Chapter 15: Thigh-Riding Commentary
The cricket match droned on, a low murmur of commentary and sporadic crowd noise. Rohan’s head remained on Arjun’s shoulder, the simple, rhythmic motion of fingers through his hair unraveling knots of tension he didn’t even know he was carrying. His own hand lay on the couch between them, and his gaze drifted from the screen to Arjun’s forearm, resting on his own thigh.
The muscle was relaxed but defined, a topography of tendons and veins under warm skin. Without really thinking, driven by a quiet, scientific curiosity, Rohan lifted his finger and traced a path along a prominent blue vein that ran from the wrist towards the inner elbow. He followed its branching tributaries, mapping them.
“Your vascularity is kind of insane,” Rohan murmured, his voice soft against the fabric of Arjun’s t-shirt. “It’s like a schematic. This main cephalic vein here, the way it dives under the flexor group…” His finger brushed over the rounded bulk of the brachioradialis as Arjun’s hand stilled in his hair.
Arjun looked down, not at his own arm, but at Rohan’s face, studying his focused expression. A slow smile spread. “You’re reading my arm like a circuit diagram.”
“It’s efficient,” Rohan said, his touch feather-light, tracing the dividing line between muscle bellies. “The placement. The way everything cables together. It’s not just random. It’s engineered.”
Arjun chuckled, a low rumble Rohan felt through his bones. “Engineered. I like that.” He shifted, just slightly, flexing his forearm. The landscape changed dramatically, veins rising into sharp relief, muscles hardening into distinct, separable cords. Rohan’s breath hitched.
“See something you like, engineer?” Arjun’s tone was playful, but there was a heat underneath it.
Rohan’s scientific detachment evaporated. He was just touching, now. Feeling the incredible, living power under the skin. He splayed his fingers, trying to span the width of the flexed muscle, and couldn’t. A soft, involuntary sound escaped him—part awe, part something else entirely.
In one fluid motion, Arjun’s hand left Rohan’s hair. He hooked an arm around Rohan’s waist and, with appalling ease, lifted him from the couch and deposited him sideways across his lap. Rohan yelped, hands flying to grip Arjun’s shoulders for balance.
“What are you—”
“Demonstrating the engineering,” Arjun said, his grin wide and wicked. He settled Rohan firmly on his left thigh, which was like sitting on a warm, upholstered tree trunk. “Primary movers: quadriceps femoris. Vastus lateralis, medialis, intermedius… and the big one in the middle, rectus femoris.” He patted his own thigh for emphasis. “Supporting cast: glutes, hamstrings, core stabilizers. Now,” he said, his hands settling on Rohan’s hips, anchoring him. “You’re the load.”
Before Rohan could process the statement, Arjun’s leg began to move. He raised it, slow and controlled, lifting Rohan’s entire weight as if he were a pillow. He held him aloft for a three-count, the muscle beneath Rohan hardening into granite, then lowered him back down with the same deliberate precision.
Rohan gasped. The sensation was utterly bizarre—the sheer, effortless power, the feeling of being completely at the mercy of this fundamental physical force. He was suspended, then grounded, his world simplified to the rise and fall of Arjun’s body.
“One,” Arjun said, his voice a little strained from the effort, though his breathing was even. He did it again. Up. A held breath. Down.
“Two.”
Rohan’s whimper was pure, startled reaction. His fingers dug into Arjun’s shoulders. He wasn’t afraid of being dropped; the control was absolute. It was the vulnerability, the sheer demonstration of disparity. He was a thought being lifted by a mountain.
“Three.”
Up. Rohan’s stomach swooped. He could feel every fiber of Arjun’s jeans, the heat radiating through, the incredible tension. He was staring at Arjun’s face, at the focused gleam in his eye, the slight flaring of his nostrils with the exertion he was so masterfully containing.
“Four.”
Down. A soft groan escaped Rohan this time. It was overwhelming. His face was flaming. Arjun’s grin turned triumphant, predatory.
“You okay up there, load?”
“Stop calling me that,” Rohan breathed, but there was no force behind it.
“What should I call you? My little counterweight?” Arjun lifted him again, for a fifth time, even slower. “My benchmark? You’re barely a warm-up set, Kapoor.”
The use of his last name, in that context, did something treacherous to Rohan’s spine. He squirmed, which only made Arjun’s grip tighten.
“Arjun…”
“Shh. Leg day is sacred. Form is everything.” He lowered him, but this time didn’t let him settle fully. He kept him suspended an inch above his thigh, the muscle trembling with the sustained strain. A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on Arjun’s temple. “See? Full range of motion. Controlled eccentric. No cheating.”
He let Rohan down the final inch. The relief was fleeting. Arjun was looking at him with an intensity that had nothing to do with exercise physiology. The playfulness was still there, but it had been burned away, leaving something hotter and more direct.
“You’re blushing so deep it’s purple,” Arjun observed, his voice dropping. One large hand came up to cradle Rohan’s jaw, his thumb stroking the burning skin. “Like you’ve never been used as gym equipment before.”
“I haven’t,” Rohan admitted, the words barely audible.
“First time for everything.” Arjun leaned in, his breath hot on Rohan’s ear. “Want to know what the engineering is for?”
Rohan could only nod, a tiny, desperate movement.
“It’s for this.” In the same motion as standing up from a squat, Arjun rose from the couch, taking Rohan with him. He was cradled against Arjun’s chest, legs dangling. It was even more dizzying than the leg presses. Arjun carried him the few short steps to the bedroom doorframe.
“And for this.” Arjun turned, pressing Rohan’s back against the cool wood of the frame. He held him there, pinned not by hands but by the sheer, immovable pressure of his body. The solidity of him was everywhere. Rohan could feel Arjun’s heart hammering against his own—a rapid, powerful rhythm that belied the effortless display.
Arjun leaned his forehead against Rohan’s. Their breathing synced, ragged and uneven.
“The maintenance manual,” Arjun whispered, his lips brushing Rohan’s as he spoke. “It says for optimal performance of the Rohan unit… you need regular applications of feeling completely out of control.”
He kissed him then, deep and consuming, a kiss that tasted of sweat and jalebi and possession. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, the vulnerability swimming just beneath the surface again, closer than ever.
“The wall was a system override,” he breathed. “This… this is just me running the code.”