A commission! I don't normally toot my own horn but I'm proud of this one. I quite like it!

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Christine lies beneath me, barely moving. Her body is rigid, her breaths shallow. I can feel her discomfort radiating in waves, but I can’t bring myself to care much. My mind is elsewhere—glued to the screen as The Chronicles of Alixia twists itself into another cliffhanger. Everyone at school won't stop talking about it, so here I am, binging to feel normal.



Christine, on the other hand, is enduring her third day of… well, me. Her hair sticks to the inside of my thigh, a mix of my sweat and hers adhering it to me. The room reeks—I know that. But everyone loves their own brand, right? A stronger girl than Christine would’ve bolted by now.



“Comfortable?” I mutter, not taking my eyes off the screen.

She doesn’t answer, not with words anyway. Her chest rises and falls slowly, controlled. I adjust myself, pulling the thin material of the boxers I'm wearing aside. I slide my coarse mound over her lips, reminding her of her place this weekend.



She coughs a little, groaning in more annoyance than anything. No complaints, none verbalized anyway. Perhaps she'd prefer to simply keep her mouth closed this time? That’s why I like having her around after all. She never challenges me, never pushes me away, even when I know she wants to. Hell, her eyes have been watering since last night, and I bet the smell is burning her throat by now.



I sigh, more out of boredom than sympathy. My hair probably looks wild, strands sticking to my face after days of doing absolutely nothing. Christine, on the other hand, tried to stay clean at first—brushing her hair, turning her shirt inside out—but after the second day, she just... stopped.



She’s accepted it, accepted me.



She knows I could make it so much worse.



“You know, this show isn’t bad,” I say casually, more to myself than her.

Christine lets out a small hum, the closest thing to a response since I turned the TV on this morning. I roll my eyes, leaning into her more. She flinches but doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. She’s waiting for this to be over—for the weekend to end, for the air to clear.



But that’s the thing with Christine. She’s always waiting, always hoping things will just... pass. One day I'll smash that passive little mask of hers, I'll see the real her bubbling with rage just below the surface.



I smile, finally glancing down at her. “You smell that?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer is.



She swallows hard, her throat bobbing in the silence. Her lips part, but she still can’t bring herself to speak. And I like that too.

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All characters belong to me. Always welcome engagement, fanart, and fanfic!

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