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The floor is cold.
A chill seeps through the material of Sam’s shorts, stings against his bare feet. It’s dark, and he’s sitting on the tile floor.
The blonde exhales, breath warm. He blinks, eyes focusing on his hand in front of him. His hand that’s still sticky. Sam shifts uncomfortably, feeling how his boxers stick to him with his dried cum.
“Fuck,” he rasps shakily, and almost choked whisper. The blonde sticky hand curls into a fist, threading his other hand through his hair pulling at the roots as he squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head until his forehead rests heavily on his knees, “fuck.”
He can’t—
He can’t do that again. Ever.
The thought is desperate, impossibly important, echoing in his mind.
Sam swallows thickly, lifting his head, staring aimlessly into the darkness. His eyes focus on the barest hint of light coming from the shower room’s tiny window, how it reflects against the floor. Guilt burns through him, making his skin feel impossibly hot in the oddly cool bathroom. It’s acidic.
The blonde’s fingernails dig into the palm of his hand, a dirty reminder.
He blinks slowly, and a flash of just a few minutes before is on the back of his eyelids.
Colby.
Sam huffs, a breathy sound of disbelief, shaking his head to rid himself of the thought. But the flashes of his best friend, innocent and unaware, pale skin peeking out of loose clothes, while Sam—Sam—
The blonde bites down on his lip in distress. The slight tang of copper joining the acidic taste of guilt in his mouth.
Why him?
Why this?
His arms loop around his knees, and he buries his face into his legs.
Sam crossed the line, a fundamental boundary of trust and honesty. Why? Fucking why? He has a girlfriend, a beautiful kind girlfriend who loved him. Who’d probably be down to let him touch her in her sleep, but instead…
Never again.
The thought is harsh, slicing through his running mind. He stands, a small tremble running through his body. The blonde steps up to the sink, not looking himself in the mirror as he turns the water too hot. The faucet squeaks.
Never again.
Sam pumps the soap, the top clicking harshly under the weight of his palm. He scrubs at his hands harshly with it, skin turning red from the friction. He washes his hands. Once. Twice.
Never again.
It was a mistake.
His skin burns from the water and rubbing, and he finally turns off the faucet. Sam stands there breath shallow, staring at his wet hands. He finally looks up, meeting his weary gaze in the mirror. Shame and fear pool in his eyes. Fear of what? His actions? Getting caught? Or…
Sam shakes his head, running a clean hand through his hair. He turns from his reflection, slowly and cautiously opening the bathroom door. The hallway is still dark, still stagnant, just like it was before.
He creeps out of the bathroom, eyes darting to Colby’s door. Almost instantly, something churns in his gut at the sight. He licks his dry lips, and turns away. The blonde quietly opens his own door. He shuffles in, and slowly closes the door until it makes a soft click.
Sam goes for his closet first, peeling off his ruined boxers and shorts. It makes him wince, and he holds the fabric with disdain. He uses a tissue to clean himself up, and it feels almost useless. The blonde bunches up the offending clothes, stuffing them down the hamper in his closet—all the way to the bottom.
He pulls on a clean pair of shorts and boxers, fresh and clean, then makes his way to his bed—eyeing the tousled blankets. Evidence of his previous struggle, the very thing that made him go too far. Sam slips into bed, lying the same way he did before, staring up at the ceiling. Except he wasn’t horny anymore, his brain was almost eerily quiet, just one thought on his mind.
No one can ever know. It was a mistake. Never again.
Sam blinks heavily, the aftermath of orgasm, a strange, hollow exhaustion, makes him feel bleary and disoriented—his body feels utterly satisfied, and his mind…
The blonde curls up on his side, staring at the wall. He lets the darkness claim him, eyes closing by themselves, eventually falling into a tense sleep.
ㅤ
ㅤ
Then, Sam’s eyes spring open.
The morning sun lights up his room, and the sounds of the Traphouse greet him. The blonde wipes at his eyes,a groan escaping his lips. Mind still filled with the fog of sleep. The moment his brain registers he’s awake, the blonde freezes, breath hitching.
A lingering taste of shame is on his tongue. Sam sits up, listening to the sounds of the house. He can’t hear Colby moving around in the bathroom, so he’s either still asleep or downstairs. The blonde sits there, hesitant, eyes staring at his own door, now much less daunting in the sunlight.
The sound of Circa howling snaps him out of his wake-up daze.
Sam paws at his phone, grabbing it from where he abandoned it on his bed.
10:32 AM
He needs to get up. To be normal.
Sam drags himself out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. He goes through the motions of his morning routine, not daring to look at Colby’s closed door, just five feet away from his.
He makes his way downstairs, idly listening to conversation between Elton and Corey as he makes a sandwich in the kitchen—when the sound of familiar footsteps coming down the stairs makes him pause. His blood runs cold.
Sam can’t look at him. He idly moves his butter knife against the piece of bread in his hand.
“Morning Colby,” Elton greets almost distractedly, holding Circa’s leash in hand. Circa trots up to the brunette, her paws clicking on the floor.
“Yo,” Corey also greets, tone equally as casual.
The blonde hesitantly, fearfully, flicks his eyes up.
And there he is.
With messy hair falling over his forehead, usually tired and almost puffy eyes—the brunette yawns, stretching. His tank top rides up and exposes the very same skin Sam was eyeing last night. The same curves he had traced with his eyes, and nearly touched with his hand, just hours before. A fresh wave of shame and something else runs hot through the blonde.
Colby blinks sleepily, a slow gentle blink that holds no suspicion, no malice, no knowledge, “mornin’, guys.” His voice was still thick from waking up, a low rumble.
He shuffles further into the kitchen without a care in the world. Sam, butter knife still in hand, watches Colby’s back as he opens a cabinet, gathering his own supplies for breakfast. The blonde’s heart races, pulse thrumming in his ears.
Then, Colby places his items on the counter next to Sam. He offers the blonde a small genuine smile, “yo, mornin’.”
Colby’s eyes, big and blue, are utterly, terribly innocent, holding no suspicion, no fear, nothing to indicate that something happened. They’re bright, unmarred. Unaware of what happened hours ago.
Sam can barely speak.
“Hey,” he offers weakly, quickly refocusing on his sandwich. The three other men in the kitchen start to chat. The sound rings in Sam’s ears, paranoia creeping up through his veins. He keeps on sneaking glances at Colby, watching how his body language remains casual, open.
Elton ends up leaving, and Colby turns his attention to Sam. The blonde sits at the small table, nibbling at his sandwich quietly. Colby takes a sip of his drink, eyebrows furrowing.
“You good, Sam?” He asks, like the kind best friend he is.
Sam swallows hard, “yeah man. I’m… good. Just tired.” The lie makes his heart hammer.
Colby just gives him one of his warm smiles, “same.” The man yawns again, then takes another sip of his drink. He walks past Sam, to the foyer, “see you later.”
“See you,” his response is almost swallowed by the ambiance. He lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
He didn’t know.
Something joins the feeling of guilt, which is slowly easing out of his system. Yet, the feeling of slight paranoia, the thought of him, of anyone knowing that something happened, sticks to him like glue.
It makes him off, getting another comment about his increased quietness. His eyes flickering between Colby and nothing, mumbling answers to him all morning, avoiding his eyes. The deep seated feeling of, what if…? keeping him from falling into the easy banter.
The feeling didn’t go away until late afternoon. The casual chaos of the Traphouse helping him settle back to the normal Sam. He’s able to flash easy and honest grins to Colby, keeping himself in the same space. They’re in the living room, the one they actually use, mainly to play Rocket League. Him and the roommates are settled on the couch. The blonde has a controller in hand.
He glances over to Colby who scrolls mindlessly on his phone, occasionally cracking a smile at Corey and Aaron’s antics.
The blonde lets himself trace over Colby’s form. From his tucked up knees, leaning in the armrest of the couch, wearing shorts with a hoodie on his head. Completely relaxed.
Something strikes him then, hot and coiling and sick but gratifying. It threatens to bring a quirk of an unkind smile to his lips.
Oh.
He got away with it.
ㅤ
ㅤ
It’s days later. Seeing Katrina that second day after, made something funny and bad hit him again. It felt like a betrayal, yet he’s the one who did the betraying. She doesn’t know. No one knows. Both Kat and Colby give him easy and loving smiles, something that he’s almost undeserving of. It’s like nothing ever happened. Sam hopes to keep it that way.
But…
Sam turns in his bed, tangling himself more in his bedsheets. He presses his face to his pillow, the fabric warm with the heat of his skin. A breathy and annoyed groan leaves his lips.
Fuck.
He’s horny again.
Really, really horny.
The blonde bites his lip, hand twisting in the sheets. He’s trying not to think about it, he’s really really trying. The phantom feeling of that dark need thrumming through him, and he can hear his pulse against the pillow. Tha-thump, tha-thump.
Sam turns over again, curling his body. He’d thought about what happened nearly everyday, the simmering guilt and shame not letting him forget. Kat’s touch, gentle and sensual on his skin on the nights she’d stay over creating only momentary distractions.
He didn’t jack off again, he didn’t need to. That lingering sick darkness satisfying him more than any ordinary sex. It’s been almost two weeks since then.
But…
Tonight, he tosses and turns in his bed, it’s not nearly as late as it was that night, making him grit his teeth in annoyance. His fingers twitch with need.
Don’t think about it, he warns himself, don’t.
But the thought makes its way into his mind anyway. It makes something warm and dark bloom in his chest, falling into the pit of his stomach, settling the sick warmth there. He’s fucked.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, fingers twitching as the image of Colby’s sleeping form flashes behind his eyelids. It burns him, making his skin feel hot. His dick—already throbbing—twitches hard.
“Fuck,” he bites his lip, hips shifting to press his dick against his matress. His mind conjures more images, more thoughts with no hesitation. His feet fidget, wanting to pull his body off the mattress and out to the hallway, across that five feet of space.
Sam tries to ignore it, he doesn’t even want to touch himself. He just wants to sleep, forget about it all. Forget the sound of Colby’s soft breathing, the image of the rise and fall of his chest, the hotness that flashed through him as he came—blinding and better than any other orgasm. How his dick felt so sensitive, the sight of the curve of Colby’s spine and exposed skin feeling so different then the peeks he’d get during the day. Different in the quiet darkness of the night.
The taboo.
It’s worse, it’s so much worse. Because once was once, right? That’s what he tells himself. One mistake, one a moment of weakness. He can justify that, eventually, maybe. A single, isolated incident. But to do it again?
Sam pants hotly, opening his eyes. He swings himself out of bed, body taking far too confident footsteps to his door, opening it and stepping out into the dark hallway.
His heart hammers in his chest, ear straining to hear any noise.
The blonde takes a step forward and pauses, caught between the alarm bells in the back of his mind and that dark thrill humming in the rest of his body.
Never again.
The words echo in his mind.
Never again.
He steps back, a physical recoil. His dick protests in his shorts, a constant almost painful throb.
He can’t, he can’t do this. He shouldn’t.
But the thought isn’t laced with guilt this time. It’s more of a fact, something known. Something he acknowledges with a chilling calm. It’s like something switches in him, that dark feeling overtaking any other emotion, making the tension in his shoulders dissipate, replaced by a strange and focused resolve. He shouldn’t do this. But…
It doesn’t mean he won’t.
There’s a—what he would later realize with horror—curious feeling of something close to apathy. An indifference to the possible consequences. The feeling makes him step forward again, expression not with a grin or weary eyes, but an almost predatory focus. His eyes, impossibly dark for a bright blue, stare at the doorknob across from him.
He listens once more, trying to hear if anyone is up, his eyes briefly glancing down the hallway. Then he walks up to Colby’s door. His hand, trembling only with the overwhelming rush of blood pulsing in his groin, closes around the cool metal. He turns it slowly, carefully, familiarly, a soft click signaling its easy release.
Sam pushes the door open, stepping inside Colby’s room. He casually but carefully closes the door behind him, it’s a slow process, body practically vibrating with anticipation.
The blonde stands there, right by the door, a dark shadow in the moonlit room.
Colby was asleep, chest visibly rising and falling. He’s laying on his stomach, hands clutching his pillow, brown hair tousled against it. His blanket covers his legs, and his preferred outfit of choice—loose tank top and shorts—hits Sam with deja vu.
He looked so peaceful, so innocent, so utterly unaware. The sight makes something churn in Sam, a rush of heat washing through him. His teeth scrape against his bottom lip, dark blue eyes not leaving his best friend’s sleeping form.
Sam dips his hand under his waistband and boxers, teasing his skin. A soft and lustful sigh leaves his lips, quiet as an exhale. His eyes flutter with the sensation.
The blonde firmly gripes himself in his shorts, taking the time to slowly stroke. His dick—that was already throbbing—perks up with every touch, full and hard. Sam licks his lips, settling his weight against the wall.
He gives himself a few more teasing strokes, the occasional puff of air leaving him, nothing more than a whisper in the quiet room, easily drowned out by Colby’s breathing. The back of Sam’s head rests against the cool wall behind him, his hips twitching and pushing into his hand with fine movements.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Sam pushes off the wall. His bare feet make almost no sound as he takes a step, then another. They trace the path to the same place he stood that night, just beside Colby’s bed, close enough for his shorts to brush against the mattress.
Close enough to feel Colby’s warmth.
“Mmph, fuck,” Sam whispers, stroking himself faster. His gaze drifts over Colby’s body, tracing the curve of his spine beneath the thin fabric of his tank top, the exposed expanse of skin of his back. The urge to touch, to feel that warmth against his own skin, is a physical ache.
“Fuck, Colby,” the name spills out his lips unintentionally, it makes his head swim. He bites on his lip hard, muffling a moan. His palm caresses the underside of his cock, fingers flicking over the head and back down, sticky with precome.
His mind is starting to get hazy, and he swallows thickly, trying to rid himself of a desperate whine that seems to attempt to escape. The blonde’s body sways forward, the sound of his skin sliding being accentuated by Colby’s steady breathing.
Sam tilts his head, eyes falling to Colby’s face. The brunette’s lips are slightly parted, eyes closed softly, hair falling messily over his forehead.
His tank top is askew, riding up to expose his back. His shorts are loose, a small part of the band of his boxers peeking through. The rest of him, from the ass down, is covered in his blankets.
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, knees touching the fabric of Colby’s mattress. He was so close now, hovering over Colby, his body practically vibrating with the intensity of his arousal. The blonde’s eyes trail back to the exposed skin of the small of Colby’s back.
A heat was building in him, strong and boiling.
Maybe even touching…
The fantasy hits him, his other hand, the one not already occupied, twitches. Then slowly, irresistibly, it reaches out.
His fingertips brush against the bunched up fabric of Colby’s tank top, just above the exposed skin. It was the lightest, most fleeting touch—but it was enough.
A jolt shoots through Sam. His hand pulls back as if burned, a gasp choking out of him. His body freezes, hand closing around the base of his dick almost painfully. A sudden panic, sharp and utterly freezing compared to hot darkness, cuts through his horny haze.
Oh god. Oh god. What was he doing?
He actually…
Sam’s eyes are wide, bright with a hint of fear. His heart hammers, thumping against his chest, loud in his ears. His eyes flicker between Colby’s face and the place he shouldn’t have been. The brunette doesn’t stir, not even a breath out of place.
He actually touched him.
Something sick, actually sick and not that burning heat, crawls up his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing harshly through his nose. The blonde takes a deep shuddering breath, then another, trying to calm the frantic beat of his heart. His hands tremble, yet his dick is still annoyingly persistent.
He’s so fucked up, this is so fucked up.
Sam slowly opens his eyes, a preemptive wince on his expression, body tense. He should leave.
But…
The moment he opens his eyes, the sight of Colby, so close, so vulnerable, so perfectly there, makes something mingle with the disgust at himself. It makes a cocktail of emotion within him that makes his hands clammy.
He takes one more stabilizing deep breath, that sick feeling washing away and quickly replaced by that heat again, stronger, surging back with a vengeance.
He touched him.
Sam worries his lip, his thumb pressing against the base of his dick, slowly. His body twitches forward, free hand flexing its fingers.
Hesitantly, his hand moves out again, and he stops just before reaching his best friend’s pale skin.
He shouldn’t. But—
He was already here. He already touched him. The line already crossed.
Sam focuses on Colby’s expression, hand inching forward. The hand wrapped around his dick starts to move again, just as slow as his current actions.
A little more can't hurt, right? He already touched him…
This time, he was slower, more deliberate, his fingers tracing a path across the clothed area of Colby’s back. The fabric was soft, warm from Colby's body heat. A heavy moan, thick with desire threatens to escape his lips. He bites it back, jaw clenching, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
His strokes get faster, fingers pressing into the skin of his dick.
Sam keeps his fingers pressed lightly, feeling the subtle shift as Colby breathed.
“Fuck,” he breathes out.
Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he moves his fingers downwards. Towards the smallest bit of exposed skin between Colby’s tank top and the band of his shorts. His breath hitches, the tips of his fingers grazing the bare skin.
Colby was intoxicatingly warm.
It was electric, sending another jolt through Sam’s core. The brunette’s warmth seeps into Sam’s fingertips. He was soft, smooth, alive. Colby.
“C—” Sam gasps out, almost too loud. A low whimper escapes him.
His skin felt so warm, it felt like it was melting him. He could feel everything, the little bumps of his natural skin, the smallest hint of movement from his breathing. It was too much. It was everything he craved, everything he hated himself for craving.
The blonde unconsciously holds his breath, frantically stroking himself with his fingers pressed to his unconscious best friend’s skin. He moves them slightly, brushing with the smallest hint of pressure on the curve of Colby’s tailbone.
A deep moan escapes Sam, low and from his chest. The world narrows to this single point of contact, forbidden touch.
He feels like he’s drowning.
Small, insistent noises of pleasure roll out of him. He allows his thumb to press against Colby’s side, he can feel his fingers try and dig into the brunette’s skin.
His internal defenses—because he shouldn’t be doing this—painstakingly rebuilt over the past days, crumble. He was lost in the moment, the heat, the thrill, the dark feeling that encompasses him, the pure and unadulterated pleasure.
And it all comes to that white-hot point.
A blinding white-hot wave of pleasure, so intense it borders on pain, slams into him. He cums, hard, a guttural groan ripping from his throat. He barely manages to pull his hand back from Colby’s skin, yanking it away as if it was a hot iron—before biting down hard on his own palm, stifling the groan into a muffled whimper against the flesh of his hand. Eyes rolled back, knees threatening to buckle, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.
He feels dizzy, head spinning, orgasm washing through him. The blonde’s chest heaves, breaths coming in ragged uncontrollable gasps.
Sam blinks rapidly, vision swimming for a moment. The hand in his shorts shakes, loosely around him, warm and sticky. The blonde pulls his hand out his shorts, fingers rubbing at the stickiness absentmindedly. He’s already stepped back, having stumbled from the wave of pleasure.
His vision clears, readjusting to the darkness. The room snaps back into focus. His blue eyes stare at Colby’s sleeping form for a long, agonizing second.
He did it again.
His eyes find the spot he touched, fingertips still burning from the feeling.
The guilt, sharp and excruciating, pierces through him, colder than before.
He just did it again.
One second he’s looking at the rise and fall of Colby’s chest, the brunette’s expression still serene—the next he’s out in the hallway, and through his door.
He hears his lock click, and he stumbles into his bed, body shivering despite the burning feeling inside him. He swears he could still feel Colby on his fingertips. It lingers, like a searing brand.
The blonde lays on his stomach, face buried into his sheets, hands shaking.
Why?
Sam turns in his bed, staring up at his ceiling, eyes unblinking. His heart continues to pound, vibrating through his body. The creaks and groans of the Traphouse making him twitch. He’s stuck in an inbetween of satisfaction and wrongness.
Would Colby know?
Sam swallows thickly, body feeling impossibly antsy despite the release moments before. God, the release, it felt so fucking good.
The blonde closes his eyes, finding himself back in that moment again.
“Shit,” he groans, “shit.”
His mind races.
Sam lays there, staring into the darkness, replaying every second of his time in Colby’s room. He hates it. Hates how he enjoyed it so fucking much, hates how the image of Colby laying there gets his dick twitching again, hates how he can still feel Colby on his skin like he knows.
Minutes bleed into hours, the darkness outside his window slowly giving way to the first faint hints of grey.
He’s not sure if he even falls asleep, but the next morning he wakes with a start. Eyes heavy and pulse still too rapid. The memory of the night before wasn’t even a memory, it felt like he was still living in it.
The blonde allows himself to lay there, listening to the sounds of the Traphouse. His phone vibrates, and he forces himself to take a look, eyes already straining. It’s Kat.
Kat.
Sam gives a deep, shaky sigh, then rolls out of bed.
He grabs fresh clothes, and opens his door, peering through the crack. Colby’s door is already open, so he’s probably down stairs.
Colby.
He sneaks into the bathroom, washing himself off vigorously. It’s when he’s brushing his teeth that the linger taste of shame doesn’t seem to wash out. But, not just shame. Fear.
Once again, he needs to go downstairs, face him. After what he’s done? Looking was one thing… but touching? And he’s not even… into guys like that. What he did… it wasn’t like that right?
No, he wasn't gay. He had Kat. He loved Kat.
This was different, darker, it was…
Just different.
Sam plashes water onto his face, it drips into the sink. He looks himself in the eyes in the mirror. He looked fucked.
He doesn’t recognize himself.
The blonde scrubs his face dry, then makes his way downstairs.
He’s hidden between the corner of the turn of the stairs, staring at the foyer, listening to the roommates talk animatedly.
Colby’s voice, a deep and familiar rumble stands out.
Sam stands there, almost like a ghost—no, a shadow—feet not daring to take the last steps. The voices from the kitchen make his heart lurch.
He takes a deep breath.
He needs to act normal.
The blonde takes the last steps down, rounding the corner, not daring to stop in the archway because that’s weird. His eyes can the room, Colby was there, sitting at the island, laughing softly as Corey talks. He looks completely relaxed, completely normal, completely… oblivious.
Sam, who made his way to the cabinets, body turned to watch his roommates, just watches. Colby’s dark hair is still a little messy from sleep, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs.
The brunette glances back at Sam, greeting him. There was no tension in his shoulders, no suspicion in his gaze, that bright smile Sam doesn’t deserve on his lips.
Oh.
He got away with it. Again.
A strange, unsettling calm settles in his gut, slowly overriding the guilt and fear. It wasn't relief, not entirely. It was something darker, something colder. A small unholy satisfaction.
Sam greets him back with a stretched smile. He turns, grabbing a plate from the cabinets, hands still trembling slightly, but now it was a tremor of something other than fear.
He watches Colby out of the corner of his eye, an unsuspecting innocence in his eyes, his body, his everything. And a new thought comes to Sam’s mind, not as a flash of a fantasy, not as an unbidden memory—but something slow and concrete.
If he got away with it twice…
Could he do it again?