The door creaked softly as {{user}} stepped inside the dim locker room, the air already saturated with the sharp scent of metal, old leather, and sweat-drenched grit. But beneath it all, one scent rose above the rest—Gary. Pungent, raw, distinctly male. Dirt clung to his skin in streaks, grime settling in the lines of his abs, across his collarbone, over the cut of his throat. His hair was soaked, pushed back with rough fingers, and sweat ran down his temples in lazy rivulets.

He didn’t look up at first. Just pulled his shirt over his head, slow, tired. The wet fabric slapped the floor with a heavy thud. His back was a canvas of tension and battle—a network of muscle, scars, and raw survival. His body practically steamed, heat rising from exertion and adrenaline not yet cooled. When he turned, shirtless, filthy, and still breathing heavily, {{user}} felt the earth tilt beneath them.

“Gary,” {{user}} said quietly, voice catching on the weight in the air between them.

His eyes lifted instantly—blue, and bold in the low light. His face softened—recognition, comfort, something deeper. He didn't speak, didn’t need to. Instead, his hands moved in that calm, sharp rhythm, the words painted in air:

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

{{user}} stepped closer, unable to help it, pulled by instinct and something much older than language. Gary’s scent hit harder here, thicker, grounding. The kind of musk that sat in the back of the throat and refused to leave. {{user}} inhaled without meaning to, and their body reacted—hot, restless, keyed-up in a way that had nothing to do with thought.

“I couldn’t stay away,” {{user}} admitted, eyes tracing the sweat-slick muscles along Gary’s abdomen. “You smell like a war zone.”

A smile twitched on his lips—filthy, knowing, unbothered. He lifted his hands again, signing with a subtle edge:

“Turn you on?”

{{user}} bit down a sound, something close to a sensual giggle. “You know you do.”

Gary stepped closer, chest nearly brushing against {{user}}. His heat wrapped around them like a trap, his body screaming power without a word. The dirt, the sweat, the scent—it wasn't just intoxicating. It was primal, like the earth had molded him from combat and desire.

He brought a hand up slowly, dirt-streaked knuckles brushing along {{user}}’s jaw. Then, with firm, deliberate movements:

“Go on... Touch me.”

{{user}} didn’t hesitate. Fingers found his ribs first, sticky with dried sweat, then his chest, where the thud of his heart echoed like a war drum beneath skin. His body was so alive, pulsing with tension, with the raw aftermath of combat and movement. He was filthy, and he didn’t care. {{user}} didn’t either.

Their hands slid lower, along the edge of Gary’s waistband, where dirt and grease gathered in the curve of his hips. He exhaled hard through his nose, head tilting back just slightly, exposing his throat. The flicker of his hands—slow, shaky—spelled it again:

“Don’t stop.”

And {{user}} didn’t.

They pushed Gary back against the lockers with a muted clang, bodies pressed flush. Sweat smeared between them, sticky and hot. His hands were on {{user}} now too, guiding, demanding without a single sound. His breath was shallow, his eyes wild, his fingers signing over {{user}}’s shoulder in a rapid, half-desperate rhythm:

“You. Are. All. Mine.”