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joannasteez · 5 months ago

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the sex life of evie moore - nightingale

summary: evie, after some encouragement from rhea, gets comfy with damian priest.

authors notes and warnings: minors do not interact pls! purely self indulgent. contains explicit descriptions of sex and talks of relationships, romantic or otherwise. descriptions of alcohol use.

word count: 8340 (what'd i say? no baby food this go round)

genre: alternative universe - college

"...it felt like breakin' up all over again...", her tone more somber than expected. even with the words known and leaving.

...sex is polarizing. an un-categorizable system of communication. it's loud. frivolous. quiet. intimate. soft. the greatest liberation. a prison. bending with time to conform to new space. a dimensionless void of possibility. sex is a ladder. a door. the terrible silence of a grimy alleyway. drips of rain and those wicked scuffling boots just beyond the corner. a full breath in the lungs after much time without air. a sacred crossroad where bliss meets the impossible...

abra dezttone is many things. the department chair of the philosophy department. professor of a myriad of elective courses. old. beautifully grey. too tall for such a slippy, delicate voice, and haunting. in the sense that she gives her eyes like she would her hands for a firm shake. an unrelenting contact, with all the knowledge there is to be possessed about one's life from the give of a simple look. real trippy shit that evie does not have time to unpack.

but most of all, professor dezttone is a lover of fucking essay's. an essayist in her own right.

the laptop computer screen brightened to such a sharpness that the stabbing pain of it has gotten to be a bit of a normal sensation. momentum waning in evie's fingers. tired and over-worked from all the curt, bent maneuvers and the awful mental ache that comes with running out of brilliance for words.

...sex is a game. sex is law. used to determine laws. sex is everything. sex is nothing—a box that takes the form of flesh and bone, lined with the terrible nerve of ideas and blood soaked with thoughts and needs and desires...

"am i missing something?" rhea—evie's dorm-mate— stops mid-cut to look up. a faux lost expression slipping in the eyes. "i thought you two broke it off well enough ago". the scissors in hand continuing to crop the shirt she'd been messing with. "who gives a shit about what he's got to say. your body your choice right?"

a snort cuts, evie closing the too bright laptop screen. "says the woman dressing me up like a metalhead meat puppet just so she can promote her little band".

"hey". a playful warning singing through. rhea grabbing a wayward piece of fabric to throw at evie's head. "we're not little. we're just...too niche for the normals...an acquired taste for like...more refined palates n'shit...", her manicured nails easing the blade of the scissors against the front of the shirt till its ripping with a bit of a curve. "...plus you made the design. the least that can come of it, is you wearing your skills...". and whatever d.i.y. trick rhea had found online apparently involves safety pins. meticulously piercing them along the cut path she'd made. like a deconstructed mending of the large cut. "...and, i can help out with your little problem".

evie's brows pull together. confused.

"my problem?"

"getting you out of your comfort zone and head first into a bit of self-service...", a sparkle in her eye that isn't so unfamiliar. twisting gears and a smirk that troubles evie's belly only slightly. "...or rather ass first considering you—"

"whats the plan?"

"to get you laid obviously". rhea's aussie accent meshing well with bits of sarcasm. holding up her handy work to assess the quality. "but its less "what", more "who". her eyes peaking from behind the few-of-a-kind band-tee. "you know damian well enough right?"

well enough would be a slight overstatement. there was a baseline cordiality set at best, but nothing overly familiar to categorize her knowing him as 'well enough'. a ordinary share of 'hi's', 'goodbye's' and such. he'd—maybe till this very moment— always been a part of a part of a whole, compartmentalized as 'rhea's drummer friend', and set aside to the recesses of some miscellaneous corner of her mind. due to no fault of his own either really, but evie had never been much of an eye wanderer while with punk. even amidst the year long stint of romance-adjacent, platonic confusion that followed. but the odd loyalty harvested was just from a planting of some self-made guilt. twisting pits in the belly from the anxiety of moving on. that was obvious now.

damian would be new and uncharted. a free hand drawing, playing it by ear, on the fly sort of thing.

evie pulls the pillow she'd had propped under her laptop closer till its in her lap and hugged up in her arms. "he's kinda intense rhea".

"in all the nice little ways that count...", she counters. moving about evie's room comfortably. opening a draw to pull out a pair of black short-shorts. the fabric at the ends of the denim pant legs frilled a bit. "...and intense could be good for you. a change of pace maybe. damian is a passionate guy, he'll take care of you".

"and you know this how?"

rhea tosses the shorts across to land next to the shirt she'd cut and adjusted and pinned to her liking. pulling out a pair of fishnets from evie's sock draw. "nightingale has it's little flock of...admirers...to put it nicely...". picking at the small selection of silver jewelry sitting on evie's dresser. a full outfit for the nights festivities manifesting as rhea wanders about the room. "...they tend to winge about a little too much for my liking when the guys figure they've had enough, but they make for good sources on the gossip".

evie scoffs a bit. amusement dirtied and coarse. "so you're trying to set me up with community dick?"

rhea's mouth breaks into a bright smile, chuckling as she lays out her styling choices for the night. "dominik is the one with community dick. gives full service like one of those curbside food pantries", her fingers joining to wave about blasé like. because—regardless of how not so well she knew dominik—evie knew that the rather infamous electric guitarist of 'nightingale' got around quite a bit and quite frequently. so to hear of his...valiant...service to the community wasn't exactly unheard of. rhea shoves open evie's tiny closet with a push of her foot, bending to consider an array of boots and sneakers. "damian on the other hand...much more selective...a bit picky actually...", huffing as she rises with a pair of chunky black platforms. "...but tested".

"why do you know he's tested?"

rhea shrugs. "the same way i know you're tested and vice versa".

if they collectively had a nickel for every time they'd bought on a wretched trip to the campus clinic from a pregnancy scare, they'd have 3 nickels. but three was enough. it'd always be enough.

"touche".

"he's also asked about you before".

evie's belly drops. "what?! when?! why didn't you say anything?"

"it was a few months ago. you were in the middle of your thing with punk and i didn't want you getting confused".

and this was only slightly terrible, but slightly was enough when it felt like the world had gone under a shift after some abrupt unleveling. at least thats what being perceived feels like doesn't it? a slight tug of the rug from beneath the feet. not enough to up turn the body but surely enough to make one well aware that the up turn is possible.

evie takes to looking over all of rhea's efforts of collecting and matching. clothes and shoes and jewelry sprawled out and ready to be worn.

"what'd he say?"

rhea smiles. an excitement evie feels tired from already. "he asked if you were single".

easier access. the short shorts were a fine pick on rhea's part, but evie figures—already half dressed and running warm from anticipation—she should at least make the maneuver of undressing a little less of a hassle. assuming of course that she won't be the one having to make quick work of peeling her clothes off. the leather mini skirt gives easier access. a zipper just at the back that slips open with a salacious little undoing. and it works well enough with the rest of the outfit. rhea's reconstruction of the band tee leaving just enough to the imagination for intrigue. the curved cut held together by safety pins, exposing skin and teasing parts of her breast. and of course more instructions followed. 'no bra!!', the text message coming in an hour or so after rhea had left for sound check.

her top isn't so cropped that she cant get away with it either, but cropped enough for some peaks of skin. the heart shaped piercings through her nipples making for an eye catching outline. again, rhea knew what she was doing.

...seduction is art. it is method. a delicate configuration. a form made true with eyes and silence and words and lips and sly touches. seduction: the sister, the mirror, the doer...

the boots make evie taller. the air warmer just from the four inch lift. or maybe it's that rigid bite in her fingers. doubts, uncertainties and all their nasty associates. the mirror painting a portrait that rivals her old normal. the droning, late night buzz of tattoo guns, blonde box dyes, old torn sketch books and that mainstay, oddly endearing snark. punk had been her normal. a comfortable standard. seduced by her matter-of-fact tones and gritty inflections. a little fast, a little loose, a little crazy.

slithering out of that stagnation, it'd be a bit of a pivot. a little different, but nothing impossible. no more impossible than the fifteen page papers and midterms and all the other hellish things dressing up as collegiate obligation.

'he's just some guy'

a plate of crinkle cut fries sit along the tiny kitchenette counter as evie corrals a buckled bag made to carry photography essentials. the snack left by rhea, she's sure. covering all the bases. the starchy taste doing well to soak up and dampen that sick, drunk, twist turning her gut.

'he's just some guy'

the september autumn night air is breezy, but not too cool. those last little lingerings of summer steeped in that give her enough leeway to go jacket free. patient, heeled steps leading off campus and some minutes away to the location rhea had heavily debriefed her on how to get to. but the venue, oh the venue is a lot a ways from that almost chilly bite of cool outside air. a sticky heat blanketing evie's skin as she pushes the creaky door of an almost rundown building. the inside walls graffiti'd to hell and in need of extensive renovation. this is definitely the address. ill-tempered bass shuddering the five story walk up and almost too dim lights flittering the hall way.

a table just before the entry door to the madness. money littering a jar till it threatens an overflow and that undeniable thick smell of weed. a few freshman-in-the-face kids littered about passing around a blunt and watching easy over the table and handing out check coat tickets and such.

evie struts up to the table, the under rubber of her boots lifting a little sticky and the hot air rolling over her skin, stuffing a loose $10 bill into the jar. "anywhere i can find rhea?"

"evie right?", a girl asks. the sound of it almost comfortable, like she'd drilled evie's name into memory as to never forget it for the sake of keeping convenience. her hair undercut with a cute summery orange color and her brows pierced through.

"they're about to play now, but you can drop your bags off with their stuff". a tattooed finger stretching to point across from where the table sits. another darkish hallway with walls that vibrate from the tough play of music. "last door down on the left".

evie throws a "thanks" and rushes on quick. that unmistakable drawl to rhea's voice sounding out over the blast of the speakers. her usual fiery introduction, before 'Nightingale' breaks into their set for the night. a routine to get the crowd pumped again. and the almost closet-like break room is a mess. like the slight whip and whirl of a tornado had pulled through and settled everything to some odd function of what had to be controlled chaos. but theres no time to think about the clutter, not when the first drum beats of a crowd favorite play. her chunky boots stepping over till she's breaking open into the hallway and down and about to slither into the crowd.

and a meticulous maneuver around a forming mosh pit has never proven itself easy for evie—the times she's found herself drug from under the covers to see rhea and the guys perform—but she manages.

haze and a controlled rage. both making for cool, textured digitals. the small stage lights illuminating just enough to catch the essence of things. sweat on the skin and hot clings of hair. the energy burning away that tease of winter air from the cracked windows.

evie's finger hits the button of the shutter. microphone to rhea's lips and her face caught amidst that performative flow. she'd always been the mainstay of 'Nightingale', since even before the inception of—gigs, standing crowds and droning admiration—everything. a long ranged mouth piece. vocals and songs and ideas. always with something to say. the type of draw with a force made to comply with.

and buddy, her red-headed bassist of a boyfriend, is as cool and mellow as his guitar. easy flicking strums of his purple near black bass to match his disposition.

dominik was everything of the opposite. what with his mullet and mustache and that air of mischief about him. a bright sparkle of it in the eye. shredding pitchy, electric tones that bleed something static-like and lively. a sound and an energy living only to rival himself.

and then of course, theres damian. "priest", as rhea likes to call him. a dark mystique about him. black penciled liner beneath his eyes that make his stare dark. penetrative and daunting. the break and beat of the rhythm all kept in his care as he makes no qualms about smashing cymbals and roughing into the kick drum.

the crowd tumbles and sways and moshes something feral. an endless melody of motion. an artful madness worth all of it's appreciation.

the ice water doesn't do much. gives evie's hands something to hold onto in place of her camera and cools the tongue off for some few seconds before that sticky heat creeps up again. packed bodies and breath and cap-less beer bottles. the type of heat that rises up youthfully and yearningly so. sex-ish. if thats even a word. if so, evie'll use it for her paper. and no, she isn't hiding. just a slight tactical separation. a strategic retreat of sorts into the corner to catch her breath. a maneuver and a half of getting around the growing crowd to set her gear down in the safety of that back room before she'd squeezed her way to where she is now. settled and moderately eased and tucked away with a dripping cold cup of ice water. right, no! this isn't hiding. just a simple caching till a good enough game plan rolls in. any minute now...

because falling into something with punk those 2 and a half-ish years ago had been fairly easy. both of them a little fiery eyed and eager for something exciting. he'd given his smiles and his snark and his boldness and she'd done similar. the light perpetually on green with a heavy foot on the gas and no speed limit in sight. a little fast, a little loose, a little crazy. but beyond the quick 'hi's' and toothy smiles evie doesn't know much about damian. doesn't know much about his ticks and his likes and his secrets and all the under the surface things that make him. that break him even. but then again, she wouldn't have to would she? long gone from the tangled mess of a relationship and all those minute details. this'll be a delicate maneuver for sure, what with the small talk and flirting and all the physicalities to follow, but inconsequential nonetheless. right?...

hope. sipping from her cold cup and surveying the floor. she can only hope so.

"you're stalling".

a slight digging pinch into her hip that makes her flinch and that down under accent that dresses up all rhea's words with a bit of a drawl. her face, makeup-less now and eyes a little blown. her smile wide and a hand taken up. colored cups full and the slosh of it, something that smells all too much like trouble. and yes, maybe evie is stalling, but that word sounds too much like a great exposure. too forthright.

she sighs. "i'm looking for an opening". stealing a glance across. damian posted up near the makeshift bar at the other side of the space. a flock of folks trying hard to act like they're not vying for a bit of attention. spewing the usuals—'good shit', 'loved the set', 'lets connect', etcetera— evie is sure of it.

"this is post-gig standard evie". rhea taking a generous sip from one of the red solo cups she'd mysteriously come into ownership of. so different from the crazy scatter of cheap bottles and cans of beer circulating. "it's all blood smelling sharks and too deep water. regular college shit". her eyes rolling as she shifts evie quick with a tough pull. a fast save as some too-drunk-already freshman wobbles and swerves to the music. drops of beer just missing evie's shirt as it splatters to the floor. "listen...", rhea guiding evie along to a better section of the wide room. "...he's 6'5, tattooed, a drummer, and not a complete dick. there is no such thing as an opening really. with priest, the strategy is pure vibe".

evie scoffs. a pout pulling at her mouth. anticipation warm and burning and stoked the more people dance and sway at all sides. like some great big mocking of fun almost. "i'm elevator pitching my pussy at this point".

"breathe". a little chuckle playing as rhea swaps evie's cold cup of water for one of hers. "you're 23. s'not a husband hunt. just samples, taste tests and a little window shopping". all laissez faire like. "did you eat?"

"yeah. the crinkle cuts you left out".

"good. carbs are good". tapping the filled red cup she'd placed in evie's hand. "take a shot".

and rhea is and possibly will never be terrible at hiding her mischief, because she indulges herself far too often to care about it being hidden.

a teasing curl of a smile taking her lips. "it's fall time...". the soft bump of her shoulder. something sisterly. playful. "...every girl needs a proper jacket".

and of course, before the present, beautiful, sagacity of junior year—not that theres much of it to revel in considering her current circumstances—evie had soldiered through many a weekend along side rhea. freshman faced and jacket-less amidst the solid cold of an unbearable late fall semester. liquor sloshing their bellies so terribly well that it burned through to warm up the skin. the true form of a grade a type of fuckery only made possible by the self proclaimed invincibility of newly made young adults. weekends of "proper jackets" and monstrous hangovers, followed by colds unbreakable. thank God for on campus nurses and antibiotics.

the hardwood bends beneath evie's feet. heavy bass and an itch to fall into the rhythm. the liquor steeping her tongue along with bits of sweetness. rum and a splash of something fruity.

and he's still there, posted up at the makeshift bar. slabs of dark wood stacked and drilled to shape into something not half bad and useable. backless highchairs littered close by for the too-cool-to-dance types and a newly puffed out stream of haze to shroud the air.

his eyes underscored and attentive. drifting over the crowd till they fall and find her looking already. some seconds of a nameless expression before his lips pull. a tick of a smile before he's pulled else where. heat going on in her belly, and yes its probably the swash of rum but the bass doesn't disconcert her common sense enough to persuade her that it isn't the idea of him either.

rhea bumps her shoulder again. "what are you thinking?"

"am i moving too fast?"

rhea takes the emptied solo cup to set down against a nearby windowsill. sincerity corralling quickly. "tonight is about doing what you want. fuck him. don't fuck him. he's like a brother, but he's still just some guy at the end of it all yeah?"

'he's just some guy'

its a mantra at this point. lends itself to a truth thats partial enough to make evie feel good. feel better. or maybe it's the impatience to do something different. stepping out of boxes and comfort zones. possibly a mixture of both. one thing informing the other. circular and never ending till she's nodding to agree.

both girls smile silent. rhea's giddy and evie's daring to match.

"you're enjoying this too much". a light gripe and then a calculative turn on her heels. readying to step off a long rested on stagnation.

an encouraging pat to the hip is all she gets before she's easing into the crowd. tunnel visioned for the makeshift bar. the slow wind up and over of colored lights. the tease of sweat at her cheeks. thick haze and hoppy alcohol biting the nose. skin slipping on skin. dancing and the slurred song of some flirty speech as the bass holds the room together. tensions lifting quick. fiercely. persuasion steeped in the music enough that it bleeds into the blood. matching and every heel toe. drawing an easiness in the eyes and the penned frown in her lips—etched up by the anxieties of approaching a man—erased to a faintness.

he's a sharp looker, damian. focused and unabashed. curious and existing big in evie's peripheral. but a little something is needed before the big approach. call it a crutch, but a small drink in hand gives the body a nice center point. a task that lightens the full weight of doing.

but theres only beer. lagers and ipa's.

"got anything besides beer?", she gives over the music.

and the bartender-not bartender—familiar faced and moving away too fast for evie's liking—pushes two types of beer up into her view. an irish accent quick amidst the droning party. "sorry, it's all i got". fingers full of crinkled five's and ten's and cold cans.

an eye roll doesn't fix much but its a quick expression. disappointment in the fingers and that taunting urge for a second drink after the first. but it doesn't last long. a hand waving in past her peripheral to signal the bartender-not-bartender. damian and his shadow lined eyes. "yoo finn, she's cool, she's with me". a smooth pull up right next to her. the type of bass in his voice that pinches her nerves quick with excitement. "what do you like?"

"sweet". she gives. "not too strong".

a nod. lingering eyes and a twitch of a smile. like he's just gotten confirmation on something she's yet to be aware of. "he'll hook it up for you".

so much for only beer.

but the four inch lift does wonders. gives evie less of a hard time meeting the sound of him. his eyes and that strength of whatever cologne he's got painting over his neck. "thanks for the pull".

"you're rhea's girl, i gotchu". the heat and height of him surely only tolerable due to low lights and spiked spirit. a charged eagerness made true by the short taste of mid-shelf rum from some almost rundown, always cheap, liquor store. looking down on her with an unhurried study. waiting and testing patience. a slow prying apart that flutters something dangerous in the skin. and he levels with her too, sits in one of those backless high chairs to come down into her view better. long legs parted enough to step and fit right into them. "you two in the corner schemin' on something?"

evie smirks. a short peak at rhea before she's shifting to meet him. slipping wholly into his stare. and God what a strange intensity. strong and absolute but hurt-less. something to fall into. "you're giving me too much credit. m'not devious enough to scheme". drifting to catch the pull of his smile and the way his cross necklace sits. looped through a thin choker and perched at his neck. the metal thick and silver and adorning. "you know how it is with rhea though. she gets bored and gets the brightest ideas. likes to set up entertainment for herself".

"dolled you up just to push you into the deep end huh?"

an implication if she's ever heard one.

"sink or swim right?" his arm resting along the protruding deck of the makeshift bar top. her finger falling faint over his skin. toying with a short stray piece of thread at the wrist lining of his top. a thin, long sleeved mesh shirt that leaves for no curiosity. lean muscle and a load of tattoos for decoration. "i like the motivation though...", evie gives. retracting her hand. teeth stressing softly over her lip. taking a study of her own. "...i mean, if someone asks about you, it's good to make an appearance right? show face. if i knew the drinks came free off just that, i'd have come to another show a lil sooner".

"they come free with me", he clarify's.

ego. got to love a little male college ego.

"look at you being all important". something snide mixed in with evie's laugh. an eye roll to cherry top. "i'll let you get back to your meet and greets then?" the toe of her chunky boots making to pivot and step away. drink-less still and unsatisfied.

"alright that came out bad, m'sorry". a firm hand at evie'e arm. neither harsh or overdone, but a little pleading just the same. "c'mere". pulling soft before his fingers trail to clutch at her hand. a generous touch and an obscene size difference. the type of contrast she can feel without giving any quick peaks or once overs. taking little steps near him with some faux begrudged flare. cologne steeping her nose and this incontrollable urge to steal a look at his mouth again.

and he makes no real qualms with himself about where his own eyes lead. where they stick and prick and slip at. her lips and the safety pin styled band tee-shirt. a tight enough fit about the skin that leaves impressions in the fabric to reveal heart shaped piercings. these milliseconds of once overs that feel like a millennia. the loss of a quiet game, evie's eyes breaking to stare off at finn. that saving grace of a drink not yet given. like somehow he knew that she'd use it to quell her anxieties and was punishing her for making him go out of his way to prep something other than the crack open of a beer bottle.

damian also hasn't let go of her hand just yet. an intentional hold that leaves his thumb pressed into the base of her palm. short sweeps and hot skin. his metal rings cold and tingling nerves. to keep her close surely, where his eyes can fall and take in and overawe. "that check in was months ago by the way".

the music thumps and drives and drowns out. evie leaning in to let her words catch him well. "is this where i plug in my apology for making you wait?"

"nah". a tug of a smile. surveying the mass of bodies before he's studying again. flitting between the eased set of her eyes. thanks to the rum in her blood. a somewhat cool, collected air to mask the disquiet that has yet to shake. "it just seemed like you had your hands full...", a funny thing now. considering he's found the opportunity to occupy one of them. unflinchingly so. "...not gonna lie, it felt like a waste of breath but i was curious".

that year long stagnation had done a number obviously. leaving her blind and oblivious to other possibilities. very tall, very fine possibilities.

and compliments to the dj. a segway into something smooth and melodic . a temper down of the rhythm that makes space for a more rage-less air. haze pluming slow to curl through the litter of colored lights.

cedar wood and tobacco. hints of sweetness that scatter through the depth. heady and intoxicating. college boys and their cologne experimentations will be the death of her. a good death nonetheless. fingers maneuvering to fold in between his. a closer step into intimacy. nerves aflame. "and m'guessing with all of this...", motioning a finger to the inches of space between them, "...there's some residuals left. enough worth mentioning".

"of course".

she hums. lets the notes and undertones of his cologne work thoroughly.

a red solo cup startles the moment. finn and his shitty timing. setting her drink down in between where the lean of her arm threatens to touch damian's. a little straw added for those waiting troubles.

"sorry about the wait", he throws. loud and heavy accented over the music. returning to the fray of college students.

that hand embraced with damian leaves finally. an unhurried departure as she makes to sip. mostly sugary juice and bites of that cheapish rum. enough to taste but not enough for judgements to be overdone. she'll need those for later. if there even is a later. but this—standing at the beginnings of his long legged manspreading, close enough to exist in a middling orbit—is comfortable. the room hot and lively as ever. taunting still. like she's missing the dangerous allure of dancing.

punk wasn't, isn't, a dancer. didn't, doesn't, do clubs. so it's here, sipping sweetened rum and feeling the mellow tremble of the music, that evie realizes she misses dancing. the party kind. low lights and a smile thats helpless to form. those few awkward missteps before the rhythm cements itself beneath the feet. bodies like puzzled pieces. breath and the lyrics to suggestive songs sneaking on the tongue.

he reels her back in. "so what's up witchu? how you been?" shifting to the edge of the backless stool he'd eased on earlier. the set distance—enough to breathe without a full consumption—too far in between. legs smoothing out like a barrier, turning in to face the bar. the whole of him angling her in just right to let all her words catch his right ear.

but this is all too crafted just to preamble small talk, surely. bodily maneuvers to corner her. to fill up his eyes with her face and the more nuanced expressions. maybe even to test her nerves. it was only right to meet him with some collectedness. even if the make of it is a semi-desperate shot in the dark. messy with an inner trembling. a swirl in the belly and tough weights in the chest.

"toughing it through the semester...regular college shit". seconds of a dramatic sigh. an eye roll to top the cake. "post-boyfriend bullshit crisis averted thankfully".

"it's time for some antics now huh?" his lips pulling up. a toothless amusement he tries to hide, but evie can recognize the gears turning over. a glint there in the eyes working to reveal the renewal of snuffed out ideas.

she laughs. "see, you get it".

"where is he anyways?"

"doing what i'm doing...". a few sips to sprinkle in suspense. his curiosities strung up and tattered with eagerness long before this tip-toe of a moment and waiting to be relieved in full. "...minding my own business. whatever i want with who i wanna do it with".

a smirk and a hum deep enough to live beyond the bass of the music.

"what about you?" playing with the tip of her straw. stirring and standing on the other end of that suspense she'd just given him. "i have a feeling i might've skipped the line a little. anyone i should be worried about?"

he shrugs. "i do my thing every now and then but it's all safe". an interesting, vague turn of phrase she's too unwilling to decipher. "nothing serious".

"good". thats all she needs. a confirmation of the insignificance of all of this. sipping down the last of her drink before she's pulling him up. "lets go".

a reward for all her steadfast, overthought troubles, that's what this is. an alluring tempo, curious fingers and the simple seduction of his cologne. a little rum swimming in the blood to tap the senses. some minor elevation. she could kiss whichever genius saw fit to create platforms big enough to give her height this much of a lift. a sweet rhythm in her hips, held firm in his hands. and all that residual love, she'll adorn rhea with later. the cut of her top perfect. a slim distance between the edge of the fabric and the waist of her skirt. enough for thumbs and slipping trails. thick palms and settled intentions.

a charming hum riding along the music. just there in her ear. arms thrown over his shoulders and the play of his nose along her neck. just where perfume blooms on the skin. taking advantage of all the exposures to skin. keeping the dance in her body close and the smell of her closer.

damian makes it easy, makes falling into him far too easy.

and the music doesn't do much else but fill the urge to leave. a flow beyond the brim. pride in the body, zipping fast and talking sweetly. a readiness, more prominent than those fickle little bits of doubt.

"...you find yourself wanting to roll around with someone else, don't stop on my account..."

damian priest is card board cut out material. dreamy sighing daydreams. 2 AM, keyboard smashing, group chat sharing, story time gold. and no, not because he's worthy of a malicious little laugh session. no, damian is reserved for those, peaking from beneath the covers, giggle ridden, hot cheek feeling, the girls'waiting with bated breath' moments. because an explanation has got to be given. questions will be asked anyways. evie can feel the skin attempting to rise already on her neck. soft suckles at her pulse and his thick, wide palms taking their sweet time. cupping her face, at her nape, smooth down her arms, firm and urgent in her hips before he scares her. lets his tongue slip from her mouth and lifts in one go. hands at her thighs and an easiness rushing in to his face to match up against the alarm in hers.

getting picked up like nothing is scary business, and if she were anymore delusional than the rare, obligatory amount, he'd have her thinking she was featherweight and too delicate to ever touch the floor again.

but she's laid out on the bed before anything can rise up fast enough that sounds like an objection. remnants of beer on his tongue but nothing real to complain about. not when he's hiking her thighs up and about his waist. jeans on her comforter be damned. "sorry about the—the bed, s'really small". fucking cheap college twin mattress.

"you're good...", an octave below tenor, and the way it plays, akin to purring. breathing at the seam of her lips. smiling, the affects obvious. letting a hand wander at the make of her fishnets. shoes forgotten and an endless shiver riding her bones. "...ican makeit work...", confidence taking up residence between his mouth as he purses. gentle and lingering, like maybe he's trying to temper down the fret shut up in her skin. he can feel it can't he? "you ok?" pushing up to look over her.

her legs relax. "mmm, yeah i—", releasing him a little less quickly than she'd have liked too. clinching eyes and labored breaths. "...i just...", scrutiny bleeding it's way under her cheeks. because even if he isn't judging her, who'd tell her she's wrong to believe he is?

"talk to me".

and oh the fucking compassion. of course he'd give her this. let her make space for herself well enough for a heavy eyed spotlight. darkly penciled and pretty lashes. sitting up tall, even when against his knees. waiting for her to perform the ever terrible procedure of having to give loose thoughts life. "this is uh—happening a lot sooner... maybe a bit easier than i thought it would", giving a quick whip to the braids falling over her eyes as she moves to lean against her elbows. mumbling and avoiding. "...didn't really think up to this point much...".

planning to get laid and actually getting laid are two very distinct things.

"you callin' me easy?"

a weight plummeting to the bottom of her belly. "oh shit, no?! ..i mean..", voice wavering with a sliver of consideration, but the quirk in his brow is enough. "no!! i'm not".

damian smiles. pulls up the hem of his mesh shirt till it's over his head and flopping to the floor. tattoos more clear to her now. muscle lines and the unhurried rise and fall of his chest. "s'not far from the truth". chuckling some. the harsh thud of his shoes kicking off, snapping the better of her attention back to his face. something observatory in his stare as it trails about her body. clothed still but hot and jittered some. an assessment to confirm already made thoughts she won't know unless she builds the courage to ask. belt pulling through and out the loops before it joins his thin shirt. "at least for you".

he moves. patient. sure. precision like second nature. the size of the mattress an easy obstacle.

"meaning?"

and even with the audacity of all this sudden uneasiness, it doesn't exist well enough for her to stop him. to swat or kick or flinch. his hand gripping her calf to tug her to the center of the bed, thighs split and spread to accommodate his kneeling between them. but there are no caressing touches otherwise. no deep breathes taken from her skin for more of her perfume. no tender kisses and the type of moans that give her belly a good kind of troubling.

"meaning, i'm down for leaving...", a shrug of something near indifference. not so apathetic. collected but with interest still. like her ending the night wouldn't end his interest but he'd surely comply with her wishes. an inference she's hoping is true. "...but also down for the fun of getting to touch you, if that's all it's gonna be...". this other possibility waking her senses anew after the bit of severing she'd caused. "...meaning we do whatchu want, how you want it".

...sex is ego. too much. too little. the need for a faultless performance. expressions. impressions. meets and greets and tryst. the hair, the face, the clothes and lack thereof, the body. tough noise and more simple ones. words and the forever nature of outdoing...

it's inconclusive. a part of a whole. ushering him in, in a similar fashion to how he'd done her. closer and careful. testing her mouth against his for something delicate. thumbing his cheek and tasting remnants of beer still.

he leans over in full, her legs pushing to bend with the motion, as a some years old comforter and pillows urge her to relax beneath him. short, pecking kisses still. interested but lacking. waiting still. his words falling in the midst of breathing and a hand returning to sweep and knead her inner thigh. "don't leave me hangin on hearing what i need". this twist in her belly, a gradual wringing out of already settled thoughts too shy to leave. he squeezes tight though, compelling. "don't get me used to this voice like that just to take it from me".

the re-approach to intimacy. that's what it is, isn't it? is what makes her shiver and threaten to shrink. having to reconfigure all over again with someone new in the name of pleasure.

giving to get.

"i want you", a bright whisper. simple and effective. not too brilliant sounding but, shit, fuck it. no one ever said consent had to sound sexy did they? just clear enough for understanding.

he enjoys it though. letting an earnest moan speak for him. tongue slipping in past her lips with that timeless ease it seems he's perfected, but it's more unhurried here. deep breathes in the nose for air and a little less than tempered running of her nails into his skin. a curved descent. tough groans from his chest and the float in of that funny notion she'd thought of earlier, back when the heat in her cheeks lived less full than now. short shorts and skirts and which proved more undemanding. but damian isn't bothered by any of the particulars. not the sudden lack of surety she'd taken on before discarding it, or the task of maneuvering her how he likes.

a steady control, reaching that zipper at the back for a swift, curt opening. lifting to join her legs, pulling the material up and off.

"easy access". evie mumbling warm at the corner of his mouth.

he gives a smile. amusement reaching his eyes.

and evie has yet to feel the true blight of desperation—far too young for that type of pitiful bullshit—or at least thats what she thinks. has yet to yearn for something absolute. so hopefully this isn't the first moment of that? wispy sighs stretching into moans and his touch playing at the seat of her panties. ears full of the lower than tenor noise he makes. whatever this is rolling over the skin, it's just a slightly less refined go of things. the normal obligatory urges and needs. her soft tongue and a lazy curl up at his lips. kissing his mouth and her fingers nailing ticklish at his nape. enough to make him hum and shiver and press pass her underwear. the barely there taste of cheap rum and hoppy beer between them.

a soaked nose and stained lungs. every breath full of his cologne still, more than before. falling out of the daze of his kissing and into the way his thumb catches onto her clit just right. parted lips for her moaning and near closed eyes. palms playing over him, the sort of touch that asks for more without saying.

thick air and his hair sticking to his skin. satisfaction singing heavy in his chest as he makes to slip a finger in gently. patient enough to save from the trouble of discomfort, but to savor too. the way she melts and clings and pulses, tender and a little more than greedy.

"you ok?", the question fanning at her pulse.

and sure, he's sincere. takes her lack of words and wispy sighs as something to quiz. something to draw up concerned about. but even evie, regardless of how fast her brain is turning to mush, can detect the scattered pieces of pride. his teeth grazing and mouth kissing wet at her lip. a partial posturing, to lure her into building his own esteem. fucking college boys. her belly tightening, his finger pressing in till it fits at the base of his knuckle. and it shouldn't be this good for her, not nearly but it is and part of her is springing up with resentment. a very small voiceless, barely breathing resentment.

a bite out of a whimper. "yeah", curt and small. head tipping into the edge of a pillow, nearly knocking into the wall. the running tip of his tongue at her throat. salty, sweet smelling skin and vulnerability. probably his favorite.

her crop top lifting, with no guidance of her own. judgements and urges stalemated by the tender play of his finger. heart shaped piercings on display and her hips canting along with a whine. a signal for something more. sounding bright and fragile like the action of asking hurts to give fully. like he shouldn't make her to suffer that much. a short retraction before he gives in again, wet and thick and curling and—"fuuuck", a drawling exhale. a burst of a feeling. his tongue trying itself at her nipple. slow swirls to start, acclimations and such, before he's licking in to hold over and suck. hallow cheeks and stretchy moans.

and evie hopes the flutter in her belly isn't a warning of the end already. that'd be bad. embarrassing.

but it feels good. that building anticipation before something complete.

her nails dull and combing through his hair, curling up from the heat and smooth to the touch. bursting sensations dying on the skin before they bloom again. endless fluttering and breath catching stirs at her clit. about her nerves. a meticulous tempo to dictate the rhythm. playing her well. in his time. a percussionist surely. "when'd you get these?", all casual and unbothered. giving her piercings a generous kiss.

he expects her to answer doesn't he?

"why?"

his mouth pursing lazy, more delirious than expected, along the valley between her breast. labored breaths buts its all just some reverencing. an appreciative groan. finding the perfume she'd rolled there before the nights festivities started. "never seen em". the noise of the pillow near her head twisting as his grip burdens it. an excitement maybe, from heart shaped studded piercings and the warmth of spicy sweet perfume.

evie can't help the shy snort that leaves. his audacity showing, even amidst the heat and pleasure. "my titties aren't an exh—", breath caught short. a tight gasp and her hips rolling mindless for a clumsy rut. a second finger to join the first. cooly paced and so damn good. "oohhshiiit damian".

"mhmm...", an appreciative groan. for praising his efforts. for roughing him closer. for clutching at his fingers with a greediness he can admire and rise up from with a better made esteem, not that he needs it. breaths drawing on her chest still. lax and wanton and taunting. "they're not a what?" retracting his maneuvers like she wasn't on the cusp of something nice.

"an exhibition", evie huffs. rolling her hips to rekindle things. a recall to action and such. purposefully denying amidst the throes is dickhead behavior but she'll wade through it for the sake of a good finish. but not before a bit of truth. "i wear em for me...", his mouth drifting up to hers again. sitting at the seams. "...so if you see em, it's cuz i let you".

"i should be saying thank you".

"you should".

and maybe the way he resumes his ministrations and slips his tongue into her mouth is his 'thank you'. fingering thick through her pussy and drawing fervent pass her lips. a kiss made to savor. to suffocate. an attempt to steal the air in her lungs and the moans that try at forming something more melodious. lewd noise prickling her ears and shuddering her skin. evidence of a pleasure stained with need. with a craving she hasn't been able to satiate alone since her chat with punk. making space between them for the sake of not falling into old habits too quickly.

if she's free to do whatever, then it'd be better to look for something different right?

well this feels different. tumultuous in the body. curt breaths and her nerves dragging rough and wild amidst exactly what she'd been looking for. the pads of his fingers snug just there, where the bliss grows a little terrible with how great it is. undeniable and wrecking. seizing quietly, held up and reeling. sinking dull nails into his skin from the break of it before the relief washes over.

blood thumping in the ears a little. evie's breathing underscored with whines. fragile and stressed.

and you'd think he'd be gracious enough to let her collect her damn bearings, but he doesn't. eases his fingers from the mess between her legs and makes quick work of savoring it. slipping against her till he's off and kneeling at the plush carpet. an abrupt jerking tug to her leg to pull her in.

evie moore nearly hangs off the edge of the bed. dim eyed and already blissed out. what more could the oh so talented percussionist do to shake her down into nothing but sweet noise?

she should stop wondering about things just before their inception. it plays like jinxing after a while. lands her in situations like these. spread thighs and the flat of his tongue licking through all the mess he'd just wrung from her. on the verge of a hiccup from the shock.

a threat in her legs to close. the impact far too grand and rich for still over-boiled blood. she hasn't recovered just yet from the first. her fingers curling deep in the sheets for a sure enough anchoring and her eyes twisting to close. tough breaths and whatever this is pulling through lax and mindless. "...damian...oohhfuuck...". a plead or a warning or a mixture of the two. this is no place to decipher scrambled thoughts for words absolute.

a full gasp. full lungs and a groan to match the intensity. his mouth wrapping about her clit to suck and his tongue pushing over. a professional method that isn't worth investigating but fuck if it isn't practiced and perfect.

"ohhmmyy—mhphm", quivering erratic. arched up off the sheets and a barely graceful roll in her hips spurring to meet his mouth.

but the man is all coordination isn't he? keeping time and playing in the pocket. hot touch lifting her up from where she almost hangs off the bed. ushering her hips into his mouth with a pace he likes.

and she can't manage much anymore but wordless noise. an abundance of pleasure building again to ruin her. a tired ache in her legs and more of that recking fullness. till the damn breaks. evidence of the end dripping past his tongue and tainting the sheets. laundry issues to figure out later. a heavy hand attempting to push the eagerness of him away to maintain whats left of her sanity. obviously he wants her dead—admonishing the mess of her folds with licks and kisses—and if not dead..

than maybe some rapturous incapacitation...

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