Marie

"Wish you could be back here with me right now huh, boys?" You pout as your fingers slip past the hem of your shorts, fingers now slipping through your folds and your slick covering your hand as you pace circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Jackson- " you moaned softly as you slip a finger in and begin pumping. The noises that filled the backseat would make even the toughest of men blush. And that, it did.

Healy adjusts himself in his seat, his face growing redder by the second as his cock strained against his jeans and hands white knuckle grip the steering wheel. He can barely keep his eyes on the road as they dart back and fourth between the rearview mirror trying to catch a glimpse of you.

You insert another finger with your attention now focused on Holland, head careening against the headrest looking at him with half lidded eyes and a devious smirk on your lips.

"mmmf- fuck March- look how wet I am for you-"

"Jesus, fuck- sugar I'm lookin'-" He twisted around in the passenger seat to face you, palming himself through his slacks when he reached back to run a hand up your thigh. Clicking your tongue, you quickly swat him away and a groan leaves his lips.

"Ah... No touching, Hol-" Healy hit a pothole and your fingers curled reaching that plushy spot just right, simultaneously cutting off your own attempt to tease Holland. Muttered filth escaped through gritted teeth as you arched your back, bucking into your hand.

"I'm gonna- woah oh shit-"

Healy quickly turned the car into the next alley he saw and your butt flew back down into the seat. You quickly grip on to the oh shit handle giggling as you brace yourself from sliding across the seat at how quick he suddenly whipped the car.

"Aw Jackson-" you coo'd at him, pitch teasingly higher as you say his name-"you're that desperate for me?"

"Yeah, well-" Healy throws it in park and turns to you, both of their eyes now met with the shit-eating grin on your face, "you're making it hard not to be with that show you're puttin' on back there, pretty lady."

You couldn't help but laugh at how fast the two of them left the car.

The door clicks open and the cool night time air made its way quickly down south sending shivers across your body as your fingers leave your soaked cunt.

Healy extends a hand and you graceously accept- a small thank you leaving your lips as he lifted you up and out with his other hand at the small of your back.

He lifts your hand to his lips and places a tender kiss on top. "Oh such a gentleman-" Red flushed across your cheeks as he began moving his lips along the back of your hand, peppering kisses, gruff beard scratching and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Anything for you, sweetheart-" He replied in a low growl and your knees felt weak.

He pecked at the tips of your fingers before inserting them into his mouth, humming, tongue swirling around your digits as he cleaned off the slick on your fingers. Holland could only watch speechless, stroking his cock as he watched his partner clean you up.

"Good boy, Jack."

If looks could kill, you'd be guilty with multiple charges the way you flashed a baiting smile at the two.

Next thing you knew your shorts were pooled around your ankles and Healy was behind you one hand on your shoulder; fucking into you so relentlessly your eyes rolled back as your body washed over with euphoria, mind halfway gone to the stars.

Holland cupped a hand under your chin and his thumb wiped away any tears that escaped past your lashes as you ran a stripe along the vein underneath his cock.

"F-fuck- you're such a good girl for us, babydoll-"

You hum as you wrapped your lips around his cock, hollowed your cheeks and begin bobbing your head with Healys rhythm.

“maybe you think it's a girl," margo says, looking everywhere but lars. “maybe it's actually some old dude.”

“ugh.” kurt visibly shudders. “you're gross. that's gross.”

margo shrugs.

“i don't believe in falling in love with someone you've never met," she says. then, after a moment, “i don't even believe in falling in love with someone you have.”

kurt immediately shoots an awkward glance at lars.

the implication lands before margo seems to realize what she's said. color rushes into her face and she stumbles through an awkward goodbye before disappearing back into her cubicle.

"damn, lars. you're a heartbreaker."

lars looks down at the papers scattered across his desk. one of the corners has folded over itself. he smooths it down with his thumb. he doesn't like that word.

heartbreaker.

it sounds like something a person chooses to be.

he hopes bianca and margo aren't proof of some pattern he hasn't noticed yet. he hopes there's an exception somewhere. something that proves he isn't simply the sort of person people leave hurt.

was that what happened? with bianca?

did he break her heart?

the question settles heavily in his chest. nobody had ever said so. nobody had ever blamed him. but sometimes the things people don't say have a way of lingering longer than the things they do.

——

the loading bar is taking forever.

that's the first thing you think that evening, which feels a little ridiculous considering the state of the world. there are wars happening somewhere; people are probably falling in love, someone is getting married; someone is getting divorced. and yet all you can think about is how painfully slow your computer is.

the blue light from the screen washes over your room. it catches on the edge of your desk, on the mug that's been sitting beside you for hours, forgotten except for the ring it's leaving behind.

the chat room finally loads.

messages are already moving faster than you can comfortably read. someone is talking about music. someone else is arguing about a movie with another user. then, suddenly, a new notification appears.

someone entered the chat.

normally you wouldn't pay attention to that. people come and go constantly. half the usernames disappear before you have a chance to recognize them.

but your eyes catch on this one.

lars.

that's a name, not an user.

you stare at it for a second longer than necessary. it's a nice name. the kind of name that feels warm somehow, soft.

you immediately feel stupid for thinking that. a name is just a name. four letters on a screen.

still, your gaze keeps drifting back towards it as new messages flood into the chat and push it higher and higher until it's nearly gone.

you wonder if it's his real name. most people use fake ones. maybe it's not. maybe it is, and he's sitting somewhere on the other side of the country with a completely different name.

your cursor blinks inside the message box.

you stare at it for a moment, fingers hovering above the keyboard. before you can talk yourself out of it, you type:

“hii :)”

you hit send, and immediately, you regret it. you tell yourself this is perfectly normal. people say hello to strangers online all the time. right?

you try reading through the general chat again, but you're too distracted to pay any mind. the tiny text below your message changes; seen. no answer.

you let your forehead fall against the desk with a dull thud. “i’m such an idiot.”

your voice sounds embarrassingly loud in your empty room. the message remains exactly where you left it, unanswered and increasingly humiliating the longer you look at it.

maybe he's busy, maybe he opened it accidentally, maybe he's one of those people who joins chat rooms just to read what everyone else is saying, you do that sometimes. you don't really have the right to judge.

still, you close the private window before you can stare at it any longer.

the rest of the evening unfolds exactly the way most evenings do. you message a few friends, you study. you walk to the market.

the strawberries looked better than they tasted, but you buy them anyway. later, you eat them from the container while watching bad television. by the end of the episode, you've absentmindedly finished all of them.

the empty carton stays on the coffee table. everything feels painfully familiar. you sink deeper into the couch cushions and listen to the television fill the silence, without really hearing the words that come out from the box.

you think, if your life continues like this… you're really considering laying down on some train rails just to feel something.

——

morrissey's voice drifts out of your dvd player.

“tuesday, suffocation,” the song says.

you stare at your advanced economics notes for a long moment. then, slowly, you lift your coffee cup in a solemn toast.

“so real, morri,” you murmur. “so real.”

at this point, you're fairly certain advanced economics is going to be the thing that kills you.

a notification appears on your monitor screen, you almost ignore it.

“hello.”

you freeze. ohmygodit’sthelarsguy. your lungs abruptly forget their purpose.

okay, okay. be normal. you're normal. be that. people say hi to each other every day. this is a completely ordinary human interaction.

you begin typing.

“hi! i'm glad you answere—” you delete it just as fast as you typed it. you try again.

“welcome back :)” casual, like you haven't been thinking about him for days.

the message is seen. you wait, another minute passes.

“okay,” you announce to nobody. “he hates me.”

you crumple a scrap of paper into a ball and toss it into the air. you catch it then throw it again.

“or...” you pause. another toss, “he's, like, eighty.” the image immediately makes you laugh.

some random grandfather squinting at his monitor. pecking at each key with one finger. trying to figure out where the letters are.

“i'm sorry. i don't really know how to do this.” he says.

the paper ball rolls forgotten across your desk and something in your chest goes embarrassingly soft.

“that's okay,” you type back. “sorry if i was too confident :/”

you hesitate, then add: “i don't really know how to not be intense.”

the typing indicator appears.

“it didn't bother me.”

you smile before you can stop yourself.

okay, he's honest. you like that. there's something refreshing about people who just say what they mean.

you've spent enough time talking to men to know that is something remarkable in one, as sad as it is.

“i'm glad, haha,” you type back. “tell me about you. how old are you?”

his answer comes a moment later.

“i'm twenty-eight.”

huh, so older than you. but not old old.

“that's cool :) i'm 21,” you reply.

you hesitate for a second before adding:

“what are you doing right now? besides chatting with me lol”

“nothing much, really.”

you stare at the message.

nothing much, really.

he's somehow quiet through a computer. which feels so unfair to you.

“i was studying for my economics test,” you type. your eyes drift towards the open textbook on your desk, calling it studying might be generous. you've spent the last hour alternating between reading the same paragraph and imagining your academic downfall.

you add: “or at least attempting to, economics is currently winning.”

the typing indicator appears almost immediately.

“you're funny.”

you stare at the screen. he's such a liar, you are not that funny.

“lmao. thanks, i try to be.”

you send it before you can overthink it, you immediately overthink it anyway.

then another message appears.

“i'm sorry, i got to go.”

your eyebrows knit together and find yourself staring at the message for a second longer than necessary.

“it was nice talking to you,” you type back.

he doesn't answer.

what a weird person. then again, it's the internet, everyone's weird on the internet. especially you.

the longer you think about your last message, the worse it gets.

it was nice talking to you.

he answered… what, two questions? suddenly you're acting like two old friends saying goodbye.

you groan. maybe you're just so desperate for something interesting to happen that you're starting to manufacture significance where there isn't any.

you toss the crumpled paper ball into the air and catch it.

——

“thursday is pathetic.”

morrissey sounds devastatingly sincere about it. you've been listening to the song all week, which probably says something about your mental state.

nothing good, admittedly.

the lars guy never texted back. honestly, it was expected. sometimes you saw his little status light flicker green. you tried not to think too much about it. maybe he was busy, maybe he was shy… maybe he was an introvert.

you could relate to that, sort of. you liked to think of yourself as an introvert. the problem was that every attempt you made to be mysterious eventually ended with you accidentally revealing your entire life.

so.

not a very successful introvert.

besides, why were you making excuses for a man you'd spoken to exactly once? you didn't even know him.

you were being ridiculous, a certified girl failure.

your computer dings, you glance over automatically. for one embarrassing second, you hope it's him. it isn't.

it's your best friend.

she's talking about another guy. a completely different guy than the one from last week, and possibly the week before that. you love her dearly, you also envy her a little. relationships seem to happen to her the way rain falls, effortlessly.

you close your eyes. you're tired and thinking nonsense. you're not physically tired, actually. it's something else.

another notification appears. you assume it's your friend again. probably another paragraph talking about every way she wants to blow him. (“there's more than one?” you remember asking her.)

“hello.” it's him.

you tilt your head. did he only know one greeting? was he secretly hannibal lecter?

“hi :)” you type back before he can disappear again. “busy week?”

the second you send it, regret arrives. it sounds passive-aggressive. you hadn't really meant it that way.

“yes, sorry.”

you let your forehead fall lightly against your desk. okay, this wasn't going anywhere.

you needed to be interesting, new strategy and… oh my god. were you trying to impress a boy? disgusting.

“what do you like to do for fun, lars?”

“i like to chop wood.”

if your best friend were here, she'd immediately declare that the answer of a serial killer. and she'd have a compelling argument.

but she's not here. and somehow the answer doesn't scare you.

if anything, it makes you more curious.

because for the first time, you can almost picture him, standing somewhere in the cold, splitting logs with his boots against the snow. he feels a little easier to imagine.

——

“top three things i hate: people that have no sense of rush, people that take calls on buses, and people that don't modulate when they speak and talk so low you can't even hear them.” you text him. “guess the three things that happened to me this morning :(”

it's become routine now, texting him. which still feels slightly ridiculous when you stop and think about it.

you exchanged numbers. yes, with a man. a real one. look at you, man-eater.

the reply arrives almost immediately, less than three seconds. you notice because, unfortunately, you've become the kind of person who notices.

“i also hate people that have no sense of rush.” another message follows. “but i normally talk real low.”

“yeah, but i bet you know how to modulate.” you say. “i don't know why i'm so mad. i don't really care about it. it's just one of those days.”

his answer appears. “i understand.”

a few weeks ago, it would've driven you insane. now you know better. or at least, you think you do.

lars seems like the human embodiment of;

‘if you don't have anything to say, don't say anything.’ meanwhile, your philosophy is closer to, ‘if you don't have anything to say, say something anyway and surprise everyone including yourself.’

“you clock in at eight, right?” you ask.

it's friday, which means your schedule is actively conspiring against you. you'd chosen your own classes, unfortunately. therefore you have nobody to blame, except yourself. which is extremely annoying.

“yes.”

“i don't know why you wake up at six like me,” you glance at the sky outside while you type, it's still dark. “i would love to spend more time sleeping.”

his reply comes quickly. “to make you company.”

for a second, you assume he's joking. then you remember who you're talking to. lars doesn't joke like that. actually, he barely jokes at all. most of the time, the only jokes he seems genuinely interested in are yours.

“i don't like the idea of you being alone the whole morning.”

it's not even true. you're not alone the whole morning, you have classmates and professors. that's not really the point.

the point is that he thought about it.

the point is that he wakes up early because he wants to talk to you.

the point is; can you fall in love with someone you've never met? the thought appears without warning. your brain immediately crashes.

“thank you, lars. that's so considerate.” you type carefully. as if your heart isn't suddenly beating much harder than before.

a few minutes later, you send him a picture from one of the university windows.

the sky is gray. winter has arrived with a personal vendetta against you. you know lars is somewhere in the midwest, so he must be suffering more than you. where exactly? you have no idea.

he sends a picture back, the view from his window. there's snow.

you stop walking for a second.

“so pretty :D” you type immediately. there's a faint reflection in the glass. just enough to tell he's standing there, too blurry to make out any features. but somehow, it's enough for you.

“really pretty,” you add.

feeling strangely confident, you take a picture in front of a mirror. your phone covers most of your face, and you add a little, “outfit check!”

the message is seen. you watch the typing indicator appear, disappear. then appear again.

“i like your scarf.” he says.

you grin. “lmao. it looks like i stole it from the fourth doctor.” you immediately cringe, girl failure. catastrophic girl failure.

“i've never seen that show, sorry.”

you sit upright so quickly you nearly drop your phone.

“what?!” you type. “i have the dvds. i'll send them to you. i'm so serious.”

“i know. you get scary when you talk about your shows.”

you can't help but snort loudly, and people look up from whatever they're doing because apparently you've forgotten you're sitting in public.

“sorry,” you type. “i get excited really easily.”

the response comes back almost immediately.

“i know. i like that about you.”

stupidly confident you type; “you like a lot of things about me.”

you consider throwing yourself into the nearest body of water after sending it.

the typing indicator appears, your pulse somehow gets worse.

“yes, i do.”

at this point, there really isn't any denying it. you're done for. you are completely and messily head over heels. stupid lars, with his stupid kindness. and his stupid messages.

if you were home right now, you'd probably be repeatedly introducing your forehead to your desk.

——

somewhere along the way, sending pictures became normal. you send him pictures of strawberries from the market, your breakfast, the view from your apartment window, fall leaves, and shoes against the city concrete.

lars sends pictures back, not as many as you, obviously. a snowy road, a coffee mug. a stack of chopped wood.

occasionally, you let a little bit of yourself slip into the pictures. a glimpse of your legs stretched out on the couch, your hand holding a coffee cup. it's never too much.

but you don't know what's gotten into you tonight. maybe it's the fact that you know lars likes you too, or maybe it's the glass of red wine you had earlier.

you're wearing a light blue babydoll pajama set, your hair cooperated for once. the lighting in your room is unusually forgiving. and for a moment, you catch your reflection in the mirror and don't immediately find something to criticize.

you take a picture before the feeling can disappear. then, before common sense can intervene, you send it.

your actual face, fully visible.

you immediately place your phone face down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

waiting.

you know lars. by now, you've learned his habits. he's probably looking at the picture right now, probably staring at it with the same concentration he gives everything else.

thinking very carefully about what to say, because lars never seems to say the first thing that comes to mind but the thing he actually means.

three minutes pass.

you know this because you've checked approximately seventeen times.

what if he hates it? what if he thinks you're ugly? what if—?

the message changes to typing…

you sit up so fast you nearly launch your phone across the room.

then it stops, starts again, stops.

oh, he's struggling. good, at least you're suffering together.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the call button. you let out a small squeal and bury your face in your pillow.

he's not going to answer, there's no way. people don't just answer surprise phone calls. especially not lars.

the phone rings twice. then, the call connects.

you freeze. oh my god, he answered.

“hi...?” you say. your voice comes out quieter than intended. “lars...?”

for a moment, all you hear is breathing. the sound sends an unexpected wave of relief through you.

he's real. you know that's a ridiculous thought. of course he's real. you've been talking for months. he sends you pictures, he has opinions about his co-workers, he wakes up early to keep you company.

“...hello,” his voice is soft. lower than you expected, but gentle.

“hi,” you repeat, because intelligence has abandoned you, a nervous laugh escapes out of your mouth. “i'm sorry. did i make you uncomfortable with the picture?”

“n-no,” he sounds almost startled. “you look nice. pretty.”

you press your lips together, completely failing to hide your smile despite the fact that he can't actually see it.

“yeah?”

you hear a small hum on the other end.

“mhm.”

“that makes me happy,” you admit. hand starting to lower inside your underwear. “i wanted to look pretty for you.”

lars breathes heavily. “i— i didn't know if you liked me like i liked you…”

“i do,” you interrupt him. “can i show you how much i like you? please, lars.” the last words come out a little whiny.

“yes. please, yes." his breathing is ragged. and you wonder if his dick is hard right now.

“i’m going to send you a picture, okay?” you tell him, slightly shy.

you open your folds with your fingers, angling the phone just right. wetness glistens on your inner thighs, already slick and dripping. you can’t help wondering if lars can hear the soft, wet sounds your pussy is making.

you send the photo before you can rethink every second of it.

“oh god,” comes his voice, low and whiny. “you're perfect… exactly how i imagined.”

“you thought about me?” your fingers drift over your clit without thinking, just slow circles.

“i tried not to,” he admits with a broken moan. “at first. i— i chopped so much wood trying to distract myself.” rustling fills the line, fabric sliding and a muffled thud. he’s definitely wrestling with his pants now. “tried so hard to be good for you, bug.”

“fuck,” you whimper instantly as one hand dives deeper between your legs. “lars— that’s not fair… i want to see your cock,” you blurt out before shyness can stop you, then immediately bite down on a moan at how dirty it feels saying that aloud. “it's okay if you don't want to— i just need…”

a high, whiny moan slips through the line, cutting you off before you can even form another thought.

“i can send you a picture,” he says, voice already trembling. “just like you did.”

“fuck, lars,” you whine, fingers pressing harder against yourself. “you’re really going to do that for me?”

a soft ‘uh-huh’ answers you. shy and hot all at once. and then comes the sound: low, breathy groans as he strokes himself, each whimper making your toes curl. you press deeper into your clit just from imagining it. the weight of him in his hand, how his breath hitches every few seconds.

then, the photo loads.

It’s a little blurry, probably from shaky hands or nerves. but it doesn’t matter. you see everything.

you gasp at the sight. his cock, thick and heavy, aching with need. the pink tip glistens with pre-cum, just dripping, and one of his big hands wraps around it, barely covering half of his dick.

you can’t help it; "pretty" is still the only word that fits. soft-looking veins run down the length, flushed and proud, and you’re already soaking just looking at it.

you push your fingers deeper inside yourself, thumb circling your clit fast. “it's so big, lars… fuck,” you whimper. “i need it inside me— i need you.”

“i’m going to— i feel like i’m going to…” his voice cracks mid-sentence, a stutter of breath that makes your stomach clench.

“me too,” you breathe out instantly. 

your hips lift off the bed in small, desperate thrusts against your hand. in your head it’s his thick cock slamming into you over and over until neither of you can think straight. you wonder if he’d come inside even if he wasn’t supposed to, if he’d lose control like that just because you asked nicely and looked up at him all soft-eyed while doing it.

you cry his name into your pillow: “lars— ah! fuck! fuck!” legs squeezing tight as pleasure rolls through in waves, but still you don’t stop moving. 

your phone finally slips from your trembling fingers onto the sheets beside you as your eyes flutter shut, rolling back with the last pulse of your orgasm. 

his breathing turned ragged and uneven, then he whined your name, so raw it made your stomach clench.

slowly, you pull your fingers free with a quiet slip. they glisten, drenched in you, and you stare at them wishing they belonged to someone else.

“lars?” you murmur into the darkened screen still half-pressed to your ear. your throat is dry like sandpaper. “you okay?”

a soft whimper slips through. “…yes.”

you let out a breathy giggle “that was… very intense,” you admit. “but i’m glad i did this with you.”