𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : After a successful surgery, you and Dr. Frank Langdon fall back into your usual sharp, flirtatious banter—When you jokingly claim he’d marry you, he agrees without hesitation, turning the moment unexpectedly serious. You brush it off and leave, but as the door closes, it’s clear to anyone paying attention—Frank wasn’t entirely joking. | drabble + porn with plot
𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 + 𝐅𝐃𝐍𝐈 mature content below.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Fluff | Post-Operation Environment | Mentions Of Stitches | (Blood Implied) | Heavy Flirting Disguised As Bickering | “Joking” Marriage Mention That’s… Not Really A Joke | Slow-Burn Energy / Unresolved Feelings
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭
The surgical lights were still bright overhead, humming softly as the room settled into that strange quiet that always came after a successful procedure. The tension had drained from everyone’s shoulders, leaving only the routine movements of cleanup. You peeled off your gloves with a snap, tossing them into the bio bin before rolling your shoulders out. Your back ached from leaning over the table for the last hour. Across the table, Frank finished the last stitch with careful precision, his brows knit together in concentration. A strand of hair had fallen forward across his forehead, damp with sweat from the procedure. You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment before smirking.“Next time,” you said casually, tossing the gloves into the biohazard bin, “let the grown-ups handle things, Dr. Langdon.” Frank didn’t even look up right away, A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hands kept working, careful and steady as he tied the final knot—he’d heard you though.
“Don’t need the grownups,” he replied, voice easy, confident, “when I’ve got all the skill it takes.” You leaned against the counter “Oh please.” You scoffed, folding your arms as you watched him with exaggerated judgment. “All that skill and you still need Robby’s supervision.” Frank paused for a second, the corner of his mouth curling. Frank finally looked up then. That damn smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said he was about two seconds away from saying something he definitely shouldn’t say in a hospital. He bit his lip for a second like he was deciding whether to behave. “You watch me to. Are you supervising me as well?” his gaze lingering on you a beat longer than necessary. “Hard not to,” you shot back. “You’re kind of a walking liability.” Frank shrugged one shoulder, glancing back down at his work as he adjusted the dressing.“I prefer guidance, Big difference.” he said. “Guidance?” you repeated with a laugh. “You needed Robby standing over your shoulder the entire time.”
“Robby needed to stand there so he could witness brilliance in real time.” Frank shot back smoothly. You snorted. “God, your ego is huge.” Mel, still sitting on the stool nearby while finishing her notes, let out a tired breath. She rubbed her temple and glanced between the two of you. Both of you looked over immediately. “You good?” Frank asked her, the teasing tone dropping instantly. Mel nodded quickly, though she still looked a little pale. “Yeah,” she said, exhaling. “I will be… as soon as you two stop arguing.”You looked offended. “We’re not arguing.”Frank nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he added. “This is just healthy professional discourse.” Mel looked between the two of you like she absolutely did not believe that. You grabbed your things from the counter, slinging your bag over your shoulder.“Besides,” you added casually, pointing a thumb toward Frank, “Dr. Langdon would marry me if I’d let him.” Frank didn’t even hesitate.
“Hell yeah I would.” You stopped, Actually stopped. Because the man said it so casually—like he was commenting on the weather. He didn’t even look up, just continued stripping off his gloves and dropping them into the bin. “Careful, Langdon,” you murmured. “People might start thinking you’re serious.” He did glance up, completely unfazed.“Who says I’m not?” You stared at him for a second, Then rolled your eyes and pushed the door open. “In your dreams, Langdon.” Behind you, Frank’s laugh followed into the hallway. But when the door shut and Mel glanced over at him again, she noticed something. Frank was still looking at the door, Still smiling. But softer now—Like maybe…just maybe…he hadn’t been joking.
The group of travelers explored the former town, now claimed by the Shadow Curse. With their guards up, they allowed no enemy to surprise them—not wraiths, corrupted bodies, or any other kind of monster.
As they moved through the town, Halsin, the first druid, frowned. It had once been beautiful and peaceful—plants everywhere, the sun shining bright, birds chirping, and people living tranquil lives.
“It’s such a shame this happened…” Halsin murmured. Some of his companions paused to look back at him, while others continued walking. “I remember when everything was normal. I used to visit here from time to time. I’d chat with the family who ran a pottery stall. They had the sweetest dog… That was just a couple of months before all of this went down.”
Gale shared Halsin’s sentiment. “All the more reason to defeat Ketheric.”
Halsin returned his focus to his team. Despite the pull of memories, he knew he could not dwell on the past. “Then let us continue—with haste.”
As they continued exploring, Halsin felt a presence nearby—not from the dead, but someone alive. He looked around but saw no one.
A few seconds later, Astarion raised his hand, signaling them to stop. “Enemy in sight.”
Everyone followed the rogue’s finger, spotting a man scavenging in a barrel. His back was turned, and the necrotic glow around him flickered unnaturally. It was clear he was not human.
Crouching, Astarion nocked an arrow and aimed with one eye closed. The moment he released the string, the man stepped back just in time, dodging the shot.
“Huh…!?” The necrotic figure took another step back. His glowing green eyes widened with fear. “Shit, shit, shit!” Terrified, the grey-skinned man fled.
As Astarion prepared another arrow, Karlach commented, “A bit of an unusual fellow…”
Halsin intervened, grabbing the arrow before it could fly. “He’s not like the rest.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow. “What if he’s calling for reinforcements?”
“He looks scared to death. He isn’t like any of the husks we’ve fought before.” Halsin argued. Then, glancing back at his companions, he added. “Let’s follow him.”
The group gave chase. Despite having a head start, the stranger moved slowly. Some noticed it wasn’t that he was naturally slow—it was his body, gradually giving out.
After a minute, they reached the front of a house. The man collapsed on the dried grass of the front garden, panting painfully. He looked back at the group approaching him, terrified.
“Even now, he isn’t fighting back.” Shadowheart observed, feeling some pity for him.
Halsin approached slowly and calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He crouched down, meeting the man’s gaze. Behind the shadow-cursed eyes, Halsin saw a spark of life. “I’m Halsin, a druid. Can you tell me your name?”
After a pause, the man whispered. “…Y/N.”
“It’s good to meet you, Y/N.” Halsin said kindly, taking in his underfed form. Black veins crawled across his grey skin. “You’re suffering the Shadow Curse… does it hurt?”
Y/N nodded weakly. Halsin exhaled deeply. “We have a camp nearby. We can take you in.” Some of the team exchanged concerned glances. “I can tend to you there.”
“With all due respect, he won’t… turn into one of those monsters?” Wyll asked cautiously. “Not that it’s a problem, but—”
Halsin met his teammate’s gaze. “I understand your concern, but if we can save his life, it’s worth the risk.” He looked down at the man’s thin legs. “I suppose you aren’t in any state to walk?”
Y/N shook his head.
“It’s alright.” Halsin reassured him. He gently scooped the cursed man into his arms. “I’ll take you there. We have food, water, and everything you need to recover.”
Standing up, Halsin looked down at Y/N’s exhausted face. Despite the despair around him, he felt a sense of awe—finally, someone alive. He offered a soft, reassuring smile, easing some of the fear from the cursed man’s eyes.
-
Back at the camp, Y/N sat in the druid’s tent. Halsin was beside him, watching as the cursed man ate and drank the food he had been given. Seeing how fast he devoured it, the elf couldn’t help but wonder how long humans could endure such suffering.
“We’ve been blessed with a pixie, the Filigreed Feywild Bell, so that the Shadow Curse doesn’t fully consume us. That includes you as well.” Halsin explained, hoping to reassure Y/N. “You aren’t cured, but you won’t be completely overtaken by it. While we work to rescue the land, feel free to stay here.”
“Thank you…” Y/N murmured, still looking exhausted. “…What do you mean by ‘rescuing the land’?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of Ketheric Storm.” Halsin observed Y/N’s scowl and knew the elf recognized the name in some way. “Defeating him will cure the land. However, we are still searching for a way to overcome his invulnerability. It will take time, but at least here, you will be safe.”
Y/N nodded, quietly returning to his soup. Occasionally, his body twitched or flinched—subtle reactions to the Shadow Curse. Halsin could tell he was in pain.
“I can see you’re hurting.” Halsin said gently. “I know a way to stabilize the pain.”
Y/N looked up, intrigued. “A therapeutic ritual?”
“With Silvanus’ blessing. It will calm both body and mind.”
“…You can do that?”
Halsin gave a kind smile. “I will need to gather a few more ingredients for the ritual, but I’ll get them first thing tomorrow. At the earliest, expect it to happen then.”
While his expression remained largely neutral, Y/N looked slightly more hopeful. “Thank you…”
“You’re welcome.” Halsin replied softly, maintaining his gentle smile.
-
The next night, Halsin returned to camp, worn out from the day’s trials and fights. He carried a basket of natural ingredients—special flowers, wood, and enhanced holy water. As he approached, the cursed man stood up.
“I hope you’re feeling better.” Halsin said.
“I do.” Y/N’s voice sounded more relaxed, and Halsin could tell he was improving. “Withers was pretty nice to talk to, even though he kind of looks… uhm…”
“Intimidating?” Halsin offered.
“I didn’t want to come off rude.” Y/N admitted. “Especially since he and all of you brought me here.”
“It’s fine. This group is used to throwing insults at each other.” Halsin chuckled. He held up the basket. “I found everything we need for the ritual today. There’s a lake nearby, so whenever you’re ready, we can go.”
Y/N’s eyes lit up. “Can we go now?”
Thus, the two left the camp and walked through the quiet land. Though the camp wasn’t fully settled in the Shadow Curse territory, Y/N remained anxious, constantly glancing around. Despite Halsin’s reassurances, he couldn’t entirely ease his friend’s fear. The best he could promise was that any attacker would face his bear form.
When they reached the lake, fireflies danced above the water, and Halsin’s gentle light allowed them to see clearly.
“The ritual will illuminate the water. We don’t need to worry about ambushes.” Halsin said. “Besides, we’ve been through worse. Nothing dangerous walks here.”
“That’s good to know.” Y/N said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “Do I need to help with the ritual?”
“I’ve got it covered.” Halsin reassured him with a smile, setting the basket down at the water’s edge. “To perform it, I need to enter the water myself as well. It’s simple. In fact, this is one of the first rituals I ever did.”
Hearing that, Y/N felt more at ease. Both men stripped down, leaving their clothes on a nearby rock. Stepping into the water, Y/N immediately recoiled.
“Shit… it’s cold…”
Halsin chuckled and stepped in without hesitation, holding the basket while wearing just his briefs. “It’s just a little chilly. Don’t worry—the ritual will warm it.” He glanced at Y/N. “Are you coming?”
With teeth clenched, Y/N entered the water, hissing at the cold. He quickly joined Halsin, letting the druid hold him for warmth, his body shivering slightly. The druid couldn’t help but find it endearing.
“I shouldn’t keep you waiting. Do me a favor and hold this.” Halsin said, handing over the basket.
The ritual began. Grabbing the ingredients from the basket, Halsin poured the holy water into the lake, followed by the wood and flowers, casting magic to enchant them. He sprinkled the ingredients around them in a circle. Finally, he held his glowing green hands aloft and began chanting the ritual words.
As the warm green and golden light spread, his voice deepened, resonating with the voice of the forest itself:
"Silvanus, pater silvae — audi preces nostras. Umbrae tangunt corpus, sed cor manet humanum. Per aquam sacram, per floram vivam, per pacem naturae — Expelle tenebras, sana vulnera, redde lumen in obscurum. Fiat purgatio. Fiat pax. Fiat lux."
The water began to glow—not the corrupted green Y/N was used to, but a natural, tranquil green symbolizing peace and life. Warmth spread over his lower body, easing his pain. Instinctively, the cursed man dropped the basket and sat in the water, letting it cleanse him.
“Holy shit… this is amazing…!” He breathed.
Seeing Y/N so alive and relieved, Halsin smiled, joining him by sitting down. “I’m glad it’s working.”
“Is there any chance we can bring an entire tub of this back to camp?” Y/N asked with a grin. “I could lie in it all day.”
Halsin laughed. “The ritual lasts about an hour, but we could get a tub and I could perform it again before leaving.”
Y/N’s grin widened. “That won’t be a problem with the ingredients?”
“Don’t worry. I have plenty left.” Halsin said. “It’s not hard to find them, but we should still use it sparingly. The ritual will ease your pain for a couple of days at least.”
“I guess I can settle for that. Not that I mind.” Y/N said, smiling. “And now I get an entire hour of relaxing with a guy I just met yesterday… almost naked and all.”
Halsin raised a teasing eyebrow. “You make it sound like that’s a problem.”
Y/N laughed, still looking at the druid. “Trust me, out of everyone I could bathe with, I’m glad it’s you.”
Halsin returned the smile, pleased to hear it.
-
It took a while before they discovered how to kill Ketheric Thorm, and defeating him took even more effort. But when he finally fell, the Shadow Curse broke. Slowly, the land began to heal back into its former glory.
While everyone celebrated their victory at Moonrise Towers, Halsin noticed Withers among the crowd, quietly enjoying the moment in his own… peculiar way. That made the druid wonder if Y/N was somewhere nearby as well. He began searching.
Eventually, Halsin stepped outside and found Y/N standing by the fence, watching the land that was already beginning to recover. As he approached, he heard a faint, strained hissing sound.
“Y/N…”
Y/N turned around. Despite the lingering discomfort on his face, his smile was warm. “Halsin… You did it. You all did it.”
Halsin returned the smile. “It was difficult, but we came out on top.” He moved to stand beside him, looking out over the transforming landscape. “We discovered there’s more to all of this. We’ll be traveling to Baldur’s Gate soon. But tonight—don’t let that distract from what we accomplished. We stopped the curse… and healed you.”
Before Y/N could respond, he hissed again and frowned down at his hands. Halsin’s eyes narrowed in concern.
“Is something wrong?”
“Y–Yeah, it’s just…” Y/N exhaled shakily. “About an hour ago, my body started… burning. Not painfully, but… weird.”
Halsin hummed thoughtfully. “It must have started once Ketheric fell. May I take a look?”
Y/N nodded and offered his arm. Halsin gently pulled back his sleeve—and his face lit up. The man’s skin was slowly regaining its natural color. The curse-blackened veins were shrinking, fading.
Halsin smiled. “Your body is purging the curse. You’re not in danger—though I’d like to stay close, just in case it acts up.”
“Seems fair.” Y/N said.
The druid’s eyes softened. “I don’t think you’ve spoken to the rest of the group yet. They deserve your thanks after everything they pulled off today.”
Halsin turned to head back inside, but Y/N’s voice stopped him.
“Wait.”
Halsin paused. Y/N looked nervous.
“Thank you.” He said quietly. “For letting me stay in your camp, for healing me… for everything. I thought I was going to die out there. But because of you… I actually feel hopeful.”
Halsin’s expression melted into a warm smile. “I’m more than happy to help.”
Y/N scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “I don’t really know what I’m going to do now. I never thought this far ahead. But I was thinking… maybe I could travel with you all? I’m not a fighter, but I could help with camp—chores, gathering supplies, whatever you need.”
“You do realize things will be dangerous.” Halsin warned gently. “Even if you stay off the battlefield.”
“I know.” Y/N said, voice soft but steady. “But after what you did for me… I want to stay by your side.”
“Oh.” Halsin flushed slightly, though he tried to hide it behind a smile. “If that’s what you want, then I’d be glad to have you with us.” He paused, then added with a touch of teasing warmth, “After a day like this, I usually take a bath to clear my mind. And… I’d enjoy some company. Someone to help clean my back, perhaps.”
Y/N’s cheeks turned bright red. “O-Only if you do the same.”
Halsin let out a soft laugh. “I’ll make sure I’m the best company you could ask for.”
Three happy years had passed in their marriage, and Gustave and Y/N were living their lives contentedly in Lumiere. Gustave, now twenty-six, and his husband, just a year younger, felt fortunate to have such a bright stretch of years ahead of them.
Gustave dedicated his days to the city, working as an engineer and guiding his apprentices, preparing them for the future. Y/N, on the other hand, devoted himself to uplifting the people of Lumiere, whether through his theatrical skills, dancing, or musical talent.
Despite the upcoming Gommage and potential expeditions on the horizon, they were happy. Yet Gustave felt a quiet tug in his heart, something he couldn’t quite shake. He had discussed it with Y/N before, but they had never reached an agreement. Still, the feeling lingered.
One night, after returning home and settling into bed, Gustave finally spoke up.
“I feel like we should discuss the possibility of having a child.” He said, his voice careful, almost hesitant.
Y/N turned slightly, his face softening into a somber expression. “You know how I feel about it…”
“I know.” Gustave replied gently. “But… it feels right to have one.” He sat up, worry lining his features as he looked at his husband. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I know it’s complicated—well, we’re both gentlemen—but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Y/N let out a quiet hum, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry…”
Gustave quickly wrapped a reassuring arm around him. “No, don’t feel guilty. I didn’t want you to.” He paused, searching his husband’s eyes. “I just felt like I needed to get this off my chest. It’s not like I’m not making a difference already. I have my apprentices… Emma… and most importantly, you.”
Y/N’s gaze softened. “Are you really okay with this?”
“I’m sure.” Gustave said, offering a small, tender smile. “I just have to look at it positively.”
-
The next workday, Gustave and Y/N exchanged a quick good-luck gesture before parting ways. Gustave headed back to his lab, diving into a promising project: the Lumina Converter. He believed it could revolutionize energy use, especially for future expeditions, though he knew it would take years before it functioned fully.
As he and his colleagues focused on their work, one of the assistants called out, “Deliverer’s here with a package of Chroma!”
Curious, Gustave walked to the entrance and was met with a familiar face.
It was Maelle, the ten-year-old girl who often took on odd jobs around the lab. Despite her stubborn personality, Gustave had always admired her spunk. She carried a large package, slightly struggling under its weight.
“Here you go, moustache man. A big package of Chroma, all for your liking.” Maelle said, finally setting it down.
“Thank you, girl with the freckles.” Gustave replied with a teasing grin. But as he looked at her, he noticed her usual spark seemed dimmer. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.” She muttered, avoiding his gaze.
Gustave frowned, setting the package aside and crouching to meet her eye level. “You know you can talk to me.” He said gently. “I promise I’ll listen and help, if you need it.”
Maelle hesitated, then let out a sigh. “I got into another fight with my foster family… and got kicked out. Again.”
Gustave’s heart sank; he knew her habit of moving from home to home. “Where did you sleep last night?”
Maelle shrugged. “A bench at the park. A bit annoying, but it worked.” She stretched her back casually, but Gustave’s concern only grew.
“And what about food? You hungry?” He asked, his voice gentle.
“I bought some with my loan.” She said matter-of-factly, as if this were nothing unusual.
Gustave shook his head slightly, frustrated that someone so young had to fend for herself. Without hesitation, he went to the front desk, grabbed a pen and paper, and wrote down an address.
“This is where I live.” He said, tearing the paper from the notebook and handing it to her. “I know you’re tough, but a proper bed does wonders for your back.”
“Does it now, old man?” Maelle teased with a small smirk.
Gustave chuckled. “Twenty-six used to be really young, actually. But that’s a story for another time. If you want a roof over your head and a warm dinner, come here.”
Maelle studied the paper, her expression thoughtful. “…I’ll think about it.”
Despite her cautious words, Gustave had a feeling she would come. She was smart, resourceful, and stubborn—but deep down, she knew when someone genuinely cared.
-
After a long day at work, the sky had turned dark, and rain began to fall steadily. Gustave hurried into the house, shaking off the wet before hanging his soaked jacket.
“I’m home!” He called.
“In the kitchen, making dinner!” Came Y/N’s cheerful reply.
Gustave removed his shoes and walked into the kitchen, finding his husband tending to a pan of chicken, with vegetables sizzling beside it. Y/N glanced up and smiled.
“Already wet for me, huh?” He teased.
“Good evening to you too.” Gustave replied with a chuckle, leaning in for a quick peck on Y/N’s cheek. “How was work?”
“Good. We were training for the next festival again. It’s been fun… despite the dreadful reminder.” Y/N said, stirring the food slightly.
Gustave leaned against the kitchen table, ready to share his own day. “We ran into a bit of a problem with the Lumina Converter. Chroma kept dripping everywhere, so we had to spend hours cleaning. Still… I wouldn’t call it a wasted day.”
He paused for a moment, his thoughts shifting. “Oh, and I saw Maelle again.”
Y/N’s eyebrows rose, curiosity evident. “Really? How was she?”
“Could be better. She got kicked out of another foster home.” Gustave’s voice softened as he looked toward the window, watching raindrops trace down the glass.
Y/N froze, concern flashing across his face. “Is she… okay?”
“According to her, yes… but.” Gustave trailed off, arms crossing as he pondered. “I invited her to stay here. Figured it’s better than having her be homeless.”
Y/N frowned. “Why didn’t she go back to the orphanage?”
“You know she never liked it there.” Gustave sighed, gazing out at the falling rain. “But she’s smart. She’ll come here… even if it’s just for warmth and a meal.”
Y/N nodded slowly. “Let’s hope so.”
-
After finishing their dinner, Y/N spent some time tidying up the house while Gustave tackled the laundry. An hour later, a knock at the door made Gustave pause, a familiar feeling stirring in his chest.
He hurried downstairs and opened the door, revealing Maelle—soaked through, shivering slightly from the rain.
“Maelle! Come in!” Gustave exclaimed, quickly ushering her inside and closing the door behind her.
From the stairs, Y/N called down, “What’s going on?”
“It’s Maelle! Grab some towels and blankets!” Gustave shouted.
“On it!” Y/N replied, hurrying off.
Gustave gently guided Maelle to the living room, where the fireplace crackled warmly. He crouched down, making sure she was alright.
“I’m glad you came.” He said softly.
“Better here than freezing to death out there.” Maelle muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.
Moments later, Y/N returned with towels. Gustave wrapped her in them, and his husband added a blanket on top for extra warmth. Gustave wished he had spare clothes that would fit her, but for now, he focused on keeping her comfortable, sitting beside her.
“You want something to eat?” He asked. Maelle nodded eagerly.
Gustave looked at Y/N, who gave a subtle nod, then went back to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Y/N returned with a plate of food and handed it to her. Maelle, clearly desperate, didn’t wait for utensils and dug in with her hands. Gustave exchanged a worried glance with Y/N, who shrugged slightly.
“Try not to eat so fast.” Y/N said, sitting beside her. “You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”
Maelle ignored him, shoveling food into her mouth. Gustave gently nudged Y/N. “Let’s step into the hallway for a moment.”
“We’ll be right here if you need us.” Gustave reassured Maelle as they stepped out.
In the quiet hallway, Gustave spoke softly. “She’s been through enough foster homes, Y/N. I think we should give her a real place to stay.”
“Like fostering her?” Y/N asked, curious.
“I was thinking more… like adopting her.” Gustave said firmly. Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, and Gustave continued. “I understand your concerns about children. I’m not asking us to bring one into the world—we’re just giving a girl a safe home, good food, warmth, and people who care about her. We can make her happy here.”
Y/N paused, considering, before finally nodding. “I suppose helping someone who’s been unlucky in this world is… different. Very well.”
Gustave’s face lit up with a smile. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Y/N said, returning the smile. “I’m sure.”
Gustave leaned in to kiss him, then pulled back, glancing toward the living room. “Let’s tell her the good news.”
They walked back in, finding Maelle clutching the towel and blanket, her plate now empty, face smudged with grease from the chicken.
“We have some news.” Gustave began, sitting across from her at the coffee table. Maelle looked cautious. “We talked, and we’d love for you to live with us.”
“For how long?” She asked warily.
“Permanently.” Gustave said, his voice gentle but cheerful. Maelle blinked in shock. “Only if you want to, of course.”
“We’ll get you a proper bedroom and some new clothes.” Y/N added. “Give us a week, and we’ll make sure this place feels like home too.”
Maelle stayed quiet, studying them carefully.
“Maelle.” Gustave said softly, “would you like to stay with us?”
After a moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Yes.”
The two men shared a warm smile.
“Welcome to the family.” Gustave said, gently.
-
A week had passed, and the two men had settled Maelle into her own room. She had a proper bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. Gustave and Y/N were ready to spend more if she wanted anything, but knowing her, she was far too independent to ask for help—at least for now.
With a free day ahead, they decided to take Maelle out into the city. They wandered through the streets of Lumiere, enjoying the sights, eating ice cream, and chatting. It was a joy to see Maelle opening up, even if it was only through her usual snarky remarks.
Eventually, they arrived at the shore, the big monolith looming in the distance. Its glowing number—39—served as a daily reminder of their mortality.
Gustave’s eyes gleamed with playful mischief. “Want to see my rock-throwing skills?”
Maelle raised an eyebrow. “What for?”
“To hit the Paintress, of course.” Gustave said, crouching to gather some rocks from the beach.
Maelle chuckled softly. “Are you serious?”
Y/N laughed from the side. “Gustave is always serious about his rock-throwing skills. Like that second date where he skipped a rock several meters away.”
Gustave smirked proudly. “Too bad no one else was there to witness it and record the achievement.”
“I believe you can throw a pebble. How special.” She replied with a smirk.
Gustave grinned at her mockery. “Fine. Watch and learn.” He playfully pointed at her, adjusting his stance.
Maelle glanced at Y/N, a questioning look in her eyes. “He’s just very proud of his pebble-throwing skills. Let him have it.” The man said with a small smile.
After a few careful seconds, Gustave flung the pebble toward the water. It skipped—not once, not twice, but seven times.
Maelle’s jaw dropped. “How in the world…?” she whispered. “This is ridiculous. And stupid.”
“And yet, you saw it.” Gustave replied proudly. “Want me to teach you?”
“There’s a lot of technique to it, believe it or not.” Gustave explained. “Your stance, how hard you throw, the wind speed, the water depth—all of it matters.”
Maelle raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure this isn’t just a math lesson in disguise?”
Y/N chuckled. “Imagine being married to him.”
Gustave laughed. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” He grabbed a few more pebbles and held one out to her. “Soon, everyone in Lumiere will know the legendary pebble thrower, Maelle. And eventually, you’ll teach the next generation.”
“For those who come after.” Y/N added with a warm smile.
Maelle laughed softly, shaking her head at how ridiculous it all seemed. “Fine, fine. Give me the stones.” She held out her hand, and Gustave dropped a pebble into it. “Just don’t come crying to me if one day I decide to throw a stone at you.”
“Then I’ll make sure to stay in your good graces.” Gustave said with a grin, resting a hand gently on her back. “Now, let’s begin Gustave’s very first Pebble-Throwing Lessons.”
Though the situation was silly, they all enjoyed the moment. Unbeknownst to them, this would become a family tradition—a simple, joyful ritual of throwing pebbles—and one that Maelle would treasure for the rest of her life.
“You're pretty young to be here, huh?” Roy comments, smirking as he looks down at his new colleague and partner, Y/N, sitting behind his desk. “You look like a kid.”
“If I were one, I wouldn’t be here.” Y/N retorts, not looking up from his notes.
He then stands, ready to head out to their next case—a drug overdose linked to heavy heroin. As the two men walk toward the parking lot, Earle speaks up.
“Cocky, huh? Hope your skills can match up with your ego.”
Roy grins smugly, while Y/N retains his stoic expression.
Once outside, the new Vice member walks forward, only for Roy to whistle loudly. The detective turns, confused. That’s when Earle grabs his car keys and jingles them.
“You want to ride in a boring car, or something fancy?” Roy nods toward the car next to him—a Cadillac Series 62 Convertible.
Y/N hums. “Of course you have a flashy car.” He walks toward the car, prepared to sit in the passenger seat.
Roy chuckles, opening the car door to take the driver’s seat. “Is that complaining I hear, kiddo?”
“I’m not. And don’t call me kiddo, Earle.”
Roy simply smirks, ready to start the car once both men are seated. Then they drive off, heading to their first case.
-
Once they arrived at a motel, the police were already investigating the entire place. When Roy and Y/N drove in, they simply joined the investigation. After getting the gist of things, they began looking around.
The victim was a white man, 24 years old, blonde with blue eyes, named Vincent Montgomery. He had a black eye on his right side and had died with a needle next to him in bed. His body was soaked from taking a shower, and he hadn’t bothered to dress, so a towel was draped over his lower body.
Y/N leaned closer, inspecting the body. He grabbed the arm and examined the injection site. It looked sloppy, with multiple punctures from failed attempts.
“Looks like a first-time user.” Y/N commented, glancing at Roy, who was standing on the opposite side of the bed. “He tried multiple times to inject himself.”
“What an idiot.” Roy muttered. “He didn’t even use a belt to make his veins more visible. Definitely an amateur. Then again…” He looked at the towel. “Perhaps he was too busy with something else.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you making a joke about a dead guy?”
“Not much of a joke.” Roy replied, spotting a magazine slightly hidden under the bed near Vincent’s feet. “Sticky magazine here and traces of semen on the bed.”
Roy bent down and picked it up. He smirked as he flipped to the front page and showed it to Y/N—it was a picture of a naked man.
“Looks like Vincent over here was… a fruit.” Roy said with a grin.
Y/N hummed and continued scanning the room for leads, opening the closet drawers. He was surprised to find expensive clothing. Roy walked over, leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette.
“You’re very serious, kiddo.” He remarked.
“It’s a very serious matter, old man.” Y/N shot back lightly.
Roy seemed impressed by the subtle insult. “Kids like him probably grew up sheltered and rich, so they didn’t even know the basics of drugs.” He looked at the clothing, reinforcing his theory. “So he either got disowned after being outed as a fruit and turned into a junkie, or he was a rich kid who just wanted to go wild in secret.”
“Agreed.” Y/N said. While not shocked, he silently wished someone with Roy’s intellect wasn’t such an asshole.
Y/N then found a small piece of paper tucked under the layers of clothing. It was a phone number. When Roy saw it, he smirked.
“The secret boyfriend. If we’re lucky, his supplier.”
Y/N looked back at Roy. “Let’s go see him.”
-
After checking out the motel, they followed the lead—the phone number. They discovered it belonged to a handyman named Elliot Reyes. Instead of calling him, they decided to go to his and his wife’s apartment.
As they got closer, Roy spoke up. “I feel bad for his wife. Imagine one day finding out your husband cheated… with another man.”
Y/N shook his head. “I wish I could say there’s a chance you’re wrong, but who the hell has a handyman’s phone number in a hotel?”
Roy chuckled. “Glad you’ve got some common sense.”
The duo arrived at the apartment complex. Together, they got inside and went to apartment 204. After knocking, they waited for someone to answer. A man, about 28 years old, opened the door.
“LAPD. Agent Morgan and Earle.” Y/N said, glancing at Roy, who grinned at the man. “You’re Mr. Reyes, correct?”
“Yes.” The man said, looking confused. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“You can.” Roy replied.
Without warning, the man stepped aside, letting them in. Y/N followed, causing Elliot to look more confused. Earle’s eyes scanned the apartment. Though small, it looked cozy. His gaze landed on a photo frame—a wedding picture of Elliot and his wife.
“Your wife’s out?” Y/N asked.
“Working night shifts at the clinic.” Elliot replied, sitting down across from Y/N, who took a seat on the couch. “What’s going on?”
Roy smirked at Y/N, giving him a knowing look. He let his new partner take the lead. The detective grabbed his pen and notepad and began the interrogation.
“A man named Vincent Montgomery was found dead in his motel room.”
Elliot’s eyes widened; he grew visibly nervous. “What… what does that have to do with me?”
“What is your relationship with the victim?” Y/N pressed.
“I’ve never heard of him.” Elliot said, trying to play it cool.
Y/N didn’t believe him. “Really? Because he had your company’s phone number in his motel room.”
“What about it?” Elliot shrugged. “Plenty of people keep the number of their handyman.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Reyes, why would someone keep a handyman’s number in a motel room? The motel owner keeps that stuff, not the guests.”
Elliot looked nervous. “Maybe… maybe he kept it around in case he got a house or something?” he suggested weakly.
Roy leaned forward, grinning. “I guess that’s possible. But we found something else—porn magazines in Vincent’s room. Filled with men.”
Elliot panicked. “Oh, so you think I slept with him?! I’m not… a queer!”
Roy glanced back at the wedding photo, then picked it up, his smirk softening. “I feel sorry for her… not knowing her own husband had another man.”
Elliot stood up, furious. “Are you threatening me!?”
“No, nothing like that.” Roy said casually, shrugging. “Not unless you tell us what we want to know.”
Elliot hesitated, frowning for a few seconds before sitting back down. “I’ll tell you everything… just don’t tell her.”
Roy’s grin returned. “Deal.”
“Fine… what do you want to know?” The handyman sounded defeated.
Y/N readied himself for another round of questions. “When did you start knowing Vincent?”
“A month ago. We met at this place where guys… secretly hook up. I liked him enough that he gave me his phone number, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. In secret.”
The vice detective nodded, believing him. “And when was the last time you saw him?”
“…Two days ago, around 8 PM.” Elliot confessed. “He always seemed nervous about meeting up, or… in general.” He looked back at Y/N. “How did he die?”
“Heroin overdose.”
“Oh god…” The handyman sighed, pressing his hands to his face.
“Did Mr. Montgomery have a drug problem before?” Y/N asked, jotting down everything he could.
“Not that I know of. He seemed like a good, normal guy… though troubled.” Elliot replied. “But last night, he seemed… off.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”
“He seemed shaky. Always felt like his family didn’t get him—not just because of… that, but also because of his job, his life, everything.” The handyman said. “He mentioned wanting to relax once. I didn’t realize he meant drugs.”
Roy stared at him. “So he met up with a dealer and got heroin. Any idea who fits the bill?”
Elliot thought for a few seconds. “I’ve heard rumors from some guys I met there. There’s this shady guy… think he’s called Seth. Not sure about his last name or how he looks. But from what I heard, he’s pretty extreme.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“He trades drugs for… sexual favors. Extreme ones. Like… groups of men, hitting them, putting them through pain… stuff like that.”
“Sounds like a freak.” Roy commented. “Even bigger than you.”
Elliot frowned at the jab, but before he could respond, Y/N spoke. “Where can we find this Seth?”
“MacArthur Park. That’s where the guys meet. Usually at midnight.” Elliot said.
Y/N leaned slightly forward, curious. “Did Mr. Montgomery have a black eye the last time you saw him?”
Elliot raised a genuine eyebrow. “No. Why?”
Roy seemed satisfied. “Congratulations. I’m not going to rat you out to your wife.” He walked toward the door, leaving Elliot frowning.
“Thank you for your time, Reyes.” Y/N said, standing as well. “And… sorry for your loss.”
The handyman sighed, saddened. “Thanks…”
Once the duo arrived back at the car, it was late in the afternoon. While Roy slid back behind the wheel, Y/N reviewed his notes. If Elliot hadn’t lied, they now knew who had been ‘selling’ the drugs.
“Do we go to the park?” Y/N asked.
“We need to handle this carefully.” Earle replied. “If he’s really trading drugs for sex, he won’t carry them around. If we arrest him, we need to confirm he’s in possession of the drugs first.”
“So we’re going to tail him?” Y/N asked.
“Too inefficient. We don’t even know who he is. Besides, all these guys are way too horny. I doubt he’s the only freaky one.” Roy said.
“Then what do you suggest?”
Roy smirked. “We go incognito. We head to the park, find Seth, and track him back to his place. Once we see the drugs, we make the arrest. All we have to do is… play pretend as a couple.”
Y/N blinked at him. “You want us to pretend we’re a couple?”
“Unless that scares you too much.” Roy teased. “Besides, I’d believe you if you were a fruit.”
Y/N scoffed. “I could say the same about you.”
Roy just rolled his eyes in response.
-
After changing into something more casual, both men arrived at MacArthur Park. They had already set up their personas: two men secretly meeting during the night. Since they were specifically looking for this Seth character, they needed to appear like people who would easily slip into drugs. They tried to act anxious and vulnerable, though Roy still carried his usual cocky demeanor.
Y/N glanced around, seeing no one except Roy, who leaned casually. “Don’t see him anywhere.”
“The night’s still young.” Roy replied. “Let’s wait and just play our parts.”
The undercover detectives sat down on a bench. Roy grabbed a cigarette and lit it, both men staring at the pond. As they waited, some men passed by—some looked like regular park-goers, while others couldn’t help but check the two out.
Eventually, Roy caught someone out of the corner of his eye—a man a few feet away, casually smoking against a tree, occasionally glancing at them. He looked rough, in his late 30s, though decent enough on the surface. Taking a risk, Roy winked at the stranger with a charming smile, and the man winked back.
“We caught someone.” Roy muttered, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. “Showtime, sweetie.” He added with a teasing lilt, much to Y/N’s dismay.
Roy was the first to stand, nodding toward the man to indicate where they were headed. The detective followed, walking toward the figure by the tree. While Earle radiated confidence, Y/N appeared slightly tense.
“Hey.” Roy greeted casually. “You doing good tonight?”
“Sure am.” The stranger replied, blowing out smoke. He then sized up the two men. “You two gentlemen?”
“We’re good.” Roy said, resting a hand on Y/N’s back. “Just looking for a fun night.”
“Fun night, huh?” The man looked intrigued. He glanced at Y/N, who kept his stoic act. “You seem a little nervous.”
“…Never done it with a party of three.” Y/N admitted, selling the nervous act well enough that the stranger chuckled.
“And your friend?”
“Always curious to broaden my horizons.” Roy said smoothly.
The stranger hummed in approval. “Want to go to my place then? Got drinks and plenty of stuff for a fun night.”
Roy’s smile widened. “Count us in.”
-
They were sitting behind the stranger’s car, heading deeper into the east side of the city. The two continued their ‘act’—mostly their usual personalities blended with the current situation. The stranger glanced in the rearview mirror at them, smiling.
“I see you two know each other a long time.” He said.
“You could say that.” Roy replied, shamelessly grabbing his partner’s hand without warning. Y/N flinched. “But we kinda want to try new things.”
The stranger smiled. “Adventurous. I like that.” He glanced at the other man, who still looked nervous. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah…” Y/N muttered.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always nervous around men like us.” Roy assured the stranger, then turned to his partner, leaning closer. “Honey, we discussed this. It’s going to be just fine.”
Roy placed a hand on Y/N’s face, making him flush. “Fine…” Y/N whispered.
Roy smirked and looked back at the stranger. “Any chance your place has something to keep his edge off? He’s always like this.”
The stranger smiled. “Sure thing. I’ll give him some after our fun night.”
Roy’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. That’s our guy—Seth. How wonderful.”
-
It didn’t take them long to arrive at the stranger’s apartment. Once inside, the place looked a bit sloppy, though nothing gross. The duo glanced around as the stranger spoke.
“You two want drinks first?” He asked, walking to the kitchen cabinet to pull out a bottle of wine. He grabbed three wine glasses from the counter.
Roy rested a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “I think my man needs something stronger.” He glanced at Y/N. “I told you, it’s going to be fine. If anything, it’s going to be fun.”
“I guess a little beforehand is okay…” The stranger said, heading back to the counter but glancing at Y/N. “Have you ever… done any illegal stuff before?”
Y/N raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “No. Why?”
The stranger smiled, reaching for a bag of white powder. Before he could say anything else, Roy whipped out his gun, dropped his grin, and barked, “LPD! Hands where I can see them!”
The dealer froze, instantly frowning. “Shit…!”
Y/N immediately moved to the counter, eyes fixed on the bag. He examined it closely and confirmed to Roy, “It’s real.”
Roy cracked the slightest smile.
-
After the arrest, they called in the rest of the department. It looked like they had indeed caught Seth. Since it was already late, both men were excused from the scene.
With a successful first day behind them, Roy drove Y/N back to his apartment. During the ride, Roy’s usual smirking didn’t falter, but Y/N had grown used to it.
Once they arrived, Y/N glanced at Roy. “That was an interesting first day.”
“I could say the same. Didn’t expect working with you could be this fun.” Roy said gleefully. “I doubt we could play ‘fruits’ tomorrow.”
“I’m surprised how well you managed to play.” Y/N admitted, genuinely. “I almost thought you were coming onto me.”
Roy flinched slightly. “Are you accusing me of being a… fag?”
Y/N raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift. “No.”
Suddenly, Roy leaned in slowly, his eyes hollow yet intimidating, bringing his face close to Y/N’s.
“Be careful, detective. Look at yourself before you come at me. Say a word about what happened to anyone, and I promise… you’ll be fired like the fruit you are.”
Y/N stayed calm, raising an eyebrow. “Are you threatening me?”
“Just a word of advice.” Roy said, a faint smile cracking across his face.
Y/N hummed, realizing he had found Roy’s weak spot. “Seems like I struck a nerve.”
“Watch. It.” Roy grabbed the front of Y/N’s tie, hands close to his neck, glaring.
“I am. As long as I don’t rat you out, you won’t either.” Y/N replied evenly.
Roy looked momentarily confused but understood quickly. He eased back, smiling. “Seems we have more in common than I thought.”
“I could say the same.” Y/N said casually, smirking.
Roy chuckled, briefly surveying the detective before meeting his gaze. “I’ll be very excited to see you tomorrow, Y/N. I might even pick you up.”
“Thank you.” Y/N said.
“As long as you stay on my good side, I’ll treat you well.” Roy added, winking. “See you tomorrow, detective.”
“Until tomorrow.” Y/N replied with a chuckle.
Once Y/N opened his door, he stepped onto the sidewalk. The car slowly disappeared into the night, its lights fading. He knew Roy would be trouble—but as long as he stayed on his good side, he’d be just fine.
Content(s): Na'vi Reader, Bottom!Male reader, Smut/Suggestive, p in a, fingering, hand/blow job, smidge of plot
[A/n]— I'm so rusty with male reader smut, and this is my first time writing for a bottom male reader, so I hope it was okay 🥹
It was almost devastating, really, having to watch So'lek trek around, your gaze lingering along the planes of his thick thighs, taking note of how his tail barely swayed. How the bands of his loincloth sit just so perfectly around his hips, absolutely devastating.
The resistance has been so busy lately, keeping you and everyone else out and about. You were tired— more than, really. It wasn't an easy job helping out the other clans, and even then you took it upon yourself to strike down any RDA you came across.
Why'd you have to be such a good helper? Because now you're desperately missing your mate.
It had been far too long since you've had a night with him— just in general, even. You and your ikran took to the skies too often, having to find other places to stay on those cold nights. Especially when the fly back home would exhaust your bonded way too much, you had to think of her too, even though she knew of your longing.
However, when you did have the time, you'd be the one pulling So'lek into dusty corners of the base, hidden from the others just to kiss him, to feel him. He'd kiss you hard and hungry, pressing you back against any surface he could find as his teeth nip at your lower lip, diving back into the heat of your mouth with his tongue.
It would make you weak in the knees, feeling his pleasure with your own through the connection of your kuru’s. Feeling the ache in his cock that ground against yours, his large hands gripping your thigh to hoist it over his hip.
Only for one of your comms to buzz, a low growl ripping from his throat each and every time. It was a mood killer, to say the least. Always sharing whispered promises and quick kisses goodbye. Each time you considered going to Priya and talking to her about timing.
Which is why today is so exciting. You had previously asked Priya to make sure no one bothers you and So'lek tonight, wanting to spend it together. You just had to get through helping with storage first. “You seem excited” Ri'nela teased, helping you take note of what items were in stock, “Can you blame me?” You asked, tail practically wagging as you tried to hurry up.
“No, I suppose I can't” Ri'nela giggled softly, her gaze shifting back to the tablet in her hands. She paused for a moment, staring at the screen before looking up at you, “Go on, I can finish up” She offered, and your head immediately snapped up, lips curling into a wide grin, “You mean it?” You asked, eyes wide. Ri'nela could only laugh as she nodded, taking your tablet from you.
“Thanks Ri'nela!” You beamed, quickly taking off your bullet proof vest before heading outside. If you were counting, it probably would've been the fastest you ever ran to your ikran. You just couldn't wait— at least not any longer to finally spend some time with So'lek.
And you were definitely going to make the most of it.
<-->
“Finally—” You sighed, laying back as So'lek laid on top of you. You both have been like this for a while now, cuddled up under the stars. So'lek had made something you can't recall the name of for dinner, and after that it didn't take long to collapse into the others arms.
“I know, yawnue” So'lek sighed, his tail swaying lazily as his face stayed pressed into the crook of your neck. You could feel the tension in his muscles, your hands gently rubbing up and down his arms, “Missed this” You murmured, lips brushing against his ear as you nipped at it. You almost chuckled at the groan that left him, watching as he lifted his head.
“You are trouble” He whispered, his golden eyes peering down at you with something more than love. “Yeah, but you like that” You smiled, leaning up to capture his lips. So'lek sighed into the kiss, deepening it without a second thought. His teeth nipped at your lips, not waiting for them to part as his tongue delved deep into your mouth, a low whine slipping from your throat.
“Let me take care of you” So'lek whispered breathlessly, his hands lowering to slowly untie your loincloth as his lips trailed along your jaw, nipping and sucking at the skin. You gently tugged at his braids, guiding his lips back to yours as his hand slowly wrapped around your cock, whimpering at the feeling of him.
So'lek chuckled softly as he watched your reactions, his calloused hand slowly pumping your weeping cock. “That's it—” He rumbled out, leaning down again to kiss the base of your throat, “Pretty boy” He groaned, his hand squeezing around your base before dragging up and down— over and over again.
His breath fanned over your skin as he kissed lower, leaving blooming purple marks along your blue skin. He could taste the sweat on your skin, his tail curling as he groaned, his thumb swiping over your weeping tip. “Missed the taste of you—” So'lek grit out dipping down lower until he settles between your legs. “Don't hold back for me, yawnue” He breathed out before wrapping his lips around your purple tip.
“Sh-Shit! Wait—” Your mouth fell open, fingers tangling in his braids as you whined. So'lek didn't give you any time to prepare as he bobbed his head, taking you deeep down his throat— stars practically shined behind your eyes, that coiling heat building up and up as your tip hit the back of his throat. His tongue swirled, tracing every vein as he sucked.
So'lek was practically starved, having spent too many nights alone with just his hand and the thought of you with him. He didn't feel like waiting much longer. He pulled off your cock with a pop! His other hand wrapping around your base as he kissed up along your length, “I need to prep you yawnue” He breathed out, throat slightly hoarse as he used your precum to trace your rim.
“Please—” You choked out, thighs trembling as he grinned up at you. You practically threw your head back as his finger slowly pushed past your rim, his mouth wrapping back around your length without mercy. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Everything felt so hot, your toes curling as So'lek eased in another finger, curling them deep into your gummy walls.
Searching and searching— until you both shudder, feeling your pleasure built through the bond. “M’ gonna cum—” You gasped, tail whipping as So'lek took your aching cock all the way down. His calloused fingers rubbing and prodding at your prostate. He was so mean with it, so mean in how he deep throated you, how his fingers toyed with that squishy button that had you seeing stars.
Until your body locked up, a sharp cry of ecstasy ripping through you as you came down his throat, body trembling as he slowed down, drinking every sticky drop of your cum. You were gasping as he finally pulled off with a wet pop! His lips curled into a satisfied grin, “Did so good for me—” He hummed, his hands pushing your thighs apart as he moved his way back up, capturing your lips with his.
“Think you're ready f’me—” He groaned as he pulled at the strings of his loincloth, tossing it aside as his hand wrapped around the base of his cock. His tip flushed a deep purple as precum leaked out, nudging it against your rim. “Ah— shit!” You gripped onto his shoulders as he slowly eased into you, his large cock splitting you open as he rubbed soothing circles on your hips.
“So good—” So'lek groaned into your ear, nipping at it as he slowly started rocking his hips, his hands moving to hook under your knees and spread your legs wide open. “So’lek—” You whined, desperately grasping at any part of him you could hold onto as his aching cock drilled deep inside you.
“Yawnue—” So'lek choked out, pushing your legs up higher and higher, hips smacking harshly against the globes of your ass as his tip abused your sensitive prostate. The stars shined brightly above him, your gaze blurry as you moaned— “So— So'lek! Fuck—” You garbled out, the pleasure making your toes curl and your eyes water.
Sparks of it electrifying your skin with every drive of his hips. So'lek reached between you both, hand wrapping around your cock and pumping in rhythm with his thrusts. “Ah—! Ahh— shit-” You choked out a moan, head lolling to the side as So'lek leaned down, nipping at your neck. “That's it— give it to me” He urged, fucking you harder into the mat below.
Light exploded behind your eyes, lashes fluttering as your body quaked, thick, sticky ropes of cum shooting over your abdomen. “Good— so good f’me” He groaned, gathering you up to press his chest to yours, hips rutting deeper and harder until he gasped, his seed flooding your walls and creating a creamy base around his cock.
The both of you panted heavily, catching your breaths as So'lek trailed soft open mouth kisses along your jaw, “You did wonderfully” He murmured softly, “So did you” You chuckled breathlessly.
His forehead pressed to yours, humming softly in content.
The adrenaline still thrummed through Archie Andrews's veins as he landed soundlessly on the fire escape outside his bedroom window. Riverdale was quiet now, the last of the rogue Ghoulies carted off to a specialized containment facility thanks to Sheriff Keller. Inside, however, was a different kind of energy. Y/N Cooper was leaning against Archie's desk, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Took you long enough, Pureheart the Powerful." Y/N's voice was low and teasing, his eyes slowly raking over the form-fitting red suit, the navy blue "modesty trunks" hugging his powerful thighs, and finally settling on the prominent blue heart with its crisp white 'P' centered on his chest. "That look does something to me."
Archie felt a familiar heat that had nothing to do with super-powered exertion. He pushed the window open and swung inside, the movement fluid and graceful. "Just doing my civic duty." He replied, his voice a rough rumble. He crossed the small space in two strides, his hands coming up to frame Y/N's face.
The kiss was immediate and deep, a clash of pent-up desire and relief. Y/N's fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Archie's neck, pulling him closer, while Archie's own hands gripped his boyfriend's hips, pulling their bodies flush together. It was a hungry, possessive kiss, the kind that erased any thought of supervillains or civic duty.
And that was the problem.
A strange, tingling heat spread through Archie's suit, starting at the center of the blue heart. It wasn't painful, but it was intensely distracting. He broke the kiss with a gasp, looking down in horror as the vibrant red fabric began to lose its cohesion, turning into a thick, warm liquid that dripped down his torso and legs.
"What the—" Y/N started, but his words died in his throat as he watched the costume literally melt off Archie's body, pooling in a shimmering puddle at their feet. The navy trunks dissolved last, leaving Archie standing completely and utterly naked, his muscular form flushed and exposed. The air in the room felt suddenly charged, the awkwardness of the moment instantly consumed by the raw, primal look in Y/N's eyes.
"Your powers...?" Y/N breathed out, his gaze fixed on Archie's naked body.
"Only work when I'm... pure of heart." Archie ground out, the words coming through clenched teeth. There was no more pretense, no more superhero. No more powers. Just Archie, and the overwhelming, demanding need coiling in his gut. "Guess saving the city is one thing, but this..."
He didn't finish. Instead, he lunged, capturing Y/N's mouth again in a brutal, demanding kiss. This time, there was no costume to melt, no powers to fizzle out. There was only Archie's strength as he lifted Y/N effortlessly, his hands gripping the back of his thighs as he carried him a few steps to his bed, dropping him onto the mattress. He followed him down, his body covering Y/N's completely, his weight pinning him in place.
"Archie." Y/N gasped against his mouth, his hands scrambling for purchase on Archie's broad shoulders.
"Shut up." Archie growled, his voice thick with lust. It wasn't intentionally mean, but he wasn't asking either. He didn't want to waste any time. With a rough tug, he ripped Y/N's shirt open, sending buttons flying. He wanted him, wanted to feel his skin, to bury himself so deep inside him that there was no thought left for anything but the overwhelming pleasure, the frantic, desperate coupling that was about to unfold. There was no gentleness left in him, only the raw, untamed need to claim, to dominate, to fuck his boyfriend until they were both breathless and spent.
summary: warming up a cold morning with the bridgertons
pairing: benedict bridgerton x male reader x anthony bridgerton
word count: 1k
warning: male reader smut!
| masterlist |
The cotton was cool on your back, autumn breeze flowing through the gaps on the windowsill. You woke from the sound of the birds chirping and the gardeners shearing the hedges, Benedict glanced at you, an arm outstretched to your back.
“Good morning,” he caressed your hair, toying with the locs.
Anthony stirred from the commotion, gaining conscience soon enough. “Did someone forget to lock a window,” he sat up, resting on his nape. “It's freezing.”
“I suppose the night brought enough heat in the room that I forgot,” Benedict said. Your naked bodies were covered by a white silk sheet that could not cover three men. Benedict let the sheet cover you, exposing his naked frame. The two men shared similarities that the many women in court enjoyed. Their tall frames, dark flowing hair, and their smoldering eyes–-the true mark of a Bridgerton. “Surely, the two of you enjoyed yourselves.”
You sat up and covered yourself with more of the blanket. “This—was definitely fun, but do trust me gentlemen, it will not happen again,” you said, smoothing your cold hands against your hair. Anthony’s eyes widened, lips pout as he rested his back on the bed frame.
“I assure you, you will not hear from us again,” he looked at Benedict, waiting for him to share the statement. Benedict chuckled, shrugging his shoulders before diving under the sheets. You shuddered when his warm lips met your thigh, his large hands warm against your skin.
“By the way you cried last night, surely this would not be the last time?” Benedict rose from the sheet, resting his chin on your abdomen. His hands crept under your thighs splitting them open, a finger teasing your hole still wet from last night. “You were so good to us.”
The sudden pressure against your hole made you jolt, his knuckles meeting the flesh of your ass as he entered. Anthony smirked, diving right to your neck to leave small kisses. Their large muscular arms pinned you down with little to no force—you welcomed their touch, each part of your skin reacting in its own way.
Benedict kissed the border between your leg and your abdomen, the small oblique line that led to your sex. He gave small pecks with light suckles on the flesh, leaving faint purple marks. His two fingers made their way into your flesh, curling and pulling as if luring you in. You pulled your head back, eyes rolling to your skull in euphoria, the sheets crumpled under your grip.
Anthony wrapped his arm around your neck, cushioning your nape on his large bicep. You could feel the hair of his pits on your shoulder, the manly scent enveloping your senses. His fingers toy with your nipples, the bed creaking from all the movement you body made.
Your cock began to tent against the sheets, a wet spot forming from your tip. Benedict was quick to kiss your base, his tongue tracing your shaft until his mouth enveloped the aching head. He sucked on the swollen gland like a sommelier, careful and precise, not wasting any second in providing pleasure.
“God—you’re a delight,” Anthony whispered in your ear, your hand stroking his hardened cock while he proceeded to nip on your ear. The sides of your hands tickled from the hair on his base, he was much hairier than Benedict, his chest littered with hair that trailed down his toned abdomen.
The bed rocked from the change in position. Anthony had set you in between his hairy thighs, toned from years of horse riding. Your mouth sucked and licked on his hard-on, tasting the salty precome leaking from the head.
Benedict’s tongue lapped on your wet hole, his fingers stretching you open. When he was satisfied with the state of your hole, he dropped spit on his length, tapping on your hole before pushing it in.
You yelped from the contact, tears beading at the edge of your eyes. Benedict’s strokes were languid but precise, it felt as if he was painting and you, the canvas. His hands guided your hips through each thrust.
The room filled with their grunts and their moans, while your cries muffled against Anthony’s cock. His cock twitched whenever you left contact, more precome leaking down the shaft, eventually drenching the sheets. “Come on, pretty boy. Lick it up.”
You took his nectar in your tongue, licking it as it pooled in your mouth. Anthony cursed for how lewd the image was. He wanted to take your head and pound his cock in your throat, be rough with it and use it purely for his own benefit, but he was a gentleman—and his brother had done much damage as it is.
The two men locked eyes as if communicating without uttering a word. They pulled out at the same time, your brows furrowed in confusion. At the same beat, they both pushed their cocks in each of your holes eliciting a muffled cry that brought them closer to climax.
With the same pace, they both fucked into your with fever, their hips rocking as your muscles ached and stretched. “How am I supposed to look at another during the balls when you have bewitched me with your body, my dearest,” Benedict’s hand slapped against your ass, “you torment me truly.”
“He lies through his teeth,” Anthony comments. “He will beg for our attention at the next ball,” He lifts your chin, your eyes set on his. “Look at how he’s taking our cocks, he is sullied like a common whore.
“Is that true?” Benedict stops thrusting, your back arches from the emptiness as if calling for it back. “Beg for it then, you whore. Use your words.”
“Please—fuck—please fuck me,” the words come out in cries. “I need it.”
Benedict traces his tip on the rim, taunting. “Is it convincing, brother?”
“Not quite,” Anthony responded. “We could just leave him here, let him ache from being untouched.”
“No!” you sobbed. “Please, I’ll do anything—just fuck me.”
They both started to fuck you with more vigor. Benedict’s careful strokes were replaced by hard pounding, skin slapping on skin while he grunted. His hair was damp against his forehead, drops of sweat dripping on your back like candle wax.
“Yes, take it you whore,” Anthony grunted, his breath exasperated. You could not bear to open your eyes, the pleasure was just too much. The two men continued to rock their hips into your body, their pace was erratic, inching towards finality.
“I’m close—fucking take it,” Benedict cries, his cheeks turing red. You moan on Anthony’s cock, the tip slamming against the roof of your mouth. Within a couple blows the two men finished inside you, their come spilling warm and coating the walls of your flesh.
You came all over the sheets, your chest heaving as you chased for air. The cold air was replaced with a humidity that made your skin damp and sticky. Their limbs wrapped around your body like a man made enclosure.
“You’re not leaving us any sooner,” Benedict said, placing a peck on your lips. Anthony wiped the cum on your lips and placed a wet kiss on your mouth, your tongues laced.
Summary: Comforted by the church’s newest priest after a brutal sermon, you learn that mercy can be intimate, desire can be humiliating and some boundaries are only drawn once they’ve already been broken.
Tags: Male Reader. No use of Y/N. Religious Guilt. Confession. Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Boxing training. Mutual Pining. Internalized Shame. Church Trauma. Soft Dominance. Oral Sex. Blowjobs. Bottom Male Reader. Explicit Sexual Content. Praise Adjacent. Obedience Kink. Josh O’Connor Thirst. Angst. Smut. Open Ending.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
Words count: 4500
“There are those who come to the confessional seeking reassurance, not repentance.”
You heard Monseigneur Wicks exactly as he had been then, humorless smile carved too carefully into his face, voice lifting not in accusation, sharpened by the acoustics of stone and vaulted ceiling. You could still see the way his hands had rested on the pulpit, knuckles pale with the quiet authority of someone who had never been told no and never expected to be.
“Who speak as though God’s law is meant to bend around their private longings, rather than the other way around.”
Your chest tightened now just as it had then, the memory sliding in beneath your ribs. At the time you had sat perfectly still in your pew, shoulders squared and chin raised, every muscle in your body devoted to the performance of composure.
Those eyes hadn’t scanned the congregation to take in the rows of loyal faces already inclined toward agreement. Instead, they had fixed on a point just above your head, close enough that you felt pinned by it and knew you were the axis around which the sermon had quietly turned.
“There are temptations,” he had gone on, his voice rising, fists clenching as if the very air offended him, “that flatter someone into believing he is special. Different. Chosen.”
A few heads had turned then. You hadn’t looked at them directly, only caught the movement from the corner of your eye, the subtle tilt of curiosity, suspicion and recognition. Your gaze had stayed lifted, fixed stubbornly on Monseigneur Wicks as a painful knot drew tight in your throat, every action felt like it might betray you.
Sat through it all on nothing but dignity and a refusal to bend, when Mass finally ended, you had left with your spine intact and insides in ruins.
Now sitting on the ground with your back against the wide, patient trunk of an old oak, bark rough even through the fabric of your clothes. The plants around were high and unashamed, green spears and broad leaves that would normally brush your waist when you walked the paths nearby, now rose almost companionably beside your seated body.
Ferns unfurled in slow spirals at your knees, fronds trembling whenever the breeze threaded through them.
This forest near the church was one of the few places in Chimney Rock that still breathed freely, air here damp earth rich, crushed pine needles releasing sweetness, faint mineral tang of nearby stone.
Underneath it all lingered the hearth-smell drifting from town, woodsmoke and ash.
Inhaling deeply and letting it fill your lungs. Once, the church itself had served that purpose, you’d liked the hush of it, but ever since you had taken the decision to confess your sins there and speak them aloud without flinching, then sat through what followed hours later… you doubted it would ever be that place again.
Not even Chimney Rock, if you were honest. The thought of staying here in this forest drifted through you with surprising calm. Build something small and rough by taking down a few trees, learn the weight and grain of wood by hand, disappear into something simpler than judgment and sermons meant for you without ever naming you.
A footstep crunched through leaves.
Your head turned instinctively toward the sound, tension sparking through you before you could stop it.
Father Jud stood a few meters away, half-shadowed by the trees, hands folded loosely behind his back. He wore the simple black clerical suit you’d seen him in a hundred times now, that white collar a clean line at his throat. There was a smile on his face, small and unassuming, touched with concern rather than curiosity, as if he’d been hoping to find you but hadn’t wanted to interrupt whatever solitude you’d claimed.
“Father,” you said, pushing the word out carefully, shaping it to sound normal and composed the way the newly appointed assistant pastor had always known you, polite out of habit.
“Jud’s fine,” he said easily, voice soft enough not to startle the birds perched above you. “Mind if I sit?”
You shook your head in a brief motion and watched as he took a few small steps closer before lowering himself to the ground beside you, settling in with his elbows resting on his knees, posture relaxed in a way that still carried attention. He glanced out at the trees, the light filtering through leaves and breathed out slowly.
“This place,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it’s beautiful and quiet, don’t you think?”
You nodded, because that was exactly it, words felt fragile just then and you didn’t trust yourself not to break them.
He shifted slightly, angling his body toward yours without quite looking at you. “If you want to talk,” he said in a gentle and unforced tone, “I’m here.”
You moved your head left and right in a weak refusal, the smallest shake. Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy, more intentional like something he was offering rather than imposing, deeply appreciating it.
Without fully realizing you were doing it, your head tipped sideways in a slow and hesitant motion, temple coming to rest against his shoulder, fabric warm beneath your cheek. He drew in a breath that caught just a fraction, hitch so slight you might have imagined it, but he didn’t pull away or move at all, just stayed steady beside you, his presence solid and unexpectedly grounding.
The quiet stretched on long enough that it stopped feeling like an absence, head still resting on Jud’s shoulder, the line of his body solid and warm beside yours and for a while he said nothing at all.
Having been the only one to stay during his ‘clandestine’ meeting and not chickening out like the rest of Wicks’s most loyal parishioners, you had spent a lot more time talking together than it probably should have happened.
You appreciated in particular his honesty and how he didn’t hide a single detail of his story, being sent here after punching a (rude) deacon. The delight and big laugh he let out as you asked him if he could teach you a lesson or two about ducking someone in the head.
He did turn down the offer, confirming to you that he no longer was a boxer now, but he did ask why you’d even need those lessons in the first place.
It felt natural for you to confess to him everything about your ‘preferences’ and he met your confession with nothing but a kind smile and soft words that still echoed in your skull to this day.
They made you feel foolish enough to think of confessing with Monseigneur Wicks as well, not knowing what to possibly expect but definitely not what had occurred recently…
When he finally spoke, it was so low you felt it more than heard it at first, the vibration of his voice traveling through bone and cloth, settling somewhere just beneath your ribs.
“You know,” he said quietly, not turning his head or breaking the small, careful geometry of the moment, “there’s a particular cruelty in being told you’re a problem when all you did was answer honestly.”
His tone wasn’t sharp or angry. It carried that faintly condescending calm that didn’t lash out but instead spoke as though the answer were obvious and anyone who’d hurt you simply hadn’t done their homework.
You didn’t move, not trusting yourself to, chest still feeling tight, but the pressure was beginning to change, less like a fist and more like hands slowly easing their grip.
“People usually rely on the idea that if they speak loudly and sound certain enough, no one will question whether they’re right. Certainty can be very persuasive, but also be very lazy.”
His shoulder shifted just a fraction beneath your cheek as he adjusted his balance, careful not to dislodge you, now becoming acutely aware of how close you were and the way your breathing had unconsciously matched his, slow and even.
“What he did,” Jud went on, “wasn’t guidance or correction. It was theater.” A pause. “And you don’t deserve to be cast as the villain in someone else’s performance.”
Something in your chest loosened at that, throat aching less now as warmth spread outward where the tension had been.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough that his voice brushed closer to your ear. “Faith,” he said, softer now, “if it’s worth anything at all, should make room for people to breathe, not make them smaller so someone else can feel taller.”
The anxiety was ebbing, washing away in gentle waves rather than retreating all at once, leaving behind something quieter and steadier.
“You weren’t wrong to speak,” Jud added, almost as an afterthought, though it felt anything but. “And you weren’t foolish to expect mercy in a place that claims to worship it.”
For a moment, you couldn’t speak. Your head pressed a little more firmly into his shoulder, not seeking anything new but just anchoring yourself there as his words settled fully. When you finally managed to whisper, “Thank you,” it came out unguarded, stripped of the brittle politeness you’d been wearing all day, voice sounding like your own again, quieter but steadier, genuinely grateful.
He breathed out through his nose, a sound halfway to a chuckle. “Well,” he murmured, humor slipping back in, “if I’d known my great pastoral contribution would be stating the obvious, I’d have saved myself years of theological education.”
That did it.
A soft laugh escaped you, surprised and light, bubbling up from a place that had felt unreachable not long ago. You lifted your head from his shoulder as the sound faded, still smiling, unaware of the way his jaw tightened just slightly as you moved or how his gaze lingered on the space you’d vacated.
He pushed himself up to standing and offered you his hand, palm broad and steady as you took it, his grip firm but careful as he pulled you to your feet. For a second longer than necessary, your hands stayed entangled, his thumb warm against your knuckles before you both let go.
“So,” you said, emboldened now, tilting your head up at him, “any chance you’d reconsider those boxing lessons?”
He laughed, a full sound this time, shaking his head as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “And here I was thinking you’d found inner peace.”
“Purely educational.” You widened your eyes at him, putting on your most earnest expression.
“Mm,” he said, skeptical, a smile already there on his lipa and threatening to split into a grin, “you looking to duck Father Wicks?”
Hopping lightly into a stance that was more enthusiasm than technique, fists raised a little too high and feet bouncing. “Absolutely not,” you said brightly, grinning wide.
It was a lie and you both knew it.
He stepped closer, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes and drew his hands from his pockets. “Alright,” he said, voice dropping into something focused but kind. “First thing. Relax.”
His hands were large and calloused when they settled on your arms, touch gentle despite the strength there. He adjusted your elbows, lowering them slightly, guiding without force. “You’re not trying to scare someone,” he said. “You’re trying to move.”
He shifted your weight, nudged your feet into a more stable position and explained as he went, tone always patient and almost affectionate. Every correction was precise, fingers warm where they rested briefly against your wrists or shoulders.
He stepped back to look at you, nodding once.
“Better,” he said, opening his palm wide for you. “Still terrible. But better. Wanna show me how you’ll try to strike?”
After what felt like hours together, your muscles burned in that deep, honest way that told you you’d actually used them for something other than tension and endurance. You rolled your shoulders once, then again, feeling the ache bloom and spread and for a moment you just stood there savoring it, feeling earned and useful.
You brushed the back of your palm across your brow, wiping away sweat and pine-dust, then planted both hands on your hips and tipped your face upward, drawing in a long breath of forest air so clean it almost stung.
The next time Father Wicks asked you how your day had gone, his voice all polished concern and implied scrutiny, you wouldn’t have to swallow your words or offer him something pre-approved. The thought settled into you with quiet satisfaction, a small private rebellion he’d never get his hands on.
Behind you, Jud looked infuriatingly unaffected by any of it.
He stood with his hands tucked behind his back, posture loose and unstrained as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour correcting your stance and nudging you into repeating movements your body was still complaining about. His smile was wide and genuine, a little too pleased as he watched you recover, eyes tracking the way you breathed and how you shook out your wrists.
“I should probably say,” he murmured, voice light, “that I don’t officially recommend violence as a coping mechanism.” A pause, then the faintest edge of sarcasm curling through his tone. “The brochure really buries that part, but it’s in there.”
You snorted despite yourself, nodding as he stepped closer. “Yeah, well,” you said, catching your breath, “those brainwashed little church pigeons would probably tear me limb from limb if I so much as looked like I was going to touch their tyrant god.”
Jud laughed at that, an unguarded sound while his head dipped low, then lifted again and when he looked at you his grin was wide and unfiltered, eyes bright with shared understanding. Sleeves slightly rumpled, collar a touch askew, dark hair catching the sun in uneven strands, face animated in a way that made him seem younger and far more dangerous to one’s composure than he had any right to be.
“You are,” he said, still smiling down at you, “fucking right.”
He blinked, the word registering a half-second too late, and his smile shifted into something sheepish. “Sorry,” he added quickly, lips twitching. “Occupational hazard. Old habits.”
You waved it off still grinning and he took that as permission to relax again. The humor lingered between you, warm and easy, but as the moment stretched you felt something else creep back in, quieter but persistent.
“I should probably head back,” you muttered, without conviction. “But honestly? I’d rather just sleep out here. Build a little wooden shack, live off berries and become the town hermit everyone warns their kids about.”
Jud didn’t answer right away as the space between you filled with the sound of leaves shifting overhead, the distant call of a bird.
Then his hand came down on your shoulder, large and warm, the weight of it grounding without being heavy.
His thumb rested just close enough to the curve of your neck to be distracting, palm solid through fabric and skin. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through you, heat blooming under his touch.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “How about a compromise?”
You looked up at him meeting his eyes and for a second you forgot entirely what he’d been about to suggest. They were a deep, attentive blue, steady and searching, and as he held your gaze you caught the briefest flicker of something else there that softened his expression before he masked it with his usual calm, eyes dipping just for a fraction of a second toward your mouth, then returned to yours as if nothing had happened.
“Come back to the church with me,” he said. “Just for the night. You can have one of the rooms. Think things over somewhere with a roof and a lock, we’ll sort the rest out later.”
You really considered it and found that the idea didn’t make your chest tighten the way it had hours ago. Not with him standing there, hand still warm on your shoulder and offering it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
So you nodded.
The walk back was slower than it needed to be, neither of you in a hurry to break the spell of the forest. Jud kept his pace matched to yours, occasionally nudging aside a low branch or pointing out a landmark with a dry comment. At one point he glanced at the trees around you and said, “You know, if you do decide to go full woodland recluse, I could help. I’m handy with wood.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s not,” he said mildly. “I just don’t advertise it, sets the wrong expectations.”
You laughed and he smiled, conversation meandering easily and comfortably until the gothic silhouette of the church rose up ahead of you. Inside, the space felt different now, quieter in a way that didn’t feel accusatory.
Jud led you through a side corridor, deeper into the building, past doors that looked identical in their age and simplicity. He stopped at one and opened it, revealing a modest room beyond with a narrow bed, small desk and a single window letting in moonlight.
He turned back to you, smiling brightly but hesitant, like he was reluctant to end the night just yet. “I’m right down the hall,” he said softly. “If you need anything, just knock.”
You swallowed, then whispered, voice low but sincere, “Thank you. For… everything.”
His smile softened, eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary, before he nodded once and stepped back, leaving you with the quiet and the knowledge that you wouldn’t be facing tomorrow alone.
Deep in the night, sleep was impossible in the specific, humiliating way that made you feel twelve years old again, staring at the ceiling and replaying the same images of Father Jud’s face, the calm intelligence of it, the way his mouth curved when he smiled like he already knew what you were about to say and found it faintly adorable.
The way his eyes lingered too long or how his voice dropped when he spoke to you alone, losing that careful public cadence and turning private, almost intimate.
You hated yourself for how your body reacted to the thought of him standing too close, the clean lines of his shoulders under black fabric, the hint of forearm when his sleeves were pushed up, warmth of him as he leaned in to speak quietly at your side.
It felt unfair and obscene to lay awake drowning in the want of him.
Logic and shame begged you to stay in bed, but your feet carried you down the corridor anyway.
The church was different at night, stripped of its daytime righteousness, silence that felt deliberate rather than imposed. You stood outside his door with your heart pounding so hard you were certain he would hear it through the wood, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides, teeth worrying your lower lip until it stung.
The door opened almost immediately after knocking, like he’d been standing on the other side waiting, already dressed and awake as if something plagued his mind as well. Tall and broad-shouldered, hair slightly mussed as if he’d run a hand through it too many times, face looked even more unfairly handsome in the low light, all strong lines softened by fatigue, dark lashes casting shadows under eyes that sharpened the second they found you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then his mouth tilted into a small, tired and condescending smile, the kind he wore when he thought he already understood the situation better than anyone else involved. He stepped aside without asking a single question, opening the door wider and inclining his head just enough to invite you in.
You crossed the threshold like you were stepping off a cliff.
The door closed behind you with a soft, final click.
“I—” You swallowed, voice already betraying you. “I can’t get Father Wicks’ words out of my head.”
Jud studied you for a long second, eyes moving over your face with quiet, unnerving attention, before smiling again, gentler this time, and nodded toward the open floor.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Sit with me for a moment. We’ll slow things down.”
He lowered himself to the floor with practiced ease and you followed without thinking, knees pressing into the rug, close enough that you could feel his heat beside you. When his hand reached for yours, it wasn’t rushed or hesitant, fingers simply sliding between yours, warm and steady, grounding in a way that made your breath stutter.
“Before anything else,” he said softly, voice dropping, smoothing, “you need to be honest about what’s actually happening in your head. That’s the first step to feeling better and not letting it eat you alive.”
“You make it sound easy.” You laughed weakly.
“I didn’t say it was easy,” he replied softly. “I said it was necessary.”
You hesitated, then asked quietly, “How could you even tell I wasn’t being honest?”
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “You do this thing,” he said. “You press your lips together, just like that and won’t meet my eyes. You’ve done it every time you’ve lied to me.”
The heat that rushed through you was sharp and humiliating all at once. He had noticed. He had paid attention. Your foolish heart leapt at the implication, stupid and hopeful, already halfway undone.
“I keep having… thoughts,” you admitted, drawing in a breath that spiraled the words out faster now that you’d started. “Not just fleeting ones. Persistent ones about someone I shouldn’t be thinking about like that. Someone I see every day and looks at me like they know me better than I know myself.”
Jud stayed silent, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
“They’re not gentle thoughts,” you went on, voice dropping. “They’re… physical ones. I imagine kneeling in front of him and—” You broke off, breath hitching, shame and desire tangling tight in your chest. “I hate myself for wanting it.”
The silence that followed was thick and electric with his gaze that didn’t waver, eyes dark from the low light, pupils blown wide, expression carefully composed but strained around the edges.
Slowly and deliberately, he rose to his feet, towering over your kneeling form and casting a long shadow, then his hand came down to rest on your shoulder.
Grip firm but gentle and reassuring, thumb pressing lightly into muscle like he meant to steady you.
Something in you snapped.
Your hand shot up on instinct, cradling his, fingers curling around his warmth like you’d been starving for it, guiding his hand upward, slowly and reverently to offer him all the time in the world to pull away, until his palm rested against your head.
Tilting your face up, lips parting to catch his thumb in your mouth, tongue sliding over the pad of it, slowly and tentatively, heat and wetness wrapping around him as your lips closed and sucked gently, experimentally, eyes lifting to meet his as you did.
Jud froze.
He didn’t pull away nor did he tell you to stop, just stood there, breathing shallow and watching with an intensity that bordered on hunger, jaw tight, throat working as you lavished attention on his thumb, tongue tracing and curling, lips sealing around him with a quiet but obscene sound.
A low sound escaped him, barely more than a breath as you shifted closer on your knees, guided by his stillness as much as your own need, until your head was level with his clothed crotch.
Hands moving with devotion and worship while unbuckling his belt, easing his trousers open with care and when you freed him, cock heavy and flushed, your mouth watered at the sight.
Jud’s hand slid into your hair, fingers spreading, gripping firmly as you leaned in and took him into your mouth.
The first slide of him over your tongue drew a broken sound from his chest, a strangled groan he tried and failed to swallow. You worked him slowly, savoring the taste and weight with sinful greediness as your lips stretched, tongue pressing and stroking with bobbing movements by your head in an unhurried rhythm.
“Oh—” His voice caught, warped by the way you hollowed your cheeks and sucked deeper, taking him further, throat relaxing and nose brushing his pubes as your head settled between his thighs. More wet and slick sounds echoed in the small room, punctuated by his uneven breathing and the quiet hisses he let slip every time you swallowed him down.
His grip tightened in your hair, holding you there, cock rooted in your throat as he thrusts shallowly, unable to help himself.
The seconds vibrations assaulted his length from moans you emanated, his hips jerked and the more your work grew more desperate, saliva slicking your chin, hands braced against his thighs while remaining on your knees for him and fully committed to let him know how grateful you were for him.
When he finally came, it was with a broken groan, hand holding you firmly in place as warmth flooded your mouth, throat working to swallow everything he gave, obedient and devoted, until he eased his grip and you pulled back, breathless, lips swollen, looking up at him like he was the true God you prayed and worship.
Jud stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours, the weight of what you’d done hanging thick in the air.
He sank down in front of you slowly, weight of the moment finally reaching his knees, the height and authority dissolving until you were level again, breath to breath. His forehead pressed gently to yours, not seeking or demanding, just there, solid and warm, as if he needed the contact as much as you did. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye with a care so intimate it hurt, a touch meant to soothe rather than claim.
You kept your eyes closed, leaning into his palm and letting yourself believe that whatever came next did not have to be punishment or regret.
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t know where this could lead,” he continued, eyes slowly opening and looking down at the floor. “And I’m not going to insult either of us by pretending I didn’t want it.” A pause. “But wanting something doesn’t automatically make it wise.”
His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away again, discipline snapping back into place. When he looked at you again, the condescension was back, gentle but unmistakable.
“You’re not broken,” he said. “And you’re not weak for wanting what you want. But this—” He gestured loosely between the two of you. “This can’t become a habit. I won’t let it.”
There was no cruelty or rejection. Just boundaries drawn cleanly, firmly, by a man who knew exactly how dangerous he could be if he let himself drift.
Hesitating for a fraction of a second before settling his hand against your jaw, thumb brushing once along your cheek, intimate but restrained. The touch lingered just long enough to remind you of what you’d shared, then he withdrew it.
He stood, offering you his hand again, not to pull you into anything else, but to help you up. When you took it, his grip was steady and he released you as soon as you were on your feet.
“For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “you’re not wrong for wanting me but to believe that wanting means you don’t deserve peace.”
Whatever had happened between you would live on not as a sin or a triumph, but as something complicated, human and carefully contained.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : Giving Max A Blowjob In The Sauna | drabble + porn without plot
“Hot in here, huh?” Max drawled, his tone laced with challenge. He adjusted his hips, letting the towel ride up just enough to expose the base of his cock, heavy and stirring against his thigh. He didn't bother covering up—instead, he reached down and gave it a lazy stroke, watching you watch him.
“You gonna just sit there staring, or you wanna do something about it?” You dropped your own towel without a word, stepping closer on the heated planks. The air was thick, almost suffocating, but it only fueled the fire in your gut. Kneeling between his knees, you placed your palms on his inner thighs, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. Max's cock lay there, thickening as you watched, the shaft curving slightly upward, foreskin pulling back to reveal the glistening tip.“Go on, show me what that mouth can do,” he urged, voice dropping an octave, one hand dropping to cup your jaw and tilt your face up.
His thumb brushed your lower lip, rough and insistent. The flavor hit you—musky, warm, with a hint of salt from the sweat. You sucked firmly, lips sealing around him as your tongue pressed flat against the underside, sliding back and forth. Max let out a low growl, his fingers shifting to tangle in your hair, not pulling yet but holding you steady.“Fuck, that's good—take more,” he commanded, thrusting shallowly to feed you another inch. You relaxed your throat, letting him slide deeper, your nose brushing the trimmed hair at his base. Saliva built up quick in the humidity, dripping down your chin as you worked him with steady pulls, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke.
Max's free hand gripped the bench edge, his biceps flexing as he fought to stay still. “Look at me while you suck my dick,” he said, breath hitching. You met his gaze, eyes watering slightly from the depth, but you didn't break rhythm—bobbing faster now, hand wrapping around the root to stroke in tandem. His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, veins throbbing under your fingers. “Tell me how it feels,” you gasped, pulling off briefly to lap at the slit, catching the fresh bead of pre-cum.
Your voice was rough, throat raw from the effort. He laughed, short and strained. “Like heaven. Now deepthroat it all.” Diving back in, you did just that, gagging softly as you forced him past your gag reflex, nose pressed flush to his pelvis. Max's hips jerked, fucking your face in short bursts, the wet slaps mixing with his grunts. “Shit... yeah, choke on it,” he panted, guiding your head with firmer tugs. The heat made your body slick, sweat stinging your eyes, but you kept going, humming low to send vibrations through him.
“I'm gonna shoot—swallow every drop,” Max warned, voice breaking. You nodded around him, sucking harder, and he came with a roar, flooding your mouth with thick ropes of cum. You swallowed it all, milking him through it until he slumped back, chest heaving. Max pulled you up gently, smirking through the afterglow. "Best damn sauna session ever. Now let’s get out of here.”
Summary: A Persian prince offered as a peace token, you were now locked away in a tower cell. There’s a Greek soldier in particular who keeps returning, exploiting his father’s friendship with Themistocles to reach you. First seeking informations of the enemies but, little by little, Calisto transforms you, an enemy of his empire, into his own flawless and willing sex slave.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. A request that I received. little to no plot and more getting used as a sex slave and loving it. Man handling. Size kink. Degradation. Possessive behavior. Top Calisto. Bottom male reader. Anal sex.
Gifs
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
Words count: 2000
In the hushed embrace of the tower, a symphony of primal rhythm echoed to the dance of flesh that unfolded on the humble mattress beneath you, creaking growing louder and more insistent, with each powerful thrust of the man looming above.
Calisto, warrior of Greece, body a sculpted monument of power, drove into you with a relentless fervor that stole your breath and ignited your senses.
The humble bedfellow in this tower prison you were in groaned under the onslaught, its protests growing shriller with each thrust, punctuated by Calisto's guttural groans and your own ragged moans.
Body now a vessel of pleasure alight with every nerve endings singing as pulse after pulse of ecstasy coursed through your abdomen, converging at your throbbing cock. The friction against Calisto's abs, slick with sweat, was a delicious torment, spurring your muscles to meet his thrusts, all a futile endeavor given his Herculean strength.
Calisto's body, a furnace of heat and power, pressed you down, hands gripping your hips while speaking in a husky growl that rumbled in your ear, "Is this how you like it, your Highness?" The title, once a symbol of your royal lineage, now a mocking whisper laced with intimacy. You could feel his smirk against your cheek, breath hot and ragged from his own arousal.
Your nails dug into his broad shoulders, urging him deeper and harder to feel all of him. He grunted at your touch in such a primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine.
His forehead pressed against yours, eyes a stormy sea of lust and triumph as he stayed still after one deep thrust, savoring the tight grip of your body around his thick meat, breath warm and ragged against your overheated face.
"Don’t call me that," you ground out, voice a harsh whisper in contrast to the dopamine that coursed through your veins. "I don’t want to be associated with her." Your mother, Artemisia, once your protector, now your betrayer, had gifted you to Greece, a peace offering that stung like a betrayal.
Now you are here, a prince reduced to the sex slave for the man thrusted by his father to make you talk.
Calisto chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "And yet, here you are, your Highness," he whispered, his voice a caress, a taunt. "A prince of Persia, son of Artemisia, reduced to this." He punctuated his words with a thrust to brutally remind you of your current state.
Your breath hitched in a sound torn between pleasure and pain, craving him way more than you liked to admit, a distraction from the betrayal that cut deep.
Calisto's visits had started as a duty, to convince you to reveal your mother's plans and unravel the web of deceit that surrounded you.
Deep down you liked the way he seemed to always be respectful to you despite being the enemy, his eyes filled with a strange mix of pity and admiration.
It must have been the reason why your guard fell down so quickly from his presence alone to the point where having the Greek's strong and big hands all over your body was the bare minimum thing you longed for any time he would pay a visit.
Which was a lot now, even more than at the start.
From time to time he would even escape trainings or even slip in the night, avoiding carefully the guards outside and spend the whole night together with you while those outside would remain unaware that Calisto was the one who indirectly suppressed any of your want to escape, night after night of sex until you would be so full of him and still aching for more till he had to go away just as stealthily at dawn.
Calisto's hands, calloused from years of training and war, gripped your thighs, pulling them higher, opening you up to him even more, feeling every calloused ridge of his large hands as they settled lower on your ass, grip firm yet gentle.
His fingers, thick and strong from years of wielding a sword, dug into your flesh, pulling you closer and lifting up your legs, his biceps flexing like mountains rising, cords of muscles standing out in stark relief while he angled his thick length deeper inside, promising a brutal, pleasure-enduring assault.
Soon Calisto began to move again, hips setting a relentless rhythm, cock sliding in and out with ease and feeling every inch, ridges and veins as that wide, flared head stretched you deliciously.
As he increased his pace, grunts filling the air, you could feel your body responding, muscles’s vessels flooded with adrenaline to meet his thrusts, hips moving in sync with his body, greedy for more.
Your nails dug deeper into his shoulders, body arching into his, seeking more, always more.
Calisto's forehead made contact with yours, breath hot and ragged on your face as his body tensed, cock swelling inside you to indicate how close he was like you.
With a final, powerful thrust, he came and warm greek seed filled you in thick loads, marking and claiming you yet again. Your own release followed, body convulsing and cock pulsing as your own seed splashed onto his abs, glinting slightly in the dim light.
His face, flushed with pleasure, shifted from panting in sync with you to smiling slightly. Lips swollen and red from kissing, descended on yours, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, tongue snaking inside for a taste.
Kissing him back, tongue dueling with his own and breath mingling, bodies pressed together, slick with sweat and come.
When he pulled back, you levered yourself up on your elbows, body aching deliciously and mind fogged with pleasure. He moved his mouth from your lips, tracing a path down your cheek, jaw and neck. He nipped at your skin, leaving marks to establish his territory, hands on your ass, groping and squeezing as calloused fingers dung into your flesh.
While pulling out and relocating himself behind the fabric of his pants, he spoke through your skin, voice muffled but clear. "What do you think, your highness?" he asked, his tone mocking yet tender. "Would you finally share any knowledge you have of your mother's plans?" His mouth moved to your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse point and sending shivers down your spine.
Long gone was that stubbornness to stay silent, now only hesitation was present, voice low and unsure. "I'm not even sure if what I have would serve any real purpose," you admitted, body responding to his touch, cock hardening against his own through the fabric of his pants.
He insisted, his mouth moving, kissing, biting, tasting. "Anything can help understand and foresee the enemy," he murmured, his hands moving, exploring, claiming. "I can do something with it. I can help and free you from this tower." His gaze met yours, his eyes filled with sincerity, with determination. "You can have a new life, away from those who threw you away like a useless piece in this rising empire… together with me. Fuck— even if I’m not much besides a soldier, I promise I’ll treat you like a king."
You felt your heart race, breath hitch. You believed in the promise in his eyes, the conviction in his voice. You believed that he could give you a new life, a new start. You believed that he could treat you like a king, his equal and partner.
Your hands came up, cradling his cheeks and feeling the texture of his stubble beneath your palms like sandpaper. Looking into those fierce, intense eyes full of devotion and adoration, helping you make your decision. "I’ll do it," you said, your voice low but firm. "I’ll tell your general everything I know."
Those words sent a jolt of excitement through Calisto, boyish grin spreading wide as he pressed his forehead to yours with eyes sparkling with intensity. He let out a joyous, almost triumphant growl, mouth soon crashing against yours with renewed fervor.
It was possible to feel the celebration in his kiss, the sheer joy from your acceptance of your new life with him.
One of your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, your body pressing against his, heart beating fast in sync with his. The other hand at your disposal, guided by a hunger you couldn't suppress, slipped inside his garment to wrap around his girthy cock, fully aware of what he liked and how to please him, like the good sex toy you were.
Calisto cursed, voice low and guttural as your hand closed around his length. He groaned into your mouth, hips bucking slightly to seek more friction and pleasure. "You little minx," he murmured, his voice laced with mocking amusement, yet filled with desire.
His large hands grasped your ass, squeezing possessively before lifting you off the ground with ease. With little time to adjust, your back hit the rocky wall of the tower with a thud, clothed bulge pressed against your open hole, held back only by the thin fabric of his garment yet still doing its job as the pressure alone sent pulsing pleasure straight to your rock hard cock.
Taking advantage of your exposed neck with how much you leaned back your head obediently, his mouth moved down, stubble scratching pleasantly as lips and tongue leaf a trail of love in their wake. "What should I call you now, your highness?" he whispered, voice a low rumble filled with promise. "What would you like your master to call you?"
"Who cares," you gasped out, your grip on his cock tightening, hips moving to seek friction. “Call me whatever you want…”
"Then I can just call you my slave, eh?" he suggested, his voice a low growl. "Would you like that, my whore? Being my pet for the rest of your life?“
"Fuck y-yes," stammering as the grip on your ass tightened, fingers digging into your flesh and no doubt leaving heavy prints there. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice now a low, triumphant growl, hand leaving your ass to depart the garment he had on, it immediately falling away to reveal his thick and hard length ready again.
The blunt head pressed against your hole, slip inside smoothly thanks to the previous fucking that had left you gaping and well-used, body welcoming him, hips moving to seek always more.
He began to move, hips setting a steady rhythm, cock sliding in and out with ease thanks to the lubrication by his early release, brushing against every sensitive spot and drawing moans and gasps from your lips.
Calisto's forehead pressed against yours, breath hot and ragged on your face. "You feel so fucking good, slave," he growled, voice filled with pleasure and mind fogged by desire. "So fucking tight and perfect. By the gods, you were made for me, weren't you?"
You could only moan in response, body arching from the cold rocks behind and into his sculptured build.
Calisto's pace increased, cock slamming into your prostate while his abs left imprints into your own abdomen with how much force he put into each thrust. You could feel his body tensing, cock swelling inside to indicate how close he was.
With a final, powerful thrust, he came, seed filling you in thick spurts just in time for your own release to follow, body convulsing and cock pulsing.
His forehead remained pressed against yours while heavily panting, savoring the warm and tight grip your body had for him. "The only good thing Persia made," he whispered, voice filled with possessiveness and pride as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, those strong hands on your thighs holding you up against the wall.
His completely and irrevocably, you wouldn't have it any other way.
Summary: Joel’s wound tight when the silence Ellie left behind grows too heavy. One night, you give him the relief he won’t ask for and he takes it, rough and unrelenting.
Tags: a request that I received <3. Set in The Last of Us Part 2. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Established relationship. Age Gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. bottom male reader. Size difference. Blowjob (R giving). Anal sex.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
Words count: 3000
He hadn’t told you what happened with Ellie, hadn’t so much as looked at you after he got back until tonight. The house creaked with the slow stretch of old timber settling in for the night, the fire crackled low in the hearth.
Everything was muffled, but not silent. The walls groaned with age beneath the distant push of the wind outside and the floorboards beneath your knees creaked like bones remembering movement. There was no low strum of his guitar, no trace of the music he played so beautifully, just the wet, rhythmic muffles of your mouth dragging over his cock.
Knees planted wide on the scuffed hardwood, thighs sore, spine bent in that perfect forward tilt to keep your throat aligned as his cock stretched your mouth open, slow but insistent, weighted heavy on your tongue and dripping thick, bitter precum across your palate.
His head was tipped back, resting against the worn cushion of the couch. The flannel shirt he had on was shoved open and barely hanging on, the sweat at the center of his chest cooling in slow rivulets, catching in the dips of scar tissue and hair that dusted the ridge of his sternum. His abdomen flexed in soft tremors beneath the planes of his stomach, tightening every time your nose kissed his pelvis. The firelight painted his throat in copper shadows, glinting off the slight stubble and the edge of his gritted teeth, where every grunt and half-muttered curse threatened to break loose.
Every few strokes he let out these groans that caught in his chest, or that stuttering Southern fuck drawn out on the exhale when you swallowed around him just right. It was low, broken, like he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of hearing him lose control.
You felt it in the twitch of his thighs under your palms, in the way his hand stayed locked in your hair, not pulling but just holding.
Your nose pressed into the coarse thatch at the base of his cock, breathing in the sharp musk of him, throat pulsing around him as you took him deeper than was smart.
You were drowning in the weight of him, tongue aching from the effort of flattening, curling and milking every inch you could manage. Your jaw ached from the fullness of him, from the effort of staying open wide enough to take the length and girth that Joel Miller carried.
Fuck, you loved the way he sounded when he hits the back of your throat, tongue curled along the underside of his cock, mapping the pulsing vein that ran from base to head. His hips jerked too rough for a second, but you forced yourself to hold steady, let your throat spasm tight around him.
“S’tight, shit—look at you,” he muttered, voice gravel and ash, one hand dragging down to cradle your jaw as you bobbed slowly and messy.
“Been down there so long—Hnnnh… thass it, fuckin’—shit, so good to me,” he grunted, breathing through grit teeth, one hand still braced in your hair, keeping you close and locked down.
You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch and hiss, hips canting forward again too fast. You choked a bit that time, throat clenching tight around the girth of him and the sound you made went straight through him. Joel’s thighs tensed, his breath stuttered and his hand slid down the back of your neck like he was grounding himself more than you.
“Easy,” he rasped. “Mouth on you’s fuckin’ dangerous.”
You couldn’t speak, so you showed him by hollowing your cheeks and let your tongue curl just under the ridge, let him feel the slick glide and tight suction.
He was close. You could feel it in the way he stopped fighting the groans now, letting them fall from his mouth with each slow pump of his hips. In the way his hand tightened, his fingers trembling against your scalp.
“Gonna… fuck, you better—hnnnhh—” He never finished the warning. He didn’t need to.
You buried him deep, held him there and felt the full spurts of hot come flooding the back of your throat as his whole body went taut. He groaned something wrecked and guttural, teeth clenched, hand cradling your jaw while you swallowed and didn’t stop until you milked the last drops.
Head now tipped back against the couch as he fell back down slowly, the thick column of his neck exposed in the golden hush of firelight, the muscles taut beneath the sweat-slick skin like cords straining to hold something heavy in place.
The light from the hearth flickered across the hard edge of his jaw, across the deep lines carved into his cheekbones, across the thick stubble that dusted his throat and jawline in silvered streaks. He looked drained but too stubborn to admit it.
That distant, hollow stare stayed fixed to the ceiling, that faraway look that made the whole room feel colder.
So you crawled up slow, palms brushing against the meat of his thighs, then his abdomen, the hard plane of his stomach twitching under your touch. You moved like someone crossing a minefield: respectful, careful, but with no intention of stopping. Not until you were straddling him properly, bare thighs draped across his as the weight of your body settled on his lap.
Joel made a low sound in his chest, something between a grunt and a sigh, but didn’t move. Not until you leaned forward, chest brushing his, breath ghosting along his jaw.
He grumbled at that, which rumbled through him like distant thunder. His head rolled forward slowly, neck muscles flexing and he stared down at you but not at your face.
His eyes landed on your chest, gaze dark and unreadable, lashes thick and shadowed by his brow.
Wide palms settled on your waist in a firm grip, callused fingers curling around your hips like this was where you belonged.
Your hips rolled forward in a slow, deliberate grind, the bare curve of your ass dragging lazily over his thighs, brushing his softening cock. Your own slid up the faint trail of hair on his abdomen, all of this to stir the bear.
Speaking of which.
Joel exhaled through his nose with disbelief, his head lolling back again for a second as your weight ground across him. The muscles in his jaw flexed tight and when his eyes cut down to you, it was possible to see that twitch again at the corner of his mouth. A subtle, exasperated smirk that wasn’t quite fond, it was equal parts warning and affection.
“Give me a second, for Christ’s sake. ’Less you like the sound’a my hips crackin’ when I roll you over.” His voice was rougher than usual, the Southern drawl thicker than molasses from the strain of release and memory.
You bit your lip at that, chuckling low, not backing off in the slightest. If anything, you rolled your hips a little harder, enough to shift the angle of pressure and feel the twitch beneath you, the involuntary kind that meant part of him was already thinking about giving it to you again.
“You’re a whiny, cranky bastard. All that muscle and no stamina.” you scoffed, and brought your hand up to cradle his cheek, dragging your thumb across the bristle of his beard, slow and teasing.
His eyes narrowed and you watched that flicker of challenge pass through them, the way it always did when you gave him shit.
“You keep talkin’ like that, I’ll make sure you’re walkin’ funny tomorrow.” He muttered, the threat in his voice dry and almost lazy. His hand curled tighter at your waist, thumb digging harder into your hip as a hint of warning there.
You grinned, fingers curling deeper into the coarse line of his beard, thumb dragging up to the edge of his mouth, where that smirk was twitching into a scowl.
His eyes pierced right through you like you were the problem he needed to solve, that intimidation wasn’t an act.
Joel Miller was scary.
Terrifying when he got that look in his eyes like he was seconds away from either fucking you senseless or dragging you out by the scruff of your neck.
And it made you want him more.
Because under all that rage and steel, was a man who’d forgotten how to ask for anything. Help, comfort, love. He shoved it down until it festered and hardened and cracked around the edges.
That’s why you didn’t flinch when his eyes bored into you like he was trying to figure out why the fuck you cared.
You shifted in his lap, your hand never left his cheek, your other still firm on his shoulder, thumb dragging along the dense muscle under his flannel. Now, as you leaned in a closer, forehead nearly brushing his, your tone changed.
“Did she have fun?”
For a second you saw something flicker behind his eyes, a crack in the stone.
“She laughed,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. “At the start.”
Just that. Just enough to bleed with implication. You didn’t press further. Would never push him for what he wasn’t ready to give.
You leaned your head in until your brow pressed to his, breath mingling and let the silence stretch for a second.
“She’s a good kid,” you murmured. “Hell of a lot like you, too.”
He tensed, the frustration coiled again in his jaw, the flicker of doubt re-light behind his eyes like a match struck too close to an open wound. You pressed on anyway, slow and calm.
You let your fingers drift along his temple. “You keep everything locked in like that makes it easier. You think if you keep quiet, you’re protecting people. But really it’s you who’s paying the price.”
His eyes closed. Just a second. As if those words pressed a thumb right into a bruise.
“I know you think you’re too far gone, or too broken, or too—fuck, I don’t know—too old to be fixed. You’re not a bad man, Joel. You’re someone who’s been through hell and still gives a fuck. She still loves you, y’know. Even if she’s hurt.”
He finally looked at you again and his stare wasn’t blank anymore. It was burning. Like something finally broke open behind his eyes and he couldn’t shove it back down.
His hands jerked tighter on your hips, spine no longer slack against the cushion, the muscle in his arms flexing under your touch as he dragged you closer until he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
His beard scratched across your throat, bristly and warm, the coarseness scraping a low gasp out of your lungs as his breath rushed hot against your pulse. You felt the wet drag of his exhale on your skin. The tremble in his grip as his fingers dug so deep into your waist they left dents.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You just gave her time. A chance.”
His breath came slow, warm against the sweat-damp skin of your neck, each exhale threading with heat that curled down your spine and settled heavy in your gut. Joel hadn’t moved from the crook of your neck, his beard scratching softly every time his mouth shifted.
You weren’t moving anymore, just sitting in his lap, your cock pinned between your stomach and the iron weight of his abdomen.
His hands hadn’t loosened and his face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed tight to your skin like he couldn’t get close enough and you felt his shoulders tremble, not a sob, but that edge, a brutal restraint that defined him.
He made a low, guttural growl that vibrated against your throat, a sound scraped up from somewhere deep and gutted inside him. His grip crushed tighter on your hips, fingers digging hard enough to make you ache in the best way as he dragged you down, forcing the full weight of your body against his throbbing, thick and hard cock.
“Quiet now,” he muttered, an husky, grounded drawl of his voice curling around the words. “Ain’t wanna hear nothin’ but my name off your lips.”
A crooked smile formed before you could hold it back and he knew it was there. Could hear it in your voice when you leaned in to whisper, “You really want me quiet?” you murmured, cocky even as your breath stuttered from how hard he was beneath you.
That was all you got out before Joel’s teeth sank into the junction of your neck and shoulder hard enough to rip the breath from your lungs. His mouth dragged back with a rough scrape of beard and you swore your hips bucked down against him without your permission against the thick heat of him and he groaned, deep and feral, nose flaring as he pulled back, tongue flicking over the teeth-mark left behind like he wanted to taste the defiance out of you.
Hot breath dragging across your skin as he ducked his head and buried his face in your chest, biting your pec, sucking dark marks into your skin, lips closing hard around your nipple and tugging until you hissed through clenched teeth.
“F-fuck, Joel—”
You arched back, spine bowing as his hands worked you open from behind, thumbs circling, pressing deeper, coaxing your hole open with rough little twists. Those wide, callused palms engulfing the swell with no hesitation or softness.
He squeezed once to feel the whole shape of you. Fingers sank in deep, parting your cheeks with a bruising pressure that left you gasping. The heel of his palm dug into the small of your back, forcing your hips forward as his thumbs dragged along the cleft of your ass, parting you more for him.
Your head dropped forward against his, teeth grit as he breached you with one thick finger.
“Sh-shit—Joel—” you grit out, jaw tight, fingers scrabbling into his shoulders. You weren’t trying to stop him, just brace yourself. He groaned into your sternum. “That’s it,” he muttered, teeth draggin’ lower, tongue hot on your belly. “Tight like that—shit—hold on to me like that, boy…”
Every drag of his beard stung like fire, but you were shivering now, muttering curses that broke into moans as he worked the finger deeper, pumping slow, twisting cruel when he hit a spot that made your thighs spasm.
“Fuuuck,” you hissed. Your eyes flew open, but no more words came when that second finger slidin’ in thick and deep. Teeth sank into his shoulder due to the burn that tore up your spine like a live wire and you grunted into his skin as your hole stretched around him.
The pressure from his fingers built, twisted, drove into you harder and when he curled them just right, you cried out and his hand on your thigh gripped like a vice.
“There it is,” he ground out, voice tight and breathin’ heavy. “Right there, huh? That’s the fuckin’ spot.” His jaw flexed while his fingers curled deeper, meaner.
You choked, mouth open, hips grinding against his hand before you even realized what you were doing.
When he pulled them out, the loss made you whimper. His hands were already back on your hips before you could even shift. Big and brutal, thumbs pressing into the meat of your ass, fingertips digging sharp into your waist like he was physically restraining himself from flipping you over and fucking the breath out of you then and there.
But he didn’t move, just stared up at you from beneath that heavy, furrowed brow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the flex of tension beneath the beard.
You braced one hand against his shoulder, the other sliding down to grip his thick shaft, still slick from your mouth, flushed and leaking. His breath hitched when you lined him up, the tip dragging hot across your rim, your own body trembling from the stretch to come.
You pressed down slow and he grunted, deep and low, his hands crushed into your waist as the head of his cock slipped in, tight and unforgiving, dragging every inch of frustration through the ring of your body.
A sweet burn that brought pleasure and agony as his cock split you open with that blunt, unforgiving girth and still you pushed, forcing yourself down until your ass was flush against his lap and his cock was buried deep inside, pressed snug against that spot that made your breath catch and your eyes roll back.
Joel’s head tipped forward, breath catching in his throat and he groaned against your chest. A hot, shuddering exhale of air that made you throb around him.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice muffled against your skin. You couldn’t speak, just clenched around him, muscles fluttering at the stretch and his hips jolted upward instinctively, driving deeper into that already brutal press.
Your thighs tensed as you rose, only to sink back down with a wet slap of skin on skin, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your voice come out in choked, bitten-off moans.
Joel cursed under his breath, hands locking tighter around your waist. Your thighs slapped against his, every thrust downward shoved a groan from him, sometimes muffled into your neck, sometimes dragged out through clenched teeth.
One of his hands slid to your ass, cupping it hard, spreading you open to take more. The other stayed firm at your waist, holding you in place. His breath was ragged now, teeth grazing your throat between murmurs.
“Goddamn… keep goin’. Just like that.” he growled, one hand sliding up your back, holding you tighter, voice hot against your neck, beard scraping raw against your throat.
You fucked yourself on him harder, bouncing now, thighs flexing as you rose and dropped, walls wide as he rearranged your insides and forced every nerve open.
Fingernails dug into his shoulders as you gripped them for dear life, sweat dripping from your jaw down onto his chest. He met your rhythm with short, brutal thrusts from below, matching your bounce, driving up into you with every slap of flesh on flesh.
“Joel—fuck—I—” you whimpered and he cut you off with a growl, lips hot on your ear, one hand slipping up to the back of your neck and gripping.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice thick, grinding. “Don’t talk. Just feel it. That’s what you need, ain’t it?”
His cock hit that spot again and again and again, every thrust pushing you closer, dragging your orgasm up from your spine until you were shaking in his lap, voice cracking with every downward thrust and when you came, your frame jerked, back arched, cock spurting thick, white ribbons across his stomach, painting his abs and the trail of hair leading down to where you were still taking every inch of him inside you.
His mouth clung to your throat when his whole body jerked, a sound punched out of him that was half groan, half growl as his cock pulse inside you, thick spurts spilling deep and hot. He clutched you tight against him as he came, arms like steel bands enveloping your frame.
You stayed seated on him for a longer time than either of you needed to, really. Your chest pressed to his, breath slipping out in quiet, broken pulls. His face stayed buried in the crook of your neck, breath cooling the slick trail of sweat he’d left there with every grunt and curse.
“Y’okay?” you whispered, one hand moving slow to comb through the hair at the base of his neck.
“Should be me askin’ that,” he muttered, his stubble scraped along your collarbone as he exhaled hard. His voice was low and hoarse, worn thin by all the breath he’d forced out with every thrust.
“Y’done brooding now?” you teased gently, shifting your hips just a little to feel him again. He hissed a breath through his teeth and gave your waist a warning squeeze.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only that low, tired affection that you’d learned to read through his roughness.
You pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and lingering. “Might not know what’s goin’ on in that thick head of yours,” you whispered, “but I do know you don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”
Joel didn’t move. But his breath hitched before sliding one hand up the back of your shirt and splayed it there, holding you flush against him.
“You keep sayin’ that,” he murmured, voice rasping at the edges. “One day I might believe it.”
You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something sad. Because he meant it, he wanted to believe it. But Joel was built out of loss and sacrifice and he hadn’t learned yet how to let anyone else carry the weight.
“Could barely sit straight before you even finished,” you teased, trying to keeping it light, knowing he’d bristle otherwise. “If you ask me, I think you’re tryin’ to break me in half.”
That got a reaction. A faint huff, almost a laugh.
His hands twitched like he meant to lift you off but didn’t quite follow through. “I gotcha,” he murmured instead. “Hang on.”
You shifted with a quiet groan, lifting yourself slowly off him slick and slow, making you both hiss at the stretch. His hands caught your hips on instinct, holding you steady as you dropped beside him on the couch, legs shaky, body still pulsing.
Neither of you spoke for a bit, room quiet and full of the aftermath. Joel sat there with his legs still spread, streaks of your release painting his stomach, glistening through the coarse trail of hair leading down his abdomen.
You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting your fingers trace lazy circles on his thigh and he didn’t push you off or pull away.
His hand slid around your back, palm splayed warm between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there against him as he let himself rest with you and, for a man like him, that was as close as he’d ever come to saying he was safe.
SUMMARY — As a freshly turned 21-year-old, you were buzzing with excitement — the kind that comes with stepping into a new world of freedom, late nights, and the legal thrill of your first drink. However, the night proved to be quite more exciting than you expected.
WARNING! 18+MDNI. Sexual Themes.
WORDS! 15.2k
AUTHOR'S NOTE! Heyyyyyy😌, so here we are with the first installment of Marvelon University ( which was the funniest University name I just thought of ). This is also my first Marvel fic, which is a whole new chapter, but anyway enjoy your reading ✨
AS A freshly turned 21-year-old, you were buzzing with excitement — the kind that comes with stepping into a new world of freedom, late nights, and the legal thrill of your first drink. The air outside was electric, pulsing with the hum of city life, and tonight was all about you. Your fraternity brothers — a lineup of Marvel Universe legends who somehow managed to balance heroics with the chaotic fun of college — had declared it your "official initiation into adulthood."
The moment you stepped out of your dorm, the crew was waiting, grinning like a pack of wolves ready for a night of beautiful disaster.
Peter Parker was the first to spot you, his trademark shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The sweet, brainy golden boy of the group, Peter, had that quiet confidence that made him almost unfairly attractive — soft eyes, lean muscles hidden beneath his casual hoodie, and a charm that made people melt without realizing it. He gave you a playful nudge, his voice teasing: "Don't say I didn't warn you. Tonight's gonna test your liver and your life choices."
Johnny Storm, on the other hand, was already hyped before the party even began. The Human Torch himself — impetuous, loud, and reckless — had been planning this night for weeks. "Finally!" he shouted, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "Our baby's grown up! Time to light it up — literally and figuratively." His confidence radiated like his flames: cocky, dazzling, and impossible to ignore.
Then there was Pietro Maximoff, who had shown up late — naturally. The speedster appeared in a blur, his silver hair and that signature smirk already in place. "I couldn't miss this," he said, tossing you a wink. "You only turn twenty-one once, and someone has to make sure Johnny doesn't burn the bar down."
Erik Killmonger stood slightly apart from the chaos, leaning against a streetlight with that calm, dangerous energy that made everyone instinctively respect him. His sharp eyes watched over the group like a strategist plotting ten moves ahead. When you walked up, he gave a rare grin and said, "Tonight, you're one of us. But remember — drink smart, not sloppy." Then, after a beat, he added with a smirk, "Or at least try."
And finally, Joaquín Torres, the heart of the crew. Always grounded, always genuine. He clapped you on the back, his warm smile balancing out Johnny's mischief and Pietro's arrogance. "Don't worry," he said in his steady, reassuring tone. "We'll make sure you survive the night. Maybe."
The five of them together were chaos and charisma personified — a brotherhood that blended intellect, heroism, and pure idiotic fun.
As you all piled into Johnny's sleek car, the night stretched ahead — glowing city lights, music thumping in the distance, and the promise of unforgettable memories. This was more than just a birthday celebration. It was your induction into the wild, glittering, intoxicating world of adulthood — and with these men by your side, it was destined to be legendary.
THE BAR was already alive when you pushed through the door—low amber lights skimming across polished wood, a neon sign buzzing above shelves of bottles like trophy glass. Music thumped through the floorboards, a bassline you felt in your ribs. The air smelled like citrus peels, spilled beer, and something sugary burning off a citrus twist.
"Birthday rules," Johnny declared, flagging the bartender with a two-finger salute. "We start easy, climb stupid."
A little parade of glasses landed in front of you—clear, gold, honeyed, ruby. Peter slid you a water with a sheepish grin ("Hydration is hot, trust me"), while Joaquín squeezed your shoulder. "Sip, don't sprint," he said, though he was already laughing because John had ordered a round of tequila.
You lifted the first shot. Salt on the knuckle—sharp. Tequila—hot, vegetal, a sun-bright punch that lit your chest. Lime—bright relief. Warmth poured down your throat like liquid courage, lighting up a spark. The second was smoother—vanilla-soft whiskey that smoldered slowly. The third was clean and crisp—vodka that tasted like a dare. Then came something sweet and dangerous, amaretto laced with cherries, and finally a blue curacao concoction that looked like a pool you could fall into.
Quick cuts, a birthday montage: the clink of glass; Pietro appearing and disappearing at your elbow with a grin and a fresh round ("I swear these are smaller"); Erik tapping the bar once, steady eyes on yours—pace yourself; Johnny toasting you with a wink; Peter watching your reaction to each sip like he was memorizing an equation written across your face.
Heat bloomed beneath your skin, bright and effervescent. The room softened at the edges, not blurry, just warmer—like someone turned the saturation up on everything you liked. The music pulled you toward the dance floor; your boys followed without a word.
You did not dance innocently.
Johnny was first, of course—reckless orbit. He slid in behind you, hands hovering at your waist until you leaned back and granted permission. He laughed in your ear, breath hot, hips guiding yours into the beat. He smelled like cedar and cologne and trouble. "Birthday star's got moves," he murmured, and when your body answered his, he groaned like a promise. Fingers traced the hem of your shirt, not grabbing, just reminding you he was there, ready to play at the edge of a spark.
Then Pietro stole you—one second Johnny, the next a silver flash, and you were spun into a new rhythm. Pietro danced like he lived: fast, fluid, smugly precise. He twirled you through the crowd, keeping you close enough to feel laughter shake his chest. His palm settled on the small of your back, sending a firm heat through the fabric. "Careful," he teased, eyes traveling your face like a secret route. "If you move like that, you'll make me misbehave." You rolled your hips against his thigh, and he hissed, grin breaking into something hungry.
Peter cut in with an apologetic smile that didn't hide the way his gaze dropped to your mouth. He wasn't flashy; he was focused. He found the pocket of the beat and locked in with you, hands respectful at your waist until you slid them higher. He blushed—actually blushed—and then leaned forward, forehead nearly touching yours. "You okay?" he asked over the music, voice soft but threaded with heat. When you nodded, his fingers flexed, pulling you closer so your bodies brushed on every downbeat. The sweetness of him made the tension worse—in the best way.
Erik didn't take; he claimed. He stepped in with the measured confidence of a man who saw three moves ahead and still chose the one that made him sweat. One hand bracketed your hip, the other found your wrist and lifted your arm around his neck. He guided you through the crowd like you were a weapon he'd trained with—familiar, deadly, beautiful. "Eyes on me," he said, not loud, not soft—just certain. You obeyed. The way he watched your mouth when you laughed, the way his thumb pressed into your hip to adjust your angle—nothing accidental. When you rolled your body against his, he exhaled a quiet, approving curse that coiled low in your stomach.
Joaquín pulled you into something playful and sinuous—hips, shoulders, the kind of dancing that made eye contact its own language. He laughed when you matched him beat for beat, that open, genuine sound cutting through the noise like fresh air. He brushed your hair back from your temple with two fingers, an intimate little check-in, and then dipped you so smoothly your breath caught. "Having fun?" he asked, voice pitched just for you. "Because I am." When he brought you back up, your noses nearly touched. He didn't push—he hovered—letting you choose.
By the time the song changed, you felt it—the magnetic thread connecting each of them to you in a different shade. The way Johnny's heart asked for ruin. Pietro's charm begged a chase. Peter's tenderness promised devotion. Erik's power demanded surrender. Joaquín's steadiness offered home. They wore it cool, like men who respected the same person enough to share the room and the moment, but the glances they traded over your shoulder said everything: they saw each other, they saw you, and no one was pretending anymore.
Back at the bar, another quick montage: condensation sliding down a glass; a slice of orange bitten in half between your teeth and Johnny's; Pietro's fingers brushing yours when he handed you water; Peter's thumb wiping a drop of liquor from your lip, his breath hitching; Erik's palm at the small of your back, anchoring you without caging; Joaquín's hand laced with yours under the counter, gentle squeeze that said steady.
"Birthday tradition," Johnny announced, drumming a rhythm on the bar. "The twenty-one promise: you pick the night you want, and we make sure it's the one you remember."
"Or," Pietro added, grin wicked, "the one you can't forget."
Peter ducked his head, smiling like he couldn't help it. "Only if you want."
Erik's gaze held yours, unreadable and hot. "Your call."
Joaquín's thumb stroked once across your knuckles. "We follow your lead."
Somewhere between the sugar on your tongue and the bass in your bones, you realized it—the boys each had their own version of a crush on you, and they'd been holding it like a secret they were all quietly, respectfully sharing. Tonight felt like a door you could open as far as you wanted.
On the dance floor again, lights flickering gold across your skin, you turned and tugged one of them closer by the collar—your answer written in the way your body fit to his. Four pairs of eyes watched, hungry but patient, as if they'd all agreed: it's your birthday... and this is the perfect night to explore precisely how far you want to take it.
YOU lifted your hand to catch the bartender's eye. Bottles glowed like stained glass in the amber light—gin, rye, a cobalt blue you'd already learned to distrust. The counter smelled of citrus oil and smoke. Behind you, your boys were still on the floor, laughing too loudly, hips loose with the music. You could feel Johnny's whistle more than hear it, Pietro's flash of silver, Peter's soft grin, Erik's watchful calm, Joaquín's steady pulse in the corner of your vision.
"Six shots," you called over the bass, tapping the menu with two fingers. The bartender nodded, wrists working quick—metal jiggers ringing, liquor snapping into glasses in clean, bright waterfalls.
That's when you felt it first—eyes on you. Not the quick skim of a stranger, but something deliberate, landing and staying.
You turned just enough to find him across the bar: dirty-blonde hair pushed back like he'd run a hand through it a hundred times, and it still fell right; blue eyes so clear they cut through the haze of neon; a jawline that looked carved, clean and strong, like the rest of him. He stood with an easy kind of posture—shoulders square, weight grounded, like he was built to hold a line and never let it break. Navy Henley under a worn leather jacket, sleeves shoved to the forearms; there was a pale nick at one eyebrow that caught the light when he smiled.
The moment stretched—one beat, two—long enough for the music to fade into the background. He didn't glance away. He smiled, small and certain, like he recognized you from a dream he trusted.
You looked back—didn't drop it, didn't play coy. Something in your chest did a bright, traitorous flip.
The bartender set the first three shots in a neat row. "Other three in a second," he shouted.
"Take your time," you said, but your eyes were already back on the stranger.
He decided before you did. He moved through the press of bodies without jostling anyone, like the crowd parted for him out of sheer respect. Up close, he smelled clean—soap and winter air, a breath of cedar. Those eyes were even bluer at talking distance, ringed with laugh lines that made his face warmer than the chiseled edges should allow.
"Hey," he said, voice low and steady, the kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard. He offered a hand—not pushy, just present. "I'm Steve."
His palm was warm, calloused, the shake firm but gentle, a gentleman's habit that somehow didn't feel old-fashioned at all. Your name on your tongue sounded different when you gave it to him; he repeated it softly, like committing it to memory. The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Birthday?" he asked, eyes flicking to the cluster of shots and then over your shoulder to the pack of beautiful chaos that was your crew on the dance floor.
"Twenty-one," you admitted, grin crooked.
"Congratulations." A beat. "And condolences." The smile sharpened into something wry. "First rounds can be a minefield."
"Learning that in real time."
The bartender returned with the last three glasses. Steve glanced at the half-dozen lined up, then back at you. "Can I give you a hand? Looks like a two-trip situation, unless you've got superpowers I should know about."
You slid one glass his way without thinking. "I'll allow it."
He gathered three in a practiced grip, leaving enough space that your fingers brushed his knuckles. Heat jumped between you—unexpected, unforced. He felt it too; it showed in the brief pause, the way his eyelashes lowered and lifted again like a recalibration.
"Lead the way," he said, and when you turned, his palm hovered at the small of your back—not possession, protection, a shield against elbows and careless shoulders. He matched your pace through the crowd, a quiet anchor.
At the edge of the dance floor, your boys clocked him instantly. Johnny's eyebrows shot up—well, hello; Pietro's smirk curved like a dare; Peter's gaze bounced from Steve to you, soft curiosity sparking; Erik's expression didn't change much, but you could feel the assessment click into place; Joaquín gave a subtle nod that read, Be cool.
You set the shots down to cheers and groans. "Upgrade," Johnny announced, eyeing Steve's jacket like he wanted to borrow it. Pietro muttered something about competition; Peter covered a smile with the heel of his hand. Erik's eyes slid to you: You good? You nodded once. Joaquín stuck out a hand, easy and open. "Appreciate the assist, man."
"Anytime," Steve said, meeting his shake with that same grounded steadiness. Then his attention returned to you, as if the room blurred at the edges when you were in frame. "Mind if I stick around for one?" he asked, not presuming, making it your call.
You tipped a shot glass toward him. "Only if you toast with me."
He took it, blue eyes locked on yours, and smiled like you'd just set the night on a different course. "To twenty-one," he said. "To good choices—" the quick glint of humor "—or at least good stories."
Glasses tapped—bright, clean. The liquor burned warm. And for a heartbeat before the music surged back, it was just you and the man with the soldier's spine and the sky-blue eyes, both of you aware that something new had just walked into the room and introduced itself by name.
THE DJ slid into a track that felt like warm thunder, and you let it roll through you, loose and laughing, while Steve's palm found the small of your back. He didn't crowd—he matched—meeting your hips on the downbeat, guiding on the turn, catching your hand when the crowd surged so you never lost your footing. He smelled clean—soap, winter air, a hint of leather—and moved with the unshowy control of someone who could carry weight without making you feel it.
You weren't trying to learn him. Not his last name, not his story. Tonight was about the glow in your veins and the neon on your skin, a perfect now you'd fold into memory by morning. Still, the way he looked at you—steady, blue-eyed, present—made it stupidly easy to flirt.
"New in town?" he asked, voice low and unhurried, mouth close enough that you felt the words brush your ear as you turned under his arm.
"Guilty," you said, letting your fingers toy with the edge of his jacket before you released it, playful. "Transferring to Marvelon University."
His brows tipped, impressed. "Welcome to the jungle. What're you studying?"
You grinned, riding a slow grind through the chorus. "Heroism & Public Defense."
"That's a mouthful," he said, amused and approving all at once.
"It's a lot of things," you teased back. "Crisis response, ethics, field ops, de-escalation, policy—how not to break the city while you're trying to save it. The boring parts that keep the exciting parts from becoming disasters."
He laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that you felt in his chest when you drifted closer. "Sounds like the right kind of hard."
You shrugged, heat blooming across your shoulders as the lights washed gold. "I got accepted into my father's fraternity, too—legacy bid. Met the guys this summer during orientation activities, service projects, and some training here and there. Haven't been separated since."
"Good crew?"
"The best chaos," you said, eyes bright. "Smart, stupid, protective. They turn Tuesdays into legends."
"Dangerous combination."
"The fun kind."
Unnoticed by you, your boys had formed their own constellation at the edges of the floor. Johnny lounged on a rail like he owned the bar's oxygen supply, half-smile carved wicked and fond, eyes tracking your sway with a drummer's instinct. Pietro flickered in and out of vantage points—one moment by the stairs, the next at the far speaker—cataloguing angles with a fox's curiosity. Peter hovered near the bar, not hovering at all, hands tucked in his pockets, the softest grin sneaking out whenever the lights slid over your face. Erik leaned on a pillar, still as a blade, gaze measuring but not meddling—calculations made, conclusions withheld. Joaquín stood a step back from the others, arms folded, the slightest nod ready if you looked his way, the kind of green light only family gives.
Steve spun you, then reeled you back in, his thumb a brief question at your hip. You answered by closing the gap, laughing when he matched the shift, all instinct and respect. The song eased into a slower pulse, and the two of you settled into it, flirtation turning wordless—eye contact held a heartbeat too long, breath traded in the space of a half-smile.
"So Marvelon, huh?" he murmured. "You planning to like it here?"
"I'm planning to take it one beat at a time," you said, mouth close to his, not closing. "Start with a semester. Maybe a sunrise."
"Strong plan." His eyes flicked to the cluster of shot glasses on a high-top where your night had begun, then back to you. "And the fraternity—your dad's house?"
"Yeah." You let the word hum. "He's smug about it. I pretend to hate it. We both lie."
He grinned—small, knowing. "Tradition has its place."
"So does trouble," you countered, tipping your chin. "Which one are you?"
"Depends who I'm dancing with."
You didn't ask for more, and he didn't press, both of you honoring the unspoken rule of a perfect stranger's night: keep it light, keep it true, keep it here. The room blurred to the essentials—bass, heat, the sure weight of his hand as he shepherded you through a knot of bodies without ever making you feel crowded. When the lights stuttered blue-white across his face, the scar at his brow flashed; you filed it as a detail, not a story.
"City's big," he said finally, a smile folding at the corner of his mouth. "But not that big. If I see you on campus, I'll pretend this doesn't make me lucky."
You let the tease sit between you like a coin catching light. "If you see me on campus," you said, swaying close enough to feel the promise coil, "you can buy me coffee and argue public policy."
He huffed a soft laugh. "Deal."
You repeated his name back to him, tasting it like good whiskey, and the song broke into its final run.
For the length of that last chorus, you let the city be everything it promised—loud, bright, kind. You let Steve be exactly what he was—steady hands, blue eyes, a smile that didn't ask for later. And somewhere behind the lights, your brothers held the perimeter, calm, quiet, and entirely yours.
THE HALLWAY outside the bathrooms pulsed with bass and neon spill, but the second the door swung shut behind you, the sound dropped to a muted throb—like the club's heartbeat was happening on the other side of a wall. Steve turned the lock with a quiet click that felt louder than it was, then looked at you—really looked—blue eyes asking a question before his hands even reached you.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Yes," you breathed, already smiling.
He crossed the tile in two easy strides. Warm palms slid to your waist, and in one smooth lift, he set you on the edge of the porcelain sink. The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and something smoky from the bar; the mirror caught the two of you in a sliver of light, your bodies framed by a flicker of neon from the hallway. His jacket creaked when he stepped between your knees, steadying you with a hand splayed at the small of your back, the other cupping your jaw like you were something valuable he didn't intend to drop.
The first kiss was unhurried and certain—heat wrapped in patience. Then it deepened, the kind that steals your balance even when you're already sitting, all breath and warmth and the press of him right where you needed him.
He tasted what your night had been: a bright hit of lime, the warmth of whiskey, the faint sweetness of something cherry-dark. You tasted winter air and cedar on him, clean and steady. He made a quiet sound into your mouth when you tugged lightly at the front of his Henley, and you felt it vibrate through his chest to yours.
His thumbs traced slow arcs at your hips, grounding you as the kiss grew heavier. The porcelain was cool beneath your thighs; his hands were not. He angled your face gently, deepening the seal, then eased back a breath to search your eyes—another silent check-in—before returning, slower this time, savoring. Your fingers slid up the column of his neck to the short hair at his nape; he exhaled against your lips, grateful and a little undone.
Outside, laughter spiked and faded. Inside, the room shrank to simple things: the fog blooming at the edges of the mirror, the rhythmic tap of the leaky faucet, the solid wall of his body between your knees, the sure way he held you without hurrying you. He kissed like he did everything else tonight—grounded, careful, then suddenly, beautifully intense. When he finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, you could feel his smile curve against your mouth.
"Still good?" he asked, voice roughened at the edges.
"Better than," you whispered, tasting lime and heat and the beginning of a memory you knew would stay, even if the night didn't ask for anything more.
Your fingers, restless and curious, slid under the hem of his navy Henley, brushing the taut skin of his abdomen. His muscles tensed under your touch, a ripple of strength that felt carved and warm, each ridge of his toned abs flexing slightly as he leaned into you.
The contact was electric, a spark that made your pulse stutter, and you splayed your palms wider, mapping the hard planes of his stomach, the faint trail of hair leading downward, the heat of him radiating through your fingertips. Steve's breath hitched, a quiet sound that broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his blue eyes flickering open to meet yours—searching, questioning, but alight with want.
You didn't speak, didn't need to. Your hands tugged gently at the fabric, a silent request, and Steve answered without hesitation. He stepped back just enough to give himself room, his hands leaving your waist to grip the collar of his Henley. In one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his broad shoulders before slipping free, revealing a chest sculpted by discipline and purpose.
His skin was tanned, dusted with a faint scattering of golden hair across his pecs, a few pale scars catching the light—one thin line arcing across his left ribcage, another more minor nick near his collarbone, each a silent story you didn't ask for but couldn't help noticing.
The overhead light cast shadows that accentuated the lines of his muscles, the dip of his sternum, the subtle flex of his biceps as he tossed the shirt aside, letting it land in a careless heap beside his leather jacket.
He stepped back between your knees, the cool porcelain of the sink biting into your thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he closed the distance again. His hands found you immediately—one splaying at the small of your back, anchoring you against the sink's edge, the other sliding up to cradle your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear.
The kiss reignited, fiercer now, passion unfurling like a flame catching dry tinder. His bare chest pressed against you, warm and solid, the rapid thud of his heartbeat syncing with yours through the thin fabric of your shirt. You could feel the strength in him, restrained but present, like a current running just beneath the surface.
Your hands roamed higher, tracing the contours of his shoulders, the corded muscle of his arms, the smooth expanse of his back where it tapered to his waist. His skin was fever-warm, velvet over steel, and when your nails grazed his spine lightly, he exhaled a rough, grateful sound into your mouth, his grip tightening briefly at your hips.
The mirror behind you was nearly opaque now, fogged with the heat of your bodies, the air thick with the shared rhythm of your breaths. His lips left yours for a moment, trailing to the corner of your jaw, then lower, brushing the pulse point at your throat, each kiss deliberate, savoring, like he was memorizing the taste of you.
A hungry edge to it that made your toes curl in your shoes, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. When he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity, the scar at his brow a pale comma in the dim light.
"Still with me?" he asked, his voice low and rough, a rasp that carried the weight of the moment, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.
"More than," you murmured, your voice thick with heat, your fingers still pressed against the warm skin of his abs, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
The leaky faucet's steady tap-tap-tap was a metronome in the stillness, punctuating the charged silence between your breaths, the rhythm syncing with the rapid thud of your pulse.
You were bold, riding the electric current of the night, the glow of tequila and whiskey still humming in your veins, emboldening every move. The kiss had deepened into something fierce, a tangle of heat and want that left your lips tingling, your breath uneven.
Steve's bare chest pressed against you, his skin fever-warm under your palms, the hard planes of his abs flexing beneath your touch as you traced the contours of his body. Your lips left his, trailing a slow, deliberate path to his neck, brushing the taut skin just below his jaw where his pulse beat steady and strong. He tasted clean, faintly salty, with a hint of cedar lingering where his cologne met his skin. Your kisses were soft but purposeful, grazing the column of his throat, feeling the faint vibration of a low hum he didn't bother to hide.
Your fingers, restless and curious, drifted lower, skimming the ridges of his abs, the faint trail of golden hair that led downward, until they brushed the cool metal of his belt buckle. The contact sent a spark through you, a question forming in the pause. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—those clear blue irises flecked with silver, burning with intensity but softened by a patience that made your chest tighten.
"Okay?" you asked, your voice low, a little rough from the heat of the moment, your fingers hovering at the buckle, waiting for his answer.
Steve's gaze held yours, steady and unguarded, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice a quiet rasp, thick with want but grounded in certainty. His hand at your waist tightened briefly, a reassuring squeeze, before he leaned back slightly, giving you space to move.
You pushed off the sink, the cool porcelain leaving your thighs as you slid down, your boots scuffing softly against the black-and-white checkered tile. With a gentle nudge, you guided Steve to lean against the sink's edge, his broad shoulders settling against the fogged mirror, his hands bracing lightly on the porcelain for balance.
You sank to your knees in front of him, the tile cold and unyielding beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body.
The overhead light cast shadows across his frame, accentuating the lines of his chest, the taut muscles of his abdomen, the faint scars that marked his skin—one thin arc across his ribs, another smaller nick near his collarbone, each a quiet testament to a life lived boldly.
Your fingers moved to his belt, the leather worn smooth from use, the buckle a simple, brushed silver that glinted faintly in the dim light. You worked it open with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal echoing in the quiet, each sound amplified in the small space—the slide of the leather through the buckle, the faint creak of Steve's boots as he shifted his weight, the steady drip of the faucet.
His jeans hung low on his hips, the denim dark and slightly faded, hugging the lines of his thighs. As you tugged the zipper down slowly and intentionally, the fabric parted to reveal the outline of him through his black boxer briefs, the shape unmistakable—large, prominent, a bold presence that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken.
Steve's hand moved to your shoulder, not pushing, not guiding, just resting there, a warm, steady weight that grounded you. His other hand stayed braced on the sink, his knuckles whitening slightly as he watched you, his blue eyes half-lidded but intense, the scar at his brow catching the light like a punctuation mark. The air between you was thick, electric, every breath shared, every glance a conversation.
Then you leaned in, your hands resting lightly on his thighs, the denim rough under your palms, the muscle beneath firm and warm. Your gaze flicked up to meet his—those clear blue eyes, flecked with silver, burning with a mix of intensity and restraint, the scar at his brow a pale comma in the dim light.
He watched you, unblinking, his expression a blend of heat and trust, a silent invitation to lead. Emboldened by the night's electric current—the glow of tequila, whiskey, and cherry-dark amaretto still humming in your veins—you let your instincts take over, your movements deliberate, unhurried.
You tilted your head, your nose brushing against the fabric of his boxer briefs, the soft cotton warm from his body, the outline of his erection firm beneath. The contact was teasing, intimate, a slow exploration that drew a low, rough exhale from Steve, his fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the sink. The scent of him was stronger here—clean skin, a faint musk, the lingering cedar of his cologne—grounding and heady all at once.
You nuzzled closer, letting your breath warm the fabric, feeling the subtle twitch of his response, the tension in his thighs under your hands. His gaze never left you, steady and searing, a quiet acknowledgment of the moment you were building together.
With a slow, deliberate tug, you eased his boxer briefs down, freeing him. His dick sprang free, thick and heavy, the skin flushed and warm, veins faintly visible under the amber light. The sight made your breath catch, a pulse of heat coiling low in your stomach. You paused, letting the moment, the air thick with anticipation, the faucet's drip a steady counterpoint to the rapid thud of your heart.
You leaned in, your lips brushing the sensitive skin of his shaft, soft and exploratory, a kiss that was more whisper than pressure. He tasted clean, faintly salty, with a warmth that felt alive under your touch.
You pressed another kiss, then another, trailing along the length of him, each one deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitched, the way his hips shifted slightly, instinctively seeking more. Your hands slid up his thighs, anchoring yourself, your fingers digging lightly into the muscle as you worked, the denim of his jeans bunched around his knees, rough against your wrists.
Then you took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your lips parting to envelop the tip, the heat of him filling your senses. You moved with care, your tongue tracing the ridge beneath, teasing the sensitive underside until you felt his hand move to your shoulder, not guiding but resting there, a warm, steady weight that grounded you.
His breath came faster now, a low, ragged sound that broke the quiet, his knuckles whitening further against the sink. You took him deeper, setting a rhythm that was slow but firm, your lips sliding along his length, the warmth and weight of him grounding you even as it stoked the fire in your chest.
You held him there for a moment, the fullness overwhelming but controlled, your breath steady through your nose as you savored the heat, the pulse, the raw intimacy of the act.
Steve's control faltered, a low, guttural groan breaking from his chest, his hand on your shoulder tightening, fingers digging into your skin—not guiding, but anchoring, a reflex of someone teetering on the edge. His hips twitched faintly, an instinctive response he quickly checked, his knuckles whitening further against the porcelain as he fought to stay grounded.
You pulled back slowly, deliberately, your lips gliding along his dick, leaving a slick trail of saliva that glistened in the amber light, a thin thread connecting you as you eased off. The cool air hit the wet warmth of your mouth, a contrast that made your lips tingle, the taste of him—clean, musky, faintly salty—lingering on your tongue.
You paused, catching your breath, your hands still braced on his thighs, the denim rough against your wrists, the muscle beneath firm and warm, trembling slightly under your touch. You glanced up, meeting his gaze—his eyes half-lidded, burning with a raw intensity, the scar at his brow catching the light like a pale comma. His lips parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts, a faint flush spreading across his cheekbones, softening the sharp lines of his face.
Steve's mind was a tightly wound coil, every nerve sparking, every thought sharpened to a razor's edge. He's too good at this—too sure, too steady. Doesn't need me to lead, doesn't need me to say a word. The way you moved, deliberate and confident, was unraveling him, and he thought: God, I'm holding on by a thread here. Don't push him, don't rush—just let him take this where he wants.
The heat of your mouth, the rhythm you'd set, had nearly undone him, and the trust in your eyes when you glanced up—checking in, making sure—felt like a weight he wanted to carry forever.
He's giving me this, and it's more than I expected. Don't mess it up, Rogers. Just be here.
Before you could move again, Steve reached down, his hands finding your shoulders, warm and steady, his calloused fingers gentle but firm as he urged you up from the tile.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice low and rough, a rasp thick with want but softened by something tender.
You rose smoothly, your boots scuffing softly against the floor, and he pulled you into him, closing the small distance between you with a quiet urgency. His bare chest pressed against your shirt, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric, his heartbeat a rapid thud against your own.
His hands slid to your waist, one splaying at the small of your back to anchor you, the other cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was all heat and certainty, a collision of need and patience that stole your breath.
His tongue swept against yours, deliberate and unhurried, deepening the kiss with a rhythm that felt like a continuation of the night's pulse—tequila's sharp bite, whiskey's slow smolder, the cherry-dark sweetness of amaretto mingling with the clean, cedar-tinged taste of him. The kiss was a conversation, a give-and-take of warmth and pressure, his lips firm but yielding, his tongue teasing yours in a way that made your pulse stutter.
He thought: This—his mouth, his taste—it's better than I imagined. He's meeting me here, every step, every breath. I could lose myself in this, in him.
The way your lips moved against his, the faint catch in your breath, was grounding him even as it set him adrift.
Don't rush. Savor it. He's giving you this, and it's enough—more than enough. His fingers tightened briefly at your waist, a reflex of wanting to pull you closer, to feel every inch of you against him.
Your hand moved instinctively, sliding down his bare torso, tracing the ridges of his abs, the faint trail of golden hair leading downward. Your fingers found him, wrapping gently around his still-hard dick, warm and heavy in your hand, the skin flushed and slick from your earlier attention. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, your grip firm but unhurried, matching the rhythm of the kiss.
Each movement drew a low, quiet sound from Steve's throat, a hum that vibrated against your lips, his hips shifting slightly into your touch, a subtle response he didn't try to hide.
He thought: God, his hands—steady, sure, like he's already learned me. Every move is perfect, and it's killing me in the best way. Don't stop, don't— His breath hitched, a faint tremor running through him, and he thought: Stay with him. Let him lead. He's got you, and you're not going anywhere.
The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring yours with a hunger that stayed just shy of reckless, each brush sending a spark through you, coiling low in your stomach. Your hand continued its slow, deliberate strokes, feeling the pulse beneath his skin, the subtle twitch of his response, each movement a silent conversation of trust and want.
Suddenly, he moved his hand to your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you to turn and face the sink. You complied, the porcelain cool against your palms as you braced yourself, your reflection a vague shadow in the fogged mirror.
Steve's presence was a warm wall behind you, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending a shiver racing down your spine.
His fingers moved to the button of your jeans, deft and deliberate, the metal cool against your skin as he worked it open with a soft pop. The zipper followed, the faint rasp of metal teeth echoing in the small space, amplified by the quiet. He tugged your jeans down, slow but purposeful, the denim sliding over your hips to pool at your thighs, revealing the curve of your ass, full and taut under the amber light.
Steve's hands found you immediately, his palms warm and calloused, cupping the flesh with a reverence that was both gentle and possessive. He kneaded gently, his fingers spreading across the smooth, supple skin, the heat of his touch a contrast to the cool air of the bathroom, drawing a quiet exhale from you as your body leaned further into the sink's edge.
Then Steve sank to his knees behind you, the soft scuff of his boots against the tile a faint sound in the stillness. His hands remained on your ass, thumbs tracing the outer curves before gently spreading your cheeks, exposing the sensitive skin to the cool air.
The vulnerability of the moment was electric, your pulse hammering as you felt his breath, warm and deliberate, ghosting over you. Steve leaned in, his lips brushing the tender flesh, a soft, exploratory kiss that sent a jolt of heat through you. His tongue followed, warm and wet, lathering your hole with slow, deliberate strokes, each movement precise and unhurried, savoring the intimacy of the act.
The sensation was overwhelming—his tongue's warmth, the faint roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the steady pressure of his hands holding you open, grounding you even as your knees threatened to buckle.
His tongue worked with care, circling and pressing, the slick heat building a rhythm that matched the pulse of your breaths, each stroke drawing a quiet sound from your throat—a hum, a gasp—that mingled with the faucet's drip. His fingers tightened slightly on your ass, not possessive but steady, anchoring you as he continued, his lips and tongue moving with a focus that felt like devotion, each touch a silent promise in the charged quiet of the room.
Your moans had started soft, a quiet hum that grew louder as Steve's tongue worked with relentless focus, teasing and pressing, circling and dipping just enough to make your hips shift instinctively, seeking more.
The sensation was overwhelming—his tongue's warmth, the steady pressure of his hands holding you open, the faint tremor in your thighs as you leaned further into the sink, your fingers curling against the porcelain.
Each stroke was a spark, building a fire that coiled low in your stomach, your breath coming in uneven gasps, the pleasure sharp and electric, pulling you toward an edge you weren't ready to cross but couldn't resist chasing.
When Steve pulled back, the absence of his tongue drew a near-whine from you—a soft, desperate sound that broke the quiet, your body protesting the loss. Your hips twitched, seeking the contact that had been driving you wild, and you glanced over your shoulder, catching his gaze.
His lips parted, and a faint flush spread across his cheekbones, softening the sharp lines of his face. His bare chest, sculpted and tanned, rose and fell with quickening breaths, the faint golden hair across his pecs glinting, the pale scars on his ribs and collarbone quiet marks of resilience.
Steve rose from his knees, the soft creak of his boots against the tile a faint sound in the stillness. His hands found your hips, warm and steady, guiding you to stay bent over the sink, your ass still exposed, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch. He stepped closer, his bare chest brushing your back through your shirt, the warmth of his skin seeping into you.
His jeans were still bunched around his knees, the denim rough against your calves, and you felt the hard, flushed length of his dick—slide between your cheeks, teasing the slick, sensitive skin he'd just lathered with his tongue. The contact was deliberate, unhurried, the heat and weight of him gliding against you, not entering but pressing just enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you, your breath catching in a sharp gasp.
The sensation was maddening—his dick, warm and heavy, sliding slowly between your cheeks, the slickness from his tongue easing the friction, making each movement smooth and deliberate. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging lightly into the flesh, anchoring you as he teased, the tip of him brushing against your hole, a promise that lingered, drawing another low moan from you.
The sink edge biting into your hands as you leaned forward, your hips shifting instinctively to meet his rhythm, chasing the heat, the pressure, the tantalizing closeness.
Steve's movements slowed, his dick still gliding between your cheeks, the slick heat building a tension that made your thighs tremble. Then, with a subtle shift, he angled himself, the tip of him pressing more firmly against your hole, not entering yet but testing, teasing, the pressure deliberate and controlled.
His hands slid up your sides, one splaying across your lower back, the other gripping your hip, his fingers warm and steady, grounding you as he leaned in, his breath hot against the back of your neck.
"Okay?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, a rasp thick with want but softened by care, checking in even as the heat between you burned brighter.
"Yeah," you breathed, your voice thick with desire, your hips shifting slightly to invite him closer, to answer the question his body was asking.
Steve exhaled, a quiet, grateful sound, and his hand on your hip tightened, guiding you as he pressed forward, slow and deliberate. The tip of his dick breached you, the stretch gradual but intense, the slickness from his tongue easing the way as he filled you, inch by careful inch.
The sensation was overwhelming—a delicious burn that mingled with pleasure, the fullness grounding you even as it pushed you toward an edge. Your fingers curled tighter against the porcelain, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, a low moan spilling from your lips as he sank deeper, his dick thick and warm, the heat of him radiating through you.
He paused when he was fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his chest brushing your back through your shirt, the warmth of his skin a steady anchor. His hands held you—one on your hip, the other sliding up to rest between your shoulder blades, his thumb tracing a slow arc against your spine, a silent reassurance.
You turned your head, seeking his lips, and Steve met you halfway, leaning forward, his bare chest brushing your back through your shirt, the heat of his skin seeping into you. His breath was hot against your cheek as his lips found yours, the kiss immediate and consuming, a collision of heat and hunger that stole the air from your lungs.
His mouth was firm but yielding, tasting of the night's shared history—all layered with the clean, musky warmth of him. His tongue swept against yours, deliberate and unhurried, deepening the kiss with a rhythm that echoed the slow, steady pulse of his cock inside you, each movement a conversation of want and restraint.
You melted into the kiss, letting it pull you under, your lips parting to meet his tongue, the wet heat of it sending a shiver down your spine. Your body was adjusting to the stretch, the fullness of him filling you completely, each subtle shift of his hips sending a fresh wave of sensation through you.
As the kiss deepened, his hips began to move, a slow, gentlemanly thrust that was all savor and control, as if he were committing every sensation to memory.
The motion was deliberate, unhurried, his cock sliding out just enough to tease before sinking back in, the slick heat of your connection easing the way, each thrust a measured exploration that sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you.
The stretch and fullness were grounding, the burn now a warm, pulsing ache that made your thighs tremble, your fingers curling tighter against the porcelain, nails scraping faintly against the smooth surface.
Each thrust was slow, almost reverent, the rhythm steady but not mechanical, as if Steve were savoring the way your body responded, the way you leaned into him, your ass pressing back against his hips to meet each movement.
His breath hitched against your lips, a quiet, ragged sound that mingled with your own soft moans, the kiss unbroken, a continuous thread of connection that amplified the intimacy.
His tongue teased yours, tracing the curve of your lower lip before delving deeper, the wet heat of it a counterpoint to the slow, deliberate thrust of his hips, each movement syncing with the pulse of the kiss, building a rhythm that felt like its own language.
But as Steve's thrusts began to pick up, what started as gentlemanly savoring shifted into something hungrier, more insistent. His hips snapped forward with growing urgency, each withdrawal deliberate but quicker now, his cock dragging along your inner walls before plunging back in, the slick schlick of your connection echoing off the tiles, punctuated by the faint slap of his thighs against your ass.
The pace built like a gathering wave—slow rolls evolving into firmer, deeper drives that hit that spot inside you with precision, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure radiating through your core, your thighs quivering, your breath fracturing against his mouth.
The intensity shattered the kiss; you broke away with a gasp, your head dropping forward as a raw, throaty moan tore from your lips—low and guttural at first, rising into a desperate keen that bounced off the walls, raw and unfiltered, the sound thick with need.
"Fuck—Steve—" you gasped, the words fracturing around another thrust, your body arching instinctively, pushing back to meet him, chasing the building fire.
But the jeans—god, the jeans—were a torment now, the fabric binding your thighs, preventing you from spreading wider, from giving fully into the rhythm, the denim chafing your skin with every shift, a frustrating barrier in the haze of pleasure.
You reached back, your hand clamping onto Steve's forearm—firm muscle under warm skin, veins prominent from the strain—halting him mid-thrust.
"Wait—hold up," you panted, voice husky and breathless, your chest heaving as you straightened slightly.
Steve stilled instantly, his dick throbbing inside you, hips flush and unmoving, his blue eyes—flecked with silver, darkened with lust—locking onto yours over your shoulder in the fogged mirror, concern flickering beneath the heat.
"Yeah?" he rasped, voice a low gravel, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw gently, thumb brushing your swollen lips, patient even now.
"These—too tight," you managed, nodding down at the offending jeans, a breathless laugh escaping as another pulse from him made you clench around him.
Without waiting for more, you pushed off the sink, the sudden emptiness drawing a whine from you as his dick slipped free, slick and glistening in the amber light. Your fingers fumbled with the laces of your boots first—double-knotted from the night's chaos—yanking them loose with urgent tugs, the heavy leather thumping to the tile one after the other, socks peeled off in haste, toes curling against the cold floor.
Then the jeans: you shoved them down your legs in a frantic shimmy, kicking them free along with your boxers, the fabric pooling in a dark heap beside Steve's discarded clothes. Naked from the waist down now, your dick hung heavy and leaking between your legs, the cool air a shock against your heated skin, your ass flexing instinctively under his gaze.
Steve's eyes darkened further, raking over you with undisguised hunger—the curve of your ass, the taut lines of your thighs, the way you stood there, exposed and ready.
"Jesus," he breathed, a reverent curse, his hands immediately finding your hips again, pulling you back into position with a firm tug.
You braced on the sink once more, legs spreading wider now, unrestricted, the tile cold under your bare feet, your body arching in invitation. Steve took full advantage—oh, he took full advantage—stepping up behind you, his boots bracketing your feet for leverage.
One hand guided his dick back to your entrance, the tip nudging your slick hole before he thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, claiming stroke that punched a moan from your chest.
Freed from restraint, he unleashed—the pace ferocious now, hips snapping forward with power and precision, each thrust deeper, harder, the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin filling the room like a primal drumbeat. His dick dragged along every sensitive inch inside you, hitting that spot relentlessly, the fullness overwhelming, pleasure bordering on too much as your prostate sang with every plunge.
His hands roamed greedily—one gripping your hip like a vise, the other sliding up your spine to fist your shirt at the nape, yanking your head back slightly to expose your throat, his lips latching on to suck a mark there, teeth grazing. You were wide open for him now, legs splayed, ass bouncing with each impact, the new flexibility letting him angle impossibly deep, his balls slapping against you, the wet sounds obscene and intoxicating.
Moans poured from you unchecked—loud, broken, echoing off the tiles—your dick leaking steadily onto the sink's edge, untouched but throbbing with the building pressure. Steve growled against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, sweat-slick chest sliding against your back, the room shrinking to pure sensation: the burn-stretch of him inside you, the coil tightening low in your gut, the amber light gilding your joined bodies.
You caught the scene in the mirror—a fractured, fog-shrouded glimpse that hit you like a lightning strike, pulling your gaze up from the porcelain sink where your palms splayed white-knuckled, fingers curled into the cool, unyielding edge for leverage.
There you were, bent over like an offering, legs spread wide and bare, toes curling against the chill tile, your ass arched high and glowing under the amber light, full and taut, bouncing with every ferocious thrust. Sweat beaded on your skin, tracing rivulets down your spine, pooling at the small of your back where Steve's hand pressed firm, his calloused fingers splayed possessively, thumb digging into the dimple above your tailbone.
Your shirt rode up, exposing the flex of your abs, your own dick swinging heavy between your thighs, slapping against your stomach with each jolt. And Steve—God, Steve—loomed behind you like a force of nature, his sculpted chest glistening with sweat, faint golden hair matted across his pecs, those pale scars (the thin arc over his ribs, the nick at his collarbone) stark against his tanned skin.
His jeans hung low around his knees, denim bunched and dark with dampness, his thick thighs corded with muscle as they powered forward, his dick—slick with your shared heat—disappearing into you with every deep, claiming plunge, only to withdraw glistening before slamming home again.
This was not you—or at least, not the version of you that showed up to frat parties, aced Heroism & Public Defense lectures, and traded knowing grins with your frat brothers over tequila shots. The guy in the mirror was a stranger: wild-eyed, lips swollen and parted on broken moans, cheeks flushed crimson, body surrendering completely to the raw, animal rhythm of being fucked—deep, hard, unapologetic—in a dive bar bathroom by a blue-eyed soldier you'd met an hour ago.
The alcohol coursed through you like liquid fire amplifying everything—the stretch of him inside you, hitting that spot with brutal precision, the coil tightening low in your gut, the electric thrill of exposure. It was unlocking something buried deep, an inner side you'd yet to explore: a hunger for surrender, for being taken like this, legs splayed, ass up, utterly owned in the best way.
The buzz blurred the edges of inhibition, turning "what if" into "fuck yes," your inhibitions dissolving like the fog on the mirror under the heat of your breaths.
You weren't some wide-eyed virgin fumbling through firsts—no, you'd had your share: quick, fumbling hookups in dorm rooms after parties, grinding on the dance floor that escalated to mutual handjobs in shadowed corners, a couple of experimental nights with guys from the team during training camps—solid, satisfying encounters that checked boxes and left you grinning the next morning.
But this? This was a revelation—a full-on, no-holds-barred pounding from a man built like a god, his dick reshaping you from the inside out, each thrust deeper, harder now that your legs could spread without restraint, his balls slapping rhythmically against yours, the wet schlick of lube and spit and sweat filling the air.
Your prostate throbbed with every hit, pleasure bordering on pain, your untouched dick dripping pre-cum onto the sink in steady strings, the pressure building to a shattering crescendo.
A whine escaped you—high, needy, utterly unlike your usual cool—as Steve growled low in your ear, his teeth grazing your shoulder through your shirt, one hand snaking around to finally grip your leaking length, stroking in time with his hips.
The mirror held your eyes captive, forcing you to witness your unraveling: the way your body jolted forward with each impact, ass cheeks rippling, back arching like a bowstring; Steve's face over your shoulder—jaw clenched, blue eyes locked on yours through the haze, lips curled in a feral grin of pure possession. This wasn't just sex; it was a claiming, a birthday baptism into a wilder self, alcohol the key that cracked you open.
Steve was a machine of controlled devastation behind you, his sculpted body a glistening masterpiece under the light—broad shoulders rolling with power, pecs flexing, faint golden hair matted with sweat, those pale scars (the thin, jagged arc snaking over his left ribs from some forgotten skirmish, the smaller divot at his collarbone) stark against flushed, tanned skin.
His jeans hung low around his knees, denim dark and damp, thighs like coiled pistons driving forward with ferocious precision, each thrust burying his massive length to the hilt, the flushed shaft dragging along your inner walls before withdrawing slick and shining, only to ram back in, grinding mercilessly against your prostate.
One calloused hand vise-gripped your hip, fingers bruising in the best way, holding you steady as your body jolted forward; the other fisted the back of your shirt at your nape, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, his hot mouth latching on to suck a blooming purple mark, teeth grazing with a growl that vibrated through you.
His free hand had snaked around, wrapping your leaking dick in a firm, stroking grip—thumb swiping over the slit to spread pre-cum, matching the punishing rhythm of his hips, wrenching desperate, broken moans from your swollen lips.
But beneath the ironclad control Steve was famous for—the super-soldier stamina that could go all day, outlasting battles, outpacing gods, fucking through marathons without breaking a sweat—something was fracturing. Fast. Too fast. His climax was barreling down on him like a freight train, a white-hot coil tightening viciously low in his gut, balls drawing up tight, the base of his spine tingling with electric fire.
Each thrust into your vise-like heat—your ass clenching around him like it was made for this, milking him with rhythmic squeezes, the slick glide perfect from his tongue's thorough prep—pushed him closer, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.
Normally, he'd edge for hours, drawing it out, savoring every gasp, every quiver... but you? You were a goddamn anomaly, a special case that short-circuited every circuit in his enhanced body.
It was everything: the way your moans—raw, filthy pleas spilling from those parted lips—hit him like punches to the soul; the mirror's voyeuristic glare forcing him to watch your face contort in ecstasy, eyes wild and glassy from the booze-fueled awakening; your body yielding to him completely, ass bouncing greedily, taking every punishing inch like you craved the destruction; the alcohol's glow in your veins turning you into this uninhibited beast, a side of you he'd unlocked with one thrust, one growl.
This was transcendent, your tight heat gripping him like velvet steel, pulling him under, making his superhuman endurance crumble in record time.
"Fuck—you're... fuck," he rasped against your neck, voice a wrecked gravel, hips stuttering for the first time as the coil snapped taut, his strokes turning erratic, deeper, chasing the inevitable explosion.
His hand pumped your dick faster, slick with your pre-cum, thumb pressing the frenulum in firm circles, determined to drag you over the edge with him.
"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice a demolished gravel honed raw from grunts and curses, lips dragging hot and wet along your ear, teeth nipping the lobe. "Gonna—shit—can I? Can I cum inside you? Fill you up?"
The question was a desperate beg, his enhanced endurance shattered by your velvet-steel grip, the way your ass milked him like it was starving, your booze-fueled moans hitting him like serum straight to the vein.
You whined—high, needy, a sound that shocked even you in the mirror's fractured gaze—but a better idea sparked through the haze, filthy and perfect.
"N-not yet," you gasped, voice wrecked and trembling, clenching hard around him one last time to rip a roar from his throat.
With a Herculean effort, you shoved back against his chest—your hand clamping his unyielding forearm, veins bulging under your fingers—and detached, his dick slipping free with a lewd, suctioned pop, the sudden emptiness leaving you gaping and aching, a trickle of slickness dripping down your thigh.
Steve groaned in protest, his massive length bobbing heavy and furious in the air, flushed purple-red, veins throbbing like ropes, the tip drooling thick ropes of pre-cum that splattered the tile.
You spun—legs wobbling like a newborn fawn—and dropped to your knees before him, the cold tile biting into your skin like ice, a brutal contrast to the fire radiating from his body. Your hands flew to his dick—Jesus, it filled them completely, hot and velvet-hard over steel, pulsing wildly under your palms slick with your shared mess.
You jerked him slow at first, twisting your fists in tandem from base to tip, thumb swiping the weeping slit to spread the salty bead, your eyes locked on his—those blue irises blown black with lust, scar at his brow twitching, jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump.
Then your mouth descended: lips parting wide to engulf the fat head, tongue flattening against the underside, sucking hard with hollowed cheeks, the musky-salt tang of him exploding across your tastebuds—you, him, the night's sins all blended into filthy perfection.
Steve's hands flew to your hair—not pulling, but cradling, fingers threading through sweat-damp strands, hips bucking involuntarily as you worked him like a man possessed: one hand pumping the slick shaft in rapid, twisting strokes, the other cupping his heavy balls, rolling and tugging gently, your mouth devouring—bobbing deep, throat relaxing to take half his length, gagging wetly but pushing, saliva drooling down your chin in messy strings to lube your fist.
Gluck-gluck-gluck—the obscene symphony filled the room, your moans vibrating around him, eyes watering but locked upward, watching his head throw back, throat bobbing on a guttural roar, abs clenching like carved marble.
He was done—seconds away, you could feel it in the frantic twitch, the pre-cum flooding your mouth like warm honey—and you sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks to milk him dry, ready for the flood. This was your idea, your control, the alcohol's gift turning you into this dick-hungry beast—and fuck, it felt right.
Then—fuck—he released.
"Sh—shit—take it!" Steve detonated like a serum-fueled nuke, his dick swelling impossibly thicker in your mouth, the first rope blasting across your tongue—hot, thick, bitter-salty with an undercurrent of sweet precum, flooding your senses like a geyser.
You swallowed with ease, throat working greedily around him, no gag, no spill—memorizing every pulse, every jet as he unloaded: second rope coating your tonsils, third painting the back of your throat, fourth and fifth pumping endless, his balls contracting under your kneading fingers, hips jerking like he'd been electrocuted.
You didn't miss a drop—gulping it down like nectar, the excess bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips in pearly froth, dripping in slow, viscous strings to your chin, your heaving chest.
The taste burned into you: pure Steve—raw power, faint cedar aftertaste, the night's sins distilled into creamy essence that slid warm and thick down your gullet, settling heavy in your gut like a brand.
All the while, you memorized him as he watched—watched you devour his soul. His eyes drilled into yours, half-lidded but feral, pupils swallowing the blue, tracking every bob of your head, every convulsive swallow, the way your Adam's apple bobbed greedily, your cheeks bulging then hollowing, spit bubbling obscenely.
His face was a masterpiece of ruin: forehead creased in euphoric agony, scar leaping with each aftershock, lips parted on panting grunts, a flush crawling from his neck to his ears like wildfire.
"F-fuck... look at you," he rasped, voice demolished to gravel and smoke, one hand stroking your jaw tenderly even as tremors wracked him, thumb swiping a stray bead of cum from your lip to push it back in.
You held his gaze, throat milking the last weak spurts—sixth, seventh—swallowing with deliberate, porn-star slowness, letting him see his claim etched into you: eyes glassy with triumph, cheeks hollowed in worship, your own dick throbbing untouched, leaking a pathetic puddle on the tile from the sheer power of his release.
He slumped against the sink, dick softening in your mouth with a final twitch, but you nursed him gently—tongue lapping clean every ridge, every vein—savoring, committing to memory this god brought low by you, his special case, in a dive-bar bathroom on your 21st.
Steve slumped against the porcelain, his massive dick softening in the cool air, flushed and spent, veins still faintly throbbing, a thin string of cum connecting the tip to your lower lip before it snapped and dripped onto your heaving chest.
You lingered there, nursing him with soft, reverent laps of your tongue—cleaning every ridge, every pulsing vein—memorizing the velvet-steel texture, the musky-salt essence that was pure Steve, your hands still loosely fisted around his base, feeling the final twitches ebb away.
He watched you the whole time, blue eyes half-lidded but burning, pupils blown wide, scar at his brow twitching faintly as his chest heaved with ragged aftershocks, one hand stroking your jaw with trembling tenderness, thumb tracing your stretched lips, pushing the last escaped bead back into your mouth with a gravelly groan.
"Jesus... you," he rasped, voice a demolished wreck, forehead creased in euphoric ruin, flush crawling from his neck like wildfire. The moment stretched eternal—a perfect, suspended now where you could savor the ache in your jaw, the heavy warmth pooling in your gut from his load, the way your untouched dick still throbbed, leaking a pathetic puddle on the tile, denied but satisfied by proxy.
But reality shattered it like cheap glass—BANG-BANG-BANG!—a furious pounding on the door that rattled the frame, followed by a slurred, pissed-off chorus: "Yo! Open the fuck up! Some of us gotta piss!" Another BANG!—""Hurry the hell up in there! Line's out to the goddamn street!"—the strangers' voices thick with beer-breath impatience, fists hammering like war drums.
Steve jolted upright, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest—half-amused, half-feral—as you pulled off with a wet pop, a final string of saliva-cum snapping between you.
"Shit," you muttered, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, the interruption jarring but hilarious in its timing, your body still humming with endorphins, ass clenching around the phantom fullness he'd left behind.
No time to bask—you scrambled up, knees protesting the cold tile's bite, legs wobbling like a colt's as Steve hauled himself together with super-soldier efficiency. But he didn't let you dress alone; his hands were on you immediately, warm and possessive, helping with a gentleness that belied the wrecking he'd just unleashed.
He knelt first—those blue eyes locking on yours with a wicked, sated wink—grabbing your discarded boxers from the floor, the black cotton damp and crumpled. His calloused fingers grazed your thighs as he held them open, thumbs tracing feather-light paths up the sensitive inner skin, sending fresh shivers racing to your spent dick, still half-hard and twitching.
"Lift," he murmured, voice husky smoke, and you stepped in, his palms sliding the fabric slowly up your legs—deliberate drags over calves, knees, thighs—pausing to cup your ass cheeks, squeezing the tender, marked flesh with a low hum of approval, fingers dipping teasingly into the crease where slick still leaked.
The boxers settled snug, his knuckles brushing your balls, your dick, a spark that made you hiss, before he tugged them fully up, adjusting the waistband with a lingering palm flat against your abs.
Jeans next—he shook them out with a snap, kneeling again, his breath hot against your groin as he guided your feet in one leg, then the other, denim rasping up your skin like a lover's whisper. His hands roamed everywhere—palms gliding over shins, knees, squeezing your thighs with a growl, fingers grazing the bulge in your boxers, tracing the V of your hips, thumbs dipping under the waistband to tease your hipbones.
Standing to zip you up, he pressed close—bare chest to your shirt, dick tucked away but still tenting his jeans—his fingers lingering on the button, brushing your navel, then zipping slow, the vibration humming through you.
A final pat to your ass—"Good boy," he rumbled, lips brushing your ear—before he dressed himself in a blur: boxers yanked up over thick thighs, jeans buttoned with efficient snaps, Henley pulled on like armor, jacket shrugged over broad shoulders.
You were dressed, decent-ish, but buzzing—lips tingling, throat raw, ass throbbing with delicious ache—when you finally fished your phone from your pocket. The screen exploded: 27 missed calls, 52 unread texts—a frenzy from your frat brothers lighting it up like a warzone.
Johnny: "WHERE TF R U?? Dance floor's dead w/o the bday boy 🔥"
Pietro: "Blurred to the bar 5x. Johnny's boutta flame up. Ur turn? 😈"
Peter: "Everything ok? Water break? 🕷️"
Erik: "Handle ur business. We got eyes."
Joaquín: "Bro. Door. Now. 😂"
Videos too—Johnny torching a napkin for laughs, Pietro speed-blurring shots, the crew chanting your name on the dance floor. You hadn't heard a thing over the symphony of moans, growls, slaps, and Steve's roars.
THE BATHROOM door swung open with a decisive click of the lock releasing, and the club's chaotic symphony crashed over you like a tidal wave of heat from a blast furnace—deep, bone-rattling bass vibrating up through the scuffed linoleum floor, thrumming into your still-quivering thighs and settling low in your gut like an aftershock.
The air shifted violently from the humid, sex-saturated cocoon you'd shared with Steve—thick with the salty tang of cum, sweat, and cedar—to the bar's assault of spilled IPA yeastiness, citrus-peel zest from fresh cocktails, and the faint, greasy sizzle of late-night bar food wafting from the kitchen.
Neon from the hallway spilled in like liquid fire: jagged pulses of electric violet bleeding into molten amber, strobing across your sweat-damp skin, catching the faint sheen of stray saliva on your chin and the glossy residue of your mouth on Steve's jawline.
Your hair was a tousled wreck—strands matted at the temples from his fingers, falling artfully messy over your forehead; his navy Henley collar sat crooked, tugged askew from your desperate grips, the top button straining against the swell of his chest. You both clocked it instantly in the shifting light—your flushed cheeks, his kiss-swollen lips—but played it cool, eyes meeting in a silent pact: say nothing, savor everything.
"After you," Steve murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a fresh shiver down your spine, his palm settling at the small of your back—warm, calloused, steadying—like an anchor in the storm. The heat of his touch seeped through your shirt, a lingering reminder of how those hands had gripped your hips minutes ago, fingers bruising in the best way.
You glanced up, and there it was: that irrepressible grin tipping one corner of his mouth, boyish and wicked, crinkling the laugh lines around his winter-blue eyes, the pale scar at his brow catching the violet flash like a secret wink. The look you traded was bilingual—English for that was insane, body language screaming we're not done, but for now, play it cool—a spark jumping between you hot enough to reignite the bathroom all over again.
You'd barely cleared three paces down the narrow hallway—walls scarred with faded graffiti and bumper stickers ("Avengers Assemble" peeling at the edges), the floor sticky under your boots with god-knows-what—when a shadow peeled away from the graffiti-splattered wall like it had been waiting.
Broad shoulders filled out a battered black leather jacket, zipped halfway to reveal a gray henley stretched taut over a chest that screamed built for brawls; winter-blue eyes—eerily like Steve's but sharper, haunted—locked on you with the precision of a sniper, missing nothing: the flush creeping up your neck, the subtle hitch in Steve's step, the faint pop of your lips still tingling. He had the unbreakable stance of a man who'd nap through a hurricane and wake swinging—a faint silver zip of a scar slicing his left cheekbone like a lightning bolt, his right sleeve hanging too perfectly along the prosthetic line of his vibranium arm, matte black gleaming subtly under the neon.
"Rogers," Bucky said, surprise flickering into a crooked, amused smirk that deepened the scar's shadow, his gaze raking you head-to-toe, then Steve, then the bathroom door with its fresh scuff marks from your boot heels. His voice carried that pure Brooklyn rasp—gravel and gin, smiling even when his full lips stayed neutral—like a best friend who'd seen everything and judged nothing. "You get lost in there? Or just... redecorating?"
Steve slowed to a halt, his hand lingering one beat too long at your back before dropping away, posture shifting from post-orgasm glow to that unreadable Captain mode for half a heartbeat—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening—before melting into a rueful, boyish shrug that crinkled his eyes.
"Long line," he deadpanned, the lie landing drier than the Sahara, his thumb unconsciously rubbing his jaw where your teeth had grazed.
"Uh-huh." Bucky's gaze dipped predatory—clocking the glossy sheen of your lip gloss smeared across Steve's mouth like war paint, the fresh flush still blooming pink across your throat from his hickey—then snapped back up with a single raised brow arching like a challenge. "And the, uh, new cologne? Smells like... victory."
Your laugh bubbled out before you could cage it—a bright, guilty huh-huh-huh that echoed off the walls, cutting the tension like a knife.
Steve's eyes flicked to you—soft warning laced with pure fondness, a dimple flashing—and you fired back a quick, conspiratorial smile, eyes sparkling: don't worry, punk, I can keep a secret.
"Hey," Steve said, stepping that protective half-inch closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours in a subtle shield. "This is—" He paused, voice warm invitation, letting you claim the moment.
You offered your name, voice steady despite the post-climax buzz still humming in your veins. Bucky nodded once—sharp, efficient—like he'd etched it into vibranium memory banks.
"Bucky," he returned, no last name needed between lifedebt brothers. He extended his right hand—flesh and blood, warm despite the chill air—his shake firm but calibrated: hello, welcome, I'm checking your pulse and your story in one go. Metal whirred faintly under his sleeve if you listened close.
"Friend of Steve's," Bucky added, releasing with a squeeze that lingered a fraction approving.
"Friend with questions," Steve muttered, low enough for Bucky's ears only, a grin tugging despite himself.
"Occupational hazard," Bucky shot back, eyes still dancing with that mix of surprise, relief—like seeing Steve alive in a way he hadn't in years. He tipped his chin toward the main bar, where your crew burned like a supernova amid the crowd. "I think your friends are looking for you."
You followed the nod, heart swelling double-time.
Johnny was mid-whistle—two fingers jammed in his mouth, piercing reee-eeeee slicing the din, his grin nuclear, flames practically flickering in his eyes. Pietro waggled both eyebrows in exaggerated spill the tea. Peter straightened from the bar like a meerkat, soft brown eyes wide with relief and burning curiosity, dimple flashing as he mouthed you good?. Erik hadn't budged an inch from his pillar perch—but his sharp gaze sliced the distance, interest sharpening to a blade: report. Joaquín caught your eye dead-on, warm smile steady as bedrock, delivering the smallest it's-your-call nod.
"I should—" you started, already drifting toward them like gravity.
"Go," Steve said, the word soft as a breath, heavy with permission and later. Your eyes held his—blue on yours—a beat longer than polite, electricity crackling unspoken: thank you for everything, promise of nothing but heat.
You slipped past Bucky with a quick "Nice to meet you," brushing his arm—solid, steady—and waded back into your orbit.
Johnny clapped your shoulder like you'd sunk a game-winner—boom, bone-jarring, his laugh booming: "There he is! Thought you got swallowed by the porcelain throne!"
Peter shoved a frosted glass of water into your palm—ice clinking, condensation beading cold against your heated skin—eyes crinkling: "Hydrate, hero."
Pietro reappeared at your elbow, breath minty, muttering "Bathroom break? Or bathroom break?" in your ear with a wicked Sokovian purr, dissolving into cackles.
Erik's gaze met yours—question asked and answered with your subtle nod: all good.
Joaquín laced his fingers with yours under the bar—quick, grounding squeeze: steady.
Behind you, Bucky shifted seamless to Steve's side—shoulder to shoulder like sentinels scanning a battlefield horizon only they could read, the crowd parting instinctively around their combined don't fuck with us aura.
"So," Bucky drawled, tone casual as a beer run, eyes not—piercing the crowd to you. "Who's the kid?"
Steve's mouth curved—private, lethal smile blooming slow, meant to flicker and die in the bass-throb. "New in town. Marvelon transfer. Heroism & Public Defense major. Smart as hell. Good balance."
Bucky hummed low—appraising, the sound vibrating like a tuning fork. "Friend of yours, or...?"
"Had a good dance," Steve said, careful as a minefield, not coy—just truth wrapped in plausible deniability. Thumb rubbing his jaw again, ghosting where your lips had branded him.
Bucky cut him a sidelong look—twenty years of Brooklyn alleys, wars, and resurrections folded into one arched brow. "You two were gone long enough to file paperwork. And emerge... refreshed."
Steve huffed a genuine laugh—head tipping back, throat working—rubbing that jaw harder. "We were... washing our hands. Twice. CDC would send a plaque."
"Right," Bucky deadpanned, dry as January concrete. Then, softer—real: "You okay?"
"Yeah." Steve's gaze drifted—found you mid-laugh, glass raised, home in your chaos. Steadiness settled in his face like dawn, plus a spark—unnamed, electric. "He's with good people."
Bucky tracked the look, measured your crew one by one—Johnny's fire, Pietro's blur, Peter's web-sling grin, Erik's edge, Joaquín's heart—and nodded: minimal, satisfied. Seal of approval.
He bumped Steve's shoulder—flesh to flesh. "Next round's on me. For your... hygiene."
"Jerk."
"Punk."
MORNING shattered over Marvelon University in a crisp, unfiltered blue light—the kind that pierced the veil of last night's haze, turning the quad's glass towers into shimmering mirages still half-lost in dreams. Dew clung to the manicured lawns like scattered diamonds, crunching faintly under your sneakers as you and the boys moved as a single, unbreakable unit across the sprawling green: five coffee cups steaming in chilled air (yours black and scalding,
Peter's loaded with enough cream to qualify as dessert), hoodies half-zipped against the bite (Johnny's flame-embroidered, Pietro's sleek black zipper glinting), backpacks slung low with the lazy, invincible swagger of first-day conquerors who'd already owned the night before.
Johnny led the pack in aviator sunglasses perched low on his nose like it was high noon in Miami, not 8:45 AM in upstate New York—his blond hair tousled from a post-bar crash, navy hoodie zipped just enough to flash the gold chain at his throat.
Pietro, silver hair slicked back but already fraying at the edges, crushed his empty Starbucks cup in one fist and eyed yours with predatory speedster gleam: "Share, birthday boy, or I'll blur it."
Peter tugged his faded Spider-Man backpack strap higher for the third time, the weight of his laptop and three textbooks apparently adding five phantom pounds to his lean shoulders, soft brown eyes scanning the quad like he was mapping web-sling routes.
Erik strode hands jammed deep in his bomber jacket pockets, quiet storm in human form—sharp gaze sweeping every bench, every passing student, recalculating threats in a world that never stopped moving.
Joaquín matched your pace exactly, his flannel shirt soft against your shoulder—a comfortable anchor, his warm grin saying we survived the night, now we own the day.
HRO 101: Power & Responsibility — The Ethics of Heroism loomed across from the quad's centerpiece—a towering bronze statue of a nameless guardian clutching a cracked shield aloft, morning sun spilling molten across the inscription etched in weathered verdigris: Not what you can do, but what you should.
The lecture hall doors swung open with a hydraulic whoosh, exhaling the faint lemon-polish scent of floors mopped after too many all-night cram sessions, mingled with the crisp bite of fresh dry-erase markers and the underlying must of aged textbooks stacked in corner shelves. Amphitheater-style tiers curved upward like a coliseum for ideas: rich mahogany paneling gleaming under recessed LEDs, ergonomic seats upholstered in navy vinyl that creaked under shifting weight, a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows at the back framing a sky streaked with high-altitude clouds.
The middle rows hummed already—conversations buzzing like pre-storm static, laptops clack-clacking open, paper syllabus packets rustling, the defiant hiss-pssh of a smuggled Monster Energy cracking two seats over.
"Middle row," you declared, voice cutting through the din with practiced command. "Tactical advantage. Close enough to care, far enough to escape."
"Spoken like a future policy wonk," Peter teased, dimples flashing as he claimed the seat with a perfect sightline to the lectern—no glare from the projector, no obstructed board view—gratitude lighting his face like you'd handed him a web-fluid refill.
You slid into the row's heart: Joaquín to your left, his steady presence a thermal blanket; Johnny flopping right, knees already drumming a beat against the seatback. Pietro blipped into the end chair—spinning it backward with a squeaky revolt against physics, silver sneakers propped on the empty seat ahead just to annoy the universe. Erik claimed the aisle, long legs extended like a barrier, silent sentinel guarding legroom and exits alike.
You cracked your leather-bound notebook—spine stiff from disuse—smoothed the first blank page with your palm, and scripted your name at the top in clean, deliberate block letters: bold, centered, underlined twice.
The pen took on a life of its own after that—tiny sigils blooming in the margins: a five-point star shading into depth, a circle-within-a-circle pulsing like a portal, geometric tiles interlocking via precise arrows. Your page transformed into a private cityscape: name as nexus, doodles orbiting like restless satellites, a subconscious blueprint for corralling the chaos of first-day nerves.
The room shifted—a collective intake of breath rippling like wind through wheat, a smatter of surprised gasps morphing into muffled laughs, thirty backs straightening as chairs creaked in unison, whispers exploding into a hiss-rush of "No way" and "Is that him?". You stayed locked on your doodle, feathering a ripple pattern that evoked water disturbed by a shield's edge—ink bleeding soft under pressure.
Johnny's knee bumped yours—sharp, insistent. Pietro's low "Wow" slithered under his breath like silk. Erik's posture honed a millimeter sharper, imperceptible to civilians. Joaquín's keystrokes on his laptop stilled, fingers hovering mid-air.
"Good morning," a voice sliced through—low, steady, laced with the unshakeable certainty of a man who'd stared down gods and walked away humming. "Welcome to HRO 101."
Your pen froze mid-stroke, ink blotting a tiny starburst. You lifted your gaze slow.
Blue eyes—piercing as glacial ice, flecked silver under the LEDs. Clean jaw—stubble-faint, shadowed from a night that mirrored yours. Navy button-down—crisp oxford cloth hugging broad shoulders like it was tailored by fate, sleeves rolled to elbows exposing veined forearms, top button undone just enough for a glimpse of collarbone you knew too well.
The man from the bar—the dance floor inferno, the bathroom wrecking—stood at the lectern, that reckless club swagger reforged into podium-honed command: tie absent, stance wide and grounded, a leather portfolio open beside a sleek MacBook. The projector hummed to life behind him, crisp white letters blazing:
HRO 101: POWER & RESPONSIBILITY — THE ETHICS OF HEROISM
CAPTAIN STEVEN G. ROGERS
"In this class," he added, a hint of that boyish grin ghosting his lips, crinkling laugh lines, "You can call me Professor Rogers."
Your heart vaulted—a foolish, acrobatic flip, slamming against your ribs like Pietro on a sugar rush. Throat tightened, pulse thundering in your ears louder than the quad's fountain. You didn't dare glance at the boys.
Professor Rogers—Steve—rested forearms on the lectern's oak edge, scanning the room with a soldier's rapid inventory (threats? Exits? Engagement?) fused to a teacher's patient warmth. When his gaze snagged your row, recognition landed microscopic: the faintest pause—half-breath indrawn—the briefest softening at his mouth's corner, a flicker gone before it bloomed. No startle. No smirk. Just professional poise, reforged hotter than the bar's neon.
"This course isn't about raw capability," he began, voice projecting crystal without strain, filling the amphitheater like it was built for him."It's about judgment. You'll dissect where power collides with people—policy frameworks, triage protocols, collateral risk calculus, consent in crisis, accountability chains, whistleblower ethics, media manipulation, and the human ledger of getting it wrong."
Click—remote beep—"I'll pose questions without easy exits. You'll answer anyway."
Slide two materialized: a hyper-real sim—smoldering high-rise, three civilian silhouettes (child, elder, bomb vest), overlaid with imperfect vectors. Murmurs swelled; pens scratched frantic. Your hand had ghosted back to paper unbidden—the star morphing into a shield outline, arrows circling into triage paths, a line steadying your breath.
"Who I am outside these walls may factor into your syllabus selfies," he continued, tone even as granite. "It won't touch your grade. Titles hang with the umbrellas at the coat rack. We battle ideas, not idols."
Heads swiveled to the back-wall shadow: Bucky, arms folded across his gray henley, wry pale eyes assessing the room like a hawk mid-molt—vibranium arm whirring faint under sleeve. He caught Steve's glance—tipped chin: I'm posted. Be sharp.
You clocked him solo; wondered if Steve wanted the class to—subtle backup, or quiet legend?
Syllabus packets cascaded row-ward—crisp 20# bond, margins generous for notes, Tues/Thurs 10–12 office hours circled blue, No DMs—campus line for crises. Top note, bolded: PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES PROTECT US BOTH. NON-NEGOTIABLE.
Throat constricted. Last night's fogged-mirror wreck—his cock swelling, your throat flooded—steamed up unbidden. You anchored: underlined BOUNDARIES thrice, bracketed NON-NEGOTIABLE, starred Case Studies: Week 3. ETHICS ≠ EASY—tiny compass margin-sketch pointing north.
"Questions?"
Hand rocketed up two rows front: "Field sims?"
"Affirmative," Steve nodded. "Rotate: incident commander, first responder, civilian POV, media spin. You'll despise one role. That's the lesson."
Laughter cracked tension like ice. Your phone buzzed—thigh-vibrating frenzy. Group chat inferno:
JOHNNY: bro. PROFESSOR?? 😏🔥
PIETRO: fastest syllabus drop PR.
PETER: FOCUS. PLEASE.
ERIK: Eyes. Front.
JOAQUÍN: Breathe. You're good. 💪
No reply. You looked up.
Silk-stretched moment: Steve's gaze locked yours across the hum—professional steel, unflinching. Deep beneath: flicker—recognition warming blue to sapphire, a surface-silent hello. Then—gone, attention pivoting seamless to the next hand.
"Alright," clearing slide one for two. "Premise: Just because you can doesn't mean you should. Time that principle saved more than it cost."
Scratch-click-chatter. Johnny's aviators finally off—eyes alight. Pietro stilled. Peter straightened. Erik's pen marched deliberate. Joaquín's hand—warm, fleeting—squeezed your knee: locked in.
You pressed pen to paper. Wrote. Outside, the guardian's shield caught sunfire. Inside, Professor Rogers paced—titles shed save one: teacher. You, mid-row with brothers, folded last night into ink-shadows as your chosen path ignited—official, unbreakable.
⁀➷ 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when Rick calls you you weren’t expecting him to be pissy drunk
The call came sometime after midnight. Rick’s name flashing across your phone made your stomach twist — he never called this late unless something was wrong. When you pulled up outside the bar, you found him leaning against a lamppost, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his hand. His shirt was wrinkled, a dark stain of blood smudged across his nose, and a bruise was already blooming purple on his cheekbone. “Jesus, Rick,” you muttered, slipping his arm over your shoulder. “Couldn’t just have a quiet drink, could you?” He chuckled lowly, his breath thick with whiskey. “Guy had it comin’. Ran his mouth.”
“Yeah, sure,” you sighed, guiding him into your car. “Sit,” you ordered softly, pointing to the couch. Rick just grunted, pulling his shirt off with a sluggish tug and tossing it somewhere near his boots. The fabric hit the floor with a dull thud as he slumped back into the cushions, head tipped against the couch arm. His chest rose and fell, a faint scrape of breath leaving him. You sighed, grabbing the small first-aid kit you kept under the coffee table — mostly because of nights exactly like this. Rick grumbled something incoherent but obeyed, elbows on his knees, head hanging. You crouched in front of him, tilting his chin up gently. “Hold still,” you said, softer this time. You dabbed at the blood under his nose, his skin hot beneath your touch. He flinched when the antiseptic touched the cut, but didn’t pull away.
“Christ, Rick,” you muttered, kneeling in front of him. “You couldn’t just have a drink like a normal person, huh?” He gave a lazy half-smile. “Guess I’m not normal.” you murmured, dabbing gently at the cut on his nose. He hissed, his hand twitching but not pulling away.“Not even close,” For a while, he stayed quiet — the only sounds were the faint hum of the fridge and the soft rustle of bandages. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.
“You know…”
You sighed, cutting him off before he could start rambling. “You’re drunk, Rick.” He ignored that, his eyes following you as you reached for another antiseptic pad. His voice was a low drawl now, softer but slurred just enough to break through your focus.
“You’re beautiful.”
You froze — just for a second. The words hung there, heavy in the air. Slowly, you looked at him again. His eyes were bloodshot, sure, but there was something else in them — something raw. “You hear me?” he whispered, eyes tracing over your face like he was memorizing it. You shook your head a little, pretending to brush it off, but your heartbeat had already betrayed you — loud in your chest, unsteady. “You need to sleep this off.” You pressed a Band-Aid over the cut on his nose and stood up, trying to put space between you and the weight of his words. Rick’s gaze followed you as you turned away, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t mean to screw up your night,” he mumbled, almost sheepishly. “You didn’t,” you said quietly, setting the kit back down. “Just… stop trying to fight the whole damn bar next time.”He gave a soft chuckle that turned into a sigh. “Can’t make promises I can’t keep.”
You looked at him — at the bruised, tired soldier slumped on your couch — and your chest tightened. “Get some sleep, Rick,” you said, voice gentler now.
The next morning the smell of coffee and bacon drifted through the small apartment. Rick groaned quietly, one hand coming up to his face. His head throbbed, his knuckles ached, and the couch he’d passed out on might as well have been made of concrete.“Good morning, sunshine,” you called from the kitchen, voice half amused, half tired. He cracked one eye open and winced at the brightness. You were standing by the stove, still in the same t-shirt you’d been wearing last night. You didn’t even look at him as you flipped the bacon. Rick rubbed at his temple, piecing the night together — the bar, the fight, your car… your hands on his face, gentle and steady. And then—
Shit.
You. Beautiful.
He’d said it out loud.
Rick sat up a little too fast, groaning as his ribs protested. “I, uh…” He glanced around for his shirt and spotted it folded — folded — on the arm of the couch. You’d even washed the blood off it. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he muttered, voice low. You shrugged without turning around. “You were bleeding and smelled like a distillery. Not exactly something I could ignore.” He sighed, standing and tugging the shirt over his head. “About last night—” You cut him off, tone even. “You were drunk, Rick. You don’t have to explain.”
“I wasn’t that drunk,” he said quickly, instantly regretting how defensive it sounded. You finally turned around, coffee mug in hand, raising a brow. “You picked a fight with a guy twice your size and tried to pay the bartender with a twenty and a stick of gum.” Rick stared at you for a second before groaning, dragging a hand down his face. “…Okay, maybe that part’s fair.” You smirked a little, sliding a mug across the counter toward him. “Coffee. Might keep you from dying.” He accepted it, murmuring a thanks, but his eyes lingered on you — on the small cut on your wrist from the first aid kit, on the way you avoided meeting his gaze now. “Still,” he said, voice quieter, more deliberate this time, “I meant what I said.” You froze mid-sip. “Rick—” He shook his head. “I remember. All of it. I know I was drunk, but that don’t mean it wasn’t true.”
The kitchen went still for a beat. The only sound was the faint sizzle of the pan and the ticking clock on the wall. You exhaled slowly, setting your mug down. “You don’t make things easy, do you?” Rick gave a small, lopsided grin — tired, sincere. “Never have.”You studied him for a moment. The bruise on his cheek had darkened, but his eyes were clear now — steady and honest in a way they hadn’t been last night. “Eat something,” you finally said, turning back to the stove. “Then we’ll talk.” Rick’s grin softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”
⁀➷ 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when James comes back from mission he insists that you be the only one to check on him.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that there was something between you and James. the tension between you and James was something the whole team quietly ignored. You both tried to keep things professional, but sometimes that line slipped. When James came back from his latest mission, battered but still standing tall, he made one request: you were the only one allowed to check him over. He sat on the exam table, Hair a mess, his jacket slightly open, bruises fading fast thanks to his healing factor. You ran a gloved hand along his shoulder, noting the last traces of a cut knitting together.
“You seem to be in perfect shape, James,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “As usual.” He gave a quiet laugh and rubbed at his forehead, eyes half-lidded. “Nah, doc. I think there’s something wrong with my head.” You arched a brow, stepping closer. “Your head?” He nodded, lips twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile. You sighed, setting your gloves aside. “Alright, let’s see.” You stepped close, gently pressing your fingers against the sides of his head, feeling for any swelling, any heat. His skin was warm — too warm, maybe — or maybe it was just how close he was. “You sure? You’re not running a fever,” you murmured.
James caught your wrist before you could pull away, his hand rough and steady. He guided your palm back to his temple, eyes fixed on yours. “Read it.” You froze. “Come on. I know you can,” he said quietly, voice low, almost teasing — but there was a sincerity underneath it, something that pulled you in. At first it was a blur — flashes of memory, warmth, your name. Then came the words, clear and unfiltered:
I want you so bad right now.
Come on, I’ll be quick.
I’ll be quiet.
You want it too, don’t you?
It’s been so long.
Your eyes flew open — and before you even realized what happened, you were in his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, faces inches apart. His voice was low, almost rough. “You heard me, didn’t you?” You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “James, I—” He smiled faintly. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong, doc?” You exhaled, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re never wrong, are you?” His thumb brushed your jaw, gentle but certain. “Not about this.” You leaned in — just enough that his lips barely grazed yours, a kiss that wasn’t about hunger but about the ache of holding back for too long. When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his.
“I’m supposed to keep things professional,” you murmured. James chuckled softly, his voice rough against your ear. “Yeah, well… maybe we can call this a special case.”
The house smells faintly of dust and stale popcorn. A record player hums softly in the background, its needle scratching faintly between songs. An old lamp flickers in the corner, throwing lazy shadows across the cracked cement walls. The tube was on, playing a ridiculously cheesy scary movie of a bloody hand coming out of the bathtub.
Finney and Y/N are sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch. A half-finished joint burns slowly in the ashtray between them, the air hazy with smoke. Finney’s cheeks are flushed, not sure if it’s the weed, the warmth, or the fact that Y/N’s hand brushed his a few seconds ago.
They’re close. Too close.
Y/N smirks, leaning in with a teasing spark in his eyes. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”
“Yeah? You’re not much better.” Finney half laughs.
“Oh please. You were coughing like a dying car engine.”
Finney rolls his eyes but laughs, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. There’s a pause, that thick, electric kind that hangs between two people who don’t quite know if they should lean in or back away.
And then, the creak of the front door is heard.
Both freeze.
“Crap. Gwen’s home early.”
The door swings open, light flooding from the street lamps outside as Gwen appears, all sass and suspicion, her arms crossed as she peers into the smoky gloom. “What the hell were you guys doing? Making out?”
Finney’s eyes widened. He stammers, scrambling to wave the smoke away. “No! Smoking pot!”
There’s a beat. Gwen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, that's much better, Finney. Real improvement, dumbass.”
Y/N, unable to help himself, grins wickedly. “And making out.” His head was starting to feel fuzzy. Finney jerks his head toward him, eyes wide in betrayal. “Y/N!”
The other boy laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. Gwen just stares between the two, unimpressed but amused, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she’s fighting a smile. “You’re both idiots. Open a window before Dad smells this.” She turns and stomps down the hall, muttering something about “dumb boys and their hormones.”
As the door slams shut, Finney groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I can’t believe you said that.”
Y/N grins. “Hey, she asked. I just gave her the full story.” He leans closer, smirking. Finney glares, but a tiny, reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “You’re gonna get me killed.”
“Worth it.”
The record skips, then starts playing again, but something slow, dreamy, and a little dangerous.
After the loss of Gustave, the group’s morale was at an all-time low. For the four remaining expeditioners, they had gained another ally in the form of Verso, a mysterious man who wasn’t too keen on sharing his past. Although desperate for any help they could get, the group harbored a certain level of distrust toward him—some more than others.
For Y/N, he generally gave Verso the benefit of the doubt. After losing almost everyone in Expedition 33, he would take any ally he could get. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what stranger’s deal was, though he guessed he would learn more about him over time.
What Y/N couldn’t learn from Verso through conversation, he observed in his actions. Verso was skilled, knowledgeable about the Nevrons and how to deal with them, and overall a powerful ally.
Yet, one thing struck Y/N as odd. Verso seemed unusually intent on keeping an eye on him. At first, Y/N thought it was in his mind, but he kept noticing small things the swordsman did—protecting him from dangerous blows, asking if he was alright more often than the others.
Finding it strange, Y/N decided to talk to him. Once they settled camp, they found a private spot to have a conversation.
“Is there something?” Verso asked.
“Just wondering.” Y/N began. “You seem very insistent on staying by my side.”
Verso raised an eyebrow. “Do I now?”
“I can give several examples. Today, the Nevron tried to slice me, and you stepped in front of me. After the battle, I was slightly hurt—but it’s nothing compared to Lune—and yet you asked me first if I was alright. Do I need to go on?”
Verso let out a soft hum. “Seems like I’m just a good guy, looking out for you.”
Y/N’s expression tightened, slightly annoyed by the casual dismissal. “Verso, I’m not in the mood to play games. You know I’m a capable fighter, so why are you so eager to look out for me?”
“Sounds like someone doesn’t appreciate having someone watch their back.” Verso replied calmly, as always.
“First of all, I’ve got three other people watching my back, and second, stop deflecting.”
“My apologies. I could always let you die if you want.” Verso teased.
Y/N frowned even further. “Verso—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll give you an answer.” Verso said, his tone calm, hoping to ease the other man’s concern. “I… just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Y/N looked confused. “Why me specifically?”
Despite his cool demeanor, Verso seemed bothered but didn’t want to show it. “It’s not just you. I do it for everyone. You only notice that I do it for you, but I do it for everyone. Just ask Maelle how many times we’ve chatted.”
Though there was some truth to his words, Y/N knew he was making excuses. Still, he believed Verso acted out of good intentions. Deciding to be the bigger man, he dropped the issue.
“Fine.”
-
A couple of days had passed, and Verso continued protecting and observing Y/N. At this point, the members of Expedition 33 stopped questioning it and simply accepted how things were. Not that it was a bad thing—after all, it meant a higher chance of survival.
The group had made their way to one of the Gestral beaches. Despite becoming somewhat accustomed to the Gestral’s unique culture, they remained stunned by the activities on the beaches. Whether it was performing absurd parkour over the sea, playing volleyball with flaming young Gestral, or, today, taking on a parkour challenge that defied gravity and stretched toward the clouds, it never failed to amaze them.
“And here I thought the first one was impressive.” Sciel commented as the group looked up at the massive parkour setup, made of everything and anything.
“If someone falls, they’re certainly dead.” Lune said without hesitation, glancing back at the group. “Let’s turn around. As much as I like the Gestrals, this isn’t worth it.”
Verso, however, looked intrigued. Without warning, he stepped forward.
Maelle’s eyes widened. “Verso, are you—?”
“Just a simple set of parkour.” Verso said, leaping to the first platform and glancing back. “Nothing too extreme.”
Monoco couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s the spirit!”
“As much as I respect your bravery, this isn’t something I’m risking my life on.” Sciel commented, while Lune, Maelle, and Y/N seemed to agree that it was somewhat foolish.
Verso didn’t seem bothered by their warnings. “I’ll be fine. Just wait a few minutes.” He turned around and continued jumping.
Lune sighed and looked at the rest of the team. “Seems like we’re stuck here waiting.”
Maelle glanced at the water, then at the beach where Esquie was waiting. A smile spread across her face as she got an idea. “I know this isn’t the best time, but since Verso is basically taking some time off, why don’t we do the same?”
Y/N seemed to catch on. “You want to swim?”
“Yes.” Maelle said softly, smiling.
Although amused, Lune remained the pragmatic one of the group. “Not to rain on your parade, but isn’t it smarter if we do something useful?”
“Swimming is useful.” Maelle pointed out. “What if poor Esquie loses his stones again? Then we’d have nothing but ourselves to rely on while swimming.”
Lune couldn’t help but chuckle. “I suppose that’s true. Fun at the beach it is.”
“I’m not really a fan of swimming.” Sciel admitted, sounding a bit less cheerful than usual. “I’ll stay on the shore if that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all.” Y/N assured. “Now, let’s swim!”
After changing, the group was all in their swimwear. They remained near the shore, swimming in the shallower parts. Y/N, Maelle, and Lune swam with smiles on their faces, as did Esquie, though he moved a lot slower. On top of Esquie were Monoco and Sciel, enjoying the sun and cool air more than the water itself.
Eventually, Y/N climbed out of the water and sat on Esquie’s back, wanting a break. Joining his two teammates, he settled down.
“Enjoying a day in the sun?” Sciel asked.
“Feels refreshing to swim for fun. If it weren’t for the Gommage, I’d do this all day.” Y/N answered.
As the group continued chatting about trivial things, time passed. Eventually, Y/N looked back at the tower on the Gestral beach, pondering something.
“Where do you think Verso is now?”
“Knowing him, he probably fell a few times.” Monoco commented with a chuckle.
Sciel laughed. “As long as he doesn’t break his neck. But I suppose if he’s immortal, that won’t be a problem.”
“Right.” Y/N hummed, looking back at the rest of the group, specifically at Monoco. “You’ve known Verso for years, right?”
“Yes.” He replied.
“I’ve noticed Verso is really eager to watch over me—protecting me from incoming blows, checking if I’m hurt, things like that.” Y/N explained. “Do you have any idea why?”
Monoco thought for a few seconds. “Not that I know of.”
“Maybe he just really likes you?” Sciel suggested with a smirk.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Like as friends, or as more?”
“More.” She replied. “It would make sense. You’re the only guy, and it’s not like he treats Lune or me the way he treats you.”
Monoco couldn’t help but interject. “Wait, are you suggesting that I’m not in his league?”
“Oh?” Sciel looked amused. “A love triangle? Spicy.”
Y/N chuckled and looked to Monoco for confirmation. “Well, Monoco? Got a clue that Verso is into guys?”
Monoco thought for a few seconds before answering. “I guess I heard him saying he thought some men in his old expedition were cute, but I always assumed he was joking.”
Sciel smiled. “That settles it. Y/N, make sure to invite us all to the wedding.”
“Oh, stop it.” Y/N said, feeling slightly flustered. “That’s not going to happen.”
“What’s not going to happen?”
Y/N flinched and instantly turned around, spotting Verso in his tight swimsuit, dripping wet. “Oh my—how long have you been listening?”
“Almost everything.” Verso commented dryly.
Sciel smirked. “Is it true, then?”
Verso paused for several seconds, thinking, which made Y/N even more flustered—he knew it was on purpose.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
“That’s not a no.” Sciel remarked.
Y/N shot him a deadpan look. “Are you ever going to give a straight answer?”
“Don’t expect a straight answer ever from him.” Monoco warned.
Verso looked seriously at Y/N. “If you really want to know, we can talk back at camp.”
Feeling like he was being deliberately delayed again, Y/N sighed. “Fine.”
“Good. Now, before anyone says anything else, I’m going back swimming.” Without warning, Verso turned and jumped into the water.
During the whole conversation, Sciel was thoroughly amused. “How bromantic.”
Y/N frowned at her. “Don’t you start teasing me too.”
-
Late at night, the gentle and calm piano tune could be heard drifting through the air. Curious, Y/N walked toward the cliff’s edge, spotting Esquie sitting on the grass, looking as happy as ever. At the very end of the cliff, Verso was playing a piano.
Quietly, Y/N approached his teammate. Once standing beside the piano, Verso finished his melody and stopped, glancing to the side.
“You came.”
Y/N hummed quietly. “I didn’t know you played piano.”
“It’s something I enjoy. My family preferred that I painted, but I vastly prefer music.” Verso made room on the seat and tapped it with his hand. “Sit.”
Curious, Y/N joined him, sitting beside Verso. Since the chair was small, they had to snuggle a bit. While Verso didn’t seem to mind, Y/N couldn’t help but feel flustered.
Without warning, Verso began playing another song. Gentle and sweet, it carried a peacefulness without being somber. Unbeknownst to them, Esquie was dancing nearby.
“…About what happened at the beach.” Y/N awkwardly began. “You were joking, right?”
Still focused on the piano, Verso replied. “About what?”
“The whole ‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’” Y/N clarified. Verso hummed softly, looking serious—almost vulnerable. Y/N’s heart leapt with realization. “You do, huh?”
Slightly looking away, Verso took a second to meet Y/N’s gaze. “You don’t realize what you mean to me.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing—just—” Verso let out a tired sigh. “It’s nothing.” Before Y/N could respond, the pianist spoke again. “I care about you… a lot. I know it’s sudden, but…”
For the first time, Y/N saw Verso at a loss for words. With a soft smile, he placed a hand on Verso’s hip. The pianist glanced at him but continued playing.
“I care about you too.” Y/N said softly.
Verso looked away, a hint of fear in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Gently, Y/N rested his head on Verso’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Verso continued playing, focused as ever.
“Do you think we’ll succeed in taking down the Paintress?” Y/N suddenly asked.
“Yes. It’ll be hard, but… we’re going to do it.” Verso said with quiet determination.
Verso glanced at the man beside him. Like Maelle, he recognized Y/N, and he was happy to see him again—even if it was a different Y/N, a different version. Still, questions lingered: Could they ever live in this world in peace? Or would history repeat itself? What would happen to each of them… or would it all end in tragedy?
Summary: What starts as another dead-end stakeout turns into a lesson your rookie won’t forget, because when Leon gets your hand on him and your praise in his ear, he learns just how good it feels to be the one making his training officer proud.
Tags: Day 25 ‘praise kink’. No use of Y/N. Male reader. Coworkers to lovers. Set before the events of “Resident evil: 2” Rookie Leon. Top Leon Kennedy. Desperate and needy Leon. Submissive Leon Kennedy. Bottom male reader. Dom male reader. Handjob. Riding.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓉ℴ𝒷ℯ𝓇
Words count: 2300
As a Field Training Officer, your role was a strange balance between mentor and sometimes babysitter. The rookies came to you bright-eyed, straight out of the academy, drilled in procedure but not yet seasoned in the rhythm of real patrol work. You were the one to show them what the manuals didn’t teach, weight of the badge on a long shift and the little instincts honed only by hours behind the wheel, reading the city’s pulse.
Trained them with you through the grind, every stakeout or routine traffic stop, every long uneventful night in the squad car. They learned not just by your instruction but by absorbing the way you handled it all. That was your job, putting the future of the department into shape with patience and steady guidance.
Now, on a stakeout that had blurred into endless monotony, you were aware of Leon Kennedy at your side in ways that had nothing to do with training logs or assessment reports. The suspect wasn’t going to move tonight, the radio chatter had already confirmed as much, and yet you were parked here anyway. They sent you out because someone had to cover the hours and Leon had stammered out a request to tag along.
The way he’d said it, hesitant, voice catching, like the words had stuck in his throat before tumbling free, already betrayed his real reason.
It wasn’t difficult to read that he wanted to spend time with you. Seen it every time he tried to hide the way his gaze flickered toward you too often or how he tried to mask a blush when his hand brushed yours passing over a case file. The boy was convinced he was subtle, but every glance and fumbled handoff screamed of a crush he wasn’t ready to voice.
It was written across his face in the shy curve of his smile when you caught him staring.
Adorable.
So very rookie.
And it was even more obvious now, with him beside you in the dark car, pressed into the passenger seat, trying to keep his breathing steady while you leaned across and worked your fist up and down his cock.
His inexperience was as loud as the breathy sounds falling out of him, those sharp little hisses, the muffled groans he bit into his lip or how his head sank further into the cushion. One hand clutched the door for support, the other had latched desperately onto your shoulder as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded while the heat in his body built under your touch.
You whispered against his ear, letting him hear what he craved but would never ask for outright. “That’s why you’re my favorite, Leon. Always so well-behaved and following my lead. Even here you just listen and let me take care of you~”
His whole body jolted at the praise, hips jerking into your grip, a hiss torn from his throat that turned into a broken moan when you squeezed tighter, dragging your hand with deliberate pressure down his length. His cock throbbed, leaking over your fingers, every pump pulling more of his composure away until his head tipped back, throat bared, voice spilling raw into the enclosed air of the squad car. “Nngghhh—fuuuck—”
“Always eager and so damn obedient. You make me proud every single time.” You felt him unraveling under your guidance just as surely as he did during his training shifts, but here there was no need for professional restraint.
“A-a pleasure to help out, sir—“ The way he buckled into your touch, panting and stammering and still trying to smile through it with some half-joking remark was quintessentially endearing. Naïve but earnest, too soft to hide how much he wanted this and it only made you want to push him further, wringing every last sound from him.
The seatbelt strap digging into his sturdy chest as though to remind him he was still restrained by something, eyes going glassy when he cracked them open, pupils blown wide in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside, lashes damp with sweat while his thick cock pulsed violently in your fist.
Leon’s chest was rising and falling hard by then, sweat glistening along his temple, his lips parted around little sounds he couldn’t bite back. You could feel his body shifting under the strain of your relentless strokes, every tendon in his arm and muscle in his abdomen quivering. He was so close you could practically taste it in the air, the tension in the squad car thick with his heat and the obscene slick sound of your fist milking his cock.
His hand twitched at his side, then lifted, hesitating before finally landing against your working arm. You turned your head to see him, wide blue eyes glassy and pupils blown, staring straight into yours as he rasped through his clenched teeth, “L-let me repay you… please—ahhhhnnn—”
Your answer was to tug harder, deliberately wringing a hiss from him, your grip twisting just enough to make his thighs spasm. His face contorted, overwhelmed, but he tried to push through it with a crooked, breathless grin. You hummed low, tilting your head as you studied him, the boyish lines of his face straining under pleasure, the handsome rookie unraveling piece by piece beneath your guidance.
Leaning closer, you murmured against his jaw, voice half amusement and half praise. “So kind of you, Leon. Always thinking of others… like a good officer should, after all.” With that, you finally released his dick, slick with precum and lube from your earlier teasing, your palm pulling away from his aching length.
His hips jerked after the loss, a needy whimper spilling from his throat, but you didn’t give him time to protest, shifting closer to swing your legs up and straddling his lap, both of your knees next to his thick and robust thighs. His eyes went wider still as you pressed close, his cock jutting up between you against your uniform.
Your fingers worked fast at your waistband, tugging open your pants, the hiss of the zipper cutting through his breathy gasps. Without missing a beat, you reached over him to the glove box drawer, flipping through papers and the cold gleam of his sidearm until you found the thin envelope you knew was stashed there. He looked dazed at the sight of you tearing it open, the sharp rip echoing in the confined space, your hand dipping inside to smear the cool lube across your palm before wrapping it back around his cock. His hips lurched at the sudden slickness, a guttural moan tearing free, “nnnghhghhh ffffuckkkk—”
Working him smooth and wet, jerking with deliberate pressure, enjoying how much easier it was to slide over his thickness now. His hands hovered stupidly in the air, his rookie brain short-circuiting, unsure where to touch. It made you bark a laugh, sharp and biting. “Don’t just sit there with your damn hands up. Stiff as a goddamn statue,” his blush deepened instantly, mouth opening and shutting as if he had no idea what to say.
Your free hand gripped his bicep, hauling his arm down until his palm landed firmly on your waist. “You ruin the fun when you don’t use these.” You muttered, rolling your hips forward so his cock rubbed against your open pants.
Leon stammered out a breathless apology, his voice breaking, “I-I’m sorry, I just—fuck—I didn’t want to mess it up—” His words dissolved into a hiss when you tugged harder at his slick cock, your fist twisting with precision. The apology crumbled into needy gasps, his fingers clutching tight at your waist like he was afraid you’d pull away.
His other hand finally joined in, fumbling but determined, sliding down to help free you completely from the last barrier of fabric. The second your cock sprang free and brushed against his abdomen, he inhaled sharp, lips parting on a hiss that shivered into a moan.
You didn’t waste time, guiding him with one hand, you lined yourself up and pressed down, groaning low as the swollen head of his cock stretched and slipped just inside.
Leon’s reaction was instantaneous, breath punched out of him in a groan, head dropped back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed as you sank further inch by inch, the thick length of him pushed into you, every bit of your body tightening around the intrusion.
Once you bottomed out, seated fully on his lap and comfy on his wide thighs, you held still for a moment just to savor the look on his face, trembling of his jaw as he tried to hold onto composure and failed. Then you moved, slow at first, lifting yourself only slightly before sliding back down, the motion forcing a wet schlick from your joined bodies, hands clutching at your waist tight enough to bruise.
Setting the pace deliberately cruel and steady, grinding rides that lifted you high enough to make him slip halfway free before you dropped back down hard, taking him to the base, his balls smacking against your ass with each thrust. The sound was obscene in the car, the slap of flesh and the sloppy slickness mixing with Leon’s frantic cries.
But you only leaned closer, lips brushing his ear, whispering through your panting breaths. “That’s it, Leon. You’re doing so damn good for me, my perfect rookie.” Hips bucking helplessly in response, cock throbbing inside you as if the praise itself forced him deeper. You bounced harder, your thighs slapping against his, your own cock grinding against his exposed abdomen with every motion, leaving slick trails across the fabric of his shirt and the sweat on his skin.
He was unraveling completely, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as his voice broke into high, desperate whines. “Nnnnnghhh—ahhhhhh—I-I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—” His hands clutched at you, one pressing desperately against your back, the other digging into your hip. You ground down on him hard, forcing every inch deeper, and hissed through clenched teeth, “Cum for me, Leon. Fill me up, come on… show me how good you are.”
That was the leash snapping, his whole body arched, head slamming back against the seat as his cock pulsed violently, hot ropes spilling deep inside, every spasm of his hips forcing more out. His face was twisted in sheer bliss, cries shattering into broken sobs of pleasure as he emptied himself.
The pressure tipped you over with him, grinding hard against his trembling abdomen, your cock spurted in hot streaks across his stomach and uniform, painting him messy while your own voice joined his in ragged moans. The car was thick with the smell of sex, the air fogging the windows as you both shuddered through it.
You slumped forward against him, his chest heaving under yours, hands still gripping you like lifelines. He was ruined, blue eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips wet with bitten cries, but even then he managed a breathless laugh, grinning faintly through his exhaustion and you hummed approval against his jaw, murmuring another soft praise for your good rookie as his cum leaked warmly inside you, abdomen slick with yours, the night forgotten outside the squad car now a sauna, the windows fogged opaque, the air heavy with sweat and the musk of sex.
Still, even wrecked like that, he blushed, the red spread across his cheeks as he laughed weakly, the sound boyish and self-conscious, so unlike the guttural cries he’d been making minutes before. “I, uh… wow. I didn’t… I didn’t expect—” He cut himself off with another breathless chuckle, shaking his head like he was embarrassed even to finish the sentence. His hand twitched against your waist, squeezing gently, almost as though to reassure himself this had actually happened.
“Didn’t expect what? That you’d be such a good fuck for me?” The teasing lilt in your voice made his blush deepen, gaze darting away like he couldn’t stand to hold your eyes too long. But he didn’t deny it or push back. His mouth curved into a crooked, bashful grin that gave him away completely.
“You’re… really good at that whole, uh, authority thing,” he mumbled finally, his tone carrying that awkward humor he always leaned on when his nerves spiked. “Kinda unfair, actually.” His voice cracked at the end, betraying how raw his throat still was from moaning for you. The sound made you grin and you traced a slow line down his chest with your fingers, smearing through the mess drying there, watching him shiver under your touch.
“You’ll get used to it,” you murmured, half promise, half threat, letting your lips ghost over his jaw. He shuddered and turned into the contact instinctively, breath catching, the playful grin slipping into something gentler and almost shy.
He leaned in first this time, closing the distance with a hesitant, clumsy kiss that tasted of sweat and salt, lips moving against yours with a kind of desperation. When you finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed again, but this time it wasn’t just from embarrassment.
The radio crackled quietly in the background, a reminder of duty and reality, but neither of you moved. Leon’s arms sneaked around your frame and they tightened, breath warm against your collarbone as he mumbled into your skin. “Stakeouts don’t seem so bad now.”
“That’s because you had the right training officer.”
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