Beauty & The Jock - Part 12

Beauty & The Jock - Part 12

Alabama

--------------Aaron’s POV---------------

Everyone in this story is 18+

The plane rattled through a pocket of rough air, my knee bouncing like it had its own heartbeat. I fished my phone from the seat pocket to kill the nerves, thumb hovering over the home screen. A UMich logo blinked from a half-open tab. I swiped it away. I opened the photos app instead, and there we were: last visit in L.A. Kyle’s arm slung around my neck at Venice Beach, both of us sunburned and laughing, salt crusting our hair. Scrolled further, his dorm selfie after practice, hair damp and wild, that cocky grin that always made my chest tight. Then the one he’d sent just for me: him sprawled on his single bed, hand wrapped around his delicious cock, foreskin peeled back to reveal the flushed head beading clear, caption thinking of you. My breath caught sharp, warmth flooding low, jeans straining as I hardened halfway just from the image. I shifted in the narrow seat, debating the bathroom for a quick release, palm pressing discreet to ease the ache.

No. Save it. Every drop for him, every second of buildup for when I finally had him to myself again.

Birmingham-Shuttlesworth airport was a ghost town compared to LAX, two gates, one baggage carousel creaking slow, the air thick with fried chicken from a kiosk and that humid Southern cling. But I didn’t care as I saw him, Kyle leaned against a concrete pillar, hoodie zipped halfway, cap backward, eyes scanning the trickle of passengers until they locked on me. I dropped my backpack mid-stride and crashed into him, his arms catching me like always, lifting until my feet left the ground, my legs wrapping his hips on instinct. Our kiss hit immediate, messy and deep, tongues sliding hungry, his stubble scraping my chin raw. He tasted like spearmint gum and him, smelled like cedar deodorant and the musky trace of practice still clinging to his skin. My hands fisted his hoodie, his gripped my ass firm through denim, the airport blurring into white noise around us.

“Missed you,” I panted against his mouth, not letting go, my weight perfect in his hold.

“Missed you more,” he growled, setting me down but keeping one hand tangled in my hair, the other cupping my neck. His rental truck sat crooked in the short-term lot, engine rumbling as we peeled out, the drive to campus was pure torture. His hand rested high on my thigh, fingers inching under the hem of my shorts, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there until I squirmed. My palm traced his neck, nails scraping the buzzed fade, both of us breathing hard, the AC blasting cold but doing nothing for the heat building between us.

◆◆◆

His dorm was empty as promised, roommates vanished for the weekend, the hallway echoing with our footsteps. Door slammed, lock clicked, and we were on each other before the sound faded. Hoodies hit the floor in a heap, jeans shoved down frantic, his single bed creaking as I pushed him back onto the thin mattress. The room smelled like stale pizza mixed with cleaning polish, posters of Michigan Wolverines peeling at the corners. I straddled his hips, mouths fused, his hands roaming my chest, pinching nipples until I hissed and arched. He flipped us sudden, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, kissing down my throat, teeth grazing collarbone hard enough to leave marks. His free hand dove between us, fingers already wet with spit, circling my hole before pressing in, the stretch sharp and sweet, inner walls fluttering as he worked me open slow.

He shifted, knees nudging my thighs wider, and pressed forward, the blunt crown nudging my opening, pushing past the tight clutch in one steady drive. The burn bloomed fierce, melting to bliss as he sank deep, pelvis flush to my ass, his heavy balls already glued against my skin. He moved steady at first, bed frame banging the cinderblock wall, each thrust dragging fire along my nerves, his crown battering that spot until sparks lit behind my eyes. I wrapped legs high around his waist, heels digging his back, urging faster, the slap of skin echoing loud in the small room. His hand pumped my own cock in time, palm twisting over the head, thumb smearing the wetness there until pressure became almost unbearable. I shattered first, semen jetting across my stomach in thick ropes, splattering up to my chest, body clamping vise-tight around him. He followed with a rough exhale, flooding my depths with surge after surge, warmth overflowing to drip down my thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath us.

We panted, laughing breathy into each other’s necks, his forehead pressed to mine, sweat cooling on our skin. “Your turn,” I whispered, rolling us so I straddled him again, his eyes dark and eager, legs spreading wide without hesitation. I prepped him careful, fingers slick with our mixed mess, scissoring slow until he arched, breath hitching sharp, hips rocking up to chase more. “Ready?” I asked, voice husky, and he nodded frantic, hands clawing my thighs.

I pushed in gradual, the clutch of him velvet and fierce, inner heat gripping every inch as I sank deep, his walls fluttering wild around me. He gasped my name, nails raking my arms, leaving red trails that stung sweet. I moved experimental at first, shallow rolls that dragged along his nerves, then deeper, angle sharp to grind his spot until his eyes rolled back. The rhythm built frantic, bed springs screaming protest, his body meeting every plunge, thighs quivering. His hand wrapped himself, stroking fast, foreskin bunching and unfurling with each twist, the head dark and beading heavy. He unraveled sudden, cum jetting across his chest in endless ropes, splattering up to his neck, even after he'd filled me minutes ago, the volume absurd and perfect. My own surge flooding his innards deep, warmth mixing as we moved through the peak, kisses sloppy and desperate, his legs locked tight around my waist.

We collapsed together, sweat-slick and spent, his head on my chest, my fingers carding his damp hair, the room spinning slow. “That felt amazing,” he whispered, tracing the mess on his skin with a grin, smearing it playful across his abs.

“I told you,” I said, nipping his ear, both of us laughing into another kiss. The dorm smelled like us now, the weekend ours, Alabama's weight forgotten for these stolen days.

◆◆◆

Saturday night, we cleaned up and headed out, Kyle looking handsome in a crisp button-down that hugged his shoulders, me in a fitted tee and jeans that felt too tight under the humid air. He’d picked a low-key barbecue joint off campus, the kind with picnic tables and string lights, neon beer signs buzzing in the windows. We kept it low-key compared to L.A, no hand-holding on the walk over, just shoulders brushing, his pinky grazing mine when no one looked. The lot was packed with trucks, a few lifted high with MAGA stickers and gun racks glinting under the floodlights. A group of guys in camo caps lounged by the door, open-carrying like it was casual, their stares heavy as we passed. Kyle’s jaw ticked, but he nodded polite, voice steady. “Evenin’.” They grunted back, eyes lingering, and I felt my skin prickle, the easy vibe from L.A. gone.

Inside, the place smelled like hickory smoke and sweet tea, country music twanging from speakers. We grabbed a corner booth, knees knocking under the table, his foot hooking mine subtle. He ordered ribs, I got brisket, and we split fries, his fingers stealing mine when he thought no one watched. The conversation flowed easy as it always did with Kyle lately, him teasing my “fancy L.A. palate,” me mocking his obsession with hot sauce. “You put that on cereal, I swear,” I laughed, and he grinned, wiping sauce from his lip with a thumb I wanted to lick clean.

Then some his teammates rolled in, three linemen built like refrigerators, spotting Kyle immediate. “Reynolds! Thought you were hibernating.” They slid into the booth uninvited, beers clunking the table. The banter started light, play calls, last game’s fumble, but it shifted quick, their voices louder, elbows jostling. “So this your study buddy?” one asked, eyebrow arched at me, the word dripping. Kyle’s smile stayed, but his hand found my knee under the table, squeezing warning. “This is Aaron.,” he said, voice even.

“What a little cutie?” another snorted, leaning in. “What, you do his nails between snaps?” They laughed, the sound sharp, male bravado thick as the smoke. Kyle chuckled along, but I felt the edge, the way they crowded him, tested him. “He keeps me pretty,” Kyle shot back, winking at me, but his grip tightened on my leg. I forced a smile, but it tasted fake, the air suddenly too small.

We paid quick, escaping into the night, the gravel crunching under our shoes as we walked back to campus. The MAGA trucks rumbled past, headlights sweeping, and we kept a careful foot apart, the silence heavy. Halfway to the dorms, under a streetlamp buzzing yellow, Kyle stopped, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.

“Sorry, Aaron. I don’t really fit here,” he said quiet, voice raw. “Football’s fine, coach loves me, numbers don’t lie. But the rest…” He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter. “At first it was cool, locker room jokes, whatever. Then my roommate saw my laptop, that selfie of us at the from back home. Didn’t say shit, but everything changed. No more invites to the lake house, no more ‘bro’ hugs. They don’t cross the line, exactly, just… keep me at arm’s length. Like I’m still on the team, but not in it.”

My throat tightened, a tear pricking hot. I stepped closer, risking the empty street, and took his hand. “You deserve better than arm’s length.”

He looked at me, eyes glassy under the lamp. “I know. Just… didn’t expect it to feel this lonely.”

We continued walking, our footsteps syncing on the cracked sidewalk. Kyle's hand brushed mine once, twice, then stayed away. My chest ached for him, the way he'd forced that laugh, the subtle slump in his shoulders. We didn't speak until he suddenly veered left instead of up towards the dorms, tugging my sleeve toward the stadium gates. "Come on," he said, voice low, nerves flickering in his eyes. "One more thing."

The field was locked, but Kyle knew the side entrance, the chain loose enough to slip through. Empty stands rose dark around us, the turf soft under sneakers, goalposts stark against the star-scattered sky. He led me to the 50-yard line, flopping onto his back with a sigh, arms spread like he owned the place. I lay beside him, our shoulders touching, the grass cool and damp through my shirt.

For a minute, just crickets and distant traffic. Then he rolled to face me, propping on an elbow, fingers fidgeting with a blade of turf. "So... that was rough tonight." His voice cracked a little, the big QB suddenly small. "The guys, the looks. I hate that you saw it."

"I hate that you live it," I said, turning to meet his gaze, the stadium lights off but the moon painting his face silver.

He swallowed, eyes darting to the stars, then back. "I, uh... I don't know how to say this without sounding like a dumbass." A nervous laugh escaped, his hand finding mine, squeezing too tight. "Do you want to be my boyfriend? Like, for real? We've basically made long-distance work this far, so... should we just do it?"

The words hung there, simple and huge, my heart slamming against ribs. I pushed up, straddling his hips in one motion, knees sinking into the turf on either side of him. His eyes widened, hands instinctively gripping my thighs. I leaned down, kissing him soft but sure, tasting barbecue sauce and honesty. "Dummy," I whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his grin. "You've been my boyfriend since summer. But yeah, let's make it official. Here in freaking Alabama, why not?"

We laughed, the sound echoing off empty bleachers, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me down into another kiss, deeper this time, tongues lazy and sweet. I bummed hard when we broke apart, reality creeping back. "I fly out tomorrow," I said, forehead pressed to his. "Back to L.A. And... neither place feels like us. Not the influencers, not the sideways stares."

He nodded, eyes searching mine, the stars reflecting in them. We lay back down, side by side on the 50-yard line, fingers laced, staring up at the endless sky.

"So... Ann Arbor?" I asked, voice barely above the crickets.

Kyle smiled, small but certain. "Yeah. Ann Arbor."