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illbearound · 2 days ago

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MOST WANTED MAN

Hiiii! New chapter is up! 🌷 💌 🫶🏻

Thank you so much for reading and being patient with me! Hope you like this one, as much I enjoyed writing it. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts! 🤍💫

Chapter Four: Outside the Universal Standards

BEFORE

Paris, September 2023

The bell over the door gives its usual jingle.

The light is warm and a little too yellow. The air smells of paper and dry wood, like the inside of a drawer that hasn’t been opened in a while. She stands there a moment, letting the door swing shut behind her. It’s quiet in the way small shops are, almost as if time moves differently here. She knows this bookstore well. It’s the kind of place where she has spent entire afternoons browsing without buying anything.

Today, she isn’t browsing. Not really. She's hunting for a specific book. In the morning, when she got to the university library to look for it, the lady at the desk said it was already checked out, with no indication when it’ll be returned. She really needed that book for her class, so she thought about stopping by her usual bookstore to check if they have it. It's mid-afternoon when she steps in.

She moves without urgency, drifting past the usual displays: new releases, seasonal fiction, history, feminist theory, an essay collection by someone she vaguely recognizes the name. She keeps a list of other books in her hand, folded, annotated, slightly damp from her bag, just in case they have for the for her seminar. She pauses at the academic shelf near the back and scans the titles, half-expecting disappointment. No luck. The book doesn't seem to be here too. She’ll have to ask at the counter.

Still, she lingers and checks her list, in case some of the other tittles are in the shelves. After scanning the entire section, she ends up picking one or two. Then, Anna lets herself breathe for a moment. She trails her fingers along the spines, not really reading. Something to remind her she has time. A familiar rhythm. She lifts her head to the other side of the bookstore, without much thinking, just a casual wandering.

Someone is standing near the children’s section, partially obscured by a tall cardboard display shaped like a storybook castle. At first, she doesn’t think much of it. But her body pauses. Just a fraction. A second of delay she can’t explain.

She looks again and her brain stalls for a second. Just enough time for her to think: No. It’s not.

But it is.

Kylian Mbappé. Standing in the middle of the children's book section, dark cap pull low on his head, one hand on his lips, the other holding a glossy book with a bright cartoon unicorn on the cover. He is completely absorb, brows furrowed like he was considering the philosophical weight of the decision.

Her stomach flips in a way that feels completely inappropriate, given the setting. A quiet punch on her ribs. That strange, involuntary recognition, like seeing someone from a dream in real life. That same weightless, stupid rush she felt the first time.

She ducks behind a shelf of financial literacy, quiet thrum in her chest, the pulse behind her ear. She doesn’t mean to hide. It just happens before she even realizes what she’s doing. She suddenly feels too visible, too disheveled.

After the gallery, she tried to move through her days between lectures, scribbled notes, coffees abandoned and reheated. But somehow between the quiet silences, her mind kept drifting back to that night. The hush of the lighting, the way she’d gripped her glass a little too tightly, the softness in his voice. It wasn’t a crush, not exactly. She didn’t even know him. But still, something lingered, a smile, a joke, the easy rhythm between two strangers who hadn't asked for names.

One night, after finishing a dense reading for class, she found herself in bed, scrolling through Instagram without much thought when his page popped up. It wasn’t planned but she still scrolled down his pictures. She didn’t double-tap or stay long. But she looked. When she finally set her phone down and pulled the covers around her, she wasn’t thinking about the gallery, or the buzz of the party, or even his face. She was thinking about how easy it had been talking to him, how rare that felt.

And now there he was again, in a children's aisle of a bookstore.

She peeks her head out to look at him again.

He’s hasn’t moved. Still reading, still calm, casual, unaware. There’s something surreal about it, how out of place he looks, and yet how not out of place.

She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. Doesn’t know whether she wants him to see her or what she would say if he sees her. She could leave. Slip down the other aisle and vanish again. They hadn't exchanged names. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.

But just as the thought crossed her mind, maybe by fate or sheer bad timing, she shifts her foot and a soft creak betrays her.

He looks up. There is a flicker of surprise in his expression, just a heartbeat of hesitation, before his face lit up with something unmistakable. Recognition. Soft and disbelieving, like running into a memory you aren’t sure is real.

“It’s… you. ” he says, a little breathlessly. His voice is quieter than she remembers. Less sure, more tender.

She tries to smile back, though her heart is beating way too fast for something this casual.

“Hi.” she manages. Her voice sounds normal, she thinks.

He closes the book in his hands slowly, like he didn’t quite believe this was happening “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” Anna’s lips curled into a small, sheepish smile

They stand there for a moment, the silence between them oddly comforting. The faint creak of the wooden floor, the rustle of a page turning somewhere across the shop, the outside world kept at bay.

She nods at the book he’s still holding.

“You buying that for yourself?”

He laughs under his breath, the sound low and embarrassed “It’s for my niece.” he says “Her birthday’s coming up. I don’t really know what to get her. I thought a book would be nice.” He looks down at the unicorn book, a little helpless “All I know is that she's into glitter. And judging my hair.” He laughs quietly

Anna chuckles, just a little “That’s sweet.” Anna says “How old is she?”

“She's turning six.” he says “I’m kind of desperate to impress her.”

There’s a short pause. She hesitates, then moves toward one of the nearby shelves.

He follows her, shoulder brushing hers for just a second. She crouches slightly and scans the shelf, fingers grazing the spines. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just keeps watching her, eyes soft, like he is trying to memorise something. Anna clears her throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Um. There’s a book over here she might like.”

She pulls one out with a fairy girl on the cover, surrounded by flowers, sparkling with glitter “I’ve seen kids her age go for this one. It’s simple but still smart. And got a lot of glittery images inside.” she offers him.

He takes it gently from her hand. Their fingers brush, and the contact sends a warm jolt through her.

“I think she’d actually be into this.” he glances at the title, then back at her “Thank you. Seriously. I’ve been standing here like an idiot for twenty minutes.”

She laughs softly, ducking her head. “It's fine.” she smiles “I hope she likes it.”

She doesn’t know what to say or do, so she glances down at the book still in her hands, the one she'd forgotten she was holding, some dense, over-serious academic textbook. Probably the opposite of fun, soul-deadening.

He nods towards it. “For your studies?”

“Ahm yes, yes.” she states "I was actually looking for a specific one but i don’t think they have it. I might have to check with the lady at the counter."

He nods. There is another pause, but it felt full this time. Not awkward, just careful. Like neither of them wanted to rush what was unfolding

“I have to say” he starts “It is really nice seeing you again. ”

His confession makes her stomach flip. He’s just standing there, steady, open, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to find each other again like this. Something about the way he says feels like is not performative. Just a plain truth offered into the space between them.

She smiles up “It’s nice to see you too.”

Kylian scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve, um... I’ve actually thought about you, after that night.”

Her heart flush and she lets out a soft, surprised laugh “Yeah. Me too.” she doesn’t mean to say it. But it’s there now.

Before he can answer, someone’s ringtone explodes at the front of the shop, a sharp pop song, ridiculous in this hushed space. A man answers, loudly, somewhere near the fiction aisle.

Kylian blinks, like the spell had been broken. He glances at his watch

“I should go. I have a thing… I don’t even want to go. But I have to.” he mutters

Anna nods, even though she doesn’t want the moment to end. Not now, when he’s saying out loud the things she’s been carrying around all week. It feels like something should shift, but nothing does. Then she says it the way she did that night in the galley

“Same. I mean, not the thing. But, yeah.”

They drift toward the front counter. Their conversation dims as the shop noise swells slightly in footsteps and murmurs. They stood awkwardly in line, him holding his niece’s book, her with something far more boring in her arms. Neither of them saying what’s obviously hanging between them.

At the counter, Anna asks about the textbook. The woman taps at her keyboard, frows slightly, then offers to place an order. It’ll take three to five business days. Anna says that’s fine and gives her number, so they can text her when the book arrives. She pays in coins and a crumpled note, then steps aside. She lingers while he pays, not really sure how to say goodbye and at the same time, not really wanting to. She didn’t want to leave him again, not knowing when or if she’ll see him. She briefly thinks about asking for his number, but doesn’t. She isn't bold enough for that.

When they’re done, they hover by the door. The glass is slightly fogged, soft around the edges.

He looks at her, gently, like there’s something he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask. Then he glances away, rubs the back of his neck like it helps him think “Can I, uh - can I ask something?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t catch your name. That night.”

Her cheeks warms “Anna.”

He repeats it quietly, like tasting it “Anna.”

She smiles, nodding yes “And you’re–”

“Kylian.” he smiles

“I know.” she says, too fast, then immediately blush “I mean, not in a creepy way. You just…you're kinda known around here.”

He doesn’t laugh at her. Just smiles, small and amused.

They stand there another second. The door creaks faintly behind them, someone is entering the shop.

“Good luck.” she utters “With your niece, I hope she likes the book.”

He smiles, book in hand “Thanks. I’ll tell her I had a good helper, one that can't draw stars.”

She huffs out a laugh, rolls her eyes. It's warm between them now.

He leans forward slightly, like he might say something more, but he doesn't. Just gives a soft nod.

And then she’s gone, slipping into the Paris afternoon, chest light and fluttering.

The message comes through at 10:29 p.m.

Anna is brushing her teeth, one slipper half-off her foot, leaning tiredly against the sink. The light above the mirror hums faintly, too bright for this hour, and the bathroom smells like mint and hot water and some coconut scent from the body wash.

Her phone buzzes on the counter, screen flashing up from under a hair tie.

Unknown: The sparkly fairy book was a hit. I’m officially the coolest uncle. Eternally grateful! 😁

She frowns at first, confused. Then her heart does a small, inconvenient jump. She rinses quickly, still foamy and grabs the phone.

Unknown: We didn't exchange numbers, so I had to ask the woman from the bookstore… She was very dramatic about it, but eventually gave it to me. I hope you don't mind. Unknown: Oh and it’s Kylian, by the way…

A laugh escapes her, unglamorous and a little too loud. She’s still holding her toothbrush. She leans against the doorframe, texting back with wet fingers.

Anna: You tracked down my number through a bookseller?

Kylian: Famous privilege. Comes in handy sometimes.

She thinks for a second, then replies:

Anna: Slightly stalker behaviour.

Kylian: Very mild. Low-level stalker. Kylian: I just really wanted to thank you for your help.

Anna: Well… I suppose I can forgive the minor stalking. Anna: And I’m glad your niece liked the book!

She stands there longer than she means to, smiling stupidly at the screen. Eventually, she goes back to bed, sliding under the blanket with a familiar kind of hum in her chest, the kind that doesn't ask to be named.

They don’t text constantly.

Which, in its own way, is nice. There’s no pressure. No anticipation about whether he’ll reply. Sometimes a few days go by, and then suddenly he’s there again, just as casually as he left.

She starts to recognize the rhythm. Usually late evening or early in the morning. Never too many messages. Sometimes just one.

Like:

Kylian: How was your day? I remember you telling me about that seminar. How boring it was?

Or:

Kylian: Very serious question... Kylian: What’s your opinion on tiramisu?

Sometimes she answers right away. Other times, she waits until the moment feels right. When the apartment is quiet. When her flatmate is asleep and the city outside has settled into its night noises in muffled traffic.

Anna’s days stay mostly the same. She wakes late, always snoozing too long. Eats standing up. Coffee from the stovetop moka pot, which she claims is better than the machine from the coffee downstairs – even though she knows she’s lying to herself. Her classes are scattered across the week: mostly theoric classes, a seminar that’s already making her question all her life choices or a midweek quiz she’s certain she’ll fail, even though her marks always come back better than expected.

She reads on the uncomfortable chair of the campus library until late afternoon, or sometimes on the floor of her living room, legs curled under her like a child. She misses meals often. Sends herself voice memos she forgets to listen to. Takes long walks when her brain feels too loud. It’s all a little messy. But mostly fine.

And every so often, her phone lights up with him. Not enough to mean something. But not nothing, either.

One evening, around dinner time, Anna finds herself too bored by the essay in front of her. So she texts him. Not a message, but a photo – a poster she passed outside of metro station when she was on her way home. It’s him, in an ad for something expensive-looking.

Anna: Spotted you today on my way home.

Kylian: Sorry I'm now haunting your commute home. Kylian: But I kinda look nice in that photo, don't I?

Anna: Um… well, maybe. Depends on your taste.

Kylian: and what does your taste say?

Anna: My taste says you do look nice. Anna: but then again, i have a questionable taste. Anna: I’m not a fan of cheese, for example.

Kylian: wait… you don’t like cheese?!

Anna: idk, it smells and has a weird taste. Anna: But i like it on pizza, which i know makes no sense. Anna: Don’t judge me!

Kylian: I’m trying so hard not to. Kylian: Who doesn’t like cheese?

Anna: I warned you! Anna: I’m not exactly working with universal standards.

Kylian: That’s fine. I find universal standards boring anyway.

She laughs, tucks the phone over the table face down, and tells herself she won’t think about it too much. That this isn’t anything. That it doesn’t need to be. It’s just casual acquaintances texting. It isn’t flirting exactly. Not in the loud, obvious sense. More like soft footnotes dropped into the edges of conversation. Unassuming. Kind. Thoughtful.

He didn’t press and she likes that.

It’s Thursday when it happens. Late. She’s walking back from the supermarket, the tote bag cutting into her palm from the weight of discount oranges and oat milk. The streetlights flicker a little as she turns onto her block. Her coat is unbuttoned, and there’s a smear of coffee stain on her sleeve she didn’t notice earlier.

Her phone buzzes.

Kylian: This might be strange. But... Kylian: Would you like to come to a game?

She stops walking. The bag sways gently against her knee. A breeze pulls at her cheeks and for a moment the world goes oddly still, like someone pressed pause.

Anna: Like… a football game?

Kylian: Yeah. I figured you might want to see what I actually do. Kylian: I could leave your name at the entrance and a save you a nice seat view…

Anna: I don’t think I ever been to a football match before.

Kylian: come to this one then. It’s on Saturday night, home game. Kylian: I guarantee you’ll have the full match experience: footballers running around, men occasionally falling down dramatically and if lucky, a goal or two.

Anna: I do like watching men fall down dramatically.

She hesitates. Looks up. There’s a warm window across the street with a cat in it. The kind of quiet domestic moment that makes her feel like a stranger in this city.

Anna: Ok. I’ll think about it.

Kylian: Just putting it out there, no need to decide now. Kylian: I just… I’d like to see you again.

She reads his message again, slowly this time. a stupid smile forming on her face: I’d like to see you again.

A warmth spreads through her chest, and suddenly the street feels softer, quieter. She can’t help but smile, cheeks flushing with a sweet, nervous excitement. It’s simple, but somehow it makes her feel seen, like a secret just between them.

She starts walking again, a little faster now, like the air’s different. The oranges feel lighter in her bag. A bit of color returns to the world. Street signs, graffiti, the glint of wet pavement, like everything’s shifted half a degree in some direction she hasn’t yet mapped.

The invitation sits in her phone like something alive.

Anna hasn't confirmed it yet. She reads it again the next morning while waiting for water to boil. The text looks different in daylight, slightly too bold and slightly too possible. She closes the screen and flips the kettle off before it finishes screaming.

She doesn’t mention it to anyone. Not until late that night, when she’s in the kitchen with Julie.

Julie’s curled up in one of the ugly chairs, blanket around her shoulders, spooning ice cream straight from the tub and scrolling with the vacant intensity of someone who should be asleep. Anna leans against the counter, her phone in one hand, thumb tracing the edge of the screen.

She says it casually. Like she’s talking about something distant and stupid.

“He invited me to come watch him play.”

Julie looks up “What?”

“A football game. A match. Whatever it’s called.”

Julie narrows her eyes. Then sits up “Wait. Who invited you to a game?”

Anna doesn’t answer immediately. Just sips her tea, even though it’s too hot.

Julie blinks. Then drops the spoon in the tub with a soft clink “No. No way.”

Anna sighs. “Don’t–”

“Mbappé?”

“I knew you’d be like this.”

“Anna!”

“Yes, Julie.”

Julie stares at her, blank expression slowly melting into disbelief. Then something brighter “You mean to tell me that Kylian fucking Mbappé invited you to a match and you’re standing here drinking tea like nothing. I would be having a breakdown if I was you!”

Anna shrugs “I might have a breakdown.”

Julie makes a strangled noise “ Are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Anna moves to the sink, rinses her mug just to have something to do with her hands “It’s weird, right? I mean, what even is this? We barely know each other.”

Julie watches her for a second. Then gets up, barefoot, dragging the blanket behind her like a small child. She leans on the counter beside her, voice softening.

“Do you like him?”

Anna doesn’t answer. Not directly. She runs a thumb along the edge of the ceramic.

“He’s nice… kind. And funny. ”

Julie lets that sit. Then: “You like him.”

Anna exhales “We are just texting. Casual stuff.”

Julie tilts her head “Sure. Casual stuff. That totally explains why you’ve been smiling at your phone like a Victorian woman having an illicit affair.”

Anna glares “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” Julie grins “It’s cute. Deeply unhinged. But cute.”

Anna tries not to smile “If I say yes… maybe you could come? For backup. Moral support.”

Julie groans theatrically “God, I wish. Watching you spiral over a guy in real time? I’d pay money. But I’m doomed to dinner with Guillaume’s parents. His mom’s making beef bourguignon and passive-aggressive comments about grandchildren.’

Anna winces “Harsh.”

Julie points her spoon at her like it’s a wand “But you have to go. Wear something neutral and mysterious. Pretend you don’t know the rules.”

“I don’t know the rules.”

“Perfect. Sexy and confused. That’s the vibe.”

Anna cringes, already picturing herself sitting alone in some big stadium, not knowing when to clap, pretending not to look like he’s the only thing that’s been orbiting her brain all week. “I’ll be so awkward.”

Julie leans back, smug “Awkward is endearing.”

Anna sighs “You’re a traitor. That's what you are. ”

Julie grins, nudging her “Go have a love life without me.”

That night, she’s curled on her side, knees tucked up, phone balanced against the pillow. She stares at the message for a while before typing, then deleting, then typing again. Finally:

Alright, I'll come watch you run dramatically across grass.

She sends it quickly, before she can second-guess herself into silence. The reply comes a minute later:

I’ll be doing my best on the grass. Honestly, really glad you’re coming. Might even score a goal just to impress you.

She grins at the screen, cheeks warm, and tucks the phone under her pillow like it’s something precious.

Saturday comes like a dare.

She takes the metro to the place she passed so many times but never really entered. Her name is on the list. She shows her ID to a man in a headset who ushers her through a gate, down a hallway of polished floors and soft walls until a woman opens a door and gestures inside.

The stadium lights up against the Paris evening, massive and humming, making her heart do something strange. Parc des Princes is nothing like the blurry sports clips she remembers from childhood TVs. It's bigger, louder, sharper round the edges. The lights cut through the dark like a movie set, and the air hums with something live, electric, uncontainable. It feels like entering a universe she has no language for.

The box is sleek and a little too quiet, like a waiting room in a very expensive hospital. She sits on one of the empty chairs, watching the stadium fill like lungs.

Then the music starts and the lights shift. The noise swells in a slow, tidal way. It's not just sound. It's the vibration of thousands of people chanting something she doesn't understand, in a rhythm that feels old, practiced, near-religious. They rise like a wave, one collective breath, then break into shouts and sing. She glances around, unsure if she's meant to do something. She just keeps still, looking out at the field.

When the players walk onto the pitch, she struggles to find him at first. From up there, they all look the same. Tall figures moving in formation, shoulders squared in kits identical in colour and shape. There's no way to pick one out from the rest, no way to say that one's him. Not until the camera catches his face and flashes it up on the big screen. And just like that, there he is.

Her heart kicks up, almost embarrassingly loud in her chest, and for a second everything slows down. It's all suddenly very real. She's here, in this place, in this crowd. She came for him. For the boy on the screen, the one she's been texting late into the night. The one who makes her smile at her phone like an idiot, whose messages feel like little sparks across her skin.

The game begins and Anna watches it, trying to figure out what's happening. Kylian moves like he was born for this, like the whole pitch bends slightly around him. The dark blue kit clings to him in the right places, catching the light when he runs, and the number 7 is bold on his back. She doesn't know what's happening, tactically. The ball seems to obey him and do exactly what he wants it to do when is on his feet. When he sprints, the whole pitch seems to tilt in his direction.

She hasn't really seen him play before, not properly. Seeing him like this – focused, confident, a little bit unreachable, does something strange to her. He's not showing off, he doesn't need to. It's just obvious, in the way he moves, that he's good. That he knows what he's doing. And somehow, that makes her feel both proud and oddly nervous, like she's just now beginning to see a different version of him, one that maybe everyone else already knew.

Some time during the game, a foul occurs. He is chosen to take the penalty.

Kylian takes one step, two, looking tense and controlled at the same time. The net ripples, and the stadium explodes, noise rising like a wave crashing over everything. She startles at the sound but laughs quietly to herself. Not because she's caught up in the chaos, but because, somehow, almost absurdly, she feels proud of him.

The final whistle sounds like something exhaling, something letting go. PSG wins 2–0.

The crowd begins to shift, rising to its feet with the lingering buzz of celebration, but she stays seated, watching. Kylian jogs to the sidelines, clapping toward the stands alongside his teammates. His skin is damp at the temples and forehead. He smiles, triumphant and giddy.

Somewhere under the noise, the adrenaline and the surrealness of it all, something tugs at her. Quiet but certain. Something wordless. Not a crush, she thinks, at least not yet. But interest, wonder, admiration maybe. That strange thrill of realizing someone is exactly who they seemed to be and still surprising you anyway.

She gets up slowly, falling in step with the people around her as the stands start to empty. She swings her bag over her shoulder and glances down at the pitch one last time. He's walking toward the tunnel now, a jersey from other player hanging over his neck. His head slightly lifts before he enter the tunnel and for a second it feels like he's looking for someone. She looks at him, thinking that probably isn't for her, just a coincidence. But then he lifts his hand and waves, his dimples light up his face and he raises a hand, mimicking a phone gesture. She nods before she can stop herself, not even sure if he sees her, but it doesn't really matter anymore.

The text comes a few minutes later, when she's lingering awkwardly near the edge of the lounge, unsure if she's supposed to wait or just slip away unnoticed.

Kylian: Don't leave yet. Wait for me at the lounge. I want to see you...

She stares at the message for a second, unsure why it catches her off guard. Of course he wants to see her. He invited her here. He's been texting her for days, sending photos and little messages that made her laugh out loud alone in her room. Still, something flips inside her that feels a little like nerves and a little like falling. Like that weird jolt your stomach does when an elevator drops too fast.

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. She doesn't check the time, not properly. The room empties of energy, voices fading down corridors, distant music. Someone comes in, offers her a drink she politely declines.

And then he's there.

At the door, a clean hoodie over his body, still catching his breath, a little flushed. Suddenly is just a guy. A very famous, very unfairly attractive guy. But still, human and real, standing there like he doesn't quite believe she came.

"Hey." he says, like they're running into each other at the corner shop.

"Hi." she answers, suddenly not knowing how to stand.

He looks tired up close. A kind of tiredness that makes him seem more real, like the night has pressed itself into the lines of his face. But his eyes are still sharp, bright, focused, watching her like she might say something important.

"How was it?" he asks, nodding toward the now-empty pitch, his voice low and a little rough with exhaustion.

She gives a small, lopsided smile, her heart still fluttering more than she'd like "You were good." she says, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than she intended, almost shy "Even though I don't really understand much of it." Anna exhales, a quiet huff of a laugh, a little embarrassed.

He grins, amused "There weren't too many men dramatically falling down, but I hope it was still entertaining."

She chuckles "You scored, so I guess that makes up for it."

That makes his grin widen, slow and unhurried, like it's just for her "Thanks." he says. His eyes don't leave her "I'm glad you came."

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Not awkward, just quiet. Something gentle stretching between them, like neither one knows what the next line should be.

"Would you maybe want to get something to eat?" he asks "I know a place. It's quiet, not too far, and they have a pretty excellent tiramisu. Unless... a 11 p.m meal violates your famously non-universal standards."

He says it with a slight smirk, the words clearly intentional.

She laughs, catching the reference immediately. "You should already know I only operate on those."

He raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his mouth.

She nods, still smiling "Yes, I'd like that."

It's nearly eleven by the time they reach the restaurant. Tucked away on a quiet side street near the Canal. Theres a crooked little sign leaning above the door: Ouvert jusqu'à minuit.

It has the air of somewhere discreet but well-loved. The kind of spot where things don't try too hard.

Inside, it's exactly what he promised – small, calm, intimate. A few tables, a scratched-up wooden bar, and the faint hum of conversation low in the background. The smell hits her first: tomato, garlic, something buttery and sharp underneath it. It smells like someone actually cooks here.

"I use to come here after games.” Kylian says as he holds the door open for her "Especially when everything got... noisier."

She doesn't ask what everything means. She just nods and follows him inside, letting the warmth of the room wrap around her like a coat. A waiter greets them with a familiar smile and leads them to a booth tucked in the back. She slides in, knees bumping his under the small table. She pretends not to notice. He might be pretending too.

A laminated menu appears, but he doesn't reach for it.

"I remember you said you liked pasta." he says casually.

She glances at the menu, then at him "I do."

"They make this really ridiculous one." he adds. "Not on the menu. But if you ask nicely..." His smile twitches.

She arches a brow "Is that a challenge?"

"You can order whatever you want, of course." he says quickly"I just thought you might like it."

She closes the menu, setting it aside "Ok. Let's do the off-menu pasta. But only if it's not a burden to the chef's delicate soul."

He grins and places the order in a quick, relaxed stream of French. Something about rien de trop lourd, pâtes longues, and then his name, pour Mbappé. He sounds polite but certain, like it's just another surname, not the kind that belongs on headlines. The words sound better coming from him. Like French was always meant to land softly in his mouth.

When the waiter turns to her, she gathers herself. Not nervous, exactly, just careful.

"Je prends les mêmes, s'il vous plaît." she says. "Si cela ne vous dérange pas." She smiles, tacking on a quiet merci as the waiter nods back, scribbles, and disappears.

When she glances up again, Kylian's watching her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing." he says. "Your French is good."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling too.

The food arrives quietly. Two deep bowls of pasta, steam curling up in the dim light, and a small dish of bread set between them like a peace offering. She lifts her fork, twirls, takes a bite.

Then, softly, mouth half-full. "Ok. This is actually really good."

He exhales a laugh, satisfied "Told you."

She nods and keeps eating. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. Every few minutes, she sneaks a glance at him, not obvious, just small flickers. His posture's changed since the stadium. Less tension, more ease. Like he's shedding layers that only exist under stadium lights They sit with that for a second. Then, Anna perks up, fork lazily stirring through her pasta.

"How's your niece, by the way? Did she really liked the book, or did you just said that to not disappoint me?"

Kylian chuckles, dabbing his mouth with his napkin "She really did loved the book. Every time I visit, she makes me read it at least four times. My brother, Ethan, is still bitter about it because now I’m the favourite uncle."

Anna giggles, pleased "I'm really happy I helped you raise your uncle points."

"She's a menace." he says fondly "Bosses everyone around, makes up songs constantly mocking me. I asked her what she wants to be when she grows up and she said, 'A mermaid. But also a lawyer.'"

Anna laughs, a warm burst of sound that feels easy between them "That's a solid career plan. Good luck, though!"

“She makes me feel grounded.” He smiles, softer now "All of them do. My family. I think if I didn't have that, this–" He gestures vaguely, maybe meaning the game, the fame, the city, "–would get to my head."

She watches him for a moment "They live nearby?"

He nods "My brother Ethan lives with me. My mum lives close by, so does my dad. I grew up in Bondy, just outside Paris." she nods, paying full attention to him "She still makes me come over for lunch whenever I can. She pretends it's about feeding me, but I think she just wants to check I'm not turning into an idiot."

"That's nice of her." Anna says, meaning it.

He smiles again, more to himself this time "What about you? Do you get to go home often?"

"Not really." she says, rubbing at her wrist. "It's... complicated."

He doesn't push, just nods and lets it rest. She's grateful for it.

They eat slowly after that. Between bites, they talk about the match. She admits she didn't fully understand the offside rule, and he tries to explain it with a salt shaker and the edge of his plate. She pretends to get it, then laughs when he narrows his eyes suspiciously.

It's easy like that. Easy in that fuzzy, late-night way, when the world feels slightly fuzzed at the edges, and time stretches out in between sips of wine and the low hum of kitchen clatter.

At one point, her phone buzzes on the table. A message from Julie: "WELL????" followed by seven eye emojis. Anna flips the phone face-down without replying.

When she looks up again, he's still watching her, not in a heavy or expectant way, but with that same quiet interest he's carried all night. Like she's not a puzzle to be solved or a script to follow, just someone worth paying attention to.

This is really nice, she thinks.

Because it is. It's not flashy or dramatic. It's not overwhelming. It's just... easy. Gentle. He's kind, thoughtful in a way that isn't performative. And for someone who lives in headlines, who could command any room, he doesn't make her feel small. In fact, he almost makes her forget he's famous at all.

"You're a lot more... low-key than I expected." she says, the words tumbling out before she can filter them.

He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Low-key?"

"Yeah." she says, nudging a piece of bread across her plate "I don't mean that in a bad way. I don't know. I guess I imagined you more... show-off energy. Post-goal swagger. Media-trained charm." She shrugs, playful but honest.

He tilts his head slightly, like he's amused. "Is that a bad thing?" he laughs, low and easy "You disappointed?"

She shakes her head, smiling "No. It's actually kind of refreshing. It's a good thing."

He glances down at his plate, then back at her, eyes glinting just a little "I like listening." he says. "Especially when the company's interesting."

That catches her off guard, not because it's over the top, but because it's so effortless. The compliment sits there between them, quiet and sure, no need to dress it up.

She looks at him for a moment, something warm blooming low in her chest "You'd be surprised how rare that is."

Their eyes meet again, and this time the silence stretches just a little longer. Not awkward, just charged, like they're both aware of something shifting.

The waiter returns to ask about dessert, and Kylian orders the promised tiramisu without even glancing at the menu. But then the waiter hesitates, offering an apologetic smile, there's only one left. Anna pauses, then says she doesn't mind sharing, and something in Kylian's face softens, his smile quiet but warm. When the plate arrives, nestled between them with two spoons, she thanks the waiter again and leans forward slightly, her elbow brushing the edge of the table. They both reach for their spoons at the same time, laughing under their breath like the sound might break something delicate between them. The dessert is light and cold and rich all at once, and she's not even sure if it's the mascarpone or the moment that makes her feel slightly giddy.

"Ok." she says, after a beat, licking a bit of cocoa from her lip "That's dangerously good."

Kylian hums his agreement, watching her with an amused, fond expression "Told you." he says, like this is just one more thing he hoped she'd like.

For a while, they don't say much. Just small glances, the soft clink of spoons against ceramic, a kind of gentle understanding settling in. Sharing something sweet, in a quiet corner of the city, with someone who somehow already feels less like a stranger and more like a new kind of comfort.

When the bill comes, Kylian slides his card across before she can protest. She tries anyway, lightly, out of principle more than anything, but he just shakes his head, easy and sure. Outside, the night has cooled. The streets are softer, quieter. Paris feels like it's exhaling.

His driver, the same one who brought them earlier, waits at the curb. Kylian turns to her with a small, easy smile. "I'll drop you home." he says as he opens the car door.

When they reach her apartment building, he walks her to the front door. They pause there, the quiet between them feeling both heavy and light.

"I really liked tonight." he says softly as they pause by the entrance.

She looks up at him, feeling a small flutter. "Me too."

They stand there for a moment, caught in the stillness, unsure what to say or do next.

Then, with a hopeful tilt of his lips, he asks "Can we meet again soon?"

She nods, her smile growing a little brighter. "Yeah. I'd really like that.

____

tags: @nowrosesaredead

#kylian fanfic #kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader #kylianmbappe story #mbappé #kylian lottin mbappé #kylian mbappe imagine #mbappefic #MWM

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thearcanecat · 7 months ago

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Blorbo from my shows? No. Blorbo from my college readings.

#there are no fics for this book on ao3 #I have to do everything myself /silly #after finals #I keep having to tell myself after finals #I have #to finish this essay first and then I will write him something #anyways you guys should read everything I don’t remember #blorbo #blorbo from my shows #college #I don’t know how to tag this #the arcane cat can talk

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figofswords · 1 year ago

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anybody remember the stephanie brown essay I was working on under a research grant fully last summer? yeah it’s not done yet it super needs to be done and I’ve been avoiding working on it for weeks. someone tell me to just do it already

#the problem is. actually there are several problems #1) I’ve been out of the Batman/dc comics phase for almost a year so I don’t care that much about the topic #2) I am fifteen pages in and have not touched it in months so I’ve completely lost my train of thought #3) I can’t just reread it because I hate first five pages or so and I know I need to change it but I was trying to finish before editing #so now my only solution is I need to open up a new doc and completely restructure the whole thing by splicing together the existing writing #so that I can figure out where the hell im going with this and make sure things fit together better #unfortunately that sounds fucking exhausting #but I told my mentor I would have an update for him by the end of the week and. well. it’s the end of the week #I have to present it in April. I have to write and submit an abstract in March #the school gave me $1500 for this stupid essay and if I don’t have anything to show for myself.#well. I don’t know they can’t take the money BACK but it’s not a good look #and also I would feel bad #I did the research!!! i interviewed comic writers even!!! I just haven’t finished WRITING IT DOWN #and I KNOOOOWW once I get started it’ll be fine once I’m going I’m going #but STARTING is hard because I feel like I have to finish it in one go which makes it so huge and daunting #I’m like. slamming my head into a wall. just write a couple sentences Jess something is better than nothing #just start it you don’t have to finish just START just MAKE the new DOC #I know!!!!! that is what my therapist would say!!!! Jess you’re trying to oneshot it bc of your dumb adhd brain!!!!#stop looking at it like that and making it scarier!!!#but even tho I know that logically I’m still like oh I should put away the dishes o should make bread #I should work on my six different art pieces I should do laundry i should play with the puppy I should go for a walk I sh

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cityselcouth · 3 months ago

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for research purposes

pairing: caleb x reader

summary: how on earth were you supposed to write a good sex scene with almost zero experience? good thing your best friend was always willing to lend you a helping hand.

themes: childhood best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, friends with benefits, college! au, slowburn, humour, fluff, angst, petnames, profanity, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, explicit sexual content (oral fem receiving, fingering, nipple play, protected + unprotected sex, clothed sex), porn with so much plot, they're both down bad asf

word count: 25k

lyns notes: its been so long since i've written a full length fic like this, and it ended up being so much longer than I anticipated but please don't get scared by the wc 😭 its so self indulgent because i love caleb and I had way too much fun writing this so I hope you enjoy! <3

This was utterly insane, even for you.

The idea started small, though you supposed you couldn’t ever classify it as innocent. At the time, it had been just a flicker, a fleeting thought that slipped through the cracks of your composure. You were in your best friend's dorm, lounging on his bed like it was your own as you complained.

“I’ve been stuck for weeks now. It’s like I’ve lost the ability to write.”

Caleb glanced over at you from his desk, leaning back in his plush chair as the movement of his fingers over the laptop keyboard stilled for a moment. The expression you received was familiar, you had been on the receiving end of it for years now. One of his lips quirked up, deep lavender eyes alight with amusement, and one eyebrow raised as he took in your anguished state.

“You haven’t lost the ability to write, Pipsqueak, it's just writer's block. You’ve had writer's block before.”

“Not like this.” You shook your head, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on them. “I usually manage to overcome it in a week or so. It’s been like, three months.” Your annoyance with yourself was obvious to him, so clear in the slight pout on your mouth paired with that indignant expression.

It was true, you had been writing ever since you were little. Your imagination ran wild as a child, even before you could physically write, you would spin tales and make up stories to entertain yourself with, frequently getting lost in your own little world. You prided yourself on this talent of yours that helped you breeze through English essays and writing assignments, even going so far as to major in English at university. Writing was your bread and butter. It was more than just being good at it, it was the passion and fulfilment you felt when you did it.

Passion and fulfillment your ass, you couldn’t feel any of that right now.

You were writing a book, your very first one that you started penning in the summer before your sophomore year. The idea had come to you out of nowhere, and once you spent hours outlining all the details, you were certain it was something you wanted to bring to life. The need to finish it burned through you as you spent most of that break stuck at your desk, hunched over your laptop. Caleb had to quite literally drag you out of your room most days, muttering some nonsense about vitamin D and too much screen time.

He had always been like that ever since you were kids – protective, caring, attentive. It was built into his very being, you supposed, ever since he saw you cry outside the first-grade classrooms as a seven-year-old and promised to help you find your way to the correct one. Even now, as he hummed in thought, offering silent support for your frustration.

“You’ve gotten through a large chunk of it, right?”

“Yep.”

A slow, bargaining smile stretched out on his face. “Hey, you know, maybe if you let me read it–”

“Hell no.” You shook your head stubbornly. “I told you, I’m only letting you read it once it's finished, and I think it’s good enough.”

Caleb snorted, “So you mean never?”

You promptly threw one of the plushies on his bed at him. He deftly caught it, laughter slipping from him as he threw it back. The plushy was a grumpy apple one that he had won you back home at the arcade, but the pile of plushies on your bed was so huge that you graciously suggested that he keep it for you. Partial custody, you had joked, I have visitation rights.

“You’ll be the first to read it. I just….need to get through this one bit.”

Ah yes, the bit. The part that you seemed to be cursed to never finish. Everything before it had gone so smoothly, the words flowing and pouring out of you so perfectly. A fun romance novel full of twists and humour was what you aimed to achieve, and it seemed like you were succeeding.

That was, until you reached a part of the story that you truly had no idea how to write. The technicalities of it were.…..unknown at best, to you, who had almost no experience in the matter.

“You know, maybe you could tell me about it. Maybe I could help.” You knew the offer was genuine. Caleb had always been someone you could fall back upon for any assistance. Being two years older than you, in your eyes, he always knew what to do when you were in a pickle. He was the type of friend who placed bandages on your scrapes and offered you candy so you’d stop crying. He carried a hair tie around for when you wanted to tie your hair and helped you study for tests, and explained the concepts that you didn’t understand. Every time you had a problem, he never hesitated to help you in any way he possibly could.

But this….this was something you’d rather die than ask him about.

Immediately, you shook your head a little too quickly, shooting him a tight smile. “Nope, it's fine. Just something I gotta figure out myself.

He stared at you skeptically but shrugged. “Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?”

You wouldn’t.

Would you?

Absolutely not. Even thinking about it felt like a betrayal. It was like opening a can of worms that held snakes. Deadly venomous ones.

And yet here you were, your teeth digging into the plush of your lower lip as he turned back to his laptop screen, continuing to work on whatever assignment he had due. He was in his final year and was infinitely busy, though he somehow still managed to make time for you.

Shamelessly, your eyes studied him. His arms, so well defined and firm-looking, were basically on display for you when he wore that white, sleeveless tee. Dark hair, unruly and messy, no matter how many times you ran your fingers through it in an attempt to fix it. A defined jawline that could probably cut you if you dared touch it. He had grown up unfairly well, no longer the lanky young boy you once knew, now a man. A hot man you had incredible chemistry with.

A very hot man who was completely off-limits.

Still. You supposed that his help couldn’t be the worst thing in the world–

A sex scene. That was what you were struggling to right. In terms of the story, it was a very natural next move for your characters, and it made sense, and while you could simply artistically describe the ordeal and fade to black, you felt it was a necessary addition. You wanted to showcase the desperation the two characters felt for each other, just how deep their feelings ran through something more primal. You wanted it to feel right, to feel magical.

The issue? You hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it. In all your nineteen years of life, you had only had sex once, and it had been far from magical. It had been uncomfortable and rushed, the result of a very stupid, drunken one-night stand in your first year. The guy very evidently didn’t know how a woman's body worked, and even thinking back on it made you cringe and fold in on yourself. If it were possible to manually pluck the memory out and destroy it, you would have done it in a heartbeat.

So how on earth were you supposed to write the perfect sex scene when your one sole experience in the matter had been so terrible?

And you couldn’t ask Caleb for help. Even considering doing so made you feel as if you would spontaneously combust. He was your best friend, for crying out loud, and this crossed so many lines. You knew very well that he wasn’t a virgin by any means, having caught glimpses of the occasional hickey on his neck despite his best efforts to hide it from you. He was twenty-one, experienced and could probably talk you through it–

Nope. Not going here.

The idea of Caleb explaining sex to you was mortifying. You didn’t want to hear about any of his conquests, even just the thought of him talking about it made you want to throw up. The notion of him having sex only made your cheeks warm and your throat go uncomfortably dry.

Against your will, the thought festered. It burrowed its way into your mind and settled there as if it belonged, despite its having no business being there. This was completely unethical, but before you could stop yourself, your gaze zeroed in on his tongue darting out of his mouth, licking his lips in concentration as he typed out something. For a second, you wondered how it would feel if he dragged that tongue across the skin of your neck.

Oh my god. What if he simply showed you?

The moment that depraved idea popped into your head, you shot up, getting to your feet with urgency. Startled, he looked over at you, frowning at the alarmed look on your face.

“Are you good?”

“I’m great!” Your voice sounded funny, like you were trying to digest a rock. “I just– er– remembered I have some homework to finish for tomorrow. So I should get back to my room.” You padded over to his door, slipping into your shoes and waving at him. “See ya.”

“....Bye.” He watched your awkward, rushed movements with a puzzled look on his (very nice) face.. You nodded curtly before opening the door and escaping the confines of his dorm, out of his scrutinising gaze that could read you annoyingly well. Another minute in there and you knew he would be grilling you for your odd behaviour.

Jesus Christ. You were so screwed.

“Y/n? Girl, you gotta get your head in the game.”

Tara’s voice cut through your reverie, causing you to snap out of it. One glance up at her would reveal an unimpressed look directed at you, her hands on her hips. “Our darling editor wants to know why your article isn’t on her desk yet.”

Tara was your closest friend after Caleb, and you had met her when you joined the university paper as a student journalist. She was smart, pretty and always had your back no matter what. Blinking rapidly, you sighed, waving your hand.

“Tell Jenna I’ll have it there by the end of the day.”

“You better. You know how she is about deadlines.” Tara pulled one of the chairs from the desk beside yours closer and sat on it, resting her elbows on the armrests. “Seriously, though, why are you spaced out today?”

Well, there was no way you could tell her the truth about that. So you resorted to using a half-truth as an answer. “Writer's block.”

“Ah.”

You turned back to the screen of your computer, staring at the article you had been writing. It was almost finished, thank god. At least here, you had the facts to write around, having done your research. Very different to the situation you found yourself in regarding your stupid book.

Ugh.

“By the way, your boyfriend’s here.”

Your head snapped up at her words, already ready to argue, knowing exactly who she was talking about. Walking into the newsroom holding two coffees was Caleb, wearing that blue-orange jacket that you had bought him for one of his birthdays. He did this pretty often, sauntering in like he owned the place even though he was technically not allowed to be there. Jenna had repeatedly reminded him of this, but he brushed it off, and after a while, she simply stopped bothering. Thus, despite not being on the paper, he spent a lot of time in the newsroom.

This was another problem you faced daily: people mistaking him for your boyfriend. The number of times you had to rehash the fact that he was simply your best friend was astounding, and back when you were a freshman, the constant whistles about you dating an upperclassman– and none other than Caleb Xia– drove you mad. You chalked it down to none of them being fortunate enough to experience a friendship as fulfilling and real as the one you had with him.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” You dropped your voice, keeping it just loud enough for her to hear your rebuttal that held a hint of venom, plastering a smile on your face as he closed in. Tara snickered.

“Sure, and I’m the queen of England.”

“Hey,” Caleb grinned down at you, his eyes momentarily flitting to your friend. “And what?”

“Nothing,” you said brightly, shooting her a murderous look that silently told her to zip it. She smiled innocently and shook her head, slipping back to her desk without another word.

“She’s an odd one,” he quipped, handing you one of the coffees and then shrugging off the jacket, dumping it on the free space on your desk. You already knew it was your regular order, something he had memorised years ago. You sipped the drink, letting the hot liquid calm you down, grateful for the caffeine. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, spending it tossing and turning in your bed.

And why was that?

Caleb leaned against your desk. “Are you free later today?”

A dejected sigh escaped you. “Unfortunately, no. I need to finish this article by the end of the day, and it seems like my writer's block has infected every aspect of my life.” It was ironic, just how true that statement ran.

“Damn.” You could hear the tinge of disappointment in his voice. “I was hoping we would have movie night. I stocked up on your favourite candy.” He reached over, his fingers brushing against the skin of your forehead as he pushed some of your hair that fell in front of your eyes away from your face, neatly tucking it behind your ear like it was second nature. It was, you supposed, considering he had done so about a hundred times.

But something was different this time, or perhaps you were paying far too much attention to every little thing. To how he pulled back and the way the muscles in his forearm shifted subtly, making you wish he had kept the jacket on. The brief touch lingered on your skin, burned into it.

Fucking hell, you were a mess. A tragic, down-atrocious mess.

Your eyes lingered on his fingers for a moment. Heat crept up your neck, and you coughed, rubbing it absent-mindedly, hoping to push down the flush you felt taking over your body. It had been like this ever since the day in his dorm when your brain had decided to work against you and infect you with the thought of sex with your best friend.

What better way was there to describe your state than calling it an infection? It certainly felt like some sort of sickness with the way it plagued you against your will. Somehow, it was worse than the doomed crush you had harboured for him back when you were in high school, because at least that had been innocent. That was born out of pure admiration, and you were sixteen. A lot of things done at sixteen could be brushed off under the excuse of being young and naive. You had quickly gotten over it.

You were evidently no longer so naive. In fact, you knew too much.

“Maybe next time.” You managed to choke out finally after a silence that had stretched a beat too long. Part of you hoped he’d leave you alone now so that you could calm down and refocus your attention to the article.

But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he occupied the chair Tara previously had, complaining about one of his classes as you nodded along, sipping your coffee and glancing between him and your screen. The smooth cadence of his voice usually soothed you and calmed you down, but now it only put you on edge, flowing over scrambled thoughts like honey. Had his arms always been this nice?

You were going to hell.

All things considered, you held yourself to certain standards. You were a woman with morals and integrity, and you were not in the habit of staring at shirtless men.

Except when it was Caleb, apparently.

“Why are you half-naked?” You blurted out gracelessly, heat viciously curling up your body as your eyes dropped down to his torso. You gripped the Chinese takeout you had gotten on your way back from your evening class a little tighter as you took in his figure. A silver chain with a tag and apple pendant (something you had given him before he left for university while you were still struggling in high school) on his bare chest and perfect sculpted abs, running shorts hanging low on his hips.

“I was working out.” He said casually, taking the bag of takeout from your hands and walking back into his dorm, leaving you to follow him. You bit down on your tongue hard, almost hoping you’d draw blood.

This was ridiculous. You had seen him shirtless several times before and had never reacted like this. The other times hadn’t caused you to flush and definitely didn’t cause your heart rate to spike. It didn’t have you furiously fighting off thoughts that had threatened to consume you for over a week now, pushing them back into the furthest parts of your mind and locking them there.

“I’m almost done, could you grab sodas from the fridge?” Caleb placed the food on the table beside his bed. You wordlessly complied, picking the apple-flavoured sodas that both of you liked. Turning back to the main area of his dorm, you walked over, only to stop dead in your tracks.

Caleb was on the floor. Doing push-ups.

There was nothing inherently sexual about it in the slightest. You knew he liked to stay in shape, hitting the gym at least thrice a week to maintain his physique– a very nice physique that seemed to be your current undoing. His hair fell across his forehead, a little matted from sweat. You watched as he pressed down and back up, and in a moment of weakness, you wondered how it would be if you were under him instead of standing to the side and ogling like an idiot. Would his necklace dangle above you, swinging back and forth in your face?

Dear god. You needed to be sedated. Put down, even.

Finally, he seemed to be done, lowering himself down and then rolling onto his back. He sucked in a breath of hair, running his hands through his hair and messing it up even further. Finally, he sat up and looked up at you, a singular eyebrow raised.

“Why are you just standing there?”

Brilliant question. If only you could answer it.

Choosing to skillfully evade instead, you tossed him his soda can and grabbed his laptop from his desk, settling down next to him on the floor. Tonight, the two of you had decided to have dinner together and catch up on an anime you had started together a couple of weeks ago. It had been a while since you had properly hung out, and you knew damn well that it was all your fault.

You were avoiding him. Mentally and physically, especially physically. Caleb, however, being the understanding, saint of a man that he was, chalked it up to you being busy. He made sure to check in on you, shooting you texts or sending you funny videos he knew you’d like.

“We should try and finish all the episodes up until the latest one,” You said, opening up his laptop and logging into the anime site. “They released a new one on Wednesday.”

Caleb hummed, stretching his arms as he shuffled closer. Immediately, you froze, the close contact inciting pure panic within you. Jerking away from him, you glared, holding a hand out to keep an arm's distance between the two of you, much to his confusion.

“Put on a shirt.”

He frowned. “Why? It’s really hot.”

Indeed, it was. “Exactly. You’re all sweaty and gross.”

You really shouldn’t have said that. The moment the words left your mouth, his mouth curled into a smirk– one so disgustingly attractive that you were sure your knees would have probably buckled if you weren’t already sitting down– and his eyes lit up with a mischievous glint that told you he was up to no good. Carefully, he wrapped a hand around your wrist, and the contact has your brain short-circuiting and going into overdrive.

“I think that means you want a hug.”

“Wait– don’t you dare– Caleb!” You yelped as he tugged you harshly, forcing you to fall into his lap, his laughter resounding through the small dorm room. Awkwardly, you shoot your other hand out to steady yourself, placing it on his shoulder as you tumble into him, knee slotting in between his legs and body so dangerously close to his that you wanted to scream. Smoothly, he wrapped his other arm around your waist, circling it and somehow tugging you even closer, until you were flush against him.

“What are you gonna do now, Pips?” He taunted, voice just above a whisper right against your ear.

Unicorns, you bleakly thought to yourself. Puppies. Cupcakes. Sprinkles.

“You’re so annoying,” You hissed, throwing as much irritation into your voice as you possibly could in the hopes that it would drown out the shakiness you felt. His skin under your fingertips was warm, and you could feel that warmth through the fabric of your tank top. “Go fuck yourself.”

He laughed harder, the sound so contagious it broke you out of your downright sinful thoughts. You gripped his shoulder a little harder, mentally chastising yourself for the situation you found yourself in, knowing that there was no good reason for you to be this riled up. Playfighting with him was something you were used to; it was natural. It should not have had your blood pressure rising and heart slamming in your chest so violently.

Swallowing thickly, you barely processed how he let go of your wrist, his other arm also coming to rest around your waist as he pulled you further into his lap so that you were now sitting on top of him. Before you even had the chance to react to that, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and inhaled.

“Missed you this week,” He mumbled softly against your rapidly heating skin. You froze for a split second at the contact, hopelessly blaming the flush spread over your cheeks on the humid weather.

And then you softened.

Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck as you hugged him back. “I missed you too,” You whispered, following up with a lie to keep him off your trail. “Just had a lot of work.”

“I know,” he said so patiently that you instantly felt guilty. He lifted his face from your neck so that he could stare at you, and it hit you just how intimate the position the two of you were in was. Although reserved with others, Caleb had always been pretty openly affectionate with you. His hand on the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours, a light kiss to your temple in encouragement– he had been doing stuff like that to you since you were ten.

So why did it suddenly affect you so much? Why did something so normal for you make you feel so different now?

“Just….tell me about it,” he continued, those mesmerising purple eyes of his locked onto yours. “Shoot me a text. Let me know what's up with you. Don’t you remember the last time you shut everyone out because you were stressed?”

You did remember. It was during your finals last year, when the workload you had overwhelmed you so badly that you simply pushed everyone away until they were over. Caleb had to practically storm his way back into your life and demand that you take a break and slow down before you worked yourself to the bone. The fact that he remembered this only made your guilt worse because your distance this time had nothing to do with your classwork.

It had everything to do with him, though.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, slowly slipping out of his embrace and settling down next to him once again. You had to remind yourself of what he was to you, and all this thirsting for him was neither healthy nor something a good best friend would do. “I’m not gonna do that again.”

“I’m just saying. And what the hell am I supposed to do with my free time if you’re not here to bother me?” He flashed you that shit-eating grin of his that you were starting to think was more devastating than mischievous.

You had to resist strangling him.

There was only one possible conclusion: something was deeply wrong with you.

How else were you supposed to explain your borderline insane behaviour? It had gotten even worse lately, causing you to daydream at the most inconvenient times, like when you were trying to get an assignment done or even in the middle of class. It was a wonder your professors hadn’t called you out for it yet.

Some level of restraint seemed to remain, though, with you stopping your thoughts from crossing any lines. The moment you caught your mind straying into dangerous territory, you forced yourself to stop, desperately searching for another distraction.

But there was only so much you could do. Thinking was proving to be a dangerous activity.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, hard. It was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Earlier, you had tried to write around the damned scene, but emerged fruitless. It was like an obstacle you had to clear before you could get to the next level of a game, taunting you with its incompletion.

Something else taunted you, simmering underneath the expanse of your skin. Things that hadn’t even happened yet, but you had already dreamed of them– his mouth on yours, his hands tracing your body with a feather touch.

You were even wearing one of his shirts right now, the oversized tee reaching down to your mid-thighs. Several, just like the one you currently wore, sat neatly in your closet, having been stolen from him over the years. You could faintly smell his cologne; cidery and comforting, enveloping you in what felt like it could be his embrace. Turning onto your side, you pulled the blanket over your body and stared at the wall blankly.

Caleb had been your safe space for so long, and perhaps that was why you gravitated so easily to thinking about him like this. If there was anyone you trusted in such an intimate sense, it was him.

Even if it shouldn’t have been.

God knows you needed to get laid. Unfortunately, you didn’t want just anyone.

You swore you had never been this horny before, least of all for your best friend. Thinking about him in such a salacious way was strictly a new development that was quickly ruining your life, haunting you day and night. Even now, lying in your bed, heat that was impossible to ignore bloomed between your legs.

Maybe if you just indulged once, this madness would stop. Maybe you just needed an orgasm, and then you’d stop going insane over every single interaction you had with Caleb. It didn’t even have to be about him, and this was normal; everyone needed a release now and then.

Your fingers slipped between your legs, pushing the fabric of his shirt up, tracing the outline of your cotton underwear. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let your fingertips gently graze against where you needed them most, letting your legs fall apart just a little bit–

Deep purple eyes flashed behind your closed eyes.

Gasping, you retracted your hand like you had been burned. There was no way in hell you could touch yourself with him in mind; that was everything you had been avoiding for the past three weeks, ever since the notion had first sprouted. Groaning, you buried your face into the pillow.

This had to have been the stupidest cause of insomnia ever.

Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : i better see u at the party tonight :D

Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : will pick u up at 9

Caleb 🍎 [15:32 pm] : no buts.

Caleb supposed that this was technically his fault.

Mentally, he had already prepared for this outcome. It was why he had barely drunk the entire night, barely finishing two drinks and opting out of playing beer pong with the rest of his friends, despite Gideon's need for another member on his team.

“Come on, Pipsqueak.” He had an arm around your waist to help steady you, ensuring you wouldn’t fall flat on your face. You stumbled into the elevator, and he jammed the number of your dorm floor as you wrapped your arms around his torso weakly, leaning into him. Right now, he was the only thing keeping you upright.

You were drunk, slurring your words and unable to walk in a straight line without any assistance type of drunk. And yes, this was his fault.

Probably. Definitely.

One of the frat houses had thrown a party, and he had insisted that you come with him. He had always been great at reading you, and for the last couple of weeks, you had seemed tense over something, though you hadn’t told him what exactly it was yet. That was fine, he knew that eventually you’d spill, but for now, all he wanted to do was help you let loose.

That was exactly what he told you to do when both of you arrived at the party, even pouring you your first drink. Halfway through the party, you seemed more relaxed than you had in the last couple of days, swaying along to the music by his side. He made sure not to drink too much, wanting to be sober enough to safely get you back to your dorm just in case you overdid it.

His intuition always ended up being right when it came to you.

You whined as the elevator dinged, the doors opening. “Everything is spinning.”

“I know, honey, we’re almost there.” He helped you walk into the hallway, smoothly taking your handbag from you and extracting your keys. Holding you tighter, he opened the door and pulled you through, carefully seating you down on your bed and taking your boots off.

Like clockwork, he grabbed a bottle of water from your bedside table, unscrewed it and held it to your cherry-tinted lips. You only used that specific lip-tint when you were going out, and each time you did, he found himself wondering if it tasted like cherry as well. Even now, as he gently propped his index finger under your chin and tilted your face upwards, he entertained the idea of tasting it for himself.

But he wouldn’t.

“Drink up,” He said softly, “You’re gonna have a nasty hangover tomorrow.”

Obediently, you parted your lips, drinking with his help. Your cheeks were flushed due to the alcohol, hair a little frizzy from the heat, but still maintaining the styling you had done before the party. To him, you looked stunning at all times, but he could see the effort you had put in to look nice tonight, from your outfit (a black halter top and jeans) to your makeup, which he knew he’d have to help you take off now.

Once he deemed the amount of water you had drunk enough, he put the bottle back and went into your bathroom, knowing exactly where to find your makeup wipes. He had taken care of you like this once before, so his body moved like clockwork. There was no point in trying to get you to the bathroom– you’d probably just sit down on the floor and stay there for the rest of the night– so he took the wipes with him and crouched down in front of where you sat on your bed.

Smiling, he held your face again, this time a little firmer. “You’d hate yourself if you went to sleep before you took your makeup off,” he whispered, pulling one of the wipes out and dragging it over the apples of your face. Then, he glanced up and into your eyes, noting how you stared at him so keenly, even through a half-lidded gaze, lips slightly parted.

If Caleb could’ve kept your attention on him like this for the rest of his life, he would have.

“What's going through that head of yours?” He cocked his head to the side, studying your intent expression. Immediately, you looked away, but he wasn’t going to back down. Something had been troubling you, and he was determined to find out what. If you wouldn’t tell him outright, he would simply have to guess. “Is it your book, again?”

Your inebriated state made it hard for you to hide things from him. You stiffened in his touch, and he chuckled. “Bingo. You know, if you just told me what you were struggling with, I’d help.” He pressed your chin lightly, angling your face downwards. “Close your eyes.” He gently wiped over your eye makeup, making sure it was all off before continuing. “I know I’m not a writer, but I’m sure I'll be of some value.”

Finally done, he neatly folded the dirty wipe and placed it to the side. “Want some more water? Alcohol is dehydrating.”

And then, out of nowhere, you spoke.

“Sex.”

Well, blurting would probably be a better way to describe how you said the word. Caleb blinked rapidly, wondering if he had heard you correctly as his face snapped back to yours, eyes wide.

“What?”

“Sex.” You slurred a little bit as you leaned closer to him, jutting your lower lip out in a pout and repeating it once more for good measure. “Sex.”

“I heard you the first time,” Caleb could hear how strangled his voice was, unable to think straight at your sudden declaration. Oblivious to his mental distress, you thrust out your hand and pointed at the laptop that sat on your desk with drunken animosity.

“I can’t write a stupid sex scene.”

You sounded so crestfallen, and he would have totally started sympathising with you if not for the reason. A sex scene? What on earth were you writing?

“I–” He swallowed, “Well–”

“I mean, how am I supposed to write a good sex scene if I don’t know what good sex feels like? Or what even like, happens?” Alcohol had certainly loosened you up, and perhaps a bit too much, having erased any filter that you had. This resulted in you rambling on about everything you would have usually kept to yourself, and for good reason. “The sex I’ve had has been shitty.”

The sex you’ve had? Caleb almost bit his tongue off in shock, staring at you incredulously at the information you had dumped on him. He hadn’t even known you had been having sex, and thank every god for that, because he would have probably jumped off a cliff if you ever talked about your sex life with him. Surely, this was some sort of twisted fever dream he had found himself in. This could not have been real life.

“Christ,” He choked out, “I–okay, maybe I can’t help you–”

“Yeah, you can.” Your eyes cut to his, a little too intense for his sanity. “If you fucked me, I’d probably be able to write the scene.”

He gaped at you, about a dozen inappropriate thoughts running through his head before he could stop it. “What did you just say?”

Teenage Caleb would have died if he had heard you say that. Adult Caleb nearly did.

You sighed heavily, and it only succeeded in causing him to spiral even more. “I thought about it. I’m sure it would be good, y’know. You’d know what you were doing, you even look like you’re good at it.”

“You’re so drunk.” He tried to reason with himself out loud, but could hardly recognise his voice with how strained he sounded. Looked like he was good at it? What alternate dimension had he just fallen into?

“Oh, come on, Caleb. I need some hands-on learning, and you–” you slurred the words as you leaned close and wrapped your hands around his bicep, peering up at him through your lashes. “–have very nice hands. They’re hot.”

You, his best friend, his pipsqueak, had thought about sleeping with him. You thought his hands were hot. The news nearly killed him, and he had to force himself to look away from you, his mind running at a mile a minute. Heat prickled at his face and neck, impossible to ignore as he cleared his throat and stood to his feet, pulling away from your touch.

“You should sleep.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, stepping away from you. “I–I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was as if he were going through puberty all over again, with the way his voice cracked embarrassingly as he spoke. He left your room hurriedly, barely getting his shoes back on as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Caleb exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as the back of his head hit your door. All these years of barely keeping it together around you, carefully tiptoeing between right and wrong, only for you to come and crash into whatever self-restraint he had left.

Right and wrong.

All of a sudden, he wasn’t sure if he was going to choose correctly anymore.

Death had to have been more merciful than the pounding in your head. Grabbing the covers, you pulled them over yourself like a cocoon, trying your hardest to block out all noises and sink even further into your mattress.

Unfortunately, your hangover-induced headache made it nearly impossible for you to go back to sleep. Cursing, you forced yourself out of bed and into the bathroom to freshen up and change out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. Naturally, you gravitated towards an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts, pulling them on after a quick shower.

Then, you went right back to your bed, not wanting to face the day in the slightest. You had managed to resist throwing up so far, and even the thought of having to function like a normal human being made you recoil into your blanket and stay there for the rest of the week. Just as you began to genuinely entertain that notion, a sharp knock at your door caught your attention.

You would have ignored it if you didn’t know the pattern of this knock by heart. No one but Caleb knocked twice in sequence.

Cursing under your breath, you scrambled to the door and opened it, squinting as the bright light of the hallway outside nearly blinded you. There he stood, grinning down at you as he held up a paper bag.

“Aspirin.”

“Thank god,” you immediately let him in, taking the medicine from him and pouring yourself a glass of water. He stood right behind you as you took the pill, ruffling your already messy hair and staring for just a second too long.

“Bad morning, huh?”

“You have no idea.” You winced at the whiny nature of your voice. “It feels like my head is trying to stab itself.”

Caleb chuckled dryly, sitting down on your bed and watching as you settled at your desk and ran your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth out the knots. Something was different about the way he was looking at you, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

“You’ll be fine,” He muttered, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. You frowned, taking in the way his jaw ticked, and placed your glass of water down.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine.” He said it a little too brightly, glancing down at your desk. Something flickered in his eyes. “Made any progress on that book of yours?”

A frustrated sound left you buried your face in your hands, elbows on your desk. The reminder of your stagnant writing somehow worsened your headache, as if that was even possible. Of course he’d bring that up. “As usual, no.”

For a while, you had hoped that inspiration would strike you eventually, but it seemed like you were well and truly stuck. It had only taken a turn for the worse, with you suddenly despising everything you had already written, unable to even skim any of it without cringing and wanting to hit delete. Your inability to write had morphed into impostor syndrome, which was a development you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.

“It’s okay,” he said, and you would have mistaken his tone for reassuring if not for the way his lips twitched slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to write eventually. After you fuck me, apparently.”

Silence.

Razor-sharp silence.

Slowly, you turned your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers. “What….did you just say?”

“Only what you said last night. You said you were sure it would be good, which I beg to differ. It would be amazing, thank you very much.” He dared to smile oh-so innocently, as if he hadn’t just upgraded the superlative of what sex with him would potentially be like.

If you thought you were going to throw up before, you were sure you were going to now. You almost choked on your spit, waves of unadulterated shock crashing through your system as you gawked at your best friend, who appeared much too pleased with himself at the moment. If you weren’t so utterly horrified, you would have tried to slap the smug expression right off of his face.

“No.” The singular word comes out breathless, much to your mortification, your gut churning at the implications of that statement. “No, no, no–”

“Oh yes,” He grinned wickedly, leaning back on the palms of his hands.

“What–what the fuck did I drink last night.” You tried your levity, but your embarrassment ran too deep. Reaching up, you covered your face with your hands in a pathetic attempt to hide away from him. Never, in a million years, had you ever accounted for having this conversation with him, of all people, and you were almost certain there was something in your drinks that had made you say what you did.

His velvety laugh echoed through your dorm, and you wanted nothing more than to fold in on yourself. This had to have been the worst moment of your life.

“I guess you don’t remember, huh?” There was an amused lilt to his tone that made you want to jump out of the window. “I can refresh you, if you’d like.”

“NO!”

The shriek that left you was nothing short of abashed. He leaned forward now, smirking at you conspiratorially. “What's wrong? I thought you needed,” he paused, as if recollecting the exact words you had said to humiliate you even further. “Hands-on learning?”

You pointed to the door, biting back a scream. “Get out.”

The smirk only grew. “Aw, but if sleeping with me is gonna help you write again–”

“OUT!” You glared, cheeks flaming. Your anxiety had prepared you for at least a hundred outright ridiculous situations that had no chance of ever occurring, but none of them accounted for the possibility of your best friend talking about sleeping with you. You couldn’t fathom how he seemed so unaffected by it, as if he were speaking about something as mundane as the damn weather.

Caleb tongued his cheek, evidently fighting off another bout of laughter. He raised his hands to his sides in a placating gesture, but it did nothing to soothe your frazzled nerves. If anything, it only distracted you further, your eyes betraying you and straying to glance at his hands. A suppressed memory from last night resurfaced in your mind's eye, much to your displeasure.

You have very nice hands. They’re hot.

That was it. You were never going to touch alcohol again. Sobriety was your way of life now, seeing that you couldn’t keep your mouth shut when under the influence. The next time you need to let off some steam, you’d have an iced coffee.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go.” He moved towards your door, hiding his teasing smile behind his fist, disguising his chuckle with an exaggerated cough. “But Y/n?”

He didn’t use his beloved pet name. You straightened slightly, momentarily pushing away your embarrassment at the sudden serious shift of his voice. He opened the door and paused, hesitating for a single second. Then, he looked back at you, all-consuming, violent eyes locking onto yours.

“I would do it if you asked.”

You sighed heavily as you walked out of your last class of the day, rubbing the back of your neck and peering up into the darkening sky. Thursdays were the one day of the week when you had longer classes one after the other, which always resulted in you feeling exhausted by the end of it. You barely had the energy to even think about putting together dinner, which your best friend knew, always swinging by once your class ended with enough take-out for both of you and to walk you back to your dorm.

Which meant…

“I hope you’re in the mood for Thai food.”

Caleb slid into your view with that easy-going smile of his, though lately and much to your annoyance, there seemed to be a knowing glint in his gaze every time it settled on you.

“I’m in the mood for anything edible.” You sighed as you began walking back to your dorm. He easily fell into step beside you, as always, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You supposed it was, considering how long your friendship had lasted. It would be almost twelve years soon, and honestly, you could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t around.

He hummed, knowing how cranky you got when you were hangry. “So easy to please.” It was the way he said it, knowing and with a tone so low that it almost resembled a purr. It had goosebumps rising on the surface of your skin. A little outraged at the way you reacted, you glanced over at him, only to find him already looking at you.

It was how he always looked at you, with conviction and every ounce of his attention. Yet, it felt different, more intense. Or maybe that was just your brain playing tricks on itself.

I would do it if you asked.

Those seven words had haunted you from the moment he had spoken them. The serious expression on his face mixed with the quiet way he had said it– it had undoubtedly fucked you up a little more than you would have liked to admit. You were beyond infuriated and in complete disbelief over how he had simply offered to sleep with you. Like it wasn’t a big deal or a very major, clear boundary that existed in friendships. In your friendship.

If you asked. Like it was that fucking simple. He left your dorm since you demanded it of him, but left you to deal with the aftermath of that absolutely criminal statement of his.

And then there was the teasing.

Relentless and unsteadying. Caleb would say something a little too suggestive or downright sexual before retreating and pretending like nothing had happened. He’d hold your gaze a little longer, or let his touch linger, before looking away with a satisfied smirk. He knew damn well what he was doing, and although you did too, it didn’t stop you from flushing or freezing up. It certainly didn’t stop scenarios from writing themselves in your head.

He was torturing you for your little slip-up. He found it hilarious, and now you were the punchline for every joke that blossomed from it.

He cocked his head to the side now, a small, tilted smile on his lips as he spoke. “What's going on in at head of yours?”

You realised you had stopped walking, and so had he, instead standing right in front of you and occupying every part of your vision. “Nothing.”

Caleb quirked an eyebrow, taking a step closer. “You sure about that? You’re obviously thinking about something.” The cadence of his voice had always been nice, but now the velvety smoothness of it put you on edge in more ways than one. “Are you maybe thinking about–”

“I am not thinking about that.” The statement tumbled out of you before you could bite your tongue. His eyes lit up mischievously.

“Oh, so you’re thinking about something after all, are you?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, struggling to findd to find a comeback to that. Somehow, he was even closer now.

“Mind telling me what exactly that is?”

“Stop it,” You almost snarled, shooting him a withering look as you pushed him away in order to reclaim your personal space. This teasing streak of his was getting unbearable, especially since it was anything but innocent and was driving you up the wall. “Or I’m gonna take the Thai food and leave you with nothing.”

An offended gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He laughed at your threat and finally let up on you, going back to being the Caleb you knew. He spoke of his classes and the group project he had due at the end of the week, for which he had terrible teammates to work with. It was jarring, how easily he could shift back into acting like he hadn’t just insinuated something so….

Maybe it was just your dirty mind.

Unbeknownst to you, it definitely wasn’t just your dirty mind. Caleb was mentally punching himself.

Caleb had had years of practising self-control when it came to you. Years of holding back and hiding the feelings he had for his best friend, shying away from every opportunity to divulge them. He knew how to keep his hands to himself, his mind from straying and his tongue from running into dangerous territory. He hadn’t meant to do it, but your drunken confession had flipped a switch inside of him. The lines had gotten a little blurry, but he would never, in a million years, ever actually cross them.

So what the hell was wrong with him?

You still hadn’t written a word. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t even complain about it in peace anymore. Not if you wanted to maintain even a modicum of your sanity.

The reason for said dwindling sanity was sitting beside you right now on his bed, his arm slung around your shoulder, fingers tracing abstract patterns on the top of your shoulder. Usually, this would have calmed you down and even made you sleepy, but it achieved the complete opposite right then. You were painfully awake, his feathery touch like electricity against your skin.

God, you were so fucked. You had hoped that Caleb’s incessant teasing would have put a damper on your sudden, strong attraction towards him, but nothing of the sort had happened. It seemed to have only gotten worse, with you ending up being jumpy whenever he was around, and considering the amount you hung out with him, you were starting to resemble a kangaroo.

Around him, you were constantly tense and always on the precipice of being turned on. To say it was hellish would be an understatement.

“You’re distracted,” he murmured as the credits of the movie you were watching played. Finally, the two of you had managed to find the time to have that movie night you had passed on weeks ago. You shook your head, glancing up at the clock that hung on his wall. It was a little past midnight.

“Just frustrated,” you said finally, because it was the truth in more ways than one. Your frustration with your writing, or lack of, ran deep, but now it was intertwined with another very persistent reason. Being sexually frustrated wasn’t something you were used to dealing with.

He seemed to have caught on, though, his hand falling from your shoulder to your waist, curling around it. “Why are you frustrated, Pipsqueak?” He drawled, turning his head so that he faced you now. Of course, he’d pick this moment to torment you, when you were already frazzled.

“No reason,” you said quickly, voice clipped. A slow, languid smile stretched out on his lips.

“No?” He asked, the side of his mouth tilting. “Could it be….”

“Stop talking.” You despised how hoarse your voice sounded. You wanted– no, needed him to stop doing this before it became unbearable. He was your best friend, for fucks sake. The smile on his annoyingly perfect face melted into a smirk that would have had your knees weak if you weren’t already sitting down.

“I don’t think I will.” He whispered, pulling you even closer as he dipped his head down until his lips brushed against your ear. It was like he wanted you to break, and god, you were so close to doing so. His hand slid up your waist just a little bit. A shiver ran through you, one you couldn’t have suppressed if you tried.

“Tell me,” He mumbled, the words sounding much too loud even though he was still whispering. “Do your frustrations have anything to do with a certain sex scene you’re trying to write?”

You inhaled sharply.

Rationality was a funny thing. Every bit of it seemed to disappear whenever you truly needed it. Things you had no business thinking rushed through your head, courtesy of your bright imagination that chose the most inconvenient moments to work. Thoughts you had suppressed and pushed aside every time they had the nerve to pop up swirled around.

The spark that you had been trying so hard to put out crackled to life in your core, its flames spreading all across your body like wildfire. You were painfully aware of every part of you that was in contact with him, his hand just above your waist, sitting there so possessively, his breath fanning across your neck– fuck. It was too much, but somehow not enough all at once, and immediately you knew what you wanted.

More.

You snapped.

Something possessed you as you turned to look at him, a surge of confidence appearing out of nowhere as you drew closer to him. “Yeah.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Right then and there, three things became very clear to you. One: You wanted to write. Desperately and preferably sometime soon, because you did want to finish the first draft before you could go in and edit. Two: For some reason, you needed to have sex in order to get over the mental block you had when it came to writing it. Lastly, three: You only wanted to have sex with one person, and it was the man right beside you.

“My frustration has everything to do with the sex scene.” You said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. “But you can help with that, right?”

Without waiting for his response, you got to your knees, swinging a leg over him and settling down on top. Surprise flickered in his eyes for a second as your hands found his shoulders to maintain your balance, before he spoke again.

“Pipsqueak,” he started, voice low and careful, attempting to keep the teasing lilt in his voice but royally failing. “What– exactly– are you doing?”

“You told me to ask.” You muttered, dropping your gaze to his lips for a moment before letting it travel back up. “You said you’d do it if I asked. I’m asking right now.”

Caleb couldn’t respond, still staring up at you, eyes wide and ears a little redder than they normally were. Good. It was about time he had a taste of his own medicine. His hands found your waist again, and he blinked twice, slowly, and you prayed he wasn’t all bark and no bite.

You wanted him to bite.

“Y/n,” he muttered, “I….I know what I said.”

You raised an eyebrow, your hands slipping up his shoulders simultaneously until they were cradling his neck, playing with his hair at the nape of it. Was he shy? Now? After everything he had said and insinuated, he had the audacity to be all bashful? “So then you know what I’m asking for.”

“Well–”

“Caleb,” You cut him off, shifting so that you were closer. “I’m asking.”

Conviction laced those words. You could tell he was reasoning with himself, god knows you could read him well enough to know when he was conflicted, when he bit the inside of his cheek before exhaling shakily.

“Pips,” He rasped out your nickname. “You– you’re sure?”

You didn’t recognise the look in his eyes right then as he looked up at you, but it had you unravelling all the same. You leaned in subconsciously, but he quickly moved one of his hands from your waist to your mouth, covering it as his jaw clenched, still studying you. “I need you to tell me you’re sure, Y/n.”

Oh, so this was actually happening. You could feel the heat of your breath recoil against your face because of his hand. The ticking of the clock in his room filled the charged silence between him and you, his fingers brushing against your chapped lips. You swallowed.

“I’m sure.”

Whatever had shifted in you five minutes ago seemed to shift in him as well now. He let his hand drop from your mouth, shamelessly staring at it. “We shouldn’t.” But he pulled you closer, his arms circling your waist and palms splayed out on the small of your back.

“It’s for research purposes,” You breathed out, doing your best to justify how badly you needed him. “Please, Caleb, I need–”

He didn’t let you finish.

You gasped as he crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. The pressure of his lips against your own was dizzying, especially with the way they moved; slowly and precisely, as if he was committing the feel of your lips to his memory. You were hyperaware of his touch on your back, the warmth from his hands permeating through the thin fabric of the T-shirt you were wearing.

Pulling him closer, you tilted your head so you could kiss him better. For the number of times you had mentally chided yourself for even thinking about this, it felt remarkably natural to kiss him, your instincts taking over. Your fingers slipped into his hair, entangling in the dark strands and tugging lightly.

Caleb groaned, and you were on fire.

“God, Y/n.” There was nothing playful about the way he mumbled your name into the kiss, and the unfamiliarity of it sent a shiver down your spine. His lips, soft and just a little hesitant, moved in tandem against your own, slotting in between them perfectly like you were pieces of the same puzzle, meant to be pushed together like so. He nipped at your lower lip before swiping his tongue over it to soothe the sting, and the intoxicating sensation drew out a needy whimper from you.

The second that sound escaped you, all indecision disappeared from his end, and the temperature in the room seemed to increase, growing hotter with every smack of his lips against yours. Kissing him was addictive, it felt as if neither of you could bear to pull away from each other.

Without warning, Caleb lifted you off of him and pressed you into the mattress, swiftly climbing on top of you. For a moment, he hovered, looking down at you, taking in the flush on your cheeks and heavy breathing, proud to have been the cause of your breathlessness despite barely doing a thing. Going in once again, he brushed his lips against yours teasingly, before giving you what you truly wanted, the intensity of the kiss taking a turn for feverish.

A hand of his slid up your side until he cupped your jaw oh-so gently, turning your face to the side to give him better access to your neck, upon which he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses that had heat rush right to your core. The ache between your legs grew, slowly becoming unbearable, and you rubbed your thighs together with a whine, chasing any sliver of friction.

“Shit,” he muttered against you, his other hand slipping underneath your shirt and coming into contact with your stomach, causing goosebumps to rise on the skin. Spreading his fingers and pressing lightly, he kept you from squirming. “Pips, you gotta tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” you almost snapped at him, impatient and so painfully aroused it was embarrassing. He couldn’t hold back the breathless chuckle that escaped him as he moved lower, teeth grazing your collarbone.

“If, at any point, you want to stop, tell me,” he gritted out, trying to hold onto any semblance of self-control he still possessed. “I don’t wanna do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

You nodded quickly. “I trust you.”

That was all he needed. Lifting his head slightly, he fumbled with the buttons of your shorts as he leaned back, all his weight on his knees. Once he managed to undo them, you lifted your hips slightly to help him tug them off your body. He settled between your legs, spreading them until the pretty cotton panties you wore were exposed.

Caleb swallowed, his breathing growing erratic and heavy. The wet patch on your panties was his undoing; everything about this situation was bound to be the death of him, but he was too far gone now. He let his hand trace up to your hips, hooking his finger through the waistband of your panties, toying with it.

“Is this ok?” The column of his throat bobbed as he stared up at you from between your legs. When you whispered a needy yes, he pulled the panties down your legs, his eyes darkening the moment they settled back on your core.

“Y/n,” He said your name like he was drunk, a certain sense of reverence infused in his tone that had your cheeks kissed rouge. “You’re even prettier than I thought.”

Than he thought? You would have to take the time to dissect that statement later, much too distracted to do so at the moment when he began peppering kisses along your inner thigh, starting from your knee and working his way upwards. The sensation of his mouth tantalisingly close to where you wanted it so badly was almost too much. Just the sight of him there was so erotic that it had your head swimming. You had never felt more vulnerable than you did right then, exposed and willing.

And then finally– finally– his breath fanned out over your soaked cunt, driving you insane. Liquid fire thrummed in your veins beneath the surface of your skin as your anticipation spilled over. He pressed a light, teasing kiss against your clit.

Caleb dragged his tongue over your slit, licking up it all the way to your clit, which he wrapped his lips around and sucked, knocking all the air out of your lungs. You gasped, bucking your hips up against him, and he chuckled, the sound sending vibrations up your body, from your toes to the top of your head.

“Impatient,” he chided. “Let me take my time with you, princess.”

The new pet name sounded so natural coming from him, and immediately, you knew you wanted to hear him call you that again. He flicked his tongue against the throbbing bud that had been aching for his attention this entire time, positioning your legs to rest over his shoulders. The sounds that left you were shamefully loud, and you had never been more grateful that he lived in a single dorm.

“Cal- oh fuck,” You mewled when he swiped two of his fingers through your wetness, rubbing your folds.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he all but groaned against you, and you could feel more slick gush out of you at that. “Is this all for me?”

Your back arched off the bed when he pressed a finger to your dripping entrance, nodding with a sense of desperation you had never experienced before. “Yes,” you exhaled the word as he pushed his finger inside your pussy slowly, your jaw falling open at the pleasurable intrusion.

Slowly, he began pumping it in and out of you as he continued to give your clit the sweet attention it deserved, basking in the noises that you made. The pads of the fingers of his other hand dug into the flesh of your thigh, keeping you nice and spread out despite all your attempts to shut your legs around him.

When he introduced a second finger to your cunt, your hands found purchace in his hair, gripping and tugging as you panted, unable to focus on anything else. Your eyes fluttered shut as the tips of his fingers brushed against a spot that had you seeing stars, crooking inside you so perfectly. It was as if he knew exactly how to push you to the edge.

Your best friend was eating you out like a starved man and you were enjoying every fucking second of it. He could feel your legs begin to tremble, your impending orgasm building. Shamelessly, you bucked your hips against his face, and the moment he realised what you were doing, he increased the pace of his fingers.

“Come on baby,” he encouraged you, flattening his tongue against your clit and pulling you closer, spurring you on even further. You ground against his mouth desperately, feeling the coil in your core draw tight, so, so close.

“Caleb,” you stuttered his name helplessly, but he somehow understood, knowing just what you needed. “I–I’m gonna–”

He scissored his fingers inside of you, hooking them just right as he gave your clit little kitten licks, determined to have you fall apart on his tongue. Your sweet gasps sent blood rushing straight to his cock, which was already painfully hard, confined in his jeans. Taking your mound into his mouth, he sucked harshly, thrusting his fingers knuckle deep in your sex.

A broken moan escaped you when your climax hit you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as waves of pleasure washed over you. Your legs shook, but he didn’t let up, grinning proudly against you as he drove his fingers back into your gushing entrance, helping you ride out your high and prolonging it. Once he was satisfied, he lapped at you, refusing to waste even a single drop of your essence.

Caleb pulled away, and the sight of you nearly did him in. Eyes screwed shut in ecstacy and hair fanned out on his pillow, undoubtedly tangled from all your writhing. You looked like the picture of sin, and it was the hottest thing he had ever seen. He climbed back, hovering over you again as he licked his lips.

Your eyes fluttered open, pupils blown out and dark due to the sheer level of desire that coursed through you. You were stunning, and he was destroyed, knowing that he’d never be able to forget the way you were looking at him right then. The way you tasted.

When he kissed you again, it was different. It was a heady mix of heat and tongue and want, messier than the kisses he gave you earlier, the control he had before nowhere to be seen anymore. You could taste yourself on his tongue and moaned, reaching out to touch him.

You started at his collar, dragging your hands down, down, down until you reached the hem of his shirt, whining against his mouth as you tugged at it.

“Take it off.”

Who was he to deny you? He stopped kissing you, sitting up so that he could pull the shirt off, exposing his torso for you. The way your eyes raked over him hungrily was more than gratifying, especially when they caught on the silver chain that hung from his neck, the pendant sitting on his chest. Tossing his shirt to the side, he pushed your own up your body, exposing the skin of your stomach.

“Your turn.”

You let him take off your shirt, tossing it to the side and slipping his hands slip behind your back. He silently asked for your permission, which you gave to him in the form of an impatient nod to which he smirked, unhooking your bra and peeling it off of you, letting the discarded garment join the rest of them on the floor.

One look at you and he was a goner.

“Fuck,” he could feel himself straining his jeans as he took in the sight of your breasts, so perfect and plush. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate you in all your naked glory, before leaning back down, his mouth back on your overheated skin. He dragged his tongue down your neck, sucking and biting like there was no tomorrow.

His lips trailed downwards, kissing the swell of your breast before wrapping around your already hard nipple, stroking his tongue against the aching peak. He palmed the other breast, giving that nipple equal amounts of attention and rolling it under his thumb. You hissed in pleasure, breathless as you arched into his addictive touch.

You could barely think straight; everything he was doing to you sent you into complete overdrive. Every touch was criminally good, the simplest of them causing your arousal to increase tenfold. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since you had last had sex, but you had never before felt so frenzied.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you could feel the outline of him pressing against your thighs. Angling your hips, you pressed your bare pussy against his bulge, the roughness of the denim rubbing you just right. He looked up at you from your chest through hooded eyes, earning another whimper as he pinched your nipple.

“You sound so good.” His words went straight to your head. “Tell me what you want.”

He said it like it was a command, and who were you to disobey, especially when you knew exactly what you wanted?

“I want you inside me,” you whimpered, voice heated with lust.

How could he ever refuse you? Caleb gave you one last kiss before reaching over to his bedside table, grabbing something from the drawer and sitting up and unzipping his pants. You couldn’t help but stare as he impatiently kicked off his jeans and boxers, eyes widening when you finally saw his cock.

Fuck, it was big. Long and painfully hard, you could hardly believe he was hard because of you, but the proof was in front of your very eyes. Your lower lip caught between your teeth as you drank in the sight of him, hyperaware of the wetness that coated your thighs.

He tore open the condom packet, smoothly sliding it onto himself before settling between your legs once.

“W-will it even fit?” You squeaked, a spike of fear cutting through the lust-filled haze of your mind. He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his lips and pressing your fingers to them, kissing your knuckles soothingly as he bit back a smile.

“It’ll fit.”

“But– there's no way,” You spluttered, “It’s gonna hurt.” Not that the prospect of being in a little pain deterred you by any means, you were way too horny to stop now. Complaining was probably the least sexy thing you could have done in the moment, but he seemed unbothered, the dark, hungry glint in his eyes never fading. The amused look on his face, however, was not lost on you, nor was the way he bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile. You glared weakly.

“Are you laughing at me?” You asked, incredulous. “I swear to god, Caleb, you’re going to split me in half, and you’re laughing?”

“Baby,” He breathed, “You’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say!”

You wouldn’t even blame him if he decided he was done with you and pulled his pants back on, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, he gripped your hips, grounding you to the moment.

Both of you were completely nude, and despite this, you had never felt more comfortable. Not when he looked at you like that, like you were something sacred.

“Relax, Pips, I’ve got you,” He whispered, sensing your apprehension. You exhaled shakily as he pressed his hard-on against your folds, groaning at just how wet you were. “Eyes on me.”

The way he took control so naturally was alarmingly attractive. You looked up, locking your eyes with his, unable to stay silent when the head of his cock rubbed against your swollen clit. “O-oh.”

He shuddered at the feeling, dropping a little so that he was keeping himself up on his elbows. His necklace swung above you just like you had imagined as he ground against you, but it still wasn’t enough. “Ready?”

You didn’t think you’d ever be ready, but you wanted it so badly you didn’t even care. Nodding eagerly, you intertwined your fingers with his, letting him press the back of your hands into the mattress. When his tip caught at your entrance, you whined. “Please.”

Having you beg him like that was dangerous. He squeezed your hands, and then slowly, carefully, sank into your wet heat, inch by devastating inch. Your jaw slackened, loudly moaning his name as he filled you up and stretched you out so pleasurably. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pushed into you until he bottomed out, going breathless himself. One glance down to where the two of you were connected had him actively having to fight off coming right then and there.

Caleb was in heaven, and he was fucking delirious. He forced himself to stay still, moaning lowly when he felt your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. “You’re doing so well, princess.” He praised, lowering his head to your neck and burying his face in the crook of it, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down.

There was so much wrong with this, so why did it feel so right? You felt so perfect, like you were made for him.

“Caleb,” You whimpered once the sting faded, letting go of his hands and looping your arms around his neck, “Move. I need you to move.”

He pulled out until only his tip remained inside of you, before sheathing himself again, causing you to curve off the bed, nails digging into his skin. He did it again and again, nearly growling when he felt you grow even wetter, coating the length of his cock in your slick. Wet sounds that had your cheeks burning filled the room repeatedly.

“Fuck baby, you’re so tight,” He practically growled, contrasting the tender pace he set, telling you he was holding back for your sake. You could feel every inch of him as he dragged against your walls, reminding you how big he was with every thrust.

Your friendship was potentially ruined, but it felt too good for you to care. With your legs locked behind his back, you gripped his biceps, a wanton moan escaping you as your eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure overriding every other sensation.

“So good,” words were hard to put together, and he understood and nodded, holding your hips so tight you were sure there would be marks, just like the marks that blossomed all over your neck and chest from his earlier ministrations. Right now, though, you didn’t care about that, consumed by the waves of euphoria rushing through you.

Slowly, the frequency of his thrusts increased, rendering you completely winded and unable to do anything but gasp for air. You felt another orgasm steadily build up inside you.

Then he tipped his hips a certain way, the tip of his cock brushing against a spot that made you cry out his name, throwing your head back into his pillows. The look on your face was something he wanted to imprint in his memory; the desire lacing your voice was beyond exhilarating.

Caleb could feel his own impending high, so tightly wound because of just how long he had waited for something like this. When you clenched around him, he knew you were close as well, but the act nearly did him in.

“Don’t do that.” his voice was all scratchy and strained, but you promptly did it once again, high off the notion that you were affecting him just as much as he was affecting you. His hips stuttered against yours as his violet eyes flashed. “Fucking hell.”

“Oh my god,” you moaned, “I can’t–”

“Look at me,” he demanded, “I want you to look at me when you come all over my cock.”

Never in a million years would you have thought your best friend would be so good at dirty talk, but the shock quickly melted into obedience as you managed to hold his heated gaze. Reaching between the two of you, his index finger found your engorged clit and rubbed circles against it.

You squealed, overly sensitive. “Shit–I’m gonna– Cal-!”

“Come for me.”

Caleb would never forget how you looked: at his mercy, crying out his name over and over like it was a prayer as you came, spilling over his cock with a euphoric sob. He snapped his hips to yours with renewed urgency, drawing out your second climax and prolonging the feeling. When he saw the fucked out look on your face, it hit him at once.

With one final thrust, he buried himself inside you, coming with a moan, burying his face in your neck once again. His body was damp against yours, his hair tickling you as you breathed heavily. He stayed like that for a couple of seconds, recovering from the intensity of what had just happened.

Wordlessly, he pulled out of you gently, the sudden emptiness you felt having you whimper softly. Peeling the condom off, he tossed it in the bin next to his bed before climbing off of you, muttering something about being back. Seconds later, you felt a warm, wet cloth drag over your core. He cleaned you up, pressing little kisses to the inner side of your thighs.

Once he was done, he gathered you in his arms and pulled you close, kissing your temple.

“Are you okay?” He asked, pulling away just enough so he could try and gauge how you felt, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone as he cupped your face tenderly. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”

You shook your head and leaned into his touch, completely spent. “No, it was perfect.”

He sighed in relief. You curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around you. “You did so well,” he murmured into your hair, massaging your scalp gently. “You were amazing, actually.” Another kiss to your forehead made you simper as your eyes closed, exhaustion settling into you now that the adrenaline had faded. “Tired?”

“Yeah,” You mumbled. Your legs entangled with his, and he stopped talking, tracing shapes on your back while you drifted off to sleep. He watched you for a bit, savouring the skin-on-skin contact, his mind reeling from what had just happened.

This was strangely normal, no awkwardness or post-nut clarity hitting either of you. Your body lay against his with all of you pressed up against him like that was exactly where you belonged. He could feel the beating of your heart, strong and steady in your slumber, whereas his remained erratic and fast. This was more than just a taste that he had had of you; it was the entire deal, and the knowledge of it all had his morals scattered and all over the place, because now that he knew what he knew, well.

Caleb wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

At the time, you had justified sleeping with Caleb as research, something you needed to do in order to get it out of your system. You had assumed, albeit foolishly, that once it was over, you’d be able to go back to normal and continue with your life.

But research was an activity that required constant revisiting. Most of it had to be repeated over and over, especially if it included gathering data from an experiment. There was always a control, and then variations of the experiment would be conducted to record the differences in the outcomes.

At least, that was what you were telling yourself right now as you straddled him, his cock buried inside you.

Truthfully, you didn’t know how this had happened. After that day, everything seemed to be normal, until he showed up at your dorm to help you study for a class he had also taken when he was in his sophomore year. One thing led to another, or rather, one heated touch later, you found yourself under him once again.

And then it happened again, and kept happening. Whispers of it being just for research mixed in with both of your moans became a melody you were more than used to. This was all for your book, after all. For the sake of accuracy and your integrity as a writer.

Definitely not because of how mindblowing sex with Caleb was.

And it absolutely was.

He had made you completely insatiable for him, and almost every time the two of you hung out in one of your dorms, it ended up with both of you in bed. Every other aspect of your friendship remained exactly the same, though, which left you considerably confused. He didn’t look at or treat you any differently, poking fun and driving you up the wall, staying his usual reliable self.

Caleb’s hand cradled the back of your head as he kissed you now, fingers entangled in your hair and pulling slightly. You moaned softly against his lips, grinding on him.

You were in one of his shirts, panties tugged to the side since he hadn’t had the patience to take them off, needing to be inside of you as quickly as possible. Despite his earlier hurriedness, the pace the two of you settled on now was almost teasing, slowly rocking against him as you lazily chased the delicious high that you had gotten so used to experiencing these past two weeks.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he muttered, more to himself than you, hand slipping under your shirt and cupping your breast, squeezing. When he caught you biting your lip, he tutted, letting go of your hair and using his thumb to release it from your teeth. “Ah, ah, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself, pretty girl.”

“Too good,” you complained in that whiney, desperate tone he had gotten so addicted to. Pinching your nipple for good measure, he smirked up at you when you squealed.

Caleb quickly learned that he loved having you on top of him. Getting you all to himself like this was a privilege in itself, but fucking you while you wore his shirt? He was on cloud nine. He could feel himself throb in your sweet pussy that welcomed him so eagerly, in turn pulsing around him.

He cursed under his breath when you started to bounce, eager to get to the finish line with him. He sounded so good when he swore, you’d never understand it, just like how you wouldn’t get how he looked so pretty with a flush decorating his face and sex-mussed hair.

Gripping his shoulders, you tipped your head back, giving him access to your neck. He had taken to marking you up as and when he pleased, new hickeys surprising you every time you glanced in the mirror. Despite his tendency to leave them in places everyone could very easily spot them, you didn’t tell him to stop simply it just felt so good.

Everything with Caleb felt good, and not only did it feel good, but you felt completely safe. He was so attentive, doing the most to make sure you were never in any pain, often times focusing more on getting you off rather than himself.

He thrust up into you suddenly, his earlier impatience returning, and you cried out, falling into his chest. He held you, working you through it and dragging you closer and closer to release. One of your hands fell to his torso, tracing the hard lines of his abs and trailing downwards before your fingers found your clit and rubbed.

Shit. If having you ride him was good, being able to watch you touch yourself as you did was unbelievable. When you came, you came hard, and the feeling of it tipped him over the edge.

You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

You didn’t bother moving, clinging to him even tighter like you couldn’t bear to not be touching him in some way as you came down from your high. He smelled like sex, sweat, and that cologne of his that you loved. It was the reason you stole his clothes so much and why you were wearing his shirt even now.

Your first time with Caleb was the getaway drug, and now you were addicted to him, to having his hands caressing you all over and him whispering praises in your ear.

“Hey there,” He chuckled, rubbing your back. “All good?”

“Great even,” You mumbled, sitting up properly before finally lifting yourself off of him. You failed to register how jelly-like your legs felt, promptly losing your balance. He caught you before you fell, grinning.

“Can’t walk?” You could hear how smug he was without even having to look at him. It was then that you registered the burn in your thighs and huffed.

“Don’t sound so proud about it.”

“You’re no fun,” he pouted, leaving you to scoff as he helped you to your feet, following suit. “I’ll help you clean up. Do you wanna watch the new episode after?”

Ah yes. Of course, he’d start talking about anime after taking away your ability to stand. That had been the reason he had shown up at your dorm in the first place, but the moment he saw you wearing his shirt, it had quickly become an afterthought.

The whiplash you felt was indescribable, and you could only nod, letting him pick you up and carry you to the bathroom. After a quick shower and change of clothes, the two of you settled down with your laptop like nothing had happened, your head resting on his shoulder as you focused on the show.

Neither of you bothered to talk about your redefined friendship despite having sex regularly. It was just….a new addition. A benefit that you were both taking advantage of, nothing more and nothing less.

But even as you reminded yourself of that now, you found yourself doubting it.

There was something to be said about formal events.

You enjoyed getting dolled up as much as the next girl, but that was where the fun ended. Having to sit through the event was boring and not the way you liked to spend your Friday evenings. You would have much preferred staying in and catching up on some much-needed sleep.

The editor of your university’s paper, Jenna, had organised an affair that was being held in one of the college halls. She had worked very hard on it, inviting several alumni who were all successful in the fields of journalism and writing back so that the current batch of students had the chance to make connections. It was open to the entire student body, but she had made it clear that everyone on the paper was obligated to attend.

Connections were what helped people get further in life. You were grateful for the opportunity to interact with industry professionals, but didn’t understand why she had insisted on keeping it a black tie affair. That probably had something to do with keeping up appearances.

You stood off to the side, sipping on your cranberry juice from a cup that was made for something much more refined. So far, you had spoken to a couple of the guests, but seeing that you had been here for over an hour already, your social battery was slowly dying out. The dress you wore was a black number, floor length, form-fitting and plain except for the slit that reached up to a little above your knee. Perfect for an event like this, not too much and on power with what everyone else was wearing.

Still, it was a little overstimulating. You guzzled down the rest of your juice and placed the empty glass down on one of the tables.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

You spun on your heels immediately at that voice, eyes widening and settling on the culprit who stood two, maybe three steps away from you.

“Caleb?” You asked in disbelief, taking in his presence. He was wearing a suit.

“The one and only,” he grinned, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Here to rescue you from your boredom.”

“What are you even doing here?” To say this wasn’t his scene would be an understatement. He didn’t like wearing the whole suit getup, much preferring casual clothing. Hell, Caleb hadn’t even attended his high school prom (though when you asked why, he would never give you a straight answer), opting to spend the night in with you instead.

He looked unfairly good. The collar of his shirt hid those lovely collarbones of his and reminded you of how you had bit down on them the other day, the bottom of it tucked into black slacks. He had even worn dress shoes, instead of the sneakers he so loved and a tie around his neck. The entire getup.

“I literally just told you why. To get you out of here. Are you hard of hearing now?”

You returned his jibe with an exasperated sound. “I meant here, at this thing.”

“Oh. Well, you did mention it was open to anyone yesterday,” he shrugged, grabbing a glass of juice and sipping on it. “So that editor of yours technically can’t complain about me being here.”

That was true. Still, you found yourself bewildered as you stared at him. He was here. For some reason, even though he was allowed to be here, it didn’t make sense to you. You pressed your lips together and cocked your head to the side, studying him.

“So you dressed up and came here.…only to convince me to leave?” The notion sounded strange even to you. Why on earth would he do that? He finished up his drink and put it down next to your empty glass, taking a step closer to you. The simple movement had butterflies erupt in the pits of your stomach.

What the hell?

“Stop thinking so much. Do you want to stay?”

You considered it. “Not really, no.”

“Do you enjoy arguing with me for no reason, woman?” he muttered dryly under his breath, his eyes catching on something over your head. “On second thought, I think you should stay a little longer.”

Now you were just plain confused. One moment he was talking about saving you from boredom, and the next he was insisting you stay? Before you could undoubtedly start another argument just to spite him, he took you by your shoulders and spun you around, pointing in a certain direction. When you figured out what, or rather, who he was gesturing to, you couldn’t hide your gasp.

“Isn’t that the author you like?”

You could only nod dumbly. “Raymond.” Last year, you had a phase where you only read his books day in and day out, absorbing the stories he spun like a sponge. His books were the reason you had decided to start writing your own in the first place, inspired by his storytelling skills.

Caleb nudged your side gently, “Go.”

“How–” you cut yourself off, looking up at him. “How do you even remember that?” You weren’t sure why this entire interaction with him was throwing you off so much, but you felt completely unbalanced. You hadn’t spoken about Raymond or his work in a long time, so how did he know? He shrugged noncommittally.

“I know you.” He said it so plainly, like it was something trivial and basic, but his eyes bored into yours.

Had Caleb always looked at you with such quiet intensity?

He nudged your side gently, reminding you to move. Forcing yourself out of your stupor, you promised him you wouldn’t take too much time and walked over, buzzing with excitement.

The conversation itself wasn’t long, but it was insightful. He answered all your questions about the industry, and you even had the chance to share for appreciation for Raymond's work as well as ask him questions that you had about his novels. You gave him your utmost attention when he gave you advice, but when he started talking about his characters, your eyes and mind wandered.

Back to your best friend, who was waiting for you on the other end of the hall, leaning against one of the walls and scrolling through his phone. He didn’t give a flying fuck about this event, but had still come here for your sake, even when you hadn’t asked him to. He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and flashing you a small smile.

Oh.

You looked away and back at Raymond, nodding politely and tuning yourself back into the conversation. Internally, however, you were freaking out. Something was very wrong; that was the only reason you could conjure up at the moment for what was happening to you. How else could you explain the sudden sweatiness of your palms, or the odd, fluttery feeling in your stomach? Maybe it was the excitement you felt from meeting the author you loved so much, but even as you considered this possibility, you knew it wasn’t the answer you were looking for.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

This could not be happening. You plastered a smile on your face as you tried to pay attention to whatever Raymond was talking about, but the damage was done. Your brain had never been one to let go of a single thought you had, especially ones that had to do with Caleb. He had a hold on you that no one else did, and why was that?

Because you liked Caleb.

The horrifying realisation hit you, startling you out of your rapidly spiralling thought process. Blinking, you realised Raymond was done speaking.

“Thank you so much for your time,” You said, trying not to sound as troubled as you felt. The author smiled at you before turning to another student.

Swallowing the newfound lump in your throat, you turned around and walked back to Caleb. This was bad. Having sex with him was already vaguely immoral and probably something that shouldn’t have happened– and shouldn’t keep happening like it did– but having feelings for him? That was out of the question.

“Good talk?” He asked, slipping his phone into his pocket. The genuine interest he had in your excitement made the entire situation worse. Why were you noticing all this now, of all times? It wasn’t like he had suddenly turned into someone considerate. He had always been this way; it was written into his DNA.

You realised he had even tried to tame his hair for today. “It was great.”

“I’m glad. Now I can steal you away from this place.” His eyes were lit up with mischief, just like they did when the two of you were younger and he did something he wasn’t supposed to. Ever the rebel, this one.

You felt a little guilty. All this effort for you? It seemed completely useless. “Okay, but Caleb, seriously, you didn’t have to do this.”

He frowned. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“This!” You waved in his general direction and then gestured around. “I mean, you don’t even like wearing a suit, but here you are. It’s not like it's compulsory for you like it is for me. You could be doing anything else.” You were rambling, you knew, but it was hard to stop. He rolled his eyes.

“Has that stopped me before?”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

“I show up to your newsroom even though I’m sure Jenna wants to castrate me for breaking the rules so much.” He raised an eyebrow. “I attended that lecture of yours when you had a presentation. You know I’m here because I want to be.” You knew he said stuff like this all the time, you always were the recipient of his support. This was normal.

But it didn’t feel normal. For fucks sake, this was the boy you had grown up with. He had seen you fall off your bike, fail tests and puke your guts out when drunk. In each of those situations, he had also been the one to pick you up and bandage your wounds, help you study and hold your hair back for you.

Did he think it was an obligation now?

“You….you shouldn’t feel like you have to do that.” You said slowly, but he didn’t let you continue.

“Oh, please. Everyone knows that where you go, I go too.” He flicked your forehead, immediately receiving a glare in return. “We’re like…….” He stopped for a moment, eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing like they always did when he was thinking hard about something. Then he snapped his fingers. “We’re like those yoghurt-granola snack packs!”

You stared at him blankly. “What?”

“You know.” He decided to explain his stupid analogy, as if your head wasn’t muddled enough. “Those things you can buy at the grocery store. The small yoghurt tubs that have a container filled with granola on top of them? Like, they’re both okay separately, but much better when together. People buy those packs for a reason.” He slipped his phone back into his pockets and beamed at you. “We’re like that.”

Oh my god. That barely made any sense. You weren’t sure if you were mortified because of that terrible explanation or because it hadn’t put a damper on your newfound feelings for him. “You’re such a fucking dork.”

He feigned offence, holding his hand over his heart. “Excuse me? You mean cute, right?”

Right. Wait, no, you didn’t. Ugh. “I thinkx ridiculous.”

“Are you coming with me or not, Pips?”

“But Jenna insisted-”

He rubbed a hand over his face in annoyance before fixing you with a droll look. “Would you rather be here or be with me?”

Be with you.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. You didn’t have the time or the mental stability to process everything that was happening to you right now. The logical part of your brain swooped in, telling you that you were just confused because of the sex. Yes, that was it. You did not have feelings for Caleb Xia.

Sighing, you relented. “You.” Saying that didn’t mean anything, after all. Nothing about the two of you meant anything, so there was no reason for you to be freaking out, even if it sounded like you had just confessed. A wide grin made a show on his face when he realised he had won, and he tilted his head towards the exit.

“Finally. Wanna get out of here?”

“Just to be clear, this is not what I meant when I asked if you wanted to get out of there.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, fingers curling around his tie as you tugged him closer. “No? Could have sworn you planned for us to end up in a janitor's closet.”

Caleb bit back a laugh of his own, knowing that making too much noise would get both of you in trouble. After leaving the event, somehow, his guiding hand on your hip had turned into the two of you making out in the hallway. You blamed the mess that your head was in for not realising what a bad idea that was immediately, but once you did, you did the most responsible thing you could think of.

And dragged him into the janitor's closet that was close by.

Naturally.

He braced a hand over your head on the cabinet that you were leaning against, essentially caging you in as he dipped his head to kiss you again. “Pretty sure that was you’re doing.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who kissed me first!” You protested against his mouth, but could hardly complain when he kissed you like it was a relief to do so. Honestly, he was probably the best kisser you had ever experienced.

That must have been the reason for your spiralling thoughts. That and the amazing sex that you were so weak to.

Yep. That’s all. Anyone could be susceptible to such things.

“Can you blame me? Have you seen yourself in this dress?” His free hand slipped into the slit at your knee, slowly dragging the rest of the dress up until it was bunched up around your waist. “You’re stunning.”

He couldn’t stop kissing you. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed you out there like he had the right to, because he was well aware of the unspoken rules of this arrangement, but he couldn’t help it. If getting too comfortable with whatever you had going on with him was a crime, a sin, then he was a criminal of the highest order. The worst part? He didn’t feel a shred of guilt.

But you were wearing that fucking cherry lip gloss, and god knnows he had waited long enough to taste it.

Warmth spread over your chest first before it rushed to the apex between your legs. The control he seemed to have over your body was truly astounding. In his hands, you were putty.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” You whispered back, loosening the knot of his tie and pulling it off completely, dropping it to the side. “This suits you.”

His lips twitched. “The suit suits me?”

“Shut up and kiss me, loser.”

He complied, grinning against your mouth as he pulled you into another earth-shattering kiss that did positively nothing to soothe your frayed nerves. Stubbornly, you pushed down the feelings bubbling around the confines of your heart, refusing to give them any attention if you could help it.

You gripped the front of his suit jacket, helping him peel it off his shoulders and letting it join his tie on the floor. Without warning, he pressed a knee in between your legs, and you nearly melted against him.

Sex was great. Sex with him was phenomenal. This was just the lust getting to you.

Caleb gripped the leg that your slit now exposed and lifted it, propping it up against his waist. He trailed his fingers against your inner thigh, his touch feather-light yet scorching at the same time. When his index and middle finger pressed against your clothed cunt, you were glad for the hot he had on you, pressed up against the cabinet, because you would have surely buckled if not.

“Wow,” he mumbled amusedly, pushing your panties to the side and teasing your wetness. “You really like the suit, huh?”

The fact that this type of interaction was now commonplace should have been the first sign that things had gone too far.

Usually, you couldn’t think straight when he touched you like this, but today it was all a mix of feeling way too much and dangerous, fleeting thoughts that made you want to tear your hair out.

“Maybe,” You peppered kisses along the column of his throat, determined to get out of your head and focus only on how good he could make you feel. Pleasure and person were entirely separate entities, and you would make sure it stayed that way.

“Suit kink.”

“Never say that again.”

He only smirked, plunging his fingers into you. All you could do was cry out as you gripped the front of his shirt, momentarily forgetting that you were supposed to be quiet. Quickly, his palm covered your mouth, muffling any further sounds you could make. “Can’t have you being loud here, princess. What if someone catches us?”

The way you practically gushed the moment he suggested someone catch you in such a compromising position was downright embarrassing. Raising an eyebrow, he leaned even lower and whispered. “Oh? You like that?”

You whined against his hand, cheeks flushing furiously. You began fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt, and he chuckled lowly.

“For someone who likes my suit so much, you sure are trying to get rid of it quickly.”

“For someone who was dying to kiss me two minutes ago, you talk too much.” You rocked your hips against his hand even as you sassed him back. He moved his hand from your mouth into your hair, carding it through gently, tugging slightly to tilt your head back for him so he could kiss you again, swallowing every sound you made.

No one could sue you for being attracted to a hot man. That was just biology.

You could feel the familiar tightening of your core, signalling your impending crash. You broke away from the kiss, licked your lips and palmed him over his pants, earning a hiss of pleasure in return.

“Don’t– don’t do that,” He choked out, and you smirked triumphantly, refusing to relent on your movements. Batting your eyelashes, you stared up at him through them in faux innocence, unaware that it affected him so much more than you thought.

“Just fuck me already.” You whined, half out of desperation for him and party because now you needed him to fuck you to prove to yourself that this was just sex. To be able to brush away all the compliments he dropped that seemed to go straight to your head, to get the intoxicaing fucking way he kissed you out of your head and away from further dissection. To stop the slow-burning feeling of yearning that was growing inside of you for the boy you had grown up with.

Because you couldn’t possibly have feelings for him. You shouldn’t.

“Fuck, okay,” He slipped his fingers out of you and unbuttoned his pants, releasing his cock. You would never get used to the sight of it, precum already leaking out of the tip; the image itself sending shivers down your spine in anticipation of him.

He pressed back against you, grinding it against your fluttering pussy, going right back to making out with you. It was like he was devouring you whole, claiming every part of you like it had always belonged to him. You could feel yourself get carried away again, forgetting that this was just something he and you did now.

And then he froze.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t have a condom.”

You were too far gone to even care anymore. Cupping his face, you pulled him into another messy kiss, beyond delighted when he moaned, still rubbing his length through your slick folds with a want that rivalled your own. “Put it in.”

Caleb gritted his teeth. “Pips, thats–”

“I’m on birth control,” you kissed his jaw. “And I trust you. I’ve always trusted you.”

That was undeniably the truth. He was the one person in the world that you didn’t have to think twice about when it came to anything, no matter what the situation. He blinked down at you, pupils blown wide with desire but somehow still so focused on you, holding your sides so gently as he hesitated, silently dealing with the conflict in his head.

“I…..are you sure?”

Oh, this sweet, considerate boy. How could you not love him? The thought was instantly forced to be a passing one as you push it away, refusing to acknowledge it.

“Caleb, if you don’t stick your dick inside of me right now, I will cut it off.” The threat earned you a winded chuckle from his end, the strain in his face from holding back so painfully evident. Realising he needed another push, you looked into his eyes, bucking your hips against him and licking your lips as you purred. “Now, fuck me.”

There was a reason you phrased it like that. Crude and so filthy, the words set out a challenge for him. If there was one thing you knew about Caleb, it was that he could never back down from a challenge. His eyes darkened as he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them together above your head with one hand, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Without another warning, he slammed into you, once again covering your mouth to soften the obscenely loud broken moan that left you. He pressed his fingers against your lips, smirking mischievously.

“This is what you wanted, hmm?” He groaned in your ear as he fucked you hard, making it increasingly difficult for you to stay silent. You knew he was doing it on purpose, remembering how he had briefly confessed that he liked it when you were vocal, but here? Here it was risky and stupid, and you couldn’t believe how into it you were.

“Yes,” You gasped, biting his hand at a particularly hard thrust, doing your utmost best to keep all your noises to a minimum. He was just so good, and the feeling of him bare inside of you was almost too much for you.

“God baby, you feel incredible,” he panted, never relenting on his pace for even a second. His breathing was heavy in your ear, almost pained, along with soft grunts that only succeeded in making you even wetter.

“So b-big,” you could only whimper, too caught up in it all to speak properly.

He had well and truly ruined you for anyone else. Your heart and mind were at war with each other, but your body was perfectly content with how he held you like this. With nothing between you, he fucked you raw, and it felt so much more intimate than you thought it would have. You could feel everything, hyperaware of every touch and kiss and overwhelming drag of his cock in your sobbing cunt.

For a moment, you almost wished it wasn’t this good. If only you had never succumbed to your desires that day, maybe you wouldn’t have found yourself in this position, fighting so desperately against feelings that felt so wrong and right at the same time. All this was supposed to have been a temporary fix, a means to an end. Not the start of something you could never see through.

When both of you came, it was intense and devastating, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. You could feel him fill you up with his cum and as you went limp, one last terrifying realisation making itself known to you.

It wasn’t just sex.

A shattered breath escaped you at the revelation, and you shut your eyes, trying to reason with yourself one last time, but to no avail. Caleb surrounded you completely, holding you up upright with so much care, so deliberately, that it made total sense why you felt this way. With unending affection, he pulled you against him and kissed the crown of your head.

“Thats my girl.”

Except you weren’t. And it would be better for everyone if you remembered that.

You were writing.

It had been so long since you had been able to write like this, but the ability had come rushing back to you all of a sudden. Your fingers flew across your keyboard as you steadily typed, focused and satisfied at the work you were producing for the first time in months.

It was two in the morning when you finally snapped out of your concentrated state, yawning as you shut your laptop. Stretching, you quietly padded to your bathroom to get ready for the night and go to bed. You couldn’t believe you had written almost half of the sex scene when even the prospect of starting it had sounded so unachievable not too long ago.

Courtesy of Caleb, you had plenty of material to pull from.

You splashed water on your face, hoping the cool temperature of it would help you stop thinking about him. To say you were frustrated with your feelings was an understatement; you outright despised them.

This was your fault, you knew damn well it was. If you were going to get a fuckbuddy, it should have been someone who you weren’t so close to, someone you had no personal connections with. Anyone but the best friend you've had since you were seven years old, who you knew like the back of your hand, who knew you like it was second nature to do so.

Gripping the sides of the sink, you shut your eyes, grounding yourself to the moment. Part of you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How on earth did you let yourself get in such a predicament?

You needed it to stop. For these confusing feelings to leave before things got even more complicated than they already were. Somehow, you needed to forget about them.

But how could you possibly do that? How were you supposed to forget the deliberate way he kissed you, or how good he made you feel when he looked at you that way? How were you supposed to get the scent of his cologne out of your sheets and closet, or pretend like you didn’t know what it was like to be touched by him?

How on earth were you supposed to get over being in love with him?

You didn’t even notice him walking in.

Writing for your book again meant that you had fallen behind quite a bit when it came to the work you had due for the paper. As a result, you had to stay behind and work late on the articles you had to present to Jenna, stuck at your desk in the newsroom when it was almost nine-thirty at night.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Your eyes flickered up to find Caleb standing in front of your desk, one hand stuffed in his pockets and the other holding a bag of takeout from a diner that both of you liked. He gave you a soft, knowing smile that made your mouth go dry.

“Hey,” you straightened up in your seat, knowing that your posture tended to get worse the longer you wrote for. “You were looking for me?”

“Not exactly.” He grabbed a chair and parked it next to yours, sitting down. “I just figured you’d be working and forget to have dinner.”

“Oh.”

He was right, and you would have been embarrassed if this hadn’t happened before. Wordlessly, he began unpacking the takeout he had gotten. “Take a break for ten minutes and eat, okay?”

This was just like him. Knowing exactly when you needed to be taken care of while being well aware you could do just fine by yourself. You bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him, apprehensively nodding slowly.

“Okay.”

You grabbed a fry and began to chew, turning to face him and away from the computer. He looked the same as always, unkempt hair and all. It was like he knew you were tired and a little out of it today without you even having to tell him, falling into a comfortable silence as he ate with you.

There wasn’t another soul in this world that knew you so intimately. In the past, this wouldn’t have scared you, because you were so used to him and the ways he fit into your life so perfectly. Now, it frightened you to no end, reminding you of how much you had to lose when it came to Caleb. He was the most precious person in your life, which made it so much easier to fear losing him.

If there were rules when it came to having a best friend, you were certain you had broken all of them. Number one: Don’t sleep with your best friend. Already off to a rough start with that one, it seemed, but there was nothing you could do about it anymore. Number two: Don’t fall for your best friend. You doubted you even needed to go over the rest of the rules. Breaking those two had caused you enough damage.

Finishing up his food, he took a sip of his soda, noticing you were watching him intently. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t quite decipher the look in your eyes. It almost felt as if you were hiding it from him on purpose.

He tilted the soda cup to you, silently asking if you wanted some of his. You leaned closer and took the straw in your mouth, taking a couple of sips before looking away.

Something was off. “Is everything okay?”

You pressed your lips together and gave him a half smile. “Yeah, everything's fine.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes at you, reaching out and propping a finger under your chin, lifting your face so you were forced to look at him.

“Pipsqueak,” He mumbled, dropping his gaze to your mouth for a split second, but it was enough to make you feel like you were set on fire. Like you were made of porcelain, he swiped his thumb next to your lower lip, rubbing away a stray crumb that had stuck there from your food. Then he looked at your mouth again, subconsciously leaning towards you as if he was about to kiss you.

Immediately, you jerked out of his touch. Guilt ate away at you when you noticed how he reacted to this, the flash of hurt that passed over his face as he frowned. As much as you hated being the cause of it, the way he was looking at you has started to inexplicably hurt. You were unable to stop the tenderness that unfolded in your chest anymore. It was potent, too real to fight against.

“We should stop.”

The words were out of your mouth before you could think about them any further, inciting confusion. He retracted his hand, the corners of his furrowed eyebrows tilting upwards. “Dinner? Because we’re pretty much done with that anyway.”

You could have taken advantage of his confusion and put this conversation off for a while, but you knew that letting this go on any longer would end up being torturous.

“No, Caleb,” You looked away, trying to ignore the way your throat seemed to close in on itself. “I’m not talking about dinner.”

“Then what are you talking about?” His voice took on that impossibly soft tone it did when he was trying to understand how you were feeling to properly help or sympathise with you. It was something he did when you were younger and got hurt, and he wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t dealing with it alone.

Sucking in a breath of air, you looked down at your hands in your lap, playing with your fingers. “I think we should stop having sex.”

A beat passed. You could feel the weight of his stare on you. “Okay.”

You weren’t sure where to go from there, your heart pounding within your ribcage like it was trying to escape. The light from your computer felt too harsh and the ticking of the clock hands was unnaturally loud in the stiff silence that settled over the two of you. Clearing his throat, he spoke again.

“Did…Did I do something?”

“No,” the caution yet dejected way he said it made you blurt that out quickly, refusing to let him think something was completely wrong. “You didn’t. At all. It’s just…..” You trailed off, biting your tongue and regretting bringing this up already. “I….I wrote the scene.”

“The scene?”

“The sex scene. In my book.” The awkwardness in your cadence is foreign to your ears and his. You had never been so apprehensive around him because you had never had a reason to. This was a first you despised vehemently, scorning the way you had to phrase everything so delicately, as if you didn’t, the damage caused would be irreparable.

“Right.” Now he had an unreadable look in his eyes too, matching yours.

“Right,” you echoed softly. “So there's no reason for anymore…...research.” Because research had spiralled into forgetting your regular roles when it came to each other. Research had made you aware of feelings that had been dormant your entire life and should have stayed that way.

In an ironic twist of fate, you had literally fucked around and found out.

“I see.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to keep talking when it was so obvious that both him and you wanted nothing more than to move on from this conversation. You risked a glance at him to find him aimlessly tracing the edge of his soda cup, eyes trained on the straw. “So we can go back to being just friends. Regular friends.”

The clarification made you wince. When his eyes met yours again, you were surprised to find something different in the way he looked at you– those dark purple depths swirling with an intensity that superseded their usual levels, startling you.

“We’ll always be friends, Y/n.”

Caleb didn’t call you pipsqueak. A minute detail that shouldn’t have shaken you at all, and yet here you were stuck on it in spite of the fact that he had just agreed to being friends again. Or rather, the normal definition of friends, because you weren’t ever anything more than that. You swallowed, turning back to your computer.

“Okay. I should get back to working on this article.”

Your dismissal of him was quiet but obvious. The air had started to get suffocating and you needed as much space from him as you could get until you sorted out the mess in your head, one that was your cross to bear. Your fault.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him nod and get to his feet, turning to leave, but hesitating for just a moment.

It was only when he exited the newsroom that you realised it wasn’t any easier to breathe without him there. It felt even harder now, like someone had their foot over your chest and was putting all their weight on it, letting gravity do the rest of the work. You pushed yourself away from your desk, the wheels under your chair smoothly rolling away until the back of it hit the wall behind you.

Even the impact of that wasn’t enough to shock you out of your misery. Surely, love wasn’t supposed to feel as cruel as it did right now, like claws sinking into your skin and making you bleed. It shouldn’t have felt wrong, but you knew that it was. Perhaps this was retribution for allowing yourself to indulge in something that was so clearly off-limits to you.

A familiar pressure built up behind your eyes as you turned resentful. The sting of your sorrow manifested as tears welled up and caught in your lower lashes. You shut your eyes, but not before those tears slid down your face, cementing the bitter, indisputable reality of your heartbreak.

Caleb stayed away.

He had known damn well that whatever was between the two of you wasn’t forever. It wasn’t even real, solely for the sake of your writing and the book you were so proud of. It was his fault for getting caught up in it all and expecting you to never call it off, to stay in that limbo with him forever.

Saying no to you was something he wasn't capable of. Not when he was ten and you were eight, and you wanted the last piece of cake even though it was his favourite flavour. Not when he was fifteen and you used to beg him to let you wear his shirts because you liked how oversized they were on you. Not when you would give him puppy eyes and sweetly ask him to cook those braised chicken wings you loved so much.

And not when you needed help with writing about sex.

Even if it went against all his morals and everything he had forced himself to believe for the past twelve years he had known you. He had held himself together around you for as long as he could remember, hands to himself and thoughts strictly friendly. Caleb was used to the best friend role. He was good at playing it, even when the script pained him to recite, he did so anyway with a smile on his face.

Because smiling back at him was you. It was always you, with your bright eyes and angelic laughter.

Caleb had accepted this role when he was only nine years old and had stuck to it ever since. He let it consume him, living in ignorant bliss as he silenced the pleas of his heart and what it wanted, no, begged for.

How was he supposed to know where to go from here? The script had deviated too much for him to return to its safety. He knew how your lip gloss tasted, sweet and inviting and maddening, just like everything else about you.

So he stayed away from you and your cherry lip gloss, hoping the marks it had left all over him would fade.

It had been almost two weeks since Caleb last set foot in the newsroom.

Jenna was overjoyed and Tara was suspicious. The latter asked you where your ‘boyfriend’ was, to which you refused to look at her as you muttered the reminder: he’s not my boyfriend. It felt like you were reminding yourself more than her, lacking any of your usual annoyance.

You supposed this was your fault as well. It wasn’t like you had made any effort to reach out either, stuck in your pathetic little cycle of self-pity and fear. You felt his absence, though, cutting deep into you and leaving you with a Caleb-sized hole in your life. The last time you experienced something like this was when he left for university for the first time and you were finishing up your senior year, suddenly having to deal with not having him around for months on end.

At least he was calling you back then, and when you joined him at university, it never happened again. You hadn’t realised what a big part of your life he was until he was missing from it.

God, you missed him.

You missed that stupid, smug chuckle of his when he knew you were getting riled up because of something he said, and his terrible sense of humour. The smirk on his face when you were losing an argument, and how he’d stick his tongue out when he was concentrating on something. Hell, you missed the sound of his voice and the comfort it brought you.

After you finished your work for the day, you walked out of the newsroom and down the hallways of the university building. The cool evening air swept around you, making you think of one of Caleb's jackets that was still in your dorm from the last time he had been, draped over your desk chair. You almost wished you had it with you right now.

Your feet carried you to the dining hall, reminding you of your need to eat through the wall of your troubled thoughts. It was not so much hunger as it was a necessity. Your appetite had been less than robust these past few days, your emotions weighing you down in more ways than one. You didn’t have him to remind you to eat or sleep, or run like a normal human being.

Grabbing an apple to appease your stomach, you bit into it and looked around, mentally going over everything else you had to do that day. Start an essay you had due the next week, beg the members of your group to do their parts of the presentation that was worth a whopping thirty percent of your grade and polish the last scene you had written for your book.

It turned out that your turbulent emotional state had translated into you being more productive than ever, throwing yourself into your studies and writing like you had never before. Anything to avoid thinking about him and what you felt. An unhealthy coping mechanism for sure, but it worked for you.

Kind of.

Unable to stomach anything else, you tossed the core of the apple into a nearby dustbin and left the dining hall, eager to make it back to your room. You hadn’t slept very well lately, and you wanted to get all your work out of the way before crashing. Sleeping, you discovered, was another excellent course of action to take when you wanted to avoid facing something, and at least it wasn’t downright unhealthy. The dark circles under your eyes would certainly thank you.

When you turned the corner, he was there.

Caleb stood there, just a few paces away from you in all his six-two glory. His back was turned to you, but you knew it was him, deep in conversation with his friend, Gideon. You were unable to do anything but stare, your pulse picking up in speed at the sight of him. You wondered if the chasm he had created between the two of you had affected him as much as it had you.

When he bid farewell to Gideon and turned, you panicked. When he saw you, you remained rooted to the spot, watching as his steps faltered and came to a stop. He looked almost as tired as you felt, dawdling briefly before speaking.

“Hey.”

Hey. Hey? Was that all he could say after refusing to look your way for over a week? Your apprehension flared up into anger, and you took three furious steps towards him, your docile stare melting into a glare.

“You sure talk a lot of shit about keeping you informed for someone who has been avoiding me.”

He winced. “I wasn’t….avoiding you.”

“Oh really? Could have fooled me.” You scowled at him as you took another step forward. You were pissed, and rightly so, but it stemmed more from how hurt you felt rather than any genuine anger.

Caleb didn’t bother to meet your eyes, opting to look off to the side instead. That stung a little more than you cared to admit. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Have you eaten yet?’ Barely five minutes around you, and he had already jumped into trying to take care of you. It was so infuriatingly like him.

Every time he didn’t want to face something, he would deflect and redirect the conversation. Your years together had taught you well, making it impossible for him to sidestep you even if he tried. You could tell he was avoiding you even when you were right in front of him.

“Stop changing the subject.”

You watched as his jaw tightened and relaxed, something he did when he was conflicted. All his tells were so laughably obvious to you, and yet you couldn’t make heads or tails of how he was acting right now, so forcibly distant and detached, like being close to you was painful. Your eyes burned.

“Do you hate me?” You asked, hating how your voice suddenly sounded so feeble. His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and defiant.

“I could never hate you.” The finality in the way he said it told you he was telling the truth, and yet, you couldn’t help but fall victim to the doubt creeping into your mind. He was looking right at you now– except he wasn’t really. It was more like he was looking through you.

“Then…then why?” You whispered, taking another tentative step forward. The space that both of you created, consciously or not, was unbearable. You just wanted things to go back to normal, was that so much to ask for?

“I don’t hate you. You just don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand!” You threw your hands up in the air in exasperation, wondering what the hell you had to do to make this conversation go somewhere, because right now it just felt like you were running in circles. “Caleb, please, just tell me why you’re avoiding me, because you are.”

He knew he was and hadn’t a single excuse, other than the reason he swore you never burdened you with. You were looking at him so pleadingly, grasping at straws to figure him out, but for the first time in his life, he found himself unable to give you an answer. Instead, his throat constricted, his anxiety keeping him silent.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Your face crumbled, and upon witnessing it, so did his heart. Your lower lip trembled like a leaf on a windy day, and you bit down on it to stop it from doing so, doing your best to stay composed. Running a hand through your hair, you let out a shaky sigh. “I knew it, I should have never– we shouldn’t have slept together. That should have never happened and now everything is fucked up, and its all because of me.”

Yes. No. The answer wasn’t as straightforward as he needed it to be, and it paralysed him. The anguish you felt was on display for him and anyone who happened to walk by you to see, plain as day, as it twisted your features. It felt as if he had been stabbed in the gut when you backed away from him.

Turning away, you walked off. You had ruined things, you were sure of it, and it killed you. Once again, you let the rift between him and you grow with every step you took to escape the crash you had been responsible for.

A hand on your wrist. You gasped as he caught you, spinning you around and forcing you to face him once again.

Caleb had followed you into the gardens.

“Do you regret it?”

The question cut through you, and you gaped at him. The fervour you were so used to seeing in him suddenly returned, burning brightly in his eyes as he pinned you in place with them, his grip on your wrist never letting up. Question for question, with neither of you getting the answers you wanted.

You scoffed, rapidly blinking away the tears that you felt coming on. “If it's the reason things are weird between us, then yes! I do regret it. I need my best friend, Caleb. I need you.”

How could you not need him? He was your constant, the one person who had been by your side through thick and thin. You needed him in your life, by your side, in whatever way you were allowed to, even if it wasn’t what you truly wanted anymore.

He let go of your wrist. “I can’t do it.”

Your biggest fear was coming true right in front of your very eyes, and you hadn’t the faintest idea of how to stop it. It was taking form, bleeding into existence. You were losing him.

“You can’t do what?”

“I can’t be your friend. I just can’t.” He shook his head, shutting his eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at you.

Your voice comes out weak. Small. “But you said we’ll always be friends.”

“Well, I lied, okay! I can’t be your friend, not when–” He sucked in a breath, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to reign himself in, stopping his outburst before it could happen. It wasn’t fair to you, none of this was, but he was at his breaking point. “I could do it before, but not anymore.”

“Why?” You whispered, those tears you had so valiantly fought off surging back. Once again, you felt like you had been trampled on, pinned down by a merciless gravity that had no regard for your need to breathe. You weren’t sure there was a reason to fight against it anymore.

He looked up at the darkening sky, deflating. Staying away from you hadn’t made it any better– if anything, it had only made it worse, his yearning to be beside you bubbling to an all-time high. There wasn’t a point in hiding anymore, not when it was turning out to be detrimental rather than soothing.

“Because,” he paused, peering up at the cloudy sky. He couldn’t see the stars. “I can’t go back to being your friend when I’ve tasted you. How am I supposed to act like I’ve never kissed you when I’ve had you in my bed? To pretend like I don’t know how it feels to have you like that? God, Y/n, I can’t do it.

Caleb, whom you had viewed as strong and untouchable all your life. Caleb, whom you had endlessly looked up to, sounded almost tortured, like it pained him to even have to tell you this.

“What are you saying?”

You hoped you didn’t look as terrified as you sounded. It felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from beneath you, but the ground underneath it was falling apart too, leaving you to stumble around and try to find your footing amidst the cracks that remained. If you fell now, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to get up.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You had already fallen, and hard.

Caleb was stripped of his usual self-assuredness and confident smile. He was laid bare there in front of you, fixing you with a look that was so pained it tore through you.

“I’m in love with you.”

The confession ripped through you, although you didn’t register it at first. Those five words felt so improbable to have been said by him to you of all people that the only thing you could feel was disbelief. It just didn’t make sense. Why would something you longed to hear so badly be said with such sadness?

He mistook your stunned silence for aversion. He should have stopped there, given up and walked away, but now that he had finally, finally let it out, it was hard to stop. It was like a dam had broken within him; everything he had ever kept to himself when it came to you rushed out all at once.

“I’m in love with you, Y/n,” he said again, scoffing slightly at himself. No nicknames, just your name spoken in that reverent tone, like you were a divine being he was a devout follower of. “And it kills me because I know you’ll never see me as anything more than a best friend. You’ve made that very clear, and I never want to overstep, so I stayed away from you.”

“Caleb–”

He didn’t let you cut in. “I could do it when I didn’t know what it felt like to have you as something more than friends. The moment we crossed that line, it was all over for me. I would be your friend until I died if I didn’t know.” His hands were shaking, but they stayed by his sides, fingers curled into frustrated fists as he rambled.

“I–”

“But I can’t, Pips. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be your best friend when I’ve loved you my entire life.” And you’re falling all over again, gravity pulling you down, down, down as something unfurled in your chest. “So please just–”

“Goddamnit Caleb, would you just shut up for one fucking minute!?”

You hadn’t meant to snap, but he was seriously to piss you off, going on and on without giving you the chance to speak your mind. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut, preparing himself for the inevitable rejection he had imagined too many times to count in his head. You, on the other hand, thought you were going to faint, overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. It was everything you had convinced yourself was impossible.

And yet…

You kept your eyes locked onto his as you closed the distance between the two of you, so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him, combating the chill in the evening air. Swallowing, you asked.

“You’re in love with me?”

He clenched his jaw and nodded. He knew what the consequences were, he was ready for them. It was about time he faced the truth anyway.

What he didn’t expect was for you to start laughing.

You clamped a hand over your mouth as incredulous laughter left you, eyes practically sparkling. Oddly enough, it sounded a little watery, like you were crying at the same time.

And then he realised you were, in fact, crying, tears streaming down your face. Alarmed, he stepped forward and cupped your face, instinctively wiping them away with the pads of his thumbs. This did nothing to dampen your hysterical laughter as you leaned into his touch.

“What the fuck?” He muttered, concern overtaking his previous, heartsick expression. “Are you dying or something?”

“Or something,” you managed to get out, gripping his arms, “We’re so stupid.”

“That…..okay, I’m officially confused. And a little scared.”

“Caleb,” you whispered once you stopped giggling, lethally soft. You looked up at him adoringly, eyes shining and tinged slightly red from your tears. “I’m in love with you, too.”

He froze, mouth falling open. He didn’t have to say anything, though, because honestly, he had said enough. It was your turn now.

You leaned further into his touch, nuzzling your cheek against his palm. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time, but I only realised after….after everything that happened between us.” You flushed, trying to word it as delicately as possible. “And I drove myself crazy because I thought you’d never see me that way–”

“I’ve always seen you that way.” He breathed out, those captivating eyes of his trained on you in wonder. Butterflies came to life in your stomach.

“– So I called it off. I said we needed to stop because I was so scared I’d lose you.”

By the time you finished, you were both staring at each other wide-eyed. His grip on you tightened, one hand falling to your waist as he tugged you closer.

“You love me?”

“I love you,” you nodded. “It just took me a while to figure it out.”

“Pipsqueak.” You had never been more grateful than you were right then to hear that stupid petname. “Oh my god, we are stupid.”

Without another word, Caleb pulled you into a kiss. You reciprocated instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck as you smiled against his lips, unable to contain yourself anymore. He kissed you like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do, holding you like you were precious, which to him, you undoubtedly were. It was your first proper kiss with him without any pretence or excuse surrounding it, and you couldn’t have asked for more.

Chuckling when you dissolved into more giddy giggles, he wiped away any stray tears from your face and rested his forehead against yours. After all these years waiting and hoping that you’d feel the same way, he knew he’d never let you go now.

“I love you, too.” It was a relief to say out loud and to your face, coming out of hiding and letting the truth of his feelings sit out in the light. You pecked his lips again and hugged him, revelling in his warmth and the delight of your feelings being returned. Your best friend loved you back, and everything in the world made sense again.

“Don’t be my best friend,” You mumbled fondly, cheek against his shoulder as you laid out your final request. “Just be mine.”

He smiled, an expression so dazzling you’d never forget it. “I’ll always be yours.”

When Caleb looked back at the sky, he could see the stars.

“Are you done?”

“Shh.”

You rolled your eyes, flopping onto the pile of plushes on your bed as you pulled out your phone and went through your messages. To be fair, it had barely been two minutes since you handed him your laptop, but you were impatient, wanting to know what he thought as soon as possible.

Caleb’s eyes were focused on the screen as he read, humming occasionally as he scrolled through the scene. If anyone had told you a year ago that you’d be letting him read a part of your writing, let alone a sex scene of all things, you would have either laughed in their face or had a mental breakdown.

Yet here you were. Life sure had a sense of humour.

Finally, after an agonising ten minutes, he spoke. “Wow.”

“Is it good?”

He shut your laptop and put it back on your desk carefully, before walking over to where you were. Then, he dropped himself onto the bed as well, purposely caging you in his arms and making sure you were trapped under his weight. Squealing, you hit his arm playfully.

“Caleb!”

Your boyfriend laughed mischievously, lifting his head so you could see the smirk that curled on his lips. “It was good. Very good.”

You sighed in relief. “Thank god.”

“So I must be really good in bed, huh?”

There it was. You groaned as you tried to push him off of you, even though you knew it was a futile task. “Don’t even try, you smug asshole.”

“What?” He asked, dripping in faux innocence. “I mean, you did use me for research purposes. Is it not a fair assumption to make?” He was so proud of it, and knew damn well that the entire sex scene he had just read had been falicitated because of him. Every part of it had been pulled from things the two of you had done, the thought of which made your skin heat up and your cheeks burn.

“You’re so annoying,” you huffed, giving up on trying to get him to stop squashing you. Instead, you adjusted, curling into him. Accepting this, he switched your positions, pulling you on top of him and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

You yelped when he pinched your side, but it dissolved into giggles when he began peppering kisses all over your face. Slipping his arm around your waist, he held you close, grining against your skin. If you had to stay like this forever, in his arms and under the glow of his radiant smile, you would be content.

“You’re an amazing writer, Pipsqueak,” he cradled your face in his hands, his love for you so achingly obvious in the way he looked at you that you wondered how you had never noticed it before. Rubbing his fingers against your cheek, he kissed your nose. “It would be just as great even if I hadn’t– uh– assisted.”

Though you snickered at him, you couldn’t stop yourself from beaming at his praise for your work. “I’m glad you did though,” you let him pull you closer, arm looping around your waist as you propped a leg over his. “Otherwise we might have never figured our shit out.”

He snorted. “Thank god for research. You would have kept me in the friendzone forever.”

“Hey!”

He silenced any further protests that you could have made, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. All possible complaints fled your mind the moment he did, eagerly kissing him back. You didn’t think you’d ever get enough of this and you had no idea how you had survived for so long while denying yourself of it.

Caleb had loved you for twelve years, steadily standing by your side and holding your hand even when you couldn’t see it. He had walked beside you through it all, the highest of highs and lowest of lows, lifting you up high over his shoulders with a grin on his face. He would never leave you behind, because he was your home. The one you had grown up with and wanted to wake up to everyday for the rest of your life.

He had taught you love without imposing it on you, silently showing it to you with every little thing he did. Your best friend. Your love. It had taken you a long time to catch up, but when you finally made it to the finish line, you found him waiting there for you patiently, holding out his hand for you to take.

The next time Tara called him your boyfriend, you didn’t correct her.

fin.

#love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader #caleb smut #caleb fluff #lads fluff #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #caleb x reader smut #lads caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x y/n

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burymagdalene · 2 months ago

Text

Take What You Need - S. Reid x Reader

After going full hermit mode during finals, you reach out to your relatively new boyfriend for a textbook he might be storing in his apartment. Or, Spencer putting you through his mattress for the first time as finals stress relief.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut! Fluff? (18+ pls pls) tags: Softdom!Spencer, sub reader (bet you thought you'd never see the day I did this), pet names in Russian, finger sucking, fingering (fem!receiving), established (new) relationship, your first time together, praise kink, pinv sex, creampie, teasing!!! overstimulation. wc: 6k a/n: I GOT SO CARRIED AWAY! Writing this during my finals felt like method acting. I imagine many of you are just now finishing or in the throes of finals- here's a treat!

Your head is hurting in places that you don’t even think have been identified in the anatomy of the brain while you continue to type away at your final essay.

You had thought you’d given yourself ample time to begin and finish the essay without any stress-induced cramming. Yet, here you are, halfway through with the deadline a couple days away.

Phone on do not disturb and your social life coming to a screeching halt– you have forced yourself to go awol in order to get everything you need done.

Which worked. For a bit.

Now, you’re panicking over a Russian literature textbook you didn’t even know was on the syllabus that you’re supposed to reference in your final.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

The first time you left your apartment in the last 48 hours was to check your university library for it– no dice. You drove to your local library after, out of luck there as well. Who on earth is using the 9th edition Russian and Comparative Literature text you need so horribly? They do not need it as much as you do.

Dejected and sighing from your pounding headache, you rest your forehead against your steering wheel, the sun is going down on another day without finishing your paper. Then it hits you. The biggest distraction in your life, is also the smartest person in your life. If the library doesn’t carry what you need, you might just have to put your pride aside and call Spencer.

You had promised yourself to use him as a form of reward once you completed everything, but you just have to ask him now. You can’t possibly get too distracted.

One of your rings sounds off in your car before he’s picking up.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise. How’s the studying?”

Even through the tinny speaker of your phone his voice releases butterflies in your stomach.

“Spencer! Hey. Umm. It’s not going very well, actually...”

“Oh hon,” his voice drips with remorse from the other line, “I told you how breaks would make it all go more smoothly than whatever guerilla method you decided on.”

You smile to yourself briefly, before a surge of emotion comes over you. Of course, he was right. Your stomach is growling, head aching and going stir crazy in your apartment these last couple of days has not turned out to be the picture perfect portrayal of self-care.

In a small voice you reply, “I know. I’m sorry. I just- I was wondering if you had a textbook I need for my final. Russian and Comparative Lit? Or something adjacent?”

“Hm? Oh, please don’t say you’re sorry. I honestly might. Would you like to come over and look with me?”

Your fingers come up nervously to play with your bottom lip, “Yeah, please, if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Zayka.”

Whatever it is, he says it smug enough that you roll your eyes, starting your car back up to finally get to the next step in finishing your paper.

Of sorts.

Like some heightened form of sensory deprivation, once you’re stepping up the staircase to get to Spencer’s unit, you can smell his scent from the bottom of the steps. The aged leather on his clothes and hand soap he uses that clings to him all day circling around your dizzy head as you give one, two knocks at his door.

His slight stubble and loosened tie catch your eye first. You want to run a hand where the sliver of his collar bone is revealed.

You give him a shy smile instead, Spencer pulling you into a hug in his doorway with a kiss on top of your head where he speaks against it, “I missed you. Come in, come in.”

Sighing as he pulls away you beeline towards his bookshelf. Seeing it’s a stack of differing Russian texts on the floor he must’ve pulled out on your drive over.

“Oh, Spencer, thank you. Even if it’s not here, I seriously owe you one.”

He gestures his hand in an oh stop motion and walks over to where you’re reading the spine of each ridiculously long book.

“You don’t owe me anything. Happy to help. You’ve been pretty stressed out, huh?”

This pauses your flicking through titles like a cue in your system to spill out every detail you haven’t shared in the last couple days.

A deep sigh, then, “Yeah. It’s been really tough. I thought I’d be able to crank everything out, but. I just feel so burnt out. And the library by me is always so busy that I have to study at home, and my room is a mess and I haven’t bought any groceries, I just. I feel horrible. I have this headache,” you rub your face with your hands, “I’ve been getting no sleep and my body does not know how to handle this anxiety, it’s… it like, physically hurts.”

You’re on your knees by his coffee table and before you’re finishing your onslaught of complaints Spencer is sinking to his knees beside you.

“Oh, honey. That sounds miserable. You’ve drained yourself.” His hand comes to your lower back to rub at soothingly. “You need to regulate your nervous system. Let me feed you or-”

“This is it!”

You cannot believe your eyes. A perfect condition of the exact textbook you need to finish your paper. You owe Spencer all the stars in the sky, that big beautiful brain of his. Leaning over, you peck his lips swiftly. Which was your first mistake. You always need another.

“Mm,” he hums, “I’m glad. However, I do think you should embark on whatever journey reading through this will take you tomorrow.”

“What? But I’m so close,” another kiss is being pressed to his soft lips, “I just. I just need to-”

The way he’s looking at you. The pressure of his kiss lingering on your overactive mouth. The warm light of the lamp coming from his bedroom. You know if you keep pressing, you actually are going to have to leave, Spencer not being the type to force you in any capacity.

You have to shut your mouth.

Spencer pulls your hand into his, lifts up to press a kiss to your knuckles, “Well. If you got everything you need…”

A panic-inducing sentence.

“I d-didn’t.”

“Oh? Is there something else-”

“I, um. What did you say earlier? On the phone, in Russian. I… was wondering, actually.”

His lips pull into a genuine smile, one that makes you ache. You missed it so much.

“Ever so curious. It just means bunny, it’s a common nickname. Could also translate to baby.”

Embarrassment heats up your neck.

“I’m not even! I’d argue I’m more of a cat than anything else.”

“Hm. Kotik. I’d disagree though. I could practically hear the scrunch in your nose when you called me.”

“Ugh! Whatever. What does that make you then?”

“Whatever you want.”

Is he doing this on purpose? Is he being extra impossibly irresistible because he’s trying to make you stay or because of your distance from him? Either way, you hold your breath.

“I-if I’m a bunny you have to be one too, that only makes sense.”

“Of course. Cross-species breeding can get weird.”

He has to be doing this on purpose. You haven’t done it yet. But Spencer is no stranger to working you up. The pet names, the fucking insinuations. Spencer is nothing but careful with his words around you. He’s being a tease out of his own volition.

Knees starting to get achy where they’re pressed into his hardwood, you shift a bit. Nothing more than a shift, but given the context, lets Spencer know exactly what’s keeping you chained to his apartment.

“Um. I think I’ll stay.” you blurt nearing a socially awkward delivery as you break his eye contact.

“Oh thank God,” he laughs out through a sigh of relief, “I don’t think I could’ve morally let you go home.”

“I just think I deserve a little break.”

“Mhmm,” Spencer rubs your jaw lightly with his thumb, “you’ve been working so hard, you deserve more than a little break.”

“Yeah? What should my big break be? Travel somewhere warm… should we go to Mexico?”

“I’ll take you to Mexico. You look so exhausted I’d just about take you anywhere.”

You giggle and nuzzle your face into his shoulder. “How about your bedroom?”

Not even having to look up to see it, you can feel the way his eyes widen. Having made out with Spencer a fair share on his couch, more than playful sleepovers at your apartment, and even an instance where Spencer had fingered you under your skirt in the parking lot of an AMC (before turning around to drive back home, skipping the movie) you’ve built up enough confidence to tell him you’re ready to feel him this way now.

“Wh- yeah. Yeah, course.”

With Spencer’s whole neuroses around germs and “outside clothes on the bed” you actually have not gotten the privilege of laying down in there. Sure, you’ve picked through his closet and rummaged through some bedside books, but nothing wrapped up in his silky white sheets.

Your knees feel wobbly as you stand up before Spencer, gazing softly down where he’s criss-cross on his floor. He smiles up at you softly, reaching his hand up to rub your hip with his thumb over your jeans.

“What should I do to help all that stress?” He trails off, if spoken by another person, this could seem like a bit of a sarcastic remark, but Spencer continues to live and breathe sincerity.

Laughing slightly you shrug, “Come up here first, please.”

Sluggishly, Spencer gets up on his feet, his hand remaining on your hip now that he’s face to face with you.

After kissing you gently he rubs his nose softly against yours, “I could give you a massage- you know stimulating the parasympathetic nervous system will help your cortisol levels a lot. You also just seem tense, sitting a lot in front of your laptop?”

“I mean,” you laugh and kiss him while pausing your sentence, “I’d like that. But. I want you in a different way. More than that... ahem, in your room.”

“I kind of just wanted to hear you say it.”

Once Spencer was able to pry his hands from your waist and lips from your mouth (with difficulty, he really missed you) he takes your hand into his to walk to his bedroom.

Of course you’ve been in here before, but right now every detail in his room; every book on a desk, every folded line in his bedding seem to have a shining glow around them. Through rose-tinted glasses Spencer's belongings cast an easy feeling over you.

Being led to the bed you’ve never been in doesn’t incite any fear because you’re so familiar with the surroundings. Already in-tune with him and how he’s so particular about the things he owns, proves just how encapsulated by all-things-Spencer you are right now, completely safe and in your element.

Warm hands bring your arms around his broad shoulders, kissing you against his bedframe. The cool carved wood pressing indents into the back of your thighs as you allow your full body weight against it.

In your school-induced mania, you’d nearly forgotten how obsessed you are with kissing Spencer. His pillowy lips against yours, tasting him. He’d nearly get irritated at you for kissing him too hard in public. Now, after locking yourself away you're savoring how his tongue skims your bottom lip as he’s asking for access into your mouth.

You whine and pinch your eyebrows together when he slightly pulls away to talk, “Darling, you’re so lovely, so beautiful,”

Pouting, you pull him back in by his collar. Before, you had been so adamant about focusing on your work and now you’re falling fast into the mess of hormones he typically makes of you. A total 180 in the past hour.

Allowing yourself to give into what has been simmering the last few days has you jittery and clumsy. Tightening and loosening your grip on Spencer’s shirt you’re tugging him closer and pushing him away when the whining from your throat becomes too embarrassing. Desperate and determined.

Your open-mouthed whining is coming from an understandable place though. Mouths melding together and a taught thigh wedged between your legs, you’re losing yourself in the way he tastes.

Spearmint toothpaste that you both use on his breath. The shared taste you two have after you bought Spencer’s (out of a moment of weakness) when you happened to run out of your own while he was away on a case. A girlish, silly pining that now has your eyes rolling back as you taste yourself on him and consequentially, Spencer on you as well.

Spencer curls your tongues together, grabs your hips flush against his and you whimper out a small final plea of a moan against his lips before he’s pulling away again.

“You’re being a little siren,” Spencer grins and places a kiss underneath your jaw where he knows you’re the most sensitive.

“Sorry- was I? I missed you so much,” you trail off and kiss the warm skin of Spencer’s neck before he pulls you off him slightly.

Unabashedly staring directly at your bitten lips while replying, Spencer falls into an easy grin, “Don’t say sorry. How many times have I said I love your sounds?”

Shame creeps up in a gentle heat across the back of your neck, “Um. Too many!”

You get a simple tsk from Spencer in return. Not having the energy to argue with you over the shyness around moaning, he settles on a simple noise of disapproval.

Gently taking both of your wrists, he pulls you up from where you were propped against his bed frame and maneuvers you till the back of your knees are being tickled by his lush bedding. Maybe it's a tickle or just your skin's hyper awareness of what's to come.

Having tasted him earlier, there has been a discovered pining demand for Spencer you cannot keep at bay anymore. His sweet lips, a sugary glaze to the sour week you’ve had. Like the time you licked a dribble of honey off his finger when he was making you a cup of tea and you had to perch yourself on his lap for an hour kissing him senseless. You have no control over that dam inside you once broken.

Cradling the back of your head while he guides you to his bed, you instinctively wrap your legs around his narrow hips, hoping to do anything in your power to keep his body weight on you for as long as humanly possible.

“Babe- baby,” Spencer whines out, having to wiggle away from your grasp if any clothes were to be shed tonight, “let me undress you, please.”

Fine, you think, separating for that, should be livable.

Teasingly, Spencer rubs his hands up and down your waist, pulling your shirt up slowly as he massages into your skin. A wiggle in your hips has him smiling in acknowledgment but continues to toy with your top.

“You’re giving me goosebumps,” you pout.

“Good goosebumps?”

“Mmf. Yeah.” You turn to hide your face defiantly into his bedding.

“Always good goosebumps with you.” He smiles and pulls your shirt off, wiggling and arching your back, you help him even through your faux sulking.

Spencer’s sheets meet your bare skin (no bra, you couldn’t manage something so menial during your studying) and glide over your torso like a flat pebble skipping over a lake.

The seam of your jeans between your legs are pushing into your center as Spencer’s thigh remains pushing in small intervals while kissing over your chest. Approaching an overwhelming stimulation, your hips writhe as you grab silently at Spencer's tie.

“T-take my pants off too, Spence, wanna feel you.”

“Aww,” he pulls up from your chest, “they look so good on you though.” He relents still, sitting on his knees as he fiddles with the band of your jeans.

A playful flicker in his eyes and he’s gently pulling up and down at it. You scrunch up your face, subconsciously aware of his bunny comment, and grab at his wrist. Only a small fuck falls from your lips.

“Mm, too much, huh? I’ll get them off of you, my love.”

Your hands reach up to tug off his barely knotted tie to fling it off while he slides the rough fabric down your legs, placing a kiss to a bruised knee on the way. Once your jeans are making a home on his floor he continues moving down further so he can take off your socks, kissing over the fabric of your panties.

You giggle a little, they’re not your sexiest, moreso cute; cotton with a little bow.

“These are my lucky panties.” You explain through your laugh.

“Yeah? Did you put them on in hopes they’d help you find your textbook?” His hands are holding the sides of your thighs now and he bends down to take the small bow between his teeth tugging up before letting it go in a snap against your belly.

“Mm-mm. I just decided that now.”

“From now on they’re your lucky underwear?” He looks up at you between your legs with a lopsided grin.

“Yup,” you pop out the “p” sound, “but you can still take them off even though they’re lucky.”

Spencer hums into a kiss against your inner thigh, “This is great news. May I?”

“Yes, you may.”

You can feel how wet you are by the slight resistance there is while peeling your panties off. Spencer hasn’t made you cum in quite some time, busy schedules and all. Now with finals, you can’t even remember the last time you got yourself off. The dripping into your panties reminding you of how long it must have been.

All that time not thinking about it is catching up to you as you feel more deprived than you have in your entire life.

“God- Spence. I want it… really bad.” These are the begging eyes you give him when you have to pull out your biggest trick in the books. When you’re making him drive you to the mall or begging to leave a hickey on his neck when he has to leave for work in thirty minutes.

Safe to say, they work pretty well.

“Baby, you can’t look at me like that,” he laughs, “I’m not in any mood to tease you.” His voice fills with a teasing tone anyway, the dirty liar. “You’ve been through enough already, huh?”

“Mhmm…” Your affirmation melts into a hum of pleasure as Spencer very gently runs his thumb over your entrance. With the coat of your slick on the pad of his thumb, Spencer brings it up to his mouth for a moment before sucking it off. You can’t help but shoot him a jealous look as your thighs close to rub together.

“Needy,” Spencer mumbles while pulling his thumb out, shifting up towards you so he can bring it to your lips. Sucking in happily, you bite down gently on his thumb, smiling around it as you hear a little groan coming his way.

Thumb now covered in both of your saliva, he uses it as extra lubricant to rub circles over your already wet clit. Another reminder of how long its been hits you with how you already feel close. With just a few circles on your clit, you’re already clenching around nothing, hoping to be filled.

A squeak topples from your throat as Spencer switches his thumb to two fingers against you.

“Y-yeah, like that-”

Spencer is your boyfriend- he’s sweet and attentive and genuine. But he is also evil and horrible. He takes his hand away.

Your shocked gasp makes him laugh and move to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck.

“I’m mean. I’m sorry I’m sorry,” his laughter tickles your neck, “you’re so much fun to tease.”

You can barely hear him, not laughing along. Solely focused on wiggling under his weight, trying to gain any more friction on your clit.

No fight left in you, you want to politely take what Spencer gives you, but a slight panic fills your mind at the thought of having to wait much longer.

“Please- I’ll be good…”

“I know angel, you always are for me.”

Before the praise can affect you to its fullest potential, his fingers are returning against you. Three of his long perfect fingers dance across your clit as it thumps pathetically against them.

“Mmm! Shit, thank you, thank you-“ you babble softly.

“Want them inside?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

You’re not above this. Giving into every prompt easily as if you’re made for it. With all the planning and studying and working this week you have no issue with surrendering control over to someone else for a change.

Spencer flips his wrist so the inside is towards you and he’s positioning his ring and middle finger against you. You’ve never felt so spoiled, your clit is still throbbing painfully the second he removes his fingers to put them inside you, you never can get enough.

The stretch of two fingers has you preening, accommodating his digits in a way that makes you so excited for the stretch of his cock soon.

“God, I missed this,” Spencer pants, “you’re so stunning, so warm.”

You allow the new wave of wetness to pool around his fingers with little to no guilt. If he says he likes it so much, what’s a little more?

He curls his fingers up and your jaw drops. He can find your sweet spot faster than you or any toy you have can and it makes you hate him and love him more and more each time. Moving languidly, you perch yourself on your elbows, wanting to gaze down between your thighs.

Your eyes trail to the soft skin of his inner wrist, pretty blue veins, the network of his life, on display as they lead down to where you’re the most sensitive. The snap of his slender wrist as he speeds up, goes deeper and deeper until your hand instinctively comes down to pet your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

Pushing your hand away, Spencer replaces it with his hand that’s not working at your g-spot, silent with his full attention on making you cum. You appreciate this, but if he’s trying to tip you over, he’s going to have to keep talking to you in the dirty sweet way he’s mastered.

“B-baby,” your voice is shot, “talk to me, talk to me.”

“Mm. My pretty baby-”

“Can you call me that again… t-the Russian?”

Bending down and dragging his lips across your neck he hums out, “Moy Zayka,” coming up he traces his tongue against your bitten lips, “Say it…”

Two bats of your wet eyelashes and you’re muttering “Zayka,” in the softest voice you can muster, shyness drying your speech.

“Mhm. Good. Sounds so pretty coming from you.”

“God, don’t talk like that or I’ll cum right now, fuck.”

“You said-” he begins, but you cut him off with a moan. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right.”

Five more seconds of Spencer's warmth radiating off him along with the sensation of his taking you apart between your legs and you realize you have to warn him you’re about to cum. Like seriously, about to.

“Spence! Close!” You muster, legs shaking slightly as proof.

“Yeah? Good girl.” He continues his movements until black spots dance behind your eyelids and you’re coming hard against his fingers.

Working you through it until your chest is rising and falling, he takes his fingers out, but two fingers remain on your clit.

Shit. All that fucking begging got you here.

Moans increasing, your thighs clamp together around his wrist. Trying to stop him, but just making the sensation more intense. You gasp and try to open your legs back a bit. It’s torture, but it’s the least you’ve been able to think in the past week, which is exactly what you needed.

Sitting back on his knees, dick making a tent in his trousers, Spencer smiles at you squirming. “You okay?”

Are you? Yesyesyesyesnononono. You find yourself nodding anyway.

“M… ‘ore.”

“What’s that?”

Toes squeezing, your clit starts up that heartbeat again, reviving itself at his words. Ready to cum again.

“More!” You whisper, hoping he won’t ask again.

Spencer kisses your knee sweetly, rubs his cheek against it. “You’re doing so well. Really, making me so happy.”

Your entrance flutters at his words and the overstimulation has gotten to a point of just brain melting pleasure, and your legs fall open easily, allowing him more mobility once again.

The second time you orgasm on his fingers today you’re jolting upright. Hand pressed into the mattress while the other one clamps over your mouth as you tremble watching him rub your clit and pull away at the first whine he hears from you.

“Holy shit,” You sigh out, head falling down to his pillow.

Spencer’s face to face with you again, kissing your heated skin gently.

“How are you feeling? Can you give me another one? We can stop here, sweetie.”

“Noooo,” your lips spread into a grin at the thought of coming around his dick for the first time. How good he must feel, how it will literally melt your brain into a puddle. “I want you-”

He kisses your lips like he would when picking you up to take you to dinner. Sweet and innocent like you weren’t just painting his fingers with your release.

You trail a trembling hand up to begin undressing him. A shameful fumble with one button that takes two times as long to unbutton than it normally takes you. Spencer’s hands cup yours to steady them and finishes off the rest of his buttons with ease.

Maybe that’s another reason to call him Dr.- the steady hands he usually has. Unless you’re giving him head, but he definitely wouldn’t be experiencing that during a procedure. He’s also not even that kind of doctor. Maybe you’ll ask him to roleplay-

You look down and Spencer is in his underwear. You could thank God. His dick is the hardest you’ve ever seen it and it’s still under its confines. The tip has leaked enough to turn the fabric slightly see through and you can make out the details of him. Your mouth is watering.

Without a second thought you trail a nail over his bulge. As Spencer sucks in a breath you snap the band of his underwear against his lower stomach, causing him to suck in his lips and his dick to twitch.

Almost as affected as you are, Spencer breathes shallowly and looks at you expectantly till you’re lowering the band and revealing all of him. Thick and long and covered in his precum you immediately grow hazy, giving him a few pumps to gauge how he might feel inside you. He’s going to split you open.

Spitting in your hand (not that you even needed to, he's already wet with precum) you continue to jack him off, his stomach curling in when you shift into a reverse grip on him and stroke his head a few times. His hands finally grow shaky as they reach down to stop you from making him finish too fast.

Momentarily Spencer stands by the bed to remove his underwear fully, you watch his dick as it bobs in the air, wanting to give it a steady place to move into until it’s-

“Spence, please.”

“Yeah, pretty.” He nods in understanding, his tough resolve breaking down more now as he also realizes how you’re going to feel around him for the first time.

Laying down, he positions himself between your legs. He wraps his arms around your head pulling you into a kiss before moving them to cage you in while staring into your eyes. You’re trying to keep eye contact but you can feel his cock brush your stomach and you could die.

“You still want this? You’re not feeling dizzy or anything?”

“Y-yes. Not dizzy. I just really want you inside.”

He laughs and kisses your neck, “Yeah. I really do too.”

Warm palms are positioning your hips against his bed and move to break you apart. He swipes his dick, wetting it with you, before he makes any moves to penetrate you. It feels really good- you’ve heard your friends mention it, but this feels… super good.

Going down to collect more wetness, he draws his head back up to circle your clit again. It’s probably a form of torture for him- but with the way you’re nearly giggling with pleasure, he figures it won’t hurt to do it a few more times.

“Baby,” he shudders out a breath against your forehead, “This feels really good, but I’ll cum like this, and I’d rather it be inside you.”

You laugh and wrap your hands around his neck (Spencer is polite enough to ignore the way you squeeze it slightly), giddy with happiness.

“Kay. Can you fuck me like that until we both cum next time, though?”

The way you say it, so conversational and wholesome makes Spencer clear his throat. You’re going to be the death of him.

“Anything you want, angel.”

Then he’s moving his head against you with intent. Eyes flickering between where he’s entering you and to check your face for pain (which remains in a blissed out expression throughout the entire thing).

Pushing the tip fully in, both of you gasp with a newfound lucidity that hasn’t overcome you since you were in the living room. There could be a LED light sign on both of your foreheads that flashes oh fuck in pink shining blinks with hearts surrounding it.

“Oh baby-” He whispers over your repeated ah, ah, ah’s.

“F-feels so good,” You squeak out, knowing he’s gonna be a worried mess to make sure you’re not feeling any pain.

With that confirmation he allows himself to rest his head down, chin against your forehead as he moans into your hair while bottoming out. The stubble is sort of scratchy against you but in a way that’s beckoning your legs open wider.

Your legs automatically wrap around his hips to keep him at the deepest point, wanting to feel the way he’s first opening you up forever. Lips gasping and closing to place a kiss at your forehead he whimpers out, “Baby, gotta let me move.”

So you let him move. You would probably do anything he suggests right now. A comical dizzy swarm of birds circling your head with a dumb smile on your face. He wants to move, your legs spread open on the bed. He wants to cum inside you? You’re gonna let him.

His first thrust punches the air out of your lungs. You make a note to yourself never to spend longer than a day away from him again. Then, another note to do this every day with him the rest of your life.

Spencer repositions himself so that his arms are straightened, alleviating some of his weight off you (sigh), but allows him to move into you at a better angle.

Moaning, you turn your face to the side, looking at the inside of his wrist again. The intense thrusts combined with his delicate skin and fragile veins right there, you get dizzy. Shifting a little, you place a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Then another, a wet mess of a kiss that delivers the message of complete infatuation.

Spencer groans and realizes how far away from your lips he is right now and moves to his forearms again. He pets the top of your head and whispers into the air, “You feel so perfect- just like I thought. You’re so perfect everywhere.”

In his vulnerable state, you’re right in front of his perfect, untainted neck, and you want to lick and suck at it to work through the mind numbing pleasure, like it would ground you to reality. Usually, he needs more coercing, with the team and all, it’s very hard to hide hickeys. Yet,

“Spence, baby,” you whine, putting that lilt in your voice that tears him apart, “can I kiss your neck, please?”

Immediately, “Yeah, honey, take what you need.”

And your tongue immediately licks a stripe up his skin, salty and sweet with sweat. Sucking the skin between your teeth you leave a fresh deep mark for him to parade around the next few days. You say sorry in your head looking at it, but it doesn’t make it to your lips.

He laughs and shakes his head, knowing exactly what his skin is going to look like tomorrow and in retaliation he moves your thighs overtop his shoulders, hitting a spot inside you that has your mind fuzzing.

Your hips thrash a bit, not used to being unable move and wiggle around the pleasure like you typically do. Especially with this new stretch inside you, you’re keening.

“That feel good, baby?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, “God. Yes.”

“Tell me I feel good.”

“Spencer,” you whine, dragging out the syllables, “you feel so good. Fucking me so good.”

He moans high, then, “Now, tell me you love me.”

With an even smaller pause than before, “Fuck, I love you.”

“Mhm. Again.”

“Baby- I love you-” You whimper out, realizing instantly he’s about to make you cum once more.

“I love you.” He replies gently, juxtaposing his thrusts again, which are now growing sloppy with his nearing orgasm.

Pulling him into a harsh kiss, you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, trembling with his skin between your jaws. Having the power to draw blood but keeping yourself at bay. Ever a good girl for him.

Without having to ask, he brings a hand to rub your clit again. You let go of his lip with a groan, head falling back against his pillow with your back arching into him.

“C-can I cum?”

“Of course you can. Baby, ‘need to feel you coming around me, I know you feel so good.”

Who are you to deny that? Biting the inside of your cheek, you're coming for him again. It’s better than you could’ve imagined, the unstoppable stretch inside you while your walls flutter for reprieve around him. Better yet, Spencer is spilling into you.

You whine high in your throat feeling him cum inside you, somehow making more room for this alongside his cock inside you. Overwhelmed, you grab for his hand, he interlocks his fingers with yours instantly, a whimpering mess alongside you.

When his hips are still against yours, you cannot think a single thing, you only feel. The slow slow slowness of him pulling out of you with a pop. The drip of his cum out of you like a sedative. The kisses against your face and lips.

Nails scratching lightly at the base of his neck convince him enough of your coherency, nothing to panic over. Spencer is giving you space to be fucked out of your mind.

“My sweet, pretty bunny, I wanna clean you up. Can I? I’ll be gone for just a moment.”

You groan, that does not sound like something that should happen.

“Coming with…” You mumble, barely legible.

Spencer laughs, “Yeah. Right. You’re not walking on those two legs again today. See? I’ll run.”

You smile back and close your eyes, shooing him away with a wave of your hand. He’s right too, you barely even notice the time pass before he’s back with a warm rag.

He’s cleaned you up, positioned you to lay on top of him and is pulling teasingly at your earlobe, muttering something about a takeout order he placed for you both.

You eat cuddled up on his sofa, watching some new space documentary perched on his lap. You’re sitting right by the textbook you pulled out earlier and you haven’t even noticed, your essay so far from your mind that the only thing you could possibly learn right now is the pattern of Spencer’s breath against the back of your neck.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #smut

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avengxrz · 6 days ago

Text

the fool outranks the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part one]

pairings: jake seresin x reader

word count: 18.2k (i'm sorry, i got carried away)

summary: you had it bad, like really bad for jake seresin. back in college, you did his homework, brought him coffee, smiled through humiliation like it meant something, fooled yourself into thinking he’d glance your way and actually see you. but he never did. not really. now, years later, you're standing in front of him again, not as the girl who worshipped the ground he walked on—but as the woman who outranks him. how the hell did the fool end up outranking the golden boy?

warnings: emotional manipulation, unresolved tension, slow burn, power imbalance (then reversal), humiliation, angst, college flashbacks, mild academic bullying, reader is hopelessly naive at first, jake is an asshole, later guilt, crying, confrontation, slap scene, reader character growth arc, mentions of absent family, found power, military setting, hangar tension, dagger squad chaos, and one (1) dangerously attractive commander with a grudge.

notes: ugh tumblr's word count limit is so unserious for a fic like this, like let me be dramatic in peace?? anyway this will be a three-part story because there's too much tension, pain, and ego to contain in just one post. if i disappear it's because i’m fighting the character limit and tumblr’s formatting demons. pray for me.

part two , part three , part four , part five , epilogue

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

You had it bad.

The kind of bad that made your heart pick up speed just from the sound of his voice echoing down the hallway. The kind of bad that made you memorize his coffee order before he ever asked, the way he liked his breakfast tacos, the exact moment in the semester when he’d start asking for your notes in Social Studies—again. He was all sun and swagger, a boy carved from the sky with that easy smile and reckless charm, and you were twenty and stupid and floating somewhere just beneath his orbit, close enough to feel warm. Never close enough to matter.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just a crush. He was a curriculum.

And God, you studied. You showed up. You took mental notes on his laugh patterns and the way he tapped his pen when he was bored in class. You offered to “help” with his required literature essays, even though helping usually turned into you writing the entire thing while he sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with that annoying little half-smirk like he knew. He always knew.

“You’re a lifesaver, sunshine,” he’d say, tossing you a grin like a bone. Sometimes he'd ruffle your hair, which made your stomach flip like it was some grand act of affection instead of thoughtless habit. Sometimes he’d sit a little too close when you were going over the assignment, smelling like cologne and peppermint gum, leaning over your shoulder as if he actually cared about the difference between metaphor and metonymy. He didn’t. But you still pointed it out, even circled it in a red pen for him.

And when he got a B+, he winked at you and said, “Told you I didn’t need that Shakespeare crap to fly jets.” You laughed. You always laughed. Like a fool.

You didn’t mind doing his work. You didn’t mind when he forgot your birthday but showed up to your dorm two weeks later with a Red Bull and a “my bad.” You didn’t even mind when he flirted with other girls right in front of you—because it didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not to him. But maybe, if you were patient, it could mean something someday.

You told yourself he was just bad at feelings. You told yourself he was focused on his career, that you were helping, supporting, part of his story. You told yourself that being near him was enough.

You lied a lot, back then. Especially to yourself.

You remembered the first time he called you kid. You had just pulled an all-nighter to finish his paper—some half-assed assignment about American foreign policy and its effect on colonial literature that he should’ve started a week ago. You handed it to him in the quad, tired but glowing, waiting for a thank you or maybe, just maybe, a hug. He barely looked up from his phone.

“Man, what would I do without you, kid?” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder like you were one of the guys. One of the boys. Not a girl who wore her prettiest sweater that day just in case he noticed. Not a girl who memorized his class schedule and purposely bumped into him outside his seminar. Just kid. You smiled anyway, too dizzy with hope to notice how sharp the word was, how much it stung under the surface.

And he never said your name. Not really. Not the way you said his when you whispered it into your pillow at night, soft like a secret. He called you sunshine when he needed a favor, professor when he didn’t feel like studying, kid when he was feeling lazy. It wasn’t cruel. Not technically. But it always made you feel a little smaller, a little sillier, a little more like a side character in your own goddamn story. And still, you held onto it like it meant something.

You remembered how he’d brag about you in front of his friends—“She’s basically a genius,” he’d say, draping an arm over your chair as you hunched over your laptop, typing his paper. “I swear, I just let her talk and I sound smarter by association.” They’d laugh. He’d laugh. And you? You’d blush so hard you thought your ears would catch fire. You told yourself he was proud of you.

You told yourself he noticed.

Once, at a party, someone asked if you two were dating. He choked on his beer and laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all night. “Nah,” he said, loud enough for everyone around the keg to hear. “She’s way too sweet. Like, book club sweet. I'm not trying to get lectured during pillow talk.”

You laughed too, even though something cracked inside your chest.

Later, when you were alone with him in the kitchen, trying not to let your hands shake while you poured soda over melting ice, you asked, “Do you really think I’m sweet?” And he’d leaned in, lazy and amused, eyes glinting with something sharp.

“You’re the sweetest thing I know,” he said. “That’s your problem.”

You thought that was romantic.

You thought he meant it like a compliment.

You started wearing makeup. Nothing major—just a little mascara, some tinted balm, a hint of blush you hoped made you look older, cooler, prettier. You weren’t the kind of girl Jake usually flirted with, the ones who wore crop tops to lecture and knew how to flip their hair without thinking. You studied in quiet corners, read poetry on your lunch breaks, always carried extra pens. But maybe, if you tried a little harder—if you looked a little more like them—he’d finally see you.

He noticed, too. Sort of.

“You do something different with your face?” he asked once, squinting at you while you handed over his notes. “Looks good. Less tired.”

Then he grabbed the papers and walked off, calling back, “Thanks, sunshine!” like he hadn’t just complimented you and insulted you in the same breath. You beamed. You held onto less tired like it meant beautiful. You told your roommate about it like it was proof—like it was progress.

You were always chasing crumbs. Always stretching moments into meaning. Like the time he offered you a ride home from the library when it started raining—windows down, music up, his hand drumming on the steering wheel.

You sat there soaking wet, trying not to stare at the way his jaw flexed when he laughed, trying not to fall deeper into whatever hole your heart had already dug.

At the stoplight, he glanced over and smirked. “Bet you never skip class, huh?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I like learning.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah, I can tell. You always look like you’re about to marry your textbooks.”

You laughed. Of course you laughed. “Better than marrying beer pong.”

He chuckled, and for a second, you thought—maybe this is flirting. Maybe he likes me back.

But then he said, “You’re cute when you try to be sassy.”

You turned your face toward the window so he wouldn’t see the way you smiled. Like a fool. Like someone who didn’t realize being cute to a boy like Jake Seresin meant safe. Non-threatening. Easy to dismiss.

You were the girl he called at midnight for notes and “quick favors.” The girl he brought to parties but never introduced. The girl who did his work and called it love. And still, you waited for something more. Still, you held your breath every time he looked at you a little too long, hoping he might finally see you the way you saw him.

But he never did. Not really.

It happened in the middle of a group study session—well, his group, not yours. You’d only shown up because he texted you last-minute, some vague “Hey, you around? Could use your genius brain again lol” and you’d said yes before even thinking. You always did.

The library table was cluttered with Red Bulls and half-finished equations. Jake was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, baseball cap tilted low.

He was arguing with one of his aviation buddies about flight dynamics or engine weight or some other thing you had no business understanding—but you listened anyway, like you always did. You’d learned the lingo just to keep up, tucked terms into your memory like you were training to speak his language.

At some point, his friend nodded toward you and asked, “Hey, who’s this again?”

Jake turned, eyes flicking lazily in your direction. His brows furrowed. Just for a second. Then—he laughed. “Uh—wait. Crap. Don’t tell me.”

Your heart dropped before you could stop it. Just a beat. Just long enough to hurt.

“You don’t know my name?” you asked, light and teasing. You even laughed a little, because that was the role you’d learned to play. Unbothered. Chill. The cool girl who didn’t take anything seriously. Not even her own heartbreak.

Jake scratched the back of his neck, sheepish but grinning. “I mean, you’re like my PoliSci girl, right? You’re always around with, like… books and that political stuff.”

You blinked. “Political science,” you corrected softly, still smiling, though it felt like something fragile was cracking beneath your ribs. “I’m majoring in political science. Pre-law track.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing. “Knew it. Knew you were smart.”

You already knew his major, of course—Aeronautical Engineering with a minor in Applied Physics. You knew his dream was to fly fighter jets for the Navy. You knew he hated public speaking but loved Top Gun. You knew he bit the inside of his cheek when he was stressed and that his middle name was Andrew. You even knew his sister’s birthday.

But he didn’t know your name.

Not really.

Still, when he leaned in and said, “You’re kind of my lifesaver, y’know?”—you smiled. You swallowed down the sting and tucked the compliment somewhere deep, let it sit heavy and warm in your chest like it meant more than it did.

You told yourself he was just bad with names. That he was tired. Distracted.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And when he tossed you a Red Bull at the end of the night and said, “Thanks again, sunshine,” like a pat on the head, you caught it and held it like a gift.

Because it came from him.

You were always the nerdiest person in the room—and you didn’t mind. Not really. You liked it, actually. You liked being the one with too many pens, with color-coded tabs stuck out of every book, with highlighters in four different shades for four different types of arguments.

Your notebooks were immaculate. Your laptop desktop was a perfectly organized grid of folders labeled by subject, date, and citation style. You even had a separate folder for Jake’s assignments—though you’d never admit that out loud.

You quoted obscure political theorists in casual conversation, carried pocket-sized constitutions in your backpack like other people carried gum. You read op-eds for fun. You had a crush on Ruth Bader Ginsburg for three years. You were the kind of girl who got excited about office supplies. The kind of girl who said “actually” a lot and meant it.

Jake didn’t get it. Not really.

But he smiled when you went on tangents about legislation and voting trends and historical revolutions. That day in the library, you tried to explain your thesis about the ethics of surveillance in modern democracies, and he just blinked at you, lips pulled into that signature grin—handsome, golden, practiced. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s… intense,” he said, dragging the word out like it was both a compliment and a warning. “You actually like that stuff?”

You nodded, beaming. “I love it. I think it’s important—how we understand power and systems and history. You can’t just—separate law from people.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. You covered it quickly with a laugh, pretending it didn’t sting, pretending he meant it in that teasing, affectionate way. He was smiling, after all. He called you his nerd once. That had to mean something, right?

“You’re lucky I’m a nerd,” you said lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Otherwise you’d be failing social theory and citing Buzzfeed as a source.”

That made him laugh, real and sharp. For a moment, he looked at you like he almost saw something. Then it faded.

“Buzzfeed’s valid,” he said, winking. “They’ve got quizzes and everything.”

You laughed again. You always laughed. Even when it wasn’t funny. Even when the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, either.

Because maybe—just maybe—if you kept being useful, being sweet, being there, he’d learn to look closer. Maybe someday, he’d want to know your name before needing your notes. Maybe someday, that smile wouldn’t be so forced.

You didn’t usually celebrate your birthday. It felt silly, most years—too much attention, too many questions you didn’t want to answer. But this time felt different. You were turning twenty-one, and for once, you wanted to do something that made you happy. Not trendy. Not loud. Just… you.

So you invited Jake.

You kept it casual, like it was no big deal. You mentioned it after class one day while handing over another perfectly formatted draft of his group project—the one he was supposed to help with but hadn’t touched since the outline phase. “I’m doing something lowkey tonight,” you said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you’re not busy, you should come.”

He looked up from his phone, eyes still half-scanning whatever was on the screen. “Lowkey like what? Drinks? House party?”

You hesitated. “Kind of. You’ll see.”

He agreed. Mostly because you were finishing his semester-long presentation. Thirty percent of his grade. Not because he actually cared about the celebration part.

But that didn’t stop you from spending the entire afternoon setting everything up—balloons, cupcakes, a paper crown you wore mostly as a joke. You even put on a new sweater, the soft blue one that brought out your eyes. You checked your phone every few minutes until finally, finally, he texted: Here.

You met him outside, bouncing on your heels from nerves. He was wearing jeans and a fitted Henley, looking like he’d just walked off a recruitment poster. His eyes scanned the building behind you—a wide, beige facility with a ramp leading up to automatic glass doors.

“What is this?” he asked, already frowning.

You smiled, a little too wide. “The community center. It doubles as a retirement home. I volunteer here every weekend. We’re doing trivia and cupcakes with the residents tonight. I thought it’d be fun.”

He blinked. “Wait—you invited me to your birthday at an old folks’ home?”

You laughed, nervously. “They’re sweet. And they love meeting new people. Plus, trivia night gets competitive. It’s fun, I promise.”

Jake’s smile didn’t quite land. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around like he was trying to find a way to back out. “Damn. I thought this was gonna be, like… a party.”

“It is a party,” you said, voice softer than before. “Just not that kind.”

He hesitated. For one awful second, you were sure he’d leave. But then he sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Lead the way, sunshine.”

You lit up, relief washing through you. You missed the way his shoulders slouched, the way his expression shifted once your back was turned. You didn’t see how bored he looked walking through the doors, how forced his laugh sounded when you introduced him to the residents. You were too busy beaming, too busy bringing out the cupcakes you made from scratch, too busy believing—just for one night—that he was here because he wanted to be.

You never realized he was only smiling because the project wasn’t finished yet.

He offered to walk you home.

Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because it was late and the air had turned crisp, and he still had a project with his name on it sitting in your backpack. Or maybe he was trying to be a gentleman, like he’d been raised right and remembered it sometimes. Either way, you didn’t argue. You just smiled, told him thanks, and fell into step beside him under the glow of sleepy streetlights.

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt longer than usual. You talked in small, tired bursts—about the trivia questions, about Ms. Evelyn’s obsession with Cary Grant, about how hard the cupcakes were to ice without making them look sad. Jake chuckled once or twice, but mostly he was quiet, thumbs tapping absentmindedly against his phone until he slid it back into his pocket.

When you reached your front porch, he paused.

The house was dark. Not lifeless, just… dim. Still. The kind of quiet that felt deeper than it should have. Like it had settled over the walls and stayed there.

“You sure someone’s home?” he asked, eyeing the unlit windows.

You nodded quickly, unlocking the door with shaking hands. “Yeah. They’re probably just in the back. Or asleep. My mom works nights sometimes—she’s a nurse. And my dad’s a lawyer, so he’s always in the study. I—I’m sure they’re inside.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but he looked at you a little too long.

“You can come in for a second,” you offered, trying to sound casual. “If you want.”

You barely had time to nudge the door open before it swung all the way with a burst of warm light—and your mom stood there in her scrubs, hair pulled back, eyes wide with worry.

“There you are!” she breathed, relief pouring out of her like a tide. “We’ve been waiting, sweetheart. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Behind her, your dad appeared, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses pushed into his hairline. “You’re late, bug,” he said gently, his voice firm but warm. “You said you'd be back before ten.”

“I—” You faltered. “I’m sorry, I just… I lost track of time.”

Your mom’s eyes shifted past you, landing on Jake. She blinked, smiled. “Oh! And who’s this?”

“This is… Jake,” you said, stepping aside awkwardly. “He’s a friend from school.”

Jake straightened. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Sir.”

Your parents exchanged one of those quiet, married glances. The kind that said more than words ever could.

“Well, come in, Jake,” your mom said brightly. “We’ve still got cake. And Oreo ice cream in the freezer.”

“And Bingo’s been howling for you,” your dad added, stepping back to let you both in.

Right on cue, tiny paws scrambled across the hardwood, and a golden-furred puppy bounded into view, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. He skidded to a stop at your feet, yipping excitedly.

Jake blinked. “You have a dog?”

You scooped Bingo into your arms, pressing your cheek to his fur. “Yeah. He’s loud and a little bit dramatic, but… he’s mine.”

The house was warm. Bright. Alive. And for a second, Jake stood there like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Like he didn’t expect this from you—this quiet, glowing little life. No red Solo cups, no loud music, no drama. Just parents who cared. A puppy that missed you. And a birthday party that waited all night.

Jake stepped inside. Just barely. Like the warmth might spook him.

And you—still holding Bingo, still wearing your little paper crown—pretended not to notice that he looked like he didn’t belong.

Jake stepped further inside, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. Your mom disappeared into the kitchen with a cheerful hum—“Sit down, make yourselves at home, I’ll get the plates!”—and your dad wandered back toward the hallway, calling something about candles and the lighter drawer. It left you and Jake standing alone in the entryway, where the soft light spilled over hardwood floors and Bingo settled at your feet with a huff.

He glanced around, eyes catching on the walls.

It was impossible not to notice, really. The house wasn’t big, but it was full—every inch lined with framed moments of your life. Photos of you as a toddler with cake on your cheeks. You in a ballet costume, crooked tiara and scraped knees. School portraits from every year, perfectly lined up in a growing timeline of messy hair, braces, and bright smiles. A bulletin board near the staircase held your ribbons, certificates, a newspaper clipping from the high school debate team championship. Everything worn in but cared for—like none of it was ever forgotten.

“You’ve got… a lot of photos,” Jake murmured, blinking at one where you were holding a spelling bee trophy almost as big as your head.

You smiled sheepishly. “My mom’s kind of sentimental. She never takes anything down. Says the walls should feel like home.”

Jake nodded slowly. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

He moved further in, scanning the frames more closely. That’s when he noticed. Nestled between all the snapshots of you were other faces. Boys, mostly—some in college caps, others in football jerseys, one in what looked like a Marine uniform.

“Wait,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “You have siblings?”

You looked up from where you were peeling the plastic off a stack of paper plates. “Yeah. Three older brothers.”

Jake blinked again, like that didn’t quite compute. “Seriously? I figured you were an only child.”

You laughed. “Everyone does.”

His eyes lingered on a photo of you all together—probably one of the last ones before the goodbyes started. You were sandwiched between them, grinning up at the camera like you’d won the lottery. Your brothers were tall, broad-shouldered, each with the same warm brown eyes as your dad.

“That’s Ezra,” you said, pointing to the one in the navy blue hoodie. “He’s studying abroad right now. Germany, for architecture.”

Jake nodded, still staring.

“And that’s Micah and Levi. They both got scholarships out of state. One's in Oregon, the other's in New York. Music and robotics.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some family.”

You shrugged, setting the plates down on the coffee table as Bingo pawed at your ankle. “Yeah. We’re all kind of doing our own thing now. But they always call. My mom makes sure of it.”

He looked around again, slower this time. And something in his expression softened—not quite guilt, not quite wonder, but something close. Like he was realizing just how much he didn’t know. Like he was starting to see that you weren’t just the quiet girl with good notes and a crush. You were a whole world. You always have been.

He’d just never asked to see it.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Your mom set out spaghetti and meatballs, still warm in their glass dish, with garlic bread that made the kitchen smell like heaven. Your dad poured iced tea into mismatched mugs. The lights were cozy. The puppy circled under the table like he was part of the conversation, brushing up against Jake’s boots with little happy hops.

At first, Jake tried to excuse himself.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, already inching toward the door. “You’ve got family stuff, and I—”

But your dad clapped him on the shoulder before he could finish. “You’re already here, son. Might as well eat.”

Your mom chimed in without missing a beat. “Besides, it’s her birthday. You’re staying for cake.”

So he sat. And you sat beside him, still wearing your paper crown, cheeks flushed and puppy in your lap. You fed Bingo tiny bites of meatball under the table while your parents asked Jake polite questions—what he was studying, where he was from, if he liked flying. He answered all of them with that easy smile, but you could tell he was just a little stiff. A little too polite. Like he was waiting for the part where it got hard. Or loud. Or ugly.

It never came.

After dinner, your dad disappeared for a minute and came back with a cake—chocolate, thick with icing, “Happy Birthday Bug” scrawled in lopsided pink letters. A single candle stood in the center, already flickering.

“Make a wish,” your mom said, camera in hand.

You closed your eyes. Blew it out.

The room erupted in soft cheers and clapping, and Bingo barked once like he was part of the moment. You laughed, cheeks glowing. And then—click. Your mom snapped the photo.

“Wait, wait, let’s do one together,” she said. “C’mon, squeeze in.”

Jake shook his head, holding up his hands. “Oh, I’m good. Really.”

But your dad was already standing behind him, gently steering him back toward you. “You’re not getting out of this that easy. You're part of tonight, kid. Sit down.”

And before Jake could argue again, he was seated on the couch, sandwiched between you and your dad. Your mom was hovering over the phone camera, grinning wide. You were still holding Bingo, his paws tucked against your arm. The paper party hat tilted slightly on your head.

“Smile!” your mom called.

Jake did.

Sort of.

The camera clicked. Flash.

In that moment, something tightened in his chest—not panic, exactly. Just… something strange. Foreign. Like he’d been dropped into someone else’s memory. And now his face would live on your living room wall forever, next to spelling bees and ballet slippers and newspaper clippings.

He looked at you—arms full of puppy, crown still perched on your head, face soft with joy—and for the first time all night, he didn’t know what to say.

You told yourself it was fine.

That he was just… being a guy. Boys were like that with their friends—loud, teasing, a little reckless. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He was just trying to keep face in front of them. It wasn’t about you. Not really.

You told yourself that the nickname still meant something. Sunshine. He didn’t call anyone else that. He could’ve called you nerd, or PoliSci girl, or just you. But he didn’t. He smiled—kind of—and said Sunshine, like it was a secret. Like it was something only the two of you shared.

That had to count for something.

You told yourself that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t talk about you at all. That the fact he mentioned you meant you were on his mind. Even if it was just a joke, even if they laughed—he’d still said your name. Your story. Your cupcakes.

You told yourself that maybe he didn’t realize how it came off. Maybe he’d say something later. Apologize, or explain, or laugh it off and say, "You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?" Maybe he was just awkward. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he was afraid to like you out loud.

You repeated those maybes like they were prayers.

Because if you stopped for even one second—if you let yourself admit how small you’d felt standing in that circle, how cold your hands had gone, how fake your laugh sounded in your own ears—you’d have to face it.

You’d have to admit that he never really saw you. That you’d written a whole love story in your head and cast him as the lead without checking if he even wanted the part.

But you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

So you walked back across campus with your charger clutched to your chest and your phone buzzing in your pocket and your face still stretched in that practiced smile.

He likes me, you thought.

He just doesn’t know how to show it.

That night, you stared at your phone longer than you should have.

No text. No message. Not even a meme.

You weren’t expecting a love letter or anything. Just… something. A thank you. A hey, good to see you. Even a dumb joke about cupcakes or trivia or your little paper crown. Anything that said he remembered yesterday—that you weren’t just a background blur in his perfect little highlight reel.

But it stayed quiet. And that quiet felt louder than anything.

Still, you didn’t let it get to you. Not completely.

You told yourself he was busy. Labs and simulations and early flight rotations. He was tired. He probably passed out the moment he got home. You even convinced yourself he might be dreaming about you. That deep down, maybe, some part of him felt it too.

Because how could he not?

He’d let you into his orbit. He didn’t have to say yes to your birthday. Didn’t have to show up, or eat your mom’s spaghetti, or sit through trivia with Ms. Evelyn correcting his answers. He could’ve laughed it off. Ghosted. But he didn’t.

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

And sure—he’d made jokes. In front of his friends. Stupid, careless, sharp-edged jokes that made your chest twist and your smile freeze.

But that was just… fear. Right?

Boys were dumb when they liked someone. He didn’t want to look soft. That had to be it. He was protecting himself. You’d read about it, seen it in movies. The guy always jokes too much until he realizes he’s in too deep. Until he finally looks at the girl and sees her.

So maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough yet.

You could wait a little longer.

You’d already waited this long.

And if it hurts a little more each day… well. That was just part of falling, wasn’t it?

The days passed slower after that.

You still saw him, of course. He was hard to miss—loud laugh echoing in the hallway, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, girls looking at him like he was some walking dream. And maybe he was. Just not yours.

But you told yourself that was okay.

Because when he passed you in the quad and tossed you a half-smile, your heart still jumped. And when he sat two rows behind you in general ed and tapped his pen against the desk like he had no idea you were listening to the rhythm, you still wrote poems about it in the margins of your notebook.

You’d learned how to survive on crumbs.

When he nodded at you in passing, it became a paragraph in your head. When he said your name—even just once—you replayed it like a song. You filled in the silences with dreams. Decorated the nothing with meaning. Let him live inside your chest without paying rent.

And it wasn’t like he was cruel. Not really. He still laughed when you said something funny. Still accepted your notes when he forgot his. Still leaned just close enough for you to imagine what it would be like if he did it on purpose.

You didn’t mind that he never texted first. You didn’t mind that you always reached out. You didn’t mind that he still didn’t know your favorite color, or your middle name, or what you wanted to be after graduation.

You told yourself he’d ask. Eventually.

He just needed time.

And in the meantime, you’d keep being there. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Because the version of him that lived in your mind was warm. Sweet. Quietly in love with you in ways he just didn’t know how to show.

You weren’t delusional.

You were just patient.

It started as a normal afternoon.

You were leaving the library, arms full of books for your midterm paper, when you saw them. Jake and a few of his friends, lounging by the steps near the student center, all wearing matching flight jackets and cocky grins. They looked like they belonged in a movie—golden, loud, untouchable.

You hesitated, heart kicking up. Part of you wanted to turn around, walk the long way back. But then Jake saw you.

He waved. Waved.

So you smiled—of course you did—and made your way over, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

“Hey,” you said softly.

One of the guys leaned in, smirking. “Hey, it’s sunshine. Jake’s academic lifeline.”

You laughed, unsure if it was a compliment. “Just trying to keep him from failing.”

Another one chimed in. “Man, if I had someone do my essays and bake me cookies, I’d put a ring on it.”

You flushed. “I—I don’t bake that often. Just that one time.”

“Oh right,” the first one said, snickering. “That birthday thing. With the old people.”

Jake laughed.

You looked at him—expecting maybe a smirk, maybe a hey, knock it off. But he just shook his head and chuckled like it was all harmless fun.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “She even made me wear a party hat. Took a picture and everything.”

“She’s like a golden retriever,” someone muttered. “Loyal as hell. Always shows up.”

Another voice added, “Bet she’d help you move apartments and knit you a thank-you sweater.”

They all laughed.

You laughed, too.

But it caught in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself it was just teasing. That this was what friends did. Banter. Jokes. He wasn’t mocking you. Not really. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

But then Jake said, “She’s a sweetheart. Can’t get rid of her, even if I tried.”

And that—that—was the line.

It felt like someone poured ice water down your spine.

You smiled. You always smiled. But your grip tightened on your books, knuckles white. And you stepped back, just slightly. Enough that none of them noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

You weren’t the joke.

You couldn’t be.

You were the girl who helped. Who stayed. Who waited for the moment he’d finally wake up and see you.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t…then what were you?

You left before they could say anything else.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. You just laughed, said something about needing to get back to your paper, and walked away while their laughter still echoed behind you. Your smile stayed on your face until you turned the corner, until they couldn’t see you anymore.

Then it dropped.

You sat on the bench outside the language building, books stacked beside you, and stared down at your hands like they didn’t belong to you. Like if you just sat still enough, long enough, none of it would be real.

He didn’t mean it. He was just being funny. You were sweet. That wasn’t a bad thing. Right?

You tried to remember the look on his face. Had it been cruel? Mocking? Or just… blank? Neutral?

No. No, he smiled. He laughed. That meant something. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He wouldn’t.

You remembered the party hat. The picture. The way his shoulder had touched yours when your dad pulled him into that family photo. The way your puppy had licked his wrist and made him laugh, really laugh, for the first time that night.

That version of him—the one who said thank you, who ate your mom’s cooking, who let himself exist in your quiet little world—he was real, too.

Wasn’t he?

You pulled your phone out of your bag and stared at your messages.

Still nothing.

No sorry about earlier. No they were just messing around. No I didn’t mean it like that.

Just silence.

You wondered how long you’d be willing to wait for the version of Jake in your head to speak up.

And more than that…you wondered if he ever would.

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

Instead, you took the long way home. Past the engineering wing, past the old bookstore with the chipped awning, past the bench you used to sit at when you waited for Jake to finish class. You walked until the streetlamps turned on and the sky burned soft orange at the edges, and still—you didn’t cry.

Because crying meant something was real. And if you didn’t cry, maybe none of it was.

When you got home, your mom was in the kitchen, humming off-key and stirring something in a pot that smelled like tomato and thyme. She glanced over her shoulder when you walked in, eyes bright. “Hey, birthday girl.”

You smiled. Automatically. Like muscle memory. “Hey.”

She didn’t ask where you’d been. She never did. She trusted you too much to question things like that. Or maybe she just knew when not to press. There was something about mothers—they could feel sadness like a shift in the air, but they knew when to let you keep it close.

You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to your room. Bingo padded after you, tail wagging gently, like even he could sense that something inside you had gone quiet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, stared at the framed photo on your desk—the one from your party. You in your paper crown, Jake beside you, both of your parents smiling like the sun was trapped inside that little living room.

He looked stiff in the picture. Just slightly. Like he hadn’t quite figured out how to belong in the moment. But he was there. That had to count for something.

Didn’t it?

You whispered the same excuses into the silence you’d been chanting all week. He’s just scared. He’s not used to people like me. It’s easier to laugh than to feel.

But the words felt heavier now. Like stones on your tongue.

You looked at your phone again. Still nothing.

No missed calls. No messages. Not even a heart on the post your mom made with the picture.

You curled up beneath your blanket, arms around Bingo, his soft breath steady against your ribs.

And still—you didn’t cry.

But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

Because something inside you was beginning to whisper the thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you’d been fighting from the very start.

Maybe he never saw you at all.

You woke up before your alarm the next morning.

Not because of anything urgent. Just because your chest felt too full to sleep, like your body was quietly trying to tell you something your heart didn’t want to hear.

The sun was barely up, casting pale streaks across your ceiling. You stared at them for a while, tracing patterns with your eyes like they might spell out something worth holding onto.

Bingo was curled against your legs, warm and snoring gently. You didn’t move.

You thought about yesterday. About Jake’s voice, sharp with laughter. About the way his friends had looked at you like you were something between a novelty and a punchline. About the smile he wore when he called you loyal.

Like that was funny.

Like that was a flaw.

You told yourself again that he didn’t mean it. That he wasn’t cruel.

But the words weren’t sitting right anymore. They didn’t settle like they used to. They turned in your stomach, prickled at the corners of your thoughts.

Because deep down, you were starting to wonder if it wasn’t about him not knowing how to show it—if it was simply that he didn’t feel it in the first place.

He liked your help. He liked your notes. He liked the way you showed up, quietly, every time he needed something and never asked for anything in return.

But you? The you who stood outside that circle and laughed too late? The you who baked and wrote and stayed up fixing his grammar and believed—so foolishly believed—that one day he might just turn around and see you?

Maybe he didn’t like her at all.

And maybe he never would.

You pressed your face into the pillow and closed your eyes, breathing slow.

No tears. Not yet.

But you felt something shift—just the smallest crack in the glass.

The first fracture of goodbye.

It was a Thursday.

You’d spent the entire night helping Jake prep for his presentation. You’d practically rewritten half his slides, fixed his transitions, even printed out a stack of flashcards he never touched. You told yourself you didn’t mind. That this was what people did for each other. That he’d do the same for you, if things were reversed.

The event was packed. The auditorium buzzing with bodies—students, instructors, even a few recruiters from the nearby base. Everyone was dressed up, polished and bright. You found a seat near the back, clutching your notebook in your lap, stomach fluttering with nerves that weren’t even yours.

Jake looked good up there—confident, composed, all charm. He owned the stage with that easy smile of his, that flyboy arrogance that always made people lean in. He ran through his slides like he’d been born to do it. Sleek, effortless, golden.

Then someone asked a question.

A tricky one—about the ethical implications of drone use in modern airspace. Jake froze for just a beat. You knew the answer. You’d written a whole section on it for him. He just had to remember the notes. The phrasing.

Instead, he laughed.

“Well,” he said into the mic, smirking toward the crowd, “I’d have a real answer for you if my PoliSci tutor hadn’t been too busy planning bake sales this week.”

Laughter erupted.

Laughter.

You blinked.

It didn’t register at first. The way his voice curled around the word tutor. The way he didn’t look at you, but the whole room knew. Someone even turned around. Looked right at you. You could feel the eyes.

You sat there frozen. Still. Not breathing.

Because he could’ve said anything else. Could’ve deflected. Could’ve joked about the weather, or made something up. But instead, he chose you. To make the crowd laugh. To win back control.

He humiliated you. Publicly. On purpose.

You felt the heat rise in your chest—not warmth, not embarrassment. Something sharper. Something almost like anger, but drowned under the weight of disbelief.

Jake just kept going. Smooth. Unbothered. He didn’t even flinch.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you had stayed up until two in the morning making sure he didn’t fall on his face.

Because you had believed—still believed—that somewhere underneath all of that confidence was someone worth waiting for.

And now, sitting there in the back row, cheeks burning, heart sinking fast, you realized something you couldn’t un-feel.

He was never yours.

Not even close.

And you had never been his sunshine. Just his shadow.

You didn’t stay for the rest of the presentation.

You waited just long enough for the polite applause—just long enough to watch him smile and wave and bask in praise like he hadn’t just carved you open in front of fifty people.

Then you left.

You walked fast, out of the auditorium, down the hallway, out into the air that suddenly felt too sharp, too loud, too real. You didn’t know where you were going. You just had to go.

The sky was starting to turn gold, dipping into orange at the edges. Your feet carried you toward the quad without thinking, past people laughing, past someone skateboarding down the path with music blasting from a phone speaker. You moved like a ghost. Like someone only half-real.

Your stomach was hollow. Your hands were shaking.

You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw something. Or maybe all of it at once.

Instead, you sat on a bench. Stared down at your lap. And tried to understand.

Because it wasn’t like this was new. He’d teased you before. Let his friends say things. Laughed when they made jokes that left you blinking too hard, your throat closing around the truth.

But this? This was different.

This was cruel.

And the worst part was—you knew he knew it. He’d looked right at you when he said it, even if his eyes didn’t meet yours. He knew you were there. He chose you. You’d handed him everything—your time, your effort, your loyalty—and he used it as a punchline.

You pulled out your phone.

No messages.

No apologies.

Just silence.

And maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe it.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t trying to protect himself.

He just didn’t care.

He never did.

And you? You were the fool who mistook scraps for affection. Who mistook his silence for softness. Who thought that loving someone hard enough would make them see you.

You sat there until the sun dipped behind the buildings, the light fading into shadow. Bingo wasn’t with you. Your parents weren’t calling. No one was coming to find you.

And Jake?

Jake was probably still smiling.

You didn’t go to class the next day.

You told yourself you were just tired. Just needed a break. But when you passed your mirror on the way to the bathroom, you couldn’t quite meet your own eyes.

You looked small. Not in size—just in spirit. Dimmed somehow. Like someone had taken a sponge to your outline and blurred the edges.

The texts from your group chats went unanswered. A message from your professor popped up—Hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need an extension. You almost replied. You almost told the truth.

But then what would you say?

The boy I loved made me into a joke. And I let him. And now I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one prepares you for this part. Not the movies, not the books, not the Pinterest quotes about unrequited love. They don’t tell you how it feels to watch someone you cherished turn you into something disposable. Something laughable.

They don’t tell you that the worst heartbreak is the one you talked yourself into.

Because you’d defended him. Again and again. You’d brushed off every red flag, excused every offhand comment, convinced yourself that he was just scared or immature or confused. That eventually, he’d realize what you were worth.

But now?

Now you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not after the way he laughed. Not after the way they all laughed with him. Not after he took your loyalty—your love—and used it like a stage prop, like the punchline in a joke he didn’t even bother to make clever.

It wasn’t just the humiliation.

It was the choice.

He chose to hurt you. For a laugh. For a second of charm. For nothing.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a sweater you hadn’t realized was his—something he'd left in your bag weeks ago, after a group project. You stared at it for a long time, fingers curling around the fabric like it could still carry meaning.

Then, slowly, quietly, you folded it. Set it on your desk. You walked away.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something inside you—a belief, a dream, a soft little spark—finally went out.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened.

Not your roommates. Not your parents. Not even your favorite professor, the one who always stayed after lectures to ask how you were holding up. You just kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Like muscle memory. Like sleepwalking.

But your world had shifted.

Suddenly, everything reminded you of him.

The vending machine near the library—the one where you used to catch him between classes, grinning with two granola bars and zero clue what day of the week it was. The quad bench, where you once sat side by side, your notebook in his lap and your heart in your throat. Even the smell of cologne on someone else’s jacket made your stomach twist before your brain caught up.

It was everywhere.

And nowhere.

Because for all the space he took up in your head, in your life, in your heart—he had left you with nothing. Not even a “hey, sorry.” Not even a text to explain. Like what he did didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You wanted to hate him.

God, you wanted to.

But hate would’ve meant he still had power over you. That he still got to sit in the center of your emotions. And that felt too generous.

So instead… you began the slow work of forgetting.

You stopped opening his messages—when they came at all. You stopped checking to see if he’d be in class before you showed up. You stopped rehearsing conversations in your head where he apologized and you forgave him, tears and all, like some shitty campus romance novel.

You stopped wearing yellow. You deleted the photo from your birthday. You unfollowed his roommate. Then his sister. Then him.

It was like shedding a skin.

Painful. Awkward. Slow.

But necessary.

Because you couldn’t keep carrying him around. Not after he turned you into a caricature. Not after he fed you to a room full of strangers and laughed while you choked on your own silence.

You weren’t his sunshine.

You were a mirror. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see beauty or love or worth—he just saw his own reflection. And when it didn’t flatter him, he shattered it.

So you picked up what pieces you could.

And this time, you didn’t hand them back.

It happened on a rainy Sunday.

The kind of rain that didn’t pour—just fell soft and steady, like the sky was grieving with you. You sat in the kitchen with your mom and dad, their mugs steaming, your hands shaking as you clutched your own like a lifeline.

You didn’t know how to start. Not really.

So you just said, “I want to transfer.”

They both blinked. Looked at each other. Then back at you.

Your mom’s brows furrowed gently. “Sweetheart… is everything okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then tried again. “I just—I need to leave. This school. This place. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Your dad leaned forward, his expression steady but kind. “Did something happen?”

You swallowed. “Not… not exactly. I just—it doesn’t feel right anymore. The program, the people, everything. I thought I was happy. I thought I knew what I wanted, but—”

You stopped, breathed, kept going.

“Can we look into transferring? Maybe… out of state?”

Your mom reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “Of course. If this isn’t working, we’ll figure something else out.”

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just squeezed her hand and nodded, grateful and guilty all at once. You knew it was sudden. Knew you were asking a lot. But you also knew you couldn’t stay—not in a campus where everything reminded you of him. Of who you used to be.

You wanted space. A reset. A chance to become someone else.

Or maybe not someone else—just someone more.

Your dad cleared his throat gently. “Have you thought about what you’d switch into? Or are you just looking for a new campus?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tapped against the side of your mug, absently. A rhythm you didn’t recognize until much later.

“I’ve been thinking about something else,” you said, voice softer now. “A different path. Something more… structured. More focused.”

They didn’t press. Didn’t question. Your parents weren’t perfect, but they knew when to hold things gently. They didn’t need you to explain why you were asking. They just understood that you were.

And maybe that was enough.

Later that night, you sat by your bedroom window, listening to the rain and watching Bingo chase shadows in his sleep.

You didn’t know what came next.

But for the first time in weeks, your heart felt just a little quieter.

And beneath all the hurt, all the anger, all the shame—something else had begun to flicker.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe…purpose.

- Jake -

She wasn’t at the library.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Not that he’d been looking for her—he wasn’t. He was just cutting through the stacks, half a granola bar in his mouth, phone lighting up with a string of dumb texts from Coop about the weekend party. But she wasn’t there.

She was always there.

Tucked between the second and third aisles, back hunched over some worn-out political theory book, highlighter cap stuck between her teeth. Sometimes she'd wave. Sometimes she’d pretend not to see him. But she was there.

Today, the spot was empty.

He shrugged it off.

Maybe she had class. Maybe she’d finally decided to study somewhere else, like the normal students who didn’t have a desk reserved in the library by sheer force of will.

But then he didn’t see her in the quad either.

Or outside the café.

Or by the vending machine near the engineering wing where she always ended up somehow—wrong building, wrong class, always just there, arms full of papers and talking too fast about midterm deadlines like anyone else cared.

Weird.

And it got weirder when he sat down in class and the seat in the third row, second from the right, stayed empty.

That seat was never empty. Not even on days with surprise rain or fire alarms or whatever other dumb excuse half the class used to skip. She was always early. Always had a pen in her hand. Always offered him gum if he looked like he hadn’t slept.

He tapped his pencil against the desk. Checked the time.

Still nothing.

No backpack. No flash of yellow. No tired smile like she’d been up all night fixing someone else’s citations again.

He didn’t get it.

Sure, she was a little clingy. A little too available. Always orbiting a little too close. But she meant well. She always showed up. She always—

The professor started talking.

Jake blinked. Swore under his breath. His notes—he didn’t have them. She usually gave him a cheat sheet the day before. Color-coded, too. Where the hell was she?

After class, he stood outside for a beat longer than he needed to, scanning the crowd like maybe she’d just been running late. But she wasn’t there. Not in the hallway. Not by the stairs. Not on the bench where she sometimes sat reading those giant political memoirs like they were bedtime stories.

Nowhere.

It was weird.

And yeah, okay—he might be screwed if she didn’t show up by next week. He hadn’t started that ethics paper, and he sure as hell didn’t remember the case study they were supposed to cite. She usually reminded him.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

It was the quiet.

The lack of her.

He didn’t miss her. Not exactly. But the campus felt off without her in it. Like something small had shifted and he didn’t know what yet.

She’d always been around. Like background music you didn’t really notice until it stopped.

And now?

Now it was silent.

Jake didn’t know why he went.

It was almost midnight. The campus was dead quiet, the air humid and thick, streetlights glowing in broken halos as he drove without thinking—just letting muscle memory steer the wheel. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. He figured she’d be there. She always was.

Her house sat at the edge of that quiet little neighborhood near the hospital—white fence, trimmed lawn, porch light glowing like always. He parked sloppily at the curb, engine still ticking as he climbed out, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

He just knew he was tired of the weirdness. Tired of walking into class and seeing her seat empty. Tired of not getting his damn notes. Tired of whatever this was.

He rang the bell once.

No answer.

Then he knocked—harder this time, sharper, the way he did when Coop was ignoring him on purpose.

The door opened after a moment.

And there she was.

Hair tied up messily, hoodie way too big, eyes red like maybe she’d been crying. Or maybe she hadn’t slept. The living room behind her was dark except for one dim lamp. A half-empty cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.

The puppy—Bingo, or whatever stupid name it had—perked up on the couch, then settled again.

She blinked at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. Like he was something she thought she’d finally let go of.

Jake shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shifted his weight. “You weren’t in class.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or the library. Or anywhere, actually,” he added, voice sharp. “Kinda hard to finish my paper when my PoliSci encyclopedia disappears off the map.”

That made her flinch—just barely—but he caught it.

Good.

She opened the door a little wider but didn’t move aside. “Why are you here, Jake?”

The way she said his name—flat, quiet, tired—itched under his skin.

“I just told you. You ghosted. No heads-up, no nothing. You think I don’t notice?”

She let out a breath. “You don’t notice anything.”

And something about that—something in her tone, in the way she looked at him like he was a stranger—lit a fuse in his chest.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped back finally, letting him in. But her body language was rigid, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

Jake walked in, took one look around—the neatness, the warmth, the family photos—and felt like he was choking on something invisible. Something sweet. Something that didn’t belong to him.

“You’re seriously gonna act like I did something wrong?” he snapped, turning to her. “I didn’t ask you to worship the ground I walked on. I didn’t beg you to fix my papers or follow me around like a goddamn puppy.”

Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you weren’t obsessed. You made yourself useful, and now you’re mad I didn’t bow down in return?”

She stared at him, mouth parted, trembling. “I cared about you.”

“Yeah?” he said, and the laugh that escaped his throat was ugly. Bitter. “Well, newsflash—I don’t owe you anything for that.”

Silence.

Thick. Ugly. Shattering.

Then—crack.

The slap hit harder than he expected.

His head jerked slightly to the side, the sting blooming hot across his cheek. He blinked, stunned—not because of the pain, but because she did it.

Her hand dropped, shaking. Her breath came out in broken gasps. Her eyes flooded instantly, fat tears slipping down her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you don’t owe me anything. But I gave it anyway. Because I thought—God, I thought if I loved you quietly enough, maybe one day you’d look at me like I was real.”

Jake opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She took a shaky step back. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You don’t know what I study, what I like, what I want. You don’t know anything except how to take. And I let you.”

She wiped her face now, not to hide the tears but just to breathe.

“I let you turn me into a background character in my own life.”

He stared at her.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know why his chest was tight or why the sight of her crying in the middle of her perfectly lived-in home made his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You should go,” she said, voice flat now. Steady.

Jake took a breath, but it felt jagged.

He nodded once.

No apology.

No goodbye.

Just the echo of the door closing behind him and the knowledge that for the first time since she’d walked into his orbit—

she was done.

Jake didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He kept replaying the slap. Her voice, cracked and shaking. The way she looked at him—like he’d gutted something soft and sacred inside her, like she didn’t even recognize him anymore. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe he didn’t either.

He told himself he hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not so sharp. Not so cruel.

But what the hell else was there to mean?

He didn’t know what he wanted when he got in his truck. He just… needed to see her. Say something. Fix it, maybe. Or at least explain.

The street was quiet when he pulled up. Morning sun creeping through the trees. Her porch looked the same—flowerpots, wind chimes, the little ceramic puppy bowl still tucked by the door. Familiar. Safe.

He stepped up and rang the bell, palms sweating.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Her mom stood there, still in her robe, her hair pulled back, a mug of coffee in hand. She blinked, surprised. “Jake?”

He straightened. “Hi, Mrs. [Last Name]. Uh—I was wondering if… if she’s home.”

Something flickered across her face. A pause. A softness. And maybe—just maybe—a hint of regret.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she said gently, like she was about to tell him someone died. “I thought she told you.”

His heart slowed. “Told me what?”

“She transferred,” her mom said with a small, sad smile. “Packed everything and left last night. Got accepted into a program out of state. It was sudden, but… she seemed sure.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Gone?

Just like that?

“No warning?” he asked, the question barely making it out.

She frowned faintly, looking confused. “I assumed you knew. I thought you two were close. She didn’t say much. Just that it was time. She seemed… tired. But she’s happy. I guess that’s the word.”

Jake couldn’t breathe. Not properly. He looked past her, into the house. Same furniture. Same hallway. But empty.

No yellow hoodie draped on the back of the chair.

No stack of textbooks on the coffee table.

No Bingo barking like a maniac at the door.

Gone.

She was really gone.

Her mom sighed and stepped aside a little, like she wasn’t sure what else to do. “I’m sorry, Jake. I wish I could tell you more. I don’t know what happened between you two, but… I hope you’re okay.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

A lie. So flat it felt like it burned.

She nodded. “Well. If you ever need anything, we’re still here. Take care, alright?”

The door closed gently. Not slamming. Not shutting him out.

But final.

Jake stood there for a full minute, staring at the place where she used to be.

She’d loved him—quietly, stupidly, endlessly.

And when he finally turned around to look?

She was already gone.

“Earth to Hangman!”

Rooster’s voice sliced through the noise, his fingers snapping twice in front of Jake’s face.

Jake blinked.

The bar snapped back into focus—glasses clinking, pool cues cracking, Penny’s voice somewhere near the jukebox calling out an order. The low thrum of a Fleetwood Mac song spun lazily through the air, mixing with the laughter of pilots who’d made it through another mission, another day.

He shifted in his seat, realizing he’d been staring at his beer for who-knew-how-long.

“Jesus, man,” Payback muttered, leaning on the bar beside him. “You looked like you were having an out-of-body experience.”

“Did you forget where you parked your ego?” Fanboy added, grinning into his drink.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose and smirked, letting the default arrogance snap back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Just tuning out your voice. Didn’t realize I’d need earplugs on my night off.”

“Real original,” Rooster muttered, but he was still grinning.

Phoenix rolled her eyes from across the table. “What’s the matter, Hangman? Someone finally beat you at darts? Or are you just sulking ‘cause the bartender gave your usual to someone hotter?”

“Maybe he’s thinking about someone special,” Bob said softly, then immediately flushed when everyone turned to him.

“Aww,” Fanboy teased. “You’re blushing, Bobby. You projecting or something?”

Jake laughed along with them—sharp, smooth, a little too loud.

But inside? He was still standing on that front porch, staring at a house that no longer held her.

He didn’t even remember what someone had said that triggered it. Maybe Phoenix had mentioned something about transfer paperwork. Maybe Rooster had told a story about an old friend who disappeared after college. Maybe it was nothing at all—just the sound of a voice, a chord in a song, a flash of yellow from someone’s hoodie at the bar.

Whatever it was, it hit like a sucker punch.

He hadn’t thought about her in a while. Not seriously. Not like that. He’d shoved it down—buried her between flight briefings and adrenaline highs and the praise of being the best in the sky.

But some ghosts didn’t stay buried.

Jake shook his head and raised his glass, voice smooth again. “Y’all are acting like I’ve got some dark secret. Hate to break it to you, but I’m just tired of carrying this whole squad on my back.”

The group groaned in collective protest, tossing fries at him, flipping him off, throwing more jabs his way.

He leaned back, grin practiced. Easy. Untouchable.

But he didn’t laugh this time.

Not really.

Because the truth sat there, right beneath his ribs, quiet and unshakable.

She’d been gone for years.

And he still hadn’t forgiven himself for noticing too late.

“You guys hear what Mav said earlier?” Coyote asked, nudging his beer bottle in a slow spin across the table. “About someone joining us tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, sitting forward. “Apparently it’s someone high up. Real decorated.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Higher rank than us, huh? What’d he say? Lieutenant Commander? Captain?”

“Didn’t say,” Payback replied. “Just said they’re experienced, important, and we better have our shit together.”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to scare us,” Fanboy joked. “What’s next? We get a briefing from a Rear Admiral with a death glare and a coffee addiction?”

Phoenix snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst we’ve had.”

“Could be Navy Intel,” Bob added quietly. “Or maybe a specialist. Someone brought in for mission design.”

Rooster leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe it’s a Top Gun legend. Someone who makes Maverick look like a rookie.”

“Unlikely,” Hangman muttered.

But his voice was distant. Hollow.

The banter buzzed around him—jokes flying, theories stacking—but Jake had barely moved. He was still nursing the same beer, head tilted slightly, gaze locked on nothing in particular.

Because something about the way Maverick said it earlier that morning had itched at the back of Jake’s mind.

“This person’s not just smart. They’re sharp. Respected. You’ll recognize the name.”

He hadn’t thought much of it then—just another big-shot to brief them, maybe fly one or two training rounds and disappear.

But now?

Now his gut twisted.

There was something wrong about this kind of silence. The way Mav didn’t give them a name. Didn’t give them a face. And usually, when Maverick kept details under wraps like that—it meant the surprise was personal.

Very personal.

“What do you think, Hangman?” Rooster asked, kicking his boot lightly under the table. “Think we’re about to be out-ranked by some crusty war hero with a cane and a vendetta?”

Jake forced a grin. “Nah. Probably just someone with twice your IQ and a cleaner flight record.”

They all groaned and swatted at him again, but Jake barely felt the energy.

His skin prickled. A chill slithered across the back of his neck, even as the sun dipped lower outside, streaking the windows gold.

Someone important.

Someone they’d recognize.

Jake swallowed hard.

He had a bad feeling he already did.

The door creaked open with that familiar Hard Deck jingle, followed by the low rumble of boots hitting wood.

“Speak of the devil,” Rooster muttered, turning his head as four familiar faces walked in.

Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz.

More Top Gun grads. Tight-knit. Dangerous in the air. Trouble on the ground.

“Great,” Phoenix deadpanned. “Just when I was having fun.”

“They let you guys back in here?” Fanboy called out.

“Relax,” Halo said, lifting two fingers in mock peace as they made their way over. “We’re off-duty. For now.”

Fritz was already heading for their table, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he tossed his flight jacket over the back of a chair.

“You guys hear the rumor?” he asked, voice low, grin way too smug for comfort.

Jake raised a brow. “What rumor?”

Fritz leaned in like he was about to tell them state secrets. “About who’s coming tomorrow.”

The Dagger Squad went quiet. Not frozen—but that slow shift into alertness. Rooster set his drink down. Bob sat up straighter. Even Phoenix stopped twirling the straw in her soda.

“You know who it is?” Coyote asked.

“No name yet,” Harvard jumped in. “But they’re saying it’s someone big. Like, Navy-shifting big.”

“They said we’ll recognize the name,” Yale added, clearly enjoying the tension building in the room. “And that this person’s been operating under special orders. Off-grid. For years.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. That itch in his spine was back. Crawling now.

Fritz dropped the bomb like it was casual gossip.

“Word is—Mav might be getting replaced.”

Dead silence.

Not even the jukebox seemed to be playing anymore.

Jake blinked. “What?”

Fritz shrugged, sipping his beer. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Apparently this new arrival’s got the credentials, the combat record, and the connections. Might be coming in to evaluate Mav’s leadership. Maybe even take command.”

“No one replaces Mav,” Phoenix said flatly, but there was a beat of hesitation. “Right?”

“Unless command thinks he’s getting too soft,” Halo offered, clearly enjoying the drama.

“He’s not soft,” Rooster snapped.

“No, but,” Harvard said slowly, “he’s Maverick. Which means he pisses off every third admiral just by breathing.”

The weight of it sank in.

Someone important. Someone respected. Someone they’d recognize.

And now… maybe someone powerful enough to take Mav’s spot?

Jake’s stomach coiled.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just a name or a face.

It was someone coming to shake the cage.

Someone who’d left a scar deep enough to still ache under his skin.

Someone who disappeared before he could ever make it right.

Jake didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the melting ice in his glass.

And for the first time in a long time, Hangman didn’t feel like the guy with all the answers.

“You’re all acting like we’re getting replaced by God,” Jake said, tipping back in his chair, boots hooked on the table leg. “Relax. Whoever it is probably files paperwork better than they fly.”

“Ohh, big words from the golden boy,” Rooster muttered, raising his brows. “What if they’re better than you?”

Jake grinned, sharp and smug. “No such thing.”

“Right,” Phoenix drawled. “Because your ego wouldn’t allow it.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat.

Coyote snorted. “Okay, but think about it. What if it’s someone insane? Like ex-NSA, flew in Black Ops, has a call sign that got classified?”

Fanboy leaned forward, all dramatic. “What if it’s someone with like… seventeen confirmed kills and a face that makes grown men cry?”

“Sounds like a Disney villain,” Bob said quietly.

“I’m just saying,” Fritz added, slapping his beer down. “If they’re coming in hot enough to maybe replace Maverick, they’re not gonna be your average Top Gun grad. That’s like—nuclear level.”

“Maybe it’s Cyclone’s secret kid,” Halo said, eyes wide. “Raised on steel and shame. Sent to destroy Maverick for breaking too many rules.”

“Jesus,” Phoenix laughed. “Are we writing a soap opera now?”

Jake just smirked, but he was leaning in now—interested, if not worried.

“Whoever they are, I give it two days before they choke trying to keep up,” he said, spinning his beer bottle between two fingers. “No one flies like we do. Mav picked us for a reason.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Cocky much?”

Jake pointed. “Confident. There’s a difference.”

Harvard looked around the table. “Seriously though, y’all aren’t even a little nervous?”

There was a beat of silence.

Rooster shrugged. “I mean, it’s weird. They didn’t give us any info.”

“Exactly,” Yale said. “And Maverick’s been acting cagey.”

Jake stretched, draping his arm over the back of his chair like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. “Maybe they just want to keep us on our toes. Keep the best sharp.”

“You think they’re doing this for you, don’t you?” Phoenix asked, deadpan.

Jake shrugged. “Can’t blame ‘em. I’d want to rattle me too.”

“Man thinks he’s the main character,” Fanboy muttered.

Bob smiled into his drink. “Hangman probably hopes it’s someone he can beat in a dogfight.”

Jake leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Hope? No, Bob. I’m counting on it.”

“Imagine,” Coyote said with a laugh, “it’s some tiny person who just walks in and makes you look like a rookie.”

Jake chuckled. “The day someone walks into that hangar and out-flies me is the day I kiss Rooster’s mustache and call it destiny.”

Everyone groaned at once.

“No one asked for that mental image,” Phoenix said, covering her face.

Rooster made a gagging sound. “Try it and I’ll throw you into the ocean, Hangman.”

Jake was halfway into another cocky retort when Payback—who’d been silent for most of the conversation, nursing his drink with the patience of a man watching children self-destruct—finally spoke up.

“Y’all are doing a lot of barking for people who don’t even know who’s walking through that door tomorrow.”

The table paused.

Payback didn’t look up, just swirled the ice in his glass, like he wasn’t dropping a quiet nuke.

Phoenix blinked. “Damn, man. That was ominous as hell.”

He raised a brow. “I’m just saying. You can laugh all you want, but whoever’s coming in? Mav respects them. Enough to not tell us anything. That doesn’t sound like just a transfer to me.”

Coyote leaned back slowly. “What if they’re here to evaluate us, not just Mav?”

Bob looked mildly alarmed. “Like… as a unit?”

Fritz whistled. “What if they’re our new squad lead?”

Jake scoffed. “Mav wouldn’t do that. He’d say something.”

“Would he though?” Halo asked, sipping her beer. “If he thought it would make you fly sharper?”

“You all sound scared,” Jake said, pushing his chair back on two legs again. “Like someone’s gonna come in and kick you out of the sky.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “And you’re not?”

Jake just smirked. “Whoever it is, they’ll either learn or crash trying to keep up. I’ll give ‘em a soft landing.”

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Rooster muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“Always,” Jake fired back, flashing that signature grin.

But Payback wasn’t done.

He finally looked up. Met Jake’s eyes—steady, unreadable.

“Sometimes the ones you don’t see coming hit the hardest.”

And just like that, the noise at the table dulled.

Jake held his gaze for a second too long before he scoffed and looked away.

“Whatever. Let ‘em come.”

But the chill down his spine didn’t leave.

Because he was Hangman. Untouchable. Unbothered. Right?

…Right?

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The morning sun hadn’t even cleared the hangar roof when the squad assembled—flight suits zipped, dog tags tucked, postures stiff with expectation.

The detachment hangar echoed with the click of boots and murmured voices. Rooster cracked his neck. Phoenix sipped burnt coffee. Bob kept checking his clipboard even though nothing had changed. Hangman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t already calculating who was gonna blink first when the so-called legends arrived.

And then—Warlock stepped in.

The room straightened like one body.

He moved like a man who didn’t waste steps. Every inch of his uniform was razor-cut perfection, ribbons gleaming in the gray light. His eyes swept over the group, sharp and unreadable.

“Good morning, aviators,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “At ease.”

A collective breath released.

Warlock stood at the front like he owned the silence. His hands clasped behind his back. His tone steady—but heavy.

“You’ve all been called back for one reason,” he began. “Because you’re the best. Because you were trained by the best. And because the Navy needs you—again.”

He paused just long enough to let the weight of it settle. No one moved. No one spoke.

Jake resisted the urge to yawn, but even he couldn’t fake indifference. Not with the way Warlock’s voice carried now—like something big was shifting.

“Today, we’re joined by a unit the Navy considers indispensable. Specialists. Graduates of Top Gun, yes—but far more than that.”

Heads tilted. Eyes flicked sideways.

Warlock didn’t budge.

“They’ve served internationally. Led black ops we’ll never read about. Advised on global defense protocols. Trained squadrons on three continents. And most recently—hand-selected by Pentagon leadership to support strategic restructure initiatives across branches.”

Jake blinked. That wasn’t just credentials. That was… another league.

“They’re not here to replace you,” Warlock continued. “But they are here with purpose. Consider them embedded observers. Tactical partners. And yes—commanding officers.”

A visible shift rippled through the squad.

Bob stiffened.

Coyote muttered something under his breath.

Phoenix’s jaw tightened.

Jake? He furrowed his brow just slightly, arms still crossed. Higher rank. Embedded. Top Gun grads. Tactical partners?

Before he could piece it together, Warlock turned slightly—and in stepped three figures.

They walked in with the kind of silence that screamed power. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. No smiles. No introductions.

Two men. One woman.

Flight suits. Command patches. No unnecessary flair—but something about their presence made even Rooster straighten taller.

They took their seats without a word.

Warlock nodded once, then turned back to the squad.

“You’ll work with them. You’ll learn from them. And you’ll fly like your life depends on it—because soon, it just might.”

He stepped aside.

Silence.

Chairs scraped as the Dagger Squad slowly sat down, still side-eyeing the new arrivals like they were bombs waiting to detonate.

Jake leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

Who the hell were they?

And why did something in his chest feel like it was getting ready to collapse?

He didn’t know yet.

But he was about to.

The steel doors groaned open again.

And then he appeared—Cyclone, in full dress blues, cap under one arm, face carved from stone.

The air changed the second he entered. Warlock shifted subtly to the side. Hondo straightened where he stood near the back, arms folded. And Maverick—late as always—stepped in behind them, as if he'd known exactly when to arrive without being told.

Jake saw Rooster tense beside him. Phoenix didn’t even blink. Everyone knew what it meant when Cyclone entered with that face.

The storm was already rolling.

Cyclone stepped forward, taking his place beside Warlock and in full view of the squad. His gaze swept over them once, sharp and slow.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “The individuals you see seated beside you hold higher rank, more hours logged, and more confirmed kills than most of you combined.”

He paused. No one breathed.

“They have led squadrons into classified airspace. They have written protocols you use. And they have the authority to overrule damn near every one of you—including your training officer.”

His eyes flicked sideways, right at Maverick.

Jake swore he saw Mav smirk. The man had no sense of self-preservation.

Cyclone turned back to the room. “So, if any of you feel the need to crack jokes, roll your eyes, or question why these officers are here, I suggest you stow it. You will address them with respect. You will fly when they say fly. And if you embarrass this detachment—God help you.”

His words landed like blades.

Jake leaned back slightly, finally pulling his arms off his chest. There was no charm slick enough to wriggle past that tone. Not from Cyclone.

Still, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Maverick stepped forward, casual as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He was in his flight suit already—dog tags glinting, expression calm.

“Appreciate the warning, sir,” Mav said with that cool, confident lilt. “But I think you’ll find this group learns faster when they’re not being barked at.”

Cyclone sighed. “Maverick.”

“Hondo,” Mav said, ignoring him, nodding toward the man standing nearby.

“Captain,” Hondo greeted, trying not to smile.

Maverick turned to face the squad now, taking center stage like it was second nature.

Jake watched him closely—because if there was anyone who could casually deliver a speech while standing in a pressure cooker, it was Maverick.

“I know you’ve all been wondering who’s joining us,” he started, voice steady. “I won’t lie—when I heard the Navy was embedding them, I had questions too.”

He glanced toward the three seated officers, not in challenge—but in something closer to... respect. Maybe even wariness.

“These aren’t rookies. They’re not here to play nice or hand out gold stars. They're here because the Navy wants results.”

Another pause.

“They’re also not here to replace me,” he added lightly, though the smile that tugged at his mouth was short-lived. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to outfly them.”

A few of the pilots chuckled under their breath.

Maverick took another step forward. “You’ll be flying tighter. Harder. And faster than you’ve flown in months. You’ll be critiqued. Corrected. Maybe outmatched.”

He looked straight at Hangman now.

Jake’s spine locked, jaw tightening instinctively.

“And if that bruises your ego,” Mav finished, “then I suggest you start building some calluses.”

He nodded once, then stepped back in line beside Warlock and Hondo.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was coiled.

Every pilot in that hangar knew something had just shifted.

Three strangers. Higher rank. Total silence.

And tomorrow? The games began.

Jake didn’t know who they were. Didn’t know why they were here. Didn’t know what they were capable of.

But damn if he wasn’t ready to prove he was still the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Whoever they were—he’d make them blink first.

Cyclone took a step forward, squaring his shoulders like the weight of the Navy rested neatly across his spine—and maybe it did.

“You’ve all been through Top Gun,” he said, voice precise, unwavering. “You’ve flown against the best. You’ve survived the impossible. And most of you carry that like it’s enough.”

The room held still. Not a fidget. Not a breath out of place.

Jake’s smirk had vanished. His hands now rested on his knees, back ramrod straight, eyes forward. He knew this tone. This was the serious Cyclone. No theatrics. No margin for error.

“But surviving once doesn’t make you infallible,” the admiral continued, eyes sweeping across the squad. “Flying one mission doesn’t make you elite forever. The world doesn’t stop because you made it home.”

His voice dropped slightly, the edge hardening.

“Which is why the Navy doesn’t just want warriors in the air. We want tacticians. Innovators. People who don’t wait for orders—they anticipate them.”

Cyclone’s gaze locked briefly with Phoenix, then Fanboy, then Jake. A slow assessment. A subtle challenge.

“These individuals—our guests—represent a standard that goes beyond what you’ve known. Their mission history is sealed. Their ranks earned in blood and black ink. They’ve served in joint task forces across the globe. And above all—”

The heavy hangar doors creaked open behind them.

Loud. Slow. A deliberate sound that echoed off the walls like a warning bell.

Jake heard it.

They all did.

But no one turned around.

Not even Rooster—who turned at everything.

Because Cyclone was still talking. And when an admiral is speaking, you don’t break rank to look behind you. Not unless you’re ready to kiss your wings goodbye.

Jake’s heart picked up speed anyway. That itch again, low in his ribs. The kind that said something wasn’t normal.

Cyclone barely paused at the interruption. Not a glance back. Not even a tick in his tone.

He just kept going—like he knew who was behind them.

“They hold the trust of Joint Command. They’ve written policy most of you don’t even realize you’re following. And tomorrow—they’ll fly with you.”

Another pause.

Jake felt it. That burn at the back of his neck. That presence behind him. Footsteps soft, intentional. Three shadows crossing the threshold like ghosts.

Still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

Cyclone’s voice, still steady, cut through the moment like a scalpel.

“Until they introduce themselves—they don’t owe you anything. Not a name. Not a smile. Not even a nod.”

The squad sat frozen.

And somewhere behind them, three chairs were pulled out.

Three seats filled.

Jake’s jaw twitched.

He still didn’t know what was coming.

But whatever it was?

It just walked into the room.

Cyclone’s gaze swept the hangar once more, the kind of gaze that made even seasoned pilots sit straighter. His voice carried clean across the open space, no microphone needed.

“You’ve all heard rumors,” he said, every syllable sharpened like a blade. “Today, those rumors meet reality.”

No one moved. Even the restless ones—Harvard, Fritz, Coyote—were locked in, eyes forward, spines tight. Maverick stood at the side now, arms folded, silent but watchful. Jake could feel the tension spiderwebbing through the room, subtle but unmistakable, pulling at his nerves like a thread.

“These three officers are not here to be your mentors, nor your friends,” Cyclone continued. “They’ve been assigned joint operational authority, and they’ve seen more combat, managed more pilots, and rewritten more doctrine than most of you will in your entire careers.”

Jake didn’t blink. He wanted to scoff—wanted to—but something about the admiral’s tone made even his usual sarcasm stick like stone in his throat.

Cyclone took a breath. “First—Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer. Call sign: Jinx.”

One of the seated officers stood, his movements smooth and economical. Jinx had the air of a man who didn’t need to try hard to be the smartest in the room—he just was. His dark hair was trimmed regulation-short, his jaw shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble, and his stare—sharp, cool, unreadable—swept across the squad like a surgical light.

“Mercer’s logged thousands of hours in foreign airspace. Tactical infiltration, stealth coordination, and psychological pattern disruption. He’s the pilot we send in when the map doesn’t work anymore,” Cyclone said. “He’s also ranked top-five in split-second tactical reversals—don’t bother trying to beat him in a turn.”

Jinx gave a single, small nod, then stepped aside and stood off to the left. The air around him felt colder somehow, like he carried a different pressure system with him.

Cyclone didn’t wait for the tension to ease.

“Second,” he said, with a slight nod toward the remaining seated officer, “Commander Theo Hale. Call sign: Ruin.”

Ruin stood slowly. Where Jinx was precision, Hale was presence. Broader, older, his eyes were shadowed but watchful, like someone who had lived through too many things and survived them all. His steps were deliberate as he moved to stand beside Jinx, shoulders squared and arms loosely folded.

“Ruin has led recovery and retaliation ops across three continents. He has extracted downed pilots under live fire, and when protocol fails, he writes new ones in the field,” Cyclone said, his tone unwavering. “If the mission falls apart, this is the man they call to put the pieces back together—or destroy what’s left.”

No response. No smirk. Just a subtle nod of acknowledgment from Ruin, his gaze sweeping the squad like he was already calculating who wouldn’t make it through.

Jake exhaled through his nose, slowly. These weren’t just good pilots. These were ghosts. Legends in uniform. Men the Navy brought in when everything else had already gone to hell.

And then—Cyclone’s posture shifted just slightly.

“And finally,” he said, a new edge entering his tone, “Commander (Your Name) (Last Name). Call sign: Rogue.”

She stood.

Jake’s stomach dropped before he understood why.

The sound of her boots hitting the floor was sharp and clean, cutting through the quiet like a blade. She didn’t move like someone trying to impress a room. She moved like someone who already owned it. Her chin was high, her flight suit immaculate, and her eyes—god, her eyes—didn’t flicker once as she stepped into the center light.

It was her.

The girl he used to forget. The one he barely noticed.

The one who used to bring him coffee and flashcards and nervous laughter—and now looked like she could order a missile strike with one raised eyebrow.

Jake’s lungs stalled. She didn’t even glance at him.

Cyclone kept going. “Rogue is the Navy’s youngest strategic operations commander. Her combat and advisory records are protected under restricted access codes. She’s been stationed on black-zone carriers, coordinated global strike exercises, and earned her Distinguished Service Medal at twenty-eight.”

No one in the room moved. Jake didn’t even realize his jaw was tight until his teeth ached.

“She will be your senior embedded officer,” Cyclone finished. “Any decisions she makes regarding your performance, readiness, or flight status are final. You will address her as Commander or Rogue—and you will not underestimate her.”

She stood between Ruin and Jinx like she belonged there. Like she’d never been anyone else.

And Jake?

Jake sat still, watching her like a ghost had just climbed out of his past and took command of his entire world.

She didn’t even blink.

Jake didn’t hear the rest of Cyclone’s words. Didn’t register the murmurs rolling through the squad, didn’t flinch at the subtle creak of Maverick crossing his arms beside Warlock. The buzz of conversation had faded to a low hum in the back of his skull.

He was staring at her.

Eyes locked like a target he didn’t mean to track. Muscles tight. Breath slow. Something in his chest had gone still, caught between memory and disbelief.

She stood there—Commander Rogue—like she belonged in the middle of war stories and classified briefings. Like she’d never once blushed under library lighting or stumbled through a birthday invite with homemade cookies wrapped in tissue paper. The girl he remembered had notebooks stained with highlighter and coffee rings, a shy smile, and the kind of laugh that didn’t know how to hide its hope.

This woman? She had fire in her spine and stars on her collar. And not once—not for a single second—did she look at him.

Jake’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t move.

She hadn’t even blinked in his direction. Hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t done a double take. And that, somehow, was the worst part.

Because Jake Seresin—cocky, charming, always two steps ahead—was suddenly just a face in the crowd.

He tried to tell himself it was shock. That it didn’t mean anything. That he didn’t care.

But the truth settled low in his gut like a weight he hadn’t noticed until now. She didn’t look nervous. Or awkward. Or out of place. She didn’t look like the girl who used to wait for him outside lecture halls with hopeful eyes.

She looked like she’d forgotten him.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most. Not that she was different, not that she outranked him now. But that she didn’t even need to look twice.

Commander Rogue.

The girl who once waited for him.

Now the woman who walked right past.

She hadn’t changed. And yet—she had.

Jake couldn’t stop staring, his gaze tracing over every sharp line, every familiar curve turned foreign under the weight of time. Her jaw was more defined now, no longer soft with youth but set with quiet strength. Her shoulders, squared with practiced discipline, didn’t carry the same hesitant curve they once had when she’d shrink beneath his sideways glances. No oversized hoodie. No spiral-bound notebook pressed to her chest. Just a flight suit, clean and creased, and a calmness that didn’t bend.

Her hair was pinned back, neat and strict beneath her regulation cap, but he could still remember the way it used to fall in front of her face when she leaned over his laptop to edit his papers for him. She had that same tilt to her head, that same posture of control—but now it wasn’t shy, it was sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked unshakable.

Jake’s eyes narrowed just slightly, disbelief curling in his gut like a slow burn. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t her. Maybe it was just the name. People shared names all the time—right? He’d probably met three Ashleys last week alone. Could be coincidence. Could be nothing.

But then—

Then there was the way she stood.

That little pause in her step before Cyclone said her name, the same way she used to freeze when her name was called in class, like her brain had to double-check that someone was actually saying it. That subtle bite of her bottom lip—she still did that. A nervous tell. The same one she had when she handed him a flash drive with his project already formatted because “you always forget the citations, Jake.”

God.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, slowly, like it might smother the memory.

It had to be her.

But how? How the hell had she gone from PoliSci major with trembling hands and wide eyes to Commander Rogue?

And why did his chest feel so damn tight?

Jake sat there, stunned, every excuse he reached for slipping like oil through his fingers. Maybe she wasn’t the same girl. Maybe she was just someone who looked like her. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His mind was good at rewriting stories when they made him look bad. But this?

This wasn’t a story.

She was real.

She was right in front of him.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

Jake was still staring.

Still trying to force logic into something that had none. His brain looped through possibilities like they were checklists: Same name, maybe. Long-lost cousin, maybe. Government clone, hell, maybe. Anything to explain the impossible without confronting what was staring him in the face.

Then—right beside him—Rooster leaned slightly in his seat and muttered under his breath with a low, impressed whistle.

“God,” he said, barely above a whisper, “she’s hot.”

Jake snapped his head toward him so fast his neck popped.

“What did you just say?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Or maybe he did mean them that sharp.

Rooster blinked, caught off guard, eyes narrowing like Jake had just challenged him over the last wing at the Hard Deck. “What, man? I said she’s hot. It’s not a crime.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a moment, he almost replied with something stupid. Something defensive. Something that would've given everything away.

But before he could speak, a voice cut through the hangar like a whipcrack.

“Lieutenants.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Commander Ruin’s voice had that same weight a teacher used when they’d caught a student mid-eye roll during a lecture. Cold. Controlled. Designed to humiliate you just enough.

Jake turned his head slowly, along with Rooster and half the squad, all trying to act like they hadn’t just been called out in front of literal legends.

Ruin hadn’t moved from his place at the front, arms folded neatly across his chest, expression unreadable.

“If the conversation is more engaging than the briefing,” Ruin said, cool and clipped, “you’re welcome to step outside and discuss your thoughts where you’re not wasting our time.”

Jake felt the flush crawl up his neck immediately.

Phoenix gave a low whistle under her breath beside them, not even trying to hide her grin. Payback muttered something that sounded like “oof,” and Coyote leaned away like he didn’t want to be associated with any of them.

Jake didn’t say a word.

Neither did Rooster.

But the heat in Jake’s ears had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

And when his eyes flicked back to Rogue—Commander Rogue—she still wasn’t looking at him.

Didn’t even smirk.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she heard any of it.

That, somehow, burned the worst of all.

Then, Commander Hale stepped forward with the unhurried, unshakable calm of someone who’d walked through real fire and didn’t flinch at smoke anymore. His boots echoed across the hangar floor—solid, heavy—until he came to a stop dead center in front of the squad. Arms still folded. Back impossibly straight. Eyes locked forward.

The kind of posture that said I don’t need your respect. I already earned it years ago.

Jake studied him carefully now, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t not. There was something about the man—something still, like a mountain before an avalanche. He wasn’t big in a showy way. He didn’t posture. Didn’t sneer. But you felt him in the room, in the same way you felt an approaching storm behind glass.

“My name is Commander Theo Hale,” he said, voice low but clear. “Call sign Ruin.”

He let that settle.

Not a flicker of emotion in his face. Not a blink.

“You’ve already been told what I’ve done, where I’ve flown, and what it means to work with me,” he continued. “None of that matters here unless you give me a reason to believe you belong in the air with us.”

A few seats shifted. No one dared speak.

Jake didn’t move. He felt the words sink beneath his skin like hooks. Belong in the air with us. As if they were a tier above—and maybe they were.

Ruin paced forward a step, slow and methodical, eyes scanning the rows like he was weighing each soul inside them.

“I’m not here to babysit. I’m not here to lecture. I don’t care about your reputations, your bar fights, or your daddy issues. I care about results. I care about the people who will come home because of how tight your formation flies.”

He stopped. His gaze caught Jake’s for half a second—and it didn’t falter.

“If that doesn’t interest you?” Ruin said, voice suddenly sharper, “Let us know now. We’ll make room for someone who still gives a damn.”

Silence.

He nodded once, curt and clean, then stepped back beside Rogue and Jinx, hands behind his back.

Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

One down.

Two to go.

Commander Mercer stepped forward with a slower ease than Ruin, but no less authority. Where Ruin moved like a warpath waiting to happen, Jinx moved like he was already three steps ahead of the rest of the room and didn’t feel the need to brag about it.

He stood tall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, analytical way that made Jake immediately wary. There was no bark to him—just that deadly stillness some pilots had when they didn’t need noise to command a storm.

“Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, and unshaken. “Call sign Jinx.”

He didn’t follow it up with credentials. Didn’t rattle off medals or deployments. He let his name and tone carry the weight—and it did.

“I’ve flown combat missions in seven countries and trained with five different air forces. If you’re in the air with me, you won’t need to guess what I’m thinking.”

His gaze slid over the squad like he was scanning data points instead of people. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just thorough.

“If I give you a command, it’s not a suggestion. If I give you silence, it’s on purpose. I expect you to listen. I expect you to think.”

There was no heat behind it, no raised volume. Just certainty. Control so quiet it left no room to argue.

“I’m not here to be your enemy,” he said. “But I won’t waste time convincing you of something you should already know.”

He paused. Let that hang in the air like static.

“I trust skill. I trust clarity. I trust decisions made in less than three seconds. If you can’t handle that, step back before you waste my time—or worse, get someone else killed.”

Jake’s throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t scared of this guy. But he respected him, instantly and absolutely.

Jinx gave one final, silent nod, then stepped back into place beside Ruin.

Two down.

Jake felt it coming.

The last voice.

The one he wasn’t ready to hear.

She stepped forward.

Not a twitch of hesitation in her spine, not a flicker of uncertainty across her face. Commander (Last Name)—no, Rogue—moved like someone who’d learned long ago that power wasn’t about volume. It was about presence. And she carried it in spades.

Jake’s eyes followed her like they were wired to. Like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. His hands flexed against his thighs. Her boots clicked once against the concrete and then silence fell again, heavy as a stormfront.

She stood at the center, posture perfect, chin level, her hands at ease behind her back. There was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. And when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack or rise—it settled, clean and even, like a scalpel being drawn.

“I’m Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), call sign Rogue.”

She let it breathe. Let the name hang in the air for a moment. The confidence in her tone wasn’t rehearsed. It was worn-in. Lived-in. Like it had been forged in pressure and held together with purpose.

“I don’t care where you came from or how many hours you’ve logged. That’s not what earns you a place here.”

She glanced across the squad as she spoke. Not pausing. Not blinking. Not lingering long enough to give anyone more weight than the next. Not even him.

“You’ll earn your spot in the air. In the comms. In the debrief. You’ll earn it when you show me that you’re not just flying to prove something, but flying to protect something. If your pride’s more important than your team, don’t get in my formation.”

Her eyes flicked for a second—brief, surgical—toward the row where Jake sat.

Then away again.

And he was hit with that same damn ache, sharp and hot in his ribs, the kind that didn’t leave bruises but ought to.

“Some of you might remember my name,” she said, with the faintest curve of something that could’ve been a smirk—but wasn’t. “Some of you won’t. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you hear it now, and you understand one thing.”

Her shoulders drew back, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you survive.”

And that was it.

She stepped back beside Jinx and Ruin without fanfare, without waiting for a reaction. Like she hadn’t just split open the sky and walked out of the thunder.

Jake stared at her like he’d been punched.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, he had no idea what to say.

Warlock stepped forward, the calm after the thunder. His voice didn’t boom—it didn’t need to. It rolled across the hangar like it belonged there, measured and precise, carrying the weight of authority without ever sounding forced. “That concludes introductions,” he said, his tone level, eyes sweeping over the squad like he was checking for cracked composure.

“These officers will be part of your detachment for the foreseeable future. You will respect their rank, follow their lead when instructed, and if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from them while you can.” No one nodded. No one dared breathe too loudly. Jake barely blinked. He kept his jaw tight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes locked forward—mostly. Not quite on her, not anymore. But close.

Warlock gave a final nod to Maverick, then turned. Cyclone followed a beat after, posture as stiff and unreadable as ever. And then they were leaving—Warlock, Cyclone, Ruin, Jinx... and Rogue. She didn’t look back. Not once. She didn’t glance at Jake, didn’t even skim the row of stunned pilots like she needed their approval. She walked out the same way she entered: like the room had already been warned.

Jake watched her until the doors eased shut behind them. The second they did, he let out a slow breath through his nose—but even that felt like weakness. He was still trying to find his footing when Maverick stepped forward.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Maverick said, hands on his hips, aviators glinting in the overhead light. “You’re not dismissed yet.”

Groans rippled lightly across the group. Fritz let his head roll back. Coyote muttered something about needing a damn minute. And Rooster—Rooster leaned sideways with that half-stupid, half-lovesick grin curling on his face.

“Rogue,” he said under his breath, low enough that he thought no one heard him. “She’s something else.”

Jake’s head turned, just enough to catch it. Just enough for his stomach to twist, tight and fast.

“Dial it back,” he muttered, voice flat but sharp enough to slice. “You’re drooling.”

Rooster blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What? I said she’s impressive. Don’t have to act like I proposed.”

But Jake didn’t respond. He just looked forward again, jaw tight. Something bitter sat under his tongue, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line to spit it out. Rogue was gone. Out the door, out of reach, and yet somehow—still everywhere.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

The silence that lingered after the doors shut behind the three commanders was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t the stunned, respectful kind. It was the kind of silence where no one wanted to be the first idiot to speak and break whatever spell had just been cast.

Of course, Rooster broke it anyway.

“Rogue,” he said again, like the name had settled in his mouth too sweet to spit out. “That’s a damn call sign. She’s got presence. You see the way she walked? I didn’t even know I liked getting yelled at by women until—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Phoenix muttered, rubbing her hands down her face.

“I’m just saying,” Rooster went on, undeterred, “she commands a room. Not just anyone gets that kind of intro. And did you see the way she looked at—”

Jake cut in, sharper than intended. “She didn’t look at anyone.”

That earned him a glance from half the squad. Rooster raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the edge in Jake’s voice, but he didn’t push it.

Before anyone else could jump in, Maverick stepped up to the front, arms crossed, clearly amused by the nervous buzz hanging in the air. “Alright,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back, “while you all recover from your collective ego bruising, we’re still on schedule. Sim runs this afternoon. Live maneuvers tomorrow. That hasn’t changed.”

Coyote groaned. “You’re telling us we’ve gotta fly after that?”

Maverick shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think command cares if your pride’s hurt?”

“Mine’s not hurt,” Jake blurted, voice rising slightly. “I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling hotter than he wanted. “I mean, what the hell, Mav. Who are they? Especially her—you don’t just drop someone like that in here without warning.”

Maverick looked at him, unreadable behind those damn aviators. “You’ll find out in time, Lieutenant.”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “That’s not a real answer.”

Hondo, who’d been standing silently at Maverick’s side, finally spoke, his tone light but knowing. “Neither’s that attitude, son.”

The rest of the squad chuckled, the tension breaking just slightly, but Jake didn’t join them. He crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the spot Rogue had been standing just minutes ago. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not when she walked in. Not when she spoke. Not even when Rooster practically drooled on the floor beside him.

And now she is gone again.

But this time, she’d left a crater.

Jake wasn’t listening to a damn thing anymore.

Maverick had started outlining the rest of the day's schedule—some nonsense about sim rotations, recalibration drills, airspace protocols. Jake heard the words, sure, but none of them stuck. Not when Rooster, two seats down, was still mumbling like a man freshly baptized.

“She was just—” Rooster exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he was trying to cool himself off. “That voice? That stare? I think I blacked out a little. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both terrified and turned on at the same time.”

Jake rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rooster didn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

Phoenix groaned. “You’re gonna get court-martialed for simping.”

“Gladly,” Rooster shot back. “I’ll hand over my wings if she tells me to kneel.”

“That’s enough,” Jake snapped, louder than intended.

The squad quieted for a beat, all heads turning toward him. Maverick arched an eyebrow, clearly clocking the sudden shift, and Hondo gave him a slow side-eye like damn, someone struck a nerve.

Jake forced a smirk onto his face, even though it felt brittle. “I mean, come on. You’re all acting like this is the first time you’ve seen someone with rank and a decent jawline.”

Payback snorted. “That wasn’t just rank, bro. That was presence.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Yale added. “Straight-up cold steel.”

Jake clenched his jaw.

Because they were right.

She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

And Jake Seresin, Lieutenant and golden boy of the skies, was sitting there feeling like a ghost in his own story.

Rooster let out another dreamy sigh, tipping his head back. “God, I hope she yells at me.”

Jake didn’t say a word. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning. Because he knew what was coming.

Tomorrow, they'll be flying with her.

And tomorrow, for the first time in a long damn time, he might be the one falling behind.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #glenn powell #top gun fandom #jake hangman seresin #jake “hangman” seresin #hangman x reader #bob floyd #pete maverick mitchell #avengxrz #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun x reader

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inthemiddleofmae · 8 months ago

Text

morning embrace - paul mescal x reader

summary - paul comes home after a run to see you making breakfast

word count: ~670

a/n: someone might have watched gladiator ii and fell in love all over again with paul then wrote this instead of writing their uni essay...hmm i wonder who that is!! here's something short n sweet i wrote to make up for the serious lack of paul/lucius fics :(

the london sky was rosy and cloudy; it was 7am on a thursday and the sun was still in the process of rising. you had the perfect view of the city out of your kitchen window, and every time you cooked in here, you reconfirmed in your head that you and paul made the right decision buying the flat almost 6 months ago. though the two of you hadn't lived there for long, it was already home.

the radio was on, as usual, and was playing quietly in the background. the sizzling of eggs and mushrooms on the frying pan quickly overpowered the vocals of a song you couldn't quite recognise.

the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the last remnants of the lavender incense that you burned before going to bed last night. this was the first thing paul smelt when he came through the door, with a slight slam and vibration alerting you to turn around. it was then that the smell of breakfast hit him. beads of sweat trickled down his thick, slightly quivered brows - evidence of his long run through the park.

"morning, love," you greeted him, your voice barely coming through the bustle of the kitchen.

paul, still catching his breath, offered a contented smile. his eyes, however, showcased a hunger not satiated by the run alone. you smiled, looking into his eyes before turning back to the stove to gently stir the almost ready mushrooms.

paul approached you and you could feel his eyes on the back of your head. the smile on your face, still present, grew even wider as you felt his larger, sweaty presence lurking over you, taking a deep inhale of the aroma coming from the pan.

"smells amazing," paul murmured, his nose now pressing gently into the curls of your hair. his voice felt like a gentle caress against what was now the morning quiet, with all other sounds falling into the background, leaving only the intimate space you both shared.

"i aim to please - especially hungry runners." you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes.

though his chest was already lightly touching your back, a magnetic pull seemingly drew the two of you even closer together. paul's arms encircled your waist, and you quickly turned the stove off, for you had expected to be distracted now that you were in the arms of your lover.

“thank you.” paul whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, making you all flustered and warm inside.

as the aroma of the now finished breakfast continued to fill the air, you turned around in paul's arms to face him. your eyes met first in a silent exchange, then you tilted you head up so your lips could meet - a fusion of passion, the sweet taste of morning, and the slightly salty taste of his sweat.

your soft fingers traced gentle patterns on paul's ever so damp chest as the two of you embraced each other, savoring the rare, quiet morning together. with your busy 9-to-5 job and paul’s demanding acting schedule, moments like this didn’t come often. but with paul on a short break and you having taken a few days off, you were determined to make the most of it. the kiss deepened as the pair of you smiled into it and slowly swayed to the melody in the background.

“you stink, paul.” you whisper after he hesitantly breaks the kiss, both of you bursting into a soft laughter.

“fuck off,” he says playfully, his arms still around your waist. “how about i eat the beautiful breakfast you made me first, and then we can both get in the shower?”

“well i’m not gonna say no to that.” you say as you raise one of your hands and begin admiring his bearded chin.

with one last peck, paul releases his hands from your waist and reaches above you to grab two plates. you can't help but feel content.

#paul mescal #paul mescal x reader #lucius verus #lucius verus x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator ll #pedro pascal #fluff

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jungwnies · 2 months ago

Text

f1 rookies | finals season

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, isack hadjar, jack doohan, gabriel bortoleto, and liam lawson ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : the 2025 f1 rookies try to help their high school senior girlfriends with essays in subjects they’re terrible at...except for one smarty-pants.

୨ৎ : genre : comedy & fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 2061

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : no race this weekend ... unfortunate.

ʚ・kimi antonelli

you sighed dramatically, forehead pressed against the cool surface of your desk, your statistics textbook open to a page that looked more like ancient runes than math.

kimi peeked into your room, hair still damp from his post-training shower. “you okay?”

“no,” you groaned. “i have to write a proof essay for stats and i don't even know what the question is asking. like. what even is a chi-square test? is it edible?”

kimi padded over, curious despite the visible fear creeping into his eyes the closer he got to the math. “show me.”

you pushed the textbook toward him like it was radioactive.

he sat beside you, peering at the assignment sheet, lips moving silently as he tried to read it.

“…it’s just numbers,” he said finally, like he was offering wisdom from the gods.

“not just numbers!” you cried. “it’s probabilities. it's… math with extra steps and suffering.”

he frowned, tilting his head. “okay. maybe… we do it like a race.”

you blinked. “a race?”

he nodded, warming up to the idea. “look — the data points are like racers. the chi-square thingy tells you if they finished where they were supposed to finish or if something weird happened. like… if max verstappen somehow finished last.”

you stared at him.

“that’s actually—” you blinked. “that’s… kind of good.”

kimi perked up immediately, straightening in his chair. “yeah?”

“yeah! like expected vs. observed outcomes.”

he grinned, proud like he just set a world record. “see? i’m a genius.”

you giggled, reaching out to ruffle his damp curls. “you’re a genius and my emotional support calculator.”

he flushed slightly, smiling as he leaned over your notes. “okay, now write that down. but make it sound smarter.”

together, you cobbled together a rough outline — him offering racing analogies every five minutes, you translating them into statistics lingo — and slowly, your essay started to take shape.

by the end of the night, you were half asleep on his shoulder, your laptop still open, and kimi was scrolling through chi-square memes on his phone like he was actually invested.

“next time,” he mumbled, kissing your forehead, “pick an easier subject. like, uh… tire pressure.”

ʚ・ollie bearman

you flopped onto your bed dramatically, clutching your crumpled list of socratic seminar questions to your chest.

ollie sat at your desk, spinning lazily in your chair, sneakers kicking the floor. "alright, hit me," he said confidently. "what’s the topic?"

"free will versus determinism," you mumbled.

the spinning stopped. "versus… what now?"

"basically if we’re actually making our own choices or if everything’s already determined by fate or whatever."

he blinked. "that’s—" he paused. spun half a turn. "that’s horrible."

"right?"

you sat up, tossing the paper at him. he caught it clumsily, holding it like it was evidence in a murder trial.

"okay," he said bravely. "let's prepare. like sparring. you ask the question. i'll answer. we'll crush it."

you grinned, feeling slightly more hopeful. "alright. first question: do humans have free will?"

he sat up straighter, nodded like a professor. "yes. obviously. i chose to have cereal for breakfast instead of toast."

you stared.

he stared back.

"expand on that," you said, trying not to laugh.

"i… woke up. thought about toast. but then thought about cereal. then chose cereal. therefore: free will," he said, counting on his fingers like he was delivering the sermon on the mount.

"that’s not exactly the level they’re expecting," you said gently.

he looked personally offended. "what do they want from me? a thesis?"

you giggled, crawling over and tapping his forehead. "less toast. more philosophy."

he groaned dramatically, throwing himself backward into the chair. "you know what? tell them life is like… racing."

you blinked. "go on."

"you think you're choosing everything — when to brake, when to turn — but a lot of it’s already decided by where you start, how good the car is, who’s around you." he shrugged. "you're choosing. but also, you’re not."

you stared at him, jaw dropping slightly.

"wait. that’s… actually brilliant."

he looked smug. "yeah. i have like… two brain cells. but they’re powerful."

you burst out laughing, shoving his chair lightly. "you're my philosophical weapon, bearman."

he grinned, reaching out to boop your nose. "go in there, say something about cereal and racing, and you’ll win life."

ʚ・isack hadjar

you sighed dramatically, slumping over your laptop. “isack. i’m going to fail biology.”

he flopped onto your bed like a ragdoll, arms spread wide. “what’s the topic?”

you pointed to your screen. “i have to write a research paper on parasitic mind control.”

he sat up immediately, looking way too excited. “like zombies?”

you nodded grimly. “fungus that takes over ants' brains. worms that control fish. it’s horrific.”

isack beamed like you just told him christmas came early. “that’s so sick.”

you gave him a look. “yeah. sick. and confusing. and complicated. and i have no idea where to start.”

he scooted closer, peering at your half-typed notes. "okay okay okay. listen. this is easy."

you raised an eyebrow. "you failed high school biology."

"details," he said, waving a hand. "first, write something dramatic. grab their attention."

you frowned. “like what?”

he grinned. "start it like: 'imagine you're walking through the jungle… and a fungus eats your brain from the inside out.'”

you blinked. "that's… actually kind of good?"

"i'm french," he said smugly. "we know drama."

you laughed, slumping against him. "okay, what about the actual science part?"

he shrugged. "google it?"

you gave him another look.

he grinned wider. "or we make it up."

"isack."

"kidding! kidding!" he said, throwing his hands up. "we'll be semi accurate."

you sighed, grabbing your textbook again. "alright, fine. help me brainstorm."

two hours later, your "brainstorm" session had devolved into him pitching increasingly insane theories about zombie ants building secret underground cities and whether or not humans were already infected without knowing it.

(you were 60% sure he wasn’t joking.)

by the end of the night, your essay actually had a strong intro, a rough outline, and a lot of isack’s terrible but weirdly inspiring ideas scribbled in the margins.

he flopped onto the bed dramatically as you typed. "you're welcome for the nobel prize."

you laughed. "you’re lucky you’re cute."

"obviously," he said, already dozing off beside you.

ʚ・jack doohan

you groaned, flopping onto your desk dramatically, your french textbook sliding dangerously close to the edge.

jack leaned over your shoulder, chewing gum casually like he wasn’t about to experience a full-blown existential crisis. "what's wrong?"

"i have to write a whole essay in french," you moaned. "about my childhood memories. and i can barely even say bonjour without crying."

he grinned. "alright, alright. let’s do it together. how hard can it be?"

you gave him a flat look. "do you even speak french?"

jack paused.

then, without missing a beat: "no. but i know how to say croissant."

you buried your face in your arms.

"okay, okay," he said, standing up dramatically. "don’t panic. i have resources."

you peeked up at him. "resources?"

he pulled out his phone, typing aggressively. "pierre gasly. we’re calling for backup."

you stared at him. "jack. you can’t just facetime pierre for my homework."

"watch me."

three rings later, pierre’s blurry, confused face appeared on screen. "mate? everything okay?"

jack grinned, tilting the phone so pierre could see you buried under a pile of french worksheets. "yeah bro, can you help my girl with her french essay? she's suffering."

pierre blinked. smirked. "of course. what’s the topic?"

"childhood memories," you mumbled from under your arm.

pierre laughed. "easy. start with quand j'étais petit(e), je… then you just lie for the next five sentences."

jack nodded like he was absorbing ancient wisdom. "got it. lie. good plan."

you giggled despite yourself, sitting up. pierre rattled off a few starter phrases, jack repeating them horribly with a thick aussie accent that made you laugh so hard you almost fell off your chair.

thirty minutes later, you had the rough beginnings of an essay — half of it thanks to pierre, half of it thanks to jack’s chaotic moral support.

when you finally hung up, jack grinned, ruffling your hair.

"see? teamwork."

you beamed at him. "you’re ridiculous."

"and you’re gonna ace it," he said confidently. "just… maybe don’t pronounce anything the way i did."

ʚ・gabriel bortoleto

you slumped dramatically against the back of your chair, spinning aimlessly as your world history textbook lay open on your desk.

gabriel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling knowingly. “homework?”

"yeah," you groaned. "i have to write a five-page essay about how the roman empire influenced modern society."

he perked up instantly. "i love the roman empire."

you blinked. "of course you do."

he jogged over, pulling up a chair like he was about to host a ted talk. "okay, first of all — aqueducts. engineering marvels. you have to mention aqueducts."

you scribbled it down obediently. "aqueducts. got it."

"and roads," he added, already starting to gesture with his hands. "they basically invented the highway system. you ever think about that? roman highways."

you nodded, typing faster.

"and then there’s the legal system!" he continued, eyes sparkling. "so much of what we use today — courts, contracts, property laws — came from roman principles."

you stared at him, slightly overwhelmed. "how do you know all this?"

he shrugged, grinning. "i read. also, tiktok sometimes. but mostly reading."

you giggled, glancing at the growing list of topics he was rattling off. "okay, but i need, like, structure."

"structure!" he clapped his hands dramatically. "introduction: why the roman empire mattered. body paragraphs: engineering, law, military, politics. conclusion: the vibes are still alive today."

you snorted. "did you just say vibes in an academic plan?"

he winked. "scholarly vibes."

you tried to focus, typing as he ranted — but soon enough he was deep-diving into random side topics like roman concrete, weird emperors, and the fact that vending machines were technically invented by ancient engineers (somehow???).

“gabriel!” you finally laughed, cutting him off mid-rant about julius caesar's calendar reforms. “stay on topic!”

he blinked innocently. “i am on topic.”

you giggled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “you're my favorite chaotic historian.”

“and you're welcome for the best essay of your life,” he said, proudly tossing your pen onto the bed.

ʚ・liam lawson

you groaned, dramatically sliding down the couch until you were nearly horizontal, a stack of history books balancing dangerously on your stomach.

liam glanced over from where he was gaming on the floor. "what's wrong now, princess?"

"i have to write an essay about the economic effects of the industrial revolution," you mumbled. "for advanced history."

he paused his game.

turned.

and gave you the most falsely confident smile you’d ever seen.

"easy," he said, tossing his controller aside. "i know all about that."

you blinked. "you do?"

"yeah," he said, nodding seriously. "the industrial revolution… that’s when people invented factories. and, uh… steam. steam was big."

you stared.

"lots of steam," he added, deadpan.

"liam."

he grinned. "okay, fine, i don’t know shit. but i am great at making things sound convincing."

you laughed, tossing a pillow at him.

he crawled over, plopping next to you, skimming your textbook like it was written in alien language. "alright, so… just say that people started making stuff faster. like, mass production. and the economy got booming. profit. money. cha-ching."

you scribbled a few notes, giggling. "you’re literally just saying capitalism noises."

"exactly!" he said proudly. "that's history, babe."

you groaned, but couldn't stop smiling. he peeked over your shoulder at your half-written paragraph.

"also mention… pollution," he said, squinting at a random heading in your book. "people were coughing and stuff. very historical."

you laughed harder, shoulders shaking. "you're the worst tutor."

"and yet, you're smiling," he teased, bumping your shoulder.

you shook your head, finishing your messy draft while he threw in random "facts" like, "probably some guy tried to steam-power a horse" and "definitely child labor, don't forget that."

when you finally set your pen down, exhausted but a little triumphant, liam wrapped his arms around you from behind.

"see? history made easy. just add steam, money, and mild suffering."

you leaned back into him, laughing. "remind me to never let you help me again."

he smirked against your hair. "you’ll come back. i’m irresistible."

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yasministration · 3 months ago

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Hii can I request a Sirius Black x fem!reader where they’re like fwb. She’s apart of the big group aka the marauders and the Valkyrie’s combined. Though the more they hook up the more Sirius realizing he mighttt like reader a bit more than he thought. But the reader is a bit hesitant to actually go out with him since hes always mentioned to everyone he doesn’t do relationships, and he’ll never settle down. (Sorry if I went too into detail I’ve had this idea cooking up) Also you don’t have to go into detail on the whole “hooking up” part yk just like brief mentions yk!

Feel free to ignore this request if it doesn’t tickle your fancy! (ps. I love your writing)

as long as you like - sirius black

summary: sirius black. your friend, your lover, your... something more? wc: 1.4k+

Sirius lay in bed, panting, his skin slick with sweat. You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up and immediately averting your eyes from the boy’s naked body. Leaning over the side of the bed, you dragged your clothes up, facing away from Sirius.

“Hey.” Sirius spoke for the first time since he had you underneath him. You hummed, looking over your shoulder as you clasped your bra on. “Stay for a bit.” He pleaded, eyes begging silently. You chewed softly on your bottom lip, ignoring his words as you continued tugging the rest of your clothes on, thinking up an excuse. “I promised Marlene I would help her with her ancient runes essay.”

Pushing himself into a seated position, Sirius nodded, trying to hide the fleeting look of sadness that crossed his features. “Okay. Uh, have fun then.” You laughed at his awkward words, returning the sentiment as you struggled into your shoes. “Okay, I’ll see you at dinner then.”

At dinner, Sirius was oddly silent. He’d seen Marlene on his way out of the common room with the boys, asking her how her essay was coming along. She’d furrowed her eyebrows, responding with “I finished that in class this morning.” Sirius had nodded, swallowing thickly and rushing over to the great hall.

He had caught you in your lie.

Now, Sirius was overthinking. Did you not want to spend any time with him? Did your little agreement sabotage your friendship? Or even worse, did you have a crush on someone else?

Sirius didn’t sleep that night, the same thoughts running through his mind over and over, making him toss and toss in bed. Finally, he rolled out of bed, shoving his feet into his slippers and blindly making his way down to the common room, sleep biting at his eyes. He jolted wide awake though, hearing familiar laughs from in front of the fireplace.

You sat with Marlene and Lily, not tired in the least. Sirius debated turning around and retracing his footsteps back to bed, but it was too late; Lily had spotted him and was already waving him over. Sirius trudged over to where you sat with the other two girls. Marlene was sprawled on an armchair, limbs hanging in all directions. Lily was cozy on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, whilst you were snuggled into the red leather couch.

“Hey, you.” You greeted, stretching an arm out, gesturing for Sirius to fill the space in front of it. He obliged, leaning into your body, his eyes fluttering open. “Are you okay?” You mumbled quietly, concern taking over your features as you looked at the boy. Sirius nodded, “Just thinking of stuff.”

You made a noise of understanding, turning your attention back to your two dorm mates, who shot you identical pointed looks. You rolled your eyes at them, tugging Sirius in closer to you.

In your arms, Sirius’s body instantly relaxed, all worrying thoughts leaving his mind as he slung an arm over your lap, hand resting on your hip. Barely a hug, but enough for him. Clearly, you didn’t hate him, and that’s what mattered. You frowned softly. How could you not love Sirius? He was so kind to you, so comfortable and vulnerable around you as friends and lovers. But you knew that you were falling for the same act everyone else did.

You weren’t special to him, you were just a fling.

Someone to sleep with until the next girl comes around, and you would be discarded. Eventually, she would be too.

“Oh please, we all know I don’t do relationships.” Sirius’s words from months ago rang in your head, before you even started sleeping together. “I don’t think I’ll ever settle down.” And you know his words had been honest, because the entire friend group had been coming down from a drunk high and were beginning to shed their secrets, their hidden truths.

You leaned in closer to Sirius, noticing him beginning to doze off. “Sweetheart, I think you should go to bed.” He shook his head, only half-conscious as he replied “Sleep better in your arms.” You ignored the obvious stares Marlene and Lily were giving you, instead focusing on the sleepy Sirius tangled in your limbs.

“How about we go up to my dorm? Get some sleep?” Sirius didn’t respond for a long moment, and for a second, you thought he was asleep. But finally, he nodded, shifting his weight off you to stand up, swaying on his feet momentarily.

You and Sirius didn’t talk about that moment for long enough that your friends began growing tired of you, knowing about your feelings for the other. You didn’t speak to your friends about it when he left your dorm the next morning and pointedly ignored the stares from Remus and James at breakfast. But the two people involved did not talk utter a single word about it to each other, instead returning to their normal regime.

That’s why you ended up in Sirius’s bed again ten days later in the same situation that caused the entire ordeal to happen. You sighed in satisfaction, rolling over on the bed and pulling the covers over your torso despite the heat radiating off your body. Sirius grinned at you, pulling you closer to him with the arm wrapped around your shoulders, his bare skin pressing against yours.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a fond kiss. You snuggled into Sirius’s side, shutting your eyes closed to embrace the moment. “You okay?” He asked, and you nodded silently. “I’m ‘bout to fall asleep.” Sirius chuckled, the hand that rested slack by his side now coming up to cup your cheek. The blanket slipped down your body at the movement, revealing slivers of your shoulder to him.

Sirius had to fight the urge to bring you into a kiss. The movement seemed so natural when you were having sex, but after? He didn’t know if that intimacy would put you off. Nonetheless, you didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered down to your smiling lips. You giggled, pushing yourself up to catch Sirius’s lips in a short kiss.

Sirius’s eyes widened, and he had absolutely no control over the words that left his lips next. “Go out with me.” Not a question, a statement. You swallowed thickly, eyebrows raising in surprise. “What?”

Sirius’s confident wall crumbled, and you saw the doubt appear in his eyes. “Go out with me?” “Sirius… You’ve said it yourself that you don’t do relationships. I don’t want us to go out for two weeks and ruin our friendship.”

Sirius scooted up the bed, sitting up. Your eyes fell to the skin that was revealed inches at a time, settling on his v-line before instantly shooting back up to meet his eyes. You gripped the edge of the blanket, keeping it snug against your skin as you followed his movements. Sirius bunched up the material around his crotch as he spoke.

“I haven’t done relationships, but I want to have one with you. A real relationship.”

“Sirius I- I don’t know.”

Sirius gulped harshly, feeling a lump form at the back of his throat, feeling rejected. “I’ve never felt like this for someone before. When I said I didn’t want to settle down, I hadn’t seen what a future with you could look like. I- Just please think about it.”

You secured the duvet underneath your underarms, reaching over to grasp one of Sirius’s hands. “You’re serious about that?” Sirius smiled softly, and you could almost hear him say ‘I’m serious about everything’ despite the fact that his lips didn’t move. “I want to be with you so badly.”

You inhaled deeply, extending both arms so you could cup Sirius’s jaw, bringing his face forward so you could kiss him. Sirius sighed in satisfaction, a hand coming up to rest on your waist. When your lips parted, you nodding softly, and Sirius immediately grinned, pulling you in for a second kiss, feeling the curve of his smiling lips against yours.

"I want to be with you so badly too... That's why I'm so scared of actually doing it." Sirius separated from you, grasping both your hands in his and lifting them up so he could kiss their soft skin. "So we talk things out, okay?" He asked, and you nodded silently. A promise. A leap of faith.

“Remus is going to be thrilled. Said he was going to throw himself off the bridge if I didn’t ask you out before we graduated.” You chuckled, searching for your clothes around Sirius’s bed, but the man tugged you back into the confines of the mattress.

“Stay for a little longer.” He begged, and you smiled, laying back down on the bed. “I’ll stay here for as long as you’d like.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie

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dismalflo · 4 months ago

Note

Help, sweet Louise! I have a little request for ya if that’s okay: introvert Remus x introvert fem reader at Hogwarts - they decide to learn how to snog by practicing with each other just because they’re bffs and super awkward in general except when together… and obviously sparks fly and the dorks realise after a few epic snogs that there’s something real there. Thank you so much! I love Remus and I love your writing of him!

thank you for the request darling! <3 i hope i've done your idea justice, this is also much longer than originally intended.

Remus Lupin x reader who practice kissing with each other ✩ 2.3k words

cw: fluff, inexperienced remus, inexperienced reader, reader is a lil insecure, remus blushes alot.

The common room is quieter and more serene than usual. People come and go, but none linger or speak above a whisper—the subtle, soothing atmosphere of a Sunday evening. That leaves only you, Remus, and Sirius. The boy with black hair is frantically working to finish an assignment due tomorrow, one he’s obviously put off until the last possible moment. He’s most definitely copying the essay Remus lent him. “It’s just for inspiration, Moony, I swear,” he insisted, but his transparency is undeniable.

You and Remus, both finished with your own work, are lounging comfortably on the sofa by the fireplace, lost in your books. The warmth of the fire and the peacefulness of the room feel like pure bliss. You're sure if you could hear Remus' thoughts, they would echo your own contentment.

The stillness is shattered when James Potter bursts in, looking as though he's being chased, shouting and waving his arms in the air.

“Guys!” he exclaims, skidding to a halt near your group, his chest heaving as though he’s just sprinted the length of the school. “You’ll never guess what just happened!”

You don’t bother to look up, eyes still fixed on the words in your book, more than happy to listen to the usual cascade of nonsense that follows James’ entrances.

“You made a fool of yourself?” Sirius asks, his tone flat and unimpressed, a look of mild exasperation on his face. On any other day, that guess would’ve been spot-on, but the fidgeting from James is relentless, and you can practically feel his excitement seeping into the room.

“I kissed Lily,” he says, a wistful tone in his voice. It’s then that you finally glance up, curiosity piqued. The expression on his face matches his words—a mix of pride and awe—and your lips curl into a smile, genuinely happy for him.

“That’s great, Prongs,” Sirius says with a grin before leaning in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But if I’m right, I’m pretty sure you’ve done that before.”

“Pads is right, mate,” Remus adds, his voice soft but amused. You glance over at him, finding him in the same position as you—leaning forward slightly, his lips curled into a quiet smile.

James blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, as if he hadn’t quite expected this reaction from his friends. But he shrugs, quickly recovering. “Yeah, but this time was different,” he says, his voice warming with enthusiasm as he paces the room. “It was a proper kiss! A snog for the first time. That's got to be special, admit it.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, making a face that says it all—a mix of amusement and disbelief. He shrugs again, as if James’s excitement is lost on him. James deflates slightly, but it doesn’t last long before he turns toward Remus, eager for some support.

“You get it, don’t you, Rem?” he asks, his gaze intense but hopeful.

Remus opens his mouth, shuts it again, looking uncharacteristically flustered, the telltale flush creeping up his neck. He doesn’t even have the chance to respond before Sirius cuts in.

“Oi, don’t ask him,” Sirius says, teasing but with a hint of affection. “Our lovely Moony has no idea—fuck knows how.”

He says it like it's some sort of grand mystery, and as the words hang in the air, Remus’s gaze flicks over to you. The blush on his cheeks deepens just a shade, and you can feel the weight of his gaze before he quickly looks away.

Before you can process it, James spins toward you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What about you, sunshine?” he asks, a teasing lilt in his voice. “You must know.”

Heat rises to your face as you glance down at your lap, fingers nervously fiddling with the edges of your book. Usually, the lack of kisses in your life doesn’t bother you, but under the boys' scrutiny, it feels like the most embarrassing thing in the world.

“No… I—I haven’t…” you stammer, your cheeks burning. “Before.” Your eyes are firmly locked on your lap.

“Leave her alone, James,” Remus says, his voice quiet and soft. He’s aware that if he makes a big deal out of it, you’ll only feel more flustered and retreat further into yourself.

James raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he huffs, clearly frustrated that none of you share his perspective. “Sorry,” he adds, offering you a grin. You nod absently, still trying to recover from the sudden rush of heat flooding your face.

“Right,” Sirius interrupts, slapping his knees as he stands. He turns to James with a grin. “I’m starving. Kitchens?” Without waiting for a reply, the two of them rush out of the room, their footsteps quickly fading away, leaving the common room in silence.

The only sound now is the soft rustling of pages as Remus returns to his book. But the words on the page blur in front of you, your mind fixated on the conversation that just unfolded. Confusion churns in your stomach, a burning insecurity settling deep in your chest as you replay the moment over and over.

You try to focus, but a question lingers, just on the tip of your tongue, like a secret you’re too afraid to speak. “Do you…” Your voice falters, barely above a whisper. The relief that washes over you when you realise your voice may have been too soft for Remus to hear is short-lived.

“Do I what, dove?” Remus hums, glancing over to you, his eyes soft with understanding. Clearly, you weren’t as quiet as you thought.

“Do you think it’s weird… to have never been kissed?” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but you realize that asking the question, though painful, is better than letting it fester inside you.

He pauses, watching you carefully, as though weighing his words. After a moment, he shrugs, though the blush creeping onto his cheeks again betrays him. “I don’t think so.” His voice is steady, and he seems to believe it. “I’ve never been either. It’ll happen when it happens, I think.”

His calm, judgment-free response gives you a sense of comfort, and you feel emboldened. The thoughts you've been bottling up surge to the surface. “What if, when it does happen, I mess it all up because I don’t know what I’m doing?” There’s a sharp, desperate edge to your voice now, a frantic urgency you can’t seem to contain.

Remus’s gaze softens even more, the gentle warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. He sets his book down and shifts closer to you on the sofa, his voice quiet but filled with reassurance.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sure everyone feels a bit awkward the first time. I think… I think it’s supposed to be a little weird. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about… well, figuring it out together.”

You turn your head to look at him, your heart unexpectedly skipping a beat at the sincerity in his words. There’s a certain calmness about Remus that makes everything feel more safe. The gnawing insecurity in your chest eases just a fraction, but it’s still there.

“I hope so,” you say softly, eyes drifting back down to your lap as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

A silence settles between you two, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Remus shifts next to you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks.

“Do you want to… practice?” he asks, so quietly that you almost don’t catch it, his voice barely above a whisper. But the words hit you like a spell, and for a moment, the world seems to stop spinning.

“Practice?” you echo, blinking at him in confusion. Your heart is suddenly in your throat, your palms growing clammy.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little steadier now, though the blush on his cheeks only deepens. “Like… you know, just so we both don’t mess it up when it actually happens. Maybe we could just… figure it out. Together.” He shrugs, an awkward, nervous smile tugging at his lips.

Your mind goes blank for a moment as the weight of his suggestion settles in. It sounds absurd, and yet, the more you think about it, the more it seems… right. After all, you trust Remus more than anyone else. You’ve spent countless hours together, quietly existing in each other’s company, but this is different. The air feels thicker, charged with a kind of energy you’ve never quite experienced before.

“Just… practice,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “Nothing serious. Just… friendly. We’re friends, right?”

You nod slowly, your mouth dry as your gaze flicks back to him. “Yeah. Friends,” you repeat.

There’s a moment of stillness before you both shift slightly, the unspoken agreement hanging between you two. You can’t quite tell if it’s the nervous energy or something else, but when you finally look at Remus again, there’s a spark in his eyes—a flicker of something that seems to make the room suddenly feel smaller, warmer.

"Okay," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you sit up straighter. Your heart is racing now, but you can’t help the soft, nervous laugh that escapes your lips.

Remus turns toward you fully, a faint grin curling on his lips, though his expression is still a little sheepish. “Alright then. So… how do we start?”

“Um… I don’t know,” you admit, your own nerves suddenly rising again. “Do we… just… kiss?”

The word seems to hang in the air like a strange, foreign thing. But before you can spiral into embarrassment, Remus leans in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. “We just… kiss.”

And then, with an almost surreal kind of slowness, Remus’s face inches closer to yours. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears that you almost can’t hear anything else—nothing except for the sound of your own breath, and the slight shift in the air as your lips draw closer. You close your eyes just before they meet, a quiet shudder running through you.

The first touch of his lips against yours is hesitant, like a question. And then, slowly, it deepens, and you find yourself returning the kiss with more urgency than you expected, as if your body is doing things your mind hasn’t quite caught up with yet. The warmth of his lips, the softness, the slight pressure of his hand against your shoulder—it all feels so new, but so natural, like you’ve been waiting for this moment for longer than you care to admit.

When you both pull away, it’s like the world has shifted somehow. The air between you feels charged, and yet there’s still that soft, strange energy that’s been so familiar to you both. You blink at him, breathless and wide-eyed, and he does the same.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the kiss lingers between you, something you both feel but can’t quite name. Your heart races, a little faster than it did before, and you’re sure Remus feels the same way. The room feels even quieter now, the crackling fire the only sound to fill the space.

“I… I think that was better than I expected,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever this moment is. You feel a little embarrassed, but mostly… amazed.

Remus laughs, a nervous chuckle, and rubs the back of his neck again. “Yeah, me too.” He glances at you, then looks away quickly, his face flushed a deep shade of red. His smile is hesitant but genuine. “You—uh, you didn’t mess it up at all. Not even close.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. “Good to know.”

You sit there, eyes meeting his once again, and for a brief, strange moment, the awkwardness feels like an old friend. Something comfortable. But something more too. The air between you both has shifted—there’s no denying it now.

Remus clears his throat softly, breaking the silence. “So… maybe… should we try again?” He says it carefully, almost as if he’s afraid of making things worse, but you can see the genuine curiosity in his eyes. A soft, playful tension fills the space between you two.

For some reason, the question feels different this time. It doesn’t feel like you’re fumbling or practicing anymore. It feels real.

“Yeah,” you answer, breathless again, but this time there’s no hesitation. There’s only the quiet certainty of something new blooming between you. When your lips meet again, it’s not hesitant this time. It’s familiar, tender, and there’s an unspoken promise there, a quiet connection that grows deeper with each gentle press of lips against lips.

The world around you disappears— no more uncertainty or awkwardness. Just the soft pressure of his lips, the warmth of his hand settling against your cheek, and the steady rhythm of your shared breath. There’s something slow and sweet about this kiss, something that feels like the beginning of something bigger.

When you finally pull away, it’s not the same as before. This time, when you open your eyes, you can’t help but smile—genuinely. You feel… different. And judging by the look on Remus’s face, he feels it too. His eyes are wide but soft, and the flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded at all, but it seems to suit him somehow.

“I think I get it now,” you murmur softly, “what James was talking about.” your voice barely above a whisper as you look at him. Remus simply nods, his lips curving into a small, private smile.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice equally quiet. “Me too.”

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders era #marauders fic #marauders fanfiction #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin fic #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin

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frflyavenue · 3 months ago

Text

Exam Stress - Matz ver.

Pairing: Boyfriend!Matz x Stressed!Uni student!Reader

Warnings: MDNI (18+) — Stressed reader, sleep deprived reader, university exam season, crying, eating, fluff and smut, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving, m receiving, f giving), vaginal sex, spit-roast, threesome smut, slight power dynamic, soft dom!Hongjoong, switch!Seonghwa, lots of praise

Author’s Note: Giving you guys this update early as compensation for not posting anything on Tuesday—First time writing smut, so let me know what you guys think! UYT chapter 3 still on track to be updated tomorrow <3

WC: 5.1k

School sucks. You’re a great student, one of the best performing in your major, and, according to your boyfriends, the hardest working person they’ve ever seen. You’re positive they’re just gassing you up because they love you, but you’re happy that your work is at least recognized. But it’s getting towards the end of the semester, meaning the whole University is filled with students working overtime. Exams are just around the corner, major essays and projects are being finalized and the party hubs of the city have died down as students rush to get their grades up enough to pass. You’re doing well in your classes, of course, but the end of the semester is always a rough time.

You’ve been working non-stop for the last few weeks, studying for your exams and trying desperately to finish your thesis paper for one of your classes. You lost count of how many hours you’ve worked in the library over the last few days, staying until they close around midnight and going home just to keep working. And while you’ve been able to handle the stress and exhaustion, today it all seemed to come to a head.

You haven’t slept more than a total of 10 hours the last four days, and you haven’t eaten nearly enough to sustain yourself. But honestly, the hormones from the stress were enough to suppress your hunger, so you didn’t pay it much attention. You’re exhausted, honestly, yearning to lay down in bed or even just curl up and sleep on the floor of the library, desperate for rest. But you don’t have time. You huff, slamming your laptop shut, earning a few glances from the other students working the library. You don’t dare look at them, stuffing your laptop in your bag with a sigh. You snatch it up and turn to leave, completely silent as you drive yourself to your apartment.

You fumble with your keys lazily as you try to open the door, finally sighing as it squeaks open. You slip into the apartment, taking off your shoes at the door and heading to the bedroom you share with your two boyfriends. Seonghwa, hearing you, turns around with a warm smile to greet you.

”Hey darling, welcome home. We missed you.”

You look up at him, but the second you see his warm expression, you feel your throat tighten, so you quickly look away. “Ah, yeah, I missed you guys too.” You clear your throat. “I have to work on my paper, so I’m gonna go work for a bit.” You don’t wait for him to respond to walk away to the solace of your bedroom.

Seonghwa walks with his mouth slightly agape as you turn your back to him, not able to say anything. Almost immediately after he gathers his thoughts, he rushes over to the living room, where Hongjoong is splayed out on the couch working on a song. He gently tap his shoulder, and Hongjoong removes one side of the headphones to hear.

”Joongie… I think something’s wrong with our Y/N.” He says worriedly, and Hongjoong snaps his eyes up from the screen to look at him.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Seonghwa runs his hand through his hair, clearly worried. “She came in so quiet, and her face seemed so tired… she hardly acknowledged me when she walked in.”

Hongjoong’s expression grows thoughtful, his eyebrows scrunching slightly. Your recent stress hasn’t gone unnoticed by your two boyfriends for the last few weeks. They’ve watched your eyes grow more and more tired every passing day, and while they’ve tried their best to bring you little snacks or cheer you up with little kisses to your temple when you’ve been working for a while, they’ve mostly let you to your work, not wanting to disturb you. But for Seonghwa to be this concerned now… Hongjoong trusts his boyfriend in thinking that something’s wrong. “Okay… why don’t you go talk to her, hm? I don’t want to overwhelm her with both of us, but I want to check on her.”

Seonghwa hesitantly nods, and Hongjoong presses a comforting kiss to his forehead before letting him go visit you.

You hardly register the knock at the door until it creaks open, and you freeze up, looking over at him with wide, guilty eyes. There are tears streaming down your face, your nose running and your sleeves wet from wiping your eyes. Seeing him, with his beautiful, elegant face twisted in concern taking in the sight of you, you only feel worse. You turn away, desperately attempting to dry your tears as he approaches. You hiccup helplessly as he turns the office chair around so you’re facing him, optnig to hide your face in your hands.

Seonghwa steps closer so he’s standing between your legs, gently pulling you into him. You let your face, still covered by your hands, lean into his stomach, feeling one hand resting protectively on your back while the other rests on the back of your head, his thumb rubbing comforting cicely into your hair. Almost immediately, you let go to wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face deeper into his tummy and sobbing against his hoodie.

Seonghwa feels himself tear up at the sound, his voice softly shushing you while he cradles your head against his body. He doesn’t move, holding you just like that, not planning to ever let you go.

Hongjoong, hearing the gut-wrenching sound from the other room, sneaks into the room, standing behind Seonghwa and rubbing his back. The taller man is blinking back tears, his hands holding you close to him as you let out pitiful sobs of frustration and exhaustion, sounds he’s never heard from you in the two years you all had been dating. Hongjoong, too, feels his throat tighten, distracting himself by silently comforting Seonghwa in the meantime. The three of you remain like until the sound of sobs dies down to sniffles, and Hongjoong moves to kneel next to your chair. He places a hand on your thigh, gently rubbing there.

”Hey, beautiful.” He whispers softly, gently easing your hands down for you to look at him. You do, your swollen eyes meeting his. “Hey… there she is…” His voice is soft and quiet, almost as if he’s talking to a kitten. You're grateful for it, the sound not overwhelming your mind.

You snuffle, leaning into his hand when he moves to cup your cheek. “I-I’m sorry…” you squeak out, and he immediately shakes his head, shushing you.

“No, no ‘sorry’. I can speak for both of us when I say that Seonghwa and I want you to be happy. But part of that means taking care of you when you’re sad, hm?” He just watches you for a moment, gently holding your face in his hands as he kneels in front of you. “…What’s the matter babydoll?”

You close your eyes and try to clear your blurry eyes, opening them again to look down at his loving face. “I… I just got frustrated.” You explain, your voice wobbling pitifully. “I’m so tired, and I have so much to do. But I feel stuck on this stupid paper, and I have to finish it, and…” You trail off, your throat burning as tears slip silently down your delicate cheeks and onto Hongjoong’s delicate hands.

Hongjoong nods, gently wiping the little drops of water away with his thumb, not breaking his gaze. “It’s okay, we’ve got you now. We’re going to go take a break, baby.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but Seonghwa shushes you before you can say anything. “No, no, he’s right Y/N. You need to eat and take a break, or you wont be able to get anything done anyways.” He pauses. “My mom always used to tell me that productivity is subjective. Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is take a break, eat some good food, and get some sleep. Right now, that’s exactly what would be most productive to you, understand?” His voice is gentle but firm, and his tone gives you no choice but to tentatively agree.

Hongjoong smiles proudly up at Seonghwa, dropping his hands from your face and standing up, offering his hand to you. You take it, letting him pull you up. You sigh longingly as Hongjoong closes your laptop shut, and Seonghwa places a guiding hand on your back as he walks you three to the living room.

While it pains you to step away from your work, you immediately feel relieved as Seonghwa pulls you with him onto the couch, instinctively finding your position on his chest as he lay down with his head resting on the cushy armrest. His hand tangles in your hair, the other rubbing your back up and down in slow, repetitive motions. The steady thumping of heart under your cheek is enough to make you come undone, and your shoulders relax.

Smiling fondly at the sight, Hongjoong sits next to your tangled bodies, opening his phone. “We’re ordering in tonight. What are you feeling, pretty girl?”

The corners of your lips twitch up, though you don’t bother to open your blissfully closed eyes. “Pasta?” You respond, the thought of noodles making your mouth water.

Hongjoong laughs and pats your butt affectionately, ordering you guys a few of your favorite pasta dishes to share.

In the meantime, Seonghwa struggles with the remote, trying to put on a cute animated movie to cheer you up. Finally figuring out what buttons to press, he finds a selection of studio ghibli movies and let you take your pick. Hongjoong calls in to order the food while the two of your start the movie, and as soon as he’s done, he walks back over to the couch. You turn around so you’re laying on your back against Seonghwa’s chest, his arms wrapping around your waist while you reach your arms out to Hongjoong. He smiles brightly before climbing into your arms, laying with his head resting on the soft pillows on your chest and his arms joining Seonghwa’s around your waist. Content to be between both of them, you sigh.

It’s the best you’ve felt in weeks. Seonghwa’s chest rising and falling steadily against your back, Hongjoong snuggled up close to you, letting you tangle your fingers in his hair, the soft strings of the ghibli movie—it was perfect. When you drift off, hands resting limp and calm against Hongjoong’s back and hair and head resting comfortably back against Seonghwa’s happily beating heart… your boys can’t help but feel the same.

NSFW content following the cut ———

You awake groggily at the sudden loss of the comfortable weight on your chest, grumbling at the cold air hitting your front. You open your eyes, Seonghwa giggling lovingly at your state from behind you and Hongjoong nowhere to be seen. You pout, looking around.

”He’s getting our food.” Seonghwa explains softly, his voice hardly above a whisper. You nod, not bothering to move as you hear Hongjoong open the front door and thank the delivery person. He returns with a slight grin, holding up the bag of food victoriously.

You smile, sitting up and moving to get up off the couch. Seonghwa clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction, pulling you back to stay. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You giggle, wriggling weakly in his grasp. “To the table? To go eat dinner?” You respond, your voice already containing more of it’s usual happiness.

Hongjoong laughs and shakes his head, his eyes making pretty crescents. “No, silly, we’re gonna eat in the living room today. It’s treat.”

You gasp, turning to look at Seonghwa. Usually, he’s the one scolding you and Hongjoong about your cleaning and organizational habits, always keeping you both in check. So for him to be letting you eat in the living room…

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, but his grin never leaves his face as he gently lest go and helps Hongjoong unpack the food onto the coffee table. You gasp excitedly, sitting crisscrossed on the floor in front of the couch. Seonghwa ruffles your hair before going to making the three of you bowls of pasta.

The food is delicious, of course. You hum with satisfaction, not remembering the last time you ate a proper meal. Sure, pasta isn’t the healthiest meal, but it sure does hit the spot after not eating anything but protein snacks and the random fruits your concerned boyfriends brought you every once and a while. They seem to notice, not taking their eyes off you as you go silent to eat, eagerly slurping up pasta. Proud to see you feeling better, they also find that the food is especially good—maybe just because you look so happy eating it.

You listen intently as Hongjoong talks about the songs he’s working on, never having felt so happy just to hear him ramble as you are now. Seonghwa is silent, too focused on his food, but he occasionally bumps your shoulders with his legs, still sitting on the couch as you sit on the floor between his legs. It’s been so long since you’ve all gotten to just sit and eat together, between the weird schedule of your classes and studying for finals, Hongjoong’s production, and both of the boys' dance practices. Looking at Hongjoong’s happy face and gently rubbing Seonghwas calf as it cages protectively around your form, you feel yourself tearing up.

”I missed you guys.” You whisper in a beat of silence, taking another bite of pasta to counteract the sentimental tears forming. Hongjoong looks up at you, giving you a delicate smile. Seonghwa sets his bowl down, gently massaging your shoulders as he, also, tries not to cry, not wanting to make you upset.

”We missed you too, babydoll.” Hongjoong replies, and Seonghwa squeezes your shoulder as well in emphasis. He looks thoughtful for a moment, before clearing his throat and setting his bowl down. “Y/N?”

You look up, swallowing your big bite of pasta before responding. “Hm?”

Hongjoong laughs softly, before shaking his head and scooting closer to you, gently taking your hand and holding it in his lap. “Hwa and I love you so much. We never ever want to see you so stressed, yeah? We understand that you have a lot to do—we’re in a similar position a lot of the time. But… just like how you make sure to take care of us when we’re feeling overwhelmed, we want to take care of you too.”

You blink, taken off guard by his sudden seriousness. Senoghwa gently reaches around to tuck your hair back behind your ear. “He’s right. It’s okay to get frustrated, stressed, tired… even just sad. But it’s not okay to completely isolate yourself from everyone around you and push yourself past what your body and mind can handle.” He adds, gently combing through your hair with his fingers. He’s right, you realize. Unknowingly, you had been avoiding your friends and even your two beloved boyfriends, hiding in the library to avoid coming home and staying cooped up in your bedroom at every opportunity under the pretense of discipline. Seonghwa’s words from earlier echo in your mind. Productivity is subjective… Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is take a break…

You nod slowly, setting your own bowl down. “Yeah… you guys are right,” you admit with a slight look of guilt. “I’ve probably been stressing myself out more than necessary because I’ve been getting so frustrated.” You explain, earning a nod from Hongjoong. You continue. “And… I promise from now on, I’ll rely a little more on you guys. I’m sorry for worrying you.” You meet Hongjoong’s eyes and gently squeeze Seonghwa’s calf, and they coo.

”Such a sweet thing…” Seonghwa praises, squishing your cheek even from his odd position behind you. You blush, suddenly shy, and Hongjoong laughs, lightly hitting Seonghwa’s thigh. The three of you go quiet for a minute, the air lighter.

Interrupting the silence, Hongjoong clears his throat, looking up at you. “Y/N?”

You nod, giggling at his tone. “What? You’ve said my name like that twice already, it’s so cute~”

Hongjoong scoffs and nearly argues, but his blush creeps up his face before he can rebut. He shakes his head. “I’m being serious here!”

You and Seonghwa laugh, but you quickly shake your head and squeeze his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead, honey.”

He blushes at the nickname, his personal favorite from you, and clears his throat again. “Well, Hwa and I were talking while you napped, and we wanted to ask if you’d like to let us take care of your stress for you tonight? You know, help you relax a bit..?”

You smile, shaking your head innocently. “No, I’m sorry. There’s not really much you guys can do, my paper is built off of research I’ve been doing all semester. I appreciate the offer, of course, but I should really just write it on my own.”

Hongjoong blinks. He’s known you for a long time, but he will never not be astounded by how your sweet, dense brain works. He laughs in shock. “Hah… geez, Y/N… for somebody so smart, you sure are slow.” He says, and Seonghwa coughs back a laugh before pretending to scold him. You tilt your head.

”Uh… sorry?”

Hongjoong shakes your head, and Seonghwa moves to sit on the floor with you guys, feeling awkward not being able to see your face.

“No, not like that my dear.” He explains. He gently takes your hand and presses it to his lips. “We want to take you to bed, our love. It’s been a while since we could take care of you, hm?”

Your face heats up immediately. Seonghwa has always been the best of you three at initiating this kind of intimate affection, so it shouldn’t come at any surprise. But even after sleeping with your boyfriends hundreds of times… they only get sexier You subconsciously press your thighs together.

Seonghwa just chuckles at your cute reaction, standing up and grabbing the trash from your dinner. “Think it over while I clean dinner up, hm?”

You watch with your mouth slightly agape as he takes the trash to the bin in the kitchen, stunned silent. You turn to look at Hongjoong, who tucks your hair back affectionately.

”Kiss me?” You whisper suddenly, looking up at him shyly through your eyelashes.

Hongjoong smiles softly at your request, cupping your jaw and tilting your head up so he can access your lips. He kisses you softly, his plush lips molding naturally against yours. He turns his head to the side after just a moment, gently licking at your bottom lip, and you part your lips to grant him access. He eagerly intrudes your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand slowly comes up to rest on your waist, his thumb slipping under the hem of your shirt and rubbing easy circles over the smooth, delicate skin there. You hum into his mouth and rest your hands on his shoulders for support, desperate to taste more. It’s been a long time, you realize, since you’ve done anything like this with your boyfriends. You’ve missed it.

Seonghwa returns, raising an eyebrow at the sight and sitting on the side of the couch, opting to just watch for a little while. He knows he’ll get his turn.

Sure enough, Hongjoong pulls away just for a moment at seeing Seonghwa sit down, leaving you whining. He clicks his tongue.

”Tsk tsk… patience babydoll. Lie down on the couch for me, hm?”

You nod and quickly position yourself comfortably on the couch, happy when Hongjoong climbs over top of you and continues kissing you. To your dismay, he refuses giving you entrance back into his mouth, instead moving to press slow, open mouthed kisses down your jaw. You breathe heavier at the sensation, letting out shameless little gasps and whimpers when he nips sensitive parts of your neck. Almost too swift to notice, Hongjoong slides his hands up under your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one smooth motion before crawling downward to kiss your collarbone, lingering around the straps of your bra. Just before you feel yourself growing impatient, he unclips the fabric barrier as if reading your thoughts, gently sliding it down your shoulders to reveal your soft breasts.

He exhales in wonder at the beautiful sight, reaching one hand up to gently palm at the flesh there. “God, baby… how could I have ever forgotten how much I missed these pretty things, hm?”

You blush shyly at his praises, his tone of voice one that always gets you in a space ready and wanting to please. You arch your back impatiently, the cold air leaving you desperate for their touch. Hongjoong smiles, letting you get away with it for now and leaning down to gently take the soft flesh of your breast into his mouth.

You gasp slightly as his tongue caresses the bud of your breast, comforted with the feeling of his mouth tenderly kissing the plush skin there. You pet his hair in return, and Seonghwa reaches a hand up to rub Hongjoongs back encouragingly, fond of watching his lovers feeling good.

After a few minutes of getting you slowly more and more needy from Hongjoongs touches, Seonghwa finally moves to tug at the waist of your pants, easing them down your thighs and folding them neatly on the other side of the couch. He repositions himself to be propped on his elbows between your thighs, and you shiver when you recognize the position. His breath brushes against the heat between your thighs as he leans forward, turning his head to suck at the skin of you plush thighs. He gently kneads the soft flesh under his hands, slowly easing your thighs further apart as he inches up closer to where you need him. You roll your hips forward, desperate.

Seonghwa smiles, finally leaning forward and licking a fat stripe from your leaking entrance up to your clit, stopping there to suck on the bundle of nerves there. You gasp at the sudden stimulation, arching your back into his tongue and earning a delicious hum from him. “God, you taste so good…” Seonghwa moans into your dripping folds. He rolls his tongue expertly over the now erect bud while Hongjoong switches to sucking small marks into your collarbone, the combination sending you reeling.

When Seonghwa suddenly slides two fingers inside of you, you finally let out a full moan, earning a smile from both men. Hwa’s fingertips brush against the perfect spot inside, and combined with his tongue messily lapping up your juices and Hongjoongs attention back on your breasts, you nearly cum on the spot.

Hongjoong places a hand on Seonghwa’s head, signaling for him to stop.

You pant as you come down from the edge. “I want more,” you manage to get out in between breaths, looking up at Hongjoong.

He chuckles. “Such a needy little thing, hm?” You pout, and he giggles, finding you cute. “Bend over the side of the couch.” Seonghwa glances over at him with surprise at his suddenly domineering tone. Hongjoong just shrugs. “If our baby wants it so bad, then let’s give it to her. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how naughty our girl is, hm?”

Seonghwa glances over at you with concern, wanting to make sure it’s really what you want. He doesn’t have to worry for long, though, since you’re already scrambling to bend over with your elbows propped up on the armrest of the couch. He lets out a surprised laugh. “God, Joong. Maybe I did forget.”

Hongjoong smirks, his adoring eyes raking over your submissive position. “Seonghwa, tell me baby, do you want her pussy or her mouth? You get first pick today.”

The pretty man needs no time to decide. “Can I please get her pussy today, Joongie?”

Hongjoong nods and presses a sweet kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. “Of course you can, love. Thank you for asking so nicely.”

While you can’t see them talking behind you in your current position, the way they talk to each other alone makes you blush. The three of you all love each other so much, there’s no doubt about it. And even when Hongjoong takes over a more dominant role, he’s never really mean, making sure his partners know that his priority is always taking care of them. You smile softly, in your thoughts, when you feel Seonghwa climb on the couch behind you.

You grip the arm of the couch in anticipation. Seonghwa presses the head of his dick against your folds, rubbing it along your clit and spreading your love juices around. You drop your head at the feeling, biting back a moan. When he finally slides in, though, you can’t help but groan out his name, pushing your hips back against him until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Hongjoong hums in satisfaction as he watches, reaching to rub comforting circles on the smooth skin of your back. “Deep breaths, baby. Does it feel good?”

You nod immediately, a little too eager. “Y-yes…” You hiss.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Good girl. Seonghwa, baby, don’t move until I tell you to.” Seonghwa groans but agrees nonetheless. Hongjoong walks around to the side of the couch where you’re facing, cupping your jaw. “Stick out your pretty tongue for me.”

You obey, parting your lips quickly and letting your tongue drop out for him, too far gone to be embarrassed about how much saliva you’re producing. He bites his lip, stroking his fully erect length in front of your face, giving you the most perfect view. When he finally rubs the bulbous head of his pretty cock against your tongue, you hum. He doesn’t do much more for a while, leaving both you and Seonghwa, who is essentially just being cockwarmed, impatient. But just before you lose your composure and ask hm outright to just fuck your throat, he finally slides his length into your mouth.

You eagerly wrap your lips around him, tightening them expertly and sliding your tongue over the underside of his pretty length, making him roll his eyes back.

“Hon- ah god… you’re so good, baby. So perfect-“ He pants, placing a hand on the back of your head and bottoming out in your throat. While he isn’t quite as long as Seonghwa, you’ve always thought that his dick fits perfectly in your mouth. Just enough to make you feel full without causing any painful gagging. You hum around him, and he finally breaks. “Oh god- Hwa, baby, move… I don’t know how long I can last…”

Seonghwa doesn’t have to be asked twice. Without warning, he starts thrusting in and out of you firmly, holding onto your waist for support. You gasp, not caring about volume anymore as he pounds into you, each thrust calculated and firm. Hongjoong can feel you rocking from Seonghwa’s relentless pace, and he lets out a low groan, holding tightly onto a fistful of your hair. “Babydoll, can I fuck your throat? P-please?”

You blink up at him expectantly in response, and he tilts his head back as he finally slides slowly in and out of your mouth.

Hongjoong slowly begins to fuck your mouth, savoring every inch as he watches your throat stretch around him. His hand remains steady on the back of your head, but he never pushes further than you can take—he knows your limits too well. Your eyes water slightly from the fullness, but the way both your boyfriends are moaning, praising you, touching you, has your arousal spiking all over again.

Behind you, Seonghwa is groaning softly under his breath, his thrusts now faster, deeper, his hips snapping into yours with growing desperation. “Fuck, you feel so good, love,” he pants, leaning forward to press kisses to your spine as he grinds into that sweet spot that makes your whole body shiver. His fingers tighten on your waist, and you can feel how close he is by the way his movements get a little sloppier.

“God, she’s dripping, Hwa,” Hongjoong murmurs with a breathless laugh, hips stuttering forward as you suck him harder, slurping around his cock like it’s the only thing you need. “Our baby’s soaking you.”

Seonghwa lets out a shaky whine, the sound sending heat straight to your core. “I—fuck, Joongie, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” Hongjoong growls through his teeth, voice tight with restraint. “Wait for her. Baby,” he coos down to you, pulling slowly out of your mouth with a wet pop. “Do you wanna cum?”

You nod frantically, voice hoarse with need. “P-please—I’m so close…”

“Then do it,” Seonghwa chokes out, slamming into you just right as he reaches around to rub quick circles on your clit. “Cum for us, baby. Let us feel you.”

It takes nothing more. Your orgasm crashes over you, thighs shaking as you scream out their names, walls clenching around Seonghwa’s cock in desperate pulses. He gasps, loud and broken, and finally lets go, spilling inside you with a deep, satisfied groan, hips grinding into you to ride it out. His head drops between your shoulder blades, breath hot and fast.

The sight of his two lovers feeling so good is enough for Hongjoong. He jerks himself off over your tongue, the pace of his fist desperate and sloppy. He jerks forward, trembling as he cums in front of you, thick spurts of release painting your tongue. You swallow up every drop on instinct, humming softly as he pants and wipes the corner of your lips with his thumb, utterly dazed.

For a long moment, all that fills the room is the sound of your shared, panting breaths. Seonghwa slowly pulls out, careful not to hurt you, and places a tender kiss to the curve of your lower back before helping you back onto the couch properly.

You collapse back onto Seonghwa chest, arms wide open for Hongjoong as he makes his way back around to the seat of the couch.

“Holy shit,” you mutter with a breathless laugh as Hongjoong climbs in next to the two of you, placing a loving hand on your thigh.

Hongjoong kisses your forehead, smiling contentedly. “We’ve really missed this.”

Seonghwa hums his agreement against your shoulder, holding you tighter.

You smile, eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion finally catches up with you. “Me too,” you whisper, yawning. Wrapped between your two lovers, bodies warm and sticky and pressed together, it’s hard not to feel sleepy.

The two men notice with fond expressions, glancing at each other.

Seonghwa kisss your cheek. “Alright, love, let’s go get you cleaned up. Something tells me it’s bedtime.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding.

“I love you guys.”

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