Blood Red and Misery Black, a high school musical fanfic

Blood Red and Misery Black

He said he wanted her to wear something sexy the next time she came over, but he also said that he wanted it to be something that she can be see out in so that his neighbors won't think that she is a hooker. But she thinks, screw him, and digs through all of her clothes to find something that will ensure that his neighbors think she is a prostitute that he hired, and vows that if they ask she won't tell them anything different. She tells herself that she isn't looking for anything specific, that this selection is completely random and based on what makes the most sense and what will make her look the worst. As she runs her finger over all the plastic bags hanging in her closet, she passes by several tastefully sexy dresses until she reaches the last one against the wall. It's then that she knows it's not random.

She tugs it out and hangs it on the hook on her closet door, staring at it. It hasn't left that spot against the wall in four years. For one thousand four hundred and sixty days, it has been plastered between a heinous bridesmaid dress and sheetrock. She pulls the tie out of her hair and shakes her head, yanking down the zipper. The short black material is soft against her fingertips and she toys with the plunging neckline.

She remembers how low it sat on her when she wore it that one night.

All the way on the opposite side of the closet, between a bright yellow poncho and the wall, she finds another bag containing a blood red trench coat. The thick wool is rough and old, but it looks pristine. There isn't a single pill in the fabric, and there isn't a fuzz out of place. But she isn't surprised.

She's only ever worn it once.

Staring at the two items hanging across from each other, she glances back at the closet. There's a gorgeous blue dress, knee length with a halter top, sitting directly in the center of her line of view. She grabs the two hangers and slams the closet doors shut. Tossing the dress and the coat onto the edge of the bed, she roughly unbuttons her jeans and pulls the material from her hips. She strips off her shirt and drops her bra to the ground. Standing in only her panties, she straightens her back.

Walking nearly naked across her bedroom, she takes slow steps past the huge window as she moves to her dresser drawers. She knows that Mr. Olsen next door has a bit of a peeping eye and tonight she hopes that he's watching, casually peering through her bedroom window in the hopes of catching a glimpse. Crouching down, she roots through the bottom drawer and reaches all the way to the back. She pulls out a small thong. Practically tearing off her panties, she forces the scrap up over her hips. It pulls painfully between her leg and stretches tightly across the top of her backside, but she only pulls it up farther.

She returns to the bed and cups her supple breasts in her hands, caressing their fullness before stepping into the dress. Essentially, it still fits, but it is higher on her thighs and tighter on her bosom. The neckline still reaches below her navel, and she thanks God for Pilates because her flat stomach looks perfect and her legs look heavenly. She realizes that she will have to be careful when she walks to and from her car, because it's possible that her nipples might just pop out of the top and that the skirt might just ride up to expose her firm ass. Checking her back in the mirror, she adjusts the hemline around her rear, moving it so that her behind is covered for the moment. She remembers getting rid of the shoes she wore, but she has new spiked ones so it doesn't matter.

Her heels click against the tile in the bathroom as she taps her foot, putting on a heavy coat of lipstick to match the color of her coat. She layers on foundation and blush, thickening and lengthening her eyelashes as she watches her reflection's cleavage. She rubs a bit of perfume on her wrists and neck, adding a few dabs between her breasts.

For a minute, she remembers feeling sexy.

In the full length mirror beside her closet, she juts out her hip and stares. She can't remember having ever looked as hot when she was in high school and wonders if that's why the cheerleaders got all the guys. But some still seems to be missing. She frowns and cocks her head to the side before turning, grabbing the coat and slipping it on. Fluffing her hair, she purses her lips.

He would have died that day, and he would have been hers.

His car is in the driveway. He has to be home.

She takes a shaky breath and grips the steering wheel tightly. The car has been off for at least ten minutes, but she hasn't even unbuckled her seatbelt. Her knees are shaking slightly. She hasn't seen him in nine months, not since he moved to California for Berkley. He sends the occasional email, but they are always quick, just wonderings, and, we'll have to get togethers. She knows he doesn't mean it when he promises to stop in when he visits his parents, but she can't help the feeling that, just maybe, she can change his mind.

She looks at the house. It's small, and his parents must be helping him with the bills, but she doesn't care how he keeps it. She can always improve it later. All she needs is his amazing smile to greet her every morning and every afternoon and every evening. She would live in a cardboard box with him as long as it had enough room for them to lie together and sleep at night. The lights are on in the living room, she can see through the curtains, but there doesn't seem to be any movement. She likes to think that he's fallen asleep with the remote beside his hand, his head drooped back against the couch, and that she's about to make his dreams come true.

This cannot go wrong. He is the only one that has ever tried to get to know her, tried to understand the way her mind processes things. He is the only one who has ever been what she needs. She pushes open the car door and steps out into the street, hugging her body in the brisk night air. The streetlights are making everything glow an annoying orange color and it seems like the entire world clashes with her outfit. She glances at the house again, and she inhales deeply, smiling to herself. Mussing her hair and checking her makeup in the side-view mirror, she straightens her coat and heads towards the door, her heels clicking purposefully against the pavement.

Carefully avoiding the deep cracks in the blacktop, she stops beside his car and looks into the truck's cab. There are a few scraps of paper on the dashboard, and there's a small plastic bag on the floor full of crumpled tissues and fast food wrappers. She sees a picture tucked behind the sun visor, but she can't tell who's in it. Taking a few steps back, she peers over the edge and into the bed, spotting the typically placed toolbox. She pulls it open silently, wanting to touch what he touches, and finds a blanket. She frowns slightly, but then realizes that it's probably in case he ever breaks down and has to wait for help on a cold and rainy night.

She wonders if he would ever wrap her in a blanket on a cold night, or if he would ever hold her to make her feel warm. She knows that he would because he's just that good of a guy. She wonders if his gentlemanly mannerisms play out when he makes love. She wonders if he is gentle and worshiping, or if he is completely transformed and likes it rough. She knows that she would take it either way, as long at it was him above her, behind her, beneath her, inside her. She wonders what it would feel like to come home to him, to have him greet her at the door or up in the bedroom. She knows that it would always feel amazing with him and that each time would be a little bit different, he would ensure it because he would know that otherwise she would get bored. She fixes her eyes on the front door and relaxes her shoulders. As she walks, she wonders what he's doing and if he has any inkling that she is coming to change his life. She imagines that he had been doing a report while he watched reruns of the shows he used to watch as a child, hunched over his laptop, desperate to finish, only to fall asleep with only half of it written. She smiles to herself. He won't be finishing tonight.

Reaching out, she rings the doorbell and contemplates unbuttoning her jacket. She decides against it, instead fluffing her hair one last time. She waits for an answer. Tapping her foot, she tries peering through the curtains on the front window, but she can't see anything, only shadowed objects. She can see through the door when the light in the foyer flickers on, and she bounces once on her toes. She can hear the lock clicking. The door opens slowly, and she smiles.

He finishes adjusting his shirt, "Sharpay?" His hair looks kind of matted down and there's a slight glisten to his forehead, and she likes the idea of him being wet from a shower. She pictures the droplets sliding down over his defined muscles, the steam puffing out around his body as he tugs her under the heated jets of water. His checkered pajama pants are hanging haphazardly on his hips, and she likes the idea of him rushing for her, too. "Hi."

"Hey."

He leans against the door, smiling slightly. "What are you doing in California? Aren't you going to U of A? In New Mexico? That's what I remember from graduation, and you talked about classes in your emails. And I thought you were helping Ms. D out back at East High." She grins because he remembers.

"I am. But I was in the neighborhood this weekend, and I remembered you telling me about your move, so I figured I'd come by. I just checked my email for when you sent me your address, and here I am." She leaves out the part of her plans to seduce him. He smiles back at her. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" she asks teasingly, taking a step towards him.

"Uh… Actually…" She raises an eyebrow. "Sure." He steps aside, gesturing towards the lit living room. She walks in casually, purposely staying on the hardwood so that her heels click against the surface, forcing his eyes down over her bare legs to peer at her shoes. She finally steps onto the area rug and sits down on the worn couch, her legs crossed. He scoots past her and sits on the arm of the upholstered chair beside her.

"So, how has life been treating you?"

He shrugs, "It's not really that different than in high school, you know? I mean, the job is different, but it's still way too much work for way too little cash. And classes are structured a little different, and sometimes they don't start until twelve-thirty, but it's still writing papers and taking notes. The only thing that's really different is the house and paying the bills. Oh, and having to do my own laundry." She giggles at his joke and reaches out to swat his knee. He chuckles somewhat awkwardly and glances towards the staircase. She smirks to herself and likes the way he's beginning to think. "What about you?"

"It's simple. Classes here and there, helping out Ms. Darbus. Ryan's off at Julliard, so it's weird not seeing him at home when I visit, but he comes for Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiving." He nods, running a hand through his hair. For a few brief moments, they sit in silence. Desperately, she wracks her mind for a change of subject. She needs to move away from memories and her brother and get to the future and the children she'll give him one day.

"Do you want something to drink?" he offers, rising to his feet. "There's water and… uh, milk. Well, there's beer, too, but it's kind of late, so…"

"Water would be nice." He leaves the room to get it, and she looks around. She can't find any pictures. She fights down a smile, because she remembers the way that he always littered his locker with tiny clippings of that girl, her perfect teeth gleaming in every single photograph. She can remember the time that she slipped into his room at the after party when the Wildcats won the championship and how it made her sick to find picture frames on every flat surface. There isn't a memory to be seen.

There's a small brick fireplace, and she imagines what it would look like with a giant family portrait hanging above it. The room colors will have to be altered slightly. It's too burgundy and part of her feel like she could be back at East High. She can picture returning home from a day at work—an actress, model, fashion designer, anything would work—and finding him cooking dinner in the kitchen. She would be able to survive in a house as small as this as long as he would whisk her up to the bedroom and make her forget everything.

Seeing him again, she bets he'd take it both ways. She bets that he'd be tender on the days when she was stressed or upset and on the days when their love was all that mattered. They'll go to Hawaii for their honeymoon, and he'll lavish her body with the soft and gentle caresses of his tongue as they make love on the beach in the glow of the sunlight. She promises herself that she won't even care if she gets sand in her hair as long as he's buried inside her. But she can also picture coming home to find the tabloid magazines splayed across the dining room table, each open to a different picture of her hugging the same strange man. She can practically feel the burn of his hands as they'll grip her wrists and see the fury and jealousy that will be in his eyes as he demands answers. She envisions that her answers won't satisfy him, and that he'll tug off her clothes, bending her forcefully over the table and pounding into her almost painfully until she comes, screaming his name at the top of her lungs.

A slight chill runs down her spine and she runs her fingers through her hair.

She hears his footsteps. "Here you go," he says from behind her, returning to the living room. She takes the cool glass from him and puts it down on the table without taking a sip.

"Albuquerque is kind of boring without you." He chuckles, shaking his head. "So is drama. Mrs. Darbus wants you to come and visit. She said the other day that you were the best male performer at the school since she started teaching there."

"You're there, Sharpay. Albuquerque could never be boring."

She smirks, "You never could take a compliment directly." He shrugs and she envisions the way his muscles ripple. She remembers watching him swim one day during the summer, his languid strokes as his arms cut smoothly through the water, and his continuous kicks as he propelled himself forward. Her smirk widens as she imagines that she had gotten up out of her chaise and dove in beside him, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him. She imagines that he pulled off her swimsuit and pounded into her, ramming her back against the side of the pool until she came, screaming his name and grabbing the attention of the lonely lifeguard perched on her stand.

"Is Tiara tormenting the freshmen?" She nods. "That girl is a bitch."

"A lot of people say we're alike," she points out, fishing for a compliment in return.

"No," he shakes his head firmly. "You were… ruthless. You did whatever it took to get what you wanted. And yes, sometimes you hurt people in the process, but you always saw the wrong after a little while." He shrugged. "You were always sorry. Tiara's just a bitch. What she did to you during the senior musical was terrible. What she did to you senior year was terrible." Her fists clench.

She wonders if he knows the extent to which Tiara Gold altered his future. The freshman had handed over the information that sent his love away, even if he brought her back. She had shown them how difficult it would be to make it work. Even if he appeared to be committed, thirty-two point seven miles was still thirty-two point seven miles. It was just too far. And for that, she owes the English harlot quite a bit.

She smiles suddenly. "She could never be me."

"Nobody," he grins, "Could ever be you."

She's ready to rip off her coat. She's ready to watch his jaw drop and his eyes widen as he falls back into the chair out of shock. She's ready to watch the bulge in his pants swell as she throws the red jacket to the ground and mentally pounces on him, teasing him with the little bit left to imagination. She's ready to finally feel his lips against every inch of her sweaty skin, to feel him carrying her up the stairs to his bedroom, to feel the amazing contrast between his cool, soft bed sheets and his hot, hard body. She's ready for him to rip off the dress and sheath himself inside her.

Brushing a few stands of hair out of her eyes, she begins to feign being overheated. "It's kind of hot in here." He glances at the thermostat, clueless.

"I can turn it—"

"No, don't bother." She winks. "I can just—"

"Troy," a sleepy voice cuts in, "I woke up and—Oh!"

Her head whirls around and she feels her stomach clench, her fingers tightening on the round black buttons. The petite girl standing in the doorway is wearing a white t-shirt that looks uncomfortably familiar to the one he has on, and her brunette curls are tousled in a specifically post-coital way. Her lips are puffy and there is a dark bruise forming on her neck. She knows that bruise. That was going to be her bruise, the bruise that he would leave on the days when he bucked against her wildly and pulled tightly at her hair. The days when she roused from orgasmic bliss to find that they were lying naked on the dining room table together with laminated magazine pages sticking to their sweaty and welted backs.

The brunette's eyes widen in embarrassment when she spots the third party. "I'm going to go…," she hesitates, flustered, "…put on… something." When she disappears back up the stairs, the original pair of brown eyes in the room turns on him. He's grinning at the doorway.

"We live together," he says happily and her heart breaks. "It's the perfect distance between Stanford and Berkley, and there are no freaky roommates or annoying parties in the middle of the night before exams. It's perfect. Everything is completely perfect." She stares down at her glass of water, willing it to break in her hands and slice her skin open. It remains whole, and she takes a sip. "I always thought that going to U of A was, like, my destiny, or something. My dad was disappointed," he admits, "But I wouldn't change a thing."

"I didn't realize. You never mentioned. There are no pictures," she stammers. "And you don't have anything on the walls." He glances around with a crooked smile on his face.

"It's pathetic, I know. We've been here nearly a year, and we still haven't totally settled in. We weren't really sure if we were going to stay here at first, actually. We rent it," he explains. "And we didn't know what we were going to do. But we worked it out. Now we just have to unpack all the boxes that we hid upstairs." He chuckles. "That's probably why Gabriella's taking so long to find clothes." He clears his throat, the now refreshed memory of her nearly bare body flushing his cheeks. "All of our stuff is kind of… haphazardly strewn about."

Her arm begins to shake. "Did I," she asks, gulping, "Did I interrupt something?" She puts the glass down carefully on the coffee table as he grabs the back of his neck.

"Well… No, not really." She stares at her hands. She was too late to interrupt anything. While she was sitting in her car staring at his house, he was upstairs, lounging naked in his bed and watching his girlfriend sleep off the exhaustion of their lovemaking. Her chest feels constricted. There are footsteps on the stairs, and now she's wearing jeans along with the same while shirt. "Hey, baby, look who stopped by." Gabriella moves to his side, smiling politely at her.

"Hello, Sharpay. It's been a while since I've seen you." The blonde nods, glancing around awkwardly. "Oh, God, where are our manners? Troy," she sighs. "Sharpay, let him take your coat. I'll go put on a pot of coffee, or something. We can all sit and talk." Her arms reflexively wrap around her body and she shakes her head. She cannot allow him to see her like this, not in front of Gabriella. Somehow, he thinks somewhat highly of her.

He thinks she tries to be good. If she can't have him, she has to cling to that.

"No, no, that's okay."

"You said you were warm," he reminds her kindly, stepping forward. "If you're going to sit and have hot coffee, you might as well take off your coat."

She shakes her head again. "I'm fine." He shrugs and leads her towards the kitchen. Her entire body feels a hundred degrees cooler, and she somehow feels completely plain next to the brunette in tattered jeans and a shirt that doesn't belong to her. "I'm going to wash my hands," she says quickly, darting into the small bathroom. Leaning back against the door, she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, cursing herself. She wants to stomp her feet and scream and pull her hair, but she can't because they're so close.

Opening the door silently, she takes soft steps forwards. She hears their whispers in the kitchen.

"What is she doing here?"

"I don't know," he replies. "She just showed up. Said she was in the neighborhood."

She snorts, "She definitely was not in the neighborhood. Sharpay Evans wouldn't be 'just visiting' in a neighborhood in this part of California. L.A. maybe, but not here." She pauses, and she hears a metal spoon clink against a countertop and a sigh. "You know, she didn't seem pleased to see me."

"You weren't all too happy to see her, either."

"I was basically naked!" She doesn't need to be reminded. "Troy, I woke up after sex that left me exhausted and kind of disoriented, and I found you sitting with Sharpay Evans in our living room! Forgive me for not being overjoyed and giving her a hug." She huffs. "Besides, it's not like we were ever really that close in the first place."

For a moment, she knows only one thing. How it'll all work. She'll stalk into the kitchen and knock the brunette unconscious with a hanging pot. He'll give her a funny look, but she'll throw down the coat and he won't care about his housemate anymore. He'll sweep her into his arms, sit her on the counter, and kiss back as she touches the corners of his mouth with her tongue. When he begs for more, she'll push him back and order him to do her a quick favor.

Upstairs in the bedroom, they'll lie together on the bed naked, and she'll smirk at the girl in the corner chair as he suckles on her breasts. When the small girl rouses, she'll be bound to a hard wooden chair, possibly gagged, and forced to watch him lick the soft skin of another woman's body. She'll smirk as he spreads her legs, and she'll moan loudly when he mumbles "I love you" into her folds. And then the brunette will be forced to watch him thrust inside someone else's body as he squeezes his hands around her breasts and grunts at how full they are, how tight she feels, how amazing her body is. The body of a blonde who he wants way more.

Pressing her back against the wall in the hallway, she smirks. And then she hears the distinct sound of a kiss being pressed against skin.

"I love you," she hears him mumble. "And honestly, I can't wait until she leaves so I can get you back upstairs. First, I'm going to unbutton your jeans…, and then I'm gonna take off the shirt…" She hears the rustling of clothes and wants to vomit up the salad she had for lunch. "And I'm going pinch at your nipples until they're standing straight out…, and then I'm gonna tear off your panties…" He growls. "And then I can fuck you hard and long all night. Until you scream my name in completely ecstasy and I make you come so hard that you can't stand." She wishes he was talking to her as she clutches her fist. It's supposed to be her body that he craves, her smell that he memorizes, her needs that he tends to.

"Mm," Gabriella giggles sensually, "Promises, promises." They both laugh.

She walks into the kitchen, unable to listen to any more. "Sorry."

Gabriella smiles sadly, "We're out of coffee." His eyes widen as he shoots her a nervous glance and he moves to stand in front of the bag of Dunkin' Donuts coffee beans.

She's somewhat surprised that he goes along with it, but then she glances down and understands that he's just as eager to be rid of her as he said he was. "That's okay." She swallows her pride and ignores the full coffee pot to her left. "I should probably be going anyway. I mean, you guys were…," she trails off. His hand is slowly caressing the back of her jeans. "I'm going to go."

They don't stop her as she retreats out of the house, but he suddenly reappears on the front steps as she turns back to shut the door. "Don't stop writing," he requests, giving her a weak one-armed hug as he tries to keep his pelvis aimed away from her. "I like hearing from you. You always have great stories." She nods and weakly tries to say the same in return, and he disappears back into the house with a brief wave. There's a squeal from within, and she hears footsteps thundering up the stairs.

She turns away from the front door.

He lives with her. He made love to her in the moments, hours, days, months, before she arrived.

She unbuttons her coat angrily and storms back towards her car, ignoring the hot tears in her eyes and the freezing air against her bared skin. Stopping beside the driver-side door of his truck, she yanks on the handle and stumbles as it slams open against her. Slipping into his seat, she pulls the picture down from behind the sun visor.

She should have known better.

The picture should be an ugly one. A girl with her hair in a bun held together with pencils, curled up on the couch in a sweatshirt and pajama pants beside a boy in a t-shirt and jeans. Both seemingly on the verge of sheer bliss. It's beautiful and she wants to take it with her, but it's not her, ostensibly never will be her, and she can't stand having to breathe another girl's air much longer. She stuffs it back and runs her fingers over the steering wheel. It's old and worn, and she pulls back at the sting it leaves singeing her fingertips. She picks up a square of old burger wrapper, and shakes her head at the tiny notes scrawled on it.

Frantically, she digs through the rest of the garbage and finds note after note of sweet nothings and I love you's and reminders of grocery lists. On everything. She feels surrounded by it all and it overwhelms her as she scrambles to leave the truck's cab, escaping to the darkness of the driveway. She closes the door silently and takes several deep breaths before moving to the curb. She rips her car door open and then slams it shut, grabbing for her keys. When she starts the car, she can't pull away from the house. She presses her heads back again the headrest, squeezing her eyes and tightening her fists around the steering wheel.

She feels like an idiot.

The dress makes her feel like a whore.

She smoothes out the wrinkles and spreads her legs as she stands. Reflectively, she tilts her head to the side, dragging her hands up her body. Angling the mirror towards her bed, she grabs onto the wooden post and drops, slapping a hand against her firm behind as she rises again. She leans back against the pole again and slides around it, pausing only to briefly throw the coat on her bed. She leaves the pole and walks up to the mirror, bending down and frantically groping at her breasts with one hand. She licks sexily at the pointer of her other hand before trailing it down her cleavage, watching the moistened path dry almost instantly. Stopping suddenly, she smiles proudly and retrieves the coat.

If she's going to be a whore, at least she'll make a good one.

She wonders as she drives if she could make any money as a stripper. She glances down at her breasts as she accelerates and knows that she's plump and creamy. She slides her eyes quickly to her thighs as she sits at a red light and knows that she's long and golden. She shifts in her seat as she makes a wide turn and knows that she's firm and round. She smirks. Of course she could. She remembers passing a gentlemen's club one night and decides that she's going to apply for a part-time job over the weekend. What better way to dance than naked on a stage.

When she pulls into his driveway, his house looms much larger than the other one had. All the lights are on, too, in contrast, and she worships the near darkness of the outdoors. She deliberately takes her time moving around her car, waving at his elderly neighbor as she feeds her cat. Her cleavage bounces wildly as she clunks up the walk in her heels, and the cat food spills all over the wooden boards of the porch. He materializes, shoeless as he stalks down towards her.

"You look like a fucking hooker," he hisses, pulling her inside angrily as he waves hesitantly to the old woman. "You could have at least closed the fucking coat." She doesn't respond, allowing him his commentary as he flicks the lock on the solid wood door. He turns around and stares at her.

"Don't you like?" she taunts, letting the coat crumple to the floor. His eyes grow cold and he grabs for her, slamming her against the door as his teeth sink into her shoulder and his hands grope for her breasts. She gasps as the wood contacts her skull and grunts as he paws hungrily at her nipples. The material of the dress is rubbing against her skin everywhere as he presses his body to hers, and she feels the prickly heat and almost asks him to turn down the thermostat. She moves her head, trying to touch her lips to his skin, trying to forget, but he slams her head back again, shifting his hand between her legs to prod at her heat, and the pain makes her remember.

"You're already wet. Shit, bitch." He keeps her pinned to the door and she gasps for breath.

"Um… Upstairs?"

The coat lays discarded on the floor of the foyer as she trips up the stairs in her heels, stumbling behind him as he pulls on her arm. He practically shoves her into the bedroom and pounces on her, one of his hands gripping her hair painfully as he moves her back against the wall. He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head, nipping harshly at the tendons of her neck and forcing his knee between her legs. He sucks and bites, leaving marks all over, and she wants to thank him for the bruises that she knows will form. A drop of sweat runs down her face and she tastes it on her lips, remembering praying for the shattering of a water glass.

"Kneel," he demands suddenly, releasing her. Blindly stumbling, she stares at him until he repeats the same command, moving towards the bed. He grabs her elbow, "On the floor." She falls to the ground submissively. "Get on all fours." She blinks but doesn't hesitate to acquire the position this time, hoping he'll change everything enough to make her forget. He sits behind her, his hand smoothing over the curves of her ass through the material of the dress. He chuckles sardonically. "Little bitch… Where's your tail?"

"I—"

"Now don't move." One of his hands slips between her partially spread legs and strokes her soaking panties. He grunts, shifting closer to her body. "So wet…" He quickly tugs aside the lacy material and plunges a finger into her, wiggling it around briefly before pulling out and licking it clean. She doesn't see him pull his hand back, but she feels the sting when it slaps against her skin over and over. Getting slapped never feels good, and she remembers with lucidity the slap in the face she felt seeing the brunette in the doorway.

She yelps.

"Shut up." His voice is cold and harsh. She wonders if he's really only mad about the cat lady neighbor. Somehow, she doubts it. "Get on the bed. Close your eyes." She lays in dark silence for what feels like years, and remembers the walk of shame from his house to her car.

He clips the handcuffs around her wrists and she is immobilized. Her eyes snap open. It is the first time he's ever bound her, she takes frantic gasps for air as he squeezes harshly at the swells of her chest. Slipping a finger beneath the material, he pulls it down off her breast, revealing the pert nipple before covering it with his mouth, his teeth tugging roughly at the small bud of flesh. She arches up against him and squeezes her eyes shut again. He's never been gentle with her. No man ever has. She wanted him because he had the dynamic she needed of tender and coarse.

His weight is pressing down on her as he suckles at her breast, his hand moving to tug the material off the other one and pinch the tender nipple between his fingers. He seems to be enjoying himself as he continues to bite and suck harshly enough to leave bruises, and she can't stop the moans that bubble past her lips or the way her hips buck up against him. But he won't leave her chest alone, practically lavishing the entire surface with lashes from his tongue.

It feels as though she as been forgotten, lying there beneath him as he feasts on her curves. He doesn't seem to remember who he's pleasuring, instead taking his time to taste her skin. He hasn't even taken his shirt off yet. The moment she thinks it, he pulls away from her and stands, peeling the thin material off his upper body. Her eyes trace the dark contours of his chest and abdomen, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. Everything seems to be shadowed and forbidding.

She remembers the day that she snuck into the closed basketball practice, lurking beneath the bleachers and missing drama rehearsal. There were thin strands of spider's silk lacing some of the undersides and there was a thick layer of dust coating the scratched wood of the gym floor, but she was on her hands and knees regardless, peering carefully between the risers. They seemed to run back and forth for hours, pausing only to bend and slap their hand against the narrow black line running around the perimeter of the court. Eventually, she remembers, she got bored and began realizing the way the dirt was staining her white leggings. But it had been worth it because he had come over and grabbed the hem of his jersey, dragging the moist material off his glistening body, each muscle rippling beneath his skin as he moved to toss it beside his water bottle. He had looked deliciously inviting.

She blinks as his hands undo the button of his jeans, dropping them to the floor as he tugs off the dark boxers he's wearing. His entire body is bulky, no longer the narrow frame of seasonal sports and occasional friendly games, due to the endless practicing he had done to maintain his scholarship. He's hard and long, and stiff too, she notices when she glances down. As he crawls back onto the bed, she feels his hands touch her legs and her eyes flutter shut, waiting for him to pull the dress away from her body.

Instead, he shifts up her body and straddles her bare chest, his skin rough against hers. She stares at the apex of his thighs as it sits directly before her eyes. Glancing up at him, she shivers as his deep brown orbs stare back at her.

"Suck it," he demands. She stammers awkwardly, peering at his erect member and then back at him. "I said suck it." She is forced to lift her head painfully to reach his throbbing length before she can open her mouth and take him inside her moist heat. She wants to hold his thighs as she does it, feel the muscles tense and relax, but the bondage holds her. Her arms handing uselessly in the air, she sucks and licks to the best of her ability. Her neck hurts, but she bobs until he begins thrusting into her forcefully, wildly. She gags as he hits the back of her throat but doesn't try to pull away, trying to continue the stimulation with her tongue as he forces his length deep into her mouth. He glares down at her as his hips buck towards her face and she wonders vaguely if he would have become this vicious on the nights with the tabloids on the table. She has no choice but to take all that he gives, and she moans because she knows he likes the way it feels against his tip.

He grunts loudly in the last few moments before his climax and she recognizes the guttural sounds as she lets out another moan. His final thrusts are hard and she feels like she can't breathe, his thickness preventing the air from reaching her lungs. When his cum finally splatters against the back of her throat, she feels the hotness run down and settle in her stomach. He pulls out after he drains himself inside her, and she gulps in the air, her whole body shaking.

Her fists clench and she gives a determined tug against the handcuffs to no avail, her body still writhing on the mattress. He backs away to kneel between her legs, relieving the compression on her chest, and smoothes his hands over her creamy thighs as he spreads them wide. He takes the shoes off slowly, each pump taking several minutes to leave her foot before being tossed down onto the carpeted floor. She watches his gaze run up her body, settling in the dark crevice near her pelvis. His fingertips ease over her calves and over the underside of her thighs, slipping beneath the skirt to tease the thin straps of her thong. His hands move beneath her to cup her ass but even as she tries to lift herself his movement is restricted by the tightness of her dress.

He doesn't take the dress off her. Instead, he shoves the skirt up over her hips, the hem straining to fit her curves, and reaches for her panties. His fingertips prod at the barely covered moist patch between her legs, the materially still slightly askew. He yanks it down of her hips, ripping it in the process and discards it hastily. He enters her swiftly to the hilt, his member embedded in her softness. She nearly cries. The dress feels too tight to breathe in as he fucks her, his fingers squeezing painfully tight around her hips. The bed shakes and slams into the wall with the power of his bucking, and she pulls nervously at the handcuffs encircling her wrists.

"I know when you wore this dress," he hisses, thrusting into her as hard as he can. She screams and throws her head back as he hits a spot so deep that she feels it everywhere. "I know that you wore it for him. I know that you wore it to his house and I know that you were trying to seduce him and I know that you were planning on fucking his brains out that night when you wore this dress."

"No…" she moans and he pulls roughly on her hair as he drives his length far into her core.

"Don't fucking lie to me," he growls, his balls slapping against her as his pace slowly increases. Her arms tug painfully against the restraints, and she bucks against him, her body already desperate for climax. "I'm not Troy," he jeers, "Because Troy never wanted to fuck you. He never wanted you. Not once. Not even in a gay-ass locker room talk way. Oh yeah," he grunts manically, spotting her stunned expression, "We used to talk about you in the locker room. Zeke and me, we used to talk about all the things we'd do to you. We'd say how hard we were going to fuck you and how you would like it. We would say how we were going to make you to take it in your mouth and how we would cover your face with our cum. A couple of times we suggested a gang bang. We would tie you up and get all the guys from the team to come and fuck you until you passed out. And not once did he say anything. He never even batted an eyelash. He only wanted Gabriella."

She shakes her head as her orgasm grows nearer and wonders how he can still be so coherent. "Uhh…" she moans, her eyes opening as widely as possible as she bucks her hip up to meet his thrusts.

"Every day I went home and jacked off to you," he practically screams in her ear, his hand slipping briefly hair to flick harshly at her tender nipple before tangling back into her thick blonde hair. "I'd be willing to bet my life savings… Not once—not fucking once—did he!" She feels him smirking against her cheek as he continues to hiss at her. "He pumped himself dry over her tight little virgin body almost every night. He told me about his fantasy once. Guess what? You weren't in it." She closes her eyes, her back arching off the bed. "Open your fucking eyes!" he demands. "Don't fucking forget that I'm the one that's fucking you! Don't fucking forget that it's my dick that's inside you that's making you cum! Me!"

He reaches down and angrily circles the sensitive bud of nerves with his thumb, flicking over it until she can't even moan coherently, her climax so close that she can taste it. She finally screams and he gives a final stabbing thrust, empting his hot seed inside her as she yanks at the restraints ruthlessly, her throat vibrating with cries. He pulls out, rubbing his coated member around her heated cavern, using his hands to smear the mixture of their juices all over her folds. He slaps her hard for good measure, and she continues to pant, hearing his silent demand.

"You're fucking me," she whispers. "I know."

He squeezes his palms against his eyes as he falls back onto the mattress, not bothering to untie her hands. "You fucking wore that dress to my house." She nudges his calve with her foot, her chest heaving. "It's not bad enough that I have to know that I was second best all the time, but you wore the dress you bought to seduce him to my house."

"I'm sorry." She glances away from his writhing form. Her body is littered with forming bruises where the dress doesn't hide them from her eyes, and she can't wait to get home and burn the material. She wants to stand there, filled with him, and see them all. She knows that there will be ones that look like hands and fingers and others that look like mouths.

"You fucking should be," he shouts desperately, shooting up. "That's the dress!"

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

"You're such a bitch. You're a cold heartless bitch."

He stares down at the black and then lunges for her.

She screams, not sure if in terror or arousal, and writhes as he tears into the material, ripping it to shreds as she wears it. She kicks her legs, trying to hit him and stop his merciless hands, suddenly trying to save the shrunken remains of what could have been. She doesn't succeed in kneeing him in the shoulder until the entire top portion is lying on her chest in slices and he's screaming every four lettered word he knows at her. Her memories fade slightly with every curse.

Suddenly, very calmly, he lies back on the mattress beside her. She pants frantically and feels her chest rising and falling rapidly, stretching out her legs and licking her lips nervously. She stares sideways at him. No memory comes to her. No old pain twangs in her bones. No 'what if' swells in her heart.

He closes his eyes, his entire body sinking into the mattress as his muscles unanimously relax. She swallows roughly.

"Are we going to have sex again or not?"

His eyes snap open and he turns to fix his cold gaze on her. "Shut the fuck up."

He rolls on top of her.

He sheaths himself inside her moisture, and she keeps her eyes open without request, matching his stare as their hips rock together, her legs winding around his waist. He braces himself with his hands pushing on the pillow directly beside her head, lowering his mouth to hers and nipping at her bottom lip. She tries to match his aggressiveness this time.

It takes him several climaxes to calm down enough to release her wrists, and she first touches the smoothness of his jaw and then the red welted flesh on her own arms. She knows he won't take her hands and turn them over, he won't kiss the soft skin on her wrist, and he won't apologize. She doesn't expect him to and surprises herself with the revelation that she doesn't want him to.

She pushes him down, pulling the heels off and peeling the remnants of the dress over her head, discarding everything on the floor before climbing on top of him stark naked. She finally has him the way she had planned to have him that night, the way the old cat lady believed she was going to have him. She grinds down against him, watching the contentment creep onto his face, and groans at the feeling of his member quivering inside her.

"Who's fucking you?" she taunts as she lifts herself so that he practically falls out of her heat.

He bucks his hips in an attempt to immerse himself in her slick cavern once more. "You are. Fuck… you are."

She drops her weight. "That's right. Always me. Always me making you cum."

They get married.

She goes to the wedding. Alone.

They still live in that house. That stupid tiny house.

She gets drunk at the ceremony. But only at the very end of the night.

Instead of ruining his day, she goes back to the Hilton. And fucks his best friend.

The End

Author's Note: So. I've had this in my head for a while now. It stems from several different ideas. I've noticed that a lot of authors - myself included - have written steamy stories about Troy and Gabriella wildly getting it on all over the place. I've come to the realization that, if Disney were ever to go momentarily insane and make an R-rated movie based off HSM, Troy and Gabriella would probably not be the characters having raunchy sex on the beach. Somehow I feel as though they'd been on a cushy bed with candles around the room, making love soft and sweet. When I considered it, Sharpay became the most likely girl and Chad the most likely boy. Also, the distaste that they seem to have for each other would create quite the sexual tension.

I also wanted to try writing a piece about Chad and Sharpay that had a little more substance than my last one, Dominance. That story, as it came out, was mostly about the sex. This time around I wanted to get inside their heads a little more and dabble with their emotions. I used Sharpay's crush/obsession with Troy and the possibly of Chad feeling second-rate compared to his best friend. I hope it worked. (bites fingernails anxiously)

Let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always appreciated!