Chapter 1 – Violation Report
People see the blond hair, the gym build, the Apexwear logo stretched tight across my chest, and think they’ve got me figured out. Like I’m some influencer bro who lives for mirrors, selfies, and protein shakes. The kind they assume peaks in the weight room and coasts through life on charm and my looks. It’s always the same mix of curiosity, judgment, and heat. I’ve learned not to correct it. It saves time. Sometimes it even opens doors. The rest I keep to myself. The books. The late nights. The papers nobody expects me to write.
In the fitness world, you start seeing the same faces, the same logos, the same recycled poses. Apexwear’s one of those brands that plays the long game. They’re small, loyal, and smart about where they show up. If you spend enough time in gyms, or scroll the right corners of Insta, you’ve probably seen me. Maybe in a training video. Maybe in a reel where the lighting hits just right. Some people recognize me right away. Others just watch, eyes flicking across my body, trying to connect the dots.
Even back in public school, people seemed drawn to me. Making friends was easy. The kids in my class liked having me around. The teachers liked that I set the tone without showing off. Even the school bus driver used to chat like we were old buddies.
But once I started working out, the summer before high school, I started to feel it more. Like something had shifted. It didn’t matter who they were. Girls, guys, gym crushes, strangers who needed something. Attention, approval, validation. These days, a decent following on Insta only adds to my profile, 200K and counting.
I figured out early on it wasn’t just about being good-looking and muscular. It was the energy. The attitude. The way I carried myself. The way people read into it. Some are drawn to it. Some resent it. And some don’t quite know what to make of me.
Over time, I got better at telling the difference. Who was actually drawn to me for who I am, and who just wanted to be close to the image. The popular guy. The hot jock. Some people wanted me. Others just wanted the attention that came with being near me.
Now, I can spot it almost instantly. Most people don’t even realize what they’re showing me.
It used to be fun, reading people like that. Figuring them out, peeling back what they didn’t want anyone to see. Watching the cracks show through the polish. What kept me hooked was the challenge. Spotting the little giveaways, the micro-reactions, the way someone’s body always told the truth before their mouth did.
Sometimes it came in handy, with classmates, teammates, even professors who thought they had me figured out. Other times, it was about scoring dates. Hookups, flirting, whatever. The game’s still there. I just don’t play it like I used to.
It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped hooking up. I mean, needs are needs. And even when it’s easy, especially when it’s easy, sometimes you just take what’s in front of you. Better a forgettable fuck than no score at all.
Last week, it was a girl from the campus bar. Curvy, giggly and overconfident. She clocked me right away, hand on my arm before we even got our drinks. We didn’t make it back to my place. Just a fast, messy fuck against the side of her SUV, her nails clawing at my delts.
It was her first time outdoors, her first time standing up. She’ll remember me for that, among other things. But for me, it was just another forgettable hook-up.
Still, I keep looking. Looking for something different. Something that didn’t feel like I’d already lived it a hundred times before. And sometimes, different shows up when you least expect it.
Two days later, something unexpected happened. The good kind. The kind that throws off your rhythm just enough to make you pay attention.
Jimmy had come by to study with my roommate. He was nice enough. A little nerdy, polite, soft-spoken. The kind of guy who smiled too much when he was nervous and asked lots of questions. The study session wrapped up while I was in the shower. I heard the door close. Then silence.
When I’d stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low on my hips, I was surprised to see Jimmy still there, sitting stiffly on the edge of my bed. Looking up at me, wide-eyed. That dazed look people get when they’re trying really hard not to stare.
His gaze flicked down my chest, over my abs, lingering on the thick mass of my arms.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just walked past him, slowly, rolling my shoulders, keeping them loose. I made a point of not looking at him as I opened the fridge.
He started talking, trying to fill the silence with random questions. He wanted to know what time the gym closed. He asked if I meal-prepped. Whether it was hard to find pants that fit. Each one more off-beat than the last. Like he knew he was digging himself deeper but couldn’t figure out how to stop.
Then he blurted it out, like the words had been sitting in his throat too long.
“You’re Jackson Brannick, right? I follow you... that locker room shoot? Damn.”
I turned my head, grinning. “Yeah. That one’s everywhere.”
It’s the one that gets reposted the most by gay fans. The lighting, the angle, the way my briefs sit low on my hips, just damp enough to cling to my junk just right. I know what the photographers want. Sex sells.
And now, hearing Jimmy say it out loud, sitting on my bed, watching me move around, wearing only a towel. That hit different.
Jimmy flushed deeper, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. His hands fidgeted at the edge of the mattress, his shoulders curling in like he’d just realized what he’d admitted.
He wasn’t some gym bro following my training splits. He wasn’t trying to swap routines or talk about personal bests. He just liked looking.
At me.
“It’s just…” he’d mumbled, low and quick, “...you look even bigger in person.”
I then took a slow sip of my shake, letting the silence stretch. I just stood there, steady and patient, while he sat stewing in it, shrinking smaller by the second.
When I finally moved, I stretched one arm behind my head, casually scratching my neck. The motion pulled the towel lower, tightened my abs, and my lats flared just enough.
Jimmy’s eyes dropped instantly. Then snapped back up, like he could pretend it hadn’t happened.
I saw the way his throat worked, the way his hands clenched uselessly in his lap.
“Problem?” I asked, voice low, almost bored.
He shook his head, too fast. “No. No, it’s just—” He cut himself off, swallowed hard. Then, softer, almost like he was begging not to be heard:
“Do people ever ask you to flex? Like... in person?”
I turned toward him fully. Let him feel it, the spread of my chest, the breadth of my shoulders. The definition of my abs as the tension thickened.
I held his gaze.
“Is that what you’d like to happen now?”
Jimmy blinked, face flushed, lips parted like he was trying to come up with a response but had lost track of the question. He didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just sat there, frozen, caught somewhere between panic and wanting.
That was an answer too.
I took a slow step closer, keeping my posture easy. I wasn’t pressing, much. I was… offering, seeing where this might go. I lifted one arm slightly, the curve of my bicep pumped from my latest workout.
His gaze locked there.
“You can touch,” I’d said quietly.
For a second, he didn’t move. Still flushed. Still wide-eyed. Like his body hadn’t caught up to what was happening. Then, slowly, almost without realizing, he stood and reached out.
His fingers brushed the curve of my arm, feather-light at first, like he was feeling something he’d only ever imagined. He traced the shape, tested the heat, hungry for it even as he pretended not to be.
I didn’t move. I didn’t help him. I just let him run his hand over my arm, feel the weight, the tension, the seductive pull working its way through him, slow and steady.
After a few seconds, I took his hand and moved it. Guided him to my chest, his palm resting over one pec. He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to mine, then back down again.
I brought him lower, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed the edge of the towel, snagged it slightly. The weight shifted. It dropped to the floor, revealing all.
He didn’t pull back.
I gave him a slow grin. “Now what?”
He stared for a few seconds, like he was trying to process what came next. Like he knew the moment was his to answer.
He sank to his knees, like gravity had made the decision for him.
It was reverent. Careful, even. He seemed like he was trying to impress me or prove something. He just moved like it felt natural, like his body already knew what to do.
He was working me like it meant something. Like he knew he wouldn’t get another chance and wanted to make it count. I didn’t rush him. I stayed right where I was, one hand braced lightly at the back of his head, guiding him when he needed it, holding him steady when he didn’t.
His hands settled against my thighs, cautious at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put them, like he didn’t trust himself not to grab on too hard. I held him there, watching how his throat tightened each time I guided him deeper.
Before long, I moaned low, more out of habit than because he needed the warning. He didn’t pull back. My hand cupped behind his head. As I shot onto his tongue, I felt the moment it hit him, the weight of what I was giving him. The way he swallowed. The way his fingers gripped my quads.
When it was over and he finally let go of me, I stepped back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still blinking like he’d been pulled out of something deeper than either of us expected.
He looked up and said, “I’ve never done that before.”
Then he said it again, quieter, like he needed me to believe him. He mumbled something about how he’d just wanted to talk to a fitness influencer, how he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. Before I could get a word in, he was already moving toward the door,still wide-eyed, talking faster now.
He said how different it felt. How wild it was. How he hadn’t known it could be like that. He said it like I’d done something to him. Like I’d flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.
And then he was gone.
Jimmy had been an easy read, but there was still something about the spontaneity of it that stuck with me.The way it happened without being planned, negotiated, or telegraphed from across a dance floor. I’d seen the signs, read the moment, created the opportunity. And Jimmy had taken the plunge, his lust and curiosity, barely contained.
There was something deeply satisfying in the way he’d responded to me.
He’d said it was his first time. I believed him. And maybe that was why it stuck a little. Not because it was new for me, but because it was new for him, and he hadn’t fought it. I’d been with guys before, but not often. And when it had happened, it had usually been more guarded than that. Hesitation. Qualifiers. Disclaimers. Jimmy hadn’t explained. He’d just wanted it.
That hit I got from Jimmy, it was real. The kind I get from someone who wants you badly enough to forget where they are. But it faded fast. Because guys like Jimmy were easy. There was no flicker of resistance to chase down.
The ones who get my attention now, guys or girls, are the ones who act like they wouldn’t want me. The ones who stay buttoned up, too proud, too controlled. The ones who’ve already decided guys like me aren’t their type, or who’ve got someone and think they’re content. The ones who follow the rules because it’s easier than admitting they want to break them.
As I lay there on my bed, my thoughts turned to someone else who had caught my eye. Tyler. Mid-twenties. Assistant residence manager. Technically in charge of all of us, but especially the ones who don’t follow the rules. Always walking the halls with his iPad and that no-nonsense face, correcting people, watching everything, trying a little too hard.
He’s careful and controlled. Tense in a way that makes me want to press harder, just to see what gives. I’ve caught him watching me once or twice, with quick glances. Not enough to say for sure, but enough to wonder. Tyler doesn’t act like the others. He doesn’t flirt and doesn’t linger. But there’s something in him, constrained, deliberate, wound up tight, that makes me curious to see what happens when the tension finally snaps.
I don’t know yet where the line is for Tyler. But knowing how I like to bend the rules, it probably won’t be long before I find out.
Later in the week, I was out in the hall stretching, still in my gym tank and shorts, still warm from the workout. You could hear the laundry machine spinning at the end of the corridor, that low mechanical thrum cutting through the quiet. The pump was still there. My chest felt tight, arms full, skin stretched just enough to notice it. I could feel my shirt clinging, sticking a little at the edges where the sweat hadn’t dried yet.
A couple of first-years passed by, heading toward the laundry room at the end of the hall. I didn’t look up, but I felt the shift in their pace, the quick glance as they passed. A minute later, they came back empty-handed, walking the other direction. No laundry in hand. Just that kind of deliberate wandering people do when they want a second look but don’t want to admit it.
This time, I looked up. Caught how their eyes flicked down my torso, then away.
I stretched, arms overhead, and my tank shifted just enough to show the bottom edge of my abs. Just enough to make them look twice. I didn’t meet their eyes. No need. They giggled as they passed.
A door opened across the hall, and another resident stepped out. Cameron. I’d seen him a few times but never spoken with him. Slender, wearing joggers and a hoodie that looked too big for his frame. He froze for half a second when he saw me, like he still hadn’t figured out how to handle someone built like me. I gave him a nod.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too fast.
I raised a brow. “Hey.”
He lingered. His eyes dropped as he scanned my arms, chest, the cling of my tank. “You, uh… just get back from the gym?”
I shifted my stance and flexed one leg, slow and easy. The quad popped instantly, thick and defined through the stretch of my shorts. “Leg day,” I said, casual as anything.
Cameron blinked, clearly caught off guard. His gaze stuck there a second too long, lips parting like to say something, but he decided against it. Then he laughed, too loud, too fast, and stumbled into some excuse about grabbing a snack before disappearing toward the stairwell without looking back.
It often went like that. People drawn in, unsure what they were doing. Half-curious, half-flirting. Like they were asking for permission to look without having to say it out loud.
I didn’t mind the attention. I just liked being the one who decided how far it went.
I was about to step into my room when I saw Tyler, one of the residence managers, approaching. A few days earlier, I’d noticed Tyler watching me from the end of the hall. He had been walking his usual route, iPad tucked under one arm, Posture tight, like he was trying not to react. He had been subtle about it, but his eyes paused for half a second too long.
Then came the voice. Tight and measured.
“Jackson?”
I didn’t answer right away. Let my arms fall, rolled one shoulder like I hadn’t heard him. Then I turned.
He looked like someone who’d taken this job to feel important. Hair neatly parted with too much product. Wearing one of those short-sleeve collared shirts meant to look casual, but it still gave off an officious vibe. He looked a little too small for the authority he clearly thought the job gave him.
All the things that didn’t excite me… until they did.
He stood a few feet away, one hand gripping his iPad. His polo was fitted, tucked into dark chinos. The keys clipped neatly to his waistband. His mouth was pressed into a line, probably meant to look firm, but it mostly looked practiced. Like he’d run through this meeting in his head, hoping he’d come off as steady. Hoping I wouldn’t throw him off balance.
“Hey,” I said, smiling slow. “What’s up?”
His expression flickered, just for a second, the tight breath he didn’t quite release. The mental note: don’t react, don’t let him throw you off.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. “In private.”
“In trouble already?” I asked, pushing off the wall. “Damn. I’ve barely been back ten minutes.”
He ignored that, turned, and started walking toward the end of the hall, pausing after a few steps to look back impatiently when he sensed I wasn’t following.
I gave him a quick wink before pushing off the wall and trailing after.
My workout shorts rode low on my hips. My tank still clung from the workout, damp across my chest and back. The fabric had cooled now, stiff at the edges where the salt had started to dry. I could feel it with every step, the tug across my lats, the drag along my ribs. I didn’t adjust it. I wasn’t just letting him look. I was testing what he’d do with it.
He stopped at a door just past the common room and unlocked it. Tyler’s apartment.
He stepped aside, holding the door for me like this was some kind of formal meeting. I ducked through the frame and gave the place a quick once-over.
Small. Neat. Intentional. Minimalist, probably on purpose. The kind of setup that wanted to say put-together, but still had that undercurrent of someone trying to prove it.
“You can sit,” he said, gesturing toward one of the plain wooden chairs by the desk.
I remained standing.
I walked past the chair and leaned back against the counter instead, arms crossing over my chest. My biceps bulged with the shift, forearms still tight from the lift, veins raised beneath skin that still held its post-pump flush. I knew what this pose did. Arms crossed like that? It made everything look a little fuller. A little harder.
I wasn’t just standing there. I was making a statement without saying a word. That pose didn’t just show size. It gave him a choice. Keep looking or look away.
Most tried not to starte.
Tyler was definitely trying not to.
I could see it in the way he held himself. Too still, too focused on his screen. His eyes flicked once, fast and automatic, then snapped back to the iPad like he hadn’t just clocked the shape of my chest.
“Jackson,” he began, settling into his seat, tapping the screen to scroll. “There’s been a report from your roommate regarding last night. He claims you had two… guests in your room past curfew.”
I tilted my head slightly. “Might’ve happened.”
Tyler kept going, his jaw a little tighter now. “He also reported that he was unable to access the room for…” He paused. Checked the screen again. “Over an hour and a half.”
I let that hang there. Watched him sit with it.
Then I smirked. “Three hours, actually.”
I took my time and let the memory drift across my face like it was still fresh. “They couldn’t get enough of me,” I added, slow and casual, hand drifting down to adjust the front of my shorts. Just enough to make it clear I was half-hard and not sorry about it.
That got him. Tyler’s gaze snapped to it before he could stop himself. He caught the outline, hesitated just long enough, then jerked his eyes back to the iPad, in denial of what he’d just done.
A twitch of the mouth. A flicker of disbelief. Not quite shock. Just that subtle shift in someone who knew he’d already lost the upper hand.
“I see,” he said, eyes back on the screen. His fingers tapped the edge like he didn’t trust them to stay still.
I let my arms drop and leaned back slightly, hands resting on the counter behind me. My chest pushed forward, stretching the tank even tighter. The fabric clung as I shifted, showing of the outline of my pecs and nipples.
I know which poses push things just far enough. I wasn’t flexing. Not really. But I wasn’t doing nothing, either.
“You see,” I said, echoing him, voice low. “And what do you plan to do about it?”
His gaze snapped up again, but not at the words. At the tone. Like he felt the shift and didn’t know whether to chase it or back away.
Tyler didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the iPad like it might offer him backup. As if the screen could enforce something he clearly didn’t know how to hold on his own.
“I’m going to have to file an incident report,” he said finally, voice flatter now. Like he was trying for a professional, detached tone. It didn’t land.
“Sure,” I said. “Need a statement or something?”
He looked up. That flicker again. Like he wasn’t sure if I was mocking him.
“No. Not yet. This is preliminary.” He cleared his throat. “But you should be aware that further violations of the guest policy, especially when they affect your roommate’s ability to access the room, could lead to disciplinary measures.”
I smiled. “You rehearsed that one?”
His mouth twitched, like he almost said something back but swallowed it.
“I’m serious,” he said, sitting up straighter. “This isn’t a joke, Jackson.”
I tilted my head slightly. Let my shoulders roll back. The fabric of my tank shifted as my chest tightened beneath it, just a slow, subtle flex. Just enough to make it harder not to notice.
“Did I say it was?”
He looked at me for a beat too long. Not the kind of long where someone’s trying to intimidate you. The kind where they’re trying not to let their eyes drop. Trying not to see what they’re already seeing.
I decided to give him more of what he was so obviously trying to resist. I shifted my stance a little, letting my thighs drift apart. My stance widened, calves flexing. I reached back behind me and gripped the edge of the counter, letting my tricep thicken. My semi still pressed lightly against the inside of my shorts, and I made no effort to hide it.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.
He shifted in his chair. Shoulders a bit more square now. Breathing just a touch faster than he had been a minute ago. Not obvious to most. But I noticed.
“You okay?” I asked, casual. Like we were just having a normal conversation.
Tyler blinked. “What?”
“Room feels warm.” I nodded toward the window. “You want me to crack that?”
He shook his head too quickly. “No. I’m fine.”
I’ve always liked watching people come apart and figuring out what makes them twitch. With Tyler, I already knew where to push. I reached up and scratched the back of my head, slow and deliberate, letting my arm flex with the motion. My bicep swelled to the size of my head, veins pushing up against the skin.
I watched the way his eyes darted between my face and my arm, not once but a few times, like he couldn’t decide where to look. Then they snapped back to the iPad, trying to look composed.
“You seem a little distracted,” I teased.
“I am not,” he replied, too quickly.
My smile widened, slow and deliberate.
He adjusted his posture again, legs crossing a little too fast. Like something needed hiding. Like he realized too late that I’d noticed.
“I’m not—” he started, then stopped.
“Not what?”
He hesitated, jaw flexing.
“Never mind,” he said. “This isn’t about me.”
“Right,” I said, giving him another slow look. “It’s about the rules.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared at the screen again, like it had something else to say.
I pushed off the counter and stepped forward slowly, until I was just a little too close. Just close enough to make sure he felt it. Close enough to make that desk chair feel small.
“Can I ask something?” I said, voice low, easy.
He looked up, reluctantly. “What?”
I let the moment stretch, then tilted my head.
“You bring a lot of guys in here? Or just the ones you can’t stop looking at?
His jaw tightened, then relaxed again, like he was trying to swallow whatever response had just tried to come out.
His fingers twitched on the iPad. His mouth opened… then shut.
No answer.
My grin widened. “Want me to scratch my head again?” I made it sound casual, but we both knew it wasn’t.
Tyler blinked hard, like that would reset the moment. “I don’t think this—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “That’s not appropriate.”
But his voice caught on not. His cheeks were flushed, his posture too stiff.
“You sure?” I asked, voice low. “’Cause you’re looking real interested.”
That got him. Another half-second flick of the eyes, straight to my chest.
Then he looked away again, jaw flexing hard enough to pop.
That’s the part I liked. The moment someone realizes they’ve lost control of the situation.
I watched him sit in the silence. I could have leaned in and finished the game.But dragging it out? Watching him squirm in silence while still pretending he was in charge?
That was better.
I leaned in just a little more, just inches from him. Close enough to remind him how big I really was. How much of his personal space I could effortlessly consume.
He didn’t move. His breath hitched.
Then I stepped back, casual again, like none of it had meant anything.
“Anyway,” I said, reaching up to scratch lightly at my stomach. The hem of my tank lifted just enough to reveal a few bricks of my abs, tight, shredded. Just enough to give him another reason to stare.
His eyes dropped before he could stop them.
I let it hang. Felt the air shift again. Tighter now. Hotter. Watched the way his breath caught.
Then I smiled. Let it spread slow across my face.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
He blinked, thrown. “What?”
I tilted my head, almost innocent.
“For the show,” I said. “Didn’t seem like you wanted it to end.”
He didn’t respond. He just stared. Lips parted. Jaw tight. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust what would come out.
I held his gaze for another beat. Let him feel it. Then turned. Slowly. Left the tank riding just a little too high as I walked toward the door, the soft drag of my shorts the only sound in the room.
I didn’t look back right away. I didn’t have to.
I could feel him watching. Could feel the weight of it, thick and hungry, stretched tight across his silence like he hadn’t decided yet whether he hated me for it or hated that it worked.
At the door, I finally glanced over my shoulder. He was still there. He didn’t even realize he was watching me walk away.
That’s the thing about authority. You often don’t feel it slipping until someone else is already holding it.
