought made you look innocent or you were only wearing to rile him up. The truth was a bit of both, having chosen something you knew would help you fit in with the church going congregation while also giving Dean, who spent more time looking at your legs than your face, something to gawk at. Of course, he didn't know you'd opted not to wear any underwear either, conscious that he'd have to break sooner or later.

You smoothed out your dress, trying to keep your secrets to yourself as you all climbed into the Impala, just three devotees on their way to Sunday church.

Dean couldn't focus on anything else but you in the rearview mirror. Even as you and Sam spoke, your minds on the case, building a plan step by step, he didn't pay any attention. Instead he thought back to the last time he'd had you in the Impala, a hunt down in Georgia that left you both desperate for release. He'd made out with you for hours, savouring your taste as the windows had steamed up, hiding you away from the world.

"What I don't understand-" You were looking directly at him in the mirror now, coaxing him out of his distant state, "-is how either of you think you're going to get away with pretending to be priests."

"I know my fair share of Latin, darlin'." He laughed, looking back towards the road.

"Do you know anything about the bible though?"

"Enough to be convincing."

By the time you got to the church your plan was fully formed. They'd act as visiting priests, how they managed to pull those strings you had no clue, while you'd go in as part of the flock, all of you seeking out as much information as you could, as quickly as you could.

Dean let you out around the corner, to avoid any suspicion, and almost called the whole thing off as he watched you walk away from the car, your dress looking even more scandalous from behind. Sam swatted his arm to focus him again, and they drove off to fulfill their part of the plan.

Your life as a hunter consisted mainly of having to get people to like you enough to spill secrets, and as soon as you turned the corner and saw the group of old women gathering outside the church, you knew this would be no different.

You assimilated quickly, making up an excuse for your newness easily: "My Grandmother is just so sick I couldn't stand the idea of her being alone in a different state. But my goodness, I couldn't miss church even for one week, I just had to come here!" That seemed to soften them up, and they quickly started letting you in on the gossip. You weren't sure any of it was particularly useful to the case, but you had to admit it was fun hearing about Brenda's daughters date mishap, and how the mailman had knocked up Sandra's sister.

As you made your way towards the pews you made sure to sit next to a lady in a lime green dress who seemed to be the most loose lipped of them all. You relaxed into the hard wood as the mass began, the only thing on your mind being the hope that the boys were making better progress than you. You kept an eye out around the room for them as the priest spoke, unable to spot them anywhere, suggesting either they'd managed to hide themselves away successfully, or they'd never even made it in the church.

As you reached the 45 minute mark, you finally saw him. Dean, tucked into the side of the church, biting his lip nervously. You tried to catch his eye, but his were firmly fixed on the front, lost in thought. You couldn't deny how good he looked in his mock-priest outfit, the black shirt only extenuating his solid figure, his shoulders wrapped tight, and the collar- well from the second he'd put it on you couldn't think of anything else.

"And now, visiting from St. John's church," the priest was looking over at Dean, focusing your mind back on the room, "I invite Father Rose to come up here and speak to you all today."

As you watched Dean walk up to the front of the room, all eyes on him, you could only imagine what situation they'd got themselves in for him to have to do this. You could picture them both scrambling, the stuttered excuses. You hoped this meant Sam was somewhere getting the answers you needed. Dean just needed to stay as congruent as possible.

"Lust!"

So much for not standing out.

"What is lust?" He spoke calmly, gently, almost- sensually. You knew he'd spotted you, but he was avoiding any eye contact as he looked around the room. "It's desire. Passion. Yearning."

You pushed together your already crossed legs. This wasn't fair - Dean was never fair. His lingering looks, his hand brushing over your skin. But this was something else. You felt a coil forming in your core as his silky voice filled the space.

"The bible warns us of lust. Warns us that we must flee from the sin, no matter how much we want our desires filled. And you may be desperate for it. Desperate to be filled over, and over, and over."

You glanced around the room. You couldn't tell if anyone else was hearing his double entendres, but all your new friends seemed just as enamored as you.

"I must admit, I have fallen for the sin of lust before. I have lusted for desires of the flesh. But what does the bible say? For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh."

You really wished he'd stop saying flesh.

"And desires of the flesh are merely superficial. They're messy, and indecent and... Confusing."

You never expected Dean to be describing your relationship, or lack thereof, as confusing. After all he was the one always lauding just how simple it was. You could tell he was padding for time now.

"But we must flee from temptation. The temptations of pleasure, of indulgence, of self gratification. For the Bible tells us," he turned to look directly at you now, punching the air from your lungs as his jaw tensed for a moment before continuing, "that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

You had to admit he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

"Because you can commit the sin of lust even with your eyes. With only your eyes you can still caress, still touch, still... Taste."

Even he knew he was pushing the metaphor.

"I want everyone now to close their eyes and sit with me in this moment of thought. Please, think of a moment you have lusted, when your desires have been too much to bare, think of those moments now."

You kept your eyes open, fixed firmly on him. Only once he was certain everyone else had closed theirs did his face break character, a grin. You shook your head gently, he could tell you were amused even if you were trying to look stern. He shot you a wink, both of you minds filled with every moment you'd had together, naked, sweaty, moaning.

"And if everyone could once again open their eyes for me..."

You weren't even listening anymore, your thoughts placed firmly on him, on his lips.

It took you a moment to realize he was now walking away again, clearly his homily was over. Your new friend leant down, poking you with an elbow, "Well wasn't he just a tall drink of water."

"I'm not sure he's quite my type." You smiled at her, warmth over your face hiding your exasperation.

"Well why don't you go speak to him, you're both new to the Church after all."

You tightened you jaw, looking over at where he now stood, "You know what, I think I just might."

The moment the service was over you shuffled out of the pew, your mind fixed firmly on one thing. You made your way over to him, his eyes on your body as you walked to the front. Clearly, many other members of the congregation had the same idea, a small group now talking in front of him and their priest. You pushed through gently, meeting Dean's eye.

"That was an enlightening talk, Father." You smiled at him, all innocence.

"Thank you." His jaw tightened, the shoe was on the other foot now.

"It really gave me so much to think about. I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on sin, on how we can truly come together to resist such a wicked thing."

The small huddle turned to him, expectantly. He coughed gently, clearing his throat, "You know it's just such an interesting topic. Why don't you take a walk with me and we can discuss this further."

He placed his hand on the small of your back, pulling you away from the tangle of other people; clearly this was a demand, not a request.

The second you were out of sight his lips were on yours, his hands desperate and frenzied, grabbing at your jaw, the back of your head, your waist.

You broke away from his kiss, looking at him with as much purity as you could muster, "We can't, Dean, we promised." Your words didn't stop your hands, which were now tugging at the bottom of his shirt, trying to get to his abdomen.

He pushed his face into the crook of your neck, "Sam's not here, sweetheart, please I'm desperate."

"Not here, it's too public, it's a church for God's sake!" But your hand came up to the back of his head, pushing his mouth against your skin. You leant into him, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and motel soap.

He nestled into you, his lips pressed against you, sending fire through your body, "Follow me, I know a place."

He half guided, half dragged you through a twist of hallways that seemed far more modern than the church, clearly him and Sam had had enough time to get a simple understanding of the place. His hands were on your hips as you moved, mouth still messily attacking you any chance he got. He pushed you into a small space, barely any light filling it as you became aware of your surroundings.

"Dean, this is a confessional box."

"So?" His hand found your inner thigh, needy for you.

"It's not exactly private!"

"Be quiet then." He guided his hand up between your legs, expecting to be met with the resistance of fabric but instead finding you bare, "You- you're not wearing-"

"God, Winchester, you're getting too predictable." You rolled your eyes, pressing your lips against his once again as you fumbled with his belt buckle.

He pushed his fingers through your soaked folds, and you rewarded him with a moan as he sent waves of pleasure through you. Not wanting to waste any time, he pushed two fingers into you, thrusting hard as you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself steady. You rolled your hips in time with his movements, pornographic sounds filling the small space.

He reached up with his other hand towards his collar, intending to release himself from it's hold, but you stopped him, grabbing his wrist with a stern look, "Keep it on."

He looked at you with amused surprise, pulling his fingers out of you and moving towards your clit, rubbing it gently with small circles, "Oh you've come here to worship?"

You bit your lip, unable to form any words.

"I'll give you something to worship. On your knees, sweetheart." He pulled his fingers away, pushing them against your lips as you sunk to his knees before him, making you taste yourself. He sat back, groaning at the image of you in front of him, his fingers lazily shoved in your mouth.

He pulled his own cock out, letting it spring free from his pants, giving it a few firm strokes as he looked down at you, your eyes firmly fixed on him. You leant forward, wrapping your lips around it's head as he rolled his head back with a groan. You pressed your tongue against his slit, the taste of his precum filling your mouth as you wrapped your hand around the base. He lifted his hand to the back of your head, holding you there as you lapped at his tip, beginning to move your hand, stroking his length.

"Fuck-" He had his eyes closed, his head pressed against the hard wood of the box as he swore through gritted teeth.

He pushed your head down lower and you let him fill your mouth, his cock pressing against the back of your throat as you swallowed him down. You bobbed your head gently, his length throbbing within you, his panting becoming strained as he got closer to the edge.

You choked on him, his hand pushing you lower. You let your fingers ripple down his abdomen, looking back up at him with wide eyes, his own gaze falling back on you as he bit his bottom lip hard.

"Come 'ere." He murmured, pulling you back off of him before he reached his peak.

You stood up, his hands reaching out to your waist, jerking you towards him. You hitched your dress up only slightly as you moved to straddle him, your lips crashing together once again as he lined his cock up with your entrance.

You sunk down onto him quickly, sucking in a breath at the feeling of him stretching you out. He groaned again as you began to roll your hips into him, his own body moving in time with yours to push himself as deep into you as he could.

You lent down, your mouth pressed against his ear, your voice a breathless whisper, "Forgive me Father... for I have sinned..."

He looked back at you with a wicked smile, one hand gripping your hip tighter as his other moved up to trace a thumb over your bottom lip, "Go on."

"It has been... too long since my last confession-"

He eyed your lips, his hunger for you evident.

"-These are my sins..." You wrapped your arms over his shoulders to keep yourself steady, "... I've lusted after you, I've - fuck- I've been tempted by you, and I'm only going to be tempted again... and again... and - Jesus- again."

You felt your climax rising as he pounded into you, keeping your rhythm steady with his grasp. He kissed you again, his mouth heavy and messy, open mouths panting into open mouths.

"For these and all my sins... I am- fuck I'm gonna come."

He chuckled lightly into you as you sped up your movements, holding his shoulders tight.

He pushed his mouth against your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, "You still on birth control?"

You panted against him, "-Yeah."

You kept your movements steady, both of your breaths thick against each other, fingers digging into one another's bodies. You could tell how desperate he was to come as you continued to grind against him, only holding out in the hope you'd crescendo together.

You bit down hard on your lip to hide your moan, your body quaking with pleasure as you pushed yourself to the edge. You came quickly, your body shaking, a wave of pleasure striking through you.

At the feeling of your pussy clenching around him he finally allowed himself to release, his seed spilling into you as you arched your back, letting him fill you. You pressed your face into his shoulder as both of your movements faltered, focused more on your pleasure than your rhythm. He gripped your hips tighter as gratification wracked his body.

You continued to move against each other slowly, your body slumping against him as you felt his load dripping out of you around his cock. You sat for a moment longer with him buried inside you before carefully sliding off of him, holding onto his shoulders to steady your shaking legs.

You felt his cum leaking down your inner thigh, dipping your fingers down between your legs to swipe the mixture of his juices and yours away, bringing it back to your lips and popping it in your mouth as he stared at you, his jaw hanging. You gave him another smile, pulling your fingers back out as you swallowed the taste down, biting your bottom lip.

He met your grin, his thumb holding your chin, "Fuckin' sinful."

You flattened out the bottom of your dress, trying to pull yourself together, suddenly regretting your lack of underwear. He stood, guiding you back out the booth as he rebuckled his belt.

The lights are off in the bakery, Dean's not surprised- he was supposed to be here hours ago- he figured you'd be back in the apartment by now. He glances up to the second floor- he's right, there's light flooding through the gaps in the blinds. He smiles, moving out of the Chevy and grabbing his duffle.

He buzzes for you to let him in- it only takes a second for the door to click open. By the time he's up the stairs you're already opening your door. You're grinning from ear to ear, legs bare, the rest of your body covered in an old band t-shirt. You light up when you see him, eyes sparkling, grin growing even wider.

"Dean!" You can't help yourself, stepping up to him to pull him into a hug.

He drops the bag, one hands finding your hip instantly, the other snaking up to your cheek. He presses his lips against yours, both of you smiling against each other. He holds you for a moment, letting himself settle against you, before pulling back with a hesitant chuckle.

"Sorry I'm late-"

"Almost sent out the search party!" You laugh, shuffling back to welcome him into the room.

"Sorry- there was this pile up and I-"

You wave him off, "You want something to drink?"

Dean smiles, thankful that he never has to explain himself with you, "What've you got?"

You move towards the kitchen, "Beer, wine- think I've got some of that whisky you left last time-" you open a cupboard and pull out a small box "-or I could do something hot?"

"What's that?"

You read the box out "Berry and cinnamon tea-" then look at him, "-tastes like a slice of pie."

You'd know, he trusts that more than anything. "Yeah- I'll do that."

You turn back to the kitchen. Dean takes the opportunity to slip away- you'll know where he's gone. He always needs to freshen up when he first gets to yours, god knows how many hours he's been driving.

He washes his face- trying to get the drowsy feeling out of his eyes. He spends too long thinking about your soap as it runs down his arms and into the sink- he's thought about stealing it before, but he can't imagine it'd smell like you in a grimy motel three states away. Part of the allure is that it comes with the apartment, that it reminds him he's somewhere safe.

By the time he comes to he's got wet patches on his jeans from the splattering water. He lets out a slow sigh, frustrated that he can't just look swarve in front of you for once- the universe always seems to find a way to make him look like a chump. He shuffles out of the bathroom awkwardly, hoping the air will dry them and you won't notice.

Of course you do- it only takes one glance towards him for your mouth to grow into a smile, holding back a laugh.

"Don't say anything-" he speaks, firm, trying to hide his own amusement.

You hold your hands up, "I wasn't going to!"

"Don't think anything then." He dusts his hands over the wet patches, like that'll help, "Your sink's clearly broken."

"Oh yeah? That's the problem, is it?" You laugh.

"Well obviously that's why you're not wearing any pants." He looks down at your legs, bare and beautiful, just tempting him to forget all about the tea.

You nod, pretending he's made a good point.

He looks back up, your tee slung over your body, confused "That's mine-"

You glance down at your clothes, "I was really hoping my other fuck buddy would turn up so I could make him jealous, guess you'll have to do."

For a moment his face falls, that feeling that you've got a whole other life when he's not there.

You raise an eyebrow, "I'm teasing..."

"I know, I know-" he says, defensively. He's pretty sure he knows. But he still can't get the feeling off his chest.

"...I'm not expecting him until tomorrow." You push the joke.

Dean rolls his eyes, "Oh? Need him to finish the job after I leave?"

"Nah- my hands can take care of that." You smirk.

Dean shakes his head, holding back a laugh.

There's a small pause, your expression falters slightly. You chew at your lip before speaking again, "The hunt go okay?"

Dean nods, "Yeah, yeah it was easy enough."

"I mean it- you alright?" You're trying to get a gauge on how the night will play out for you. It'd be easier if you didn't need to speak in code, if you could just ask 'what kind of sex do you want?', but Dean's never been easy.

"I got hit pretty hard, think I might have fucked up my skull some, but Sam's fine, and no one else got hurt once we turned up."

Hit pretty hard - I wanna go slow.

Fucked up my skull - Don't judge me when I can't last that long.

Sam's fine - I'm gonna be nice to you.

No one else got hurt - I'm gonna be real nice to you.

You smile, that's good enough. You grab the mugs off the side, walking back over to him as you guide him towards your couch. He's comfortable enough sinking against it as you hand him his mug, settling next to him, your legs thrown over his lap. You don't make a comment about the wet patches, despite how much you want to.

He ghosts his hand over your shin, gently, feeling you relax into him, "Been uh-" he coughs slightly, "-been thinking about you a lot."

"Oh?" You question, goading with your tone.

"That thing you do-" he looks towards you, eyes locked, "-that noise you make..."

You turn away, a small giggle, "There's no noise!"

"Come on-" he joins your laugh, "-you know the one."

"There is no noise!"

He sets his mug down- you glance at it. You almost want to talk more- you like talking to Dean. He's kind. Kinder than he realizes. But you know what it means- other than the fact you'll get a tea stained ring on your coffee table- he's ready to move to the reason he's here.

You set your mug down next to his.

He pulls you into him as he shifts his body, lying back against the couch, his hand finding your cheek again. He grins up at you as you relax against him, legs tangling into each other, "There's a little noise-"

He doesn't let you reply, leaning forward to press his lips against yours gently. You melt into him, body sinking against his. His lips feel soft against yours, careful- almost hesitant- as his free hand glides over your body. He pulls at your t-shirt slightly, pushing it up your body until his hand snakes around your hip, the pads of his fingers running against your skin, keeping you close, breathing you in slowly.

He starts to move messier, mouth opening to pull your lip in between his teeth, tongue pushed against you. His fingers press against your hip, not cruel, but solid enough that it feels possessive.

Dean might be sweet, soft to the touch and slow when he wants to be- but he'll always remind you that you're his. Maybe not forever, maybe not even tomorrow, but right now- with your bodies tangled together and your lips locked- right now you're on his time.

He shifts, freeing your hip for a moment as he moves his hands to your thighs, dragging them up until you're straddling his waist. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, pressed right against your panties. He grinds up against you, pushing a small breath out of you at the sudden contact, his hand moving back to grip you tight.

He bites down harder on your lip, still pushing his hips up to meet you. Your own hands stumble over him, one running along his jaw, the other feeling his arm shift next to you. He drags his hand up higher, under your t-shirt, up your ribs, over your back, nails digging against your skin.

He allows himself to break away for a moment, "Bedroom?"

You laugh as you kiss him again, speaking against his lips, "Yeah-"

He moves, snaking his hands around your thighs- taking the opportunity to squeeze your ass before he shifts his body, spinning back into sitting. For a moment he gets caught like that, still kissing you, fumbling around to find your lips. Then he remembers what he's supposed to be doing- lifting you as he stands.

You're pretty sure he only does it to prove he still can- but Dean always enjoys carrying you to the bedroom. It makes him feel like he's whisking you away, like he's doing taking you somewhere special- despite the fact it's your apartment and your bedroom and your bed.

Whatever the reason- he keeps hold of you tight as you move through the space, clearly trying to remember exactly how to get to the bedroom while focusing on just how sweet your lips feel.

He gets you past the threshold, still groping at your body as your hands thread through his hair. His mouth starts wandering, dragging his lips across your cheek, your jaw, clumsy as he buries his face into your neck, spreading kisses across your skin.

He finds your bed off memory alone, careful that his legs are touching the mattress before he drops you onto it.

There's a pause- only a second- but it feels like longer as you stare up at him. Both of you are stuck smiling at each other, giddy on each others excitement that you're together. Dean feels his heart pumping so hard it's like his whole body is pounding. He plays it down- maybe he shouldn't have carried you, he's getting too old to do teenage shit like that.

Then you move, quick, pulling your t-shirt- his t-shirt- off your body and throwing it over to the side of the bed.

His eyes gloss over you, that giddy feeling going straight to his pants, "Fuck-" he mutters, "-you're goddamn beautiful-"

He makes quick work of his own shirt, starting to unbutton it before he gives up and drags it over his body. Once he pulls it over his head he watches your eyes mirror his, glancing down his body as you suck your lip between your teeth. He tugs at his belt as he moves towards the bed, taking a moment to undo it before he forgets about it completely, too focused on getting you in his hands again.

He crawls onto the mattress, pulling you into him until you're lying back with his body above yours. He runs his fingers over you, light, feeling the way you shift below him. One hand moves along from your waist, up your body towards your chest.

He's gentle with it, touch soft as his lips press back against your neck. He runs his thumb across your nipple, his other hand finding your thigh as he slots his body between your legs. Your own hands wander over his body, feeling the muscles on his arms- etched with scars- dragging down his back to pull him closer.

His mouth moves lower, breath ghosting across your skin as he trails down, past your neck, pressing light kisses across your collarbone, down towards your chest. You relax against the mattress as he focuses on your breasts, one hand kneeding you gently, his tongue working down to wrap around your nipple.

You let a shameless moan escape your lips as your back arches up to meet him. He smiles against you, offering you a small glance as he watches the way you react to him. His teeth graze you as he sucks you into his mouth, tongue still circling, fingers still playing with you.

He moves between both of your tits, tongue working over you, planting light kisses across your chest. You allow small moans out as he teases your nipples, his free hand moving down your body, wrapping around your ribs to keep you close. His fingers splay out across your skin, needy for you. You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair- he smiles up at you in reward.

You push him lower- you both know what this is. This isn't you begging for more, this is you finally giving him permission to take what he's wanted since the start. He looks up at you, wetting his lips with a look of glee like he can't imagine anything better.

He traces your body with his lips, light over your skin as he finally breaks away from your chest and moves down. He kisses down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach- tongue darting out to taste you. You keep your fingers knotted in his hair, keeping him steady as you react to every touch.

He reaches your underwear, tongue dragged along the waistband as your hips lift into him. He runs his fingertip along it, teasing himself more than he's teasing you as he feels the fabric. You take a steady breath as he bites his lip hard, eyes dark, starting to pull them down, gaze stuck on your body.

He drags them down your legs slow, shifting his body so he can pull them all the way, eyes shimmering over you, watching you like he's high on the sight. You kick them off your ankles, letting them fall to the side of the bed as he kneels between your legs.

"Jesus-" He sucks in a sharp breath, hand going to his groin- he fumbles around with the fly of his pants, freeing his boxer clad bulge. He strokes himself slightly through the fabric, staring down at you.

You tilt your head, "Been a while since you've seen a naked woman?"

He laughs, shaking his head, "Be quiet and let me admire you, huh?"

You spread your legs for him, a grin on your face as you watch his smooth expression falter again. He reaches out, lifting your ankle and pressing his lips to it. He kisses along your shin, your knee, up the inside of your thigh as he pulls your legs over his shoulders, sinking down against the mattress.

He buries he face between your legs, tongue dragged through your folds. You moan out, fingers back in his hair, pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around your thighs, fingers digging into your skin.

His mouth presses against you, tasting you, tongue pushed into you, moving up to circle your clit. It's messy- he doesn't care, clearly too focused on making you feel good as his he laps at your pussy.

"You taste like sugar-" he speaks against you, breathless, "so fuckin' sweet-"

His broad tongue works over you slowly, pressed against your clit with lazy circles. You're soaking over his chin now, your body shifting under him as you grind against his face. He moves lower, pushing his tongue into you again, looking up at you as your back arches off the mattress.

His hand splays out across your stomach, pushing you back against the bed as he feels your abdomen tensing. He moves back to your clit, keeping himself steady as he builds up a careful rhythm, tongue darting over you. His hand goes higher, teasing your nipple between his fingers carefully.

One of your hands stays in his hair, tugging at him, as the other grabs the pillow below your head, gripping it tight as you twist on the mattress.

"Right there- oh god right there-" You moan out, your heels digging into his back, desperate for him to stay close.

You feel him grin against you, cheeks glowing at your words, attention focused on your pleasure. His fingers curl into your thighs, a pointed tongue as he speeds up.

"Dean- fuck- don't stop- please-"

He loves that he can get you like this- practically begging for him. He'd never admit it, you'd never let him, but there's something about the way you act during sex that sends his brain spinning. Like you need him, like he matters to you. He could come off that feeling alone, that feeling that you're his, that he's yours.

"-please-"

You come- back arching off the bed, hand tugging at Dean's hair harder than you mean. Dean groans against you, feeling your thighs twitch and pussy clenching, it's like he's in heaven. He pushes you through it, keeping his focus on your clit, his fast pace unrelenting as you moan out into the room.

When you start to relax against the mattress he slows slightly, tongue moving more carefully, gentle not to push you too far as you twist below him, your breathing heavy- chest rising and falling quickly.

He breaks away, small kisses along your inner thigh, staring up at your hazed body, "You're fucking stunning-"

You don't make any note of his words, still coming down from the high of your orgasm. Instead you thread your fingers through his hair slowly, twisting knots into it, steadying yourself with the feeling of him below you.

For a moment he stays like that, just feeling you playing with his hair, then he pulls back, looking down at you, jaw tight.

You spread out across the mattress, head falling to one side, a dazed expression still spread across your face, "Jesus Dean- you get better at that every time-"

He chuckles as he stands, tugging his pants down his legs, "Well- thanks for letting me practice-"

You roll your eyes but offer a small hidden smile, eyes washing over him before you settle on staring at the bulge in his boxers. He grabs his cock through the fabric, teasing you with the size, enjoying the way your eyes seem to widen slightly.

Maybe that's his favorite thing about you- that you're always impressed by him. By his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Maybe he's not reliable, he's usually late and his texts aren't frequent, but you'll always allow him back when he treats you like this.

He pulls at his boxers, dropping them to the floor and kicking them off to join your clothes in a pile. His cock stands hard, precum already glistening at the tip.

You bite your lip, giving him a small smile. He grins back at you as he moves towards the bed again- you pull yourself up slightly on the mattress, opening your legs up to allow him to find his place between them. He moves back above you, kissing lightly up your body until your hips are aligned, his face close to yours. He keeps himself raised, hands on either side of you, your thighs pushed around his waist.

His forehead falls against yours, both of you staring at each other, eyes sparkling, a softness between you. He presses his cock against your entrance and you give him a small absentminded nod. He pushes himself into you slowly, grinding into you with a steady stretch.

You let out a soft gasp, pushed from your throat.

Dean grins down at you, "There's that noise-"

"Shut up-" you laugh, moving to kiss his jaw.

He shifts, catching your lips with his own- it's a slow kiss as he starts to roll his hips, filling you carefully. He breaks away, speaking against your lips, "It's a goddamn great noise-"

You laugh into his mouth, your hands moving up to his shoulders, feeling the way he shifts under your touch. One hand drags down, feeling the muscles on his back tense up on every slow thrust.

He scatters kisses across your face, lips on your cheeks and nose, across to your ear as he nips at the lobe. He speaks quietly, breath caught, "I missed this-"

He pushes deep, your body arching for him, legs wrapping around his waist. He keeps himself steady, despite how clearly he wants to speed up, making sure you feel every inch of him filling you. He builds a careful rhythm, keeping himself inside you just long enough that you feel used to it before he pulls out again, long strokes, trying not to rush.

"You look-" Your words are cut off as he pushes in again, lifting your body off the mattress slightly, winding any thought out of you.

He kisses your temple, speaking against your skin, "Yeah?"

You smile, catching your breath as you speak quietly, "Look so pretty, Dean."

He kisses you again, voice soft, "Says you-" he speeds up, only slightly, "-prettiest sight I'll ever see-"

You feel another orgasm rising, your body begging for it, "More, baby- need more-"

He catches your lips, then pulls back, "You sure?"

You nod, expression more desperate than you mean it to be.

He does what you ask, speeding up as he pushes in harder, the tight thrusts pushing your body into the mattress. He buries his face into your neck, one hand keeping himself up as the other finds your hip, holding you tight. You keep your hands feeling his back shifting, the way the muscles behind his shoulders seem to shudder as his body moves.

He drags his teeth across your neck before biting down, only slightly, sucking a dark hickey against your skin. He knows you were only teasing- maybe he's just playing into it- but he wants to prove you're his to any man that sees you, prove he's got you tonight. If some imaginary fuck buddy turns up tomorrow, it'll be Dean's mark on your neck.

"I'm close- fuck I'm so close-" You gasp, keeping your hands on his body.

He smiles, thankful to hear those words- he doesn't want to confess how desperate he is, holding back his own orgasm for longer than he'd like to admit, "Yeah, baby?"

You nod, unable to get any words out.

"Gonna make you feel so good-" he speaks against you, "-fuck honey, let me feel you-"

Your second orgasm hits you in a wave, pleasure flowing through you as you grip Dean's body tighter. Your hips rut into him, your back arching, digging your nails into his skin.

He comes deep inside you, his movements slowing as he tries to push through it. His hips keep stuttering, a deep groan stuck in his throat, his forehead slick with sweat.

After a moment he pulls out, rewarded with a needy whine from you. He grins as he kisses your cheek, sinking down on the mattress next to you. He pulls the sheet up to his waist as his hand finds your thigh, fingers curling against your skin, tracing over it lightly, feeling you under him.

His breathing slows as he relaxes into the bed, eyes closed. You turn your body, leaning against his shoulder, your own fingers tracing over his chest. You drag the sheet higher up your own body, covering yourself slightly as you both take a moment to breathe.

Minutes tick by as Dean's breathing falls deeper, a dazed smile spread across his face.

"You falling asleep?" You laugh, looking up at him.

He makes no attempt to open his eyes, just gives a half hearted shake of his head.

It takes him a moment, then he speaks up, eyes still shut, that smile still on his face, "We forgot about the tea-"

"It's not very good." You admit, trying not to laugh.

His eyes crease open as he looks down at you, "You said it tastes like pie-"

"It sort of does- pie soaked in hot water-"

He shakes his head, "Don't lie about pie."

"You want a real slice?"

That perks him up, he shifts his body, sitting slightly higher on the bed, "You been holding out on me?"

You laugh, "There's leftovers in the fridge, blueberry."

He grins, "I'll get it in a minute, when I can feel my legs again-"

You laugh, leaning your cheek on his chest, feeling his heart still pounding, "Felt good, Dean. Felt real good."

His hand finds your nape, thumb rubbing against your skin, "Always feels good with you."

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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The air around him has always rivaled the kind of humidity that suffocates your skin on the hottest Indiana summer day. A palpable energy that's buzzed around the two of you since Robin introduced you at one of Rick’s parties a few months ago. It’s the kind of chemistry that’s recently become very hard to ignore as introductions turned into third wheeling late night shifts at the squawk, and regular invitations to movie nights at their shared apartment. The biggest culprit of them all though? Steve’s incessant need to always drive you home. It doesn’t matter to him how late it is, or out of his way it is, even if it’s a blizzard or a torrential downpour — walking or catching the bus is never an option. Not if he has anything to do with it.

The quiet conversations that happen inside his BMW are always easy, even a little bit flirty when Robin isn’t around. On those nights, he makes it a point to rest his hand on the stick shift so close to your thighs they search for each other, squirming in his leather seat. Those are the ones that always end with him parked in front of your place for hours. Both of you losing track of time talking about anything and everything while learning those little things about each other that turn into something bigger over time. Unfortunately for you, that time feels a lot like now, and the silent promise to never act on whatever this is starting to feel nearly impossible to keep.

Steve’s eyes flit towards you for no particular reason, catching you staring, sparking something inside of them that warms deep in your belly. Something unmistakably dangerous.

Forcing yourself to look away, embarrassment blooms on your cheeks as you clear your throat with a shake of your head. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to find their way back to him because it’s all they seem to want to do these days. With one side of his mouth tugged up, his full attention is on you now while his fingers don’t stop their mission to finish the puzzle he’s solved a million times before. Something about that has you biting the fat of your bottom lip, shifting in your seat perched on the side of his desk.

The whites of his teeth shine in a playful flirty grin as he rocks back in his chair, spreading his legs wider, earning that roll of your eyes he was looking for. Fast clicks of the rubix cube catch louder in your ears as all of the colors line up perfectly in his hands, and that grin on his stupidly handsome face turns into a proud beam like its the first time he’s accomplished this feat.

”Still got it!” He winks, tossing the toy up casually before catching it.

”Were you even listening to me, Dingus?” Robin hisses, smacking the cube out of his hand and you try not to giggle at the dejected look on his face that quickly turns into its factory setting of annoyance.

”Yeah, I was listening to the story you’ve told me three times today.” He snaps, leaning over to grab the toy off the ground, almost falling when the chair threatens to go off kilter. “Maybe, just maybe there’s a reason Vickie keeps getting mad.”

You’ve watched them have this conversation at least once a week for the past month where Steve tiptoes around getting Robin to admit her inconvenient crush on Nancy Wheeler.

“Hey! Who’s side are you on here?” She snaps, with a glare that wrinkles the top of her forehead.

Steve opens his mouth to reply but she quickly cuts him off before he even has a chance.

“You know what, no. No! I can’t be here, I need to go.” Robin deflects like she always does, grabbing her messenger bag she storms out of the soundproof room, and right out of the station’s double doors. Leaving you and Steve alone.

He scoffs, staring out the glass after her, a silent argument with himself on whether he should follow or not evident on his face. He runs a hand through his hair with a bouncing knee, taking a deep breath through his nose before bringing his gaze back to you, that rogue strand flopping back across his forehead.

“I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” He groans defeated with eyes that plead for some kind of reassurance. “Should I go find her?”

“I think she just needs a minute.” You reply softly, legs dangling. “If she does have feelings for someone else, that’s gotta be overwhelming. She’s new at this, ya know?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, jaw ticking taking one last look outside before you see him visibly let it go with a sag of his shoulders.

”Always am.” You tease with a smile, doing your best to lighten the mood.

His eyes shift back to you, that dangerous thing from before returning ten fold twinkling in the gold specs inside of them. Suddenly the realization that the two of you are alone consumes the entire room, air turning thick with something that feels inevitable, that small little joke of yours working too well.

“Now don’t get crazy.” He scoffs, using his long legs to roll his chair towards you.

Something swoops in your belly, fingers curling around the wooden edge of the desk while you try to keep your composure, watching his Nike’s close the space.

“Name one time I’ve been wrong.”

Your challenge comes with a tilt of your chin, and an arch of your brow. The smirk you get in return has your teeth digging into your bottom lip, thighs closing the small gap between them. It still isn’t enough to stop the warmth between them from spreading, especially when he stops right in front of you. His face aligns with your knees from his seat, sending your body humming with his proximity to the place that’s wanted more of him for months now.

”How about when you said Beetlejuice was a good movie?” He snorts, meeting your gaze from under his lashes, something baiting inside of it.

”Are you kidding me? It’s an incredible movie! Tim Bur—“

”It was weird.” He cuts off with an irritated face, like just the memory of it is enough to annoy him.

”You’re weird.” You retort immediately, glaring with a scrunch of your nose.

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, before his narrowed gaze trails slowly down the length of your body. It lingers on your exposed thighs that he’s started to see a little more frequently thanks to warm spring days, and he’s never been more thankful to Mother Nature or your sun dresses. You swallow hard seeing him lick his lips, heart skipping a beat at the glazed over look in his eyes that makes your chest ache.

You have to leave.

”I — uh, I should go.” You stammer, starting to wiggle off the desk but Steve doesn’t let you get very far.

”Wait! Don’t — “ Standing up, the rest of that sentence fades as his hands find your knees, electric currents running through his finger tips that spread them apart so he can fit his hips between your thighs. His eyes hold you inside of them, hooded and begging before finishing it in a whisper. “Don’t leave.”

The two of you sit there unmoving, mouths so close it feels like you’re breathing each other in. His hands inch up your bare thighs, goosebumps pebbling along hot skin as his fingertips brush the bottom hem of your dress.

”Steve.” You manage to murmur, somehow finding your voice. “It’s a bad idea and you know it.”

The protest sounds weak leaving your mouth, especially when the backs of your heels hook and pull him closer. Your hands grip harder at the edge of the desk, needing something to anchor you while the tip of his nose runs up the bridge of yours. The spice of his cologne wraps around you, and the hint of cinnamon mixed with the amber is new.

“What’s so bad about it? Give me one reason.” He mocks your previous challenge with a flash of his teeth, grabbing at the soft fat under his palms.

”Robin.”

“Well she doesn’t have to know.” He snorts like it’s obvious, wandering hands sliding up higher.

”Okay, then what happens if this blows up in our face and we end up hating each other?” Your argument would feel more valid if you weren’t straightening your spine, getting so close to him that your chests touch.

”You really think you can hate me?” He fake pouts with a furrow of his brows, that infamous swoop of hair tickling your forehead.

”Steve! I’m being serious.” You whine a little defeated because you know you’re about to give in, and because all you want is for him to just kiss you already.

You think he knows that too.

He exhales a breath through his nose, one hand finally becoming bold enough to slip under your dress to wrap around your hip, while the other cups the apple your cheek. The pad of his thumb tilts your chin up to keep your gaze on him, lips so close that they almost touch.

”And what if it doesn’t blow up in our face?” He challenges, letting his top lip graze your bottom. “What happens if we end up really liking each other? What then?”

Your lashes flutter, feeling his warm breath kiss your skin, butterflies rioting inside the crevices of your ribcage. Your fingers let go of their death grip on the edge of the desk, and spread over his stomach. He inhales sharply at the contact, his grip on your hip tightening as your palms work their way up his chest before sliding along his neck and into the thickness of his hair at the nape of it. Steve tugs you closer as your legs wrap around his waist, the tip of your nose nudging his warmed cheek.

”Because I don’t know if you can’t tell or something but I already really like you.” He confesses hot against your mouth with the softest brush of his lips. “I have for a while. And you know what I think?”

”Hmm?” You manage with lust clouding your vision and fingers curling into his roots.

”I think you like me too.”

You don’t bother giving the answer he already knows, instead you close what little distance is left. It takes Steve a moment to realize what you’re doing, that this is actually happening but when he does, he takes control of the kiss immediately. His lips feel hungry moving against yours, devouring you like it’s been a craving, claiming your mouth like it’s already his.

A deep groan rumbles from his chest at the feel of your tongue swiping along his bottom lip. The blunt ends of his nails dig into the soft skin of your hip when he opens up for you and they finally meet. They massage each other moving languid and slow, relishing in the feeling. Back bending, your fingers curl deeper in his roots, somehow needing more.

As if he can read your mind, the pad of his thumb tugs at the corner of your mouth, opening you up more. He explores every inch of you like he’s trying to memorize it, swallowing all the sounds that are somehow better than his imagination. Your hips rock against him, the thin cotton of your panties leaving hardly any barrier. A breathy gasp escapes the back of your throat feeling just how big he really is.

Steve takes this moment to catch his breath, pulling away with a heaving chest. He presses his forehead against yours, eyes taking in your flushed cheeks and kiss bitten lips.

“You know how many times I’ve thought about this?” He sighs, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheek. That permanent teasing edge to his voice is absent for the first time tonight.

His confession erupts across your body that bends for him, silently asking for more all on its own. Holding his gaze in the depths of yours, the pointed roll of your hips is slow enough to feel the entire length of him pressed against his zipper. It twitches underneath the metal, the pressure against your clit only covered by a thin pair of cotton earning him a quiet whimper.

”I think about you all the time, Steve.” You say in a low voice, looking at him from under the thick hood of your lashes, rolling your hips again.

“Honey.” He hisses through his teeth, his grip on you tightening hard enough to hold you still. A shiver ripples through him as he desperately tries to find his self control. “We should stop —“

Your hands untangle from his hair, sliding down his jaw that you hold in your palms. The pad of your thumb traces the curve of his full bottom lip that you want nothing more than to feel between your teeth. He inhales another sharp breath watching the way your eyes darken, his thick lashes fluttering kissing the tops of his cheeks like he can read your mind.

”What if I don’t want to stop?”

All you’ve ever done with Steve is hold yourself back. And now that you’ve had him, you don’t want to do it anymore. You can’t do it anymore.

”I’m tired of not getting what I want.” You reaffirm, tilting your head to meet his eyes, brushing your lips against his kiss bitten ones before whispering, “aren’t you?”

He holds your gaze down the slope of his nose, the hand on your hip moving to wrap around the small of your back pulling you close, while the other trails down to cup the side of your neck. The pad of his thumb rests at the hinge of your jaw, a flurry of emotions swirling inside his stare as he takes everything in, making sure he’s not misreading any signs. It’s not until he feels the quiet way you say his name against his lips that he comes back to his body, snapping out of his nervous lapse in judgement of what’s happening.

”You have no fucking idea.” Steve growls, finally capturing your mouth without anything holding him back anymore.

This kiss is different from the last one, his lips move against yours with something possessive behind them — greedy. Your tongues don’t wait for permission, tangling together with an intensity that has your teeth scraping together. Completely lost in months of late nights and lingering stares, his hand slides down your neck, and across your shoulders bringing your dress strap with it. He finishes his path joining his other hand under your dress, both of them meeting and curling around the apple of your ass. Squeezing harshly, he pulls you closer with a hard slam on the wood of the desk.

Moaning into his mouth, you tug at the collar of his sweater, silently urging him to take it off. He catches on quickly, but struggles to break himself free, obsessed with the taste of you — the feel of you in his hands. It’s the whine that peels itself from the back of your throat and the way you push yourself closer searching for friction that he finally pulls himself away with a suck of your bottom lip. Letting it go with a loud pop, the pout on your face turns his lovesick grin cocky as he plucks the collar of his sweater from the back and tosses it to the side of the studio in one fell swoop.

Your lids grow heavy, eyes glazing over at the thick smattering of hair on his chest. Throat drying up at the sight of his permanently sun kissed skin dotted with mini constellations of freckles and moles that your fingers itch to trace. He runs a hand through his hair, drinking in the sight of you too. The wild look on your face with your dress rucked up around your hips, legs spread revealing the wet patch in the middle of your panties that he’s the culprit of. Both straps dangle loosely off your shoulders, leaving just the red ones of your bra, the swell of your breasts teasing him.

“Jesus, I knew you were gonna ruin me.” He mutters to himself in disbelief, slowly walking back to his place between your legs.

His hands trail up your thighs, squeezing at the soft dough under your dress appreciatively with lick of his lips, before curling his fingers around the elastic. It’s the only thing left keeping him from a part of you he’s thought about more times than he’d ever admit.

“Tell me what you want.” He breathes against your lips, brows furrowed with need.

Your fingers find their way to his belt, expertly undoing the gold buckle before popping open the button and tugging down the zipper of his jeans. He hisses at the release as you lift your head, capturing his mouth in something so sure there’s no room left to argue, pulling away just enough to whisper.

”You.”

That’s all Steve needs, yanking your panties down in one swift motion, capturing your lips as he does the same with the straps of your dress. It pools around your lap, just like his jeans do at his feet. Kicking them off along with his shoes, he grabs one of your legs hitching it over his waist, pointedly running his hard covered length along your wet seam. You both moan into each other's mouths at the contact, your fingers tangling in his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he licks into you, rolling his hips again.The way your slick instantly wets the fabric of his briefs makes it feel like he’s teasing himself too.

”I don’t — I don’t have a condom.” He murmurs, using all of his strength to pull away with panic set in his eyes like maybe he’s ruined this whole thing.

Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you let one of your hands slide down his chest, greedily scratching your nails along the dark hair there, before following it down his happy trail. The muscles in his stomach twitch, along with his cock that only grows bigger when you cup it, and the feeling of just how thick he is has you squirming at the thought of making it fit.

“I’m on birth control.” You admit quietly, your fingers dipping into the waist band of his underwear, the tips of them running along his pelvic bone.

”Jesus Christ.” Steve’s eyes pinch closed, the grip on your leg tightening to something almost bruising.

”Is that okay? Do you want to —“

“Yes, yes, god yes, that's okay.” He interrupts with an enthusiastic nod of his head.

Bend bending down, he claims your lips again as your greedy hands push his boxers past his hips. Your touch is tentative wrapping around the weight of him, but the moan you get in return is loud enough to echo off the glass encasing you, encouraging you forward. The first pump has him shuddering underneath your palm, a big hand grabbing your chin, using it to tilt your head to the side. He takes your slow torture out on the base of your throat in the form of open mouthed kisses, dragging his teeth along your pulse point that jumps for him.

“Steve you’re so - you’re so -“

He flattens his tongue, licking a path that has your eyes roll back, killing off the rest of that sentence by latching onto that sensitive spot behind your ear and sucking hard. It’s replaced by a breathy whine that comes out at the same time the pad of your thumb swipes against his leaking tip. He grunts into your neck, hips bucking into your touch.

“I know baby, I know.” He murmurs into your ear, nipping at the lobe before enveloping it into the heat of his mouth, letting it go with a loud pop. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise.”

The endearment has your legs spread wider in a silent plea to keep his word. He smiles wide against your skin, sneaking his hand between you to replace yours that go back to their new home in the hair at the nape of his neck. You decide it’s your favorite place. He pulls away enough for your noses to bump, blown out wild looking eyes meeting yours before they drop down to a view he’s only ever imagined. His mind didn’t even come close to doing it justice.

”Fuuuuck.” He groans to himself, face twisting into something tortured, swiping himself through your glistening folds with another shudder ripping through his spine. “You’re so wet, honey.”

Steve says the last part almost like he can’t believe it, like there’s no world where you’d want him just as bad as he wants you. But when he does it again and you mewl in a way that sounds just as desperate, he knows it's true.

“You’re not the only one who’s wanted this for a long time.” You confess a little shy despite your current position, softening his features with the kind of smile that feels a lot like he’s already smitten.

The pad of his thumb on the hand still wrapped around your hitched leg traces circles on the goose pebbled skin underneath it.

“Yeah?” He sighs, eyes turning heavy bringing himself close enough to fit at your entrance. “Let’s make up for lost time then.”

Your fingers weave tighter in his hair, forehead pressing to his with a slack jaw at the first stretch of your walls. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling you so much as if he has nowhere else to go even though he’s only half way in.

”Oh my god, Steve, you feel — holy shit.” You pant, pulling at his roots so hard you know it hurts as he pushes himself to the hilt with one final stroke.

”You’re doing so good though, look at you.” His praise comes out against your lips, the tip of his nose nudging against your cheek. He feels the way his words tighten around him, a new wave of arousal coating every ridge and dip.

Steve gives you a minute to adjust to the size, only starting to move when you lean forward to steal a messy kiss. Desperation evident in the encouraging swipe of your tongue. He starts off slow, rolling his hips in languid strokes that match the way he licks into your mouth basking in the little noises escaping from the back of your throat. It’s not until you nip at his bottom lip that he lets go the way he really wants too.

Breaking away from your lips, he brings his attention to your face, needing to see the way it twists up when he pulls nearly all the way out before slamming himself back in. Your eyes go wide at the feeling, the silk of your walls fluttering, begging him for more that he gives without any hesitation. His palm finds it way back to your cheek that has to be searing against his skin, collecting your mouth again with a hunger that’s easy to lose yourself in.

He keeps a steady pace, hiking your leg further up his hip, somehow going even deeper. The tip of him hits the spot that no one else has ever been able to find, earning a loud moan of his name that he thinks sounds best when it comes from you. Using the opportunity that presents itself to him, he starts a path of open mouth kisses down your jaw, along your neck, gently pushing you back to lay against the desk, peppering them across your collar bone.

The new angle has you trying to cover the scream that's begging to fill the empty studio, and Steve keeps going. Tugging down your bra, sucks your pert nipple into the heat of his mouth. Your back arches, nails dinging into his shoulders when he brings his attention to the other one with a flick of his tongue.

“Perfect, you’re perfect.” Groaning his praise against your skin, he licks a stripe up your sternum before nipping at the curve of your breast.

Steve stands up straight, bringing his hands to your hips stretching you out even more. His eyes take in your heaving chest, dark eyes, and skin shining wet from the work of his mouth and he thinks he might cum right now.

”You ready for more, pretty girl?” He coos with the softest grind of hips, lips twitching at the way your eyes hit the back of your head because of it.

”Please.” You beg, finding the strength to look at him from underneath your lashes.

Your stare breaks any self control he might have left, the first snap of his hips pushing you further up the desk, sending some of the eight tracks clattering to the ground.

“Oh my god.” You cry out, grabbing onto his forearms. The blunt ends of your nails digging into his freckles when he does it again.

”You feel so fucking good.” He grits out between his teeth, the grip on your curves turning bruising as his head rolls back lost in the silk of your walls that keep sucking him in every time he tries to leave.

His praise makes your hips meet the next roll of his, sending another flurry of cuss words spilling out of his mouth, that turn into your name the more you keep up with his pace. Tugging you back to the edge of the desk, he folds over you, palms finding purchase on either side of your head.

That swoop of hair tickles damp against your forehead, his face contouring into something dazed watching the way you try to catch your breath. The quick grind of his hips punches the air out of your lungs with every thrust, the thick thatch of hair at the base of your demise rubbing against your clit with just the right of pressure.

You know you're not going to last much longer as the heels of your feet dig into his ass pushing him deeper. He grunts into your mouth, collecting a sloppy kiss rolling his hips in a circle, the tip of him pushing right against the spot you need him most.

“Come on, honey, let go. I know you want to. Let me finally make you feel good.” He murmurs encouragingly, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above your head, sending a notebook and some pens flying to the ground.

The new position tightens the coil deep inside your gut tight enough to snap, your walls constricting around him as you tumble over the edge with nothing but his name spilling from your lips. Seeing something he’s only ever daydreamed about in the dead of night sends him flying right after you. He lets go of your hands catching himself on the desk, body shaking with a loud groan rumbling from his chest painting your insides with months of wanting you so much that it aches in his chest.

He keeps up the slow grind of his hips until you both come back down, with goofy love sick smiles twisting up your lips. You giggle when he nudges his nose with yours, getting a blinding flash of his white teeth in return.

“What?” Amusement dances in his eyes, brushing the apple of your cheek with the back of his hand.

”This just isn’t where I imagined it would finally happen is all.” You grin, leaning into his touch. “So out in the open.”

”It’s not like anyone’s here —“

”Steve, look, I’m sorry.” The sound of Robin’s voice echoes out through the empty station.

”Oh fuck me.” He yells in a whisper, wide panicked eyes meeting yours before dropping to the ground out of sight. You try your best to adjust your bra and dress into place.

“You know I hate when we figh— oh.” Robin stops in her tracks in the common room, confusion painting her features taking in your disheveled look and the lack of Steve in the room.

“H-hey!” You squeak out, voice cracking and she narrows her gaze at it.

”Where’s Steve?” She asks, the question coming out slowly in that suspicious kind of way.

”Uh - he uh - he went to the bathroom.” You offer, scratching the back of your neck while the man in question scrambles to get his clothes back on at your feet.

Tilting her head to the side, she squints at you clearly not believing a word coming out of your mouth. Realization dawns on her features, annoyance replacing any confusion that was left.

”You have got to be kidding me!” She throws up her hands, “Steve I know you’re there. You guys suck at lying.”

”Shit.” Steve mutters, pulling on his shirt before slowly standing up, buckling his belt with a sheepish smile.

”Hey.” He waves, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Don't even look at my sister,” is what James said the time you showed up at his band's first show. You had been hanging around with them in a shitty room at the back of the club. Neither Lars nor Ron said anything; they just looked, but Dave did more than just look, and that didn't go so well with James.

The band had only a few sets of rules that no one really cared to abide by, but you became the first that actually mattered pretty quickly.

You were forbidden.

But that didn't stop Dave from walking up to you every time you were around, and it didn't stop you from entertaining his conversation either.

Dave was incredibly charismatic and not hard on the eyes at all. Yes, he smelled like alcohol sometimes, and yes, his pupils always drowned out his hazel eyes, but it didn't stop him from being charming and hot.

“Fuck any other girl, but don't fuck my sister. I mean it. I'm gonna knock your teeth in.”

But Dave was too fast, too strong, too violent to be scared of James, and maybe that's why he now had one of his hands on the curve of your hip and his lips brushing your ear.

“Come on, let's get out of here,” he whispered, lifting his other hand to brush his knuckles over your jawline. “He doesn't have to know.”

You smirked, but your heart sped up as sirens blared in your head. Dave might be okay with the consequences; it was fine if James tried to beat him up, he wasn't scared. You, however, feared your brother finding out because he wouldn't hit you; you had a feeling he wouldn't even yell at you, and somehow that was worse because you had no idea what he'd do.

“And if he finds out—fuck it,” he added, taking his hand off your face and letting it fall to your throat where he could feel your pulse under his calloused thumb.

“He's not gonna give you another warning, you know?” You said, your voice as low as his.

It wasn't necessary to be quiet; there was no one around, but it kept the tension in the air intact, and it was the kind of tension neither of you would pretend you didn't like.

“So what? I'll let him hit me once. Twice maybe. He'll get it off his system, and then everything will be fine again,” he replied.

You hesitated, and Dave took that moment to lean in and breathe into your neck, brushing his teeth on the shell of your ear before kissing the spot under your earlobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and for once, it didn't smell like beer.

You tilted your head slightly to the side, closing your eyes for just a second, swallowing the noise you wanted to let out so badly, then you opened your eyes again and pushed him away far enough to look at his face, but not enough to put a respectful, James-approved distance.

“And what about me?” You asked, looking up at him and seeing a flash of amusement cross his sharp features upon hearing your words.