Eternal Flame
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 1: The Random Assignment
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Random Assignment - Eternal Flame: A raw, passionate lesbian romance. Random college roommates Nawana (part-Cherokee artist) and Jordan (driven pre-med) spark instant chemistry that ignites into fierce love. Over 12 years, they battle crushing workloads, money woes, jealousy, long-distance, med school burnout, and residency's riptide—choosing each other through explosive fights and desperate reconciliations. Sensual, unflinching, and deeply emotional, this is queer love tested by fire and emerging unbreakable.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Fiction Rags To Riches School Workplace DomSub FemaleDom Light Bond Rough Spanking Polygamy/Polyamory Interracial Analingus Exhibitionism Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Squirting Big Breasts Caution Slow
Hawthorne Hall is the only building on campus that looks exactly like its brochure photo, Nawana decides. The brick is blunter in person, the window frames leprous with chipping paint, but it has that same stolid shape she saw online—rectangular, stubborn, only barely dignified by the hedges outside. She tries not to clutch the handle of her duffel too hard as she follows her mother and grandmother through the main doors, where the air is already overcooked by the last heat of August and the chemical optimism of cleaning supplies.
“Lord, you can’t even open the windows?” her grandmother says, and Nawana bites back her impulse to explain that’s how you keep students from hurling themselves three stories down or at least avoid getting wasps in your oatmeal.
They take the elevator, which smells like ten thousand forgotten lunches. Nawana watches the floor display, then her mother’s reflection, then her own. Her face looks drained, too narrow. No one could guess how many hours she spent the night before prepping her outfit, rearranging every strand of black hair so it’d stay perfectly wild, not flat.
The third floor is a crush of voices and bodies and boxes, the kind of chaos Nawana typically finds intoxicating but today makes her want to go somewhere very small and quiet. Their room is 312—bigger than she expected, two beds, two desks, a single window over the courtyard where some upperclassmen are already drinking, even though it’s not quite noon.
Jordan is already there. She is stacking books on her desk with the careful method of someone who’s read a guide to college move-in day. Nawana recognizes her from the roommate emails: “Jordan C. Chen, she/her, Pre-med (bio), from Portland. Loves running and murder documentaries. Can’t cook.” The honest Jordan is taller, with angular features and a surgical neatness to everything, even her sleeveless tank top and the way she keeps her hands perfectly dry as she opens each box. Her eyes, when they flick up to Nawana, are sharp and olive-dark.
“Hey, hi!” Jordan says, standing abruptly. She extends a hand, then looks at Nawana’s arms, which are loaded with two heavy boxes of art supplies, and pivots to a quick, awkward bow.
Nawana bows back, even though it’s wrong, and their mothers both laugh. Her grandmother does not.
Jordan’s parents are nowhere to be seen, but there’s a heavy perfume lingering near her side of the room, like someone recently departed. The furniture is already perfectly arranged, the comforter tucked, the caddy hung, the desk lamp positioned for optimal diffusion. Nawana’s side is a wasteland of cardboard and the lumpy, knotted blanket her mother crocheted in high school colors.
She sets her stuff down. There’s a polite circuit of introductions. Her mother and grandmother alternate between giving advice and picking invisible lint off her sleeves. Jordan offers to help, and Nawana—who is used to fending off helpers, to making herself less embarrassing—says yes, even though she’s pretty sure she’ll regret it.
Jordan is strong. She lifts Nawana’s suitcase as if it’s made of packing peanuts, not five years’ worth of collected sketchbooks and tangled cords and thrifted Doc Martens. “Where do you want it?” Jordan asks.
“On the bed’s fine. Or, like, on the floor. Or burn it,” Nawana says, and then cringes, because her grandmother is watching.
Jordan grins, a lopsided flash that seems to take her by surprise. “Bed’s good. Want to do the posters next? I brought this—” she rifles in her own box and produces a bubble-wrapped command strip set, colors like a candy aisle. “Figured the walls might be concrete.”
“They are,” Nawana says. “Cinderblock.”
“Prisoncore, then,” says Jordan. “I like it.”
They work side by side. Nawana lines up her art prints—mostly portraits, a lot of deep reds and metallics, plus one stylized watercolor of a water spider with an orb of Fire—and Jordan measures the distance between each frame with a battered plastic ruler, nudging until every piece is level. Their arms brush once, then again. Nawana pretends she doesn’t notice. Her mother and grandmother are arguing softly over whether to make the bed first or tackle the closet.
“So, uh, you said in your email you like to paint?” Jordan asks, peeling the back off a strip. Her voice is low, slightly hoarse, as if she’s been sick or shouting.
“Yeah. Digital mostly, but I try to do some stuff by hand. I ... uh. Used to do beadwork. But I lost the thread. My grandmother taught me, but.” Nawana glances over, nervous, but Jordan only nods, giving her the space to fumble.
“My parents are both doctors. They wanted me to do piano or violin. I was an abject failure at both,” Jordan says. “So instead I dissected frogs.”
“Were you any good at it?”
“I could have been a serial killer,” Jordan says with a straight face, then deadpans, “Except I like my evidence clean.”
Nawana laughs, too loud, and Jordan’s smile goes small and private, like she’s folding it away for later. They finish the wall in record time, and the art is lined up like a gallery.
Her mother brings in a box labeled NAWANA—KITCHEN STUFF. “There’s a communal fridge, right?” her mother asks. Still, Jordan is already explaining the floor kitchen rules, the perils of leaving even a single container unattended (“fruit flies,” she says, shuddering), the existence of two rival factions on the floor: the midnight ramen crew and the five-am smoothie cult.
“My money’s on ramen,” Nawana says.
“Smoothie people have more stamina,” Jordan retorts, and for a second, the tension between them is neither awkward nor flirtatious, just easy.
The mothers drift out for coffee, grandmother trailing with a last reminder to eat something green. Alone, Nawana lets herself drop onto the narrow bed. The mattress is as thin as a tongue depressor. She wonders how many bodies have sweated into it over the years, whether any of those ghosts will show up to haunt her tonight. Jordan sits cross-legged on her own bed, typing furiously into her phone—then stops, looking at Nawana, and sets it aside.
“You okay?” Jordan asks.
“I’m not, like, homesick or anything,” Nawana lies. “It’s just—quiet.”
“It won’t be.” Jordan glances at the window, where a soccer ball bounces off the glass, then back at Nawana. “First night, there’s a mandatory floor meeting. Then we all eat pizza until someone throws up. By week two, you’ll have to schedule alone time.”
Nawana tries to imagine a future where she has too many friends. She’s never been that person. Not even in the art club, not at the tribal center. But maybe here—
“Want to check out the common room?” Jordan says. “There’s supposed to be a—uh, the flyer called it a ‘kickback’? That sounds illegal, but also maybe fun.”
“Only if we come back before my grandmother does,” Nawana says. “She’ll set traps.”
It’s almost effortless, the way they fall into step down the hallway, arms not quite touching. The lounge is full of half-unpacked strangers, music playing too loudly from someone’s phone. Nawana feels herself shrinking at first, but then Jordan is beside her, introducing her to people with unstudied ease, letting her hide behind the shield of pre-med ambition. They try the snack table, the couches, and a round of Cards Against Humanity. Nawana’s laugh comes easier this time, especially when Jordan’s answers get progressively filthier, as if she’s trying to scandalize the entire third floor in one night.
She’s not sure when her hand finds Jordan’s thigh under the table—maybe she’s reaching for a stray playing card, perhaps not—but Jordan goes still, then doesn’t move away. They spend the rest of the night not moving, knees just barely pressed together, like it’s a secret neither of them knows how to say yet.
By the third week of classes, Nawana has seen Jordan at her best (completing a chemistry lab with such violent precision the TA writes “thorough!” on her worksheet) and her worst (staring in horror at a sculpture midterm, paralyzed by the concept of “artistic freedom”). They’ve established a routine: Jordan wakes up first, runs in the predawn darkness, and returns at exactly six-thirty to shower. Nawana snoozes until seven, then scrambles to print her assignments at the library before class. They reconvene most evenings, eating dinner on the quad or sprawled on the carpet with Jordan’s MCAT flashcards and Nawana’s latest illustration commission.
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