What Malik knew, originally, was that Carl, 21, was a senior at the state college, majoring in English because it sounded less intimidating than the sciences, though he spent more time doodling in the margins of his notebooks than writing essays. Pale-skinned and wiry, with a mop of sandy hair that perpetually fell into his hazel eyes. Nice clothes, nail polish, obviously gay, and a serious anchoring for weed.
That’s how Malik met him. It started freshman year when a client of Malik's and classmate of Carl's sent Carl to "the guy down by the gas station" with a crumpled twenty. Malik was there, leaning against the graffiti-tagged wall, all easy confidence in a hoodie and ripped jeans. Nineteen, with a faded haircut and clean-shaven face, he had a smile that Carl enjoyed: sharp, bright, and a little dangerous. Carl had stammered through his first buy, handing over the cash with shaking hands, but Malik had just laughed, tossed him a baggie of weed, and said, “Relax, man, I don’t bite.” After that, Carl kept coming back, as much for the weed as for the hot guy selling it. Eventually, Malik trusted him enough as a client to allow him into his apartment, and they started hanging out a bit more.
Months blurred into a routine. Carl texting Malik, meeting at odd hours, lingering longer each time to trade small talk about music or video games. Malik worked the night shift at a warehouse, slinging boxes when he wasn’t slinging weed. But one chilly evening, Carl found Malik pacing outside the gas station, no hoodie, just a thin T-shirt and a duffel bag over his shoulder. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a tight-lipped frown. “Lost the gig earlier this month,” Malik muttered when Carl asked, kicking at a pebble. “Boss found out I'm selling, fired me on the spot. Didn't find anything in time. Landlord’s kicking me out tomorrow, too. No job, not enough money from weed, so no rent, you know how it goes.” Carl stood there, clutching his baggie, heart thumping as Malik’s words sank in, a wild idea forming in the back of his mind.
Then Carl said, “You could stay with me.” His voice cracked, too high, and he winced, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Malik’s eyebrows shot up. Though he knew nothing of Carl's family, Malik knew enough that Carl didn’t have to cram into a dorm with a roommate who’d steal his ramen. Instead, he lived off-campus in a modest one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from the college. Still, he wasn't expecting this from a client, even a regular one that he'd had for two years.
Carl rushed on. “Just, uh, on the couch. It’s comfy. For as long as you need. No big deal.”
Malik straightened, his tough-guy mask slipped for a second. “Nah, man, that's cool of you, but I can’t do that, I'm not about to impose on you like some charity case.”
“You wouldn’t be. I mean it. I don’t — I don’t have friends, really. Just the guys who call me Carly and laugh about it. I’d like the company. Seriously.” He dared a glance up, meeting Malik’s eyes, dark and searching.
Malik rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “I can’t pay rent, Carly. Not now. I’m broke as hell without the warehouse gig.”
Carl shrugged, smiling. “I don’t need rent. My folks cover my expenses. Just… come and stay, yeah. At least for tonight?”
Malik let out a long breath, looking from Carl to the duffel bag at his feet. He could call on his friends, yes. Dre would squeeze him into his shitty studio, Kev would talk his mother into letting his old friend stay, but Jamal was also couch surfing and probably already imposing on them… “Alright,” Malik said finally, hefting the bag over his shoulder. “But just till I figure shit out.”
Carl nodded back, heart thudding against his ribs as they turned toward his apartment, the night air buzzing with something unspoken.
The walk back to Carl’s apartment was quiet at first, the only sounds the crunch of gravel under their shoes and the distant hum of traffic. Malik kept his eyes forward, duffel bag bouncing against his hip, his jaw tight like he was chewing on something he couldn’t spit out. After a block, he broke the silence, his voice low resolved. “Just a few days, alright? I’ll figure something out, hit up some guys I know, get back on my feet. I don’t like leaning on people, man. Feels wrong.” He tried to hide the shame in his words as best he could.
Malik shifted the bag to his other shoulder, glancing at Carl sidelong. “You need anything done around the place? I’m not useless. I can fix a leaky faucet, patch a wall, whatever. I don’t wanna just sit around like some freeloader.”
Carl looked at him strange. “Nah, it’s all good. Nothing’s broken. I mean, unless you count my inability to cook, but that’s not fixable. We'll do a lot of takeout.”
Malik dared not say anything. The guy was offering a couch, and also takeout, and not taking no for an answer. Malik resolved to pay for food as much as he could.
When they reached the apartment, Carl opened to reveal the familiar clutter of his living room : a couch and an armchair around a coffee table, pillows askew, a half-empty mug forgotten on the dining table on the way to the kitchen. Malik stepped inside, dropping his bag by the couch with a thud, taking it all in with a slow nod. “Nice spot,” he said, almost to himself, then looked at Carl, arms crossed like he was still waiting for the catch.
Carl closed the door behind them, kicking off his sneakers and gesturing vaguely at the space. “You’re welcome here, man. For real. I wasn’t kidding about the company thing. It gets… quiet, you know?” He met Malik’s gaze, steady despite the flush creeping up his neck, and added, “You, being here, it’s enough. I get someone to talk to before bed,” and he laughed, awkwardly.
Malik hesitated, rubbing a hand over his fade, then let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Alright, Carl,” he said, softer now, the fight draining out of him. “Thanks.” He sank onto the couch, testing it with a bounce, and Carl busied himself grabbing a spare blanket from the closet, explaining from his bedroom how to pull the couch into a bed.
A few hours later, after takeout fried chicken Carl had paid acting like Malik was a simple guest, and a quantity of weed inhaled Malik didn't think Carl had in him to take, he reflected as he fell asleep on the couch, that he had possible fallen on his feet for a few days.
*
The next few days settled into an odd, tentative rhythm. Carl shuffled off to morning lectures, his backpack slung over one shoulder, leaving Malik alone in the apartment with a borrowed key and a promise to lock up if he went out. Malik spent his days job hunting. Pounding the pavement, hitting up old contacts, scrolling through listings on Carl’s old laptop while he was in class with the more recent one, but the city seemed to have turned its back on him. Warehouses weren’t hiring, corner stores wanted experience he didn’t have, and his weed gig barely covered daily food, let alone rent. By the time Carl trudged home, Malik was usually sprawled on the couch, frustration etched into the lines of his face, though he’d always muster a “Yo, how’s it going?” like he hadn’t spent the day striking out. He made up for it, in his mind, by providing weed out of his personal stash, and giving Carl a discount that ate up own his own earnings. But he couldn't do anything else, and didn't feel like doing nothing at all.
Evenings were their share time. Carl, seemingly made of money, would order takeout after making Malik debate and choose what he wanted, while Malik argued it should be what Carl wanted, or at least an agreement between them both. They ate a lot of pizzas. Talk flowed easy. Malik ranting about shitty bosses, Carl mumbling about pretentious professors, both laughing over dumb memes they’d seen online and had started sharing to each other during the day. It was comfortable, domestic in a way neither expected, like they’d stumbled into a routine without meaning to.
Malik started seeing things in Carl. Hips swaying just a little, hands fluttering when he talked. His body had a softness to it, a femininity that he didn't express in being outright effeminate. And there was something else: the way Carl’s eyes lingered on him sometimes, quick and shy, before darting away like he’d been caught. It wasn’t creepy, though, and never leering or pushy. Carl kept his distance, respectful to a fault, always asking if Malik needed the bathroom first or if the couch was okay, like he was terrified of overstepping. Malik clocked the crush a mile away, but Carl never acted on it, and that restraint made Malik relax around him more than he’d admit. Carl never asked for anything. Malik was convinced if he'd asked for the bed, Carl would sleep on the couch. That if he'd not taken the initiative to find cleaning supplies and contribute to the apartment's standing, Carl would neither have noticed nor cared.
Over the days, Malik noticed something else: Carl’s phone buzzed a lot. Too much. It’d light up during dinner or while they smoked, a string of texts always coming faster as the evening turned to night, that made Carl’s jaw tighten and his fingers increase in speed as he typed longer and longer replies. “Who’s that?” Malik asked one night, exhaling a plume of smoke, keeping it casual.
Carl shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Just a friend. Kinda clingy these days. Not a lot of understanding from this here friend.” His tone was sharp, annoyed, and Malik raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. The messages kept coming, though, and Carl’s irritation grew, a quiet storm brewing behind his usual meekness, one Malik figured he’d hear more about eventually. For now, he let it slide, passing the joint back and turning up the music to drown out the buzz.
As the days stretched into a week, then two, the apartment started feeling less like Carl’s solo hideout and more like a shared space. The couch became Malik’s domain, littered with his hoodie and a crumpled blanket, while Carl’s habits—leaving mugs everywhere, smoking in the shower during with a hair mask on—stopped feeling like quirks and just became part of the vibe. They got comfortable, slipping into a rhythm where Malik would tease Carl about ordering takeout again, and Carl would shoot back with a rare, sarcastic quip that made Malik grin. The evenings stretched longer, the two of them sprawled out, passing a joint or splitting a pizza, the air thick with smoke and laughter.
Carl started spending more, casually at first. He’d show up with extra weed, claiming a friend “hooked him up,” though Malik suspected Carl was seeing another dealer on the side keep the stash flowing without Malik dipping into his earnings. “Save your money,” Carl said one night, tossing a fat baggie onto the coffee table, his tone light but firm. “You’ll need it when you’re back on your feet.”
Malik squinted at him, starting to piece together just how well-off Carl’s family must be: off-campus apartment, no loans, no stress about bills, good quality clothes without logos from Italian designers he'd never heard about. It wasn’t flaunting, though; Carl just seemed to want Malik to have a breather, and that quiet generosity chipped away at Malik’s pride bit by bit.
It came to a head one afternoon when they were chilling on the couch, both scrolling, and Carl noticed Malik eyeing a pair of sleek black kicks in an Instagram post, sneakers that were way out of his league, even when he had a job. “Man, those are clean,” he muttered, more to himself.
Carl caught it. “You want them?” Carl asked, already pulling out his phone.
Malik laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, I can’t swing that. Maybe when I’m not broke.”
Carl just smiled, polite, like Malik was missing the obvious. “I can.” Before Malik could argue, Carl was tapping away on his phone, finding and ordering the shoes right there, saying “Since I do your laundry I know your sock size, at least,” muttering about express shipping.
Malik stared, caught between gratitude and a flicker of unease at how easy it was for Carl to drop cash like that.
Carl set his phone down on the coffee table, the screen still lit with the order confirmation. Malik glanced at it, still dumbfounded by Carl's decision to spoil him, when a new text popped up, from someone named Tyson. The words hit like a punch: “How long are you gonna hold out on me? I need that pussy.”
Malik froze, eyes flicking to Carl, who was rummaging in the kitchen, oblivious.
Another buzz, another text: “You can’t ignore me forever, Carly.”
Malik’s stomach twisted, part shock, part something protective he didn’t expect. He cleared his throat, loud enough to get Carl’s attention, and nodded at the phone. “Yo, Carl… who’s Tyson?” Carl’s head snapped up, his face paling as he saw the screen, and for the first time since Malik moved in, the air between them felt heavy with something unsaid. Not information that was there but which Malik was too polite to unravel, like Carl's rich parents, but an actual secret kept since he'd moved in.
Carl hesitated, his fingers twisting the hem of his cardigan as he stood in the kitchen, the weight of Malik’s question pinning him in place. He took a shaky breath, then crossed to the living room, sinking onto the edge of the couch beside Malik. “Tyson’s… uh, one of the guys I'm seeing,” he started, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. “There’s three of them, actually. Regular thing. Tyson’s the one I’ve seen the longest, three years now, more than the others.” He risked a glance at Malik, who sat stiff, jaw tight, waiting. “They come here, usually. This place is like… I mean, one has a girlfriend, one has a roommate, Tyson has baby mamas coming in and out, and all three are DL, you know? But since you moved in, I’ve been dodging them. Didn’t wanna… I dunno, make you uncomfortable or anything.”
Malik leaned back, running a hand over his fade, the words sinking in like stones. Three guys. Regular. Carl’s apartment as some kind of hookup hub. It didn’t fit the shy, fumbling guy he’d gotten used to, and yet it did: those quick, nervous glances, the way he bent over backwards to keep things easy between them. Malik’s gut churned, a mix of shock and something uglier. Shame. “Shit, man,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fucking up your whole life, aren’t I? Crashing here, cockblocking you without even knowing it. I should bounce, let you do your thing. Call my friends, yeah, see if they can take me in.” He started to stand to gather up his things, but Carl’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“No, Malik, please,” Carl said, voice cracking, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re not messing anything up. I want you here. I need you here. Those guys, they’re just… it’s not the same. I like them so much, yeah, but… you staying means something too, okay?” He let go, hands dropping to his lap, trembling slightly. “I can deal with Tyson. I’ve been ignoring him anyway. He’s pushy, but he’ll get over it. Just don’t leave.”
Malik sank back down, torn. Carl’s desperation hit him hard, peeling back the tough-guy shell he’d been clinging to. He rubbed his face, exhaling hard. “Alright, I’ll stay,” he said finally, voice low. “But you gotta live your life, Carly. You don’t need to put it on hold for me. Invite Tyson over or whoever. You’ve got the bedroom—I’ll be out here, couch is fine. Won’t hear a damn thing with my headphones on. I can even go out, if they don't stay over to sleep.” He forced a half-smile, trying to lighten it, though his chest felt tight.
Carl blinked, caught off guard, then nodded slowly, a flush creeping up his neck. “Okay,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “If you’re sure.” Malik just shrugged, masking the tangle of feelings he couldn’t name, and grabbed the remote to flip on the TV, letting the noise fill the space where words failed them.
Malik shifted on the couch, the TV droning in the background as he studied Carl, still perched on the edge. The air felt thick, charged with the weight of Carl’s confession, and Malik couldn’t let it sit. “So why’d you hide it?” he asked, keeping his tone even, curious more than judging. “All this with Tyson and the others, why act like it’s some big secret? And how come you don’t have, like, a real boyfriend? Someone steady?”
Carl let out a small, bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not a secret, exactly. Just… didn’t think you’d wanna know. And steady?” He shook his head, eyes distant. “These guys… Tyson, Jake, Ryan, they’re all straight. Or say they are. I’m just… convenient. They use me when they want something—sex, mostly, but also other stuff. Jake crashes here when his girl kicks him out, just wants someone to fuck who won't bother him. Ryan’s quieter, just a nice guy. Tyson, though…” Carl paused, a faint shiver running through him. “He’s the roughest. And the most tender. Gets creative, pushes harder than the others, but he’s also… intense. Watches me, checks in before, during and after, because he cares. It’s how I like things. But in the end, it's just that, things. It's just sex.”
Malik frowned, processing it, the pieces clicking into place, Carl’s shyness, his eagerness to please, the way he lit up when Malik stuck around. “So that’s why you offered for me to stay here,” Malik said, half to himself. “Just because I needed it.”
Carl nodded, meeting his gaze for once, steady and raw. “Yeah. I was like, shit, I've known this guy for years and I can help, so why not? Maybe it's a little for me, because mom and dad don't even check on my spending, and I couldn't have looked myself in the mirror if I'd just let you… struggle.”
The room went quiet, the TV’s chatter fading into white noise. Malik leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wrestling with the mix of shame and respect swirling in his chest. Carl wasn’t weak, not like he’d first thought. Just more complicated than he looked.
Before Malik could find words, Carl grabbed his phone from the table, brushing off the heaviness like it was dust. “Hey,” he said, voice lighter now, a shy grin tugging at his lips. “Those shoes are coming tomorrow. Want me to get you some clothes to match? Jeans, a jacket, whatever you’re into, just scroll and choose. My treat.” He waved the phone, already opening an app, and Malik couldn’t help but huff a laugh, the tension breaking.
“You’re something else, Carl,” he said, shaking his head, but he didn’t say really no.
Malik tried to argue, half-hearted protests spilling out as Carl scrolled through his phone, pulling up sleek jackets and jeans that cost more than Malik’s last paycheck and telling him to choose. “You don’t gotta do this, man,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m good with what I’ve got.”
But Carl just waved him off, eyes glinting with a stubborn spark Malik hadn’t seen before. “Nope, you’re not talking me out of it. Pick something you like.”
Malik sighed, leaning over to peer at the screen, pointing at a pair of dark jeans and a hoodie.
Carl snorted, nudging him with an elbow. “Come on, stop picking the bargain bin stuff. I'm not broke; you are.” It was a tease, but it landed, and Malik relented, picking out a leather jacket and some fitted pants, the total creeping past $500.
As they scrolled and debated, with Malik vetoing anything too flashy and Carl sneaking in new Calvin Klein boxers “for fun”, Malik found himself sliding closer on the couch, their shoulders brushing, the phone balanced between them. Carl hit order with a triumphant grin, like he’d won a prize, and Malik couldn’t help but smile back, warmth spreading through him at Carl’s quiet glee. “You’re ridiculous,” Malik muttered, but there was no bite to it. He grabbed the last joint from the coffee table, lit it, and after a couple puffs, he tugged Carl closer, slinging an arm around his narrow shoulders. Carl stiffened for a second, then melted into it, head resting against Malik’s shoulder as they smoked in lazy silence.
Eventually, the joint burned down to a stub, and Malik stubbed it out, turning to Carl. “Bedtime, yeah?” he said, voice soft, and Carl nodded, untangling himself with a sleepy hum. He shuffled to his bedroom, pausing at the door to glance back while Malik stretched out on the couch, pulling the blanket over himself. They both knew what loomed: Tyson. Carl hadn’t texted him yet, but the inevitability hung there.
Malik lay on the couch, the blanket tangled around his legs, the apartment silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside. His mind wouldn’t settle, replaying the night. Carl’s glee as he ordered the clothes, the way he’d nestled against him. Malik’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a what-if: Carl taking care of him for good. No more hustling, no more scraping by, just Carl’s steady, easy generosity, the apartment a permanent haven. The idea sank into him, warm and heavy, and he shifted, suddenly aware of the tightness in his boxers, an erection pressing against the fabric.
He exhaled sharply, hand slipping beneath the blanket. He tried to steer his mind elsewhere, like his exes, random porn stars, but the images flickered and faded, hollow. His grip tightened, strokes quickening, and then Carl slipped back in: Carl handing him the shoes, Carl’s voice saying “my treat,” Carl’s shy smile as the total hit past $500 like a goal reached. And finally, his mind found the profile picture of Tyson that he'd seen earlier on the phone, an couldn't help but picture it. Carl manhandled by a large black man. Malik’s breath hitched, a low groan escaping as he came, the release sharp and unexpected, tied to that thought alone. He lay there, panting, staring at the dark ceiling, the realization settling in like a stone.
*
The next evening, Carl burst through the apartment door, arms loaded with packages, his face lit with that shy, triumphant grin Malik was starting to recognize. “Delivery day,” he announced, dumping the boxes on the coffee table. “And, uh, Tyson’s coming over tonight. Texted him earlier. Figured it’s time. Had to tell him about but he's cool because, and I can't quote in full, you're another, uh, n-word.”
Malik nodded, masking the flicker of unease in his chest with a quick “Cool,” and a laugh, and grabbed one of the packages Carl was handing him with puppy-like glee, eager to change the subject for now.
Malik tore open the boxes, the leather jacket, sleek and black, followed by the jeans and those sharp shoes, leaving the one obviously containing the Calvins for later. With a smile, he turned to Carl. “Since you're being so nice, you deserve to see if they fit, yeah?”
He kicked off his worn sneakers and shed his hoodie, peeling down to his shirt and boxers right there in the living room. It was the first time he’d stripped so close to Carl, without the distance between couche and bedroom door as a buffer, and he caught the way Carl’s eyes widened for a split second before darting away, cheeks pink. Malik pulled on the jeans, snug in all the right places, then the jacket, zipping it halfway before slipping into the shoes. He spun around, arms out. “Well? How’s it looking?”
“You look so good, man. Like, too good to just sit here. You should go out, hit a bar with your boys, pick up a girl or something.”
Malik laughed, brushing it off with a “Nah, I’m good.”
Carl was already digging into his wallet, pulling out a crisp stack of bills and shoving it into Malik’s hand. “Seriously, take it. Go have fun. It’d be weird, you on the couch while me and Tyson…” He trailed off, flushing harder, but the point landed.
Malik looked into his hands and counted $200. He took a breath to say he couldn't take that, literal cash in hand, but something must have been on his face and Carl looked at him like a puppy again. “Alright, fine,” he said finally, pocketing the money. “Guess I’ll find some pussy tonight. Been a minute anyway.” He flashed a grin he didn’t fully feel, telling himself it was true, that he’d hit the streets and chase something normal after weeks of this strange, charged limbo with Carl. Carl just nodded, relieved, and Malik grabbed his key, the new clothes fitting him like a second, wealthier skin as he headed out.
Malik slouched at the bar after paying for the drinks and failing to enjoy his own beer. His boys, Dre, Jamal, and Kev, crowded around him, their laughter loud over the thumping bass. The new leather jacket clung to his shoulders, the jeans hugging his legs, and it didn’t take long for the questions to start. “Yo, where’d you get this drip, fam?” Dre asked, flicking the jacket’s collar. “You moved into coke now or what?” Jamal chimed in, grinning. “Did you crashed with some chick, some sugar mama hookin’ you up?” from Kev. Malik bristled, swatting their hands away. “Ain’t like that. Just a friend helping.” The sharpness of his tone didn't matter because they'd known him since childhood, and any friend who had a one-bedroom and money for designer clothes could only be new and noteworthy.
He tried to play along. Scanning the room for girls, nodding at his friend's crude pickup lines, but his head wasn’t in it. Two hours dragged by, unsatisfying and hollow. Every time a woman brushed past or shot him a look, his mind snapped back to Carl. He wanted to meet these women, wanted to flirt, fuck, something, even had several erections because of a few in the bar tonight, but his mind was not following his body's plan for the night. He always ended up in the same place: Carl, right now, in that apartment, with Tyson. Malik’s grip tightened on the bottle, images flickering unbidden: Carl’s slight frame, all wiry limbs and soft edges, pinned under some hulking dude who liked it rough. How did he take it? Malik wondered, a knot forming in his gut. Carl was so small—barely 5’7”, skinny as hell. The thought twisted, equal parts fascination and genuine worry.
He downed the last of his beer, the buzz doing nothing to quiet his head. “I’m out,” he muttered, ignoring his boys’ protests as he shoved through the crowd and into the cool night air. Walking back, Malik wrestled with why he was going home. He barely knew Carl in the real sense : for a few weeks, not years, and Carl had been handling Tyson forever, clearly fine with it. But the idea of Carl hurting, or overwhelmed, gnawed at him, a protective itch he didn’t expect. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe he just wanted to know who was Tyson, what kind of man what made Carl tick?
He wasn’t jealous. He’d never been into guys, never thought about it, but Carl was different, slipping under his skin in ways he couldn’t shake. The clothes, the weed, the easy domesticity and late night talks, it all blurred into something Malik couldn’t define. Worry for a friend, yeah, but also a pull, a need to see what Carl surrendered to. By the time he reached the apartment building, his breath was shallow, and he paused at the door, key in hand, wondering what he’d find, and what he wanted to find, on the other side.
Malik slipped the key into the lock, easing the apartment door open as quietly as he could. The sound hit him before he even stepped inside. Loud, raw, unmistakable. Carl’s bedroom door was cracked, and the noises spilled out: grunts, gasps, the rhythmic creak of the bedframe.
A voice that could only be Tyson's cut through, low and commanding, laced with a filthy edge. “That’s it, Carly, take it like a good girl… fuck, you’re so still so fucking tight.” A sharp slap followed, then another.
Carl’s voice, high and breathy, rang out in response. “Thank you, baby, thank you, fuck, yes, daddy, fuck…” The gratitude was real, fervent, like he meant every word.
Malik froze for a second, the air thick with it, then forced his legs to move, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He dropped onto the couch, the leather jacket and sneakers off, and fumbled for the weed on the coffee table, Carl’s stash, always there for him now. His hands shook as he rolled a joint, the sounds from the bedroom pounding in his ears.
More spanking, a wet smack, then Tyson again: “Yeah, keep riding it, baby girl, keep moving them hips… fuck, you love being my slut, don’t you…” Carl’s moans answered, submissive and eager, cementing what Malik already knew : Carly was the bottom, every inch of him yielding, and Tyson reveled in turning him into something soft, something feminine, with every word.
Malik lit the joint, inhaling deep, the smoke curling into his lungs as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The high crept in, dulling the edges, but it didn’t touch the tension coiling lower, an erection he couldn’t ignore. He shifted, uncomfortable, confused. Why was this happening? He wasn’t into guys—he’d told himself that a hundred times—but the sounds, Carl’s voice, the power in Tyson’s dirty talk, it all stirred something. Was it Carl’s surrender? The way he thanked Tyson, so fucking earnest? Or was it knowing Carl could take it rough, brutal, and still come out wanting more? Malik exhaled a plume of smoke, letting it haze the room, and waited, hard and restless, for the noise to stop.
Malik sank deeper into the couch as the hours dragged on, the joint long burned out, its ash scattered on the table. The sounds from Carl’s room didn’t let up. Tyson’s growls, Carl’s pleading whimpers, the relentless slap of flesh. It went on and on, a marathon of raw, unfiltered fucking that left Malik’s head spinning. He couldn’t tune it out, couldn’t stop listening, even as his body betrayed him with that stubborn, pulsing erection. Eventually, the heat and the weed wore him down. He slid under the blanket in just his boxers, the fabric cool against his skin. The noises blurred into a hypnotic drone, and he drifted off, exhaustion pulling him under.
He jolted awake around 4 a.m., voices growing louder, sharper. The bedroom door creaked open, and footsteps padded across the hardwood. Malik rubbed his eyes, groggy, as Carl and Tyson emerged, heading for the bathroom. Tyson’s voice cut through the haze, gruff and casual: “Come on, Carly, watch me piss, keep those pretty eyes on me.” Carl mumbled something soft, obedient, and the bathroom door clicked shut. Malik sat up, blanket pooling around his waist, heart thudding as the reality of the night settled back in. A minute later, the door swung open again, and they stepped into the living room.
“Uh… hey,” Malik said, voice rough with sleep, shy in a way he wasn’t used to. His eyes flicked up, and he froze.
Tyson wasn’t what he’d pictured. Tall and skinny, maybe 22, with thin braids, tattoos snaking over his arms and chest, gold teeth glinting in the dim light and a smile that could light up a stadium. He was stark naked, his cock swinging heavy and enormous, unapologetic, still slick from whatever they’d been doing. Malik couldn't help estimate eight inches, based on his own, and chided himself for his porn-brain.
Carl trailed behind Tyson, a mess in a half-torn girl’s nightie, pink, frilly, streaked with cum, clinging to his slight frame like a second skin. His sandy hair was wild, eyes glassy, a faint smile lingering as he glanced at Malik.
Tyson’s gaze landed on him, sharp and assessing, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You the roommate, huh?” he said, voice deep, unbothered by his own nudity. Hands on his hips like he was on vacation, looking out the horizon on the beach.
Carl shuffled closer, tugging at the nightie like he could hide the evidence, and murmured, “Yeah, that’s Malik.”
Malik nodded, throat dry, caught between the shock of Tyson’s presence and the surreal sight of Carl, feminized and wrecked, yet somehow still glowing. Malik clutched the blanket tighter, unsure what to say next.
Tyson grinned, gold teeth flashing as he waved a hand dismissively. “My bad about the noise, fam,” he said, his tone easy and warm, like they were just neighbors chatting. “Carly here’s too damn shy to warn a nigga, had me waiting two weeks on pussy for a mysterious reason that was just you, but she’s a good girl in the end, took all of my loads.” He ruffled Carl’s hair, possessive but playful, and Carl ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck under the torn nightie.
Malik forced a small laugh, shifting under the blanket to keep his lingering erection out of sight, still in just his boxers but too rattled to bother dressing.
The three of them settled in the living room, Tyson sprawling across the armchair like he owned it, Carl perched on his lap, and Malik on the couch, blanket bunched around him like a lotus, passing a fresh joint from the stash. The smoke curled up, easing the weirdness a bit as they toked in turns.
Tyson was tactile, one hand always on Carl, squeezing his thigh, tugging him closer, his touch staking a claim without apology. “Man, I wear her out,” Tyson bragged, exhaling a thick cloud, pride dripping from every word. He seemed to alternate the gender which he assigned to Carl, or Carly. “Got her screaming my name all night, ain’t nobody hitting it like me. Right, Carly?”
Carl nodded, meek but sincere, mumbling, “Yeah, you’re the best, that's why I keep you,” and Tyson chuckled, smug.
They talked for a while, the conversation drifting. Tyson asked about Malik’s old job and new gear, Malik dodging the details, keeping it vague. He seemed neither curious nor uninterested, just a man who'd nutted and was making conversation with his hook-up's roommate.
Then Tyson leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, you fucked Carly yet, bruh? She’s right here for the taking.”
The question landed like a brick, the air tensing fast. Malik stiffened, caught off guard, his throat tightening as he fumbled for an answer.
Carl jumped in before he could, voice sleepy but resolute. “No, it’s not like that, Tyson, stop. Malik’s just… he’s my friend.”
Tyson laughed, loud and unbothered, slapping Carl’s knee. “Aight, aight, just fucking with y’all. Chill.” He stood, raising Carl with him, stretched, his nakedness still shameless, and hooked an arm around Carl’s waist. “C’mon, Carly, round three—or four, shit, I lost count. Night, Malik. Nice to meet you, nigga.” He threw a lazy salute, steering Carl back toward the bedroom, the nightie swaying as they went.
Carl shot Malik a quick, apologetic look over his shoulder before the door clicked shut, leaving Malik alone again, joint smoldering in his hand, the ache in his boxers back with a vengeance, and his head a mess of questions.
Author's note
Hi y'all, if you've been following my other stories, sorry for the sudden change of pace. More chapters of the Vinnie story will come out eventually, and the Dealer story will also grow again. However I paused them to write another other story, one titled Feed my girl which is now 100k words of semi-traumatizing insanity that's as of yet mostly unreadable. As this one was too dark, and the Vinnie story was too dark, I was kinda depressed. So I have written ten chapters (for now) of this lower stakes, less heavy story. It will feature many types of sex scene in a gradual escalation as Malik discovers more and more about Carl, his world, his men, his own friends and himself. I hope you'll stick with it despite the low sexual content of this opening chapter. Next chapters will introduce Malik's friends, Jake then Ryan, and how all these people will interact.
