hello yes this is your sexually explicit content warning for this chapter. like— v e r y explicit. you guys know what's up.
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AS EXPECTED, I STEP OUT OF LECTURE HALL in darkness. I'm halfway to my car when I remember Shankar.
I go the rest of the way out of spite. He can wait.
I drop my books into the front seat of my car and turn about in the dark lot. There are a few cars left but, for the most part, the campus is empty for the evening.
So, what the fuck is he still doing here and where the fuck is he?
I don't even have his number. I'm annoyed at Charlie all of a sudden. Who forgets their phone?
Suspicion lingers at the back of my mind. Did he set this up?
You'd make a good pair, he'd said, leaving no room for me to figure out what his thoughts and opinions are.
I'd decided that Charles was too nice for me to say no to but if this proves to be some sort of schoolboy setup on his part, I'm not going to hesitate to beat his ass.
My impatience rears as I retrace my steps, passing the vast Engineering building only to see it mostly dark. I doubt he's there. My feet are getting tired by the time I'm standing back at where we'd locked eyes earlier.
The campus is quieter than it is during the rush of the day and the moon has made an appearance, peeking at me between the thin tree branches sheltering the walkway. I'm standing alone, distinctly aware that being a girl all alone on campus after dark isn't in my best interests, when a shout rises somewhere in the distance, piercing my wary silence. I breathe out in relief.
I breathe out in relief at the last name I'd ever expected myself to feel relief at the sound of. But I follow the shouting anyway, because it's still going, rumbling against the stillness.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Shankar," someone booms loudly.
"It's just Aryan, actually," I hear his dry reply, spoken with less volume applied than his counterpart, which makes me conclude that I'm getting closer.
His comment sparks rounds of laughter. He's good at standing in the spotlight like that. The only time I've ever seen him not look good with attention on him was when I threw coffee at him. I bet there was some freshman who swooned over that sight too though.
I'm rolling my eyes when I run straight into a group of sweaty boys, Shankar spliced in neatly at their core. One of them is halfway through the process of emptying a bottle of water over their head.
Their laughter ceases.
The one with the bottle of water pauses, lowering his bottle, blinking water from his eyes and shaking his slick hair as Cinna shakes water off after a bath. Parker, I recognise. His already flushed skin flushes even more at the sight of me.
Aryan looks surprised to see me. His friends look wary. I think they're closing in on him a little, as if to protect him from the wrath of the crazy, coffee-throwing bitch who had dared raise her voice at Aryan fucking Shankar. Except for Herrera, stood at Aryan's left shoulder. Rafael looks like he might push Shankar forward if given the chance, his tatted arms crossed over his chest boredly.
Aryan's surprise wears off easily. He's wearing a shirt, I note. Well, it's cut off at the arms, more of a vest than anything, biceps still very visible. But at least that's less surface area for my eyes to wander around. He lifts a single curious brow at me.
"Emira?"
On cue, my blood boils.
Through gritted teeth, I find myself saying, "Charlie asked me to send you a message."
His lifted brow lifts even higher now. Even Rafael blinks my way at that, his bored expression shifting slightly.
I'd used the nickname again. His nickname for his friend.
He doesn't comment though, crossing his arms over his chest. They're shining with sweat. I don't drift any closer to the boys. They must fucking stink.
"Hm," hums Aryan, arms still crossed. I feel small next to these stupid tall, muscled boys and I want to single-handed my punch them all for it. But mostly, I want to punch Aryan and his dark, glinting eyes on my face. The light from the field behind them wreathes him, casting about his dark hair like a halo. The small smirk he delivers me is nothing angelic as he says, "Give me a moment."
"Wha—,"
But he's walking away, sweaty boys in tow and I blink, whirling.
Parker throws me a look over his shoulder as he goes but my glare is specifically for Aryan's retreating back. His vest is cut thinly at the back, granting me the view I hadn't gotten earlier. The smooth, slender muscles of his back flex as he laughs softly to himself, drifting away from me. "Just a second, Zahed. Wait for me," he calls, without turning around.
Hell no.
I charge forward but he's already ducked into the side of a building. I blink into the fairy dim hallway and the little bench that faces a wall in the small space. Aryan and his boys dip into a doorway against that wall and that's where I stop trying to follow, wrinkling my nose in quiet disgust. Boy's Locker Room.
Hell no 2.0.
The door swings shut behind them, and I stand still outside, irate. Herrera is the last to fall through and he tosses me a smirk over his shoulder as the door brackets me from him. When it shuts, I'm left glaring at nothing but blue paint.
I huff into the space.
There's no way I'm stepping in there. With all of them there. Eight sweaty shirtless boys in a shower sounds like something from a disgustingly bad porno. Hell, from the way they'd looked at me all warily, maybe they'd pull out their cans of Axe body spray and point them at me in an attempt to defend their lord and saviour, Aryan Shankar.
He isn't even on the soccer team. What the fuck is this? A cult? A cult for abs and soccer balls?
There's no way I was waiting around either. I just want to go home, I want to pet my dog, I want to open a tub of ice cream and I want to maybe watch a movie with Petra, finishing it by myself because she usually winds up snoring with her mouth open halfway through anything I put on.
Aryan clearly doesn't care about my plans.
Then, why should I give a fuck about his?
I huff. I don't give a fuck about his. I slump back down onto the bench only because of Charlie.
I don't know how long I'm sitting there, alone in that narrow little hallway, the locker room sounds pulling past my ears— rushing water, taps twisting, boys' laughter— when I finally decide that I don't give a fuck about Charlie either.
Whether he intentionally set this up or
not, I decide as I stand to my feet, I'm going to beat his ass anyway.
I'm turning toward the open doorway, the quiet outside beckoning, my phone in hand, open on the Among Us app because I needed something to keep myself occupied as I vehemently resent Aryan Shankar outside the boy's locker room— nothing works better than killing weird colourful cartoon characters— when the door to the locker room pushes open for the first time. I pause.
It's Parker. He's not sweaty anymore, blonde hair damp from a shower and warm cologne rising from his skin. He has a sports bag strung over his torso and he shifts it, blinking at me as he steps fully from the locker room. "Mira," he says. "I didn't think you'd actually still be here."
"Yeah," I mumble, shifting in my feet. "I don't know why I'm even still here." I roll my eyes.
He chuckles. He has a nice laugh. And he smells nice. And his Adidas tracks hang enticingly low on his hips.
All my thoughts disperse like dust on the wind when the door swings open again. Out piles about five boys. I ignore them. My eyes cut through the sliver of door, narrowed immediately as I locate my prey. I'm going to kill him. Aryan feels my stare and his eyes pull up from whatever he was doing.
Great, he's shirtless again, nothing but a pair of comfortable-looking grey sweatpants hanging off his hips. In his hands, he holds a towel which he drops into a bag like Parker's, eyes dancing on me, lips tilting upwards at the edges.
"Leave it open, Harris," he orders one of the boys piling out of the locker room.
Harris obeys and then him and five boys clamour out the yawning exit, a few of them halting to exchange one of those manly, testosterone handshakes with Parker as they go. Parker stays put for a while, eyes skimming me. But I'm still glaring across the space at Aryan.
Herrera is still there too, I think. I didn't see his head disappear with the others.
He proves me right, appearing in my line of vision, clothed in black, a gilded cross dangling around his neck. He and Aryan share a stare and it's one I can't translate. It's like one of Dima and I's stares. Then, Herrera is slinging a bag over his shoulder and brushing out the door. He claps a hand on Parker's shoulder and says, "Let's go, man."
Parker blinks at the hand on his shoulder. Rafael only scowls. Parker nods. Then, they're walking toward the exit, leaving me standing at the bench with nothing but my desire to strangle Aryan Shankar.
Both boys toss me looks over their shoulders as they go. It's only Rafael Herrera's that I process. He winks at me as he goes.
And though I've just met him, I've decided to add him to my list.
Currently number one on my list, Aryan Shankar, is sauntering forward and so do I— because well, I want to strangle him.
He halts in the doorway of the locker room, braces his arms on the doorframe above his head and peers down at me. I don't step back, even if his stance sets him directly in my face. I'm not backing down, even as he lazily asks, "You had a message for me, Zahed?"
He's very polite as he asks yet I respond, "Fuck you."
A single lifted brow. He pulls off the doorframe, dropping his arms and I exhale. He towered over me like that. Aryan crosses his arms over his bare chest and asks me innocently, "What did I do to deserve that?"
Insufferable bastard.
His hair is damp like Parker's, drying at the nape of his neck slightly. He smells like shampoo, like the type boys use that is 900 in 1 or something like that. It's a clean scent for that filthy smile.
I ignore his question because his self-satisfied smile tells me he very well knows the answer. Instead, I push, "Why are you even here? You're not on the team."
Aryan shrugs casually. "They have a game next week. I'm just playing along as they practice."
I squint at him. "Why don't you just join the team?"
Another casual shrug. "Haven't the time, Emira."
I think he uses my full name to anger me enough that I don't ask any more questions. It works.
Again, I snap, "Fuck you."
"Promises, promises," comes his shameless reply.
I gape at him. He grins.
"You're disgusting."
Aryan leans forward again. There's warmth radiating off him, twining together with the fresh scent of his shampoo to form a dangerous cocktail that pushes at me to lean forward too. I resist.
He hums playfully. The sound vibrates up from his chest. "Am I?"
And I know he's going to bring up the staring contest from earlier.
Except he doesn't. He straightens, flashes me a wicked grin and mocks, "O-M-G, Mira. I love your dress."
I guess he'd overheard some of it, after all. The girl had certainly squealed loudly enough for him to overhear.
I scowl at him, just as I'd done across the quad and he laughs at me, just as he'd done.
Aryan's fingers drop down to the sleeve of my dress and he playfully tugs it and for some reason, I halt my breathing from that alone.
His hand falls away and I breathe again. It doesn't last very long because he's claimed a new position, elbows braced on the doorframe as he leans off it. Now, I want to step back because when he speaks, his breath touches my cheeks and what he says next catches me entirely off guard. "My good mate Parker would like nothing more than to have that dress on his floor." He grins. "But you already knew that, Zahed."
I will myself not to balk at his flat remark, even though I'm thrown by his quick grin and glinting gaze. I tilt my head and shoot back, "Oh? And how do you know that? I come up in your locker room talk, huh?"
Aryan nods. "Yes, you did. But besides that," he huffs out a half-laugh, "anyone with bloody eyes can tell. It's that obvious."
Yeah, it is. But it's none of his business. I drop my hands to my hips, tilt my chin back because this close, it's what I have to do to meet his stare, and tell him just that. "How is that any of your business, Shankar?"
He follows my motions. He's mocking me, hands on his hips as he peers down at me. "What is it they say, Emira?" A chuckle as he finds the words. "Oh, yeah. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else?"
What is he talking ab—
Ivan.
I take a step back now, for the first time since Rafael Herrera had left us alone. He doesn't miss it, eyes slipping from mine right down to my feet that are pulling me back.
Should I tell him about what I told Dima? But it wasn't any of business. Was it?
I narrow my eyes at him. "Yeah?" I shoot back, a bit sharp now because it's Ivan and I have to be fucking sharp. I know I'm talking to Aryan and he's different— I think. Aryan apologises. So, yeah, he's different. But I'm still snapping anyway, "And how'd that work out for you?"
He laughs because he knows exactly what I'm talking about. Rumpled shirt, wild hair, bruised lips on my driveway. Aryan shakes his head at me and pulls off the doorway. He turns on me and starts to walk away into the room. "You think you're so smart. Nothing happened."
I'm bold in my reply, "So, what I'm hearing is you're not over me at all, Shankar?"
He turns back around. His eyes are amused and dark on me and he's treading back over. I'm a little proud that I made him detour so quickly.
He resumes his first stance, towering over me on that fucking doorframe. A cruel tilt of lips and then he replies plainly, "I was never into you, to begin with, Zahed. Don't flatter yourself."
I glare then. I know he wanted his words to burn and they did.
Is it a competition of who can say the meanest thing?
I speak before really thinking, because I don't really think too much when he's glaring down at me. "I told Dima you're a shit kisser, Shankar. So, don't you flatter yourself."
I won.
He blinks at me, confusion wrinkling his brow, one hand falling from above head. "Now, what did I do to deserve that? Because, correct me if I'm wrong, I've never kissed you, Zahed."
Maybe it was his business. Maybe we can't shake each other off that easily.
Eyes flashing, I breathe, "You're my alibi, Shankar."
"May I ask what's the crime, Zahed?"
But he knows. He's smart, eyes dropping then back up again. Nice one, Zahed.
I swallow hard. "Being a cold-hearted bitch."
Aryan hums, "I won't disagree with that."
I grimace at him and I'm about to cut a glare up at him when I'm stopped. I freeze. His fingers are light, idly tracing the since faded place of Ivan's mark. My pulse skyrockets and he can feel it because he's touching me. What is he doing?
Stop it. I want to tell him that, my eyes flying up from his idle hand to his eyes. But I lose the words under that stare, devoid of any twinkling stars as it meets mine. What is he doing?
I can't help it. My eyes drop to his lips. I watch him say it, "Unlucky bastard."
And then I'm gone. I'm pissed. I'm fucking pissed. He pisses me off the most.
And I let him fucking know it, hands flying to the back of his neck like a fucking noose because he's an unlucky fucking bastard. I tear him down to me. I kiss him first. Because I hate him. Because he never shuts up. Because— well, shit.
He's not a bad kisser.
Aryan's shock lasts all of two seconds and then he's kissing me back in the doorway of the boy's locker room.
He crumbles off the doorframe because I tore him down. A thrill runs up my spine. Yes, I fucking did. His hand falls from the doorframe and then it's on my waist, a blaze through thin fabric and the one he'd idly traced pattern on the skin of my neck with is now curved against the side of my throat, holding me to him like I had any intention of going anywhere. I started this. I don't back down that easily.
Aryan kisses me wild. He kisses me rough. He kisses me bloody. He kisses me like he fucking hates me, teeth tearing lips open then biting down when they get what they want, no apologies, no thank you's. This isn't love, this is war.
I'm on my tip-toes. I'm tearing him apart, hands drifting from the back of his neck to pierce the warm skin of his sculpted shoulders. Aryan's hands on me tighten and he lets go of my lips, forehead pressed against mine, eyes dark and blazing into mine, only long enough to snap, "Bitch."
I smile at his heartfelt statement, my nose on his, lips millimetres away. "Shut the fuck up."
He shuts the fuck up, kissing me again and I feel his smile against mine.
He's slower this time. That doesn't mean he has any mercy. We're both ruthless. This time though, he's wreaking the sweetest of ruinations, kissing me like a lover would, pulling me close, chest to chest, like he wants me near, while his fingertips press firmly into my skin like daggers, stealing my breath like a thief in the night. I'm dizzy with him, head spinning, by the time his hands drop to the backs of my legs, running up past the hem of my dress to wander below, stopping just at the back of my thighs and no higher, I barely have a breath left to exhale as I'm hefted up off my feet.
Aryan pulls me up without missing a beat, his heart pounding against mine, hands pressed into the skin of the backside of my thighs as my legs curl around his waist on instinct, locking him in. We're walking but I'm still kissing him. Like this, I'm towering above him now and I use it to my advantage, fingers twisting through his hair and tipping his head back to my mouth.
We pull away only to suck in breaths of air, eyes falling open to marvel at each other and what the actual fuck we thought we were doing. Neither of us seems to know and neither of us seems to care, lips crashing back together.
I assumed Aryan was going to slam me against one of the lockers because he fucking hates me so much and I wouldn't have complained one bit. But no, he surprises me, dropping onto a bench, one hand disconnecting from me to push something away and there's the sound of a bag clattering to the floor but neither of us glance at it.
I'm hovering in his lap now, knees pressed to the cold metal bench as we pull apart. Aryan is grinning up at me, hair amiss, eyes dark and wild.
Hands on my hips, Aryan tugs me down further and I lean in to kiss him again, hands drifting down to trace the abs that I'd failed to avoid today and then I halt. I halt because now, pressed against his lap, I can feel him like steel between my spread legs. All of him.
Jesus fucking Christ, Shankar.
I decide to curl my fingers tightly around the metal attachment of the bench that sticks up behind him instead because I need balance.
Aryan's grin deepens.
His breath drops just below my ear, grinning words whispered against the skin of my neck that misses his touch, "Say the word and maybe— just maybe—I'll let you ride me in these locker rooms, Emira."
Heat courses through me at his words. I press my hips down onto him, layers, one of them sufficiently soaked, standing between us, but I elicit a rough intake of breath from him anyway and now it's my turn to grin. "Shut the fuck up."
His hands tighten on my hips and he's pulling me away with a tsk. I pull myself back, hands tightening on the pole behind his head and I glare at him, complaining, "I'm not going to fucking beg."
Aryan's eyes dance upon my face and his hand moves so quickly, down then up. He stops short, palm cupping into the soft, warm skin just between my legs at my left thigh, but not any higher. He just holds me there, challenge sparking in his eyes as he tsks again, "Are you sure about that?"
This time, I all but growl, "Shut the fuck up."
Aryan tips his head back and laugh, the column of his throat flashing gold for me. I'm at his ear in a heartbeat, fingers twisting through the strings of his sweatpants, knuckles brushing against the taut skin just above there. Menacingly, I whisper, "Maybe I'll make you beg, Shankar. Ever think about that?"
A shudder rips through him at that and I smile. I've gotten the strings undone now I've yet to get him undone but his breath is on my neck, then his lips. He's grinning against my skin as he says, "Do your worst, Zahed."
Oh, I will.
Aryan's trailing a path of destructive kisses down my neck when my hand slips past the waistband of his pants. He's straining against nothing but cotton when my hand finds him. My fingers curl and he lets out a filthy curse against my skin, egging me on even more.
I move slow, snaking my softly clenched hand up and down torturously and his breathing cracks cleanly into two. "Fuck," he breathes roughly. "Fuck it, Mira."
He's still breathing on my neck as I go but now the hand he had patiently between my legs blazes up and he's touching me through wet lace and I barely make out his comment, blood in my ears, because next, he's pushing it aside and touching me.
Now, we're both ripping into each other, no fucking air in our lungs, just hands on skin. It's fucking brutal.
Aryan pushes in one finger. Two. Fucking three. I'm dizzy and blind and not entirely here as he goes but I keep going too because I don't fucking back down. One hand gripping the cool metal, the other gripping him, I string out more curses form him and they mingle with my sharp yelp because he's gone from kissing my neck to wickedly nipping my exposed collarbone with his teeth. Before the sound can even die in my throat, another cry springs past it because he's just hit a spot that makes my knees melt like jelly into the hard bench.
Our combined breathing is ragged and his eyes are dark like the bottom of fucking hell when he moves back up, traces my face and the concentrated line of my brow for two whole seconds before swallowing my cries with his lips on mine. I dig the nails of my free hand into his shoulder. I want him. I want him now.
I'm about to tug down the waistband of his sweatpants and make him fucking beg when a cutting whistle violently tears us apart. My hands fly from Aryan wildly, skin flushed and eager, and I almost tumble onto my ass if not for the hand he quickly removes from under my dress to grasp my hips.
Our eyes meet each other's, blinking hard, before flying to the doorway.
Rafael Herrera idles there, elbow on the doorframe, expression bored as he asks, "So, were you two just gonna do it right here with the door open or—?"
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storytime: before nano started, bella thought my nano project was a demonic erotica story just because the first cover I made for it was really red and like violent and honestly, from this chapter, dare i say, she wasn't too wrong.
this is my last update of llfh for 2020. it was nice writing for yall this november and i'm never doing nano again ty for coming to my ted talk see you next year