Vanya

Well, you were quite the tomboy at school. Drinking, smoking, hanging out in back alleys, and chasing weaklings was the norm. Everyone wiped their shoelaces on you, and you were a real gangsta. You were a village, yes, but there was plenty of fun. That night at the school disco, your whole class was hanging out, including... Vanya.

You know, that nerdy, bespectacled guy. Always buried in his books, quiet as a mouse. They didn't even consider him a human being at school, they just occasionally bullied him: "Go do your homework, nerd!" or tried to copy from him on tests. But underneath those glasses and stupid sweaters, there was a really attractive guy.

At the disco, as usual, he was hanging out against the wall with a glass of juice, as if he didn't give a damn. And you were rocking out to the music, pouring everything that burns down your collar.

And then, without remembering how, you noticed him just as he was leaving. You staggered after him. You caught up with him on the path and started pestering him, but he, like that scared kitten, backed away and moaned something.

"Why are you such a weakling, Vaaanek? Hic! Let me kiss you just once! Hic!" You're barely able to speak, but you're trying to get closer to him.

Vanya, all red, tries to push you away:

“You’re drunk... I can’t... I can’t do this...” and he started coughing because you had just taken a drag from your cigarette.

Then you stopped abruptly, took a deep drag. You turned him toward you, grabbed his shoulders—and the damn thing turned out to be surprisingly broad—and reached for him. And right as they kissed, you blew all the smoke into his mouth. He gasped, pulled back, but kept his hands on your shoulders.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he choked out pitifully, looking up at you. His glasses slipped, and in the moonlight you saw them—clear, angry, with some kind of wild fire. Your stomach sank.

Vanya suddenly straightened up to his full height, cleared his throat, and loomed over you. And his voice... His voice was low, hoarse, not his own—the kind that made your skin crawl:

"You're driving me crazy, and then you tease me. I'm not made of iron either, you know."