#georg listing

the advanced english class was always held during the last period of the school day, five days a week, and it was always, without exception, a real snooze fest. you struggled to keep your eyes open and not explode with profanities as you listened to the person next to you chewing gum loudly. you gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and slumped onto your desk, letting your arms fall in front of you and sighing as you closed your eyes.

school was nothing like those american TV shows and commercials had painted it—they didn’t waste any time bombarding you with that image. the gymnasium was a public institution that provided students with free education, scholarships, and high-status academic and career opportunities. and yet, its students, who were pushing twenty, still acted as if they were fifteen. vandalism in the school bathrooms, skipping class to go smoke in a hidden corner of the building, spiked drinks smuggled in illegally, people snorting lines and inhaling them in some corner of the basketball court in broad daylight.

for you? well, what exactly did you have in mind? it’s not like you had any other choice anyway—you hated being cooped up within those four boring walls, sitting through a class where you already had all the necessary knowledge, vast and concise. the thirteenth year was your last, and with summer vacation just around the corner and final exams for graduation threatening your mental stability, the only thought running through your head was this: no more, never again.

the bell wouldn’t ring for another hour and a half; at noon, with the sun at its highest point, it rose perfectly in the blue sky of that thursday in may 2009; not to mention the stifling heat with the windows open and the sun’s rays beating down with all their might on the poor students who were agonizing and surviving with the neglected ceiling fans that created a screech with every clumsy movement to create a breeze.

the teacher’s voice was a murmur that faded into the background, speaking with a tortuously slow, nasal tone that made your skin crawl, praying and hoping it would end sooner so your academic torture would be over as quickly as possible. as he talked about adverbs, auxiliary verbs, and conjugations, you swore you were going to pass out at any moment. a grunt escapes your lips; you shift, still leaning on the desk with your forehead pressed against it. your school skirt rides up as your legs stretch to relieve the numbness, and you feel uncomfortable from the sweat running down your chest and sticking to your uniform shirt.

ptss. not even five minutes had passed. a sound makes you frown, and you shake your head; it was like a soft hiss. was it your imagination, or—? ptssss. there it is again. it’s longer this time and makes you click your tongue subtly in the silence of the classroom, which is still filled with the teacher’s bored mumbling—now going over a list of verbs to learn. you raise an eyebrow, sigh, and don’t expect to come face to face with bill kaulitz.

sitting next to you, looking at you with those wide-open hazel eyes and an expectant expression.

seriously, where would you even begin to describe bill kaulitz? who in the entire school didn’t know bill kaulitz? he was the living, breathing definition of teenage royalty, since he was way, way above most students in terms of the school’s social hierarchy. sometimes you’d forget he was sitting next to you.

a fashion icon, his uniform could make him look like everyone else—just another student at the school—but it was his unique touch that set him apart from the rest (not to mention the trouble he’d gotten into with the school administration for breaking the dress code) because even though the uniform shirts were white, he added a distinctive touch. from studded bracelets on his arms, dark kohl around his eyes, extravagant necklaces of different styles and lengths, as well as platinum-blonde dreadlocks that shone through his dark, matte hair—as black as night—which fell to the lower part of his shoulders.

bill kaulitz wasn't just popular and kind to others; he was a ray of sunshine despite his rebellious, dark appearance. he stood out. not only was he handsome, but he was quite attractive. he had a button nose, slightly upturned with a soft, subtle curve. his lips were full, with his lower lip standing out when he spoke or smiled. his eyes were slightly almond-shaped, but they looked like a doll’s when he opened them, and his cheekbones were slightly defined—he was ethereal, almost too much so for his own good. you didn’t realize you’d been staring at him, mesmerized, until he tilted his head, causing his hair to dance against gravity with the movement.

your cheeks flushed involuntarily at something as slight as that.

he looks straight ahead, then turns his gaze back to you. for a moment, your eyes drift toward the front of the classroom, where the teacher keeps scribbling vaguely on the blackboard with a piece of chalk; until, across your desk, he slides a neatly folded piece of paper toward you; his fingers are adorned with silver rings and an impeccable dark manicure. you frown and turn your gaze away from him, toward the small object; the question was obvious and written all over your face: ‘are you talking to me? to me? a mere mortal?’ you hesitate for a second; your fingers reach for the same piece of paper, and the trembling tips of your fingers try to ensure that the rustling sound doesn’t draw anyone’s attention in that deathly silence.

his handwriting is elegant, yet hurried. the dark ink from his pen seemed to fade as it scribbled across the pale sheet of paper, his letters slanting slightly to the right:

'im bored, i need a cigarette third-floor bathrooms, 3 minutes :)'

now it was your turn to tilt your head, perplexed by the sudden confession and command contained in that simple note, because it was direct, written without further ado. you didn't know each other beyond lending each other pencils and asking what day it was; he was more focused on hanging out with people like him—attractive in appearance and with anti-establishment ideals; like his twin brother, tom kaulitz, who was nonetheless an anarchic presence amid the stuffy, strict school atmosphere, famous among some girls and known for having graffitied the brick wall next to the principal’s office—a stunt that earned him a one-week suspension, only for him to return in baggy pants, his cornows adorned with bandages and black oversized t-shirts. more rebellious, and more chaotic than before.

but that story was for another day.

when your eyes look up to see him, your gaze meets his. he wasn’t pretending to study or feigning interest in whatever the teacher was writing on the blackboard, the chalk scraping softly against the board. he was looking at you, with those magnetic eyes and a faint, crooked smile at the corner of his lips, which were slightly red from the heat and from biting them so much. as if, between the two of you, telepathically, you had reached a mutual agreement: the class was becoming as stifling as the heat. he rested his elbow on the desk and, with the palm of his hand, propped up his chin to get a better look at you, tilting his face so that his perfect profile was visible.

“they say the bathrooms in the south wing are the only ones with the windows open today,” he murmured in a barely audible whisper, meant for only you to hear. you raised your eyebrows and your lips parted slightly, thinking of a reply, but he didn’t give you the chance as he continued, “will you come with me?” why did the way he spoke to you feel so natural? perhaps it was the curiosity of the moment that got the better of you. “don’t think about it, just move.” you felt your heart pounding against your chest, not just because of his words, but because of what he did next.

he stood up with a grace that surprised you; the chair made no sound as it slid across the polished wooden floor. “herr* miller? i’m not feeling well. I think the heat is… getting to me. can I step out for a moment?” his tone had become dramatic, theatrical, to show just how badly the heat was affecting him and to escape those last 80 minutes of the final period. you bit your lip; your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest at any moment. with his usual indifference, professor miller waved his hand vaguely, giving the young man permission.

you swallowed hard, and he, tall and slender, had easily slipped out of the classroom. you couldn’t believe what your eyes had seen. would you have the same luck if you said the same thing or something similar to him? what was that impulse that had driven you to skip class and sneak off to vandalize a school bathroom? you tried to calm the trembling of your hands and your right leg, which was bobbing up and down in an anxious tic at the thought of what you were about to do: putting away your notebooks and school supplies. your body was already betraying you, and your mind was sabotaging you with catastrophic scenarios. you raised your hand, catching the teacher’s attention and a few glances. “herr* miller, could i go to the nurse’s office for some water? i don’t feel well…”

the grumpy old man muttered something unintelligible, something you couldn't make out, and you set your backpack aside to follow bill out through the creaking wooden classroom door. the hallway was empty; the rest of the grades were in class, of course. you tried to go unnoticed, letting your school shoes echo down the long hallway as you walked; the tiles created a soft clatter. as you climbed the spiral staircase from the second floor to the third, you could see it: in the distance, in the south corner, the bathrooms had a restricted area under renovation. no students or teachers allowed—administrative staff only.

you could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins; it was dangerous. you’d never done anything like this in your entire time at school— so why now? just because bill kaulitz had pressured you into it? what would have happened if you’d refused? deep down, you hoped it would be worth whatever he was planning—between smoking tobacco and having you there by his side.

it’s deserted at this hour, so there shouldn’t be any problem. you glanced over your shoulder once, twice. you tried to steady your trembling hand, pushed open the creaking door, and finally stepped inside. you’re hit by the smell of cheap disinfectant, burning tobacco in the heat of the sun, and chlorine—a very strong smell of chlorine. you wrinkle your nose at the strong scent, and bringing a hand to your face, your eyes finally catch sight of him. leaning casually against the tiles on the wall, bill stood with his arms crossed. the cigarette between his lips and his long fingers held the carcinogenic cylinder as he took a drag and then exhaled, letting the smoke dance around him; the lack of airflow caused the smoke and the smell to linger in the already filthy bathroom.

small puddles of water, the sound of an unrepaired leak, disastrous graffiti, obscenities and insults on the stalls, and the long horizontal mirror above the sinks was cracked in some corners. now you understood why no one came here; it was utterly disgusting. you looked at bill and gave him a gentle smile, the corners of your mouth lifting as you took hesitant steps toward him.

“i knew you’d come,” he said softly, smoke wafting nimbly from his nose as if he were already an expert at it. he watches you, perhaps with tenderness, perhaps with interest; perhaps surprised that you’re there, spending your last period with him. whatever it was that brought you to this little sanctuary with him was enough. you had him in the palm of your hand, just as he had you. only neither of you was fully aware of it. “this place is gross, isn’t it?” he laughed, his hand reaching out to you to show you the small, thin cigarette, already well on its way to being finished. “do you smoke?”

“s-sometimes.” you were surprised your voice didn’t tremble, though a slight stutter had slipped out. you muttered, biting your lower lip. the flesh remains between your teeth, and as soon as you release them, your fingers brush against his, which, in contrast to the heat, feel warm and almost cold to the touch. you took the cigarette, bringing it to your lips as you took a deep drag. the smoke lingered in your lungs for a moment before you exhaled it through your lips to the side, feeling the heat rise up your cheeks. It stung your nose for a moment, but you tried to hide it.

it felt too intimate, a moment like that.

“why…?” you asked, still somewhat incredulous. “why did you want me to come? we’ve never… spoken before.”

he raised an eyebrow at you, before smiling, showing his teeth. he made a subtle movement with his shoulder, lifting it in a dismissive gesture, as if it weren’t important. but to you, it was; “you stare at me a lot in class.” you swallowed hard, your heart feeling like it had flipped in your chest, a complete 180-degree turn. and it was true, because that moment in the classroom a few minutes ago wasn’t the only one; where, mesmerized, you had been admiring and appreciating every feature of his face, every fiber of his skin. how embarrassing. you gave him back the cigarette, but your face turned away from him, trying not to look at him, using your free hand to cover your face.

you heard him laugh again. was he laughing at you? it was normal to feel embarrassed, wasn’t it? he takes the cigarette from your hand, but at the same time, with his free hand, he takes your wrist and pulls you toward him. it was a smooth but decisive movement. he doesn't use much force, but enough so that your side bumps against his chest, erasing any distance between you. you open your eyes in surprise, blinking once, twice, unable to believe what's happening. he, still leaning his back against the yellowed, dirty bathroom tiles, his legs slightly apart, traps you between them, turning you to face him. the cigarette dances between his full lips, the smoke drifting between you.

his eyes pierce you, a gleam almost indescribable, making you lose yourself.

“you’re doing it again,” he says in a baritone voice, though it sounds like it’s dropped an eighth of a pitch. his face has tilted so close to yours that your noses are almost touching. doing what? watching him? “looking at me like that…” he murmurs softly, his breath cool and fresh, smelling of mint and the tobacco from the cigarette that now falls beside you, going out almost instantly. then it happens. the clash of lips is almost abrupt, yet maintains a gentle softness. there’s a moment of hesitation, a pause in the union. you freeze; what seemed like seconds feels like an eternity, but you dare to return the kiss, and the hunger becomes ravenous.

* herr: formality used for men as a sign of respect, can be translated as ‘sir’.

“bill…” you mutter as you feel the cold of the wall and its dirty tiles seep into your skin, your arms warm. his name escapes your chapped lips like a prayer, a need that echoes throughout the bathroom. he holds you close, pushing his hips against your ass, his chest against your back, and he thrusts gently, the friction between your bodies electric. you can feel it, growing, hard. it’s a tingling sensation that, when you realize what’s happening, you can’t help but release as a soft moan.

“if you want us to get caught…” his words come out restrained, as if he’s holding back; a few long, dark strands of his hair brush against your face. but you both know that these simple touches won’t stop there. you gently part your lips, nodding, but close them again, your upper teeth biting and trapping your lower lip. he runs his long, cold fingers under your shirt, feeling the scent of your perfume and the barely perceptible sweat of your uniform beneath his fingertips, and the shiver that runs down your skin when his rings brush against your abdomen.

he's not slow, but he tries to be delicate and gentle as he touches you, savoring you. then his fingers move up to the curve of your breasts, where he cups them through the fabric of your bra, pulling the hardness of the cups down to free them. “so pretty…” he murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin and gently marking the area with soft kisses, sucking sounds, and playful bites that leave no marks. with both hands, his index finger and thumb knead the tips of your nipples until they harden. you feel as if your legs are giving way; the touch becomes an explosion of sensations at how sensitive you feel, especially coming from a stranger like him.

in a brazen move, those hands that had been teasing your nipples now slipped under your skirt, lifting the back to pull down your panties in one swift motion, exposing your hot entrance, fluids already spreading, and a heat that contrasted sharply with the air rushing against it. "b-bill!" his name escaped your lips in surprise, and he chuckled softly at this, not before placing a tender kiss on your cheek. your trembling hands went to your uniform shirt, pulling it over your head and off, pressing it against you as you bit the fabric; you were going to need it. and badly.

he wastes no time; his index finger slips inside and begins its work, slowly sliding in and out. your teeth clench a little tighter, eagerly welcoming the intrusion as you gently and slowly move your hips in sync with his wrist. your panties fall to your ankles, and you turn to watch him work, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. his brow is furrowed, his gaze a dull, gleaming, soft brown, expression of pure concentration. hot, he looked so hot.

a soft whimper is muffled against the fabric as you sway your hips from side to side, and he finally meets your eyes, panting through his mouth before inserting another finger—his middle finger. his fingers curve, quickly touching a spongy spot that elicits a spasm and another sound from your lips. oh no. bill thrusts rapidly with his fingers; he'd already enjoyed the warmth of your walls, and now he had to make sure you felt good. he deepened his movements until his knuckles touched your skin, seeking a point of constant stimulation; even his thumb slipped in to manipulate your clitoris in circular motions that were also in sync.

and you? with saliva dripping down your chin and your teeth tugging at the fabric of your shirt, your toes had to stand on tiptoe on the bathroom floor and your back arched, trying to receive him in a better position. you kept letting out small sounds, betraying how good it felt as he fingered you, how he was preparing you for what was to come. your eyes met his, and you thought he was looking at your body, but he was already looking at you, devouring you with desire in his eyes and analyzing your every little expression while continuing to thrust into you. your eyebrows curled upwards and you nodded, mesmerized, inviting him to continue.

bill clicks his tongue, has to lean forward and push with the hand that isn't caressing your folds down your lower back, tearing at the bare skin as it hits the elastic of your skirt. “shit…” you hear him grunt softly, you don't know how or when his fingers leave a void in your core. the foreplay is over. you try to turn to look at him and with a sudden jerk, he's unzipping his pants along with the button and the silver studded belt that held them up. he pulls them down enough, the hidden bulge in his boxers glistening and standing out, and that makes you swallow hard.

“ah…” your gaze travels up to him, but when it returns, he's already freed his throbbing, reddish erection. the tip glistens with precum and some veins are prominent, as are pubic hairs peeking out from under the fabric of his underwear. “do you like what you see?” his hips shift forward as he takes hold of your sides again, pulling you closer to rub against the line of your buttocks, having to remove the fabric of your skirt that was in the way. you hadn't realized you were staring at him. again.

“mhm…” was a vague response from you, muffled by the fabric of your shirt, but affirmative. you tried to move backward, showing him your desperation. your hips seek friction, they seek him, and as if he were reading your mind (which he seemed to have been doing for a long time), he laughs again, stopping you for a moment. “wait—ah, I don’t want to get you pregnant right here, sweetheart…” it was a lighthearted joke, but one that carried some weight. you hadn’t realized he wasn’t wearing a condom. his fingers go to his uniform shirt, undoing the top buttons, and from there he slides them desperately toward the small pocket where he pulls out a condom packet, which he quickly opens with his teeth, caring little if the foil wrapper ends up on the floor, sliding the latex over his erection all the way to the base.

“let me know if I hurt you or…” he leaves the sentence hanging. he grips your hips again and lifts them up by your waist. and with a perfect alignment of your folds, the first thrust comes as you feel the tip enter, the entire length sliding in until his pelvis slams against your butt. this draws a loud, guttural sound from both of you; the echo reverberates through the small bathroom space. you feel it raw all the way to your cervix. “… shit— so damn tight, are you a virgin?” you tried to shake your head no, because no, you weren’t… if using your fingers was any use in disproving it. but you couldn’t say anything else when he started moving faster and deeper.

with every thrust, your body rocked back and forth. you stifled a moan, pursing your lips as you barely released the fabric of your shirt from between your teeth; it fell to the floor with a slightly soft thud. your nails dug into bill’s hands as they reached for them. the skin on your body burned every time his nails scratched and squeezed you, pulling you against him while he kept thrusting his pelvis against your butt. the sound is wet, clothes in disarray that were beginning to be forgotten, like his jacket or his pants, which now hung from his ankles. you can’t help but let out small, muffled whimpers—you were trying with all your might to stay quiet! but how could that be possible? you felt it deep inside you.

you turned your face just enough, your neck tense and your eyes misted over by tears of pleasure threatening to fall. bill had his head thrown back, the veins in his neck standing out, and his platinum dreadlocks swaying with every brutal thrust that drove you deeper against the wall. a snack, so tempting; he released one of your hips just to bring his hand up to your neck. he didn’t squeeze to cut off your air; it was a possessive gesture that surprised you because of the way his long fingers encircled your throat while his thumb pressed just below your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact without pausing for a second.

“so fucking loud…” he whispered, his nimble fingers moving to your cheeks to pinch them, forcing you to open your mouth. and before you could process it, a precise spittle of his own saliva fell from his lips onto yours. a spasm ran through you, and you didn’t know if it was because of the delicious way it fell onto your tongue and brushed against your lips; the taste of tobacco and mint flooded your taste buds again as he picked up the pace. your eyes fluttered at the sight of him, and you closed your mouth, swallowing the spit with ease.

his thrusts were no longer rhythmic; now they were desperate and chaotic, seeking his climax. you could feel every vein of his erection brushing against your inner walls, stretching you and desecrating your insides as he continuously kissed your cervix to the point of making you see stars. you feel your body fall forward; your weakened torso finally gives its last gasp as your fingertips slide down the tiled wall to the floor in a compromising position.

“bill... please... just...” your voice was a whisper, barely more than a desperate plea that he completely ignored. he didn’t stop, not for a moment, because your voice was barely audible in the new position; your back completely arched forward and your butt sticking out behind you, as he thrust into you. he shifted the angle slightly, lifting your hips a little higher so that every thrust hit that spongy spot his fingers had discovered minutes earlier. the world began to spin; the smells and sensations suddenly became overwhelming—a mix of the scent of chlorine and the tobacco from cigarette butts.

a spank lands on your skin, then another and another. the pain intensifies like the moans escaping your lips, and there comes a point where your weak body can’t take it anymore. you fall, pressing the bare skin of your breasts against the coldness of the wall. it all happens so fast you don’t have time to process it; his hands left your hips for a second to brace themselves firmly against the wall, right next to your head, completely surrounding you. you felt the weight of his body on top of yours, crushing you against the cold tile as his pelvis continued to pound against you mercilessly. each thrust was dry, deep. reminding you who was making you moan like that, melting under that rough touch.

“don’t ask me to stop if you’re squeezing me like that, you lying bitch,” bill growled close to your ear, his voice now a low, strained roar. and it was true—with every thrust and every hard drive, your walls wrapped around him and squeezed him tighter and tighter. he forced you to straighten your slightly arched back, only to grab your neck again, this time with his left hand, pulling you back so your nape hit his chest. the contrast between your hot skin and the cold metal of his collars brushing against your back made you let out a gasp of surprise, muffled like the rest of the sounds already tearing at your throat.

his eyes locked onto yours as his movements grew short, increasingly erratic. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the exact moment when control slipped from his grasp. his fingers tightened a little more around your throat—not to choke you, but to grab your attention with just enough pressure that pain mingled with pleasure. “you’re driving me crazy…” he whispered against your lips before biting your lower lip with a force that made you let out a sharp scream, muffled by his own kiss.

the side of your hip, sore and marked by the length of his fingers, was released from his grip. he brought that same hand to your crotch, sliding his fingertips over your clitoris to begin stimulating it—swollen, sore, and desperate. this completely overwhelmed you, making you writhe from side to side, seeking with increasing urgency friction and speed, intensity. electric shocks shooting toward your abdomen, its contraction, and the spasms in your legs warn you that you’re already close. your vision blurs, and you repeat his name over and over. and bill wasn’t giving you any respite.

“please, bill!” you wanted to come, to extinguish that electric, desperate spark that wouldn’t stop fluttering like the frantic wings of a caged butterfly. his jaw tensed, revealing under the dim bathroom light how his tendons and muscles stood out. you were going to come one way or another, and it was a final declaration when your mind exploded and a white static swept you away completely. it was a violent orgasm full of contractions and sounds lost in the air due to the intensity.

it took just two or three more irregular thrusts before bill finally reached his climax shortly after you did, separated by the protective barrier of latex. the weight of his body falls onto your back, his chest heaving as he tries to calm the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. and the two of you stay there for a few minutes that seem endless, drawn out, and punctuated by the sound of your erratic gasps. slowly, he’s the first to pull away, holding your hips for a few seconds to pull down your skirt and cover your reddened buttocks, bruised from the slaps. “... are you okay, precious?”

those were his first words. you slowly turned your head without letting go of the wall and nodded hesitantly, trying to recover physically and… mentally from what had happened. you didn’t have time to think about it much; he was already tossing the knotted condom into the nearby trash and grabbing a few strips of paper to help wipe away the fluids. you furrowed your brow, but said nothing. it felt good to be taken care of after something as intense as that. he had his hands on your ankles, helping you slowly pull up your panties.

you felt as if… you were floating. the moment you stood up straight, it was as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on you. reality hit you: you’d had sex in a dirty bathroom—like the kind at a gas station—where other students had probably done the same. you cleared your throat, straightened your skirt, and picked up your shirt from the floor—which was clean and free of any stains from bodily fluids—to put it on. your trembling fingers tried to smooth out the ugly wrinkles, and you tried to look as if nothing had happened. your gaze returned to bill’s, who was, likewise, fixing himself in front of the bathroom’s horizontal mirror.

“you have a mark here,” he said, vaguely pointing to the area of your jugular with one of his fingers in the mirror’s reflection. and you, instinctively, brought your hands to your own neck, quickly feeling the warm area and the blood flow there. oh. he laughed, a graceful chuckle that echoed through the bathroom. he already has a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips, and his fingers have finished adjusting his belt around his hips on his low-rise pants. the black-haired young man took a few strides toward you, closing the distance, and brought his black-manicured hands to the curve of your neck to caress it and smooth it out, gently covering the hickies with your school uniform t-shirt. “there. just like nothing happened,” he laughed, giving you a tender, playful tap with his index finger on your nose.

he lit his cigarette with his zippo; the flame flickered across his face, and he took his first drag, blowing the smoke to the side of your face so it wouldn’t hit you. “why don’t you go first? hmm?” he murmured tenderly, now caressing the sides of your head with both hands, gently stroking your temples with his thumbs in a slow, deliberate motion that made you close your eyes, melting at the touch. however, he was right—if you left there with him, you were signing your own social death warrant. you were more low-key, and he was problematically controversial in every aspect.

“give me… two minutes,” you laughed softly, feeling the air drain from you. bill let out one last little laugh, the kind that gave you butterflies in your stomach. he leaned in, holding the cigarette in his left hand to plant a chaste, gentle kiss on your forehead—an almost chivalrous gesture that felt strangely out of place, not only in the grime of a dilapidated bathroom, but also after he had nearly rearranged your organs with ferocity just a few minutes ago.

“see you tomorrow in class.” he brought his face close to yours, planting another gentle kiss in your hair and breathing in your scent. “and don’t stop looking at me—i like the way you do it.” his voice dropped an octave and turned baritone as he murmured those words against your face. pulling away, he winked at you before leaning back against the wall, giving you room to leave. you held his gaze, studying his expression and the curve of his crooked smile. and with a final nod and trembling legs, you finally stepped away to walk toward the bathroom exit.