The next morning’s light filtered weakly through the blinds, striping the worn leather sofa where Ethan sprawled. Saturday. He wore only faded white briefs and a soft, oversized navy hoodie, the zipper pulled down to mid-chest. The hoodie’s loose fabric draped over his broad shoulders and powerful torso, pooling around his hips, leaving his thickly muscled thighs and calves bare. One leg was bent at the knee, foot planted firmly on the coffee table littered with empty soda cans and discarded wrappers; the other leg stretched out on the floor, the powerful quadriceps clearly defined even in relaxation. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, revealing thick forearms dusted with dark hair, veins subtly tracing the surface. His left hand gripped an Xbox controller loosely, thumb working the analog stick with casual precision. His right arm was flung back over the sofa's armrest, fingers dangling limply.
His hood was up, shadowing his face, but the sharp line of his jaw was visible, clean-shaven now. The thin silver frames of his glasses perched low on his nose as he stared intently at the large TV screen, where chaotic gunfire erupted in a futuristic cityscape. His expression was relaxed, almost blank, a stark contrast to yesterday’s turmoil. The hoodie’s deep V-neck revealed the strong column of his throat and the upper swell of his defined pectorals beneath the soft fabric. The hem of the hoodie rode up slightly where he leaned back, exposing a sliver of his lower abdomen – the deep V-cut lines leading down into the waistband of his briefs, the faint trail of dark hair just visible. He shifted slightly, the worn leather creaking, and the hoodie pulled tighter across his chest for a moment, outlining the dense musculature beneath before settling back into loose folds.
He grunted softly as his character on-screen took a hit, his thumb jamming harder on a controller button. The movement caused the hoodie sleeve on his right arm to slide further up, bunching near his bicep, showcasing the thick, sculpted muscle and the prominent veins snaking down towards his wrist. The apartment was quiet except for the digital explosions and gunfire, the low hum of the refrigerator, and Ethan’s occasional, muttered curses. A faint, clean scent of soap lingered on his skin, replacing yesterday’s chaos. He seemed utterly absorbed, almost deliberately so, his body a landscape of relaxed power draped casually across the sofa, the hoodie and briefs his only armor against the world.
The door to his roommate, Oliver Li’s, bedroom opened. Oliver shuffled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing only rumpled flannel pajama pants, his lean torso exposed. He paused mid-yawn, his gaze landing on Ethan’s sprawled form. Oliver’s dark eyes flickered over the hoodie, the bare legs, the exposed strip of abdomen, the intense focus on the screen. Ethan didn’t look away from the screen. His thumb mashed a controller button harder. Oliver coughed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. "Coffee?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the morning chill.
Ethan’s character died in a spray of pixelated blood. He tossed the controller onto the sofa cushion beside him with a soft thud. Finally, he tilted his head back against the leather, hood shadowing his face. "Made some already," he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen counter where a half-full pot steamed. Oliver padded past him, the silence stretching taut. Ethan pulled his hood lower.
Oliver poured coffee into a chipped mug, the ceramic clinking loud in the stillness. He leaned against the counter, blowing steam off the dark liquid. His gaze drifted back to Ethan, who hadn’t moved. "So," Oliver began carefully, swirling the coffee. "We should probably talk about roommate boundaries, especially in the common areas." The unspoken accusation hung thick in the air.
Ethan finally lowered his hood. His hazel eyes were guarded, jaw tight. "Oli," he said, voice flat. "We're bros, don't pull that crap. Seriously." He shifted, the hoodie bunching around his shoulders. "I was interviewing for a new job yesterday. High-stakes corporate gig. That's all." He gestured sharply toward the TV screen, avoiding Oliver’s stare. "It got... intense. Stressful."
Oliver raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. "Intense? Drummond, you walked out here looking like you lost a fight with a frosting cannon." He paused, letting the image sink in. "And ‘interview’? Since when do interviews involve..." He trailed off, waving vaguely toward Ethan’s torso.
Ethan’s knuckles whitened on the sofa leather. "It’s confidential," he snapped, a defensive edge sharpening his tone. "Strategic Development Analyst. Six figures. Benefits." He finally met Oliver’s gaze, his own flashing with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. "Just drop it, okay? It’s handled." He grabbed the controller again, jamming buttons with unnecessary force. Oliver watched him, unconvinced, the silence settling back like dust.
Suddenly, Ethan slammed the controller onto the coffee table. The sharp crack echoed. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on the hoodie’s soft fabric. "Fuck. Fine," he muttered, voice thick. "I’m sorry, Oli." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the hoodie gaping wider to reveal the tense lines of his neck and upper chest. "Can I… can I just confide in you? About yesterday?"
Oliver set his mug down carefully. His expression softened, the sharp skepticism replaced by genuine concern. He moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table directly facing Ethan. "Course, dude," he said quietly, his dark eyes steady. "Always."
Ethan stared at the worn rug, avoiding Oliver’s gaze. He took a shaky breath. "The interview… it was with Thorne, this Senior Director." His voice was low, rough. "He… he saw something. Accidentally. On cam. Used it." Ethan swallowed hard, the words sticking. "Threatened to pull the offer unless I… complied." He gestured vaguely towards his own body, a flush creeping up his neck. "He made me… expose myself. Do things. On camera.." He finally lifted his head, his hazel eyes wide, haunted, searching Oliver’s face. "And now… now I have the job."
Oliver’s jaw dropped. He stared, utterly frozen, coffee forgotten. His dark eyes scanned Ethan’s face – the exhaustion, the lingering humiliation beneath the hoodie's shadow. "Holy. Fucking. Shit," Oliver breathed, the words barely audible. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wide with disbelief and horror. "That's… that’s insane. That’s predatory. That’s… illegal. Are you… are you good? Seriously?" His gaze darted towards Ethan’s phone on the coffee table. "We need to report this. Now."
A flicker of panic crossed Ethan’s face. He straightened up sharply, pulling his hoodie tighter. "No!" The word came out too loud, too sharp. He forced his voice lower. "No. Don’t. Please." He met Oliver’s stunned gaze, his own eyes pleading. "It’s… handled. I got the job, Oli." He leaned forward, intensity burning in his hazel eyes beneath the smudged glasses. "It’s worth it. That salary… it fixes everything. My loans. My bills. Everything."
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to his own lap, fingers twisting the soft fabric of his hoodie. A flush crept up his neck again, darker this time. His voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with embarrassment. "Look… Oli…" He swallowed hard, the words sticking. "Have you ever… ya know…" He gestured vaguely, awkwardly, towards his own groin. "Put anything… up your ass?"
Oliver recoiled slightly, blinking rapidly. His expression shifted from horror to pure confusion. "What? Jesus, Drummond!" He ran a hand through his messy black hair. "Where the fuck did that come from? After what you just told me? Are you…?" He trailed off, staring at Ethan like he’d grown a second head.
Ethan winced, avoiding Oliver’s eyes. "He… Thorne… he made me do it. With my fingers." His voice was strained, raw. "It… hurt. At first." He paused, a strange, conflicted expression twisting his features. "But then…" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The flush deepened, spreading across his cheekbones. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, the worn leather creaking under his weight. "It felt… different. Weird. Intense." He finally looked up, his hazel eyes wide, vulnerable, searching Oliver’s face for understanding.
Oliver stared back, frozen. "Ethan," he breathed, his voice tight. "Are you seriously asking me about… that… right after telling me a senior director filmed you jerking off and fingering yourself?" He ran a hand through his messy black hair. "What the fuck?"
Ethan looked away again, shoulders hunched beneath the oversized hoodie. "Forget it," he muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment. "It’s stupid." He grabbed his controller, fingers tightening around the plastic like a lifeline. The screen flickered with the paused game’s carnage.
Oliver leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. "No," he said firmly, cutting through the awkwardness. "It's not stupid. It's just… a lot." He took a deep breath. "Look, man. What happened? Forget the job for a second. Forget Thorne. How did you feel?" His gaze held Ethan’s, demanding honesty.
Ethan froze. The controller slipped slightly in his sweaty grip. He stared at the TV screen, not seeing it. The memory surged back, unbidden: the blinding pressure, the frantic strokes, the raw, animalistic roar tearing from his throat. The sheer, obliterating force of it. "When I came," he whispered, the words thick, almost reverent, "it was the most intense thing I’ve felt in my life." A shudder ran through him. He finally met Oliver’s gaze, his hazel eyes wide with a mix of lingering awe and profound confusion. "Does that… make sense?"
Oliver stared back, utterly speechless. He blinked slowly, processing the raw vulnerability in Ethan’s voice. "I don't… don't know bro," he stammered, shaking his head emphatically. "I've never tried that." His gaze flickered downwards, truly seeing Ethan now. The oversized hoodie gaped open, revealing the powerful swell of Ethan's chest, the defined pectorals dusted lightly with dark hair. Below, the hem had ridden up significantly, exposing the deep V-cut lines of his lower abdomen leading down into the waistband of his worn white briefs. The dark trail of hair – his happy trail – was stark against his skin. Oliver’s eyes traced lower. Ethan’s thick thighs, powerfully muscled and dusted with fine dark hair, were spread wide on the sofa cushions. The worn white cotton of his briefs strained visibly, outlining the heavy bulge beneath, the thick shaft clearly discernible even in its softened state. Oliver swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of Ethan’s sheer physicality, his vulnerability laid bare in the morning light. The intimacy of the moment crashed over him – Ethan’s confession, his exposed state, the lingering scent of soap mingling with the unspoken tension.
Oliver abruptly looked away. His gaze fixed on a stray soda can rolling on the coffee table, his cheeks flushing hot. Ethan, for the first time, really noticed Oliver. His roommate’s lean frame, the sharp line of his jaw shadowed by perpetual stubble, the smooth planes of his exposed chest rising and falling slightly too fast. Oliver’s leanly athletic torso was defined – sculpted shoulders, flat stomach, the subtle ridges of his abs visible beneath smooth skin. His flannel pajama pants hung low on his hips, the soft fabric tenting noticeably over his groin, outlining a distinct bulge. Ethan’s gaze lingered there, a strange, intrusive thought flickering: Would Oliver have loved getting fingered like I did? The image flashed – Oliver sprawled back, head thrown back in ecstasy, fingers plunging deep, groaning. Would he have submitted to Thorne’s commands with the same frantic obedience? Would he have arched off the chair, roaring like Ethan did? The thought was electric, jarring, utterly forbidden. Ethan’s own breath hitched. He felt a treacherous, unwelcome warmth stirring deep in his groin, a faint twitch beneath the strained cotton of his briefs.
He ripped his eyes away, staring blindly at the paused carnage on the TV screen. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Oliver cleared his throat, a rough, nervous sound. "What’re you thinking?" he asked, his voice strained, eyes still glued to the rolling soda can. He shifted uncomfortably on the coffee table edge, his knuckles white where he gripped his own knees.
Ethan swallowed hard, the dryness scraping his throat. He forced himself to meet Oliver’s gaze. "Honestly?" Ethan rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. He gestured vaguely towards his own lap, his face burning crimson. "That… feeling. When I…" He faltered, unable to say came. He took a shuddering breath, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Does every guy feel like that? Or… am I…?" He couldn’t finish. Gay. The word hung unspoken, heavy and terrifying in the quiet room. His hazel eyes, wide and pleading behind his smudged glasses, locked onto Oliver’s dark ones.
Oliver stared back, frozen for a heartbeat. His gaze flickered down Ethan’s sprawled form. Understanding dawned slowly, replacing confusion with a flicker of horrified comprehension. "Whoa, Drummond," Oliver breathed, leaning forward on the coffee table edge. His voice was low, intense. "Are you asking me…" He paused, searching Ethan’s face. "Do you mean having something up your ass? Like… physically?" His dark eyes drilled into Ethan’s, demanding clarity.
Ethan flinched as if struck. He dropped his gaze back to his lap, fingers twisting the soft hoodie fabric violently. The flush deepened, spreading down his neck to his exposed collarbones. He gave a single, jerky nod. "Yeah," he choked out, the word thick with shame and desperate curiosity. "That."
Oliver leaned back slightly, exhaling sharply through his nose. He ran a hand through his messy black hair, his expression shifting from horror to a strange, focused intensity. His gaze travelled slowly, deliberately, down Ethan’s body again – lingering on the defined pectorals beneath the hoodie’s open V, the exposed strip of lower abdomen with its dark trail, the powerful thighs bracketing the undeniable outline in his briefs. He looked back up, meeting Ethan’s eyes. "Okay," Oliver said, his voice suddenly calm, unnervingly steady.
"Drummond," he continued, leaning forward until their knees almost touched. His dark eyes held Ethan’s with unwavering seriousness. "You’re my best friend. I always have your back. Always." He paused, letting the weight of that sink in. "So… do you really want me to try this? To answer your question?"
Ethan froze. The controller slipped from his numb fingers, thudding onto the rug. His breath hitched, trapped in his throat. The air crackled, thick with tension and the sudden, terrifying implication of Oliver’s words. Try this. In the harsh morning light. Ethan’s gaze darted down Oliver’s lean torso, the smooth skin, the low-hanging pajama pants tenting noticeably over his groin. The forbidden image surged back, vivid and visceral: Oliver sprawled, head thrown back, fingers plunging deep, groaning. Would he? Could he? Ethan’s own cock twitched violently beneath the strained fabric of his briefs.
He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silence. His hazel eyes flickered wildly behind his glasses – panic warring with a desperate, clawing curiosity. Oliver’s steady gaze held him pinned. No, screamed the rational part of his mind, the shame still raw. Run. Slam the door. Forget. But the echo of yesterday’s obliterating climax roared louder, drowning out reason. The sheer, impossible intensity of it.
"Yes," Ethan breathed, the word barely a whisper, cracking on the exhale. It felt like plunging into icy water. "I... I need to know."
Oliver held his gaze for a long, silent beat. His dark eyes were unreadable pools, absorbing Ethan’s raw desperation. Then, without another word, he stood.
Oliver unfolded from his perch on the coffee table edge. He was leanly built, sculpted shoulders rolling smoothly beneath smooth skin as he straightened. The defined ridges of his abs flexed subtly, tapering down to a slender waist where his rumpled flannel pajama pants hung low. The soft fabric draped loosely over his hips, clinging slightly to the firm swell of his ass – not as pronounced as Ethan’s high, firm glutes, but taut and perfectly rounded, a compact curve that shifted fluidly as he moved. His back was a smooth plane, the faint outline of shoulder blades shifting beneath skin as he turned towards his bedroom door. The lean musculature of his lats and erectors created subtle shadows down his spine, disappearing into the low waistband. He walked with a relaxed, almost unhurried stride, the flannel fabric whispering against his thighs.
He paused at his bedroom door, hand resting on the knob. He didn’t look back. "Okay, bro," Oliver said, his voice calm. "Give me like half an hour." He disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.
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