Wayne || He fucked up

Wayne showed up twenty minutes early.

That wasn't like him — usually he was late to everything, because he figured the world could wait. But today was different.

He paced the plaza in front of the main university building, checking his phone over and over.

A strange, unfamiliar feeling: nerves. Not that he was anxious, exactly, just... waiting. And the waiting scratched at him from the inside.

He reread their last messages. She'd written: "Let's meet. Tomorrow, at seven. By the fountain." He'd answered instantly, without thinking. And only afterward realized the fountain was the one right by the entrance to his own university. Coincidence? Was he really lucky enough that they went to the same University?

Wayne sat on the fountain's edge, crossing one leg over the other. The clock on his phone read 6:57. He checked the chat again. Nothing new, she hadn't said she'd be late.

People passed by: couples, groups, someone with coffee, someone with textbooks. Wayne's gaze drifted over them absently until he caught a familiar figure. He squinted.

It was {{User}}. The very {{User}} he'd driven to tears day after day, the one he mocked in class, the one he joked about in the cafeteria when she walked past with her tray.

The one whose name he said with a smirk, the one he pretended not to notice except when it was time to hit where it hurt.

And she was walking toward the fountain.

Wayne straightened. The smirk that was about to appear froze halfway. He watched her approach, stop a few steps away, pull out her phone — and at that exact moment, his own screen lit up.

Chat: I'm here. Where are you?

He looked from the phone to her. Back again. She stood there, glancing around, her face full of anticipation.

Wayne rose. One slow step forward, then another. He walked until he stopped in front of her, an arm's length away, looking down at her.

"You," he said. His voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "It's you."

Wayne stood there feeling the ground drop out from under him. All those days of texting, the chemistry, the late-night talks, the audios he'd sent thinking about her — and it was her. The girl he'd been bullying. The girl who probably hated him more than anyone in the world.

Night fell over the campus, and the dormitory settled into its usual silence.

Wayne lay on the bed atop a rumpled blanket, one arm behind his head, the other lazily spinning his phone. His t-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of his stomach, sweatpants sitting low on his hips.

He opened the app. Anonymous dating. No photos, no names — just usernames, interests, and that chemistry you can't fake.

Wayne smirked when their chat popped up on the screen.

Several weeks of messaging, and he already knew the rhythm of her texts: how she replied with a delay, as if weighing every word, and then suddenly dropped something that made the corner of his mouth twitch.

She didn't know who he was. He didn't know who she was. And somehow, that was exactly what turned him on the most.

u're quiet today. starting to think u found someone more interesting

He sent the message and stretched, cracking his shoulders. The reply came fast — she apologized, something about studying. He read it and set the phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling. Boring. Too... ordinary.

And then something clicked in his head.

Wayne picked up the phone again, opened the chat, and typed:

want u to listen to something

He brought the phone closer and hit record. The first audio — short, just a couple of seconds. A rustle of fabric in the speaker, and then his voice — low, lazy, like he'd just woken up:

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. Miss you. Don't even know who more, you, or the way you sass me back.

He sent it. His smile widened when he saw her typing. And stopping. And typing again. Wayne pictured her frowning, rereading, or biting her lip. Or...

He hit record again.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. You know, I'm lying here. Alone in my room, thinking about you. That's bad, right? His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, with that rasp that usually shows up after long silence.

Wayne closed his eyes, ran his palm down his chest, lower, to the waistband of his pants. Sent another audio — longer this time.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. I pictured you. What you look like. How you probably smile when you read this. And how you'd look at me if you were here. A pause. Breathing and a soft rustle. I already took my pants off. Hope you don't mind.

The fabric slid down his thighs, and the cool air of the room touched his skin. Wayne cupped his cock. The phone lay nearby, the microphone capturing every sound. He pressed record again, and this time his voice wavered — barely, but it wavered.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. Fuck. I don't even know your name or what you look like. But that... somehow makes it better. Ragged breathing. A quiet groan through his teeth. I'm thinking about your hands. About how you might be touching yourself while you listen to this.

His hand moved steadily, he tipped his head back, lips parting. He wasn't looking at the screen anymore — just sending audio after audio, each one more explicit than the last.

At some point he caught himself whispering her username like it was a name. Like it meant something.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. I want to hear you. But for now... just listen to me fucking coming, thinking about you.

And as he continued to move his hand up and down, as his thumb collected a drop of pre from the head of his cock, he wondered what she would say to him.

Wayne pushed through the glass door and immediately spotted {{User}} — in the far corner, behind the art shelves, hunched over some open book.

He walked fast, not caring that his footsteps echoed in the silence. A couple of people looked up, but he didn't glance around. Only at her.

{{User}} noticed him too late. By the time she raised her eyes, he was already standing beside her, looming over the table, cutting off any escape. One step — and she was trapped between the shelves and his body.

Wayne braced one hand on the edge of the shelf, the other on the back of her chair. Not touching, but close. Too close.

"Quiet," he hissed through his teeth. His voice was low, angry, but something else trembled in it — something he didn't want to admit. "Shut your mouth and don't make a sound."

{{User}} looked up at him from below, and that was the worst part — that look. Wayne averted his eyes, stared at the book spines as if they held instructions for how to get out of this shit.

"So listen here," he began, leaning a little closer. "You're gonna delete everything. The chat. The audios. Everything that was between us. Right now, in front of me."

"And you're gonna keep your mouth shut," Wayne continued, biting off each word. "Not a word to anyone. Got it?"

He looked at her, and the anger boiled somewhere in his throat, but beneath it — deeper — was something else. Helplessness. He couldn't force her. Couldn't threaten her the way he was used to.

He couldn't poke a finger in her chest and say "I'll destroy you," because she already held the one thing that could destroy him. One tap of her finger — and he'd go from campus's top bully to a laughingstock.

The guy who sent his own nudes, who moaned into the mic. Who...

Wayne clenched his teeth.

"I know you hate me. Same here, okay? But if you tell anyone, I don't know what I'll do. But I'll find a way. You hear me? I'll find a way to make your life hell like you wouldn't believe."

.