E4 | The Straight Gym Bro Brad Who Lets Me Crash at His Place

This fictional story features only adult characters (18+) and portrays consensual interactions throughout.

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I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen.

My head was pounding. Not from drinking, just from being completely wrecked by whatever fever dream I’d had last night. My body felt heavy, drained. I blinked at the sunlight cutting through the edge of the blackout curtains. The room was quiet. The sheets across the other bed were rumpled but empty. Brad was already up.

I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off me. My morning wood was unapologetically real, and my phone was still on my chest from where it had dropped at some point during my Twitter spiral. I didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed. My body had one setting this morning, and it was used.

I made my way into the kitchen, hoodie thrown over yesterday’s shirt, trying not to look like I’d spent the whole night thinking about Brad’s cock straining inside a red jockstrap.

Brad stood barefoot at the stove, shirtless of course, cooking eggs with one hand and holding a mug of coffee in the other. His back muscles shifted as he flipped the pan. He looked over his shoulder when he heard me.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

I scratched the back of my neck and gave a half-laugh. “Barely slept.”

He smirked and nodded, like he already knew. “Yeah, I figured. Heard you tossing and turning all night.”

My stomach clenched.

I opened the fridge and grabbed the orange juice, trying to stay casual. “It was just hot. Room felt like a furnace.”

There was a long pause behind me.

Then Brad said, “Yeah, I bet. Scrolling through my secret Twitter with a hand down your underwear all night’ll do that.”

I froze.

The juice bottle was still in my hand, unopened. My heart jumped to my throat. I turned slowly and saw him watching me from over his coffee cup, eyes glinting with way too much satisfaction.

I opened my mouth. “What… what are you talking about?”

Brad raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “You accidentally liked that old thirst trap of mine on Insta. You know, the one with the sweatpants and no underwear. Two minutes later, I get a new Twitter follower.“ One I’ve never seen before. Same username you used back when we used to game all the time: FrostSignal.”

“I didn’t mean to—” I started, voice thin, caught somewhere between panic and arousal.

Brad cut me off with a shrug, casual as hell, like none of this was surprising to him. “I’m not mad,” he said. “Just surprised you held out this long.”

I blinked. “Held out for what?”

He turned off the stove, slid eggs onto a plate like it was any normal morning, and leaned back against the counter with his coffee. The mug sat easy in one hand. The other rested on the curve of his hip, right above the waistband of those goddamn boxer-briefs. His abs glinted in the sunlight pouring through the window. His smirk was borderline devastating.

“My content,” he said simply. “You clearly wanted it.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My brain scrambled for a joke, a deflection, something to grab onto—but I was spinning. Hard.

Brad tilted his head, watching me. Then, without rushing, he stepped forward. Just a few feet. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell the hint of his body wash still clinging to his skin.

“I’m straight, by the way,” he added casually, like we were talking about the weather. “But you’d be surprised how many dudes would follow you on Twitter if you post the right kind of pics.”

My stomach flipped.

“Some even pay me for custom shots,” he went on, taking another sip. “That jockstrap you found? Sent to me by some guy named ‘Steven69X.’ Said red’s his favorite color. Paid extra for pics of me working out in it.”

He chuckled, totally unbothered.

“Whatever it takes,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, every muscle flexing under his skin. “I enjoy the attention. Gotta keep the audience happy, right?”

Then he looked at me again. Something darker in his gaze now. Something teasing.

Brad looked me over like he was deciding something, then tilted his head just a little, the edge of a grin playing at his lips.

“I’ve been thinking…” he said, voice light, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “It’s probably time I post some new content soon.”

He set his coffee down, stretched his arms behind his head, every muscle tightening in the morning light like it knew I was watching.

“Steven sent me a more revealing jockstrap last week,” Brad said with a smirk, his voice dripping with amusement. “Bright blue, tight as hell. He wants me to do some squats in it—real sweaty locker room vibes.” He chuckled. “Dudes are insane, but hey… if they’re paying and I enjoy the attention he gives me."

I swallowed, still not sure if this was a joke or a test or… something else.

Then Brad stepped forward, slow and deliberate, stopping just a few feet from where I stood frozen.

“Wanna help me shoot?” he asked, like it was no big deal at all.

But it was.

And we both knew it.

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