Chapter 3: Morning After Revelations
Scar awoke to the violent crash of Emy’s bedroom door ricocheting off the wall, the peaceful cocoon of sleep vaporizing in an instant. Simon’s booming laugh filled the pastel space, a discordant jangle against the fairy lights. “You will not believe what Jamie just puked up in your mum’s hydrangeas,” he announced, his voice raw from last night’s cigarettes.
Emy jerked upright, the pink sheet clutched to her chest, her blonde hair a wild corona around her startled face. Scar’s own movement was slower, a coiling tension as he registered their state of undress and Simon’s oblivious presence in the doorway.
Simon’s eyes, bright and bloodshot, scanned the room, missing the intimate disarray, the specific charge in the air. “It was luminous green, I swear. Like radioactive slime.” His gaze landed on the general chaos of empty cups and glitter but slid right past the shadow near the rug where the used condom lay, a spent secret in the morning light.
Scar’s jaw tightened. He could feel Emy’s leg, warm and rigid, pressed against his under the sheets.
“Sounds epic,” Emy said, her voice unnaturally bright, a performance that scraped against Scar’s nerves. She didn’t look at him.
A silent, frantic communication passed between them in the space of Simon’s next breath. Scar’s eyes flicked to the floor, then back to hers with a minute, urgent question. Her almost imperceptible shake of her head was a relief and a new terror.
“Anyway, your mum wants pancakes, so shift your lazy arses,” Simon finished, already turning away, his mission accomplished.
The door swung shut with a softer click, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Scar stared at the white-painted wood, the echo of Simon’s voice still vibrating in the quiet room. The warm imprint of Emy’s body beside him felt suddenly illicit, a clue waiting to be read.
He finally looked at her. The morning light cut across her shoulder, illuminating the faint, purple outline of his teeth etched into her skin.
She followed his gaze, her fingers rising to touch the mark. A slow, private smile touched her lips, not of shame, but of possession.
“He didn’t see a thing,” she whispered, the sound like rustling sheets.
Scar said nothing. The evidence on her skin screamed what their friend had missed.
"What if he did see? Wouldn't that be exciting?" Scar curiously asked.
Emy considered it, the skin around the bite mark flushing a deeper shade of rose. The thought, sharp and illicit, did something warm and low in her belly. "Yeah," she breathed, her voice husky with a new kind of confidence. "It would be."
She rolled towards him, the pink sheets twisting around her thighs. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in her blue eyes, which were no longer sparkling with innocence but with a focused, hungry heat. "The thought of that… it makes me feel all…" her words trailed off as she took his hand, placing his palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach where a low tremor had begun. "It makes me horny, Scar."
His name was a statement on her lips, a fact in the quiet room.
He watched her, the cascade of her blonde hair against the pillow, the earnest, wanting curve of her mouth. Her admission, so blunt and true, momentarily short-circuited his own tangled thoughts of consequence and secrecy.
"Really?" he managed, his own voice rough.
"Really," she whispered, shifting closer until their noses almost touched. She could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse where her thumb rested against his wrist. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his dark, uncertain eyes. "So, do you… do you want to?"
Her question hung between them, a bridge made of breath and trembling skin. All his careful brooding evaporated, incinerated by the raw, uncomplicated want in her expression. His answer was not a word but an action, a surrender to the momentum she had created.
His answer was not a word but an action, a surrender to the momentum she had created. He moved, the mattress sighing beneath them, and his lips found the delicate skin beneath her ear, where her pulse hammered a frantic, warm rhythm. The kiss was not gentle but hungry, a press of teeth and heat against the very mark he’d left hours before.
A sharp, grateful gasp escaped her, her fingers threading into his dark hair to hold him there.
His hand, formerly at her waist, began a slow migration, skating up the ladder of her ribs with a touch so light it made her shiver. He mapped the slope of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the curve of her hip beneath the twisted sheet, each new territory claimed with a reverence that stole her breath. This was different from the fumbling urgency of the night before; it was a study, an intent exploration she felt deep in her bones.
“Your skin is so hot,” he murmured against her throat, his voice a rough vibration she felt everywhere.
His palm settled, finally, on the plane of her stomach, fingers splayed wide as if to calm the tremor he’d felt there. The simplicity of that touch, its total possession, was more intimate than anything before. For the first time, there was no party downstairs, no possible interruption, just the two of them unraveling in the jasmine-scented light.
She arched into his hand, a silent plea for pressure, for more. Her own hands were not idle, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers to claw at the muscles of his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer. The clean, sleepy scent of him mixed with last night’s sweat and her own vanilla lotion, creating a perfume that was purely, unmistakably them. "Don't stop," she breathed, the words muffled against his temple.
It was permission and command, shattering his careful control. His mouth traveled lower, finding the prominent ridge of her collarbone, while his other hand slid up to cradle the weight of her breast, his thumb circling a peak already hardened to a pebble. A low, broken sound, part whimper and part laugh, vibrated in her chest. This was the exploration she’d craved, a claiming that was mutual and complete, and it left her dizzy. The pink sheets were a rumpled sea around them, the fairy lights a distant constellation as the world narrowed to the points where their bodies connected. He was learning her, and she was discovering herself through his touch, each shaky exhale a revelation.
He was learning her, and she was discovering herself through his touch, each shaky exhale a revelation. “Please,” she whispered, the word a raw, fractured sound against his temple. It stripped away the last of his hesitation.
In one fluid, decisive motion, he shifted his weight, covering her completely with his body. The warm, solid pressure of him drew a gasp from her lips that was pure relief. He hooked his hands beneath her knees, lifting them, settling her calves over his shoulders with a gentleness that belied the frantic heat between them.
The new angle was profound, an electric vulnerability that made her fingers dig into the pink sheets. He lowered his hips, the blunt, throbbing heat of him finding her, rubbing slowly through her dampness. “God, Emy,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, their breath mingling in a shared, desperate rhythm.
She could feel every ridge and vein of him against her most sensitive flesh, a torturous promise. “Scar,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, her hips lifting in a silent, frantic demand for more.
“Look at me,” he insisted, his own voice dark with a need that bordered on pain. He stilled, holding himself there at her threshold, a tremor running through his suspended form. Her blue eyes, wide and unfocused, finally found his dark, intense gaze.
“I need to hear you say it.” The words were gravel, scraped from somewhere deep inside his chest. This was the crossroads, his secret longing laid bare not in a confession but in this desperate, physical plea. The fairy lights blurred above her as she understood the weight of the moment.
“I want you,” she breathed, the declaration simple and absolute. “Now.” It was all the permission he needed.
He pushed into her slowly, a deliberate, stretching fullness that made her back arch off the mattress. Her sharp inhale was a shudder he felt in his own chest, a sound he swallowed with a kiss that was more shared breath than anything else. The world distilled to the slick, frantic heat where their bodies joined, a rhythm found not in thought but in a deeper, animal knowing.
Her fingers were anchors in the muscles of his back, her calves tight over his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” she gasped again, each word a fracture in the quiet room, and he obeyed, his hips establishing a pace that was relentless and consuming.
The pink sheets were a tangled ruin beneath them, soaked with sweat and the scent of her vanilla lotion now turned musky and potent. A second, more insistent knock shattered the rhythm of their bodies, followed by the jiggle of the doorknob.
The door swung inward before Scar could even move, the metal knob knocking against the wall with a cheap, hollow thud. Simon stood silhouetted in the brighter light of the hallway, a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand, his friendly expression freezing into a flat, stunned mask. His eyes, still a little bloodshot, traveled from Scar’s heaving back, down to where Emy’s body was pinned beneath his, her legs hooked over his shoulders like a secret they’d just shouted aloud.
“Oh,” Simon said, the syllable dry and empty as a dropped plate.
Scar didn’t stop, didn’t flinch; his rhythm only deepened, a possessive, grinding punctuation to the violation of the moment. A tremor locked Emy’s body, caught between shock and a startling, illicit thrill that crested as Scar turned his head, a sheen of sweat on his temple, and fixed Simon with a deliberate, challenging smile. Simon’s toast fell, a soft thud on the lace rug near the forgotten condom, his mouth working soundlessly before he choked, “You absolute animals.” The door slammed shut with a finality that rattled the fairy lights, leaving them in a silence broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant, oblivious clatter of pancakes being made below. Emy’s shocked laugh bubbled into a gasp as Scar’s pace became everything, a frantic claiming in the sudden, exposed dark.
The raw salt of his sweat mixed with the startled triumph on her tongue as he kissed her again, his hips driving into her with a new, abandoned force. The slammed door still vibrated in the air, a phantom witness that made her skin feel electric and hyper-exposed. “He saw,” she gasped, the words breaking against his mouth, not in fear but in a dizzying confession that tightened her limbs around him. “I know,” Scar growled.
"He saw me pound your wet pussy. He could see it all. He could see you are mine" Scar added.
The sound of the door had been a gunshot, but the silence after was a thicker, more intimate violation. A sharp, wild laugh ripped from Emy’s throat, tangled with a sob as her body clenched around him. “He really saw,” she repeated, the reality of it sparking through her veins like a drug. Scar’s rhythm stuttered then deepened, his breath hot against her ear. “Let him see,” he muttered, each thrust a raw punctuation to the claim.
Her moan shattered the quiet, a loud, unfiltered sound that seemed to echo off the walls Simon had just vacated. It was a raw admission that tangled with the jasmine-scented air, equal parts shock and unleashed pleasure. “Do you… do you think he’s still out there?” she gasped, the question hitching against the rhythm of his movements.
Scar listened for a half-second, hearing only the frantic pulse in his own ears and the soft, wet sound of their joining. “Don’t care,” he breathed, driving into her harder, as if to seal his answer into her very bones.
The battered door exploded inward again, slamming against the wall with a crack that threatened the plaster. Simon stood there, his earlier shock boiled away into something molten and tight. "Get off her, you sick fuck," he snarled, the words trembling with a rage that made the air feel thin.
Scar went still inside her, a brutal freeze, but his body shielded Emy as he turned his head toward the intrusion. Emy’s gasp was swallowed by the violent thud of her own heart, her wide eyes locked over Scar’s shoulder at Simon’s contorted face.
"She is mine, Simon. Can't you see I am deep inside her pussy? Look how wet she is. She wants my cock" Scar says.
Simon’s face collapsed from rage into a kind of sickened disbelief, his eyes darting from Scar’s defiant stare to the patch of tangled, sweat-damp sheets where their bodies joined. “You’re fucking insane,” he choked out, the words lacking force, his earlier bravado leaking away into the stale, charged air. Emy watched him over Scar’s heaving shoulder, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs, but the warmth where Scar remained inside her was a grounding, undeniable truth.
"Simon, if you want, sit down at the desk and watch us" Emy added unexpectedly.
Simon’s breath hitched, the rage in his eyes flickering into something more confused and darkly curious. He stared at Emy, at her flushed face and defiant expression, then at Scar’s possessive glare. “You’re both fucking twisted,” he muttered, but his feet carried him across the room to the pristine white desk chair.
He sat down slowly, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze locked on them with a horrified fascination. Scar, without breaking eye contact with Simon, began to move inside Emy again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that drew a sharp, bitten-off moan from her lips.
The fairy lights cast shifting shadows across their tangled forms, illuminating the sweat on Scar’s back and the fierce pride on Emy’s face as she watched Simon watch them.
“Comfy?” Emy asked, her voice startlingly clear, and Simon’s stunned silence was her answer. Scar’s rhythm, now a performance, was a slow, claiming grind that made the desk chair creak in protest as Simon leaned forward.
Scar released Emy’s legs, letting them fall to the crumpled pink sheets with a soft thud, but he didn’t stop the deep, steady rhythm of his hips. The shift made her gasp, a new angle that sparked a brighter, sharper pleasure. “God,” she breathed, her hands fluttering to his shoulders as he leaned down over her.
He supported his weight on one forearm, his other hand moving to her breast, his thumb sweeping a rough, possessive circle over her nipple. Then, holding Simon’s stunned gaze across the room, Scar lowered his mouth and took the peak between his lips, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe. Emy’s back arched off the mattress, a raw sound tearing from her throat that was part shock, part pure sensation.
“You’re such a creep,” Simon said, his voice thin and strained, but he didn’t look away from Scar’s deliberate, tonguing caress. Scar released her breast with a soft, wet sound, his lips glistening, a darkly triumphant smirk playing on his mouth. “Like the show?” he asked Simon, his voice low and ragged from exertion.
He kneaded her soft flesh, his fingers leaving pale impressions on her skin, a display as much for their audience as for her. Emy watched Simon’s face, saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, his knuckles white where they gripped the chair. “It’s not a show,” she panted, meeting Simon’s eyes with a defiant, glazed intensity. “It’s just us.”
Her words seemed to fracture something in the air. Scar’s rhythm hitched, then resumed with a deeper, more urgent intensity, spurred by her claim. Simon shifted in the creaking chair, his earlier disgust now mingled with a palpable, uncomfortable arousal he couldn’t hide. “I should go,” he muttered, but made no move to stand, his gaze fixed on the place where their bodies joined.
Scar’s laugh was a harsh, breathless thing against Emy’s throat. “You wanted to watch,” he grunted, driving into her harder, the bedframe beginning a faint, rhythmic tap against the wall. Emy cried out, the sound unfiltered and loud, her fingers finding Scar’s hair and tightening. “So watch.”
The silence in the room became a physical thing, thick and textured, broken only by the wet sound of their bodies and the faint, pinging protest of the bedsprings. Simon didn’t move from the chair; his face was a mask of conflicted starvation, his earlier disgust now competing with a dark, voyeuristic thrill he couldn’t deny.
Emy watched the struggle play out across his features, and it fueled her, a strange power surging in time with Scar’s thrusts. “See something you like?” she managed, her voice hitching breathlessly on the last word.
Scar’s rhythm became a deliberate, showcasing piston, each deep push drawing a genuine, unraveling moan from her chest. “Shit, Scar,” she gasped, her head pressing back into the pillow, her spine bowing. His name was a chant, a surrender and a command, and he groaned in response, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers.
Simon opens his pants, revealing his slightly below-average cock and starts jerking off while Scar still pounds deep into Emy. She is about to cum too.
A dam inside Emy burst, a shockwave of pure, convulsing pleasure detonating from her core. Her back arched violently, a raw, shattered cry tearing from her throat as she came, the sound loud and unashamed in the charged room. Scar felt her pulsing around him, her nails scoring his back, and groaned through gritted teeth, his own control fraying. Simon’s frantic motion combined with Emy's loud release made him cum too.
Scar’s hips stuttered to a stop, his breath a harsh rasp in the sudden quiet broken only by Simon’s soft, diminishing groans. He turned his head, a slow, deliberate pivot, his gaze locking onto Simon’s slumped form in the chair. “You finished?” Scar asked, his voice low and thick, still buried deep inside Emy’s trembling body.
"Now get out, Simon. You don't get to watch when I cum on Emy." Scar snarled.
Simon scrambled from the room, the door clicking shut on his shame. The silence he left behind felt different now, charged and strangely peaceful. Scar looked down at her, his breathing still ragged, the aggression slowly draining from his clenched jaw. Emy smiled at Scar, a soft, private curve of her lips that held none of the earlier defiance, just a simple, tired warmth. He watched the smile reach her eyes, and something tight in his chest finally released.
He watched the smile reach her eyes, and something tight in his chest finally released. That soft look undid him more completely than any defiance had. “Emy,” he whispered, her name a broken thing as he began to move again, a deep, reverent rhythm that was all for them. “That was… you were….”
“I know,” she breathed, pulling his mouth down to hers, tasting salt and something like wonder. Her body, still humming from her own climax, began to coil again around his, a slower, deeper build. The fairy lights blurred above her into a constellation of gold as she gripped his hips, urging him on, her own needs rising once more to meet his. “Don’t stop.”
Her command shattered his control. The reverent pace fractured into something raw and frantic. His thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming fast, short, and desperate, a piston's final, shuddering strokes. "I'm—" he choked out, the warning a ragged gasp against her throat.
He pulled out abruptly, the cool air a shock where his heat had been. He came with a guttural groan, thick pulses of release striping her stomach and chest in warm, sudden arcs. He came a lot, the evidence pooling hotly against her skin, marking her in a new, intimate way.
She watched his face contort, felt the warm spill on her skin, and a possessive thrill shot through her. “Wow,” she breathed, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the new, wet warmth. "I am on the pill but if you put that inside me i'd 100% still get pregnant, you stud"