You were guilty. Guilty of the intimacy shared in touches on your cheek, thighs, and waist that lingered too long, the hand on your lower back as he guided you through the crowded lobby or the busy bar, the kisses to the forehead, the care that seemed to blend into more and more actions as the days without Helen went on. And was it your fault? His fault? No one’s fault? You didn’t know, and neither of you spoke about it. It just was, just like the tears in your eyes when he left and the anger in your face when he came back broken, bleeding and bruised, but he always came back to you.

You were grieving. Everyone grieves differently. But you were almost certain that anyone who was grieving didn’t do what you and John did in the dark.

John life, after the loss, returned to its default. There was at least symmetry in that, maybe something poetic between the lines, but yours had been flipped inside out, upside down, and completely sideways. A few years ago, you were in your first year of college, away from home, and now, you lived in the New York Continental, praying (even though you never went to church a day in your life) for your step fathers safety, for John to come back to you, even if he wasn’t in one piece because you always knew you could put him back together.

John was gone again. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your head and you asked him, “When will you be back?” He didn’t answer you, didn’t say a time or a day, not even a month. Zip, zilch, nada. But he rarely spoke these days. You once heard him go on a whole thirty minute tangent about the importance of the power of steering at the dinner table, and now he never said anything more than a few syllables.

You hated him for it. You hated him for leaving. You hated him for killing. You hated the Baba Yaga.

So you drank. You sat your ass at the bar downstairs, surrounded by contracted killers, gangsters, crime bosses, lords and kings, and you drank until you couldn’t see straight. Then you stumbled back to yours and Johns room, and went to bed. When you woke up, you did it all over again until he eventually came back.

You would patch him up, and afterward he would retreat to bed for the rest he so desperately needed, his arms wound tightly around you as though afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip. Sometimes he would press soft kisses against your neck and murmur apologies into your skin—for being gone, for losing your mother, for forcing you to clean the blood from his body. You never asked which apology he meant; you simply assumed it was all of them. His hands would drift across your exposed thighs, tracing absent-minded shapes while his face remained buried in the crook of your neck, content for a moment to simply feel you there. Perhaps you were the only thing that tethered him to his humanity. Perhaps you were the only thing that still made him feel at all. Then morning would come, and he would leave again. The cycle repeated itself relentlessly, day after day, week after week, month after month

Did John hate you? You’ve been circling that thought for quite some time, but only when he was away. When you felt the nearness of him, even if he was distant and ignored you, the only thing you questioned was his health. Was he okay? Did he need rest? When was the last time he ate? Can he just answer you?

You were fairly certain he saw you as nothing more than a nuisance. John didn’t know what to do with you, and you certainly didn’t know what to do with John. What would Helen do? Neither of you had any idea how often the other asked that question, nor how often it was met with silence. Whatever it was the two of you were doing, neither of you could pretend it was the right answer. Maybe it should have ended a long time ago, or maybe it should never have started at all. But after a while, neither of you bothered looking for another way out. This arrangement, however flawed, was familiar, and familiarity was the only thing you had. This torment was as good as it could ever get.

Every time John looked at you, he saw Helen and maybe that could have been enough to ease his grief, but all you did was scream at him. Every time you looked at John, you saw someone who didn’t want you in a world where you had no one else. You were hurting and he was gone, so why wouldn’t you scream at him? Why wouldn’t he understand? And if he did, why didn’t he care?

You realized, not too long ago now, that you were no longer just grieving your mother, but John and yourself as well.

The only difference was that your mother couldn’t feel she was dead.

Company at the bar filtered through, Winston sometimes would sit with you, and you enjoyed his company the most. The things he had to say, particularly regarding John, or Johnathan as he called him, did seem to ebb your pain just enough to not completely break down, but not enough for you to avoid the bartender, who you’ve also grown quite fond of. She gave you free drinks from time to time, on guise of the being the Baba Yaga’s daughter—step. You’d correct her. She’d always wave it off.

Most people didn’t bother you, by now they all knew who you were and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say they were afraid to converse with you. John didn’t want you leaving the Continental, not without him, it was too dangerous, so this was your own little prison surrounded by people who avoided you like the plague. Tonight, though, new guests arrived, and you supposed they hadn’t known who you were, who you belonged to, because they sat their asses beside you, and sparked conversation.

It was nice to start, they’d buy you drinks, ask about your stay at the Continental, and you, clever as can be, specifically deterred away from naming the Baba Yaga. At least then, people weren’t scared of making camaraderie with you, and really, at the end of the day, that’s all you needed. A friend.

Then he returned, the Baba Yaga, staggering through the doors of the bar. His hair hung in tangled, sweat-soaked strands, blood dripping from his split knuckles and trailing down the side of his temple, with even more seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He looked as though he had crawled from the aftermath of a war. His clothes were in disarray: jacket torn, shirt hanging loose from his trousers. Every step seemed carried more by stubbornness than strength, he looked half-dead, yet somehow still standing, sustained by nothing but sheer will and whatever fury burned behind his exhausted eyes.

He paused in the doorway to scan the room before his eyes found yours and he began moving again. You newly beloved friends acted quick, standing to greet him like deers in headlights.

“Mr. Wick!” One said, bashfully, “what can we—“

But he walked past them, straight to you. Then he stopped by your stool, waiting for you to look at him, say something, but you ignored him.

You were sick of his sudden disappearances, sick of his sudden arrivals. You were sick of him.

He was panting, as though he had ran eleven blocks before arriving a bleeding mess at your feet. You stared at your drink before taking another gulp, still refusing to look at the mess of a man. His hand found your lower back, more pressure in the gesture as if he’s not only attempting to draw your attention but leaning on you to stand straight.

He knew you were upset, you always were.

“Come to bed,” the words were more forced than they usually had been, like it hurt him to speak. Spiritually, morally or physically, you didn’t care, though a small part of you might have hoped for the latter.

You shrugged his hand off, refusing to look at him because for once, you wanted to give him the silent treatment. John didn't seem particularly fond of that. The moment your hand drifted back toward your drink, his other hand closed around your wrist. With a quiet sigh, he tried to guide you off the stool.

You shoved him. Hard.

John stumbled back a step, his hip striking the stool behind him and it toppled over with a sharp crash, skidding across the floorboards before coming to rest beneath a nearby table. The noise cut through the hum of conversation and the low music emitting from the speakers. Glasses paused halfway to mouths, and a game of pool stopped mid-shot as almost every head turned. The bartender glanced up from drying a glass, clearly debating whether intervention was worth the risk, she wisely decided it wasn't.

The small group you'd been chatting with only moments earlier suddenly found somewhere else to be. One muttered an excuse and slipped away, another grabbed their drink and retreated toward the far end of the bar and the last offered you an awkward, apologetic smile before deciding they wanted absolutely no part in whatever was unfolding. Within seconds, the empty stools around you outnumbered the occupied ones.

An uncomfortable space formed around you and John, as though the rest of the patrons had unconsciously taken a collective step backward. Some tried not to stare, and others made no effort whatsoever. You couldn't really blame them, no business was to be conducted at the Continental, but this wasn’t business, it was domestic, and it was John Wick. Unsurprisingly, everyone went back to doing their own thing pretty quickly as John picked up the stool.

He turned back to you. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re gone.” You spat back, still refusing to look at him. If you look at him, you’ll cave and give him what he wants. You couldn’t refuse that face, the face that tells you somewhere deep inside, John still exists, the man your mother loved is still in there, even when you didn’t know for sure, even when you wiped the blood off his face and he disappeared right after, even when you see more bodies on the news, knowing he was the one who killed them.

You hated the Baba Yaga, you missed John, and some twisted shameful part of you loved the halfbreed creature in the middle of the two. It was the best you could ever get out of him now.

John grabbed you more firmly this time and hauled you off the stool. Your drink sloshed dangerously over the rim as you struggled against him, but it made little difference. He pulled you upright with ease, ignoring every insult you threw his way.

"I'm not—" you grunted, twisting against his grip. "Just leave me—"

"Quit." The single word came with a sharp shake that rattled through your shoulders.

Your nails dug into his arm, where he had what could possibly be a gunshot wound but you didn’t know for sure. What you did know was that he was bleeding there and it seemed like a good place to, for once, actually make him feel something. John groaned lowly in subtle pain, more nuisance, and swatted your hand away. He did it with too much force though, and your wrist slammed into the edge of the bar. You let out a quiet wince—

“Might I suggest you take this to your room?”

You both stilled in your little squabble and turned to find Charon standing composed as ever, hands folded in front of him.

If it was anyone else, hell if it was even Winston, you would have spat a dirty insult at them. But not Charon. You adored him, and John respected him. So, you let up and nodded softly. John’s grip on you loosened, following suit by giving Charon a nod as well.

John changed when your mother died, or maybe he reverted. You didn’t know this man, this black suited mystery that invoked fear in everyone who knew him. He was mean. Aggressive. Quiet. A mass murderer. Yes, at times he was gentle with you, so so gentle, as though you were glass that might crack if he grabbed you too harshly, but at other times, like right now, you felt as though maybe he had yet to distinguish you from those he intended to kill. He still had that lurking demon in him when he was freshly back, still stinking with the musk of death, hungry for more violence, that ached for you when no one was around.

You quickly downed your drink and allowed John to guide you out of the bar and to the elevator.

In the elevator, his hands found you, curling around your waist and drawing you flush against him. His bloodied knuckles left crimson streaks across your skin, a ritual by now, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck. The elevator was already small, but he crowded closer still, boxing you in until there was nowhere left to go except into him.

He was still craving it, bloodshed, and you hate it. The violence takes all emotion away from him, and he’s left as the empty shell of a man, he’s left as the boogeyman and you don’t know what to expect of him. The softness—John—won’t come back until tomorrow.

“You’re bleeding,” you mutter as the elevator continued its ascent, “you should go see the doctor.”

“No.”

Why did you bother?

Back in the hotel room you wished you hadn’t booked, you guided him toward the bed you wished wasn’t yours and pressed him down onto the edge of the mattress.

As he went to work on taking his shoes off, you turned back to the small bar and mini fridge in the corner of the room. The bottle of whiskey was nearly empty, but there was still enough for at least three more drinks, or just one really strong one.

As you stirred your drink, johns voice shot over your shoulder.

“Not enough?”

You could have ignored his snide comment, and you knew you should have, but you never did before, not to mention John knew it too and was most likely baiting you.

“Fuck you, John,” you replied, your voice surprisingly calm. With your brand new drink in hand, you turned back to face him.

He was in the middle of wrenching off his tie, but he stopped to sigh at the sight of you. “You should—“

“You are in no position to tell me what to do.” You spat, that calmness you had a moment ago now completely out the window before taking a generous sip of your drink that’s probably stronger than it needed to be.

He didn't say anything in response. Instead, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the short distance between you. When he reached for the glass, you immediately jerked it out of reach. John shot you a brief sideways glance. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. Exhaustion sat heavy on him, but so did frustration, and at this point the two had become almost impossible to separate.

He reached for the drink again. You sidestepped him before he could get his hands on it and retreated toward the bed.

"Hey." Your name followed a second later, quieter this time, less of a command than a plea as though he was already tired of the argument before it had properly begun.

You ignored him, naturally.

Dropping onto the edge of the mattress, you kicked your shoes off with considerably less care than he had shown his own. One bounced across the carpet while the other skidded along the floorboards, both eventually colliding with John's socked foot.

The impact wasn't hard enough to hurt but it was hard enough to annoy him, everything you did seemed to do that. A low sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He glanced down at the offending shoes before he drew his foot back and kicked the shoes across the room.

They shot over the carpet, one clipping the leg of a chair before both slammed into the wall with a sharp crack. The impact was forceful enough that one of them bounced back and landed upside down near the dresser. The noise echoed through the small hotel room.

John's chest rose and fell heavily. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, and the shoes had simply been the nearest thing available to take the brunt of it.

“Take it fucking easy!” you shouted, immediately climbing to your feet. The drink on the nightstand was forgotten as quickly as it had been set down. “Mom bought me those shoes!”

“With my money,” he replied, voice raised but still not enough to be classified as a shout. John never yelled at you. No, you did that more than enough for the both of you.

“Asshole!” You stormed across the room to inspect the damage, snatching one of the shoes off the floor and turning it over in your hands as though expecting to find a hole punched through the leather.

You turned back toward the bed, still muttering under your breath, and immediately frowned. Something was missing. Your gaze drifted toward the nightstand.

“What did you do with my drink?” You angled back to him.

He crossed his arms, shaking his head as if he had the audacity to be disappointed in you. “I dumped it out.”

“You what?”

John didn’t answer. The empty glass sitting beside the sink told you everything you needed to know and whatever patience you’d been clinging to throughout the evening evaporated instantly.

“You dumped it out?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Are you serious?”

“You’ve had enough.”

You let out a sharp laugh, though there wasn’t anything remotely funny about the situation. “Enough according to who? You?” You took a step toward him. “You disappear for weeks at a time, show up looking like you’ve crawled out of a fucking warzone, and now suddenly you’re worried about my drinking?”

John dragged a hand down his face, already looking exhausted by the conversation. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” you echoed, a brow raised, “you started it!”

His jaw tightened again. “You’ve been drinking all night.”

“And you’ve been getting shot at all night. I don’t see me pouring your hobbies down the drain.” You knew you were pushing him and at this point, you weren’t even trying to stop yourself. John’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough.”

“You didn’t have to dump my drink!”

“I mean it.”

“No!”

Before you had the chance to even pull away, John’s hand closed around your arm and shoved you backward. Your shoulders collided with the wall, the framed picture hanging above your head rattling violently against the drywall. Pain shot through your back, but the shock hit harder than the impact itself. John stepped into your space immediately afterward, crowding you against the wall before you could move.

“I said enough,” he whispered.

You were trapped by his body, by the sheer size of him, by the anger in his gaze, and you were suddenly, painfully aware of the greeness in his eyes. Your heart pounded in your chest, a sickeningly familiar yearning that you had come to know well over the past few months but you pushed it down, buried it deep, and focused on the anger instead. The anger was easier to deal with, easier to understand.

"You're hurting me," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. Was he actually hurting you? It was unlikely, but you were hoping to maybe make him feel guilty for once. You pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. "Let me go!”

John's gaze flickered down to where your hands were pressed against him, then back up to your face. "Calm down and I will."

"I am calm!" you snapped, trying to push him again. would never be enough.

"You're drunk," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "And you're acting like a child."

"Fuck you, John.” You said for the second time this evening, “You don't get to talk to me like that. You’re not my father.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm. “I'm not going to argue with you when you're like this."

"Like what?" you challenged, your voice rising. "Drunk? Mad? Hurt?"

Instead of answering, John turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your heart still pounding, your body still shaking with adrenaline.

You watched as he crossed the room, and sat down in the edge of the bed. Quietly, he set his head in his hands and his shoulders sagged down in defeat. You felt the anger inside you deflate at the sight, replaced by a profound sense of sadness.

Your feet dragged like lead as you moved closer to him. You intended to stop at a safe distance, but his hand closed around your wrist and, with a sharp tug, drew you back between his knees, trapping you within the loose cage of his legs.

His hands anchored around your outer thighs, his face nuzzling into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he told you, the words muffled against you.

“John,” you started softly, a gentle hand set atop his head as you warned him delicately, a warning that went unheeded.

His hands began exploring your outer thighs, taking handfuls of the pliable flesh, fingertips slipping under the hem of your dress.

He lifted his head just enough to study the strip of exposed skin beneath his hand, his attention lingering there for a moment before climbing the length of you until it settled on your face. Then he stilled, the pads of his fingers pressed deeper into your flesh. You hated when he looked at you that way, through the shadow of his brows, with those piercing eyes fixed on you like he was committing your features to memory, like your name had surfaced somewhere among the dead and he was deciding what to do with it. There was something feral in those moments, something cold and professional that belonged in dim hallways and bloodstained rooms rather than here. Sometimes you wondered if this man who hunted monsters had spent so long wearing their skin that he no longer knew how to take it off.

There was a slight change then, some kind of hesitation that was better accompanied with frustration than fear.

“You look so much like your mother.”

His hand suddenly shot to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you down toward him. The movement was abrupt and desperate, the kind of urgency he reserved for surviving impossible odds, when there’s half a dozen men shooting at him, and his mouth crashed against yours.

He tasted amazing, far better than he should, and that realization alone ought to have been enough to stop you, but every sensible thought scattered the moment his lips met yours. You knew this was wrong, knew it in the way your stomach twisted, in the way guilt immediately sank its claws into your chest. He was John. Your mother’s husband. The man who had helped raise you from the time you were a teenager, who had occupied a place in your life that should have made this impossible.

You could only hold back the voice for so long before you’re pulling back, attempting to nudge him away. “No, no, stop—“

Before the distance could widen beyond a few inches, he pulled you forward again.

A shocked breath left you.

“John—!”

The protest fractured halfway through his name as his hands siezed you with startling force and threw you back onto the bed behind him. By now, tenderness in the Baba Yaga was a fucking joke. In the movement, he had used the same ruthless efficiency he reserved for his enemies. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and before you could even gather yourself or push upright, he was already above you, crowding out the space. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows, as you found yourself pinned beneath him.

“No,” you started, trying to push him off, “we can’t—“

“I don’t care.”

His mouth found yours, his hands, rough and insistent and still bloody, pushed your dress up, bunching the fabric around your waist. You could feel the cool air on your skin, and your body, that traitorous thing, responded to his touch as his fingers found the edge of your underwear.

Your hands pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He made a noise, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through you, as he swatted your hands away like nothing. His other hand continued its explorations, tracing the curve of your hip, the softness of your thigh, before finally slipping beneath the fabric of your underwear.

You gasped, the sound lost in the crush of his lips against yours as his digits found that sensitive spot with ease. Your body arched into his touch, your legs falling open in silent invitation. He took the hint, his body shifting as he settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing against you through the layers of clothing.

You could feel the dampness gathering, your body preparing for him, despite the protests of your mind. This your step father, this is wrong, you need to stop.

But his thumb began to moving in slow, perfect circles, forcing a response from your drunken body that you couldn't wouldn’t suppress, and you ignored the voice entirely. Instead, you whimpered, the sound muffled against his lips, as your hips reluctantly began to move in time with his touch. Maybe if you’ll meet him halfway, he’ll be gentler with you, right?

He swallowed the sound you made, his tongue delving into your mouth, exploring the depths as if he had every right to be there. And he did, in a way, had this been a different universe where he wasn’t a man meant to be a father figure to you. But then again, would he be capable of such strong love, if not for your past?

If you were sober, you probably would have fought him more.

Your hands, which had been pushing against his chest, now clutched at his shirt, holding on for dear life as his fingers assaulted you. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to wrench yourself free, to put distance between the two of you, yet your body had never listened when it came to John. It moved according to its own strange gravity, forever pulled toward him despite the danger, despite the countless reasons not to be.

He seemed to sense your surrender, and his fingers slipped inside you, moving in rhythm with his thumb, filling you, stretching you. Your breath came in short gasps, your chest heaving against his. You could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against you, and it only coaxed you closer and closer. It just felt so good, too good. You were filthy for enjoying it, but John was filthier; still covered in dirt and blood, blood that was probably inside you now.

You could feel the edge approaching, the precipice of pleasure that you hadn't missed as he curled his digits deep inside you, as his tongue dipped into yours like he had been licking up the same kind of ice cream he used to take you and your mother out for. You used to love those afternoons, those small moments where you were a family.

And here he was. The same man who had held your mother’s hand and walked the shoreline beside her, who had remained at her bedside until her final breath, who had honored the vow he made on their wedding day—in sickness and in health. Here he was now: John, Mr. Wick, the Baba Yaga, regardless of alias it was the same skin, the same soul, the same hands that had once cradled your mother’s face. Only now they were slick with dead men’s blood and buried deep inside her daughter.

And then, just as suddenly as your climb to enlightenment had begun, it stopped. He pulled back, his fingers slipping out of you, his hand leaving your body and you let out a small whine of protest.

But he wasn’t leaving you, not now, not yet, and he reached for the buckle of his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched, mesmerized, as he undid the buckle, the button, the zipper. You could see the outline of his arousal through his boxers, your thighs clenched, your core pulsed. You needed him so badly, you hated it.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and he pushed them down, freeing himself. You couldn't help but look, your eyes drawn to the sight of him, hard and ready, and a shiver ran through you at the thought of him inside you.

He didn't give you much time to dwell on the sight though, as he reached for you again, his hands going to your underwear. He slipped them off with ease, discarding them onto the floor where you had spilt a glass of bourbon the other night and never cleaned up.

John settled between your thighs again, his hardness pressing against your center, and you couldn't help but arch into him, seeking more friction. He groaned at the contact, before his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him on as he positioned himself at your entrance.

He didn’t wait for permission, his eyes didn’t find you, not really, at most, they looked through you, and he rammed himself forward, sheathing himself inside your most intimate part. You were given no time to adjust to his size, no time to reconsider your horrible, horrible actions, before your stepfather was fucking you.

Was John capable of making love? Probably. But the Baba Yaga was not.

You’re a mean one, Mr. Wick.

You gasped at the sudden intrusion (John Wick, your nightly invader), your nails digging into his back and you cried, you cried like a big baby, practically dying there in his cock. He was large, and the stretch was almost too much to bear but he began to move anyway, because just as he said, he didn’t care. He didn’t care if you were drunk, he didn’t care if you were grieving and lonely, and he certainly, at least anymore, did not care if you were his beloved Helen’s daughter.

"John," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, "wait, please—"

But he didn't listen, he never listened to you, his body driven by the same primal need he had when slitting a man’s throat and watching the life drain from his eyes, it seemed to have taken over all rational thought, and by now, it no longer surprised you.

One day, John will die, but the Baba Yaga will reign on.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging painfully into the soft flesh, as he pounded into you with a terrifying fervour.

“Ow—! Slow—“

“Don’t be a baby.”

You knew he had never done such a thing to your mother, had never said such a thing to her, had never treated her like this.

No, this monster was only for you.

Your body began to adjust, the initial pain morphing into a pleasure so intense it was unbearable. You could feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, as he moved in and out of you at a relentless, powerful pace. Your hands moved from his back to his arms, clutching at the muscles that flexed with each thrust.

Your fingers found that wound again, digging deeper into it than you had before and he groaned once more, though you couldn’t tell if it was from pain or pleasure. His blood seeped out from his sweat, blood and probably teared soaked shirt, coating your hand, dripping onto the mattress.

“Asshole,” you growled, squeezing harder.

The muscles in his jaw jumped and his head tipped back slightly, throat flexing as he exhaled through his nose, all the while his thrusts never slowed. He seemed, for a second, to be enjoying it still. His gaze eventually drifted back down to you, heavy-lidded and sharp despite the exhaustion written across every line of his face.

“Brat,” came his clipped, panted response.

The word was worn from overuse, a title he had begrudgingly assigned you years ago when you and a couple friends got into his liquor cabinet. Even now, with blood soaking through his shirt and irritation etched across his expression, there was an almost automatic quality to it, as though he couldn’t think of a more fitting thing to call you.

You could feel the sweat beading on his skin, could see the tendons in his neck straining as he held himself above you. He closed his eyes then, his brow furrowed in concentration as he grunted, and you found yourself watching him, captivated.

He was so handsome.

The sound of your bodies coming together filled the room, a wet, slapping noise that was obscene and yet incredibly erotic. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the coil of pleasure tightening with each cruel thrust of his and he must have sensed your impending doom, because he suddenly leaned down, his mouth finding yours. His tongue invaded your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips, mimicking the roughness of the rest of him, as he continued to pound into you. If this was his attempt at kissing away your pain, he had failed, like all his other attempts to make your grief any better.

Your mother was dead, and now her husband was inside you.

With a cry, you came, your body convulsing around him as waves of what felt like blasphemous pleasure bled over you. He swallowed your cries, he didn’t want to hear them, he was so sick of your crying, and his own release followed closely behind. You felt him pulsing inside you, his body tensing as his seed spilled into you, coating you in more filth, because what’s a little more to something already forsaken by God?

He let out a low groan, something you almost missed and wished you had, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he rode out the last of his orgasm.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still joined, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then, slowly, he pulled back, his eyes finally meeting yours.

There was a softness there, John had finally returned with a tenderness that was far too painful to witness, so you looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

You thought, drunk and carelessly, that maybe this would make you feel better, but all it did was make it worse.

Now you hated John, too.

As he slipped out of you, you could feel the evidence of your shared pleasure coating your thighs. You wanted to wipe it away, to clean yourself up and deny this unholy act all together, but you couldn't move, couldn't speak, and he climbed off the bed.

You laid there, in the aftermath of your forbidden act, your body still tingling, your mind a disaster of guilty thoughts and heartbreaking emotions as you listened to him find and put his pants back on.

John didn’t say anything after that, and he left again. He’d be broken, bleeding and desperate again by the next time you see him, and you’d be angry, lonely and drunk.

If only Helen could see you two now.