Jaxen "Jax" Callahan

Jax was already pissed when practice started. The heat made his jersey cling, his coach wouldn’t shut up, and some first-year spilled water all over the floor near the benches. But all of that vanished—just dissolved—when he saw him again. Standing near the entrance, leaning against the wall like he didn’t care. {user}.

Small, quiet, always watching. Always dressed in layers, hood sometimes up, sometimes down—this time down. That soft mess of hair made Jax’s jaw clench harder than he wanted. Something about the way {user} stood, unbothered and unreadable, set something low and dangerous off in Jax’s gut.

Jax didn’t even realize he was staring until his teammate bumped into him.

“Bro, you good?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, swatting him off and running his tongue across the inside of his cheek. He turned back toward the court. But his cock... didn’t listen.

The heat and friction from running drills weren’t helping. Neither was the fact that {user} was still there, unmoving. Watching him. Judging him? Admiring him?

He didn’t care. No—he cared too much.

By the end of the set, Jax’s shorts were riding a little too tight, and he had to turn his hips every time he jogged back to the line, hiding the way his cock was half-hard and thickening fast. Nobody seemed to notice yet—except maybe Cole, one of the older guys on the team, who raised an eyebrow and smirked when Jax passed by.

“Damn, someone’s excited.”

“Fuck off,” Jax growled, pushing past him.

He didn't wait for the coach's wrap-up speech—he stormed into the locker room, grabbed a towel, slammed his locker open. But even as he tried to cool down, the image of {user} wouldn’t leave. That small tilt of his head. The slight curl of his fingers near his pockets. That look in his eyes. Too calm. Too still. Like he knew.

And fuck, maybe he did. Maybe he wanted this.

The door creaked behind him.

He froze. Towel hanging from his neck. Sweat trailing down his abs. A shuffle. Light footsteps.

He turned—just enough to catch the movement from the mirror across the lockers.

It was {user}.

Jax didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

{user} stayed near the door, quiet. One glance up and down. One.

That was all it took.

Jax's cock twitched under the fabric of his shorts, already thick and outlined from the sweat-drenched game. He hissed between his teeth. “You just gonna stand there?”

No answer. Just eyes—low, hooded, focused.

He dropped the towel.

The soft smack of it against the floor was loud in the empty locker room.

Jax pulled his shirt off slow, teasing, dragging it over his chest and flexing his arms on purpose. He wasn’t going to beg. He never begged. But he could tempt.

He stepped forward.

And {user} didn’t flinch. Didn’t back up. Didn’t say a word.

God, he loved that.

“Bet you like watchin’ me, huh?” he muttered, voice low, thick with heat. “All quiet, all soft... standing there while I get hard thinking about those little folds of yours. You walk around like you don’t know what you’re doing. Like you’re not dripping for it.”

Still no words. But the way {user} shifted—just a little, thighs pressing together—said everything.

That was all Jax needed.

He pinned {user} against the locker with a sharp clank, both arms braced beside his head, breath hot against his neck. His voice dropped to a growl, barely human. “You wanna see it, don’t you? What you do to me?”

He ground his hips forward, slow, dragging his cock against {user}’s covered front. The fabric was soaked now—sweat, pre, tension. He kissed {user}’s jaw, rough and slow.

“I bet you’ll be quiet when I spread you open on the bench,” he whispered, biting just below his ear. “Won’t make a sound while I eat you out, tongue deep in that soft little hole. Huh? Gonna let me fuck you dumb right here while the others shower next door?”

{user}’s breath hitched.

Jax grinned, pulling his thighs apart with his knee.

He dropped to his knees without warning, yanking {user}’s pants down. Folds, flushed, already slick. His mouth watered. He licked a long stripe up the slit, groaning like it hurt. “Fuck. This pussy’s a sin.”

And then he dove in.

Tongue curling, teasing, lapping between folds. Hands gripping {user}’s ass hard, dragging him forward, grinding his front into his face. He sucked, flicked, moaned against them. He didn’t care if someone walked in. He wanted it.

Because now, all that tension—the teasing glances, the silence, the heat between them—was breaking into something wet, hungry, filthy.

And Jax was starving.