A gay story: Once a Nerd Ch. 14 a/n: Not much to say about this one! Just hope you enjoy it, and as always, I appreciate anyone who takes the time to comment on my work. It fuels me to know someone likes it enough to verbally express it. Check my bio for chapter updates! There’s no telling how long it’ll take to be approved on here, could be anywhere from two days to twelve, but I’ll at least let you know it’s been posted for approval.
“Wanna order a pizza?”
In all my life, I’ve never heard a more profound, impactful string of words. Not in the pages of literary classics, nor in any movie. In the moment, it almost tops Sammy’s heartfelt confession of love. It’s like a solitary sunbeam piercing the dark, thick storm rolling through me. I had no idea what he’d say or do upon finding me at my worst, loitering in front of his door, though I expected his worst. Disappointment, depression, hostility. Declaring with finality, no room for argument:
“We’re done. Don’t come back.”
Regardless, I couldn’t bring myself to stay away. It was a labor of blood, sweat, and tears to restore Rishad’s apartment to rights, but he was grateful enough to cart me back free of charge. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the longer I sat, the more last night’s mistakes and today’s toil caught up to me. I’m pretty sure I scrubbed half a bottle’s worth of Jose Cuervo out of his carpet. Exhaustion pounced as soon as my body stopped moving. Coming to, there’s a familiar pair of trainers.
Shins, knees, thighs—
Sammy.
He’s here.
He looks…happy to see me.
Relieved.
It’s all I can do not to wrap around his legs from my place on the ground, begging forgiveness all over again. He didn’t respond to any of my messages, though I’ll later learn he turned his phone off before crashing out. I checked my phone obsessively for any kind of reply, but there was only the indication that he’d read them all in the morning. It’s better than nothing, but that sentiment was barely cutting it. I’ve never been more miserable, dancing on pins and needles. Now, we’re in front of each other again, and though his shoulders droop with exhaustion, his expression says: I’m so glad you’re here.
I’m so fucking happy, I could—
…pass out again, actually. With the hefty, emotional burden lifted, there’s nothing I want more than to surround myself with him and sleep. Real sleep, not unconsciousness in a cramped bathtub or a groggy doze on the ground. But, I’m hungry, and we have important things to discuss. Climbing to my feet, I can’t recall a time I’ve been in such bad shape physically. My stomach’s settled, but my joints rattle like a tin of loose bolts, My head throbs. Cupping the back of my neck, I dig my fingertips into the sides of it to dig out a kink.
Sam’s watching me like he can relate all too well, and he looks almost as disheveled as I feel.
“Fuck yeah.”
I’m not sure what to do with myself, nor what to say. Or, there’s too much I want to do and say, but none of it feels situationally appropriate. There’s this sense of needing to be delicate, careful. Sam’s either unaware of my initial discomfort, or he’s ignoring it. Maybe to give me time to gather my wits, he nods towards the bedroom: “Shower. Change. You’re gross.”
I take no offense, because he’s right. There was no time or thought spared for any hygiene rituals before now. I’m in the same clothes I left in, and through everything that’s happened, the material feels like it’s adhered to my body through a sticky coating of sweat. My teeth didn’t get brushed after this morning’s unfortunate duet with Rishad. As desperately as I want to smother him, I only want to offer Sam my best. He deserves nothing but, especially now. I don’t badger him into joining me, because if he wanted to, he would.
Maybe he still needs space.
Swearing under my breath, I set myself up for a long, thorough shower in his bathroom. Part of me wants to drag out my time under the scalding spray, while the other half wants to rip through it and return to his side. Even if it’s just as a dog in waiting, cowering by his heel for the other shoe to drop. Sure, he made me leave, but that…can’t be it, right? Withholding information might not be the greatest of offenses in a relationship, but it’s a severe breach of trust. It’s also making Sam out to be some sort of juvenile that can’t even tie his own laces.
I’ll always prefer having a watertight grip over potentially unfavorable circumstances, but it shouldn’t be…necessary to function. Losing control shouldn’t make me incapable of action.
“Do you understand how fucking unrealistic that is?” He interrupts sharply. “How insulting it is? I’m an adult, Dean. I’m older than you by more than a decade. I know you have this…need to solve everything, to try and make it all okay, but it’s not always going to be okay. For some people, it’ll never be fucking okay, and you’ll run yourself into the ground trying to change that.”
My jaw works with renewed tension. Before Sam, this never would’ve been an issue. I didn’t have this compelling need to manipulate every situation’s outcome. There was nothing worth the effort. It’s the first time in my life I’m terrified of losing something. Our relationship is so fragile, like I’m navigating an obstacle course with an egg cradled in my palms. That egg means more to me than my fucking life, and if I drop it, I—
…don’t know. I really don’t know what’ll become of me. There’s the age old adage: ‘Time heals all wounds.’ Whether it heals, or it’s a pain that never dulls, I don’t want to find out. I don’t want to know.
I don’t keep track of how much time I waste in the bathroom, but it’s long enough for a grease-logged box to be waiting on the stovetop. Sam changed into his preferred loungewear while I bowed dramatically under the showerhead for that prolonged time, contemplating every angle at which I’d fucked up, and I wonder if all that exposed thigh is the latter half of my punishment. Averting my eyes, hands spasming in the deep pockets of my sweats, I keep a wide berth as I come the opposite way around the counter.
Christ, he makes me feel like a sinner. I can’t even blame it on my age. I like to fuck as much as the next twentysomething with a functioning dick, but I’ve never been this consistently horny. I mean, it’s hardly the right time, but he’s so fuckable all the goddamn—
Clearing my throat, I start: “So…”
Sam looks up from his untouched plate. It doesn’t feel right to eat until we hash out the Big Issue, and he seems of a similar mindset.
“…how’d it…go?”
He sighs quietly, smoothing a tangle of curls behind his ear. “Well, she wasn’t thrilled, but I’m not disowned. I got a brief lecture on ethics, how much of a pushover I am. That was the worst of it.”
The knot in my chest is beginning to loosen. “Does she—ah…” I’m not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an arrogant prick. “…does she hate me?”
Sam snorts, and his tiny grin detangles a few more threads. “You’re not used to that, huh?”
“No, I’m fucking not.” I scoff goodnaturedly, leaning against the counter. “I’m a prize.”
Sam’s smile softens, and my heart swoops. “Mm, you’re…something like that. I don’t think she dislikes you as much as she’s concerned about the—” He flips his hand between us awkwardly. “If anything, she seemed…strangely impressed. Like, you getting your way was the natural outcome of things. I’m not sure if she meant it as a compliment towards you, or an affront towards me.”
My shoulders sag with visible relief. “Hah, Sammy, I’m…fuck, I’m so sorry for—”
“Dean,” Sam slides from the barstool, and his tone is both firm and gentle. His sudden approach, the distance closing between us, cuts my breath short. He only stops when there’s less than six inches separating our chests, and he has to draw his face up to look into mine. My hands itch with the need to grab at him, but even now, it doesn’t feel right to make the first move. Still, it’s an actual fucking torture. I’m so used to taking liberties with him, thoughtless in my tactile nature. This close, I can smell last night’s shampoo clinging to his hair. I can count the freckles scattering his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose.
“I forgive you, but don’t do that shit again. It worked out this time, but I don’t want to be blindsided like that. I know…we handle things differently. I get worked up, and I don’t always do well under pressure. But, don’t keep things from me. Don’t do things behind my back.”
When his fingertips slide across my jaw, there’s no stopping that gratified breath from jetting through my teeth. He touched me first, so—
Like I’ve made grooves for myself there, my hands find the skin beneath his shirt. His narrow waist fits between my cupped grip like it’s a body bespoke for just me. I crush him lightly to my chest, and the relief is staggering. There’s weakness in my knees, a giddiness that makes me lightheaded. Dropping my head to press our brows together, I squeeze my eyes shut so he can’t read them. The croak in my voice is humiliating enough:
“I’ll never…disappoint you like this again. I was fucking sick with myself, Sam. Even if it’s unrealistic, I only want to make you feel good, happy. I want…being with me to feel effortless and easy, even if it’s not. I know it’s not, and I know it bothers you. It’s why…I want to make everything okay, and it terrifies me when I can’t.”
Sam tightens his arms around my neck, pushing up onto his toes, and it nearly does me in when he burns a kiss beneath my ear. “You don’t have to work so hard to convince me anymore, Dean.” He says quietly. “I should’ve put a stop to all this in the beginning, because it’s too late now. You made me…love you, and as long as I’m allowed, I want to stay together.”
I don’t like the way he says it, as though his ability to be with me hinges on permission. What’s worse, I know my permission is lumped into that. He’s pessimistic enough to still believe there exists a possibility where I’ll outgrow him, leave him. He’d let it happen, too. It’s the bolded difference in our nature, the way we love. Selfless versus selfish. While Sam would sacrifice himself for my sake, as he perceives it, I’d sacrifice anything to keep him in my life. That’s a conversation for another time.
“I love you.” It’s a desperate sigh against his temple, and he flattens himself against me.
I’m expecting an ‘I love you too’ or a muffled, embarrassed noise. The ground feels like it skips out from under my feet when he instead says:
“Wanna fuck?”
Heat flushes through me, from the top of my ears to the tip of my toes. It’s so wildly out of character for him to verbally initiate anything, and if he does, he pinches the words out like they hurt to say. I was also prepared to endure a night of merited celibacy. On my side of the fence, only an asshole would think of suggesting sex at a time like this. Even if said asshole exists in a perpetual state of rut. Sam, however, is under no such restrictions. I’m almost too floored to respond.
“I—what…about…the pizza?”
I couldn’t give a singular fuck about that pizza, as any appetite for food is vanished. Something about this feels like a dastardly trap, an offering of my hindbrain’s greatest desire despite doing nothing to deserve it. It’s a set of steel jaws I can’t help but climb into, because the bait is irresistible. My hands are suddenly twitchy, resisting the urge to squeeze with too much strength. Sam pulls back enough to meet my gaze, and his eyes are unnervingly serious.
“You don’t want to?” Soft, vulnerable.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I breathe the incredulous question, stooping down. I get to…touch him, kiss him, fuck hi—
“Mmph—?”
Sam claps his palm to my face, pushing me back from where I’d been about to bite my way into his mouth. He smiles, and it’s sharp enough to have me nervous all over again. “I want a shower too, actually. Wait for me on the bed.”
Wait for him…on the bed…?
Who is this?
What’s gotten into him?
I think I’m more fucked than I realized, but I can do nothing more than dumbly agree.
With the implication of sex, abandoning my clothes is a next step that makes sense. However, I’ve never waited on Sam in this state. We usually strip down in the heat of the moment. Laid out on his bed while the shower drones through the door, the cool air of his room lifting goosebumps across my bare skin, it’s both erotic and uncomfortable. I’m feeling subservient in a way I’ve never experienced, and I’m not sure if I like it. Maybe Sam’s testing me by withholding whatever form of control he can. If that’s the case, I should endure.
Famous last words, really.
When he emerges from the bathroom an eternity later, thirty minutes or more, there’s a theatrical waft of steam that rolls into the ceiling. Blood rushes to inflate my cock with enough speed to give me whiplash, spots fuzzing across my eyes. I’m lightheaded at the sight of him, because without being asked or begged, he’s in my goddamn jersey. I only brought it to wash. Bulldog’s garish red has never looked so good, and it never will again once Sam slides out of it. When my blood redistributes enough to support a sudden movement, I snap up, but Sam—
“Lay down.” Dear God, he even jerks an index finger towards the floor.
Biting back a frustrated sound, I do. His authoritative tone is doing unspeakable things to me, and it’s difficult to keep still. More than difficult, it’s almost impossible. ‘Sexy’ feels too juvenile, but it’s the only word coming to mind. He’s so fucking sexy, it’s crippling. He doesn’t even seem real at times. It’s a body you’d be pressed to find even in porn, proportioned in a way that’s downright mythical. The slip of a speckled shoulder, shapely thighs descending from the long, bright hem. The jersey’s big enough to make his torso look boxy, but if I bunched the extra fabric in my fist at the small of his back, his tight waist would appear like a rabbit from a hat.
I can’t even put it into words. With Sam, it always feels like the first time. There’s no less excitement or hunger than that first night, whether it’s a quickie or an overnight affair. He’s a lifelong hyperfixation.
When his knees dent the mattress, my heart jackknifes against my ribs. When he climbs on top of me, it all but stops cold. My hands lift without me realizing, because with Sam this close, it’s instinct to touch, grab, hold, squeeze—
“Don’t touch me, Dean.”
“Why the fuck not?!” It bursts from my mouth before I can bite it off.
Sam stares me down, unrepentant. His hand is like a brand pressed to my sternum. “Because you’re not allowed. If you touch me, or do anything at all without permission, we’re done.”
“…done?”
“Yes.”
I don’t think Sam would trash our entire relationship over my disobedience in bed, so I can only assume he means there will be no more sex tonight. I stare back, searching his face for markers of seriousness. He won’t be reasoned with, stony like I’ve never seen. No sex at all is obviously the worst case, but not being allowed to touch…? Kiss? Participate? It’s an exercise of will I never dreamed I’d be dealing with. Pushing a long, slow breath through my nose, I force myself to relax into the bedding. To keep my hands from wandering, I twist them in the blanket.
“Fine.”
Finally, his face softens. Pleased by my willingness to try, but also flush with arousal. Where he’s sitting on top of me, I can feel everything. Between his legs, it’s warm, silklike, and slippery where he’s undoubtedly done the labor of stretching himself. He’s already tenting the front of my jersey, a wet blot seeping through the material. I squeeze the blanket harder. He’s not even done anything yet, and I’m already struggling. When he bends forward, tabling himself over me without letting our chests touch, I can do nothing but watch raptly as his face approaches mine.
Tensing, I anticipate a kiss. The closer he gets, the stiffer I become. His breath is warm and minty from a recent scrubbing. I want to fill his small, clean mouth with my tongue. I want to kiss him until he’s blue in the face, beating on my chest for breath. Our lips are close enough to graze, and that minute contact tingles throughout my entire face. Eagerness is felt through my whole body, keeping me strung. But, if I pick my head up to close the distance, that’ll count as acting without permission. I didn’t realize how heavy my breath had gotten, but I’m all but panting into his mouth. When he licks a quick stripe across my lower lip, I flinch violently.
“Sam, come on—” I breathe, desperation cracking my voice like weeds through a sidewalk.
The kiss never comes, and I’m frustrated enough to almost sob aloud.
Instead, he replaces his hands on my chest, scraping gentle paths with short, neat nails. His lips connect with my jaw, sliding upwards towards my ear. It’s all so painfully slow and docile. All the while, my cock is nestled in the slit of his naked ass where he’s bent over me. Just enough sensation to drive me up the fucking wall. It feels like the veins wrapping my dick are about to pop, and the joints in my fingers are starting to ache from how tightly they’re balled in the blankets.
He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and the application of hot, wet suction has a scathing hiss whooshing through my teeth. Sam completely works over the left side of my throat at that turtle’s pace: biting, sucking, licking, kissing. So focused on keeping still, I almost stroke out when his soft murmur spills through my ear:
“Good job, Dean. I’m so proud of you.”
The impact is like a cannonball ripping a hole through my gut, something sudden and powerful. A shock of feverish heat that consumes, a temperature that’d shut down organs if it doesn’t subside. The strong reaction could be due to a number of things. Tapping into a previously undisturbed Mother Complex, as maybe I’ve been starved for praise all this time and didn’t know it. Or, maybe it’s the call back to our morally dubious roots, and Sam’s singlehandedly manifested a wicked fetish in my subconscious. Maybe it’s just Sam, and he can say or do anything. I’d react the same because it’s him.
In any case, it doesn’t soothe me.
His low, sweet praise doesn’t stir up an eagerness to behave or obey.
The chains I’ve imagined to restrict myself, hands and feet fettered in place, feel like they’re snapping one link at a time. Words can only go so far, and even expressing myself to him daily with the utmost sincerity, Sam will never understand the depth of my desire. There are times, like right now, when I want him so badly, it’s agony. But, there’s never a time I want him any less. Were it data points on a line chart, my baseline would start at the tippy top of the y-axis. There are no downtrends, and when it peaks, the line disappears into some unseen space atop the chart that can’t be quantified.
While I understand what he’s trying to accomplish here, and I’m doing my best to concede to it, we’re on looseleaf ice. So fucking thin, it can’t possibly bear more weight than this. My jersey? This…dominance he’s adopted? He’s ascended yet another level, too provocative to measure. I scare myself in the ways I want him, frankly, and while I don’t want Sam to be afraid of me, he should at least be aware. He should know the lines, too. There’s one thought I’m clinging to with both hands, bone-white knuckles and shredded callouses. He mentioned permission, which means there should come a point he’ll give it. He has to, or I’ll fuck this whole thing to hell—
“Hah, fuck—!” My hands flinch from the bed, and I quickly bring them to clasp at the crown of my head. I was a hairsbreadth from grabbing him.
He’s upright again, but now, he’s reached behind himself to take my cock in a featherlight grip. His weight is lifted from my hips, but he isn’t gone. The inside of his knees still presses to the outside of my thighs, and his opposite hand is spread across my navel to steady himself. It’s only when I feel the tip of my cock nudging against something warm, wet, and elastic do I snap to look at him.
I shouldn’t have, probably. Were I a man of weaker constitution, I’d have cum on the spot, splattering his backside with it. Lifted onto his knees, thick thighs split wide around my hips, Sam has the jersey’s hem pinned between his teeth. Through the gap in his legs, I have a clear shot of where he’s readied himself to sit on my cock. He’s just as hard as I am, precum making his pretty dick glisten where it sprouts from a smooth groin. He’s flushed all over, nipples perked like they’ve been played with. The muscle in his stomach flutters with tension.
God, his face. Freshly washed and treated with product, his hair is a loose bounce across his brow, falling into his eyes as it often does. Unseeing, they’re fixed on my chest. His nostrils flare slightly when he breathes, and he’s burnt in the cheeks. There’s concentration, but he almost looks tipsy. Dazed. Excited.
He’s drunk on it.
“Sam, please—”
He spits the fabric from his mouth. “Stay still.”
He drops down until the head of my cock is swallowed, and I resist the urge to fling my head into the pillow. I can’t miss a single fucking second of it. With both hands, he reaches back to spread his ass apart. My breast hurts from how hard my heart’s working, a mad pace that’ll see it detached from its network of veins and arteries. More than anything, I want to slam my hips up. Take him by surprise. I want to reacquaint his insides with my shape, as if they’re not already molded to fit. I want to feel his ass clamped around me, gripping my cock for all it’s worth. I want to see his face twist with surprise and shocks of pleasure.
But, I’m not allowed to do that. Sam’s controlling the pace, and so far, it’s been deliberately tedious. If he works himself down one inch at a time, I’ll lose whatever sanity I’ve got left—
“Holy shit, mngh! Goddamnit, fuck—!”
Sam’s ass is squished completely against my groin, and my entire cock is all too suddenly encased in hot, twitching muscle. It’s a biblical miracle my hands didn’t lash out at him, but I wonder if he’d even have the presence of mind to call it off now. He’s flinching in place on top of me. His back’s bowed out, jaw tipped towards the ceiling, mouth dropped around the ghost of a sob. His nails are cutting crescents into my upper thighs. I know what a dry orgasm looks like on Sam, and if it isn’t that, it’s either seizure or possession.
Surely, now, he’ll let me participate.
“Sammy, please, let me touch you.” I groan raggedly, not above begging. “Fuck, please, let me—”
“No.”
My breath stutters on the exhale, because no goddamn way. Looking up at him, he’s looking back at me. Some clarity is returned to his gaze, but he’s still gorgeously blissed. There’s a tiny, taunting, open-mouthed smile, and I’ve never been both crushed with devastation and stupidly horny at the same time.
“I don’t need you to make me feel good, I just need this.” He clenches down around me, earning a brittle groan. “I can do it myself.”
Scrubbing my hands across my face to give the restless appendages something to do, I push a scalding chuckle into my palms. Bitter, childish, and I regret every word as soon as the last syllables leave my tongue. “Yeah?” It’s a cruel scoff, “you think you can do it better than me, Sam? You know how stupid you get on my cock? You think you’ll even remember up from down?”
“It’s not about that, and you know it. Or, are you too dense to catch the subtext? Do I need to spell this out for you too?”
Before I can respond to the unexpected quick wittedness, he replaces his hands at my stomach and begins lifting himself. That tight, clenching sleeve dragging around my cock is criminal, and it takes all I’ve got not to chase after it. Grabbing at his waist and yanking him down until his flat belly bulges around a large, deep intrusion. For now, I can only watch and curse through a clenched jaw as Sam uses me like a piece of high-priced silicone.
His pace isn’t slow, but neither is it fast. Short, shallow, hard thrusts. Rocking, grinding motions to put pressure on all the right places. Initially, he uses his knees and hands to keep the momentum, but the hem of my jersey is again replaced in his teeth. Leaving the brunt of the work to his legs, he sits back and bounces. Sam’s not a heavy guy, but his weight dropping on my hips over and over takes my breath away. I can’t stop watching. I can’t look away from the place we’re connected, and the wet smack in conjunction with my cock disappearing into that tiny, pink hole—
“Nngh! Dean, feels…so good—!”
…fucking Christ.
He’s being vocal on purpose.
His cock slides fluidly in the laced grip of his hands, more fucking into them than actively stroking himself. On every downstroke, muffled cries are punched up from his chest. Thighs spread as wide as they’ll go, flushed to a beet, glossy with exertion. If his eyes aren’t pinched, we’re watching each other.
It’s…the most pornographic scene I’ve ever witnessed, and instead of working the stage with him, I’m forced into the audience. It’s something I feel like I should be paying for. I mean, this is a side of him I’ve only seen glimpses of. While he’s weak to pleasure, he’s always felt too guilty to take any kind of control. It would feel like participating too much. To Sam, there’s a big difference in getting swept up in someone else’s momentum versus creating it himself. Even the former was difficult for him to tolerate.
There’s a sudden, sharp burst of jealousy.
Has he fucked other guys like this before? Who all has seen this…intensely erotic version of him? I should be grateful that we’ve finally reached this point, but my entire being is in knots. I can’t think straight, and every emotion cycling through feels like it’s been put through a peeler. Raw, skinned, unprocessed. The visual and audible stimuli compounded with the choking, sopping pressure milking my cock is vaporizing my inhibition, my humanity.
“Sam.”
It’s the only warning I can give.
I’m at my breaking point, and while I’d like to make him proud to the end, my body feels on the verge of snapping in two. Even if he tells me to stop, I’m not sure I’d be able to heed it. His lashes flutter, eyes blinking open. They’re a little glazed when they find mine, and whatever he sees in me, it has him tightening up to a point of skinning my dick.
“Okay.”
—
Sunday is a day for making proper amends.
We have cold pizza for breakfast, because none of it was touched the night before. Sam refuses to leave the bed until early afternoon, so the large mattress is scattered with an open pizza box, textbooks, devices, and their accompanying charges trailed to whichever outlet is closest. It’s for good reason, because we fucked like it was a duel to the death. Sam gave as good as he got. He’s never gone out of his way to mark me up, but a backwards glance in the mirror revealed my back as a rabid cat’s scratchpad. My shoulders, arms, and chest are a patchwork of dental impressions and bruises, which—
…makes me horny all over again, really. He was mouthy, too.
It feels like a terrible, dark cloud has broken over our heads. I’m not naive enough to think there won’t be other issues to overcome, but this was a big fucking issue. I’m absolutely going to revel in its resolution.
My extended punishment was to spend almost all of Sunday catching up on assignments and studying for upcoming exams. There are two more games scheduled between now and winter break, so studying isn’t necessarily a bad way to spend my time. It just feels like a waste when I’m with Sam, practically the last of what we’ll have together until Christmas.
“What are the three sections of a cash flow statement?”
Sam’s multitasking. Quizlet is pulled up on his phone, which is propped against the screen of his laptop, as he works on his own assignment.
“Operations, financing, and investments.”
“Mmhm.”
Dropping my shoulder against his, I tilt my face.
He rolls his eyes, but obliges, closing the few inches between us to drop a swift kiss on my cheek. “That’s the last one.”
“You said that last time.”
“I fucking mean it this time.”
Before I know it, our long weekend is over.
So much happened in such a short span of time, it felt like both an eternity and a blink. I try to be grateful that everything’s ended on a good note, that I was granted all that extra time to begin with, but it’s only made me more greedy. It’s harder to go back. Instead of burdening Rishad with another haul to Fresno, Sam offers to ferry me.
Apparently, in all those drunken messages I spammed him with on Friday night, Rishad left the world’s most awkward voice note to let Sam know I’d survived the bender. He seems to think Rishad deserves a break from me. Regardless of the reason, demeaning or not, I’m over the moon.
Previously, he was wary of being seen with me on either of our campus grounds. It’s a step in the right direction, as far as I’m concerned. But, even the drive feels shorter than usual. With all my shit in the backseat, a glaring indicator of our weekend’s conclusion, that hour feels like fifteen minutes or less. With my utilitarian dorm towering through the windshield of our parked car, I don’t want to leave it. It smells like Sam’s detergent in this tight, confined space. Our hands are knotted on the rest. Thin, warm. Maybe the glum turn in my mood is more obvious than I want it to be, because he squeezes.
“It’s just a few weeks. You have to do your best.”
“I—”
…was about to snap at him, like a fucking moron. The day I take my frustrations out on him again is the day I’ll castrate myself. Sighing, I drop my head against the rest.
“I know.”
When I turn to look at him, he’s unperturbed. Understanding. I drag his hand towards my mouth, nipping at his knuckles. “I love you.”
He flusters, and that’s something about him I don’t expect to ever change. Briskly, face turned away, he admits: “I…love you too.”
“Look at me. Say it again.”
“Once is enough.” He huffs, glancing back with an embarrassed frown.
“Say it again, Sammy.” I lean over the console, and anticipating his retreat, I’m quick to replace my hand at his nape. His eyes cut towards the windshield, darting nervously. There are more than a few students coming and going, but we aren’t parked directly in front of the dorm. Even if we’re seen, I wouldn’t have half a fuck to spare.
“Dean, stop, there’s—”
“One more time,” I murmur against the corner of his mouth. “I’ll never get enough of hearing it, Sam.”
“I love you.” It comes on a shaky, halting breath, and a thrill rushes my spine. I’d make him say it a hundred times if we had the moments to spare. If I wasn’t already dragging this out.
“Will you miss me, too?”
“God, yes, I’ll miss you, so—!”
He tries to wrench back from where I’ve snagged him into a hard, biting kiss, but Sam’s reservations are quicker to wilt as of late. Less than a minute of the determined attention, and he’s melting into it with a sweet, stifled noise. His delicate hands settling beneath my jaw shoots tingling warmth down my throat, into my face. The friction in the damp slide of our lips, tongues rubbing together, teeth sinking into whatever flesh comes between them, breath breaking harshly across each other’s cheeks. My head’s fucking spinning.
It’s always so goddamn good, but never enough. If there’s an endpoint, it isn’t enough. But, life doesn’t work that way, and I tell myself I’ll appreciate these moments all the more for having to wait. Even if it’s the biggest crock of shit. All things end, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Less than that, I can barely accept it.
Like he said, it’s only a few weeks. My mood is neither good nor bad, very much that of a man grinding through his day. Responsibilities that can’t be shirked. Classes, gym, practice, interaction with my peers, obligatory calls back home. John’s the preferred company, as he’s been made aware of every facet of my relationship with Sam. I can bitch and moan to my heart’s content, even if he makes a big show about how little he cares. Irritating him is part of the fun.
Though, later that evening, he’s invested enough in my affairs to accuse me of philandering. Nearing eight, John’s readying his satchel for tomorrow’s courses. I’m absentmindedly stripping out of my shirt, intending to shower, with my back to him. He makes a startled noise, and I don’t realize it’s geared towards me until:
“Jesus Christ, Dean!”
Jumping, I glance back with half a scowl. “What?”
His expression is one you’d reserve for a perpetrator of some heinous crime: child murder, anime abuse, rape. To my knowledge, I’ve committed none of the above. It’s reasonable to be defensive of one’s innocence, so I ask with a little more bite: “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?”
“Who were you with this weekend?”
“Wha—?”
My affront shifts into plain confusion. “Why…?”
“How could you…fucking cheat, after everything?”
My eyebrows blow upwards, mouth dropping. For the life of me, I can’t fathom why I’m being accused of infidelity by my roommate. Granted, he only returned to our room twenty minutes ago, and it wasn’t a priority to sit him down for a weekend debrief. Still, he should know I was with Sam.
“What the hell are you talking about? I was with Sam.”
“Bullshit. Look at you! Your…back—!”
Oh.
I’ve never come back from Sam looking like this. While we have more than our fair share of sex, he’s always been uncomfortable with leaving evidence behind on my body. He doesn’t want to put me in a position to field questions about it, or he doesn’t want to be responsible for lasting signs of an act that makes him feel guilty. I can’t help but burst a laugh. Grinning, I repeat: “I was with Sam.”
John pauses. He’s skeptical for a moment more, but I’m oozing too much pride for him to ignore it. He clears his throat, embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Yeah, fuckin’ cool it, White Knight. He doesn’t need you to kiss his ass.”
He flips me off. “Wouldn’t dream of stealing your job.”
“And don’t you forget it.” It does…make me curious, though. “What’s with the reaction? Almost had me thinkin’ I’d cheated on you.”
John flusters over the insinuation, but quickly gathers himself. He’s silent for a few seconds, analyzing what must’ve been a knee-jerk reaction. “Well,” He starts, oddly serious. “…if you did cheat, I think, to me, it’d mean…real love is either too rare to hope for, or it doesn’t exist at all.”
The depth of that comment doesn’t go over my head, and it inflates me with a newfound confidence. John might act disgruntled by my besotted antics, but he’s conflated them with the image he keeps of me. You’d have to be Hellen Keller to misunderstand the profundity of my feelings for Sam, whether you take that to mean blind and deaf or nonexistent. If someone as insufferable as me can go astray, who’d ever believe those flimsy, see-through words of ‘I love you’ again?
Unfortunately, it doesn’t set the tone for the following week.
There’s change in the air.
Since puberty smacked me upside the head, I’ve always drawn some sort of attention. It’s become exponentially more suffocating since attending Fresno. Back home, while I was noteworthy in a number of ways, it’s a town that witnessed my transitions. First steps to State Champion. Here, I’m a novelty. The sport I’d grown up with sits at the top of the totem in collegiate culture, and excelling as it has me on the track to stardom. I’m used to being crowded, watched, and discussed.
However, as the week progresses, the glances and murmurs are more speculative than admiring. More than anywhere else, I feel it during afternoon practices, amongst the team. I’m not being outright ignored, but there’s a stiffness. Where there used to be simpleminded, superficial camaraderie, there’s now a subtle wall. Pressure. Discomfort. At first, no one’s bold enough to bring me in on the bit, but they don’t have to. If I’m a source of gossip, there’s only one reason for it.
Cecilia breaks the unsurprising news during our lunch hour.
“How’s it feel being the next gay icon?” She asks around her straw, as she tends to chew them between sips.
“I wouldn’t know.” I lift my face from an inattentive scroll through my phone. “Everyone’s been too pussy to bring it up.”
She flings her head back on a loud, genuine laugh, drawing a few extra eyes. “God, I wish I could be as blasé as you.”
“I mean, what’s the good word? Pictures? Word of mouth?”
“Word of mouth, as far as I know. If any pictures are circulating, I haven’t seen them. You were allegedly seen shoving your tongue down a guy’s throat in front of your dorm. In a car, at least. You’ve got that working in your favor. Poor visibility, no pictures. Not everyone’s sold on it. Unless…? I mean, were you trying to—?”
“Nah,” I shrug. “I just wanted to shove my tongue down his throat. No ulterior motives.”
“In broad daylight? Would it kill you to exercise some discretion?”
“Yes. It wasn’t even broad daylight, the sun was basically down.”
It’s something I’m perfectly content to ignore. Unsubstantiated rumors tend to die out on their own. Even if it doesn’t, it’s no skin off my back as long as I can continue about my routines without interruption. While I’m amicable with my teammates, I’m only concerned with their ability to catch a pass and complete a play. If they never spoke another word to me off the field, it’s an outcome I can live with. Fortunately, it seems to not be the case. Most everyone in my day to day engages per usual, if not a hair more stilted. The week passes into the weekend, and we win our away game against Michigan.
We’ve won every game I’ve played point in.
So, even less reason to give a shit. I’m confident I’ve reached a place where, even if I openly fucked Sammy in the clubhouse, it wouldn’t matter. My statistics are worth more than the social risks of signing a ‘gay’ quarterback. They’d be shooting themselves in the foot by getting rid of me, not to mention the potential public outcry. This is California, I remind myself. It’s for that reason I’m sure my teammates haven’t brought it up to my face, despite a few of them expressing some blatantly homophobic sentiments in the past.
Or, maybe they’re just plain cowards.
That being said, there’s a few guys who dislike me more than anything else they might feel. Namely, Collin Ortega, the quarterback I effectively benched. Don’t get me wrong, he’s got good reason. Ending a career in its prime, lackluster as it might be, is worthy of pissing on an inevitable grave. With a renewed source of fuel, he and his buddies aren’t shy about cutting eyes at me, scoffing and snickering in earshot. It often creates an uncomfortable atmosphere before and after practices, but until there’s direct confrontation, call me Hellen.
Tuesday the following week, the clubhouse is lively with chatter, as most everyone’s showered and happy to be done with the day’s cardio-heavy practice. Jaylin’s cubicle is two down from mine, and while I’m pretty sure his rambling is directed at me, it’s white noise. He’s rolling deodorant under his arms aggressively, the swishing of his elbow a tickle in the corner of my eye. One earbud in, I’m seated on the small bench connected to mine. I’d paused midway through changing to respond to a text from Sam, then sidetracked myself scrolling through Spotify. Needless to say, I’m paying no attention to any malicious approach. I don’t notice Ortega until his shoes appear in my periphery.
PUBLIC BETA
Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the “A” icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click here
“Yo, Saunders.”
“What’s up?” I reply without lifting my eyes. Whatever he’s got to say, finding that right song is leagues more important. I’ve run these playlists ragged, shit.
“I’m just curious, man, y’know?”
Someone needs a class on getting to the goddamn point. I should’ve sensed something was amiss. That’s on me. For one, Ortega says about three words to me per week, and he’s already exceeded that. Loud enough to be missed by no one:
“You a faggot?”
Please rate this story
The author would appreciate your feedback.
story TAGSSimilar Stories