Azure

“You— I can't believe you, you—” you tried to suppress your frustration and outrage to focus on the practical issue at hand. “How am I supposed to get back home?”

“Hm...” He closed his eyes again, lazily letting himself fall back down onto the bed, bouncing slightly on the springs from the impact, before replying in an equally nonchalant tone—

“You don't.”

For a moment, you only stared forward, slack-jawed and blinking as you processed it. Your eyebrows furrowed.

“You did this on purpose.”

It was a statement, not a question. But without any real note of disbelief or surprise — no, as soon as you processed the conclusion, it felt entirely unsurprising.

You only felt a bitter bile of anger begin to rise in your throat. Maybe in part at yourself, for your own gullibility. You could have — should have — predicted something of the sort.

You wanted to smack the smug grin off of his face when he spoke.

“Maybe.”

You took a deep breath, hands curling into fists.

“…And now I’m miles away from home.”

“Pretty much.” You could see the sly grin on his face growing wider, seemingly satisfied by your outrage. “Hey, don’t look so mad. You fell for it. Kinda your fault.”

A few seconds of quiet transpired, the significance and severity of the matter, and how trivially it was being treated, leaving you momentarily stunned into silence.

“The hell?” You stumbled as you climbed off the bed, standing in the small space of the room not taken up by the equally rather small bed, awkwardly crossing your arms over your naked chest. Your panic began to escalate. “Why?”

Instead of showing any acknowledgement of your obvious distress, his smile only seemed to get wider as he sat back upright. “Aw, come on, calm down. Let me explain.”

“No no no, I can't— I have to go home!” Your breathing grew rapid, your hands reached up and grasped harshly at your hair. “I was supposed to be back by now! I have to—”

Your eyes darted down to the floor, the sight of your clothes in a crumpled heap reminding you of your nakedness. With warmth of embarrassment rising to your face, you crouched down and began rapidly grasping at each piece you could make out in what faint light was available.

You heard rustling in the bed behind you.

“…What’re you doing?”

“Going home! I’ll go find someone to let me off!” Your tone was firm and blunt, leaving no room for negotiation. Perhaps you were being too harsh, considering you thought he didn’t have any malicious intent, just total lack of consideration… but no, that itself was enough to warrant your anger, you reasoned, given the severity of your situation.

You hated how he was so nonchalant and cheerful, even when you were at your angriest. It was one of many things that infuriated you about this man, in the short few weeks you’d known him.

Yes, it wasn't as if you even knew the man very well anyway. You had just happened to offer to help a handsome and very clearly lost foreign stranger find a specific location in the town, and talked a bit, and talked more on the way, and talked back and walked right up to the hotel — that much did make you hesitate just a moment, a brief halt in your steps from startle seeing all the familiar masked people all around that everyone in town resented so deeply, making the connections — but you'd still walked in nonetheless, in part from excitement, and in part the hand on your back that pushed you forward.

You knew a young, horny boy when you saw one. They had no patience, and were more than eager to get to the action part.

And you'd been looking for something immediate, so to speak. Fast enough to be home by midnight.

Thus, within mere minutes of meeting, you were being rutted into like an animal in some hotel bed.

Fucked in a way you'd never had before. A ferocity completely foreign to you, each movement so hard it made you see stars. Arms strong enough that they lifted your hips off the ground without any sign of strain. A degree of eagerness and enthusiasm you couldn't let go of. Girth that stretched you out fully, a way you'd never experienced, a way that kept you reminiscing about it for days.

But it wasn't as if you'd chosen to come back purely on your own volition.

You'd thought the matter a one-time thing, at least until you were — much to your total startle and panic at the time — approached by strange men in masks, asked if you were the person whose name they were looking for, and promptly, firmly escorted back to the same hotel as before.

After that, you'd just been summoned at random intervals. Sought out by the same men in masks as you made your way around town, told your presence was requested, and silently escorted back. You knew who they were, understood the people you were dealing with — but it was a temporary matter. Whatever he did for them wasn't your business.

Thus, most of your interactions were not very long, and did not consist of many words. You were rarely in the room for a few minutes before you were both naked and locked together between the legs.

And thus, you found yourself here.

You knew he was leaving. You'd come back to get one last thing off your chest. You just hadn't gotten that opportunity before things progressed.

You felt at the fabric of your clothes in the dim light, holding open one of the leg-holes of your undergarments, and moved to lift one of your legs to step into it, but before you could complete the motion, there was a creaking as the mattress shifted again, and you grunted as a pair of arms — with an unmistakable iron firmness of strength — wrapped around your waist, and you found yourself dropping your clothes as you were hoisted into the air.

“Hey—hey! You— mmf!”

You cut off as you were ungracefully spun over and dropped onto the bed, bouncing with the motion of the springs upon impact. You pushed yourself up on your forearms, but he let his weight fall back onto the bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist again, pulling you back down, lazy motions with no sense of urgency, but still firm enough to force you into compliance.

The total lack of acknowledgement of your distress was, you felt a biting sense of shame to admit to yourself, not unexpected — the man you’d chosen to keep seeing so many times was many things, but considerate was not generally among those traits. Knowing that this attitude was really nothing beyond exactly what you should expect only made you more frustrated, perhaps just as much at yourself as him.

“Don’t freak out so much. Everything’s fine.” With the same grip around your body, he pulled you close, an unsubtle beckoning for you to calm yourself. “See, I have something to tell y—”

“It absolutely is NOT!” Rage bubbled up in your gut, spilling out into your words. You writhed against the hold. His grip loosened, allowing you to tear yourself free and sit upright.

You turned your torso to face him, sitting on your calves. With a begrudging sigh that was clearly intended for you to hear, he followed suit, sitting upright beside you.

“Whatever it is, it doesn't matter, Ajax. I told you this was the last time I could come see you — for good.” You put your hand against the lower half of your face, fingers curling in a gesture of frustration. “And I told you this time I wasn't here for… ugh!”

Your mouth pulled into a taut line as you recalled the prior exchange a few hours earlier — you'd come in, pushed him away at first, tried to be serious, something about how you couldn't do that this time, that since he was going home, this would be where you two parted ways for good, contrary to his previous suggestion of coming back to see you again.

And that you had to tell him something.

Your attempt at cutting ties had been interrupted — the firmness with which you were grabbed and pushed down to the bed and the husky ‘shut up’ in your ear that had essentially been the end of the interaction, the memories of how easily you'd caved flooding your chest with shame in the present.

And thus, you’d ended up in the same act as every time before, and had never gotten to the important part of what you were trying to tell him.

"Come on, don't be like that.” His voice had a playful pout to it, one that made your blood boil. “Here I'm trying to tell you something nice, and you're getting all mad?"

You huffed a deep, frustrated breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Fine. Fine! What is it?"

"In case you're not putting it together,” he said — perhaps with a hint of exasperation, as if your reactions thus far were needlessly dramatic — “You're coming home with me."

You stiffened, blinking a few times as you processed.

"That's— that's it? That was what you were going to tell me?" You breathed a deep, heavy sigh of exasperation. “I can't take a vacation now, I'd have to— I have to be back today! You couldn't have asked?”

That time, it was his turn to seem bewildered by your statement for a moment, shaking his head. As if your conclusion was somehow less logical than what he immediately followed with.

“Hm? Not a vacation. For good.” He patted the top of your head. “You're kinda slow sometimes, you know that?”

Your eyebrows raised up, body going still. You opened your mouth to speak, perhaps to clarify if you were hearing him correctly, but before you could get a word out, he sat upright, placing a hand on top of your head, pulling you in to lean in close.

“You're coming to live with me.” He pressed his forehead to yours, noses brushing together. “You can just forget about your work and rent or whatever it is you’re so worried about. It won’t be a problem anymore.”

You blinked, frozen stiff, too bewildered to even pull away.

If the dread showed on your face, he didn’t seem to notice at all, continuing on. “You can just leave everything behind. You'll never have to worry about anything again.” He leaned back, letting his head rest propped up against his hand, smushing the fleshy part of his face in a way that was almost childishly endearing.

A few moments of silence passed. You sat still, a myriad of horrible emotions twisting around in your gut. Panic, desperation, embarrassment, awkwardness—

Guilt.

Finally, after a few moments, your silence became enough to invoke an inquiry, albeit seemingly not doing any damage to his cheerfulness, which remained on his face and in his voice.

“…Well?” He shifted slightly in place — you didn’t miss the muscle that moved underneath the flesh. Something that had once attracted you, but now gave you a sense of unease on top of it all, realizing how much of a disadvantage you truly were at here, and moreover, just how bad of an idea it had been to storm over here, into an enclosed space, with information that could very well make him mad.

He tilted his head. Your silence indicated an obvious hesitation, which went against what seemed to be an expectation of enthusiasm. He seemed to come to his own conclusion as to why.

“Ah, don’t feel bad for my sake. It took some persuading on my end, but you don't have to thank me.”

You swallowed. Your eyebrows furrowed, you couldn’t look him in the eye, instead turning your gaze to your legs.

“I can't.”

Another few moments of silence followed. Something in his tone shifted.

“…You worried about your work or something? They'll figure it out when you don't show.” His face turned to a slight pout, corners of his mouth pulling taut. “Don’t worry about the small things. Come on. This is good.”

Unease crept up in your gut. “No, that’s— that’s not it.”

“…Mm? What is it, then?”

“That's what I was trying to tell you!” You words burst out of you in frustration, hands held up with your fingers curled in an equally exasperated gesture. “But you didn't let me finish what I was saying last night before you… you…”

Your face contorted with embarrassment, and you huffed in frustration, closing your eyes and burying your face in your hands.

“…You didn't seem to mind.”

“Oh, shut up.” It was all you could manage, through clenched teeth, muffled by your hands covering your face. “Just… God, this is too much…”

“Come on, what's wrong?” Albeit laden with a hint of slight frustration, he still had that upbeat tone — so damn obnoxious, so uncaring towards your obvious distress, trivializing as you'd found he always was, laughing off anything you were upset about as overdramatic or an overreaction. It made you grind your teeth in frustration and rage, at him, at the situation as a whole, and at yourself.

You just had to keep agreeing to come back. You couldn't have just refused. Your own impulses put you in this situation, and you knew it.

“That's— that's what I was trying to tell you before! This— God!” You pulled at your hair. You shuffled back, around him, desperately climbing out of bed again and backing towards the wall, disregarding your nakedness, anything to put distance between the two of you. "I didn't— I didn't agree to this! You didn't ask me if I wanted this!”

He didn't move to pull you back, but there was an ominous slowness to how he sat up and turned to face you. His smile twitched.

"Wow, you're being pretty harsh, huh? I'm an important person, you know. Kinda thought you'd be flattered.” His voice now gave way to very blatant irritation. “…A lot of people would be saying ‘thank you,’ yeah?”

He'd expected a positive response. Your lack of compliance — even a lack of gratitude — was unexpected enough to be offensive.

You felt uneasy. The bastard wanted you to be grateful.

Those alarm bells in the back of your head went off again. You were very familiar with them by now.

Perhaps you should have paid them more attention.

Even if you didn't have the other factor in the back of your mind, your gut vehemently rejected the notion outright, an instinct culminating from the nagging sense of unease and wariness you'd always felt around this man.

You had no trouble recalling how little self-control or regard for your will he had, what you'd quickly realized was simply an immutable personal trait. It was something that had caught your attention within your first meeting.

You fully acknowledged to yourself — not without a gut-twisting sensation of guilt — how easily you'd hopped into bed with the man.

But holding you down with force you couldn't have fought against even if you wanted to, shoving himself inside of you without ensuring you wanted to take it that far, putting his hand on your throat without asking and nearly choking you to unconsciousness—

It was hot. You would admit that much. It had turned you on more.

But at the same time, it had rung very loud alarms in your head.

You knew from experience — and what felt like common decency — that the vast majority of men asked about things like that the first time, before they knew with certainty the things you were and weren't okay with.

There was something wrong about that level of boldness — a complete lack of restraint or consideration for your feelings about certain actions, unhesitating to act on primal impulse with no regard for consequence. It gave you a sense of unease, telling you he was someone you should be cautious around. Someone to avoid anything serious with. The kind of man you should have a little fun with and then cut off, someone that presented a genuine danger if it ever went beyond that.

You remembered the flash of panic — the second time you'd hooked up, if you recalled correctly — when he put his mouth on your neck, started to bite and suckle on the skin.

How you'd squirmed, struggled to pull back, panicking at the thought of him leaving any marks that would be visible when you went home.

Wait, no, don't do that, listen—

You'd pushed your hands against his chest. You'd pressed your elbows to the mattress, pushing your body away from him.

His first response had been to grab your waist and pull you back and bite harder.

You'd had to struggle with force.

I'm serious! Stop— stop it—

Only then had he finally relented.

Fine, fine...

You had reflected on the matter that night, after he'd fallen asleep, after you'd slipped out and ran home and checked yourself in the mirror to be sure the mark wasn't visible.

If the first interaction had been a red flag, that second one had thus been a blaring horn right in your face.

But you’d gone back anyway. A fact that now stung in your chest, right along with the stomach acid that began to rise in your throat.

You'd figured it was fine. You knew from the beginning that he was only in your life temporarily. If anything, the situation was the perfect setup for a temporary relationship. The knowledge that he'd leave the area within a short time provided a clean break that would erase what you'd done without having to clean up the mess or worry about some unforeseen incident exposing your actions.

You’d anticipated an easy ending.

Not this.

You wouldn't have wanted this, even without that factor to consider.

“No, you're not — you're not getting it. I can't.” You tried to make your voice firm, but an obvious wavering panic shone through.

He sighed. “Come on. Whatever it is, it can't be that big of a deal. You can just forget about it. What is it, anyway?”

You bit your lip.

“I can't go with you.” It was all you could manage out.

His voice gave way to irritation. “Kinda feels like you're talking in circles here. What are you so hung up over?”

You gut felt as if it were twisting inside you. You curled your lips inward and bit down on them, tilting your head down, covering your eyes with your hand in a natural reflex of shame and dread and the utter discomfort of the confrontation looming before you.

You were quiet for a few moments, gathering your thoughts. As you lowered your hand, you could see him tilt his head with a soft hm? of curiosity, seemingly having noticed just how solemn and foreboding your own silent expression was.

You swallowed, took a deep breath, and squeezed your eyes shut. You clenched your jaw, holding your hands by your sides with stiff arms and clenched fists.

“I…”

The words wouldn't come out. You wanted them to, you wanted to get it over with and unload the painful burden of secrecy from your shoulders, to simply do it and be done with it all. The sooner you did, the sooner you could wipe your hands clean of it all, be done, move on.

And yet you wanted nothing more than to not say a word. The mere thought made your stomach church, an innate repulsion, the desire to look away and ignore the festering.

Each in equal push and pull, wanting nothing more than to be done with it all, yet shrinking away from the daunting trepidation of the act required to do so.

You put your hands up to cover your face.

“I’m married.”

Dead, empty silence, only subtly broken by the faint metallic groan as the ship pushed further through the water. You kept your hands buried in your hands, unable to bring yourself to look up, riding out the agonizingly long pause that followed.

There was no immediate outrage or shock. His tone was still genial, as if certain you’d said something else.

“…Mm? You’re what?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, nearly unable to bring yourself to say it again. You took a breath so deep your shoulders shifted.

“I'm married. I have a husband.”

“…”

“…”

You couldn’t bear to look up, but you couldn’t bear not to look, the trepidation and uncertainty of a reaction causing dread to swell up in your stomach. You put your hands down, but your gaze stayed pointed at the ground. Nonetheless, you could make out his face, still with that dumb grin, in a blank stupor.

“Aha… that's…”

A few seconds of silence passed.

“…Oh. You’re serious.”

His tone flattened out with the latter words, a blunt, observational statement.

You spoke through gritted teeth.

“Yes.”

Even still, in your peripheral vision as you opened your eyes again, you could see his expression barely changed, as if the shock was too much to even react to.

“…But you've been—”

“I know.”

“For over a month now—”

“I know!”

More quiet. Your fists clenched so hard your arms trembled.

And more agonizing moments passed. So silent, you heard a wave slosh against the outside wall.

It was broken by a laugh.

“Haha! Oh, that makes so much stuff make sense now.”

He held his hand up to his face in a gesture of amusement. You shifted uncomfortably in place, uncertain and uneasy with the unexpected response. It was as if he found it funny, not the immediate anger you’d anticipated.

“Ah, I've been such an idiot. You were always leaving so fast, and you never wanted to do anything around town…” He sighed, more like relief rather than any negative emotion. “Now I get it. You were covering your tracks, huh.” He turned his gaze back towards you. “And here you're mad at me for lying.”

The end statement cut like a knife. You bristled, muscles tensing.

“I didn't lie, I just didn't— I didn't say anything.”

He didn't answer verbally. The are-you-serious expression and tilt of his head said enough. You clenched your fists.

“Okay, fine, you— you have every right to be upset. I should have told you.”

“Oh, you think?”

“I get it! I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I am! I’m sorry! I feel awful about it! But I can’t change it now! And I didn't— I didn't mean for it to go on this long, it just…”

Guilt twisted into your chest at your next words, but you curled your fingers and forced them out.

“I was bored, he's at work all the time, and then I met you, and— you're a foreigner, and I knew you'd leave eventually, so there'd be no loose ends and it wouldn't get messy, and, and,” the words came out rapidly, you stumbled over them as heavy emotions stirred and clashed inside your chest. “—I didn't think it would go on this long, and it was never a serious thing anyway — and I told you that! You agreed to that!”

The corners of his mouth pulled taut.

“Yeah, that’s like the standard thing everyone is supposed to say. It doesn’t mean you mean it.”

“Well I did!” You clenched your jaw, balled your hands into fists. You felt your eyes water, a burning sensation. “I know this was really really bad, and I should have told you, and I feel — God, I feel terrible.” You buried your face in your hands, hot tears forming against your eyelashes as your voice strained with the urge to sob. “It's been eating me alive, okay? I know how awful it is, it just happened and—and I really tried to tell you, but—”

“No you didn't.”

You stiffened, freezing in place, looking back up at him with an uneasy startle.

“…Huh?”

The grin felt different now, the slightest shift in the expression that went from conveying a genuine cheerfulness, now seemingly forced onto his face, twitching. His voice carried an unmistakable passive-aggression, nearly making you wince.

“Oh, I'm not stupid. You never tried to tell me before now.” His eyes narrowed, gaze laden with palpable disdain, even through an otherwise pleasant expression. “You just figured the problem would make itself disappear once I was gone.”

You went quiet. Your stomach churned. You shrunk back against yourself.

“If I had to guess,” he continued, voice lowering to a quieter, darker tone, “you came here last night to tell me now so you don't have to feel as guilty about not telling him, yeah?”

You stiffened. It was the kind of blunt, but precise accuracy that carved deep into your chest, as he finished,

“Just so you can sleep a little easier.”

Your lower lip trembled.

“No, it’s— look, this— it doesn’t even matter! Be mad about it if you want to, it's not important now!” Misery and anger swelled in your chest — at yourself, at him, at everything. “It’s irrelevant! The point is, I told you, I need to go home, and I need to go home now. I can’t go with you — I’m not going with you, not now, not ever. You have to go find someone to let me off and take me home. I mean, I—I barely know you!”

You were rambling. And you knew you were rambling, the words spilling out of your mouth, you needed to stop, you couldn't stop, the pent-up stress of it all pouring out of you as your restraint fully broke.

“I need to get on my with life and forget about this. It was nice of you to ask me to go with you, but—”

“I didn't ask.”

You stopped short, blinking in momentary bewilderment.

“What?”

He slouched forward, resting his head on his hand once more.

“I didn't ask. I told you. I said, you're coming home with me. That's not a question, is it?”

You paused. Trepidation, wariness, anger, bewilderment, every jabbing and gut-twisting emotion the exchange had thus far produced pooled in your chest and rose up, climbing further up your body, as if the room were filling with water. You grit your teeth, miserable anger in your blood, in your voice.

“Did you not hear anything I just said?”

“No, I think I got it all.” There it was again, an artificial nonchalance, simultaneously sounding as if nothing were wrong, yet clearly communicating an antagonizing intent. “You were getting kind of repetitive towards the end there.”

Another few seconds passed.

“I'm married.”

“Uh-huh, definitely got that part the first time.”

“He'll have already noticed I haven’t come back all night! He’s probably worried about me!”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Your eyes welled with tears. The frustration turned to exasperation, desperate, miserable exhaustion. Your voice cracked as you begged.

“So you have to take me home.”

He shrugged.

“Nah.”

You hesitated yet again, blinking in stupor. It was as if you were punching a brick wall, unyielding, a barrier without any visible opening.

“What do you mean, ‘no’, you can’t just…” You trailed off in your bewilderment.

He held his hand out in a passive gesture. “Looks like the ship is still going the same way to me. I don't see why I have to do anything.”

Your mouth opened, closed, opened again, pushing for response, yet finding little coherent thought.

“…But…”

He waited, half-lidded eyes trailing up to your undoubtedly bewildered gaze. His mouth turned upward again, just ever so noticeable, as if your distress and confusion were entertaining.

It made you angry.

“Listen, you—” you stumbled over your words, letting your mouth run whatever your brain summoned without much thought. “It's not like something serious with you would ever work anyway, so—”

“Mm?” There was a visible shift in his expression. The former trace of amusement dissipated — the smile remained on his mouth, but it vanished from his eyes. “…What makes you say that?”

There was an unnerving edge to his tone. Awkward tension coiled in your stomach, the rush of panic increasing further still as you realized exactly what you'd just said.

“It’s not— I mean, it's— it’s just that…”

Your mouth opened and closed again, but nothing came out. Your eyes darted to the wall as you continued.

You recalled the sense of alarm again. All the unease you'd felt in the few weeks you'd known the man. The alarm bells in your head every time he'd acted in a way that you immediately noticed as far too bold and impulsive and violent and so utterly selfish for you to ever not feel wary, uneasy, afraid.

You swallowed. Your gaze darted around to anything in the room except him.

“You're just— you're really… intense.”

He rubbed the back of his head in a sheepish gesture. You didn't like the look on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched. His eyebrows furrowed a bit. His voice was a little too upbeat for the circumstances, but no longer passive-aggressive — rather, something darker subtly seeping into the tone.

"...Aha… what does that mean?”

Your hands clasped together against your chest reflexively, muscles tensing in awkwardness and dread, unable to take back the poor choice of wording.

"It's just — look, there's different — people look for different things depending on what they..."

You trailed off into awkward silence, unable to find adequate words. A moment passed.

Still, he seemed to grasp your meaning nonetheless.

"Ohhh, I see, it's that kind of deal.” His eyes narrowed just a bit. "You want to have your fun sleeping with one type of guy and then have another waiting at home, yeah?"

There was a gentle swish of the hair as his head tilted. His smile didn't falter as he added—

"Some loser."

You stiffened.

"I— hey, what the hell?" Your nose wrinkled with sudden, shocked offense. In spite of everything you'd done — every betrayal, every sin, every lie — your immediate reflex was defensive of someone you really did love. "What— what's that supposed to mean? You don't know anything about—"

"Nah, I know how that whole sort of thing works.”

The sheets shifted as he stood up. Your pulse spiked, you drew a sharp breath and took a step backwards, holding your hands to your chest defensively. Your back hit the wall in the attempt to step back, given the small space of the ship cabin. Your eyes darted to the door leading out a ways to your right, and you began to take a single side-step in the same direction, but he was already right in front of you in an instant.

A small, frail sound came out of your throat, the very beginnings of some words of protest, but he cut you off before you could speak, a hand far too firm for comfort grasping your jaw, voice still an unnerving amalgam of vexation and ominous joviality.

“You married some doormat so you could go sleep around without consequence, yeah?”

“No!” The response was immediate, instinctive. “It— it's not like that!”

There was no moment of silence of disbelief, no stammering as you struggled to process the accusation.

The words you were confronted with already existed in your mind. Gnawing away at your subconscious. Your vehement denial was pre-planned, anticipated, a decided response you'd formulated in your subconscious to an accusation not shocking in the slightest, having always lurked in the darkest corners of your thoughts.

“Aww, so you really did!” His fingers pinched at the flesh of your cheek, nudging your head. “You wouldn't get so defensive if I was wrong.”

Further tears pooled in your eyes, a lump forming in your throat.

“I didn't, I'm— I'm not…”

“Poor guy. That's rough.”

“No, I didn't! I have no reason to… this just happened, okay?” Your voice cracked with the strain and oncoming urge for tears, pitiful and high-pitched. “I didn't think about it.”

“No?” He tilted his head. “In that case, we must be a lot like each other then?”

You went silent. Nausea overwhelmed your body, each breath an attempt to soothe a feeling of sickness.

“…No… no, but— but that's not—”

“Right. Sure.” He ran a hand across your scalp, fingers lacing into your hair. “Ah, that does make sense. When you told me just now, I was wondering what kind of husband would let you go wandering around at night like you always were.”

Your jaw clenched. The tears escaped your eyes and began to run down your face.

The gnawing, black maw of guilt writhed around your chest, a crushing pain, constricting your body in place.

“You locked down some poor guy too spineless to tell you what to do,” He continued. “Probably doesn't ask too many questions either.”

“Stop.”

Your voice was weak, a quiet pleading. Your toes curled into the cold floor. You squeezed your eyes shut, not daring to look either in his eyes nor either of your unclothed bodies.

“But then you have to go hunt down something else that actually makes you feel good, yeah?”

”Stop.” You sniffled, summoning your boldness to look up at him. “You don't— you don't get to tell me anything about my life. You don't know anything!”

“Oh, I think I do.” His tone didn't give any leniency for your distress, entirely ignoring your obvious emotional turmoil. “In fact, I think you sought out someone like that to marry from the beginning.”

The grin on his face now rested entirely devoid of any pretense of pleasantness, only unadulterated, cruel derision.

“You needed someone that will forgive you, even when he does find out.”

You curled in on yourself, hands clasped close to your chest, as if you could somehow shrink away from the words that followed.

“And you know someone like me wouldn't.”

His hand moved to grasp your throat. You stiffened.

"What was it you said... intense? You really mean that I wouldn't let you walk all over me, right?”

“No!” You shook your head, anger rising up in your throat. “That's not it, I just wasn't thinking at all, you're— you don't get to talk like that to me!”

“Ah, there it is. You're just proving me right, you know.”

He opened his mouth to add something else — some other jab at your spirit, blatantly reveling in your misery and shame — but paused, features shifting to a momentary realization, having thought of some genuine inquiry.

“Hey, am I even the first guy you've gone behind his back with?”

You tensed. The question hit with such force you physically flinched, sucking in a sharp breath through your nostrils. More devastating than any of the antagonism that preceded it, gutting the last of your composure.

He straightened up, body moving back away from you just enough for your eyes to lock onto the motion, for your gaze to meet his.

Your lower lip trembled as you shrank back, hugging your body with your arms, vision blurring as your eyes squeezed shut, and your face scrunched up with unrestrained emotion.

That alone was more of an answer than words could have been.

“Ah. So now you feel bad, but you didn't feel bad enough the first, what, dozen times?”

You sniffled, features contorting with bitter fury that swelled in your chest. He leaned in closer, but your back was against the wall, unable to get away.

“No! I didn't— it wasn't—”

“Oh, my bad. Ten? Five? What number am I?”

“Shut up!”

Your hands reached forward and connected with his torso. You shoved him, jerking your full weight forward to push, a motion that came out of reflex, without any thought behind it.

A thump resounded off the floor as he staggered one step back. But nothing more than that. If he hadn't been leaning forward and not expecting it, you probably wouldn't have been able to move him at all.

Still, the reaction was immediate. His eyes seem to fixate on your form.

“Aw, you're that mad?”

His hand had already latched onto your wrist before you could pull away.

“Alright, alright. Tell you what.” His thumbs brushed over the skin below your eyes, wiping at the residue of tears. “You know what? You're right. It doesn't matter now. So… forget it.”

Any attempt at boldness failed you. Your arm shivered in his grasp, your voice confused and frail.

“…What?”

He rested his other hand on top of your head. It would have been a gentle gesture if not for the way he grasped and pulled on your hair.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not forgiving you. But all your crying doesn't change the present, does it?”

You felt your body stiffen. Your shoulders tensed upward. He didn't miss a beat, nor react to what was undoubtedly a look of dread that crossed your face as he continued.

“And I mean, on my end, it's sort of complimentary, you know? It would be really different in the opposite position, but…”

Your feet shifted ever so slightly. A subconscious action, perhaps, an instinct of flight, to move towards the only exit.

The motion was enough for him to feel it. He pulled you closer in response.

“As long as you start to understand a little gratitude is in order, I'll still keep you.”

Your jaw hung slack, mouth slightly ajar. You blinked, a dull stare forward.

He tilted his head. “What? I told you that you're staying here a dozen times now. You really need to work on being a better listener.”

The daze lasted but only a moment. You jerked out of his grasp.

“You—”

You stumbled against the wall. The fear and dread didn't dissipate, but the frustration and desperation of it all burst into a surge of unrelenting fury, rushing through your blood, face scrunching up with bitter anger, a level greater than anything in the exchange thus far. Your voice curled into a nasty snarl.

“Goddammit, I don't want to go with you! I don't want this! I want to go HOME! What are you not understanding?!”

His hand latched into your hair.

Within a mere second, the room blurred around you, a rush of cold air on your skin. Your back slammed back down onto the bed, creaking with the sudden weight, knocking the breath out of you as a gutteral sound of surprise escaped your throat.

You didn't get a single second to even try to sit up, held down at your shoulders by incredible strength and body weight combined. Your eyes went wide as you looked up at him looming over you — likewise with an expression that had finally dropped any lingering pretense of warmth. His voice was near unrecognizable, low and growly, through clenched teeth.

“And I told you that's not happening. What are you not understanding?”

You recoiled in a reflex of intimidation. You chest heaved with quick, panicked breaths, frantically grasping at the hands locked onto your shoulders, holding you down. His hands tightened their grip against your struggling.

"I pulled a lot of strings to get approval to keep you, and now you don't want to? You'd rather go back to some pathetic, sniveling—”

“Shut UP!” You clawed at his hand, desperately jerking your body upwards in a hopeless attempt to pull away. “Don't talk about him like that, you—”

“Oh, and now you care so much about the guy?” His eyes narrowed. “Little late for that, isn't it?”

You opened your mouth to spit some insult in return, but your breath hitched as his body pressed down against yours. The sensation brought you back to acute awareness of your nakedness, something which you'd been so busy with arguing that you'd essentially forgotten.

More importantly, the firm sensation pressing against your thigh.

Your breath hitched. Your body stiffened, your voice came out not in the commanding, firm tone you'd intended, but soft, scared, desperate.

“Stop.” You squirmed. “I-I can't—”

“Oh, now you don't want it?” His voice was low and quiet, the mocking intonation biting. “You didn't mind at all just a little while ago.” He leaned down further, body pressed flat against yours, lowering his voice. “Remember?”

It felt as if there were a knot in your stomach. Shame and guilt and bitterness so consuming it was overwhelming. You shook your head, clenching your teeth, pushing against his chest.

“I know! I shouldn't have— just let me go, please…”

His hand latched onto your wrist, slamming it down against the mattress above your head, leaning down low, to speak directly into your ear.

“Just a few hours ago you had your legs wrapped around my waist…” He rolled his hips, grinding his cock against your mound. “If you felt so bad, you could've said ‘no’ then. But you didn't.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and thrashed. Your legs flailed, back arching as you struggled with every bit of strength you could muster, jerking your body up against his grip. A gutteral sound of desperation and fury poured from your throat with the exertion.

“Aw, you're being so mean.” His free hand grabbed your leg, forcefully shoving it to your side, so far it hurt. He moved forward, inserting his body into the space between your legs, ensuring you couldn't shut them again. His voice lowered.

“But I think I'm pretty good at getting you more agreeable.”

Your eyes widened. Your legs flailed as your heart began to pound harder, faster, drumming inside your chest.

“Hey— hey, don't you dare—”

It didn't require any build-up or preparation. You were both already naked. Fluid from a few hours prior still coated a thin layer in between your legs.

You threw your head back, gasping for air at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, body splitting apart to accommodate intrusion. Your free hand bolted out, grasping at his arm, a motion first intended as resistance, but quickly you found yourself clinging purely out of reflex, fingers curling into his skin.

“Ah— ah, ah fuck, God, you—” you cut off in a gasp for breath. “You…”

You didn't have a suitable word. Your mind melted against the sensations, and no word you could summon would possibly be as insulting and derogatory as you needed. You needed to retaliate, to fight, to express your loathing — but the shudder that ran up your spine overwhelmed your thoughts. The voice above you almost sounded distant through the haze, but you could make out the husky tone and labored breath that had not been there before.

“There you go.”

His breath shuddered. You could see the muscles in his torso contract with the motion, felt him twitch inside of you. He leaned in closer, voice dramatically low and husky, words intertwined with labored breaths.

"And you know what? He probably knows."

Your gaze turned to his, eyes widening with trepidation. The last shreds of the barrier surrounding your vulnerability collapsed, giving an opening, something to pry into. His eyes fixed on your face, savoring your fear.

"What, you think he's not wondering why you're out in the middle of the night?"

He leaned in towards you, hips rolling against your body. You gasped for air against his hold as the shockwaves of sensation through your nerves. His face nearly touched yours, voice shaken by the labored breaths, but derisive nonetheless.

"No one's that stupid."

You could feel his breath as he spoke against your face. You could make out the smug grin even through your blurred vision, voice laden with mirth.

"Maybe he's one of those freaks that likes it."

You clawed at his hand. He didn't so much as flinch. Your nails digging into his flesh only made his grin wider. The ridicule in his tone because more glaring, pure malevolent mockery.

"Hey, maybe we should go back. He could sit in the corner and watch us f—"

You heard the sound before you felt anything, thought anything. A harsh impact that reverberated across the room.

The motion was purely reflexive, an instinct of utter, unrestrained fury. You felt the impact against the firm heel of your free hand. His head jerked to the side with the action, a direct line of connection where your clenched hand swung through the air.

A moment of stillness passed. Too stunned to even react.

Slowly, he turned his face back towards you, expression slack-jawed, a momentary stupor. Dull, lightless eyes fixated on yours, a gaze that felt as if it clawed into your chest and tore into your flesh.

His pupils went wide. Within seconds, the pale skin had turned pink where your hand had connected, against the nose and the soft flesh just below the eye.

Pure silence followed. In the moment of quiet, a thin trail of blood began to run down from his nose.

And then, he smiled. A grin that stretched across his face, lips parting to expose his teeth.

You pulled your hand back as the realization of what you'd done settled in. Dread spiked like ice in your chest. You tried to pull your knees up, tried to curl in on yourself, but his body against yours, inside yours, kept you forced open, exposed, vulnerable to his will.

“I… I didn't mean to—”

You squealed as his body practically lunged inward. A sudden force and ferocity that had you thrashing, crying out, gasping as your vision spun. You felt the intrusion suddenly rush to rutting into your body with brutal, frenzied thrusts, so fast and so mercilessly harsh it rocked the bed against the wall.

His body leaned fully down against yours, face buried into the crook of your neck. His hands held your hips firmly, jerking your body with bruising, crushing force in time with each movement. Brutal, violent movements inside your body, eliciting uncontrollable, obscene sounds from your throat.

“Ah—ah! Oh God, fuck, I—” you cut off with a deep gasp, body shuddering as his cock rammed into a spot inside you that sent pleasure bursting through your system. “Stop— Ajax— AH!”

The sounds from your mouth were wanton, lewd, humiliating, but you couldn't stop them, despite trying with all your willpower to do so.

They cut off with a whimper as his mouth latched onto yours. Within a mere moment, he’d already forced his tongue into your mouth, a low moan accompanying the relentless thrusts. Your face scrunched up at the metallic flavor of blood that had run down to his lips.

You squeals and cries were muffled by his mouth. His hand pushed against the back of your thigh, forcing it up against your chest. A trail of saliva strung between your mouths as he pulled back, a manic hunger in his eyes as he looked down at you.

"Your hands are free."

A drop of blood dripped from his chin, onto your collarbone. His pupils were blown unnervingly wide, black nearly consuming the blue, hunger fixing its gaze on vulnerability. He leaned back into you.

"Come on. Fight it. Hurt me."

Your eyes watered. And you complied — out of desperation and rage, not any desire to fulfill his command, but compliance nonetheless.

Your fingers on one hand curled, latching into his hair. You pulled as hard as you could.

You felt him shudder.

Your fingernails on the other raked into his back, pressing so firmly you could feel them pulling and scraping at his skin.

His hips slammed into yours with force.

“Fuck, that's right, don't stop.” He murmured against your ear, strained by heaving breaths. “Keep going. Fight me.”

Your chest rose and fell with rapid, gasping breaths. You could barely think, overwhelmed by pleasure and rage that twisted and twined together into something sickly, a knot in your gut and throat that consumed your body whole.

Your hand balled into a fist, slamming into his back. Your nails scraped at his chest.

But you only felt his cock stiffen and twitch, felt his hips move faster, harder.

And then, for a moment, it slowed, ever so slightly. He raised his torso up, propped on his arms. He stared down at you, blood from his nose smeared against his face, across his lips that parted with a grin of unadulterated, manic glee.

“You never got what you needed without me.”

Hot tears ran down your face. Your lip trembled in futile fury. You could only force out the same word as before.

“Stop.” You swallowed, a lump burning in your throat. “Please—”

“That’s why you needed more,” he interrupted. “That's why you kept coming back to me.”

His grip latched onto your hair. He jerked your head back with painful force.

“You took your own clothes off. You got on the bed on your own.”

His gaze was fixed to yours. His breath was husky, breathy, laced with mirth and vitirol alike, watching the tears pour out of your eyes.

”You begged me to fuck you.”

You couldn't look away, gasping, squirming, whimpering. Your shoulders shook with a sob.

“You needed me.” His breaths heaved. His hips rolled into your body. “You don't even really want to go home, you just feel guilty. You'd regret it. You—” his hips slammed into you — “need this.”

But then, his expression shifted. His grip tightened. It was a person you'd never seen before, a ferocity and malice that felt wholly foreign.

“Or were you just gonna replace me? Go running to the next guy's bed, is that it?”

“No! No, I—” You whimpered, sniffling, shuddering gasps for breath. “I wouldn't, please don't— I'm sorry! I'm sorry…”

It scared you. Fear pounded in your chest. The apology came out by instinct, a desperate logical attempt to appease.

"Tell me then.” Each word was spoken through heavy, labeled breaths. “You didn't answer before. What number am I?"

You squirmed. Your lips curled inward and you bit down, shame and humiliation flooding into your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut and rapidly shook your head.

Your eyes went wide again as his grip crushed your shoulder.

"Tell me."

You hissed at the pain, drawing a sharp breath between your teeth, sniffling, gasping with a sob.

"F-five...” you took a few shuddering breaths, lungs desperate for air. "Please— please don't hurt me."

His eye twitched.

“Ahaha! God, you really couldn't help yourself, could you? You need this that much?”

The nausea was overwhelming. You felt your heartbeat pulsate in your skull.

“No, no I…” You swallowed, gasped, thrashed against the hold. “Please stop, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! No more…”

The negative emotions overwhelmed you. Amalgamating into a weight in your stomach of pure despair and misery, a feeling you couldn't escape, even as physical pleasure built up alongside it.

He slammed his hips with force. Another drop of blood splattered onto your stomach.

“You're sorry?”

“Yes! I'm sorry… please forgive me, please, I'm sorry, please—”

“Then act like you did before.” His grip turned so painful it made you cry out. “Come on. I know you remember. Do it.”

You hesitated. You hit your lip. The shame that coursed through you — both from the memory of what you'd done before, and the thought of those kinds of words leaving your mouth again — was a crushing weight in your chest.

But the pain of his grip was too much. You clenched your jaw, shivering across your body.

“Please…” you squeezed your eyes shut, “please, don't stop, please don't stop, i-it feels so good, please—”

His hips moved faster again, his hand released its grip on your thigh, coming to rest against the mattress. You could hear a satisfied laugh-like breath, shuddering with pleasure. But the next words came out as a firm comment nonetheless.

“Wrap your legs around me. Like you always did.”

You complied. They trembled against his skin.

In spite of it all, heat began to pool between your legs. His cock drove into spots inside of you that radiated pleasure against your will. You whimpered, a pitiful, desperate sound, closer to the cries of a little animal caught in the maw of its predator than anything human.

He leaned in again, smile widening with realization.

“That's it. Come on, give it to me.”

Your insides burned, spasmed, each beat of your heart pulsating hot blood through your veins, rushing through your throat and your chest and in between your legs. Your breasts swung back and forth with the movements, in rhythm with the smacking sound each time his hips rammed into you, each thrust sending a ripple through the softest flesh of your body.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“Stop, stop…”

You didn't expect your begging to have any effect. You knew full well that the words came out interlaced with pleasure you couldn't mask, almost more of a moan than a plea. You knew he could feel your body begin to tremble. He leaned in further, forehead brushing against yours.

“Do it. Prove I'm right.”

The voice in your ear was too much. You whimpered as you shuddered, clenching down on him. A high-pitched whine as you rode out the peak of sensation, shoulders racking with another sob, legs quivering.

But it only lasted for a moment, as it always did. As was the nature of the act — all the effort and movement for but a fleeting moment of bliss. The one comfort you could take was the way it wiped your mind blank, devoid of thought, free from the emotions that crushed your heart.

All the intensity from just a moment earlier faded. All the sensation wiped clean.

For a moment, everything was still. You could only feel your chests pressed against each other, rising and falling and pushing against the other.

And finally, there was movement. You shuddered as he slid out of you, collapsing beside your body.

Your head lolled to the side. In the short time since awakening, the sun had begun to come out further. The faint rays of early dawn poured in through the tiny window.

Slowly, as the dread began to return in full force, as the blankness faded from your mind, you turned your head to the other side.

He smiled at you. His hand grasped the side of your face, not without a subtle firmness.

You swallowed. It hurt, the soreness from his grasp and the dryness of your throat each sending a signal of pain. Your thoughts slurred together, incomprehensible, overwhelmed, but you managed to get out one more plea. Some final, desperate attempt, one you knew was futile before you even spoke, but in your dread, it came out anyway.

“You can't do this to me.” You sniffled, wiping the tears from your face. “I have to go home.”

He looked at you for a moment. You saw something different in his eyes than before. The hunger, the crazed lust was gone. Something darker took its place, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing. Bitterness for your persistence.

He shrugged, and in a voice far more callous than his usual tone, gave a dismissive reply.

“Go ahead and jump overboard then.”

Your shoulders trembled with small, suppressed sobs. Your body shivered.

You were certain he noticed, but he didn't seem to care. He pulled you into his arms, muttering in complaint.

“You're really dramatic, you know that? You have to get over it at some point.”

You no longer had the energy to fight back. You rested in his arms, trembling, but not resistant.

A few moments of silence ticked by.

“Hey. One more thing.”

Slowly, you tilted your head to meet his gaze. The expression on his face had returned to that false-pleasant expression again, foreboding, ominous. Your heart beat a bit faster.

"This is the only time I'll ever overlook something like this,” he said. “Just for the record."

His voice was too cheerful. You stiffened further in his hold, curling into yourself. He grabbed your hair, forcing you to keep your head tilted to look at him.

"If you ever,” he continued, voice growing quieter, “do this stuff to me? And I find you with some other guy?"

He smiled, far too wide of a grin, pressing your foreheads together in a sickly gesture of affection.

"You're dead.”

You froze stiff. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. The room seemed to grow darker. Your eyes, you were certain, reflected your fear.

It was clear an acknowledgement was expected. You nodded your head. Your voice was nearly a whisper.

“I… okay.”

“Good, good.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips against your forehead. “But you know, you won't have that kind of urge anyway, once we're together all the time. I mean, you came to me because that's what you needed. You know. You won't want anything more anyway.”

His fingers curled into your hair.

“Right?”

“Right!” You nodded. “Right…”

“Mm.” His hand ran a soothing stroke down your back. “Glad you understand.”

The arms that locked around you with an iron grip sealed your fate.

Your breaths were hoarse with the strain on your throat. You could see your arms trembling. The sweat coating your skin began to make you feel cold, only alleviated by the warmth radiating from his body to yours.

For a moment, you wondered what he was doing right now. Images of hypotheticals formed in your mind. Pictures of the things in your home the way you'd left them, in intent of returning. You pushed them away, unable to bear further pain.