His Little Captive

Please note: I'm not sure what triggers this will have yet as I'm writing it.

I can say it's MM, it's bully romance and it will have some Homophobia. It will have kidnapping, but beside that, I've no idea how dark this will go as my characters normally decide that. Just assume this will be dark, as dark as any other stories I've written.

Lucas POV

Jasmine twirls in front of me like she’s auditioning for a traffic-cone revival of Moulin Rouge. I lose it, full cackle, hand over mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Come on, you picked it!” she cries.

“I did. As a joke, darling. I didn’t think you’d actually buy the screaming-orange monstrosity and then wear it to the canteen like it’s high fashion.” I bite my lip, but the laugh escapes anyway—high, bright, and completely shameless. “Sweetheart, for the love of every gay icon who ever lived, please go change before someone calls the fire department.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “You lied.”

“I thought you knew?” Another helpless giggle bubbles up. “It’s tangerine hell. I adore standing out—hello, sequins are my love language—but that dress? That’s not ‘bold.’ That’s ‘arrest me for crimes against retinas.’ Burn it. Let it burn while we pray.”

She huffs, dramatic as a soap-opera exit, and storms past me. Every head in the canteen swivels. She actually wore it. Out in public. My heart does a guilty little twist. Okay, fine. Pamper night. Full spa treatment. Face masks, prosecco, foot rubs, the works. She deserves it after I weaponised her trust in my taste.

I slip out of the canteen and head toward the toilets to wait. Halfway there I spot the nightmare in letterman jackets, Rhys and his pack of discount Hemsworths, laughing too loud, shoving each other like they’re auditioning for a beer commercial.

I try to glide past, chin up, heels clicking with purpose. My skirt swishes, my eyeliner is flawless, my posture says I dare you. Of course they notice.

Rhys steps right into my path. “Well, look who it is.”

I take one graceful step back. His gaze drops, slow, deliberate, mocking.

“Always raiding Mommy’s closet, huh?”

One of the meatheads snorts. “Nah, he couldn’t fit in Daddy’s anyway.”

I keep my eyes locked on Rhys, voice sugar-sweet. “Excuse me, please.”

“Ohhh, am I in your way?” He tilts his head, smirking like he invented bullying.

I could deck him. I want to deck him. But I also know my wrist would shatter like cheap acrylic, so instead I flash my widest, glitteriest, fuck-you smile.

“Maybe Professor Aston would love to hear how you’ve been outsourcing your entire semester. Cash app and everything. Very entrepreneurial.”

His whole body locks up.

“Go on,” I purr. “Swing. One black eye and your scholarship’s toast. Imagine explaining that to Coach. ‘Sir, I punched the fabulous one because he read me to filth.’ Iconic.”

He’s vibrating. One wrong word and I’m paste. Part of me wants to push him over the edge just to see what happens—call it morbid gay curiosity.

“You should be grateful I like Jasmine,” he sneers, stepping aside like he’s doing me a favour.

I freeze. Then I howl.

“You think Jasmine would touch you with a ten-foot manicure stick?” The laugh rips out of me, loud and delighted. “Sweetie, she has standards. Character. Depth. A personality that isn’t just protein shakes and fragile masculinity. You? You’re a walking protein-fart.”

Next thing I know my back slams into the lockers, breath punched out of me. Rhys looms, fist cocked, face red.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Okay, Lucas. Filter. Use the filter. Do not destroy what’s left of this man’s ego.

Except my mouth has other plans.

“Jasmine likes men with… variables. Substance. A soul. You, darling, are a flat white with no foam. She’d die of boredom before she’d let you buy her a drink.”

His fist flies.

Nice going, queen, the devil on my shoulder mutters.

But the punch never lands.

Jasmine’s voice cuts through like a stiletto. “Touch him and I’ll cut that sad little cock off and feed it to your teammates. One bite each.”

Rhys freezes mid-swing.

She’s planted between us, eyes blazing, still wearing the cursed orange dress like battle armour. The hallway goes dead quiet.

He likes her.

Oh my god. He actually likes her.

That’s why he’s never shoved my head in a toilet when she’s around. That’s why the worst he’s done lately is verbal jabs. He’s been holding back.

I stare at him, stunned, then at her—furious, protective, radiant in neon tragedy.

And suddenly I have leverage.

Something deliciously vicious curls in my chest.

Funny how the universe works. One minute I’m about to eat locker, the next I’ve got the school’s resident alpha-jock by the balls, metaphorically, thank god, because Jasmine looks ready to make it literal.

I smooth my skirt, flash Rhys my sweetest, bitchiest smile, and purr, “Careful, big boy. You just gave me the juiciest tea of the year.”

Then I link arms with Jasmine and sashay away, leaving him standing there, stunned, while the orange dress glitters like a warning beacon.

Pamper night just got a lot more interesting.

Jasmine stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head and it’s wearing worse eyeliner than mine. She doesn’t buy it. Not even a little.

“Would I ever lie to you?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest in mock innocence.

She snorts. “Think of the outfit today. Think back, Lucas. Yes, yes you absolutely would lie to me, and have me strut into college looking like a high-visibility road cone, and—plot twist—you left me in it all day because I didn’t pack a backup. So yes, you’d lie.”

Okay. Fair. She has receipts. I did do that. Time to switch gears. No more smirking, no more camp theatrics. Serious Lucas activated.

“Okay,” I say, dropping the voice an octave, keeping it soft and steady. “I did lie about the dress. Guilty as charged. But would I lie about this?”

Her eyes narrow further, suspicious.

“Think about it. Would Rhys ever just... stop hitting someone? Like, actually stop? I tell you every single time he shoves me into a locker, every time he calls me a walking thrift-store disaster. But the second you’re in the room? Poof. He turns into Mr. Manners. Smiles. Says please and thank you. Offers to carry your books like some Regency romance extra.”

She blinks, processing.

“How have you not clocked it?” I press, leaning closer. “Come on, Jas. The man wants to rearrange your insides. He wants to pin you against those same lockers and kiss you until your lipstick is a crime scene. He wants to worship you like you’re the last limited-edition designer bag on earth. He wants to fuck you so thoroughly you’d need a week to remember how to walk in heels. He wants to—”

“Lucas!” she squeaks, cheeks flaming, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Stop!”

“—ravish you until the entire football team has to form a prayer circle. He wants to—”

“Stop, oh my god, I’m going to die.” She’s doubled over now, clutching her stomach, laughter bubbling out in helpless gasps. “I can’t unhear this. I need to bleach my brain.”

“—devour you like you’re the last slice of tiramisu at a gay wedding. He wants to—”

“Lucas, please!” She’s wheezing, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. “Shit. I need to turn him off me. Like, right now. Install a Rhys repellent. Holy hell.”

I finally let myself grin, just a little. “See? Told you. Man’s got it bad. And now we’ve got the upper hand. Use it, queen. Make him squirm.”

She straightens up, wiping her eyes, still giggling. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re welcome.” I lean closer to her. “This is pamper night. We’re plotting while we get facials. Rhys won’t know what hit him.”

She shakes her head, but the smile stays. “Fine. But if he tries anything, I’m borrowing your stilettos and using them as weapons.”

“Deal. And darling? If he does try anything, I’ll hold him down while you do it.”

I toss her the sheet mask like it’s a grenade and watch her catch it with a dramatic sigh. She peels open the packet, smooths it over her face, and mumbles through the holes, “I mean... he’s cute.”

My hand freezes mid-reach for my own mask. The room goes still except for the faint hum of the essential-oil diffuser.

“What did you just fucking say?”

She blinks up at me, innocent as sin. “I’m just stating a fact. He’s cute.”

Oh my fairy godmother in glitter heels, no she did not. I press both hands to my cheeks like I’m about to faint. “Jas... no. Absolutely not. Abort mission. Red flag parade. Siren blaring.”

“What?” She shrugs, adjusting the mask so her eyes peek out like a sexy bandit. “He’s objectively attractive. Broad shoulders. Jawline that could cut glass. The whole tortured-brooding-jock thing. It’s a vibe.”

I slap a hand over my heart. “Remember us? Age nine? The sacred pact we made in blood—okay, technically it was strawberry lip gloss, but the intent was blood-level serious?”

She blushes under the mask, cheeks going pink through the green tea essence. “How could I forget? That asshole Jerome yeeted you headfirst into the laundry basket in the locker room. Landed face-down in a mountain of sweaty kits, jock straps, and god knows what else. You came out smelling like gym despair and broken dreams.”

“Exactly!” I point at her like I’m summoning the ancestors. “And in that moment, dripping with other people’s testosterone, we vowed—on our glitter pens and our undying friendship—that we would never, not even if they were the last men on earth, not even if the apocalypse came with complimentary protein shakes, look at a jock, think he’s attractive, or—god forgive me for even repeating the words—screw one.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I hear it. “I wasn’t saying I’d screw him.”

My palm hits my chest again, louder this time. “Jas, it starts with ‘he’s cute.’ That’s step one on the slippery slope to disaster. Next it’s ‘look at his cock jumping in those grey sweats during PE.’ Then it’s ‘I wonder what it tastes like,’ followed by ‘I bet it feels divine when he’s railing me senseless against the lockers.’ It is never just ‘he’s cute.’ It’s a gateway drug to heteronormative heartbreak.”

She gawps at me, mouth hanging open under the mask like a cartoon character who just got slapped with reality. I know exactly why that look—because I just went full confessional on Rhys’s dick in sweatpants like it’s exhibit A in my trauma museum.

“I was forced to do sports with them, remember?” I flop back onto the bed, arms flung wide. “Mandatory PE hell. Skipping season. Skipping! Who invented that torture device? Rope whipping around like it’s trying to murder you, and every boy in the class has his dick bouncing like it’s auditioning for a trampoline commercial. How is a gay guy supposed to concentrate on footwork when there’s a full parade of penises doing the cha-cha in sweatpants? I nearly concussed myself staring at the ceiling to avoid the view.”

Jasmine bursts out laughing, mask crinkling as she clutches her stomach. “Oh my god, Lucas. You’re traumatised.”

“Deeply. Permanently. And now you’re over here calling Rhys cute like you didn’t witness me having an existential crisis every Tuesday and Thursday third period.” I sit up, pointing at her. “We have a pact. A sacred, glitter-sealed pact. You break it, I will personally manifest a ghost of gay past to haunt your dreams with visions of Jerome’s laundry basket.”

She peels the mask off one corner, still giggling. “Fine, fine. No screwing the enemy. But... can I at least appreciate the aesthetics? From a distance? Like museum art? Look but don’t touch?”

I narrow my eyes. “Museum rules only. Admire the sculpture. Do not climb on the exhibit. And if he starts flexing in your direction, you text me immediately. I’ll bring the emergency heterosexual-repellent spray—it’s just holy water and shade in a bottle.”

“Deal.” She re-seats the mask and sighs happily. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“And you’re welcome for saving you from a lifetime of post-jock regret.” I grab my own mask, slap it on, and strike a pose. “Now. Facials, gossip, and plotting how to make Rhys suffer in silence. Pamper night continues.”

She grins. “You’re evil.”

“Darling, I’m iconic.”