(no subject)
Title: Study Sessions
Rating: Strong PG-15, probably.
Characters: Josh/Metis. Oh yeah.
Note: In my mind, it's a prequel to Sick Day, but can be read as a standalone.
Inspired By: This tiny piece of hot
You knew his mom wasn’t home, and he’d most likely be in his room, headphones on, music blasting, unable to hear a pounding knock on the door or the ringing of a phone, so you didn’t even bother with formalities and used your spare key to let yourself in. He’d given it to you for your four month not-anniversary-that‘s-for-girls-but-hey,-four-months-and-we-haven‘t-killed-each other!-Let‘s-celebrate! It came with conditions, but the message was clear: he trusts you.
It makes your spine tingle, kind of.
You sigh at the mess he made of his mother’s kitchen and kick your shoes into the back of the closet, dropping you backpack and shrugging off your jacket. You hang it neatly on a coat hanger (his as well), before grabbing your books and charging upstairs to his room.
Metis is, as you predicted, laying spread eagle on his bedroom floor, having cleared a path in the junk. He has his headphones plugged into his stereo while the CD you got him for his birthday rests on his chest. His eyes are closed, his breathing is steady, and you’d swear he was asleep but for the fact that his fingers were tapping a distinct rhythm onto his palm.
You sigh, and reach over to the volume knob, cranking the sound in one smooth motion, and he almost levitates off the floor all while swearing and pushing the headphones off his ears.
He glares at you, kicking out with his left foot. He catches you in the shin a little, but you just laugh and sit down on his bed while he mutters something about forks and testicles.
“Did you forget I was coming over?”
“… No.” Metis casts his eyes toward the window, the afternoon sun hanging cheerfully in the sky.
“Uh huh.”
He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue, and you know all is forgiven. He picks himself up off the floor, yawning and scratching the back of his head, flopping down beside you and resting his face against your shoulder.
“Aww, was baby taking a nap?” You smirk down at him, but curl your arm around his shoulder and pull him up and closer. He smells really good today.
“Frug ou.” He mumbles, mouth smushed against the skin between your neck and shoulder.
And then he licks.
“Stop that.” You try and say it with conviction, but if he ever listened to you then he wouldn’t be Metis anymore.
He licks again, and follows it with a wet kiss and a slight nibble.
Metis moves closer now, crawling up onto your lap and lacing his fingers together at the base of your skull. Your own eyes roll up into the back of your head as he goes to work on your sensitive spots with that talented mouth of his.
Oh god.
Minutes or hours or days later, you regain a thought and move your mouth so it’s right up in his personal space, but you only allow it for a moment because.
“Metis. We. Study. Have to. Yesss.”
“Hmm?”
You pull away and regret swims all inside your bloodstream. You want him, badly. But.
“Chemistry test. Studying? The reason I came over?”
“Oh yeah.”
Un-fucking-fair.
---
He’s laying on his stomach on his bed, armed with a notebook and a pencil, notes and diagrams and text books spread all around him like a harem of paper followers. He’s humming slightly, and you really, really want to pin him to the bed and fuck his brains out (crude, you know, but effective).
In turn, you’ve stationed yourself at his desk, your own book sitting open to the introduction and a freshly sharpened pencil sitting on top of your ear. You haven’t read a single word.
You… can’t.
“Josh?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s a good definition of chemistry?”
“Look it up, genius.”
Metis glances at you with a scowl. “I have a different book, moron. Remember? I’m doing notes for unit one, you’re doing them for unit two? Just read it off to me.”
You don’t.
“Josh?”
Crap.
You wince, and you probably look like a kicked puppy. He’s got that worried look in his eyes, the one you rarely see and never like.
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
“Umm… alright?”
“Remember how I had to skip our date on Monday?”
“… Yes?”
Fuck. You sigh and run a hand through your recently cut hair. The pencil drops to the carpet.
“Well. My mom took me to the eye doctor ‘cause she says I’ve been squinty--”
“Hey, I noticed that!”
“-- and. Well.”
You shrug and smile sadly, reaching into the pocket of your hoodie, pulling out the small plastic case. Flipping it open, you pull out the object that’s ruined your life forever, or at least the next month, and slide them onto your face.
The glasses are plain, with deep blue rectangle shaped frames that make you look like a complete moron. You only need them for reading (for now), but you still think they suck beyond belief.
Metis is gaping at you, jaw dropped down to his chest, and yeah, you hate existence a lot right now.
He’s managed to garble out a few sounds so far, but now he’s pushing out words.
“They’re--”
Stupid. Ugly. Horrible. Ugly.
“Hot.”
… Huh?
Metis is looking at you hard, eyes narrowed, and without warning his flies the four feet into your lap, looking close enough he can probably count your pores, and then he’s tugging at the zipper on your sweat shirt.
You grin, and reach up to take them off, but he bats your hands away and snarls.
“Leave. Them. On.”
Kinky.
---
Needless to say… You both took a makeup test.
Rating: Strong PG-15, probably.
Characters: Josh/Metis. Oh yeah.
Note: In my mind, it's a prequel to Sick Day, but can be read as a standalone.
Inspired By: This tiny piece of hot
You knew his mom wasn’t home, and he’d most likely be in his room, headphones on, music blasting, unable to hear a pounding knock on the door or the ringing of a phone, so you didn’t even bother with formalities and used your spare key to let yourself in. He’d given it to you for your four month not-anniversary-that‘s-for-girls-but-hey,-four-months-and-we-haven‘t-killed-each other!-Let‘s-celebrate! It came with conditions, but the message was clear: he trusts you.
It makes your spine tingle, kind of.
You sigh at the mess he made of his mother’s kitchen and kick your shoes into the back of the closet, dropping you backpack and shrugging off your jacket. You hang it neatly on a coat hanger (his as well), before grabbing your books and charging upstairs to his room.
Metis is, as you predicted, laying spread eagle on his bedroom floor, having cleared a path in the junk. He has his headphones plugged into his stereo while the CD you got him for his birthday rests on his chest. His eyes are closed, his breathing is steady, and you’d swear he was asleep but for the fact that his fingers were tapping a distinct rhythm onto his palm.
You sigh, and reach over to the volume knob, cranking the sound in one smooth motion, and he almost levitates off the floor all while swearing and pushing the headphones off his ears.
He glares at you, kicking out with his left foot. He catches you in the shin a little, but you just laugh and sit down on his bed while he mutters something about forks and testicles.
“Did you forget I was coming over?”
“… No.” Metis casts his eyes toward the window, the afternoon sun hanging cheerfully in the sky.
“Uh huh.”
He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue, and you know all is forgiven. He picks himself up off the floor, yawning and scratching the back of his head, flopping down beside you and resting his face against your shoulder.
“Aww, was baby taking a nap?” You smirk down at him, but curl your arm around his shoulder and pull him up and closer. He smells really good today.
“Frug ou.” He mumbles, mouth smushed against the skin between your neck and shoulder.
And then he licks.
“Stop that.” You try and say it with conviction, but if he ever listened to you then he wouldn’t be Metis anymore.
He licks again, and follows it with a wet kiss and a slight nibble.
Metis moves closer now, crawling up onto your lap and lacing his fingers together at the base of your skull. Your own eyes roll up into the back of your head as he goes to work on your sensitive spots with that talented mouth of his.
Oh god.
Minutes or hours or days later, you regain a thought and move your mouth so it’s right up in his personal space, but you only allow it for a moment because.
“Metis. We. Study. Have to. Yesss.”
“Hmm?”
You pull away and regret swims all inside your bloodstream. You want him, badly. But.
“Chemistry test. Studying? The reason I came over?”
“Oh yeah.”
Un-fucking-fair.
---
He’s laying on his stomach on his bed, armed with a notebook and a pencil, notes and diagrams and text books spread all around him like a harem of paper followers. He’s humming slightly, and you really, really want to pin him to the bed and fuck his brains out (crude, you know, but effective).
In turn, you’ve stationed yourself at his desk, your own book sitting open to the introduction and a freshly sharpened pencil sitting on top of your ear. You haven’t read a single word.
You… can’t.
“Josh?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s a good definition of chemistry?”
“Look it up, genius.”
Metis glances at you with a scowl. “I have a different book, moron. Remember? I’m doing notes for unit one, you’re doing them for unit two? Just read it off to me.”
You don’t.
“Josh?”
Crap.
You wince, and you probably look like a kicked puppy. He’s got that worried look in his eyes, the one you rarely see and never like.
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
“Umm… alright?”
“Remember how I had to skip our date on Monday?”
“… Yes?”
Fuck. You sigh and run a hand through your recently cut hair. The pencil drops to the carpet.
“Well. My mom took me to the eye doctor ‘cause she says I’ve been squinty--”
“Hey, I noticed that!”
“-- and. Well.”
You shrug and smile sadly, reaching into the pocket of your hoodie, pulling out the small plastic case. Flipping it open, you pull out the object that’s ruined your life forever, or at least the next month, and slide them onto your face.
The glasses are plain, with deep blue rectangle shaped frames that make you look like a complete moron. You only need them for reading (for now), but you still think they suck beyond belief.
Metis is gaping at you, jaw dropped down to his chest, and yeah, you hate existence a lot right now.
He’s managed to garble out a few sounds so far, but now he’s pushing out words.
“They’re--”
Stupid. Ugly. Horrible. Ugly.
“Hot.”
… Huh?
Metis is looking at you hard, eyes narrowed, and without warning his flies the four feet into your lap, looking close enough he can probably count your pores, and then he’s tugging at the zipper on your sweat shirt.
You grin, and reach up to take them off, but he bats your hands away and snarls.
“Leave. Them. On.”
Kinky.
---
Needless to say… You both took a makeup test.