Upsetti-Spaghetti's Writing

It infuriated you to no end, the way someone like him got everything you wanted without having to work for it, never not slacking off or making any effort to talk to people. And then he had the audacity to tell you to relax. Who the fuck did he think he was? You were done. You had had it up to here, and you were going to let him know exactly what you thought of his stupid, irritating, strangleable self. You barge into his room without knocking, your fury heightening to unseen levels at the state of his room and the fact that he's just—jesus christ.

"Let a guy know before you just walk in, Y/N."

He raises a heavily pierced brow at you, one ear lazily swiveling toward you, apparently unconcerned that you've caught him with his hand in his pants. Literally.

"You—You piece of shit horse! You left your fucking shoes in the doorway again, and I almost fucking tripped over them! How many goddamn times have I told you not to do that!? Do you even fucking listen to me!? And your clothes are everywhere again! Is the washer too hard to figure out for you, you fucking child!? You just—You just—FUCK! I just wanna fucking strangle you to death and then chop your body into a million fucking pieces and throw them down the storm drain!"

Your chest heaves after your tirade, fists clenched at your sides. Rhys just looks at you, hand still slowly moving in his sweatpants, one ankle thrown over his knee carelessly.

"Wow. Didn't know you knew any curse words."

You rip your shoe off and throw it right at his head, but the motherfucker blocks it with his forearm.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? Why can't you just fucking listen to me!? And why the hell are you still jacking off!?"

He dodges your other shoe, spinning his desk chair around. He shrugs lazily.

"It's kind of hot to get yelled at like this."

You stare at him, something beyond rage filling you. You can't tell if he's actually serious or not. More likely, is that he's of the opinion that you interrupted him, so it's not his fault if you see something you don't want to. You never know when he's joking or not, the asshole being one of those guys who never smiles.

"Are you just going to stand there or?" he waves his free hand at you. "Cause I don't really care if you watch, but I'm sure you do."

"Maybe I should just rip your dick off," you mutter darkly, starting across the room.

You grab him through his sweats, and he stiffens.

"You're kind of bold, huh?"

He grabs your wrist, twisting you around so smoothly you don't really realize he's got you in his lap now, your back to his chest. Your ass rests on his huge bulge, your legs over his that he's got propped up. You can smell the musky man deodorant he wears, something you would find your forty year old dad wearing. His warmth soaks into you, a feverish heat that feels too hot to be healthy. You start to flail about, shouting obscenities and threats alike, held in place by his burly arms.

"Oh yeah, just keep wiggling around there," he groans.

His words only serve to further incense you, your thrashing now directed at him. You elbow him, scratch his arms, even throw your head back to hit in the nose. Nothing works, and he doesn't loosen his hold until his hips are jerking against you, a low groan leaving him.

"Ah, fuck. That's good."

"You motherfucker!"

"Maybe I should use your ass to get off from now on," he muses.

"Let go of me! I'll kill you!"

"Why don't you take a chill pill? I didn't even do anything to you."

"You used me to—to—fuck you!"

"You want to be fucked?" he says, speaking right into your ear.

You flinch away from him, not liking how it feels to have his deep voice right in your ear.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!"

"I really don't see what you're getting your panties in a twist for. It's not like this means anything."

"Yeah, because you're a fucking manwhore!"

"You're kind of loud," he comments, shoving two of his fingers into your mouth, his metal rings leaving a coppery taste on your tongue.

You try to bite down on his fingers, but hurt your teeth on his rings.

"If you're mad because you're not getting anything out of this, I can fix that."

He shifts his other hand to your crotch, unzipping your pants and pulling you free. You start thrashing again, his calloused hand and rings doing horrible (wonderful) things to your cock. He jerks you off in slow, rough tugs, drawing sounds out of you you've never made before, muffled by his fingers in your mouth. Your back arches at a particularly hard tug, some sort of unmanly squeal leaving you. It doesn't take him long at all to have you coming hard, your toes curling from the pleasure. You collapse bonelessly in his lap, your head spinning.

"You know, this is the most relaxed I've ever seen you. You might want to let loose more. Stress kills, Y/N."

He examines his cum covered hand, then—then licks it, you think. You don't know what else he's doing with his hand near his mouth. You grab his other hand, pulling his fingers free from your mouth, a string of saliva dripping down.

"Are you," you swallow, your voice too high. "Are you tasting my cum?"

"Yeah."

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut.

"Let go of me," you demand.

Thankfully, he does as you tell him, watching you hurriedly stuff yourself back into your jeans as he cleans his hand of your cum.

"You are a fucking freak," you growl as you scurry from the room.

You slam his door shut and run to your bedroom, diving underneath a blanket. What the fuck just happened? You went in there to tear him a new one, not become a toy and then get jacked off. How did that go so terribly wrong? Why was it that you could never manage to get anything to go right with that asshole? You grit your teeth, swearing revenge on him. How dare he do that to you!? Fucking no good, tattooed, pierced, long haired freak.

You glare across the grassy field, hiding behind a book on coding. The asshole sits unconcerned with his friends, chewing on a lollipop stick. His blond, wavy hair falls carelessly, various strands framing his face, cut in a wolf cut that needs reshaping. Not a care in the world as you sit here seething.

After the...Incident, you've been avoiding him, more than a little put off by how he stares at you now, his expressionless face unsettling. It doesn't help that his eyes are a shade of brown you would describe as dirt after a frost, cold and flat. He creeped you out when you first met him, to be honest. Until you learned what he was like.

He was creeping you out again now, staring at you like he had when you first moved in, as though he was reevaluating his opinion of you. You did not want to know what he thought of you. It was probably the same thing that everyone else thought, that you were a stuck up prick who hated people. You did hate people, and you were admittedly a prick, but you were not stuck up, okay? It wasn't your fault no one else had any regard for other's peace and quiet. Like a certain someone.

You gnash your teeth, hatred bubbling in your gut. To add insult to injury, he was employee of the month again, something that you did not know because you aggressively stalked his company's website. You had been so sure the first time you commented on his slacker attitude that he was on the cusp of being fired, only to be told that he was employee of the month at his job, for five months in a row. Since then, you had briefly glanced at the website every month, definitely not waiting right at midnight when the months changed to see who was going to be employee of the month.

It was completely ridiculous! How did someone like him get that honor while you worked your ass off fixing people's IT problems, never missing a day of work, and only got told that your boss was glad you weren't working with other people. You just weren't a people person. So what? You had friends, and you occasionally talked to your dad. You weren't a complete misanthropist. Wasn't that good enough?

You duck behind your book as Rhys glances your way, tilting your head forward so your cap covers more of your face. You really need to get back to work soon. Your lunch break is almost over. You flick your eyes up, your heart leaping into your throat. Why is he coming over here!? Oh god, oh jesus, oh fuck, oh, oh, he's just tossing something in the trash can. He didn't see you. You think. You hope. He lights a cigarette and takes a drag from it, his long tail swishing.

He takes out his phone, scrolling through it. He casts an imposing figure standing there, tall and burly like a draft horse. Well, he is a draft horse. The sun turns his hair nearly white, and you can see all the frizzy strands. He really needs to take better care of that thing he calls a mane. You hunch over more, waiting for him to leave so you can, but he doesn't, finishing his cigarette and continuing to stand there. What is he doing? You peer at him, your brow furrowing, trying to figure out what the hell he's up to. You nearly jump out of your skin when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You swear and pull it out, unlocking it.

shouldn't you be at work?

You stare at the message.

I am at work. What are you talking about?

You watch the little bubbles pop up, Rhys taking what feels like forever to type. The next thing he sends you is a picture. Of you. Hunched over your lap, with one hand on the book.

Are you taking random pictures of people? A voyeur as well as an asshole?

it's not you?

Why would I be sitting on a park bench reading when I have work to do? Are you stupid?

huh

so if i come over there you're not going to run? because it's not you?

What.

I think anyone would run away from a brute like you.

You move your eyes to where he's standing, finding him watching you. Damn it! You knew you shouldn't have come out here! Tracking his whereabouts by phone was already risky enough and now the first time you were doing it physically, you were gonna be caught. You swiftly navigate to another app on your phone, typing out a script to send a spam call to his phone. His ears flick when it rings, and he turns away from you, answering it.

You quickly make your escape, heart pounding in your chest. That was too close. Way too close. You should stick to what you know. Thank god he can never resist answering a phone call with the most fucked up words to ever come out of a human mouth. You speed walk away, turning a corner around a building. You rock back and forth on your toes waiting for the light to turn green, checking your watch.

You spend the rest of your day fixing people's stupid computer problems and glancing at your phone, chewing on your lip as you wait for Rhys to say something like he knew you were a little pervert stalker. But he doesn't. You don't know if that means he believed you earlier or if he's just waiting until you get home. Because of course the prick works less hours than you. By the time you get home, you've worked yourself up quite a bit, ready to argue with him about your whereabouts today.

He sits on the couch, manspreading like usual, arms over the back of the couch. He's shirtless too, revealing his huge pecs and somewhat soft belly, stereotypical metal band tattoos covering much of his summer tanned skin. His eyes are on you the whole time as you take your shoes off and set them on the rack, following you as you slink by. He calls out to you just as you set your hand on the handle to your bedroom door.

"Y/N?"

You tense, muscles coiling for an imagined fight.

"What," you say sharply.

"Come here."

"Why should I?"

You hear him sigh.

"Do you want me to come get you?"

"Fuck you."

You open your door and slam it shut, even locking it for good measure. You sit at your desk and turn on your computer, opening up a text editor and typing away, writing scripts for...various things. The door handle jiggles, Rhys trying to open your door, and then the door creaks in a strange way. You ignore it, typing faster, lamenting all the mistakes you're making that you'll have to fix later.

Crack!

You jump, looking over to see that the door handle is simply gone, a large hole where it once was. You gape as the door swings open and Rhys walks in, casually dropping the handle on your desk like he didn't just rip it out of the door with his bare hands.

"Wh—What the fuck! Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

He gives you a long look.

"You locked the door," he shrugs. "I'll fix it later."

"No, you won't."

He doesn't argue with you, sitting on the edge of your desk and staring down at you.

"What do you want, Rhys?"

"Are you stalking me?"

A curl of fear wraps around your heart.

"Why the fuck would I do that?"

His fingers tap, tap, tap on your desk, an occasional clink from his rings.

"You're studying me. Like a bug in a jar. You just can't stand not knowing how my mind works."

The truth of his words hits you like a punch to the gut, but you're not about to admit anything.

"I've been at work all day, like I told you earlier, you goddamn idiot," you scowl.

He reaches out and smooths out the wrinkle between your brows, something he's done a million times before, only now it seems...patronizing.

"You know, I was wondering how long it would take you to explode on me," he says, changing the subject.

"What?"

"You tried so hard to be polite, but you glare a lot when you think no one is looking."

"So you riled me up on purpose?"

"No. That's just the way I am."

You glower at him. This—motherfucking prick.

"Get out."

He doesn't move, that emotionless gaze fixed on you. You stand up, pointing to your door.

"I said get out."

"What are you going to do if I don't?"

He raises a brow at you. You start to shake from anger. Truth be told, there isn't much you could do, he's much stronger than you, an immovable wall of muscle. But you're well and truly pissed off now, so you shove at him with all your might. As expected, he doesn't budge at all, letting you waste your time.

"Why the fuck are you bothering me!? Go fuck yourself! Is this amusing to you!?"

"Yeah."

You stop, something in you snapping. You launch yourself at him, something he was expecting because he catches you and smoothly turns you and pins you face down on your desk.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! LET GO OF ME!"

You thrash about, knocking things off your desk. He holds you for a while, unconcerned with the threats you scream at him or the murderous look in your eyes. In fact, it's making him hard. You know because you can feel him against your ass. That makes you stop, huffing and panting as you glare at him, your cheek smooshed into your desk, starting to sweat from how fucking warm he is.

"Why'd you stop? I was just starting to feel good."

"You are such a—why don't you go jack off to your porn again?"

He hums noncommittally.

"You're more interesting than porn."

"What is wrong with you!?"

He shrugs.

"Are you going to keep moving?"

"No."

"I can make you feel good."

"Fuck off."

He releases you, but not before grinding his bulge into you so hard it sends a jolt of pain through your balls. You swear at him as he leaves, glaring at the door handle he ripped out of your door. That goddamn brute. You'll kill him. You'll kill in his sleep, slip a knife between his ribs, smother him with his own pillow. You gingerly sit down, adjusting your pants. Ow. What was his problem? He'd been perfectly fine leaving you alone before. What had changed? Was it because you exploded on him? Did he get off on watching you work yourself into a tizzy?

Your mind loops around and around, unable to come up with a satisfying answer for his perplexing behavior. You were just giving yourself a headache for no reason at this point. There was no point in trying to understand someone who couldn't be understood unless you looked at him like a alien from outer space. You turn back to your computer, fixing the mistakes in your code. If only Rhys had code; you could go through and fix whatever made him him.

You watch Dan and Kent beat each other to a pulp in smash bros, evenly matched as they try to fling the other off the arena. The insults are getting heated, Dan calls Kent a "basement dwelling discord mod" and Kent calls Dan a "pussy whipped mommy kink having coward". All par for the course for those two. In a couple hours, they'll be hanging off each other sobbing at whatever sappy movie Leon put on because they're drunk. You lean back in the beanbag you're sitting on, taking a sip from your drink.

Kent finally ousts Dan from the arena, Dan swearing like a sailor and Kent laughing his ass off. Leon and Paulie take their places, Paulie getting his ass beat almost immediately. Then it's you and Kent, with you holding up an admirable front until you mispress a button and fall to your death. Twice. You relax as the night goes on, your body loosened by interacting with people you actually like. You frown thinking of the reason that you snuck out of the apartment like you were a teenager avoiding their parents.

For the past three weeks, every attempt to go hang out with your friends or do anything but go to work or the grocery store had been thwarted by Rhys. Or at least, you suspect it's him. He's been much more annoying lately, blocking doorways when you were trying to walk through, groping your ass when you passed by, saying things that made you want to murder him.

You feel crazy for thinking he somehow knows when you're about to go visit your friends because he was the laziest person you'd ever met, but how else are you supposed to explain how just yesterday he'd pinned you underneath him on the couch and kept you there for two hours and only let you go once it was too late to leave? Or the day he'd grabbed you and rubbed himself all over you, shoving your face into his sweaty armpits, forcing you to have to shower. Or when he'd unzipped your jeans and tried to take your cock out, saying he "only wanted a look", so you'd hid in your room for the rest of the day.

You could only call it a coincidence so many times before you made yourself sound stupid. He had to be doing it on purpose. You scowl and grab the bottle of beer that Paulie is drinking, downing the rest of it. He protests, giving you a weird look. You don't usually drink, but tonight you feel like forgetting about a certain someone. So you wave him off, telling him you're just stressed about work stuff. You challenge Paulie to a drinking contest, to which he happily accepted.

You drink bottle after bottle of beer, eventually ending up completely sloshed. You and Leon are arguing with each like two old men now, getting more and more worked up until you're clumsily wrestling while the others egg you on, even betting on who will win—you, of course, because you're meaner than soft hearted Leon. After all that and a sad movie about dogs, Leon drives you home, listening to you rant about Rhys with the patience of a saint.

"I mean, he's just so irritating! How can someone be that irritating!?"

"Mmhmm."

"I swear he's been trying to keep from leaving the apartment lately too!"

"Really?"

You turn your head to glare at him.

"Are you even listening?"

"You're mad at your roommate again. Why don't you just move out if you hate him so much?"

His hazel eyes briefly glance at you before returning to the road.

"The rent is cheap."

"There are other places. You could sleep in my guest room while you look for a new apartment."

"That would be letting him win," you growl.

"Y/N. You're being ridiculous. By the sound of it, he's not even going to care if you move out."

"Who's being ridiculous? I know that asshole. He'll be laughing at me when I'm gone."

Leon sighs.

"You're so difficult sometimes."

"Am not."

"Just tell him that you're moving out because you want to be closer to work."

"He'll know I'm lying," you say, looking around as if he's going to pop up out of nowhere.

"Not even your dad can tell when you're lying, Y/N. I think you'll be fine."

"That sounded like an insult."

"It wasn't. It's just a fact."

"Uh huh. You're such a goody two shoes, Leon."

His nose wrinkles, an offended look passing over his face.

"Yeah, compared to you. Did you forget that I always got in trouble in high school because of you?"

"Not my fault Grayson could sniff out trouble like a damn bloodhound."

"He was a bloodhound, Y/N."

"Yeah, but like, nobody is that similar to their animal counterparts."

"It still influences their behavior."

"Is that why you get along with everyone?"

He opens his mouth, then frowns, his floppy lab ears drawing back.

"That's—really, man?"

"Awww, who's a good boy?"

He grabs his tail before it can start wagging, shooting you a nasty look.

"Now you're just being mean."

"And yet you still tolerate me."

"We're friends. If I didn't tolerate you, I'd have told you to go fuck yourself a long time ago."

You sniff, rubbing at your chest, a sudden warm feeling overcoming you.

"...Thanks."

He lightly punches your arm.

"No problem."

You doze off after that, Leon having to drag you out of his car and up to your apartment, where he discovers that you forgot your keys at his house after poking you awake enough to ask you where they are. He rolls his eyes and knocks on the door, hoping that roommate of yours is awake. He glances down at you, shaking his head. You've always been a troublemaker, having a hobby of hacking into the school's computers when you were young, sneaking alcohol from your dad's cabinet, dragging him and the others on whatever harebrained adventure you'd thought up. Well, dragging him. The others were just as bad as you.

The door opens, a huge man leaning against the frame. Jeez. He doesn't think he's ever seen such a big guy before. The guy raises a brow at him, at you, snoring as you lean on Leon. The guy looks back at him, and he swears a freezing cold look was just in his eyes. Suddenly, he doesn't really want to hand you over to him, but the guy is already picking you up, slinging you over his shoulder like you're just a sack of potatoes.

"Uh, be careful. If he throws up, he'll choke," Leon says, hands raised halfway.

The guy, Rhys, just looks at him, an unsettlingly blank expression on his face.

"I've got him."

Then the door is shut in his face. Leon finds himself thinking that the two of you are similar in a weird way. If you ever heard him say that though, you'd bite his head off. On the other side of the door, Rhys is taking you to your room, setting you down on your bed. He pulls your shoes off, putting them away for once, then your socks. He stares at your sleeping face, curled up on your side like a baby. There's a wrinkle between your brows even in your sleep, and he wonders what you're dreaming about. He smooths it out with his index finger, but you just scowl again. He traces the curve of your jaw, your jugular, down to your collarbone.

It's nice that you're not yelling at him right now. You'll pop a blood vessel one day if you don't calm down. He'd known that you weren't the type to be happy go lucky or anything, but you going off on him like that surprised him. He didn't know you had it in you. And since then, you'd stopped bothering to pretend to be nice, letting your true personality shine through. He couldn't help pushing your buttons after that, curious about this new side of you.

His ear flicks toward the door, hearing that...friend of yours finally leave. It was...admirable how worried he was about you but there was no need for him to do that. He tilts his head at you. What a troublemaker, sneaking out your window and crawling down the pipes. If he'd known, he would have jammed your window shut. You've only been his roommate for a few months, and you were a private person, keeping everything to yourself. He had no idea you were such a mean little thing or that you knew how to scale a building.

He lays down next to you, shimmying your shirt up. He circles one of your nipples with his finger, pinching the nub lightly. You shift in your sleep, frowning. Cute. He splays his hand over your chest, dragging down to your belly. He thinks about how you flinched and trembled when he touched you that day, his cock hardening in his sweats. He eyes your thighs. You're asleep and drunk. You won't even know.

He sits up, lifting your legs to pulls your jeans and boxers down. He presses himself between your thighs, holding them together to slide himself against you. He lays your legs over his shoulder, holding them with one arm as he brushes his hand down your bare thigh. You feel so good, so perfect. Perfectly pliable as he uses your thighs to pleasure himself. This is where you belong, not out there where he doesn't know what you're up to.

His cock jumps as he remembers the look on your face when you'd lied about following him the other week, like he was the stupid one for even asking. How could he not recognize you? He's spent hours memorizing the particular way you hunch over a book, the way you always try to make yourself smaller, not out of a lack of self confidence, but out of wanting to watch others without being seen. And he's seen that cap of yours, you know. A troublemaker and a stalker. He sure had his hands full, didn't he?

He squeezes your legs tighter, his pace quickening. He was beginning to feel the urge to mate you, finding it harder and harder to keep his hands off you as the days went by. Now that he knows you're interested in him, if only because you were annoyed by his carefreeness, he wants you marked and mated. He'd have to work on opening you up for his massive cock, though. Maybe he should fit a plug into you and make you wear it all day.

You'd be so furious about that. He would have to keep you restrained so you couldn't take it out. But you'd look so good with your face flushed, trembling and panting underneath him. His grip tightens on you, cock twitching. Just you wait. He'd have you screaming with pleasure instead of rage soon enough. The thought is enough to make his belly tighten, thick ropes of cum spilling onto your torso, some even landing on your face. He takes his thumb and pushes some into your mouth. You make a face, turning your head away. Soon.

You tear through Rhys' laundry, looking for a pair of underwear that you know you put into your basket because you count them. You eventually find them stuffed under his pillow, a suspicious white stain on them. A huge, still sticky stain. Disgusting. You spin around, intending to go find the stupid horse to chew him out, only to find him already leaning in the doorway to his room. His eyes flick down to what's in your hand.

"Thanks. Those were losing your smell," he says.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to gut you like a pig and flay the skin from your still warm body."

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and locking it.

"Would you really be able to kill someone so violently?"

"You think I wouldn't?"

He tilts his head at you.

"Have you ever killed someone before, Y/N?"

"No. But with how much I hate you, I think I'd manage."

He walks toward you, too fast for you to react as he picks you up and presses you down on his bed.

"Well, if you're set on that, I'd like to get some things done first."

"Get off of me!"

He grabs your jeans and yanks them down, flipping you over and pinning you with his heavy weight. He reaches over to his dresser, pulling out a bottle of lube.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

"Relax, Y/N."

You shiver as he pours the cold lube between your ass cheeks, tossing the bottle aside and sliding his finger to your hole. He massages the ring of muscle, holding your arms tight as you struggle.

"Relax, Y/N," he repeats. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Fuck you, you fucking asshole! Stop touching me!"

You gasp sharply as he fits his thick finger into you, the jolt of pain unexpected.

"Ow, ow, fuck!"

"I told you to relax."

"Goddamn it! Get your finger out of me!"

He slowly thrusts his finger in and out of you, rough callouses making you jump. He prods and pokes at you, finding a spot that has you arching your back.

"There we go," Rhys murmurs. "That feels good, doesn't it?"

"You—stop it!—mmph!"

He presses harder, his lube slicked finger sliding past your prostate. You twist and gasp, trying to free yourself from his iron hold. Your hips buck as he forces another finger into you, scissoring them slowly.

"I wanted to properly open you up, but your scent is driving me crazy."

"St—fuuuck—stop it."

"But you're responding so well, Y/N. And I'm really hard, you know."

He pulls and stretches you, eventually adding a third and a fourth finger, turning you into a pile of goo as you come harder than you've ever come before. Rhys pulls your jeans the rest of the way off, tossing them and your boxers into the floor. He lets go of your arms, lifting your hips up and pressing himself into you. You remember what's happening and start thrashing again. He pushes your head down into his pillow, your nose filled with the scent of his shampoo and musk.

"Stay still now," he says.

He pushes into you, his massive cock straining against your tight hole and finally going in with a wet pop. He groans as you hiss through your teeth, the stretch burning.

"Fuck, ow, that fucking hurts."

"I know, I know. Just relax."

He pushes in a little further, rocking his hips into you.

"If you know, why don't—hn—don't you stop?"

He lowers himself to your back, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the back of your neck.

"I don't want to," he says simply.

You twist your fingers in his sheets, gritting your teeth as he pushes into you inch by inch, splitting your poor ass in two.

"Jesus christ. Do you have a horse cock or something?"

"If I was fucking you with my horse cock, you'd be crying and bleeding everywhere."

Your brows furrow. Once again, you can't tell if he's joking or not. You let out a yelp when he bottoms out, filling you so full that it's all you can feel. You want nothing more than to get away, but he's just too strong and too heavy. If this is going to be forced upon you, though, you're sure as hell going to complain.

"I hope you hit your head and fall into a coma and never fucking wake up," you snarl.

"I'm hardheaded."

He pulls back and thrusts into you, knocking whatever you were going to say out of you as you let out a strangled moan. He's hot inside you, his cock just as warm as the rest of him, if not warmer. His pace is slow, but his thrusts are strong, bullying your hole into submission. You scramble for your words, your usual repertoire of insults and swears, and find nothing because you can't think about anything but what he's doing to you. You've never experienced such an onslaught of sensations, such overwhelming feelings.

Rhys bites and nibbles across your shoulders, one arm fitting underneath your chest and grabbing your shoulder to keep you in place and the other reaching for your cock, stroking you in time to his thrusts. Every movement sends a shockwave of pleasure through your prostate, the bastard angling himself to slide against it as he fucks you. It's annoying how quickly your ass got used to him, how easy he slides into you. Even more annoying is how quiet he is, just low grunts and soft pants, a stark contrast to your yelps and moans.

"You're a lot less mouthy when I touch you, huh?"

You turn your head away from his voice right in your ear, a disgusted shiver passing through you.

"You enjoying it?" he asks.

"N—No."

"I see. This is just your body's natural response to stimulation, is that it?"

How did he know what you were going to say?

"I guess I'll have to work on making you honest."

"I'll ne—agh—never be honest," you growl.

"I can be persuasive."

You bark out a humorless laugh, made much less condescending by your lewd moan right afterward. If all those years of getting in trouble and getting punished couldn't make you honest, you doubt that Rhys could. He shifts his head closer, hooking his chin over your shoulder.

"Tell me, Y/N. Why didn't you ever leave?"

The excuse slips out of your mouth, practiced and easy.

"Rent is cheap."

"You have friends. There are a million other people who need roommates. What made you want to stay with someone you hate? Is it because you want to study me? Maybe you like how I make you feel?"

You grit your teeth as his pace increases, heavy balls slapping against your own.

"You're really—ah—talkative tonight."

"You think so?"

"This is the most I've ever heard you say at once."

He hums thoughtfully.

"I'm curious about what you're thinking. You're always so closed off. It's like the cookie jar on top of the cabinet, you know?"

"I—I'm not a cookie jar."

A familiar tightness coils in your groin, each thrust of his cock pushing you closer. And he wants to talk to you. Like he isn't fucking you in the ass.

"I know. But you feel just as forbidden."

Your brow furrows.

"What the hell are you ta—talking about? Did your parents beat you for stealing cookies?"

"...Something like that."

He licks your shoulder, tongue hot against your skin, finding the junction between your neck and right shoulder. You squirm as your orgasm edges closer, his hand moving faster as he jerks you off. You feel him lightly bite you, testing, before he sinks his blunt teeth into your flesh. You scream as white hot pain lances through you, burning your veins, like thousands of hot needles pricking you. It's the worst pain you've ever felt, like breaking a bone a million times over. Your head swims, a sensation like writhing snakes at the back of your head. He finally lets go, lapping blood from your skin.

"Sorry, I know that hurt."

You don't really hear him, your energy drained as the pain leaves you as fast as it came, your body now oversensitive as Rhys continues to move, slamming into you. He pinches the head of your cock, sliding his rings through the slit, over and over until you jerk, spilling cum onto his sheets. He twitches inside you, groaning as you tighten around him. Copious amounts of cum fill you, dripping down onto the bed. He thrusts one last time, then hilts himself inside you, collapsing onto your back and squishing you.

"Yeah, there we go. Not perfect but you'll mark me back one day," he murmurs.

You pant, not hearing much of anything but the roar of your heartbeat in your ear. What is he saying? Mark him back? What does that mean? Crazy bastard. He nuzzles your cheek, rubbing himself against you.

"Did that feel good?"

"Wh—What?"

He tilts your head toward him, cold, brown eyes examining your flushed face.

"I would have fucked you earlier if I knew how pliant it made you."

"Fuck you."

"You want another round?"

You glare at him.

"I guess it doesn't matter. You're mine now. I can have you whenever I want," he says.

"What the hell are you talking about? And why the fuck did you bite me? Do you know how many germs are in a human mouth?"

"You're getting mouthy again."

A muscle works in your jaw. No matter what you say to him, it doesn't bother him. In fact, he seems to like it, based on the way he just fucked you. Without a condom.

"You—get out of me! Are you insane!? Fucking me without a condom!"

"Is that what you're worried about? I don't have cooties."

"How do you know!? Do you get tested!? You put your dick in anything that moves, you manwhore!"

He watches you for a long moment, then—then smiles. Just a small, quick upturn of his lips, but it's a smile. It creeps you out so much that you stop talking, looking at him like he's an alien. Or a jumpscare in a video game.

"Don't ever smile again," you say seriously. "I think I'm going to have nightmares from that."

"You're so silly sometimes."

He buries his face in your shoulder, relaxing on top of you. And no matter how much you squirm or thrash or threaten him, he doesn't move. Your efforts are futile, and you know it. You've always known it. You should have left a long time ago if you wanted to be a free man. You should have known that Rhys wasn't the kind of man to let go of something once he was interested in it. But you're stubborn and a little too curious for your own good, huh?