#roid rage

But with the start of March, something changed. John began a new steroid cycle—it wasn't a secret, he talked about it openly, as part of his gym life where he wanted to push his limits. "I need it for strength at work," he explained one evening while preparing the injection, and Peter nodded, knowing what he was getting into. He noticed it quickly—John's libido shot up like a rocket, suddenly the calm bear was full of energy, his touches more demanding, kisses deeper. His sweat scent changed too—it became more intense, more masculine, with that chemical undertone Peter recognized from the "memories" of his previous steroid phase experienced thanks to the ring. It was the same rough, attractive aroma that now enveloped John after every workout, and Peter felt it when he cuddled up to him, mixed with the new desire that drove him forward. John was in the second half of the cycle when it happened—that moment Peter subconsciously expected but hoped to avoid. After the last two weeks, John became more explosive in the gym, his usual calm strength turning into something wild, uncontrollable. The steroids started affecting his behavior—those injections he gave himself in the thigh with the same routine as fixing an engine now pumped not just muscles, but also aggression. John knew it, talked about it openly: "I have to watch it, kid, but this time it'll be fine." But it wasn't.

Peter tried to calm him—in the gym, when John growled at a weight that seemed too light, or in the evening at home, when he returned from the workshop breathless and nervous. At first, it went fairly well: light touches on the shoulder, words like "Breathe, love, it's just a phase," and John calmed down, smiled with his bearish grin, and hugged him. But then came a sudden explosion in the gym locker room when his locker lock jammed. It was an ordinary moment—the key stuck, John pulled harder, and suddenly it snapped. "Fuck!" he roared, his voice booming like thunder in the small space, and his fist slammed into the locker with such force that it dented. "Calm down. Breathe!" Peter tried to soothe him, stepping closer, hand extended in a calming gesture. But John swung his massive fist—it was a reflex, the roid rage that overtook him like a storm. Peter barely dodged the first blow, the wind from it ruffling his hair. The second he took on the shoulder—the pain was sharp, like a hammer strike, shooting down to his bones, and he staggered. It hurt, but it was enough to slow John a bit, as if the physical feedback pierced the fog in his head. Peter didn't wait—he grabbed John's wrist, twisted his arms behind his back, tackled him to the ground with surprising strength given by the ring, and sat on him, holding him firmly. John deflated after a moment—the rage exhausted like a storm that came and went. He lay there on the ground, breathing raggedly, chest heaving and falling in quick rhythm, sweat streaming down his forehead into his beard. Peter heard the commotion behind him—other guys from the gym gathered at the locker room door, whispering, someone reaching for their phone. He just raised his hand for them to leave—it was a gesture saying "we've got this under control," and they obeyed, leaving slowly, letting them be alone. Peter got off John, turned him onto his back, and knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. "All good now?" he whispered, voice full of concern but also love. John opened his eyes, those brown ones now full of regret, and nodded. "Sorry, kid… this… this isn't me." He stood slowly, hugged Peter tightly but gently this time, as if afraid to break him. "I have to stop this," he whispered into his hair. Peter nodded, feeling the pain in his shoulder pulsing like a reminder, but knowing this was just a phase—their relationship was stronger than steroids. They left the gym together, hand in hand, and talked long into the night at home.

John promised to stop but wanted to finish the cycle—"Just a few more weeks, kid, and then stop," he said that evening after the incident, as they sat at his place with an ice pack on Peter's shoulder. He was now much more cautious, watching every word in the gym, avoiding heavy sets that could enrage him, and even noting his moods in a notebook, as if it were part of his "training." The awareness that Peter could pacify him—that young kid who looked like a top athlete but was still the skinny bookworm underneath—kept him more in check. "I don't want to repeat it," John admitted, and his eyes, usually full of that rough humor, now held a shadow of regret from past years. In reality, it surprised Peter too. Still, even under that layer of muscles the ring had given him, he was the original bookworm who never fought and preferred to flee from conflict—running to books, to stories where heroes solved problems with wisdom, not fists. Now he asked himself: "How did I do that? Was it the ring that gave me the strength, or was it really in me, just waiting for the right moment?" Whatever it was, he was actually glad for it—that feeling of protecting someone he loves gave him new confidence he hadn't had before.

Good Game. Part IV

Inktober 2023. Using the Cartoonist Kayfabetober prompt list.