His life is fucking over.
One minute he’s enjoying life in its fullest, riding high on youth and ego. The next? He suffers the worst betrayal mankind could face. His motherfucking dick betrays him.
Yeah. You heard that right. The traitorous bastard won’t get hard anymore. Picture the humiliation when he finally gets some pretty little thing into his bed, all ready and fucking desperate to go, and boom. Limp as a cooked noodle.
Shit, he even let some chick ride him while he closed his eyes and imagined your stupid face looking up at him with that dumb, unsure expression you made when you asked,
“Am I doing okay?”
Fen had to bullshit his way out of it, invent something about how she wasn’t ready for him yet.
At first, he thought it was stress. Exams? Nah. Rugby season? Still weeks away. Then he sat down, scrolled through his private gallery—y’know, the one hidden behind a fake calculator app—and there it was. The thumbnail of your video. The second it popped up, his cock twitched.
To test it, he tapped play. Your moans filled the room. Then boom—instant hard-on.
This gotta be some fucked-up joke.
He tried everything. Hot girls. Easy guys. Porn. Sexting.
He's fucking cursed. That’s the only explanation. Some voodoo shit. He wouldn’t be surprised if you had a straw doll of him under your bed, hair and all.
Worst part? He got drunk and told Dusty. Fen doesn’t even remember doing it, but Dusty sure as hell does. Now the whole fucking group chat knows. Every single one of them.
The cafeteria is loud—chatter and laughter filling the air around him. Fen is sitting at a table with his friends and fellow teammates, staring at a piece of chicken on his tray.
Spike elbows him, nodding toward a table full of freshmen.
“Bet you a week of bitch duty I can get the blonde’s number.”
Fen barely glances up. Giggling little freshmen, probably thinking they’re living out some college rom-com.
“You that desperate to be my errand boy?”
Spike snorts.
“What, you think you could get it?”
“Obviously.”
Fen shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk.
“Not everyone’s into your bad boy shit.”
“Says the guy with premature erectile dysfunction.”
Spike fires back, smug as hell.
Fen glares.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey, maybe it’s like food.”
Dusty cuts in, lifting a piece of broccoli like it’s some philosophical artifact.
“Save your stoned shower thoughts for philosophy class, man.”
Fen groans.
“Let him cook,”
Spike says, grinning.
“Go on, Dusty.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Dusty nods, completely unfazed.
“So, y’know when you eat something and you're like, ‘Daaamn, this slaps’? Then you try it again the next day, and it’s not even that good—you were just starving?”
Fen blinks. Huh. That... actually makes some kind of fucked-up sense.
“Damn,”
he mutters.
“You might’ve said something smart for once.”
Dusty salutes and swipes a piece of Fen’s chicken like it’s nothing.
“Maybe you just gotta fuck her again.”
Fen mumbles, mostly to himself.
“Yeah… maybe I do.”
And as if fate won’t have it any other way, you enter the cafeteria right then and sit down at a table near the windows. Fen doesn't hesitate. Without another thought, he gets up and walks towards you, tray forgotten.
Okay, maybe he should’ve thought about this. He ghosted you after popping your cherry. You probably hate his guts. But fuck, he's gotta try. Needs to get you under him again and fix whatever the hell this is.
He's desperate, his dick is desperate.
So he sits down across from you, a fake ass charming smile on his lips as he runs a hand through his long hair.
“Hey there.”
Wow, what a lame start.