Dear reader, This is a strange story that I started awhile ago and recently rediscovered and decided to finish. It took a bit of a different turn from my original plan, which might explain any strangeness. This is supposed to be a one-shot, though it feels unfinished, if inspired I think I might write more. This is in no way connected to any other stories I have published though, once again, focuses pretty heavily on Lars. I apologize for that. I think I have a bit of an obsession. The writing style is slightly different than the other two.

This is rated "M" mostly because the entire story is a descriptive sex scene between two young boys. I was in the mood to write some smut, what can I say. If you have a problem with that or are uncomfortable with any elements within this story than you probably shouldn't be reading anything rated "M". Please stick to age appropriate stories and don't waste my time time with a flame. Thank you.


The walls are plastered white. Or they were once. The years have decayed them yellow. The chalkboard had writing on it but it was smeared away so that only dust remained. The teacher's desk is situated right before the board, covered in papers, pens and pencils, spilling and overflowing. To the left is a computer, buzzing with electricity, to the right, an empty coffee mug stained with red lipstick on the brim. There is a bookcase on the far wall, lined up on its shelves are twenty-seven textbooks with U.S. History written in gold lettering on their spines. Forty desks line the room from front to back. Five rows of eight and I sit in the third row, first desk. The top has a carving of a cartoon man taking a bludgeon to the head, dark black blood everywhere and a heart at the top corner with the initials M.R. contained within.

I can hear the tick of the clock.

It wasn't my fault. Not my plan, not my paintball gun, not even my friends. I have to take the fall though. A month of Saturday detentions and my dad's disappointment is nothing compared to a lifetime of being known as "Otto Rocket, the squealer".

High school sucks. I remember when doing the right thing didn't mean the total annihilation of my reputation. It was a short-lived period in my toddler years, somewhere between learning to speak gibberish and forming coherent sentences.

The classroom door opens but I don't bother looking. That bitch Miss Palfrey is back. She confiscated my skates when I got to the school and the handheld game I was going to pass the time with. From the corner of my eye, I see she's not alone. Company? Great. Dark clothes, dark skin, and shaggy hair. Papers are shuffled, pencil scraped across paper, and words are exchanged.

My heart pounds madly in my chest, my face grows hot. I know that voice. Raspy and thick with accent. He's a senior. I never see him. I'm never supposed to see him. I focus my eyes on his back, furrow my brow, and tense my jaw. I straighten slightly and puff out my chest. He walks by without a glance, takes the desk three rows away.

Palfrey, tall and paltry, stares us down the crook of her nose and announces, "Since I have to waste my Saturday because of you miscreants and your sordid misdeeds, I will at least be productive. Stay in the room. I will be back and don't think I haven't seen The Breakfast Club." Good. I haven't.

Without another word, she leaves. And we're alone.

The last thing Lars Rodriguez said to me was, "Dork". It was two years ago, but it rings in my ears now. I don't remember why he'd said it, and despite him having said it to me many times before, that one time had really truly bothered me. I think I knew it would be the last time we'd exchange verbal jabs.

The clock ticks away. I don't dare turn to him. He remains stoically silent save the ripple of fabric as he shifts in his chair.

Even before that last word, he'd been gone. High school changed him. High school changes everyone. Changed me. Though maybe, I hope, not quite so much. His freshman year, four years ago, he'd stopped hanging around with his old friends and he disappeared off my radar. He stopped surfing in the same waters; stopped skating in the same park, even his brother barely saw him.

I wonder now where he's been. I dare a peek over my shoulder and start, jerk my eyes away. He's openly staring at me. My heart pounds again. My whole body is overcome with tremors. I'm angry. It's flowing from my every pore. Who the fuck does he think he is? I feel burned. His eyes scathe me. My instinct is to cross the room and punch him. I'm waiting for him to do the same. We'd wanted to exchange swings since I was in diapers. Now is the moment. I feel it in my core. We're equals now. He's no longer a large bully picking on a small kid. We're both young men ready for battle.

"I will be back."

My heart stops. We're still sitting in our chairs. My hands rest on the top of my desk. I realize his voice has gotten low. I guess mine has too but I wouldn't know. I find myself wondering what he thinks of me now, how much I've changed, how much I haven't. I'm afraid to see how much he has. Part of me needs the old him if only for the familiarity of hating that jerk of my past.

I mull over his words and eventually my curiosity outweighs the disgust I feel at conversing with him, "What?"

"She says 'I will be back' but doesn't tell us when. It's her way of scaring us into staying in our seats; afraid she could burst through the door at any moment. She's not coming back."

I sit very still for an exaggerated moment. I don't remember Lars ever being rational. I turn the words over in my head looking for the trap. It seems too simple that he wants me to do something stupid so that I get in trouble when Palfrey returns. But then again, his tricks always were simple and transparent.

"So you think she just left us here?"

I hear fabric move and the scrape of the desk. "No. She can't do that. I mean, she'll be back eventually but not until two, when we leave. Until then, she'll spend the day in the teachers' lounge watching the stack of movies she always brings with her to these things and eating chocolate bars. That woman needs to get laid."

These things. He says it so simply. Detention is just one of these things. How many times has he been to these things?

His sneakers plod softly on the carpet and I curl my fingers into my palm. Wait. Heart pounding, breath bated. Here it comes.

"I don't remember you ever being so quiet." I draw myself up, snarl under my breath, catch myself and turn puzzled. It wasn't an insult. The words were calm. No underlying aggression.

He's standing by the teacher's desk looking amusedly at the papers. I see him now. He's tall and slender. His hair falls in sunken brown eyes, dark pools. There's an old scar under his left one, the skin is light, a shimmering silver gash.

"Let me guess, you like the change?" I growl.

"Not so much," he catches me off guard. He plays with a few pens, glances inside the empty mug. He seems to lose interest in the desk, turns to lean against it looking to me.

My heart starts pounding again. I realize, he hasn't changed all that much. He's still all swagger and arrogance. His mannerisms like a predator stalking its prey. The deeply rooted bully inside of him. His even glare set on me was ablaze with…what? I didn't know. Even as we were children, busting on one another, there had always been this hunger in him that unnerved me. Even now.

I find interest in my hands, deeply tanned, coarse and calloused. My head is spinning with fever. Sit down and leave me alone, my mind screams. I need him to leave me alone. I need him to be gone.

"We're here for a while. Conversation passes time," he remarks. Logical. I don't like it.

"What have we got to talk about?" I bite. A challenge. I meet his eyes with cold hard glare. Briefly, his gaze flickers away. He folds his arms over his chest, kicks at something unseen on the ground.

There is a calm in him that begs a storm. I find myself on my feet but lose whatever direction my body wanted to go in. My mind is pulsing. He wanders to the bookshelf, scans the texts. I watch.

"Where have you been?" my voice asks, though I don't remember commanding my mouth to form the words. I don't want to know.

"Here and there," he responds distantly. Bullshit answer.

"You're the one that wanted to converse," I growl. I edge around the desks. Fold my arms over my chest. Yes, I do. "So converse."

He twists to look at me. My heart is pounding too fast, lightheaded. I stand my ground.

"Where have you been," he echoes, to himself not to me. He truly seems to be thinking on the question. Dark stare refocus on mine, a smirk plays on his dusty lips. "I don't recall going anywhere."

Frustration floods my senses. "Then why don't I ever see you around anymore?"

My face is hot. I don't understand the question. It sounds wrong. His face contorts. Confused. He's fully turned now. His calm has ruffled. He's looking at me as though for the first time that morning he has finally seen me. The hunger, that scares me, fills his features.

He quickly turns back to the bookshelf, traces his fingers over the spines of the texts. I note the contour of his back beneath his t-shirt. The way it curves and dips. A thought amuses me. He's more man than boy now. My chest is ready to explode. Sit down, I beg myself, let it go.

"Didn't know you cared so much," he scoffs. I grimace.

"I don't."

He casts me a sardonic smile. Faces me again, leans heavily back against the bookshelf, arms draped across his chest. I notice a piece of twine is tightly wound around his left wrist. A fluorescent yellow Band-Aid wrapped around his pinky and scrawled words on the back of his hand. Doodles.

"What if I told you I'm purposely avoiding you?"

Heart in throat. Everything stops. My ears buzz.

A moment passes. A grin spreads across his face. He relaxes, chin drops to chest, chuckling. I start to breath again. In a few strides he's crossed the room, laughing at the ground all the while.

"You're such a dork."

I hate that. I hate him. I want to punch him. I'm ready to swing. My body itches for it. My hands are in fists, tight, nails biting into the palm, my muscles tense. Just one jab. Arms length in front of me he stops. I'm ready for it. He meets my eyes. The mirth on his lips hasn't reached his own dark orbs. The part of me that's afraid of him, that's always yelled at me to run from him, suddenly encompasses my entire being. His intensity cuts into me like a hot serrated knife.

"I think that's what I first started to love about you."

I can't see. I can't hear. I can't think. I can't move.


He takes a step forward; so close the hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. His face is so near to mine, his breath hot on my skin. He smells of Spanish spices and the ocean. Far to a dark corner of my brain, I oddly wonder what I smell of.

His words are low and harsh, "Or maybe I'm just busting on you."

He stands over me. He's taller, bulkier than I am. I'm slim, scrawny but always wiry and quick. He's waiting. Warm flesh and piercing stare searching me. He wants me to say something. I don't know. I remain silent. I step back. Eye him warily. He sits atop a desk. Watches me. Cat. Mouse. I pace away. Run a hand over the back of my neck. Steady my breathing.

"Five hours."

I glance at him. Flustered, I know. He points to the wall clock as though it explains everything.

"We're here. Alone. For five more hours."

I don't need the reminder. He's smiling. Looking distantly at the tiled floor.

"Still so quiet?"

"Ever hear the word awkward?" I snap. He doesn't respond.

I make my way to the bookshelf. Lean against it. Close my eyes. Compose myself. His jokes are more twisted now. I don't approve. I don't want to be in this room. Wherever he's been, I want him to go back there. I'm weary. I'm tired. I need the beach. I need the surf.

"Hey." The word is a quick half shout.

My eyes pop open. He's leaning over me; hand grips the shelf above my head, looking down. Eyes shadowed with emotion. Concern, maybe? Uncertainty? Our bodies are close again. There's a small mole on his neck, just above his collarbone. It's camouflaged against his olive skin. I fight the urge to press my fingertip to it. I try to recall when exactly it was he stopped coming around. I see that his cheeks are tinged with color.

"Don't think about it," he mumbles. I try to ask what he means. Words catch in my throat. I wet my lips with an errant tongue. Press myself hard against the shelf.

"Really, where have you been?"

Momentarily, he looks away. Sighs heavily. He seems…tired. He places both hands either side of me, lowers his face to mine, and I panic as he closes the space between us, my hands come up instinctively to push against his chest. He's solidly built, all muscle. I'm pinned in place, nowhere to run. I can't look up at him.

"Tell me something, Rocket, how much do you really want to know about me?" he snarls. That familiar bitter resentment in his voice.

I swallow hard. Can't concentrate. I think he sees fear in me. He relaxes, suddenly rests his face in the crook of my neck. It startles me. It's not…uncomfortable. His warm breath is wet against my skin. There's hollowness in my chest I can't explain.

I missed him, I realize. I missed his angry stares, his offhanded insults, his unruly tangle of flesh and limbs and evil jibes. Go away, I plead. I close my eyes.

"Sorry," he whispers into my skin. My body softens. He lifts his face. He's smiling forlornly, laughing slightly.

"For what," I try to sound tough but my words tremble soft and shy. We're alone. In a room with forty desks. For five hours. I'm pressed beneath him to a bookshelf. Sanity reasons I should push him off, connect a fist to his jaw. But my muscles are limp. There's a dull ache in my lower abdomen.

Lars meets my eyes. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Grins dangerously. "I tried."

He pushes me hard into the bookshelf; it explodes loudly, and he catches my lips with his own. My mind swirls, the world bombards my senses. I don't know what to do. He's holding me by my shoulders, working his mouth against mine. His kiss is rough, insistent. His teeth jagged against my skin. I whimper, it sounds more throaty. There's pressure on my hips. He pulls away entirely. I'm left shivering against the books. He walks from me in quick long strides, hair hides his features. I hear him, panting. I hear me. Heart pounding. I grasp the shelves for support. Spinning.

"Lars…" I don't know that voice. It comes from me, but I don't know it. That childish half plea. It sifts into a low rumble, "Lars. Come back."

He turns, body rigid, eyes hard, jaw set. I am barely standing, my chest rises and falls rapidly, my breath weighty and audible, my body flushed but I meet him glare for glare.

"Come back," I repeat, so low I doubt he hears.

He crosses the room in slow deliberate motions, grabs my shirt in a fist, and pulls me to him, our lips almost touching. My bottom lip quivers. I shudder. He tries to say something. Stops himself. Starts to let me go.

"Five hours," I remind him. He reaffirms his grip. I feel a smirk across my features.

Our mouths crash into one another's. He's got me by the collar, my fingers claw into his shirt. He's pushing me. I'm pushing back.

Let it go, my mind screams.

Fuck off, my body answers.

I shove him hard into a desk, it scrapes against the floor. For a moment, he pauses, catches my look, sneers and comes at me. His hands grab my waist, fingers bruising; I trip as he pulls me forward. Hot kisses trail my neck. I run my hands up his shirt, drag my nails down his back. He grimaces through a grin. Returns the favor, nipping at my ear, sucking hard on my lobe. I make noises I didn't know I made. I run my fingers along his spine again, his skin ripples under my touch, and I hate how I like it.

"Take it off," he rasps.

I obey, pull his shirt over his head; let it drop to the floor. Sober a moment, staring at his bare chest as he watches me warily. I ghost a hand over his collar bone, across a peck touching his hardened nipple with a light fingertip, slowly down his well-toned abdomen as his taut stomach moves in and outward, trace my fingers down the top of his pants, around the button, finger the zipper, eye his visible hard on and lay my hand on his hip. I meet his eyes. They're softened, unyielding. Afraid. Imagine its how a girl feels on a first date. I lean up and touch my mouth to that mole on his neck. Pull away, eyes still locked on his.

Reverie breaks. My fingers curl, bite into his skin, he kisses me again, hard and furious, prying my lips open. His tongue darts in my mouth, I wrestle it with my own. We maneuver through the desks, pushing and absently knocking them out of our way. He leans me against one and I sit hard upon its top, my right heel coming up to its edge so that my knee is by his side, balancing me back so I'm not completely crushed under his control. He chews my lower lip, hand sliding beneath the leg of my jean shorts across the outer thigh, his nails digging in my flesh. I blush at the long moan it draws from my throat, shamed at the way it makes my back arch in pleasure. I have to retaliate.

I break away, escape to the top of the desk, standing looking down at him. His mouth is curled in a sadistic smile, he tugs the hem of my shirt and I understand, peeling it from my sweat-dampened form and feeling the fabric slip from my fingers. I lower myself to my knees, hands on his shoulders for support, and meet his waiting mouth with my own kiss. I wrap an arm around his neck, snake my fingers through his hair. He slides his hands into my back pockets; thumbs trace the top where the blue jean becomes skin pulling me down and toward him but I don't follow, pulling away and sliding over the desk opposite of him. He questions me with a quirk of his brow. We're both breathing hard; our bodies glisten with a thin layer of sweat.

I walk unsteadily away, trailing my finger over the desk. Mind reeling. He can wait. I feel his eyes on me. Burning into me. I run my hand over my neck, slowly down my chest. Center of the room I turn to him. Let him watch as I bite my lower lip, toy with the top hem of my jeans. I look up at him through lashes; he wears a Cheshire cat grin, and I smile. He comes towards me, I take a few steps back before he catches me, wraps me in strong arms and rough, bruising kisses that I furtively return. I rake my nails down his arms; nibble his neck and collar as he tugs at my dreadlocks. The back of my legs hit the teacher's desk and he grins mischievously down at me, a look I match.

Papers, pens, pencils, even the coffee mug tumble to floor as I slide up top the desk, resting propped up on elbows, his hands press into the fake wood grain on either side of me, his face leering into my own, the bottoms of my sneakers smashing dirt footprints on what papers remain on the desk.

He pulls me down towards him, catching another kiss on my lips. One hand holding him just above me, the other tangled in my dreadlocks at the base of my head, which I roll back as he tastes my chin, nips at my neck and kisses the spot. He takes it slow now and it's all I can do to hold myself up as his mouth massages against the bare flesh of my chest.

He samples my shoulder, runs a hot tongue across my collarbone. He trails soft kisses along my sternum. Catches me off guard and bites my nipple, sucking hard. I gasp, my fingers curl scratching at the desk.

My breath comes in sharp, jagged pants. He teases the nipple a moment, hands tracing down my sides and his fingers slip into my pants at the spine caressing my butt cheeks. He kisses the areola, raw and tight, and continues downward. He pauses at my bellybutton, drags his tongue upward and rapidly trails kisses down again. He lifts himself up slightly, curls my right pant leg down and places a kiss to the inner thigh. It tickles. I squirm. He does it again, lower. Again. Again. Again. Stops. Looks to me.

My hair hangs wildly about my face, my headband discarded somewhere between the bookshelf and here. My eyes are half closed, lips slightly parted, my breathing is harsh and ragged. I'm damp with sweat, overwhelmed with ache and want. I try to form words but it comes out in strange, guttural noises.

He smiles, disappears and I growl softly; pull myself to my elbows and watch him drag the chair from around the desk, its metal legs screeching on the tile. He spins it around and sits straddling its back. Now he leans comfortably over me.

He touches my leg, kisses my knee and my chest tightens. I loll my head back to stare distantly at the ceiling as his deft fingers undo my pants. He glances at me once, and then slowly tugs the zipper down. I murmur something incomprehensible. He pulls at my shorts; I shift my body to help somewhat. He reveals my full erection and my stomach turns as if it confirms something I knew – feared - all along. This is not right, I think somewhere in the back of my mind. This is wrong.

I run my tongue over my bottom lip in anticipation, knowing …wanting…what was coming next.

He rolls his eyes up to meet mine, holding my gaze as he lowers his head to flick his tongue across the tip of my stiff shaft and I catch my breath. He grins at me surreptitiously, clicking his tongue appraisingly. He traces his fingers along my hipbone, runs a finger the full length of my erection and it tingles, sending a spasm of pure ecstasy through my body.

He has me at his mercy, I realize. I hate it. He revels in it. He lets his fingers walk my inner thigh, kissing the soft, bare flesh, and shivers of excitement run across my spine. He runs a tongue up my leg and I moan a strangled, "please," before I can stop myself.

"Please," he repeats, enjoying this too much, the sadistic bastard. He arches an amused brow at me, running his tongue from my navel to the base of my penis, "Please…what?"

"Just…please…" I gasp, squeeze my eyes close.

"You have to tell me what you want, Rocket dork," he says wickedly, shining eyes on me, breath hot against my already burning erection.

I groan frustration, "Just…God…Lars."

Hearing his name from my lips in that husky moan seems to ignite something in him and he licks the length of my dick top to bottom fueling a half caught cry from my throat. He grins at me and we lock eyes.

"Do it," I command, though I don't know how powerful it sounds as a pant.

No hesitation, he takes my dick into his mouth and instinctively my body rolls forward with a gasp causing him to deepen his descent on my cock. He's wrapped his arms beneath my back, pulling me close and I'm curled over him, clawing at his shoulder blades. I don't know what he's doing, a combination of drawing in air and releasing it as his tongue swirls around my erection, but the feeling is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Riding a ten-foot wave, catching serious backside air, blazing down a snow covered mountain. Nothing compares.

"Ah…ah…ah," I pant, trying to hold down the cries attempting to break free.

When I feel myself losing, I fall back on the desk; bite my lower lip hard, blood seeps through my teeth.

"Lars…" I whimper pathetically. He increases his vivaciousness.

My eyes widen. I know this feeling from late nights self-serving, waking up horny from dreams I couldn't remember. I don't know why but porn never really worked for me.

But…this feeling is different. More intense, overwhelming almost. I fear my body. I have no control over it.

He is in control. His hands capable of drawing whatever erotic sounds he wants me to make with a touch or a stroke.

He, who tormented and bullied me. He, who I had hated, who hated me.

He, who left me.

He left me. All I wanted was him to bust on me. To challenge me. To pay attention to me. To acknowledge how great I am.

To want me.

I feel it rushing through my body.

"Oh. Shit," I breath. He's working faster, harder. Lifting from his chair to take more of me in. I can't catch my breath, I'm clawing the sides of the desk, my hand shoves at the keyboard, presses against the computer monitor, my other hand digging in his hair. "Don't," I say but my moans of pleasure urge him to keep going, "Lars…god…Lars," I chant, "I…I'm…cu…"

I struggle to muffle the cry that rips from my chest as my body releases in climax. I'm on the balls of my feet, my back is arched, my head thrown back, my eyes and mouth open wide, one hand grips tight the mussed tendril of his hair, the other pressed hot and sweaty against the computer monitor.

I shudder with the orgasm several times, as the cry dies to a low moan, then becomes labored breathing. My body falls limp and he leans back in the chair, pushing hair from his eyes and running a hand over his face and mouth. I mildly note that he must have swallowed most of the cum.

It seems a long time that we sit there. Then he stands and walks from the chair and I weakly force myself up to watch wide-eyed as he crosses the room. He comes back with a box of tissue and with a surprising tenderness opposite of our recent sexual act he cleans me up, never looking to me despite my steady gaze on him. When he finishes, he tosses the used tissue and drags the chair back behind the desk as I slip down and pull my pants back up, silently redo them. I'm surprised I can stand, though just barely as I lean heavily on the desk for support.

Tired, I survey the room. Books have fallen over on the shelf, dislodged and disarrayed, desks are scattered or flipped on their side. Papers, pencils, pens, litter the floor, stamped with sneaker prints. The ones on the desk are sticky and damp. The coffee mug had rolled under a far away desk; a large crack runs down its side. I frown.

"We made a mess," I note. I can't seem to raise my voice above a decibel. He snorts lightly, humorously. "We should probably clean," I say, look to him.

He's staring at the teacher's desk, his hand on the back of his neck. I can't see his face. He seems different…lost. I think of the hunger in his eyes. Avoiding me. That's what he'd said. That he was avoiding me. Dork. The word stings now.

"Lars?" I call, terse. He doesn't respond. Worry edges my tone, "Lars…?" He shifts, finally glances at me, eyes dark pools I eagerly dip in. A soft smile drifts across his features. He turns away, brushes a hand through his hair, the smile is gone.

"Yeah," he mumbles, taking a haggard breath, "We should clean."

We do so in silence. Find discarded garments and return them to our bruised and weary bodies along the way. I take a seat back at my original desk, lay my head down and watch as he paces the room like a caged animal. His movement reflects exactly how I feel and were I not so exhausted I would probably pace with him.

He stops. His back to me. Starts in a wavering rasp, "Otto…"

The door to the classroom flings open and we both start. I guess we both had forgotten where we were for a moment.

Miss Palfrey waltzes in and fixes Lars with a heated glare. He stares unmoving at her. I sit straight up in my chair.

"Why are you up and about, Mister Rodriguez?" she demands.

"Uh…I needed a tissue…" he lamely explains. She frowns in return. Not buying it. She points to the student desks.

"Sit," she barks. He rolls his eyes but obeys.

Palfrey sets about straightening the papers on her desk. She makes a face as she pries one particularly stubborn piece off the top for some reason it's so sticky. She examines it with prodding fingers. She eyes us and I slump down, cheeks undoubtedly red. I wonder vaguely if she knows, if somehow she can see where Lars's hands and lips had been on my skin. I try to catch Lars's eye but he's focused forward. She puts the paper down and makes a pile. She puts it into her bag and heads towards the door, which she opens, standing in its frame, motions to us.

"Alright, boys, its over. Time to go home. That wasn't too torturous, was it?" she says. Slowly, we rise and walk to the door. He brushes past me and my arm tingles where his skin touches. He exits and I grudgingly follow. Palfrey locks up behind us.

As we head outside, Lars stops, catches my sleeve. I flush and glare up at him, ready for my old archenemy to rear his ugly head. He glances Palfrey leaving towards the faculty parking lot; no parting words or last looks. I follow his gaze. I turn back. He cups my chin and gingerly kisses my bruising bottom lip. We part and he holds my eyes, hand lingering on my cheek.

"Dork," he grins, and I lower my head, hide the smile as he releases me and walks away, calling over his shoulder, "See you next Saturday."