Thornless & Owned

My name is Ravi.

Nineteen. Chennai-born. Caramel skin that never quite tans, long black hair that brushes my collarbones when I tilt my head, and a body that's always been too soft, too delicate, too easy to mistake for something it isn't. Back home I was the quiet topper who spoke only when the teacher called on me. The boy who wore oversized shirts to hide the way his waist dipped in and his hips flared out. The boy who locked his bedroom door at 2 a.m., slipped into his mother's old silk saree, and touched himself in front of the mirror until tears pricked his eyes from shame and pleasure in equal measure.

I never thought I'd tell a soul.

Then the acceptance letter came: full scholarship to a university in London. A new continent. A new life. A place where no one knew my family, my school, my secrets.

I landed at Heathrow on a grey September morning with one suitcase and a heart that felt ready to burst out of my ribs.

The university gave me a tiny single room on the fifth floor of Eliot Hall: red brick, creaky radiator, a narrow window overlooking the quad. For the first two weeks I was just another nervous fresher-headphones on, hoodie up, voice barely above a whisper. I was the only Indian boy in most of my lectures, and every time someone said my name ("Rah-vee? Raw-veen?") I wanted to sink through the floor.

But London didn't care. London had rainbow flags on every corner, boys kissing boys on the Tube, clubs with names like Heaven and G-A-Y. I walked past them every day, pulse racing, thighs pressed together under my jeans, wondering what it would feel like to finally breathe.

And then the weekend arrived.

Fresher's Ball. Pulse nightclub. Dress code: "Come as you aren't."

I stood in my bathroom with the door locked and the fan whirring to cover the sound of my heartbeat. Razor in hand. Heart in throat.

I shaved everything. Legs, arms, the faint happy trail I'd always been embarrassed about. Until my skin felt like warm satin under my palms. I moisturised twice, hands shaking. Then I dressed.

Midnight-blue silk shirt, almost liquid, clinging to my narrow shoulders and the slight curve of my chest. The fabric was so thin my nipples showed when the air-con hit them. Black jeans-women's cut, size 8-that hugged my thighs and lifted my ass like an offering. A silver chain belt that sat low on my hips. Just enough kohl to make my eyes look huge and dark. Clear gloss on my lips so my mouth looked wet even when it wasn't.

I stared at the mirror and almost didn't recognise myself.

I looked... pretty.

I looked fuckable.

I looked free.

The walk to Pulse took seven minutes and felt like seven hours. Every gust of wind teased the silk against my skin. Every streetlight made me feel exposed, displayed, wanted. By the time I reached the queue my legs were trembling.

Inside, the bass hit me like a fist to the sternum. Strobe lights painted the crowd violet, gold, crimson. Bodies moved like one living thing. I slipped through them, small and slippery as an eel, until I reached the bar.

"Vodka-cranberry, please," I said, voice barely audible. The bartender grinned like he already knew my secrets.

I took the first sip and felt the alcohol bloom warm in my empty stomach. That's when the stares started.

Boys-tall, drunk, confident-turned to look. A guy with a sleeve tattoo licked his lips. Two others whispered and smiled, one of them mouthing, "Fuck, he's gorgeous." Heat flooded my face and rushed south so fast I had to grip the bar.

And then I felt it.

A gaze so heavy it was almost a touch.

I looked up.

One floor above, behind the smoked-glass railing of the VIP section, stood a man.

Mid-thirties. Black shirt open at the throat, revealing the edge of a tattoo that disappeared beneath fabric. Jaw sharp enough to cut diamonds. Cheekbones that caught the strobes like blades. And eyes-cold, storm-grey, ancient-locked on me like I was the only person in the entire club.

He didn't smile. He didn't raise his glass. He simply watched, head slightly tilted, as if memorising the way the silk clung to my nipples when I breathed.

Everything else blurred. The music became a heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Someone touched my elbow-a blond boy with a soft Irish lilt asking if I wanted to dance-but I couldn't answer. When I dragged my gaze back up, the man was gone. Just an empty space and the ghost-heat where his stare had been.

I drank three more vodka-cranberries in quick succession.

Then I danced.

Hands found me immediately. A broad chest pressed to my back, hips rolling to the beat. Fingers slipped under the hem of my shirt, tracing the bare skin of my waist. I let them. I pushed back, grinding, feeling him harden against the curve of my ass through two layers of denim. Another pair of hands-someone else-cupped my jaw and turned my face for a kiss that tasted like gin and smoke. Tongues met, teeth nipped, and I moaned into a stranger's mouth without shamefully loud.

I lost count of the bodies after that. A rugby boy pinned me to a wall in the corridor to the toilets, mouth hot on my throat, hand down the front of my jeans stroking me until my legs shook. Someone else dropped to their knees in a dark corner, lips wrapping around my cock with slow, worshipful pulls while I clutched their hair and tried not to scream.

I came twice before I even left the club, breathless, lipstick-smudged, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair wild.

It was the freest I'd ever felt in my life.

2:17 a.m. I stumbled back to my room, lips swollen, shirt half-unbuttoned, thighs sticky, laughing at nothing.

Pushed the door open.

And froze.

On my pillow: one perfect blood-red rose. Thornless. Tied with a thin black satin ribbon and a tiny silver key charm.

For three full seconds I just stared.

Then the Chennai street-rat in me woke up.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I hissed at the empty room.

I slammed the door, locked it, checked the window (latched), the wardrobe (empty), under the bed (nothing). Still cursing under my breath, I rang security. The guard met me, yawned through the CCTV.

"No one on your floor all night, mate."

I marched back upstairs, snatched the rose off the pillow and brandished it like a weapon.

"Listen here, you absolute creep," I snapped at the ceiling, at the walls, at whoever was listening. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, breaking into my room like some discount James Bond villain, but you can take your stalker-bullshit and shove it straight up your posh arse, yeah?"

I was shaking, partly rage, mostly adrenaline. And fine, maybe a little turned on, but that was none of his business.

I stormed to the desk, fully intending to snap the stem.

Except the petals were still warm.

Like they'd been pressed against skin five minutes ago.

I hated how my stomach flipped.

"Pervert," I muttered, voice cracking. "Fucking psycho. You think a flower's gonna make me swoon? I've seen better romance from Bollywood item numbers."

My cock was rock-hard again. Traitor.

I glared at the rose in my fist.

"You know what? You watched me get railed in a club toilet and thought, 'Hmm, this boy needs courtship'?" I laughed, sharp and mean. "Newsflash, dickhead: I don't do subtle. And I definitely don't do creepy."

I hurled the rose at the bin. Missed. It landed on the desk, petals splaying open like it was laughing at me.

I stripped aggressively, silk shirt hitting the floor, jeans kicked off so hard they knocked over my lamp. Wearing nothing but the silver belt low on my hips and the key charm now tangled in my hair, I flopped onto the bed, right where the rose had been.

The sheets still smelled like whoever had been here. Dark, expensive, dangerous.

I hated how good it smelled.

"Fine," I said to the shadows, spreading my legs deliberately. "You wanna watch? Watch this."

I slicked my fingers and fucked myself slow and filthy, moaning loud enough for the whole floor to hear if they wanted. Every thrust of my hand was a fuck-you to the stranger who thought he could own me with a single flower.

"You think you're clever?" I gasped, circling my prostate until my vision whited out. "You think one rose is gonna make me yours? Dream on, stalker-bhaiya. I'll burn your next gift and dance on the ashes."

I came so hard I saw stars, back arching off the mattress, cursing him in Tamil, Hindi, and very creative English.

When I finally collapsed, sweaty and shaking, I was grinning like a little brat.

I rolled over, grabbed the rose from the desk, and, still panting, tucked it under my pillow.

"Just so you know," I whispered to the dark, voice smug and breathless, "I'm keeping the flower. Not because you gave it to me. Because I look prettier with blood-red petals in my hair when I come."

I licked the tiny drop of blood still on my thumb from the hidden thorn, tasting metal and victory.

"Game on, psycho."

Then I fell asleep smiling, the key charm cool against my throat, dreaming of grey eyes that couldn't look away.

To be continued...

Well well well... our little brat just flipped off a monster and came all over his own defiance.

Guess who's smiling in the dark right now?

Chapter 2 is already written.

Drop a comment if you want it faster, scream at me, threaten me, beg, whatever fuels you.

See you soon, darlings.

Lock your doors... or don't 🖤

- the author who's definitely not the stalker (okay maybe a little)