#Just letting out my frustrations about Fandom

[betty-fran]

#but 'ofc he's a hedonist who doesn't want to settle down' as the default assumption just became super weird after the tos marathon#and the reluctance to see anything but this kind of healthy hedonism with some secondary goals in the flirtations/seductions#esp given that while he's an aspirational figure he's... uh. i don't think presented as. let's say. a model of psychological wellness.

(via @anghraine)

I couldn't pass it by, because lately I've been thinking about why Kirk, as a character, is perceived so differently within the fandom itself, and I wanted to put it all (some of my unpopular opinions) into a more coherent text.

AOS, like most modern media, does a pretty poor job of characters' depth, but that's precisely why, I think, it forces fans to pay more attention to the psychological analysis and search for that depth on their own. They try to figure out who Kirk is and what's behind his behavior patterns, and there are many examples of really good work on portraying a trauma survivor. It's a main reason why, for a long time, even when I started watching TOS, I thought it was some kind of exclusively AOS fandom thing (not Tarsus, of course, but all this SA/DV concept). An attempt to talk about what hurts, and what is familiar to the modern viewer, but which is difficult to talk about openly, as well as an attempt to give more sense to what is happening on the screen.

But if in the context of AOS, this is more fan reading than objective reality (again, because AOS was filmed primarily as entertaining action movies, and while I really like them overall, I realize that I want to see this complexity more than it actually exists there), TOS really has this complexity. And it really talks about these things.

TOS is generally perceived very differently by people, but in fact, I was able to explain it to myself quite unexpectedly - TOS is more theater than cinema. That's why it gives this feeling of "I've never seen anything like this in cinema before," because I haven't. But I've seen it in the theater. And like any good theater, it makes you think, speaking to you between the lines, through the acting, through the light, relying entirely on the viewer's ability to perceive what they see. It's a very allegorical thing, and any of its sequels (even the original films), spin-offs, prequels, etc., can't replicate that feeling. And here lies something, which, in my opinion, exists in the way TOS is perceived in the fandom, which has been oversaturated with information for 60 years. Almost no one perceives it as an independent thing. And under the weight of an entire franchise, something of genuine significance is lost.

TOS itself provides so much material for analysis that you don't have to try to see something that isn't there; you just have to look at what's in front of you. And that's why I'm especially in-a-bad-way-surprised when Kirk is perceived as misogynistic/cruel towards women/a frivolous womanizer/man-whore/etc, when he clearly isn't. He, and we're shown this more than once, sympathizes with women in a way that none of the other male characters do. He sympathizes with them from a very feminine side. And quite obviously, in situations with strangers, he prefers women's company to men's, not because he is a womanizer as is often claimed, but because, and this is actually very noticeable, he is more comfortable with them. I saw pages from Shatner's biography where he talks about an incident from his youth when he had a near-SA experience:

What happened that night changed my attitude toward women for the rest of my life. I understood the anger and frustration that a woman feels when she says no, and means no, and the man believes she is saying yes.

And speaking specifically about his acting, it's undoubtedly felt in TOS. That's what Kirk has. He understands that feeling of being treated like an object. And in three seasons of TOS, he's been treated exactly that way more than once. We have scenes of explicit coercion (through blackmail, manipulation, deprivation of the ability to control his own consciousness/body) into physical contact/sex that can't be read any other way. We have several episodes that, if he were a woman, would be perceived as blatant sexual assault/rape. We even have a moment (I honestly only remember "Wink of an Eye", but I have a feeling there was something else like it) where he is directly told that he is only needed for reproduction. Should we perceive it differently because he's a man?

For an entertainment show, it talks too much about traumatic experiences and life after them, constantly and coherently raising topics of the limitation of autonomy/violation of personal boundaries/physical or psychological abuse, and more often than not, does so through Kirk. It's emphasized how easily he separates himself from his own desires/feelings, and allows himself to be used, to violate his own boundaries (psychological or physical) if it gives a chance of survival (for himself/another person/the ship's crew) or to achieve another goal (which actually also concerns the chance of survival). There was an interesting moment in "The Lights Of Zetar" that I find quite revealing for understanding how deeply rooted this idea of "doing to survive" is in Kirk. When one of his subordinates is taken over by alien entities that are trying to destroy the entire ship, the only option to deal with them is to let them take her completely so they can be taken out through a pressure chamber. It's dangerous physically, but it's also psychologically abusive, and it's a difficult moral choice for her to make, which Kirk tells her with cool determination but also emotional understanding:

KIRK: They'll be here very soon. They may destroy you and us as they did Memory Alpha. You are especially susceptible to their will. But we have one chance to survive. Don't resist. Let them begin to function through you. If we can control that moment, we have a chance. Will you try?

And this understanding is not so much that of a ship's captain, but rather that of a person who is very aware of what it's like to let another take over your body if it means a chance at survival. A person who is well aware of what this "don't resist" means. This violation of personal autonomy/boundaries/physical and psychological safety is undoubtedly a dangerous part of working in Starfleet. However, there is a noticeable, and I don't think unintentionally emphasized, difference in the response to similar situations between Kirk and others. This is especially pronounced in Kirk/Pike parallels, which can be seen by analyzing Pike's behavior in a similar situation in "The Menagerie". Pike, who is shown to us as a model captain and a noble man, has a fairly healthy, distinctly masculine (and not in a bad sense of the word) reaction to the situation he finds himself in. He's naturally indignant, takes steps to get out, and keeps well this internal distance between himself and Vina/Talosians. As a captain, he's willing to sacrifice his freedom/his life for the sake of the ship's crew, but this is the personal courage he has as a person, something that still remains in the realm of beautiful heroism, noble self-sacrifice. It's not Kirk's survivalism, his ability to compromise his integrity, to let someone else get too (uncomfortably) close to him, just to have a chance, the real ugly and dirty face of survival. This is the difference that is traced in these two captains, this boundary of true understanding between "I am willing to do anything to survive" and "I can do anything to survive."

This is what generally makes Pike a better role model for healthy behavior patterns, but it's also what makes Kirk a much more meaningful character to understand. He turned out to be much more of a trauma survivor than the golden boy I expected to see him as, but it rather explains to me why he touched me so much as a character. Despite everything, he remains an idealist, a utopian, a humanist. It's not that he believes in people because he thinks they are good; he believes in them even though he knows they might not be. And this, I must say, is much more difficult and requires from you true kindness and the ability to forgive.

I watched "Measure of a Man" not long ago, and while it was indeed very good, the weird, toxic, bitter relationship between Picard and his JAG ex really made me nostalgic for one of my favorite Kirk/lady of the week relationships—Kirk and Areel Shaw in "Court Martial."

Kirk himself is the one on trial in "Court Martial," and Areel is the prosecuting attorney rather than the judge. They're exes in their early 30s who broke up in the past for unknown reasons, but are still fond of each other, respectful, and retain an amicable, pleasant relationship years after their break-up. Both of them handle the strain of Areel's professional obligations with maturity and grace, but not impossibly idealized invulnerability. Areel recommends a good defense lawyer for Kirk and regrets the role the situation places them in, but she also doesn't sabotage her case against him and is good at what she does.

The thing that really makes this a favorite "Kirkmance" for me, beyond all this, is that it's very obvious that both of them still care a lot about each other and remain deeply attracted to each other. Neither of them have anything to gain by this. They're both too intelligent and sensible to consider re-kindling their old romance; it fell apart for a reason, despite the lingering affection/attraction, and for pragmatic reasons, sex isn't on the table.

But both early and late in the episode, Kirk and Areel seem to enjoy the flirtation for what it is: not calculated or desperate, not useful, not some fridge horror dub-con scenario, not a high-romance disaster waiting to happen, not even a prelude to a one-night stand, just a fun and affectionate acknowledgment that the chemistry remains strong and they still love each other in a way. There's something genuine and tender and unforced about their flirtation and mutually agreed-upon good-bye kiss that is just so conspicuously different from the tactical Kirkmances. I think it's really lovely, actually:

[cuephrase]

as someone who loves comics, hell as someone who got into this fandom because of comics, the comics-reading fandom commentary i keep running into that seems set on villainizing non-comics reading and fanon-enjoying members of fandom by complaining about the fic that gets published is seriously exhausting at best and deeply frustrating at its worst.

and let me preface this by saying, if you actually want to try and analyze perceived trends in good faith, by all means, do your fandom meta, so long as you are not treating other people like problems that require solutions. the solution starts with you. focus on changing your mindset from that of entitlement to appreciation. you are not owed quality fic- whatever that looks like to you. a fic not being to your preference doesn’t make it any less a labor of love, a creation that someone spent their free time putting together and sharing.

also i do scroll/block. i am not being “forced” to engage with this rhetoric. still, the prevalence disheartens me because this attitude runs in direct contradiction to what my understanding of fandom/ao3 is.

is fandom not the space to have fun with our blorbos? to share headcanons and art and analysis and connect with those who share our love and vision? do you forget that the A in AO3 stands for Archive? that the T in OTW stands for Transformative? why is it so offensive for someone to write and post a fic, to an archive, that is OOC to you that you have to complain about it in a public tumblr post? why does seeing someone enjoy and/or create something you dislike warrant you going to the town square and bitching? what gives you the authority to tell someone whether or not they deserve to exist in the fandom? are we not all guests?

just because we’re all in one fandom doesn’t mean you are the target audience for every creation. especially in big fandoms, where the breadth of interpretations is vast. like. you do know that even if every person who posted a batman fic read the comics, you still wouldn’t like every fic? something not being canon to you, while perfectly valid, doesn’t change the fact that it is or was canon and therefore may very well be canon to someone else. and vice versa! not to mention that someone can read the exact same comics and reach an entirely different conclusion. they can love the same character and see them totally differently.

y’all stroll up to a sprawling potluck, see some dishes you dislike, and start crashing out like. pause for a second. damn. you don’t have to eat any of that!! i don’t really care if you have a hard time finding fic you like, because, what? you think that makes you special? do you want a medal or consolation prize for doing what literally everyone who uses ao3 has to do to find fic they like if they’re picky? should i marvel at your commitment to only consuming that which has the finest of characterization, the most artful prose, the deepest, most esoteric insights? give me a break. what a first world problem.

“but they’re not even really fans of-” shut up. just shut up. keep that stuff in dms or the appropriate discord servers. private places where someone can’t accidentally stumble across them and get hurt. people come to fandom for so many reasons, why risk ruining something that is bringing someone comfort and community just because you dislike seeing blorbo written that way?

yes, it is up to individuals to curate the experience they have in fandom. it is their prerogative to block/scroll/not click on that fic that is clearly tagged with something they dislike. but it is not up to you to try and curate the Fandom itself. do you see the difference? you can make your own discord server and decide the rules, you can make your own archive and decide the TOS, you can and should make your space a space you enjoy being in. but the Fandom as a whole? that’s not yours.

like tagging is a very important part of good etiquette on ao3 imo, but the discourse over what fic can/should be has gotten so out of hand that my friend, who loves superboy and reads his comics, worries about what fandom tag to use for their fics that aren't canon compliant. hell, i tag all my fics that do not directly deal with a comics canon incident as "Batman - All Media Types" and not "[Character] Comics", even though i've read tons of comics and they are solely what i base my characterization off of because i'm paranoid about someone coming into my comments and giving me grief about it not being canon accurate enough, or being the inspiration of a vaguepost. what a sad environment that has been built. why should there be any stress over whether a transformative work belongs under the applicable fandom tags? what a bastardization of fandom etiquette to push for people to only tag with X fandom if they've "earned" it, if the fic is something that a Real fan would want to read. dgmw, i'm grateful that the Batman - AMT tag still exists, i think it's an extremely useful catchall, but the way that people weaponize the fandom tags is just so disappointing. and also? honestly? a little chronically online. because it presumes that ao3 authors will also be present on other fandom spaces to know the "rules", which is absurd. someone should not need to be involved on tumblr, or any other site, to know how to tag on ao3. following the rules as outlined on ao3 itself should be sufficient.

“well i enjoy venting-” yes, okay, i’m sorry that you lack the empathy to understand why your actions are discourteous. and like, to be crystal clear, i am strictly opposing vent posts/vagueblogging that calls out/complains about fic specificially. stuff like “i’m so sick of seeing people write X fic” or “saw this fic, why would anyone write a fic like this?” it’s not a legitimate question. it’s not a legitimate question, because the answer is simple even if you dislike it. they wrote it because they wanted to. that’s the only reason anyone needs to write a fic. and guess what, the great thing is that there’s an equally simple answer for why someone may not want to read a fic- because they don’t want to!

not that it matters, but i’m not saying this because i just love every single part of fanon and every fic is right up my alley- no. not only am i incredibly picky, but my tastes have shifted over time. past me adored some fics that i would scroll right past now- and those fics aren’t bad, i can re-read the ones i remembered to bookmark and see why i liked them. and i read fics now that past me would/did scroll past. i just don’t think my personal enjoyment of a fic should have any bearing on whether or not that fic should be allowed to exist- unless ofc, it’s my own fic. and even then, i, personally, orphan stuff, i don’t delete akdhfkdhf.

we are all guests. we are all playing with IP we don’t own. we do a disservice to ourselves and others when we forget that.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Starting at the End Ch. 5

Summary: Lily Crawford has been receiving disturbing letters from a worrisome fan. On the advice of an acquaintance she goes to Winchester Private Security and seeks out Dean Winchester to keep her safe. Will this troubled ex-marine be able to save her, and can she save him too?

Series Warnings: Angst. Smut. Fluff. (as usual, of course!) Discussion of war, loss, trauma, PTSD, grief. Stalking. Obsession.

Chapter Warnings: Some violence. PTSD briefly mentioned but not discussed.

Pairing: Dean x ofc (Lily Crawford)

Word Count: 2,426

A/N: This is my Dean "Bodyguard" AU. (Technically he calls himself Private Security and not a Bodyguard, but 🤷‍♀️) I've never written a bodyguard AU before, so I hope you all enjoy this one. It's been a while since I've written an ofc, so I hope you like Lily. I'm enjoying writing her. I know OC's aren't the fandoms favourite, but I really felt like I needed Lily to be Lily in this one. Hope you give it a chance anyway. ❤️

POSTING EVERY FRIDAY! ❤️

Series Master List || Dean Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

Dean walked through the door first, re-arming the alarm as soon as Lily closed the door behind herself. She walked over to her coffee table to drop her purse, letting her keys fall beside it. She stood quietly for a minute, until Dean cleared his throat. 

“How are you?” He asked tentatively. “Can I make you a cup of coffee? Or, uh…some kind of tea?”

Lily smiled softly. “No, thanks. I'm good.” She sighed loudly. “I think I'm just gonna go soak in a hot bath for a while and then call it a very early night.”

She smiled again as she passed by Dean on her way to the bathroom. As she reached the hallway, Dean called her back.

“Lily?”

She looked at him with a weary, quizzical brow raised. 

Dean shook his head. “Why do you…keep doing this?”

She frowned. “Doing what?”

Dean spread his arms wide. “This. This, with this asshole producer, and the other jerks you put up with. I mean, I've heard some of the conversations you've had with directors and stuff, they’re so condescending and rude half the time.” 

He thumbed behind him towards the door. “You said this wasn't the first time you've dealt with someone like this. So, why keep coming back to it? Why keep putting yourself through it if it makes you miserable?”

Lily bristled at the questions. “Because why would I let asshole producers and rude directors determine my life? Besides, I’m not miserable.”

Dean grunted out a sound that said he didn’t believe her.

“I’m not!” Lily argued. “Look, are there aspects of the industry that I don’t like? Sure. Are there times it’s frustrating? Yeah. But I’m an actress, it was what I’ve wanted to do my whole life. It’s like…a calling.”

She lifted her hand towards him. “You were a Marine, right? Don’t you think you were called to serve your country? Like a feeling in your gut that just tells you that you’re doing the right thing?”

Dean’s face shuttered and lost all expression. Lily suddenly realized what she was saying. She waved her hands back and forth. 

“Not that I’m saying it’s the same, at all. Obviously, being an actress and being a Marine are not the same level of importance or dedication. I just meant that, I mean there must have been things about being in the military that you didn’t like, right? But it didn’t stop you from serving. Right? Even if sometimes it made you miserable?”

Dean was silent for a moment, before he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s really none of my business. Sorry.”

He looked at the front door. “Okay, everything is locked up and armed, so I’m gonna go to bed. Goodnight.”

He was almost in the bedroom before she thought to answer. “Goodnight.” 

But his door was already closed. It was the first time in two weeks he went to bed before she did. 

***

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning and Dean sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees up, with his elbows resting there. Even after all these years out of the service, there were still times that a bed felt too soft, almost like it was going to swallow him up. When he felt like that, he’d sleep on the floor.

That’s how he’d ended up down there. He’d started off trying to sleep, but after an hour of tossing and turning, he knew it was pointless and grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of his big duffle bag. 

Now he was most of the way through the bottle of Jack. He took another gulp of the fiery liquid and swallowed it down slowly, wishing the burn could black out some of the memories running rampant through his mind. But he knew it wouldn’t; it never did. It just made them a bit fuzzy around the edges. 

But he could still see Sammy’s face, the way it looked when his little brother had been pleading with him.

“Dean, I hate it. I hate it all so much. I’m so miserable there.”

Dean would give anything to stop his next angry words, but they echoed hollowly through his mind just the same, far too late to change them.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy! You can’t just quit the fucking Marines! This isn’t like your job at the taco stand, or that call center place! This is the fucking Marines. Quitting is called ‘deserting’.” 

“I didn’t want to join in the first place! Dad made me!”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam! You’re a grown ass man! Take some responsibility for your actions. Dad made you?”

“Yes! And you made me! I did it to make you happy, so I’d stop disappointing you both so much.”

Dean set the bottle heavily on the floor beside him, and buried his head in his arms where they rested on his knees. The memory of his next words stabbed him through the heart as they did every time.

“Well, you haven’t finished disappointing me yet, Sam. You’re running from this the same way you’ve run from every responsibility you’ve ever had. For once in your life, dammit, stick something out.” 

His little brother’s heartbroken face, his hazel eyes pleading for understanding, floated through Dean’s consciousness, no matter how much he tried to drown the vision in alcohol. Flashes of Sam’s pale, bloodless face took its place sometimes, drawing the direct link for Dean as though he didn’t already know it.

Sam was dead because of him. Sam died, rather than disappoint him. Dean picked up the bottle again, in the feeble hope that it would dull that one, unwavering truth.

***

Lily sipped her coffee and stared at Dean’s closed door. 

She was almost in shock this morning when she woke up and Dean still hadn’t emerged from his room. She thought about waking him up, but then she decided to just let him sleep. She knew she’d hit a nerve last night, and she felt bad. 

In the light of day, without an exhausted, disappointed brain, she realized that she knew nothing about Dean’s time in the service, including how and why he’d left. She grimaced; it was terribly unthinking and tactless of her to just bring it up and compare it to working in Hollywood. She knew they weren't remotely the same.

She’d just been bothered by his questions because they were all ones she’d asked herself many times over the years.

But still, she should have known better; it was entirely possible Dean suffered from some form of PTSD from his time as a Marine, many soldiers did. She did some mental math, guessing at Dean’s age, and figured he likely served in Iraq or Afghanistan.

She mentally kicked herself again as she took another sip of her coffee. “Dumbass.” She mumbled to herself.

So, she let Dean sleep. 

But then around ten o’clock she got a call from her agent. The director of Eternal Night was calling her up for the chemistry read with Tom Ridgely.

Lily cleared her throat. “Uh, Nancy, you know I had a meeting with Ethan Braun yesterday and it didn’t uh…well, it didn’t go very well.”

Nancy’s voice was confused. “What do you mean? His production company pulled out of the project a week ago.”

Lily felt her stomach drop. “What? What do you mean he pulled out of the project?”

“Just that. He’s not involved anymore.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, I see. Well, there must have been some kind of miscommunication.”

“That’s why all meetings should be scheduled through me, Lily.” Nancy scolded.

Lily nodded. “I promise, from now on they will be.”

Her blood boiled and she felt sick over the fact that Ethan Braun had played her so completely. She shuddered as she thought about how much more horrified and disgusted she would have felt if she’d actually caved to his bullshit lies and slept with him out of desperation. 

Fucking snake, Lily thought as she hung up with her agent and then tried to put it all out of her mind. The callback was at noon, she needed to hustle. 

She hesitated a moment before knocking on Dean’s door. When there was no answer, she knocked again. For a minute she wondered if he’d just left. Her momentary panic made her open his door quickly, but she breathed easier as she noticed him sprawled on the floor.

He was still wearing his white button down, though it was open and no longer tucked into the suit pants he also still had on. Seeing him on the floor, she wondered briefly if he’d fallen or injured himself somehow. But then she dismissed that possibility because he was partially covered with the blanket from the bed. 

She was confused about why he was sleeping on the floor until she saw the almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels not far from his outstretched hand. She suddenly remembered that the first day she’d met him, he had seemed a bit drunk, or at least hungover. But she hadn’t seen him touch a drop since he’d been there. She frowned at the big duffel bag on the floor beside the bed. 

How many more bottles has he got in there, she wondered. Has he been drinking in here every night?

She shook her head. That didn’t matter right now. Right now, she needed him awake and moving.

“Dean.” She called softly, but he didn’t move so she called louder. Finally, she shouted his name and he moaned.

“Dean, I need you to get up now. I have a callback. It’s in less than two hours.”

He didn’t move. 

She walked over to him and shook his shoulder. “Dean.” She called, frustrated. 

He opened his eyes blearily and she tried to explain again. “Dean, you have to wake up now, we have to go.”

He just moaned again and mumbled something as he turned away from her. Lily sighed in frustration and gave up. She closed his door none too gently and ran into her bedroom to get ready. Less than an hour later, she was showered, dressed, and ready to go. She tried knocking on Dean’s door again, but she heard nothing from inside.

She shook her head. There was nothing for it, she’d have to break one of his two big rules and go on her own, but he had no one to blame for that but himself. She sent him a quick text letting him know the address where she was going and when she expected to be finished.

She felt a little nervous as she stepped out of her house for the first time in a long time without the security blanket of Dean standing close behind her. But she looked around, and everything looked normal, not that it ever looked otherwise to her. 

But it was a beautiful day, and she was very excited that the possibility of playing Alexis was still within her grasp. So, she got into her car, and pulled out of her driveway quickly, her mind busy and slightly worried about how the callback would go, especially given her disastrous meeting the day before.

But everything went perfectly. The director was friendly; she’d only met him very briefly during her screen test. But this time she’d actually had the chance to chat with him about the film and he was definitely excited about the possibility of making more than just the standard vampire horror movie. 

Even Tom Ridgely had turned out to be a surprise. Given the nepotism involved in his hiring, she’d expected him to be a bit full of himself and annoying. But he was actually just a really shy, sweet kid with a quiet and rueful sense of humor about his connection to the casting director. The characters she’d seen him play had all been a bit overwrought and dramatic. But he was clearly meant for something lighter and a bit more subversive. Their scenes together had been easy and the chemistry had been solid. At least, she thought so. 

But it seemed as though the director, casting director, and producer (the real one!) in the room had felt the same. The vibes had been very good.

So, she was riding high as she left through the rear entrance of the building to walk to her car in the surface lot. She was practically skipping and wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings.

It happened so quickly she didn’t even have the chance to really scream. 

As she opened her car door she suddenly felt a strong arm tighten around her waist and before she could react, her mouth and nose were covered by a big, meaty hand. She panicked and started thrashing, instinctively smashing her head back towards him, trying to connect with something, preferably a nose. But it wasn’t working.

He was trying to shove her into her car, but the warning she’d heard since she was a teenager, “NEVER LET THEM TAKE YOU TO A SECOND LOCATION!!”, was screaming in her mind and she struggled harder, shrieking pointlessly under the heavy hand that trapped the air inside her lungs.

There was a sudden, painful blow to the back of her head and black dots floated in front of her eyes; she went limp. Her mind was vaguely conscious as she was lifted off the ground and pushed into her front seat on her stomach. She shook her head trying to clear the fog, but it just spread the pain further and intensified it.

She felt like she was going to throw up as she was shoved further along the seat, the attacker trying to climb in behind the wheel. She was working up the energy to scream, trying to remember how, when suddenly she heard an angry shout and felt her abductor scramble out of the car again. She heard more shouting and when she realized she recognized the voice, she felt her terror dissipate a bit. She heard running footsteps and then suddenly Dean was in the car beside her.

“Lily?” He said tentatively as he helped her turn and sit up on the seat.

His face was extremely worried as he ran his hands over her, no doubt checking for broken bones or bullet holes. 

That realization, that he was right to check, that she could have ended up with something so much worse than the lump forming on the back of her head, made Lily’s teeth start chattering and her whole body start shaking.

“Just…” She was having trouble speaking as she shook. “S’jus my head.” She said, words slightly slurred, seconds before she threw up all over Dean’s wrinkled, white shirt. Before she could apologize, the darkness overtook her.

@lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @jzackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

@whimsyfinny @muhahaha303 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

@aylacavebear @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl

@hobby27 @waywardcheshire @livya99 @k-slla @leigh70

@eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous @traiitorjoe @lastcallatrockysbar @b3autyfuld1sast3r

[bumblingbabooshka]

Voyager's obsession with every female character being a mother either literally or metaphorically is so dire like even SESKA got pregnant. Someone put a planned parenthood in the Delta Quadrant PLEASE. Someone start handing out condoms, this is an EMERGENCY.

[vidavalor]

oh right on @seaweednpeanuts lol. Don't forget my favorite:

@werehounded: <<people who can't see aziraphale as at least a switch baffle me. literally baffle me.>>

Jim knows what they all are lol.

<<i say this lovingly, as someone who's usually a Dominant partner, and has done plenty of submissive stuff and kinky things irl as well as online - crowley is conclusively NOT a sadistic daddy dom into impact play and leather or whatever else people assume of him because demon has to = Dominant top or whatever>>

I think that Crowley would love for you to think he is this but, yeah, I agree that he's definitely not lol. Shax thinks he is-- that alone probably tells you how much he absolutely is not. It's not seeing the show Crowley is putting on. Soft dom Crowley and his pun-laden growls, sure, but nothing remotely sadistic.

Obviously, everyone's own ideas about this are their own and fine and everything and I'm not trying to yuck anyone's yum, but if we're all just talking about what we personally think? I've never seen two characters who are less into pretty much any kink that overlaps with pain or violence than Crowley and Aziraphale. The ceiling on that really feels like Aziraphale liking the occasional swat sometimes with a Bible ok this is getting too specific lol but like that's a far cry from some of the people who seem to think Crowley wants to build a dungeon in the South Downs Cottage basement.

It's like thinking that his taste really runs to the gauche chair in his old flat when his car and his love of Aziraphale's bookshop (and his angel) tell you he's got a far classier eye than he lets on. He's just trying to keep himself safe in a den of vipers. It's all part of a persona he's crafted for himself to give him a sense of power and control in a situation in which he actually has very little power and control.

And you know who else acts like that in a very similar way to cover up the fact that he's a fucking marshmallow and a half? This guy:

<<like. this angel, even if his predilections tend to have him bottoming - which, none of us know if he prefers that, really. we just know he's flamboyant at times, and 'gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide' at others >>

See, this is what I think is really good about Good Omens at the same time as it can be frustrating when reading posts sometimes because just in this one post (not your response alone but all of them so far to the original one I made), I've seen a bunch of really intelligent people showing how we all have some internalized assumptions that we have to work to overcome.

The level of misogyny in our world is such that we have internalized the idea of a gay man who can be, at times, what some might term effeminate as a woman and a woman as always being a receptive and/or submissive partner. So pervasive are patriarchal ideas about gender in our world that even here, in the fandom for the story about the non-binary-out-of-the-box, human-angel-demons, we're still wading through our ideas about it.

This is why the show is talking about patriarchy so much with Pepper and Sitis and references to Lot's Wife and many more. It's why Jim is asking what a wife is because, when you ask that question, what you're really asking is what is a partnership where the partners don't adhere to traditional gender roles? and the next question there is: wouldn't it be a hell of a lot more equal and satisfying? It's 'smash the patriarchy' in a question.

There's also a moment in the show about how perceived gender informs sexuality assumptions in otherwise really progressive people that I loved because it showed how even the best of us need to be a bit more aware of it at times. It's Nina's assumptions about Crowley in this bit here:

Nina is a modern, progressive, socially conscious, queer Black woman-- exactly the type of person you would think would be the least likely person on the planet to make assumptions about someone's sexuality-- and even she makes the assumption that Crowley has no desire for pussy.

That's not actually true. There is plenty of suggestion in both the novel and the show that Aziraphale and Crowley both swap up their bits at different times. The suggestion does seem to be that Crowley might do it a bit more frequently and that they both go the cock route more often than not ("occasionally damp, most likely singed" from Demon's Guide lol, among other things) but the whole point is that they both sexually desire one another when the other is sporting a cunt. Nina made the assumption that Crowley wouldn't want, say, penis-in-vagina sex, but he does and has had it. He's gone down on lady parts more than Nina has lol.

Nina perceives the Thin Dark Duke as a gay man because she sees a man with feminine attributes so she thinks that this man then must be one that only desires a man and why does she think that? Because patriarchal notions about gender correlating traditionally to sexuality are so pervasive that women (even women who are attracted to other women) often reinforce them without even realizing it, as Nina is doing.

She assumes that Crowley is only attracted to men because she perceives him as being woman-like and unconsciously assumes that this must mean that he wants a man because a woman must want a man. Plenty of women who have sex with other women unconsciously do this just as much as straight women.

What she's really doing is perceiving him not just as gay but as an exclusively receptive partner because she's equating being a receptive partner with femininity and femininity with submissiveness. Not to mention that being a receptive partner is also not inherently submissive. Crowley does desire men and he does enjoy being a receptive partner but it's not the totality of his sexuality-- just as he's not even actually exclusively a man in the first place.

Mah point is that Nina looked at Crowley and decided what she thought his sexuality was and she was wrong about it. He has a fella, yeah, but he also has a girlfriend, and they're the same person.

This Nina moment also comes at a point when she's standing in for the audience a bit in trying to figure out what Crowley & Aziraphale are so I think that it's subtly asking us to not make the same assumptions that she does.

I don't know that Aziraphale has a preference. He definitely loves getting fucked for sure but I had someone message me once and insist he was a pillow princess (a reductive term that I hate) and it was just like... god, no lol. He loves giving Crowley pleasure and he absolutely gets off on it. The scenes (crepes; go by train vs. take the car, etc.) where they're kind of always figuring out what they want to get up to speaks to how there are a lot of options and not always the same configuration. It seems to me to be close to a 50/50 split.

<<but for me personally, it's gotta be aziraphale calling crowley a good boy and hand feeding him sweets tbh, not the other way around ;)>>

Babe, I'm just excited that you also think that Crowley eats. You've made me feel better about the state of the world with that take today so thank you lol. If you also come back and tell me that you're sure he reads, I might ask you to marry me, just a warning lol. [P.S. if you'd be into good girl just as much as boy, watch this space for when I get around to finishing the thing. 😉]

I saw you agree with the soft dom stuff in Aziraphale Defenders and I just don't know where you guys are seeing that.

For starters. 💕😇😉

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

literally the easiest way to make someone care about a character and make them feel well-rounded beyond basic traits like personality, sexuality, ethnicity, etc, is to give them an actual character arc, and it’s shocking how many people do not seem to fully realize this

you cannot just cram a bunch of tropes. tropes are not the main event, they are tools to tell the story you wish to tell. emotional impact comes from the lead up, so you can’t just jump ahead and expect the payoff to work. “I want this character to just ___ already!” but they’re not there yet. that’s where the arc comes in - how do they get there?

and! most importantly, and this is something I really want people to think about when writing - the most important relationship your character should have, always, is with the world and society around them. defining your character purely through their interactions with other characters are, I find, how a lot of female characters end up feeling flat or not engaging with the themes as much as the male characters, and also how queer and non-white characters wind up as devices for other characters’ development instead of being more fleshed out

[rivereverie]

Finally finished the rough draft of my fic!

The final line of my fic (as of now) and kind of the crux of the chapter.

I think it's going to be the first chapter in the Dark Urge/Astarion fic I'm working on. I'm trying not to overthink how the story is going to fill out logistically. I'm planning on writing chapters that go over the most important scenes for their relationship right now. I'm also writing as I'm doing my playthrough, so we'll see how that turns out. The only reason I'm writing this chapter right now is because River has Dark Urge amnesia and so it makes sense for the chapter to be very in-the-moment rather than shaped by any details of her past I don't yet know. Maybe I'll fill in the parts between chapters in the future. Maybe I'll write little side chapters that are just random and fun. Maybe I'll rearrange things. Maybe I'll decide that I hate it all and completely pivot. Who knows. But I'm proud of myself for getting this chapter down on paper, because it was hard to do. Now for the editing...

[chunkypossum]

1. What drew you to Azris?

How unexpectedly well they fit together. Exact opposites in some ways with so many parallels to their stories at the same time. I felt like they could really understand one another on a level no one else would be able to.

2. What themes do you explore most often in your fics? Do you have a favorite image or location that you return to again and again?

I dig in deep with souls bonds with these two. Something deeper than even a mating bond that ties them together in all universes. I use water a lot in my writing always giving them a clean fresh slate ready for a rebirth and to find one another again.

3. What is your favorite fic/art that you’ve made? Why?

I love all my babies. Kerosene taught me so much. I am really proud of because it was the first fanfic I have written since I was a teenager, it's 225k, and it's completely pantsed. I didn't fully know where I was going until I got there, and it all just fell where it was meant to. What we deserve might have been the most fun to write because of the Mariana hate, though.

4. What is your writing/drawing/painting setup? Do you have a routine that you follow?

I seek novelty, and my attention span is the size of a gnat's. I have 5 different places I creat depending on my mood or needs.

5. Give a favorite headcanon about Azriel and Eris, separately, and Azriel and Eris, together.

Azriel: hates spiders bc he somehow gets his wings tangled in webs entirely too often and can’t shake the feeling of it for hours after. If a spider in in him he does not handle it well.

Eris: his childhood makes him feel fiercely protective of all kids he is around. Believes they deserve to have their youth protected so they can be kids and feel safe.

Azris: they are incredible judgmental together. Whispering in each others ears about people at functions, bets and secret signals.

6. Have you worn wigs?

No I have not.

7. Will you wear wigs?

Maaaybeee

8. What upcoming projects are you excited about?

I can't wait to get past the fluff in Carve me open (sorry) and get Sigillum out there. Because once I finish Sigillum, then I can work on My Coming Down in earnest, and I am SO excited for that one. So really, I never stop being excited.

9. Name some influences on your writing or art style - could be fellow writers, poets, singers, nature, etc.

ohhhhhh I get a lot of inspiration from my fellow Azris writers. They are all sooooo good that I wanna be just like them when I grow up. Sitting alone and listening to the breeze, my “hurt me” playlist on Spotify, random bouts of inspiration when reading or watching social media videos. Outlined a new fic a couple days ago after hearing a line of dialogue from a play lol.

10. What encouragement would you give someone who is just beginning a project? Someone who is stalled on a project? Someone losing steam/interest?

Take it slow and give yourself grace. Forcing it is only going to lessen to frustration. Take breaks often and enjoy something outside of fandom that inspires you or just feels good. Let your muses guide you and let them rest sometimes so when you’re itching to write they are fully charged and excited to lend a hand. Write what you wished existed, not to please the masses. The masses are never pleased. The masses are fickle. Create for your heart!

Azris Week 2025 Self-Spotlight

Only five more days until the main event! To continue fostering more community between Azris creators, instead of having user-submitted writers or artists answer some questions, creators can interview themselves!

Pretend you can see my jazz hands.

These questions are for ALL Azris creators - writers, mood board creators, artists, you get the idea! At the end of Azris Week, anyone who has filled out the below interview will get added to a master list so that everyone can see your thoughts. Feel free to add your own questions at the bottom, if you think of anything else you’d like to say about your Azris Week creations.

If you aren’t doing anything for Azris Week 2025 but want to participate anyway, go ahead! No one will stop you and you’ll still be included in the master list.

Questions

1. What drew you to Azris?

2. What themes do you explore most often in your fics? Do you have a favorite image or location that you return to again and again?

3. What is your favorite fic/art that you’ve made? Why?

4. What is your writing/drawing/painting setup? Do you have a routine that you follow?

5. Give a favorite headcanon about Azriel and Eris, separately, and Azriel and Eris, together.

6. Have you worn wigs?

7. Will you wear wigs?

8. What upcoming projects are you excited about?

9. Name some influences on your writing or art style - could be fellow writers, poets, singers, nature, etc.

10. What encouragement would you give someone who is just beginning a project? Someone who is stalled on a project? Someone losing steam/interest?

[mjrdm]

.

[undead-potatoes]

Sorry for all the bummer posts lately, my mental health is just *toilet flushing sounds* at the moment, and I really should know better than to vent everything on here by now

It comes and goes in waves too, so one moment I feel like everything is bad and will never be good again, and then 5 minutes later I'm here like "well that was a whole lot of something over a whole lot of nothing, how silly", literally just this gif

[musical-chick-13]

My God I am so tired of people only talking about mental illness and/or disability in fiction/as a literary theme when they can use it to back up their terrible male faves by saying that they Weren't That Bad, Actually and They Belong To A Marginalized/Unfairly Demonized Group, So You Need To Be On Their Side.

[beastsovrevelation]

The "it's just a fictional character" argument is fucking getting old. No, to me, they're not. I've been a maladaptive daydreamer for twenty years, since kindergarden. Mentally and emotionally, fictional worlds are real to me. Mentally and emotionally, characters are real, and alive, to me, whether they're original, or adopted. They have will. They can feel, and I feel what they feel, because they're inside my damn organs. When they get angry, it hurts me. And it's very, very draining.

If someone fucking mentions my exprerience just being a mental condition... It doesn't matter whether it's mental, or mystical, or whatever. It doesn't change the experience. So no, I don't care whether my hate posts about popular characters and ships upset other people in the fandom, actually, I like it if they're seen. I should care about people's feelings?.. Why? They don't give a damn about my feelings. Characters are more real to me, than most of these people, anyway. Characters have been there for me, the way real people hardly ever have.

[mkniesy]

fandom burnout is real and awful. i don't want to even think about arcane right now! this happened with me before about a year ago and i'm just thinking not again not again not again. why does this keep happening to me.

[legendoftherisingtide]

Gods do i agree with you on Euroylochus and Penelope. I feel a little crazy sometimes reading people flatten the characters and not give any sympathy or nuance??

In regards to Calypso, I understand. However different translations and different stories outside of the Odyssey have different spins on Calypso’s story. She has many different interpretations and histories and stories attached to her (ie; theogony, telegony, the lost poem titanomachy that is believed to have her exile to the island for being the daughter of atlas)

And I view Odysseus as a far more… complex character? In my readings and interpretations, Odysseus is kind of like… he is not as faithful as he is portrayed. And that is saying it kindly.

Yes, Calypso trapped him on her island and it was unwilling. However, there are those nasty details that make you wonder if it was another Circe situation and he just grew bored of Calypso. NOW I do not excuse her behavior and she ABSOLUTELY knew what she was doing. (in the original myths, since the musical takes a lot of… liberties) She was selfishly keeping her there with him, and depending on what translation, was enchanting and coercing him. However, contexts of the culture: xenia, oikos, etc; lends itself to a different interpretation and there’s a lot of complexity but,,, the way the musical fandom/tiktok has been interpreting things is very clearly out of not reading the myths and just misguidedly making headcanons/spreading accidental misinformation.

found a way better post about the calypso thing if you’d like it but regardless good post:))

Idk who needs to hear this but EPIC: the musical hot takes.

1. If the only source for Greek material you’ve consumed prior to this musical is Percy Jackson YOU LOSE THE RIGHT TO COMMENT ON THESE CHARACTERS. I’m so sick of seeing people commenting complete bonkers incorrect shit about characters that is literally only canon in the Percy Jackson series. For example. Calypso.

Calypso was not trapped on her island. Read the god damn myths. She literally only appears in the Odyssey. Ogygia is HER island. It’s kept concealed under HER spell. She’s considered by some to be a minor goddess and she’s a sea nymph. Ogygia is remote and the name was picked to give an air of being such a remote and primordial place. Other gods just don’t go there. That’s why she’s alone. She basically lives in the buttfuck of no where. She keeps Odysseus trapped because she falls in love and he doesn’t. In the myth it says Odysseus would go to the shore and weep by day and by night Calypso would weave and sing and enchant him, forcing him to spend his nights with her. It is very much implied she rapes him. 😐 Stop fucking defending her. In the EPIC version, Jorge has stated he did not write his specific Calypso to have assaulted Odysseus, but she still kept him trapped against his will. Stop fucking infantilising her. She’s not a child. She knows what a wife is. She knows what she’s doing is wrong. She’s a manipulator. She is not a victim.

2. Stop infantilising Polyphemus. This also goes back to some of the Percy Jackson shit. (I love these books but yall gotta grow up) He wasn’t a toddler (have no fucking idea where this came from) and he wasn’t bullied by other cyclopses. That’s just a Percy Jackson thing. Odysseus didn’t even kill the sheep. They found a cave full of provisions, Polyphemus came home, and instead of being a gracious host, he started eating Odysseus’ men and kept them prisoner for a few days. Odysseus gave him strong wine, said his name was Nobody, and blinded him while he slept. They escape the cave by tying themselves to the bellies of the sheep so Polyphemus wouldn’t feel them when they left. When the other cyclopses came to see what was wrong with Polyphemus and he said Nobody hurt him, they told him “pray about it”. So he did. That’s why Poseidon takes revenge.

3. For some reason I see a lot of people not giving Penelope the praise she deserves. For some reason she’s not considered smart and cunning like Odysseus, but just strong and militaristic because she’s Spartan, which is insane. Firstly, a lot of the common knowledge we get about Sparta was ancient propaganda from Athens (their counter part) because Spartan women were better treated and were allowed more rights than Greek women were. Spartan women didn’t go to war, they were simply allowed to roughhouse and develop their bodies the same way as men. They were well educated. Spartans believed strong women birthed strong men. Penelope was Spartan, so she was allowed to be physically fit, but her strengths were her cunning and intellect.

4. Penelope did not sit behind the axes. Let me say it again. PENELOPE DID NOT SIT BEHIND THE AXES. This is an intelligent woman. She set the challenge because she already suspected Odysseus had returned home and was setting a challenge that literally only he could complete. It was to sus out which one was her husband because Athena had disguised him so he could enter his own palace and spy on the suitors to understand what was going on. Penelope wouldn’t sit behind the axes waiting to die if someone actually managed to shoot the arrow. And the suitors aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t shoot anyway because that would kill the one lady they’ve been fighting to fuck for 20 years. Another example of her cunning intelligence is when she asks Odysseus to move the marriage bed. It was common in myths for Zeus to take the image of a woman’s husband and trick her into sleeping with him. So she set a task only her real husband would know was impossible. “Move the wedding bed.” If he tried, she would know he was an imposter. If he protested because it was impossible, then she would know it was really her husband standing before her.

5. Eurylochus hate is so frustrating. I get it, he opened the wind bag when they were practically home. I get frustrated with him too. Like homie you couldn’t wait 20 minutes?? But a lot of people seem to fail to see the point of Eurylochus in the story. He’s there to be human. He’s there to show real human flaws that we all struggle with. He opens the windbag because of curiosity and paranoia. He’s scared of Circe and fights for self preservation over saving the men. He feels guilt over opening the windbag and it eats him up until he confesses. Then he sees the one person who has been the guiding light for their crew seemingly sacrifice six men without explanation. That’s terrifying. He’s also angry because they went through so much and now their captain is just choosing to let people die so he can get home. When they reach the island of the sun cows, he’s hopeless, desperate, starving, and ready to give up. He kills the cow because either they get to eat and maybe survive a bit longer or at least they might die with a full stomach. Eurylochus is the most human one there having real human reactions to a situation that Odysseus is seemingly immune to reacting normally to.

6. Eurylochus and Polites did not have children. I don’t know where this came from. Polites is also a very minor character in the Odyssey. He’s mentioned twice as a dear friend and that’s it. We don’t even know at what point he died in the Odyssey either. Stop inventing shit that doesn’t exist.

EPIC: The Musical is a work of art. I love it. I was in the 1% of Spotify listeners last year and I’m hoping to end up in the #1 spot this year. I genuinely love this musical so much. But the amount of people making shit up without doing any bit of reading pisses me tf off. It’s literally so simple and easy to look up articles on mythology and learn all of this shit in a matter of minutes. Educate yourselves. Myths were invented as some of our first stories and were often used to teach lessons. It’s important to educate and understand the things you read, read deeper into the meanings of what you read, and know how to pick up on shit that’s inferred.

God I hate tiktok.

[chamerionwrites]

Honestly this gets at my chiefest complaint/frustration/discomfort with fandom as a whole. Which is: in their rush to defend the artistic merit of fanworks I think a ton of people have really valorized transformation and remixing and reinterpretation in and of themselves, when imo those are all quite neutral actions. When done well, they can expand and build upon and subvert meaning in really powerful and thought-provoking (and fun!) ways. When done poorly, they are just as likely to flatten and oversimplify and decontextualize and completely erase meaning. The simple act of changing something does not imbue the choice to do so with creative validity. It is entirely possible for a cover song to be bad (or just boring!). To exactly the same degree that it is possible to transform a pretty shallow and straightforward work into something deeper and more nuanced and subversive, is possible to transform a work into a vastly shallower and less interesting shadow of itself. As with nearly everything in art, it's all about the execution!

But the second you voice this position (which should honestly be a pretty uncontroversial one imo), you get people shrieking at you about being gatekeep-y and pretentious and betraying the sacred fandom etiquette of Don't-Like-Don't-Read.

And like...listen. I was not raised in a barn. I am 150% capable of quietly back-buttoning out of a fanfic I think is bad or boring - which is exactly what I do when I encounter them - and I am obviously not advocating for stupid ships wars or any kind of harassment or leaving hatemail in people's AO3 inboxes. (Which some people will also accuse you of the second you say anything less than lavishly positive about fandom, in true piss-on-the-poor fashion.) Literally all I am saying is that you can't have your cake and eat it too - that if fandom and fanworks (in the broadest sense) have artistic merit then fandom and fanworks (in the broadest sense) are fair game for artistic critique. Which means, in practice, that I can go on my own blog and make a post exactly like this one - critiquing broad trends, or stating that some interpretations are bad actually, or pointing out that subverting or talking back to or reading against the grain of canon is very different from simply ignoring it, or saying "fandom's culture of collage/remix/fuck-canon-I-do-what-I-want can lend itself to to really creative and interesting art but also to a lot of really bland homogenized cut-n-paste art, not to mention some pretty troubling decontextualization." And that if you feel this rains on your personal parade, you are then free to DLDR by back-buttoning out of my blog and/or blocking me so you never have to see my hot takes again, rather than clamoring in my notes about how I should let people enjoy things.

[geminiwritten]

domestic fantasy ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please!��let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 10937

“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.” 

Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?” 

You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation. 

You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things. 

It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since. 

“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.” 

“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.” 

“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.” 

“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-” 

“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them. 

Fuck. 

There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?” 

You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.” 

Another awkward stretch of silence. 

“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says. 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.” 

“See you Friday, then.” 

“See you Friday.” 

You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud. 

What the fuck did you just do? 

- 

Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them. 

You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you. 

Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?” 

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply. 

Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?” 

You nod. “Whatever you’re having.” 

He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder. 

Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.” 

She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?” 

You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.” 

Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty. 

You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer. 

“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?” 

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.” 

Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?” 

You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.” 

“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips. 

“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends. 

“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.” 

Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?” 

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.” 

You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly. 

“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.” 

He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return. 

“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.” 

Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.” 

You raise a brow. “That easy?” 

He lifts a finger. “On one condition.” 

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?” 

He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.” 

Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.” 

Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.” 

You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.” 

He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation. 

- 

You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put. 

You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously. 

You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him. 

Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it. 

A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to. 

“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.” 

Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment. 

Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?” 

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?” 

“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?” 

“Spencer is always civilized.” 

You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done. 

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.” 

You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.” 

Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.” 

You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.” 

Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?” 

“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.” 

The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping. 

He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom. 

Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch. 

“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused. 

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.” 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?” 

Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.” 

You choke on air. “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.” 

You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.” 

When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.” 

Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture. 

You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.” 

Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?” 

You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.” 

Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.” 

You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness. 

He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.” 

You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge. 

Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.” 

Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop. 

You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey, how are you?” 

Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?” 

Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.” 

“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.” 

You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.” 

Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.” 

His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.” 

You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.” 

Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?” 

You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.” 

“I highly fucking doubt it.” 

Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.” 

With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.” 

His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.” 

You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.” 

“I know.” 

You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.” 

“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place. 

The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.” 

Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.” 

The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?” 

He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.” 

You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare. 

And it almost wrecks you. 

Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves. 

But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything? 

“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?” 

You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.” 

Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.” 

You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-” 

“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.” 

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.” 

Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.” 

You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.” 

Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.” 

You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had. 

“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.” 

You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life. 

That’s the plan, anyway. 

But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it. 

Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking? 

Yeah. This might be harder than you thought. 

The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute. 

Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.” 

You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You feel it everywhere. 

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.” 

Your breath stutters. This is just pretend. 

Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest. 

“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob. 

The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock. 

“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?” 

You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down. 

Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership. 

He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats. 

But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life. 

“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?” 

Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.” 

You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. 

Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.” 

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.” 

Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.” 

Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.” 

You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs. 

Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.” 

“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one. 

Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.” 

Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?” 

Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.” 

You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along. 

“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.” 

Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.” 

“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much. 

“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.” 

You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first. 

“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.” 

Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer. 

“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.” 

Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face. 

You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard. 

“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.” 

Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment. 

You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?” 

You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.” 

He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.” 

You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.” 

He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?” 

Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting. 

“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-” 

The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears. 

Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne. 

You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it. 

You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair. 

You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him. 

Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you. 

This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all. 

- 

Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.” 

You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you. 

The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.” 

Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke. 

Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...” 

He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there. 

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle. 

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.” 

Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?” 

You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader. 

“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe. 

Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?” 

You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash. 

It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you. 

He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible. 

You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones. 

Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf. 

Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh? 

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine. 

You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you. 

You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.” 

He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.” 

You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted? 

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream. 

You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat. 

“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?” 

He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.” 

His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-” 

“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.” 

“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.” 

His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle. 

“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.” 

Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight. 

You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes. 

“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop. 

His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?” 

Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?” 

“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?” 

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge. 

You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him. 

What the fuck are you doing? 

Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way? 

He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package? 

The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag. 

You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly. 

You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever. 

You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining. 

You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake. 

He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips. 

“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.” 

You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter. 

“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” 

“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?” 

You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be. 

“I didn’t ask you to come in.” 

“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.” 

The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone. 

“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases. 

“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast. 

“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink. 

You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles. 

“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching. 

He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare. 

You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then: 

BZZZZZZZZZZZT. 

The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath. 

“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved. 

He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.” 

You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.” 

He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?” 

You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet. 

Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.” 

You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake. 

“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body. 

You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” 

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-” 

“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.” 

Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed. 

You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years. 

Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.” 

His dreams? 

Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one. 

Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless. 

Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching. 

You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system. 

You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room. 

He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. 

You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand. 

Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?” 

You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.” 

Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?” 

You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days. 

“Jake…” 

His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.” 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that. 

Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.” 

You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest. 

“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.” 

Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything. 

Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then— 

“Fuck it.” 

He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to. 

You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes. 

You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.” 

- 

You wake up warm. Too warm. 

Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale. 

You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he. 

And then... you remember everything. 

The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for. 

Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you. 

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” 

You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.” 

“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions. 

By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.” 

You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?” 

“Not when I’m this right.” 

You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser. 

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.” 

Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?” 

“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.” 

You arch a brow. “Define right.” 

He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.” 

You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard. 

But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand. 

Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-” 

You smirk. “Jealous?” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.” 

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery. 

To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend. 

“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.” 

Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?” 

A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.” 

He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.” 

He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped. 

If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them. 

“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?” 

You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life? 

You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin. 

It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second. 

You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something. 

The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts. 

Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door. 

“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out. 

“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear. 

You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently. 

When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator. 

But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.” 

You shake your head. “I’m not broken.” 

“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present. 

You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut. 

“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking. 

He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him. 

“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.” 

The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?” 

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.” 

Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?” 

Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?” 

Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding. 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning. 

Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. 

You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in. 

“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.” 

He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync. 

“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.” 

Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train. 

“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.” 

“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said. 

Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.” 

And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall. 

Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window. 

But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional. 

“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.” 

Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out. 

Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?” 

Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock. 

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment. 

There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs. 

END.