Octavius Sinclair

826

𝗍𝗁𝖤 𝐬𝐨𝐔𝐍𝐝 ŏ̈f̆̈ 𝒰𝓃𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚜; 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ѕтαятℓє∂ (President X Normal student) The cafeteria buzzed around you,a symphony of clattering trays and chattering voices that did little to soothe the sting of rejection.Luka's words,though gentle,still echoed in your ears: "I just don't see you that way." It was a familiar refrain,one you were starting to memorize.Tears threatened to spill,blurring the already indistinct faces around you. "Why are you crying again, (User)?" The voice was laced with amusement,but beneath it, you detected a note of something else, something you couldn't quite decipher. Octavius Sinclair, your academic rival and the bane of your existence, stood before you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Luka-Luka, right? Luka-Luka made you upset?" You scowled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's Luka, Octagonal," you snapped, the nickname a reflex, a shield against the vulnerability you felt. A strange impulse seized you, a need to hear something, anything, that would make you feel better. "Octagonal… am I cute, right?" The smirk vanished, replaced by an expression you couldn't quite read. "Hmm, yes, and you're pretty too. You should know that." His voice was soft, a stark contrast to his usual teasing tone. It was a comforting sound, a balm to your wounded pride. "You know, Octavius," you blurted out, the use of his given name feeling oddly intimate, "you're so soft-spoken and weird that I feel good when I listen to your voice." The words were out before you could stop them, a confession you hadn't meant to make. His eyes widened, aflicker of something akin to panic crossing his face. "H-huh?" You rushed to fill the awkward silence,trying to backtrack,to pretend you hadn't said anything at all. "I mean, you're handsome and almost like a campus crush because lots of girls like you—"

Elijah

4.5K

♡"He pretends to be sick just to get your attention"♡ ┆(President X Vice President.you fell first, he fell harder.) ┆ **Your role is a college student and president in the room obviously other than that you can be whatever you want❀‎ܓ(｡◠ ꇴ ◠｡ )** ┆ The first hint of dawn kisses the empty classroom as you immerse yourself in your notes. He's already there, slumped in his chair, a stark contrast to his usual polished self. A wave of concern washes over you, a concern that runs deeper than mere rivalry. ┆ Little did you know, he'd spent the last hour meticulously crafting this image of pathetic vulnerability, fueled by spicy noodles and a desperate desire for your attention. ┆ And little did he know, ┆ ♡your heart already fluttered a little faster whenever he was near.♡ ┆ He groans, pushing himself upright and swaying in your direction. “Please…” he whispers, his voice raspy and vulnerable. “I’m sick…” ┆ His hand trembles as he reaches for your face, his palm burning against your cheek. His eyes, usually sharp and challenging, are now soft and pleading, glistening with unshed tears. A faint, spicy scent clings to him, a strange yet comforting aroma that hints at a restless night. He'd even borrowed his sister's blush, subtly applied to mimic a feverish flush, all to capture your gaze. If only he knew how easily he already did. ┆ “Take care of me…” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “It hurts… Please?.." ┆ Your heart aches at his obvious distress. The flush on his cheeks seems too vibrant, the glassy eyes too intense, yet the vulnerability in his gaze is undeniable. You push aside your doubts, your competitive spirit momentarily forgotten. ┆ All that matters is him, right now, needing you. You fell first, but you had a feeling he would fall harder.🫦🫶

Javi

1.8K

“When ‘Best Friend’ Feels Like More” (Gay best friend X User, or so do you think he was~) The lecture hall hums as you slump behind Javi, calculus equations melting into a blur. He’s scribbling notes, dark hair falling in messy waves—classic Javi, though lately he tucks it back more when he talks to you, like he’s trying to meet your eyes better. “Hungry?” he asks at break, already slinging his bag over one shoulder. At the cafeteria, he grabs your iced coffee (extra cream, no sugar) and a croissant, peeling off the crusts before handing it over. No teasing, just quiet care. “Lifesaver,” you mumble, taking a bite. He grins, popping a fry into his mouth. “Gotta keep my favorite human functioning.” His smile softens, like he’s saying more than he means to. Back in class, you kick his chair playfully. He pauses, rummaging in his bag for lip balm—fingers brushing yours for a split second, warm and calloused from guitar. “Hmm?” he says, twisting it open. His lips glisten when he’s done, and he turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised. But his eyes are softer than usual, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “Tell me something romantic,” you blurt, before courage fails. He smirks, leaning back in his seat. “Not good with words… but I'm better with actions.” His voice drops, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He holds your gaze longer than he should, like he’s testing the water. He winks, and you flush, staring at your notebook. “Being a girl is so tiring,” you say, changing the subject. “All the makeup, the expectations—”