Work Text:
Before Robert came around, 4 AM at the gym meant alone time—much needed solitude to eclipse the chaos that was Flambae's clown show of a day job.
Now he had a resident, washed-up white boy to ogle at while he ground an incline on the treadmill.
Lucky him.
There were very few upsides to exercising with impromptu company, but Flambae had to acknowledge the silver linings when they came. Robert was cute in the way that sad puppy commercials with 'In The Arms Of An Angel' blaring in the background were cute. His big brown eyes sent Flambae straight back to the 2000's—those early mornings when he'd watch some TV during breakfast and stumble upon overplayed advertisements about animal cruelty and get the heart-splitting urge to jet to the nearest shelter.
Like it was depressing as fuck but also…cute puppies and shit, you know?
Robert also had an okay ass, he supposed. But it was so small it made Flambae want to slap it purely for the novelty. Just by the off-chance it might bounce a millimeter.
And in the midst of him ruminating about the devil, Robert climbed onto the treadmill one space away from his, taking a small sip from his water bottle before starting it up.
Flambae stole a glance at him, and the first thing that struck him as odd was how much skin he could see. Robert was wearing dark blue gym shorts made of thin material, not the dingy sweatpants he usually had on. It showed off his thinner, but surprisingly well-knit legs. Flambae was the last person to ask about whether it was cold outside, but he knew for damn sure it wasn't hot enough for those shorts.
The second thing he noticed was that Robert was non-subtly looking in his direction, even catching his eye momentarily, making no effort to look away. Flambae frowned at him suspiciously, maintaining his rhythm on his machine, trying to ignore the pang of curiosity in his chest.
Oh, one more thing he fucking hated about Robert infiltrating his gym time—the aggravating coincidence that he somehow managed to get done with cardio at the same time Flambae did every day.
Thank fuck their routines were wildly different. One time finding Robert on his lifting bench was enough. Anymore and Flambae would've torched that marshmallow.
This morning was no different. Flambae got off the treadmill, wiped his sweat, and set up the rack for his barbell squats. Moments later, Robert shut his machine down and paced off his labored breathing, periodically nursing on his water.
Flambae huffed and rolled his eyes, begrudingly resuming plate-loading his barbell. That shit was so goddamn annoying for some reason. Sure, Flambae had a rocking body and a mug to die for, but the way Robert mimicked him made him feel unnecessarily watched. And after years in the clink, the last thing he wanted was to be monitored on his downtime.
The squat rack faced outward toward the rest of the gym, so he had the unfortunate luxury of getting a full view of Robert as he settled on the hip abductor machine. He did a few reps while Robert pinned his weights, smirking as he privately took pleasure in the fact that he could definitely top the guy's current maximum.
That ego-trip made the next few reps a breeze. He carefully kept his form, looking straight ahead.
Robert had scooted into the proper position on the seat of his machine and started his set. There was some evident strain in his body, but he maintained good posture and steady progression. He was looking up at the ceiling, mouthing his rep count silently to himself through breaths.
Typically, this was the part where their joint workout sessions would slip into the mundane. Flambae racked his bar to give his body a 15-second break, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. When he took up form again and glanced ahead, he…noticed something.
He squinted, hesitating, the grip on his bar tightening into a death grip.
It had to be an accident, because holy shit, there was no way Flambae was hallucinating.
He could see the tip of Robert's cock poking out against the left leg of his shorts, pink, full, and prominent against his light skin. His shorts had ridden up some in the time span of Flambae's set break, and the meta immediately juggled the idea that it could just be some horrifically embarrassing slip that Robert was unaware of. And that seemed plausible, until the gym lights caught a glisten on Robert's tip, reflecting off of the….oh god, that was precum dribbling from his slit.
Flambae started to smell hot steel, and the inside of his palms began to sweat. There was no way Robert couldn't notice an entire fucking erection in his shorts. He wasn't stupid. But he kept on with his set like it wasn't even there—like his cock wasn't rubbing up against his thigh every time he worked his hips against the machine.
Flambae swallowed thickly, mesmerized. Violently turned on. If Robert was conscious of his hard-on, that could only mean he wanted it to be noticed. And fuck, was Flambae noticing it. He didn't realize he was just standing there, gripping his barbell for dear life, looking utterly stupid.
Worse yet—Robert completed the set and rolled his neck with his eyes closed, exposing the sheen of sweat along his throat while his hand traveled south to grip the print of his cock.
Flambae was helplessly under a spell now.
Robert returned his grips to the handles at his sides, taking a breath, leveling Flambae a dark, devouring glare.
All the blood in Flambae's body rushed to his dick in seconds.
Robert closed his eyes and started again, pushing against the machine's resistance. With each rep, the movements of his hips grew more languid. He rolled his groin with the resistance, moaning low in his throat, his cock pumping in and out of view in his shorts. After his set, he let his head lie back, his cock visibly weighing on his shorts, pulsing and leaking onto the gym floor.
Flambae hardly had time to breathe before he went again.
Robert moved with the machine, breathing heavily, fucking his thigh and shorts with each rep. The movements were lazy and so painfully sexual, and these deep, throaty, puffy moans kept escaping the dispatcher's lips. Flambae's dick cuffed against his suit. He grit his teeth, unable to speak. Unable to move. All he could do was watch as Robert commanded the room.
"Mmmph—hhn…" Robert parted his lips and let the sounds loose, glaring Flambae directly in the eyes as his face flushed. His calves visibly tightened as his hips stuttered. He counted breathily to himself, mouthing the numbers.
Fourteen…Fifteen…Sixteen…Seventeen.
Robert's throat bulged with a thick swallow. His eyes fluttered shut, his blushing red cock throbbing toward the ceiling.
Eighteen…Nineteen.
He was gasping now, his hips lifting off the seat slightly with the last rep.
Twenty.
Robert tensed and slammed his back into the spine support behind him with a bitten off grunt, biting his lip as cum spattered onto the floor beneath his feet. His shoulders sagged as he heaved for air, the spectacle of it all as godlike as it was fucking demonic. His cock lay heavy in the leg of his shorts, weeping generously, drooping on full display for Flambae's blazing, chronically aroused eyes.
When Robert came down from his high, he exhaled deeply, grabbed his water bottle, and stood up in one smooth motion. He didn't even look at the mess he left. Nor did he clean his seat. His dark, tired eyes fixed on Flambae one last time, betraying nothing. Then, they flickered down at the tent in Flambae's pants, his brow cocked, like he was daring him to do something about it.
He disappeared into the locker room a moment later.
Flambae's hands fell from the barbell, standing up straight, staring in awe as the door closed behind Robert.
Maybe there was something deeply wrong with Flambae, because, God, he'd never been so horny in his life.
He considered his straining erection, his horrible impulse control, and the importance of appropriate workplace conduct.
Then his eyes fell to the soiled floor.
No. Robert wasn't going to fucking get away with that.
Flambae was going to fuck that loser stupid in the showers if it was the last thing he did.
Not before he indulgently cleaned up Robert's mess, though.