[did someone say they wanted hate sex with Gaz and former bully!Reader]
“Oh my God,” your friend hissed, elbowing you so hard you nearly spilled your drink. “Is that Kyle Garrick?”
You hadn’t planned on coming back to your shitty little hometown.
A messy breakup and your mum’s sixtieth had dragged you home for a couple of weeks, back to the same creaky house, the same faded wallpaper in your old bedroom, the same feeling that nothing and everything had changed. Boredom and half a bottle of cheap wine on a Friday night were what finally pushed you out the door and into the local pub when your friend suddenly elbowed you.
You turned and the floor dropped out from under you.
He was at the bar, back half turned, one elbow resting on the scarred wood. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Jeans that actually fit an ass instead of hanging off nothing. The faded black henley stretched across muscle that hadn’t existed when he was seventeen. Short hair, military fade growing out on top. When he glanced sideways to answer the bartender, you caught the clean line of his jaw, the straight nose, the mouth.
No glasses. No acne. No wonky teeth flashing metal every time he spoke.
The same boy whose glasses you used to rip off his face in the middle of the hallway and hold above your head while your friends laughed. The same lanky kid you’d nicknamed Gaz the Spaz until even the teachers stopped correcting it. The same boy you’d cornered after school one day and made repeat “I’m a worthless loser who will never get laid” three times while you filmed it on your shitty flip phone.
You’d heard he enlisted one summer and laughed, “They’ll either kick him out for being a pussy or he’ll die in some shithole and do the world a favour.”
He felt your stare now. Turned slowly.
Recognition hit first. Then something colder, sharper, older. His eyes, dark, dragged over you and something in your cunt clenched tight.
You should have stayed in the booth.
Instead you slid out, heart hammering, and walked over on unsteady legs. The cheap wine was already buzzing warm behind your ribs, making everything feel a little too bright, a little too loud.
“Kyle,” you said when you reached him, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. Your voice came out breathy. “Wow. You look… different.”
You don’t remember exactly how the rest of the night unfolded, not really.
One drink became three. Then four. Your friends eventually peeled off, leaving you at the bar with him. He stayed sober, nursing the same pint for hours, watching you get looser and louder in that old familiar way that used to feel like power and now just felt pathetic next to him.
He just sipped his drink and looked at you with those calm, dark eyes until your stomach twisted and your thighs pressed together under the bar.
At some point his hand settled on your lower back, warm and heavy in a way that made your drunk brain short circuit, universal sign for your coming home with me.
Now the front door of your parents house clicks shut behind you and the world narrows to this:
You’re on your hands and knees over the arm of the old floral couch in the living room, skirt shoved up around your waist, panties gone, and Kyle Garrick buried to the hilt inside your cunt.
No preamble. No slow build. One second you’re stumbling through the door on drunk legs, the next he has you bent, shoving his cock in with one long, brutal thrust that punched the air out of your lungs.
“Gaz,” he corrects, voice low and perfectly controlled. One big hand presses between your shoulder blades, pinning your chest to the couch arm while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. He’s still fully dressed, jeans open just enough, henley rucked up, while you’re half stripped and already drooling onto the faded floral fabric. “And you’re going to stay right here and take every inch you said no one would ever want.”
He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in. The wet sound is loud from the very first thrust. You’re soaked- humiliatingly, traitorously soaked- and every stroke makes it worse. Cream coats his cock and starts dripping down your thighs in shiny streaks that catch the low lamplight.
Your mind is fuzzy with wine, thoughts slipping and sliding, but the memories rise anyway, uninvited, triggered by every deep, punishing thrust.
Sticking your foot out as he walked past carrying his books. He went down hard, papers scattering everywhere, knees and palms scraping the dirty floor.
“Look at Gaz crawling for it like the dog he is- bet that’s the closest he’s ever got to a bitch.”
His dark eyes dragging over youes at the bar. “Didn’t expect to see the girl who told the whole school during lunch I had a micro dick…”
He fucks you like he’s been waiting ten years for this exact moment, almost cruel in the way he angles his hips to grind against the soft spongy spot inside you most men can’t reach, the one that makes your vision blur.
Your mouth falls open. Spit floods out, soaking the cushion under your cheek in a steady, shiny pool. You can’t close it. Can’t stop the little broken sounds spilling out every time he bottoms out.
“Listen to that,” he murmurs, calm as anything, like he’s not currently rearranging your insides. “Your cunt’s drooling for me. Just like it used to when you’d stare at me after you finished humiliating me in front of everyone.”
Another memory surfaces, sharp and vicious, dragged up by the stretch of his cock and the steady grind of his hips:
Frog dissection day, voice loud and carrying in the middle of lab, suggesting to the entire class that Gaz was probably going to smuggle one of the frogs home so he could fuck it, “because that’s the only pussy he’ll ever get in his miserable life.” The whole room erupted. People started making wet, disgusting noises every time he walked past for weeks.
Gaz’s hips snap forward harder on the echo of that laughter, burying himself so deep your knees slip on the rug.
“You made sure everyone knew exactly what you thought I deserved,” he says, voice still so fucking calm it makes your skin crawl. “Told the whole class the freak could only get off with something dead and cold. And now here you are: drunk and bent over like a cheap slut for the same loser. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
You shake your head, but your body betrays you, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, cunt fluttering and gushing around him with every stroke, running down your thighs in messy rivulets. Your mouth is a wreck, spit pouring freely, soaking the cushion until it’s dark and wet under your face.
“Don’t lie to yourself,” he continues, almost conversational, one hand sliding from your hip to reach under you and rub tight circles over your clit while he keeps pounding. “You bullied me because you were obsessed with me. That’s why your cunt’s sobbing all over my cock right now. Couldn’t stay away even after ten years. Couldn’t stop thinking about the freak you tried to bury.”
A fresh wave of memory hits, triggered by the way his fingers are working your clit in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts and the low, satisfied sound he makes when you clench around him:
The week you decided the entire school would blank him. No one was allowed to speak to him, sit with him, or even look at him. Told everyone it was a “social experiment” to see how long he would last before he cracked. He ate lunch alone every single day. Raised his hand in class and got ignored. Walked the corridors while people deliberately ran into him like he was invisible.
Gaz leans over your back, chest pressing you down harder, lips right against your ear.
“Say it,” he murmurs, almost sweet. “Say ‘Thank you, Gaz, for fucking trash like me.’”
You choke on a moan, drunk and wrecked and so fucking full. “Th-thank you- Gaz- for fucking trash line me- ”
“Good girl.” He rewards you with a few slower, deeper rolls of his hips that make your eyes roll back. “Now show me how sorry you really are.”
Your orgasm rips through you without warning: violent, humiliating, unstoppable. Your cunt clamps down hard, gushing fresh wetness around his cock, more cream flooding out and dripping down your thighs in thick, shiny trails. Your mouth falls open wider and you drool, a long continuous moan muffled in the soaked cushion while you shake and sob through it.
He doesn’t stop. Fucks you straight through it, calm and relentless, grinding deep every time your walls flutter.
When the aftershocks finally ease he flips you onto your back on the couch without pulling out, hooking your legs over his shoulders and folding you nearly in half. The new angle punches a broken sound out of you. Your head lolls, mouth still open and drooling down your cheek and into your hair.
“Now you can watch,” he says, dark eyes locked on yours as he starts moving again. “Watch the loser you tried to destroy ruin you.”
Every thrust is deep and deliberate, cunt making filthy wet sounds every time he pulls back. More of your cream and his pre leaks out, soaking the couch beneath you.
“You’re going to cum again,” he tells you, voice low and certain. “And when you do, you’re going to thank me for it. Because deep down you always knew this was how it would end. The guy you tortured finally putting you in your place.”
Your second orgasm builds terrifyingly fast under the relentless pressure and the psychological assault. When it hits you wail, cunt pulsing and drooling fresh cream down his shaft, eyes rolling, spit leaking down your chin.
Gaz watches you fall apart with dark, satisfied eyes.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Drool for me. Both ends. Just like I used to imagine when I was jerking off to the thought of ruining you one day.”
He reaches down, wipes the spit from your cunt with his thumb, and pushes the digit between your lips.
“Suck. Taste how pathetic you are.”
You do, eyes glassy, sucking your own juices off his thumb while he keeps fucking you.
He pulls his thumb free after a moment and grips your throat lightly, leaning down until his forehead touches yours.
“I’m not done with you,” he says softly, almost tenderly, while his hips never stop moving. “Not even close. You owe me years of apologies. And I’m going to fuck every single one of them out of this lying little cunt until you’re too wrecked to remember your own name.”
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