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Thursday is Curly’s favourite day of the week. A day dedicated to turning his brain off and earning the satisfying strain in his muscles from a good workout. He took pride in his appearances, building himself up to the strong capable man he wanted to become. Jimmy is a new addition that he welcomed with open arms. Since his old friend was evicted for the second time that year, they had begun living together in Curly’s humble apartment and after some insistence on Curly’s end, Jimmy began joining in on his Thursday gym tradition. The friendly rivalry of who could lift heavier weights and encouraging each other through reps sparked a warm sensation of comradery within Curly. A wholesome display of ‘boys will be boys’ and nothing more than affection shown through shared masculinity. He really doesn’t know when these other feelings started.
“Huff hah.”
Curly stands behind the bench press, taking his place as a spotter. He enjoyed being Jimmy’s spotter. It was a nice feeling to know that Jimmy trusted him enough for this position. Another bonus was that from this angle he can easily look down at Jimmy’s face, reddened and slick with sweat.
“Hmph fuck”
With every push of the barbell, Jimmy lets out a hefty grunt and a relieved sigh. The noises pooling into something hot in the depths of Curly’s stomach. The heat builds at the sight of Jimmy pushing his head back into the padded headrest, level with his crotch. The gym is fairly empty with only a few other patrons preoccupied in the other corner, it would be so easy to pull his waistband down and slip his cock into the open panting mouth.
“Hnng”
Such a distracting thought probably wasn’t the safest. Curly’s really starting to regret the loose sweatpants, any arousal would be immediately noticed. He tries to give himself a mental cold shower to wash away the degeneracy but his dear Jimmy isn’t making it easy. His face contorted with strain, his bicep muscles trembling with every rep and Curly can smell the sweat dripping off him from where he’s standing.
“C’mon Jim, you’re doing so good.”
The encouragement drips from his mouth like honey. He relishes in being able to openly praise his friend without the risk of a broken nose. More flattery is thrown out and he swears that Jimmy’s face gets redder. The idea that his words made Jimmy react only stokes the fire running through his veins. Curly’s surprised he hasn’t combusted by now, between watching the flex of Jimmy’s thighs during their warm up squats to outright gawking at his ass mid pushup, his body feels like a full on bonfire.
“Alright fuck this, I’m done.” Jimmy spits out between gritted teeth, Curly can’t help but think his expression is somewhat pretty.
He fights against pouting as he helps Jimmy set the barbell onto the machine's hooks. The disappointment is short lived as Jimmy sits up and Curly thanks whatever God is out there that Jimmy decided to wear a light gray tank top. Dark sweat stains visible between his shoulder blades trailing down to his lower back. Curly is sure the sweat has imprinted into the bench and he wonders how the leather would taste across his tongue.
Curly lets Jimmy walk ahead of him as they head towards the communal locker room. The small ponytail sways with every step, showing off the skin of his slim neck. He knows that the palm of his hand would fit comfortably wrapped around the other's throat and was strong enough to keep him in place. His fingers twitch, eager to prove the fact.
He’s thankful that the locker room is empty, allowing him to blatantly stare at Jimmy’s form as he rummages through the locker until it’s hidden away in a familiar hoodie. Fuck. Most of Jimmy’s kleptomania tendencies were left in his teenage years however Curly’s clothes seemed to be the exception. The worn out fabric hangs off Jimmy's shoulders and gathers at the hips, emphasising the size difference that Curly’s libido is already very interested in. Jimmy has always been scrappy and lean while Curly sculpted his childhood puppy fat into bulked muscle. The other patrons have only just started their workout so they won’t be returning for a while. He wants to see Jimmy plastered against the locker. He wants to see sleeve covered hands grip fruitlessly at the metal. He wants the other bent at the waist trembling and bucking against him. The slam of a locker breaks his trance, he rushes to grab his bags and follows Jimmy out the door.
Stepping out of the gym’s sliding doors usually feels like stepping out of alternate reality. Like waking up from a way too realistic wet dream, the burning desire stamped out by sinking shame. Recently though, he’s been having some trouble shaking the spark of need. Jimmy lets out a pleased hum as the slight breeze cools off their sweat slick skin and Curly wants to feel the vibrations from his lips, curious if he tastes like the sickly sweet energy drinks he downs before each session.
Christ. This was his best friend that he was fantasising about. He feels dirty, almost predatory. Jimmy’s life hasn’t been great recently and Curly shouldn’t add to the stress just because he wants to plow the guy.
Once back at their apartment, Jimmy makes a beeline into the kitchenette to grab a can of soda. Cracking it open and making an appreciative sound as Curly adamantly doesn’t look at the way his adam's apple bobs with every gulp. Instead he looks over the mockery of a chore chart. It was made to diffuse any arguments between them but the process of making it only caused another fall out. Still, they agreed it was better to live without the tension and followed it accordingly.
Shit.
It was Curly’s turn to do laundry. He stares at the board as if the words would rearrange themselves and free him from his fate. They have been best friends for years so he usually had no problem with handling Jimmy’s boxers and hole ridden socks. However since his not so discreet gym feelings have bled into his everyday life, Thursday’s laundry became a nightmare.
“Hm, your turn today?” Curly feels the words before he hears them, raspy against ear as stubble grazes his shoulder. He pushes Jimmy off from peering over his shoulder reflexively to avoid him feeling the shiver running down his neck.
“Alright, don’t get pissy about it.” Jimmy huffs, hands reaching for the hem of the hoodie. ”I’m taking the first shower.”
Curly can’t get mad at Jimmy inevitably using up all the hot water when he’s watching the planes of his torso being revealed. Hoodie and shirt pulled off together uncovering the trails of hair and subtle curves. Every nerve in Curly’s body stands on end as he steels himself to the floor in an effort to not react too obviously. Christ he’s almost thirty yet he’s acting like a teenager who just discovered an unrestricted porn site.
“Take care of this for me, will ya?” The clothes are pushed into his arms and Jimmy gives his shoulder a pat, leaving Curly standing in shell shock. The fabric is still damp in some places. This is it, he’s hit his limit. He waits until he hears the pitter patter of the shower running before creeping his way to his own room. The door softly clicks shut, a strange mix of dread and anticipation mixes in his guts.
Was he really going to do this?
He separates the fabric and hooks his hoodie over the bedpost, Jimmy’s shirt stays firmly in his grip. He sets himself in the middle of his bed, mentally reminding himself to add his sheets to the laundry load. The hand clutching the shirt rests on his chest, hesitant to commit to his own desires, the other hand traces mindless shapes across his abdomen in a pathetic excuse for foreplay. It works regardless as the feather light touches and the mere sight of the shirt has his sweatpants tenting.
Pushing the waistband of his sweatpants down his thighs, Curly gingerly presses his palm over the tent of his arousal. He rubs in tight circles as his mind wanders back to Jimmy’s warmup routine. Quadriceps tightening as he drops into a squat and triceps going taunt to hold the plank position. Boxers join his sweats down his legs as Curly wraps a dry calloused hand around himself. Sure he could pull out the bottle of lube from his nightstand that he’s been saving or even spit into his palm, but he doubts that Jimmy would show that kind of mercy. He breathes out a whimper as he starts at a slow smooth pace. The waistband presses indents into the flesh of his thighs as he spreads his legs further apart, mentally picturing Jimmy sitting between them with his hand replacing his own. He knows that Jimmy would not be kind, either out of carelessness or some sick perversion from watching him squirm. The mere thought of Jimmy deriving pleasure from him sends a shudder straight to his cock.
His pace becomes rough and out of time, going from quick flicks of his wrist up his shaft to slow and tight around the base. Beads of precum dribble into his grip and his fantasy quickly replaces it with Jimmy’s open and panting mouth, drool leaking from his smirked lips. Curly wants to praise him for his efforts similar to his displays of gym sportsmanship. He wants to spew sweet words and watch Jimmy furrow his brow unable to bite back a sarcastic comment thanks to his mouth being preoccupied. He distinctly remembers when Jimmy had successfully done his first pullup, Curly was so happy he had let a ‘ good boy ’ slip. Looking back on it, Jimmy didn’t react as aggressively as he would expect, merely punching him straight in the chest and calling him a fag with a sly grin on his face. Thinking about Jimmy wanting to be called a good boy, wanting his affectionate words has Curly choking back a moan. He has a moment of realisation that his own pants and whines are echoing around the room. Knuckles tighten around the stolen shirt as he remembers the whole reason he started this.
He really is going to do this.
He takes the dive. Hesitantly pressing the shirt over his face and inhales, the musky scent fills his senses leaving him light headed. Endorphins and dopamine shock through his system harder than any protein shake or workout ever could. The sodden fabric muffles the loud cry he lets out. God he wishes he’d done this sooner. His fist twists around the head of his cock before tightening his grip and slowly dragging down. It’s almost too easy to imagine Jimmy sitting atop his lap, that it was Jimmy sinking onto him and not his own right hand. He’s seen the man squat with a 130 kg barbell, he knows exactly how the hamstring he always complains about would strain. The vivid memory of Jimmy on the bench press comes to mind, the way the sweat dripped down his contorted face, the way his back arched against the leather seat. He almost wishes he could take the other right there, over the leather bench in front of the wall length mirror so he could watch the other fall apart. Jimmy’s abdominal muscles have never had much definition, torso bumped with the ridges of his ribs and pelvis. Curly considered himself humble when it comes to his own dick size, but he’s confident that fucking into his friend would cause the skin to bulge outwards with every thrust. He breathes in the smell again, sobbing against the material to near suffocation. He briefly wonders if Jimmy would like that, if he would use his throat as leverage as he bounces on his cock.
Curly’s hips fuck up into the slick heat of his palm as he feels the familiar tension run down his spine. His head pushes back into his pillow as he bites down onto the shirt, his wrist moving frantically to throw himself over the bittersweet edge. Cum spatters his abdomen and it’s pathetic how he imagines that it was Jimmy marking him as they finish in unison. Curly works his cock until the dull ache in his wrist becomes too much, the afterglow making his skin feel like static.
Without thinking, he drags the shirt over his torso, wiping away the tacky evidence. Post nut clarity hits him hard as he looks at the defiled fabric in horror. This is fine, this is totally fine. He’s doing laundry anyways . He stands on shaky legs and collects his own clothing and sheets to be washed, doing a double take at the hoodie sitting innocently amongst the pile. Well, Jimmy only wore it on the walk home, it doesn’t really need washing. Taking a cautionary sniff confirms that, yes, his smell lingers on the cotton.
Curly doesn’t attempt the mental gymnastics to justify setting the hoodie aside for later.