Work Text:
Scalding water hits his back and Nick groans, rolling his shoulders as heat seeps into sore muscles. Leg day wrecked him. Worth it, though—his glutes look damn good, filling out his shorts tight enough it might be time to shop for a size or two larger.
He lets his head tip back, blinking through the steam, enjoying the wind down, the warmth, before he gets back out there.
Another shower turns on.
Nick glances over, lips quirking at the sight a little off to the side of him.
Blondie. Same gym, same days, same routine. Only difference is he never says a word and Nick never catches a name. The beefcake just goes through his workouts like he’s built like clockwork, all precision and no waste. Nick’s been watching long enough to notice. Not that he’s staring . Just—y’know. Observing. For research.
He rakes a hand through his wet hair and smirks. “You overwork your negatives, you know,” he says. Conversation starter, small talk. He’ll get a name out of the man in due time.
The water beats into tile, pipes groaning like a baseline underneath, as Nick waits.
No response.
Nick glances over. Blondie’s standing under the spray, eyes shut, water sluicing over muscle, like Nick isn’t even worth the energy it’d take to acknowledge him.
Alright.
“You really think your joints are gonna thank you for that?” Nick tries again, grin widening. “Or do you just like suffering?”
A beat passes.
Then, without opening his eyes, Blondie says, flat as the tile beneath their feet:
“Not sure if you’ve ever taken a shower before… but it rarely involves this much talking.”
Nick barks out a laugh. “Oh, that’s cute.”
Blondie turns off his shower. Doesn’t look at him. Just reaches for his towel, like he’s already forgotten Nick.
That gets under his skin more than anything.
Nick watches as Beefcake dries off, movements brisk, like he’s got somewhere better to be. Like he didn’t just shrug Nick off.
Not that it should bug him.
It’s just—trans guys are rare enough in these spaces. The hardcore gyms, the weight rooms, the places where testosterone thickens the air just as much as sweat. When he first clocked Blondie—broad frame, lean muscle, the kind of strength that’s built, not gifted—he figured, Hey. Maybe we could bond a little over T-shots, muscle gain, and suffering from bottom-growth.
Not in some cheesy, ‘ we’re brothers in arms ’ kind of way, but in a ‘ someone else gets it’ way. A guy to bullshit with between sets, to complain about macros and busted binders, to compare scars and pretend they don’t both secretly enjoy them.
But that’s clearly off the table. Blondie doesn’t give a shit.
And Nick doesn’t handle rejection well.
(He’s working on it.)
Instead of letting it roll off him, instead of just dropping it and counting his losses, his mouth moves on its own.
“You always this friendly, or am I just lucky?”
Beefcake still doesn’t look at him, shaking water from his hair before toweling it off. “Wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Are you usually this aggravating, or am I just lucky?”
Nick snorts, rolling his towel over his shoulders. “Damn. You wound me, pal. Here I was, thinkin’ we could be gym bros. Spot each other, critique each other’s form, maybe even split a protein shake with two straws.” He presses a hand to his chest, all mock sincerity. “But now you’ve broken my heart.”
Beefcake exhales through his nose. Not a laugh. Not even close. Just—mild irritation.
“Are you going to keep talking? I’m not interested,” he says, still not meeting Nick’s gaze. “There are other trees to bark at, pup.”
Nick lets out a low whistle, tilting his head. “Pup? Damn. Cute nickname, big guy—startin’ to think you like me.” He flashes a grin, all teeth. “You one of those ‘mean on the outside, soft on the inside’ types? Bet if I really pushed, I’d find a heart of gold under all that attitude.”
Blondie barely spares him a glance. “You won’t.”
Nick snorts as Blondie finishes toweling off, cool and distant, like Nick’s voice is just background noise.
Huh.
Nick sucks at his teeth, arms folding as he gives Blondie a once-over, slow.
Tall. An inch or so on Nick, maybe more, depending on the shoes. Long, muscular legs, the kind built from heavy compound lifts—squats, deadlifts, those slow, brutal Bulgarian split squats that make grown men cry. His waist tapers in just enough to make his broad shoulders stand out more, wide and solid, pushing past lean into bulk. A little top-heavy on the muscle, but he makes it work.
Nick rolls his jaw, something simmering under his skin.
Yeah, alright. Blondie’s got him on height. But chest and shoulders? That’s an easy fix. He could have Blondie beat in two months, tops. He just needs to tweak his program, up his volume, maybe swap out some of his incline presses—
The hell is he doing?
Nick shakes it off, huffing a sharp breath through his nose. No point in getting caught up in all that. Blondie’s just another guy at the gym. A guy with a poor attitude and a solid build, sure, but nothing worth wasting time on, and Nick buried that kind of envy six feet under a long time ago.
Still, he can’t resist one last push.
“So, what, you’re just gonna pretend I don’t exist?” Nick drawls, grabbing his bag to fetch fresh clothes. “Damn. All this time I thought I was imaginin’ you starin’ me down between sets, but maybe you’re just built like that.”
This time, finally, Beefcake looks at him.
Flat. Unamused.
Nick expects another brush-off, but instead, Blondie tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Not much—just enough to give the impression that he’s actually considering him for the first time. Weighing him.
Nick stands his ground, shoulders loose, watching as Blondie exhales slowly, tossing his towel into his gym bag.
“Wishful thinking,” he says, voice smooth, final.
But there’s a moment before he turns away, something intentional in the way he shoulders his bag. Like he’s not just dismissing Nick—he’s choosing to walk away.
Blondie disappears around the corner, and Nick’s left alone with the hiss of shower steam and a half-formed thought he can’t quite shake.
His fingers tap an aimless rhythm against his towel before tightening, knuckles pressing white for a beat too long. He exhales, slow, measured.
What an asshole.
He’s gonna think about him all damn day.
Nick leans against the brick wall outside the gym, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, the cherry burning low. The morning’s still got that early chill to it, the kind that settles deep in his muscles, but he doesn’t mind. Cold’s a good wake-up call, and anyway, it won’t last—fifteen minutes in, he’ll be sweating through his shirt.
Another day, another workout.
He flicks through his notes, half-planning the session ahead. Glutes and hamstrings, most likely—his calves are still shot from earlier this week, but that just means he should go harder. Maybe some extra incline presses, tweak his volume on the fly. He’s been thinking about balance lately, proportions. A better taper, broader shoulders.
Not that he’s comparing.
Not that it’s about anyone.
The thought barely finishes forming before tall, blonde and bitchy comes into view, right on schedule.
Striding up the pavement like he’s got a hit list and the gym’s next in line. Bag slung over one shoulder, posture loose but set, like he’s already lifting something heavy in his head. It’s the same thing every time—Beefcake walks like a guy who’s got somewhere to be and no patience for obstacles.
Nick takes a slow drag from his cigarette and exhales just as Blondie steps into range. “You always look this pissed off,” he calls, tapping ash onto the pavement, “or am I just your special little treat?”
It’s been their routine ever since Nick’s attempt at shower-talk. Somehow he figured Blondie might warm up to him, that even Mr. Frigid isn’t immune to that Wolfwood charm, but he’d been dead wrong.
Blondie barely even flicks his eyes in Nick’s direction. Doesn’t slow, doesn’t adjust his stride. Just lifts a hand and gestures vaguely toward him, like he’s warding off a bug.
“I’m not bored enough for this.”
Nick snorts, rolling his tongue against his teeth. Cold.
He should probably let it go. Should probably just shake his head, finish his cigarette, and go about his day like Blondie’s just another dude walking into the gym.
He’s not great at letting things slide.
It’s not a deep thing—he doesn’t lose sleep over it, doesn’t let it rattle around in his skull or turn into something downright sad. But still. It gets under his skin; it itches. Not because he wants to be friends or bond over shared interests and backgrounds. Any goodwill he had dried up weeks ago. At this point, it’s the principle of the thing.
Blondie’s indifference isn’t just casual—it’s practiced, like he’s perfected the art of not giving a shit. And for some reason, that grates on Nick worse than outright hostility. A guy picking a fight, a guy running his mouth? That, he knows how to handle. But this? This absolute dismissal?
Yeah. That pisses him off just enough to make him dig in.
He flicks his cigarette away, stretching out the tightness in his shoulders, shifting the weight of his own gym bag like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Give it time, sunshine,” he says, flashing a grin that’s all teeth, no warmth. “You’ll start missin’ me when I’m not around.”
Blondie exhales, slow and unimpressed. Not quite a sigh, but close enough. He doesn’t look back. Just pushes through the gym doors without a word.
Nick follows, unhurried, because he’s not the one rushing anywhere.
Inside, the gym hums with movement—weights clanking, the dull thud of a medicine ball against rubber flooring, the rhythmic whir of a treadmill belt. Nick glances at Blondie’s reflection in the mirrored wall as they step inside, watching as he peels off his jacket, revealing the snug fit of his shirt against his shoulders.
Top-heavy, yeah. Lean muscle, but thick in the right places. Nick still could easily outdo him in chest and shoulders with the right focus. Give it two months, maybe three—
Nick bites the inside of his cheek.
He shakes the thought loose, refocuses, grins like he never lost the thread.
“So,” he muses as Blondie sets his bag down, “you gonna tell me what’s on the menu today, or should I guess?” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Let me see… legs? No, wait—full-body annihilation, right?”
Blondie doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even twitch.
At some point, this has got to bleed into full-blown harassment, but Nick can’t seem to stop.
He lets the moment hang, waiting—hoping, maybe—for even a flicker of irritation, something real beneath all that practiced indifference. But Blondie just keeps moving.
Fine. Whatever.
Nick rolls his shoulders, breathes out slow, and heads for the lockers.
He shoves his bag into his locker, kicks off his sneakers, and swaps them for something with better grip. He doesn’t have to look to know Blondie’s two lockers down, going through the identical motions. It’s muscle memory at this point—same time, same place, same routine.
By the time Nick’s done lacing up, Blondie’s already heading out. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t spare a glance, just moves like he’s got better things to be doing than sharing oxygen with Nick.
Nick follows. Not on purpose, just heading the same way.
They set up a few feet apart, easing into warm-ups. Nick rolls his shoulders loose, shifts into a slow lunge, breath steady as he lets the stretch sit deep. A second later, Blondie does the same. Not in sync, not copying.
Sure.
Nick sinks lower, just a fraction. Holds it like it’s nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, Blondie adjusts his stance too—slight, almost imperceptible, but there.
Huh.
Nick switches it up, arms overhead, flexing his spine just enough to feel it. Blondie doesn’t follow immediately, but when he does, there’s a little more to it, a little extra extension.
Nick snorts, amused.
Then Blondie turns his head—just a glance, quick and sharp. Not long enough to be a real acknowledgment, but enough to be felt.
A flat out glare.
Nick grins, teeth pressed into his tongue.
They keep at it, neither saying a word.
Nick drops into deep squats, rolling through his ankles to keep it smooth, disciplined. Heat’s already creeping in, sweat beading at his temples, but he doesn’t let it show. He holds the position like it’s nothing before pushing back up again and again, steady and controlled.
A second later, Blondie does the same. Not rushed, not forced. Just easy. Effortless in a way that grates.
Alright.
Nick shifts into a lateral lunge, stretching deep, letting the motion sink through his hips. Out of the corner of his eye, Blondie follows suit, and this time, he makes a damn show of it—slow-moving, measured, a little extra extension just to prove a point. Their eyes meet in the mirror, a quick flicker of something sharp, and Nick feels it like a gauntlet hitting the floor.
Fine.
He rolls his shoulders, then drops into push-ups—deep, chest nearly brushing the floor before he powers back up again. Keeps the pace steady, easy. But he knows he’s set the bait before he even lifts his gaze.
Blondie watches, just for a second, then sinks into his own push-ups, matching him rep for rep. No hurry, no wasted motion. And just to rub it in, he claps between reps, sharp and clean, the sound slicing through the gym’s steady hum.
Nick exhales through his nose, presses his tongue against his molars.
Alright, asshole.
He shifts onto his knuckles, barely biting back a grin as he starts his next set.
It doesn’t take long before the heat gets to them, skin slick, shirts clinging, thickening the air. Every stretch pushed further, every movement sharper, tighter, controlled to the point of defiance. Neither one backing off. Neither one willing to be the first to break.
Then, Blondie looks at him again. That same glance, quick and sharp, but this time, there’s something else behind it. Less indifference. More calculation.
Maybe the musclehead figured out they’ve pushed this far beyond warm-ups; Nick’s feeling the strain for certain.
Blondie moves first, breaking the moment like it was never there to begin with. He gets up and turns toward the weight rack, smooth, unbothered—except for the way his shoulder slams into Nick’s on the way past. Solid. Heavy. Like getting blindsided by a brick wall with an attitude problem.
Nick rocks back a half-step, blinking through the sudden jolt of it. “Jesus,” he hisses, rolling his shoulder like he’s shaking off a hit. “You made of fuckin’ concrete?”
Blondie doesn’t look back. Doesn’t even slow.
Nick exhales, sharp, flexes his fingers, and follows. Little asshole.
He tails Blondie to the weight rack like it’s just coincidence. Like he just happens to grab the same plates, load the same weight, settle onto a bench with the same easy roll of his shoulders. No conversation. No agreement. Just action.
It starts simple. A warm-up weight, something that moves clean, smooth, gets his shoulders into it. Nick keeps his pace steady—press, lower, and press again. Across from him, Blondie does the same. No glances, no checks, but Nick can feel it—a rhythm locking them in step.
Then the weight ticks up. Not much at first. Just enough to push.
Then again.
And again.
No hesitation, no backing down. Their breaths turn rougher, chests rising and falling harder with each rep. The burn sets in, deep and relentless, but neither of them gives an inch. No twitch of acknowledgment, no sign it’s getting to them.
It’s not a competition—but if it were, Nick wouldn’t fucking lose .
The strain creeps in, slow and inevitable. Muscles locking up, arms trembling at the peak of the press. Nick grits his teeth, tries to force one more.
Blondie’s the first to crack. Or maybe Nick is. Damn near the same time, bars racking with a heavy clang, arms immediately shaking loose like they didn’t just flirt with an idiotic mistake.
Nick exhales, low and winded, a breath of laughter slipping out. “Christ,” he mutters, rolling his wrists out.
Blondie doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face, breathes hard, and pushes off the bench like he’s done. Maybe he is. Maybe they both are.
Ugh. Okay. Whatever.
Nick follows a beat later, shoulders wrecked, shirt clinging to his sweat-slick back. By the time he reaches his locker, his pulse is still kicking, his whole body thrumming with that post-lift high, the kind that makes every breath feel bigger. He yanks his towel free, scrubs it over his forehead, and tilts his head back to drain half his water bottle in one go.
Blondie’s a few lockers down, shaking out his arms, rolling his neck slowly like he’s still bleeding off tension. Nick watches for half a second too long, then looks away, breath evening out.
He sighs, dragging his towel over his face one last time before stuffing it back into his bag. His shirt clings damp to his back, skin tacky with sweat—it’s well pastime to rinse off. He swings the locker shut, shifting the strap over his shoulder, already half-turned toward the showers when—
“Hey, handsome.”
Nick halts.
Because standing right there, grinning like the sun itself, is Blondie.
Except decidedly not Blondie.
His brain misfires, gears slipping on air. For a split second, he’s convinced it’s some kind of glitch in the matrix—maybe all that lifting on the bench cut off circulation to his brain, maybe he’s seeing double. But then he flicks a glance to where his Blondie was just standing, a few lockers down, still rolling out his shoulders—he’s still there.
And now there’s another one.
Nick’s pulse kicks hard against the back of his throat. The fuck?
New Blondie tilts his head, eyes flicking over Nick in a slow, lazy once-over. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, voice smooth, lilting slightly. “You always hit it this hard, or just showing off?”
Then—before Nick can so much as blink—he steps in close and reaches out, bold as anything, and cups a hand around Nick’s bicep.
“Holy hell,” Vash whistles, giving the muscle a squeeze. “These are rock hard.”
Nick short-circuits.
Heat flares to the back of his neck, static racing down his spine. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all he manages is a half-started noise, more breath than voice.
And then, there’s more heat. A sharp, immediate presence at his side.
Blondie— his Blondie—still flushed from the workout, but now the color’s crept past his collar, licking up the sides of his neck, staining him pink to the tips of his ears. His scowl could cut steel.
It hits Nick then—with the two of them standing side by side, the resemblance is uncanny. Same height, same sharp edges and long limbs, same stupidly jagged hair. But where the new one—this one—is all bright, open charm, his Blondie is all bristling, cornered-animal bite.
Two of them. Twins.
Well, shit. And also: wow.
The Other Blondie—the new one—just grins wider, eyes glinting like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Hey there,” he muses, still holding Nick’s arm like it’s a party trick he doesn’t want to give back.
“Vash,” Blondie hisses, voice low and furious. “Drop it.”
Vash—apparently—snickers, delighted. “Aw, c’mon, Nai, I was just saying hi—”
Nick’s brain snags.
Nai.
He doesn’t get to sit with that very long.
Nai grabs Vash by the wrist like it’s muscle memory, like he’s done it a thousand times before. No warning, no finesse—just a sharp yank and a hissed, “We’re going.”
Vash laughs. Not a protest, not even surprised—just delighted.
“Aww, you’re no fun,” he teases, stumbling half a step before catching his footing, not resisting in the slightest. “We’re not even gonna talk about the hot guy?”
“Now, Vash.” Nai doesn’t look back as his voice ticks a pitch higher. Doesn’t even glance at Nick.
Nick blinks, trying to reboot.
Vash shoots him a look over his shoulder as he’s pulled away—still grinning like a bastard—and gives a little wave. Just a flick of the fingers, casual, cocky, like they’re old friends.
“See you around, mister muscles.”
And then they’re gone.
Nick’s left standing there, half-dressed and flushed, still catching his breath.
Still thinking about the way Nai turned pink.
Still thinking about the way he snatched his twin’s hand off his arm like it was a burning brand.
Still thinking about—
Muscles .
Nick turns back to his locker, rummaging through his bag for his shower gel, towel and… hm, seems like he forgot to bring a clean pair of shorts.
The clang of iron and the low thrum of bass-heavy gym music does little to drown out the static in Nick’s head. He’s flat on the bench, knuckles white around the bar, shoulders already burning from the first set—but he racks up again, anyway. No rest. No pause. Just a sharp inhale, another lift.
His arms shake just a little. Not enough to stop him, but enough to make him grit his teeth harder. He’s pushing too much weight. He knows it. Doesn’t care.
Bullshit at the garage is gnawing at him. Cost cuts slashing hours, dumping more on his plate with less to work with. He’s elbow-deep in busted carburetors and entitled customers, grease under his nails and no patience left to spare. That low-simmering frustration sticks like oil on his skin. He’s trying to sweat it out. Drown it in reps.
He sets up for another press, chest rising under the bar, muscles screaming—until a shadow cuts across the overhead light.
Nick glances up, startled, and nearly loses the rep.
Nai. His gym-bestie.
Leaning over the bench, tall and cool like a glacier just slid in off the street. Arms crossed, expression carved from stone, looking down the length of his nose like Nick’s the most pathetic thing he’s seen all morning. Maybe even all week.
“You planning to crush yourself for fun,” Nai says, voice flat, “or just hoping to put yourself out of misery?”
Nick snarls a breath, racking the bar with a loud metallic clang . “Christ. You always sneak up on people mid-rep?”
Nai doesn’t answer right away. Just unfolds his arms, slow, and steps closer to the bench. He looks at the weight, then at Nick, doing some silent equation and not impressed by the math. One pale brow lifts.
“Need a spot?”
Nick laughs, breathless and pissed. “What, so you can drop it on my neck when I’m not lookin’? Pass.”
Nai grins.
It’s not friendly.
All teeth, no warmth, eyes cold and sharp as glass. “Tempting,” he murmurs, “but no. I don’t need murder on my record today.”
And before Nick can argue, Nai steps in—plants his feet at the head of the bench, posture crisp, hands ready. He’s already in position, like this isn’t a conversation anymore.
Nick stares up at him, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “This gonna be the part where you tell me my form’s shit and my grip’s worse?”
“No,” Nai says. “You’re strong enough to hurt yourself. That’s the problem.”
Nick huffs a breath through his nose. He grabs the bar again, sets his feet. He could tell Nai to fuck off—he should—but he doesn’t.
He lifts.
The weight’s heavier now, like Nai’s presence adds gravity. It grinds through his shoulders, sets his triceps on fire, but he doesn’t stop. Rep after rep, steady and clean, breath rough in his throat.
Nai watches every movement, unflinching. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t offer praise or corrections—just stands there, eyes fixed on him like a hawk, like he's waiting for something to give. It’s almost unnerving, how still he is. Focused like he wants Nick to push too far just to see what happens.
Nick grits his teeth and powers through one more rep.
Sweat drips down his temples, soaks through the back of his shirt, clings to the bench. His muscles scream. His jaw aches. Still, he doesn’t break.
When he racks the bar again, it slams home with a satisfying clang . He’s panting, spent, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
Nai doesn’t move. Only tilts his head a fraction.
“You done?”
Nick glares up at him. “You always watch people like you’re planning where to put the body?”
Nai’s smile this time is razor-thin. “Only the ones who insist on dying under a barbell.”
Nick’s still sprawled on the bench, shoulders burning, chest heaving, brain barely catching up with his body. He tilts his head back to suck in another breath—
And gets a face full of crotch.
Well. Almost.
A pair of long, tight, baby-blue legging-clad thighs frame his view. Right at eye level. Uncomfortably close. The fabric clings like a second skin, and for half a second, Nick’s brain just… goes static. He stares, wondering, before a sharp, deliberate throat-clear yanks him back to earth.
He drags his gaze up. Slowly.
Nai’s looking down at him, unimpressed and unamused, mouth flat and eyes paler than ever.
“You reek,” Nai says, tone clipped. “Clean the bench. I’m using it next.”
Nick huffs a breath that might be a laugh. Doesn’t bother moving, merely shifts enough to prop himself up on his elbows, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. “What, can’t use the other one?”
Nai blinks at him, one eyebrow arched like he’s being tested. Nick flashes a crooked smirk. “I think you like lookin’ down at me.”
Nai scoffs, full-body grimace like he tasted something foul. “What’s there to look at?” he sneers. “Drenched cloth, hair, hair, and more hair. Why the hell are you even packing at a gym?”
Nick grins, wide and shameless. “So you are lookin’ at my dick.”
“I’m looking at the forest you’ve let escape the confines of your sorry excuse for boyshorts.”
Nick doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re lookin’ at my dick.”
“I’m looking,” Nai says, icy and precise, “at a public indecency violation. Do you not understand privacy? Decorum? Your pubic hair shouldn’t be out here taking up space in my periphery.”
Nick snorts. “I think it elevates the mood.”
Nai narrows his eyes. “Elevates it how?”
Nick shrugs, smug. “I bring joy to the room with my bangin’ bod.”
“You cause distress ,” Nai snaps. “By revealing your ass crack to the gym and confronting people with the hair you keep between it.”
Nick tilts his head, still grinning. “You’re really hung up on the hair. Is it ‘cause you're smooth as a peach?”
Nai doesn’t even blink. “A peach is typically described as fuzzy .”
Nick grins harder. “No, a coconut is hairy. A peach is smooth. You’re smooth.”
A pause. Nai’s nostrils flare—just slightly. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the one enduring this conversation while your unwashed balls try to commune with my leggings.”
Nick laughs. Full-bellied, raspy. “C’mon, don’t pretend you’re not curious.”
Nai looks him dead in the eyes. “I’m curious how you haven’t been arrested.”
Nick barks out another laugh, then groans, pushing himself upright. His arms protest, shoulders tight and throbbing, but he plants his feet and rolls to a stand, anyway. He doesn’t even glance at Nai as he swipes a rag across the bench—half-hearted at best, just enough to smear the sweat around. The surface still glistens when he tosses the rag onto the floor and jerks his chin toward it.
“There. All yours, princess.”
Nai doesn’t move. He looks down at the bench, then back at Nick. His lip curls.
“You call that clean?”
Nick shrugs, still panting, grinning like a bastard. “I figured you’d want some of my magic.”
“You figured wrong.”
There’s color blooming at the base of Nai’s throat, subtle and crawling, like he’s pissed and trying not to show it. Nick tilts his head, watches it spread. Pale skin betrays everything .
“Go on,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Lie down. I’ll even spot you, return your kind gesture.”
Nai’s eyes flash but something beneath them flickers—heat, maybe. Or hate. Maybe both. It’s difficult to tell with him.
He glances at the bench again. It’s still damp. Still gleaming. His mouth pulls tight.
And then he turns on his heel. “I’m doing cardio.”
“Cardio,” Nick echoes, trying not to laugh. “What, gonna run out that stick up your ass?”
Nai doesn’t even dignify that with a reply. He simply walks off, stiff-backed, head high—like fleeing doesn’t count if you look good doing it.
Nick watches him go, tongue in his cheek, grin slow and stupid. His shirt’s still clinging to his back, muscles still fried, heart still thudding, but somehow it all feels lighter now.
Still annoyed. Still exhausted. But lighter.
Stretch day.
Or, in Nick’s mind: glorified recovery bullshit.
But he’s here anyway, lounging on the mat, sneakers kicked off, watching Nai try—and fail—to fold himself into a hamstring stretch with any kind of grace. The blonde is seated on the floor, one leg straight out, the other tucked awkwardly in. He leans forward with all the stiffness of someone made of pure marble, fingertips barely grazing his ankle.
Nick clicks his tongue. “You get jumped by a forklift or somethin’?”
“I overworked,” Nai mutters, flat.
Nick grunts and slides closer, knees popping as he drops into a squat behind him. “It happens when you go full lunatic on leg day and think you’re immune to the aftermath.”
He plants a hand on Nai’s back between the shoulder blades—warm, steady pressure that nudges him forward. Nai huffs through his nose.
“Breathe,” Nick says. “You’re fightin’ it.”
“I’m controlling it,” Nai snaps, but there’s a tremor in his shoulders.
Nick shifts behind him, one hand sliding down along Nai’s spine, the other reaching for his ankle to gently guide the stretch deeper. His grip is firm, sure, fingers warm through the thin material of Nai’s leggings. Nai’s whole body resists—then gives, little by little, hips tipping forward, breath coming slower.
“You really let yourself get locked up,” Nick mutters, almost to himself. “Not even sixty degrees in and your hamstrings are already screamin’.”
“I don’t have time for this part,” Nai grits out. “Stretching after workouts is inefficient. I’d rather get home and—”
Nick snorts. “Yeah, so you can ice your spine and suffer in silence?”
Nai doesn’t dignify that with a response. Simply folding deeper as Nick presses again.
“Jesus,” Nick says under his breath, “you’re tighter than—”
“—You are one to talk,” Nai cuts in. “You live like a half-feral raccoon. You reek of menthols and machine grease, your breakfast is caffeine in a can, and I saw you eating gas station beef jerky in the parking lot before deadlifts.”
“That jerky had 21 grams of protein.”
“It had a texture like shoe leather,” Nai snaps. “And don’t even get me started on that Monster energy addiction. Do you know what those things do to your blood pressure? Your kidneys are probably calcifying as we speak.”
Nick hums, not bothering to argue. He shifts his grip again—slides one palm under Nai’s thigh, right behind the knee, the other bracing on the ankle. The stretch goes deeper.
Nai exhales like he’s biting back a growl.
“You push too much weight too fast. You’re gonna pop your shoulders out one day and I will laugh when it happens,” Nai goes on, voice tight. “Your posture’s awful, your back’s misaligned, you foam roll maybe twice a month, and I’m certain you’ve never drunk water voluntarily in your entire adult life.”
Nick bites back a laugh. His hands are steady—gliding up to Nai’s hips now, guiding the angle, tilting him forward with a gentle insistence that leaves no room for protest. He feels strain ripple through Nai’s muscles, feels how hard Nai’s thighs tremble under his touch.
“And you don’t warm up—” Nai’s breath stutters, “you jump right into sets like you think you’re still twenty—”
His voice cuts off.
Nick glances down right in time to catch it—Nai’s lips parting in a sharp little inhale that gets stuck halfway in. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a moan. Just a broken, startled sound like his body’s betraying him.
Nick stills.
Nai’s braced on his palms, head hanging, teeth buried hard into his bottom lip, color blooming fast across his cheeks. His body shakes under Nick’s hands, leggings stretched tight, frame quivering from the pressure.
Nick watches the way his pretty pink lip stays caught between his flawless white teeth. All quiet now.
He leans down, voice barely above a murmur. “You were sayin’ something about my kidneys?”
No answer. Only the faint tremble of Nai’s breath. The color crawling higher, pink blooming up his throat like bruising fruit.
Nai inhales sharply, then snaps, voice sharp enough to cut glass: “I said you should be ingesting electrolytes instead of poison, and if you touch me like that again, I’ll assume you’re attempting physical therapy without a license.”
Nick huffs a breath that’s half-laugh. “Christ. You’re welcome.”
Nai jerks back, slips out from under Nick’s hands. Bracing himself with stiff, intentional movements, face taut with something too hardened to be only annoyance.
He plants his palms behind him, stretching his legs out with mock-casualness, but there’s heat crawling up the back of his neck, betraying him.
Nick watches tension coil in his lean frame, the way he won’t quite look him in the eye. Still trying to pretend he’s unaffected.
Then Nai sneers, flat gaze flicking to him. “If your technique in bed is anything like it is at the rack, I’m amazed anyone sticks around past the first round.”
Nick guffaws. “Got your mind in the gutter there, don’t ya?” he prods, voice curling with thrill. “Do you think about me fuckin’ people often?”
It’s quick.
Nai jabs him—fast and mean. A sharp blow, low, driving right into Nick’s gut, angled wrong enough to send heat punching through his abdomen, radiating white-hot where it counts. Not enough to do actual damage, but enough to knock the air from his lungs in a rasping, half-laughed wheeze.
He doubles over a little, arms crossed, hands braced on his sides, breathless. “Fuck.”
His vision blurs—not from the pain, but the rush. Sick and hot and toe-curling. A flashfire reaction he doesn’t even bother hiding.
That hit went straight to his cunt. Shit. Does he like pain?
Of course he fucking does.
Why else burn through his joints, pull too much weight, grind his teeth through soreness like it tastes good? Of course he likes pain. He must. It's the only thing that sticks lately.
Nick leans forward on his knees, breathing harshly, tasting copper and salt at the back of his throat.
Across from him, Nai watches. Viciously still. No smirk now, no smug little tilt of the mouth—something feral simmering low behind his eyes.
“Did that turn you on, freak?” he says, voice low.
Nick huffs a laugh, breathless, the sound scraping his raw throat. He licks the salt from his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching up in something too pointed to be a real smile.
“Dunno,” he pants, gaze flicking up to meet Nai’s. “Do it again and find out.”
For a second, the tension crackles—electric, the air between them gone razor-thin.
Then Nick shifts, leaning back onto his heels, lazy and taunting like none of it rattled him. Like his heart isn’t hammering in his chest hard enough to bruise.
He wipes a sweaty palm down his thigh, gives Nai a cocky little grin. “Tense little thing, ain’t you?” he drawls. “C’mon. Stretch out some more with me. You’re gonna snap like a twig if someone so much as breathes on you wrong.”
Nai shoots him a look—flat, furious, and only a little too flushed to land properly. “I’m more flexible than you’ll ever be.”
Nick’s grin sharpens, teeth flashing. “Yeah? Prove it.”
He doesn’t give Nai time to think—hooks a hand under the back of his knee and tugs, toppling him sideways onto the mat with a sharp oof of breath.
Nai twists to brace himself automatically, catching the floor with his palms—but Nick’s already there, moving with easy, predatory weight, one knee sliding over Nai’s hips to pin him.
“Real flexible, huh?” Nick teases, voice rough with laughter. “You’re about as bendy as a damn dinin’ chair.”
Nai snarls low in his throat and bucks under him, trying to twist free. Nick shifts to counter, grabbing a wrist and trapping it against the mat. Warm skin under his palm, lean muscle bunching under his fingers.
It’s messy, half-playful, all instincts and bad intentions. Nai’s compact strength thrashing against Nick’s heavier frame, all wild, frustrated energy.
Nick laughs low and pleased as Nai wriggles furiously, kicking out for leverage. He simply leans in, pressing him flatter.
“You’re all mouth ‘til someone actually gets hands on you,” Nick drawls, voice close to Nai’s ear.
Nai twists hard beneath him, voice punching out. “Get off, you filthy diesel-scented beast.”
Nick smiles. Shifts his hips—just a little—pressing their bodies closer. Heat seeping between them, thick and unmistakable even through their clothes.
His hand tightens fractionally on Nai’s wrist. “Make me,” Nick says, softly.
For a beat, neither of them move.
Both panting.
Chests rising and falling against each other.
Nick thinks, only for a second, that Nai might actually give up. Stay pinned and hiss insults until they both get bored.
But then Nai moves—fast. A sharp, vicious twist that nearly wrenches Nick’s grip loose.
Nick reacts instinctively, shifting his weight—but he’s half a beat too slow.
Nai bucks harder, knee driving up between Nick’s legs—not a clean shot, not enough to end it, but enough to make Nick grunt and lose his hold.
Then Nai’s rolling them, elbow under Nick’s ribs, flipping him onto his back.
Nick catches himself on one palm, laughing. “There’s the spirit, sunshine—”
Nai lunges at him again—a blur of sharp knees and wiry strength, trying to lock him down.
Nick grabs for his waist on reflex—a handful of thin, sweat-slick fabric, too much lean, hot body under his hands. He shoves up, twists , reversing them again.
They’re grappling now for real, bodies slamming against the mat, muscles straining, breathing ragged. Grips slipping wrong. Hands grabbing hips, wrists, thighs—anywhere they can get purchase.
Nick’s fingers dig into Nai’s side, feeling the shift of ribs, the burn of tense muscle under too-thin skin. Nai snarls and shoves .
Nick almost laughs again, dizzy with the sheer absurdity of it, the way their bodies won’t stop colliding—
Then Nai’s elbow snaps back, catches him— ugly —right in the bridge of his nose.
Nick swears, head snapping back, heat flooding his face. Hot. Wet.
Blood.
Not broken—he knows that feeling—but it hurts . The first drip leaks down to his upper lip.
“Fucking—” he starts, hand coming up—
—but Nai’s already on him, riding the momentum.
He slams Nick back down onto the mat, hard enough to rattle.
Nick grunts as his shoulders hit, blinking up at him.
And there he is. Straddling Nick’s hips, pinning his wrists hard to the floor, face flushed pink with exertion and fury, snowy hair mussed, mouth twisted in a sneer that’s two seconds from shattering.
Nick grins up at him, teeth bloody. “Feel better now, angel?”
Nai doesn’t answer. Just leans in closer, forcing Nick’s wrists tighter to the floor. All lean, trembling strength. All cold, furious weight pressing Nick down.
Nick can feel every locked muscle. Every shuddered breath. Every inch of contact.
Pinned.
Held.
Owned.
And fuck, if it doesn’t light him up from the inside out.
Nai inhales deeply, body shuddering with it, before he sucks his teeth and leans back, releasing his grip on Nick’s wrist. “You reek,” he says coolly, still firmly seated on top. “Go wash up.”
It sounds awfully like: I win.
Nick just lies there for a second, grinning up at him, chest heaving. Blood drips sluggishly from his nose, smearing over his upper lip, but he doesn’t wipe it away.
He shifts his wrists experimentally, testing the freedom, but doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn't shove Nai off like he should.
“Say pretty please first,” he says, low and ruined.
Nai’s nostrils flare. His hands twitch like he’s debating it—debating something . His thighs tighten where they cage Nick in, a subtle flex of muscle Nick feels all the way through.
Slowly, Nai leans in again. His palms plant firm against Nick’s chest, a silent warning.
“You’ll get blood on the mats,” Nai says, voice cold enough to burn. “And I’m not cleaning up after you.”
Nick tips his head back, laughs—sharp and wild and bleeding at the edges. His ribs ache with it, but it feels good. Better than it should.
“You are no fun,” Nick croons, delighted.
Nai’s mouth twitches like he might say something else—something worse—but he cuts it off, shoving harder against Nick’s chest.
“Go. Wash. Up.”
For a moment, neither of them move. Nick stares up at him, pulse hammering wild under his skin. Nai glares down, flushed and furious and breathing hard enough that Nick can feel it ghosting over his throat.
Then, with a sharp, disgusted sound, Nai shoves off of him—rough, abrupt—and climbs to his feet. He stalks off toward the dressing room without a backward glance, shoulders tight with barely-leashed energy.
Nick lies there another beat longer, grinning at the ceiling.
Then he hauls himself up, wipes the back of his hand across his face, and follows.
Nick pushes into the dressing room, the door slamming against the wall with a hollow echo.
The showers are already running. Steam thickens the air, turning it humid and heavy, clinging to the cracked tiles and mirrors. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like insects, warping the edges of everything.
Nai’s clothes are strewn carelessly across the floor. Shirt first—twisted and inside-out—next; leggings half-peeled and abandoned. A pair of briefs, black and almost delicate-looking, tossed on top of the heap.
Nick’s heart kicks against his ribs, violent and hungry.
He yanks his own sweat-soaked shirt over his head, barely registering the sting of dried blood cracking at his lip, hands moving fast. His shorts hit the floor next with a wet slap.
He hesitates.
His gaze catches on the briefs lying crumpled by his feet, the seat of them darkened, damp where sweat and heat and something seductive had soaked through.
He stoops, snatching them off the floor before he can think better of it. Brings them to his face like his hands move on their own.
The scent punches through him—thick, raw, and electric.
Nick snarls low in his throat, half-sick with it, half-crazed. He tosses the briefs aside before he follows impulse into sucking fabric into his mouth
He’s kicking free of the last of his clothes, bare feet slapping against the slick tiles as he rounds the wall into the showers.
The steam parts just enough to reveal Nai standing under the spray, back turned, head tipped up toward the shower head.
Water sluices down the hard, elegant line of his spine, tracing over the sharp wings of his shoulder blades, the lean pull of muscle at his waist. His hair’s plastered wet to the back of his neck, shining like tarnished, white gold.
Nick swallows hard, throat working around the knot rising there. His whole body thrums—blood singing in his veins, teeth grinding behind a bitten-back groan.
He steps closer, quiet as he can manage on the wet tile.
The sound of the water drowns out his approach either way.
Nai doesn’t turn. Doesn't know he's there yet.
Nick’s fingers twitch at his sides.
Something’s going to snap.
He knows it.
And it'll be him .
One second he's standing there, blood thundering in his ears, the next he's got his hands on Nai—hungry, reckless, dragging calloused palms up over narrow hips, thumbs digging into the tender slant where waist tapers into thigh.
Nai doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t startle.
Just tips his head a little further forward, letting the hot spray hit the back of his neck. Water beads and runs down the sharp cut of his spine.
Nick’s mouth finds him there, the slope of his nape—kisses sloppy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and soap and heat. Tongue dragging along skin like he can lick the tension out of Nai’s muscles if he just tries hard enough.
Nai’s voice cuts through the steam. Cool, biting. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Nick grins against wet skin, presses closer, dick flushed and aching against the curve of Nai’s ass. His voice goes rough, half-growled. “Practicing without a license.”
For a moment, Nai doesn’t move. His body stays rigid, taut under Nick’s hands.
Nick doesn’t stop—grinding up against him, hands groping greedily down Nai’s sides, fingertips skimming ribs, hips, the curve of his ass, bruising his touch into soft, water-slick skin.
Nai’s palms brace hard against the tiles. His head hangs forward, shoulders straining, every line of his body lit up electric under Nick’s touch. Shivering with restraint, with something meaner.
Until his fingers curl against the tiles, his tongue clicks, and he snaps away from the wall.
He grabs Nick’s wrist. Fast, determined. Spins on him.
Nick barely has time to catch his breath before his back hits the wall with a wet slap, the wall shockingly cold against overheated skin.
Nai steps in close, chest to chest, forcing Nick’s shoulders back against the slick wall. One hand stays locked hard around Nick’s wrist, the other braces flat against the wall near Nick’s ear.
Pinning him again.
The hiss of the shower drowns everything but breath and body. Steam curls off of the walls, thick in the air, clinging to skin like sweat that never left. It's too warm. Water pounding down, muscles tight and aching from overwork.
This is the kind of close that wipes the smirk off Nick’s face and replaces it with something hotter—hungrier.
Nai’s leaning down, slowly, something mean in the set of his mouth even now. He smells like cedar soap and spite. His hands come to brace against the tile over Nick’s shoulders, and that sculpted body tilts forward, cutting off every inch of space between them.
Nick doesn’t mean to look right away. But fuck.
The view hits hard. Nai’s abs flex in the light, all lean definition and carved muscle, skin pale and wet and flawless. That taut, low-fat frame, clean lines from months—years—of strict diet and tighter self-discipline. Every part of him honed . Built from effort and venom.
Nick’s throat works. His mouth is dry, somehow, despite the water. This is the kind of greed they warn about in the Bible. Wrath and lust rolled into a body sculpted to punish.
And they’re close. So close. Heat and breath and everything in between stripped away with their clothes.
Their flushed clits press together, slick and hot where they slot up. Nick breathes in sharp through his teeth—feels Nai twitch against him. The friction’s right, humming along every nerve.
Nai’s lips are a breath from his, but his eyes are locked lower. Watching the place where they grind against each other, like he’s taking mental notes. Judging.
Nick leans in, mouth barely brushing Nai’s ear. His voice is rough, low with the groan he lets bleed into the syllables, shameless. “Mine’s bigger.”
That earns him a breath—short, sharp. A twitch of muscle along Nai’s jaw. And for just a split second, his hips stutter forward.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t speak at all.
But his hand slides down between them like he means to measure.
Nick lets him. Breath hissing through his teeth, eyes fluttering half-shut.
Nai’s fingers skim low, ghost over Nick’s cock—hot, aching, slick from the heat and friction. It’s all swollen, sensitive, so big it throbs against Nai’s knuckles when they grind close. Not even stroking yet, just the suggestion of touch, and Nick’s already trembling like a live wire.
He bites down on a groan, fists clenched against the tile behind him.
Nai’s mouth curves—not a smile, not really. More a slow baring of teeth. A mean little flex of satisfaction.
He presses harder. Rubs slow, the slick glide of their cocks smearing against each other. Nick jerks under him, a shudder ripping down his spine, hips stuttering up into the grind without permission.
“Sensitive,” Nai mutters, almost clinical. Like he’s taking notes. Like he’s picking Nick apart and liking what he finds.
Nick grits his teeth. His cock pulses hard against Nai’s palm. “Keep talking like a lab tech, and I’m gonna make you feel dumber than you already look.”
That earns a reaction—sharp, gleaming. Nai’s eyes narrow. His hand snaps up, wraps around the base of Nick’s clit—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to trap it. To control Nick.
Nick’s breath puffs out.
Neither of them moves. Water thunders down, washing heat and sweat and steam into a dizzying mix. Their bodies are locked together, tension wired tight under skin.
Then Nai tilts his head.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice smooth, low, daring. “Make me.”
His thumb flicks over the head of Nick’s cock, fast and rough. Nick bucks, curses, teeth flashing in a snarl he can’t back up.
God, it’s stupid how good it feels. How heavy and slick the air between them is. How his whole body’s already trembling with the need to come, to grind up and take whatever Nai’s willing to give.
Nick grabs for him—fists in Nai’s hair, dragging him down. Their mouths crash together messy and hot, teeth clicking. It’s more a fight than a kiss, wet and frantic, all biting and gasping and spit.
Nai growls low in his throat, hips grinding slow against Nick’s again, pinning him harder to the wall. Their cocks slip together, swollen and slick, the friction mind-shattering.
Nick doesn’t know if he’s winning or losing.
Doesn’t fucking care.
Nai fights the kiss like he fights everything else—furious, trying to tear Nick apart with his teeth and the last scraps of his dignity.
Nick's not having it.
He moves fast, years of brawling instinct kicking in, grabbing Nai’s thigh and wrenching it high against his hip. The sudden shift throws Nai off balance—long enough for Nick to spin him around and slam him back against the wet tile.
The breath punches out of Nai's lungs in a snarl. His fingers scrabble for purchase, but Nick’s already there, pressing in, pinning him with the full weight of his body.
“You’re not so tough, are you?” Nick growls, nose still dripping blood, leaving a sharp red smear across Nai’s pale throat where he mouths and bites.
Nai shudders against him. Not pulling away. Not quite giving in either. His hands bunch on Nick’s shoulders like he can’t decide if he wants to push him off or drag him closer.
Nick dips his hand down, grabbing at Nai's cock for a filthy second—just to feel him twitch and buck—but he’s got other ideas.
Rough fingers push lower, slick with spit and shower spray, and jam inside without warning.
Nai jolts hard, gasping—a raw, wounded sound Nick eats up like candy.
“Take it,” Nick snarls against his ear. “You take it like the little freak I just know you are.”
Nai tries to answer—tries to muster something undoubtedly cutting—but it melts into a breathy curse, a desperate little “F-fuck—” that has Nick vibrating beneath his skin.
He presses forward harder, driving his fingers in deep, feeling Nai squeeze around him, trembling, fluttering.
“You needed this,” Nick mutters. “Needed me to wreck you. Just too much of a coward to say it. Hopin’ to goad me into fuckin’ you.”
Nai's head thumps back against the wall with a wet slap. His mouth falls open, panting, cunt shivering around the relentless stretch.
Nick’s blood is still dripping, hot little drops against Nai’s pale throat, red against milk-white, bruised where Nick's mouth caught skin too hard.
He doesn't stop.
He shoves Nai down with him, dragging him by the hips onto the slick floor. Nai lands heavy, catching himself weakly on all fours, hair plastered to his forehead in dripping strands.
Nick’s on him in a heartbeat—grabbing a fistful of snow-like hair, yanking his head back hard to expose that long, elegant throat. His other arm wraps around Nai’s neck, crushing him into his own body, pressing them together so close Nai’s whole frame vibrates with the effort for breath.
The air cuts off sharply. Nai’s hips stutter, jerking back into Nick’s hand when he gets his fingers back where they belong, instinct taking over where pride used to be.
Nick hisses a laugh against his ear.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Already fuckin’ fallin’ apart.”
He pushes in deeper, three fingers now, stretching Nai open mercilessly. The squelch of it is obscene, drowned only by the hiss of the shower and Nai’s broken gasps.
Nai tries to talk, to curse him out, but it collapses into breathless noise—soft, desperate sounds that make Nick’s cunt throb where it grinds against Nai’s trembling thigh.
“Fuck—” Nai whines, voice cracking.
“Yeah?” Nick sneers, twisting his fingers, thumb grinding ruthless against Nai’s clit where it throbs, swollen and needy. “You like it like this? Like gettin’ stuffed full ‘till you can't even fuckin’ think ?”
Nai bucks hard, legs giving out, body jerking helplessly under the brutal pump of Nick's hand.
“Y-yeah—yes, fuck—yes,” Nai gasps, voice high and ruined, hitching with every punishing thrust of Nick’s fingers.
Nick tightens his arm, pressing the chokehold a little harder. Enough to make Nai's world flicker at the edges. His hips roll, frantic, chasing the pressure like a starved animal.
“God, you're fuckin’ perfect,” Nick growl, almost reverent, the words dragged raw from his throat. His blood smears red across Nai’s shoulders, his clavicle, leaving streaks on the smooth, trembling skin as he grinds his body closer.
Nai’s puffy cunt leaks slick onto the floor, twitching helplessly with every rough thrust. He’s trembling so badly now Nick has to brace him up—hand fisted cruelly in his hair, holding him in place as he fucks him through it.
Nick leans down, mouth hot and filthy against Nai’s ear.
“C’mon,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ break for me.”
Nai makes a thin, broken sound, hips stuttering back desperately into Nick's fingers—and then he’s gone, muscles locking up, choking on his own moans.
He comes hard, clenching down around Nick’s hand, whole body shaking, cunt spilling hot and messy across his thighs. His arms give out completely, forehead hitting the floor with a weak, gasping cry.
Nick holds him through it, squeezing the back of his neck, crooning filthy nonsense against his ear while Nai sobs through aftershocks, giving Nick an absolute high no record bench press could ever dream to reach.
When Nai finally slumps boneless, gasping for air, Nick eases his hold just enough to let him breathe properly—but not enough to let him get away.
He nuzzles into the soaked, blood-striped line of Nai’s throat, dragging his teeth lazily over the bruised skin, savoring the way Nai shivers under him.
“Pretty little thing,” Nick whispers, voice dark and viciously fond.
And Nai—wrecked, used, trembling in his arms—makes the softest, smallest noise in response, still twitching.
Barely recovering, legs spread like butter, mouth open as he greedily gasps for air, eyes glassy and dark. But Nick isn't done. Not by a fucking long shot.
He shuffles down between Nai’s thighs, the heat in his gut a gnawing, desperate thing now. His cock’s flushed and aching, swollen stiff where it juts between his swollen lips. Still untouched. Still demanding.
Nick doesn't need finesse. He just needs Nai.
He grabs Nai’s limp thigh, props it up over his own shoulder, then slides in close—hips slotting flush between Nai’s spread legs, the raw, swollen tips of their clits meeting wet and hot and slick with mess. Nai’s body jolts at the contact, a broken gasp hitching in his throat.
“Nicholas—” Nai starts, voice hoarse, cracking around the edges. “Fucking fuck , give me a—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
Nick grinds down slow and wicked, dragging his dick against Nai’s, and the words die in Nai’s throat, replaced by a high, wrecked whine.
“Too much?” Nick rasps, leaning down, breath hot against Nai’s mouth, smearing his bloody nose across his cheek. “Then say it. Say stop. Otherwise…”
He grinds down harder.
Nai chokes on his own breath, hands scrabbling for purchase against the wet floor. One grabs Nick’s wrist, weak and trembling, but doesn’t push.
Nick grins, blood in his teeth. “Didn’t think so.”
He shifts his weight, slides one knee under Nai’s limp leg and pushes the other over his shoulder, folding Nai in half. The position spreads him open, his pussy grinding hot against Nick’s own. The friction is ruthless, the slide obscene.
Their folds catch and slip together, wet with slick and sweat and Nai’s come. Every roll of Nick’s hips has them both shuddering. Nai’s thighs twitch, his back arching involuntarily, breath coming in wrecked little bursts.
Nick reaches between them, rough fingers pressing at the place where they rub together, splitting their lips wider, making the friction even sharper.
Nai jerks.
“F-fuck—fuck— Nicholas, slow down—”
But there’s no conviction in it. His voice is wrecked, desperate. His hips roll right back into it.
Nick chuckles low, dragging his bloody mouth down the side of Nai’s throat, licking the salt and heat from his skin. “You say that,” he breathes, “but your cunt's so greedy it’s fuckin’ droolin’.”
Nai makes a noise that barely sounds human—somewhere between a sob and a moan. His hands come up, bracing on Nick’s shoulders, nails digging in, legs trembling where Nick’s grinding them together with heavy, relentless force.
“Yeah,” Nick growls, jaw clenched as he ruts harder. “Bet you’ll come again just from this. From gettin’ humped like a bitch in heat.”
“Shut—” Nai tries, voice breaking again, “shut the fuck— ahh—”
Too late.
Nick rolls his hips roughly, scissoring against Nai’s cock with just the right angle, just the right pressure. Nai’s whole body jerks under him—high-strung and helpless. The slick slap of their cunts grinding together is filthy, echoing in the steamed-up shower like the soundtrack to something animal.
Nick’s fingers slide to Nai’s clit, swollen and flushed and so sensitive it makes Nai mewl when Nick brushes it.
“Right there,” Nick pants, voice breaking into a groan. “Fuck—gimme another. I want you cryin’ when I come.”
Nai’s too far gone to talk now. His head thrashes side to side, pale hair sticking wet to his face, mouth open, lips parted on a silent, shaking yes . His leg spasms over Nick’s waist, trying to pull him closer, grind harder.
Nick snarls, gripping Nai’s hip tight enough to bruise, and slams down rough, humping forward like he can bury his cock in Nai without even needing to thrust.
He can feel Nai tensing again—feel him bucking, fighting the oversensitivity, trying to ride it out but unraveling all the same.
Then Nai’s choking on a scream, back bowing, thighs snapping tight around Nick’s hips as he comes again, harder this time, shaking like he’s being electrocuted. His pussy gushes again, weaker but no less messy, smearing between their grinding bodies.
Nick loses it.
He thrusts harder, more erratic, chasing the pulse of Nai’s second orgasm like a fucking animal, fingers digging into his thighs, rutting into the wet, sticky heat between them.
“Gonna—’m gonna—fuck—” he gasps, hips jerking wildly now, muscles seizing.
Nai's hand shoots up, fists tight in Nick's hair, yanking him down as Nick finally breaks—groaning into Nai’s mouth, leaking hot and helpless between their twitching bodies, cock grinding messily against Nai’s ruined cunt.
They writhe through it together, clinging, filthy and frantic.
When Nick finally stills, shaking, he stays pressed close—forehead to Nai’s, both of them slick with sweat, come, blood, and steam. Nai’s chest heaves under him, lips swollen and wet, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
Nick licks his lips, panting hard.
“You’re insane,” Nai whispers hoarsely, voice torn to shreds.
Nick grins.
“That’s big comin’ from you, doll.”
They don’t move.
Just lie there, limbs tangled, steam curling around them in the dense shower heat. Every breath is wet and heavy. Every inch of skin aches. Nick’s still half-hard, pressed close and grinning like he just won a fucking war.
Eventually, Nai shifts.
A twitch. A hiss. Then a slow, stiff shove against Nick’s chest. “Get off,” he rasps, voice frayed down to threads.
Nick laughs and stays right where he is, weight settled over Nai’s hip like he’s got squatters’ rights. “No please? No thank you?” He presses a kiss to Nai’s jaw, all smug. “That’s rude, angel.”
Nai glares at him with eyes still hazy and dark. “I said —” he starts, and then tries to push himself up.
It’s a mistake. His arms tremble, legs go out from under him halfway up, and he crashes backward into the tile with a sharp curse, right on his perky arse.
Nick barks out a laugh, shoulders shaking. “Oh my god. You can’t even stand . That’s adorable.”
“Shut up,” Nai growls, wiping at his face. His hand comes away smeared with a mix of sweat and Nick’s blood, which just makes him scowl harder. “You’re still bleeding on me.”
“Don’t act like it doesn’t make you a little hot,” Nick drawls, finally rolling off him. He drags himself upright with far too much effort, then grabs the shower rail and pulls Nai up after him. “C’mon, Bambi. Time to rinse off.”
Nai stumbles again, and Nick catches him by the waist with ease, fingers digging in a little too knowingly.
“That bad, huh?” Nick smirks, voice low. “Didn’t know I had it in me.”
Nai huffs, unamused. “You hump like a dog, and act like you’re clever.”
Nick's eyes glitter. “I am clever. You just can't think straight with my hand in your cunt.”
He gets a shove for that—half-hearted, wet palms against his chest—but Nai leans into the wall right after, steadying himself with both hands like his knees are still made of rubber.
Nick takes a moment to appreciate the view. The long, lean lines of Nai’s back, the delicate shiver in his thighs, the flushed color lingering down his spine. He whistles low. “You’re gonna be walkin’ funny tomorrow.”
“Keep talking,” Nai mutters, voice icy, “and I’ll make sure you’re not .”
“Oh?” Nick tilts his head, stepping up behind him again, close enough to make Nai flinch. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Nai cringes and turns his face under the spray, letting water sluice down over his skin, steam rising from his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything else—just stands there catching his breath, looking like he wants to be anywhere else and can’t quite manage to walk away.
Nick doesn’t push. Just lingers behind, hands finally still, but his presence palpable. The air between them stays taut, crackling with the aftermath.
They’re not touching anymore.
But the heat hasn’t gone anywhere.
Not really.
It starts with a hand in his hair.
Nai flinches, shoulders twitching like he expects more filth, more heat, more teeth.
But it’s just Nick. Just a palm slick with cedar-scented soap, working into his scalp with firm, slow circles. Thumb brushing behind one ear. Fingers combing through damp strands like he's done this before. Like he means to ruin Nai another way now—through patience. Through care.
Nai breathes out sharp through his nose. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a thing.
Nick doesn’t either. Just keeps going. Massaging in close, getting behind his ears, at his nape, nails skimming lightly where the skin is sensitive. Nai could snap his neck. Could elbow him in the ribs and storm out.
He doesn’t.
He stands there, scowling at the wall, half-lidded eyes following the line of water trailing down the grout.
Nick grins behind him. “God, you’re spoiled,” he murmurs, sliding both hands down to Nai’s shoulders now, dragging soap-slick fingers across tight, overworked traps. He digs his thumbs in a little. Finds the knots. Works them slow. “Bet no one’s ever touched you like this. Always got that stick jammed up your ass too deep to let anyone try.”
Nai groans. Quiet. Deep in his chest. But not the annoyed kind.
The fuck-you-why-does-that-feel-good kind.
Nick’s grin sharpens. “You’re not even pretendin’ not to like it.”
“I’ll bite your fingers off,” Nai mutters, but his voice has lost all bite. It's husky. Worn.
“Sure you will,” Nick says, hands dragging down now. Over pale arms, down that narrow waist, circling slick skin with maddening thoroughness. “How ‘bout I get your back too? Can’t have my favorite gym-buddy crampin’ up on the next set.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Runs both palms down Nai’s spine, working soap into every dip and taut line. Nai’s breath stutters. His head drops forward again.
“God,” he mutters.
“High praise,” Nick says, smug. “But you’re a little high-maintenance for a savior complex.”
That earns him a half-turn and a look like Nai’s genuinely weighing the pros and cons of drowning him under the spray. But then he sighs, long-suffering. “Get dried off,” Nai says, like every word pains him. “Clothed. Shoes on. We’re going for a run.”
Nick blinks. “ Now ? You can’t even stand on your own . ”
Nai turns back under the spray, rinsing his hair, tone final. “You want between my legs again or not?”
Nick’s towel is in his hands before Nai finishes the sentence. “Five minutes. Tops. Don’t disappear on me, Legs .”
Nai doesn't answer.
But the curve of his lip—almost a smile—says he won't.
Who knew showering involved this much talking?