Author's note: This is the Humanstuck High School AU I wrote for my New Year's present. Be warned that Equius uses terrible classist language, and that he can't talk about sex without awkward euphemisms. Also, there is some sex in this story.

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Equius still didn't understand how someone like her could presume he could be interested in… well, someone like her. He came from a good family, he was the best wrestler in Alternia High, he took advanced placement classes to prepare for his degree in Engineering, he went to church every Sunday, in short, he was an all-round respectable person. Whereas her – a sad mistake of her white trash parents, flipping burgers at Happy Wriggler in the evenings to pay for her schoolbooks, and what's worse, she aspired to be, of all things, an archaeologist, as if she didn't know that she will end up a filthy half-dead junkie living in a trailer with five children by the age of thirty, leeching on welfare like her sort always did. How could she even imagine that someone like him would even spare a glance for her filthy, inferior self? The fact that he was at the moment obediently following her into an empty classroom, soaked with sweat and shaking with confused want – well, that didn't matter.

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It was all Gamzee's fault – no, of course it wasn't his fault, despite his regrettable eccentricities Gamzee was an admirable and respectable young man from an admirable and respectable family, and Equius would never blame his betters for anything. Not even if they painted their face white and used utterly despicable language. It wasn't Gamzee's fault, it was the fault of whoever talked Gamzee into starting a stupid, frivolous drama club. Equius never would have been involved of his own free will, especially since they were staging an irreverent modernisation of the Sufferer's legend, but Nepeta dragged him along, jumping in place and babbling excitedly about how much fun it's going to be, let's do it just this once, please-please-purr-lease. He had to say yes, but he categorically refused to become one of the fools who pranced around in costumes – instead he helped build sets. He was fine with the tasks Gamzee set him, making trees out of plywood and creating life-size horse-puppets, but things suddenly stopped being fine once Assistant Director Megido showed up. She was wearing tasteless red shoes and a trashy scarlet shirt with the picture of a cogwheel on it, and Equius already hated her.

'Who's the strongest here?' she asked, without saying hello. 'Oh, Zahhak. Could you please lift that bench and turn it to face away from the audience? Thank you.'

He bristled at her familiar tone, but he did as he was told, because he didn't want to hold up the rehearsal, hoping that the smoother it went, the faster he could get home. It was the biggest mistake of his life, because from then on, she apparently believed she was allowed to make him do all the heavy lifting around the sets and rehearsals. There was a lot of that, and all of it was coordinated by Miss Megido, since Gamzee, the director proper, failed at providing instructions any more specific than 'just up and do that shit all awesome-like'. So she wanted lots of things done, she wanted him to do most of them, and what was even more alarming, she gradually stopped saying 'please'. She just said 'Tree to the left, Zahhak. Chairs to the right. Get that box offstage, Zahhak. Pull that rope. Come here. Stay there.' The worst was that she didn't talk to him in a particularly strict or authoritative tone – she sounded casual and conversational, as if giving orders didn't go against her very nature, and obeying them didn't go against his. He kept building and rebuilding and carrying and lifting stage equipment, quietly seething all the while, thinking that if all was right with the world, he would be the one to give her orders, telling her stack the chairs and clean to floor and pick up Gamzee's discarded Faygo bottles. Every time he went to assist at a rehearsal he felt so much loathing he could hardly bear it, but at the same time, he found himself waiting for her to give him another order just so that he could continue to wallow in that shivery, gut-clenching rage. But back then, he still didn't know how much trouble he was in.

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The really troubling part came when he was carrying the larger-than-life imperial trident on stage. Unfortunately the scene they were going through was Vantas's big monologue, and he must have forgotten his lines again, because he let out a long string of words Equius didn't feel like repeating – words he wouldn't even admit to knowing. He was so angry at that insufferable little twerp, and so embarrassed to hear such lewd language, he felt that he was starting to sweat, and he had to clench his fists to keep from punching something. He heard a quiet little crunch.

'What the hell are you doing?' cried Assistant Director Megido.

The imperial trident, a complicated creation of papier maché and golden foil, painstakingly handmade by Miss Peixes herself, lay on the floor snapped in two.

'I refuse to respond to such improper language.' Said Equius in righteous indignation.

'You are going to respond to me when I ask if you managed to break the trident.' She stated, stepping closer to the stage. 'And you did. Zahhak, for God's sake, do you know how much work Feferi put into that? Now we're going to have to redo it for the next rehearsal, and the money's going to come out of the production budget. I'm not OK with that. I'm not OK with that at all.'

He could not believe she was actually scolding him. The feeling was entirely unfamiliar, and unpleasant in an almost pleasant way. He felt sweat trickle down his back.

'It was Vantas…'- he started hesitantly.

'Don't even try to pin this on Vantas.' Continued Miss Megido, without raising her voice. 'He was yards away from the damned thing, and you know it. We can fix a broken trident, who cares, but trying to blame our most hard-working actor for it is just childish. Childish and pathetic.'

Equius tried to come up with a retort, but his mind seemed to run in circles. Aradia Megido had called him pathetic. Aradia Megido of public housing the and the subsidized lunches and the hand-me-down clothes, Aradia Megido of the inferior class and loose morals, Aradia Megido with the warm-black eyes and red-painted nails, Aradia Megido was calling him pathetic. What next, would she tell him he should clean up the mess he made? Would she make him get down on his knees and gather up the flakes of papier maché? Would she kick him while he was down and tell him he deserved it, the pathetic, disgusting brute he was?

She did none of those things. She just kept staring at him with a puzzled, inquisitive frown. He knew that sweat plastered his black hair to his forehead, and that his white T-shirt was soaking wet too, and he knew that she obviously saw that. And if she saw that…

'Sorry.' He wheezed, and ran. He hurried to the nearest rest room, locked himself into a cubicle and shoved a hand down his pants. He took care of matters as quickly as he could, failing not to imagine her dispassionate voice telling him how useless he was, how badly he had messed up, what a filthy, sick, depraved… He came to the thought of her eyes on him, and as he was gasping for breath, trying to clean himself up, he still tried to tell himself this only happened because he was worked up over the play. He was starting to wish the entire play to – excuse his language – heck.

He really wanted deal with this the way he usually dealt with his problems – by asking Nepeta to come over for a feelings jam, and telling her the entire thing. But this time, he wasn't entirely sure what he should tell her. That he hated Aradia Megido? That he found it utterly distasteful that she presumed to give him orders, and yet those audacious words left her mouth as naturally as if she had been born to say them? That he caught himself listening with bated breath as she was telling Feferi to stop chewing the scenery or giving Karkat advice on pronunciation, hoping that she will need him to do something? That he kept waking up drenched in sweat or worse, and he had to resort to cold showers multiple times a day to avoid giving in to his weakness as he did back in the school rest room? That he kept telling himself in vain that he should be concentrating on wrestling practice or homework or church or anything other than the infuriating glimpse of Aradia Megido's skinny ankles peeking out from underneath that disgusting pretend-ragged black skirt? No, this was definitely not something Nepeta should know about – he would probably tell her once this shameful whatever-it-was passed. In the meanwhile, he decided to break his knuckles bloody on the punching bag, drink a wholesome glass of milk, and take a much-needed shower.

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It only got worse in the days leading up to the premier. Eridan decided he was unfairly passed over for the lead role and sulked, Gamzee had a freakout and disappeared, and the least said about Vriska's antics, the better. Despite Equius's slightly gleeful hope for its failure, the actual play went down without a hitch – Karkat managed to recite his grand monologue with superb emotion and hardly any swearing, Sollux didn't miss a cue on the lights, and Feferi made a surprisingly good villain. Even Tavros managed to say his lines without stuttering: Gamzee said it was a miracle, but then again, Gamzee said that about everything. Maybe it was the relief of the entire ordeal being over, maybe it was the infectiousness of Nepeta's enthusiasm, but Equius allowed himself to be dragged to the afterparty.

Equius hated parties, or to be more precise, thought that they were below him. (Or to be even more precise, he never knew what to do with himself.) He couldn't hold onto Nepeta, because she almost immediately ran over to play Twister with Vantas's group, and that was a foolish, degrading game he would never consider joining. He could have talked to Gamzee, but Gamzee was intent on bringing shame on his family's name, as he was engaged in the worst rap battle Equius had ever seen, and with none other than that wretched Nitram. Even Miss Peixes, who was normally so level-headed and responsible, was dancing to dubstep remixes of Disney songs with unseemly abandon. Equius noted with a sort of disappointed relief that Miss Megido was absent from the event, grabbed a seemingly non-alcoholic beverage that tasted like cheap orange juice, and went to stand near the wall, doing his best to look tall and looming in the hope that he will at least unnerve some of the people who have elected to spend the evening in senseless debauchery.

'Aren't you going to join the party?' asked a voice to his right. He glanced at her, then startled – it was Megido, but he must have been so invested in glaring at the dancers that he hadn't see her walk in. She had changed out of the battered jeans and T-shirt she wore while running around backstage, and was now wearing a strange, form-fitting dress in a shiny, metallic colour. It made her look like a robot, but not in an unattractive way – not like a run-of-the-mill worker robot, more like an exquisite construct designed to service customers in an expensive establishment, sliding to her metal-jointed knees as she… No, stop it. Stop that thought right there.

'Aren't you going to join them?' she repeated, a little bit louder.

'I don't plan to.' He replied gruffly. 'Only here because of Nepeta.'

'Oh, good.' She said. 'I actually hoped you weren't busy, I wanted to talk to you for a second.'

'Yes?' he asked, with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread.

'Well, I know we haven't spoken much before this play-' she began, hesitantly. 'but I wanted to thank you. You have been a tremendous help. I am sure I would have managed somehow, but everything went so much faster with you doing the dirty work for me.'

'Excuse me?' he snapped. 'Do I look like somebody who would be doing dirty work for anyone, especially someone like you?'

'Well, yeah.' She answered, uncomprehending. 'You did spend the last two months carrying fake trees around, didn't you?'

She had a point. But to have it said aloud like that, it was unthinkable.

'Are you saying you enjoyed ordering me around?' he asked, his voice dropping into the hoarse whisper all his wrestling opponents have learned to fear. 'That you were glad that you got someone like me obeying you?'

He expected her to deny it. He didn't expect her to laugh.

'Enjoy is a strong word.' She chuckled. 'But I guess I did like having you at my beck and call.'

He couldn't answer, he had to wipe his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, just to realise he was wearing a sleeveless muscle-shirt, and smear sweat into his eyes.

'Wow, I didn't know you could blush.' She said. 'What did I say?'

'You said you liked giving me orders.' He croaked. 'Can you believe how intolerable – how inappropriate that is?'

She opened her mouth to snap a retort, she closed it, and she looked him with a strange, attentive appraisal, as if she had never seen him, or seen his like, ever before.

'You think you can control me, you think you can humiliate me like that?' he demanded, meaning to sound threatening, but sounding out of breath instead.

'Oh.' She said simply, then after a long moment of consideration, she added. 'Yes.'

'Yes what?' he asked, confused.

'Yes, I can control and humiliate you like that.' She said matter-of-factly.

'I cannot believe you presume – that you dare – that you can even conceive of such an idea!' he rasped, fighting against the strange, drunk exhilaration rising in him. 'I'll have you know that I am – '

'Quiet.' She said, uncertain, as if she was only trying the word out. But he fell silent immediately, and he could do nothing to disguise the shudder that ran through him at the first open order she gave him that evening.

'Sit.' She said, with a bit more confidence, and pointed at a chair a few feet away. He sat down unthinkingly.

'Stand.' She said, and by now she almost sounded gleeful. He jumped to his feet. The rational part of his mind knew that the other people at the party didn't know what he was doing, and that sitting in a chair was something most people would find entirely innocent. However, the rational parts of his mind were overshadowed by the parts that wanted to punch Megido before she started to talk again, the parts that wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to tell him what to do, the parts that were acutely aware of the shaking in his legs, the flush in his cheeks and the sweat soaking through every single item of clothing he was wearing, not to mention the parts that told him to find some quiet place post-haste where he could take care of things, and then hide until this all went away, which admittedly might take the rest of his life.

'Ok.' She said, and this was her decisive, authoritative, assistant director voice. Her order-giving voice. 'I'm going to find an empty classroom on the third floor.'

She started walking without waiting for his answer, and he followed, hating her for it, hating everyone and everything that put him in this situation, but most of all, hating himself.

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Once they were in the empty room, with a desk pulled in front of the door, his pride reasserted itself, and he made one last attempt at saving face. He did so by grabbing Miss Megido by the waist, lifting her and placing her on top of a desk. She was just a girl, a filthy girl from a filthy family, and no matter how much she scared him, she belonged on her knees in front of him, or laid out underneath him, the way it was right. He knew he had his strength, he knew he had his weight, he knew this was what real men did, even though he had never particularly felt the need to do it before. So he pinned her on the desk with his body, feeling the shape of her breasts pressing against him, and the bony length of her legs between his. It didn't feel too good. He pushed her down, he kissed her neck the way he saw on a film, then wondered what he should do next, since he only saw five seconds of that film before he felt too embarrassed and changed channels. He steeled himself, and put a hand on her right breast.

He froze when he looked at her face. It was utterly expressionless, not showing the slightest sign of either enjoyment or fear. When she saw that he was looking right at her, she rolled her eyes, and pulled up one corner of her mouth in a grimace that seemed to say 'seriously?' He was still lying on top of her, his hand on her breast, and the moment dragged on and on.

'Isn't his what you wanted?' he ground out.

'This isn't what you wanted.' She stated, and he couldn't find it in himself to disagree with her. He climbed off of her as carefully as he could, and he watched her sit up, hop off the desk and smooth the wrinkles on her dress.

'Pick up that desk.' She commanded.

He did, without hesitation. It was one of the older two-person desks, made out of wood and metal instead of plastic, and even he found it a little heavy. But the relief he felt at doing what she told him was overwhelming.

'Raise it above your head.' She added. 'Keep it there until I tell you to stop, and don't move. Now I'm going to tell you a few things.'

He had spent an hour a day in the gym for as long as he could remember. Raising an upside-down desk above his head wasn't going to pose a problem, not even with absurdly sweaty hands. Not even with her stepping closer, too close, right into his personal space, and trailing a hand down his chest.

'When you jumped me like that, I thought I had the wrong idea about you.' She mused, her fingers playing absently with the hem of his shirt. 'But now I see you had the wrong idea about you. You had no idea what you were doing back there, did you?'

Equius didn't answer, he didn't know if he was allowed to speak, and since her fingernails started drawing lazy circles on his pectorals, he wasn't entirely sure that he retained his ability to do so.

'That's right, don't answer, it was a rhetoric question.' She continued. 'By the way, if you were to kiss a girl's neck, you would go about it somewhat like this.'

She leaned in to press her lips to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She did it again, and again, he could feel her breath on his skin, warm and ticklish, and he thought he was braced against what would happen next, but he still had to bite back a yelp at the first touch of her tongue. He focused all his willpower on holding the desk above his head, forcing his quivering arms to remain unbending as her lips, tongue and teeth worked their way up the sensitive skin of his neck, ending in a biting little kiss on the hinge of his jaw.

'I hope you have been paying attention.' She said cheerily. 'There might be a test later. Now let's see…'

She returned her attention to his chest, with slow and exploratory caresses. He gripped the desk tighter, and hoped against hope that she wouldn't look down and notice how much this was affecting him.

'You know, if I wanted to flatter you, I could compare you to some old statue.' She said, her hands still making their way down his chest. 'Greek or roman. But this time, flattery wouldn't get me anywhere but where I'm already are.'

He knew he should have expected it, but he was still shocked when her hand reached – down there. His hips were bucking into her palm of their own volition before his brain grasped the situation enough to be mortified.

'Zahhak.' She groaned, taking her hand away. 'I only gave you two orders. One was to hold the desk up. What was the other?'

'Don't move.' He said, ashamed.

'That's right.' She said. 'And you did what?'

'I moved.' He admitted.

'And why did you move?' she demanded.

He couldn't answer. He could feel his throat working, but no words came out. The desk seemed a lot heavier than it had been in the beginning.

'I asked you why you moved.' She repeated.

'Because it felt good.' He muttered miserably.

'What did?' she asked, wide-eyed, as if she didn't see and feel how hard he was.

'Your hand.' He breathed, hardly audible.

'My hand?' she said, with a laugh. 'I hope so. Now put the desk down.'

He did, and flexed his fingers to make them stop tingling.

'Now turn around, undo your belt, and bend over the desk.'

He wanted to protest, but the mix of shame, pleasure and indignation that her voice aroused in him interfered with his ability to make coherent sounds. So he turned around, wrenched his belt open, and bent down over the desk. Without his belt to hold it up, his pants pooled around his ankles. He could hear Megido taking a few steps closer, then she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and eased them down with impersonal precision. He could feel open air against his naked backside, and the smooth, cold wood of the desk against his front. She made a noise that may have been appreciative – he couldn't without seeing her her face.

'You are getting this one because you disobeyed an order.' She said, and then the first slap came. The pain was negligible, he's had a lot worse, after all, he was a wrestler. But to be exposed like this, chastised like this, it was nothing like the easy victories and rare defeats on the mat.

'You are getting this one because you climbed on top of me without asking if I wanted it.' The second slap was sharper than the first, jolting him against the table, and he couldn't swallow a groan.

'You are getting this one because you tried to fuck me without asking yourself if you wanted it.' Another slap, another jolt of pleasure. Then nothing. Why did she stop hitting him? He was panting, it was shameful, he didn't care, he stuck his behind out at her, trying to ask for more without having to say it.

'And you are getting the next twelve because you are so obviously gagging for it.' She said, and the slaps came hard and fast and merciless, leaving him stinging and smarting and leaking and as wrecked as he had never been.

'And you are getting this' she said, 'for taking your punishment like a good boy.' She patted his aching behind, and then he felt a saliva-slick finger stroking him – right there. He tensed up at the idea of such a depraved act, but she called him a good boy again until relaxed. Her entering him in such a sick way - it felt utterly filthy, and he knew he deserved it, to be debased in such an utterly filthy way by someone so utterly filthy. But he promised himself that he wouldn't make a sound, that even if he was shivering half-naked on top of a desk, he would retain the dignity of silence. He managed to hold his voice when her finger slid all the way in, or when she added a second one, but when she twisted them and a flood of bright pleasure hit him, he started babbling without his own volition. He didn't know what he was saying, but there were lots of 'please's in there, lots of 'yes's, and lots of words so bad he should have never, ever used them.

'What did you say?' she asked, stopping her movements.

'I dunno.' He slurred, squirming, wanting more of her wonderful, clever fingers at any price.

'You called me a dirty slut.' She said. 'Now, in any other context, we could have an interesting argument on whether or not I'm one. But at the moment, one of us is laid out over a desk with his pants down and his cock out, covered in sweat and drool. And it isn't me.'

He tried to nod his agreement, feebly hoping that it will mollify her enough to continue. It didn't. She withdrew her fingers, and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

'Get up and turn around, you don't deserve to be touched by me.' She snapped. Even in his present state, he was aware that turning around would allow her to see him – to see what she did to him – he couldn't.

'My pants – ' he attempted.

'Of course, they're down.' She said. 'That reminds me, take the rest of your clothes off.'

Face burning and every limb slippery with sweat, he struggled out of his trousers and boxers, and took off his muscle shirt.

'Shoes can stay.' She said, taking pity on him. 'Just turn around already.'

He did, trying to cover his crotch with his hands. She laughed.

'Take off your glasses, too.' He just shook his head, knowing that would require him to move his hands.

'Take off your glasses, or I won't slap you.' She said, and although the little lucid voice in his head pointed out that this was the strangest threat in the history of the universe, he complied, snatching one of his hand away from his crotch as fast as possible to wrench off his glasses and throw them away before covering himself again. He couldn't let her see him like this, but he wanted relief, and the contradiction was tearing him apart. He didn't know what he wanted, and he didn't know how to ask for it.

'Please.' He said, hoping that she would understand.

She looked him in the eye contemplatively. It was probably the first time she saw him without his dark glasses on.

'Please what?' she asked.

'What what?' he returned dumbly.

'What's my name?'

'Mistress?' he answered uncertainly.

She slapped him.

'What's my name?' she repeated.

'My lady?' he tried.

She slapped him again, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

'What's my name?' she asked, clearly exasperated.

'Ma'am?'

She slapped him twice.

'I - am – asking – you – what – my – goddamned – name – is.' She hissed, punctuating the sentence with sharp slaps, alternating left and right. 'What's my name?'

'Megido.' He gasped, suddenly understanding. 'Your name is Megido.'

And of course it was – the girl standing in front of him wasn't some mistress or goddess of his own shameful fantasies, it was Assistant Director Megido, with her thrift-shop clothes and skinny ankles. She was beautiful and he hated her so much he couldn't stand it.

'Finally.' She said. 'Now ask me for what you want.'

'Please, Megido.' He said, forcing himself to look into her eyes, no matter how much it burned him all over. 'Please, let me.'

'Let you what?' she asked.

'Let me come.' He whispered, the last word was hardly audible.

'Well, do it then.' She answered, as if it was self-evident. 'Jerk off.'

He shuddered at the horrible language she used, but she only smirked at his discomfort.

'I am telling you to grab your cock, and jerk it until you come into your hand.' She elaborated, and he couldn't even muster up the energy to be properly horrified about the tiny whimper that escaped him. 'Oh, and you have to stand there, upright, not holding onto anything or leaning on the desk. If you do that, you are not coming anytime this week.'

He was frozen is place. He wanted to come more than anything, his body was crying for relief, and he was nearly crying too. But the thought of doing that in front of her, standing up, with the lights on, every movement clearly visible, it was more than humiliating, it was terrifying. She was leaning against one of the desks, watching intently, and he couldn't tell if the look on her face was impatience or disgust. He felt himself blush deeper and deeper, and he couldn't help it, and he couldn't look away, and he couldn't move.

'You can close your eyes if you need to.' She said, and by the time she finished the sentence, he had already squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped a hand around his cock, pumping furiously. He could hear her voice, telling him she knew how wretchedly desperate he was, what a dirty shameless slut he was for her, how filthy this was, how sick, how wrong, and he felt like arguing with her, like telling her it may be filthy and sick, but it certainly wasn't wrong, or at least it didn't feel wrong in the safe darkness behind his eyes with his hand on his cock and a shake in his body and her voice in his ears. But he couldn't say what he wanted to say, his heart was beating in his throat and pleasure was stealing his breath, so all he managed to grunt as he came was a quiet, wrecked 'no'.

He was shaking with aftershocks, his legs felt weaker than a newborn foal's, and all he wanted to do was collapse on the ground, trying to hold on to this warm, drifting glow, but he knew she didn't give her permission to do that, so he opened his eyes.

She was sitting on a desk a few feet away, dangling her feet in the air, and he couldn't understand how somebody who just obliterated him in the most depraved of all possible ways could look so pristine. She was staring at him with her brilliant brown eyes, and he couldn't help wondering what she saw. That Equius Zahhak was standing in front of her, wearing only his shoes, covered in his own sweat and come and tears? That Equius Zahhak was much less imposing when his muscles were only good for making him shake so hard his teeth almost chattered? That Equius Zahhak was a disappointment to generations of army officers for wanting to go into robotics, who only joined the wrestling team because he got off on being tackled? That Equius Zahhak, for all his talk, happened to know that he was no better than the ones he always derided and scorned? That Equius Zahhak hated her? He couldn't tell, but he couldn't bear her staring, and he knew he had to say something.

'Should I – should I do something?' he asked, unable to be more specific even after all that happened. 'For you?'

She jumped off the desk, smoothed down her rumpled skirt, and Equius saw there was a hint of colour in her pale cheeks.

'No need.' She said, a little hoarse. It struck him as surprising that she found pleasure in watching him, but he dared not ask why. Silence fell, and it dragged on for one more interminable moment.

He couldn't tell which of them moved first, but their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. Their bodies did not touch: he was still naked, sticky with sweat and come, she was still impeccably dressed. She didn't try to pull him closer and he kept his hands pressed to his side, unsure if he was given leave to move. Her mouth tasted like foul fake orange soda, and her lips were very warm and pliant, but not as insistent as when they were trying to prove a point. He kissed her back, slow and content, not even thinking about whether he was doing it wrong. This kiss felt more real than everything else that happened that evening, but it didn't make him feel much of anything, no – it sent the clamouring chaos in his body and mind to sleep, until all that was left in its place was a calm, quiet void.

It was her that pulled back first, opened her eyes, shook herself as if waking from sleep, and turned to leave.

'Megido!' he called after her. She stopped, turned back to him.

'This never happened.' He said, almost pleading.

She looked back at him, and it was hard to read her cryptic half-smile from the distance. Was that look in her eyes hatred?

'This never happened.' She repeated kindly, as if she was giving him a gift.

Minutes after she walked out, when he was struggling to pull his clothes back on, he realised what that look had meant. It had been pity.

.

.

It had never happened. But it never happened again a few days later in the choir room, and a then a week later it never happened in her flat, with the sun seeping in through the drawn blinds and the radio playing death metal on full volume to drown out all sound.

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(IT KEEPS HAPPENING)