Roommates

[jacko234]

Chapter 1: Takedown Territory

The late August heat pressed down on Westbridge University like a smothering blanket, the kind that made sweat bead on your skin before you even started moving. Ethan Carver hauled his duffel bag up the stairwell of Hawthorne Hall, his wrestler’s frame—five-foot-ten, compact and coiled with muscle—straining under the weight. At twenty, he was all sharp edges: dark hair cropped close to his scalp, a jawline that could cut glass, and arms roped with the kind of strength that came from years of pinning opponents to the mat. His grey tank top clung to his chest, damp from the trek across campus, and his gym shorts rode low on his hips, showing off the V of his obliques. He’d packed light—wrestling gear, a few clothes, some books—but every step felt heavier with the weight of starting over.

“Room 312,” he muttered, glancing at the crumpled housing slip in his hand. His sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as he reached the third floor, the air thick with the stale scent of dorm life: sweat, cheap cologne, and something faintly sour. The door to his new room was cracked open, and a low thump of music—some alt-rock band with a gritty edge—pulsed into the hall. Ethan nudged it wider with his shoulder and stopped dead in his tracks.

Sprawled across one of the twin beds was a guy who looked like he’d been built to dominate a football field—and maybe Ethan’s daydreams, too. Lucas Reid, twenty-one, was a goddamn specimen: six-foot-two, with shoulders that stretched his black Westbridge Football T-shirt to its limits and thighs that bulged against his cargo shorts like they were begging to bust free. His sandy blond hair fell into his face, brushing the tops of hazel eyes that flicked up from his phone and locked onto Ethan with a jolt of heat. A scuffed football sat by his duffel bag, and a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade rested on the nightstand, condensation dripping onto the wood. He was all lazy confidence, legs kicked out, one arm propped behind his head in a way that flexed his bicep just enough to make Ethan’s mouth go dry.

“You Ethan?” Lucas’s voice was a low rumble, smooth as gravel and warm as the sun outside. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, unfolding himself into a stretch that pulled his shirt up, flashing a strip of tanned abs and a faint trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, and Ethan felt it like a punch to the gut.

“Yeah. Hey.” Ethan dropped his duffel with a thud, suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat trickling down his neck and the way his tank clung to his pecs. He wiped his palms on his shorts and stuck out a hand, hoping it didn’t shake. “Ethan Carver.”

Lucas crossed the room in two easy strides, his handshake firm. His grip lingered a beat too long, and Ethan’s pulse kicked into overdrive. “Lucas Reid. QB. Good to meet you, man.” He nodded at Ethan’s bag, where a wrestling singlet peeked out. “That all your gear?”

“Most of it. Got a box downstairs with the heavy stuff—knee pads, headgear.” Ethan flexed his fingers, still feeling the heat of Lucas’s touch. “You?”

“Same deal. Pads, cleats, playbook.” Lucas jerked his thumb toward a cardboard box in the corner, taped shut with REID scrawled in Sharpie. He flopped back onto his bed, propping himself on his elbows, and Ethan caught the way his shirt strained across his chest, outlining every ridge of muscle. “Wrestler, huh? You’ve got the build for it—tight, solid.”

Ethan smirked, brushing it off even as his stomach did a slow flip. “And you’re the football god, I take it? Quarterback?”

“Starting second year.” Lucas shrugged, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. “Led the team to the playoffs last season. Hoping to do it again.”

“Impressive.” Ethan dragged his duffel to the empty bed and unzipped it, pulling out a rolled-up mat towel and a stack of protein bars. He needed something to do with his hands—something to keep him from staring at Lucas, who was sprawled out like he owned the damn room. The guy was a fantasy in motion: those thick arms, the way his shorts hugged his quads, the casual flex of his calves as he shifted. Ethan had faced plenty of tough opponents on the mat, but this was a different kind of challenge.

“So, what’s your deal?” Lucas asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, like he was sizing Ethan up. “Hometown? Major? Secret moves?”

Ethan laughed, a nervous edge to it. “Small town, three hours north. English major—don’t ask why, I just like words. And my best move’s probably a double-leg takedown.” He glanced at Lucas, catching the way his lips twitched. “You?”

“San Diego. Kinesiology—figure it’ll help with coaching someday. And I’ve got a mean spiral, but you’ll see that on the field.” Lucas tossed his phone up and caught it midair, a little flourish that showed off his reflexes. “Guess we’re both a long way from home.”

“Yeah.” Ethan unpacked a battered water bottle, setting it on his nightstand. Lucas watched him, those hazel eyes tracking every move, and Ethan felt the weight of it—hot, heavy, like a spotlight. He turned back to his bag, digging out a pair of running shoes, but his mind was already spinning. Lucas was trouble—six-foot-two of tanned, muscled trouble—and Ethan wasn’t sure if he wanted to wrestle him or… something else.

“Ever take down a football player?” Lucas asked, breaking the silence. His voice had a teasing lilt, but his gaze held something deeper, something that made Ethan’s skin prickle.

“Not yet.” Ethan met his eyes, holding the stare. “You offering?”

Lucas laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver racing down Ethan’s spine. “Maybe. Bet I could hold my own.”

“Bet you couldn’t.” Ethan’s voice came out steadier than he felt, a challenge slipping into it. He turned back to his unpacking, but the air between them thickened, charged with something raw and unspoken.

Lucas kicked off his sneakers, letting them thud to the floor one by one. “We’ll see, Carver. Season’s long. Plenty of time to test you.”

Ethan’s stomach flipped hard. He busied himself with arranging his books—some poetry anthologies, a beat-up copy of On the Road—but his brain was elsewhere, picturing Lucas on the field, all power and precision, or locked in a grapple with him, sweat-slick and breathing hard. The dorm room suddenly felt too small, the twin beds too close, Lucas’s presence too big.

“So, what’s the wrestling life like?” Lucas asked, stretching out again, his shirt riding up just enough to show off that damn V-line again. “Lots of rolling around with sweaty guys?”

Ethan snorted, glancing over. “Pretty much. You spend half your time trying not to get pinned, the other half trying to pin someone else. You?”

“Football’s more… organized chaos. Lot of grunting, hitting, and hoping you don’t fumble.” Lucas grinned, propping his hands behind his head. “But I bet you’re scrappy as hell. Gotta be, with that frame.”

“Scrappy’s one way to put it.” Ethan flexed his shoulders, feeling the familiar ache from his last practice back home. “You’re not exactly built for finesse, though. All brute force?”

Lucas raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Brute force with style. I can be precise when I need to be.”

“Sure you can.” Ethan’s tone was dry, but his lips twitched, betraying him. He shoved his empty duffel under the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, facing Lucas. The room was quiet now, the music paused, and the hum of the AC unit filled the space. Lucas’s eyes were on him again, steady and unreadable, and Ethan felt a pull—magnetic, dangerous.

“You nervous?” Lucas asked, softer this time, like he’d peeled back a layer.

“About what?”

“College. Roommates. Me.” Lucas’s grin was back, but it was gentler, less cocky.

Ethan shrugged, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe a little. You?”

“Nah., I roll with it.” Lucas sat up, mirroring Ethan’s posture, their knees just a few feet apart. “But I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting… you.”

Ethan’s breath caught. “What’s that mean?”

Lucas tilted his head, studying him. “Just… you’re different. In a good way.”

The words hung there, heavy and electric, and Ethan didn’t know what to say. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the way Lucas’s gaze lingered on his mouth for a split second before flicking back to his eyes. Different. Good. What the hell did that mean?

Before he could respond, Lucas stood, stretching again—God, did he ever stop? —and grabbed his Gatorade. “Gonna hit the showers downstairs. You good here?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Ethan nodded, his voice rougher than he intended. “I’ll unpack the rest.”

“Cool.” Lucas paused at the door, glancing back with that damn grin. “Don’t break anything while I’m gone, wrestler.”

Ethan rolled his eyes, but as the door clicked shut, he let out a shaky breath. He flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding like he’d just gone three rounds on the mat. Lucas Reid was going to be a problem—a big, blond, quarterback-shaped problem—and Ethan wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight it or lean into it. Either way, this year was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 2: First Heat

The dorm room felt emptier without Lucas in it, the air settling into a quiet hum as Ethan lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of Room 312. His heart still thudded from their exchange—those hazel eyes, that cocky grin, the way Lucas had said you’re different like it was a secret just for them. Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake it off. He was here to wrestle, to study, to figure out who he was away from his nowhere town—not to get tangled up in some jock fantasy. But Lucas Reid wasn’t making that easy.

The guy had been gone maybe ten minutes, off to the showers, and Ethan could still picture him: six-foot-two of tanned muscle, stretching like a cat, all casual power and effortless charm. Ethan groaned, rolling onto his side. He needed to move, to burn off this restless energy before it ate him alive. He sat up, grabbed his water bottle, and chugged half of it, the cool liquid grounding him. Then he stood, kicking off his sneakers and peeling out of his sweaty tank top. His chest was broad for his frame, abs flexed as he tossed the shirt onto the bed. Wrestling had carved him into something lean and hard, every muscle earned through sweat and strain.

He dropped to the floor and started a set of push-ups, counting under his breath. One, two, three… The rhythm steadied him, the familiar burn in his arms pushing Lucas’s voice out of his head. Ten, eleven, twelve… He’d always been good at focus—on the mat, it was all about control, reading your opponent, finding the moment to strike. But Lucas wasn’t an opponent. He was a roommate. A quarterback. A problem. Twenty, twenty-one…

The door swung open mid-rep, and Ethan glanced up, mid-push, as Lucas strode back in. The guy was a vision—hair damp and darker from the shower, clinging to his forehead, a fresh white towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, trailing down his chest, and Ethan’s count faltered. Lucas’s pecs were sculpted, his abs a tight grid, and that V-line Ethan had glimpsed earlier was now on full display, disappearing under the towel. He smelled like soap and something faintly spicy, and Ethan’s arms nearly buckled.

“Damn, Carver,” Lucas said, pausing in the doorway, one hand gripping the towel’s knot. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Ethan pushed himself up to his knees, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just warming up. Keeps me sane.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking over Lucas—those thick thighs, the way the towel clung to him like a second skin.

Lucas grinned, stepping inside and kicking the door shut. “Wrestlers and their routines. Guess I should’ve expected that.” He crossed to his bed, dropping his shower caddy on the nightstand, and Ethan forced himself to look away, standing to grab his tank top. But Lucas wasn’t done. “You’re ripped, man. What’s your max on the bench?”

Ethan shrugged, pulling the shirt back on, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. “Two-fifty, maybe. Don’t lift as much as I grapple. You?”

“Three-twenty.” Lucas said it casually, like it was nothing, and Ethan raised an eyebrow. “What? Football’s all about power. Gotta throw those linemen off me.”

“Show-off,” Ethan muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. He sat on his bed, leaning back on his hands, and watched as Lucas rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a pair of black boxer briefs. The towel shifted, and Ethan’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, but the rustle of fabric told him Lucas was dressing—right there, three feet away.

“So,” Lucas said, his voice cutting through the tension, “you got a practice schedule yet? Or you just gonna do push-ups in here all semester?”

Ethan glanced up. Lucas had the briefs on now, low-slung and tight, and was tugging a fresh T-shirt over his head. The hem caught briefly on his abs, and Ethan’s brain short-circuited for a second before he answered. “Coach sent it last week. Starts tomorrow—six a.m. mats. You?”

“Team lifts at seven, then field work.” Lucas flopped onto his bed, stretching out again, one leg bent, the other dangling off the edge. “Guess we’re both early risers.”

“Guess so.” Ethan’s eyes traced the line of Lucas’s body—those quads, that broad chest—before he caught himself and looked away. “You always this… relaxed?”

Lucas laughed, a low rumble that hit Ethan square in the chest. “What, you mean half-naked and chill? Yeah, pretty much. San Diego vibe—surf all day, crash all night. You’ll get used to it.”

“Doubt that,” Ethan said under his breath, but Lucas heard it, his grin widening.

“Aw, come on. I’m not that bad a roommate. Yet.” He sat up, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and the space between them shrank. “What’s the worst thing you’re worried about? Me snoring? Leaving socks everywhere?”

Ethan snorted, meeting his gaze. “Snoring I can handle. Socks? Dealbreaker.”

“Noted.” Lucas’s eyes sparkled, and for a moment, they just stared—Ethan’s dark brown against Lucas’s hazel, the air thick with something neither of them named. Then Lucas stood, grabbing his football from the floor. “You ever toss one of these?”

“A football?” Ethan shook his head. “Not really. Wrestling’s more… hands-on.”

“Hands-on, huh?” Lucas spun the ball on his finger like a basketball, then tossed it lightly to Ethan, who caught it one-handed. “Give it a try. Can’t have a wrestler roommate who doesn’t know a spiral.”

Ethan stood, weighing the ball in his hands. It felt foreign—leather and laces, heavier than he’d expected. “What, right here?”

“Nah, let’s hit the quad. Sun’s still up.” Lucas grabbed a pair of sneakers, slipping them on without socks, and headed for the door. “Come on, Carver. Show me what you’ve got.”

Ethan hesitated, then followed, the football tucked under his arm. The quad was a sprawl of green just outside Hawthorne Hall, dotted with students lounging or tossing frisbees. The air was warm, the sky streaked with gold, and Lucas led them to an open patch near the edge. He turned, jogging backward a few steps, and spread his arms. “Throw it. Hard as you can.”

Ethan smirked, planting his feet. He’d never thrown a football worth a damn, but he wasn’t about to back down. He reared back, mimicking what he’d seen on TV, and let it fly. The ball wobbled, arcing high but veering left, and Lucas laughed, sprinting to catch it anyway. He snagged it midair, his body twisting with a grace that made Ethan’s stomach lurch.

“Not bad for a rookie!” Lucas called, jogging back. “But your form’s shit. Here.” He stepped closer—too close—and handed the ball back, his fingers brushing Ethan’s. “Hold it like this—fingers on the laces, thumb underneath. Then snap your wrist when you release.”

Ethan nodded, trying to focus on the instructions and not the heat of Lucas’s hand lingering near his. He adjusted his grip, feeling the quarterback’s eyes on him, and threw again. This time it spun tighter, cutting through the air, and Lucas caught it with a whoop.

“There you go! Wrestlers got an arm!” Lucas grinned, tossing it back. “Again.”

They went back and forth like that, the throws getting sharper, the distance stretching. Ethan’s competitive streak kicked in—he wasn’t about to let a football jock outshine him—and soon he was grinning too, sweat beading on his forehead. Lucas moved like he was born for this, all fluid power, his shirt clinging to his back as he leaped for a high one. Ethan’s last throw went long, and Lucas dove, rolling onto the grass with the ball clutched to his chest.

“Touchdown!” Lucas shouted, sprawling out, chest heaving. He propped himself on one elbow, looking up at Ethan with a lazy smile. “You’re a natural, Carver.”

Ethan walked over, breathing hard, and dropped onto the grass beside him. “Beginner’s luck.” He lay back, arms behind his head, the cool blades tickling his neck. The sky was deepening to orange, and Lucas’s shoulder was inches from his, their breaths syncing in the quiet.

“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Lucas said, rolling onto his side to face him. “You’ve got power. Control. Bet you’re a beast on the mat.”

Ethan turned his head, meeting Lucas’s gaze. “And you’re a showboat on the field, I bet.”

“Guilty.” Lucas’s grin was softer now, his eyes tracing Ethan’s face—his jaw, his lips. “But I’ve got moves off the field too.”

Ethan’s pulse spiked. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Lucas’s voice dropped, low and rough, and for a second, Ethan thought he might lean in. But then Lucas rolled onto his back again, breaking the moment, and pointed at the sky. “See that? First star. Make a wish.”

Ethan swallowed, his throat tight. He didn’t believe in wishes, but lying there, with Lucas’s heat radiating beside him, he couldn’t help it. He wished for something he couldn’t name—something reckless, something that felt like Lucas’s laugh or the brush of his fingers. “You first,” he said instead.

Lucas chuckled. “Already did.” He didn’t say what it was, and Ethan didn’t ask.

They lay there until the light faded, the quad emptying out, the air cooling around them. When they finally stood, brushing grass off their clothes, Lucas clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, his grip firm and warm. “Good start, roommate. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, his skin buzzing under Lucas’s touch. “Let’s.”

Back in the room, Lucas stripped off his shirt, tossing it into a hamper, and Ethan busied himself with his phone, pretending not to notice the flex of Lucas’s back as he bent to grab a water bottle. They didn’t talk much after that—Lucas scrolling on his bed, Ethan unpacking the last of his gear—but the silence was different now, charged with the day’s weight. Ethan glanced over once, catching Lucas’s eyes on him, and looked away fast, his heart pounding.

Sleep came slow that night, the twin beds creaking under their weight, Lucas’s steady breathing filling the dark. Ethan stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment—the football, the grass, that almost-something in Lucas’s voice. He didn’t know what this was, but it was already more than he’d bargained for. And tomorrow, with practice and classes and Lucas’s presence, it’d only get deeper.

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 2: First Heat

The dorm room felt emptier without Lucas in it, the air settling into a quiet hum as Ethan lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of Room 312. His heart still thudded from their exchange—those hazel eyes, that cocky grin, the way Lucas had said you’re different like it was a secret just for them. Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake it off. He was here to wrestle, to study, to figure out who he was away from his nowhere town—not to get tangled up in some jock fantasy. But Lucas Reid wasn’t making that easy.

The guy had been gone maybe ten minutes, off to the showers, and Ethan could still picture him: six-foot-two of tanned muscle, stretching like a cat, all casual power and effortless charm. Ethan groaned, rolling onto his side. He needed to move, to burn off this restless energy before it ate him alive. He sat up, grabbed his water bottle, and chugged half of it, the cool liquid grounding him. Then he stood, kicking off his sneakers and peeling out of his sweaty tank top. His chest was broad for his frame, abs flexed as he tossed the shirt onto the bed. Wrestling had carved him into something lean and hard, every muscle earned through sweat and strain.

He dropped to the floor and started a set of push-ups, counting under his breath. One, two, three… The rhythm steadied him, the familiar burn in his arms pushing Lucas’s voice out of his head. Ten, eleven, twelve… He’d always been good at focus—on the mat, it was all about control, reading your opponent, finding the moment to strike. But Lucas wasn’t an opponent. He was a roommate. A quarterback. A problem. Twenty, twenty-one…

The door swung open mid-rep, and Ethan glanced up, mid-push, as Lucas strode back in. The guy was a vision—hair damp and darker from the shower, clinging to his forehead, a fresh white towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, trailing down his chest, and Ethan’s count faltered. Lucas’s pecs were sculpted, his abs a tight grid, and that V-line Ethan had glimpsed earlier was now on full display, disappearing under the towel. He smelled like soap and something faintly spicy, and Ethan’s arms nearly buckled.

“Damn, Carver,” Lucas said, pausing in the doorway, one hand gripping the towel’s knot. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Ethan pushed himself up to his knees, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just warming up. Keeps me sane.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking over Lucas—those thick thighs, the way the towel clung to him like a second skin.

Lucas grinned, stepping inside and kicking the door shut. “Wrestlers and their routines. Guess I should’ve expected that.” He crossed to his bed, dropping his shower caddy on the nightstand, and Ethan forced himself to look away, standing to grab his tank top. But Lucas wasn’t done. “You’re ripped, man. What’s your max on the bench?”

Ethan shrugged, pulling the shirt back on, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. “Two-fifty, maybe. Don’t lift as much as I grapple. You?”

“Three-twenty.” Lucas said it casually, like it was nothing, and Ethan raised an eyebrow. “What? Football’s all about power. Gotta throw those linemen off me.”

“Show-off,” Ethan muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. He sat on his bed, leaning back on his hands, and watched as Lucas rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a pair of black boxer briefs. The towel shifted, and Ethan’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, but the rustle of fabric told him Lucas was dressing—right there, three feet away.

“So,” Lucas said, his voice cutting through the tension, “you got a practice schedule yet? Or you just gonna do push-ups in here all semester?”

Ethan glanced up. Lucas had the briefs on now, low-slung and tight, and was tugging a fresh T-shirt over his head. The hem caught briefly on his abs, and Ethan’s brain short-circuited for a second before he answered. “Coach sent it last week. Starts tomorrow—six a.m. mats. You?”

“Team lifts at seven, then field work.” Lucas flopped onto his bed, stretching out again, one leg bent, the other dangling off the edge. “Guess we’re both early risers.”

“Guess so.” Ethan’s eyes traced the line of Lucas’s body—those quads, that broad chest—before he caught himself and looked away. “You always this… relaxed?”

Lucas laughed, a low rumble that hit Ethan square in the chest. “What, you mean half-naked and chill? Yeah, pretty much. San Diego vibe—surf all day, crash all night. You’ll get used to it.”

“Doubt that,” Ethan said under his breath, but Lucas heard it, his grin widening.

“Aw, come on. I’m not that bad a roommate. Yet.” He sat up, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and the space between them shrank. “What’s the worst thing you’re worried about? Me snoring? Leaving socks everywhere?”

Ethan snorted, meeting his gaze. “Snoring I can handle. Socks? Dealbreaker.”

“Noted.” Lucas’s eyes sparkled, and for a moment, they just stared—Ethan’s dark brown against Lucas’s hazel, the air thick with something neither of them named. Then Lucas stood, grabbing his football from the floor. “You ever toss one of these?”

“A football?” Ethan shook his head. “Not really. Wrestling’s more… hands-on.”

“Hands-on, huh?” Lucas spun the ball on his finger like a basketball, then tossed it lightly to Ethan, who caught it one-handed. “Give it a try. Can’t have a wrestler roommate who doesn’t know a spiral.”

Ethan stood, weighing the ball in his hands. It felt foreign—leather and laces, heavier than he’d expected. “What, right here?”

“Nah, let’s hit the quad. Sun’s still up.” Lucas grabbed a pair of sneakers, slipping them on without socks, and headed for the door. “Come on, Carver. Show me what you’ve got.”

Ethan hesitated, then followed, the football tucked under his arm. The quad was a sprawl of green just outside Hawthorne Hall, dotted with students lounging or tossing frisbees. The air was warm, the sky streaked with gold, and Lucas led them to an open patch near the edge. He turned, jogging backward a few steps, and spread his arms. “Throw it. Hard as you can.”

Ethan smirked, planting his feet. He’d never thrown a football worth a damn, but he wasn’t about to back down. He reared back, mimicking what he’d seen on TV, and let it fly. The ball wobbled, arcing high but veering left, and Lucas laughed, sprinting to catch it anyway. He snagged it midair, his body twisting with a grace that made Ethan’s stomach lurch.

“Not bad for a rookie!” Lucas called, jogging back. “But your form’s shit. Here.” He stepped closer—too close—and handed the ball back, his fingers brushing Ethan’s. “Hold it like this—fingers on the laces, thumb underneath. Then snap your wrist when you release.”

Ethan nodded, trying to focus on the instructions and not the heat of Lucas’s hand lingering near his. He adjusted his grip, feeling the quarterback’s eyes on him, and threw again. This time it spun tighter, cutting through the air, and Lucas caught it with a whoop.

“There you go! Wrestlers got an arm!” Lucas grinned, tossing it back. “Again.”

They went back and forth like that, the throws getting sharper, the distance stretching. Ethan’s competitive streak kicked in—he wasn’t about to let a football jock outshine him—and soon he was grinning too, sweat beading on his forehead. Lucas moved like he was born for this, all fluid power, his shirt clinging to his back as he leaped for a high one. Ethan’s last throw went long, and Lucas dove, rolling onto the grass with the ball clutched to his chest.

“Touchdown!” Lucas shouted, sprawling out, chest heaving. He propped himself on one elbow, looking up at Ethan with a lazy smile. “You’re a natural, Carver.”

Ethan walked over, breathing hard, and dropped onto the grass beside him. “Beginner’s luck.” He lay back, arms behind his head, the cool blades tickling his neck. The sky was deepening to orange, and Lucas’s shoulder was inches from his, their breaths syncing in the quiet.

“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Lucas said, rolling onto his side to face him. “You’ve got power. Control. Bet you’re a beast on the mat.”

Ethan turned his head, meeting Lucas’s gaze. “And you’re a showboat on the field, I bet.”

“Guilty.” Lucas’s grin was softer now, his eyes tracing Ethan’s face—his jaw, his lips. “But I’ve got moves off the field too.”

Ethan’s pulse spiked. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Lucas’s voice dropped, low and rough, and for a second, Ethan thought he might lean in. But then Lucas rolled onto his back again, breaking the moment, and pointed at the sky. “See that? First star. Make a wish.”

Ethan swallowed, his throat tight. He didn’t believe in wishes, but lying there, with Lucas’s heat radiating beside him, he couldn’t help it. He wished for something he couldn’t name—something reckless, something that felt like Lucas’s laugh or the brush of his fingers. “You first,” he said instead.

Lucas chuckled. “Already did.” He didn’t say what it was, and Ethan didn’t ask.

They lay there until the light faded, the quad emptying out, the air cooling around them. When they finally stood, brushing grass off their clothes, Lucas clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, his grip firm and warm. “Good start, roommate. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, his skin buzzing under Lucas’s touch. “Let’s.”

Back in the room, Lucas stripped off his shirt, tossing it into a hamper, and Ethan busied himself with his phone, pretending not to notice the flex of Lucas’s back as he bent to grab a water bottle. They didn’t talk much after that—Lucas scrolling on his bed, Ethan unpacking the last of his gear—but the silence was different now, charged with the day’s weight. Ethan glanced over once, catching Lucas’s eyes on him, and looked away fast, his heart pounding.

Sleep came slow that night, the twin beds creaking under their weight, Lucas’s steady breathing filling the dark. Ethan stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment—the football, the grass, that almost-something in Lucas’s voice. He didn’t know what this was, but it was already more than he’d bargained for. And tomorrow, with practice and classes and Lucas’s presence, it’d only get deeper.

Excellent story man---great writing style and hot

 

[yukon976]

Chapter 2: First Heat

The dorm room felt emptier without Lucas in it, the air settling into a quiet hum as Ethan lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of Room 312. His heart still thudded from their exchange—those hazel eyes, that cocky grin, the way Lucas had said you’re different like it was a secret just for them. Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake it off. He was here to wrestle, to study, to figure out who he was away from his nowhere town—not to get tangled up in some jock fantasy. But Lucas Reid wasn’t making that easy.

The guy had been gone maybe ten minutes, off to the showers, and Ethan could still picture him: six-foot-two of tanned muscle, stretching like a cat, all casual power and effortless charm. Ethan groaned, rolling onto his side. He needed to move, to burn off this restless energy before it ate him alive. He sat up, grabbed his water bottle, and chugged half of it, the cool liquid grounding him. Then he stood, kicking off his sneakers and peeling out of his sweaty tank top. His chest was broad for his frame, abs flexed as he tossed the shirt onto the bed. Wrestling had carved him into something lean and hard, every muscle earned through sweat and strain.

He dropped to the floor and started a set of push-ups, counting under his breath. One, two, three… The rhythm steadied him, the familiar burn in his arms pushing Lucas’s voice out of his head. Ten, eleven, twelve… He’d always been good at focus—on the mat, it was all about control, reading your opponent, finding the moment to strike. But Lucas wasn’t an opponent. He was a roommate. A quarterback. A problem. Twenty, twenty-one…

The door swung open mid-rep, and Ethan glanced up, mid-push, as Lucas strode back in. The guy was a vision—hair damp and darker from the shower, clinging to his forehead, a fresh white towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, trailing down his chest, and Ethan’s count faltered. Lucas’s pecs were sculpted, his abs a tight grid, and that V-line Ethan had glimpsed earlier was now on full display, disappearing under the towel. He smelled like soap and something faintly spicy, and Ethan’s arms nearly buckled.

“Damn, Carver,” Lucas said, pausing in the doorway, one hand gripping the towel’s knot. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Ethan pushed himself up to his knees, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just warming up. Keeps me sane.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking over Lucas—those thick thighs, the way the towel clung to him like a second skin.

Lucas grinned, stepping inside and kicking the door shut. “Wrestlers and their routines. Guess I should’ve expected that.” He crossed to his bed, dropping his shower caddy on the nightstand, and Ethan forced himself to look away, standing to grab his tank top. But Lucas wasn’t done. “You’re ripped, man. What’s your max on the bench?”

Ethan shrugged, pulling the shirt back on, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. “Two-fifty, maybe. Don’t lift as much as I grapple. You?”

“Three-twenty.” Lucas said it casually, like it was nothing, and Ethan raised an eyebrow. “What? Football’s all about power. Gotta throw those linemen off me.”

“Show-off,” Ethan muttered, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. He sat on his bed, leaning back on his hands, and watched as Lucas rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a pair of black boxer briefs. The towel shifted, and Ethan’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, but the rustle of fabric told him Lucas was dressing—right there, three feet away.

“So,” Lucas said, his voice cutting through the tension, “you got a practice schedule yet? Or you just gonna do push-ups in here all semester?”

Ethan glanced up. Lucas had the briefs on now, low-slung and tight, and was tugging a fresh T-shirt over his head. The hem caught briefly on his abs, and Ethan’s brain short-circuited for a second before he answered. “Coach sent it last week. Starts tomorrow—six a.m. mats. You?”

“Team lifts at seven, then field work.” Lucas flopped onto his bed, stretching out again, one leg bent, the other dangling off the edge. “Guess we’re both early risers.”

“Guess so.” Ethan’s eyes traced the line of Lucas’s body—those quads, that broad chest—before he caught himself and looked away. “You always this… relaxed?”

Lucas laughed, a low rumble that hit Ethan square in the chest. “What, you mean half-naked and chill? Yeah, pretty much. San Diego vibe—surf all day, crash all night. You’ll get used to it.”

“Doubt that,” Ethan said under his breath, but Lucas heard it, his grin widening.

“Aw, come on. I’m not that bad a roommate. Yet.” He sat up, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and the space between them shrank. “What’s the worst thing you’re worried about? Me snoring? Leaving socks everywhere?”

Ethan snorted, meeting his gaze. “Snoring I can handle. Socks? Dealbreaker.”

“Noted.” Lucas’s eyes sparkled, and for a moment, they just stared—Ethan’s dark brown against Lucas’s hazel, the air thick with something neither of them named. Then Lucas stood, grabbing his football from the floor. “You ever toss one of these?”

“A football?” Ethan shook his head. “Not really. Wrestling’s more… hands-on.”

“Hands-on, huh?” Lucas spun the ball on his finger like a basketball, then tossed it lightly to Ethan, who caught it one-handed. “Give it a try. Can’t have a wrestler roommate who doesn’t know a spiral.”

Ethan stood, weighing the ball in his hands. It felt foreign—leather and laces, heavier than he’d expected. “What, right here?”

“Nah, let’s hit the quad. Sun’s still up.” Lucas grabbed a pair of sneakers, slipping them on without socks, and headed for the door. “Come on, Carver. Show me what you’ve got.”

Ethan hesitated, then followed, the football tucked under his arm. The quad was a sprawl of green just outside Hawthorne Hall, dotted with students lounging or tossing frisbees. The air was warm, the sky streaked with gold, and Lucas led them to an open patch near the edge. He turned, jogging backward a few steps, and spread his arms. “Throw it. Hard as you can.”

Ethan smirked, planting his feet. He’d never thrown a football worth a damn, but he wasn’t about to back down. He reared back, mimicking what he’d seen on TV, and let it fly. The ball wobbled, arcing high but veering left, and Lucas laughed, sprinting to catch it anyway. He snagged it midair, his body twisting with a grace that made Ethan’s stomach lurch.

“Not bad for a rookie!” Lucas called, jogging back. “But your form’s shit. Here.” He stepped closer—too close—and handed the ball back, his fingers brushing Ethan’s. “Hold it like this—fingers on the laces, thumb underneath. Then snap your wrist when you release.”

Ethan nodded, trying to focus on the instructions and not the heat of Lucas’s hand lingering near his. He adjusted his grip, feeling the quarterback’s eyes on him, and threw again. This time it spun tighter, cutting through the air, and Lucas caught it with a whoop.

“There you go! Wrestlers got an arm!” Lucas grinned, tossing it back. “Again.”

They went back and forth like that, the throws getting sharper, the distance stretching. Ethan’s competitive streak kicked in—he wasn’t about to let a football jock outshine him—and soon he was grinning too, sweat beading on his forehead. Lucas moved like he was born for this, all fluid power, his shirt clinging to his back as he leaped for a high one. Ethan’s last throw went long, and Lucas dove, rolling onto the grass with the ball clutched to his chest.

“Touchdown!” Lucas shouted, sprawling out, chest heaving. He propped himself on one elbow, looking up at Ethan with a lazy smile. “You’re a natural, Carver.”

Ethan walked over, breathing hard, and dropped onto the grass beside him. “Beginner’s luck.” He lay back, arms behind his head, the cool blades tickling his neck. The sky was deepening to orange, and Lucas’s shoulder was inches from his, their breaths syncing in the quiet.

“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Lucas said, rolling onto his side to face him. “You’ve got power. Control. Bet you’re a beast on the mat.”

Ethan turned his head, meeting Lucas’s gaze. “And you’re a showboat on the field, I bet.”

“Guilty.” Lucas’s grin was softer now, his eyes tracing Ethan’s face—his jaw, his lips. “But I’ve got moves off the field too.”

Ethan’s pulse spiked. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Lucas’s voice dropped, low and rough, and for a second, Ethan thought he might lean in. But then Lucas rolled onto his back again, breaking the moment, and pointed at the sky. “See that? First star. Make a wish.”

Ethan swallowed, his throat tight. He didn’t believe in wishes, but lying there, with Lucas’s heat radiating beside him, he couldn’t help it. He wished for something he couldn’t name—something reckless, something that felt like Lucas’s laugh or the brush of his fingers. “You first,” he said instead.

Lucas chuckled. “Already did.” He didn’t say what it was, and Ethan didn’t ask.

They lay there until the light faded, the quad emptying out, the air cooling around them. When they finally stood, brushing grass off their clothes, Lucas clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, his grip firm and warm. “Good start, roommate. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, his skin buzzing under Lucas’s touch. “Let’s.”

Back in the room, Lucas stripped off his shirt, tossing it into a hamper, and Ethan busied himself with his phone, pretending not to notice the flex of Lucas’s back as he bent to grab a water bottle. They didn’t talk much after that—Lucas scrolling on his bed, Ethan unpacking the last of his gear—but the silence was different now, charged with the day’s weight. Ethan glanced over once, catching Lucas’s eyes on him, and looked away fast, his heart pounding.

Sleep came slow that night, the twin beds creaking under their weight, Lucas’s steady breathing filling the dark. Ethan stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment—the football, the grass, that almost-something in Lucas’s voice. He didn’t know what this was, but it was already more than he’d bargained for. And tomorrow, with practice and classes and Lucas’s presence, it’d only get deeper.

Holy fuck. This is hot. More please

 

[jacko234]

got about 12 chapter so far

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 3: Sweat and Shadows

The alarm blared at 5:30 a.m., a shrill beep that yanked Ethan Carver out of a restless sleep. He groaned, rolling onto his side, the thin dorm mattress creaking under his weight. The room was still dark, the only light a faint grey seeping through the blinds, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Then he heard it—Lucas’s steady breathing from the other bed, a soft rhythm that cut through the haze. Ethan rubbed his eyes, sitting up, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. Day one of college life, and it started with wrestling practice.

He glanced across the room. Lucas was sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge, his blond hair a mess against the pillow. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, exposing the broad expanse of his back—muscles shifting slightly with each breath. Ethan’s throat tightened, and he forced himself to look away, grabbing his phone to silence the alarm. No point in waking the quarterback yet; Lucas’s practice wasn’t for another hour.

Ethan stood, stretching his arms overhead, his wrestler’s frame flexing—shoulders broad, core tight, legs solid from years of training. He’d slept in a pair of black briefs, and the cool air prickled his skin as he rummaged through his duffel for his gear: a grey singlet, knee pads, a water bottle. He pulled on a hoodie and shorts over the singlet, keeping quiet as he laced up his sneakers. Lucas stirred once, mumbling something incoherent, but didn’t wake. Ethan grabbed his bag and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The wrestling room was a ten-minute walk across campus, tucked behind the gym in a low brick building that smelled of rubber mats and sweat. The team was already there—fifteen guys stretching, taping wrists, bantering in low tones. Coach Hargrove, a grizzled ex-Olympian with a buzz cut and a permanent scowl, barked orders as Ethan dropped his bag and joined the warm-up. Push-ups, burpees, sprawls—the routine was brutal but familiar, and soon he was dripping, his mind narrowing to the mat. They paired off for drills, and Ethan grappled with a lanky freshman named Jake, pinning him in under a minute. The kid cursed, laughing, and Ethan grinned, offering a hand up. It felt good—right—like he belonged here.

By 7:00 a.m., practice wrapped, and Ethan was a mess—hair plastered to his forehead, singlet soaked, muscles humming with that sweet ache. He showered in the locker room, the hot water pounding his back, and changed into fresh clothes: a black T-shirt and jeans. His phone buzzed as he headed out—a text from Lucas.

“Survived your dawn torture session?”

Ethan smirked, typing back: “Yeah. You up for yours?”

“Just heading out. Catch you later, wrestler.”

The walk back to Hawthorne Hall was quiet, the campus still waking up, and Ethan’s mind drifted to Lucas—those hazel eyes, that lazy grin, the way he’d looked sprawled on the grass yesterday. He shook it off, pushing through the dorm’s front door. The room was empty when he got there, Lucas’s bed unmade, his football gear gone. Ethan dropped his bag and flopped onto his own bed, staring at the ceiling. He had an 8:30 English class, but for now, he let the exhaustion settle, his body heavy and warm.

Lucas rolled in around 9:15, just as Ethan was lacing up his boots to head out. The quarterback looked like he’d been through a war—hair damp with sweat, T-shirt clinging to his chest, a grass stain smudging his shorts. He carried his cleats in one hand, the football tucked under his arm, and his grin was tired but bright.

“Morning, champ,” Lucas said, kicking the door shut. “How’d it go?”

“Pinned a guy in thirty seconds flat,” Ethan said, standing. “You?”

“Threw a fifty-yard pass. Coach nearly cried.” Lucas dropped his gear by his bed and peeled off his shirt, tossing it into the hamper. His torso gleamed with sweat, every muscle defined pecs flexing, abs rippling as he stretched. Ethan’s mouth went dry, and he busied himself with his backpack, pretending to check for books.

“Show-off,” he muttered, echoing yesterday, and Lucas laughed, that low rumble that hit Ethan like a physical thing.

“Gotta keep up with you, right?” Lucas grabbed a towel from his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder. “Shower time. You sticking around?”

“Nah, class in fifteen. Catch you later.” Ethan slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out, but not before stealing one last glance—Lucas’s back turned, shorts riding low, the curve of his ass just visible. He cursed under his breath, hurrying down the hall. Focus. He needed focus.

The day blurred by—English lit, a campus tour, a quick lunch of a turkey wrap in the dining hall. By late afternoon, Ethan was back in 312, sprawled on his bed with a poetry anthology, half-reading, half-dozing. Lucas burst in around 5:00, fresh from a team meeting, all energy and noise.

“Yo, Carver,” he said, dropping his bag. “You eat yet?”

“Nah. You?” Ethan sat up, marking his page.

“Starving. Let’s hit the dining hall. My treat.” Lucas didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed his ID and headed for the door. Ethan followed, caught in the quarterback’s wake.

Dinner was chaos—trays clattering, students shouting, the smell of pizza and fries thick in the air. They loaded up—Ethan with grilled chicken and rice, Lucas with a double cheeseburger and a mountain of tater tots—and found a corner table. Lucas talked through bites, animated, about a trick play they’d run at practice, his hands gesturing wide. Ethan listened, nodding, his eyes tracing the flex of Lucas’s forearms, the way his lips curved around a laugh. It was easy—too easy—to sit there, caught up in him.

Back in the room, the night stretched out. Ethan tackled some reading while Lucas sprawled on his bed, scrolling through plays on his phone. The silence was comfortable, broken by the occasional rustle of pages or Lucas’s soft hum. Around 10:00, Lucas stood, stretching with a groan that made Ethan glance up. The quarterback’s shirt rode up, flashing that V-line again, and Ethan’s grip tightened on his book.

“Gonna crash soon,” Lucas said, yawning. “You?”

“Same.” Ethan closed his book, setting it aside. “Long day.”

“No shit.” Lucas stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside, and Ethan tried not to stare—tried and failed. Lucas caught him, smirking. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ethan said too quickly, standing to grab his own sleep gear. “Just… you’re always half-naked.”

Lucas laughed, stepping closer. “Problem?”

“Nope.” Ethan’s voice was steady, but his pulse wasn’t. He turned away, pulling off his own shirt, feeling Lucas’s eyes on him now—his wrestler’s build, the scars on his ribs from old matches. He slipped into a pair of loose shorts and climbed into bed, the springs creaking.

Lucas hit the lights, plunging the room into dark, and the rustle of his sheets followed. “Night, Carver,” he said, voice low.

“Night, Reid.” Ethan lay still, staring into the shadows, his body buzzing. Sleep didn’t come easy—not with Lucas’s breathing filling the space, not with the memory of his grin, his skin, his everything.

He must’ve dozed off eventually, because the next thing he knew, the room was pitch-black, and a soft thud jolted him awake. He blinked, disoriented, and heard it again—a muffled curse from Lucas’s side. Ethan sat up, squinting. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lucas whispered, his voice rough with sleep. “Dropped my damn phone.” A faint glow lit his face as he fished it off the floor, and Ethan caught the outline of him—bare-chested, hair wild, eyes bleary. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Ethan didn’t move, his heart thudding. “What time is it?”

“Like… two?” Lucas rubbed his face, sitting up. The sheet pooled in his lap, and the dim light carved shadows across his torso. “Can’t sleep now. You?”

“Was out till you woke me.” Ethan swung his legs over the edge of his bed, facing Lucas. The air felt heavy, intimate, the night wrapping them in something private. “Bad dream?”

“Nah, just restless.” Lucas set his phone down, the glow fading, and leaned back on his hands. “You ever get that? Too wired to crash?”

“Yeah. After matches sometimes.” Ethan’s eyes adjusted, picking out Lucas’s shape—the curve of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. “Adrenaline’s a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.” Lucas shifted, his bed creaking, and for a moment, they just sat there, two silhouettes in the dark. Then he spoke again, quieter. “Yesterday, out on the quad… that was fun.”

Ethan’s chest tightened. “Yeah. It was.”

“Never thought I’d vibe with a wrestler.” Lucas’s voice had an edge—soft, searching. “You’re… I dunno. Different.”

There it was again, different. Ethan swallowed, his mouth dry. “You said that before. What’s it mean?”

Lucas hesitated, then slid off his bed, crossing the narrow space between them. He stopped a foot away, close enough that Ethan could feel his heat, smell the faint musk of him. “Means you’re not what I expected. In a good way.”

Ethan’s breath hitched. Lucas loomed over him, all muscle and shadow, and the air crackled. “And you’re… what? The golden boy quarterback?”

“Something like that.” Lucas’s grin flashed, barely visible, and he crouched, levelling their eyes. “But I’m not just that. You’ll see.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say—didn’t trust his voice. Lucas was too close, his bare knees brushing the edge of Ethan’s mattress, his gaze locked on him. The room shrank, the world narrowing to this—Lucas’s breath, Ethan’s pulse, the pull between them. He wanted to move, to do something, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“You should sleep,” Ethan said finally, rough and low.

“Yeah.” Lucas didn’t move for a beat, then stood, slow and deliberate. “You too.”

He climbed back into his bed, the springs groaning, and Ethan lay down, staring at the ceiling. His skin buzzed, his mind racing. Lucas’s breathing evened out eventually, but Ethan stayed awake, replaying that moment—the closeness, the unspoken. Whatever this was, it was growing, and he wasn’t sure he could stop it. Didn’t know if he wanted to.

Morning came too soon, the alarm ripping through the quiet at 5:30 again. Ethan silenced it, glancing at Lucas—still out, one arm flung over his face. He dressed quietly, stealing one last look before heading to practice. The day stretched ahead, but the night lingered, heavy and hot in his bones.

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 4: Edge of the Line

Ethan’s sneakers pounded the wrestling mat at 6:00 a.m., the familiar thud echoing through the gym as he circled his sparring partner. Practice was a grind—two hours of drills, takedowns, and sweat—and his body ached in that good, bone-deep way. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his grey singlet clinging to his chest, and his lungs burned as he ducked a lunge from Jake, the lanky freshman from yesterday. Ethan shot low, wrapping his arms around Jake’s legs, and flipped him onto the mat with a grunt. The kid tapped out, laughing through a wheeze, and Ethan rolled off, sprawling on his back.

“Nice one, Carver,” Jake said, sitting up. “You’re a fuckin’ machine.”

Ethan grinned, catching his breath. “Just wait until I’m warmed up.” He pushed to his feet, wiping his face with the hem of his singlet, and glanced at the clock. 7:45. Lucas would be out on the field by now, running drills, throwing passes—shirtless, probably, all that tanned muscle gleaming in the morning sun. Ethan shook the image off, grabbing his water bottle. Focus. He needed focus.

But focus was a slippery bastard today. That 2:00 a.m. moment with Lucas—those hazel eyes locked on his, the heat of him so close—had burrowed under his skin and stayed there. Ethan chugged his water, the cold jolting him back, and headed for the showers. The locker room was loud—guys shouting, lockers slamming—and he stripped down, letting the hot spray pound his shoulders. His mind drifted anyway: Lucas’s voice, rough with sleep; the way he’d crouched by the bed, all shadow and muscle. Ethan scrubbed a hand over his face, turning the water to cold. Enough.

He was back in Room 312 by 8:30, damp-haired and wired, his black T-shirt sticking to his still-warm skin. Lucas’s side was a mess—sheets twisted, cleats kicked into a corner, a protein bar wrapper crumpled on the nightstand. The quarterback was still at practice, and Ethan dropped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had a 9:00 class—Intro to Poetry—but his brain wouldn’t settle. Lucas’s words kept looping: You’re different. In a good way. What the hell did that mean? And why did it make his chest feel tight?

The door banged open at 9:15, just as Ethan was shoving his books into his backpack. Lucas strode in, a storm of energy—hair wild with sweat, football jersey slung over his shoulder, shorts grass-stained and clinging to his thighs. His chest heaved, bare and glistening, and Ethan’s mouth went dry.

“Morning, wrestler,” Lucas said, tossing his jersey onto his bed. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

“Feel like it too.” Ethan stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “How was the field?”

“Brutal. Coach ran us ragged—sprints, tackles, the works.” Lucas stretched, arms overhead, and Ethan’s eyes snagged on the flex of his abs, the way his shorts dipped low. “Threw a sixty-yarder, though. Worth it.”

“Show-off,” Ethan muttered, but his lips twitched. “I’ve got class. You crashing?”

“Nah, shower first. Then maybe a nap.” Lucas grabbed his towel, pausing by the door. “You free later? Team’s hitting the gym around four. You should come.”

Ethan hesitated. “Gym’s not really my thing. I lift, but—”

“Come on, Carver. Spot me. I’ll spot you.” Lucas’s grin was all challenge, his hazel eyes glinting. “Unless you’re scared a football player will outlift you.”

Ethan snorted. “You wish.” He adjusted his bag, meeting Lucas’s stare. “Fine. Four.”

“Sweet.” Lucas clapped him on the shoulder as he passed—firm, warm, lingering—and Ethan’s skin buzzed under the touch. “See you, champ.”

The day dragged after that. Poetry class was a blur of metaphors and meter, and Ethan’s notes were a mess—half-doodles of wrestling moves, half-scribbled lines about shadows and heat that he’d never admit were about Lucas. Lunch was a quick protein shake in the quad, the sun high and relentless, and by 3:30, he was back in the dorm, changing into gym gear: a loose tank top, black shorts, sneakers. His stomach knotted as he headed out—nerves, maybe, or something else.

The gym was a cavern of clanging weights and grunting jocks when Ethan walked in at 4:05. Lucas was already there, mid-set on the bench press, a bar loaded with plates—three hundred pounds, easy. His football buddies milled around, spotting and joking, but Lucas’s focus was razor-sharp, his chest flexing with each rep. He racked the bar as Ethan approached, sitting up, sweat beading on his brow.

“You made it,” Lucas said, grinning. He wore a sleeveless red shirt, damp and tight, and his arms bulged as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Thought you’d bail.”

“Not a chance.” Ethan dropped his water bottle by the bench, nodding at the weights. “That your warm-up?”

Lucas laughed, standing. “Nah, that’s my max. Your turn.”

Ethan eyed the bar. “Two-fifty’s my limit. Don’t need your ego crushing me.”

“Fair.” Lucas stripped off a few plates, adjusting the weight, and clapped Ethan’s shoulder again—God, why did he keep doing that? “Lie down. I’ve got you.”

Ethan slid onto the bench, the vinyl cool against his back and gripped the bar. Lucas stood over him, hands hovering, his shadow falling across Ethan’s face. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Ethan pushed, the bar lifting smooth and heavy, and Lucas’s voice guided him—low, steady. “One… two… three…” Eight reps later, Ethan racked it, chest heaving, and Lucas’s grin was wider than ever.

“Solid, man. You’ve got power.” He offered a hand, pulling Ethan up, and their palms lingered, rough and warm. “My turn.”

They traded sets—Lucas benching, Ethan spotting; Ethan squatting, Lucas watching—and the gym faded into a rhythm of metal and breath. Lucas’s football crew drifted off, leaving them in a corner by the free weights, and the air shifted—less chaotic, more charged. Ethan caught Lucas staring once, mid-curl, those hazel eyes tracing his biceps, and looked away fast, his pulse hammering.

By 5:30, they were done—sweaty, spent, and sprawled on a mat near the mirrors. Lucas chugged Gatorade, his throat bobbing, and Ethan wiped his face with his tank hem, exposing his abs. Lucas’s gaze flicked there, quick but unmistakable, and Ethan’s stomach flipped.

“You’re a beast,” Lucas said, capping his bottle. “Wrestling’s no joke.”

“Football’s not exactly soft,” Ethan shot back, leaning back on his hands. “You’re built like a damn tank.”

Lucas smirked, flexing an arm. “Gotta be. Can’t let some linebacker flatten me.”

“Bet I could,” Ethan said, half-joking, and Lucas’s eyes sparked.

“Wanna try?” He shifted closer, knees brushing Ethan’s, and the mat felt smaller, the gym quieter. “Right here?”

Ethan laughed, but it came out rough. “You’d regret it.”

“Maybe.” Lucas’s voice dropped, teasing gone, and he held Ethan’s stare—long, steady, electric. Then he stood, breaking it, and offered a hand. “Come on. Shower time.”

They hit the locker room, stripping down in silence. Ethan kept his eyes on his locker, but the rustle of Lucas’s clothes—shirt, shorts, briefs—drew him anyway. He caught a glimpse—tanned skin, thick thighs, the curve of his ass—before turning to the showers, hot water blasting his back. Lucas took the stall next door, and steam thickened the air, their silhouettes blurred but close. Ethan washed fast, willing his body to behave, and dressed before Lucas finished, waiting by the sinks.

Back in 312, night fell hard. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in loose sweats, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat cross-legged with a notebook, scribbling half-formed poems. The room was warm, the AC humming, and tension lingered like a third presence. At 10:00, Lucas tossed his phone aside, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s pen falter.

“Long day,” Lucas said, sitting up. “You holding up?”

“Barely.” Ethan closed his notebook, rubbing his neck. “You?”

“Same.” Lucas stood, crossing to Ethan’s side, and perched on the edge of his bed—uninvited, close. “Mind if I…?”

Ethan’s breath caught. “What?”

“Just chill here.” Lucas leaned back on his hands, inches away, his bare shoulder brushing Ethan’s arm. “Your bed’s comfier.”

“Bullshit,” Ethan said, but he didn’t move. Lucas’s heat seeped into him, and the air thickened, heavy with last night’s echoes.

“You’re tense,” Lucas said, softer. “Practice? Me?”

Ethan snorted, meeting his eyes. “Both.”

Lucas tilted his head, studying him. “Want me to fix that?”

Ethan’s pulse spiked. “How?”

Lucas shifted, his hand landing on Ethan’s shoulder—firm, deliberate. “Turn around.”

“What—” Ethan started, but Lucas was already moving, nudging him to face the wall. Then those hands—big, rough, quarterback hands—pressed into Ethan’s traps, kneading the knots. Ethan froze, a jolt shooting down his spine.

“Relax,” Lucas murmured, thumbs digging in, and Ethan’s breath hitched. It wasn’t just a massage—it was Lucas, shirtless and close, his knees bracketing Ethan’s hips on the bed. The pressure was good—too good—and Ethan’s head tipped forward, a low groan slipping out.

“See? Told you.” Lucas’s voice was low, warm, his breath brushing Ethan’s neck. His hands slid lower, working the muscles along Ethan’s spine, and Ethan’s skin burned under the touch—electric, dangerous.

“Lucas—” Ethan rasped, half-warning, half-plea, but he didn’t pull away. Lucas’s fingers paused, then pressed again, slower, deliberate.

“Yeah?” Lucas was closer now, his chest brushing Ethan’s back, and Ethan felt it—the hard planes of him, the heat. His hands stilled, resting on Ethan’s shoulders, and the room shrank to this: their breathing, the creak of the bed, the unspoken.

Ethan turned his head, just enough to see Lucas’s face—hazel eyes dark, lips parted, a question hanging there. “What’re we doing?”

Lucas’s grip tightened, then softened. “What do you want?”

Ethan didn’t answer—couldn’t. His body answered for him, leaning back, closing the gap, and Lucas didn’t move away. Their shoulders pressed, Lucas’s thigh against his, and for a heartbeat, Ethan thought it’d happen—lips, hands, more. But then Lucas exhaled, pulling back, standing with a shaky laugh.

“Fuck, Carver,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’re trouble.”

Ethan swallowed, his throat tight. “You started it.”

“Yeah.” Lucas grinned, but it was strained. “I’ll… crash. Night.”

“Night.” Ethan watched him climb into his own bed, the distance between them stretching again. He lay back, heart pounding, skin still tingling where Lucas’s hands had been. Sleep didn’t come easy—not with that touch burned into him, not with the line they’d almost crossed glowing in the dark.

Morning would come, practice would grind on, but this—whatever this was—wasn’t going away. And Ethan wasn’t sure he wanted it to.

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 5: Breaking the Hold

Ethan woke to the familiar blare of his 5:30 a.m. alarm, but his body felt heavier than usual, like the weight of last night had settled into his bones. He silenced the phone with a groan, sitting up in the dark of Room 312. Lucas’s touch lingered—those hands on his shoulders, the heat of his chest brushing his back, the almost-kiss that had left Ethan reeling. He rubbed his neck, still tender from the massage, and glanced across the room. Lucas was out cold, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung wide, the sheet tangled around his hips. The faint glow of dawn outlined his shape—broad shoulders, the dip of his spine—and Ethan’s stomach twisted.

He dressed quietly, pulling on his wrestling gear: a black singlet, shorts, hoodie. His movements were mechanical, his mind stuck on that moment—Lucas’s breath on his neck, the way he’d pulled back with that shaky laugh. You’re trouble. Ethan snorted under his breath, lacing his sneakers. Maybe they both were. He grabbed his bag and slipped out, the door clicking shut, leaving Lucas to sleep.

Practice was a blur of sweat and strain. The wrestling room hummed with energy—mats squeaking, guys grunting—and Ethan threw himself into it, desperate to burn off the tension. He paired with Jake again, their drills a dance of power and resistance. Ethan took him down hard, pinning him with a growl, and Jake tapped out, grinning. “You’re pissed today, huh?”

“Just focused,” Ethan muttered, standing. But he wasn’t—not really. His head was back in the dorm, replaying Lucas’s hands, his voice, that line they’d danced around. Coach called time at 7:45, and Ethan hit the showers, the cold water a shock to his system. He needed to get a grip.

Back in 312 by 8:30, the room was empty—Lucas gone to his own practice, his bed a mess of sheets and a crumpled T-shirt. Ethan dropped his bag, flopping onto his mattress with a sigh. He had an hour before class, and his body ached, but his mind wouldn’t quit. Lucas’s words—What do you want? —echoed, unanswered. Ethan didn’t know. Or maybe he did, and that scared him more.

The day dragged—Poetry class, a sandwich in the quad, a lecture on meter he barely heard. By 4:00 p.m., he was back in the dorm, sprawled with a notebook, scribbling lines that veered too close to hazel eyes and quarterback hands. Lucas burst in at 5:15, fresh from practice, all sweat and swagger—jersey slung over his shoulder, shorts streaked with dirt, hair damp and wild.

“Hey, wrestler,” Lucas said, kicking the door shut. “You look beat.”

“Long day.” Ethan closed his notebook, sitting up. “You?”

“Same. Coach had us running suicides—fucking brutal.” Lucas peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s eyes snagged on him—tanned chest glistening, abs flexing as he stretched. “Shower, then food. You in?”

“Yeah.” Ethan stood, grabbing his ID. “Dining hall?”

“Yep.” Lucas grinned, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Meet you there.”

Dinner was loud and easy—Lucas piling his tray with chicken wings and fries, Ethan sticking to grilled fish and rice. They sat in their corner, Lucas talking through a mouthful about a botched play, his hands waving, sauce smudging his fingers. Ethan laughed, relaxing into it, but the undercurrent was there—last night’s heat simmering beneath every glance, every brush of their knees under the table.

Back in the room, night settled in. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in sweats, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat with his poetry book, pretending to read. The silence was thick, the AC’s hum the only sound, and Ethan’s skin prickled with awareness—Lucas’s bare torso, the flex of his arm as he typed. At 10:30, Lucas tossed his phone aside, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s grip tighten on the page.

“Fuck, I’m sore,” Lucas said, rubbing his shoulder. “Practice kicked my ass.”

“Same.” Ethan set his book down, rolling his neck. “Wrestling’s no picnic either.”

Lucas sat up, eyes glinting. “Want a rematch? My hands versus your knots?”

Ethan’s pulse jumped. “You serious?”

“Yeah.” Lucas slid off his bed, crossing to Ethan’s in two strides, and perched on the edge—close, too close. “Turn around.”

Ethan hesitated, then shifted, facing the wall. Lucas’s hands landed on his shoulders—firm, warm, rough—and Ethan’s breath caught. The quarterback kneaded into him, thumbs digging deep, and Ethan’s head tipped forward, a low groan slipping out.

“See? Still got it,” Lucas murmured, his voice low, his breath brushing Ethan’s ear. His hands slid lower, working the muscles along Ethan’s spine, and the touch was electric—intimate, deliberate. Ethan’s skin burned, his body leaning into it, and Lucas didn’t stop, his fingers tracing the edge of Ethan’s tank top.

“Lucas—” Ethan rasped, turning his head, and Lucas was right there—hazel eyes dark, lips parted, inches away. The air crackled, heavy with last night’s unfinished business.

“Yeah?” Lucas’s hands stilled, resting on Ethan’s shoulders, and his chest pressed closer, bare and hot against Ethan’s back. “What?”

Ethan didn’t answer—couldn’t. His body moved instead, twisting fully to face Lucas, their knees bumping, faces close. Lucas didn’t pull back, his gaze locked on Ethan’s, searching, waiting. The room shrank to this—their breathing, the creak of the bed, the heat between them.

“What do you want?” Ethan asked, voice rough, throwing Lucas’s question back.

Lucas’s lips twitched, a half-smile, but his eyes were serious. “You.”

The word hit Ethan like a takedown, raw and direct, and before he could think, he closed the gap. His lips crashed into Lucas’s—hard, hungry, a collision of need. Lucas groaned, hands sliding to Ethan’s neck, pulling him in, and the kiss deepened, tongues meeting, hot and messy. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s shoulders, feeling the muscle flex, and Lucas pushed back, his body pressing Ethan down onto the bed.

They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together. Lucas’s eyes were wild, his breath ragged. “Fuck, Ethan—”

“Shut up,” Ethan muttered, yanking him back, and they kissed again slower this time, but no less desperate. Lucas’s hands roamed, slipping under Ethan’s tank, rough palms grazing his abs, his chest. Ethan arched into it, a low sound in his throat, and tugged at Lucas’s sweats, needing more skin, more contact.

Lucas pulled back just enough to strip Ethan’s shirt off, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s hands found Lucas’s waist, tracing the V-line he’d stared at too many times. Lucas shivered, leaning down, lips brushing Ethan’s jaw, his neck, and Ethan’s head tipped back, a groan escaping as Lucas’s teeth grazed his collarbone.

“Been thinking about this,” Lucas whispered, voice hoarse, his hands pinning Ethan’s wrists above his head. “Since the quad.”

“Me too,” Ethan admitted, straining against the hold, and Lucas grinned, releasing him to slide lower, kissing down Ethan’s chest. His tongue flicked over a nipple, and Ethan’s hips bucked, a curse slipping out. Lucas laughed, soft and wicked, and kept going—lips, teeth, hands mapping every inch.

Ethan’s shorts were next, Lucas tugging them down with a slow, deliberate pull, and Ethan kicked them off, bare now, his wrestler’s body taut and trembling. Lucas paused, looking up, eyes dark with want. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Ethan rasped, reaching for him. “You?”

“Fuck yes.” Lucas shed his sweats, briefs following, and climbed back over Ethan, their bodies aligning—hard muscle, hot skin, no barriers. Ethan’s hands gripped Lucas’s hips, pulling him down, and they groaned in unison as their cocks pressed together, the friction electric.

It was messy, urgent hands roaming, mouths clashing, hips grinding. Lucas’s weight pinned Ethan to the bed, his quarterback strength a match for Ethan’s wrestler grit, and they moved together, sweat-slick and breathless. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s ass, urging him faster, and Lucas’s lips found his ear, whispering, “You’re killing me, Carver.”

“Good,” Ethan growled, flipping them with a sudden twist—years of mat instinct kicking in. Lucas hit the mattress with a grunt, surprise flashing in his eyes, and Ethan straddled him, grinning. “My turn.”

Lucas laughed, hands gripping Ethan’s thighs. “Go for it.”

Ethan leaned down, kissing him hard, and took them both in hand—rough, stroking, slick with sweat and need. Lucas’s head tipped back, a low moan tearing from his throat, and Ethan’s control frayed, his own breath hitching. They rocked together, fast and desperate, until Lucas tensed, cursing, and spilled over Ethan’s hand, his body shuddering. Ethan followed seconds later, a choked groan escaping as he came, collapsing onto Lucas’s chest.

They lay there, panting, sticky and spent, Lucas’s arms looping around Ethan’s back. The room was quiet now, just their breathing and the faint hum of the AC. Ethan’s head rested on Lucas’s shoulder, his heart still racing, and Lucas’s fingers traced lazy circles on his spine.

“Fuck,” Lucas said finally, voice rough but warm. “That was…”

“Yeah.” Ethan lifted his head, meeting Lucas’s eyes—hazel, soft, unguarded. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” Lucas grinned, pulling him down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You?”

“Same.” Ethan rolled off, lying beside him, their shoulders touching. The bed was too small for this, but neither moved, the closeness grounding them.

Lucas turned his head, studying him. “This… us. What’s it mean?”

Ethan exhaled, staring at the ceiling. “Dunno. But I don’t want it to stop.”

“Me either.” Lucas’s hand found his, fingers lacing together, rough and sure. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.” Ethan squeezed back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We will.”

Sleep came easier after that, the tension burned out, replaced by something softer—something real. Lucas stayed in Ethan’s bed, their legs tangled, his breath warm against Ethan’s neck. The alarm would scream at 5:30, practice would grind on, but for now, they had this—sweat and shadows, a line crossed, a beginning.

Morning light crept in, and Ethan woke first, Lucas still pressed against him, heavy and warm. He didn’t move, didn’t want to break it—not yet. Whatever this was, it was theirs, and he’d fight to keep it.

 

[yukon976]

Chapter 5: Breaking the Hold

Ethan woke to the familiar blare of his 5:30 a.m. alarm, but his body felt heavier than usual, like the weight of last night had settled into his bones. He silenced the phone with a groan, sitting up in the dark of Room 312. Lucas’s touch lingered—those hands on his shoulders, the heat of his chest brushing his back, the almost-kiss that had left Ethan reeling. He rubbed his neck, still tender from the massage, and glanced across the room. Lucas was out cold, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung wide, the sheet tangled around his hips. The faint glow of dawn outlined his shape—broad shoulders, the dip of his spine—and Ethan’s stomach twisted.

He dressed quietly, pulling on his wrestling gear: a black singlet, shorts, hoodie. His movements were mechanical, his mind stuck on that moment—Lucas’s breath on his neck, the way he’d pulled back with that shaky laugh. You’re trouble. Ethan snorted under his breath, lacing his sneakers. Maybe they both were. He grabbed his bag and slipped out, the door clicking shut, leaving Lucas to sleep.

Practice was a blur of sweat and strain. The wrestling room hummed with energy—mats squeaking, guys grunting—and Ethan threw himself into it, desperate to burn off the tension. He paired with Jake again, their drills a dance of power and resistance. Ethan took him down hard, pinning him with a growl, and Jake tapped out, grinning. “You’re pissed today, huh?”

“Just focused,” Ethan muttered, standing. But he wasn’t—not really. His head was back in the dorm, replaying Lucas’s hands, his voice, that line they’d danced around. Coach called time at 7:45, and Ethan hit the showers, the cold water a shock to his system. He needed to get a grip.

Back in 312 by 8:30, the room was empty—Lucas gone to his own practice, his bed a mess of sheets and a crumpled T-shirt. Ethan dropped his bag, flopping onto his mattress with a sigh. He had an hour before class, and his body ached, but his mind wouldn’t quit. Lucas’s words—What do you want? —echoed, unanswered. Ethan didn’t know. Or maybe he did, and that scared him more.

The day dragged—Poetry class, a sandwich in the quad, a lecture on meter he barely heard. By 4:00 p.m., he was back in the dorm, sprawled with a notebook, scribbling lines that veered too close to hazel eyes and quarterback hands. Lucas burst in at 5:15, fresh from practice, all sweat and swagger—jersey slung over his shoulder, shorts streaked with dirt, hair damp and wild.

“Hey, wrestler,” Lucas said, kicking the door shut. “You look beat.”

“Long day.” Ethan closed his notebook, sitting up. “You?”

“Same. Coach had us running suicides—fucking brutal.” Lucas peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s eyes snagged on him—tanned chest glistening, abs flexing as he stretched. “Shower, then food. You in?”

“Yeah.” Ethan stood, grabbing his ID. “Dining hall?”

“Yep.” Lucas grinned, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Meet you there.”

Dinner was loud and easy—Lucas piling his tray with chicken wings and fries, Ethan sticking to grilled fish and rice. They sat in their corner, Lucas talking through a mouthful about a botched play, his hands waving, sauce smudging his fingers. Ethan laughed, relaxing into it, but the undercurrent was there—last night’s heat simmering beneath every glance, every brush of their knees under the table.

Back in the room, night settled in. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in sweats, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat with his poetry book, pretending to read. The silence was thick, the AC’s hum the only sound, and Ethan’s skin prickled with awareness—Lucas’s bare torso, the flex of his arm as he typed. At 10:30, Lucas tossed his phone aside, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s grip tighten on the page.

“Fuck, I’m sore,” Lucas said, rubbing his shoulder. “Practice kicked my ass.”

“Same.” Ethan set his book down, rolling his neck. “Wrestling’s no picnic either.”

Lucas sat up, eyes glinting. “Want a rematch? My hands versus your knots?”

Ethan’s pulse jumped. “You serious?”

“Yeah.” Lucas slid off his bed, crossing to Ethan’s in two strides, and perched on the edge—close, too close. “Turn around.”

Ethan hesitated, then shifted, facing the wall. Lucas’s hands landed on his shoulders—firm, warm, rough—and Ethan’s breath caught. The quarterback kneaded into him, thumbs digging deep, and Ethan’s head tipped forward, a low groan slipping out.

“See? Still got it,” Lucas murmured, his voice low, his breath brushing Ethan’s ear. His hands slid lower, working the muscles along Ethan’s spine, and the touch was electric—intimate, deliberate. Ethan’s skin burned, his body leaning into it, and Lucas didn’t stop, his fingers tracing the edge of Ethan’s tank top.

“Lucas—” Ethan rasped, turning his head, and Lucas was right there—hazel eyes dark, lips parted, inches away. The air crackled, heavy with last night’s unfinished business.

“Yeah?” Lucas’s hands stilled, resting on Ethan’s shoulders, and his chest pressed closer, bare and hot against Ethan’s back. “What?”

Ethan didn’t answer—couldn’t. His body moved instead, twisting fully to face Lucas, their knees bumping, faces close. Lucas didn’t pull back, his gaze locked on Ethan’s, searching, waiting. The room shrank to this—their breathing, the creak of the bed, the heat between them.

“What do you want?” Ethan asked, voice rough, throwing Lucas’s question back.

Lucas’s lips twitched, a half-smile, but his eyes were serious. “You.”

The word hit Ethan like a takedown, raw and direct, and before he could think, he closed the gap. His lips crashed into Lucas’s—hard, hungry, a collision of need. Lucas groaned, hands sliding to Ethan’s neck, pulling him in, and the kiss deepened, tongues meeting, hot and messy. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s shoulders, feeling the muscle flex, and Lucas pushed back, his body pressing Ethan down onto the bed.

They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together. Lucas’s eyes were wild, his breath ragged. “Fuck, Ethan—”

“Shut up,” Ethan muttered, yanking him back, and they kissed again slower this time, but no less desperate. Lucas’s hands roamed, slipping under Ethan’s tank, rough palms grazing his abs, his chest. Ethan arched into it, a low sound in his throat, and tugged at Lucas’s sweats, needing more skin, more contact.

Lucas pulled back just enough to strip Ethan’s shirt off, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s hands found Lucas’s waist, tracing the V-line he’d stared at too many times. Lucas shivered, leaning down, lips brushing Ethan’s jaw, his neck, and Ethan’s head tipped back, a groan escaping as Lucas’s teeth grazed his collarbone.

“Been thinking about this,” Lucas whispered, voice hoarse, his hands pinning Ethan’s wrists above his head. “Since the quad.”

“Me too,” Ethan admitted, straining against the hold, and Lucas grinned, releasing him to slide lower, kissing down Ethan’s chest. His tongue flicked over a nipple, and Ethan’s hips bucked, a curse slipping out. Lucas laughed, soft and wicked, and kept going—lips, teeth, hands mapping every inch.

Ethan’s shorts were next, Lucas tugging them down with a slow, deliberate pull, and Ethan kicked them off, bare now, his wrestler’s body taut and trembling. Lucas paused, looking up, eyes dark with want. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Ethan rasped, reaching for him. “You?”

“Fuck yes.” Lucas shed his sweats, briefs following, and climbed back over Ethan, their bodies aligning—hard muscle, hot skin, no barriers. Ethan’s hands gripped Lucas’s hips, pulling him down, and they groaned in unison as their cocks pressed together, the friction electric.

It was messy, urgent hands roaming, mouths clashing, hips grinding. Lucas’s weight pinned Ethan to the bed, his quarterback strength a match for Ethan’s wrestler grit, and they moved together, sweat-slick and breathless. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s ass, urging him faster, and Lucas’s lips found his ear, whispering, “You’re killing me, Carver.”

“Good,” Ethan growled, flipping them with a sudden twist—years of mat instinct kicking in. Lucas hit the mattress with a grunt, surprise flashing in his eyes, and Ethan straddled him, grinning. “My turn.”

Lucas laughed, hands gripping Ethan’s thighs. “Go for it.”

Ethan leaned down, kissing him hard, and took them both in hand—rough, stroking, slick with sweat and need. Lucas’s head tipped back, a low moan tearing from his throat, and Ethan’s control frayed, his own breath hitching. They rocked together, fast and desperate, until Lucas tensed, cursing, and spilled over Ethan’s hand, his body shuddering. Ethan followed seconds later, a choked groan escaping as he came, collapsing onto Lucas’s chest.

They lay there, panting, sticky and spent, Lucas’s arms looping around Ethan’s back. The room was quiet now, just their breathing and the faint hum of the AC. Ethan’s head rested on Lucas’s shoulder, his heart still racing, and Lucas’s fingers traced lazy circles on his spine.

“Fuck,” Lucas said finally, voice rough but warm. “That was…”

“Yeah.” Ethan lifted his head, meeting Lucas’s eyes—hazel, soft, unguarded. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” Lucas grinned, pulling him down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You?”

“Same.” Ethan rolled off, lying beside him, their shoulders touching. The bed was too small for this, but neither moved, the closeness grounding them.

Lucas turned his head, studying him. “This… us. What’s it mean?”

Ethan exhaled, staring at the ceiling. “Dunno. But I don’t want it to stop.”

“Me either.” Lucas’s hand found his, fingers lacing together, rough and sure. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.” Ethan squeezed back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We will.”

Sleep came easier after that, the tension burned out, replaced by something softer—something real. Lucas stayed in Ethan’s bed, their legs tangled, his breath warm against Ethan’s neck. The alarm would scream at 5:30, practice would grind on, but for now, they had this—sweat and shadows, a line crossed, a beginning.

Morning light crept in, and Ethan woke first, Lucas still pressed against him, heavy and warm. He didn’t move, didn’t want to break it—not yet. Whatever this was, it was theirs, and he’d fight to keep it.

This is beautiful man

 

[jacko234]

This is beautiful man

thank you, i am still editing it, but will upload more soon

 

[joeyd]

This is beautiful man

agreed, but forgive me for being obtuse, but what exactly did they do?

 

[tallmascaussie]

Great story and great build up. well done!

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 5: Breaking the Hold

Ethan woke to the familiar blare of his 5:30 a.m. alarm, but his body felt heavier than usual, like the weight of last night had settled into his bones. He silenced the phone with a groan, sitting up in the dark of Room 312. Lucas’s touch lingered—those hands on his shoulders, the heat of his chest brushing his back, the almost-kiss that had left Ethan reeling. He rubbed his neck, still tender from the massage, and glanced across the room. Lucas was out cold, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung wide, the sheet tangled around his hips. The faint glow of dawn outlined his shape—broad shoulders, the dip of his spine—and Ethan’s stomach twisted.

He dressed quietly, pulling on his wrestling gear: a black singlet, shorts, hoodie. His movements were mechanical, his mind stuck on that moment—Lucas’s breath on his neck, the way he’d pulled back with that shaky laugh. You’re trouble. Ethan snorted under his breath, lacing his sneakers. Maybe they both were. He grabbed his bag and slipped out, the door clicking shut, leaving Lucas to sleep.

Practice was a blur of sweat and strain. The wrestling room hummed with energy—mats squeaking, guys grunting—and Ethan threw himself into it, desperate to burn off the tension. He paired with Jake again, their drills a dance of power and resistance. Ethan took him down hard, pinning him with a growl, and Jake tapped out, grinning. “You’re pissed today, huh?”

“Just focused,” Ethan muttered, standing. But he wasn’t—not really. His head was back in the dorm, replaying Lucas’s hands, his voice, that line they’d danced around. Coach called time at 7:45, and Ethan hit the showers, the cold water a shock to his system. He needed to get a grip.

Back in 312 by 8:30, the room was empty—Lucas gone to his own practice, his bed a mess of sheets and a crumpled T-shirt. Ethan dropped his bag, flopping onto his mattress with a sigh. He had an hour before class, and his body ached, but his mind wouldn’t quit. Lucas’s words—What do you want? —echoed, unanswered. Ethan didn’t know. Or maybe he did, and that scared him more.

The day dragged—Poetry class, a sandwich in the quad, a lecture on meter he barely heard. By 4:00 p.m., he was back in the dorm, sprawled with a notebook, scribbling lines that veered too close to hazel eyes and quarterback hands. Lucas burst in at 5:15, fresh from practice, all sweat and swagger—jersey slung over his shoulder, shorts streaked with dirt, hair damp and wild.

“Hey, wrestler,” Lucas said, kicking the door shut. “You look beat.”

“Long day.” Ethan closed his notebook, sitting up. “You?”

“Same. Coach had us running suicides—fucking brutal.” Lucas peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s eyes snagged on him—tanned chest glistening, abs flexing as he stretched. “Shower, then food. You in?”

“Yeah.” Ethan stood, grabbing his ID. “Dining hall?”

“Yep.” Lucas grinned, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Meet you there.”

Dinner was loud and easy—Lucas piling his tray with chicken wings and fries, Ethan sticking to grilled fish and rice. They sat in their corner, Lucas talking through a mouthful about a botched play, his hands waving, sauce smudging his fingers. Ethan laughed, relaxing into it, but the undercurrent was there—last night’s heat simmering beneath every glance, every brush of their knees under the table.

Back in the room, night settled in. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in sweats, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat with his poetry book, pretending to read. The silence was thick, the AC’s hum the only sound, and Ethan’s skin prickled with awareness—Lucas’s bare torso, the flex of his arm as he typed. At 10:30, Lucas tossed his phone aside, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s grip tighten on the page.

“Fuck, I’m sore,” Lucas said, rubbing his shoulder. “Practice kicked my ass.”

“Same.” Ethan set his book down, rolling his neck. “Wrestling’s no picnic either.”

Lucas sat up, eyes glinting. “Want a rematch? My hands versus your knots?”

Ethan’s pulse jumped. “You serious?”

“Yeah.” Lucas slid off his bed, crossing to Ethan’s in two strides, and perched on the edge—close, too close. “Turn around.”

Ethan hesitated, then shifted, facing the wall. Lucas’s hands landed on his shoulders—firm, warm, rough—and Ethan’s breath caught. The quarterback kneaded into him, thumbs digging deep, and Ethan’s head tipped forward, a low groan slipping out.

“See? Still got it,” Lucas murmured, his voice low, his breath brushing Ethan’s ear. His hands slid lower, working the muscles along Ethan’s spine, and the touch was electric—intimate, deliberate. Ethan’s skin burned, his body leaning into it, and Lucas didn’t stop, his fingers tracing the edge of Ethan’s tank top.

“Lucas—” Ethan rasped, turning his head, and Lucas was right there—hazel eyes dark, lips parted, inches away. The air crackled, heavy with last night’s unfinished business.

“Yeah?” Lucas’s hands stilled, resting on Ethan’s shoulders, and his chest pressed closer, bare and hot against Ethan’s back. “What?”

Ethan didn’t answer—couldn’t. His body moved instead, twisting fully to face Lucas, their knees bumping, faces close. Lucas didn’t pull back, his gaze locked on Ethan’s, searching, waiting. The room shrank to this—their breathing, the creak of the bed, the heat between them.

“What do you want?” Ethan asked, voice rough, throwing Lucas’s question back.

Lucas’s lips twitched, a half-smile, but his eyes were serious. “You.”

The word hit Ethan like a takedown, raw and direct, and before he could think, he closed the gap. His lips crashed into Lucas’s—hard, hungry, a collision of need. Lucas groaned, hands sliding to Ethan’s neck, pulling him in, and the kiss deepened, tongues meeting, hot and messy. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s shoulders, feeling the muscle flex, and Lucas pushed back, his body pressing Ethan down onto the bed.

They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together. Lucas’s eyes were wild, his breath ragged. “Fuck, Ethan—”

“Shut up,” Ethan muttered, yanking him back, and they kissed again slower this time, but no less desperate. Lucas’s hands roamed, slipping under Ethan’s tank, rough palms grazing his abs, his chest. Ethan arched into it, a low sound in his throat, and tugged at Lucas’s sweats, needing more skin, more contact.

Lucas pulled back just enough to strip Ethan’s shirt off, tossing it aside, and Ethan’s hands found Lucas’s waist, tracing the V-line he’d stared at too many times. Lucas shivered, leaning down, lips brushing Ethan’s jaw, his neck, and Ethan’s head tipped back, a groan escaping as Lucas’s teeth grazed his collarbone.

“Been thinking about this,” Lucas whispered, voice hoarse, his hands pinning Ethan’s wrists above his head. “Since the quad.”

“Me too,” Ethan admitted, straining against the hold, and Lucas grinned, releasing him to slide lower, kissing down Ethan’s chest. His tongue flicked over a nipple, and Ethan’s hips bucked, a curse slipping out. Lucas laughed, soft and wicked, and kept going—lips, teeth, hands mapping every inch.

Ethan’s shorts were next, Lucas tugging them down with a slow, deliberate pull, and Ethan kicked them off, bare now, his wrestler’s body taut and trembling. Lucas paused, looking up, eyes dark with want. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Ethan rasped, reaching for him. “You?”

“Fuck yes.” Lucas shed his sweats, briefs following, and climbed back over Ethan, their bodies aligning—hard muscle, hot skin, no barriers. Ethan’s hands gripped Lucas’s hips, pulling him down, and they groaned in unison as their cocks pressed together, the friction electric.

It was messy, urgent hands roaming, mouths clashing, hips grinding. Lucas’s weight pinned Ethan to the bed, his quarterback strength a match for Ethan’s wrestler grit, and they moved together, sweat-slick and breathless. Ethan’s fingers dug into Lucas’s ass, urging him faster, and Lucas’s lips found his ear, whispering, “You’re killing me, Carver.”

“Good,” Ethan growled, flipping them with a sudden twist—years of mat instinct kicking in. Lucas hit the mattress with a grunt, surprise flashing in his eyes, and Ethan straddled him, grinning. “My turn.”

Lucas laughed, hands gripping Ethan’s thighs. “Go for it.”

Ethan leaned down, kissing him hard, and took them both in hand—rough, stroking, slick with sweat and need. Lucas’s head tipped back, a low moan tearing from his throat, and Ethan’s control frayed, his own breath hitching. They rocked together, fast and desperate, until Lucas tensed, cursing, and spilled over Ethan’s hand, his body shuddering. Ethan followed seconds later, a choked groan escaping as he came, collapsing onto Lucas’s chest.

They lay there, panting, sticky and spent, Lucas’s arms looping around Ethan’s back. The room was quiet now, just their breathing and the faint hum of the AC. Ethan’s head rested on Lucas’s shoulder, his heart still racing, and Lucas’s fingers traced lazy circles on his spine.

“Fuck,” Lucas said finally, voice rough but warm. “That was…”

“Yeah.” Ethan lifted his head, meeting Lucas’s eyes—hazel, soft, unguarded. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” Lucas grinned, pulling him down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You?”

“Same.” Ethan rolled off, lying beside him, their shoulders touching. The bed was too small for this, but neither moved, the closeness grounding them.

Lucas turned his head, studying him. “This… us. What’s it mean?”

Ethan exhaled, staring at the ceiling. “Dunno. But I don’t want it to stop.”

“Me either.” Lucas’s hand found his, fingers lacing together, rough and sure. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.” Ethan squeezed back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We will.”

Sleep came easier after that, the tension burned out, replaced by something softer—something real. Lucas stayed in Ethan’s bed, their legs tangled, his breath warm against Ethan’s neck. The alarm would scream at 5:30, practice would grind on, but for now, they had this—sweat and shadows, a line crossed, a beginning.

Morning light crept in, and Ethan woke first, Lucas still pressed against him, heavy and warm. He didn’t move, didn’t want to break it—not yet. Whatever this was, it was theirs, and he’d fight to keep it.

Awesome story and hot as hell...thanks man---great work

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 6: After the Fall

Ethan’s alarm ripped through the quiet at 5:30 a.m., a harsh jolt that yanked him from a dream he couldn’t quite grasp—something about matts and hazel eyes. He fumbled for his phone, silencing it, and froze as the weight beside him shifted. Lucas. The quarterback was still there, sprawled in Ethan’s bed, his bare chest pressed against Ethan’s side, one thick arm slung across his waist. His breath was warm and steady against Ethan’s neck, and the memory of last night crashed back—lips, hands, the raw, desperate heat of it all. Ethan’s pulse kicked up, his body stirring despite the early hour.

He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the dim grey light filtering through the blinds. Lucas’s heat was a tether, grounding and disorienting all at once. They’d crossed a line—hell, they’d obliterated it—and now here they were, tangled in a too-small bed, the dorm room silent except for the soft creak of the mattress. Ethan’s hand rested on Lucas’s arm, tracing the muscle there, and a quiet panic flickered in his chest. What now? Was this a one-off? A mistake? Or something more?

Lucas stirred, mumbling something incoherent, and his grip tightened, pulling Ethan closer. “Too early,” he groaned, voice thick with sleep, his lips brushing Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan’s breath hitched, a shiver racing down his spine.

“Practice,” Ethan whispered, but he didn’t move. “Gotta get up.”

“Fuck practice,” Lucas muttered, cracking one eye open—hazel, bleary, unfairly pretty. He shifted, propping himself on an elbow, and looked down at Ethan, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Morning, wrestler.”

“Morning, quarterback.” Ethan’s voice was rough, his throat dry. Lucas’s hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and his bare torso gleamed faintly in the low light—broad, tanned, a map of muscle Ethan had explored hours ago. “You’re in my bed.”

“Yeah.” Lucas’s grin widened, unrepentant. “Comfier than mine.”

“Bullshit.” Ethan smirked, but his chest felt tight, the closeness overwhelming. He sat up, breaking the contact, and swung his legs over the edge. “I’ve got matts in an hour.”

Lucas flopped back, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s stomach flip. “And I’ve got field at seven. Guess we’re both screwed.” He rolled onto his side, watching Ethan pull on his wrestling gear—singlet, shorts, hoodie. “You good?”

Ethan paused, lacing his sneakers. “Yeah. You?”

“Better than good.” Lucas’s voice softened, and when Ethan glanced back, those hazel eyes were steady, searching. “Last night… no regrets, right?”

Ethan’s heart thudded. “No regrets.” He stood, grabbing his bag, and met Lucas’s gaze—raw, honest. “You?”

“None.” Lucas sat up, the sheet pooling in his lap, and ran a hand through his hair. “Just… don’t overthink it, okay? We’re good.”

“Yeah.” Ethan nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “See you later.”

“Count on it.” Lucas’s grin was back, cocky and warm, and Ethan slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Practice was a slog—Ethan’s body was sluggish, his mind split between the matt and Lucas. He took down Jake twice, but his focus wavered, and Coach Hargrove barked at him to “get his head in the game.” He showered fast, the cold water a jolt, and trudged back to 312 by 8:30, his muscles aching. Lucas was gone—off to his own practice—and the room felt emptier, the unmade beds a quiet testament to last night. Ethan dropped his bag and flopped onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling. His notebook sat on the nightstand, and he grabbed it, scribbling a line—sweat and shadows, a grip I can’t shake—before tossing it aside. Poetry wasn’t cutting it today.

The day blurred class, a protein shake in the quad, a lecture he zoned out through. By 4:00 p.m., he was back in the dorm, sprawled with a book he wasn’t reading, when Lucas burst in—sweaty, grass-stained, all quarterback swagger. His jersey hung over his shoulder, his shorts clung to his thighs, and his grin lit the room.

“Hey, wrestler,” Lucas said, kicking the door shut. “Miss me?”

Ethan snorted, sitting up. “You wish.” But his eyes betrayed him, tracing Lucas’s chest—damp, flexing as he stretched. “How was practice?”

“Killed it. Threw a seventy-yarder—Coach nearly hugged me.” Lucas peeled off his shirt, tossing it into the hamper, and Ethan’s mouth went dry. “You?”

“Sloppy. Took a few hits.” Ethan rubbed his shoulder, wincing. “Coach was pissed.”

Lucas crossed to him, perching on the edge of Ethan’s bed—close, casual, like it was normal now. “Lemme see.” His hand landed on Ethan’s shoulder, kneading gently, and Ethan tensed, then relaxed, a low groan slipping out.

“You’re too good at that,” Ethan muttered, leaning into it.

“Years of practice.” Lucas’s voice was low, his thumb digging into a knot, and Ethan’s skin buzzed, last night’s heat flickering back. “You’re tight as hell.”

“Blame you,” Ethan said, half-joking, and Lucas laughed, his hand sliding to Ethan’s neck, lingering.

“Fair.” Lucas’s eyes met his—hazel, warm, a little uncertain. “We’re still good, right?”

“Yeah.” Ethan nodded, his throat tight. “We’re good.”

Lucas grinned, pulling back. “Shower time. Then food?”

“Dining hall,” Ethan agreed, standing. “Meet you there.”

Dinner was easy—Lucas piling his tray with pizza, Ethan sticking to chicken and greens. They sat in their corner, Lucas talking through a mouthful about a teammate’s fumble, his hands waving, cheese smudging his fingers. Ethan laughed, the tension easing, but it was there—under every glance, every brush of their elbows—a new current, electric and unspoken.

Back in 312, night fell soft and slow. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in sweats, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat with his notebook, scribbling half-thoughts. The room was warm, the AC humming, and the quiet felt different—intimate, charged. At 10:00, Lucas tossed his phone aside, stretching with a groan that made Ethan’s pen falter.

“Sore again?” Ethan asked, setting his notebook down.

“Always.” Lucas sat up, rubbing his neck. “You?”

“Same.” Ethan rolled his shoulders, wincing. “Wrestling’s hell on the joints.”

Lucas slid off his bed, crossing to Ethan’s in that easy, unhurried way. “Trade you—my hands for yours.”

Ethan’s pulse jumped. “Deal.” He shifted, letting Lucas sit behind him, and those hands—big, rough, familiar—pressed into his shoulders, kneading deep. Ethan groaned, head tipping forward, and Lucas’s breath brushed his neck, warm and close.

“Your turn,” Lucas said after a while, shifting forward, and Ethan turned, hands landing on Lucas’s shoulders. The quarterback’s skin was hot, muscle flexing under Ethan’s fingers, and he worked the knots, feeling Lucas relax with a low hum.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Lucas murmured, head lolling, and Ethan’s grip tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of Lucas’s spine. The air thickened, their breathing syncing, and Lucas turned his head, hazel eyes catching Ethan’s—dark, steady, wanting.

“Ethan—” Lucas started, voice rough, and Ethan didn’t wait. He leaned in, lips brushing Lucas’s—soft at first, testing. Lucas groaned, turning fully, and the kiss deepened, hands sliding to Ethan’s neck, pulling him close. It was slower than last night, less frantic, but no less hungry—tongues meeting, a quiet heat building.

They broke apart, foreheads pressed, breathing hard. “This okay?” Lucas whispered, his hand cupping Ethan’s jaw.

“Yeah.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse, his fingers digging into Lucas’s waist. “More than okay.”

Lucas grinned, pulling him down onto the bed, and they tangled together—legs slotting, chests pressing, hands roaming. Ethan’s shirt came off, then Lucas’s sweats, and they moved slow, deliberate—kissing, touching, exploring. Lucas’s lips trailed down Ethan’s neck, teeth grazing his collarbone, and Ethan’s hips rocked, a low sound escaping. Lucas’s hand slid lower, palming him through his shorts, and Ethan cursed, arching into it.

“Want you,” Lucas murmured, lips against Ethan’s ear, and Ethan nodded, tugging at Lucas’s briefs, needing skin. They stripped bare, bodies aligning—hard muscle, hot friction—and Lucas rolled them, pinning Ethan with his weight, a grin flashing.

“Got you,” Lucas teased, kissing him hard, and Ethan pushed back, flipping them with a wrestler’s twist. Lucas hit the mattress with a laugh, hands gripping Ethan’s thighs.

“Not for long,” Ethan shot back, leaning down, and they lost themselves in it—hands stroking, hips grinding, mouths clashing. It was messy, tender, a give-and-take that built fast. Lucas tensed first, a groan tearing from him as he came, and Ethan followed, shuddering, collapsing onto Lucas’s chest.

They lay there, panting, sweat-slick and close, Lucas’s arms looping around Ethan’s back. The room was quiet, just their breathing and the faint hum of the night. Ethan’s head rested on Lucas’s shoulder, his heart slowing, and Lucas’s fingers traced lazy patterns on his skin.

“You’re staying here,” Ethan said, not a question, and Lucas chuckled, tightening his hold.

“Try kicking me out.” His voice was warm, sleepy, and Ethan smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“Wouldn’t.” Ethan shifted, settling beside him, their legs tangled. “This… us. It’s real, right?”

Lucas turned his head, hazel eyes soft. “Yeah. Real as it gets.” He reached for Ethan’s hand, lacing their fingers—rough, sure. “You scared?”

“A little,” Ethan admitted, staring at their hands. “You?”

“Same.” Lucas squeezed, his thumb brushing Ethan’s knuckles. “But I’m in. You?”

“In.” Ethan’s chest loosened, a weight, lifting. “All the way.”

They drifted after that, the bed too small but perfect, Lucas’s breath steady against Ethan’s neck. Sleep came soft, a quiet surrender, and Ethan let it take him, anchored by the heat beside him.

Morning broke at 5:30, the alarm screaming, and Ethan silenced it, Lucas grumbling into his shoulder. “Fuck off,” the quarterback muttered, burrowing closer, and Ethan laughed, rolling to face him.

“Practice,” he said, brushing Lucas’s hair back, and Lucas cracked an eye, grinning.

“Worth it.” He leaned in, kissing Ethan slow and deep, and they lingered, hands wandering, until Ethan pulled back, breathless.

“Gotta go,” he said, but Lucas’s grip tightened, playful.

“Five more minutes.” His lips found Ethan’s neck, and Ethan groaned, tempted, but shoved him off with a laugh.

“Later, asshole.” He stood, dressing fast, and Lucas watched, sprawled and shameless, a promise in his eyes.

“Count on it,” Lucas said, and Ethan kissed him one final time then slipped out, the door clicking shut, his body buzzing with the weight of them—real, messy, theirs.

Practice was sharper today, Ethan’s focus back, and he pinned Jake twice, grinning. The day stretched ahead—classes, routine—but Lucas was there, a thread running through it, and Ethan knew they’d find their way back to this, night after night, step by step.

 

[jacko234]

Chapter 7: Cracks in the Armor

Ethan woke to the insistent buzz of his 5:30 a.m. alarm, but this time, he didn’t flinch. Lucas’s arm was heavy across his chest, the quarterback’s breath warm against his neck, and the dorm room felt like a cocoon—dark, safe, theirs. He silenced the phone with a lazy swipe, turning to face Lucas, whose face was slack with sleep, lips parted slightly. Ethan traced a finger along his jaw, rough with stubble, and Lucas stirred, mumbling something incoherent before cracking one hazel eye open.

“Too fuckin’ early,” Lucas groaned, tightening his grip, pulling Ethan closer. His bare chest pressed against Ethan’s, skin still warm from the night, and Ethan’s pulse quickened, a soft ache blooming low in his gut.

“Practice,” Ethan whispered, but he didn’t move, letting Lucas’s heat sink into him. “You’ve got field soon.”

“Fuck the field,” Lucas muttered, lips brushing Ethan’s collarbone, and Ethan laughed, a quiet rumble that shook them both.

“You say that every morning.” Ethan shifted, propping himself on an elbow, and Lucas grinned up at him—cocky, sleepy, impossibly handsome.

“And I mean it every time.” Lucas’s hand slid to Ethan’s hip, fingers digging in, and he tugged Ethan down for a kiss—slow, lazy, morning-soft. Ethan melted into it, tongues brushing, a quiet hum in his throat, and for a moment, practice didn’t matter—nothing did but this.

But the clock ticked, and Ethan pulled back, breathless. “Gotta go, asshole.” He rolled out of bed, Lucas’s groan following him as he grabbed his wrestling gear—singlet, shorts, hoodie. “You staying?”

“Nah, I’ll drag my ass up.” Lucas sat up, the sheet pooling in his lap, and stretched, muscles flexing—broad shoulders, tight abs, that V-line Ethan couldn’t unsee. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” Ethan laced his sneakers, stealing one last glance—Lucas, shirtless, watching him with a grin. “Don’t fumble.”

“Don’t get pinned,” Lucas shot back, and Ethan slipped out, the door clicking shut, his body buzzing with the echo of them.

Practice was sharp—Ethan’s focus honed, his body loose from nights spent tangled with Lucas. He took down Jake three times, pinning him with a grunt, and the freshman laughed, tapping out. “You’re on fire, man. What’s your secret?”

Ethan smirked, standing. “Good sleep.” It wasn’t a lie—not entirely. Coach Hargrove nodded approval, and by 7:45, Ethan was showered and back in 312, the room empty—Lucas off to his own grind. He flopped onto his bed, the sheets still smelling faintly of Lucas—sweat, soap, something uniquely him—and scribbled a line in his notebook: a hold I don’t fight, a weight I don’t mind. He tossed it aside, grinning. Poetry was getting sappier by the day.

The morning blurred class, a coffee run, a lecture he half-heard. By noon, he was in the dining hall, tray loaded with chicken and rice, when Lucas slid in across from him—fresh from practice, hair damp, a grass stain smudging his cheek. His red football tee clung to his chest, and Ethan’s eyes lingered, a flicker of heat stirring.

“Hey, wrestler,” Lucas said, digging into a burger. “How’s your day?”

“Fine. Yours?” Ethan stabbed a piece of chicken, casual, but his knee brushed Lucas’s under the table, deliberate.

“Better now.” Lucas grinned, chewing, and his foot nudged Ethan’s backlight, playful. “Threw an eighty-yarder. Coach nearly cried.”

“Show-off.” Ethan’s lips twitched, and they ate like that—easy, teasing, a current running beneath it. But then a shadow fell over the table, and Ethan looked up.

Tyler, one of Lucas’s football teammates—a hulking linebacker with a buzz cut and a permanent smirk—stood there, tray in hand. “Reid, Carver,” he said, nodding. “Mind if I join?”

“Sure,” Lucas said, scooting over, but his grin tightened, and Ethan felt it—the shift, subtle but there. Tyler sat, his bulk crowding the table, and dug into his food, eyeing them.

“You two are tight lately,” Tyler said, casual, but his tone had an edge. “Roommate bonding or what?”

Ethan’s fork paused, his chest tightening. “Something like that,” he said, keeping it light, but Lucas’s foot stilled against his.

“Yeah, just vibin’,” Lucas added, shrugging, but his eyes flicked to Ethan—quick, guarded. “Carver’s cool.”

“Cool, huh?” Tyler smirked, chewing. “Heard you’ve been skipping the post-practice hangouts, Reid. Too busy with your wrestler?”

Lucas laughed, but it was sharp. “Nah, just beat after drills. You know how it is.”

“Sure.” Tyler’s eyes lingered, then slid to Ethan. “You wrestle, right? Bet you’re scrappy as hell.”

“Scrappy enough,” Ethan said, meeting his gaze—steady, unflinching. “Keeps me busy.”

Tyler nodded, slow, and the silence stretched, heavy with something Ethan couldn’t name. Then he stood, grabbing his tray. “Catch you later, Reid. Carver.” He walked off, but the air didn’t clear—Tyler’s words hung there, a crack in their bubble.

Lucas exhaled, leaning back. “He’s just fishing.”

“For what?” Ethan asked, voice low, his appetite gone.

“Dunno.” Lucas rubbed his neck, frowning. “He’s nosy. Always has been.”

Ethan nodded, but unease settled in his gut. They finished eating in quiet, the playful vibe dimmed, and back in 312, the dorm felt smaller—less safe. Lucas sprawled on his bed, shirtless in tight red boxers, scrolling his phone, while Ethan sat with his notebook, pen idle. The silence was thick, the hum of the AC loud in the void.

“You think he knows?” Ethan asked finally, voice rough, staring at the page.

Lucas looked up, hazel eyes steady. “Nah. He’s got no proof. Just likes stirring shit.”

“But if he did—” Ethan started, and Lucas cut him off, sliding off his bed to sit beside him.

“He doesn’t. And if he does, fuck him.” Lucas’s hand landed on Ethan’s knee, firm, grounding. “We’re good, right?”

“Yeah.” Ethan nodded, but his chest was tight. “Just… new at this.”

“Me too.” Lucas’s voice softened, his thumb brushing Ethan’s knee. “But I’m not hiding you. Not from some asshole like Tyler.”

Ethan’s lips twitched, a small smile breaking through. “Not hiding you either.”

“Good.” Lucas leaned in, kissing him—soft, sure, a quiet claim. Ethan kissed back, hands sliding to Lucas’s neck, and the tension eased, melting into heat. They pulled apart, foreheads pressed, breathing steady.

“Shower?” Lucas murmured, grinning.

“Together?” Ethan raised an eyebrow, and Lucas laughed, standing, tugging him up.

“Fuck yeah.” They grabbed towels, sneaking down the hall to the communal bathroom—empty, late as it was. The showers were a row of stalls, and they picked one, locking the door, steam rising as the water hit. Lucas stripped first, stepping under the spray, and Ethan followed, the heat washing over them.

Lucas’s hands found Ethan’s waist, pulling him close, and they kissed under the water—slow, wet, mouths sliding. Soap slicked their skin.

hands roaming—Lucas’s rough palms tracing Ethan’s abs, Ethan’s fingers digging into Lucas’s hips. The water pounded, drowning out the world, and they moved together, bodies pressing, friction building. It wasn’t rushed—not like last night—but steady, intimate, a quiet reclaiming.

Lucas’s lips brushed Ethan’s ear, voice low. “You’re mine, Carver.”

“Yeah,” Ethan rasped, hands sliding lower, stroking. “Yours.”

They finished together, shuddering under the spray, and leaned there, panting, water cascading around them. Lucas grinned, kissing Ethan’s jaw. “Best shower ever.”

Ethan laughed, shaky. “You’re trouble.”

“Always.” Lucas turned off the water, and they dried off, sneaking back to 312, towels low on their hips. The room was dark, the night deep, and they climbed into Ethan’s bed—Lucas’s arms around him, a steady weight.

“Tyler can fuck off,” Lucas murmured, his breath warm against Ethan’s neck. “This is us.”

“Yeah.” Ethan laced their fingers, rough and sure. “Us.”

Sleep came slow, the unease lingering—Tyler’s smirk, the team’s eyes—but Lucas’s hold anchored him. Morning would bring practice, questions, maybe more cracks, but for now, they had this—sweat, shadows, a bond tightening. Ethan drifted off, Lucas’s heartbeat steady against his back, and knew they’d face it together, whatever came.

The alarm hit at 5:30, and Ethan woke first, Lucas grumbling into his shoulder. “Fuck off,” the quarterback muttered, and Ethan laughed, rolling to face him.

“Practice,” he said, brushing Lucas’s hair back, and Lucas kissed him—deep, lazy—before pulling back.

“Worth it,” Lucas grinned, and Ethan shoved him off, dressing fast, the day looming—matts, field, Tyler’s shadow. But Lucas’s promise stayed—I’m not hiding you—and Ethan carried it, a quiet strength, into the light.

 

[George_Pantelis]

Great start

 

[michaelnola]

Awesome writing and great story line---thanks