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“F-fuck, cutie! Just like – hah– just like that!”
You weren’t the clubbing type.
Not usually, at least – but exams were over and one of your friends was fresh off a bad breakup, one night letting loose wouldn’t hurt.
Walking is… difficult, your steps are sloppy – there’s an arm wrapped around your waist, your own slung over a stranger’s shoulders. Why are you outside? Where are your friends – they… they promised they wouldn’t leave you.
“She good, dude?”
A soft, pretty laugh rumbles at your side, “Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.”
And you remember the bar, the overpriced cocktails and the saccharine sweetness of strawberry liquor on your tongue. The dizzying lights and the bass that thumped so loudly you felt it reverberate in your chest. You knew the rules; they’d been drilled into you since you were sixteen years old.
Stick together, don’t accept drinks from strangers, and watch the one in your hand like a hawk - it doesn’t leave your sight.
A tongue between the valley of your breasts, long fingers curling up inside of you.
“You like that, huh pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?”
They wouldn’t have just abandoned you, right? Maybe you told them to go. Maybe they thought you wanted it; to go home with the handsome stranger.
You never had the guts to ask them, never spoke about that night again. Not to anyone.
Pain. Something thrusting inside of you, splitting you open while he moans and pants atop you. It hurts so much and you want it to stop.
Please stop. Please. Please. Please.
You’re begging, at least you think you are, but the words come out jumbled and wrong, and he just laughs, hiking up your thigh so he can fuck you deeper.
Why won’t he stop?
When you wake up, bruised and sore and all alone in your bed, it feels like a bad dream. You know it’s not – not with cum still seeping from between your thighs, the scent of the stranger’s cologne clinging to your sheets.
And you scrub your skin raw in the shower, but it isn’t enough to rid you of his touch.
—
It’s nothing like what they show on tv.
There’s no sympathetic detective to pat you on your shoulder while you break down, swearing that they’ll find the man who did this and you’ll get your justice.
You don’t go to the cops because you’ll know what they’ll say. You were drunk, drugged, and even if you could remember what he looked like (his eyes were brown, you think, and there’s a flash of a smirk in your head but the moment you try to focus on it it slips away like smoke) any evidence of rape washed down the drain the moment you stepped into the steaming shower.
At least… that’s what you tell yourself. It’s easier than admitting you’re terrified of judgemental eyes.
Or worse; pitying ones.
So you pretend that nothing happened. You show up to your classes and throw yourself into studying, make the time to get coffee with your friends, you even pick up a part time job – it’s good to keep busy.
The nightmares are just that; nightmares.
And things are fine, until they’re not.
—
“Baby, you’re here!!”
There’s barely time to drop your bags before she’s pulling you into a warm hug. “Hi mom,” you reply, squeezing her back.
When she draws back to take you in, one hand cupping your cheek, she frowns, “You look tired sweetheart. Have you been sleeping enough?”
“Yeah, just tired from exams and stuff.”
She looks unconvinced, but mercifully doesn’t push the issue. Of course, you don’t tell her that you missed your last two exams because you’d walked past some guy wearing that same cologne and just choked – that instead of finishing off your semester strong, you’d spent the day alternating between throwing up and crying in bed.
She doesn’t need to know that, because of that, you’ll probably fail both classes and have to retake them again next semester on top of an already full course load. It’s fine; you’ll figure it out.
For now, you work on matching her enthusiasm at having you home, grabbing your bags to bring them inside and into your old room.
“Oh, wait–”
Abruptly, you pause, gazing in confusion from the doorway of your bedroom. There’s a duffle bag lying open and empty atop your bed, a tangled jump rope, some weights, an empty bottle, a sweat towel – even what looks like a spare workout tee scattered haphazardly across the sheets.
“… I didn’t take you for a gym junkie, mom.”
She stops behind you, sighing. “It’s not mine it’s– Tooru said he was going to tidy it up, sorry sweetheart.” She sweeps past you to start tidying it up, but not before you catch sight of her wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.
And you can’t help the lone eyebrow that rises, falling back against the doorframe, arms folding across your chest. “Tooru, huh?” you grin, “And who might Tooru be?”
The flustered, almost guilty look she sends you makes you want to laugh – this is easy, comfortable, this you can do – but you restrain yourself. Just. “Tooru is… he’s– well, he’s the man I’m… seeing.”
She admits it like she’s confessing to a crime, eyes all wide and nervous; anticipating your reaction. And you suppose it’s not unwarranted. As far as you’re aware, she’s been alone ever since the day your dad walked out on you both – raising you was always the priority, or maybe the excuse. But you’re not fourteen anymore, you don’t need another father figure or every spare bit of her time and attention, and she doesn’t need your approval for this.
So you smile at her, “Is he nice?”
She lights up, her features – almost a mirror image of your own – softening as she beams, “He’s amazing, honey. I honestly don’t know how this whole thing really happened, or why he’s even interested in someone like me but… I lucked out with him.”
And so it goes, you prying little bits of information about the mysterious Tooru as the afternoon passes.
She tells you that they met a few months back, at the bakery she likes in town – and how she kept running into him; at the grocery store, and then at the park, and then on her way back from yoga that one night.
She tells you that he’s a terrible flirt, all smooth and charming with warm, pretty brown eyes, but he’s a good man beneath it all and she’s never met anyone like him.
It strikes you, as you watch your mom animatedly talk about him, that you’ve never seen her look like this before.
Happy.
She can’t stop smiling, and when you look at her, really look, she’s almost a different person – younger somehow, a bit more care-free. It suits her, and you wonder with a slight pang in your heart how you never noticed how lonely she was before.
And she’s adamant that they’re taking things slowly, that he still has an apartment of his own in town – which to be honest, you really aren’t gonna judge her on either way – but it is kind of funny simply because whether your mom realises it or not, it’s clearly a lie.
The subtle reclaiming of your bedroom aside, there’s traces of Tooru scattered all around the house; the extra toothbrush and aftershave you’d spotted in the bathroom, the men’s shoes and the jacket by the door, red wine in the cupboard when your mom’s only ever indulged in white.
You haven’t been into her bedroom, but at this point you’d hazard a guess that there’s at least one drawer full of Tooru’s clothes, probably half her closet cleared out for him as well.
“He’s coming for dinner, but I just wanted today to be just us,” she says, reaching across the couch to squeeze your hand. And you’re grateful for it, because you’re happy for her – you are – but you’re not so sure how you would’ve handled meeting the stranger holding your mother’s heart first thing. At least, not after the last few days.
Not when you still feel all… brittle.
—
Tooru arrives a little after seven, and to say that he’s not entirely what you were expecting is kind of an understatement.
She’d gushed about how tall and handsome he is – though personally, you think pretty’s the more accurate word, what with his soft, delicate features, perfect cupid’s bow lips and all. What she’d neglected to tell you was that the man in question, stepping through the front door with a faint smile on his face, has to be at least ten years younger than her, mid-thirties at most.
Suddenly, your mom’s initial reluctance to bring him up starts to make sense.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he murmurs, stopping by your mom to drop a fleeting kiss to her cheek before warm brown eyes turn to you.
Your heart stutters.
“Sweetheart,” your mom begins, slipping an arm around his waist and relaxing into his side, “this is Tooru– Oikawa,” she corrects herself.
He smiles at you, friendly and charming, “It’s great to finally meet you, your mom’s told me so much – all good things, of course!”
You force yourself to smile in return, “Yeah, you too.”
There’s nothing overtly wrong with Oikawa, age difference aside – your mom’s clearly head over heels in love with the guy and on a surface level he seems nice enough, but you find yourself glad for the fact that he doesn’t make a move to step closer, try to shake your hand or god forbid hug you or something like that.
He’s nothing but a gentleman as your mom steps back into the kitchen to finish off dinner, setting the table without being prompted, pouring a glass of wine for your mom and one for himself before he offers a glass to you.
“Oh, no I’m alright, thanks.”
You don’t drink so much anymore. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal but your mom pouts at you from the kitchen. “C’mon, sweetie. We’re celebrating tonight! One drink won’t hurt.”
“We’re celebrating?” you ask.
She throws you a wink, gaze softening as she turns to glance at Oikawa, already diligently pouring you a glass, “Of course we are. It’s not every day my girl comes home, and it’s nice having you both here with me.”
Oikawa’s fingers brush against yours for a fleeting second as he passes you the glass, and you have to fight to keep yourself from ripping your hand away. It’s nothing, you just– you’re not good with strangers touching you, and as nice as he is and as much as your mom might be infatuated with him, he is still a stranger.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, a playful twinkle in his eye as he clinks his wine glass against yours. “So you’re at uni, right? What are you studying?”
Uni’s the last thing you want to be thinking about right now, but whether or not Oikawa genuinely cares, he’s obviously trying to make an effort to get to know you. For your mother’s sake, grinning innocuously in the kitchen as she adds the last little touches to dinner, you suck it up, plaster a smile across your face and ignore the twinge of discomfort in your gut.
You can handle one night of small talk.
—
You wake the following morning to the sound of voices carrying down the hall.
Not your mother’s – both are too deep, and your mom left a few hours ago for work. Figuring that one of them at least is likely Oikawa, you pull on a thin, satin robe over your pajamas, tying the sash in a loose knot before you slip from the room.
Those suspicions are proven correct; you round the corner to find Oikawa sitting up at the kitchen counter, a warm cup of coffee in his hand. There’s another man, a touch shorter, but imposing with dark, spiky hair and olive green eyes standing on the other side, hands braced on the marble top, glaring at Oikawa.
They both look up at the sound of your hesitant approach, the stranger abruptly straightening up, while Oikawa merely grins.
“Ah, you’re up,” he observes cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee.
Your eyes flicker between him and the stranger – clearly comfortable enough in your home and with Oikawa, despite the faint, lingering irritation still visible on his face – and as your cheeks warm, you find yourself wishing you’d put actual clothes on before coming out to investigate.
“I- I heard voices…” you trail off, awkwardly folding your arms over your chest. “Is mom–”
“At work,” he supplies. “Do you want some breakfast? Coffee, maybe?”
You risk another glance at the other man, watching you now with an unreadable expression, dark eyebrows furrowed. You swallow uncomfortably, shifting slightly as you shake your head. “No, I-I’m okay.”
And in an instant, a flash, something like recognition passes through those olive eyes.
Oikawa chuckles smoothly, finally tearing his eyes away from you to address his friend, “Iwa, stop being so rude. You’re scaring the poor thing.”
The stranger, Iwa, just scoffs. “You’re a real piece of shit, y’know?”
If he’s bothered by the scathing insult, Oikawa doesn’t show it, merely shrugging before turning his attention back to you with a smirk. “Ignore him, he’s just pissy this morning.”
You’d have to be a complete idiot not to sense the uncomfortable tension between the two of them – and now you. This is your home, but it feels like you’re intruding, like you’ve stumbled into a conversation you have no business hearing, but even if you wanted to leave your feet are rooted to the ground.
“Besides,” Oikawa continues, “he was just leaving anyway, weren’t you, Iwa?” It’s almost a purr, the way he speaks, but even the silken words can’t entirely mask the razor sharpness that lies beneath.
Goosebumps prickle along your arms.
Staring at you, Iwa opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but seemingly thinks better of it, snapping it shut with an audible click. He huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”
He spares you another glance on his way out, standing frozen by the hall. For a split second he slows, his scowl softening just a fraction–
“Iwa.”
It sounds like a warning, but he only rolls his eyes and huffs again. You think he’s going to walk out without another word to either of you, but he pauses once more, lingering by the entryway.
“You look a lot like your mother, anyone ever tell you that?”
He’s out the door before you can even think to reply, letting it slam shut in his wake. And you flinch at the harsh sound, something uneasy settling into the pit of your stomach–
“Hey,” Oikawa’s there by your side, his fingers entwining with yours. You hadn’t even heard him move. “Come sit, don’t worry about Iwa. He’ll get over it.”
His voice is soothing, you don’t pay attention to the words themselves, the implications there. You forget for a moment that you’re still in your pj’s, that you really don’t know him that well either, and mindlessly follow when he leads you to the couch and sits you down, taking the seat next to you.
And while your head’s still spinning, an uncomfortable feeling gnawing in the pit of your gut, Oikawa seems entirely unbothered by the turn of events, sighing contentedly as he stretches his long legs out, one arm sliding along the back of the couch behind you.
“Do your… friends usually just drop by like that?”
You don’t know where the words come from, or why that’s the first question on your mind, but when you glance over at him, Oikawa’s just watching you, an odd little half smirk playing on his lips. “Sometimes.”
His answer does little to soothe your unease. It’s really not a big deal, you know it’s not. Officially or not, this is his home too – you’re the one out of place. And if he wants to have people over when your mom’s not around, that’s fine, he can do whatever the hell he wants, but…
You came home for peace. To hide away for a few days and pretend that everything’s just fine and you’re not one breakdown away from shattering entirely. You wanted your mom and the comfort of your old bedroom and safety and it’s fine – great, even – that she’s found somebody who makes her happy, but this– him and the weirdness with his friend and everything is just too much, and–
You don’t realise that your leg’s bouncing until Oikawa’s hand comes to rest on your bare thigh. It’s enough to make your stomach flip, an icy chill trickling down your spine as his thumb slowly strokes across the soft, plush skin. “Relax, cutie,” he coos, chuckling softly when you visibly flinch and squeeze your eyes shut.
“P-please don’t call me that,” you choke out, fighting against the wave of nausea rising up your throat. And it’s just like last time, his cologne, notes of vanilla and cedar and spice, swirling thick and heady around you. That phantom touch, the warmth of hands gripping too tight, unwanted kisses hot and eager against your skin.
“No?” he asks, cruel amusement dripping from his tone. “Why not? I think it suits you, cutie.”
You want him to stop, to push him away, slap him – do anything really, but you’re frozen in place, shaking as the memories you’ve fought so hard to shove down come bubbling back to the surface. You can’t think straight, not with his hand sliding between your thighs, the warmth of his body pressing too closely against yours.
“Iwa was right, you know,” Oikawa murmurs, smoldering brown eyes drinking you in as you childishly shake your head, willing him away. His other hand catches your cheek, drawing your face back to him as tears well in your eyes, stubbornly clinging to your lashes. “She does look so much like you, the same eyes even.”
He whispers it like a secret, nuzzling his nose against yours like a lover would as he sighs sweetly, “It’s the only reason I could stand it.”
And then he’s kissing you, the tenderness of his lips belied by iron fingers digging into your jaw when you whimper and try to wrench yourself free.
It’s not like the nightmares that startle you awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air; hazy, broken recollections that fade the moment you try to reach for them. No, every touch, every moment of his assault passes in stark clarity.
The feel of Oikawa’s mouth as it trails greedily down your neck, his hand sliding under the cotton of your sleep shorts, even his pleased little hum when he realises you’re not wearing panties. “Such a good girl for me. Fuck, I’ve missed this.”
This time there’s no drugs in your system keeping you pliant and helpless, but that doesn’t make a difference. Not when his words echo in your head, playing again and again until every awful, sickening piece falls into place.
Long, nimble fingers stroke at your folds, and you can’t help the shivery gasp that leaves you when the tip of his middle finger sweeps over your clit.
“Please– please don’t do this,” you sniffle.
Oikawa presses another fleeting kiss to your shoulder, “Shh, none of that. Let me help you, baby.”
“N-no, I don’t, I don’t– Stop!”
Knocking away the hands that try to push him back, he hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides them down your legs, your pitifully weak struggles only making things easier for him. It’s only when Oikawa reaches for his own zipper that panic truly strikes home.
You can’t just lie here and let this happen again. You won’t.
And like a switch flipped, you start to trash like a wild thing beneath him, the scream you’ve kept buried inside of you for months ripping itself free from your throat–
Only for the fingers that had been toying with your pussy to be shoved down your throat, cutting you off with a choked gurgle. As you gag, fruitlessly try to tug yourself free, Oikawa leans in nice and close – except this time there’s no gentleness to his expression, nothing but viciousness as he grins and bares his teeth.
“You wanna yell, pretty girl? Want the neighbours to come running, let them see me fuck you?” He grinds his hips against you, his breath shivery as he pants at the friction of his half hard cock against your side. Nausea twists at your gut, acrid and bitter – you want to be sick, to cry and beg with him to stop but with his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, his thumb digging into the soft underside of your jaw all you can manage is an unintelligible whine. He hums, kissing away the single hot tear that spills down your cheek, “You think if you cry loudly enough, mommy’ll come home and save you?”
And it’s like time stands still as he laughs, cruel eyes glinting when he presses down on your tongue, warm saliva pooling around his digits. “Such a little whore, trying to seduce her poor, innocent boyfriend the very moment her back’s turned. Tell me, cutie,” he coos, “who do you think she’d believe?”
Your breath hitches, another sob catching in your throat – even if you wanted to answer, you can’t and he knows it. “She’s in love with me, you know. It’s almost a little pathetic how easy it was to manipulate her into bed – so lonely… desperate for love, for somebody – anybody – to pay attention to her, take care of her,” he sneers, distaste curling at his lips. “Wouldn’t it just break her fragile little heart to know she’s fallen for the man who raped her baby girl?”
Another garbled cry slips past his fingers and you can only watch in frozen horror as his other hand drifts back to his zipper. “You want to protect her, don’t you?”
His grip relents just enough for you to jerk a shaky nod.
“Pretty girl, so good for me.” Another kiss pressed to your cheek as the quiet hiss of his zipper fills the air around you. “It’ll be our little secret, hmm? She doesn’t need to know just yet, let her be happy a little while longer…”
Sliding down his briefs just far enough for his cock to spring free, he strokes it for a moment with slow, leisurely movements, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he watches your eyes widen.
And when he pulls you forward, guides your mouth towards it, pre-cum beading at the tip, withdrawing his fingers so you can quickly gasp for air, you just… let him.
The fight’s gone, as quickly as it had come.
You let his fingers curl through your hair, use it as an anchor when your lips part to force his cock between them. And he moans, low and shivery as your tongue slides along the underside of his shaft and you try not to gag around the sudden intrusion.
You think that there’s no room left inside of you for shame, but as his other hand creeps back between your legs, teasing at your cunt, you burn with it, clinging to the pyre of your own humiliation and disgust.
And still, you kneel on the couch, letting him fuck your mouth, letting those long, pretty fingers curl up inside of you – moaning around his cock when they stroke that perfect little spot.
“I wanted to – shit – take this slow,” he tells you as his hips jerk upwards, shuddering in breathless delight when his cock hits the back of your throat and it convulses around him. “I wanted to make you want me.”
Wet, messy, gags sound with every unwitting thrust – you’ve no choice but to swallow him down, let him fuck your throat like you’re nothing more than a toy for his pleasure. There’s saliva coating your chin, dripping down the length of his dick, pooling around his balls. You can barely breathe, a task made even harder when Oikawa decides to add his thumb into the mix, teasing your clit while he fucks you apart on his fingers.
It feels so fucking good, and you’ve never hated yourself more.
Your throat burns, hot tears stinging in the corners of your eyes, and yet he’s intent on driving you to the brink of your sanity with every calculated flick of his wrist. Something tightens in your belly, a spring coiled too tight, ready to snap, and you can’t help it when your hips chase his fingers, the needy, shameful little whimpers that leave your lips (still wrapped around his thick, twitching cock) as you search for the pleasure to temper the discomfort.
“You don’t have a clue what you do to me, do you? I could barely sleep last night–”
You choke back a moan, your pussy clenching around his digits, sucking them deeper as white spots pepper your vision and you shudder out a moan.
“So pretty when you cum for me,” he pants, but you don’t care – can’t, not when you’re riding his fingers, tongue lolling out as he gives you a moment’s reprieve to bask in the rippling afterglow of your orgasm before everything comes crashing back down around you.
Oikawa lets you fall back against the cushions, breathless, trembling and dazed. You’re not stupid enough to believe that’s the end of it, not when his cock’s still hard, throbbing against his toned stomach when he gives it a slow, cursory pump.
“Lie back, cutie,” he whispers, keeping his eyes fixed on you as he pushes himself up off the couch to shed the rest of his clothes.
And as you shuffle obediently downwards, heart hammering in your chest, you find you can’t tear your eyes away from him either.
Tall and handsome, she’d said, but the words truly don’t do him justice. A body corded with lean, powerful muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, a light smattering of dark hair trailing from his navel down past the well defined V of his hips…
“See something you like?” he teases, smirking when you squeak and childishly jerk your face away, cheeks burning. “It’s okay to look, you know. I don’t mind the attention.”
It feels too soft, too intimate for what this is.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to be attractive, or to make you enjoy your own assault, and you– you’re supposed to fight it, fight him instead of just lying there and taking it…
But when he climbs back onto the couch, easing your still trembling thighs apart to settle himself between them, his touch is nothing short of reverent, dark eyes wide and adoring as you squirm uneasily beneath him.
With one hand braced on the cushion beside you, his cock resting just above your aching sex, he leans forward, easing your top up past your tits. “Perfect,” he murmurs.
And it’s enough to make a fresh bout of humiliated tears spring to your eyes. Your hands curl into useless fists at your side as he settles back onto his knees and takes his cock in hand, hissing in pleasure when he glides the flushed, leaking head along your slick folds.
“Fuck, cutie. I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he laughs, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches hot, fat tears slip down your cheeks. With an agonisingly slow pace, Oikawa lines himself up with your cunt and presses in – even with how wet you are, one orgasm already wrung from you, the stretch burns and you can’t stop the choked gasp that leaves you.
His eyes flutter shut, head thrown back back as inch by inch his cock sinks into your pussy until finally he bottoms out with a satisfied groan. “Perfect for me, so fucking good,” he pants, and you barely have time to drag in a breath before his hips are drawing back, another desperate, strangled mewl escaping you.
Bruising fingers dig into your waist, Oikawa cursing as your plush little cunt flutters maddeningly around him– before he eagerly slams his cock forward, stuffing you full once more.
And as you sob and whimper between every wet, obscene squelch of his dick fucking into your soaked pussy, that all too familiar, shameful heat begins to pool in your core.
“Gonna cum for me again, cutie?”