Service: Alpha Phi Omega & the USAF
Winter break came and went like a closed tab: one second, the apartment was loud, familiar, too much; the next, it was just gone. Finals had barely ended before the campus emptied. JP headed back to Fort Collins early. Caleb left the next morning without saying much, just a note on the fridge: “Merry Xmas, boys.” Ben and John split an Uber to DIA and flew home to Seattle and Wisconsin, respectively. They didn’t say it was a good break, but it wasn’t a bad one either. Just quiet. Resetting with family.
By New Year’s, a familiar face had started showing up in JP’s BeReals: Joey, from the interrupted Grindr hookup. The rest of the roommates didn’t ask how it happened, and JP didn’t offer details. It wasn’t official, but when he came back to campus, something in him had settled. He was sharper around the edges, less guarded. Like some part of his world had quietly clicked into place.
Connor cornered Ben at the first student org fair with a flyer and way too much optimism.
“It’s not a blood pact,” he said about APO. “Just show up for Rush Week. See what happens. You don’t even have to commit.”
Ben rolled his eyes but showed up, and by the end of the week, he’d signed on to co-lead the spring ReStore volunteer crew. Those first few nights back, he barely slept more than five hours. But somehow, that old pull, that sense of purpose and leadership he hadn’t felt since Boy Scouts, was back.
Caleb, meanwhile, had locked in. His standout AFOQT scores had secured him a leadership billet with a promotion to C/TSgt, and he’d dropped back into ROTC mode completely. Morning PT, uniform checks, Boulder commutes, plus what looked like a renewed obsession with Flight Sim, consuming him. But John noticed the shift. No more Sophie on FaceTime. No couple posts. Just silence. Caleb didn’t bring her up. JP didn’t ask; he was the one spending more time out of the apartment. And Ben, buried in bylaws and service projects, didn’t see it at all.
Saturday mornings in the apartment always felt too quiet without Ben around. He’d left early with Connor, bundled in his Mines hoodie, bound for a volunteer shift at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore organized by the Mines APO Chapter. JP had disappeared with Joey not long after, the door slamming behind them with a laugh that carried down the stairwell. That left John pacing the common area in his Navy Elite socks, scrolling TikTok, restless.
Midday, he rapped his knuckles lightly against Caleb’s half-shut door. No answer. He pushed it open anyway and found him hunched at his desk still in his Broncos PJ pants, headset on, multiple Air Traffic control sectors flickering across his monitor.
“Bro,” John said, leaning on the doorframe, “tell me you’re not gonna sit in front of a computer all day.”
Caleb didn’t look up, only twitched his wrist across the keyboard. “It’s training, not gaming.”
John grinned, stepping into the room. “Yeah, well, the gym downstairs is empty, and I’m not about to spot myself. C’mon. After lunch. Less chaotic than the Rec Center, no waiting on racks.”
That got Caleb’s attention; he pushed the mic up and looked over his shoulder. “You’re dragging me away from Flight Sim so you don’t have to lift alone?”
“Exactly.” John’s grin widened. “Besides, you’ll thank me later when your arms don’t look like breadsticks in uniform.”
Caleb snorted, finally shutting down the sim, the glow fading from the monitor. “Fine. But if I don’t finish this training in 2 months, you’re the one who has to dish it out to Dylan for more favors.”
“Deal.”
They ate quick, microwaved leftovers, and cold Powerade from the fridge. Afterward, John waited by the door while Caleb disappeared into his room to change. A few minutes later, he reemerged in his usual ROTC-issue shorts.
John shook his head immediately. “Nah. Not those.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow. “What, you’re dressing me like Ben now?”
“Dressing you up so you don’t embarrass me.” John ducked into his own room, came back with a pair of navy blue and white Under Armour Pressure shorts, and tossed them at Caleb’s chest. “Wear those.”
Caleb caught them, smirking. “You’re ridiculous. What’s next, matching shirts?”
John followed him back to his bedroom and nodded at the Nike jock strap peeking from Caleb’s underwear drawer. “Those Nikes too. And your navy UA tee. Dark Blue for the Air Force.”
Caleb shook his head but was still grinning when he turned around to change. “You’re acting like you’re my dad now.”
John just laughed. “Somebody’s gotta keep you in line.”
By the time they headed downstairs, John already knew the workout wouldn’t be just about lifting.
The Jackson Street apartment building still smelled like new drywall and commercial carpet, even months after the move-in. The gym and other amenities were no different: gleaming mirrors without a streak, machines that looked like they’d never been used, weights with paint so fresh the numbering still gleamed under the LED lights.
John tugged at the hem of his faded Culver’s T-shirt as he set his duffel down, trying to act casual in the royal blue and white Under Armour Pressure shorts that Ben loved. Caleb stretched by the cable machine, the navy pair John had made him wear cut high against his thighs. John knew there was just a jock underneath, and he hated how much that detail kept clawing back into his thoughts.
“Bench first?” John asked, tossing a towel over the spotless leather padding.
“Bench first,” Caleb echoed, trying to act like loading plates was second nature to him.
John slid into position, the bench squeaking faintly under his back. He exhaled hard as he pressed the first set. Caleb loomed overhead, hands loose under the bar, watching. Normal. Just a lift.
“You’re quiet,” Caleb said when John racked the weight.
“Just focused,” John muttered, sitting up, swiping sweat from his brow. He needed a distraction. “So. Sophie.”
Caleb shifted, resting against the rack, arms folded across his chest.
“What about her?”
“You haven’t mentioned her since before break,” John said, voice even. “Figured you two would be blasting ski-trip and shopping photos.”
For a second, Caleb’s expression shuttered. Then he huffed out a laugh, no humor in it.
“I tried to push for… more,” he said flatly. “You know. PIV. She wasn’t into it like I thought she would be. Said I was pushing too hard. We fought. That was it.”
John blinked, caught off guard by how blunt it came out. “Over break?”
Caleb nodded once, jaw tight. “Yeah. She shut it down, I pressed, she called me out. And just like that, done. Guess that’s on me, I thought everyone loses their virginity in college.” His gaze slid away, settling on the mirrored wall. “Haven’t really figured out what to do with myself since.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the climate system, everything too new, too polished to absorb it.
“Well,” John said finally, a grin breaking the tension. “Guess that just means more time to spend in the gym. Silver lining.”
Caleb rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth ticked up as he motioned John back under the bar.
Eventually, Caleb slid over to the leg press, dropping onto the padded foam like he was getting into a pilot seat. He adjusted the sled, racked the plates with an easy confidence, and stretched his legs out long.
From where John stood, water bottle in hand, the angle was impossible to ignore. The navy blue shorts he’d made Caleb wear rode high, loose enough that each movement shifted the drape, flashing more than they covered. Caleb’s thighs were dusted with dark hair, his legs lanky but defined from morning PT, and every push on the sled made the fabric hike a little further.
John took a sip just to have something to do with his mouth. The gym was too new, too bright, mirrors everywhere reflecting back angles he shouldn’t be staring at. He told himself it was nothing, just gym stuff like he did with Ben, but the thought of the jockstrap underneath those shorts kept tugging at him.
“Like what you see?” Caleb said without looking up, breath steady as he pressed the sled again.
John coughed into his water, heat rising in his neck. “Professional spotter. Making sure you don’t fold yourself in half.” He forced a grin, scrambling for a distraction. “If you’re that turned out, I could go on live right now. Give my 20k old Tiktok followers from high school a show.”
Caleb snorted, still focused on his reps. “Twenty thousand? Bullshit, Schroder.”
The machine squeaked with each push, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty room. John shifted his weight, his own smirk returning, genuine this time. “It’s true. I’ll prove it.”
“Prove it, then,” Caleb said, the challenge casual and sharp as he secured the levers. “Otherwise it’s just bull shit.”
“Fine. Later.” John nodded toward the machine, voice level. “For now, you want me to add more plates, or you just gonna show off those chicken legs all day?”
Caleb finally looked up at him, sweat starting to bead at his hairline, and shook his head. “Keep flapping your mouth at me, Schroder. See what it gets you.”
John just laughed, but his hands itched, restless, and he already knew where this was headed if he let it.
Just down the Golden Freeway, at the Arvada Restore, the world smelled nothing like sweat and ammonia. It smelled like dust, plywood, old spray paint cans, and fabric softener that had long since faded from the couches and mattresses stacked against the back wall. Ben tugged his gloves tighter as he and Connor wrestled the corner of a sectional sofa through the loading bay.
“Pivot!” Connor barked, grinning like this was the only workout of his week.
“I am pivoting,” Ben shot back, shoulder pressed hard against the upholstery. Together they managed to angle it down the ramp toward the waiting minivan where an older woman in a lavender windbreaker hovered nervously.
“You sure this’ll fit?” she asked, wringing her hands.
Connor beamed at her. “Oh, it’ll fit. Just takes a little geometry. We’re Engineers!”
Ben bit back a laugh as they maneuvered the sectional closer, lining it up with the open hatch. It wasn’t pretty, they had to tilt it sideways, push cushions down, and pray the hinges held, but eventually the sofa slid inside with a satisfying thunk.
The woman’s relief was immediate. “Oh, bless you boys. I never would’ve managed that myself.” She pressed a bag of Famous Amos cookies into Ben’s hands before they could protest.
“Ma’am, you don’t.” Ben started.
“Take it,” she insisted, already climbing into the driver’s seat.
When the van pulled away, Connor slapped Ben’s shoulder. “See? Service work and snacks. APO has its own rewards.”
Ben looked down at the bag, smiling despite himself. It was the same feeling he’d had felt in Scouts years ago, the tired, sweaty satisfaction of doing something that mattered and not getting paid.
Back in Golden, the apartment door clicked shut behind John and Caleb, the quiet a stark contrast to the hum of the gym and the tension still buzzing between them. The air smelled of their sweat, sharp and revealing.
John beelined for the kitchen, dumping his duffel by the couch. “Carbs. Now.” He yanked open the fridge and emerged with a sleeve of bagels and a tub of cream cheese, slapping them onto the breakfast table.
Caleb, moving with a tired looseness, didn’t head for a chair. Instead, he braced his hands on the granite counter of the kitchen island and, with a quiet grunt of effort, hoisted himself up to sit on it. The move hiked the navy blue Under Armour shorts even higher on his thighs. He leaned back on his palms, his damp navy tee clinging to his chest and abs, the picture of exhausted, casual arrogance. He was a sprawl of sweat-soaked, muscle-fatigued NCO, right on the kitchen counter.
John stared for a beat, a bagel in one hand, a knife in the other. “Dude. The counter? Are you six years old?”
“It’s granite. It wipes off,” Caleb said, his voice a low, tired growl. He kicked his feet with his New Balances still on, lightly against the white cabinet doors. “Hurry up with the fuel, chef.”
Shaking his head but grinning, John spread cream cheese with aggressive focus. His phone was on the table. The previous challenge hung in the air, unspoken but louder than any of their post-workout panting.
Prove it.
Without looking up from his bagel surgery, John reached over, tapped his screen a few times, and opened TikTok. He found the LIVE button. He took a deep breath, then looked over at Caleb, who was watching him with a curious, lazy smirk.
“Don’t move,” John said.
He hit GO LIVE.
A chime sounded. A red icon appeared. “Live Started” the screen flashed.
John propped the phone against the napkin holder on the table, framing the scene: John at the table with his bagel, and behind him, Caleb, perched on the kitchen island like a prince on a sweaty throne.
A few notifications popped up almost instantly. user4829 joined. badgerboy1342 joined and after 2 minutes, there were just under two dozen viewers.
John waved, his mouth full. “What’s up, squad?” he mumbled around the bagel.
Caleb just raised an eyebrow from his perch, saying nothing, his smirk deepening.
A comment slid across the bottom of the screen: is that the guy you used to play basketball with????
John swallowed. “What do you mean, you remember that?”
Another comment, then another, picking up speed.
omg he's back!
who's that on the counter lol
is that cameron?
John’s old high-school persona slid back on as easily as a letter jacket. He leaned into the camera. “Y’all remember I said I like taking on new projects? Starting this one,” he thumbed over his shoulder at Caleb, “into shape. Air Force won’t take chicken legs.”
Caleb snorted loudly from behind him but didn’t protest.
The comments came faster.
he's hot tho
why is he on the counter
is this the boyfriend reveal?
^^^ fr are you two dating?
John’s heart did a weird, hard thump against his ribs. He kept his grin plastered on. “Dating? Please. He’s my roommate. My boyfriend isn’t at home right now.”
He chanced a glance back at Caleb. Caleb had leaned forward, his attention now fully on John’s phone screen, his expression blank. He was watching the comments fly.
he's staring at you like a bf, kiss for a galaxy?
look at him omg, he fine. aren’t those your shorts?
couple goals, sorry i don't make the rules
“They’re asking if we’re dating,” John said, his voice a little strangled, throwing the words over his shoulder like a challenge.
The smirk on Caleb’s face had vanished, replaced by a tightness around his eyes. The comments were coming too fast, too personal. He could feel the gaze of dozens of people on him, on the shorts, on the sweat still drying on his skin. This wasn't the quiet challenge of the gym; this was a spotlight he hadn't asked for.
"Alright, Schroder," he said, his voice annoyed, cutting through John's performed charm. "Point made. I believe you about the followers. You can shut it off."
John’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, seeing the genuine discomfort. The afternoon had shifted. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," he said, his tone switching from performer to something quieter. He leaned forward, taping the screen. "Alright, guys, catch ya later. My spotter's getting shy." The live feed ended, the screen reverting to silence.
The sudden quiet in the apartment was deafening. John picked up the other half of the cream cheese-slathered bagel he’d abandoned.
"Here," he said, standing and crossing the few steps to the island. "Earned it."
Caleb looked at his own hands, then back at John. "Hands are still gross. Sweaty and chalky."
John let out a short, soft laugh. "You're such a spoiled brat." Without breaking eye contact, he raised the bagel to Caleb's mouth. "C'mon. Open up."
John held the bagel steady as Caleb leaned forward and took a bite. Cream cheese clung to the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t wipe it. He chewed slowly, eyes locked on John’s.
“You know you guys look silly when you do this?” Caleb asked after he swallowed, voice softer now. “When you play house with him like this?”
John chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, you’re the one who asked for it.” He swiped the cream cheese from Caleb’s lip with his thumb without thinking, then froze when Caleb’s tongue darted out to chase the taste.
The air in the kitchen shifted.
Caleb’s expression tightened, conflicted, like he was testing something out loud. “And… what about Ben? You don’t think he’d care if he walked in right now?”
John’s laugh came out low, rough around the edges. “Care? He’d probably want in on this too, since we’re both sweaty in his favorite shorts.”
That earned him a sharp look, but Caleb didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned back on his palms, legs dangling off the granite counter like a dare.
John should have stepped back, should have put space between them. But then Caleb’s calves hooked around the back of John’s legs, strong and sudden, pulling him flush against the counter.
The rest of the bagel dropped to the floor with a dull thud. John’s hands landed instinctively on Caleb’s thighs, hot and damp through the navy blue shorts.
“Now what?” John whispered, his forehead nearly brushing Caleb’s.
Caleb’s breath was ragged, his brown eyes indistinct. “Now you spot me again.”
Held fast by Caleb’s legs, John’s fingers began to move. They traced a slow path up the inseam of the shorts, along the dusting of dark hair on Caleb’s legs. The world narrowed to the space between them, to the sound of their breathing, to the enticing feel of sweat-slicked skin under his touch.
His thumb slipped beneath the silver-framed hem of the shorts. Caleb’s breath caught a sharp, quiet intake, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t push him away. His grip with his legs tightened almost imperceptibly, pulling John infinitesimally closer.
John’s fingers slid further, into the dark, stifling heat beneath. His knuckles brushed against the Dri-Fit material of the jockstrap underneath, and beneath that, the firm, hot skin of Caleb’s inner thigh.
Caleb’s eyes were dark, his earlier smirk completely gone, replaced by a look of raw, unfiltered anticipation. He was watching John’s face, waiting for his next move.
John’s fingers didn’t hesitate. They slid into the damp pouch of the jockstrap, into the shocking, humid heat beneath. His knuckles brushed against Caleb’s stomach, and he felt the muscles there contract violently at the touch.
Caleb’s head tipped back, a sharp gasp escaping his lips, his eyes squeezing shut. The grip of his legs around John’s hips tightened, a vise of muscle holding him right where he was.
For a heartbeat, John’s hand stayed there, buried in the dark, his fingers splayed against Caleb’s skin. He could feel the frantic beat of Caleb’s heartbeat, the fine tremor running through him. It was too much. The reality of it, Caleb, the cadet, the future officer, spread out on the counter, letting him, was a wave that threatened to short-circuit his brain.
He withdrew his hand slowly, pulling back the pouch of the jockstrap to expose Caleb’s pulsating cock against the basketball shorts.
Caleb’s eyes flew open, a question and a protest flashing in them, but it died on his lips.
John didn’t go far. He brought his hand back down, palming Caleb firmly through the navy blue fabric of the shorts. The material was thick, damp with sweat, but offered no barrier to the feel of him, long and hard and straining by the seam.
A low, ragged groan was torn from Caleb’s throat. His hips jerked up involuntarily into the pressure, his own hands gripping the edge of the granite countertop, his knuckles white.
“Oh, Schroder…” he breathed, a warning and a plea all at the same time.
John leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against Caleb’s, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He could smell the sweat, the clean scent of his own deodorant on Caleb’s skin, the faint, sharp smell of the gym.
“Is that what you meant?” John whispered against his mouth, his hand applying a slow, torturous rhythm. “This how you want me to spot you?”
Caleb didn’t answer with words. His answer was the desperate roll of his hips, the broken sound that escaped him when John’s thumb found the head of his cock through the nylon fabric and pressed down. His legs were still locked around John, pulling him closer, erasing any last bit of space between them. The kitchen counter was cold against John’s stomach, Caleb was burning hot against his hand, and the world had narrowed to this single, desperate point of contact.
John's hand worked Caleb through the shorts, the fabric growing damper with each stroke. Caleb's moans grew louder, echoing through the kitchen, his body trembling under John's touch. "How do the shorts feel now?" John teased, his voice a low whisper against Caleb's ear.
"Fuck, they're... they're... fantastic," Caleb gritted out, his breathing ragged.
John's smirk grew wicked as he picked up the pace, the sound of fabric against skin punctuating the tense silence. When the moment Caleb's release hit, it was like a volcanic eruption. His cum spurted out through the material, painting the tip of his cock through the navy blue nylon. John felt the heat and wetness and knew he'd pushed Caleb to the edge. He didn't stop, though, not until Caleb's legs around him went slack, his voice a hoarse, "Oh, fuck Johnny!"
John pulled his hand away, sticky with sweat and cum, and brought it to his mouth, tasting the salty evidence of Caleb's pleasure. He licked the pad of his thumb clean before swiping the rest across Caleb's damp Under Armour shirt, leaving a clear streak as proof of what had just transpired. Caleb didn’t look at it, but his shoulders went rigid, every muscle taut like he wanted to peel the shirt off right there and scrub it clean.
John stepped back, his eyes never leaving Caleb’s, a smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, Sarge, time to switch it up. Hop down.”
Caleb slid off the counter, his legs unsteady but his gaze unwavering. The kitchen lights caught the sweat on his skin, making it gleam.
John took a deep breath, his own arousal pressing against the boxer briefs under his own royal blue Under Armour shorts. He stepped closer, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pulling the shorts down to his knees. Caleb’s eyes followed the movement, his pupils dilating.
“Turn around,” John said, his voice a low rumble. Caleb did as he was told, his hands bracing on the counter, his ass sticking out, the wet navy blue shorts riding high on his hips.
John stepped up behind him, his bare cock jutting out, thick and demanding. He aligned himself with the crack of Caleb’s ass, his skin hot and sticky with need. He didn’t bother to remove the navy blue shorts, just slid along the cleft, feeling the heat and the tightness of Caleb’s cheeks through the sweaty, silky fabric.
He watched Caleb’s shoulders tense, the muscles in his back tightening as he pushed against him. Each thrust brought him closer, until John couldn’t hold back anymore. With a grunt, he pulled away, his hand fisting his erect cock. He jerked off once, twice, and then came, painting the back of the navy shorts with ropes of white-hot cum, shouting, “Fuck yeah, Caleb!”
After turning around to face John again, Caleb peeled the damp navy shorts down his legs, bunching them in one fist. His chest still heaved, his face exhausted. For a beat, John thought he was going to say something sharp, a joke or a jab.
“Keep your dirty laundry, Schroder,” Caleb muttered, like he was trying to scrub the whole afternoon off his skin. He tossed the shorts underhand. John fumbled the catch, and they landed on the floor between them like a hot potato neither wanted to hold.
For a few seconds, John just stared at the damp heap of fabric. Then, Caleb shucked off his shoes and padded toward his room in his socks and the jock, showing off his unremarkable ass, leaving John alone with the evidence. A minute later, John heard the telltale creak of his bathroom door, then Caleb’s voice from down the hall: “I’m going for a walk around campus and town. Maybe ice cream, maybe dinner. Don’t wait up.” The door clicked shut behind him as if he needed the air more than the sugar.
That left John alone in the kitchen, sweat cooling on his skin, the dark blue shorts pooled at his feet like evidence. He picked them up once, stared at them, then shoved them under the coffee table when he finally collapsed onto the couch.
Caleb left with a wave, and John passed an hour with a blur of TikTok scrolling and the hum of the fridge. John was still sprawled on the couch in his own royal blue shorts, legs draped over the armrest, when the front door unlocked.
Ben stepped inside, juggling his keys and a lunch bag. He was grinning, still in his new APO polo, the Carhartt pants from his thrifting trip with Josh cuffed at the ankle. He looked tired, but lighter than he had in weeks.
“Hey, babe,” he said, setting the bag down. “How was your day?” His eyes flicked around the apartment instinctively, counting. “Where is everybody?”
John sat up, throat dry. “JP’s still with Joey. Caleb… went out.” He hesitated, then made himself say it. “And, uh. Something happened. With him.”
Ben froze, still pulling off his steel toed shoes. “Something?”
John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He didn’t sugarcoat it. “I got him off. Right there.” He pointed toward the kitchen counter, then down to the floor, where the navy shorts still peeked out from under the coffee table. “The dark blue shorts got both our loads.”
Ben bent down, scooped them up. The fabric was still damp, heavy with sweat and more. He lifted them to his face without a word, inhaled once, eyes closing briefly. Where Caleb had flinched under the spotlight, Ben leaned into it, owning the mess like it was already his.
When he looked back at John, his expression revealed he wanted even more.
“Are you mad?” John asked, his voice quieter than he meant.
Ben shook his head slowly. “No.” He dropped the shorts on the couch beside John and fell onto the cushions, his weight pressing close. His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “If anything, that just made me even more horny.”
John huffed out a laugh, relief breaking through. “So… you wanna use the shorts too?”
Ben’s hand closed over John’s thigh, deliberate, grounding. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Laundry day’s tomorrow, let’s go all in.”
John didn’t need to be told twice. The tension of the afternoon, the guilt, the relief, all of it erupted into a single, hungry motion. He surged forward, capturing Ben’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. It wasn't like their usual kisses, softer, full of familiar affection. This was raw, a reclaiming, a consummation of the boundaries they had already crossed. Ben met him with equal fervor, his hands tangling in John’s hair, pulling him closer, his own grin swallowed by the press of lips and teeth.
They broke apart, breathing heavily, foreheads resting together. John’s fingers, which had been so confident and commanding with Caleb, now fumbled with the thick button of Ben’s Carhartt pants with a nervous, eager energy. He popped the button, dragged the zipper down with a rasping sound that seemed deafening in the quiet apartment.
John didn’t rush. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Ben’s pants and the aqua blue Nike boxer briefs beneath them, pulling them down just enough to free Ben’s cock. It sprang out, already hard and leaking against his stomach and the small trail just below his belly button.
John pulled away long enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his own royal blue Under Armour shorts and shove them down his legs, kicking them free. He held the sweaty fabric in one fist, then pressed them deliberately over Ben’s face.
“Breathe me in,” John directed.
Ben obeyed instantly, his eyes fluttering shut, his chest rising as he inhaled the musk soaked into the nylon. A guttural sound rumbled in his throat, half growl, half moan.
At the same time, John grabbed the navy blue pair and wrapped them snugly around Ben’s cock. The contrast made Ben shudder, Caleb and John’s mess sliding over him, John’s scent filling his lungs.
“This is what you want?” John whispered, his voice coarse.
Ben’s answer was a low groan muffled by the other shorts, his hips pushing up in a silent plea. “Yeah. Johnny. Yeah.”
The sensation was overwhelming: the softness of the fabric, the possessive symbolism of the act, the intense eye contact they held. Ben’s head fell back against the couch cushion, a string of ragged curses and John’s name falling from beneath the royal blue shorts. His hands gripped John’s shoulders, his knuckles white.
“Fuck… right there… don’t stop,” Ben panted, his body tensing.
John watched him unravel, his own arousal spiking at the sight. He tightened his grip, the shorts squeezing and rubbing, a messy, debauched tool of their shared pleasure. He could smell all their combined scents, sweat, sex, musk, rising from the fabric.
Ben’s climax hit him suddenly. His back arched off the couch, a rough cry tearing from his throat as he came, hard and pulsing, into the makeshift envelope of the used, nylon Under Armour shorts. Ropes of his release soaked into the fabric, layering over what was already there, claiming the garment for himself in the most primal way.
He collapsed, boneless and spent, his chest heaving. John slowly unwrapped the shorts, now truly heavy and saturated with the proof of all of them. He let them drop to the floor and pulled the other shorts from Ben’s face.
For what felt like an eternity, the only sound was their synchronized, heavy breathing. Then, Ben reached out, his hand gentle now, and cupped John’s jaw.
“Now,” Ben said, a tired, sated smile finally returning to his face. “Now we’re even.”
He pulled John down into a softer, slower kiss, and the chaotic energy of the day finally settled into a quiet, profound understanding between them. The pile of shorts lay in a heap on the floor, a silent, sticky testament to the new, complicated shape of their world.
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