Once a Nerd, Ch. 20

a/n: hey, everyone! I know I've been gone for a while, and I don't really have an excuse. I'm just not a consistent person, unfortunately. I'm not sure if this could be considered a resolution chapter or a filler chapter, but it's something! I know how much everyone loves this story, but because of that I feel like I'm dragging it on. If I can continue to write consistently, I'm really going to do my best to wrap this up with a satisfying conclusion so I can focus on other things. I'll probably side story them to death though, so check my bio for details if you ever see me posting something here.

As always, thanks for your love and support.

__

Some months have passed, and the season's about to start.

I never thought I'd track the passage of time by the beginning, middle, and end of collegiate football, but it marks a big change in how Dean's time is delegated. Thus, my time. As we did last year, togetherness is scraped together on weekends the Bulldogs aren't slated to play or practice. Sometimes both Saturday and Sunday, sometimes only a few hours on Sunday. Dean is no less insufferable about this than the season prior, as if he can't or won't adjust to the drastic decrease in quality time.

In some ways, he's worse, but I think it's just the fullfledged freedom he's granted himself to be himself. To throw fits and be childish. On the world's stage, he's cocksure and mature beyond his years. I've never seen him soft or vulnerable in the public's eye. So, his childishness and tantrums feel like a privilege. Usually, he won't press the issue and knows when to quit, as not much can be done about our current circumstances. Our individual pathways to success just happen to be hours apart, and that's a relatively short distance to cross in the scope of 'long distance' relationships.

A privilege it might be, but--

"God, hngh! Dean--!"

"... yeah?" He breathes against my nape, roughshod and gritty. His sweat plops against my back like the start of a torrential downpour.

He doesn't always know when to quit, and in these moments I feel like a Michelin feast spread out for a beggar. Bones picked clean, every dish licked to spotless. Dug into and demolished messily and without etiquette. Cannibalized. Eaten. There's no part of me left unscathed, and even when I'd swear there's nothing left, he's yet to be satisfied.

And I start to lose my mind and think, ah, well, maybe I'm not satisfied yet either.

But, fuck, to what end? Off and on, we've been at it for so long, I've grown numb below the waist. My arms, legs, and back are so fatigued, I can't support myself. My hole's stretched and sloppy to a point I can barely feel Dean's cock smashing through it. There's only a simmering pressure in my lower gut that frequently peaks into orgasm, and I'm left more and more wrung out after each one. A weak, limp thing for him to rearrange at his discretion. My stomach feels heavy and bloated from the innumerable loads he's deposited behind my navel, and you'd think it'd become dehumanizing at some point.

An honest-to-God receptacle.

With Dean, perish the thought. Whether it's love, obsession, or an indistinguishable tangling of the two, he never leaves room for question. His large hands cradle me preciously in the midst of fucking like beasts, and there's reverence in every gruff word. Even the harsh, filthy dialogue when his mouth runs away from him, because his unchecked excitement excites me in turn.

"Christ, stop..." I plead halfheartedly, unsure if that's what I actually want. I mean, I can probably cum at least one more time.

"Tired, baby?"

If I had the energy, I'd slap him for the stupid rhetoric. Alas, he'll always have more than I ever will, and my position trapped between Dean's chest and the headboard sees sudden, perilous change. He finds wide handholds on the inside of my thighs, and the room tilts.

"You wanna lay down?"

'Lay down' roughly translates to impalement, as laying flat across him makes it feel as though his cock is pointing upright at ninety degrees inside me. Like it might tear a hole straight through my stomach, but holy shit, has he discovered some secret, second prostrate? After all this time, is it possible we've never fucked in this position? Or, have the celestial bodies achieved precise alignment with the axis of Dean's dick?

"Not... like this, you--!" While definitely English, it hardly sounds human. I can't catch enough breath to form proper syllables, and I'm seized by scattered flinches.

His fingers migrate to that softened band of muscle working tirelessly to swallow him, and the touch burns. Previously believed to be dead to sensation, there's sudden overstimulation. Sticky, sopping, and painfully raw.

He clicks his tongue, "it's leaking out."

Those scattered flinches become a possessed convulsion when he digs three of his fingers into me, alongside more cock than any one man needs. As if trying to stuff his cum back inside, but it's really just plain sadism. An unbearable, wonderful fullness that shoves me ever nearer the brink, and Dean's meanspirited laughter washes against my throat, "isn't that better? You need at least this much to feel satisfied, such a greedy fuckin' hole."

"Shut... up..."

When he promptly pops them from my ass, there's no time for mourning or relief. Instead, he shoves between my teeth, and my mouth is just as stuffed and heady with the bitter tang of cum. He flattens my tongue under chapped fingertips, then hooks them into my cheek. And the deeper he reaches into my throat, the tighter I clench around his cock. For all the airs he likes to put on, his trembling is as fierce and involuntary as mine.

Enough foreplay to kill a man, though 'fore' might imply there's no 'aft.' With Dean, foreplay never actually ends.

He swears raggedly against the back of my ear. Unable to bring his hips to heel, they start to flex. A gentle rocking mirrored by the fingers overcrowding my mouth, though it's not long before that motion again becomes fast and forceful. The direct, upward pressure against my stomach and continued jabbing of my uvula are almost nauseating, but also stupidly fucking good.

On top of him like this, I feel crucified. A not-so-virgin sacrifice to the most hedonistic of Gods. Trapped, smothered, and staked through. Literally tortured with pleasure.

"Fuck, Sammy, if you could feel yourself right now--" Dean sounds a little less than human, too. The grunts and hisses of a subspecies in contrast with the very modern talk. More animalistic the closer he gets to orgasm. "... why isn't it ever enough? Why can't I get enough of you?"

With feet braced against the bed, his thrusts become savage. I'd be bounced off his powerful body like a paddleball if not for the tight grip he maintains. Black corrodes the edges of my vision, lightheaded from a lack of oxygen and far more stimulus than can be processed. Beat-up from the inside.

My stomach feels like a pressure cooker, and I'm afraid my dick might fly off with the geysering force of a bottle rocket when this last orgasm claims me. Not until I taste blood do I realize I've sunk my teeth into the middle of Dean's hand, but the pain only seems to frenzy him. Like a predator discovering it can bleed too

He returns the hurt by digging teeth into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, thankfully not so high as to warrant turtlenecks in early summer. It's the little things. And like that, nuclei collide in the back of my stomach and I'm ripped apart in the ensuing reaction.

As sex is essentially cardio, science says it's good for long term health: burning calories, lowering blood pressure, boosting immunity, reducing the risk of heart disease. But, surely, orgasms like this have to be an outlier. Deconstructed atom by atom, braindead for at least six whole seconds.

I can already imagine the cynical side-eye from God's gatekeeper.

"Death by sodomy, huh?"

It took us a while to reach this point again. Nearly half a year has passed since the incident with Matt, but all my efforts to get better didn't bear real fruit until two or three months ago. I didn't return to my apartment prematurely, instead waiting until I could consistently achieve a good night's sleep across the hall from my mother. I took that next, big step only when the nightmares weaned off. While difficult to suddenly spend my evenings and nights alone, I managed.

And managing eventually came full circle to thoughtless, daily life. I became less aware of my heart's pace in my chest, the number of breaths I took in a minute, and that data represented numerically on my watch's actigraph. Now, it's a watch that tells time. I can sleep alone in the dark and quiet with only mild discomfort, occasionally resorting to flipping on the bathroom's light. I can immerse myself in the world beyond my fears and doubts, sometimes forgetting them altogether.

During the months I worked to put myself back together, Dean wrestled with his own challenges, though not once did he ever make his problems mine. Nor did he share them. I'd have never known anything was amiss with him, but he'd become a borderline intolerable presence to those around him: teammates, faculty, and the few acquaintances he kept. Even Rishad wasn't safe from unwarranted outbursts on the commute.

A combination of residual anger without a proper outlet, stress born of helplessness, and maintaining a healthy, physical distance. Refraining from sex until I'd ironed out some of the wrinkles from my delicate psyche. There was nothing he could do or say to 'fix it', and Dean doesn't do well on the sidelines. He struggles with sitting and waiting, letting nature run its course. But, he also lacks finesse. Not every problem can be solved with brute force, intimidation, or manipulation. Some issues require a docile touch and an expertise he simply doesn't possess.

And as unromantic as it might be, our relationship was founded on sex. Dean's appetite and persistence got us to where we are today, and his appetite hasn't lessened any. To the contrary. Before the incident, I can't recall a time we were together for a prolonged time and didn't have sex. Honeymoon period, youth, an abnormal libidio, whatever the case. Physical intimacy made up a huge chunk of our relationship, and with the sudden cessation of it, Dean took his frustration out on others.

When it was just the two of us, I'd have never known. He was totally at ease. Tranquil, as if he'd abandoned worldly pleasure and adopted Buddhism. While he didn't avoid touch altogether, he kept a wide berth from any erogenous zones and always maintained a barrier of clothing. As far as I could tell, sex was the furthest thing from his mind.

In fact, he seemed so disinterred, I started to worry about whether his attraction had also run its course. Did my frailty turn him off? Did his affection become platonic after being relegated to a caretaker role?

He still acted like himself. Our dynamic didn't change much, but I could tell he was on eggshells: attentive, cautious, naggy.

"Sammy, you barely had three bites! At least five more, c'mon."

"Did you remember your meds this morning?"

"What time did you go to bed? Mid--?! You had class at six, what were you thinking?! Look at the bags under your eyes!"

It was both sweet and annoying beyond measure. Instead of romantic partners, I felt infantilized. A child or an invalid needing constant surveillance and instruction. He had the best of intentions, and as it was the only way he could exert some sort of control over the situation, I swallowed my ire best as I could.

Eventually, to get back to our previous 'normal', everything reached a head.

Late March, I was added to a group chat consisting of two other people. One number was Rishad's, the other was an anonymous contact not saved to my phone. They quickly identified themself as John, Dean's roommate. The group was named "SOS", as the two decided to reach out secretly to report Dean's behavior. Reading their bulleted list of grievances, it all came as a great shock.

The Dean they described wasn't the same person I'd been spending my weekends with, as if he was swapping personalities as soon as he stepped through my door.

The allegations were:

His mood was never good, either resting at a baseline of apathy or flaring into outright animosity. He'd been impossible to carry a normal conversation with, giving clipped answers or biting heads off for no apparent reason. As far as the Bulldogs were concerned, their quarterback had become a tyrant. He demanded perfection from his teammates during drills, and God forbid anyone let one of his passes slip through their hands. Nor was he any kinder to himself. Exercise was the only outlet he had left, and he'd work himself to near paralysis daily.

Running, too. A lot of running.

If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

John and Rishad both spent a lot of isolated time with Dean in relatively small spaces, and to them, he felt like a dormant mine buried in the ground. They had no way of knowing where to step, but one wrong move, wrong look, wrong sound, wrong breath--

And it wasn't necessarily shouting or cursing. Sometimes, just a look. A bone-cold slice of his eyes on an otherwise blank face. Shouting and cursing would probably be more comfortable. Less terrifying. The dilemma then became approaching Dean about this without letting on to my source. As John and Rishad claimed, I didn't disbelieve he'd punish them somehow for tattling to me.

Weirdly, wrongly, I was put at ease.

The composed, pleasant, sexually disinterred version he'd been presenting to me all this time was a sham. He just didn't want to be another source of turmoil, putting me in a position to center him instead of myself. He kept it all in, or at least away from me, until I could again handle the full magnitude of his love, fear, and desire.

For the greater good of the Central Valley, that time had come.

My spine's expiration date.

The following weekend after receiving John and Rishad's desperate plea for intervention, I approached Dean about their concerns. Without naming names, of course. Or actually saying anything at all. My own constitution was as good as it's ever been, and I felt confident I could handle the weight of whatever he needed to offload. No more allowing myself to be babied and passed between his hands like a porcelain teacup. Time to step up and be his catharsis as much as he's been mine. To share each other's load.

Metaphorically...?

If I asked him outright, I knew he'd never admit it:

"What are you talking about? I'm fine, Sammy."

And the conversation would end there. He'd stick to his guns and deny any emotional disturbance. Instead, I spent all of that pre-plotted Saturday chipping away at his willpower. Using any embarrassing, underhanded tactic to break him of that saintlike restraint. When he arrived at my door that morning, I greeted him in nothing but one of his shirts. One of those tanks with absurdly deep armholes, an ego lifter's favorite. It more gave the illusion of 'clothing' than served a shirt's actual purpose. The fabric wasn't wide enough to conceal both nipples at the same time, and my dick didn't escape the underdraft.

I'm proud to say that was almost a checkmate.

The element of surprise is worth a lot against an opponent as sturdy as Dean. For a few, satisfying seconds, he was dumbfounded. His bag's strap threatened to slip off his shoulder, and his mouth also lost tension, dropping wordlessly. Unable to help himself, his eyes flickered beneath my chin. However, instead of feeling giddy and victorious at his blatant appraisal, my heart nearly shot out of my ass. His surprise didn't last long. Left behind wasn't any mere man, but an animal I'd been starving for months. Only to flap a filet in his face through the bars of the cage.

What am I, an actual idiot?

The air grew oppressive between us, and his stance shifted microscopically into the wide, aggressive readiment for a tackle. For a brief second, I deeply regretted assuming I could 'handle whatever he could dish out', as I could barely handle him before. I'm not sure where all that misplaced confidence came from.

The danger was gone as quick as it came. He forcibly relaxed his posture and redirected his gaze to a void over my shoulder. When he spoke, it was awkward and croaky.

"Hey, were you...?"

I looked down at myself as if just realizing my lack of dress, playing it off. In a roughened voice I didn't have to fake, "ah, sorry, I overslept."

He won the battle, but I wasn't ready to give up the war. And I'd abuse every cliché in the book if that's what it took: deepthroating a popsicle, 'accidentally' spraying myself with the sink's retractable faucet, bending over in his eyeline to retrieve whatever arbitrary thing I happened to 'drop', nudging against his dick every three seconds during a movie.

Instead of finding a more appropriate shirt, I merely added a pair of shorts to complete the getup. Small, thin, tight shorts I had to excavate from the back of a drawer. More skin than I've flaunted in months.

He suffered through it all, and there was definitely suffering. He gradually became more expressionless as the day wore on, because he couldn't control both his face and body. Rigid as a rock, riddled with veins I'd not normally see unless he was exerting himself, fleeing to the bathroom every half hour. By the skin of his teeth, he lasted the entire day. He didn't lean in for so much as a peck on the lips.

Though, at least to me, his misery was loud.

You might be wondering, 'Sam, why the mindfuckery? Why not just say you're ready for real sex?'

It wouldn't have the same effect.

He'd be too slow, too careful. He'd worry I'm not actually ready. He'd do it for my release, not his own. Tender lovemaking wouldn't cut it.

No, I need him at the end of his rope, wit's end, ten toes hanging off the brink of fucking insanity.

My last hurrah was a bit of unplanned, subtle exhibitionism. By that evening, I'd exhausted all other ideas--a glorified '10 Tips to Let Him Know You're Interested' from a copy of Cosmopolitan circa '01. Back when the pages were glossy, blindingly colorful, and reminded you how thin you'll never be.

Preparing to wash off the day's failure, an idea sprang to mind. Dean's been avoiding showers together for obvious reasons, so why not loudly, pointedly get myself off in the bathroom? If that doesn't trigger his innate barbarity, dragging me out of the stall by a fistful of hair, I'd be at a loss.

I was afraid I'd find it too humiliating to go through with. Unlike Dean, I can't convincingly fake anything, least of all pleasure. I worried it'd feel too awkward, or I wouldn't get my voice to rise over the jettison of water for him to eavesdrop on. Masturbating for an adjacent audience, even if it's Dean, would normally have my gut curdling with embarrassment. But, nothing's normal lately, and I might've been just as starved as he was.

The day's antics had backfired on me.

The thrill of antagonizing someone as volatile as Dean, watching his face cloud with intense frustration in real time, and knowing he's giving everything he's got to be what I need.

He was reclined against the headboard on his side of the bed. Legs straightened, ankles crossed, laptop propped in his lap at a wide angle. From the halting, infrequent chitter of his fingers against the keys, I knew he was struggling to maintain focus. It gave him something to pretend to look at.

"I'm going to shower."

He replied without looking up, "go ahead, baby."

In another cruel, calculated move, I shed my only two articles of clothing while crossing the room instead of disrobing behind the bathroom's closed door. Directly in his line of sight if he cuts an upward glance. If I weren't listening out for it, I would've missed the sharp, telltale intake of air. Of course he looked. I also left the door a little less than halfway open. A greenlight he'd be hardpressed to ignore.

No, there was no faking anything.

I wasn't just ready for sex, I was aching for Dean to finally fuck me properly. This therapeutic celibacy had gone on long enough, and once in the imagined privacy of a cubicle furled with steam, I couldn't get my cock in hand fast enough. Imagining it was larger, rougher, and unafraid to squeeze tightly. Sticking my upper half against the cool tile, I stooped into position as if he were already behind me. So swept up in fantasy, I forgot there was a greater scheme. A living, breathing Dean in the very next room I was meant to be serenading with the siren's song of 'come fuck the living shit out of me, idiot.'

My hands were a poor imitation, but I'm acquainted enough with my own body to get the job done. Being out of commission for so long, inserting anything in my ass should've been uncomfortable if nothing else, but it wasn't. Only the frothy warmth of excitement washed through my lower stomach, the barest twinge at stretching a neglected muscle.

"Relax, baby, you're gonna snap my cock in half."

A single, soapy finger could never equate to Dean's dick, but that's the power of pretend. I wanted his obscene script husked against my ear, words that'd sound cringeworthy from anyone with an ounce less confidence. Degradation delivered as praise, as if providing a warm, wet crevice for his cock is some height of achievement. And he's so, so proud.

"There you go. Good fuckin' job, just like that, Sammy--"

"Mm!"

He'd flatten me against the wall with the weight of his huge, hard body. I'd cling and claw at his forearm where it cuffs my throat or straps across my chest. To distract from the initial discomfort, he'd massage my cock in his other hand. And I'd shudder through the stimulus with eyes rolling back into my skull. Even with hot, sterilizing water beating down on us, I'd smell him.

His combination of cologne, deodorant, and shampoo. Grass and sweat. That rich, mouthwatering musk I've become addicted to. I want to bury my face under his jaw and get high. I want him to suck my tongue into his mouth as his hips build momentum. I want him to crush me inside and out. I want to feel his cock pushing my organs around and his weight compressing my lungs.

Even three fingers aren't comparable to his girth, nor are they long enough to find my prostate, but the slight burn was convincing. My body was on fire, and dizziness started to root behind my eyes. Painful sensitivity like I was one giant, exposed nerve. I was vaguely aware of myself rutting into a fist and shoving back on my own hand, noises escaping without having to be forced out.

So absorbed in that hyperrealistic daydream, so close to orgasm, an interruption from the real Dean scared me close to death. When abruptly grabbed from behind, I put on like a leading lady facing Norman Bate's butcher knife. Shrieking, hands flying in front of my face, flinching three feet in the air. Janet Leigh wasn't furiously masturbating, at least.

I wasn't spared that indignity.

He was too far gone to apologize, and while I wasn't dragged out by a fistful of hair, it was a near thing. Manhandled in a way I haven't experienced since... well, before. He ripped the door open, cut the water, and hooked an arm around my stomach. All the air was expelled from my diaphragm as I was hauled from the cubicle. My feet suddenly lost contact with the ground, and his hands dug into the back of my thighs with hydraulic force. I instinctively clung, and through his shorts, his cock announced itself against the curve of my ass.

Like balancing on a mighty branch.

My back landed against the bed, and I was smothered by him just like I wanted, just like I imagined in the highest resolution.

Then, I was being eaten. A merciless kiss that might've concussed me if the surface behind my head wasn't a spongy mattress. Dean used his teeth and tongue like daggers and a spear, biting and shoving inside my mouth. Grunting and hissing curses I had to either swallow or choke on. The full measure of his body grinding between my thighs was agony, but his grip was unshakeable. An arm under my lower back, one hand dug into my hip and the other tangled tightly in my sopping hair. I couldn't properly respond to anything.

I could only squirm underneath him and endure being plundered. When he finally addressed the day's mischief, I was barely lucid enough to respond. His teeth scraped my jaw and his rasp vibrated the tendons in my throat. I could feel his hand moving stiffly in the front of his shorts, maybe trying to strangle the wily appendage into submission.

"Tell me this shit was on purpose, Sam." His voice shook with desperation. "Fuck, please, please tell me you want this. I can't--I'm... I'm trying so fucking hard, so..."

Not just desperate, but in real, physical pain.

It's not that I didn't feel guilty, but he's exactly where I wanted him to be. The outcome I'd been hoping for. Anticipation reverberated my heartbeat into every corner of my body, and I pried my hand between us to squeeze him through the cotton. We'd gone so long without this kind of intimacy, I found myself humbled and intimidated by him all over again. He felt inhumanly big and feverish through the thin material, his own pulse pounding into my palm.

I wondered if I'd feel it throb like that inside me too.

A shudder wracked him at the insufficient contact, and he groaned raggedly against my jugular.

Breathless, "no shit it was on purpose. Fuck me like you actually want to, or I'll get myself--!"

I'd taken it too far.

He snatched the bottom of my face in a tight grip, and the rest of my provocation was snuffed out. Not tight enough to bruise or hurt, but he easily could. His weight lifted away, as did the pincer around my mouth. Upright with one knee denting the side of the mattress, he pulled his cock free of the shorts with a deep, deep sigh of relief. So deep, his head nearly tottered with it.

The callous, white light of the bathroom pouring across his back emphasized his shape with harsh shadow. While I'd seen him shirtless many times during our abstinence, the fruits of his masochistic training were suddenly jumping out at me. The menacing loom, probably. He was larger in some places, leaner in others. His musculature had sharpened, and Dean looked... deadly.

The envy of Instagram's hordes of fitness models. No need to force a pose or apply a hackneyed, high contrast filter.

"... like I want?" He brought the butt of his palm to press between his eyes, tilting his head back. His expression was impossible to decipher, but there was something manic in it. His lips flattened together as if grimacing or fighting off a grin.

And I spent all day provoking that walking calamity.

A month's gone by since I dismantled the dam with my own hands. Peacetime returned to the Valley in the wake of Dean getting laid, and his anonymous victims conveyed their thanks in the group chat. A thumb's up and the praying hands respectively, because emojis are easier on everyone than literally spelling it out: 'hey, thanks for taking it up the ass, Sam. You're a real one!'

Now, I wish we'd get back to a baseline. We went from 0 to 100, but Dean won't take his foot off the gas. He's frantically making up for lost time, as well as compensating for the time he anticipates losing with this upcoming season.

Sunday hit like a brick to the face.

Even Dean was spent from an entire day of fucking, and it was vindicating to find him comatose beside me come late morning. I can count on one hand the times I've woken before him; nightmares in the wee hours notwithstanding. Stricken with a sore everything, I'm tempted to smack him straight out of REM as petty revenge. He's a pretty sleeper, too. Bastard. On his stomach, face turned toward mine, steady breaths escape from the gap in his lips.

Stubby, sandy eyelashes twitch with the nonsensical spasm of dreaming eyes. His hair's gotten a little darker, long enough for the disheveled tufts to scatter across his brow and stick up in funny places. When I get to study the undisturbed dimensions of his face like this, I wonder what his mother looks/looked like. She's one of the few topics he actively avoids, as there's not much to say on the subject, but I imagine she had to be breathtaking. Dean didn't inherit those regal cheekbones from his father.

The bedroom's open door lets in a flood of sun that skips off his broad, tanned back. Thoughtless, I skate fingertips over the dips and notches of muscle. He radiates heat, and the blankets always end up rumpled below his hips.

"Can't get enough of this mug, huh?"

A genuine fright, as he hadn't so much as twitched a finger or taken an extra breath. Sure enough, one eye is half cracked. His shiteating tone compliments the lazy smile perking the corner of his mouth. His crackling baritone...

Shit.

"Why'd you have to spoil the moment?"

Pretending to be miffed, I huff and turn away. Grinding a mental heel into the sprigs of arousal blooming in my stomach, because like blood in water, I can't let Dean catch a whiff of sexual interest on me.

He shuffles to his side and snakes an arm around my stomach. Burying his face in my hip, he lavishes the patch of skin with his mouth. Soft, quiet kisses that give me butterflies. Gentle, affectionate nips and long strokes with the flat of his tongue. When I bring my fingers to rake across his scalp, the ministrations stop. The tension drains from his neck as he rests his head against the pillow, breathing almost as if he'd drifted back off.

I say "I love you" because it slips out so naturally now, no guilt or second thoughts. A year and a half ago, such flippant declarations weren't even in the realm of possibility, and Dean still reacts like it's the first time he's hearing it. Shock, awe, unbridled happiness. His arm tightens around my stomach, and his reply is no less emotional for being muffled by a pillow:

"I love you so much, Sammy."

... a little morning sex never killed anyone, right?

--

The field barely cast in dawn's phantasmal blue is sliced through by Nelson's earsplitting anthem on the whistle. The morning before a home game, especially the season's first, is never tranquil. We're pounding meticulous patterns into the dirt and grass before brain can catch up to body, the tangles of sleep dulling most sharpness from our drills. Hence--

skreeeeeeeee!

"Kelly, are you fucking kidding me with that footwork?!"

We instinctively relax out of the pre-snap formation as Nelson singles out yet another victim for a sidebar asschewing. I yank my shirt by the hem to scrub across my face, the chowderlike air forming sweat in every crevice. Next to me, Richie bends backward to wrench a 'pop!' from his spine.

"What d'ya think, man? We're in good shape, yeah?"

Nelson's obligatory sidebars aside, the team is in good shape. Most of them are the same guys I took to the Rose Bowl last year, a few fresh faces warming the bench and encroaching on some starting positions. Late winter into mid spring, I personally put them through the meatgrinder. A few receivers claimed to regularly flinch out of sleep with their hands bracketed for a ball to land in. I didn't intend to be anyone's source of trauma, but it was this or a padded room.

Sam and I agreed to indefinitely refrain from physical intimacy.

Late January to the middle of February, no problem. Little by little, he was getting better, and monitoring that progress brought more than enough substitute satisfaction. The dark circles were fading from under his eyes, and genuine smiles made a more frequent appearance on his face. His glow was returning, and I'd rather die than chase it off again. Sex isn't a necessity for survival, and God gave me a set of perfectly good hands.

But, he continued to be the most beautiful thing in the world. No, he grew more breathtaking by the day. The hour, the minute, the goddamn second. And my feelings grew accordingly, and they've never been wholesome or entirely kind. Sometimes they're barbaric and savage like a dog fight in my chest. Tearing into each other and hollowing me out. Little by little, it got harder, and I started to loathe myself. Being young and virile isn't an excuse. He needed unwavering, unconditional support, not some asshole with a supercharged libido panting down the back of his shirt.

Our weekends together became bittersweet, a torture I was eager to endure over and over again. I needed to savor every moment, because it's hard to carve out quality time in the summer and fall. Even if his skin is buttery soft. Even if he always smells freshly laundered. Even if he looks downright fucking Godly when caught in the sun. Even if he showers one room over, separated by mere flimsy wood. Even if he presses against my back and warms his feet between my calves when we sleep. Even if our chaste, virginal kisses leave me starved every time.

Even if every cubic inch of free space in my mind was occupied by memories and daydreams of fucking him to bits and pieces.

Hammering a fist over my cock with one of his sweaters entombing my face, breathing in the remnants of his scent greedily, the shame was unbearable. It might've been an article I took back with me to defile in the dorms, or one from his hamper while he slept in the adjoining bedroom. Despite knowing I'd hate myself for it immediately afterward, I'd cum into the material like a teenager in a masturbatory sock. And I hated myself to a point of death for imagining Sam on his knees, head tipped back and a small, pink tongue curling from his open mouth. For wishing my cum was lashing across his pretty face instead of staining a discarded sweatshirt.

For preservation's sake, I channeled all that shame and loathing into anger. Anger at everyone and everything but Sam, but mainly at myself.

Fortunately, those trying times came to an end, but the psychological damage I'd inflicted on my teammates remained. They're afraid to fuck up, and that serves me just fine.

"Yeah, we'll be fine."

"You're... uh--" Richie scratches the side of his face, unsure if either of us will be comfortable with the terminology, "--boyfriend is coming, right?"

I cringe to myself. 'Boyfriend' is so... trivial. Juvenile. Referring to Sam as my 'boyfriend' feels like watering him down somehow. 'Lover' feels emotionally distant, and 'partner' feels impersonal.

'How should I propose...?'