Cue

Dating your boyfriend Jay for over five months has been some of the best months of your life, or so that is what you were convinced with as you didn’t know better. At the age of twenty, you were yet to experience any form of intimacy with a man, you never dated, never kissed, and surely never had sex. It was a complete stranger to you, from a young age you have always been quiet and reserved. Nothing to do with your family, they did everything to parent you well, naturally you just preferred to keep to yourself. This long isolation of course had meant you struggled with the topic of relationships, all your friends had or are in relationships, always encouraging to approach other guys. However, you just couldn’t get yourself to do it, something in you just freezing you in your spot unable to move.

That was until you met Jay in University, in one of the classes you took for some extra credit. Paired for a project to work on together, initially you were extremely silent, only speaking when required. Over the months though you did start to come out of your shell, when you realised he was a very laid back guy and genuinely wanted to get to know you for you. Even though your lack of intimacy that did not mean you didn’t catch the eyes of other guys, it was quite the opposite as you received stares anywhere you went.

Over the months of getting to know Jay, you grew lovesick or at least that’s what your friends has described it as. You had spent everyday with him, whether in his dorm or at your house, by that point he had met your parents too, who loved him although only slightly wary as it was the first time you brought a boy home. The regular meetings were used as an excuse to work on the project, but most of it was spent just talking and finding out details about each other. You had learnt about his hobbies, likes, dislikes, his interests. The only topic he had avoided was his family, anytime you brought it up it was dismissive with an awkward laugh. You didn’t push it not wanting to make him uncomfortable, he was the first boy you ever took interest in and you didn’t want to ruin it.

As the months went on, there were some times he tried kissing you, at first you pulled away as a reflex. The look of hurt that flickered across his face had pulled at your heart strings, you didn’t want to upset him you just had never ever been kissed before you didn’t want to do it wrong and mess it up. When you explained it he was understanding and reassured you he will make sure it go perfectly, so when it happened again it wasn’t like from a fairytale like you had daydreamed about, it wasn’t a little messy, a little clumsy. You didn’t fit like a puzzle like you had pictured in your head, your hands placed awkwardly on his sides as his were squeezed at your hips. When pulling away it was clear he had enjoyed it a little too much whilst you were left just confused still awaiting those fireworks and butterflies you had read about. He mistook your expression of one as amazed, he chuckled as he kissed you again. Over the time only makeout sessions were included in your hangouts, he definitely tried to do more but you just couldn’t get yourself to give in yet. There was slight frustration there but he understood and didn’t push too much, you were glad for that. Your friends said it will come naturally, that’s what happens when you’re in a relationship, however the idea was yet to come to you, you didn’t feel ready for it. You argued it was because you were still a virgin, you didn’t understand your feelings yet.

When he finally made you his girlfriend, you had tears in your eyes, finally you were a girlfriend, not just a friend who never had a boyfriend. Adoring the title proudly, as the pair of you walked the university halls hands intertwined. It seemed like everything was falling into pieces like it was supposed to, you were finally happy or as you were convinced by.

During one of the nights where Jay was staying over at your house, cuddled in bed watching a film, he lay somewhat stiff in his seat, something in his mind distracting him from the tv blaring out.

“Baby I-I was thinking it would be a good time to meet my parents” The words forming a tight knot in your stomach, as you stiffened in his arms, you glanced up at him not expecting those words to come out his mouth tonight or ever by the rate he was ignoring the topic of his family. So you wondered what changed for him to finally bring it up and especially to plan a meet up. Set of nerves already began to settle as you were such a people pleaser, you wanted to make good impression on these people. People who have raised the man you loved, you wanted them to approve of you as the right girl for him.

“So suddenly, I thought you would never want to” You respond softly, trying to catch his eyes as he nervously avoided yours. He took a slow breath in before explaining his family were not your typical people you would expect, they were in fact retired supes of your country, his mother formally known as Crimson Countess and his father Solider boy. The shock on your face when he was revealing this was apparent, never mind you had to impress the most important people to your boyfriend but also the people that were most important in the country. Maybe you are dreaming and this is all just a funny dream because surely this was not the reality you were living in. You have know of them and their duties for the country, you had grown up watching the news and movies about them, maybe too young for some of it but you were largely fascinated. You will admit you did admire soldier boy a lot, even so by owing a poster in your bedroom when you were twelve. Although you would never admit that to your boyfriend, even more so now knowing the man was his father.

"I did not expect that, I.. how will I even make a good impression on them babe? I mean I'm just me, I'm only a student" You were a rambling mess by now, not knowing what to say to such revelation. Jay took your hands in his, giving them a quick squeeze.

"Babe I promise you they will love you, they were actually the ones to encourage me to finally bring you home" That shocked you, it did somewhat relax you but you were still on edge about it. Not wanting to mess anything up, this was your first relationship you couldn't be the one to ruin it. Nodding before you gave him a quick kiss, as you both agreed on the day to plan the visit. That night took you longer to fall asleep than usual but once you did, there was only a small flicker a faded one that appeared in your mind, soldier boy.

The evening air was cool as Jay picked you up, his expression unreadable but he appeared somewhat relaxed. He wore a simple black hoodie and jeans, hands on the wheel as he awaited for you to join him in the passenger seat. He gave you a give a quick peck on the cheek before setting off, luckily the drive isn't too long from where you live. You did your best tonight getting ready, making sure your hair and make up were done perfectly to make your features stand out like a perfect doll, a small black dress hugging your figure and a pair of black heels. Going for formal was your best bet, these people were rich and prestigious, you didn't want to look out of place even though you were sure you were going to anyway. Jay reassured you you didn't have to dress up but you insisted, this visit was going to be crucial for your relationship even if it was only you who was thinking that.

After an hour of driving, Jay had finally pulled up to the driveway, as your eyes took in the large house in front of you. It was not a mansion as you had imagined to be, still larger than your parents but it was clear there was touch of humbleness. Stepping out the car you couldn't help but stand still in your spot, only when he touched your hand you glanced to the side where Jay stood with a small smile on his face.

"You don't have to be nervous babe, it will be fine" Nodding carefully, as he took your hand in his and led you to the doorstep, lifting his hand to knock, before it swung open instantly. A woman with bright red hair stood there with a huge smile on her lips, as she motioned to hug her son.

"Oh my god honey, I have missed you so much. We have not seen in you in months" Her voice trailed off as she gave Jay a tight hug before her attention was quickly drawn to you, without realizing what was happening she pulled you in for a hug as well. Surprise flickered across your features as you didn't expect to be on the receiving end of affection so fast.

"It is so lovely to meet you honey, Jay has spoken so much about you. Please come in you guys must be starving, the dinner is almost done" She rushes you two inside, as she walks back to to the kitchen. Jay glanced back at you with a grin plastered on his face.

"See she loves you already"

You could only muster up a small nod before following him to the living room taking a seat on the couch. The house was well kept, modern furniture surrounding you, as you admired the space.

"Where's dad?" Jay shouted, raising your heartbeat instantly, for a moment there you forgot about his father, or as you know him as soldier boy. You were far more nervous to meet him, you had admired him as a young girl but you didn't want to freak him out with that information. So you knew that you will be keeping that small fact to yourself only. Speaking of the devil himself, before his mother could reply, the man entered inside, taller than you expected despite seeing him on the screens. A clear warm yet overwhelming presence that fitted the space like sunlight breaking through clouds. Dark hair littered with small streaks of white, green eyes sharp but kind when locked onto yours. He smiled wide, a charming smile that showed dimples and without hesitation opened both arms for a hug before even greeting properly. Wrapping much larger arms around your frame as he hugged your waist, your own landing on his back with the faintest touch. You were not expecting to be met with such affection from the family, especially from him, who was the toxic masculine man back in the day.

Earthy and mint had surrounded you completely, as you almost melted into his hug, like it was something you had been needing for years. A faint blush crept on your cheeks, as he pulled away first as his hands remained on your waist, the man radiated such energy that it caught you off guard. But there was something else too, his gaze lingered on yours just half a second longer than normal for a man that was considered your boyfriends dad.

"Wow, you are even cuter in person than Jay had described" A tiny spark of mischief flickered behind his eyes, a teasing glint that made it obvious this wasn't just fatherly affection, however you were too oblivious to notice that. The charm oozing from him naturally, the kind that could make someone blush without trying.

Jay cleared his throat loudly from behind, "Dad, you will scare her away" The said man finally turned to look at him, and instead of backing off he only grinned wider, a rich deep chuckle rumbling through the room.

"Relax son, I'm just being friendly" The way he said it so casually, so playfully made it clear he wasn't even trying to hide how naturally charming he was. You guessed the charm still stayed with him even after all those years, as you faintly remembered the headlines about soldier boy and the countless women he had endured.

"I'm Ben by the way it truly is lovely to meet you. I heard many great things about you" The words eased the nerves had settled deep inside of you, you were still speechless from the hug he had given you that lasted longer than necessary for such introduction. He gestured to the dining room, to follow him where the aroma of spices had been wafting from the kitchen the whole time: garlic, turmeric, warm and comforting. The dining table was already set neatly for the four of you, Jay shuffled past you taking a seat, soon after you taking your own right on his left. Ben took a seat in front of you which did have your palms sweating just a little, as it meant you had his full divided attention right there. It still felt surreal, having soldier boy- or Ben, welcoming you into his house and being so nice. Thirteen year old you would be a puddle on the floor, thankfully you had some form of control now, even though a small weird sensation in your stomach was present and seeming to not be going anywhere anytime soon.

Once the food was ready and everyone was sat and taking bites of the food, Ben was the first to break the silence in the room.

"So I heard you are studying at the same university as Jay too, is that right" Your eyes jumped up at his deep voice directed at you, you swallowed the bite of meat you had in your mouth before nodding.

"Oh yes, we met at one the extra classes we took, an art one" You spoke softly as you kept your eyes averted slightly, unable to maintain eye contact with Ben. It was too intense it made you feel emotions you had never experienced before and you didn't know what it exactly was. Ben's smile softened into something gentler at your words, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine interest. He didn't hover, he had this calm confidence that made you feel like the center of attention without pressure.

"That is good to hear, I'm happy you were the one to finally able to put a smile back on my sons face" The way he spoke so considerate and thoughtful, it wasn't performative it was natural for him to care. You wish he cared for you like that too, an intrusive thought flickered to your brain before vanishing just as quickly.

Some more conversations took place, you really couldn't fault Jay's parents, they were really perfect. You couldn't appreciate them more for making you feel so welcomed, that is all you wanted from the start. Especially, Ben he had made such an effort to ask you questions and show concern or profoundness when needed. It made you feel giddy inside that you had his full attention, you didn't understand why but you were desperate for it.

Once everyone finished eating, it was quite late in the night. Jay suggested to head to the bedroom which you agreed. The exhaustion from the drive and the nerves had finally shown up and you felt it more than ever. So snuggling up in bed after a hot shower, was calling your name as soon as he suggested it. Wishing Ben and Crimson goodnight, not before making another intense eye contact with Ben just as you headed out the room. Finishing your shower, you got dressed into your pj's, just some mini pink shorts with a white tank top, jumping into bed a sigh of relief escaped your lips. Jay joined you soon after, as he draped one arm over you.

"See babe wasn't too bad now was it" Giving him a small smile in return you agreed.

"No, no it wasn't still was a little scary but they were lovely" You really couldn't fault Ben and Crimson, they were the perfect husband and wife making you and their son feel comfortable.

"I'm sorry for taking so long to introduce you to them, I haven't had the best experiencing introducing people to my parents. So I wanted to make sure it was the right time"

Leaning down you gave him a kiss on the lips, understanding where he was coming from. It must have been tough growing up with parents who were such famous supes, so easily available to be taken advantage of. So you were happy he didn't think lowly of you, you only hoped you made a good impression on them. Turning off the bedside lamps, you cuddled close to him as you drifted off to sleep, faint images of Ben floated into your head, his eyes, his smile, his hands. Didn't even realise you were drooling as you fell into a deep slumber of sleep.

Light snores was the first thing you heard when you had opened your eyes, looking over to your left, Jay was turned away from you passed out. Your throat felt incredibly dry, reaching out for a glass on the bedside table you found it empty, grunting softly you got up from the bed even though your body was screaming to get right back in. Slipping into some slippers, quietly opening the door to not awake anyone, you slipped out and walked downstairs. The house was pitch black only some streams of the moonlight that slipped through the cracked spilled across the walls. Walking straight to the kitchen, pouring some water into your glass, taking big gulps as your throat eased. Satisfied you placed the glass down on the counter and turned back around to head back into the bedroom, only when you were nearing the living room was when you heard a distant sound. The door was almost shut so you couldn't see or hear properly what was making the sound. Maybe you had imagined it, you kept on walking when you heard it again this time slightly louder and it was clear that it was a person making the sound. A frown fitted into your face, as you stilled down your steps and approached the ajar door. However, the sight that you were met with was nothing that your brain could have pictured, mouth gaping at the scene in front of you. You were left frozen in your spot as your eyes stayed still, through the tiny gap you could make out Ben sat on the couch, legs spread far apart as his hand worked on stroking his cock with his head rolled back, movement quick and rough.

Something inside of you stirred, you knew this was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong, spying on a man masturbating especially your boyfriend's dad. But it was like your eyes had the mind of their own, they stayed put watching his larger hand pumping the rock hard cock.

"You know sweetheart, it is rude to stare" A rough voice spoke out, your eyes shot up to his who were already staring right back at you through the gap. A hot burning sensation sizzled inside of you, a light squeal leaving your lips as you were ready to flee the scene. Which Ben had noticed and wasn't going to let you get away.

"And where do you think you are going, doll" Making you freeze as you already had half your body turned ready to run back upstairs and ignore the burn of your cheeks and the embarrassment that was creeping into you fast.

"Better come in here, love. You were staring after all" You were not sure what demon had possessed you but his words were demanding and firm, it made you slowly turn around to face him and reach out to push the door fully open. He was still sat on the couch, hand not stilling in fact quickening at the sight of you. Taking soft steps into the room, you stood still in front of him, like a deer caught in the headlights. Ben smirked as he took n the sight of you, the clothes barely covering anything from his hungry eyes.

"You look beautiful sweetheart, I couldn't help myself you know" He was referring to the scene you caught him in, you didn't understand the fuzzy feeling you had mustered up, and more so what to do about it.

"Ben.. this is wrong. I wasn't meant to see, I'm sorry" You spoke softly as you avoided his gaze.

"Darling there isn't anything to be sorry for, you enjoyed what you saw and that's okay"

You shook your head, "No, I didn't enjoy anything. You are Jay's dad, I shouldn't have looked" By this point you already had tears prickling your eyes, as your lower lip wobbled, Ben frowned at the expression beckoning you to come forward to where he was sat. You only shook your head further, you felt like you made a mistake, you messed up, this was the last thing you wanted and yet you ruined it. You were such an idiot, too busy wallowing in your thoughts you didn't notice Ben had approached you and hugged you in his arms, his warmth radiating to you making you ease in his arms, as tears rolled down your rosy cheeks.

"Shh darling, it's okay you didn't do anything wrong you know that right" He spoke gently as his hand brushed your hair, guiding you to the couch as he sat you on his lap. Brushing away your tears with his thumb, he placed soft kisses on your cheeks until you relaxed in his hold.

"Since the moment I laid my eyes on you, I thought you were the most incredibly beautiful woman I have ever seen darling" The words made you feel dizzy, hands squeezing his shirt.

"I-I don't understand, but your wife" That was the only thing you could think to say, your boyfriend forgotten in your brain as your head tried to wrap around the compliment he had given you, that were so sincere like it was coming right from his heart.

"Oh sweetheart, that relationship has long ended. There is nothing between us anymore and there hasn't been for many years now. Christ can't remember last time I nutted inside a pussy" The crude words made your burn up instantly, as your pussy squeezed around nothing, like it needed something that you were not even aware of.

"I'm sorry to hear that Ben" Seemed like the right answer to respond, as you were still in a daze of shock from tonight. It was only few minutes that had passed before you felt the creep of his inching to your thigh as he stroked slow circles into the skin, you bit your lip at the touch, the rougher hand sending you chills down your back as you tried your best to ignore it. You shouldn't be sat on his lap, let alone your boyfriend's dads lap, however it felt so right to be held by him, comforted by him. Your relationship with your own father wasn't too affectionate per say, as most weeks he was out on work calls, working till late. You had always craved that fatherly love but you never really got much of it, so this felt just what your soul had been needing for so long not even your own boyfriend was able to satisfy. Of course you didn't understand this fully, only aware that it didn't feel wrong being so close to Ben as it would be viewed by others. The two of you are sprawled on the plush couch, curled on his lap like you always belonged there, you didn't but the idea of this being wrong just didn't cross your mind.

Head full of thoughts you didn't realize that his other arm that wasn't wrapped around you, was slid down his palm pressing flat against the rock hard bulge in his pants, as he tightened his other arm around you, keeping you seated firmly on him while he begins to move his hand. First only lazy pumps over the fabric, then more deliberate. The thick outline of him becoming more obvious through the underwear, heavy and leaking. Your eyes flickering the motion happening bellow you, as your lips form an 'o' as once again your eyes were captured by the sight, you were so close to his cock one movement and your ass would be snug him right in. Gulping, you looked up at Ben only to find him with his lip bit and eyes staring at yours.

"Ben what are you doing" You whisper out, scared by your own voice. He only gives you a grunt in response as he moves his hand to pull out his cock finally free from the restrains of his pants, thick, flushed at the tip already from earlier. He begins to stroke harder, fist gilding up and down the impressive length. No shame, no hiding it, just slow and rhythmic pumps while he watches your face for reactions, eyes half-lidded with arousal. What you didn't know was that Ben knew so much more about you than you thought, ever since Jay began to talk about you to them he was intrigued, you seemed like a shy kind girl, he was happy when Countess had begged their son to send a picture of the girl he was seeing if he didn't want to bring her over yet. He wasn't that curious to see how you looked, but when he got the messaged and opened the picture of you sat on the bench with a cute white sundress, he was a goner. You were beautiful nothing he had seen before and he has seen plenty of women in his lifetime. Ben knew he wanted no needed to know more. For the months before his son finally decided to bring you over to their home, he had managed to research every bit of you he could. Scrolling your social media pages, hooked like never before. He knew he needed to have you for himself, you were his, even if you didn't know that. It didn't matter, especially even if you were dating his son. He knew he could provide you with so much more than anyone could, he wanted to be the one taking care of you and only.

So to have you finally this close after months of obsessing over and only having you in his imagination, he was over the moon. The minute you had walked through the doors with his son, he couldn't keep his eyes away from you as hard as he tried. You were beyond stunning, a pure of innocence he had not felt in decades, he then and ther claimed you as forever his.

Ben's hand works with a steady rhythm, up and down, thumb swiping over the leaking head every few strokes. The sounds are quiet but intimate skin on skin, his breath hitching occasionally when he hits just the right angle.

"Fuck darling, you drive me crazy" You didn't understand his comment, as you haven't done anything for such reaction. Then suddenly he stops, his palm rests at the base and without a warning he grabs your wrist, no asking just guiding your hand to replace his own around his cock, curling your much smaller hand into position himself like it's second nature.

"Be a doll and help out your old man love" He murmurs, voice gravelly as he presses your palm downward so you're forced to feel how hard he is. Eyes wide open like a deer, you never got intimate with anyone in your life, not even your boyfriend. Never been this close to a man's cock, even getting to touch it. At the back of your mind there was a small form of guilt nuzzled in there, but it too much overpowered by his energy that was making you feel fuzzy.

Ben's cock twitches in your grasp the second your skin meets his, hot, heavy and alive with need. He doesn't let go of your wrist yet, instead he demonstrates squeezing lightly to show pressure then dragging upward slowly. From the phone calls he had with his son he gathered much you were inexperienced with love and intimacy, so most likely you were still a virgin which had Ben needing to make you his even more so. He couldn't leave you to be taken advantage of, boils his blood at the thought.

"Such a good girl for me darling, just taking care of your old man like you were made to do" You whine in response as you nuzzle his neck but still keeping your eyes at the motion in front of you. He leans back against the couch cushions and spreads his arms slightly, like a king on the throne letting a subject serve. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, dark green pools demanding attention as much as pleasure. You stroke him tentatively, unsure of pressure or speed, you had never done this so you were lost at what to do. Ben isn't critical, almost soft and understanding, like he knew you were this inexperienced it made you feel hot in shame. He watches you, jaw clenched, as you explore the texture, the velvety smoothness near the tip versus rougher veins along his shaft. Receiving a sharp inhale from him when your thumb brushes that sensitive spot under his mushroom head, a subtle buck of hips into your hand for more friction.

Ben's control is slipping fast, one minute he's passively letting you learn, the next his hands are are suddenly on either side of your face and he's kissing you fiercely while grinding up into your grip. You let out a soft moan, as his lips capture your own, head still in a daze you comply to his touches. Sense quickly slipping away as all that mattered was his lips on yours, and the sparks that ran through your body. The kiss turning messy all teeth and tongue as he guides your mouth against his, Ben's hips jerk upward into your stroking hand. His breathing grows ragged, each exhale hot against your lips. Then it happens, his entire body tenses like a coiled spring. A guttural groan escapes him as he tears his mouth from yours, head falling back against the couch, spurt after spurt. Thick ropes of cum paint over your joined hands, some even splatter onto the front of his shirt where fabric had ridden up. Ben doesn't stop stop you, just rides it out through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut in pure bliss.

"Fuck darling, made me empty my balls fully" Was the very first thing he says after coming, a proud grin spread across his face. A your own burning cheeks are nuzzled into his chest, as you couldn't look at him. Your panties were soaked through which you ignored and didn't question.

"Did you like it?" The question was so innocent it made his softened cock twitch again, a chuckle escaping his lips. As his hand brushes your shoulder softly, finally having you right where he wanted to. Perhaps not fully to himself, but he knew this was the beginning of his journey in making you his forever.

"Heck yeah I did love, haven't came so hard since like 89'" Receiving a shy smile in response, hugging him close to you. The blush of embarrassment was still present but the overwhelming feeling of proud was winning. All you wanted was to make a good impression on him especially, and you guess you definitely did after tonight's endeavour’s.

When everything was finally decent, you took a deep breath and went out to the living room, where everyone was.

Your father was sitting on the sofa checking something on his phone. Laura, with a cup of tea in her hand, was chatting animatedly from the armchair. And him… he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, listening. He wore a tight black t-shirt and dark jeans. The moment you entered, his green eyes locked onto you.

You felt a strong flip in your stomach, a mix of nerves, desire, and something sweeter. You swallowed hard and tried to act normal.

“Good morning… or afternoon,” you murmured, heading to the kitchen.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” your father greeted you with a smile.

You poured yourself a strong coffee and sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling. From there you could see the living room perfectly. Every now and then, your eyes met his. Short, loaded, secret glances. At one point he ran his tongue over his lower lip and you felt heat rise up your neck.

Minutes later, he approached the kitchen as if nothing, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water and, instead of returning to the living room, sat on the counter right next to you, so close that his thigh pressed against yours.

Without anyone being able to see from the living room, he placed his large, warm hand on your bare leg, just below the edge of your shorts, and his thumb began to slowly caress your skin.

You smiled at him discreetly and continued drinking your coffee as if nothing was happening, but your heart was racing.

Laura raised her voice from the living room.

“Guys, it would be nice to do something this afternoon like we did yesterday at the beach. I want to make the most of these days before going back home.”

Your father nodded.

“We could go fishing at the lake. It’s a bit far, but it’s beautiful. We’d have to camp one night, set up tents and everything.”

You frowned immediately.

“I hate camping,” you said without thinking twice. “The mosquitoes, sleeping on the ground, the dirt… no thanks.”

He gently squeezed your leg under the counter. When you spoke, he looked directly at you.

“It would be good,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “A change of air. It would do us all good.”

Your father agreed.

“Come on, daughter. We haven’t gone in years, it’s going to be fun, you’ll see.”

You sighed, knowing you were in the minority. His hand remained on your leg, now moving a little higher up the inside of your thigh, caressing with his thumb almost imperceptibly.

“It’s going to be good,” he told you in a low voice, just for you, even though Laura and your father kept talking. “We’re going to have fun. Trust me.”

The double meaning of his words made you bite the inside of your cheek. You nodded reluctantly.

“Fine…” you finally accepted.

Your father got up from the sofa, excited.

“Perfect. Then let’s start preparing everything. We need to check the tents, the sleeping bags, the portable cooler… we’re leaving early tomorrow.”

Laura smiled, clearly happy with the idea. You finished your coffee in silence, very aware of the large hand that still rested possessively on your leg, caressing you slowly under everyone’s gaze… without anyone else knowing.

After your father and Laura went out to the garage to check the camping gear, you two were left alone in the kitchen for a few minutes.

He didn’t remove his hand from your leg. On the contrary, he squeezed it more firmly, sliding his fingers a little higher up the inside of your thigh.

“It’s going to be good,” he repeated in a low voice, looking at you with that intensity that disarmed you. “Trust me.”

You shook your head, still frowning.

“I don’t agree. I hate camping. It’s always cold, even in summer. I end up freezing all night and covered in mosquito bites. I don’t understand why I have to go.”

He smiled sideways, that dangerous smile that sharpened his jaw more. He leaned a little closer to you, speaking almost against your ear.

“Because I’m going to find a way to keep you warm.”

The double meaning of his words, combined with the heat of his hand still on your skin, sent a shiver straight down between your legs. You looked at him with narrowed eyes, but you couldn’t help smiling.

At that precise moment, Laura’s voice came from the garage.

“Honey! Can you come here for a second?”

He sighed, clearly annoyed by the interruption. Before getting up, he quickly took your chin with one hand, pulled you close and gave you a fleeting but intense kiss, gently biting your lower lip.

“Be good,” he murmured against your mouth.

He got up and walked toward the garage as if nothing had happened, leaving you with your heart racing and a silly smile on your lips.

You stayed sitting on the counter a moment longer, processing everything. Then you jumped down and went to your room to prepare your things. You had never really camped before, so you had no idea what to bring. You opted for the most comfortable and practical: black thermal leggings and an oversized gray sweatshirt, a couple of short shorts and basic t-shirts for the day, your toiletry bag with the basics, toothbrush, sunscreen, mosquito repellent and your moisturizer.

You didn’t want to bring too much. You packed everything in a medium backpack and left it ready by the door of your room.

While closing the backpack, you couldn’t stop thinking about his words. The idea of spending the night in a tent, close to him but without being able to touch him freely… and at the same time the possibility that he would find a way to do it anyway, gave you a mix of nerves and excitement.

You smiled to yourself as you looked in the mirror because you knew it was going to be interesting.

The rest of the day was complete chaos. Your father and he spent the afternoon going in and out of the house, checking the car, loading the truck with tents, portable coolers, sleeping bags, flashlights, food and everything necessary for camping. Laura also helped actively: she organized the food, folded clothes and talked non-stop about how excited she was to “do something as a family.”

You, on the other hand, didn’t lift a finger. You spent most of the time in the living room or in your room, pretending to be busy with your phone or reading.

Every time you passed near the truck, you saw him loading heavy things, with the muscles in his arms and back marked by the effort. On more than one occasion your eyes met, but they never managed to talk alone.

Night came and with it your hope of seeing him alone for a while. You stayed awake longer than usual, sitting on the bed with the dim light, attentive to any noise in the hallway. But nothing happened. You heard Laura laughing softly in their room, his deep voice answering something, and then everything fell silent. You went to bed frustrated, with a feeling of emptiness and jealousy churning in your stomach.

The next morning they left early for the lake.

The trip was long and hot. You sat in the back with Laura, answering in monosyllables. He drove and your father rode shotgun. Every now and then you felt his gaze searching for you in the rearview mirror, but it barely lasted a second.

They arrived at the lake around noon. The place was beautiful: a large lake surrounded by trees, with camping areas. While the others set up the tents, three in total: one for your father, one for you, and a larger one for him and Laura, you sat in a folding chair in the shade, with sunglasses and a book you barely read.

When everything was ready and the sun was already setting, they sat around the bonfire your father had lit to prepare dinner: grilled meat, potatoes and some beers.

You were quiet, poking at your food with your fork. He was sitting across from you, next to Laura. You tried not to look at him too much, but it was difficult. At one point, Laura moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder naturally and said with a complicit smile, without lowering her voice much:

“Babe, tonight you’re going to have to warm me up… you know how I get when it’s cold. Last night I barely slept because of you,” she laughed softly, clearly referring to the night before at home when they had sex.

It was a completely normal comment between a married couple… but to you it felt like a bucket of cold water. You felt a strong knot in your stomach and a pang of rage mixed with sadness. The image of him fucking her the other night came back to your mind with force. That she said it in front of you, as if nothing, seemed in very bad taste. You felt invisible, out of place, and above all… replaced.

Your expression changed completely, your brow furrowed, your jaw tense, and the silence you kept for the rest of dinner was heavy. You barely answered when they spoke to you and ate mechanically, without appetite.

He noticed. He looked at you several times with a slightly furrowed brow, as if trying to read you. Your father also noticed.

“Are you okay, daughter?” he asked at one point.

“Perfect,” you answered dryly, without looking up from your plate.

Laura seemed not to notice the tension or simply ignored it, and continued talking animatedly about how beautiful the place was. You, on the other hand, didn’t hide your bad mood at all. You got up before dinner was over, muttering that you were cold and that you were going to get into your father’s tent to read for a while.

Later inside the tent you couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned inside the sleeping bag. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt a pang of jealousy burning in your chest.

Around two in the morning, you left your tent and went to your father’s, whispering so as not to scare him.

“Dad… I can’t sleep. I’m going to go for a walk for a while to clear my head.”

He opened his eyes halfway, sleepy.

“Now? You can’t go alone, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m not going alone,” you lied naturally. “I’m going with him, don’t worry.”

Your father looked at you for a second, still half asleep, and nodded.

“Okay… but don’t go too far. And take a flashlight.”

“Sure.”

You put on a thick sweatshirt over your t-shirt, leggings and your sneakers. You left your cell phone in your tent and took only a small flashlight. You left without making noise.

The campsite was silent. Some dim lights from lanterns and almost extinguished bonfires illuminated the main paths. You walked aimlessly, gradually moving away from the tent area. The air was cool and smelled of pine and damp earth. Despite there being some light, you started to doubt if it was a good idea to go so far, but you kept going anyway.

After about fifteen minutes of walking, you found a nice and quiet place: a small elevation next to the lake, with a large flat rock where you could sit. The water reflected the moon and everything was calm. You sat down, hugged your knees to your chest and sighed deeply, trying to sort out your emotions.

You hadn’t been there ten minutes when you heard a crack of branches behind you. You turned around scared, quickly turning on the flashlight.

“Who’s there?” you asked in a tense voice.

He came out of the darkness, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The light from your flashlight illuminated his face. He looked serious, but there was a slight gleam of relief in his eyes.

“It’s me,” he said in a low voice.

You jumped and stood up immediately, your heart beating hard from the fright.

“You scared me!” you exclaimed, clearly angry. “What the fuck are you doing? You almost killed me from fright.”

He took a couple more steps closer, with that calm of his that sometimes drove you crazy.

“I saw you leave the tent. I wasn’t going to let you walk alone out here at night,” he replied in a deep, low voice. “Are you okay?”

You looked at him with a furrowed brow, still upset by the fright and by everything you had felt during dinner.

“No, I’m not okay,” you answered curtly. “And you didn’t have to follow me. I can be alone if I want.”

He didn’t flinch. He stood in front of you, watching you with that intensity that disarmed you even when you were angry, and took his time before speaking again.

You, on the other hand, crossed your arms over your chest, more to protect yourself from the cold than anything else.

“Why did you follow me?” you asked, still angry. “I said I wanted to be alone.”

“Because I don’t like you walking alone at night around here. And because I saw your face during dinner,” he replied bluntly, taking another step closer. “You were upset, very upset.”

You shrugged, trying to look indifferent.

“It’s nothing. I was just cold and sleepy.”

He let out a low laugh, almost a snort, as if he didn’t believe a word.

“Don’t lie to me. Talk to me, love. I love listening to you. It was because of what Laura said, right?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to contain yourself, reminding yourself that what you two had was very recent, that you had no right to demand anything from him.

You took a deep breath before answering.

“It’s not my problem what you say to each other,” you murmured, looking toward the lake instead of at him. “You’re a couple, it’s normal that… you do those things and talk about it.”

There was a silence. He moved closer until he was right in front of you. His presence was imposing and warm.

“But it bothered you,” he stated, not as a question.

“I’m not jealous,” you said quickly, too quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just… it seemed in bad taste that she said it in front of me. As if I wasn’t there, as if it didn’t matter.”

He looked at you in silence for a few seconds. Then he raised a hand and caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers, slowly lowering it to your chin. He gently made you look at him.

“Say it,” he asked in a low voice. “Say what you really feel.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting with yourself. You didn’t want to sound jealous, you didn’t want to seem immature. But the words escaped you anyway.

“It upset me,” you finally admitted, in a lower voice. “A lot. Hearing her say that last night she barely slept because of you… knowing what you did… turned my stomach. I felt… out of place. Invisible.”

When you opened your eyes, he was looking at you with an expression you didn’t expect. There was no guilt. There was something darker, more satisfied. A slow, dangerous smile formed on his lips.

“So you are jealous…” he murmured, almost with delight.

“It’s not funny,” you protested, trying to pull away, but he held you by the waist with his other hand, pulling you against his body.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, lowering his voice even more. “I like it. I like that you get jealous. I like knowing you don’t want to share me.”

He pulled you tighter against him. You could feel the heat of his chest through the sweatshirt.

“This is very recent,” you continued, with a trembling voice. “I shouldn’t feel this way. I have no right to…”

“You have every right,” he interrupted, firm but gentle. “Because since I fucked you, you’re no longer just my best friend’s daughter. You’re mine. And I’m yours. Even if I can’t shout it yet.”

His words hit you hard. You felt your knees weaken. He took advantage of your silence to kiss you: first on the forehead, then on the cheek, and finally on the lips. It was a slow, deep, almost comforting kiss. You melted against his mouth, letting him hug you tighter.

When you separated, you rested your forehead against his chest.

“I hate feeling this way,” you whispered.

“I know,” he replied, caressing your back under the sweatshirt. “But you don’t have to hide it from me. I prefer you tell me when something bothers you. Understood?”

You nodded against his chest. He hugged you tighter, completely surrounding you with his large, warm arms.

“Are you calmer now?” he asked, kissing the top of your head.

“A little,” you admitted. “But I still hate camping.”

He let out a low laugh.

“I promised I’d keep you warm, didn’t I?” he whispered against your ear, with that husky tone that gave you goosebumps. “And I intend to keep it.”

You stayed hugged to him for a while longer, listening to the beats of his heart, while the lake continued to shine silently in front of you.

You stayed hugged for a while longer by the lake. Then he spread his jacket over the flat rock and you lay down together to look at the stars. The sky was incredibly clear, full of bright dots. You curled up against his chest, with one leg over his, while he caressed your back under the sweatshirt.

For a few minutes only the soft sound of the water and your breathing could be heard, but the closeness, the heat of his body and the memory of the night before began to take effect. You lifted your head, looked at him for a second and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised but clearly pleased.

“So now you’re the one taking the initiative?” he murmured in a husky voice.

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in and kissed him hungrily, slowly moving your hips over him. You could feel him hardening under the fabric of his jeans. His large hands ran up your thighs to squeeze your waist, helping you move against him.

The kiss became deeper, more desperate. You took off your sweatshirt yourself and he helped you remove the t-shirt you were wearing underneath, leaving you only in your bra. His warm hands roamed your bare back while you continued moving over his erection, rubbing against him with more insistence.

“Fuck, you’re more addictive than anything,” he growled against your mouth, squeezing your ass with both hands.

You lowered your trembling hands to his belt and began to unbuckle it. He chuckled softly against your lips, a deep, sexy laugh that vibrated in your chest.

“Eager, huh?” he whispered.

You managed to open his pants and slipped your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around his thick, hot cock. It was completely hard. You stroked him slowly, feeling it throb in your palm while you continued kissing him.

He let out a grunt and helped you remove the rest of your clothes. He skillfully took off your bra and then lifted you enough to pull down your leggings and panties in one go. You were completely naked on top of him, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your skin.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling you close again.

He positioned you better on top of him, aligning his thick cock with your already wet entrance.

You lowered yourself slowly, feeling him open you inch by inch. He was big, and the position made him feel even deeper.

“I know it’s a big stretch. Breathe for me,” he whispered against your ear, holding your hips firmly as he entered you completely.

You moaned softly when you had him all inside. You felt full, stretched, perfect. You began to move, rising and falling on him with a slow rhythm at first.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight for me, baby,” he growled, digging his fingers into your hips.

You increased the rhythm, riding him with more enthusiasm. He looked at you from below, his eyes dark with desire, enjoying every movement of your breasts and the way you bit your lip to not make too much noise.

“No… mhm, ride slower, baby,” he ordered in a husky voice, stopping your hips for a moment. “I want to feel you properly. Like that… yes.”

You obeyed, moving slower but deeper, circling your hips. He raised one hand and pinched a nipple, then lowered it to your clit and began rubbing it with his thumb.

The pleasure was intense. You moaned louder, unable to contain yourself completely.

“Come on, make noise for me… Let me hear you…” he asked, speeding up the movement of his thumb.

You leaned forward, resting your hands on his chest, and began to move faster again. He held you tightly, thrusting up from below, meeting each of your movements.

“Fuck…” you gasped, feeling the orgasm approaching quickly. “I’m going to cum…”

“Do it,” he growled. “Cum on my cock, princess.”

The orgasm hit you hard. You contracted around him, trembling as you moaned his name against his neck. He followed shortly after, thrusting deep and cumming inside you with a low, husky grunt, filling you completely.

You collapsed on his chest, both breathing heavily, sweaty despite the cold of the night. He hugged you tightly, caressing your back and kissing your hair.

“You’re dangerous…” he whispered with a smile in his voice. “You’ve got me completely crazy.”

You stayed on top of him for a while longer, enjoying his heat, his scent, and the feeling of still having him inside you.

Then, with a fluid and possessive movement, he turned you over on the flat rock, positioning himself on top of you.

His large, heavy body completely covered you, pinning you against the cold surface of the rock. He kissed you with intensity, devouring your mouth while his cock, still semi-hard inside you, began to harden again.

“Just one more round,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky and full of desire. “You can take it, right, princess?”

You could only nod, biting your lip. The words had escaped you and you were sensitive, full of his previous cum, but the idea of him fucking you again turned you on in a dangerous way.

He smiled against your mouth, satisfied with your silent response.

“Good girl.”

He positioned himself better between your legs, spreading them wider with his hips. He pulled out almost completely only to enter you again with one deep, slow thrust. You moaned loudly, digging your nails into his back.

“Like that… take it all,” he growled, beginning to move with a steady, deep rhythm. “I want you to feel every inch.”

His thrusts were strong but controlled, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. He kissed your neck, your breasts, gently biting your nipples while he fucked you.

At one point, he looked you directly in the eyes, his gaze dark and filled with something primal.

“I want to fill you again…” he whispered, accelerating the rhythm. “I want you to carry my cum deep inside. Imagine I get you pregnant right here, in the middle of the forest… with my child growing inside you.”

A louder moan escaped your throat. The idea hit you hard: his cum filling you, the possibility of getting pregnant by him. Something inside you ignited brutally. You lifted your hips to meet his thrusts, desperate.

“Yes…” you gasped, unable to contain yourself. “I want you to fill me… I want your baby.”

He grunted, excited by your words. His thrusts became more brutal, deeper.

“Fuck, that’s it…” he muttered, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while he fucked you harder. “You’re such a slut for me… so desperate to carry my cum.”

He kissed you violently while penetrating you mercilessly. The wet sound of his cock entering and leaving your soaked pussy filled the silence of the forest. You were sensitive from the previous orgasm, but that only made everything feel more intense.

“You’re going to take everything I give you,” he growled against your ear. “And you’re going to stay with my baby inside, do you understand?”

You nodded frantically, moaning uncontrollably. The combination of his words, his weight on you and how deep he reached with each thrust was pushing you to the limit again.

“Say it,” he demanded, fucking you faster. “Tell me you want my baby.”

“I want your baby…” you moaned, almost sobbing with pleasure. “Please… fill me…”

That seemed to break something inside him. He fucked you with brute force, holding you tight while he penetrated you to the bottom again and again. When he reached orgasm, he pushed deep and came with a husky grunt, filling you with hot, abundant streams of cum.

You came almost at the same time, contracting violently around his cock, milking him while you trembled beneath him.

He stayed inside you for a long time, making sure not a drop escaped. He kissed you softly on the lips, on the forehead, on the cheeks, while you both came down from the high.

“Good girl…” he whispered, still buried deep inside you. “Now you’re nicely full of me.”

He hugged you tightly, protecting you from the cold of the night with his hot body, while his cum stayed inside you, exactly where he wanted it.

You stayed a while longer on the rock, with him still inside you, hugging you protectively against his body to give you warmth. He kissed your forehead, your temples and your lips with a tenderness that contrasted with how wildly he had just fucked you.

When he finally pulled out of you, you felt his hot cum dripping between your thighs. He took his t-shirt and cleaned you carefully, then helped you get dressed with patience: first the panties, then the leggings, the t-shirt and finally the sweatshirt. He hugged you again when you were dressed, rubbing your back.

“Better?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes,” you replied, smiling against his chest. “Much better.”

“We can go back whenever you want.”

You nodded happily, still with slightly shaky legs.

“Let’s go.”

The way back was shorter than you expected. You walked in silence, but he took your hand every time the terrain got complicated. When you arrived at the campsite, you separated near the tents. He gave you one last quick kiss on the forehead before disappearing toward his.

The next morning, everyone went down to the lake to swim.

Laura was especially affectionate with him: she hugged him around the waist, kissed his shoulder, whispered in his ear and laughed at everything he said. You tried not to look, concentrating on the cold lake water and your own body.

In the afternoon, your father suggested a hike along the forest trails. You accepted reluctantly. You had been walking for a little over half an hour when you started complaining.

“This is so boring… How much longer until we go back?”

Your father and Laura were ahead, chatting animatedly. At one point, the path narrowed and you were left behind with him.

As soon as you were far enough from the others, he grabbed your arm and pulled you to the side of the trail, behind a large, thick tree.

“Come here,” he growled, pushing you against the trunk.

He didn’t give you time to protest. He yanked down your shorts and panties, opened his pants and penetrated you with one deep thrust from behind.

You moaned loudly, holding onto the tree.

“Are you still bored?” he asked in a husky voice as he started fucking you hard, holding your hips.

You couldn’t answer. Only broken moans came out of your mouth as he thrust into you mercilessly, deep and fast. The wet sound of his cock entering you again and again filled the air.

“Tell me,” he insisted, giving you a hard spank. “Are you still bored, princess?”

“No… fuck… no…” you managed to babble, almost without voice.

He chuckled softly and fucked you harder, one hand going down to rub your clit while the other held your hair.

You came quickly, trembling against the tree. He followed shortly after, cumming inside you with a low grunt, filling you once more.

He helped you get dressed again, kissing your neck.

“Now you’re properly entertained, aren’t you?” he murmured with a satisfied smile.

When you returned to the campsite, you announced casually:

“I’m going to bathe in the lake. I want to be alone for a while.”

Your father nodded without problem. Laura too. He, on the other hand, looked at you with intensity, but didn’t say anything at that moment.

You went down to the lake with a towel and your bikini on. You got into the water and started swimming a little. Not even ten minutes had passed when you heard footsteps among the trees.

He appeared through the vegetation, already shirtless, with that dark look you knew so well.

“You said you wanted to be alone…” he commented, approaching the edge of the water.

You smiled, floating in the water.

“And you decided not to listen to me.”

He took off his shorts and got into the water, swimming directly toward you with powerful movements.

“I’m never going to leave you alone…” he murmured when he reached you, pulling you against his naked body in the water. “Not when I can have you like this.”

He trapped you against a large, smooth rock that protruded into the lake, where the water reached your waist. The sunset sun tinted everything in golden and orange tones.

He gently pressed you against the stone, his large body covering yours, and kissed you with deliberate, almost reverent slowness.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispered against your lips, while his large hands roamed your body under the water. “I need you all the time. Every damn second.”

His words filled you with a deep, warm happiness. You smiled against his mouth and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer.

He removed your bikini with smooth but sure movements. First the top, leaving your breasts in the air, then the bottom. He lifted you a little, positioning you against the rock so the water helped you float slightly. His cock, already completely hard, brushed against your entrance.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, looking into your eyes the whole time.

“I want to feel all of you,” he murmured, his voice husky but tender. “Every part of you…”

You moaned softly when he was completely inside. This time it wasn’t hard or wild. It was slow, deep and sensual. He moved with long, controlled thrusts, pulling out almost completely only to sink back to the bottom, circling his hips to brush every sensitive spot inside you.

His hands explored your body with devotion: he caressed your breasts, gently pinched your nipples, ran down your waist, squeezed your hips and came back up to hold your face while he kissed you.

“You’re so perfect…” he whispered against your neck, gently biting the skin. “So tight, so hot… so mine.”

You felt like you were floating, both from the water and the pleasure. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Each slow, deep thrust drew soft moans from you that were lost in the sound of the lake.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.

“I never want to stop,” he confessed, accelerating just a little. “I want to fuck you every day, fill you every night… I want you to always carry something of mine inside you.”

His words excited you as much as his movements. You kissed with more urgency, while he continued penetrating you with that delicious slowness that allowed you to feel every vein, every pulse of his thick cock inside you.

He lowered one hand between you and began rubbing your clit with soft but firm circular movements, synchronized with his thrusts.

“Cum for me, princess,” he whispered against your mouth. “I want to feel you squeeze me.”

The orgasm came like a slow but powerful wave. You contracted around him, trembling in his arms as you moaned his name. He followed shortly after, thrusting deep and cumming inside you with a low, long grunt, filling you once more with his hot cum.

He stayed inside you, hugging you tightly against the rock, kissing your neck, shoulders and lips with tenderness.

“I need you always,” he repeated in a low voice, like a vow. “You have no idea how much.”

You stayed hugged to him for a long time, with the cool water caressing your joined bodies, feeling full, desired and happy in a way you had never experienced.

You left the water holding hands. As soon as you reached the shore, on a soft grass area somewhat protected by some bushes, he carefully laid you down on the ground. The towel you had brought was underneath you, protecting you a little from the dirt.

He positioned himself between your legs, still naked and with his cock hard again. He looked at you with that intensity that melted you and lifted one of your legs, resting it on his shoulder. The new position opened you completely for him and he began rubbing the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance.

He entered you with one deep thrust. The position made him reach much deeper, brushing points that made you moan loudly from the first moment.

“Fuck…” you gasped, holding onto his arms.

He began to move with a firm, steady rhythm, holding your leg against his shoulder. Each thrust was deep, strong and precise. The angle was perfect and made you feel him in an overwhelming way.

Tears began to escape from your eyes from pure pleasure. It wasn’t pain, it was too good. You sobbed between moans while he fucked you mercilessly.

“I want to be your woman…” you managed to say between gasps, your voice broken. “The only one… I don’t want you to be with anyone else. Only with me.”

He grunted, accelerating the rhythm, fucking you harder upon hearing your words.

“You’re mine,” he replied in a husky voice, looking you straight in the eyes. “Only mine. I don’t want anyone else. Not Laura, not anyone. Only you, princess.”

His words filled you with such great emotion that the tears continued to fall. He leaned a little more, almost folding you in half, and kissed you while he continued penetrating you deeply.

“I’m going to leave her, princess…” he growled against your mouth. “I’m going to separate and I’m going to stay with you. I want you to be the mother of my children. Only you.”

You came hard, almost screaming, contracting violently around his cock. He followed seconds later, pushing to the bottom and cumming inside you with a guttural grunt, filling you once more.

He collapsed carefully on top of you, still inside, and hugged you tightly. He kissed the tears from your cheeks with tenderness.

“I want you,” he repeated in a low voice, like a vow. “Only you.”

You stayed hugged to him, trembling with pleasure and emotion, with his cum dripping between your legs and your heart full.

That afternoon at the lake was the last time you two were together. When they returned to the campsite, they pretended normality. He returned to his role as attentive husband with Laura and you returned to being his best friend’s daughter.

That night they barely exchanged glances and the next day they packed everything and returned home in an uncomfortable silence, and then everything changed.

As soon as they arrived, he made his decision. That same night he told your father that he needed to sort things out with Laura and the next day, he left with her back to Texas. He didn’t tell you directly, he just looked at you one last time before getting in the car, with an expression full of guilt, unspoken promises and something like pain.

But there were no words. There was no “I’ll call you,” or “this isn’t over.” Just a brief hug in front of your father and Laura, and then… nothing.

Your heart broke into a thousand pieces. The first days were the worst. You spent them locked in your room, looking at your phone every five minutes, waiting for a message, a call, anything, but the phone never rang.

You knew, deep down, that he was right to leave with her first. He had to resolve his marriage, talk, separate formally if he really wanted to be with you. It was the responsible, logical thing, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Every night you cried silently against the pillow, remembering his words at the lake and wondering if they had been just words of the moment? Heat of passion? The doubt ate away at you inside.

Your father noticed you were acting strange, but he attributed it to university stress or problems with Tony. You didn’t tell him anything. How were you going to explain that you had fallen in love with his best friend? That he had fucked you in the forest promising you a future and now had disappeared?

The following weeks were a silent hell.

At first you tried to convince yourself that it was just stress, that the delay in your period was due to anxiety, constant crying and sleepless nights, but then the symptoms started.

Morning nausea that forced you to run to the bathroom as soon as you woke up. Sensitive and swollen breasts. A deep fatigue that made you want to sleep all day and the smell of coffee that you used to love now made you retch.

You were terrified. A small, secret part of you felt strangely happy at the possibility. It was a part of him, a living little piece of everything you had shared in secret. A baby that would carry his blood. But the other part, the bigger and more rational one, was scared to death.

How were you going to be a mother now? You were too young, you were alone, you had no stable job, you lived with your father and the man who had gotten you pregnant had disappeared without saying a word.

You felt useless. Stupid. Naive.

How could you have believed him? How did you fall so easily for the words of a man who was twice your age? Your father’s best friend. A married man who had just gotten out of prison. You repeated over and over how stupid you had been.

Some nights you stayed looking at the ceiling with silent tears rolling down your cheeks, thinking that it would be easier to simply not exist. Wanting to die was a thought that appeared more and more frequently, although you never said it out loud.

One afternoon, after vomiting for the third time that day, you went to the pharmacy alone and bought three pregnancy tests.

You got home, locked yourself in the bathroom and waited. All three tests came back positive. You sat on the bathroom floor for almost twenty minutes, staring at the two pink lines as if they were a death sentence. When you finally reacted, you stumbled to your room, locked the door and threw yourself on the bed.

You buried your face in the pillow and cried like never before in your life. The sobs were so strong they choked you. You bit the pillow so your father wouldn’t hear you from the living room. Your whole body trembled. You felt small, broken, completely alone.

“Idiot… idiot…” you repeated between sobs, hitting the bed with your fist. “How could you be so stupid?”

The images invaded you uncontrollably: his large hands holding you against the tree, his husky voice promising that he only wanted you, that he wanted you to have his babies, his deep thrusts while he told you he was going to fill you…

And now you were alone. Pregnant. With a baby growing inside you that he didn’t even know existed.

You cried until your throat hurt and you had no more tears left. You stayed curled up in the fetal position, hugging your belly with both hands, trembling.

You didn’t know what you were going to do. You didn’t know how to tell your father. And, above all, you didn’t know if you would ever see the man who had destroyed you and, at the same time, given you the most important thing in your life again.

You stayed locked in your room for days, as if the outside world no longer existed. The curtains always closed, the dim light of the night lamp barely illuminating the mess that was your bed: used tissues everywhere, the silent phone on the nightstand, and you curled up in the fetal position, hugging your knees to your chest.

Every morning the nausea woke you before dawn, forcing you to run to the bathroom with your hand over your mouth. Vomiting left you exhausted, trembling, with a bitter taste in your throat and fresh tears running down your cheeks.

You thought about him constantly. About his promises, about his husky voice saying he only wanted you, that he was going to leave Laura, that he wanted you to be the mother of his children.

Lies. It had all been lies born of the heat of the moment. Now you were alone with a baby growing inside you, and he had left as if nothing, as if the days in the forest had meant absolutely nothing.

Some nights the pain was so great that you sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the bottle of sleeping pills you had stolen from your father’s medicine cabinet.

You counted them over and over in the palm of your hand. It would be so easy, you thought. Swallow them all, close your eyes and stop feeling this emptiness. You imagined how your father would find you cold in the morning, and that made you cry harder, but the thought returned. No one really loves me. No one is going to love me with this inside. You felt broken, dirty, stupid. A silly girl who spread her legs for her father’s best friend, an ex-convict who had used her and discarded her.

Your father noticed the change almost immediately.

At first he respected your space, thinking it was sadness over the guests’ departure or university stress. But the days passed and you barely left your room. You ate little, almost nothing. You had deep dark circles, a pale face and swollen eyes from crying so much in silence.

One afternoon, after you tried to eat something in the kitchen and ended up vomiting in the bathroom again, he gently knocked on your door.

“Daughter… can I come in?”

You didn’t answer at first. You stayed curled up in bed, your face buried in the wet pillow.

He opened the door slowly. The light from the hallway made you squint. He sat on the edge of the bed carefully, as if afraid of breaking you.

“You’ve been like this for days. You barely eat, you don’t go out, you don’t talk… You’re worrying me a lot, my life. What’s wrong? You can tell me anything.”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. The tears were already starting to come again.

“No… I can’t, Dad. Please, leave me.”

He sighed, but didn’t move. He caressed your hair tenderly, like when you were a child.

“I’m your father. I’ve known you since you were born. I know when something is destroying you inside. I’m not going to pressure you if you don’t want to, but… look at you. You’re suffering alone and I can’t stand it. Let me help you. Whatever it is, I’m going to protect you. I’ve always done that. Nothing is going to change that.”

His voice was so soft, so full of unconditional love, that something inside you broke. You started sobbing hard, your body shaking. He immediately hugged you, surrounding you with his strong arms, and you clung to his shirt as if you were going to drown.

“Dad… I’m pregnant,” you finally whispered, with a broken, almost inaudible voice.

The silence that followed was heavy, eternal. You felt his body tense against yours. His hand stopped caressing your back for a second.

“What…?” he murmured, stunned.

You pulled away a little to look at him. His face was pale, his eyes wide open, as if he couldn’t process the words. He remained frozen, searching your face for some sign that it was a cruel joke. But he only saw tears, shame and pure terror.

“I’m pregnant,” you repeated, crying harder. “I don’t know what to do… I’m scared, Dad. So scared.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily. The shock was visible: the wrinkles on his forehead became more pronounced, his eyes watered.

“My God…” he finally whispered.

You shrank, waiting for rejection, anger, disgust.

“Please… don’t stop loving me,” you begged between sobs, your voice broken. “I know I’m an idiot, that I ruined everything, but don’t leave me alone. Don’t hate me… please.”

He reacted then. He hugged you tightly, almost desperately, burying your face against his chest. You felt his tears fall on your hair.

“Never, my girl. I’m never going to stop loving you. I love you more than anything in this world. You’re my daughter, my everything. None of this is going to change that,” his voice broke. “But… fuck, I’m disappointed. Very disappointed. Not because of the baby… but because you didn’t come to me sooner. Because you’ve been suffering all this alone.”

“I know,” you cried against his shirt. “I know, Dad. I was terrified. I felt alone, stupid… I thought… I wanted to die. Some nights… I thought about ending it all.”

He hugged you tighter, as if he wanted to merge with you to protect you from the world.

“Don’t say that. Never. We’re going to get through this together. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

You stayed hugged to him for a long time, crying until your lungs hurt.

He rocked you gently, kissing your head, his own silent tears. The weight of disappointment was there, heavy between the two of you, but love was greater.

When your sobs calmed a little, he pulled away enough to look you in the eyes, with his hands on your shoulders.

“Who is the father?” he asked in a hoarse voice, trying to stay calm. “Is it Tony? Did that idiot do this to you?”

You shook your head, lowering it.

“No… it’s not Tony.”

He frowned, confused and increasingly tense.

“Then who? Tell me his name.”

You didn’t answer. The words got stuck in your throat. You looked toward the window, with your eyes full of tears again.

“Daughter… who is it?” he insisted, softer but firm.

Silence.

His expression changed. Something seemed to click in his mind. His eyes darkened with pain and contained rage.

“Is it his?” he asked in a low voice, almost fearing the answer.

You just nodded, biting your lip hard until it bled a little. The tears fell silently again.

He let out a choked sound, between surprise and deep fury. He got up from the bed and walked a few steps around the room, running his hands through his hair.

“Son of a bitch…” he murmured. “How…? How could you…?”

“Dad…” you whispered. “How did you know?”

He stopped and looked at you, with red eyes.

“I’m not an idiot. I saw how you looked at him in the house, at the lake… the glances, how you got nervous when he was around. I thought it was just a silly girl’s thing, an innocent attraction. I never imagined…” his voice broke again. “I’m very disappointed. In both of you. He was like a brother to me. I trusted him. And you… my girl. He took advantage of you. He got you pregnant and left like a coward.”

He approached again and sat down, but this time with slumped shoulders.

“If I see him… I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll make him pay for every tear you’ve shed.”

“No!” you exclaimed, grabbing his arm desperately. “Dad, please… no. I love him. I know it sounds stupid, but I love him. It was real for me. Don’t hurt him. Please.”

He looked at you for a long time, with his broken heart visible on his face. Rage, disappointment, protective love… all mixed together.

Finally he hugged you again, tightly, as if he wanted to absorb all your pain.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” he whispered against your hair. “But you’re going to be okay, I promise.”

You stayed there, in his arms, crying silently while he held you.

You kept the baby. There was no other real option in your heart, even though fear accompanied you every day. With your father’s silent but firm support, you started going to the doctor. The first appointments were terrible: your hands trembled while you had the tests done, you felt shame when the doctor asked about the father and you could only look down. You heard your baby’s heartbeat for the first time and cried on the examination table, a mix of terror and overwhelming tenderness you didn’t expect.

Little by little you faced reality.

You bought vitamins, looser clothes, and began to notice how your belly was gently rounding. Some nights you still cried silently, but you no longer thought about the pills. You had a reason to keep going. Your father was there: he accompanied you to appointments, prepared meals that didn’t make you nauseous, and although disappointment still floated between you like a shadow, he never let go of your hand.

One night, while you were having dinner at the kitchen table, there was a knock at the door. It was late, almost nine o’clock. You got up carefully, placing a hand on your already visible belly under the loose t-shirt.

“I’ll get it,” you said softly.

You opened the door… and the world stopped.

There he was, and when he saw you, a tentative smile formed on his lips.

“Princess…” he murmured.

Your knees weakened. You felt everything spinning. You grabbed the door frame to keep from falling, your heart beating so hard you thought you were going to faint. The air left your lungs. You couldn’t speak, you just looked at him, with your eyes full of tears that began to fall uncontrollably.

His smile lasted barely two seconds.

Your father appeared behind you like lightning. He didn’t say a word, he just closed his fist and threw a punch straight to his face. The dry sound of the impact echoed in the hallway. He staggered back, but your father didn’t stop. He gave him another punch to the jaw, and another to the stomach that doubled him over.

“Dad! Stop!” you screamed, horrified.

You ran toward them. He was on the porch floor, bleeding from the mouth. You tried to intervene, pushing your father with all your strength.

“Enough, please! You’re going to kill him!”

Your father was breathing like a wounded animal, with bloody knuckles and eyes full of fury. You managed to separate them enough. He spat blood on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at your father with confusion and pain.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled, trying to get up.

Your father approached again and, before you could stop him, spat in his face.

“You trampled on our friendship. I trusted you like a brother and you… you fucked my daughter. You’re a disgusting person. You broke her heart and the worst of all… you got her pregnant, you son of a bitch. You disappeared and left her alone with this.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

He slowly raised his gaze toward you. His green eyes widened in horror when he saw the tears running down your cheeks, your protective hand on your rounded belly, the way you were trembling. The color left his face.

“What…?” he whispered, almost without voice.

He got up with difficulty, staggering, and tried to approach you.

“Princess… please…”

Your father pushed him hard against the wall.

“Don’t get close to her.”

“Please…” he begged, his voice broken, looking only at you. “I need to talk to her. I left Laura. I did everything… for her.”

Your father let out a bitter, rage-filled laugh.

“Shameless. You show up now, after months, and you expect…”

“Dad,” you intervened, with a trembling but firm voice. “Let us talk. Please. Just… a moment.”

Your father looked at you, torn between fierce protection and love for you.

Finally, with his jaw clenched, he nodded.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He left, but left the door ajar. The atmosphere remained charged, heavy.

He took a step toward you, but you instinctively moved away, crossing your arms over your chest. The tears wouldn’t stop.

“No… don’t come near me,” you said in a broken voice. “You have no right.”

“Love, let me explain…”

“No!” you exclaimed, and all the accumulated sadness came out like a torrent. “Explain what? That you used me? I spent weeks thinking you only wanted my body. That all those promises at the lake, in the forest, were just words to fuck me. You left me alone. You disappeared. I thought you were going to come back. I waited for your call like an idiot… and nothing. I found out about the pregnancy vomiting every morning, crying until I had no tears left. I thought about dying, you know? About swallowing pills because I felt dirty, used, broken. Because the man who said he loved me, who wanted me to be the mother of his children, abandoned me like I was garbage.”

Your voice broke into sobs. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to contain yourself, but you couldn’t.

“Every medical appointment I went to alone at first. Every night I felt this baby move and thought you would never know him. That I had ruined everything by believing you. I hated you. I hated you so much… and at the same time I still loved you and that destroyed me even more.”

He was devastated. Tears ran down his face. He ran his hands through his hair, desperate.

“Forgive me… Please, forgive me. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

You stayed silent, trembling. Finally, in a thread of voice, you told him:

“Talk. Explain. But I don’t know if I want to hear it.”

He approached slowly, until he was a meter away from you. His voice was hoarse, broken by emotion.

“I was a coward. When we returned from the lake, guilt ate me alive. Laura suspected something, your father was there… I thought I had to fix my marriage first, do things right, separate like a man before coming for you. But every day without you was hell. I called you mentally, wrote messages that I deleted. I wanted to give you stability, not drag you into my mess. When I finally left Laura a few weeks ago, I came as fast as I could. I didn’t know… I didn’t know about the baby.”

His voice broke. He knelt in front of you, right there in the entrance, with his knees on the cold floor.

“I love you. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone. It wasn’t just your body. It was your laugh, the way you looked at me, your strength. I want to be with you. I want to be the father of that baby. I want to wake up every day by your side and make up for every tear. Please… don’t shut me out. Don’t push me away. I need you. I need both of you.”

He was crying openly, kneeling like a broken man, with his face swollen from the blows and dried blood at the corner of his lips. He extended a trembling hand toward you, without touching you, waiting.

“Forgive me, princess. Give me a chance to prove to you that this time I’m not going to leave. Please…”

The air was charged with pain, wounded love, broken promises and new pleas. You stayed there, with one hand on your belly and your heart in pieces, not knowing if you could forgive or if the damage was already irreparable. The tears continued to fall, silently, while you looked at him kneeling in front of you.

“Why…?” you whispered between sobs, with a broken and trembling voice. “Why do I have to love you so much? Tell me… why can’t I hate you like I should? You left. You left me alone with all this… and still, every night I dreamed of you. Every time I felt the baby move, I thought of you. Why do I have to love you in this stupid and painful way?”

He raised his gaze toward you, with his reddened green eyes full of tears. His beaten face was swollen, but the real pain was in his expression. He extended a trembling hand, not daring to touch you yet.

“Cause’ I love you the same way,” he answered in a hoarse, broken voice. “Because what we have is bigger than fear, than my mistakes, than everything. I made the worst mistake of my life by walking away. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I only destroyed you. Forgive me… please, princess. Give me another chance. Let me prove to you that this time I’m going to stay. I’m going to be there for you and for our baby. I’m not going to fail you again.”

The tears prevented you from seeing clearly.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, breathing unevenly. The weight of everything you had lived through was still there, oppressing your chest.

“Get up…” you finally whispered, with a weak voice. “Please, get up. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

He stood up slowly, with difficulty, grimacing in pain from your father’s blows. As soon as he was in front of you, you took a step and kissed him. It was a desperate kiss, salty with tears, full of rage and love at the same time. Your hands clung tightly to his shirt, as if you feared he would disappear again. He reciprocated with the same intensity, surrounding you with his large, warm arms, careful not to press too hard on your belly.

When you separated, you rested your forehead against his, still crying.

“I hate you…” you murmured against his lips. “I hate you for what you put me through. For every night I thought I didn’t matter to you. But I love you more. I love you so much it hurts to breathe. I don’t know how I’m going to forgive you completely… but I can’t let you go.”

He closed his eyes, pressing you gently against his chest. One of his hands lowered to your belly and caressed it with reverence, feeling for the first time the curve where his son was growing.

“I love you,” he said in a deep, trembling voice. “I love you like I never thought I could love someone. These months away were hell. I realized I missed your laugh, the way you laugh when something really amuses you. I missed your whims, how you got angry about everything and furrowed your brow in that adorable way. I missed the way you looked at me when you thought no one was watching… that mix of desire and shyness that drove me crazy. I missed your scent, your voice, the way you gave yourself to me without reservations. Everything about you. Every damn thing. There’s no one else for me. Only you.”

He hugged you tighter, kissing your hair, your forehead, your wet cheeks. You continued crying against his chest, but now it was a different cry: softer, more liberating.

The pain was still there, deep and slowly healing, but for the first time in months you felt a glimmer of hope.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again…” you whispered. “But I want to try. For me. For the baby. For us.”

He nodded, without letting you go.

“I’m going to earn that trust every day. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. Forever, princess.”

You stayed hugged in the entrance, under the dim light of the porch, while your father waited in the kitchen, probably listening to everything. The world outside kept turning, but at that moment only the two of you existed, trying to rebuild what you had almost destroyed forever.

The following months were not easy. For your father, accepting the relationship was a slow and painful process. At first he barely tolerated his presence in the house. Dinners were tense, conversations short and full of awkward silences. Your father looked at him with a mix of contained rage and deep disappointment every time he saw him touch your belly or kiss you on the forehead. More than once you heard arguments between them in the living room: harsh words, reproaches about the betrayed friendship and about the responsibility he now had.

But time, as always, did its work. Your father saw how he was there every day. He saw him accompany you to all the medical appointments, hold your hand during the ultrasounds, paint the baby’s room with patience and carry the boxes of diapers without complaining. He saw how he took care of you. And, above all, he saw how you started smiling again little by little. One day, after a dinner in which he helped wash the dishes without anyone asking, your father just sighed deeply and told him:

“I don’t forgive you for what you did. But if you’re going to be with my daughter and my grandson… you’d better do it right. If you hurt her again, I won’t settle for a few punches.”

It was the closest thing to a blessing you were going to get.

He kept his word. He quickly sold the house in Texas, closed that chapter of his life with Laura and used the money to buy a large and beautiful house just two streets from your father’s. He wanted you to be close to your family, to have support. Together you started organizing the baby’s room: you painted the walls a soft gray and yellow, assembled the crib, placed furniture and hung small glowing stars on the ceiling. He spent hours there with you, placing everything carefully, kissing your belly every time he bent down.

He accompanied you everywhere. To childbirth preparation classes, for afternoon walks so you could move, even to buy maternity clothes. Things weren’t perfect: there were moments of insecurity, arguments due to fatigue and fear of the future, nights when you woke up crying remembering the abandonment. But you tried. A little more every day.

You only heard about Laura once. One afternoon, while he was talking on the phone in the garden, you heard his raised voice through the half-open window.

“…yes, the house is already sold. No, I’m not going to give you more than what we agreed. And stop insulting her, Laura. She has nothing to do with this. This was my decision.”

You heard her call you “young whore” and other hurtful things before he hung up. You didn’t care. You already had enough with your own world.

He made sure to make you feel loved every day. Small details: flowers for no reason, massages for your swollen feet, slow kisses in the mornings, his hands always seeking to touch you as if he needed to remind himself that you were real. He constantly repeated that you were beautiful, even when you felt huge and tired.

One night, when you were already nine months pregnant, you went out to dinner at a quiet restaurant. You felt especially pretty in a black maternity dress that gently hugged your figure. The dinner was pleasant, full of laughter and plans for the future. At one point you went to the bathroom and, when you returned, you saw the scene: an attractive woman, more or less his age, was leaning over the table openly flirting with him.

“…and tell me, what is a man like you doing here alone?” she was saying.

He looked up, and with a firm and cold voice he replied:

“Go away. I have a woman.”

The woman laughed, unaware of your presence.

“I don’t see her anywhere…”

You appeared right behind her, placing a possessive hand on his shoulder.

“Here I am,” you said in a clear and calm voice. “I’m his woman.”

The woman looked you up and down, noticing your prominent belly, and left muttering something between her teeth. You sat down again, with a small smile on your lips. It had been a long time since you had felt jealous. That night, that small pang of possessiveness reminded you how much you loved him.

You arrived home charged with that energy. As soon as you closed the door to the bedroom, he kissed you with contained hunger. It had been weeks since you had had sex; the advanced pregnancy and fatigue had put it on pause. But that night was different.

He undressed you with reverent slowness, kissing every inch of skin he discovered. He knelt in front of you and kissed your swollen belly, whispering words of love against your skin. He helped you lie on your side, the most comfortable position at that moment, and positioned himself behind you. His large hands caressed your more sensitive breasts, gently pinching the nipples while he kissed your neck.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured against your ear, his voice husky with desire. “So mine.”

When he entered you, he did it slowly, inch by inch, careful with every movement. You moaned loudly, because after so long without feeling him, the sensation was exquisite. You were more sensitive, tighter, and each slow, deep thrust made you tremble. He held you with one arm around your waist, the other hand caressing your clit with perfect circles.

“Fuck…” he growled against your neck. “You’re so hot, so wet for me…”

You moved against him as best you could, seeking more depth. The pleasure was different now: more intense, more emotional. Every time he entered to the bottom you moaned his name, and he responded with kisses and words of love.

“Cum for me, princess… let me feel you,” he whispered, accelerating just a little, always careful.

The orgasm hit you like a slow and powerful wave. You contracted around him, trembling in his arms as you moaned. He followed shortly after, cumming inside you with a long, husky grunt, hugging you tightly against his chest.

You stayed joined for a long time, breathing heavily. He didn’t pull out of you immediately. He kissed your nape, your cheek, and caressed your belly with tenderness.

“I love you,” he repeated over and over. “This is just the beginning. We’re going to be okay.”

That night you slept glued to him, with his protective hand on your belly and your heart calmer than it had been in a long time. The wounds were still there, but little by little they were turning into scars. And for the first time in months, you felt that the future could be good. Together.

A few days later, in the early morning, while you were sleeping glued to his chest, you felt the first strong contraction. It was like a bolt of pain that ran through your back and belly. You complained and he woke up immediately.

“Is it time?” he asked, alert in seconds.

You nodded, biting your lip. Labor had begun.

The following hours were intense. You arrived at the hospital quickly. Your father followed in his car, nervous but present. The birth was natural, as you wanted, but it wasn’t easy. You were a first-time mother and the baby was big. The contractions became stronger and closer together.

You sweated, moaned in pain, squeezing his hand so hard you thought you were going to break his fingers.

“Breathe, princess… I’m here,” he repeated non-stop, wiping your forehead with a cold cloth, kissing your sweat-soaked hair. “You’re doing incredible. You’re the strongest woman I know.”

You screamed with every push. The pain was tearing, as if your body was opening in two. At one point, between contraction and contraction, you cried exhausted.

“I can’t… it hurts so much…”

“Yes you can,” he told you in a firm but loving voice, looking you in the eyes. “It’s almost over. Our son is about to arrive. Hold on a little longer.”

Your father waited outside, pacing back and forth. The nurses came in and out. After almost twelve hours of labor, the doctor told you it was time.

“Push! Hard!”

You screamed with all your strength. You felt your body opening, the intense burning, the overwhelming pressure. And then… the cry. A strong, healthy, vigorous cry filled the room.

“It’s a boy,” the doctor announced with a smile. “He’s perfect!”

They placed the baby on your chest almost immediately, still connected by the cord. He was wet, wrinkled, with a red face and clenched little fists, but to you he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen in your life.

He was chubby, with full cheeks and a bit of dark hair on his head. You hugged him against your skin, crying uncontrollably.

“My baby…” you whispered, kissing his little head. “Hello, my love… you’re here.”

You never imagined you could love someone so much so quickly. That love was instant, fierce, overwhelming. It was as if all the pain, fear and tears of the previous months were worth it just to have him there, breathing against your chest.

He was by your side, with his eyes full of tears he didn’t bother to hide. He let them run freely while he caressed the baby’s back with a trembling hand and kissed your forehead over and over.

“Thank you…” he murmured with a broken voice. “Thank you for our son. You’re incredible. I love you so much…”

He cried without shame, with silent sobs, looking at his son as if he couldn’t believe he was real. That big, strong man, who had been in prison, was completely undone with emotion in front of his little one.

After they sutured you and cleaned you up, they moved you to a private room.

You were exhausted but happy, with the baby already clean and wrapped in a blanket, sleeping peacefully in your arms. Your father came in for a while, excited, and held his grandson with trembling hands. There were tears from him too. Then he left you alone.

When things calmed down, you looked at him, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to stop touching the baby.

“It didn’t seem like you’d been in prison for so long,” you said with a tired but teasing smile. “You cried like a child when you saw him.”

He let out a low, husky laugh, wiping his still wet eyes. He leaned in and kissed you softly on the lips.

“How could I not cry?” he replied, looking at you with so much love that you felt your heart swell. “I was watching my woman, the person I love most in the world, give birth to our son. It was the most beautiful and strongest thing I’ve seen in my life. I cried with pride, with gratitude… with love. All together.”

He caressed the chubby cheek of the baby, who slept deeply, with his thumb.

“He looks like you,” he murmured. “He has your nose.”

“And your eyes, I hope,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a long time: you resting in bed, him by your side, with one hand on your shoulder and the other near the baby. The room was silent, only interrupted by the soft breathing of the newborn. For the first time in a long time, everything seemed to be in its place.

You and him had gone through hell, but there both were: a family.

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

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

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

Yeah, right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you want to crawl into a hole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten years had passed since that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father took a few seconds to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come on, come here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father nodded, visibly happy to have him back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn't help but stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That finished making you furious.

You entered the living room with a frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned to him with fire in your eyes.

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

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

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

"Come in," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him sideways.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile.

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

You laughed softly, feeling some of the tension ease.

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

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

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

You frowned.

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

He let out a low, dry laugh.

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

You looked at him surprised, your eyes wide.

"Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let out a low, hoarse laugh.

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

You rolled your eyes but smiled a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who was it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then, the front door opened.

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

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

Neither of you said another word about the subject.

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

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

Your father nodded without hesitation.

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

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

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

"Can I help?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.

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

"Of course," he answered without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you moved.

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

He took a step back, creating distance between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I hug you?"

He nodded without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you saw her.

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

She looked nothing like you.

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

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

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

"Hi," you said as you approached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father accepted immediately, clearly pleased.

"Of course! That would be great."

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

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

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

You stayed in the kitchen watching her.

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

You couldn't take it anymore.

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

Your father frowned, visibly annoyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You approached and looked.

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

His large hand gripped one of her hips with possession.

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

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

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

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

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

You were so embarrassed.

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

Around midday, your father knocked softly on your door.

"Are you okay?" he asked from outside.

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

Your father sighed, but eventually accepted.

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

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

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

You were just the daughter of his best friend.

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

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

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

You jumped out of bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That put you in a better mood.

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

Your father got up a little later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never mind then," you murmured.

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

You smiled to yourself, hidden against your arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father nodded, though his expression became nostalgic.

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

Laura smiled with understanding.

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

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

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

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

Your father's face lit up.

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

Laura seemed a bit surprised, but maintained her smile.

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, he appeared at your side.

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

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

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

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

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

"He looks too old for you."

You shrugged.

"I don't mind age."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father accepted without problem.

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

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

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

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

"Not at all."

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

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

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

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

The trip became a slow, silent torture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can get out now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't stop you this time.

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

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

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

Suddenly, you heard soft footsteps down the hallway.

Laura.

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

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

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

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thick fingers brushed the wet fabric of your panties.

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

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

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

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

He growled against your neck.

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

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

He looked into your eyes as he positioned himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he separated, he rested his forehead against yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neon paints your body in hues of red and blue as you cross the dance floor. The dive bar has little by way of illumination beyond the signs on the wall depicting beer and food, half-naked cowgirls, and the name of the joint. A few yellowed lights hang from the ceiling, joining the bright colors to shine down on the crowd below.

You wind your way through the throng of sweaty bodies, their boisterous conversations meld with the thrum of music soaking into the atmosphere. Cold glass bites into your palm as you carry your fresh beer back to the edge of the dance floor. 

It’s standing room only— a regular occurrence on Thursday nights where ladies drink free— and since your friends have long since returned home, you don’t see the point in trying to snag a high-top for yourself. 

No, half drunk on the music and the cheap beer, you don’t want to sit–you want to dance.

Between line dances, you down long-necks and tall glasses of water alike, feeling like you’re sweating it out faster than you can consume; the last thing you want is to wake up in the morning with a splitting headache, even if your freelance job awarded you a day off. 

After being contained to your apartment by the threat of being ripped to shreds at the razor-sharp claws of a pack of supernatural beasts, you want to spend your new lease on life as you pleased, and right now, you are doing just that. 

You’ve lost count of how many dances you’ve finished by the time your bladder begs you to vacate the floor and empty it. Reluctantly, you shuffle off the dance floor, having to only wait behind three other girls before you snag an open stall. 

The bathroom itself leaves something to be desired. Dingy tile line the floors; you aren’t sure if the patterns were actually design choices or were poorly cleaned stains. Raunchy love notes cozy up to random phone numbers with instructions to ‘call for a good time’ with crude pictures of dicks on the cheap stall walls and door. 

Noting the bathroom was empty, you finish up and wash your hands, smiling at the additional graffiti etched into the edges of the dirty mirrors. Most of it is hazy anyway, the blanket of alcohol warming you at the edges. You pull your tube of lipstick from the pocket of your miniskirt, the denim barely covering you enough to avoid a public indecency charge.

You don’t think much of it when the music grows louder, too busy shoving the lipstick back into your pocket. The door to the bathroom creaks open before it shuts hard with a thud, muting the sounds once more.

It isn’t until you hear the snick of the lock sliding into place that you look up to see a figure standing behind you in the reflection of the mirror. Your heart drops to your stomach in the same second your pussy throbs violently when you whirl around to familiar green eyes that blink black before returning to their alluring jade. 

“Hiya, Sweetheart,” Dean purrs, stepping closer so that there’s less than a foot of space between your bodies. “Forget what day it is?”

Your boots have a bit of a heel, so there’s less of a height difference than the first time he visited you. Usually, you’re at home. Most of the time you’re already in bed when he arrives, sometimes in the shower, sometimes making food.

“No. Just lost track of time.” Somewhere between the dancing and the drinks and your phone being tucked away in the purse you’d brought, the time had slipped away.

His head cocks to the side, the move more animalistic than human. “That so?”

“I wanted a night out with my friends. Sue me.”

His eyebrows raise but he says nothing. 

Not right away at least. 

Instead his attention drifts from your face, slipping down your body. 

You can see his eyes catch on your strappy tank top where the halter neckline plunges to near obscene levels, showing off the scalloped lace of your bra. The green in his gaze goes dark in a different way than you are used to the further down it travels, down all the way to the bare expanse of your legs and where your boots sit upon your feet.

“Must’a had every guy in here tonight drooling over you,” Dean says appreciatively, eyes flicking back up to yours. 

You brace your hands on the sink behind you and lean back with a shrug, trying to act casual and not like your pussy isn’t growing wetter by the second. The heat that rises to your cheeks is in humiliation. He hasn’t even touched you yet and here you are like a bitch in heat.

You’d noticed the heated stares, the way some of the men in the bar’s eyes would pop out of their skull like some cartoon, and you’d be lying to him and to yourself if you said you didn’t revel in it. 

He leans in, and you’re not sure when he got this close to you but you’re assaulted with the intoxicating smell of him. Something masculine and dark that makes you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck. 

You jump a little when the warmth of his palm spreads along the inside of your thigh, too entranced by his gaze, heavy and focused, to notice his arm slipping between your bodies until it’s there. His fingers tease along the soft skin, the tips just inches from the throbbing need between your thighs. 

“Too bad your pussy’s already got someone takin’ care a’her, right?” He croons, slipping his hand up. 

Words escape you as he slides your panties to the side, not that the lacy scrap of fabric was covering much to begin with. 

Your mouth gapes open at the first teasing touch, the calloused tips of his fingers sliding through your slick, bumping against your clit. Hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard you’re sure the porcelain will crack any second, your hips buck up against his hand, seeking the stimulation.

The sense of euphoria is short lived when his other hand shoots out, wrapping around your neck. A gasp gets stuck in your throat and your eyes flare wide. His fingerprints dent your skin.

“Right?” He asks again with a darker edge this time. 

The bathroom around you narrows to the tightness of his grip on your neck and the pleasure derived from his fingers still working over your soaking core. Every inch of your body erupts in tingles, and you would have nodded if his hold allowed it. 

“Yes,” is all you manage to choke out. 

It is a funny feeling. Dean quite literally has your life in his hand. By all accounts you should be pissing-yourself-terrified. But you’re not. Instead, all you can focus on is the dark whorls of lust eddying in the depths of his eyes, the green heightened with his enjoyment, and how his middle finger is circling your clit with precision. 

That was, until it retreats and you nearly whine at the loss of contact. 

You sense where his hand is going milliseconds before his open palm makes contact with the side of your face. It’s not hard enough to do any damage beyond a buzzing beneath your skin that will last probably as long as this encounter, but it’s hard enough for tears to sting at your eyes. 

“Yes,” you wheeze, his grip on your throat just loose enough for the words to squeeze out. “My pussy’s yours.”

Another slap, this one no less gentle than the first. “Say it again.”

Your hand slips up, wrapping around his wrist. “My pussy’s yours.”

His pulse is even under your frantic grip. If it weren’t for the desire written in his gaze and the sizable bulge straining against the front of his jeans, you wouldn’t have guessed he was enjoying this. You’re painfully aware of arousal dripping down your inner thigh, your core clenching around nothing.

Dean’s hand connects with the side of your face one last time then returns between your thighs. The edges of your vision start to go fuzzy, and the moan he pulls from your lips when his fingers press harshly against your clit comes out more like a high pitched keen.

He leans in, keeping steady pressure on your neck. “You’re gonna cum for me before I let you go. Can you do that for me, whore? Not like you need to breathe, anyway.”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice a little louder than a whisper.

“Yes what?” Dean asks teasingly, his fingers moving across your core in a way that makes it really hard to formulate words. 

“Yes, sir.” Your words are slurred, but they seem to suffice anyway as his hand picks up the pace. 

Your hips grind against his palm, matching the rhythm he’d created. You feel dazed when his hand slips lower, two fingers shoving inside you while the heel of his palm acts as the perfect surface to grind your clit on. 

He doesn’t seem to notice or care when your nails dig into the inside of his wrist, your other clawing at his shoulder to brace yourself against the rapidly growing wave of pleasure stemming from between your thighs. 

His muscles shift under your grip as he angles his arm better so he can send his middle and ring finger even deeper into you, curling them up towards your belly. Your hips grind down against his hand, the rough surface providing the most divine friction against your needy clit.

An amused chuckle from Dean vibrates through your body. “I can feel your pussy clenching around my fingers. Fuck, I can’t wait to feel ‘er around my cock.”

A strangled whine is all you can muster as he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that soft spot within you that darkens your vision even further. Arching your back, you press your chest into Dean’s, his preternatural warmth soaking into you. 

You’re sure he can feel the way your nipples are hardened, even through both your shirts. The bralette underneath is little more than decorative lace with a paper thin backing there to not irritate your skin. 

His blood-red button down is immaculate, tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans; it’s similar to the outfit he wore the first time you met him.

Well, he’s nothing if not consistent, you think before stars burst behind your eyes, which you squeeze shut as the tightness in your belly gives way. 

You cum harder than the first time he fucked you. Harder than you ever have in your life. 

Your body goes rigid, trembling from head to toe as electric shocks spark through you all down your spine. The ache of pleasure pulses through your body as he works you through the throes of your climax. 

Head lolling to the side as Dean’s grip on your neck lessens, you gasp in air. The room around you spins as you gulp down oxygen the best you can through your unabashed moans.

Dean’s lips slot over yours, drowning out your sounds of ecstasy and you can taste the whiskey on his tongue when it sweeps into your mouth. Your hand slides up his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the shaggy ends as you kiss him back with matching intensity. A low rumble of satisfaction emanates from his chest.

As you slowly come back into your body, Dean’s hand slows, his fingers leisurely dragging out of you and stroking your oversensitive clit on their way out from between your trembling legs. He grips your chin none too gently, breaking the kiss. 

There isn’t enough time for you to miss the feeling of his lips on yours, to savor the tingling he left behind, before his fingers are in your mouth. 

The calloused tips press down your tongue and instinctively you wrap your lips around the second knuckle. You can taste yourself as you work them over with your tongue, your whimper turning into a gag when Dean shoves his fingers deeper into your mouth.

“That’s right,” Dean all but purrs, looking on with a lust-drunk expression. “How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take two little fingers?”

He’s right, you think, but I wouldn’t call his fingers small, either.

His grip on your chin relaxes just enough for you to work your jaw open more. Viscous saliva floods your mouth as Dean moves his fingers in and out of your mouth. Every time he bottoms them out, you cough and gag as the tips wiggle against the back of your throat. 

Tears sting your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fat droplets when you blink up at him. There’s a hungry edge to the way he gazes down at you, obsession bleeding in as he fixates on how your spit collects on his knuckles and rolls down his hand. 

Another rush of want crashes over you at the way he’s looking at you and in response, your thighs clench together unconsciously. The miniscule movement isn’t missed by Dean, not that you were really trying to hide your insatiable need anyway. 

“God, you’re such a greedy slut,” he groans. “I just got you off and you’re already wanting more, aren’t ‘cha, Sweetheart?”

With his fingers shoved into your mouth, all you can do is hum in agreement. 

Dean hums his approval, and with the slightest nod his fingers slip from your mouth, the hand on your jaw following suit. You suck air in greedily, the strings of drool starting to cool on your chin. 

With eyes half-lidded out of pure lust, you watch him raise the hand pulled from your mouth up to his own. A particularly strong pulse of arousal nearly sends you to the floor as his tongue darts out from between his lips. The sounds that come from him slurping your spit from his hand are purely pornographic, all while he keeps his eyes locked on yours.

“Knees. Now,” he commands, wiping the mix of your spit on his jeans.

With how shaky your knees have become in the aftermath of his display— as well as the leg-shaking orgasm he gave you— you’re tempted to comply. A glance down to the bulge in his pants is enough for saliva to pool under your tongue, but the alcohol in your system has made you bold. 

“And if I don’t want to?”

His head cocks to the side, eyebrows quirked up. “No?”

A shake of your head as you look up at him through your lashes. “No.”

“You don’t want me?” He asks, his hand curling around your wrist, bringing your palm to rest on the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t want my cock?”

His grip disappears, but you press the heel of your palm against him, dragging your hand along the length of him. “No, I don’t.”

Dean gives you a knowing smirk, and the moment stretches wide between you before he finally speaks. 

“Liar.”

His hand moves too fast for you to react, fingers tangling painfully in your hair as he grabs a fistful. 

You cry out softly, half from the pain and half out of shock. He leans forward and the sound dies out into a quiet gasp. Your eyes dart from the depths of his gaze to his lips, which are still tugged upwards in a satisfied grin, and back again. 

“You want me. I’ve been inside you. Tasted you.” His thumb traces the plush of your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick even further. “I know just how desperate you are for my cock, whore. You can’t ever pretend otherwise.”

Your knees make contact with the grimy bathroom floor and you can feel yourself tremble with anticipation as Dean angles your head to look up at him. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, undoing his belt with his free hand.

“And if I don’t?” You ask before you can think better of it. 

Dean doesn’t even bother to shove his jeans and boxers down his muscular thighs. They barely make it down past his balls before he’s languidly stroking himself, the tip red and already leaking. 

Your throat bobs and you barely flinch when he grips himself at the base and slaps his heavy cock against your cheek. 

“Oh, Sweetheart. Don’t make me ask twice,” he says.

Heart beating a million miles a minute, you barely feel the small sting of contact nor the dull ache of the tight grip he has on your hair. Your world is narrowed to the throbbing need in your pussy and Dean’s hard cock bobbing in front of you. 

“Now don’t be difficult and open your fucking mouth,” he growls, shoving his cock towards your mouth. 

You have the good sense this time to obey, your lips parting without hesitation. Tongue lolling out, you barely have enough time to situate yourself before his cock is halfway down your throat. 

Instantly, your throat is on fire and you gag at the sudden intrusion. Hands flying up to brace against his denim clad thighs, you brace yourself as Dean holds your head in place.

“Fuuuck,” he rasps, dragging his hips back and briefly allowing you to breathe. “I missed this. Had a lotta girls, but none of their mouths feel half as good as yours does.”

It takes a second for you to adjust to how he’s stuffed into your mouth. Drool has already started to leak out of the sides of your mouth with every thrust of his hips. The stretch of your lips, the taste of him is just right. He smells warm, like sweat and skin and some clean, masculine soap.

And it’s pathetic the way you silently enjoy him pressing your face further onto his cock until your nose is buried in the thick, curly hair at his pubic bone. Your throat spasms as he holds you there, unable to breathe and frozen with sensory overload. 

Hot tears crawl down your cheeks, blending with your drool on your chin. Just when the edges of your vision start to blur, Dean yanks you off his cock by your hair. You cough and sputter, replenishing the void of oxygen in your lungs. 

Thick strings of drool stick to your chin and neck, and you just know your mascara is running down your cheeks, half-dried to your skin with your tears.

“Such a messy girl,” he coos, honey-laced words dripping with condescension. “See, all you needed was a good dick in that brat mouth.”

You welcome the sting as his hand leaves another hot print on your cheek and you have to resist from leaning into his palm when it caresses the hurt. It slips away just as quickly, and in turn you wrap a hand around the spick-slick shaft of him. 

“Gonna keep fucking my face, or do you want me to make it actually feel good?” You ask, locked on his eyes as your mouth closes around the head of him. 

The groan Dean utters when your cheeks cave around him, when your tongue slides along the sensitive underside of his cock, is all the answer you really need. 

You’d learned early enough on that you really had to squeeze your hand around his cock when stroking him. “Harder, bitch,” he’d growled. “Don’t be fucking scared. You’re not gonna break it.” 

His fingers still threaded themselves in your hair, the tips gliding across your scalp as you descended back down upon him. His head falls back, and the red ambient lighting in the bathroom gleams along the column of his throat, skin dewy with sweat.

You’d like nothing more than to stand and lick the salt from his skin. 

Tongue pressed to the underside and cheeks hollowed, you slide his cock all the way to the back of your throat. Your gag reflex balks, but you ignore it, pulling back barely half way before bobbing your head back down. The small whimpers and moans that you make no attempt to stifle travel along his cock. 

Dean’s hand curls further into your hair, leaving your head littered with sharp pinpricks. All it does is add to the slickness between your thighs. Thighs that you press together seeking any kind of friction; you can feel your arousal roll down the insides. Your skirt is still hiked up around your hips, leaving your dripping pussy exposed to the cool air. 

A dull ache makes itself known in your knees, the bathroom tile extremely unforgiving on the joints. You do your best to ignore it, hand sticky with spit abandoning his shaft in favor of cupping his balls. 

Dean’s hips buck into your mouth at the additional touch, seeking the wet heat. 

“Oh fuck,” he grunts. “Keep doing that.”

So you do, fondling him there while maintaining your rhythm; push your head down on him until you can feel him in your throat— until you gag harshly— then pull back enough to breathe through the spasm. Rinse and repeat all the while your free hand inches closer to your throbbing pussy. The wet, sloppy sounds from your mouth meld with his decadent grunts and groans, filling the bathroom. 

The system works, up until the point it doesn’t.

You come up for air only for Dean’s hand to press against the back of your head, pushing you back down onto his cock. Your eyes screw shut as your nose is mashed into the mess of curls at his pubic bone. 

A sound of displeasure vibrates from your lips up the length of him, and after a second you try and pull your head back. It ends fruitlessly, though, as Dean only presses harder. 

“Shut up. Just a little longer,” he growls. “Fucking take this cock. Fucking choke on it like the whore you are.”

Your tear-filled eyes screw shut as your throat spasms hard. Bracing a hand on his muscular thigh, your fingernails dig into the denim. Dean’s cock moves, barely pulling out an inch before it’s back, harshly slamming into your throat. A soreness grows in your jaw for how long you’ve kept it open.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, his chest heaving. “Gonna fucking cum, baby.”

That fuzzy, floaty feeling returns as you struggle against the need to breathe, against the intrusion of cock in your throat. He starts to twitch against your tongue, and the pistoning of his hips grows sloppy and uneven. Pushing through the haze, you swallow around him, earning yourself a string of curses from above you. 

The crass words are cut off by a garbled moan. You hear your name somewhere in there, but you’re too busy swallowing down Dean’s cum to pay much attention to what he’s saying. He holds you there, cock pumping his seed down your throat until he stops twitching and his length softens a bit. 

Lines of spit connect your lips to his cock once he finally wrenches himself from your mouth, and they snap back against your chin when he takes a step back. Your body is wracked with wet coughs as you gasp for air. Heart beating what seems like a million beats a second, you lean back on your heels and wipe the spit from your face.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Dean tuck his half-flaccid cock back into his boxers, leaving the jeans unbuttoned. 

“Up,” he rasps, still breathing hard from his climax. 

On shaky legs, you rise up, wincing at the stiffness in your knees. You brace a hand on the sink behind you as the feeling returns to your lower extremities. 

Dean’s hand slips around to the nape of your neck, drawing you in. His lips capture yours before your brain can catch up. He licks into your mouth and you whimper when his leg slots between yours. The top of his thigh bumps against your neglected core and you nearly cry at the sensation. 

“I can fucking feel you soaking through my jeans, baby,” he says, sliding both hands to your hips. “Soaked just from sucking cock, just like a proper whore.”

Your brain buffers, overloaded with the repeated deprivation of oxygen and the way the roughness of denim feels against your needy clit, your panties still pulled to the side. All that leaks out of you is a pathetic whimper that’s mostly intelligible.

Dean laughs cruelly, kissing a line of fire down your jawline. “So dumb, baby, and you haven’t even had my cock yet.”

He bounces his thigh against you and you cry out, hands scrambling to find purchase on his broad shoulders. 

“Please,” you manage to whine. 

“Please what?” His teeth graze the line where your jaw meets your neck. 

“Need’a cum. Please.”

“You think you deserve it?”

“Mhmm,” you nod vigorously. “Please, Dean.”

You can feel the wet spot your soaked pussy has made, now. The dampness of the fabric allows you to slide easier along the rigidness, your movements barely a fraction of what you need. 

“You think you can make yourself cum on just my thigh?” He pulls back from your neck, an amused tilt to his lips. “Gonna hump my leg like the dog you are?”

“Please,” you say barely above a whisper, legs trembling again.

“I’m not gonna help you. Gonna have to be a big girl and do it all yourself.”

“That’s okay, it’s okay. I can do it. Please, please,” you babble nonsensically now, much to his sadistic satisfaction.

“Better get on with it then,” he says. 

No sooner are the words spoken into existence are your hips grinding down against his thigh. You feel him flex his quad beneath you, creating a ridge that feels mind-numbingly good against your clit. 

You cling to his shoulders for stability, wanton moans spilling from your lips unimpeded. It takes less than a minute for a tightness to grow low in your belly. The heat from his body, the smell of him, it all wraps around you and soaks into your veins like an aphrodisiac. 

There’s no sane part of you left to care how humiliating this is, how desperate you are to dry hump his thigh just from having a dick down your throat. Everything in you is narrowed down to how good dragging your pussy along his thigh feels. How with every shift of your hips, sparks of pleasure threaten to set you alight. 

“Such a dirty girl,” Dean croons in your ear as you puff out breathy moans. “So goddamn pathetic it’s almost sad.”

Your pussy clenches on nothing at the words, at the names he’s calling you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks warm. The scent of him is stronger here, and you inhale deeply. 

Dean’s hands have moved to the sink directly behind you, his body effectively caging you between the solidness of his torso and the cool porcelain. It’s that fact alone that keeps you mostly upright, your legs shaking. It grows worse with each drag of your pussy along his thigh, pressure building between your legs. 

“I can feel you shaking, you close?” Dean’s words rumble through you. 

You nod against his neck, moaning into his skin like you can imbue your need to cum into his system. You squirm and hump against him, mouth falling open as you rapidly approach the edge of your orgasm. It’s so close, the final build up making your movements erratic as you push yourself just that little bit further. 

But just as you are about to tip over the edge, Dean pulls his thigh from between your legs and steps back enough you have to reach behind you to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground. 

“No!” You cry out, very nearly at the verge of tears. “Wha—what the fuck?!”

Dean chuckles darkly, meeting your frustrated gaze. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? God, you’re dumb.”

“Fuck you,” you spit at him. 

“All in good time, baby. Now turn around, put your hands on the sink.”

You scowl and instead you reach down, tugging your skirt back over what little it covers before crossing your arms over your chest. “No.”

Dean’s head tilts and he pouts his lip mockingly. “No? Gonna throw a little tantrum now?”

“Fuck. You.” You say again. 

“You’re really gonna try this with me?”

He’s stepped closer again, so if you really did want to go anywhere, you’d have to push past him. 

But you don’t, and he knows it. 

It’s all part of the game. You play it up, act like you don’t want him, just so that he’ll snap and manhandle you into whatever way he wants you. The best part about it is, he wants to fuck you just as much, so no matter how much you brat, how much you pretend, you’ll end up with his cock shoved into you anyway. 

It’s a welcome change to all the hook-ups you’d had before. Men— boys, really— who would give up at the slightest bit of pushback, who’d pussy out at the level of roughness you so desperately craved. 

And that’s why, even though Dean popped up once a month to rock your world and leave you sated, you never felt the need to indulge the men like the ones who’d been at the bar tonight. They could never satisfy you in the same way. 

“Turn around, and put your hands on the sink,” he instructs again, both of you knowing you won’t before the words even leave his mouth. 

You stand taller, looking him straight on. “Make me.”

You can see the instant his resolve snaps. Something in his face twitches and his expression darks the millisecond before his hands grasp onto your hips roughly. A gasp makes its way out of you when you’re spun around and shoved roughly into the sink. 

The edge digs into your stomach, but that’s the last thing you’re paying attention to when Dean kicks your legs apart with his boot. His hand presses into the middle of your spine, pressing your upper half forward so you are half laying across the sink. 

Looking up, you are met with your reflection for the first time since Dean walked into the bathroom. 

You were right to assume you looked absolutely wrecked. Mascara is streaked down your face, your red lipstick smeared across your kiss-swollen lips. Then your eyes cant up and you catch Dean staring, but not at your face. His eyes, pupils blown so wide you can barely see his green irises, are trained lower. 

Bent over like this, your skirt rides up an obscene amount, baring your panty-clad pussy to him. His lower lip is caught in between his teeth, and he almost looks contemplative in his admiration. 

“Gonna keep staring or are you gonna do something?” You snark, watching his eyes snap up to yours in the mirror. 

“And what are you gonna do if I don’t?” He asks in turn. “What if I just make you stand like this and let all those guys out there who were eye-fucking you come in here and take their turn?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought, and even though Dean no doubt caught the motion, he makes no comment. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too fucking possessive,” you respond, calling his bluff with not a bit of confidence in your statement. 

Dean smiles, and it’s not a kind expression.

Warm skin against the backs of your thighs makes you flinch a bit, even though you can see him take a step forward. His hands slide your skirt back over the swell of your ass, bunching the fabric around your waist. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” he muses, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. “Maybe when I’m all done with you here they can fuck you while my cum’s still leaking out of you.”

Cool air meets your soaked core as Dean drags your panties down your thighs, down your legs. His fingertips skate your skin as he lifts your feet, removing the scrap of fabric completely. Your mouth twists in a fleeting moment of disappointment when he shoves them into his back pocket. 

Those were my favorite pair. 

“Either way, I still get to cum,” you finally say. 

You yelp as his hand comes down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It stings, leaving your skin tingling. The sensation shoots right between your thighs, reinvigorating the swelling need inside you. 

“You really wanna cum that bad you’d let strangers fuck you?” He says with a condescending incredulousness. “God, you’re more pathetic than I thought.”

Another slap, this time to your other asscheek. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you resist the urge to rock back towards him. Your cheeks burn from the sting of his words, but he’s not finished. 

“Do you think of me when you fuck yourself?”

You didn’t think your cheeks could grow any hotter in embarrassment, but he never fails to surprise you. 

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” You squeak.

“The kind I expect answered,” he says with another slap to your ass. 

His hand smooths over the warm skin and you nearly moan when it slides inward, his thumb ghosting across your pussy. 

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I wanna know if I make you scream my name even when I’m not here to fuck you senseless.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to formulate a sentence, but it’s hard to focus with his thumb stroking the slickness of your core. It’s teasing, not enough for the sensations to build, just enough to keep you on edge. 

You cry out, flinching forward only to be stopped by the sink, when Dean’s hand makes contact with your exposed pussy this time. It hurts more than your ass, but the pleasure that it turns into isn’t diminished. 

“Answer me, slut.”

His hand comes down on your core again and you can’t contain the moan that comes with it. 

“Yes, I think of you,” you relent, gripping tighter to the sink. 

His thumb presses against your clit and your breath catches in your lungs. The pad rubs circles around the nub and you could cry from the direct stimulation. 

“Good.” Is all he says before you lose sight of him in the mirror when he sinks to his knees behind you. 

Your head drops forward at the first puff of his hot breath against your core. His tongue follows, licking a hot stripe up your pussy. A soft moan leaves your lips as he does it again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as he uses both hands to grope your asscheeks. 

His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs, the combination of sensations making your head spin. You rock back against his face, and surprisingly he lets you. His tongue and lips lick and suck at your core, and nothing about the way he’s eating you out is quiet.

Your hips buck when his teeth close around your clit, not ready for the sudden second of pain. His tongue is right there following, licking away the immediate hurt. His thumb takes over, his tongue dipping inside you. 

“Don’t stop, please,” you moan, grinding back on his face. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pulling away from your pussy just long enough to say as such before going right back. 

The pressure of your climax rushes up and you barely have enough strength in your legs to keep yourself upright. The orgasm roars through you in one giant wave. Your mouth falls open as his mouth works you over through it. 

In the mirror, you see him stand, and then you’re being flipped around so that you're leaning back against the sink again. 

His lips connect with yours and you can taste yourself on his mouth as he kisses you. It’s not gentle, his teeth clash with yours, your tongues dancing and somewhere in the way he licks into your mouth you feel his hand slide between your bodies to your pussy. 

You’ve barely recovered from the orgasm he just brought you to, and now his middle and ring finger are slipping inside you. 

Carding your fingers through his hair, you kiss Dean hard, letting his mouth swallow your desperate moans. Stars spark behind your eyes as he curls his fingers up towards your belly. Quickly, he finds that soft spot that makes your legs feel like jelly, threatening to send you to the floor. 

“De-Dean! Oh fuck,” you cry out. 

His mouth has migrated to your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point. You clench hard around his fingers, a different kind of pressure building low in your belly. Another orgasm builds slowly, especially as the heel of his palm presses against your clit. 

“That's right, bitch. Scream my name. Scream it loud so everybody out there knows who you belong to.” 

He shoves his fingers further into your sloppy pussy, wet and obscene sounds reaching your ears. Your head lolls to the side, allowing him better access to kiss and nibble on your neck. You’ll have to wear make up to cover up the hickies that he’s undoubtedly placing along your skin like a sign to say you’re his. He punches his digits in and out of you, petting that fucking spot. 

Your thighs are trembling so hard now— so is the entirety of your body. The pressure just keeps building and building. He’s everywhere, between your legs, other hand groping your body, his mouth on your neck. Nowhere is left unattended and it is so much.

“Feel you clenching so fucking tight on my fingers, baby. Gonna cum again for me?” Dean says against your neck, leaning up to nip at your ear. 

All you can do is nod. Words don’t feel real to you right now and no amount of anything could change that. 

Your nonverbal confirmation seems to satisfy him well enough. Then, he does something, something so good and he keeps doing it. Everything around you fades to just his ministrations and the feel of his body caging yours, and you feel the pressure snap. 

Everything goes white and your body seizes up with the intensity of which your orgasm slams into you. But Dean’s fingers don’t stop. They continue to pump into you, curling into you. You don’t even feel in control of your body as you feel yourself gush all over his hand. 

Dean curses under his breath and you just barely acknowledge it as you gasp for air, clinging to his shoulders with all your might. 

Dean draws his fingers from you and a perverted sense of deja vu hits you as he licks you from his fingers. He keeps you upright with his other arm snaked around your waist, and for that you are grateful. 

“Did— did I just…?” You pant, slowly realizing what’d happened. 

“You just squirted all over my fucking hand,” Dean affirms, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Wish I would’a just stayed down there. Drank it right from the source.”

You groan at his obscene words, unable to stand the way his verbal filth immediately makes your overstimulated body respond in kind. 

He taps your cheek none too gently. “Don’t go tapping out on me now. We’re not done yet.”

You’re putty in his hands as he spins you around, bracing your hands on the edge of the sink. He let’s go, and on shaky legs you stand there watching him shove his jeans and boxers back down his thighs. 

“You’re so wet, not gonna have any issue getting in,” Dean mutters quietly. 

You moan softly at the drag of his cock through your arousal. The spongy head of him bumps against your clit and you whimper, the overstimulation becoming borderline painful. 

“What’s a’matter?” Dean asks. “Too much?”

“Uh huh,” you nod. 

“Too fucking bad.”

You moan weakly as Dean presses forward, shoving the blunt tip of his cock inside you. Involuntarily, your hips sway forward, away from the stretch. With how wet you are, there’s not much pain, but his fingers can only prepare you for the girth of his cock so far. 

Dean’s hands grab fast to your hips, pulling you back to him, the motion sinking you down onto him almost to the hilt. You gasp a moan, feeling unbelievably full to the point it knocks the air from your lungs. 

“Where you goin’?” he grunts, working his hips forward and back. “I know you’re not running from my cock after crying for it.”

“So big,” you gasp, inner walls clenching around him as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch. 

Dean leans forward, rutting his cock into you. “Stop your fucking whining and take it, pathetic slut. I can feel you dripping down my balls.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words hit their mark. It’s all so much; you can practically feel every vein and contour of him inside you. As he drags himself out, the bulge of his head catches on that sensitive spot, immediately making your legs shake. 

“Oh, baby, cry all you fucking want,” Dean lays a sloppy kiss to your bare shoulder. “All it’s gonna do is make me harder.”

As if in emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours. You are thrust forward, the unforgiving edge of the sink digging into your lower stomach. Blinking, the tears leak down your cheeks, rewetting the paths from the ones that had fallen earlier. 

His arm snakes around to your front, pulling you back against his chest. A big hand pulls your shirt and bra to the side, enveloping a breast. He rolls the hardened nipple between his fingers, every movement made with expert precision. 

You swear you can feel his cock in your stomach with every grinding thrust into you. His hips barely break contact with your ass like he can’t be bothered to pull out for even a second. The outcome is his cock stimulating that sensitive spot; the pressure is helped by the way the sink edge ensures he slides along it with each and every movement. 

“So fucking tight, baby,” Dean moans in your ear, still fondling your breast. “Always a perfect fuckin’ cumslut for me.”

Your hand reaches behind you both, sinking your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His balls slap against your skin as his thrusts grow longer, his hand sliding up from your tit to your neck. He doesn’t squeeze this time, but just the feel of his calloused palm and fingers circling your throat makes you clench around his cock. 

“Fucking me…so good,” you moan out, holding a hand to his wrist. 

“Say my name, bitch. Who’s fucking you so good?” He growls, nipping at your shoulder. 

“You are, Dean,” you babble. 

The hand not on your throat dips between your legs, finding your thoroughly abused clit. A whine crawls its way up your throat and you feel his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around your neck.

“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it,” he snaps. “Just take it. Fucking take it.”

“But—”

“I don’t care. Not my fucking problem.”

And he doesn’t, his fingers speeding up their motions on your clit. Sharp pangs stab at you with each brush of his callouses over your swollen nub. It all melts into pleasure and all you can do is push your ass back against him, meeting his thrusts. 

Dean moans his approval. “See, that’s a good whore. Feels fucking good, don’t it.”

“Yes,” you keen, slamming yourself back on his cock.

His thrusts don’t let up. Instead, they become more forceful, sending you into the sink hard enough you’re sure you are gonna have bruises on your hips tomorrow morning. His cock throbbing against your inner walls, and his panting moans in your ear have become ragged. His fingers on your clit are unrelenting, pushing you towards the brink of yet another orgasm. 

He’s all but draped over your back at this point, snapping his hips into yours erratically. Just when you think you can’t take any more, Dean groans into your ear. 

“Gonna fucking paint this pussy white, and you’re gonna take it all. Y’hear me?”

Your pussy pulses in response. “Yes, please cum in me.”

Dean moans and it’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever heard. “That’s fucking right. Beg for my cum, bitch.”

His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, bracing you and himself as he thrusts harder, balls slapping harshly against you. The grip is bruising, but you’re too far gone to care. 

“Please, cum in me, Dean. Need’a feel you fill me,” you whimper.

“Oh fuck, baby.”

You feel hips stutter then, his cock throbs as his orgasm hits him. He’s not quiet, moaning your name loudly.  

You can feel his cum filling you, thick ropes spurting into your pussy, and that alone sends you over the edge, yet another orgasm crashing into you. This time, your violently shaking legs give out. 

Instantly, Dean's arm wraps around your waist, holding you there as he gives a few more rutting thrusts into your pussy, milking his cock. You both stay there for a second, heavy breathing filling the room as you gasp for air. 

He breaks the silence first. “Can you stand?”

You take a second, assessing your still trembling body. Finally, you nod. 

Taking you at your word, Dean relinquishes his hold on you, leaving you to brace yourself on the sink as he walks over to the paper towel dispenser. He snags a few, using them to clean his cock off before tucking himself away. 

He doesn’t offer you any, instead he turns and unlocks the door. 

Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he gives you that sharp grin. “So, same time next month?”

You tug your clothes back into place. “Fuck you.”

“Darlin’, you just did,” is all he says before he disappears out the door. 

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ dean trusts your loyalty, but the second someone mistakes your warmth for availability, his mood changes. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re steady enough that he doesn’t spiral easily. still, he doesn’t enjoy watching someone flirt with you while you politely pretend not to notice. he’ll slide into the booth beside you, steal one of your fries, and start calling you sweetheart more than necessary. very subtle. nobody notices. except everybody. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam gets quietly possessive because your affection feels rare, safe, and a little too precious to share. ๋࣭ ⭑ he doesn’t make a scene. that would be too easy. instead, he gets closer. his hand finds your knee under the table. his answers get shorter. if someone keeps pushing, sam gives them one calm, unreadable look that somehow feels worse than a threat. you activate the part of him that has already mentally placed your toothbrush beside his.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you flirt conversationally without even trying, and dean absolutely can’t tell when you’re being friendly versus when someone needs to be salted and burned. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re laughing, talking fast, lighting up the room, and dean’s across the bar pretending he doesn’t care. five minutes later, he’s suddenly standing beside you with a drink in one hand and a very pointed, “who’s your new friend?” in the other. he loves your charm until anybody else enjoys it too much. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam trusts your mind, but your social ease has him overanalyzing every interaction against his will. ๋࣭ ⭑ you tease everyone. you make strangers talk. you can create chemistry with a brick wall when you’re bored. sam knows this. he also knows he’s being irrational. unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from replaying the conversation later and asking, far too casually, whether you thought the bartender was attractive.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you care so naturally that dean gets territorial when someone else starts relying on you too much. ๋࣭ ⭑ it’s not always romantic jealousy. sometimes you simply spend too long comforting another hunter after a bad case and dean gets weirdly quiet because that softness is the thing he wants most and knows least how to ask for. he doesn’t want to share the version of you that remembers whether he ate dinner. emotionally mature? no. painfully transparent? yes. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam falls hard for your tenderness, so watching you give it freely to someone else stings more than he wants to admit. ๋࣭ ⭑ he understands that you’re caring. he likes that about you. loves it, actually. but when somebody leans too heavily into your attention, sam gets quieter and more withdrawn. later, when you ask what’s wrong, he says he “just didn’t want to interrupt”. tragic sad little giant puppy behavior.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you attract attention by breathing, and dean’s leo placements take that as a personal challenge from the universe. ๋࣭ ⭑ you walk into a room and people look. dean notices immediately, then spends the entire night pretending he finds it funny while becoming steadily more possessive. one hand on your waist. one sharp look at anyone lingering too close. one smug little smile when you turn your attention back to him. he’s not beating the territorial allegations. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam admires your confidence, but he does get insecure when everyone else seems to want a piece of your warmth too. ๋࣭ ⭑ he won’t compete for attention loudly. if anything, he pulls back, which is somehow worse. sam starts wondering whether you would rather be with somebody lighter, easier, less complicated. then you seek him out across the room and he softens immediately. embarrassing for him. sweet for you.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ dean gets jealous when someone else starts appreciating your competence a little too enthusiastically. ๋࣭ ⭑ the flirting itself might slide past him. the second another hunter starts praising how smart you are, asking for your help too often, or looking at you like you hung the moon because you solved the case? dean’s suddenly hovering. he claims he only came over because he needs you for something. he does not. he just dislikes sharing his favorite person with the group project. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam is deeply attached to the feeling of being understood by you, so somebody else becoming your intellectual favorite is his personal nightmare. ๋࣭ ⭑ you and another person get absorbed in a theory, bouncing ideas back and forth, and sam goes painfully still. he doesn’t interrupt. he waits. then, later, he casually brings up three better sources, corrects one minor detail, and acts as if he’s not academically peacocking for your attention. subtle king.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your charm is effortless, your smile is lethal, and dean doesn’t enjoy watching an entire room discover that at once. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re polite. that’s the problem. people think they have a chance because you make everyone feel special for five minutes. dean knows you’re not doing anything wrong, but his patience still gets dangerously thin when somebody starts leaning into your space. he becomes extra charming too, except his hand is firmly on your hip and the smile does not reach his eyes. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam tries to be reasonable, but your social grace makes it difficult because people are always drawn to you. ๋࣭ ⭑ he watches for longer than he should. not because he distrusts you, but because he distrusts everyone else’s intentions. if somebody gets too bold, sam steps in gently, asking whether you’re ready to leave with a politeness that somehow translates to back off immediately.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you’re private, magnetic, and difficult to read, which means dean’s jealousy goes from zero to a billion in seconds. ๋࣭ ⭑ somebody looks at you for too long and dean notices. somebody makes you laugh quietly and dean notices harder. he hates not knowing what you’re thinking, especially when another person seems to have your attention. the jealousy comes out sharp: more teasing, more touching, more eye contact that feels almost accusatory. very normal behavior from a man having a silent crisis. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you trigger the quiet, intense kind of possessiveness sam wishes he didn’t have. ๋࣭ ⭑ sam doesn’t get loud. he gets watchful. still. almost unnervingly calm. he trusts you, but when somebody pushes too close, something in him hardens. his hand settles at your back. his voice drops. he doesn’t need to say much. you’re getting the version of sam who knows exactly how dangerous silence can be.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ dean loves your freedom until it reminds him that you could walk away whenever you want. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re friendly, spontaneous, impossible to cage. that’s exactly why he likes you, and exactly why you make him nervous. if someone else makes you laugh or invites you somewhere reckless, dean gets competitive fast. suddenly, he has a better plan. a better joke. a better reason for you to stay close. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam gives you room, but your unpredictability occasionally sends his overthinking into orbit. ๋࣭ ⭑ he doesn’t want to control you. he knows better. still, there are moments when you disappear into a crowd, come back with three new friends and a ridiculous story, and sam has to remind himself that you chose him for a reason. he gets quieter, then melts when you lean into him again.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you don’t give your attention away easily, so dean notices immediately when somebody else earns it. ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re composed enough that he never knows exactly how worried to be. then somebody impresses you, makes you smile, or gets invited into your carefully guarded inner circle, and dean starts acting strange. sharper jokes. extra swagger. unnecessary offers to help. you make him compete for approval without even trying, which is honestly very funny. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam knows your loyalty is valuable precisely because it’s not automatic, so the idea of losing your respect scares him more than flirting does. ๋࣭ ⭑ somebody else flirting with you? manageable. somebody else becoming the person you trust with the difficult things? unacceptable. sam gets jealous in a deeply capricorn-compatible way: quietly, seriously, and with enough repression to power a small city. he won’t ask for reassurance. he’ll need it desperately.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your independence drives dean insane because jealousy doesn’t work properly when the other person refuses to perform reassurance on command. ๋࣭ ⭑ you have your own life, your own thoughts, your own weird little orbit. dean loves that until somebody else enters it and you don’t immediately explain the situation. then he gets grumpy. not angry exactly. just suspicious, sarcastic, and suddenly very interested in who texted you. aquarius, you make him feel clingy. he hates you for the experience. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam respects your space, but he can get insecure when you retreat into your own world without telling him where he stands. ๋࣭ ⭑ he won’t chase loudly. instead, he starts reading into things. the distracted replies. the private jokes with somebody else. the fact that you said you were “fine” in a tone he doesn’t trust. sam wants clarity, but asking for it feels vulnerable, so he waits too long and makes himself miserable. classic.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ dean gets jealous when somebody else receives your softness because he secretly wants all of it, even when he pretends he doesn’t need any. ๋࣭ ⭑ you listen too kindly. you make people feel seen. dean watches somebody open up to you and starts feeling left out before he even realizes what’s happening. he gets sulky in the most dean way possible: jokes that land a little sharper, shoulders tenser than usual, one quiet “you ready to go?” that’s absolutely not a question. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ sam’s weak for your empathy, and the thought of somebody else becoming your emotional priority quietly wrecks him. ๋࣭ ⭑ he understands why people are drawn to you. he’s drawn to you for the same reason. but if you start worrying over someone else too much, sam slips into the background and convinces himself he’s being mature. he is not. he is sad, jealous, and hoping you notice without forcing him to say it.

you’ve heard about this place from annie– the seven tower, the revered meeting room on the 99th floor. but it didn’t seem so revered as you forcefully shoved into it, hands bound behind your back and left to wait for something, someone. nobody’s come for you since you got here just shy of three hours ago. brought here, really, against your will. 

you’re busy looking at the new york city skyline when you hear the doors slide open, and you turn. there, in all his egotistical and outdated glory, is none other than soldier boy. the same soldier boy who died a couple years back. 

even from a distance, he’s a stark contrast to the other supes. any of them. eyes that seem to pierce you right to the soul, easy enough to cut glass with, all chiseled jawline and picturesque physique that’s definitely there under the supesuit. there’s a certain air, an aura, about him that screams how he’s from a different era. something to be valued. something more of value.

you can feel yourself get all wide-eyed and blank-stared as he clunks down the steps and stalks to the other end of the ‘7’ table.

“thought you were dead,” you comment. your heart feels funny– the type of funny you get when you finally hold hands with the boy you like, or meet your celebrity crush. this is anything but. “everyone says you were– are.”

and soldier boy smirks. there’s a wine bottle in his hand, you notice, like this is some first date or something. “just thought i’d see what the bastard’s got stuck with now,” he explains, eyeing you up and down. you feel inflicted, like you need to shield your body away, but you can’t; not when your hands are bound in front of you, pushing your tits up and together and almost bursting from your shirt entirely. instead, you keep your eyes on the bottle. “y’seem harmless enough.. i’ll undo those cuffs if you behave f’me.”

silence.

“forgot your generation was like that; no fuckin’ manners.”

your mouth straightens into an awkward smile; it’s best not to piss off the world’s most infamous supe.. not if you want to stay alive. so, you will play the game he wants you to, shyly raise your shackled wrists and you begin to walk over to him, hoping that he’ll have some pity for you. let him pour you the wine, trace the rim and sniff it. anything that gives him the illusion that you’re trying– for him. 

“oh– um, thank you, by the way.” you trace your finger around the rim. he’s got you seated in one of the chairs at the table– his chair, or so he says– whilst he stands before you, resting against the edge of the ill-designed desk. you keep your eyes on his face, or do the best you can to keep your eyes there, but every now and then your vision falters and you find yourself staring directly at his pelvis. you try to keep your eyes away from.. it, but it’s hard. 

he’s hard. 

“i don’t usually drink much, but thank you. nobody’s actually done anything for me since i was brought here.”

he scoffs, some tensing of his jaw. there’s something about what you’ve said that clearly irritated him, but he doesn’t say what, and you don’t dare to ask. 

“seen your i.d, doll. you’re not the type to run with butcher,” soldier boy grins as he says it, like this is all some amusing joke. “how old are you, really? ‘cause you’re not the type of broad who looks.. however old you say you are. y’should be at home, raisin’ a family. not here.”

your grip on the glass tightens, the strong scent of it almost making your eyes water. should wine smell so chemically altered–

“fuckin’ joke, is what it is.”

you’re sure enough at this point that there’s something you’re missing. however, you’re not sure it’s worth dying over. 

“oh,” you smile– that sweet smile that gives just enough warmth to reassure someone– placing the glass on the table. “well, i can assure you that the cia approved–“

“you’re not drinkin’ it.” soldier boy jabs a thumb past his side, gesturing to the glass. it’s still full, almost to the point of overflowing, even though you’ve taken a sip or two. you hate it; how your whole fate is basically being held in this glass. but, then again, you didn’t tell him to stop pouring. you don’t know what normal is. “c’mon– don’t make me put in all this effort for nothin’, doll..”

“i– it’s not– i wouldn’t–” and as you bring the glass to your mouth, that chemical scent hitting you like a slap to the face, you bite the inside of your cheek. this shouldn’t matter; as long as you play the game, do what he asks demands of you, you’ll be fine. you’ll live. but it won’t stop the gnawing ache that wreaks havoc in your stomach, or the voice at the back of your head that tells you that you’re heading into unchartered waters. 

because what you’re dealing with, is a supe. a highly dangerous supe. so, you take a sip, and then another. all it is, is you being polite. you saving your own ass. maybe soldier boy isn’t as bad as the others say he is.

and you don’t notice how his eyes are fixed on the sweater you’re wearing, or how his hand creeps further and further towards your chest, fingers itching to rip it off.

soldier boy’s fingers are deep in your hair as he throws you to the floor. 

it feels like he’s pulled strands out when you go down, landing with a dull thud as your soft skin meets hard tile. you’re not sure where your clothes are– abandoned in the meeting room, homelander’s room; who knows– somewhere where you didn’t fight. couldn’t. 

his boot meets your side, some silent demand for you to turn over, but he flips you over effortlessly before you can muster up your strength. you’re spread out under him, the main dish on an inescapable platter, body already wet and angry. you’re conscious– he smirked wickedly when he said that, dragging you off to wherever you are now. 

it’s obvious what it is; drugs. put them in the wine. enough to keep you complacent, aware of anything and everything. it’s like an elevator that just keeps going, that the higher you ascend the dizzier you get. you still have the strength to scream, to fight, but you know that’ll do you no good.

after all, you’re still playing his game.

“got a decent pair of tits on you,” soldier boy hums to himself, standing back from you for a moment to admire his handiwork– harsh hickies on your neck that you’ll be unable to explain. or lie about. some bruising that might as well be tattooed on, considering they’ll be there for weeks, you assume. “and some fur.. don’t get that much these days.”

he’s got you on your knees, pulling out his hard cock from his suit before you can plead for your life. his hold on your hair now is much like earlier– strong, painful– and you sweat you’re almost choking on your breath as he pushes himself in your mouth. he’s big, hitting the back of your throat with ease and making your eyes water.

you try your best to satisfy him, but with the drugs in your system, everything feels numb. he drags your head back and forth, thumb brushing away stray tears like he’s trying to comfort you. like he’s not fucking your mouth so roughly that you gag more than once.

and he pulls away before he cums, cupping both of your cheeks in his hands. “y’good there, doll?” as if this was your idea. he’s simply massive compared to you– in more ways than one– now towering over your body as he squeezes at your sore skin. 

“good,” you echo, your voice sounding like you’re a thousand miles away. when his rough hand finds you clit, teasing it, you whimper and your thighs clench around him. “‘m good.”

because what else are you meant to say? you willingly drank the wine; you willingly followed soldier boy to the elevator and to wherever you now are. you were just as feverish as he was, when he started making out with you– his hands groping at you like no other has. gave yourself over to him– the soldier boy– and for what? just to say you fucked the world’s most powerful supe?

it’s not the same way someone who cares– who loves you would touch you. it’s more primal. a reason for him to get off, with the half-assed promise that he might do the same for you.

so. there was consent somewhere along the way. but whether it was implied or explicit is a blurred line that you can no longer see.

“je-sus,” soldier boy draws out the syllables. “fuckin’ wetter than a goddamn geyser. gonna need a boat to get through here, kid.”

you feel yourself frown, wondering if he’s meant to talk like some pornographic supervillain from the ‘80s, but then he’s got your leg around his waist and his cock buried inside of you. 

you feel motionless. stuck in suspended animation as he fucks into you, over and over, like he’s not simply chasing an orgasm but seeing how deep, how rough and hard, he can get in you. jerking slightly with each forceful thrust, you’re pretty sure the freneticness of this is making the drug-altered wine wear off quicker than it should. not that you’re complaining; sure, there’s pain, but just for a minute or so, before it morphs into what you can only hope is euphoria and not the satisfaction of your body being ripped in half.

then again, who really remembers pain? one minute it’s there, and the other it’s not. it’s a shadow on the mind, pain, something that you will never see again– except for in flashes and phantom marks. you hope that this will be more than that.

“i haven’t fucked like this in years,” he comments between a grunt, one hand grabbing at your waist. you whine in response, at a loss for words– not exactly the type of thing you congratulate someone on; breaking their coerced abstinence– wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close. it’s easier not to look at him when you’re like this, not be seen as vulnerable against such an intimidating face. “gotta say, doll– you’re one of the best i’ve fuckin’ had.”

and yet, he doesn’t treat you like you’re the best. you’re sure that the fat head of his cock scrapes against your cervix now, oblivious to how mind-numbingly good it is. or maybe he isn’t oblivious; he knows how you feel, he’s done this to other women, and you’re just another one. just another trophy to go on the wall. so you repeatedly tell yourself how this is a one-time thing. that you will not go crawling back to soldier boy because he says you’re the best and he likes that you don’t shave your cunt.

but obviously you’re not giving him enough, not enough appreciation, as he slams your head back against the floor tiling, making you see stars. his dark laugh echoes in your mind and throughout the vast bathroom.

“y’like fuckin’ a supe, huh?” he grunts in your ear, when you’ve pulled yourself back and wrapped your arms around him once more. the world is still blurry around you– or maybe it’s the tears and the drugs– but something about the way he talks to you makes your heart flutter. the danger of falling in love; tempting fate. “y’always let someone older than your dad fuck you like this?”

there’s a certain degree of de-attachment, you realise, to how he fucks you. as if he can’t get too close (well, emotionally) to you in case something went wrong, if you were to become a ‘something’. and you’re okay with that; this is just some very rough sex with a very rough supe that was initiated under very suspicious circumstances..

..something you should probably be more than concerned about. but that doesn’t matter to you; for every mean thing he does or says, there’s about an inch of heart to it. and, it’s not banal, much like all the other sex you’ve had. he’s actually making you feel something. the biggest threat to the greatest country there is, father of america him-fucking-self. you don’t think he’s as bad as they say he is.

fuck, you even want to call him dad.

soldier boy’s shifting his position now, his cum already leaking out of you as you feel it seep from your cunt and make a sticky, slippery mess beneath you. and you’re so out of it that you didn’t realise he did that; you’re also too focused on his mouth, teasing the skin near your collarbone, as he sinks his teeth in. he’s already bitten you there once, made you watch milk-white teeth turn sanguine under the clinical lights. it made you nauseous. it made you whimper. it made you horny. 

and now, when he does it again, he laughs against your chest. his mouth travels down, just above your heart– he could stop there, but he doesn’t. he goes for your tit instead, tongue lapping at the mark when you cry out. you sound like a pained dog, all beaten and broken, even though you’re far from that. 

well, your insides are, but the rest of you..

when butcher chose you out of all this other cia agents, he told you that you looked weak, vulnerable. and it wasn’t the first time you’ve heard it, either. you used to roll your eyes, pretend it didn’t affect (when it definitely did). but now, with you all naked and limp, legs spread and head clouded with post-orgasm haze and a possible concussion; all the snide remarks and side glances were undeniably right. you’ve always been having to act as something you’re not, to try harder. and sometimes, it’s easier to not try– like right now, for example.

through slightly blurring vision, you glance at the marks on your body– the bruises, the bites– ones you won’t be able to cover up with makeup. they’re too prominent. for a singular, fucked-up second, you think about asking him to make them worse. maybe ask him to keep you here, lock you down (and up); see how far he can take you. it’s doable, sure, but you’ve still got to report back to butcher and the others. the last thing you need (or want) is them coming after soldier boy for fucking you up. you could settle for this. for now.

it’s when he grabs you roughly by the arm that you come back to your nonexistent senses. he’s in his boxers, pulling you to your shaky legs and guiding you to the edge of the bathtub. he sits you down. 

“why are you being..” you pause; for what is this? from what you’ve heard from butcher, he’s not got manners. the type of guy you don’t ask on a second date because he doesn’t thank the waiter. you wonder if he would. “nice to me?”

soldier boy frowns. “hey– sorry that i’ve gotta make sure you’re presentable enough ‘fore i ship you back off to the cocksuckers,” he says with irritance. you notice how he observes you– probably admiring the way his cum slowly seeps from your cunt and down your thighs; your matted hair and marked-up neck– before turning to the faucet and turning it on. “but don’t get comfortable with this– you’re not havin’ special treatment every time you let me fuck you raw.”

every time. 

you could ignore this, trust him at his word and pretend it’s some ignorance he has to a woman’s wellbeing, but it’s not. ignoring something is not the same as ignorance. one of them you actually have to work at. 

your nose hurts more than it should. you wipe at it gently, staring at your fingers with wide eyes when they come back bloody. you never even realised that you were bleeding– much less that hit you. the start of.. this comes to you now and again, like the everlasting flow of the ocean. bits and pieces that make themself known when the time is right. the beautiful bits and pieces, that is. 

“hot or cold?” he asks you, not bothering to look your way. you’re trying to tell if he’s being genuine, but before you can, he’s pressing his hand between your thighs, teasing your wet, aching cunt. it’s easier than it should be, aided by blood and cum, and a guttural sound escapes his throat when you whimper. “feel so fuckin’ good, kid.”

and then, in one quick motion, you’re underwater. 

despite the haze of the drug-laced booze in your system, making you feel like you’re walking among the clouds, your body immediately tightens up at the sudden cold. sure, it’s nothing like the cold that your bare, aching body feels against the porcelain, but something more hard and unforgiving. all this time, he could’ve killed you– snapped your neck without care, blew you to pieces with that atomic bomb in his chest– but he didn’t. he was waiting for this; for you to have your guard down long enough that he could fucking waterboard you.

when he finally pulls you from the water, it feels as if you’ve aged a decade. what this is, is betrayal; some other human, a monster, has wished this much evil on you. has put this much evil on you, and all because you had the power to say “yes”. god, your confusion probably turns him on– it does, as you can feel his dick, already hard again, against your wet thigh. 

“fuckin’ stupid, y’know that?” soldier boy hisses in your ear, a fistful of your hair in one hand. his cock bumps up against the front of you cunt, and it’s easy enough for him to slip force his way into you once more. you’re too shocked, cold and numb, to say anything, let alone do anything. so, you let him fuck you. the sound of your body hitting the edge of the bathtub sounds like bones being cracked against one another; you think about it being your skull instead, you meeting a much gorier, better fate than whatever comes your way. but it continues like this, him fucking your cunt whilst you whine and claw and drown, until he cums deep in you. 

you can’t remember at this point if the laws of consent need you to be vocal about it, but you don’t care. as long as you get to cum– you get to live– you’ll let him have whatever he wants.

and when he seems satisfied, you sink to the floor. you count the tiles that surround you, the dark, royal blue against white sealant, as he washes away the blood from your face and body. he’s just got back to the top of the foodchain; he’s the face of a company, nevertheless the face of america. he can’t afford to have allegations against him of fucking some girl raw and beating her bloody. of course, he’s going to fix it. you.

he pulls you close to him, and for a moment, it feels intimate. he holds you close, and you fit nicely in his grip. you blindly wonder if it could be love. falling in love.

falling; that downward motion, as those blinded by this emotion fall deeper and deeper into the trap that is love. nothing like flying, because it’s so extreme, so unlikely. full of false promises and blank statements that it’s inane to wonder how anyone still believes in this crap. but you do. 

though, you may not love the man that holds you, but just the act of it. love. waiting for something abstract to become real. made flesh.

“go back and tell the others, and i’ll fuckin’ rip every one of you apart,” soldier boy’s got your jaw in his hand. one wrong move and he could crush your face entirely. part of you wishes he would. “got it, kid?”

“got it.”

“atta girl,” he smirks at you, before dropping your face and getting up. he leaves you on that bathroom floor, surrounded by your mixed bodily fluids, as he hastily puts his supesuit back on. “see you around.”

your brain echoes his words to you; you’re not havin’ special treatment every time you let me fuck you raw.

and when soldier boy starts to see you– because that’s the term you use; ‘seeing’, like this isn’t an actual relationship, but rather some arrangement– things are different.

as time goes on, you grow more comfortable. or so, he assumes. he’s actually got to guess on that one, because you’re not the talkative type– at least towards him, anyway. 

nevertheless, every time you see him, you always– always– react the same. eyes all wide like you’re staring down a gun barrel (which, the first time he saw you again, you were; considering he cornered you in your shitty apartment and pointed it right at your head. it was funny, just for a bit, but then you started crying and, well, it got tiring real fucking fast), but then it morphs into anger. thinly-veiled, like you want him to know how you feel, as if he even gives a flying fuck. he doesn’t, of course, but it’s amusing to watch how your hands tremble, your eyes grow glassy and wet. and all because he’s got you trapped into this relationship with him. all of his own accord.

naturally, soldier boy doesn’t do the whole vought-approved bullshit; he ignores that broad’s– ashley or whatever he fucking name is– ‘advice’ for him, like she’s his court-appointed lawyer. he doesn’t need anyone’s help, much less a woman’s. he knows what he’s doing.

more importantly, he knows what he’s doing with you.

some days, he gets it. to an extent, of course– because if someone started giving him fucked up wine and went to town on his body, he’d kill the fucker. you’re not like that, though. he sees through you; sees how you don’t have the guts to kill him for what he did, for what he does, and what he will do.

so, either every interaction between the pair of you is public– the best way to make sure you stay on that invisible leash that he holds so fucking tight– or in private, because that’s the best place that he can put you in your position. remind you of where you stand. 

he really does keep you on a leash.

he also gets you to call him dad when he fucks you. actually, there’s a lot he’s gotten you to do during sex, weird and kinky shit that no other woman he’s fucked ever did. even when he thought about doing to them what he did to you– slip a few pills in your drink, get enough blackmail information on you to keep you within his reach– but he never went through with any of it. it was different back then, and he had a different image to uphold. or maybe he just can’t remember these days, too many benzos and all. but anyway; whether you’re doing it out of actual enjoyment or pure fear, he isn’t sure. he also does not care. 

soldier boy just assumes that you’re used to it all. a girl like you, probably been in some bdsm-type shit before.. just not to this extent. and he can almost see the scenes in front of him, when he imagines what ‘extracurriculars’ that you’ve participated in; tears down your cheeks as you hopelessly give yourself over to whoever fucks you raw. sometimes he pretends it’s a girl, deep in your cunt with a strap. sometimes it’s some asshole who doesn’t treat you right, and that just pisses him off. he doesn’t like the fantasy thought of that.

you also probably had short hair, like some fucking lesbo. less to grab at; easy to get away.

but you’re not getting away that easy. not from him. 

today, it’s another public scene between the two of you; he’s ‘walked’ into you on the street, some sort of a standstill where he stares you down like an animal eyeing its prey. wondering if it could take it in just one bite. but you’re quicker– with your doe-like eyes, the same you flash him when he’s balls-deep in you, you’re turning away, trying to disappear into the crowd that slowly forms around him and the rest of the seven. 

and yet, he’s even quicker. he barges past adoring fans, and he reaches you at the edge of the crowd. it’s amusing, how you tense under his gentle touch– he’d chastised you for that, acting so damn afraid, but not right now– before harshly spinning you around to face him.

“how fuckin’ dumb are you to make a run for it?” there’s more he wants needs to ask; why you didn’t call him, why he is always the one to initiate. but he can do that all later. when he’s got you alone and under him. you’re able to answer him when you’re like that– give him the answers he wants and deserves. “also, what’s a guy got to do to get some damn respect from you?”

“you sick fuck,” you hiss, but your voice is so weak– even in a hushed whisper; you’re cautious of who’s around.. and watching– you’re tripping over your words. his hand moves from your shoulder to your waist. there’s eyes on the pair of them, he can feel it, and it’s not just the fucker he’s forced to call son. “fucking– stop– i’m not alone.”

soldier boy scoffs. “y’think that’s ever stopped me, kid?” 

when you go to make a move to get away, he takes hold of your wrist in his free hand, nails digging in. 

“done actin’ like a brat?” he lets go of your wrist, toying with a strand of your hair. “got an audience here, doll. think it’s in your best interest for you to be on your best behaviour.”

“fuck you.”

“gladly.”

“fuck. you.”

“christ on a cross– you’ve got a hell of a mouth, haven’t you?” he rolls his eyes, catching the sight of the rest of the seven, who watch him with a mix of disgusted apathy and general admiration. his addition to the team has been a mixed bag, so this sort of public display won’t go down well. but soldier boy’s been in this business a long time; he can sort it out. “i think this is a conversation we should have in private, hm?”

“what– no– i’m not going anywhere with you–”

but no matter how much you curse and fight and protest, it ends in the same way it always does. 

alone, with a supe who has nothing but the best intentions.

he doesn’t take you to homelander’s penthouse, like he has before. nor does he take you back to your apartment. to which, you’re sort of glad– his constant complaints of it “smelling like a nun’s pussy” were starting to grate on you. 

no. what it is, is a hotel. some sophisticated place in upper new york, the type you could never afford on your salary, one where you already know you’re going to steal all the tiny shampoo bottles from. meanwhile, he just pushes himself through the doorway like he owns the place, his hand on the small of your back. 

“place used to be better in its heyday,” you wait, absentminded, on the bed whilst ben– not soldier boy, but ben; you should have to call him, like he’s told you to– stares out the floor-to-ceiling window. you don’t respond, just obey; ready to jump at slightest of things. if anything, you feel more like a witness to a gruesome crime than someone who’s meant to be enjoying themself. “‘course, everywhere today has its rules ‘bout hookers and drugs– where’s the fun in that? bunch of pussies, all of’ em. don’t know how to have fun.”

you stare straight ahead, feeling cold yet somehow warm. 

“–fuckin’ listening or what, doll? i said, get rid of the gun.”

after a few, short seconds of hesitancy, made worse by the way your heart feels like it’ll rip from your chest, you place your gun on the bed next to you. it felt heavy in your hands, the way your mode of self-defence should, and now you feel naked. terribly naked. 

“atta girl,” ben’s standing over you as he places a chaste kiss to the top of your head, running his rough fingers through the strands. when he reaches the ends, he wraps his fingers around them. however, he doesn’t pull. that’s his only mercy to you. “been thinkin’ a lot about you, y’know?”

but you’ve been here before. heard these words before– typically when you’re crying, most likely begging for him to stop– given him the same monotone response before. 

he pulls you up so you’re standing before him. “you better have been thinkin’ ‘bout me, yeah? c’mon, kid, answer me.”

you don’t trust yourself to speak. in fact, not speaking is a power in of itself; even if he is gripping your jaw tight, and your eyes are all glassy and blurry as you stare up at him, but you’ve got power here. a small sliver, nothing like he has, but still. it’s power.

it doesn’t amount to anything.

“you could stop comin’ back to me,” ben says it like a fact– which it is– almost like a demand. and stupidly, you think it is, that he wants you to stop crawling back to him at his every beck and call, but you know better than that. “it’d be so much better if you did that, doll. i could do my damn job, and you? you could go find some cuck to fool around with, or be the whore of all fuckin’ suburbia. ‘least with me, i can make you something. shit– it will always be better with me, won’t it?”

you nod.

“you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

he moves your head up and down, your body frozen with something you can’t quite identify. really, you’ve gotten used to giving yourself over to him, on your hands and knees for him like some dog. ben’s grinning wickedly at you as he does this, pressing his body to yours. 

there was that word again– love. you were blind enough to believe that it could become real for you, much less made real by him. then again, it did happen, for a bit. the sort that comes and goes, the same feeling as pain, something to struggle to remember when the emotions pass because you’re feeding on a memory or concept that was never there. 

how you’ve looked at him, thinking how you loved him– past tense– and you try to remember those dumb and amazing and bloody moments that passed between the two of you. try to remember if you were ever in love with him in the first place. if he meant anything he ever said or did.

if he loved you.

“i just want to take care of you. that’s all.” 

it’s a confession, you think. the illusion that comes with this idea– an arrangement of days of a future to never come– could be necessary. valid. otherwise, this has all been for nothing, except that it’s not for nothing, but rather a sick perversion that he must satiate. a hunger that can only be silenced by details, close-ups, the pain of remembering.

you need the solidity that he’s telling you the truth. 

“c’mon– i didn’t use the company’s card for nothin’ now.”

ben pushes you back down on the bed– one hand on your shoulder and the other on his belt– and in those brief, fleeting seconds, you observe the room. how he’s gone all out for you. the crisp, rich sheets on the bed that could never compare to your own, the dark colours on the wall that contrast nicely with the soft ones that are buried in the finer details. the nondescript bottle of wine that sits on the table near the window. you can’t see the brand, not with how your vision already feels hazy.

his fingers curl into your hair, yanking your head harshly back so he can get a better look at you. “look decent for once, doll,” he mutters, his other hand disappearing under the collar of your turtleneck, fishing out the collar he makes you wear. he doesn’t pick up on your noticeable flinch when he carelessly knocks up against the bruising on your neck. “you gotta stop hidin’ this, though. who knows what’ll happen to you if some cocksucker decided to touch what doesn’t belong to him..”

he’s undoing his supesuit with one hand still in your hair, keeping you in place. the soft, clinking sound of metal against metal is grating to you. but it seems to snap you out of your trance, remind you of what’s going on here; he’s bringing your head closer to his cock, pre-cum beading at the tip, and you swear your mouth starts watering from the sight alone. 

“gonna be good f’me, kid?” ben asks. there’s a sharp click, and you look up. you’ve been so focused on his cock that you didn’t notice him take your gun and point it right at your fucking head. “don’t make me do somethin’ bad to you.. don’t want to have to hurt you tonight.”

and then, he’s fucking your mouth, with the gun pressed firmly against your head. you suck him like your life depends on it– your technique should probably be off, but given the circumstance, you’d rather do a good job than have your insides splattered all over the room– and considering the grunts of satisfaction and small utterances of praise he gives you suggest that you’re doing fine. 

“just needed some encouragement, huh?” his grip on your head tightens, and before you know it, he’s pulling from your mouth entirely. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror; mascara smudged around your eyes, your mouth glistening with saliva and pre-cum. the mirror does no favours.

it’s probably not enough for him. not even close. 

your moving back up on the bed, your chest constricting as he tugs the suit further down. you can’t pull your eyes away from his cock– there’s no denying that he’s a big man, and that means everything is big. the sight of him alone somewhat makes you relax. how thick and heavy he is, the veins that run up and down him as he loosely begins to fist himself. the fat tip leaking again with pre-cum. you hunger.

and yet, there’s a particular emptiness in your mind; fear could take the vacancy, but curiosity gets there first. the curiosity in not knowing what he plans to do to you tonight. you really want him to ravage you.

there’s an urge to run, to try your hand at killing him, and you tense up. but when his hands are on you again, all forms of protest are voided in your mind. he strips you slowly, a precision only reserved for the most intimate encounters– between man and wife. with it, the turtleneck goes first, your bruised neck and torso a mimic of what could be considered a watercolour abstract, and then he peels your bra from you. eventually, you’re bare under him, unable to avoid his hardened gaze. 

“could be worse,” ben notes, thumb tracing over your ribs. you try not to shiver at his touch. he pulls back briefly to observe you fully; soft, supple. ready to hurt. “y’could be with someone who doesn’t care.”

“and you do?”

smartly, he doesn’t answer that one. 

instead, he parts your thighs, dragging a rough finger through your wet cunt. the eye contact is gone, and you don’t mind that too much– it’s better this way, gives him that detachment he feasts on, the removal of his hand in this act of sin. you avoid looking down at your body and choose to stare at the wall. not because this is shameful, or immodest, but because you don’t want to see it. this. something that should feel like love.

“real fuckin’ wet f’me– god,” he smirks, adding another finger to you. “y’been touchin’ yourself to the thought of me? just can’t get enough, hm?”

you don’t respond. you don’t need want him to know how you really can’t get enough of him. 

your breathing picks up as ben pushes three fingers into you, your cunt clenching around him every time he goes that little bit further. it’s bordering on agitating, making you all twitchy and huffy, despite how many times he’s done this to you.

“hey– hey. you need to cut that shit out,” he presses a bit too roughly that time. a warning. “gonna start whimperin’ like some dog over this alone, kid?” he grabs the collar around your neck, forcing you to meet his eye. “c’mon– speak.”

“no– ‘s just–” just what? just ; power imbalance. a hr nightmare that’s way past its in-progress stage. “need you– in me, dad–”

the more feverish you get, the tighter you cunt gets around him. you can see it in his face– how much joy he gets from it. your stomach sours.

he’s going to make himself fit. you’re no stranger to that. but still, as his cock replaces his fingers, the soft burn from the stretch that you should be accustomed to hits you like a freight train. you wince, clutching as his biceps as a way to steady yourself. 

“are you.. in?” you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to block out how you writhe under him.

“what? fuck no,” ben grip on your sides is close to bruising. there’s something in his tone, that you pick up on, some slight desperation to be completely in you. “just– y’need to take it, yeah? you can do it.”

and you can– you’ve done it before– but all those other times between you feel like some perverted fantasy compared to now. 

but soon enough you’ve got one leg around his waist as he thrusts into you. he’s as close as he possibly could be to you, one hand tangled in your hair to keep you still and the other on your waist. you’re fucked hard into the bed, the vulgar sound of skin against bloodied skin infecting the air. 

you hate this. revise that; you should hate this, but you don’t. every time he pounds into you, every time he praises you (though, there’s the vitriolic undertone to his words; he never means it, and yet, you stupidly believe him every-fucking-time), the nausea in your stomach worsens. and your name is never uttered from his lips, never groaned out in orgasm, because it doesn’t matter. you’re reduced to other terms of.. endearment– bitch, slut, whore, dog– and you keep this knowledge like a hidden treasure. it’s what you are, it’s who you are.  

but despite the pain, despite the tears that fall from your eyes, despite everything– you cum. you cum everytime. you hold him tight as you do, that unmistakable warmth that escapes you as the feeling of cum seeps from your gaping cunt. 

and even then, you’re begging for him to stop to give you more. 

naturally, it takes a bit more for him to cum. however, he’s finishing with a few deep and violent thrusts, bumping up against your cervix repeatedly because he’s probably got his sick fantasies of doing a particular something to you, and biting harshly down on your shoulder. he cums deep in you, a slight bulge forming in your lower abdomen from where he was. 

a parting gift.

he pulls back from you, sighing, taking in his latest work. you’re still underneath, still aching. something oozes out of you. a heavy, scented mixture of salt and iron fills the air. 

“you’ve got pretty sensitive insides, y’know?” ben slaps your thigh, the sound echoing through the room. as usual, he’s forgotten his super strength; it hurts more than you can admit. “could be worse, though– fucked this one broad back in france this one, and fuck; thought she was gonna snap in half.. pussy.”

he’s left you, knees to your chest and your back to the headboard. you’re not even looking at him as he finishes up– the sound of his belt hits hard, like a cold slap to the face– looking through him and to the wall beyond. and even with your energy drained, no fight let in you, there’s the undeniable feeling that you are ready to snap and cry. in the end, there’s only you, and some ruined sheets, and the unforgiving memory of a bathtub. 

it’s the, when the pain hits you; how everything comes flooding back. you can’t even pick out the beautiful parts of the past, the ones that haven’t marred and scarred you, glimpses of teeth-marked flesh and bloodstained cunts. flashes of the perverse and the needy. a punch, a sex position, a cage. 

and yet, you want everything back, the way it was. but there was never a ‘was’ between the two of you; nowhere to start from, to draw a line under. it’s nice to think you’d have noticed the problems before they were that noticeable. but that’s the issue– you never notice the sky falling until it falls on you. 

you’re sobbing now, chest-wracking cries that leave you curled in a ball on the sticky sheets. meanwhile, he watches on. watches you. and there’s no regard for how you feel. what you need or want. 

but what do you want? for him to hold you, to keep you. if he wanted to, he could– he would– but he doesn’t. he’s not choosing you to keep around the tower, waiting on hand like some little housewife to suck his dick and praise him. 

that’s not the arrangement. that’s not love. 

and then, he’s gone. gone from the hotel room without saying another word. 

there’s a disgusting, festering desire that’s crawled underneath her skin. it’s a feeling you can’t ever quite shake off. because eventually, every dog must have his day– including him.

“you live in a fuckin’ pigsty, you know that?”

ben stares at you with tired, unamused eyes. they’re still piercing– cutting you straight to the core as he observes you like you’ll suddenly take off. or worse, fight him. still in that damn supesuit, though he’s looking worse for wear; unshaven, eyes all red from copious amounts of weed usage, a split lip. there’s blood on not only his knuckles, but his face. his own blood. funny. you haven’t ever seen him bleed. 

and you also haven’t seen him for about six months. 

then again, you didn’t even know he was still alive.

“what do you want?”

“what do you think i want? somewhere to crash without goddamn congress searchin’ up my ass.”

it’s surprising how easy it is to fall back into old routines. 

you go onto your tiptoes, try to see over his broad shoulder. maybe he’s here to fuck you kill you. “so you’re in trouble.”

ben rubs his face and sighs, leaning against the door as if it’s the only thing to keep him upright. “no– not yet, anyway. not until they work out what they’re fuckin’ charging me with.”

“alright, then.”

you don’t let him in. not right away, anyway; if he’s telling you the truth– which would be fucking rich coming from him– then you also don’t want congress coming for you. you’ve had no hand in whatever has happened, have not borne witness to the depravity. you will not go down for his bullshit. 

“you’re not coming in.”

“i– christ on a fuckin’ cross, doll, do i look like some missionary to you? let me in.”

you’ve paused, waiting for the blow. yeah, in the four months of your sexually deviant, whirlwind romance, never once did ben actually hit you, but now? oh, you can feel the wrath that is about to come down. it disgusts you how quickly your mind goes to thinking that you should be getting on your knees for him and sucking him off, right there on your doorstep at four in the morning. 

“i saw the news,” you mutter. “as far as i’m aware, this will count as aiding a terrorist.”

you go to close the door, but he’s quicker; he shoves his arm in the doorway, the impact of your forcefulness almost breaking the frame against his suit. 

“you’re really gonna do this to me, doll? after everything i did for you?” you can hear him curse under his breath, almost inaudible compared to the way your heart might explode from your chest. “you’re a real bitch, know that? i mean– the chick i had to fuck after the way you up and fucked off.. she ain’t you, that’s for sure.”

and with that, you’re pulling ben in and shutting the door behind the two of you. he slumps onto your sofa like a moody teenager, head in his hands. there’s no conversation. 

“you’ll let me smoke in here, right?”

“no.”

the night that homelander died, you felt nothing but a coldness that ran over your body like slick. something that enters your body on its own will, settles in your heart and festers there. that funny feeling that happens when the impossible becomes possible. strange and gnawing, and yet hollow and lonely and with an ache of irritability. you want more of it, but you have to accept that this is it.

the night that homelander died– except, he didn’t die. 

you don’t know what he did, what part he played in delivering that sentence, but you do know this; homelander, the world’s most infamous and revered supe, was fucking gone. 

not as in ‘dead’ gone. gone gone. 

disappeared without a trace.

you’d seen ben from a distance– shaking despite it being summer, utterly hysterical, a stake-out gone wrong. at first, you didn’t think it could be him, until butcher and his motley crew brought the official photos to the cia office the next morning. the close-ups offered more than they should have. you didn’t ask questions; just accepted what had befallen. that this was how it was meant to go.

they say children are meant to outlive their parents, but the rules have never exactly applied to him.

“you were there, weren’t you?”

you say nothing; keeping your back to the door, and watching. waiting. 

“just not goin’ to say a thing, huh? fine, suit yourself,” ben huffs, like a petulant child. he succumbs to the silence, but only for a brief second; before you know it, he’s talking again. filling that silence. blotting out the things he’s done because of the sliver of reassurance one gets when they forget. “but why are you bein’ such a fuckin’ cunt–”

“you knew.” your body slumps against the door now, and you can feel yourself slowly sinking downwards. no falling. “you knew how you made me feel, and– and you used it. fucking exploited it. pretended you didn’t, because if you did, then you would’ve had to take some responsibility.”

“but you still came back, didn’t you? god– what is it with you and women these days? back in my day, people were grateful for what they had. worked hard to make it to the top, but your kind? fuckin’ nothing. just complain ‘cause life isn’t givin’ you shit. ‘cause you don’t work for it. meanwhile i’ve worked for what i got. i’ve been through the hard shit,” he’s ranting away, and you let him. you nod absentmindedly as he goes on a weed-induced rage– despite the fact that he is exactly like the people he’s describing. those who cut corners and go to hell and back. it’s kind of pathetic, you think, how people will do anything to not admit their life has no meaning. no purpose. just like he did. “i– it’s not fair.”

you swallow thickly, nails digging into your palms. “you don’t like it when things get hard, do you?”

ben studies you for a minute. a rather long minute. you know how bad you look; in the slow days that have passed, days where you haven’t bothered to move from your bed where you wallow in filth and self-loathing, you’d scratched the skin on your arms and thighs until it was raw. none of it has healed, because as soon as there’s signs of scabbing, you pick at it again. the flesh looks like wet tissue, right now. you remember how he told you not to fuck up your body, or else you’d “look like a junkie, and i don’t fuck junkies”.

there’s a good deal in remembering that. comfort and all.

“right.. where’s your bedroom?”

it doesn’t take long for him to be on top of you.

ben’s got his hand plastered over your mouth, trying to shut up your “pathetic” crying, thrusting into your harder and deeper when the occasional complaint slips from your lips. except, it’s anything but occasional, and rather purposeful. he needs a reason to fuck you like this. 

“please, ben–” you gasp, your voice almost drowned out by his groans, the obscene noises produced by your wet, gaping cunt. you know what you’vwe done; used his name. it should be dad. “i’m sorry– please– dad–”

“that’s fuckin’ better,” the thrust that follows is particularly damning, your cunt spasming around him for what feels like the millionth time. there’s a certain pressure that comes from the way his cock bruises your insides, pushing up against your bladder. but he doesn’t stop; just rams into you over and over, and you merely go numb under him, unable to acknowledge how you feel. and forget any thought you could procure. he does not care. “gonna– fuckin’ stop movin’ or else– gonna take good care of you, promise.”

and to keep his promise, he shoves his fingers into your mouth, forcing them as far as you can possibly take them before you start gagging. “see? much better when you’re fuckin’ compliant for me.”

you’re clenching around him, pressing your body into his, though, it’s not from a need to cum. what you need, is to pee. and it’s obvious that ben knows this; how calculated his thrusting is, going as deep as he possibly can, his fat cock making you feel as if you’lle be split in half. you swear that the tip hits hard against your cervix, making you writhe.

“i need,” you pant, shame and want embedded in your tone as you feel the unmistakable warmth that seeps from your cunt. however, you’re unable to acknowledge it; how he still fucks into your tightness– the sheets below you aren’t just sticky, but also wet now, and yet, he shows no signs of stopping– or how your vision blackens and blurs at the edges. you feel disembodied. “stop.”

but he doesn’t. his pounding is relentless, and his desperate depravity to have you full and dripping with his cum basically emanates off him like a sickness. it’s catching in the air, and soon enough, you’ll have it too.

you’re stretched out around him obscenely, crying and trembling underneath him as he cums in you, his face pressed to your collarbone. it takes him just a few, albeit weaker, hits to get you to cum, clenching furiously around him. your chest heaves as he keeps himself in you, making sure you take all of his cum. you know better than to waste it. 

“couldn’t help yourself, could you?” ben mutters into your skin, the words burning you. because you peed on him. on accident. and yet, his disappointment is like someone’s peeled back the top layer of your skin and poured boiling water on it. you know that he’s just upset, a moment for him to take out his pent-up anger. you just wish it didn’t have to be on you. “fuck me– ‘least you’re not like that firecracker chick that bastard’s has at his side. had, really. hell, was she more hairless than an old fuck’s bald head. disgusting that no woman seems to appreciate what a real man wants. but you’ll always let a man do what they need to do, won’t you?”

at the time, you hadn’t believed him– that he’d fucked someone else, despite the fact that you were out of his life and he could do what he wanted– but the confirmation, the solidity in knowing the truth makes you feel so small. so, you’re almost glad for this; that he can’t see you cry. and, sure, you’ve cried before during sex, but this is different. 

maybe everything has been a construct from some damaged part of your brain; a hallucination of things that never happened. except, they’re not. everything has happened, whether you asked for it or not. 

“yes, i will,” you reply. you’re not sure your voice is even yours; the words sound like something off of a script, repeating what must be said in order to be praised. but the praise doesn’t come. instead, you just get a rough hand shoved between your wet thighs, fingers pressing escaped cum firmly back into your cunt. 

“y’know what happens to dogs that can’t behave? they get put down. but it’d be a real shame to waste a.. bitch like you. luckily– fuck, i don’t why i’m explainin’ this to you ‘cause you know what’s comin’.”

“i don’t get why you’re so fuckin’ pissed, doll–”

“–hm, maybe it’s because you’re a goddamn nuclear bomb?”

you feel like a caricature of yourself, some half-dressed woman girl who’s stuck in place and repeating the same things over and over. clawing at your throat. you haven’t cried like this in a while, even when you got away from him– followed by those six months of a peaceful, albeit tense, interlude where only memories of him permeated your life– and now, you’re here. immobilised with that cold feeling that’s crawling its way up your spine, into your neck, heart beating, beating, fucking beating in your ears. that deathly taste of trouble on your tongue. 

“you’re dramatic, that’s what. fuckin’ hormones an’ all.”

“you’re sick,” you argue back. “you sick fuck, you– you fucking impregnated–”

“–if you don’t get your shit together in the next five fuckin’ seconds, i have no problem sortin’ it for you,” ben silences you before you can say it; the solution crime. “i’m takin’ care of you, just like i promised. so why the fuck are you gettin’ so out of line?”

you hide your tear-stained face in your hands once again, swallowing hard to contain the scream that crawls up your throat. 

you’ve long since given up on trying to get away from him– basically ever since he entered forced his way back into your life last month, when he was riding high (and slightly remorseful) on homelander’s demise, and he needed a pet project. his old pet project, specifically, in the form of you. 

what this is, right now, is self-preservation. not for you, but for him. something to keep him at the top of the food chain, the top dog, in a post-homelander world. keep the investors’ swimming in money, and the fans’ oblivion to the monster that lurks in the shadows. and it’s not like the newly-reinstated stan edgar will say a word. nobody wants to meet their demise to a walking weapon.

he’s been keeping you here at homelander’s his penthouse. you shouldn’t complain– it’s better than a cage, which is where you were for an agonising amount of time just two weeks ago, and also some time last year; it’s just the memories are fuzzy and drug-laced on the latter– but you will complain. to yourself, that is. it’s been done up, all signs of patriotism gone, and replaced with various earthy tones. it’s nice, makes you think of the outside and freedom earth. what gets you is the green. the colour of envy, greed. fertility.

the new wounds that you’ve scratched into yourself aren’t terrible, just surface level, barely something to be fretted over. but given recent.. developments, it’s a concern. you flinch every time ben comes near you, some futile attempt for you see a doctor, and eventually, you give in. he’s at his best when he’s resorting to extreme methods of making you do things. you can’t live with that anymore, let alone stomach it. it’s better to hand yourself over.

you’ve got a few scars here and there. nothing special, mainly just work gone wrong– back when you were allowed to did work– but they’re all old, fading. there’s a couple that you don’t look at, or think about, but they’re healing. you don’t anything because nothing has happened since. he doesn’t ask because he knows who where they’re from.

and so, you will shove your concerns down. and your disappointments. and your grievances. and everything and anything that isn’t your tits, or your cunt, or you. it’s all his. but everything that’s unappealing to him– that’s too needy, too emotional, too sensitive and too fucking much– that’s your responsibility. it’s how you got here in the first place.

“i know you didn’t want it, but it’s for your own good. so, if keep gettin’ out of line, i won’t scared to show you where you fuckin’ stand with me, doll. and it also won’t just be me; you’ve got a shit-ton of eyes on you now,” ben’s holding your face in both hands, staring darkly down on you. everything feels so far away, and yet it’s not. everything feels like love hate. “now, you’re going to clean yourself up, and then we’re both going to edgar. understand?”

you’re silent.

silence doesn’t mean ‘no’ anymore. then again, did it ever?

ben pushes open the door, barges in his bulky, dominant style. edgar immediately tenses up at his sudden appearance. normally, it’d amuse him– how this old cuck has gotten himself to the top, twice, and yet is still as fucking scared as ever– but it doesn’t. there’s more pressing matters.

the first thing he notices, is how cool it is in the office. he hates in. in fact, he hates a lot of things these days, and a lot of pertains to this building, and this system; this life. the concrete structure and what lays beneath it. a graveyard of the forgotten the weak. 

“thought you’d be gracing me with your presence soon enough,” edgar sighs. he stays behind the desk– the only form of protection he has. pathetic. “i’ve already heard about the situation; though, i doubt you’ll be looking for.. help. now, i don’t know what you do in your free time, and i have zero interest in knowing, but know that you are the face of vought again, and you are what brings in the money. do not go fucking everyone over because you couldn’t keep your hands, and bodily fluids, to yourself.”

edgar’s sitting down, and so ben must look down on the man as he belittles him. 

“that’s all you’re going to fuckin’ say on it, huh?”

“indeed.”

he sighs deeply, resisting the urge to simply walk over to edgar and slam his face into the desk. but he won’t. 

he’s afraid angry. with everything. and he’s come too far to allow people to play with his life, these little mind games and riddles. it’s easier not to trust, he’s learned, that’s for sure. 

“she’s alive and well. that’s what fuckin’ matters– all you should be worried about. keep your head out of my ass, and we’ll have no problems. i’ll do what i need to do.”

edgar takes his glasses off and folds them carefully. “very well, then. just remember; you can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, how your father didn’t love you until you became a fraud, but know that you made the choices that led you here. no one else. and yet, nothing good has come of a monstrosity like you. just a fault in our system. it’s what you, and john, and that.. thing are; bad product.”

it’s lethal, this feeling, bordering on a frenzy that screams at him to wipe out the entire fucking world. so utterly consuming and blinding. the bloodlust that consumed his son has infected him, and in turn, he needs to feed it to satiate the beast. whatever sanity he had has slipped entirely, and the monster underneath is on full display. he will kill it.

ben turns to leave, stalking out in the same, loud fashion he arrived in. he can hear edgar mutter something from behind him, but he knows that if he turns back, bad things will happen. there’s an image to protect, the product, and soon enough, that white-hot remorse will infiltrate his body and he will fuck something– you– to cure it. 

it’s a miserable place– the vought building, the entire business. the human workers are miserable, and so and the supe ones. 

there’s a stench that lurks within it, permeates every atom and infects the most unwilling. he saw it happen with that broad, ashley– she’s gone now; a psychotic break they said, which he’s interpreted as female problems– and whoever else stan edgar ben fired. he also saw it in the bastard himself, homelander. that sickness that drove him to such degrees of insanity, that there were more than a single occasion where he wanted to put the fucker out of his misery. but he couldn’t. the timing wasn’t right– or whatever it was that the brit and his cocksucking crew told him. 

or maybe it’s just the world in itself that makes people like this– carnal. maybe there’s some natural goodness in people, but as soon as they cross the line into corruption, it’s a bitch to cross back over. maybe it’s easier to lie down with dogs. 

nevertheless, there’s a certain evil in this place. the scent follows you. he feasts on it, because he can’t imagine anything worse than being fucking sane. silence is just what sticks to your skin. 

he feels it with you.

you’re more of a fucking problem fault than ever. sometimes, you seem appreciative of what he’s done, and what he’s doing, but other times.. sometimes, he wonders if it’d be kinder to put you out of your misery. however, you can play the role– devoted wife, and even more devoted mother-to-be– pretend to be something you’re not. he’s seen the slight warmth that comes over you when you can be someone else for a few minutes. as if the fantasy and make-believe is better than real life. a normal, adult woman, who was with the most feared revered supe in the world; who went to the tower home to be in the arms of whom you loved, and a bed that you felt safe sleeping in. a name that belonged to you.

but that’s just it; a fantasy. it’s starting to get grating, how many times that ben tells you to put in more effort. it’ll be real, then.

deep down, some part of him that will never see the goddamn light of day, he gets it. because you never escape it, not really. eventually, someone or something rears its ugly head and you have to look it in the eye, see yourself for what you really are. it’s happened to him more than he’s liked; it’s like being dropped from the sky, falling and falling, never knowing when you’ll hit the ground.

tonight, he’ll eat you out. he’s not the type to waste no time fucking into you if he needed, not caring about how many times you cum around him. but he should probably be more careful these days. despite the hunger to leave your cunt swollen and filled with his cum. and, even though you’re not that far along, it’s easier to devour you. 

with the ride back up to the penthouse, it gives him time to think. specifically about he’ll spit on your cunt, his saliva collecting in your folds as it slowly drips down. how you’ll squirm over it, before going still as he grips your thighs tightly and laps at you. it’ll be a messy affair; he’s never been one for table manners. his tongue hot against your sensitive cunt, whilst occasionally sucking on your clit. his face will be glistening with your slick. 

he will eat you like a full-course meal, literally. nothing will go to waste, as he keeps your legs spread obscenely apart. he’ll eat you out until you’re screaming at him to stop incoherent and begging for more, and even then, he won’t stop. he’s going to give you everything, just like he promised, and this is part of it. and if you’re lucky, he’ll fuck you. a parting gift, one might say. 

ben’s always been fond of a parting gift. something he used to do for his brother when he was called up for duty. revise that, actually, and put ‘nothing’; because he never did that. 

nothing. he did fucking nothing. 

but he does look after you, and that’s not nothing. brings you to live at the penthouse because the shithole you were living in was no place for the child of a fucking hero you. it looks better than it did, the interior more tranquil and classy than before. there’s a certain elegance that wasn’t there before now, something he particularly strives for, because, for once, something is his. 

and he wants to keep you. safe and close at hand. to admire; to be admired. adored. and entirely belonging to him.

however, there must also be compromise, especially in love such arrangements– he does let you keep a vase of flowers. white fritillaries, to be specific. they stand out like bruises on skin against the decor that someone chose for him. although, it unsettles him to know your hesitancy to sleep in the bed. one that they now share. man and wife.

the penthouse is strangely empty. what ben should do is join you in bed– he already knows that where you are, stealing sleep that’s not haunted by his presence that looms over you, or him holding you tight because he’s afraid not about to let you get away. night would be the perfect time to escape. such things have happened before.

he hasn’t slept well in years. most nights, it’s dreams of the mundane– board meetings, maybe a surreal vision of you, all spread out for him and naked. though, sometimes, it’s his childhood. blurry and disconnected, mumbled words and forgotten faces. but his father, in all his striking and nauseating glory, is always clear. 

his mind likes to fixate on that– anything, really, that involves him– and not let go. that macabre reminder of how he got to where he was. and all because he was a cheat, a fucking disappointment. even if what he did kept him, his world, from ruin, it’s a bad habit that blinds him. the obsession, hardwired into his brain by front lines and hard drugs, that’ll only lead to an undoing.

however, ben’s far past the line of undoing. 

everything mushes together, and he must relive the torment by all the worst parts. it’s why you’re here; his girl. his. it’s a given that you belong to him, like you’d had no no name, nor form, nor even a life, before he even laid eyes on you. if that isn’t ownership love, than what is?

but even when it’s all said and done– the blood still fresh on your face and mixing with the cum that leaks from between your thighs– it’s not enough. he’ll still be left with that bitter cold in his stomach, trapped in the darkness as it chokes him once more, even as the water runs over your head and into your lungs. it all blends together. how cruel– his mother always said that the mind was kind. 

tonight, ben will wait it out. eventually he will come to his depraved senses, the second nature of his altered soul, and will wake you by eating you out. or he won’t– he’ll leave you asleep, allow you to wake with distortion to sticky thighs. and you will think of it as a nightmare, the ones you’ve gotten used to, until you see the evidence and ultimately, pathetically, lash out at him. even broken bones heal themselves if left alone for long enough. 

tonight, he will think of this; how something pains him. as it usually does. the constant pain he feels is there, sharp, and wants it to be inflicted on everyone else. everyone should feel what he does. nobody should escape it. but even in confessing to this– just like he has in every act he’s committed, no matter the depravity– he feels nothing. this has meant nothing.

tonight, he won’t sleep. instead he will think of dissecting taking care of you, and how long he will have to keep his word on that. after it happens, when the baby is born, there will be no use for you. it’d be generous of him to put you down like an animal; that can be categorised with the act of ‘care’. except, he won’t can’t. but at least he’s had a say in it this time– a child. that’s all he could have asked for. could have done.

ben holds the strings to your marionette, and what he bids of you will be done without a question uttered past your lips. though, there’s hardly a distinction between ‘dog’ and ‘boy’ in his mannerisms; the lines between the two blur as only the feral, instinctive pursuit of pleasure drives his insatiable actions.