(Chapter: 2)
Ezran
I didn't sleep that night. Not really.
I laid down, sure. Flopped onto my shitty single mattress, closed my eyes, and told myself to forget. But my brain was a rabid mutt that hadn't been fed in years, and now it had a taste for something dangerous.
And by dangerous, I mean six-foot-something of half-naked, tattooed, cigarette-smoking apocalypse with wet hair and no fucks to give.
Keal Hyrjon.
I didn't know his name in the morning. But now? Thanks to the moaning idiot he was fucking last night, I do. Thin walls.
Even thinner patience.
I wasn't trying to eavesdrop-swear to God-but it's kind of hard not to when the man next door sounds like he's auditioning for a porn remake of Les Misérables.
And between the headboard slamming, the "Harder, Keal-fuck-harder," and the throat-shredding final act, I was left with a name. A voice. And the horrifying realization that my dick had twitched the second I heard his. Not his partner's. His.
I knew how his back flexed when he reached for a plant.
I knew how his jaw tensed when he exhaled smoke.
And I knew, without a doubt, that Keal didn't give a single fuck about who heard what or who saw what. He wanted to be seen. Loudly. Shamelessly. That balcony wasn't a balcony-it was his goddamn stage.
And I was front row, palms sweating, heart on fire, pretending I didn't pay for the ticket with my sanity.
I didn't sleep.
Instead, I tossed. Turned. Fought my own hands.
I shoved a pillow over my face.
Like that would help.
Like smothering the sound of Keal's deep groans would somehow scrub him from my brain.
I fumbled blindly for my earbuds, shoved them in, scrolled through every damn playlist I had—Bollywood sad bois, instrumental lo-fi, bone-shattering hip-hop, even ear-splitting electro-trash.
Nothing.
Nothing worked.
Keal's voice leaked in anyway.
Like the universe was punishing me for sins I don't know I committed.
The guy had begged—voice wrecked, body shameless. Called himself Keal's slut, cried for cock like it was his only salvation.
I tore the earbuds out and launched my phone across the mattress.
This isn't happening.
This is a nightmare.
This is homesickness, anxiety, maybe low blood sugar. Not… this.
I curled in on myself, fists clenched, heartbeat slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.
Don't think it. Don't imagine it. Don't fucking feel it.
I rolled over.
Then again.
Then again.
My skin was too tight. My boxers felt like torture. My cock pulsed like a traitor with no loyalty. I slammed my fist against the bed—once, hard, like I could bruise temptation out of my bones.
No. I wasn't going to do this.
I closed my eyes and whispered verses I hadn't touched since high school.
Begged God to erase the images in my head.
To make it stop.
To make me stop.
But Keal's voice didn't leave.
It just… shifted.
Now it was saying my name.
Beg for it, Ezran…
And that was the moment something cracked.
Maybe the wall.
Maybe my will.
Maybe me.
---
🔞🔞🔞
The phone's screen glared 3:12 a.m., its light a cruel spotlight on my pathetic state. I staggered into the bathroom, the cold tile biting my bare feet, each step a slap of reality I couldn't escape. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel, locking me in with my guilt. No light. I didn't deserve it. Didn't want to face the mirror and see the disgusting fuck staring back, eyes wild, sweat dripping down my temples, cock already straining against my boxers like a traitor begging to be caught.
My hands shook as I leaned over the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain until my knuckles screamed. My breath was a mess, shallow and jagged, my chest tight with a need I despised. My dick throbbed, hot and heavy, leaking through the fabric, a wet spot spreading like evidence of my blasphemy. I tried to stop, tried to lie to myself, my voice a hoarse whisper in the dark.
"It's just stress," I rasped, the words sour and useless. "It's just loneliness. It's just the shock of moving."
Bullshit. It was Keal. His name was a fucking brand on my brain, seared in by that voice-low, rough, dripping with control. I could still hear him through the walls, every word a knife twisting in my gut. "Keal, harder, please... oh my god, yes yes," the guy had whined, his voice raw with desperation. And Keal's response-fuck, it had gutted me. "You want harder? Then beg for it. Show me what a slut you're for my cock." And the guy did, sobbing, "Please, Keal, I'm your slut, I need your cock, fuck me, please," his words a humiliating surrender that had set my blood on fire.
I didn't know shit about gay sex. Never let myself think it, never dared look it up, never let the word "gay" even form in my head. It was forbidden, a one-way ticket to hell in my world. But now, my brain was a porn reel I couldn't shut off. It wasn't the other guy begging anymore. It was me. Me, on my four, ass up, Keal's hands gripping my hips so hard they'd bruise, his voice a growl in my ear. "Beg for it, Ezran," he'd say, and in my head, I was, my voice a broken mess, pleading for something I didn't even understand.
"Fuck," I groaned, my hand betraying me, ripping my boxers down so fast they tore at the seam. My cock sprang free, rock-hard, the tip glistening with precum, veins pulsing like they were angry. I gripped it, my fist tight, the first stroke a brutal shock that made my hips buck and my breath hiss. I braced my other hand on the sink, my arm trembling, my head hanging low like I was bowing to my own damnation.
My strokes were frantic, slick with precum, the wet sound of it loud and filthy in the silence. I pumped my cock hard, my grip punishing, my thumb dragging over the slit, smearing the mess and sending sparks up my spine. I bit my lip until it bled, trying to stay quiet, but a choked moan slipped out, then another, needy and pathetic. Keal's voice was everywhere, that "Tell me what a slut you're for my cock" looping in my head, and I pictured him-his tattooed chest heaving, his wet hair clinging to his neck, his eyes locked on mine as he fucked me.
I didn't know how it worked, but I imagined it, raw and obscene. Him behind me, his cock-thick, heavy, slick-pushing into my ass, stretching me open, the burn making me wild. "Beg," he'd growl, and in my head, I did, my voice hoarse: "Please, Keal, I'm your cockslut, fuck me, fuck me harder, please." My hips snapped forward, fucking my fist like it was him, my balls tight and aching, my thighs trembling. I pictured his hands on me, one gripping my throat, the other spanking my ass red, his voice mocking, "Look at you, Ezran, such a desperate little whore."
I hated myself, every stroke a reminder of how fucked I was. I was raised to be better, to want women, to be normal. This was wrong-sick, a betrayal of everything I was supposed to be. But I couldn't stop, my hand a blur, my cock leaking so much it dripped down my balls, splattering the tile. "I'm sorry," I gasped, tears stinging my eyes, but my body didn't care, chasing the edge with a hunger that made me want to puke.
"Fuck-Keal-please" I whimpered, his name a prayer I shouldn't say. My orgasm exploded, a violent, shattering wave that tore a sob from my throat the second he ordered his partner in that sin wrapped growl, "Come for me. Show me what a good slut you are." Cum shot from my cock, thick ropes splattering my hand, the sink, the floor, hot and sticky, marking me like a criminal. My knees buckled, my body convulsing as I milked every pulse, my fist slick with my own mess, my breath a broken wail. It was the hardest I'd ever come, a pleasure so intense it felt like a blade, cutting me open.
Then it was over.
The shame hit like a freight train, crushing my chest, choking me. I slumped against the wall, my cock softening, still dripping, my hand coated in cum, the smell of it thick and damning. I stared at the mess, my breath hitching, my stomach lurching so hard I gagged, dry on my lip. I'd jerked to a man. Imagined Keal fucking my ass, owning me, breaking me, while I begged like a whore. I was a monster, a failure, everything my family'd spit on.
I turned on the faucet, the water roaring, and scrubbed my hands until they bled, the soap stinging like holy water on a demon. I grabbed toilet paper, scrubbing the floor, the sink, my thighs, my softening- anywhere, frantic, like I could wipe out the truth. But Keal was in my soul now, his smirk, his tattoos, his voice, and no scrubbing would make me clean.
I collapsed on the tile, knees to chest, head buried in my arms, shaking. This wasn't a fluke. This was me, cracking open, and Keal was the fucking fault line.
---
"It's just stress."
"It's just loneliness."
"It's just the shock of moving."
But none of that explained why I came harder than I had in months.
Or why I felt like throwing up after.
---
Morning came like a slap to the face.
To bright. Too loud. Too fucking real.
I dragged myself into the kitchen, shirtless, eyes half-shut, hair sticking up like I'd fought my demons and lost. My flatmate wasn't due to move in for another week, which was good-he didn't need to see the wreckage that was me.
I poured a cup of lukewarm coffee and stepped onto the balcony.
The same balcony where everything had gone to hell.
And guess who was still allergic to shirts?
Him.
Keal stood there like nothing had happened. Like the walls hadn't screamed his name last night. Like he hadn't just carved his existence into the back of my eyelids. Like he hadn't made me do shit I never knew existed. Cigarette between his fingers. Music playing faintly behind him-some upbeat synth-pop that made no goddamn sense coming from a man who looked like he'd chain-smoke through a funeral and flirt with the widow.
And then-
he came out.
The guy from last night.
Bare-chested. Still marked up from the fuckfest. Eyes sleepy, lips swollen, body language screaming claimed. He walked out like he belonged there, like he'd done this a thousand times before, like this wasn't a casual hookup but a goddamn tradition.
He slid his arms around Keal from behind.
Kissed his shoulder.
Smiled into his skin like he owned it.
My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles cracked.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't-
Keal looked.
Right at me.
His head tilted, brow raised like he'd caught me mid-sin.
"Morning, neighbor?"
He said, voice rough and stained with smoke reminding me the shameful act I was engaged in last night.
I choked on my coffee. Cough. Gag. Regret. Immediate full-body cringe.
"Hey,"
I rasped, eyes jerking away from his chest to the cracked concrete between us.
He grinned.
Of course he fucking did.
"You moved in yesterday, right?"
I nodded, because apparently I had a death wish.
"Cool. I'm Keal."
He didn't offer a hand. Just leaned on the railing, letting his nameless bedwarmer drape over him like a cheap luxury coat. He was still watching me with that look-the kind that peeled your skin off layer by layer and dared you to pretend you liked it.
"I'm Ezran."
"Ezran"
He repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like it was something he'd taste later.
"Nice. You look like a science guy."
I blinked.
"Uh. I am."
"Yeah, you've got that whole don't-talk-to-me-I-have-midterms vibe."
I should've walked away.
Should've shut the door.
Should've scrubbed my brain with bleach.
Instead, I stayed. Like a dumbass. Like a moth to a shirtless, sarcastic, possibly bisexual flame.
And in my world?
That word doesn't exist. There is no word like that.
Because men only like women.
Women only like men.
Period.
No commas. No exceptions. No room to breathe.
Keal took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the tin can at his feet. Bullseye. Then he turned to the guy still wrapped around him and whispered something I couldn't hear-but it made him laugh.
And then, just like that, Keal nodded at me.
Like this was normal.
Like we were normal.
And he walked inside.
I stood there a minute longer, face numb, coffee forgotten.
Then I went back in.
And slammed the door.
Because now he had a name.
And that made him real.
And real things?
Real things fucking ruin you.
----
THANK YOU FOR READING.
[This is my first story. Please leave comments and let me know if you're enjoying it. I'll update regularly.]