The coxswain’s voice cracked through the speakers like a whip, “Power ten in two! One! Two!” Luke’s spine snapped straight, his shoulders driving back as the boat lurched forward under the force of eight oars biting the water in perfect sync. His uni clung to his thighs, the navy fabric slick with sweat and river spray, the university logo stretched taut across his chest with every explosive exhale. Behind him, Mark’s grunt was raw and primal, the sound of a man digging deep into the marrow of his own endurance, and Luke could feel the ripple of his thighs flexing with each stroke, their oars a blur of synchronized violence.
The boat to their left inched closer, bow ball nearly overlapping their stern, the other crew’s grunts a ragged counterpoint to their own. Luke’s vision tunneled. The cox’s call, the burn in his quads, the way Mark’s oar sprayed him with river water at each feather. Reach. His lungs screamed as he leaned into the catch, his body coiled like a spring, the unrelenting rhythm of the stroke seat thundering through him. Drive. The oar handle was sticky with sweat, his fingers locked in a death grip, the boat surging forward with each collective gasp of effort.
Mark’s voice cut through the chaos, rough and urgent. “Fucking send it!" Luke’s body obeyed before his brain could catch up. His hips drove back with brutal precision, his shoulders burning as he hauled the oar through the water, the boat leaping beneath them. The crowd’s roar blurred into white noise, the finish line a distant abstraction. All that mattered was the next stroke, and the next, and the way his body moved in the tight confines of the shell.
Then suddenly, silence. The cox’s scream of, “Bow ball!” ringing in Luke’s ears as the boat glided past the finish buoys, the second place boat a half-second behind. Chests heaving, hands shaking, Luke slumped forward over his oar, his uni plastered to his skin, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. Mark’s hand landed on his shoulder, calloused fingers digging in and Luke turned his head just enough to catch the wild gleam in his eyes, the unspoken we did it hanging between them as they slumped with exhaustion.
The shell sliced through the water one last time, gliding into the dock with a smooth scrape of aluminum against wood. Luke’s arms trembled as he lifted his oar, his palms raw and stinging, but the adrenaline still thrummed under his skin like a live wire. Behind him, Mark exhaled sharply, his shoulders heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the deck. The crew erupted into whoops and ragged cheers, their voices hoarse from the race’s final sprint. "Gold at the first regatta of the season, you beautiful bastards!" someone bellowed, and Luke grinned, his ribs aching with each breath.
Together, they lifted the shell overhead, the weight balanced precariously between eight sets of exhausted arms. The boat was slick with river water, the hull cold against Luke’s fingertips as they marched it toward the rigs, their steps falling into sync like they were still on the water. The crowd’s noise blurred into a euphoric hum of parents clapping, teammates whistling, and the distant honk of a car horn. Luke caught the flash of a camera lens from the corner of his eye, the school newspaper reporter crouched low to capture the shot: eight rowers silhouetted against the morning sun, their victory etched in the set of their jaws and the way their bodies moved as one.
Someone- probably their coxswain- started chanting their college name, and the crew took it up, their voices rough with pride. Luke laughed, tipping his head back to let the sound carry, and when he glanced behind him, Mark was already looking at him, his dark eyes crinkled at the corners.
The boat settled onto the slings with a hollow thunk, and Luke flexed his fingers, the ache in his muscles a sweet, familiar burn. Mark lingered beside him, close enough that their elbows brushed, his breath still coming hard. "Damn," Mark muttered, low enough that only Luke could hear, "felt like we were flying out there." Luke swallowed, his throat dry, and nodded.
"Fuck yeah, blankets are callin' my name," groaned the bow seat, already peeling the top half of his uni off his shoulders with one hand while staggering toward the team tent like a man possessed. His shoulders and chest were lobster-red from exertion, his sweat-slick skin exposed as he raised both arms in a wobbly victory salute. "I dunno about you bitches, but I'm heading straight to crash under a mountain of blankets in the tent before my legs realize they're supposed to be dead."
Luke barked a laugh, rubbing at the salt crusted on his forehead. "Same. If I don't go horizontal immediately, I might actually die."
A chorus of whoops rose from the crew, half of them already shuffling toward the tent with the enthusiasm of sleep-deprived zombies. The other half veered toward the food tables with groans about protein shakes and stolen granola bars. Luke hesitated, his knuckles brushing Mark's elbow. "You coming?" The question was casual, but his throat worked around it like it was something else entirely.
Mark opened his mouth to reply when their coxswain hip-checked him from behind. "Move your ass, stroke. You're wasting sunlight. Both of you go lay down now." She grinned, all teeth, and shoved a water bottle into his chest. Mark fumbled it, the plastic slippery with condensation, and Luke's hand steadied his wrist without thinking. The contact burned hotter than the race had.
Inside the tent, the air smelled like sweat, grass, and the sharp tang of icy-hot cream. Someone had already claimed the prime real estate- a nest of discarded jackets and team hoodies piled near the far pole. Luke toed off his shoes, his socks damp with river water, and collapsed onto the nearest blanket heap with a groan that rattled his ribs. Mark dropped beside him, close enough that their shoulders pressed together, his thigh a solid line of heat against Luke's.
Outside, the regatta noise faded into white noise- laughter, the clatter of oars being racked, some freshman yelling about sunburn. Luke turned his head just enough to catch the way Mark's lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Neither of them spoke.
The silence shattered when Matt’s cackle cut through the tent like a foghorn. “Holy shit, boys, check the group snap. Press just dropped the filthiest action shot of the century!” Phones buzzed to life across the blanket pile, Josh’s choked snort was the first domino in a chain reaction of whistles and obscene catcalls. Luke thumbed his screen awake, and there it was, the team’s triumphant boat carry, artfully framed by the reporter’s lens. Except the focus wasn’t on their victory. It was on Mark, mid-stride, his uni stretched obscenely tight over what could only be described as a fucking tent pole. The navy fabric clung to every vein and curve, the outline unmistakable- a thick, jutting line angling up toward his navel, the head a pronounced bulge straining against the spandex. Sweat-darkened fabric did nothing to disguise the sheer girth of him, the way his cock looked like it was trying to punch through the uni’s stitching.
Josh wheezed, rolling onto his back. “Bro, were you this hype about winning or is that just your standard-issue chub?” The team howled, someone lobbing a protein bar at Mark’s head. Mark didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, slow and shit-eating, and propped himself up on one elbow, letting the tent’s dappled light emphasize the, now soft, dick print on the front of his uni. “Jealousy’s ugly, gentlemen,” he drawled, thumbing the hem of his suit up an inch. “This is what a real athlete looks like after a win. Y’all out here rowing with cocktail weenies.”
Luke’s throat went dry. He remembered exactly what that cock felt like in his hand. The heat of it, the way the veins jumped under his fingertips. The tent erupted into chaos, half the crew fake-gagging while the other half demanded a “measurement verification.” Mark just laughed, deep and unashamed.
The coxswain’s voice sliced through the noise. “If you’re done admiring Mark’s third leg, maybe hydrate before you all pass out?” She tossed a water bottle directly onto Mark’s crotch with surgical precision. He caught it, the plastic crinkling as he smirked up at Luke through his lashes. “See something you like, lightweight?” The words were quiet, meant only for him. Luke’s pulse hammered against his ribs, loud enough he was sure Mark could hear it. Outside, the regatta roared on, oblivious.
---
The gymnasium was a graveyard of exhausted rowers, sleeping bags sprawled like casualties across the hardwood. The only sound was the occasional snore, the rustle of nylon as someone turned over, until the sharp zzzzt of Mark’s sleeping bag unzipping cut through the dark. Luke’s eyes snapped open, tracking the shadow slipping between prone bodies. Mark moved like a thief, bare feet silent on the floor, his broad shoulders swallowed by the oversized hoodie he’d thrown on. The locker room door creaked faintly, then the hiss of water hitting tile. A sliver of light bled under the door, yellow and insistent.
Luke counted to ninety before kicking free of his own sleeping bag. The gym’s AC hummed too loud, his pulse louder. He padded past Matt’s sprawled form, past Josh’s half-empty Gatorade bottle tipped over like a felled soldier. The locker room smelled of bleach and damp towels, the shower’s steam curling around the edges of the door. He pushed it open without knocking.
Mark was under the spray, back to him, water sluicing down the dense muscle of his shoulders, over the twin dimples above his ass. His hoodie was a heap on the bench, his boxers strewn on top. He didn’t turn. “Took you long enough,” he said over the water’s roar.
Water sluiced down Mark’s back in rivulets, catching the overhead fluorescents as it traced the dense topography of his shoulders- the way his back muscles flexed when he tilted his head forward, the water-darkened hair at his nape curling tighter under the heat. His spine was a shallow trench between slabs of muscle, the dimples above his ass deepening as he shifted his weight. Droplets clung to the fine dusting of hair across his pecs before skimming over the hard planes of his abdomen, the ridges of his obliques shadowed even under the harsh light. His thighs were massive, the quads built from years of power strokes, water sheeting off them to land on his calves, the Achilles tendons taut above feet planted wide on the tile.
Luke’s breath hitched. Mark’s cock hung heavy between his thighs, flushed and half-hard already, the foreskin pulled back slightly to reveal the swollen head, ruddy and slick under the spray. A vein pulsed along the underside, the shaft thickening as Luke watched, curving upward against Mark’s stomach. Precum glistened at the tip, mingling with the water before dripping onto his thigh. Mark’s hand slid down his stomach, fingers trailing through the dark trail of hair, and Luke’s mouth went dry at the way his abs clenched when his fingers brushed his cock.
The shower’s echo swallowed Luke’s step forward. Mark turned, water slashing sideways from his shoulders, his cock now fully erect, jutting from his body like a challenge. His nipples were peaked from the heat, his collarbones sharp beneath skin flushed pink. He smirked, dragging a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “See something you like?” His voice was rough, lower than usual, and Luke’s fingers twitched at his sides.
Mark’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precum down the shaft, his other hand braced against the tiled wall. The water drummed between them, steam rising in lazy curls. Luke’s own hoodie clung to his skin suddenly, too tight, too hot.
Luke exhaled a ragged, "Yeah, maybe," his pulse hammering as he peeled his hoodie over his head. The fabric clung stubbornly to his shoulders before sliding free, exposing his torso to the humid air. Sun-browned skin stretched over lean muscle, the hollows of his collarbones catching stray droplets. His pajama bottoms pooled at his ankles as he pushed them down, revealing lean legs honed by years of stroke seat power. Corded thighs dusted with sun-bleached hair, the quads sharply defined even at rest, and tendons flexing visibly above his knees as he stepped forward.
Water sluiced down Mark’s chest as he raked his gaze over Luke taking in the wiry strength of his frame, the way his abdominal muscles twitched under the scrutiny, the trail of darker hair leading from his navel to his cock. And fuck, his cock- curved slightly left, flushed pink at the tip where the foreskin had drawn back, the veins prominent along the shaft. Precum beaded at the slit, dripping onto his thigh as Luke’s hips jerked forward unconsciously, his balls drawn tight against his body. The head was slick, the frenulum visibly sensitive when Mark stepped forward, his thumb brushing it and pulling a gasp from Luke’s throat.
Mark laughed, low and rough, crowding Luke against the tile, their cocks sliding together with Luke’s slighter length pressed against the thick heat of Mark’s. Water sheeted over them as Mark palmed Luke’s ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, his other hand fisting both their cocks together. Luke’s back arched, his nipples pebbled tight, his thighs shaking as Mark ground against him, the friction brutal and perfect. “Fuck,” Luke choked out, his fingers scrabbling against wet tile, his cock leaking freely now, the scent of them- sweat and chlorine and something unmistakably male- thick in the steam.
Mark’s teeth grazed Luke’s shoulder, his hips rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm, their bodies sliding together like oars catching the water. Powerful, relentless, inevitable. Luke’s breath came in ragged bursts, his cock throbbing against Mark’s stomach, the pleasure coiling tighter with every grind. The shower’s roar drowned out everything but the slap of skin on skin, the choked sounds tearing from Luke’s throat as Mark worked him with ruthless precision.
Mark stepped back suddenly, breaking the rhythm of their grinding bodies. Water sluiced off his shoulders as he planted one broad hand against Luke’s chest, pushing him firmly against the tiled wall. His other hand pointed downward, fingers dripping, his dark eyes burning with intent. "Down, bro," he rasped, voice rough with want. "On your knees."
Luke's breath hitched, his cock twitching against his stomach as he sank to the wet tile without hesitation. The shower spray pounded his shoulders now, droplets catching in his lashes as he looked up at Mark’s towering frame and stared at the thick veins in his forearms, the way his abs flexed with each breath, the ruddy head of his cock glistening inches from Luke’s mouth. Mark’s fingers tangled in his damp hair, not yanking yet, just holding. The possessive grip making Luke’s pulse hammer in his throat.
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb brushing Luke’s bottom lip. "Open," he ordered, and Luke obeyed instantly, tongue darting out to taste the bitter salt of Mark’s skin before the thick head of his cock pressed against his lips. The first slide inward stole Luke’s breath. Mark groaned, hips jerking forward instinctively as his foreskin tugged back and Luke’s mouth stretched to accommodate the girth, his cock hitting the back of Luke’s throat as water streamed down both their faces.
Luke’s hands found Mark’s thighs, fingers digging into the dense muscle as he worked his tongue along the throbbing vein underneath. The scent of them flooded his senses as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard enough to make Mark’s thighs tremble. A ragged, "Fuck-" tore from Mark’s throat as his grip tightened in Luke’s hair, his hips rocking forward in shallow thrusts, the rhythm unsteady, desperate. Luke could feel the tension coiling in Mark’s body, the way his balls drew up tight, the salty tang of precum flooding his tongue with every uneven pulse.
Luke pulled off with a wet pop, Mark’s cock twitching against his chin, glistening with spit and river water still clinging to their skin. Mark whined. A ragged, unguarded sound that punched through the steam, his hips jerking forward instinctively chasing the heat of Luke’s mouth. Luke just grinned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and leaned back on his heels. "Ain’t no way I’m the only one sucking dick tonight," he said, voice rough, fingers tracing the inside of Mark’s thigh.
Mark’s laugh was half a groan, his chest heaving as he dragged Luke up by the shoulders, their bodies slamming together against the tile. Water sluiced between them as Mark spun them, reversing their positions with a grunt, his hands already working the tension from Luke’s shoulders. "You’re a fucking menace," he muttered, but he was already sinking to his knees, his calloused palms sliding down Luke’s ribs, his thumbs hooking into the sharp cut of Luke’s hipbones.
The first swipe of Mark’s tongue was slow and taunting along the underside of Luke’s cock, catching the bead of precum at the tip before swallowing him down with a filthy, wet groan. Luke’s head thudded back against the tile, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in Mark’s soaked hair as his hips bucked forward. Mark’s throat opened around him, warm and tight, his nose pressing into the wiry hair at the base of Luke’s cock as he took him deeper, his hands gripping Luke’s ass to pull him closer still.
Outside, the gym hummed with the oblivious snores of their teammates, the occasional murmur of someone turning over in their sleep. But in here, the world narrowed to the slap of wet skin, the choked-off gasps swallowed by the shower’s roar, the way Mark’s tongue curled just right. Mark’s fingers dug into Luke’s thighs, his rhythm relentless, his gaze flicking up through water-dark lashes to watch Luke unravel above him. Luke’s breath hitched, his stomach clenching as pleasure coiled tight, his cock throbbing against Mark’s tongue.
Luke wrenched himself from the wet heat of Mark’s mouth with a gasp, his cock sliding free with an obscene sound, spit-slick and flushed dark. His knees hit the tile with a slap, water sluicing down his shoulders as he braced one hand against the shower wall, the other already wrapping around his own cock. Mark groaned low in his throat, his knees spreading wider on the slick floor, thighs flexing as he mirrored Luke- his own thick fingers pumping his shaft with rough, uneven strokes. Their bodies were mirrored angles in the steam: knees planted wide, backs bowed backward, thighs taut with tension. Luke’s foreskin caught on each upward stroke, the pink head glistening under the spray, while Mark’s grip twisted at the tip, his cock jerking in his fist, veins standing stark under flushed skin.
The shower’s roar drowned out everything but their ragged breathing. Mark’s head dropped forward, water dripping from his lashes as he watched Luke’s hand move. The precise flick of his wrist, the way his thumb swiped over the leaking slit every few strokes. Luke’s thighs trembled, his toes curling against the tile, his gaze locked on the way Mark’s balls drew up tight, his hips bucking into his own grip. Their knees brushed, hot skin against hot skin, and Mark’s free hand shot out to grab Luke’s hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
Precum mixed with the shower water, streaking down Luke’s fist as his rhythm faltered. Mark’s teeth dug into his bottom lip, his strokes turning frantic, his cock pulsing in his hand. Luke could see the moment it hit. Mark’s abs clenched, his shoulders bowing forward as his release splashed across the tile between them, thick stripes landing hot on Luke’s thigh. The sight punched a groan from Luke’s chest, his own orgasm ripping through him as he came, his cock jerking wildly, his release joining Mark’s on the shower floor.
Mark slumped forward, forehead pressing against Luke’s shoulder, their panting breaths mingling in the steam. The water ran clear between them, carrying the evidence swirling down the drain. Luke’s fingers traced idle circles on Mark’s nape, his other hand still loosely curled around his softening cock. Neither spoke.
Mark slapped Luke’s ass with a wet smack as they peeled apart, the shower still drumming between them. "Move your scrawny ass," he grinned, hip-checking Luke toward the next showerhead over. Luke flipped him off but stumbled sideways, fumbling for the knob before icy water blasted his chest. He yelped, twisting the dial until the temperature evened out, steam rising between them like a makeshift privacy screen. Mark snorted, ducking his head under the spray, his shoulders flexing as he scrubbed his hair. The evidence of their activities swirled down the drain, but the heat lingered under Luke’s skin.
The locker room door groaned open. Josh shuffled in, bleary-eyed and barefoot, his sleep-tousled brown hair sticking up in every direction. His boxers, a threadbare gray with a faded plaid pattern, hung low on his hips, the hem stretched from years of wear. The fabric clung to the thick curve of his ass, the outline of his soft cock just visible against his thigh as he yawned, scratching at the trail of dark hair leading from his navel under the waistband. His pecs were broad but softer than Mark’s, his shoulders rounded with sleep-loose muscle, his thighs thick from coxswain ordered squats. He blinked at them like a disoriented bear, rubbing one eye with a knuckle.
"Fuck, boys," Josh croaked, voice graveled with sleep. He staggered toward the urinals, boxers slipping dangerously low on one hip. "I gotta piss like a motherfucker." Water dripped from Luke’s hair as he watched Josh yawn again, his biceps flexing as he stretched overhead, exposing the dimples above his ass. Mark smirked, turning his showerhead to scalding, his gaze lingering a beat too long on Josh’s back before catching Luke’s eye.
Josh’s sigh of relief echoed off the tiles, followed by the flush and a drowsy, "Goddamn that’s better." He shuffled back toward the door, pausing to squint at them through the steam. "Why’re you two up at ass o’clock?" Mark shrugged, rinsing suds from his chest. "Race adrenaline," Luke lied smoothly, and Josh nodded, too sleep-drunk to question it, before vanishing back into the dark gym with another yawn. The door clicked shut. Mark exhaled, turning off his shower, his smirk returning as he flicked water at Luke’s face. "Close one, lightweight."
Luke rolled his eyes, tossing Mark his towel. "Good times though, mate."
Mark’s laugh was low, warm as he caught the towel one-handed.
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