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I was sat at my desk and failing to complete an essay, while listening to my flatmate getting fucked.

Whoever made these shoddy student digs obviously hadn't spent much money on them. They were bland and ugly, they froze in the winter, and their walls were very, very thin. When Ash to my left watched tv on her laptop, I could make out the dialogue. When Rose down the hall played her music I could hear every note of her 80's goth discography. And when Rowan, who occupied the room to my right, decided to call her causal boyfriend, a fuckbuddy by any other name...

"Harder, Jacob! Harder! Unf!"

The sound of her bedframe creaking. The knocking of its head against the wall. Even the steady slap of skin on skin. Here I was trying to write an essay on microplastics, fucking microplastics, and I was having to hear that. Ash was on a date and Rose at a gig so I'd hoped I'd get some quiet time to work today, but nope. Thanks, Rowan. How was I supposed to concentrate on the viability of soil ecosystems with that racket going on next door?

You might suggest knocking and yelling, but Rose had already tried that and they'd gotten even louder in response. That ended with her playing her music even louder to drown them out, which had made things even worse. Ash had gone in for snarky and biting comments, but Rowan tended to take them badly. And I'd mentioned it to Jacob once, man to man, but he'd been so smug and responded with such a shit-eating grin that I'd wanted to punch him. And they'd gotten even louder the next time.

I suppose I could have left the flat for an hour, or put on music of my own (on headphones, of course. I'm not Rose). But there was a reason I didn't, even if I hated to admit it.

Hearing Rowan getting fucked was hot.

I loved hearing it, hated hearing it, couldn't stop listening to it. It drove me crazy to know my pretty, spunky, redheade flatmate was getting dicked down mere feet away from me, even as I seethed because it was nothing to do with me. I knew it was pervy of me, but if she was going to broadcast her sex life to the world, why shouldn't the world listen in?

I just wished it was me. I wondered if it could have been me, had I been suaver when we'd met, if I'd said the right things. I was sure I could do a better job of it than her current lover. I'd heard enough cussing through the walls, seen Rowan in enough short and snappy moods, to know that.

I imagined Rowan's body, all pale and lithe and athletic, wrapped around my own. Her short and curly ginger hair, stuck to her forehead with sweat. I put faces to the moans I heard.

Rowan who would lounge in the kitchen after a shower with her gorgeous legs on the table, her hair wet and smelling of flowers, cradling a cup of tea.

Rowan who used to come back from the gym with her sports bra visible beneath a damp and transparent shirt after having run back as a cooldown, covered in sweat in a way that activated some primal caveman urge inside of me.

Rowan who now jogged the twelve storeys of our student tower because the gym was too expensive, treating passers-by to those sleek and muscular legs, that firm arse in running shorts, those perky tits that jiggled as she mounted the stairs.

Rowan, Rowan, Rowan. I had her on the brain. I had all of them on the brain, really, but she was the worst. Fucking so loudly, so close by. When she came, the noise would be burned into my brain and fuel my fantasies for weeks. Not that she came that often, with her careless and selfish lover. But when I imagined her fucking me, she always got her O.

Was that presumptuous of me? Maybe. But I doubted it. Sure, I wasn't some master of sex with a cock the size of a bus, but I'd had

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