Chapter 1: The Ex’s Revenge
The bass from the club downstairs was a dull, persistent throb in the floorboards, a ghost of the chaos Paul had just escaped. He stared at the back of Sarah’s head, her blonde hair spilling over the arm of a surprisingly modern leather sofa. She was out. Snoring, softly. One minute she was slurring about her ex being a controlling monster, the next… this.
Paul blinked, his own vision swimming pleasantly. The three vodka-cranberries—his pre-game, researched plan—hummed in his veins. The plan. Right. Step One: Go to a bar. Step Two: Talk to a girl. Step Three: Be confident. It had seemed so logical, diagrammed in his notebook next to his anime character sketches.
He’d chosen Sarah because she was alone at the bar and looked approachable. She’d laughed at his joke, a real laugh, not a pity one. She’d said she lived upstairs. That seemed like a promising, adult development. Now he was in her ex-boyfriend’s apartment, and she was a puddle on the furniture.
“Okay,” he said aloud, his voice too high. “New plan.”
He had no new plan. The apartment was quiet, all cool grays and sharp lines. It looked like a tech showroom. Nothing was out of place. A single abstract painting, a sleek floor lamp, a faint smell of something clean and expensive underneath the beer. It was nothing like his cramped, poster-covered dorm room.
A door down the short hallway clicked open.
Paul froze. A man stepped out, silhouetted against the light of a bathroom. He was taller, broader, moving with an easy certainty that made Paul feel like a collection of loose parts. The man padded barefoot into the living room, ignored Sarah completely, and went to the kitchen. Paul heard the fridge open, the clink of a bottle.
He should say something. Explain. His brain offered dialogue options from various dating sims. All were terrible.
The man leaned against the kitchen island, took a long pull from a beer, and finally looked at him. His eyes were a very sharp, assessing blue.
“You’re not her usual type,” the man said. His voice was calm, dry. Not angry. Amused.
“I’m… Paul.” It was all he could manage.
“Mark.” He tilted his head. “Sarah bring you up here?”
“Yes? We were talking. At the bar. She said she lived upstairs, and then she was crying about… well, you, I guess. And then she fell asleep.” The words tumbled out. “I don’t really know what to do now.”
A faint smile touched Mark’s lips. He set the beer down and walked over, his gaze never leaving Paul’s face. Paul felt pinned, studied. Mark was ruggedly handsome in a way Paul had only seen in movies—strong jaw, short dark hair, a fitted t-shirt stretched across an athletic build. He stopped a few feet away.
“You’re stranded,” Mark observed.
“A little.”
“And you were talking to Sarah at the bar because…”
Paul’s inebriated honesty bypassed all filters. “I’m trying to lose my virginity.” He clapped a hand over his mouth, his wide brown eyes going even wider. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
Mark’s eyebrows lifted. He didn’t laugh, but the amusement in his eyes deepened. “That’s a mission statement. And you targeted Sarah.”
“She was nice! She listened!”
“She’s also my ex-girlfriend, currently refusing to move out, and a borderline alcoholic,” Mark said, matter-of-fact. He looked Paul up and down, slowly. The look wasn’t hostile. It was curious. “How old are you, Paul?”
“Nineteen.”
“You look younger.”
“I get that a lot.” Paul fidgeted, the freckles across his nose seeming to darken with his blush.
Mark was quiet for a long moment. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was like he was calculating something. Finally, he nodded toward the hallway. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“My room. You can wait it out in there. She’ll be comatose for hours, and I don’t particularly want to watch you loom over her like a confused puppy.”
It was a command, not a request. Paul, with no better options and a head full of warm fog, followed. Mark’s bedroom was an extension of the living room—minimalist, almost severe. A large bed with a matte white linen duvet, a sleek black metal headboard, recessed lighting casting a sterile glow. It smelled like clean cotton and that same faint, expensive cologne.
Mark closed the door, muting the world to just the two of them and the distant thump of music. He leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms.
“So. The virginity project. You only considered women?”
The question was so blunt it short-circuited Paul’s anxiety. “Well… yeah. I mean, that’s… how it works in the stories.”
“Stories,” Mark repeated, that faint smile returning. He pushed off the dresser and took a step closer. “This isn’t a story, Paul. It’s a Tuesday night. And you’re in my apartment.” Another step. Paul’s back was nearly against the door. “You said you wanted to lose it. The intent is what matters, not the target, right?”
Paul’s heart was a frantic bird in his ribs. This was not part of any diagram. This was off the map. Mark was close enough now that Paul could see the darker flecks in his blue eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw. He was overwhelmingly, palpably real. And he was looking at Paul with a focused interest that made Paul’s skin feel too tight.
“I… guess?” Paul whispered.
Mark’s hand came up, not to touch him, but to brush a stray bit of Paul’s messy brown hair from his forehead. The touch was electric. “You’re remarkably pretty,” Mark said, his voice lower now. “All wide eyes and freckles. Like a painting.”
Then he kissed him. It wasn’t tentative or asking. It was deep and confident, tasting of beer and mint, and it shorted out every last bit of Paul’s overthinking brain. He made a small, surprised sound against Mark’s mouth and then just… surrendered. His hands came up, gripping the front of Mark’s t-shirt for balance. It was nothing like he’d imagined. It was better. It was real.
Mark pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Paul’s. “Is this okay?”
Paul could only nod, dazed.
What followed was a blur of sensation, a dismantling of every theoretical notion Paul had ever held. Mark’s hands were sure, his movements economical. He undressed Paul with a quiet efficiency that felt clinical and intensely erotic. Paul trembled, not from cold, but from the sheer novelty of being seen, touched, wanted in this specific, undeniable way.
The cool sheets against his back. The weight of Mark above him, all warm skin and solid muscle. The questions were gentle but direct, the instructions clear. Paul’s world narrowed to the point of contact, to the feeling of being carefully opened up, first with fingers, then with something much more.
He braced for pain, for the dramatic rupture he’d read about. What he got was a slow, stretching fullness that stole his breath. It was strange, profoundly strange, and then Mark moved.
A broken gasp escaped Paul’s throat. It wasn’t pain. It was a shocking, deep friction that sparked along his nerves. “Oh,” he breathed, the sound punched out of him.
Mark stilled. “Alright?”
“Y-yeah. It’s just… different.”
Mark leaned down, his mouth near Paul’s ear. His voice was a calm, steady rhythm against the frantic beat of Paul’s heart. “Good different?”
Paul turned his head, hiding his face in the pillow that smelled of Mark. He nodded again, helplessly. Words were gone. This was feeling, raw and undisguised.
“Turn over,” Mark murmured.
Paul did, moving like he was underwater. He got to his knees, facing the black metal headboard. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that should have been terrifying. Mark’s hands settled on his hips, thumbs stroking the sharp bones there. The touch was possessive, grounding.
Mark entered him again from behind, deeper this time, and Paul cried out, his fingers twisting in the white linen. This angle changed everything. It wasn’t just acceptance now; it was a compulsion. Each smooth, confident thrust hit a place that sent jolts of heat through his belly. A low, desperate sound started in his throat. He pushed back, meeting the rhythm, wanting more of that shocking, full friction.
“There you go,” Mark said, his voice rough with approval. He drove into him, steady and deep, no room for protest, no hesitation. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.
Paul fell apart quietly. Pleasure, sharp and bright and totally unforeseen, unspooled him. He shuddered through it, consciousness fraying at the edges, reduced to sensation and the sound of Mark’s breathing behind him. Mark followed soon after, a low groan against Paul’s shoulder, his grip tightening almost to the point of pain before easing.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing mingling in the cool, sterile room. Paul’s cheek was pressed to the crumpled duvet. His mind was blank, blissfully empty.
Mark moved first, slipping away to the bathroom. Paul heard water run. He lay there, spent, looking at the sharp shadows cast by the floor lamp. The throbbing bass from the club was still there, a constant. Everything else had changed.
Mark returned with a damp cloth. He cleaned Paul with a surprising tenderness, then pulled the duvet over him. He got a fresh beer, took a drink, and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at Paul.
“So,” Mark said. “Project complete?”
Paul managed a weak laugh. It felt good. “Yeah. Mission accomplished. Unexpected… alliance formed.”
Mark smiled, a real one that reached his eyes. “You’re not what I expected to find in my living room tonight.” He reached over, picked up his phone from the nightstand where his clothes were piled. “Put your number in.”
Paul took the phone, his fingers clumsy. He programmed his name. He handed it back.
Mark typed for a moment, then Paul’s phone buzzed on the sheets.
Unknown: It’s Mark. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Paul read it, a strange, warm buoyancy rising in his chest. He looked at Mark, this confident, handsome stranger who had just rewritten his entire world in twenty minutes.
“Okay,” Paul said. “Tomorrow.”
Mark nodded, stood, and turned off the lamp. He left the door slightly ajar as he left, a sliver of light from the hall cutting across the floor. Paul lay in the dark, in a stranger’s bed, the smell of sex and cologne and stale beer around him. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t confused.
For the first time all night, he felt perfectly, inexplicably, on track.
For the first time all night, he felt perfectly, inexplicably, on track.
Sunlight, sharp and accusing, cut across his face. Paul woke with a jolt, the unfamiliar geometry of the ceiling tilting into focus. He was alone in the massive bed. The other side was cool, the pillow unslept-on.
A slow, irrepressible smile spread across his face. He stretched, his body humming with a pleasant, deep-set soreness. He did it. He’d actually done it. Operation De-Virginization was a success. Okay, the tactical objective had shifted dramatically from the original plan, and the ally secured was not the one initially briefed, but the core mission was accomplished. On the first official attempt. That had to count for something.
He found his clothes in a neat pile on the black dresser. His phone, mercifully, was at 12%. No new messages. He dressed quietly, the silence of the apartment absolute. The living room was empty, the leather sofa vacant. No sign of Sarah. Just a faint smell of coffee and lemon cleaner.
Mark was in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a bowl of cereal and a laptop open, lines of code reflected in his blue eyes. He looked up as Paul shuffled in.
“Morning,” Mark said. His voice was morning-rough, but his gaze was clear and assessing. “There’s milk. Bowls are up there.” He pointed a thumb at a cabinet.
“Thanks.” Paul’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to project a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He got a bowl, poured the cereal, the snap-crackle-pop absurdly loud in the quiet. He took the stool opposite Mark, the marble cool against his forearms.
They ate in silence for a minute. It wasn’t awkward. It was… observational.
“So,” Mark said finally, closing his laptop. “First night in the big city.”
“Yeah.” Paul grinned, a little of his natural animation returning. “It was educational. My research was… incomplete.”
“How so?”
“Well,” Paul said, gesturing with his spoon. “All my intel came from like, romantic comedies and anime. Especially anime. You know, the ones where the hopeless guy just exists and suddenly he’s surrounded by all these beautiful girls who are for some reason obsessed with him? It made the whole ‘getting laid’ thing seem like a passive event. Like a reward for just being nice. I figured I just had to show up and be… available. The mechanics seemed secondary.”
Mark listened, a faint smile playing on his lips. He didn’t look judgmental. He looked entertained.
“And the mechanics?” Mark prompted.
“Under-researched,” Paul admitted, laughing at himself. It was an unashamed, bright sound. “Turns out reality has way more variables. And the hardware compatibility can be… surprising. I should probably read more BL manga now. For a more balanced perspective.”
Mark’s chuckle was a low, warm sound. “You’re something else.”
“Sarah’s gone?” Paul asked, glancing toward the empty couch.
“Work, hopefully. Or the void. I don’t really care, as long as she’s out of here in twenty-seven days.” Mark’s expression tightened slightly. “We dated for a year. I own this place. Caught her cheating two months ago. Gave her thirty days’ notice. Now we’re in this cold war where she uses all my hot water and ‘forgets’ to take out the recycling just to be a pest. Tenant rights. It’s a whole thing.”
Paul listened, wide-eyed, completely focused. This was real adult drama, messy and logistical. “That’s so… petty. And stressful. Do you have to, like, legally evict her?”
“If she overstays, yeah. I have the paperwork ready. Hoping it doesn’t come to that.” Mark seemed to relax as he talked, as if Paul’s attentive silence was a relief. “It’s exhausting. Hence, the bar downstairs last night.”
“Hence me,” Paul said, understanding dawning.
“Hence you.” Mark agreed. He studied Paul for a moment. “What’s your deal? What brings you to the city?”
“University. Computer science. I want to make games. Narrative-driven ones, with choices that actually matter.”
“A writer-coder. That’s a good mix.” Mark nodded appreciatively. “I’m in software too. Back-end systems architecture. Less story, more making sure ten million people can log in at once without everything catching fire.”
“That’s so cool,” Paul breathed, leaning forward. “So you’re like, a digital foundation builder? What language do you primarily use? Is it more about problem-solving or optimization?”
Mark spent the next ten minutes explaining, and Paul asked sharp, interested questions that bypassed small-talk and went straight to the core of the work. It was clear Paul’s passion for systems wasn’t limited to game plots.
Eventually, Paul glanced at his phone. “I should… probably figure out where my dorm is in the daylight.”
He took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it. He found his overcoat by the door, slipped it on, and bent to lace his shoes. When he straightened, Mark was leaning against the wall nearby, watching him.
Paul sighed, a contented, overwhelmed sound. He looked at Mark—the sharp jaw, the calm certainty, the whole handsome, complicated package of him. “Men in the city really are different,” Paul said, shaking his head in amused wonder. “So cool.”
In one fluid motion, Mark pushed off the wall and closed the distance. He caged Paul against the front door, his hands flat on the wood on either side of Paul’s head. He didn’t ask. He just looked down at him for a heartbeat, then kissed him.
It was deep and wet and claiming, shutting out the morning, the apartment, the whole city outside. Paul melted into it, his hands fisting in Mark’s shirt. Minutes blurred. When they broke apart, gasping, a thin string of saliva connected their mouths for a second before breaking.
“You,” Mark said, his voice a gravelly whisper against Paul’s lips, “are the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
Paul’s brain short-circuited. All he could do was stare.
“I want to see you again. I’ll text you.” Mark’s thumb brushed Paul’s swollen bottom lip. His blue eyes were intense, unwavering. “And you can’t have sex with other people.”
Paul nodded, fast and jerky, like a chick pecking at rice. The command was so blunt, so possessive, it thrilled him straight to his core. His filter utterly destroyed, the first thing that rushed into the vacuum was raw, unfiltered truth.
“Okay,” Paul blurted out. “I liked your cock.”
The words hung in the air between them. Paul’s whole face ignited, a crimson wave from his throat to his hairline. He yanked the door open and practically fell into the hallway.
Mark’s rich, rolling chuckle followed him out, echoing in the sterile hall as Paul fled toward the elevator, his heart hammering a joyful, terrified rhythm against his ribs.