Archive of Our Own

Nathan Prescott sprawled across his bed in the dim, flickering glow of his overhead projector, the only light cutting through the drawn shades of his dorm room at Blackwell. Night had long fallen, and the campus outside was dead quiet. None of the Vortex Club bullshit tonight; just him, a half-empty bottle of prescription something-or-other on the nightstand, and the low hum of his speakers playing some album he didn't even like anymore.

His phone buzzed once on the pillow beside him. Then again. And again. He groaned, rolling over to snag it with one hand, thumb smudging the screen. Nathan squinted at the contact name—

The fuck?

The messages were from Warren Graham. Warren fucking Graham. That nerdy science geek with the ape T-shirt and the perpetual boner for Max Caulfield. He'd added his contact months ago for some lame group project in Ms. Grant's class, the one where they'd been paired up to dissect frog guts or whatever. Graham had done all the work, Nathan had shown up high and signed his name at the bottom. They'd exchanged numbers "just in case," but the kid had never texted him once. Until now.

Another buzz. Nathan sat up a little, rubbing his eyes. "The hell does this bitch want?"

He tapped open the thread, and the messages spilled out:

Then a flood of attachments started loading—photos, videos, a whole goddamn album's worth. Tiny thumbnails blurring into existence one by one, pixel by pixel, the little progress bars crawling like they had all the time in the world.

Nathan's brow furrowed deeper. Selling? What the fuck was this, bootleg movies? Weird anime porn? It didn't make sense—why hit him up? This had to be a mistake.

"Jesus Christ," Nathan grumbled. "Why bother me with your side hustle, you little—"

But curiosity gnawed at him, that itchy kind that always won out when he was bored and too sober. He picked it back up, watching the blurry files inch toward full load, the first few almost there...

The first thumbnail snapped into focus and Nathan’s stomach lurched.

Max Caulfield. Her lips wrapped around... fuck. It was Warren's dick, no question, the angle all amateur and shaky like some low-budget porno.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Max Caulfield straddling Warren on a bed, back arched, no clothes in sight. His hands gripping her hips. And then, videos—short clips, thumbnails frozen on thrusts. Max’s eyes half-lidded, what little make-up she wore, smudged. Warren’s hands fisted in that stupid brown hair of hers.

And nudes galore: Max sprawled out, legs spread, biting her lip in an unfamiliarly coy way; another with her ass up, looking over her shoulder like she was posing for a raunchy calendar. Blowjobs, full-on fucking, cumshots—Jesus, it was a whole catalog.

“What the actual fuck,” he hissed, voice cracking. This wasn't meant for him, that much was obvious. He swiped again—more angles, more skin, more of Max Caulfield doing things he’d never even let himself imagine.

Nathan’s shaking thumb hovered. He zoomed in on one of the nudes. Max on her back, knees to her chest, freckles stark against flushed skin. He felt something twist hard behind his ribs. Not jealousy, or even lust. Fuck no. He didn’t care. Hadn’t saved that one photo she’d posted on Instagram last month, the one with her smiling with that floral dress against the sunset. Hadn’t jerked off to the memory of her bending over to pick up a dropped lens cap in photo class when she wore those particularly tight jeans that one time. Fuck no.

No, it was... rage, maybe. Or something uglier. Even if she was always mouthing off at him in the halls. The way she was looking at the camera, like she trusted the person who'd shot the pictures— even she didn't deserve to have her sex tapes and nudes leaked, and worse yet, sold, like this.

Nathan had seen them together just yesterday—Warren’s arm slung around her shoulders outside the science building, Max giggling into his arm like a fucking rom-com extra. If she knew her boyfriend was hawking her pictures and videos like Pokemon cards…

Another buzz.

“Graham, you absolute fucking moron.” Nathan’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wasn’t a hero. Wasn’t about to white-knight for Caulfield. But this? This was his school. His territory. And Warren just lit a match under it.

Nathan’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, the screen still burning with Max’s bare skin. His jeans were tight in a way he refused to acknowledge, blood pounding south even as his stomach twisted. He forced his eyes up, typed with a sneer he didn’t feel.

He hit send, smirking. Then his eyes dropped to a photo—Max on all fours, Warren’s dumbass hand still fisted in her hair.

Fuck. He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes away.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall. Footsteps, fast and uneven. Then, BANG BANG BANG on his own door.

“It’s open,” Nathan drawled, not moving from the bed.

The door flew open. Warren stood there, face blotchy red, hoodie half-zipped. His chest was heaving like he’d sprinted across the whole quad, even though his room was just a few steps across the hall. His eyes darted to Nathan’s phone, still lit up with Max’s bare ass in 1080p.

“Delete them,” he blurted. “All of it. Right now.”

Nathan lifted an eyebrow smugly. “Delete what?” He flicked his gaze down to his phone, thumb scrolling idly through to another photo, Max spreading her legs for the camera, then locked the screen. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Warren’s hands balled into fists. “It’s not, look... it’s not what it looks like."

Nathan tilted his head lazily. “Really? ‘Cause it kinda looks like you’re running a side hustle with your girlfriend’s tits. Kinda sad, Gayram. Even for you.”

Warren lunged forward, hands out like he’d snatch the phone. Nathan yanked it back, grinning wider. "Just delete the thread, Prescott, I’m begging you,” Warren pleaded.

“Begging?” Nathan’s laugh was sharp and mean. “That’s new.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed, shoes hitting the floor. “Why the fuck would I care about your little nerd porn stash? I get way hotter nudes than that.”

The lie sat heavy on his tongue. His pulse was still racing, cock half-hard against his zipper, but Warren didn’t need to know that.

Warren’s eyes darted to the phone, then back to Nathan’s face. “You better not tell Max.”

He felt the sudden urge to punch his way through the wall, or maybe Warren's chest. He barked out a laugh instead, loud enough to make Warren flinch. Good. “Tell Cockfield? Why the hell would I waste my breath on your stupid-ass high-school drama? She’s your problem, not mine.”

Warren's face paled. An actual bead of sweat rolled down his forehead like he was in a goddamn cartoon. He searched Nathan's expression, eyes narrowing in doubt, like he could spot the lie Nathan wasn't even telling. "You... you're not gonna use this? Like, against me or her?"

"Use it?" Nathan echoed, dismissive snort turning into a full eye-roll. "For what? Your life's already a joke."

"Come on, man, you gotta promise," Warren babbled, hands gesturing wildly like he could wave away the whole mess. "No one else sees those. Delete 'em, please."

Nathan's smirk faded. He wasn't taking the goddamn hint. "Jesus, Graham, you're so fucking pathetic," he snapped. "I already said I don't give a shit. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind and forward them to the whole Vortex Club."

Warren's face paled until he looked like a ghost. "If you want something, anything, I'll give it to you. Notes from class? Answers for the test? Just name it, and it's-"

"You think you can buy me off like one of your little customers?" Nathan cut in. "Fuck off."

Warren's mouth opened and closed like a fish, fear etching deep lines into his flushed face. He backed toward the door, fumbling for the knob. "Okay, okay... just... don't."

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut with a pathetic whimper.

Nathan rolled his eyes, slumping back onto the bed. "Fucking dumbass," he muttered, shaking his head. But his gaze drifted back to the phone, the screen still unlocked on that one video thumbnail—a POV shot of Max on all fours with her ass up for the camera. She was looking back over her shoulder with her lips parted, and he could imagine her begging: Harder, please...

A hot rush hit him low, his cock twitching hard against his jeans. He tapped play without thinking, the audio kicking in loudly—Max's moans filling the room for half a second before he slammed the pause button.

"Shit," he hissed, tossing the phone away like it burned. "Fuck." Don't you dare stoop that fucking low.

He paced the room once, twice, rubbing his face.

Then an idea sparked.

He grabbed the phone again, scrolling through his contacts until he found her contact. He still had it saved from that old English project, the one where they'd been stuck analyzing some dusty poem. The thread was some clipped bullshit:

Whatever. That hardly mattered now.

He typed, thumbs flying.

Nathan's phone buzzed almost immediately, the screen lighting up with her reply. He was already out the door.

It was dark. Past curfew? Who gave a fuck. His family practically owned Blackwell—hell, they did own it, with all the Prescott cash propping up this shithole academy. No rent-a-cop was gonna stop him, and if anyone saw? Let them whisper. He had bigger problems, like that sniveling worm Graham peddling pics like some basement-dwelling perv. Nathan's blood boiled at the thought—idiots like that could drag the whole place down, and he wasn't about to let some nerdy sleazebag's fuckup splash back on him.

He re-opened her message as he hit the stairs, descending two at a time.

He smirked. Straight to the point, Caulfield. Always with that edge, like she thought she was tough.

The campus quad was a ghost town under the lights, wind rustling the leaves like it was mocking him. He cut across the grass toward the girls' dorm, not even glancing at the security guard in the distance.

Nervous. Good. She should be.

He pocketed the phone, ignoring the buzz of her follow-up texts as he shoved through the side door of the girls' dorm—unlocked, because why not in this podunk town. Up the stairs he went, past a couple doors where muffled giggles and music leaked out.

At her door—room 219, the one with the stupid Polaroid sticker peeling off—he didn't hesitate. Knocked hard, three times, the sound cutting through the quiet hall like an order.

The door opened. He didn't even glance her way, just shouldered past her into the room, the scent of her cheap vanilla shampoo mixing with the stale dorm air. The door clicked shut behind him with a decisive thud, locking out the hall's fluorescent hum.

"Hey!" Max cried. She whirled to face him, arms crossing over her faded band tee. "What the hell, Nathan? You can't just barge in here!"

He finally turned, meeting her glare head-on. And there it was—the flashbang in his brain: Max on her knees, Max arched back, Max moaning in ecstasy. His cock twitched, a hot surge he cursed under his breath, shoving it down.

It was just biology, he told himself. He hadn’t gotten laid in weeks. Porn was porn. Didn't mean shit.

She stepped closer, chin up, all five-foot-nothing of fury. "Why are you here? You don't get to just walk in like you own this place!"

Nathan's annoyance flared, hot as a lit fuse. Who the fuck did she think she was, talking to him like that? He rolled his eyes, exaggerated and slow, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Chill the fuck out, Caulfield. You'll want to see this."

Without another word, he thumbed open the video—the doggy-style one, Max's breathy pleas tinny through the speaker as it started playing. Her face on-screen twisted in pleasure, Warren's grunts off-camera.

Max’s eyes widened, face draining of color before flooding crimson. “Oh my god,” she froze. “What the fuck...?!”

Max's hand swiped at the air, her fingers brushing his arm as she jumped for the phone. The video still looped its damning seconds—her own moans and wet slaps of skin-on-skin echoing obscenely in the cramped dorm room.

"H-how... how did you get that?" she stammered, her face inches from his now—all flushed cheeks and wide, panicked eyes. "Nathan, give it to me!"

"Back off, Caulfield," he drawled mockingly. "You're not getting it that easy."

He held it higher, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the heat pooling low in his gut. God, watching her like this—desperate, close enough he could smell that vanilla bullshit again, her stupid fucking face twisted in horror—it was almost fun. Almost. She pressed in, body brushing his as she reached, and he let her get just close enough to think she had a shot before pulling back. He leaned back against her door, savoring the power trip.

But then her expression shifted, accusation sharpening her gaze. "You-you stole it! You hacked Warren's phone or something, you creep!"

Nathan's amusement evaporated in an instant. "Stole it? Are you fucking kidding me?" He growled, shoving the phone screen in her face instead. The video paused on her own pleading expression, but he swiped back to the text thread, thrusting it under her nose. "You think I care enough about your dumbass relationship to make this shit up?" He scoffed loudly. "Your precious boyfriend sent this shit to me by mistake. I was just chilling, and boom, Graham’s blowing up my phone with your amateur hour porn." He pushed it even further into her face, and she grimaced, her eyes darting left-right, left-right, left-right, reading the texts. "'$150 for the set,' like he's running a fucking Etsy shop for your nudes."

Max recoiled like he'd slapped her, hand flying to her mouth as she took a shaky step back. Her face drained of color, going from red to ghostly pale, eyes glazing with something that looked like nausea. She leaned against her bed, gripping the edge of the frame.

"You're... you're making that up," she whispered weakly. "No way. Warren wouldn't... he wouldn't do that."

Nathan stared at her, almost offended by the denial. Like he was the liar in this equation. No matter how much they hated each other, did she really think he was that pathetic? "Making it up? The fuck does it look like, Caulfield? Magic? I photoshopped your ass in doggy style just for kicks?"

She just stared at him, those big eyes searching his face like she could spot the punchline. It pissed him off more—why was she doubting him?

"Then... why? Why even tell me this?"

Nathan threw his hands up, exasperated. "Oh my god, I'm not that much of an asshole, holy shit." His voice went whiny in frustration. "Figured even you deserved to know your boyfriend's a two-faced perv."

Max's face crumpled further, her big eyes welling up with that glossy sheen that made her look like a kicked puppy. Desperation etched into every freckle, her lower lip quivering as the weight of it all hit her.

Nathan shifted uncomfortably, a pang twisting in his chest—pity? Guilt? Whatever it was, it pissed him off that she could make him feel it.

"Don't cry about it, Crackfield," he said, voice gruff, trying to mask the unease. "You never should've hooked up with him in the first place. Guy's got 'beta cuck' written all over his wimp ass."

Max opened her mouth, fire flickering in her eyes like she wanted to snap back—defend her boyfriend, tell Nathan to go fuck himself—but the sadness won out. Her shoulders slumped, and she collapsed onto the edge of her bed, the springs creaking under her slight weight. She buried her face in her hands, breaths hitching. She tried to swallow the sobs, but they slipped out anyway—quiet, broken things that filled the room like rain on a window.

Nathan sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. Pathetic. She looked too damn pathetic, all curled up like that.

He dug into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing past a stray pill bottle before landing on the small towel—usually for wiping down after a line or two, but he'd tossed it in the laundry last week. Clean enough. He thrust it toward her without a word.

Max lifted her head, confusion cutting through the tears as she stared at the offered cloth, then up at him. Her brows furrowed, like she couldn't compute the gesture from Nathan Prescott of all people. But she took it anyway, fingers brushing his for a split second. She dabbed at her cheeks, sniffling.

"Can... can I see your phone?" she asked quietly, holding out her hand.

Nathan’s gut said hell no, but his hand was already fishing it out for some reason. He unlocked it, shoved it into her grip. “Knock yourself out.”

She took it with trembling hands, thumb scrolling through the barrage of photos and videos. Her expression shifted with each one—horror deepening, disgust twisting her features, until she just looked empty, hollowed out inside like someone had scooped her guts clean. A video autoplayed for a second, her own moans echoing tinny and wrong. She slapped the mute button, face paling further.

"Look, you need to dump his ass, Cockfield. Like, yesterday." Nathan cleared his throat. "No one's worth that kind of bullshit."

Max was fully still. Her eyes stayed fixed on nothing, distant and vacant.

Nathan shifted his weight, the silence gnawing at him like an itch he couldn't scratch. This was supposed to be a quick drop-the-bomb-and-bail situation, not... this. Why the fuck was he still here?

"What the hell's going on with you, Caulfield?" he asked, voice dipping lower than he meant. "Cat got your tongue?"

She lifted her gaze slowly. "He... Warren actually sent this to you? Like, for real?"

Nathan scoffed. "Yeah?" He leaned in a fraction, voice dropping to a mock whisper. "Said not to tell anyone. Especially you, Max."

Max's expression twisted, repulsion curling her lip. Anger flashed hot in her eyes, turning them from sad pools to storm clouds. She stood up abruptly, hands balling into fists at her sides. "He... he really came to you and asked that? To keep it from me?"

"Exasperated" didn't even cover it; Nathan threw his hands up, a short laugh barking out despite himself. "Yes! Holy shit. He was all flushed and sweaty, offering to do my homework or whatever nerd bullshit he thought would buy my silence."

The laugh died in his throat as he watched her. The sadness was still there, pooling in the corners of her eyes, but now it was edged with fire, her lips pressing into a thin line, fists balling the bedsheet. Pissed. Actually, genuinely pissed, not just her usual hipster snark. And fuck if a twisted little thrill didn't snake through him at that, warming his chest.

She believed him. Little miss "Nathan's always the villain" was buying every word, looking at him like he was the one dropping truth bombs instead of the usual poison. A small part of him—a tiny, non-creepy part—liked that. Preened under it, even. Definitely not the other part, the one still buzzing low from those goddamn videos he was trying real hard not to think about.

“…Fucking creep… how could he…" Max was whispering. "I’ll kill him… fucking kill him…”

Nathan’s brow twitched. “Yo, Crackfield. Care to let the class in on the monologue?”

"I'm breaking up with him. Right now. And I'm making him delete every single one of those photos and videos." She said it like a vow, already facing toward her door like she was about to storm out in her ratty pajamas.

"Whoa, hold up," Nathan said, stepping into her path. He chided her with a scoff, eyebrow arched. "Think for a second, genius. You really gonna march over there, dump his ass, and what—trust him to hit delete? Like he hasn't already backed that shit up on some cloud drive?"

Max's annoyance flared, her cheeks still blotchy from crying. "Why do you care? Move."

Nathan didn't budge, his smirk deepening as he leaned in a fraction. "Is that really gonna be satisfying? A quick 'we're done' and poof, problem solved? Nah. You gotta get back at him somehow. Make the fucker squirm."

She paused, eyeing him dubiously. "Get back at him? Like what?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You got any dirt on him? Weird fetish porn? Dick pics? Speaking of which—" He paused, smirk turning wicked. "—Graham's looked tiny in those vids. Like, microscope-required tiny. No wonder you're pissed."

Max's face went beet red, eyes darting away as she crossed her arms tighter over her chest, like she could shield herself from the embarrassment. "That's... you’re so disgusting. Shut up."

She said something else under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like, "Can't believe... Nathan Prescott, of all people...", but what caught his attention wasn't the words. It was the way her eyes flicked up to him. Those damn eyes lingered just a second too long, wide and vulnerable, and fuck if it didn't send a hot rush straight through him.

He swallowed, playing it cool, leaning back against the wall with a forced shrug. "Whatever, Caulfield. I've gotten tons of nudes before. Yours aren't special."

"Yeah, because I needed your review," she said with a scowl, though he could swear her face went a hint darker at his words.

But there was a look in her eyes. That weird mix of annoyance and something else flickering in there. It lit a spark in him. That familiar urge—the one that always pushed him to prod, to test boundaries until they cracked, was overwhelming.

And she hadn't kicked him out yet, hadn't screamed for the RA or slammed the door in his face from the get-go.

Interesting.

"No wonder Graham was trying to shill your photos and videos, though," Nathan smirked. "You did look pretty hot in some of 'em. Didn't expect all that from the queen of hoodies and sarcasm."

Max's lips parted, expression exasperated as hell. She shot him that weird look again—part glare, part curiosity, like she was trying to figure out if he was serious. "What?! You're seriously... ugh, Nathan, I can't believe you're..."

He chuckled, low and rough, stepping a fraction closer. "Hey, just saying. But I don't pay for sex, Caulfield. If I want a chick, I'm getting the real thing. None of that digital bullshit."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn't back away. "Good for you. Why are you even telling me this?"

Nathan's smirk widened, an idea hitting him like a high—sharp, reckless, perfect. "Think about it. Wouldn't it be pretty funny?" He savored the wary yet curious look Max sent his way. "...If I sent Graham back some pics of you with me. Bet that'd make him real pissed, watching his ex getting it on with the guy he hates most."

Max froze, staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "What? No. That's... no way."

She didn't look disgusted, though—not really. More like she was forcing the mad, her brows furrowed but her eyes darting away, biting her lip in that way that screamed internal conflict.

"C'mon," Nathan coaxed, voice dropping a notch, goading her with a tilt of his head. "He betrayed you, sold your ass like it was nothing. He's probably still doing it right now. Don't you wanna make him regret it?"

She shook her head. It was half-hearted though, and her arms dropping to her sides. "That's insane. I'm not... we're not doing that."

"Why not?" He leaned in, hands braced on the bed frame beside her, close enough to catch that vanilla scent again. "You're pissed, right? I saw it in your eyes earlier. Imagine his face when he gets those pictures—our pictures. He'd implode."

She glanced up at him, that mortification from before mixing with... some hesitation, now, her breaths coming a little faster. "It's stupid. And gross. You're just... you're messing with me."

"Am I?" Nathan tilted his head, smirking. "Or are you scared it'll feel too good? Getting back at him, I mean. Not the other part— hey, bonus if it does, though."

She bit her lip, staring at the floor for a long beat, then met his eyes again, something shifting in her expression. "You know what?... Fine. Let's do it."

Nathan blinked, surprised at how quick she caved. Hell, he hadn't expected her to actually bite at all, if he was being honest. But there it was, that fire in her eyes, aimed at Warren but landing on him.

"...Yeah? You're in?"

"Yeah," Max said, her voice steadier now, laced with that same fury. "I'm in. But only because I want him to hurt. Not because... not for you."

Nathan's blood surged, and he was hit by the same dizzy high he got right before snorting a line. Electric anticipation buzzed under his skin. His fingers twitched, hard.

He reached for her waist, fingers already curling to yank her in, but Max moved first. Her palms hit his chest and shoved. Hard. He landed on his ass on her messy sheets, the mattress groaning under him. A surprised laugh ripped out of his throat.

“Damn, Caulfield,” he grinned up at her. “Eager for the Prescott experience, huh? Didn’t know you had it in—”

But she shot him this look—eyes narrowed, jaw set, all fierce determination that sucked the air right out of the room. It shut him up mid-sentence, his words dying on his tongue as she stepped between his knees, her small frame sinking to the floor. He swallowed involuntarily.

Her hands went straight for his belt. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle in her haste, and Nathan's brain short-circuited for a beat. “Wait, wait, hold up,” he said, voice huskier than he wanted. He caught her wrists, not hard, just enough to slow her.

She paused, looking almost annoyed—brows furrowed, lips pursed in that way that made her freckles stand out sharper—and yeah, it was hot in its own twisted way, like she was channeling all that rage at Warren straight into this. But Nathan couldn't resist the tease, leaning back on his elbows with a smirk. “No foreplay? I could make you feel good, y’know. I’m generous like that.”

Max's face flushed deep red, spreading from her cheeks down her neck. She didn't back down, though, her eyes flicking away for just a second before locking back on his. "I'm just here for revenge," she said. "Nothing else."

He watched, transfixed, as she fully undid the leather belt buckle, the metallic clink echoing loud in the quiet room. His arousal spiked hard, cock straining against his boxers already. But he was starting to get the sense from her— the way she avoided his gaze now, focused on the task like it was a goddamn mission—that she didn't want him seeing her in pleasure, didn't want to give him that vulnerability. It pissed him off, because fuck that; if they were doing this, he wasn't gonna be some passive prop in her revenge plot.

Whatever. He'd keep it in mind for later.

Nathan swallowed, keeping his voice offhand, casual, not breathless at all. "So, what," he asked, teasing lilt creeping in as he tilted his head. "We just gonna get blowjob pics or something?"

She froze for a split second, hands on his zipper now. Then she looked up at him through her lashes, that determined fire still burning. "We’re getting video."

The words hit him like a gut punch. Fuck.

Max’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down in one smooth, practiced motion, like she’d done this a hundred times. Nathan’s brain stuttered for half a second (she has, dumbass, you literally watched the proof), but the thought got buried the instant his cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the head an angry red and already slick at the tip.

Max flinched, her eyes widening for a heartbeat before she schooled her face. That tiny reaction lit something feral in him; he had to clench his fists against the mattress to keep from grabbing her head and smacking the swollen head against her cheek, her lips, just to watch her jump again. Not yet.

She wrapped her hand around the base, hesitant at first, but then her grip tightened. The room was dead quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and his own pulse hammering in his ears.

Too quiet. He needed to break it.

“Jesus, Caulfield,” he taunted, “you sure you’re a pro? Graham’s little cocktail chode didn’t prep you for the upgrade, huh?”

Max rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—pissed, amused, spiteful, he couldn’t tell. Then she looked up, those stupid, piercing blue eyes locking onto his, and started to pump. Slow, teasing strokes from base to tip, her thumb sweeping over the ridge of the head every third pass, spreading the bead of pre-come in lazy circles.

Nathan’s hips wanted to jerk; he forced them still, leaning back on his elbows with a lazy smirk that took every ounce of control. “What, no comeback? Too busy measuring the difference?”

Her grip tightened just enough to make his breath hitch. “Shut up, Prescott,” she muttered, but her eyes never left his, and the way her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip—fuck. She twisted her wrist on the next upstroke, thumb pressing right under the head, and a low groan slipped out before he could trap it.

“Sensitive,” she said, mock-surprise lacing her voice. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

“Keep talking shit,” he managed, “and I’ll make you choke on it just to shut you up.”

Max’s cheeks flushed darker, but her hand didn’t falter—she sped up. Slick sounds filled the room, her fingers gliding easier with every pass. “Sure, Nathan,” she said, eyes flicking down to his cock, then back up. “I'd love to see you try.”

Nathan had to put in effort to force his usual smirk as he watched her. "Oh big talk, Caulfield, like you could tell me what to—"

But the words evaporated when she shifted. Her hand guided his cock right up to her parted lips, his swollen head brushing the pink plushness of her mouth. His breath hitched sharp in his throat. She paused there, eyes narrowing like she was steeling herself for war, and he opened his mouth to taunt her again—something about her being too chickenshit for the real deal—but it died unspoken.

Because then she took him in.

Just the head at first, her lips wrapping around it with a tentative suck that sent a jolt straight up his spine. Nathan bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his face neutral, but fuck, when her tongue started swirling—lazy circles around the tip, dipping around the edges of the head like she knew exactly what buttons to push—he had to swallow a groan, his fingers digging into the bedsheet to anchor himself.

No way was he letting her see him unravel this fast. He was Nathan fucking Prescott; girls begged for this, not the other way around.

She sank lower, taking him past the head, eyes fluttering shut in concentration. Nathan’s head snapped back, a muffled fuck rumbling in his chest as her mouth stretched around him, tongue flattening along the underside.

Max fucking Caulfield—on her knees, lips glossy and red, cheeks hollowed out—looked obscene. He hated how the thought burned straight to his balls.

He forced his gaze down, watching her through half-lidded eyes. Her small hand was still wrapped around the base, stroking in time with her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open then, meeting his, and those big, blue depths pulled him in like a riptide.

"Bet you can't even take it all," he taunted. "Probably can't deep throat something this size, huh? Graham's micro-dick spoiled you rotten."

She didn't say a word—couldn't, with her mouth full of him—but her eyes flashed with that same determined look from before. And then, without breaking contact, she took him almost to the base.

Nathan growled. His hips jerked forward on pure instinct, thrusting deeper into the hot, wet heat of her mouth. Fuck! He almost cried out, the word biting off into a hiss as her throat tightened around him. His hands flew to her hair without thinking, fingers tangling in the messy strands, not guiding, just holding on as stars burst behind his eyes.

Her wet, muffled noises filled the room—like she was moaning on purpose to rile him up, echoing off the walls like something straight out of premium porn. Hotter than any clip Nathan had ever jerked off to, and sure as hell steamier than whatever amateur bullshit Warren had accidentally slung his way. All he could think about was Max Caulfield—the same girl who'd eye-rolled him in the halls, sassed him over his Vortex parties—deep throating him like she wanted to, like sucking him off was her new life goal.

Sure, her technique wasn't porn-star polished; she gagged a bit on the way down, eyes watering at the corners, but that sheer look of determination on her face? Fuck, it was hot as hell, especially knowing how much they usually despised each other. That mutual loathing just amped it up, turning hate into this twisted heat that had his balls tightening already.

She pulled back after a few deep bobs, gasping softly. Strings of spit connected her lips to his cock. Using the slick mess she'd worked down to the base, she wrapped her hand around him again, pumping steadily while her tongue darted out to play with the head, lips sucking lightly at the tip like she was savoring a goddamn lollipop. Shit.

He could tell she'd had practice; whatever moves she was pulling felt fucking good—too good for some hipster chick who'd been slumming it with Graham. The thought of her honing this on that loser twisted something in his gut. He shoved it down, focusing on the heat burning where her lips were working their magic instead.

"So, Caulfield," he said, forcing his usual edge even as his hips twitched under her grip. "What are you thinking? Video of the blowjob? Me cumming down your throat?" He listed each idea off, watching her reaction through half-lidded eyes. "Or maybe on your face—that'd be hot as fuck. Picture his nerd rage seeing you marked up like that."

Max paused her pumping. "On my face," she said, no stutter this time. "So it's the most visible. He needs to see it."

Nathan groaned loudly. The thought of it—painting her cute little freckled face, marking her like some twisted claim—sent a white-hot spike through him. Fuck, yes. "Shit, Caulfield," he rasped, the words half-laugh, half-moan. "You're freakier than I thought."

She just rolled her eyes. "It's a good start," she added like it was no big deal. And then her hand was back to jerking off his head again.

"A start? What, you got a whole itinerary planned?" Nathan's mind was a flurry at her response. "What more do you wanna do, hipster? Ride me? Beg for it like in those videos?"

Max didn't answer. She just leaned in and took him back into her mouth, tongue pressing flat against the underside as she started moving with purpose. Like she wanted him to come, wanted to push him over the edge. The sounds from before had turned into smaller, controlled slurps that had his head spinning like gravity was just turned upside down.

"That's it," he rasped, thrusting shallowly into her mouth. He grabbed tighter on a fistful of her hair—not yanking, but guiding, taking back some control because fuck if he was gonna let her have all the upper hand.  "Take it like you mean it, Caulfield."

And... she did. She took it, no complaints. Her eyes opened, locking onto his with that damn intensity—watery from the effort, but unflinching as he pushed deeper, hitting the back of her throat. The noises were softer now, muffled around him. But the sight of her like that, her usually snarky mouth stuffed full, shut off whatever logic existed in his pre-frontal cortex.

"Getting close," he gritted out. "Fuck, you're gonna make me come."

She hummed around him, and that was it. His balls were ready to burst. Nathan fumbled for his phone on the bed beside him, hand shaky as he snatched it up, thumbing open the camera app with one hand. Video mode, red dot blinking to life. He angled it down, capturing her lips stretched, eyes on him, and the obscene slide of his cock in and out.

Fuck, he hadn't really thought this through. One hand holding his phone, the other... what, pumping himself all over her face? How the fuck was he supposed to aim and keep his other hand steady? The logistics hit him mid-moan, a split-second fumble where the screen wobbled, but before he could adjust, Max took charge like she could read his mind.

She popped him out of her mouth with a wet, audible schlick, her hand wrapping firm around his pulsing length, stroking fast. Nathan's breath caught as she looked up at him. Those eyes staring up into his own, mouth open, tongue sticking out flat and waiting. Like a fucking invitation, obedient and defiant all at once.

"Fucking—shit," he cursed out loud.

The first spurt hit her cheek in a thick, white rope, splattering across her skin and dripping toward her jaw. Max hardly flinched—just kept stroking, aiming him like she owned his dick. The next burst landing on her tongue, pooling there before spilling over her bottom lip. Another arced high, striping her forehead and clinging to her fringe; then lower, glazing her other cheek in sticky heat. She pumped him through it all, hand milking every last drop onto her own face.

Nathan groaned harder, eyes flicking to the phone screen—the view captured it all: his cock in her hand, spurts painting her face. Yeah, I'm marking your girl up, the thought roared in his head. Fuck Graham; she was his now, even if just for the night.

He finished with a shuddering gasp, hips twitching as the last weak dribble landed on her chin. Max stayed there on her knees. She looked up at him, a flush creeping under the mess. Then, absentmindedly, like it was instinct, her tongue darted out again. She gathered the cum pooling on her lips with a slow swipe, drawing it into her mouth. She swallowed with a soft, audible gulp. Her gaze flicked away.

Nathan almost dropped the phone. He caught it at the last second, his trembling thumb slamming the stop button. "Holy fuck," he muttered.

Max mumbled something under her breath. Her fingers trailed lazy paths through the mess on her face, smearing a streak across her cheek like she was testing the texture. "It feels like you came a lot," she said, almost accusatory, like it was his fault she'd ended up like this.

Nathan huffed a laugh, leaning back on his elbows. She was the one who'd just jerked him off all over herself, and now she was griping about the results? "Yeah, well," he said, smirking down at her, "you're the one who aimed it, Caulfield. Own your work."

She paused, looking down at his phone. "Did you... get the video?"

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the grin from splitting his face wide open. "Yeah," he said, casual as fuck, waving the phone lightly. "Crystal clear. Graham's gonna stroke out when he sees it."

Max sputtered, a garbled mix of "good" and "whatever," her cheeks somehow flushing deeper under the glaze. She shifted on her knees, starting to push herself up like the show was over.

"Whoa, where you going?" Nathan asked, sitting up a fraction to block her path with his leg.

She shot him a look, but with her face still streaked in thick, drying ropes of his cum, it just came off ridiculous, like a pissed-off kitten covered in frosting. Nathan snorted, unable to hold it back.

"Don't laugh!"

"Oh, come on," Nathan managed to force the laughter down, "we need some good pictures, too." He thumbed open the camera app again. "Video's great, but stills? Those hit different. Come on, pose for the revenge tour."

"You're so—" Max instinctively reached up to push her bangs aside. Her fingers threaded through her hair and they got caught, sticking in the sticky strands of cum matted there. She froze, eyes widening in horror as she tugged. It only making it worse, a glob smearing onto her forehead.

"Oh shit, Caulfield—look at you." This time, he burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. 

"Nathan, stop!"

He waved her down, chiding with a grin. "Hey, hey, chill. Sit pretty like you were. We're not done yet."

She huffed, sinking back down, but her gaze flicked lower to his lap, and widened a fraction. He followed her stare— and there he was, still hard, cock twitching like it hadn't just unloaded. Well, damn. The sight of her like that, marked up and kneeling, must've done it.

"You're... still hard?" Max said, surprise edging her voice, almost accusatory again, like he'd broken some rule.

"What can I say? You're looking pretty inspiring right now."

Max frowned. "You're disgusting." Her cheeks were still that pretty shade of pink. 

He snorted again. Then he got an idea. "Hey, let's get a pic of this bad boy on your cum-covered face. Rub it in—literally. Bet Graham'd love that."

Her eyes darted away as she fidgeted on her knees. "Nathan, that's..."

"What?" He leaned in, grabbing his shaft to give it a lazy stroke. "Suddenly shy now? Thought you wanted some good revenge shots. You'd be going for gold with this one, Max."

Max bit her lip, glancing back at him through her lashes, the mess on her face making her look wrecked and vulnerable and hot. Then she straightened her spine, that fire flickering back. "Okay, fine," she said, voice steadier than her eyes.

She leaned in closer, positioning herself just right—chin tilted up, mouth hovering near his length, one hand bracing on his thigh. Sexy as hell, like she was committing to the role, revenge fueling her past the embarrassment.

"Fuck, yeah," Nathan muttered under his breath as he angled his still-hard cock right next to her cum-streaked face, the head brushing her cheek just enough to smear a fresh trail.

He snapped pictures from different angles—high up for that dominant vibe, low for the close-up mess, side profile to catch the glisten on her freckles. "Tilt your chin up a bit," he coached, voice low and commanding. "Yeah, like that—eyes on the camera, Caulfield. Now turn your face left, show off that streak on your jaw."

It was like a weird, fucked-up photo shoot, all dim dorm light and obscene poses, and for a split second, Nathan almost laughed out loud at the absurdity—imagining slapping these on the critique wall in photo class, the photo teacher's jaw dropping as the class dissected the "artistic intent." No way in hell he'd actually do that, though. Obviously. These were for his eyes only.

Oh, and Warren's.

A weird possessive anger bubbled up hot in his chest as he framed another shot. Warren. Her fucking boyfriend, that sniveling cunt, doing this shit and selling it behind her back. Like, sure, Nathan slung bags cut with laxatives or whatever filler kept the margins fat, but his clients still got the high they craved, still came crawling back. It was business, not betrayal. How dare that little bitch peddle pictures like this without her knowing?

The urge hit him hard—wanting to storm over and pound Graham's smug face into pulp, make him beg again and bleed for thinking he could own her like that.

Nathan shook it off with a rough exhale, forcing his focus back to the glorious sight in front of him: Max Caulfield on her knees, posing for him, cum glazing her face like a goddamn cinnamon roll. Freckles peeking through like a dusting of spice, and those big eyes looking up at him with that familiar attitude even now.

Then, out of nowhere, she reached up, grabbed his length with a loose grip, and gave him this shy little smile—this wicked little curve of her lips, tongue peeking out just a touch, like she was owning the revenge harder.

"Fuck," Nathan cursed, capturing the shot. Hot and cute as fuck—what the hell? She wasn't supposed to flip the script like this.

She didn't stop there. Leaning in closer, she planted a soft kiss on the tip, lips brushing the sensitive head with just enough of a tease to make his breath hitch. Click. Another photo locked in—her eyes half-lidded, cum-streaked face framed perfectly, that kiss sealing the deal like a signature on their revenge pact.

"Shit," Nathan rasped, lowering his phone for the moment. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

His thumb traced a lazy path across her cheek, smearing the cooling cum in a glossy streak, the sticky warmth clinging to his skin. He dipped the pad into her parted lips, and fuck, she just... let him, those blue eyes lifting to meet his with this shy, almost trusting stare.

It would've screamed "act" from anyone else, some fake submissive bullshit to stroke his ego, but not from Caulfield. She was genuine to an awkward fault, always had been— this artsy weirdo who wore her heart on her sleeve like a bad tattoo. And now, somehow, she was trusting him with this, letting him feed her his mess like it was intimate instead of filthy.

And fuck, that trust, misplaced or not, hit him like something pure and uncut, making his cock throb harder against her.

She closed her lips around his thumb, sucking gently, and Nathan let out a husky sigh, the sound rumbling low in his throat. "Acting pretty desperate there," he murmured, watching her face go redder under the remnants of his load.

But she didn't pull away. She just swirled her tongue around his thumb, teasing him, like she was daring him to pull away. Fuck. She looked so hot like that—still fully clothed in those baggy pajamas. Innocent on the outside, filthy underneath.

He wanted to see it all off now, strip her down and watch that body from the videos bend for him, but first... the rest of the cum on her face. Globs drying on her forehead, chin, cheeks— unfinished business.

"Still got my mess all over you," he said, pulling his thumb free with a wet pop, his voice dropping lower. "What do you wanna do with it? Can't just leave it there, unless you're into that shit."

Max ignored his comment, glancing off toward her desk. "I can just... wipe it off with a tissue," she mumbled, starting to shift like she might get up for them.

"Nah," Nathan cut in, shaking his head with a smirk, his hand cupping her jaw to hold her in place. "Let me feed the rest to you. All of it."

"Seriously?" Max rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm being serious," Nathan grunted, palming himself. Just imagining her swallowing his load was making his balls hurt. "C'mon, Caulfield, don't tell me you're scared of a little come. I bet you did it all the time with Warren."

"Don't bring him up now," she scowled.

"You scared, then?"

"It's not about being scared, this is just—!"

"What? Too much?" Nathan challenged. He was a goddamn desperate man right now, and the sight of Max Caulfield arguing with him on her knees with his jizz all over her pretty face wasn't fucking helping. "You weren't afraid to film all those videos with Graham. You know how he's gonna feel knowing you swallowed my cum just to spite his ass?" And it'd be hot as fuck, he didn't add.

That, she perked up at. Of course, of all things, revenge was what fueled her. After closing her eyes and exhaling: 

"...Whatever. But not because I want to."

"Fuck," he exhaled shakily. "Sweet."

She just sat there, knees planted, as he gripped his cock and wiped it gently across her face. He dragged it slowly over her cheek, her forehead, her chin, collecting the thick strands in glossy smears along the shaft. He pushed it toward her mouth, pressing the head against her lips. He groaned deep when she opened up obediently, sucking it off with a soft hum that vibrated straight to his balls.

She looked up at him the whole time—defiant in the set of her jaw, accepting in the way her tongue lapped it off, swallowing without complaint. "That's it," he rasped, watching her swallow. "Good girl."

It wasn't even for the camera, no phone rolling, no revenge angle. Just them, in her dim dorm room, her letting him do this.

"Shut up," Max whispered. Then she opened her mouth to accept another load.

Mine, the voice growled in his head again. He repeated the motion of wiping and pushing in, until her face was mostly clean. Just faint shiny trails left behind.

Their eyes met—hers lifting with that shy hesitation, his boring into those shiny sapphires. And there it was, this weird-ass moment where they just... stared at each other. Where she wasn't just the awkward hipster bitch who hated his guts, always shooting him side-eye in the halls, and he wasn't the arrogant asshole constantly putting her down to feel bigger. Just two fucked-up kids sharing a secret that could blow everything to hell.

He shook it off quick, covering with a smirk and that familiar taunt, because no way was he letting some dorm room epiphany ruin the vibe. "So, what's next on the menu, Caulfield? You got more revenge plots brewing, or we calling it a night?" He held out his hand to her with a grin.

She stared at it suspiciously, quiet for too long—annoying him, because who the fuck was she to hesitate now, after that? But she took it anyway. Her fingers were small and warm in his grip, pulling herself up with a little wobble. She stumbled a little as she rose, knees probably numb from the carpet. Nathan steadied her without thinking, his other hand landing on her waist, pulling her closer than he meant.

Her face was right in front of his, now. Close enough to see the sticky remnants of his cum still clinging to her skin. Not fully cleaned, a glossy sheen under the lamplight. He didn't laugh, didn't crack a joke. Couldn't, with the way her breath mingled with his; vanilla, salt, sex.

They looked at each other again, tension thick as fog. His eyes dropped to her lips. Those damn lips that always cursed him out, called him an asshole and definitely worse behind his back. Now they were pretty, pink, quiet... and maybe, just maybe, his. The thought hit him, possessive and stupid. But he leaned in quick anyway, aiming to claim them.

Before he could close the distance, he felt a sudden pressure against his shoulder. Her hand pushing firm, not hard, but enough to stop him cold. "No," she said, voice steady but edged. "We’re not kissing."

His fingers tightened on her waist for a moment before he let go. "The fuck, Caulfield?" he snapped, stepping back. "After all that, that's where you draw the line?"

Max's hand stayed firm on his shoulder, pushing just enough to keep the distance, her eyes defensive at first—flaring like she expected him to snap back harder. But then her expression softened into something more awkward than he'd figured, her gaze dropping to the floor as she bit her lip. "We can't, okay?" she said, voice small and cracking a little. "We just... can't."

Nathan felt a weird twinge in his chest—pain? Rejection? Whatever it was, it stung like a bitch. He covered it quick, shoving it down with a cold shrug, twisting his face into a dismissive scowl. "Whatever," he muttered, stepping back fully, hands jamming into his pockets like he didn't give a shit. "Your loss."

Fuck kissing her anyway, he told himself, the words settling heavy in his gut. He didn't need it. What he really needed now—badly, urgently—was to fuck her, bury himself in her until she forgot Graham's name. Prove he could make her come undone way better than that limp-dicked nerd ever had. Yeah, that'd do it.