“That guy is totally flirting with you,” your friend nudges your shoulder, her voice soft amongst the live music in the bar, and she’s nodding towards the young guy across the wooden table who keeps looking at you, and offering to fill your glass.

“Shut up,” you tell her, shaking your head, your eyes focusing on the light colour of the whiskey filling the bottom of your cup. “Not interested in… anything like that,” you shrug, finishing the last few drops with a tip of your head.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re dating that old man,” she laughs, finding your grimace to be amusing, and she’s quickly trying to smooth it over; “you just deserve better, like, maybe a guy that looks and acts your age?” she explains, her eyes glancing to the young man again.

Your eyes follow hers, and yeah, he’s cute: shaggy brown hair around his ears, clean-shaven, a sweet look in his eyes masked by the dim light, and he’s smiling at you with those straight teeth. He is flirting with you, and he has been since you sat down in this mangy place.

“Come on,” your friend lightly encourages, raising her eyebrows. “How the fuck is he going to find out? It’s not like you’re.. Cheating, it’s.. Exploration. He got to do it the first twenty years of his life–”

“Okay, I get it,” you cut her off, shifting against the stool. “You’re acting like he’s old.. He’s just older,” you attempt to reassure, but the words fall flat, and you’re looking back at the young man, and he’s making his way over.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she mumbles nonchalantly, giving you a gentle pat on the thigh. “Get laid,” she whispers, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders as she walks off, easily finding another guy to pick up.

“Hey,” the soft voice says to you, and you’re met with the soft, rounded brown eyes, like a puppy in human form, leaning over the counter. “She your friend?” he asks with a laugh, clearly hearing her stupid advice.

“Yeah.. yeah, she is,” you laugh nervously, and he’s reaching for your glass, carefully taking it from you. “She’s… something else, I don’t know,” you add on dryly, shaking your head.

“Her advice is good,” he shrugs casually, his rag wiping around the glass, and you look up at him; he’s grinning, a charming look on his innocent face. “Maybe you should take it,” he teases, filling your glass.

Your lips part, cheeks flooding with a soft pink, and a warmth creeps up your neck. He notices and smirks, his tongue glossing over the front of his teeth. He has that boyish charm your current boyfriend lacks, and you lean forward, taking a sip of your new drink – you’re going to need alcohol in your system to commit to this—a lot.

“Maybe… maybe I will,” you say, shrugging and leaning back on the stool. He’s taking the hint: soft eyes running along your body, the low-cut shirt your boyfriend begged you not to wear, and the tight jeans he swore he'd hidden deep in the drawers. 

You take another sip of the strong drink, your taste buds burning with the bitter liquid, and a buzz on your phone ruins the moment. You sigh softly, reach into your small purse, the bright light from the screen making you flinch, and read the text message: “When are you coming home?”

“That your boyfriend?” the bartender teases, peeking at the screen, and you swiftly discard it back into your purse, shaking your head. “Good,” he replies, nodding, when he watches you deny it. You’re not too sure what you’re doing right now.

The music is flowing through you, just as much as the alcohol, and you’re swaying to the music, a gentle grind behind you from the young bartender; hands on your hips, lips on the side of your neck; his breath sweet and cologne strong, reminding you of the boys your age, rather than your boyfriend who waits for you at home.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he mumbles into the crest of your ear, and your nose scrunches up at the silly comment – your boyfriend wouldn’t say it that way, and the delivery is all off, and his hands would be firmer, and he’d already be taking what he wants. You push away the thought.

Your friend is watching in admiration: the girl who adjusted her entire life around some older man she met during a shift at her job, devoting every second to him until it consumed her, finally experiencing the life every girl her age should have. 

Your eyes peel open to bright lights, the smell of sweat and alcohol, everyone around you in the same boat, moving slowly, hips swaying to the live song. You can’t quite hear it, but you’re pretty sure it’s a shitty rendition of Soundgarden.

You turn your head to your friend, she’s observing, drunker than ever, nodding, two boys on either side of her. She’s just as guilty as you are, but at least she’s not a lying whore – familiar words that your boyfriend spat into your face just last night.

The window from the bar catches your eye, and your hazy eyes adjust: a man leaning against his black car, head tilted to the side, focused on you and the boy, who is much younger than him. He’s familiar, too familiar, and your stomach twists at the sight. 

You freeze, your body growing warm, and it’s not from the kid’s fingers in the loops of your jeans, it’s from your boyfriend finding you, watching you, analyzing the situation more than anything; his girlfriend, a lying whore, at a bar on a Friday night, dancing with some kid, after telling him she was spending the night elsewhere. 

You turn to the bartender, shaking your head, and his eyebrows furrow, a hand resting against your shoulder – he’s confused, that puppy dog look returning. He’s sure he just did something to you, but all you can do is shake your head and quickly push through the crowd, weaving between sweaty bodies.

The pavement is damp from rain, the bar sign illuminating a soft glow on the glistening ground, and he’s gone, he’s left you there, standing in the middle of the empty road, drunk and unsure of what to do. You blink slowly, looking either way; mountains surround the small downtown, a place far away from where you reside, a place that you thought was an escape.

“Hey–hey, what the hell happened?” your friend says, immediately running up behind you and guiding you to sit on the curb; you’re leaning forward, hands covering your face.

“He’s gonna fucking kill me, you don’t understand me, he is going to kill me literally,” you drunkenly slur, shaking your head as you stare at the ground, and a warm hand is rubbing your bare shoulders, reminding you of the lack of clothing you’re wearing.

“No… no, no, he’s not, he doesn’t even know you’re here, we’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere,” she explains, attempting to comfort you. “You didn’t see him, that’s impossible… unless he’s following you like some freak, then that’s his fucking problem.”

You lift your head and nod, wiping the snot dripping down your face, tears ruining your mascara. She pulls you into a side hug, the two of you sitting at the side of the road, an ache in your stomach and throat. You could throw up everywhere right now, but you’re holding it back.

“Get back in there,” she encourages, tapping your back, smiling. “You don’t need to be dealing with this shit,” she adds, helping you up, and the two of you stumble back into the busy place. You can’t get the thought out of your head, and you won't. 

It’s a casual Saturday evening now; you’re on the couch, your boyfriend keeping you close with his arm around your shoulder, a cheesy movie playing. Most evenings were spent like this, quiet and content, but there’s an odd tension wrapping around you, maybe guilt. 

He hasn’t brought it up, not once. Didn’t mention a single thing, not about where you were, what you did, or why you came home smelling like booze this morning. He just smiled and nodded, saying he missed you, and lightly scolded you for dismissing his texts – it’s like he knows something without saying it. Maybe he was the man outside. 

You lean forward, taking a sip of the drink he had poured for you just a minute ago, swallowing the liquid – it tastes off, a sour taste on your tongue, and he blinks, observing your reaction to the liquid. 

“You know,” he starts softly, pausing to sip his beer, letting it rest against his jeans as he turns to look at you. “You didn’t tell me a lick of what happened at your friend’s house last night,” he shrugs, his hand beginning to rub your shoulder.

“Not much to say,” you respond with a shake of your head, not looking at him, occupying yourself with the television. “Just ordered pizza, gossip, girl stuff you don’t like.”

You can hear the smile in his voice without him even speaking, the light chuckle as he nods, taking another slow pull of the drink. He clears his throat before leaning forward and placing the drink on the coffee table. You watch the condensation drip down the glass bottle, pooling at the base, and he shifts back into place.

“Nothing, really?” he says, feigning surprise. “You usually get up to shit when I’m not watching your every move,” he jokes, but he doesn’t sound like he's joking, not at all. 

“Yeah… nothing, it was just… us, nothing crazy or anything,” you stutter out, still not looking at him, but you can feel his gaze on the side of you, eyes tracing the way you’re biting your lip, sighing heavily, noticing an odd warmth pooling in your head, settling at the temples.

“Drove by her house,” he says casually, with a tick of his head, looking back at the television, not catching the way you furrow your eyebrows, a look of surprise across your face.

“What the fuck?” you say as you shift your shoulders, noticing the weakness in them, though you’re breaking slightly out of his grip, the couch creaking as you turn your body towards him more. “How do you even know where she lives?”

“You weren’t there,” he replies coolly, shaking his head, his eyes finding you. They’re sharp, narrowed, like he’s expecting something from you.

You swallow hard, and he watches it; his eyes on your throat, and his lips pull into a smirk. He’s shaking his head at your reaction; the way you freeze, your body seizing up in his arms, the slight gloss over your eyes.

“Don’t act like that,” he mumbles, his hand sliding up from your shoulder to the nape of your neck. “You know what you were doing, don’t you?” 

His hand is strong, gripping the sensitive, tender part behind your neck. He pinches lightly, and your head tips back, lips parting to make a noise. You shake your head hesitantly, and he’s watching you, like a predator to its prey. 

“Tell me what you were doing, baby,” he says softly, leaning closer to you, adjusting himself until he’s almost eye level with your chin, and he’s purposely pulling your head back in an uncomfortable jerk. 

“It’s not like I don’t know,” he whispers, shaking his head, gently resting his forehead to your chin, his eyes gazing down at your chest. “Just wanna hear you admit how fucking filthy you are,” he adds, his head dipping lower, a warm mouth against your jawline.

“I–” you mumble, your eyes closing as his hand loosens against your neck, but even then, you’re automatically tipping it back for him. “I didn’t… do anything.”

He laughs, warm and damp against your neck, his lips gently moving downwards, teeth dipping into the sensitive skin, right where your shoulder meets your neck.

“Oh, but you did,” he whispers, pulling back for a second, his hand resting against your neck, sliding up, and grabbing a fistful of your hair. “You did, sweetheart, didn’t you?” he repeats, eyebrows raising, still smiling, condescending as ever. 

“No… No, I’d never,” you reply quietly, shaking your head, your hand pressing against his broad chest. “I love you, I wouldn’t do that,” you add on, shaking your head even more, feeling unbelievably dizzy.

“Can’t pick up your fucking phone..” There’s a pause and a yank. “Not fuckin’ once?” he spits, the sharp pull coaxing a whine from the back of your throat. 

“It–it died, I swear,” you babble, whimpering, his grip becoming painful. He doesn’t seem to care.

“I watched you,” he admits quietly, his lips finding your neck again, slow kisses up its side, to your ear. “Watched that idiot touch you,” he mumbles, his breath warm against your ear. 

You pause, mouth hanging open, head tilted back, the television glowing on the two of you. He has you in the palm of his hand, his lips against your ear, his breath warm, his hand forcing your head back, contorting it slightly. He’s making a point, and it’s obvious.

“You… you didn’t see anything,” you slur out quietly, your eyes fluttering as you focus on the ceiling of your apartment. “Nothing happened,” you reassure, though you’re pretty sure you’re digging your own grave.

“Why do you lie?” he asks, his tongue slipping out of his mouth, lightly licking a stripe against your ear. “Does it make you feel good? Thinking you’re deceiving me?” he questions, licking his lips next.

You stay quiet, not answering his question, and that’s when he tightens his grip on your hair again, pulling without hesitation.

“Answer my question,” he mumbles, leaning in closer, his nose nuzzling against your jawline. “Tell me it makes you feel good when you lie,” he taunts, grinning.

“I don’t lie,” you protest, your words drawing into a soft whine, and he’s chuckling now. He finds it endearing, the way you’re melting while simultaneously fighting back. 

His free hand finds your thigh, gently running his warm palm along the side before gliding up your hips and waist, slowly coming to the front. He gropes your breast through your shirt with a gentle squeeze, and he feels the way you flinch and tense up, a high-pitched whimper slipping out. 

“He touch you like this?” he asks, mouthing at the side of your neck, his hand still cupping the soft swell through your shirt. “He make you feel even half as good as I do?” he adds, despite the fact you didn’t even have sex with the bartender.

Your head lolls back in a swift movement, his hand going lax behind your neck, just cradling, watching you crumble before him. You realize it; the way your vision is going a little spotty, an odd feeling blooming in your chest and head, a faint dizziness, and you reach out, holding his shoulder. 

“What?” he taunts, still gently mouthing at your sensitive skin, breath warm. He doesn’t stop, leaving sloppy kisses, a trail of his saliva being left behind. “You feel different?” he questions quietly, his hand sliding up from your breast, finding the front of your neck.

You lazily nod, words stuck in the back of your throat, an uneasy feeling washing over you. You aren’t drunk, not by a long shot – the hangover from this morning was enough to detest alcohol permanently. Besides, this was no buzz you ever got from drinking; this was new. Brand new. 

Your boyfriend continues to cradle the back of your neck. “Open,” he whispers, pulling back from your neck, his eyes gazing at your blissed-out expression.

Your jaw slackens before you can think, and you feel his index and ring fingers mindlessly slip in the gap. Your instant reaction is to close your mouth around them, and he’s grinning, running his tongue against the front of his teeth.

“Listen to me,” he whispers, pressing his nose against the side of your face, breathing in your scent, practically panting in a twisted want; you’re so pliant in his arms, your body on autopilot, sucking on the long fingers that press onto your tongue.

“You’re so fuckin’ dumb right now,” he mutters, his own eyes closing, getting off on your current state. “That kid couldn’t do this to you, could he?” he shakes his head, answering his own question.

You shake your head too, catching your eyes from fully closing, your lips lightly working around the digits, coating them in spit, and they glisten when he takes them out. He smears the mess around your lips, purposely spreading your saliva on your face – it’s degrading, and he’s watching, jaw clenched.

“Please,” is all you manage to mumble, and he’s staring down at you, adjusting himself to sit up on the couch. He tilts his head to the side, analyzing you, almost clinically.

“Please?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows, tilting your head back again. “My polite girl.”

He’s always been so fucking condescending.

His large hand cups the side of your face, his two fingers damp with what he took from your mouth. He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, watching it shine in the glow of the television, and tugs it down, pressing your bottom teeth with the tip of his thumb, forcing it open.

He doesn’t hesitate to lean down, his mouth covering your own. It’s sloppy, hungry, and he’s mostly focused on giving you as much of his DNA on purpose; his tongue slides in, and you’re mindlessly returning the favour, kissing back. It’s out of habit at this point, and he’s gripping your face and the nape of your neck tighter and tighter.

“Taste that?” he groans into your mouth, pulling away slightly until your noses are brushing, bumping. “Taste me?” he asks, tipping his head back, looking down at you; swollen lips, hazy, heavy-lidded eyes, saliva dripping down your chin.

He pauses before prying your mouth open again, letting the spit he gathered in his own mouth drip down into yours, and you feel it hit your tongue; warm, him. He pats the side of your cheek – that means to swallow, he does every time he’s putting something of himself in your mouth.

“Atta girl,” he praises, absolutely claiming you. “Maybe I’ll have to drug you every time you get the idea of leaving me,” he shakes his head, dropping his hand from your neck, letting you hit the back of the couch with a thud. 

He stands up from the couch, turning around slightly, looking down at you; your half-unconscious body melted into the cushions, a dazed look on your face that’s glistening in a mix of his spit and yours, and he shakes his head. 

He carefully crouches back down, leaning back on his haunches, a large hand brushing your hair away from your forehead. You’re looking at him, and he’s tilting his head to the side, biting the inside of his cheek. You feel like a head disconnected from your body, only able to observe him before you, maybe whimpering. You’re not sure.

“Oh, my girl,” he coos, his tone patronizing. “I wish you could see yourself, and how fuckin’ stupid you look right now,” he lightly pushes your cheek so you’re forced to look away, and you whine, eyes closed.

“How would your friends feel if they saw you like this? The ones that encourage you to whore yourself out to any man that’ll give you attention?” he asks, knowing you can’t respond in your current state. “They’d think you look pretty pathetic, yeah?” he lilts, eyebrows raising.

You turn back to look at him, jaw hanging open, and all you can do is shake your head. He blinks slowly, looking down at your body.

“Not gonna fuck you when you’re like this, stop looking at me like that,” he scoffs, pushing your face away again, a bit rougher. “Not gonna fuck you at all if you keep acting like a stupid bitch, actually,” he corrects, rolling his eyes at the thought of it, at what he saw.

“I saw it all, you know,” he starts, finding it to be quite amusing to talk to you when you’re like this, unable to respond. “That absolute piece of work you let flirt with you, all because of what?” he shakes his head, getting himself worked up.

He stands to his full height, rubbing the side of his face. He doesn’t know what to do with you.

The next morning is worse than the hangover; a pounding in your head, a heaviness against your chest, and you stir awake, groaning. He’s beside you, eyes flicked open, waiting to see yours looking back at him. Everything is groggy, you can’t remember much of what happened last night – something about a movie, and then you began to feel dizzy, but you do remember his harsh tone and the way he looked at you.

His hand reaches out, a gentle cradle against your cheek, and you sigh softly, eyes closing again. He rubs the pad of his thumb over your closed eyes, a silence falling in the room, only the sound of the town outside reminding you that you’re in an apartment, his apartment.

“What’s the time?” you slur out as you look over your shoulder, and he’s gently guiding your face back to look at him. You still feel that discomfort, that odd feeling in your stomach and disconnection in your head.

“Twelve,” he murmurs with a slow nod, and your eyebrows furrow – how fucking long did you sleep?

“In… in the afternoon? What? My shift–” you stammer, trying your hardest to sit up out of the bed, but he’s keeping you down with a gentle hand on your shoulder. You’re too weak anyway; muscles loose, and your brain elsewhere.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he reassures, shaking his head, but you’re still stuck on the idea of missing a shift. “Your boss knows,” he rubs your shoulder, nodding.

You don’t even try to fight back this time; you can only moan as your head rests against your pillow, closing your eyes and trying to breathe through the odd feeling gathering in your chest. You can’t put your finger on it, but your boyfriend isn’t too concerned.

“Just us today,” he whispers, the mattress squeaking, as he leans forward, his body crowding over you slightly, a large hand pushing aside the blankets and sheets that once draped over you. 

“I don’t feel good,” you mumble, shaking your head and breathing more heavily. You turn your head to look at him, and he’s smiling at your reaction, a hand now resting against your face, his thumb pressing against your hairline.

“That’s okay,” he tells you, his thumb now rubbing between your eyebrows, gliding down the slope of your nose, and finding your lips. “I’ll make you feel good,” he promises, tugging on the plush of your bottom lip.

He’s slow with his movements, calculated, the way he begins to slide himself on top of you, adjusting your thighs, pushing up the nightgown you don’t remember changing into. It’s almost like he forgets what happened last night, though you don’t trust your memory right now.

“You remember last night?” he whispers casually as he leans down, his lips moving towards your neck, leaving your mouth alone. “Remember anything, sweetheart?” he asks, his large hand sliding up your warm thigh.

“No… no, not really,” you reply, hesitantly shifting your hips, your head tipping back. “Must’ve… fallen asleep, or something, I’m sorry,” you apologize.

He chuckles into the crook of your neck, lightly mouthing your pulse point, feeling your racing heart. His long fingers hook into your underwear, carefully tugging them down your thighs, and you gasp in surprise.

“What–” you stutter out, and he’s shushing you, shaking his head while his lips dip against your ear.

“Hey.. hey, it’s okay,” he calms you down, lifting his head to glance at you, and he notices the confusion in your eyes. “You’re fine, baby,” he whispers, his free hand cupping your face, his thumb rubbing your cheekbone.

You groan, head tipping back, suddenly feeling the tip of him pressing against your entrance. He was so quiet with all of it; the way his large hand had slid into the waistband of his sweatpants, not even telling you that he was hard – he was before you even woke up.

There’s an unspoken aggression in the room, and you can tell by the way he chooses not to touch you first. Not even a graze of his finger over your core, not even a few dirty praises to get you ready. You hate that it’s turning you on, probably even more than any of those things would do.

His hips move forward, a slow, deep thrust, and you gasp softly, words caught in your throat. You reach up, gripping his bicep, and he’s already panting, head tipped back in awe. He doesn’t hesitate to start rolling his hips, both of his hands sliding down to hold your hips in place, though one slides down, fingers gripping into the flesh of your thigh. He lifts it, hitching it over his hip, positioning you against the bed. 

“He fuck you like this?” he suddenly groans out, and your lips part, and you’re shaking your head in confusion. 

His thrusts become more meaningful; sharp, calculated jolts forward, and your body shifts with each one, your hand still gripping tightly onto his thick arm, bracing yourself. His head hangs low as he watches your face, your soft features contorting into pure looks of pleasure.

“Say it,” he mumbles, his chest heaving as he holds your thigh and hip, relentlessly moving. “Say that he can’t fuck you like this,” he repeats, shaking his head, sweat rolling down his forehead already – he looks like an animal, like he’s been craving this since you stumbled into the apartment yesterday morning. 

You’re whining helplessly, the soft groan of the bedframe in time with each of his hip rolls, and your noises are fading into whimpers, feeling him far too deep inside of you. There was no warming up, no time for adjustment. It was cruel.

“Please–” you plead softly to him, not even sure what you’re asking for, but he’s shaking his head, denying whatever you're asking for. It feels too good.

The silence in the apartment is suddenly broken, a soft buzz on your side of the bed, your phone rattling against the wooden fixture. Your boyfriend glances at it, his hips stuttering as he grunts, noticing the unfamiliar name on the phone–a man’s name–and he looks back down at you.

“Answer it,” he insists with a sharp movement of his hips, sending stars into your eyes, and you whine, shaking your head, thinking he’s absolutely fucking insane.

“Did I fuckin’ stutter? Answer the phone,” he presses again, his hand still gripping your hip, his fingers curled into your thigh, for sure leaving bruises.

When your eyes flutter open, you’re met with his; darkened and narrow, an undeniable look of greed and want in them, and you know he isn’t joking; he wants you to answer the phone as he relentlessly pounds into you without concern. 

You reach over to the nightstand, biting your lip as you attempt to keep yourself composed, but he’s burying himself inside of you, keeping the pace consistent and sharp. You clench around him, which only causes him to react even further, groaning louder.

A few fumbles with your fingers and you’re clicking the answer button, breathing heavily into the phone. You close your eyes out of sheer humiliation, impatiently waiting for the other person to speak – you don’t even know who is on the other line, but your eyes practically bulge out of your face.

“Hey?” the low voice says on the other end of the line, the familiar voice once whispering in your ears as you ground against him at the bar. 

You must’ve drunkenly given the kid your number, and now here he was, calling you, mid-fuck, and your boyfriend is grinning, knowing damn well the poor boy must have some clue as to what he’s hearing.

“Hey–” you speak softly into the phone, biting your lip harder than ever, your eyes squeezing shut, and you can feel the way he’s thrusting; it’s growing stronger, more force than you can usually take, and it’s all deliberate, a perfect plan to embarrass you.

“Sorry I didn’t call you yesterday… long shift,” he says, laughing awkwardly, and you’re staring up at your boyfriend, who gives you a little nod, coaxing you to respond. You’re scared of how he’ll react if you don’t.

“It’s… mhm, it’s… that’s okay,” you whisper, accidentally letting a soft whimper slip by, and your boyfriend only takes it as a sign to go harder, to push further inside of you if that’s possible at this point.

Your own hand clamps over your mouth, and he’s quick to reach for it, immediately tugging it back and pressing it beside your head into the mattress. You’re whimpering helplessly, hand shaking with the phone, and you can feel stray, warm tears dripping down your cheeks.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained and lower than usual, his eyes glancing down at your lower half. “Not when… you’re taking me so fucking good right now,” he groans out, his facade disappearing for just a second as he’s lost inside of you.

The phone goes quiet, a dial tone thrumming in the background, and your boyfriend chuckles, watching your expression morph into horror, knowing the kid obviously heard your boyfriend's vulgar words. 

“Do you act better when you know.. you’ve been bad?” he taunts, tilting his head to the side, his thrusts slowing, but still deeper, making it hard to think. “Or… is it cause.. you have no choice right now?” he questions, his own head tipping back, his neck extending back, veins popping out.

You gently reach for his forearm, the one that grabs your waist, and you hold onto it for support. You can feel yourself dumbing down into nothing, just melting into the sheets, a mess of nothing but yourself, and his chest is swelling with pride at the sight.

“Just gonna… fuck you every time you think you have a smart idea,” he tells you, his grunts growing lower, lingering frustration behind the words. “Gonna fuck the ideas out of you, how about that, huh?” he mumbles, practically saying it to himself.

“Brainless, you are,” he shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in himself that he’s doing this to you, almost as if you’re a chore.

“I’m sorry,” you babble out, noticing the drool running down your chin, a pathetic display of how numb your mind is, and how it’s all his fault.

He doesn’t respond. He’s clearly focused on chasing his own high; thrusts strong and assertive, moving deep inside you, not even bothering to acknowledge your pleasure, although he knows how much you’re enjoying it, regardless. 

There isn’t even an announcement as he finishes, right inside of you; warmth spreads in your lower abdomen, and he’s moaning louder than ever, deep and low, leaning over you further, panting, his hair sweaty and falling in front of his eyes. You’re staring up at him, barely, eyes hazy and glossed over.

The slow pull of your hand reveals blood grazing your fingertips, just the remnant of the mosquito that was once sucking your blood. You sigh softly at the sight, trying to recount the number of times you’ve hit your arm, thigh, and the back of your neck in the span of ten minutes after getting out of the truck.

“Everything you dreamed of, kiddo?” your father asks as he walks alongside you, a gentle hand ruffling the back of your head, messing with your hair. You groan, feet trudging along the dirt path you’re currently on, headed to the campsite that’s much too deep into the wilderness for your liking.

“Yeah, it’s everything and more,” you say sarcastically with another slap, your mind focused on fending off the insects that seem particularly interested in your blood. They always seem to seek you out – maybe it’s on purpose, you think.

“He’s already at the tent, it’s all set up, okay? Don’t have to worry about any of that,” your father reassures you, his soft eyes gazing at you; your head is bowed, focused on the dirt trail that’s ruining your white sneakers. You nod.

The trees groan, a soft crack in the branches as the summer wind blows them back and forth, growing tall and strong above you. The sound would be calming if there wasn’t a feeling hanging over your head, too; going on a camping trip with your father, just to get closer to his best friend, who is currently waiting for both of you, just as eager as you are.

“There he is,” your father says, and you quickly look up – yeah, there he is, hunched over, digging into the backpack that he brought, his broad shoulders taking up too much space.

He turns, a glance over his shoulder, and you’re fixing your posture, protesting against the backpack that’s packed full of clothes. You’re suddenly awkward, frozen, while he stands to his full stature; tall and broad, just like you remember.

He looks different; he’s not shaving anymore, that light stubble just a bit thicker, and his hair is growing out a little more; stray, sweaty strands covering his forehead, hiding the lines woven into his forehead. He huffs out an exhausted breath, wiping the sweat with the back of his hand, and rests his other hand on his hip. 

“Thought you’d get lost,” he jokes, shaking his head at you and your father. You shift your weight, swallowing hard.

“No, no, you know she’s better at directions than I am,” your father defends with a light laugh, gesturing toward a frozen you, all flustered and red in the face, though you can blame it on the sun beating down on the three of you.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a smart thing,” he agrees, his eyes flicking up to find yours, and his lips are pulling into the same smirk he had when he asked you to come here.

“You look like you’re about to fall over. Come here, sweetheart,” he says, casually gesturing over to you, noticing the uneven trail below you, accompanied by the wonky backpack holding on for dear life on your shoulders. You look caught off guard, shaking your head, but he’s already making his way over.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his large hands maneuvering the bag off your shoulders, and you’re looking for your father, who is already wandering off to find the tent his friend had already set up for him. 

“Yeah–yeah, I’m fine, I’m good,” you mumble quietly, nodding. “It’s… yeah, it’s warm out,” you add, awkwardly shaking your head again, and you can hear him laughing at you – it’s not necessarily at you, he finds you cute, endearing.

“Good, I’m glad,” he says quietly, his index finger hooking to tilt your chin up. “You look good, too,” he adds, his hand leaving just as quickly, hiding the gesture from your father, who is too busy unpacking in his tent.

He’s turning away from you, your backpack slinging over his shoulder instead, and his boots crunch along the mix of dirt, grass and fallen branches. There’s a smaller tent, one off to the side, and that’s where he’s heading – it’s yours, clearly.

You follow after him, glancing at your father as you walk by his tent, but your eyes are mainly fixated on the man you follow, dressed in just a black t-shirt and loose jeans, his biceps straining against the fabric, and you’re staring like an idiot.

“I know it looks small, but it really isn’t,” he reassures you as he stops in front of the tent and holds out your bag. “Go in, check yourself,” he gestures with his, nodding to the unzipped flap.

Your eyes gaze down at the zipper and how low the roof of the tent is. An uneasy feeling pools in your stomach as you realize you’re about to bend over, right then and there, and he’ll be standing behind you. Jesus Christ.

You hesitate, but carefully reach forward, pulling up the zipper a little more before bending over to adjust to the small gap it left. You can feel it, the eyes on your back, more specifically the loose jean shorts, and you feel it, too, physically, the light hand on your hip helping you in. It’s over in less than a few seconds, but it feels like it lasted forever. 

“Yeah.. yeah, you’re right, it’s nice,” you admit as you slide onto your hands and knees, eyes glancing around the space – he was right, it definitely appeared smaller on the outside, though you could definitely make do for the next week.

You emerge from the tent, standing up straight and dusting the dirt off your knees, and he’s smiling, watching you carefully.

“Easy there,” he teases, and you’re rolling your eyes before your father chimes in, standing by the small fire pit near the tents. He’s pulling his hat off in a sweat, looking to the left, gazing at the large body of water, a beautiful lake. 

“You wanted to go swimming, right, sweetheart?” your father asks you, his head still turned, gazing at the water, the sunlight reflecting softly off the surface. “You can go now.. The sun won’t be going down until...” he pauses briefly, checking his watch. “About two hours from now. You'd better hurry; it’s raining all day tomorrow.”

“Uhm, it’s fine–” you stammer out, not wanting to be a burden on the two men who obviously don’t want to go swimming right now, but his friend chimes in swiftly.

“I can take her,” he offers with a shrug, his eyes glancing towards you, and you’re looking up at him; eyebrows knitted, lips parted. “I know there’s some wood down there, too, and this firepit needs some. It’s not out of the way,” he reassures, more so you than your father, but he has a smile on his face, nodding.

“Perfect. I wouldn’t mind her getting off my hands for a bit,” your father teases, giving you a knowing look; you definitely had an attitude the entire four-hour drive, and you don’t blame him.

It’s an awkward scramble into the tent as you hunch over, swiftly removing your shirt and throwing on your bathing suit top, then putting your t-shirt back on, and then your jean shorts off, and the bottoms on, and then the jean shorts back on; it’s a tangle of limbs and groans as you move around, the pressure of him waiting for you making you stressed, and the sheer humidity filling the small space.

“You okay?” he asks again as you slip out, all sweaty and out of breath, and now embarrassed that he noticed. You nod nervously, and he gives you a gentle pat on your shoulder, fingers lightly squeezing.

The walk down the lake was a quiet one; he walked in front of you, guiding you, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see you looking around or cursing quietly to yourself as another bug nipped at your skin or another branch on the ground made you lose your balance. He laughs to himself at the sight and the thought: you coming all the way out here on summer break, just to spend a few fleeting moments with him, despite despising the atmosphere altogether. He likes it more than he wants to.

“Here we are,” he says, the two of you emerging from the small forest, the terrain quickly changing from dirt to rock under your feet, the branches clearing, a warm glow casting over your skin. 

Your eyes are wide and curious; the lake is empty, not a single person or thing for miles, only you and him, and the soft singing of birds above. It’s a swift movement: your shirt is pulled off, leaving you in your bathing suit top, then the denim shorts pool at your ankles, your sneakers pulled off last. He’s watching, analyzing the arch of your back as your hands lifted over your head, your skin bathing in the sunlight, fingertips gripping the loops of your shorts and tugging them down, your bare feet against the rocks, and you’re wandering off, leaving him behind.

  “Be careful,” he calls to you lightly, but you’re much too focused on the water hitting your bare feet, a kiss from the shore, and you’re smiling. You can’t remember the last time you did this; standing there, soaking in the warm rays, water on your toes – it’s been years, you’re sure of it.

A few more steps in and you’re hugging your arms, laughing quietly to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear. The sweet sound had him looking over his shoulder, his body leaned forward as he focused on gathering wood. He’s shaking his head, resisting the urge to join you, to peel off his own shirt, and to feel the cool water against his warm skin. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, putting the thought aside. Maybe another time, he thinks.

You move through the lake smoothly, eyes focused on the man who is much too concerned about tonight's fire. You’re grinning, cupping your hands around your mouth before yelling, “Come here.”

“Are you drowning?” he asks sarcastically, extending to his full height and turning around. “I don’t see why you need my help,” he dismisses, shaking his head with a laugh, but you’re calling him again, and he’s giving you a look; your-father-can-hear-you type of look.

You sigh, trudging back towards shore, your body damp, droplets running down your skin and onto the rocks. He must have the worst hearing ever, because the gentle brush of your wet hand against his bare arm is what has him turning around. Or maybe he was ignoring you, on purpose.

“Jesus Christ,” he flinches, turning back to see you standing there, hair drenched, shivering as the sun hides behind the clouds.

You notice it, the wandering eyes, the way he has to peel them away from you. He meets your eyes, and you can sense the restraint. It’s taking every bone in his body not to lurch forward and kiss your lips, turning damn blue from the chill you’re already catching.

“You’re shivering,” he says abruptly, eyes narrowing at the goosebumps lining your arms, more so at the way you’re hugging your body again, and he gently places a hand against your shoulder. Yeah, you’re fucking freezing.

He doesn’t hesitate to step by you and quickly retrieve your belongings before walking over to the hurt puppy you currently look like: cold body shivering, lips in an exaggerated pout. He rolls his eyes at the gimmick, tossing you the t-shirt, and you slide it onto your wet bathing suit, along with the bottoms, and then the shoes.

He’s reaching for a few pieces of wood when he notices your shoes, and he doesn’t falter; swift, long fingers are already lacing them up for you, tying a tight bow.

“Alright,” he taps your ankle, standing up straight with the wood clutched beneath his armpit. “Lead the way, baby,” he says casually, nodding towards the slight clearing.

The walk back seems longer than the walk there; maybe it’s the way he keeps stopping you, telling you to look at something, whether it's a bird aimlessly hanging around in the trees or the odd prints from animals running through the woods. You act interested each time, asking questions you know the answers to, just so you can hear him ramble about them, explaining in depth, and adding the occasional ‘yeah?’ to the end of his sentences.

“You two have fun?” your father asks you as you enter the small site; he’s sitting in his stupid folding chair, a book in his lap, and a beer cracked open by the leg of his chair – something he promised to stop doing.

You grumble and walk off to your tent, and his friend is stopped, chatting away with him, mostly praising you for being so ‘good’ already, and it feels good to be noticed by somebody. 

The zipper is jammed, and you tug it down with a light groan, shutting the tent flap. You’re on your knees, rummaging through the backpack for a change of clothes, preferably pyjamas and not damp fabric draped over your body. You quickly find them: shorts and a tank top, and you slip them on in a rush, praying to God something doesn’t open the tent. You’re safe.

You unfold your sleeping bag, draping it across the hard ground and placing your pillow at its head. This is your home for the next week, and you’re not sure if you’re into it anymore.

“You okay in there?” a familiar, deep voice asks, and it’s not your father’s. 

Three times. He has checked in on you three times.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reassure, but he’s pulling up the zipper, and you smile as it gets jammed in the same spot. He’s rolling his eyes at the stupid, flimsy material.

“You don’t mind, right?” he asks quietly, sitting on his haunches at the opening, a large hand gesturing to enter, and you shake your head. God, you do not mind at all.

“No.. no, come in, it’s fine,” you tell him with a shake of your head, shuffling back against the sleeping bag to give him some room to enter, and he does. All broad and wonky.

“Your dad… he’s already headed to bed, he’s–”

“Drunk,” you cut in, blinking slowly, and he’s paused, but nods as he settles.

“Yeah.. drunk,” he concludes, sitting in front of you with his legs crossed, slightly leaning forward to fit his large frame. It looks comical; a giant in a small room.

“He said he’s been sober,” you tell him, the words simply leaving your mouth without second thought, and he’s shaking his head, sighing heavily. He understands, it seems.

“I know,” he tells you, his eyes finding yours in the darkness of the tent. “Parents lie to their kids about that stuff, I get it,” he explains, nodding slowly like he’s been lying to his own.

“How do you get it? Like at all?” you ask, realizing your words have a bit more bite than you’d like, and he picks up on it too, his eyebrows furrowing in a light defence.

“I haven’t told my kids… about my divorce,” he admits, and your eyes widen a little bit too much, a look of surprise washing over your face. Divorce?

It suddenly makes you feel a little less guilty for staring at his thighs as he tries to reassure you about your alcoholic father.

“Oh, I’m.. I’m sorry,” you tell him, leaning a little bit more forward, and he’s waving a dismissing hand.

“It’s not you, kid, don’t worry about dumb shit in my life,” he jokes, flashing you a charming grin that has you curling in on yourself, noticing the humid air in the small tent.

A soft silence breaks out between the two of you, although it’s not an awkward one, not one at all. It’s understanding, like you’re both acknowledging you’re both experiencing something at the same time, vastly different, thoughts similar in some ways, you can’t ignore.

“You get sunburnt?” he suddenly asks, leaning forward a little, noticing the darkened skin on your shoulders, and reaching out without restraint. Calloused fingers run along the tender skin, and you flinch when he dips under the strap of your tank top.

Your eyes meet at the flinch; your shoulder slightly lifted like a scared fawn, his hand in mid air, and he’s going back in, adjusting the strap that’s slipping down your arm. It’s silent as he does it, and he lets his hand slide up your shoulder and up your neck, a light brush against where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Shouldn’t be so warm, sweetheart,” he comments on the heat coming off your skin. “Poor girl, that’s gonna hurt the rest of the trip,” he tells you, shaking his head in a light scold – you should’ve worn sunscreen. Your mother even reminded you to.

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” you apologize, and he’s looking at you like you’re crazy for apologizing for something so minuscule.

“Don’t apologize, just spread your thighs a lil’,” he says, gesturing with his hand, and he notices the look of shock on your face, and he’s laughing. “Jesus Christ, no, let me see if your legs are as crisp as your shoulders,”

“Oh–no, no, I knew what you meant,” you scramble and let your legs awkwardly fall open, and he doesn’t hesitate to reach forward, a strong hand reaching forward and gripping your thigh gently, lightly twisting, letting his eyes roam over your inner thighs. Soft, warm.

You put your hands behind you as you watch him; his gaze is clinical, but his hands are gentle, and he’s looking at your legs like they’re everything to him, examining each scrape and cut, every bruise that touches your skin. He looks up at you, eyes furrowed.

“Clumsiest damn girl I’ve seen,” he comments as his thumbs rub against a bruise, and you have to act like you aren't about to grab him by the hair to bury him between your thighs – you cringe at the perverse thought.

“Looks like the sun only managed to get your shoulders,” he tells you, carefully pulling back his hand as he gives your calf a light pat. “You’re fine, sweetheart,” he adds, sitting up a bit more before glancing over his shoulder.

“You'd better head to sleep, long day tomorrow,” he says briefly as he begins to turn away, and all you can do is nod hesitantly, watching him disappear from your tent. He leaves just as quickly as he entered, and you’re left alone, an ache between your thighs that should send you to hell.

The sound of rain against the nylon wakes you up the next morning, a steady rhythm above you, and you groan softly, shaking your head. You sit up, looking around the tent; it has to be around seven o’clock in the morning, just the morning dove humming lightly, reminding you that you’re miles away from home, with just your father and the man your body is begging you for.

You hear your name and pause, waiting, only to hear it a second time, and you lightly call back, watching as he does it again, this time laughing; his hair drenched, his body draped in a flannel, a light jacket on top, and he’s climbing into your tent.

“What the–what the hell time is it?” you ask, suddenly embarrassed by your appearance; bedhead, puffy eyes and lips, drool left behind on your pillow, and it looks like he’s been up for hours.

“No clue,” he says with a smile, his eyes gazing at the way you’re clutching the sleeping bag, holding it up to hide your chest – you have a tank top on, and he wants to tell you to stop being so dramatic, but he refrains.

“Is there something you need?” you ask, your voice raspier than usual, sleep clearly taking over, and you feel yourself still adjusting to the fact that the first thing you see is your dad’s best friend at the foot of your sleeping bag.

“Yeah, you,” he says casually, and it’s like a fucking dream; his body crawling on top of yours, eager hands unzipping the bag, finding your thighs, large hands gripping the soft flesh, adjusting them, spreading them around his hips, a fluid movement of neediness and hunger.

Your head is tipping back, feeling his body moving down, and down, and down, a light stubble against your inner thighs – when the hell did you take your underwear off? You’re too focused on his head between your legs, your fingers threaded into his hair, reminding you of the thoughts you had last night as he spoke to you so caringly, so softly.

Moans are spilling from your mouth, his lips moving, his tongue twisting, devouring you in a way that resembles something you can barely fathom right now. You can hear him groaning as he works through your core, the noises so obscene you're sure your father is about to find his best friend going down on his daughter before the sun is up.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and you look down, confused, wondering why he sounds so different, why it feels like you’re suddenly disconnected; a head floating, a body experiencing.

And your eyes open up, a loud gasp leaving your mouth as you sit up, panting heavily. You frantically look around the empty tent – no sign of him, or anything at all, just left with that same ache that he didn’t decide to alleviate at seven o’clock in the morning. A dream, that’s all it was.

You lunge forward, peeling open the front of the tent, just your head peeking out for some fresh air, and, dear God, he’s sitting right outside his own tent, head hanging low, a cigarette resting between his two fingers, and he looks up at you. You have to act as if those eyes weren't just looking into yours from between your thighs.

“Mornin’,” he says casually, the light mist of rain making his hair damp, and you notice the flannel over his shoulders, a perfect fit over his broad, fit body. What the fuck is happening to you?

“Good morning…” You say softly, out of breath as you hastily pull back into the tent, still looking around, like you’re grasping at any sort of evidence that it really happened – it didn’t, none of it did.

Breakfast was awkward as ever; sitting around the firepit that refused to stay lit for long, the occasional burst of rain putting it out in a matter of seconds. The log you sit on is rough, and he’s right beside you, smoking another cigarette, as you poke and prod the soggy cereal with your spoon. You can’t explain why you don’t have any appetite. 

Each time he spoke to your father, your eyes would shift to him, and all that replayed was that stupid dream: the urgency of his hands, the fact that he’s wearing the same flannel right now, his hair the same damp mess. You’re squeezing your thighs together, focusing on the cereal that’s turned to slop. 

“Terrible weather,” your father mentions as he gently rubs his head, a clear sign of a hangover he’s trying to ignore. “Not much you can do when the sun is hiding behind the clouds, huh?” he jokes, but you stay quiet, placing the half-eaten bowl of cereal beside you.

“That’s gonna tip over,” your father suddenly points out, the plastic bowl teetering on the edge of a log, and before you can reach for it, another arm drifts behind your back, light fingers skimming the waistband of your shorts before catching the dish, right before it falls.

“I gotcha,” his friend says with a smile, laughing. “Dad reflexes,” he teases, looking over at your father, his head tilting to the side in a knowing look, who’s laughing at the joke they seem to understand well.

You swallow hard at the joke, suddenly, reality is hitting you, like cold water being splashed on your face when you realize he is a father, with a son as young as you at home, and an ex-wife waiting on divorce papers for God knows what reason. 

“You two have anything planned?” your father asks softly, his eyes glancing back to his tent, like something is waiting for him – probably a twelve-pack he wants to break into, so he’s handing you off to his best friend for the day. There’s not really an issue with that, but the drinking is the worst part. 

“Not sure,” he says with a shrug, taking a long drag on his cigarette before exhaling. “The rain kind of ruins any plans we had, you know,” he says casually, but he’s looking down at you and your bare thighs, and he’s standing up, patting the front of his jeans. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

And he’s off, walking awkwardly to his tent, his cigarette dumped on the rain-covered dirt. It sizzles softly as the droplets soothe the burn, and you’re left sitting on the log, the light rain dampening your hair now, and you turn to head back to your own tent.

A book is held over your head, eyes running along each line and paragraph, and you realize you’ve already spent about two hours reading, not hearing a word from your father or his friend. You don’t mind the silence; the soft hum of the birds around, the drizzle of the rain on the tent, but you hear your name softly, and it’s like your dream is playing out in real time.

“You okay in there?” that same deep voice asks again, and your body remembers: four times, he’s asked if you were okay. Five, if you count the dream version of him. 

“Mhm,” you hum softly, tossing the book beside your sleeping bag, and he’s swiftly entering, broad shoulders bumping the inside as he squeezes through.

“Your dad is down at the lake, fishing or something,” he tells you with a sigh, looking down at your attire. “Still not ready, huh?” he teases, lips curling into a soft smile.

“I’ve been reading,” you tell him, and his eyes find the book discarded on the ground beside where you slept, the pages a floppy mess, and he’s huffing out a laugh, rubbing the side of his jaw with his hand.

“Smart girl,” he comments, his eyes finding yours in the humid space, and he’s flashing you a stupid grin. “Let me see how the sunburn is holding up,” he says, nodding towards your shoulders, which currently feel raw.

He adjusts his body, getting onto his knees, a hand telling you to come closer, and so you do. It shouldn’t feel erotic to you; crawling towards your dad’s best friend, who is currently on his knees, his head slightly tipped back so he can look down at you properly. 

“Yeah, it’s gonna ache for a bit,” he comments as you sit before him, and a warm palm comes down to press against the heated skin. “Maybe I’ll have to hold you down and put sunscreen on you next time the sun comes out,” he jokes, pulling the strap of your tank top. 

You reluctantly pull back with a soft laugh, and he’s smiling at you, admiring the way you so shyly look away, a quick hand tucking back stray strands of hair that obstruct your view. He’s hesitant, but helps, letting his calloused fingers brush your hair too, tucking some behind your ear.

“You’re gonna be complaining the whole trip if you keep your hair like that,” he comments, looking at the overgrown strands that fall; he noticed it on the walk to the lake and at breakfast, the shagginess making it hard for you to do anything.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he reassures, a hand gesturing for you to turn around, and you do, the movement hesitant as you stare forward, anticipating God knows what.

He crowds slightly behind you, a large hand reaching to gather your hair into his palm, lazily tying it into a low ponytail for you. He tugs it a little, and you move backwards a bit, your cheeks a warm pink at the contact, neck craning back, and he’s staring at the side of it.

He leans in just a bit, his nose pressing lightly against your ear, then leans up and lightly kisses the temple of your head as he kneels behind you.

“Feel good?” he asks quietly, his voice low, taunting. “The hair, off your shoulders. That feel good?” he corrects himself, pulling back a little.

He noticed that when he asked the first half, blood pooled in your cheeks, and you were about to nod and whine for more, as you had just gone into heat. But he meant the ponytail, of course, not the half-neck kiss that has you melting.

“Yeah.. feels.. Feels really good,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder and up at him, and he’s gazing right down at you, lightly patting your hip. “I like it,” you add, and it’s like the two of you are communicating in a secret language – you are. 

“I’m glad you do,” he nods, his voice lower as he looks over his shoulder, checking for your father. “I just want you to feel good, you know that,” he explains, and your back is still turned, hesitantly nodding.

“I’ll be back when the fire starts,” he changes the subject, clearing his throat as he distances himself lightly, adjusting the hem of his flannel. “It might be a little bit.”

He leaves you again, sitting in the tent, watching him disappear, and you hear him spark up a conversation with your father, who is already returning from his fishing – he’s slurring his words, it’s nothing you’re not used to.

You groan softly, lying back onto the sleeping bag, placing a tired hand over your eyes. You listen to the chatter; your father explains that he has to retrieve something from the truck and that his friend is to keep an eye on you. You know what he’s going to get, and you don't care anymore; you’re too busy rolling over to look at the small plastic window in the tent. 

It’s not long until you’re sitting up again, reaching over and throwing on a hoodie, covering the sunburn that’s much too sensitive for your liking. You crawl out of the tent, eyes looking around, mostly noticing the rain had stopped and the clouds had parted, a gentle warmth filling the campsite.

You wander towards the firepit, eyes curiously glancing down at it; it’s filled with wood now, though it’s damp from the rain, and you’re not sure if it’s going to light. You yawn, looking over your shoulder, and there he comes, with even more wood tucked under his armpit. He grins at you, noticing the ponytail still holding up.

“You’ve been in there the whole day, sweetheart,” he comments, and your father is walking shortly behind him – stumbling a little, but behind him, laughing at the way his best friend is calling you ‘sweetheart’, as if you’re his own daughter. Right. 

“She’s the same way at home; hiding in her bedroom,” your father adds, and you’re rolling your eyes, biting your tongue, wanting to mention exactly why you hide in your bedroom.

“Can you get the smores stuff from the truck? The two of us just walked half a mile for this,” your father tells you, nodding towards the light trail, and you groan, and he’s clearing his throat.

“Drop the attitude,” he adds, and you look at his friend, who is already looking at you, suppressing a laugh the best he can, and it makes you smile.

“Okay,” you breathe out, your feet bare against the damp ground, and you hang your shoulders forward, beginning the walk to the truck, which seems a bit too long for your liking right about now.

Most of the walk is alone, until it isn't. A light tug against the back of your ponytail makes you flinch, and he’s standing there, laughing at your reaction.

“Do not scare me like that,” you say, laughing as you quickly approach the truck. “I can do things on my own, you know?”

“Like doing your hair?” he asks, watching you circle, standing on your tippy toes to reach into the truck bed to grab half-melted chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers.

“You offered,” you say casually, shrugging, the materials in one hand, marshmallows tucked under your arm, but he’s swiftly taking them from you, making the job easier.

“Quite the observer,” he comments, his free arm extending to pinch your arm through your hoodie, and you’re laughing, looking up at him.

He’s staring ahead, eyes focused on the trail, and you’re accidentally stuck on him; his beard he still hasn't bothered shaving yet – it’s harder to when you’re outside like this, stuck in a tent, the closest body of water being a lake.

“Is my dad okay?” you ask to break the silence, and he slowly looks down at you, his lips parting to speak, but he doesn’t. You know the answer, just by the look in his eye.

“When we get back, I’ll get the fire started, okay? You just get changed, the mosquitoes will bite the hell out of your thighs,” he tells you, ignoring the question, and you nod, a silent understanding between the two of you.

The sun seems to be setting already, your dad disappearing into his tent, and you are too, only to slip on a pair of light sweatpants and socks. Your ponytail is falling out, though you refuse to take it out; something about knowing the fact that he was the one who put it up, who tugged on it. You want to keep that feeling, as if he owns you. 

“How did you do this?” you ask in disbelief as he stands by the fire, a warm flame glowing in the centre, his arms crossed in pride, shrugging. You can’t believe he did it – lit a god damn fire after it rained all morning, damp wood making it much harder. Yet he still did it. 

You’re quickly walking over and taking a seat on the log, grinning at the fire that’s sparking, embers blowing in the light breeze, carrying upwards towards the moon that’s beginning to peak out. He’s joining you, strategically placing marshmallows onto a stick. Your dad is elsewhere; his tent, probably drunk. 

“I’ve been told I’m a pro at this,” he teases, long fingers carefully sliding each piece onto the stick, stacking three, before carefully placing them above the open flame. “See?” He nods towards it, and you scoff, shaking your head.

“Whoa, you can put marshmallows on a stick, and then put them in a fire,” you tease back sarcastically, quirking your head to the side, and his eyebrows furrow.

“Maybe you should watch your attitude,” he replies, his eyes looking at the flames in front of you. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask softly, realizing your tone came out too smooth, too flirty, as he clears his throat, his head tilting to the side.

“Your dad will do something about it,” he says, suddenly shifting the conversation back to a casual tone. At the same time, the unfortunate burn in your stomach lingers, desperately wanting it to escalate into something.

“Or you can,” you admit plainly, your eyes looking towards the fire, and he’s fully turning his head now, in awe of your sudden boldness, and he can see the way you gulp. “Or you can tell him.. I’ve been misbehaving,” you clear up, regretting the sexual undertone you purposefully added.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he replies in the same casual tone, not bothering to look at your red cheeks and jittery thigh that’s bouncing up and down, an anxious, flustered habit.

“Thank you,” you reply softly, looking down at the marshmallow he’s roasting – burnt to a crisp, absolutely inedible. He forgot about it, too focused on the banter between you two.

“Why don’t you head to your tent?” he says quietly, as if he suddenly doesn’t want anyone but you to hear it. “The mosquitoes are already bad. I don’t want them bothering you.” 

“But–” you mumble, and he’s cutting you off.

“I said you were a good girl, act like it,” he adds, and your eyes widen at his strict voice. You stand up like it’s nothing, instantly retreating to your little sanctuary.

There’s tension you feel as you practically pant in the tent, your cheeks red and your body flushed, that dumb ache you’ve felt since he sat on your bed still lingering in the pit of your stomach, drifting down between your thighs. You almost want to cry, and you can’t even cry, because he’s there.

“Hey.. hey, what’s wrong?” he hushes quietly, not even bothering to ask if it’s okay to come in. He’s too busy ducking, eyes narrowed and his face concerned, watching you sit on the sleeping bag, out of breath and teary-eyed. “Baby, are you okay?”

Five times. You’re still counting in your head, and it only makes things worse.

He’s kneeling in front of you again, his lips parted, clearly unable to piece together your reaction. He’s swift, moving closer until your legs are parting on their own, and he’s invading the space between them, and you know it’s not a dream this time because you can smell him; his cologne and sweat, the campfire, the cigarettes. 

“You’re okay, shhh,” he coos, shaking his head, a hand lightly finding your hip, helping you adjust your body against the sleeping bag. “It’s me, you’re okay,” he mumbles, and you’re nodding, biting down on your lip.

“I’m sorry.. I’m nervous,” you whisper to him, and he’s grinning, laughing at your reaction, and his hand lightly finds your cheek, cupping your jaw.

“Don’t apologize,” he tells you with a shake of his head, easing his body lower and lower, and you can feel the weight of him against you; solid, firm.

It’s quicker than you expected, but his lips are against yours; slow, hungry, taking in all of you at once, a groan slipping by his mouth and spilling into yours. You kiss back, but it’s sloppy and messy, trying to match the pace he’s already set, and it’s awkward, and he finds it more endearing than he’d like to.

“You’re doing well,” he whispers against your mouth, nodding slowly as one hand slides up your sweater and past your tank top. “So well,” he adds, going back in for more.

His palm is rough and warm, splaying across your stomach, his thumb dipping into the waistband of your sweatpants, tugging, asking. You moan into the kiss, helplessly nodding, giving up your body like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is.

“Gonna have to be quiet, doll,” he tells you with a slow nod, his lips kissing up your cheek and to below your ear. “You can, I know you,” he reassures you, his hand moving lazily down the waistband of your sweatpants, quickly but still carefully. It’s your dream, unfolding right now.

You whine, glancing down at his large hands, watching the way he slips you out of your sweatpants, lowering them down your warm thighs, and off to the side, and he’s switching, now carefully removing his own shirt. His chest is even wider than you thought; all muscle, but soft too, clearly growing out of the muscles he had when he was younger, filling in just a bit, and you’re panting softly at the sight.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers, his tone almost condescending as he looks between your thighs. “How wet are you?” he asks, and you’re whimpering in response, biting your lip, tears brimming in your eyes, and he notices.

“Look at me,” he says, reaching a hand up to tilt your chin down, and you make eye contact with him, warm tears drifting down your cheeks. He shakes his head, a thumb lightly gathering the salty drips on your flushed skin.

“Sweetheart, you’re okay,” he whispers, leaning down to replace his thumb, gently kissing away the tears now, drifting down your nose and to your lips. “I got you,” he reminds you, and you nod.

You swallow back, attempting not to choke on your tears, and he’s watching your facial expression carefully. You wish you could tell him it’s not out of fear or dislike, you are just stupidly overwhelmed by him, his presence, something you’ve longed for since you saw him at that party. 

It’s like fireworks go off; his thumb, once wiped of tears, lightly presses against your clit, moving in slow circles. He watches your head tip back, a sound leaving your mouth that makes him quickly look over his shoulder, another hand clamping over your mouth.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles to you with a shake of his head, pressing down, keeping any noise muffled. “Don’t want your dad to hear us, yeah?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. You nod your head, agreeing. 

“That’s it, baby,” he praises lightly, moving his thumb around, focusing on the circles and pace, eyeing in on what makes your eyes squeeze and flutter. “Perfect girl you are,” he adds, moving back and forth. 

You whine and moan against his hand, hips rutting, back arching, and he’s taking you in like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. He’s pulling his hand back from between your thighs, watching the confused look, like he’s denying you of something you want, and he laughs, his hand going to his belt.

“Deep breath in,” he tells you, his hand swiftly unbuckling the clasp and letting it hang open, his zipper and button coming down, and he takes his hand away from your mouth, too. “Just relax,”

Once his jeans are open and hanging low on his hips, he’s shifting closer, your sleeping bag rustling with the movement of his thighs, and the way you’re moving your hips, preparing. He looks down over you, his own back curving lightly, the muscles twitching with want as you hastily place a hand on his bicep.

“Look at me,” he whispers, his hand reaching forward and resting against your lips, muffling any sounds that dare to slip by – and they will, because his other hand is currently alginging himself, the tip just grazing your entrance, and your eyes widen.

He watches your face as he pushes in; all wide-eyed as your head tips back against your pillow, fingers curling into his muscle, and he’s holding back, cursing softly at the feeling of you wrapping around him. He can hear the whines and groans against his hand, the puffs of breath through your nostrils and onto his hand.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes out accidentally, leaning over you further like an exhausted dog. “God, look at you,” he groans quietly, his own head tipping back as he starts moving his hips, just giving in to every fucking urge in his body.

The sounds from your mouth bleed into his palm, and you’re closing your eyes, taking in each thrust, the sleeping bag ruffling with each rough movement. He’s relentless, feeding into the hunger that’s been gnawing at both of you for months.

“Taking me so good, baby,” he mumbles to you, one hand holding your hip to keep you still, the other one still pressing against your mouth, keeping you quiet. “Oh, my god, you’re so fucking tight around me,” he huffs out, his hip movements shallow, but deep, purposely moving himself to keep you just as satiated as he is.

His hand slides from your hip and upwards, lightly pressing on your lower stomach, applying a gentle pressure, and you groan, hating but loving the feeling; it’s all tight, and there’s a stupid tingle that makes you squeeze your eyes and thighs, like you’re about to finish in just seconds. You can’t, you won’t. 

“You feel me… yeah? Right here, baby?” he asks lowly, pressing harder against your stomach and you’re wailing into his palm, nodding quickly, and he’s almost laughing. “So fucking deep in you,” he mumbles, in awe of the way you’re so easily adjusting to his size.

“Gonna fill you up, so full,” he taunts lowly, and your eyebrows knit together, realizing the most glaring issue at hand – the lack of protection; no condom, and an on-and-off prescribing of birth control that you don’t even have with you.

“Imagine that.. Getting pregnant, with my fucking kids,” he groans, just a hypothetical situation he’s currently getting off to as he buries himself in your guts, a needless hunger he’s trying his best to relieve without absolutely destroying you in the tent.

You moan into his palm, letting his hips move back and forth, solid thrusts, coming in bursts, each one deeper than the other, and you’re not sure if he can stop, not anytime soon at least. 

You feel that tightness in your lower abdomen, the one that has been growing for weeks, and it’s only getting worse with each ease of hips into yours, and you’re helplessly gripping his bicep. He’s groaning as he looks down at you, watching your eyes practically rolling back, completely drunk off of what he’s giving you… over and over, over and over.

He notices it; the tightness of your thigh muscles, the way you’re clenching around him, and pride swells in his chest; he’s gonna make you cum, all over him, in a tent, his best friend just a few tents down.

“Gonna cum all over my cock, huh?” he mumbles, his vulgar words a change in pace, an unusual switch up between his soft praises. “Come on, sweetheart, cum,” he encourages, noting the way you enjoy the pace – he doesn’t switch it up at all, nope, not even a simple change. He’s focused on you right now, getting you to that place you’re just seconds from.

With a loud noise, almost breaking through his palm, you’re twitching and shaking, an unbelievable mess against the sleeping bag; sweat covers your forehead, your hair, drenched, still in a ponytail, your entire body feeling it – it’s not over yet.

“Good girl, m’not finished with you,” he reminds you, still chasing his own high, and now he’s mindlessly thrusting, pushing your own mess back into you, using it to make it easier for himself – it’s obscene, the entirety of it, and you’re basking in it.

“Gonna make you cum again, and again,” he tells you, shaking his head as he huffs out heavy breaths, and he’s not moving his hand from your mouth. “All over my cock, baby, all over,” 

It’s like a threat, and you’re trying to catch your breath, but it’s impossible right about now; you can barely breathe; a hand over your mouth, the thought of your father hearing the two of you, all accompanied by the thrusts and the pressure against your stomach. You swear, you’re about to lose it. 

With a few more thrusts, each one loaded with more strength than the last one, he’s tipping his head back, a hushed grunt leaving his mouth, and you feel it; a warmth blooms in your stomach, a sticky one that’s dripping down your thighs and spilling onto where you sleep.

“Not wasting a fucking drop,” he mumbles, pushing himself back in, filling you up again with a soft yelp – he took his hand away from your mouth, and it was a mistake. You’re practically whimpering, like a kicked puppy, all broken and loose-limbed beneath him, bones to jelly.

He’s panting heavily, looking down at the mess of you beneath him, and he’s lifting the hand from your stomach, pushing back the hair on your forehead, and kissing it gently, a fleeting moment of sweetness amongst the chaos.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his hand finding your lower abdomen again, rubbing gently to soothe the ache. “You did good, so fucking good, baby,” he mumbles, kissing your forehead, acting like he still isn't twitching inside you, both of your bodies begging for more.

Six times. He’s asked you if you’re okay six fucking times. That’s more than anybody has in your life. 

You nod, swallowing hard, whimpering as you shift your hips, and he’s groaning at the movement, feeling you clench around him again. He’s hovering over you, closer, like a shield, protecting you. 

“You feel so good around me,” he whispers against your hairline, glancing between your bodies, your thighs wrapped around his hips. “Never wanna pull out of you,” he mumbles, words just falling out of his mouth, jumbling the ones you know he’s trying to keep back. 

After moments of lying like that, he buried himself inside of you, twitching and pulsing, and with relentless pressure against the most sensitive part of you. He finally pulls out, and you’re both gasping for air, reality hitting you both. You both notice it as you look into each other’s eyes: not regret or guilt, but an acknowledgment that you have never spoken about it or mentioned it again. You’re not sure whether you can live with that or want to; a part of you wants to run out of the tent and scream.

The morning is worse than the night you think – the three of you gathered around the firepit, and you’re not eating breakfast, less appetite than before, a sick feeling pooling in your stomach. He’s beside you, glancing at you, watching the way you shift your hips out of discomfort.

“Honey, you good?” your father asks, taking a bite out of his granola bar. “Not hungry this morning?” he adds, looking at his friend too, who is simply smoking a cigarette, his head turned away to blow out stray smoke.

“I’m fine,” you mumble softly, shaking your head, your eyes focusing downward on your sneakers, all untied and loose, a mess you didn’t decide to fix properly. You sigh, noticing the way his knee casually nudges yours, a silent acknowledgment.

A hard-working man, your father was.

Day and night, he spent it at his job, dedicated to his employees and managing the small business, pouring his heart and soul into it. He worked with a good group of men, all with wives and children at home, dedicating just as much time to the company as your father. That was until it shut down – it stopped making money, leaving everybody jobless and scrambling, desperate to relocate and find new work.

It’s the beginning of summer, and it’s just unravelling in front of your eyes now as you stand in your backyard, a small party being thrown by your father, a goodbye party now that everybody is parting ways, moving on to different jobs across the country.

You spent the fall, winter, and spring tucked away in your dorm room, studying until your mind melted and bled onto the pages scattered across your desk. Your family barely contacted you during those months, ensuring you were only focused on schoolwork, although your mother did send you various text messages sprinkled throughout; a few ‘I love you’s and ‘we miss you’, completely ignoring your father losing his job.

The backyard is oddly busy; men aged twenty to fifty huddled around, talking away with your father, kids running around like there wasn’t an open pool beside them, and wives drinking wine at the small table beneath an umbrella. It was your own personal hell, and it was happening the day after you returned home from college. 

Air conditioning hits your skin as you pull open the sliding glass door, a brief sense of relief washing over you as you are no longer in the blazing heat, and didn't have John, a long-time friend of your father, asking you about everything under the fucking sun; a summer job, college, boyfriends. You needed out of there badly, and so you left, hiding in the living room of your house.

It’s quiet now, and you sigh, placing the red solo cup filled with soda onto the kitchen counter before fleeing upstairs and into your bedroom, tucked away from the guests and people you’re sure you have never seen before in your life.

A few footsteps catch you off guard just as you’re about to enter your room, and your eyebrows furrow. You’re preparing for your father walking out of the bathroom, and having to scramble to come up with an excuse as to why you’re currently hiding. But it’s not your father who's in the bathroom, and you can see it through the crack in the door.

“Uhm, excuse me,” you say softly with a gentle knock against the wooden door, and you’re gazing into the small space to find him, your father’s best friend, his eyes focused on the mirror as he’s washing his hands. He grins when he notices it’s you, all wide-eyed and caught off guard.

“Hey,” he says quietly, a hand lightly turning off the faucet, and he’s glancing over his shoulder at you, noticing the way you’re lingering. “You need somethin’, kid?” he teases, looking away to dry off his hands.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” you quickly say with a shake of your head, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and he’s chuckling to himself, using a strong hand to open the door wider.

You realize you’re frozen, standing outside the bathroom, a stupid look on your face that screams, "I don't know why the hell I’m just standing here." He notices it too, and takes a small step closer, eyes taking in your figure.

“When the fuck did you get so big?” he scoffs as he glances at you, a look of disbelief on his face, but he also has a shit-eating grin spread across it. He’s smirking, too. It’s definitely not a complaint, more shocking that you have grown up over the past few months.

“Shut up,” you say with a roll of your eyes, and he’s crossing his arms over his chest, his forearms thick and muscular – his sleeves are always rolled up, revealing the veins coursing through him, and the tattoo sneaking up and disappearing beneath the cotton fabric.

“Took it the wrong way,” he adds, extending a hand to ruffle your hair. “Just haven’t seen you in forever, you disappeared on me,” he shrugs, his head ticking slightly, and his eyes focus on you.

“College,” you explain in just one word, biting your lip. “It’s been.. A lot, just adjusting, dumb stuff like that,” you shake your head, not wanting to get into that mess that you’ve been trying to escape since you started your first year.

“A lot? Like what, sweetheart?” he asks, a curious look on his face, and he’s pushing through the door now, forcing you out of the way, and you don’t know why, but you’re backing up towards your bedroom, and he’s following you. He sees it as guiding.

It’s always been this way with him, easy conversations and adjusting so easily to him; both of you lacked a filter with one another, and it was refreshing, something you didn’t have with your mother or father.

“You don’t want to hear about it,” you laugh awkwardly as you’re turning slightly, opening the door to your bedroom, and he’s laughing, following right after you. You didn’t realize how childish you left this place.

“Do I have anything better to do? They’re acting like fuckin’ idiots out there, you see em’,” he nods, and you’re laughing even more – you don’t know how else to react to him stepping foot into your room; walls still pink from when you begged your mom to paint them that colour, and your sheets a mess, stuffed animals scattered across them.

“I mean.. I guess, I don’t know,” you mumble shyly with a shake of your head, the bed creaking with your weight as you sit down. “It was just.. A long year, like stupidly long,” you admit.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he jokes, and you hear the door click. You lift your head – yeah, he’s shutting it behind him. “Fired from that job, and now there’s shit to do,” he shrugs.

You’re nodding, your eyes analyzing him; his legs moving, more specifically towards you, his shirt riding up a bit too high, his jeans hanging low, his hands big, palms rough. You shouldn’t be looking at him like this. This is your father’s best friend, and you’re pretty sure you’ve talked to his wife about boy struggles when your mom was out of town.

The bed creaks again as he sits next to you, leaving a comfortable space next to you until he doesn’t, and you watch the way he adjusts his hips, man-spreading right in front of you, his knee bumping your bare one. Your head hangs low, hiding the clear flush on your cheeks.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly, his body turning to face you a little more, his chest pressing against the thin cotton of his shirt. “You’re quiet, I’m used to you not shutting up,” he adds, his shoulder lightly bumping yours.

“It’s nothing, it’s really nothing,” you say as you turn your head, and he’s already looking at you; sharp, narrowed eyes, his beard daring to grow; he always was cleanly shaved, but it seems like he forgot to this morning. You press your thighs together.

“Nothing, huh?” he repeats, not even hesitating to lift his hand to push your hair out of your face, purposely doing it so you’ll look at him. “Terrible liar, just like your daddy,” he smiles, his eyes roving across your soft features.

“I’m not lying,” you protest and shake your head quickly, immediately denying the allegation. “It’s boring stuff, dumb tests, just dumb stuff,” you ramble on, a sigh concluding the jumble of words.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he relents, his hand dropping down to pat your thigh lightly. “But you know I listen to everything you have to say, yeah?” he tells, his tone serious.

“Yeah… Yeah, I know,” you mumble with a nervous nod, glancing at your thigh that’s currently burning with heat from just his graze. “Thank you,” you mutter out.

“Polite girl he raised,” he adds, making a slight clicking with his tongue. “Thanking me for just listening to you, what are you thinking?” he teases even more, laughing at the pure awkwardness on your face, the way you’re shifting on the bed.

“I-I don’t know, I’m just thankful, okay?” you breathe out with a hunch of your shoulders, looking away from him, but he’s one step ahead and has your chin between your fingers, forcing you to look back at him.

A boundary was blurred right then and there, and it’s on both of your faces; your wide eyes and parted lips, a surprised look despite the fact you’re leaning into the gentle touch, and his jaw is clenched, head tipping back as he looks down at you. Neither of you should be acting like this.

You swallow hard, the silence deafening. You can hear the familiar voices out there: kids laughing and screaming, a light hum of music, wives laughing, even your father speaking so fondly of you. You stare into his eyes, and you can see him holding back, every fibre in his body restraining himself from leaning in, and pushing you onto the dumb blankets you’ve had since you were twelve. 

“Listen,” he cuts the silence with his low voice, and his thumb strokes your cheek before he pulls back. “Your father, he’s going on a camping trip next week, I’ll be there,” he starts, and he pauses, sucking in a deep breath. It looks like he’s struggling to get the words out.

“If you want.. I can run it by him, and.. I can say you talked about wanting to join him, yeah?” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. “It’ll be a week-long, just us and some tents, a forest, I think it’ll be good for you, especially after this year,” he explains with a slow nod, his hand scratching at his scruff.

“I hate camping,” you instantly respond, and he’s laughing at your ignorance – it’s not about camping and roasting marshmallows, it’s about you and him. You can't seem to get that through your head, and he finds it amusing.

“Foolish baby,” he mutters, and the pet name catches you off guard. “I’ll tell him you wanna go.. I’ll make it fun, okay?” he promises, patting your thigh again, but doesn’t take it away this time. He lets it linger, a rough palm, one with a wedding ring around his finger, against your soft skin.

“Okay,” you agree softly with a hesitant nod, and he’s smiling at your compliance, clearly pleased with the idea.

“That’s my girl,” he jokes, pulling his hand away from your bare thigh, although he slid it upwards before pulling it away, letting his fingers linger in between your legs for a brief second. He’s not looking away from you.

The rest of the night was an odd one, an odd feeling blooming in your stomach: guilt, attraction, and something else that you couldn't put your finger on. You know it’s because of him, the way he touched you, and lured you in, and made you feel guilty – not because you didn’t like it, but because you did like it. You shouldn’t, not with him.

“Everything okay?” your mom asks you as you stand aimlessly in the kitchen, hovering by the fridge at eleven o’clock, forgetting to grab something. “Didn’t see you at the party much, John said he missed talking to you,” she jokes, giving you a pat on your back.

“He would not shut the hell up,” you groan, reaching for a soda and cracking it open.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, catching a glare from her, and you look away, sighing quietly before turning on your heel to head back into your bedroom.

“One more thing, love,” your mom says, leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but a robe tied around her waist, hair in curlers for the next morning.

“What?” you groan, and she’s rolling her eyes at your young adult attitude that didn’t disappear when you were off at college. 

“Your father got a call, you know, that one friend from when he was ten. The two of them are going on a camping trip, and he mentioned you guys chatted about it during the party – you really wanna go?” she asks with a raise of her eyebrows, but she’s turning around to pour herself a glass of wine.

“Yeah.. I’m done hating… the outdoors,” you mumble, cringing at your own dumb explanation. “I just need to get away from this town and the people,” you add, which sounds way more like you than anything you’ve said today.

“That’s fair,” she shrugs, screwing on the cap to her white wine. “He’s a good man, that friend of your father’s. Always cared about you so much,” she nods, placing the wine bottle onto the counter.

“I know,” you reply with a nod, carefully slinking out of the kitchen and up the stairs.