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you see your father’s friend for the first time after he spent ten years in prison, and you can’t help but feel attracted to him
smut, age-gap, cheating, unprotected sex, slow burn (this is long 12,4k)
The last time you had seen him, you were barely nine years old. You still remembered the cold wooden floor under your bare feet as you descended the stairs that night. The red and blue lights from the patrol cars swirled against the living room walls, tinting everything with a sickly hue. Loud voices, crackling radios, and the metallic sound of handcuffs closing.
He was on his knees in the middle of the room, hands behind his back. The black t-shirt clung to his body with sweat, marking the tense muscles of his arms and shoulders. His dark brown hair was disheveled and that strong jaw remained firm, not pleading.
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 mate at the table.
"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.
forced to marry (smut, first time, death, jealousy, idk what more) 6,5k
You stood on the covered gallery overlooking the inner courtyard, wrapped in a black wool cloak with red trim. From there you could see everything without being easily seen: the men arming themselves, the maesters running with scrolls, and him, Jacaerys, your older brother, whom you watched as he spoke with Maester Gerardys and Ser Alfred Broome.
The war was carving him: a sharper jawline, a harder gaze, that voice that used to be enthusiastic now carried the weight of decisions that could condemn or save entire houses.
“…the North will answer. Cregan Stark swore it,” Jace said with that confidence that had always made you tremble. “We’ll send Vermax with a clearer message if necessary.”
You pressed your fingers against the cold stone. It had always been like this. Since you were a child, you had looked at him as if he were the embodiment of everything good House Targaryen could offer: brave, just, intelligent. A born strategist. A future king who would have a right to the throne not only by blood, but by merit. At some point, that sisterly pride had transformed into something far more dangerous.
It wasn’t just admiration. It was the way your chest tightened when he smiled, the way you dreamed of his hands holding yours differently, the burning shame you felt when you imagined him looking at you as something more than his little sister, the one he was meant to protect, but whom he had never looked at that way.
You heard soft footsteps behind you and didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Sister,” Jace’s voice was softer when he spoke to you. It always was. “You shouldn’t be out here in this cold. You’ll get sick.”
He turned you toward him. His eyes, so similar yet so different from yours, scanned you with brotherly concern. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and there was a small ink stain on his wrist, he had probably been writing letters until recently.
“I was looking at the stars,” you lied softly. “And… I saw you. You looked so sure talking about the alliance with the North. Like a true king.”
Jace let out a low, almost tired laugh and approached. Without asking permission, he adjusted your cloak better over your shoulders, a gesture so natural and protective that it hurt you deeply.
“I’m not king yet. I’m just…” He sighed. “The one trying to keep us all from being killed.”
“You’re much more than that,” you replied, almost in a whisper. The words escaped before you could stop them. “You’re the best of us, Jace. You always have been.”
For a second, something changed in his expression. A shadow of surprise, perhaps, but it passed quickly, and he smiled at you in the way he reserved only for you and Lucerys: with pure affection, with that warmth that made you feel both small and grown at the same time.
“Always so loyal, my little dragon,” he said, and ruffled your hair with his hand just like when you were eight years old. “Never change.”
The affectionate nickname pierced you like a dagger. My little dragon.
At that moment, as if summoned by fate, your cousin Baela appeared. He turned toward her almost immediately, and the smile he gave her was different from the one he gave you.
“Jace,” Baela said, approaching. “Your mother is looking for you. There is news from the Crownlands.”
He nodded, but before leaving he gently squeezed your shoulder.
“Go inside, rest, and tomorrow we’ll keep talking.”
And he left with Baela, while you remained there, with the cutting wind striking your face, feeling the warmth of his hand disappear from your shoulder.
The days following Vermax’s fall were a blur of blood, smoke, and prayers. Jacaerys had returned from battle more dead than alive: his dragon’s broken wing had thrown him against the rocks, and the black sea had nearly claimed him forever. They brought him wrapped in soaked blankets, his face pale as ash and a deep wound cutting across his right side where enemy steel had bitten into flesh and ribs.
You never left his bedside for a single moment.
Day and night you remained kneeling beside him in the cold rooms of Dragonstone, changing the cloths soaked in cold water on his burning forehead, cleaning the blood that flowed again every time he moved in feverish dreams. Your hands, once soft and unaccustomed to hard work, cracked and reddened from washing so many bandages and preparing infusions the maesters said barely helped. You didn’t eat. You barely slept. You only existed in function of his breathing: every weak inhalation was a victory, every pause that was too long was an abyss that swallowed you.
When the fever rose so high that his body trembled like a leaf in the wind, you lay down beside him, pressing your forehead to his, sharing the little warmth you had left, silently begging all the gods not to take him from you. If he died, you would go with him. That certainty was as clear as day. You couldn’t imagine a world where Jacaerys Velaryon no longer breathed. You didn’t want one.
You held his hand while he delirated, kissing his bruised knuckles, crying against his chest when no one could see you. The idea of losing him was worse than any death, but he did not die.
Little by little, the fevers subsided, the wound stopped suppurating, his skin regained some color, and his eyes refocused on the world. The first time he truly recognized you, he weakly squeezed your fingers, and that gesture almost broke your heart.
You continued caring for him with the same devotion, though now with a relief so great it made you dizzy. You fed him spoonfuls of broth, helped him sit up when coughing attacked him, read him old Valyrian scrolls in a low voice so he wouldn’t think about the war. Every beat of his heart was a gift you treasured in silence. And then the war continued devouring everything.
One by one, they fell.
Your mother, devoured by her own dragon in King’s Landing. Joffrey, dragged through the streets. Baela and Rhaena, disappeared in the chaos of battles and betrayals. The Velaryons… all swallowed by fire and steel. The Dance of the Dragons left almost nothing standing, and in the end, only the two of you remained.
The wind howled through the ruins of Dragonstone like a soul in torment. The black walls, once imposing, were cracked and blackened by ancient fires. The main hall was almost empty: only a few tattered tapestries remained, a long table with maps burned at the edges, and two makeshift thrones that no one dared occupy.
You were sitting on the sill of a high window, wrapped in a cloak that was too large and had once belonged to your mother. You looked at the stormy sea, but your eyes didn’t really see the waves. You no longer cried, the tears had dried up weeks ago, leaving only an icy emptiness that not even dragonfire could warm.
Jace stood in front of the fireplace, moving slowly through the hall, reviewing the remaining scrolls, absently touching the pommel of his grandfather’s sword. Every step he took echoed in the oppressive silence. There were no dragons roaring outside. Vermax was dead. Syrax too. Only the echo of the wind and the weak crackling of the fire remained.
You watched him all the time. You couldn’t help it. Even now, shattered and broken by the war, Jacaerys was still the most beautiful and painful thing you had ever seen, the way his shoulders tensed when he thought no one was looking, the way his fingers trembled slightly when holding a map, the depth of his gaze when he lost himself in memories he would never share aloud.
He approached the window where you were and stopped beside you, also looking at the sea. The silence between you was so dense it could almost be touched. You shared the same pain: the absence of your mother, your brothers, the cousins you had grown up with. You were the last ones. The only Targaryens left alive. Alone.
Jacaerys lowered his gaze to you. His eyes softened for an instant, that protective look he had always given you. He extended his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that broke you inside. Then, without saying anything, he sat down beside you on the wide windowsill, so close that you could feel the warmth of his body through your clothes.
He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes, exhausted. You leaned slightly toward him until your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t speak. You simply existed beside him, breathing the same rarefied air, sharing the same infinite grief.
Life was a gray and bloody wasteland, but at least you had him. And he had you.
The following weeks passed in a gray and cold haze. The ruins of Dragonstone witnessed a strange forced rebirth. The few loyal lords who remained insisted on the inevitable: the Targaryen dynasty hung by a thread, and only two dragons of pure blood remained alive: Jacaerys Velaryon and you.
The decision was made in one of the halls. Jace was to be crowned king. And you, his younger sister, would be crowned beside him as queen consort. The marriage was necessary. Obligatory. The only way to ensure that the blood of the dragon would not be extinguished forever.
You accepted it with a heart divided between painful joy and deep sadness. The idea of being his wife, of carrying his name not only as a sister but as queen, of one day giving him children with dark hair and eyes that mixed yours… that fantasy had visited you in forbidden dreams for years. Now it was becoming reality, but tinged with obligation.
Jace, on the other hand, hated it.
He told you the night before the coronation, in the same empty hall where they used to share silence. His voice was hoarse with contained fury and exhaustion. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want this. He saw you as his little sister, as the last piece of his shattered family, not as a woman to share a bed and a crown with. He was angry at the world, at the gods, at the lords who pushed him into this, and especially at himself for not being able to refuse. The obligation of blood was stronger than his will.
The ceremony was brief and austere, almost funereal. It was held at dawn in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, under a leaden sky that threatened storm. There were no cheering crowds, no banners waving in the wind, only a handful of witnesses wrapped in dark cloaks. The septon joined your hands with a red and black silk ribbon while reciting the ancient vows. Jace wore a simple crown of iron and gold. His face was tense, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the sea.
You wore a black dress with crimson edges, your hair loose falling like a cascade over your shoulders, and a smaller, more delicate crown was placed on your head.
When the septon declared you husband and wife, king and queen, you felt the world tilt. For an instant, a spark of genuine happiness pierced your chest. His wife. But when you looked at Jace, that spark died. His eyes held no warmth, only bitter resignation and mute rage. He didn’t kiss you and barely brushed your fingers when you were declared.
That same night, in the royal chambers they now shared out of obligation, the distance became an insurmountable abyss. Jace didn’t touch you. He didn’t even approach the great canopied bed that had been prepared with clean sheets and dried petals. He stood by the window, staring into the darkness, fists clenched at his sides.
He told you, in a low and cutting voice, that he was not going to consummate the marriage. You didn’t insist. You simply lay down on the opposite side of the enormous bed, giving him your back, and cried silently against the pillow until exhaustion overcame you. The love you felt for him burned stronger than ever, but now it hurt in a new way: he was your husband before gods and men, and yet he had never been further away.
The days that followed were an exercise in separate existence.
You lived under the same roof, governed together in the few audiences you had, signed decrees side by side… but you shared nothing else. Jace spent the mornings training with the sword in the courtyard, trying to regain the strength the war had stolen from him, and in the afternoons he locked himself in the map room, planning the reconstruction of a kingdom that barely existed. You dedicated yourself to organizing what little remained of the court, reading old books in the library, walking alone along the battlements whipped by the wind.
At night, you slept in the same room but in different worlds. He went to bed late, when he thought you were already asleep. You pretended to sleep so you wouldn’t have to face his silence. The distance was greater than ever. You were king and queen, husband and wife, the last dragons… and two strangers sharing an empty castle.
The months that followed were a slow thaw in the midst of the perpetual winter you inhabited. It wasn’t a sudden or passionate change. It was something more subtle, almost imperceptible. Jace stopped avoiding you so much and began seeking you out to share the main meals, though in silence. Sometimes, when you walked together along the battlements at sunset, he would talk to you about the plans to rebuild King’s Landing, about the letters arriving from the North, about how he intended to restore order. You listened attentively, answered briefly, and never pressed.
You accepted what he gave you: deep, protective, sincere brotherly affection. A tired smile at the end of the day, a gesture to adjust your cloak when the wind was too cold, a quiet conversation about the dragons that were no longer there. It was better than the icy distance of the first days.
It was better than nothing. And although your heart bled every night when you lay in the same bed without him touching you, you silently repeated to yourself that this brotherly love was enough. You didn’t want to anger him. You didn’t want him to pull away again. So you smiled, kept your head high, and kept your true love buried deep, like a fire hidden under ashes.
But the realm was not so discreet. Rumors spread quickly. A queen who, after months of marriage, still showed no signs of pregnancy. A barren union. An ill omen.
People whispered in the halls, in the kitchens, in the letters arriving from the North and the Vale. An heir was necessary. A symbol of hope for a shattered kingdom. Every moon that passed without your belly growing was another dagger in your chest. You knew the truth: Jace didn’t touch you. He didn’t want to. And that hurt more than any rumor, because it confirmed that even as his wife and queen, you were still just his little sister in his eyes.
Time passed, and that night the Red Keep hosted a great dinner in honor of the Starks. The ties with the North remained ironclad: Cregan Stark had fulfilled his oath and sent men, provisions, and unbreakable loyalty.
The long table in the Great Hall was filled with roasted venison, black bread, spiced wine, and dried fruits brought from the south. Torches cast shadows over the newly hung tapestries showing dragons and wolves together.
You were seated to Jace’s right, dressed in a deep black and red gown, the crown shining on your hair. Jace occupied the head of the table, and across from you sat Cregan Stark, imposing as always. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long dark hair and a well-trimmed beard that gave him a severe and attractive air. Beside him, his wife spoke in a low voice with one of the maesters, but Cregan didn’t seem to pay much attention.
His blue eyes, cold and piercing as winter, rested on you far too often.
You felt it. Every time you looked up, there they were: watching you with direct intensity, without disguise. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was interest. A gaze that traveled over your face, your neck, the way the dress hugged your figure, without caring that his wife was less than a foot away or that your husband, his friend and ally, sat right beside him.
Cregan Stark did not lower his gaze when you caught him looking. On the contrary, he tilted his head slightly, almost like a silent greeting, and the corners of his lips curved into the shadow of a serious smile.
Jace, beside you, seemed not to notice at first. He spoke with Cregan about the fortifications of the Wall and trade routes, gesturing seriously, but you felt the tension growing.
Part of you felt flattered, seen in a way Jace had never seen you. Another part felt guilty, sad, furious, because the only man you wanted to look at you that way was beside you, talking politics, and only gave you brotherly, concerned glances.
The dinner progressed and the spiced wine flowed generously. The northern musicians brought by the Stark entourage began to play a slow, deep melody, the kind that invited movement more than conversation.
Cregan stood up, extended a large, calloused hand toward you, and bowed his head in a respectful but firm reverence.
You hesitated for only a second. You glanced sideways at Jace, who was still talking with one of his advisors, then accepted the hand of the Wolf of the North. His fingers closed around yours with warmth and security. You rose, feeling the eyes of the entire hall on you, and walked with him to the center of the hall where others were already turning gently.
Jace noticed.
His conversation cut off mid-sentence. His eyes fixed on you as Cregan placed a firm hand on your waist and the other held yours possessively. The music enveloped you and you began to move.
Cregan danced well for a northerner. His steps were sure, controlled, and he guided you with a soft but undeniable pressure on the small of your back. His hand there was large and hot even through the fabric of your dress. He drew you a little closer than strictly necessary for a formal dance, enough for you to feel the heat of his body and the faint scent of leather, pine, and hearth smoke that emanated from him.
For the first time in a long time, you laughed. It was a low, genuine laugh, provoked by something Cregan murmured in your ear as you turned. His lips were close to your temple, his deep, hoarse voice barely audible over the music. You spoke in low voices, almost whispers, heads tilted toward each other. No one else could hear.
His hands didn’t stay completely still. The one resting on your waist slid slightly with each turn, tracing a possessive path over the curve of your hip. It wasn’t scandalous, but it was intimate, too intimate. His fingers pressed with a firmness that made you aware of every point of contact: his thumb brushing just below your ribs, his open palm covering much of your lower back.
From the high table, Jace watched. He no longer pretended to pay attention to the conversation. His wine cup was forgotten on the table, his knuckles white around the stem, and his gaze followed every movement: the way you laughed with Cregan, how your head tilted toward him to listen better to his whispered words, how the northerner’s body pressed against yours in the tighter turns.
His expression was a dangerous mix of surprise, disgust, and something darker he couldn’t name.
Cregan, aware he was being watched, did not pull away. On the contrary, he spun you with more grace, drawing you even closer during a prolonged moment. His warm breath brushed your ear as he murmured another phrase in a low voice. You laughed again, a light, almost forgotten laugh, and for an instant you allowed yourself to enjoy the feeling of being seen, desired, treated like a woman and not like a little sister who needed protecting.
The dance ended with a final deep note from the musicians. Cregan still held your hand when he bowed his head and murmured one last phrase in your ear, something about the honor of dancing with the most beautiful queen he had ever seen. You smiled politely, your heart beating hard from the attention received.
Then came the sharp thud.
Jacaerys rose so abruptly that his chair fell backward with a crash that echoed through the entire Great Hall. All conversations ceased. Heads turned. Cups stopped halfway. The King of the Seven Kingdoms stood with his face hardened by fury, his eyes fixed on you and Cregan.
Without saying a word, Jace turned on his heel and began walking with long strides toward the exit of the hall, his black cloak billowing behind him.
You released Cregan’s hand immediately, murmuring a hurried apology, and ran after your husband. You felt the eyes of the entire court on your back, the Starks, the lords, the servants, but you could only follow Jace.
You caught up to him in the hallway leading to the royal chambers. His steps were furious. He didn’t stop and didn’t look at you.
“Jace…” you called, almost breathless.
He didn’t respond. He kept walking until you reached the doors of your private chambers. He pushed the heavy oak door with such force that it slammed against the wall. You entered behind him and closed the door behind you. The silence inside the room was immediate and suffocating. Only the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the agitated breathing of both of you could be heard.
Jace stopped in the center of the room, giving you his back for a moment. Then he turned sharply.
“What the hell was that?” he spat, his voice low but laden with rage. “You were laughing with him? You let him touch you like that in front of the entire court? In front of me?”
You stayed near the door, your hands trembling.
“It was just a dance, Jace. Cregan is our ally. His house has helped us rebuild all of this. I couldn’t refuse without offending him.”
“A dance?” he repeated with disbelief, taking a step closer. “His hands were on your waist as if you were his. He was whispering in your ear and you were laughing as if… as if you were enjoying it. In front of me? In front of your king? Your husband?”
The word “husband” came out of his mouth with bitterness. You felt something break inside you. The tears you had been holding back for months began to rise.
“My husband?” you replied, your voice breaking. “Since when am I your wife, Jacaerys? We’ve been married for months and you haven’t even touched me. You sleep beside me as if I were a stranger and you look at me as if I were still your little sister who needs protecting. And now it bothers you that another man looks at me like a woman?”
Jace clenched his jaw, fists tight at his sides.
“That’s not it. Cregan Stark is my friend, but he has no right to…”
“To what?” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “To make me laugh? To look at me as if he truly sees me? You don’t see me, Jace. You’ve never seen me. You accepted me as queen because they forced you to, because we are the last ones. But you don’t want me as a wife, and I… I accepted it. I’ve accepted every crumb of brotherly affection you give me because I prefer that to losing you completely.”
The tears were already running down your cheeks. You tried to wipe them with the back of your hand, but they wouldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken. “I’m sorry I danced with him. I’m sorry I laughed. I’m sorry my belly is still empty and the court whispers about it. I’m sorry I love you in this stupid and painful way when you only see me as an obligation. I’m sorry for everything, Jace. But I can’t bear this silence anymore. I can’t bear being your queen in name only.”
Jace stared at you. For the first time in a long time, his expression cracked. The fury was still there, but beneath it was confusion, guilt, and something deeper he couldn’t name. He took another step toward you but stopped halfway, as if unsure whether to approach or pull away.
“It’s not that simple…” he murmured, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You are my sister. You grew up beside me. I watched you grow. And now… now I look at you and I don’t know what to feel. All of this…”’he gestured to the room, to the crown you still wore “was imposed on me. Just like on you. But seeing you with him… seeing you laugh like that…”
He fell silent, breathing heavily. You continued crying silently, shoulders shaking, not daring to get any closer.
“I just want you to love me, Jace…” The words came out trembling, almost inaudible. “Just… love me truly, even if it’s only a little.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes for a moment, as if your words had driven a dagger into his chest. When he opened them again, his gaze was bright and tormented.
“The gods know how much I love you,” he murmured in a hoarse, almost broken voice. “I have loved you my whole life. I protected you. I cared for you… but I never allowed myself to see you this way.”
He took the final step that separated you. His hand rose slowly to your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. His fingers trembled slightly.
“And damn the gods and this imposed marriage,” he whispered, “because yes, I do love you. More than I should. More than I ever dared to admit.”
Before you could respond, Jace tilted his head and kissed you.
It was a desperate, urgent kiss, as if he had been holding it back for years. His lips were warm and firm against yours, laden with all the frustration, longing, and repressed love. One hand sank into your hair, holding you possessively, while the other rested on your waist, pulling you against his body with strength.
You froze for a second, eyes wide with surprise. Your heart beat so hard you thought it would burst from your chest. This isn’t happening, your dazed mind thought. But then the heat of his mouth, the familiar taste of him mixed with wine and desperation, pierced you like Valyrian fire.
You returned the kiss. Your hands rose to his chest, clinging to the fabric of his black tunic as if afraid he would disappear. You stood on tiptoe, returning the kiss with all the passion you had kept silent for so long. Your lips moved against his with greed, tenderness, and hunger. The tears kept falling, but now they were different: of relief, of overflowing love, of happy disbelief.
Jace let out a low sound, almost a growl, and deepened the kiss. His tongue brushed yours shyly at first, then with more urgency. He pressed you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more intense, more desperate, as if both were trying to recover lost time in a single caress.
When you finally separated, barely a few inches apart, your foreheads rested against each other. Both of you were breathing heavily, your eyes shining with a new emotion, darker and more tender at the same time.
“Don’t cry anymore,” he whispered against your lips, wiping another tear with his thumb.
You could only nod, your heart racing and your lips still tingling from his kiss.
Jace kissed you again, this time softer, slower. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that contrasted with the urgency of the first kiss. It was as if he were savoring something he had denied for too long. One of his hands cradled your cheek while the other rested on your waist, holding you carefully.
You sighed against his mouth, your heart pounding. When you separated barely an inch, you whispered in a trembling voice laden with desire.
“More… Jace, please… I want more.”
He stopped, breathing heavily against your lips. His eyes searched yours with intensity, looking for any trace of doubt.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a low, almost hoarse voice. “We don’t have to…”
“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, looking at him with all the devotion and love you had kept for years. “I’m sure. I want you. Only you.”
That seemed to break the last thread of restraint he had left.
Jace kissed you again, deeper, while his hands rose to the laces and clasps of your dress. With fingers somewhat clumsy from emotion, he undid them one by one. The heavy black and red fabric slid from your shoulders, then from your torso, finally falling to the floor with a soft whisper. The inner chemise followed the same path until you were completely naked before him, illuminated only by the golden light of the hearth fire.
Jace stepped back and looked at you. His eyes traveled over your body with reverence, as if he were seeing something sacred.
“Gods…” he murmured, his voice full of admiration. “You are beautiful. More beautiful than I ever imagined.”
His words made you blush to your ears, but they also ignited a deep heat in your belly. He approached again and kissed you with renewed passion, his hands exploring your bare skin with delicacy: tracing your back, sliding down your sides, caressing the curve of your hips as if he wanted to memorize you.
He slowly guided you toward the great canopied bed. Your legs trembled as you lay back on the fresh sheets. Jace quickly removed his tunic, leaving his torso bare and revealing the war scars that marked his body. He climbed onto the bed and positioned himself over you carefully, supporting his weight on his forearms.
You felt a knot of nerves in your stomach. Despite all the desire, fear appeared.
“Jace…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m scared.”
He stopped immediately. He rested his forehead against yours, looking at you with such tenderness that it almost broke your heart.
“Trust me,” he murmured softly, kissing your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips with infinite patience. “Everything is going to be all right. I’ll go slowly. If you want me to stop, just tell me. You are my wife… and I love you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His words calmed some of the fear. You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. Jace kissed you again, deep and reassuring, while his hands continued to caress you with devotion, preparing you patiently for what was to come.
Jace kissed you slowly, savoring every sigh that escaped your lips. His hands roamed your body with devotion: he caressed your breasts tenderly, brushing your nipples with his thumbs until they hardened under his touch. He lowered his mouth down your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and then took one of your breasts between his lips, sucking gently while his tongue played with the sensitive skin.
You moaned, arching your back. A liquid heat gathered between your legs, intense and unknown. Every caress from him sent waves of pleasure through your entire body. His fingers slid down your belly, tracing soft circles, until they reached your center. He caressed you there with patience, sliding a finger between your already wet folds, rubbing that sensitive spot that made you gasp his name.
“Jace…” you whispered, trembling.
“Shh… let me take care of you,” he murmured against your skin, carefully inserting a finger, moving it slowly inside you while his thumb continued to stimulate you.
He added a second finger shortly after, stretching you gently, preparing you. The pleasure was overwhelming; you felt your body growing wetter and wetter for him, your inner walls contracting around his fingers.
When he felt you were ready enough, Jace sat up a little and removed the rest of his clothes. His member was hard, thick, and heavy against his belly. You looked at it and a knot of nerves tightened in your stomach.
“It’s… it’s very big,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t think it will fit, Jace.”
He leaned over you, kissing you deeply as he aligned his member at your entrance. The thick head pressed gently against your wet opening.
“Trust me, my love,” he said in a hoarse voice, looking into your eyes. “It will fit. Your body was made for mine. I’ll go very slowly. Breathe.”
He pushed carefully, only the tip. You gasped sharply, feeling a slight burning as he stretched you. It was an intense pressure, almost too much, but beneath that sensation a deep pleasure began to bloom. Jace stopped, giving you time, kissing your neck and whispering words of love.
“Like that… very good,” he murmured. “Relax for me.”
Little by little, inch by inch, he entered you. You felt every vein, every pulse of his thickness opening a path inside your tight heat. It was an overwhelming sensation: full, complete, almost too much. You moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“Jace… it’s so much…” you gasped.
“You’re so tight and hot…” he growled against your ear, restraining himself with effort. “Gods, it feels incredible. Perfect for me.”
When he was finally fully buried inside you, both of you let out a long moan. He stayed still, letting you adjust to his size. The feeling of being so full was strange but exquisite, the initial slight pain quickly transformed into a deep, pulsating pleasure that radiated from your center throughout your entire body.
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in. Every time he entered, he brushed a spot inside you that made you see stars. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper.
“It feels… so good,” you whispered between gasps, surprised by how pleasurable it was. “Jace… more…”
He gradually increased the rhythm, but always with control, watching you to make sure you only felt pleasure. His hips collided against yours with a steady, deep rhythm. The wet sound of your bodies joining filled the room along with your moans.
“You are mine,” he growled against your neck, gently biting your skin. “My queen. My wife.”
“Jace… please… I want you to fill me. I want to carry your baby.”
He froze for a second, surprised. His eyes darkened immediately, a spark of pure animal desire crossing his gaze.
“What did you say?” he asked in a hoarse voice, almost breathless, as if he needed to hear it again.
You looked him directly in the eyes, without shame, while tightening your inner walls around his still-hard member.
“I want you to fill me,” you repeated, clearer this time, your voice broken by desire. “I want to carry your child. I want you to fill me again and again until my belly grows with your seed… please, Jace.”
A low, deep growl escaped his throat. Something primal awakened in him.
“Gods…” he murmured, biting your lower lip. “You have no idea what you’re asking me.”
His thrusts became deeper, more deliberate, as if he wanted to imprint himself in the deepest part of you. He pulled out almost completely and sank back in with a sharp thrust of his hips that made you moan loudly.
“You want a baby…” he growled against your neck, accelerating the rhythm. “You want my seed to take root in your womb, don’t you? For the whole realm to know you’re mine… that you’re swollen with my child.”
“Yes…” you gasped, digging your nails into his back. “Yes, Jace. Please… fill me.”
His movements became more intense, almost wild, but still controlled. Every thrust was deep and precise, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. His hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you in place as he penetrated you again and again.
“You’re going to look so beautiful…” he whispered against your ear, his voice broken with pleasure. “With your breasts full, your belly round and heavy with my heir. Everyone will know I fucked you until I was exhausted. My queen. My wife. The mother of my children.”
You felt the pleasure growing and growing, a hot wave accumulating in your lower belly. Every thrust brought you closer to the edge. Jace slid a hand between you and rubbed that sensitive spot while continuing to thrust into you with controlled force.
The orgasm hit you hard. You tightened around him, screaming his name as waves of intense pleasure coursed through your entire body, contracting rhythmically around his member.
Jace held on for only a few seconds more before following you, sinking deeply one last time and spilling inside you with a long, hoarse groan, filling you with his heat. He collapsed over you carefully, supporting his weight on his forearms, breathing heavily against your neck.
He stayed buried deep inside, not pulling out, keeping his seed within you while he caressed your belly with an open hand, pressing gently as if he could already imagine how it would swell.
“Stay like this…” he whispered in a hoarse voice, kissing your nape. “I want it all to stay inside. I want your womb to take every last drop and grow with my child.”
Both of you trembled. He kissed you tenderly, again and again, while your bodies were still joined.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “I truly love you.”
You could only hold him tighter, with tears of emotion and pleasure in your eyes, feeling for the first time that you were truly his in every sense.
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summary: A night with Dean was a mistake and you knew it the next day when you found out that he was messing with your sister but things didn't end there
tw and word counter: (5,0k) none
The morning was cool and the sun was just starting to peek over the campus buildings. Two days had passed since that night, since you let yourself get carried away again by Dean in that messy room on the second floor, and you hadn’t heard anything from him since.
Not a single message, not a casual glance on campus, absolutely nothing.
You knew how he was, so his silence didn’t surprise you.
In fact, you almost welcomed it, or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself as you adjusted the strings of your racket. You had gotten up before dawn, the clock read 6:45 when you arrived at the tennis courts in the sports complex. The place was almost empty, with only a few runners in the distance and the distant sound of a lawnmower.
You put on your headphones, turned up the volume on a chill playlist, and started warming up. Balls against the wall, footwork drills, forehands and backhands. The steady rhythm of tennis had always helped clear your mind. Every hit was a way to release the frustration.
You had missed two classes that morning: American Literature and Introduction to Psychology. It wasn’t the first time. In reality, tennis was taking up more hours than you should allow yourself in your first year, but classes felt… empty. Boring. You preferred to be here, sweating under the rising sun, feeling your muscles work and your mind go quiet for a while.
If you wanted to be the best, you had to train.
After almost an hour and a half of intense training, you sat down on one of the side benches, drinking water while trying to catch your breath. Sweat ran down the back of your neck and between your shoulder blades. You were wearing your favorite training outfit: a short white tennis skirt and a black sports top that clung to your skin.
You were taking out your phone to check the time when a message from your friend Mika arrived:
Mika: Where are you? I looked for you in Literature and you weren’t there. Everything okay?
You: Training. Time got away from me. Did something important happen?
Mika: Nah, just that the professor announced a group project. I’ll send you the details later.
You sighed and stood up to pack your things. The sun was already higher. You decided to take a long walk around campus before heading back to the dorm. You needed to clear your head a little more.
You walked along the tree-lined paths with your racket hanging from your shoulder and your hair still damp with sweat, tied in a high ponytail. The campus was starting to fill with students heading to their 9 a.m. classes.
And then you saw him.
Dean was sitting at a table surrounded by three guys from the hockey team, laughing at something one of his friends said. For a second, your steps faltered.
He hadn’t seen you yet. You could turn around, take another path, avoid him completely. It would be the smartest thing to do, but just as you were considering that option, Dean looked up and his eyes met yours.
His laughter faded slowly. The arrogant expression he usually wore disappeared for a moment, replaced by something more intense, more serious. He looked you up and down: the tennis skirt, your legs still glistening with sweat, the top clinging to your body.
For a second your stomach tightened, but you didn’t stop. You lowered your gaze and kept walking along the path, determined to avoid him. You were so focused on not looking at him that you didn’t see the guy coming in the opposite direction.
The collision was soft but enough. Your racket, water bottle, and bag fell to the ground.
“Shit, sorry,” he said immediately, bending down to help you pick everything up.
“No problem,” you replied quickly, also crouching down. “It was my fault, I was distracted.”
The guy handed you the racket and bottle with an embarrassed smile. He was tall, with short dark brown hair and brown eyes. He was wearing sports clothes: jogging pants and a university t-shirt.
“Still, sorry. I should’ve watched where I was going,” he insisted, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m Ethan, by the way.”
You smiled slightly. “No problem, really. I’m […].”
Dean, from his table, watched the entire scene in silence. His expression had changed. He wasn’t laughing with his friends anymore. His jaw was slightly tense and his eyes followed every movement you and Ethan made.
Ethan looked at your racket with interest.
“You just came from playing tennis?”
“Yeah, I just finished at the court.”
“You can tell you train seriously,” he commented, impressed. “Are you on the university team?”
“There’s no team here. I’m working to get into the top 100 ranking.”
Ethan raised his eyebrows, surprised.
“Wow, that’s pretty ambitious. Don’t you think it’s a really difficult goal?”
You shrugged with confidence.
“It might be, but I don’t care. I know I’m good and I train a lot. If I keep going like this, I’ll make it.”
Ethan nodded, looking at you with curiosity.
“And how do you manage with classes? Training at that level must take up a lot of time.”
“I don’t go to many, to be honest,” you admitted sincerely. “This first year I prioritized tennis. I know it’s not ideal, but…”
“I get it,” he said, smiling a little. “I’m on the track team, so I know what that balance is like. What are you studying?”
“Political Science.”
“Sounds interesting. Must be pretty demanding.”
“It is,” you replied with a small laugh. “But I like some things.”
There was a brief, comfortable silence. Ethan scratched the back of his neck, as if thinking about what to say.
“Well… I have to go,” you said, pointing toward the path to the dorm. “I still need to shower and see what I missed in classes today.”
“Of course. Hey…” he hesitated for a second, “if you want, someday we could train together. I run in the mornings and then do strength training. It might be nice to have company on the courts.”
You thought about it for just a moment. Ethan seemed nice and calm.
“Sounds good,” you accepted with a soft smile.
“Great,” he took out his phone. “Can I have your number? I’ll text you and we’ll coordinate.”
You exchanged numbers. You said goodbye with a friendly gesture and continued walking toward the dorm.
From one of the outdoor tables at the cafeteria, Dean had witnessed the entire interaction. His jaw was tense and his gaze stayed fixed on you as you walked away, not missing a single detail.
After exchanging numbers with Ethan, you felt a heavy stare on you. You turned your head slightly and Dean was looking at you. He was watching you intently, his expression serious, almost dark, and he didn’t look away even when your eyes met.
Your heart skipped a beat. Without thinking twice, you quickened your pace and walked faster toward the dorm, feeling his gaze piercing your back until you turned the corner.
You arrived at your room agitated. Mika wasn’t there, so you took the chance to shower peacefully. You let the hot water relax your tired muscles from training, trying not to think about anything.
When you got out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, you grabbed your phone that was on the bed. You had a new message.
Dean: Already replacing me so fast?
You read it and felt a knot in your stomach, but you didn’t reply. You left the phone face down on the desk and started getting ready: you put on comfortable clothes, dried your hair, and began choosing what to wear for the rest of the day.
You were still in the bathroom, finishing combing your hair, when you heard the door of the room open.
“Hello? Are you there?” It was Allie’s voice.
“Yeah, I’m in the bathroom,” you replied, trying to sound normal. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask if you’ve seen my black hoodie. I think I left it here last time I came over.”
“I haven’t seen it, but you can look for it if you want,” you said while applying cream to your face in front of the mirror.
Allie started rummaging through some things in the room while you kept talking about random stuff. You answered from the bathroom, trying to keep the conversation light.
Suddenly, there was a second of silence.
“Hey, and this playlist you have on? It’s good. Can you pass me your phone so I can see the name of the song?”
Before you could react, you heard her pick up your phone from the table.
Panic flooded you. You practically ran out of the bathroom wearing only an oversized t-shirt.
“Wait!” you said, too quickly. You approached and snatched the phone from her hands in a clumsy movement. “I… I’ll send it to you.”
Allie looked at you strangely, with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s wrong with you? I just wanted to see the song.”
“Nothing, nothing,” you stammered, forcing a smile while nervously unlocking the phone. “It’s just… I wanted to change the music. This playlist already bored me. Let me put on another one.”
Your heart was pounding. You knew Dean’s unread message was still on the notification screen. If Allie had seen it…
She looked at you for a few more seconds, clearly suspecting something weird was going on, but eventually shrugged.
“Alright, weirdo,” she said laughing. “But tell me what song was playing, I liked it.”
You sat on the bed, still holding the phone tightly, trying to hide the trembling. Guilt and nerves mixed in your chest while you changed the playlist as an excuse.
Allie kept looking for a while longer until she let out a small victorious cry.
“Here it is!” she said, pulling her gray hoodie from under your bed. “I knew I left it here. Thanks.”
“No problem,” you replied, still sitting on the bed gripping the phone.
Allie put on the sweatshirt and looked at you for a second, smiling.
“Well, I’m leaving. I have class in twenty minutes. See you later?”
“Yeah, sure,” you said, forcing a smile.
As soon as Allie closed the door behind her, you let out all the air you had been holding. You looked at your phone and, after hesitating for a few seconds, opened the conversation with Dean.
You typed with slightly shaky fingers:
You: Dean, I don’t want you to talk to me anymore. This has to stop. I’m going to block you.
You sent it and stared at the screen, heart beating hard.
Dean’s reply came less than a minute later:
Dean: Are you sure about that?
You stared at the message. Reading it over and over. You felt a lump in your throat and an uncomfortable warmth in your chest. You knew you should block him right then, but your fingers wouldn’t move. Instead, you left the conversation without replying and put the phone aside.
You sighed and decided to continue with your day. You finished getting ready, picked up your notes and books, trying to focus on what was coming: a class in Introduction to Political Science that you didn’t want to miss entirely.
A while later, Mika entered the room with her usual energy.
“Ready? We’re late,” she said, grabbing her backpack.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” you replied, putting your phone in your bag.
You left with Mika toward the classroom building, walking along the campus paths. She talked animatedly about Ryan and how things had progressed with him the other night at the party, but you could only nod and smile half-heartedly. Your mind was elsewhere.
Every time your phone vibrated in your bag, you felt a small jump in your stomach, but you didn’t take it out to check.
You arrived just in time for class. You sat next to Mika, opened your notebook, and tried to pay attention to what the professor was saying, although your head kept spinning.
The class ended without you fully realizing it. You left the classroom with Mika, chatting, when your phone vibrated with a campus notification.
It was a message from the dean’s office: they asked you to come to his office as soon as possible.
You felt a knot in your stomach. You knew exactly what it was about. You arrived at the dean’s office a few minutes later. The man, about fifty years old with a serious expression, received you sitting behind his desk.
“Sit down, please,” he said without preamble. “I’ve reviewed your attendance this semester. You’ve missed more than 40% of the classes in American Literature and Psychology, and you also have several absences in Political Science. Is there any problem we should know about?”
You tried to defend yourself as best you could.
“It’s just… I’m training. I try to catch up on the material on my own, but sometimes it’s hard to match the schedules.”
The dean looked at you with patience, but firmness.
“I understand that sports are important, and the university values that. However, you’re in your first year. If you keep missing classes like this, it’s going to become a serious problem. Your grades are already starting to suffer and we can’t make indefinite exceptions. I need you to increase your class attendance. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I understand,” you replied, lowering your gaze.
“Good. I expect to see improvement from now on. You may leave.”
You left the office with a mix of frustration and guilt. You knew he was right, but tennis was the only thing keeping you centered lately.
The rest of the day passed normally and quite calmly. You ate with Mika, made some progress on pending readings, and trained in the afternoon. At night you went to bed early, exhausted both physically and mentally.
The next day you were having breakfast in the dorm when your phone vibrated. It was a message from Ethan.
Ethan: Hey! How are you? I wanted to ask where you train so I can stop by someday and we can meet up.
You smiled slightly. It was a simple and nice message, so you replied after a few seconds:
You: Hi Ethan. I train at the sports complex courts, mostly early mornings around 7. I’m usually there for about two hours. When would work for you?
After replying to Ethan, you finished breakfast, grabbed your sports bag, and walked to the tennis courts. The morning air was still fresh and the campus was half asleep, quiet at that hour.
You arrived around seven fifteen, left your things on the usual bench, and started your routine: warm-up, footwork exercises, some baseline shots, and then serves.
The constant sound of the ball against the racket ended up calming you more than you expected. For a while, only your breathing, the movement of your feet, and the exact force of each shot existed.
You didn’t even look at your phone. You had left it on silent inside your bag.
While you were training, Dean kept sending messages.
Dean: Are you really going to block me?
Dean: I don’t believe you.
Dean: Answer me.
But none were read.
You were finishing a series of serves when you saw someone approaching from the side of the court. It was Ethan, dressed in sports clothes with a backpack over his shoulder. As soon as he saw you, he raised a hand with a relaxed smile.
“Hi,” he greeted as he got closer to the fence. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
You wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand and smiled at him, a little surprised.
“Hi, Ethan. You’re not interrupting. Want to play?”
He let out a small laugh as he left his backpack on the bench.
“Sure, although I warn you my tennis level is pretty bad. But I can chase balls, that I’m good at.”
You laughed softly.
“Perfect, then you already have a job. Come on, I’ll explain.”
Ethan entered the court and you started training together. At first it was a bit clumsy, but he learned quickly and didn’t take it too seriously when he missed a shot. He ran for the balls, returned some pretty decent ones, and between exercises, conversation started flowing naturally.
“You play incredibly,” Ethan commented after a while, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Seriously. You can tell you’ve been doing this for years.”
You adjusted the tension of your racket strings before answering.
“Yeah, I basically grew up on a court. And you? Just track?”
“Mainly. Although I like trying new things. And honestly… this is way more fun than I expected.”
You smiled faintly before taking a ball from the cart.
“Then I’m officially making you my training partner.”
Ethan let out a soft laugh, but then seemed to remember something.
“Hey… I wanted to ask you something.” He looked at you with some hesitation. “Is Allie your sister?”
You nodded while adjusting your racket grip.
“Yeah. Why?”
He frowned slightly, clearly surprised.
“I don’t know… it’s just that you don’t look alike at all. Not physically or in personality.”
You couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“Yeah, people tell us that pretty often.”
You spun the ball between your fingers before continuing.
“We have different mothers. And besides… I think my mom influenced me a lot more in how I turned out. I spent more time with her than with my dad, so I guess that’s a big part of the difference.”
Ethan nodded slowly, as if that finally made sense.
“Now I get it. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“I know,” you replied with a small smile. “Trust me, it would be weird if someone knew us and didn’t ask that question.”
The conversation continued flowing naturally after that. Ethan was calm, effortlessly funny, and respected silences without making them awkward.
The following days passed in a routine you tried to keep stable. You didn’t talk to Dean again, no messages, no calls, not even glances. You had left his last conversation on read and, although you hadn’t blocked him yet, you promised yourself you wouldn’t fall into the same thing again.
In the mornings you trained with Ethan.
At first they only coincided a couple of times a week, but little by little it became a habit. He almost always showed up with coffee for both of you. He wasn’t exactly a tennis prodigy, but he had energy, patience, and a natural ease that made everything feel lighter.
He picked up balls, helped you with resistance drills, and between breaks you talked about anything: training, annoying professors, bad movies you ended up watching anyway, or embarrassing college stories.
“You play better every day,” Ethan commented one morning while you walked around the court picking up balls. “It’s scary to face you now.”
You let out a soft laugh while drying the sweat from your neck with the towel.
“And you’re leaving fewer balls in the net every time. I’m proud.”
“That’s practically a love declaration coming from you.”
You threw a ball at his chest and Ethan pretended to have been shot.
The ease with which you talked was starting to please you more than you wanted to admit. With Ethan you didn’t feel pressure. There were no weird games, tense silences, or that constant feeling of waiting for everything to explode.
With Dean it was always different because, even if you didn’t talk, you kept running into him everywhere.
The first time your eyes met after that night, you felt your stomach drop. Dean watched you fixedly, without looking away, as if he was waiting for you to be the one to break the silence. But you lowered your gaze and kept walking, as if it didn’t affect you, as if you didn’t perfectly remember his hands on your waist or the way he had said your name that night.
And that seemed to irritate him even more.
Dean Di Laurentis was used to getting attention without effort. Girls sought him out, smiled at him, found excuses to talk to him. You, on the other hand, acted as if he didn’t exist.
You noticed it in the way he clenched his jaw every time he saw you with Ethan. Especially when Ethan made you laugh.
One morning, you were sitting on the grass near the courts while Ethan talked about one of his track teammates. He had just said something ridiculous and you let out a loud laugh right when you saw Dean crossing the sports complex with some friends.
Your eyes met for just a second and Dean slowed his steps slightly. His gaze dropped to Ethan’s hand, which was resting too close to your leg, and something dark crossed his expression before he continued walking.
You felt an uncomfortable pressure in your chest, and the worst part was realizing that you weren’t indifferent either because later, when leaving a class, you saw Dean leaning against a wall in the humanities building talking to a blonde girl. She was laughing too loudly and had a hand on his arm.
Dean didn’t even seem interested in the conversation and yet, something inside you immediately tensed up. So you looked away before he noticed you had seen him, annoyed with yourself for feeling that absurd pang of jealousy.
You had no right.
Not after deciding to keep your distance, but still, every time you saw him with someone else, you felt an unpleasant twinge in your chest and it seemed like Dean felt exactly the same about you.
One afternoon, while you were walking toward the dorm with Mika, Dean appeared coming the opposite way with two friends. As he passed by you, his shoulder barely brushed yours.
The contact was minimal, but enough for the air to catch in your lungs. You felt his familiar perfume and all the memories came rushing back. You kept walking without looking at him. Dean didn’t say anything either, although you noticed how he slightly turned his head to watch you walk away.
You didn’t want anyone to know what had happened between you two. Not Mika, and especially not Allie. That’s why you kept ignoring him even when it was harder than you were willing to admit.
One morning, a few days later, your phone vibrated on the desk while you were trying to concentrate on some notes you had been staring at for too long without really reading.
You frowned when you saw the sender.
Dean’s Office Secretary.
Your stomach immediately sank.
“Great…” you muttered.
You didn’t even need to open the message to know it wasn’t good, and yet you did.
“You are requested to appear at the dean’s office at 10:30 a.m.”
You sighed deeply and leaned your head back because you had tried to improve, you really had.
You had started attending more classes, turned in some overdue assignments, and had even stopped making excuses to miss. But the previous weeks had been a disaster, and the accumulated absences were still there, impossible to erase.
At the appointed time, you walked to the administrative building with an unpleasant feeling lodged in your chest.
When you arrived, the secretary told you to go in. The dean was sitting behind his desk reviewing some documents and looked up when you entered.
“We meet again.”
It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome.
“Yeah, it seems so.”
You sat down in front of him while trying not to fidget with the sleeves of your sweatshirt.
“Your attendance has improved slightly,” he continued, “but it’s still below acceptable.”
Your heart started racing.
“I understand.”
“That’s why we’ve decided to take more concrete measures.”
There it was. You mentally prepared yourself to hear something about mandatory tutoring, extra assignments, or cleaning facilities. Anything but that.
“During the next few weeks you will perform support tasks for the university hockey team.”
“What?”
“You will help with training sessions, events, organization of sports equipment, and any task the coach deems necessary.”
You looked at him as if he had just spoken in another language.
“I… I don’t want to do that.”
The dean raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean…” you corrected yourself quickly. “Isn’t there another option? I can do extra work. Help in the library. Organize files. Anything.”
Anything, because there was a huge problem with that idea. A problem of almost six-foot-four, with an arrogant smile and eyes impossible to ignore.
Dean.
The dean shook his head.
“It’s not negotiable.”
Your hope died instantly.
“The team needs additional support for several important events. This will be your responsibility for the next few weeks.”
“But…”
“And if you don’t comply, the academic consequences will be considerably more severe.”
You stared at the desk for a few seconds. You were trapped. Completely trapped.
“Understood,” you finally murmured.
“Good. You may leave.”
You left the office with slightly weak legs. The fresh outside air hit your face, but it didn’t help much. You kept walking aimlessly around campus while trying to process what had just happened, because you knew exactly what it meant.
You were going to see Dean. A lot. Actually, way too much. Dean was always there and now you were going to be there too.
Until that moment you had managed to keep some distance, ignored his messages, avoided looking for him, done everything possible to convince yourself that what happened between you two had been a mistake. A huge one, that should never have been repeated, but now… now you had nowhere to hide.
And that terrified you because one part of you was still angry and felt used, but there was another part, a much harder one to control, the one that remembered exactly how his voice sounded when he spoke only to you, the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching, the ease with which he managed to tear down all your defenses. And you hated admitting it, you really hated it.
But you had missed him, even if you tried to convince yourself otherwise, even if you knew it was a terrible idea, even if Allie existed.
You had missed him.
You stopped in the middle of the path that crossed the campus. Students walked around you without paying attention. You took a deep breath.
“This is going to be a disaster.”
Because you knew Dean and you knew yourself, and you knew perfectly well that neither of you were good at keeping your distance, especially when you were forced to spend time together.
The next day you got up very early, much earlier than usual. The sun was barely rising when you arrived at the sports complex. The coach was already waiting for you on the ice rink.
“You’re punctual. I like that,” he said, handing you a list of tasks. “Today you’re going to help me get everything ready before the guys arrive. Place the water bottles, organize the cones and stretching bars, and check that the protective equipment is ready.”
You nodded and got to work. The place was silent, only the hum of the lights and the distant sound of the machine keeping the ice in perfect condition could be heard. For the moment, you were calm. There was no one else. Just you, the coach, and the cold seeping through your sweatshirt.
You followed his instructions carefully: you arranged the bottles, prepared the trays with sports drinks, and placed the equipment. You tried to focus only on the work, but deep down you knew it was only a matter of time before Dean appeared.
And then he arrived.
The locker room door opened and Dean entered the rink with his bag over his shoulder, wearing training pants and a fitted thermal t-shirt that highlighted his shoulders and arms. His blond hair was still a little messy, as if he had just woken up.
His eyes found you almost immediately. For a second, both of you just stared at each other. Neither said anything. You quickly lowered your gaze to the bottles you were arranging, but you felt him still watching you as he approached the bench.
“Di Laurentis,” the coach called. “Come here for a moment.”
Dean approached unhurriedly, but his gaze kept returning to you every few seconds.
“This is […],” the coach said, pointing at you. “She’s going to help us for the next few weeks with organization and support tasks. She has to fulfill an academic requirement, so treat her well and make her job easier. Understood?”
Dean looked at you directly. His expression was unreadable, but there was an intense gleam in his eyes.
“Understood, Coach,” he replied in a calm voice, almost too calm.
The coach continued explaining some more things about what he would need from you during training, but you could barely concentrate. You felt Dean’s presence just a few meters away, watching you from time to time.
When the coach stepped away for a moment to take a call, Dean moved a little closer and lowered his voice so only you could hear him.
“So now you’re going to be here every day?” he asked, with that half-arrogant smile you knew so well.
You didn’t answer. You just looked at him for a second and went back to what you were doing, pretending his presence didn’t affect you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: Logan is jealous of seeing you with someone else
tw and word counter: (3,0k) smut, jealousy, sex without protection (use protection please)
The music was booming throughout Garrett and Dean's house. The party was at its peak, with the living room full of people laughing, dancing, and talking loudly.
You had just arrived, and the looks didn't go unnoticed. Your Wonder Woman costume was much sexier than usual: the red and gold corset hugged your figure perfectly, highlighting your waist and enhancing your chest. The blue shorts with white stars, the high boots, and the golden tiara completed the look. You felt powerful and attractive.
You knew he would be there and it didn't take long to find him.
Logan was standing next to the kitchen island, talking with Dean and some other guys from the hockey team, with a beer in his hand. As always, he looked ridiculously handsome.
His eyes met yours. Logan raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. He looked you up and down without hiding it, and for a second you felt your heart race. Then he smiled.
“Wow… Wonder Woman,” he said, walking over with a smile. “You look incredible.”
He gave you a warm, strong hug, the kind of hug friends or siblings give, but for you it meant so much more. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your waist for a moment.
“Seriously, that costume looks really good on you. Since when have you been hiding that body?” he teased, laughing.
You knew it was just a joke. For Logan, you had always been just his friend. The girl he could talk to about everything, the one who listened when things weren’t going well or when the team lost an important game.
And even though it hurt, you had accepted your place. Being close to him, even if only as a friend, was better than nothing.
“Come on, I’ll get you something to drink,” he said, naturally taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen. “What do you want?”
You accepted with a smile and followed him. Logan made you a strong drink with vodka and cranberry juice, just the way you liked it. When he handed it to you, his hand returned almost immediately to your waist, resting there casually while you talked.
You stayed chatting for a while about the party, the team’s last game, and random things. Logan didn’t remove his hand from your waist. His fingers moved occasionally, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, but that constant contact made your pulse race.
Suddenly, a familiar voice pulled you out of the conversation.
“There you are!” Mia, your friend, exclaimed, appearing with a huge smile. “Come on, let’s dance! You can’t stay here all night.”
Mia took your hand and started pulling you toward the living room where the music was louder. You looked at Logan with an apologetic smile.
“I’ll leave this with you,” you said, handing him your almost full glass.
Logan took it, but for a second his hand lingered on your waist, as if he didn’t want to let you go yet. He finally released you.
You walked away with Mia, and as soon as you reached the center of the room, you started dancing. The music was catchy and you moved with confidence, feeling how the costume accentuated your curves with every movement.
Not even five minutes had passed when a tall, blond guy approached you. He had an easy smile and good moves. Without saying much, he started dancing in front of you, getting closer little by little. You followed his rhythm, laughing and enjoying the moment.
From your position, you could clearly see the kitchen. And there was Logan, leaning against the island, holding your glass and staring at you.
He wasn’t taking his eyes off you.
He watched you dance with the blond guy, his jaw slightly tense and a serious expression you rarely saw on him. His eyes traveled down your body as you moved, stopping on your legs, your waist, and how the corset hugged your figure.
And you… liked it.
You liked it a lot that he was looking at you like that. So instead of moving away from the blond guy, you kept dancing with more energy, moving your hips to the rhythm while occasionally making eye contact with Logan.
You continued dancing with the blond guy, enjoying his attention and especially Logan’s intense gaze from the kitchen. For a few minutes you felt powerful and desired, but then everything changed.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw that Logan was no longer alone. A brunette girl dressed in a short police costume had approached him. She was laughing at something he said and had her hand resting flirtatiously on his chest. Logan was smiling at her, that easy, charming smile that hurt you so much when it wasn’t directed at you. He even put an arm around her waist while talking close to her ear.
Your stomach twisted.
Suddenly, all the fun disappeared. The warmth you felt just seconds ago turned into a cold pang of disappointment. You looked down and stopped dancing.
“I’ll be right back,” you told the guy with a forced smile.
You quickly moved through the crowd, feeling a lump form in your throat. You grabbed the first glass you saw on a table, took a long sip, and kept walking toward a quieter area of the house, near the stairs.
You hadn’t gone far when you felt a hand on your arm.
“Hey, are you okay?” the guy asked, having followed you. His expression was concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, trying to sound convincing. “I just… needed some air for a moment.”
He stepped closer, looking at you with interest. You didn’t say anything else. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the disappointment, or maybe the desire to forget that Logan would never see you the way you wanted… but when he leaned in, you didn’t stop him.
His lips met yours. The kiss started soft but quickly became more intense. You placed a hand on his chest and he pulled you closer by the waist.
Suddenly, the guy was yanked backward.
“What the fuck?” he growled.
Logan was there. He had pushed the blond guy hard enough to pull him away from you. His expression was dark, jaw tight and eyes narrowed.
“Get lost,” Logan told him in a low, sharp voice. “Now.”
The blond guy looked confused and annoyed, but upon recognizing John Logan, one of the hockey team captains, he decided not to cause trouble. He raised his hands and walked away muttering under his breath.
You stood frozen, heart pounding, staring at Logan who was now standing in front of you.
Logan looked at you, still with that expression, and before he could say anything, you exploded:
“What the hell is wrong with you, Logan?” you snapped, furious. “Who do you think you are, coming over here pushing people and pulling them away from me?”
You didn’t wait for his answer. You turned around and started walking through the crowd, your heart beating hard from anger and humiliation. You went up the stairs without looking back. You tried the first door in the hallway: it was locked. The second one opened. You looked inside, saw the room was empty and dimly lit, and walked in, closing the door behind you.
Or at least you tried.
Logan was faster and stuck his foot in before you could close it completely. He entered behind you and closed the door.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, clearly upset.
You turned to face him, still angry.
“Why? Because you have no right to interfere with what I do! Who do you think you are to push a guy away from me just because you feel like it?”
Logan took a step toward you, jaw clenched.
“I don’t like seeing you kissing just anyone.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“How ironic! Downstairs I saw you looking very comfortable with that police girl. You had her hand on your chest and you were hugging her like it was nothing. And now you come here telling me this?”
“That has nothing to do with it,” he replied sharply.
“It has everything to do with it!” you exclaimed, raising your voice.
Logan frowned.
“Why?”
You stayed silent, breathing heavily, and looked away.
“Why?” he repeated, taking another step closer.
You remained silent, your heart pounding in your throat.
Logan moved even closer until he was right in front of you. His voice dropped, more serious and deep:
“Tell me why.”
You closed your eyes for a second, feeling like you couldn’t keep it in any longer. The words came out almost in a whisper:
“Because I love you, Logan…” you confessed, your voice trembling. “Because I hate seeing you with other women, touching them, smiling at them… when I want you for myself. Because I’ve been in love with you for over a year and you only see me as your friend.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Logan stared at you, as if your words had hit him hard. His expression changed completely.
Suddenly, something shifted in his face. Without saying a word, he closed the last distance between you, took your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It was a quick, intense, and desperate kiss. As if he had been holding back for a long time and couldn’t anymore.
You were completely surprised, eyes open for a second, but you closed them almost immediately and kissed him back. You placed your hands on his chest and let yourself go, the kiss growing deeper. His lips were warm and firm, and he kissed with an urgency you never imagined.
When you finally pulled apart for air, Logan rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.
“I’ve been a complete idiot,” he murmured in a husky voice. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, but I was so stupid I didn’t even realize it. I thought you were just my friend… until I saw you kissing that guy downstairs. I almost died of jealousy. I couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else.”
His words hit you straight in the chest. A mix of relief, surprise, and happiness washed over you. You let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh as you looked into his eyes.
“Really?” you asked, laughing.
Logan nodded, with a crooked smile that melted you.
“Yeah… really.”
Without thinking twice, you were the one who kissed him this time. You stood on your tiptoes, wrapped your arms around his neck, and kissed him with everything you had held back for over a year.
Logan responded immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his body.
The kiss became more and more urgent. Logan’s hands roamed your back anxiously, sliding down to your waist and pressing you against him. You matched his intensity, pulling at his black t-shirt to take it off. Logan helped you, lifting his arms, and the garment fell to the floor.
Your hands explored his chest and hockey-toned shoulders while he searched for the clasp of your corset. With fingers slightly clumsy from desire, he unhooked it and let it fall. Then he unzipped your blue shorts, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear.
When you were completely naked in front of him, Logan pulled back a little to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with a mix of desire and awe. He swallowed hard and murmured in a husky voice:
“Fuck… I don’t understand how I was stupid enough not to do this before. You’re perfect.”
His words made you blush and smile at the same time. Logan didn’t give you time to respond. He lifted you easily, holding you by the thighs. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked toward the bed and gently laid you down on the mattress.
He positioned himself on top of you, resting his forearms on either side of your head. His body was warm and heavy in the best way. He kissed you again, this time slower but with much more hunger. His lips moved down your neck, leaving hot kisses while one of his hands roamed your waist, your hip, and up to your breast.
“I’ve wanted this for so long…” he whispered against your skin before kissing you on the mouth again.
Logan kissed you slowly, as if he wanted to savor every second. His lips moved down your neck while his hand caressed your body gently: tracing your waist, moving up your ribs until he took one of your breasts with care. His thumb brushed your nipple, making you sigh.
He positioned himself between your legs carefully, still wearing his jeans. You could feel his erection pressing against you through the fabric, but he kept going slow, kissing your collarbone and moving down to take your other nipple into his mouth.
“Logan…” you whispered, arching your back.
He looked up, his eyes dark with desire.
“I want to take my time,” he murmured against your skin. “I don’t want to rush with you.”
But you no longer wanted calm. You had wanted him for over a year, imagining this moment. You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged gently so he would look at you.
“I don’t want you to go slow,” you said breathlessly. “I want more. I want you… all of you.”
Something changed in his expression. A crooked smile appeared on his lips and his eyes darkened even more.
He stood up for a moment to remove his jeans and underwear. When he returned on top of you, completely naked, you felt his hot skin against yours. His erection pressed against your entrance, hard and warm.
Logan kissed you deeply as he guided his cock with one hand, rubbing the head against your wetness. He entered slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you carefully. You let out a moan against his mouth when he filled you completely.
“Fuck…” he growled, closing his eyes for a second. “This is… the best feeling in the world.”
He began to move with slow, deep thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in. Every time he pushed forward, a moan escaped your lips. Your hands roamed his back, feeling his muscles tense with every movement.
But you wanted more.
You dug your nails into his back and lifted your hips to meet his thrusts.
“Harder, Logan…” you begged.
He let out a low grunt and increased the pace. His thrusts became faster and deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars. The sound of skin slapping filled the room along with your moans.
Logan lowered his head and kissed your neck, biting gently while he kept fucking you hard. You could only moan his name. Every thrust made you tremble.
You felt your body tightening more and more around him.
At one point, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him gently. Logan understood immediately and fell onto his back, taking you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself on top. Without wasting a second, you sank down onto him in one smooth motion, drawing a deep groan from him.
You started moving eagerly, riding him with a steady rhythm. Logan’s hands gripped your hips, helping you move faster, watching you with dark, hungry eyes while your breasts bounced with every thrust.
“Just like that… exactly like that,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You’re incredible.”
The room filled with your moans, the sound of skin colliding, and your heavy breathing. Logan moved one hand up to caress your breast while the other held your hip firmly, guiding your movements when you started to tire.
You were close. Very close. And by the way he clenched his jaw and looked at you, he was too.
Your movements became faster and more desperate. Logan held your hips tightly, thrusting up to meet you with every downward motion. The pleasure grew almost unbearable, tensing every muscle in your body.
“Logan…” you moaned, digging your nails into his chest.
“That’s it, baby. Let go,” he growled, his voice rough and broken. “I want to feel you.”
With a few more deep thrusts, the orgasm hit you hard. Your body clenched tightly around him as you moaned his name, trembling on top of him. The sensation was so intense that for a few seconds you lost track of everything.
Logan didn’t last much longer. With a guttural moan he gave you several hard thrusts from below, holding you firmly against him as he came inside you. His body shuddered beneath yours, jaw tight and eyes closed in pleasure.
You both stayed still for several long seconds, trying to catch your breath. Slowly, you collapsed onto his chest. Logan wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you close while you were still connected.
The silence in the room was broken only by your heavy breathing. Logan gently stroked your back, running his hand up and down tenderly. He kissed your forehead, your temple, and then your lips with great care.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmured against your hair, his voice still husky but full of emotion. “I was an idiot for not realizing what I felt sooner… but now that I have you, I’m not letting you go. I love you too much to lose you again.”
You lifted your head to look at him. His blue eyes watched you with a sincerity you had never seen before.
“Really?” you asked softly.
Logan smiled gently and caressed your cheek with his thumb.
“Yes. I love you. I’ve wanted you for longer than I want to admit, I was just too stupid to see it. But not anymore. You’re mine now… and I’m yours.”
He kissed you again, this time slow and deep, sealing his words. Then he adjusted you more comfortably on his chest, holding you tightly while his fingers continued tracing your back with affection.
For the first time in a long time, everything felt right. You were exactly where you wanted to be.
summary: A night with Dean was a mistake and you knew it the next day when you found out that he was messing with your sister but things didn't end there
tw and word counter: (4,4k) smut, sex without protection (use protection bro), oral sex, idk what more
Meeting Dean Di Laurentis was, without a doubt, the worst thing that could have happened to you in your life.
That was what you kept repeating to yourself as you sat on the edge of your bed, with the lights off and only the glow of the streetlamp coming through the window. You had your knees hugged to your chest, as if that could protect you from the guilt eating you up inside.
Only three days had passed since that night when you let Dean kiss you against the wall in the dark hallway of the fraternity. Three days since his big hands slipped under your dress, since he whispered in your ear how fucking sexy you were while he pulled down your panties. Exactly three cursed days since you moaned his name like an idiot while he fucked you against that same wall, hard, fast, and merciless.
And the worst part… you didn’t even know who he was at the time. You only knew he was hot, that he had a beautiful smile, and that he smelled like beer and expensive cologne. He had looked at you like he wanted to devour you alive, and you, after one too many drinks and an entire semester of emotional drought, let yourself go.
You didn’t ask for his full name until the next day.
Dean Di Laurentis.
And that’s when everything went to shit because Allie, your older sister, had mentioned that name several times in the past few weeks. “Dean is such an idiot, but so much fun,” “Dean’s driving me crazy,” “Last night Dean did…” She didn’t give you many details, but enough for you to know they were hooking up. It wasn’t anything serious, according to her. Just “casual and fun sex.” But she was your sister and you had slept with him. The regret burned in your stomach.
You got up from the bed and walked barefoot to the mirror in your room. You had dark circles under your eyes, you had slept terribly. Every time you closed your eyes you saw Dean’s face above you, that arrogant smile while he thrust deep inside you. You hated yourself for remembering it in such detail, but you hated yourself even more for feeling heat between your legs at the thought.
“You’re a piece of shit,” you whispered to yourself, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
After crying for half an hour that night, you decided enough was enough. You weren’t going to stay locked in your room any longer, replaying the memory of that man on loop. Tonight you were going out, you were going to have fun, shed all that guilt, and forget about him even if it was just for a few hours.
Mika, your best friend and roommate, had come back from shopping and was sitting on the floor of the room surrounded by clothes and makeup, as if they were preparing for war.
“Oh girl, I’m finding him tonight for sure,” Mika said as she tried on a tight black top in front of the mirror. “His name is Ryan, he plays on the hockey team. I saw him Wednesday at the library and he looked at me like he wanted to eat me. He’s not getting away tonight.”
You laughed softly while applying mascara, trying to sound as normal as possible.
“Then go get him. You look hot as hell in that top, seriously. If he doesn’t hit on you tonight, he’s gay.”
Mika burst out laughing and looked at you through the mirror.
“And you… what? Isn’t there anyone you’re interested in? Because you’ve been acting weird lately. Are you sure there’s no guy running through that head of yours?”
You stayed silent for a second, the mascara brush suspended in the air.
“No,” you answered, trying to make your voice sound firm. “Not right now. I want to focus on my studies this first year, you know? I don’t want distractions.”
Lie. It was a half-lie. Yes, you wanted to focus on your studies, that part was true, but then Dean appeared and since that night, focusing was the last thing you were doing. Your mind was full of him, of his mouth, of his hands, and how he had whispered “good girl” while you came.
Mika raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“Hmm… well, if you say so. But if you change your mind, there are several of Ryan’s friends who are really hot too.”
“I’m good like this,” you said, forcing a smile as you put on your earrings. “Tonight I just want to dance, have a drink, and disconnect.”
What you didn’t tell Mika was that deep down, you were scared. Scared of seeing Dean at the party again, but you didn’t want that to matter, so you pushed him out of your mind and finished getting dressed: a short black dress, tight at the waist and ass. You looked good. Sexy. All those training hours had paid off.
After giving yourself one last look in the mirror, you grabbed your small purse and left the dorm with Mika. She was euphoric, practically jumping as you went down the building stairs.
“Tonight is going to be epic!” she exclaimed, grabbing your arm. “I feel like something good is going to happen. Ryan’s going to be there and I plan to eye-fuck him until he comes talk to me.”
Her energy was contagious, or at least you tried to let it be. You laughed and played along as you walked across campus toward the fraternity, where the music could already be heard from several blocks away.
When you arrived, the place was packed.
Colored lights, people crowding the entrance, the smell of spilled beer and cheap perfume mixing in the air. Mika squeezed your arm excitedly.
“See you later! If you see Ryan, let me know,” she said, and before you could respond she had already disappeared into the crowd, moving with that confidence you always admired.
And suddenly you were alone.
You made your way to the makeshift kitchen where they were serving drinks. You grabbed a plastic cup with vodka and cranberry juice and took a long sip. The alcohol burned your throat a little, but you welcomed it. You wanted to feel something stronger than that constant guilt.
For the next half hour you tried to distract yourself. You talked with a couple of girls from your literature class, laughed with a sophomore who told you a bad joke about the hockey team, and even danced for a while on the edge of the makeshift dance floor in the main room. You drank another cup, and then another.
Maybe you were drinking too much, you knew it, but every time Dean’s memory appeared in your head, you took another sip to drown it.
Until you saw him.
He was on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. He wore a tight black t-shirt that highlighted his shoulders and tattooed arms. His blond hair was a little messy, as if someone had run their hands through it recently. And he was smiling.
Your heart raced so hard you felt dizzy. The cup trembled slightly in your hand, but then it got worse. Allie appeared beside him. Your older sister, with her perfectly wavy hair and radiant smile, approached him and said something in his ear.
Dean tilted his head toward her, laughing, and casually wrapped an arm around her waist.
That made your stomach churn. He wasn’t your boyfriend, he wasn’t even anything, you’d only had one night. One stupid, drunk night with no promises, but seeing them together, seeing him touch her with the same confidence he had touched you… it hurt.
You grabbed another cup from the table without thinking twice and slipped through the crowd, moving quickly toward the hallway that led to the back of the house. Your heart was pounding in your ears. You just wanted to disappear, for no one to see you, for him not to see you, but Dean saw you.
For a second, your eyes met across the crowd. His expression changed, his arrogant smile disappeared, and something darker, more intense crossed his face. He took a step forward, as if he were going to follow you, but you were faster. You slipped into a large group of people, lowered your head, and kept walking until you managed to lose yourself in another part of the house. You leaned your back against a wall in a quieter corner, breathing hard.
A few minutes passed, or maybe twenty, you no longer knew, when you finally worked up the courage to return to the main area. The alcohol was already weighing on your legs and head, and then you saw them again. Dean and Allie were in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. The song was slow and sensual. He had his hands on her waist, moving with that natural grace he had. Allie laughed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said something close to his mouth. Dean smiled, but his eyes… his eyes scanned the room for a second, as if looking for something, or someone.
You felt jealousy. Absurd, hot, ugly jealousy that squeezed your chest. You knew you had no right. You knew Allie had met him first, but that didn’t stop your mind from betraying you, remembering how those same hands had held your hips, how that same mouth had kissed your neck while he thrust inside you.
“It’s just the alcohol,” you repeated quietly, closing your eyes for a second. “Just the alcohol messing with your head.”
You left the half-full cup on a nearby table. You were already feeling bad. Your stomach was upset, your head was heavy, and there was a knot in your throat that wouldn’t go away.
You needed air. You needed to get out of there.
You went up the fraternity stairs almost running, dodging couples kissing against the walls and people going up with cups in their hands. At the end of the second-floor hallway, you tried the first door you found. It was open.
You entered quickly and closed it behind you.
It was just some random room. Probably one of the fraternity guys’. There was an unmade bed, clothes thrown on the floor, a poster on the wall, and the typical smell of a guy who lives alone. You didn’t care, you just wanted to breathe.
You sat on the edge of the bed, hands on your knees, trying to calm your breathing. You closed your eyes.
“Just a minute…” you murmured. “One minute and I’ll go down, find Mika, and we’ll go home.”
You were starting to feel the alcohol weighing on you more than you thought. Your head was spinning gently.
Suddenly, the door opened.
You lifted your head sharply and there he was.
Dean, filling the doorway with that impossible-to-ignore presence. He closed the door behind him calmly, without asking permission, and you stood up from the bed so fast you almost fell.
“What are you doing here?” you blurted out, your voice higher than you would have liked.
Dean raised his eyebrows, amused.
“I wanted to see if you were okay. I saw you go upstairs almost running. You looked… I don’t know, like you were about to throw up or set the house on fire.”
He leaned against the door with his arms crossed, looking at you with that crooked smile that drove you crazy.
You nervously pulled your dress down, as if that could make you look more dignified.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I should probably leave. Mika’s probably looking for me. You know how she gets when she’s excited…”
You took a step toward the door, but Dean didn’t move an inch.
“Why are you running away from me?” he asked directly, his voice low and too soft for how arrogant he usually was.
“I’m not running away,” you answered almost by reflex.
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You stopped in front of him, crossing your arms to mirror his posture, trying to look confident.
“See? I’m not running. I’m here. to you. Totally normal.”
Dean let out a low laugh, the kind that vibrated in his chest. He took a step forward. You took one back.
“Dean…” you warned.
“What?” he said innocently, but kept advancing slowly. “I just want to talk.”
“Then you should go talk to my sister,” you snapped, unable to hold back.
He paused for a second. Then his smile grew bigger, almost dangerous.
“Are you jealous?”
You laughed. A forced laugh, too high-pitched and clearly fake.
“Jealous?” you said, trying to sound amused.
“Please, Dean. It’s impossible for me to be jealous. I’ve known you for… three days? I don’t even know if you have a middle name. You don’t matter to me. Not at all. Zero. Nothing.”
Dean kept coming closer. You kept backing up until your back hit the wall.
“Interesting…” he murmured, placing one hand on the wall beside your head. “You know exactly how many days it’s been since we met.”
You froze. You felt your face heat up.
“I… that… it’s just because…” you stammered, searching for some smart excuse that wouldn’t come. “It was a weird week and… and you… you have a very easy face to remember and… shit.”
Dean chuckled softly, clearly enjoying seeing you nervous. He was so close you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of beer.
“You’re terrible at lying,” he whispered.
“I’m not lying,” you mumbled. “I really don’t care about you. You can go dance with Allie, do whatever you do, I… I’m perfectly fine. Super focused on my studies and…”
Dean didn’t let you finish. He kissed you. Hard and sure. With the same hunger you remembered from that first night. One big hand gripped your waist while the other rested on the wall. His mouth was warm, demanding, and tasted slightly of beer and mint.
For a second your treacherous body responded. Your hands rose to his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
When he pulled back just a few centimeters, he had that arrogant smile again.
“Still don’t care?” he asked against your lips, his voice hoarse.
Dean was still so close you could feel his warm breath against your lips. Your heart was beating so hard you thought he could hear it too.
“This is wrong…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Allie is my sister, Dean. I can’t do this to her.”
He pulled back just a few centimeters, looking into your eyes. His hand was still on your waist, his thumb slowly caressing the fabric of your dress.
“Nothing’s going on with Allie,” he said in a low, confident voice. “What she and I have is… casual. Nothing serious. She knows it and I know it.”
You knew he was lying. Or at least hiding part of the truth. You had seen how Allie talked about him, how she smiled when she mentioned his name. But in that moment, with Dean looking at you like that, with his body pressing you against the wall, you wanted to believe him with all your strength.
You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
“We shouldn’t…” you tried one last time, but your voice no longer held any conviction.
Dean didn’t respond with words. He lowered his head and kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue brushed yours and a treacherous moan escaped you. His hands moved down to the hem of your dress and began slowly sliding it up your thighs.
You didn’t stop him. You let him lift it. You let his rough fingers graze the sensitive skin of your legs, your hips, until he pulled the dress completely over your head and tossed it to the floor without caring where it landed.
You stood in front of him wearing only your black bra and matching panties. Dean stepped back a little to look at you, and the way his eyes darkened made you feel both exposed and powerful at the same time.
“Fuck…” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
He kissed you again, this time with more urgency. His big hands roamed your back, unhooked your bra with ease, and let it fall. His palms covered your breasts, squeezing them just right, brushing your nipples with his thumbs until they hardened under his touch.
You moaned against his mouth.
The guilt was still there, throbbing in the back of your mind, but it wasn’t strong enough to stop him. Not now. Not when your body was burning for him.
Dean suddenly grabbed you by the thighs and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.
Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist. He kept kissing you as he carried you to the unmade bed, gently dropped you onto the mattress, and positioned himself on top of you, supporting his weight on his forearms.
His mouth moved down your neck, kissing, sucking, gently biting. He went lower, until he reached your breasts. He took one into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand caressed the other. You arched your back, moaning his name without being able to help it.
“Dean…”
He looked up, that arrogant but dark smile appearing on his lips.
“Still think this is wrong?” he asked, sliding one hand down your stomach and slipping it inside your panties.
His fingers found your wetness and he let out a growl of approval.
“So wet…” he whispered against your skin. “And you say we shouldn’t.”
Two of his fingers caressed you slowly, tracing circles over your clit before sliding inside you. You gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders over his t-shirt.
The guilt was still there, burning inside you, but the pleasure was stronger. Every time you tried to think about Allie, Dean pushed his fingers deeper, curling them exactly where you felt it most, and your mind went blank.
He kissed you again, swallowing your moans while he fucked you with his fingers, slow but firm. His thumb kept stimulating your clit in perfect circles. You were soaked, the obscene sound of his fingers sliding in and out filled the room along with your ragged breathing.
“Dean… please…” you begged, not even knowing exactly what you were asking for.
He pulled his fingers out, quickly slid your panties down, and knelt between your legs. He looked up at you with that hungry expression.
“I want to taste you,” he said hoarsely.
And before you could respond, he lowered his head and ran his hot, flat tongue along your entire entrance.
Dean licked slowly and deeply, tracing every fold with deliberate precision. He ran his flat tongue from bottom to top, stopping at your clit to suck it gently, then harder, alternating between sucking and licking in quick circles. Two of his fingers returned inside you, curling upward, searching for that spot that made you see stars.
“God… Dean,” you moaned, arching your back on the bed.
It was too good. Too intense. Every lick, every movement of his fingers made you tremble. You gripped the sheets tightly, your hips moving on their own against his mouth, you didn’t want him to stop. Ever.
You wanted to stay there forever, with his head between your legs and that expert mouth devouring you.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed to feel him inside you, filling you completely. Dean seemed to read your desperation. He looked up without removing his mouth from you, his blue eyes darkened with desire and arrogance.
“Want something more, baby?” he murmured against your pussy, the vibration of his voice sending another wave of pleasure through you.
You nodded, breathing hard.
“Please…”
He sucked your clit harder for a second, making you gasp loudly, before speaking again:
“Then ask properly. I want to hear you beg.”
Shame and arousal mixed in your chest. You knew he was playing with you, enjoying the power he had in that moment, and although part of you wanted to resist, your body was on fire.
“Dean…” you begged, your voice broken. “Please… I need you inside me. I can’t take it anymore.”
He smiled against your skin and kept licking, slower now, torturing you.
“Is that all? You can do better.”
You closed your eyes, biting your lip.
“Please, Dean…” you begged with more intensity, your voice cracking. “Fuck me. I need you to fuck me. I want you inside me right now… please.”
Something changed in his expression. His eyes lit up with pure satisfaction. He loved hearing you beg. He loved having you like this: naked, desperate, and pleading for him.
“Good girl,” he growled.
He stood up quickly, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and shoved down his pants along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, and with the tip already glistening. He positioned himself between your legs, gripping your thighs and spreading you wider for him.
“I can’t deny you anything when you look at me like that,” he admitted hoarsely, almost as if it annoyed him how much he wanted you.
He leaned over you, bracing one forearm beside your head, and kissed you deeply as he guided his cock to your entrance. He rubbed the swollen head against your soaked pussy several times, teasing you, until he finally thrust.
He entered you with one deep stroke.
You both moaned at the same time. He was big, hot, and stretched you in the most delicious way. Dean stayed still for a second, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he growled against your mouth.
He started moving. First slowly, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in to the hilt. Then he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room along with your moans and his low grunts.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his back, asking for more without words. Dean gripped your hips tightly, thrusting with precise, powerful strokes that made the bed creak.
Every time he bottomed out, he hit that perfect spot inside you.
“Just like that… right there,” you moaned, almost breathless.
The guilt was still present, but it no longer mattered. In that moment, only Dean existed: his scent, his weight on top of you, his cock fucking you mercilessly, his mouth biting your neck and whispering in your ear how good you felt.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asked between thrusts, his voice rough. “You wanted me to fuck you while your sister is downstairs?”
His words hit you like a whip. You blushed violently, but your pussy clenched around him.
Dean let out a laugh.
“You like it dirty, don’t you?”
You couldn’t respond. You just moaned louder as he sped up, fucking you harder, faster, as if he wanted to mark you.
Dean kept fucking you but suddenly pulled out. You let out a whimper of protest at the empty feeling. He sat on the edge of the bed and called you.
“Come here,” he said, pulling you toward him.
You climbed on top, straddling him. Dean guided you as you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, filling you completely in this new position. You placed your hands on his chest and started moving. First slowly, enjoying how deep he felt, then faster, bouncing on him.
Dean had his hands on your hips, guiding you, his gaze traveling from your breasts to your eyes.
“You’re fucking insane…” he murmured, almost with frustration. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that first night.”
You picked up the pace, moving your hips in circles. Dean let out a low moan and squeezed your ass hard, helping you slam down harder. You were exhausted, sweaty, your legs shaking, but you couldn’t stop.
“Dean… I’m going to come…” you warned, almost breathless.
“Do it,” he ordered, looking at you intently. “Come on my cock.”
The orgasm hit you hard. Your whole body tensed, squeezing him inside you as you moaned his name. Dean followed shortly after, growling against your neck as he came inside you, holding you tightly against his body.
You both stayed still, breathing heavily, skin sticky and hearts pounding.
Several minutes passed. You were still sitting on top of him, head resting on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath. Reality began to crash down on you like a heavy weight. The guilt returned stronger now that the pleasure was fading.
Dean slowly caressed your back with one hand. Suddenly he spoke, his voice low but firm:
“You’re not going to run away from me.”
You lifted your head to look at him. He was watching you with that characteristic intensity, with no trace of doubt.
“This… whatever this is,” he continued, “doesn’t end here. You’re not going to run from me at parties again, you’re not going to ignore my messages, and you’re not going to pretend you don’t want me as much as I want you.”
You were tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. Your legs were shaking, you had his cum dripping down your thighs, and the image of Allie laughing downstairs at the party wouldn’t leave your mind.
You knew you should tell him this was a mistake. That they had to stop but you had no strength left. You just looked at him, breathing slowly, and finally nodded weakly.
“…Okay,” you whispered, almost voiceless.
Dean smiled, satisfied. He kissed you on the lips, softer this time, and pulled you against his chest.
“Good girl,” he murmured against your hair.
You stayed there, wrapped in his arms, knowing this only complicated everything… but too tired to keep fighting whatever this was.
the most striking color - daredevil born again fanfic [part 3]
summary: your whole life had been difficult, and it got even worse when you were put into an orphanage, but when you ran away and met Matt, your life took a complete 180
word counter and tw: (2,8k) i think there’s non tw
You didn’t know at what point you fell asleep, and that was already strange in itself.
Normally the process was conscious, you got into bed, made the effort, listened to the city, waited. Sleep came or didn’t come, but there was always a clear boundary between being awake and not being so, a transition you could locate even vaguely.
Not tonight. Tonight sleep simply took you, without warning, like water that rises slowly until you’re already inside and can’t remember having entered.
Maybe it was the accumulated exhaustion, or maybe it was the thing with Gerald. Maybe it was something more. Maybe it was the universe being, for once, merciful, giving you a few hours before what was coming.
You didn’t know that then. You thought it afterward.
You woke up suddenly at 2 in the morning, your eyes wide open, your body already sitting up, and your heart already racing before your mind had time to understand why. The room was dark and the city outside sounded different, it took you a second to identify what was different.
The rain.
It was raining hard. The rain struck the window with an almost deliberate regularity, as if it were knocking. You sat on the bed trying to get your heart to calm down, but it didn’t seem to want to.
That was what didn’t make sense. You hadn’t had a nightmare, you couldn’t remember any dream, there was no noise in the apartment to justify that state of immediate and complete alertness but your body knew something your mind was still processing, that ancient instinct you’d spent years sharpening without meaning to, one that was rarely wrong.
Something bad had happened. You didn’t think it as a possibility; you felt it as a certainty. You looked toward the bedroom door, but there were no sounds, only silence in the apartment.
You left the room barefoot. The hallway was dark, but that wasn’t unusual, you never left lights on. You crossed it almost from memory, your hand grazing the wall out of habit more than necessity. You reached the living room and turned on the light.
And a thunderclap exploded.
It was a sharp crack that made the windows shudder, and at the same time it killed the building’s entire power. The apartment went completely dark, but it wasn’t a normal darkness. It was strange, heavier and closer around you, as if it had flooded every corner too quickly. You stood still, and then your mind began doing what it always did.
The shadows at the edges of the living room seemed to move, even though you knew they weren’t. The kitchen doorway looked different every time you glanced at it, and the corner by the window, that specific corner, felt occupied in a way that was impossible to explain.
You knew nothing was there. You knew it. But that didn’t seem to matter to your mind, and you also knew you’d spent too many years sleeping in places where darkness really did hide things. The body doesn’t unlearn that so easily.
You left the apartment, grabbed your keys on reflex, nothing else. No shoes, no jacket, no phone. The door clicked shut behind you and the sound went through your chest in an absurd way. The landing was dark too, but at least it was open. You went down quickly. The building lobby was lit by the old emergency light on the ceiling, that greenish, vaguely sad light that made everything look unreal. It flickered when you walked in, then held steady, humming softly.
You sat on the bench by the mailboxes and breathed deeply. The rain hammered the glass of the entrance hard, but from there it sounded different. Just rain. The thunder had been just thunder. The darkness was only a power outage. Nothing more. You tried to repeat this to yourself while your heart kept beating too fast, because there was something that wouldn’t settle inside you, that horrible, quiet feeling that had been there for hours, lodged in the center of your chest.
Something bad had happened.
You closed your eyes for a second and opened them when someone knocked on the front door. The fright made you step back before you could think, but the figure on the other side of the glass was small, drenched, and clearly harmless. A woman in her mid-forties, soaked through and with the look of someone having the worst night of their life. You recognized her immediately. She lived on the fourth floor; you sometimes ran into each other in the elevator. You got up quickly and opened the door. The rain came in with her in an icy gust that wet your bare feet.
“Oh god,” the woman said, shaking the water from her shoulders. “Thank you, thank you, what a night.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes…” She came inside, leaving a trail of water on the lobby floor. “I left my keys at my boyfriend’s and he lives far, I wasn’t going back out in this weather.” She shook her head with resignation. Then she looked at you. “And what are you doing down here at this hour?”
“Waiting for my brother,” you said.
The woman nodded with the immediate understanding of someone who needed no further details.
“That’s sweet,” she said, with genuine warmth and no condescension. Then she rummaged through her soaked bag, found something, a spare key, you guessed, and headed toward the stairs. “Good night, honey. I hope he’s not long.”
“Good night.”
Her footsteps went up and faded into the landing. You were alone again.
The lobby was uncomfortable for waiting. Not because it was unpleasant, but because it was a place of passage. The bench was hard, the light hummed, and the clock behind the front desk seemed to move too slowly. You waited anyway, without knowing quite what you were waiting for, maybe for the power to come back.
But you weren’t one of those people who waited. So you stood up, looked at the street behind the glass where the rain kept falling hard, slanted by the wind under the yellow glow of the streetlights, and opened the door anyway. The cold hit you immediately, and so did the water, and within seconds your hair was plastered to your face and your shirt soaked against your skin. Your bare feet touched the icy water pooled on the pavement and the cold shot straight up your legs, but you didn’t care. You stood there, under the storm, watching an almost empty street.
You started walking without direction. And that was the most frightening part, because you always knew where you were going. Always. Even in the worst years, when surviving meant memorizing streets, learning which corners to avoid and where you could sleep without being thrown out before dawn, you’d always had a map in your head. But not now. Now you just walked.
With the icy water rising past your ankles every time you crossed a flooded intersection, and the shirt clinging to your skin like an uncomfortable second layer. The feeling in your chest was worse. Something was wrong. Not “maybe.” Not “could be.” It was wrong, and you couldn’t breathe around it.
You turned one corner and then another. You recognized the streets, the closed storefronts, the neon lights warped in the wet asphalt, but you weren’t really thinking about the route. You only moved forward because standing still would have meant hearing too clearly what your mind had been trying to tell you for hours.
You’d been walking for several minutes when you heard the noise. Voices, then something breaking, then silence. That abrupt, ugly silence that makes the whole body tense before the mind can understand why.
You stopped in front of the alley. You should have kept walking. You knew it right away. But four years living with Matt Murdock had ruined you for certain things. You no longer knew how to look away. You could no longer pretend you hadn’t heard.
There were three men and a woman. She was against the wall with her shoulders rigid and her breathing visible even from where you stood. The men surrounded her too closely, too comfortable in that quiet violence of people who believe they have complete control of a situation. None of them had seen you yet, so you could still leave.
“Hey.”
All three turned at once and the fear shot through you instantly, fast and cold, because it was only then you understood how stupid that decision had been.
One of them started walking toward you. The kind of man who had already decided he could break you without effort. Your body reacted before your mind. Matt had taught you some things. Not to fight like him, but to move, or rather, not to freeze when someone advanced with bad intentions.
The man tried to grab your arm and you dodged on reflex. You moved to one side, breathing fast, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurt. Another man blocked your way; the third was still with the woman, shouting something you couldn’t make out over the rain. Everything became confused too quickly.
Your feet slipped on the wet asphalt and you fell. Your back hit the ground with a dry violence that knocked the air from your lungs, pain exploded for a second through your whole body, and the world seemed to tilt.
And then the sky split open. That lightning struck close, too close, and the noise didn’t sound like thunder so much as if the air itself had exploded above you. A brutal crack that made the walls of the alley vibrate and passed through your entire body. Everything went white, and in that fraction of a second something found you. Not in a way you could explain afterward, you weren’t even sure you wanted to try, but you felt the darkness of the alley looking back at you. Not darkness as the absence of light, but darkness as something alive, something ancient, something that had been waiting.
There you are.
The sensation passed through you like a voice without sound, and then the pain came, not from the fall, this was different, it started in the center of your chest and exploded outward like liquid fire running through your veins. You arched on the wet asphalt, trying to breathe, trying to understand what was happening, but your body no longer responded fully. You opened your mouth and no sound came out. Your palms pressed against the ground and beneath them you felt something beating, as if the alley had a heartbeat.
The shadows moved toward you and you heard the men fall back. One stumbled, another cursed, the fear in their voices immediate. Then you opened your eyes and saw them. The shadows of the entire alley had pulled away from the walls. They rose from the asphalt like thick smoke, circling slowly around you, alive in an impossible way. They had no definite shape and yet they seemed to observe. To wait.
They were protecting you.
You sat up slowly, trembling. The water kept falling on your face, mixing with something warm that you only understood afterward were tears. The men were already backing toward the mouth of the alley; one of them looked at you once, and in his expression you saw something you had never seen directed at you before.
Terror.
Then they disappeared into the rain. The woman was still against the wall, staring at you with enormous eyes, barely breathing. And that hurt more than it should have, because for a second you wondered if she was afraid of you too.
The shadows kept moving around your feet like black water.
“Are you alright?” you asked.
Your voice came out normal. The woman nodded slowly, not taking her eyes off you.
“Go home,” you said.
She obeyed immediately. And once again you were alone.
You looked at your hands. Normal. Just rain, a scrape on your right palm, and trembling fingers. Nothing more. You turned slowly and started walking back home.
When you arrived, the apartment was exactly as you’d left it. You stopped in the middle of the living room. There was no one, Matt should already have been there. That should have triggered something, but your body had a limit, and you had reached yours somewhere between the alley and the walk home.
You sat on the sofa. Just a moment, you told yourself. Just until your heart finished deciding what speed it wanted to go. But that moment stretched, and somewhere between one second and the next, you were gone.
The next day, the first thing you heard was Karen’s voice. You couldn’t really make out what she was saying, but you could hear the tone, she always used it with you, because most of the time she was worried about you. You knew it too well. Then came Matt’s hand on your face, warm and barely trembling.
“Hey,” he said.
The word came out low. Too low.
“Hey, wake up.”
You opened your eyes and the first thing you saw was the living room ceiling. You realized the power had come back, and that Matt was kneeling in front of the sofa, holding your shoulders with both hands, so close you could hear his uneven breathing. His jaw was tight, his mouth barely pressed together, and although his dark glasses hid his eyes, you didn’t need to see them to know how he was.
Karen stood behind him with her arms crossed over her chest, but too rigid to fake normalcy, she was very shaken.
You blinked slowly, trying to let the light and normalcy stop burning your eyes.
“What…?” you murmured.
Matt let out a breath that came dangerously close to breaking before he controlled it.
“You’re cold,” he said quickly. “God, you’re freezing. What happened? How long have you been here?”
You tried to sit up a little.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you go out? You’re soaked, your feet are a mess, and you weren’t responding…”
“Matt.”
Your own voice sounded distant, as if you still weren’t fully back.
“I’m fine.”
He let out a short laugh completely devoid of humor.
“No. You’re not.”
The quiet steadiness Matt usually had was almost entirely gone, replaced by something different now.
“You’ve been unconscious for God knows how long,” he continued. “Karen thought you weren’t breathing when we got here.”
That made you turn your head toward her. Karen looked away for just a second before sighing.
“We called you several times,” she said more quietly. “You didn’t react. Matt had to check your pulse because you were so cold that…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. You felt something tighten in your chest, guilt, maybe.
“What time is it?” you asked.
“Eleven in the morning,” Karen answered.
Eleven.
The dizziness came the moment you tried to sit up properly. The room tilted for a second and then Matt’s hands steadied on your arms.
“Slowly,” he said at once.
Too quick, too attentive, as if the mere sight of you swaying was enough to spike his pulse.
“I’m fine,” you repeated, though this time even you didn’t fully believe it.
Matt was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice came out even lower.
“You scared me.”
You weren’t used to hearing that from him, and you hated hearing it now. You never wanted to scare him or be a burden to him. Never. You were about to say something when Karen spoke suddenly.
“What is that?”
This time her voice did carry tension.
“What is that dark stain?” she asked.
You got off the sofa slowly, Matt’s hand still on your arm, and looked. The wood around the sofa was dark, the shadow surrounded exactly the place where you had been lying, following the outline of your body with an impossible precision. And it wasn’t a simple absence of light: it seemed to absorb it. As if the floor had been stained by something living.
The whole room went silent. Matt was the first to react, you felt him tense beside you.
“That wasn’t there before,” he said immediately.
Karen stepped closer, slowly, not taking her eyes off the stain.
“That’s not normal.”
You crouched down slowly, ignoring the ache of exhaustion in your legs, and touched the darkness with your fingertips. Your pulse responded at once and the sensation passed through your chest like an echo. You stood back up slowly, looked at both of them, and for the first time since the alley, real fear arrived, because now you would have to say it out loud, and once you did, nothing would ever feel normal again.
“You’re not going to believe me,” you said quietly.
I have a lot to study, when I’m calmer I’ll write something better
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the most striking color - daredevil born again fanfic [part 2]
summary: your whole life had been difficult, and it got even worse when you were put into an orphanage, but when you ran away and met Matt, your life took a complete 180
word counter and tw: (2,9k) i think there’s non tw
The kitchen clock read 2:47 a.m. and you had been awake since eleven.
It was nothing new.
You had a system, although Matt never fully knew about it, or maybe he did and chose not to mention it, with him it was always hard to tell the difference. You would go to bed at a reasonable hour, turn off the light, and make an honest effort to sleep. For a while it worked, or something close to it: your body would relax, your breathing would even out, and the city outside the window would fade into tolerable background noise.
And then the moment would come when your mind, with the silent efficiency of years of practice, would start calculating.
How long has he been gone? Which direction did he head? Was there anything in the news tonight that might explain why he was taking longer than usual?
After that, sleep was a lost cause.
So you had migrated to the couch with the blanket from the backrest, a glass of water that was already lukewarm, and the book you’d been trying to finish for three weeks with little success. The pages turned, the words entered through your eyes and left somewhere before registering. Your real attention was elsewhere, split between the text and the specific sound you were listening for: the lock, the door, the footsteps you would recognize among a thousand because you had memorized them without meaning to over four years.
2:47.
You turned the page without having read the previous one.
At 3:12 you heard the key.
You didn’t move. That was also part of the system: not jumping up, not going to the door, not doing anything that would force him to manage your worry on top of everything else he was already handling. Matt had a well-developed and slightly frustrating instinct to downplay things when he sensed someone was scared for him. He’d brush off cuts, shrug at bruises, and use that calm tone that was supposed to be reassuring but in practice made you want to throw something at him.
So you waited.
The door opened. It closed. Footsteps, you knew them, yes, but tonight they had a different weight, something slightly asymmetrical that meant he was favoring his left side more carefully than usual. You set the book down on the cushion and turned.
Matt was standing in the doorway to the living room, still wearing his suit, mask in hand. He had a cut on his right cheekbone that had bled, stopped, and bled again, and the way he held his left arm against his side was exactly what his footsteps had told you.
“You were awake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I was reading,” you replied.
The lie was so mediocre it almost made you laugh.
Matt tilted his head slightly, and you recognized that invisible expression he used when he decided not to argue something he already knew he’d lose.
“Sit down,” you said, standing up.
The first-aid kit lived under the bathroom sink, in a state of organization that was entirely yours because Matt was perfectly capable of treating his own wounds and perfectly incapable of restocking what he used. When you returned to the living room, he was sitting on the couch, suit half off, torso exposed, showing exactly what you had suspected: bruises on his left ribs, two smaller cuts than the one on his face that still needed attention, and a long scratch on his shoulder that had stained the suit.
You didn’t say anything yet. You knelt in front of him with the kit open and started with the cheekbone.
Matt stayed still. He always did when you did this, as if with you he didn’t need to maintain the full architecture.
“It wasn’t that bad,” he said at some point between the antiseptic and the bandage.
“Mhm,” you replied.
“Seriously. The arm is just a hit. The ribs are fine.”
“Two of them are cracked.”
“You don’t know that.”
You carefully placed a hand on his bandaged side.
“I know how you breathe when your ribs hurt, Matt.”
Silence.
“You should sleep,” he said. There was something soft in his voice now. Guilt, maybe. Or sadness.
“I’ll sleep later.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“How intelligent”
That earned you a small smile. Just a tired curve of his mouth. And God, sometimes you hated how much you loved him because it meant that no matter how many times he came home hurt, no matter how many times you swore you were tired of this, one smile like that was enough for something inside you to soften again immediately.
“You always do this,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, without real reproach, but with something more complicated underneath. “You wait up for me. Every night, you wait.”
You finished cleaning the scratch on his shoulder and looked at him, his profile, the familiar line of his tense jaw, the dark glasses he had put on at some point almost out of habit.
“Yes,” you said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“It costs you sleep.”
“Matt”
“I just don’t want you to…”
“Matt,” you repeated, and something in your tone stopped him.
You closed the first-aid kit with a clean click and sat down next to him on the couch, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders.
“You’ve been telling me some version of the same thing for four years. That I don’t have to worry, that you can handle it alone, that you’re fine, that it’s not that bad.”
He didn’t answer. You took his hand before thinking too much about it.
“Listen to me,” you said slowly. “I’m going to keep doing it. Every night you go out, I’m going to stay awake waiting for you to come back. Not because I don’t trust you or because I think you can’t take care of yourself, but because I love you, Matt. And when you love someone, you don’t turn that off like it’s a convenient switch.”
He stayed motionless. You could feel his pulse under your fingers, slow but strong.
“That’s what family does,” you continued more gently. “They worry. They stay. Even when they’re scared”
Matt took a deep breath, and for a second he looked incredibly young. Not physically, but in that specific way some wounded people have of still being surprised every time someone loves them without conditions.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, almost in a whisper.
It hurt to hear that more than it should have, because no one should talk about love as if it were something you had to earn by bleeding.
You squeezed his hand gently.
“You don’t have to deserve me.”
And the silence that followed was no longer uncomfortable.
It was warm.
Matt eventually leaned toward you just enough to rest his forehead on your shoulder, exhausted, defeated by fatigue and perhaps also by the relief of not having to pretend for five minutes.
You closed your eyes for a moment and let his weight rest there.
“Now I really am going to sleep,” you said, standing up a few minutes later, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders.
“Don’t look at me like that. I can’t see you but I know you’re looking at me like that.”
Something in his expression shifted, not quite a smile, but close. Close enough. You leaned in and kissed his cheek. He didn’t say anything, but something in his shoulders dropped an inch.
“Sleep too,” you said from the hallway.
“Yeah.”
“Matt.”
“I said yeah.”
You closed the door to your room and this time, with the familiar sound of him moving around the apartment on the other side of the wall, with the physical certainty that he was there and he was whole, you fell asleep in less than ten minutes.
When you woke up the next day, the apartment was silent. It was 9:47.
Matt had been gone for hours. That was normal. He got up earlier than any reasonable person and left while you were still asleep. Some mornings he left something in the kitchen: toast, fruit, once an attempt at an omelette that you had eaten anyway without comment. Other mornings there was nothing, and that was fine too because you knew where the cereal was.
Today there was a banana on the counter. You made breakfast slowly and without hurry. No classes, no shift, no one waiting for you at any specific time. The day stretched out in front of you with that slightly uncomfortable openness you weren’t sure was freedom or simply lack of structure.
You probably should do something about that. Study, work, one or both at the same time. Matt had never said it, that was important, he had never pressured or suggested, but you thought about it yourself, regularly. “At some point you’re going to have to decide what to do with all this.”
At some point. Not necessarily today.
Today you ate cereal standing by the counter, drinking Matt’s coffee that was still warm, staring blankly at the wall opposite.
The phone had been charging since the night before and the screen was full of notifications that were neither urgent nor interesting: two emails that weren’t for you, a notification from an app you didn’t remember installing, three messages from a group where no one had said anything relevant in days.
You opened them without any particular order, already sitting on the couch with your legs tucked under you.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing interesting.
You checked the news out of inertia more than real curiosity: Hell’s Kitchen, politics, something about traffic on the bridge, Daredevil seen in the financial district the night before. You read that last one twice even though it added nothing you didn’t already know.
You closed the app, opened Instagram, closed it, opened your messages again and closed them too.
Karen’s message arrived while you still had the phone face-down on the cushion.
“Could you do me a favor? I bought something yesterday and I can’t go pick it up. It’s at the store on Holland Street. Is it far for you?”
“Not at all, I’m heading there now,” you wrote.
At least it was something.
Your sneakers were where they always were, by the door. You slipped them on without untying the laces. You grabbed your keys, jacket, and phone, stepped out into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind you.
Outside, the sun slipped between the still-low buildings, bouncing off windows, barely warming the concrete. The air smelled of fresh coffee, exhaust, and toasted bread from some place open since early morning. You knew it all. Every corner, every smell, every variation of the noise depending on the hour.
The store was where Karen had said. You went in, gave the name, waited while the guy at the counter disappeared into the storeroom, then came back out with a medium-sized bag that weighed more than it looked and started the walk home.
You were thinking about small, scattered things. Whether Karen had bought something else useless just because she thought it was pretty. Whether Matt had eaten lunch or was still surviving on coffee and cereal bars. Whether it was worth cooking tonight or ordering Chinese again.
And then you saw him. You froze instantly and the bag slipped from your fingers, hitting the ground.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. There was no formed thought, just that sudden emptiness in your chest, that brutal pull in your stomach, something primitive waking up inside you before you even understood why. Your body recognized him first: the broad shoulders, that heavy posture, the particular way his arms hung at his sides.
Gerald Pruitt.
He was across the street, talking to someone by the entrance of a building. Half-turned. Head slightly tilted forward as he listened. Clearly he hadn’t seen you. You knew it immediately and still needed to check again. And again. And again. He hadn’t turned. He hadn’t reacted. He wasn’t looking at you, but you were looking at him, and in that instant something inside you shattered, as if the years between that street and Saint Agnes had vanished in the blink of an eye.
Your heart slammed against your ribs and your body remembered before your mind did. It remembered the constant fear, the narrow hallways, the way you learned to measure a man’s mood by the sound of his footsteps. It remembered being fifteen and sleeping with one eye open, the hunger and the shame, the unbearable feeling of belonging to no one except fear.
And yet, for one horrible second, you were that skinny, tired girl again, always looking over your shoulder.
The bag.
You remembered the bag.
You crouched quickly to pick it up, fingers clumsy and trembling slightly. When you stood up, you were already moving. Not walking, running, or something close enough that people on the sidewalk stepped aside slightly, confused. You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to look back. The only thing that existed was the direction home, the remaining distance, the number of corners you had to turn.
People moved out of your way, confused, not understanding what could be chasing someone in broad daylight, but you understood. Fear didn’t need to be rational to feel real. Terror had never needed permission to return.
Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your ears.
One corner, then another.
The bag banged against your leg with every stride and you didn’t care. For a moment you were escaping through the second-floor window again with a backpack too light to hold an entire life. Again with scraped hands, shaking legs, and fear stuck to your skin like dirt that could never be washed off.
The difference was that now you had something to lose.
That was the worst part.
Three more corners and you finally reached your building. You ran up the stairs without waiting for the elevator, key in hand before you reached the landing, door opened and closed behind you in one continuous motion.
You dropped the bag on the floor and waited for your heart to slow down. That took a while.
That night you didn’t know how long you had been sitting on the couch when you heard the key.
You hadn’t called Matt. You had thought about it and then left the phone on the cushion without dialing because it was daytime and he was working and what had happened wasn’t an emergency, not really. You had just seen a man on the street and run home like you were fifteen again.
But Matt came home anyway, earlier than usual. When he opened the door and found you on the couch with your sneakers still on and Karen’s bag on the floor where you had dropped it, something in his expression changed immediately, that complete and slightly supernatural attention of his that read the air of a room better than any sighted person you had ever known.
He didn’t say anything yet. He set down his briefcase and approached. You stood up and hugged him before he could sit down, hands clutching his jacket and face against his shoulder, and said against the fabric:
“I saw Gerald.”
Matt didn’t tense up. Or maybe he did, but in a specific way, not from surprise but from something colder, which you also recognized.
His arms wrapped around your shoulders.
“Where?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Holland Street. He was across the street. He didn’t see me. I saw him.”
A second of silence.
“Are you sure he didn’t see you?”
“Positive.”
He nodded slowly. One hand rose to your head with that calm, deliberate gesture of his.
“Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”
You pulled back enough. He was wearing his dark glasses, tie loosened, hair slightly tousled from the day. He oriented you toward him with his hands on your shoulders with that precision that never stopped feeling like something close to a miracle.
“Breathe,” he said. It wasn’t an order but something softer. “Breathe.”
You breathed, or tried to breathe more consciously. It wasn’t the same, but close enough.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” Matt said slowly, with that calm conviction that didn’t need volume to carry weight. “He’s not going to get near you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me?”
You looked at him. The firm line of his jaw, the stillness in his expression, the way his hands on your shoulders were a physical anchor and not just a gesture.
“Yes,” you said, and it was true.
It was completely true. That was what you had with Matt after all this time, not the naivety of believing the world couldn’t hurt you, but something more solid and more useful: the certainty that if it tried, he would be there.
You rested your forehead on his shoulder again, calmer this time.
Matt didn’t let go.
“Good,” he said softly, almost to himself.
I read everything you all told me, and the story is definitely going to be with Dex
the most striking color - daredevil born again fanfic
[part 1]
summary: your whole life had been difficult, and it got even worse when you were put into an orphanage, but when you ran away and met Matt, your life took a complete 180
word counter and tw: (2,2k) abuse
You were eight years old the first time you learned that the world owed you nothing.
Or maybe you learned it earlier, when your mother closed the door of Saint Agnes Orphanage without looking you in the eyes, with a small suitcase and three changes of clothes that were already too short for you. But at eight was when you really understood it, when the understanding settled somewhere beneath your ribs and decided to stay there forever.
Saint Agnes smelled of chlorine and boiled food. The beds creaked and in winter the cold seeped through the poorly sealed windows. The nuns weren’t cruel, at least not all of them, but they weren’t warm either. They fed you, taught you, sent you to bed. The rest was your problem.
You learned not to cry where they could see you and to save food. You learned the names of everyone who could hurt you before learning those who couldn’t.
By the time you turned twelve, you already knew exactly what place you occupied in the order of things: none in particular. You were a number on a list of state funds, a bed that could be vacated without anyone having to reorganize their routine too much. It wasn’t bitterness, or at least you didn’t call it that.
At fifteen, the map already included things no girl should have to chart.
The director of the orphanage was named Gerald Pruitt and he had big hands and a smile that never reached his eyes. He had arrived three years earlier, with impeccable references and a speech about vocation and service that the older nuns listened to with shining eyes. You saw him enter for the first time and something in your stomach tightened like a cable.
You weren’t wrong.
You didn’t want to detail what happened because your head didn’t even know it. You filed it away in some drawer in the back, locked it, and threw the key quite far. What did matter was that one March night, with sixteen dollars stolen from the administration office and a backpack with the only things worth taking, you opened the second-floor window and didn’t look back.
Hell’s Kitchen welcomed you the way it welcomes everyone: without questions and without promises.
The first few weeks were the hardest.
Not because of the hunger, although the hunger was constant, a physical presence that almost became company over time. But because of the noise. Saint Agnes, with all its coldness, was predictable. The city wasn’t. The city was layers and layers of sound and movement and people who brushed against you without seeing you, and you had to learn to read it quickly or fall behind.
You slept where you could. Under fire escapes, in the gap between two dumpsters behind a Korean restaurant on Forty-Ninth Street whose cook threw out the leftovers at eleven at night with a regularity you learned to take advantage of. There were others like you and you established with them the kind of tacit truce that doesn’t need words: I don’t rob you, you don’t rob me, and if someone comes with bad intentions we warn each other.
It wasn’t friendship but it was the closest thing for you.
What was completely yours was a corner in the alley behind the Hell’s Kitchen public library where they sometimes left boxes of discarded books before recycling them. You read everything that fell into your hands. Not for culture or escapism, although there was some of that, but because reading kept you sharp. It reminded you that you had an interior, that there was something inside that the cold and the hunger and Gerald Pruitt and your mother hadn’t managed to empty completely.
You were fifteen and had been on the street for three weeks when you saw him for the first time.
You didn’t recognize him, of course. Back then Matthew Murdock was simply a blind man with a red cane who walked through Hell’s Kitchen. You had noticed him before but that particular night it was raining, and you were in the doorway of a closed hardware store trying to keep your backpack from getting completely soaked, and he stopped.
Not right in front of you, a few meters away, as if he had detected something in the air.
“How long have you been out here?” he asked, without turning completely, his voice calm as if he were asking the time.
You didn’t answer. You had a very clear system regarding adults who talked to you on the street at night.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and there was something in his tone that was different from the similar phrases you had heard before.
Less urgency, less need to convince you, as if he was simply putting a fact on the table and what you did with it was completely your decision.
You studied him. Wrinkled suit, briefcase, loosened tie. Tired, but not the kind of tiredness that comes from alcohol or something worse. Real tiredness, from work.
“My name is Matt,” he added, and waited.
You weighed your options with the speed of someone who has been making quick decisions for months, and said: “I don’t have a name that matters to you.”
He did something unexpected: he smiled, with something that strangely resembled respect.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
And that was, although you didn’t know it yet, the first question of a completely different life.
Four years later, and you still sometimes woke up in the darkness with your heart racing, expecting the cold of the asphalt under your back, the dampness of soaked clothes, the dull noise of the city that doesn’t sleep and doesn’t see you. It took you exactly three seconds to remember where you were.
Three seconds, and then you breathed.
Matt’s apartment wasn’t big but it had something Saint Agnes never had and the street never could: a specific quality of silence, the kind of silence that isn’t absence but presence, that says here there’s someone who knows you exist even when there’s no one in the next room. You learned to distinguish it in the first month, at sixteen you still didn’t have a name for it.
Now you did. It was called home.
Matt Murdock was, as you discovered over time and with a certain amount of exasperation, a walking contradiction.
He was the most stubbornly good man you had ever known in your life and at the same time had an almost superhuman capacity to get into trouble. Literally superhuman, it turned out, although that came later. First he was the lawyer who bought you a sandwich in the rain and then took you to his apartment with the same calm energy he did everything, as if picking you up from the doorway of a hardware store was simply what was right to do on a Tuesday night.
He didn’t ask for your story right away. That was the first thing that won you over.
He gave you space, a small room he used to use as storage, clean sheets and the freedom not to talk. He cooked, left plates on the table without making a ceremony out of it. He got you clothes and enrolled you in a school without asking if you wanted to go, but also without asking which one you preferred.
Small decisions that gave you back something you didn’t know had been taken from you: the feeling that your opinion existed.
Then it took you six months to tell him about Pruitt, months of weighing words and stopping mid-sentence. Of waiting for rejection.
Matt listened without interrupting you, and when you finished, when there was nothing left but the horrible exhaustion that comes after telling the truth, he asked calmly: “Do you want me to do something about it?”
“What could you do?” you said, because you still didn’t know everything Matt was capable of.
“I’m a lawyer,” he replied, simply.
He didn’t smile, but something in his expression suggested that the question had more than one possible answer. Months later, when Gerald Pruitt appeared in local headlines accused of a list of charges long enough to guarantee him the rest of his life behind bars, you didn’t ask how much Matt had had to do with it. He didn’t mention it either.
That won you over too.
You believed it was at that moment when you started to love him. The devastating feeling of realizing that someone could see you whole and still decide to stay.
The adoption papers arrived when you were sixteen and a half. It was a Saturday morning. Matt left them next to your coffee cup trying to act casual, but you knew too well the tension in his shoulders. He was terrified, not of signing but of you saying no.
That broke your heart a little because after all that time he still didn’t understand that it was already too late for you to stop being his.
“You don’t have to….” he started.
And there was something fragile hidden beneath the words. Something carefully contained as if he was already preparing to accept any answer even if it could destroy him.
“Yes,” you said.
Matt stayed still.
“You haven’t even read them.”
“I don’t need to read them.”
Because a last name was only a formality for something that had been happening for years. Because Matt was already the person you looked for first when you were afraid, the voice that calmed your head, the sound of footsteps that made you feel safe.
Because home already meant him, so you signed the papers with the pen he had left nearby.
That night they made pasta and while eating you found yourself looking at the scene with a strange pressure in your chest.
Because you were happy and that still scared you.
With Matt came the others, as if loving him inevitably meant ending up surrounded by people capable of building a home around themselves.
Foggy entered your life like light through an open window: without asking permission and making everything warmer. From the beginning he treated you as if you had always been there, as if you were part of the group even before knowing him.
Karen was different.
Karen understood you too quickly.
There was something in her, in the careful way she observed things, in how she held pain without letting it harden her completely, that made you trust before you wanted to. With Karen you could sit in silence and still feel accompanied.
Over time you stopped thinking only about surviving. You started thinking about the future. About small things at first: what you were going to eat the next day, if you could afford to sleep a little more, if there was something like stability waiting for you. Then came other stranger, more fragile ideas. The possibility of staying, the possibility of belonging somewhere.
At nineteen you already knew about Daredevil. Of course you knew. Matt came home too injured, too tired, smelling of blood, rain and broken cement. He tried to hide it, but you had spent too many years learning to recognize people who carried the world on their backs even if they pretended they could hold it without breaking.
The night he finally confessed it to you he seemed more scared than the day he gave you the adoption papers, as if that could change the way you saw him. But the truth was you had known for months. Maybe longer. Maybe a part of you had understood it from the first time you saw how he reacted to others’ suffering, as if he were physically incapable of ignoring it.
You didn’t like it. God, how you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the bruises hidden under sleeves or the bandaged ribs. You didn’t like staying awake listening to the clock ticking slowly while imagining all the possible ways he might not come home. There were nights when you cleaned his wounds with your hands shaking with rage because he kept giving himself to a city that never seemed to stop asking for parts of him.
But even then you understood. Because Matt had done for Hell’s Kitchen the same thing he had done for you. He had seen something broken and decided to stay anyway and loving Matt meant accepting that he would always run toward the pain if he believed he could spare someone else the blow.
That’s why some nights you waited for him awake on the couch, pretending to read while fear slowly chewed you up inside and when you finally heard his steps in the hallway, when the door opened and he came in alive even if battered, you felt that enormous and silent relief that almost hurt.
Then you helped him sit down, cleaned the blood from his knuckles and told him he was an idiot. Matt smiled tiredly, as if that was the closest definition he had ever had of being loved.
Because it was.
And maybe that’s what a family was in the end. Not the people who shared your blood or those who gave you origin, but those who found you broken and still made space for you in their lives as if there had never been any other option.
Please tell me if you like it and if you want the story with Matt or with Dex
dededos
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
snowghoul
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
