repressed Steve who has fully convinced himself it's not gay to imagine having sex with dudes, it's purely a dominance thing.
And boy does he want to dominate Hargrove.
It's not Steve’s fault. Actually he blames sports, okay? Because the language around winning gets sort of... screwy, in Steve’s opinion.
Every coach he's ever had has gone on and on about it. Stay on your man. Make him beg for mercy. We're gonna ruin 'em. Wreck 'em. Cream them. Whip their asses.
And okay, arguably some of that is tied a little bit to the weird dungeon movie he accidentally saw on cable at his uncle's house when he was twelve, but that's exactly his point! That's how wires get crossed! That's how boys get a little confused.
That's why freshman year Steve had a wet dream about the blonde outfielder on the team from Wabash who smiled like he was untouchable the whole time he ran the bases.
That's why sometimes when a cocky defender talks too much trash on the court Steve thinks about pinning him to the floor and Shoving his dick down his throat to shut him up.
Why he'd stew in his head about Adrian Burke that whole season they were neck and neck in the standings, thinking about fucking him until he couldn't walk straight, let alone swim the 200 m butterfly. Knock him down a peg.
Which is why it is crushingly unfair that no opponent through his entire athletic career has ever needed to be put in his place more than his own goddamn team-mate does now.
Hargrove.
The new kid from California. He's always right there. He’s there in class, in the halls, on the court, in the locker room, in Steve’s dreams.
He's all over Steve, being unberably smug, and antagonistic, and golden. And wrestling is one of the few school sports Steve never really dipped a toe in, but, God, he'd consider it for a chance to make that asshole submit. To pin him to the mat and get those strong thighs wrapped around his waist, tight and squirming. Make him gasp and cry.
Make him say 'Daddy!'
No, wait. Uncle... The phrase is 'say uncle.'
