The clock on Jake’s triple-monitor setup read 1:47 AM.
We were halfway through junior year, old enough to know exactly what we were asking for and still young enough to think a promotion match at two in the morning counted as a crisis.
He was on round fourteen of a promotion series in Valorant, his Discord headset clamped over his ears, his mechanical keyboard clicking with that aggressive, rhythmic fury that meant he was one bad round away from punching a hole in his drywall. His team was throwing. His voice in the mic was tight, clipped, swearing under his breath every time an enemy pushed his site.
Every guy I’d ever known carried stress like armor. They felt like they had to perform for everyone—their professors, their parents, the girls they texted who took four hours to reply with one-word answers. Jake thought he had to be the rock in our dorm room.
He didn’t know that my favorite fantasy was taking every ounce of that pressure and swallowing it whole.
I slid off my bed without a sound. Bare feet on the carpet, black crop top hugging my ribs. I walked over, slipped past the edge of his L-shaped desk, and dropped quietly to my knees right beside his chair.
His left hand froze instantly on the WASD keys.
The RGB glow from his tower cast cool purple and cyan light across his thighs. He glanced down, his eyes widening in total disbelief as he saw me kneeling between his legs, looking up at him through my dark messy bangs with my hands resting flat against the thick fleece of his sweatpants.
“Luna… what are you doing?” he whispered, his finger tapping his headset’s mute button with a hurried click. “I’m in a ranked match. We’re down two rounds.”
“I know,” I murmured, my palms smoothing upward over his quads, feeling the rigid tension locked in his muscles. “You’re stressed. Your jaw is clenched. You’ve been sighing every two minutes for an hour.”
“I’m fine,” he lied, his voice cracking slightly as my thumbs brushed the inside of his thighs. “You don’t need to…”
“I don’t need to,” I agreed softly. “I want to. I’ve wanted to since you sat down at eight o’clock.”
He stared down at me, his chest rising and falling, caught between the match on his screen and the impossible reality of a pretty, willing boy kneeling at his feet, asking for nothing in return.
I rested my chin directly on the padded armrest of his chair, flashing him that effortless, teasing smirk that always made his ears turn pink.
“Unmute your mic, Jake,” I whispered, reaching for the white drawstrings of his sweatpants. “Tell your team you’re holding site. And keep your hands on the mouse.”
He hesitated for half a second—eyes on me, ears on Discord, breath held—before slamming his hand down on the unmute key. “Yeah, I’m here. Mid is clear,” he choked out, his voice unnaturally deep.
My hands slipped beneath the waistband. When my warm fingers closed around him, thick and throbbing against my palm, a shudder went through his entire six-foot frame. He gripped the mouse so hard the plastic creaked. His eyes flicked down once—just once—then back to the screen, like he was going to make himself keep playing through it.
I slipped down between his knees, disappearing into the warm shadows beneath the desk. This was my sanctuary. No expectations, no performance, no fear. Just the heavy rhythm of his breathing, the bright little map reflected in his eyes, and the fact that he still had four people depending on him to keep talking.
“Two pushing A,” somebody said in his headset.
Jake’s hand tightened around the mouse.
I tugged his sweatpants down just far enough to free him.
He looked down so fast his crosshair drifted into a wall.
“Luna—”
I stopped with my mouth an inch away and raised my eyebrows.
His screen flashed red at the edge. Footsteps. Gunfire.
He swallowed.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered.
That was all I needed.
I took the head of him into my mouth just as he snapped his eyes back to the monitor.
“One mid,” he said into Discord, voice a little too low. “Maybe two.”
I sucked once, slow and deliberate.
His mouse jerked.
“Jake?” one of his teammates said.
“I’m here.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh.
The next thirty seconds became the most ridiculous coordination exercise of my life.
He kept one hand on the mouse and one on the keyboard. I kept one hand braced on his thigh and worked him with my mouth, inch by inch, listening to the match through the tinny spill of his headset.
“Rotate.”
I took him deeper.
“Spike’s down.”
His knee twitched against my shoulder.
“Nice, nice—”
I hollowed my cheeks.
Jake’s voice broke on the second nice.
There was a beat of silence in Discord.
Then somebody said, “You good?”
Jake slapped mute.
“You’re evil,” he breathed.
I came off him just enough to smile. “Unmute.”
His eyes widened.
“Luna.”
“You’re holding site.”
He stared at me for one helpless second, then hit the key.
“Yeah,” he said to his team, trying for normal and landing somewhere near medically interesting. “Still here.”
The round restarted.
I went back down on him.
This time he knew what was coming and that somehow made it worse. His whole body was wound tight around the effort of pretending nothing was happening. Every time I slowed, his breath steadied. Every time I took him deeper, his callouts got shorter.
“Left.”
My hand slid over his thigh.
“Close.”
I sucked harder.
“He’s—”
Jake stopped talking entirely.
On the screen, his character died.
His teammate groaned.
Jake muted again and looked down at me, jaw clenched, face flushed all the way to his ears.
“You are absolutely throwing my rank.”
I licked slowly up the underside of him.
“Focus.”
He made a sound with no dignity in it.
The next round started before he could recover.
He unmuted on his own this time.
That did something to me.
I kept the rhythm steady while he tried to play through it. He actually won a duel. Then another. His breathing went ragged, but he kept calling positions, kept clicking, kept forcing his eyes onto the monitor while my mouth worked under the desk where none of his teammates could see.
“Last one,” somebody said.
Jake’s fingers tightened in my hair for the first time.
Not pushing. Just holding on.
I looked up.
His eyes dropped to mine.
I stopped moving.
For half a second there was only the game audio and his breathing.
Then he nodded.
Once.
I went deeper.
The last enemy swung the corner.
Jake fired too early, corrected, fired again.
The screen filled with the defeat banner before I heard the shot that finished him.
He hit mute.
His hand closed in my hair.
“Now,” he whispered.
I did.
He came silently, shoulders locking, one heel dragging against the carpet as he tried not to make enough noise for the open dorm hallway to hear. I kept him in my mouth through it, felt the tension leave him in waves while the big red ‘DEFEAT’ banner pulsed over my head.
When I finally sat back, his headset was crooked halfway off his right ear. His head had fallen against the headrest, throat exposed in the dim light, chest heaving in deep, ragged gulps of air.
His fingers stayed tangled loosely in my hair, holding me close against his thigh while his hips trembled with the last aftershocks.
He looked down at me as I rested my cheek on his knee. The look on his face wasn’t shame or panic. It was the dazed, hungry look of a man who’d just been reminded what the bottom of a ranked queue is actually for.
“Fuck, Luna…” he whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You’re… you’re unreal.”
“Did you de-stress?” I asked, looking up with a lazy smile.
“I think my whole body just rebooted,” he breathed.
I stood up smoothly, stretching my arms over my head until the hem of my crop top rode up, exposing my ribs. I reached onto the mini-fridge, grabbed his hydro flask, and passed it to him before wiping the corner of my lips with the back of my thumb.
Jake took the bottle with trembling hands, took three massive gulps, and just stared at me as I adjusted the waistband of my striped shorts.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, the words coming out rougher than he meant them to.
I paused at the edge of my bed, turned my head, and gave him a slow, wicked wink.
“The desk duty is a standing shift, Jake. You never have to ask.”
He held my eyes for a second, then nodded, slow, like he was signing something. The room was quiet again. But neither of us was ever going to sleep alone in that dorm room the same way twice.
