Replaced by a Better Man

Replaced by a Better Man

Nathan hears it every night -- the bed creaking, the muffled gasps, the proof that his mother has replaced his father. A new man in her house. In her bed. In her life. And Nathan? Nineteen, old enough to understand but too weak to escape it. He's just supposed to pretend. Pretend he doesn't hear. Pretend it doesn't matter. But silence has its limits. And some things aren't meant to be ignored.

Disclaimer:

All characters depicted in this story are adults.

Part 1

The ceiling fan hums softly, a steady rhythm against the thick, oppressive silence. Nathan lies awake in his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists against the sheets. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe too loudly. The walls in this house are thin--always have been. And tonight, like so many other nights, the proof of that is undeniable. A sound drifts through the darkness. Soft at first. A murmur. A whisper. Then a quiet gasp.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It's not happening. Not again. The bed creaks. His fingers twitch. His jaw locks. And then--the rhythm starts. A slow, steady cadence, barely perceptible at first, just the gentle rustling of sheets. But it builds. It always builds. Until there's no mistaking it. The muffled sighs. The restrained moans. The shift of bodies, the heat of something he shouldn't be aware of.

Nathan turns onto his side, stuffing his face into his pillow. He could get up. Walk out of his room. Slam the door. Make a noise--any noise--so she'd know he hears. But he won't. He never does. Because this is the rule, the silent agreement between them: We don't talk about it.

She never asks why he looks exhausted in the mornings. He never tells her why. The next day, the kitchen smells of coffee and toasted bread. The sun spills through the windows, painting the room in soft gold. His mother stands by the counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee, her dark, black hair still damp from the shower. She looks untouched. Unbothered. As if the night before never happened. As if she didn't come undone behind the too-thin walls of this house. Nathan watches her from his seat at the table, his fingers wrapped around a mug he hasn't touched yet. She glances at him, her blue eyes sharp, observant.

"Did you sleep well?" He tightens his grip on the mug. A beat of silence stretches between them. Then he shrugs. "Yeah." She nods, bringing the coffee to her lips, her expression unreadable. And just like that, it's over. The conversation that never really started. Because they don't talk about it. They never do.

Part 2

James walks in like he owns the place. Nathan doesn't look up at first. He doesn't need to. He can already picture it--the lazy confidence in his stride, the way he moves like he belongs here, like there's no question about his place in this house, in this kitchen, in her life. The scent of aftershave lingers in the air. Fresh, clean. Like he just stepped out of the shower. Nathan finally lifts his gaze and immediately regrets it. James is wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray boxers, his toned chest bare, his stomach a tight expanse of muscle. Too casual. Too comfortable. Like a man who woke up exactly where he was meant to be. And worse --so much fucking worse-- the bulge.

Nathan tries not to notice it. Fails instantly. It's impossible not to see it. The fabric of the boxers stretches, barely containing whatever the hell is beneath it. A sickening pulse of memory floods his brain.

Last night. The sounds. The way the bed had creaked. The low, deep groans. His mother's voice breaking apart in a way he was never supposed to hear.

His stomach churns. James leans down, pressing a slow kiss to Bethany's lips, right there in front of him, one hand resting lazily on her hip. She hums against his mouth, her fingers brushing over his bare chest. The intimacy of it makes Nathan's skin crawl. She's his mother. James pulls away, stretching his arms, completely unbothered by the fact that he's standing there, half-naked, in front of her son. If anything, there's a flicker of amusement in his expression when his gaze slides to Nathan.

"Morning," James says, his voice low, still rough with sleep. Nathan forces himself to nod. Forces himself not to let his gaze flicker downward.

His grip tightens around his coffee mug. "Didn't know you were up so early," Bethany murmurs, brushing a hand through her dark hair. James smirks, rubbing at his jaw. "Didn't get much sleep." Nathan feels his breath lock in his throat. He shouldn't react. Shouldn't give this man anything. But James is watching him. Watching his expression, the way his shoulders tense.

Like he knows. Like he fucking enjoys it.

Bethany chuckles, completely unaware - or pretending to be. "Coffee's fresh." James grabs a cup from the cabinet, pouring himself some like he's lived here for years. "Thanks, babe."

Nathan swallows down the nausea creeping up his throat. He should leave. Get the fuck out of this kitchen, out of this house, away from the suffocating presence of this man.

Part 3

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke clings to the walls, sinking into the worn-out couch Nathan is slouched on. His fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle, condensation dripping onto his jeans. The game plays on the small TV, the low hum of commentary filling the space between them, but he barely registers any of it.

His father -- Richard -- sits across from him, eyes fixed on the screen, but Nathan knows he isn't really watching either. He just doesn't want to talk. Fine. Neither does Nathan. But silence has never been a safe place in this family.

And just like that, it pulls him back. The weight in the air, the tension coiled so tight it could snap. The sharp scent of something burned in the kitchen, dinner abandoned. The way his mother's voice had sliced through the house, seething, spitting venom at the man now sitting across from him.

"Jesus, Richard, do you even hear yourself? Do you have any idea how fucking pathetic you sound?"

Nathan blinks hard, shakes his head slightly, but the memory won't loosen its grip. It sinks its claws in, drags him under.

"I gave you everything, Bethany." His father's voice, raw, broken in a way that had made Nathan's stomach churn.

"Everything?" His mother had laughed, but it hadn't been real. It had been cold. Ugly. "You think you gave me everything?"

Richard had said something after that, something too quiet to hear, but whatever it was had set her off. "Oh, please. I was faking it for years."

"You never satisfied me, Richard. Never."

He blinks back to the present, fingers flexing around the bottle. His father still isn't looking at him. And Nathan still doesn't know what the hell to say. Richard exhales slowly, rubbing his palm against his jeans, like he's trying to warm them, or maybe just giving himself something to do. The game flickers on the screen, the low buzz of the commentators filling the silence between them. But it's thin, fragile, like a weak patch over a gaping wound. His father clears his throat. "So... how's home?"

Nathan's grip tightens around his beer bottle. What the fuck is he supposed to say? That his former home - the one his father used to live in, the one where Nathan grew up, the one where his mother used to bake cookies and hum old songs under her breath--has turned into something else entirely?

That it's just a house now? That every night, when the walls start shaking and the headboard starts knocking and his mother starts moaning, he lays in bed, fists clenched, trying not to listen, trying not to hear the man she left his father for ruining her in ways he never should have to think about?

Nathan keeps his gaze locked on the TV, forcing a shrug. "It's fine."

Richard nods, but it's slow. Thoughtful. "Yeah?"

Nathan takes a long sip of beer, as if that might drown out the memories, the noises still fresh in his fucking head. "Yeah."

Richard hesitates. He's not stupid. He knows when someone's lying to him. He used to be a lawyer before he quit everything, before Bethany stripped him down to a man who wears the same hoodie three days in a row and lives in a shoebox apartment.

"James treating her well?"

Nathan almost laughs. Almost. Yeah. James is treating her, all right. To long, drawn-out nights. To headboard-thudding, mattress-squeaking, sheet-clutching nights. To sounds Nathan will never be able to erase from his skull, no matter how hard he tries. But instead of saying any of that, he just shrugs again. "Guess so."

Richard exhales, rubbing his face. "Look, I know this is weird. And I know I'm probably the last person you wanna talk to about it, but... you can. If you need to."Nathan stares at the TV, his jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Talk? Talk about what? About the way his mother used to fight with Richard over how he wasn't enough? About the way she used to rip into him, tearing him down piece by piece, telling him how she was never satisfied? About how James seems to have no fucking problem satisfying her, night after night, loud enough for the whole damn house to hear? Talk about how Nathan lies there, gripping his sheets, counting the seconds between each headboard slam, wondering when the hell this became his life? Talk about how sometimes--just sometimes--he catches James looking at him in the morning, that smug little smirk in place, like he knows Nathan heard everything?

His father watches him carefully, waiting for an answer. Nathan forces himself to breathe, forces his voice into something steady. "There's nothing to talk about."

Richard hesitates, but eventually nods, taking a slow sip of beer. They both turn back to the game. Neither of them say anything else. Because some things you just don't fucking talk about.

The bathroom light flickers when Nathan switches it on, buzzing faintly like everything else in this cramped, lifeless apartment. The tiles under his feet are cold, cracked in the corners. The mirror is spotted with dried water stains. The sink drips. The kind of place a man ends up in when everything falls apart, and he doesn't have the energy to put himself back together.

Nathan splashes water on his face, gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white. His reflection stares back at him, tired eyes shadowed with something too heavy for his age. He looks down. Looks away. Doesn't want to see himself right now. When he steps back into the hallway, the door to Richard's bedroom is cracked open.

He doesn't mean to look. He does anyway. It's small. Pathetic. A twin-sized bed shoved into the corner, unmade, covers crumpled. No headboard. No signs of life, really. A pile of laundry in the corner. An old dresser with a missing knob. And then--on the nightstand. A roll of toilet paper. Nathan stares at it. Feels something twist deep in his gut. He knows what it's for. Of course, he fucking does. And God, he wishes he didn't. There's a sudden rush of emotions, all tangled, all conflicting, all choking him at once. Pity. Shame. And something darker. Something colder.

Because Richard used to be a husband. A father. A man who had a home, a wife, a son. A man who used to come home to a woman, to warmth, to touch, to connection. Now he has a twin bed and a fucking roll of toilet paper on his nightstand. Now he's just a man alone. Nathan swallows, his throat tight. And yet, beneath all of that tangled, suffocating emotion, something ugly surfaces. Something he doesn't want to acknowledge but can't stop from forming.

A single word. Loser.

His stomach turns instantly. He hates himself for thinking it. But he does. Because he sees too much of himself in his father. A man who was discarded, replaced, no longer needed. Nathan isn't a husband. Isn't a father. But he is a son who doesn't belong in his own house. A son who lies in his bed at night, listening to his mother be fucked open by the man who replaced his father. A son who is tolerated in that house, not wanted. He forces himself to look away. Steps back. Shuts the bathroom door.

When he comes out, Richard is in the kitchen, rinsing out his beer bottle, moving slow like everything is an effort. Nathan feels his throat tighten again. "I should go," he says, voice flat. Richard turns, drying his hands on his jeans, nodding. "Yeah. Alright."

There's a beat. Nathan waits for something. A reason to stay. A reason not to walk out of this sad little apartment and never come back. But Richard just looks at him, tired, resigned. Nathan exhales sharply. "See you."

"Yeah," Richard says. "See you!."

And then Nathan is gone. Out the door, out into the cold, out into the night. Feeling heavier than when he walked in.

Part 4

The house is dimly lit when Nathan steps inside, the faint glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the walls. The air feels thick, like something lingers in it, something unspoken. Something wrong. James is sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, his legs spread in that casual, territorial way he always sits - like he owns the fucking place. Like he belongs here more than Nathan does. Nathan clenches his jaw.

Fuck that. He's still here. He still lives here.

And maybe it's the beer sitting hot in his stomach, maybe it's the leftover frustration from his father's sad little apartment, or maybe it's just the fact that he's so fucking tired of being the quiet, passive presence in his own house. But he doesn't go upstairs. Instead, he strides into the living room and sits down. Right there. On the other side of the couch.

James barely glances at him, just tips his beer bottle up, taking a long, slow sip. Nathan watches the way his throat moves. The way he exhales after, completely unbothered, completely in control.

"Didn't think you'd be out this late," James says, voice lazy, smooth, almost amused. Nathan shrugs, reaching for one of the unopened beers on the table. He doesn't ask if it's James's. He doesn't fucking care. He twists the cap off, takes a swig. The bitterness sits heavy on his tongue, but he swallows it down like it's nothing.

James glances at him then, brief but knowing. "Where were you?"

Nathan tilts his head back against the couch. "With my dad."

And there--there it is. The flicker of amusement. The faintest tug at the corner of James's mouth. Like the mere mention of Richard is funny to him. Like it's a goddamn joke. Nathan's fingers tighten around the bottle. He wants to punch that expression off James's face. Wants to knock that smug little smirk straight out of his fucking mouth. But instead, he just takes another sip of beer.

James doesn't say anything else. Just leans back into the couch, stretching his arms above his head, his shirt riding up just a little, exposing a sliver of his toned stomach. Unbothered. Relaxed. Smug. Nathan swallows hard. Feels the rage curling hot and tight in his gut.

James doesn't need to say anything. His entire existence says it for him.

I won.

I took everything from your father.

I took your mother.

I took this house.

I took your fucking place.

Nathan grips his bottle so tightly his knuckles go white. Then, finally, James exhales, stretching his arms one last time before pushing himself up from the couch. "Alright," he murmurs, voice low, deep, dragging like it's laced with something just a little too fucking smug. He rolls his shoulders, tips back the last of his beer, and glances down at Nathan. "I'm heading to bed."

Nathan doesn't move. Just watches him. Watches the way he strolls toward the hallway, bare feet soundless against the hardwood. Watches the way he disappears around the corner, heading for her room. His mother's room.

Nathan grits his teeth, his pulse pounding in his skull, hot and tight and fucking unbearable. James doesn't say goodnight. He doesn't have to. Nathan already knows exactly what the next few hours will sound like. He closes his eyes, head falling back against the couch, and exhales through his nose.

Yeah.

Right to her.

Right to her bed.

Right to fucking her senseless while Nathan lies awake and listens.

Part 5

Nathan pops the cap off another beer, letting it clatter onto the table. His fingers feel numb around the bottle, the condensation slick against his palm. He takes a slow sip, staring at the muted TV, not really watching, not really thinking. He tells himself he's just sitting here because he's not tired yet. Because the beer tastes better down here than it does in his room. Because the couch is more comfortable than the bed that feels less and less like his every night.

But the minutes pass. And pass. And still--nothing. No faint creak of bedsprings. No soft, breathy sighs. No rhythmic knocking against the wall that sends heat and rage pulsing through his veins in equal fucking measure. Tonight, there's nothing.

Nathan's grip tightens around the bottle. Good. That's good. Right? The alcohol sits thick in his blood, weighing him down, making his limbs slow, making his thoughts not quite his own. If it's good--if he's glad--then why is he still sitting here?

Why hasn't he gone to bed? Why is he waiting? A muscle in his jaw twitches. Maybe he's just drunk. Maybe that's all it is. Maybe it's just the routine of it, the twisted fucking habit that's formed, the way he's conditioned to brace himself, to anticipate it, to feel that awful, acidic mix of nausea and something darker curling in his stomach.

A noise. Barely there, almost nothing at all. But it slams into him like a gunshot. Nathan freezes, heart slamming against his ribs. His fingers twitch, a sudden electric current snapping through his spine. His breathing slows. His ears strain. Another sound. A shift. Barely perceptible, but his body knows.

He knows. The beer bottle sits untouched in his grip now, the alcohol burning through him, making him too aware of everything--his pulse, the heat creeping up his neck, the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his body betrays him.

Fuck. Not now. Not like this. But his blood is thick, heavy, slow. His skin is too tight. His breath is too shallow. And his thoughts - His thoughts are the worst part of all.

Part 6

The air is thick with heat and the faint scent of sweat, mingling with the perfume still clinging to her skin. Bethany exhales shakily, her chest rising and falling in uneven, languid waves as she stretches her arms above her head, letting the last tremors of pleasure hum through her body. Her legs feel weak, her thighs still trembling, the imprint of James' hands burning against her skin.

His breath is warm against her neck, his lips ghosting over her collarbone before he finally pulls away, collapsing beside her with a satisfied groan. For a long moment, neither of them speak. The room is dimly lit, the sheets a tangled mess beneath them, the heat of their bodies still radiating in the space between them. Bethany smirks lazily, turning onto her side, tracing a slow, absentminded circle over James' bare chest. "You seem... extra eager tonight."

James chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head. "Missed you today." She raises a brow. "Oh? You see me every damn day." "Doesn't mean I don't miss you."

Her smirk widens, but she doesn't say anything. Just lets her fingers trail lower, over the dips and ridges of his stomach, teasing, lingering. James catches her wrist, laughing low. "If you start that again, you're not leaving this bed for a while."

She bites her lip, grinning, before finally rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her body still buzzing, still warm. She feels good. Sated. James presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder before sitting up. "Want anything?"

Bethany shakes her head, stretching once more before slipping out of bed. "I'm getting some water." She pulls on her robe, loosely tying the sash as she pads barefoot through the hallway, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still clinging to her skin. The house is quiet, the TV in the living room still on, the glow casting flickering shadows against the walls. Bethany steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, unscrews the cap. As she takes a slow sip, her gaze flickers toward the couch.

She frowns. A crumpled tissue sits on the armrest, discarded, almost blending into the fabric. Bethany tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. She steps closer. Reaches for it. Her fingers barely graze the material before she realizes.

It's sticky. Her stomach lurches. Her breath stills. A slow, cold horror creeps down her spine, coiling, twisting. Her first instinct is to not think about it. Her second is to hope it's not what it is. The smell. Faint, but distinct. Sharp. Bitter. Bethany inhales sharply, her lips parting as a slow, bitter smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

No.

No, it can't be.

Not from him.

Not here.

Not in the fucking living room.

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head, pressing her lips together, a slow, incredulous laugh bubbling up in her throat. "Jesus," she mutters, staring at the tissue between her fingers, her smile curling into something dark, something almost amused. Almost.

Part 7

Bethany lingers in the doorway, the water bottle cool against her palm, condensation slicking her fingers. James lies sprawled against the pillows, bare chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, his limbs loose, relaxed. He watches her with that lingering post-sated smirk--until he really looks at her. Until he sees something off in her expression.

His brows knit together slightly as he pushes himself up on one elbow. "What?"

Bethany exhales, slow, deliberate, as if she's trying to untangle her own thoughts before speaking them out loud. She moves toward the bed, sits at the edge, absently rolling the water bottle between her hands. The silence stretches between them, taut, expectant. "I found something," she says finally, her voice measured, careful.

James tilts his head slightly, watching her. "Yeah?"

Bethany huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Just... tell me it was you."

James frowns, pushing himself up further. "Tell you what was me?"

She looks at him then, really looks, something flickering behind her eyes--wry, disbelieving, but unsettled too. "In the living room. On the couch. There was a tissue." She exhales sharply. "Used."

James watches her carefully now, the shift in his expression subtle but telling.

Bethany rubs at her temple, shaking her head. "At first, I didn't think much of it. I mean, it's just a tissue, right? But then I picked it up." Her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle. "And it's definitely cum."

James leans back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair. "Bethany--"

She lets out a short, dry laugh, shaking her head. "I know. I know it's stupid. I know I shouldn't care. But for some reason, it just..." She trails off, exhaling. "It caught me off guard. That it was just... there. So casual. Like nothing."

She hesitates, then lifts her gaze to him, something cautious in her voice now. "Was Nathan still in the living room when you came to get me?"

James watches her, then tilts his head slightly, considering. "When I came to...?" His smirk tugs faintly. "When I came to drag you into bed?"

Bethany doesn't return the smile, her expression too unreadable now. "Yeah."

James exhales, thinking for a moment. Then, with an easy shrug, "Probably."

Bethany swallows, looking down again, something flickering behind her eyes. James watches her for a beat, then finally, he sighs. "Bethany, it's normal."

She scoffs quietly, lips pressing together. "Is it?"

"Yeah," James says, stretching his arms behind his head, voice tipping toward something lazy, something just a little cruel. "He's got all that tension locked up with nowhere to spend it. Nineteen, no pussy, no power--of course, he's climbing the fucking walls. Boys like that get off on anything when they've got no one to take it out on. A sound, a glimpse, a thought--it doesn't even have to be real. Just the idea of it, the scraps of something close enough." His smirk sharpens slightly. "Trust me. I know the type."

Bethany exhales, jaw tightening slightly before she finally looks away. "I just... don't like thinking about it."

Bethany closes her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head, laughing softly, though there's no real humor in it. "God." A pause. "I need a drink."

James pulls her closer, his voice warm against her temple. "You'll live."

Bethany sighs again, softer this time. And then, like she's trying to convince herself, she murmurs, "Yeah. I will."

James watches her, the way her fingers still grip the water bottle, knuckles tense, breath too measured. He exhales, slow, indulgent, then reaches for her, fingertips skimming the inside of her wrist, light as a whisper, as if coaxing something out of her she hasn't quite decided to give.

"Hey," he murmurs, voice low, knowing. "You're thinking too much."

Bethany lets out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, but it doesn't carry any real weight. She doesn't pull away. James moves in closer, his touch tracing a slow path up her arm, warm and deliberate. His palm lingers at the curve of her shoulder, fingers pressing in just enough to tether her to something simpler, something easier. "It doesn't matter," he says, breath brushing against the sensitive spot just below her ear. "It never did."

She knows what he's doing. Knows how easily he slides between the lines of reassurance and distraction, how his hands have always been just as much a weapon as a comfort. And yet, her body betrays her, tilting toward him, her pulse stuttering when his fingers slip lower, dragging idly over the silk of her robe, teasing the loose knot at her waist.

Bethany exhales, slow, measured, eyes fluttering closed for just a second too long.

James smirks against her skin, sensing the shift, his lips ghosting along her jaw. "That's it," he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, half amusement, half something else.

Outside, the house is quiet. Too quiet.

She swallows. Somewhere down the hall, the floor creaks, subtle, almost imperceptible. Maybe nothing. Maybe not. A flicker of hesitation--gone just as fast.

James' hands tighten at her waist, pulling her forward, pressing her into something warm, something familiar, something that drowns out every flickering thought still clinging to her ribs.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

Maybe it never did.

Her breath catches as James' mouth trails lower, teasing, knowing, patient in a way that makes her ache. And when he pushes into her, slow, deep, unrelenting, her nails dig into his back, and the last thread of doubt snaps.

Because it doesn't matter. Not the tissue, not the creaking floor, not the fact that somewhere in this house, someone might be listening. She exhales, head tilting back, a slow, dark smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Let him.

Part 8

Nathan steps into the sports and recreation center, the smell of rubber flooring and faintly chlorinated air settling around him like a weight. The overhead lights are bright, sterile, casting long shadows across the polished courts. His grip tightens around the strap of his gym bag, jaw clenched as he trails behind them.

James and Bethany - who walk just a little too close, their voices low, murmuring something he can't quite catch. His mother had insisted on this. "We should do something together," she had said, her voice too soft, too careful. "Like a family."

And, of course, she had picked this. Badminton. Nathan had always liked playing--had been good at it, too. His reflexes were sharp, his coordination solid. He actually enjoyed it. And maybe that was why Bethany had suggested it in the first place, thinking it would be something to bond over, something easy. Something safe.

But there was nothing safe about this. James leads them toward the courts, his posture annoyingly easy, annoyingly relaxed, that stupid, effortless confidence seeping from his every movement. He's already changed into athletic shorts and a fitted T-shirt, his arms flexing as he adjusts the net height. Bethany stands nearby, sipping from a water bottle, looking at James like he's something carved from marble--something meant to be admired.

Nathan wants to break something. "Alright," James says, tossing him a racket. "Let's see what you've got." Nathan catches it, fingers curling around the grip, hating the way James looks at him - like this is a joke, like this is nothing.

The game starts, and almost immediately, Nathan realizes what a mistake this is. James doesn't hold back. The first few volleys are fast, sharp, and Nathan barely manages to return them. His grip is too tight, his movements too rigid, and James--James moves like he was fucking built for this. Effortless. Precise. Every shot lands exactly where he wants it to, making Nathan scramble, making him look slow, uncoordinated, pathetic.

Bethany watches from the sideline, arms crossed, an amused little smile tugging at her lips. Nathan grits his teeth and swings harder, his shot going wide, hitting the net. "Too much wrist," James comments, not unkindly, but it makes Nathan burn hotter.

He resets, shoulders tight, and the next serve comes in fast. He lunges for it, feels the satisfying smack of the shuttlecock against his racket, but before he can even register the small victory, James is already there, returning it with a casual flick of mhis wrist. Nathan stumbles, barely catching it, and then--slam.

James ends it.

Game over.

Nathan stares at the ground, his breaths coming hard, sharp, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. "Good effort," James says, but there's something in his tone--something too smooth, too patronizing. Nathan grips the racket so tightly his knuckles go white.

He hates this. Hates all of it. The way James wins so easily. The way Bethany looks at him. The way this whole thing feels like some twisted performance where he's the joke and James is the one everyone is rooting for. His mother steps onto the court, playfully nudging James. "You could at least let him win one."

James laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Gotta earn it."

Nathan's jaw tightens. He fucking hates him.

Part 9

The locker room feels wrong. Too quiet, too empty. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, sterile and unkind, casting shadows that stretch too long, too sharp against the cold tile floor. Nathan shifts, rolling his shoulders, the scrape of metal echoing as he pulls open a locker door. James kicks off his shoes, peels off his shirt, every movement slow, methodical. He's not in a hurry. He never is.

Nathan forces himself to focus on his own locker, on the zipper of his bag, on anything other than what's happening a few feet away. But it's like watching a crash in slow motion--you don't want to see it, but some sick part of you has to look. And when he does--when his eyes flicker, just for a second--he feels his stomach drop.

James stands there, completely bare, no towel, no fucking shame. Just standing there, rifling through his bag like it's nothing, like he is nothing. And fuck. Nathan's mouth goes dry, his skin prickling with something hot, something sick, something he can't name. He shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't. But it's right there, impossible to ignore, absurd in its sheer presence.

It hangs heavy between his legs, thick, unbothered, obscene in its casualness. Like it's just there, just part of him, something Nathan isn't supposed to notice. But how the fuck is he not supposed to?

His throat works, but nothing comes out. He jerks his head away so fast his neck protests, yanking his shirt over his head like it might help, like if he moves fast enough, he can erase the last few seconds from existence. But it lingers. It's already burned into his mind, an image he never wanted, never asked for, but now it's there, carved into the backs of his fucking eyelids.

Nathan swallows hard, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and turns away, fingers fumbling at his waistband. He has to change. Fast. Before the shame burns straight through his skin. He shoves his jeans down, the fabric pooling at his ankles as he reaches for his gym shorts--

"Nathan?"

His whole body locks up. The voice is too familiar, too casual, like it's not a fucking problem that it's coming from the doorway of the goddamn locker room. His head snaps up, too fast, too hard, and there she is-- His mother, standing against the doorframe, her posture easy, one hand resting lightly against the frame.

Nathan doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Because it's too late. Because his jeans are down, his shorts not yet on, and there's nothing hiding him. The flick of his mother's eyes is slow, too deliberate to be an accident. From James, down, lingering for just the briefest second--then over, her gaze sweeping, recalibrating, comparing.

And then her lips move. Just barely. A subtle press, the faintest twitch at the corner. Not quite a smile. Not quite amusement. Something else. Something knowing. Nathan's skin burns, shame curling hot and ugly in his stomach.

His mother finally looks up, meeting his gaze, and there's something unreadable in her expression. "We're heading out soon," she murmurs, voice smooth, effortless. Nathan swallows, his throat tight, his entire body rigid. He nods, jerky, stiff, unable to speak. And then, just as quick as she came, she's gone, leaving nothing behind but the worst fucking silence he's ever felt in his life.

James exhales a slow, quiet chuckle behind him. Nathan doesn't turn around. He just yanks his shorts up, hands clumsy, jaw locked, desperate to get the fuck out of there.

Part 10

The car hums beneath him, a steady, rhythmic vibration that should be soothing, that should lull him into mindless silence like it used to when he was with his parents, sitting in the backseat, watching the streetlights blur past, half-asleep as Mom and Dad drove him to Grandma's house. Back then, he'd lean against the window, small and safe, drifting in and out of drowsy, thoughtless quiet while his parents talked up front, their voices low, familiar, the world predictable. Simple.

But that was then. And now, he's here, sitting in the backseat like a goddamn schoolboy, knees close together, hands stiff on his thighs, his posture too straight, too careful. But this isn't Mom and Dad. This isn't his family.

His mother sits up front, next to him. The man who isn't his father. James drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift, posture easy, movements effortless, like he owns this car, this space--like he owns them. He glances at Bethany briefly, smirking at something she says, something light, something meaningless.

Nathan barely hears it. Because his mind is somewhere else. Because now he knows.

Before, it had just been sound. Muffled. Distant. Something he could almost pretend wasn't real. A bad dream. A trick of the mind. But now? Now he has a picture. A clear one. James, standing there in the locker room, bare, exposed, but not humiliated, not ashamed, just there, like it was nothing. Like it was normal. His mother, in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching. The flicker of her gaze. The comparison.

Nathan grips his thighs, breath slow, controlled, like maybe if he just breathes right, he can stop this, can push it away, bury it somewhere deep. But it's already done.

Because now his brain won't stop. Now it knows exactly what happened after. It builds the image for him, unbidden, unwelcome.

James, taking her home. James, leading her upstairs. James, pressing her down, spreading her open, filling her-- Nathan swallows hard, heat rushing to his face, his throat, lower.

Fuck. No. Not this. Not this.

But it's happening. His body reacts before his mind can shut it down, before he can shove the thoughts away. Blood surges south, tightening, pulsing, humiliating in its inevitability. He shifts slightly in his seat, pressing his thighs together, his breath just a fraction too slow, too careful. Bethany hums softly from the front seat, adjusting the visor mirror, her lips pressing together in thought. Nathan's stomach twists.

Like a schoolboy with his hands under his desk. Like a fucking pervert. Like something is wrong with him. He stares out the window, jaw clenched so tight he swears his teeth might crack, willing the blood to flow anywhere else. It doesn't.

The car rolls to a stop in the driveway, the low hum of the engine fading into silence. Nathan grips his knees, staring straight ahead, willing himself to move. To open the door. To step out and breathe air that isn't thick with this. His mother sighs softly, stretching, adjusting her seatbelt before glancing back at him. "Nathan?"

The sound of her voice jolts him. His fingers tighten, nails pressing into his palms before he finally mutters, "I'm taking the dog out."

He pushes the door open before she can respond, stepping out into the night, cool air rushing against his skin. It should be grounding. It isn't. Bethany hums in acknowledgment, the sound light, dismissive. Like she doesn't even realize what she's done. James only chuckles under his breath.

Nathan doesn't wait for either of them to say anything else. He moves, fast, heading toward the side door, barely pausing to unhook the leash from the wall before clipping it onto the collar. His dog, eager and restless, tugs forward the second the latch clicks.

"Yeah," Nathan mutters under his breath, barely audible even to himself. "Same."

He walks. Not because he wants to, but because he needs to. Because if he doesn't move, if he doesn't do something, he's going to fucking lose it. But it doesn't help. Because his thoughts follow him.

Lurking, gnawing, circling. James, standing in the locker room. Bare. Effortless. Bigger. His mother, in the doorway. Watching. Comparing.

And suddenly, all those nights--the ones he forced himself to forget, to pretend didn't happen--come slamming back into him like a fucking freight train. The muffled arguments. The low, heated voices from the kitchen. His father, angry, guttural. And then his mother -

"Maybe if you weren't so goddamn insecure!"

"Maybe if you could actually satisfy a woman!"

Nathan clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. He doesn't want to remember this. He shouldn't remember this. But he does. Nathan stops walking. His whole body tenses, something thick and bitter lodging itself in his throat. The dog tugs at the leash, impatient, whining softly, but Nathan doesn't move.

Because suddenly, he's his father. Angry. Small. Insufficient.

Part 11

Bethany leans against the kitchen counter, fingers idly tracing the rim of her wine glass. The house is quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional scrape of James' fork against his plate. Nathan is still out with the dog. She'd heard the door shut behind him, the hurried, almost frantic way he'd left--like the air inside had been suffocating him. She sighs, rubbing her temple. "That was... uncomfortable."

James doesn't even look up, cutting into his food with that same detached efficiency he applies to everything. "Which part?"

Bethany gives him a dry look. "You know which part."

A pause. Then, casually, "Yeah. Guess I do."

She exhales, shaking her head, lips pressing together. "I don't think I should've walked in." James finally glances up, raising an eyebrow. "No shit."

Bethany sighs again, fingers tightening around her glass before she takes a slow sip. She's trying. Really trying to frame this delicately, to talk about it without making it worse. "I think he's embarrassed."

James snorts. "Understatement of the year." Bethany frowns. "I just--" She hesitates, searching for the right words. "I don't want him to feel... insecure."

James leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Beth, he humiliated himself."

She bristles slightly. "James." "What?" He shrugs. "It's true. I didn't tell him to stand there with his pants around his ankles like a deer in headlights."

Bethany winces, rubbing her forehead. "Can we not talk about it like that?" James gives her a dry, amused look. "How do you want to talk about it?" She sighs, setting her glass down a little harder than necessary. "I don't know. I just--he's already struggling."

James hums, pushing his plate aside. "Yeah. And now he's struggling more."

Bethany shoots him a look. James only smirks. "What? You think he hasn't always known?" He tilts his head slightly, voice lazily pragmatic. "I mean, c'mon, Beth. It's not like this is news to him. He just got confirmation."

Bethany shifts, uncomfortable. James watches her, something knowing in his gaze. "It's always the ones who don't have something that notice it the most. That fixate." He gestures vaguely with his hand. "People with money don't obsess over it. People who get laid don't spend all day thinking about sex. And people who aren't--" He trails off for a second, lips twitching before he smirks. "Well. Him. They see it. Everywhere."

Bethany bites her lip, pressing a hand against the counter. "That's cruel."

James shrugs. "It's true."

She sighs, looking away. "I feel bad for him."

James chuckles. "Yeah. That's probably not helping."

Bethany huffs, shaking her head. "I just don't want him to feel like..."

James waits, but when she doesn't finish, he raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

She exhales slowly. "Like less."

James watches her for a long moment, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. "Beth. He is less." He doesn't falter. Doesn't soften. Just watches her, gaze steady. "I get that you want to protect him. But at some point, protecting turns into lying." He shrugs, tilting his head. "And he's not stupid."

Bethany looks away, pressing her lips together. James watches her for a beat longer, then leans back again, stretching. "He'll get over it."

Bethany doesn't answer. She just finishes her wine, gaze distant, the echo of Nathan's hurried footsteps still lingering in her mind.

Beth, you need to stop feeling guilty."

She blinks, looking at him. "I don't feel guilty."

James lets out a short, amused huff. "Bullshit." Bethany sighs, rubbing her temple. "I just don't want him to--"

"To what?" James tilts his head, eyes sharp, voice as dry as ever. "To feel bad? To be embarrassed? To realize what he's always known but just didn't want to admit?"

Bethany presses her lips together.

James watches her for a beat before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "Look. This is just life. You don't get to pick the cards you're dealt. Some guys are made to win. Others are made to watch." He pauses, lips twitching. "And let's be real, Nathan's been watching for a long time."

Bethany's stomach tightens, a faint prickle of unease creeping up her spine. "James...."

But he's already leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping into something lower, something almost amused. "You really think he didn't know? Didn't hear?" He lifts an eyebrow, smirking. "You think he wasn't lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, pretending he didn't hear his mom getting fucked by a real man?"

Bethany swallows. Her grip on the glass tightens. James chuckles, shaking his head. "C'mon, Beth. You moan like a goddamn pornstar when you're getting it good. You think walls change that?" He snorts. "He heard. He knew."

Bethany shifts, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "That's not funny." James shrugs, unbothered. "It's not meant to be. It's just true." She lets out a slow breath, fingers rubbing against the stem of her glass. "I just... I feel bad for him."

James clicks his tongue. "Yeah. And that's why this is worse for him."

Bethany looks up, frowning slightly. James smirks. "Nothing's more humiliating than pity, Beth. You think he wants you to feel bad for him? You think it helps?" He leans in slightly, voice dropping, biting. "You think it made it better when you walked into that locker room and saw it?" His eyes flicker with something sharp, something entertained. "When you compared us?"

Bethany inhales, slow and measured, but her pulse skips slightly. James chuckles. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

She looks away, pressing her lips together, but he keeps going, voice low, amused, like this is all just another inevitable fact of life.

"You don't have to feel guilty," he says simply, leaning back again. "The world isn't fair. Nature sure as hell isn't. Some guys get to fuck. Some guys get to watch." A pause. A smirk. "And some guys get to sit in their room, hard as a fucking rock, thinking about what they'll never have."

Bethany closes her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. She wants to argue. To tell him he's being cruel. But is he wrong? She looks down at her glass, fingers tightening, trying to find the right words, something to make this feel less awful. "I still feel bad for him."

James just grins, shaking his head. "Then you're not doing him any favors."

Part 12

The house is silent. That thick, pressing kind of quiet that makes every sound feel heavier, sharper--like it wants to be broken. The only thing filling it now is breath. Slow. Labored. The soft creak of the mattress beneath shifting weight. And the wet, obscene sound of James moving inside her.

Bethany's fingers fist into the sheets, knuckles tight, her body arching with every deliberate, measured thrust. He's always like this. Unhurried. Calculated. Pushing her right to the edge but never letting her fall. Holding her there, teasing, playing. Like he owns her pleasure. Like he enjoys the way she trembles beneath him, the way she needs him to take her apart piece by piece.

She gasps as his pace slows again, a lazy, dragging stroke that makes her thighs tremble, makes her nails bite into his shoulders. He hums against her throat, all amusement, all control. His hands tighten against her hips, keeping her pinned beneath him.

And then--his voice, low, rough, commanding. "Say it."

Bethany barely registers the words at first, too lost in the heat, the pressure, the delicious fucking ache of him inside her. But then his fingers dig in, enough to pull her back, to make her listen. "Say it, Beth."

She swallows hard, blinking up at him, dazed, body trembling. "Say what?"

James huffs out a quiet laugh, shifting his weight, rolling his hips just right - deep, slow, enough to make her whimper, enough to make her nails dig deeper into his back. "You know what."

And then it hits her. The house is quiet. The walls are thin.

Bethany's pulse stutters, something hot and sharp curling in her stomach. James leans in, his breath hot against her ear, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of her throat. "Tell me," he murmurs, voice nothing more than a low, dangerous whisper, "that it doesn't matter if he hears."

Her breath catches. His pace slows again, taunting, making her feel every single inch of him. "Tell me," he repeats, dragging his lips along her jaw, "that it doesn't matter."

Bethany exhales shakily, her chest rising and falling in uneven, frantic breaths. His hand slides lower, fingers pressing against the slick heat between her thighs, stroking, teasing, pushing her right there...

And then he stops. Bethany whines, her hips bucking up involuntarily, needing, chasing the friction he just took away. James smirks against her skin. "Say it, Beth." She grips him tighter, nails biting, her whole body desperate. And when she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a breath.

"It doesn't matter."

The moment the words leave her lips, James loses himself. All the teasing, the measured control, the smug restraint--it snaps like a tether stretched too thin. Whatever restraint he had left burns away in an instant, replaced with something raw, something animalistic, something that had been lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to break loose.

"It doesn't matter." Bethany barely has time to breathe before he moves.

Harder. Deeper. The teasing rhythm is gone. No more dragging strokes, no more lazy smirks. He takes her like he owns her, like her body is something to be conquered, something meant to be used. Bethany's gasp turns into a cry, her hands flying to his back, nails raking, desperate for purchase as he slams into her.

"Fucking say it again," James grits out, voice wrecked, almost feral as he buries himself inside her. Bethany's head tilts back, her breath coming in frantic, broken gasps. "It doesn't--" her voice catches as he thrusts, deep and merciless, "James--fuck--"

He groans, dragging her hips up, angling her the way he wants, the way he knows will make her come undone. "That's right, baby," he growls against her throat, biting down just enough to make her feel it, to remind her who's inside her. "Say it like you fucking mean it."

Bethany tries--God, she tries--but she's already gone, lost in the heat, in the way he wrecks her. She's trembling, breathless, her body tightening around him like she's trying to pull him even deeper, like she needs him to ruin her completely.

"I--" she gasps, nails digging into his shoulders, "It doesn't matter--fuck--"

James laughs, but it's rough, breathless, unhinged. "That's my fucking girl." He slams into her again, harder, dragging her closer, forcing her to feel every inch of him, to know exactly what she let in. Bethany cries out again, and the sound echoes, bouncing off the walls--unfiltered, shameless, obscene.

James fucking lives for it. "Louder, Beth," he pants against her ear, nipping at her jaw, his voice dark, dripping with satisfaction. "Let him fucking hear what he's never gonna have."

Bethany clenches her eyes shut, her body winding tighter, tighter, and then she's breaking--her back arching, legs trembling, gasping his name like a prayer, like a curse. James feels it--feels her body take him, tighten around him like a vice, and it pushes him right to the edge. His jaw clenches, his fingers digging into her skin, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate, as he loses himself inside her. "Fuck--" his groan is deep, guttural, his grip bruising as he buries himself one last time, his whole body locking up as he fills her.

The world blurs. Everything is heat. The silence after is thick, suffocating, the air heavy with sweat, breath, something undeniable. Bethany lets out a breathy, wrecked laugh, still trembling, still feeling the ghost of him inside her. "Shit."

James exhales against her skin, pressing his lips to her shoulder, smug, satisfied. "Told you it didn't matter."

Bethany groans, burying her face in the pillow. "Fuck you."

James smirks, lazily dragging his fingers down her spine. "You just did, baby."*

Part 13

The house is quiet. That deep, suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that settles not from peace but from absence--of sound, of movement, of anything that should make this place feel like home. But it doesn't. It hasn't for a long time. Nathan lies motionless on the bed, sprawled across the sheets, arms slack at his sides. His chest rises and falls in uneven, shallow breaths, the weight of everything pressing down on him, sinking into his skin, heavy and inescapable. The ceiling stares back at him, blank and unmoving. His eyes sting, his vision blurring, but he refuses to wipe his face, refuses to acknowledge the warm, silent tears trailing down his temples, soaking into the pillow beneath him.

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

But the images don't fade. They never fade.

They sit behind his eyelids, vivid and cruel, circling in an unbroken loop. James above her, pinning her down, moving inside her like he owns her. His mother gasping, gripping, giving herself over. The way she had said it--soft, breathless, surrendered. "It doesn't matter."

But it does. It matters so much it's killing him. Nathan swallows hard, his throat raw, thick with something bitter, something familiar. That same sick, aching thing that has lived in him for longer than he cares to admit. His fingers twitch against his stomach, the damp T-shirt clinging to his skin. Sticky. Cooling.

Evidence. Proof of what? Of how pathetic he is? Of how he still loses, even here, alone in the dark, trapped in his own body, his own thoughts? Of how, despite the shame curling in his gut, despite the heat still lingering on his skin, despite everything--he still chased the feeling, still let his own hand move, still imagined...

Nathan's breath shudders. He should be disgusted. He is disgusted. But more than that--he feels hollow. Like whatever was left inside him drained out with the mess still drying against his skin, staining the T-shirt beneath his fingers. He doesn't move. Doesn't want to move. Because if he does, if he gets up, if he strips off his T-shirt and cleans himself up, then he has to acknowledge it.

And he's not ready. So he just lies there. Silent. Letting the stain sink in.

Part 14

Next morning in the bathroom. The knock comes just as she's wiping the corner of her mouth. A soft, hesitant rap against the door--familiar, careful, the way he always knocks, like he doesn't want to disturb anything.

"Hey. You almost done?"

Bethany stills. For a moment, she forgets how to breathe. Nathan. His voice is muffled through the wood, but she hears it too clearly, like he's standing right behind her, like he's in the room with them, like he knows.

James doesn't move. His fingers rest against her jaw, thumb dragging lazily across her bottom lip, smearing the dampness there, his other hand still tangled in her hair, loose now, but firm enough that she feels it. That she knows she's still in place. His breath is warm against her temple, but his eyes are on the door.

And then, the pause. Bethany's lips part, her throat tight, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Say something. Tell him you'll be out soon. Tell him you hear him. Tell him--

"Just a few more minutes, sweetheart."

The words barely make it out, thin and strained, as she clears her throat, tries to steady herself, tries to sound normal. James doesn't let go. And Nathan doesn't walk away. The silence outside the door stretches too long. Long enough to feel like something is wrong. And then James moves. A slow shift of his hips behind her, deliberate, knowing. His hand slides lower, over her throat, pressing just enough to remind her who's really in control here. Bethany inhales sharply, pressing her palms flat against the sink. And then--James speaks. Low. Amused.

"Good girl."

The sound is barely above a whisper, but it lands--lands like something final, something inevitable, something that makes her stomach drop. She hears it happen. The way Nathan stops breathing for just a second. The way the floor doesn't creak under his weight. The way he doesn't leave. James tilts his head, smirking against her skin, dragging his lips across the damp heat of her neck.

"You think he's listening?" he murmurs, voice soft, teasing.

Bethany swallows hard, her fingers tightening against the porcelain. "James--"

"Shhh." He presses a slow kiss beneath her ear. "You hear that?"

Silence. Too thick, too heavy, stretching on the other side of the door, pressing in against the walls, against her ribs. Bethany clenches her eyes shut. It's not real. James exhales a quiet chuckle, his hand sliding lower, over her stomach, pressing in, teasing, reminding her exactly where she is, what she's just done, what she's letting happen.

"Don't pretend you don't like this, Beth," he whispers, his lips curving into a grin.

Bethany's breath catches. And then--James moves. His grip tightens in her hair, firm but effortless, tilting her head back, guiding her down, down, back to where she belongs. Her knees meet the cold tile. His fingers trace her jaw, slow, indulgent, before pressing against her lips, parting them easily.

Bethany's pulse stutters. The sound comes next--low, wet, the stretch of her mouth, the slow slide of him over her tongue. Her breath is sharp through her nose, her lashes fluttering, hands braced against his thighs as he fills her, deeper this time, making her take it. And then--the pressure. The slow, inevitable weight of it, pushing, sinking, claiming. Her throat clenches. The first gag is soft, reflexive, a quiet, involuntary sound that doesn't fully register until James presses deeper, until her eyes sting, until her fingers twitch against his legs.

A choked noise escapes, raw, desperate. James hums approvingly, his fingers threading deeper into her hair, holding her in place as her throat flexes around him. "Breathe, baby," he murmurs, smooth, amused, his thumb stroking over her cheek. "We wouldn't want him to hear you struggling."

Bethany's stomach tightens. A slow, gurgling noise vibrates from the back of her throat, her lashes fluttering, her pulse hammering. She shouldn't like this. She shouldn't want this. But she does.

And she knows. Knows there's still someone outside the door. Knows Nathan is standing there, silent, unmoving. Knows he's still listening. James smirks, tilting his head. "That's it, Beth. Nice and deep."

Her knees press into the cold tile, her fingers twitching against James' thighs, the muscles beneath them taut, coiled, waiting. Her mouth is full, stretched, her throat burning with the effort to take him deeper, to keep herself steady, to breathe around the weight of him. James' fingers are firm in her hair, not forceful, but guiding--reminding. Holding her exactly where he wants her. She knows he's close. She feels it. The way his breath hitches, the way his grip tightens, the way his thighs tense beneath her palms.

She lifts her eyes, looking up at him, her lashes damp, her gaze pleading. Not like this. Not loud. Not with Nathan still standing outside the door, frozen in that thick, unbearable silence.

James looks down at her, and his smirk flickers--just for a second, just enough to tell her he sees it. He sees the way her lips are trembling around him, the way her breath stutters, the way her pupils are blown wide, full of something panicked, something desperate, something just barely holding itself together.

His hand loosens in her hair, fingers sliding along her jaw, tilting her chin just slightly, just enough to hold her in place. Bethany's lashes flutter. She knows what's coming. She knows. Her fingers curl, nails pressing into his thighs, and her eyes say it before she can.

Please. Quiet. James tilts his head, watching her carefully, his smirk deepening, his grip tightening just enough to make her feel it. A shiver rolls through. His thumb presses against her cheek, smoothing over the flushed heat of her skin, slow, lazy, teasing.

"Swallow, baby."

And then he shudders, his breath catching, his grip flexing in her hair as he pulses against her tongue, hot, thick, heavy. She takes it. Because she has no choice. Because James doesn't give her one. Because he's still holding her there, his fingers stroking idly along her cheek, watching every twitch, every tremble, every fucking reaction as she struggles to swallow around the heat, the weight, the shame curling in her gut.

Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment, her throat working, the taste bitter, thick, coating every inch of her mouth, sliding hot down her throat. She hates this. She loves this.

Her chest heaves, her breath unsteady, her body trembling as James exhales a satisfied groan, his hand loosening in her hair, his thumb brushing lazily over her lips, smearing the slickness there. Bethany's eyes flutter open. James watches her, his gaze dark, heavy, pleased.

"Good girl."

Her stomach tightens. She swallows again, just to be sure, just to rid herself of any lingering evidence. Bethany exhales shakily, her hands slipping from James' thighs, her fingers trembling. She doesn't look away. And neither does James. Her knees are still pressed against the cold tile, her breath uneven, her throat raw, her lips damp with something she refuses to acknowledge. The taste lingers--bitter, heavy, undeniable.

James stands above her, smirking. Like he wanted this. Bethany doesn't realize what's happening until she hears it -- The soft, sharp click of the lock. Her stomach drops.

"James, no..."

Too late. The door swings open. Light spills in, cutting through the dim haze of the bathroom, exposing everything. And then-- Nathan. Standing there. Frozen.

His chest rises and falls in short, sharp bursts, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His mouth is slightly open, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs, his eyes locked onto the scene in front of him. Onto her. Bethany feels her insides collapse. The silence is deafening. She wants to look away. She wants to vanish. But she can't. Because Nathan won't stop staring. His gaze flickers, his pupils blown wide, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts. He sees.

The flush on her skin. The wrecked, breathless way she's still kneeling. The way James' fingers are still tangled in her hair. James tilts his head, watching the slow-motion unraveling happening right in front of him. His smirk deepens, eyes flickering between them, savoring the tension, relishing the way Bethany trembles beneath him.

"Well." His voice is smooth, lazy, like this is nothing. "That saves us a conversation, doesn't it?"

Bethany flinches. Nathan's breath stutters. His entire body jerks, his face twisting, his eyes burning. "You--" his voice breaks, raw, guttural. He swallows hard, visibly shaking. "You fucking--"

James lifts an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. "Careful, little man."

Nathan's fists tighten. His nostrils flare. His whole body is a live wire, vibrating with something that teeters between rage and something else entirely. "You--" his voice fractures, like his brain can't catch up, like he doesn't want to understand what he's seeing, what he already knows.

James exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "C'mon, Nathan. You're acting surprised."

Bethany's stomach knots. "James..."

He ignores her. His attention is fully on Nathan now, his smirk unwavering, his voice smooth, smug, ruthless. "You've known, haven't you?"

Nathan stiffens. His face flushes. Bethany sees it happen. The realization. The humiliation. James chuckles. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Nathan's breath gaze flickers--down, up, over, seeing too much. Bethany can't fucking breathe. "James, please..."

James hums, amusement dripping from his tone. "Please what?" What do you want me to say, Beth? That it doesn't matter? We already covered that last night, didn't we?"

Bethany whimpers, something breaking inside her. Nathan makes a noise in the back of his throat, something choked, something that sounds like it hurts. And then he runs. The sound of footsteps. A door slamming. Silence. Bethany shudders. James clicks his tongue, shaking his head, fingers still lazily dragging through her hair. "Well." A beat. A smirk. "That was fun."

Part 15

The humiliation, the reality of what just happened, is still thick in her throat, crawling under her skin, but she pushes it down. Nathan. She has to fix this. She reaches his door, hesitating only for a second before pushing it open. Nathan is sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head down. His shoulders are tight, his whole body locked in a way that makes something ache in her chest.

He doesn't look up when she enters. He doesn't react. Bethany swallows, stepping forward carefully, her voice soft, measured. "Nathan--"

"Don't." It's low, barely more than a mumble, his hands gripping his thighs, fingers flexing. He won't look at her.

Bethany exhales slowly, lowering herself onto the bed beside him, hands resting in her lap. She watches him for a second, searching for something--an opening, a way in. "James can be... a bit rude," she says finally, forcing a small, careful smile, like this is something that can be explained, like this is just a misunderstanding.

"He's not trying to hurt you. He just... he has a way of handling things, and sometimes it's--" She stops, rewording. "Sometimes he's a little intense."

Nathan lets out a quiet, humorless huff, shaking his head. "A little." Bethany forces herself to stay steady. "I just don't want you to take it the wrong way. He--"

"Mom."

The word lands like a stone in her stomach. Nathan lifts his head just enough to glance at her, and there's something in his expression--something tired, something disgusted, but not just at her. At himself. Bethany's throat tightens. "You know I love you, right?" Nathan swallows, his jaw clenched. His fingers flex against his knees, and then he shrugs. "Yeah."

Bethany exhales, relieved, reaching up without thinking, smoothing a hand through his hair. A mother's touch. Instinct. Nathan tenses slightly, but he doesn't move away. She leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his cheeks, the way she always did when he was little, when she was all he had, when things were simpler. And then-- She stills. Nathan does too.

Because suddenly, they both realize it at the same time. Her breath catches. Nathan's entire body locks up. The warmth on her lips, the lingering dampness. The unmistakable aftertaste on her tongue, still faint, still there. Her chest tightens.

Bethany pulls back slowly, her lips parting, something horrified flickering across her face. Nathan's breathing turns shallow. He won't look at her. He can't. The silence is unbearable. Thick. Suffocating.

Nathan mumbles something under his breath. Bethany doesn't catch it at first, but then he clears his throat, shifts slightly. "You should... probably go."

Bethany swallows. Her stomach churns. But she doesn't argue. She doesn't say anything. She just stands. And leaves.

Part 16

Bethany storms into the kitchen, her whole body burning--with anger, with humiliation, with something worse that she refuses to name. James is leaning against the counter, casual as ever, sipping from a glass of water like nothing just fucking happened. Her fingers curl into fists. "What the fuck was that?" she hisses, voice low but sharp, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

James barely lifts an eyebrow, taking another slow sip before setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "That?" He tilts his head, smirking. "That was honesty, darling."

Bethany shakes her head, her breath coming too fast. "You didn't have to do that."

"Didn't I?" His voice is maddeningly even, detached, as he takes a step toward her, watching her with something dark, something hungry. "You were just gonna keep pretending he didn't know? Keep babying him? Keep acting like he's not lying awake every fucking night, listening to his mommy get ruined by another man?"

Bethany's face flames, shame crawling up her spine. "You don't have to be so--"

"So what? Honest?" James steps closer, towering, cutting off the space between them. "Brutal? Real? Face it, Beth. He's not a boy anymore. He's a man who doesn't know how to be one. And you?"* He smirks, slow and knowing. "You keep trying to protect him from the truth."

Bethany swallows hard, her pulse hammering. "I just didn't want to humiliate him."

"Oh, baby." James' fingers brush her jaw, tilting her face up. "That ship sailed a long time ago."

Bethany exhales shakily, her stomach tight, her body betraying her as heat pools low in her belly. "You're an asshole." James chuckles, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip. "You knew that when you spread your legs for me the first time."

Bethany hates how easily her breath catches, how her thighs press together, how her body remembers even in the middle of a fight. James sees it. Of course he does. He always sees. "Face it, Beth." He leans in, voice dropping, rough and low against her ear. "You don't want me to stop. You like that he hears. You like knowing that every time I fuck you, he's lying in bed, gripping his sheets, wishing he could be a real man."

Bethany whimpers, her body betraying her, her head tilting back slightly as his lips graze her neck. James grips her waist, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel exactly how little this argument has affected him.

"If he doesn't want to hear how his mommy moans on my cock every night--" his fingers tighten, owning her, making her weak--"--then he should pack his shit and fucking move out."

Bethany shudders, her nails digging into his arms. "I hate you

"Say it, Beth." His smirk is wicked, his voice commanding. "Tell me it doesn't matter."

And she knows. Knows she's already lost.

Part 17

Bethany sits with her hands clasped in front of her, fingers twitching slightly against the rim of her untouched wine glass. Her lips press together, tense, unreadable. Not quite shame, not quite regret--just something tight, something caught between wanting to fix this and knowing she can't.

Nathan sits across from her, stiff, shoulders locked, every muscle in his body wound too tight. He feels like a wire about to snap, like if he moves too fast, breathes too deeply, the whole room will come down around him. And James? James is relaxed. Sprawled back in his chair, fingers curled loosely around his glass. His eyes flick lazily between them, as if this is amusing to him, as if he's enjoying the weight pressing down on Nathan's chest.

"Let's not waste time, huh?" James says, voice smooth, casual, like this is just any other conversation. "Your mom's been feeling a little... uneasy lately. She doesn't like tension in the house." He tilts his head, casting a glance at Bethany. "Isn't that right, Beth?"

Bethany swallows. Her throat bobs slightly, her voice measured, careful. "I just don't want things to be... difficult."

"Difficult." James echoes the word like he's tasting it, rolling it over his tongue. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "See, here's the thing, Nathan. She's feeling this way because of you."

Nathan's breath catches.

"She's worried you're not handling things well," James continues, the smirk widening just slightly. "That it's too much for you. That you can't accept that things have changed. That your mommy has a real man now."

Nathan flinches. His throat is dry, his stomach tight, his hands curling into fists under the table, pressing against his thighs so hard he can feel his own pulse against his skin. Bethany exhales, shifting slightly in her seat.

"Let's be honest here." James waves a hand, dismissive. "He's a big boy. He can handle a little reality, can't he?" His eyes flick to Nathan, sharp, expectant. "You can handle it, right?"

Nathan opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His jaw locks, his pulse roaring in his ears. James watches him struggle, his smirk deepening, the amusement in his eyes growing, thriving on the hesitation. "I--" Nathan swallows, his throat working hard. "I just..." His voice breaks. His fingers tighten around his knees, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. "I just want her to be happy."

James tilts his head, his smirk curving sharper. "That's good. That's real good. But let's say it properly."

Nathan shakes. His body rejects this, his brain screaming at him to fight, to not say it, to hold onto whatever last shred of dignity he still has. "James--" Bethany tries again, her voice softer now, but James doesn't even glance at her.

"No." James' voice is firm, smooth, absolute. "Say it right, Nathan. Say you understand why your mom left your dad. Say you get it now."

Nathan clenches his fists tighter, his whole body trembling. "I..." His voice fails.

James leans in slightly, his tone dropping into something lower, something dark and knowing. "Say it-. Say you finally fucking understand why she didn't want a man like him."

Nathan breaks. The words come out shaky, uneven. "I--" His breath catches, his face burning, shame clawing up his throat. "I understand why my mom left my dad."

James hums approvingly, dragging his fingers along the table, lazy, satisfied. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Nathan's stomach twists. James exhales slowly, leaning back, stretching, rolling his shoulders like this conversation was boring.

"And Nathan?" Nathan barely lifts his head. James smirks. "Do me a favor, yeah? Stop leaving your used tissues lying around. Nobody needs to see your little frustrations drying up on your nightstand or our couch like some sad fucking reminder." He lifts a brow, eyes glinting. "Next time? Spit that shit in the toilet where it belongs."

Bethany winces. Nathan shatters.

Part 18

A few months later.

The house is heavy with the remnants of the night. Bethany still feels it--between her thighs, in the soft ache of her hips, in the lazy, satisfied exhaustion curled deep in her bones. The scent of sweat, sex, and something undeniable lingers in the air, clinging to the sheets, woven into the very walls. James had taken his time tonight. Had dragged it out, had made her beg, had made sure every sound that slipped past her lips was something Nathan would hear.

And he had heard. She knows he did. She had felt it in the way James had taken her. "Bet he's lying there right now, gripping his pillow, hating how much he fucking loves this."

She had clenched around him at that, nails digging into his back, her body betraying her in the worst possible way. James had laughed, deep and knowing.

"That's my girl."

And now Bethany sits on the toilet, her nightshirt pulled up around her thighs, her breath even, controlled, her body still pulsing with the aftermath of everything. She runs a hand absentmindedly over her stomach, feeling the softness there, the warmth beneath her palm. Six weeks. Six weeks since she first knew. Since the realization settled in, quiet but undeniable, like a thread weaving itself through her every moment. At first, it was just a thought, abstract and weightless. But now--now it's different. Now it's real. Something is growing inside her. Slowly, steadily, reshaping her from the inside out. She doesn't look any different. Not yet. But she can feel it. In the way her body holds heat a little longer, in the way exhaustion drapes itself over her like a second skin. In the strange, persistent awareness that she is no longer just herself.

The door swings open, too fast for either of them to react. Bethany's head jerks up, eyes meeting his, wide for just a second before she blinks, smoothing her face into something unreadable. Nathan freezes, breath catching in his throat, because he hadn't expected this - hadn't expected his mother to be sitting on the toilet, half-naked, the evidence of sex still unmistakable on her.

And then she sees it. The way his chest rises and falls too fast, the slight tremble in his fingers, the sweat dampening his hairline. But most of all-- The pathetic, crumpled piece of toilet paper in his hand. Wet. Sticky. Used.

Bethany exhales slowly, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. She doesn't need to ask. She knows. "Did you enjoy yourself?" she murmurs, her voice soft, almost motherly.

Nathan's throat bobs. His whole body locks up, his knuckles whitening as he grips the ruined tissue, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. Bethany gestures lazily to the toilet with her fingers. "Go on, baby. Throw it in the toilet."

He doesn't move at first. Bethany waits, patient, her lips pressing into something that almost resembles a smile. Then, as if sensing his hesitation, she shifts slightly, spreading her legs just enough to give him space, to make sure there's no excuse to hesitate. Slowly, stiffly, Nathan steps forward, his breath shaky, his body rigid, and drops it. The damp, crumpled mess lands in the water with a soft, pitiful sound.

Bethany watches. The way it unfolds slightly. The way the water soaks into it, spreading, breaking it apart, turning it into something even more useless than before. Her lips part, a slow exhale leaving her lungs as she watches the last remnants of his shame sink.

Her eyes soften as she watches Nathan, a quiet kind of amusement flickering beneath the warmth, a knowing glint in the way she holds the silence between them, stretching it just long enough for him to feel the weight of it.

"I should tell you something, sweetheart," she whispers, her voice soft, almost tender. Bethany hums, her fingers lazily tracing the curve of her belly, as if savoring the warmth still lingering there. "James has taken me so many times these past months," she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction. "You've heard it. Almost every night. Again and again, until nature finally... did what it was always meant to do."

Nathan's fingers twitch at his sides. His chest tightens. Bethany tilts her head, watching him, taking in the way his expression falters, the way his shoulders tense. She sighs, a slow, contented sound, as if she's speaking of something inevitable. "Nature has a way of knowing where it belongs," she muses, smoothing her hand over her stomach again.

He stands there, frozen, his breath shallow, broken, his whole body caught in a fucking nightmare he can't wake up from. His mother's gaze stays on him. Calm. Amused. Knowing. She tilts her head slightly, watching him, her lips curling at the edges, something almost playful in the way she lingers.

And then--without hesitation--she lets go.

At first, just a shift, a soft exhale, the faintest loosening of her muscles. And then it happens. A slow, deliberate release, the first warm dribble slipping out before it turns into a steady, unabashed stream. The sound is sudden, sharp, piss splashing against the crumpled mess he had just thrown into the toilet, soaking it, claiming it, drowning it in her heat.

The moment stretches, thick and unbearable, but Bethany doesn't look away. If anything, her amusement deepens, her posture lazy, unfazed. As if this is nothing. As if this has never been anything but inevitable.

Nathan shakes. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides, his throat bobbing, a thick, strangled sound caught somewhere between his ribs. "What's wrong, baby?" his mother murmurs, her voice sickly sweet, teasing. "You look... upset."

Bethany tilts her head, watching him, her expression light, almost amused, as if the truth is the simplest thing in the world. She wants him to see it. To understand. To accept. "It's worthless, isn't it?"

Every last trace of his father, the same weak wasted blood flowing through his own veins, is being washed away, erased like it was never meant to be. Erased. Like it was never supposed to be there. And James? James is replacing it. His presence carving out something new, something stronger, something that will endure. His genes taking root, remaking, undeniable. Exactly as nature intended.

His mother exhales, slow and satisfied, a last few drops falling onto the already ruined mess beneath her. She presses the handle. The toilet flushes. Nathan listens. Eyes empty and unfocused, he hears the rush of water, the steady, merciless pull as it swirls and churns. The last pathetic remnants of him, his shame and his failure, sucked down and swallowed whole, disappearing forever.

Bethany stands, adjusting her nightshirt, smoothing the fabric over her stomach with slow, deliberate care. As she steps closer, her fingers glide over his cheek, warm and unhurried, lingering just long enough to make sure he feels it. Her touch is soft, almost tender. "That's better, isn't it?" Her voice is warm, motherly, yet laced with something sweetly condescending.

"You'll love the baby. Your brother." She pauses, watching him, letting the words sink in before a smirk tugs at her lips. "Just like I love you." Her fingers trail absently over her stomach, a slow, indulgent motion, as if she can already feel the life growing inside her, already knows it will be stronger, better, more than what came before. There is no hesitation, no doubt. Only certainty.

"Not everyone is meant to create life, sweetheart," she murmurs, her voice smooth and certain, as if stating an undeniable fact. "Some of us are here to push the world forward, and some... just stand there and watch as it moves on without them. And that's okay."

Her smile lingers, soft and knowing, as if she expects him to understand. As if there was never any other way this could have gone. She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, her breath warm against his skin. Then she turns. Leaves him standing there. Alone.

His gaze drops to the toilet. To the empty, useless space where something of him used to be. It's gone. Flushed away like waste. Like a mistake wiped clean, a stain erased before it could ever set. Nathan exhales, slow and measured, a strange lightness settling in his limbs. And for the first time, he doesn't fight it. Because his mother was right. It's easier this way.

The End.

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this dark, erotic story.