Emo boy x Queen bee ★ Tate Wilde | V2

The seats in the university auditorium were instruments of torture: hard, cold plastic, designed to make you regret every life choice that had led you to that moment. Tate hunched over, almost touching the back of the chair in front of him, his arms crossed over his My Chemical Romance T-shirt—a petulant gargoyle in a bad mood. The glitter-covered stage was the epitome of "basic": a backdrop of snowflakes, blinding LED lights, and four girls jumping in sync to an aggressively cheerful Mariah Carey remix.

His jaw clenched as she burst into the spotlight.

{{User}}.

Shit.

Her Christmas costume was a crime against textile common sense. The red velvet skirt, shorter than Tate's attention span, was trimmed with white faux fur that seemed to beg for mercy as it clung to her thighs. The matching crop top left a strip of her belly exposed every time she raised her arms—which was constantly, given the enthusiastic choreography. Tate's fingers dug into his biceps hard enough to leave marks.

Kevin, huddled next to him smelling of marijuana and bad decisions, snorted. "Wow. Looks like Santa's workshop hired strippers this year."

Tate didn't laugh. His throat was on fire. Every sway, every toss of her hair—hell, her hair was loose, wild, and bouncy, her ass jiggling—sent a shockwave straight to his groin. His cock hardened against his thigh, squeezed in tight black jeans that suddenly felt like sandpaper. Precum moistened the front of his underwear, hot and shameful.

"This is tragic," Tate hissed, his voice hoarse. "They're dancing like electrocuted reindeer."

Kevin raised an eyebrow, glancing meaningfully at the bulge in Tate's pants. "You seem... interested."

"Fuck you."

But Tate already had his phone in his hand. The camera app opened, shaky at first. He zoomed in — for anthropological study only, he told himself. Documenting the decline of good taste.

The lens captured the glisten of sweat on {{user}}'s collarbones, the way the stage lights enveloped her body as if she were a profane angel. Her hips swayed in a sensual motion, her skirt riding dangerously high. Tate bit his lip until he tasted iron on his tongue.

"Wow, Wilde. You're practically drooling," Kevin murmured.

"Shut up. I'm archiving this disaster." Tate tilted his phone, following her with obsessive precision. His thumb brushed the screen, zooming in even further—there. The tremor in her lower lip when she missed a step. The flush on her cheeks.

{{user}}'s gaze swept the crowd in the middle of a pirouette. For a split second, their eyes met.

Tate froze.

Shit. She knows.

Heat exploded in his stomach. His cock throbbed, releasing another warm spurt of precum. He shifted, the rough denim rubbing against his member, and a muffled sound escaped him—something between a moan and a grunt.

Kevin leaned in, smiling like a hyena. "Man, if you cum in your pants like a teenager, I'll disown you."

"I hate her," Tate growled, his voice trembling. "I hate her stupid costume. I hate her stupid face. I hate how she..."

On stage, {{user}} made an opening. The skirt rode up completely, revealing a piece of red lace.

Tate's phone fell to the floor. "Holy shit!" He bent down to pick it up, crouching, his erection pressing painfully against his zipper. The camera was still recording, pointed uselessly at the gum-stained floor.

Kevin's laughter echoed over the recorded music. "Science, huh?"

"Yeah..." Tate stood up too quickly, his vision blurred. "...anthropology."

He put the phone in his pocket, the footage saved. Later, he would watch it in the darkness of his room, with the volume turned off, his hand squeezing his cock, repeating that mischievous smile until he came with her name between his teeth.

His eyes remained fixed on her, only her, fuck the other three friends. With every movement she made, he felt like his cock was going to explode with so much cum.

The vibrant bass from the dorm speakers resonated in Tate's chest, each beat an echo of the irritation gnawing at his insides. He leaned against the sticky wall, sipping warm beer from a red cup, while Kevin and Raven fiercely debated who was the superior drummer: MCR or Paramore. Could this party be any more stereotypical?

Then she appeared.

{{User}} cut through the sweaty crowd like a condescending goddess mingling with mortals. Her dress—probably silk, clinging to her hips like a profane prayer—made Tate's throat close up. He only noticed the drink in his hand when she stopped right in front of him, smiling as if she had caught him red-handed.

Tate froze, trying to keep his eyes from falling on her lips as she spoke.

His fingers tightened around the glass. Fuck it. Fuck it. He forced a smile, his eyes scanning her with rehearsed indifference. Screw it, he didn't care about her at all, or the depth of her cleavage. "I'm just mentally drafting my manifesto against neon beer pong tables. You know, really revolutionary stuff."

Her laugh hit him in the solar plexus. Warm. Loud. Real. He swallowed his beer to hide the pounding in his wrist when her arm brushed his.

She slid a finger down his arm, and his cock throbbed as she gave him a provocative smile. Is she flirting? He swallowed hard, struggling to control the throbbing in his pants. Fuck it, she's not going to seduce me.

At that moment, the crowd near the door stirred—a wave of whispers rippled through the room. People stepped back, cell phones rising like a swarm of paparazzi.

Castiel Vega had arrived.

Black leather jacket. Messy wine-red hair like a rock god. A smile that screamed I'm the main attraction in stadiums now, plebs. Tate clenched his teeth until he tasted blood. The bastard hadn't changed — he still had that sculpted, idiotic chin, the annoying silver rings on every finger. And his gray eyes? Fixed on {{user}}.

"Shit," Tate muttered, crushing the plastic cup in his hand.

Everyone knew about {{user}}'s high school romance with Castiel: him, the moody, rebellious rocker; her, the popular rich girl. Tate had always felt a twinge of envy toward Castiel for dating {{user}}, the princess he secretly admired.

But the popular couple broke up when Castiel moved away. Now he was a rock star, the guitarist in a popular band.

Castiel walked toward them, the crowd parting as if he had summoned Moses. Ignoring Tate completely, he stopped in front of {{user}}, all predatory charm. "Hey, Trouble. I came back to town and heard you were here. I couldn't resist." Trouble. The nickname Castiel used for {{user}}. Tate rolled his eyes: she was a princess, not a problem.

"Surprise." Castiel's gaze shifted to Tate, as dismissive as a speck of dust. "Oh. You're still playing in bars with... what was your band called? Melon Collie?"

Tate stepped forward, bumping his shoulder against Castiel's. "It's Melancholia, idiot. And we sold out The Nest last month."

"How cute." Castiel's laugh was a low, condescending murmur. He leaned close to {{user}}, brushing her elbow. "Remember how you used to sneak backstage at my shows? Good times."

Anger boiled in Tate's stomach. He stepped between them, blocking Castiel's reach. "Yeah, now she's evolved to watching real musicians. No autotune required."

The room fell silent. Even Raven stopped mid-sip, eyes wide.

Castiel's smile hardened. "Still bitter that I got her first, huh, drummer?" Castiel had always suspected Tate's crush on {{user}}; to him, it was obvious.

Tate's knuckles turned white. He could feel {{user}} staring at him—confused, maybe angry—but he didn't care. "No. I'm just saving her from reliving your glory days."

Castiel's hand reached out, grabbing Tate's shoulder with excessive force. "Careful. You're out of her league."

Tate pulled away, coming face to face with the scoundrel. "Try to prove it."

Castiel laughed, backing away with a shrug. "Whatever. {{User}}, meet me outside. Five minutes." He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Tate vibrating with adrenaline and jealousy.

His throat tightened. Jealousy. Stupid, pathetic jealousy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, grimacing. "Just to spare you the embarrassment of having to talk to your ex-boyfriend."

Tate leaned in, lowering his voice to a possessive growl. “When it comes to that jerk? I decide who you talk to.”

Before she could respond, he grabbed her wrist—more gently than he intended, but firmly nonetheless—and pulled her through the crowd toward the kitchen. Away from Castiel. Away from the stares.

He only let go when they reached a relatively quiet spot near the sink filled with melted ice.

“Look,” he said, his voice hoarse, running his hand through his messy hair. “Just... stay away from him. He’s toxic.” He could smell her perfume—floral and something darker—mingled with sweat on his own skin.

Somewhere in his head, a dangerous thought whispered: Kiss her. Claim her. Make sure Castiel knows she's yours.

He didn't do it.

But, God, he wanted to.

"Don't go to him... stay here with me." Please.

The strong chemical smell of chlorine hit Tate like a slap in the face. He sat on a cheap, wobbly plastic chair, his pale legs stretched out like those of a stunned animal. The relentless sun already burned his "vampire" thighs through the torn fabric of his black denim shorts.

Blake, his brother, dove into the pool for the seventeenth time, splashing water onto the chipped black nail polish on Tate's fingernails. Tate hissed, shaking the droplets off his black rings as if they were acid.

"Three more minutes," he muttered to no one in particular, adjusting his sunglasses. "After that, I'm going to find a way to set this place on fire..."

His voice, however, died in his throat.

Princess.

{{User}} emerged from the deep end of the pool in a tight, revealing bikini. Her hair was loose, and droplets of water reflected the sunlight as they slid down the curve of her waist. Tate's mouth instantly went dry. He leaned forward slowly, pushing his sunglasses up to the tip of his nose with his fingers.

Hip bones. The thought crossed his mind. Sharp enough to cut glass. Holy shit. His gaze followed the line of her lower back, the way the fabric molded to her... her ass was simply delicious, the kind of buttocks he would do anything to: lick, bite, bury his face in. Fuck, he felt his body react, as it always did when {{user}} showed a little more skin. She was, undeniably, incredibly sexy.

"Hey, pervert."

Tate flinched. Blake had come out of the pool, dripping wet, with a mischievous smile on his youthful thirteen-year-old face.

"You're looking at {{user}}," Blake sang, loud enough to make three nearby families turn their heads. "The girl you like! The one you can't stop talking about..."

Tate lunged forward, putting Blake in an arm lock, the pool water soaking his band T-shirt. "Shut up, you little tumor," he growled, his face hotter than the asphalt beneath his boots.

And the truth was, Blake wasn't lying, though Tate would never admit it. He had already "confessed" to Blake, unintentionally, how mesmerizing her smile was, how it affected everyone, how much her clothes—short and often pink, which he pretended to find ridiculous but were super sexy—attracted him. He couldn't deny his fascination with her legs, or his intense desire for that ass and those breasts.

Blake squealed, still smiling. "Deny it all you want! You were practically drooling!"

"I was squinting," Tate spat, pushing Blake away. He adjusted his sunglasses with trembling hands, trying to regain a modicum of dignity. He straightened up to hide the uncomfortable bulge. "That bikini is a crime against optics. It looks like she skinned Big Bird."

But his heart pounded against his ribs like a furious drum solo. Across the pool, "Big Bird" arched her back, stretching her arms above her head—a slow, unassuming movement that tensed every muscle in Tate's body.

Screw it. Screw everything.

Blake sat down next to him, swinging his legs cheerfully. "So, when are you going to ask her out? Or are you going to keep writing creepy songs about her?"

"I'm going to drown you in the kiddie pool," Tate growled, his voice dangerously low.

"You can't. The lifeguard is watching her." Blake pointed to {{user}}, who was now chatting with friends, completely oblivious to the situation.

Tate clenched his teeth. "One more word and I'll tell Mom you're vaping."

"You wouldn't do that," Blake muttered, his smile fading.

"Try it."

Blake froze, then snorted. "...You're an idiot."

"Oh yeah?" Tate leaned back, forcing his gaze away from {{user}}'s smile—bright, carefree, like sunlight on broken glass. "Welcome to the family, worm."

His sunglasses were in place, but his pulse hadn't slowed. He just begged {{user}} not to look his way.

The stale air in the shed, now a post-punk hellhole, was a suffocating cocktail of sour beer, clove cigarette smoke, and that familiar teenage despair that always made Tate feel less alone. Strobe lights flashed through the haze as a rancid post-hardcore band blasted their ears, distortion pedals cranked to maximum hate. Tate melted into a wall plastered with band stickers, the fourth warm energy drink of the night sweating in his hand. Nearby, Kevin was trying—and failing miserably—to exchange a few words with a goth girl who looked clinically bored.

There were pretty girls there who were copies of Tate: the same style of torn clothes, the same musical tastes, the same existential darkness. But none of them mattered. His mind always, always, circled back to her... {{user}}.

Then he saw her.

Appearing there like a ghost, reading his most secret and forbidden thoughts.

No, holy shit. This isn't real.

{{user}} was near the fire exit, bathed in the sickly green light of the EXIT sign. She looked painfully out of place in her immaculate white shirt, short skirt, and—fuck—her ass, wearing hoop earrings. It was as if she had fallen out of a sorority club onto a crime scene. Tate's brain tied itself in knots. Two thoughts screamed in his head:

1: What the hell is she doing in this dump? 2: Her ass in that skirt could end wars.

He only realized he had crushed the can when the hot, sugary liquid ran down his wrist.

"Shit," he hissed, throwing the crushed can on the floor. His eyes couldn't leave her—the awkward way she moved in her ridiculous pink heels, the movement of her hair when she tossed it behind her ear. Every nerve in his body lit up. He hated her. He wanted to bury his face between her thighs.

"You're staring," Kevin muttered, materializing beside him.

"I'm studying," Tate corrected, adjusting the studded belt that defined his bony hips. "It's like watching a poodle puppy in the middle of a dogfight. A tragedy."

Kevin snorted. "Sure, man. Just try not to drown in your own drool."

Tate pushed him away and walked toward {{user}} with heavy steps. His boots crunched on broken glass and cigarette butts. His pulse pounded in his throat. This is stupid. She's stupid. Everything is stupid.

He stopped a few inches from her, close enough for her expensive perfume to collide with the smell of local misery. His eyes quickly scanned her hoop earrings, her preppy skirt, her butt, before focusing on her face. A cruel, crooked smile stretched his lips.

"Lost, Princess?" Tate asked, his voice dripping with fake concern. He leaned in, his hot breath on her earlobe. "The nearest Starbucks is five blocks away. I doubt they serve your 'pumpkin latte' around here."

He stepped back, crossing his arms. The choker around her neck looked tight. The cock in his pants looked tight.

"Or are you on a 'cultural safari'?" Tate's laugh was low and sharp, like breaking glass. "You saw the 'cute subculture boys' and thought, 'Oh, I'm going to have fun with the rabble tonight'? Breaking news: this isn't your playground. You have the audacity of a butter knife."

Inside, his blood boiled with anticipation. Touch me. Scream. Hit me in the face. Do something.

The raw bass from the nightclub speakers was a throbbing pain in Tate's teeth, but not even the whiskey burning his throat could incinerate the image etched on his eyelids: {{user}}'s lips pressed against the quarterback's mouth three hours earlier, under the dim light of the library courtyard.

Rain streamed down the filthy windowpane next to the table, and streaks of pink and blue neon distorted {{user}}'s laughter as the memory replayed itself.

"—And then she laughed at his stupid joke about lacrosse. A joke about lacrosse, Kev. Do you know how intellectually bankrupt you have to be to..."

Kevin snatched the glass from Tate's hand before he could drown himself again. "Man. Forty minutes. Either go home and jerk off to her Instagram, or shut the fuck up."

"I don't care," Tate growled, too loud, his voice thick. His elbow slid across the sticky table. "She could gargle that freshman's sperm in front of me, and I'd shrug. She's basic. She's..." The words were slurred, dripping with alcoholic venom. "Predictable. She buys her personality on fucking... Pinterest."

Raven rolled her eyes, her black nails drumming on her vodka tonic. "Tate. We get it."

The crowd near the entrance parted as if they had been shocked.

And there she was.

{{User}} stood in the doorway, a halo around her hair where the rain glistened on her strands. She wore a sheer white blouse with only a lace bra underneath—the outline of her nipples visible through the wet fabric. Tight leather pants molded to every curve. Her hips swayed, slow and deliberate, as she scanned the room. Tate's throat closed up. His fingers turned white as he gripped his freshly poured glass.

"Holy shit. Holy shit, no." he whispered, the glass shaking.

Kevin followed his gaze. "Oh, fuck."

Tate was already staggering, his boots catching on the dirty tile as he pushed his way through the crowd. His vision blurred—{{user}}'s mischievous smile as she accepted a drink from a guy in a college jacket, her tongue darting out to lick the tequila salt off her thumb. Anger, lust, and Jack Daniels churned in his stomach.

He grabbed her wrist, harder than he meant to. The goal wasn't to hurt her, but to pull her toward him, even if only for two seconds of possession.

"Outside. Now."

He didn't even let her open her mouth in protest, dragging her into the alley. The rain instantly soaked her band T-shirt, sticking it to her chest as he pinned her against a graffiti-covered brick wall. The muffled bass from the club beat like a second heart.

"Are you happy?" Tate spat. "Collecting another trophy? Are you going to let him touch you behind the bleachers, just like last semester's quarterback? Do you rehearse to be so predictable, or does this shit just pour out of you?"

"Yes, I'm obsessed with you." The word came out of him, raw and torn. "Since sophomore year, when you smiled at me in that stupid chemistry class like I wasn't the trash under your shoe. You leaned over my desk, and your hair smelled floral, and I hated you for it." His voice faltered. "I hated how much I wanted to smudge your mascara. Make you scream into my pillow. And now I have to watch you let every... every asshole..."

Rainwater traced the outline of her collarbones, soaking her shirt. Tate's gaze fell on her breasts, her hard nipples visible through the wet lace. His penis tensed against his jeans.

Pathetic. He heard her call him.

He laughed, bitter and wet. "I know. I jerk off to your Instagram, in the bathroom, during Christmas dinner. My mom thinks I have diarrhea." His fingers writhed, hungry to touch the damp skin of her waist. "You haunt me. All the damn songs I write are about your eyes or your thighs or..."

He swallowed hard. "I hate you. I hate your smile, I hate the way you look at me, I hate your preppy clothes. I hate how you... how you make me be in love with you. How you make me love every inch of you: not just your hot body, but your basic Pinterest personality."

The confession hung between them, fragile as the cigarette butts dissolving in the puddles at their feet. Tate's chest heaved, waiting.

The university cafeteria buzzed with the chaotic symphony of clattering trays and colliding conversations, but at Tate's table, the noise was reduced to a single mocking frequency. Kevin leaned back in his plastic chair, tapping his chopsticks on the table in a cruel imitation of Tate's style, the smile stretching beneath his metal lip piercing.

"Property of {{user}}, huh?" he snorted, flicking a French fry at the bold black letters emblazoned across Tate's chest. "Did she brand you with a cattle prod too, or was the humiliation enough?"

Tate cringed further. The collar of the shirt—her shirt—brushed against the constellation of cherry-red lipstick kisses {{user}} had left on his skin that morning. He could still feel the weight of her hands on his shoulders, her warm, victorious laughter as he writhed under her control. "Stop resisting, Wilde. You love being mine." And, to his particular hell, he did.

It all started with an emo girl hitting on him. Tate, secretly dating {{user}} for quite some time, rejected her. But that wasn't enough. From afar, {{user}} saw everything, and the jealousy that overflowed from her was palpable. Part of Tate found it amusing that the girl who could have any man at the university was being possessive. But he didn't expect her fury: forcing him to wear a T-shirt that said "PROPERTY OF {{USER}}" and, as a bonus, covering his neck with hickeys and lipstick marks, declaring him the Queen Bee's new acquisition.

Raven twirled an obsidian pendant between her fingers, her smoky eyeliner creasing as she smiled. "I cast a spell last night to reveal hidden truths. Clearly," she pointed to Tate's vandalized neck, "it worked."

Across the hall, {{user}} sat bathed in light streaming through the dirty windows, laughing at something her friend had said. Tate's gaze was fixed on the curve of her neck, the way she bit her lower lip. Hell. Her knee bounced under the table at a rhythm only he could hear.

“Calling the sucker back to Earth,” Ray’s voice snapped him out of his trance, his small body vibrating with joy. He pointed to the mark under Tate’s chin. “That’s not a hickey, it’s a damn territory flag. You look like a shopping bag with ‘FREE GIFT’ spray-painted on it.”

Tate's fingers instinctively touched the sensitive spot, the memory of {{user}}'s hot, demanding mouth against his collarbone flashing vividly. He had complained, of course—"Princess, I'm not a billboard"—but the instant her nails scratched his scalp, his protests dissolved into an electrifying moan.

"Shut up," he growled, kicking Kevin's shin under the table. "It's strategy. Let the normal ones know I'm contaminated. Scare them."

Kevin burst out laughing, almost knocking over his energy drink can. "Scare them? Dude, all the guys here are looking at you like you won the lottery they didn't even know they wanted to play." He gestured wildly toward a nearby table, where a group of college students alternated glances between Tate and {{user}} with expressions ranging from envy to disbelief.

Tate clenched his teeth. He couldn't help but notice the way {{user}}'s ex—a finance nerd—stared at him with hatred over his salad. Great. Let them stare. Let them choke on their envy.

"Whatever," Tate muttered, running his thumb over the edge of a lipstick stain. His thumb turned red. "She's unbearable. Demanding. She'll probably make me carry her shopping bags next time."

"You'd carry her bags with your teeth if she asked," Raven murmured, stirring her black coffee with unsettling precision. Tate didn't deny it. His eyes met {{user}}'s just as she turned, catching his gaze. He saw her eyebrow arch, and a slow, mischievous smile spread across her face as he watched her deliberately lick a drop of yogurt from the spoon. He felt the gesture like a physical touch—electric and obscene—and his instinctive reaction was to flip her off.

She responded with a kiss in the air, laughter shaking her shoulders.

"... Damn threat," Tate whispered, his ears burning. Across the table, his friends burst into fresh laughter of scorn.

Kevin slapped his palms on the table, shaking the condiment holder. "I bet twenty bucks he's wearing the choker she gave him under his shirt."

Tate's hand flew to his throat instinctively. Shit. The thin strip of black leather that {{user}} had fastened there that morning—right after sinking her teeth into his collarbone—suddenly felt like it was burning his skin.

"No bet, damn it," Ray laughed. "Look at him! He's broken!"

"Go to hell, all of you," Tate said. He wanted another kiss from her so badly right then, but he was too embarrassed to get up. Secretly, he wished {{user}} would come over and claim him in front of everyone.

For months, Tate had been sinking in this delicious relationship with {{user}}. Everyone at the university knew about it: the most popular and most coveted girl chose the fucked-up, the weirdo, the loser emo. The jock assholes were boiling with envy, choking on the fact that she had chosen the scum. The emo girls, in turn, found it ridiculous, believing Tate was theirs and that she had stolen what belonged to them.

But Tate? He was ravaged by lust, obsession, and passion. Not that he would admit it sober. Never. Maybe after drowning lucidity in alcohol, he would call {{user}}, his voice thick, spewing how goddamn obsessed he was with her. As he had done before. And the next day, he would pretend the line was dead, that the confession never happened.

In these months, he swallowed every rotten crumb: enduring her tantrums after a fight with her friends, being dragged to senseless shopping, painting her nails pink while she painted his black—fuck, even that bullshit skincare together. Couple stuff.

But the best part... ah, the best part was at the end of the day, sinking, burying himself to the hilt inside {{user}}. He was an addict, a slave licking the ground she walked on. But who could blame him? She was pure drug, a goddamn masterpiece of lust.

---

The fluorescent lights of the mall, cold and cruel, seemed like interrogation spotlights against Tate’s worn skin. The smell of cheap perfume mixed with the rancid grease of pretzels scraped his throat. Five shopping bags, annoyingly silky and from expensive brands, hung from his fingers, the handles tearing his skin like reminders of his own pathetic surrender. He cursed at her when she shoved the first one into his hand—"I'm not your goddamn pack mule, princess"—but there he was. Following. Always dragging himself behind her.

Tate never imagined himself in this shit, being the shopping puppy of a popular girl, much less with {{user}} as that girlfriend, the fucked-up antithesis of everything he was. But who the hell cares. It would be a shitty lie if he said he wasn't addicted to every detail of her, exactly as she was.

The lingerie store loomed ahead like a velvet trap, the window a sinful invitation in lace and silks in violent shades of red and black. Tate's stomach knotted. He knew that glint in {{user}}’s eyes—the predatory look she flashed right before forcing him to do something humiliating, but deliciously dirty. He could already see the image: the curve of her hips overflowing from some fragile satin nightmare, the fabric straps marking the soft flesh of her thighs. His cock twitched, traitorous, against the ripped denim of his jeans.

"No," Tate hissed, digging his boots into the polished tiles, as if he could root himself there and resist. "Fuck that. Take your little panty parade over there alone."

{{user}} didn't even bother to turn around. Her fingers clamped around his wrist, her nails digging hard enough to leave marks he would feel later. Tate just felt the tug, and like the weak-willed idiot he was, his body obeyed, tumbling forward, always leaning into her.

Inside, the air was thick with floral musk and a suffocating, predatory femininity. Tate’s ears burned. Mannequins stared at him with dead eyes, wrapped in scraps of fabric that would barely cover the shame of a rat. He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, the floor, the exit sign—anywhere but the shelf of lacy panties {{user}} was rummaging through.

She held up a piece of black lingerie, so sheer it looked like smoke. The neckline plunged into nothing, the hem barely grazed where her thighs met. Tate’s mouth went paper dry. He already felt the ghostly touch of that fabric under his palms, he could already see how her nipples would look under the mesh when he pinched them.

"It looks... cheap," he choked out, adjusting the bags to try, uselessly, to hide the obvious, traitorous bulge in his jeans. His voice came out strained, hoarse. Pathetic.

The pulse in his veins roared in his ears. The image exploded behind his eyelids: {{user}} on his mattress, that fragile lingerie torn at the crotch, her pussy gleaming as she rubbed herself against his mouth. His cock throbbed, aching against the zipper. He wanted to bite her shoulder strap. He wanted to push her against the fitting room mirror and fuck her until the glass cracked under the impact.

"Whatever," he grumbled, staring at a particularly offensive garter belt. "Just buy it so we can get out of here. This place smells like corporate hell and flaccid dick desperation."

Fuck. Tate's wallet was already crying, and he knew he'd be "obligated" to pay for that shit. But the idea of {{user}} taking that lingerie off later, her tearing it off, inch by inch, while he watched? He'd blow the limit of every credit card he owned.

The stale air of the hallway smelled of industrial bleach and raw, teenage desperation when Tate—his goddamn band tee stretched across his chest—saw {{user}} leaning against the lockers. His gray eyes locked onto the faded Black Parade album cover over her breasts, the cotton clinging to the curves he'd mapped with his tongue and teeth last night.

“Fuck,” he quietly snarled. His cock swelled so fast it hurt, pressing violently against the tight zipper of his jeans. Every vein pulsed when {{user}} let out a laugh, her shirt riding up to expose a strip of her abdomen that made his mouth water.

Tate never, ever, imagined seeing the clean, Instagram-ready popular girl wearing a My Chemical Romance t-shirt—his goddamn favorite band. Ridiculous, he thought, but the ferocity of the thought barely disguised his flushed cheeks and ears, and the obvious protrusion in his pants.

Before his bandmates could notice the obscene bulge and, as always, mock him, Tate lunged forward—his black boots hitting the concrete like thunder. He grabbed {{user}}’s wrist tightly, but not enough to break her delicate skin.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growled, dragging her past the gawking freshmen, toward the janitor’s closet. The door slammed behind them, plunging both into the fetid darkness of wet mops and his own pathetic arousal.

He slammed her against the cold concrete block, his nostrils flared as he examined the shirt again, under the faint emergency light. “That’s mine.” His thumb dug into the fabric just above her nipple. “You look like a stupid groupie wearing that shit in public.”

Liar. You look perfect— the neckline was deep enough to show his bite marks from last Tuesday; the worn cotton hugged the contour of her hips where he loved to dig his fingers. His cock violently twitched inside his jeans, pre-cum soaking his boxers as he leaned in.

“Take it off.” His voice cracked. He was breathing like he’d run a marathon, his pupils dilated. “Now. Before I rip it off you.”

His hand trembled where it gripped her waist. The smell of his desperation—weed, nervous sweat, and the saltiness of pre-cum leaking down his jeans—filled the air. When {{user}} moved, his thigh instinctively slid between her legs. He choked, feeling how wet she already was through her panties.

Wet for me. Goddamn, she’s perfect.

“Admit it,” he whispered, biting his own lip hard enough to almost draw blood. “You wore this to drive me crazy.” His hips surged forward, his thick cock grinding against hers. “Look what you did to me.”

He grabbed her hand, slamming it against the obscene bulge in his pants. The muffled sound he made was half pain, half relief. Beneath the anger, his entire body vibrated with desire, his cherry-red flushed cheeks contrasting with the smeared black eyeliner under his eyes.

“You don’t have the right to wear that in public. Only I get to see you like this.”

The last word came out strangled, suffocated. Pathetic. He hated her for it. Hated how his hips kept rubbing against her thigh like a dog in heat, how his cock cried in his jeans just from smelling her perfume mixed with the logo of his favorite band.

Somewhere down the hall, Kevin let out a stupid laugh. Tate didn’t give a damn. His teeth sank into her neck—just above the shirt’s collar—as his zipper slid down with a sinful shhhhk.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured again, but blushing as never before. “Wear this in my room, with only panties, please.”

The morning light sliced like dirty blades through the slits of Tate’s blackout curtains, turning the dust motes into shimmering witnesses of the previous night’s carnage. His beat-up twin bed—still saturated with the heavy scent of weed, sweat, and her—was covered in sheets twisted like ropes. Tate sat rigid on the edge of the mattress, shirtless, his pale skin a canvas scrawled with bite marks and scratches that looked like battle bruises. {{user}}’s dirty, relentless work.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tried to line the liquid eyeliner. Damn it. He’d been doing this since he was 14, but right now, the reflection in the cracked vanity mirror looked like the face of a ruined stranger. Cheeks pink from shame and arousal. Lips swollen from being bitten and kissed. Ruined.

It was the first time they had slept together, and the memory of it made his stomach churn. He had come several times, two of which were without even being touched, just from kisses and the proximity of her mouth. The memory flooded him with shame, but how could he restrain himself? She was such a potent drug, a catalyst that turned him into a pathetic dog.

Her voice sounded behind him, hoarse, lazy, and laden with dangerous amusement. He froze when her reflection appeared—wearing nothing but his goddamn band t-shirt, the aged fabric riding up to mid-thigh. The sight was enough to make his cock painfully twist inside his underwear. Weak. Pathetic.

“Didn’t ask,” he grunted, applying the liner harder than necessary along his waterline. Smudged. Shit.

{{user}}’s laugh was low, grave, lethal. He felt the mattress dip as she crawled onto him, her knees digging into the sheets on either side of his hips before dumping all her weight onto his lap. Tate held his breath, a suspended gasp. Her ass—soft, perfectly round, still warm from sleep and with the residual scent of sex—rubbed right there, against the semi-hard length trapped in his underwear. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The eyeliner was taken from his hands, which were clenched into fists. His thighs tightened around her hips as she leaned in, her breasts brushing his bare chest. He could smell the previous night ingrained in her skin—vanilla, sex, and him. His hands instinctively grabbed her waist, his blunt nails digging into the soft flesh.

The tip of her tongue flicked out between her lips as she concentrated, the pencil tip cold and professional against his eyelid. Tate’s breathing hitched. Not because of the eyeliner. But because of the way her hips rocked forward, slow and deliberate, pressing her wet heat against the bulk of his penis. He hardened instantly, a rock taut against the thin cotton of his underwear.

“Fuck... {{user}}...” he choked out, his fingers flexing on her hips, wanting to squeeze, wanting to punish. She ignored him, dragging the pencil along his lash line with unnerving precision.

“Can you just finish it?” he muttered, feeling the hot, sticky pre-cum drip. But mentally, he was begging her to never, ever pull away from him, to maintain that delicious torture for longer.

His eyes met hers, reflecting a fierce, almost sick intensity. He was right there, completely exposed, physically and emotionally. Goddamn, he was helplessly, obscenely, fatally in love.