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Fiction

• Fiction : Récit entièrement imaginé, avec des personnages et des situations inventés

• Inspiré du réel : Récit partant d'une expérience vécue, avec une part d'invention ou d'embellissement

• Réel : Récit fidèle à une expérience réellement vécue

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• Poème : Texte rédigé sous forme poétique avec contenu érotique

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Tourmented by jock in love triangle — Chapitre 3 · Aftermath and accountability

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il y a 14 heures

Écriture avec assistance partielle d'une IA — Cette information est librement déclarée par l'auteur, elle n'a pas été vérifiée.

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Ce qui accroche d'emblée, c'est la façon dont Lee se bat contre lui-même — ses rêves, ses yeux qui cherchent Marcus sans permission en cours, la culpabilité qui s'installe avant même qu'il soit pleinement réveillé. Elle sonne juste, cette dissonance entre ce qu'il ressent et ce qu'il croit devoir ressentir. Et quand la tension monte, le texte sait garder un silence qui pèse plus que n'importe quel aveu.

Tourmented by jock in love triangle

Chapitre 3 · Aftermath and accountability

The dreams started in April.
Not nightmares—those I'd had for two years, Marcus's face twisted into a sneer, his voice echoing through campus corridors while I ran in place, legs churning, never moving. Those I knew how to wake from.
These were worse.
These were quiet. A leather couch. A thumb sweeping sauce from my chin. Marcus's eyes in the dark of his apartment, pupils blown wide, voice cracking on my name. In the dreams, I didn't pull away. In the dreams, I leaned into his hand. I let him kiss me. I kissed him back, and his mouth tasted like the spearmint gum he was always chewing, and his stubble scraped my jaw, and I woke up hard and sweating and furious at my own subconscious.
Noah slept beside me through all of it. Peaceful. Trusting. His curls fanned across the pillow, his breathing slow and even, and I lay there in the dark hating myself for what my sleeping brain had just done.
It got worse.
In class, my eyes found Marcus without permission. The back of his head, three rows down in Algorithms. The way his shoulders moved under his t-shirt when he reached for his laptop. The tendon in his neck that jumped when he laughed at something the professor said—a real laugh, not the jagged performance piece he used to deploy with Derek.
Derek was long gone. Marcus sat alone now. Ate alone. Walked across campus alone, hands shoved in his varsity hoodie pockets, eyes scanning crowds like he was looking for someone.
For me.
He always found me.

— You're distracted.

Noah's voice was gentle. It was always gentle. That was the problem—Noah was gentle like a steady rain, and Marcus was a thunderstorm, and apparently some broken part of me craved lightning.
We were on my couch, a documentary about neural networks playing on my laptop, untouched mugs of tea cooling on the coffee table. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my thigh.

— Just tired, I said. Final projects.

— Lee. That tone. The one that meant I see you, and I'm waiting for the truth. You've been tired for three weeks. You flinch when your phone buzzes. You stare at nothing. Last night you said his name in your sleep.

The room went cold.

— What?

— You heard me.

I pulled away from him, stood, paced to the window. The parking lot below was dark and empty except for a single truck idling near the streetlamp. My stomach dropped. I couldn't see the driver, but I knew that truck. Knew the silhouette behind the wheel.

— He's out there, I said.

Noah was at my side in an instant. He looked down at the parking lot, and his jaw tightened.

— That's it. I'm calling campus security.

— Don't. My hand on his arm. Please. Just—let me talk to him.

— Talk to him? Lee, he's stalking you. This isn't romantic. This isn't—

— I know what it is. My voice came out harder than I meant it to. I know. But if you call security, it becomes a whole thing. The athletic department. The administration. My name dragged through everything. I just—I need to handle this myself.

Noah stared at me. His dark eyes searched my face, and whatever he found there made him step back, his expression shifting from anger to something that looked a lot like grief.

— You have feelings for him. Not a question.

— I don't know what I have.

— That's not a no.

The silence between us was the loudest thing in the room.

— He tormented you for two years, Noah said quietly. He made your life hell. He broke up your relationships. He humiliated you in front of everyone. And now he's nice to you in private, and you're—what? Forgetting all of that?

— I'm not forgetting. My throat was tight. I remember every single thing he did. Every word. I remember Rachel. I remember crying in bathroom stalls. I remember dreading every morning because I knew he'd find me. I turned from the window. But I also remember him crying on his couch. I remember him saying he didn't understand what he was feeling. I remember him looking at me like I was the only person in the world who could save him, and Noah— My voice cracked. I don't know what to do with that.

Noah was very still.

— I love you, he said. I know we haven't said it yet. But I do. I love you, and I want to protect you, and I can't protect you from someone you're choosing to let in.

— Then don't protect me. The words came before I could stop them. Just—be with me. Be patient with me. I'm not choosing him. I chose you. I'm still choosing you. But I can't pretend these feelings don't exist. That feels worse than admitting them.

Noah's hand found mine. Squeezed once. Let go.

— I need to think, he said. I'm not breaking up with you. I just—I need to think about how to do this. How to be okay with this.

He kissed my forehead. Gathered his keys. Paused at the door.

— Don't go down there tonight, he said. Whatever you're thinking about doing—don't. Not tonight. Give me one night to figure out how to fight for you.

The door clicked shut behind him.
The truck idled in the parking lot for another hour before it finally pulled away.

The dreams got more explicit.
Marcus's hands on my hips. Marcus's mouth on my throat. Marcus pressing me into his leather couch, his weight solid and hot and nothing like Noah's careful, questioning touch. In the dreams, he was rough. Desperate. He said my name like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word he remembered how to speak.
I woke up with the taste of him in my mouth—imaginary spearmint, imaginary salt—and my hand was already under the waistband of my boxers before I was fully conscious.
I stopped myself.
Didn't finish.
Didn't deserve to.

May arrived. Finals week loomed. The last football game of the season was scheduled for Saturday night—a championship match against State, the kind of event that swallowed the entire campus. Banners hung from every building. Fraternities painted their chests in school colors. The stadium lights blazed until midnight, visible from my apartment window.
Marcus texted me: Come to the game.
I didn't respond.
He texted again: Please. I need you there.
I didn't respond.
Third text: I'm going to do something. Something stupid, probably. I want you to see it.

— What does that mean? Noah asked. We were at the campus coffee shop, our textbooks open between us, the tentative peace of the past week fragile but holding. He'd been trying. I'd been trying. We were both exhausted.

— I don't know. I showed him the messages. Probably nothing.

— It doesn't sound like nothing.

— I'm not going.

But Saturday night found me in the bleachers anyway. Noah beside me, his arm around my shoulders, his body a wall of warmth against the May chill. I hadn't asked him to come. He'd offered, and I'd said yes, and now we sat in the third row watching Marcus Chen play the best football of his life.
He was magnificent. There was no other word. He moved across the field like water, evading tackles, reading plays before they developed, throwing spirals that dropped into receivers' hands as if placed there by divine intervention. The crowd roared every time he touched the ball. The stands shook with stomping feet.
And every time he scored—four touchdowns, a school record—he looked at the bleachers.
At me.
I felt his eyes like a searchlight.
The game ended. Marcus's team won by seventeen points. The field flooded with students, cheerleaders, reporters. Confetti cannons fired streamers into the floodlights. Somewhere, the fight song was playing.
And then Marcus was on the announcer's platform.
He'd grabbed the microphone before anyone could stop him. His jersey was grass-stained, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his chest still heaving from exertion. The crowd noise dipped, confused, then quieted as his voice boomed through the stadium speakers.

— Lee Walsh.

My name. In front of ten thousand people.
Noah's hand tightened on my knee.

— I know you're here. Marcus's voice echoed, raw and breathless. I saw you in the third row. Section twelve. You're wearing that dark blue button-down you always wear when you're nervous.

The crowd murmured. Phones lifted. Someone laughed nervously.

— I'm not good at this, Marcus continued. I've never been good at this. For two years, I've been the worst version of myself. I've said things to you that I can't take back. I've hurt you in ways I don't know how to fix. And I did it because I'm a coward. His voice cracked. The stadium was dead silent now. I did it because I didn't know how to tell you that I think about you all the time. Every day. For two years, every single day. And I was scared. I was scared of what it meant. I was scared of what I meant.

A single camera flash. Then another. Then a cascade.

— I don't know what I am. Marcus's hand was shaking on the microphone. I don't know if I'm gay, or bi, or whatever word people want to use. I just know I'm in love with you. Specifically you. Only you. I've never felt this way about anyone else.

The crowd erupted. Cheers. Gasps. Someone in the front row yelled "KISS HIM" and the phrase rippled through the stands like a wave.
Marcus found me in the crowd. Our eyes locked across the distance, and his face was the most terrified thing I'd ever seen.

— So. Yeah. He laughed, a wet, broken sound. I just outed myself in front of the entire school. I probably just ended my football career. I definitely just made the biggest fool of myself in university history. He swallowed. But I meant every word. And if you ever—if you could ever—

The microphone cut out. Someone from the athletic department was climbing the platform, face purple with fury.
But it didn't matter. He'd said it.
Noah was on his feet.

— We're leaving.

— Noah—

— Now. We're leaving now.

He pulled me through the crowd, shouldering past gawking students, past the phones still recording, past the reporters trying to intercept us. His jaw was granite. His hand on my arm was bruising-tight.
We didn't speak until we were in the parking lot. The stadium lights blazed behind us. The fight song was still playing.

— Did you know? Noah's voice was shaking. Did you know he was going to do that?

— No. Of course not.

— Because that looked like something you knew about. That looked like— He stopped. Pressed his palms to his eyes. He just told the entire school he loves you. The entire school, Lee. And you just stood there. You didn't say anything. You didn't leave. You just—looked at him.

— What was I supposed to do?

— Anything. Something. Not just stand there while your boyfriend watched another man confess his love for you in front of ten thousand people. His hands dropped. Do you love him?

The question hit like a physical blow.

— I don't know.

— You keep saying that.

— Because it's the truth.

Noah stared at me. The fight song ended. The stadium lights flickered off, section by section, plunging us into darkness.

— I can't do this, he said quietly. I thought I could. I thought if I was patient, if I was good enough, if I loved you hard enough— His voice broke. But I can't compete with a grand gesture. I can't compete with stadium confessions and two years of obsessive pining. That's not who I am.

— Noah—

— I love you, Lee. I do. But I'm not going to be your second choice while you figure out if you love him back. That would destroy me. He stepped closer. Cupped my face in his hands. Kissed me—soft, slow, final. When you know what you want—really know—call me. If it's me, I'll be here. If it's not—

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
He walked away.
I stood in the dark parking lot, stadium confetti sticking to the soles of my shoes, and didn't know whether to scream or cry or chase him.
I did none of those things.
I went home.

Marcus showed up a week later.
May 15th. 9:47 PM. I know the exact time because I'd been staring at the clock, counting minutes, waiting for something I couldn't name.
The knock was soft. Tentative. Nothing like the Marcus who'd grabbed me in hallways, who'd cornered me in the quad, who'd shouted his love through stadium speakers.
I opened the door.
He looked terrible. Shadows under his eyes. Three days of stubble. His varsity hoodie was wrinkled, and he wasn't wearing cologne, and his hands were shaking at his sides.

— Hey, he said.

— You outed yourself on national television. Not quite national. The game had been live-streamed. It had gone viral. #QuarterbackConfession had trended on Twitter for two days.

— I know.

— Your coach suspended you for the beginning of next season.

— I know.

— Your parents gave some statement to the press about how they 'love their son unconditionally' but 'disagree with his lifestyle.'

— I know. His voice was hoarse. I know all of it. I don't care. I came here to ask you— He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. Can I come in? Please? Just for a minute.

I should have said no.
I stepped aside.
He walked into my apartment like a man entering a church. Reverent. Terrified. His eyes swept the space—Noah's hoodie still draped over the couch, Noah's textbook still open on the coffee table, the evidence of the life I'd been building with someone else.

— Noah's not here, I said.

— I know. I saw him leave. An hour ago. He had a suitcase. Marcus turned to face me. Are you two—

— We're on a break. The words scraped my throat raw. Because of you. Because of what you did at the stadium. Because I didn't know how to react, and he couldn't wait for me to figure it out.

Marcus flinched.

— I'm sorry.

— You're always sorry.

— I know. I know I am. He stepped closer. One step. Then another. But I meant every word. I meant all of it. And I know I don't deserve a chance. I know I'm the villain in your story. I know I should walk away and let you be happy with Noah and never bother you again. But I can't. I've tried. For two years, I've tried to stop feeling this, and I can't.

He was close now. Close enough to touch. The cedar scent of him was faint, layered over something muskier, something anxious. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw tight, his entire body radiating tension like a coiled spring.

— One chance, he whispered. That's all I'm asking. One kiss. If you feel nothing, I'll leave. I'll transfer schools. I'll never contact you again. I swear on my life.

— This is insane.

— I know.

— You tormented me.

— I know. His voice shattered. God, Lee, I know. And I'll spend the rest of my life making up for it if you let me. But I need you to know—I need you to know—that all of that came from this. From wanting you and not knowing how to have you. From being terrified of what wanting you meant about me.

I should have said no.
I didn't say anything.
Marcus leaned in. Slow. Giving me every opportunity to pull away. His hand lifted to my jaw, and his fingers were trembling, and his breath was spearmint gum and coffee and fear.

— Tell me to stop, he murmured against my lips. Tell me, and I'll stop.

I didn't tell him.
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the careful, questioning kisses Noah gave, the ones that asked for permission at every step. Marcus kissed like he was drowning and I was oxygen. His mouth was hot and desperate, his stubble scraping my skin, his hand sliding into my hair and gripping tight enough to border on pain.
I made a sound—half gasp, half moan—and he swallowed it whole.

— Lee. My name, broken against my lips. Tell me you want this. Tell me now, or I'll stop. I'll stop. I swear I'll stop.

His body was pressed against mine, and I could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants, could feel the tremor running through his muscles, could feel the restraint it was taking him to not move, not push, not take.

— Don't stop, I heard myself say.

Something in him snapped.
He walked me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. His mouth found my throat, sucking hard enough to bruise, and my hands came up to grip his shoulders, his biceps, any part of him I could hold onto. He was bigger than Noah. Broader. The sheer physicality of him overwhelmed every sense.

— You have no idea, he growled against my collarbone, how long I've wanted this. How many nights I've thought about this.

— Show me.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, but underneath the hunger was something raw and terrified and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

— Bedroom, he said. Not a demand. A question.

I nodded.
He walked me backward again, through the living room, past Noah's forgotten textbook, past the evidence of the life I was burning down. His mouth never left my skin—my jaw, my throat, the hollow behind my ear that made my knees buckle.
The back of my legs hit the mattress. I fell backward, and Marcus followed, his body covering mine, his weight pinning me to the sheets.

— Tell me if it's too much. His voice was strained, barely controlled. Tell me, and I'll slow down. I'll stop. Whatever you need.

— I don't want you to stop.

His breath caught. His forehead pressed to mine.

— I've never done this. With a guy. I don't—I don't know—

— Then I'll tell you. My hands found the hem of his hoodie. Pulled it up. He helped me, stripping it over his head in one motion, and what was underneath made my mouth go dry.

Marcus Chen was built like a sculpture. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Abdominal muscles carved in sharp relief. A trail of blond hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. His skin was hot under my palms, and when I touched him, he shuddered.

— Your turn, he said, and his hands were on my shirt, pulling it over my head with none of the restraint he'd shown moments ago. His mouth found my chest immediately—my sternum, my ribs, the soft skin below my navel—and I arched into him, fingers twisting in his hair.

— Marcus.

— Yeah?

— I want you to fuck me.

The words hung in the air. His eyes lifted to mine, dark and desperate and reverent.

— Tell me what to do.

I did. Lube in the bedside drawer. Condoms in the same place. His hands were shaking as he prepped me, one slick finger, then two, his eyes tracking every micro-expression on my face.

— Like this? he asked, voice hoarse.

— Slower. No—curve them. Yeah. Yeah.

He was a fast learner. By the time he had three fingers inside me, I was gasping, hips lifting off the mattress, my hands fisted in the sheets.

— I'm ready. Marcus. I'm ready.

He positioned himself between my legs. The condom wrapper tore. I heard him exhale, shaky and uneven, as he lined himself up.

— Look at me, he said. Please. Look at me.

I did.
He pushed inside.
The stretch was intense—he was thicker than Noah, longer—and for a moment I couldn't breathe. Marcus froze, every muscle in his body locked tight.

— Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Lee—

— I'm okay. Just—give me a second.

He waited. Trembling. His forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breath hot and uneven on my skin. I could feel his pulse through where we were joined, racing, frantic.

— Okay, I breathed. Move.

He did.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't measured. Marcus fucked like he'd been starving for two years and I was the first meal he'd been offered. His hips drove into me with a rhythm that was almost punishing, and I met every thrust, my legs locked around his waist, my nails raking down his back.

— Is this— His voice broke on a particularly deep stroke. Is this what you wanted? What you needed?

— Yes. Yes. Harder.

He gave me harder. The bed frame slammed against the wall. The headboard left dents in the drywall. Somewhere distant, I heard myself making sounds I'd never made before—guttural, desperate, utterly unguarded.
Marcus was talking. A stream of words, half-coherent, spilling against my throat. Waited so long. Dreamed about this. You're so tight. So perfect. Lee. Lee. Lee.
My name. Over and over. Like a prayer.

— Close, I gasped. I'm close.

His hand found me between our bodies. Stroked once, twice, his rhythm faltering as his own control slipped.

— Come for me. Please. I need to feel you—

I came with his name in my mouth.
The orgasm ripped through me, white-hot and obliterating, and I felt him follow a moment later—felt his hips stutter, felt him bury himself as deep as he could go, felt the groan he pressed into my shoulder like a brand.
We lay there afterward, tangled and sweating, and the silence was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

— I love you, Marcus whispered. His voice was wrecked. I know you don't believe me. I know you have no reason to believe me. But I do. I love you. I've loved you for two years. And I'm so sorry it took me this long to say it the right way.

I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because lying there in his arms, still feeling the aftershocks of him inside me, I realized with terrifying clarity that I felt it too.

The next three days were the worst of my life.
I avoided Marcus. Ignored his texts. Ignored his calls. Ignored the knock on my door at 2 AM that I knew was him, because I recognized the rhythm of his desperation.
I avoided Noah, too. His hoodie was still on my couch. His textbook was still on my coffee table. I couldn't look at either of them without feeling like my chest was caving in.
But you can't outrun your own mind.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Marcus inside me. His hands. His mouth. The way he'd said my name like it was the only word worth speaking. The way he'd waited for permission, every step, even when he was shaking with need.
I'd come harder with him than I ever had with Noah.
That fact sat in my stomach like a stone.
On the fourth day, I called Noah.

— I need to tell you something.

The coffee shop was nearly empty when we met. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. Noah sat across from me, his hands wrapped around a mug he hadn't drunk from, his dark eyes watching my face with the wariness of someone bracing for impact.

— Marcus came to my apartment, I said. The night you left with your suitcase.

Something flickered in Noah's expression.

— What happened?

I didn't lie. I couldn't lie. Not to him.

— We had sex.

The words dropped between us like a grenade. Noah didn't move. Didn't blink. His hands tightened on the mug, knuckles going white, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

— And?

— And it was— I stopped. Swallowed. Made myself meet his eyes. I have feelings for him, Noah. I tried not to. I tried so hard. But I can't pretend they're not there anymore.

— You slept with him.

— I know.

— While we were still—we hadn't even officially broken up. We were on a break.

— I know.

Noah set down the mug. His jaw was tight, his eyes wet, but his voice didn't waver.

— I told you I wouldn't be your second choice. I told you to figure out what you wanted. And you—what? Decided the best way to do that was to fuck him?

— I didn't decide anything. He showed up, and he asked for one chance, and I—

— You gave it to him. Noah's laugh was hollow. Of course you did. He's been wearing you down for weeks. Months. The stadium confession was just the final act. And I was supposed to compete with that? With two years of obsession and a public declaration of love and abs that look like they were carved by Michelangelo?

— Noah—

— I'm not stupid, Lee. I know I'm not him. I know I'm the quiet one, the safe one, the one who asks permission and brings you tea and tries to be good for you. I know I'm not the quarterback with the tragic backstory and the redemption arc. His voice cracked. But I loved you. I actually loved you. Not as some twisted obsession. Not as a way to figure out my sexuality. I just—loved you.

Tears were tracking down my face. I didn't know when they'd started.

— I'm sorry, I whispered. I'm so sorry. You deserve better than this. You deserve better than me.

— Yeah. Noah stood. He looked down at me, and his expression was unreadable. Maybe I do.

He walked away.
This time, I knew he wasn't coming back.

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