Georgia Clark was changing bandages, gulping at the look of the rushed stitches between his chest. He was asleep, his face was twitching before waking up. His breath hitched, his cold blue eyes searched for something, or someone.
One look was enough to tell how harsh war had treated him.
TW! angst, hurt/confort, cecilia is dead, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │ Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Charles Xavier
The night you kissed me
Elora Cuana was born with a gift.
She was, what someone would call, a mutant.
No one had really noticed her gift, even if it was hard to keep a secret. People would say she had been blessed with beauty, and nothing more. From every side, every angle, she was ravishing to no avail. Her mutancy had been easy to deal with, not even she had noticed the oddness of her angelic features. There was no death count to her power, because she seemed to have no power.
Until recently, only one man had neglected her advances.
Charles Xavier could not reach her mind, and she could not reach his pants, or can she?
TW! tease, m!masturbation, f!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
A part of us
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6 │Chap 7 │ Chap 8│ Chap 9 │Chap 10 │Chap 11 │Chap 12 │Chap 13 │Chap 14 │Chap 15 │Chap 16 │Chap 17 │Chap 18 │Chap 19 │Chap 20 │Chap 21 │Charles' Ending │ Logan's Ending
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Brian Jackson
Sore Loser
The bottle stopped spinning. You grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Bruce Robertson
Bite me
Bruce Robertson does not give a shit about the weather. In fact, he thinks he’s better.
Amanda Drummond has drunk a little bit too much.
TW! dubious consent, mention of drugs, angst, in public, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex, asphyxiation.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Tom Lefroy
Out of touch
Tom Lefroy enters a brothel expecting indulgence, but instead finds himself utterly schooled. With sharp wit and a stolen kiss, you leave the arrogant charmer breathless, his confidence shaken, and his education—unexpectedly—expanded.
TW! prostitution, in public, making out, mention of f!oral.
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 06
As he lay on top of you, his body pressing into yours, his arms caging you in, you couldn’t help but wonder—would he? Would he kiss you again with the same intensity, the same hunger that had left you breathless before? You didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to make him do something he wasn’t ready for, but the way his weight settled over you, the way his breath hitched against your neck, made it impossible to think clearly.
You shifted slightly, parting your legs a little more, as if that small movement could create some distance between you. But it didn’t. If anything, it only made you more aware of him—the heat of his body, the way his breath rushed unevenly against your skin.
He didn’t move, didn’t close the gap between your lips, so you did. Gently, almost hesitantly, you kissed him. It was soft, questioning, as if you were asking for permission. And it felt right. He felt right. But he didn’t kiss you back, not at first. Instead, there was a muffled sound, a low moan that vibrated against your lips as he whispered your name. You could feel his nervousness, the slight tremor in his pulse as you pulled away, your lips still tingling from the contact.
“Brian,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “do you want me on top?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately, his voice rough, almost desperate.
He shifted, rolling off you, and you moved to straddle him, your hips pressing into his, your cunt against his crotch in a way that made your breath catch. Was this too much? Were you moving too fast? The questions flickered in your mind, but the way he looked at you—his blue eyes dark with want—made it hard to care. Still, you needed to be sure.
“Whatever makes you uncomfortable, you have to tell me,” you said, smiling softly as you reached for the hem of your shirt. You pulled it over your head, letting it fall to the floor, revealing the red lingerie you’d chosen with this exact moment in mind. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”
Brian’s eyes widened, his throat working as he swallowed hard.
He didn’t say anything, but his hands found your waist, his fingers trembling slightly as they skimmed over your skin. It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he’d imagined this moment so many times that the reality of it was almost too much.
You smiled, teasing, as you played with the strap of your bra, watching his reaction.
Would you take it off? Would you leave it on?
The uncertainty seemed to drive him wild, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound breaking through the tension and replacing his nervousness with something warmer, something more intimate.
“Are you always such a tease?” he asked, his voice low, his lips curling into a smile that made your stomach flip.
“Have you ever removed a bra before?” you countered, your tone playful.
Brian’s smile widened, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Actually, I have a party trick I could show you,” he said, his hands moving to your back, his fingers brushing against the clasp of your bra. “But you have to promise you won’t steal it.”
You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat as he sat up, his body shifting beneath you. The movement brought his face level with your chest, and you felt a shiver run through you as his fingers deftly unhooked your bra. It fell away, and his hands cupped your breasts, his touch tentative at first, as if he was waiting for your reaction.
You guided him, showing him how to touch you, how to make you gasp and arch into his hands. When his lips found your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin, you couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped you.
“Lick them, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.
He obeyed, his mouth hot and wet against your skin, his hands exploring your body with a growing confidence that made your head spin. You kissed him again, your hips grinding against his erection, and the sound he made—low and desperate—sent a thrill through you.
Your fingers fumbled with the button of his trousers, slipping them off as you went. When your hand finally wrapped around his bare dick, he gasped, his eyes locking with yours. There was something raw in his expression, something that made your heart race. You stroked him slowly, teasingly, and he bit his lip, his hands gripping your hips as if he was holding himself back from taking control.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice breaking as you quickened your pace.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed to taste him, to feel him in your mouth. You shifted, moving off his lap, and for a moment, he looked confused, almost panicked. Then you asked, your voice husky with desire, and his eyes darkened. He nodded, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you took him into your mouth.
He laid his weight on his knees, your body on all fours as you started to lick his erection. It was hot, hard, and utterly intoxicating. You spit on him, your tongue tracing circles around his tip before taking him deeper, your lips wrapping around him as you swallowed him down. His hand tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you on as you moaned around him, the vibrations making him shudder. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and the way he watched you—like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—made your heart ache.
“Swallow or spit?” he asked, his voice strained, his body trembling with the effort to hold back.
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you took him deeper, your throat working around him as he came, his release filling your mouth. You swallowed, your eyes never leaving his, and when he finally pulled away, collapsing back onto the bed, you kissed him, your lips tasting of him, of the moment you’d shared.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you again, his touch tender.
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 05
It was Tuesday.
The day you had decided to meet with Brian. You were nervous—why had you even said anything? Of course, you found Brian attractive and handsome, but you had spent the whole weekend replaying the memory of his lips brushing yours, of him kissing you back, of his blue eyes, of his freckles, of that lazy strand of hair you had tucked behind his ear to whisper something you could no longer remember.
And worse of all, you couldn’t stop thinking about him agreeing to have his first time with you. You weren't usually bothered by first times—they were meant to be awkward, just like his character—but it was the first time in months that you had felt this nervous about a man. This wasn’t just a fling or a casual thing.
This was Brian, and Brian was different.
Your fingers hovered near the doorbell, trembling slightly, but you couldn’t bring herself to press it. You had been standing in that uncomfortable position for what felt like an eternity, her mind racing with doubts. What if he had forgotten? What if he was joking? What if he thought she was joking and wasn’t even in his dorm? God, you hated this anxiety, this uncertainty that came with pursuing someone.
You glanced down at the bottle of whisky you had brought—a gift, or maybe just a crutch to help set the mood. You cursed herself under. Why were you suddenly so unsure of the next steps?
With a sigh, you unscrewed the cap of the liquor bottle and took a quick swig. The whisky burned your throat, its dry, smoky taste lingering on your tongue. You shook your head, as if trying to shake off the nerves, and cleared your throat. Then, before you could second-guess again, you pressed the doorbell. The sound echoed inside, and you held her breath, waiting.
You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted to taste him again, to feel his hands on you, to be touched and to be pleased. But more than that, you wanted to know if this was real—if what you felt was real.
Jill, Jack—James?
The door opened, and there he was—James. Brian’s roommate and, unfortunately, your last hookup. You stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he recognized you. “y/n,” he said, his voice dripping with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. “Long time no see. What happened to you?”
“Oh, hey, James. I, uh, just came to return a book to Brian,” you lied, your voice wavering slightly. You gestured vaguely toward the bottle as if it were part of the excuse. “And, you know, thought I’d bring this as a… thank you.”
James didn't seem to notice your flushed cheeks or the way your eyes darted nervously toward the stairs. He just nodded, his grin never faltering. “Cool, cool. Brian’s around here somewhere. He’s probably buried under a pile of books or something.” He stepped aside to let you in, his gaze lingering on you.
As you stepped into the dorm, you heard the sudden sound of rushed footsteps coming down the stairs. Your heart leapt into her throat. Brian appeared, slightly out of breath, his hair even messier than usual, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His blue eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft but steady.
“Hey,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.
You could feel the weight of James’s presence behind you, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from Brian. There was something about the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the room—that made you feel both exposed and safe at the same time.
James, still standing in the doorway, seemed completely oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. He smiled, looking between the two of you with a casual curiosity.
“So, y/n,” he began, his tone light but laced with a flirtatious edge, “why didn’t you text me back? I thought we had a great time, didn’t we?”
Your cheeks burned. You could feel Brian’s eyes on her, and you suddenly wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“I—I’ve been busy,” you stammered, avoiding Brian’s gaze. “I’m, uh, meeting someone new.”
James raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “Oh, yeah? Is he nice?”
You hesitated, your mind scrambling for the right words. You didn’t want to say too much, but you also didn’t want to lie. “Yeah,” you said finally. “Sometimes. I guess.”
James chuckled, clearly amused. “He sounds nice,” his tone teasing but not unkind. He glanced at Brian, who was standing awkwardly a few feet away, and then back at you. “Well, I should get going. But if y’all break up or something, call me, yeah?”
Your eyes widened in panic. You shot a desperate look at Brian, silently pleading for him to intervene. Brian, for his part, seemed frozen in place, his expression unreadable.
“Sure thing,” you managed to say, your voice strained.
James gave you one last grin before disappearing down the hallway, whistling a tune as he went. The moment he was out of sight, You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You turned to Brian, your face still flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry about that,” you said quickly. “I didn’t know he’d be here. I mean, I know he is your roommate, but I didn’t think—”
Brian held up a hand, cutting you off. “It’s fine,” he said, though his voice was tight. He glanced toward the hallway where James had disappeared, then back at you. “Do you, uh, want to come upstairs?”
You nodded, relief flooding through you. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”
Brian led the way up the narrow staircase, his movements stiff and deliberate. You followed, your mind racing. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made everything a thousand times more complicated. As they reached the top of the stairs, Brian opened the door to his room and stepped inside, holding it open for you.
The room was exactly as you’d imagined it—small, cluttered, and filled with books and records. There was a narrow bed pushed against one wall, a desk piled high with papers and notebooks, and a record player sitting on the floor, surrounded by stacks of vinyl. It was so quintessentially Brian that it made her heart ache.
You stepped inside, your eyes scanning the room with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. You wandered over to the bookshelves, your fingers trailing along the spines of the books. “Jane Austen, huh?” you said, pulling out a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice and holding it up with a teasing smile. “I would’ve never guessed.”
Brian, who had been fiddling with the cassette player, looked up and feigned offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice playful but with a hint of mock indignation.
You raised an eyebrow, you lips curving into a sly grin. “Oh, come on. You? Jane Austen? I’m just trying to figure out if you’ve actually read it or if it’s just here for show.”
Brian crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, his expression a mix of amusement and challenge. “Of course I’ve read it. Elizabeth Bennet is a queen. Mr Darcy? Overrated. Fight me.”
You laughed. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But what about this?” You pulled out another book, this one a thick volume of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. “Did you read all of these?” you asked, gesturing to the shelves.
Brian groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “God, no. I’d never read Nietzsche willingly. That was a gift from my pretentious phase. I think I got through, like, three pages before I gave up.”
You chuckled, placing the book back on the shelf. “Fair enough. I don’t think I’d make it past the first page.”
As you continued to browse his collection, Brian turned his attention back to the cassette player. He ejected the rock cassette that had been playing and replaced it with an indie one, the soft strum of an acoustic guitar filling the room. “What’s better,” he asked, glancing over at her, “rock or indie?”
You paused, your fingers still resting on the spine of a book. You turned to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Better for what?” you asked, her tone almost oblivious, as if you’d momentarily forgotten why you were there—to have sex. Instead, you were hypnotized by the tiny library of classics he had amassed.
Brian shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I don’t know. For life. For right now. For… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between you, his cheeks flushing slightly.
You tilted your head, considering his question. “I think it depends on the mood,” you said finally. “Rock is for when you want to feel alive. Indie is for when you want to feel understood.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That makes sense.”
You sat at the edge of his bed, her posture relaxed but your presence commanding, as though the room itself had shifted to accommodate you. He sat beside you, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from you, close enough to notice the way your fingers curled slightly around the neck of the whisky bottle you held.
The air between you was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what had brought you here, and with the lingering tension of your last argument. He hadn’t forgotten why you had come, but he knew one thing: he owed you an apology, and he had been rehearsing it in his head for days.
“I wanted to thank you, actually,” he began, his voice softer than he had intended, almost tentative. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “I thought a lot about what you said when we argued.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were fidgeting in his lap. He could feel your eyes on him, steady and unflinching, and it made his chest tighten.
“About the stories where women are reduced to objects of desire, where their agency is ignored, and where men’s feelings are treated as the center of the universe.” He blushed as he said it, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate, but he pressed on. “You were right.”
Your lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, though there was no malice in it. You seemed pleased, not just by his admission but by the fact that he had actually listened, that he had taken your words to heart. You tilted your head slightly, studying him, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not uncomfortable, as though you were both waiting for something, though neither could say what.
“And with that,” he continued, his voice gaining a little more strength, “I am deeply sorry for acting like a jealous idiot.” He winced as he said it, the words sounding harsher out loud than they had in his head.
But it was the truth, and he owed you that much. He had been a fool, letting his insecurities and his pride get the better of him, and he had hurt you in the process. You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t finished.
“I really don’t know what was happening to me,” he said, his words tumbling out now, as though he had been holding them in for too long. “See, I had never kissed someone like that, and it just… it went through my head.” He laughed nervously, a short, self-deprecating sound that did little to ease the tension. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to handle you.”
Your smile softened, and you reached for the bottle of whisky, your fingers brushing against his as you did. You offered him a sip, and he accepted, his hand trembling slightly as he took the bottle from you. The whisky burned his throat, but it was a welcome distraction, something to ground him in the moment. You took a sip yourself, your lips closing around the rim of the bottle in a way that made his stomach twist.
A drop of the whisky escaped your mouth, trailing down your chin, and before he could think better of it, his thumb was there, brushing it away.
The touch was electric, a spark that seemed to ignite something between you. His thumb lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his skin warm against yours, and he could feel your breath hitch ever so slightly. The tension in the room shifted, the air growing heavier. It was as though the grudge you had been carrying, the weight of your argument and the hurt it had caused, had suddenly dissolved, leaving only the raw, unspoken attraction that had always simmered beneath the surface.
Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you moved. It was as though you were both waiting for the other to make the first move, to bridge the gap that had been growing between you for weeks. His hand was still cupping your chin, his thumb resting lightly against your skin, and he could feel the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers. You were so close, and he could smell the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the sharp tang of the whisky. It was intoxicating, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
“I really am sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the argument, for the jealousy, or for the way his thumb was still tracing small, absent-minded circles against your chin. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none of it.
“I don’t know if this is a terrible idea,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I really want to kiss you again.”
Your gaze flickered down to his mouth before returning to his eyes. “Then what’s stopping you?”
His hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer. The whisky bottle slipped from your grasp, landing on the bed with a soft thud, but neither of you noticed. All you could think about was the way your lips felt against his, the way your body pressed against his, the way you tasted like whisky and something uniquely yours.
The kiss was slow at first, tentative. His lips brushed against yours, soft and uncertain, and when you responded, pressing into him, a quiet sound escaped from the back of his throat.
Your hands moved of their own accord, one slipping into his hair, the other resting against his chest where you could feel the rapid beat of his heart. He pulled you closer, the space between you vanishing entirely. The taste of whisky still lingered between you, a sharp contrast to the warmth of your mouths meeting again and again.
You released a hum that was low and throaty, a sound that seemed to vibrate through him as he took control, his hands firm but gentle as they guided you. He moved in front of you, his body blocking out the rest of the world, his focus entirely on you. His lips found yours again, this time with a hunger that surprised even him. He sucked gently on your lower lip, teasing it between his teeth before releasing it, only to dive back in for more.
The kiss became fast, eager, but it wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about possession or conquest or even desire, at least not in the way he had always thought of it. It was about the way your lips felt against his, the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your body seemed to fit perfectly against his. It was about the way you hummed again, a sound that was both content and impatient, as though you couldn’t decide whether to savor the moment or push it further.
He wasn’t sure how you ended up against the wall. One moment you were sitting in his bed, and the next he was pressing you against the cool surface of the wall, his body pinning yours in place. He paused for a moment, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked down at you. Your eyes were dark, your pupils dilated, and your lips were slightly swollen from his kisses. You were beautiful, and for a moment, he was struck by the sheer intensity of his feelings for you. His smile widened, his cheeks flushing as he realized just how much he wanted you, not just in this moment but in every moment that followed.
But the pause was short-lived. Before he could lean in again, your hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back, you were on him. Your lips crashed against his with a force that took his breath away, as you pulled him closer. You were on top of him now, your legs straddling his hips, his erection pressed against your thights in a way that left no room for doubt about what you wanted. He lifted your skirt, rushing his fingers against the thin transparent layer that covered your ass.
Your kiss was charged with lust and greed, his touch said the same. Your lips moved against his with a desperation that matched his own, your tongue slipping into his mouth as you deepened the kiss. He groaned, his hands moving to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, ripping the seams of your tights as he tried to pull you even closer.
For a moment, you lost each other. But then Brian pulled back slightly, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you looked down at him.
“Look, frankly, I don’t want to just have sex,” he confessed. “What I really want is to have a good time with someone I find cool and not worry about anything else.”
You slightly tilted your head, confused. “It’s fine, we can just kiss if you want.”
Brian looked at her lips and bit his, but he looked away. “No—I mean I—” He stuttered, pushing one of the strands of your hair behind your ear. “I do want to have sex with you. God, just look at you—you look so—anyways, what I mean is I don't want my first time to be like crossing a wish on a bucket-list.”
The words fell heavy on his chest, but your gaze was gentle. “I get it,” you said, laying a peck on his lips. “Do you want me off?” You started to remove your weight from him.
“No, please don’t,” he frowned, grabbing your waist, insisting that you’d stay on him.
“Just gentle kisses then?” you asked, confused. “I’m fine with it. I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged to anything.”
“Listen to me,” he said, frustrated, his tone growing. “I want you. I need you. I really do, but I don’t want to be like any other guy you fuck and forget about.”
You stood frozen, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your expression a mix of anger, hurt, and confusion. Brian’s words hung heavy in the air, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.
You frowned, offended, getting up from him. “You really think I’m that easy?” You grew angrier. “You do, don’t you? You think that I sleep with anyone that asks for it, is that it?” You felt betrayed; he had always thought of you that way, and still, there you were.
“No, no—” he tried to explain.
You stepped back. “Do not get close to me,” you said, hurt. His face became worried.
“Listen to me!” he yelled. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “I like—I think about you every night when I go to sleep, every day that I wake up. I’ve even stolen the shirt you wore when you stayed at James’.” He chuckled. “Did you know what it felt like? To see—to hear the girl you’ve had a crush on flirt with someone else, just after we kissed?
He got up from his bed, trying to get close to you. His face had become serious.
“I heard you moan my name while you fucked someone else.” He confessed.
Your eyes widened as Brian’s confession hung in the air between you. For a moment, you were frozen, your mind racing to process what he had just said. Brian had already told you a few days ago about hearing you moan at the karaoke. But you haven't realized he had heard that slip.
“You heard that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
You had been with James, yes, but your mind had been elsewhere, wandering to the kiss you and Brian had shared, to the way he had looked at you, to the way he had made you feel. And in a moment of weakness, you had let his name slip from your lips—apparently many times. You hadn’t meant for him to hear it. You hadn’t meant for anyone to hear it.
“Yeah,” he nodded, his expression pained. “I heard it. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? To hear you say my name like that, to know that you were thinking about me, even when you were with someone else? It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Brian—,” you started, your voice trembling.
“Why?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why were you thinking about me? Why did you say my name?”
You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. You weren't sure how to answer that.
“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you admitted, surprising yourself.
Brian’s eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of hope and disbelief. “Then why were you with him?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why weren’t you with me?”
For a long moment, the weight of his words pressed down on you. The truth was tangled in a mess of emotions you weren't sure she could untangle—guilt, fear, longing.
“I don’t know,” you whispered finally, shaking her head. “Because I thought it would be easier to pretend it didn’t matter, to pretend you didn’t matter. But I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Brian’s chest rose and fell as he processed your words, his emotions warring within him.
“I don’t want to be just someone you think about when you’re with someone else,” he said, his voice raw. “I want you to understand that the kiss meant something to me. You being here right now means something to me. You mean something to me.”
You stood still, your mind racing as you processed everything Brian had just poured out. His words had been raw, unfiltered, and achingly honest, and they had struck a chord deep within you. You weren't used to this—this kind of vulnerability, this kind of openness. Most of the people you had been with didn’t talk like this. They didn’t lay their hearts bare, didn’t admit their fears or insecurities. They didn’t tell you that you meant something to them. And yet, here was Brian, standing in front of you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and earnest, waiting for you to respond.
But you didn’t know what to say. Your anger had melted away, replaced by something softer. It wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t just sympathy, it was something that made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.
Because the truth was, you had thought about him too. Maybe not in the same way, not with the same aching desperation, but he had lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit. You had tried to push him aside, chalking up their kiss to just another fleeting moment, another experience, another night in a long series of nights that blurred together. But it hadn’t faded.
Now, looking at him, you understood why.
Because it meant something.
Brian stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were afraid you might bolt. He could see the shift in your expression, the way your defenses had started to crumble. He didn’t know what was going through your mind, but he could sense that the tension between you had changed. It wasn’t just about attraction or frustration anymore.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” You finally admitted, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. It was rare for you to sound so unsure, and the vulnerability in your tone made Brian’s heart clench.
He took another step closer. “Then don’t say anything,” he said softly, his voice steady now, though his hands were still trembling slightly at his sides.
And then, without thinking, he closed the distance between you, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you. It was a kiss that was equal parts desperation and relief, a kiss that said everything he couldn’t put into words. And as you kissed him back, your hands gripping his shoulders, as though you were finally letting yourself give in to what you had been holding back. The sweetness of it, the raw honesty of it, made you smile against his mouth, a small, breathless laugh escaping you.
You pulled back, just enough to speak, your eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
“Did you really steal the shirt I wore?” you asked, your voice teasing but her cheeks flushing a deep pink.
The question caught him off guard, and for a moment, he froze, his face burning with embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to confess that part, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back.
“Right under my pillow,” he admitted. He couldn’t meet her eyes, his gaze darting to the side as he braced himself for your reaction.
Your mouth fell open in mock surprise, your eyebrows shooting up. “You didn’t.”
Before he could stop you, you wriggled out of his grasp and threw yourself onto his bed, your hands diving under his pillow with a determination that made his heart race. Brian’s eyes widened in panic, and he lunged after you, his palm slamming down on the pillow to keep you from uncovering his secret.
“Hey, no—wait!” he protested, but it was too late.
You were already laughing, your fingers tugging at the edge of the pillow as you tried to wrestle it away from him. In the chaos, Brian ended up half-lying on top of you, his body pressed against yours as he tried to maintain control of the situation. His arms bracketed you, his hands gripping the edges of the pillow as he hovered above you, your faces inches apart.
Your laughter filled the room, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you looked up at him, and it made his heart skip a beat.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 04
You groaned as you stared at the list in your hands, the weight of your lost bet pressing down on your shoulders like a sack of bricks. you had been so sure that Rachel’s team would lose the trivia night—so sure that you wouldn’t have to be the one babysitting a bunch of freshmen for the entire evening. But here you were, holding a crumpled piece of paper with a hastily scribbled plan for the night’s festivities, courtesy of Rachel’s smug grin and a poorly timed wager. The plan was simple, at least in theory: gather the freshmen, take them to a karaoke bar for some “ice-breaking fun,” and then herd them to the frat house for the main event—a costume party celebrating the end of their first semester.
Of all the nights to be stuck babysitting a bunch of freshmen, it had to be this one. The end-of-semester party was supposed to be legendary—a night of reckless abandon, bad decisions, and questionable dance moves. But no, thanks to a stupid bet you’d made with Rachel, you were now the designated responsible adult. Well, as responsible as one could be while herding a group of overexcited novices through a karaoke bar and then to a frat house.
The worst part? you had to stay sober. Completely, utterly, painfully sober.
The theme for the night was “Costumes for Novices,” which, as far as you could tell, meant everyone was supposed to dress up as something vaguely embarrassing but not too creative. You had settled on a pair of cat ears and a tail, figuring it was the least amount of effort you could get away with. After all, you weren't there to have fun. You were there to make sure no one ended up in the hospital—or worse, on instagram.
By the time you arrived at the meeting point, a group of freshmen was already gathered, buzzing with excitement. They were a motley crew, dressed in everything from superhero capes to inflatable dinosaur costumes.
The karaoke bar was your first hurdle. It was a dingy little place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the kind of establishment that smelled faintly of stale beer and desperation. The neon sign outside flickered ominously as you approached, a group of wide-eyed freshmen trailing behind you like ducklings. They were already buzzing with excitement, their costumes ranging from the painfully generic—a vampire here, a pirate there—to the outright bizarre —one guy had come as a sentient jar of peanut butter. You sighed, you weren't in the mood for costumes, or karaoke, or anything that involved being sober while surrounded by people who were very much not.
The bar was already packed when they arrived, the air thick with the sound of off-key singing and the occasional burst of laughter. You herded the freshmen toward a corner booth, your eyes scanning the room for potential disasters. There was a guy in a banana costume attempting to climb onto the stage, a girl in a fairy outfit spilling her drink on the floor, and a group of what appeared to be superheroes arguing over the karaoke queue. You felt a headache coming on.
“Alright, listen up,” you said, raising your voice to be heard over the din. “We’re here for one hour, max. Stick together, don’t do anything stupid, and for the love of God, don’t lose anyone. Got it?”
The freshmen nodded eagerly, though you could already see the glint of mischief in their eyes. you knew it was only a matter of time before someone did something ridiculous, but for now, you could only hope to keep the chaos to a minimum. You slumped into a booth, nursing a soda and keeping a watchful eye on the group as they dispersed to explore the bar.
It didn’t take long for the first incident to occur. One girl was enthusiastically waving a song list in the air while a boy—probably the self-proclaimed "funny one" of the group—attempted to climb onto the stage despite the fact that a performance was still in progress. You swooped in just in time to yank him back down by his hoodie.
“Rule number one of tonight: don’t cause so much of a scene that we get thrown out before we even start,” you said, shooting him a withering look. “We have a whole evening of bad decisions ahead of us. Pace yourselves.”
Predictably, they laughed, unbothered by the reprimand. You sighed and resigned yourself to your fate. If you were going to be the responsible one, you might as well own it.
The karaoke bar was a cacophony of off-key singing, spilled drinks, and freshmen who seemed determined to test your patience at every turn. After untangling the cowboy from the microphone cord for the third time and breaking up a heated argument between the peanut butter jar and a guy dressed as a traffic cone, you decided you needed a moment to yourself.
You slipped out of the bar and headed for the stairs. The rooftop terrace was a hidden gem, one you’d discovered during your own novice party. It wasn’t much—just a small space with a few chairs, a couple of potted plants, and some string lights that gave it a cozy, almost magical feel. But it was quiet, and that was exactly what you needed. You push open the door and step outside, the cool night air hitting you like a balm. The noise from the bar faded into the background, replaced by the distant hum of the city and the occasional honk of a car horn.
You made your way to the railing, pulling a cigarette and a lighter from your pocket. You lit it, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the night. The view from the rooftop was surprisingly beautiful, especially at night. The city stretched out before you, a maze of lights and shadows, with the occasional flash of a car’s headlights cutting through the darkness. The streetlights below traced the paths of the city, their glow creating a stark contrast to the inky sky above.
You leaned against the railing, your elbows resting on the cool metal as you stared out at the landscape. For the first time that night, you felt relaxed. The tension in your shoulders began to ease, and the tightness in your chest loosened. You hadn’t realized how wound up you’d been until now, how much the responsibility of looking after the freshmen had been weighing on you. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them—well, most of them, anyway—but you hadn’t signed up for this.
You released a sigh, flicking ash over the railing wondering who you had to put up with for the rest of the night. Apparently, at the last minute, Rachel had told you that you and another loser had to deal with the novices.
Your fingers tightened around the railing as a voice reached your ears. The sound of his footsteps grew closer, steady and deliberate, until he was standing just behind you. His voice was smooth, calm, and annoyingly familiar. you didn’t turn around, not at first. Instead, you took another slow drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the rooftop.
“I’m sorry for arriving late,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of apology. “I was helping at the frat house.”
You exhaled a plume of smoke, your eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Don’t worry,” you replied, your tone clipped. “I get it.”
You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his presence beside you now. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your cigarette box still resting in your hand, tilted slightly in his direction. It was an unspoken offer, one you hadn’t even fully realized you were making until you felt the weight of the box shift. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against yours as he took a cigarette. The touch was brief, but it was enough to make you stiffen. You didn’t pull away, though. Instead, you kept your hand steady, your expression unreadable.
You heard the flick of a lighter, the small flame illuminating his face for a brief moment as he lit the cigarette. He stepped up to the railing, standing beside you now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence but not so close that it felt intrusive. You finally turned your head, just enough to glance at him, and that’s when it hit you.
It was Brian.
Your stomach dropped, a mix of surprise and irritation flooding your chest. You hadn’t seen him since that awkward tutoring session weeks ago, the one that had ended in a heated argument. You hadn’t spoken since either. And now here he was, standing beside you on this rooftop, as if nothing had happened.
You took a step back, distancing yourself from him. “Good lord, could you fucking get out of my sight?”
Brian didn’t flinch. He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke in a lazy plume before responding. “You get out,” he said, his tone unbothered, almost amused.
“I was here first, prick,” you shot back.
For a moment, both of you stood there, locked in a silent standoff. Then you sighed, running a hand through your hair.
“Look, I’m sorry,” you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “I didn’t mean—” you stopped yourself, realizing how unfair you were being. You were still angry, yes, but that didn’t give you the right to lash out at him. Not like this.
“No, you meant it,” Brian said, cutting you off. His voice was softer now, almost regretful. “And I’m sorry too.”
“You called me a whore,” you reminded him, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It was the thing that had haunted you, the thing you couldn’t let go of.
Brian’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Didn’t,” he said firmly.
“Did,” you insisted, your voice rising slightly.
“Didn’t,” he repeated, his tone steady. He turned to face you fully now, his blue eyes locking onto you. “I merely said you were—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze dropping to your lips for the briefest of moments before meeting you eyes again.
The air between you seemed to shift, charged with something unspoken.
You were standing so close now. You could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his brown hair fell slightly into his eyes. His blue eyes shimmered with an intensity that made you heart race, and you found yourself unable to look away. You licked your lips unconsciously, you mind racing.
He was jealous. You knew it. He wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t admit it, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his hand tightened around the cigar. The night you had spent with his roommate—it had gotten under his skin. But he had no right. You could do whatever you damn well pleased, and you would make sure he knew it.
“I know you want to fuck me, Brian. Get over it,” you said, your voice steady but laced with defiance. “I’m not interested in dating.” Your words hung in the air like a challenge, sharp and unapologetic.
Brian blinked, caught off guard by your bluntness. His brow furrowed, and he tilted his head slightly, as if trying to decipher your words. “Dating?” he repeated, his tone tinged with confusion. “Who said I wanted to date you?”
“So I am right. You’re jealous because I slept with Jill,” you confirmed.
Brian’s expression shifted, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “His name is James,” he corrected you, his tone dry.
You froze for a moment, your smirk faltering. You blinked, processing his words, and then let out a frustrated groan, slapping your hand to your forehead.
“Fuck off,” you muttered, you cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Brian couldn’t help but laugh, a low, mocking chuckle that only deepened your irritation. “And you still don’t know his name,” he teased, shaking his head in disbelief. “I wonder if you usually spend nights with people whose names you don’t know about.” His tone was playful now, his earlier seriousness melting away. “Actually,” he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think I heard you moan many names when you stayed at mine.”
Your eyes widened, your embarrassment turning to mortification. “Did you hear me moan someone else's name?”
His face fell, the playful glint in his eyes fading as quickly as it had appeared. He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable, and took a long drag from his cigar. When he realized it had burned down to nothing, he reached over and plucked your cigar from your hand without asking, bringing it to his lips.
The silence between you was heavy now, charged with unspoken tension. You crossed your arms over your chest, your earlier bravado replaced by a vulnerability you hadn’t intended to show. You watched as Brian exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze fixed on the city skyline.
Your laughter cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but it was enough to make Brian’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. He shifted uncomfortably, taking a step back from you as if putting physical distance between them could somehow undo the vulnerability he had just exposed.
“So you did?” you asked again, your voice laced with amusement, your eyes sparkling with mischief. You tilted your head, studying him like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen. “You actually heard me?”
Brian’s face burned hotter, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. He wished could take back every word, rewind the conversation, and never bring up that night. But it was too late now. The memory of it came rushing back—how he had lain awake in his room, the thin walls doing little to muffle the sounds from his roommate’s dorm. The soft laughter, the muffled sighs, the occasional gasp that had made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. He had tried to ignore it, to bury his head under a pillow and pretend he wasn’t hearing any of it, but it had been impossible. And now, here you were, standing in front of him, teasing him about it.
“Oh no, stop,” you said, your laughter bubbling over again as you took in his flustered expression. “You actually look so cute when you’re embarrassed. Who knew Brian Jackson could blush like that?”
Brian shot you a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “Not funny,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff.
But you weren't done. You stepped closer to him, your grin widening as you leaned in, your voice dropping to a playful whisper. “What did you think? Should I moan more? Maybe higher? Would that make it better for you?”
Brian’s eyes widened, and he took another step back, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “y/n,” he said, his voice strained, “I swear to God, if you don’t stop—”
“Or what?” you interrupted, your tone light and teasing. “You’ll call me a whore again?”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Brian’s expression shifted, the playfulness draining from his face. He looked at you, his blue eyes dark and serious. “I didn’t call you that,” he said quietly. “And I never would.”
Your smile faltered, and for a moment, you looked almost guilty. But then you shrugged, brushing off the moment with a casual wave of your hand.
“Whatever,” you said, though your voice lacked its earlier bite.
As you leaned against the railing, your fingers tapped idly against the metal. Your mind was far from calm. The question had been nagging at you, bubbling up from someplace you couldn’t quite name. Curiosity? Concern? You weren't sure. But before you could stop yourself, it slipped out.
“Are you a virgin, Brian?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.
Brian froze, the lighter in his hand flickering as he tried to shield the flame from the breeze. He didn’t look at you, his focus entirely on lighting his cigar, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. Finally, he took a long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly before answering.
“What if I was?” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
You blinked, caught off guard by his response. you hadn’t expected him to actually entertain the question.
“Oh, you’re serious?” you asked, your voice tinged with surprise. You realized how it must have sounded—mockingly, dismissively—but that wasn’t your intention. Not really. You were genuinely curious, maybe even a little concerned. Brian was… well, Brian. He was cute, handsome even, with those sharp features and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. You had always assumed he’d have no trouble in that department. Even with his odd character. The idea that he might still be a virgin hadn’t even crossed your mind.
He turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable.
“So what if I am?” he echoed, his voice steady but with an edge of defiance. He leaned his elbows on the railing, his posture relaxed, but there was a tension in his eyes that betrayed his calm exterior.
You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. You hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, but now that the question was out there, you couldn’t take it back. “I just… I didn’t expect that,” you said finally, your voice softer now. “I mean, you’re… you. You’re not exactly the type I’d picture being…” you trailed off, realizing how judgmental you sounded. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”
Brian let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
You felt a spark of something you hadn’t expected—a sudden, undeniable urge to impress Brian. It wasn’t like you cared much about what anyone thought, least of all him. But there was something about the way he looked at you, the way his voice faltered when you talked, that made you want to see that flustered, vulnerable side of him again. He was cute, you admitted to herself, more than cute. And damn, he kissed better than his roommate. Way better.
You took a step closer to Brian, your movements deliberate but gentle. The night air seemed to grow warmer as you reached up, your fingers brushing against his ear as you tucked a few stray strands of hair behind it. Your touch was light, almost fleeting, but it sent a shiver down his spine. you leaned in, your voice dropping to a whisper that was barely audible over the distant hum of the city.
“Wouldn’t you like to try sometimes?” you asked, you breath warm against his ear.
Brian froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, his ears burning crimson under your gaze. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. “I um—I’d rather—” he stammered, his voice shaky, his thoughts a jumbled mess. But then, before he could overthink it, the words spilled out. “Yes, I do—I do want to try.”
Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile, your eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and something softer, something almost tender. you pulled back slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Tuesday at yours,” you said, you tone casual but firm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Brian blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. He nodded, “Tuesday,” the word feeling heavy and significant as it left his lips.
For a moment, they stood there, the air between them charged with unspoken tension. Then you stepped back, breaking the spell. you turned toward the door that led back inside the karaoke bar.
Guys bad news... and good news!! There will be a Chapter 6, but I'm writting rather slowly. Today my sexynspiration wasn't hitting like it should, but the tensionspiration...hmmmmm
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 03
You ran across campus, your bag bouncing against your hip as you weaved through groups of students clogging the hallways. Time had slipped through your fingers too quickly—one moment, you were shaking off a hangover in some guy’s apartment, and now, suddenly, a month had passed. You couldn’t quite pinpoint where the time had gone. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been trying—you had. But between the endless cycle of lectures, the growing pile of unread books on the desk, and the essays that seemed to multiply overnight, you felt like you were perpetually playing catch-up. The more you tried to stay on top of things, the more the weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders.
And now, as you rushed through the hallways of your university, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts, you couldn’t help but feel like you were drowning in your own life. And today? Today was just another reminder of how disorganized you had become.
You had forgotten your earphones, a fact that only dawned on you as soon as you had stepped onto the bus and reached into your pocket, only to find it empty. The absence of music left you exposed to the world, forced to listen to the cacophony of voices in the environment. Some classmates chattered animatedly about the latest lecture, their words blending together into a meaningless hum. You tried to tune them out, focusing instead on the rhythm of your own breathing, but the noise was relentless. It was as if the universe was conspiring to remind you of how behind you were.
By the time you reached the university, your heart was pounding, and not just from the physical exertion. The thought of facing your tutor filled you with a sense of dread that you couldn’t quite shake. You had booked a revision session with your tutor, one that had been planned weeks ago with the rest of your class, but somehow, you had completely forgotten about it. Classic. Now you had to rush across campus, trying to make it on time and salvage what little academic credibility you had left.
When you finally reached your tutor’s office, you were met with a sight that made your stomach drop. What you had thought would be a one-on-one session had turned into a group revision. Five bored students sat scattered around the room, their eyes glazed over as they stared at the ceiling or fidgeted with their pens. The atmosphere was heavy with apathy, a stark contrast to the anxiety that churned inside you. You hesitated in the doorway, your hand gripping the strap of your bag tightly. This wasn’t what you had signed up for. You had been counting on this session to help you catch up, to give you some semblance of control over your workload. But now, with five other people in the room, you felt even more lost than before.
Great.
Sighing, you squeezed into an empty chair and tried to focus. But your eyes scanned the faces of your classmates. They all looked as disinterested as you felt, their attention wandering as the tutor began to drone on about the material. you tried to focus, you really did, but the words seemed to slip through your fingers like water. You raised your hand to ask a question, hoping to clarify something that had been bothering you, but before you could speak, the door swung open.
Brian walked in.
The interruption was minor—barely a disturbance, really—but it was him.
Your stomach twisted instinctively. Of all people.
He muttered an apology to the tutor, his voice barely above a whisper, before taking the last available seat—right in front of you. Of all the people to walk into that room, why did it have to be him? Brian was the last person you wanted to see, the one person you had been trying to avoid. Not because you disliked him—quite the opposite, in fact. But that was the problem. You had spent weeks trying to avoid him, purely out of the residual embarrassment from that morning—the awkward water spill, James’ arms around your waist, the way Brian had tried (and failed) to keep a straight face when you butchered the guy’s name. And now, here he was, sitting right in front of you.
The review session had taken a sharp turn.
What had started as a structured discussion quickly devolved into a stubborn back-and-forth between Brian and their professor. At first, you had tried to stay engaged, tried to follow the debate as they dissected the protagonist’s actions, but the longer it went on, the more it grated on your nerves. Your blood was boiling.
You had come here for clarity, for guidance, for someone to help you make sense of the mountain of work you was buried under. Instead, you were stuck listening to two men argue over the interpretation of some obscure text, their voices rising and falling like waves in a storm. It was infuriating. Had you asked for this? Had you booked a tutorship just to hear them dissect the motivations of yet another male protagonist in yet another convoluted tale? You rolled your eyes, your frustration bubbling over.
“What of it?” you snapped, cutting Brian off mid-sentence. Your voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. Brian turned to look at you, his expression a mix of surprise and irritation. He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren't done. “What does it even matter? Why are we spending so much time dissecting why some guy pursued some woman in some story? What about the woman? What about her thoughts, her feelings, her agency? Or does that not matter because the story was written by a man?”
Brian’s jaw tightened, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not the point, you,” he shot back, his voice clipped. “We’re analyzing the text, not rewriting it. The protagonist’s actions are central to the narrative. If you can’t separate the character from your own personal biases, maybe you’re not approaching this objectively.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Brian,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t realize you were the authority on objectivity. Please, enlighten us all with your brilliant interpretation of yet another man’s obsession with a woman he barely understands.”
Brian leaned forward, his voice rising to match yours. “It’s not about obsession. It’s about motivation. The protagonist is driven by his desire to understand her, to connect with her. That’s what makes the story compelling.”
“Compelling?” You scoffed, your voice sharp with disbelief. “Compelling for who? For men who see women as puzzles to be solved? For readers who think it’s romantic to chase someone who clearly isn’t interested? Because let me tell you, Brian, from where I’m sitting, it’s not compelling. It’s exhausting.”
The other students in the room shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between you and Brian. The professor, sensing the conversation was spiraling out of control, raised a hand to intervene, but Brian was already speaking again, his voice louder now, more defensive.
“You’re missing the point,” he said, his tone bordering on condescension. “The story isn’t about whether the woman is interested or not. It’s about the protagonist’s journey, his growth, his realization that he can’t control everything. It’s about the human condition.”
“The human condition?” you shot back, your voice rising. “Oh, please. Spare me the pretentious analysis. The human condition isn’t about one man’s misguided pursuit of a woman who’s clearly a prop in his story. The human condition is messy and complicated, and it doesn’t revolve around men’s feelings.”
Brian’s face darkened, his frustration boiling over. “You’re twisting this into something it’s not,” he said, his voice tight. “You’re so focused on your own agenda that you’re not even trying to understand the text. Maybe if you stopped projecting your own issues onto the story, you’d see what it’s actually about.”
Your eyes flashed with anger, your voice cutting through the room like a whip. “My issues? My agenda? Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Maybe if you stopped defending every male protagonist like your life depends on it, you’d see how tired and outdated this narrative is.”
Brian leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “And maybe if you stopped seeing everything through the lens of your own experiences, you’d realize not every story is about you.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Brian’s words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. you felt a sharp pang of hurt, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you leaned forward, your voice low and steady.
“This isn’t about me, Brian. This is about the fact that we’re still analyzing stories where women are reduced to objects of desire, where their agency is ignored, and where men’s feelings are treated as the center of the universe. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re part of the problem.”
Brian’s face flushed, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find a response. But before he could speak, the professor finally intervened, his voice firm but calm.
“That’s enough,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This is a revision session, not a debate club. Let’s refocus on the text.”
You sat back in your chair, your chest heaving as you tried to calm the storm raging inside you. You could feel the eyes of the other students on you, their gazes heavy with a mix of curiosity and discomfort. You avoided looking at Brian, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, didn’t trust yourself not to say something you’d regret.
But Brian wasn’t done. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “Let’s talk about the text. Let’s talk about y/n—I mean, the protagonist—and her choices. Let’s talk about how she flirts with multiple men, leads them on, and then acts like it’s no big deal. What’s that about?”
The room went deathly quiet. You felt like the floor had been ripped out from under you. Your face burned with a mixture of anger and humiliation as you stared at Brian, your mind racing. How dare he? How dare he bring that up here, in front of everyone? It was one thing to have a private disagreement, but this—this was a betrayal. He had taken something personal, something that should have stayed between them, and thrown it out into the open for everyone to see.
You stayed quiet, your hands trembling as you gripped the edge of your desk. The memory of that night months ago came rushing back—the party, the spin-the-bottle game, the kiss. It had been nothing, just a silly, drunken moment. But Brian had taken it seriously, and now he was using it against you. You felt hurt, betrayed, as if he had taken their shared secret and weaponized it.
Without a word, you stood up. You gathered your books, your notes, your pen, your movements quick and deliberate. You refused to look at Brian, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words had affected you. The other students watched in stunned silence as you made your way to the door, your head held high despite the storm raging inside you.
As you stepped into the hallway, the weight of what had just happened hit you like a ton of bricks. Your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You walked quickly, your footsteps echoing against the tiled floor, trying to put as much distance between yourself and that room as possible. Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, hurt, embarrassment, frustration. Why had Brian said that? Why had he brought up something so personal, so private? What was his problem?
You thought back to that night, to the kiss, to the way Brian had looked at you afterward. You had thought it was just a game, just a bit of fun. But maybe he had seen it differently. Maybe he thought you owed him something, that the kiss had meant more than it did. The thought made your blood boil. You didn’t owe him anything. You were free to flirt with whomever you wanted. It was your life, your choices. And if Brian couldn’t handle that, then that was his problem, not yours.
Brian was quick. Too quick.
You barely made it down the hall before you felt fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not forceful, halting you in place. You turned sharply, your hair whipping over your shoulder. And there he was again.
His lips parted as if searching for the right words. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You didn’t let him finish. “That’s why people call you a sore loser, Brian,” you shot back, voice laced with venom.
“No, I—”
“Really?” you cut him off again, heat rising in your chest. “Calling me out on a little mistake I made months ago? Do you think I sit around regretting it? Because I don’t.”
Brian’s expression flickered—something between frustration and hurt—but you weren't done.
“I actually enjoyed myself,” you continued, your voice sharp. “Did you think that kiss meant I owed you something? That I was supposed to stay loyal to you? Over that?”
“y/n—, let me talk,” he said, his voice strained.
“No.” You yanked your wrist free. “I’m tired of hearing your stupid opinions. As if you’re the only one who’s right. As if you have all the answers. Maybe if you got your head out of your books for once, you’d understand that not everything can be explained with facts.”
You expected him to argue back—to fight, to push, to keep proving his point.
But he didn’t.
Brian just stood there, his hands at his sides, his jaw set, like he was holding back something he couldn’t say.
And then, quietly, he asked, “Did you kiss me because you pitied me?”
You froze. The fire inside you flickered.
“I kissed you because it was fun,” you said, voice steady. “Because I like kissing. What the hell is wrong with that?” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Now, go ahead—judge me all you want. I don’t care.”
And with that, you turned your back to him, head held high, shoulders squared, walking away as if his words hadn’t just unsettled something deep inside you.
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
CChap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 02
The morning was heavy, thick with the remnants of last night’s indulgence. A dull ache pounded in your skull, your throat raw from the mix of shouting over the music, laughing too hard, and one too many drinks. You swallowed, your body craving water, something—anything—to rinse away the dryness coating your mouth.
The ginger-haired boy beside you was still deep in sleep, his face relaxed, his breath slow and steady against the crook of your neck. His arm, which had been loosely draped around your waist, shifted as he instinctively gave more space in the cramped futon. You let out a small, amused exhale, watching him for just a moment longer. What a night.
You leaned down and pressed a light peck to his forehead—a fleeting, almost absent-minded gesture. There was no attachment, no weight to it, just a quiet appreciation for the fun they had.
Your fingers fumbled around the floor in search of a shirt, something to cover yourself before stepping out. The room was dim, the morning light slipping weakly through the curtains. When you finally found one—a soft, oversized tee—you pulled it over your head, the fabric cool against your warm skin. Carefully, you maneuvered yourself off the futon, placing your feet on the floor with slow, deliberate movements to avoid stirring him awake.
The apartment was eerily quiet, the contrast to last night’s chaos almost comical. Your mission was clear: find the kitchen, get some water, and maybe, just maybe, clear some of the fog from your mind. You crept toward the door, turning the handle with the gentlest of touches, and slipped out into the unfamiliar hallway, ready to navigate this unknown space in pursuit of relief.
You made a way down the stairs, your bare feet pressing softly against the cold wooden steps. The apartment had that distinct morning-after stillness—muted, heavy with the lingering scent of stale beer and something fried from the night before.
Just like that, the kitchen was in front of you. Relief washed over you at the sight of the sink. You rushed toward it, your body moving on instinct, desperate to quench the unbearable dryness in your throat.
Grabbing the nearest cup from the counter, you barely lifted it before noticing the faint smudges of fingerprints and something crusted along the rim. Of course, you thought, exhaling sharply, a mix of exhaustion and mild disgust passing through you. It was a male-only apartment—you should have known better. You put the cup back down immediately, resisting the urge to wipe your hands on the borrowed shirt.
Cursing yourself for expecting even a shred of cleanliness, you pulled you hair back with both hands, took a deep breath, and went straight for the sink. Turning on the tap, you let the cold water run for a moment before cupping your hands beneath the stream and drinking directly from your palms. The water was ice-cold, shocking your system in the best way, grounding you. You drank greedily, letting it wash away the remnants of alcohol and exhaustion still clinging to you.
Once satisfied, you shut off the tap and exhaled, finally feeling a little better. You leaned back against the counter, your hands on the cool surface. The quiet pressed in around you, and for the first time that morning, you let yourself pause, blinking slowly as the weight of the night before settled in.
The quiet of the kitchen was interrupted by the soft creak of the doorway. You looked up just in time to see someone step inside—Brian. You recognized him instantly, even before he looked up. This time, though, he was wearing glasses.
Huh.
You hadn’t seen him in them before. They softened him somehow, made him look—well—kind of cute. Not that he wasn’t before, but the glasses added a different kind of charm, like he had just rolled out of bed and was still half-asleep, navigating the world in a haze. In his hand, he held a clean cup—something you hadn’t managed to find in this disaster of an apartment. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring at the floor as if following some invisible trail only he could see.
Then, as if snapping back into reality, he realized you were standing in front of the sink.
“Hey, Brian,” You greeted, shifting slightly to the side, now leaning against the doorframe instead.
His gaze flickered to you, breathing in for a brief second before he answered, “Hey, you.” His voice was still groggy with sleep, low and effortless.
He filled his cup with water, lifting it to his lips and downing it in one go, and just like that, it was as if he woke up from whatever trance he’d been in. His brows pulled together slightly as he looked at you again, this time with more awareness.
“How did you get here?” he asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
Before you could even begin to answer, you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind. A warm body pressing into yours.
The ginger-haired boy.
The realization hit you at the same time as Brian’s reaction—his eyes slightly widening before his lips parted in an unamused oh. It wasn’t shock, not really, but there was something almost… disappointed about it. Like he had just realized something he hadn’t considered before.
You hesitated for a split second before you turned to face the boy still holding on to you. Your one-night stand. Your mind scrambled. What was his name? Jack? Sam? Rupert?
You scratched the back of her head, stalling as you finally said, “Good morning to you too… Jack?”
The room was silent for half a second.
Then, suddenly, Brian made a strangled noise. His shoulders shook slightly as he tried—and failed—to hold in a laugh, water spilling out from the corners of his mouth as he had just taken another sip.
The ginger-haired boy—Jack?—furrowed his brows. “It’s James.”
You felt her stomach drop. Oh, god.
Your face turned pale, embarrassment washing over you like a tidal wave. You had slept with him, and you had already forgotten his name? That was low, even for your own standards.
“That’s what I thought,” you recovered quickly, forcing a grin. “James.”
Brian coughed, still trying to stifle his laughter, his eyes crinkling in amusement behind his glasses. You shot him a glare. He cleared his throat, attempting to compose himself, but the smirk playing at his lips gave him away completely.
As James—definitely James—gave you a mildly annoyed look, you tried to play it off, but inside, you were cursing yourself. Forgetting a guy’s name after spending the night with him? Not exactly the carefree, put-together image you were going for this semester.
But it was Brian’s reaction that threw you off more than anything. The way he tried to hide his laughter, his smirk barely contained as he wiped his mouth. There was something almost smug about it, but also something else. Something you couldn’t quite place.
And then, like a thread pulled loose, a memory from the night before unraveled in your mind.
The spin-the-bottle game. The circle of familiar faces. The way the glass neck had pointed right at Brian.
You had kissed him.
The realization hit you like a sudden gust of cold air.
Not just a peck, not just a meaningless dare—well, it had started as that, but you could still remember the way his lips had softened against yours, how he had hesitated for just a second before kissing you back. How, for a brief moment, you had actually felt something unexpected.
Your eyes flickered to him now, standing in front of you with that same quiet awkwardness, but now that you were remembering it, was it awkwardness? Or was it just… Brian?
You cleared your throat, trying to shake the thought away, but it clung to her like static.
Brian had kissed you.
And now, here you were, standing in his apartment, in his roommate’s oversized shirt, having just stumbled your way through the wrong name.
Brian turned away, his focus shifting to the coffee maker as he quietly went through the motions of making himself a cup. The soft clatter of mugs and the rustling of coffee grounds filled the silence. For a moment, you thought she was in the clear—that the whole wrong name incident would just fade into the background.
But then, James moved closer.
Before you could react, you felt his lips press against the side of her neck, a lazy, lingering kiss. His hands found your waist again, pulling you back into him. The suddenness of it sent a jolt through your body, and you let out an involuntary gasp.
Brian turned immediately, startled. His eyes locked onto hers for a brief second, his expression unreadable—surprise, maybe? Discomfort? Whatever it was, he quickly looked away, his fingers tightening slightly around the mug he had just grabbed.
You stiffened. Not now, James.
You quickly stepped to the side, slipping out of his grasp. “I think I should take my leave,” you announced, smoothing down the oversized shirt. “Or at least get dressed.”
You turned toward the stairs, already mapping out the fastest way to gather your things and disappear from the apartment before the morning got any weirder.
But James leaned against the counter, smirking. “Sure you don’t want to take a shower?” he teased, his voice low and suggestive.
At the same time, Brian spoke up, his voice overlapping, but carrying an entirely different tone. “No, please stay for breakfast.”
You froze for a second, caught between them, blinking as you processed their words.
You looked at James—his grin still in place, his usual cocky confidence practically radiating off of him. Then at Brian, who was now looking down at his coffee as if he regretted speaking at all. His offer had been quiet, almost hesitant.
You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head. This is a mess.
“Thank you, both,” you said, trying to keep you tone light. “But I’ll pass. I really need to get going.”
Before either of them could argue, you were already halfway up the stairs.
Yo! I've noticed a lo of "her" from the drafts have scaped and made its way to the published chapters. I'm re-editing everything, srry for the confusion. The fanfic was first intended for an OC lol
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 01
The evening air carried the first signs of autumn, crisp and laced with the scent of damp earth and distant cigarette smoke. Above them, the sky stretched endlessly, speckled with stars that seemed brighter now that the summer haze had finally lifted. You walked in step with your friends, the anticipation of the night thrumming through your veins.
It was the start of her second year, yet you still felt like a first-year who had accidentally wandered into the next stage of university life without quite realizing it. There was something unsettling about returning to a place that had once felt new and uncertain, only to find it familiar, almost routine. The nerves, the excitement, the sense of discovery—had all those things faded, or had you simply changed?
You shook the thought away as they rounded the final corner.
The old mansion loomed ahead, bathed in the glow of warm yellow light spilling from its tall windows. It was a house built for elegance but claimed by chaos—a place where generations of students had danced, argued, fallen in and out of love, and stumbled their way through countless nights just like this one.
As they walked down the path toward the mansion, the buzz of excitement from the party ahead filling the air, you found yourself in conversation with your friends, letting the familiar sounds of their voices soothe your nerves. The cool night air rustled through the trees, adding to the evening’s energy, and you couldn’t help but feel a slight weight lifting off your shoulders as they made their way toward the chaos that awaited inside.
“So, what’s the plan for this semester?” Rachel asked, her voice light with the anticipation. “I mean, we’re back, and it’s time to figure out how to make this year the best one yet.”
You grinned, your thoughts turning inward for a moment. The start of the second year always felt a little different, like stepping into a new chapter where anything was possible. But this time, you knew exactly what you wanted for yourself.
“I was thinking… I want to actually enjoy being single this semester,” you said, your voice more serious than the light-hearted atmosphere of the conversation. “No distractions, no messiness with exes. Just… focus on myself, you know?”
Rachel raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. “Oh? No ex-boyfriend drama this time around?”
You shook her head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “Exactly. I’m done with that. I just want to have some fun, meet new people, experience college without getting tangled up in the same old emotional entanglements.”
Your friends nodded, some of them in understanding, others with a playful smirk on their faces. They had all seen you through the rollercoaster relationships of the past, each one more complicated than the last. You had often found yourself caught between the comfort of familiar faces and the excitement of something new, but this year, you were determined to make your own path.
“I swear, if I get roped into another dramatic situation with some ex of mine, I’ll lose it,” you added with a mock seriousness. “I want to taste the freedom of being single, really get to know the city, maybe even join something new. Like a club or a random activity. Something different.”
“I get it,” Sophie chimed in, nudging you with her shoulder. “You’re going for the real college experience. No emotional baggage, just fun, new friendships, and whatever comes your way.”
You laughed, your thoughts drifting toward what the semester might hold. You had always loved the idea of reinventing yourself at the start of each year. Now, it was time to live it out. The freedom to make your own choices, without the weight of past relationships, felt like a breath of fresh air.
“Exactly. No strings attached this time,” you said firmly, a confident smile curving on your lips as they approached the door. “I’m going to find something to keep me entertained this semester, and it’s going to be all about me. No drama, no ex-boyfriends… just freedom.”
Your friends exchanged knowing glances, their expressions filled with amusement and encouragement, and though they all knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded, they didn’t say a word. Tonight, at least, they were all there to have fun—no distractions, no complications, just a good time.
As they stepped through the heavy wooden door, you were instantly swallowed by the noise—the thumping bass from a speaker shoved into the corner, the rise and fall of conversations overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter that carried over the music.
The air inside was thick with heat, a mix of bodies pressed together in the narrow hallway, of cheap beer and expensive perfume, of voices overlapping in a dozen conversations at once. Someone had dragged an old speaker into the corner, blasting something upbeat and retro, and the living room was already a tangle of people—dancing, drinking, arguing over politics and music and who had stolen whose vodka.
You grinned. This was exactly what you had missed.
You moved through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces—Charlie, who had once tried (and failed) to teach you how to play poker; Anya, who always had a cigarette in one hand and a devastating opinion on film theory in the other. You caught snippets of conversation as you passed:
“I swear, this guy thinks Nietzsche is just a phase—”
”—but if you don’t mix the tequila with lime first, what’s even the point?”
”—we should start a band. No, seriously, I have a name already—”
You laughed to yourself, shaking your head. Same people, same chaos, same wonderful unpredictability.
Familiar faces drifted through the crowd, people you had met in tutorials, at parties, in the queue for coffee before early morning lectures. The eclectic mix of students made the house feel like a living, breathing organism—artists and mathematicians, activists and cynics, the ambitious and the aimless, all thrown together in this chaotic, beautiful mess.
You let yourself be pulled into the madness.
Everyone drank everything that was handed to them—shots lined up along the sticky kitchen counter, cups filled with questionable mixtures of alcohol that burned on the way down. With every drink, the ground beneath your feet felt less stable, the world spinning just slightly faster.
Your friends moved to the makeshift dance floor, disappearing into the writhing mass of bodies swaying to the music. For a while, you let yourself be carried by the rhythm, arms thrown around familiar shoulders, laughter bubbling up between choruses of whatever song had taken over the room.
But eventually, the dizziness became too much. The heat, the movement, the blur of it all—you needed a break.
You slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the house until you reached the garden. The cool air hit her immediately, soothing your flushed skin. Out here, the noise of the party was muffled, reduced to a distant hum.
Near the hedge, a group had gathered in a loose circle, their laughter rising and falling as an empty bottle spun between them.
You recognized a few of them—old roommates, people you had spent late nights cramming with, arguing over which takeaway to order, sharing stolen moments of quiet in the chaos of their first year.
“Hey!” Tom called, grinning as he patted the spot next to him. “Get over here, we need fresh blood.”
You hesitated only for a moment before sinking down beside him, tucking your legs beneath his.
“Spin the Bottle?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare,” Tom corrected. “Double the fun, double the shame.”
You smirked. “Sounds about right.”
The game was already in full swing. The first few rounds were harmless—someone admitted to stealing a professor’s stapler, another confessed to having a crush on their tutor. Dares escalated quickly—Sam was now attempting (and failing) to climb a lamppost, while Sophie had been forced to text her ex something completely mortifying.
Then the bottle spun again, and this time, the choice wasn’t truth or dare.
“Kiss,” someone declared.
A ripple of anticipation moved through the circle. This was what everyone had been waiting for—the moment where the game teetered on the edge of something more.
The bottle was spun again, twirling lazily over the grass, slowing, wobbling—before finally coming to a stop.
You felt her stomach flip as you followed the direction of its neck.
The bottle stopped.
A hush fell over the group, an unspoken tension thick in the air. All eyes flickered in Brian Jackson’s direction, and then—just as quickly—darted away, as if making eye contact with him for too long might somehow be contagious.
You saw it all happen in real-time. The slight furrow of Brian’s brow as he registered what had just happened, the way his shoulders tensed under the weight of everyone’s silence. His reputation at uni wasn’t exactly stellar—people saw him as a bit of an oddball, the kind of guy who spent more time buried in textbooks than talking to actual human beings.
Rumor had it he’d had a fling with Alice Harbinson, though no one took it seriously. Alice had a knack for leveraging her charm for academic gain, and frankly, Brian didn’t seem like the type you’d go for. Maybe he was too awkward, too bookish, too… different.
But that was precisely what intrigued you.
Unlike the rest of the group, who sat in awkward discomfort, waiting for someone—anyone—to break the tension, you studied Brian with quiet curiosity. He wasn’t looking forward to the kiss. He wasn’t grinning like an idiot, or nudging his friends, or pretending to be cocky about it. He just sat there, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee, avoiding eye contact with the group.
“Should I spin it again?” he asked, voice calm but uncertain.
A few people exchanged amused glances. Someone muttered, “God, I’d be so embarrassed.”
That was all you needed to hear.
Just as Brian reached for the bottle to give it another spin, you moved. Without hesitation, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards you.
A quick peck on the lips. Nothing dramatic, nothing drawn-out. Just enough to shut everyone up.
For a split second, Brian froze. But then, as if something in him had finally clicked, he smiled against your lips—small at first, uncertain, before leaning in ever so slightly, kissing you back.
His lips were warm and soft, and you hadn’t expected the way your pulse would quicken, or the way his hesitance would melt away so easily. It was still playful, still light, but there was something in the way he responded, in the way he let himself match her energy, that made it feel… effortless.
And just like that, it was over.
You pulled back, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth as you reached for the bottle and spun it for the next pair. No dramatics. No teasing remarks. Just a simple, fleeting moment before you leaned back into your place like nothing had happened.
Brian did the same.
Except, from that moment on, you caught him stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
At some point you went back to the interior, blurring into a haze of music, laughter, and fleeting moments. The energy of the party seemed to pulse through your veins, each song sending waves of adrenaline as you danced, spinning and laughing with your friends. The chaos of it all—the flashing lights, the pulsating beats, the swarms of people all around her—felt liberating. It was everything you had hoped for, and more.
You kissed a few random faces throughout the night, nothing serious, just a quick thrill, a way to indulge in the freedom you had promised yourself. But there was one kiss that stood out, one that lingered in her memory.
A ginger-haired boy. He had an easy smile and a carefree attitude that matched your mood perfectly. You met by the kitchen, and the moment their eyes locked, something clicked. His playful grin matched the fire of the music, and the next thing you knew, you were tangled in each other’s arms, his lips pressing against yours with a familiar, comfortable intensity. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that lingered with emotional weight, but it was full of heat, full of fun.
You shared a few more kisses through the night—laughing, teasing, your bodies swaying to the rhythm of the music. By the time the party began to wind down, you found yourself following him out of the crowded house, your heart still racing from the thrill of it all. There was no agenda, no pressure—just the desire to see where the night would take you.
The walk to his apartment was filled with playful banter and stolen kisses. His hand found its way to yours, fingers intertwining as you walked down the dimly lit streets, your footsteps matching the rhythm of laughter.
“Don’t wake my roommates,” he joked, a mischievous glint in his eye as you reached the entrance of his building. “They’re light sleepers. Trust me.”
You smirked, your thoughts slightly hazy from the alcohol, the music, and the thrill of it all. “I’ll try not to cause a scene,” you teased back, your voice low and playful.
As you made the way up the stairs to his apartment, and with each step, the anticipation built. You could feel the heat between both growing, like electricity charging the air around you. The door creaked as you entered, the quiet of the night wrapping around.
He led you toward his bedroom, his hand at your back guiding you forward. You tried to stifle the laughter, shushing each other in a mix of playfulness and genuine care to avoid waking the sleeping roommates. There was something about the quiet, the secrecy of it all, that made it feel even more thrilling.
Once inside the room, your shared another kiss, deeper this time, your breaths hitching in the quiet of the apartment. His hands roamed, but in that moment, you were both careful—both aware of the boundaries you were tiptoeing across, balancing between playful teasing and the deeper chemistry that had already sparked between.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
More chapters will be coming soon!! Still editing!!!Btw I'm still rewritting chapter 5, there might be more chapters, but i'm still not sure...
I admit it. I'd made some mistakes. Okay, some big mistakes. Loads of them. But you can't hide in your room forever feeling sorry for yourself. It's not practical. At some point you've got to get back out there, face up to things, and confront your demons.
Ever since I can remember, I'd wanted to be clever. Some people are born clever, same way some people are born beautiful. I'm not one of those people. I'm going to have to work at it, put in the effort, and if I mess it up, I'll learn from it. Besides, sometimes it's not about knowing the right answer. Sometimes it's about asking the right questions.
