#feeling gay this afternoon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

feeder86 · 3 months ago

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Gluttons

It was strange how you could go ten years without seeing someone and yet suddenly remember everything about them the moment you came across them again.

Oliver had never understood the alarm system at the house he and his boyfriend had bought a couple of years ago. However, since it had been setting itself off whilst he had been at work, he knew it was time to get someone in to see it. He’d called a company, not knowing that his old high school buddy, Tom, worked for them. That was, until the guy showed up at his door that Thursday afternoon.

Back in the day, Oliver had mixed with quite a diverse crowd in high school. He’d never been one to shoehorn himself into a stereotypical group and had amassed friends across the entire spectrum of high school life. Tom had been on one of those extreme ends of the scale: a typically gorgeous, athletic jock who didn’t have much time for many people outside of the usual jock circle. However, Oliver had always found him relatively easy to chat to and even remembered them getting dared to kiss each other during an alcohol infused round of ‘spin the bottle’ at one of their friend’s parties. Unlike many of the other jocks, Tom seemed more comfortable in his own skin, not caring that Oliver was gay, despite only having an eye for the most athletic girls in the school. It was fair to say that Oliver only had good memories of the guy.

“Oliver!” Tom smiled in recognition as he stood on the doorway carrying his bag of tools. “I didn’t know you lived here!”

The man stepped over the threshold, placing his bag down and reached in for a hug that almost seemed out of place after such a long period of estrangement. The scent of him seemed so familiar. He was still so handsome and good-looking, but what was that Oliver could feel as their torsos bounced against each other? He looked down the moment they stepped apart again, noticing that Tom had developed the cutest, tight and firm-looking paunch on him. It stuck out under his toned chest, stretching the material of the cheap work shirt, looking incredibly out of place on the guy who had once been so fit and active.

“Long time, no see,” Oliver smiled back, trying not to stare at the unusual shape of his old high school buddy. The pair spent a few minutes reminiscing, with Oliver explaining how he and his ex, James, had come to buy the house and lived there together up until three months ago, when the guy had cheated on him and abruptly moved out.

“I just remember that crazy old cat guy used to live here when we were in high school,” Tom laughed. “I never imagined it would be as nice as this inside.”

“Oh, it definitely wasn’t like this when we bought it,” Oliver laughed. “We pretty much had to start from scratch when we bought the place.”

Tom smiled at him, seeming to admire his achievement. It was the way he had always been, never jealous or competitive; just genuinely happy for others when things were going well; even if people beat him in a tennis match or smashed his high school athletics records.

As Tom settled to work at the alarm box, Oliver couldn’t help staring at his old friend’s new shape once more. From behind, it was obvious that the tight little paunch on him had pushed around to his sides, providing him with the sweetest little love handles, further emphasised by how ridiculously tight his shirt was around his middle. There was an added thickness to his butt too; his old, slim glutes replaced with more bulbous, stronger-looking butt cheeks. After three months of being angry at the world and swearing off men, Oliver suddenly found himself swooning. He’d always loved guys on the larger side and Tom appeared to be the most perfect dad-bod specimen Oliver had ever seen. As the guy bent down to collect some wires from his bag, an expanse of skin on his lower back came suddenly into view, alongside a sweet shot of his delicious-looking butt crack that his stretched and undersized underwear failed to cover. There was no doubt about it, Oliver was finally getting over his break-up.

“Would you like some cake?” Oliver offered, pulling out the leftovers from the birthday party he had thrown for his mother the day before.

Two greedy little eyes looked upon the cake and the man swallowed a sudden build up of saliva. “Sure,” he nodded eagerly, sipping on his fresh coffee and feeling a lot more spoiled than when he called at most folks’ houses.

Oliver could feel his erection flexing as he pulled out the knife to start cutting the slice. Tom had always been so fit and lean, yet now Oliver was serving him cake whilst enjoying the round, bloated shape of his stomach. He went to dish out the portion when a wicked, kinky part of his brain began whispering to him: ‘More! More! Cut him a bigger slice!’

As Oliver listened to it, he felt even more blood pumping into his groin. The slice he had cut was ridiculously massive. He almost felt embarrassed as he served it up. Yet Tom didn’t seem in the slightest bit put off by it. He simply stood to the side, resting the arm holding the plate against his tight, rounded stomach, feeding himself with the fork. The sight was almost mesmerising.

“Can I get you some more?” Oliver asked cheekily, seeing that the plate was cleared remarkably quickly. “It’s fresh cream. I’ll probably end up having to throw it out tomorrow,” he lied.

“Well… okay then,” Tom nodded, seeming to know that he was overindulging. This time, Oliver didn’t bother cutting a slice. The remaining cake was only marginally larger than the slice he had served up last time. He simply slapped the entirety of it onto the plate, thanking Tom for freeing up some space in his refrigerator.

“It’s been really great to see you again,” Tom smiled later on as he gathered up his things and headed to the door.

“You too!” Oliver nodded back, having enjoyed the last half an hour immensely. He felt reinvigorated and irredeemably aroused, as if the time had been the best possible therapy to get him over the sadness of his break-up.

“Perhaps you might let me take you out to dinner sometime?” Tom asked next, suddenly a little shy.

“Dinner?” Oliver shot back in complete and utter shock. “As in… a date?”

“Sure. Why not?” Tom chuckled. “I always remember the two of us having a good vibe together back in high school. I’d like to see whether we still have it.”

Oliver was almost speechless. Sure, he’d been flirting the entire time, but he hadn’t expected any of it to land. Tom had never… Tom wasn’t into guys… What the hell was going on?

“You don’t want to,” Tom sighed, trying to interpret the stunned silence.

“No!” Oliver shot back. “Not ‘no’�� I mean, yes. I mean…” he spluttered, grumbling at his sudden inability to communicate effectively. “Okay,” he nodded, trying not to laugh at his own good fortune. “But why don’t you come over here instead of going out? I can cook us a meal.”

Tom smiled brightly. “I’d love that. Tomorrow night?” he asked.

Oliver reflected the smile as he nodded. There really was no time to waste.

At the supermarket the next day, Oliver felt the same sense of arousal he had experienced when serving the cake. There were so many things a relatively overweight, former jock should never eat, suddenly getting thrown into his shopping cart: beers, potato chips, pastries and sodas. Something inside of Oliver was captivated by seeing how much Tom had let his eating habits slide and he endeavoured to create the most decadent dining experience for his date that he possibly could.

When Tom arrived, he looked smart enough in his pants and polished shoes. But just like any guy who wasn’t paying enough attention to his expanding waistline, his shirt was once again tight around his stomach. Even standing up, the buttons looked slightly strained, positively gaping once he sat down and started to eat alongside Oliver.

“You’ve got a great appetite!” Oliver couldn’t help marvelling as Tom reached out for a second helping of the dessert. He got up, spooning out another scoop of ice cream for the man as well, pretending that he was merely pleased that Tom had enjoyed his cooking so much. The guy hadn’t stopped complimenting his food all evening.

“I’ve always enjoyed my food,” Tom nodded back, already starting to spoon it all into his greedy little mouth. “I always used to get away with it when I was younger. But once I hit my mid-twenties, it all started to stick to me a lot more,” he explained, giving his rounded stomach a pat, showing, for the first time, that he was actually aware of it. “I reckon it’s probably the reason I’m still single.”

The shape of that gut was completely mesmerising to Oliver, yet he pushed his urge to stare and marvel at it to the side. It wasn’t normal to be so fixated on a guy’s belly; a feature that most people would find to be Tom’s least attractive attribute. “The last thing I heard about you was that you were engaged to Molly Simpson from the year below us,” Oliver enquired interestedly.

“Oh, yeah…” Tom mumbled back, trying to eat at the same time. “That was a couple of years ago now.” He shook his head, as if something still frustrated him. “I just don’t get it,” he grumbled. “What do people expect guys like me to look like these days? I’m nearly thirty after all.”

It was obvious that his increasing weight had put an end to Tom’s engagement. But the way that Tom seemed genuinely annoyed by it all seemed to suggest that he placed no blame on himself, or his overeating, whatsoever. The volume of food he had devoured was more than extreme that evening, yet the guy seemed to believe his expanding waistline was just a normal part of ageing?

“You remember Steve, my older brother?” Tom asked, still feeding himself. “He’s the same. Only he goes to the gym to try and keep his weight down. But,,, It’s not like I have the time for that, do I?” he shrugged.

Oliver nodded sympathetically. However, there was an excitement inside of him that he felt almost impossible to contain. Tom’s genuine greed had captivated him all evening, yet the multiple excuses and denial about his own part in his increasing weight was adding fuel to that fire; supplying another strange level of arousal to the whole proceedings. “Well, I’m just grateful to have someone who actually enjoys my cooking,” he threw back, resisting the temptation to make a disparaging remark about how his ex had never appreciated all the effort he put into their meals. “So is this why you asked me on a date? You think the girls don’t want you anymore?” he teased, adding another small scoop of ice cream into Tom’s bowl at the guy’s request.

“I told you I was bisexual years ago!” Tom shot back.

“No you didn’t,” Oliver laughed.

“I definitely did!” Tom countered. “The night we played spin the bottle at Andy’s party. The night we kissed,” he chuckled. “You do remember that, right?” he asked, getting concerned.

“I remember us being dared to kiss,” Oliver nodded. “But I don’t remember anything else. I was pretty wasted. Did you really come out as bisexual to me that night?”

A small smile twitched from the corners of Tom’s mouth. “So that’s why you didn’t ever pick up on my flirting then,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“You were actually into me back then?” Oliver asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course I was,” Tom nodded. “You’re gorgeous!”

The pair held a sickly, besotted look for a moment, before they both got up to move over to Oliver’s lounge space. Tom sat down first. He’d always carried a sense of presence about him, but with his imposing height and added mass, he seemed to fill the area with a deeply arousing, masculine air; his straining shirt gaping once more, bloating from all the food he had devoured; yet Tom appeared completely oblivious to it, with eyes only on Oliver. They talked for a short while about the people they knew from their school days; both of them realising that there were surprisingly few either of them were still in regular contact with. They’d both moved on, lived lives and experienced things that had altered them more than their eighteen-year-old selves could have contemplated. They were so familiar to each other, and yet excitingly new.

Oliver nestled himself under Tom’s arm and rested against his side; a gentle hand draped over the boy’s stout little tummy as they moved in for a sweet kiss. The smell of his body was arousing Oliver more than he thought possible; the gentle sweat and manly musk of a guy who had overindulged in stifling clothes, more than a little too tight for his fattened body. The kiss was good and followed swiftly by another, more passionate and almost frantic, as if their simmering attraction to each other had finally passed the point of no return. It wasn’t as if they were strangers just getting to know each other, and it was obvious what they both wanted.

Oliver’s hands wanted to explore more and more; to rip off Tom’s clothes and see it all. Thankfully, it was Tom who was leading the charge. Perhaps, just like Oliver, this was the first bit of action he had had in months. As such, the kissing progressed quickly, with hands sliding down into crotches and rubbing with gentle moans of encouragement. Tom grunted and unbuckled his pants, sliding them down to let his buoyant erection spring out. Oliver followed his cue, with the pair mutually stroking the other as they kissed; their breathing getting heavier and heavier.

Finally, Oliver could wait no more. He wanted to see under Tom’s shirt. He wriggled his dropped pants clean off, then raised his own shirt off his slender, gently toned body. Immediately, Tom’s eager hands explored his torso, smiling with eager appreciation. Now was Oliver’s moment. Naked, he stood and smiled wickedly and he pulled Tom’s pants further down and threw them across the room. He sat himself on Tom’s lap, finally taking his hands to the top button of the guy’s shirt, unpicking them all, one by one, making his way down. At last, he spread the material apart, revealing the rounded, most handsome potbelly Oliver had ever seen in his life. The chest was strong and a little hairy. Only the very gentle softness of the nipples gave away the obvious forty pounds Tom had gained since Oliver had seen him last. However, the extreme, solid and heavy ball-shaped stomach was more than he had ever wished for. Here was a man who not only enjoyed his food, but had clearly packed it into himself with relish, growing such a firm, well shaped, spherical mass. It was all Oliver could do not to lament at how insanely arousing he found the sight of it. Instead, he kissed the guy more and more, leading him upstairs to finish the job.

Oliver’s friends were always going to be sceptical when he started a new relationship. They’d witnessed how heartbroken he had been after his split with James, glancing at each other with concern as Oliver had lamented about seeing an old high school crush.

“He’s staying over again tonight?” Mandy had asked. “Doesn’t he have his own place?”

Oliver had steered the conversation carefully, sensing their worries. These friends had only ever known him as the driven, assertive version of his twenties; mistaking that now for a reckless, foolhardy fall into a rebound relationship. In contrast, Tom seemed to know him so much more; that unrefined incarnation of his teenage years and the way it had evolved now into someone the man appeared to have fallen for just as much as Oliver had in return.

“Trust me,” Oliver had smiled at them all. “You’ll understand when you meet him.”

However, when the friends did meet Tom, Oliver soon realised how much of a serious misstep he had taken in laying the groundwork. He’d talked too much about how they’d known each other in high school and how popular Tom had been with the girls because of his athleticism. So when he arrived with a thicker, slightly pot-bellied physique, he should have been less surprised when their eyes kept flying back to Tom’s swollen middle. Of course they would be surprised. Oliver’s ex, James, had been obsessed with the gym, whereas it was obvious that Tom was not. Like a typical guy who had packed on a few pounds, Tom was continuing to wear his medium t-shirts that clung unflatteringly against the expanded waistline, emphasising it even more. It also didn’t help that Tom had arrived, feeling pretty hungry. He ordered more than everyone else and even reached across to grab the things people had left on their plates when they were too polite to refuse him.

If Oliver was honest, he felt a strange sense of embarrassment at Tom’s overeating and attire. His new boyfriend’s greed and appearance did not match in the slightest with the men his friends were used to him dating. Upon meeting Tom, they were quickly realising that Oliver’s taste in men wasn’t always quite so mainstream. On the other hand, however, it was incredibly thrilling to show off the kind of man Oliver found genuinely so appealing: overfed, under-exercised and swollen. As Tom ate, Oliver’s hardness built, realising that were Tom to continue on this path, this was probably the slimmest his friends would ever see his new lover.

In truth, Oliver knew that he was significantly overfeeding Tom whenever he came over. It almost felt like something he could barely control as he stocked his refrigerator and cupboards with all the decadent favorites he knew Tom wouldn’t be able to resist. Meanwhile, Tom relaxed into it completely, resting back into the couch as he sipped on his beers and allowed his new lover to spoil him. It was obvious how much he enjoyed it all, lamenting more than once how great it was to be dating someone who didn’t constantly nag him about his eating, as it appeared his previous girlfriends had all done. In Tom’s mind, this made dating guys so much easier.

The effects were instantaneous. When they first started sleeping together, Oliver could squint his eyes and still see the toned, athletic butt that Tom had had back at the end of high school, even with his slightly oversized glutes. Now, however, the tops of Tom’s thighs had started softening and the butt cheeks had pushed outwards, developing significantly more width to them through a lack of exercise. Tom’s ass had become that of a fat man, rather than a simple ex-jock, meaning that Oliver was able to finish with remarkable speed whenever they practised being versatile in the bedroom. But as Oliver thrusted and pounded, he wasn’t simply enjoying the feel and shape of Tom’s chubby butt; in his mind, he was imagining the size it could grow to with more time and encouragement. After all, it was obvious that Tom’s rear was only ever going to grow bigger.

Unlike other people, there seemed to be a genuine disconnect between Tom and the appearance of his body. He didn’t seem to notice how badly his clothes were fitting, nor become irritated by how obviously uncomfortable certain items of clothing must have been for him; his tortured, stretched out and exhausted underwear sliding further down his butt crack. After a performance management review, Tom came back wearing larger work shirts that had been issued to him after his manager saw the disastrous fit of the old ones. Tom had shrugged it off without complaint, nor alarm over how much thicker he was becoming. He was the type of man who didn’t make issues where there needn’t to be any. His weight wasn’t impacting his work, nor his sex life, so it surely mustn’t be a problem.

Out of both excitement and neccessity, Oliver took the initiative and started to buy Tom some new items to wear, finding that the man was more than happy to accept the guidance. Having never had an interest in clothes, he’d assumed that, as a gay man, Oliver would be a lot more knowledgeable about how to dress him. The casual look was so sexy on him as well; the sweatshorts and sweatpants, the sleeveless t-shirts and elasticated waistbands. It was obvious how Tom’s gain had been able to take hold of him. The guy had adopted a lazy lifestyle that Oliver had enabled with ease. As Tom drove around from house to house in work, he’d been making casual calls at fast food places several times in a week, as was evident throughout his work vehicle. He’d avoided walking as much as he could, always ensuring he parked as close as possible to the store he was visiting. When he got home, he would collapse on the couch and not move. Indeed, a brief look in the glutton’s kitchen cupboards would tell anyone that he had the taste buds of a five year old; with sugary snacks and tasty treats filling them up entirely.

For the first time, Tom was starting to carry a little more weight in his face, with cheeks that had swollen slightly and the start of a small chin. His pecs had softened, with fat beginning to spread under his arms as his rounded gut inflated once more. Oliver realised that in only three months of dating, he had probably witnessed Tom gaining a further thirty pounds of fat on his tall frame without a care in the world.

It was around that time when Oliver was taken to meet Tom’s family. Despite only knowing for a few days that their son had flipped to dating a guy for the first time, Tom was still remarkably affectionate with Oliver in front of them. His brother, Steve, and his wife, Rachel, had been invited along for dinner at the same time, really piling on the pressure for Oliver to impress.

Oliver had an image in his head of how he expected Tom’s parents to look; after all, Tom had done every athletics club under the sun when he was growing up, and it wasn’t unreasonable for Oliver to anticipate that this was as a result of his upbringing. However, Oliver quickly realised that the picture he had of them in his head couldn’t have been more wrong. Tom’s mother was short, round and carried an enormous amount of weight on her giant rear. His father was an even more extreme example of obesity, clearly weighing no less than four hundred pounds on his tall and broad frame. Oliver wondered if this had been a recent thing for the pair of them, but as he gazed upon the family photos around the house, he realised that Tom and his brother, Steve, had always grown up with very large parents.

Steve’s wife, Rachel, was someone Oliver remembered clearly as the former editor of the high school newspaper; an extremely bossy and studious girl from the year above and not someone Oliver had been particularly keen to get to know. Perhaps it was just the fact that she had seen so many of Tom’s love interests come and go over the many years she had been a part of the family, but she did not seem in the slightest bit as interested in Oliver as the rest of the friendly bunch. She picked at and chastised her husband for reaching for a second helping of dessert and she positively scowled at her mother-in-law when she brought out further snacks after dinner. Her reason for this was simple. Much like Tom, Steve had packed on quite a good amount of weight since his athletic high school days. He’d developed a stout little tummy and his face had that distinct puffiness to it that his younger self had not.

“The boys always overeat when they come here,” Rachel grumbled quietly to Oliver later on, as the pair were alone for the first time. “Walt and Sue have absolutely no idea about healthy diets or portion control,” she sighed, referring to Tom’s parents; clearly wound up and frustrated by having to be there.

“Well, they’re clearly good cooks,” Oliver smiled back, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Steve and I went through a rough patch a couple of years ago and he moved back here for two months,” she replied, still attempting to make her point. “Forty pounds!” she exclaimed. “That’s how much he gained from just being here with those two, eating the same things that they do. He’s still carrying around some of it now.”

“I see,” Oliver nodded, not really wanting to get involved in Rachel’s in-law grumblings.

“Give these boys an inch and they’d turn into the image of their father,” Rachel nodded, finally seeming to reach her point. “Tom’s weight has gone up and down in the last couple of years, but I’ve never seen him this big before. You’ll need to start putting your foot down with him, like I do with Steve.”

With impeccable timing, the pair watched as Tom reached out and fed himself a large doughnut as he finally finished drying the dishes with the others. Three large bites and it was gone, like it had been nothing more than air. It was plain to see that Rachel was absolutely right. Left to their own devices, both Tom and his brother were exactly the type of men who could stumble into quite extreme obesity. If only Rachel knew that Oliver had no intentions of ever preventing that.

Oliver had never dated a guy with so little inhibitions when it came to his body. Despite the fat little tummy he had developed, Tom seemed completely at ease lounging around Oliver’s house in nothing but his underwear; even answering the door to the take-out delivery guy with next to nothing on. Perhaps it stemmed from the days when Tom had been the ultimate fantasy for so many women; tall, broad and handsome. But with his gut pushing out in one direction and his chubby rear in another, the guy was getting further and further away from the sleek form that had once made women droll. His laziness was evident by how content he was to lay about all weekend, making multiple excuses whenever Oliver suggested going for a hike, or getting out for some exercise. Overfed, oversexed and under-exercised, Tom had reached a level of contentment in his new relationship that was only ever going to have one result.

It was easy to become blind to it all. Tom’s eating was indeed quite extreme. He could arrive at Oliver’s place with a tray of doughnuts and go to bed that night with not a single one left. Despite being well catered for, he ordered in food later in the evening and he slurped on beers and sodas like he’d spent a month in a dry desert. It was as if he was so comfortable and happy in his relationship with Oliver, he was taking the best vacation from caring about his diet at all.

However, as the months trickled by, it was clear that Tom’s eating was anything but temporary. Their first holiday season together had been an eye-opener as Oliver saw just how much Tom’s family indulged. Rachel had been a constant snarky killjoy the entire time, biting Steve’s head off anytime he went in for extra helpings in the same way Tom seemed to enjoy doing. It was obvious that neither Tom, nor his parents were all that keen on her, making it significantly easier for them to appreciate how laid back Oliver was instead. By simply not nagging or chastising Tom as his gut bloated up into an even more spherical shape, he’d become the firm favorire amongst even the extended family. It was something that Oliver didn’t mind too much. Rachel was abrasive and harsh. It was easy to feel sorry for Steve as they waved goodbye to them both after a meal at Tom’s parents; Rachel’s face set like stone because her husband had overeaten once more.

Moving in together had been the inevitable next step for Oliver and Tom. However, this process was sped up significantly by the fact that Tom’s landlord was wanting to sell. Although it had been less than eighteen months since Oliver had kicked out his last lover, there he was welcoming another into his home. He’d expected the usual teething problems as they learned to get along, living side by side. Yet the experience turned out to be nothing but pure pleasure. Not only was their sex life as rampant as ever, but Tom was considerate and funny, appreciating how lucky he was to have a guy who was not only willing to let him move in, but make the changes he wanted around the house: his significantly larger TV screen in the lounge, his ugly recliner chair in front of it; a beer dispenser by the refrigerator and a whole stack of games and console machines in what was the become Tom’s new man cave. Giving the guy his own space vital to making this work, Oliver reasoned. He’d had to set his own ground rules as well; chief amongst them that Tom tried his best not to sit down on some of the older pieces of furniture Oliver had inherited from his grandmother. Given the size of the man’s ball-like stomach these days, Oliver suspected that his lover had already surpassed three hundred pounds as the couch began grumbling under his weight.

In no time at all, Oliver’s home soon became a casual refuge for Steve as well. Being that Tom only lived a few blocks away from his brother now, the two guys were seeing a lot more of each other than they had in the ten years since Steve had first moved out of their parents’ place. With some amusement, Oliver would chuckle to himself as he saw Tom letting the guy in to watch the football on TV. Steve would always be dressed like he was heading to the gym and Oliver suspected that that was exactly where his wife had been told he was going. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, gorging on take out pizzas with his brother, whilst shouting at the screen.

Steve had always carried a stubborn, stout little paunch the whole time Oliver had been dating Tom. However, after only three months of skipping the gym to watch sports with Tom, the guy had packed on a considerable amount of additional weight, rounding him out further and bloating up his face in the same way that Tom’s had in the early days of dating Oliver. Judging by the amount of take-out boxes and emptied cans Oliver could come down to in the morning, it was obvious that Steve was every bit as much of a glutton as Tom was. The results of all those excess calories were staggeringly similar as well: the swelling ball of stomach, the widening of the rear. The more the boys ate, the hungrier they seemed to become.

Tom’s gut appeared to enter the room before he did and his hips had swollen outwards in a way that had completely altered his shape. There had always been at least a hint of the guy’s former athleticism in his physique: the strong chest, the biceps, the jawline. Yet all of that had now melted away, being replaced by a puffing fatness that had coated Tom’s entire body. As he slouched in his chair, the great mass of stomach fat arched out in front of him, expanding into his lap; his pecs long since succumbing to the build up of blubber. At what must have been 350lbs, Oliver could not get over how attracted he was to the man: the sheer enormity and size of him; the great appetite and joy he seemed to get from his eating, without caring in the slightest about how his body was changing.

Oliver had asked Tom to marry him whilst they were on vacation together in Las Vegas. Tom had gorged himself the entire time, going from restaurant to restaurant, and when they had won a sizable amount of cash on their penultimate evening there, it felt like everything had slotted into place as they headed off to the tackiest looking chapel they could find.

However, as one marriage began, it seemed as if another was ending. Steve and Rachel clearly weren’t getting along, meaning that the poor, hapless guy was soon spending more and more time in Oliver and Tom’s spare bedroom. Oliver tried not to pry but it seemed obvious to him what the main catalyst was for the couple’s troubles.

“Don’t you think you should go easy on the pizzas later when you’re watching the game with Steve?” Oliver tried to ask. “You know what Rachel is like about his weight and it’s clear that she’s not happy about how much weight he’s gained.”

Tom shrugged. Even he couldn't deny how much weight his brother had packed on in the last few months. After all, he had taken to wearing many items of clothing that Tom had outgrown himself: the sweatpants, the t-shirts, the sweaters. “What’s the point? We all know they’re not getting back together.”

Oliver sighed. Given how much of Steve’s stuff had been filling up the spare bedroom, he had come to a similar conclusion.

“And so what if they do get a divorce? Steve’s already starting to realise how much nicer life is without her.” He looked at Oliver, trying to get a sense of what he was thinking. “Unless… you’re frustrated at having him here?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “You know my parents would let him stay with them if it’s all a bit too much?”

Oliver shook his head. That wasn’t the case at all. Ever since Tom had quit his job for an admin role, working from home, he had worried that Tom’s weight would start to come down, now that he wasn’t roaming from fast food joint to fast food joint during his working day. But with Steve around, the pair fuelled each other’s enthusiasm for tasty treats, with an inevitable, incredibly arousing impact on both their bodies. In the last few weeks alone, Tom’s thighs had appeared to explode with additional size, stretching the capacity of even his most casual sweatpants.

Steve’s attitude seemed to change the moment he found out that Rachel had started to date one of his old friends. Rather than being angry and bitter, it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He could at last move on, rejecting the guilt he felt and enjoy his life.

“Steve’s out again?” Oliver chuckled as he came in late one evening. “Another date? Who is it this time?”

Tom nodded as he dipped his hand into a large bag of potato chips. “Some girl he met online,” he replied. “A new one.”

Oliver smiled, pleased that Steve was proving to be such a hit with the ladies, even with his larger stomach these days.

When Steve finally did bring a girl home, both Oliver and Tom quietly confessed to each other their surprise over how good looking she was: petite, slim and large chested, the woman could have had any man she wanted; yet she seemed physically incapable of keeping her hands off her new chubby boyfriend. As for Steve, he seemed blissfully happy and pleased with himself, knowing that he had struck gold. Gina seemed like the girl he had been waiting for his entire life.

“Your Tom’s a big boy, isn’t he?” Gina smiled, watching as Oliver’s husband and Steve retreated into the lounge after dinner.

“I guess so,” Oliver smiled as he tidied up the table, still undecided about the woman his brother-in-law was dating.

“You two must get a lot of looks when you go out together? You’re both so different!”

Oliver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. So many folks didn’t understand how he could be so in love with a man almost two hundred pounds heavier than him; yet few lacked the tack to keep that curiosity to themselves. “I guess so,” he replied disinterestedly.

“My Steve has a pretty big tummy on him as well,” Gina blundered on, chuckling nervously.

“Well, I think my husband is partly to blame for that,” Oliver smiled back. “He’s been teaching him some pretty bad habits since Steve moved in here with us.”

Gina nodded enthusiastically back. “Yes, Steve’s been telling me! He split his pants at work the other day,” she chuckled.

“I’ve lost count of the amount of pants Tom’s destroyed over the years!” Oliver joked back.

“So, are the boys done eating for the night? Or do they usually snack now?”

Oliver looked at his watch and shook his head. “It’s only eight o’clock!” he replied as if Gina’s question had been utterly ridiculous. “Tom likes something to eat around ten or so. Usually it’s a pizza.”

“And does Steve join him?” Gina asked, almost excitedly.

“Of course,” Oliver nodded.

Gina turned, looking towards the lounge area, sighing with pleasure. “I think this living arrangement is going to work out very well for all of us!”

Oliver simply wiped down the kitchen counter as Gina skipped off to snuggle under Steve’s arm on the couch, not quite understanding exactly what the woman had meant.

A couple of weeks later, Oliver nudged his husband as Steve came down the stairs ready to head out for dinner with Gina. His eyes had bulged at the tight shirt the guy was wearing; his stout, rounded stomach already straining the buttons.

“You can’t let him wear that!” Oliver whispered, panicking as he saw Steve grabbing his keys. “Tell him it’s too tight!”

Tom looked up from his heaped plate of cheese and savoury biscuits, balanced on top of the shelf of stomach fat he had accumulated. He saw the ridiculous shirt and smirked to himself. “Have a good evening, buddy!” he called out, letting the guy leave without a word of protest.

“How could you let him go out like that?” Oliver cried, utterly shocked by his husband’s lack of caring.

Tom merely laughed to himself. “You worry far too much about him. Trust me, Steve knows exactly what he’s doing!”

Oliver paused, never quite knowing how far to pry into the brothers’ relationship. They got along better than any other siblings he had ever known and were certainly a lot closer than Oliver had ever been with his especially aloof older sister. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Tom seemed to ponder how best to answer as he continued eating. “Well, Gina is quite forthcoming when it comes to her appreciation of the extra weight he’s been carrying lately. I imagine he’s going to get very lucky tonight when she sees him in that tight shirt!”

“Gina likes it?” Oliver asked, feeling a lot more surprised than he should reasonably have been, considering all the compliments he had heard the girl giving the chubby boy.

“Of course,” Tom nodded. “She wants him bigger.”

“She… what?” Oliver gasped.

“Oh, come on!” Tom chuckled. “You can’t pretend you’re not exactly the same. It’s just like how you get off on my… what is it you say? My ‘big, manly appetite.’”

“That’s not quite the same thing,” Oliver mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

“Well, Gina thinks it is,” Tom replied. “Her and Steve talk about it quite a lot. She thinks you enable me to gain weight because you enjoy it.”

Oliver blushed. He never lied to Tom, yet if he opened his mouth at that moment, he wouldn’t have been able to help one from slipping out, denying everything. “And what do you think?” was all he asked.

“I just think I’m a greedy boy who eats far too much,” Tom smirked. “But I do think that might be part of the reason why you married me…”

Tom’s responses were light and jovial, relaxing Oliver as he came to terms with the fact he would have to own up to his kinkier side. “But, I don’t make you wear tight clothes that people will make fun of you for,” he replied, trying to shift the spotlight back onto Gina instead.

“No,” Tom nodded in agreement. “But you’re hardly stopping me from outgrowing everything, are you?”

Oliver merely stared at his husband for a few moments as he finished up the last of his pre-dinner snack; all those additional calories and fats he had prepared for his husband. He’d been outed as a chubby chaser. “So how big does Gina want Steve to get?” he asked.

Tom pressed his thumb into the plate, picking up all the leftover crumbs, before sucking them off. “They’ve had some very kinky conversations about just that,” the big man nodded. “She makes these special shakes for him, loaded with calories! Then she sucks him off whilst he downs it all for her.”

“And Steve is okay with that?” Oliver questioned, trying to hold back his surprise.

“Did you not hear the bit about the blow job?” Tom chuckled. “He’s a guy. Of course he loves it.”

Tom’s casual nature was making it harder for Oliver to unpick how the man really felt about all this. His brother had fallen into a feedist relationship and yet Tom seemed utterly delighted for him. “Are you saying that’s something you’d like us to try?” he finally asked.

“I’d drink one of those shakes for you, no problem,” Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Especially if it came with some benefits…You should get the recipe from Gina. I’m sure she’d happily share.”

“And you’d find that exciting?”

Tom scoffed, not prepared to let his husband hide behind the mask of his supposedly naive enabling anymore. “We’d both get off on that, and you know it!” he laughed. “Frankly, I’d love it if you were a little more vocal about enjoying my appetite; like Gina is with Steve.”

At that moment, a knock came at the door, just as Oliver was trying to take in the enormity of the casual comments his husband had just made. Dazed, he walked off to the entrance way and opened the door up to the visitors they had been expecting.

“Jeez!” exclaimed Dex, fresh from a year-long trip to New Zealand with his girlfriend, Marie. “We just saw Steve heading out as we pulled up,” he rambled, having met Oliver and Tom as a couple only once before heading off on their trip. “I can’t believe how much weight he’s…”

Tom waddled in from around the corner, ready to see one of the only friends he still kept from high school, simultaneously shutting Dex’s ramblings down in an instant as the guy saw just how enormous Tom had grown. His girlfriend’s eyes bulged too; the pair of them trying to contain their surprise.

“Hey… hey there, buddy!” Dex cried, walking over to Tom and giving him the briefest of hugs. His voice was unsure and it was obvious how uncomfortable he felt to have been caught commenting on Steve’s weight gain, given how much more extremely Tom had grown. That giant gut really was the only thing anyone ever saw.

Oliver looked at the pair, not really understanding why Tom still kept in touch with them. Dex was every bit the high school jock he had once been; Marie a moderately successful social media influencer. They’d travelled the world, worked in several different countries, declaring that they could never imagine anything worse than living an insignificant life back home in the small towns where they had grown up. It was exactly the sort of ego that Oliver had disliked about Dex back in high school. Meanwhile, Tom lived for his pizzas and take-outs. He worked from home and had little interest in anything that involved getting up off his couch. How many days had it been since Tom had even bothered to leave the house?

It was easy to become blind to Tom’s size ever since Oliver lived with him each day. But with Dex there, alongside his petite girlfriend, the contrast was clearer than ever. Since when had Tom’s face become so massive? Did regular folks like Dex and Marie really eat such small portions? It had been a little while since Tom had started sitting at the head of the table, instead of at the side by Oliver. However, as the four of them were sitting that evening, it was more than obvious that the seating position was purely to accommodate Tom’s giant size. Oliver had to lean over and plate Tom's meal up for him, catching Dex and Marie glancing with concern at each other at just how much food Oliver was naturally piling onto their friend’s plate.

The conversation quickly became dominated by uninteresting anecdotes from the high flying couple’s global adventures. Oliver could tell that Tom wasn’t really listening; neither of them were. Oliver simply kept a keen eye on Tom’s plate, spooning on more of the different items as they started to get low. It was second nature to him now. However, from the little, uneasy pauses Dex made each time Oliver did so, his disapproval was getting ever closer to the surface. But the more Dex and Marie rambled on, the less concerned Oliver felt about upsetting them. It seemed like their egos had inflated tenfold with a little social media success. They spoke as if they were the authority on several issues, with an arrogance inside them that they both seemed completely oblivious to.

Oliver slopped more food onto Tom’s plate. His husband was eating well; most likely because there was no opportunity for him to join in the conversation. If he kept it up, Oliver wouldn’t have to plate up any leftovers later. All the serving bowls could go straight in the dishwasher. He knew he was overfacing Tom by emptying the last of the cream and cheese potato dish out for him, but it was worth a shot, given that Steve wasn’t there to help out, as well as the fact that Marie and Dex had avoided it; seeming to know how calorie laden it was.

Afterwards, Tom stretched out and rubbed his swollen stomach with a grunt whilst Oliver dutifully cleared the table around him. He’d made a giant, hearty dish of sticky toffee sponge, leaving it out in the middle of the table for Marie and Dex to serve themselves. Unused to waiting for guests to be served first, Oliver tried to hold back a small chuckle as he heard his gluttonous husband swallowing back saliva as he watched on. Finally, the serving spoon was in Oliver’s hand, carving out a humongous portion and pressing it down until it fitted inside their oversized bowls. He’d made additional toffee sauce, pouring that on for Tom as well, before placing it down in front of him. The weight of it was obvious by the hefty ‘thunk’ it made onto the placemat; something that did not go unnoticed by the guests.

If there was one thing Oliver never had to worry about, it was Tom’s sweet tooth. But rarely had Oliver been so blatant as to start refilling his husband’s bowl the moment he dropped the spoon. The goal was simple: no leftovers. Having Dex and Marie there to witness it was even quietly thrilling.

“So, do you have any more plans for the house?” Marie asked, finally seeming to notice that they had been talking about themselves for over an hour by that point. “Last time we saw you, you mentioned wanting to extend out the back.”

Oliver shook his head. In truth, he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for the house ever since he’d met Tom. Houses and renovations were not the large man’s thing in the slightest. All Tom really cared about was having somewhere to rest his head at night. “I don’t think so,” Oliver replied, reaching under the table to rest his hand on Tom’s knee. “In truth, I can’t see us staying here for too much longer.”

“Oh, really?” Marie smiled back. “Are you guys thinking of moving out of town?”

“No, nothing like that,” Oliver shot back, realising that he hadn’t even discussed any of this with Tom. “But this place is old and has already been knocked around a fair bit. The shower is getting a little too small for Tom and there’s no way of making it larger unless we knock down the wall into one of the guest bedrooms. It’s a lot of work.”

“Or…” Dex began, looking at them both like they were simple, “...you could just put him on a diet.”

Oliver was surprised at the slight glee he felt at making Dex bite. Tom was busily scraping his bowl clean, determined to get every last crumb; oblivious. “Oh, I think that ship has sailed, don’t you?” Oliver chuckled, exchanging his husband’s empty bowl for the entire bowl that remained in the middle of the table. He lifted the jug of extra toffee sauce, emptying it entirely, before passing Tom his spoon back and slipping his hand under the table once more to rub his husband’s knee. His silent meaning was clear: eat it all.

Steve’s disgust was evident on his face as he simply watched his old friend annihilating the entirety of the remaining dessert without a thought. All three spectators were observing the masterful glutton taking on the sugary feast without even noticing he was being watched; the conversation halted. Oliver could hardly believe how erotic he found it and he was thankful that he was wearing an oversized sweater that covered his crotch as he stood up to collect yet another fresh soda for his husband. He imagined how boring it would be to be lumbered with a fit guy like Dex. Oliver knew he’d have to fatten him up with his calorie dense food and quiet enabling, until he got what he wanted; exactly as he had done with Tom, and now his brother as well.

“Check out this pic I found of us from high school,” Dex insisted, fumbling with his phone. “I found it the other day,” he explained, filling the silence as he clicked and swiped his way to it. Finally, he turned it around for Oliver and Tom to see: two handsome, shirtless jocks with glistening six packs by the pool. “Look at the pair of us! Man, I miss those care-free days!” Dex chuckled fondly.

Oliver tried to suppress a chuckle. Dex’s true intentions hadn’t been clearer, reminding his old friend of how fit he used to be.

“I don’t!” Tom grunted in reply between large mouthfuls. “I never liked being on the swim team. In fact, I haven’t stepped foot in a swimming pool since I graduated.”

“Seriously?” Marie asked in surprise. “In over ten years?” Given how many poolside selfies there were of her, it was a wonder she didn’t have gills.

“Tom’s not big on exercise,” Oliver confirmed, shaking his head.

Realising the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, Dex returned his cell phone to his pocket. “Dude, you’re starting to look like your dad,” he finally snapped as Tom began scraping the bowl for the last of the toffee sauce.

Having cleared some plates, Oliver was just making his way back to the table as he said it, making him chuckle as he rubbed his husband’s large back proudly. “Actually, Tom can eat even more than his dad these days,” he smiled, as if this was an achievement to be proud of.

Tom, who seemed to be finally switching back onto the conversation now his food was all but gone, nodded in agreement.

Dex had clearly expected more negativity from his comment and he looked at Marie as if they were both thinking the same thing. He gazed down at his watch and Marie nodded subtly in agreement.

“Thanks for dinner,” Dex sighed, already getting up. “But we have to be up early tomorrow for our flight.”

Oliver beamed. He had thought he was stuck with the pair of them all evening. “Oh, we understand,” he nodded, hoping to sound disappointed. Then he looked down at a still seated Tom, waiting for him to echo his words of regret. However, Tom seemed far more concerned with the tightness of his stomach after downing such a large amount from his fresh soda. He rubbed at his stomach and looked almost like he might throw up, before a giant burp came rolling up from his throat. Sighing with relief, Tom grunted as he rose to his feet as well; his stomach so bloated that the underside of it was visible from the bottom of his t-shirt.

No one hugged in goodbye. Dex seemed disgusted and, at the same time, pitying towards his old friend. Tom raised his great arm and Oliver slid underneath, resting against the man’s bulk as the pair stood just outside the house and waved the pretty couple off. “Do you think we frightened them away?” Tom whispered as the car rumbled off the driveway. “You’ve never made me eat like that before,” he chuckled.

“It was more entertaining than listening to all their boring stories,” Oliver replied, trying not to move his mouth so much that the couple would have the chance to read his lips as they backed out onto the road. “Did you enjoy it, though?” he smirked, raising his hand for the final wave to Dex and Marie.

Tom didn’t reply. He simply trotted his way back into the house and embraced his husband in a giant kiss the moment the front door was closed behind them. Oliver was the one who pulled off Tom’s shirt, feeling a freedom now to enjoy the giant size of his glutton’s stomach that he hadn’t allowed himself before now.

“You like?” Tom asked, standing proudly and full of confidence, even pushing his fat tummy out a little more.

“I do!” Oliver nodded, slipping down onto his knees in order to kiss the giant mass.

Tom grunted in approval, seizing the opportunity to lower his sweatpants and feed his stiff and buried hardness into Oliver’s mouth. He moaned loudly as Oliver settled to his work with such relish, rubbing his enormous stomach as if his own size was turning him on. As Oliver’s tongue worked him harder, Tom’s stomach rubbing only became more frantic and desperate, taking a hand to each side of it and bouncing it up and down.

“You’re never going to put me on a diet, are you?” Tom asked, his voice dripping with lust.

Oliver briefly pulled his mouth from Tom’s crotch to reply. “Never,” he teased back, noticing that Tom’s dick was even harder by the time he got it back between his lips.

The next time Oliver came up for breath, he pulled Tom along towards the couch, letting the fat boy down on his back, legs splayed, as Oliver set back to pleasuring him. In this position, Tom seemed to be enjoying himself even more; moaning loudly and rubbing his giant gut like it was an enormous wrecking ball pinning him down. There was almost no effort required to make the man ejaculate.

Afterwards, Oliver looked on at his husband with a satisfaction that no orgasm could give him. Naked and well-catered for, Tom had fallen asleep in the same position he had landed in during the blow job; a giant, fat slug draped over the couch that constantly creaked under his weight. The fat under his chin had made his neck disappear in this position and a contented, calm expression filled his face as he dozed. This was the reason Oliver loved his size and greed so much; for only he could deliver this sort of bliss to a glutton like Tom: his perfect man.

Only eighteen months later, Tom stood, filling his plate full of items from the buffet table at his brother’s wedding. It had been a long day for the guy, being the Best Man, with plenty of time up on his feet for the photographs. Oliver watched on, admiring the sheer size of his husband’s rear from afar. There was something so cute that happened to those glutes once a man crossed five hundred pounds. They were so plush and soft, yet grotesquely oversized and extreme-looking, especially in the tight dress pants Tom had been made to wear that day. He wasn’t used to such restrictive clothes, and he wriggled and twitched in them the entire time, silently longing to get back into his sweatshorts which wouldn’t pinch him like these pants did.

There had come a point a few months back when Oliver and Tom had decided to take a step back from the deliberately fattening regime Tom had seemed to take himself on. To some extent, it had worked. Tom was no longer growing at the rate that he had been. However, there was no denying the fact that the man was indeed still growing. Those unplanned pounds had made his body swell and soften in a way that none of the previous weight ever had before. His upper arms had ballooned with fat and his hips had widened so that he had broken more than a few chairs. It had been fat building upon already well established fat. Of course it was going to change his shape, thought Oliver, rolling his eyes as Tom finally began to have second thoughts once even his parents had shown some concern. But the weight was still finding him; still sliding onto his overfed physique and quietly arousing them both by the seemingly uncontrollable nature of it all.

Steve, and his new wife emerged onto the dance floor. It was almost pitiable to watch her dragging such a fat man out to dance with her. With such a hectic day, Steve had become dishevelled and a little sweaty; his large shirt untucking itself in all but a couple of places around his large circumference. His blossoming love handles an underbelly showing in just the same Tom’s had only one hundred pounds earlier. As for his new wife, she seemed to be loving every minute, showing off the giant, spherical man she could now call her own. Without much family to Gina’s name, the guest list seemed saturated with friends of hers with similarly bloated, overfed husbands; most likely undergoing the same transformation that Steve was under a feeder’s care. Oliver had seen them all looking across at him, nodding in approval at Tom’s size, as if they were all a part of the same strange and unspoken club.

“Are you not coming to watch?” Oliver asked his overstuffed husband, wiping his mouth after completing his monstrous mountain of buffet food.

Tom shook his head lazily, pretending to want to rest his feet.

Oliver smirked, spotting the vast quantities of pre-cut wedding cake sitting on the table not far away and knowing that Tom was secretly plotting a way to get more than his fair share whilst everyone was distracted. Indeed, if there was one thing Oliver could always rely upon, it was Tom’s sweet tooth.

“Okay, honey,” Oliver smiled, pretending not to have figured out his gluttonous husband’s real intentions. “You just rest here for a minute,” he smiled, turning his back so that Tom could quietly gorge himself, unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Given how well the man had been eating today, there’d certainly be fresh fat to explore on his body by tomorrow morning….

Life was sweet.

#gainer stories #gainerstory #gayfeeder #gayfeedee #gainer story #gainerstories #gainerfic #gay feedee #gainer fiction #gainer fic

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

Text

HIS AWAKENING

• NATE JACOBS x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Nate Jacobs embodies the quintessential all-American quarterback—athletic, commanding, and effortlessly attractive. Beneath the surface, however, lies a man riddled with inner conflict. His outward bravado conceals a fragile core shaped by toxic societal expectations, a broken family dynamic, and a deep struggle with his own identity. Nate's carefully constructed image masks a storm of repressed emotions, his intimidating presence serving as both armor and a warning to those who might venture too close.

That is, until Y/N entered his life. Strikingly handsome and unapologetically bold, Y/N exudes a magnetic confidence that demands attention the moment he walks into a room. His blend of charisma, sass, and fearless energy challenges everything Nate thought he knew about himself—and about the walls he's built to keep others out.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the delay—this is quite a long fic that I had to break into two parts. Now, I know some people feel about the immensely complicated Nate Jacobs, however, I wanted to show a different side of him and give his gay awakening.

NEXT PART! HIS AWAKENING — PART 2

The late afternoon sun bathed the campus in a golden hue, casting long, uneven shadows across the pathways. Y/N stepped out of the administrative building, a folder clutched tightly in his hands, filled with room and board information, dormitory rules, and a map of the sprawling university grounds. His mind buzzed with anticipation and a hint of nervousness as he mentally ticked off the steps to get settled. The day had been a whirlwind of check-ins and introductions, and all he wanted now was to find his dorm, unpack, and get a moment to breathe.

Lost in his thoughts, Y/N barely noticed the bustling crowd of students around him until it was too late.

Without warning, he collided with what felt like a brick wall. The impact sent his folder slipping from his grip, papers scattering onto the ground.

"I'm so sorry—" Y/N began, crouching to gather his things, but his apology was cut short by a sharp, irritated voice.

"Maybe you should watch where you're standing," the stranger snapped, his tone clipped and unforgiving.

Y/N froze mid-reach, his gaze snapping upward to meet the source of the hostility. He was greeted by the sight of a towering figure, broad-shouldered and radiating a palpable air of arrogance. The guy was wearing a football jersey, the bold number on his chest practically screaming athlete. His jaw was set, and the way he loomed over Y/N gave off a distinctly entitled vibe.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, straightening up slowly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Didn't realize this was your sidewalk, Mr. Quarterback. Want me to bow next time you grace it with your royal cleats?"

The guy's face darkened, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. His jaw tightened as he took a small step forward, towering over Y/N even more. "What's your problem, man?"

"No problem," Y/N replied smoothly, his tone calm but laced with amusement. He dusted off his papers and tucked them back into the folder before glancing back up. "Just don't appreciate being plowed into like I'm part of your warm-up drills. Or is that how you flirt?"

That comment landed like a slap, throwing the quarterback off balance. His brows furrowed, and his mouth opened slightly as if to retort, but he hesitated. Finally, he muttered, "Yeah, not interested, thanks."

Y/N smirked, unbothered, his sharp eyes scanning the guy with calculated precision. There was something about his tightly wound demeanor, the tension in his shoulders, the barely contained frustration in his voice. It was fascinating in a way that made Y/N want to push a little further.

"Relax, big guy. You're not my type either," Y/N said, his smirk widening. "Too much bottled-up rage under all those muscles. But hey, therapy exists for a reason."

The quarterback growled under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. "You don't even know me," he bit out, his voice low and simmering with frustration.

Y/N shrugged, already stepping to the side as if to end the encounter. "Don't have to. You've got 'walking anger issues' written all over you." He turned back briefly to add, his tone almost lighthearted, "Oh, and next time you want to storm through a crowd, maybe pick someone who won't call you out."

The quarterback's patience snapped, his voice lowering into a growl as he took a step forward. "What makes you think I won't—?"

Y/N didn't miss a beat, spinning on his heel to face him again, his smirk sharp and dripping with confidence. "Fight me? Go ahead, QB. But fair warning—I fight dirty. And I don't lose."

For a moment, the two stood there, tension crackling between them like a live wire. The quarterback's fists remained clenched, but he didn't move. There was something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, caught between frustration and intrigue.

Without waiting for a response, Y/N turned on his heel and walked away, his steps confident as he rejoined his waiting parents by the car.

As Y/N disappeared into the crowd, the quarterback remained rooted to the spot, watching him go. His fists slowly unclenched, but his mind raced, replaying the encounter over and over.

What Y/N didn't know, as he laughed with his parents and carried his things to the dormitory, was that the guy he had just clashed with was none other than Nate Jacobs—his soon-to-be roommate.

The dormitory hall buzzed with the energy of move-in day, a cacophony of shuffling boxes, shouted instructions, and the occasional crash of something fragile being dropped. Parents bickered over furniture placement, wide-eyed freshmen struggled to find their rooms, and the air smelled faintly of fresh paint and sweat. Y/N navigated through the chaos with a box tucked under his arm, its contents rattling with every step. His other hand gripped the edges tightly—his track gear was in there, and he wasn't about to let it spill everywhere.

When he reached the door to his room, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the space. It was compact, the two beds crammed against opposite walls, a small shared desk wedged between, and a closet barely big enough to hold his shoes, let alone his wardrobe. Functional, sure, but it was far from luxurious. Still, Y/N's mind was already buzzing with ideas for rearranging the space as he crossed the threshold and set his box down near one of the beds.

"Guess this'll have to do," he muttered to himself, surveying the drab beige walls with mild disinterest.

As he began unpacking, the sound of heavy footsteps thudding down the hallway pulled his attention. The steps grew louder, and then the door creaked open wider behind him. Y/N turned, his curiosity fading into sharp recognition when he saw who was standing there.

Nate Jacobs.

The guy from earlier—the walking brick wall in a football jersey. He stood in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his sharp features framed by the dim light from the hallway. His hoodie hung loosely over his broad frame, but the edge of his jersey peeked out, making it impossible not to identify him as "QB." Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither said anything.

"Oh, great," Y/N said, breaking the silence as he dropped a shirt onto his bed with an exaggerated sigh. "It's you."

Nate's brow furrowed, his face twisting in mild disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath as he stepped inside. He dropped his bag with a heavy thud onto the empty bed opposite Y/N's, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of all the people on campus..."

Y/N leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms as his lips curved into a smirk. "Didn't think the universe hated me enough to make you my roommate, but hey, here we are."

Nate shot him a look, his irritation obvious. "Trust me, I'm not thrilled either. Last thing I need is to share a room with some loudmouth track star who doesn't know when to shut up."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Loudmouth? Big talk coming from the guy who growled at me like a pissed-off grizzly bear earlier."

"You were the one running your mouth first," Nate countered, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms.

Y/N straightened up, walking to his stack of boxes with a casual air. "Right," he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. "And you were just minding your own business, Mr. 'Maybe you should watch where you're standing.'"

Nate scoffed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Look, let's just get through this without killing each other, alright? I've got enough on my plate without you adding to it."

Y/N paused, one hand resting on the box he was about to open. For a moment, his smirk softened into something more contemplative. "Fine by me," he said lightly. "As long as you don't turn this place into a football locker room, we're good."

"Deal," Nate replied, though his tone carried the faintest hint of skepticism.

Satisfied, Y/N returned to his unpacking, pulling out a stack of books and arranging them on the small shelf above his desk. "You're not gonna do the whole 'alpha male' thing in here, are you?" he asked without looking up.

Nate frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You know," Y/N said, waving a hand in Nate's direction without turning around. "All the posturing, random yelling, punching walls when your team loses. That sort of thing."

Nate's glare could have cut through steel. "Do I look like the kind of guy who punches walls?"

Y/N turned to face him, his gaze raking over Nate's broad frame. "Honestly? Yeah, you kinda do."

Nate opened his mouth to argue but stopped, clearly deciding it wasn't worth the effort. With a low growl, he turned back to his duffel, pulling out a stack of neatly folded shirts.

Y/N chuckled under his breath as he returned to his own unpacking. "Relax, QB," he said with a grin. "I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. Fair enough?"

Nate didn't look up from his bag, but his response was low and clipped. "Fair enough."

For a while, the room was filled with the sound of zippers, rustling papers, and shuffling clothes. The tension between them hadn't disappeared, but it had simmered down enough for them to coexist—for now.

As Y/N placed a framed photo on his desk, he threw a sly glance in Nate's direction. "By the way," he added, his tone casual but teasing, "you should work on your comebacks. 'Loudmouth track star' isn't exactly cutting it."

Nate's jaw tightened again, his hands pausing mid-fold. But this time, he didn't rise to the bait.

"Welcome to the dorm, Nate," Y/N said with a grin, leaning back against his desk. "This is gonna be... fun."

Nate didn't respond, but as he turned back to his bag, the faintest twitch of a smirk crossed his lips—though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

The sun hung high in the sky, its relentless heat radiating off the manicured grass of the university's sports complex. Sweat clung to the air, sticking to every athlete who dared brave the afternoon heat. The track team had just wrapped up their grueling practice session, their laughter and chatter filling the space near the bleachers.

Y/N stood in the center of his group, casually stretching out his legs. His running shorts were impossibly short, exposing the full expanse of his toned thighs, every muscle seemingly sculpted to perfection. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the sunlight as he leaned into a stretch, completely unbothered by the attention his appearance drew. Y/N was always confident, effortlessly commanding the room—or in this case, the field—without even trying.

Not far away, the football team was mid-drill, their coach barking orders as they ran through their routines. The rhythmic thuds of cleats on turf filled the air, accompanied by the occasional grunt of effort. During a water break, Jake and Ryan, two of Nate's teammates, wandered toward the sideline, their eyes drifting to the scene by the bleachers.

Jake nudged Ryan, nodding toward Y/N. "Man, look at those shorts," he said with a snicker. "I swear, are those even legal? Dude's got more leg on display than half the cheer squad."

Ryan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Right? He's just out here showing off. Like, we get it—you've got legs. Congrats or whatever."

Standing a few feet away, Nate overheard the exchange. He rolled his eyes, tossing a football absently into the air and catching it. Normally, he tuned out their locker-room banter, but today, for some reason, he couldn't resist chiming in.

"Maybe he thinks the shorts make him faster," Nate said, his tone deadpan as he spun the football in his hand. "Aerodynamics or something."

Jake laughed, emboldened by Nate's comment. "Yeah, or he just likes the attention. Look at him. Bet he spends more time flexing in the mirror than running on the track."

Unbeknownst to the trio, Y/N's sharp ears had picked up every word of their conversation. His smirk widened as he straightened up, casually brushing a hand over his shorts as he turned to face them.

"Aw," Y/N called out, his voice sweetly mocking as he strode toward them with deliberate ease. "I didn't realize the football team was so interested in my thighs. Should I start charging for the view, or are compliments enough?"

Jake and Ryan froze mid-laugh, their faces flushing with embarrassment. They exchanged panicked glances, unsure how to respond.

Jake stammered first, trying to recover. "W-We weren't—"

"Oh no, please," Y/N interrupted, holding up a hand as he stepped closer, his smirk wicked. "Don't stop. It's flattering, really. I had no idea my legs were such a hot topic. Maybe next time, though, you could focus on your drills instead of gossiping like high school mean girls."

Ryan muttered defensively, "We weren't gossiping—"

"Sure you weren't," Y/N cut in smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "By the way, if you're gonna talk about someone, maybe be a little less obvious. Your whispers are about as subtle as a marching band."

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He looked like a fish gasping for air, which only made Y/N's smirk grow.

Finally, Y/N's attention shifted to Nate, who was still standing there, the football frozen in his hand. "And you," Y/N said, his tone growing sharper as he cocked his head. "I'm surprised, QB. You had a whole two cents to throw in, but it's funny—I don't remember asking for your opinion."

Nate blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He wasn't used to being directly challenged, especially not by someone like Y/N. His faint smirk faded into a defensive glare. "I didn't say anything worse than what they said."

Y/N tilted his head, pretending to consider this. "True. But unlike them, I thought you had a spine. Guess I was wrong."

Behind Y/N, the track team, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely contained glee, erupted into muffled laughter. Jake and Ryan didn't dare respond, their embarrassment palpable.

Satisfied with their stunned silence, Y/N tossed one last smirk over his shoulder as he sauntered back toward his team. "Don't worry, boys," he called out breezily. "Not everyone can pull off confidence and shorts. Better luck next time."

Jake muttered under his breath, "Dude's savage."

Nate didn't respond, though his grip on the football tightened. His gaze lingered on Y/N as he rejoined his group, laughing easily with his teammates as if nothing had happened.

Something about Y/N got under Nate's skin, and it wasn't just the sass. It was the sharp wit, the unapologetic confidence, and the way Y/N had absolutely no fear of putting him in his place. It irritated Nate—but it also intrigued him, in a way he couldn't quite shake.

"Jacobs!" the coach yelled, jolting Nate from his thoughts. "Back on the field!"

Nate turned sharply, tossing the football to a teammate with more force than necessary. But as he jogged back to join the drills, his mind stayed stubbornly stuck on Y/N, replaying the encounter over and over.

The silence between Y/N and Nate had become suffocating, stretching across days with no sign of breaking. The tension hung heavy in their shared dorm room, in the classrooms, even on the fields where they practiced their respective sports. Y/N had made it abundantly clear—he wasn't interested in speaking to Nate, or even acknowledging his existence.

For Nate, the lack of interaction was an unfamiliar and deeply unsettling feeling. He wasn't used to being ignored, especially not like this. It gnawed at him in ways he couldn't fully explain, like a splinter lodged too deep to reach but impossible to forget.

It started off as the first rays of dawn spilled into the room, bathing it in a warm orange glow. Nate lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying their last conversation on the field. Y/N, as usual, was up early, moving quietly around the room as he pulled on a fitted t-shirt over his toned frame. His movements were precise, methodical, and entirely devoid of unnecessary noise—a courtesy Nate was beginning to resent.

As Y/N grabbed his backpack and water bottle from the desk, he glanced briefly at his phone, scrolling through notifications. He didn't so much as glance in Nate's direction.

"Morning," Nate offered, his voice low and tentative, breaking the stillness.

Y/N didn't respond. The only sound that followed was the click of the door as it shut behind him.

Nate sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. It was going to be another long day.

By the time class started, the lecture hall buzzed with muted chatter as students trickled in, taking their seats and pulling out notebooks or laptops. Nate entered behind Jake and Ryan, scanning the rows instinctively until his eyes landed on Y/N. He was seated a few rows ahead, angled slightly toward a classmate he was chatting with.

Without realizing it, Nate chose a seat a few rows back, perfectly positioned for an unobstructed view.

Y/N sat with one leg crossed over the other, his notebook balanced on his knee as he scribbled notes in the margins. Every now and then, he leaned toward the person next to him, whispering something that earned a quiet laugh. Nate couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. The easy smile on Y/N's face, the relaxed way he carried himself—it was a stark contrast to the cold shoulder he'd been giving Nate.

Nate's eyes lingered. The way Y/N tapped his pen against the desk, the slight furrow of his brow when he focused, the unconscious habit of brushing his fingers through his hair when he stretched—it was all maddeningly distracting.

"You okay, man?" Jake asked, nudging Nate's elbow.

"Yeah," Nate muttered, tearing his gaze away and forcing himself to focus on the professor's droning voice. But even as he tried to take notes, his eyes kept drifting back to Y/N.

As the heat of the afternoon sun bore down on the sports complex, baking the grass and filling the air with the faint scent of sweat and turf. Nate was supposed to be focused on running passing drills, but his attention kept slipping to the track just beyond the field.

Y/N was sprinting, his powerful strides eating up the distance effortlessly. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, and the way he slowed to a stop after his lap left Nate momentarily frozen.

"Jacobs!" the coach's voice barked, snapping Nate out of his thoughts.

"Focus!"

"Yeah, sorry, Coach," Nate muttered, catching the football mid-air and throwing it with a little more force than necessary.

As he jogged back into position, his eyes darted toward the track again. Y/N was standing by his team, his chest heaving as he took a long swig from his water bottle. One of his teammates said something that made him laugh—a loud, easy sound that made Nate's chest tighten.

It was infuriating how completely oblivious Y/N seemed to his presence.

By the two made into the dorm, it was quiet, the air heavy with unspoken words. Y/N entered first, tossing his bag onto his bed without so much as a glance in Nate's direction. Nate followed, shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

For a while, the only sound was the faint rustling of Y/N unpacking his gear. Nate leaned against the door, his eyes fixed on him. The silence was unbearable.

"Are you ever gonna talk to me again?" Nate asked finally, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.

Y/N didn't even pause. "Didn't think there was anything left to say."

Nate's jaw tightened. "You're really this pissed about what I said on the field?"

Y/N snapped his head up, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Pissed? No, Nate. I'm disappointed. I thought you were at least capable of being decent, but clearly, I overestimated you."

Nate frowned, stepping closer. "I was joking!"

Y/N shook his head, his voice calm but biting. "Oh, I got the joke. It's just not funny coming from someone who doesn't know the first thing about respect."

Nate opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. Y/N had already turned away, pulling a fresh shirt from his drawer and pointedly ignoring him.

A knock on the door broke the tension. Y/N walked past Nate to open it, revealing one of their neighbors leaning casually against the frame.

"Hey, you two coming to the frat party tonight?" the guy asked.

Y/N glanced over his shoulder at Nate, his tone dismissive. "I'll be there," he said. "Can't say about him."

Nate bristled. "I'm coming too," he said firmly, stepping forward.

Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. Instead, he turned back to the neighbor with a small smirk. "Guess we'll see you there."

The door closed, leaving them alone again. Y/N grabbed his things and left without another word, the silence in the room now suffocating. Nate stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, wrestling with his frustration—and something far more complicated that he couldn't quite name.

The bass reverberated through the cramped frat house, shaking the walls and drowning out any chance of meaningful conversation. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cheap beer, sweat, and an overzealous amount of cologne. Multicolored lights pulsed in time with the music, casting flickering shadows over the packed rooms. People were crammed into every corner, laughing, drinking, and dancing, their movements chaotic but full of life.

In the middle of it all, Y/N commanded the makeshift dance floor in the living room. He wore a cropped black graphic tee emblazoned with a bold design, the hem cutting off just enough to reveal his toned stomach. His low-waist black jeans hugged his hips perfectly, emphasizing his every movement. The outfit, combined with his easy confidence, made it impossible not to watch him.

Y/N moved like the music was a part of him, his arms swaying above his head, his hips rolling effortlessly in time with the beat. His friends surrounded him, hyping him up with loud cheers and playful shouts as he spun and struck teasing poses. A playful grin danced on his lips as he leaned into the energy, the kind of carefree charisma that lit up the entire room.

Across the space, Nate stood with a group of his football teammates near the beer pong table. A red Solo cup dangled from his hand, barely touched, as his gaze kept drifting toward the dance floor. Specifically, toward Y/N.

"What's got you so distracted, man?" Jake nudged Nate's arm, his voice cutting through the din.

"Nothing," Nate muttered, his tone clipped, though his eyes remained locked on Y/N.

Jake smirked but didn't press.

The situation shifted suddenly when a tall guy with dyed hair and a silver chain stepped confidently into Y/N's circle. The stranger's movements were smooth, his intentions clear as he joined Y/N in the rhythm of the music. He leaned closer, his hand brushing Y/N's hip as their steps aligned.

Nate's grip on his cup tightened, the cheap plastic creaking under the pressure.

Jake, noticing, glanced toward the dance floor. "Looks like your roommate's got himself an admirer," he said with a teasing grin.

Nate didn't respond, but his jaw clenched as he watched the stranger say something to Y/N, earning a laugh. Y/N threw his head back, his carefree laugh cutting through the music as he spun into the guy's arms. Their faces were close now—too close.

An unfamiliar irritation churned in Nate's chest, sharp and insistent. It wasn't jealousy. It couldn't be. He didn't even like Y/N like that. So why did seeing him with someone else feel like a punch to the gut?

"You good, man?" Jake asked again, his tone more curious now.

"I'm fine," Nate said shortly, his voice harsh as he tore his gaze away. He tipped his cup back and took a long swig, trying to focus on anything else.

But his resolve faltered almost immediately. His eyes found their way back to the dance floor, where Y/N now had his hands in the air, his body leaning into the guy's. Their movements were perfectly synced, like they'd been dancing together for years. The crowd around them seemed to blur, leaving only the two of them in Nate's focus.

"What's your problem with him, anyway?" Ryan chimed in, noticing Nate's growing tension. "You've been weird about Y/N since day one."

"I don't have a problem," Nate snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended.

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Right. And the way you're glaring at that guy right now is totally normal."

Nate scowled, his knuckles whitening around his cup. "I'm not glaring."

"Sure," Ryan said with a smirk. "Whatever you say, QB."

Nate ignored them, his attention snapping back to Y/N just as he threw his arms around the stranger's neck, laughing again. The easy intimacy of it—the way Y/N could just be himself, confident and unbothered—grated on Nate's nerves.

It wasn't just the dance. It was the way someone else was getting Y/N's attention, his laughter, his energy. It was the way Nate couldn't seem to draw that out of him anymore, no matter how hard he tried.

Before he could stop himself, Nate muttered under his breath, "What's so great about that guy, anyway?"

Jake burst out laughing. "Oh, this is gold. Jacobs is jealous."

"Shut up," Nate growled, shoving Jake lightly, though his flushed face betrayed him.

Jake kept laughing, but Nate didn't care. His focus was entirely on Y/N, who seemed to sense Nate's eyes on him. Y/N glanced up, his gaze locking with Nate's for the briefest moment.

Y/N's expression was unreadable, but the smirk that tugged at his lips wasn't. It was sly, teasing, and far too knowing, as if Y/N could see right through him.

Nate's stomach twisted.

Y/N turned back to his dance partner, but not before throwing Nate a look that seemed to say, I see you watching.

Scowling, Nate tipped his cup back again, downing the rest of his drink in one go. He tried for the rest of the night to focus on his teammates, on the beer pong game, on anything other than Y/N. But no matter what he did, his thoughts kept circling back to him.

And that damn smirk.

Soon the party had shifted into its final stages, the once-deafening music now muted, replaced by the hum of lingering conversations and occasional bursts of laughter. The crowd had thinned, but pockets of energy still buzzed throughout the house. In the corner near the door, Y/N leaned heavily against the wall, his cheeks flushed, his eyes slightly glassy from one too many drinks. Despite his clear intoxication, he retained that magnetic, carefree air, laughing easily at something the guy next to him said.

The guy—a tall, confident-looking student with a cocky smirk—leaned in close, his lips brushing against Y/N's ear as he whispered something that made Y/N giggle. Y/N swayed slightly, his balance unsteady, and the guy placed an arm around his waist, guiding him with ease. Y/N leaned into the touch, his body language loose and trusting as the guy began steering him toward the front door.

From a few feet away, Nate watched the scene unfold, his grip tightening on the edge of his Solo cup. For the past ten minutes, he had been quietly observing, his irritation building with every second. Jake and Ryan stood nearby, but their banter barely registered as Nate's attention remained fixed on Y/N.

When he saw the guy's arm slide more firmly around Y/N's waist, something inside Nate snapped.

"Where are you going?" Nate's voice cut through the air as he stepped forward, his tone sharp and commanding.

Both Y/N and the guy turned to face him, the sudden interruption catching them off guard. Y/N blinked, momentarily confused, before a lazy smirk spread across his face. "Hey, QB. Didn't know you cared," he drawled, his words slurred just enough to betray how drunk he was. He leaned more heavily against the guy, his body swaying slightly.

Nate ignored Y/N's teasing and turned his full attention to the other guy, his piercing gaze hard and unwavering. "You can leave," Nate said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He's not going anywhere with you."

The guy frowned, holding up his hands defensively. "What's your problem, man? We're just leaving. It's not a big deal."

"It is if he's drunk," Nate snapped back, stepping closer. His voice was low and edged with a quiet intensity that made the guy falter. "Find someone else to bother."

Y/N chuckled, clearly amused by the exchange. "Relax, Nate," he said, his voice thick with amusement and alcohol. "I can handle myself. Not my first rodeo."

"You're wasted," Nate retorted, his eyes narrowing as he reached out and gently but firmly pulled Y/N away from the guy's hold. His hand rested on Y/N's arm, steadying him as Y/N stumbled slightly. "You don't even know this dude."

Y/N looked up at Nate, his expression shifting to one of annoyance and mild curiosity. "Wow," he said, his tone biting. "Since when are you my babysitter?"

"I'm not," Nate shot back through gritted teeth. "But I'm also not letting you do something stupid."

The guy, clearly irritated now, stepped forward. "Look, man, it's none of your business—"

"It is now," Nate interrupted, his voice dangerously low. His glare alone was enough to make the guy hesitate. "Go."

The guy looked between Nate and Y/N, his frustration evident, before scoffing and throwing up his hands. "Whatever, dude. Your problem now." He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the thinning crowd.

Y/N pulled his arm free from Nate's grip, his movements unsteady but deliberate as he glared at him. "Seriously, what is your deal?" he demanded. "I was having fun."

"You call that fun?" Nate shot back, crossing his arms. "Getting blackout drunk and going home with some random guy?"

Y/N smirked, but it was weaker now, less sure. "Jealous, QB?" he teased, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Nate's jaw tightened, his gaze darting away for a moment as he struggled to find the right words. "No," he said finally, though even to himself, it sounded unconvincing. "I just don't want to deal with you getting into trouble and me having to explain it to the RA."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, leaning closer as his smirk returned, sharper this time. "Right. Totally about the RA," he said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, "and not because you can't stand seeing me with someone else."

Nate's eyes snapped back to Y/N's, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them said anything, the silence stretching between them thick with tension.

"You're drunk," Nate said finally, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. "Let's just get you back to the dorm."

Y/N sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall. "Fine, QB," he muttered. "But only because these shoes are killing me."

Nate rolled his eyes but stepped closer, steadying Y/N with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Come on."

As they made their way out of the frat house, Y/N mumbled something incoherent about his shoes and the terrible music, his head lolling slightly against Nate's shoulder. Nate kept his grip steady, his chest tightening in a way he couldn't quite explain.

It wasn't about the RA. He knew that much.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

The dormitory door slammed open with a loud bang, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway as Nate strode inside, his steps purposeful and heavy. Draped over his broad shoulder like an unruly sack of potatoes was Y/N, who groaned loudly, his legs kicking weakly in protest. Despite his best efforts to wriggle free, Nate held him firmly, his strength making any escape attempts laughable.

Y/N had made a valiant, if poorly coordinated, attempt to run away halfway back to the dorm, weaving unsteadily down the sidewalk in a way that had Nate's patience snapping. Without a word, Nate had hoisted him up with an ease that left no room for negotiation.

"Put me down, Nate!" Y/N shouted, his voice muffled against Nate's back as he bounced slightly with each determined step. "I don't need your help!"

"You're drunk," Nate replied flatly, his tone devoid of amusement as he kicked the dorm room door shut behind them with a sharp thud. "And you almost ran into traffic, so yeah, you kinda do."

Y/N let out an exaggerated groan, his fists weakly thudding against Nate's back in a half-hearted attempt to protest. "I hate you," he grumbled, his words slurring slightly from the alcohol still coursing through his system.

"Sure you do," Nate replied dryly, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he moved across the room. Despite his curt tone, he lowered Y/N onto his bed with far more care than he wanted to admit, making sure the other boy landed softly.

Y/N sat up almost immediately, swaying slightly as he jabbed a wobbly finger in Nate's direction. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and defiance, though his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes robbed it of any real weight. "I don't need your hero complex right now, okay? I can take care of myself."

Nate crossed his arms, his broad frame looming over Y/N as he raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Really? You couldn't even walk in a straight line five minutes ago."

Y/N scowled, his hands fumbling with the hem of his crop top as he attempted to smooth it out and reclaim some semblance of dignity. "Doesn't mean I needed you to carry me like I'm some damsel in distress," he shot back, his voice petulant. "I'm fine."

"Fine?" Nate repeated, his tone heavy with disbelief. He stepped closer, leaning down until they were at eye level. His piercing gaze locked onto Y/N's, refusing to let him look away. "You're a sweaty, drunk mess who tried to ditch me in the middle of the street. That's not fine, Y/N."

Y/N opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. The closeness between them was almost suffocating, the intensity in Nate's expression enough to leave him momentarily speechless.

"Exactly," Nate said after a beat, his voice softer but no less firm. "Now sit still and stop trying to act like you've got this handled."

Y/N opened his mouth, ready to fire back with another slurred but defiant retort, but before he could get a word out, Nate moved. In one swift motion, he reached forward and tugged Y/N's crop top over his head, leaving the smaller boy momentarily stunned.

"Hey!" Y/N squawked, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to grab the shirt back. His movements were clumsy and ineffective, his balance still shaky from the alcohol. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting you out of this," Nate replied matter-of-factly, his tone steady and unbothered. He held the damp, sweat-soaked crop top between two fingers as if it were offensive before tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor. "You're gonna feel like crap in the morning if you stay in it."

For a moment, Y/N could only blink at him, his brain scrambling to process what had just happened. He crossed his arms over his now-bare chest, his cheeks flushing a deep pink—not entirely from the alcohol. "You could've asked, you know," he muttered, his tone more flustered than annoyed.

Nate smirked faintly, crossing the room to rummage through Y/N's drawer. "Yeah, because you totally would've cooperated," he shot back, pulling out an oversized t-shirt that looked soft and well-worn.

Y/N glared at him, the heat in his cheeks only intensifying as Nate approached with the clean shirt. "I could've done it myself," he muttered, but the bite in his tone was weak.

"Sure you could've," Nate replied dryly, kneeling slightly to pull the shirt over Y/N's head with surprising gentleness. His hands brushed against Y/N's skin as he adjusted the hem, the warmth of his touch sending an unexpected shiver down Y/N's spine.

Y/N froze for a split second, his heart racing inexplicably as Nate leaned back to survey his work.

"There," Nate said, straightening up. His tone was softer now, almost satisfied. "Better."

Y/N shifted on the bed, his arms dropping to his sides as he glanced down at the oversized tee now hanging loosely on his frame. He tried to ignore the way his pulse was pounding, instead narrowing his eyes at Nate in an attempt to regain some semblance of control.

"Great," he muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms again. "You've played dress-up. Now leave me alone."

But the way his voice wavered slightly at the end betrayed him, and Nate's smirk deepened just enough for Y/N to notice.

Nate ignored Y/N's protests, dropping to a crouch at the foot of the bed and reaching for his shoes. The laces were tangled, no doubt from Y/N's stumbling attempts to leave the party earlier. Nate tugged at the knots, his fingers moving with a practiced ease, his expression calm despite the grumbled complaints coming from above.

"Seriously?" Y/N said, his tone a mix of annoyance and embarrassment. He tried to sit up straighter, wobbling slightly as he propped himself up on his elbows. "I can handle that."

"Uh-huh," Nate replied without looking up, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slipped off one shoe, followed quickly by the other.

Y/N scowled, his brows knitting together. "I'm not completely useless, you know," he muttered.

Nate finally glanced up, his piercing eyes locking on Y/N's. "Right. Because you've been handling everything so well tonight," he quipped, his tone dry. Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he added, "Do you wanna try taking your pants off yourself, or are you gonna make me do that too?"

Y/N's face turned a deep scarlet, his mouth falling open in disbelief. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, his voice pitching higher than usual.

"Relax," Nate said, rolling his eyes as he reached for Y/N's legs, pulling him closer to the edge of the bed with little effort. "It's not like that."

Y/N froze, momentarily too stunned to respond as Nate's hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. With a flick of his fingers, Nate unbuttoned them, the sound of the zipper loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Nate worked with practiced efficiency, sliding the jeans down Y/N's legs and tossing them aside in one smooth motion. Left in nothing but his snug boxer briefs, Y/N instinctively crossed his legs, his flushed cheeks now impossibly red.

"Happy now?" Y/N muttered, avoiding Nate's gaze as he tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt Nate had put on him earlier.

Nate didn't respond immediately. He stood, his full height towering over Y/N, and for a moment, his gaze lingered. It wasn't just exasperation anymore—there was something softer in his expression, something unspoken that made Y/N's heart stutter in his chest.

"There," Nate said finally, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. "You're good."

Y/N looked up at him, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to ignore the heat rising in his face. "You're really annoying, you know that?" he mumbled, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Nate smirked, taking a small step closer. The corner of his mouth quirked up in that infuriatingly confident way, but his voice carried a hint of warmth. "Yeah," he said, his tone low, "but you'll thank me in the morning."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, meeting Nate's gaze for the first time. "Doubt it," he shot back, his voice softer than he intended.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful tension from earlier dissolved into something heavier, more charged. Nate didn't move, and neither did Y/N, their eyes locked in a silent exchange that seemed to stretch on forever.

The sound of Nate's steady breathing filled the small space between them, his presence overwhelming. Y/N could feel the heat radiating from him, his own pulse racing as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

Nate leaned forward slightly, his smirk softening into something more tentative, more vulnerable. Y/N held his breath, his gaze flickering to Nate's lips before quickly snapping back to his eyes.

But then Nate straightened, stepping back with a barely audible sigh. "Get some sleep," he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

Y/N didn't respond, his heart still pounding as he watched Nate retreat to his side of the room. The unspoken tension hung in the air long after the moment passed, leaving Y/N staring at the ceiling and wondering why he couldn't shake the way Nate had looked at him.

The dormitory bathroom was dimly lit, its harsh fluorescent lights buzzing faintly in the stillness. The quiet was broken only by the sound of Y/N brushing his teeth, the rhythmic scrape of bristles against enamel filling the otherwise empty space. He leaned lazily against the sink, still groggy from the remnants of sleep and the unsettling memory of a strange, vivid dream he couldn't quite shake.

After rinsing his mouth, he splashed cold water on his face, hoping to clear the lingering haze in his mind. Grabbing a towel, he dabbed at his skin, his thoughts elsewhere. When he turned to leave, he froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat.

Nate stood in the doorway, his broad figure filling the frame, one shoulder casually propped against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms tense, and his expression unreadable. He didn't move, blocking the exit as his piercing eyes bore into Y/N.

"Jesus, Nate," Y/N said, his voice muffled as he tossed the towel aside onto the counter. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing here?"

Nate shrugged, his eyes flicking away for a brief moment before locking back onto Y/N. "Bathroom's on the way to my room," he said casually, his voice steady but lacking its usual bite. "Didn't know I needed permission to stand here."

Y/N narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the sink. "Right. Because loitering outside the bathroom at midnight is totally normal behavior."

Nate didn't reply immediately. Instead, he studied Y/N with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavier. The silence lingered too long, his gaze dipping slightly before snapping back up.

Y/N's expression shifted, his brow furrowing as he straightened slightly. The teasing edge in his voice was gone when he spoke again. "Alright, spill. Why did you really stop me from leaving with that guy at the party?"

Nate's posture stiffened, his arms dropping slightly as he stood up straighter. His jaw worked for a moment before he finally spoke. "I already told you," he said, his voice clipped. "You were drunk. You could've done something stupid."

"Uh-huh," Y/N said slowly, tilting his head as if trying to see through Nate's words. His tone was skeptical, almost mocking. "And I'm supposed to believe it had nothing to do with... jealousy?"

Nate let out a bark of laughter, but it sounded forced, too sharp to be genuine. "Jealousy?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Trust me, I wasn't jealous. You're not that special."

Y/N raised an eyebrow at that, his lips curving into a sly smirk. "Oh, really?" he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Then why were you staring daggers at him all night?"

"I wasn't," Nate snapped, his response too quick, too defensive.

Y/N pushed off the sink, taking a step closer. The distance between them was shrinking, and with it, the tension in the room thickened. "You sure about that, QB?" Y/N asked, his voice low, teasing. "Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't like the idea of me with someone else."

Nate's jaw tightened further, his fists flexing at his sides as if he were trying to keep them still. "Don't flatter yourself," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm straight, okay? You're not my type. At all."

Y/N paused, studying him closely, his smirk fading into something softer, more curious. His eyes searched Nate's face, lingering on the tight line of his mouth and the tension in his brow. "Right," Y/N said finally, his tone quieter but no less pointed. "You're straight. That's why you've been acting weird around me since day one."

Nate stepped forward, his height casting a shadow over Y/N as he closed the remaining space between them. "I'm not acting weird," he said firmly, his voice lowering. "You're the one making this into something it's not."

Y/N didn't back down, his chin tilting slightly as he met Nate's gaze head-on. For a moment, the room felt impossibly small, the charged silence pressing in on both of them.

"Okay," Y/N said finally, his voice calm but tinged with something knowing. "If that's what you need to tell yourself." He moved past Nate, his shoulder brushing against him as he stopped at the doorway. Y/N paused, glancing over his shoulder with a faint, almost teasing smile. "But just so you know, people who are totally straight don't usually get this worked up over their 'not-my-type' roommate."

Nate didn't move, his fists clenching at his sides as he watched Y/N disappear down the hall. His chest felt tight, each breath harder to take as Y/N's words echoed in his head.

I'm straight, he told himself, gripping the edge of the counter as he turned toward the mirror.

But as he stared at his own reflection, the doubt that flickered in his eyes told a different story. For the first time, Nate wasn't sure what he believed anymore.

The countertops were cluttered with stray utensils and empty mugs, evidence of late nights and hurried mornings. The air was thick with the mingling aroma of freshly brewed coffee and whatever leftovers Nate had just pulled from the fridge.

Y/N stood by the counter, the picture of effortless ease. He leaned back casually, his mug cradled in one hand as steam curled lazily upward. His other hand drummed a slow, steady rhythm against the counter's edge, as though he had all the time in the world. His eyes flicked to Nate, who was bent over, half inside the fridge, rummaging noisily.

"Move," Nate said abruptly, his tone more gruff than polite as he turned, balancing a carton of milk and an apple in one hand. His shoulder bumped Y/N's in an impatient nudge.

Y/N, unfazed, merely smirked. He didn't shift an inch. "Say 'please,'" he drawled, his voice teasing, laced with just enough challenge to be infuriating.

Nate huffed audibly, clearly not in the mood for games. He stepped closer without hesitation, closing the already minimal gap between them. His broad chest brushed against Y/N's back as he reached over the counter to grab the half-empty box of cereal perched precariously near the edge.

The contact was brief but electric. Y/N's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, a small hitch in his breath betraying him before he quickly smoothed over the moment with a practiced veneer of nonchalance. He tilted his head just slightly, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Careful, QB," Y/N said lightly, his tone deliberately playful. "Buy me dinner first."

Nate recoiled as if burned, retreating a step too quickly. "You're annoying," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and clipped. He kept his gaze fixed on the counter, avoiding Y/N's eyes entirely as he busied himself pouring cereal into a bowl with far more focus than the task required.

But the flush creeping up Nate's neck was impossible to miss. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, standing out against his otherwise stoic expression.

Y/N noticed, of course. He always noticed. A slow, self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he turned back to his coffee, taking a deliberate sip. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pretended not to notice Nate's embarrassment.

The gym was quieter than usual, its usual cacophony of clanging weights and rhythmic grunts reduced to a distant hum. The faint smell of rubber mats and chalk lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of sweat. Y/N lay stretched out on the bench press, his fingers curling around the cold metal bar, the plates on either side gleaming faintly under the fluorescent lights.

Nate's shadow loomed over him, breaking his focus. "Need a spot?" he asked, his tone casual but carrying a slight edge, the way it always did when he was talking to Y/N.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His lips quirked into a lazy smirk. "Didn't know you cared."

Nate crossed his arms, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't drop the bar on your face," he shot back, stepping closer. His hands hovered just above the bar, ready but not intrusive.

With a small huff of amusement, Y/N settled back into position and began his reps. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, muscles contracting and releasing as he powered through each press. The bar creaked faintly under the strain, but Y/N's focus didn't waver. Nate, however, wasn't as disciplined.

Despite himself, Nate's gaze kept slipping—drifting over the line of Y/N's arms, the way his biceps flexed with each upward thrust, the tautness of his shoulders under the weight. The faint sheen of sweat on Y/N's skin caught the light, highlighting the sharp lines and curves of his body. It was distracting, far more than Nate would ever admit, even to himself.

"You gonna stare all day, or are you actually spotting me?" Y/N teased, his voice breathless but carrying that familiar sharpness. He didn't even look up, but the smirk in his tone was unmistakable.

Nate jerked slightly, caught off guard. A faint flush crept up his neck, and he quickly averted his eyes, his focus snapping back to the bar. "Focus on the bar," he muttered, his voice tighter than usual.

Y/N chuckled, a low, knowing sound that Nate found both infuriating and—he'd never admit it—amusing. With a controlled motion, Y/N lowered the bar back onto the rack, the clanging sound reverberating through the gym. He sat up, rolling his shoulders and reaching for his water bottle, his grin still firmly in place.

"Whatever you say, coach," Y/N said, the words dripping with playful mockery.

Nate didn't reply right away, his jaw tightening as he busied himself adjusting a nearby weight. He could still feel the heat creeping up his face and silently cursed himself for it. Meanwhile, Y/N leaned back against the bench, casually stretching his arms overhead, his grin widening as he watched Nate's back stiffen ever so slightly. The unspoken tension between them hung in the air, heavy but electric, as Nate fought to maintain his composure.

"You done admiring me, or should I grab the dumbbells next?" Y/N quipped, breaking the silence with another laugh.

"Shut up, Y/N," Nate muttered, but his voice lacked the usual bite, and Y/N only laughed harder.

The library was nearly deserted, the silence broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of paper. Rows of bookshelves stretched out in every direction, casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. At one of the large study tables near the back, Y/N and Nate sat side by side, an unintentional arrangement born from choosing the same spot at nearly the same time. Neither had moved, both too stubborn to concede the table to the other.

Y/N was sprawled comfortably in his chair, a picture of effortless confidence. A few loose papers and an open notebook were scattered in front of him, but he wasn't exactly focused on them. Instead, he leaned forward to grab a book from the far corner of the table, the movement causing his cropped hoodie to ride up just enough to expose a strip of skin along his waist.

Nate noticed. He hadn't meant to, but his eyes flicked downward, caught for a moment too long on the sliver of skin and the faint shadow of muscle underneath. His jaw tightened as he quickly looked away, his fingers tapping out a random rhythm against the keyboard of his laptop, but it was too late.

Y/N straightened up slowly, his sharp eyes catching Nate's fleeting glance. A smirk spread across his lips, equal parts amusement and challenge. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion making his shirt ride even higher.

"See something you like?" Y/N asked, his voice low and teasing, the tone carrying just enough edge to make Nate freeze.

Nate's ears turned bright red, a telltale sign he was flustered despite his attempt to maintain a neutral expression. "Your shirt's just... short," he mumbled, awkwardly gesturing toward it with one hand, his eyes resolutely fixed on the table now.

Y/N's smirk only deepened. He tilted his head, leaning slightly toward Nate as if to close the already narrow space between them. "Yeah? Guess that's why you can't stop staring." His tone was light, almost casual, but there was a deliberate weight behind his words that made Nate's discomfort palpable.

Nate cleared his throat, his fingers suddenly flying across his keyboard with an intensity that suggested he was trying to summon every ounce of focus he could muster. "Focus on your work," he muttered, his voice gruff. He didn't look up, but the slight jiggling of his leg under the table gave him away, a nervous tell he couldn't quite control.

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound barely louder than a whisper in the quiet library. "Whatever you say, Nate," he drawled, leaning back even farther in his chair, his arms still crossed. He watched Nate out of the corner of his eye, clearly enjoying the way the quarterback's posture grew more rigid with every passing second.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Nate stepped into the room, steam trailing after him like a veil. His hair was damp, darkened by water, and clinging messily to his forehead. A towel sat low on his hips, barely secured, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones and the lean muscle of his torso. Droplets of water traced erratic paths down his chest and abs, glinting under the soft glow of the desk lamp in the dim dorm room.

Y/N, seated at his desk with his laptop open, barely registered the movement at first. But as Nate leaned casually against the doorframe, the sudden presence was impossible to ignore. Y/N's gaze flicked up instinctively, his eyebrows shooting upward in a mixture of surprise and exasperation.

"What?" Nate asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence, though the smirk curling at his lips betrayed him. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning more comfortably against the doorframe, the motion emphasizing the play of muscle under his skin. "Never seen someone fresh out of the shower before?"

Y/N scoffed, forcing his attention back to his screen even as his ears burned. "Boy, please. You could... put some clothes on," he said, his voice coming out more strained than he intended.

Nate didn't miss the tension. His smirk widened, and he pushed off the doorframe with deliberate slowness, walking across the room to his side. Each step seemed to echo, purposeful, and exaggerated.

"Oh, what's the matter, Y/N?" he drawled, his tone rich with teasing. "Afraid you'll see something you like?" His voice dipped just enough to make the words hang in the air, playful but laced with challenge.

Y/N didn't look up, his fingers hovering over his keyboard as if pretending to type. His shoulders were stiff, his neck tense, and his face was turning a shade of red that Nate couldn't help but notice.

"Shut up," Y/N growled, the words coming out more flustered than threatening. His eyes stayed glued to his laptop screen, though his focus was clearly elsewhere.

Nate chuckled, the sound low and satisfied, as he finally pulled open his dresser drawer. He took his time grabbing clothes, moving as if he had all the time in the world. Every so often, he threw a glance over his shoulder, catching the way Y/N's jaw tightened, the way his hands fidgeted in his lap.

Revenge had never tasted this sweet. For all the teasing Y/N had put him through, Nate was finally getting his moment, and he was enjoying it far too much.

"I'm just saying," Nate added, his voice light and casual, "if it bothers you that much, you could always move to another room."

Y/N didn't respond. His screen was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, though the pink flush creeping down his neck gave him away.

Nate grinned to himself as he pulled a shirt over his head, the satisfaction of his victory lingering in the air like the faint mist from his shower.

However, victories can only last so long.

The music pounded through the packed frat house, the bass vibrating through the floor and reverberating in Y/N's chest. The dim, colorful lights shifted and spun, casting the room in flashes of blue and red as bodies swayed to the rhythm. Y/N was in the center of the makeshift dance floor, moving effortlessly to the beat, his hips rolling with a confidence that was impossible to ignore.

His low-waist jeans clung perfectly to his figure, dipping low enough to reveal the faintest hint of skin between the waistband and his cropped graphic tee. The shirt, short enough to tease his toned stomach, shimmered slightly under the lights. Every movement, every turn of his body, seemed to draw eyes his way.

Across from him, a frat guy stepped closer, emboldened by Y/N's easy energy. His hands inched toward Y/N's waist, a sly grin on his face as he leaned in. Y/N let it happen, his lips curling into a mischievous smile as he played along, his movements slowing to match the guy's. The moment lingered, electrified by the heat of the crowd and the pull of the music.

But from the edge of the room, Nate stood frozen, his grip on the Solo cup in his hand tightening with every second. He hadn't touched the drink in over ten minutes, his focus entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him. His jaw was set, his chest rising and falling as he fought the growing frustration gnawing at him.

When the frat guy leaned in even closer, his hand brushing against Y/N's hip, Nate's patience snapped.

He pushed through the throng of dancers, his broad shoulders cutting a path as he moved toward Y/N. Without a word, he reached out and grabbed Y/N's wrist, his grip firm but not rough.

"Hey—what the hell?" Y/N yelped, stumbling slightly as Nate yanked him away from the dance floor.

Ignoring the frat guy's startled protests and Y/N's struggles, Nate dragged him through the crowd and up the stairs. The music faded to a dull thrum as they reached the second floor, the noise from the party below muffled behind closed doors. Nate shoved open the door to an empty room, pulling Y/N inside before slamming it shut behind them.

The sudden silence was jarring, broken only by Y/N's heavy breathing as he wrenched his arm free.

"Seriously, Nate? Again?" Y/N snapped, spinning to face him. His chest was still heaving from dancing, his hair slightly damp from the heat of the room. "What is your problem?"

Nate stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes dark and unreadable as they bore into Y/N. "What the hell were you doing with that guy?" he demanded, his voice low and strained.

Y/N scoffed, throwing his hands up. "Dancing? Flirting? Having fun? You know, normal things people do at parties?"

"That guy wasn't—" Nate started, his voice rising, but Y/N cut him off.

"Oh, don't even start," Y/N said, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at Nate's chest. His voice was sharp, each word like a dagger. "Straight people don't get to interfere in their gay roommate's love life just because they're feeling territorial. You've got no right to—"

"Shut up!" Nate barked, his voice rough and cracking at the edges.

Y/N froze for a beat, his eyes narrowing. "No. You shut up, Nate," he snapped back, his tone fierce. "I don't know what's got you so wound up, but I'm not gonna let you treat me like I'm some kind of—"

"I don't know what I'm doing, alright?" Nate interrupted, his voice suddenly softer, almost desperate. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room in agitated strides. "I don't—this isn't normal for me. I've never felt like this before."

"Felt like what?" Y/N asked, his voice losing some of its bite as he crossed his arms.

"Like this!" Nate snapped, stopping abruptly to face Y/N. His eyes were raw with emotion, his composure slipping with every word. "About a guy. About you."

The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Y/N stared at Nate, his expression softening but his guard still firmly in place.

"You're kidding," Y/N said finally, his voice quieter but still edged with disbelief. "You, Mr. I'm-Straight-As-An-Arrow, have feelings for me?"

Nate exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as he looked away. "I don't know what this is," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "I didn't let myself think about it."

"Think about what?" Y/N pressed, his tone gentler now, the anger replaced by curiosity.

Nate's gaze snapped back to Y/N's, and for the first time, his vulnerability was laid bare. "You," he said simply. "How you make me feel. How much it pisses me off to see you with someone else. How I can't stop thinking about you, no matter how much I try."

Y/N blinked, stunned into silence as the words sunk in. For the first time, he didn't have a quick comeback.

Before he could respond, Nate crossed the room in a single step, his hands cupping Y/N's face as he leaned in.

The kiss was hesitant at first, almost unsure, but the moment their lips met, everything else fell away. Y/N's hands instinctively found the front of Nate's hoodie, gripping the fabric as he kissed back. The hesitation dissolved into something more certain, the kiss deepening as weeks of tension and unspoken feelings spilled out between them.

It was messy and unpracticed, their movements slightly clumsy but real. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they struggled to process what had just happened.

"Wow," Y/N murmured after a beat, his voice soft but tinged with amusement. "Didn't think you had it in you, QB."

Nate let out a shaky laugh, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Yeah. Me neither."

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