Jason's body locked—not the stiffening of fear, but the stillness of a puzzle piece slotting home. His cock pulsed against Marcus's stomach, a thick beat of heat that sent a shudder through his thighs. The shame he'd braced for never came. Instead, something warm unspooled in his chest, spreading through his ribs like the steam curling around them.
His hands uncurled from the tile. Fingers spread flat, then relaxed, palms pressing against the wet ceramic as if anchoring himself to something solid. His head tipped back, throat baring in a long, slow arc—the exact move Marcus had forced from him in the locker room weeks ago, now offered freely.
The word sat in his chest, glowing. Slut. It didn't sting. It fit.
"Then give it to me." Jason's voice came out steady, a low rasp that surprised even him. "Give me what I'm good for."
Marcus's pale eyes went black. The grip on Jason's hip tightened—fingers digging into the bruise that was already there from the last round, pain flaring bright and grounding. Marcus didn't answer with words. His free hand came up and wrapped around Jason's throat, thumb settling over the bite mark.
"You think you know what you're asking." Not a question. Marcus's voice had dropped to something dangerous, something that vibrated in Jason's sternum.
"I've known since you grabbed my neck in front of the whole room." Jason swallowed, felt his Adam's apple press against Marcus's palm. "I've been hard for it every practice since."
Marcus made a sound—low, rough, almost pained. He yanked Jason off the tile and spun him, chest slamming against the wall again. His cock slid between Jason's ass cheeks, thick and leaking, and Jason pushed back into it, spine arching.
"You don't get to want it," Marcus growled against his ear. "You get to take it."
Jason's forehead pressed to the tile. Water streamed over his shoulders, down the channel of his spine, pooling where Marcus's body pinned him. "Then take me. Use me. I'm right here." His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn't care. "I've been right here."
Marcus's teeth found the hinge of his jaw. Bite. Hard. Jason's hips bucked, his cock dragging wet against the wall, and a moan punched out of him—loud, shameless, his voice echoing off the shower walls.
"There you are," Marcus breathed, and his hand slid from Jason's throat down his chest, over his stomach, closing around his cock. Squeezed once, brutal and perfect. "My good boy."
Marcus's hand stopped moving on Jason's cock. Just stopped. The heat of his palm still wrapped around the shaft, but the grip went slack, the thumb that had been pressing into the slit withdrew, and the rhythm Jason had been rocking into died against the stillness.
Jason's hips jerked, chasing friction that wasn't there. "Marcus—"
"Quiet." The word landed cold, flat, nothing like the gravelly heat that had been vibrating against Jason's spine seconds before. Marcus's body pulled back—chest leaving Jason's back, the thick press of his cock sliding away from the cleft of Jason's ass and leaving cold water to rush into the space where his warmth had been.
Jason's hands flattened against the tile, fingers curling into useless fists. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt, leaking against his stomach, untouched. "What are you—"
"I said quiet." Marcus's hand left Jason's throat, left his cock, and both palms came to rest on the tile on either side of Jason's shoulders, caging him without touching him. His breathing was controlled, too even, the breath that washed over Jason's ear nothing but discipline. "You don't get to tell me when. You don't get to ask. You take what I decide to give you."
Jason's jaw clenched. His green eyes burned into the wet tile, unblinking. The word slut was still alive in his chest, but now it sat alongside something sharper—humiliation that had nowhere to go, need that had been promised and yanked back. His knees shook with the effort of staying still.
"Then decide," Jason bit out, voice cracking on the edge of defiance and plea. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I've been hard since the first day you looked at me, and you know it. You've always known it. So make your fucking decision."
Silence. The water hammered against the tile, steam thickening the air until every breath was heavy with it. Marcus didn't move. Didn't speak. His presence behind Jason was a wall of withheld heat, and the longer the silence stretched, the more Jason's body screamed for contact—any contact, even the bite, even the bruise, even the word that had made him moan.
"Please." The word fell out of Jason's mouth before he could stop it, raw and small, his forehead pressing harder against the tile. "Please, Marcus."
Marcus made a sound—not the rough, almost pained noise from before, but something colder. A short exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, no warmth in it. "There it is," he said, and his voice was back to the clipped, measured tone he used in the locker room when Jason had fucked up a drill. "The real reason you're here. Not because you want to be good. Because you can't stand the idea of being nothing to me."
Jason's stomach dropped. His cock was still hard, still leaking, but the shame was different now—hotter, deeper, burrowing into his ribs. He turned his head just enough to catch Marcus's reflection in the chrome showerhead, the blurred outline of salt-and-pepper stubble and pale eyes gone flat.
"You don't get to come tonight," Marcus said, and stepped back, letting the shower curtain rattle open. Cold air sliced through the steam, and Jason's body shook, bare and wanting and suddenly alone under the spray. "Think about what you actually want. When you figure it out, you can ask properly."