Rival Morality BxB

5

TW: physical abuse

Rowan POV

I don't know what the hell I thought I was doing. But, when he kissed me in the locker room, the years of want just broke.

Oliver Bennett had always been in the corner of my mind. His copper-brown hair and defined jawline constantly graced my dreams and fantasies.

And when he was on his knees, looking up at me through his long brown lashes, fuck. I don't know what came over me.

If my father ever found out about this, he would beat the gay out of me for sure. I could hear his voice in my head. "No avergüences a mi familia. No eres nadie. Apártate de mi vista."

I looked in the mirror at the raised red lines Oliver left in my back. The thought of them on someone else made me nauseous.

His words in class stuck with me. 'I'm not a bottom. Prove you're worth it.' What did that mean?

I grunted an punched the wall, forming a dent in the smooth surface. I had let my little crush take control of me. I almost kissed him in class. What if someone saw? What if my dad found out?

My phone alerted a new message.

Ava
He's working after practice tonight

I sighed. I know it was wrong getting information from his little sister, but I couldn't help but to be drawn to him. His laugh, his smile, it was like nothing else mattered when he was there.

Fuck. My heart sped up and my vision went blurry. I was going to have another attack. My hands shook as I looked for the meds in my cabinet. I took out a tablet and swallowed it dry. My hands were braced on the sink as I stared in the mirror. I couldn't recognize myself. I looked fake; I looked like a show pony.

I texted Ava back

Rowan
When will he get home?

Ava
10:30ish. I'll leave the door unlocked

~

What on earth is wrong with me. I slammed the car door and drove to his house after practice. Ava and Isabel went to a friends so that Oliver and I would have the house to ourselves.

I snooped around his room, his bed was pushed in the corner and there was a dresser of drawers. That was the only furniture in the room. It was quaint, but felt safer than my home ever did.

I laid in his bed as I heard the front door open and close. He appeared around the corner walking into the room, his head focused on his phone.

"Hey," I said

"Holy fucking shit!" he jumped. "What the fuck are you doing here? In my bed?"

"You know," I changed the subject, "for someone who claims to hate me, you didn't seem to protest my being here."

"What else would 'what the fuck are you doing here' mean?"

I shrugged. He totally wants me.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you."

"Obviously," he rolled his eyes. "But why?"

"What exactly did you mean in class yesterday?"

He took off his shirt and pulled a new one out of the set of drawers, "Is that what this is about?" he smirked.

"You said you weren't a bottom?" My voice shook as he walked closer.

He put a hand behind my head, leaning over me, "Why does it matter?" his voice was deep and sultry, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Unless you want proof I'm a switch?"

I shivered at what he was insinuating. I had never taken it up the ass, but god I wanted to, for him.

He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me up a hairs width away from him. His eyes were stark and intense, staring into mine. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"

I panicked. This was a mistake. My father would know, he always knows. I don't even like Oliver. My throat spiked like I was going to have another anxiety attack. He couldn't see me like this. I wasn't weak; my father is wrong. "Get off of me," I growled and pushed him away, bolting towards the door and out of his house. He didn't bother to follow me.

What was wrong with me. So, so much was. As soon as I arrived home, my father called me into his office. He always knew.

The smell of leather and whiskey mixed in my nose. He sat in his deep brown, wide backed chair, hands folded together on the desk.

I looked at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

"Take of your shirt," he instructed.

I peeled it off with shaking fingers and kneeled in the position ingrained in my bones since I was five.

He began, "Rumor has it, that two males were having sex in the locker room at the ice rink. If I recall correctly, you arrived home past curfew that night," I heard the metal clasp of his belt clink as he unbuttoned it, the soft skim of the belt being pulled out of the belt loops. "You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that," he paused, "would you?"

I stayed silent; I didn't know what he wanted me to say. I couldn't risk saying the wrong thing.

"Answer me!" he shouted.

I flinched, "No, sir."

I heard the belt before I felt it. The skin where it hit burned, opening my skin.

"Don't lie to me," he snarled. "Did you have sex with another male two nights ago?"

My voice came out hoarse. "Yes."

My response was answered with the angry whip of his belt. "Count," he said as he lit a cigar stored in a box on the corner of his desk.

Blow after blow landed until I counted to twenty.

My father walked around me, stopping at my head, his black leather shoes sleek against the carpet. He shoved the shoe up under my chin, pushing my head up to look at him. "Patética."

He wrapped his large hand around my throat and jerked me to my feet. His hand was squeezing tighter and tighter as he examined my face. "How did I have a son like you?" He took one last drag of his cigar before pressing the burning end into the center of my chest.

I grunted and struggled against him until the cigar went out.

He dropped me to my feet, "I expect you to be
present at your brothers welcome home party tomorrow. Now, get out of my sight," he spat.

I struggled to pull air into my lunges and stood at the door. "Permission to leave, sir."

"Get out!"