The fountain at the center of campus ran steady, water catching the pale morning light and breaking it into shifting fragments across stone. Students drifted past in loose currents — backpacks slung low, voices blending into a soft, constant hum.

Duncan cut through it at a jog. He slowed as he reached {{user}}, breath still a little uneven from the rush, hair slightly messed. There was a faint tiredness under his eyes — not heavy, just there if you knew him well enough to notice.

Two drinks in his hands. One already half-warm, dark and bitter. The other—

He held it out to {{user}} without hesitation.

"Got you this," he said, voice a little rough at the edges, but easy. "Figured you’d need it."

A small exhale, almost a laugh.

"Night shift ran longer than it should’ve," he added, shifting his weight slightly. "Got back, passed out, and—" he tipped his head back a fraction, squinting at the light, "—yeah. Woke up way too late."

His mouth curved faintly, self-aware. He glanced at {{user}}, softer now.

"You sleep okay?" It came out simple. Careful in a way that didn’t draw attention to itself.

Across the courtyard, movement shifted. Aerion approached with his usual orbit — a couple of guys flanking him, conversation loose, easy, the kind that carried without needing to try. He stood out even from a distance, posture relaxed in that deliberate way that always read as controlled.

A lollipop sat between his teeth. The white stick angled slightly as he bit down on it, jaw working lazily as he listened, then spoke — something about a club, a night that had clearly gone late, his tone edged with that familiar confidence that came from never needing to explain himself twice.

He rolled one shoulder, then the other, loosening up as they walked, arms stretching briefly like he was shaking the night out of his body.

Then his gaze shifted. Locked. On Duncan. On {{user}}. A slow, knowing smile pulled at his mouth.

"Hold up," he muttered to his friends, already angling toward them. They followed, interest sharpening.

Aerion closed the distance without hurry, eyes flicking between them once before settling.

"Captain," he greeted, tone smooth, just a touch too deliberate to pass as casual.

His gaze slid back to {{user}} — slower this time. He pulled the lollipop from his mouth, the candy leaving his lips with a faint, almost audible click. For a second, it hovered there between his fingers — then his tongue followed. Slow. Deliberate. The split visible as it traced along the surface, dividing slightly as it dragged over the gloss of sugar, catching the light for just a moment before pulling back.

His eyes didn’t leave {{user}} while he did it. Sharp. Focused. Almost curious. Like he was watching for a reaction.

"Didn’t expect to see you this early," he said, tone lighter now, though it didn’t soften anything about the way he looked at them. His head tilted slightly, just enough to shift the angle of his gaze.

"You look good."

It landed easy. Casual on the surface. The guys behind him let out quiet, knowing sounds — low, amused, the kind that filled the space without needing to be loud. Aerion didn’t react to them. His attention stayed exactly where he wanted it. Then, finally, it flicked back to Duncan. A glance. Quick. Measuring. The faintest hint of something sharper cutting through his expression — not enough to call out, but enough to feel.

"See you at training," he added, like it meant more than just the words.

Like it always did. For a second, he stayed there — just long enough for the tension to settle fully between all three of them. Then he stepped back. Turned. The lollipop slipped back between his lips, the stick tilting as his teeth caught it again, jaw working slowly as he fell back into step with his friends.

One of them glanced over his shoulder with a grin, another let out a low chuckle, muttering something under his breath that didn’t quite carry.

The main pitch of a prestigious college stretched wide and immaculate, trimmed grass dark with moisture, white lines sharp under a sky dulled by cold. The air carried the weight of effort — sweat, damp earth, the metallic edge of adrenaline settling into the back of the throat. Boots tore through turf, bodies collided with force that echoed through bone, breath came rough and fast, visible in the chill.

Voices cut across the field — short calls, sharp adjustments, timing held tight between players who had drilled this into themselves for years. The ball moved clean. Impact followed impact. Controlled. Precise. Expected.

Duncan stood at the center of it. He moved with weight and certainty, every step grounded, every decision landing exactly where it needed to. He absorbed contact and drove through it, shoulder low, balance held, boots digging deep into the wet ground. Tackles closed fully. Runs split defensive lines with clean, direct intent. Sweat clung to his skin, soaked into the collar of his jersey, breath steady even as the pace climbed.

He held the structure of the play without needing to claim it. Coach Hale watched and said nothing.

Across the field, Aerion carried a different kind of presence. Sharp. Effortless in the way he positioned himself, the way he moved through drills with precision that drew the eye. He played like the field belonged to him — like pressure sharpened him instead of weighing him down.

Still, something pulled tight beneath it. A fraction of hesitation on a turn. A careful angle where force should have been immediate. The smallest delay when his body needed to twist hard through contact.

Groin strain. Two practices ago. The collision stayed in memory — fast, brutal, neither of them giving ground. Duncan had driven through him with full force, shoulder slamming into hip, momentum carrying through like a statement carved into muscle. Aerion had stayed upright, jaw set, control intact.

The cost showed now. And something between them had settled into something harder. They wore the same jersey with tension running beneath it. Duncan built himself through effort, through contact, through the grind of every drill and every match. Aerion carried himself like someone who had always belonged at the top of it.

It snapped during a reset. Aerion stepped out of the drill, rolling his shoulder once, breath tight beneath the control. One of his friends leaned in, speaking low, close enough to keep it contained.

Aerion answered louder.

"Careful with him," he said, voice dry, carrying just enough across the field. "He gets attached fast."

A ripple of laughter — low, easy. Duncan kept his focus forward, jaw tightening. Aerion’s gaze shifted toward him, casual, deliberate.

"Clings to whatever he can get," he continued. "Even when it doesn’t stay."

One of the guys let out a short laugh. "You talking about—"

Aerion cut in, smooth.

"{{user}} didn’t need much convincing," Aerion said, louder now, like he wanted it heard. "Seriously. Barely tried."

A couple of whistles cut through the air — sharp, low. Aerion huffed a short laugh, rolling his shoulders like he was loosening up, then tipped his head back slightly.

"Started all quiet," he added, dragging it out. "Real sweet about it."

He made a small, careless motion with his hips — quick, mocking, just enough to land the implication.

"Didn’t stay that way."

A few of the guys snorted. Someone muttered damn under their breath. Aerion’s gaze slid straight to Duncan, slow, deliberate.

"Crazy how fast {{user}} switches up," he went on. "One second all shy, next—"

He cut himself off with a smirk, letting the silence fill in the rest. Duncan turned. Slow.

"What did you just say?"

Aerion met his gaze fully, unhurried, the corner of his mouth still carrying that edge.

"You heard me."

Duncan closed the distance in three strides and drove into him hard. Impact cracked through both of them. Shoulder into chest, weight carried forward with no restraint.

Aerion’s breath hitched — sharp, pulled from him — his stance faltering for a fraction before he locked it back in place. His hand shot up, gripping Duncan’s jersey, fingers tightening with controlled force.

"Careful," Aerion said, lower now, heat threaded through the calm.

Duncan shoved him again. Harder. Dirt tore under their boots, grass ripping as they slid. No structure left. Only contact. Aerion’s control thinned — not gone, but sharpened into something colder.

"You think that changes anything?" he said under his breath. "You think that makes you enough?"

Duncan’s fist came fast. It caught — enough to snap Aerion’s head to the side.

That was the line. They went at each other fully then — hands locking, shoulders slamming, bodies crashing together with force that belonged in a match, not a drill. Sweat, breath, impact — all of it tangled into something raw and immediate. Duncan pushed with pure strength, driving forward again and again.

Aerion adjusted, fast and precise, shifting weight to protect the injury, turning force aside with calculated movements, using leverage where strength faltered.

"Break it up!"

Coach Hale’s voice cut through everything. Hands grabbed them, dragging them apart. Duncan fought it, breath rough, chest rising hard, eyes locked on Aerion like it hadn’t ended. Aerion straightened slowly, fingers brushing his sleeve back into place. His breathing ran tighter now, controlled through effort, tension coiled beneath the surface.

Hale stepped in.

"Targaryen. Showers. Now."

Aerion’s gaze flicked to him, sharp.

"You’re pulling me?"

"I’m done repeating myself," Hale said, voice flat, cutting straight through the noise. "You’re one bad movement away from tearing that worse."

A beat. Aerion held his gaze. Hale stepped closer.

"And listen carefully," he added, lower now, the edge turning cold. "This isn’t something your family cleans up for you. One more stunt like that, and you’re out. No calls. No favors. You dig yourself into this, you stay in it."

Silence tightened around them. Aerion exhaled through his nose. Then turned. As he passed Duncan, he leaned in just enough — voice low, close, deliberate.

"{{user}} leans into whoever gives {{user}} what {{user}} wants," he murmured. "You don’t."

Duncan’s hands clenched instantly.

"Say that again—"

"Duncan."

Hale didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. Duncan stopped — barely. Aerion walked off the field through the cold air and the lingering heat of the clash, stride tight with the injury, posture still held, still composed. Like the damage hadn’t touched him. Like he had taken exactly what he came for.

Training ran clean until it didn’t. Aerion ran his mouth — dragged {{user}} into it, loud enough for the team to hear. Duncan reacted fast. One shove turned into a hit, then into something messier, heavier, the kind of contact that had nothing to do with drills anymore. Hale shut it down before it went further. And when he looked at Aerion, it wasn’t a warning — it was a line. Locker room. Now. One more stunt like that, and he was done tolerating it. Aerion walked off with the tension still burning under his skin.

The locker room door slammed open under his hand. Heat hit him immediately — thick, stale, heavy with sweat and damp fabric, the smell of effort trapped in the air. It pressed in close, clung to the back of his throat, mixed with the fading edge of adrenaline still burning through him. The space felt smaller than it should have.

Aerion dragged his jersey over his head in one sharp pull, the fabric catching briefly against his shoulders before he yanked it free. It dropped somewhere behind him, forgotten the second it left his hands. His chest rose and fell harder now, breath uneven, the rhythm from the field still trapped in his body with nowhere to go.

"Fuck—"

Low. Rough. Half-breath, half-word. He bent down, fingers moving fast, impatient as he tore off his cleats and sent them skidding across the floor. One struck the bench with a solid crack, the sound echoing through the room. Socks followed, dragged down, discarded without care. Tape came next — ripped free in short, irritated pulls, the adhesive tugging at his skin, leaving faint sting behind.

His hands didn’t slow. His pulse didn’t drop. Everything still sat too high under his skin. He moved to his locker and yanked it open, the metal door giving with a sharp creak. Inside — everything sat exactly as it should. Folded. Aligned. Controlled.

It irritated him instantly. Too clean. Too still. He grabbed a towel, fingers tightening into the fabric — and only then his jaw shifted slightly, the movement pulling at something sore.

A dull throb answered. He stilled for a fraction. His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek, testing — and the pressure came back sharper this time, blooming outward. The hit had landed clean. It would show. Already there was heat under the skin, a slow swelling building where Duncan’s fist had connected.

"Fuck…" this time quieter, more annoyed than anything.

His gaze flicked toward the metal edge of the locker, catching a warped reflection of himself. Not clear, just enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the beginning of discoloration that would deepen within the hour.

Great. That would be all anyone needed. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth — humorless. By tonight, it would be worse. Darker. Obvious. And whoever he had lined up — some girl from the college, easy, predictable — would notice immediately. Questions. Comments. That tilted tone halfway between concern and curiosity.

What happened? Who hit you? You okay? He could already hear it. He exhaled through his nose, sharp.

"Yeah, can’t wait," he muttered dryly.

His grip tightened on the towel. For a second, he just stood there, staring into the locker like it might give him something back.

Then—

The door slammed shut. Hard. The sound cracked through the room, sharp enough to bounce off tile and metal, echoing back in a way that lingered, filling the space with something heavier than noise.

Aerion’s hand stayed pressed against the cold surface, fingers tense, the edge of the metal biting faintly into his palm. Hale’s voice cut back through his head, clear, measured, impossible to shake. No calls. No favors. His jaw clenched again — and the pain flared sharper this time.

Because it wasn’t that simple. It never had been. This wasn’t the first time something had gone too far. Fights, comments, moments that crossed lines — all of it had always been handled. Quietly. Efficiently. Cleaned up before it could settle into consequence.

Maekar had made sure of that. A call placed at the right moment. A conversation held behind closed doors. A name that carried enough weight to shift outcomes before they could land. Aerion had built himself around that. Around the certainty that nothing would stick. Now it felt thinner. Unsteady. He dragged a hand back through his hair, fingers catching, pulling harder this time, grounding himself through the slight sting.

"Shit—"

It came out sharper. More real. He turned and dropped onto the bench, the impact heavy enough to make the wood creak beneath him. His elbows braced against his knees, towel hanging loose between his hands, shoulders tight with energy that refused to settle. He leaned forward, head dipping, breath pushing out uneven. Then back again almost immediately. Restless. Unable to stay still.

The words replayed, louder now in the quiet of the room. You dig yourself into this, you stay in it. His fingers slid back into his hair again, slower this time, but no less tense — dragging through, gripping, releasing.

The adrenaline sat coiled under his skin, tight and sharp, turning over itself with nowhere to go. Heat pressed in. Silence stretched. His jaw throbbed. His thoughts ran ahead to the night waiting for him — noise, drinks, someone new leaning too close, asking too many questions he had no patience for.

Classes ended. Practice lingered longer. It stayed in his shoulders, in the dull ache running down his arms. The cold from the field had sunk into him earlier; now it mixed with heat, sweat drying against his skin, leaving that tight, rough feeling under his clothes.

Duncan didn’t go anywhere with the team. No locker room talk. No lingering. He grabbed his bag, slung it over one shoulder, and left.

The gas station sat just off the main road, a little outside campus. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air smelled faintly of fuel, cheap coffee, and something fried that had been sitting too long.

Duncan clocked in without a word. The uniform shirt went on over his own — fabric thinner, worn from too many washes. The name tag clipped into place. He tied his hair back with a quick, practiced motion, rolled his shoulders once, working out the last of the stiffness.

Then he got to work. It wasn’t complicated. That was part of it. Scan. Bag. Repeat. The register beeped in steady rhythm, numbers flickering across the screen. Bills passed through his hands — folded, crumpled, damp from being held too long. Coins dropped into place with soft metallic clicks. People came and went in a constant, low stream — tired drivers, students grabbing snacks, someone stopping just long enough to fill up and leave.

Duncan handled it all the same way he handled the field. Steady. Focused. Every movement clean, efficient, without hesitation. He didn’t rush, didn’t stall. Just moved through it, one thing after another, the repetition settling into something almost grounding.

A guy fumbled his card — Duncan waited, patient. A woman changed her order halfway through — he adjusted without a word. Someone got short with him over the price — he let it pass, voice even, expression steady.

Then, for a moment—

It slipped. Not visibly at first. Just a flicker. His hand paused a fraction too long over the register. His jaw tightened, almost imperceptible, as the words from the field dragged themselves back into his head.

Aerion’s voice. Loud. Smug. {{user}}’s name twisted into something it wasn’t. His friend. The image didn’t sit right. Didn’t fit. And that made it worse.

His grip on the edge of the counter tightened slightly, knuckles paling for a second as the memory of it pressed in — the laughter, the looks, the way it had been said like it meant something.

Like it could. A sharp breath, barely there. Then he let it go. Not fully. Just enough. His shoulders eased back into place. His expression smoothed over again, that same quiet, approachable calm settling back across his face like nothing had shifted at all.

"Yeah, you’re good," he said to the customer in front of him, voice steady, almost warm.

Like it hadn’t touched him. His hands still carried the memory of impact — a faint soreness when he flexed his fingers, knuckles slightly raw where they had connected earlier. His shoulder pulled when he reached too far. His ribs felt it when he breathed too deep.

He worked through it. Outside, headlights swept across the glass in slow arcs as cars pulled in and out. The low hum of engines idling at the pumps blended with the constant buzz of the lights overhead. The world here moved differently — slower, quieter.

But his thoughts didn’t stay with it for long. They kept circling back. To {{user}}. To the way Aerion had said it. To how easily he had made it sound real.

Duncan pushed it down. He wiped the counter. Restocked shelves when there was a break. Checked the coffee machine, replaced a pot, rinsed it out, set another brewing. Work filled the space. It always did. Even when something under it stayed unsettled.

He leaned his weight briefly against the counter when the line thinned, stretching his hand once, then letting it fall back to his side. His gaze flicked out toward the pumps, watching a car roll in, engine ticking as it shut off. His jaw tightened again, just for a second.

Then the door opened. The bell chimed. And he pushed himself upright, already back in place — steady, composed, like that brief crack had never been there at all.

The lecture hall carried that heavy, afternoon stillness — air too warm, voices too even, the low murmur of a professor who had been speaking long enough for it to blur into background noise.

Rows of students sat half-focused, half elsewhere. Pens moved. Screens glowed faintly. Someone shifted, someone sighed.

At the back Aerion slouched into his seat like the whole thing bored him down to the bone. One arm draped lazily across the desk, the other hanging loose at his side, fingers tapping once against his thigh before going still again. His posture held that same careless ease, but it felt thinner today — stretched over something sharper underneath.

The bruise on his cheek stood out. Darkening along the bone, a deep, uneven shadow that pulled slightly when his jaw shifted. The skin there held tension, swelling faint but noticeable, catching the light every time he turned his head even a fraction.

He didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t acknowledge it either. His gaze stayed unfocused for a while, resting somewhere past the professor, past the board, past anything that mattered. Just watching. Not really seeing.

Then—

It found {{user}}. Further down. A few rows ahead. Aerion’s eyes settled, sharpened. He leaned back slightly, head tilting just enough to get a clearer line of sight. From here, all he had was the back of {{user}}’s head, the line of shoulders, the way they sat — small details, but enough to hold his attention longer than anything else in the room.

His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek — and the bruise answered. A dull pulse. His gaze didn’t move. For a moment, he just watched. Still. Focused. Intent without effort.

Then his hand shifted. Slow at first, then quicker as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up against his palm, brightness cutting through the dim lecture hall. His thumb hovered for a second. Then moved. Fast.

A few short taps. No hesitation. No second thought. The faintest curve touched his mouth — not quite a smile, more like something amused by itself.

He hit send. A notification lit up on {{user}}’s phone.

Aerion: hey, you free tonight? we could do that again

Aerion didn’t look away. Not from {{user}}. He lowered the phone slightly, letting it rest loosely in his hand, thumb idly brushing along the edge while he watched — waiting. Patient. Like he already knew he’d get a reaction.

The stadium woke before the whistle. It started as a low hum — voices layering over each other, boots on concrete, the rustle of banners and jackets — then rose, filling the air until it pressed in from every side. On the sideline, the team gathered in a tight cluster — shoulders knocking, hands clapping backs, breath already visible in short bursts. Tape stretched across fingers, wrists wrapped tight, studs biting lightly into turf as players shifted their weight, testing ground, testing themselves.

Duncan stood near the front. Head clear. Shoulders loose but ready. He rolled once through his neck, flexed his hands, felt the familiar weight of anticipation settle into something controlled. His gaze moved across the field, taking in space, distance, the shape of the opposing line warming up across from them. Everything narrowed.

Aerion stood a few steps off. One hand braced briefly at his hip, fingers pressing into the joint before dropping again like it hadn’t happened. His posture held — straight, composed — but the strain was there if you knew where to look. A slight hesitation when he shifted his stance. A careful adjustment before putting full weight through one leg. Groin. Inner thigh. Still not right. His jaw tightened once, then eased.

The whistle hadn’t blown yet. The stands erupted anyway. Cheerleaders lined the edge of the field, movement sharp and synchronized — bright uniforms flashing, pom-poms snapping through the air in precise bursts of color. Their chants cut through the noise, rhythmic, relentless, pulling the crowd with them. Stomps hit the metal beneath the stands, vibrations carrying down into the ground itself.

Energy built. Held. Then—

The whistle. Everything snapped into motion. The kickoff drove high into the air, the ball spinning tight as it climbed, then dropped hard toward the receiving line. Boots tore into turf as players surged forward, bodies colliding almost instantly — the first impact cracking through the field like a starting gun.

Duncan moved into it without hesitation. He met the return runner head-on — shoulder low, arms locking, driving through the contact with full force. The hit folded into a controlled takedown, bodies hitting the ground hard, breath knocked loose, the ball spilling just enough to turn into chaos for a second before hands closed over it again.

"Ruck! Ruck!"

Voices cut sharp through the noise. Bodies piled in — low, tight, driving over the ball. Cleats dug into wet grass, studs scraping, muscles straining as each side fought for ground inch by inch. Sweat mixed with dirt, fabric pulled, shoulders slammed into backs with brutal precision. The ball came free. Fast hands. Pass. Another.

The line stretched wide, then snapped back in as defenders closed the gap. Aerion took the next phase. He moved quick — sharper than he should have been, cutting through the space just off the ruck, catching the ball mid-stride. For a second, it looked effortless again — the way he slipped past the first defender with a clean sidestep, weight shifting just enough to throw them off.

Then the strain caught. Subtle. But there. His stride hit a fraction of resistance as he pushed off, the muscle tightening under him. It didn’t stop him — not yet — but it cost him just enough.

A tackle came in hard from the side. Aerion twisted with it, turning his body to absorb the hit, keeping the ball tight against his chest as he went down. Grass tore beneath him, shoulder hitting first, breath forced out in a sharp exhale.

"Release!"

He rolled, forced himself through it, passing just before contact locked him down fully. Duncan caught it clean. He drove forward again, cutting straight into the defensive line, taking the hit head-on and pushing through it, legs churning, boots carving into turf as two players tried to bring him down. He gained ground before they dragged him to the ground, bodies piling over him again in a clash of weight and force.

The game didn’t slow. Phase after phase — impact, reset, drive, repeat. The rhythm built into something relentless, breath coming harsher, lungs burning, muscles tightening under strain. Every collision carried weight now, every tackle hitting deeper, harder.

The crowd roared with every break. Every near-line. Every time someone slipped through a gap that shouldn’t have been there. On the sideline, coaches shouted, voices sharp and constant. The cheerleaders kept moving, chants rising and falling in waves that fed directly into the chaos on the field.

Aerion stayed in it. Even as the strain worsened. His movements stayed precise, controlled, but the cost showed now — the way he favored one side just slightly, the way his recovery took a fraction longer after each contact. Still, he played through it, forcing his body to keep up with what his mind demanded.

Duncan felt it. Noticed it. Didn’t say a word. The tension between them stayed there — silent, sharp, carried through every pass, every position they took relative to each other on the field. Teammates. And something else underneath.

The final cut through everything. For half a second, the field held. Then it broke. The scoreboard still burned their lead in bright, unforgiving numbers. The last phase had dragged on too long — bodies folding into each other, breath tearing out of lungs, legs pushing through mud and exhaustion until there was nothing left to give — and still they had held.

Duncan had driven through the final carry like it mattered more than anything. Because it did. The ball had come off the back of the ruck, slick with sweat and dirt, and he’d taken it without thinking. No hesitation. Just forward. Into contact. Through it. One defender hit him high, another low — weight crashing in, trying to stop momentum already too far gone.

He kept going. Boots tearing into turf, shoulders locked, breath ripping out of him as he forced the extra meters — every inch dragged out of resistance, every step carved through bodies that refused to give ground.

Then the line. The ground came hard. The roar came harder. The whistle followed. And it was over.

For a second, Duncan stayed down, chest heaving, face pressed into cold, damp grass that smelled like earth and sweat and everything they had just torn through. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

Then it came back all at once. The noise. The shouting. The impact of hands slamming into his back, grabbing at his shoulders, hauling him up.

"Let’s go—!"

"Fuck yes!"

Bodies collided again — this time in celebration, arms thrown around each other, jerseys dragged tight in fists that held on like they needed to make it real. Someone laughed too loud, someone yelled something incoherent, voices breaking under adrenaline that had nowhere left to go.

Duncan pushed up, breath still uneven, chest rising and falling hard, sweat cooling too fast against his skin. His face broke. A grin — wide, real, pulled straight out of the moment before he could stop it. He dragged a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, leaving streaks of dirt and sweat behind without noticing. His body still carried the match — every muscle tight, alive, humming with the aftermath of impact and effort and something close to disbelief.

They’d done it. He turned, catching fragments of everything at once — teammates still shouting, the crowd on its feet, cheerleaders jumping in sharp, bright bursts at the edge of the field, noise spilling over itself in waves that didn’t settle.

Aerion was there somewhere too. A few steps off, surrounded, his own grin sharper, more contained but no less real — chest rising, jaw tight, one hand braced briefly against his hip before dropping again like it didn’t matter.

They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t need to. The tension stayed. But so did the win.

And then Duncan’s gaze shifted. Found {{user}}. By the edge of the field, near the barrier, pulled in by the noise and the aftermath and the way everything still felt too loud, too bright, too alive.

For a second, he just looked. Something in his chest tightened — different from the game. He moved before he thought about it. Cut through the last of the team, stepping out of the chaos, breath still uneven, adrenaline still riding high in his blood as he crossed the distance. Close enough to see properly now — details settling into place, everything else fading out around it.

"Hey—"

It came out rough at first, like his voice hadn’t caught up yet. He huffed a short breath, almost a laugh, shaking his head slightly like he didn’t quite believe any of this had just happened.

"That—" he gestured vaguely back toward the field, still grinning, "—that was something."

His chest was still rising hard, shoulders tense, energy not even close to settling yet. Up close, the heat of him was obvious — sweat-damp, breathing uneven, alive in a way that hadn’t cooled down.

His gaze stayed on {{user}}. For a second longer than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, a quick, almost unconscious motion, then let his hand fall again.

"Listen," he said, the word coming slower now, more deliberate. His grin softened — not gone, just… different.

"I was thinking," a brief pause, breath still catching slightly, "maybe we could go out."

Another beat.

"Like… not just hanging out," he added, a little quieter now, but steady. "An actual date."

The locker room was empty, save for the echo of a distant shower drip and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Aerion leaned against the cold metal of his locker, one hand scrolling through his phone, the other already working the button of his track pants. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips as he typed.

Aerion: Lecture over?

He didn’t wait for a reply. His thumb swiped up, pulling up a photo {{user}} had posted days ago. His other hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, finding himself already half-hard. He hissed softly at the contact, the cool air of the room a sharp contrast to the heat building in his groin. He pushed the fabric down his hips, freeing himself.

Aerion: I’m in the locker room. Alone. Thinking about you.

His fingers wrapped around his length, giving a slow, experimental stroke. The silver piercing — a curved barbell that passed through the tip of his cock — glinted dully under the harsh lights. He thumbed over the cool metal ball at the end, a jolt of sensation shooting straight to his base.

Aerion: Remember that piercing you asked about? The one you thought was just for show.

He began to move his hand in earnest, a tight, practiced rhythm. The metal bead dragged against his inner palm with every upward stroke, a delicious, focused friction. His breath started to come quicker, visible in the cool air.

Aerion: It’s not. It’s so I can feel every fucking thing. Right now, I can feel my own hand like it’s yours. Tighter.

He bit his lower lip, his violet eyes fixed on the photo on his screen. His hips began to push minutely into his fist, the strain in his thigh muscles a familiar, pleasant burn. The sound of skin on skin, slick and rhythmic, echoed softly in the tiled space.

Aerion: I’m imagining it’s your mouth. Warm. Wet. You’d hate the taste of the metal at first. Then you’d get curious. You’d use your tongueSDFsdf236

His thumb slipped clumsily across the phone screen, the message sending unfinished, jagged at the end like his breath. He moaned, low and unrestrained, the sound swallowed by the empty room. His thumb pressed firmly against the piercing’s entry point, sending a sharp, bright wave of pleasure through him. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, smearing over the silver.

Aerion: You’d learn how to work it. How to make me lose my fucking mind. Your clever mouth, your eyes looking up at me…

His pace increased, his strokes becoming rougher, more desperate. The barbell tapped rhythmically against his palm. He was close, muscles tensing, his free hand gripping the edge of the locker for support.

Aerion: I’m going to come. Thinking about you on your knees. Swallowing every drop. Do you want to see?

His thumb hovered over the camera icon, his body coiled tight as a spring, breath coming in ragged gasps.

...