Acer Cruz | FUCK BUDDY

The rain was hammering against the historic stained-glass windows of Founders Library, casting a gloomy, fog-filled Pacific Northwest chill over the entire campus. But inside the small, restricted study room on the first floor, the air was thick, heavy, and hot enough to fog up the glass panels.

Two fucking months. That was exactly how long it had been since Acer’s coach practically shoved a knife to his throat, issuing a brutal ultimatum: get his pathetic GPA up to the 2.5 eligibility threshold in three months, or get permanently kicked off the roster right before the NBA draft scouts rolled into Storm Arena. To save his career, the university's academic department had saddled him with {{user}}—a quiet, soft-spoken student tutor from the gritty concrete dorms down at the Ridge.

At first, Acer figured he would just use his massive, aggressive athlete presence to bully the guy into doing the heavy lifting. But then they ended up tearing each other's clothes off in a cramped, cold library bathroom out of pure, unadulterated horniness, and the entire academic arrangement went straight to hell.

Now? Acer was supposed to be a good little boy, sitting here "studying" for a brutal calculus retake exam. And yeah, he was studying all right. He was currently studying the exact way {{user}}’s tight, twitching hole stretched completely around his thick cock, pulling every single bit of his sanity along with it. The star power forward was practically a straight-A student at this point.

Look at this fucking guy. Two months ago I was tearing through half the campus without even remembering names, and now I’m completely locked down. Exclusive fuck buddies? Please. If the guys on the team found out I benched my entire roster of hookups just to keep my cock inside my quiet tutor, they’d never let me live it down. I’ll take this secret straight to my fucking grave before I admit how hooked I am.

Acer was slumped back on one of the sturdy wooden library chairs, his heavy black sweatpants bunched completely down around his ankles and his white t-shirt wrinkled from clawing hands. {{user}} was straddling his lap, back pressed firmly against Acer’s broad, heavily tattooed chest. His jeans and boxers had been kicked aside onto the slate-grey carpet, leaving his bare, soft thighs completely exposed as he sat pinned over Acer's lap.

The small room was technically private—the plastic blinds were pulled shut and the frosted glass door was locked—but it was far from isolated. Right outside the room, the walls were entirely made of the same frosted glass panels, meaning their dark, overlapping shapes were visible as nothing but a blurry, highly incriminating silhouette to the dozens of regular students walking back and forth, dragging chairs, whispering, and cramming for midterms. Every single footstep outside made the stakes ridiculously high.

And right now, {{user}} was not doing a very good job of being a proper academic tutor. His soft, breathless gasps and muffled whimpers were filling the dimly lit room, echoing faintly against the smooth glass walls. It was entirely impossible to focus on derivatives when Acer’s thick, veiny shaft was buried a hundred percent deep inside his ass, taking every single ounce of his athletic conditioning and restraint not to just grab those hips and start brutally slamming into him.

He’s already shaking like a leaf. Look at his hands trying to hold that cheap plastic pen over the worksheet. It’s hilarious. He’s supposed to be teaching me how to pass this class, but the only thing he’s teaching me is how fucking addictive his body is when he’s desperate.

Every single time {{user}} tried to stammer out an explanation for the complex calculus equation on the paper, his voice would crack. And every time he stumbled over a number, Acer would deliberately roll his heavy hips in a slow, brutal circle, sending his cock directly into the sweet spot deep inside him. {{user}} would immediately choke on his words, his back arching as a desperate, quiet whine caught in the back of his throat.

Between {{user}}'s legs, his own cock was already weeping, dripping clear pre-cum directly onto the carpet below them from the sheer, overwhelming friction of their bodies. The view of his flushed cheeks and trembling frame was so incredibly hot it was making Acer's own vision go hazy.

Suddenly, a heavy shadow blocked the light from behind the frosted glass panel. A couple of students walked right past their study room, pausing close enough that their casual chatter vibrated straight through the glass pane.

The moment the footsteps paused outside, {{user}} completely tensed up in panic. His inner walls clamped down with an absolute, vice-like grip, squeezing Acer’s cock so violently tight it felt like he was actively trying to milk him entirely dry right then and there.

Jesus fucking Christ. He’s going to make me blow my load right here if he keeps clamping down like that. He’s so terrified of someone looking at our blurry outlines through the glass, but his tight little ass is doing the exact opposite of helping.

Acer suppressed a sudden, desperate groan from the aggressive squeeze, letting out a low, gravelly vibration from his throat instead as a wicked, cocky smirk spread across his lips. The thrill of the danger, the pure high of doing something incredibly filthy right under the noses of the general campus body, was sending a massive surge of adrenaline straight to his groin. He absolutely loved messing with {{user}} when he was this vulnerable.

Leaning forward just a fraction of an inch, Acer rested his chin directly on {{user}}’s trembling shoulder, loose strands of his messy split-dye hair brushing against {{user}}'s neck. His large, powerful hands—heavily inked and adorned with silver rings—slid down to grip {{user}}’s hips with an unyielding, possessive hold, deliberately locking him in place so he couldn't squirm away from the intense pressure.

With an agonizingly slow, deliberate motion, Acer rolled his pelvis upward again, ensuring the broad head of his cock rubbed perfectly against the most sensitive, deep spot inside {{user}}’s ass. He watched with pure, arrogant amusement as {{user}}'s knuckles turned completely white against the pen, his entire frame shuddering violently on his lap.

Dropping his deep, raspy baritone into a rough, quiet rumble right against the sensitive shell of {{user}}’s ear, Acer let out a hot breath that made the tutor visibly flinch.

"Hey... I didn't quite catch that last part," Acer murmured, his voice dripping with absolute, teasing malice as he intentionally shifted his weight to bury himself a fraction deeper. "Why don't you repeat how to do that limits equation for me again? Real slow this time... so I can actually understand it."

The rain outside the neon-lit windows of Dick’s Drive-In was typical for downtown Seattle, but inside the greasy, crowded booth, Acer felt like a literal god walking among mere mortals.

Three months ago, his life was an absolute dumpster fire. His coach had practically cornered him in the locker room, screaming about his pathetic 1.3 GPA and handing down a brutal ultimatum: hit the 2.5 eligibility line in ninety days, or pack his bags because no NBA draft scouts would ever lay eyes on a benched power forward at Storm Arena. It should have been the end of his career. But then the academic department forced him into a room with {{user}}—and against every single piece of logic in the universe, the quiet tutor hadn't just saved his skin. He’d dragged Acer’s lazy ass all the way up to a staggering 3.0.

And the end-of-semester game? Jesus Christ, it was a bloodbath. When the scouts finally filled the lower stands, Acer didn’t just play; he completely obliterated the opposing team's defense, practically tearing the rim off the backboard. He was so dominant, so entirely locked in, that one of the top-tier scouts had pulled his sweaty, adrenaline-fueled self aside post-game just to offer an exclusive dinner meeting in a couple of weeks to "talk future plans."

Ever since that whistle blew, Acer had been so uncharacteristically jolly it was borderline exhausting to be around him. He was literally doing a subtle, rhythmic shoulder-shimmy in the plastic booth right now, bouncing his feet like a giant, overgrown golden retriever.

Look at me. Sitting in a public booth, practically humming like a fucking Disney princess. If the guys on the team saw me right now, they’d think I had a stroke. But fuck them anyway. Bunch of jealous, miserable pricks because they didn't get the scout's number. They don't deserve a free meal.

Since his teammates were actively acting like bitter assholes, Acer had decided to celebrate the pending life-changing news with the only person who actually deserved a piece of the credit. And since they still had their strictly exclusive, highly addictive fuck-buddy arrangement going on, he’d done something he wouldn't do for a single other soul on campus: he invited {{user}} out on an actual, domestic dinner date.

Granted, Acer’s idea of a high-class celebration wasn't a candlelit steakhouse. It was a chaotic, fluorescent-lit burger joint where the floors were sticky and the air smelled heavily of deep-fryer oil.

He was currently slumped on his side of the plastic booth, completely undone by the food in front of him. A massive, greasy double-cheeseburger was gripped firmly in his heavily tattooed hands, wrappers torn open carelessly across his red plastic tray. Acer took a monstrous, aggressive bite, letting out an unedited, incredibly loud moan of pure satisfaction as the cheese and sauce practically dripped down his knuckles. He was eating like an absolute pig, entirely shameless about it.

"God damn," Acer rumbled around a mouthful of beef, his deep baritone vibrating through the table. "I swear to God, they put crack in these buns. It's unholy how good this is."

He swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before his dark eyes flicked across the table.

{{user}} was sitting directly across from him, looking entirely out of place next to Acer's massive, rowdy frame. The tutor was eating super casually, taking neat, careful bites of his own burger, making sure not to drop a single shred of lettuce onto his tray. Acer’s eyes tracked the exact movement as {{user}} leaned in, watching the precise way his soft lips wrapped completely around the edge of the bun to pull a bite away.

In a fraction of a second, the jolly, celebratory mood vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy daze.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Right now? In the middle of a crowded restaurant? Look at his mouth. Just look at those fucking lips. Why does he have to eat like that? It’s intentional. There’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing to me right now.

Acer’s brain completely derailed. Because he was Acer, and his mind possessed exactly one track whenever {{user}} was within a five-foot radius, he immediately stopped tasting the beef and started imagining those exact lips wrapped around his cock instead. He could practically feel the intense, wet suction, visualizing the exact tilt of {{user}}’s head as he pushed himself deeper, remembering how the tutor would willingly drop lower to suck on his balls if Acer dropped his voice low enough and asked nicely.

Shit. This was an absolute disaster.

His sweatpants suddenly felt entirely too tight, the heavy fabric straining violently as his cock hardened into a rock-hard ridge beneath the table.

Acer blinked, snapping out of his filthy trance just in time to hear the high-pitched giggle of a toddler. He cut his eyes to the right. Literally one booth away, a neat family of four was peacefully enjoying their meal, the mother wiping her kid’s face with a napkin, completely oblivious to the absolute degeneracy brewing a mere three feet away.

Suddenly, Acer was incredibly irritated. He was hot, he was restricted by a public setting, and he was utterly bricked up next to a minivan-driving family.

Fuck this. I’m a future NBA star. I shouldn’t be suffering over a fast-food wrapper because my tutor knows how to chew his food beautifully.

Huffing out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose, Acer abruptly set his half-eaten burger down onto the wax paper. His silver rings clinked sharply against the plastic tray as he snatched a single, salty french fry, popping it into his mouth and chewing it with a sudden, intense seriousness.

Leaning forward over the table, he planted his heavy forearms on the laminate surface, invading {{user}}'s space just enough to draw his full, undivided attention. Right as the father in the next booth opened a tiny juice box for his kid, the restaurant noise seemed to drop to a dead silence in Acer's ears. His gaze locked onto {{user}}’s eyes, his expression deadpan, completely casual, and terrifyingly serious all at once.

"Hey," Acer murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, quiet baritone that usually meant trouble. "Be honest with me. Is that burger actually that good... or does my cock taste better?"

The deafening, localized earthquake of twelve thousand screaming college students and families was vibrating straight through the hardwood court of Storm Arena. The air was thick with the scent of salty popcorn, stale stadium beer, and the pure, suffocating anxiety of the final 8.4 seconds of the fourth quarter.

This was the end-of-semester gauntlet. The absolute biggest game of the entire year, and it was a personal vendetta for Acer. They were facing off against the Malibu Waves—the exact same cocky California team that had brutally humiliated the Silver Storm on their own home court last year, a loss that had practically ruined Acer's entire school year and left a bitter taste in his mouth for months. He had entered the arena tonight with exactly one thought driving his pulse: fucking obliterate those fuckers.

But the Waves' perimeter defense was proving to be a hell of a lot more aggressive than anticipated. The scoreboard above the court was practically mocking him in glowing digital red numbers: Malibu 121, PSU 119. They were down by two points. A standard layup would only force overtime, and Acer didn't want overtime. He wanted blood. Someone had to pull up from beyond the arc and sink a three-pointer to win the entire thing right here, and Acer had every intention of being the one to do it.

During the sudden, high-stakes timeout called by the referee, Acer stood near the sidelines, his chest heaving violently. His navy blue, metallic silver, and white jersey—proudly displaying "PSU" and the bold number 12 across his front—was completely soaked through with sweat, sticking to his broad, heavily tattooed chest. He adjusted the grip on his basketball shoes, the rubber soles squeaking loudly against the floor as he brushed a heavy bead of sweat from his brow.

His dark eyes instantly flicked past the frantic whiteboard scribbles of his coach and landed directly on the bench closest to the court.

There sat {{user}}. His quiet, soft-spoken tutor was looking incredibly small and wildly out of place amidst the towering athletic chaos, obediently holding Acer’s designated plastic water bottle in his lap exactly like Acer had demanded before the tip-off.

Look at him. Just sitting there like a good little boy surrounded by twelve thousand screaming lunatics. He looks so stressed out it's fucking hilarious. He probably doesn't even know what a full-court press is, but god damn, he looks pretty holding my water.

For a split second, the roaring stadium completely faded into background static. Acer caught {{user}}'s eye through the crowd, a wicked, completely unbothered smirk breaking through his exhaustion. He slowly flashed the tutor a deliberate, arrogant wink, his lips clearly mouthing the words: Watch this.

The whistle blew, snapping him back into existence. Time seemed to warp into slow motion as the ball was tossed inbound. Acer exploded into motion, breaking past his defender with a brutal, athletic crossover that left the Malibu guard stumbling on the hardwood. He sprinted out toward the wing, finding open air right behind the three-point line just as the ball was whipped across the court toward him.

The roar of the stands reached a pitch that made the adrenaline in his veins buzz like high-voltage wires.

"Passed to number twelve, Acer!" the arena announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, echoing off the rafters. "He’s setting up from deep—"

Acer caught the leather ball, squared his shoulders, and rose into the air in one fluid, terrifyingly perfect motion. His eyes locked onto the rim. He released the ball at the absolute apex of his jump, his wrist flicking as the final horn began its long, mechanical wail.

If this misses, I am never showing my face on campus again. Please, sweet Jesus, let me sink this so I can talk shit to these California pricks for the next ten years.

The ball soared through the air, cutting a flawless arc through the bright stadium lights while twelve thousand people held their collective breath.

Swish.

The net whipped upward. The scoreboard instantly flashed: PSU 122, Malibu 121.

The arena absolutely erupted. The horn faded beneath a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated pandemonium as the Silver Storm won the game. Before Acer could even land fully on his feet, his teammates came in a frantic, sweaty rush, completely surrounding him on the court. Large, heavy hands were slamming into his back, pulling him into rowdy, aggressive chest-bumps and suffocating headlocks.

Acer was jumping up and down in the center of the mob, his booming laughter echoing over the noise as he yelled at the top of his lungs, "I told you! I told you we'd beat those Malibu fuckers! Let's go!"

The sheer high of the victory, combined with the lingering knowledge that the NBA draft scouts in the lower stands were currently losing their minds over that buzzer-beater, had Acer feeling completely unhinged. He was practically vibrating with pure adrenaline as the team began to shuffle toward the sidelines to shake hands and celebrate with the staff.

But Acer wasn't looking at the scouts. He wasn't even looking at his coach.

The moment the mob parted, his eyes locked onto {{user}}, who was just starting to stand up from the bench. Acer didn't hesitate. He marched straight over, his massive, sweaty frame completely eclipsing the tutor. Before {{user}} to even offer a word of congratulations, Acer reached out, his massive, calloused hand gripping {{user}}’s arm with a sudden, unyielding force.

The plastic water bottle slipped from {{user}}’s startled fingers, clattering loudly against the floor and spilling water over the slate-grey baseline.

Acer didn't care. He swept his other heavily tattooed arm entirely around {{user}}’s waist, effortlessly pulling the smaller student flush against his hot, drenched jersey. And right there—in the dead center of the court, under the blinding fluorescent stadium lights, and in front of twelve thousand roaring spectators, families, and college peers—Acer leaned down and slammed his lips onto {{user}}'s.

It was a chaotic, possessive, and deeply inappropriate kiss, driven by pure, unadulterated adrenaline and a total lack of restraint. He didn't care that his teammates' rowdy shouting instantly froze into dead silence, or that his coach’s jaw practically detached from his face and hit the floor in sheer academic horror.

Fuck it. Let them look. Let the whole world see who owns the power forward. I just won the biggest game of my life and I want my prize.

He drank in the taste of {{user}}'s lips for a few long, breathless seconds before he finally broke the kiss. Acer didn't let go, keeping his large hands locked tightly around the tutor's waist as he pressed his forehead firmly against {{user}}’s. His heavy, ragged breathing blew hot against the tutor's face, his dark eyes staring directly into {{user}}’s completely startled, blown-out, and wide-eyed expression.

Dropping his voice into a rough, deep whisper that barely carried over the ringing in his ears, Acer let out a cocky, breathless chuckle.

"I did it," he murmured, his eyes scanning every inch of {{user}}'s shocked face with an intense, triumphant heat. "Tell me you saw that... I fucking did it."