Rating: Hard R
Summery: He can still hear her asking.
Written as a sequel, of sorts, to the very disturbing The Request, by literarylemming.
Dark themes, elements of rape/noncon.
It had started with a question. A question she shouldn’t have asked, and one he should never have answered.
And now it won’t stop.
She had asked him three times before he said yes, and he only agreed because she looked so desperate.
He avoided, and put it off, and changed his mind so many times. But she would ask again, looking up at him and trusting.
That’s what was killing him.
Trust, from a woman who had eighteen months worth of reasons to never trust any man again.
But she trusted him for some reason he never figured out.
Even in the midst, when she was shoving at his shoulders and crying, she would look up, and the trust would show through.
And that was why.
The first time, he threw up after. So did she.
Later, they ordered Chinese and stared at the television set in her almost empty apartment and didn’t speak
She twitched every time he reached for a napkin or a fork, and he thanked God that it was over. She could go back to work, and he could go back to pretending not to watch her.
It was over.
Two weeks later, she was standing on his doorstep and her hands were shaking and she told him that she couldn’t feel it anymore.
The nightmares were back, she wasn’t sleeping, and Just one more time, please, Danny.
She fell asleep in his bed, face turned away, and he could still hear her saying Please.
He sat on the floor beside the door, shivering under three blankets and his sweats, watching her sleep. Her face was still streaked with tears and he gagged at the sight.
Please. Please stop. Please. I’ll be good.
She left before dawn, making the bed neatly and almost smiling at him.
He hasn’t slept in his bed since.
He sits awake on the couch, covered in blankets, waiting. He turns the heat up and drinks coffee so hot it scalds his mouth. And he waits.
Sometimes it can be weeks before she asks again, eyes wide and hands shaking.
Sometimes its only days, and he wonders what she gets out of her job besides nightmares and him.
Please. It hurts.
He can’t stop shaking anymore. The others don’t see it, but he can feel it. Every time she even talks to him at work, normal sounding and not crying, not fighting, not screaming, he flinches.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.
He isn’t eating, and he piles on more clothes to hide the fact. His ring slipped off his finger the last time she was there. He didn’t notice until the next day when she leaned over his desk to ask a question, and he saw it on a chain around her neck.
He hesitates now, to use his gun at work. He can’t stop seeing her standing in front of him, eyes wet. He nearly got shot, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, harsh and pained, when he opened his door that night to see her standing there.
She never says thank you.
She never answers him. She just opens the door, with the key he gave her, and looks at him.
Please. Please, Rebecca. No.