" he hurt me but it felt like true love "

You didn’t really care as long as he didn’t move your stuff, so it wasn’t on your mind till he came out of the bathroom butt-ass naked and walked past your open door, his cock jumping with each step; your eyes went so wide. He knows you were going to still be awake; he did that on purpose. He only got a glimpse of your reaction; your wide eyes and slack jaw made him smile.

The next day you were sitting at the dining room table eating some cereal as your mom was messing around in the kitchen. John woke up a few minutes ago, sitting up on the couch, stretching and groaning when his back cracked loudly. “Wow, I'm getting old." Your mom laughed, and you just had a straight face. You didn't even want to turn to the living room. But you didn’t have to. He got up and made his way to the dining room table. "How'd you sleep?” he spoke, leaning with his hand flat on the table

you were silent for a few seconds “uhm… i didn’t sleep much…”

He made a fake worried expression. "Oh, young lady, you must get some rest if you want to keep that brain intact, hm?"

“Uhh, yeah, I guess I just had a lot on my mind.”

it was fascinating to him that you hadn’t told your parents what you saw last night; he figured you were perfect for keeping secrets…

The rest of the morning was so awkward you just wanted to get out of the house. You got dressed and were just about to go out the door. "Where are you off to?” your father asked. "Umm, just going to the mall…”

“you sure you want to go alone… there was an incident in that area a few days ago…”

you pursed your lips together

“I think I'll be fine…”

“No, no, why don’t you let John go with you? You could help him find a toy for his son too. "Why wasn’t his son with him anyway…

you tried to object, "Uhm—I"

“Ah, yes, I can take her…” john stood up and walked over to you, patting you on the shoulder

“you’re not dressed and I—I was trying to leave now…” you tried to find a way to have him NOT come with you

"Won't take me long to get dressed; I'm not a beauty queen” he gave THAT smile

“go ahead and get dressed, John; she can wait," your father said sternly

you sighed and plopped down on the couch as john made his way to his bag to get out some clothes then to the guest bathroom

Soon he came out. "Dressed in only 5 minutes; now let's go." he waved his arm towards himself

you let out a deep breath and walked out the door with him

"Have fun!” your father yelled

"We will," John smiled.

You sighed as you started the car, adjusting your seat since your dad had driven the car last, and he always put the seat back far too much.

"What's your problem?"

you just stared at him… Is he serious? You saw his whole dick and balls last night, and now you’re being forced to be in a car with him. What does he think your problem is? You just stayed silent, turning on the radio and driving to the mall. He kept trying to start a conversation the whole ride, and you gave lackluster replies.

When you arrived at the mall, he kept trying to speak to you as the automatic doors of the mall opened. “Look, I was trying to come here to get away from you; leave me alone!” you said before walking into the mall, leaving him behind.

After you were done walking around the mall, you called John on the phone because you had to drive him back home. He answered in a sing-songy tone, "Hellooo."

"Where are you?"

“by the bathrooms”

"Which… bathrooms?"

“the ones by the apple store”

"Well, can you come to the entrance?"

"I'm not done shopping. Why don't you meet me here? i have to go to this toy shop after i finish in the bathroom."

“uhhh… okay fine” you hang up

He smiled, standing by the bathrooms waiting for you

you walked up and you couldn’t see him so you just assumed he was still in the bathroom and leaned on the wall until he snatched you and pulled you into the bathroom with him

"What the fuck?!”

he covered your mouth, his hand taking up half your face covering your nose as well

“listen to me and shut the fuck up."

your heart raced, your eyes were wide and beginning to tear up, and you could barely breathe because his hand

"You're going to listen, okay… no talking back. When I take my hand off your mouth, don’t make a fucking peep, or you’ll regret it.”

you just stared at him

he took his hand off your mouth and you immediately went to scream. He slapped the fuck out of you, which made you shut up and rub your face before he turned you around, pressing your face against the cold tile wall

"You want to scream; I can make you in a way that's far more beneficial to me.” He kicked your legs apart and pulled your dress up and your panties down. He stroked your clit with his fingers, which did nothing. He sighed and pulled down his pants and boxers, his hard cock flying out like it was magnetically attracted to your cunt. "I guess I have to do it the hard way. I'm sorry, sweetheart." He pushed the tip of his cock inside of you with a groan. You squealed; he was so thick it hurt so bad, especially dry. He didn’t even spit on it or anything.

You just breathed heavily trying to get through it; his thrusts became harder and faster. The friction was unbearable, and you were sure you were bleeding. You were. John was staring down at more and more of your blood covering his cock with each thrust. It made him even more horny; he was so close already. You just cried, "It hurts! Please stop!” you whined. He slapped your ass. “I’m almost done. Quit whining. Don't rush me or I'll prolong it; I could go more rounds than one.” You just pouted after that; you didn’t want this to take longer than it had to. He gripped onto your hip and left tit hard, He thrust into you sloppily. He was about to cum; he pulled his hips all the way back and thrust hard into you one last time, pushing you fully against the wall as he came deep inside of you. He groaned, laying his head on your back. "You feel so good, hah…” he breathed out with a smile. He pulled out of you, some of his cum dripping out. He shoved it back in with his fingers and quickly pulled your underwear up. He pulled your dress back down and fixed you up. You were limp, so he had to help you out of the bathroom.

He ended up driving you home. Understandably, you were completely out of it; he had to walk you to the car, and you were limping. The concerned looks of others aroused him; they were all seeing what he made you into.

When you got home, you locked yourself in your room, not even eating dinner. Your parents were wondering what was wrong. John just told them some employee at the mall was really rude to you and you felt super down about it, and of course in this made-up story he says he told them off.

You just curled up in bed still feeling the pain in your vagina. You couldn’t bring yourself to go shower; you were genuinely drained. A few hours later you managed to fall asleep.

Around 2am, when everyone, including you, was asleep, John tiptoed up the stairs hoping for a second round. He couldn’t get the feeling of your cunt out of his head; he was so hard, why jerk off when he has the real girl right upstairs and this is his last night here… Might as well take you one more time.

He turned the knob to your door, only to find out it was locked. He smacked his teeth and looked around till he had the idea to go to your bathroom and use your bobby pin to open the door, which he successfully did. He walked into your room and closed the door behind himself. He crept towards your bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. He just watched you for a second before he finally went into action.

He pulled your dress up, revealing most of your body. He could see the bruises from his treatment of you forming on your hips and tits. He also noticed his cum from earlier seeping through your panties; it made his cock twitch. He pressed his thumb against your clit through your panties; you whined and squirmed in your sleep. He bit his lip; he can't get any harder. He pulled your panties down and put your legs on his shoulders. He pulled his boxers down, letting his cock spring free. He started rubbing his cock against your cunt, covering his cock in your juices, which he was excited about because he didn’t get to do that earlier. He guided his cock to your entrance, pushing in slowly. You started to stir, waking up.

"Hm..." you whined, blinking your eyes open. You saw him and your eyes widened; he covered your mouth. "Shhh, be quiet. You know what happens when you scream.” You started to cry. You squirmed as he pushed all the way in. Why was he so fucking huge? You whined, hitting him, trying to get him to stop, but he just took your punches as he thrust into you, his head drawn back as he groaned, "Your pussy is perfect, you know that, sweetheart?” You didn’t answer; you just shut your eyes. He paused and moved to lift you up, putting you in a new position

he had you in the lotus position so he could move your body up and down on his cock and also see your face and make you look at him. it was such a romantic position but this situation wasn’t romantic at all, at least to you… To him it was extremely romantic. He placed his hands on your hips, moving them for you. You felt so disgusting. He lifted your dress up and over your head, throwing it somewhere in your room. In this new position he was so deep inside you, stretching you out again; all you could do was cry.

He looked at your tear-stained face and moaned; it turned him on so much seeing you cry. He licked along your cheeks, tasting the salty result of his actions. You just whimpered with an expression of disgust as he fucked into your soft body. 

You were so in shock your door was locked. How did he even get in? Why is he like this? He kept grinding his hips down on himself and is now bucking his hips up too. He was so close; he gets close so fast with you. "You're a perfect young lady—I hope you'll... mm keep our secret so I can come back and fill this perfect cunt up again. You just moaned; it was embarrassing how this time your body did react to him. You were tightening around him; you were going to cum soon too.

You rested your head on his shoulder, tears still flowing from your eyes as you started to grind down on him yourself to cum and be done with this, which made him smile. "See, you like it. I know what's best for you… Aren't you lucky I'm doing this too, you… Who else could make you feel like this?" He put his hands behind him flat on the bed and began to thrust up into you erratically. You were basically being bounced on his pelvis. You cried out; his cock was hitting your cervix over and over. It was so uncomfortable but pleasurable at the same time. You started to feel a feeling deep in your tummy; each thrust brought you closer to orgasm.

It was like one of those carnival games where you hit the plate with a mallet and the ball hits the bell; he was hitting your bell over and over till it cracked. You practically screamed as you came. He quickly covered your mouth; as much as he loved your sounds, he'd like to be able to keep coming back and not alert your parents of what he's been doing to you. He kept on thrusting into you, trying to get off. The feeling of you cumming brought him closer. After a few more thrusts, he came with a stifled groan as he was trying not to make noise himself. He held on to you tightly, putting his face in the crook of your neck, kissing it, and licking your sweat.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, sweetheart..." I’m done for today,” he mumbled again, and you just let out a squeaky sigh. He pulled out of you and lay you down on your bed. He curled up behind you.

He cuddled you for a few minutes, running his hands through your hair, occasionally sniffing it. "You were such a good girl this time…” You were just silent; you couldn’t speak if you wanted to. "Maybe next time I'll eat your cunt; I'm sure it’s just as sweet as you." He was getting a little hard again just thinking about it, but he wasn’t going to fuck you again tonight.

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him. 

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted. 

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust. 

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again. 

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus. 

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.” 

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement. 

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear. 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you. 

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again. 

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you. 

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch. 

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause. 

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again. 

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid. 

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick. 

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin. 

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat. 

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead.  “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag. 

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare. 

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him. 

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before. 

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words. 

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you. 

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall.  A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook. 

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam. 

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan. 

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre. 

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business. 

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan. 

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.” 

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?” 

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one? 

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library. 

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?” 

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest. 

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.” 

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.” 

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?” 

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip. 

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall. 

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you. 

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time. 

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan. 

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this. 

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

@do-it-for-kicks @whytheylosttheirminds @laverna-fanfictions @graceflorence

The thing is with Ben, "lovers" doesn't really include any real commitment on his part. He let's you stay the night and kisses you goodbye when he drops you off the next morning. He'll call you not just to fuck but sometimes just to smoke and watch tv. I mean you guys end up fucking of course but still. You make him laugh when you try explaining the 20 somethings of today, and he makes you cry when you cum, but it's not enough. You've been fucking him for about 6 months now and you told yourself to be a big girl and do the no-strings attached thing. You couldn't. Now you swear he holds your hands tighter when he's got them pinned behind your back. It's pathetic, but you can't help it.

He picks you up when you text him you went shopping and unsubtly mentioned some new skirt. You barely had it on for 5 minuets before he tore it up. Now you're lying next to him in his large bed, and he's got a joint lit between his lips.

The sheets are warm on your bare skin, making you feel safe and all fuzzy inside. You wanna curl up next to him and trace shapes across his stomach while he feeds you the joint. You wanna go to bed without having to take your toothbrush out from your bag, but instead just grab it from where it sits next to his. When you wake up in the middle of the night and get the urge to call a cab home, too hurt to face another night of feeling like this, you hope he'll notice you and grumble out a sleepy "come back to bed." He never does, and you never leave.

You know it's a bad idea. it's childish and self-sabotaging, and you don't know if you can stomach the answer, but you do it anyways. You clear your throat before asking -

"are you fucking anyone else?"

There's silence. The sound of your heart beating in your throat makes your ears ring and your palms sweat. Ben looks at you with an expression you can't read. He puts out the joint on the ashtray beside him and faces you.

You continue as you sit up, "I need to know because, if you are then I think I should put my time into something better." The words just spill out like water from a vase that someone took a hammer to. You lock eyes with him and try your best to hide your fear and bubbling heartbreak.

"What can be better than this honey?"

His voice is smug but he's being genuine. What better is there out there? He's Soldier Boy for fucks sake. You hesitate before responding. Your throat grows tight from holding back tears, but you're tired of biting your tongue.

"Nothing. I mean, I want to be with you. Ben I, I think I love you-

"Jeez doll, I don't think you mean that" he interrupts with a shake of his head.

You scoff. His deflection makes your blood boil. You're confessing your love and he has the nerve to downplay your feelings like you're some kid getting too worked up over a broken toy. If you stay any longer in this embarrassing mess you made for yourself, you think you'll throw up.

"Next time just say you're screwing other people, you asshole." Your words are sharp between gasps of held back tears. You get out of bed and rush to find your clothes scattered across his room.

Ben moves to follow you. He slips on a pair of shorts before reaching for your hand that's packing your bag. You really wanted to stay tonight.

"Honey, cmon this is crazy. I'm not seein' anyone else, look you just caught me off guard." He tries to sweet-talk you but you aggressively pull your arm away from his touch. "Maybe you're not but you don't love me" you frigidly retort. "Don't know why I thought a man like you could be capable of something like that."

He didn't like that. at all. His entire demeanor shifts from empathetic to defensive. "The hell is that supposed to mean?'"

You continue packing your bag refusing to face him. You wanna make him feel like how you feel right now. If that's even possible. "You're a weapon that's too old to be of any actual use, so you get your dick wet to fill some void. Right?"

You yelp when he grabs your wrist hard and twists you to face him. His jaw is clenched, glaring eyes dark with anger. "You watch your fucking mouth." he grunts. "You always act like this when you don't get what you want? Huh? Like some petty little girl?"

"Oh but you love when I act like a little girl, don't you Daddy? " You aggressively mock to his face.

His large palm crashes onto your cheek so hard you stumble backwards. The tears you have tried so desperately to hold back stream down your face as you let out a sob.

"Love me now? Huh? You disrespectful little bitch?" He roars as you back away in fear.

You turn to finish gathering your things in silence.

Ben locks himself in the bathroom, his emergency 8-ball of blow being cut into thin lines on the sink. You leave his house with a slam of his door.

He snorts a line right after he hears the bang.

I love angst and feelings and romance and sex and anger and fictional toxic men

-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.

You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.

The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.

Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.

“Hey.”

“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”

“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.

Normal life.

Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.

“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”

“I won’t.”

“You said that last week.”

“That was different.”

“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—

—and froze.

There was someone standing outside your office.

Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.

Homelander. You stopped breathing.

Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.

His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.

Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.

“Hi.”

Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.

Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.

You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”

“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.

“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.

“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.

“Good.”

The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.

Calm. Relaxed.

Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”

Your mouth went dry.

Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.

“I pay attention to you.”

Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.

You took a careful step backward.

“I should really finish these reports—”

“Ashley screamed at you today.”

You froze.

His expression didn’t change.

“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.

How did he—

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.

You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”

The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.

Gentle. Careful.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.

You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.

“People are very cruel to you.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.

Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.

And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.

“I can take care of it,” he said softly.

Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.

“No?”

“You don’t have to… do anything.”

Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.

“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.

Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.

Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.

Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”

For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.

“Of course.”

Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.

Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:

“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”

Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.

“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.

—

Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.

People whispered about scandals.

Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.

But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.

Like they knew something you didn’t.

By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.

The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.

Until Saturday night.

You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.

you:

Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol

You frowned immediately.

you:

What?

No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”

Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.

“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”

The line disconnected.

You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—

—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.

“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.

You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.

“What did you do?”

“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.

You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Not anger.

Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."

The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”

“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.

You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”

You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.

There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.

“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.

And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.

The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.

Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.

People moved out of your way in the hall.

Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.

At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.

Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.

“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”

“Shut up, are you insane?”

“I saw him leave her floor last week—”

The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.

Like you were dangerous too.

By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.

Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.

Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.

The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.

It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.

Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.

“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.

Because how could you even explain it?

I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.

It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”

Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.

Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”

You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”

“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.

And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.

“Hey. Talk to me.”

Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.

Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”

“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.

“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.

“Homelander.”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then

“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.

“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”

You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.

“You need to stay away from him.”

“I know.”

“Y/n, I mean it.”

“I KNOW.”

Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.

“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”

Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.

“This is how it starts.”

Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.

“How what starts?”

But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.

With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.

Your heart stopped.

No.

No no no—

The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”

Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.

Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.

Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”

Too late.

Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.

“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.

“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?

Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.

“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.

"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.

“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.

Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.

Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.

Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.

“There she is,” he whispered.

And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.

Just waiting.

By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.

Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.

But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.

Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.

Not for herself, but for you.

Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.

Run. Leave. Wake up.

But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.

The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.

A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.

Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.

Dinner ended not long after.

Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.

How could they?

Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.

His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.

Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.

You should have refused.

Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.

And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.

Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.

“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."

Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-

“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.

“She’s my best friend.”

At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.

Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

The words should have sounded reassuring.

Instead, they landed like a threat.

Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.

But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.

Strong.

Not human.

His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.

“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?

“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.

Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.

Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.

Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.

Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.

“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.

You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.

Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.

The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.

Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.

Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.

Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.

Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.

But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.

His arms stayed around you.

Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.

For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.

You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.

Of how close your bodies were.

Of the way he was looking at you.

Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.

“I should go home,” you whispered.

Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.

Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.

“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.

Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—

the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.

Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.

“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.

Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.

And after a long, trembling hesitation—

you followed him inside.

He did it. You're his perfect girl now.

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

@do-it-for-kicks @whytheylosttheirminds @laverna-fanfictions @graceflorence

you were only eighteen when your mom kicked you out, after she started dating some idiot who didn't like you. you were survivin', it was hard, but you were still alive. you only ate when someone gave you money or restaurant leftovers. you slept on a dirty, old mattress in the back of a dark alley. after a week, you felt weaker, no strength to walk around askin' for food.

when soldier boy found you in that alley, left there, alone, you thought that’d be the end. he looked like a giant, and the fear paralyzed you.

"fuck, look at you," he muttered, the disgust in his voice wasn't at you, but at how they left you. "left here like trash. you got nobody, do you?"

you tried to pull back, but your back hit the cold wall. your lips trembled, but no sound came out. he knelt in front of you.

before you could process it, you felt huge, firm hands slide under your knees and back. he lifted you off that dirty mattress like you were made of paper. the contrast between the alley's filth and the heat comin' off him was shockin'. you were so small in his arms that your head just fell against his rigid chest.

"you're comin' with me," he declared, already walkin' out of the alley, ignorin' your shivers.

when the car stopped and he opened the door, the silence of the forest around the house was scary. soldier boy guided you inside with a firm hand on your back—not a push, but you felt like if you tried to run, he’d crush you before the first step.

as soon as you entered, the heat of the house hit your face, but it wasn't enough to stop your shakin'. the house was warm and cozy. he tossed the keys on the table and turned to you, still standin' near the door, rainwater drippin' from your dirty clothes and stainin' his rug.

"don't just stand there like a statue. sit down," he said, his raspy voice echoin' off the walls.

you walked with tiny steps to the dark leather sofa. sat on the very edge, knees tucked to your chest and arms around your legs, hidin' your face.

you couldn't stop lookin' at his hands while he took off his coat. hands you'd seen blurry on the news, stained with blood and dust from fallen buildin's. every move he made, every heavy step on the wood floor, made you shrink a bit more, buryin' your face in your knees.

ben stood in the middle of the room, starin' at you for a while. the silence was agonizin'. you felt the weight of his gaze, judgin' every inch of your shakin' body.

"fuck, you're dyin' of fear, aren't you?" he asked, and it wasn't really a question, just a fact that seemed to amuse and annoy him at the same time.

you didn't answer. no voice would come out. you just squeezed your legs tighter, closin' your eyes hard, hopin' if you stayed quiet, he'd forget you were there. but ben didn't forget. he took a step towards you and you let out a tiny gasp, buryin' your head between your knees.

ben sighed, a long, heavy sound, but he didn't seem mad.

"it's okay. i get it. you're scared. i won't force anythin' now," he muttered. "i gotta go out. you got nothin' here... no decent clothes, no food a normal person eats. i'm gonna get some things for you."

he walked to the door and stopped for a sec, lookin' at you over his shoulder.

"don't leave. it ain't safe for you out there, and i don't wanna have to hunt you down. stay here, and nothin'll happen to you. i promise."

when the door slammed and the engine sound faded, the silence became unbearable. you stayed there, motionless, for what felt like hours. loneliness mixed with trauma. every creak of the wood, every gust of wind, sounded like someone comin' to get you. your mind played the worst scenarios: what if he didn't come back? what if he left you there to die? or worse, what if he was comin' back to do to you what you saw him do to others on tv?

the fear consumed you. you started sobbin', a quiet, desperate cry, body rockin' back and forth. you felt small, lost, completely at the mercy of a monster.

more than an hour later, the car sound returned. the door opened and ben walked in carryin' bags. he was loaded with stuff: soft clothes, hygiene products, and real food. he stopped in the middle of the room when he heard you cryin'.

he dropped the things quickly on the counter and stepped towards you, face pinched in an expression tryin' to be soft, but still way too imposin'.

"hey, girl... what's it? i was only gone for an hour," he said, reachin' out to try and touch your face to wipe a tear.

the move was a trigger. you let out a low whimper of terror and, by instinct, started crawlin' back, draggin' yourself to the other side of the sofa. your eyes were wide, pupils dilated in pure panic, fixed on every move he made like he was gonna attack.

ben stopped. he slowly pulled his hand back, seein' you shake, almost fallin' off the cushion from fear. he let out a heavy sigh, but didn't look angry. he just stepped back, givin' you the space you were beggin' for with your eyes.

"it's okay. alright, i get it," he muttered, keepin' his hands visible. "i won't get close, hm? relax. i just wanted to help, but i'll stay here. it's okay."

he backed off and went back to the bags on the counter. he started takin' things out, one by one, speakin' in a flat, calm tone, like he was tryin' to tame a hurt bird.

"look... i didn't really know what you liked, so i got things that felt softest," he said, pullin' out clothes, underwear, socks. "and i got those smelly things women like... vanilla soap, shampoo, all that shit."

he put each item on the table, organizin' it all with a patience you never thought soldier boy would have. he showed the clothes, the soaps, and even some cookies and chocolates he thought you might like.

"i'll leave it all on the table, okay? they're yours. you can take a hot bath, put these on, and eat whatever you want. i'll be out on the porch smokin'. i won't come in till you're done, promise."

he gave you one last look, heavy, but without the malice or fury you knew he had. it was almost like he was satisfied seein' you safe, even if you were terrified of him. he turned and walked out the front door, leavin' you alone with all the new stuff.

you walked to the bathroom with shaky legs, holdin' the new clothes against your chest like a shield. the hot water helped wash away the dirt. every noise outside made you freeze under the shower, waitin' for the door to burst open. but nothin' happened.

when you came out, wearin' a hoodie that was huge on you, the smell of hot food filled the house. ben was in the kitchen, back turned, stirrin' a pot. the sound of metal and the sizzle of the fire were the only noises. you walked real slow, tryin' not to make a sound, and sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, keepin' your head down, eyes on your hands.

he came over and put a plate with rice, chicken, and potatoes in front of you. it was simple, but smelled amazing. he sat across from you and started eatin' his in silence. you stayed still. your stomach hurt from hunger, but the panic of makin' a wrong move was bigger. you didn't touch the silverware, just kept lookin' down, damp hair fallin' over your face.

"eat, girl. i didn't make this for it to get cold on the plate," he said, voice low but firm.

you didn't move. silence stretched for a few seconds, gettin' heavier, until you heard his fork hit the plate hard.

"i'm tryin' to be patient, but don't test me," he growled, and this time the authority made you shiver. "you gotta eat. you lookin' like a skeleton. now pick up the fork."

you stayed paralyzed, tears prickin' your eyes again. fear locked you up. ben let out an annoyed sigh and leaned over the table, his shadow coverin' you.

"look at me," he ordered. you raised your eyes slow, findin' his blue eyes locked on yours. "either you eat this shit on your own, or i'm gonna sit there, open your mouth, and shove every bit down your throat. you choose. i ain't lettin' you starve in front of me."

his tone left no doubt: he’d do exactly that. with hands shakin' so much the fork clinked against the plate, you took a bit of food. it was good. hot, seasoned, and delicious—somethin' you didn't expect from a man like him. you kept eatin', chewin' slow under his watchful eye. ben relaxed in his chair, watchin' your every move, and a tiny smirk appeared on his face.

"good girl," he murmured, goin' back to his food.

in the days that followed, he changed his strategy. he didn't force physical contact anymore and spoke as little as possible. meals became rituals of pure silence. you'd sit at the table and he’d be in front of you, the only sound being the silverware. you ate with your head down, still feelin' that chill down your spine whenever he shifted or sighed, but the fear was now quiet, swallowed with the food.

he didn't want to leave you alone in the room, so he started doin' his routine right there, in your presence, so you’d get used to him. he’d spend hours sittin' there, the strong smell of weed fillin' the air as he puffed on a joint with a lost look, or he’d be focused, rubbin' oil on the heavy metal of his shield.

the silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of metal being polished or his heavy breath. until, one afternoon, he stopped what he was doin' and stared at you for a long time.

"you mute?" he asked, his raspy voice cuttin' the air like a blade. "if you are, i'll find a way to get someone to teach us signs or whatever fuckin' thing they use nowadays."

you hesitated, heart hammerin', but eventually shook your head slow. it was your first sign of voluntary interaction.

ben gave a little smirk, blew a cloud of smoke to the side, and went back to the shield.

"look at that... we're makin' progress," he said, tone a bit lighter, almost amused. "at least now i know you talk. one step at a time, little girl. one step at a time."

the routine at the cabin had a new rhythm, but still fragile. you didn't run to the corners anymore when he entered, and you weren't scared he’d explode at you every second. everythin' was okay.

that mornin', ben showed up in the kitchen already in uniform. he looked at you for a moment while you stirred your tea, eyes down.

"gotta go, doll," he said, grabbin' the shield. "should be back at the usual time. behave."

as usual, you said nothin'. just felt the weight of his gaze before the door slammed and the forest silence returned.

the time he usually arrived passed. one minute, ten minutes, an hour. the silence of the house, once your refuge, started to feel suffocatin'.

did he get tired of you? did he have an accident? or worse, did he leave you there to die in that high-security prison where nobody could save you?

"sir?" you whispered for the first time, voice so low it almost got lost.

nothin'.

tears started fallin', hot and uncontrolled. you curled up on the sofa, huggin' your knees, sobbin' so hard your whole body shook. without soldier boy, you were just that vulnerable little girl again. you cried until your face felt numb, repeatin' his name in your head, beggin' for the door to open while the clock ticked through a night that felt endless.

it was almost two in the morning when the sound of tires on gravel finally echoed. the sound of the locks clickin' open was like a gunshot. ben walked in stumblin' a bit, the shield hittin' the doorframe.

he didn't expect the lights on. and he definitely didn't expect to find you.

he stopped, seein' you curled on the sofa. you looked even smaller than usual, a pile of shivers and ragged breath.

"fuck, doll... what are you still doin' up? should be sleepin'," he grumbled, voice raspier than usual, as he dropped the shield with a thud.

he came closer and heard your sobbin', that sharp, exhausted sound. when he saw your face, eyes so swollen you could barely open 'em and tear tracks on your cheeks, his body went tense. his annoyance from being stuck at the tower vanished, replaced by mute shock.

"hey, hey... look at me," he said, kneelin' in front of the sofa. his big hands, still dirty, held your knees. "what is it? what happened? someone try to get in here?"

you couldn't answer, just sobbed harder. you leaned forward, hidin' your face in his shoulder, wettin' his uniform with tears.

ben was still for a sec. it was the first time you sought his contact so desperately. he let out a long sigh, wrappin' his arms around you and pullin' you into his lap, sittin' on the sofa with you tangled in him.

"shhh... calm down. daddy's here. i'm here, okay?" he started rubbin' your back, a rough but genuine care. "i was late, girl. those shits at the tower held me up, had to fix a mess."

he squeezed you tighter, feelin' your heat and the way you gripped his uniform with small hands, like you were scared he’d evaporate.

"did you think i was gone?" he asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice. he lifted your chin, forcin' you to look at him. "look at me. i'd never leave you alone, get it? never. you're my daughter now. my baby.”

you just nodded, sobs dyin' down as his scent wrapped around you. he spent the rest of the night there, on the sofa with you in his lap, mutterin' you were a silly girl for doubtin' him while wipin' your face with his thumb.

words still got stuck in your throat. you looked at your feet every time he entered your room. but he had a patience that seemed infinite. he’d sit on the edge of the bed and watch you with eyes that seemed to read your thoughts.

"did you eat everythin' i left, sweetheart?" he’d ask, voice low and vibratin'. you’d just nod, feelin' your cheeks warm up.

"wanna hear your voice. talk to me. was it good?"

you’d hesitate, playin' with the hem of your dress, until a whisper came out: "y—yes, sir. thank you."

slowly, one-word answers turned into conversations that lasted hours, where you told him about books or how the sun hit the window. he rarely stayed away more than two days, but every hour felt like forever. the moment the door opened, the fear of being left vanished and euphoria took over. you’d run down the hall and throw yourself against his chest.

"daddy! you're home!" you’d exclaim, buryin' your face in his neck, breathin' in his scent—it was your only oxygen.

he’d carry you to the sofa like you weighed nothin', keepin' you in his lap while he took off his coat. "miss me that much? what'd you do while i was out?" and you’d start talkin', desperate to keep his attention.

he felt a sick satisfaction knowin' you were only his. he took care of every detail: he made the food, he checked the bath temp, he scrubbed your skin gently, he combed your hair. he even knew the color of the panties you wore, fuck.

nobody in the world knew you existed. ben was obsessive; the mere thought of someone findin' that cabin and lookin' at you made his blood boil. it wasn't shame, it was property instinct. he knew the world out there was wicked, full of people who’d use your powers and destroy your sweetness. he swore he’d keep you away from those "animals." in his head, if anyone had the right to control you, mold you, or even destroy you, it was him. just him.

ben liked thinkin' you’d never see anyone but him. after he saved you from the streets, took you home, fed you—he knew he was bein' a good person. but he also knew that from the moment he locked you in that house, he’d ended your life.

when you stay with one person for a long time, when you forget everyone else and only have contact with one person, no outside world, you get attached. he knew how dependent on him you were. you lived for him, breathed for him. you were addicted to him and it was sick. when you're addicted to drugs, there's a cure. almost impossible, but with effort, you can.

but what about a soul addiction? when you’d rather die than live without the person you love, there’s no cure. it ain't easy to get attached to someone, it really ain't. but you were naive, vulnerable, and he seemed like a god who saved you.

he knew he’d taken advantage of your fragility, but felt no remorse. he loved you in an insane way, a love that’d rather see you wither in an isolated house than shine anywhere else.

at the start he was so attentive, he took care of you, had all the patience in the world. he didn't force you to talk for the first three weeks. he didn't force you to eat for the first few days. he waited for your shyness and fear to go so he could be himself, to show how bad and sick he could be.

soldier boy was an aggressive person. he was completely manipulative, aggressive, an egocentric piece of shit. he liked knowin' you were dependent, that you breathed for him. he knew it was sick, but didn't care. the idea that if he left you, you’d get sick, excited him, fuck.

he’d never leave you, of course not. but sometimes at night, when he couldn't sleep, he’d go walk in the yard, smoke weed, drink, everythin'. and then he’d always come back to your bedroom, findin' you sleepin' so calm in a monster’s bed. 'cause he was a monster.

he’d touch himself thinkin' about how you’d look if he left you, how you’d stop eatin', bathin', doin' basic needs. he thought about how your body would merge with the bed 'cause you wouldn't even have the strength to get up. he knew you’d degrade yourself if he left, anyone who knew your relationship would think the same.

he knew if he left for months and then showed up, you’d run to his arms, apologizin' for not being good enough. poor little girl. it wasn't your fault he was a sick fuck.

"why do you trust me so much? i could kill you right now," he whispered while lookin' at you sleep.

but he loved you.

he never loved anyone like he loved you. the love he felt was dirty, sick, problematic, toxic, and totally insane. but it was pure. a pure love. and you’d never know the strength of it.

he’d watch you sleep and feel an insane urge to crush you against his chest just to make sure no atom of air got between you. the glint in his eyes when he saw you totally surrendered after he’d filled you completely was borderline religious.

and you really would never know the full strength of that love. you’d never understand that, for ben, keepin' you locked in that house was the greatest act of devotion he could imagine. in his head, the world wasn't worthy of seein' you. he destroyed you every day, takin' your autonomy and identity.

he’d bury his face in your hair, smellin' the scent he chose for you, and close his eyes hard. it was a love that burned, that hurt, that accepted nothin' less than your whole soul. "my little girl... you're the only thing that's good in this hell of a world."

you’d just snuggle closer, feelin' protected, never understandin' that the same force that saved you from the alley was the force keepin' you in the dark forever. ben's love was a life sentence.

sometimes, the loneliness of that huge house and the isolation made you lose it. frustration bubbled up and you’d end up being bratty, talkin' back or refusin' the food he made with so much love. but ben wasn't the type to scream; he preferred much crueler ways to put you back in your place.

when you crossed the line, he simply gave you the silent treatment.

he’d go upstairs or leave the house without a word, lockin' all the doors and leavin' you in total vacuum. you’d cry, sob loud and bang on his bedroom door, beggin' for a look, a touch, any sign he still loved you. the despair of being ignored by your "daddy" was worse than any physical punishment. you’d kneel in the hall, askin' for forgiveness between tears, sayin' you’d be a good girl, until he finally opened the door, looked you up and down with cold contempt and said he’d only talk when you learned your place.

even with the chaotic routine among the seven, ben did the impossible to see you whenever he could. he lived under constant pressure, needin' to keep the hero facade and make sure homelander, or anyone at vought, didn't suspect his girl’s existence. every second away was a torment for his possessive mind, imaginin' if you were okay or if someone was prowlin' his territory.

when he finally escaped the cameras and meetings, he’d get home exhausted, but blood boilin' with longin'. he’d walk in, see you there, eyes still swollen from cryin' over his silence, and his anger turned into sick satisfaction. he’d pick you up, let you nestle in his chest and whisper that only he could forgive you, that only he kept you safe from that wicked world. he was your world, and he made sure you never forgot.

these moments were his favorite. after the tension of actin' like the perfect hero, ben just wanted the silence of that house and your absolute devotion. he’d settle in the worn leather chair, pullin' you to his lap like a baby, and you’d nestle there, small and submissive, suckin' his thumb by instinct for comfort while listenin' to him talk.

"those idiots at the tower don't know nothin', doll," he’d mutter, voice vibratin' in his chest. "homelander thinks he runs everythin', but he's just a brat needy for attention."

he’d run his free hand through your hair, nails light on your scalp, talkin' about things he bought for you. sometimes a new dress, a candy he saw, or some decor for your room.

"daddy, look what i saw today!" you’d interrupt, excited, grabbin' the phone he gave you.

you’d show silly cat videos or some dumb internet trend you saw during the hours of solitude. ben looked at the screen with funny contempt, mutterin' how "technology made people stupid," but he heard every word.

he trusted you with that phone. he knew your emotional dependency was so deep you’d never use it to ask for help or escape.

"what a stupid thing, baby," he’d say, laughin' low and movin' his thumb just to replace it with his lips in a kiss on your forehead. "but if you liked it, i like it too. what else did you see while daddy was out workin'?"

you’d spend hours tellin' him about movies, detailin' every scene, and he’d look at you with possessive adoration, knowin' he was the only audience you’d ever have.

sometimes when he had a bad week, he’d fuck you—it wasn't always. actually, he rarely had sex with you; he just liked havin' you submissive, obeyin' him, devoted, receivin' his affection. he liked mistreatin' you to see if you’d take it all for daddy, 'cause you were such a good girl.

he liked fuckin' you with his fingers until you came and got all needy. he delighted in how your little cunt always seemed tighter, strugglin' to fit his calloused fingers, squeezin' 'em like you were beggin' for more.

ben loved seeing you go into despair, makin' you humiliate yourself, askin' please, whimperin' and beggin' for him to ease that ache. it was so good, the feelin' of being filled by his fingers, his cock, his tongue.

sometimes, after someone annoyed him—usually homelander, that spoiled crybaby. he’d lose the little patience he had and vent on you. he didn't hit you to break you, he really thought he was bein' "gentle," but you were too sensitive. any rougher squeeze, any slap to educate you or silence your cry, already left a vivid mark on your skin.

ben was standin', broad chest heavin', every breath soundin' like a muffled growl. in his twisted head, the way he tossed you on the bed and the slaps to stop your cry were quiet acts. but he forgot you were made of porcelain and him of steel.

ben looked at you, curled on the edge of the bed, shoulders shakin' while you tried to cover the bruises bloomin' on your thighs and arms with small hands. purple marks, finger-shaped.

his silence was terrifying. he didn't apologize; ben didn't know how. instead, he just watched his own destruction with a dark gaze.

"fuck, look at you," he started, voice raspier than usual, not a drop of apology.

you shivered, sobs gettin' shorter while lookin' at him with red eyes. the fear in your look was what always brought him back, reminded him you weren't some supe, but somethin' fragile he swore to protect, even from himself.

he stepped forward and you shrank more, eyes closed waitin' for another blow. but instead, felt his weight sink the mattress. with a hand still shakin' from residual rage, he held your ankle and pulled you slow to him, ignorin' your gasp.

"look what you make me do, doll..." he whispered, calloused fingers tracin' a bruise on your leg. the touch was, this time, scary gentle. "why don't you stay quiet? why you gotta cry and make me more annoyed? i don't wanna hurt you, fuck. you know i lose my patience and you still irritate me."

he reached out and, with a force that still made you shiver, pulled you to his lap. you didn't resist; had no strength. he settled you against his broad chest, wrappin' you with the arms that just marked you.

"i’m not a bad guy, baby. you know that," he whispered, startin' to run his hand through your hair. "i didn't wanna hurt you. i never want to. but you gotta learn to stay quiet when i'm stressed. if you were a good girl and just met me with a smile, none of this would’ve happened, you brat."

he leaned and kissed the top of your head, down to your forehead. his hand went to the mark on your arm, tracin' the outline.

"daddy was just stressed. my day was hell and you ended up bein' the target 'cause you were stubborn," he continued, voice gettin' sweeter. "shhh... stop cryin'. daddy already forgave you for annoyin' me. now i'll take care of you, okay?"

he started kissin' the marks he left, somethin' he always did to clear his conscience. he squeezed you tighter, hidin' his face in your neck.

"nobody in the world loves you like i do, even when you make me lose control," he muttered.

you sniffled quiet, hidin' your face in his chest, acceptin' the care and the guilt he threw on you.

"i'm sorry, daddy..." you whispered, voice choked. "sorry for not being good to you today. i... i didn't wanna annoy you."

he lifted your chin, forcin' you to look. his gaze wasn't fury anymore, just sweet.

"i'll always forgive you, baby," he said, givin' a tender kiss on your nose before a soft kiss on your lips. "now forget it. stop shakin'. i'm gonna take care of you."

ben was fully aware of the devastatin' strength in his veins; he knew he was a human tank and you were just flesh and bone. he knew if his control failed by a millimeter, if he forgot for a sec you weren't made of metal, he’d kill you by accident.

the idea of findin' you lifeless, breakin' the neck of the only person he really loved, was the only thought that made his stomach turn. he didn't like thinkin' about it. buried it deep.

ben still remembered the first time he fucked you.

remembered how you looked tiny under him, eyes wide and flooded with tears of fear and pleasure while he claimed every inch, remembered how you cried, sobbin' loud against his chest while he pounded you so hard the bed creaked and hit the walls.

the start was a shock. you’d never been touched, and his brutality left no room for subtleties. mid-fuck, ben pulled you up, pressin' his lips to yours in an aggressive kiss while his hand closed hard around your throat. he squeezed enough for your eyes to water while you struggled for air.

he pulled back just millimeters, keepin' the pressure, watchin' your despair with a sadistic glint.

"can't breathe?" he asked, voice low, vibratin' against your face.

you shook your head frantically, hands grabbin' his wrists, tryin' to ease the grip. in response, he gave a predatory smile and delivered a thrust so deep you felt him hit the bottom of your womb.

"shhh," he growled, goin' back to fuckin' you with renewed fury. "stop the crying, fuck! i want you to understand your life depends on me now."

"ben... please... it hurts... you're hurtin' me," you screamed, voice raspy, but body reactin' with spasms of pleasure you were lovin' to feel.

"i know it hurts, baby," he said, landin' a slap that made your head turn. "this is so you never forget daddy did this. look at you... all messed up, crying, begging… my little girl."

when he saw you were losin' consciousness, body gettin' too limp and gaze fadin', he let go of your neck and slowed down. pulled you into a crushin' hug, coverin' your face with sweet, damp kisses.

"shhh, doll... calm down... daddy's here," he whispered in your ear, voice suddenly soft, wipin' tears with his lips. "look at you... takin' it all so well. i'm so proud of my girl. you're so strong for me, y'know?"

you got all giddy under those words, mind foggy. you sought his care, nestlin' in his chest, lettin' him do what he wanted.

"am i... am i your good girl, ben?" you asked, exhausted.

"yes, my baby. you're doing so well," he answered, thrustin' again, but with a slow, torturous pressure that took you to orgasm in seconds. you came hard, body shakin', and he continued, no rest, stimulatin' you till you were just a pile of shakin' flesh.

even with the pain and shock, you were in absolute surrender. ben still felt your legs wrapped tight around his waist, keepin' him there, ensurin' he didn't leave you for a second.

"that's it, that's my girl," he growled low, feelin' your cunt squeeze him with a despair that drove him crazy. "you're so tight, fuck... tailor-made for daddy. i'm gonna use you so much, leave you so full of me."

he held you against him with brute force, arms crushin' you while he finally came deep inside, feelin' you squeeze him in a last try to contain that invasion.

"that's it love... i want your little pussy dripping my cum."

after the orgasm passed, he didn't move. stayed there, heavy and hot, enjoyin' the feel of you warmin' him. he stroked your skin with that huge hand, feelin' your shivers die down, while moonlight hit the bruises he just made.

"i love you so much, baby," he murmured, kissin' your nose with a tenderness that gave chills after such violence. "nobody's ever gonna touch you like this. nobody's ever gonna get where i get. you're mine, fuck."

and as he carried you to the bath right after, washin' you with that excessive, almost manic care, he looked at the purple on your neck and thighs with sick pride.

at the end of the day, you were soldier boy's best-kept secret, marked inside and out by his absolute will. he raised you in that house, moldin' every thought and makin' you believe he was a good person, that isolation was love and that house was your only true home. to him, possessiveness, bruises, and control were just how he expressed the love he felt—a sick love, but one he swore was your only salvation.

nobody could know. none of the seven, no executives, nobody. you were the biggest secret he kept in decades. he knew the second someone found out, they’d use you to get to him.

while in those borin' meetings, sittin' at that cold table and endurin' homelander complainin' like a spoiled baby, ben's mind was miles away. didn't even hear about marketing or approval ratings; only thought of you.

imagined how you were: if you were on the sofa wearin' one of his old shirts, if you missed his heat, or if you were nappin'. the thought of you there, locked up, waitin' like a good girl, was the only thing keepin' him from blowin' everyone’s heads off. he counted minutes to get out of the spotlight and back to his girl.

he got agonized when away too long. bein' away was like havin' a limb ripped off. he hated vought, hated the halls, hated those supe idiots, hated people, but above all, hated that you were home, out of his sight.

at first, he’d find a way to escape. intimidated assistants, ignored calls and went home for a day or two just to check if you were where he left you. but the schedule got tighter, and days away piled up. for him, it was hell.

he felt a sick pleasure thinkin' you’d get sick with longin', that your body would wither like a flower without sun if he wasn't there to water you. but paranoia consumed him too. couldn't stop wonderin': were you eatin' right? or cryin' so much you forgot? were you readin' the books he bought, seein' the movies? what were you doin'? fuck, fuck, fuck.

needed to know every second. if you were on the porch, in his bed smellin' the pillow, watchin' videos, if you’d peed, felt pain, nausea. this agony led him to do what he swore he’d never do: give in to a phone.

when you showed him things, he acted like it was a useless alien artifact. grumbled, tossed it aside, said "in my time, you looked in the face or waited for the mailman." ben started considerin' maybe that shit wasn't a total waste. the idea of 24/7 contact started itchin' his mind. realized with a phone, he’d know exactly what you were doin', whenever he wanted.

he’d sit on the sofa, with those huge hands that crushed skulls, tryin' not to break the screen while you guided his fingers. you in his lap, explainin' how to open messages, send audio, use emojis. ben let out raspy laughs when you got excited 'cause he finally sent a "hi" with a heart. he faked contempt, but truth was he was fascinated by your joy in talkin' from afar.

"you're so silly, sweetheart," he’d say, squeezin' your waist while watchin' you type test messages.

now, in meetings, endurin' homelander’s ego or ashley’s plans, his phone vibrated discreetly. didn't just want to know if you were okay; wanted details. wanted to know your day, what you felt, deepest thoughts. still a bit clumsy respondin', but tried his best just to talk to you.

"baby, did you eat?" he’d ask around lunch.

"yes daddy, i ate cake."

"no, no, baby, cake ain't enough. i want you healthy. be a good girl and eat right."

"baby, won't make it back today."

"wish i was there with you."

"how i send a photo in this shit?"

"baby, want me to bring ice cream?"

"cant stop thinking about my little doll."

"let me see you."

you’d smile, feelin' the happiest person. he was really tryin'. you giggled imaginin' him with fingers crushin' the screen. he’d stay there, lookin' at the three dots of your typin' like his life depended on it. agony eased when he saw your reply, but the desire to be present, smell you, see you melt when he touches you—never vanished. the phone was just his way to ensure his best secret stayed exactly that: his, and nobody else’s.

one day, he walked in holdin' a small plastic carrier with a care that wasn't usual.

your eyes widened, speechless.

"daddy… what's that?" you whispered, approachin' slow.

he let out a heavy sigh, lookin' a bit embarrassed, which was rare. put the box on the coffee table and opened the grate.

"you complain the house is too quiet when i'm gone," he said, raspy voice, not lookin' in your eyes. "found this thing near the tower. was alone. thought... whatever. at least he’ll watch you while i'm out."

from the box came a white ball of fur, with huge curious eyes, lettin' out a tiny meow. a cat.

you looked at the kitten, then at the most dangerous man in the world, standin' there with arms crossed and an expression of "don't make a big deal of it."

"you brought... a cat?" you felt tears. "soldier boy brought a kitten home?"

"don't start," he grumbled, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch almost into a smile. "if he scratches the sofa, he's gone. and if he jumps on the bed while i'm fucki'— hm, it's yours. so you don't feel so alone when i ain't here."

you threw yourself in his arms, a happy scream, and he held you firm, hidin' his face in your neck. fuck, he was a monster to the world, a sick piece of shit, but there, seein' you melt over a little animal he rescued, he felt that was the closest he got to bein' a good person.

in the end, his sick love was what kept you alive, and your dependency was what fed his obsession, keepin' your house as a universe where only two survivors existed. fuck, and he’d never let that change.