whilst laying in bed, your boyfriend spots a hickey that he didn’t give you.
summary: will gives you a hickey that brad later on notices.
pairing: will smith x reader
warnings: kissing. fingering. reader gaslighting brad for once (everyone cheered!!) somebody suggested this and so many of you wanted it. reader lies like her life depends on it.
IT HAD BEEN JUST OVER A WEEK since you’d last saw will, well, since you’d last spent time with him - which was normal.
you’d go days without seeing him outside of class because he had practice, workouts, film sessions or whatever it was freshman hockey players filled their calendars with. you had cheer, assignments, brad, and the constant balancing act of pretending your life hadn’t become significantly more complicated over the span of a few weeks.
it wasn’t like you saw each other every day - you never usually did to begin with. you didn’t now disappear halfway through a lecture to make out in a supply cupboard, or have will skip hockey because you fancied company. things were still the same. you still encountered each other the same - you still saved him a seat, and he still pushed every one of your buttons before the lecture could even start.
but there were the nights when brad disappeared to a party with the football boys, or headed across town for poker, or decided he was ‘busy’, leaving you with an empty dorm room and absolutely no business thinking about a certain freshman.
you always texted the same thing: what you doing rn? or are you out?
casual, like you were only making conversation.
he’d reply with a range of different answers, sometimes with a photo of him and three of the guys crammed into a booth at some burger place:
with the guys.
at dinner rn.
just finished practice, why?
every time, you’d cave almost immediately:
nothing, don’t worry about it!
was just asking.
never mind! it’s okay.
then, without fail, your phone would buzz again, sometimes he called when you took too long to answer. “what?”
“nothing.” you’d blush even though he wasn’t around, but the thought of him taking the time to call you whilst out with his friends sent your heart leaping. you weren’t that important. it wasn’t that big of a deal.
“you don’t text me ‘you busy?’ for nothing.”
“no, i just . . .” you’d sigh, picking at the corner of your duvet. “it was just if you weren’t doing anything. i’m in my dorm by myself if you wanted to . . do anything.”
a pause, then—
“’kay.”
“’kay?”
“’yeah, i’m coming.”
“no, it’s fine! it was only if you were bored and not going anythi—”
“—oh trust me, i was bored.” you’d hear the movement on the phone, leaving to make his way over to your place.
he could’ve been halfway through dinner, watching a game, out with his teammates or even catching up on workload he desperately needed to do — it didn’t seem to matter.
within twenty minutes there’d be a knock at your door.
you were still getting used to kissing him - not in a bad way, but in the way that he could do it so. . . naturally. the way he’d lean over without making a big deal out of it, like kissing you had somehow become the most ordinary thing in the world.
it hadn’t become ordinary to you — not yet. it still caught you off guard.
your heart still tripped over itself every time his hand found your waist, and you still caught yourself thinking, i shouldn’t be doing this, but you never wanted him to stop; and you never regretted it either.
kissing will always gave you butterflies, always summoned a hunger you were unfamiliar with until that faint voice in the back of your head told you to calm down. whether it was the nerves or guilt, you couldn’t bring yourself to go further than the line you’d already crossed. he never rushed you, and he never pushed. the furthest either of you had gone was the night in the laundry room and that had only happened again once.
or twice.
three times?
he never complained nonetheless, never guilt-tripped or let out a huffy sigh — just gave that stupid, patient smile that somehow made saying no feel even harder and carried on with what you were happy with.
it was a friday night when you were bunched up together in your room, will entering your room with his hood up, water droplets from the rain sitting on top. you hadn’t seen him since last friday, with you missing the weekend to go back home for your mom’s birthday and him playing away games with his silly sidequests inbetween. he was the one who had texted you this time:
6’1 in skates
u home?
you
in dorm room, yeah
6’1 in skates
coming over
you
doors unlocked
6’1 in skates
well let’s change that! not very safe of you
you
will shut up
you tried to conceal your excitement to his arrival, tried not to sit so eagerly and smile so hard at the sight of him. you tried not to look so bashful - although he’d had that affect on you for a while.
the guy made you squirt all over a washing machine . . . it was safe to say he owned a large part of your dignity.
“hi.”
“hello gorgeous,” he smiled, shutting the door after him with the heel of his foot. “how are you, sweet stuff?”
“i’m ok,” you watch him make his way over to your bed where you sat up, back lost in pillows, blankets sprawled across the bed. “what’d you get up to today?”
“nothing much, been stuck with the guys. grabbed some lunch. squeezed in a haircut.”
you could tell. even with his hood up, you could see his shaved-in sides. “productive.”
he winks. “i know, right?”
“i got your mark for you.”
he pulls a face while stepping over your slippers, throwing himself on your mattress with a puff. “don’t wanna know.”
“it’s good,” you smile down at him, watching him pull his hood down.
and wow.
holy fresh cut.
he lays in front of you, leaning on an elbow, hand wrapped around a bottle of water that looks smaller than it is. “don’t care.”
you tilt your head. “you should.”
“i don’t wanna talk grades right now,” he grins, lifting a large hand to cup your waist with a familiarity to it that still catches you off guard.
heat immediately pools in your stomach. the feeling of his long fingers slowly caressing your side in a gentle stroke while he subtly pulls you a couple inches closer.
you can’t stop checking him out. really - he looks so good with the fresh cut, and there’s something about him in all black that makes your heart hum. “no?” you rest your arm over his shoulder, pretending to be far less affected than you are. “what do you wanna do?”
he looks up at you through his lashes, the corner of his mouth tugging into that stupid smile. “you tell me what you wanna do,” his teeth make an appearance as his fingers slide from your waist to your arm, wrapping loosely around your wrist where it rests against him. “or tell me what you want me to do.”
you feel your face warm immediately. “will.”
“what?” he snickers lightly, unable to stop himself from leaning in to kiss your cheek.
the room falls comfortably quiet, friends murmuring from the television in the background, neither of you paying the slightest bit of attention to it anymore.
will watches you for a second, amused.
your shyness never stops surprising him.
the first day he’d met you, he’d assumed confidence came as naturally to you as breathing. you’d been the girl everyone noticed, the one who always had something smart to say, never looked intimidated by anyone. you were older. popular. in a league of your own.
then he’d discovered this version. the one who ducked her head when she blushed, who smiled into her shoulder when he caught her off guard, who suddenly found the carpet fascinating whenever he flirted a little too confidently.
it was easily his favourite.
not because it meant he’d won something, but because it was a side of you hardly anybody else ever got to see.
and selfishly, he wanted to be the only reason it appeared every time. “so,” he rolls onto his back, shirt rising a little as he rests his arms behind his head, revealing that little bit of hair below his bellybutton that disappears into the waistband of his boxers. “how much did you miss me?”
you trail your eyes back just to roll them enough that they almost hurt. “i think i survived the week just fine without seeing you.”
“just fine?”
“mhm.”
“not even a little bit?”
“not even slightly.” you grin, looking down at him sprawled across your entire bed. he looks huge like this.
“liar. i heard you were crying everyday.”
that makes you laugh out loud. “ok.”
“you were even contemplating writing me a letter.”
“oh yeah? with my locket hanging around my neck with your picture in it?”
“like you were waiting for me to return from war.”
you laugh and hit his chest. “you keep going, your head isn’t gonna fit in this room.”
“no?”
“no. never mind your hockey helmet,” you reach to stroke his brow hairs in place without thinking.
he grins. “i’ll make it fit.”
you shake your head to yourself as he sits up, flopping his back into your mountain of pillows, and throws an arm around an empty space next to him with your name on it. “so, you gonna admit it?”
“admit what?”
“you missed me?”
“i didn’t.”
“liar.”
“i didn’t,” you insist, determined to see how long he’ll keep this going. the smile on your face refuses to cooperate though, betraying every ounce of fake annoyance as you finally shuffle over into the fortress of pillows beside him.
will grunts, his arm falling across your waist until his hand rests over your stomach. “that’s weird.”
“why?”
“’cause i missed you.”
the way he says it so bluntly makes your heart thump and cheeks bloom, even though he’s messing around, trying to cringe you out. “you’re a cornball.”
“just telling the truth,” he absentmindedly traces slow shapes against your side with the pads of his fingers, eyes still fixed on the tv. “you should try it sometime.”
“will,” you laugh, giving his shoulder a shove.
“what?”
“stop.”
he just raises his shoulder, paying you no attention until you admit it out loud.
you lean on him slightly, arm rested on his shoulder, scanning his side profile. he doesn’t even glance your way.
the fresh haircut really wasn’t helping. or how his jaw looked sharper. his stupid eyelashes somehow longer. it was irritating.
he doesn’t even acknowledge you staring.
“. . . you’re really committed to this.”
“very.”
“you’ve got nothing better to do?”
“nope.”
“no homework?”
“tomorrow.”
“hockey?”
“tomorrow.”
“your friends?”
“probably surviving without me.”
you sigh dramatically. “your ego genuinely needs its own dorm.”
“still avoiding the question.”
you let your head fall lightly against his shoulder. “ . . . you’re exhausting.”
“been called worse.”
another minute passes as his thumb keeps absentmindedly moving against your skin that’s exposed from your rising shirt - back and forth, back and forth - completely unaware he’s doing it.
you eventually give in, mostly because you know he isn’t going to. “fine,” you roll your eyes, hand laid flat on his chest.
he doesn’t even look at you. “fine what?”
“i—” god, he really is as big-headed since the day you met him. “—might’ve noticed you weren’t around.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
you let out a groan, hiding your face briefly against his shoulder. “fine! i missed you a little.”
“a little?”
you pinch his side.
he laughs. “not like, a medium amount?”
you pinch him harder.
“ow!” he pinches you back, and you jump. “OW!”
“admit it!”
“alright! i missed you too much.” you give in, laughing at his audacity to pinch you back. “happy?”
“gassed,” he continues his caressing of your side, focusing on the small area he’d nipped. he turns his head to look at you, something to it that makes your stomach feel strangely light. “. . ‘cause i did miss this pretty face” he says again, his hand coming up to grip your jaw and almost pucker your lips in its hold.
your heart thumps as he leans in, placing a soft kiss to them like it’s the most natural thing ever.
when he lets go, you cower into his shoulder, the softness of his hoodie stroking your cheek.
the tv chatters away in the background, neither of you following the episode anymore.
you’re tucked against his side, his arm still around your middle, your breathing gradually slowing to match his. it’s peaceful.
too peaceful.
will glances down after a minute, seeing the way your eyes are focused elsewhere from the tv, how your brows move like you’re in conversation with yourself. “you’re cookin’ up there,” his finger presses to your temple.
“mm. just thinking.”
“‘bout me?”
he takes your groan as victory and rubs your arm as if to let you know he’s just playing. then his brows furrow, “why are you so tense?”
you blink. “what?”
“your shoulders.” his hand gives your side a gentle squeeze. “they’re up by your ears.”
you hadn’t even realized. a small laugh escapes you. “oh, sorry.”
“don’t apologise, just . . ” he chuckles, “relax . . i locked the door.”
you snort. “no, will, it’s fine. i’m just—"
he looks at you; his eyebrows lift.
“i’m just . . nervous still.”
“about . . ?”
“you,” you say like it’s obvious. “being around you. you make me nervous,” you admit before you can overthink it any longer.
will’s brows drop. “in a bad way?”
“no! no, just,” you laugh. “it’s nothing. i’m just being stupid,” he comforts you with his soft touch, large palm still soothing you with gentle strokes. “just getting used to this still. i need to relax,” you nuzzle deeper into his chest, feeling his hand come up to places on the back of your neck, warming you at the same time shivers tingle down your spine.
will doesn’t understand what his presence does to you.
he doesn’t realize that most days, your automatic stance is to move with your shoulders braced before anyone’s even spoken to you. that somewhere along the way you’d become so used to watching people’s moods, choosing your words carefully, anticipating reactions before they happened, that it felt normal.
you hadn’t noticed you did it until you met him, because when you’re with him, your body keeps trying to do something it isn’t very good at anymore:
relax.
it happens in tiny pieces: your jaw unclenches, your breathing deepens, your mind stops running a hundred conversations ahead and it actually feels . . quiet up there.
it’s unfamiliar - which is unsettling.
like stepping onto solid ground after spending so long balancing on something that kept moving beneath your feet.
will brushes his thumb gently across your neck, drawing you out of your thoughts, “hey,” his voice is soft, “you don’t have to be nervous.”
“i know, i know. i need to chill out,” you agree, focusing on the soft touch of his hand.
will’s eyes linger on your face before he nudges it closer with his knuckle until his lips plant on your cheekbone. your eyes close dreamily, as he lifts another soft kiss on your cheek, and then further down to your jaw.
then you feel his lips part slightly as he kisses your jawline, and you hum, smiling at the weird buzz that rings up to your ears.
“will,” you breathe when your feel the wetness from his mouth on your neck. he continues to kiss, leaving a hot, open mouth trail along the skin until you feel the sudden nip from his graze of teeth. “will,” you repeat, sliding your hand to the back of his neck.
the lack of hair reminds you of his cut, as you slide you fingers deeper into the back of his head, tangling then into the short strands that had been chopped.
now, the only thing you can think about is his mouth.
will kisses up and down your neck slowly, soft smacks filling the air every so often before he nips you with his teeth. you don’t think much of it until you feel it — the sucking by your pulse point, the area that makes your mouth pop open and unleash an accidental moan.
you feel the grin on his lips, the way he goes in again, hungrier this time, tilting your head to give himself better access as he continues to assault the skin; kissing and sucking, nipping the odd time which makes your toes curl.
caught up in the act, you don’t even realize his hand has slipped down from your waist to your legs where he’s slid it in between your thighs.
caught up in the act, you don’t even realize the damage to your neck is done already by the time he’s rubbing you through your panties and sending you over the edge with yet another loud, lazy cry. “awh—will! i can’t, i can’t,” you wriggle against his chest as your hand latches around his thick wrist to stop it’s movement against your cunt. overstimulated and spent, your nails dig into his wrist to stop him.
breathing heavily as you come down from the high, the freshman kisses your neck some more. small, featherlight ones as your brain tries to clear the haze of fog around it, grounding you a little.
as always, he brings his fingers to your lips, but you refuse to so much as look at them, always turning your head away as he slips them into his own mouth, a deep chuckle echoing in his chest as you refuse to watch him commit to such crude acts. the burn on your cheeks is more intense than when he’s pumping them into you, and it only encourages him more and more to do it each time.
“mmm, tas—”
“stop it.” you hold onto the arm that’s got you in a slight headlock, keeping your eyes away from him sucking his fingers clean of your slick right next to you.
he finishes with another sweet kiss to your cheek, squeezing you tight in his arm before the night melts into one you always forget how to end. will never stays. you always drift fast. it’s always a deep sleep, and the next time you see him, he pretends he’s sucking something out of his finger then plays it off that he was chewing off a rag nail when you hit him for teasing you.
but it’s a saturday and you don’t see him. you don’t see him on sunday either, because you don’t see anybody over the weekend. you spend all of saturday catching up on all the different things you were supposed to do - clear out your wardrobe, change your bed, tidy your dorm, finish an assignment. saturday night blurs into sunday morning as you decide to carry on your lazy day into the next.
you go for a walk through the city, noticing the big drop in temperature as the colder months begin to approach. leaves begin falling off trees and you buy new hat on the way back for the chilling autumn season.
brad texts you whilst you’re out, telling you he’ll be over by 7:00 tonight. you reply, telling him that’s fine, asking how the weekend went, if you guys wanted to get food. he’d went home for his older cousin’s stag, one of the 16 invited. he’d seemed to have a good time, though he’d texted you more than you thought he would, checking in every so often like he felt bad for leaving you. it was strange. unusual.
the last you’d seen him was thursday night, when you’d helped him pack a small duffel bag and spent the rest of the evening in bed, laying next to him with a movie playing. his head was engrossed in his phone as he showed you all the different places he’d be going to over the weekend, and you nodded along, acknowledging each one. he kissed your cheek a couple times before he left, nose brushing your cheekbone as his lips hovered by your jaw.
“don’t have too much fun while i’m gone,” he sang, a playfulness in his tone.
“no promises,” you sang back, eyes locked on the movie.
it was a nice evening. chilled. relaxing.
well, whatever your bunched up shoulders classed as ‘relaxing’.
you tidied what little mess around your dorm again, lit a candle and got a shower before he came. it wasn’t long before you were tucked up in bed together, side by side, your cheek pressed to his bicep as he flicked through his camera roll to show you all the funny videos he’d captured.
they were funny, yet, all you could think about was why the fuck are my shoulders so tense?
“watch this babe,” he giggles, turning the phone to show you a clip of his cousin drunkly climbing a street sign, only for it to break and have him land on his ass.
you hummed a laugh.
brad locked his phone and threw it further down your bed, reaching his arm to come around over you, pulling you into him some more. “what’s wrong with you? you’re quiet.”
“just gettin’ tired,” you snuggle deeper into his chest, eyes still on the tv. “glad you’re back though.”
“yeah? y’miss me?” he kisses your temple.
“mhm.”
“what’d you get up to?”
“nothing,” you shrugged, feeling his hand move down to your hip. “literally nothing. just lazed about whole weekend, did some work. cleaned.”
“didn’t go out with tash?”
“no. she went out with some of her other friends,” you sat up suddenly, hunting for the remote to press play on the next episode of desperate housewives. “couldn’t be bothered going out this weekend.”
he doesn’t respond. instead, you lay back down, back against the pillows as the next episode loads.
“. . . what is that on your neck?”
you don’t react straight away. his words don’t even hit you, you’re too busy soaking up his body warmth, getting cozy when he moves until you get off of him. that’s when you sit up, looking at him confused as his irritated gaze seems directed at you. “what?”
“i said what is that on your neck,” he suddenly snaps, hooking his finger in your pajama top to pull it away from your skin.
your eyes squint in confusion, your hand reaching for your phone to check out whatever the heck it is he’s freaking out over in the camera.
that’s when you see it - the dirty old mark by the base of your throat.
a hickey.
you freeze.
holy fuck.
your life quickly flashes before your eyes, the realization dawning on you as your body goes still, your mouth still open.
oh . . . god.
it feels like time slows as you quickly calculate how to navigate this situation, your stomach twisting with nerves.
fuck.
what you’re about to do is so incredibly evil . . you know it’s wrong but you don’t care. what else are you supposed to do? tell him the truth?
you glance at him, mouth still agape and quickly recover, “are you kidding me?!” you throw the phone on your bed with effortless care. “you scared me, brad! i thought it was a spider or something!”
“what the fuck are you talking about?”
“what?” you play dumb.
“what?” he repeats. “what do you mean, ‘what?’ y/n, fucking answer me,” he throws his bottle of water across your room, it knocks over your tidy row of files.
you blink at him like he’s lost it. “what the fuck are you freaking out for?!”
“what am i freaking out for?! who the hell gave you that?” he storms over, standing with his arm out toward your neck like the evidence is so obvious he can’t believe you’re making him explain it.
“are you— wait, are you serious right now?” you let a smile slip through. “or are you—are you trying to be funny?”
he gives you a look like you’re insane. like he’s wondering why the hell you aren’t crumbling right now, shaking like a leaf beneath him. “am i being funny?”
“wait, are you being for real?” you stare at him in shock.
his eyebrows shoot up. “y/n what the FUCK are you talking about right now?” he grabs you by your neck. “start talking!”
“you did that?” you immediately push him off, scoffing up at him. “what the hell do you mean?”
“like hell i did.”
you laugh in fake disbelief, climbing back onto the bed like he’s being ridiculous. “are you seriously arguing with me right now? like serious? ‘cause i’ll actually lose it.” you shoot him a warning look.
“yes because i didn’t do that!” he shouts again.
“yes, you did.”
“when?”
“thursday fucking night!” you lie.
“thursday?”
“you were kissing all over my face,” you raise your voice, arm held out to him.
“yeah, and?”
“and you did it?!” you say like there’s no other explanation needed.
“y/n—” he starts smiling, like he’s about to actually lose his shit.
you knuckle down. “i am NOT laughing brad! you’re fucking pissing me off!” you throw the blanket off you.
“you’re pissed off?!”
“YES! ‘cause what the fuck are you saying right now?! you’re initiating i what? i let someone else give me a hickey?!”
“well i sure as hell didn’t!”
“yes. you. did!” you smack the back of your hand to your palm.
he stares at you.
you stare at him. “i can’t believe this right now. i honestly don’t.” you pull the duvet higher, trying desperately to make yourself look bored rather than terrified.
“y/n,” his eyes narrow. “i did not give you that.”
“why are you acting like i’m accusing you of something bad?”
“because you’re telling me i did something i didn’t do.”
“okay, so i just woke up with it?”
“god knows i didn’t wake up giving you it.”
“so you forgot?”
“i don’t fucking forget shit like that.”
“apparently you do.”
he stares at you.
you hold his gaze, even though your pulse is beating so hard you can feel it beneath the mark. “you really don’t remember?”
“NO! ‘cause it didn’t. happen.”
“brad!” you whine. “co—”
“don’t.”
you stop.
for half a second, neither of you says anything.
then you scoff, shake your head and let out a sigh. “fine. whatever,” you turn, reaching for your phone. “if you don’t remember, you don’t remember.”
that somehow seems to bother him more. “no. no don’t do that.”
your heart is beating out of your chest.
you glance over your shoulder. “do what?”
“act like i’m stupid.”
“i didn’t say you were stupid.”
“you’re making me out to be.”
“i’m telling you what happened.”
“no, you’re not,” his voice is bitter now, like his temper is really about to break.
you sit up again. “then what do you want me to say?”
“i want you to tell me who did it!”
“i just did.”
“and i’m telling you it wasn’t me!” he slams his fist into your desk.
“then who the fuck was it?!” you look around the room. “tell me! you tell me.”
he scowls, his jaw set. it feels like you’re swimming with sharks with an open wound here. “it wasn’t fuckin’ me, that’s for sure.”
“okay,” you lie back down. “fine.”
“fine?”
“yeah,” you throw your hands up. “you don’t remember. i don’t know what you want from me.”
“i want you to stop fucking lying to me.”
“oh, and there it is. just because you don’t remember something it makes me a liar. ok.” you smile sarcastically.
“you ARE a fucking liar!”
you stare at him for a second, stunned enough that your mouth actually falls open.
then, your expression crumples into something wounded. “okay, brad,” you sound defeated. “yeah, you’re right. i’m sorry. i lied. someone else gave me it. i let someone else suck on my neck while you were gone,” you hear how ridiculous it sounds the second the words leave your mouth. so does he. “there. is that what you want to hear?”
“what i’m hearing is bullshit.”
“so because you don’t remember, that makes me a liar? a—a cheater?! that’s what you’re getting at here?” you perk up again, ready for another round.
“yeah. i fuckin’ am!”
“that is SO fucking unfair brad! you know you were here on thursday night, you know you were kissing down my face and neck, you literally can’t deny that,” your brows pinched together as sadness takes over your features. “we were sitting like this in your bed and you were all over me! you know you were!” you pat the bed frustratingly.
god, you deserve an oscar for this.
“yes, but i wasn’t sucking on your neck?”
you pinch the bridge of your nose with your eyes open. “oh. my. jesus. christ.”
“so what?! so you’re dying on this hill? you think i did it?”
“think?” you quickly snap your head to him. “i don’t think you did it, i know you did it because i was pRESENT IN THE FUCKING MOMENT YOU DID IT?!!!” you scream.
brad blinks.
woah.
you need to chill out.
you’re starting to belive your own lies.
for the first time, he doesn’t immediately have an answer.
the thought slips in before he can stop it: did i?
you catch the hesitation and immediately pounce. “honestly! who else was it supposed to be?”
“i—i don’t know, y/n but i—”
“who! tell me! seeing you’re so adamant, there’s gotta be someone in mind?” you demand. “huh? will—is it will?”
his face hardens instantly. “don’t bring him into this.”
“it is, that’s who you were gonna say,” you sit angrily on the bed. “honestly, i’m so over this. you’re — you know what? just go brad.”
“what?!”
“i’m done. you’ve just ruined the whole night and put me in the worst mood over nothing. honestly - when did you get so insecure all of a sudden?” you throw yourself back under the sheets.
“in—insecure?”
“yes!”
“i am not ins—”
“—you called me a liar and accused me of cheating because you saw a bruise on my neck! accused me of cheating because you don’t remember something you did!” you gesture toward it.
his eye twitches.
you point toward the door. “honestly, go home. i’m done talking to you.”
“y/n—”
“no. i’m done talking about this, you’ve seriously hurt me,” you grab your phone, already looking away from him. “i think if somebody else gave me a hickey, i’d be smart enough to cover it,” you snap, watching him head for the door.
he looks back at you, at your neck and the faded purple-y, green-yellow mark, and stands there for another second, looking genuinely conflicted.
you refuse to look at him, keeping your irritable look on your face as you scroll through your insta feed, waiting to hear the safe sound of your door click shut.
“whatever,” he mutters. “we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“we won’t.”
he looks at you, but you keep busy with your phone screen, “because no matter what i say, i’ll be accused of a liar, so.”
“babe—”
“don’t ‘babe’ me!”
“i’m just trying to work out what happened!”
“there’s nothing to work out when i’m telling you what happened! now get out brad!”
“but i—”
“OUT.”
he slams the door after him.
you don’t move.
for several seconds, you just lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to the thudding of your heartbeat.
silent.
motionless.
then—
you exhale.
a huge, shaky breath that feels like you’ve been holding it for ten straight minutes. “holy shit.”
you cover your face with both hands. your heart is pounding.
you’d just spent the last ten minutes gaslighting a completely sober man into believing he’d done something he absolutely had not done, and somehow — he’d left wondering if he had.
you slowly lower your hands.
the room is quiet again.
you’re alive.
you’re not caught.
and only now, with the door safely closed behind him, does it hit you just how close you came to being completely screwed.
im nosy asf but does the acc copying your smaus start witha g... if this gives it away u dont need to answer but i remember seeing their posts and thinking it was you!!
YEAH LMAOOOOO 😭😭 thats actually crazy that u noticed anon i thought i was doing too much the whole time.. genuinely the finsta posts were my brand n even the way she was formatting her blog was literally copy paste liek… sorry im being messy
ai could never recreate a 4oktzu smau post.. ur lwk changing the game its making me want to get into smaus just for the graphic design stuff LMAOOOO
AYEE THIS IS HONESTLY SO CUTE ANON THANK U id never thought ppl would gen enjoy my silly thoughts abt hockey men but here we are
other than the repetitive ig texts bc for some fucking reason i wanted to do them on canva when i hav a whole ass app to do them; its so so fun playing around w canva n trying to recreate each apps’ ui… im at like 100 pages now for my fraser smau LOLLLL
synopsis. you really have to study, and macklin really wants to be near you. he swears he won’t bother you that much..
warnings. fluff galore, established relationship but they live right next to each other so undisclosed neighbors to lovers…, reader is a college student, nickname for mack is puppy i couldnt resist but i did it in the most unnatural way possible #gootbye, not proofread we die like my computer
authors note. hello world i am still alive i am preparing myself for senior year by trying NOT to kms so take this as a treat for mi absence 💔💔 also this is a remake of another fic i had sitting in the drafts if it sounds funny then oops #sorrypau
you’ve been locked away in your apartment the past few days studying for a final.
every available surface in your living room has slowly disappeared beneath stacks of notes, color-coded flashcards, and half-finished cups of coffee that have gone cold hours ago. your laptop has been open for so long that the screen brightness seems permanently burned into your vision, and you’re fairly certain you’ve spent more time staring at diagrams this week than you have at actual people.
you’ve spent the last three days rotating between your desk, your couch, and your kitchen solely for the purpose of obtaining more caffeine. your final exam is later this week, and despite the fact that you’ve studied enough material to teach the course yourself, you still felt wildly underprepared.
your phone has been buzzing on the coffee table for the last 5 minutes, and you already know exactly who it is without looking, because only one person texts you with this much consistency and this little regard for whether or not you're busy.
you don't even bother responding to that one, because you know better, and you go back to your flashcards fully intending to ignore him into submission. it doesn't work. it never works.
barely a minute passes before there's a knock at your door, quick and eager, the evening light already gone gold and heavy through your blinds. you're not even surprised — just resigned, sighing as you push yourself up from the couch and shuffle over to let him in, because you know if you don't, he'll just stand out there knocking until you do.
you pull the door open, already giving him a look. "you didn't even wait for me to say no."
macklin is standing there in one of his ratty hoodies, his floppy brown hair falling into his eyes, still slightly dark and damp like he just showered, and when he grins at you it's that lopsided, gummy smile of his — the one that shows a little too much gum and somehow still manages to be the most endearing thing you've ever seen. his green eyes are shining, body practically vibrating with the effort of looking casual as if he wasn’t dying to be within a 2 feet radius of you. "you didn't say no," he points out. "you said nothing. very different."
"macklin."
"hi sweet girl." he's already stepping past you into the apartment before you can fully commit to being annoyed, toeing off his shoes at the door like this was always the plan, like there was never a version of tonight where he wasn't ending up on your couch. "i won't stay long. i just wanted to see you for a second."
you shut the door behind him, mostly because there's no point doing anything else at this point, and follow him back into the living room, stepping over a stack of notes on your way. "i told you i couldn't come over," you remind him, dropping back down onto the couch beside your laptop.
"i know. so i came here instead." he says this like it's the most logical solution in the world, like it wasn't the exact outcome you were trying to avoid by not answering his texts, already making himself comfortable in the small space you'd left open on the cushion. "problem solved."
"that's not- i'm studying," you say, gesturing vaguely at the wreckage of flashcards and cold coffee mugs surrounding you, as if the evidence needs pointing out.
"i know, i know. you're studying." he makes a beeline for your couch anyway, dropping down and immediately looking around at the chaos like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, picking up a stray flashcard and turning it over in his hands. "whoa. okay. this is a lot of flashcards."
"i have a final in three days," you say, not looking up as you flip to the next page of your notes.
"i know, you texted me." he says it fondly, not accusingly, already reaching for one of your color-coded stacks and flipping through them like he's trying to memorize the color system himself. "can i quiz you?"
you glance over at him with an eyebrow raised/ “you don’t know anything about organic chemistry, you only finished one year of college.”
"i know how to read, i’m not that stupid." he flips one over anyway, squinting at it like it's written in a foreign language, which, to him, it basically is, sounding out each syllable slowly. "what's... nucleo... nucleophilic substitution?"
you sigh, but it's not really an annoyed sigh — it's the sigh of someone who has known this man for almost a year and has never once successfully told him no, not on the phone, and apparently not at the door either. "it's a reaction where a nucleophile replaces a leaving group in a molecule," you recite without even having to think about it.
"see, you knew that." he beams up at you, tossing the flashcard back onto the pile with the satisfaction of someone who just personally solved organic chemistry. "you're gonna crush this final."
"that's one out of," you wave a hand to the unorganized stack of cards laid out. "hundreds of vocab i have to go through."
"you'll get there." he shuffles closer on the couch, tucking himself against your side with the ease of someone who has claimed this exact spot a hundred times before, resting his head against your shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. "i'll be very still. i'm basically furniture."
"you are not furniture," you say, trying and failing to sound stern.
"i'm like a teddy bear," he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice even without looking at him.
you try to keep studying. you really do. but macklin has this way of existing near you that makes it genuinely difficult to focus — not because he's loud, though he can be, but because he's warm, and solid, and smells like your shampoo because he apparently can't be bothered to buy his own, and every few minutes he presses a kiss to the top of your head like it's an automatic function of his body that he has no control over.
you’ve been trying to concentrate for the past ten minutes now, but every minute or so macklin would interrupt your thoughts. touching your face ("there's an eyelash on your cheek, hold on.."), playing with your school supplies ("since when did you get these fancy pens?"), or just finding random excuses to bother you ("do you know what time it is?" "macklin. your phone is right there.") were just some of the things he was doing, all with the restless, bright-eyed energy of something that's been cooped up inside all day and finally let out into a big backyard.
after the fifth or sixth interruption, you finally set your pen down and turn to look at him properly, giving him the most unimpressed expression you can manage. "puppy. you said you wouldn't bother me," you remind him, and the nickname does something visible to him. his ears go pink almost instantly, and he ducks his head like he's trying to hide the way his whole face lights up at it.
"i'm not-" he starts, voice a little higher than usual, clearing his throat before he tries again, pressing his face further into your hair as if that'll hide the blush. "i'm not bothering you. i'm being supportive," he insists...
"you've kissed my head four times in the last ten minutes," you point out, counting on your fingers for emphasis, though you're fighting a smile the entire time you say it.
"five," he corrects easily, and presses his lips to the crown of your head once more, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point and pad the count in his favor.
you swat at him half-heartedly, more reflex than actual protest, but you don't actually move away, and he knows you don't actually mean it, because he settles in even closer, resting his chin on your shoulder so he can watch you highlight your notes like it's the most interesting television program available, his floppy hair tickling against your cheek every time he shifts.
the sun has been sinking lower this whole time, slipping through the gap in your blinds until it lands right across your face in a thin gold stripe, warm and soft against your skin. you don't notice it. you're too busy underlining a definition for the third time, like repetition alone will make it stick.
macklin notices.
he goes quiet in a way that's different from his usual quiet. not bored, not restless, just still, watching you with his chin propped on your shoulder like he's forgotten what he was going to say. you don't catch it at first, too deep in your notes, until you feel his gaze more than see it, heavy and unmoving on the side of your face, and you finally glance over at him, brow furrowed in question. "what?" you ask.
"nothing." he says it too quickly, glancing away for half a second before his eyes settle right back on you, and when he speaks again his voice has dropped into something quieter, more careful, like it slipped out before he could decide whether to say it at all. "you know, you look pretty right now."
you blink, caught off guard enough that it takes you a second to respond, already reaching up to touch your own messy hair self-consciously. "i've been awake for-"
"i know. still pretty." he says it so plainly, like it's just a fact of the room, like the light and the mess and the three-day-old ponytail have nothing to do with it, reaching up to brush his thumb along your cheekbone, following the gold stripe of sun like he's tracing it on purpose. "the light's doing this thing. right here. you should study in the evening more often."
"macklin, that's not-" you start, already flustered, already trying to wave it off with some half-formed argument about proper lighting and eye strain, but you don't get the chance to finish it, because he leans in and kisses you before the sentence even has anywhere to go.
it's slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that doesn't ask for anything except for you to stop talking for a second. your highlighter is still loose in your hand, and for a moment there's no final, no flashcards, no more chapters — just the warmth of the evening light and the warmth of him, close and familiar and endlessly patient in a way he pretends not to be.
when he finally pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, his hair brushing against your skin, he's smiling like he won something.
"that wasn't fair," you mumble, still a little dazed, your fingers curling loosely into the front of his hoodie without you quite meaning for them to.
"i know," he says, not sorry at all, thumb still resting against your cheek like he isn't in any hurry to let go of the moment. "you're gonna crush your final."
"you're impossible," you tell him, though it comes out fond, and he just grins wider like it's the nicest thing you've ever called him.
"i'm in love with you. slightly different." he presses one more kiss to the corner of your mouth, quick and pleased with himself, before finally leaning back into the couch cushions, looking entirely too satisfied with the whole exchange. after a while, once the quiet has settled comfortably between you again, he speaks up, voice quieter now, almost testing the waters. "you know, you could take a break. just for like ten minutes."
"i really can't. i have so much left," you say, though your resolve is noticeably weaker than it was twenty minutes ago.
"i'll make you tea," he offers, already halfway to standing, like the matter is basically decided.
"macklin no–” you start to protest, but he cuts you off before you can build any real momentum.
"i'll make you tea and i'll sit here and be silent and i will not distract you even a little bit, i promise, i just." he pauses mid-sentence, and when you glance over at him there's something almost sheepish in his expression, like he's embarrassed by his own honesty, his hand rubbing absently at the back of his neck. "i missed you. you've been in here for three days. i live right there." he points vaguely in the direction of his own apartment, as if you don't know exactly where it is, as if you haven't spent countless nights there yourself. "it's weird not seeing you."
your heart does the thing it always does when he says stuff like this. soft and a little dumb and completely unguarded, like it never occurs to him to be anything other than exactly, embarrassingly honest about how much he likes you.
you set your highlighter down, finally, and give him a small nod. "okay. ten minutes."
his whole face lights up like you've just told him christmas came early, already popping up off the couch, way too pleased with himself for someone who negotiated basically nothing. "ten minutes," he agrees, backing toward the kitchen as he points at you like he's issuing a formal warning. "i'm gonna make the tea. don't look at your notes while i'm gone, that's cheating."
"that's not how breaks work!" you call after him, though you're already leaning back into the couch cushions.
he ignore you. you hear him opening cabinets he definitely doesn't need to open, just to make noise, just to fill the space, just because he likes being useful to you.
you lean back against the couch cushions and let yourself actually rest for the first time in days, the last of the sunset fading into something dimmer and darker outside the window, listening to him hum something off-key while the kettle heats up, and you think, not for the first time, that you don't really mind being bothered. not by him.
when he comes back with two mugs and immediately curls back into your side, declaring the ten minutes "officially started," you don’t even mind one bit.
extra a/n: considering turning this into a series/au…. idk i love a good black cat golden retriever trope 👅👅 also idk why my dividers arent working whatever bro
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