The kiss still burns on Carl's lips when they pull away from the party crowd. Adam's arm stays looped around his waist, thumb tracing that slow circle on his hip bone, and the football table roars with approval. Brad slaps the table. Tyler stares. Someone whistles. Carl stands there with his Solo cup sweating in his grip and his mouth still wet and his pulse hammering in his ears, and he nods when Adam asks if he's okay, even though he isn't.
The week that follows changes things.
The body comments stop. No more Tyler grabbing his chest at practice. No more Brad talking about his abs or his legs or the way his shorts ride up. That part should feel like a win. But what replaces it is worse.
Carl walks into the locker room after a Tuesday shower, towel around his waist, and Brad leans against the wall with a grin.
"Hey, Carl. You walking funny today. Adam go a little too hard last night?"
Carl's jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"Sure, sure." Brad holds up his hands. "Just saying. If you need a cushion for those bleachers, I got you."
Two days later, Carl crosses the quad toward the track building. Brad falls into step beside him, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
"Hey!. Quick question."
Carl keeps walking. "What."
"Does that ass jiggle when you fuck it, or is Adam the only one who knows?"
Carl stops. His hands ball into fists at his sides. "What did you just say?"
Brad holds up both palms, smiling. "Relax. I'm just asking. You know, since you and Adam are a thing now. People talk." He steps closer, voice dropping. "If you ever want someone else to tap that ass, you know where to find me."
"Fuck off, Brad."
Brad laughs and walks away, tossing a wave over his shoulder.
Carl finds Adam at the football facility, stretching after a lifting session. He tells him about the comments. About the limping jokes. About Brad.
Adam sits on the bench and towels sweat off his neck. "Brad's an idiot. He says that stuff to everyone."
"Not to everyone. To me. Because they all think I'm—" Carl stops. The word sticks in his throat.
"What?" Adam looks up. "They think you're the bottom. Yeah. I know."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Adam shrugs. He pulls his shirt on. "They assume I'm the one doing the fucking. Why would that bother me?"
Carl stares at him. Adam says it so easily, like it's just a fact of life. Like the entire campus thinking Carl takes it up the ass is a minor inconvenience, a punchline, something to shrug off. Because Adam gets to be the man. Adam gets to walk into a room and have people see a quarterback, a top, a guy who fucks. And Carl gets to walk into a room and have people see a guy who gets fucked.
"Must be nice," Carl says, voice flat.
Adam looks at him. For a second, something flickers across his face. Then it's gone. "It's just talk, Carl. It'll die down."
It doesn't die down.
The makeouts continue. They have to, to keep the act alive. Sophia watches from a distance, and the team watches from up close, and every few days Adam pulls Carl in somewhere public and kisses him.
The first time Adam's hand moves from Carl's hip to his ass, it's barely anything. A brush. Fingers grazing the curve of it through Carl's shorts, light enough that Carl almost thinks it's an accident. They're in the student center, standing by the vending machines, and Adam tilts Carl's chin up and kisses him soft and slow while his hand slides down from hip to the top of Carl's thigh, then over.
Carl's breath catches. But people are walking by. A girl from his sociology class waves at him. He can't shove Adam's hand away. Not here. Not with everyone watching.
Adam pulls back from the kiss and his hand returns to Carl's hip. He smiles. "See? That wasn't so bad."
The second time, they're at another party. Adam has been drinking. He wraps his arm around Carl from behind, chin hooked over Carl's shoulder, and kisses the side of his neck. His hand rests on Carl's stomach at first. Then it slides down. Over Carl's hip. Down to the curve of his ass, and this time it stays. His fingers press in, just slightly, feeling the shape of it through the thin fabric of Carl's shorts.
Adam's thoughts race. He's surprised. Carl's ass is soft. Plump. Rounder than he expected. He's seen it in clothes a hundred times, at practice, in the dorm, in running shorts that hug the curve. But touching it is something else entirely. It fills his palm. Better, if he's being honest, than most of the girls he's hooked up with. The flesh gives under his fingers, warm and full, and his hand instinctively squeezes.
Carl stands rigid. His cup shakes in his hand. Brad is ten feet away, watching, nudging Tyler. Carl can feel their eyes. He can feel Adam's fingers kneading into him, slow and deliberate, and he can't do a goddamn thing about it because if he pulls away now, if he makes a scene, the whole act falls apart.
The third time, Adam doesn't even bother starting at the hip. They're kissing against the wall outside the dining hall, and Adam's hand goes straight to Carl's ass. Both hands, actually. He cups Carl's ass with both palms and pulls Carl's hips against his, and Carl makes a small sound into the kiss that he hates himself for. Adam's fingers dig in harder now. Rougher. He grips the flesh and squeezes and pulls Carl closer, and the kiss deepens, and Carl's hands grip the front of Adam's shirt and he takes it because there is nothing else he can do.
When they pull apart, Carl's face is flushed. His lips are swollen. Adam looks calm. Pleased.
"What the hell was that?" Carl says, low, so no one passing by can hear.
"What?"
"Your hands. On my—"
"It's normal, Carl." Adam says it like he's explaining something obvious. "We're boyfriends. Boyfriends grab ass. It's what they do."
"That wasn't grabbing. That was—"
"What?"
Carl looks at him. Adam's black eyes are steady. Unbothered. His jaw is set, square with stubble, and he looks like a man who has already decided this conversation is over.
"Nothing," Carl says.
He knows it's no use.
So the fondling becomes part of it. Every makeout, Adam's hands find Carl's ass. Sometimes gentle, sometimes rough. Sometimes one hand, sometimes both. Sometimes he squeezes while they're not even kissing, just standing together, Adam's arm around Carl, hand resting on his ass like it belongs there. And people see. That's the point. People see Adam's big hands gripping Carl's ass and they nod, because it confirms everything they already believe.
Carl feels small. Smaller each time.
Adam doesn't feel small. Adam feels like he's doing what needs to be done. The act is working. Sophia has stopped texting. The team has accepted them. If his hand lingers a little longer than necessary on Carl's ass, well. That's just part of the show.
The first football match of the season arrives on a Saturday. Their college hosts it. The stadium fills with colors and noise and the smell of grilled meat from the tailgate lots. Carl sits in the stands with the other athletes, wearing his track jacket, and watches Adam command the field.
Adam is phenomenal. He throws three touchdown passes. He runs for a fourth. The offensive line protects him like he's made of glass, and he rewards them by carving up the defense with surgical precision. The crowd chants his name. The scoreboard tilts further and further in their favor.
Tyler stands on the sideline with his helmet under his arm, watching. His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white around the facemask. Every time Adam throws a perfect spiral, Tyler's shoulders drop another inch.
They win 41-17. The stadium erupts. Carl finds himself on his feet, screaming, because that part is real, Adam is his best friend, and his best friend is incredible, and for five seconds Carl forgets about the fake relationship and the ass-grabbing and the comments and just feels proud.
The bar is loud. The whole team packs into it, taking over three booths and the area near the pool tables. Pitchers disappear. Shots get passed around. Carl sits next to Adam in the booth, their thighs pressed together, and drinks more than he should.
Adam is loose. Happy. He throws his arm around Carl's shoulders and yells at Brad across the table. He orders another round. He laughs loud and easy, and Carl feels the warmth of his body through the t-shirt, and the beer makes everything soft at the edges.
By midnight, they're all wrecked. Brad is slurring. Tyler is brooding in the corner. Someone starts a chant. Adam throws money on the table and pulls Carl up.
"Time to go, pretty girl," Adam says, loud enough for the table to hear. Brad howls. Carl's face burns, but he's too drunk to fight it.
They stumble back to the dorm. Adam has his arm around Carl's neck, and they weave across the quad in the dark, breath fogging in the cool air. Adam is humming something. Carl is trying to put one foot in front of the other.
The room is small and warm when they get inside. Adam kicks the door shut and drops onto his bed, legs spread, head tipped back.
"Fuck, I'm horny," he says.
Carl, halfway to his own bed, stops. "What?"
"I'm horny, dude." Adam says it like he's saying he's thirsty. "Haven't hooked up with anyone in weeks. Sophia scared them all off." He laughs. "Irony, right?"
Carl sits on the edge of his bed. The room spins slightly. "So?"
"So." Adam reaches under his bed and pulls out his laptop. "Remember how we used to do this?"
Carl watches him open the laptop, pull up a browser, type in a site they both know. Old habit. From before. From when they were just friends and this was just a thing guys did together.
"Yeah," Carl says. Something in his chest loosens. For a moment, it feels like before. Like they're just two dudes hanging out. Like none of the rest of it happened.
Adam pulls off his basketball shorts and underwear in one motion, tossing them on the floor. He sits back against the wall with his legs stretched out, t-shirt still on, cock already half-hard against his thigh. Carl can see it in the glow of the laptop screen, thick even soft, and now filling out, veins visible along the shaft, the head dark and flushed. Eight inches. Maybe more when fully hard. Carl has seen it before, but the beer makes him stare a second too long.
Carl strips his own shorts and underwear. His cock is hard too, but smaller. Six and a half inches, thin, pale where Adam's is thick and tanned. He's always been insecure about it. In the locker room, he'd angle himself away. With girls, he'd make up for it with his mouth and his hands. Sitting next to Adam, the difference is stark.
Adam clicks on a video. A blonde girl on her knees, looking up at the camera, lips wrapped around a big cock. The moaning fills the small room.
They start jerking off. Side by side on Adam's bed, shoulders almost touching, eyes on the screen. Carl wraps his hand around himself and strokes slow, trying to focus on the girl, on her tits, on the sounds she's making. For a few minutes, it works. It feels normal. It feels like before.
Then Adam groans. Not a pleasure groan. A frustrated one.
"Fuck." Adam's hand stills on his cock. He's fully hard now, eight thick inches standing straight up, and he's staring at it with annoyance. "I can't cum."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I can't fucking cum." Adam squeezes himself, strokes hard, stops. "It's been too long. I got used to, fuck. I got used to someone else doing it. A mouth. A pussy. My hand isn't cutting it anymore."
Carl doesn't say anything. He keeps stroking himself, eyes on the screen.
Adam goes quiet. The porn plays. The girl gags. The guy moans.
Then Adam looks over.
Not at the screen. At Carl.
His eyes move down Carl's face. The sharp line of his jaw. The tousled blonde hair, messy from the night. And then his lips. Carl's lips. Full. Pink. Slightly parted, wet from where he's been licking them unconsciously.
Something shifts in Adam's eyes. Dark. Calculating.
Carl has changed over these weeks. The makeouts. The comments. The way Adam touches him in public, pulls him close, handles him. Carl has gotten quieter. Softer. He doesn't argue as much. He doesn't push back. He goes along. He takes it. He's become something malleable, something that bends.
Adam knows he shouldn't. Back of his mind, past the beer and the horniness, there's a voice that sounds like his mother, like his coach, like the part of himself that remembers Carl is his best friend. But the voice is far away. The blood in his cock is loud. The beer is loud. Carl's lips are right there.
Adam moves.
He lunges. His hand grabs the back of Carl's neck and he pulls him in and kisses him. Hard. Mouth open. Tongue pushing past Carl's lips.
Carl freezes. His hand stops on his own cock. His whole body goes rigid. But the beer slows him down, and his body knows Adam's mouth now. Knows the shape of it, the pressure, the way Adam leads. Weeks of kissing have trained something in him, and his lips part before his brain can catch up.
Adam kisses him deep. His tongue sweeps into Carl's mouth. His hand tightens on the back of Carl's neck, fingers threading into blonde hair. Carl's hands come up and press against Adam's chest, not pushing, just resting there. A gesture that means nothing and everything.
Adam pulls back. His black eyes are blown wide, dark with want. He looks at Carl, flushed, dazed, lips swollen and wet, and his cock throbs against his stomach.
"Get on the floor," Adam says.
Carl blinks. "What?"
"Get on the floor. On your knees."
The words hang in the air. The porn still plays. The girl moans. Carl's heart slams against his ribs. He should say no. He should get up. He should go to his own bed and pull the covers over his head and sleep this off.
But he's drunk. And Adam is looking at him like that. And something in Carl's chest, something that has been bending for weeks, finally gives.
He slides off the bed. His knees hit the floor. The tile is cold.
Adam sits at the edge of the bed, legs spread, cock jutting up from between his thighs. He reaches out and grabs Carl's arm, pulling him forward until Carl is between his knees.
And then Carl sees it.
He's seen Adam's dick before. Jerking off together, in the locker room, quick glances. But this is different. This close, from this angle, with Adam's hand on his arm pulling him in, it's enormous. Eight inches of thick, veined flesh, curving slightly upward. The head is fat and dark, slick with precum. A thick vein runs along the underside, branching into smaller ones near the tip. The skin is darker than the rest of Adam's body, tanned and taut. It twitches when Carl's breath hits it.
Carl stares. His mouth is open. He hasn't figured out what's happening yet. His brain is three steps behind his body.
Adam wraps his hand around himself and strokes slow. "Yeah, baby," he says, voice low and rough. "Suck my dick. Make me feel good."
Carl's eyes flick up to Adam's face. Adam is looking down at him with half-lidded eyes, jaw slack, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
"You wanna be my good girl?" Adam says. "Yeah? Then suck your man's dick."
The words hit Carl like a wave. Good girl. Your man's dick. The same kind of words the team uses, the same kind of words Brad throws at him, the same energy that has been pressing down on him for weeks. But coming from Adam, in this voice, in this room, with the beer swimming through his blood and Adam's cock filling his vision, something cracks open in Carl's head.
He imagines he's a girl. The blonde on the screen. The one on her knees. The one whose only job is to please her man. It settles over him like a mask, and everything gets simpler.
Carl leans forward. His hand comes up and wraps around the base of Adam's cock. His fingers don't reach all the way around. He angles it toward his mouth, lips parting, and takes the head in.
The taste hits him first. Salt. Skin. Something musky and warm that is entirely Adam. The head is fat on his tongue, stretching his lips wider than he expected. He takes maybe an inch, maybe two, and stops. His jaw aches already. His lips form a tight seal around the shaft, and he bobs slightly, awkwardly, unsure of rhythm or pace.
Adam groans. Low and deep, from his chest. "Oh, fuck. That's it. That's it, pretty girl."
Carl's hand squeezes the base. He tries to take more and gags immediately, pulling back, coughing. Saliva strings from his lower lip to Adam's cock. His eyes water.
"Easy, easy." Adam's hand comes to the side of Carl's face. Not pushing. Stroking. His thumb brushes Carl's cheekbone. "Just the tip. You're doing good."
Carl goes back in. He wraps his lips around the head and sucks, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling experimentally over the slit. Adam hisses through his teeth.
"Fuck, yeah. Suck that cock, girl." Adam's voice is thick. "You look so hot with my big cock in your mouth."
Carl bobs. Slow. Awkward. His hand works the shaft where his mouth can't reach, twisting slightly, trying to mimic what he's seen in porn. His other hand rests on Adam's thigh, gripping the muscle for balance. Adam's leg is like a tree trunk under his palm, thick and warm.
"Good girl. Good fucking girl." Adam's hips twitch. He doesn't thrust, but his body wants to. His abs tighten under his t-shirt. "You need my cum, babe? Yeah? You need your man's sweet cum?"
Carl moans around him. The sound vibrates through the head of Adam's cock, and Adam's hand tightens in Carl's hair. Not rough. Possessive. His fingers thread through blonde strands and hold.
"That's it. S-u-c-k that cock, girl." Adam's head tips back. His neck cords. "W-i-d-e-r, babe. Open wider. You can do it."
Carl tries. He opens his jaw as far as it goes and takes another half inch. The fat head pushes against the roof of his mouth, then slides toward his throat. He gags again, eyes squeezing shut, but he doesn't pull off this time. He breathes through his nose. He sucks.
"Oh my god, you're so fucking good," Adam breathes. His thumb traces Carl's eyebrow, his temple, the hinge of his jaw. "That's it. Just like that. Keep going."
Carl opens his eyes and looks up. Adam is staring down at him. Their eyes lock, Carl's blue, wet and glassy, looking up through blonde lashes. Adam's black, burning.
"Look at me," Adam says. "Look up at me with those pretty eyes."
Carl does. He holds the gaze while his mouth works the first two inches of Adam's cock, lips stretched thin and pink around the girth, saliva dripping down the shaft and over his fingers.
Adam pulls him off gently. Carl's mouth opens, panting, a string of spit connecting his lower lip to the tip of Adam's cock.
"Stick your tongue out," Adam says.
Carl does. Pink and wet, extending past his lips.
Adam grips his cock and slaps it against Carl's tongue. Once. Twice. The wet smack echoes in the small room. The sound is obscene. Carl's tongue flinches but stays out.
"Good girl," Adam murmurs. He taps the head against Carl's outstretched tongue again, slow and deliberate.
Adam's cock jumps in his hand. He pulls Carl back onto it, and Carl seals his lips around the head and sucks. His tongue works the underside, pressing into the thick vein, and his hand pumps the shaft.
Adam's breathing goes ragged. His thighs tense. His hand in Carl's hair tightens. "That's it. That's it. Fuck, you're gonna make me cum. You're gonna make your man cum."
Carl sucks harder. His cheeks hollow. His eyes stay on Adam's face, watching the tension build in his jaw, in his neck, in the way his stomach clenches.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck—good girl—good fucking—" Adam's hips buck once, twice, and then he groans. Long and deep and broken. His cock pulses in Carl's mouth.
The first shot hits Carl's tongue. Hot. Thick. Salty and bitter and nothing like he imagined. It floods his mouth and he swallows instinctively, throat working, and another pulse comes, and another. Adam's hand holds him in place, not forcing, just keeping him there. Carl swallows what he can. Some leaks from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, dripping onto his own thigh.
Adam shudders. His grip loosens. He exhales like he's been holding his breath for a minute.
Carl pulls off. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand. His jaw aches. His knees hurt from the tile. His lips are swollen and numb. He kneels there, looking up at Adam, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands.
Adam looks down at him. His face is flushed, chest heaving under his t-shirt. He reaches out and cups Carl's jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip.
"Good girl," he says. Soft. Almost tender.
Then he smiles. It's a slow smile, satisfied and lazy, but there's something underneath it. Something sharp. "You could only take a couple inches. That's okay." His thumb traces Carl's lower lip. "I'll teach you to take more."
Carl doesn't register the words. His brain is static. His own cock is still hard, throbbing, ignored. He reaches for it.
Adam's hand catches his wrist. "Not tonight."
Carl looks up at him, confused.
"Good girls don't play with themselves without permission." Adam says it easily, like it's obvious. Like it's a rule they agreed on.
They didn't.
Carl's hand drops. He stays on his knees, aching, unsatisfied, and Adam pulls him up and onto the bed. He wraps his arm around Carl and pulls him close, chest to back, and his spent cock rests against Carl's ass through the fabric of Carl's t-shirt.
Adam falls asleep in minutes. His breathing goes deep and even. Carl somehow gets up and goes to his own bed and falls asleep.
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