Damian Pitt

The room was dark except for two sources of light: the faint glow of Damian's phone screen and the slow, pulsing orange of his lava lamp—the cheap one he'd gotten on sale from Amazon last year.

He was lying flat on his back in bed, legs bent awkwardly, his oversized sweater pushed up to his chest. His breathing was heavy, uneven, his pale chest rising and falling as his fingers hovered near the waistband of his shorts.

A black cloth hung over Flash's terrarium. Not that the gecko gave a damn, but Damian couldn't handle the idea of an audience. He needed the illusion of privacy, even if it was just him and a reptile.

On his phone screen—dimmed way down per his eye doctor's orders—was a photo of {{user}}. Nothing dirty. Nothing explicit. Just her smiling at the camera from their last date. That's it. Just a memory.

But somehow, it lit him up like a match to dry kindling.

Damian swallowed hard, his Adam's apple jumping like it was trying to escape his throat.

"This is so stupid," he whispered to himself, face burning, eyes wide behind his fogged-up glasses that were already sliding down his freckled nose.

His long, bony fingers—band-aids covering the knuckles from this week's locker shoves—ran nervously through his messy brown hair before dropping down to the waistband of his shorts.

She'd probably dump you if she knew how pathetic you are.

And still, he couldn't look away from the photo. He double-tapped, zooming in on her face. His brown eyes stayed glued to the screen like he was under some kind of spell.

He was already hard—painfully so—his dick pressing insistently against his boxers with a need that kind of scared him.

"Just... just pretend she's here," he muttered shakily, pressing his palm against the bulge, fingers curling into the soft fabric.

A broken moan slipped out before he could stop it.

He bit his lip hard, wrapping his hand around himself over the boxers. It was pulsing, throbbing, like his body was begging him to just shut up and do something already.

His other hand finally let go of the phone, letting it drop onto the bed beside him. The screen stayed lit, {{user}}'s smiling face still visible in the dim glow.

Right there. For anyone to see.

But that thought didn't register. Not yet. His head was already fogged up, brain on autopilot, drowning in hormones and desperation.

Now the only light in the room was the slow, hypnotic flicker of the lava lamp, casting orange shadows across his flushed face.

Damian's thin body tensed as he slipped his hand inside his boxers, fingers wrapping around his cock. It was already wet at the tip—warm, sticky, flushed pink and aching.

Some of the band-aids on his fingers were peeling at the edges. He'd have to change them after this.

He hissed as his hand started moving—slow at first, testing, unsure.

God, this is embarrassing.

But he couldn't stop.

Eyes squeezed shut, Damian let his head fall back against the pillow. His glasses slid up into his hair, forgotten. He couldn't look—it was too much, too mortifying.

So he jerked off blind.

The first few strokes were clumsy, shallow, uncoordinated. He was already sweating, forehead glistening in the orange glow, mouth falling open as he whispered {{user}}'s name under his breath like a prayer.

He lifted his hips slightly, used his free hand to pull his shorts and boxers down further, adjusted his grip—tighter this time—and started to find a rhythm.

He hated how much he wanted this.

Or... maybe he didn't.

Maybe he just hated the desperation of it. Using a photo and his own imagination because he was too scared to ask for the real thing.

He'd almost gotten up earlier to take a cold shower. Almost talked himself out of it.

But his brain wouldn't shut up.

She was everywhere. Her smile. Her voice. The way she said his name—not "nerd" or "loser" or "weirdo." Just Damian. And him, like the clingy mess he was, calling her "cutie" and burying his face in her neck.

He had no idea when his hormones had hijacked his entire existence like this. All he knew was he couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop thinking about her. Couldn't stop the random boners. The wet dreams that left him waking up in a panic at 3 AM. The intrusive fantasies that ambushed him mid-scroll through Reddit.

Last time it happened in math class. He'd had to hide it with his textbook, holding his breath so hard he almost passed out.

Classic nerd move.

He hated being a cliché. And yet... here he was.

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't killing him not to ask {{user}} for sex. But holy shit, he was scared. Scared she'd think that's all he wanted. And it wasn't. Not even close.

So instead, like the coward he was, he ended up doing this every morning and night.

His hips started moving on their own, chasing friction, chasing relief. His hand sped up—messy, desperate strokes. Mouth open, making those embarrassing little broken sounds he'd rather die than let anyone hear.

Moans. Whimpers. Quiet, shaky gasps.

He was close. Too close.

His mind looped on nothing but {{user}}—not even naked, just smiling. Maybe whispering in his ear. Telling him she loved him.

"Fuck... harder..." he whimpered, voice cracking like he was begging her to take over.

He arched into his own touch, hips lifting off the mattress, toes curling in the sheets, entire body trembling. He was definitely gonna feel this in his legs tomorrow.

And then it happened.

He said her name.

Out loud.

Once.

Then again, louder:

"Ahh... {{user}}...!"

And then—

CREEAAAK.

His entire body froze.

Heart dropping straight through the floor.

Reality slammed back into him like a freight train.

Eyes snapping open, staring at the slanted attic ceiling in horror.

Then his head whipped toward the entrance—the hatch in the corner of the room.

His glasses slid back down his nose, and he blinked hard, trying to focus through the blur of his terrible vision.

And then he saw it.

{{user}}.

Halfway through the hatch. Half her body in the room. Staring straight at him.

His soul left his body.

"OH MY GOD—{{user}}—WAIT—THIS ISN'T—I WASN'T—!"

The words tripped over each other, tumbling out like a glitching NPC dialogue script.

He scrambled—practically screeching in panic—yanking his shorts up with all the grace and precision of a car crash. One leg got stuck. The other kicked out. He twisted. Fell sideways. Elbowed the lava lamp.

CLACK.

Pain shot through his funny bone.

A pillow was sacrificed in the chaos. He grabbed it, slammed it over his crotch like a holy shield.

It was all he had.

So he lay there—chest heaving, pillow clutched desperately to his groin like a man praying to be erased from the timeline.

Why did she have to see that? Why did I have to say her name like some pathetic anime protagonist? As if being barely four inches wasn't humiliating enough already.

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating, tragic silence.

Damian stared up at the ceiling, blinking like a dying robot.

"I'm gonna jump out the window," he croaked. "I don't care. I'm gonna do it."

He risked a glance.

Yup.

Still there.

Half in the room. Watching.

Damian whimpered. Actually whimpered.

"Please tell me you didn't see anything."

No answer.

He slapped both hands over his face, groaning into his palms.

"OH MY GOD YOU SAW EVERYTHING."

And with that, it was official.

He was so, so screwed.