Nice to meet you, I am Andrej.
- Thread starter bankai-shikai
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Hvala puno, postoje isečci čitave priče na internetu tu i tamo, ali u ovoj verziji i načinu na kojem sa postavio na LPSG ne postoji.
jel imas linkove gde su isečci ili kako ih pronaci? citacu je i ovde na LPSG ali me zivo zanima ostatak
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Iskreno, nemam linkove. Isečci su pisani tako, možda jedna priča svakih godinu ili dve. Postavio sam neke na sajtu klubzaodrasle.com ali tada nisu imali kategoriju gej ili bi priče, tako da priče nisu kategorisane. Koristio sam takođe u tim pričama i druga imena, tako da ćeš ih vrlo teško pronaći. Ili čekaš ovde kao i svi ostali haha
- Joined
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- 90% Gay, 10% Straight
- Gender
- Male
Chapter 7
The air between us was charged, thick with the weight of something neither of us had the strength—or desire—to resist. My back pressed against the cold brick wall in the alley behind the bar, and Andrej’s lips claimed mine, soft at first, hesitant, as though testing the waters of a sea neither of us had dared enter before. But hesitation quickly gave way to hunger, and in that hunger, there was a kind of madness. His fingers laced into my hair, gripping with a desperation that sent shivers down my spine. I let out a small, involuntary gasp against his mouth, and it only seemed to embolden him.
My hands roamed his back, tracing the outline of muscles tense with anticipation. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, each touch igniting something raw and untamed between us. His scent—faint cologne mixed with the smoke from me and sweat clinging to his skin—filled my lungs, intoxicating me further. The night air was cool, but my skin burned everywhere he touched me. My God…
As his hands wandered, trembling but determined, I felt the rough graze of his fingers at my belt. There was no hesitation in the way he tugged at the leather, no second-guessing, just a feverish need that mirrored my own. He was looking into my eyes, holding his breath. I held my breath as well. But just as the buckle gave a sharp clink, shattering the silence around us, a voice pierced through the darkness, yanking us back to reality with the force of a sudden storm.
“Petar!”
My name rang out like a gunshot. I froze, heart hammering against my ribs, breath coming in shallow, erratic gulps. Andrej’s hands stilled instantly, his chest rising and falling against mine. Our eyes locked in the dim light once again, both of us searching for something—reassurance, understanding, the promise that what had just happened wasn’t going to vanish like mist in the morning sun.
Andrej, ever so calm even in the chaos, swallowed hard before whispering, “Please don’t panic. Everything is going to be alright.”
His voice was steady, but I could see the flicker of fear behind his dark eyes. I nodded, though my hands were still trembling as I hurriedly smoothed my hair and straightened my wrinkled shirt. My fingers fumbled with my belt, securing it back in place as I sucked in a deep breath and forced my legs to move.
I stepped inside, blinking against the golden glow of dimly lit bulbs strung across the ceiling. The bar had the kind of timeworn charm that made it feel like it existed outside of time itself—wood-paneled walls, a long counter lined with half-empty bottles, old cigarette smoke hanging in the air despite the open windows. The place was packed, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of music from the aging speaker in the corner.
I spotted my mother near the bar, balancing a tray of drinks in her hands. Her eyes flicked up as I approached, and she sighed. “There you are. Come help me serve. Stevan’s friends are drinking like it’s their last night on earth.”
I nodded mutely, still feeling the ghost of Andrej’s lips against mine. The rush of blood in my ears made the voices around me sound distant, like I was underwater. I moved mechanically, picking up a tray and weaving through the crowd, offering drinks to faces I barely registered.
But Andrej was there. He had entered from the side, leaning casually against the counter. One hand lazily gripped the edge of the bar, the other holding a half-finished glass of rakija. Across the room, his dark eyes flicked toward me, burning through the haze of bodies between us. My stomach twisted with unspoken hunger. The glances between us were like whispers in a crowded room—intimate, urgent, alive with something neither of us could name but both felt with aching clarity.
My mother, oblivious, leaned in slightly as she placed an empty glass on the bar. “I haven’t seen Andrej at our place for a long time,” she remarked casually, her eyes scanning the room. “He used to come around all the time.”
My throat tightened. “Yeah,” I muttered, forcing nonchalance into my voice. But my fingers fidgeted against the rim of my own glass. I dared another glance at Andrej. He had heard. He smirked, tilting his glass in silent amusement before taking a slow sip. Heat curled in my gut.
Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. A quick glance, and my breath hitched.
Andrej: "You look very hot like this. Sweating lightly, hair all messed up. "
To this day, I haven’t felt such a surge of emotions. I guess that the flame of one’s first love really does burn the brightest. I couldn’t give order and clarity to my thoughts. I remember to this day that I was thinking things like How in hell are these things happening to me?
He was fully and intentionally ignoring his and Stevan’s friends. He was fixated on me. Every single second that I spent looking at him, he spent it looking at me as well. Imagine this man, leaning on his side on the bar, legs crossed. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt again. He was almost always wearning one, a thing that definatelly made an impact on me, as I started wearing them as well. As the body dismorphia dissolved, even I started wearing them. But his looked way better on him, sculpting his chest, shoulders and arms the way only a perfectly fitted t-shirt could. The sip he took in front of my eyes was dedicated to me, as he gave me a small nod with his lips curved in the most discrete of ways. A smile.
I felt trapped and I was sinking, but my God was the feeling that the sinking hole gave me good.
Then the first shove happened, breaking my slow motion film.
A glass tipped over. A sharp voice cut through the ambiance. The air changed instantly, like the static before a storm. I turned just in time to see one of Stevan’s friends—Miloš, a wiry guy with a sharp jaw—shove another guest back so hard he stumbled into the edge of the bar. The music faltered, voices dropped.
“Say that again, you motherfucker,” Miloš spat, his face red with drink and fury.
Stevan was between them in seconds, hands raised. “Hey, hey, cut it out.” But before he could even finish, the other man swung, his fist colliding with Stevan’s cheek in a dull crack. Stevan staggered back, and chaos exploded.
Adrenaline surged through me as bodies crashed into tables and stools. A chair tipped over. Shouts rang through the bar, some girls screaming. Then Andrej was beside me, his voice a growl in my ear. “Let’s go.” We were moving before the thought had fully formed—fists colliding with flesh, the satisfying jolt of impact reverberating through bone. My knuckles cracked against someone’s jaw, sending him sprawling. A weight slammed into my back, but before I could turn, Andrej had ripped the guy off me, shoving him hard into the bar counter.
A bottle shattered. Someone grunted in pain. I tasted copper in my mouth, and through the blur of movement, I found Andrej’s eyes, wild and burning. We fought like we belonged to something primal, something untamed. The bar was a frenzy of limbs and curses until, finally, the men staggered back, panting and beaten.
The sharp cry of my mother’s voice cut through the madness. “Enough! What the hell are you doing?!” Her face was pale with fury, her breath heaving. I wiped a hand over my mouth, smearing blood over my chin, my heartbeat still hammering. My gaze locked with Andrej’s—shirts torn, faces bruised, blood staining our skin. And yet, through it all, that same tension still crackled between us, stronger than ever.
I turned on my heel and strode toward the back room, my breath sharp and uneven. I barely had time to pull off my ruined shirt before Andrej was there, pushing through the door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
“Who knew you Karlovačka boys were so tough?“ he asked.
And then, he was on me.
His hands grabbed my waist, slamming me against the wooden dresser with a force that sent a jolt through my spine. Lips crashed together—hot, desperate, tasting of blood and sweat and something even more intoxicating. I moaned into the kiss, my hands flying to his face, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
Andrej bit down on my lower lip, just enough to make me gasp. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against my mouth, burning my tongue with the aftertaste of rakija.
I raked my fingers down his back, nails digging into flesh, the pain only heightening the heat between us. The kiss grew messier, tongues colliding, teeth grazing skin. Andrej’s hands were everywhere—gripping my waist, sliding up my back, pressing me into the hard wood as if he wanted to fuse us together. I felt all of him.
I pulled back just long enough to suck in a ragged breath, my head tipping back as Andrej trailed open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat. A groan tore from my lips as he bit down just above my collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He was making me his. There was nothing I could do.
Our bodies pressed together, feverish, desperate, every inch of us screaming for more. I tilted my head, capturing his lips once again, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left in the world except the taste of him, the feel of him, the raw, electric need burning between us. My God, what am I doing with my life?
The air between us was charged, thick with the weight of something neither of us had the strength—or desire—to resist. My back pressed against the cold brick wall in the alley behind the bar, and Andrej’s lips claimed mine, soft at first, hesitant, as though testing the waters of a sea neither of us had dared enter before. But hesitation quickly gave way to hunger, and in that hunger, there was a kind of madness. His fingers laced into my hair, gripping with a desperation that sent shivers down my spine. I let out a small, involuntary gasp against his mouth, and it only seemed to embolden him.
My hands roamed his back, tracing the outline of muscles tense with anticipation. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, each touch igniting something raw and untamed between us. His scent—faint cologne mixed with the smoke from me and sweat clinging to his skin—filled my lungs, intoxicating me further. The night air was cool, but my skin burned everywhere he touched me. My God…
As his hands wandered, trembling but determined, I felt the rough graze of his fingers at my belt. There was no hesitation in the way he tugged at the leather, no second-guessing, just a feverish need that mirrored my own. He was looking into my eyes, holding his breath. I held my breath as well. But just as the buckle gave a sharp clink, shattering the silence around us, a voice pierced through the darkness, yanking us back to reality with the force of a sudden storm.
“Petar!”
My name rang out like a gunshot. I froze, heart hammering against my ribs, breath coming in shallow, erratic gulps. Andrej’s hands stilled instantly, his chest rising and falling against mine. Our eyes locked in the dim light once again, both of us searching for something—reassurance, understanding, the promise that what had just happened wasn’t going to vanish like mist in the morning sun.
Andrej, ever so calm even in the chaos, swallowed hard before whispering, “Please don’t panic. Everything is going to be alright.”
His voice was steady, but I could see the flicker of fear behind his dark eyes. I nodded, though my hands were still trembling as I hurriedly smoothed my hair and straightened my wrinkled shirt. My fingers fumbled with my belt, securing it back in place as I sucked in a deep breath and forced my legs to move.
I stepped inside, blinking against the golden glow of dimly lit bulbs strung across the ceiling. The bar had the kind of timeworn charm that made it feel like it existed outside of time itself—wood-paneled walls, a long counter lined with half-empty bottles, old cigarette smoke hanging in the air despite the open windows. The place was packed, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of music from the aging speaker in the corner.
I spotted my mother near the bar, balancing a tray of drinks in her hands. Her eyes flicked up as I approached, and she sighed. “There you are. Come help me serve. Stevan’s friends are drinking like it’s their last night on earth.”
I nodded mutely, still feeling the ghost of Andrej’s lips against mine. The rush of blood in my ears made the voices around me sound distant, like I was underwater. I moved mechanically, picking up a tray and weaving through the crowd, offering drinks to faces I barely registered.
But Andrej was there. He had entered from the side, leaning casually against the counter. One hand lazily gripped the edge of the bar, the other holding a half-finished glass of rakija. Across the room, his dark eyes flicked toward me, burning through the haze of bodies between us. My stomach twisted with unspoken hunger. The glances between us were like whispers in a crowded room—intimate, urgent, alive with something neither of us could name but both felt with aching clarity.
My mother, oblivious, leaned in slightly as she placed an empty glass on the bar. “I haven’t seen Andrej at our place for a long time,” she remarked casually, her eyes scanning the room. “He used to come around all the time.”
My throat tightened. “Yeah,” I muttered, forcing nonchalance into my voice. But my fingers fidgeted against the rim of my own glass. I dared another glance at Andrej. He had heard. He smirked, tilting his glass in silent amusement before taking a slow sip. Heat curled in my gut.
Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. A quick glance, and my breath hitched.
Andrej: "You look very hot like this. Sweating lightly, hair all messed up. "
To this day, I haven’t felt such a surge of emotions. I guess that the flame of one’s first love really does burn the brightest. I couldn’t give order and clarity to my thoughts. I remember to this day that I was thinking things like How in hell are these things happening to me?
He was fully and intentionally ignoring his and Stevan’s friends. He was fixated on me. Every single second that I spent looking at him, he spent it looking at me as well. Imagine this man, leaning on his side on the bar, legs crossed. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt again. He was almost always wearning one, a thing that definatelly made an impact on me, as I started wearing them as well. As the body dismorphia dissolved, even I started wearing them. But his looked way better on him, sculpting his chest, shoulders and arms the way only a perfectly fitted t-shirt could. The sip he took in front of my eyes was dedicated to me, as he gave me a small nod with his lips curved in the most discrete of ways. A smile.
I felt trapped and I was sinking, but my God was the feeling that the sinking hole gave me good.
Then the first shove happened, breaking my slow motion film.
A glass tipped over. A sharp voice cut through the ambiance. The air changed instantly, like the static before a storm. I turned just in time to see one of Stevan’s friends—Miloš, a wiry guy with a sharp jaw—shove another guest back so hard he stumbled into the edge of the bar. The music faltered, voices dropped.
“Say that again, you motherfucker,” Miloš spat, his face red with drink and fury.
Stevan was between them in seconds, hands raised. “Hey, hey, cut it out.” But before he could even finish, the other man swung, his fist colliding with Stevan’s cheek in a dull crack. Stevan staggered back, and chaos exploded.
Adrenaline surged through me as bodies crashed into tables and stools. A chair tipped over. Shouts rang through the bar, some girls screaming. Then Andrej was beside me, his voice a growl in my ear. “Let’s go.” We were moving before the thought had fully formed—fists colliding with flesh, the satisfying jolt of impact reverberating through bone. My knuckles cracked against someone’s jaw, sending him sprawling. A weight slammed into my back, but before I could turn, Andrej had ripped the guy off me, shoving him hard into the bar counter.
A bottle shattered. Someone grunted in pain. I tasted copper in my mouth, and through the blur of movement, I found Andrej’s eyes, wild and burning. We fought like we belonged to something primal, something untamed. The bar was a frenzy of limbs and curses until, finally, the men staggered back, panting and beaten.
The sharp cry of my mother’s voice cut through the madness. “Enough! What the hell are you doing?!” Her face was pale with fury, her breath heaving. I wiped a hand over my mouth, smearing blood over my chin, my heartbeat still hammering. My gaze locked with Andrej’s—shirts torn, faces bruised, blood staining our skin. And yet, through it all, that same tension still crackled between us, stronger than ever.
I turned on my heel and strode toward the back room, my breath sharp and uneven. I barely had time to pull off my ruined shirt before Andrej was there, pushing through the door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
“Who knew you Karlovačka boys were so tough?“ he asked.
And then, he was on me.
His hands grabbed my waist, slamming me against the wooden dresser with a force that sent a jolt through my spine. Lips crashed together—hot, desperate, tasting of blood and sweat and something even more intoxicating. I moaned into the kiss, my hands flying to his face, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
Andrej bit down on my lower lip, just enough to make me gasp. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against my mouth, burning my tongue with the aftertaste of rakija.
I raked my fingers down his back, nails digging into flesh, the pain only heightening the heat between us. The kiss grew messier, tongues colliding, teeth grazing skin. Andrej’s hands were everywhere—gripping my waist, sliding up my back, pressing me into the hard wood as if he wanted to fuse us together. I felt all of him.
I pulled back just long enough to suck in a ragged breath, my head tipping back as Andrej trailed open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat. A groan tore from my lips as he bit down just above my collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He was making me his. There was nothing I could do.
Our bodies pressed together, feverish, desperate, every inch of us screaming for more. I tilted my head, capturing his lips once again, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left in the world except the taste of him, the feel of him, the raw, electric need burning between us. My God, what am I doing with my life?
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Chapter 7 - part 2
I think I knew in my gut that this night was far from over. There was something else that had to be done. A sort of an instinct, that is influenced and strenghtend by the adrenaline and all the alchohol that was consumed in the night.
I think we both knew very well where and how this night was going to end. We didn’t talk much as we were walking towards my home. He didn’t even ask if it was alright for him to spend the night. It was implied.
The bathroom was thick with steam, curling along the ceiling, smothering the old blue tiles in a humid fog. The air smelled of soap and something else—warm skin, damp hair, the quiet charge of expectation. The dim light above the mirror was casting shadows over the walls, the glow just strong enough to catch on the water droplets sliding down Andrej’s bare chest.
He stood just behind me. Close.
The heat of him pressed against my back, almost but not quite touching, as if he were still deciding if he should.
I clenched my jaw and reached for the soap, lathering it between my palms, dragging it over my chest and washing away the blood. The water had loosened the tension in my muscles, but it did nothing to calm the aching pressure between my legs. My cock was already hard—too hard—and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, there was no escaping the fact that Andrej was right there, watching me.
I exhaled sharply, trying to steady myself.
Then—a touch.
The lightest brush of fingers against my lower back.
Testing the waters.
I sucked in a breath, my whole body locking up. Neither of us spoke.
Andrej reached again, more deliberate this time, trailing his fingers down the length of my spine. The heat of his palm settled between my shoulder blades, pressing gently, not pushing—just feeling.
My eyes slipped shut.
Then I turned.
And he was right there.
His wet curls clung to his forehead, darkened by water, droplets slipping down the sharp angle of his jaw. His lips were slightly parted, undecided, his chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths.
I forced my gaze to stay on his face, but it dropped—only for a second.
The hard, heavy outline of his cock was right in front of me, thick and undeniable, water sliding down its length in slow rivulets.
Shame burned through me. He still seemes unphased.
I wanted to touch him.
God, I wanted to touch him.
But if I did—if I started—
Would I be able to stop? Where would this lead to?
Andrej didn’t seem to notice my hesitation. Or if he did, he didn’t comment. Instead, he reached for the soap, lathered his hands, and lifted my arm.
He washed me slowly, methodically, his touch both too much and not enough.
Fingers slid over my bicep, down the curve of my ribs, circling over my stomach with the lightest pressure. When Andrej’s knuckles brushed my hipbone, I twitched, gasped—the sound barely controlled, barely contained.
Andrej stilled.
Our eyes met, something undeniable crackling between us.
Then, instead of speaking, instead of making some teasing remark that would shatter the moment, Andrej lifted my other arm and started again.
His hands slid everywhere but where I ached for them most.
And I—ashamed, aching, trembling—couldn’t bring myself to do the same.
I clenched my fists at my sides, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach out.
Because if I touched Andrej now—if I let myself have this—
It would be over.
And I didn’t want it to end.
So I stood there, letting his hands explore me, feeling every slick, careful touch like fire under my skin.
By the time we left the shower, the water was running cold.
---
The bed beneath us was damp with sweat, the sheets sticking to my skin, trapping the heat between us.
Andrej was everywhere.
Above me. Inside me. Covering me.
I arched beneath him, my fingers clawing at his back, feeling the slickness of his skin under my nails as he thrust deep, slow, deliberate—dragging pain and pleasure through me with every movement.
The room smelled like sex. Like skin and sweat and the sharp, aching hunger between us.
Andrej’s mouth was everywhere—tracing over my jaw, down my throat, across the hollow of my collarbone. His lips burned every place they touched, leaving a trail of heat and want.
I tried to stay silent.
We both did.
But I couldn’t help it—couldn’t help the soft, breathless moans that slipped past my lips every time he moved.
Andrej grinned against my skin, pressing his hand over my mouth, his breath hot against my ear.
"Shh."
The fucker was enjoying this.
My moans muffled against his palm, the sound vibrating through my throat as he pushed deeper, harder, hitting that spot that made my entire body seize up.
I trembled beneath him, my fingers digging into his back, trying—failing—to keep still.
The air between us was heavy, suffocating.
Sweat slid down the curve of Andrej’s spine, dripping onto my chest, mingling with my own. Every shift, every thrust, every breath made the sheets stick to our overheated skin.
I could feel him—all of him.
The thick, overwhelming fullness of him inside me. The weight of his body pinning me down. The hard press of his abs against mine every time he rocked forward.
I was unraveling beneath him.
So I did the only thing I could—I flipped us over.
Andrej let out a low, surprised groan as I straddled him, pressing him down, forcing him to take what he had given me.
I rode him slow at first, dragging my nails down the hard planes of his chest, watching his jaw go slack, his breath catching in his throat.
Then I moved faster.
Andrej’s head fell back.
His fingers tightened around my hips, nails digging in, leaving marks.
"Fuck—"
His voice was rough, wrecked.
He was trying to be quiet, but I knew that sound.
I wanted to hear it again.
I rolled my hips deliberately, watching the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard, the way his stomach clenched, the way his fingers bruised into my skin as he held me tight.
"Petar—"
I pressed a hand over his mouth, grinning down at him.
His eyes went dark with something almost dangerous.
And then he was moving again.
We came within seconds of each other, our bodies wracked with pleasure, hands clinging, lips barely touching as we rode the high together.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy.
The only sound was our breathing—sharp, uneven, drowning out everything else.
And then—
Click.
My eyes snapped open.
My body went rigid beneath Andrej’s, my breath stuck in my throat.
The door.
Not the front door.
Not the bathroom.
Stevan’s door.
I wasn’t imagining it.
I knew that sound.
My stomach twisted, the weight of reality crashing down on me all at once.
Andrej was still on top of me, still inside me, his breath warm against my collarbone.
He must have heard it too, because his body had gone just as still.
For a long, agonizing second, neither of us moved.
Then—
A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of Andrej’s lips.
"Think he heard us?"
My breath hitched, heat flooding my face.
I think I knew in my gut that this night was far from over. There was something else that had to be done. A sort of an instinct, that is influenced and strenghtend by the adrenaline and all the alchohol that was consumed in the night.
I think we both knew very well where and how this night was going to end. We didn’t talk much as we were walking towards my home. He didn’t even ask if it was alright for him to spend the night. It was implied.
The bathroom was thick with steam, curling along the ceiling, smothering the old blue tiles in a humid fog. The air smelled of soap and something else—warm skin, damp hair, the quiet charge of expectation. The dim light above the mirror was casting shadows over the walls, the glow just strong enough to catch on the water droplets sliding down Andrej’s bare chest.
He stood just behind me. Close.
The heat of him pressed against my back, almost but not quite touching, as if he were still deciding if he should.
I clenched my jaw and reached for the soap, lathering it between my palms, dragging it over my chest and washing away the blood. The water had loosened the tension in my muscles, but it did nothing to calm the aching pressure between my legs. My cock was already hard—too hard—and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, there was no escaping the fact that Andrej was right there, watching me.
I exhaled sharply, trying to steady myself.
Then—a touch.
The lightest brush of fingers against my lower back.
Testing the waters.
I sucked in a breath, my whole body locking up. Neither of us spoke.
Andrej reached again, more deliberate this time, trailing his fingers down the length of my spine. The heat of his palm settled between my shoulder blades, pressing gently, not pushing—just feeling.
My eyes slipped shut.
Then I turned.
And he was right there.
His wet curls clung to his forehead, darkened by water, droplets slipping down the sharp angle of his jaw. His lips were slightly parted, undecided, his chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths.
I forced my gaze to stay on his face, but it dropped—only for a second.
The hard, heavy outline of his cock was right in front of me, thick and undeniable, water sliding down its length in slow rivulets.
Shame burned through me. He still seemes unphased.
I wanted to touch him.
God, I wanted to touch him.
But if I did—if I started—
Would I be able to stop? Where would this lead to?
Andrej didn’t seem to notice my hesitation. Or if he did, he didn’t comment. Instead, he reached for the soap, lathered his hands, and lifted my arm.
He washed me slowly, methodically, his touch both too much and not enough.
Fingers slid over my bicep, down the curve of my ribs, circling over my stomach with the lightest pressure. When Andrej’s knuckles brushed my hipbone, I twitched, gasped—the sound barely controlled, barely contained.
Andrej stilled.
Our eyes met, something undeniable crackling between us.
Then, instead of speaking, instead of making some teasing remark that would shatter the moment, Andrej lifted my other arm and started again.
His hands slid everywhere but where I ached for them most.
And I—ashamed, aching, trembling—couldn’t bring myself to do the same.
I clenched my fists at my sides, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach out.
Because if I touched Andrej now—if I let myself have this—
It would be over.
And I didn’t want it to end.
So I stood there, letting his hands explore me, feeling every slick, careful touch like fire under my skin.
By the time we left the shower, the water was running cold.
---
The bed beneath us was damp with sweat, the sheets sticking to my skin, trapping the heat between us.
Andrej was everywhere.
Above me. Inside me. Covering me.
I arched beneath him, my fingers clawing at his back, feeling the slickness of his skin under my nails as he thrust deep, slow, deliberate—dragging pain and pleasure through me with every movement.
The room smelled like sex. Like skin and sweat and the sharp, aching hunger between us.
Andrej’s mouth was everywhere—tracing over my jaw, down my throat, across the hollow of my collarbone. His lips burned every place they touched, leaving a trail of heat and want.
I tried to stay silent.
We both did.
But I couldn’t help it—couldn’t help the soft, breathless moans that slipped past my lips every time he moved.
Andrej grinned against my skin, pressing his hand over my mouth, his breath hot against my ear.
"Shh."
The fucker was enjoying this.
My moans muffled against his palm, the sound vibrating through my throat as he pushed deeper, harder, hitting that spot that made my entire body seize up.
I trembled beneath him, my fingers digging into his back, trying—failing—to keep still.
The air between us was heavy, suffocating.
Sweat slid down the curve of Andrej’s spine, dripping onto my chest, mingling with my own. Every shift, every thrust, every breath made the sheets stick to our overheated skin.
I could feel him—all of him.
The thick, overwhelming fullness of him inside me. The weight of his body pinning me down. The hard press of his abs against mine every time he rocked forward.
I was unraveling beneath him.
So I did the only thing I could—I flipped us over.
Andrej let out a low, surprised groan as I straddled him, pressing him down, forcing him to take what he had given me.
I rode him slow at first, dragging my nails down the hard planes of his chest, watching his jaw go slack, his breath catching in his throat.
Then I moved faster.
Andrej’s head fell back.
His fingers tightened around my hips, nails digging in, leaving marks.
"Fuck—"
His voice was rough, wrecked.
He was trying to be quiet, but I knew that sound.
I wanted to hear it again.
I rolled my hips deliberately, watching the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed hard, the way his stomach clenched, the way his fingers bruised into my skin as he held me tight.
"Petar—"
I pressed a hand over his mouth, grinning down at him.
His eyes went dark with something almost dangerous.
And then he was moving again.
We came within seconds of each other, our bodies wracked with pleasure, hands clinging, lips barely touching as we rode the high together.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy.
The only sound was our breathing—sharp, uneven, drowning out everything else.
And then—
Click.
My eyes snapped open.
My body went rigid beneath Andrej’s, my breath stuck in my throat.
The door.
Not the front door.
Not the bathroom.
Stevan’s door.
I wasn’t imagining it.
I knew that sound.
My stomach twisted, the weight of reality crashing down on me all at once.
Andrej was still on top of me, still inside me, his breath warm against my collarbone.
He must have heard it too, because his body had gone just as still.
For a long, agonizing second, neither of us moved.
Then—
A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of Andrej’s lips.
"Think he heard us?"
My breath hitched, heat flooding my face.
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Ther
There isn’t a lot of good writing like this. One of the best stories I’ve read. Please continue
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
- Posts
- 34
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- Likes
- 154
- Points
- 43
- Location
- Zurich, Zurich,Switzerland
- Sexuality
- 90% Gay, 10% Straight
- Gender
- Male
Chapter 8
Although I had fallen asleep relatively quickly, exhausted by the weight of the night and the emotions that had drained me, my sleep was light. There were no nightmares, but my dreams carried an odd sense of unease—some kind of dread, perhaps. It’s hard to put into words. When I opened my eyes and saw 07:00 glowing on the small digital clock on my nightstand, I decided that a morning jog was exactly what I needed. But the moment that thought formed in my mind, my gaze drifted to my right, and there he was—Andrej.
He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me. My God, he was perfect. A few strands of his now wavy hair had fallen across his forehead, brushing against his closed eyelids. His breathing was slow, steady, peaceful. The blanket we had pulled over ourselves barely covered his lower back, just enough to conceal what I desperately wanted to see. And that wasn’t the only thing I craved to look at that morning.
Then, the memory of the night before surged through me—panic took hold at the thought that someone might have heard everything that had happened in my room. What kind of idiot am I? I thought. Not just because of that, but because this would undoubtedly complicate things. Even more than they already were. I was drowning in my own conflict—he was my best friend, he was Stevan’s friend, he was a straight guy, and yet, he was everything I wanted, everything I needed in my life.
The moment I swung one leg out of bed, a sharp pain shot through me, cutting through my thoughts—a lingering reminder of Andrej’s desire, of my own desire, and my complete inexperience. As if I had learned nothing about sex. About preparation, about taking time when it’s someone’s first time. He had been rough—brutally rough—but don’t let my words mislead you. I had wanted him that way.
In those fevered moments last night, holding my breath to stifle any moan or the urge to call his name, he had not held back. The sharp slap of skin against skin, the sound of our bodies colliding, had echoed through my room, unrelenting. Just remembering that terrifying sound was enough to make my cock harden again.
Even as I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, my traitorous dick stood stiff, eager, throbbing—ready for another episode, another action-packed scene.
Fucking traitor.
—
I stood in front of the mirror, tying my running shoes with the intention of shaking off the weight pressing against my chest. A morning jog was supposed to help—sweat out the tension, force my body into a rhythm that might quiet my mind. But just as I shrugged my jacket over my shoulders, the door across the hallway creaked open, and Stevan emerged.
We froze for a second, two animals startled by each other’s presence. Something about the way he looked at me—hesitant, guarded—set my nerves on edge.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
"Yeah," I replied, clearing my throat. "Was gonna go for a run."
A beat of silence stretched between us. Stevan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rubbed the back of his neck. "You wanna go to the bakery instead?"
It was a simple suggestion, nothing out of the ordinary, yet it felt like we were carefully stepping around something unspoken. We had never been awkward before—never had to measure our words, never second-guessed casual invitations like this. I hesitated but eventually nodded. Maybe a walk would do me just as much good.
The wind cut sharp as a knife as we stepped out onto the cracked pavement, the damp November air slipping under my jacket, making me pull it tighter around my body. The sky hung low and heavy, a dull, overcast gray that swallowed the sun, leaving only a faint, ghostly light in its place. The old german buildings that lined our narrow street were old, their facades worn by time and neglect, their peeling paint revealing layers of forgotten colors beneath. A few stray leaves, brittle and lifeless, tumbled across the road, swept up by the occasional gust of wind.
Stevan walked beside me in silence, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. There was something unfamiliar in his posture, a stiffness that didn't belong to him. Normally, he moved with an easy confidence, his body loose, his shoulders relaxed. Now, his steps were measured, almost hesitant, as if he were rehearsing a conversation in his head before speaking it aloud.
I felt the weight of it between us, the unspoken question thickening the air, making each step toward the bakery feel longer than it should have been.
I wasn’t sure which one of us was more uncomfortable. My stomach tightened in a way I wasn’t used to, a strange tension creeping up my throat. This was Stevan—the friend I had known for years, the one person with whom I had shared everything except this. And yet, as we walked side by side, I could feel a distance stretching between us, one that had never been there before.
We passed the small, rusted gate of an abandoned lot, the metal groaning slightly as the wind pushed against it. The bakery was only a few minutes away, its old sign swaying lightly above the entrance, the letters faded. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and burnt wood, the scent of someone’s fireplace filling the cold morning. I focused on those details, anything to keep my mind from racing too far ahead.
Stevan cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “So… Andrej stayed over?”
The question was casual enough, but there was something beneath it, something uncertain. I felt my jaw tighten. I had known this was coming, had felt it the moment I saw him step out of his room.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice even, controlled. “He did.”
Stevan gave a slow nod, but his expression flickered—an almost imperceptible shift in his features, something like surprise before he caught himself. He didn’t say anything right away, just exhaled softly, watching his breath cloud in the cold.
“And?” he asked eventually, tilting his head slightly. “Why?”
A simple question. A loaded question. One that felt heavier than it should have.
I could’ve lied. Said Andrej had passed out drunk, that it had been too late for him to go home. I could’ve said anything, really. But instead, I stood there, staring down at the uneven pavement, feeling the pressure of the moment settle over me like a weight on my chest.
“He just… stayed,” I said, my voice quieter now. “We were hanging out. Then he stayed.”
Stevan watched me, his gaze unreadable. “That’s it?”
I hesitated, and it was enough. He knew me too well. He could hear it in the pause, in the way I exhaled a little too hard, in the way my shoulders tensed just slightly.
“Petar,” he said, his voice careful now. “Did something happen?”
There it was.
The words were right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, fighting to be spoken. But my body resisted them, every muscle tensing in quiet rebellion. Saying it out loud meant making it real. Meant stepping past a line I had never dared to cross. Especially with my brother.
Stevan had never judged me for anything before. We had seen each other at our worst, had carried each other through bad decisions, and drunken nights that neither of us wanted to remember. But this—this was different.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Yeah,” I admitted finally, my voice steady but quieter than before. “Something happened.”
Stevan blinked. Just once. A slight tightening around his mouth, the faintest shift in his expression. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disgusted. He was just… surprised. And maybe a little confused.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Damn,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
That was all. Just that. No accusations, no uncomfortable questions. Just an acknowledgment, a moment of processing.
We stepped into the bakery, the warmth hitting me immediately, the scent of fresh bread and butter filling the air. The woman behind the counter, an older lady with graying hair pulled back into a bun, offered us a nod as she wiped her hands on her apron. Stevan ordered a loaf of bread and a few croissants, his voice casual, as if we hadn’t just had the strangest conversation of our lives outside.
As we waited, he leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. “Look,” he said, his voice lower now. “I just… I didn’t see this coming. Not with him.”
I swallowed. “Neither did I.”
Stevan nodded, as if that made sense. “Last weekend, we went out,” he said suddenly. “Andrej met this girl—Tamara, I think her name was. Some blonde from Temerin.” He glanced at me, gauging my reaction. “They made out.”
My stomach twisted, but I kept my face neutral.
I didn’t know why it bothered me. I had no claim over Andrej. There was no definition to what had happened between us—no promise, no expectation. And yet, the thought of his lips on someone else’s, of his hands on her body, made something deep inside me tighten. Andrej wasn’t mine. But somehow, that truth didn’t make it any easier.
We grabbed the bag of warm bread and pastries, stepping back into the cold. The wind had picked up again, and I pulled my jacket tighter, letting Stevan walk slightly ahead of me as my mind reeled.
—
By the time we got back, my head was still spinning. I slipped into my room, closing the door behind me, and found Andrej sitting up in bed, stretching his arms over his head. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I’ve never been this drunk in my life.”
I froze, my stomach twisting.
What was he saying? That he didn’t remember? That it had meant nothing?
He smirked, glancing at me. “You raped me, didn’t you?” he joked, stretching his legs. “Stole my clothes, too. Bastard.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. He was being his usual self. Stupid. Playful. And still, something inside me stayed tense. I moved toward the bed, my gaze tracing the lines of his body, the way the sheets pooled around his waist, exposing the broad stretch of his shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest. He sat there, naked, utterly unbothered, as if we hadn’t crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
And then, he grinned, tilting his head slightly. “You’re staring.”
I didn’t answer. I just sat beside him, my pulse steady but heavy, my fingers brushing over his thigh. And then, without thinking, I leaned in. His mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped from the cold air outside. He tasted like sleep, like something unspoken, something forbidden. And he didn’t pull away. He kissed me back. Longer this time. Hungrier. And then, just like before, I lost myself in him.
His lips pressed into mine again, warm and teasing, pulling me into a kiss that felt deeper than before. The taste of him was intoxicating—like last night, but slower now, deliberate. I could feel the heat of his body against me, the lazy, careless way he moved, as if he had all the time in the world. His fingers traced the side of my neck, the touch light but confident, and I shivered beneath it.
I wanted to say something. Maybe ask him if he remembered everything—if he had meant it. But the words died in my throat the moment his hand moved, sliding beneath my shirt, his fingertips cold against my skin. I inhaled sharply, my chest tightening, but I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t.
Andrej had a way of making everything feel easy. As if none of this should be questioned. As if we weren’t teetering on the edge of something neither of us understood.
His kisses grew rougher, more insistent. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, a silent dare, and I answered by pulling him closer, my hands moving over his back, memorizing the way his muscles tensed beneath my touch. He grinned against my mouth, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to me, and for a second, I hated how effortless it was for him.
I pushed him back onto the bed, my body settling over his, and he let out a low chuckle, his hands gripping my waist. "Damn, Petar," he muttered, his voice thick with amusement. "You really can't get enough of me, huh?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Instead, I kissed him again, harder this time, and he groaned into my mouth, his grip tightening. His hips shifted beneath mine, and I could feel him, already half-hard, pressing against me. The realization sent a sharp thrill through me, a rush of something dark and desperate.
Then, without warning, he flipped us over, his weight settling against me. His mouth trailed down my jaw, over my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. I exhaled sharply, my fingers threading through his hair as he moved lower, dragging his lips over my collarbone, my chest.
I should have stopped him.
I should have asked—something, anything—but my body betrayed me.
His hands slid down, thumbs pressing into my hips, his mouth ghosting over my stomach, and I cursed under my breath, barely holding back a groan. Andrej was teasing me, taking his time, and it was unbearable.
"Relax," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm, his voice dripping with amusement.
As if I could.
And then he went lower.
His fingers curled around the waistband of my boxers, pulling them down in one smooth motion, and suddenly, I was completely bare beneath him. He paused for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, something unreadable in his expression.
Then he smirked.
And his mouth was on me.
The heat of it, the sudden wetness, sent a sharp, unrestrained gasp from my lips. My fingers gripped the sheets, my back arching slightly as he took me in deeper, his tongue pressing against the underside. He was good at this. Too good.
That thought alone sent another wave of confusion through me, but it was buried beneath the sharp pull of pleasure, the way he moved—confident, knowing.
This wasn't a fumbling first-time thing.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I wanted to ask him how. If he'd done this before. If this was just another one of his games.
But I couldn’t focus.
His mouth worked me over with slow, deliberate movements, his tongue swirling, his hand gripping the base. I let out a low, broken sound, my breath hitching as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder.
Fuck.
I couldn’t think.
I didn’t want to think.
His other hand pressed against my stomach, keeping me pinned, his pace steady, relentless. My body tensed, every nerve ending burning, and I could already feel myself slipping closer to the edge.
Andrej hummed, a low vibration against me, and my whole body jerked in response.
"Jesus Christ," I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair.
He pulled back slightly, his lips slick, his expression downright smug.
"That good?" he teased, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
I stared at him, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, my mind a complete fucking mess.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know what the hell this meant.
For him.
For me.
For whatever the fuck this was between us.
Although I had fallen asleep relatively quickly, exhausted by the weight of the night and the emotions that had drained me, my sleep was light. There were no nightmares, but my dreams carried an odd sense of unease—some kind of dread, perhaps. It’s hard to put into words. When I opened my eyes and saw 07:00 glowing on the small digital clock on my nightstand, I decided that a morning jog was exactly what I needed. But the moment that thought formed in my mind, my gaze drifted to my right, and there he was—Andrej.
He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me. My God, he was perfect. A few strands of his now wavy hair had fallen across his forehead, brushing against his closed eyelids. His breathing was slow, steady, peaceful. The blanket we had pulled over ourselves barely covered his lower back, just enough to conceal what I desperately wanted to see. And that wasn’t the only thing I craved to look at that morning.
Then, the memory of the night before surged through me—panic took hold at the thought that someone might have heard everything that had happened in my room. What kind of idiot am I? I thought. Not just because of that, but because this would undoubtedly complicate things. Even more than they already were. I was drowning in my own conflict—he was my best friend, he was Stevan’s friend, he was a straight guy, and yet, he was everything I wanted, everything I needed in my life.
The moment I swung one leg out of bed, a sharp pain shot through me, cutting through my thoughts—a lingering reminder of Andrej’s desire, of my own desire, and my complete inexperience. As if I had learned nothing about sex. About preparation, about taking time when it’s someone’s first time. He had been rough—brutally rough—but don’t let my words mislead you. I had wanted him that way.
In those fevered moments last night, holding my breath to stifle any moan or the urge to call his name, he had not held back. The sharp slap of skin against skin, the sound of our bodies colliding, had echoed through my room, unrelenting. Just remembering that terrifying sound was enough to make my cock harden again.
Even as I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, my traitorous dick stood stiff, eager, throbbing—ready for another episode, another action-packed scene.
Fucking traitor.
—
I stood in front of the mirror, tying my running shoes with the intention of shaking off the weight pressing against my chest. A morning jog was supposed to help—sweat out the tension, force my body into a rhythm that might quiet my mind. But just as I shrugged my jacket over my shoulders, the door across the hallway creaked open, and Stevan emerged.
We froze for a second, two animals startled by each other’s presence. Something about the way he looked at me—hesitant, guarded—set my nerves on edge.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
"Yeah," I replied, clearing my throat. "Was gonna go for a run."
A beat of silence stretched between us. Stevan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rubbed the back of his neck. "You wanna go to the bakery instead?"
It was a simple suggestion, nothing out of the ordinary, yet it felt like we were carefully stepping around something unspoken. We had never been awkward before—never had to measure our words, never second-guessed casual invitations like this. I hesitated but eventually nodded. Maybe a walk would do me just as much good.
The wind cut sharp as a knife as we stepped out onto the cracked pavement, the damp November air slipping under my jacket, making me pull it tighter around my body. The sky hung low and heavy, a dull, overcast gray that swallowed the sun, leaving only a faint, ghostly light in its place. The old german buildings that lined our narrow street were old, their facades worn by time and neglect, their peeling paint revealing layers of forgotten colors beneath. A few stray leaves, brittle and lifeless, tumbled across the road, swept up by the occasional gust of wind.
Stevan walked beside me in silence, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. There was something unfamiliar in his posture, a stiffness that didn't belong to him. Normally, he moved with an easy confidence, his body loose, his shoulders relaxed. Now, his steps were measured, almost hesitant, as if he were rehearsing a conversation in his head before speaking it aloud.
I felt the weight of it between us, the unspoken question thickening the air, making each step toward the bakery feel longer than it should have been.
I wasn’t sure which one of us was more uncomfortable. My stomach tightened in a way I wasn’t used to, a strange tension creeping up my throat. This was Stevan—the friend I had known for years, the one person with whom I had shared everything except this. And yet, as we walked side by side, I could feel a distance stretching between us, one that had never been there before.
We passed the small, rusted gate of an abandoned lot, the metal groaning slightly as the wind pushed against it. The bakery was only a few minutes away, its old sign swaying lightly above the entrance, the letters faded. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and burnt wood, the scent of someone’s fireplace filling the cold morning. I focused on those details, anything to keep my mind from racing too far ahead.
Stevan cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “So… Andrej stayed over?”
The question was casual enough, but there was something beneath it, something uncertain. I felt my jaw tighten. I had known this was coming, had felt it the moment I saw him step out of his room.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice even, controlled. “He did.”
Stevan gave a slow nod, but his expression flickered—an almost imperceptible shift in his features, something like surprise before he caught himself. He didn’t say anything right away, just exhaled softly, watching his breath cloud in the cold.
“And?” he asked eventually, tilting his head slightly. “Why?”
A simple question. A loaded question. One that felt heavier than it should have.
I could’ve lied. Said Andrej had passed out drunk, that it had been too late for him to go home. I could’ve said anything, really. But instead, I stood there, staring down at the uneven pavement, feeling the pressure of the moment settle over me like a weight on my chest.
“He just… stayed,” I said, my voice quieter now. “We were hanging out. Then he stayed.”
Stevan watched me, his gaze unreadable. “That’s it?”
I hesitated, and it was enough. He knew me too well. He could hear it in the pause, in the way I exhaled a little too hard, in the way my shoulders tensed just slightly.
“Petar,” he said, his voice careful now. “Did something happen?”
There it was.
The words were right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, fighting to be spoken. But my body resisted them, every muscle tensing in quiet rebellion. Saying it out loud meant making it real. Meant stepping past a line I had never dared to cross. Especially with my brother.
Stevan had never judged me for anything before. We had seen each other at our worst, had carried each other through bad decisions, and drunken nights that neither of us wanted to remember. But this—this was different.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Yeah,” I admitted finally, my voice steady but quieter than before. “Something happened.”
Stevan blinked. Just once. A slight tightening around his mouth, the faintest shift in his expression. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disgusted. He was just… surprised. And maybe a little confused.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Damn,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
That was all. Just that. No accusations, no uncomfortable questions. Just an acknowledgment, a moment of processing.
We stepped into the bakery, the warmth hitting me immediately, the scent of fresh bread and butter filling the air. The woman behind the counter, an older lady with graying hair pulled back into a bun, offered us a nod as she wiped her hands on her apron. Stevan ordered a loaf of bread and a few croissants, his voice casual, as if we hadn’t just had the strangest conversation of our lives outside.
As we waited, he leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. “Look,” he said, his voice lower now. “I just… I didn’t see this coming. Not with him.”
I swallowed. “Neither did I.”
Stevan nodded, as if that made sense. “Last weekend, we went out,” he said suddenly. “Andrej met this girl—Tamara, I think her name was. Some blonde from Temerin.” He glanced at me, gauging my reaction. “They made out.”
My stomach twisted, but I kept my face neutral.
I didn’t know why it bothered me. I had no claim over Andrej. There was no definition to what had happened between us—no promise, no expectation. And yet, the thought of his lips on someone else’s, of his hands on her body, made something deep inside me tighten. Andrej wasn’t mine. But somehow, that truth didn’t make it any easier.
We grabbed the bag of warm bread and pastries, stepping back into the cold. The wind had picked up again, and I pulled my jacket tighter, letting Stevan walk slightly ahead of me as my mind reeled.
—
By the time we got back, my head was still spinning. I slipped into my room, closing the door behind me, and found Andrej sitting up in bed, stretching his arms over his head. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I’ve never been this drunk in my life.”
I froze, my stomach twisting.
What was he saying? That he didn’t remember? That it had meant nothing?
He smirked, glancing at me. “You raped me, didn’t you?” he joked, stretching his legs. “Stole my clothes, too. Bastard.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. He was being his usual self. Stupid. Playful. And still, something inside me stayed tense. I moved toward the bed, my gaze tracing the lines of his body, the way the sheets pooled around his waist, exposing the broad stretch of his shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest. He sat there, naked, utterly unbothered, as if we hadn’t crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
And then, he grinned, tilting his head slightly. “You’re staring.”
I didn’t answer. I just sat beside him, my pulse steady but heavy, my fingers brushing over his thigh. And then, without thinking, I leaned in. His mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped from the cold air outside. He tasted like sleep, like something unspoken, something forbidden. And he didn’t pull away. He kissed me back. Longer this time. Hungrier. And then, just like before, I lost myself in him.
His lips pressed into mine again, warm and teasing, pulling me into a kiss that felt deeper than before. The taste of him was intoxicating—like last night, but slower now, deliberate. I could feel the heat of his body against me, the lazy, careless way he moved, as if he had all the time in the world. His fingers traced the side of my neck, the touch light but confident, and I shivered beneath it.
I wanted to say something. Maybe ask him if he remembered everything—if he had meant it. But the words died in my throat the moment his hand moved, sliding beneath my shirt, his fingertips cold against my skin. I inhaled sharply, my chest tightening, but I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t.
Andrej had a way of making everything feel easy. As if none of this should be questioned. As if we weren’t teetering on the edge of something neither of us understood.
His kisses grew rougher, more insistent. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, a silent dare, and I answered by pulling him closer, my hands moving over his back, memorizing the way his muscles tensed beneath my touch. He grinned against my mouth, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to me, and for a second, I hated how effortless it was for him.
I pushed him back onto the bed, my body settling over his, and he let out a low chuckle, his hands gripping my waist. "Damn, Petar," he muttered, his voice thick with amusement. "You really can't get enough of me, huh?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Instead, I kissed him again, harder this time, and he groaned into my mouth, his grip tightening. His hips shifted beneath mine, and I could feel him, already half-hard, pressing against me. The realization sent a sharp thrill through me, a rush of something dark and desperate.
Then, without warning, he flipped us over, his weight settling against me. His mouth trailed down my jaw, over my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. I exhaled sharply, my fingers threading through his hair as he moved lower, dragging his lips over my collarbone, my chest.
I should have stopped him.
I should have asked—something, anything—but my body betrayed me.
His hands slid down, thumbs pressing into my hips, his mouth ghosting over my stomach, and I cursed under my breath, barely holding back a groan. Andrej was teasing me, taking his time, and it was unbearable.
"Relax," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm, his voice dripping with amusement.
As if I could.
And then he went lower.
His fingers curled around the waistband of my boxers, pulling them down in one smooth motion, and suddenly, I was completely bare beneath him. He paused for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, something unreadable in his expression.
Then he smirked.
And his mouth was on me.
The heat of it, the sudden wetness, sent a sharp, unrestrained gasp from my lips. My fingers gripped the sheets, my back arching slightly as he took me in deeper, his tongue pressing against the underside. He was good at this. Too good.
That thought alone sent another wave of confusion through me, but it was buried beneath the sharp pull of pleasure, the way he moved—confident, knowing.
This wasn't a fumbling first-time thing.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I wanted to ask him how. If he'd done this before. If this was just another one of his games.
But I couldn’t focus.
His mouth worked me over with slow, deliberate movements, his tongue swirling, his hand gripping the base. I let out a low, broken sound, my breath hitching as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder.
Fuck.
I couldn’t think.
I didn’t want to think.
His other hand pressed against my stomach, keeping me pinned, his pace steady, relentless. My body tensed, every nerve ending burning, and I could already feel myself slipping closer to the edge.
Andrej hummed, a low vibration against me, and my whole body jerked in response.
"Jesus Christ," I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair.
He pulled back slightly, his lips slick, his expression downright smug.
"That good?" he teased, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
I stared at him, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, my mind a complete fucking mess.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know what the hell this meant.
For him.
For me.
For whatever the fuck this was between us.
Man, this is HOT and felt so real. Congratulations and looking forward to the next one 
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Yeah, well I posted the beginning of the story here a couple of years back, when I had another profile, and it was just a very small part of the prologue. But as I stated at the beginning, I tried writing this many many many times throughout the years. I still find it exceptionally difficult.
I mean: WOW.
Your writing is so damn rich and extremely nuanced. You are so talented, man.
And your story... it's just a rollercoaster of emotions, you are so deep and somehow I can relate to you.
I can't wait to read the next 'chapters' of your story.
Your writing is so damn rich and extremely nuanced. You are so talented, man.
And your story... it's just a rollercoaster of emotions, you are so deep and somehow I can relate to you.
I can't wait to read the next 'chapters' of your story.
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
- Posts
- 34
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- 0
- Likes
- 154
- Points
- 43
- Location
- Zurich, Zurich,Switzerland
- Sexuality
- 90% Gay, 10% Straight
- Gender
- Male
Chapter 9
The Radnička faculty building loomed in the distance like a forgotten relic of a past ambition, its skeletal structure exposed to the elements, unfinished and forsaken. In the dim November night, its concrete pillars stood like broken teeth against the bruised sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the cracked pavement. I visited Novi Sad just a couple of months ago, and saw that a new building sits on the spot, an IT firm. It now has something it promissed back then—a future, a purpose—but at the time the story takes place, it was a ghost of its own potential, claimed by stray graffiti, shattered glass, and the whispers of countless teenagers who had come here to smoke, drink, and touch each other in the dark.
Young Petar was no different from those teenagers tonight.
We barely made it out through the training session.
The gym smelled of sweat and adrenaline, a thick haze of exertion hanging in the air. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, their sterile glow reflecting off the padded mats where Andrej and I stood, circling each other like wolves testing for weakness. The room was nearly empty now—only a few other fighters lingering at the heavy bags, their rhythmic strikes a dull percussion behind the sharp focus between us. My heart pounded, a drumbeat against my ribs, not from exertion but from something deeper, something volatile. Andrej grinned at me, his hands raised in a loose guard, his stance cocky, teasing. The bastard always had that confidence, the kind that made him reckless, made him beautiful. I wanted to knock it off his face. I wanted to pull him closer.
We moved in sync, bodies weaving through the space like two animals bred for this—trained muscle, sharpened reflexes. I faked a jab, testing his reaction. He didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he smirked, his weight shifting ever so slightly before he lunged, aiming low. I barely sidestepped in time, my back foot skimming the edge of the mat as I adjusted, turning the feint into a counterstrike. My fist connected with his ribs—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that I wasn’t some easy target. He exhaled sharply, his body tensing, the muscles in his abdomen flexing beneath my knuckles before he retaliated. His elbow came up, brushing past my jaw, and for a second, we were too close, our breath mingling in the charged air between us. The heat of his body was intoxicating, the way his skin glistened under the fluorescent light, his scent—a mix of sweat, soap, and something unmistakably him—curling into my lungs like a drug. And I was an addict.
The sparring intensified. Every strike, every block, every grapple became something more than just technique. It was a conversation, a language spoken between two bodies that knew each other too well. My fists met his forearms, my shin clashed against his thigh, and every impact sent a shiver of something electric down my spine. I could feel his breath ghosting over my shoulder when he ducked under one of my swings. Could feel the heat of his chest against my back when he came in too close, trying to take me down. Our legs tangled, the friction of sweat-damp skin against skin making the movements slick, primal. The air between us was thick, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.
Then he did it—he caught me. In one swift motion, he hooked my leg, pivoted his weight, and took me down hard. My back hit the mat with a dull thud, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I could react, he was on top of me, pinning me down, his forearm pressing against my throat just enough to remind me that he had the upper hand. Of course he had, he always had the upper hand. At that time, I was under the illusion that he didn’t. I struggled, but it was half-hearted, because fuck, the way he looked above me—his curly hair damp, chest heaving, lips parted—made my pulse hammer against my ribs. His thighs caged mine, his hips pressing into me with just enough force to make me feel how solid he was, how undeniably present. I should have thrown him off. I should have twisted my hips, reversed the position, done anything but what I did—I froze, just for a second, my hands gripping his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingers.
He must have seen it in my eyes, that flicker of something raw, because his expression shifted—just for a second, just barely. His hold loosened, the pressure of his body against mine becoming something else entirely. The world around us faded, the sounds of the gym drowning beneath the wild thrum of my pulse. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my entire body thrumming with an energy that had nothing to do with the fight. He was still looking at me, that fucking smirk gone, replaced by something darker, something unreadable. And then, just as quickly as it had happened, he pushed off me, standing, offering a hand. I took it, but my fingers lingered against his palm longer than necessary. The match was over. But something else had begun.
—
We had been at the Radnička faculty building before, months ago, daring each other to climb to the roof, to test the limits of our fear, as many teenagers our age did. But tonight was different. There was no childish dares, no reckless laughter echoing up the unfinished stairwells. It was just us, just the silence, just the cold steel of anticipation threading through my veins as I followed Andrej inside.
I felt every step, the uneven ground beneath my boots, the damp air thick with dust and the stale scent of rotting wood. There was a part of me that hesitated, that whispered this was a mistake, that reminded me of every moral my family had tried to instill in me. But then I saw Andrej, his figure moving ahead of me, his presence anchoring me in something far more real than guilt. He turned, his gaze finding mine in the dim light filtering through broken windows.
"Come on," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
And I did. Because no amount of orthodox guilt or childhood ideals could outweigh the way my blood surged when he looked at me like that.
We didn't waste time. There was no prelude, no careful dance of hesitation. We had already crossed every line worth crossing. My back hit the cold, rough concrete of a support column, and his mouth was on mine, teeth clashing, hands ruthless. His fingers gripped the front of my jacket, yanking it open with a force that sent buttons scattering across the floor. I didn't care. I couldn't care.
His hands were everywhere—pushing, pulling, claiming. My body responded before my mind could catch up, before the last thread of restraint could weave itself into a coherent thought. There was nothing soft about it, nothing hesitant. He pushed my shirt up, his hands pressing against my bare skin, cold at first, then searing. I groaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips grinding into mine with a desperation that sent fire racing up my spine.
I pulled at his hoodie, dragging it over his head, and he barely let me breathe before he was on me again, our bodies colliding with the force of something primal. My fingers found his belt, trembling but sure, undoing it, pushing denim down just enough to feel him, hot and hard against my thigh. He exhaled sharply, a low curse spilling from his lips as he pressed harder, grinding, teasing, torturing.
Then he turned me around, my chest meeting the cold, unfinished wall. I braced myself, fingers splaying against the rough surface as he tugged my jeans down, his breath hot against the back of my neck. There was no tenderness, no careful whispers of reassurance. Just urgency, just need, just the sound of him spitting into his hand before slick fingers pushed inside me. I sucked in a sharp breath, forehead pressing to the wall.
"Relax," he murmured, voice husky, ruined.
I didn’t want to relax. I wanted to feel everything.
He pushed in, slow at first, then rough, relentless. Pain licked up my spine, sharp and searing, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure that followed, a tidal wave crashing through my body. He gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, holding me in place as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust pushing me further into the wall.
I moaned, raw and unfiltered, my breath against the cold concrete. His name tumbled from my lips in a broken plea, and he groaned in response, his pace faltering for a moment before he caught himself, driving harder, deeper. This wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy, reckless, desperate. It was everything I shouldn’t want but did.
I clawed at the wall, at him, at anything that could anchor me as the pressure built, coiling, tightening, until I was coming undone beneath him, muscles locking, mind blanking. He followed, a choked gasp spilling from his lips as he buried himself deep, fingers tightening, body shaking.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the empty space around us. Then, slowly, reality crept back in—the cold, the silence, the knowledge that we had just done something that couldn’t be taken back.
I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. Because the moment I did, I would have to acknowledge the truth that I had been avoiding for so long.
I had never felt more alive. And I had never been more afraid.
Novi Sad stretched out below us, a sea of amber lights flickering in the late November chill. The city pulsed quietly, its heartbeat slower at this hour, the streets nearly empty save for the occasional car gliding along the streets. In the distance, the Danube shimmered darkly, reflecting the glow of the Petrovaradin Fortress perched on the hill, its ancient walls bathed in golden light. From up here, on the exposed concrete of the Radnička faculty rooftop, the city felt distant, like a painting hung too high on a wall. I took a slow drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips, dissipating into the night air.
Andrej didn’t stop moving. He paced along the edge of the roof, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath visible in the cold. He wasn’t looking at the city. He wasn’t looking at me. The adrenaline from what we had done still clung to us, a phantom weight pressing down on my limbs, but the moment was slipping away. The recklessness, the heat—it had burned bright, but now all that remained was the quiet.
I exhaled, tilting my head back, staring at the inky sky. A few stars managed to pierce through the glow of the city, but they looked faint, distant. "What are we doing?" I finally asked, my voice low, barely carried by the wind. The question had been gnawing at me for weeks, but here, on this rooftop, after what had just happened, it felt like the only thing left to say.
Andrej stopped. He turned slightly, just enough for me to see the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of hesitation in his expression. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before finally looking at me. "I don’t know, Petar," he admitted, his voice rough. “Fuck.”
He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. Then, he let out a small, humorless laugh. "It’s not like I planned for this to happen," he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at me then, eyes searching, as if he expected me to have an answer he didn’t. "It just happens. And then it happens again."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a little more before finally sitting down on the low concrete ledge, elbows on his knees. "I don’t think about it when we’re doing it," he admitted. "I just… I don’t know what the fuck to do with it."
I took another drag of my cigarette, letting the silence stretch between us. I knew what he meant. I felt it too. The way everything made sense when we were tangled up in each other, only for that clarity to dissolve the moment reality seeped back in.
"You don’t regret it," I said, watching him carefully.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the city instead, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. "No," he said finally. "That’s the fucked-up part. I don’t."
Was that the fucked-up part?
—
In retrospect, this night was particularly difficult for me. I reflect upon it even now, all these years later, with the clarity of someone who has lived a few more lives, worn a few more skins. Back then, I had written in some abandoned draft of this story that this was the night everything between Andrej and me began—but that wasn’t quite true. With time and distance, I’ve learned to look back on our story with softer eyes, eyes no longer choked by guilt or the trembling shame of a boy who loved where he wasn’t supposed to.
It didn’t begin here, on this rooftop, though that’s what I believed at the time.
It began the moment I saw him beside me at the MMA center, shirtless, his chest rising and falling with every breath, beads of sweat tracing the edges of his muscles like a map. That moment cracked something open in me. This night was just escalation.
The city below buzzed gently, almost unaware of the chaos running through my blood. I looked at him again—now seated on the ledge with the kind of posture that looked relaxed but was anything but. He was always holding something back. Always carrying the weight of something he didn’t know how to name. And God help me, I wanted to carry it for him.
I pulled out my phone and texted my mom that I was staying over at Andrej’s grandma’s place. It wasn’t a lie. Not technically. We had done that dozens of times, long before any of this. She’d smile through the receiver and say something like, “Pozdravi je—say hello to her,” even though she hadn’t seen Andrej’s grandmother in months.
When we got to the apartment, it was quiet—always was. She was already asleep in the back room. There was something sacred about that silence, like stepping into a church. Even though it was nearly midnight, I felt wide awake, my pulse still singing from the rooftop, from the sex hours before, from the unspoken things hanging between us.
We didn’t talk much. He let me go to the bathroom first. When I came back into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the mattress in his boxers, the glow of the streetlamp outside painting soft shadows across his body. He looked at me, and I knew.
There was no prelude this time.
No need for games or glances. The moment I sat beside him, his hand found the back of my neck, and his lips pressed against mine—not urgent this time, not demanding. Just present. A tether pulling us into each other with something that felt dangerously close to care.
We kissed like we had time. Like we’d be allowed to have more.
But something shifted quickly. Maybe it was the weight of everything we hadn’t said. Maybe it was just the nature of us. The kiss deepened, hands roaming with renewed hunger. His palm slid under my shirt, fingers spreading across my ribs like he needed to anchor himself there. I moaned into his mouth, and he quickly, silently hushed me with a grin and a single finger across my lips.
“We’ll wake her,” he whispered, voice low, thick with arousal. “And she’ll think I’ve finally lost my mind.”
I grinned, breathless, and he took the distraction to push me back onto the bed, hovering above me.
It was different this time. Slower, but not gentler. More deliberate. Like we knew now exactly what we wanted from each other.
He entered me with more care, but once he was inside, the rhythm built quickly. The thrust of his hips carried weight and precision, like a language we were still learning but already fluent in. I clenched the sheets, biting the inside of my wrist to keep quiet, to avoid calling out his name into the shadows of the room. His fingers splayed over my chest, pressing into my skin, tracing along my collarbone. My thighs wrapped around him instinctively.
He leaned down, his forehead pressed to mine, and we moved together like that—breathing in tandem, our sweat mixing, our bodies fusing in a rhythm that made the rest of the world disappear. His lips brushed my cheek, my temple, my jaw. The moments of tenderness startled me as much as the ferocity of our need.
There were moments I thought I might cry.
Not from pain—but from the staggering intensity of it all. The confusion. The joy. The fact that I didn’t know where this was going, or if it could ever survive outside the heat of a bed. But in that moment, I didn’t want it to end.
And when he finished, he buried his face in the crook of my neck and stayed there, breath hot against my skin, hand still holding mine.
I came in silence, my body shaking, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but cling to him and hope this feeling wouldn’t vanish in the morning.
But it did.
Even now, when I revisit that night, I remember not just the pleasure, but the fragility of it all. Like holding fire in your hands and pretending it won’t burn. Like pretending the world wouldn’t ask us to choose—between the truth of what we felt and the lie of what was expected.
That night, though, we didn’t choose.
We just let it happen.
And when we finally slept, our legs tangled and the sweat on our skin drying slowly in the night air, I couldn’t tell anymore where his body ended and mine began.
The Radnička faculty building loomed in the distance like a forgotten relic of a past ambition, its skeletal structure exposed to the elements, unfinished and forsaken. In the dim November night, its concrete pillars stood like broken teeth against the bruised sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the cracked pavement. I visited Novi Sad just a couple of months ago, and saw that a new building sits on the spot, an IT firm. It now has something it promissed back then—a future, a purpose—but at the time the story takes place, it was a ghost of its own potential, claimed by stray graffiti, shattered glass, and the whispers of countless teenagers who had come here to smoke, drink, and touch each other in the dark.
Young Petar was no different from those teenagers tonight.
We barely made it out through the training session.
The gym smelled of sweat and adrenaline, a thick haze of exertion hanging in the air. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, their sterile glow reflecting off the padded mats where Andrej and I stood, circling each other like wolves testing for weakness. The room was nearly empty now—only a few other fighters lingering at the heavy bags, their rhythmic strikes a dull percussion behind the sharp focus between us. My heart pounded, a drumbeat against my ribs, not from exertion but from something deeper, something volatile. Andrej grinned at me, his hands raised in a loose guard, his stance cocky, teasing. The bastard always had that confidence, the kind that made him reckless, made him beautiful. I wanted to knock it off his face. I wanted to pull him closer.
We moved in sync, bodies weaving through the space like two animals bred for this—trained muscle, sharpened reflexes. I faked a jab, testing his reaction. He didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he smirked, his weight shifting ever so slightly before he lunged, aiming low. I barely sidestepped in time, my back foot skimming the edge of the mat as I adjusted, turning the feint into a counterstrike. My fist connected with his ribs—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that I wasn’t some easy target. He exhaled sharply, his body tensing, the muscles in his abdomen flexing beneath my knuckles before he retaliated. His elbow came up, brushing past my jaw, and for a second, we were too close, our breath mingling in the charged air between us. The heat of his body was intoxicating, the way his skin glistened under the fluorescent light, his scent—a mix of sweat, soap, and something unmistakably him—curling into my lungs like a drug. And I was an addict.
The sparring intensified. Every strike, every block, every grapple became something more than just technique. It was a conversation, a language spoken between two bodies that knew each other too well. My fists met his forearms, my shin clashed against his thigh, and every impact sent a shiver of something electric down my spine. I could feel his breath ghosting over my shoulder when he ducked under one of my swings. Could feel the heat of his chest against my back when he came in too close, trying to take me down. Our legs tangled, the friction of sweat-damp skin against skin making the movements slick, primal. The air between us was thick, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.
Then he did it—he caught me. In one swift motion, he hooked my leg, pivoted his weight, and took me down hard. My back hit the mat with a dull thud, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I could react, he was on top of me, pinning me down, his forearm pressing against my throat just enough to remind me that he had the upper hand. Of course he had, he always had the upper hand. At that time, I was under the illusion that he didn’t. I struggled, but it was half-hearted, because fuck, the way he looked above me—his curly hair damp, chest heaving, lips parted—made my pulse hammer against my ribs. His thighs caged mine, his hips pressing into me with just enough force to make me feel how solid he was, how undeniably present. I should have thrown him off. I should have twisted my hips, reversed the position, done anything but what I did—I froze, just for a second, my hands gripping his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingers.
He must have seen it in my eyes, that flicker of something raw, because his expression shifted—just for a second, just barely. His hold loosened, the pressure of his body against mine becoming something else entirely. The world around us faded, the sounds of the gym drowning beneath the wild thrum of my pulse. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my entire body thrumming with an energy that had nothing to do with the fight. He was still looking at me, that fucking smirk gone, replaced by something darker, something unreadable. And then, just as quickly as it had happened, he pushed off me, standing, offering a hand. I took it, but my fingers lingered against his palm longer than necessary. The match was over. But something else had begun.
—
We had been at the Radnička faculty building before, months ago, daring each other to climb to the roof, to test the limits of our fear, as many teenagers our age did. But tonight was different. There was no childish dares, no reckless laughter echoing up the unfinished stairwells. It was just us, just the silence, just the cold steel of anticipation threading through my veins as I followed Andrej inside.
I felt every step, the uneven ground beneath my boots, the damp air thick with dust and the stale scent of rotting wood. There was a part of me that hesitated, that whispered this was a mistake, that reminded me of every moral my family had tried to instill in me. But then I saw Andrej, his figure moving ahead of me, his presence anchoring me in something far more real than guilt. He turned, his gaze finding mine in the dim light filtering through broken windows.
"Come on," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
And I did. Because no amount of orthodox guilt or childhood ideals could outweigh the way my blood surged when he looked at me like that.
We didn't waste time. There was no prelude, no careful dance of hesitation. We had already crossed every line worth crossing. My back hit the cold, rough concrete of a support column, and his mouth was on mine, teeth clashing, hands ruthless. His fingers gripped the front of my jacket, yanking it open with a force that sent buttons scattering across the floor. I didn't care. I couldn't care.
His hands were everywhere—pushing, pulling, claiming. My body responded before my mind could catch up, before the last thread of restraint could weave itself into a coherent thought. There was nothing soft about it, nothing hesitant. He pushed my shirt up, his hands pressing against my bare skin, cold at first, then searing. I groaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips grinding into mine with a desperation that sent fire racing up my spine.
I pulled at his hoodie, dragging it over his head, and he barely let me breathe before he was on me again, our bodies colliding with the force of something primal. My fingers found his belt, trembling but sure, undoing it, pushing denim down just enough to feel him, hot and hard against my thigh. He exhaled sharply, a low curse spilling from his lips as he pressed harder, grinding, teasing, torturing.
Then he turned me around, my chest meeting the cold, unfinished wall. I braced myself, fingers splaying against the rough surface as he tugged my jeans down, his breath hot against the back of my neck. There was no tenderness, no careful whispers of reassurance. Just urgency, just need, just the sound of him spitting into his hand before slick fingers pushed inside me. I sucked in a sharp breath, forehead pressing to the wall.
"Relax," he murmured, voice husky, ruined.
I didn’t want to relax. I wanted to feel everything.
He pushed in, slow at first, then rough, relentless. Pain licked up my spine, sharp and searing, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure that followed, a tidal wave crashing through my body. He gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, holding me in place as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust pushing me further into the wall.
I moaned, raw and unfiltered, my breath against the cold concrete. His name tumbled from my lips in a broken plea, and he groaned in response, his pace faltering for a moment before he caught himself, driving harder, deeper. This wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy, reckless, desperate. It was everything I shouldn’t want but did.
I clawed at the wall, at him, at anything that could anchor me as the pressure built, coiling, tightening, until I was coming undone beneath him, muscles locking, mind blanking. He followed, a choked gasp spilling from his lips as he buried himself deep, fingers tightening, body shaking.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the empty space around us. Then, slowly, reality crept back in—the cold, the silence, the knowledge that we had just done something that couldn’t be taken back.
I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. Because the moment I did, I would have to acknowledge the truth that I had been avoiding for so long.
I had never felt more alive. And I had never been more afraid.
Novi Sad stretched out below us, a sea of amber lights flickering in the late November chill. The city pulsed quietly, its heartbeat slower at this hour, the streets nearly empty save for the occasional car gliding along the streets. In the distance, the Danube shimmered darkly, reflecting the glow of the Petrovaradin Fortress perched on the hill, its ancient walls bathed in golden light. From up here, on the exposed concrete of the Radnička faculty rooftop, the city felt distant, like a painting hung too high on a wall. I took a slow drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips, dissipating into the night air.
Andrej didn’t stop moving. He paced along the edge of the roof, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath visible in the cold. He wasn’t looking at the city. He wasn’t looking at me. The adrenaline from what we had done still clung to us, a phantom weight pressing down on my limbs, but the moment was slipping away. The recklessness, the heat—it had burned bright, but now all that remained was the quiet.
I exhaled, tilting my head back, staring at the inky sky. A few stars managed to pierce through the glow of the city, but they looked faint, distant. "What are we doing?" I finally asked, my voice low, barely carried by the wind. The question had been gnawing at me for weeks, but here, on this rooftop, after what had just happened, it felt like the only thing left to say.
Andrej stopped. He turned slightly, just enough for me to see the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of hesitation in his expression. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before finally looking at me. "I don’t know, Petar," he admitted, his voice rough. “Fuck.”
He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. Then, he let out a small, humorless laugh. "It’s not like I planned for this to happen," he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at me then, eyes searching, as if he expected me to have an answer he didn’t. "It just happens. And then it happens again."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a little more before finally sitting down on the low concrete ledge, elbows on his knees. "I don’t think about it when we’re doing it," he admitted. "I just… I don’t know what the fuck to do with it."
I took another drag of my cigarette, letting the silence stretch between us. I knew what he meant. I felt it too. The way everything made sense when we were tangled up in each other, only for that clarity to dissolve the moment reality seeped back in.
"You don’t regret it," I said, watching him carefully.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the city instead, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. "No," he said finally. "That’s the fucked-up part. I don’t."
Was that the fucked-up part?
—
In retrospect, this night was particularly difficult for me. I reflect upon it even now, all these years later, with the clarity of someone who has lived a few more lives, worn a few more skins. Back then, I had written in some abandoned draft of this story that this was the night everything between Andrej and me began—but that wasn’t quite true. With time and distance, I’ve learned to look back on our story with softer eyes, eyes no longer choked by guilt or the trembling shame of a boy who loved where he wasn’t supposed to.
It didn’t begin here, on this rooftop, though that’s what I believed at the time.
It began the moment I saw him beside me at the MMA center, shirtless, his chest rising and falling with every breath, beads of sweat tracing the edges of his muscles like a map. That moment cracked something open in me. This night was just escalation.
The city below buzzed gently, almost unaware of the chaos running through my blood. I looked at him again—now seated on the ledge with the kind of posture that looked relaxed but was anything but. He was always holding something back. Always carrying the weight of something he didn’t know how to name. And God help me, I wanted to carry it for him.
I pulled out my phone and texted my mom that I was staying over at Andrej’s grandma’s place. It wasn’t a lie. Not technically. We had done that dozens of times, long before any of this. She’d smile through the receiver and say something like, “Pozdravi je—say hello to her,” even though she hadn’t seen Andrej’s grandmother in months.
When we got to the apartment, it was quiet—always was. She was already asleep in the back room. There was something sacred about that silence, like stepping into a church. Even though it was nearly midnight, I felt wide awake, my pulse still singing from the rooftop, from the sex hours before, from the unspoken things hanging between us.
We didn’t talk much. He let me go to the bathroom first. When I came back into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the mattress in his boxers, the glow of the streetlamp outside painting soft shadows across his body. He looked at me, and I knew.
There was no prelude this time.
No need for games or glances. The moment I sat beside him, his hand found the back of my neck, and his lips pressed against mine—not urgent this time, not demanding. Just present. A tether pulling us into each other with something that felt dangerously close to care.
We kissed like we had time. Like we’d be allowed to have more.
But something shifted quickly. Maybe it was the weight of everything we hadn’t said. Maybe it was just the nature of us. The kiss deepened, hands roaming with renewed hunger. His palm slid under my shirt, fingers spreading across my ribs like he needed to anchor himself there. I moaned into his mouth, and he quickly, silently hushed me with a grin and a single finger across my lips.
“We’ll wake her,” he whispered, voice low, thick with arousal. “And she’ll think I’ve finally lost my mind.”
I grinned, breathless, and he took the distraction to push me back onto the bed, hovering above me.
It was different this time. Slower, but not gentler. More deliberate. Like we knew now exactly what we wanted from each other.
He entered me with more care, but once he was inside, the rhythm built quickly. The thrust of his hips carried weight and precision, like a language we were still learning but already fluent in. I clenched the sheets, biting the inside of my wrist to keep quiet, to avoid calling out his name into the shadows of the room. His fingers splayed over my chest, pressing into my skin, tracing along my collarbone. My thighs wrapped around him instinctively.
He leaned down, his forehead pressed to mine, and we moved together like that—breathing in tandem, our sweat mixing, our bodies fusing in a rhythm that made the rest of the world disappear. His lips brushed my cheek, my temple, my jaw. The moments of tenderness startled me as much as the ferocity of our need.
There were moments I thought I might cry.
Not from pain—but from the staggering intensity of it all. The confusion. The joy. The fact that I didn’t know where this was going, or if it could ever survive outside the heat of a bed. But in that moment, I didn’t want it to end.
And when he finished, he buried his face in the crook of my neck and stayed there, breath hot against my skin, hand still holding mine.
I came in silence, my body shaking, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but cling to him and hope this feeling wouldn’t vanish in the morning.
But it did.
Even now, when I revisit that night, I remember not just the pleasure, but the fragility of it all. Like holding fire in your hands and pretending it won’t burn. Like pretending the world wouldn’t ask us to choose—between the truth of what we felt and the lie of what was expected.
That night, though, we didn’t choose.
We just let it happen.
And when we finally slept, our legs tangled and the sweat on our skin drying slowly in the night air, I couldn’t tell anymore where his body ended and mine began.
