Chronically Deceased @sanguinebats - Tumblr Blog

Mar 23

Part 1 - The Sun

Oh look, it’s a twin fic on the horizon! I started this for @katuschka because I believe she is entertained by watching me struggle to write these two. Kidding, mostly

Pairings: Josh Kiszka x reader, Jake Kiskza X reader

Warnings and tags: 18+ only, adult content including: drinking, some flirting, some angst, just a little bit of kissing, honestly this part is very tame, scene setting

Word count: 5.3k

Josh

Finally it was Friday. The week had flown by in a blur. At the end of it your only hope was that you would retain at least half of the information that had been thrown at you from every direction.

Thankfully Fridays at the studio seemed to be much slower than the rest of the week. Most of your coworkers had already cleaned their work spaces, packed up, and left for the day after lunch.

It was just you, a handful of others, and your boss left still tinkering around, nothing but the sounds of distant typing and a sewing machine going in the other room.

There wasn’t much left for you to do, but you didn’t feel right leaving early during your first week, so you took out a sketch pad from your work tote and got to looking busy. Really you were just doodling, but the design you were working on (just for fun mind you) had enveloped your entire attention until the door to the studio flew open and in walked your boss with a very interesting man.

“Just this way, I have those catalogs for you to look through over here”. Your boss directed the man through the room, walking directly down the middle between the rows of work spaces.

Most of your coworkers didn’t even bother looking up at the intrusion. There were only a couple of hours left in the day and they needed to get their projects done otherwise they would have to take them home.

You on the other hand hadn’t been given too many things to do, your boss still testing the waters with your skills. That was no worry to you. Soon enough with hard work you would win them over.

Getting the job felt like a miracle to begin with. It was your first real design job since graduating. Of course you had worked little gigs here and there, mostly costume designs and maintenance for the local theaters, but this one was legit. Full time salary with bonus commissions, paid time off, benefits packages and all. The boutique was small, but they had been quickly gaining recognition in the city ever since some musician up for an award had worn one of the top designer's dresses to the CMAs.

A photo of the artist wearing the dress was included in a collage with the girl who’d made it, right here in this studio, and it hung above her workstation like she’d been up for an award herself. You dreamed of that kind of recognition, and getting your foot in the door of the industry felt like a large leap in the right direction.

“I’m so glad you called. We primarily work in women’s fashion, but we’ve been trying to branch out to attract more high profile clients. Like yourself” you heard your boss talking in her nasally, high pitched “customer service” voice as she sped past your desk.

Suddenly realizing that you’d been staring, you quickly ducked your head down and continued on your design. Whoever he was, it was none of your business. Or so you thought.

“Wow, that is amazing” a smooth, almost angelic like voice spoke right above you, and you glanced up again to see he had stopped to admire your drawing.

“Thank you” you mumbled, trying not to be shy. Though now that you were looking directly at him you were immediately taken by his beauty.

His waist sat about even with the desk, so he couldn’t be too tall, and his hips were narrow but also rounded and curvy. Shoulders, well they were just the right width to compliment his physique, slender but toned in all the right places. What interesting measurements you thought to yourself, but pushed that notion aside knowing you wouldn’t be given your own client to work on so soon.

“It’s a jumpsuit, right?” He asked, still observing your sketchbook with interest.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see your boss’s mouth opening to object, but you answered before she could interrupt. “Yes, I was just playing around with silhouettes. Jumpsuits are fun to draw because there’s not many rules to them”.

The man smiled, and his teeth nearly sparkled like a diamond bracelet, each stone perfectly carved and set in place.

“No rules, I like that” he replied, motioning with his hand to ask if he could take a better look. You backed away and allowed him to pick up your book so he could examine the design closer. Before you could stop him he was flipping through the pages, the smile never leaving his face as he glanced over each sketch, finished or not.

Now mortified you sat in silence, looking over at your boss to ask for forgiveness even though you hadn’t really done anything wrong. Eventually he set the book back down, turned to a page containing a drawing of another jumpsuit you’d recently created. “Can you make me this one?”

“Oh, I’m not really the one to ask” your eyes kept drifting to your boss, who was growing more and more frustrated by the second, but as soon as he looked in her direction her demeanor flipped and she was back to being all smiles.

“We can do whatever you’d like!” She stepped back in, trying to take over from here. “We have plenty of skilled designers, they can collaborate on something that I’m sure will fit your image and style”.

His brows furrowed with confusion and he looked back over to you. “Is this not your design?”

“Yes… it is”. What were you supposed to do in this situation? Lie to him?

“Then I want her to do it” he told your boss, his resolve clear and unwavering.

“Of course” she answered, her tone bleeding annoyance, but she wasn’t about to try and convince him otherwise. Again, whoever he was she was more concerned with keeping him on as a client rather than explaining the situation. That being that you were new and hardly had any experience.

Experience or not, you’d worked hard to make it here and you weren’t going to let an opportunity like this go to waste.

“Great!” He looked even more excited than you were and you realized that it was going to be hard to not get swept up in his charm.

He’s just a business transaction, no need to freak out. This is your job, you reminded yourself as you stood to accept his handshake. This is your chance! You introduced yourself, smiling as he complimented your name.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Josh Kiszka. Singer of Greta Van Fleet. Where do we start?”

That was nearly six months ago, and what a whirlwind they had been. From the beginning design meetings with each of your bosses and Josh, to fitting after fitting, scraping designs half way through and pulling off more than one miracle, you had shown up and showed out with each custom handmade piece. If making costumes for a world tour wasn’t nearly enough excitement for you, the glory and sense of accomplishment felt when you had attended their first show was more than enough to solidify in your mind that you had indeed chosen the right career for yourself.

Watching your very own designs come to life on stage in front of thousands of people was like a dream come true. Social media exploded as soon as they stepped out into the spotlight, everyone wanting to know who had made their fabulous, sparkly, and beautifully crafted outfits.

The boutique couldn’t be more happy with the exposure and they had worked well with you, getting anything you needed and allocating all the extra studio room necessary to pull off such a large workload.

Even with all the recognition, you stayed humble. Make clothes that were inspired, and inspiring in return. That’s all you ever wanted to do, and Josh had been the perfect muse. From the first time you saw him, standing there in the studio in a completed piece after so much planning and preparation, your heart sank into the bottom of your chest.

He was perfect. In every which way you were learning, as more time spent with him passed on.

“Rich darling! I want to look rich!” Josh mused as he spun in his cape in front of the full length mirror.

“Settle down! You’re going to poke yourself with a needle” you giggled, grabbing at the hem so it wouldn’t get dirty on the floor.

“What do you think? The gold? Or the silver?” He asked for your opinion, which he did quite often, making you feel valued for your taste. That felt like a lot coming from him, the self-proclaimed diva.

“Why not both?” You shrugged like it didn’t matter (which it really didn’t, the cape had hints of both in the embellishments. You’d thought about that in the design after realizing his inclinations towards jewelry). Really though you were just trying to avert your gaze from his bare chest.

Usually the client was a little timid during their first fittings, feeling either bashful or uncomfortable with changing in front of others or being accidentally touched while the designer was placing pins. Josh however, he had no shame prancing around the studio in just his underwear.

One evening, when you had to stay late to finish up a piece for the next meeting, the girls had gathered in the studio giggling to each other. You glanced over a shoulder, seeing a photo on one of their phones showing each of the band members turned around with their pants pulled down, asses on display right on the side of a road.

“He really does have a nice one doesn’t he?” One of the girls commented. “Look at those cute little cheeks”.

“Little?” Another one chimed in jokingly.

“That man has more cake than Maria Antoinette!”

When the girls noticed you looking they quickly broke apart, moving back to their own desks to continue working. It wasn’t like they singled you out, in fact despite getting a high profile client so quickly everyone treated you very well. With all of the long hours you all often pulled, it was much easier to pretend to be one big happy family that occasionally bickered rather than constantly being at each other's throats.

It all felt like a distant memory now that it was done. Tour had started and unless any of the jumpsuits needed mending along the road, your history with Josh Kiszka was over. Or so it began.

Vacation, you didn’t have much of it but you were determined to make the best of your time off after the hell of a year you’d had at the boutique. It was just after the holidays, and about four months since you had last seen the ever enigmatic Josh.

Not that you’d been counting.

With a book in hand and a large glass of crimson wine in the other you were half tempted to ignore the call as your cell buzzed next to you on the couch. Tempted enough, and a little too tipsy to really focus on your book now, you glanced down and gasped at the caller ID.

It was weird to see his name on the screen. His manager gave you their contact initially, but Josh insisted on cutting out the middle man and wrote his down on a piece of scratch muslin soon after you began working together. Even with that information stored in your phone you wouldn’t dare contact him without a professional reason.

“Hello?” You answered after sliding the call button to answer and placing it on speaker. There wasn’t anyone in your apartment but you and your cat, whatever he had to say Oliver could hear as well.

“Hey” his voice sounded soft, maybe even a little hoarse, and you found yourself worrying if he was taking care of himself while on the road. He has a whole team looking after him, not to mention his bandmates, the rational voice in your head told you to mind your own business.

When he didn’t say anything after his greeting you started to worry that something was the matter. “Is there a problem with the suits?” You questioned thinking there could be no other reason for him to call you at such an odd hour.

“Oh, no nothing like that. I’ve been taking great care of them I promise” he chuckled, and even over the phone the sound made you crack a smile. “It’s just… we’re having a break right now and I don’t know, I guess I’m a little antsy”.

You took another sip of your wine to calm your nerves. “Are you telling me that you’re bored?”

“Maybe”.

“Well, don’t you have plenty of people to call? Why me?” That could have been taken as you fishing around, but Josh knew you didn’t mean it that way. You just simply wanted to know. “I do, but it’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. We used to talk a lot before”.

His voice kept trailing off, like he was unsure of himself even after initiating the call.

“Yes, we did” you agreed, though from your perspective he was very friendly and talkative to everyone. You would be a fool to think the time he gave you was anything special. And yet you took another drink of wine and got comfortable against the cushions.

Over an hour later and you couldn’t resist the yawns as they came more and more often.

“I won’t keep you much longer” Josh sounded like he was growing tired as well. “I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner, life just sort of distorts during tour. One minute you’re doing a show in one state and then the next you’re across country and months have passed”.

“That’s alright, I never expected anything from you”. As soon as that slipped out you knew that it wasn’t the way you wanted to assure him that going months without contact was ok. After talking you had to admit to yourself that you did miss him.

“Then is it alright if I call you again?”

You bit your lip suddenly feeling like you were treading on dangerous grounds, but how could you simply decline. “Anything you need. I’m here”.

“I’ve got great news” Josh was beaming as soon as you answered. “I got invited to fashion week, and I want you to design my outfit!”

“Me?” As flattering as it was, there had to be other options for him to explore first.

“Yes you!” He laughed your hesitance off. “I’ve already got so many ideas but I need your input. Can we meet up?”

“Oh, umm,” you glanced around at your apartment and the piles of messes you’ve made everywhere during your attempt to do a little spring cleaning. “I’m actually on vacation right now, but I’m sure they won’t mind if we come in”.

“In that case, just come to my place?”

“Are you sure? We can go get coffee or something?” You tried offering other options, just out of politeness.

“Nonsense, I’ve got my own. I’ll text you the address”.

After the fastest shower and blow dry you’ve ever done you found yourself standing outside Josh’s house wondering what exactly had come over you. Knocking at the door you felt uneasy. His home was exactly what you would expect from him. Classy with just enough pizazz to suit Josh’s personality.

You could see him running to the door from the windows. They were so large and wide that nearly the entire front of the house was on full display, but it was set far enough away from the street and in a quiet neighborhood so there was no worry about privacy.

“Come in, it’s so good to see you. Thanks for coming over!” He greeted you like any well-made host would, asking to take your coat and if you’d like anything to drink.

Seeing him you were glad that you didn’t overdo it when getting dressed. At the studio you made an effort to look cute as you were oftentimes running errands and making new acquaintances. For this meeting you decided to be a little more casual, showing up in just some well fitting jeans and a light sweater to combat the early spring chill.

Josh was dressed, well like Josh, a pair of khakis rolled at the ankles and a simple white t-shirt. Even at home he didn’t skip out on the accessories though, a silver necklace hung from around his neck and a cuff sparkled along his ear.

“Have a seat, I’ll be right back” he motioned towards the couch then bound off to the kitchen, his bare feet padding against the shiny hardwood floors.

The entire place felt luxurious, cast in a warm golden glow from the abundance of lamps and recess lighting. You took a seat on the couch and could’ve sworn it was the softest, most comfortable thing you’d ever encountered. Taking it all in you wondered what it must be like to really live here instead of your modest crowded apartment. And then you caught yourself, that little voice reminding you to stop being ridiculous.

Just as Josh was returning you were pulling out your sketch book along with a few sample fabrics you knew he liked hoping it would at least give you a rough idea of what he was wanting for this event.

“For you” he extended his hand, offering a glass of sparkling white wine.

“Oh I really shouldn’t” you smiled sheepishly, but Josh insisted so you agreed to just one glass.

“It really is good to see you” he took a seat next to you on the couch, his fingers playing with the scraps of silk and satin between you. “I feel like I haven’t seen a familiar face in so long”.

“Familiar?” You hardly knew each other, but that didn’t stop you from feeling like you could trust him. You were alone with him at his house after all. “Don’t you see your brothers all the time?”

Josh set his own wine glass down on the coffee table before you and leaned back against the couch with a sigh. It was the same melancholic sound as he’d had on the phone only a few nights ago. “You’re right, maybe I’m just being dramatic”.

It didn’t feel like your place to comfort him, even if he was just an arms length away. He closed his eyes and his head dropped against the cushions. You took the opportunity to observe him, even if you had seen him up close and personal countless of times at the studio, here he was in his natural habitat. His defenses were diminished, or not even that. It was like he wasn’t performing for anyone for once, and he looked kind of sad.

As quickly as the mood had shifted he snapped back forward and grabbed his glass, taking a large sip and turning back toward you. “Ok, let’s talk. I want to be the hottest bitch there. Work your magic”.

Two more glasses of wine later and your conversation had turned into something more like the phone calls you’d had recently rather than a meeting. Not that you minded. It had been nice to hear his voice again, and it was even better to watch his animations in person as he told stories about his childhood. You were getting to see the Josh before the fame, and your heart ached for not knowing him sooner.

As for you, he listened intently as you backtracked the parts of your life that stood to be told. Not only did he look truly interested but he asked questions, showed remorse when you overshared about your last boyfriend who turned out to be a lame dirtbag of a man, and encouraged you to continue on your path. He could’ve been a motivational speaker in another life the way he made you blush after each compliment to your skills.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you all night”. After all the talking you were sure that you had sobered up enough to make it home safely. Usually only three glasses wouldn’t make you feel anything but a little tipsy, but tonight you felt like you were walking on clouds.

“Oh is it that late already?” He glanced over at his phone and suddenly shot up like he had been reminded of something important. “Shit I almost forgot, Jake said that he would be coming by tonight to give me some forms to sign”.

That was your queue and you began to gather your things, stuffing them back in your bag.

“Wait” he reached forward, his hand grasping yours to slow you down. It worked, you stopped and met his gaze, your breath catching at the sight. “Can you come visit again? I’d love to cook you dinner”.

“Dinner?” You laughed softly thinking he must be joking, but he looked all too serious. “Yeah, dinner sounds great”.

“Lovely” he flashed his toothy smile again, his hand still holding yours. “We’re on the road again next week, until then I’d really enjoy your company”.

“Josh-” you could feel him getting closer, the scent you’d grown familiar with when being near him now overwhelmed you.

His eyes fell on your lips, there was no mistaking where he meant to take this. “I’d like to kiss you now? Is that ok?”

You nodded and then his lips were on yours and you felt frozen. Before you could register kissing him back a pair of headlights accompanied by the sound of a car pulling up to the house startled you and he pulled away.

“I’ll call you then?”

On your way out you crossed paths with his brother. Jake as you remembered even after just a few times of meeting him. He looked surprised to see you coming out of Josh’s house, especially at this hour, but he nodded and allowed you to pass.

A few weeks went by and Josh was back on the road. You had spent some more time at his house, having dinner, talking, even had a game night with his younger brother and their drummer (Jake was invited but didn’t show). Most nights ended in drinks, wine usually, which always got you in a good mood.

The flirting continued, on both of your parts, but Josh never made another move on you like he had during that first visit. Countless of times you found yourself staring a little too long at him as you got more and more comfortable in each other's presence. And then just like that he was gone again.

He stayed in touch this time, usually texting back and forth in the evenings when he was getting ready for a show. It seemed to be when he had the most energy, and it was actually helping you work harder as well, knowing you wanted to be free to talk to him instead of constantly taking work home.

By the third week you were starting to feel cooped up at home, so with your newfound free time you decided to go out with a couple of the girls from the studio. They planned on going to a club that was near your apartment so you decided to take an uber instead of worrying about how many drinks you could have. By the time you made it everyone was already taking shots and before long you were joining them for the second round.

“Oh hold on, I have to take this” you excused yourself when your phone started to buzz in your purse. You took it out and right on time Josh’s contact lit up your screen. The girl next to you caught the ID and gave you a huge know-it-all smile.

“Shhhh!” You put your finger to your lip and urged her to keep your secret as you stood and tried not to stumble your way to the back patio.

“Hello?” His voice sounded worried and confused when you finally answered on the last ring. The music was quieter out there but he could still hear it on his end, along with the muffled chatter of all the smokers sitting around enjoying the amiable weather compared to the muggy indoors.

“Hey, what's up. How was the show?” You tried to sound natural, but the combination of mixed drinks you’d been nursing all night was starting to slam into you like a dizzying wave of adrenaline. Paired with the cool open air you were feeling more than empowered.

“It was as good as always, except Jake fell on one of the speakers, had a little hissy-fit but I think he’s alright”.

You closed your eyes as you listened, his voice having become a sort of comfort for you. Along with a few thousand others you were sure.

“I love listening to stories about your shows” you began confessing. “Wish I could be there and see it happening instead of hearing about it afterwards”.

“We’re playing in LA soon, you could come”.

“LA!” You beamed, that would certainly be an exciting adventure for you, but you couldn’t see how you could get the time off so soon. “I’d love to, really but-”

“But what?” He stopped you before you could go any further. “But work? Do you have any pieces you’re behind on?”

“Well no…”

“Can you finish up anything you need to between now and next weekend?”

You nibbled your lip as you thought about it for a moment. Honestly since finishing everything for their tour the boutique hadn’t had you on any other large projects. You were mostly just assisting the other girls on their projects - what you should have been doing from the get go. “Yeah, I bet I can”.

“Great!” You could tell the excitement was already getting to him. “I’ll have our tour manager email your boss. Don’t worry about the flights or the room. We’re staying at a hotel that night”.

Your heart started to race and the sweat from when you were inside was now drying against your skin with a chill. It was probably a good thing you were pretty drunk as otherwise you would not be accepting this so easily. “So I guess I’m going to LA?”

“I can’t wait to see you”.

It was the sincerity in his voice that scared you.

“Yeah, me too”.

Even with all the anxiety you spent around getting the time off approved, accepting the flights, and actually showing up to the airport, you stepped out onto sunset boulevard with a smile on your face. A car had been arranged to meet and take you to the venue and from there a lanyard was thrown around your neck. There were so many people lined up everywhere that it felt like trying to fight your way through a zoo to find where to go. Eventually someone with a radio hanging from the same lanyard on their neck, holding a cellphone in both hands, and a very flustered look on their face, found you and ushered you towards your seat.

You watched the show with awe. The first time you’d attended you had been too caught up with scrutinizing the way your chosen fabrics floated across the stage, how each bead and crystal that had been painstakingly sewn into place sparkled under the lights. Now you were more enamored with the actual people wearing the clothes.

“They should be back any minute now” the very kind stage tech who had been tasked with bringing you backstage said as he offered you a bottle of water. “I’ve got to get back out there, but you can wait in here”.

“Thanks” you took the water and found a place to wait. It was quiet in the room, but you could still hear the sound of the audience cheering and music from the arena seeping through the concrete walls.

After the noise died down and you felt like you’d been waiting for just a little too long you decided to take matters into your own hands. You entered the hallway, watching as people crossed back and forth paying you no mind as you peeked around corners and tried to stay out of the way.

“Son of a bitch”.

There was a pause in your wandering as you heard a familiar voice. Thinking it was Josh you followed, finding a small dressing room with the door cracked open. You pushed on the door and soon realized that you should have never left the other room.

Inside was not Josh, but his brother Jake. He’d removed his jacket and was cursing at himself as he examined the inner lining.

He almost didn’t notice you enter until he turned around and nearly knocked you over. Out of reflex you threw your hands up and they collided with his chest, still sticky with sweat from the exertion of his playing. “I’m sorry” you tried to apologize for intruding but Jake didn’t seem to mind. It’s not like you were a stranger to him anyway.

“Hey, long time no see”. He looked surprised to see you here. Maybe Josh hadn’t said anything about the invite.

You averted your eyes, trying to give him some privacy if he was in the middle of changing. Then you saw the large tear in his jacket. “Can I see it?”

He followed your gaze to where he was holding the jacket at his side, same line of sight as his hips, and raised his brows. “I’m assuming you mean this?”

Jake held his jacket up, letting you get a good look at the damage. “My pack got caught on the stitching or something. Surely someone on the team has some sewing skills”.

“If you find a needle and some strong thread I don’t mind. I sent a bunch of spare materials with Josh’s order. Hopefully they’re around here somewhere”.

Jake asked you to wait there while he found the necessary items and returned with another bottle of water as payment.

“Thanks for doing this”. He stood, allowing you to sit on the single loveseat so you could lay the jacket out on your lap.

“I don’t mind. This is an easy fix” you slid the end of the thread between your lips and thread it through the needle, whipping out a backstitch and mending the tear. “You guys played incredibly tonight”.

“We do most nights” he replied with a cocky grin.

Glancing up from your lap you noticed that he wasn’t really watching you work, but he was staring directly at you. “So I hear”.

Whether he was privy to the phone calls you and Josh often shared at this hour or not, Jake didn’t seem phased in the slightest by your remark.

“There, good as new” you stood and held the jacket out thinking he’d take it with another thanks and you’d be on your way.

Jake reached for your hand, his calloused fingers brushing across your knuckles tenderly. Surprised, you released your grip and the garment fell to the ground between where you stood. You bent down to pick it up but Jake’s hand found you again, tucking underneath your chin and leading you to look up at him.

There were no words spoken as you slowly stood back up, your eyes never leaving Jake’s and his never leaving yours. He took a step forward, slowly, cautiously as if giving you the opportunity to push him back away. You couldn’t though, not when you felt his other hand circle around you and hold the small of your back. Not when you felt his breath on your cheek as he pulled you closer. And certainly not when his lips pressed against yours.

sanguinebats

Well then 👀

#not me helping to inspire you while I was making pancakes in the kitchen #having not even read this yet but hearing your summary and running with it.#confounding you with ideas about what the characters motivations thoughts and feelings are #they were good pancakes

sanguinebats

Feb 5

jakeytkiszka

Forget Me Not

Professor!Jake Kiszka x reader

13.8k words

warnings: anxiety, stress, shitty boyfriend, drinking, college stress, tutoring, power dynamic or whatever, feelings for your professor, yearning, more shitty boyfriend, cheating, minor threat, being emotionally numb, SMUT 18+!, heavy petting, oral sex (m. & f. rec), spanking, light choking, unprotected sex, dirty talk, overstim, guilt, little heart to heart moment, the L word, lemme know if I missed any!

Masterlist

You scan your eyes over the paper again, glancing helplessly at the numbers above each doorway.

How hard could it be to find one damn room?

You chew the inside of your bottom lip, passing yet another door that isn’t yours. A quick look at your phone makes your stomach drop. You’re late.

You break into a near run, your pulse thudding in your ears. Then, finally,you spot it at the very end of the hallway. Of course. The universe was laughing at you.

You mutter a quick prayer under your breath, hoping your professor isn’t some old, bitter academic who lives for the chance to humiliate latecomers.

You push the door open.

Every head in the room turns toward you at once, freezing you mid-step.

And there– leaning casually against the desk at the front of the classroom– is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Your professor.

His arms are crossed, an eyebrow arched with cool, unimpressed precision as he stares directly at you.

He’s ridiculously beautiful.

Amber eyes– sharp, dark around the edges, calculated– track every move you make. His hair falls past his shoulders, framing a face that looks both elegant and a little cruel. The black sweater he wears looks soft enough to touch, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. His dark pants fit in a way that makes it hard not to look twice. And the way he stands– controlled, effortless authority– makes it obvious he’s used to people listening to him.

“Hi,” you manage, immediately regretting it.

“You’re late,” he replies, no bite to the words, just fact, cold and unarguable.

“Sorry,” you breathe, staring anywhere but at him.

“There’s an open seat in the front,” he says, nodding toward the empty desk directly in front of him. “Unless you’d like to interrupt my class a little longer?”

It’s phrased like a question, but the challenge is unmistakable.

You nod quickly, murmuring another apology as you let the door close behind you. The walk to the front feels like a mile-long runway of shame. You sit, sinking as low as possible in the chair, your face burning.

When you glance up, he’s still looking at you– disapproval written cleanly across his expression– before he finally picks up where he left off.

“As I was saying,” he continues, voice smooth but pointed, “I have three rules in this class.”

He holds up a finger. “One: come prepared.”

A second finger. “Two: take the work seriously.”

Then he meets your eyes– directly, deliberately– and raises a third. “And three…” His gaze sharpens, locking you in place. “Don’t. Be. Late.”

The emphasis is meant for you. Only you.

The class chuckles quietly, but you just swallow hard, staring down at your notebook as heat creeps up your neck again.

Perfect. Day one, and he already hates you.

“Before we continue,” he says, scanning the room once, “a quick note about names.” He uncrosses his arms, pushing off the desk with a slow, unhurried confidence that makes the movement look intentional. “I don’t use titles,” he says. “Not ‘Professor.’ Not ‘Doctor.’ Not whatever else other instructors prefer.”

A faint smile flicks at the corner of his mouth– more sardonic than kind. “Just Jake is fine.”

There’s a tiny ripple of surprise through the room. You feel it yourself.

Jake.

It’s… disarming. Way too casual for someone who carries himself with that much authority. You study him before you can stop yourself– because now that he’s closer, speaking directly to the class, it’s impossible not to notice what you somehow missed in your frantic entrance.

He’s young.

Not young-young– definitely older than you by several years– but younger than the professors you passed in the hall. No gray hair. No worn tweed jackets. No tired, checked-out eyes. He looks sharp, focused, like he’s here because he wants to be, not because he’s been doing this for thirty years and forgot how to care.

And he’s– damn it– he's hot.

Unfairly so. His features are too striking, too intentional, the kind that make you forget how to blink if you’re not careful. There’s something about the contrast– his youth, his strictness, the way he occupies the room without raising his voice– that makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not proud of.

Jake turns slightly, continuing his introduction to the class, but your brain is still stuck on the way he said just Jake, like it was an invitation and a warning all at once.

You scribble his name at the top of your notebook, pretending it’s purely academic.

But the truth is, the letters look a little too neat, a little too careful.

And you’re way more aware of him than you should be– of his voice, of the way he gestures when he talks, of the fact that he’s only a few feet away from your desk now.

Great. Wonderful.

Late to class, flustered, and already trying not to stare at the ridiculously attractive instructor who insists on being called by his first name.

Day one, and you’re doomed in an entirely different way.

—

You get home that afternoon still rattled from the professor’s voice echoing in your head– Don’t. Be. Late. You can practically feel the heat of embarrassment still clinging to your skin as you unlock the door to your apartment.

Inside, the TV is already on, humming some sports highlight reel. Noah is on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, half-eaten bag of chips beside him. He doesn’t look away from the screen when he hears the door.

“Hey,” he says around a mouthful of food. “You’re back late.”

You glance at the clock. It’s barely five.

“I’m not late,” you say, slipping off your shoes. “My class just ran a little long. And… I kind of had a rough first day.”

Noah flips the channel, uninterested. “Yeah?”

You swallow, hoping he’ll actually listen for once. You drop your bag by the counter, taking a breath.

“So I got lost trying to find the classroom,” you begin. “And when I finally walked in, the professor– my history professor– he basically called me out in front of everyone. It was super humiliating.”

That finally earns you a glance. But not the kind you want. Noah scoffs. “Well, yeah. What did you expect?”

You blink. “What?”

“You were late,” he says like it’s obvious, like you’re slow for not realizing it. “Professors hate that shit. They think it’s disrespectful.”

Your stomach tightens. “I know, Noah. I said it was an accident– I got lost.”

“Then maybe try leaving earlier,” he says, shrugging as he grabs another chip. “It’s college, babe. No one’s gonna baby you because you’re lost.”

You stand there, coat still half on, staring at him.

“That’s not–” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m not asking to be babied. I just had a bad day.”

He rolls his eyes. “Everyone has bad days. You don’t see me coming home complaining every time my boss yells at someone.”

“You complain all the time,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

His eyes snap to yours, narrowing. “Excuse me?”

You freeze. “I– I didn’t mean it like–”

“No, go ahead,” he says, tossing the bag aside. “Say it again.”

You look away, throat tight. “Forget it.”

“No, really.” He sits forward. “You come home with an attitude because you screwed up, and now somehow it’s my fault?”

You feel yourself folding inward, the way you always do when he shifts like this. “I’m not blaming you,” you say quietly. “I just… needed someone to listen, that’s all.”

He leans back again, satisfied, grabbing the remote. “Well, I listened,” he says. “And I’m telling you how not to repeat the same mistake tomorrow. Try being on time.”

There’s nothing you can say to that without starting another argument, and you’re too tired to fight. So you just nod, even though the words taste sour. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Sure. I’ll try.”

“Good.” He clicks the volume louder. “Can you make dinner? I’m starving.”

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the back of his head, wondering how loneliness can feel stronger standing in the same room as someone.

Eventually, you move to the kitchen.

And you try not to think about the sharp-eyed professor with the voice that made your stomach flip for all the wrong– and maybe too-right– reasons.

—

You show up ten minutes early the next morning.

Not five. Ten.

You tell yourself it’s because you refuse to repeat yesterday’s humiliation. That it has nothing to do with the memory of coffee-brown eyes and a voice that slid under your skin like silk pulled taut.

The room is mostly empty when you step in, sunlight slanting across the desks. A few students murmur quietly near the back.

And there he is.

At the front again– leaning over the desk this time, scribbling something in a notebook. His hair is tied half up today, a few dark strands falling loose around his face. The sweater is different– charcoal gray, sleeves still pushed up like he refuses to let fabric hide the unfairly distracting parts of him.

You stop in the doorway, unsure if you should make yourself invisible or announce your presence.

He looks up before you decide.

His eyes skim over you, slow enough that you feel it.

Then that eyebrow lifts– subtler than yesterday, almost amused. Almost.

“Well.” He straightens, closing his notebook with a soft thunk. “You’re early.”

You open your mouth, hoping something normal will come out. It doesn’t. “I, uh, figured better safe than sorry?”

His lips twitch. Not a smile. Not even close. But something in the realm of terribly attractive mockery. “Safe,” he repeats, folding his arms. “Interesting choice of word.”

You blink. “I mean– I didn’t want to be late again. Obviously.”

He hums, tilting his head a fraction. “Obviously.”

You decide you hate the way he says that. You decide you also maybe like it too much.

You move toward your seat– your unfortunately front-row seat– and sit, setting your notebook down with exaggerated care, as if precision might earn you invisible bonus points.

You feel him watching you.

After a moment, he walks closer– not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that you feel your pulse ticking in your neck.

“You know,” he says quietly, not bothering to hide the teasing edge, “most students don’t overcorrect this dramatically.”

Your face heats. “I didn’t overcorrect.”

“Ten minutes early,” he counters.

“That’s not– I didn’t do it for you.”

His expression shifts, not smug, not cruel– just sharply knowing. “No?” he asks, voice soft, almost playful in a way that somehow makes the air feel warmer. “Then who, exactly, are you trying to impress?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

He watches your struggle with an entirely too-pleased patience.

Finally, mercifully, he lets the silence drop. “Relax,” he says, stepping back and picking up a piece of chalk. “I don’t bite.”

What a shame.

—

You don’t ask him about the grade right away.

You stare at the bright red 72% at the top of your essay for almost ten minutes after class ends, heart sinking lower and lower with every passing second. Students shuffle out around you, laughing, chatting, packing up, living their normal lives while your stomach coils in a slow, nauseated knot.

You don't get it.

You'd been doing so well in this class. You had almost a perfect grade for this half of the semester.

Eventually, the room empties– except for him.

He stands at the desk, organizing a stack of papers with practiced, elegant motions. His hair has slipped loose again, a few strands brushing his jaw. He doesn’t look up when he says:

“If you’re waiting for everyone else to leave before asking me something, they’re gone.”

Your pulse skips.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your essay. “I’m not– I mean, I was just…” You close your eyes for a second, regroup. “Can I ask you something, professor?”

Now he looks up.

His amber eyes land on you, sharp, unreadable. “You may. And you may call me Jake.”

You approach slowly, like getting too close might set off a tripwire. You place the essay on his desk, face-down because you can’t stand the way the number bleeds through the paper.

“I don’t understand,” you say quietly. “I worked hard on this. I really did. So… why did I get this grade?”

He studies you for a long, unbearably silent moment. Then he turns the paper over, taps the corner where your thesis sits. “Because working hard isn’t the same as working well.”

The words hit with the same controlled, measured impact as everything else he says.

You blink. “…I don’t–”

He holds up a hand. “You have potential.” He says it plainly, without flattery. “Real potential. But you’re skimming. You’re giving me the minimum version of your thoughts instead of the actual ones.” He meets your eyes. “You’re not applying yourself.”

Heat creeps into your face– embarrassment, irritation, something tangled between them.

“I tried,” you say, softer than you intended.

“I know.” He doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t sound cruel. “Trying isn’t the issue. You’re intelligent. Your writing shows flashes of it– sharp ones. And then you pull back.” His eyes narrow just slightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth.

But the answer– Noah doesn’t like when I spend too long on homework, or I didn’t want to fail so I played it safe, or Every time I start to feel confident, someone knocks the air out of me– lodges in your throat.

You shrug instead. “I don’t know.”

He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “I think you do.”

His gaze pins you again– too perceptive, too patient, too everything you’re not used to.

Your breath hitches.

“It’s fine if the answer is uncomfortable,” he continues. “Most worthwhile answers are.”

You look away, your fingers subconsciously curling around the edge of the desk. “…I guess I just didn’t want to get it wrong.”

He hums, low and thoughtful. “So you chose to be forgettable instead.”

Your head snaps up. “I wasn’t trying to be–”

“I know.” He doesn’t flinch under your stare. “But fear makes people small. Fear makes them hide. And your work reads like someone trying not to be noticed.”

You swallow hard, the words hitting too close to the bone.

He steps forward– not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air shifts between you.

“If you want a better grade on the next assignment,” he says quietly, “show me what you think. Not what you think I want.”

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

“Good.” He gathers the remaining papers into a neat stack, then adds, almost casually, “I hold all my students to a high standard. But I expect more from you.”

The words land warm and heavy in your chest.

You manage, “Why?”

His eyes meet yours– steady, unblinking.

“Because you’re capable of more.” A beat passes. “And because,” he adds, voice dropping just enough to curl around your ribs, “you know I’m right.”

Your breath catches– just once– as he steps past you toward the door.

“Don’t wait until the next essay to start applying yourself,” he says without looking back.

Then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet classroom, your heart pounding with something that feels nothing like a failing grade.

—

“Y/n.”

Your head snaps up, heat crawling over your cheeks when you realize half the class is staring. He’s leaning one hip against the podium, arms loosely crossed, an eyebrow lifted in quiet expectation.

“Can you answer the question?” he asks.

You clear your throat. “Could you… repeat it?”

A soft sigh escapes him– so subtle most wouldn’t catch it, but you always did. “What year was the Edict of Nantes revoked by Louis XIV?”

Your mind blanks completely. You know this. You literally wrote it down ten minutes ago. Your eyes dart over your notes, your brain lagging.

“I just said it,” he prompts, eyebrows rising.

You stare harder at your handwriting, face burning. He sighs again, not subtle this time. “See me after class.” Pushing off the podium, he turns to the room. “Someone who was paying attention– answer the question.”

You don’t look up again. You just sit there, grateful he doesn’t call on you for the rest of the lecture, even though you can feel him– not looking at you– but aware of you.

When class ends, you slam your notebook shut. A few students give you pitying looks on their way out. Perfect.

He's leaning against the desk, hands in his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other. He waits until the door clicks shut before he speaks.

“What year was it?”

“1685,” you mutter, fiddling with your pen– click, unclick, click.

“Why couldn’t you answer it in class?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” you say dryly, shooting him a half-glare you hope he misses.

He doesn’t. His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “It’s one hour of your day, Y/n. That’s all I ask.”

“I know. I know, it’s just… there’s a lot going on.”

He nods slowly, looking at the floor for a moment as if weighing something. “Personal things?”

“Trivial,” you say quickly. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“You’re a smart girl,” he says softly. “One of the smartest in the room.”

“Not after today,” you scoff.

“That wasn’t my intention.” He shakes his head.

“So what was the intention?”

“To get you out of there,” he says firmly, tapping a finger against his temple. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re one bad mark away from dropping an entire letter grade–”

“I’m trying,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “Your class isn’t the only one I have. History isn’t the only thing in my entire life.”

He just watches you– calm, patient, studying your face like a text he’s trying to interpret. The frustration drains out of you all at once.

“Sorry,” you say more quietly. “I’m trying. I’ll do better.”

“Stop,” he says with a frown. “You don’t have to apologize. And I know it’s not worth much, but if you need anything– help on an assignment, or even just… someone to talk to– I’m here. My job is to make sure my students reach their potential. And you, Y/n…” His voice softens. “You have a lot of it.”

Your cheeks warm again. You look away. “You happen to be any good at physics?”

“I minored in physics.”

You groan. “Of course you did.”

His brows draw together. “Is that what you’re struggling with?”

“It is absolutely kicking my ass,” you admit.

He considers you for a beat. “Are you free Wednesday evenings?”

“Uh– usually?”

“I can tutor you,” he says. Then winces. “At the library. Or somewhere public. I mean– just academically.”

“You’d actually do that?” you ask, baffled. “Seriously?”

“It’s just an offer.” He shrugs. “If you need the help.”

“I would love that,” you say, letting your head fall back. “I’ve wanted to rip my hair out for a month.”

He smiles, a real one. “Then I’d be happy to help.”

“You’re sure? You’re not too busy, or–”

“You’d be surprised how boring my life is,” he interrupts dryly. His tone is light, teasing– but your stomach still flips.

He pushes off the desk and adds, “I look forward to teaching you a few things, Y/n.”

—

Wednesday evening is already creeping in too fast.

You’d gotten an email from Jake that afternoon– short, clipped.

Forgot to give you this to set a time.

His phone number sat beneath it.

Your heart had kicked a little harder than you wanted to admit when you texted him– just a hello, asking what time worked. His reply came fast, efficient.

Anytime… 6…?

The ellipses make you smirk. Of course. Very him.

You bit your lip as you sent back a confirmation, then exhaled a laugh when all he answered with was a simple ok.

“What’s so funny?”

You look up, still smiling without meaning to. “Just– setting up the tutoring session I told you about.”

Noah’s brows pinch. “What tutoring session?”

You blink. “The one for physics. I told you last week.”

“No,” he says immediately, already shaking his head. “No, you didn’t. I’d remember something like that.”

You set your phone down. “Noah, I literally told you twice. Once at dinner, and again yesterday morning.”

He crosses his arms, leaning back like he’s granting you space to dig yourself deeper. “Okay. So who exactly are you tutoring?”

“I’m not– he’s not–” You rub your temple. “I’m the one being tutored. For physics.”

“Right,” he says. “So who is he?”

Your jaw tenses. “My professor.”

Noah lets out a low whistle, eyebrows lifting. “Huh. Didn’t know professors did one-on-one tutoring at night. Interesting.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“What?” He shrugs, that slow, practiced shrug he uses when he wants to pretend he’s not starting something. “I’m just asking questions. You’re getting awfully jumpy.”

“Because,” you say, voice rising before you can stop it, “you always do this. You act like everything I say is suspicious, and then when I react–”

“I didn’t say anything was suspicious,” he fires back, eyes going wide like you’re the unreasonable one. “You’re the one insinuating I'm talking about cheating. Kind of weird that your mind goes there first, isn’t it?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh my God. Don’t twist what I’m saying–”

“Twist?” he repeats, scoffing. “I’m literally repeating your words.”

You turn away, grabbing your bag before your voice cracks. “I’m not doing this tonight. I have to go.”

“Yeah, fine,” he says, throwing a hand up. “Go run to your professor. Maybe he can explain why you’re acting like this.”

You freeze for a breath, then force a hard nod. “I’ll be back later.”

“When’s later?” he calls as you move toward the door. “Since apparently you don’t tell me anything anymore.”

“Whenever I want!” you shout, slamming the door before he can answer.

Outside, the air feels colder, cleaner– like you can breathe again.

—

The campus library is quieter than usual when you push through the glass doors, the heavy argument with Noah still clinging to your shoulders like humidity.

You’re late. Ten minutes. Maybe twelve.

Jake is easy to spot– tucked into the corner where the overhead lights are softer. He’s already got a pen in hand, posture straight but somehow relaxed.

His eyes lift when he hears you approach.

No greeting. Just a subtle flick of his brow. A small, unimpressed exhale through his nose.

You wince. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

Jake sets his pen down, slow, deliberate. “You’re late.”

“I know,” you repeat, dropping your bag into the chair across from him. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He watches you for a beat, studying your face in that unnervingly perceptive way he has– like he’s taking in every detail without effort.

“You texted that you’d be here by six.” It isn’t angry. Just matter-of-fact. But somehow that stings worse.

You sink into the seat, rubbing your forehead. “I–” You stop, swallow. “I got into a fight. Before I left.”

Another small shift in his expression. The faintest tightening of his jaw. “With your boyfriend?”

You nod.

Jake leans back slightly, arms folding– not defensive, just… evaluating. “About what?”

You laugh, humorless. “Apparently me having a tutor is threatening to him.”

Jake’s head tilts just a fraction. “Threatening?”

“Yeah. He said I never told him about the tutoring.” You roll your eyes. “I did. Twice. But he just kept pushing and pushing and… I don’t know. It got ugly.”

Jake’s gaze stays steady on you. Calm. Patient. But sharper than before. “He yelled at you?”

You hesitated. “He got loud. And– twisty.” You make a vague motion with your hand. “Like I was hiding something from him.”

Jake’s eyes narrow just a little– not in judgment at you, but something else. Disapproval. Thinly veiled. “He does that a lot?” he asks quietly.

You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the attempt at nonchalance. “Sometimes. It’s whatever.”

Jake doesn’t buy that. You can tell by the silence that follows. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but firm. “It’s not ‘whatever.’ ”

You blink, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone. Then, just as quickly as it came, he looks down, flips open his notebook, and taps a line of equations with the end of his pen.

“But we’ll save that conversation for another time,” he says simply. “Let’s get you caught up.”

You exhale, tension loosening just a little. “Okay.”

He doesn’t smile, but something in his posture softens. “Next time, just text if you’re running late.”

“I will,” you say, offering a small smile.

This time, he doesn’t look irritated. Just quietly… aware.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now– show me what part you got stuck on.”

—

You don’t usually sprint across campus– least of all between buildings packed with grad students and faculty who already look at undergrads like you’re loud intruders– but today you can’t seem to make yourself slow down.

Your physics exam is still warm in your hand.

A+. In red ink. Underlined. Your highest grade in the course. By far.

Jake’s office door is cracked open, light spilling into the hallway. You knock– twice, too quickly– and push it open before he even answers.

He looks up from his laptop, brows lifting at your breathless entrance. “Everything okay?”

You hold up the paper like a trophy. “I did it.”

His eyes flick to the grade. For the first time since you’ve known him, Jake’s face breaks into something unmistakably warm– almost a smile, restrained but real.

“I can see that,” he says quietly. “Congratulations.”

You step inside, shutting the door behind you without thinking. “You don’t understand. I never– I’ve never gotten an A on a physics exam. Ever.”

Jake stands, crossing the small space between the desk and the door. He takes the paper from your hand, scanning the margin notes, the circled corrections, the neat red checkmarks.

“This is all you,” he says. “You put in the work.”

“Yeah, but you taught me how to do it right.” You’re grinning now, flushed from running and excitement and the way he’s still holding the paper like it’s something precious.

Something you did.

He hands it back to you, and when your fingers brush his, a strange, electric jolt leaps up your arm. You freeze. Jake does too.

The room feels suddenly small– too warm, too quiet. He’s close enough that you can see the faint shadow along his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls as he steadies his breath.

“Jake,” you whisper before you even know what you’re going to say.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just for a second. Barely more than a blink.

But you see it.

Your heart stutters.

He swallows once, jaw tightening– not with annoyance, but restraint. “You should be proud,” he says softly, voice rougher than before.

You take half a step closer without meaning to. “I am. I wanted to tell you first.”

His breath catches– audibly. His hand lifts like he might touch your arm, then stops halfway, fingers curling into a hesitant fist.

For one suspended moment, it feels like both of you lean in. Just slightly. Just enough.

Then Jake inhales sharply and steps back.

The air between you snaps like a stretched wire.

“I shouldn’t–” he starts, shaking his head. His voice is gentler now, but laced with something guilty, like he’s berating himself. “I need to be careful. You’re my student.”

You stand there frozen, pulse fluttering against your throat. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted him to close that last inch until he didn’t. “Oh,” you breathe, the word catching on your tongue.

Jake looks away, grounding himself with a slow exhale. “It’s not that I don’t–” He stops, reevaluates. “It’s just not a line I can cross.”

You nod, but your chest aches in a way you hadn’t expected. “Right,” you whisper. “Of course.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the movement tight, tense. “I’m glad you came to tell me. Really.” He meets your eyes again, softer now, almost apologetic. “And I’m proud of you.”

The warmth of that settles somewhere deep. Even through the twist of wanting something you shouldn’t. You clutch the exam against your chest, grounding yourself. “Thanks. For… everything.”

Jake gives a small nod. Professional. Controlled. But his eyes linger on you a beat too long.

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

And when you finally turn to leave, you can feel the weight of his gaze following you all the way to the door.

—

You expect Noah to be excited.

Or… something.

He’s on his phone when you walk into his apartment, sprawled across the couch, half-eaten bag of chips at his side. You hold up the exam paper, your mouth already forming the words.

“I got an A.”

He doesn’t look up.

“Mm. That’s good.”

“That’s it?” you ask, your voice cracking a little with disbelief. “Noah, this is a big deal for me.”

He finally glances over– just a flick of his eyes. “Babe, I said that’s good.”

You stand there, waiting for something– pride, excitement, a hug, anything– but he’s already scrolling again.

You lower the paper. “Jake– my professor– he was really happy for me.”

Noah’s jaw tenses. “Yeah, well, that’s his job. To, like, congratulate you on school stuff.” He tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him. “Come here.”

You don’t move.

Noah huffs. “Okay, look. Sorry. Congrats. It’s great.” Then he pushes up from the couch, “I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go out.”

You blink. “Out? Like… dinner?”

“Nah.” He’s already grabbing his jacket. “Bar. Drinks. Shots if you’re feeling it.”

You hesitate. “I still have class tomorrow morning.”

He shrugs. “One night won’t kill you. Come on– it’ll be fun. We’ll celebrate.”

Something in your chest folds in on itself.

Celebrate what, exactly?

But he’s watching you with that half-impatient, half-challenging look you know too well.

“Fine,” you say quietly. “Let me grab my bag.”

—

The bar is loud.

Too loud.

Music thumps through the floor, lights flashing in disorienting bursts of neon. You sit at a high-top table while Noah orders drinks without asking what you want.

He comes back with two tequila shots and a cocktail you don’t recognize.

“Here.” He pushes one shot toward you. “To your A.”

You force a smile. “To my A.”

The tequila burns. The room tilts just slightly.

Noah grins and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. His breath smells like lime and alcohol. “See? Told you this would be better than some nerd high-fiving you in his office.”

Your stomach drops.

“Jake didn’t–” you start, defensive without meaning to be.

“Oh my god.” Noah laughs, loud enough to draw a glance from the table next to you. “Relax, babe. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

You stare into your drink, the ice shifting as your hand trembles faintly.

Noah leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Let’s just have fun tonight, okay? Don’t overthink everything.”

Your heart sinks. Because you weren’t overthinking– until now.

Because the whole time Noah talks, jokes, nudges your shoulder, pulls you in to kiss your cheek… you can’t stop thinking about Jake’s office.

About the way he looked at you like he actually saw you.

About how he stepped back– not because he didn’t want you, but because he cared about the line he refused to cross.

You swallow hard and down another sip of the drink, letting the burn distract you.

Noah raises another shot.

“Come on,” he shouts over the music. “Let’s celebrate properly.”

You force another smile. It feels brittle. Because this doesn’t feel like celebrating. It feels like pretending.

—

It’s a entire day before you manage to drag yourself back into something resembling normal.

An entire of replaying the night at the bar, the way your head spun, the way he didn’t notice when you stopped smiling.

And an entire day of not going to class.

You tell yourself you’ll catch up. It’s just one missed lecture.

But on the morning of the second day, you wake up to an email.

If you are able, please come by my office this afternoon.

Your stomach drops.

You stand in front of his office door for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in.”

You step inside, and Jake looks up from his desk. For the first time since you’ve known him, there’s something sharper than concern in his eyes– something edged, controlled, like he’s holding himself back from saying more than he should.

“You weren’t in class yesterday,” he says, folding his hands.

You shift your weight. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t feeling well.”

Jake exhales, leaning back in his chair. “I would’ve believed that if you’d emailed me.” His tone isn’t unkind– just… tight. “But you didn’t.”

You stare at the floor, heat creeping up your neck. “I didn’t think it mattered that much.”

He lets out a low, humorless huff. “Of course it matters. You made an A on a physics exam, yes. Impressive. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to skip my course.” His eyebrows flick upward, dry but tinged with something else. “Just because you mastered rotational dynamics doesn’t mean you can ignore nineteenth-century history.”

You blink, startled. “That’s not– I wasn’t skipping on purpose,” you say, voice small.

Jake studies you. Really studies you. And the irritation in his face shifts, softens, revealing something underneath that he’s been trying very hard to hide.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know you weren’t. I just…” He hesitates, his jaw working. “I noticed you weren’t there.”

There’s a weight to his words, something careful and unspoken. Your breath catches.

“I missed a lecture,” you murmur, half-apology, half-question.

“No,” he corrects, gaze dropping to the papers on his desk before flicking back to you. “I missed you.”

Your pulse stutters.

Jake clears his throat, as if realizing he’s let something slip. “Professionally, I mean. It’s… unusual for you to be absent without telling me. It concerned me.”

You swallow. “I didn’t think you’d– care.”

He gives you a look that makes your chest tighten. “Of course I care.”

Silence pulls taut in the room. You’re the one who breaks it. “I just… had a rough night.”

His eyes narrow with concern. “Rough how?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s nothing.”

Jake doesn’t push. He never does. But the tension in his jaw tells you he wants to ask more.

He stands, walking around the desk until he’s a few feet in front of you– close enough that you can see the fine crease between his brows.

“If you need to talk,” he says softly, “or if something’s going on that’s affecting your classes… you can tell me.”

Your heart feels too full and too fragile at once. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Jake’s expression warms, the irritation dissolving into something gentler. “Just… don’t disappear like that again.” A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips. “I’m used to seeing you.”

The words send a ripple through you– warm, guilty, something dangerously sweet.

You nod, eyes dropping. “Okay.”

Jake steps back, clearing his throat again, professionally now. “Good. Then let’s take a look at what you missed.”

But when you sit down beside his desk and he hands you the lecture notes, your fingers brush his. And he stills– just for a heartbeat– before pulling his hand back a little too quickly.

You both pretend not to notice.

But the room is different now.

—

The next day is supposed to be a reset.

Coffee, notes spread out, quiet library corner– all the things you need to calm the churn of last night.

But when you reach the library doors, there’s a giant laminated sign taped to the glass:

CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE

Your stomach flips.

“No, no, no…” you whisper, tugging at the locked handle as if it might magically open.

The semester final is in four days. You’re behind on two chapters. Your notes are a mess because Noah insisted you “relax” after the bar. Everything feels too loud, too close, too urgent–

You pull out your phone before you can talk yourself out of it.

Jake picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is calm in a way that immediately makes your adrenaline spike harder. “Everything alright?”

“No,” you blurt. “I mean– I’m sorry. I just– I went to meet you at the library but it’s closed and the final is this week and I can’t focus in the dorm and the café is too loud and–”

“Slow down.” Jake’s voice drops into that steady, grounding tone he uses when you’re spiraling over a problem set.

You try. You fail. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t know how to get through this stuff without… without messing it up again.”

There’s a brief rustle on his end. Papers, maybe. A chair.

“Okay,” Jake says firmly. “You’re not messing anything up. And you’re not doing this alone.”

You close your eyes.

There’s a pause– you hear the faint click of a keyboard, like he’s checking his schedule or pushing something back. “I can’t meet on campus today,” he says. “The building I work in is shut down for an event, and every study room is booked solid.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “So… what do I do?”

Another pause. A careful one.

Then Jake exhales– a soft, resigned sound, like he’s making peace with a decision he knows is borderline. “We can… meet at my place,” he says quietly. “If you’re comfortable with that.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that option. You weren’t expecting him to offer anything at all beyond a reschedule.

“Your… house?” you echo.

“Yes. Just for studying.” His tone is professional, deliberate. “We’ll stay at the dining table. The material is too important to push off, and you clearly need help today.”

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck– not because his voice is suggestive (it isn’t), but because he’s trying so hard to keep this appropriate that it makes something tighten painfully in your chest.

“O-okay,” you say. “Yeah. I’m comfortable. If you are.”

Jake goes very quiet for a second.

“I trust you,” he says finally. “And I’ll keep things above board. We’ll treat it like any other session.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Text me the address?” you ask.

“It’s already on the way to you,” he says.

Your phone buzzes a moment later.

“And… hey,” he adds, softer. “You did fine calling me. Don’t panic alone next time.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

When the call ends, you’re left staring at the address on your screen– an ordinary street, an ordinary house. But nothing about the way your heart is beating feels ordinary at all.

—

You follow the GPS directions without thinking too hard, muscles still tense from the spiral of the morning. The street is quiet, lined with neat rows of townhouses. When you finally pull up in front of Jake’s house, it’s exactly what you imagined: simple, clean, almost elegant. White paint, dark trim, the kind of place that looks as if every object has a purpose. Nothing jarring. Nothing chaotic.

When you ring the doorbell, Jake opens it almost immediately, as if he’s been expecting you at that exact moment. “Come in,” he says, voice even, professional.

The interior smells like vanilla and something warm– baked bread, maybe, fresh linens heated in the dryer. It’s comforting without being overwhelming. The soft scent wraps around you the second you step past the threshold.

Jake steps aside, gesturing for you to follow him into the dining area. The table is large and uncluttered, just your textbooks, your notebooks, and a laptop. Chairs pulled neatly in. Pens aligned. It’s deliberate. Controlled.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, settling into the chair across from you. Every movement is precise, careful, professional. There’s no casual lounging, no hint of personal space being shared beyond the bare minimum.

You notice the quiet hum of the room: a ceiling fan, the faint ticking of a clock, maybe the distant sound of someone mowing outside. Everything is calm, ordered. It immediately eases a fraction of the panic in your chest.

Jake opens his laptop, keeping his attention on you for a moment before glancing at the screen. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s start where you feel most behind.”

His tone never wavers from professional. Even when you stumble over a concept or your thoughts scatter mid-sentence, he’s patient, focused, methodical. The warmth of his voice, combined with the gentle vanilla-scented air, is grounding in a way that’s almost startling. You can feel the chaos in your brain slowing, measured by the rhythm of his explanations.

No distractions, no personal stories, no jokes. Just the work, clear and precise, and the quiet insistence that you are capable of keeping up.

By the time you glance at the clock, hours have passed. Notes are organized. Chapters are clearer. Your panic has subsided to a dull background hum. And yet, the memory of the initial tension lingers in your chest, softened by the odd mix of elegance, vanilla, and unshakable professionalism that is Jake’s house.

It feels like a safe space, even if it’s entirely, rigorously proper.

It happens halfway through reviewing the notes.

“I don’t want to pry,” he begins– then stops, jaw tightening. “Actually, no. That’s not true. I am prying.”

“Jake–”

“He’s not good for you.” The words come out low. Firm. Almost bitten off.

Your stomach drops. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know what kind of person doesn’t look up when someone they care about shares good news.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharp. “I know what kind of person drags someone out to drink when they clearly don’t want to. I know what kind of person leaves someone exhausted and absent from class.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “You’re making assumptions.”

“I’m making observations,” he snaps before softening– barely. “You deserve better than someone who treats you like a convenience.”

You swallow hard. “It’s… practical,” you argue, the familiar excuse tasting bitter on your tongue. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Jake leans back, staring at you like he’s seeing the smallest, most breakable part of you.

It hits him. You can see it in the way his expression shifts.

“Oh,” he murmurs. Then again, quieter, “Oh.”

And something in him breaks.

“Practical?” His voice sharpens again– not cruel, but incredulous. “Being with someone who hurts you is practical?”

“Jake–”

“You’re being stupid.” The words land like a shock between you.

You inhale sharply, eyes widening.

He notices instantly– regret snapping across his face– but he doesn’t take it back.

“You’re being stupid,” he says again, softer this time, “because you’re staying with someone who doesn’t see you. And you–” His voice catches, a bare fracture. “You deserve to be seen.”

You sit there, unable to breathe.

He stares at you for a long moment, wrestling with something inside himself.

Then he closes his eyes. Draws in a slow, steadying breath. When he opens them again, the fire is gone– smothered beneath professionalism like a quick-thrown blanket.

“That was out of line,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You don’t respond.

He looks away, jaw tight. “And what I said before– what I implied– was worse.”

You know exactly what he means.

“Jake–”

“No.” He raises a hand gently, stopping you. “I’m your professor. You’re my student. That is the beginning and end of whatever this is.”

He swallows. “Anything more– anything I feel or think beyond that– is irrelevant. And inappropriate.”

Something cracks in your chest.

He looks at you then– not angry, not annoyed, but aching in a way he tries to hide.

“I shouldn’t have let myself… say those things,” he murmurs. “It was unprofessional.”

You don’t look away, even though he does.

“You’re right.” His voice drops, almost to a whisper. “I don’t know him.” Then he meets your gaze again, eyes darker, sadder. “But I know you. And that’s enough for me to worry.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

You could reach across the space between you.

You could say something that would pull the thread tighter– or break it entirely.

But Jake is already gathering the papers, distancing himself inch by inch.

“Let’s finish the material,” he says softly. “And then you should go home.”

But even as he turns back to the notes, you can see it– the tremor in his hand, the way he keeps breathing like he’s trying to put out a fire, and the unmistakable truth that he cares more than he’s allowed to.

More than he wants to.

More than he should.

—

The moment you step through the front door, something feels off. The air is too heavy, too sharp, like the house itself is holding its breath.

And then you hear it– a giggle. A quiet curse.

Your shoulders slump. Anger wants to rise, to storm in and yell, but instead, you move forward with a heavy, controlled calm. You push the half-open bedroom door wider, crossing your arms as your eyes take in the scene.

Noah. And a girl.

She gasps, shoving him away, yanking the sheet over herself. “Who– Who are you?” she asks, glancing between the two of you, confusion and panic in her eyes.

You lift a hand in a stiff wave. “I’m his girlfriend,” you say flatly, forcing the tightest smile you can manage. “Well… ex-girlfriend, now.”

Her jaw drops, and she spins to Noah, glaring.

“Babe, wait– it's not what it looks like–”

You cut him off with a scoff. “It looks like you were fucking her, Noah.”

She shoves him again, grabs her clothes from the floor, and storms into the bathroom without another word. Noah goes quiet, huffing through his nose, trying to explain, “You were never home anymore–”

“Oh, please,” you mutter, your voice low but sharp. “I was home more than you were. You have no idea.” You shrug, stepping back from the doorway, trying to release the fury coiled tight inside you. “But you know what? I don’t care. If I had any energy left to care, Noah, I’d kick your ass. But I don’t. I’m done.”

“Y/n, wait–”

“No.” You turn fully to him now, eyes hard, voice cutting. “I’ve spent the past three years waiting for you. Waiting for you to care, waiting for you to get your shit together, waiting for you to treat me like a girlfriend instead of an inconvenience.” You shake your head slowly, letting the words land. “But I’m done. I’m done waiting.”

His mouth opens, closes– words failing him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was genuinely upset. But you do know better.

You step toward the door. “I’ll come back for my things later.”

He calls your name again, desperation edging his voice, but you ignore it. The door clicks shut behind you, echoing like finality.

You take a deep breath, letting the dull ache in your chest settle into something quieter. Jake’s words flash through your mind: You deserve to be seen.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

You start walking. Away from Noah. Away from the mess and the lies.

Far enough to finally be seen.

—

You stare with wide eyes at the black door, your heart racing as you nearly talk yourself out of it.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

Nothing is going to happen, you tell yourself. You just need to talk. And he had offered many times.

You know he'd be happy to talk to you, to give you advice and be a listening ear. With a lift of your shoulders, you lift your hand, knocking harder than you meant to.

You wait, heart pounding. Half a minute passes, and then finally–

The door swings open, and your heart stutters. He looks like he'd just woken up, his hair frizzy, his eyes sleepy and soft, his mouth in a soft pout. He's changed into a cozy, worn pair of flannel pajama bottoms, his shirt creased and wrinkled like he fell asleep on his couch.

His eyes widen, his eyebrows drop when he registers it's you, “Y/n,” he says, voice just a little hoarse, “You're back. What are you doing–”

You push past him, stomping into his living room, “I'm sorry, I know you probably have class tomorrow, but I just– He fuckin’ cheated on me, Jake,” you snap, spinning around as he slowly shuts the door behind him.

“He cheated?” He asks, eyebrows furrowing as he turns to lean against it. He crosses his arms, looking a little tired and disheveled as he watches you angrily pace back and forth. A twinge of guilt picks at you, you knew he usually fell asleep early. “I don't have class tomorrow, it's okay– What happened?”

“He fucked her in my bed!” You practically yell.

He winces, “Y/n, honey, I'm sorry,” he says softly, “He's a piece of shit.”

You stomp your foot, tears burning your eyes, “He fucking sucks.”

He pushes off the door, pulling you into a hug with a soft sigh, “I'm sorry.”

You let him hold you, tears falling and landing on the front of his shirt. “I don't know what to do,” you admit in a whisper.

“You can stay here,” he says, gently brushing his fingers through your hair, “I... have a spare bedroom you can use.”

You push back, wiping at your eyes, “Jake, I can't just crash at your place–”

“And why not?” He says softly.

“Well, you– It makes me feel… bad.”

“It shouldn't,” he says, shaking his head, “I wouldn't have offered it if I didn't want you here, sweetheart.”

You sigh, “He can't even fuck,” you say, angry all over again, “Why would he– How could he fuck someone else?”

He huffs a laugh, “He's worthless, Y/n,” he says, voice low. “You deserve someone better than that. And someone who can… fuck…” he trails off, seeming almost uneasy to say that to you.

And then, an idea pops into your head. A beautiful, stupid, brilliant idea.

“Can you fuck?” You ask.

He blinks, his eyes wide as he stares at you, “Wh– Y/n, I didn't mean–”

“I know what you meant,” you say, waving a hand, “But right now, I wanna forget him. And I want to be fucked until I can't even think straight.”

He stares still, unmoving, his jaw tight. “I don't think that's a good idea,” he whispers.

“Why not?”

He takes a deep breath, “Y/n, it's no secret how I feel about you, and believe me, I want to fuck you senseless, but I respect you too much.”

“Well, don't respect me. Just for one night.”

He laughs, “That still leaves the issue of you not thinking clearly right now–”

“I'm thinking crystal fuckin’ clear, Jake,” you say, “I want you to make me not think straight.”

He sighs, his eyes softening, “What if I disappoint you?” He asks, a teasing light on his face.

“I don't think you could do anything that would disappoint me.”

He hums, “High expectations.”

Your breath catches as he steps closer, his hands falling to your waist, “I think you'll exceed them,” you say, your voice small as he lightly pulls you closer to him.

He nods, slow and deliberate, “This is a bad idea, you know that, right?”

You nod, your eyes on his lips, “Just make me forget him.” Your breath catches as his hands slip under your shirt, his fingers warm as they move against your skin.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, his eyes intense as he studies you, searching for any sign you might be unsure.

You nod your head, your hands catching his to move them up, pushing your shirt up with them, “I'm sure.”

His breath ghosts over your mouth, voice dropping into something rough and intimate.

“Tonight,” he says, pulling your shirt up, over your head, tossing it away, “my name will be the only thing you remember.”

Your breath escapes you, shaky and uneven, as his hands find your bare skin, his touch reverent, deliberate.

“You're nervous,” he points out, pulling you closer to him once again. He leans in, his lips brushing yours, and your heart stutters.

“A little bit,” you whisper, “It's kinda… nerve-wracking when you're about to sleep with your professor.”

His smile is crooked, “Not gonna be much sleeping, sweetheart.”

You swallow, “Touché.”

“Tell me something, Y/n,” he whispers, stepping around you, circling slowly like a predator toying with its prey. You turn your head to look at him, but he uses a single finger on your jaw to push your face straight forward once again. His chest presses against your back, warm and solid, and his finger moves to slip under the strap of your bra.

Your eyes flutter when he trails his finger down, resting at the band of your bra, “What?” You breathe. You should have known he was like this– teasing, drawing out every bit of anticipation.

“How did he fuck you?” He asks, his fingers tracing down your spine, sending a shiver wracking through you at the featherlight touch. “Was he soft and sweet to you?” His hand trails your backside, squeezing just enough to make your knees tremble. “Or was he rough and mean?” He lets go, his fingers moving back to your bra, his touch teasing once again.

“He–” Your voice comes out shaky, “I don't know…”

He hums, his lips against your ear as his hand slips around to the front of your leggings, cupping your crotch through the thin material, “C'mon, honey, tell me how he treated this sweet little cunt.”

Your face burns hot. You feel so desperate you could combust on the spot. You didn’t realize he'd make you talk about it! You swallow as his lips attach to your shoulder, mustering up the courage to speak, “He… He was boring.”

He hums, kissing slowly up the curve of your shoulder, pausing at the hollow of your neck, “Tell me,” he says softly, demanding more.

“He just… did what he liked,” you say weakly.

“Did he make you come?” He asks, his hand pressing just barely against your center.

“No,” you tell him in a sigh.

He gasps, the sound mocking you slightly, “He didn't?” You shake your head to accentuate your point, “Oh baby,” he says, his voice patronizing, “You poor thing– He never made you come?”

You shake your head again, “No,” you say, face twisting as he slips his hand away from you. “I– I always had to get myself off after,” you admit, biting your bottom lip when his hands move to unclasp your bra.

“Oh,” he says, a grin coloring his words, “As much as I hate that for you, I'll bet you look so pretty making yourself come.”

He hooks his chin over your shoulder, humming softly when he lets your bra fall to the floor. His hands cup your breasts in his hands, “Hello, lovelies,” he says quietly, earning a breathless laugh from you, only a weak huff of air from your lips.

“It isn't fair,” he says, his tone turning back to teasing as he nudges his nose against your jawline, “He had the prettiest girl in the world in his bed and he never even cared to get her off.”

You breathe his name, leaning into him as he softly plays with your breasts. Light squeezes, gentle pinches of your pebbled nipples, all adding to the growing, throbbing ache in your lower half.

“I would,” he says conversationally, still just grabbing at you, like he hasn't a care in the world, “I'd get you off every day, as many times as I wanted to.”

You let out a sigh, frustration at not being touched bleeding through your demand, “Then do it.”

He hums, his hand slipping away from your breast. You let out a surprised sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, when his hand unexpectedly connects with your backside in a harsh smack, “That's not any way to ask, is it?” He says, voice still soft.

You shake your head rapidly, heat blossoming where his palm had connected. “No–”

He grabs the supple flesh, his palm kneading as he speaks, “No, it isn't. Try again.”

“Please,” you give in immediately, desperation lacing your plea.

“Little more than that,” he murmurs, his fingers tugging your leggings down your thighs.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Fuck me, Jake, please. I'll– I'll be good.”

He lets out a soft sound, “Will you?” He asks, voice gentle, as if your submission made him weak for you. “Are you gonna be a good girl for me?”

You nod, eyes rolling when he slips his fingers past your panties, immediately tracing slow circles over your throbbing clit, “Yes,” you breathe, your lips parting around a content sigh.

You can feel it in the air the second he goes right back to the teasing, dominating energy from before, “I know you will,” he says, nipping at your earlobe, biting down enough to make you gasp, “You're not gonna get away with your bratty shit tonight, Y/n.”

You nod quickly, “Yes sir,” you say, before you can think much of it. He pauses for just a second, enough to let you know your words had an effect.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “I'm gonna make you feel so good, sweet girl,” his fingers speed up, dancing over your aching clit with expert pressure, “Gonna make you come ‘til you can't fucking stand it.”

You let out a soft moan, your hand reaching up to tangle into his hair, an anchor to keep you steady.

Your head falls back on his shoulder, eyes fluttering when he presses his forehead to your temple, “You look so pretty like this,” he whispers, fingers pressing tighter against you.

“So do you,” you tease in a whisper, biting your bottom lip when he hums low in his throat.

“I told you no smart shit.”

You can't help it, you like the way he gets bossy with you. So you mouth off again, “No, you said no bratty shit.”

His hand disappears from your panties, and your knees buckle when he takes a step back, leaving you standing alone. He moves, stopping directly in front of you.

His hand slides up to your jaw, tilting your chin up as he stares at you, like he's deciding what to do with you.

He turns your head toward the couch, “Bend over the arm of that couch,” he says quietly.

Your breathing stutters, your clit throbbing as you make your way to the couch. Your cheeks flame in embarrassment as you settle, your backside perched up as your face rests against the soft material. Your heart thuds in your chest as you hear him move behind you.

He's gentle as he slips your panties down your legs, leaving you completely bare for him. He lets out a soft noise, his hands grabbing your ass, spreading your open for him to look at.

“You said you'd be good,” he says quietly, his finger trailing down, tracing lightly over your swollen clit.

“I will be,” you murmur, “I'm sorry–”

“I know you will,” his tone is gentle, his hand moving back up to smooth over the swell of your ass.

His hands disappear from you completely, and before you can so much as complain about it, his palm connects with your ass in a loud slap that echoes throughout the room. You gasp, your hands immediately scrambling to find a hold on the cushion.

His hand soothes the burning skin, rubbing over it gently as you let out a shaky breath. “Is this alright?” He asks quietly.

You nod quickly, “Yes–” You say, eager as you angle your hips up, “Fuck, please–”

He interrupts you with another firm swat, catching you directly across your left side, groaning softly at the recoil. It sends a shiver up your spine, a throbbing ache that makes your head spin and your skin burn where his hand lands again.

“Jake,” you breathe his name, earning yet another harsh slap against your backside.

“What, baby?” He asks, grabbing your ass in his hand, squeezing mercilessly as you writhe beneath him.

“More,” you whisper, standing on your tiptoes as you push up into his touch, “Please.”

He huffs a laugh, “You want more?” He asks, his hand slapping twice in rapid succession.

You nod, humming a pathetic sounding affirmation.

Before you can register that he's moved, you feel his lips on your backside, kissing slowly over your heated skin. Your fingers tighten in the cushion, bracing yourself as his mouth kisses lower, nipping at where your thigh met your ass.

“What are you doing?” You gasp as his lips move in, closer to your aching center.

“I'm gonna make you come on my tongue, baby,” he says, fingers slipping down to spread your folds.

“You don't– have to do that,” you murmur, your mind briefly flashing to your ex, who always made it feel like a chore if you'd ask. And you never got off from it, he never cared to get you there.

Jake stills completely, “He was a fucking idiot, you know that?” His voice is rough.

“I know,” you say, face flaming as you feel his breath fanning out over your slick core, “But I just–”

“Y/n,” he starts, soft and tender, “I'm gonna eat your pretty cunt until you come all over my fucking face. And I'm not gonna stop until you do. Do you want that?”

You nod, almost hesitant, “Do you?”

His only response is a soft growl, and then his mouth is on you. He lets out a moan– he actually moans– into you, his hands grabbing your hips to pull you tighter against him.

His mouth feels so much better than Noah's ever did. He eats at you with fervor, like he's the one getting off to it. And you think maybe he is.

He pulls away to adjust you, spreading your thighs, pushing you further open for him to do as he pleased, “Fuck, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he says, voice wrecked as he licks a single stripe over your slit, “How could he not wanna lick into you for hours, baby?”

His mouth attaches to your clit, his hums sending delicious vibrations into you that makes your entire body break out in goosebumps, “I don't know,” you said. “He usually– Just wanted my mouth on him.”

He lets out a groan, “Is that what you wanted, sweet girl?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, your face burning as you tell your fucking history professor that you sometimes liked to suck dick. The situations you find yourself in…

He pulls away, his fingers quickly moving to replace his tongue, toying at you as he talks to you, “You like having a cock in that pretty mouth, honey?” You nod, and he hums, slipping a finger inside of you. “Mm, I dunno,” he says, his tone teasing,”A sweet little thing like you? Are you sure you know how to?”

Your whine is indignant, “I can,” you huff, “I'll show you–” You threaten, earning another finger pressed inside of your weeping entrance.

“Not until I'm done here,” he says, tone final, “Then we'll see just how good that smart mouth feels, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, eyes rolling shut as his tongue presses to your clit again.

“I'm close,” you warn, only half a minute after he'd begun working you over again. Your hand reaches back behind you, and you're not sure if you're trying to push him away or pull him closer. But he tangles his fingers with yours, holding your hand at the small of your back, his tongue working faster, and his fingers pumping and curling deftly inside of you.

He hums, low and desperate, pulling you closer again. It starts slow, like you're tiptoeing into a warm bath, before you're drug under the water. Your body tightens, back arching as you gasp out his name, your hand squeezing his tightly. He lets out a choked sound against you, awed and proud, as you writhe against him.

You collapse into the arm of the couch, a broken sob escaping you as the waves crash through you.

Your legs twitch when he keeps going, his lips moving against your clit as he speaks, “Give me one more, pretty girl, come on.”

“Jake–” You gasp, your body already burning with the threat of another orgasm.

“You can do it,” he says, before he wraps his lips around your throbbing clit.

He makes you come again, his mouth relentless, his fingers unforgiving, like he needs you to finish more than you need it. It makes your head spin– you'd never had anybody pay this much attention to you and your pleasure.

He finally pulls away, fingers slipping from you, his hands gentle on your hips as he stands. He leans over you, lifting you up, and your legs nearly give out as he turns you to face him.

He kisses you, humming low when you melt into him. He gives you a moment to breathe, his hands brushing softly through your hair as he rests his forehead to yours.

You let your hand fall, fingers catching on the waistband of his pajama pants. He lifts his head, one hand sliding to your hip, moving you around the arm of the couch.

Before you know it, you're settled on your knees in front of him, lip caught between your teeth as your hands rest on his thighs.

You try not to let the prominent bulge in his pants deter you. You had a feeling he was big, he just radiated that energy. You only hoped you'd be able to be good to him, to even fit him in your mouth. You lean in, pressing your lips to the thick meat of his inner thigh, your walls clenching around nothing.

He watches with hooded eyes, staying silent– for now– as you kiss and bite at his thighs through his pants. You're trying to tease him as he'd done to you, to work him up until he was frustrated enough to just fuck your mouth on his own.

But you're a lot more impatient than him, and by the time you're mouthing over his length through the soft material, he's melting back into the cushion, his hair creating a soft halo around his head.

Your fingers loop in the material, finally– maybe a little impatiently– tugging his pants down. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, thick and hard and long, resting against his lower stomach. You drag your eyes up to his, immediately squeezing your thighs together at the light in his eyes. Like he's challenging you.

Fucker.

You lean in, your fingers wrapping around him delicately, “You're a smug bastard, you know that?” You mutter, pressing a wet, open-mouth kiss to the base.

He lets out a quiet sigh, “You're still running that smart mouth.”

You hum, smiling lightly before you flatten your tongue. You continue to press kisses along his length, eyes fluttering at the taste of his skin alone. His hand comes up, cradling your head, his hold almost possessive.

You suckle lightly just under the head, your tongue pressing against the tender skin, and he hums.

You finally open your mouth, wrapping your lips around him and sinking down just enough to make his jaw tighten.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his eyebrows creasing as you slowly bob your head. His head falls back, his eyes shutting as you move. You get a little eager, wanting to work up to swallowing him down, and your head moves up and down faster. His fingers tighten in your hair, slowing you with a soft hmm-mm from him. He moves you along at a much too slow pace, like he's teasing the both of you.

You whine around him, taking a deep breath through your nose. You lean in, greedily taking him in further until he's pressing against the back of your throat.

He holds you there, his hand firm, as you fight the gags threatening you. You try to look up at him, your lower half throbbing when your eyes land on his.

He traces a finger over your cheek, a soft contrast to how he was holding you down on him.

“You do look pretty with a cock in your mouth, baby,” he says, his voice rough. You hum, a small sound of agreement, pulling off the second he eases his hand. You take a deep inhale, your hand moving up and down his dick as you catch your breath.

He allows you to for a moment, but then his hand is back in your hair, and your mouth is falling open again, taking him past your swollen lips once more. You let him move you, his own pace, and you hate how much you love it. Your mind is empty, consumed with his taste, his scent, the weight of him on your tongue.

He holds your face in his hands, “Deep breath, sweetheart.”

You inhale sharply through your nose, eyes rolling back when he moves his hips. He begins fucking into your mouth, holding you still as he thrusts mercilessly into you. Your hands fall to his thighs, gripping the thick muscle, grounding you somewhat as he fucks your face.

You aren't expecting it when he pulls you up, tugging you back by your hair until you're sitting straight again. He leans over you, his lips immediately capturing yours in a heated kiss.

You grab his shoulders as he moves to the floor with you, grabbing your thighs and separating them around his waist.

His lips move to your jaw, down your throat, and you take a moment to tease as he kisses your neck, “In the floor?” You ask airily.

“I'll fuck you wherever I want,” he bites back immediately.

You grin lightly, “Yes, sir.”

He bites into your skin at the base of your shoulder, a warning that you heed to as you shut your mouth.

You let out a sound when you feel the head of him pressing against you, unmoving as he kisses his way across your chest. Your hips rock, hoping to get him inside of you. You whimper, “I want it.”

Without a tease or a threat, he pushes into you in one slow roll of his hips, “It's yours,” he says, his words hitting somewhere deep inside of you.

Your eyes widen at the feeling– stretched impossibly full, your walls pulsing and clenching around him like you couldn't get enough.

“You're so big,” you gasp when the head presses perfectly against the spongy little bump hidden inside of you. “Fuck, Jake.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, not registering your words as he watches the way you greedily suck him in. “Pretty little thing was made my cock, wasn't she?” He asks, shaking his head.

Your fingers slip into his hair, angling his face directly in front of yours as you weakly demand, “Make me forget him.”

His lips turn up in a dangerous smirk, his eyes dark, and his jaw set. He looks arrogant, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you that much more wetter. The drawback is gentle, slow as he lets you get used to him moving.

Your lips immediately part around a moan as he practically slams back into you, wasting no time in setting a brutal pace.

You're still sensitive, your body still weak from the two previous orgasms he'd gifted you, despite the time you'd spent on your knees. Each thrust of his hips has the head dragging perfectly along your walls, catching that special place hidden inside of you.

Your mouth closes, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth as you feel another orgasm building, approaching almost too quickly.

“Don't,” he breathes, “Not yet, sweet girl.”

“That's not fair,” you gasp out, tightening your fingers around his hair.

“Not. Yet,” he says, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips.

You let your eyes fall shut, your eyebrows tilting as your face screws into one of concentration. You try to think of anything else to distract you– your physics exam approaching next week, your essay due in two days– but each thought leads you back to Jake.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

“I can't,” you admit, shaking your head, “I'll come too fast–”

“Look at me, Y/n,” he repeats, firmer.

Your eyes flutter open reluctantly. A choked sobs escapes your lips at the expression on his face– lips still upturned in a smirk, eyes heavy and dark as they drink in the sight of you.

“You're a fuckin’ dream, baby,” he says, voice too sweet for how he was handling you, “So fuckin’ perfect–” His hands grab your breasts, “Pretty tits bouncing while I fuck you,” he accentuates his words by slapping your breast, his mouth falling open slightly as he watches the recoil.

You huff a breath, “Let me come. Please, Jake–”

He leans closer in, brushing his lips across your cheek, “Are you done being a fucking brat?”

“Yes,” you gasp the word, desperation bleeding through, overpowering any bit of teasing you'd had in you.

He hums a smug laugh, pressing another kiss to your cheek, “Come for me. Give me another one– All over my cock, sweet girl.”

You let out a muffled sound when he grabs your thighs, hitching them higher up, pressing them against your stomach. The angle sends him impossibly deeper, the head hitting that place inside just right.

“C'mon,” he urges, “You're squeezing me so tight, baby, c'mon.”

Your back arches off the rug, chest pressing against his, and you're sobbing as you come undone. “There we go,” he breathes, a proud smile on his face, “That's it, honey– Good fuckin’ girl, that's it.”

Your body twitches and thrashes beneath him, your nails digging deep into his back as you cry out. He eases up, slowing graciously as you melt into the floor, your body still shaking with the aftershocks.

He leans in, capturing your lips with his, still working his hips into you.

“That was so pretty,” he murmurs, “So fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he nips at your bottom lip, “But I think you can do better than that.”

Your eyebrows tilt up, your pussy fluttering and pulsing around him, “Jake, I can't–”

He shushes you, at the same time his fingers slip down to your clit, pressing firmly against the throbbing bud, “Yeah, you can,” he says, circling around it slowly, and you're not sure if it's worse or better than if he were going fast. “You're a big girl, you can do it.”

“Oh, fuck,” you groan out, your head falling back against the floor with a dull thud.

He clicks his tongue in admonition, his hand moving up to cradle beneath your head, “Careful, sweetheart.”

You huff a weak sound, your eyes rolling back at the contrast. The duality of man…

“Give me one more,” he says, his fingers circling over your clit faster, firmer, sending your body into overdrive. “You can do it, baby, I know you can.”

You let out a weak growl, your thighs squeezing around his hips, “Jake–”

“Fuckin’ do it,” he demands, voice hardening just enough to send you careening over the edge, unraveling with a loud sob as he lets out a quiet sound of triumph. His hips fuck into you, hard and fast, his fingers working your clit just right as the tremors of your orgasm wrack through your body.

“Fuck–” he gasps out, his own hips stuttering. He moves to pull out, but you grab his hips, surprisingly quick as you fight through the haze from your orgasm, and his mouth falls open as his own release comes crashing into him.

His hand slams into the floor beside your head as you feel him fill you, his cock throbbing deep inside of you. His own body shivers, both of you sucking in deep gasps of air as you come down from your highs.

After a moment, he finally pulls back, slipping from you with a satisfied sigh. You let your eyes fall shut as he pushes himself up, leaning back on his heels as his eyes rake over your still-trembling body.

“Fuckin’ shit,” he breathes, huffing a laugh as your lips turn up in a weak grin. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes stuck between your thighs, “You alright?” He asks sweetly, leaning back over you to brush your hair away from your face.

You nod, “Never been better,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

“Can you walk?” He asks, hands smoothing over your thighs.

You take a moment to consider it, your limbs feeling like jelly as you lay still spread out in front of him, “No,” you say honestly.

He laughs softly, “C'mon,” he says, nudging your hip, “Let's go clean up, baby.”

You nod, allowing him to pull you up, “Where are my clothes?” You ask, looking around the room.

“Doesn't matter,” he says, pushing himself up to stand, reaching for you, “I'm not done with you yet.”

You let out a weak sound, moving to your feet with much of his help. “I don't know if I can handle any more.”

“Oh, you can,” he says, huffing a laugh as he wraps his arms around your waist, letting his forehead rest against yours, “I know you can.”

—

You wake slowly, the kind of groggy, heavy drift back into consciousness that makes the world feel slightly unreal. For one long second, you expect to find warmth beside you– his warmth. But when you reach out, the sheets are empty and cold.

Your eyes blink open.

Jake is across the room.

He’s standing against the dresser like he needs it to stay upright. His shoulders are tight, his jaw shifting as he stares at the floor. Stress clings to him like a second skin.

He looks up the moment he hears you stir.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly.

You push yourself upright, tugging the blanket up over your bare chest. “Good morning to you too,” you mutter, still half-asleep, half-unnerved by the way he’s watching you.

Jake exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

You blink, frowning. “...Okay.”

“I’m serious,” he says, leaning harder against the dresser. “It wasn’t right on my part. You were upset, and I–” His voice frays. “I feel like I took advantage of you being vulnerable. And I hate that.”

You stare at him, startled. “You think you took advantage of me?”

“I know I did,” he insists, quiet but firm. “You were hurting. You came here after everything with him, and I was– God, I was selfish. I wanted you, and I let that want get the better of me.” His eyes flicker away. “You deserved better than that.”

You rake a hand through your tangled hair, your throat tight. “Jake… no.” You shake your head, looking down. “If anything, I took advantage of you. You’ve always been willing to show up for me, and I–” Your voice drops. “I used that. I used you being willing when I just wanted an escape.”

He turns sharply at that, eyes widening a little.

“No,” he says, stepping closer but stopping himself halfway. “You don’t get to say that. You weren’t the one who crossed a line– I was.” His voice is too even, too deliberate, like he spent all night drafting every word. “You weren’t thinking clearly. I knew that, and I still–” He swallows. “I hate that I let it happen like that.”

You lift your gaze at last, meeting his. “Jake, if anyone was being selfish, it was me.”

His brows pull together. “If you knew half as much as you think you do,” he murmurs, voice tightening just slightly, “you’d know how untrue that is.”

Your jaw tenses. “So now I’m stupid?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He drags both hands through his hair, frustrated. “Why are you trying to turn this into a fight?”

“Because you’re acting like you’re the only one who made a choice last night.”

His mouth opens, closes. Then he exhales– long, unsteady.

“I’ve liked you since the moment you walked into my classroom,” he says finally, barely above a whisper. “Wanted you in a way I had no business wanting a student. I tried to ignore it, to be better than that. And then you showed up last night, asking me to…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “And I wanted you so badly it hurt. I still do.”

You feel something in your chest give way.

“And I know it doesn’t mean the same to you,” he adds, almost defeated.

“Why would you assume that?” you snap, your voice harsher than you intend. “I wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t mean something to me.”

Jake freezes, eyes searching yours.

You take a shaky breath. “I’m telling you I’m in love with you, Jake.”

He blinks– once, twice– like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. “I… gathered that,” he murmurs.

You glare. “That’s all you have to say?”

His expression twists in confusion. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” you say, throwing one hand up in exasperation, “maybe be happy about it– tell me you're in love with me too? Maybe come over here and kiss me?”

For the first time that morning, something warm flickers across his face– an actual grin, small but real.

“You still have such a smartass mouth,” he says softly.

“Are you going to shut me up or not?”

“I am in love with you,” he clarifies.

He moves then– slow, intentional, crossing the room and climbing onto the edge of the mattress. His eyes linger on you, the stress in them melting into something gentler, deeper.

“Kinda figured that,” you tease, a smile pulling at your lips.

“You’re brave,” he murmurs, lowering himself until you sink back into the pillows. “You always have so much to say… until it matters.”

Your hands slide up around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Gotta keep things interesting.”

A low hum leaves him as he carefully shifts the blankets aside, his forehead brushing yours. “Oh,” he says, voice dropping, “it’s about to get very interesting.”

—

sanguinebats

Hi excuse me @jakeytkiszka ... Wh... Where is... More?

Please?

#fic recs #smut

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