Finn and I have been working really well together for two guys who are supposed to hate each other.

I mean, we have our disagreements. One of them even happened during the Cyclones' weekly stream, but I curbed my attitude as much as I could. He was just wrong. Or not as right as he could be, I guess. We'd finally gotten some concrete info about the next raid tier--the one I was going to be tackling alongside the rest of the team--and Finn was explaining in layman’s terms how much defense the new armor pieces gave. Rather than let the viewers rip him apart, I brought up the fact that his math was wrong.

I wasn't an asshole about it. At least I don't think I was. I just pointed out there was a multiplier on the armor value. Finn, being the pedant he is, had to look it up, with screen share on. I couldn't help the smirk that plastered itself on my face when the armor table on the game's official site said I was right and he was wrong.

"Well, shit," Finn said, sitting back in his chair.

"Easy mistake to make," I'd tried to save face for him a little, "that's the way armor worked until this latest expansion."

It hadn't turned into a thing, as much as I'm sure the people watching the stream wanted it to. It's not like I'm sitting around giving myself points for not being a dick, but I think it went over well with the rest of the team. Even with Finn, despite the fact that he'd been wrong on camera.

Team-wise, job-wise, everything’s peachy. When it comes to me not wanting to jump his bones every time I see him? Yeah, can't say I'm making much progress there.

The worst tests of my willpower are those early morning hours in the gym. He already looks fucking adorable after he's just woken up, but as soon as his blood starts pumping and he gets a little sweaty, my mind shoots directly to all the fun things we could get up to if only we weren't going with this whole "never again" thing.

The hell of it is I know he's thinking the same things. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me. It's like those cartoons where one characters starts picturing the other as a big, juicy steak. He wants me, but he's drawn a line in the sand, and I'm not going to be the one to cross it. If he wants to pick up where we left off, he's going to have to take it there.

I know I probably don't seem like the kind of guy who respects boundaries, but when it comes to this? As far as I'm concerned, it's all dealing with consent. He may look at me like he wants to climb on top of me and ride me for hours, but he hasn't said that or made a move to do it. Until he does--and I know it's only a matter of time before he will--I'll just keep skirting the line.

Because sure, I could bring clothes with me into the bathroom, but it's a lot more fun to pad down the hall wearing just a towel, on the off chance Finn is walking around. And lately, Finn's always been walking around. So weird that he's up and about when I take my shower at the same time every night. What a crazy coincidence that is.

I can't fucking wait for him to give in, though. I keep fantasizing about it, having to stuff a rolled up shirt into my mouth while I'm stroking my dick so I don't attract too much attention. I imagine him just coming into my room, too fed up with everything to resist. Shoving me down on to the bed and straddling me. Grinding his lush ass against my erection before he pulls out my dick and sinks down on it.

I fantasize about the gym a lot, too. It's hard to forget Finn looking at us--looking at himself--in the hotel mirror, and the gym's got a massive one that stretches across one wall. I think about bending him over random pieces of equipment, fucking him while we both get a good view of the mirror. Just being able to see myself pumping in and out of him would be so fucking hot. That fantasy always makes me come way too fast, and it probably wouldn't be any different in the flesh.

There are others, of course. Him riding me while I lie down on the weight bench. Holding him up against the display on one of the cardio machines while I fuck him. Or just throwing down on a yoga mat because we're too fucking horny to deal with any weird positions.

It's distracting, to say the least, and I know my workouts have suffered a bit. Hard to get enough oxygen to your muscles when your blood keeps pumping to your dick first. Outside of that, though--and a few frantic jerk-off sessions--I'm usually able to focus. I've even managed to make some time for a personal stream, something I'm sitting down to do tonight.

It's ten in the evening before I'm free, but it doesn't take too long to fire up my PS4 and open all the capture software I need on my PC to stream myself playing the new Assassin's Creed game. I haven't really been into the series since the first two, but the ancient Greece setting and the gameplay changes make me want to give it another go.

I tousle my hair a little, set my water bottle in reach, and settle into my very comfortable chair. I announced on Twitter about an hour ago that I'd be streaming tonight, so my Twitch chat is already full of people. My mods have had to ban a few right from the get-go. One for spamming, and a couple more for being dicks. Looking at the moderator actions, I can see one of them is a screenname I recognize. Costas, one of the assholes from the Victoria.

Because I can't help myself, I take a look at what he got banned for, and the messages my mods deleted:

I'm not sure I'm the type of guy who would say no to that scenario, if it ever actually happened. I do love sucking dick, and I'm not going to let some homophobic piece of shit make me feel ashamed about that. The next thing he typed, though...

"Oh, you wish, you lying sack of shit," I growl, my fingers immediately flying over the keys as I type out a response.

My conscience kicks in before I hit send, reminding me I signed a contract that expressly prohibits me from doing this. It'd make the Cyclones look bad. And my mods already took care of it seconds after it was posted, so I'm not sure why I even care.

Letting out a deep breath, I stretch my sore muscles and prepare to turn on my face cam. As soon as I enable the feed, I stop being the Ryker who's a little self-conscious and really fucking angry about what some random asshole says on the internet, and I become the smug, cavalier bastard everyone expects. I greet my fans, fire up the game, and let myself enjoy it as much as I can while playing the thing live in front of thousands of people.

A couple hours into my three-hour window, I get a phone call. I ignore it, since anybody who matters already knows I'm streaming, but it rings again. And again. A quick glance at the screen shows the call is coming from my dad's office. I make a face and put the thing on vibrate, reading some of the chat in scrollback.

"Is this where I insert the obligatory 'your mom' joke?" I deadpan, focusing my attention on my TV screen and trying not to let it bother me.

I know it's my dad, and he knows I have a schedule to keep. I even gave him a copy of it. Sure, me telling him I was moving to Orlando to play video games professionally didn't go over well--to put it lightly--but he has to respect my time. I'll call him after.

After another fifteen minutes, just as I get myself fully invested in the game again, a huge message shows up in chat.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I grate out, tossing the controller down.

Lots of dumbass Twitch emotes fly by, but I barely notice them. When my phone rings yet again, I pick up this time, not thinking about the fact that a bunch of people are still watching and listening to everything.

"Dad, I can't talk right now. I told you--"

"I need you to come in Monday morning. I have an investor visiting from Denmark. Get your suit pressed, and don't drink the night before. It makes you look like a university dropout."

I just sit there, mouth open, brows pulled into a tight expression of what the absolute fuck. "I don't work there anymore, Dad. I told you that weeks ago."

"You told me you were shirking your responsibilities to play video games, yes--"

"I told you I was hired by one of the most prestigious--" I try to counter, but he cuts me off.

"--but I need you to act like an adult for once and do your actual job."

I knew he wasn't going to understand. I knew he just completely ignored me when I gave my notice. He's made no secret of how little he thinks of my career ambitions, but to call me right now in the middle of a stream?

Oh, shit. I'm in the middle of a stream.

I glance at my monitor, eyes wide with horror as I realize I've been on camera this whole time. My dad--who must know I'm streaming because he sent his fucking assistant to call me out--doesn't seem to care.

"I'll send a car to pick you up from the airport."

"You don't get it!" I yell. "I'm not going to be there. I don't work for you anymore. I--"

Belatedly I realize there's nothing on the other end. Just an eventual click as I'm taken off speaker phone, followed by Dad's assistant.

"I'm sorry, would you like me to contact Mr. Winthrop on your behalf?"

"No," I murmur, drawing in a breath through my nose.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to throw my phone at the nearest wall. I know it's childish, but I'm so tired of him not valuing anything I do. Everything I've ever pursued on my own time has just been an indulgent hobby to him. And that was fine when I was growing up, but now he's completely humiliated me. I already know this shit is going to be made into clips and gifs and plastered all over YouTube within the next few hours.

One glance at Twitch chat tells me there's no recovering from it. I don't need to give people the satisfaction of seeing me have a complete meltdown. So I contact my mods and tell them I'm shutting down early, then I address all the people jerking off to my misery.

"Stream's ending early tonight, sorry, guys. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

I cut the feed immediately after, completely closing out of Twitch. Shoving my chair backward, I pace around my room like a caged animal. I need to channel the anger and hurt inside of me or I'm going to burst. Grabbing my water bottle but not bothering to change my clothes, I head over to the gym. This late at night it's completely empty. Even the attendants are gone, and it's the perfect excuse for me to slam weights around.

I stack them as high as I can take it, then channel all of the shit racing around in my head into each lift. My muscles burn and I know I'm going to pay for this in the morning, but I don't fucking care. I don't care about anything, which is exactly why tears start to sting my eyes. Dropping the machine, I swipe them away, rubbing sweat into my eyes in the process.

"For fuck's sake!" I yell to the empty room.

Or what I thought was an empty room. I nearly jump out of my goddamn skin when a familiar voice answers, "Did you pull something?"

I turn to see Finn, and already my defenses are high. It's a little egotistical to think he's here because of me, but he always does his workouts in the mornings. There's no other reason for him to be here.

"Come here to tell me I've broken contract?" I ask, my anger puffing up to the most obnoxious levels of self-righteous.

"I don't think I would've handled it any better," he admits quietly. "I'm sorry, Ryker. Your dad sounds like a real asshole."

"Yeah, well. He is."

The sad thing is, I don't think he's even trying to be. I think he's just doing what he imagines he has to do to keep his fuck-up son in line. Trying to steer me back toward the right path while completely disregarding what I want or what matters to me. It's always been that way, I just thought I'd gotten over it around the time I left middle school.

Apparently not.

Gripping the handles tight, I slam the weight machine forward, then let it drop with a loud crash before doing it all over again.

"Hey," Finn says, his pleading voice barely audible over the sound of the weights. He steps right in front of me, hands on the machine to keep it from moving, and speaks again, "you're going to hurt yourself."

"Won't be the first time," I say off-handedly, "now move."

Finn doesn't move. He stands firm, becoming a brick wall blocking me from doing what I want to do. When I push outward, he pushes back, and I lock eyes with him. I guess I'm trying to intimidate him, but I get caught in the mix of frustration and concern I see there. Frustration I get. Even I know I'm being a piece of shit. But concern...

I want to tell him to fuck off; that I don't need his pity. Instead I find myself leaning forward and crushing my mouth to his. He lets out a muffled sound of surprise that almost makes me jerk back, the first hit of shame washing through me. But the sound fades and he kisses me back, grabbing my face in his hands and letting me feel all that pent-up desire I know he's had.

I sweep my tongue into his mouth and revel in the sound of his moan, but even this isn't close enough. My hands move boldly, greedily to his ass and I pull him closer, making enough room for him to straddle the machine just inches away from my lap. My palms slide over his still-clothed body and there's a desperate part of me that wants to rip his shirt off right now, not giving a shit about who might walk in on us or what it'll do to the team's reputation.

Finn pulls back, though, and I expect the next words out of his mouth to have something to do with the Cyclones. Instead, his brows are drawn up in the same concern I saw earlier. "Ryker..."

There's so much behind those two syllables, and it makes me think about the promise I made to myself; the promise that I wouldn't do this. But here I am throwing myself at this guy, all because my dad made me feel two feet tall. I know the mature thing would be to talk, but talking's the last thing I feel like doing right now.

Finn wants me. I want him. And right now, I need him.

"Please..."

He lets out a shaky breath, and I can see his throat bob as he swallows. "Not here. Meet me back in my room."

Relief floods me just as much as lust. I don't have to be alone with my thoughts. I don't have to deal with the fact that my dad doesn't respect me. At least for tonight, I can lose myself in someone else.