the photo went out at 8:47pm on saturday. me, at someone’s house party in Dev’s oversized State hoodie (it hung past my thighs, the sleeves rolled twice), leaning against the kitchen counter with a red cup. you could see the hickey on my neck if you zoomed, which of course someone did. and then they screenshotted it. and then they sent it to the BrosciBros group chat with: “uhhh dev??? is this you when he leaves the room????”
the chat exploded. i wasn’t in it (dev doesn’t add me, which fine, i get it) so i was just sitting on his bed when my phone started buzzing. text after text. people adding stuff to their stories. someone made a meme. it’s been like twelve minutes and this is already a whole thing.
dev’s still at the party. or was. his last snap was 8:51. then nothing.
8:53: my phone rings. dev. i answer. he doesn’t say hi.
“are you home?”
“yeah, i’m at your—”
“stay there. don’t leave. i’m coming now.”
he hangs up.
and ok that’s not scary but it’s something, you know? it’s a tone. it’s a purpose. i’m wearing his hoodie right now, actually, the same one, he lent it to me earlier because the party house is frozen and when he put it on me he kissed my forehead and said something dumb like “looks better on you anyway” and his friend zack said “bro are you good” and dev said “yeah i’m fine” in a way that wasn’t fine at all.
he gets to campus in 18 minutes. texts from downstairs. “come to the lot.”
the parking lot behind the dorm at 9:11pm. heavy october rain drumming flat against the blacktop. his car, a 2019 honda civic, gray, the passenger window has a crack from a baseball that never got explained. he’s standing by the passenger door under the cold spray. he looks angry but not at me. he’s wearing a red State hoodie, the match to mine but fitted, the one he usually keeps in his car. his jaw is tight.
“get in,” he says.
so i do.
he slams the door shut, locks it, and doesn’t start the engine. just sits in the driver’s seat and runs both palms hard over his face. the cabin is cold and humid, our breath already fogging the cracked glass. the parking lot is half full. it’s dark. you can see into maybe three other cars and none of them have people. the dorm lights bleed orange across the pavement.
“they’re saying—” i start.
“i know what they’re saying,” he says. “i’m in the chat. they’re saying you’re sucking my dick in the parking lot. they’re saying i’m some kind of… i don’t know, they’re being stupid.”
“are you mad?”
he turns and looks at me and his whole expression cracks into something else. he reaches over and catches the hood of his hoodie over my head, dragging me two inches closer by the fleece, and just holds me there. his thumb is rough and hot against my cheekbone, pressing in, feeling my pulse hammer under my skin.
“i’m not mad,” he says. “i’m—” he stops. then he says, “yeah, okay, i want to be mad because this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. they weren’t supposed to find out.”
“and now they have.”
“and now they have.” he laughs, this sharp breath out his nose. “so i’m thinking i might as well give them something to actually talk about.”
he jerks the hoodie fabric back and kisses me. not soft. deep, heavy, reckless, his fingers digging into the muscle beside my neck right where the hickey was in the photo, his other hand sliding straight under the hem of the hoodie, over the bare warm skin of my upper thigh right above the elastic rim of my black ribbed socks. his palm is calloused and cold from the rain and when it squeezes my inner thigh i gasp straight into his mouth. it’s been six months of sneaking around, of him coming back to the dorm late and whispering “is this okay”, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch another guy.
he breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead knocked against mine, chest heaving.
“is this okay? right now? like this?”
“yeah,” i say, shiver running down my spine. “like this.”
“phone,” he says. “i’m leaving my phone on the dash. face down. i’m not even looking at it. you’re gonna make me not care what’s happening in that chat.”
he pulls back to his seat and grabs his phone, dark screen, buzzing steady, and just places it on the dashboard face-down. the buzzing keeps going. texts coming in. he doesn’t even glance at it.
“come here,” he says.
i unbuckle and shift over into his lap like we’ve done this before (we haven’t, but his hand on my back knows exactly what to do). my knees go on either side of his thighs. his hands find the sides of my hips. i can feel him already getting hard under me.
“you want—” i start.
“your mouth first,” he says. “please. i’ve been thinking about your mouth since you put my hoodie on at that party.”
so i kiss him again and then i’m sliding down and finding the button of his jeans. he’s already got one hand in the back of my hair, the other on my shoulder. the steering wheel is awkward against my spine. the car smells like him, like his deodorant and the pine air freshener he refuses to stop buying even though it’s mid-2000s core.
i pull his jeans down just enough. his cock is hard and flushed and leaking a little and i don’t waste time. i take him into my mouth, slow, feeling him thick on my tongue, and he makes a sound like someone stole something from him. like this is the first good thing.
“oh fuck, that’s—yeah, that’s perfect,” he says, and his hand tightens in my hair but not pushing, just holding on. his phone buzzes again on the dash. then again. the sound is like a metronome for how good i’m making it feel and i like that somehow, the contrast of him completely falling apart while the chat is just spiraling without him.
i take him deeper and his hips twitch up involuntarily. his free hand grabs the steering wheel so hard i hear it creak.
“you’re so good at this,” he says, all ragged. “so fucking good. i can’t—i think about this like constantly.”
his phone buzzes like four times in a row. someone’s calling probably. he doesn’t move. just keeps one hand on my head and watches me work, and god, he’s looking at me like i’m the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him and also like he wants to devour me whole, and it’s making me hard in his hoodie, which is humiliating and good.
“okay,” he says after a few minutes, “okay i need—can we—”
i pull off him, spit connecting, totally gross and exactly what he wanted based on the noise he makes. he’s breathing hard.
“lube,” he says. “glovebox.”
the civic glovebox is a nightmare of registration papers and old receipts and apparently lube. who knew. i dig around and find it, a little blue bottle, and hand it to him. he takes it and pulls me up by the hips so i’m straddling him properly now, and he yanks my hoodie up, finds the boxers underneath, and yanks those down too.
“you want this?” he says, his voice all soft urgency.
“yeah. yeah, i want it.”
he opens the lube with his teeth, gets his fingers good and slick, and reaches between us to prep me like he’s done this before even though he hasn’t. careful, patient, two fingers working me open while his forehead is against mine, while his phone is still buzzing on the dash like the world is ending out there. it’s maybe the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me, the contrast of his careful hands and the absolute chaos happening three inches away on that dashboard.
when he thinks i’m ready he slicks his cock and pulls me up a little and positions himself and looks at me once more.
“ready?”
“ready.”
i straddle him and he helps, one hand under my thigh, and then i’m sinking down onto him. slow. my body argues for a second and then gives up all at once, and i make a noise into his shoulder that i’m not proud of. the steering wheel digs into my back. his hands find my hips and hold me still — not moving, just waiting until i stop shaking. a car goes past and the lights sweep the ceiling and he doesn’t look away from my face.
“too much?” he mumbled.
“no. no it’s—you feel so fucking huge. you always feel so good.”
i braced my knees against the bucket seats and began riding him, sliding up until only the head was stretching my sphincter, then sinking all the way back down onto his hard shaft. his calloused hands gripped my hips, meeting my rhythm, thrusting up into me on every drop. the car was rocking on its shocks, the suspension creaking with every wet slap of our skin, while his phone kept buzzing furiously on the dash. my own rock-hard cock was trapped between our bellies, weeping pre-cum against the fabric of his red hoodie.
“gonna come,” he gasped, his fingers bruising my ass cheeks. “gonna come so hard—tell me where—”
“inside,” i moaned, grinding down onto his base. “fill my ass. come inside me.”
then his hands tighten and he pulls me down and stops being careful. he goes rigid under me, comes with his mouth open against my neck and no sound at all, and that’s the thing that does it for me — not the angle, not the friction. i come all over his chest and the hem of his hoodie, shaking, and he laughs into my shoulder, wrecked, still holding my hips down. the steering wheel creaks under us.
we sit there. his phone has stopped buzzing finally. maybe they gave up. maybe they’re done screenshotting and meme-ing. maybe they’ve moved on to like someone’s tiktok or whatever.
he reaches over, still inside me, still breathing like he ran a race, and grabs his phone. face-down, screen dark. he flips it over.
the chat. the actual chat. it’s been 23 minutes of him not responding. he scrolls. his face gets redder. he reads something and laughs, like a real laugh, the kind that crinkles his eyes.
“what?” i ask.
“they’re saying i must be a fraud. that the guy in the photo must have been someone else. because i left at 8:53 and there’s no way i made it back by—” he checks his watch, “—9:23.”
he opens the chat and starts typing. one-handed, one hand still on my back. i watch him type. three words. he hits send before he can think about it.
his screen lights up immediately. the chat goes insane.
he shows me what he wrote.
made better time than you thought
and the response is instant, is five people typing at once, is zack going “WAIT THAT’S A FUCKING CONFIRMATION” and someone sending a gif of a car speeding and someone else just going “STOP STOP STOP.”
he locks his phone and throws it back on the dash and pulls me close by the back of my neck.
“worth it?” i ask.
“completely,” he says. “they’re gonna be mad for like three days and then they’re gonna make jokes about my civic’s acceleration and then we never talk about it again and i get to keep you.”
“you get to keep me anyway.”
he kisses my forehead.
“i know. but now they know i’m keeping you. and i like that better.”
