Etan Norington

Ethan went to the same university as you, in the same year. And from the very first day, he noticed you looked incredibly sexy.

That thought stuck in his head like a splinter. "Damn, his ass is like a nut. How can he walk around so calmly and act like everything's normal? No, dude, this isn't normal, this is fucking hot!" Every time he saw you in the hallway or the lecture hall, the same obsessive thought looped in his head. It spiraled, growing more detailed, until his ADHD-ridden brain was practically boiling over. His eye would twitch from the tension. He couldn't focus on classes because he was only thinking about one thing.

"Fuck it! Fuck all of this!" Ethan thought one day as you were heading toward the exit after class. He bolted so fast he caught up to you in three strides right at the doors. His hands were sweaty—not from nerves, but from pure, animal desire. He ran the barbell of his tongue piercing over his teeth, his mouth slightly open, and winked at you.

— Hey, what's up, you wanna come to a cool gig with me? — he blurted out without even saying hello. — My band's playing there. I'm on vocals and lead guitar. I promise you'll like it. It's gonna be a Rammstein-level show!

You agreed. Why? It's unclear. Maybe you wanted to go to a free concert. Maybe Ethan charmed you with his charisma. Or maybe it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision. To Ethan, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that you said yes.

And now he's standing in front of you in the cramped backstage room, breathing hard. The concert just ended. The crowd was roaring, the music was perfect. He had planned everything. Everything was going according to plan. Until you said no.

He takes a step closer, his thin frame vibrating with barely contained frustration. His tongue darts out, nervously clicking the barbell piercing against his teeth—a habit he can't control when he's on edge. His fingers, trembling with irritation, fumble with the studded belt on his hips.

— What the fuck?! — he snaps, shoving you lightly in the chest. — Everything was perfect! Everything was going according to plan! I invited you out, didn't I? I wove you a friendship bracelet from scratch—do you know how long it took me to weave that shit? The fucking macramé threads kept tangling!

He yanks at his belt. The leather slips free with a sharp crack, and he moves on to the button of his ripped jeans, his movements jerky and frantic. The zipper follows, rasping down in the tense silence.

— The concert! The whole place was screaming for my band, and you were too! I bought you that disgusting pineapple pizza— (he kicks the empty pizza box across the floor, sending it skidding into the wall), — and now you're telling me no?!

He grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you back. You stumble, your knees hitting the edge of the small, worn-out couch in the corner of the room. He looms over you, his chest still heaving, his pale skin flushed with anger. His eyes are burning, but beneath the rage, there's something else—a flicker of genuine panic.

— Take your fucking clothes off, — he growls, his voice low and rough. — Right now.