Chapter Text
The thing about Five is that he only ever says what he has to.
He never lies and he never sugarcoats, but he tells careful truths that open doors and shut blinds as he sees fit. The boy knows how to command language with the precision of a sniper, and this, coupled with his taciturnity, makes it next to impossible to discern what goes on in his head.
It's his actions that paint a clearer picture of his inner workings.
Because Five never does anything that he categorically doesn't want to do. He's too brilliant for that--knows too many different ways to achieve the same end goal.
So you don't have a single question about whether or not he wants you. You know he does. He's shoved you up against a wall more times than you can count, pressing into you so you can feel his want on every inch of him. It's exhilarating, and for months it's been enough. But recently you've felt a small pinprick of hope in the back of your mind—just enough to be sharp and annoying—that he could possibly want to be with you.
This idea is ridiculous of course.
If he wanted, you’d already be together. Giving secret smiles instead of bedroom eyes. Whispering about your future plans rather than instructions to fuck me harder or touch yourself .
But he doesn't want you like that. He wants you desperately trying to keep quiet underneath him, sweat beading off his forehead as he chases a release from life in the Umbrella Academy.
You let out a needy gasp as he lifts your leg and puts it over his shoulder. “ Fuck ,” he whispers, a hand coming up to brace himself against the headboard.
A small spark of excitement bursts like a firework inside of your chest. Sounds hardly come out of Five when you are tangled in the sheets. Any words spoken are questions or commands. There's no praise. There's definitely no sweet nothings. There's hardly even any dirty talk. That comes before, and it's only a means to an end. Kind of like his kisses.
When you first realized his laconic nature extended to the bedroom, it became your mission to make him moan. To make him struggle to keep quiet for the sake of your roommate or, on the rare occasions you're at his place, his sister. But other than when your lips are wrapped around him, tongue caressing its way up his shaft, it seems like a near impossible task.
He, on the other hand, plays you like a fiddle. He knows exactly how to compose a symphony of your sighs, whines, gasp, mewls, and any other sound he wants to hear. This new angle has earned him more than one moan, muffled only by you biting your knuckle.
"You close?" he grunts, eyes fixated on the finger in your mouth.
You nod, and he increases his pace slightly. You're constantly overwhelmed at how he seems to be able to push himself to go just a bit faster, just a bit harder, just a bit deeper. You still haven't found this man's limits.
The tension that's been coiling in your stomach is winding its way up your spine, and you feel ready to snap at any moment. Five knocks your hand out of the way with his free one, sticking two fingers in your mouth. The action has you mounting even higher, but the look in his eyes when you start to suck on his fingers is what sends you over the edge. Your back arches as all breath leaves you, your high rushing through you and escaping around Five's fingers in a high pitched squeak. Five's pace stutters and finally he stills.
He withdraws himself as soon as he's finished.
There's no aftercare. Sure there are the practical matters he tends to. He disposes of the condom, gets you a washcloth, helps to locate the clothes you've thrown elsewhere. But after that, he's gone. Popped out of existence. Like nothing happened.
This had been a relief when you first met--on the night your friends dragged you to a bar so you could forget about your ex.
It wasn't that there was anything in particular to forget. He had been a good guy. Thoughtful. Friendly. The kind of person you'd bring home to your parents. The kind who was future material. Which apparently you weren't.
That wasn't the kind of thing a night out would make you forget.
Maybe your friends just wanted to ease the blunt force trauma of rejection. Maybe they just wanted you to forget for a few hours. Maybe they wanted you to find someone like Five.
You can still remember how it felt the first time he looked at you--how you could feel the weight of his stare before you even laid eyes on him. And when you did finally meet his eyes...it was the kind of gaze that crushed all of the air out of your lungs and set your skin on fire. The kind that drew you in even as you felt compelled to turn away from all of the heady promises in it.
In one moment, you had broken away and turned your attention back to your friends' conversation. In the next, he was beside you.
"What are you drinking?"
You swivelled in your seat to find the man from across the bar standing next to you, gesturing with his chin for the bartender to come over. Your eyes raked up and down his tall, slender frame. "Gin."
He quirked an eyebrow at the small row of glasses in front of you. "Neat?"
"It's more efficient." Behind you, your roommate snorted at your inability to flirt. Still, the fact earned you a wry smile and a shot of gin.
"The most efficient," he informed, clinking his glass to yours.
The night fell away from you after that. It had to be the quick succession of drinks coupled with his intoxicating presence. You don't remember the moment your friends abandoned you. You don't remember what you and Five sat chatting about. The specifics of the night were lost to time and alcohol. All that remained was the memory of his warm, slightly calloused hand, sliding its way up from your knee and the hungry look in his eyes.
The next memory after that was in your apartment, tongues and teeth clashing together as the two of you ran into the walls, the island, your dresser, the edge of your bed. And then the clothes were off and your fingernails were raking down his back, and you felt more alive than you had all month.
When you woke up with a monstrous hangover and delicious ache between your legs, you were alone. It had been a welcome surprise. After all, you were surfacing from a wasted two years--extricating yourself from a one-night rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. You didn't want to have the clarifying "this was just about sex" and "I'm not looking for anything after this" talk. You didn't want the memory of feeling absolutely wanted to be tainted.
You wanted freedom. You wanted casual.
And the powers that be had granted your request with an empty bed and a scrap of notebook paper with a scribbled phone number and three words: Had fun - Five
A knock sounds from your door and for a second you think it might be Five, but he never knocks. He always just appears. The first time he did it, you'd nearly pissed yourself. The smug bastard had smirked and said, " Huh. Thought I mentioned this. " And then a few short sentences later you fell into bed.
It has to be your roommate. And you're in no state for a visitor. Your hair is still mussed, your lips swollen, and your room smells heavily of sweat and sex.
"Y/N?" her voice echoes through the door, and you shut your eyes. "You guys want coffee?"
"Yeah, one sec."
It takes more than one second. It takes five minutes alone to get your hair looking somewhat under control, and after noticing a dark hickey just above your collarbone, you have to switch shirts as well. By the time you exit your room, the coffee pot is beeping and your roommate is pouring you a mug and handing it off. Gratefully, you accept it, checking the clock on the microwave.
11:27 am. A bit late to be exiting your room for the first time. A bit early for a booty call. Even for a Sunday.
"He's gone?" your roommate asks, still hovering by the coffee pot as you take a seat at the kitchen table. You nod, cradling the drink in your hands as you take small, tentative sips at the edge.
She heaves out a sigh and puts the third mug up into the cupboard. She should know by now: he doesn't stay. He doesn't want your coffee. He doesn't want your company. He only wants you .