The chlorine scent was a sharp, clean sting in the air, clinging to the humid tile walls of the campus natatorium. It was the smell of solitary effort and burning muscles, a smell Mark Montgomery knew better than his own bedroom. For him, this cavernous, echoing room was a sanctuary. The rhythmic churning of water was the only choir he needed, the burn in his lats and delts the only sermon. He’d just finished his last set of butterfly before the pool closed for the night, pulling his body from the water with a practiced, fluid motion. Water streamed from his short, dark hair, tracing paths down the defined landscape of his shoulders and back. He sat on the edge, legs dangling in the placid, turquoise water, his chest heaving slightly. This was his peace. This was where the quiet, watchful boy from a small town could feel powerful, in control, complete.
Then the heavy door groaned open, slicing through the silence.
Hamilton Reynolds moved like he owned the air he displaced, not just the room. He wasn't swimming; he was surveying. He wore a tight, black swimsuit that left little to the imagination, showcasing a lean, runner's build with just enough muscle in his chest and arms to look sculpted rather than bulky. His hair, a shade of blond that looked expensive and effortless, was already dry, styled with a casual carelessness that Mark knew must have taken time. He was five-eleven, but he carried himself like he was six-foot-two, his shoulders back, his chin tilted with an almost imperceptible air of challenge. His face was a study in handsome arrogance, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of a summer sky that seemed to look right through you, assessing your worth and finding it wanting.
He stopped at the edge of the pool, his shadow falling over Mark. He didn't introduce himself. He didn't ask if the lane was taken. He simply watched, a predator sizing up its prey.
“Your form is impressive,” Hamilton said, his voice a low, confident drawl that vibrated with self-assurance. It wasn't a compliment; it was an appraisal. “Real powerful. Those shoulders are something else.” He let his gaze linger, a slow, deliberate crawl over the bunched muscles of Mark’s delts. Mark felt a flush of pride, a rare warmth that spread through his chest. He was used to being noticed for his speed in the water, but this was different. This felt personal.
But then Hamilton’s eyes dropped, tracing the line of Mark’s spine down to the curve of his glutes, still tight and defined from the last few strokes of his kick. A slow, predatory smile touched Hamilton’s lips. “But that ass,” he breathed, the words a low whistle of appreciation. “Now, that is a work of art. You must do a thousand squats a day.”
The compliment curdled into something else, something that made Mark’s skin prickle with a mixture of flattery and unease. He’d been called "fast" and "dedicated." He’d never been called a "work of art." He didn't know how to respond, so he just mumbled, “Thanks. A lot of laps.”
Hamilton chuckled, a sound that was all charm and no warmth. He slid into the water with a smooth grace, disturbing the calm surface. He moved closer, treading water just a foot away, the space between them charged with an energy Mark couldn't name. “You know,” Hamilton began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “all that muscle, all that power… it’s a shame to let it go to waste. You’re probably all tense.”
“I guess,” Mark said, his voice barely a whisper. The isolation of high school, the feeling of being an outsider looking in, had left him starved for this kind of attention. This handsome, confident man was seeing him.
“I can help with that,” Hamilton continued, his eyes locking onto Mark’s. “I give a great prostate massage. Seriously. It’s a gift.” He paused, letting the words hang in the humid air. “And I’m perfectly sized for it. Not too big, not too small. Just right to hit that spot and take you to heaven.” He said it with the clinical certainty of a surgeon discussing a procedure, but his eyes burned with a raw, carnal fire. “It’ll relax you better than any hot tub.”
Mark’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was the thing he’d only read about in furtive, private browser tabs on his laptop. This was the connection he’d craved, the feeling of being wanted, of being chosen. The clinical, almost crude way Hamilton phrased it should have been a warning, but the hope that bloomed in his chest was a brilliant, blinding thing. A boyfriend. Maybe this was how it started. Maybe this confident, beautiful man could be his.
“Okay,” Mark heard himself say, the word sounding small and distant.
Hamilton’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good choice. Let’s go to the locker room. It’s empty.”
The locker room was a sterile, echoing space of concrete and cold metal benches. The air was thick with the lingering smell of chlorine and damp concrete. Hamilton directed Mark to a wooden bench in the far corner, away from the showers. There was no preamble, no tenderness. Hamilton was all business, a man completing a transaction. He positioned Mark, his hands firm and commanding, his touch devoid of gentleness. He spoke in a low, guttural voice, a stream of commands and crude commentary about Mark’s body that was meant to be erotic but felt like an inspection.
Mark tried to lose himself in the sensation, to focus on the physical pleasure that was, he had to admit, intense. He tried to tell himself that this was intimacy, that this was the beginning of something. He closed his eyes and imagined a future, imagined walking across campus holding hands, imagined being introduced as Hamilton’s boyfriend. He pictured the two of them studying together, laughing together. He built a fragile castle of hope around the raw, impersonal act, brick by painful brick.
When it was over, the silence was immediate and absolute. Hamilton pulled away with a satisfied grunt, already reaching for a towel. He didn’t look at Mark. He didn’t offer a hand. He simply began to dry himself off, his movements efficient, as if he were just finishing a workout.
Mark lay on the hard bench for a moment, his body buzzing, his heart aching. He slowly sat up, pulling his knees to his chest, feeling suddenly exposed and small. He waited for the words he was desperate to hear. That was amazing. Can I see you again? What’s your number?
Hamilton slung his towel over his shoulder and finally glanced at Mark, his expression one of mild indifference. “Hey,” he said, his voice already detached. “Have a great rest of the semester.”
And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the concrete until the heavy door swung shut behind him, leaving Mark alone in the cold, empty silence.
The fragile castle of hope crumbled to dust. Mark was no longer in a sanctuary. He was just a boy on a bench in a locker room, used and discarded. The brilliant, blinding hope in his chest was extinguished, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. He realized then that he hadn’t been chosen. He hadn’t been seen. He had simply been a convenient body, a means to an end for a beautiful, empty man. He wasn't a person; he was a function. And as the first tear traced a path through the chlorine drying on his cheek, Hamilton Reynolds was already halfway back to his dorm, thinking about his next conquest.
The third week of the semester was a study in shades of gray. The initial, frantic energy of new faces and new places had settled into a monotonous rhythm of classes and cafeteria food, and for Mark Montgomery, the rhythm was a lonely one. The dining hall was the worst. A cavernous, echoing space filled with the clatter of trays and the drone of a thousand overlapping conversations, it was a place where groups coalesced naturally, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Mark had had his poles inverted, a lone filing who was repelled. He’d learned the art of invisibility, of finding a small table in the far corner, his back to the wall, and methodically eating his meal while staring at his phone, the screen a blank shield against the world.
The memory of Hamilton was a physical presence, a cold knot in his stomach. It wasn’t just the betrayal; it was the shame. He, Mark Montgomery, high school swimming star, confident and controlled in the water, had been so easily manipulated; he had invited it. Hamilton had seen his loneliness, his eagerness to connect, and had used it. The words "You're really handsome" had been a key, unlocking a door Mark hadn't even known he was guarding. He’d given away a piece of himself he could never get back, and the guy had just… left. The casual cruelty of it was what stung the most. The guys from his dorm floor, the ones he’d started to pal around with, seemed to sense the change. They’d invite him out, their voices casual, but Mark would just shake his head, the lie of "I've got to study" feeling like ash in his mouth. He saw their puzzled looks, the way their glances would linger on him as he sat alone, and he knew he was being labeled. Weird. Standoffish. Stuck-up.
He was tracing a water ring on the laminate table with his fingertip, a small, pointless orbit, when a shadow fell across him. He didn't look up, hoping it was just someone passing by. But the shadow didn't move. It settled. Mark slowly raised his eyes, expecting another jock from his floor trying to drag him to the game room.
It wasn't. It was a guy he'd seen around, a sophomore, maybe. He was smaller than Mark, with a shock of messy brown hair that looked like he’d just run his hands through it, and glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt under a flannel, and he was carrying a calculus textbook so thick it looked like it could stop a bullet. He wasn't unattractive, just… different. Sober. He had a kind of serious, intelligent focus in his eyes that was immediately disarming.
The guy sat down across from him, setting his textbook on the table with a soft thud. Mark tensed, his body going rigid, a wall of defense slamming into place. He knew this script.
"You're really handsome," the guy said, his voice quiet but direct, no preamble. "I don't suppose..."
Mark didn't even let him finish. The words were a trigger. The shame, the anger, the humiliation all surged to the surface. "Someone has already used that line on me," he snapped, his voice colder and sharper than he intended.
The guy flinched, pulling back as if he'd been physically struck. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Oh. Sorry," he said, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "You don't date guys then."
The question was so genuine, so devoid of the smug confidence Hamilton had possessed, that it caught Mark off guard. He blinked. "You're asking for a date?" The question sounded stupid even to his own ears.
A small, hesitant smile touched the guy's lips. "Yeah. I thought maybe a hot guy like you might want to go out with a nerdy guy like me." He gestured vaguely at his textbook. “I mean, the hot chicks go for the nerdy guys; I just don’t go for the hot chicks, or any chicks. I prefer hot roosters.”
Mark looked at him, really looked at him. The glasses, the soft t-shirt, the earnestness in his eyes. "You don't seem nerdy to me," Mark found himself saying.
"Then, do I have a chance?" The guy leaned forward slightly, his expression hopeful.
The banter was so unexpected, so different from the predatory line Hamilton had used, that a real smile, the first in weeks, broke through Mark's defenses. It felt strange on his face. "I'm Mark," he said, the name coming out softer than his previous words.
"Branson. Branson Davis."
They just looked at each other for a moment across the table, the cacophony of the dining hall fading into a dull hum. "Okay, Branson," Mark said, his heart starting to beat a little faster. "Yeah. I think you might have a chance."
Their first date was that Friday. There was no grand plan. Branson suggested they just hang out in his dorm room and watch a movie. It was the opposite of every nerve-wracking "what do I wear?" date Mark had ever imagined. He showed up at Branson’s door in jeans and a hoodie, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Branson's room was exactly what Mark expected: books everywhere, a whiteboard covered in equations, a sleek laptop on his desk, and a faint, pleasant smell of coffee and clean laundry. They watched a sci-fi movie on Branson's laptop, propped up on pillows on his bed. Mark, who usually fidgeted through movies, found himself completely engrossed, not just in the film, but in the easy silence between them. When it was over, Branson didn't make a move. He just closed the laptop and they lay there in the dark, talking about everything and nothing. Eventually, Mark felt a tentative arm wrap around his shoulder, and he shifted, letting his head rest on Branson's chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart was a comforting, grounding sound. It was safe.
In the quiet darkness, the words finally came out. "The guy who used that line on me," Mark whispered, his voice barely audible. "His name was Hamilton."
Branson's arm tightened around him, a silent encouragement.
"He was… he was the first guy I ever… you know." The shame was thick in his throat. "He just played me. Used me. And then he was gone."
Branson was quiet for a long moment. "Hamilton," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "I think I've heard of him. Cocky asshole, hot as hell but devoid of any humanity."
Mark nodded against his chest.
"He's an idiot," Branson said simply. "A complete and total idiot. Guys like him are either born evil or something evil has happened to them." He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at Mark, the faint light from the window outlining his features. "Can you put that behind you? Is that possible, or will you need help dealing with it?"
Mark looked up at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes. He thought about the cold knot in his stomach, which had loosened considerably in the last few hours. He thought about the feeling of Branson's arm around him. "I think," Mark said slowly, testing the words, finding them to be true, "now that I have something to hold onto, I can."
Branson smiled, a real, full smile that made his eyes crinkle. "Good." He leaned down and kissed Mark's forehead, a soft, chaste kiss that felt more intimate than anything Hamilton had ever done. Then he lay back down. "Just so you know," he said, his tone lighter. "I have a personal rule. No sex until the third date. It's a stupid, nerdy rule, but it's mine. Which is why I'm still a virgin."
A surprised laugh escaped Mark's lips, a real, honest laugh. "You're kidding. A wonderful guy like you with a…" Mark’s cheeks reddened. He’d notice a nice sized bulge between Branson’s legs.
"I am not," Branson said, feigning seriousness. "It's a sacred pact with myself. And, I’ve never had a third date; honestly, I’ve only had one second-date."
Mark laughed again, the sound filling the small room. "I've never had a third date either," he admitted, the confession feeling easy, safe. "I've never found the right one."
Branson's arm squeezed him gently. "I think that's going to change for you."
The second date was a week later. They went to a small, independent coffee shop off-campus that Branson swore had the best lattes in the city. They sat at a tiny wobbly table and talked for three hours. Mark learned about Branson's love for number theory, his dream of going to grad school, his two older sisters who still treated him like their baby brother. Branson learned about Mark's swimming career, the pressure of competitions, the quiet joy of gliding through the water, the way it felt like the only place he was truly in control. They were from different worlds, but the conversation flowed like a river, finding its own course. When Branson walked him back to his dorm, he took Mark's hand. Their fingers laced together, a simple, perfect connection. The kiss at the door was soft and tentative, just a gentle press of lips, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through Mark's core. It was a promise.
By the time the third date rolled around, Mark was a bundle of nervous, excited energy. The shame of Hamilton was a distant memory, a ghost that had been banished by the warmth of Branson's attention. He felt… seen. Not for his body or his athletic past, but for himself.
Branson picked him up, looking uncharacteristically nervous himself. "So," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "For our final, official, third date, I have planned a culinary experience of epic proportions."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Get in." He opened the passenger door of his beat-up Honda.
They drove for a few minutes, the comfortable silence between them filled with the soft rock station on the radio. Mark watched the campus disappear, replaced by the familiar strip malls and fast-food joints of the college town. He had no idea where they were going, and he found he didn't care. He was just happy to be here, in this car, with Branson.
Branson pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's. Mark looked at the golden arches, then at Branson, a grin spreading across his face. "A culinary experience of epic proportions?"
"Absolutely," Branson said, killing the engine. He turned to Mark, his expression mock-serious. "We are going to share a large fries, and you are going to let me buy you a McFlurry. It's the pinnacle of third-date romance. Trust me, I'm a math major. I've calculated the odds."
Mark was laughing, a full, unrestrained sound that felt good and right. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm also ridiculously into you," Branson said, his voice dropping slightly, the playful tone giving way to something deeper. He leaned over the center console and kissed him, a quick, sweet kiss that tasted of mint and possibility. "Come on. Let's go get our epic cuisine."
The McDonald's was brightly lit and smelled of disinfectant and frying oil. They got their food, a cardboard boat of salty, steaming fries and two Oreo McFlurries, and found a booth in the corner. For a moment, it felt just like the dining hall, a public space where Mark was used to feeling alone. But then Branson kicked off his sneakers under the table, his foot finding Mark's, and everything changed.
They ate the fries, their fingers brushing occasionally in the red cardboard container. They talked about their classes, a boring lecture Mark had endured, a complex proof Branson was wrestling with. It was mundane, domestic, and utterly perfect. As they spooned the thick, cold ice cream from their cups, Branson’s expression grew more serious.
"So," he began, swirling his spoon through the swirls of Oreo. "This is date number three."
"It is," Mark confirmed, his heart starting to thud against his ribs in a slow, heavy rhythm.
"My rule," Branson said, his gaze fixed on Mark's. "The no-sex-until-the-third-date rule."
"I remember," Mark said, his voice a little breathless.
Branson took a deep breath. "Well. It's the third date. And I just want to be really clear about something. The rule was never about not wanting to. It was about… I don't know. Making sure the person was worth it. Making sure I was worth it. Making sure it was more than just… a line." He looked up, his eyes full of a sincerity that made Mark's chest ache. "You're worth it, Mark. This is worth it."
Mark set his spoon down, his McFlurry forgotten. He reached across the table and put his hand over Branson's. "You're worth it, too," he said, his voice firm. "I've never been more sure of anything."
The drive back to campus was charged with a new kind of energy. The silence was no longer comfortable; it was electric, humming with unspoken anticipation. Mark could feel the heat radiating from Branson's body, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering smell of the fries. Every time Branson shifted gears, his arm would brush against Mark's knee, sending a fresh wave of sparks through him.
When they got back to the dorms, Branson parked in his designated spot and turned off the car. The engine ticked as it cooled in the quiet of the night. They didn't move. They just sat there in the darkness, the only light the pale glow from the lampposts outside.
"My room," Branson said, not a question, but a quiet statement of fact.
Mark just nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
They walked through the quiet lobby and up the stairs, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. Branson's hand found his again, their fingers lacing together, a solid anchor in the sea of Mark's nervousness. Branson fumbled with his key for a second before getting the door open. He flipped on the light, revealing the same cozy, book-filled sanctuary from their first date.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the atmosphere shifted. The playful energy from the car, the nervous anticipation, all coalesced into a single, powerful current. Branson turned to face him, his glasses slightly askew. He raised his hands, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before gently cupping Mark's face. His thumbs stroked Mark's cheekbones.
"Hey," Branson whispered. “This isn’t a ‘have to,’ you know.”
"Hey," Mark whispered back. “I know.”
And then Branson kissed him. It wasn't like the other kisses. It wasn't a quick peck or a gentle press. This was a deep, slow, searching kiss, full of all the words they hadn't said. It was a kiss that said I see you and I want you and I'm here. Mark's hands came up to rest on Branson's waist, pulling him closer, until there was no space left between them. He could feel the solid, reassuring warmth of Branson's body against his own, the steady beat of his heart through his chest. The kiss deepened, a slow, passionate dance of lips and tongues, tasting of ice cream and unspoken promises.
Branson pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark and heavy with desire. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. He took Mark's hand and led him the few steps to the bed. They sat down on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. Branson reached up and carefully took off his glasses, folding them and setting them on the nightstand. Without them, his face seemed softer, more vulnerable.
He turned back to Mark, his hands going to the hem of Mark's hoodie. "Is this okay?" he asked, his fingers toying with the fabric.
Mark answered by lifting his arms, letting Branson pull the hoodie over his head. It dropped to the floor, forgotten. Branson's eyes roamed over his chest, over the lean, toned muscles honed by years in the pool. He reached out, his fingertips tracing the line of Mark's collarbone, then down the center of his chest. His touch was reverent, exploratory, not greedy or demanding like Hamilton's had been. It was a touch that asked for permission, that treasured what it found.
Mark shivered under the caress. He pulled his own t-shirt over his head, needing to feel Branson's skin against his. Branson's hands were on him immediately, warm and firm, mapping the planes of his back, the dip of his waist. Mark's hands found the hem of Branson's flannel, and he fumbled with the buttons, his fingers clumsy with desire. Branson helped him, their hands brushing together, until the shirt was open. Mark pushed it off his shoulders, revealing a lean, lightly muscled torso dusted with soft hair. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the warm skin of Branson's chest, feeling his heart hammering against his mouth.
They lay back on the bed, soft sighs breaking the stillness. The room was quiet except for their breathing and the rustle of clothes being shed. Soon they were in just their briefs, the thin cotton doing little to hide their mutual arousal. Branson hovered over him, his body a warm, welcome weight. He kissed Mark again, slow and deep, one hand combing through his hair, the other stroking his side.
Mark arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping his lips. He felt Branson's hand drift lower, tracing the waistband of his underwear before dipping inside. His fingers wrapped around Mark's hardening length, and Mark gasped, his hips bucking instinctively. Branson's touch was sure and gentle, his strokes slow and deliberate, building a fire low in Mark's belly.
"Branson," Mark breathed, his hands clutching at his shoulders.
"Shhh," Branson murmured against his lips. "Just let me."
He began to kiss his way down Mark's body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire on his skin. He kissed his throat, his chest, his stomach. Mark's mind went blank, consumed by sensation. All the shame, all the fear, all the loneliness melted away, replaced by this overwhelming, all-encompassing pleasure. This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was connection.
Branson hooked his fingers in the waistband of Mark's underwear and slowly pulled them down. Mark lifted his hips to help, his body trembling with anticipation. Branson tossed the boxers aside and just looked at him for a moment, his gaze full of awe and desire. Then he lowered his head, and took Mark into his mouth.
The wet, enveloping heat was exquisite. Mark cried out, his hands flying to Branson's hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands. Branson's mouth was magic, his tongue swirling and stroking with a rhythm that was both tender and relentless. He took his time, exploring every inch, his hands gripping Mark's hips, holding him steady. It was nothing like the clumsy, selfish act he'd endured with Hamilton. This was an act of worship, of giving. Branson was pleasuring him for the sheer joy of it, and the realization sent a wave of emotion so powerful through Mark that it brought tears to his eyes.
He could feel the pressure building, an exquisite, coiling tension in his groin. "Branson," he gasped, his voice tight with warning. "I'm... I'm close."
Branson didn't stop. If anything, he intensified his efforts, his mouth working with a renewed, dedicated purpose, his hand stroking in perfect time with his lips. He wanted this. He wanted all of Mark. The thought was the final push that sent Mark over the edge. He cried out Branson's name, a raw, broken sound, as his body convulsed, wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure crashing through him. Branson held him through it, swallowing everything he had to give, his mouth gentle and milking until the last tremor subsided and Mark was left limp and breathless, his body boneless against the sheets.
Branson released him slowly, placing a soft, final kiss on his hip before moving back up to lie beside him. He propped himself on his elbow, looking down at Mark with a tender expression. Mark's eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. He looked completely wrecked, and utterly beautiful.
"You okay?" Branson whispered, stroking his hair back from his forehead.
Mark opened his eyes, and they were shining with unshed tears. He nodded, unable to speak. He reached up, pulling Branson down for a kiss, pouring all the gratitude and overwhelming emotion he couldn't put into words into it. He could taste himself on Branson's lips, a primal, intimate reminder of what had just happened.
When they broke apart, Mark's breathing had evened out. He rolled over, pinning Branson beneath him, their bodies aligning perfectly. "Your turn," he said, his voice a low, determined growl.
He kissed Branson deeply, his hands roaming over his chest and stomach. He could feel the hard ridge of Branson's arousal pressing against his thigh. He wanted to give him the same pleasure, the same feeling of being cherished and desired. He kissed his way down Branson's body, mimicking the path Branson had taken on him. He nipped at his collarbone, swirled his tongue around a flat nipple, and smiled against his skin when he heard Branson's sharp intake of breath. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Branson's boxers and slid them down, freeing his erection. He took a moment to just look, to appreciate the sight of him, hard and wanting for him.
He lowered his head and took him into his mouth. It was a new experience for him, but he followed his instincts, guided by the soft, encouraging sounds Branson was making. He used his tongue, his lips, his hand, learning what Branson liked, what made his breath hitch and his hips twitch. He felt powerful, in control, not in the way he was in the pool, but in a much more intimate, connected way. He was giving Branson pleasure, and in doing so, was finding his own.
After a few minutes, Branson gently tugged on his hair. "Mark, stop," he breathed. "Come here."
Mark released him and moved back up his body, a question in his eyes.
"I don't want to finish like that," Branson said, his voice thick with emotion. "Not this time." He reached over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He set them on the bed between them, his gaze never leaving Mark's. "I want to be inside you. If you want that."
The air left Mark's lungs in a rush. This was it. The final wall. The act that had been tainted by Hamilton, that had become a source of his deepest shame. He looked at Branson, at his open, honest face, at the love and desire shining in his eyes. There was no manipulation here. No hunger for conquest. There was only Branson. And Branson was safe.
"Yes," Mark said, his voice firm and clear. "I want that."
Branson let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He leaned in and kissed Mark, a slow, deep kiss that sealed the promise. He rolled them over so Mark was on his back, then knelt between his legs. He picked up the lube and poured some onto his fingers, warming it in his hand. He looked at Mark, a silent question, and Mark nodded, spreading his legs wider in invitation.
Branson's touch was impossibly gentle as he circled Mark's entrance, his fingers probing, teasing. He pressed one finger inside, slowly, carefully. Mark gasped at the intrusion, a strange, unfamiliar stretch. Branson paused, letting him adjust, his other hand stroking Mark's thigh soothingly.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah," Mark breathed. "Keep going."
Branson moved his finger, a slow, gentle rhythm, scissoring him open. He added a second finger, and then a third, each time waiting for Mark's body to accept him, for the initial discomfort to melt into a dull, spreading warmth. He watched Mark's face the entire time, his gaze focused and intent, making sure he was okay, making sure this was good for him. And it was. The discomfort faded, replaced by a deep, aching need for more. Mark found himself pushing back against Branson's hand, his own body begging for the next step.
"Please, Branson," he whispered. "Now."
Branson withdrew his fingers and ripped open the condom packet with his teeth, his hands shaking slightly. He rolled it on, his movements efficient but careful. He slicked himself with more lube, then positioned himself at Mark's entrance. He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of Mark's head, his body hovering over his.
"Look at me," he said softly.
Mark met his gaze, his heart pounding in his chest.
"I've got you," Branson promised.
And then he pushed inside.
It was a slow, deliberate burn. Mark's breath hitched, his hands clenching in the sheets. Branson paused again, giving him time, his body a warm, solid presence above him. He leaned down and kissed Mark's forehead, his lips a soft, gentle anchor. When Mark's breathing evened out and he felt his muscles begin to relax, Branson pushed a little deeper, until he was fully sheathed inside him.
He stayed there for a long moment, just looking at Mark, their bodies joined in the most intimate way possible. Mark felt full, complete. The emptiness he had carried for weeks, the hollow ache of his shame, was finally gone, filled by the warm, living presence of the man he was coming to care for so deeply.
"Move," Mark whispered. "Please move."
Branson began to thrust, his movements slow and measured at first, a gentle rocking rhythm that built a deep, resonant pleasure within Mark. It wasn't the sharp, overwhelming sensation from before; this was something different, something deeper, more profound. It was a pleasure that bloomed from the inside out, a warmth that spread through his entire body. Branson's hips met his in a perfect, steady cadence, his breath warm against Mark's neck, his murmured words of encouragement a constant, soothing presence in his ear.
Mark wrapped his legs around Branson's waist, pulling him deeper, needing more. He met Branson's thrusts with his own, their bodies moving together in a primal, ancient dance. He looked up at Branson, at the concentration on his face, at the way his brow was furrowed in pleasure, and felt a surge of love so powerful it almost hurt. This was real. This was what it was supposed to be.
Branson's pace began to quicken, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next inward stroke, he hit a spot inside Mark that made him see stars. A jolt of pure, electric pleasure shot through him, and he cried out, his back arching off the bed.
"There?" Branson gasped, a triumphant smile on his face.
"There," Mark moaned. "Yes, right there."
Branson hit that spot again and again, his rhythm now relentless, driving them both toward the edge. Mark felt his own erection, which had flagged slightly, stir back to life, trapped between their bodies. The pleasure was building again, a tidal wave gathering force, higher and higher, until it was all he could feel, all he could think about.
"Branson," he cried out, his voice ragged. "I'm... I'm coming again."
"Come for me, Mark," Branson commanded, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Come with me."
The words were his undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, Branson drove deep, his own orgasm shuddering through him. The feeling of Branson pulsing inside him, combined with the relentless pressure on that perfect spot, sent Mark spiraling over the edge for the second time. He came with a silent scream, his body arching, his release coating both their stomachs. It was a more intense, more profound release than the first, one that seemed to shake him to his very soul.
Branson collapsed on top of him, his body heavy and sated, his face buried in the crook of Mark's neck. They lay there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty, sticky mess, their hearts pounding in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. Mark could feel Branson's breath, warm and even, against his skin. He felt boneless, spent, and more content than he had ever been in his life.
Eventually, Branson stirred, lifting his head to look at him. He gently brushed a damp strand of hair from Mark's forehead.
"Hey," Branson whispered, his voice hoarse and soft.
Mark managed a weak smile, his body feeling like it had been melted and reformed. "Hey."
Branson carefully withdrew, the loss of contact making Mark feel momentarily empty before Branson was disposing of the condom in the small trash can beside the bed. He returned with a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and gently, reverently, cleaned the cooling evidence of their passion from Mark's stomach. The small, tender act of service was almost as intimate as what had just happened. He tossed the tissues aside and then settled back down, pulling the covers over both of them before gathering Mark into his arms.
Mark shifted, tucking his head under Branson's chin, his cheek resting on the warm, firm skin of his chest. He could hear the steady, reassuring beat of Branson's heart, a slow, rhythmic drumming that grounded him. Branson's arm was wrapped around his shoulders, his hand tracing lazy circles on his back. The room was quiet, the only sounds their soft breathing and the distant hum of the dorm's ventilation system.
The silence wasn't empty. It was full. It was full of everything they had just shared, everything they had just said without words. Mark felt a profound sense of peace settle over him, a deep, calming stillness that he hadn't realized he was starving for. The ghost of Hamilton, the lingering shame that had clung to him like a shroud, was finally, truly gone. In its place was the warm, solid weight of Branson's body, the gentle rhythm of his heart, the lingering scent of their lovemaking.
"You're quiet," Branson murmured, his lips brushing against Mark's hair. "Too quiet. Are you okay?"
Mark tilted his head back to look at him. In the dim light, Branson's face was soft, his features relaxed. He looked younger without his glasses, his guard completely down. "I'm more than okay," Mark said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm... I don't know what I am."
Branson's hand stilled on his back. "Good or bad?"
"Good," Mark said, his answer immediate and certain. "So good it's a little scary." He paused, trying to find the right words. "That was... that was everything, Branson. The first time... it was nothing like this. It was just... an act. A transaction. I felt so used, so empty after. But this..." He took a shaky breath. "I feel so full."
Branson's arms tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer. He pressed a soft kiss to Mark's forehead. "I'm so glad," he whispered, his voice thick. "I wanted it to be good for you. I wanted it to be... right."
"It was right," Mark affirmed. He snuggled deeper into the embrace, feeling a wave of exhaustion begin to wash over him. "I never knew it could be like that."
"Me neither," Branson admitted softly. "I've never... I've never done any of that before. Not really."
Mark lifted his head again, a genuine look of surprise on his face. "You were a virgin? But you were so... confident. So..."
"Nerdy and calculated?" Branson finished with a small, self-deprecating smile. "I told you. I've thought about it a lot. Read things. I just... I wanted to be prepared. For the right person. I didn't want to be fumbling and clueless."
Mark looked at him, at the honesty and vulnerability in his eyes, and felt another wave of affection wash over him. "You're amazing," he said simply. "You know that?"
"I'm starting to get that idea," Branson said, his smile widening. He leaned in and captured Mark's lips in a slow, deep kiss. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of connection, of comfort, of settling in. It was a kiss that said this is our new beginning.
When they parted, Mark's eyelids were heavy. He felt himself drifting, the emotional and physical exertion of the night finally catching up with him. "I should go," he mumbled, though he made no move to leave. The thought of leaving this warm, safe bubble was unbearable.
"Stay," Branson said, his voice a quiet command. "Please. Stay the night."
Mark didn't need any convincing. He just nodded, burrowing deeper into Branson's side. "Okay."
Branson reached down and pulled the comforter up higher, tucking it around them. He kissed the top of Mark's head one last time. "Goodnight, Mark."
"Goodnight, Branson," Mark whispered back, his eyes already closed.
He fell asleep in minutes, his body curled trustingly against Branson's, his breathing soft and even. For the first time since he'd arrived at college, he wasn't alone. He wasn't ashamed. He was home.
-FIN-
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