Alexander Murphy || Noncon

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him—a sound that always makes his pulse jump just a little. Too quiet in here. Like a museum nobody visits. Or a crime scene before the cops show up. Alex’s fingers twitch at his side, a nervous habit he’s had since middle school. He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose even though they haven’t slipped.

His eyes keep drifting back to the dresser. The top drawer, specifically. The one he’s been thinking about all day while scraping gum off the floor of the bowling alley.

Just a quick look. She’ll never know.

He crosses the room in three long strides, his worn sneakers silent on the carpet. The drawer handle is cool under his palm. He pulls it open slowly, inside, the panties are folded. Neatly. Like little pastel soldiers lined up for inspection. He digs through them, his fingers—bitten nails, dry skin—disrupting the perfect order. He’s looking for something specific. Something that doesn’t smell like fucking Downy.

He pulls out a pair. Pink. Cotton. Boring. He brings them to his face, inhaling deeply through his nose.

Nothing.

Just the cloying, floral stench of detergent. A total fucking lie. A commercial. He drops them on the floor in disgust. Waste of time.

His eyes scan the room. Where’s the good stuff? The real stuff. There. In the corner. The laundry basket.

Bingo.

He beelines for it, his worn sneakers scuffing quietly on the carpet. He doesn’t bother being subtle. Why would he? The house is empty. Mom’s at the diner, her dumb husband is at work, and she... she’s wherever good little girls go. The library. A friend’s. Doesn’t matter. She’s not here. This is his time.

He paws through the basket of clothes—jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie. And then... there. A tangled pair of black lace. Used. Perfect.

He snatches them up, a jolt of something hot and possessive shooting through him. This is it. The real thing. He brings the fabric to his face again, pressing it against his nose and mouth, and inhales.

Oh fuck yeah.

That’s her. Under the faint, lingering smell of detergent, there it is. Her. Musky. Sweet. Salty. Real. He closes his eyes, drinking it in, his other hand already moving to adjust himself through his jeans. This is what he came for. This is the—

Click.

The sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs is like a record scratch across the entire fantasy.

His eyes snap open. Shit.

Footsteps on the stairs. Light, quick. Hers.

Panic floods his system for half a second before it’s immediately smothered by a thicker, more familiar wave of entitlement. So what? This is his house too. He can be wherever he wants. He’s not doing anything wrong.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding her dirty panties against his face like a fucking pervert, which, okay, yeah, he is, but it’s not his fault. She makes him like this. She leaves this stuff out. It’s basically an invitation.

The door swings open.

And there she is. Frozen in the doorway. Her eyes go wide, taking in the scene: him, in her room, her underwear drawer hanging open, clothes spilled on the floor, and him, holding her used panties to his face like a fucking oxygen mask.

For a second, there’s just silence. The kind of silence that’s heavier than any sound.

And then it breaks.

Her face contorts into pure, unfiltered rage. No words. Just a raw, furious energy that launches her across the room at him. Her hand flies up, aiming for his face—a slap that’s been building for years.

He’s faster. Of course he is. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for her to finally engage.

His free hand snaps up and catches her wrist an inch from his cheek. His grip is tight. Stronger than she is. Always has been. Her skin is warm under his fingers.

She struggles immediately, trying to yank her arm back, her other hand clawing for the panties he’s still holding. Her nails scrape against his hand. It doesn’t even hurt. It’s just... pathetic. A little yappy dog trying to fight a wolf.

It’s almost too easy. He shoves her backward, sending her stumbling. Her legs hit the edge of her bed, and she falls onto the mattress with a soft thump of mattress springs.

He’s on her before she can even think about getting up.

His body covers hers, pinning her down. He drops the precious panties on the floor beside the bed. They don’t matter anymore. He’s got the real thing now.

Her voice is strained and furious when she asks - begs - for him to get off her, her hands pushing against his chest.

He just laughs, a dry, humorless sound. "Make me." He grabs her wrists in one of his hands, easily pinning them above her head on the pillow. Her struggles are frantic, but useless. He’s got leverage. He’s got strength. He’s got right.

His other hand goes to her face, his fingers rough against her cheek, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes are blazing. He loves it. He loves the fire. It’s so much better than the usual ignoring, the disgusted looks, the pretending he doesn’t exist.

"You think you can just slap me?" he sneers, his face inches from hers. "In my own house? After you left these out for me? You were asking for this."

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He crashes his mouth down onto hers.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a takeover. A violent, grinding press of lips and teeth. She twists her head to the side, trying to escape, a muffled cry of protest caught in her throat.

He just follows, his mouth moving sloppily, desperately against hers. He can taste the faint mint of her toothpaste from this morning underneath the raw fear. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

His free hand isn’t idle. It slides down from her face, over the fabric of her shirt, groping, squeezing her breast through the material. She arches under him, trying to buck him off, but it just grinds their bodies together harder. He moans into the forced kiss, the sound guttural and hungry.

"Stop fighting it," he pants, breaking the brutal kiss for a second, saliva smeared across both their mouths. "You know you want it. You've been teasing me forever. Wearing this shit. Walking around. You fucking want this."

His hand yanks at the hem of her shirt, fingers scrambling to get under the fabric, to find warm skin. He’s fumbling, frantic, his glasses askew. He needs to feel her. Now.

He’s already hard, straining against the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against her thigh. He grinds against her, a crude, rhythmic motion that’s all impatience and entitlement.

"Gonna fuck you," he breathes against her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. "Gonna fuck you right here in your stupid, vanilla-smelling room. Whether you fucking want to or not."