Two farm boys collide at university

[jayson_steyn]

Thursday morning broke over Stellenbosch with a lazy sun, the kind that tricked you into thinking the day’d stay slow. Jo ambled into the campus canteen, his faded rugby jersey clinging to his freckled frame, green eyes still bleary from a night of tossing in the flat. The tasting loomed—profs judging their shed brew at three—but first, Rachel had texted, *“Brunch, 11, canteen. Wine talk, don’t flake, Zanzibar.”* He grinned at the screen, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder, ready for her sharp edges to wake him up.

The canteen buzzed—plates clattering, first-years shouting over coffee steam, the smell of bacon and burnt toast thick in the air. Jo spotted Rachel at a corner table, dark hair pulled back, clipboard swapped for a tray of bacon and eggs and black coffee. She waved him over, smirking as he dropped into the chair across from her, bag thudding to the floor. “Late again, van der Merwe,” she said, sliding him a plate of bacon and egg, voice dry but warm. “Thought you’d ditch me for a rugby game.”

Jo laughed, loud and bright, tearing into his breakfast. “Nah, boss, wouldn’t miss your kak for the world. Wine talk, hey? You nervous about the profs, or you just wanna boss me around some more?” His green eyes sparkled, leaning into her jab like it was fuel.

Rachel snorted, sipping her coffee, brown eyes glinting over the rim. “Nervous? Please. I’m not the one who turned our vat into a potjie experiment. You’re the wild card, Zanzibar—rosemary and all. We’re here to figure out how not to choke when they taste it.” She kicked his shin under the table, light but pointed. “So, what’s your big plan if they hate it? Cry? Run back to your wheat fields?”

Jo grinned wider, chewing slow, her sarcasm a match to his fire. “Fok, Rachel, they’ll love it—my ma’s tricks never fail. If they don’t, I’ll just braai ‘em something to wash it down. You’re the one sweating, clipboard queen—bet you’ve got a speech ready, hey?” He leaned back, arms crossed, all cocky ease, egging her on.

She rolled her eyes, but her smirk grew, feeding off his energy. “Ja, right, I’ll just recite pH levels while you flirt with the profs. Worked yesterday—Doug’s still calling you a genius for that sugar move. Nutrient tip from your shadow helped too.” She paused, tearing at a piece of bacon, voice dropping a notch. “He coming today? Your farm boy backup?”

Jo’s grin faltered, just a flicker, green eyes darting to his coffee. “Piet? Dunno, bru. He’s… around. Gave us a leg up yesterday, but it’s not his gig.” He shrugged, casual but tight, shoving the thought of Piet’s quiet nod out of his head. “We’ve got this—me, you, the okes. No shadows needed.”

Rachel arched a brow, catching the shift but letting it slide. “Fair. Just don’t fuck up my vat, Zanzibar. I’m not taking the fall for your braai-wine.” She tossed a crumb at him, laughing as he swatted it away, the banter rolling easy—business wrapped in bites and barbs.

Across the hall, Piet stood frozen by the juice machine, faded cap pulled low, brown eyes locked on them. He’d come for a quick coffee, geology notes weighing down his bag, but Jo’s laugh—loud, unguarded—hit him like a punch. There he was, sprawled with Rachel, all grins and grease-stained fingers, her smirk bouncing off him like they’d been mates forever. Piet’s chest tightened, a hot, bitter twist he hadn’t felt since Spencer—jealousy, raw and sharp. Jo was replacing him, already, shedding their dorm days for this new crew, this shed life, Rachel’s bite filling the space Piet used to hold.

He dumped his empty cup in the bin, coffee untouched, and bolted, boots thudding out the door. Back in the dorm, he slammed it shut, sinking onto his bed, the creak of springs loud in the silence. Jo’s empty side stared back, rugby jersey still crumpled where he’d left it. Piet grabbed his viticulture book, flipping pages he wouldn’t read—fermentation curves blurring into Jo’s grin, Rachel’s laugh, a life moving on without him. He stayed there, locked in, the day ticking by, jealousy gnawing as he tried to bury it in ink and guilt.

Meanwhile, Jo and Rachel finished brunch, crumbs scattered, coffee cold. They trekked back to the shed, the rusted door groaning as they stepped in. Doug and JP were already there—Doug stirring the vat, JP sprawled with a coffee, the air thick with yeast and nerves. “Oi, Zanzibar!” Doug bellowed, paddle sloshing. “Thought you’d ditched us for a date. Ready to taste this beast?”

Jo grinned, dropping his bag. “Ja, bru, no dates—just plotting with the boss. Let’s see if it’s still kak.” He grabbed a ladle, dipping it into the vat, the purple mix swirling with rosemary flecks and Piet’s yeast kick. He sipped, eyes lighting up—sharp, earthy, not perfect but alive. “Fok, okes, it’s got legs! Not shit at all.”

Rachel snatched the ladle, tasting, then nodded, a rare grin breaking through. “Hell, van der Merwe, you’re right. Day eight miracle.” She grabbed a marker, scrawling on the whiteboard: *“Day 8: Not Shit at All.”* JP whooped, raising his coffee, while Doug clapped Jo’s shoulder, massive hand nearly knocking him over. “Zanzibar’s the man, hey. Profs won’t know what hit ‘em.”

They tweaked it—more stirring, a pinch of sugar, sealing the vat tight—then hauled it to the viticulture courtyard, a sunlit patch by the labs. The profs waited, three of them—grey-haired, stern, clipboards ready—tables set with glasses and notepads. Rachel took the lead, all charm and bravado, pouring the cloudy red like it was gold. “Gents, ladies,” she said, “shed crew’s first go—rough, but it’s got heart. Taste the farm in it.”

The profs sipped, faces unreadable at first. One grimaced, another scribbled fast, but the third—a wiry oke with glasses—paused, swirling his glass. “Green notes, rosemary? Unorthodox, but it’s there—structure’s raw, fermentation’s uneven. Few tweaks, you might have something.” The others nodded, grudgingly. “Potential,” one muttered. “Needs polish—bring it back next month.”

Jo’s grin split wide, fist bumping Doug as Rachel smirked, whispering, “Told you, Zanzibar.” JP cracked a beer behind them, the crew buzzing—vindicated, hooked, a lifeline to a uni contest dangling. Piet’s tip had worked, yeast pushing it over the edge, but he wasn’t there—no cap in the crowd, no dry quip. All credit landed on Jo, the profs shaking his hand, Rachel clapping his back, Doug and JP chanting “Zanzibar” like a rugby cheer.

They dragged the vat back to the shed, beers flowing, the win sinking in. Jo flopped onto a crate, green eyes bright but flickering—Piet’s absence a quiet itch he couldn’t scratch. “Lekker, okes,” he said, raising his can. “We’re in deep now.” Rachel tossed him a rag, nodding. “Damn right, van der Merwe. You’re stuck with us.”

Back in the dorm, Piet stayed buried, book open to a page he hadn’t turned in hours, brown eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling. The tasting had passed, Jo’s triumph echoing through the gangs chatter he couldn’t avoid—texts from Henk, *“Jo killed it, bru, wine’s a hit.”* Jealousy burned, but beneath it, a flicker of pride—Jo shining, like always. He didn’t text back, just sank deeper, the day fading outside, their bond a ghost he couldn’t face.

Jo trudged to his flat as dusk settled, the shed’s buzz clinging to him, the profs’ “potential” a fire in his gut. Sprawling on the couch, the silence softer now but still heavy. Piet’s tip had landed, his shadow in the vat, but he hadn’t shown. Jo’s thumb hovered over his phone—*“Bru, we nailed it, your yeast was gold”*—then stopped. Too soon, maybe. He tossed it aside, grinning at the ceiling, solidly the shed’s star, but the empty space beside him ached, a vintage not yet bottled.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Friday afternoon draped Stellenbosch in a golden haze, the quad buzzing with the promise of a jol as Jo van der Merwe strode out, his freckled arms loaded with braai gear. The tasting win had lit a fire under him, and three days of restless flat nights—Piet’s absence a dull ache he wouldn’t name—pushed him to reclaim his old spark. He’d texted the gang Wednesday night, “Braai-master braai, quad, Friday 6pm. Bring meat, beers, noise. Old Jo’s back, okes!” The replies had flooded in—Henk’s “Fok ja, bru!”, Sarah’s “Lekker, I’m there!”, even the rugby boys and rock nerds chiming in. The shed crew—Rachel, Doug, JP—jumped on board too, eager to toast the “Zanzibar” triumph. Jo grinned, green eyes bright, the flat’s quiet swapped for the crackle of a plan.

By 5 p.m., the quad was a hive, fairy lights strung haphazardly, a fire pit roaring, the smell of wood smoke mixing with the tang of marinating boerewors. Jo commandeered the braai, faded rugby jersey swapped for an apron his ma had sent “For when you burn the res down”his lanky frame moving with the old rhythm. He whistled an Afrikaans folk tune, hands rough and sure as he flipped steaks, seasoned with the tin of braai spice from home. “Ag, man, this is living!” he shouted, grinning wide as Henk hauled a crate of Black Label, Sarah trailing with a bowl of braaibroodjies. The gang erupted, rugby boys cheering, rock nerds swapping stones for beers, the air thick with laughter and shouts.

Rachel sauntered up, dark braids swinging, clipboard replaced by a beer, her sharp brown eyes glinting. “Look at you, Zanzibar, playing chef like you didn’t nearly poison us with that vat,” she teased, leaning against the table, sarcasm dripping like Piet’s old jabs used to. Jo laughed, tossing a sausage her way. “Ja, boss, but I saved your wine’s arse, profs loved it.” Doug and JP joined, massive frames crowding the fire, Doug clapping Jo’s back. “Fok, Jo, you’re the man! rosemary win and now this braai? Genius!” JP nodded, cracking a beer, his lean frame relaxed as he slung an arm around Rachel a move Piet missed from his shadowed spot.

The gang was elated, the old Jo back, loud, commanding, the heart of the jol. Henk boomed rugby tales, Sarah danced with a new res girl, the rugby boys tackled each other in mock scrums, and the rock nerds traded finds by the firelight. Jo ruled the braai, flipping meat with flair, his lopsided grin lighting the night, the shed crew’s cheers for “Zanzibar” blending with the gang’s roar. Rachel’s sarcasm “Don’t burn my steak, farm boy, I’m not eating charcoal!” filled the gap where Piet’s dry wit once cut, her edge a mirror to Jo’s energy, keeping the vibe high.

Piet slunk in around 7 p.m., faded blue cap pulled low, brown eyes shadowed with jealousy that gnawed like a slow fire. He’d seen the texts, felt the pull, but couldn’t stay away, Jo’s braai was their old ritual, and the ache of missing it dragged him out. He hovered on the edge, not his usual spot at Jo’s side, watching Jo command the flames, Rachel’s banter bouncing off him. To Piet, it was flirting, her smirk, Jo’s laugh, the way they leaned into each other over the grill. He didn’t see JP’s arm around Rachel, didn’t know they’d been dating since last term, his mind locked on a story he’d spun, Jo moving on, Rachel stealing his place.

The jealousy burned, a quiet rage under his stocky frame as he sipped a beer, ignored by the gang’s joy. He saw Jo hand Rachel a perfectly grilled chop, her “Thanks, Zanzibar” laced with that bite, and his fists clenched, scarred forearm twitching. He wanted to stride over, break it up, shove between them, Jo was his, damn it, their bond forged in dorm nights and farm roots. But he stayed put, brooding, plotting a move he couldn’t name, determined to stop this before it became something real in his head.

The braai rolled on, a joyous blur, meat sizzling, beers flowing, stories flying. Jo led a rugby chant, the gang joining in, voices hoarse and happy, the fire pit a beacon under the stars. Rachel tossed barbs “Jo, you’re a butcher, not a braai-master!” and Jo fired back, “Ja, but I’m your butcher, boss!” The shed crew toasted the wine win, all credit heaped on Jo “Zanzibar’s magic,” Doug bellowed, JP raising his can. The gang reveled, the old Jo’s return a victory over the flat’s loneliness, the shed’s chaos, Piet’s fracture.

By 1 a.m., the energy waned, Henk and Sarah peeled off, arms linked, rugby boys staggering to res, rock nerds clutching stones and cans. The fire died to embers, smoke curling into the night. Jo wiped his hands on his apron, green eyes scanning the thinning crowd, landing on Piet still lingering, cap shadowing his face. “Night, bru,” Jo called, voice casual but carrying that dual edge, firm, with a flicker of care. He turned, slinging his bag, heading toward his flat, the braai’s warmth fading into the quiet.

Piet nodded, hoarse, “Ja, night, Jo,” and shuffled off toward the dorm, boots scuffing the grass. They walked opposite ways, the quad stretching between them, each missing the arm that used to drape their shoulders, supporting, warm, right. Jo’s step faltered, the flat’s emptiness looming, Piet’s absence a ghost at his side. Piet glanced back, Jo’s figure fading, the jealousy still burning but laced with longing, their old rhythm gone, his heart heavy with a bond he’d shattered and couldn’t reclaim. The night swallowed them, stars indifferent, the braai’s joy a memory already slipping away.

 

[kendermarsden]

The Stellenbosch campus was bathed in the soft amber glow of late afternoon as Piet and Jo trudged back toward their once-shared dorm room. The air hung heavy with unspoken words, the Range Rover’s sleek black frame waiting like a silent witness outside. Inside the cramped space, Jo moved with purpose, gathering his scattered belongings, rugby jerseys, the tin of braai spice, a few dog-eared textbooks, packing them into a duffel bag with methodical precision. Piet hovered nearby, hands restless, helping fold a faded shirt or hand over a boot, his brown eyes shadowed with guilt. The creak of the bedsprings, the faint scent of old wood and disinfectant, it all felt like a ghost of their past, now slipping away.

When the last item was stowed, Jo slung the bag over his shoulder, pausing at the door. Piet stepped forward, pulling him into a hug, arms tight around Jo’s lanky frame, freckled shoulders warm under his grip. “Fok, Jo, I’m sorry—again,” Piet rasped, voice thick, his scarred forearm trembling against Jo’s back. Jo returned the embrace, brief but firm, his green eyes softening as he pulled back. “We’ll fix this, bru. Just… give it time,” he said, his tone steady, carrying that dual edge of resolve and lingering warmth. He offered a small, lopsided grin, a flicker of their old connection, before turning to head downstairs.

Piet watched him go, the thud of Jo’s boots fading, then climbed back to the room alone. He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress groaning under his stocky weight. The gravity of his actions crashed down, a tidal wave of regret and shame. Tears broke free, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the pillow as sobs racked his hairy chest. The room, once their fortress, now echoed with his isolation, the silence amplifying every mistake—Lukas, the blackmail, the fracture with Jo. He buried his face in his hands, the weight of losing Jo, the farm deal, the gang’s trust, all pressing down until he felt he might shatter.

Meanwhile, in his new flat, Jo unpacked with a quiet efficiency, the wood floors gleaming under the soft light of a single lamp. He invited Henk and Sarah over, the door swinging open to their familiar faces, Henk’s massive frame filling the doorway, Sarah’s bright smile a contrast to the tension in the air. They settled on the plastic-wrapped couch with beers in hand, the clink of bottles a small comfort. Jo leaned forward, green eyes serious as he laid out his version of the past week, Piet’s confession, Lukas’s blackmail, his decision to move out. “Fok, okes, it’s a mess,” he admitted, running a hand through his blonde hair. “But I’ve got dad to boot Lukas, geology’s done with him, out of Stellenbosch. Might not shut him up, though.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, then softened. “Ja, Jo, the gang knows whole situationship with Piet, the rumours, all of it. Been buzzing since Spencer spilled. They’re piecing it together.” Jo nodded, a mix of relief and unease settling in. “Good, less for us to explain. Can you tell them the latest? Lukas gone, me here, Piet… well, he’s still my mate. Ask them to treat him normal, hey? No shunning, no kak. He’s got enough to carry.” Henk grunted, massive hand wrapping around his beer. “Fok, Jo, you’re soft on him, but ja, I’ll back that. Gang’s solid, we’ll keep it fair.” Sarah squeezed Jo’s arm. “I’ll spread it, bru. Piet’s still one of us.” They clinked bottles, the pact holding, but Jo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

When Henk and Sarah left, the flat fell silent, the loneliness creeping in like a cold draft. Jo stood by the window, staring at the campus lights, the hum of life beyond his walls a stark contrast to the emptiness inside. He thought of Piet, the familiar weight of him in their shared bed, the laughter, the trust. The urge to call, to ask him back, pulsed strong, but he shook his head, muttering, “Too soon.” He longed for that familiarity, the ease they’d lost, but the hurt was fresh, a barrier he couldn’t cross yet. He sank onto the couch, beer forgotten, sleep eluding him as the night stretched on.

Back in the dorm, Piet lay awake, the creak of the empty room a constant reminder of Jo’s absence. Knowing Jo was just down the road, alone because of him, broke his heart anew. The mattress felt foreign without Jo’s lanky frame beside him, the silence deafening where their breaths once synced. He stared at the ceiling, brown eyes burning, the weight of his betrayal a chain he couldn’t shed. Tears threatened again, but he held them back, resolve flickering faintly—Jo’s words, “We’ll fix this,” a thread of hope he clung to. Neither slept well, the distance between them a chasm, but a shared ache that kept them tethered, waiting for a way back.

Why is Jo so hard on Piet. Doesn't he remember his cheating with Matt and Byron?

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

I know, right?

It feels like Jo is just deliberately punishing Piet, especially by not telling him that the yeast saved the wine.

I doubt that Jo is quite emotionally aware enough to know that he's punishing Piet, but he is. I also think that Jo is enjoying getting the credit for himself.

I betcha, though, that the wine's going to start to go to kak again and Piet will save it again.

 

[michaelnola]

Friday afternoon draped Stellenbosch in a golden haze, the quad buzzing with the promise of a jol as Jo van der Merwe strode out, his freckled arms loaded with braai gear. The tasting win had lit a fire under him, and three days of restless flat nights—Piet’s absence a dull ache he wouldn’t name—pushed him to reclaim his old spark. He’d texted the gang Wednesday night, “Braai-master braai, quad, Friday 6pm. Bring meat, beers, noise. Old Jo’s back, okes!” The replies had flooded in—Henk’s “Fok ja, bru!”, Sarah’s “Lekker, I’m there!”, even the rugby boys and rock nerds chiming in. The shed crew—Rachel, Doug, JP—jumped on board too, eager to toast the “Zanzibar” triumph. Jo grinned, green eyes bright, the flat’s quiet swapped for the crackle of a plan.

By 5 p.m., the quad was a hive, fairy lights strung haphazardly, a fire pit roaring, the smell of wood smoke mixing with the tang of marinating boerewors. Jo commandeered the braai, faded rugby jersey swapped for an apron his ma had sent “For when you burn the res down”his lanky frame moving with the old rhythm. He whistled an Afrikaans folk tune, hands rough and sure as he flipped steaks, seasoned with the tin of braai spice from home. “Ag, man, this is living!” he shouted, grinning wide as Henk hauled a crate of Black Label, Sarah trailing with a bowl of braaibroodjies. The gang erupted, rugby boys cheering, rock nerds swapping stones for beers, the air thick with laughter and shouts.

Rachel sauntered up, dark braids swinging, clipboard replaced by a beer, her sharp brown eyes glinting. “Look at you, Zanzibar, playing chef like you didn’t nearly poison us with that vat,” she teased, leaning against the table, sarcasm dripping like Piet’s old jabs used to. Jo laughed, tossing a sausage her way. “Ja, boss, but I saved your wine’s arse, profs loved it.” Doug and JP joined, massive frames crowding the fire, Doug clapping Jo’s back. “Fok, Jo, you’re the man! rosemary win and now this braai? Genius!” JP nodded, cracking a beer, his lean frame relaxed as he slung an arm around Rachel a move Piet missed from his shadowed spot.

The gang was elated, the old Jo back, loud, commanding, the heart of the jol. Henk boomed rugby tales, Sarah danced with a new res girl, the rugby boys tackled each other in mock scrums, and the rock nerds traded finds by the firelight. Jo ruled the braai, flipping meat with flair, his lopsided grin lighting the night, the shed crew’s cheers for “Zanzibar” blending with the gang’s roar. Rachel’s sarcasm “Don’t burn my steak, farm boy, I’m not eating charcoal!” filled the gap where Piet’s dry wit once cut, her edge a mirror to Jo’s energy, keeping the vibe high.

Piet slunk in around 7 p.m., faded blue cap pulled low, brown eyes shadowed with jealousy that gnawed like a slow fire. He’d seen the texts, felt the pull, but couldn’t stay away, Jo’s braai was their old ritual, and the ache of missing it dragged him out. He hovered on the edge, not his usual spot at Jo’s side, watching Jo command the flames, Rachel’s banter bouncing off him. To Piet, it was flirting, her smirk, Jo’s laugh, the way they leaned into each other over the grill. He didn’t see JP’s arm around Rachel, didn’t know they’d been dating since last term, his mind locked on a story he’d spun, Jo moving on, Rachel stealing his place.

The jealousy burned, a quiet rage under his stocky frame as he sipped a beer, ignored by the gang’s joy. He saw Jo hand Rachel a perfectly grilled chop, her “Thanks, Zanzibar” laced with that bite, and his fists clenched, scarred forearm twitching. He wanted to stride over, break it up, shove between them, Jo was his, damn it, their bond forged in dorm nights and farm roots. But he stayed put, brooding, plotting a move he couldn’t name, determined to stop this before it became something real in his head.

The braai rolled on, a joyous blur, meat sizzling, beers flowing, stories flying. Jo led a rugby chant, the gang joining in, voices hoarse and happy, the fire pit a beacon under the stars. Rachel tossed barbs “Jo, you’re a butcher, not a braai-master!” and Jo fired back, “Ja, but I’m your butcher, boss!” The shed crew toasted the wine win, all credit heaped on Jo “Zanzibar’s magic,” Doug bellowed, JP raising his can. The gang reveled, the old Jo’s return a victory over the flat’s loneliness, the shed’s chaos, Piet’s fracture.

By 1 a.m., the energy waned, Henk and Sarah peeled off, arms linked, rugby boys staggering to res, rock nerds clutching stones and cans. The fire died to embers, smoke curling into the night. Jo wiped his hands on his apron, green eyes scanning the thinning crowd, landing on Piet still lingering, cap shadowing his face. “Night, bru,” Jo called, voice casual but carrying that dual edge, firm, with a flicker of care. He turned, slinging his bag, heading toward his flat, the braai’s warmth fading into the quiet.

Piet nodded, hoarse, “Ja, night, Jo,” and shuffled off toward the dorm, boots scuffing the grass. They walked opposite ways, the quad stretching between them, each missing the arm that used to drape their shoulders, supporting, warm, right. Jo’s step faltered, the flat’s emptiness looming, Piet’s absence a ghost at his side. Piet glanced back, Jo’s figure fading, the jealousy still burning but laced with longing, their old rhythm gone, his heart heavy with a bond he’d shattered and couldn’t reclaim. The night swallowed them, stars indifferent, the braai’s joy a memory already slipping away.

Awesome update---a real and true partnership/relationship is worth fighting for.

 

[michaelnola]

Why is Jo so hard on Piet. Doesn't he remember his cheating with Matt and Byron?

Got to remember they hashed all that out and then agreed to move on with each other with there bond.

 

[michaelnola]

I know, right?

It feels like Jo is just deliberately punishing Piet, especially by not telling him that the yeast saved the wine.

I doubt that Jo is quite emotionally aware enough to know that he's punishing Piet, but he is. I also think that Jo is enjoying getting the credit for himself.

I betcha, though, that the wine's going to start to go to kak again and Piet will save it again.

Not defending Jo but I think he just does not know what to do and what is the correct move. Let's hope Piet can find a way in.

Excellent writing though

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Not defending Jo but I think he just does not know what to do and what is the correct move. Let's hope Piet can find a way in.

Excellent writing though

Yes, that's what I mean about Jo being emotionally unaware (which probably isn't the right way to put it).

He senses the problems and the pain, both Piet's and his own, but he can't (yet) turn that sensing into thought, which would let him get a grip on the situation in his mind and think about what to do.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Friday erupted over Stellenbosch like a wildfire, the air thick with anticipation as game day dawned. Maties were clashing with UCT in a local derby, the kind of grudge match that turned the campus into a roaring beast. Crowds swelled with students in maroon jerseys, flags waving, the quad a sea of noise and painted faces. The gang was out in force, staking their spot near the sidelines, a boisterous knot of rugby boys, rock nerds, and shed crew. Rachel stood front and center, dark hair swinging, clipboard swapped for a Maties scarf, shouting over the din. JP and Doug flanked her, beers in hand, their massive frames hyping the crowd as the whistle blew.

Jo hit the field like a storm, his lanky frame a blur of freckled energy under the maroon jersey. Green eyes glinted with focus, the flat’s quiet replaced by the roar of the game. He was unstoppable—dodging tackles, weaving through UCT’s defense, scoring his first try in the 15th minute. The crowd erupted, the wine gang screaming, “Zanzibar!”, the usual gang screaming, ‘braai-master!” as he grinned, lopsided and cocky, from the try line. Rachel led the chant, Doug pounding JP’s shoulder, the shed crew’s pride loud and clear. Jo’s second try came at the 30-minute mark, a slick move that left the stands delirious, his name a thunderclap—“Zanzibar! Braai-master!”—echoing off the stands.

Piet was front row, squeezed between Henk’s massive frame and Sarah’s bright energy, his faded blue cap pulled low. The gang welcomed him with nods and claps, happy to see him out after weeks of brooding. His dry humour crept back, slow but sure “Ja, Jo’s running like he’s late for a braai,” he quipped, earning a laugh from Sarah, a grunt from Henk. It felt good, the old rhythm flickering, but his brown eyes stayed glued to Jo, pride warring with the jealousy that still gnawed.

After Jo’s second try, the crowd went berserk, bodies pressing, voices hoarse. The wine crew—Rachel, JP, Doug—shouted “Zanzibar!” louder, fists pumping. Mid-cheer, JP slung an arm around Rachel, pulling her close, and she leaned in, planting a quick, easy kiss on his lips. Piet froze, mid-shout, the sound cutting off like a snapped string. Jealousy flared—Jo and Rachel, flirting, replacing him—then morphed into silent embarrassment as the truth sank in. JP’s arm, Rachel’s laugh, it wasn’t Jo. His chest tightened, shame burning as he sank back, cap shadowing his eyes, the game blurring around him.

Maties clinched the win, 27-18, Jo’s third try in the final minutes sealing it, the crowd a tidal wave of maroon. The after-party kicked off at a pub on the main drag, a gritty spot with sticky floors and pulsing music. Jo’s credit card took a beating, round after round, the gang toasting his heroics, “Zanzibar” chanted between shots. Rachel teased, “Don’t spend it all, farm boy, save some for the wine vat,” her sarcasm a stand-in for Piet’s old jabs. JP laughed, arm around her, Doug booming about Jo’s tries, the shed crew and gang revelling in his glory.

Piet slid through the chaos, beer in hand, working the edges, chatting with Henk about the game, trading rock quips with the nerds. His resolve hardened; jealousy gone, replaced by a need to fix things. Around midnight, as the pub throbbed, he edged up to Jo at the bar, brown eyes steady despite the buzz. “Sorry, Jo,” he rasped, voice low over the noise, “about Lukas, about… misreading things, everything.” His scarred hand fidgeted, cap shadowing his face.

Jo turned, green eyes softening, a drunk grin breaking through. He slung an arm around Piet’s shoulders, warm, familiar, but tentative—signalling the barman. “Two Jäger bombs, bru,” he ordered, voice slurring but kind. “Baby steps, Piet. We’re getting there.” The shots arrived, black and gold, and they downed them together, the burn a bridge, small but real. Jo’s arm lingered a moment, then dropped, the old weight of it missed by both.

By 2 a.m., the pub thinned Henk and Sarah stumbled out, rugby boys shouting into the night, Rachel and JP peeling off hand in hand. Jo headed to his flat, drunk and grinning, the game’s high fading into solitude. He fumbled with his keys, the flat’s silence hitting hard, Piet’s absence a ghost at his side. Piet trudged back to the dorm, resolve hardening with each step, jealousy burned away, trust the goal. The creak of his bed welcomed him, Jo’s empty spot a reminder, but a flicker of hope lit the dark, baby steps, jo had said, and he’d take them, one at a time.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The new week settled over Stellenbosch like a quiet fog, a new norm carving itself into Jo and Piet’s lives with sharp, lonely edges. Mornings began in solitude for Jo, waking in his flat to the creak of an empty couch, his lanky frame stirring with the usual morning hard-on. No Piet to share a grin or a jab, just the hum of his own breath as he resorted to memories, Piet’s steady brown eyes, the weight of their old dorm nights, to push him over the edge of his morning wank. His hand moved quick, imagination filling the void, a release that left him hollow, the flat’s silence swallowing the aftermath.

Piet’s mornings mirrored the isolation, his stocky frame sprawled on a bed that felt too big without Jo’s sprawl. The rugby jersey Jo had left behind, faint with sweat and that familiar musk, became his lifeline. He’d grab it, pressing it to his face, inhaling deep, the scent of Jo igniting a rush that made his thick cock throb. Jerking off to it, hard and fast, the smell carried him to a shuddering climax, cum splattering his hairy chest, a comfort laced with ache. Showers followed, lonely affairs Jo under the flat’s fancy rain shower head spray, no banter to break the quiet, just the rush of water; Piet surrounded by the communal shower’s chaos, voices echoing off tiles, yet isolated, his scarred forearm scrubbing away the guilt. Breakfast was the same, Jo sipping coffee alone, mind drifting; Piet picking at toast in the canteen, the gang’s chatter a distant hum.

The days rolled into a routine. Jo trudged to lectures, Agri Economics notes a blur, his thoughts split between the wine shed’s promise and the farm project, their only lifeline now. He and Piet still met daily, a stilted ritual in a campus café, poring over farm plans, progress charts, voices clipped and professional, nothing more. Jo hit rugby practice, his freckled frame darting through drills, green eyes fierce; Piet dove into water polo, stocky build cutting through the pool, brown eyes shadowed. Lunch brought the gang together, Henk’s grunts, Sarah’s laughs, the rugby boys’ shouts, binding them loosely, while Jo’s evenings filled with the shed’s chaos, barrels and banter a new refuge.

Wednesday afternoon hit the wine shed like a storm. The air was thick with yeast and tension as Jo, Rachel, Doug, and JP gathered around the vat, the rosemary-kicked “Zanzibar Red” turning sour. A rancid note bit through, overpowering Jo’s earthy tweak, the liquid in the ladle a murky disaster. They stared, stunned, Rachel’s clipboard trembling, Doug’s paddle stilled, JP’s beer forgotten. “Fok, it’s gone off,” Jo muttered, green eyes narrowing, his pride stung. Rachel paced, sharp brown eyes darting, then stopped, exhaling hard. “Jo, we’re out of moves. Get Piet. Now.”

Jo hesitated, the name a weight, but nodded, pulling out his phone. His thumb hovered, then typed, “Bru, vat’s fucked. Need you at the shed. Urgent.” He hit send, heart thudding, the flat “friends” line blurring. Minutes later, his phone buzzed—“On my way”—Piet’s reply eager, almost desperate. Jo pocketed it, muttering, “Let’s see, hey,” to Rachel, who arched a brow but said nothing.

Piet burst in twenty minutes later, faded blue cap askew, viticulture books clutched like armor, brown eyes alight with a fervor Jo hadn’t seen since the dorm. “Heard it’s bad,” he rasped, dropping the books on the table, flipping pages with calloused fingers. “So it’s turned hey? Let me smell it.” He grabbed a ladle, dipping it, inhaling deep, then grimacing. “Rancid, stuck fermentation, too much sugar, not enough yeast activity. We can fix it.”

Rachel stepped back, smirking. “Lurker’s got balls. Run with it, de Wet, don’t sink us.” Doug and JP exchanged glances, amused, while Jo sank onto a crate, green eyes fixed on Piet, marveling. Piet took command, voice steady, flipping to a page on yeast strains. “Needs a restart, pitch a new culture, Saccharomyces cerevisiae, high tolerance. Drain the bad, clean the vat, add nutrient mix - potassium, magnesium. Jo, your rosemary’s not the problem, just overwhelmed. We’ll balance it.” He moved fast, directing Doug to drain the vat, JP to scrub it, Rachel to fetch supplies, his knowledge a quiet storm.

Jo watched, stunned, Piet’s confidence a mirror to their farm days, but sharper now. “Fok, bru, you’re a bloody pro,” he said, grin flickering, pride mixing with the ache of distance. Piet glanced over, a dry smirk tugging. “Learned it for the farm, Jo. Stick with me.” Rachel nodded, letting Piet steer, her sarcasm muted, impressed. By dusk, the vat was cleaned, new yeast pitched, nutrients stirred in, the sour bite fading, rosemary peeking through. They sealed it, exhausted, the shed quiet but hopeful.

Friday morning, the vat hummed, fermentation back on track. Rachel tasted it, nodding sharply. “Lurker pulled it off. You’re in too deep now, de Wet—official shed crew. Welcome to the madhouse.” She clapped Piet’s back, Doug booming, “Ja, Lurker’s a legend!”, JP raising a beer. Jo’s grin widened, genuine this time, “Lekker, bru! knew you had it.” Piet’s eyes met his, a flicker of their old bond, cap shadowing a flush of pride.

That night, the five—Jo, Piet, Rachel, Doug, JP—hit a pub, the air thick with music and sweat. Beers flowed, Rachel teasing, “Zanzibar and Lurker, saving wine one crisis at a time,” Doug laughing, JP slinging an arm around Rachel. Jo and Piet sat close, shoulders brushing, the gang’s noise a buffer. Jo raised his glass, green eyes on Piet. “To the Lurker—didn’t think you’d outshine me, hey.” Piet smirked, dry as ever, “Just keeping up, braai boy.” They clinked, the tension easing, a step closer, the night blurring into laughter and shared glances, the vat’s rescue a thread pulling them back.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Stellenbosch campus buzzed under a crisp Saturday morning, the air sharp with the promise of autumn, leaves skittering across the quad as students trickled out for the weekend. The rock nerds, Piet’s quiet allies from the geology crew, gathered near the science block, swapping odd-shaped stones and debating quartz formations. Among them, Thabo, a lanky second-year with a keen eye, froze mid-sentence, his dark gaze locking on a figure cutting through the crowd. “Okes, is that Lukas?” he muttered, nudging Clara, rock hammer slung over her shoulder.

Clara squinted, adjusting her glasses, then nodded, her voice low. “Ja, bru, that’s him—black tee, smug walk. Thought he was gone, hey.” The group hushed, peering as Lukas strolled past, hands in pockets, hazel eyes scanning like he owned the place. His expulsion from Stellenbosch, orchestrated by Jo’s father, was supposed to have ended his reign, but here he was, a ghost haunting the pavements. Thabo snapped a quick photo with his phone, muttering, “Gonna tell Piet—de Wet needs to know.”

Word spread fast. By noon, Thabo’s text pinged Piet’s phone as he sat alone in the dorm, viticulture notes spread across his desk, the “Lurker” nickname still warming his chest from Friday’s win. “Oi, Piet, saw Lukas on campus, near science block. Thought he was out, watch your back.” Piet’s brown eyes widened, the paper crinkling in his grip. His breath hitched, a cold sweat prickling his sunburnt skin. Lukas back, smirking, a threat unburied. The blackmail, the fracture with Jo, the farm deal’s fragile thread. Everything flashed back like a storm. His scarred hand trembled, clutching the phone, the rugby jersey Jo left behind mocking him from the corner.

Panic set in. Who could he turn to? Henk was solid but blunt, Sarah too soft, the gang too scattered. Jo—Jo was the anchor, the one who’d faced Lukas down, but the space between them loomed, a chasm of “too soon.” Piet paced, boots scuffing the floor, cap pulled low, heart thudding. The shed crew was new, untested; the rock nerds could warn but not shield. Jo’s green eyes, that drunk grin from the pub, flickered in his mind—trust, baby steps. He stopped, resolve hardening, and typed with shaky fingers, “Jo, Lukas is back. Saw him on campus. Don’t know what to do. Help?” He hit send, stomach knotting, waiting.

Jo was at the flat, sprawled on the couch, rugby ball spinning in his hands, the weekend’s quiet settling after a morning practice. His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, green eyes narrowing as Piet’s name lit the screen. The message hit like a tackle, Lukas’s name a punch to the gut. He sat up, freckled face hardening, the winemaking high from Friday souring. Lukas, back? Dad had promised, he’d fired him, kicked him out. Jo’s thumb hovered, then typed, “Fok, bru, stay calm. I’m calling dad. Meet me at the flat, now. We’ll sort it.” He sent it, heart racing.

Piet’s phone buzzed back, and relief flooded him, shaky but real. He shoved the notes aside, snagged the rugby jersey for courage, and bolted, cap low, books forgotten. The walk to Jo’s flat was a blur, the quad alive with students, Lukas’s shadow lurking in every corner, until he reached the clean-lined block off the main drag. He knocked, knuckles raw, and Jo swung the door open, green eyes sharp but warm, faded tee clinging to his frame.

“Come in, bru,” Jo said, stepping aside, voice firm but laced with that lopsided grin. Piet ducked in, the flat’s wood floors gleaming, couch unwrapped, a single mug on the counter, a space Jo was making his own. Jo shut the door, locking it, and waved Piet to the couch. “Sit. Dad’s on it, called him five minutes ago. Said Lukas shouldn’t be here, something about an appeal or loophole. He’s pissed, digging now.”

Piet sank, scarred hands gripping his knees, the jersey’s scent grounding him. “Fok, Jo, I thought he was gone. Thabo saw him, smug as ever. What if he’s not done blackmailing me? The farm—” His voice cracked, brown eyes pleading.

Jo perched on the armrest, green eyes steady. “Easy, Piet. Dad’s a bulldog, he’ll shut it down. If Lukas is pulling strings, we’ll cut ‘em. You did right, telling me.” He paused, grin softening. “Baby steps, hey? We’re in this together, farm, gang, all of it.”

Piet nodded, throat tight, the weight lifting slightly. Jo’s phone rang, and he answered, pacing. “Ja, dad? … Fok, really? … Ja, keep me posted.” He hung up, turning to Piet. “Lukas appealed, some bullshit about unfair dismissal. Dad’s got lawyers on it, says he’s restricted to campus edges, no contact. Might take days, but he’s not winning.”

Relief washed over Piet, but the tension lingered. “Thanks, Jo. Didn’t know who else—” He stopped, eyes dropping.

Jo slid onto the couch beside him, close but not touching, the old rhythm flickering. “You’ve got me, bru. Always did. Stay here tonight, there’s enough space, and I’m not letting that bastard spook you alone.” He grinned, cheeky but sincere. “We’ll crack a beer, watch some rugby highlights. Sort the farm tomorrow.”

Piet met his gaze, a small smirk breaking through. “Ja, lekker, Jo. Beer sounds good.” Jo fetched two cans, the hiss cutting the quiet, and they settled in, shoulders brushing, the flat warming with their presence. Lukas’s shadow loomed outside, but inside, the bond flexed, a step closer, the night stretching with possibility.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Rachel tasted it, nodding sharply. “Lurker pulled it off. "

Called it.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Piet totally has his viticulture act together, and I'm here for it. Glad he saved the day, and glad Jo's appreciative. (Maybe not appreciative enough that Piet saved his ass, but hey, baby steps ...)

Am I the only one who doesn't like Rachel? (Yet.)

With Lukas back (the bastard), I suspect that Spencer may reappear in our story. And maybe this time he'll be the good guy.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Jacques van der Merwe hadn’t let Lukas de Vries slip through his fingers so easily. The moment news of Lukas’s appeal trickled back to the farm—carried on the wind of a terse phone call from a Stellenbosch admin contact—Jacques’s jaw had tightened, his weathered hands curling into fists atop his desk cluttered with wheat yield charts and sheep vaccination logs. He’d fired Lukas, seen him expelled, but the weasel’s return gnawed at him, a splinter under a calloused thumb. No son of his—nor Piet, the boy he’d watched grow thick and steady beside Jo—would live under that shadow. So he’d called in a favour, dialling a grizzled private investigator named Thato, a man with a paunch and a penchant for tailing troublemakers through Cape Town’s backstreets. “Follow him,” Jacques had growled into the receiver, voice low and rough as the gravel drive outside his farmhouse. “Every step, Thato. He’ll trip, and when he does, I want it airtight.”

Thato and his team—two lean shadows with cameras and mics tucked into faded jackets—had tracked Lukas since Tuesday, watching him slink around Stellenbosch’s edges, hazel eyes darting, smugness clinging to him like damp earth. They’d clocked him near the science block, loitering by the oaks, then trailing toward the dorms, a predator sniffing for weakness. The break Jacques had anticipated arrived on Wednesday morning, with the quad sprawling under a pale autumn sun and students darting through its paths with a sense of purpose. Piet trudged alone, boots scuffing the stone walkway, cap pulled low over his sunburnt brow, viticulture notes tucked under a scarred arm, his stocky frame aimed for a lecture hall across the grass.

Lukas emerged from behind a tree, black tee stretched tight over his wiry frame, a smirk twisting his lips as he fell into step beside Piet, his voice a low hiss cutting through the morning chatter. “Oi, de Wet,” he drawled, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hazel eyes glinting with menace. “Thought you’d shaken me, hey? I’ve got a little something, a whole recording from our lab fling, its crystal clear and graphic, bru.” He leaned closer, breath hot against Piet’s ear, the words dripping like venom. “Make that threesome happen, me, you, Jo—or I hit send, and the farm, your precious gang, all of it’s fucked. Your call.”

Piet froze, brown eyes widening beneath the cap’s brim, the notes slipping in his grip, a cold sweat prickling his hairy forearms. His throat locked, guilt and panic surging, the quad’s bustle fading to a dull roar as Lukas’s threat coiled around him. He stammered, “Fuck off, Lukas, you’re done—” but the words trembled, weak against the weight of that imagined video. Lukas chuckled, a sharp, grating sound, stepping back with a mock salute. “Tick tock, Piety boy. You’ve got ‘til Friday.”

Unseen, Thato’s team hovered—thirty meters off, lenses trained, mics catching every syllable. One crouched behind a bench, camera whirring, the other perched on a low wall, earpiece crackling as he murmured updates to Thato parked in a beat-up bakkie nearby. They’d nabbed it all—Lukas’s smug delivery, Piet’s faltering defiance, the blackmail laid bare in crisp audio and grainy frames. By noon, the footage was in Jacques’s hands, emailed with a terse note: *“Got him, boss. Move fast.”* Jacques didn’t hesitate, his lawyers, a pair of sharp-suited hawks from Cape Town—storming the dean’s office with the evidence, a storm of legal threats and university policy breaches piling up like thunderheads.

Lukas was summoned by two that afternoon, hauled from a shady corner near the library where he’d been nursing a coffee and a grudge. The dean, a wiry man with spectacles perched on a hawkish nose, sat behind a polished desk, flanked by the lawyers in their pinstripes, their briefcases open like jaws. The recording played—Lukas’s voice sneering through speakers, Piet’s shaky retort echoing—and the dean’s face hardened, his pen tapping a death knell on the blotter. “De Vries,” he snapped, “you’re out. Expelled, effective now. Banned from campus grounds. Step foot here again, and these gentlemen—” he nodded to the lawyers, who stared like vultures—“will sue you into next year. No contact with van der Merwe or de Wet, ever. Clear?” Lukas’s smirk faltered, hazel eyes darting, but the door swung open, security ushering him out, his protests swallowed by the hall’s hum.

The news reached Jo’s flat with the late morning sun, its rays slanting through the big windows, painting the wood floors in gold as Jo stirred on the couch, rugby ball wedged under his freckled arm, hair a tangled mess from a restless night. A sharp rap at the door jolted him upright, green eyes blinking against the light, a yawn cut short as he stumbled over, bare feet slapping the cool planks. He swung it open, and there stood one of Jacques’s lawyers—mid-forties, suit crisp despite the drive, greying hair swept back, a manila folder tucked under his arm—flanked by a campus security guard, a burly figure in a navy polo, radio crackling at his hip.

Johan, the lawyer said, voice smooth as polished stone, adjusting his tie with a flick. “I’m Du Plessis, we’ve met before back on the farm, your father’s counsel. We’ve handled Lukas de Vries. Caught him this morning, blackmailing Pieter de Wet in the quad, all on tape. He’s expelled, banned, and if he so much as texts you or de Wet, we’ll bury him in court. Jacques says you’re to know it’s done, but he wants a meeting with you and Mr De Wet as soon as.”

Jo’s grin broke wide, a rush of relief flooding his lanky frame, green eyes sparking as he raked a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Mr Du Plessis, that’s bloody brilliant! Where’s Piet?” He leaned past Du Plessis, peering into the hall, and there he was, Piet, rounding the corner, cap low, brown eyes wide but steady, a crumpled note clutched in his scarred hand, the blackmail’s last gasp now a trophy of its failure. “Jo,” Piet rasped, stepping up, voice rough with leftover adrenaline, “he cornered me, said he’d release some lab recording unless… fok, it’s over. They nabbed him mid-threat.”

Jo clapped Piet’s shoulder, the grip firm and warm through his faded tee, pulling him inside as the lawyer tipped his head and the guard lumbered off, their job done. “Lekker, bru! Dad’s a fokken bulldog; knew he’d sort it. Come in, hey, we’re celebrating. Pizza, my treat.” Piet nodded, a small smirk tugging his lips, the weight of Lukas’s shadow lifting as he crossed the threshold, the flat’s clean lines and unwrapped couch welcoming him back.

By dusk, they arrived at a pizzeria off campus, a quaint spot where the aroma of garlic and cheese filled the air, and the walls were adorned with faded posters of Italy and chalkboard specials. A bottle of cheap red sat between them on the scarred table, two glasses clinking in a toast—“To no more Lukas!”—their legs pressed together under the wood, knees locked in a quiet, unspoken claim. Jo’s freckled hand brushed Piet’s scarred one as they reached for the bottle, fingers lingering a beat, a spark flaring before he pulled back with a grin, pouring more. The pizza landed—greasy, piled with chorizo and peppers—and they tore in, laughter spilling over old dorm pranks, the farm project’s next steps, the shed’s chaotic triumph.

The bottle drained slow, the night softening their edges, and Jo leaned back, green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Stay again, bru,” he said, voice low, steady. “Flat’s better with you here.” Piet met his gaze, brown eyes warm, a flicker of that late-night charge pulsing between them. “Ja, Jo, I’d like that.” They swung by the dorm after—Piet grabbing a duffel, the rugby jersey, a toothbrush, the air between them crackling as they moved quick through the quad’s evening hush—then back to the flat, boots thudding on the stairs, the door clicking shut behind them.

The flat hummed alive, two fresh beers cracked open, the couch creaking as they sank in, legs brushing again, a boundary softening but holding. The TV flickered on—rugby highlights, muted—and they settled into the night, Lukas gone, their bond fermenting slow and real, a shared breath in the quiet.

 

[michaelnola]

Yes, that's what I mean about Jo being emotionally unaware (which probably isn't the right way to put it).

He senses the problems and the pain, both Piet's and his own, but he can't (yet) turn that sensing into thought, which would let him get a grip on the situation in his mind and think about what to do.

Yes Sir

 

[michaelnola]

Jacques van der Merwe hadn’t let Lukas de Vries slip through his fingers so easily. The moment news of Lukas’s appeal trickled back to the farm—carried on the wind of a terse phone call from a Stellenbosch admin contact—Jacques’s jaw had tightened, his weathered hands curling into fists atop his desk cluttered with wheat yield charts and sheep vaccination logs. He’d fired Lukas, seen him expelled, but the weasel’s return gnawed at him, a splinter under a calloused thumb. No son of his—nor Piet, the boy he’d watched grow thick and steady beside Jo—would live under that shadow. So he’d called in a favour, dialling a grizzled private investigator named Thato, a man with a paunch and a penchant for tailing troublemakers through Cape Town’s backstreets. “Follow him,” Jacques had growled into the receiver, voice low and rough as the gravel drive outside his farmhouse. “Every step, Thato. He’ll trip, and when he does, I want it airtight.”

Thato and his team—two lean shadows with cameras and mics tucked into faded jackets—had tracked Lukas since Tuesday, watching him slink around Stellenbosch’s edges, hazel eyes darting, smugness clinging to him like damp earth. They’d clocked him near the science block, loitering by the oaks, then trailing toward the dorms, a predator sniffing for weakness. The break Jacques had anticipated arrived on Wednesday morning, with the quad sprawling under a pale autumn sun and students darting through its paths with a sense of purpose. Piet trudged alone, boots scuffing the stone walkway, cap pulled low over his sunburnt brow, viticulture notes tucked under a scarred arm, his stocky frame aimed for a lecture hall across the grass.

Lukas emerged from behind a tree, black tee stretched tight over his wiry frame, a smirk twisting his lips as he fell into step beside Piet, his voice a low hiss cutting through the morning chatter. “Oi, de Wet,” he drawled, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hazel eyes glinting with menace. “Thought you’d shaken me, hey? I’ve got a little something, a whole recording from our lab fling, its crystal clear and graphic, bru.” He leaned closer, breath hot against Piet’s ear, the words dripping like venom. “Make that threesome happen, me, you, Jo—or I hit send, and the farm, your precious gang, all of it’s fucked. Your call.”

Piet froze, brown eyes widening beneath the cap’s brim, the notes slipping in his grip, a cold sweat prickling his hairy forearms. His throat locked, guilt and panic surging, the quad’s bustle fading to a dull roar as Lukas’s threat coiled around him. He stammered, “Fuck off, Lukas, you’re done—” but the words trembled, weak against the weight of that imagined video. Lukas chuckled, a sharp, grating sound, stepping back with a mock salute. “Tick tock, Piety boy. You’ve got ‘til Friday.”

Unseen, Thato’s team hovered—thirty meters off, lenses trained, mics catching every syllable. One crouched behind a bench, camera whirring, the other perched on a low wall, earpiece crackling as he murmured updates to Thato parked in a beat-up bakkie nearby. They’d nabbed it all—Lukas’s smug delivery, Piet’s faltering defiance, the blackmail laid bare in crisp audio and grainy frames. By noon, the footage was in Jacques’s hands, emailed with a terse note: *“Got him, boss. Move fast.”* Jacques didn’t hesitate, his lawyers, a pair of sharp-suited hawks from Cape Town—storming the dean’s office with the evidence, a storm of legal threats and university policy breaches piling up like thunderheads.

Lukas was summoned by two that afternoon, hauled from a shady corner near the library where he’d been nursing a coffee and a grudge. The dean, a wiry man with spectacles perched on a hawkish nose, sat behind a polished desk, flanked by the lawyers in their pinstripes, their briefcases open like jaws. The recording played—Lukas’s voice sneering through speakers, Piet’s shaky retort echoing—and the dean’s face hardened, his pen tapping a death knell on the blotter. “De Vries,” he snapped, “you’re out. Expelled, effective now. Banned from campus grounds. Step foot here again, and these gentlemen—” he nodded to the lawyers, who stared like vultures—“will sue you into next year. No contact with van der Merwe or de Wet, ever. Clear?” Lukas’s smirk faltered, hazel eyes darting, but the door swung open, security ushering him out, his protests swallowed by the hall’s hum.

The news reached Jo’s flat with the late morning sun, its rays slanting through the big windows, painting the wood floors in gold as Jo stirred on the couch, rugby ball wedged under his freckled arm, hair a tangled mess from a restless night. A sharp rap at the door jolted him upright, green eyes blinking against the light, a yawn cut short as he stumbled over, bare feet slapping the cool planks. He swung it open, and there stood one of Jacques’s lawyers—mid-forties, suit crisp despite the drive, greying hair swept back, a manila folder tucked under his arm—flanked by a campus security guard, a burly figure in a navy polo, radio crackling at his hip.

Johan, the lawyer said, voice smooth as polished stone, adjusting his tie with a flick. “I’m Du Plessis, we’ve met before back on the farm, your father’s counsel. We’ve handled Lukas de Vries. Caught him this morning, blackmailing Pieter de Wet in the quad, all on tape. He’s expelled, banned, and if he so much as texts you or de Wet, we’ll bury him in court. Jacques says you’re to know it’s done, but he wants a meeting with you and Mr De Wet as soon as.”

Jo’s grin broke wide, a rush of relief flooding his lanky frame, green eyes sparking as he raked a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Mr Du Plessis, that’s bloody brilliant! Where’s Piet?” He leaned past Du Plessis, peering into the hall, and there he was, Piet, rounding the corner, cap low, brown eyes wide but steady, a crumpled note clutched in his scarred hand, the blackmail’s last gasp now a trophy of its failure. “Jo,” Piet rasped, stepping up, voice rough with leftover adrenaline, “he cornered me, said he’d release some lab recording unless… fok, it’s over. They nabbed him mid-threat.”

Jo clapped Piet’s shoulder, the grip firm and warm through his faded tee, pulling him inside as the lawyer tipped his head and the guard lumbered off, their job done. “Lekker, bru! Dad’s a fokken bulldog; knew he’d sort it. Come in, hey, we’re celebrating. Pizza, my treat.” Piet nodded, a small smirk tugging his lips, the weight of Lukas’s shadow lifting as he crossed the threshold, the flat’s clean lines and unwrapped couch welcoming him back.

By dusk, they arrived at a pizzeria off campus, a quaint spot where the aroma of garlic and cheese filled the air, and the walls were adorned with faded posters of Italy and chalkboard specials. A bottle of cheap red sat between them on the scarred table, two glasses clinking in a toast—“To no more Lukas!”—their legs pressed together under the wood, knees locked in a quiet, unspoken claim. Jo’s freckled hand brushed Piet’s scarred one as they reached for the bottle, fingers lingering a beat, a spark flaring before he pulled back with a grin, pouring more. The pizza landed—greasy, piled with chorizo and peppers—and they tore in, laughter spilling over old dorm pranks, the farm project’s next steps, the shed’s chaotic triumph.

The bottle drained slow, the night softening their edges, and Jo leaned back, green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Stay again, bru,” he said, voice low, steady. “Flat’s better with you here.” Piet met his gaze, brown eyes warm, a flicker of that late-night charge pulsing between them. “Ja, Jo, I’d like that.” They swung by the dorm after—Piet grabbing a duffel, the rugby jersey, a toothbrush, the air between them crackling as they moved quick through the quad’s evening hush—then back to the flat, boots thudding on the stairs, the door clicking shut behind them.

The flat hummed alive, two fresh beers cracked open, the couch creaking as they sank in, legs brushing again, a boundary softening but holding. The TV flickered on—rugby highlights, muted—and they settled into the night, Lukas gone, their bond fermenting slow and real, a shared breath in the quiet.

Thanks for the addition. Great reading to start my day--much appreciated. You are awesome.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Kind of hard to believe that Lukas would even have wanted a three-way with those two after he got expelled the first time -- except that he's a rich, spoiled brat who hates admitting defeat, and giving up on the three-way meant admitting defeat.

And I don't think Lukas really had a recording of that lab fling. I think he'd have mentioned it before if he did, and he's already established himself as a liar.

Now, about that meeting that Jacques has called for with Jo and Piet -- I have no doubt that Jacques is going to chew them out. But I hope word reaches Jacques of Piet's great wine rescue (and it was Piet's, not Jo's) so that Jacques sees what a valuable asset he has in Piet.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Oh, and I don't know why I didn't think of this before, but do we figure that Lukas showed up at Stellenbosch halfway through the academic year because he got himself thrown out of whichever university he'd been in before?

 

[jayson_steyn]

The flat settled into a warm, intimate hush as the night deepened, the faint glow of the muted TV casting flickering shadows across the wood floors. Jo and Piet sat side by side on the couch, their legs pressed together from knee to thigh, the contact a quiet hum beneath the surface of their casual banter. The empty pizza box from their leftovers lay discarded on the coffee table, the two beer cans beside it sweating lightly, their contents long drained. The air was thick with the lingering scent of garlic and chorizo, mingled with the earthy musk of their closeness, Jo’s freckled skin carrying a hint of sweat from the day, Piet’s stocky frame radiating a steady heat under his faded cap.

Their conversation had dwindled, the rugby highlights forgotten, replaced by a charged silence that pulsed between them. Jo’s green eyes flicked to Piet, then away, his lanky frame tense as he shifted, the fabric of his faded tee stretching over his chest. Piet’s brown eyes mirrored the glance, lingering a beat longer, his scarred hand resting on his knee, fingers twitching as if itching to move. The tension was palpable, a tightrope strung between them, neither daring to take the first step across the line they’d danced around since the dorm days. Their breaths synced, shallow and uneven, the memory of past nights—hands, heat, the messy release—hanging unspoken in the air.

Jo broke first, his voice rough, hesitant, as he leaned forward to set his empty can down. “You take the bed, and I’ll stay on the couch again, or…” His words trailed off, green eyes darting to Piet’s, a question wrapped in that lopsided grin, the “or” dangling like a dare.

Piet’s lips curved into a slow, dry smirk, his brown eyes lighting with recognition. “Or…” he echoed, the word low and teasing, a spark igniting as he met Jo’s gaze head-on. The tension snapped, replaced by a rush of mutual understanding, and they moved as one, standing, hands brushing, boots scuffing the floor in a frantic scramble toward the bedroom.

They burst through the door, the small room swallowing them in shadow, the bed a rumpled promise against the wall. Jo kicked the door shut with a thud, his hands already yanking his tee over his head, revealing his freckled chest, nipples hardening in the cool air. Piet followed, tugging off his cap and tossing it aside, his stocky frame shedding his shirt in one fluid motion, the sparse hair on his chest catching the faint moonlight streaming through the window. Their jeans hit the floor next, a tangle of denim and underwear, until they stood bare, Jo’s lanky limbs and straight, pink-tipped cock jutting proudly, Piet’s thicker, uncircumcised one already slick at the tip, both hard and aching from the buildup.

Jo lunged first, grabbing Piet’s scarred forearms and pulling him onto the bed, the mattress creaking under their combined weight. They crashed together, skin on skin, a collision of heat and need. Jo’s hands roamed, fingers digging into Piet’s broad shoulders, then sliding down his hairy chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples until Piet groaned, a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through them both. Piet retaliated, his sleek hands gripping Jo’s narrow hips, pulling him closer until their cocks pressed together, the friction electric, precum smearing between their stomachs.

They rolled, a tangle of limbs, Jo pinning Piet for a moment, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he grinned down, green eyes wild. He shifted, straddling Piet’s thighs, his hand wrapping around both their cocks, straight and curved against cut and uncut, stroking in a messy, urgent rhythm. The slick sound filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breaths, Jo’s freckled chest heaving as he leaned forward, lips hovering over Piet’s. Piet arched up, meeting him halfway, their mouths crashing in a hot, sloppy kiss, tongues tangling, the taste of beer and desperation fuelling it.

Piet’s hands gripped Jo’s ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, pulling him tighter as he thrust up into Jo’s fist, his cock throbbing against Jo’s. Jo broke the kiss with a gasp, his head tipping back, blonde hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as he pumped faster, the pressure building. “Fuck, Piet,” he grunted, voice breaking, “just like old times, hey?” Piet’s response was a choked laugh, his brown eyes half-lidded, hips bucking as he matched Jo’s pace, their cocks sliding together, slick and hot.

The room spun with their heat, the bed creaking louder, sheets twisting beneath them. Jo’s free hand braced on Piet’s chest, fingers splaying over the coarse hair, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Piet’s hand slid up Jo’s back, nails scraping lightly, then gripped the nape of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, deeper this time, slower, a contrast to the frantic strokes below. The tension coiled tight, their bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the musky scent of sex.

Jo came first, a sharp cry tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum erupting across Piet’s stomach and chest, splattering up to his collarbone, the sheer volume a testament to the pent-up need. His hand faltered, but Piet took over, his own grip tightening on both their lengths, stroking through Jo’s release. The sight, Jo’s face contorted in ecstasy, cum glistening on his skin, pushed Piet over. He groaned loud, a deep, primal sound, his thicker cock throbbing as he unleashed, cum shooting in forceful arcs, hitting Jo’s thigh, his own hand, the bed beyond, a messy flood that left them both drenched.

They collapsed, panting, Jo slumping onto Piet’s chest, their sticky skin melding together, cum cooling between them. Jo’s hand stayed wrapped loosely around Piet’s softening cock, fingers slick, while Piet’s rested on Jo’s, a gentle hold as the aftershocks faded. Their breaths synced again, slower now, the room quiet save for the faint creak of the bed settling. Jo’s green eyes met Piet’s brown, a lazy grin spreading across his face, mirrored by Piet’s dry smirk. They didn’t move, just lay there, tangled and spent in the position Jo longed for, the night stretching out with the comfort of a bond renewed, raw and real once more.

 

[michaelnola]

The flat settled into a warm, intimate hush as the night deepened, the faint glow of the muted TV casting flickering shadows across the wood floors. Jo and Piet sat side by side on the couch, their legs pressed together from knee to thigh, the contact a quiet hum beneath the surface of their casual banter. The empty pizza box from their leftovers lay discarded on the coffee table, the two beer cans beside it sweating lightly, their contents long drained. The air was thick with the lingering scent of garlic and chorizo, mingled with the earthy musk of their closeness, Jo’s freckled skin carrying a hint of sweat from the day, Piet’s stocky frame radiating a steady heat under his faded cap.

Their conversation had dwindled, the rugby highlights forgotten, replaced by a charged silence that pulsed between them. Jo’s green eyes flicked to Piet, then away, his lanky frame tense as he shifted, the fabric of his faded tee stretching over his chest. Piet’s brown eyes mirrored the glance, lingering a beat longer, his scarred hand resting on his knee, fingers twitching as if itching to move. The tension was palpable, a tightrope strung between them, neither daring to take the first step across the line they’d danced around since the dorm days. Their breaths synced, shallow and uneven, the memory of past nights—hands, heat, the messy release—hanging unspoken in the air.

Jo broke first, his voice rough, hesitant, as he leaned forward to set his empty can down. “You take the bed, and I’ll stay on the couch again, or…” His words trailed off, green eyes darting to Piet’s, a question wrapped in that lopsided grin, the “or” dangling like a dare.

Piet’s lips curved into a slow, dry smirk, his brown eyes lighting with recognition. “Or…” he echoed, the word low and teasing, a spark igniting as he met Jo’s gaze head-on. The tension snapped, replaced by a rush of mutual understanding, and they moved as one, standing, hands brushing, boots scuffing the floor in a frantic scramble toward the bedroom.

They burst through the door, the small room swallowing them in shadow, the bed a rumpled promise against the wall. Jo kicked the door shut with a thud, his hands already yanking his tee over his head, revealing his freckled chest, nipples hardening in the cool air. Piet followed, tugging off his cap and tossing it aside, his stocky frame shedding his shirt in one fluid motion, the sparse hair on his chest catching the faint moonlight streaming through the window. Their jeans hit the floor next, a tangle of denim and underwear, until they stood bare, Jo’s lanky limbs and straight, pink-tipped cock jutting proudly, Piet’s thicker, uncircumcised one already slick at the tip, both hard and aching from the buildup.

Jo lunged first, grabbing Piet’s scarred forearms and pulling him onto the bed, the mattress creaking under their combined weight. They crashed together, skin on skin, a collision of heat and need. Jo’s hands roamed, fingers digging into Piet’s broad shoulders, then sliding down his hairy chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples until Piet groaned, a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through them both. Piet retaliated, his sleek hands gripping Jo’s narrow hips, pulling him closer until their cocks pressed together, the friction electric, precum smearing between their stomachs.

They rolled, a tangle of limbs, Jo pinning Piet for a moment, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he grinned down, green eyes wild. He shifted, straddling Piet’s thighs, his hand wrapping around both their cocks, straight and curved against cut and uncut, stroking in a messy, urgent rhythm. The slick sound filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breaths, Jo’s freckled chest heaving as he leaned forward, lips hovering over Piet’s. Piet arched up, meeting him halfway, their mouths crashing in a hot, sloppy kiss, tongues tangling, the taste of beer and desperation fuelling it.

Piet’s hands gripped Jo’s ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, pulling him tighter as he thrust up into Jo’s fist, his cock throbbing against Jo’s. Jo broke the kiss with a gasp, his head tipping back, blonde hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as he pumped faster, the pressure building. “Fuck, Piet,” he grunted, voice breaking, “just like old times, hey?” Piet’s response was a choked laugh, his brown eyes half-lidded, hips bucking as he matched Jo’s pace, their cocks sliding together, slick and hot.

The room spun with their heat, the bed creaking louder, sheets twisting beneath them. Jo’s free hand braced on Piet’s chest, fingers splaying over the coarse hair, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Piet’s hand slid up Jo’s back, nails scraping lightly, then gripped the nape of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, deeper this time, slower, a contrast to the frantic strokes below. The tension coiled tight, their bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the musky scent of sex.

Jo came first, a sharp cry tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum erupting across Piet’s stomach and chest, splattering up to his collarbone, the sheer volume a testament to the pent-up need. His hand faltered, but Piet took over, his own grip tightening on both their lengths, stroking through Jo’s release. The sight, Jo’s face contorted in ecstasy, cum glistening on his skin, pushed Piet over. He groaned loud, a deep, primal sound, his thicker cock throbbing as he unleashed, cum shooting in forceful arcs, hitting Jo’s thigh, his own hand, the bed beyond, a messy flood that left them both drenched.

They collapsed, panting, Jo slumping onto Piet’s chest, their sticky skin melding together, cum cooling between them. Jo’s hand stayed wrapped loosely around Piet’s softening cock, fingers slick, while Piet’s rested on Jo’s, a gentle hold as the aftershocks faded. Their breaths synced again, slower now, the room quiet save for the faint creak of the bed settling. Jo’s green eyes met Piet’s brown, a lazy grin spreading across his face, mirrored by Piet’s dry smirk. They didn’t move, just lay there, tangled and spent in the position Jo longed for, the night stretching out with the comfort of a bond renewed, raw and real once more.

Awesome writing for sure---Excellent lunch time break. Good to have them back. Thanks you Sir for the update.