A Pervert father found a wand that grants 20 sided dice controlled wish success

Jack leaned back in his chair, the soft hum of the restaurant’s ambient music doing little to calm the nervous energy buzzing in his chest. Across from him, Emily—the redhead he’d been crushing on since junior year—was laughing at something he’d said, her freckled cheeks dimpling in a way that made his stomach flutter. She wore a fitted crimson blouse made of smooth, silky fabric that clung to her athletic frame, the neckline dipping just enough to tease without being overt. Her jeans hugged her thighs like a second skin, the denim worn and soft from years of wear, accentuating the firm curve of her legs as she crossed them under the table. She was effortlessly beautiful, and Jack couldn’t help but feel both exhilarated and slightly out of his depth.

“You’re funny,” Emily said, her green eyes sparkling as she twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. “I don’t know why we’ve never hung out like this before.”

Jack shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the heat rising to his cheeks. “Guess I just lucked out tonight.”

What he didn’t know was that someone else was watching their exchange with a far less innocent perspective. Hidden just outside the restaurant window, pressed against the glass like some kind of deranged peeping Tom, was Dean—Jack’s father. Dean’s fingers gripped the edge of the window sill, his knuckles white as he stared at Emily with a mix of envy and something darker, more possessive. His breath fogged up the glass, and he wiped it away impatiently with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, a rough, heavy material that did nothing to hide the tension in his shoulders.

Dean had always been a man of contradictions, but lately, those contradictions had taken on a more sinister edge. He’d found the dice and the wand three days ago, clutched in the hands of a vagrant who’d muttered something about “cosmic gifts” before disappearing into the night. At first, Dean had thought it was a joke, but then he’d wished for a beer and rolled a 10—and suddenly, a cold bottle appeared in his hand, condensation already beading on the glass. It wasn’t long before his thoughts turned to Jack. His son. His desire.

Now, as he watched Jack lean in closer to Emily, their voices low and intimate, Dean felt a surge of jealousy so sharp it bordered on rage. He dug into his pocket, pulling out the dice and the wand. The wand was sleek and smooth, its surface cool against his skin, like polished bone. The dice, meanwhile, felt heavier than it should, its edges catching the light as he rolled it between his fingers.

“I wish I looked more like her,” Dean muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with desperation. He tossed the dice onto the windowsill and held his breath as it clattered across the surface.

A 7. Not bad, but not perfect either.

Heat rushed through Dean’s body, starting in his chest and spreading outward like wildfire. He staggered back, clutching at his stomach as his clothes began to shift and tighten. His flannel shirt rippled as it shrank to fit his now slimmer frame, the fabric becoming softer, almost silky. His jeans constricted around his thighs, the denim stretching to accommodate the new curve of his legs. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection—his jawline sharper, his features softer, his hair longer and lighter. He didn’t look exactly like Emily, but he certainly looked... better.

Inside the restaurant, Jack glanced up briefly, his eyes scanning the room as though he’d sensed something. For a moment, Dean thought he might have been spotted, but Jack quickly returned his attention to Emily, oblivious.

Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his now-shaggy hair. He could feel the weight of the wand in his pocket, a constant reminder of the power he now held. He didn’t know what his next move would be, but one thing was certain: he wasn’t going to let Jack slip away.

Dean’s heart pounded as he slipped into the restaurant, finding a small table just within earshot of Jack and Emily. The clatter of silverware and murmur of conversation provided just enough cover for him to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left his son’s face, the way Jack smiled so genuinely at that redheaded girl—Emily. It made Dean’s stomach churn with a toxic mix of jealousy and desperation.

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand her.

Fumbling in his pocket, Dean retrieved the dice and the wand. The wand felt almost alive in his hand, a faint thrum of energy coursing through it like a heartbeat. The dice, cold and heavy, rolled between his fingers as he muttered, “I wish I could manipulate Emily’s thoughts.”

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the dice onto the table. It clattered across the surface, bouncing once, twice, before landing on…

A 13.

The air around Dean seemed to grow heavier, charged with an invisible ****. He felt a sudden connection to Emily, like a tether had been pulled taut between them. Her laughter faltered for a moment, her green eyes flickering with confusion as she glanced around the room.

Dean leaned forward, his fingers tightening around the wand as he focused on her. “You don’t really like Jack,” he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the din of the restaurant. “You’re just here out of pity. He’s not what you want.”

Emily blinked, her brow furrowing slightly as if trying to shake off a stray thought. She looked back at Jack, her smile fading ever so slightly. “So, um… what were we talking about?” Her voice was still light, but there was a hesitation now, a subtle shift in her demeanor.

Jack frowned, sensing the change but not understanding it. “Uh… I think we were talking about the concert this weekend?”