#beelab writes

There was nothing that Fiddleford hated more than a short-notice pseudo-rut. It was only by the grace of God that he was able to make it to the cabin before it hit him proper. Times like these make Fiddleford miss his wife something fierce– wanting nothing more than to fall into her sweet embrace, but with a tired sigh, he resigns himself to a lonely few days locked in his room. 

“Mmm!” 

Fiddleford’s ears perk up at the muffled sound, his body instinctively leading him to its source– the living room. 

He’s greeted with the startling sight of Stanley, face down ass up on the couch, and Ford with a hand on the younger twins’ nape, pistoning away without a care, despite the new presence witnessing the scene. 

Stan’s face is turned facing the room so Fiddleford can see the man’s expression clear as day– tears stream down ruddy cheeks and drool leaks from the corner of his mouth, said mouth open wide as strained breaths leave his chest heaving. The poor thing looks exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open despite Ford’s frantic thrusting, forcing Stan’s body to shift violently with each movement. Ford is grunting loud enough to drown out the sound of Stan’s gravely whimpers. The older twin’s face is twisted in what could be considered a snarl, leaning forward and huffing as he nuzzles into the side of Stan’s neck. 

It doesn’t take but a single sniff to smell the scent of rut over the suffocating stench of sex. 

Fiddleford can’t help his startled gasp at the scene, and Ford’s face is flushed as he straightens to look up at Fiddleford, eyes wild and pleased, not even slowing a fraction as he makes eye contact with Fiddleford and flashes the engineer a small smile. 

“Oh! Welcome back, Fiddleford.” The omega–omega because that’s apparently what Stanley was– under the scientist whines loudly, voice cracking as Ford continues his brutal pounding, and Stanford rumbles as he leans back over the other man, pushing Stan further into the couch cushions with his weight. 

“Sweet Jesus!” Fiddleford exclaims, unable to wrap his head around how the alpha before him could have such a blasé attitude, considering the situation at hand. Fiddelford’s hands fly to his eyes, but he stands frozen, his body not getting the hint that he should be halfway to Timbucktoo by now. Sweet Lord Almighty, he needed to be out of here yesterday! This is– it’s obscene! He most certainly should not be getting hotter and hotter as he peeks through the gaps of his fingers. Ford is speeding up, his thrusts becoming sloppy, and Stanley keens as Ford’s grip visibly tightens around his twins’ nape. 

Ford chances a glance in Fiddleford’s direction, and gives a short breathless chuckle at the beta’s mortified expression, causing the lanky man to flush even more, “Just a moment, F, I’ll–I’ll be done soon.” 

And the alpha seems to mean just that, as he removes his hand from Stan’s nape and uses both arms to wrap around Stan’s middle and pull the large man back onto his burgeoning knot. Stanley’s cry is drowned out by Stanford's thundering growl, the sound sending goosebumps crawling across Fiddleford’s skin. 

Both men are left panting, and Ford nudges his way into the side of Stan’s neck again, this time leaving small kisses and nips, and this more than anything convinces Fiddeleford he has to go. Not only is the engineer embarrassingly hard, he also can’t help the hot flash of anger he feels toward Ford as the beta’s pseudo-rut hisses in his mind that he should be the one Stanley is squirming under, the omega he should be, protecting, taking, breeding–

The rustle of movement breaks Fiddleford from his train of thought. Ford manhandles his brother on his lap, having them sit upright while connected by the alpha’s knot. 

“You–I!” Fiddleford stammers unhelpfully as he gets a full view of Stanley from the front, his naked body entirely too enticing on full display. 

Fiddleford stumbles his way to the ottoman, quickly grabbing a blanket and throwing it at the pair, if only to keep the remaining vestiges of his sanity. Ford takes it with a nod, adjusting his brother on his lap and covering their indecency with the patchwork blanket haphazardly.  

Stanford looks entirely too unbothered, and Fiddleford’s brain feels like it’s been turned to mush as he tries to understand why in God’s name the alpha is so calm. 

Fiddleford clears his throat and forces himself to double down. He hadn’t run (an impressive feat for him, but he thinks that may have been the right thing to do–lord, he doesn't know!) and he needs answers. 

“Erm,” Fiddelford starts, his voice wavering, and Ford raises an eyebrow, prompting the taller man to continue, “I had no idea y’all were mates.” He finishes awkwardly, wringing his hands together nervously.

Stanford hums casually, “Oh, we’re not.” 

Fiddleford startles slightly. He huffs disbelievingly, never having taken Ford for one to have casual sex, especially not with someone he’s as close to as Stan. “You’re not?” Fiddleford blurts, and he expects some kind of snappish response, but the alpha just tilts his head confusedly. 

“He’s a household. Don’t you know?” Ford's voice carries a curious lilt, and the statement sends Fiddleford reeling. 

A household. Where are those even legal anymore? Fiddleford’s brain stutters to a halt, digesting the implications of his friend’s confession. Household omegas were rarely ethical, and the states had been slowly cracking down on homes that continued with the practice. Most homes that had a household often groomed the omega from childhood, their jobs solely to provide relief to the alpha and beta members of the home in times of rut. Too Fiddleford, who had grown up with traditional values, it’s no secret to him that most omegas do enjoy the life of a housewife/husband, but to subject a single omega to a house full of alphas and betas seems a bit– well, barbaric. But Fiddleford also knows that sometimes that’s just how things have to happen, when there are no other omegas in the house and no one to help the other members of the home. It’s a delicate, touchy subject, a household.

“Has he not been tending to you as well?” Ford questions, his expression shuttering when he sees Fiddleford’s look of confusion. He looks his nose down at Stanley disapprovingly. Stan, who had been silent and still up until this point, cringes, and Fiddleford learns why as Stanford cuffs the omega on the ear quickly. Stan yelps and curls in on himself a bit, eyes trained on the floor resolutely. 

“Stanley.” Ford hisses sharply, and Fiddleford starles as the man goes to cuff his twin again.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford exclaims aghast, and Ford stops before striking his brother again. 

“He knows what’s expected of him, Fiddleford.” Stanford’s voice is firm, and Fiddleford forces himself to take a breath. “Give the poor feller a break, I haven’t even had a rut fer him to help me with since he’s been with us.” Fiddleford appeals, and the fellow scientist's expression smooths out. 

“I coulda told ya that…” Stan mumbles, a hand cupping his stricken ear. Fiddleford winces in sympathy, and he can see Ford’s expression turn apologetic. 

“Ah. I apologize, Stanley, that was presumptuous of me.”  The apology is stilted, and Fiddleford can see his lab partner’s physical effort to get the words out, even as they are laced with genuine regret.

Stanley brightens a bit at the apology, but he slumps a second later. The man is obviously exhausted, “Ss’fine, Six,” Stan slurs, and he whines quietly when Ford rocks forward in an attempt to get more comfortable. Stan's eyes flutter as he struggles to stay conscious, and Ford shushes the omega quietly, carding a gentle hand through the long brown mullet, scritching lightly. Stanley slumps further into Stanford’s hold, turning his face to lie across the older twin's chest and shoulder. It’s barely a second before Fiddleford hears the telltale sounds of soft snoring and knows that Stanley has passed out. 

Fiddleford feels another flash of empathy; he knows how often alphas just go when in a rut. It must’ve been especially rough for him, seeing as Fiddleford can’t smell heat in the air to complement Ford’s overwhelming rut scent. Ford must catch Fiddleford’s conflicted expression as he clears his throat. 

“F, I know it must seem…unusual, but rest assured, Stanley is perfectly content being a household,” Stanford says, voice gruff but softer than before, so as not to wake Stan. 

Fiddleford hums at the words, not fully convinced but also…well, Fiddleford had never claimed to be a saint, and the idea of having a household here–it’s. Well. It’s more appealing than it probably should be. Fiddleford blames his pseudo-rut-addled mind for conjuring images of a Stanley debatched by his hand, always there to aid him, practically made for it, and if Stan had been a household since he presented, really, what’s the harm? It’s what Stanley knows, and it’s not Fiddleford’s place to judge the Pines for how they run their home. 

Fiddleford tries to rid himself of the images his mind continues to throw his way, biting his lip before remembering he needs to respond to Stanford. “Ah, I got nothin’ against households, not really. Just never came ‘cross one myself.” Fiddleford replies, voice matching Stanford's volume. 

Stanford nods, and Fiddleford feels himself relax. He reckons that he might’ve felt more ashamed if he had walked in on mates, but a household is shared with everyone in the home, so it’s commonplace for everyone to see other members of the household with the omega. 

“Well, I’m sure Stanley will inform you when he wakes up, but you’re free to let him know if you need help during your puedo-ruts; he’d be more than happy to, I’m sure,” Stanford says, all too casually. 

Despite all that Fiddleford had just witnessed, he finds himself flushing crimson at the implication. 

…

Fiddleford’s pseudo-rut hits him well and truly the next day. He finds himself prowling the cabin, frustrated to all hell. Hot and sweating and all the more irritated with the scent of another alpha’s rut so close, permeating the air throughout his den. The anger sours his scent, but he forces himself to take a few breaths to calm himself. The other alpha is Ford; he’s pack, not a threat. 

When Fiddleford catches the scent of Stanley–of omega, he can’t stop himself from following the alluring siren song, ending with him standing outside of Stanford’s bedroom door. He hears the telltale sound of a headboard hitting the wall repeatedly, but he doesn’t hesitate as he opens the door with just a bit too much force.

Ford has one of Stan’s legs thrown over his shoulder, driving into Stan with reckless abandon, and Fiddleford feels the sizzling arousal that had been plaguing him all day became so intense that Fiddleford thinks he might throw up. The close quarters exacerbate the smell of sex, but more importantly, under the oppressive scent of Stanford’s rut, he can smell that sweet omega aroma. Stanley’s blend of sea salted air and toffee, mixing in the air so perfectly that it forces Fiddleford to swallow the saliva that begins pooling in his mouth. He can make out the musk of slick heavy in the air, and the lanky man finds himself being pulled forward by an invisible force to get just a bit more of that amazing smell. 

Ford, seeing his assistant approaching, lets out a small growl before seeming to gain control of himself and forcing the sound to putter out. Fiddleford feels his own hackles rise, and the southerner can make out the small look of apprehension on Stan’s face before it is wiped away by Ford thrusting forward. 

Stanford gives a few more sallow thrusts before pulling out of Stan completely and turning to face Fiddleford. The engineer tries not to stare at the other man’s weeping cock as it stands starkly against pale skin. He can’t help but compare himself, noting that while Stanford is thicker than him, he beats the man out in length. He tries not to let himself preen too much.

Stanley huffs as his leg is taken off Ford’s shoulder and set down on the bed. He doesn’t give much of a reaction to the sudden stop to their fucking besides a slight pouty lip. Fiddleford knows that Stanley really is a good omega in that moment, no complaining, just talking whatever his partner gives him, even if it means stopping so abruptly. Stan is completely broken in, and if that doesn’t excite Fiddleford more than anything.

“Care to join us?” Stanford extends that first olive branch that Fiddleford latches onto instantly. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” He responds cheekily, striding over to the bed with a small grin. Luckily, the bed itself is a queen, maybe a bit cramped for three grown men, but better than his own twin bunk. 

Fiddleford, closer now, can make out the sight of Stanley’s gaping entrance, still drenched in slick, and the remnants of Stanford’s come from the round prior. It makes Fiddleford’s cock twitch needily, and he can smell his own pseudo-rut in the air. Fiddleford is quick to shed his clothes, too far gone to care about nudity at this point, crawling up onto the bed, solely focused on Stan as he reaches out and cups the side of the larger man’s face. 

When Fiddleford catches sight of the resignation in Stan’s eyes, he can’t find it in himself to feel bad; his body is aching to finally get his hands on the gorgeous omega in front of him. Fiddleford feels the weight of the bed shifting and is amused to find Stanford positioning himself behind Stan, manhandling his twin so that he can spoon him from behind, forcing them to sit up a bit and Fiddleford to scoot backward to give them space. Fiddleford doesn’t let his hand stray, however, and he uses a callused thumb to rub against Stan’s flushed cheek. The omega leans into it with a small sigh. Fiddleford feels his heart melt just a tad, but is interrupted from his sappy thoughts by a short rumble coming from Stanford. 

Figures that Stanford would still be possessive over his twin, household or not. Fiddleford doesn’t let the short growls his friend is releasing stop him; however, he leans forward and catches Stan’s lips in his own. Stan lets him in instantly, like instinct, and it makes Fiddleford rumble in approval as he licks into the grifter's willing mouth. He appreciates the plushness of the other man’s lips and the wet heat that he explores with his tongue. The kiss is fast to turn bruising; Fiddleford too pent up to stay gentle for Stan. Between gasps of air, the omega lets out small whines; the small noises do something sinful to Fiddleford’s core, and he finds himself grinding forward, rubbing his erection against Stan’s smaller one. The friction makes Fiddleford gasp, but he’s more distracted by Stanley’s adorable cock. It was no secret that Omega’s dicks were smaller than both alphas and betas, but it was another thing to see it for himself. Fiddleford had only ever been with other betas, his wife being one herself, and the– well, the proper term was microcock, fascinated him. It was so cute nestled between a thatch of curly dark hair, and the urge to lean forward and take it into his mouth was only thwarted by his ever-growing need to love, take, breed–

Fiddleford breaks away from Stan’s lips with great effort, grinding forward again to feel them press against each other. Stan lets out a small moan, a hand reaching back to grip Stanford’s shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut as Fiddleford continues to rut the two of them against each other. 

Stanford, done waiting, maneuvers Stan to sit on his knees, and reaches a six-fingered hand down to stroke his own cock, leading it to Stan’s entrance and pushing forward. The omega keens loudly as he’s breached once again, mouth hanging open in a beautiful O shape. 

Fiddleford’s hands find Stan’s full thighs, and he shifts closer so they are completely flush. Ford is quick to start up his previous pace, the thrusts force Stan to grind forward against Fiddleford’s cock, and it’s a delicious sort of pleasure with every pass of Stan’s body against the taller man’s member. Fiddleford leans forward with a groan to lick and suck at Stan’s skin, one hand coming up to grope at the man’s chest, elated to feel the soft flesh of a tit in his hand. He rolls the nipple he finds between his fingers, and Fiddleford delights in the stilted groan he receives from the action. 

Stan is bouncing wildly as Ford pounds away, the alpha grunting and moaning loudly, his hands wrapped around his twins’ middle and his chin hooked on Stanley’s shoulder. Stanford gives a particularly hard thrust that has Stan’s eyes filling with tears, and Fiddleford notices his expression is pinched like he’s in pain. Fiddleford tuts at Stanford and sends him a disapproving glance, but the other man just glares at him through hooded eyes, arms tightening around his brother. 

It might say something about Fiddleford, how the sight of Stanley’s tear-filled eyes fuels the fire in his stomach instead of stamping it out. 

Fiddleford takes Stan’s head in his hands once again, forcing eye contact; the man’s big brown eyes are wide and wet. Fiddleford strokes his thumbs down Stan’s cheeks and smiles, “You’re bein’ so good for us darlin’, takin’ Stanford so well.” Fiddleford takes one hand from Stan’s face to fumble downwards to take himself and Stan in his hand together. The omega gasps, pitching forward a bit, and Fiddleford takes his weight with his body. Stan buries his face in the skinny man’s chest and whines, and Fiddleford pets his hair with one hand and strokes them both with the other, making them shudder in unison. 

Fiddleford gives them a few more good tugs, a symphony of Stan’s short-punched-out moans, and Stanford’s grunts filling his ears as he reaches even further downward past Stanley’s cock to feel at his sopping entrance, his fingers briefly brushing against Stanford’s dick that’s busy driving into his brother as he does so.

“Stanford, think ya can slow down fer a second?” Fiddleford asks, entranced by the wet slowly coating his fingers as they poke and prod at Stanley’s hole. Stanford gives him an annoyed look, but relents, his eyes fill with realization and excitement when he realizes what Fiddleford plans to do. “Think ya can take us both sugar?” Fiddleford directs the question toward Stanley, but he’s already gripping his angry red dick in one hand and guiding it to Stan’s dripping core. He circles the inviting hole, and Stan reaches out and slings an arm around Fiddleford’s shoulder, the other still clutching Stanford behind him. 

“Ss’gonna be a lot, dunno if I can–can–” Stanley stutters nervously, but Stanford wraps a large hand around the omega's throat, the act demanding as it is threatening. “You can. You will.” Stanford’s tone leaves no room for argument, and Fiddleford can’t help the thrill that shivers down his spine. 

Stan hesitates for only a moment before he lowers his head and bares his neck, the act making Fiddleford twitch in his palm, and if the resounding moan from Ford is evidence enough, it affected his partner the same way. Ford lets his hand thread into Stan’s long hair carefully, and Fiddleford rumbles his affection into the side of Stan’s neck that Ford is not occupying. “That’s right, sweetheart. We’ll be mighty careful with ya, don’t worry yer pretty little head none.”  Stan whimpers a bit, but Fiddleford chooses to ignore it as he begins to push forward into that tight, inviting heat. 

Stanford had slowed to a halt, rut-addled brain at least retaining enough lunacy to understand that they needed to be careful for this part. Finally fitting into Stanley is just as exquisite as Fiddleford knew it would be, that warm entrance engulfing him completely as he pushes forward inch by torturous inch. Stanley keens a long string of “ah, ah, ahs”, tears finally spilling fast down his face as both Fiddleford and Stanford stretch him to the point of bursting. Fiddleford is sure to be slow, no matter how much he aches to just pin down Stan and take, but he knows the reward will be sweet as long as he lets Stan adjust. Fiddleford can feel the searing heat of Ford’s cock stuffed tightly next to his own, and it only adds to the delicious pleasure eating him up from the inside. Soon, Fiddleford is fully seated, and he groans low in his throat.

Fiddleford makes eye contact with Stanford over Stanley’s shoulder, and the other man nods, beginning to thrust shallowly. Fiddleford grips Stanley’s hips, the force probably bruising, but he can’t find it in himself to care. The feel of Ford’s cock paired with Stan’s wet heat surrounding him lights his whole body on fire; he has to physically hold himself back from jackhammering into the omega immediately. Fiddleford takes a breath and times himself, beginning to thrust as well, making sure to always be inside Stan when Ford is pulled back. Stan’s slick makes the slide impossibly easy despite the tight fit, and Fiddleford leans down, busying himself with sucking hickies into Stan’s skin to muffle his own embarrassingly high-pitched and frequent moans. 

They set a steady rhythm, but soon both Fiddleford and Stanford need more, rocking into the omega below them with renewed vigor. Stanley writhes on their cocks, keening and whining with each pass of them inside his body, tossing his head back and forth frantically. 

Fiddleford’s hips snap forward rapidly, chasing that beautiful sensation, and he angles himself slightly, “Ah, Fidds!” Stan cries loudly at the change, and Fiddleford’s name from the omega's lips whips him into a frenzy, setting a punishing pace as he plunges into Stanley, causing the younger man to wail. 

Stanford, never one to be outdone, jerks his hips faster, forcing himself deeper inside his brother, making Stan choke on a cry of “F–Ford!” The tears spilling down the drifter's face are beautiful, and Fiddleford doesn’t even think as he leans forward to lick them off, his panting breath mingling with Stan’s own. Stan jolts with the force of their fucking, and would have toppled over if not for Fiddleford and Stanford's tight grips. They continue to grind into Stanley’s tight heat together with reckless abandon. 

Stanford’s hips stutter in that telltale way, and Fiddleford soon finds himself reaching that familiar peak as well; he can feel his pseudo-knot begging to swell. A beta knot only shows up during a pseudo-heat and is much smaller than an alpha, but he can still feel it catching against Stan’s entrance, making it that much harder to rock into the welcoming heat. Fiddleford can feel Stanford’s knot almost completely inflated, doing the same. 

Stan’s eyes fill with fear as he feels their knots growing inside him, “You–you have to pull out, I can’t take two, I can’t–” 

Stanford and Fiddleford, both too far into their rut-induced hazes, don’t heed the omegas' pleas, only focused on fitting their burgeoning knots into the tight hole below them. “A–Ah! Hurts!” Stan's wailing cry is sobbed out as both men’s knots completely catch, unable to pull out anymore. Stanford comes first, hot spurts filling Stan and the very limited room inside him, the sensation of the extra heat surrounding Fiddleford’s cock is enough to send him over the edge as well, coming with a choked growl. Stan cries out desperately as he’s filled to the brim, stuffed so full that his stomach extends slightly. 

Panting fills the room as both Fiddleford and Stanford grind up into Stanley as they ride out the vestiges of their orgasms. When they finally come down enough, Ford peppers kisses on Stan’s neck. “So good for us, Stanley, you did so good.” Stanford’s voice is filled with awe, and Stan sniffles but leans back into his brother. The action pulls on both cocks still buried inside Stan; all three hiss at the sensation. 

Filbrick Pines was a man. He was large. He was tough. He was stern. He was strict. He didn’t cater to the sensitive nature of others. He was often called unfeeling by his wife. Everything he was supposed to be. 

Filbrick Pines is also observant. But he is also a man. So when he started paying more attention to his youngest, it was difficult not to notice her coming into her own so completely. 

Filbrick wouldn’t say he was attracted to her exactly; he was her father after all, but Stan was growing from a girl to a woman in record time. He watched and he waited and he noticed. 

He was observant, and he underestimated how much his daughter had taken after him. He knows that she was suspicious of his sudden involvement in her life. He wouldn't say he’d been completely uninvolved previously, however. He was present when the twins were young, but Filbrick was a busy man. As the years went by, he spent less and less time around his children, still there to discipline them when necessary, but nothing more. 

He knew what had changed. He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking he was some saint. His daughter had grown. She grew into a woman with ample breasts and hips and a plentiful stomach that the girl's mother couldn’t stand. But while she was a pretty little thing, what truly stood out to him was the shift in her eyes. The cleverness he could see was stored behind years of faked stupidity. 

Unlike the rest of his family, Filbrick could see past his daughter’s well-tailored suit of deception. He was observant. Stan had been on par with Stanford intelligence-wise late into their elementary years, but one day it had changed. She had fallen behind on purpose to let her freak of a brother shine and let him think it was all his own doing. Although it doesn’t truly matter, given how she’d let her smarts go so early, she was truly struggling now. She had always been a slower learner than her twin, but she could understand just as much, tough to say if that was the case anymore. It had taken him a while to see it, to understand his daughter was not just a bumbling idiot who didn’t know left from right. He wasn’t sure that wasn’t what she was turning into, however. It was a bit pathetic, but there was at least one thing she was good at. As she aged, she got better and better at lying, at hiding, so like her father without ever knowing it. She was made from the same stuff he was, and maybe that’s what really caught his attention.

She was better at talking back, better at weaseling her way out of punishments on technicalities, better at knowing just what to say and when to say it. She was not perfect, though. Filbrick could see through her games as easily as looking through a glass door, but she had everyone else fooled, and that’s what drew him in.

Filbrick was observant, but so was his daughter. She knew he was interested in something, wanted something from her, and she wasn’t wrong. Filbrick was a man, and he wanted what any man did. 

So Filbrick came back. Came back into her life with a harsh hand to quell that cleverness. To turn it into something useful. As much as it drew him to her, there was one thing he wanted from her more; something that he could never seem to have. Obedience. His wife was obedient, his sons even more so, but never her, never Constance. It was hilarious and pathetic that his daughter could have more balls than her brothers. It was as captivating as it was infuriating. She would go behind his back, talk back to him, and it would flame the embers of fury and desire all the more.

Filbrick was an observant man, but he was not a patient one. When he settled on what he wanted, he did not waste time. 

Punishing her was easy, as it had been all her life. She was a born troublemaker, and it was child’s play to catch her in moments that warranted harsh words and even harsher acts. But he did not send her to her room or let her mother comfort her afterwards, no, he took care of that himself. A novel change for him. He was never one for platitude or acts of kindness; no point in something that would gain no results. But he knew his daughter, more than she knew, and he could see her brighten with every caress and whispered comfort. 

He didn’t plan to touch her that night. Filbrick was furious, angrier than he had been in a good while, and when he bent her over his knee and felt her weight against him, felt the heat of her body, the careful control he’d been maintaining snapped like a taut rubber band. 

Filbrick was loath to lose control, something he hated more than anything, but who else could tempt him so? It was no surprise that he caved. 

And to be fair to himself, she was the one in one of his old shirts, hadn’t even bothered to change for the day, nipples showing through the fabric and pale thighs on display for all to see.

But he had only touched her, didn’t even fuck her. Oh, how he had wanted to, to take her right there, sitting in his lap, twitching and making such sweet sounds, but Filbrick had regained control of his passing fancies.

Filbrick knows this was the turning point, the point of no return, but he was not upset by the fact. He could teach her what he wanted her to know, could make her understand that he could not only bring her pain, but pleasure as well. That she could be rewarded for being good, just as she has always been punished for being bad.

Filbrick was a man of action, and he could teach his girl whatever he wanted, and he knew she would take it. 

Filbrick was observant, and he saw how she craved for it, craved for the attention he gave her. What, with the girl’s mother pulling away so early and her own twin abandoning her for his books. 

Filbrick knew his daughter, and he knew she was truly his now in all the ways that mattered. 

…

After that first night, she had been twitchy, probably taken aback by his actions. Always keeping Filbrick in sight, at arm's length. Always sticking by her twin or mother. But they could not stand her clinging for long, and soon Filbrick had his chance.

…

Constance is washing the dishes, her curly hair a mess and falling down her back in waves of dark brown. Filbrick knows his wife is in their shared room, preparing for the day. Stanford is upstairs with his nose in a book or whatever it is he gets up to.

Filbrick gets up from his seat at the dinner table, taking his time stepping behind his daughter. He can feel Stan tense and stop washing as Filbrick moves his hands to his daughter's hips, leading them to rest on her stomach and lace together. He lets his head hook on one of her shoulders. He has to lean down a bit due to the height difference, but it is worth it to feel her body heat pressing against his own. 

“Keep going.” He says with no inflection, just a demand.

Filbrick can see his daughter swallow nervously as she continues to wash the dishes, speeding up her work slightly.

It makes Filbrick want to chuckle. He doesn’t. 

They stay like that until Stan is done with the washing. She had unconsciously pushed back into Filbrick, practically melting against him, and if he were a lesser man, he would take her then and there. 

But he is not stupid, and that is a line he cannot cross. Not yet, at least. He can hear his wife's footsteps approaching, and he reluctantly pulls away from his daughter's back. 

When he steps back, he can see Stan's eyes darting this way and that, wider than normal and sporting an expression of quiet confusion. 

She's shaking a bit. Either from the sudden cold or from fear, he doesn't know.

He guesses that from her point of view, he must seem unpredictable. He can't bring himself to care.

Filbrick walks away to open the pawnshop for the day, catching a flash of brown as Stan makes her way up the stairs hurriedly.

…

It goes like this for a few days. He touches her when he wants to, a hand on her shoulder, her neck, her hips. Just lets himself hold her, feel her whenever the mood strikes. Filbrick had never been a particularly touchy man, but something about his daughter made him want to grab her and never let her go. 

He can see the shift in her behavior. She’s no longer scared of it, the brief touches. Practically seeks it out, and why wouldn’t she? So robbed of touch these past years, it’s no surprise. 

He’s a bit surprised she hasn’t brought up that night yet. Maybe she’s embarrassed, maybe she’s afraid, or maybe she’s waiting. Waiting for what he’ll do next. But his girl is a loud-mouth, no amount of lectures or the switch has ever been enough to correct that mouth of hers, so it wouldn’t be unusual for her to bring it up to him. 

Ah, he’s been thinking about her mouth too often lately. Filbrick’s never been one for oral, but in his daughter, he could see the appeal. 

She hadn’t inherited her mother’s thin lips, no, they were full and tinted a dusty pink even without the red she tended to paint them. He could imagine it then, those lips stretched wide around his cock, the mess of drool that would run down her chin. He would pet her hair and whisper encouragements in soft tones, if only to keep her placated. She would be inexperienced, a bit too messy, too sloppy, but she would try so, so hard for him, just like she had that night strewn across his lap, taking it so well for her Pa. 

But it was just a fantasy, and one he wasn’t sure he could indulge in. Because touching her was one thing, it wasn’t sex. Not really, anyway. A blowjob was a bit more involved, and so was fucking her, but God, how he wanted to.

He needs to get out of his head about this, or he's going to pop a boner in the middle of the fucking pawnshop. He huffs to himself and resigns to another day of conning to put food on the table.

…

It gets harder and harder to stop himself. He knows he doesn’t truly need to; he can do whatever he wants to his daughter, but he is not stupid, and he knows the implications of his actions perfectly well. 

Constance is chatting with her brother in the living room, her voice loud and jovial, as she recalls a clearly embellished tale from her lifeguard job at the beach. 

Her hair is frizzy and large from the salty ocean water, still clad in her bright red two-piece swimsuit. It hugs her broad frame tightly, pushing cleavage forward, making it practically spill out from the garment. Her bottoms do nothing to hide the generous fat of her stomach. He wants to remove it and see the red indents he is sure the suit will have left behind. 

Filbrick leans against the doorway, arms crossed, not bothering to follow her story. He notes the red flush of his son’s face, the way his eyes dart to and fro. 

Hm. 

He and his son may be more similar than he thought.

Filbrick moves into the room slowly, and the twins' eyes are on him immediately.

Constance smiles when she notices him, the grin she sports is lopsided and showcases the one dimple she has on her left cheek. It’s awkward but genuine. 

“Hey, Pa! I was just tellin’ Ford about my shift today–” Filbrick didn’t bother to listen to whatever inane shit his youngest got up to, instead he took a seat next to her on the couch to watch the television. 

This wasn’t new for her, the rambling. He’s sure he might’ve smacked her for it in the past, but he couldn’t find it to be annoyed with her right now. 

With little thought, he drapes his arm across the sofa behind Stan, hand resting on her shoulder. She pauses for a second, eyeing him with a look of thinly veiled apprehension, looking at her brother for a second before continuing her story, her voice a bit more strained. He liked the sound of it like that.

He begins to run his thumb across Stan’s shoulder in small sweeps, making the girl’s voice hitch. 

Filbrick can feel eyes on him, and he turns his head from where it was focused on the TV screen to look over. Stanford is looking at him. The older man raises an eyebrow from under his sunglasses, and the boy looks away quickly. 

No need to worry about him, then.

…

It wasn’t more than a week before Filbrick needed more.

He was not and had never been a patient man.

His wife was gone for the weekend, maybe even longer, out to visit Sherman and his wife to help with their newborn. 

Stanford was in the twins’ shared bedroom. Filbrick could hear the persistent tapping of his son's foot, something he did when particularly focused. Filbrick needed to get him to stop such annoying habits.

Filbrick was closing the pawnshop for the day when Constance walked through the door. Her hair was a mess as it always was when she got back from work, but what caught his eye was the rapidly swelling hand imprint on her cheek and the bloody knuckles she was sporting.

“I thought I told ya no more fights,” Filbrick said, voice stern and annoyance clear. 

“Didn’t wanna.” She mumbled, trying to make her way into the house, but Filbrick blocked her path.

“Stop mumbling,” He snapped sharply, voice rising. “What happened?” Filbrick was not asking; the demand she tell him was clear.

Stan shuffled her feet a bit before answering, not meeting his eyes.

“Some shmuck grabbed me on my way back from work. Told him ta knock it off. Didn’t like that, I guess, I dunno…” She mumbled again, making his temper flare, before he saw the distant look in her eyes. 

Maybe grabbing isn’t all the mystery man tried to do. 

Filbrick hummed in acknowledgment. 

“Can I go, sir?” His daughter asks, her voice is quiet but firm. He doesn’t appreciate the attitude, but he supposes he can let it slide for now. 

“Come with me.” He says simply, Stan trails behind him slowly as he leads her into the bathroom. Filbrick can see her confusion, but he just holds out a hand expectantly. She seems to get the message and puts her hand in his. He turns it around and sees that the damage to her knuckles isn’t bad, mostly superficial. The mystery man must’ve been easy to put out, then.

He takes her to the sink and grabs a washcloth. His wife will complain about the stains.

He maneuvers his daughter so she is in front of him, and he stands over her from the back, not all that different a position from the one they were in in the kitchen days before. He can see the pink spreading to her cheeks.

He rinses her hands first, the angle making it easier for him. He ignores the hiss of pain he gets from the action. He is not gentle when he whips the remaining blood from her knuckles with the washcloth, but he does ease up when he applies some ointment to them. Stan signs in relief at the treatment.

This is the most gentle he's been with her in years. He's surprised to find he doesn't hate it.

Filbrick runs his thumbs over her knuckles a few times, not moving out from behind her. She’s wearing her usual white tank top and jean shorts; he can see the hint of red where she has her swimsuit on under her shirt. 

Filbrick doesn’t think as he goes to move Stan’s hair to one side, exposing her neck to him. With little preamble, he leans down, breath ghosting her throat, not yet touching but close. He sees her full body shiver and feels satisfaction, a hot and quick rush to his system. 

Didn’t even have to do anything special, and she has him feeling like this.

He's sure his mustache is tickling her, but she doesn't move away from him. Not like he'd let her.

Filbrick can't recall the last time he'd felt the need to lay claim to something so completely. He examines the girl's neck and the skin that's revealed therein. The usual pale pallor, slightly tanned from her time out in the sun, the light dusting of freckles, the occasional mole, something she inherited from him. 

He kisses the mole right between the junction of her neck and shoulder before moving upwards to the side of her neck, ghosting there for a second before he starts to mouth at the soft skin. 

“Mm!” He can tell the sound embarrasses her, the girl’s face turning a bright shade of red. As red as her swimsuit. 

The girl gets into trouble so often that no one will notice a few new bruises. 

His daughter scrambles to grab his shoulder when Filbrick begins to lave with his tongue and suck harshly, not bothered by the thought of the dark hickeys he knows will be prominent tomorrow. 

He continues like this for a while, drawing soft moans from his daughter's throat that she tries to stifle to no avail. 

Filbrick soon releases his youngest’s neck. Stan’s arm is still clutching his shoulder, squeezing and releasing. He’s amused to find she’s rubbing her thighs together in search of a friction that won’t come. 

He forgets she’s a teenager, excited by the simplest things. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he wants to indulge her. Wants to indulge himself. 

She’s desperate for it, and he’s happy to let himself finally give in. 

Filbrick takes Stan’s hand off his shoulder before he steps back slightly. He grunts at her and motions with his head for her to follow. She understands and walks after him, face aflame.

He leads her to his and his wife’s shared bedroom. Constance hesitates in the doorway while Filbrick goes and sits on the bed, the springs creaking with his weight.

He can see the swirling emotions clouding her dark brown eyes. The fear, the apprehension, the desperation. He wants to replace that conflict with something much more streamlined. 

“Come here.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. 

Constance's gaze snaps to him, and she seems to steady herself before making her way over to him. She sits down next to him, but that is not what he wants.

“No. Here.” Filbrick pats his lap as one might when calling over an animal or pet of some kind. 

Filbrick’s throat hurts. He’d been talking more often; more than he had his entire life, if he had to guess. Constance seemed to bring out his need for speech. His wife knew what he liked, what he wanted, with just a grunt or a look, but it was taking time to train Stan. She had always been a slow learner, and Filbrick was not a patient man, but he held no qualms in taking the time to teach her, to truly break her in. 

He catches the moment of realization as Stan's face floods a beautiful crimson. 

She's been uncharacteristically silent these last few interactions they've had. He doesn't mind the quiet. 

With little fanfare, she crawls onto his lap, straddling him. Her movements are stilted, as if she can't decide whether she wants to run away or give herself to him completely. He's not sure she knows either. 

Stan's hands come and rest on his shoulders, lacing behind his head. Filbrick places his hands on his daughter's wide hips, and to feel her solid against him again is fantastic. He feels like an idiot for thinking such things, to be so affected by his girl, but he can't bring himself to be too upset, not when he finally has her like this.

He starts to stroke up and down her flank, feeling her up while using the movements to keep himself grounded, no need to rush. 

But Filbrick is not a patient man, and so he careens his head up to suck more hickeys into the bottom of his daughter's jaw. 

She gasps at the sudden sensation, and he hears her whimper of pain when he tongues over one of the forming bruises he gave her earlier. 

His hand trails over the side of her neck to the back of her head, holding her in place as he does what he likes to her soft skin, his head traveling further and further down until he's at the bottom of the neckline of her tank top. 

“Off.” 

“Pa, I-” Stan starts but tapers off, biting her lip and looking to the side. 

Filbrick reaches up and takes off his sunglasses to see her better in the dim lighting of his bedroom.

Stan stares at him, mouth parted in quiet shock, before she gets a hold of herself and tries to finish. 

“I'm- I've never-” 

“I know, doll.”

He does know. Would’ve been furious if she had. He knows she’s been hanging around that Carlos boy recently; best to end that now. She won't need anyone else after this. 

He doesn’t bother waiting any longer, gripping the bottom of Stan’s tank top and tugging it swiftly over her head.

She yelps and goes to cover herself, but Filbrick grabs her arms forcefully.

Her eyes are wide and startled, afraid. He doesn’t reassure her; he’s getting impatient.

He places her hands back on his shoulders; the look he gives her makes it clear she cannot move them. Her nod of acknowledgment is shallow and timid, so unlike her usual self. 

Filbrick can see the little confidence she had earlier fizzle out, and he feels a rush of something unidentifiable at the observation. Best for her to be cowed; to know who’s in control.

He hums quietly, appreciating the sight of the bright red swimsuit top against his daughter’s pale skin. Mostly clear, hints of the beginnings of acne, a testament to her age. A copious amount of freckles and moles, just like her neck. 

Stan’s hands clench on his shoulders unconsciously, eyes doing their best to avoid his (now uncovered) ones. He raises an eyebrow at his youngest child. 

Her pupils are pinpricks, and her breathing has sped up; she understands what he wants. Good. She’s getting better at reading him. Maybe she’s a faster learner than he thought. 

Constance forces her shaky hands behind her back to unclasp the swimsuit, letting it fall to the ground somewhere behind her. She’s shaking all over now, but stays seated in his lap, doesn’t bolt like he knows she wants to. He’s almost proud.

Her tits are just as gorgeous as he knew they’d be. They’re large, larger than any 16-year-olds have any right to be, nipples dusty pink and standing at attention in the cold of the room. He’d never been one to particularly care about size, didn’t even like huge tits if his wife wasn’t evidence enough of that, but once again, his daughter wears it so well he can’t help but appreciate it. 

He doesn’t waste time and leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He fondles the other breast, appreciating the curve and softness of the flesh. He kneads it and brushes his thumb against her nipple and nips the one in his mouth, barely grazing it with his teeth. The gasp he gets from the action is loud in the silence of the room. 

He hums, and Stan whimpers at the sensation, pushing herself further into his mouth. He can feel her grind down slightly, most likely unconsciously. He can feel the moment she brushes against his hard on, her body tensing and jolting. 

When he’s had his fill of her, he pulls off with a wet pop. She looks unnerved but tantalizingly desperate. He knows that she needs him even if she isn’t so sure herself.  

With a grunt, he grips her hips and pulls her with him to the center of the bed, keeping Consatnce secure in his lap. 

“S-Shit, Pops!” Stan titters, balking at his strength. If he were a different man, he might’ve been offended. But Constance is not a light girl, so her surprise is warranted. 

He tugs the hem of her jean shorts. The length might’ve been more modest on another girl, but they tend to ride up, exposing more of her thighs than they should. They’re her favorite pair.

He unbuttons them with deft fingers. Doesn’t pay mind to his daughter’s trembling. It’s getting annoying how she can’t control herself. 

Her fear is unwarranted. He’s not going to be too rough with her. 

“Off.” He repeats. He puts a hand to the small of her back, pushing her forward and up. She goes easily, lifting herself and leaning on one of his shoulders for support as he helps her shimmy out of her shorts. She kicks them off to the floor somewhere in the room, jostling them both. 

He sees the red bottoms of her swimsuit stand out against her pale skin, and though the contrast is striking, he wants them off too. 

Filbrick hums quietly as he teases the edge of the material, but a hand stops him. He looks up to see his daughter's eyes, wide and alarmed.

He’s frustrated now, but he doesn’t want to spook her off completely. He could rein in his temper for her; he could control himself like that. 

Filbrick sighs, taking her wrist in his hand, his large, laborer’s hand practically dwarfing hers. Realizing that sends a rush of heat through him; he’s bigger than her, stronger than her, could do anything he wanted to her. But that’s where the careful control he maintains comes into play; he could do anything he wants to her, but he doesn’t; he holds himself back. Accountable. That’s part of the fun.

And besides, he’s touched her there before. She’s being dramatic.

He caresses her wrist with his thumb, making sure to look her in the eye. She’s thrown off by it, so unused to seeing his eyes bare. 

He doesn’t reassure her, but he extracts her hand from his slowly. Carefully. 

When she doesn’t resist, he gives her a rumble of approval that she preens at. His girl is so predictable.

“Come on, sweetheart. Off.” 

The red of her swimsuit has transferred to her face down through her neck and shoulders; it should be pathetic, but it looks striking on her. 

She isn’t confident exactly, still too timid about the situation for that, but she reaches back and takes her bottoms off with his help.

With that act of finality, she’s completely bare to him. He hums his appreciation, it wasn’t even to make her feel better. She truly was maturing so quickly. It’s impressive he’s held out for so long.

He finally lets his hands roam down the soft chub of her stomach and over the gracious curve of her hips, without fabric obstructing the feel of her skin against his. 

The first time he touched her, he hadn’t taken her in fully, had gotten a bit ahead of himself, he could admit. He looks down at the skin revealed from under the suit's bottom. The dark curls of her pubic hair against her pale skin, the few moles he can spot on her inner thighs.

He wants her now. 

Filbrick runs his hands down her sides just to feel her heat. Constance shivers and leans further into the touch. He careens up to kiss her jaw a bit more. She tries to stifle a whine, but Filbrick just sucks harder, and the whimper becomes clear and unrestrained. He likes hearing her; her voice isn’t soft, truly just a slightly more feminine version of her brother’s, but the gravel in it is all her. 

He’s a bit amused with everything. He can tell just how much she hates the vulnerability, how she wants to flee, but doesn’t. Can’t. Too tempted by the promise of the attention she so craves in whatever form she can get it. It might’ve been sad if he weren’t reaping the rewards so thoroughly. 

Filbrick is not going to undress, sees no need. But he does need to free himself from his pants as the material is becoming painfully tight. He’s not embarrassed by his arousal; he’s a man, men have needs, and this is just one of them. His daughter knows this. 

He can see her tense at the sound of the belt buckle, and he lets out a sound akin to a chuckle but not quite. 

He takes himself in hand when he’s finally freed from the confines of his slacks with a quiet groan of relief. 

Constance is staring and blushing like a bride on her wedding night. The comparison makes him let out a genuine short chuckle. More of a release of breath than anything, but it makes Stan’s brown eyes snap to his face, expression unreadable.

For a second, he contemplates how he wants to take her; he’d never been one for anything fancy, just whatever got the job done. He knows he wants to see her face, to watch her expressions. 

The girl wiggles in his lap, impatient, and he gives her a look of short exasperation. She at least has the decency to look ashamed. 

“Patience, baby. I’ll give it to you.” He mutters. Ha. How ironic. 

He lays her down on her back, her dark curls spreading out behind her head like a halo. He gives himself a minute to take her all in. Spread out and ready for him, he knows this was always meant to happen. 

“Pa, I’m–” Filbrick shushes her, he gives himself a tug, spreading the precum that had gathered at his tip to wet his dick a bit. He knows she’ll be wet enough for him, just like she was last time. 

Her legs instinctively wrap around his hips, locking together. He rumbles his approval once again. 

The anticipation is too much. He grabs his dick and guides it to her entrance. 

He finally enters the tight, wet heat of his daughter, and he knows that this, this is what she was made for. She had no need for smarts like her brother. No need for the strength she insisted on pursuing in boxing. No, all she needed was to give him the richness of her body in his marital bed. This is how he would keep her useful; she had no need to be anything else.

“Ah–hah,” Stan’s eyes are wide as saucers, mouth hanging open and making a beautiful O shape. He’s going to fuck her mouth soon. 

“Oh God, Oh God.” His daughter rambles, arms coming up to grab the sheets next to her in a desperate attempt to ground herself. 

“Sh,” Filbrick hushes her, “I’ll take care of you.” 

And that’s exactly what he was doing now, his girl moaning and clenching around his cock so nicely. He’s the one making her feel this way.

God, she’s tight. If he had any doubts, they’re completely assuaged now. He lets himself groan at the feeling, stilling in her, letting her adjust. 

He can see her hitching breaths. He adjusts his arms so they’re placed on either side of her head.

“Pa. Pa.” A broken record. She sounds on the verge of tears, her eyes now clenched shut.

His fragile control snaps. He pulls out, painstakingly slowly, before pushing back in one long smooth stroke. 

Constance chokes and swears loudly, hands rising to wrap around his neck, tugging him closer desperately as Filbrick begins a steady pace.

She’s just as wet as he’d known she’d be, so desperate for it, for him. She’s completely unintelligible now, moaning and clawing at him for more. He complies without complaint.

The softness of her walls draws him in, urges him to pound into her faster, harder, deeper. So he does.

She’s more graceful like this than he’s ever seen her. Undulating her hips up to meet his, his usually clumsy and bumbling daughter, was so in her element. 

Filbrick is breathing hard, the soft body under him trembling and groaning at his pace. The sound of slapping echoed throughout the room, loud and obscene. His daughter’s face is twisted in ecstasy, and he’s sure his is similar, if not more restrained. 

“Ah, ah! Shit, Pa! Pa– please–” She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for. 

He and his daughter are drenched in sweat from the exertion of it all. It makes the slide between their bodies easier. The slick sounds of him sliding in and out of her cunt has him speeding up even more, earning him a high-pitched wail in response. 

He can feel his orgasm approaching slowly, but he can feel his girls coming on quickly. The clenching and increased swearing keying him into her tumble over the edge. 

“Pa! I’m–I’m close, please,” She begs and begs. He grabs her arms from his shoulders and pins them above her head with one hand, forcing himself even deeper inside her. She arches her back at the new angle, keening lowly and shuddering violently, causing Filbrick to swear at the sensation. 

He can tell the exact moment she comes, her entire body tensing, clenching so tightly around him it’s almost painful. Her moan is long and low. A string of ‘ah, ah, ahs.’

She’s drooling, eyes rolled up in her head. Completely debatched by his hand. 

This only spurs him on further, his girl’s expression turning panic-stricken when he doesn’t let up. 

He gives a particularly hard thrust, rolling his hips in shorts, deep bursts. Constance squeals, incapable of focusing on anything but the feeling of Filbrick splitting her open on his cock.

Filbrick can feel his orgasm fast approaching. Stan is screaming in overstimulation as he pumps into her rapidly, a mess of tears and spit, but Filbrick can’t bring it in himself to care. 

“Pa–please, stop, hurts! It hurts!” Stan wails, sobbing and yelping at every thrust. 

He shushes her, bringing his hand, the one not gripping her wrists, to the side of her face, cupping it lightly, a stark contrast to the fevered pounding of his hips. 

Her eyes are glazed and pained in that specific way that comes with the intensity of sex. A perfect brand of pain that he loves to see on her. He hums and strokes her cheek, leaning down to kiss her temple. He angles his hips, and the groan he draws from her at the action is downright pornographic. 

“You’re being so good for me, sweetheart.” Stan stutters out a high-pitched moan and clenches around him again in her second orgasm of the night. 

He gives a few more deep thrusts before pulling out completely. He doesn’t let himself come in her; no matter how much he wants to, he may have given in to his desires, but he can comfort himself with the fact that he did not come in her. He can give himself credit where credit is due. 

He takes himself in hand, pumping a few times before he spills on her stomach, growling loudly as he does. He lets himself collapse next to her, both of them breathless and panting.

His daughter is twitching and shaking, whimpering slightly, completely overwhelmed. He hauls her on top of him and into his arms, her weight grounding. 

She wraps her arms around him, and he splays one hand on her back, the other coming to rest on the back of her head, tucking it into the crook of his neck. He shushes her until she’s no longer making any heartbreaking sounds, her noises eventually tapering off to some sniffling and the occasional shudder. 

He is too tired to get up, and he’s sure his daughter is too. They can clean up tomorrow. 

He situates them under the bed covers, noting his girl has passed out. He follows not long after. 

…

With Filbrick being as observant as he claims to be, he should’ve noticed the tapping from upstairs coming to a halt. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar.