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impress me

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Frate shifts in his seat. He clenches a fist under the table. He inhales. He exhales. He stares down and he bites the inside of his cheek. Above all, he tries not to let on, even though, of course, Ronaldo already knows.

~X~

But why do you want me to...” He trails off, feeling odd even finishing his sentence.

What does it matter why I want you to?” Ronaldo asks. “I asked you to, and you asked what you could do for me, right?”

Frate stares at his lap and nods, unsure of what else to say. He can't say no, despite how very unsure he is, but he can't understand this. All he can do is nod and agree to go along with it.

Any real man could do something like this, you know? Don't you want to impress me?” Ronaldo always says things like this to get Frate to do whatever he wants, and even though he knows that he's probably being tricked into most of those things, he would never dream of saying no. Not to Ronaldo, and not when he's finally got somebody looking at him, telling him that he can do something to impress him.

Just one day,” he says. “Just make it through the whole day, and at the end of the day, I'll reward you. How does that sound?”

And so he agrees, thinking that it can't be as bad as he's making it out to be. He doesn't think to question the day Ronaldo chose for him, or the fact that he's going to have to sit through a meeting with his family, all the while pretending that there's nothing going on.

~X~

If he catches Ronaldo's eye, the older man gives him the slightest hint of a smirk and he squirms, looking down. He's doing all he can to conceal his problem, but it's been a long day, and, as per Ronaldo's orders, he hasn't visited the bathroom even once since finishing his morning routine. Frate's bladder is so full that it hurts, and he can barely sit still.

At first, it wasn't so bad. He rose in the morning, relieved himself once, and not long after that, Ronaldo arrived to keep an eye on him. He's tried to keep his liquid intake to a minimum, but Ronaldo insisted a few times and he's had enough that, by now, it's really starting to hurt him. Frate hasn't been in a position where he's been forced to hold it for this long in a very long time, and even though he wants to be able to trust himself to make it for the rest of the day, he has to make it through this meeting before he can retreat to his room with Ronaldo, and he isn't sure what's going to come after that.

He clenches his fists in his lap, digging his nails into his palms to try and distract himself from the throbbing in his lower abdomen, but he's past the point of distraction. Rocking back and forth slightly, he jiggles one of his knees, hoping, praying that he isn't doing anything too obvious. Of course, Ronaldo is very aware of his every movement, and when he notices this, he lets out a soft, low chuckle.

“Is something funny?” asks Ganzo, irritated at having been interrupted.

“Nothing, nothing,” he replies, waving a hand and wearing a knowing grin. He's met with a few scowls, while Frate stares down, blinking back tears. It hurts, and there's nothing he can do about it, and if he fails now, Ronaldo...everyone will know it. He'll be humiliated in front of everyone, and why, why, why does that excite a part of him? When did he become so fucked up that he would start to enjoy something like this?

Ganzo mutters something about respect and Ronaldo laughs a little harder, and things proceed as if nothing happened while Frate fights against his own body. Every time someone brings up another point, every time a conversation drags on into an argument, he wants to cry, and he wants to beg them to wrap this up, but he doesn't. All he does is bite his cheek harder, hard enough to draw blood, and curl his toes in his shoes, and his breathing grows so heavy that he's sure someone must be able to hear it.

“Frate,” his father says, and he feels his blood grow cold. Of all the people to notice his behavior! “You don't look like you're feeling well. Is something wrong?”

“N-no,” he mutters.

“I'm not so sure,” Vincent replies. “If you're not feeling well, you can be excused. You should worry more about your health, you know. Especially while you're young, when it counts.”

He wants to argue, to prove that he's fine and can sit through the rest of the meeting, but when he thinks about the possibility of not being able to make it through the rest of the meeting, he knows that he has to take the opportunity he's been given. Nodding, he mumbles his thanks and excuses himself, struggling to walk and continue to conceal his growing desperation. Each step pains him and he's afraid that he's taking this too slowly, that everyone will know just by looking at him, but he makes it out the door without another word said to him and is able to walk to his room at a pace that isn't exactly comfortable, but is much easier on him.

The wait from that point on is, in a way, less torturous simply because there is no one watching him and he's free to squirm and grab between his legs as much as he wants, but in a way, it only gets worse from there, because he is soon past the point where those things can help at all. Soon, he is is so much pain and is so short of breath that he wishes he had locked his door. If anyone else were to come in...

He flinches when his doorknob turns later, but he is fortunate enough that it is only Ronaldo, who takes one look at him and laughs. “You almost slipped up, you know? Getting sent away from that meeting like that...but you're still holding on in here, and I'm proud of that.”

At his words, Frate brightens even as he trembles on the edge of losing control, and he asks, “Is it over yet? Can I...?”

Closing the distance between them, his grin grows and grows. “Frate...it's not over until I say so. You know that.” He drags Frate with him, jostling him uncomfortably, and he sits down, pulling the young man onto his lap where he squirms and struggles and tries to get up. It's too much for him, and he's sitting on his lap, so he knows that he has to keep waiting, but it hurts so much, and he doesn't think he can.

“You've done a good job,” Ronaldo murmurs, low in his ear. “You've proven yourself, you know that? But...” He rests a hand on Frate's stomach to feel how swollen he is. “But I'm not going to let you up.”

Frate makes to protest but his voice is caught in his throat and he's blinking back tears again, and he doesn't want to do this, but he really wants to do this, and he doesn't have a choice either way because he's reached his very limit with Ronaldo pressing on him like that. All he can do is let out one broken whimper before it's over, and his body betrays him, the hot liquid spurting out of him at first before turning to a steady stream, gushing and darkening his own pants before soaking through into the lap of the man holding him.

His breath comes out in short, shuddering gasps as he empties, and even when it's all over, there's still a dull ache remaining, and neither of them say a word. His face is red with shame, but already there are other feelings swelling up to mingle with that shame, and he doesn't know what to make of all of this.