#tttc

You take a step back unconsciously, making room for him to pass by you into your room. Unlike last time, you forgot to clean up -- there are clothes scattered on the bed and three different textbooks opened haphazardly on the floor. Your rug is crumpled up in the corner of the room, a victim of an outrage earlier in the week at getting an annoying text from a groupmate about a project.

The minimal mess doesn't seem to bother him, though. You watch as he sets his own bag on the ground, noting to yourself that he actually brought a bag with him this time. He steps over the opened textbooks, taking care not to accidentally damage them, before he arrives at your bed. He's facing away from you, so you can't see his face, but you can hear the smirk in his voice as he picks up a particularly lacy bra that would leave nothing to the imagination if someone saw you wearing it. "Weren't gonna wear this one for tonight, huh?"

Your face begins to heat up as you rush over to his side, snatching the garment out of his hands and kicking it under the bed. "Uh, don't worry about that." Mai had decided it'd be funny to gift you the world's most revealing lingerie set (which was impressive, given the nature of lingerie) yesterday as a 'congratulations for hooking up with the same person twice' gift. You had opened the box and thrown it at her in shock. She had thrown it back, and it stayed on your bed where Tsukishima found it.

He watches you with a bemused expression before leaning back on your bed as if this were his dorm room, not yours. "So... what can you teach me about sex, from a neuroscience standpoint?" he asks, reaching one hand out to take your arm and pull you closer.

You stumble in the process, finding yourself flat against him with both your palms pressed firmly on his chest. "Oh!" you exclaim, face turning even redder. "Well, actually, all I really know is that women produce oxytocin when they... y'know, release, and men release dopamine, I think?" You begin to ramble, talking about the effects of these two hormones on the brain while Tsukishima watches, clearly listening to your every word.

As what was supposed to be a hook-up starts nearing closer and closer to a lecture, the blonde male holds your wrist up to his mouth, planting soft kisses on it as you continue to talk. "...so some really sexist people think that, because women release oxytocin when they orgasm and oxytocin is linked to pairbonding, promiscuous women are incapable of forming lasting relatio-- what are you doing?"

His tactic of slowly and gently placing kisses up your arm to distract you worked, as now your focus is solely on him instead of whatever neuroscience-related lectures were replaying in your head.

"Performing an experiment," he says between pecks, his voice low and sultry.

You raise a brow at him, biting the edge of your bottom lip. "Oh? And what experiment might that be?"

His other hand, the one not holding your wrist up, trails up your spine, applying a gentle pressure to get you to lean in. "Something, something, oxytocin. Can I kiss you? For experimental purposes, of course."

You close the gap between the two of you in response, contentment flooding your nervous system as your lips move against his. They're softer than you remember, smooth with the addition of chapstick. When you part for air, you feel the faint taste of vanilla.

"Sweet," you remark before he can go in for another kiss.

He pauses halfway, leaving the barest of space between you two, a slight smile on his features. Fishing through a pocket with one hand, he procures a tube of balm after a few seconds. "You like the vanilla flavor?"

You put on an expression of deep thought before shrugging. "I'm going to need a few more taste tests before I'm sure," you state, pulling him in for another kiss.

It doesn't take long for you to melt into him once more, that awkward tension usually involved with kissing a stranger long gone, since you've already, y'know, had sex with him.

Gone is the shaky, hesitant individual from last time. You're more confident in your movements with him, wasting no time in running your hands under the edge of his tee, the hem riding up as your hands go higher and higher. As your fingertips reach his pecs, you take a second to pinch and squeeze lightly at his nipples and you relish the groan he releases into your mouth as a result.

"God, I forgot how good that feels," he whispers, acting as if it hadn't been more than a week since the original hookup. "Do it again," he says as he lifts you up and places you on the bed before taking his shirt off, exposing his nipples to the cold air.

You don't respond verbally, instead opting to take one of the peaks into your mouth. You give it a good suck before gently nipping at it, causing Tsukishima to entangle his fingers in your hair and let out a small noise. Heat begins pooling between your legs in earnest as you continue to lavish his chest with attention, eventually switching from one nip to the other, one of your hands pulling and tweaking at the one that isn't in your mouth.

After a few more moments of this, he places his arms on your shoulders and you stop. His face is bright red and he's panting, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Is that what it feels like when I do the same to you?" he asks in a husky tone, moving his hands from your shoulders to the hem of your shirt. "Because I'm about to do that to you. I missed them."

There's an edge of playfulness in his voice hiding the twinge of sincerity as he pulls your shirt over your head, once again taking the time to visually appreciate the way your chest looks in your bra. "I like this color on you," he says before he pushes you back rather harshly.

You lay flat on the mattress with a squeak as he hovers above you, one knee on the bed and the other leg straight. "Like this sight, too," he adds as he lowers his head to your chest, his tongue flicking over a clothed nipple. The wet feeling combined with the friction of the bra material against your sensitive flesh makes your back arch ever so slightly into him, and you can feel his grin against your skin. Tingles of electricity bloom around where his mouth and hands meet your breasts, and tiny gasps and pants leave your own mouth as he continues sucking and nipping at the flesh.

He pauses briefly. "Feeling that oxytocin rush yet, baby?"

"Definitely," you breathe out as your back arches up against him when his fingers press against your clothed core. "You could probably make it really rush, if you tried hard enough."

"Don't worry." He sits up, hands leaving your chest to start working on your bottoms. "I fully intend to."

You lift your hips into the air to help in his quest, watching the lust practically cloud his gaze when he succeeds in removing both your pants and undies in one fell swoop. "Shit," he murmurs, running his thumb through your folds. You shiver at the contact. "Good thing I didn't get a chance to eat dinner."

You lift your head off the mattress to stare him down, a look of shock on your face. "What?"

He laughs, now using his middle and ring finger to slide up and down between your southern lips. "Now I get to fully enjoy this feast."

Without giving you time to retort, he prods his fingers at your entrance and presses his tongue flat against your clit, causing you to cry out and arch your back. He wastes no time in attaching his lips to the sensitive bud as his fingers begin pistoning in and out of you at a relentless pace. He's far more ruthless this time, seeming to have figured out what you like from the previous hookup alone.

The sounds of your moans and his slurps fill the air, until he abruptly pulls away from your vag. "No conversation this time?" he asks, his tone almost pouty.

"Oh, I can talk if you want," you offer. He nods before delving back in, and your body shudders at the contact. "So... did you... you know that the clitoris is -- ohmygod, right there, pleasepleaseplease -- a bundle of really sensitive ner-- haaa -- nerves? And when you s-- just like that, you're doing it so good, don't stop -- when you suck on it, it feels fucking phenomenal?"

He hums against your cunt, sending vibrations straight to your brain. You continue to babble, occasionally interruptimg yourself to praise him. Your fingers find their way to his hair again, scritching at the scalp gently.

Unlike last time, where he managed to tear an orgasm out of you, you find the stimulation to start to be overwhelming. Your thighs are spasming and trying to clench shut around his head. A brief glance downwards reveals that one of his hands are unaccounted for, and suddenly you can hear the faint thwapthwapthwap of skin against skin underneath the cacophony of your moans -- is he jacking off?

Your body struggles against him and you find tears forming in your eyes from how the situation has suddenly become too much. He shifts his mouth against you and the pleasurable feeling vanishes; it's replaced by the sensation of being tickled. You push his head away, breaking out into giggles. "Stop, please stop," you manage to choke out.

And just like that, he stops. "Everything okay?" he asks, lifting his head from between your legs. His ears are red from where your thighs applied unnecessary pressure, and the lower half of his face is shiny with your fluids.

"Yeah, it was..." you start, chest heaving. "Just getting to be too much..." You sit up, scooting away from the edge and patting the bed next to you. "Besides, don't you think it's your turn to feel good?"

He raises an eyebrow at you before settling on the bed next to you. "Giving you attention is all I need to feel good," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with one hand and placing his thumb on your lower lip.

You press a soft kiss to the pad of his finger, before noticing that his pants are just gone. His cock rests against his lower stomach, the tip angrily red and leaking. "When did you take your pants off?"

"When I was eating you out," he responds in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm pretty nifty with one hand."

You adjust your position so you're straddling Tsukishima, smiling devilihsly at him. "Oh, I've definitely been on the receiving end of nifty," you confirm.

"You sure you're good to continue?" he asks, concern evident in his tone. Both his hands come to rest on your waist. "I'm okay with stopping, you know. Don't push yourself if you don't want to."

Those sparks that flew when you had kissed him a week ago are flying again and wreaking havoc in your stomach. The tender concern in his tone, despite the two of you barely knowing each other beyond the confines of your dorm, has you blushing bright pink. Oh God, is that what the bare minimum does to you now? "Yeah, I'm fine," you insist, leaning in closer. "I just get ticklish down there sometimes."

He's leaning in closer too, but he stops when you say that. "...Your cooch is ticklish?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"Uh, yeah? Sometimes?"

"That's a first, I think. That, and trying to hold a conversation while receiving oral."

"Hey, you told me to talk!"

"Guilty," he says, laughing before he finally closes the distance between you two. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you melt against him.

You don't get carried away, however, and before long you gently push him until his back is against the mattress and he has a look of curiosity in his eyes. You plant soft kisses trailing down his body, taking the time to nip at each of his nipples again, before you go past his navel, past his happy trail.

The curious look in his eyes is replaced with excitement as you place a soft kiss on the tip of his dick, licking your lips to remove the precum that had landed on them. It's salty and bitter, not that you expected otherwise.

"Normally I eat pineapple before a hookup," he states, "but you said you're allergic last time, so I didn't wanna risk it... in case... the pineapple got into my sperm, or something."

You gaze at him from beneath your lashes, ass in the air as you press your face to the base of his penis. "How considerate," you say right before licking a long stripe up.

His hips jerk upwards, throwing you temporarily off balance before you fix your stance. You take the mushroom-esque head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and revelling in his quiet gasps as you take more of him in your mouth.

His hands find your hair, entangling themselves in your locks, but he doesn't push down. Once again, you are blown away by Tsukishima Kei doing the bare minimum (not forcing you to deepthroat his dong). You can feel the appendage hardening even more in your mouth as you bob up and down, and opening your eyes reveals Tsukishima's thighs shaking with constraint -- perhaps restraining himself from thrusting. His head is thrown back against the pillows, and the quiet noises emanating from him are almost drowned out by the wet noises from your throat. You hope your brain is recording those noises of his, because they are divine.

You gag as you accidentally take too much of him at once, and he instantly lifts your head off his penis. "Don't choke, baby," he says in a mock-scolding tone.

"I'm fine, I can keep going," you retort, removing his hands from your hair with your own and beginning to reassume your position.

He shifts so he's sitting on his knees, pulling his lower half away from you. "As much as I loved you giving me head, that's not what I meant when I say 'I wanna be inside you.'"

"When did you say--" you begin, but he cuts you off by manhandling your position until you're laying on your back, legs spread, with him between them.

"Just now, I think," he says as he leans over the edge of the bed, gripping one of your thighs for support as he rustles through something on the floor. Within a few seconds, he straightens up and reveals the purplish-black packaging of a condom. He tears it with ease and slides it onto his leaking shaft.

"You're a Skyn guy?" you ask as he lines his dick up with your entrance.

He makes eye contact with you, a question in his gaze. You nod and gasp as he begins to push in. "Skyn's great. I feel everything."

"R-really?" you manage, "I feel like everyone prefers... prefers... Durex?"

"Nah, they haven't tried Skyn then." He, yet again, doesn't give you a chance to respond before pushing the rest of himself in. "God, I forgot how fucking tight you are."

You can't bring yourself to babble anything out, too lost in the delicious stretch and pleasure he's dragging in and out of your walls. His pace is fast, but not ruthless -- his tip kisses your cervix each time, but doesn't smash into it. He leans over you as he thrusts, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder so he can get in deeper. You raise your head so your lips can meet.

The kiss is fiery and full of passion and groans as he speeds up his pace, his hips snapping against yours. "Fuck," he moans into your mouth, breaking the contact to rest his forehead against yours.

"You must... be in peak physical condition," you manage to say between gasps.

"I play volleyball," he responds as he wastes no time in flipping you over so he's railing into you from behind.

"Y-you do!?" you exclaim.

He lets out a breathy laugh. "Baby, I'm on the Sendai Frogs."

"What's that?"

His next thrust is a little harsher than before, ripping a moan from your throat and causing your head to fall into the pillows. "Shit, sorry." He places a hand on your back and draws soothing circles with his fingertips, a complete opposite to the fucking he's giving you. "It's a volleyball team."

"I got that, but... Oh my fucking God, Tsukishima," you pant out. "I can't... can't fucking talk when you're railing me so good."

Your words of praise seem to spur him on because the soothing circles stop, instead replaced by the feeling of his chest pressing to your back. "Yeah? I'm fucking you good?" he asks in a low, sultry tone.

"So... so good, please don't stop."

He keeps his pace up until it begins to grow jerky and erratic. "Shit, I'm gonna cum," he whispers against the back of your neck.

"For me? Cum for me?" you ask in an innocent tone, despite the act you're engaging in.

He groans against your skin, and you feel his fingers dig into the soft skin just above your hips. "Fuck, yeah, baby, I'll cum for you."

His pace slows as he spills into the condom, and you wonder if he thanks whoever invented contraceptives whenever he finishes inside. Soon, it stops completely and he flops onto you, flattening you against the bed. "That was phenomenal."

You squeak from beneath him, his weight simultaneously comforting and a little bit suffocating. "Tsukishima... can't move!"

He laughs and gets off you, once again sorting through your stuff to find proper aftercare tools. "Sorry."

You feel the soft towel against your inner thighs as he cleans you up, before the material of your underwear slides up your legs. "I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow," you groan, feeling that familiar soreness begin to sprout between your legs.

"My fault," he replies drily. You watch as he procures fresh underwear from his backpack -- an overnight bag? -- and puts it on. He walks over to the bed after doing so. "Scoot."

"Telling me to scoot in my own room should be criminal," you grumble before scooting over. He gets in the bed beside you, laying on his back. It doesn't take him much effort to move you around so your head is on his chest and your body is draped over his. He traces shapes on your skin again, and you listen to his heartbeat. "Wanna stay the night?" you offer after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

so, norman bowker goes in circles. the circle thing is pretty fantastically done. the story, the structure—it brings you back, and then away, and then all of that just to bring you back again. and then it happens, again, slightly different but it's really just the same.

it's a pleasant day. the lake is in the center of everything. there's nowhere to go and norman bowker is driving. in another world he would've been able to say this or that or would've had someone listen to this or understand that. norman bowker rolls the windows down or turns up his music and takes a turn of his dad's chevy. the world is moving around him and he keeps driving. locked away in this metal box with windows. driving.

on a broad level, that same structure just goes on the entire story. it's so beautifully done. and i believe it's literally the language lending to that too? the lake and town and weather is "smooth" and "flat" and the houses are "handsome" and these descriptors remain the same throughout.

there's this line i really like, about a sprinkler scattering water on a garden. and it's described to be doing it, like: hopelessly. round and round. it's a brief on-the-nose symbolism and i love it.

and there's another layer beneath that all, obviously. with kiowa & the silver star, and really it's the war. and just... peeling away any analysis or whatever right now, the story itself is disgusting if you imagine yourself in there. it's shit. the way it's written just. you think you're brave? could you jump in front of a bullet? could you take this? could you sit and wait? if you've had courage in the hardest of times could you have the type of courage you don't get a say in, at all? could you just be?

that line. "he knew shit. It was his specialty. the smell, in particular, but also the numerous varieties of texture and taste." maybe i'm thinking about this too vividly—but that's objectively horrifying to me. sinking in shit. objectively, you could say that "oh, it's better than facing the threat of being gunned down to death," but... let's be so fucking real. think about it: imagine yourself there.

from an analysis perspective, the ending is what gets me, most of the time. it's such a traditionally happy ending, has all the good symbolism points. gets out of the car, dips his head in the river—which, you know, cleansing, rebirth, all that bullshit (ha)—he watches the fire works for the 4th of july and yeah, it's a nice scene.

and then he says it's a pretty good show. that word pretty changes the entire fucking thing! and he's been doing this throughout, hasn't he? objective comments about the weather -- it's nice -- the town -- it's clean, sanitary -- and that's all he does. he's very carefully detached from the meaning of july 4th, too. the colours of the fireworks are pretty much identical to the colours of the flares from the night kiowa died in that shit field.

in a way, norman sort of died then too. with kiowa. the stupid analysis stuff, cleansing, rebirth, whatever—all of it, but inversed. it wasn't the water, it was the goddamn waste. instead of clean it makes you feel dirty—and norman's feeling of "dirty" means so many things. the guilt of kiowa. the distance from the town, the handsome, neat town who doesn't want the dirty war stories. the general view of the vietnam war. how he's completely clung onto all that this "dirty" means because he's still stuck in the war. my favourite description(s): the place looked as if it had been hit by nerve gas.

i have so much to say about that lake too. there's a really fucking oomph factor about the lake, you know? it's the lake where his old friend died. i wish i could explain this bit properly but god, i dunno, i just feel like there's some sort of parallel between the lake and the shit field. he tastes the water too. they're both described as flat bodies of water. there's something about that scene.

the ending isn't depressing, just because that word's too harsh, but it's... not happy. the way i see it, norman's attempting to achieve what the water is meant to symbolise. cleansing, just trying to wash it off of him again. all that shit. the waste of the war, of his guilt, of—and it leaves him disconnected, because that's a part of him and the only way to get rid of it is cutting it off. he doesn't talk about it, doesn't have anyone to talk to. it's not that he doesn't want to talk about it—he desperately wants to, so much that it genuinely breaks my heart. "want to hear about the silver star i almost won?" he whispers it at one point: the more times i read that, the more i feel his quiet anguish. he shouldn't have to be so disconnected, but he is because they don't want to listen. the place could only blink and shrug.

anyway i just think there's so much to take away from this story in particular. yeah, if you analyse it in that classroom style there's the repetition, that lost quality, the idea of being unable to speak. but more importantly there's the gross reality of it -- it was a shit field and he lost his friend and no one wants to hear about it. because it's shit and that's not what we want to hear of war. because norman wasn't able to save him and where's the good ending to that? we want to hear nothing about war that is war, really.

my thoughts on this will never end btw. there is so much more i have that is unsaid. there's just so many angles to this story -- on a literal sense, as a standalone, connected to the rest of the novel,