Anime Trash

M - 27 ~ bi - she/her - this blog is a mess

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.

[piedpip3rrr]

Only the lonely

[titsay]

[millenianthemums]

listening to fleetwood mac is like. i don’t know this song but let’s give it a shot. oh wait i do know this song. i’ve heard it a million times and always liked it, i just didn’t know the name. on some level i kind of assumed that song was just an ambient part of the world the way the sound of the wind or birdsong in the trees was but apparently it’s by fleetwood mac. neat.

[fiflerovium]

This one's also quite old now, wow, I can't believe I've been in HQ fandom for almost a year (come march)

There is never enough Kita fanart out there

This was a commission piece from Twitter !!

I hope you enjoy ☺️

[assiraphales]

I kind of miss the impulsivity that certain spaces used to allow. oh you want a hair cut today? hairdresser in the corner can fit you in before her 2 o’clock. tattoo of a cobra… sure leg or arm? even concerts, back when you could go to the box office thirty mins before any show. not saying these things don’t exist at all, but everything feels booked five months in advance and 10x more expensive

[mintmatcha]

sero's smile is lopsided, nearly sliding off of his face the eay he nearly slides off the booth when he turns to you. the izakaya is loud and the air tastes of cigarettes and stale beer, but the food is good and the drinks are cold. It's been your spot for your friend dates (freights) for years; this seat's cushion is probably permanently shaped like your ass.

"Hey." Sero leans towards you, hand bumping into your thigh. "Can I eat you out?"

You blink. Then, blink again. "What?"

There's no shame in his glossed over eyes. "Can I lick your pussy? My mouth is, like, craving it so bad."

That makes you scoff.

"You're drunk."

"Uh, duh. That's the best time to eat it." Sero's eyes travel down to the high hem of your skirt. "I can get all sloppy and weird with it."

"I'm all sweaty-" You aren't sure why you're even entertaining this, but that makes Sero hunch over the table and groan.

"Stop, I'll get hard," he pleads.

[jennaflare]

oh wonderful i will get some mileage out of this as a new reaction image

[lethalwizard]

[moondust-and-starlight]

ripping my press ons off in the back of the uber bc I'm overstimulated and cross faded

[moondust-and-starlight]

One thing abt me is I WILL be pulling up to the function in a Lincoln.

[goldenbrowns]

ABYSS KISS ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪|| clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot

other pairings: inexperienced!reader x clark kent

summary: You and Clark Kent had always shared something unspoken — a quiet safety. Long before your relationship, he was the one who listened to your rants about failed dates and your fears around intimacy. You’d told him everything: how romance never quite fit, how sex had become a distant memory. But Clark saw you. He always had. Now, after months of slow, growing affection, you’re finally together — though physical closeness still feels unfamiliar. He knows that. So one quiet night, with trust hanging in the air as you cuddled under a blanket watching a movie, you get a little squirmy from the close contact, and he noticed, offering to help.

word count: 7.6k

warnings: service!top clark, inexperienced!reader, dirty talking, fingering, oral fem!receiving, spit as lube, pussy pronouns, mild language, praise kink, dacryphilia, clark is a bit condescending, size kink, didn't notice I made the reader kinda nonverbal sometimes...,

There was always something about Clark Kent that felt different. Not in the obvious way — not the glasses or the quiet charm, not even the way he seemed to fill up a room without meaning to. It was in the stillness. The way he listened without trying to fix, the way he gave space without making you feel abandoned. Being around him felt like standing in sunlight: gentle, quiet warmth that you didn’t realize you needed until it settled on your skin.

And over time, you found yourself leaning into that warmth. Little by little, you let him see parts of you that had long been tucked away — not because he asked, but because with him, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You told him things. Things you didn’t usually admit out loud. About how love had always felt more complicated than comforting. How dating, for you, was less about connection and more about surviving mismatched expectations.

One night, when you were still just friends and sitting side by side on his couch with takeout boxes between you, you’d launched into one of your trademark rants — the kind where frustration blended with disbelief.

“He actually got mad,” you’d said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten spring roll. “Like actually mad. Because he paid for dinner and brought me stupid gas station flowers, and thought that meant I owed him something.”

Clark had looked up from his food then, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, first date?”

“First date,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “As in, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, here's a meal and a bouquet, now let’s pretend we’re in a poorly written porno.’”

He had laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was low and disbelieving — incredulous on your behalf.

“I just— I don’t get it,” you continued. “Like, why do some men think basic decency is currency for sex? I was polite. I said thank you. I smiled. That doesn’t mean I was ready to jump into bed with him, and somehow I was the bad guy?”

Clark shook his head, frowning now. “You’re not the bad guy for having boundaries. That’s... basic human respect.”

You’d blinked at him, something soft unraveling in your chest. “Yeah. Try explaining that to someone who thinks dinner is a contract.”

There was a pause then. One of those Clark pauses, thoughtful and charged with something unspoken. When he finally spoke, it was quieter.

“If anyone makes you feel like you owe them your body for kindness, they don’t deserve any part of you. Not your time. Not your laughter. Not even your irritation.”

You remember that moment clearly — not just because of the words, but because of how he looked at you when he said them. Like your worth was a given. Like your no would always be enough.

It stayed with you. The way he didn’t flinch at your anger. The way he didn’t make it about him. Just listened, nodded, understood. That conversation, like so many others, built the invisible thread that tugged at you each time you looked at him. Until one day, it wasn’t just a thread — it was a lifeline.

You didn’t fall in love with Clark all at once. It wasn’t a cinematic moment or a lightning strike. It was a slow, steady accumulation. His laugh in the morning. The way he always remembered how you took your coffee. The way he looked at you when you were talking — like nothing else mattered. You started to feel it like warmth in your chest, like gravity pulling you closer to something safe.

And when you finally did get together, it wasn’t sudden. It didn’t need to be. You already knew each other in ways that mattered more than the official labels.

Still, even with all that love, there were parts of you that felt unsure. Not because of him, but because of everything that came before. Intimacy — real intimacy — had become a kind of foreign language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten. It had been years since you’d let someone close, really close. And though you weren’t a stranger to sex, it had been long enough, and fumbled enough, that the idea of rediscovering it felt tangled with nerves and doubt. You’ve had one boyfriend before, but after that, your experience had stayed very limited.

But Clark never rushed you. Never assumed. He kissed you like you were something precious, like he had all the time in the world — and maybe he did. With him, you never felt like you were running out of time. You just felt held.

He never asked when. Never implied if not now, then when. He just was — beside you, consistent and patient. The kind of man who didn’t tally favors or gifts or kind gestures. The kind who simply loved you, and let that be enough.

Still… you thought about it.

You tried not to — not in a desperate, spiraling way — but your mind would drift. To the shape of his hands, the low timbre of his voice when he whispered things only meant for you. To the way he smelled, like warmth and safety and something slightly earthy, like rain on pavement. You’d wanted him, as badly as you hoped he wanted you. Probably just as much.

You tried not to dwell on it, tried not to let your imagination carry you too far, but the past few weeks had made it harder. Your thoughts got tangled in moments that felt almost like permission: the brush of his lips against your throat when he hugged you from behind, the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second too long, the sound he made when you kissed him like you meant it. All of it built up — slow, steady pressure under your skin that made you restless and squirmy and so unbelievably pent-up.

So today, when you and Clark were curled up on the couch watching one of his nerdy sci-fi movies — something about time loops and space-time paradoxes you barely followed — you weren’t feeling your best. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. You were warm, content, half-focused… and aching in a quiet, constant kind of way that made it hard to sit still. Harder still to pretend it wasn’t happening.

You’d ended up in your usual spot: half under the throw blanket, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm slung around you lazily. The bottom half of both your bodies were hidden beneath the soft fabric, though of course not all of it — Clark’s feet, long and bare, stuck out at the edge of the L-shaped couch. Over 6’5” of muscle and kindness. There wasn’t a blanket in the world long enough for him.

But now, you were suddenly aware of everything.

The way his fingers were idly tracing soft, feather-light circles on your shoulder — so gentle you might have missed it if you weren’t completely tuned into every square inch of your skin. How his other hand, the one that had been resting on his own leg when the movie started, had migrated beneath the blanket… and was now settled on your thigh. Higher than usual. Not improper, not demanding — just there, and warmer than it should’ve been, radiating through the fabric of your sweatpants and directly into your bloodstream.

Your breathing had shifted before you realized it. Slower, deeper. Each inhale filled with the scent of him — something clean and earthy, like cedar and soap, and something else, something him.

You could feel the lines of his torso beneath his shirt, solid and defined. Every breath he took made the muscle beneath you shift — the quiet rise and fall of his chest just under your cheek. And every time he chuckled at some ridiculous sci-fi paradox or whispered a nerdy fun fact into the space between you, you felt it vibrate through his chest and into your bones. It was grounding. It was too much.

And then… there was that.

Your leg, draped so innocently over his lap — a position you’d taken a hundred times without thinking — was suddenly very much something. Because now, you could feel it. The shape of him beneath the blanket, beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Not exaggerated. Not something he was pushing or calling attention to. Just present. Solid. Real.

Your thigh had unknowingly settled over the curve of his cock, and now you couldn't un-feel it. The contact wasn’t overt — there was space between you still, air and fabric and hesitation — but your skin was screaming anyway.

He was huge. You weren’t just imagining it. Even through the thin fabric of his sweats and the shared heat between your bodies, the shape of him was unmistakable. Heavy. Firm. Bigger than what you’d expected — not that you hadn’t thought about it before. Of course you had. But knowing and feeling were entirely different things. One was curiosity. The other was a full-body crisis.

You shifted — subtly, guiltily — like maybe adjusting would help you think straight, but it only made it worse. The soft drag of your thigh over him shifted the position of his cock in his sweatpants. Was he wearing no underwear? Your skin prickled, flushed and alive, every inch of you screaming for more friction, more pressure, more.

You tried to focus on the movie. Tried to listen to Clark’s heartbeat under your cheek instead of the storm building low in your belly.

But all you could think about was how hot he felt. How there he was. How easily you could shift again — just a little — and slide your leg closer, press down on it, maybe even roll your hips pretending it was accidental.

Just as your thoughts started to spiral — body taut, blood buzzing, desire thick and almost dizzying — Clark cut through the tension with a low, casual murmur.

“You know,” he said, voice warm with that familiar nerdy amusement, “if this movie followed the actual laws of time dilation, that character would’ve aged about fifty years by now.”

You blinked.

It took a full second to process the words. Your brain, still tangled in heat and friction and the maddening outline of him beneath your leg, scrambled to catch up. The sudden whiplash of him being so Clark in this moment — dorky and oblivious or maybe too unaware — made you let out a laugh. Or something that was supposed to be a laugh.

But it came out too fast. Too high. Too tight.

Clark’s hand stopped its lazy circles on your shoulder. His body stilled, just slightly, like he was tuning in. You didn’t even have time to hide the way your breath caught before he gently turned his head down toward you, his brows knitting in that soft, concerned way he always wore when he sensed something just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.

His hand moved — slow and careful — under your chin, coaxing your gaze upward. His fingers were warm and steady as they tipped your face to meet his. And when your eyes finally found his, wide and glassy, you knew he saw everything.

You tried to speak — to joke, to dismiss, to breathe — but the words stuck. Your cheeks burned. Your lips trembled. And it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was too much. You were too full of him — of want, of fear, of need. It sat in your throat like a secret you couldn’t keep anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice soft but sure, genuinely concerned.

You swallowed, but it didn’t help. His eyes searched yours, and something in you cracked under the pressure — not in a painful way, but in that raw, terrifyingly beautiful way vulnerability always finds its edge.

You tried to laugh it off, forcing a joke as a shield. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, voice a little too high, trying to brush away the tension that suddenly thickened the air between you. “Really, it’s nothing. Just… you know, too much sci-fi for one night.” You smiled, hoping it sounded casual, maybe even funny.

But Clark wasn’t buying it. His eyes held yours, steady and searching, and there was no flicker of doubt in his expression—only care. “Uh uh, there's something wrong I can tell,” he pressed softly, his voice gentle but insistent, as if he could see past your words to the fluttering nerves you were trying so hard to hide.

Embarrassment flushed through you like a wave. You palmed your face, cheeks burning hot against your fingertips. “God, this is so stupid,” you muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For the love of all things, please just let’s keep watching the movie.” You hoped to shut down the conversation, to bury the fluttering ache and the heat pooling low in your belly under the easy distraction of the flickering screen.

But Clark wasn’t letting go. Not tonight.

His hand, the one resting on your thigh, tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you back into the moment. You blinked up at him, caught between wanting to run and wanting to melt into the warmth that radiated from his body so close to yours.

“I mean,” you stammered, cheeks still burning, “you’re just… so close. And so warm. And your hand there,” you glanced down at where his fingers lay lightly on your thigh, “it’s… dangerous.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. Then, unable to stop yourself, your eyes flicked down further, toward the unmistakable curve beneath the blanket, not even hard, just resting there. “And then there’s that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing subtly to where he was pressed beneath your leg.

Clark looked down, blinking innocently as if he hadn’t a clue what you meant — but the flush creeping up his neck when he finally looked down said otherwise. He caught on, of course, he did. And the way his brows furrowed, a little guilty, a little sheepish, made your heart twist.

His hand left your thigh for a moment, as if almost apologizing for the weight it had. His voice dropped to a tender murmur. “I’m so sorry,” he said, sincerity threading through every word. “I didn’t mean to— I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. I was clueless, honestly. I didn’t realize… I never wanted to rile you up like this.”

He sounded so genuine, so careful, like he was cradling something fragile and precious—you—in his hands. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles as if soothing a child, and you felt yourself melt a little under the weight of his concern.

You took a deep breath and shook your head, trying to pull back some of the heat rising in your cheeks. “The problem’s me,” you said, voice a little breathless but steady. “I’ve just been getting way too in my head lately. Like, really pent up.” You gave a small, almost sheepish laugh. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous. I feel… needy. Not in some dramatic, emotional way — just… like I haven’t had a moment to myself that’s not thinking about wanting something I don’t know how to ask for.”

You shrugged, trying to make light of it but the honesty was there. “I catch myself daydreaming about just… being close to you, how you'd feel, fuck— how warm you are. And then I panic because I’m so out of practice I don’t even know where to start. So yeah, I’ve been a little wound up. And it’s been making me feel all kinds of weird.”

Clark’s expression softened instantly, his eyes filling with a kind of heartbreak that made your chest ache. His voice was low, full of regret and tenderness. “My poor baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly over your knuckles again. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like this. I wasn’t aware — I swear, I didn’t realize how much you were holding in.”

He leaned in a little, careful not to crowd you, but wanting you to know how deeply he cared. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I want to understand. And I want to help, in any way you’ll let me.”

You nodded slowly, still taken aback by the tenderness in his words. Your eyes were glassy, brows furrowed as if trying to process the weight of everything he was offering. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Yeah… I think I want that."

Clark’s gaze softened even more, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as if to soothe the hesitation lingering there. “Yeah, you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady. “I don’t want to rush you. This is just as important to me as it is to you. I want us to move at your pace, not mine. I never want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or unprepared.”

You blinked up at him, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you whispered, “Pretty please?”

The softness of the words — simple, honest, and a little bit playful — seemed to melt something inside him. His eyes brightened, warm and tender, and he smiled like a puppy who’d just been given a treat he didn’t expect.

Without another word, he leaned in slowly, his hand still cradling your cheek, and pressed his lips gently to yours. The kiss was soft, careful, full of promise — the kind that said, I’m here. We’ll go as far as you want. It was everything and nothing all at once, a beginning that needed no grand announcement.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grin was shy and wide. “Your wish is my command,” he whispered, the playful glint still shining bright.

You weren’t sure who moved first after that kiss — maybe it was him, maybe it was you — but suddenly his hand was sliding down, slow and deliberate, until it found your thigh again. This time, he didn’t stop. His palm moved over your skin like it had a destination, like it already knew the map. It moved down your shorts and settled on the edge of your panties. He hesitated just long enough for you to breathe out a quiet, "Yes."

His touch shifted then — not quite dropping his hand inside, not yet, but there, right over your cunt. The heat of his hand through the fabric was maddening, careful but firm, his fingers moving in a way that made your legs tense and your breath catch. You bit your lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but it didn’t help. You were already sopping wet, enough to feel embarrassed about it or how much you wanted this. Your hips reacted on their own, a soft, needy roll up into his touch like your body had been waiting for this longer than your mind could admit.

He hummed, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand drew feather-light circles on the sopping fabric right above your clit. And not in a rushed, frantic way. He wanted you like someone starved who knew exactly how to savor.

“You’ve been holding this in, and Ive been such a jerk teasing you like this...” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers still working slow, steady circles over your cunt, making the fabric even damper with want. “All this time... my poor baby.”

You could barely breathe. Everything in you felt tight, electric, so pent-up you didn’t know whether to cry or beg or both. All you could do was nod, grabbing onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Let me take care of it,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing slow, teasing circles over your cunt through the fabric. The touch was deliberate, hungry but controlled—like he was memorizing every curve, every soft inch beneath his palm. You could feel the heat pooling deeper, the dampness growing with every subtle press and glide.

He pulled back just enough to let his lips brush against your jaw again, low and rough this time. His voice was a husky whisper, both sweet and edged with something darker. “Can I take these off, honey? Would you like that? Wanna touch you—Gosh, you´re soaked pretty girl...” he asked, eyes locked on yours, serious but charged with that raw need you hadn’t heard from him before.

He barely gave you time to nod before his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your panties and shorts, tugging slowly and deliberately. The fabric slipped down inch by inch, the movement unhurried as if he was savoring the anticipation rather than rushing toward the reveal. Even before you were half naked, his hand’s motion was both tender and claiming.

His eyes, half-lit by the soft glow of the room and locked onto yours, held something raw — a blend of hunger tempered by care. There was a teasing glint there, a spark that said he knew exactly the effect he had on you and was savoring every second of it. His gaze flicked down briefly towards your cunt. He had meant it to be discreet, but because you were side by side, nestled against him, his view was limited — a teasing mercy that only made your awareness of being exposed all the sharper.

You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely conscious of the cold air against the wetness of your cunt and the way his chest seemed hotter now. So much so that part of your defenses were down. Heat flushed your cheeks and neck as the weight of vulnerability settled in. You shifted instinctively, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pulling it down to cover yourself, the fabric a small shield between you and his gaze.

He caught the movement and chuckled softly, a low, teasing sound that vibrated through the space between you. He began pressing soft pecks against your neck as he softly caressed your mid-thigh. “Covering up already?” he murmured, voice thick with both amusement and something deeper, more intimate. “That's cute, baby.”

You gave a shaky laugh, eyes darting away for a moment, but he gently lifted your chin with a finger, coaxing you back to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but sure. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m just lookin', you look so pretty. We can stop whenever you want, baby."

His thumb brushed tenderly over your cheek, lingering as if searching for permission without pressure. Then, voice dropping to a low murmur, he asked, “Can I touch you? Really touch you?” His eyes darkened with need and care, waiting for your answer — patient, undemanding.

You thought, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat, caught between the desperate want curling inside you and the fragile nerves fluttering beneath the surface. But when you whispered out a shaky "ýes", he smiled — slow, sweet, and promising.

The hand that had been gently cradling your cheek drifted downward with a quiet confidence, fingers brushing over your collarbone, then gliding down the front of your shirt. When it reached the spot where your own hand still clutched the fabric, he paused. His fingers curled gently around your wrist, giving it a soft squeeze — not demanding, just asking.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.

You hesitated for a breath, then released your grip. He lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to reveal the soft curve of your stomach and left it there — not pulling it higher. His hand traced along your skin, slow and reverent, before settling lower, cupping your dripping cunt.

A low sound left him — somewhere between a breathless laugh and a groan — as he glanced up at you with a smirk. "You're soaked, sweetie..."

His fingers spread your folds, and with the middle one, he began to tease at your slit, ever so gently, still a goddamn gentleman. Your eyes screwed shut as soon as he touched you; your senses felt heightened. It had been so long, and you never remembered it feeling so overpowering.

His eyes stayed fixed on your face, and not just for one reason. Part of him was carefully scanning for any flicker of hesitation — ready to stop the second he sensed discomfort. But the other part, the more selfish one, was completely enamoured by the pretty little faces he was pulling from you. He wanted to memorize every little reaction, every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t meet his gaze. Your face had twisted into something almost unreadable — a blend of too much sensation and too little control — your eyes shut tight, as if blocking out the weight of his stare might somehow ground you. Your hand clung to the fabric of his shirt like it was the only steady thing left.

His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges as his fingers continued their slow, unrelenting rhythm over your clit, sometimes stopping himself to guide a teasing finger along your slit coaxing, testing. The pad of his finger brushed just a little firmer over that sensitive spot, watching the way your body reacted — the stuttered breath, the soft twitch of your hips.

“You think you can take a finger, hm?” he murmured, tilting his head so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice thick with heat and something almost reverent. “You wanna try it out?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, his eyes flicking between your flushed face and your parted lips. His hand never left you, still teasing slow circles, coaxing you toward a yes without saying it. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “I wanna hear you say it. You wanna feel me?”

You hesitated, breath catching, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. But then, with a shaky breath and a nervous smile, you nodded. “Yeah… I want to. I think I can.”

The thing is, you can take a finger, that had never been a problem before. But Clark was huge all over, and his hands and fingers were no exception. So you had every right to doubt your abilities right now. And now that your arm had unknowingly begun to press against the very unmistakable bulge in his sweatpants, the sheer size of his cock had made itself very clear to you. So now you didn’t know what to pray for, if for you, or for your cervix after tonight.

That smile of his — soft, crooked, a little too pleased — stretched across his lips, and he leaned in to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he rasped, like the words tasted good coming out.

Then his fingers dipped lower, dragging slow, lazy circles on your hole, clearly teasing you, taking his time. “Gonna be real gentle,” he muttered against your skin, “but you gotta relax for me, yeah? Let me in, gotta relax for me.”

And just as your hips rolled into his hand in response, desperate and involuntary, you heard him chuckle softly. His middle finger slowly pushed inside your cunt, making you hiss. His finger was so deliciously thick, you still werent sure how you'd take a second one.

“You’re already so worked up, pretty thing. You’ve been wanting this all night, haven’t you?”

Clark’s gaze lingered on your face, heavy with warmth and something deeper — a kind of reverence. His finger slowly worked itself in and out of your cunt, drawing wet and sloppy noises from between your legs. You almost sighed in embarrassment, but his eyes locked on the way his finger drove itself inside of you said something else entirely. Then, the way he looked at you made it hard to breathe, like he was seeing something rare, something he wasn’t quite sure he deserved.

“Look at you,” he murmured into your ear, voice husky with awe. “You’re driving me insane.”

His finger moved with slow, deliberate care, making a beckoning motion inside of you that made your breath catch and your body respond without hesitation. The warmth of his touch and how deep his finger was pounding inside you sent shivers through you, teasing and coaxing every nerve awake.

His fingers paused for a moment, resting gently inside you, slick with your own want, as he looked down at you with a slow, knowing smile. His eyes held a mix of mischief and tenderness as he asked, voice low and teasing, “You want me to try another, baby? See if you can take it?”

The quiet tension between you made every nerve alive, every small sound in the room amplified in your ears. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly, the smallest flicker of courage sparking inside you.

His fingers lingered just for a moment before he gave a slow, approving smile that softened into something warm and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “You’re doing so damn good.” He pulled his finger out of your hole with a wet squelch and brought his whole hand to this face, licking both the finger that was just inside you and his ring finger, putting them both in his mouth and licking them clean.

He brought his hand down once again to your cunt and played with your folds as he began to speak, both of his fingers gently parting you open. He brushed his thumb gently over your clit, eyes searching yours with quiet pride. “Can you see that? How well you’re doing? Because I do —" Before he finished the sentence, you felt his fingers sliding inside you. Jesus Christ, were they thick. "You're taking my fingers so well... So proud of you, sweetie."

His fingers moved gently, steadily working themselves in and out, each stroke measured and patient, as if memorizing every inch of you. The careful rhythm was both soothing and disgustingly filthy, and you found yourself leaning into the feeling, trusting him completely. You started to realize that Clark had picked up on how your cunt was making those wet, needy sounds whenever his fingers brushed your G-spot — and the bastard had clearly begun doing it on purpose. The grin on his face every time he did so, completely betrayed him.

You felt yourself growing squirmier, his movements growing quicker, pulling you closer to him as the heat between you intensified. Your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and you found yourself shifting against his hand almost without thinking — a mix of desperation and need that made your body ache to close the distance. The pressure of his finger practically drilling against your cervix, the slick warmth beneath his touch, was driving you wild, and you couldn’t hide how much you wanted more.

Clark caught every sign — the way your hips pressed forward, the small gasps that escaped your lips, the trembling of your thighs. His eyes darkened with raw desire, flickering with a hunger that made his usual calm seem to crack at the edges.

“Please,” he murmured, voice thick and almost desperate. “Let me taste you. I want to be right there with you.”

You swallowed hard, your cheeks flushing deeper as the raw need in his eyes pulled at something inside you. Your breath hitched, nerves fluttering between hesitation and craving. Finally, with a shaky but determined voice, you whispered, “Yes… please, Clark. I need you.”

He moved down slowly from beside you, eyes never leaving yours — not in hesitation, but in reverence. He gently took his fingers away from your cunt. His knee hit the floor at the foot of the couch with a gentle thud, one hand steadying himself on your leg, the other smoothing over your hip like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not teasing this time, just quietly observant.

You nodded, unable to speak, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and disbelief. The way he was looking at you — like you were something sacred and starved for at the same time — made your stomach twist and flutter.

Clark leaned forward, placing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher this time. His fingers slid along the back of your thigh, coaxing you gently apart. His eyes stared right back into yours, and even with the unmistakable tension behind them, they felt warm. His blue eyes dilated and were glassy, just as desperate as you were. His eyes then, for the first time, tore themselves away from your face and landed at your sopping cunt, probably soaking the damn couch. He grabbed your hips with both his hands and scooted you over to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. You were sure you almost felt the cool breeze of his breath on you.

"She's so pretty, baby. I could stare at her all night. Y'think she'd let me?"

His voice was a mix of awe and hunger, low and reverent like he was speaking about something sacred. Before you could answer, his hands were already guiding your hips, drawing you toward the edge of the couch where he now knelt, completely devoted. He went silent for just a second, and you noticed the motions of his tounge under his cheeks, gathering up spit. And just when you had straightened up, you saw him softly spitting on top of your slit, letting it drizzle down. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and teasing, and then — a kiss to your clit. His tounge poking out for just the sweetest second. He looked like he was making out with it. Slow and deep, full of want. Not rushed, not frantic, but purposeful.

You gasped, your hand instinctively flying to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing grounding you. His hands never stopped moving, one firm on your hip, anchoring you, the other gentle and coaxing on your hole, insistent on the come-hither motion inside you. The pressure of his touch, the warmth of his mouth — it all blended into something that made your breath stutter and your knees unsteady.

Clark pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his eyes dark and shining. “She likes that, huh?” he murmured, breathless. “She’s being real sweet to me.”

You nodded, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling with shaky rhythm.

“Good,” he said, kissing your thigh, his voice thick with need and adoration. “I’ll be real sweet to her, too. M'gonna kiss her real nice.” His tongue dips down once again, this time faster, flicking with speed over your folds. He swipes his tounge up and down your slit, latching on to your clit with intent. He gently sucks it into his mouth as his eyes flick over to you. His eyes were teary and glassy, his brows were furrowed, and his cheeks flushed a deep pink. On the other hand, his fingers kept working themselves in and out of you at incredible speeds, pulling out slick and wet nosies from your hole.

You moaned and whimpered as you held onto his curls. You could see the way his nose was nestled right above your mound as he lapped against you. There were moments when he closed his eyes and let his tongue move in slow, deliberate strokes—savoring you like something sacred. And then there were the moments he kept them wide open, gaze locked onto yours with a quiet intensity, just so you’d see exactly what you were doing to him. With his tongue laid flat against your clit, he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, coaxing out new, breathy little sounds from you with every deliberate motion. And he did exactly that, that fucker...

Your expression twisted into something unrecognizable — brows drawn tight, lips parted and trembling, flushed cheeks burning with heat. The sounds slipping from you were raw, utterly human. Your chest rose in short, frantic bursts, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might break free. You were so close now.

“Look at that... that pretty face doesn’t even know what to do with itself,” he jokes.

You huffed, half-laugh, half-whimper. He had to make everything into a joke—even now. That stupid little grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.

But before you could say anything back, another soft cry slipped from your mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as the waves kept building. His nose was still nestled against you, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, tongue working in slow, relentless circles. When you dared to look down, you found him already staring up—eyes wide open, clear and locked on yours. Not blinking. Not distracted. Just watching you fall apart.

It was all too much.

Somewhere between the pressure, the intimacy, and the fact that this man was on his knees for you like he lived there, the tears came. Quietly at first. One blink, then another. Warm trails down your cheeks that you barely noticed—until he did.

His tongue paused. “Hey—hey,” he said softly, voice suddenly gentle. “Is everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, voice catching as you said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s—God—it’s just so good.”

Clark let out a breath of relief, then that smile came back—just a little crooked this time, playful but still sweet. “Damn. Had me worried for a sec. Thought I broke you.”

You gave a weak laugh, still breathless. “You kinda did.”

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And just like that, his teasing edge returned, his confidence slipping back into place. “Y’cryin’ and shaking and still askin’ for more… You sure you can handle it, sweetheart?”

You shot him a look, smug despite the tears. “I think I deserve more.”

Clark grinned like you just challenged him to a game he knew he’d win. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As soon as he said that, your head shot back to look at him as he dived down once again, eyes flicking over his sweet face. His nose was nudged against your lips, almost looking like he was making out with your cunt. He didn't blink once as he gazed up at you, his head moving from side to side to help himself, the sound of his tounge flicking against your heat, his ragged breath against you every time you moaned or whimpered... He was enjoying this just as much as you were.

Apparently, seeing him so vulnerable—so willing to give you exactly what you needed, so desperate for your release—was all it took. Your hand clenched tightly at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing him deep against your cunt. The moment you did, a guttural, primal groan escaped him—raw and almost like a soft whimper. You guided his head with steady hands, making sure he knew exactly what you wanted. Through it all, he never once broke eye contact, completely focused on you, completely yours.

"Clarkie... I'm so, soo— Jus' keep going"

Clark smirked, his voice low and amused, replacing his tongue with his voice to speak, his pace still electrifying. “Clarkie knows exactly how ‘so’ you are, baby. Let me give it to you hun, relax." Right after you whispered those words, something inside him shifted — a surge of need that drove him deeper, harder than before. Both of his hands grabbed your knees, pulling them up closer to your shoulders, giving him full, unguarded access. Your fingers clenched tighter into his hair as he shook his head gently from side to side, his tongue tracing feverish, demanding patterns over your clit, like a man who hadn’t tasted anything in days.

His index and middle fingers pressed inside you, moving with a relentless rhythm that made your breath catch. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, amplified by his other hand resting firm against your stomach, pressing just enough to send every sensation spiraling higher. He was utterly in control — completely on top of everything.

Clark held your hips steady, steadying you as you rode out the wave. His lips brushed softly against your folds, a quiet, approving “Mhmm?” escaping him, keeping pace with the rhythm of your release, grounding you in that moment of shared intensity. The wave ran through every fiber of your being as you tried to stabilize yourself against anything you could get your hands on. Your ragged breaths began slowing down, and so did Clark's movements.

Clark’s hands never wavered as he slowly lifted his head, eyes dark and shining with something fierce yet tender. “See? Told you there’s nothing to be scared of with me,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You did so damn good, baby. So perfect.”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks still flushed, heart pounding wildly. “I want more,” you whispered, voice trembling between need and disbelief. “I want you… all of you.”

A slow, amused smile spread across Clark’s face, one brow arching as he shifted his weight. “Easy there, tiger” he said, standing up from the floor, adjusting his pants low around his waist and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze flicked to you, playful but filled with raw hunger. “You almost had trouble with my fingers — how do you expect to take anything else?”

Your eyes involuntarily drifted down to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his pants. Jesus Christ. Maybe he was right. How exactly were you supposed to take that? The thought sent a thrill of both fear and excitement spiraling through you.

Clark caught your glance and let out a low, wicked chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. Clarkie’s got plenty of time to get you ready. He’s gonna make sure you’re so good and soaked, you’ll be begging for every inch.”

His hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you — make you mine. Every inch, every sigh, every sweet little sound.”

You shivered, the mix of his confidence and the raw want in his voice washing over you, making you ache for what was to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension and promise — and in that moment, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

He took your hand with a gentle yet possessive grip, guiding it deliberately toward the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering with that intoxicating mix of tenderness and raw hunger, making your breath catch before your fingers even brushed his skin.

“Feel that, baby?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. “That’s all yours to get used to. Every inch.”

His breath hitched as your fingers tentatively traced the outline of his cock beneath the fabric, the heat radiating from him sending a delicious shiver coursing through your body. The hardness was undeniable — full and firm — and you could almost feel the power wrapped up in that tight, confident length.

He held your hand firmly, sliding it up and down, letting you feel the heat and hardness pressing insistently beneath the fabric. His eyes never left yours, searching, challenging — but with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Now, be honest with me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, with a teasing edge. “You think you can take that, huh?”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing deeper as you swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a whisper when you finally admitted, “No... I don’t think I can.”

A slow, knowing smile curved Clark’s lips. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to rush. Nothing worth having ever comes without time.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your temple. “Everything has its time, baby. There’s a moment for everything — for learning, for trusting, for letting go. And me? I'm not going anywhere. I’m here to make sure you’re ready, every step of the way.”

His fingers brushed lightly over your skin, soothing and steadying, grounding you in the safety of his presence. “You don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t have to be ready all at once. We’ll take it slow — slow enough for you to feel everything, to want everything.”

His eyes locked with yours, the weight of his words settling between you, wrapping you in a quiet promise. “When the time comes, baby, you’ll know. And I’ll be right here to give it to ya'.”

[barnesonfilm]

too forward to tease

★ summary: rumors run fast in small towns, & rumor has it you’ve been fucking romeo’s daddy

★ pairing: boyfriends!dad!jack abbot x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, taboo relationship, cheating, age-gap, reader is 22 & jack is late 40s, toxic dynamics, illusions to domestic violence/abuse, manipulation, masturbation, face-fucking, dirty talk, unprotected sex, public sex, cream pie, cum play, overstimulation, rough sex, choking, usage of daddy, crying during sex, spanking, overall this is fucking disgusting <3

★ word count: 11.2k

★ notes: got this idea in the ethel cain pit during crush btw. feeling like a disgusting pervert!

The heat is sweltering, lace undergarments sticking to your skin as you shuffle around the bed of your boyfriend's truck. It was a picturesque southern summer, and you’ve never felt more out of your skin than you did now. Your head was somewhere in the clouds, so far away from your hometown's backroads you knew by heart. The smell of honeysuckles and dirt was heavy in the air as the wind blew through your tangled hair. 

You spotted Romeo’s crooked grin in the rearview mirror of his truck, the grin you used to love. High school sweethearts turned something bitter over the past few years. Romeo and Juliet, the yearbook called you, the same picture that was taped to his dashboard. 

Yet, years down the line, and most nights you lie awake listening to the old house settle around you and wonder if this was all life was supposed to be. A future so certain it felt like a prison sentence. The same roads. The same faces. The same conversations repeated until they sounded like scripture. Romeo wasn’t a bad guy when he was sober. But Romeo liked liquor, and the liquor made him cruel. 

At the end of the day, he was still just a boy trapped in a man’s body. 

And somewhere along the way, you had become a woman. A woman carrying a restlessness she couldn’t explain. A hunger that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with becoming. It lived beneath your ribs like a living thing, stretching and clawing for space. You had desires that were burning inside of you, festering like a disease in the pit of your stomach. 

Sweat slipped down your skin, from your forehead down your neck, settling in the valley between your breasts. You imagined a tongue licking it off of you, fisting your fingers into curly hair. In your imagination, when you pulled the head up in between your hands, it wasn’t his eyes you were seeing; it was his father's. 

Jack Abbot had been the star of all of your late-night fantasies for longer than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you wondered if there had ever been a beginning at all, if the feeling had simply lived somewhere deep inside you for years unnoticed, waiting quietly beneath the surface until you became old enough, restless enough, lonely enough to finally recognize it.

You spent too many nights lying there staring at the ceiling, Romeo’s cum leaking from between your legs while he lay snoring next to you. You’re wide awake and unsatisfied, a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to after nights with him. Which is how these thoughts started. 

Jack Abbot was sex on legs, from his sun-damaged skin to his bow-legged gait; every inch of him was to be desired. You’d seen him shirtless with sweat dripping down his muscles, his jeans that fit snug against his ass. All you could think about was his body, and just what he could do with it. Now he was a man.

You’d think of his lips dragging down your neck, his hands against your neck, his cock deep inside of you, turning you apart in his hold.

Your hand would slip into your underwear, fingertips dipping into your neglected heat, and you would come the hardest you ever have before. 

They were just harmless thoughts, until they weren’t. 

It was another one of Romeo’s get-togethers. His friends filled the backyard like a plague of locusts, loud and careless, sprawled across truck beds and lawn chairs with beer cans crushed beneath their boots. Drugs were hidden in hoodie pockets and carelessly left on whatever flat surface they could find. 

You were drunk on cheap beers and stumbling over your boots that were a few sizes too big, but they were only ten dollars at the flea market. The night air had chilled a few degrees, making your exposed skin prickle with each sway of your body. You could see Jack, his shoulder pressed against the porch. The night smelled of woodsmoke, and fireflies buzzed around you, almost guiding your gaze to him. 

Jack was watching you; it was hard for him not to. His eyes found yours like the moonlight finds the water in the backyard pond. It was happening more and more often these days.

You‘re not sure whose hand pulled you up on the creaky old wooden table, but you went up there gracefully. Your hips swaying lazily to the 70s love song playing, while cheers echoed from below, beer bottles raised toward the sky at each shake of your ass. Your sundress riding up your thighs, showing a little too much skin. It was playful, a girlfriend pulling you towards her, harmless even. You were lost in the haze of the heat and too many beers. It was all fun until Romeo saw you.

Jack watched his son’s expression darken from across the yard like an accident waiting to happen.

One second, Romeo was laughing with his friends near the cooler. Next, his jaw tightened, and something ugly was flickering behind his eyes. Before the crowd could understand what was happening, Romeo was already pushing through them. He shoved shoulders aside without apology, boots kicking up dust as he crossed the yard. The music continued playing, and people continued laughing, oblivious to the disaster about to unfold. You barely had time to register his presence before his hand closed around your wrist. Hard. 

Hard enough that Jack set his beer down on the porch, watching you wince in his hold.

Romeo’s fingers tightened around your wrist until pain shot up your arm, the pressure enough to make your smile disappear as quickly as it had come. Bystanders watched while the music droned on; you already knew no one would step in. No one did once Romeo had a few drinks. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, jerking you off the table hard enough that your boots nearly slipped beneath you.

You stumbled when you landed, catching yourself before you fell completely. The alcohol swimming through your veins made the world tilt unpleasantly, but it did nothing to dull the anger rising inside your chest.

“Let go of me.” Your voice comes out more slurred than you want it to. 

“You think this is cute?” His breath reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. “Dancing on tables like some damn whore for everybody to stare at.”

”You’re hurting me.” You try to pull your wrist from his hold, to no avail. “Romeo, what is your problem?” 

“You’re my fucking problem.” He spat, dragging you further away from prying eyes. Usually, when he did these things got worse, so you dug your heels into the dirt. 

“Let me go.”

Romeo laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You always gotta make a scene. Am I not giving you attention, huh?”

”No, not really.” His grip tightened when you scoffed.  The bruise would be ugly tomorrow.

For a moment, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes glassy from whatever combination of liquor and resentment had been brewing inside him all evening. Then something shifted. The fight drained from him all at once, leaving only annoyance behind.

He dropped your arm aggressively, nearly pulling your arm from the socket from the force. 

“Fine,” He laughed, but there was no amusement in it, “Go, run off and cry until you decide you wanna act right." 

”Romeo-“

“I said go, get the fuck out of my sight.”

This time, you didn’t argue. You turned and ran. The music faded behind you with every step. The bonfire became a distant orange glow swallowed by darkness. Soon all that remained was the sound of your own breathing and the steady chorus of crickets hidden among the reeds.

The lake waited beyond the edge of the property, hidden beneath moonlight and cypress shadows. You finally slowed when you reached the shoreline, your lungs burning from the run.

As you tried to catch your breath, the tears came hot and unrelenting. Embarrassment burned in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared across the glistening water. The bruises on your wrist were already beginning to darken beneath your skin. Fingerprints. Evidence. Proof of something you had spent far too long pretending wasn’t happening.

You heard a twig snap behind you, making you still. It was then that a timber voice spoke out, soft enough not to spook you even further. 

“You alright?” Jack asked, slowly appearing through the trees. 

You sniffled, wiping your eyes harshly. 

“He do that often?” 

Shame crawled through your stomach, your eyes drifting back down to the bruises. They weren’t the first ones he’d left on your skin, and you were afraid they wouldn't be the last. He’d wake up tomorrow hungover, kiss you breathless, and take you to the farmers market in town with a smile on his face. Then, the beers would appear again, an endless cycle you couldn’t seem to escape from.

“Not all the time…” You whispered, “He just gets short-tempered when he’s drinking.” 

The silence is deafening in the woods this late, just water lapping against the dirt shore and the occasional croak of a bullfrog. 

Jack looked out across the water before speaking again. “My wife used to say that.” 

Your neck snapped to look at him, his gaze haunted as he stared into the darkness. There was very little mention of the late Mrs. Abbot; Romeo never once uttered anything about her when she passed a few years back. 

“He’s only like that when he drinks.’ His voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “‘He’s only like that when he’s angry.’”

A bitter smile touched his mouth. “‘He doesn’t mean it, not really” 

“Man, we used to argue so much about him,” He laughed, “Momma’s boy I called him. He’d never come to me when he got in trouble, she’d always run up to him. They’re just alike, that’s what scares me.” 

“I would have thought he’d be more like you,” You admitted. 

Jack finally looked over at you.

“What do you mean?”

A small shrug lifted your shoulders. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to hurt a fly.”

”Oh man,” He shook his head, “You don’t get to this age without stepping on a few flies.”

”Okay, I didn’t say that now,” You laughed a little, tears drying up from your cheeks in the night air, “It just seems like you know how to treat a woman, s’all.” 

“I’m sure my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman in any way,” He said, and he meant it as a joke. But the words made your stomach burn, and all you could think about was how his plump lips wrapped around the top of his beer bottle. 

“No, no, he doesn’t.” You said with a weak laugh. You wanted it to come out playful, a light-hearted joke, but instead it came out meek. 

Jack’s eyebrow quirked, but he didn’t say anything. 

You were suddenly aware of how your breath sounded, how it didn’t quite match the stillness around you, how everything in you felt slightly off balance.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you added after a moment, though you weren’t sure what you were correcting anymore, and Jack gave a quiet hum that wasn’t agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that he was still listening, still there. His silence was making your heartbeat drum underneath your skin. 

Jack stepped nearer without announcing it, closing the distance in a way that felt like he had decided something quietly and was no longer interested in talking himself out of it. Your back met the rough bark of a cypress tree before you realized you had even moved at all, or perhaps he had guided you there with his presence alone. 

When you looked up at him properly, you saw the restraint in his face, the careful control of a man who understood exactly how wrong this could be and still hadn’t stepped away.

“You shouldn’t be out here with me,” he said slowly, though it didn’t sound like a warning so much as an admission. “S’trouble waiting to happen.”

Your laugh came out softer this time, breathier, almost disbelieving. “Then why are you still here?”

Jack exhaled once, slow and controlled, and then his hand came up to rest against the tree beside your shoulder, not touching you fully but enclosing you in everything but distance.

His lips met yours softly, warm and a little unsteady. Cautious at first, before the floodgates opened between you. He tasted like Marlboro Reds and smelled like grease from his ’78 Chevy. The kiss turned ferocious and fast, his tongue prodding your mouth open for him.  Lips devouring each other’s mouths as hands roamed. Your fingertips prodding at his belt buckle while his fingers were pulling the thin fabric of your dress down to squeeze your tits harshly in his hands. 

You were moaning pathetically into his mouth, practically grinding against his body that was slotted in between your legs. Your back scratched harshly against the tree bark, but you didn’t care as long as his lips were on yours and his hand kept going down. 

Down and further down until they were prying your thighs apart, pulling frantically at the thin fabric of your underwear on the sides of your hips. The fabric fell to your ankles, his hand slipping right in between your thighs. As soon as his fingers made contact with your sopping heat, you moaned louder than you should have. The sound bouncing off the trees. 

His body stilled. Then, he’s stopping you with his hands, pulling back as if your touch had burned him. 

“Stop, stop,” He rushed out, lurching himself backward a few feet, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have-“

You cut him off quickly, “It’s fine, it’s fine.” 

Your underwear is still around your ankles, your dress pulled down, still exposing your tits as you froze against the tree. 

“It’s not-“ He cuts himself off, his fingers anxiously running through his hair, “Fix yourself up, now.” 

His orders make the embarrassment from earlier come back tenfold, as you redress yourself in the thick silence. He’s scrubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans frantically as if he could wipe away the touch of your skin. 

“But-“ 

“No,” He cuts you off, his voice low and final, “This never happened. Now go on home and get some sleep.” 

“Okay-“

“This never happened.” He snapped, as if he just needed to hear himself say it again. He took one more look at you before turning around the same way he came. 

Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning your head against the tree, partially unsure if it really had happened at all. If this was just another late-night dream you couldn’t wake up from.

“Party’s over,” You could hear Jack yelling, whistling between his fingers, “Go the fuck home.” 

Truck engines rattled to life one by one. Headlights swept through the trees in brief flashes of gold. You could hear Romeo’s friends complaining from somewhere near the bonfire, their drunken protests dissolving into the darkness as vehicles rolled down the dirt road and disappeared into the countryside.

That night, you went to bed alone. The space beside you remained empty, though it wasn’t Romeo occupying your thoughts. You lay awake staring at the ceiling while your fingertips brushed absentmindedly across your lips, the phantom taste of Jack haunting you. The house creaked around you as it settled. Crickets sang beyond the open window. Sleep refused to come.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing beside the lake. The feeling of his lips against yours. The rough, frantic touch of his callused hands. 

You wondered if he was going to fuck you right there, just a few hundred feet from his son. You wondered if you would have let him, but you knew the answer.

The next morning arrived in a flood of sunlight. Golden light spilled through the sun-bleached curtains, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the room. You rolled onto your back and stared up at the crack in the ceiling.

For years, you had looked up at those cracks in the ceiling and imagined your future already written for you. Marriage. Children. A little house as soon as Romeo made enough money to buy you a home. The same story, every woman in town seemed destined to inherit from the one before her. The life your mother laid out for you, the only one you thought you could have. You had spent so much of your life allowing other people to decide who you were. 

Your fingers drifted absently across your stomach while you stared at the ceiling and allowed yourself, for once, to stop pretending. You were tired of apologizing for wanting things. Tired of shrinking yourself into shapes that made other people comfortable. Tired of convincing yourself that desire was something shameful.

You wanted the freedom to act on your desires. 

You were in charge of your own destiny, no one else. 

A clatter of tools took you out of your thoughts, lifting your head to peer out the window. Jack lay half beneath the old car parked in the carport, one arm stretched above him while a wrench flashed in the morning sunlight. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt clung to his shoulders. Grease marked his hands. The radio nearby crackled with an old country song as he worked.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at your mouth, your legs swinging off the bed with a newfound fire lit beneath your feet. 

The sun had already warmed the house by the time you were closing the screen door. For a moment, you just stood there and watched him, hearing him softly grunt as he pried a bolt out from the car with pure strength. 

You weren’t sure when he noticed you, but his voice emerged before you could get a word in. 

“Where’s Romeo?” He gruffed; you could still only see his lower half as he rolled underneath the car. 

You shrugged despite the fact that he couldn’t even see you, “Probably getting high somewhere.” 

He lets out a scoff, “That’s not funny.” 

“Who said I was trying to be funny?” You deadpanned, “That’s all your son does nowadays.” 

The answer sat heavy between you; only the faint sounds of him working filled the silence.

You wandered closer, pretending an interest in the scattered tools around the driveway. The morning sun felt warm against your bare legs while the scent of cut grass lingered in the air. Everything looked painfully ordinary, even though nothing felt ordinary anymore.

“Been thinking about leaving him,” You admitted quietly, but you knew he heard you by the way the sounds ceased. 

”And why is that?” 

“I just don’t think he can give me what I want.” 

The words sat in the heavy air for a moment before he finally rolled out from underneath the car. Grease streaked across one forearm and darkened the front of his shirt. Sweat glistened faintly along his neck from working in the heat all morning. He pushed himself upright and wiped his hands on an old rag, carefully avoiding your eyes.

“He can be a good boy, he’s just lost,” He gruffed out, throwing his tools to the ground, “He’s your age, he’d give you a good life one day. Don’t ruin it because you’re confused.” 

His words were going in one ear and out the other as he used the rag to wipe the grease off his fingers. It was almost teasing how he did it, twisting his fingers through the rag while his eyes were locked onto yours. 

“That’s just it. I don’t want a boy,” You scoffed, looking back up at his face. Sweat pooled at his forehead, and stray curls clung to his skin. He had a smudge of grease still on his chin; he looked older in the light. The sun damage on his skin, the freckles lining his arms. He’s never looked as sexy as he does right now. “I want a man.” 

He mimicked your scoff, “Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man. You’re just a child.” 

“Patronizing, wow.” You rolled your eyes, crossing your legs. The strings on your cut-off jean shorts were flowing wildly in the sticky summer breeze. “I’m 22. Fully an adult.” 

“Baby,” He sighed, fingers thumbing around his faded blue jean pockets to find his pack of Marlboros. “That’s a child to me. I could be your dad, hell, your granddaddy, really.” 

You squinted in the bright sun, watching the cigarette filter dangle between his lips as his rough, calloused hands flicked the lighter open. When he took in a deep breath, you shivered, watching the smoke linger around the space still between you two. 

“You know,” You hummed, your hands behind your back as you leaned against the car, “I think you’re just scared.” 

“Yeah? Of what?” 

“Of just how fucking badly you want me.” You shrugged, his hands stilling right before he went back for another drag. 

His eyes were darker now, his tone unwavering. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You smacked your lips, shaking your head a little. “You play like you’re looking out for me, that you want what's best for me. You want me to fuck your son? Want me to marry him?” 

He stayed still, his eyes squinting at you. A threat in and of itself, but you refuse to back down. 

Your voice raised, “Want me to let him get me all barefoot and pregnant? Keep me locked in his house like a good little wife? You wanna see me at every holiday gathering? Your grandbaby on my arm?” 

“You’re-“ He cuts himself off, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. A little harder than he should have. 

“I’m what?” You preened, thankful to have some reaction out of him. 

“A fucking problem,” He grunted, “Look at you, basically throwing yourself at me like a fucking whore.”

”Right now, I see it. Father like fucking son,” You nodded, a cruel laugh slipping out, “Like I’m the one who kissed me last night, who shoved his hands up my skirt-“ 

He was in front of you before you could register what was happening, his hand gripping your chin so tightly you winced. “ Shut the fuck up.” 

He smelled like cigarette smoke and danger. His fingertips were pressing bruises into your jaw, but you still felt weak in the knees. A ridiculous toothy grin on your lips at the feeling of his body against yours. 

“Why? Can’t take responsibility for your own actions?” You spat.

He scoffed, spit flying into your face. Spit you’d willingly drink if he so dared to give you the pleasure. With his body pressed against yours, the outline of his cock pressed hard against your bare thigh. You had him exactly where you wanted him. It should have been disgusting, you should have been scared and offended, but you’ve never felt so alive seeing the threat in his eyes. 

“Watch your fucking mouth.” 

You smirked as much as you could in his bruising grip. “Seems like you want my mouth.” You shifted your legs, rubbing against the denim bulge. 

You could feel him twitch, his whole body jolting at the sudden touch. 

“Yeah,” You laughed, “That’s what I thought.” 

The look in his eyes shifted, his head tilting back. “Right..” He mumbled under his breath, almost in amusement. 

Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, yanking the strands harshly, dragging you down to your knees on the hot asphalt.  

You yelped out, your hands grabbing his wrists as he forced you down. “What-“ 

“You want it so fucking bad?” He asked, forcing your neck to snap up to look at him, “Then take it.” 

With a little nudge, it didn’t take long to realize his denim-clad bulge was pressing into your face. His hand dropped your head harshly to unbuckle his belt. 

Your mouth watered, looking up at him in the late Summer sun, his boxers getting pushed down to his knees for god and everyone to see. His hard cock slapping against your cheek, the tip red and veiny. You knew he’d be huge, but seeing it in front of your face made your eyes widen. 

“Open. Up.” He grunted, fisting his length to press his tip in between your waiting lips. You obliged, opening wide to let him use your waiting mouth. 

You nearly gagged at the sheer size of him, doing your best to relax your throat to take every inch of him as you bobbed your head quickly. 

“Fuck,” His hand went back into your hair, guiding you to take more of him on each bob. “That mouth is good for something, ain’t it?” 

The sounds of his cock fucking your mouth echoed through the space, as he takes and takes. Each gag of your throat has his eyes rolling back into his head. His pace is relentless, unwilling to stop until your nails are digging into his thigh, desperate for a breath of fresh air. He groans, gripping your hair hard to pull your mouth off of him. Spit is dripping from your mouth down your neck as you let out pathetic gasps for air.

”I thought this was what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanna kiss my son’s lips with his daddy’s cum on your breath?” He mocks, before violently pushing your head back down. 

You’re choking around him once more, his pubes tickling your nose. His balls were slapping against your chin as you let him abuse your throat until his thighs began to tremble. You licked your tongue against the underside of his cock as he came, a guttural groan leaving his mouth that went straight between your thighs. 

You had a mouthful of his release when he pulled his softening cock from your lips, cum leaking from the sides.

Your jaw dropped, showing him your cum covered tongue before you swallowed, his eyes lit ablaze. 

“Fucking disgusting, you loved that shit,” He spat, but pulled you up for a bruising kiss anyway. Giving himself a taste.

Your knees were bruised and aching by the time you were on your shaky legs. Your hair was in knots, and your throat aching from his abuse. He pulled away from the kiss too quickly, looking down at your disheveled face. 

“Go clean yourself up.” He was already shoving his limp cock into his pants, leaving you there with your aching throat and bruised knees. 

It felt like trading one cruelty for another when you pressed your fingers into the fading bruises on your knees beneath the table that night. 

Dinners went on as normal, as normal as they could with the lingering taste of Jack on your tongue. You stomached down the food, avoiding eye contact with both of the Abbot men as they talked. Sports, weather, work, something about a neighbor’s truck breaking down again, their voices folding into each other as they belonged in the same breath. And there you were, just existing in between them. Waiting until Romeo had you clean his plate, or bring him a beer. It was jarring, receiving abuse from one man while craving it from the other. 

That night was just another one of the same routine, Romeo would fuck you with a hard, unsatisfying pace and then cum. He’d make a ridiculous face, pant into your chest, and then roll over. His snores would start soon after, leaving you complete and utterly alone. There was no love, no attention. You stopped faking your enjoyment a long time ago, and you’re not sure if he ever noticed. 

So you lay there, cunt throbbing in need as it often did. Your brain conjures up memories of Jack’s head thrown back, his teeth biting down on his lip as he fucked your throat. The way he sounded when he came made goosebumps rise on your skin. 

Then, a horrifically delicious idea popped into your head. Jack was just down the hall. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hall to his room. You knocked softly, doing your best to keep it quiet. He opened the door, a knowing look on his face. 

The only thing he had on was a pair of boxers, the bulge of his cock evident from the sheer weight of it. His chiseled arms flexed as he leaned against the doorframe, a line of curly gray hair going from his chest down his pelvis. The sheer thought of dragging your tongue down it had you squeezing your legs together again, which Jack didn’t miss.

“You need me, don’t you?” He asked, no trace of sleep in his eyes.

You wonder if he couldn’t sleep due to the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, or if he knew you’d all but be begging for him just a few hours later. 

You nodded pathetically, his hand gripping yours to pull you into the darkened room. The door shut with a quiet click, making your heart skip a beat in your chest. 

His shadow walked back to his bed, leaning back against his headboard without a care in the world. The small bedside lamp vaguely let you make out the pout forming on his lips. His hands patted his thick thighs mockingly. “You just gonna stand there?”

You leaped into action, your knees hitting the plush mattress. 

“He can’t make you cum can he?” He pouts, watching you crawl across the bed onto his lap. Already knowing why you were practically shaking with desire. All he had to do was look at you, and you were gone.

You were straddling his lap, your sleep shirt riding up to give him a view of the damp patch just below the pink bow on your underwear. “N-no.”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “What a shame.” 

With one hand on your hips, the other one finds itself between your legs. Fingertips twirling at the bow, as if it were a present for him to unwrap. “When was the last time you came?” 

“Last night. Made myself,” You panted, “Can only cum thinking of you.” 

Jack raised his brow, “What a nasty girl.” 

“P-please.” 

“Please, what?” 

“Touch me.” You cried, trying to force your hips to grind against his teasing fingers, but he held you still. 

“I am touching you.” He cooed, still rubbing softly on your clothed mound. Far from where you throbbed for him. 

You let out a childish huff, “That’s not what I mean.” 

“Tell me how to touch you then.” His lust-filled eyes were on yours, his tone demanding. 

Your face burned, “Please, make me cum.” 

He huffed in amusement, letting his fingers dip inside your panties. Brushing softly against your warm heat, arousal soaking his digits with each stroke and circle against your clit. The pleasure licked up your spine, foreign and so far away. It had been years since you came from anything other than your own hand, and it had you reeling. 

“That feel good, baby girl?” He hummed, drinking in every moan and twitch of your hips. 

Your neck hurt from how fast you nodded, “Need you.”

“S’needy.” He huffed playfully, but knew not to tease you any further. He pulled your underwear to the side, slipping his thick fingers into your wet heat easily. Your cunt accepted him greedily, the slight stretch making you wince.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Jack,” You begged, lips pouting, “Need you to fuck me.”

He met your eyes, “Say please.”

The words left your mouth pathetically, “Please, please, p-please.”

He let you beg while he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against his bare chest.

“Hop on, baby.” He ordered, his hands only on your hips to keep you steady as you hovered above him.

“F-fuck.” You hissed, sliding down on him. He slipped inside you with little to no resistance, your wet cunt accepting him greedily. By the time you were seated on his lap, you could feel him in your throat. A bulge pressing against your lower stomach, showing you just how deep he was inside of you.

“You wanted this,” He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, “Work for it.” 

You huffed, but swiveled your hips anyway. Your palms flat on his chest as you worked yourself up and down on him, slowly at first until you were riding him within an inch of his life, taking and taking every inch of him he would give you. If this were the only chance he gave you, you’d make every second of it count.

“Oh my god,” You gasped, legs shaking as you struggled to keep up with your movements, “S’big.”

“I know, baby,” He cooed, “You’ve never had a real man’s cock have you?”

“No, no.” You babbled out, barely able to grind against him. “Never made me cum.”

This information seemed to light a fire in Jack, his hips thrusting up from underneath you.

“He doesn’t know how to please a woman,” He grunts, planting his feet flat on the bed to help fuck up into you despite his earlier protests. “Don’t know how I raised such an embarrassment.” 

His tip was hitting your sweet spot, making your vision go blurry from the sheer force of it. 

“Can’t even speak, can you?” He grunted, his joints aching with each thrust into you, his pleasure outweighing the pain to come after, “Fucking the thoughts out of that pretty little head.” 

“J-jack,” You cried out, loud enough to make his large hand slap against your mouth. 

“Shhhhh, you don’t want my son to know his daddy is fucking his little girlfriend, do ya?” 

It was rhetorical, you knew that, but the way your eyes rolled back was enough of an answer for Jack. A devilish glint in his eyes. 

“Oh, or do you baby?” He slowed down a little, causing your hips to pathetically grind against him. He could feel your cunt squeezing him at each word he spoke. ”You do, huh?”

You shook your head, still unable to speak as he kept his palm harshly against your mouth. 

“You can’t lie to me, I feel you dripping around me,” He laughed, fucking up into you harshly once more, “You want him to hear you cumming on my cock? Want him to hear how a real man should fuck a woman?” 

“Oh, my god.” You cried, biting your teeth down on the callused skin of his palms, “Jack, Jack.” 

He knew you were close because Jack Abbot paid attention to women and their pleasure. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to stay exactly the same. His other hand pulls your hips onto him, grinding your clit against his graying patch of hair above his cock, while he fucked up into you without a care in the world. 

When you came around him, it was like seeing the world in color for the first time. Every single night of dreaming of this, none of it compares to the real thing. When you came back, Jack was still thrusting into you, his sharp moans of praise filling your ears. 

“There you go, s’good baby. Yes, just breathe, baby.” 

“Jack.” You slurred, your body falling limp into his arms. 

“S’good, gonna make me cum.” He panted, “Baby, where d’ya want it?” 

“Inside, please, please.” 

He cut off your pathetic babbles with a kiss, slotting your lips together as he came inside of you with a grunt. His eyes squeezed shut as he filled you full of his cum. It was so warm and soft, you melted into him. 

“You ‘kay, honey?” His sugary sweet voice whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. 

“Hmm.” 

“M’gonna pull out.” He warned, leaving you with a soft hiss. 

As soon as he did, you whined at the loss of him, almost too much to bear physically. His cum was dripping out of you, dribbling down onto his chest where you hovered above him. His fingers reached down, scooping through the mess he had made, plunging his fingers deep inside. 

“Gotta keep it there f’me.” 

You sighed, sitting against his chest, rocking against his fingers greedily, itching for another release with his cum inside of you. 

“You’re already dripping in my cum, and you want more?” He’s out of breath, and there’s all but stars in your eyes as you nod greedily at him. 

He lay there, looking up at the crucifix crookedly hanging on the wall above him. He’d repent later, he thought, watching you grind your leaking cunt against him. God would forgive him, but let him relish in his sins a little longer when they felt this good. 

That night opened the floodgates between you two. It was all stolen glances, ankles locked underneath tablecloths, and nights spent aching for each other within the tiny house, letting yourself be consumed by the Abbot men, while your heart only belonged to one, and it wasn't the one you were sharing a bed with. It was wrong, God, you knew it, but why would something so wrong feel so right?

Romeo dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, while you were in the middle of dinner, listening to the news drone on in the background. 

“I’m gonna be out of town for a few weeks, trying to get that job at the oil rig.” He beamed, “I wanna give you a good life, Y/n.” 

“Y-yeah,” You stuttered out, your grip on your fork tightening as the seconds passed. You avoid Jack’s eyes; you can’t think about being stuck in this house with him, all alone. “It’s gonna go great.” 

“Hey,” Romeo smiles, placing his hand on your thigh, comfortingly taking your discomfort for something else entirely, “It’s only a little bit. Besides, Dad will take good care of you. Won’t he?” 

Jack gave you a toothy grin, taking a huge bite out of his steak. “I sure will, son. I sure will.” 

“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble either,” Romeo said, a glint in his eye as he squeezed your thigh tighter in a silent warning. 

Romeo’s departure had your nerves on edge, as you kissed him goodbye, all you could think about was climbing into Jack’s worn-out recliner and getting your lips on his again. 

Jack could see it on your face, just how bad you wanted, no, needed this.

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen, darlin.” He hummed, his eyes still on the grainy television. You pretended not to notice the tick of his jaw, or the way his fingers gripped his whisky glass even tighter. “S’not right and you know it. You heard him, he’s gonna give you a good life.”

“Yeah, of course not.” You smiled, knowing the two of you were lying through your teeth. Weeks in this house alone, you barely gave it a few days before one of you caved. 

The window in your room gave you the perfect view into his workshop, watching Jack with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with each tool he picked up. When the sun got too much, he’d slip off his shirt, his bare skin glistening. You’d rest your head on the window, letting your hand glide down between your legs. Your fingers slipping underneath your skirts to press harshly into your dripping cunt. 

You’d finger yourself to the image of him below, sweating and unaware of how you were moaning his name and falling apart to the memory of his cock inside of you. There were bitemarks in the cheap wood of the windowsill from trying to stifle your moans. By the time he’d come back inside, all exhausted from a day’s work, your legs would still be shaking, still unsatisfied. And you felt that you would be until you had him again. 

Like two peas in a perverted pod, Jack would end his days with a cold shower and his hand wrapped around his cock until he was shooting blanks down the drain. You’d lounge around in the thinnest white dresses; you might as well have been naked, with how he could see the outline of every curve and dip on your body through them. You watched his knuckles whiten from how hard he squeezed his fists together, but still, he tried to remain a righteous man. 

You were walking sin, and Jack had never wanted so badly to betray God. 

It took him less than 48 hours to give up. You were lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, flipping through some old magazine before the door swung open, his face flushed and pants still halfway undone. 

“Hi-“ 

You had on another one of those god-forsaken night gowns, the sheer fabric lifted above your ass, giving him a perfect view. This was the last straw, he decided, as he pulled his jeans down. 

“What-“ 

He cut you off, dropping his aching bones to the floor, pressing his entire bodyweight on top of you. His hard cock pressing against your ass, his hand reaching forward to grab you by your neck. 

“You and these fucking dresses,” He scoffed, pushing his tip through your still wet folds, “You this wet for me?” 

You were mewling against him, jaw dropping when he sank into your cunt without warning. Still wet from your fingers failing at filling you up as much as he did. “Y-yes. Needed you.” 

“You got me,” He grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a loud smack. “You gonna take me like a good girl?” 

“G-god, yeah. M’your good girl.” 

Jack’s bad knees be damned, he was fucking into you heavy and fast against the scratchy carpet. He was so deep at this angle, making your limbs limp in his hold as he kept your neck up, whispering filthy words in your ear with each thrust. 

“Can feel you squeezing me s’hard, soaking my cock,” His hand gripped your throat tighter, making your head spin, “S’such a good girl, daddy’s good little girl.” 

“Daddy,” You gasped, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your sweet spot, your legs trembling against his body weight. 

”This is the last time.” He grunted, his balls slapping harshly against your ass. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room. “I swear, we can’t keep doing this.” 

“I know,” You sobbed, “Just this time, making me feel so good, daddy. L-last time.” 

“Cum for me,” He barked, feeling his balls tighten, “Let daddy feel that little cunt cum around him.” 

“F-fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You cried, feeling his teeth bite down on your neck as you came around him. Tears leaked down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, gasping for breath when his hand dropped from your neck. 

He came deep inside of you with a shout, filling you so full it leaked out onto the carpet. 

“Last time.” He mumbled, his panting body on top of yours. You both knew it was a lie, but it made him feel good to say it out loud. 

This became the new pattern of those two weeks. You’d sneak into his bed, grinding your ass on his morning wood until he woke up and fucked you hard and fast over the side of the bed. 

Or you’d wake up with his mouth in between your legs, tongue deep inside of your cunt as he mumbled just how he needed one last taste. 

“God forgive me.” He panted, his palms spreading your legs open wide before he wrote gospels on your cunt with his tongue. 

It was blasphemy in its purest form. 

There were late-night calls with Romeo while his daddy was making you cum upwards of 20 times a day. You desecrated every part of the house, even outside. There was no holy land left on the Abbot property. The birds and bugs became accustomed to the sounds of you as he pushed your skirt up, taking you over the hood of his car or down by the creek. 

It was filthy, and it felt like it would never be enough. It was living out every dirty fantasy of him you’d ever had before; there were things not even your brain could conjure up. Things that would make the devil blush. 

One night, Romeo had called you, no doubt drunk as he slurred tirelessly about how he missed you. He could hear you through the walls, kicking open his son’s room to see you lying on the bed, phone propped up against your ear. 

“I don’t think I wanna do that, Romeo.” You whispered into the phone, jumping when the door swung open. Jack's finger went up to his lips as he wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Why not?” Jack could hear the slurring voice of his son through the phone, faintly, “Don’t be a bitch.” 

You bit down on your bottom lip, about to hang up on him, before you saw Jack's eyes, full of jealousy and something else you couldn’t name. 

“Hang up.” Jack mouthed alongside a warning look. 

You should have hung up. Romeo would hardly remember it in the morning, but all you could think about was how hard Jack would fuck you if you disobeyed. He knew that’s exactly what you were thinking too, when your teeth bit down on your bottom lip.

“O-okay.” You sighed into the phone, pretending like he really convinced you. Your eyes locked onto Jack’s as your hand trailed up to your tits, pulling at your hardened nipples through the fabric of your top. “M’touching my tits.” 

The phone was abandoned against your shoulder, his responses falling on deaf ears as you only focused on the brown eyes in front of you, that drank up every movement and every gasp that left your lips. 

“You want me to touch my pussy?” You moaned, but you weren’t talking to Romeo. Jack nodded, and you could hear shuffling on the phone. 

Your fingers slipped inside your panties, fingertips rubbing soft circles into your aching clit. Rubbing your wetness around until you could slip a finger inside of your wet heat. 

“Feels so good.” You sighed, seeing Jack's pants harden with each rise of your chest. “Wish it was your cock.” 

“Yeah, baby.” The phone buzzed, “I’d fuck the hell out of you.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his belt off quickly. Crawling up to the top of the bed to meet you. 

Your eyes widened, feeling his hands pull at your hands, pulling them out of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. You let him throw them somewhere across the room, but paused when he lined his cock up with your heat. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered, trying to lift off the bed to push him off. 

Jack just shook his head, an evil look on his face. “Talk.” He mouthed, pointing to the phone where his son was still babbling about something. 

Jack's cock prodded at your cunt, his tip squeezing inside of you, making you yelp.

“What are you doing now?” Romeo asked boredly, “What would you do to me?” 

“Talk, or I stop,” Jack demanded.

“Uhh,” You stuttered out, Jack’s cock deep inside your guts now. Slowly dragging his hips in and out of you. “I’m just t-touching myself, babe.” 

Jack resisted the urge to laugh, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head with each perfectly angled thrust. 

“Y-yeah, it’s so good.” You droned on, your legs getting pushed up, only deepening the angle Jack was hitting perfectly. 

His fingers tumbled down to your clit, fumbling around with the sensitive bud. 

“O-oh my god, right there.” A pornographic moan escaped you as your hips arched into him. 

“What?” The phone crackled, making your body go white: 

“N-nothing,” You tried, Jack only speeding up his thrusts as soon as you tried to speak, “I’m just-“ 

“What the fuck is-“ 

“I  g-gotta go,” You squealed, cutting him off, fumbling around to end the call as Jack pulled himself out of you harshly as soon as the phone rumbled down, making you wince. “Why’d you stop?” 

He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled your hips in his hands, flipping you over onto your stomach. Drapping you over his lap, while your phone buzzed against the mattress. 

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” He asked, his hand coming down in a smooth, harsh strike against your ass. 

You cried out in pain and pleasure, the sting making your cunt throb.

”I’m sorry-“ 

Another slap, followed by his hand gently rubbing the stinging skin. 

“I don’t believe you.” He hummed. 

Another slap, harder this time. Tears sprang in your eyes, your hips wiggling in his tight hold. 

“Daddy, I’m so sorry.” You cried, your hands digging into the sheets, “P-please-“

“You wanted this,” He mused, another hard slap against you, “This was what you wanted? Isn’t it? To be punished? Couldn’t just be daddy’s good little girl. Had to be a little. fucking. whore.” 

Each word was punctuated with another slap until your ass was bright red, raw to the touch, and your sobs had been stifled by his hands pushing you further into the mattress each time he heard you. One hand in your hair, and the other assaulting your ass. 

“I can feel you leaking against my lap, just desperate.” He shifted, spreading your legs open for him. His fingers are trailing down your ass into your open cunt. “I bet you’re begging to be touched, huh?” He mocked, and you could only answer in muffled sobs and shouts. 

He let his fingertips sink into you, feeling just how desperate you were for him. 

“Daddy-“

“Shut the fuck up,” He seethed, his fingers sank in deeper, moving so fast you could barely pinpoint where the pleasure started and where the pain ended. 

You shook in his hold, moaning desperate pleas as he pried orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each time you’d cum, he’d slap your clit harshly, before continuing to stroke the spot inside of you that had you shaking.

You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh. After the third orgasm, he acted quickly after that. Wasting no time in asking before he was throwing you on your back into the sheets. 

“He never made you feel this good, ever. Did he?” He gruffed out, hands wiping away some of your dried tears as his cock found its home back inside of you. 

“No.” You croaked, so sensitive you were blubbering in tears with each sloppy thrust. Your fingernails were digging into his back as his hand gripped your throat once again. 

“Now every time you're in his bed, you’re gonna think of me wrapping my hands around this pretty little throat.” He growled, gripping you tight. 

“Only want you,” You coughed, face turning red with each harsh crush of his hands against your throat. 

You didn’t even have to tell him you were close again; suddenly, his hand was off your throat, and you were thrashing against him. You swore you blacked out, the pleasure so overwhelming it was all you could feel. All of your other senses dulled, 

When you came to he was cumming deep inside you with a shout, your inner thighs soaked from your multiple releases. Both of your cum mix together and plopping out into Romeo’s sheets. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, pulling your shaking frame into his chest after he pulled out of you with a wince. “Got a little rough with ya.” 

You yawned, “S’okay, I liked it.” 

Your eyes were glazed over, hazy, and still coming down. 

“Let me draw you a bath with them fancy oils that stink.” He gruffed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Then I’ll feed ya.” 

The nights that weren’t filled with indulging in carnal desires, the two of you would end up on a picnic blanket, deep into the woods underneath the old bridge. By the creek bed, the world felt farther away than it had any right to, like the town and its names and its judgment had all been left upstream somewhere, tangled in branches and forgotten water. You leaned back against Jack’s lap without thinking too hard about what it meant, letting the rough hum of the afternoon settle over both of you while birds circled lazily overhead. 

“I don’t wanna be with him when he comes back,” You sighed, “Wanna leave.” 

Jack didn’t answer right away, just shifted slightly beneath you, his hand resting somewhere near your shoulder. “Yeah, where you gonna go?” 

You realized you didn’t have an answer that made sense outside of him.

“Why can’t we be together?” you asked, turning your head just enough to look up at him.

A small exhale left him, something almost like a laugh but not quite, “We are together.” 

“Jack.” You pressed, unamused by his attempt at a joke. “Think about it, us together. Me hanging off your arm every day.” 

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, almost mocking, but you ignored it, “Want me to marry you too? Get you a white dress and some flowers.”

”Actually, yeah,” You huffed. 

“You wanna marry this old man?” His smile was crooked, the crinkles by his eyes deeper the harder he smiled. 

“You know I’d let you knock me up too,” You teased, “Make you a daddy again.” 

His hands reached forward and grabbed your tits harshly through your top, “Hm. I would love to see these all big and swollen.” 

Your mouth went dry, smacking his hands away with a playful giggle before the moment fell solemn again. 

“Seriously, you wanna be with me?” You asked, your voice a little quieter than before. 

“Honey, I do-“

”No more buts, why not?” You pressed harder, “Who cares what anyone in this podunk town thinks. We can leave. Romeo will find some two-bit hooker to marry, he’ll forget about me within a month.” 

His fingers played with the ends of your hair, drinking in the hopeful gaze on your face. “Let’s just focus on the next few days, okay, baby?” 

You frowned, but leaned further into his touch. While you lay in his arms, watching the sunset over the town for just a little while, you could still dream of a future that had him in it. There was only the sound of water and insects and the distant hum of a world that didn’t know how close you were to imagining something different.

The rest of the week was spent in bliss, a bubble of just the two of you together. Where weeks felt like years. 

And all it took was one person to see the two of you in his truck for that bubble to burst.

 It wasn’t even in a compromising position, just you in the passenger seat smiling ear-to-ear with Romeo’s daddy while Romeo was out of town. Your feet on the dashboard, with some song playing too loud in the busted speakers of his truck. But that was enough. 

 Small towns were built of this; gossip spread as fast as wildfire, and you were not immune. You thought you had enough time to get ahead of it, to feed lies to Romeo about this horrible town, but the day he was meant to come back came sooner rather than later. 

You’d learn there was no time when your bedroom door slammed open, Romeo’s eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were already bloodied. 

“Is it true?” Romeo’s voice was slurred; you didn’t even have to be close to him to know his breath reeked of cheap whiskey, which he probably stole from the corner store. 

You froze for a second, your hands stilling in the pockets of his dad’s camo jacket. The same one he lay on the ground to fuck you on top of just days before, overlooking the wheat fields. The picnic where he fed you strawberries and promised to always take care of you. Now the fabric felt stifling against your skin.

“Is what true?” You squeaked, your voice betraying the confidence you were failing to fake. 

The words barely came out before he was yelling again, “Don’t play fucking stupid, bitch.” 

His voice rattled the windows of the houses, making your heart race. 

“Out of everybody in this town, out of every man on earth, you picked him?” The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist, but the violence in his eyes had you frozen. 

“Romeo, please-“

He was on top of you in an instant, his hands fisted in your shirt, spit flying. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” 

“Romeo,” You cried, trying desperately to pull yourself away. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.” 

“I should fucking kill you-“ 

The door slamming open cuts him off. Jack is standing there with his eyes wide, chest heaving as he runs from his shop all the way here. 

“Son, get your hands off of her now.” His voice vibrated off the walls. 

All Romeo could do was laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. You took the chance and fled into the corner of the room, watching the two of them circle each other like prey. 

“Course you show up,” Romeo scoffed. “Her night and shining armor, huh?” 

“Son, I know you’re upset, but let’s not do anything we might regret-“ 

Romeo was not in the listening mood, kicking the trunk at the end of your once shared bed as hard as he could. The wood splintered. None of you even flinched, too hardened by violence and chaos over the years. 

“Regret?” He screamed, zoning in on his father now. “Do you regret fucking my girlfriend?”

Jack’s face hardened, his body stilling. “Where did you hear that nonsense?” 

“The whole fucking town knows!” 

“Well, it’s not true.” Jack scoffed, unconvincingly. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to make yourself as small as possible. 

“Bullshit,” Romeo scoffed, “You can lie to everyone you want, but you can’t lie to me.” 

Jack’s silent, his face falling as he realized that the truth was out there. There was no hiding or outrunning it. 

As soon as Romeo saw this, it was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. His hands itched for something to throw, settling on the vintage wooden dresser next to him.

The dresser tipped under his hands, not fully thrown so much as shoved with all the force of everything he couldn’t hold inside himself anymore, wood scraping against floorboards before it collapsed into itself with a crack. Drawers burst open on impact, scattering old things across the floor, splintered pieces of something that had once been carefully built and now existed only as damage.

You flinched without thinking, your back thudding against the wall. 

Romeo stood over it for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at what he’d done like he wasn’t entirely sure when he had started or how to take it back. 

Jack’s voice came again, quieter this time, strained at the edges. “That was your mother’s.”

Romeo didn’t answer right away, just looked at the broken wood splintered around his feet. 

”You have no fucking right to bring mom up.” He seethed, making Jack nearly take a startled step backwards.

”That dresser was the last thing she ever built.” Jack said calmly, too calmly for the weight of the situation unfolding around him. 

“Yeah, well,” Romeo shrugged, “She’s not here, so.” 

Jack was in his son's face within seconds, spit flying. “How dare you-“

“You’re the reason mom is dead, you know that, right? I’d drink myself to fucking death too if I had to deal with you.” He scoffed, their faces nearly touching. 

Watching them like this was like watching them in a mirror. It was Romeo’s future lying in front of him, a little older, less angry. It was at this moment that you realized just how much he looked like his father, carrying his anger, you didn’t know he even had. 

“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Jack scowled, “Real fucking mature. She’d be disappointed to see you ended up like this.” 

The punch came so fast you barely saw it. Romeo’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw hard enough to send his head snapping sideways. The sound echoed through the house.

 You screamed his name, but neither of them seemed to hear you. Romeo swung again, years of resentment finally spilling free. This time, Jack caught the blow with his shoulder, refusing to raise his hands. 

“Stop,” he warned. “I’m not fighting you.” 

That only made Romeo angrier. Another punch landed. Then another. 

“Fight me!” he shouted. “For once in your life, fight me!” Jack’s expression twisted with pain, not from the blows but from the words. When Romeo charged forward again, Jack finally moved. He caught him around the chest and pulled him backward, locking his arms around him just tightly enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t a fight. It looked more like a father trying to hold together something already shattered. Romeo struggled violently, cursing and yelling, but Jack held firm.

 “Enough,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “Enough.”

 Romeo’s movements gradually slowed until all that remained was heavy breathing and quiet rage. When Jack finally released him, neither man looked at the other. Romeo wiped at his face angrily, whether from sweat or tears, you couldn’t tell. 

“You’re dead to me,” He huffed, still a little unsteady on his feet, whether that was from the alcohol or the exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Both of you.”

When the front screen door slammed, both of you flinched, not at the sound but the finality of it. 

For weeks, you had buried every warning beneath desire. You had covered guilt with longing and loneliness with excuses, convincing yourself that love transformed wrongdoing into something beautiful. But here it was, something ugly and too shameful to face.

Jack hadn’t moved. You watched the rise and fall of his chest. You watched him drag a hand across his jaw and wince. Beneath the guilt and the horror and the undeniable ugliness of what had happened, something warm and terrible unfurled inside your chest.

It made you feel monstrous at how relieved you felt. 

Your skeletons were out of the closet. Now there was nothing left to hide.

The truth had finally clawed its way into the light, ugly and bleeding and impossible to ignore. Romeo knew. The town would have confirmation soon enough. Every church pew and grocery store aisle and gas station parking lot would eventually carry whispers of what had happened here tonight. Your name would become something people shook their heads over. 

The bridge had collapsed behind you both. The life that existed before tonight had vanished the moment Romeo walked through that door and discovered the truth. There would be no returning to it now. No apologies could undo what had happened. No amount of regret could rewind the clock.

And if there was no going back, then the only thing left was forward. 

“Come on,” You whispered, reaching out to grab his wrist and gently urging him to follow you out of the house. You lead him down the creaky front porch steps, into the pathway into the woods at the edge of the property line. 

You’re thankful that the sounds of the forest overpower your rapid heartbeat. You take the trail you always did, past the old oaks and through the old clearing to get to the small creek underneath the bridge. Wordlessly, he followed, letting you take him all the way to the water’s edge. 

Clothes were stripped off, abandoned on a rotted fenceline as your bodies disappeared into the water. He kept his hands in yours until you stopped, waist-deep in the water. 

Jack had always belonged to places like this. Not houses or towns or churches. He belonged to rivers and backroads and stretches of land too wild for anybody to claim. Maybe that’s why you loved him, every scar, every wrinkle told a story of how he had lived, truly lived. 

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes that had nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with years of holding things in place that were never meant to stay together. 

You cupped water in your hands and gently brought it to his face, wiping away traces of blood and dirt with a care that felt almost absurd given everything that had just happened. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he was going to lose.

“You alright?” You asked, though the question felt like it belonged to another version of you, one from a different night entirely, one where things hadn’t already crossed so many invisible lines. 

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting past you toward the dark shape of the trees, like he couldn’t quite anchor himself in the present. Then his expression shifted, something breaking quietly in the way he swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything except truth.

“I’ve ruined your life.” Was all he said. 

“No,” You said, cupping his face in your hands once more, “You are my life now. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.” 

He pressed a kiss to your wrist, his stubble scratching against your skin. 

The creek moved lazily around your waists, carrying away dirt and blood and pieces of a life neither of you could return to. Above you, the bridge groaned softly as a truck passed overhead, its headlights briefly flashing through the trees before disappearing into the deepening dusk.

“Let’s go home,” you said gently, your fingers lingering against his jaw. The bruises darkening beneath his skin seemed worse every time you looked at them. “We gotta get some ice on these.” 

He ignored you, his mind somewhere far away.

“Have you ever seen anything outside of this shithole town?” His timber voice broke the silence.

“Nothing you can’t drive three hours in each direction to see.” You admitted. Your life had never stretched farther than a few county lines. It never felt sad, until you said it outloud. 

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you like the evening air itself. The creek whispered over stones. Crickets sang louder from the tall grass. Somewhere farther down the bank, a frog croaked into the gathering dark. For the first time all day, neither of you seemed in a hurry to fill the quiet.

“Do you wanna go on a little road trip, see the world with me?” 

You could see it so clearly right in front of you, hanging out the window of his truck. Your life unfolding behind your eyes like a dream you’d been having your entire life without realizing it. Endless highways cutting through states you’d only seen on maps. Desert sunsets bleed gold across the horizon. Cheap diners with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted burnt, no matter where you ordered it. Dusty motels glowing beneath neon signs and falling asleep beside him with the windows open and waking up somewhere entirely different than where you’d gone to bed.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a cage.

You looked up at him, your chin digging into his sternum. “Can we see the west?” 

“Yeah, baby,” he said quietly, that crooked smile heavy on his lips. “We can go see the West.”

[plagalkey]

baby crow all grown up 🐦‍⬛

[ohfuff]

This was supposed to be angsty and it became something else 😅

[dogpuppy]

[the-meest-me-ill-ever-be]

[omtai]

Normal groceries like milk or bread or whatever running out is whatever. Just anotha day. But when stuff like salt or cooking oil or rice runs out it feels like You’re supposed to be here for me and you’re leaving. You’re just like everyone else

[qintten]

late happy juneleb btw! let him do whatever he wants