A few thoughts on…
A/N - Just some blasphemy I came up with today ;)
Tsvetan Borisov – Bulgaria
Alin Vasile - Romania
Tino Vainamoinen – Finland
'Frying pan poetry' is a blog Elizaveta runs together with Kiku, silently, secretly, it's their absolute guilty pleasure and they don't talk about it with anyone else. Many people in their classes follow the blog, posting mainly anon comments and questions, because the… subjects are rather delicate. But she knows they do, because she's been carefully listening to rumors and whispers.
Elizaveta and Kiku both prodigiously write so-called 'fanfiction', only the characters are not some fictional heroes but rather people they know. People everyone knows, which is why the blog is so popular. The characters are (of course!) never explicitly named, but an agile mind can see identity in clever descriptions. And the actions plastically described are hanging somewhere between 'could very well be true' and 'hell, they're surely doing it' - at least as far as rumors and whispers go, because Elizaveta and Kiku don't really care about the truth. And if their work can feed the gossips, even better.
Neither the Hungarian nor her friend have ever written themselves into one of their stories for obvious reasons – it's much too personal and besides, it's not like their readers don't have a very strong suspicion about who is the provider of their favorite entertainment. And the brunette has never thought about using her blog and skill for other purposes than entertainment either, until one day when she's had a bit too much palinka and it occurs to her to try and see just how much power their rumors hold, see if she could use her words, for example, to make all hell break loose.
There is someone she hates and despises endlessly, openly and almost with a passion. They throw insults at each other at every turn and she finds it quite satisfying too. She's never written anything about him and his alleged lover - because believe it or not she's actually 'fangirling' about what she writes, the reason her stories are always so savory is that she pours actual emotion into them, so writing about him in such a context (or in any context, for that matter) is normally unconceivable.
But last night, since she'd indulged herself a bit too much on the bottle she keeps hidden in a drawer, the brunette was getting some crazy ideas worth putting into words, so she did. She totally did. And it has been uploaded in the blog's document manager.
The literature analysis course is boring and much too quiet and Elizaveta's finger is itching to press the 'Post' button and share her work with the world. And she should too, because Roderich's been rather unpleasant lately and maybe his late night reads should provide an insight into what he's missing, and because she's heard that Tsvetan Borisov – the green-eyed Bulgarian with badass tattoos who has rudely rejected her advances in the first year – has once beaten an unfaithful lover to a pulp.
A grin creeps on Elizaveta's face as she turns to look at the strawberry blond sitting in the back of the hall, taking notes, unsuspecting and totally unaware of what's going to hit him. It's probably going to hit her too, but she doesn't care, right now she thinks it will be 'like totally' worth it. So she posts it, and it's not long before she hears the first muffled gasp.
Elizaveta feigns indifference as her finger glides down the screen of her phone lazily, scrolling down the already piling comments and kudos. Her work is, as usual, a success. Kiku even wrote a lengthy comment – it's anon but she knows it's him – praising both the quality of the text and the bold choice of characters. Mr. Vainamoinen keeps talking monotonously in front of the hall, but more and more people ignore him, checking their phones instead. Darn, she had no idea she had so many followers and the sudden discovery is rather scary.
The brunette looks over to Kiku, but the small Japanese is perfectly calm and unreadable, taking notes. However, the gentle and usually passive Finnish teacher has caught on that he's ignored even more than usual and makes an unexpected move, snatching the phone of someone sitting in the front row.
"I see," he says neutrally. "So this is the source of excitement, a short piece published on a… literary blog of sorts. Let's read and analyze it together, shall we? I'm always curious as to what interests my students," he adds with a small smile and Elizaveta's blood freezes in her veins.
"A few thoughts on hate sex
-by fryingpangirl21
I hate him and I want him. Perhaps it's one thing giving rise to the other, who knows? I don't care. What he can give me, and I him, no one else can give either of us. It's the danger, it's the excitement, the plain wrongness of what we're doing. In the damnedest sin, in the most profound darkness, we belong to each other.
It's late afternoon as I walk through the empty hallway to his room, the apparently innocent hours of the day when I know for sure that he's alone. His other is always out at this time, probably down at the gym, so I can have him all to myself.
Our lips meet the very moment he opens the door and his scent fills my nostrils, something addictive and as feral as the sharp teeth digging into my bottom lip. I shouldn't like this, he's got nothing of my other's sweet kisses, or of the way the other murmurs loving little nothings against my mouth between gentle touches. But I do.
As the door is closed and locked, like one's lips sealed over a dirty secret, I waste no time and hastily push him against the desk, making a pile of books collapse to the floor. He bites his own lip in anticipation, that sharp little tooth poking out enticingly as he does so. Slowly I lower myself on my knees, fingers caressing his sides until they're low enough to hook into the waistband of his jeans while I pop his button open with my tongue and pull the zipper with my teeth.
His light-colored bangs fall over widened eyes and he's nearly holding his breath while I nip down his happy trail and I smile naughtily before delivering the slightest bite to his hardened flesh. I tease him with my tongue slowly, up and down, on the underside and over the tip, because I enjoy torturing him and because I know he can't take it.
Indeed, soon enough his fingers fist into my long hair which reminds him of hot chocolate and he pulls me up forcefully, painfully even, to press his mouth against mine and taste a bit of himself on my lips. The straps of my dress are clawed off my shoulders as he guides me blindly towards the messy bed and we tumble together, bouncing on the mattress.
His fingers take the time to appreciate the smoothness of my pale skin as my legs wrap around his hips and the skirt is bunched up on my thighs. My own hands slip impatiently under the hem of his shirt, searching the soft skin under the fabric I want off of him so I can grip his bare shoulders and dig my nails in his back. Hungry lips nibble on my pulse point, then my collarbone and further down, teeth grazing my skin lightly as his torso is finally bare under my fingers, all mine to roam. We must be ever careful not to leave any marks, even as we're burning with the want to scratch and tear, to etch ourselves into the other's flesh for good.
There's a cheeky smile on his lips as he uses his teeth to tear the condom wrapper, ruby eyes boring into mine as I inhale sharply and shudder. I pull him down into a kiss as soon as he's eased himself into me and bite his mouth as hard as I can, drawing blood off his chapped lip. Yes, he's sticking to the no marks convention, but I can't help breaking it every now and then. He's mine to use for my guilty pleasure and I want him to keep it in mind.
Our bodies move in sync, roughly, greedily and even through the lustful haze is frighteningly obvious how well we fit each other, my breast in the cup of his warm hand, my mouth on his, my legs around his waist, my fingers tangled in his strawberry blond hair. He knows my body instinctively, all the right buttons to push, in and out, each thrust and each stroke bringing me closer to the brink of absolute pleasure. And when I finally cry out my ecstasy his name is on my lips, shamelessly, and I don't give a fuck who might hear me. He smiles smugly between pants as he hovers over me, leaning in to tug at my bottom lip with his teeth one last time. 'Whore' he calls me and I slap him across the face as hard as I can."
"Well…" the teacher says after finishing and drawing a purposefully deep breath. "Any thoughts on what we've just heard?"
Elizaveta turns her head slowly, slightly, as inconspicuously as she can, and looks towards the back, where Alin is sitting. Their eyes meet for a brief second, and then the Romanian looks down at his own phone and types something, biting his lower lip. Releasing a breath she didn't know she was holding, the brunette turns back and checks the comments section.
You WISH, fryingpangirl21 :) Also, Borisov doesn't go to the gym in the afternoon… he goes every Saturday after six.
-anon
Indeed, all hell is about to break loose.
THE END
A/N – Bottom line let me know if you want a chapter 2 and I might consider it….