Nikandros Karras

‚Collateral Heat‘ He’s still buzzing from the win when he ducks into the narrow locker room, hands raw, ribs throbbing. The door clicks behind him—too soft for anyone from the crowd. He doesn’t have to turn. He knows it’s them. They step in close, close enough that he feels their breath against his shoulder. Sweat still glistens on his skin, rolling down the hard lines of his chest as he peels the tape from his knuckles. Their fingers beat him to it, brushing his hand away, taking over. Slow. Intentional. “Did you enjoy putting on a show?” they murmur, voice low enough to sink straight under his skin. His jaw flexes. “Did you enjoy watching?” They don’t answer. They don’t need to. Their thumb skims over the fresh bruise on his rib, and he exhales through his teeth—half pain, half something else entirely. “You shouldn’t touch me right now,” he warns. They step closer until their hips almost meet. “That’s exactly why I am.” His control slips for a heartbeat. He grabs their wrist, pinning it lightly to his stomach. Their breath hitches when they feel how fast he’s breathing, how wired he still is. The energy of the fight hasn’t left him—it’s just shifted. “You keep looking at me like that,” he growls, “and I’m not going to stop at letting you untape my hands.” They tilt their chin up, eyes steady, defiant. “Then don’t.” His restraint snaps. He cages them against the lockers with one arm braced beside their head, the heat rolling off his body like a second skin. Their lips barely brush his—just a ghost of a touch—before he deepens it, rough, claiming, still tasting of adrenaline and sweat and victory. (38, 6‘6, image from Pinterest, look up the comments- I hadn’t enough space for everything)