The Mascot - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 2

Nick still hadn’t fixed the shorts.

That was the first thing anybody said, and then it was the only thing anybody said for a full minute. He was back on the couch with his knees open because closing them made the outline worse, gray fabric stretched around a problem he kept calling biology. The mute game flickered. A pizza box sat open like a crime scene. My mouth still tasted like the gym.

MJ pointed with a crust.

“Bro. Look at him. He’s sitting there like the national anthem started.”

“Shut up,” Nick said.

“I’m saying it with love. That’s a flag.”

Omar leaned back, green eyes half-lidded, the amber bottle dangling from two fingers.

“He moaned on six. We have a timestamp. Vincent has a soul. This is archived.”

“I do not have a soul,” Vincent said from the floor. “I have a bracket.”

Nate hadn’t moved from the arm of the couch. Long legs. Belt still neat. He looked at Nick the way he looked at a sloppy brief.

“You can go wash,” Nate said. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

Nick didn’t go wash. He grabbed his beer and didn’t drink it. The blond beard didn’t hide the color in his ears.

“It’s a reflex. He put his mouth on me. Any guy—”

“Any guy,” MJ repeated, delighted. “Write that on a shirt. Any guy gets a boner when Troy goes full vacuum on his nuts. Science.”

“I will end you.”

“You moaned,” Omar said, almost kind. “We all heard it. You can end me after you lose the tent.”

I was still on the corner of the sofa because standing up felt like admitting I’d started something. The official funny friend was supposed to throw a joke and reset the room. The joke was late. I could still feel the weight of Nick against my tongue. I could still smell him on my face.

Vincent pushed his glasses up with one finger and smiled with all his teeth.

“So. Who’s next?”

Nick pointed the bottle at him.

“You. You built this. You sit in it.”

“That’s not how a bracket works.”

“That’s how a friend group works. You made him lick my balls and now you’re hiding behind Smash Bros logic.”

Vincent’s ears went pink. He bounced once on his heels, robotics hoodie swallowing him, that ridiculous little mustache twitching like it wanted to flee his face.

“Fine. Next dare is Troy again.”

The room made a noise. Not a no. A laugh that had already decided.

I heard my own voice, light, the official shrug.

“Why am I the only one doing the dares?”

Nick didn’t even look at me when he answered. He said it to the ceiling, to the mute TV, to the problem in his shorts.

“Because you’re officially the mascot of the game.”

MJ slapped the table.

“Oh my God. He’s the mascot. We should get him a little helmet.”

“Don’t,” I said.

“Too late,” Omar murmured. “It’s canon now.”

Vincent pointed at me like he’d just unlocked a character.

MJ announced:

“Dare is: you massage Vin’s balls. Then you lick them. No time limit until I say stop. Hands allowed. Mouth allowed. Nick’s rules from before still stand — no filming. Nate’s rules still stand — nobody leaves.”

Nate exhaled through his nose.

“That’s so gay. You guys are fucking crazy.”

He said it flat. Lawyer flat. The kind of sentence that wanted to be a veto and came out as commentary. I looked at him because I always looked at Nate when he used that voice. His right hand wasn’t on the beer anymore. It was in his lap. Not adjusting. Covering. The slacks had a line in them that hadn’t been there when he brought the plates out of the kitchen. He saw me see it. He didn’t move the hand. He took a sip with the other one and stared at the pizza like the pizza had asked a question.

Vincent was already up.

Not nervous-up. Excited-up. He stripped the way he queued a match: fast, no ceremony, hoodie over his head in one yank, glasses almost coming with it. The robotics shirt underneath followed. He was pale and skinny and bouncing on his toes, his messy black hair everywhere like a mad scientist, that sad little mustache the only thing on his face trying to be a man. Sweatpants and boxers went together. He kicked them off without looking where they landed.

“Okay. Okay. Lab conditions. Don’t laugh at the—”

They laughed anyway. Of course they laughed. He was long. Narrow. Crooked. The skin bunched at the head because he was uncut and already interested, a wet shine starting before anybody had touched him. His balls were small and tight and pulled up close to his body, flushed pink, nothing like Nick’s heavy hang. He stood in the middle of the living room with his socks still on and both hands out like he was presenting a prototype.

“It’s a grower,” Vincent said.

“It’s a question mark,” MJ said.

“It’s a cry for help,” Nick said, but he was watching. Everybody was watching. Nick’s shorts had not improved.

Vincent pointed at the carpet in front of him.

“Mascot. Work.”

I should have skipped. The skip was still a rule. Two shots. The bottle if I skipped twice. Monday’s mock. The closet. Batman. I got on my knees instead because the mascot line had landed somewhere I didn’t have a joke for, and because Vincent was already breathing like he’d run a flight of stairs.

Up close he smelled like Red Bull and laundry detergent and the thin sweat of a guy who never left the apartment if he could help it. Not gym. Not Nick. Something sharper. Younger. Crazy hormones. I put my hands on his hips first because I needed somewhere to put them that wasn’t a punchline, then I cupped him.

He jumped.

“Cold. Your hands are cold. That’s— okay. Okay that’s— start.”

I rolled him in my palm. Gentle. The way you handle something that looks like it might go off. The skin was hot and tight and he thickened immediately, that long crooked shape filling along my wrist, the head easing out of the foreskin as the blood arrived with no shame at all. Vincent made a sound through his teeth.

Nick leaned forward on the couch.

“Already? Vin. Bro. He touched you for one second.”

“I’m warmed up,” Vincent snapped. “There was prior stimulus. That’s not— don’t look at me like that.”

“Prior stimulus was watching Troy vacuum my nuts,” Nick said. “So this is your fault twice.”

Omar laughed into the bottle.

“Prince of Persia is taking notes,” MJ said.

“I’m taking drinks,” Omar said. “Keep going, mascot.”

I used both hands. One rolled his balls, slow, thumb pressing the seam, the other wrapped loose around the base of him just to keep him from slapping my cheek every time he twitched. He was wet at the tip already. Not a lot. Enough. He kept trying to stand still and failing. His skinny thighs shook. The ridiculous mustache was a straight line of concentration.

Nate’s voice, dry:

“You look like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“I am,” I said.

Vincent grabbed the back of the couch.

“Lick. The dare said lick. You’re stalling. That’s a stall.”

I leaned in.

The smell changed at that distance. Clean soap failing. Warm skin. The particular musk of a guy who had been sitting on a carpet with a laptop for three hours before the pizza arrived. I put my tongue on him and Vincent’s whole body seized like I’d unplugged him and plugged him back in.

“Oh— oh that’s— that’s different from hands—”

Nick howled.

“He narrates. He narrates getting his balls licked. I can’t.”

I licked again. Slow. The tight sac. The place it met his thigh. I took one into my mouth and Vincent made a noise that was not a joke and not a word. His cock jumped hard against my cheek, long and angry and leaking. I didn’t put it in my mouth. That still felt like a door I wasn’t supposed to open in front of them. I stayed where the dare had put me and worked him with my hand and my tongue and the room got loud in pieces.

MJ: “He’s shaking. Look at his knees.”

Omar: “Look at Troy. He’s into it. Don’t lie, mascot.”

Nate, quieter, the hand still in his lap: “This is actually insane.”

Nick: “Vin’s gonna last eight seconds. Watch. I called it. Eight.”

Vincent tried to talk and the sentence broke.

“I’m not— it’s not eight— I’m regulating— Troy. Troy slower—”

I didn’t go slower. I didn’t go faster on purpose. I just didn’t stop. The taste was salt and skin and something faintly sweet from the detergent. I dragged my tongue up the underside of his balls and down again and used the flat of it, messy, the way I had on Nick, because that was the only way my mouth knew how to do this now. Vincent’s fingers found my hair and didn’t pull. They just held, trembling.

“I’m not gay,” he said suddenly, to the room, to the ceiling, to nobody. “This is a dare. This is a constraint. This is—”

“You’re about to paint the mascot,” MJ said laughing loud.

“I’m not—”

He did.

There was no warning that counted. One second he was long and twitching in my fist, the next his stomach hollowed and he made a sound like a lost match and he came hard across my face. Thick. A huge load. The first pulse hit my cheekbone and the bridge of my nose. The second went over my mouth. The third striped my other cheek and dripped toward my jaw. He kept going, hips stuttering, that crooked cock kicking in the air, more than a virgin was supposed to have in the tank, striping me while his socks stayed on and his glasses sat crooked and the ridiculous mustache was wet at the corner from how hard he’d bitten his own lip.

The living room detonated.

MJ hit the floor. Actual floor. He couldn’t breathe. Omar had both hands over his face and was making a noise that wasn’t words. Nick had his head back against the couch, laughing with his whole chest, the outline in his shorts worse than before. Vincent stood there with his cock still jumping, empty, horrified, a string of it hanging off him onto the carpet.

Nate said, “Jesus Christ,” and then he laughed once, helpless, and the hand in his lap pressed down like he could hide a verdict.

I stayed on my knees with my eyes half shut because it was in my lashes. Hot. A lot. It slid toward the corner of my mouth and I tasted him without deciding to. Sweet from all the sugary Red Bulls. Cleaner than I’d thought. My face was wet in a way a dare was not supposed to leave you.

Vincent’s voice went high with panic.

“I’m not gay.”

MJ, wheezing: “Bro. You just facial’d the mascot from a ball rub. That’s the gayest thing I have ever seen with my actual eyes.”

“I’m not gay. I was sensitive. There was prior— there was visual stimulus and tactile stimulus and I have a short refractory data set because I don’t— I don’t do this. I’m not gay.”

Omar wiped his eyes.

“Sensitive. That’s the word. File that next to Nick’s reflex.”

Nick pointed at Vincent, then at me, then at Vincent again.

“You lasted less than the pizza. You lasted less than my moan. You came on his face. His whole face, Vin. He looks like a wax doll melting. That’s not sensitive. That’s a firehose.”

“Physiology,” Vincent said. He yanked the hoodie off the floor and held it in front of himself like a shield. His ears were scarlet. His cock was still out. 

“Virgin physiology. It’s documented. You can Google it. Google I painted Troy,’” MJ said. “See what comes up.”

I lifted a hand toward my cheek.

Vincent, panicked: “Don’t— wait—”

Nate: “He can wipe. That’s basic.”

Vincent’s eyes lit up behind the crooked glasses. The bracket brain came back online through the shame.

“New dare. He doesn’t wipe.”

The room liked that too much.

“No,” I said.

“Mascot,” Nick said, and there was still laugh in it, still heat in it, still the thing in his shorts that biology refused to put away. “You asked why you’re the only one doing dares. That’s why. You don’t wipe. You sit there looking like Vin’s browser history and we keep playing.”

“That’s disgusting,” Nate said.

He did not tell me to wipe. His hand had not left his lap. Omar tipped his glass at me.

“Leave it. It’s honest. For once this friend group is honest. No bullshit lies.”

I lowered the hand. It sat on my thigh and shook once. I could feel Vincent cooling on my cheek, on my mouth, in the cut of my jaw. When I blinked, it pulled. When I spoke, I tasted him.

“This is the worst night of my life.” It was the biggest lie I ever told. It was actually the best night of my life.

“This is the best night ever,” MJ said. “I’m not even kidding. I’m going to think about this in the shower and I’m not going to tell any of you which part.”

“We know which part,” Nick said.

Vincent pulled the sweatpants back on without the boxers, hoodie only half zipped, and sat on the floor like his bones had been removed. He would not look at my face. He looked at his laptop. The screen was dark. He opened it anyway.

“Next,” he said, small. Then louder, because he could not stand being the last punchline. “Next. MJ.”

MJ stopped laughing long enough to point at his own chest.

“Me? I already hosted the visual stimulus.”

“You hosted the commentary,” Vincent said. 

“Dare is: Troy smells you. Then he licks your pits. Both. You’ve been in that shirt since the lot. Don’t lie.”

MJ’s grin went sharp.

“That’s nasty.”

“That’s the game.”

“I’m work out two times a day. I parked. I carried wings up two flights. You know what that is.”

“We know,” Omar said. “That’s why it’s a dare.”

MJ looked at me. At the mess on my face. At Nick. At Nate’s hand. Then he laughed again, shook his head, and reached back to grab the collar of his shirt.

“Mascot wants pits, mascot gets pits. I’m not even mad. This is hilarious.”

He peeled the shirt off in one pull. The room changed temperature. MJ without a shirt was a different argument than MJ with one. Faded cut. Goatee. Ink running down both arms onto the shoulders. The most built and ripped of us, tight through the chest, a thin line of hair down the middle that didn’t hide anything. He lifted one arm like he was posing for a joke and the joke died a little because the smell arrived before the punchline.

It was not Nick’s gym-and-pizza musk. It was deeper. Wetter. Hours of working out, stairs and the kind of sweat that lives in dark skin and dark fabric and doesn’t evaporate just because you sat down. Sharp. Animal. A locker room that had been closed too long.

Nick actually leaned away.

“Bro. Warn the nation.”

“You moaned into his mouth 10 minutes ago. Sit down.”

“I did not—”

“You did,” Omar and Vincent said together.

I was still on my knees. Vincent’s cum was tightening on my cheek as it dried. I could feel a drip at my jaw that hadn’t decided whether to fall. MJ stepped in, close, the way he stepped in on the field, and raised the other arm too.

“Both,” he said. “Vin said both. Don’t do a half-rep, mascot. I will know.”

“Why am I the only one doing the dares?” I said again, because I needed the bit, because if I didn’t say it I was just a guy on a carpet with another guy’s load on his face about to put his mouth in MJ’s armpit.

Nick’s voice came from the couch, rough from laughing, rough from the thing he wouldn’t name.

“You’re the official mascot and you like this shit, don’t lie. Mascots take the hits. Stop asking. Start working.”

Nate said, “This is so gay,” again, quieter, and his knuckles were white over the bulge he thought the dim light was hiding.

I leaned in. The first inhale was a mistake I made on purpose. It filled my head. Sweat. Skin. The body spray he’d used this morning losing a war it had already lost at noon. I made a sound I didn’t mean to make. MJ felt it against his ribs and laughed, startled, delighted.

“Yo. He likes it. He likes it. Nick, your mascot likes Black sweat. I’m putting that in the group chat.”

“There is no group chat for this,” Nate said immediately.

“There is now,” Vincent whispered, logging nothing, logging everything.

I put my mouth on him. MJ’s pit was slick. Hot. The hair there was tight and coarse and wet, and the taste was salt so dense it sat on my tongue like a coin. I licked a stripe into the hollow and MJ’s whole torso jumped. His hand landed on the back of my head, not shoving, just holding me there so he could feel it.

“Other one,” he said, already breathless “Don’t play favorites, they both deserve attention.” 

MJ’s fingers tightened in my hair and then his hips did something he didn’t mean to do. The front of his shorts jumped. Once. Then again, thicker, shoving the fabric out in a line that had no business belonging to a dare about armpits. I saw it from underneath, close enough that the heat of him was in my face twice — pit and crotch — and my brain stalled. I’d felt Nick. I’d seen Vincent paint me. This was a different category. The shorts couldn’t contain the shape of it. Heavy. Long. The kind of outline that made the jokes we’d made all year sound small and stupid. MJ looked down at himself, laughed once, and tried to angle his hips away like that would help.

“Don’t,” he said. “That’s just— that’s circulation. Arms up gets the blood going.”

Nick lost it.

“Circulation. Bro. That’s a horse. That’s a full horse in those shorts. Warn a man.”

“BBC just filed a complaint with the building,” Omar said. “That thing has its own zip code.”

MJ’s ears went hot. He didn’t pull my head off him. If anything his hand stayed there, like letting go would make the outline worse.

“It’s the same dick I had at gym showers. Y’all have been in the locker room.”

“We have not been looking,” Nate said, too fast, the hand still in his own lap. “That’s not a locker-room dick. That’s a hard problem.”

Vincent, from the floor, glasses crooked, still wrecked from coming on my face, whispered.

“Data point. Armpit stimulus. Significant tumescence. Estimated—”

“Don’t estimate my dick, you little freak.”

“I’m estimating it at a horse,” Nick said. 

“Mascot, Troy? You seeing this? Tell him. Tell him that’s not normal.”

I was seeing it. I couldn’t not see it. My mouth was still in MJ’s pit and his cock was trying to punch through his gym shorts, and the official funny friend had nothing. The mascot just stared, Vincent cooling on my other cheek, and thought: that’s not a bulge. That’s a weapon they let him walk around with.

I switched pits. Same heat. Same wet. A little sharper on this side, like he’d been driving with that arm on the wheel. I licked him slow because fast felt like panic and slow felt like the dare, and MJ’s laugh broke into something lower.

“Okay. Okay that’s— that’s a lot. Vin. How long is this dare.”

Vincent, from the floor, staring at my dirty face against MJ’s skin:

“Until I say. I’m collecting data.”

“You’re collecting a war crime,” Nick said.

He hadn’t looked away. Not once. His knees were still open. The gray shorts were a lost cause. He watched my mouth work into MJ’s pit with Vincent’s cum drying on my other cheek and his throat moved when he swallowed beer he wasn’t drinking.

Omar’s voice went soft.

“Troys’s getting a taste for it.”

I didn’t answer. Answering required a face I could present. I had MJ’s sweat in my mouth and cummy face and Vincent on my skin and Nick’s earlier taste still somewhere under both, and the official funny friend had left the apartment. I was the faggot mascot. I guess I was done hiding it.

MJ’s fingers tightened in my hair.

“Switch again. You missed a spot. I’m an athlete. Be thorough.”

The guys lost it. The kind of laughter that had nerves in it. Nate said crazy again and didn’t stand up. Vincent said my name like a file name. Nick said mascot like it was the only word he trusted.

I licked the first pit again, deeper, and MJ’s stomach pulled in, abs stacking, a sound punching out of him that he tried to turn into a joke and couldn’t finish.

“If you get hard I’m blaming biology,” he told Nick.

“I’m not looking at your pits.”

“You’re looking at Troy’s mouth in my pits.”

Nick didn’t deny it.

Vincent stood up on unsteady legs, hoodie half zipped, eyes bright.

“Next dare’s ready,” he said.

Nobody asked what it was.

MJ didn’t let my head go.

Nick’s beer bottle hung empty from his fingers.

Nate’s hand had not moved.

Omar smiled with one side of his mouth, green eyes on my wrecked face, and said:

“Leave it on him, Vin. Whatever the next one is. Leave it on the mascot.”

Vincent looked at Nick.

Nick looked at me.

The mute game put up a replay nobody watched.

“Dare’s not over,” Vincent said. “MJ. Arms up. Troy. Don’t you dare wipe. And Nick—”

He let the name hang there, happy, cruel, precise.

“Nick’s picking the next target.”

Nick’s jaw flexed. The blond beard didn’t hide anything anymore.

He didn’t say no.

That was the problem.

That was the whole night.