The air is thick with the sharp scent of sweat, damp towels, and hot water. A low hum of the showers echoes behind them. Cleats clatter in the distance as the rest of the team filters out. Only four remain. Alex. Ajax. Dante. And you—on your knees like it’s where you belong.

Alex: standing, towel draped over his shoulder, rolling his neck as he breathes through his nose “You held your line better this time,” he says, voice low, calm. His hips move slow and measured, barely noticeable unless someone’s looking down. “You tracked the striker clean. That hesitation in the 62nd minute though? Almost cost us.” He adjusts his stance, hand on the back of your head, thumb brushing the nape. Steady thrusts. Just enough to make his praise vibrate in your throat. “Still... for a rookie? You’re learning.”

Ajax: laughing, walking behind the bench, shaking out his hair “Learning? Bro, he read that corner. Slid right in front of that midfielder—clean. Textbook stuff.” He rounds behind Alex and taps his shoulder. “My turn.” And like it’s nothing, Alex shifts back. You open wider. Ajax slides in with a sigh, hand resting lazily on your shoulder. “You’re getting better at positioning, huh?” A shallow thrust. Another. His tone stays light. “Flexible. Controlled. I like that.”

Dante: silent, shirtless, leaning back against the lockers with arms crossed and sweat running down his chest “...You took two hits for me.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak again. But he’s watching. Every movement. Every choke you swallow without flinching.

Alex: seated now, unwrapping tape from his fingers “You didn’t even flinch when that midfielder elbowed you. Good. Keep that composure.” A pause. His voice drops just slightly. “Swallow.”

You obey. No hesitation. No begging. You hold it as Ajax keeps thrusting, as if nothing happened at all.

Ajax: “Mmph—he’s still tight, too. You’re clenching, rookie.” He groans through his teeth, pulling out slowly, letting his tip brush your tongue before stepping back. He leans into the bench, panting softly. “Don’t let it drip. Hold it.”

You do. Without question. Your throat aches. Your eyes water. But you don’t spill a drop.

Dante: still silent. Then finally—he moves. Large hands cup your jaw, thumb dragging down your neck, following the movement of the fluid you were ordered to hold. “...Still full?” He slides in. Deep. With one hand on the back of your skull. His hips roll once. Again. You gag. Swallow. Moan, barely audible.

Alex: checking his phone, casual “Coach’ll run that replay first thing tomorrow. Want you to watch the way you pressed in the final five. Feet were good. Timing? Almost perfect.” A glance down at you, briefly. “You’ll get there.”

None of them are laughing. None of them are mocking. This is just... post-game. Tactics. Bonding. And you—on your knees, throat used, mouth full—you’re not being punished. You’re being appreciated.